tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50791364308040773702024-03-19T01:27:05.537-07:00The Songbird on my ShoulderA collection of short spurts of thought which result in the funny, thought-provoking, poignant worldview of a Madam who lives in Pune, India - the Oxford of the East, the Home of the Shrewsbury Biscuit, and the road-accident fatality-and-brain-damage capital of the world.Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-43867399546302253702021-12-26T21:05:00.000-08:002021-12-26T21:05:11.806-08:00When Santa arrived on elephant-back<p>A few days ago, Aravinda Anantharaman, the prolific columnist who writes as <a href="https://lifestyle.livemint.com/author/aravinda-anantharaman" target="_blank">Tea Nanny </a>for Mint Lounge, messaged me about a Brazilian blog called <a href="https://teafriends.com.br/" target="_blank">Tea Friends </a>which was looking for an Indian Christmas story. Aravinda had read and enjoyed <a href="https://www.amazon.com/elephant-kissed-window-stories-plantations/dp/938346514X"><i>An Elephant Kissed My Window</i> </a>and remembered Ravindran's Santa-on-the-elephant episode. She arranged to send it on to Elizeth, who duly translated and carried it as <a href="https://teafriends.com.br/quando-papai-noel-chegou-montado-em-um-elefante-efeitos-colaterais/">Quando Papai Noel Chegou Montado Em Um Elefante – “Efeitos Colaterais” –</a> </p><p>In case you don't understand Portuguese, here it is, excerpted from the book!</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Collateral damage</h3><h2><o:p></o:p></h2>
<p class="Elephanttext"><span lang="EN-GB">Another close encounter with an elephant
left its mark. It was a year when our children were still young and I decided
that it would be a brilliant idea to arrive as Santa Claus for the children’s
Christmas party riding on the back of an elephant. What a thrill it would be
for them! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Elephanttext"><span lang="EN-GB">There were tame elephants working in a
nearby timber camp, so we sent for an elephant from there, and it duly arrived,
accompanied by its mahout and a helper, at the group manager’s bungalow where I
was waiting with my friends. One of the prerequisites of Santa-hood is that one
must be sufficiently inebriated to remain in high spirits through the ordeal of
being strapped with pillows and helped into the costume, cap and beard. In
fact, it is a documented tradition among the planters of South India that a
bottle of rum is mandatory on such occasions and if it can possibly be emptied
before the proceedings begin, so much the better. </span></p><p class="Elephanttext"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4lcHrorvwalY7XisV3_g-ruCSCkBfrGBhyphenhyphenaqR3kj1O55mamOoXTmsU31IuV7j5z0jQ5CEpzXaoJCqegdQhJPql0MI_wjyjsDoAZZQYKt4HofvO3folieVUA8V5yvDCawIENdmJfhdlM/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1188" data-original-width="1629" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4lcHrorvwalY7XisV3_g-ruCSCkBfrGBhyphenhyphenaqR3kj1O55mamOoXTmsU31IuV7j5z0jQ5CEpzXaoJCqegdQhJPql0MI_wjyjsDoAZZQYKt4HofvO3folieVUA8V5yvDCawIENdmJfhdlM/" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Santa sets out for the party</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB"><br />Dressed as Santa, clutching
onto a sack full of gifts, I proceeded to the location near the club where the
elephant was waiting. The mahout got the elephant to kneel, and I was pushed up
to a position from where I could clamber on to its back and pull myself up into
sitting position. One of them put a rope into my hands and, winding the other
end of it around the elephant’s neck, motioned me to sit astride the elephant
so that he could then tuck my feet too into the rope. He then patted the
elephant on its back and it slowly lumbered up. I felt the earth moving beneath
me. It was a strange wobbly feeling as, with all four legs of the elephant in
motion, everything under me seemed to be shaking! And – why had nobody ever
told me before how sharp the bristles on an elephant’s back were? I was being
jiggled up and down, dodging the sharp tickles the bristles were generously
brushing my privates with, and the tail end of my vertebra was grinding
painfully against the elephant’s backbone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Elephanttext"><span lang="EN-GB">Impervious to my suffering, the elephant
marched resolutely on, barely clearing the low-hanging branches of the
coniferous trees along the narrow road. My heavy Santa padding prevented me
from bending to avoid overhead branches and I began slipping down the side of
the elephant. The mahouts appeared not to realise that something was wrong,
merely stopping at intervals to prop me back upright. When Santa finally
arrived at the club after the ride of a lifetime, he was hanging for dear life
onto the stomach of the pachyderm. The waiting crowd at the club were roaring
with laughter and the mahouts had a tough time rescuing Santa, by now
practically comatose in his agony.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Elephanttext"><span lang="EN-GB"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmf8JGqvD-bVrTP_zjrZ854NQrJEG_Tz4dpOjZxYSpZPMAQGWSytfvAzUxPw7O5Qvn0cnmL7cUkF19atjHr4BbNEv1QPbONXItR5tNQ5t8quhunaJXAnrvcSuyYrDhlHNwiLp0re0xNc/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1505" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmf8JGqvD-bVrTP_zjrZ854NQrJEG_Tz4dpOjZxYSpZPMAQGWSytfvAzUxPw7O5Qvn0cnmL7cUkF19atjHr4BbNEv1QPbONXItR5tNQ5t8quhunaJXAnrvcSuyYrDhlHNwiLp0re0xNc/" width="320" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="Elephanttext" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB">The children’s Christmas party at the Anamallai Club, 1985. <br />Santa, having survived the ordeal, is seen collapsed against the wall by the tree.</span></p><div><br />In later years when I climbed on the
back of an elephant on safaris in Kenya and Kaziranga, it was always to ride on
a bench placed there, and I would remember the foolhardy glory of my younger
days when I rode bareback on an elephant and lived to tell the tale!</div>
<p class="Elephanttext">Excerpted
from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/elephant-kissed-window-stories-plantations/dp/938346514X"><i>An Elephant Kissed My Window</i> </a>by M. Ravindran and Saaz Aggarwal</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-11895164848783526792021-05-15T01:10:00.003-07:002021-05-15T01:20:40.099-07:00He was one of a kind<h2 style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw83lU8zNRpaoU77c0yAkslVxY160q2iLZflsaaKT_iTc8lQEw113KM5sHhNWGvsH0vHtVMs5uznl24PS16Iy5V_dhY76A8qELGTGG7k_r5mWSb-x2wQHQutnSIMcCAoIodUASgJpRjDA/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1019" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw83lU8zNRpaoU77c0yAkslVxY160q2iLZflsaaKT_iTc8lQEw113KM5sHhNWGvsH0vHtVMs5uznl24PS16Iy5V_dhY76A8qELGTGG7k_r5mWSb-x2wQHQutnSIMcCAoIodUASgJpRjDA/w159-h200/3f5570fc-5d38-4703-97be-da778532495e.jfif" width="159" /></a></h2><br />The last time I saw
Dharmam would have been about fifty years ago. I don’t think we ever exchanged
a single word in conversation. And yet, the memory of who he was, and his
professional contribution, have remained fresh in my mind. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;">In the late 1960s, Dharmam
worked on Prospect, one of the four estates of the Estates and Agency Company
(E&A, a company with its head office in London). It was one of the most
prestigious estates in the Nilgiri District, its tea among the highest priced
at the auctions. Thirty years later, when I visited Prospect to show my family
the beautiful home I had lived in as a child, it was in a state of utter
decline. I felt bemused by the changes, but gratified to learn that people
still remembered my father, Bob Savur. Hoping to find one of the old-timers
still around, scouring my memory for names, I asked after Dharmam. Sadly, nobody
knew where he had moved to. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1-HHpehSB2pyOtMon3QJyYGyLJmEm5HRekb8TwSvyFc5u9Gb6wTb8LtesOxPBYggK0lpmjxnKJp4IPCY9AtbRNdvwEYrzXWbC82ZVT-0CvCLvtmKBzNjri1uKdQ6Lcvl80cPhJrFLb0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="949" data-original-width="1346" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1-HHpehSB2pyOtMon3QJyYGyLJmEm5HRekb8TwSvyFc5u9Gb6wTb8LtesOxPBYggK0lpmjxnKJp4IPCY9AtbRNdvwEYrzXWbC82ZVT-0CvCLvtmKBzNjri1uKdQ6Lcvl80cPhJrFLb0/w400-h283/0083ecaa-4e1b-4c79-be2b-343d9ce02b23.jfif" width="400" /></a></div><br />In 2019, I began working
with M Ravindran, a former colleague of my dad’s at Prospect, on a book about
the good old days, <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UCOZjRKHXE&feature=youtu.be" target="_blank">An Elephant Kissed My Window</a></i>. Memories began to
surface, and prominent among them was Dharmam. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;">What was the reason
for my vivid recall? Why did his name and persona stand out so sharply,
unobscured by the many eventful years since then? I soon began to realise that Dharmam’s work
was essential not just to production but also to quality of life, since, along
with being in charge of maintaining the factory machinery, he was also
responsible for the estate vehicles, the civil and electrical upkeep of estate
properties, and the estate’s water supply. And, Dharmam was not someone who
restricted himself to maintenance. He embraced his work with the joy of inventive
genius, and those I interviewed spoke with respect of his creative recycling. He
is still remembered for the winch system at High Forest Estate, Mudis, which
sent bags of leaf using a wire rope-pulley system to the factory. At Prospect,
he created a pond on a hill and laid pipes that conveyed water around the
estate. When the estate hired a bulldozer from outside the Nilgiris to construct
India’s first green tea factory, Dharmam, always one to optimise the use of
resources, persuaded my dad that they could use it convert the meadow near the
staff club into a football ground, which they did. Dharmam’s contribution
extended far beyond estate functionalities: he had crafted baking trays,
piggybanks, even barstools, from scrap. My brother Ravi and I had a car he had
assembled from tin sheets and bicycle pedals which we could actually ride in.
It had an axle connected to a real steering wheel and a loud honking horn which
once belonged to a lorry. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp32eu-9scpJle24Ag6yaJIG5Ynq8FOW6Vy9F5Guy1XS-1OCX0EgIMzDsqz_zKMR9FRBv56apDFUhBcicbtCMByzoefE5EYkuGxFsPdABjtNI9FG0eB6ZjeCuTE3OkXoPUn9gtC2LxXMo/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="942" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp32eu-9scpJle24Ag6yaJIG5Ynq8FOW6Vy9F5Guy1XS-1OCX0EgIMzDsqz_zKMR9FRBv56apDFUhBcicbtCMByzoefE5EYkuGxFsPdABjtNI9FG0eB6ZjeCuTE3OkXoPUn9gtC2LxXMo/w400-h299/High+Forest+Factory+view+from+our+home+wo+frame.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">View of the High Forest Factory from his home </span><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo taken by Dharmam and provided by his son Rajappa</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;"><br /></span>These memories and
insights filled me with determination to somehow locate Dharmam’s children and
send them copies of <i><a href="https://www.amazon.in/elephant-kissed-window-stories-plantations/dp/938346514X" target="_blank">The Elephant Kissed My Window</a></i>. No one at the Prospect office knew where he was,
but continuous phone follow-ups resulted in a few leads. When my disgracefully
inadequate Tamil became an obstacle, a kind classmate made the calls and eventually
came back with the full names of Dharmam’s sons. This gave me hope, as the
names are unusual, and it was a moment of delight to find Rajappa Charles on
LinkedIn: he was Chief Engineer at St Stephen’s Hospital in Delhi. It took only
a few eager phone calls to the hospital to get Rajappa’s number. And to learn
from him that he had left Delhi and retired to Nagercoil – and that his father
lived with him.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zEpu6LHsRAVnt5RPDYXua5OlOLCZWWRbIYPpay4Lo71iZALeor0LbxIcmo-HWr5SKGUjFgVrpB546wY6QMx-HzMzmcGJFyoccu3BAO1ihGdl2Zk77DgPhLfYDfsEtr77bSq0snAYZpo/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="944" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zEpu6LHsRAVnt5RPDYXua5OlOLCZWWRbIYPpay4Lo71iZALeor0LbxIcmo-HWr5SKGUjFgVrpB546wY6QMx-HzMzmcGJFyoccu3BAO1ihGdl2Zk77DgPhLfYDfsEtr77bSq0snAYZpo/" width="320" /></a></div>The book was not yet
in print, and I was able to check and update some facts from Dharmam who, at
89, was as sharp of mind as ever. In fact, he and Rajappa both had fond memories
of the time they bought their first car, a second-hand 1956 Fiat, when Rajappa
was a little boy of seven: it was my father who drove them to Coimbatore to inspect
it and make sure they were getting a good deal, and drove himself back to the
estate while they inaugurated their new acquisition. In the 1960s, tea estate
life still followed a somewhat colonial pattern. There was afternoon tea with hot
buttered scones and jam, and an apartheid-like social divide. Hearing about this
incident told me something about the deep affection and regard my father and
Dharmam had for each other. No wonder he was one of the people I still
remembered clearly, even half a century later.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;">Dharmam grew up in
Nagercoil, and studied at the Scott Christian High School (a college now). After
his matriculation, he did a diploma in mechanical engineering and joined Pioneer
Transports, the first company to start a bus service in South India. He was
sent to Chennai for diesel engine training and was in the first batch of the
prestigious Perkins Diesel Engine institute. </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-LJWt280gO5POxqjKkNH8KWRXlyO658dCXuyA26UqULzWYj8MS1qRG-sIliQKyccbWneLvbeNO667Qe2W9Hr9KgSPzzeVpoJw3zocDWuB2oF1MPr9iyJRzGpy2Uz9uHn3kVCJ81XpUJI/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="616" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-LJWt280gO5POxqjKkNH8KWRXlyO658dCXuyA26UqULzWYj8MS1qRG-sIliQKyccbWneLvbeNO667Qe2W9Hr9KgSPzzeVpoJw3zocDWuB2oF1MPr9iyJRzGpy2Uz9uHn3kVCJ81XpUJI/" width="162" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">PA Charles (left) with a colleague</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;"><br />After a break when he suffered a
debilitating attack of typhoid, Dharmam joined E&A’s High Forest, where his
father PA Charles was Tea Maker, as Mechanic. There he completed an electrical
supervisory course, and was promoted to Electrical Supervisor. When my father,
manager of High Forest at the time, was transferred to Prospect, he made sure
that Dharmam was transferred there too. Dharmam’s wife, Helen, was a much-loved
teacher on the estate schools. Their last posting was at Seaforth Estate, O
Valley, during which Dharmam retired and stayed on for the few years she
continued working.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;">Connecting with
Dharmam and his family was one of my greatest joys of <i>An Elephant Kissed My
Window</i>. In December 2019, I met his son Bimal and grandson Dharun in
Chennai. Bimal, who has a Masters’ in Public Health from London School of
Economics, was CEO of Christian Medical Association of India. After 35 years of
non-stop travel all over India and many other countries, he retired in 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;">Sadly, I would never
make it to visit Dharmam in Nagercoil, as he passed away just three weeks short
of his ninety-second birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk71107785;">RIP Charles Dharma
Sundara Raj (30 April 1929 – 9 April 2021)</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This tribute was written for <i>Planters' Chronicle </i>April 2021 issue</span></p>Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-37036590143335765812021-01-27T02:40:00.418-08:002021-04-10T22:52:26.774-07:00Mandai Nostalgia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1cuvtY1nW_nFo7CCMA1gKzC2rDr8vnZKXgUW4c-i8eBvpVR6XcdComhfHlQDvfQc6x_UfYFfecGMvRrays4lk8dkKRzsanehvZxHXrKtvy1vVM1pB14vLKkdezO7BIS_O64109_NxIc/s2048/IMG_20210126_091231.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1cuvtY1nW_nFo7CCMA1gKzC2rDr8vnZKXgUW4c-i8eBvpVR6XcdComhfHlQDvfQc6x_UfYFfecGMvRrays4lk8dkKRzsanehvZxHXrKtvy1vVM1pB14vLKkdezO7BIS_O64109_NxIc/w320-h240/IMG_20210126_091231.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mandai 26 Jan 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>Yesterday at Mandai was so very different from what it has been for the past five years. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Since 2016, the first half of Republic Day at Mandai, Pune’s iconic vegetable </span><span style="text-align: left;">market, has been a scene of festive crowds enjoying an art event. For the sake of continuity, I took a cautious break from isolation yesterday, and went to attend the flag hoisting. Hanging out </span><span style="text-align: left;">for a bit with Anuradhabai, </span><span style="text-align: left;">my neighbour and colleague, felt good too. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFCqgiXYr0YzwXIP2RCIL284tONz4jypvwVxyQG07tUDv31MxdGJziGmYNmrCselhyphenhyphenV0hF8M4GwzDs0Q4Prm6JEwESSxCER0VE5F_GpJkXILB8YAcp6yh21fqH_3cAL6Q9mvt26q0Noc/s2048/IMG_20200126_120051.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFCqgiXYr0YzwXIP2RCIL284tONz4jypvwVxyQG07tUDv31MxdGJziGmYNmrCselhyphenhyphenV0hF8M4GwzDs0Q4Prm6JEwESSxCER0VE5F_GpJkXILB8YAcp6yh21fqH_3cAL6Q9mvt26q0Noc/w320-h240/IMG_20200126_120051.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mandai 26 Jan 2020</td></tr></tbody></table><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The world had changed after the pandemic, and naturally Mandai had too - it was a lonely morning, quite different to the crowded, bustling time we had last year with people pouring in to participate in the very exciting event that Gauri Gandhi</span><span style="text-align: center;">, a professor at Flame University,</span><span style="text-align: center;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">started planning in late 2015. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: center;">I'm grateful to </span><span style="text-align: center;">Kunal Ray for suggesting my name to Gauri, and to </span><span style="text-align: center;">Gauri for her wonderful idea and all her efforts in establishing it. Her idea of integrating with public spaces and local
communities was very attractive. </span><span style="text-align: center;">Mandai is a beautiful, historic building, not just a place to buy veggies but an icon of public
art where art lovers and art
