bitten by the spelling bee

 Bitten by the Spelling Bee!!

By

Vivek Hande

I cannot say my spellings are always perfect but I do try. Nothing irritates me more than seeing a word spelled (not spelt) incorrectly on the Television screen or hoardings or advertisements or banners or in power-point presentations of my residents. I get an irrestible urge to take a brush or a pen or a mouse and do the necessary corrections every time a ghastly mistake pops up-it is a reflex thing.

In a research brought out by BBC in 2011, it was highlighted that nearly 70% of people lost faith in the quality of a website and doubted the honesty of its content if it was riddled with spelling mistakes. They took their business or queries to another website. Some years ago, Chile lost huge amounts in revenue when their 50 peso currency came out with the spelling “Chiie” instead of Chile. The whole process of minting had to be repeated and lots of people in quality control lost their jobs – all because of a spelling error!

Oxford Dictionary lists the 250 commonly made spelling mistakes the world over. Respect the words in the italics and remember that very often we have spelled them incorrectly as well. I don’t wish to exaggerate but the most conscientious speller could also land up embarrassing oneself with the silliest spelling mistakes. Someone once remarked that a synonym is a word you use when you cannot spell the other one.

 At times, spelling mistakes could result in humourous situations and at other times could unknowingly be mischievous!  For instance a man sent a SMS message to his neighbour apologizing for using his wife through the day without obtaining his permission. While the neighbour was still recovering from the shock, he got another message apologizing for the wrong spelling –he meant WIFI and not WIFE!  Another man who wrote to his wife about a grand holiday he was having. “I am having a wonderful time. Wish you were her.” He meant “here”. Just in jest but it almost sent the neighbour and the holidaying husband to the cemetery!!

I have the list of these common bloopers in my possession and I don’t want to lose it and I am not writing loosely when I say that almost each one of us would have to be careful when one attempted to successfully spell some of these very common words. 

The government should probably definitely set up a committee to correct the disastrous spellings floating on various signboards and hoardings – if you have to use a language, let us do it well and let there be a noticeable absence of these eye-sores! 

Whether you agree with me or not is another matter but the problem of these errors happens through all seasons and all kinds of weather. Thoughts of personally correcting these mistakes have occurred to me on more than one occasion. This is honestly not a very bizarre idea or a personal idiosyncrasy. I feel we should be aggressive about correcting these errors and we could be successful if we liaised with the correct authorities in pursuing this matter.

English is a beautiful language and if we were to use it, we ought to with care and diligence and with an effort to at least spell correctly. As Marilyn vos Savant remarked, “When our spelling is perfect, it is invisible. But when it is flawed, it prompts strong negative associations.” But then Mark Twain had another perspective, “Anyone who can only think of one way to spell a word obviously lacks imagination!”

Hair -Raising stuff!!

Hair –Raising stuff!!

By

Vivek Hande

I needed a haircut rather urgently. My usual neighbourhood Barber (origin Latin, Barba, beard) being closed, I ventured into a rather fancy setup. I was welcomed by someone of indeterminate gender who asked me to state my requirement. I said I needed a chop – he looked down at me as if I was from some other planet.

 He asked me to fill a questionnaire which was two pages long. I said I was not seeking employment at their establishment- the person told me either I fill out or file out!

I plodded through the form which required me to state my personal details; allergies; ailments, afflictions and an extra page for additional remarks. For good measure, I let them know my favorite ice-cream flavor; the color of my son’s eyes and my shoe size and the movie I saw last night on the page for “additional remarks”.

I asked the person could I see the barber now – he glared at me with a look of disdain. He said that the concerned “Trichology Consultant” would see me in a while! Where I had landed, I asked myself.

I was ushered through a passage which looked like straight out of a Star Wars movie with strobes and fluorescent lights and some kind of UV lights and some trance music playing in the background. I decided to be a man and get through with it.

The “Tricholgy Consultant”, Andy, had a rich, luxuriant seemingly unruly mop of hair himself. It had a careful carelessness kind of feel about it. I told him I would like a chop- he asked me to tick my choice or combination of choices on another form – the list of choices included : “Butch; Quarter Butch:; Buzz; Business; Brush; Comb – over; Crew; Half Crew; Crown – Half or Full; Faux-Hawk; Mullet; Mop-Top; Mohawk; Surfer; Spike ;Taper cut; Quiff “. I implored him to give me a regular, normal, standard hair cut and let me escape.

