A Walk with Kantaben

As soon as I entered Kalupur Sabzi-Mandi (vegetable market) in the city of Ahmedabad with my uncle I started sneezing violently. It sounded like a volley of barks made by an adolescent dog.  No, I do not own a dog nor did I suffer from cold at that time. The sneezing was the response given by my olfactory system to the strong mix of smells that greeted me as soon as I entered the dusty lane of Kalupur Sabzi-Mandi.

Smells are like time capsules, they take you back to the time when you last encountered them. They have the capability to jog you down the memory lane and relive that experience again with astonishing clarity. However, a mix of strong smells can jinx your mind with multiple images floating around in your head. Sorry, I am digressing from the incident, so back to the 'lane of smells'.

Kalupur Sabzi-Mandi is one of the biggest and cheapest vegetable markets of Ahmedabad. People from all stratas of society fill up their weekly baskets every Sunday with a wide variety of vegetables which come from farms across Gujarat. One thing that clearly stands out every Sunday is that the ratio of male to female buyers is highly skewed in favour of males. Uncles park their cars in front of closed shops as early as 6 in the morning and then take a small walk to the 'lane of smells'; the chaos that greets you there is oddly satisfying.

Once I was over the chaos and the shouts and smells part, I observed the plethora of colours that lay sprawled on the ground in front of every vendor. It was a feast for the eyes, a rainbow made out of vegetables of every shape and size. I trailed behind my uncle who was now swiftly moving from vendor to vendor just to enquire about the prevailing rates of vegetables. Finally, he stopped in front of a vendor and began bargaining for a bulk purchase. After a short lap of negotiations a consensus was reached which was followed by selection and packaging of a number of vegetables in a sack. He told the vendor to keep the sack aside and told me that we would collect them on our way back.  As we continued our journey ahead, we followed the same process several times, I was a bit tensed for our journey back since our overall weight was a bit north of 20 kgs. Finally, the lane ended with some big fruit shops, these shops harboured an eclectic mix of imported and indigenous fruit and were the eye candy of the entire market.

Before approaching the fruit vendors I found my uncle scouting for someone, he was asking a few nearby vendors for 'hemali'. This was the first time I had heard the term 'hemali' so I did a quick check on google and found this - 'Hemali is a Gujarati name for girls, meaning to bring wealth; Gold'. This did nothing if not increase my curiosity, so I approached my uncle to ask him about the same when an elderly lady approached us. The lady quickly struck a conversation with my uncle in pure Gujarati language which I could only make out in bits and pieces. She seemed to be negotiating on the weight of something and the distance to our car. The lady could be in her late 50s or early 60s. She wore a yellow saree and had a small red bindi on her forehead. Her face and eyes had the feel of the soil we were standing on, as if she belonged here. My confusion was quickly doused once the conversation ended and my uncle gave me a task to do. I was to guide the elderly lady (hemali was a common name for a female vegetable porter) to all the vendors who had our vegetables and finally take her to our car which was parked outside the lane. Yes, the lady would carry all the vegetables! Almost 20 kgs of vegetables on her head ! Even after a few moments I could not digest the fact the we were asking an almost 60 year old lady to carry 20 kgs of vegetables for us. I turned towards my uncle to argue on this when I noticed that he had already strolled off in the direction of fruit shops. The elderly lady or 'hemali' was looking at me for directions and had already donned on a ring shaped cloth on her head, similar to the one used by porters at railway stations. Feeling a bit helpless I started walking towards the vendors who upon seeing me handed the vegetable sack to the 'hemali' who kept on placing them over her head, one on the top of other. As we walked towards the car I couldn't help notice the footwear she was wearing because there was none. She walked barefoot on stones and gravel with a grace of a ballet dancer. The 20 kg on her head did not deter her from giving a quick smile to familiar faces who greeted her on the way.

On the way back I tried to strike a conversation with her in my broken Gujarati which she acknowledged with a kind smile. She had two sons and a daughter. The sons were married and worked as construction workers and the daughter was married to a peon working in a small village in Gujarat. She missed her grandchildren who would come to meet her once a year. She stayed in a slum nearby with her husband who was bedridden due to paralysis and was previously a construction worker. The medication was costly and while her sons sent some money from their wages it was never enough. She herself would earn somewhere between Rs. 100 - 150 in a day after toiling for 14 hrs.  While she was explaining how beautiful and smart her grandchildren were, I noticed the happiness and gaiety in her voice. There wasn't any bitterness towards the hardships that she faced everyday, no grudge towards how unfair life had been to her, she was just happy talking about her beautiful grandchildren and how god had been kind that they didn't have any disease.