students visit, and the Aggarwal nashta is pretty ok too! </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: center;">Each of the five events I took part in were great fun. You can read about some of them <a href="http://thesongbirdonmyshoulder.blogspot.com/2016/01/art-mandai_31.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://thesongbirdonmyshoulder.blogspot.com/2017/01/art-in-pune-veggie-market-again.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </span>Mandai was a wonderful opportunity for me because it took me out of my comfort zone and I suddenly found myself free to use absolutely any material and let it speak for itself. One of the purposes of Mandai was affordable art and I thought it would be good to use a low-cost material, so started off with roadside stones, offering them in the kind of baskets that the vegetable and fruit vendors of Mandai use.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsy4SxoqIcaxIbQkJr5G6gLzam61wKl8xRBuT5u3M9qwh3RoQSyAbr4ryhLDqZl5dtMY8SOpICP5pir7FlqmdC0biBZ94J9fHr_yJ4VsAKyuQZUu0kN-raMWg1kNSrMX8rPC2MQN1WXU/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="800" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsy4SxoqIcaxIbQkJr5G6gLzam61wKl8xRBuT5u3M9qwh3RoQSyAbr4ryhLDqZl5dtMY8SOpICP5pir7FlqmdC0biBZ94J9fHr_yJ4VsAKyuQZUu0kN-raMWg1kNSrMX8rPC2MQN1WXU/w400-h356/Today%2527s+Catch+LITE.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Today's Catch </b>Pune Biennale 2016</td></tr></tbody></table>Some of what I have made over the years has been with things given to me by friends who did not have the heart to throw them away - like cassette collections and saris, once precious, now too old to be used. It has been so very gratifying when people visited my stall, thronged around, and purchased. These are some of my favourite photos, surrounded by happy customers, money in my hands and glee on my face!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABKsaqNMSmZnQKl-BXy-0Yy8iDMG7_pdft2hHjZz6c88SR9kWdud5U8Hr8gkQ0v88Yvbs9myNRS9xVWY2e83-IqJgVNjS2B98H-FsUvm-jQtYzG1CKtPvK4nD_d-C2slQPWBcazn6-5k/s2048/IMG_20190126_114406.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABKsaqNMSmZnQKl-BXy-0Yy8iDMG7_pdft2hHjZz6c88SR9kWdud5U8Hr8gkQ0v88Yvbs9myNRS9xVWY2e83-IqJgVNjS2B98H-FsUvm-jQtYzG1CKtPvK4nD_d-C2slQPWBcazn6-5k/w200-h150/IMG_20190126_114406.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigs2XpBB0cV1cT7QmmotIy5t4_Uk8ojQKQeZyO3yf85NbK7B3ZrFTBpZR_zU11054tFwlz5kRJJqRDaoNMMx9447XILJNNqFhy6Tsvaz0etyTvYUNqVnsU768a6kZgScHKXjP2kplhuoM/s2048/IMG_20190126_112004.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigs2XpBB0cV1cT7QmmotIy5t4_Uk8ojQKQeZyO3yf85NbK7B3ZrFTBpZR_zU11054tFwlz5kRJJqRDaoNMMx9447XILJNNqFhy6Tsvaz0etyTvYUNqVnsU768a6kZgScHKXjP2kplhuoM/w200-h150/IMG_20190126_112004.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgryyWp_fl0gUzARHjtOYSWdYTJ07aGtZIspLXeRIiEYPZ0z1zzan10ylpeGBqtvJhrTg42OaRk-ZYwMkyz7f6r3V3L5htAj_X_qxUALng_HV-K-OEL4gHo_3-wNiSF9kftIz9Y5Q-y2RI/s2048/IMG_20180126_105902_HDR.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgryyWp_fl0gUzARHjtOYSWdYTJ07aGtZIspLXeRIiEYPZ0z1zzan10ylpeGBqtvJhrTg42OaRk-ZYwMkyz7f6r3V3L5htAj_X_qxUALng_HV-K-OEL4gHo_3-wNiSF9kftIz9Y5Q-y2RI/w200-h150/IMG_20180126_105902_HDR.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZn7lk5sUONX7KvInsmL57TXWiUj-U5iKLEsqslMifw_3zMKfT1RCFzUSYwz8noYfDDViEtIopj2I2SZ6UoKwQwUR7fgyLPmazlxcdgd3sIeyzlycW1ziGDmjt_01lzD1WN2MTZ81PZI/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZn7lk5sUONX7KvInsmL57TXWiUj-U5iKLEsqslMifw_3zMKfT1RCFzUSYwz8noYfDDViEtIopj2I2SZ6UoKwQwUR7fgyLPmazlxcdgd3sIeyzlycW1ziGDmjt_01lzD1WN2MTZ81PZI/w192-h144/IMG_20180126_125534.jpg" width="192" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zw2HUaKPpHJqBWjYn-vE3ecMxnfxSPRq3kct7o8HJK99_Rl6PLkoZBGRZ1Y7WyaPIyuk-X3EvRW74fPQRtcZ9P83MgcSqzmsu5HxJPdXL5t1yx-IqPqZR8Q3lArJ43Miye4Ar4ohjBo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zw2HUaKPpHJqBWjYn-vE3ecMxnfxSPRq3kct7o8HJK99_Rl6PLkoZBGRZ1Y7WyaPIyuk-X3EvRW74fPQRtcZ9P83MgcSqzmsu5HxJPdXL5t1yx-IqPqZR8Q3lArJ43Miye4Ar4ohjBo/w204-h135/16142387_1276751059048981_3423710653716164912_n.jpg" width="204" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje2sXvGSHE3AZihjsHs1UqnW15zhVZY2a9_0sJ3OWPqjKvLmr5uXCNXJLIByswjSRGLNtmzCZXrOoVaesRYr0BVZuxOvEI02PXA7pwpcGXiop2IEQ-4AtjeEtr8IWM05y3Sv7dOVXUKr4/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje2sXvGSHE3AZihjsHs1UqnW15zhVZY2a9_0sJ3OWPqjKvLmr5uXCNXJLIByswjSRGLNtmzCZXrOoVaesRYr0BVZuxOvEI02PXA7pwpcGXiop2IEQ-4AtjeEtr8IWM05y3Sv7dOVXUKr4/w189-h137/IMG_20170126_094227_AO_HDR.jpg" width="189" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In 2020, when Gauri announced 'Harvest' as the theme of Art Mandai, I went a bit berserk with ideas, making collages on tiny canvas boards and turning them into magnets. There were harvests of corn and rice, of course; there were also harvests of fish (some lay dead in seas of plastic), eggs, flowers - and lice, snakes and even blessings. Unable to conceive of harvest without some kind of tribute to the Indian farmer, I did a series of 'farmer-suicide' magnets too, little expecting that anyone would buy - and was surprised when most were purchased. You can see some of them in the image below - I was sticking them on my heirloom Godrej cupboards as they got done, and this was taken a few days before the Jan 2020 show.</div></div></div></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUJ5N1R1YSIPAjkJc9MY1dqS590KBUrETiTY8m9qxr3kuIKdbE3n-ituHNQDZI4QlfBuOnt8TKXKJFxgVu_2U1t6zpX4e3uPq0SMaycGcyPWLExa-gdAutqqlbRtZriszSDMR313O3RI/s2048/IMG_20200125_100132.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1939" data-original-width="2048" height="606" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUJ5N1R1YSIPAjkJc9MY1dqS590KBUrETiTY8m9qxr3kuIKdbE3n-ituHNQDZI4QlfBuOnt8TKXKJFxgVu_2U1t6zpX4e3uPq0SMaycGcyPWLExa-gdAutqqlbRtZriszSDMR313O3RI/w640-h606/IMG_20200125_100132.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Mandai 2020 was also special for me in quite a few different ways! For the past four years, my business partner was my husband, Ajay, who always came along, dressed for the part, and took the wonderful transactional photos you saw above!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGBlVXyT0ykGgfHapP49vUqu6dR5ZMjpplbmzl9MIYP6pcGwWVXiFCd9qAprI7Sa_U7aiTF2BYRfZKGgmVW9CWojX8719x_WFISLP66VodPxO-CHMmaVkhRy6imXy4XjTpgF0yCIu0Pmo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGBlVXyT0ykGgfHapP49vUqu6dR5ZMjpplbmzl9MIYP6pcGwWVXiFCd9qAprI7Sa_U7aiTF2BYRfZKGgmVW9CWojX8719x_WFISLP66VodPxO-CHMmaVkhRy6imXy4XjTpgF0yCIu0Pmo/w640-h480/IMG_20180126_104938_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But in 2020, we had a family wedding in Delhi (I rushed to the airport to join them as soon as the Mandai event ended!) and I had two good friends, Ruve Narang and Dhananjay Kale come and sit with me instead, attending to customers, and keeping the collection safe!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD4zD8HFd0al6ZW3gZ2eZYrK576iGEO1J7j0FemKGTJJ-_3uv4xXjhCFj_Ubxz_krnwSvgdcvSEy9cLK-zy-RSg94fgNAv97hOWGACevxXWoNLqI6ik189BgBYu18VZeJho8rVYg685-0/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD4zD8HFd0al6ZW3gZ2eZYrK576iGEO1J7j0FemKGTJJ-_3uv4xXjhCFj_Ubxz_krnwSvgdcvSEy9cLK-zy-RSg94fgNAv97hOWGACevxXWoNLqI6ik189BgBYu18VZeJho8rVYg685-0/w303-h227/IMG_20200126_120005.jpg" width="303" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEHVUnxhKiU-xyTZz1sBFVrB7nwb7_vmq7Q3ZneU-m5cLyRSMdYW6cxDIKOsgBQF7GFtgjaoqVfomUQu_W2dn-LKzoBgZNSRk02UE16SKEuSkc-XglzGNJSyDsdkrm_SdELbSp7SnK-8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEHVUnxhKiU-xyTZz1sBFVrB7nwb7_vmq7Q3ZneU-m5cLyRSMdYW6cxDIKOsgBQF7GFtgjaoqVfomUQu_W2dn-LKzoBgZNSRk02UE16SKEuSkc-XglzGNJSyDsdkrm_SdELbSp7SnK-8/w310-h233/IMG_20200126_120107.jpg" width="310" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjluRBonAcqOCQ-vz3Yu9wuI3pz-EOhFKdYrwrIdye67_QHtwgInWMIDmGO4K-WZVxWBQSdWD-Rrw3C_ixUmlDtBzQ55cnXjsBUKj21oSRuZjzqkH9wsnzea2Wc1fAKKcbL2Ii54dpqbrE/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="434" height="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjluRBonAcqOCQ-vz3Yu9wuI3pz-EOhFKdYrwrIdye67_QHtwgInWMIDmGO4K-WZVxWBQSdWD-Rrw3C_ixUmlDtBzQ55cnXjsBUKj21oSRuZjzqkH9wsnzea2Wc1fAKKcbL2Ii54dpqbrE/w97-h94/temp+profile.jpg" width="97" /></a></div><br />Ruve was a member of Art Mandai in the early years, and she is the one who designed the group's lovely logo.</div></span><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In 2020, I was also quite gratified to find that the Art Mandai PR team had made me an icon of the event! My photo appeared in all the media clips announcing it, you can see the <i>Times of India </i>clipping at the end of this post. Over the years, I found a lot of validation in seeing that I and my work were regularly featured in newspaper articles that covered Mandai. My basket of stone faces can be seen in the first article about it <a href="http://m.thehindu.com/features/magazine/kunal-ray-on-art-mandai-a-unique-project-in-pune/article8171674.ece" target="_blank">on this link </a>and here are a few of the other clippings too! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTRqcJJ3ahe5WhPGgZ3shWYRlJPE9WREGqjm8fxIi2Kj3oAJolgflxmx3QUIE9aEppa0sy6GVYsnMNs-Qo9aoO26wMHRCJZa2H7X8Mj_yylKHlrkihYXhQCZTp4zBIrB1jrz8miWM-iw/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1866" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTRqcJJ3ahe5WhPGgZ3shWYRlJPE9WREGqjm8fxIi2Kj3oAJolgflxmx3QUIE9aEppa0sy6GVYsnMNs-Qo9aoO26wMHRCJZa2H7X8Mj_yylKHlrkihYXhQCZTp4zBIrB1jrz8miWM-iw/" width="263" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3eXvMiXDQ9G69VWN_jYKUMpCL_7ascGch6tAPFBQCx_YCS_iDvwQaZM6zcG335vZ9x_sXEimEUVOA1G6mM6IvM5PfEZGldfB8jFuVkiNlxnHL6AAHH725Ia06TbWY8-UDeuq3mDRdpY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="834" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3eXvMiXDQ9G69VWN_jYKUMpCL_7ascGch6tAPFBQCx_YCS_iDvwQaZM6zcG335vZ9x_sXEimEUVOA1G6mM6IvM5PfEZGldfB8jFuVkiNlxnHL6AAHH725Ia06TbWY8-UDeuq3mDRdpY/" width="307" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The Monet's waterlilies you can see in one of the images above are made from the old cassette boxes from my friend Candy's precious music collection, stuffed with pieces of chiffon torn out from a gorgeous sari that my friend Gita gave me as it could no longer be worn. And the inspiration came from Musée de l'Orangerie which I visited while in Paris to present a paper at a conference on Sindh Studies in ECSAS in July 2018. It's not like I knew I was going to do this, but after I saw what was emerging, I knew where it was coming from.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">If you'd like one of my magnets - email me on saaz@seacomindia.com!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudDEwChNKMsiYhCDZ4SN7Jx6kMPZuA2MxsX9YC_v4EaIQMzXqNidLBPq95AEz4_P5cnvyFaHkCdOLsXxk0oM6-jmBiVUeM5AIHQk6Dd3oVF5adevSrM4NNa_lGdS2NpYrm4rzYiAb8zM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="723" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudDEwChNKMsiYhCDZ4SN7Jx6kMPZuA2MxsX9YC_v4EaIQMzXqNidLBPq95AEz4_P5cnvyFaHkCdOLsXxk0oM6-jmBiVUeM5AIHQk6Dd3oVF5adevSrM4NNa_lGdS2NpYrm4rzYiAb8zM/w520-h640/Mandai+scrapbook+edited.jpg" width="520" /></a></div></div></span></div><br /> <p></p>Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-73788675554769981022020-11-05T18:39:00.020-08:002021-03-11T22:35:06.305-08:00And so it turns out that I am a Panemanglor too<p> One day, out of the blue, I was thrilled to find my name on
the Panemanglor family tree.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Till that moment I had never really thought of myself as
connected with any Panemanglor. It’s not that I didn’t know that my father’s
mother was born into a Pangemanglor family. But there was a lack of connection,
partly due to limited contact, and partly due to the patriarchal norm of only
considering yourself as belonging to the male line – so deeply that even today,
after all my work telling Sindhi stories, my byline still brands me as an
Aggarwal, and I feel a stronger Savur identity than a Bijlani one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In complete contrast, the progressive and enlightened
Panemanglor family tree, being a family in which the X-chromosome has
dominated for some generations, has a large percentage of members whose
surnames are not Panemanglor at all. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So besides Aggarwal (me) we have Savur (my grandmother),
Bijlani (my mother), Jagtiani (my sister-in-law), Sharma, Trikannad, Dhareshwar
… and Kalyanpur, Gangolli, Hemmady, Masurkar, Sood, Rew, Hegde, Karkal Sirur,
Datta, Koppikar, Kadle, Jones, Gurung, Raman, Putli, Maskeri, Hoskote, Pandya,
Mullarpattan, Matele, Bijur, Ubhaykar, Nayampalli, Desai, Padukone, Balsekar,
Bhansali, Choudhary, Booth, Groothuis, Jadgadde, Puttur, Singh, Shedde,
Mudbidri, Sannadi, Betrabet, Mehta, Kowshik, Manjeshwar, Kodikal, Aghnashini, Chaugale,
Karnad, Hebale, Sujir, Billington, Wagle, Kagal, Bhaskar, Pandit … and a few
more I might have missed. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Some of these are close and beloved cousins. The others, as my dear departed dad would say when trying to explain how we were related to someone we had visited on our annual holiday in Bombay or at a family wedding: </p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">I have no idea. But I think our grandfathers or maybe great-grandfathers probably walked out to the fields every morning together with their lotas.</p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">I’m so very grateful to Rohit Panemanglor for preparing this
family tree, and all his efforts at painstakingly tracking each one of us down! </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMViMtVtyChnVr2L2yRAfva21t4d7kiVNdK44hCRwRg209qFuFuigd1D5LFHL2aEqPD2golRy0WwGsb-UUk_Yp9EPWVBg4B8cLtig98h5Zi9r7WNncZY_XKRqEiBwGFCBD2_J2h1EkIGY/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="1428" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMViMtVtyChnVr2L2yRAfva21t4d7kiVNdK44hCRwRg209qFuFuigd1D5LFHL2aEqPD2golRy0WwGsb-UUk_Yp9EPWVBg4B8cLtig98h5Zi9r7WNncZY_XKRqEiBwGFCBD2_J2h1EkIGY/w640-h474/Panemangalore+family++1920+Lilly+Sita+Ram+Indu+Shanta+and+her+husband+Bhavanishankar+Savur.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panemanglor family c1920: daughter Lilly, Sita and Ram Ramarao Panemanglor, daughter Indu, daughter Shanta and her husband Bhavanishankar Savur<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /><br /></p><p>It took me back to gazing at this old family photo of my
grandparents with my grandmother’s birth family, wondering about each of them
and their lives. I felt that pang that you feel when you know that something is
lost to you forever; sad that I would never know their stories. But it made me
so conscious that I can still feel, tangibly, my grandmother’s love, her gentle
fragrance, the parched skin of her arms, her letters and postcards to us at
boarding school and prayer chants she tried to teach us, and the stories she
told us. </p><p>I know nothing about Amma’s childhood, but have heard that her father was the first Indian manager of Grindlay’s Bank, which means she came from an upwardly-mobile, educated family. Growing up in Bombay, she spoke first-language Marathi, as fluently as her mother tongue Konkani. According to Rohit’s research, the family lived in Raghav Wadi, French Bridge, so perhaps this was the home in which she grew up. You can see a photo of Raghav Wadi on <a href="https://rpaneman.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">this link</a>, where Cousin Rohit has been busy blogging some very interesting facts about his grandfather, Krishnarao N Panemanglor (KNP), who was a senior courtier at the Baroda court. KNP, a lecturer in Latin at St Xavier’s College, Bombay, was recruited to the Baroda Education Service in 1907.</p><p>In this photo you can see KNP’s eldest brother, Rama Rao Panemanglor, standing, with his wife and daughters sitting in front. The couple on the right are my grandparents, Bhavani Shankar Rao and Shanta, probably around the time they got married. The women are barefoot, but the men have their shoes on – does this mean that it was not inside their home in Raghavwadi but perhaps in a photography studio?</p><p><br /></p><p>Over the last several years, I’ve worked with quite a few people on their family stories and family trees. It’s always been an interesting process, one of the most fascinating aspects of which has been visiting Haridwar to seek traces of visitors from the family to their priests during which many of them wrote down the family details in registers and their handwriting, addresses and signatures can still be seen after a hundred years and more. I knew that I’m never going to do this for my own family, partly because we already have trees. </p><p>The Bijlani family tree originates with Raja Bijaldas Nagdev, who had three sons, one being recorded as having had two sons, and nine generations later, my brother and I and all our cousins came to be. </p><p>Then there is a more elaborate Savur genealogy, in which my grandfather Bhavani Shankar Rao Savur (whom I never knew, as he died when I was one month old; seen sitting on the right in this photo) wrote that the document he had updated “traces the growth of the family from its earliest known ancestor who lived somewhere about 1700 to 1750 AD.” </p><p>It didn’t seem like there was any further research required in either. So – a delightful surprise to find a place in the Panemanglor family tree!</p>Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-77247259242875883162020-06-10T20:06:00.002-07:002020-06-27T21:06:01.556-07:00The Awful Truth About Pocha-Pani<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lockdown, being unable to leave the house or to have anyone visit, meant that housework had to be done by the inhabitants. Three of us shared the duties and it was a great relief that it proceeded with no bickering and high standards of not just F&B but housekeeping too. In the early days I even wrote an appreciative poem which if you like you can read <a href="https://www.facebook.com/saaz.aggarwal/posts/10156870005007120" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
It reminded me of an earlier phase - more than twenty years ago, and a column I wrote for <i>Times of India</i>, Pune:<br />
As I write this, I can see a broom standing in a corner, gazing reproachfully at me, and I am pitting all my wits towards repulsing it. What nerve – the repulsive creature! Brooms, I grew up with the firm knowledge, had only one sensible function: to be ridden on.<br />
And I’ve ridden a great many in my time, and even now, in my days of peace and plenty, sneak out on occasion at the dead of night, clamber onto my trusty long-handled steed, and take the long flight past the full moon. In metaphor, that is, dear reader – only in metaphor.<br />
But this one here, standing in the corner, continuing to glower and distract me from my elevated mission, has clearly forgotten its humble station in life. The cheek! Under the influence of its sulky stare, I have no recourse but to look around and painfully acknowledge the presence of assorted cobwebs and filthy little grey curlicues in the corners, the curlicues being also known, by my vocabulary-impoverished and totally obnoxious offspring, as “yucky black-black things” with the recommended usage: “Mumm-aa, why there are so many yucky black-black things in our house? In Zara’s house there are no yucky black-black things only.”<br />
Not only did I come back from my holiday in serious need of a rest, not only did I pay for it before I left in extravagant wads of time, energy and units of currency, but I’ve come back to find that I still have to pay more, and further do all the unpacking, cleaning up and sorting out on my own because the housemaids, foolish wenches, have unanimously departed.<br />
Once upon a time, long, long ago, Ma Sadhana came to my house to interview me for an article for the <i>Osho Times </i>on women and creativity. I was up to my knees in pocha-pani then too, having been devoid of the blessed and soothing presence of any Household Help for several months and I held forth at length on what a wonderful opportunity I was having to learn how to clean the toilets, make chappatis and so on. An opportunity I had never had in the past (and, I hoped, but didn’t add, I would never have in the future) and was therefore making the most of. And this, I waxed eloquent before Sadhana, was a situation which had scope for such tremendous creativity! What I really, really enjoyed, I went on, was being creative in private! Creativity, I ended with a flourish, was not something that needed applause to be classified as creativity! (I meant it, I swear I did.) And when the article appeared, alongside a photograph of myself so glamorous that none of my numerous friends, relations or acquaintances could recognize who it was, I gloated, congratulated myself for weeks without end, and sent copies to the entire lot of them. Most, unfortunately, were grossly under-equipped to tackle Sadhana’s exquisite Hindi prose but I can tell you they were, one and all, awed and impressed by the whole affair.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9dsokVTjAu1skzhjPemb3022GMSF0TSmeku6bDmpslncL2r_9PJW7FrM926ioM8u8Fl1JrJKb45WWihwMcu3Hh6cC4xjkOxpzecDQ0yyKMIJfNL3cwOXuYBK6PrqE0Xz0t8Vc1xo7uE/s1600/Untitled-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9dsokVTjAu1skzhjPemb3022GMSF0TSmeku6bDmpslncL2r_9PJW7FrM926ioM8u8Fl1JrJKb45WWihwMcu3Hh6cC4xjkOxpzecDQ0yyKMIJfNL3cwOXuYBK6PrqE0Xz0t8Vc1xo7uE/s400/Untitled-2.jpg" width="400" /></a>Sensing that I was on to a good thing, I wrote an article about how virtuous I was and how much I loved housework, and how I just couldn’t understand why most women made such a big fuss about it. It was such a brilliant and well-written article, with such a clever and original theme, and I sent it off to a friend who happened to be editor of a popular women’s magazine at the time. I’ve never been able to understand why she indignantly sent it right back, declaring it unfit for publication.<br />
But meanwhile, talking about pocha-pani, here I have yet another large and smelly bucket filled with the stuff and I’m looking around wondering, wondering and wondering, what on earth am I going to do with it?<br />
Do I flush the exotic cocktail down the toilet? Because I’m not much looking forward to cleaning that indispensable commodity (commode-ditty, get it? – hah!) either. Do I throw it in the garden and risk murdering my beloved husband’s beloved plants with the fenyle and other vile ingredients it contains? Or shall I pour the delectable gravy (floating richly with strands of lustrous – luxuriant, even, if modesty will permit me – black, coconut-oil lavished hair) in the sink, and airily leave the choking which is bound to result, to be dealt with on another day?<br />
All the long years I have employed other humans to clean my home on my behalf, what on earth they did with the pocha-pani has remained to me one of the great mysteries of life.<br />
I go through phases of keenly scouring the Handy Hints sections of newspapers and magazine for likely answers, but it is a topic coldly neglected by one and all. I can’t imagine why.<br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
A little history about where and when this first appeared</h3>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">While crediting
<i>Times of India</i>, Pune, for having published the above article on 30
August 1997, I need to clarify that in those days TOI did not have a full-fledged
Pune edition. The article was actually published in a supplement called <i>Pune
Times</i>, which accompanied the <i>Times of India</i>, Mumbai, in those days. When
I moved to Pune in 1993, the good people of Pune were still making doing with
the TOI’s Mumbai edition. In fact, TOI was new in Pune and the most popular paper then was
<i>Maharashtra Herald</i>, with <i>Indian Express</i> selected by readers who
wanted to feel more connected nationally. When my editor at TOI Mumbai, Darryl
D’Monte, heard that it was the <i>Express </i>that was being read in my home, he gave
me such a reproachful look that we promptly shifted to the TOI. Over the years, a very large
population of Pune did so too and of course Darryl, in his editorial capacity was responsible for that too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But, back
in 1993, it was very flattering for me to have the managers of TOI, Pune, T.