He told me,”At your age, you still have hair. Be grateful and appreciate the fact. This is not a saloon- this is the Hair Temple! Don’t treat this exercise like a routine matter-this is a sublime experience.” I surrendered and devoutly asked him to proceed with the ritual. I asked for what I thought was a safe bet-“Business”. For the next forty minutes he used all kinds of instruments and clips and combs and appliances and creams and at the end of it, asked me to admire myself in the life size mirrors. I was aghast –I looked much the same and had seen no change from my appearance forty minutes earlier. I tried to protest but he told me in no uncertain terms that this was the best Business cut money could buy!

I returned through the Star Wars passage and the receptionist of uncertain gender presented me with my bill which made my hair rise phenomenally. The bill settled, I was presented with my own privilege card and flashed a smile and told “Do come again. We are always hair for you!!”

I staggered out, got into my car and was trying to regain my composure after this “hairy” experience. I saw a vaguely familiar face getting out of the saloon – Andy , my Trichology Consultant of Hair Temple fame , out of his work clothes and lo and behold , without his wig of luxuriant unruly hair!! Bald like the moon – he gave me a cheery wave and walked away briskly. I sat in the car, trying to tear my hair out!! Hair today , gone tomorrow…

All eggs in one Bangchung( basket)!!!

             All eggs in one Bangchung( basket)!!

                             By

                       Vivek Hande

I have fond memories of Bhutan, where I was stationed in the early nineties. Bhutan is a landlocked country in the eastern fringe of the Himalayas.  It is a spectacularly beautiful country with hills, valleys, small rivulets and mountain streams and some glorious snow capped mountains. More beautiful than the natural bounty are perhaps the people who make this lovely country.

The people are simple and honest and intricately linked to the nature. It was only in 1999 that internet and mobile telephony started making inroads into the land. The people are rugged and fond of sports – basketball and archery being the main passion. They are fond of Hindi movies. This is the only country which has adopted the “global happiness index” as a measure of its economic development and very rightly it is rated as the happiest Asian and the eight happiest country in the world!!

I was part of a team which provided medical care to the locals as part of a goodwill process. There would be serpentine queues of the residents lined up with varying ailments. They were extremely grateful for the medicare provided in that far flung and remote corner of Bhutan. They would smile appreciatively and beam with happiness on being dispensed with the medicines after a medical consultation. It was a social visit and a convenient meeting point and often they would be in animated discussion about something or the other soaking in the sun on the hospital lawns. Many of them became friends and would encourage my fledgling efforts at trying to converse with them in Dzonkha, the local language. They would come on mule-back or walk miles to reach the facility.

At the end of my first day, my medical assistant asked me to come to the dispensary. I was amazed, surprised and touched to see scores of small beautifully woven small bamboo baskets with intricate geometric designs. Each one capable of being closed with a lid- the local Bhutanese Tupperware-the hand woven Bangchung. Each one containing one to  two fresh eggs. They wanted to show their gratitude and this was their gift to me. The Bangchung is used by them to store dry meat, Yak cheese and also serves as a plate for eating rice and used on the move.

I collected several of the Bangchung . Refusing them was not an option-the local interpreter made that very clear.  I gifted them to many friends and relatives-they make very attractive decorative pieces. I was not much of an egg -eater and the eggs found their way to the homes of my colleagues in the station. Many of them did not buy eggs as long as I was around – such was the generosity of the Bhutanese. It was a different thing that whenever I visited my colleagues, their wives would serve me egg dishes of all shapes and sizes-it was assumed I am very fond of eggs and hence I was collecting them, quite literally, by the baskets!!

those were the best days...

Those were the best days of my life…

By

Vivek Hande

Of late, I seem to be often going down memory lane and meandering along the nostalgia road.  Something recently triggered it and I started thinking about the several schools I had the opportunity to attend. Being an Army child, I moved from place to place, wherever my father was posted. Small stations (some which we needed to mark on the atlas after receiving posting orders-those days there were no Google maps!);  overgrown villages and occasionally a metropolis as well. Consequently, one went to whichever school was available at the cantonment or somewhere close to it. I had the “pleasure” of attending nine schools in twelve schooling years.

 There was at most times, no choice really and the selection of the school was dictated by the fact that the school existed at that particular location. I have had my share of Public Schools , Convent schools and for the largest part of my academic career Government aided Central Schools- the entire spectrum and what a roller –coaster ride it was. Schooling, in retrospect was a great experience and helped me cope in later life with all kinds of situations.