We reached the car and she slowly unloaded the vegetables in the car trunk. As she turned around towards the market, I asked, "tamaru naam su che"(What is your name?). "Kantaben" she said with a quizzing smile, as if it had been a long time since someone had asked her or called her by her name. While she walked back towards the market, all I could think was the satisfaction with which she lived her life. The satisfaction which is bereft of any lofty ambitions, the satisfaction of being able to earn a living, the satisfaction of being independent.

Today, when I tried cooking after a long time, the smell of spices took me back to the 'lane of smells' and to 'Kantaben', because smells are like time capsules.

My Date with Suman

For all those who know me well, the word 'Date' will get them intrigued. So who is this girl Suman? Well, Suman is this beautiful 1 year old daughter of a labour family. The date took place during a shared-auto ride while I was returning from my social internship site (TATA Housing, Kalol). I was returning home after a 9 hour long shift which had left me both, hungry and exhausted. So as soon as I spotted my regular auto driver, Ranjit who works daily on that route, I gave him a nod and he came directly to the place I was standing. This had now become a habit, a tacit agreement for mutual benefits. However, I had to wait for at least two more passengers before Ranjit and I could begin our journey. The income of a shared-auto driver is a function of the number of beats and the number of passengers one can carry in each beat. While I was plugging in my headphones to shield myself from both, cold and boredom, a family of three approached Ranjit and started haggling over the rate for a short ride to 'Sola Hospital'. Fortunately, they settled quickly and the family snuggled inside the auto. While I was gazing outside at the hustle bustle of Ahmedabad city, something soft landed on my thighs. It was a tiny hand with very faint palm lines. As I looked up I saw two beautiful round eyes staring directly at me, they left me transfixed for a few seconds. Slowly and deliberately I refocused my eyes to look at the family of three who had moved in. At the far end was a man in his early thirties, tall and thin with a scarf around his neck and hands clasped around a small bag. He was looking ahead, but not at the road, nor at the traffic light which had just turned green. He was looking beyond physical elements, peeping into the uncertainties of the future it seemed. He carried a grim face, with anxiety forming waves on his forehead. Sitting next to him was a women who looked much younger than the clothes she wore. A simple red saree covered her from head to toe, with just a part of her face visible from sides. Her features were sharp and young. In contrast to her husband who hunched his shoulders, she sat erect with a hint of confidence and independence. In her lap, under layers of warm clothes sat Suman. Suman wore a monkey cap which covered everything except her face. Had it not been for the tiny black 'Bindi' which adorned her forehead, I would never have guessed the gender. 

As soon as the auto picked up speed and cold wind clawed at our faces, Suman grew lively and started forcing the layers of clothes out of her way, only to be scolded softly by her mother. The ferocity with which she fought against the layers of clothes finally led her mother to give up the scolding and help her get rid of the layers. Once free, she began waving her hands frantically which thumped my head and face from time to time. Her mother smiled apologetically at me and pulled Suman down to her lap. While I straightened my disheveled hair, I asked politely, "aanu naam suu che?"  (what's her name?). "Suman", replied the mother. Suman, which means 'flower' in Hindi. A simple name to the cheerful girl who had cocked up her head in response to the name and was glaring at me and her mother as if demanding to know who had said her name. 

While we were caught up in traffic at the next cross roads, I eavesdropped on the conversation taking place between Suman's parents. They were discussing the cost of a regular check-up for Suman at the hospital and how it was going to affect their monthly budget. The father meanwhile also commented on the dowry money that they will have to pay for Suman's marriage. I was suddenly caught off-guard by the mention of dowry. Suman was barely a year old, she was unable to walk, talk or understand anything, and her parents were already tensed over the dowry money. How about worrying over which school to send her to ? Or how to tackle her frantic tantrums or how will they be able to afford her demands for pretty dresses. What about her choices ? People she wants to date or places she wants to visit. Will she be ever able to even dream these dreams ?

While ranting internally over these questions I was distracted by Suman, who was now trying to gain my attention by pounding on my arm. As soon as I caught her eyes she awarded me with a beautiful smile. A perfect curl of lips with a small gap in between to flaunt her new incisors which must have been a recent addition to her perfection. Her eyes seemed to be flared up from within and her face wore a determined expression. As the auto came to a halt, and the family began moving out, the last thing I remember of Suman was the reassuring smile which told me that she was more than capable of fighting the odds, of challenging the societal norms and of engraving her own destiny in those faint palm lines of hers.

      

  

A Modi-bereft Gujarat

With national elections round the corner and a tragic loss at Karnataka, the Bhartiya Janta Party (BJP) would be hardbound to announce its PM contender soon. And almost every sane person would be willing to place his bet on the spearhead of BJP, the Gujarat CM, Narendra Modi for this post.

