Permission not to pay tax

Every time we go out, we wonder what has happened to all the good practices we’d seen as we grew up in the city. I’m talking of kochin. Once upon a time, municipality workers with tall brooms used to sweep the streets and leave them clean and tidy. Where has that category of people vanished? Doesn’t the municipality or corporation employ these workers any longer? Have these bodies relieved themselves of the responsibility of keeping the city clean? What are we paying the taxes for? Every resident pays the corporation tax and every employee pays professional tax, both of which are meant for the maintenance of the corporation/municipality.

Last week a friend from Aluva told me that the town stinks with accumulated waste. Residents had taken to the streets to protest against the utter dereliction of duty on the part of the municipality to keep the town clean. Apparently, not much good has come out of it.

Isn’t there something called accountability? Doesn’t the corporation owe anything to the taxpayers who pay their salary? What surprises me most is the total helplessness and inertia of the taxpayers to demand their right to minimum cleanliness.

It’s not as though there are no solutions to the waste accumulating. If the corporation/ municipality can acquire about 30 cents of land eachin a few locations in every city/town and start biogas plants, they can not only deal with the waste but also produce fuel to light the street lights over a large area. Biogas plants occupy so little space and are hassle free and produce useful by-products. In fact installing biogas plants in government schools which provide lunch for students producing, on a daily basis, huge waste which they struggle to dispose of, will go a long way in dealing with bio waste produced by the city. These schools can even make arrangements to have waste gathered from the neighbourhood within the radius of a kilometre or two. Biogas plants meant for institutions can take in more waste than they produce. Residents Associations can have their own biogas plants which will spare the residents the hassle of sneaking out of their houses when the roads are free and chucking stinking waste on the roadside far away from their houses. Ways of dealing with bio waste are plenty. I know this for sure ‘coos I, along with a few friends, was on the verge of launching a NGO for bio-waste disposal last December when fate intervened and deprived me of the minimum health required to run an organisation. But I have done my home work.

The point is 60% of the waste produced in the city of Trivandrum, for example, is bio-waste. All we, the people, need is the will to commit ourselves to keep the city clean. Ways and means to do it will present themselves once we set out to do it.

I was wondering - - - isn’t there some way of making the corporation accountable, some way of twisting their arm to do their job? Can’t we citizens approach the court with a new plea? All the deadlines from the high court to the Kochin corporation to dispose of the waste regularly have been ignored by the corporation. Wonder why it has not been hauled up for contempt of court!

The new ploy could be a request from the taxpayers to be allowed NOT to pay taxes till the corporation does its duty – a class action suit. If a thousand taxpayers can pool in Rs. 100 each, there will be enough resources to take the issue right up to the Supreme Court.

Withholding money will hurt, and resurrect the authorities’ conscience and sense of accountability which lie buried deep under tons of stinking waste.

Nuns' tales - 3

My friend Sister Rose (name changed) was waiting with the crowd which thronged the pavements on both sides of a street in Ottawa (I think) waiting to see Nelson Mandela who was visiting Canada. This was soon after his release and so the halo around his head shone luminous and bright.

It was a summer day and so bright and hot (I was surprised when she told me this ‘cos my idea of Canada was that of a country always dull and freezing). The sun was beating down right into her eyes and she looked around for shade, as she was prone to migraine.There was no shade anywhere and she seriously began contemplating going back to her cubicle in the university where she was doing research. Just then she saw a demonstration moving up the street slowly, with a gigantic banner which cast a huge shadow on several rows of people participating in the demonstration. She craned her neck to see what was written on it. It made no sense to her ‘cos it was in French and she hadn’t picked up enough French yet.

Just then she noticed a lady who was shouting out slogans loud, beckon to her and those around her to join the demonstration. Delighted, Sr. Rose jumped out from the side walk and joined the demonstration. Since the slogans were in French she couldn’t follow what was being demanded but she lipsync-ed to the sound of whatever was being shouted. She felt terribly relieved to be away from the sun and travelled some distance with the demonstrators.

Once she regained her sense of well being from walking in the shade of the banner, she began to look around at the sidewalk, smiling at the faces from the university and the convents she recognised. It was then that she noticed that she was attracting a lot of attention. Her friends from the university were pointing out to her and laughing. The malayalee nuns were also laughing, typically covering their mouths. Even to strangers whom she didn’t know, she seemed to be affording a lot of amusement. They were pointing out to her and laughing.

“Possibly nun's dress” she thought. “Guess nuns don’t take to the streets in this part of the world. If only these people knew the role we played in the Vimochana Samaram back home in Kerala”.

