Chandi Prasad Bhatt

Sometimes am a proud Indian. Chandi Prasad Bhatt is the reason. Ruchi Shrivastava and Sumit Khanna have made a documentary on Chipko Bhatt: The Man Who Dwarfed the Mountains and The Indian Express has put a short note today. Unsure watching the docu as no Mumbai theatre will screen it; no blames as there will not be a Thalaiva rush; cannot expect a youtube release as the film-makers will go broke. The 60 minute film has won the award for the Best Environment Film including Agriculture (non-feature) at the 63rd National Film Awards this year, says IE. The citation makes no sense; what has agriculture to do with the film? Chipko Bhatt makes sense when hacking trees and chipkoing cars are trending. Chandi Prasad Bhatt was reluctant; the film-makers got round and made six trips to Gopeswhar, Uttarakhand, home of the 82-year old gentleman, to do the film. Ramachandra Guha has chronicled Chipko in The Ramachandra Omnibus. 1970 floods in the Alakananda valley got the villagers to link logically erosion, floods, downing of trees and was born Dashauli Gram Swarajya Sangh (DGSS), a co-operative in Chamoli district. On October 22, 1971, the DGSS set up a protest in Gopeshwar, Chamoli distict. 'The demonstrators called for an end to liquor sale and to untouchability, and for giving priority to the local use of forests....Led by Sarvodaya workers, such as Gandhi's English disciple Sarla Devi (who had set up an Ashram in Almora districct in the 1940s) and the leading local activist Chandi Prasad Bhatt, the procession was of a size never before seen in Chamoli district,' says Guha. And then the story is best written by Guha: 'In early 1973, the DGSS had asked for an allotment of ash trees in order to make agricultural implements. The forest department refused to accomodate their request. Instead, they asked the DGSS to use chir trees, totally unsuitable for the purpose. However,  the Symonds Co., was allotted ash trees in the forest of Mandal, barely several miles from Gopeshwar. This blatant injustice inspired the DGSS to organise several meetings in Mandal and Gopeshwar to discuss possible action. Two alternatives presented themselves: 1) to lie down in front of the timber trucks; 2) to burn resin and timber depots as was done in the Quit India movement. When Sarvodaya workers found both methods unsatisfactory, Chandi Prasad Bhatt suddenly thought of embracing the trees. Thus 'Chipko' (to hug) was born. Led by their headman, Alam Singh Bist, the villagers of Mandal resolved to hug the trees even if axes split open their stomachs. Young men cemented the oath with signatures of blood.' Today, in Tirunvannamalai, a 14 km forest path, Girivalam, is set to go away. Age old trees will not be; Animals will flee; a Highway will be. For ages, pilgrims have trudged, walked and rested Girivalam in silent prayer with trees and animals as witness. Girivalam is 14 km round a hill. Will Himalayas and Ganges be in 2050?  

A Song 72

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka
in waves of clouds,
negotiate
catch of crabs and fish
from youth in vests
squatting seas;,
put them back home;
funded by Jasmine and Jehangir;
crabs and fish,
knock at doors
in Thanksgiving;
offered sofas, tea and kharis;
out of funds,
all at Sea,
became news legends.

A Song 71

At Marine Drive
in Arabian Sea,
Kabir and Tuka,
Jasmine and Jehangir,
July mornings in rains,
share tea,
khari biscuits,
with sadaphules
on window ledges,
door edges;
a must
for
cars,
chauffeurs,
corporates,
commoners,
in byes and cheers,
toing and froing,
the Drive;
kitted with
verbs and nouns,
cure
asthmatic breakdowns. 

Who moved my interest rate?