While in an obscure station in Punjab, the closest decent school was some 20 kilometers away. There were just four school -going kids and a school bus was not available. Consequently the four of us would catch a Punjab Roadways bus on the highway. The bus used to be packed like a tin of sardines and we would be told to haul ourselves on top of the bus. We had, for company, milk sellers and vegetable sellers with fresh produce heading from the villages to the slightly bigger town where we were headed as well.  They became friends and very often in the bitter winter, they would throw a blanket across us. We would reach school nearly half frozen and with blue noses but what an exhilarating ride it was. The rest of the day at school was a damp squib compared to the excitement of the journey to and fro.

I must tell you about a school I studied in another corner of Punjab during a subsequent tenure. A school bus existed; there were quite a few of us who went together singing songs en route the fifteen odd kilometers to school. The school principal was a farmer at heart and each of the classes had a patch of ground allocated. I was in the fifth grade and we had a carrot patch allotted to us. Different classes grew cabbage, potatoes, and tomatoes and so on. Immediately after assembly, we would head to our patches and work as farmers. We became proficient cultivators-our notebooks would often be smudged with mud; our curriculum progressed slowly but what an education it was. It is a different matter, the Principal was subsequently sacked and farming was stopped but the bond formed between fellow –farmers of the fifth grade still hold strong today!!

Yet another of my schools in the North –East was usually conducted in the open air because the construction was kind of make- shift and the roof would just blow off with the heavy winds in the valley where it was located. But I honestly think we learnt just as much as anywhere else but we enjoyed the fresh air and the sunshine far more than any stuffy air conditioned class!

I studied briefly in an elite convent and some well known Public schools as well. The number of schools I saw, the myriad personalities I encountered, the vastly different kinds of teachers I studied under , the huge numbers of friends I made in all these schools , the treasure trove of memories I have and the experiences that I enjoyed and sometimes did not make me the person I am today. I would not recommend it as an ideal way of education but I must definitely say I enjoyed every bit of the roller –coaster ride!!

Learn one , Teach one ...

Learn one, Teach one …

By

Vivek Hande

">The time honored dictum, in medical practice and especially in the case of surgical skills is to “learn one, teach one”.  It essentially implies that the best way to learn a new technique or skill or hone your own abilities in a particular expertise is to teach another one the same and how true it is for any other branch of teaching or even life, for that matter…

05 September is traditionally commemorated as “Teacher’s Day” in India. As an Army brat, I had the opportunity to move wherever my father got posted and consequently I saw nine schools in twelve years of my schooling. Later, getting through Medical School and getting a little more “educated’, I met and was influenced by several who taught me.

Teachers are a different breed altogether and as Joyce Meyer remarked, “Teachers can change lives with just the right mix of chalk and challenges”. I remember with such clarity the oddities and idiosyncrasies of teachers; what they wore, how they talked and how they conducted themselves but more importantly what they represented and what they meant to me in my very impressionable years.

Some of them were friends; some were a shoulder to lean upon when things did not seem to be going well; some others were a sounding board with whom I could discuss things which I was reluctant to talk about at home. Some were examples of what I ought not to become or how I ought not to behave in life When I was confused about career choices and which way I was headed, a Biology teacher (who was also the prettiest teacher who ever taught me) showed me my strengths and made me think about Medicine as an option. In large measure I joined Medical School thanks to the confidence she inspired in me! Much later, a Professor in Medical school exposed me to the pleasures of using a good fountain pen and high quality ink- he did not really teach me how to go about it. But I would see his daily ritual of meticulously filling up his pens with ink and follow it up with exquisite penmanship. My handwriting is not as good as his but my love for pens and ink and writing has not diminished over the last nearly three decades. I agree so strongly with Henry Adams when he remarked, “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell when his influence stops”.

For many years now, I have been a teacher as well and I have had many medicine residents pass through my hands. I realize how my own teaching styles and methods are so strongly influenced by my own professors and teachers. I realize how fortunate I was to learn from them; I realize what a privilege it is to learn under the wings of great teachers. I cannot probably thank them enough. It would be special if even one student of mine remembered me twenty years down the line warmly and if I may be optimistic, appreciatively!

The art of teaching is truly the art of assisting discovery. It is perhaps the greatest of arts since the medium is not water colors or oil or charcoal but the human mind and spirit!! It could not have been put better than this and to quote Christa McAulife,”I touch the future. I teach”.

a collector's item

                                         A Collector’s item..