Ninan and Winston Machado, periodically phone to tell me that they were planning a
TOI Pune edition and wanted me on board as editor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Phone’ reminds me of the six-digit numbers we had back then; we'd migrate from 671261 to
26851261 over the years as the exchange modernized. The number remains even today, but BSNL lines are so bad that it is seldom used.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Anyway: Ninan and Machado and whoever else
was making decisions in those days had no idea that I was not the right person
for this job. <i>Ascent</i>, which I had launched for the TOI in Bombay in 1990, was
a huge success IN SPITE of rather than because of me. They may not have known this, but I certainly did, and politely declined all their seductive offers. <br />Eventually,
Sherna Gandhy moved from Bombay and launched the Pune edition of TOI and ran it
for a few years. It began as <i>Pune Times,</i> a supplement to the Mumbai
paper. After the main newspaper began in Pune, <i>Pune Times</i> gradually
evolved into a paid-news platform for individuals and organization seeking publicity,
and I’m afraid I’d rather just say that this pocha-pani saga, one of my favourites ever,
was written for <i>Times of India</i>, Pune.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-9634674776564898232020-01-16T21:17:00.000-08:002020-01-17T18:57:15.222-08:00Village Naya (Pingala)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LBb36dZUO5tVNYq3MPI5KfYaJ50HfYqLYNVua6eTyH4ssFR0s6-ltergQpZroEv4dlYh8Uj6QiQJeoKwatnUnXX1aNkHJYHjxc3NFYZicTN18uLy3EJfh4UcSDBZ0sMx5RT5wKhg3iU/s1600/IMG_20200116_131813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4LBb36dZUO5tVNYq3MPI5KfYaJ50HfYqLYNVua6eTyH4ssFR0s6-ltergQpZroEv4dlYh8Uj6QiQJeoKwatnUnXX1aNkHJYHjxc3NFYZicTN18uLy3EJfh4UcSDBZ0sMx5RT5wKhg3iU/s320/IMG_20200116_131813.jpg" width="320" /></a>This is Rukshana, whose family belongs to a tribe of wandering minstrels.</div>
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Through the generations, they painted their stories and sang them aloud, showing their lovely scrolls to the audiences that gathered to look and listen as they walked from village to village, stopping to perform every now and again. As time passed, priorities changed. Television must have reduced their audiences significantly. The government of West Bengal settled them in villages, and the one we visited yesterday is Naya (Pingala), a 3-hour drive from Kolkata.</div>
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Rukshana showed us her family home, decorated with scrolls of her great-grandfather, paintings made by family members, and books and artefacts collected by her father Bahadur. She explained how they extracted colour from ordinary plants to make their paintings, and the techniques they use. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheQjxy0x4SO49Dh2WEQfvOccxSgBcP-5OZNrBlBi3zLlQnTF0YIlxaatOCqtMAof7fMuaV7zG6t3UDuy3nXiiAwOKXbQPP5winAVjVkIMNVRbjf5-LwUWYqrJGS0olANWtzxzu0ckmLHk/s1600/IMG_20200116_151126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheQjxy0x4SO49Dh2WEQfvOccxSgBcP-5OZNrBlBi3zLlQnTF0YIlxaatOCqtMAof7fMuaV7zG6t3UDuy3nXiiAwOKXbQPP5winAVjVkIMNVRbjf5-LwUWYqrJGS0olANWtzxzu0ckmLHk/s200/IMG_20200116_151126.jpg" width="200" /></a>You can see Bahadur in the photo on the right, signing an exquisite work of the Sunderbans he had painted some time ago. This seems to be different from his earlier work, many of which are done in the Kalighat style and tell droll stories (in the photo above with Rukshana, the painting in front has a man standing behind a seated woman, helping her with her make-up and fixing a hairpin). These are not particularly connected to the Patachitra tradition which traditionally documents both stories of Hindu mythology as well as striking contemporary events. (A village wall depicts the recent Pulwama incident, there's a photo later in this post).</div>
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This was our second visit to Village Naya. We had come two years ago, visiting visited homes and heard traditional songs. This one is the story of Radha-Krishna and you can see the children - even the baby who is not yet able to stand on her own - joining in the chorus. <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzA0AG_wbBm1XsXyXfwb18sBmHtBI6AKbLTUmDi8iqQtouAXcLkgHzR4Ii6D0CZeiDPO-NgVr2FiXpFsbwCWg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizLjR5EdjnpZA7y6i5AD7PhWKE9i2jJ4NGFQIfeOputgO3pC73upAkFXa4h0BXceiDQTGZa0gRAXEjOtEl0toNeQeaXNuRrOkeTAVNzCKnopzK6N4bQFuVHGolBa8PTQE0-q1Hg_1h-Q/s1600/IMG_20200116_141953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizLjR5EdjnpZA7y6i5AD7PhWKE9i2jJ4NGFQIfeOputgO3pC73upAkFXa4h0BXceiDQTGZa0gRAXEjOtEl0toNeQeaXNuRrOkeTAVNzCKnopzK6N4bQFuVHGolBa8PTQE0-q1Hg_1h-Q/s320/IMG_20200116_141953.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">One of the high points of the fascinating day was a delicious meal <br />prepared by Rukshana’s mother, which we enjoyed very much.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We were tourists - but also sincere students, and had decided to return for another day that combined elements of a visit to a museum of rarities, an art workshop and an anthropology field-trip. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2017, it was Rukshana’s brother Rajesh who had shown us around. I asked Rukshana how come they had names which indicated that they followed different religions, and she explained that their tribe were Muslims. However, they painted Hindu stories and often performed for Hindu families. When those families expressed their discomfort that they were from another religion, they gave themselves Hindu names too. Nowadays, she explained, nobody bothered having two names, as Hindus and Muslims were just the same and she had only ever had the one name, Rukshana.</div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-58671131025956908222020-01-05T22:50:00.003-08:002020-06-12T00:01:22.245-07:00The Case of the Aggarwal Cross<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-IN">One day, the pots fell down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-XdSAdZuZx9XajEzTNbrsudul2rIEdXEXgJsyKsMMYGpyeZmO9kL9XTM11p4tBYJTU2sFpCq7-R89z6MI7aCLPHdm8GHCvvXO6IP7bwuVu9stMZgZJoFGcy8CTNT5btzqsqC_lUU5bk/s1600/pots+2015.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="682" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-XdSAdZuZx9XajEzTNbrsudul2rIEdXEXgJsyKsMMYGpyeZmO9kL9XTM11p4tBYJTU2sFpCq7-R89z6MI7aCLPHdm8GHCvvXO6IP7bwuVu9stMZgZJoFGcy8CTNT5btzqsqC_lUU5bk/s200/pots+2015.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I was away, in another country, so far from home that if I tried to get any further I would be on the way back. To inform me about the pots, I was sent an evocative photograph of the broken pots in a dustbin and the poetic caption: “Matki phooti”.<br />
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<span lang="EN-IN">‘Matki phooti’ is a philosophical koan derived from a song of the 15<sup>th</sup> century mystic poet Kabir, which translates roughly to:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;"><br />It’s such a good thing that my pot broke. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">Now I don’t have to fill water any more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5qVhR9L0iu1262Ln2uW4CquLDPZvmaLkMd-ZeL46gGyglj8jE_jBZua8XY5rR-5rMKF6-trxE-BqQNWuNNvlFAAEZp37Ul5s2iUYOS2H1S-BFotsDhoeJorSxGfY2GZVnxHyYS04XXY/s1600/Pots+2003+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5qVhR9L0iu1262Ln2uW4CquLDPZvmaLkMd-ZeL46gGyglj8jE_jBZua8XY5rR-5rMKF6-trxE-BqQNWuNNvlFAAEZp37Ul5s2iUYOS2H1S-BFotsDhoeJorSxGfY2GZVnxHyYS04XXY/s320/Pots+2003+2.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-IN"><br />About the pots: I had painted a range for a charity bazaar many years – a decade or more – previously and these were the ones I’d kept for myself. If I had ever taken Marie Kondo on an inspection around my house, it would have been a long and busy inspection, </span>but the pots would have been retained. Now they were gone.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjwM14fG2Z4eOITe-15i0y4GJZKoSoXUxH35NOZK3Uw1Tixn7oGGG65TRpsgHh9YxAte0bRsEoj8uhTG8JElF73tR2XO9Jkj7TDu4EifrbI5nUBctLMreqtyXm17dvDycBayJnco-oBk/s1600/Panama+cross.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="474" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjwM14fG2Z4eOITe-15i0y4GJZKoSoXUxH35NOZK3Uw1Tixn7oGGG65TRpsgHh9YxAte0bRsEoj8uhTG8JElF73tR2XO9Jkj7TDu4EifrbI5nUBctLMreqtyXm17dvDycBayJnco-oBk/s200/Panama+cross.jpg" width="161" /></a><span lang="EN-IN">Back at home, I found that the garbage collection team had left quite a few of the shards in a corner of the garden.The idea of making a collage emerged from a lovely artefact I had seen in a corner of the Sacred Heart Cathedral in the old town of Panama City, these days a trendy area with night life and boutiques and all. I never asked about the significance of the pottery shards arranged thus when I saw it, but was so charmed that, looking at my photos of the trip, decided to give it a shot. <o:p></o:p></span>So on a day when I had the house to myself, I gathered up the broken bits and pasted them onto some tiles, stoically employing a shoe to flatten them so that they would stick nicely.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGGvYfsOa-GhaoQtYfzVbQ5ucKRaUa4kC-9gdPHM_6TBlxYJybwsmQcKrNtv7Pw1k2bEsPBR3mH3RYg_fOlkE0kXvYZWA9VeMtzOerFbcAoySRBNsg6yWZDn3GyelEErD-MgZL5GhO1fg/s1600/P_20160521_105907.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGGvYfsOa-GhaoQtYfzVbQ5ucKRaUa4kC-9gdPHM_6TBlxYJybwsmQcKrNtv7Pw1k2bEsPBR3mH3RYg_fOlkE0kXvYZWA9VeMtzOerFbcAoySRBNsg6yWZDn3GyelEErD-MgZL5GhO1fg/s320/P_20160521_105907.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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Once the Aggarwal Cross was ready, I started preparing to proudly display it in a prominent place outside the house. </div>
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However, the precocious author of the ‘matki phooti’ response now had another penetrating observation about these goings on: “It’s a good thing nani isn’t ever going to see this!” </div>
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Everyone turned various shades of pale. My mother, whose family had been displaced from their homeland – summarily exiled from their home province – by the events following the Partition of India in 1947 when she was a child, had always been a proud Hindu very sensitive to the slightest hint of religious conversion. What would she have felt about having such a large cross, no matter how pretty, outside our home?</div>
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In the end, my gorgeous cross was relegated to a place where nobody is ever going to see it. I myself hadn’t gone to worship at it for several months and now, looking at its bits and pieces am suffused with a sense of satisfaction. Partly for having turned from regret to creativity; partly for having produced a work of art; partly for the symbolic juxtaposition of broken bits, such as placing a worshipper right in its heart. </div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-20700033806183184312019-11-29T17:43:00.003-08:002019-11-29T17:43:45.809-08:00Woody Allen does Mumbai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span data-offset-key="4ki3c-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">Apparently today is Woody Allen's birthday. That reminded me of a column I used to write for Sunday Mid-day, pretending to be someone else, </span></span><span data-offset-key="4ki3c-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">and here's what happened when Woody Allen did Mumbai. Since I wrote it really long ago when I was someone else, I suppose it's ok to say that when I read it after all these years I thought it was quite amusing.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7dDzZg3eDvYYNGP6o9FOaIDmtOktWPyQVs5EAvsQIB7-TSnc-9g219nT6nV_lJ_gVKLUC12x36VNXfMJf-Z2kKmxuG47l7vnz6q9lulyJAge6efTI1XuADGAqcvyYoLGtlxHgh067YU/s1600/Woody.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7dDzZg3eDvYYNGP6o9FOaIDmtOktWPyQVs5EAvsQIB7-TSnc-9g219nT6nV_lJ_gVKLUC12x36VNXfMJf-Z2kKmxuG47l7vnz6q9lulyJAge6efTI1XuADGAqcvyYoLGtlxHgh067YU/s320/Woody.jpg" width="224" /></a><br />
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span data-offset-key="4ki3c-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">Woody stalks Annie in Mumbai</span></span></h2>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Annie Tharakan limped because her shoes were too tight. “Didn’t you try them on before you bought them,” her mother barked.
The truth was that Annie had not felt comfortable in the shoes but she could never bring herself to say no to a salesperson. “I want to be liked,” she admitted to Sushma-madam, the nerdy Maths teacher. “Once I gave all my pocket money away to someone who said she was collecting for the Deaf and Dumb Association. She sprinted away as soon as I put the money in a tin piggy bank which she held out to me, and I’ve never seen her again at the Solar System mall.”
Annie and her school-mates did spend a lot of time at the Solar System mall. They liked it because the escalators had shiny handrails and there were large signs that said SALE 50% discount on selected items, conditions apply. But also because it was air-conditioned and the toilets had a warm-air hand dryer which occasionally worked.
Sushma-madam was outwardly sympathetic but she would later mock Annie in the teachers’ common room. Annie’s mother, who taught Geography, happened to be there. She told the others about certain tribes in Borneo that do not have a word for “no” in their language and consequently turn down requests by nodding their heads and saying, “I’ll get back to you.” She too appeared warm and understanding and inviting of confidences, but later hit Annie on the head with the blunt handle of her imported rubber spatula all the same. “Why did you buy them if they’re too small?” she asked Annie, unaware that she was articulating a quintessential human paradox.
The day Annie bought the shoes, she had actually gone looking for bras. A nice-looking but slim sales girl with a name tag that said Cynthia came up and said “Have a nice day”. Annie was desperate but felt shy to ask for help because there was a man watching her and she naturally didn’t want him to hear what she said when she confessed her bra size to Cynthia.
For some reason, Solar System had put this pimple-faced youth in charge of Nighties. Women would approach the counter but turn around quickly once they saw him. Naturally, nobody ever bought any nighties. He was quite a pleasant-looking fellow actually, as he leaned comfortably on his counter, resting his chin on his arm, and watched while Annie crept round trying to pick up bra boxes and check the size and design without him actually seeing what was written on them.