Her row had reached a group of young students who were pointing out to her and guffawing and giggling and dissolving into peals of laughter. Sr. Rose was thoroughly confused . Just then a Canadian colleague who was with this group of students shouted out to her, smiling from ear to ear:”Hey, didn’t know you were one of these”.

Curious, Sr. Rose turned to the lady next to her who was yelling out something at the top of her voice.

“What’s this demonstration about?” she asked.

“Oh, you don’t know”, she asked looking surprised.”This is a demonstration for the rights of the lesbians, organised by the local Lesbian Club”.

Nuns' Tales - 2

It was 6 in the evening when Sr. Goretti entered one of the dimly lit bathing rooms which were built in a long row. The thunder showers of October were just over and it was dark. The Septuagenarian sister Goretti pulled the tin door behind her and sent the hook latch home with a flip of her fingers. She then started discarding layers of clothes, something she hated doing. She flung them one by one on the thin line stretched across the corner opposite the door. When it came to the chemise, she hesitated. In her early days in the convent, the chemise was supposed to remain on the body during the bathing act, but over years the unwritten law was put in place that nudity during the act of bathing was not that unpardonable a deed.
She pulled the chemise over her head, flung it over the other clothes and was about to reach for the aluminium mug when she felt a movement under the line where she had put her clothes. Sister Goretti looked in the direction of the sound and she froze!
There, with its head almost touching her long outer habit which hung from the line, was a cobra, its hood spread wide and eyes looking at her with that classic aloofness.
Unlatch the door and jump out, natural instincts told her.
Oh God, How can you, nurture admonished. What, run out in this state of undress in full view of all those novices and aspirants, and also the man who comes to clean the cowshed? No way Goretti.
Goretti’s face became hard. Of course she remained absolutely immobile while these thoughts chased each other in her mind, for she knew the slightest movement and the snake would strike.
She looked venomously at the snake. You vile creature, she thought. Eve fell into your deadly trap and all mankind is still paying for it. But you shall not tempt this Goretti. No you ugly serpent, history shall not repeat. I will not let down my saviour.
And thus stood the serpent in all its crowning glory and Goretti in all her shrivelled nudity, staring at each other, totally immobile.
Oh saints in heaven, help me. How can I make an honourable exit from this wretched bathing room, wailed Sister Goretti while she continued to look with defiant hatred and steely determination into the slanted eyes of the tempter.
More time passed. No miracle happened. Even making a lightning grab for her chemise would provoke the snake and it would strike, she knew. Oh God, I’d be found dead in the bathroom with not a stitch on, she thought distressfully.
Naked I came into the world and naked shall I return thither, came a voice from somewhere deep within her.
Away Satan, she thought. Angrily. So this is what’s called the devil quoting the Bible.
All you saints n heaven, have you forsaken me? she pleaded.
And lo and behold, there appeared in the periphery of her vision a tall new broom, in the corner near the door, just a few inches from her reach.
And then everything happened in a flash. Sister Goretti reached for the broom, the snake struck, missed and the broom came crashing on its head, again and again and again till the magnificent hood was a pulpy mess. Sister Goretti looked at it triumphantly, and snorted with supreme contempt, “What you wretched creature? Did you forget i was named after Maria Goretti, the very epitome of chastity and virtue!” She smirked at the mess and then retched all over the bathing room.
To date, that little convent in the watery Kuttanad sings the praises of brave Sister Goretti.

Nuns' Tales - 1

I love nuns. They belong to a category of people I’m perfectly comfortable with. Of course on most issues I don’t see eye to eye with them. But I know I can’t but be different in my approach to them. More important, they know it too.

From Baby Class to PG i studied in convents. I served in a college run by them. They gave me my sense of values, which, Of course has undergone mutations as I grew older and wiser (?). We have learnt to accept each other with all our differences, and take care not to step on each other’s toes.

I have never felt that teeth- gnashing hatred for or anger towards them, cos the nuns with whom I interacted were good souls. They were judgemental but never uncharitable. They were mulish in their convictions, but only prayed for those who didn’t share them – they did not curse them. They honestly believed that their ministry was to save the lost sheep – tho more often than not, the lost sheep did not believe they were in the valley of darkness. This often caused friction which led to unpleasant exchanges which I had witnessed with much anxiety; but I’ve never had any serious fracas with them. I was always indulgent with them cos I was blessed with an understanding of why they were what they were, and also with the knowledge that they basically have large hearts.