                                  By

                          Vivek Hande

There are collectors of all kinds. I am not talking about ordinary folks who collect stamps or coins or matchboxes or bottle caps or ashtrays or some such mundane objects. I am talking about some of us obsessive collectors who collect for the sake of collecting. It need not be anything expensive or rare or beautiful or exotic or unique. These are the ultimate collectors. They are a proud and passionate lot. They just collect..

Some of the prized collections amongst such collectors could include objects which could genuinely surprise you. My wife has in her proud possession grocery receipts of nearly twenty years vintage; broken hair –bands(also wisps of hair from scalps of our children at different stages of their life!) and clips which nobody can use but tucked away nevertheless. She has broken bottle openers of all shapes and sizes; blank envelopes bearing letters, correspondence, invitations –only the envelopes remain- the contents long since gone. 

My mother is another experienced collector- she has about forty damaged, mangled, distorted frames of spectacles used in the past. They have been kept because they may come in handy!  She also has an awesome collection of jars which have lost their caps and a huge number of caps which have lost their jars; they continue to swell in numbers..

I have a friend who is into collecting every nut, bolt, nail which has come off the hinges or got unscrewed or come off the wall. He has an amazing collection of rusted metal-I don’t think even one has been ever used again but he is hoping to recycle and use one of them somewhere, some day. His neighbor has a very good collection of mismatched socks assiduously collected over the years. She does not throw away torn, frayed or solitary pieces-they all go into a beautiful basket where they join tattered vests, undergarments with holes and handkerchiefs beyond human use. Incidentally , she is also into footwear- she has a staggering collection of lonely shoes(all by themselves); forlorn shoes(paired ,but beyond recognition)worn out(some are of nearly twenty year plus vintage)- to her credit, she does often think of throwing some of them away but somehow gets overcome by emotion and can’t let go off them .

Then there are these paper collectors- every scrap seems important. Bills and receipts three decades old-telephone bills, electricity bills, school fees receipts in respect of kids who have since got children of their own-; ticket stubs; airlines boarding cards; dry cleaner’s receipts; tailor’s bill- you really never know when you might need them; one may need to produce receipts for exchanging stuff; one may need receipts to claim refunds – every piece of paper is of national importance.

These collectors are really made of stern stuff. You can take away the collection; burn it, bin it, ban it but you can’t take the collector out of these folks. Why does one amass/hoard /pile stuff which is likely to be redundant, worthless and inefficient? What drives these collectors? These are questions which have no sensible answer, no scientific explanation. Till then, the collectors will collect!!!

Dune Bashing

Dune Bashing ..

By

Vivek Hande

Dubai is indeed a unique place. A lively bustling center of commerce with malls, Super malls and Hyper malls selling everything from a pin to a tank. It is a consumer’s paradise. It is a city of high commercial stakes and yet it nurtures a truly traditional core. That is one thing which has not changed about Dubai over the years. The skyline reinvents itself; more glitzy automobiles cruise the road than perhaps any other city of the world and yet it has an old world conservative charm. A city of contradictions – an amazing amalgam   of futuristic   architecture, steel and concrete giants jostling  with centuries old beautiful mosques. A fast –paced city with modern gadgets , gizmos and infrastructure and yet a street corner when you can put your feet up and enjoy the “Hookah” , some sizzling kebabs and sweet tea!

Some years ago, on a trip, we were advised, a trip to Dubai was incomplete without experiencing the thrilling “Dune Bashing”. We decided to bash dunes and enlisted ourselves with one of the leading tour operators. Haroon, our driver turned up in a sleek Toyota Land Cruiser and we were set.  He turned out to be an amiable, friendly, chatty and ultra-