Finally she gave up and wandered towards some loud sounds near the entrance. It was the finals of a song and dance competition. Annie watched with envy as Pravina who sat next to her in class swayed and bent to the sounds with simple abandon. Even Rishi, the boy whose father ran the kirana shop just outside Annie’s building was swinging beautifully. No one could imagine that the Rishi who helped at the shop on weekends and made home deliveries on his bicycle outside school hours could have reached the semi-finals of this national show with footfalls as stylish as these! Annie sighed. She felt sad and depressed. Slowly, she walked towards the food and grocery section, and inched to the chocolate counter stealthily checking from the corner of her eyes that no one was watching. Near the dog food counter, a boy and girl called Rinku and Pinky were sailing a ball at each other, skipping around, and singing a very silly song. Annie did not even have a dog. She did not know the meaning of the expression GIMROI. But she did have enough money to buy some chocolates.
There was no Zippy-mate raisin-enriched fun-bar, the chocolate that gives you more raisins, more chocolate, more iron content, more energy, more calories, more everything per cubic metre than any other chocolate. Annie did try asking two sales girls where she could find some, but they were very engrossed in whispering secrets to each other and when they detached, they would only look at the other shoppers and tell them admiringly, “Good morning, madam!” and “How can I help you, sir!” with so much charm, sincerity and enthusiasm that Annie just did not feel like getting in the way and she bought Cheepy-mate instead since it was marked down to Rs. 5 from Rs. 13.50 and also 15 for the price of 3. Their lovely green-striped aprons reminded Annie of Cynthia from the Ladies’ Underwear Department and filled with a new resolve, she went back upstairs, determined to get what she had come for.
Cynthia was kind and when she understood the problem, asked the pimple-faced youth (Annie saw from his name-tag that his name was Viren) if he’d mind going on his lunch break now. He argued for a while, then before he moved off gave Annie a deeply reproachful look which Annie knew would haunt her forever. Later, she stood in line at the till with the 3 bra boxes concealed safely at the bottom of basket filled with dog food and Zippy-mate and the shoes which were too tight. But when her turn came, she was horrified to discover that there was no barcode sticker on them and the till assistant had to call out loudly to the supervisor, describing the product in great detail so it was heard by not only everyone in the store but also Viren, the pimple-faced youth, who happened to be passing by at that moment and he turned around and gave Annie a triumphant sneer.
Annie was sad but it was a lesson she would never forget as long as she lived and a few years later when she became sought after as a witty dinner companion she would hold long discourses on the subject and repeat often “Location,” – and here she would briefly before driving home the punch line – “Location” (she would repeat for effect) “is everything.” </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>First appeared in <i>Sunday Mid-day </i>on 26 March 2006</b></span></span></div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-28716594732873468102019-07-16T00:43:00.001-07:002019-07-16T00:47:11.344-07:00In case you haven't noticed my ar...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitaBaNIVQyxEo0LFIicwp6u1pJO5w-NxozCO3Y-WWT9lqBFjPv9vjZOjb0hDQJtd8WKghQjpzcRrTgu0BW3fkEObg_8NaO3nhkzCG7DLBCCJjHgQ6YrdZ7_kgb9hfEWFeb5kbHUTMKBdc/s1600/IMG_20170107_122947_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitaBaNIVQyxEo0LFIicwp6u1pJO5w-NxozCO3Y-WWT9lqBFjPv9vjZOjb0hDQJtd8WKghQjpzcRrTgu0BW3fkEObg_8NaO3nhkzCG7DLBCCJjHgQ6YrdZ7_kgb9hfEWFeb5kbHUTMKBdc/s320/IMG_20170107_122947_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I met
Mitalee Joshi for the first time at Pune Biennale in January 2017 and was not
just entranced by the installation she was setting up, but inspired too. Since
then I have been following Studio 7’s work, and over the last weekend was
fortunate to be able to attend a workshop with them. I’ve always wanted to
learn mosaic-making and was thrilled to have this opportunity. The workshop was
well conducted in a lovely environment with all material provided – and chai
and thoughtful snacky meals served too. With the notes circulated after the
workshop, I found it an excellent overview and am happy to have taken home the
basics of the craft and can’t wait to start using what I learnt. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwPn6aaGWGkfTQNYC6WwTEFQvh2Xh05M-zEqcHGD0PYy7-hFJ8-Qv86uANcc2skC7s53-AbdRgfDQmbHIQCN_iqUzDt_zuuY2D3lmZCDmn7yjC6__Oln5D0E-7Qn7wPlUdz2GcJB65Dk/s1600/IMG_20190713_114108_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwPn6aaGWGkfTQNYC6WwTEFQvh2Xh05M-zEqcHGD0PYy7-hFJ8-Qv86uANcc2skC7s53-AbdRgfDQmbHIQCN_iqUzDt_zuuY2D3lmZCDmn7yjC6__Oln5D0E-7Qn7wPlUdz2GcJB65Dk/s320/IMG_20190713_114108_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The
theme of this mosaic workshop was ‘Balinese mask’, and we were provided with boards
cut into the shape of a Balinese mask on which to fill in our mosaics. However,
I could not resist using a theme not necessarily native to Bali, something that
continuously informs my work: “who I really am and who you see me as” or “the
real me” or “in case you haven’t noticed my artistic temperament, take a closer
look, please”. I won’t say I’m happy with my work, which looks like a school
craft project, but I’m so very happy to have learnt the basics of mosaic.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJ3Ylffb1Lj3wdWPBrSykrGB2ztu_49admf2-PjUV7Upq_5qqtxZ7I06CFe75Fuaap_955zWxHXGrrudSzyTfk6sAzDeSayz-qz_rSBcA-M2X7eOF5sZe0O8_PUWxqGq_IxZQaywv2yA/s1600/IMG_20190716_091729.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJ3Ylffb1Lj3wdWPBrSykrGB2ztu_49admf2-PjUV7Upq_5qqtxZ7I06CFe75Fuaap_955zWxHXGrrudSzyTfk6sAzDeSayz-qz_rSBcA-M2X7eOF5sZe0O8_PUWxqGq_IxZQaywv2yA/s320/IMG_20190716_091729.jpg" width="240" /></a></span><br />
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-13218083643375678242019-01-20T16:56:00.004-08:002019-01-20T16:59:28.836-08:00Mandai 26 Jan 2019 – Between spaces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are spaces that intersperse pieces of
music – and those spaces are silence, so essential for a musical piece to
breathe and reverberate.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicId9W48g5aES_L1YFPg4IPfNiI1iUE7Dfn38SXipvx4KzM1SBAMdPnRBz6osxMI3fEugSkWv5PmRbLSiYv4pBFVsjOoAU2pMwbu5rwCd2Dxtthvii4fFtTse3xsveuxKEccajxdVXO4s/s1600/IMG_20190121_061616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicId9W48g5aES_L1YFPg4IPfNiI1iUE7Dfn38SXipvx4KzM1SBAMdPnRBz6osxMI3fEugSkWv5PmRbLSiYv4pBFVsjOoAU2pMwbu5rwCd2Dxtthvii4fFtTse3xsveuxKEccajxdVXO4s/s320/IMG_20190121_061616.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-IN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Then there are spaces that intersperse
periods of music <b>media</b> – and those spaces are overlaid with melancholic
uncertainty; the regretful passing of an era. I chose one of those spaces to
work with for this edition of Art Mandai 2019, dismembering audio cassettes and
using their elements to create a fun nostalgia RIP series. Along with the
cassette elements, discarded fabric and related items have been used to create
mini statements about our life and times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">For eons, a musical
performance could be heard only once. From the cave people singing in their mud
pools to the classical performers of yore, the moment could never be
recaptured. Even in the recent past, people would walk all day to reach the
site where Bhimsen Joshi was expected to sing ragas and abhangas all night long!
Today, music surrounds us, and often – as in the case of advertising jingles or
car reverse horns – we are hardly even aware of it. During this magical
journey, a few small spaces stand out. The era of the audio cassette is a
significant one, being the first time that recorded music was becoming
available to everyone; the first time that people could even make their own
recordings. The generation which lived through this period experienced it as
one of intense, disbelieving joy and gratitude for the music. My collection for
Art Mandai 2019 is a tribute to those who clung on to their precious audio
cassettes, a means to commemorate precious belongings for which their homes no
longer have the space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
The Velvet Underground and Warhol’s banana</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6e_F5PRuTZuLJN_TAwWjgYhdvNWdygA4xoWDjTHateSH7FaEt7kpWsobhqw2RpyaU2xONUyxsDh4nlVQbseOPXA1LLad7D6Rv0RYCwiDPGyeF8KbW6hVDTmo0m-Vef4ZN57hRmdsoVU/s1600/peel+slowly+and+see.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6e_F5PRuTZuLJN_TAwWjgYhdvNWdygA4xoWDjTHateSH7FaEt7kpWsobhqw2RpyaU2xONUyxsDh4nlVQbseOPXA1LLad7D6Rv0RYCwiDPGyeF8KbW6hVDTmo0m-Vef4ZN57hRmdsoVU/s200/peel+slowly+and+see.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-IN">The Velvet
Underground’s 1967 debut album had a controversial cover by Andy Warhol: the
image of a banana with a “Peel Slowly And See” instruction. The banana peel was
a sticker that revealed a flesh-coloured fruit beneath. This art work presents
a pale imitation of Andy Warhol’s banana, embellished with crotchet flowers created
from audio cassette tape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_36q1MEABXVaqWJKDAKMclSuGlSmpmZ7FWWk9s4OfpqLwH4dLHFEC4g5iuWOQ2QwZ1SST-QmS9qjDpWUWcSG6VXJsmQgjZjRWtvnJf9ItEKiz0zk14ktQXVHXF62VWeeUVKwz-kVinc/s1600/IMG_20171122_133406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_36q1MEABXVaqWJKDAKMclSuGlSmpmZ7FWWk9s4OfpqLwH4dLHFEC4g5iuWOQ2QwZ1SST-QmS9qjDpWUWcSG6VXJsmQgjZjRWtvnJf9ItEKiz0zk14ktQXVHXF62VWeeUVKwz-kVinc/s200/IMG_20171122_133406.jpg" width="200" /></a>This annual show will be held, as always, at Pune's iconic <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Mahatma+Phule+Market,+Amrale+Rd,+Mandai,+Shukrawar+Peth,+Pune,+Maharashtra+411002/@18.512928,73.8540984,17z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m5!3m4!1s0x3bc2c06e7c1c0247:0xfe8768f555038ff9!8m2!3d18.512928!4d73.8562871" target="_blank">Mahatma Phule Mandai</a> from 8.30am to 2.30pm on 26 January 2019.<br />
Do visit! </div>
<br /></div>
Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-57067279115353131442018-09-23T00:48:00.000-07:002019-05-24T00:34:31.554-07:00A long-ago place and time where women were treated, unexpectedly, as people<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few days ago, Scroll.in carried something I wrote about women in pre-Partition Sindh, <a href="https://scroll.in/magazine/888565/freedom-fighters-and-ticket-checkers-women-in-pre-partition-sindh-blazed-their-own-trail" target="_blank">Freedom fighters and ticket checkers: The trail-blazing women of pre-Partition Sindh</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXc-uSAKZF_dbKcO7cunD1BPKs91KwloSAA4KIa5hfOF6IjO9EM39LDhfE7ZXiIVPG9tXGnqdD7jf9D4adUNQEel3KF7Rk-zL4aA9MyatEiXE7NjB84pSZufxDWO0wbMamP0Oe6S3t6is/s1600/lavanguardia_final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXc-uSAKZF_dbKcO7cunD1BPKs91KwloSAA4KIa5hfOF6IjO9EM39LDhfE7ZXiIVPG9tXGnqdD7jf9D4adUNQEel3KF7Rk-zL4aA9MyatEiXE7NjB84pSZufxDWO0wbMamP0Oe6S3t6is/s320/lavanguardia_final.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">In 1936, Kishni Lalvani (the second lady from the right), </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">was one of a </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">group of young ladies </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">on a tour of Europe, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">chaperoned by a respectable Scottish </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">lady who </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">lived </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">in Hyderabad. Quite a stir they created, </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">in their elegant and </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">fashionable saris, from Norway to Spain </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">and beyond! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">They visited cultural sites and interacted with </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">cultural </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">groups, and people were charmed by their poise and</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">flawless English. This clipping appeared on 20 June, 1936.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Captioned ‘Hindu students in Barcelona’, it went on to say,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">“The group of Hindus students that is taking a study trip</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">through Spain has arrived in our city, visiting our museums,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">our monuments and our teaching officers”. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The photograph, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">by Puig Farran, was taken at </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">the Patio de los Naranjos de la </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Generalidad. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy Kishni's daughter, Bina Thadani. </span></td></tr>
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I wrote it several weeks ago, in response to <a href="https://scroll.in/magazine/870479/how-brahma-kumaris-rose-from-a-small-spiritual-group-in-pre-partition-sindh-to-a-global-organisation" target="_blank">another scroll article, about Om Mandli</a>, a socio-religious organization which originated in Sindh in 1935. </div>
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While discussing the article with some friends, one sentence struck us particularly: </div>
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What is remarkable is that, in pre-Partition Hyderabad, where patriarchal norms and misogyny was at its heights, some of its courageous women powerfully resisted the yoke of men and subjugation. </blockquote>
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While there were certainly patriarchal norms and misogyny, and these continue to pervade the world, as far as we knew they were not at their <b>heights </b>in pre-Partition Hyderabad. I have interviewed quite a few elderly Sindhis and from what they told me, there were Hindu Sindhi women who owned property, made financial decisions and had certain privileges of empowerment even when they were not contributing to the family economically.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lOL96Cj3dHYlSBj-PlohtJvzm2BcCNSG4M43aZ0h_mLS-e4K9DBZVkyotknKLmLsP1yHlDoQ9sbqSslTjrcG7KXEROG2imDXanfUjVDGvUGCvy87W9iTBiChMEw4TnPITNQmjFIzHm0/s1600/Gomibai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lOL96Cj3dHYlSBj-PlohtJvzm2BcCNSG4M43aZ0h_mLS-e4K9DBZVkyotknKLmLsP1yHlDoQ9sbqSslTjrcG7KXEROG2imDXanfUjVDGvUGCvy87W9iTBiChMEw4TnPITNQmjFIzHm0/s320/Gomibai.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gomibai Javhermal Shahaney relaxing at</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">home with her newspaper. Karachi c1940</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Sunita Shahaney</span></td></tr>
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I sat down and wrote some of the stories. Eventually the piece was held back for so long that it didn’t make sense to link it to the Brahmakumaris story and though I worked on rewriting it, I did feel that the rejoinder version was much more effective . So I'm putting down the full version here, with more examples, photographs and details.</div>
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One charming snippet of memory from the 1930s has Ruki (daughter of a zamindar, Lokumal Malkani, and wife of Dr Naraindas Mirchandani) driving their children home to Old Clifton from the clinic, singing bhajans to lull them into a pleasant mood. Ruki loved to drive, as did quite a few of her generation; another was Jassie Kundanmal Ramchandani – Jessie to her friends – who drove her own car in Sindh even before she got married. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXD6GGtCSeAR6u3r7kLAGdzsvoeZvxbTbPFIptqAdNFYxgnjwfZCbeY8WWaDi7CxhB7rfgXmBc-kwxEyhY2fHzLoBYLzFQetuAMCdzRGFHEQB01GAmqkE2s_QB6xrOiUccUGRg4n_Hdpg/s1600/JPG%2527s+Driving+License.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXD6GGtCSeAR6u3r7kLAGdzsvoeZvxbTbPFIptqAdNFYxgnjwfZCbeY8WWaDi7CxhB7rfgXmBc-kwxEyhY2fHzLoBYLzFQetuAMCdzRGFHEQB01GAmqkE2s_QB6xrOiUccUGRg4n_Hdpg/s200/JPG%2527s+Driving+License.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jamna Pahlaj Gidwani </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(nee Jamna Sahibsing Shahani)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">had a driving license in 1928.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Nelum Gidwani</span></td></tr>
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Jamna, daughter of the illustrious educationist Sahibsing C Shahani, had a license in 1928 and drove for years until – as her son Nelum Gidwani wryly observes – she ran over a chicken somewhere in France and decided she’d had enough of it. When Indroo Sitlani learnt to drive in Bombay after Partition, it was one of his sisters who taught him. </div>
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While these were clearly women from well-off families, there were working women too. During the Second World War, sea routes closed and many Sindhworkis, men with trading outposts in ports around the world, were isolated from their families in Sindh. Hassaram Ramchandani and his sons ran stores in Cairo and Basra and could not return. It was his daughters Sati and Ishwari who managed Lucky Store, a front room of their home near Tikunda Park at Gadi Khato in Karachi. Sati was a Balkanjibari (Sindhi kindergarten) teacher and took turns with Ishwari who, as her son Ashok Shahani told me, worked in the Locust Control office on Bunder Road until Partition. There were no toilets, and Ishwari wrote to Indira Gandhi, requesting support in getting toilets built. And that, says Ashok, a Supreme Court lawyer, was how the rolling plan of 1950 came to budget one toilet in each Central Government office.</div>
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Quite a few also worked for the Railways in Sindh, checking passengers’ tickets. For a woman to do this doesn’t just mean that she is outgoing and confident. It doesn’t just mean that her family supports – to an extent – her individuality and ambitions. It also means that the men of Sindh could accept authority from a woman. Sundri and her sister Popati, ticket checkers on the Hyderabad-Kotri commuter line, were beauties. There was a line of suitors. But Sundri fell in love with Gobindram Shahani and that was that. Popati married Mohan Mansukhani. After Partition they were able to continue supporting their families with jobs in the Railways. In an era of child marriage across India, both married in their late twenties. This was not at all uncommon in Sindh.</div>
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Many have told me that their parents ‘did love marriage’ in Sindh before Partition. Many have spoken of sisters who never married because they were overweight, dark-complexioned or disabled – negative attributes in the marriage market as they continue to be – because their families were unwilling to compromise them with potential grooms who were offered in marriage because they had less-than-appropriate attributes of their own. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgryJ1E9Jog7zpIpLU251MP_YW3IRRavu7UKGxdspshywUWf3xl_-GQrg33z_19DAEEKeH0L2UtzJaMVfUFMS2D46zmNCvvCaIlkouGMBsfxcH_MW15_a9g9ccr5tQzJcs2NX6Z2L05EjI/s1600/Mira+Advani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgryJ1E9Jog7zpIpLU251MP_YW3IRRavu7UKGxdspshywUWf3xl_-GQrg33z_19DAEEKeH0L2UtzJaMVfUFMS2D46zmNCvvCaIlkouGMBsfxcH_MW15_a9g9ccr5tQzJcs2NX6Z2L05EjI/s200/Mira+Advani.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mira Advani: a First Class</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">double graduate with MA</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">and MSc in pure and </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">applied Mathematics from </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">DJ Sind College at age</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">19. Karachi c1943</span></td></tr>
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Part of the status of Sindhi women is due to the campaign for women’s education, introduced by Navalrai Advani, son of Shoukiram Advani, Mukhi of Hyderabad, who was so deeply influenced by the Brahmo Samaj that he made the one-week train journey to faraway Calcutta to find out more. The first school for girls in the Hyderabad Municipality c1885 was personally funded by him and Sahajrai Chandomal Advani. The progressive families of Sindh took women’s education very seriously. The list of the South Asians who became barristers at three Inns of Court in London before Independence, derived from research conducted by Mitra Sharafi at University of Wisconsin Law School, carries the names of two Sindhi women: Saraswati Dayaram Mirchandani who was called to the Bar in 1937 and Shakuntala Rochiram Hingorani in 1947. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp175jFlSTkt9ar_-tMuVLeK1Le0F1A51wsBFam0ect8FydHkltHq-iRPJACeDVioYQwbx6RfLnh7gH7NGE2uhcmgXe2RVseSHUGIzBNGc7HW9qfH4_LY0Su5WvCvV1LqNmgMCPBmXn0E/s1600/Valiram+Lakhani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp175jFlSTkt9ar_-tMuVLeK1Le0F1A51wsBFam0ect8FydHkltHq-iRPJACeDVioYQwbx6RfLnh7gH7NGE2uhcmgXe2RVseSHUGIzBNGc7HW9qfH4_LY0Su5WvCvV1LqNmgMCPBmXn0E/s200/Valiram+Lakhani.jpg" width="162" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dr Valiram Lakhani</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Dr Naresh Shivdasani</span></td></tr>
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There were also a large number of ‘lady doctors’ (as they were called then) coming out of Sindh, a boon in a time when, despite high mortality in pregnancy and childbirth, families were reluctant to have their women administered by males. One of the earliest was Devi Lakhani, LMCG Edinburgh. Her father was Dr Valiram Lakhani of Hyderabad; all his daughters were well educated and he sent Devi off to study overseas in the 1920s.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHDM07j6YO0TqoS93imDoENrgHkB4TD6vFR3lYIVoSxitOSB33BXBVzoSfBB1_USkYafeFXtyop4NXQjeKE3m7qk_572B2RBL8_XWGRquf3v9i6F8cjaJ9FvsbSK8bTcu9BR8iPuhNHE/s1600/Dr+Hari+J+Mirchandani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHDM07j6YO0TqoS93imDoENrgHkB4TD6vFR3lYIVoSxitOSB33BXBVzoSfBB1_USkYafeFXtyop4NXQjeKE3m7qk_572B2RBL8_XWGRquf3v9i6F8cjaJ9FvsbSK8bTcu9BR8iPuhNHE/s320/Dr+Hari+J+Mirchandani.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr Hari Mirchandani, carrying Meena (now Meena Mani), <br />
her brother's daughter whom she had delivered<br />
two days previously, Delhi 1950.</td></tr>