Sometime in 1972, Duvvuri Subbarao debates Man is condemned to be free of Jean Paul Sartre. And the gentleman in Who moved my interest rate? writes, 'The governor is condemned to be free! Ravi Krishnan and Govy take kindly to Duvvuri Subbarao; 'decent, fine man', they remark. In July 2016, the RBI is condemned to be unfree as three Finance Ministers - Pranab Mukherjee, Pallaniappan Chidambaram and Arun Jaitley - and an obliging RBI governor Dr. Raghuram Rajan do away with RBI as a stand alone thinker on public finance. With Duvvuri Subbarao listed to be RBI governor, he walks into a chat with P. Chidambaram and Monetary Policy Committee. 'My substantive stance was that an MPC was the direction in which we must go but that the governor must have a veto, at least during the transition period until the institutional structure stabilized. Chidamabaram did not agree. His point was that the governor should see himself as the chairman of a corporate board and try to persuade the MPC members to his point of view. And if he failed to do that, he should defer to the majority view. I agreed with him but countered that the parallel with a corporate board would work only if the members of the MPC did not owe any allegiance to the government for their appointment. They might, given the institutional structures of our system, feel pressured to push the government's point of view in the MPC,' scripts Subbarao. Today, the proposed MPC will have six members, all government nominees; after all RBI is a government body, its Rs.5 crore equity entirely owned by New Delhi; the governor and deputy governors are selected by New Delhi; governors are mostly finance secretaries (including Duvvuri Subbarao); has been IAS territory for long. Never has a practicing banker been an RBI governor. What is freedom of RBI as an institution? Somewhere in his well written memoir, Subbarao talks of Relativity theory and Quantum Mechanics being inconsistent with each other. Quantum Mechanics of Hisenberg is about uncertainty while Relativity is of certainty; something like growth being a given and inflation not given. New Delhi is for growth, price be blown; RBI believes in growth at a steady price. There sure will be differences; two finance ministers appreciating many sides of the table having a say were Dr. Manmohan Singh and Yashwant Sinha; the table should resonate to one voice, believe Pranab Mukherjee, P. Chidambaram and Arun Jaitley. 'One of Dr. Manmohan Singh's strong qualities is that he is a good listener and I always found him eager to get the Reserve Bank's perspective on every macroeconomic issue. The fiscal situation would, of course, figure in our conversation and my tale of woe about how the fiscal stance of the government was undermining the Reserve Bank's anti-inflation position was standard fare. To his enormous credit, he never interfered in the policy action. 'I hope you've settled this with the finance minister' was all that he'd say. I never felt comfortable about this bit of the conversation but I would nevertheless tell him of the finance minister's reservations, and the matter would rest there.' We will not see any such exchange as the RBI becomes a desk in North Bloc. Sadly, facilitated by Dr. Raghuram Govind Rajan. Where me has a quarrel with Subbarao is the absence of stray notings on rural credit, its regular flow to farmers dead and alive, ... in fact RBI governors have always been shut on a regular flow of credit to farmers while doing the same to avert seizures in the corporate and broking economy. Rural credit was and is a blindspot for RBI. It is ever the concern of New Delhi. Corporates walk in and out of RBI; are on RBI boards; has an ordinary farmer been a presence at RBI Towers? Has a farmer walked into the air conditioned offices of Nabard at Bandra? Subbarao mentions financial inclusion, thats about all. RBI governors, after retirement, are famous for hanging around in various committees and commissions. Thanks be. Subbarao is a private citizen. Need not have shut out private self from the memoir. Subbarao will gather many eyes and not sit in book shelves as government gears to move interest rates. 

Let me walk in beauty

Mathrubhoomi is quaint. A full page for the dead, tombing the dead quite regularly; a full page obit; deaths are arranged district-wise; today entire page 9, Charamam; Rama and me scan it regularly for deaths in Allapuzha and Kollam where village Kottarakara is. Do not think any other newspaper marks a page for death; am not sure; English newspapers have no space for the common dead. No near and dear ones in Kottarakara and Allapuzha. Was born there in a tiled house opposite Lord Ganesh temple; seemingly it started as a Shiva temple and then passed on power to son; all in the family more as the Gandhi family and Congress. Today, Mathrubhoomi has a death of 89 year old Sumathi Kuttti Amma, with pix, in Kottarakara: me family has no deaths in Kottarakara; me elders died in Kolkata and Mumbai. Years away from Kottarakara; never, never was a village citizen; yet, a mention of the village and there is a blood rush; a desire to be there for a day; Rama wants to go to Allapuzha for a few days; for son Ganesh, Mumbai and Yogi Nagar is all; do not know whether Vidya in Chennai misses Mumbai; for Dakhi it is Amchi Mumbai. Have not been able to explain this desire for logging the dead. In Calcutta times, The Statesman had a Personal column on the edit page writing down deaths; read it regularly. Do not know if Mathrubhoomi charges; Rama thinks it is for free. Death is life missing and me loves Life; for me it is not Maya of the Vedantist or the Buddhist; no holy books, gurus, meditations; have desires; lots of it; am not shamed of them; at 70 it does not cost any to desire writing a Sahitya Academy poem or directing an art film with Kottarakara as locale for a Filmfare critics award; or best of all to be an ordinary journalist chatting up ordinary women, men and children on the streets; in next janma, if there is one, me would like to be a journalist in a Childrens newspaper with a child as Editor. Yes, that would be enormous fun. Fun is distinctly absent in Who Moved My Interest Rates by Duvvuri Subbarao; wonder whether RBI governors and bankers laugh; or corporates. The book is deadly serious and bankers could like it. Long ago friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup bought me a less than palm-size book: The Beautiful Years: The Joys of Being Older; A Helen Exley Giftbook; long afternoons me quips its tiny pages; a Native American saying goes: Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Mumbai has sunrises and sunsets. Enough. 