confident gent from Pakistan. We picked up another American couple and a young Dutch en route and we were off on the highway. Haroon pointed out the sights and sounds of Dubai as he steadfastly chewed his chewing –gum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 It was a lovely afternoon, the company was good, the driver , a seasoned professional –it was going to be a pleasant drive into the deserts , I remarked to my wife; nothing to go overboard about . We made excellent time driving out about sixty kilometers on the Hatta road. We made a detour and moved onto the fringes of the desert sands. We formed up a convoy of ten such Cruisers with six in each vehicle. Haroon proceeded to deflate the tires to get a better grip on the sands and to negotiate the dunes better, he informed us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, suddenly, we were off into the majestic desert. The sand looked amazingly pink because of the mineral content. Miles of sand all around us and one could see in the distance, some majestic dunes, almost as high as a multi-storey building. The Toyotas drove in sequence, maintaining constant distance. At times, the climb up the dunes was too steep and the vehicle fell back compelling the following vehicle to stop abruptly. It then took off on what seemed like a very thin edge of sand to the summit before plummeting to the bottom.  Very often, the visibility was nil with sand blown onto the windshields by the strong winds. At times, the tires seemed to cling onto a thin rim of sand a very precarious angle, defying all rational laws of gravity- it was a surprise we were upright. Dune after dune was conquered and we saw the vehicle immediately in front of us turn turtle and then become upright again and continue as if nothing had happened. It was like a giant roller-coaster –only one thing –neither we nor Haroon knew what exactly was coming next –the sands change contours every day! We had our hearts in our mouths and my wife was too petrified to be motion –sick as were mid air for nearly forty seconds before landing on ground. A truly   magnificent effort from man and machine coming together as one.

 

 

We reached the top of the highest dune and paused for a while to catch our breath and get the adrenaline levels to some semblance of normalcy. We stared in awe, watching the amazing spectacle of the sun setting in the majestic desert. I remarked to Haroon , “ Terrific driving .You must be so used to all this . Driving across   the dunes day in and day out”.  I spluttered on my Coke when he nonchalantly replied with a bit of a sheepish grin, “Actually, this is my first independent drive.”

We had bashed dunes successfully and been Haroon – Bashed as well!!

 

 

Physician Heal Thyself..

Physician, Heal Thyself…

By

Vivek  Hande

A Doctor-Patient relationship is quite unique and unlike any other relationship. A Doctor can be a friend, philosopher or a guide. A Doctor could be a figure of authority or a Doctor could be a shoulder to lean. A Doctor could, at times be a set of eyes and ears for a patient and often, on matters non – medical! He could function as a sounding board or a neutral opinion giver..

It is a relationship based on trust and complete faith and to violate this, in my mind ought to be regarded as a heinous crime. The patient entrusts oneself, so utterly and completely into the hands of the physician and willingly lays his greatest asset-his health, into the hands of the healer.

When a patient or an individual seeks medical attention from a physician, it is on the basis of an implied consent. It is a delicate relationship and it is a wonderfully two way path and one learns from ones’ patients as much as they gain from you. One learns how to conduct oneself and at times how not to. One learns patience and fortitude and seeing your patients and their families cope, one is strengthened.

I have had the pleasure and the privilege of many of my patients becoming my friends and well – wishers and advisers on various issues. Especially, patients who are under your care  and follow up for a long time. I have elderly patients advising me to dye my hair; lose weight and get on to Yoga. I have patients telling me to change my taste in music and ask me to  change the music playing in my OPD constantly – they ask me to switch on to something livelier than the Bach or Beethoven or Ghazals playing in the background! I have patients telling me to improve my handwriting and to stop using fountain pens and some who insist that I ought to use only fountain pens in the era of Ball point pens. I have had patients who have an opinion on the movies and plays I ought to watch. I have even had the privilege of being asked by a couple about my opinion on a prospective bride for their son – my neutral and wise counsel was sought! I was inducted into Golf thanks to the insistence of a Golf Crazy patient of mine.

There are patients who can be very irritating and demanding and unreasonable at times. One requires all the patience and tact to remain calm and composed. There are patients who will ask the same question again and again and again in the midst of a very heavy OPD. They will paraphrase the question in a million different ways and it does become a little difficult to remain patient; perhaps that is why the patient is called a patient- he teaches you to become “patient”. One understands that they are worried and concerned but still ..

The Internet has armed the patient in many ways and it can be a dangerous tool with so much of unfiltered information floating.  The internet can make the Doctor-Patient relationship interesting, irritating/infuriating or truly interactive !

Over the years, I realize that no two patients are alike in their attitude- with respect to information, disease, medication, advice or treatment. Interacting with patients and their attendants can be gratifying, rewarding, frustrating and challenging. It can make one go through the entire gamut of emotions. However, as long as one remembers, “Primum Non Nocere”- first, do no harm: you will  probably do just fine !!

Farewell , dear friend..

Farewell, Dear Friend..