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Dozens of Sindhi parents sent their daughters to study medicine at Lady Hardinge College, Delhi, and live in the hostel there in the 1930s and 40s. Dr Hari Mirchandani practiced in Hyderabad and Mirpurkhas, and after Partition started a practice in Delhi’s Karol Bagh, then rented a house and, saving every paisa she could, built a one-storey house for her clinic, eventually building quarters above with a maternity home on the ground floor. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zdASBZIvya4igwkeKQL3Mg3CrtbsqU3lVvhVt_m85P6ef9PFqe0l-gpDPGR3P2URARFVRMIaBd0e_BpYB1wuWxZn6dVgv7wSLoFg2AV6bOOUMwrbCCAAinu1JznFV0efZQB156veUzI/s1600/Lila+Chablani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zdASBZIvya4igwkeKQL3Mg3CrtbsqU3lVvhVt_m85P6ef9PFqe0l-gpDPGR3P2URARFVRMIaBd0e_BpYB1wuWxZn6dVgv7wSLoFg2AV6bOOUMwrbCCAAinu1JznFV0efZQB156veUzI/s320/Lila+Chablani.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some time around 2009, in pursuit of a location for the</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sukkur branch of SIUT </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Sindh Institute of Urology </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">and Transplantation), </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pakistani philanthropist Dr Abid Rizvi </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">and his team </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">came across the Chablani Maternity Home </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">in a decrepit state. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Dr Rizvi worked with the Sindh </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">government to transform it </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">into a modern facility </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">by 2012 and they named it </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">SIUT Chablani Medical Center.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">They spent several months trying to contact Lila’s relatives</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">in India to get a portrait of hers to display in a prominent place.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lila’s niece, Sujata Tolani, arranged for family photographs of </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lila to be scanned and composed to show her at different times</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">in her life, and sent this photograph to SIUT, Sukkur.</span></td></tr>
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Lila Chablani, who ran a nursing home in Sukkur, stayed on after Partition and took care of her parents as they aged.<br />
Quite a few other women too rose to be prominent citizens and lived independent professional lives in urban and rural Sindh. Most continued to practice in towns and cities across India after Partition; a walk through Bombay streets even today reveals nameboards and memories. In the 1950s and 60s, many went to live and work in the UK and US. Two of Dr Naraindas’s daughters, Mohini (later Gidwani) and Leila (later Advani) studied at Lady Hardinge too and both did their higher medical education in the UK. Before she left for the UK, Leila worked with Partition refuges in the children’s hospital at the Kurukshetra refugee camp in Delhi. </div>
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In the early 1950s, the American Medical Association requested the Indian Medical Association to send a few young doctors as interns in their hospitals. Dr Popati, who had graduated from Lady Hardinge College, was in the first batch interviewed. Her father, Diwan Hashmatrai Mansukhani, gave permission for his young daughter, and subsequently two more daughters, to go to Chicago. It was a time when USA was considered excessively distant and Chicago was known for its high rate of crime. Diwan Hashmatrai faced criticism but his courageous act turned out to be a pioneering one because soon, other Sindhi families who were also victims of Partition and were worried about their children’s higher education realized that in USA it was possible to support yourself by working as you studied. </div>
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Dr Lila Pahlajsingh Advani studied at Lady Hardinge College in the 1940s and after Partition built up her practice with a clinic in Colaba. In 1964 she moved to New York and continued working there as a doctor and living on her own for forty years. Lila was a keen photographer, she had a darkroom and developed her photographs herself. In Bombay, she spent time with her nieces and nephews, helping them with their studies and taking them on drives to Juhu where they made sandcastles on the beach and collected shells to make dolls and other curios. Lila never wasted a moment. She kept her knitting in her clinic so that she would have something to do between patients and was well known for the knitted, crotchet and tatting garments and table linen she made.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fGcm9WKIr-kysk-29b2n2TwUgSrkRcIPGG_nsmvVZc1U0dxm6BGmqtzjgV5RZOvqKWM_LOh0F_zsbdorc9Ahud1BJWsJG2JKNUitCouNyogNDXrgXLQzJPZJhZxxixeMDWRUfIFVReo/s1600/Kamla+Hiranand2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fGcm9WKIr-kysk-29b2n2TwUgSrkRcIPGG_nsmvVZc1U0dxm6BGmqtzjgV5RZOvqKWM_LOh0F_zsbdorc9Ahud1BJWsJG2JKNUitCouNyogNDXrgXLQzJPZJhZxxixeMDWRUfIFVReo/s400/Kamla+Hiranand2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kamla Hiranand</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Jyoti Punwani</span></td></tr>
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Sindhi women didn’t just work, they also fought in the Indian freedom movement. The frail Devi Kripalani (Kamla Hiranand after marriage) led protests and challenged her jailers. During Jethanand Shahani’s six months in jail for his activities in the freedom movement, his wife Kala’s parents and his parents urged her to come and stay with them but she lived alone in her own home and continued to manage their secret press. </div>
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One of the most prominent Sindhi woman freedom fighters, and the best known Sindhi woman social worker of her generation, was Jethi Sipahimalani. From a prominent and well-off family of Sindh, she completed four academic years at DJ Sind College as a casual student in English, a special facility created by Principal SC Shahani (father of Jamna Gidwani mentioned above) for girls who had not passed the matriculation examination to study further. In 1929, she was principal of Daya Ashram but quit the following year to join the Indian National Congress, participating in pickets and protests. Jethibai held prominent civic posts and in 1938 served as Deputy Speaker of the Sindh Assembly. After Partition, she worked for the displaced people from Sindh and her most enduring legacy is the Navjivan Society housing colonies she built in Bombay.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFeqorBwdOtdBfRKuK1ZV8LG5OXsV0Tpv2eYLm1EIzNlPvYYikn1YEXLgt5UEf3SMlFOipnVaCqIdTXVetWMp6G3T9s9mtsdTUxf5_fU4KJUhqfStYK_1h4PuDlAIVKbougBPnboWUgRU/s1600/mohini2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFeqorBwdOtdBfRKuK1ZV8LG5OXsV0Tpv2eYLm1EIzNlPvYYikn1YEXLgt5UEf3SMlFOipnVaCqIdTXVetWMp6G3T9s9mtsdTUxf5_fU4KJUhqfStYK_1h4PuDlAIVKbougBPnboWUgRU/s320/mohini2.jpg" width="137" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mohini and Sujan Bhawanani</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Calcutta 1972</span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I interviewed Mohini Bhawnani in Kolkata in July 2016, she was 84. Mohini was born into an affluent family, but her father died when she was four and her brother two, a time of great struggle. After Partition, they moved to Kolkata and when their mother died, Mohini supported herself and her brother first by selling her father’s gold medal and then by working as a school teacher while she continued her studies. She gave a competitive examination to enrol as an engineer in the telephone department and was placed fourth among four hundred candidates. In 1957 Mohini married into a wealthy family but continued working and as the years passed, she was promoted to higher positions. One of Mohini’s memories was of her journey across the new border after Partition. Her mother had stayed on in Karachi to try and sell their home, and put her 15-year-old daughter on the SS Barpetta to Bombay in the care of an acquaintance, an Idnani. The first evening on the ship, he got drunk and began making advances. Mohini escaped and took protection with the ship’s captain. Mohini was keen to share this story, more than a year before #MeToo went viral. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As for the Om Mandli, I do believe that one of its aims was an early version of women’s empowerment. I have tried to uncover awful truths but only found it well-meaning (if slightly peculiar, in a cultish way). This was reinforced when I visited the Brahmakumari headquarters in Mount Abu last year. Whether ghastly relics lie around the corner remains to be seen.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Many of the followers of Dada Lekhraj were women of the Sindhworki community, and as Dr Devendra Kodwani, Dean at Open University, UK reminded me, the widespread travels of the men were likely to have impacted their outlook on life and views on the role of women. These were women certainly oppressed by dowry and family elders – <a href="https://www.sahapedia.org/seclusion-glamorous-locales-the-life-of-sindhworki-wife" target="_blank">Monica Bhojwani </a>who was born in a prisoner of war camp in France in 1940, told me about a neighbour whose mother-in-law gave her no privacy even in her bedroom; no freedom to even express physical affection for her children. Still, long years of running their homes and families while their menfolk worked in other countries, certainly nurtured capability and decision-making ability. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
One of the things retired academic Madhuri Sheth told me is that when she was little, her father, Udharam Gurnani, had friends who were women from Sindhworki families. I found it interesting, and an indicator of a progressive society, that men and women could be friends in the 1940s, simply enjoying each other’s company and conversation. </div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-55735749730082038602018-02-15T08:25:00.000-08:002018-08-28T04:57:05.729-07:00A tribute to a truly extraordinary person<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dr Nandlal Tolani would have been 94 years old today if he had not breathed his last on 14 August 2017. He was one of the most extraordinary people I have ever met and I consider myself very fortunate to have had the chance to work with him.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUlX2oV1ug5Z-COejdtHSKzo86tJjmXJ15VqNGoGUV9i6jRzOO6TFLBj9pTabHseKNs9G0eFtJJJIaux_Bzg_UZOkRwSQvMq8SUkD_l4CKdaUYIcntfHRQ2dAryS5txsZZDFzvEiOkPo/s1600/father+and+sons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUlX2oV1ug5Z-COejdtHSKzo86tJjmXJ15VqNGoGUV9i6jRzOO6TFLBj9pTabHseKNs9G0eFtJJJIaux_Bzg_UZOkRwSQvMq8SUkD_l4CKdaUYIcntfHRQ2dAryS5txsZZDFzvEiOkPo/s320/father+and+sons.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pribhdas 'Kaka' Tolani (1893-1988) and his sons, Bombay, c1970s<br />
Gopaldas, Pribhdas, Nandlal, Chandru</td></tr>
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Nandlal was born in Sindh in 1924 into a family of wealth and social position. Through the hard work and intelligence of the previous generation, the family’s orchards had grown into an extensive landholding covering hundreds of thousands of acres. A princeling with a large estate he would inherit, Nandlal was also a brilliant student. He graduated from Agriculture College in Sakrand, and pursued his further education at Cornell University, USA. He was on his way home with a Master of Science degree in Agricultural Engineering, equipped to take his place on the family lands, when the impact of Partition started making itself felt. By the time his ship docked in Bombay in early 1948, it was clear that things were changing radically and Sindh would never be the same again.<br />
Nandlal’s father had stayed behind in his home in Larkana – there was no reason for him to leave. However, he was jailed on suspicion of being an Indian spy. After several weeks, he was granted reprieve on condition that he leave Pakistan immediately. So Pribhdas ‘Kaka’ Tolani, a wealthy, prestigious and powerful landlord of Sindh arrived in Bombay as a refugee along with other hundreds of thousands who had been forced out of their homeland.<br />
Members of the family went to work immediately to support themselves. As per the First Five Year Plan of the new Government of India, the focus was on agriculture and Nandlal Tolani, with his Master of Science in Agricultural Engineering, took up a project to build an earthen dam in Kachch. When that was successfully completed, he went on to do a second and, over the years, several more across Gujarat and Maharashtra.<br />
In Bombay, Kaka constructed a building for himself and his family and gradually built more to house other refugees from Sindh who needed comfortable homes. As the years passed, Nandlal’s involvement in the Bombay business grew.<br />
Finding absurd government policies and corrupt government officials difficult to tolerate, Nandlal returned to Cornell to work towards a PhD. This time he had his family, his wife Papu and their young children Rohet and Sujata with him. It was a pleasant interlude, and he wrote his thesis in less than two years, on the subject of how to develop an operational model to choose between a fertilizer plant and an irrigation project in underdeveloped countries. There were strong messages in this thesis for the Government of India, but sadly none were heeded.<br />
Dr Tolani enjoyed life at Cornell and would in later years say that he considered himself more fit for a life in academia than one in business. He would have stayed on to study and teach at Cornell but Kaka wanted him back at home and, the ever loving and dutiful son, he returned to Bombay.<br />
However, Dr Tolani was determined to move away from construction. After considering many options in which business would be cleaner, he decided on shipping, which in the late 1960s was the Indian industry with the least corruption.<br />
Starting with two ships – bought with savings rather than loans – Tolani Shipping grew gradually and systematically. Dr Tolani had no interest in becoming a great shipping tycoon and competing with other companies for the maximum number of ships. His aim was to create wealth and a comfortable life for himself, his family and his employees. While he achieved this, his company also grew to be highly regarded across the shipping world.<br />
During this time, Dr Tolani systematically divided his time and energy between his work, his philanthropic activities, his leisure pursuits and his family. He started a college of commerce in Andheri East, and grew it into a centre where neighbourhood children, at an impressionable age, would receive a high quality well-rounded education with a strong academic component, the best extra-curricular opportunities and a wholesome moral base. He endowed a chair at his alma mater Cornell University – the Nandlal P Tolani Senior Professorship in International Trade Policy. His lifetime dream was to found an institute in India which provided a quality of education comparable to the education he had received at Cornell, and to do this he developed the Tolani Maritime Institute entirely with his own personal funds: a college of maritime education set in a large and beautiful campus with extensive workshops, library and a campus ship for practical lessons. As he said:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAVsXo1HDxKPvazZrUObtNGAIDW1ClNPrYNls4zf9SeuEyz3zj_-ZwVVwOuTo5rOv9e4bET7faziTTL1XekfTdjUCXftynKRoxUOpeSukkliRM8998hBtJuN_hBSQwoU28gY4UDRsxnk/s1600/50T9+Girls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAVsXo1HDxKPvazZrUObtNGAIDW1ClNPrYNls4zf9SeuEyz3zj_-ZwVVwOuTo5rOv9e4bET7faziTTL1XekfTdjUCXftynKRoxUOpeSukkliRM8998hBtJuN_hBSQwoU28gY4UDRsxnk/s200/50T9+Girls.JPG" width="200" /></a>I never wanted to profit from my educational institutes. What I did want was to run professionally-managed organizations. I wanted to do good business and have a healthy bottom line, but always within the ambit of the law. While doing so, I wanted others around me to benefit too. Working with my team, we built a reputation for being decent, principled, and reliable. Today my biggest satisfaction comes from the respect that every member of Tolani Shipping, of <a href="http://www.tolani.edu/tcc/index.php" target="_blank">Tolani College of Commerce </a>and of <a href="http://www.tmi.tolani.edu/" target="_blank">Tolani Maritime Institute </a>command, on the basis of this reputation.</blockquote>
Dr Tolani was never interested in wealth and power for the sake of wealth and power. The young Nandlal, a child who loved his grandmother dearly, had promised her that one day he would earn so much that she would have enough money to even fill up the toilet. When the time came that Dr Tolani could have fitted gold taps in his bathrooms, he chose instead the vision and the discipline to use his wealth to truly live life to the fullest. He built a beautiful home, indulged his passion for luxury cars – not with a fleet, but one which he would drive himself and another for his family – and surrounded himself with good friends. In his words:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimGlfc2SGD6P956YFf2xDt90p9LYuwhan-m-OcUYgmG1IoU6f0oXP_NqdjQIOQXAvLJxD3Yp7o5JwH94i2GcnKGQWm6q_K3bETwRmJxc4nqkTrFbcuBeXxM2rBYtamknFzJTcGWXg4H7A/s1600/LH5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimGlfc2SGD6P956YFf2xDt90p9LYuwhan-m-OcUYgmG1IoU6f0oXP_NqdjQIOQXAvLJxD3Yp7o5JwH94i2GcnKGQWm6q_K3bETwRmJxc4nqkTrFbcuBeXxM2rBYtamknFzJTcGWXg4H7A/s200/LH5.jpg" width="149" /></a>To me, wealth has given security and some freedom of choice. I have been careful with my spending, and almost always chosen comfort over luxury.<br />
I did use my wealth to indulge my love for bridge and sailing, and to try and attract others to these sports. These are sports that test our mettle, one mentally and the other physically. As such, they help us to engage and develop the faculties we are blessed with as human beings, and thus live life to the fullest.<br />
If there is one lesson of life that I would like to leave my grandchildren, it is the fact that money has little value. Personal satisfaction is far more important than money. For my grandchildren, and for those who come after them, I leave a wish that they may always understand the true priorities of their own lives, and that they may always have the discernment to judge right from wrong. I believe these are the things, rather than money, by which a life may be deemed successful. </blockquote>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-86399752153166786252018-02-04T09:23:00.000-08:002018-02-19T19:44:29.698-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
My teachers and role models</h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Q7xOSMpVkufd0iDxfRis_W2l8xJOd5K_8yM8hibChccpp1s_oX79bODJITZub98xBkZLLmfeKliYt4kQhJQRZZ0i8ZNkxx5zeML62JGnXcoCr929hBoIqqP2bHCrioFAi7C5pXw3-GQ/s1600/IMG_20180203_175934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Q7xOSMpVkufd0iDxfRis_W2l8xJOd5K_8yM8hibChccpp1s_oX79bODJITZub98xBkZLLmfeKliYt4kQhJQRZZ0i8ZNkxx5zeML62JGnXcoCr929hBoIqqP2bHCrioFAi7C5pXw3-GQ/s320/IMG_20180203_175934.jpg" width="320" /></a>My most favourite part of December every year is when I get to meet people who have been nominated for the CavinKare Ability Awards. And last night I was privileged to be there when some of them received the award. In the wheelchair you can see beautiful and vivacious Jasmina Khanna. She has cerebral palsy, and works in a responsible position in a multinational company, a valuable member of her team. (Incidentally, in her SSC examination Jasmina scored 100% in Mathematics!)<br />
Next to her is the charming Gauri Gadgil. 27-year-old Gauri has Down’s Syndrome but she’s a Bharatnatyam dancer, a swimmer who has won medals for India in international sports events and the heroine of The Movie Yellow, a Marathi film that won awards and was a commercial success too.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27RhXtj2hCrAyGtE8IANMk-tFyW4gagDBRxEDepYeIj_q9sj1J9dcb03rzyuewD8BwyUPfB9LXApwFhSg9gWS9gaK_oam9LMoH9wqp3Yw1VDfWJmk0BN6zts1Nh6RIomeGeGRdD1kMI8/s1600/IMG_20171214_192109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27RhXtj2hCrAyGtE8IANMk-tFyW4gagDBRxEDepYeIj_q9sj1J9dcb03rzyuewD8BwyUPfB9LXApwFhSg9gWS9gaK_oam9LMoH9wqp3Yw1VDfWJmk0BN6zts1Nh6RIomeGeGRdD1kMI8/s200/IMG_20171214_192109.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuy1bjt9R035cbAjO-XJh0Nq-vAHBvtw6Y-XLSJFakAoJLFeyH23X9zSmq356-AHBzyBjm74KXyMiBGE3BSMspaQLEVF98O508mM-vYxML5NFOT732kuOJplrCt5w4oJx_d4rn8cLO_4/s1600/IMG_20171214_192116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Next to Gauri is Dr Roshan Shaikh. Roshan was sixteen when she fell out of a Mumbai local train and had to have her legs amputated. With family support, this daughter of a vegetable vendor got right back to her studies and completed XI Std without even losing a year. And she went on to study medicine at Kem Hospital, after fighting a court case to overturn a government refusal to give her a seat in a medical college because of her disability. Roshan completed her MBBS and internship and is now preparing for admission to post-graduation – and is prepared to deal with any government restriction that might come in the way ... this beautiful, kind and brave woman is going to be a surgeon.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mrb9uUjfGcoASFKNkisyj1vh76qh81BuOju5Taow_c6frJzpTfu6o6MEmGutts6JI-qYF5-AaupJMdRBTGTKrjYlf95ep5t73mBTVNfOYz3CUn2LNgXIFlNOT8Gy_EuJ2iDBOfy1_oQ/s1600/IMG_20171219_142609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mrb9uUjfGcoASFKNkisyj1vh76qh81BuOju5Taow_c6frJzpTfu6o6MEmGutts6JI-qYF5-AaupJMdRBTGTKrjYlf95ep5t73mBTVNfOYz3CUn2LNgXIFlNOT8Gy_EuJ2iDBOfy1_oQ/s320/IMG_20171219_142609.jpg" width="240" /></a>Sitting on my left in the photo above is Raju Uprade, one of the most extraordinary people I've ever met. Raju, with congenital deformities and from a low-income family, completed his BE in Information Technology on a scholarship and after a long and continuous battle for employment, facing discrimination and mockery all the way, is now a key member of the international ‘Square Kilometre Array’ project hosted by Tata Institute of Fundamental Research (TIFR). When Manoj Muthuveedan and I visited, he showed us around his workplace – introduced us to his colleagues who are all so proud and admiring of him – arranged lunch for us at the canteen and later made chai for us at his home. Raju, despite the challenges, lives on his own.<br />
When Raju came on stage to receive his award, he dedicated it to his mother without whom, as he said, he could never have overcome his physical limitations. Raju spoke very simply and objectively, but facing the stark truth that a disabled child in India is usually considered a burden and so rarely given the nurturing to develop individual abilities, many in the audience were in tears. After all, Raju is not just a scientist and IT whiz, he is a poet too as you can see from his <a href="http://rajsingh17.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">blog</a>.<br />
While Jasmina, Gauri, Roshan and Raju received the CavinKare Ability Mastery Award, the CavinKare Ability Eminence Award went to Mahantesh Kivadasannavar.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQI3DITox7NxvxpE0WMa98QHxvPxC13WP0Xhzsvt4TO5MWnvySvrUzlcPkP-bJBjdOB5dO6NnzW1BUvDbemhGaqIZebCGusDCSTRLhMetdP2k6HJtvuAtCN8h1NMw0YgYb_ZH9vd-vFZs/s1600/Mahantesh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQI3DITox7NxvxpE0WMa98QHxvPxC13WP0Xhzsvt4TO5MWnvySvrUzlcPkP-bJBjdOB5dO6NnzW1BUvDbemhGaqIZebCGusDCSTRLhMetdP2k6HJtvuAtCN8h1NMw0YgYb_ZH9vd-vFZs/s200/Mahantesh.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Mahantesh was born in village </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Neginval</span><span lang="EN-GB">, 40km from Belgaum. At 6 months
he contracted typhoid which affected his optic nerve and retina. </span>His father worked for Department of Agriculture and had a transferrable job. </div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Mahantesh was admitted in </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222;">Shree Ramana
Maharishi Academy for the Blind </span><span lang="EN-GB">in Bangalore when he was ten . The
school had a tradition of having an older boy take care of a younger one.