India has the capacity to lead but the present crops of leaders are lacking the knowledge and charisma to take it forward. Modi has proved his capability in Gujarat which has been well acknowledged worldwide. In all the fields of development Gujarat has shown remarkable progress. However, Gujarat has not yet limited itself; it is not resting on its laurels but is focusing on earning still more surplus.

Narendra Modi will undoubtedly bring a hurricane of changes to the centre and we can at least expect the progress rates akin to Gujarat, if not more. For a country which has now been squatting with scams and intruding border threats, a dynamic strong-head person as a leader is the need of the hour.
The concern which still persists in many farsighted citizens is that, whether a Modi-bereft Gujarat survive, can the Girnar continue on its way to relentless progress or will its growth be stunted without its leader. Also, will the citizens of Gujarat welcome BJP without Modi?

Let us look at the odds; the two most promising faces that may succeed Modi are Purushottam Rupala and Saurabh Patel (as age factor may rule out Anandiben and Vaju Bhai Vala).
Purushottam Rupala was former president of the state BJP unit. He is a Kadva Patel from Amreli and has always been a trusted aide of Modi. He is a Member of Parliament and known for his loud and witty speeches that holds the audience's attention till his mentor Modi arrives on the stage. He lacks sophistication but makes up for it with his ethnic wisdom and organizing skills. He is a more natural and ethnic personality compared to Anandiben and Saurabh Patel, his competitors for the top post.
The latest entrant into the league of likely successors to Modi is Saurabh Patel, who is serving as junior minister for industries, energy, port, whose cabinet portfolios are handled by Modi himself. Patel is an MBA from the US and is considered a talented and meticulous minister. His is also sophisticated, with a good understanding of finance, industry and the energy sector.  As industry minister, Saurabh has played an important role in successfully organizing Vibrant Gujarat investment summits, which have helped the Modi government get global publicity.

However, they seem incompetent when compared to Modi, for he has achieved both, the ethnic wisdom to woo the rural voters as well as sophistication and marketing strategies to reach out to the global market.

Learning from the Karnataka polls, voters are more concerned with local leaders and their achievements/scams, rather than what happens at the center. Similarly for Gujarat, its citizens would not be pleased to sacrifice their local beliefs and benefits for a promising future of the country.

After reaping the benefits of continuous progress under Modi government, the expectation of people have risen to greater altitudes. A root level anti-corruption drive to eliminate all traces of corruption and development of a better complain/feedback system could be what the citizens may be eyeing for. Also, the successors will have to gain the support of Muslims and Christians of the state, for this seems to be the one thing which has left a botch on Modi government.

 The BJP will have to prod hard to the potential successors for wooing the love that the state has for Narendra Modi.



 

Footprints of Dew

I saw her gliding down the leaf, so simple yet so graceful,

As the sun surfed across the horizon, to trace her curvy belly.

She made a beeline for the longest yard, with tears trailing her path,

To bid adieu to one's origin, was never an easy task.

     

How transient was her life, the purpose still behind the veils,

With fading beat, she rounded on the final edge of blade.

  

And then it struck ! with gush of colors, the truth always unveils,

With rainbow heart, she lunged forward, the leaf was left bereft.

I watched her flight, short it was, as she landed hard on her belly,

With grit and a lullaby on her lips she seeped past the soil.

To quench the ground which holds us all, was her sole passion,

How selfless, docile and humble was her fleeting presence ?

And yet the Dew, taught us all, to cherish, every moment,

Throw-off the attachments, spring forward and a new sapling will become your monument.

-Saumil

  

      

The cotton clad moon

A cup of tea, a solitary desk and with thoughts brimming my mind i start my very first blog. Through the window on my right, feelings breeze in trying to conquer my heart. I start blogging, because it is my escape from the oppressive nature of the outside world.

From my window, i see the lazy moon swaying with the clouds as though intoxicated by the oozing breeze, waiting to burp..! A tremor shrivels up the window as a heavy truck passes from my lane.. 

Another tremor rumbles within as thoughts and feelings collide over the trembling, tender heart.

I am always curious about what lies inside this cotton clad moon. It seems to be hiding some pain, buried fathoms deep inside it. Although, it doesn't complain, but the blisters of its wounded heart are visible to everyone who yearns to acknowledge them.

I see, through my muddled thoughts and find the same blisters rummaging my hollow heart. 

And now a new gurgling starts deep inside, this time, its no pain. no broken heart.. Its the call of the tummy which sings a unique melody, which one seldom resists..

Its time for dinner...