By

Vivek Hande

The other day I bid adieu to a very dear friend.  I remember the friend with a lump in my throat and I cannot help, but get a trifle sentimental and emotional when I recollect our association. It was a long association. An association at a time when one was vulnerable and under tremendous pressure and hence the association was all the more precious. It was not easy to let an old friend go. I still remember him with great fondness and affection ..

I let go off him the other day after a very close association of more than a decade plus. I should probably have let him go many years ago, but somehow I just could not get myself to do so. There have been other friends who have come into my life after him and have been welcomed equally warmly and affectionately into the family. Some more elegant and stylish and some perhaps more graceful and powerful  But he was truly special.

I am talking of my very first car. Of considerable vintage, he carried himself with pride and had a jaunty air about him till the very end. We became friends when I was doing my residency in Medicine and he helped me through that daunting phase. The leather interiors were a welcome haven from the onslaught of the rigours of   clinical medicine and the awfully heavy OPDs and the unending ward work and the seniors breathing down your neck and back. When I got in, I was king and nothing and none else mattered.  We were both extremely fond of Brahms and Chopin and he would ensure the best fidelity and quality sound from the rather old music system. He kind of sensed time was premium for me. He was very particular about his health and ensured that I would not waste time taking him to any mechanic or garage- he continued to chug along faithfully.

Towards the end of the month, when I was invariably a trifle hard up, he would gallantly whip himself and stretch the last bit of petrol to unimaginable miles on the road. He was my friend, philosopher and guide and would listen silently as I raged or raved about something or the other. He carried my wife and kids over the years for hospital visits, school concerts, competitions and various events. He never let me down when the family needed him. The leather upholstery had seen blood, sweat, tears and vomitus but he ensured it never lost its sheen. He also helped transport hysterical neighbors, bawling kids and drunken colleagues as and when needed; at weird hours of the day and night- never a whine of protest…the tyres and springs manfully withstood the additional burden without a demur...

Game for Everything-Sporting old chap

When he started becoming a little wheezy and started looking a little run down – a fresh coat of paint and some snazzy new accessories and he was back in business and like how! He got a new lease of life and he was ready to string it out for a few more years. I thought of acquiring a new car, a few years down the line. He sensed my thoughts of wanting to let him go and let him rest but he would not have any of it. He would perform more enthusiastically and stretch every ageing sinew and muscle and I felt bad and guilty even thinking of it.

But you can’t defeat age. The visits to the garage and examinations by the mechanic started becoming more frequent. He was kind of struggling to cope. He was feeling guilty letting me down again and again and I finally allowed myself to be convinced by him to let him go. An elderly neighbour decided to take him into his family for his morning drive to the walking plaza and back- he said he had no where else to drive and he needed a set of wheels only to transport him in the morning. I thought he would be well cared for, with him.

I dropped him off at his place and I said my final goodbyes. I wanted to make it the least painful for him. I stroked him one last time and turned around. I really thought I saw a tear roll down from him or was it the radiator leaking??

don't be an ass

Don’t be an Ass!!

By

Vivek Hande  

I have often been told, in connection with many things,”Don’t be an Ass”. I have shared the same compliment with my boys and colleagues and friends as well. But after, a recent encounter with the Indian Wild Ass in the Little Rann of Kutch(LRK), I realized that it is well nigh impossible to be an Ass and I have decided that I am going to use the expression only when I want to genuinely compliment someone. Hence forth, it is going to be ,” Wow, you are like an Ass” or “ This is terrific. Only an Ass can do this!”

The Indian Wild Ass is colloquially called the Khur. The Wild Indian Ass is almost exclusively confined to the LRK and  some pockets of the Greater Rann of Kutch. While there are large number of asses of different shape , size, color and nationality(mainly on two feet!), the  Indian Wild Ass are numbered at just about over four thousand!

   

         They are an extremely hardy lot and survive the tremendous variations in temperature in the LRK. They are capable of achieving running speeds of 70-80 kilometers per hour. They feed on the dry grassy vegetation in the LRK, called the "Murad"- the grass is rich in moisture content and can survive the desert conditions of the LRK. They usually live in large family herds but the Male Stallions are a bit of Lone rangers and live solitarily or in small groups of one or two.

 

The Indian Wild Ass cuts an impressive figure in the vast arid stretches of the LRK. They are usually brownish or sandy in color and have a distinctive stripe running down its back and when they gallop across the Kutch raising plumes of dust in its wake; you are transported to childhood memories of Zane Grey and JT Edson and the Wild West!!