Something I loved about the nuns who were my colleagues was that all of them had terrific sense of humour, and very often the but of the humour was the nuns themselves. here are a couple of stories which have send us in the department into such explosive laughter that the librarian was reluctantly forced to walk into our department which was adjacent to the library, and ask us to keep our voices down.

Both the events happened in a convent in Kuttanaad. Sr Modesta (name changed) was in her late seventies, and belonged to that generation of Catholic women who were taught it was a terrible sin to see their own bodies, leave alone expose a fraction of a centimetre more than was permitted by the laws of modesty. She once went to a doctor (male) with the six year old trainee parlour maid Kunjandy. When the doctor called them in, she asked the bewildered Kunjandy to turn around and show her backside to the doctor. Kunjandy turned around and then stopped, refusing to perform the next motions that would expose her back side to the doctor.

“Lift your skirt, kochey” snapped the angry Sr. Modesta.

Kunjandy froze and refused to budge. Sr. Modesta got up from her chair, roughly bent the little girl over almost double, lifted her knee length skirt, jerked down her billowing cotton bloomer and pointed to a spot on the right buttock saying, “there doctor, there”.

The doctor looked at the spot where she pointed, then frowned, adjusted his glasses, edged himself forward in his chair and brought his face close to the right buttock of the girl who, by now was struggling to set herself free from the vicious grip of Sister Modesta.

The doctor looked up at Sr. Modesta with a puzzled look and said, “I don’t see anything there. There’s nothing amiss”.

Letting poor Kujandy go, Sr. Modesta pulled herself up with haughty dignity and said stiffly to the doctor, “It’s not she but I who have a boil on that spot. I’m the patient, not she.”

The second episode in the next post.

MALAYALA MANORAMA – THE SEXIST DAILY

Guess I'm not mistaken if i claim that mallus all around the world buy Malayala Manorama for its obituary page. AS the paper which enjoys the highest circulation in the state, it is the most sought after paper to announce death. People forget their political and religious affiliations when death happens in the family. Manoram it is – and no other paper.

Recently my father- in -law passed away, and we too made a bee line for the Malayala Manorama office. Now, the obituary column is free of cost. When we get a service free, it comes with certain conditions. Such conditions often reflect the soul of the paper. We see the paper in its true colours. The inherent prejudices and convictions come into play in laying down these conditions. Cos no money is obtained from this service, and so we will have it our way is the attitude. That’s when you catch an organization with its pants down.

I had the occasion to see this popular daily in this not so pretty condition when we were told the terms of the free space in the obituary column. The dead person’s sons in law’s family name can be mentioned but not the daughters –in-laws'!!! Thus it’d be like this: Sons in laws are Dominic Saviour Pattalakkad, Martin de Pores Kuthirakkad, Mani Kurien Kazhuthakad. Daughters in laws are, Sally, Shiny, Reesamol and Ammimni!!!!!???? L

If this is not sexism, what the hell is? As though the daughters in law had no identity whatsoever before they acquired the family name through alliances with the sons of the person whose death is being announced!

Can Malayala Manorama give an explanation for this shameful outdated mindset? Or is the paper trying to live up to its nickname, THE GRAND MOTHER OF KOTTAYAM?

Only, grandmothers these days are more updated in their thinking than Malayala Manorama!.

Cell Phones

My cousin’s children were to come over to my house in Bombay for the weekend. I’ll call them jack and Jill in this narration. Jill lived in Bhayander and Jack in Churchgate. For those who are not familiar with Bombay, Churchgate is the starting point of local trains and Bhayander is way out beyond the suburbs and is the terminus for many trains. I lived in Parel, closer to Churchgate than Bhayander.

Jack and Jill called me up separately to say they’d start by four o clock. SO I expected Jack by five, and Jill after 6.30. I prepared their favourite dishes and waited eagerly for them in my house from where my children had flown away across the seven seas.

By seven, the doorbell rang. I opened to find both of them, with cell phones glued to their ears, muttering ok, huh , ok huh rather unenthusiastically into it. Then they cut off the phone almost simultaneously and looked at each other, shaking their heads in a resigned manner.

“What’s up, guys, I asked”

“I wonder who discovered this cell phone”. That was Jack. A very soft-spoken refined guy.

“How did your parents manage when they sent you to hostels, Mollyaunty? There were no cell phones in those days”, asked my gentle niece.

“Oh bliss it must have been to live in those days”, said jack, his eyes raised to the heavens.

“Hey hey, what’s happening”, I asked.