Nagesh, three years older, looked after Mahanatesh like an elder
brother. Together they played a lot of cricket, broke many glasses. They stayed
in touch as Mahantesh continued his education first at National College,
Bangalore and then Bangalore University, finishing with an MA in 1994 and MPhil
in 1996 in English Literature. He began teaching at University Law College but
discontinued when Samarthanam began to take more and more time. Nagesh and
Mahantesh registered Samarthanam in 1997 in Bangalore, with the desire to create a better world
for future generations. They stayed up late at night discussing their dreams
and making plans. </span>The seed money came from the University Grants Commission Junior
Research Scholarship from which he received Rs50,000 per year to study.
Mahantesh’s father paid for his studies, telling him to use the money for
something he wanted to do. Mahantesh also received an LPG distributorship and
this gave some income.</div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today, </span>Samarthanam is like a corporate group, with a large number of
diverse interests, each purposefully run with its own team and resources. We
had one day, and saw just part of it, and it was a tremendous experience –
amazing to think it was started by two blind men, not yet 30 years old, in
1997.<br />
Mahantesh and Nagesh formed an exceptionally good
team and complemented each other: while Mahantesh was a dreamer and visionary,
Nagesh would execute swiftly and excellently. This mirrored their disability:
Mahantesh has a mild long-distance vision while Nagesh could see up close, “So
we could walk any terrain together. I miss him every day.” Sadly, Nagesh succumbed
to a heart attack in 2016. He was 49 years old.<br />
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Some of the most striking features of Samarthanam are ...<br />
<b>Diversity: </b>the organization has so many different sides to it and these include cricket for the blind; education; rehabilitation, skilling, placement; creating awareness; events (cricket is one of the most prominent but there are annual Walkathons and other public events); promoting employment of disabled; care of mentally challenged as well as care of women who have suffered violence; food for children in government schools; an eco project, Parisara, which supplements the government efforts in Bangalore; cultural expression for the disabled in art and dance.<br />
<b>Scale:</b> the number of people who have been impacted is huge; Samarthanam is growing at a rate of nearly 40% every year, adding new divisions and increasing old ones. It has also grown and replicated its model across India and registered non-profit organizations in the UK and USA.<br />
<b>Partnerships:</b> Samarthanam started with a group of volunteers. As the organization grew, they took on paid professionals to work. Today the main reason for Samarthanam’s continuous expansion is the effective use of partnerships with large bodies including corporate organizations, other NGOs and the government and its various entities.<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">One of the most
presently visible contributions by Mahantesh is promoting and streamlining
blind cricket. India is a nation crazy about cricket, why should the visually
impaired be left out? Mahantesh, a cricketer himself, played in school and
encouraged others to play. In 1996, one year before Samarthanam was registered,
he was one of the </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Indian Cricket team for the Blind who
toured England. He later </span><span lang="EN-GB">served as coach of the team.
In 2010, Cricket Association for the Blind in India (CABI) was registered, with
Nagesh as founder president and Mahantesh as founder secretary. This has been a
spectacular way to showcase the abilities of the visually impaired. When India
began winning international cricket championships, the country sat up and
watched.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">We visited the Gopalan Sports Academy where a camp was being held to
prepare the 17 players selected from all over India for the national team. Next
month they will play the fifth edition of the one-day international world cup
in Pakistan and Dubai, and the participating countries are India, Pakistan, Sri
Lanka, Bangladesh, Nepal and Australia. Captain Ajay Reddy told us about how
his team defeated Pakistan in the world cup finals – a spectacular victory
since till then Pakistan had been a fearsome foe! And it was a victory which so
moved India that the Prime Minister has twice invited and personally
felicitated the team and spoken about it in his Man ki Baat. Not only that, but
ex-captain Shekhar Naik was awarded Padamshri.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The team, comprising visually impaired boys from rural India, are no
longer relegated to being shoved aside, the fortunate ones set to weaving cane
baskets to earn a living. They are performing brilliantly in public, and have
grown in ability and self-esteem. They can speak with confidence and they are
getting jobs and promotions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">All this is the result of considerable time and effort invested by
Samarthanam in registering first the national body and then 24 state bodies and
working to promote the concept with blinds schools and institutes, arrange
matches at the local, then state and then national levels, create tiers and
keep expanding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIeBT619sEDWfgWZ0RFZhqCR5ynBZbfTIbOIQBOvC3ea4FtZMZtVo75NH0OJgpHvnIdB0T0eQBjBBLmd1IsdUMjUCfwjBwZcN4HR2CYQFfUKd-2rk4oEo8DfnkVf6NjgJ8YQGHscvz6A/s1600/IMG_20171222_110031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIeBT619sEDWfgWZ0RFZhqCR5ynBZbfTIbOIQBOvC3ea4FtZMZtVo75NH0OJgpHvnIdB0T0eQBjBBLmd1IsdUMjUCfwjBwZcN4HR2CYQFfUKd-2rk4oEo8DfnkVf6NjgJ8YQGHscvz6A/s320/IMG_20171222_110031.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
Ross Hunter, head coach of the England visually impaired cricket team was on the ground when Manoj Muthuveedan and I visited and he told us that he had been invited by Mahantesh to share best practices. While I assumed that he was visiting as a trainer, he told us that he was visiting "to learn what makes Indian blind cricketers the best in the world." He also told us that when he brought his team to play in Indore, they played in a stadium with 20,000 spectators, something they could never have in England and he is immeasurably grateful to Mahantesh for that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGGEbC_nENNxkf1tiWvAG6pv8htQ_kkb13gcC0q4vnpjapfK1j-cUOP_qgK0itUYmxdMXv_9bNFhCPJ89En4M0LRw8ij2eFKiVSvfxrDqj6nJEs10y2R2nKkxSmCR1VnItlFiPmIlu0E/s1600/True+confessions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGGEbC_nENNxkf1tiWvAG6pv8htQ_kkb13gcC0q4vnpjapfK1j-cUOP_qgK0itUYmxdMXv_9bNFhCPJ89En4M0LRw8ij2eFKiVSvfxrDqj6nJEs10y2R2nKkxSmCR1VnItlFiPmIlu0E/s200/True+confessions.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytsj0JKe9WykD-4wvOzv_WV0SgzYyrHHJbXn6LyrqdhLUrXpZxZx3cHxCXiGZao3O5GOUWFZcjUAAgWmFw7Rp1GWxpUNfGlesrx9fjegKT-DfX0dqSqu7fn31cNodvezcqlDklDvuSfg/s1600/True+confessions2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>Though delighted for those who received the award, I also felt disappointed, as I have done for each of these 11 years I've volunteered with Ability Foundation, for those wonderful, brave and brilliant people I met who did not get it.<br />
India has close to 100 million people of disability and these role models will lead the way to bring them out into the mainstream.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytsj0JKe9WykD-4wvOzv_WV0SgzYyrHHJbXn6LyrqdhLUrXpZxZx3cHxCXiGZao3O5GOUWFZcjUAAgWmFw7Rp1GWxpUNfGlesrx9fjegKT-DfX0dqSqu7fn31cNodvezcqlDklDvuSfg/s1600/True+confessions2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytsj0JKe9WykD-4wvOzv_WV0SgzYyrHHJbXn6LyrqdhLUrXpZxZx3cHxCXiGZao3O5GOUWFZcjUAAgWmFw7Rp1GWxpUNfGlesrx9fjegKT-DfX0dqSqu7fn31cNodvezcqlDklDvuSfg/s200/True+confessions2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-78847526036632095462017-07-31T22:57:00.000-07:002018-02-19T20:26:10.319-08:00Legacies of Partition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmK6teuutmG7hrVcymPguE38HzP4hli0bc7YHbmONtPlXL6lKlxkR5kVTz7NJA5G18kqPaENohP_0kEIyBTwg7M4ctv5suA2EWCIjvxr01bhT8WQUOi0vG-yqls5tRjnCQJeD4aWRpso/s1600/Schedule+-+Remembering+Partition.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmK6teuutmG7hrVcymPguE38HzP4hli0bc7YHbmONtPlXL6lKlxkR5kVTz7NJA5G18kqPaENohP_0kEIyBTwg7M4ctv5suA2EWCIjvxr01bhT8WQUOi0vG-yqls5tRjnCQJeD4aWRpso/s1600/Schedule+-+Remembering+Partition.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><br />
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The herbal remedies manuscript</h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmK6teuutmG7hrVcymPguE38HzP4hli0bc7YHbmONtPlXL6lKlxkR5kVTz7NJA5G18kqPaENohP_0kEIyBTwg7M4ctv5suA2EWCIjvxr01bhT8WQUOi0vG-yqls5tRjnCQJeD4aWRpso/s1600/Schedule+-+Remembering+Partition.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmK6teuutmG7hrVcymPguE38HzP4hli0bc7YHbmONtPlXL6lKlxkR5kVTz7NJA5G18kqPaENohP_0kEIyBTwg7M4ctv5suA2EWCIjvxr01bhT8WQUOi0vG-yqls5tRjnCQJeD4aWRpso/s320/Schedule+-+Remembering+Partition.jpg" width="225" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmK6teuutmG7hrVcymPguE38HzP4hli0bc7YHbmONtPlXL6lKlxkR5kVTz7NJA5G18kqPaENohP_0kEIyBTwg7M4ctv5suA2EWCIjvxr01bhT8WQUOi0vG-yqls5tRjnCQJeD4aWRpso/s1600/Schedule+-+Remembering+Partition.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>What do people carry with them when they are leaving beloved homes and know them may never return? Ever since I received an invitation to be part of the Remembering Partition event at Godrej Culture Labs, I've been putting stories together asking people I’ve interviewed to contribute to the museum.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhA89lY6ABTZ99bnz0GYL-gfGQT-LjJvhN5_Imt-g4nlforSWe1Bhz1Rlis585v8kCHKS4vGOp2822lwaBnWqtTCfpuxZ52QRdHaumpKi-rYS5OTehtz8U1LgzvDz4li_ysi0qBQ5_-0M/s1600/Saaz+and+Madhuri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhA89lY6ABTZ99bnz0GYL-gfGQT-LjJvhN5_Imt-g4nlforSWe1Bhz1Rlis585v8kCHKS4vGOp2822lwaBnWqtTCfpuxZ52QRdHaumpKi-rYS5OTehtz8U1LgzvDz4li_ysi0qBQ5_-0M/s200/Saaz+and+Madhuri.jpg" width="150" /></a>A few days ago, I went to visit Madhuri Sheth whom I had interviewed for my book <i><a href="http://www.saazaggarwal.com/buy_sindh/" target="_blank">Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland </a></i>and she gave me a hand-written Sindhi manuscript on herbal remedies which I packed and couriered to the museum. The manuscript was one of the precious belongings of her father, Udharam. Based on what she told me, here is something about it.</div>
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Udharam Holaram Gurnani came from a wealthy zamindar family of Old Sukkur, Sindh. To live an independent life, he left home and took up a job with the railways. Posted to different parts of the province, he lived with his wife and children in quarters provided by the railways. Whenever he was transferred to Sukkur, he would be given one of his father’s houses to live in. Udharam had studied only up to the fourth standard, but he had a wide range of interests – from medicine to spirituality and detective stories – and read a lot. He discussed philosophy with his friends, and his children were often included in the discussions.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjtEUUHIp6vJ8KuwbFAOqBlgn-ApkcyOxfg0EZjEWTGTbQiOIpK4XHCs8HSn-nuQdWANLAm5rXgKIUmkwzWIu-y1v5s5W-cnjXXm83D7eTlCKsM6cq_aeTj_pHI_Icxg8v5XYHfXW65I/s1600/Hemu+Kalani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjtEUUHIp6vJ8KuwbFAOqBlgn-ApkcyOxfg0EZjEWTGTbQiOIpK4XHCs8HSn-nuQdWANLAm5rXgKIUmkwzWIu-y1v5s5W-cnjXXm83D7eTlCKsM6cq_aeTj_pHI_Icxg8v5XYHfXW65I/s200/Hemu+Kalani.jpg" width="152" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hemu Kalani</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In August 1947, there were riots in Quetta and trains filled with fleeing women and children passed through Sukkur. Soon, migrants from across the new border started arriving to settle. The town, once a prosperous place – a major centre of the fight for freedom, where 19-year-old Hemu Kalani had been hanged for his activities during the Quit India movement – changed fast with reports of looting and violence.</div>
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Udharam opted for a transfer across the new border. The family arrived in Bombay by ship from Karachi and lived on the docks for one and a half months, waiting for Udharam to be assigned a location. Other families shared this plight. They cordoned off areas in unused parts of the dock’s warehouses, for themselves and their boxes of belongings. The government was distributing food, but there were no proper sanitary facilities.</div>
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When Udharam was issued posting orders for Achnera, a junction between Agra and Mathura, the family moved there but had to live on the platform for another few months, until quarters were allotted. Even when baby Neelam, the youngest boy of Udharam and Parmeshwari’s nine children, died on the Achnera railway platform, the family continued to take the hardship in its stride, always conscious that there were others who had suffered more.</div>
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It was in 1987, when Udharam died, that his daughter Madhuri Sheth (born in June 1935) came across this manuscript, one of the precious belongings carried from Sindh in the boxes that had survived the months on the Bombay docks and the Achnera railway platform along with the family. Udharam used these remedies along with healthy foods to treat illness in the family.</div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-45732975185265496902017-07-15T08:37:00.002-07:002018-02-19T20:26:52.927-08:00Born in the post office<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1BxEWBtaogMrjM7TgvrSpD42Bfr-7ARWTvyp4waIRI5mkIHrAvmv25B8yKP1ES6580a24eYDf6u6togB0YwYt5N-RsKMf9-kYj9haFJvQrgUa1yQgZbS6MSbk3EScbR5Tm7Wrhzjy3o/s1600/1966+pocket+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1BxEWBtaogMrjM7TgvrSpD42Bfr-7ARWTvyp4waIRI5mkIHrAvmv25B8yKP1ES6580a24eYDf6u6togB0YwYt5N-RsKMf9-kYj9haFJvQrgUa1yQgZbS6MSbk3EScbR5Tm7Wrhzjy3o/s320/1966+pocket+photo.JPG" width="240" /></a>I put this up as my profile photo yesterday because it was my brother’s birthday. It was taken in the late 1960s at High Forest Estate, where Ravi was born, in the Manager’s Bungalow.<br />
When it was time for the baby, my dad called the estate doctor to be on standby while he drove out to fetch Dr Manchi Disawalla who was stationed at the nearby town of Mudis. Dr Disawalla was the best doctor in the district and he and his wife Gool, who was also an excellent doctor, were very good friends of my parents. As the story goes, by the time they got to the house there was no need to keep the expectant father busy arranging for big pots of hot water because the baby had already arrived.<br />
High Forest is a rainy place – second only to Cherapunji, as my mother used to say back then. In the monsoon, clothes wouldn’t dry, biscuits got soggy in about five seconds, shoes would be lined with fungus within hours of taking them off. My dad would come back from the fields with leeches clinging to the long socks he had to wear to protect his legs from them. It had been raining non-stop but the morning the baby was born, after weeks shrouded by clouds, the sun came out personally to welcome him. Besides, it was a Sunday. So they named him Ravi.<br />
And this is how it happened that while I grew up with an unpronounceable headache of a name – in South India the languages do not have a ‘z’ sound – my brother had one of the most common names in the whole country. I felt awfully discriminated against. My mother once told me that, on a visit to the Mysore Zoo, we had gone to see the tiger and there was a board outside saying that its name was Ravi. Apparently I saw that and burst into tears, in the desolate knowledge that there could never, ever be a tiger anywhere in the world with the name Saaz.<br />
In 1968, my father was transferred from High Forest to another estate, Prospect, in the Nilgiris. Ravi was just five. But High Forest would always stay with him. On his passport, ‘place of birth’ would always be ‘High Forest, Mudis Post Office’; in a country filled with so many thousands of remote places, and so many millions of letter-writers and money-order-senders, a post office was considered the only infallible indicator of location.<br />
