Security Paranoia

It’s no exaggeration to say that we are terrorizing ourselves to death. This feeling of insecurity has pervaded every possible life stream and has permeated the very depths of life’s core values. All in the name of security.

It hampers life. Life which was so easy before is now becoming increasingly difficult. From big things in life to small. Either people are willing to pay the price for establishing and maintaining a sense of security or they are mute witnesses to the apathetic display of mundane security procedures. It gets really silly sometimes.

Just a few years ago, resetting my password was a breeze. I used to send a mail to a nice woman wishing her a good morning with a request to change the password if she wouldn’t mind. I get a reply within ten minutes with the reset password and also letting me know about the weather there. The new password would be humorous and once I enter the application I can resume work by changing the password of my choice. I would sometimes call her to thank or she would call just to ensure that my work is not held up. That way she showed she cared and simultaneously ensured I was the right person.

Now it’s different. I need to raise a request over an intrepidly named application which keeps track of how many times I reset my password. There are multiple pages of rows and columns and they are so cumbersome it wouldn’t allow me to proceed until I exactly filled what it asked for – every time. Then I get a reply not in 10 minutes but almost instantly – auto reply. It thanks me for sending a request and says that I can expect a response within two working days – I can twiddle my thumbs in the office until then. After two days I get the password over two emails encrypted and asking me to fill up strangely shaped characters. And if I do not change the password within a stipulated time the password would commit hara-kiri. If people can blow themselves up so can passwords. It’s so complex, I cannot remember it and even if I could, the passwords are expected to live for 15 days and they would blow themselves up then, if not on day 1. So, I write my password down very dutifully which defeats the very purpose of security! No one can expect me to remember an eight digit password with no letter of the alphabet repeating, with at least one numeric and one non alpha-numeric character (these are the strange characters you find on top of the numbers keys in your key board). I have a strange rule to change the password every fifteen days – over a time I discovered – everyone has the same rule – so much for password security.

This one takes the cake. Yesterday, I took an exam. As I was sitting nervously in the lounge after filling up the security register at the lobby, the security guy passes me by and then back again and while doing so he says, jackets aren’t allowed inside and it has to be kept out. I pack it away and return to my lounge seat. A couple of minutes later, the same security guy passes me by and while returning says watches aren’t allowed inside and I repeat the process. The third time he passes me by, he says pens aren’t allowed inside and off it goes. Now I am exasperated – and sure enough he passes me by the fourth time, I take my fingers to the buttoned shirt and I unilaterally offer to take it off. He said with a stern face that I can take the exam with the shirt on.

And to think that this was just the precursor. This guy who is supposed to check your id looks like a judge who has just passed the death sentence. The admit letter says I need to carry two identity proofs and employer id is not considered as an id proof. Perhaps, I should have carried my death sentence pronouncement with my photograph and signature.

First I submit my eligibility letter and then my primary id – my passport and then my secondary identification with a five year old photograph. He writes down the id numbers and allows me to take the exam.

The sad part is – the names in the eligibility letter, the primary identity and the secondary identity were not identical though they all were mine and genuine and I was the right person. (I would count the spaces in between names as differences). I would have expected him to ask for a clarification but then I cannot give a clarification once the death sentence is passed – can I. I counted myself lucky.

They had processes, they had protocols, and they had checklists. What they did not have was to do the right thing the right way at the right time. That needs common sense.

Common sense could have prevented the person from entering the country who was refused a visa earlier – he couldn’t have piloted the plane into the building. Common sense would have prevented seven bullets entering the head of an innocent man.

That’s the price we need to pay for our own sense of security.

CID

CID – Means Confused Indian Desi. Well, that’s what it is supposed to do – confuse.

I watched the latter half of a movie ‘Desi Fever’ or something to that effect. It was a nice and simple story.

There are Indians who have completely moved over to become more Americans than Americans and there are Indians in America who are more Indian than Indians. And there are a few in-between Indians who are both part Indian and part American and a few who are neither Indians nor Americans.

I’ve seen people who travel abroad for a living suddenly seem to face an identity crisis - Who are we? This crisis seems to affect only those who are living abroad.

Whatever the reason, it’s good to have a crisis to answer their eternal quest. The person who would appreciate Indian classical dance a few years ago eulogises about Yoga and Bhagavad-Gita after his return from ‘The States’. Some who were oblivious to religion have turned very pious and at least outwardly very orthodox. The person feels he has achieved salvation but then he wouldn’t want to return either. He wants both moola (money) and moolah (root). This apparent paradox is positive because this quest has made Indians achieve more there rather than here.

We question ourselves only when we are out of our country. Whatever the type of ideology that might develop Indian, American, Indian-American or American-Indian, the effect it has had has been tremendous. I wouldn’t know if anyone who has lived abroad has been absolutely uninfluenced. What is more important is the questioning not so much the solution that he is after.

But then, why is that only the people who go or live abroad face this crisis. Why do we Indians, who live in India, never face this identity crisis. I think we should face this crisis now rather than at any other point of time. When India is spreading its tentacles in all spheres across the globe, the globe is finding refuge in India.