“Mama has been remote controlling me and appa, Jill”.

“Oh”, I said.

“She called me at 2 o clock and asked me to start only after 5.30. 'Jill ought to be given a head start so that both of you can reach the Sewari station at the same time' ”

“Appa had been tracking me even since I left the hostel for the station”, said Jill.

“And mama would tell me where she had reached. They were calling both of us every fifteen minutes”.

“Are they in their respective offices?” I asked.

“No”, said Jill. “Both are at home. It’s Saturday today, and half day”

“I see”, I said. I imagined them sitting in the drawing room, each with her/his cell phones tracking the train journey of the offspring from two ends of Mambai.

“When I reached Sewari Station, mama asked me where I was waiting. She asked me for a landmark. I told her I was waiting near the step in front of a huge Hutch hoarding”.

“And appa called me around that time and told me to head for the steps and look for Jack in front of the Hutch hoarding”.

Together they got into a cab and around the time they reached my apartment complex, each got a call from the parent. They wanted to know if Jack and Jill had reached their destination!

“Really, Mollyaunty, this is too much”, said Jill. “How did your parents send you to far off boarding schools and hostels in those days when there were no mobiles?”

“Not just, mobiles. There were no STDs in those days. One had to book a trunk call and wait for the call to be connected. Most hostels did not entertain calls from home 24x7. There was a fixed time once a week.”

“Were your parents scared?”

“Don’t know, my dear. You guys will understand only when you become parents”.

This episode takes my mind back to a little incident. Once, I had gone to Mumbai to take care of my son who had a stretched ligament. His leg was in cast but he couldn’t miss classes and sessionals. WE were accommodated in a guest house a stone throw from his college.

It was a public holiday and he was free that day. We got into a discussion about over protective parents.

“I really don’t understand why you guys have to call me so frequently. You know I’m capable of looking after myself?”

“WE came to know about your ligament problem because we called you. You were keeping it a big secret.”

“That’s because I knew both of you’d freak out at something so small”

“Small, eh? You heard what the ortho said”

“Listen amma, I am an adult. I can look after myself. You guys pray such a lot. So why don’t you trust God and just believe that God will take care of things?”

We went on for some more time but I kept silent. It becomes difficult to counter the logic of our children.

The same evening, I went out to Fashion Street and Colaba cause way. I told my son I’d be back in two hours but in two hours only half the job was done. Exactly one minute after two hours, Mathew called me.

“Am not yet done, math”

“Ok”, he said.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, he called again.

“Finished, amma?”

“Heavens NO”

Another quarter of an hour passed. Then he called again.

“Almost done?”

“No”, I snapped into the phone.

“Hurry up. It’s getting late”

“I’m not going to hurry up. I’ll take my time”.

Another 20 minutes and I get the irritating squeal of a text message.

“What on earth are you doing, old lady? I’m getting worried”, it said.

I didn’t respond. I was really irritated.

Five minutes later, he called again.

“Amma”, he sounded tense. “Please stop for the day and come home”.

Annoyed, I decided to call it a day and hailed a cab.

“What was all that about, math”, I asked as soon as I reached home. “It’s totally inconsistent with you high flown discourse this morning?”

“You are an old lady (and I was still a few years away from fifty then) and have BP and the streets are crowded and you are absent minded and careless. So I’m justified in getting worried”!!

My mind now goes further back to those days before cell phones took over our lives. Those were the days when all human beings were compelled to give each other that space into which the cell phones now invade so oppressively.

Are we living in a topsy turvy world where the wise saying of our forefathers are being reversed? Do we live in times where invention is proving to be the mother of necessity, instead of the other way round?

Of Amitab Bachchan, Narendra Modi and Kerala

The newspapers are playing it up - the fact that the party which kicked out Abdullahkutty 'cos he sang the praises of Narendra Modi has officially invited Amitabh Bachan, the brand ambassador of Modi’s Gujarat, as Kerala’s posterboy. MODI’S POSTER BOY, BIG B, IS AMBASSAOR OF CPM-RULED KERALA TOO, says The New Indian express of today, Kerala edition

It’s a happy coincidence for the media that the official confirmation from the Kerala government of Bachan’s role as Keralais brand ambassador should come on March 10, the day before the sensational summons were issued to Narendra Modi by the SIT to appear before it and provide answers to certain questions to which hitherto Modi’s reply had been a deafening silence.

Certain issues beg consideration here.