Years later, well into middle age, I told this story to a kind person who owns <a href="http://www.sinnadorai.com/home.aspx" target="_blank">a gorgeous resort </a>not far from Mudis Post Office and he sent someone to High Forest to take photos of the Manager’s Bungalow. The world had changed and so had Ravi’s first home: once elegant and beautifully maintained, it was now in a state of decay. In time I was able to locate two others who had lived in the same house in their time, <a href="http://bangoraye.tumblr.com/post/42870145856/when-i-was-in-india-part-iv" target="_blank">Denis Mayne</a> and <a href="http://www.contactanauthor.co.uk/authorpage.php?id=221" target="_blank">Carolyn Hollis</a>, now ‘back home’ (as it was called in those days) in the UK. I forwarded the photos to them and they too felt sorry to see its reduced condition. Taking another look at those photos while I was writing this post, I realised with surprise that I had a few photos of the very same parts of the house when we lived in it.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgheR2EtVO_jQpPKaIvu-D30UFhGrotc86Rox-gAInIzCnOxvwAq2qeEMXREoazJDBIIDe5WfPaPYMoQI3f9DqTaa28Ga3besZ-Pk1VOyt-lvL2Xgwzi_osv3MuYJOWQDD2J4XpRsuQzk/s1600/1962+Saaz+with+mother+5.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgheR2EtVO_jQpPKaIvu-D30UFhGrotc86Rox-gAInIzCnOxvwAq2qeEMXREoazJDBIIDe5WfPaPYMoQI3f9DqTaa28Ga3besZ-Pk1VOyt-lvL2Xgwzi_osv3MuYJOWQDD2J4XpRsuQzk/s320/1962+Saaz+with+mother+5.jpg" width="221" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwEIlN0Q4StPeL1ttlW1ztyDlaqB3wApKyZy40x0lEsmcsVPEVmOj8Nwb7TPRPlPDwXaHq52YUhGxSUKhr6CjHzM-v7bFRwREHn66AOBQoWh3ZKMn1E0ZBJVt2kw5MOiF4GZD_xxEXBc/s1600/Manager%2527s+Bungalow+Nov+2014+5.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwEIlN0Q4StPeL1ttlW1ztyDlaqB3wApKyZy40x0lEsmcsVPEVmOj8Nwb7TPRPlPDwXaHq52YUhGxSUKhr6CjHzM-v7bFRwREHn66AOBQoWh3ZKMn1E0ZBJVt2kw5MOiF4GZD_xxEXBc/s320/Manager%2527s+Bungalow+Nov+2014+5.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFBQWKINj8EnSyEspIRfM6TnLBtSM4XsCOrbo1PvVznoiVcWEc0FOk7aUpGR24vH19C6J-nBSVAP8zzezjzeFI2QHdWAfeLLLWdZzCkPn9wmn4Apbl7M_F8SmCkO8_MQc5z5IdvLS_qo/s1600/1965+kids+on+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFBQWKINj8EnSyEspIRfM6TnLBtSM4XsCOrbo1PvVznoiVcWEc0FOk7aUpGR24vH19C6J-nBSVAP8zzezjzeFI2QHdWAfeLLLWdZzCkPn9wmn4Apbl7M_F8SmCkO8_MQc5z5IdvLS_qo/s320/1965+kids+on+porch.jpg" width="276" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jK5LLiQXww4LE4FJt7CiVf2gXdeMalaPexiiUMoSRDFhCXI7xxGoeBGTidHKRfzjN-Pfgq3Psd9KVSz6WONXtltdcPtrGxcOUYeJHLY49Jo7t4l7G-_LJVFEqblpE2I6OFES3xVqT1o/s1600/Manager%2527s+Bungalow+Nov+2014+9.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jK5LLiQXww4LE4FJt7CiVf2gXdeMalaPexiiUMoSRDFhCXI7xxGoeBGTidHKRfzjN-Pfgq3Psd9KVSz6WONXtltdcPtrGxcOUYeJHLY49Jo7t4l7G-_LJVFEqblpE2I6OFES3xVqT1o/s320/Manager%2527s+Bungalow+Nov+2014+9.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-91181961598428948492017-06-30T00:00:00.000-07:002017-06-29T18:14:15.906-07:00For lovely M on a special birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Jewellery made with precious metals and stones is one of the most popular traditions of India. In my father’s community, the Kanara Saraswat Brahmins, it was a custom for married women to wear diamond earrings set in gold in a traditional pattern with seven diamonds each. Those earrings, like other jewellery given to a young woman who was getting married, were family heirlooms. As time went by, the world changed and so did family structures and traditions. In the early 1980s, I inherited eight of my grandmother’s diamonds. Since they were special, I had them set in a four-diamond pattern so that I could wear them all together. However, it turned out that I didn’t care much for the way the pattern sat on my ears. So for years they lay in my cupboard, unused. One day in 2005, my jewellery was burgled. I lost a lot of precious pieces, each of which had special memories. I felt sad and decided to give up wearing jewellery. Then one day I saw my grandmother’s diamonds lying neglected in the corner of a shelf and realised that I should give them the respect and affection they deserved! I had four set into a bangle for myself which I began to wear all the time, and continue to do. And I decided that when the time came I would pass them on to the girls in the family on special occasions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHlzIzztn2EZqx7rI8pcwIMSXY2NrMpp9nmglf9J9ZjslytCZTNw12KycElQ1vbT5frOhRe8x5bnZ1tFKHmaKrrYcFOjdCI3p4uUGpFWSIE3q6MHDCSxbGothd_RmxMJ5hmEKYi9x2g8/s1600/Smt+Shanta+Savur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHlzIzztn2EZqx7rI8pcwIMSXY2NrMpp9nmglf9J9ZjslytCZTNw12KycElQ1vbT5frOhRe8x5bnZ1tFKHmaKrrYcFOjdCI3p4uUGpFWSIE3q6MHDCSxbGothd_RmxMJ5hmEKYi9x2g8/s320/Smt+Shanta+Savur.jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smt Shantabai Savur</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As one such occasion approached, I began thinking about the box I would gift the solitaire nose-pin in and came across this picture of my grandmother in which she is wearing the seven-diamond earrings. I got it printed and set into a gift box. The box looked so beautiful that I made a few extra boxes and took one as a present (but with no diamonds in it!) for my aunt Sushila.<br />
Sushilakka was born on 8 March 1928; I went to see her a few days after her 89th birthday. When she saw the box she was overwhelmed with emotion and kissed the photo, gazed at it lovingly, and could not speak for a while. Then she told me that the photograph had been taken in Masulipatnam when her father, an officer of the government’s revenue service, had been posted there.<br />
It was 1938, and a ‘famous’ photographer from Baroda visited Masulipatnam. The Collector, the Chief of Police, and many of the other important people of Masulipatnam sat for family photographs and portraits. Naturally my grandfather did too, and this is a portrait of him and his family taken then.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzad53yhdxZf5ciUxj0mJTr8X4Qc5nmbH1VdShvVok6alm-uFGEjUnJd6sAX3gRDFL7A7BlGs0-UVtua6zeSmOuQqIFrAtmZGwiz14kyIPgTCIheMSK7EohOVpJGhNtwARPftfh5l82gE/s1600/1938+circa+Savur+family+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzad53yhdxZf5ciUxj0mJTr8X4Qc5nmbH1VdShvVok6alm-uFGEjUnJd6sAX3gRDFL7A7BlGs0-UVtua6zeSmOuQqIFrAtmZGwiz14kyIPgTCIheMSK7EohOVpJGhNtwARPftfh5l82gE/s320/1938+circa+Savur+family+photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bhavani Shankar Rao Savur (1900-1961) and Smt Shantabai<br />
Bab (Ramanand), Gopal (later Dr Gopal Rao Savur), <br />
Sushila (later Mrs Tirkannad Sushila Amrit Rao<br />
Gul (later Mrs Gul Raghuvir Dhareshwar)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The photographer then told my grandfather that his wife had the most beautiful profile he had ever seen; there was only one other woman whose profile was as beautiful and that was of the film star Sadhana! He asked my grandfather for permission to take her photograph, saying he would be happy to give him copies with no charge. “Of course Papa agreed!” Sushilakka said. This is the family photograph taken on that occasion: Bhavani Shankar Savur and Shanta Savur are standing and their children Bab (Ramanand, my father), Gopal, Sushila and Gool are sitting.<br />
Sushilakka could not remember the name of the photographer but promised to think and phone to tell me later, when she remembered. She did tell me that years later, in the 1960s, she was living in Baroda with her husband and two young children and her father wrote to her, reminding her about the photographer and suggesting that she pay him a visit, which she did. She and her family received a courteous welcome and he remembered her well. In fact, he even mentioned her mother’s perfect profile and spoke of it admiringly all those years later.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTCYJ7SOB7bkDOgjWwZGYurVhFXbqV7uxh6ZaX6-ClRo1jVPS64eBSpWdsN6-kb10CHRvEO8DxJF1omZChsogFY5b4lnv8qd7K2OjgPJnZU9y9v4wIRYr8YmeNUagQHEhQjyY7OwSvZs/s1600/IMG_20170322_121128_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTCYJ7SOB7bkDOgjWwZGYurVhFXbqV7uxh6ZaX6-ClRo1jVPS64eBSpWdsN6-kb10CHRvEO8DxJF1omZChsogFY5b4lnv8qd7K2OjgPJnZU9y9v4wIRYr8YmeNUagQHEhQjyY7OwSvZs/s200/IMG_20170322_121128_HDR.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJLYEApHBA94CQDI-FAu8iyDr9glN9PR1wDLD7FncpuFBLlH3PGqiy7cvZYtVLRM7RRa9mflwt8r4lEJox0dvUEq8v55UxAYpqY7hYiY2fbETnZcwW2G8CLVS1xVwWbtPnAjLIuVoBbA/s1600/Masulipatam_mg_8557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJLYEApHBA94CQDI-FAu8iyDr9glN9PR1wDLD7FncpuFBLlH3PGqiy7cvZYtVLRM7RRa9mflwt8r4lEJox0dvUEq8v55UxAYpqY7hYiY2fbETnZcwW2G8CLVS1xVwWbtPnAjLIuVoBbA/s320/Masulipatam_mg_8557.jpg" width="320" /></a>I was moved by the story, and eager to find out more. It turned out that Masulipatnam is a place of historical importance, a trading port on the east coast of India used by the Dutch, the British and French. This engraving is from wiki: “View of Masulipatam. Anonymous. From Philip Baldaeus, A True and Exact Description of the most Celebrated East-India Coasts of Malabar and Coromandel”.<br />
Masulipatinam is still a port and fishing harbour, but it is now called Machalipatnam. It is still famous for the Kalamkari block-prints on textile. A blogger, NP Prasad, writes that this was the place from where the Golconda diamonds were exported for centuries, along with other interesting facts about the place when he/she visited. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/:%20http://www.kostalife.com/heritage/machilipatnam-diaries-exploring-the-dutch-fort-complex/" target="_blank">Read more here</a>. There are also photographs of the place, which make it look very interesting, <a href="http://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/machilipatnam.html" target="_blank">on this link</a>. They made me want to find a way to ask my grandfather about the place he lived in in 1938, the people he knew, the work he did, and his ideas about various things and his aspirations for his life.</div>
Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-65275743897574650312017-03-11T18:29:00.000-08:002023-11-26T18:49:37.526-08:00Women's Day at Art2Day<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVv8Mz7xH7T9AqFjz7cx5u6oTb1cqjJa9dGxHz1TwTdeOldlxteBTjNjQ3co502BLjse6_Kst1bxSPHNxRggv81K6dbSBVdVjqb-ZH7f6Bl7WMRBWOpdKmBqbE8vQJRzb9ZAvJgzeS9StgVtiFB12Z9ekHadr1vTtDNggD-DQmQQeVPPXZJqxeDy4sOXs/s6083/I%20will%20be%20who%20I%20am.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4466" data-original-width="6083" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVv8Mz7xH7T9AqFjz7cx5u6oTb1cqjJa9dGxHz1TwTdeOldlxteBTjNjQ3co502BLjse6_Kst1bxSPHNxRggv81K6dbSBVdVjqb-ZH7f6Bl7WMRBWOpdKmBqbE8vQJRzb9ZAvJgzeS9StgVtiFB12Z9ekHadr1vTtDNggD-DQmQQeVPPXZJqxeDy4sOXs/w640-h470/I%20will%20be%20who%20I%20am.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I will be who I am</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVv8Mz7xH7T9AqFjz7cx5u6oTb1cqjJa9dGxHz1TwTdeOldlxteBTjNjQ3co502BLjse6_Kst1bxSPHNxRggv81K6dbSBVdVjqb-ZH7f6Bl7WMRBWOpdKmBqbE8vQJRzb9ZAvJgzeS9StgVtiFB12Z9ekHadr1vTtDNggD-DQmQQeVPPXZJqxeDy4sOXs/s6083/I%20will%20be%20who%20I%20am.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjER57cD0R-6fn7ilItWV2zBa9qiJZfWcNvIIXQLxAqLrM7rxmN-eq_j__N4Pk9Hp75TDUZluxmLegTLUQTwHOH5dTX8_QsPmokXMex0NUF70qJc9eZHTUBxJa9ow5mRtTa-iUgZbfwMGPcMh-agvA8MpQusLkrZtwoNVAkobl9CaP7fAgRYHzNOqjDbsQ/s1892/Marriageable%20age%20stone.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1815" data-original-width="1892" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjER57cD0R-6fn7ilItWV2zBa9qiJZfWcNvIIXQLxAqLrM7rxmN-eq_j__N4Pk9Hp75TDUZluxmLegTLUQTwHOH5dTX8_QsPmokXMex0NUF70qJc9eZHTUBxJa9ow5mRtTa-iUgZbfwMGPcMh-agvA8MpQusLkrZtwoNVAkobl9CaP7fAgRYHzNOqjDbsQ/w320-h307/Marriageable%20age%20stone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Marriageable Age - the stone ...<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGemLhWHcUEzLVwCBTbN9pi9W_P4yxVl0aXYp49KMsSjgjUPjMnt1gJPcsRbYYU7-1GiRjudI2gRi3rI14zzkcQGe4Povc8KLou2Lz93hyvrP70-BESw_-zq7__oRtJP63IIht07zvs2qj53yzE7Abt8ggxHWnJtC-sENEmImiM1SwlcOsqPsBd_yzcoU/s4095/Marriageable%20age%20bookmark.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4095" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGemLhWHcUEzLVwCBTbN9pi9W_P4yxVl0aXYp49KMsSjgjUPjMnt1gJPcsRbYYU7-1GiRjudI2gRi3rI14zzkcQGe4Povc8KLou2Lz93hyvrP70-BESw_-zq7__oRtJP63IIht07zvs2qj53yzE7Abt8ggxHWnJtC-sENEmImiM1SwlcOsqPsBd_yzcoU/w188-h640/Marriageable%20age%20bookmark.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">... and the bookmark with poem</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslBaqZamo3FOvCGmgoWnmxHIz_EfBbqQWH75_PLwAHDpApA98VJ3CfOO3czwO8iiU0IADau5jD11KDIlJhQ-DWZbXJevg-WYbZrMwByizRGV0QxQ7NHjb97DjjoGkwlwVnOgmFkwmpxE6GTuuozR18OGyTrtZxETwAIObsBh7S1rTvp8YEE2Zo-AH8JY/s2915/Various%20monologues.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="2915" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslBaqZamo3FOvCGmgoWnmxHIz_EfBbqQWH75_PLwAHDpApA98VJ3CfOO3czwO8iiU0IADau5jD11KDIlJhQ-DWZbXJevg-WYbZrMwByizRGV0QxQ7NHjb97DjjoGkwlwVnOgmFkwmpxE6GTuuozR18OGyTrtZxETwAIObsBh7S1rTvp8YEE2Zo-AH8JY/w640-h430/Various%20monologues.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">and Various Monologues, the column that inspired it</span></td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpm6DQVUs8ojz8WEM-SVwA9Pttcd_KWhqo0eDLc7IbQaMAwpjnSVD0rW6cl_P7NuVXxPhVCtHKacrm4G_Po9-taI_h-ER-nyvmNVFVGStKwmr3gePgS02KJWmYd1MVFXkJ5rzH1e_VmtuR02BMHOlZqOVgb4qe631WquWb95nc4Mvre1ngazwyzyxq-3k/s3208/V%20postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3208" data-original-width="1379" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpm6DQVUs8ojz8WEM-SVwA9Pttcd_KWhqo0eDLc7IbQaMAwpjnSVD0rW6cl_P7NuVXxPhVCtHKacrm4G_Po9-taI_h-ER-nyvmNVFVGStKwmr3gePgS02KJWmYd1MVFXkJ5rzH1e_VmtuR02BMHOlZqOVgb4qe631WquWb95nc4Mvre1ngazwyzyxq-3k/w275-h640/V%20postcard.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Mine Is Bigger Than Yours: the
postcard ...<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-14980684206918514562017-01-29T22:33:00.000-08:002017-03-11T17:02:02.744-08:00Art in a Pune veggie market, again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
Art Mandai 2017</h2>
Last year, Gauri Gandhi called some Pune artists together to sit in Mandai, Pune’s historic vegetable market, and exhibit our wares along with the vendors there. The event went well and it was <a href="http://thesongbirdonmyshoulder.blogspot.in/search/label/Art" target="_blank">a great experience</a>.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12SeVFYryI0ma6Wq6SbNpdXnn0qFklKDToILl-xk-9RVtIODqM6WtuADQsnog023Ru769YpryynKRRCEm2eXX3iYPqzRAOBngYBnwP2M9POg9KINyOGN4lQv7tX2nMZBRL6DVfjIWVto/s1600/Today%2527s+Catch+LITE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12SeVFYryI0ma6Wq6SbNpdXnn0qFklKDToILl-xk-9RVtIODqM6WtuADQsnog023Ru769YpryynKRRCEm2eXX3iYPqzRAOBngYBnwP2M9POg9KINyOGN4lQv7tX2nMZBRL6DVfjIWVto/s200/Today%2527s+Catch+LITE.jpg" width="200" /></a>In January 2017, the Art Mandai Group participated in the Pune Biennale at Let Art Work Gallery, with the theme Gauri suggested: <b><span style="color: blue;">Merawala Blue</span></b>. We worked on a piece each, in our particular shade of blue. I had a terrible time, and painted a series which turned out to look so unappealing that I was in despair. At the last minute I went fishing … and, repetitive but true … up came Today’s Catch. I was away, interviewing for <a href="http://www.abilityfoundation.org/" target="_blank">Ability Foundation</a>, and missed the launch of the show and a spectacular performance by the inimitable Ruve Narang who is not just a writer and painter but a dancer too. Just a few days later it was time for Art Mandai again.<br />
Art Mandai has two main purposes:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>to integrate with local spaces and local communities, and </li>
<li>to bring art into the mainstream, to people who avoid museums and galleries as restrictive or intimidating. </li>
</ul>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_-4tfSvSr5_8O-b4EzabybktRvsosMKn047K2Ys_a_9e6GBA_tmE0oEzJVoWWtZa7XcLII2ytvOFXbgcmJfzeXpmbGPmvKAk9HR_KHBe88Z1MngI5MEK4Sx0Y2Dh1c504BTnKtgY0O4/s1600/Boy+by+Prabhakar+Singh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_-4tfSvSr5_8O-b4EzabybktRvsosMKn047K2Ys_a_9e6GBA_tmE0oEzJVoWWtZa7XcLII2ytvOFXbgcmJfzeXpmbGPmvKAk9HR_KHBe88Z1MngI5MEK4Sx0Y2Dh1c504BTnKtgY0O4/s200/Boy+by+Prabhakar+Singh.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2G2pib4aaiBD10z5GZTocvGmmEMhoMcIc3LT85u6HV7U-ydbYOFvNUz3UefiTtretJBMse9s7CdQ-hvmcT9LmBaebIwP_vbxHWidmn_VqD80Z6F8bvL-g-QaVyhano9UMhCllaESw0s/s1600/Girl+by+Prabhakar+Singh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2G2pib4aaiBD10z5GZTocvGmmEMhoMcIc3LT85u6HV7U-ydbYOFvNUz3UefiTtretJBMse9s7CdQ-hvmcT9LmBaebIwP_vbxHWidmn_VqD80Z6F8bvL-g-QaVyhano9UMhCllaESw0s/s200/Girl+by+Prabhakar+Singh.jpg" width="150" /></a>Ours is a diverse group, with painters, sculptors, ceramic artists, masters of large installation, graphic wizards and more. One of my most favourites is Prabhakar Singh, who works with pieces of scrap metal and turns out evocative, lifelike figures (such as the ones seen here to the left and right).<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKg9dV-JDrBKOdxtLiODCIuoCu9m_E2WCEoBwPAWaBjHnSoML9D70AnWQqLAZyEmxWMF39TexyggX3R_gK6veZ0h0dhfyHbbG_YcySh3r4q2spdKz9IVpwLLBziPgL3BuoLGGI9QDq8HY/s1600/Where+I+commute+to.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKg9dV-JDrBKOdxtLiODCIuoCu9m_E2WCEoBwPAWaBjHnSoML9D70AnWQqLAZyEmxWMF39TexyggX3R_gK6veZ0h0dhfyHbbG_YcySh3r4q2spdKz9IVpwLLBziPgL3BuoLGGI9QDq8HY/s320/Where+I+commute+to.jpg" width="320" /></a>One principle the Art Mandai Group follows is low pricing, so this year one of my products was a series of limited-edition plastic placemats incorporating an image of previous work along with a poem written for it.<br />
I realised later that this was the first time my art and my writing had come together. Until then they had been quite separate, with the process of naming the pieces as the only point of contact. </div>
Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-27379119588013306842017-01-09T01:23:00.000-08:002017-02-11T01:24:05.322-08:00Bear with me, read my vagina monologue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Q7GI2m8jv02SbR7SI7AzANupTvW8orNu7idwl9ajRiKvMFK7SslB0kGnbjToWqSlM2G-AFlT1TsLLu9bI1LSO6KGmJVwdhtGGah_7ejB6INal3UjzUqtuOfawX3kiUiMktzesYPL2Hc/s1600/V+Section+Pune+Mirror+080117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>
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V Section</h2>