So far, I’ve never asked who am I while in India. Its time I did – and become a Confused Indian Desi. It doesn’t matter what the solution is going to be – whatever it is it is going to lead us to becoming a glorious country.

We were bound by apathy – let’s question ourselves and achieve real freedom.

15^th August 2005

Hypochondriacs

‘How are you?’ or ‘How do you do?’ is how people greet each other. The staple reply you expect is ‘Good’ or ‘Fine’ or sometimes a deviant ‘Not so bad’.

Once in a while you meet a special class of people for whom this question is not just a manner of greeting but who understand it as our genuine urge to discern the status of their health – past, present and future. For them an innocent ‘How are you’ is no longer a simple mode of greeting but a question which ought to bring forth intricately detailed account of their life and beyond.

I have met a few from that class of people - who are ardent hypochondriacs. You can take any topic under the sun and they would steer it towards their health records with unerring accuracy. Even a mundane topic to start a conversation say, weather, elicits an unrelated response as to how it affects their health.

They have some common traits.

They normally set the stage for the onslaught by saying that they are not concerned with their health and that they do not bestow the attention that it deserves. Starting with a paradox would catch naïve people totally off guard.

A quick conversation starter like ‘How’s life’ is what they would normally wait for. They would pounce on it like a stalking feline. You should consider yourself lucky if they begin with their great grand parents’ congenital disorders and continue with the frequent hurting of their clavicle. Until they’ve told you this you wouldn’t have known that such a part ever existed in your body. If you have the panache to shut yourself from them and still give verbal or visual responses – they can go on and on and on until your ears drop.

The next phase would be to explain how healthy they were during their prime. They elucidate how they used to down humungous amounts of food. Next, they would explain their heightened state of physical fitness during their prime and how they could cover several hundred kilometers every day by foot. Of course, they had to be captains of their college team sport that they practiced.

And the other paradox is that they actually are healthier than normally healthy people except that they worry themselves to death over their health and make you sick in the process.

They can describe with great clarity the mode of chemical changes that a drug can bring about in your physiological constitution. They have no difficulty in enlightening you how the wind speed actually lowered the growth rate of their noses.

My experience is that they corner you so dexterously that there is no escape route and you cannot walk away from them. They would deftly deter all attempts to change the topic.

I have found a solution for such people. I start nagging about my health and see how quickly they change the topic. It’s worked for me!

Parties

Nowadays, Event Managers organise parties. They are professionals – they ensure that nothing is left to chance. And they do not forget anything. The hosts are in tenterhooks - hoping against hope nothing goes against what was planned. They are generally in a constant state of delirium – have we missed something. They would have missed all the fun.

I do not remember a single party during my childhood. There was one – I would love to forget it. The food was served in glass cutlery and my parents dinned into my heads not to break them. I was paranoid just to touch those glass pieces. Even the food looked and tasted like glass. Was I glad to be back home.

I had fun too – lots of them. Only I never knew then that they were parties. Loads of them – all with simple things of life. When the summer ended and the first monsoon showers came in – I shouted for my friends and we used to get wet, jump with joy and watch the snails come to life. If there were hailstorms all the better – the lumps on head have never hurt. I never sent invites – I ran to my friends’ houses and dared them to come out in the rain and soon enough we were all over the place, wet and giggling. No cost, no timings, no eating and drinking – just pure joy – it was bliss. We never knew it could have been called a party.

One of these days, a cousin of mine came down visit us along with her children. We have enjoyed a lot when we were children. Now we are grown ups. Her children wear watches and so do mine. They are kids but mind their timings and talk of school projects and tasks. They act responsible.

My sister visited us at the same time. It was her daughter’s birthday. She distributed some chocolates and we all wished her.

We talked of the days gone by and how kids of today do not enjoy the way we did – for them the only enjoyment comes from watching TV. We recalled those occasions with nostalgia.

The hours went by and it was time for dinner and had not prepared any food not even for ourselves – let alone this army of half a dozen kids and another half a dozen once-upon-a-time-kids. The event manager would have chuckled.

My wife said she will prepare some plain rice and I prepared to go out and buy something to go along. My cousin joined me to shop for our dinner.

We went out. We bought some chips. Something was missing. The birthday cake and the ice cream and the things that children love. We went home and threw a surprise party – no invitation, no planning, and no fanfare – just pure fun. All of us had simple food but very tasty with the joy of the party as the main course.

Did we miss anything – our adulthood, for a while.

The D®ying Pond

This is a small story of a small temple pond in a small village.

Thirunangur in Tamil Nadu hosts several temples. One of these temples has a pond.

It is June and the North East monsoon is far away. The village in running out of water and the pond is in its last throes.

The deepest part is just a miniscule sludgy puddle. Here, the cosmic dance of life and death is staged in all its splendour and grimness.

All the fish are hopelessly trying to survive through the summer. The Brahmini kites (Garuda – the vehicle for Lord Vishnu, the Protector, whose temple pond this happens to be) and king fishers do not have to wait long for their next meal.