Ø Has Bachan erred morally in agreeing to become the poster boy of Gujarat? An answer in the positive would inhere the presumption that the entire state/population of Gujarat is responsible for the post Godhra pogrom. Cynics might say that they twice re-elected the man who engineered the genocide, and so his actions have the endorsement the people. Well, the issue is complex. Modi perhaps – at least I’d like to believe – was not reelected for his role in the post Godhra ethnic cleansing, but for the much hyped development agenda he promised his state - of which he himself has become a poster boy and a powerful symbol. So powerful that Abdullahkutty from within the ranks of CPM was swayed into praising him. But it is sad, that the people of Gujarat lost sight of the fundamental democratic principles and inalienable human rights which were pooh poohed when the Modi administration cracked down on an entire community to the punish the unpardonable act of miscreants. I would say the election of Narendra Modi twice after the genocide point sharply to the Achilles heels of Democracy.

Coming back to the Amitabh Bachan issue, I got this excerpt from his blog from the following link.

http://calcuttatube.com/amitabh-bachchan-praises-narendra-modi-in-his-blog-47867/47867/

“He (Modi) lives simply and with mere basic needs and most unlike the head of a state. He speaks with affection on development and progress. He is welcoming to fresh ideas and ideals. His oft repeated phrase of him being a CM, a common man, is not misunderstood.

“He does and acts as he speaks.”

“He talks of raising the level of awareness for his state through tourism and I volunteer to participate in any activity that would help promote that,” Bachchan wrote explaining his interest in promoting Gujarat.

Well, I find this shocking and slavish – and absolutely without character. Big B, no matter what a goliath he is, cannot right a terrible wrong by showering such fulsome praise on a man who let loose horror on helpless people, on a Chief Minister, who instead of apprehending and severely punishing those who indulged in the brutal terror act of the train burning, used the state machinery to wipe out a community. And Bachan goes into ecstasy over his life of simplicity. He waxes eloquent on Modi’s mode of articulation “He speaks with affection on development and progress”. I call it a betrayal of the people that Bachan who entrenched himself in the heart of his fans as the angry young man who fought against the powerful to protect the weak and the vulnerable, should sing this psalm of praise to the man who used the state machinery to mow down a helpless community.

Shame on him!

Guess Bachan stood to gain from this association. His films have become tax free in Gujarat. It would be interesting to know the size of the pay packet he gets from Gujarat tourism authority.

Maybe we cannot blame him. The memories of his financial distress before Kwon banega made him a crorepathy must be still green in his mind. And he never claimed to be a champion of the underdog or a principled individual. It is the people who thrust that image on him.

Now that mask - the kereedam- is knocked off, we see the real Bachan.

Does Kerala need such a brand ambassador? How can the government of Kerala unilaterally decide to have a person of dubious principles selling my state?

I am angry.

Is the New Indian Express stirring up a Storm in its V-Cup?

I’ve been loyal to The Indian Express for ever so long – probably from the Emergency days. In the good old days when I had enough health to sit on the floor(thara in Malayalam) , my day began on the floor with my legs stretched out, back against the diwan, a cup of light tea and the Indian Express which my son always thought was a crappy paper. Seeing me on the floor with the paper, he’d say jokingly amma is thara in every sense of the word, meaning sitting on the thara I read a thara paper!

Today I had a reason to think about why I need the The Indian Express the way my husband needs the Malayala Manorama with his early morning black coffee – despite his remarks almost everyday that the paper’s become hollow. One must conclude from this that old habits die hard.

The reasons I arrived at for my addiction to The Indian Express are

1. Being politically correct is not one of its fortes.

2. It does not put the English language on a pedestal and perform poojas to it. It believes in Englishes, rather than Queen’s English.

3. Its editorial too uses the English language rather irreverently, accommdating slangs, elisions and those borderline expressions.

Today’s EditPage, however, took a giant leap from its already liberated position with regard to written language in the most serious page of a newspaper. There was an article by none less than its Editor-In-Chief Aditya Sinha. Talking about who India would give its Oscar award to from among the actors in the political arena in the subcontinent, he felt the best actor award should go to Pakistan Army Chief Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, the reason being, I quote

Suddenly the guy acts as if his balls have turned into cannonballs!!!

My MY! What next?!

GM CROPS in India: Are we being betrayed by our own Judases?

Bashing GM crops may land you in jail !!!

The Biotechnology Regulatory Authority Bill ( BRAB)of 2009 is going to be tabled in the current session of the parliament!

The provisions of the bill are absolutely scary.