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These days, private parts are going public in a big way. Apparently, Indian medical bodies are busy preparing workshops to teach surgical techniques that make female genitals 'aesthetically pleasing'. Apparently, hordes of women are lining up, urged on by ardent sexual partners. You can get glossy botoxed throat and cheeks, a nifty nose job, an uplifting boob job, tummy tucks, thigh trims and now fall off the assembly line with a cute ‘Barbie’ vagina.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Q7GI2m8jv02SbR7SI7AzANupTvW8orNu7idwl9ajRiKvMFK7SslB0kGnbjToWqSlM2G-AFlT1TsLLu9bI1LSO6KGmJVwdhtGGah_7ejB6INal3UjzUqtuOfawX3kiUiMktzesYPL2Hc/s1600/V+Section+Pune+Mirror+080117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Q7GI2m8jv02SbR7SI7AzANupTvW8orNu7idwl9ajRiKvMFK7SslB0kGnbjToWqSlM2G-AFlT1TsLLu9bI1LSO6KGmJVwdhtGGah_7ejB6INal3UjzUqtuOfawX3kiUiMktzesYPL2Hc/s320/V+Section+Pune+Mirror+080117.jpg" width="320" /></a>There’s going to be some injections, medication, and chopping out and stitching up of bits. There’s going to be a period of healing during which excretion will make you screech like a tortured person in a bad movie, and (worse!) a period of sexual abstinence. But at the end of it you will have a specially enhanced vagina at which you can gaze in admiration until your neck gives way.<br />
All the hype put me in mind of something that happened a few months ago. Getting off the Deccan Queen at CST, I walked to Churchgate, knapsack on my back, for a meeting. It was a nasty hot Mumbai day, and I took a less-used route to escape the traffic and people shoving and kicking on the streets in their usual pleasant Mumbai way. Enjoying the trees, the sea breeze and heritage buildings that lined the road, I gloated that friends with whom I once frequented this path must now be trapped in their chauffeur-driven AC cars heading to frantic schedules; a walk like this out of their reach forever.<br />
It was satisfying but I felt strangely let down. Something was missing! Near the end of the day, long after the dear DQ had dropped me home and I’d had my dinner, I realised what it was. WHERE were all the roadside creepy crawly guys who stand and stare, whistle, make suggestive gestures and contort facial expressions to express awe and lust?<br />
After tossing and turning all night worrying about where they’d disappeared (Slapped by feminists? Locked up by the righteous Mumbai police? Reformed by reading Twinkle Khanna?) I woke to the awful truth. They could see, from a distance, that I was an office bearer of what my friend Falguni colourfully describes as The Bye-Bye Club.<br />
The Bye-Bye Club is not a group of women who are saying regretful bye-byes to their youth or despairing the slackening of vaginas gone disgustingly droopy. It is that brazen lot you see shouting loud bye-byes across streets and cinemas and coffee shops across the country. Shameless hussies, they are wearing ‘sleeveless’! As they swing their arms in farewell gesture, the flesh of their upper arms is swinging too, flapping back and forth as they call out, “Byeeee!”<br />
These are women who have long made peace with the orgasm. For them, pleasurable sex is not about size or a tight fit but having a partner who understands the value of patience in working towards a shared experience. Some have crossed that hot-flush divide; they have already started snoring in their sleep and in a few years, if all goes well, they will be farting too.<br />
What if I had walked from CST to Churchgate AFTER getting the designer vagina surgery done? Would the oglers have reappeared? Considering that I would have been mincing along with loud screams at each step, if they came it would have been to help me cross the road. So if you aren’t going to do a vagina operation for a roadside romeo, who would you do it for? I would worry. If your man wants your vagina to look like a baby’s, he’s a man you must never leave alone in a room with a little girl. Besides, a vagina is the human body part which wins the Guinness world record for having the highest capacity for expansion. (Show me a man with genitals the size of a baby’s head and I’ll show you a man with elephantiasis.)<br />
The truth is that a man who wants his woman to get her vagina altered is a man so accustomed to the warm embrace of his own fist that he’s lost contact with what a real vagina feels like.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>First appeared in <b>Pune Mirror </b>8 Jan 2017</i></span></div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-67165196979288320042016-11-23T11:00:00.000-08:002016-11-23T01:06:41.306-08:00The secular Sanghi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On this day in 1997, Vishnu Shahani died. His widow, Rita Shahani, would write:<br />
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He had not been ill. There was no warning. No intimation. There was no goodbye. When I woke up that morning, he was gone. </blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8uME_ulQHHIUh4hn9x0COL8j_hxZik1vYUUcDskxYaba9CHfrYWXYx4uHNWKAnaKEK23TRG78NSqx8cisEEoFTuYJrbyb2Bohsf6sAfq1HA1SSaFDzPo2j3yWpUhj9eTTv_0mJoj2ko/s1600/scan7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8uME_ulQHHIUh4hn9x0COL8j_hxZik1vYUUcDskxYaba9CHfrYWXYx4uHNWKAnaKEK23TRG78NSqx8cisEEoFTuYJrbyb2Bohsf6sAfq1HA1SSaFDzPo2j3yWpUhj9eTTv_0mJoj2ko/s200/scan7.jpg" width="136" /></a>Years later, I worked with Rita to bring out an English translation of the (Sindhi) book she wrote after Vishnu’s death. As we got the book ready for press, Rita died. It was a shock. Her daughter, my dear friend Madhavi Kapur, launched the book a few days later on 23 November 2013, a tribute to both her parents Rita and Vishnu.<br />
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Tragically, less than six months
ago, we lost Madhavi too. For many of us, the pain of that loss will always
remain. </div>
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Madhavi resembled her father Vishnu in many ways, specifically in her strong principles and commitment to social welfare. At the core of Vishnu’s identity was his commitment to Hinduism. Today the Rashtriya Seva Sangh (RSS) is perceived as a fundamentalist organization: inflexible, chauvinistic and with a capacity for violence. Vishnu, a dedicated Sanghi, was open, caring and devoted only to truth and the betterment of humankind. </div>
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While Madhavi’s biggest contribution is in education and she is remembered with love and gratitude by her thousands of pupils, she is also well known for her unwavering stand towards secularism in India. On one occasion, she took a Pune housing society to court because they refused to accept a Muslim neighbour. She won the case, the Muslim family moved in to the building - and very soon they were accepted by their neighbours and integrated.</div>
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Thinking about Madhavi today, I wanted to do something that would have made her happy. So I uploaded Rita's book and you can click on <a href="https://www.academia.edu/30040367/Tales_from_Yerwada_Jail" target="_blank">Tales from Yerwada Jail </a>to read it if you want. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlXMDGtYUvf6VFTJtA2ceoA6Sgf-9aIuLyBjbw9sDe-8CGjKMba6oN7uLTD5af0VBonEaZPSjARU8grdSFBjiZKo23jyCi6l7LKbinyfMpLGL-oo-cFtHa10npuBTl7RplzLtldjs3mc/s320/Cover+Yerwada.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="225" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.academia.edu/30040367/Tales_from_Yerwada_Jail" target="_blank">Tales from Yerwada Jail</a></td></tr>
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At bedtime every night, Vishnu Shahani’s two young children refuse to sleep until he tells them a story from his time in jail. Vishnu’s stories embody a spirit of adventure, and the youthful excitement of overcoming a powerful and oppressive enemy. He speaks of personal involvement in the Indian freedom struggle, without a trace of complaint against the hardship he faced.<br />
After Vishnu’s death, his widow, Rita, interviews others to get a fuller picture. She finds that the perception of each participant in the family’s history varies slightly. She pieces the versions together, allowing the differing interpretations to coexist.<br />
Time has moved on, and while Indian democracy has survived, memories of the movement for freedom against Imperial rule have receded. The names of Gandhi, Nehru and just a few others, are remembered. Through the story of the Shahani family, this book honours the struggle and sacrifice of thousands of ordinary families in the 1940s.<br />
<i>Tales from Yerwada Jail </i>also tells of the little-known contribution of the Sindhis to Independence, and their struggle to find livelihood and new homes after Partition.<br />
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-42554832985880157462016-10-23T18:30:00.000-07:002016-11-20T04:34:04.610-08:00No thank you, nothing for me <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlIPR_9V-yJJm4UeNjDWezRhCnHQ42h7f8yrrZ59O507DWHFTRzLOBGJZ8vNSZVDIf_R8BRTrJ0FNncdJJyOAWniLabDVZdafywtgE5e4gZBSHd2_FWZpEqALz9y59SdW74tsEpWGpYo/s1600/082ebbee-4ef5-4ca7-8ff7-c4f04bf662f1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlIPR_9V-yJJm4UeNjDWezRhCnHQ42h7f8yrrZ59O507DWHFTRzLOBGJZ8vNSZVDIf_R8BRTrJ0FNncdJJyOAWniLabDVZdafywtgE5e4gZBSHd2_FWZpEqALz9y59SdW74tsEpWGpYo/s320/082ebbee-4ef5-4ca7-8ff7-c4f04bf662f1.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So a few days ago, I happened to be walking down New Bond Street. Posh shops with people standing outside saying, ‘Try this! Try this!’ and handing out free cosmetics. I kept going and the chant continued, ‘Try this! Try this!’ After walking a bit I started replying, ‘No thank you. No thank you. No thank you.’ One guy said, “Try it! It’s free!!” I said ‘No thank you.’ He said, ‘Are you sure? Take it!’ I said, ‘No thank you.’ He said, ‘Ok, what do you use?’ I said, ‘Nothing.’ He replied, in alarm, ‘Nothing! WHY?’ So I was thinking, why do I use nothing? Why? Why? And I told him, ‘Because I’m a Buddhist!’
No sooner had the words left my lips than I was stricken with utmost guilt! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, what would my dear departed mother have felt to hear that! What a betrayal of her patriotic Hinduism!!
We don’t believe in the caste system. We believe everyone is equal. But we’re Hindus! Yes, we’re Hindus!
We don’t do sati. We’re fine with widow remarriage! My parents actually did ‘kanyadaan’ TWICE for me!!! And my dad’s final cremation rites were done by his daughter (me)!! But we’re Hindus.
We never go to the temple – ever, ever. Actually, we do go - but only as tourists. All our worship is done at home, in private. Often in secret. But we’re Hindus!
We don’t do pooja – ok, once a year, on Diwali! But we’re HINDUS.
We don’t call it ‘karma’, we call it Newton’s Third Law of Motion (each and every action has an equal and opposite reaction). Still, we’re Hindus.
All this was going on in my mind and the man said, ‘Ohhhh!’ and he bowed low and said, ‘have a nice day!'</span></span></div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-35193796807334256012016-09-26T04:09:00.000-07:002016-11-20T04:34:42.552-08:00Biscuits II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">and now, my daughter is visiting
from Kolkata.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Someone from her office just phoned:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Kya,
Poona gayi?</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Bataya nahin!</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Kya baat hai!</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Koi suspense hai, kya?</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Biscuit lana, ok!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-46128958209659773832016-09-24T11:00:00.000-07:002016-11-20T04:34:58.152-08:00Ode to a Bakery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">So the other day I wanted some biscuits</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Not just ordinary biscuits, mind<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">The biscuits I was craving<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Had got to be light and crisp<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Oozing with butter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Packed into square boxes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Immediately after they had cooled<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Straight from the oven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">But it was morning!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">What to do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I was craving them – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">And so were all my Bombay friends!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">So I had to buy not one box but a dozen!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I phoned City Bakery<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">(Which opens for retail sale on weekday afternoons)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Yes, you can come,” said Salamat Irani.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I rang the bell, he opened the door, I entered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">The door stayed open, just a sliver, behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">An elderly gentleman eased his way in,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Opening the door slightly more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Two fat ladies entered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Chatting away animatedly<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">About the last dentist appointment<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">While they waited their turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">A group of children came in<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Then someone’s driver<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Soon there was a big crowd waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">They had appeared mysteriously <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Gravitated to the open City Bakery door<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">(Which stays closed all morning, every day)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Like ants when you drop a few grains of sugar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Patient but eager,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">They waited for their biscuits, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">While my boxes got filled.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1W_vc-0BgdGwGIyEssVACFCxuRYoA-1800vHdl-7wmKgB7hUDm6Ds4TdzSlqe8EvuWQsJY3JCZ6gag6IAP8wz9j48eHuTM339-hvC5mRlW14AVEZUxklZssgqKk1NQBRmV5HAIrLvlA/s1600/P_20140924_151431.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1W_vc-0BgdGwGIyEssVACFCxuRYoA-1800vHdl-7wmKgB7hUDm6Ds4TdzSlqe8EvuWQsJY3JCZ6gag6IAP8wz9j48eHuTM339-hvC5mRlW14AVEZUxklZssgqKk1NQBRmV5HAIrLvlA/s320/P_20140924_151431.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-15432693437685341192016-09-11T04:11:00.000-07:002016-11-20T04:33:41.195-08:00Happy Birthday - in Slovenian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The restaurant was noisy with a group of students. Their teachers sat together at one table. All of us were enjoying the delicious Greek food. At first I thought they must be American but soon realised they weren’t speaking English – except to the waiter, another surprise. The students finished and trickled out and the teachers stayed on, finishing their wine and enjoying their dessert. I just had to know where they were from so got up and asked them and was intrigued to learn they were from Slovenia. Never met anyone from Slovenia before. I said we were going to Meteora tomorrow and they said, “Oh that’s a long drive, nearly three hours!” When I told them that for people who live in Pune, a three-hour drive is something you’re quite used to, they said if they got in a bus in three hours they would be at the other end of their country.<br />
Well, the baklava came in with a candle and they stood up and sang Happy Birthday Dear Ajay – in Slovenian! It was wonderful, but I pressed the wrong button so it didn’t get recorded. Everyone came to wish him, including the manager’s cute little children.<br />
We’ve had many special moments in Greece but this was one of the most special on this very special milestone birthday … HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AJAY!<br />
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5079136430804077370.post-51795276111072495422016-08-19T00:04:00.000-07:002016-11-20T04:07:55.403-08:00In memory of Ramananad (Bob) Savur 14 Jan 1936 to 19 Aug 2010<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10153695199542120" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixoooVPNDO0XHjxn8e_B9WHNLiAeGyqwKVT9U8m78bRHte4i7lcXJqznd-wPCRwYR-zqfUggFpSj8IChADSa5ZNHJLAhxNNiye9FeUBLqeJzTzaKOmT0okKIFAlWPVasd5LLty4mASkU/s1600/0005e.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I was young, my father told me, “You can be anything you want”. As a child, it felt like a gratifying affirmation of my capabilities. Only as an adult have I realised how lucky I was, an Indian woman of my generation, to have the kind of freedom I had – to travel alone at a young age, to read whatever I wanted, to think and behave independently, to make my own decisions, to never even imagine that boys could be valued more than girls. I inherited a lot from my father, including my features and life attitudes. One of his most precious gifts was to be told I could be anything I wanted, the subtext of which was that I never needed to do something just because other people were doing it.</td></tr>
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Saaz Aggarwalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08249583499070260175noreply@blogger.com0