This is a salute to the magnificent Indian Wild Ass ; small in numbers but big in heart and impressive in its dogged determination to survive the unfriendly conditions in the LRK. The next time on, I am not going to tell my boys “Don’t be an Ass. It will have to be,” Try and become an Ass!”

the blogger's block..

The Blogger’s Block ..

 By

 Vivek Hande

We are denizens of the Blogosphere . All those of you who write or read blogs are citizens of this widely networked world.  “Blog” – used as a noun or a verb has become an integral part of our lexicon today. I recently discovered that the word “Blog” is an abridged version of “Weblog”. Peter Merholz , in 1999 , split the word in jest to “we blog” and we have been blogging ever since in real earnest!

Blogging is addictive and one goes through a day looking at events, or encounters or experiences or reflecting on emotions and thoughts and trying to mentally figure the best way to put down ones’ impressions in print. If you are a hard – core blogger , absence from the Blogosphere( for reasons of work/travel/paucity of time/ill health/inertia/ lethargy /lack of inspiration etc. etc.) troubles you and makes you feel restless and irritable and impatient . You ache to get back to it and you keep feeling something is missing from your everyday routine.   It is a familiar world and you are comfortable navigating it and you know the speed breakers and the corners and the rough edges and you are occasionally surprised by a blind end or a cul- de sac but one does know how to find one’s way.

I am returning to the Blogosphere after a bit of a time. A combination of many of the reasons I mentioned earlier kept me away.  I really wonder what I ought to blog about. I am itching to put my thoughts down but can’t get a handle on a subject or a thought. Maybe I could write about politicians but then why get ones’ hands dirty. I could write about my travels but I haven’t really traveled anywhere recently other than to my place of work. I could write about my neighbors , but then I do need to continue to stay where I am residing. I could, perhaps talk about my efforts at losing weight but then they are issues which are only weighing me down. Maybe, my struggles with my golf handicap could be a subject but I think I will wait to write about it after I master the course(that is a blog which may go unwritten)! I could write about climate change but the climate is changing far too soon before I can pen down my thoughts.

Anyway, I am sure I will think of something to write. In the meantime, let me just savor the feeling of being back in the Blogosphere . I am sure I will get over the Blogger’s Block !!

password to heaven or hell?

Password to heaven or hell...

By

Vivek Hande

Security and all that stuff is good,  no doubt.  But you need a password to be secure. You need a password for everything – you need a password to log on to your email; you need a password to access your bank and credit and debit card details ; you need a password to find out your flying rewards and air  miles; you also need a password to log onto your social network accounts . You need a password to find out how much you have to pay for your own cell phone bills.

All this password business can be quite daunting. I read in the paper recently  that the worst password as per data operators is “123456”. It makes all accounts easy to hack and allow easy access to unauthorized folks. I have spent  long  days changing my password for all my accounts. You guessed it – some of us do have such passwords. I feel intimidated when the computer tells me –“password strength –weak”. It is like a direct reflection on my abilities and intelligence. I feel quite elated and energetic when I am told “ strong password”!Then everybody warns you not to use obvious passwords like your date of birth or your wife’s marriage anniversary (that is mine too, I guess) or your children’s names or your flat number . This again greatly limits your choices and makes things more difficult.

Then there are certain picky and overzealous sites- they will insist on a digit and some alphabets and they have to be mixed up in some order and some in upper case and some in lower case and at the end of a successful password registration, very often you are left feeling a mental case! It is really not fair, I think.

And then, there is the issue of the ‘security question’ to make things more secure. They are pretty intrusive and kind of violate your privacy, if you ask me. What business do they have wanting to know the color of my wife’s eyes or where I met my spouse or what breed my pet dog is. Sometimes to confuse them, I give wrong answers. The only problem is that I forget my answers and I can’t keep track of all my intelligent replies and that becomes a muddling issue more often than not.

I decided I would open a password protected folder which would list all my intelligent passwords for my various online activities. Everything seemed to be going fine for a few days and I would access my folder with one single password and then log on wherever I wanted with my myriad passwords. But this was too good to be true for long – I have , for the past three days completely blanked out on my master password and have now lost access to all my  special passwords and I just don’t seem to be able to recollect it . Things are secure I suppose. If I can’t get in, perhaps nobody can??

Salt, Sun, Sands, Sharda, Smiles and Sweetened tea

Salt , Sands, Sun , Sharda , Smiles and Sweetened tea..