The fish cannot breathe at the bottom of the puddle and have to come to the very top to find clearer water to breathe in. They take a quick breath and dive down into the dark murky depths and cheat death one more time.

It is a difficult choice - Go down and suffocate or come up only to be picked up. It cannot last long.

The kites swoop down with their strong talons and sharp curved beaks make a quick work. Easy pickings.

For the fish, the suffering is brought to an end – The God looks on. The birds, with their stomachs full, look on satisfied and sit on the temple tower – The God looks on.

Then the village children come in with a piece of cloth and end the misery of every surviving fish in one scoop of the cloth through the sludge.

They also end the story of the pond – The God looks on. He knows its not the end.

Post Script

Well... I had been to the place again. The pond is well and thriving. The fish, the birds, the people and the God too.

Sami

He is over 75. He has Parkinson’s. Old and infirm, he had lost his wife last year and his two daughters are abroad. He is a total dependent, physically and otherwise. He is under medications with serious side-effects. He has no ability to control his mind and body.

I did not know he would join us on our journey. It involves public transport on rail and on road. It is the height of summer with temperatures soaring over 38 degrees and it is humid.

It started off without much difficulty one evening. We arrived safely the early morning, the next day. He was in high spirits or whatever we can make out of him.

Then we started off to a place 60 km away. The vehicle was a rickety old one going through bad village roads. At 11.00 am the heat began to show. It was getting sweltery and hotter. We reached the village after the sun peaked. He stayed back in the vehicle while we sprinted to the temple shade to escape our bare feet being scalded in the granite floor.

The temple pond was drying with dying fish and encircling eagles.

When we returned – I noticed. His eyes were dilated and he was running high fever. We needed a cool place – not possible now, and food. We arranged for food at the temple – very fortunate for us. He did not have any of it at all.

We had to abandon our plans to visit other temples and returned to the place where we were staying – 60 km again. His fingers got jammed between the door of the vehicle – I panicked. He did not express any pain – I panicked more. We somehow reached the hotel – all of us were silent throughout the journey.

It was here we got the shock – he cannot move. Not an inch. I looked at his face – it displayed no expression. He just cannot move. We got a wheel chair and I had to physically lift him and place him in the wheel chair. That was the closest I have ever come to face ‘old age’. I did not face ‘old age’ before – it stared at me right into my eyes.

I’ve never thought much of old age before. Anyway, it never scared me.

I’ve thought of death a few times before and have seen it at close quarters a couple of times. It has scared me.

As a matter of fact, ‘old age’ brings back pleasant memories for me. Both my grand mothers share a great deal of credit in shaping my life. Old age for me meant wisdom, benevolence and not getting angry at children. Old age for me was entertainment – with my grand mothers regaling us with folklore and sharing memories of my parents when they were children. They passed judgments which always seem to be right.
Now, when I lifted him, the ‘old age’ put a fright in me – it was worse than the fear of death. It was worse than the fear of life. ‘Old Age’ scared me more than ‘Death’.

Once one is dead - that’s the end all. However, one can experience ‘old age’. It’s so unlike death – one has to depend on others. Once I am dead – I am no longer a dependent.

Not old age. I feel I am useless. I feel I am a vegetable. I feel I am a burden. I feel I am neglected. I feel I am broken. I cannot think for myself. Mind is not free. Body is not free.

I feel I cannot feel. I would not know if others can feel me feeling.

Death is deliverance and you cannot have the pleasure of dying – that’s old age.

I recall a song what my grand mother sang for me regarding old age.

When I am old, when there is no one to depend upon, when the children are grown up and manage themselves, when my eyes are blinded, when my ears cannot hear, when all my teeth are gone, when my tongue slurs, when my legs cannot walk, when my hands are paralysed, when I lose my memory, when my brain is muddled, when the fear of death takes over, when the body slacks down and I ease myself in my clothes seeing the Yama Kinkaras, that is when, Oh God, please make me remember You.

I remember my grand mother.

Ps: Nothing to worry. We got a doctor to examine Sami the same evening. He said Sami was exhausted. Miraculously, he was up and ready next day morning. He did come with us to the temple next day without any ontward incidents and we completed our journey safely. Nevertheless, Sami gave me the fear – the fear of ‘old age’. He also gave me the strength. He is waiting to get his visa to join his daughters abroad.

Music thing

Music thing

Lord Narasimhaswamy, Haththalabetta, Rajatadripura

This magnificent temple is on the way from Tumkur (near Bangalore, Karnataka, India) to Tiptur. You cannot miss the huge arch on the right hand side of the road. You need to climb up the hill to reach the top. The view is amazing.

The Lord is very pleasant though He is Ugranarasimha. Last time he had a different face and this time it was even more majestic.

A place not to miss for Narasimha followers.

Sometimes, you can see people leading animals like chicken and goats being offered as sacrifice.

Sacrificial?

Temple Pond atop the hills - Rajatadripura, Haththalabetta

The Lord Nrsimha

Lord Narasimha, Rajatadripura, Haththalabetta