Whoever, without any evidence or scientific record misleads the public about the safety of the organisms and products….shall be punished with imprisonment for a term that shall be not less than six months but which may extend to one year and with fine which may extend to two lakhs rupees or with both.

Are we going back to those shameful Dark Age in human history when it was considered right to sentence Galileo to capital punishment unless he recanted? Or is a new Dark Age descending on us, where human life is controlled by Monsantos who have “Pawarful” politicians as their lobbyists willlling to sell an entire nation to satiate the greed of the multinational companies?

That’s not all.

Article27(1) seeks to keep the information related to the research, approval and science of the GM products out of the purview of the Right to Information Act.

If this is not a violation of the fundamental rights in a democracy, what is? Are the desi GM lobbyists totally devoid of any integrity, commitment to the people of India and farsightedness? Have they no qualms about setting afoot a process that will put the very survival of this countryinto the hands of a few global giants?

Moreover, the three member experts of the biotechnology department can overrule the position taken by any state in relation to GM technology.

So it is outside the powers of any state government to refuse the introduction of these dubious seeds into their state. The “PAWARFUL” lobbies see enlightened states like Kerala and the enlightened farmers of states like Karnataka as obstructions in their devious scheme of selling out the country for thirty silver coins!

The draft bill also states that the BRAI will set up its appellate tribunal which will have jurisdiction to hear arguments on the issues concerning biotechnology. In case of any disputes, petitioners can only approach the Supreme Court.

Thank you BRAI for your little mercies. WE, the citizens of India, are grateful to you for the thoughtful concession - of not holding the threat of imprisonment and fine over us if we approach the apex court for our fundamental rights..

**

The issue with GM products are 1. the research regarding the health hazards has been inconclusive to date and 2. they are terminator seeds which will put the Indian farmers, and in turn the whole nation at the mercy of multinational s companies who manufacture and sell these seeds. This is the neocolonialism which may be defined as the Giant corporates' surreptitious efforts to enslave Third World countries on account of the greatest lure of capitalism that these regions offer : the market. Perhaps, it is not fully right to define this market as confined to the Third World. These corporates capitalize on the great divide that is dividing not just the Third World, but all nations across of the world, viz, the class divide. India too now has Supermarkets provisioned with “ORGANIC FOOD’ section with its prohibitive prices and the normal unlabelled food section for the ordinary plebeians which forms the outlet for food with a high level of toxicity .

**

For a brief run down on the GM seed issue from the net:

December 2, 1998: Indian Government Summarizes Threat Posed by Terminator Seeds

Several weeks after banning terminator seeds in India (see Before October 10, 1998), Shri Sompal, the country’s minister of agriculture summarizes the threat posed by the technology in a public statement: “This is lethal and poses a global threat to farmers, biodiversity, and food and ecological security. The use of this technology would threaten the farmers’ rights to save the seed for their harvest. Because of the lethal nature of the product, the public has been asked to be wary of the introduction of genetically modified foods in many parts wherever this technique is being tried to be introduced. The farmer will be dependent upon terminator seed and will have to buy the same seed again and again. The company producing the seed can charge any price from the farmers. The farmer will not be in a position to use seeds saved from the previous crops. It will threaten the farmers’ expertise in seed selection and traditional conservation-cum-improved ways of carrying forward the seeds. The technology would have serious implications on the crop biodiversity. It may lead to gradual extinction of traditional varieties. Crop related wild

varieties, important for natural evolution for crop species would be affected by cross-contamination. This concern would be of special relevance to India, since the country abounds in land races and wild relatives of crop plants.” [REDIFF, 12/1/199

2005: Indian Planters of Bt Cotton Incur Higher Costs than Growers of non-Bt Cotton

A report by the Indian government finds that Bt cotton grown in India in 2005 experienced a higher incidence of pest and disease and produced lower yields than non-Bt cotton. The report recommends that Bt cotton be planted only in irrigated fields that have fertile soil. Another study, conducted by a number of civil society organizations, finds that farmers who grew Bt cotton in Andhra Pradesh collectively incurred $80 million dollars more in farming costs than non-Bt cotton growers. [CENTRE FOR SUSTAINABLE AGRICULTURE, 3/29/2006]