By

Vivek Hande

Sharda is a six year old girl I recently had the privilege of meeting. Sharda is a scrawny, reed thin, unschooled, ‘malnutritioned’, hardworking, intelligent young girl. She runs around bare feet clad in a tattered and frayed old dress. I met her deep inside the Little Rann of Kutch , where she stays with her parents in ,what you could call a hut. Her abode did have a roof and some walls. She stays there helping her parents make salt for about eight months of a year.

She seemed to have multiple vitamin deficiencies and was deeply sun burnt and had seemingly boundless energy as she showed me around her salt pan very proudly. She did have the most ravishing smile which went straight to your heart. She was part of the Agariyas- a clan devoted to salt making down the ages in the Kharaghoda area in the Little Rann.

I was told that the Agariyas live in several villages by the rim of the Kutch. They migrate into the interiors of the Kutch around July – August and stay there till about March for the salt production. I gathered that about 25% of India’s salt production comes from this area. Each of the families looks after a salt field and there are thousands of such families scattered all over the vast tracts of the Kutch. They first, have to prepare the salt fields. The raw surface needs hardening and embankments have to be raised. Each of the pans is about 200 x 250 feet. A shallow well is dug in and locally made “Rajkot “pumps, which operate on crude oil, are used to pump the water up into the first of the pans. The water which is very rich in salt is circulated over the next couple of weeks through narrow channels from one pan to the other and the salt keeps getting concentrated and at the end of about a fortnight, roughly 10-15 tonnes of salt are produced.

Sharda is an expert, like her father, in this process of salt making. She has an instinct about the optimum temperature of water and handles the pump efficiently and does a great job in helping her parents top the pump with oil. She knows when is the right time to complete the salt making cycle. She cannot spell her name; she does not know what school is; she walks once a week with her parents about 10 kilometers to have a bath- there is no fresh water in the midst of the Kutch. Her day sees temperatures rising to 45 degrees under the scorching sun and dropping to about 5 degrees at night with howling winds and occasional storms. She has her parents and the stars for company.

She tells me proudly that her father earns four thousand rupees a month. She accepted with great joy my humble offering of a bar of chocolate, Frooti and an orange.

 She would not let me go without a gift in return – she insisted that her mother make me a cup of black sweetened tea, which was offered with a lot of affection, in a chipped saucer and she also gave me a crystal of salt from the latest production. Sharda’s smile, the sweet tea and the salt crystal will remain with me for the rest of my life …

nose in the air...

                                                     Nose in the air…

                                   By

                             Vivek Hande

I have a bit of a sensitive nose and I am sensitive about most things nasal. I have nose which tends to be runny through most of the year. Allergies,  infections, hypersensitivities, psychosomatic, attention –seeking: these and various other terms have been used to explain my problem. But the fact of the matter is that I feel a tad vulnerable without a wad of tissues. My obsession with my nasal issues prompted a very  very close member of my immediate family to comment   rather  derisively-‘ You and your nose!”

That touched a raw nerve or should I say raw nose? It got me thinking about noses in general and my nose in particular. The nose is not something to be contemptuous about. It is a vital organ and I daresay it lends character to a man. A nose says a lot about a person. Most people with deviated noses are generally deviated in character; people with a straight nose, I have seen are usually straight. People with an aquiline nose are often quite imperious; folks with a broad bulbous nose are usually broad-minded and people who have a lot of hair jutting out of their nostrils, have often had hair – raising experiences in life. People who have runny noses are usually people on the run and are go-getters in life. People with stuffed noses on the contrary are usually quite stuck up and stuffy. People with pert noses are usually pert and petite.A nose does, say a lot about a person...

You require to walk with your nose in the air to convey that you are proud and above everything around you. You don’t take your job too seriously and you nosedive! You are perceptive and have a good instinctive feeling about things if you have the nose for it. You go around delving into things that don’t concern you and you become a ‘nosey-parker’! You win narrowly and you have won by a nose and you lose by a whisker and you have been edged out by a nose.  You want to insult and humiliate someone – you rub his nose in the ground. However, if you wish to work hard, you better push your nose to the ground stone! You want to be myopic and narrow minded, you would not see any further beyond the end of your nose. You care a damn about something or someone; you thumb your nose at him(or her)!

The nose is indeed a very versatile appendage and I am going to be a trifle hard-nosed if anyone says anything ‘nosty’/nasty about my nose.  Sensitive or runny or any other way, I am going to walk with my nose in the air!!