Mee Marathi

July rains ding-donging outside the windows; from far hills they ring their coming and it is a pleasant watch of wetness. After lazing over hot filter coffee, Rama said no cooking today; am bored of my own cooking, she added.  It rarely happens as she prefers her own sambhar and beans curry. No new Malayalam films on Malayalam channels ever into ever repeats of old films; repeat ads; will Kiran and Asianet ever show fresh releases or is it that they are fated to be unfair; never, never any response. Borivili (W) is weak on hotels and malls; public races to Malad and Goregaon; they cannot go by the common definition of eateries; Rama plunked for Mee Marathi, a food basket strongly referred by her friend Mala; apparently, Mala makes it to Mee Marathi every day. So started out for Mee Marathi as neighbours wondered over stepping into yelling rains; climbed into an auto and went to Mee Marathi on Chandavarkar Road, half-wet; autos are more porous than umbrellas. Mee Marathi is a few empty wooden benches and today at 12 we had no company. We pitched for kantepohe; were told no kantephohe after 11; mood slipped; potato wada, sabudana wada, thalipeeth and they tasted fine; of course, they do not belong to the Dakhi or Neeta Iyer class; Dakhi potato wadas are AAAA; yet they were hotel class; the bill came to a Rs.225 plus tips when other hotels in Borivili serve empty plates for Rs.200 plus tips; Aura on Link Road sort of knives your purse and palate; perhaps the place where dishes taste alike; stepping out we thanked the man at the computer; no response; queried timings; was told in a rather uninterested way, 8 a.m onwards; understood Wednesday as closed; maybe the man at the counter was in a bad mood as it happens to all of us; he does not realise a smiley is good for foodies. On shelves, stood chewda packed in  plastic; no way to know whether it is fresh or many months old. Took a try; a packet cost Rs.65; again thought of Dakhi. Reached home, downed digestives; no insult meant to Mee Marathi; just an old age precaution. Called up Shreya and passed on our outings; said the lady: 'Aai could have given you a better lunch, kya Aai,'; followed Dakhi with a why did you waste cash. Yet, Rama and me liked Mee Marathi and have decided to go for a full thali costing Rs.125 on Thursday. At 4 evening hope to dine on chewda and coffee with rains soft beating.    

Where is the Friend's Home?

Aware of Iranian film director Abbas Kiarostami after his death; at an obit. Got to know more after reading Anurag Behar in Mint (this paper has some fine columnists) mentioning 35 school teachers in a government school at Pithorgarh in Kumaon mountains viewing Where is the Friend's Home? made in 1987. A talk followed the seeing. Son Ganesh got me the film and me saw the 80 minutes film twice on Sunday alone with Rama on an outing with friend Mala. A verdant imagination, a veracity in a school boy Ahmed running over a rather bare up and down land with a lone tree at a far end in search of his school friend Mohamed Reda Nematzadeh; crusty olds in thick glasses, smoking on porches, frowning discipline as the school teacher threatens dismissal for home work not done; they whimper and hedge Ahmad as the charmy little fellow insists on giving a school book to his friend; the camera brings up close the innocent eyes reminding me of Satyajit Ray, Durga and Apu in Pather Panchali; Durga and Apu search a train as elders cynic; of Swami in Swami and Friends questing a little fun. Do not know what the school teachers debated but am sure homework could have been on the list. Should school children be given home-work; honestly do we need schools as they are today; are not schools an exemplar of oldies playing chor-police; gated kids; kids having no say; have we at home ever tapped them for their views? what they want? know them; we order, they obey; an unfair dadagiri; of course, without home-work Abbas Kiarostami could not have made the film; the camera intros with a school teacher shutting the class room window; ends with the school teacher opening the same window; and the flower stuck in the school book; the poorness all over. School boy Ahmed is like you and me when we were kids, wanting an abandon and today turning old denying it. Abbas followed with Life and Nothing More plus Through the Olive Trees - based at Koker. Wish someone could help me with them.