January 1, 2006-August 26, 2006: Thousands of Indian Farmers Commit Suicide

Between January and August 2006, an estimated 1,920 Bt cotton farmers in Vidarbha, Maharashtra (India) commit suicide because of rising debts. And between June and August, the suicide rate reaches one suicide every eight hours. The higher cultivation costs associated with genetically modified Bt cotton (see, e.g., 2005 ) has made it more difficult for farmers to pay back their loans. Roughly 2.8 million of the 3.2 million cotton farmers in the Maharashtra province are currently in default. More than 50 percent of the farmers who commit suicide are between the ages of 20 and 45. [DNA INDIA, 8/26/2006] The epidemic of farmer suicides began in 1994 when India liberalized its economy and devalued the rupee. [DNA INDIA, 8/26/2006]

Category Tags: Farmers' rights, Indi

February 2006-March 2006: Sheep Die after Grazing on Bt Cotton Plants

In the Warangal district of Andhra Pradesh, India, more than 70 Indian shepherds report that 25 percent of their herds died within 5-7 days of continuous grazing on the leaves and pods of harvested Bt cotton plants. The shepherds noticed that the sheep became dull or depressed two to three days after grazing on the plants. They developed “reddish and erosive” lesions in the mouth, became bloated, had episodes of blackish diarrhea, and sometimes had red-colored urine. Post-mordem examinations of the animals revealed the presence of black patches in the small intestines, enlarged bile ducts, discolored livers, and the accumulation of pericardial fluid. Investigators suspect that the deaths were likely due to the Bt toxin in the leaves and pods of the Bt cotton plants.

**

In view of these, how can any government keep the updates on the research and policies regarding these deadly products from the people who elected them to power to protect their interests? Doesn’t this highhanded attitude amount to a serious breach of trust?

Science is all about experimentation and conclusions. The latter might change with new facts and discoveries emerging from the former. To enlighten the people about the scientific theories, methodology of research and conclusions regarding the products that are introduced into the country, is the sacred duty of the government. The right to take informed decisions about the food they eat, whether it is toxic or not, is the inalienable right of the people. NO GOVERNMENT CAN THROW US INTO JAIL FOR EXERCISING THAT RIGHT.

The government which even remotely considers formulating such draconic measures should be thrown out of power.

Hoping and praying that BRAI won’t throw me in the can someday for this piece.

I remain anxiously yours

Pareltank

The 11th Commandment

I pamper my right leg, cos it was the victim of a surgery. My left leg grinned and bore this partisan attitude for three years. But, like the saying goes, the smallest worm will turn being trod upon. A week back, the left leg did the true Left act. It struck work. Enough was enough, it seemed to say. It protested – at the knee.

I was left with no choice but to concede to its immediate demands. I fed it with Ibubrufen, massaged it with kottanchukkadhi in the morning, Volini in the evening; then adorned it with a knee cap - the best and the prettiest one in the market. And to make up for the ill treatment of two years, I honoured it with a gold coloured tripod walking stick with a smart black handle.

And of course a week of complete rest and relaxation – a week as free as I could possibly make it from the unenviable task of load bearing, rather bearing this load.

A week done and the left leg seemed to be in a mood to withdraw the protest. But I continued to treat it gingerly. Can’t afford to antagonize it. The local bandh culture can be catching.

In the meanwhile, I’d been putting off an interview with a prospective employer on account of my striking leg. Yesterday, I called him up and told him I’ll be there at 10 am. Then I told Sunny about the interview.

He was horrified. ”You are making a mistake if you think that leg of yours is going to be happy with a week’s vacation. You better extend it for another week”

“No way”, I said. “I know my leg better. See”, I said bending it and straightening it to show how perfectly pliant my knee was.

“Ok, if you must go, I’ll come with you”, said Sunny.

“No way”, I said indignantly. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of me and my leg”.

He looked undecided for a moment, and then asked, anxiously “You sure?”

“Absolutely”.

“OK then”, he said looking worried. “At least take the walking stick”

“What?” I exclaimed shocked. “I’m wearing my new Biba Anarkali salwar suit. Catch me going around with a walking stick to spoil the impact. You want the whole world to think that I’m handicapped or something?”

He was silent after that.

And I went, Biba and all. I was dropped off at the gate of the institution. I walked down the paved path, marveling at how I keep bouncing back after each setback at the health front. Am not sure if I whispered my usual “thank you, God” after this thought.

I reached the veranda.

There was only a low step leading to the veranda from the paved compound. Old habits die hard, and as had been my habit for the past three years, I placed my left leg on the step and put my whole weight on to it while I hoisted my torso up in the act of placing my right leg on the veranda.

The left leg, true to its name, protested. And violently. I heard a double click in my knee followed by a shooting blinding pain that left me gasping.

A uniformed lady was swabbing the granite floor. She saw me, dropped her swab and ran to me help, calling out to another uniformed lady down the veranda. With one on each side, I was helped to the nearest chair.

So much for the impact of my new, anarkali Biba Salwar suit!

As I sat there waiting for the receptionist to be informed of my arrival, I found myself wondering why “Obey thy husband’ was not one of the commandments. Probably, because it would then be not Ten Commandment but Eleven Commandments. Perhaps the former sounds better though the latter would have made the Decalogue a more comprehensive set of precepts.

The agony of glamour

Waiting in the lobby of an eye clinic in Mumbai, I saw a couple of young ladies look around, as though searching for someone. One of them saw me, and walked towards be briskly, with a broad smile as if she knew me all her life. Needless to say, I was confused, and sure that she had mistaken me for someone else. She sat down next to me and said, not exactly for me alone to hear, “Hello aunteeeey”

Hello, I said, with that aloofness that we reserve for this variety of our species, for, by then I had realized that she was marketing something and prowling around that clinic looking for a prey. She had THAT smile. You know the smile that doesn’t reach the eyes which, in turn, betray a certain anxiety laced with craftiness.

She sat down beside me, looked at my face with a beatific expression and said “Aunty, you must have been an extremely beautiful lady when you were young”.

I was thoroughly embarrassed ‘cos no one had ever told me that when I was young. But then I remembered that people used to remark that my mother must have been very beautiful when she was young, though the dark haired younger mother I remembered was not half as beautiful as the platinum blonde fair skinned picture of dignity she presented in her immaculate white chatta and mundu, in her seventies. But what little confidence I got from this fleeting thought vanished when I saw my husband who was sitting next to me trying hard to suppress a smile.

My expression must have frozen ‘cos I saw a little worry creep into that girl’s eyes. It made her louder and more effusive. “Don’t you want to look that beautiful again, aunteeeeey?” was her next question. I looked furtively at my husband whose head was twisted at an alarmingly dangerous angle – you know like you see in those spooky vampire films where the head sometimes takes a three sixty turn. I wanted to hit this girl on her head. Instead, I said stiffly. “Am quiet happy as I am” with what I thought and hoped would be a gracious tone.

Then came the next salvo. “Aaaunty (a little shrill, falling intonation), you must have looked like Rakhee in your good old days”. Oh God! I threw a quick glance around to see if anyone was listening. I had already noticed that my husband’s head was fixed at a one eighty degrees and I could see only the back of his distinguished head. A few women of my age group sitting across were openly laughing.

I decided to be rude. “Listen”, I told her. “I’ve come to get my eyes checked. Please, I’m not interested”

“But aunteeeeeee”, the tenacious young leech crooned. “You know how Hema Malini looks at this age? You think it is natural? No, aunty, no no. It’s botox”

“No botox for me”, I said curtly.

“Oh come on aunty, you just listen to me and you can be beautiful once again. There are a lot of misconceptions about botox”, she said pulling out a brochure from her back pack.

Thankfully, my name was announced by the doctor’s receptionist and I fled.

What brought this incident to my mind was a news item that appeared prominently in the Yahoo home page. Angelina Jolie, the media suspects, has done a procedure to tighten her throat muscles! There are two tell tale raw marks behind the ears which should confirm that she has done the ribbon lift, the latest plastic surgery craze in Hollywood, costing 4000 pounds. Poor lady, how much of effort, planning and strategy she must have had to put into it to have this done away from the gaze of the public and paparazzi. It must be terrible, this torture of always being in the glare of publicity, particularly when your profession demands that you make those occasional visits to the plastic surgeon to maintain the youthful looks. And after that to have prying cameras trying to get a shot of those surgery marks behind the ears!

My friend goes to a gymn where she runs into some top Bollywood beauties and machos. She told me something which made me feel sorry for them. They were so thin – and without the designer clothes or designer no clothes, and the genius of a camera man to project them in a glamourous light, they looked almost abnormal with huge heads, she said. No trainer or machine can reduce the size of the human head, and so the head remains the same normal size while the body struggles to achieve the size zero. My friend was wondering what the size zero Kareena Kapoor would look like if these ladies are still a long way off that target.

Guess it’s no easy job, being an actress. The torture they have to put themselves through to remain in the race! Or do they enjoy it? They must, or they wouldn’t put themselves through the rigours of achieving 5’5’ height with a 48 Kg weight proportion. I wonder if they realize what it feels like to be in a profession which affords you the luxury of being able to say “No” to botox.

Sour grapes, said my cousin, when I shared this thought with her.