A Performer

My father was a man of varied interests. He could talk fluently for hours on novels of Tolstoy and Turgnev, music of Smetana and Janacek, art of Kaminski and Kokoschka, politics of Churchill and Gandhi and the origin of species in Bible or by Darwin. But he had only one ambition for me, his only son. He wanted me to perform on the stage of Royal Festival Hall in London. He chose the instrument carefully, by letting me play piano, violin and cello at the tender age of five with masters of these instruments. The decision was unanimous. My talents were suited for piano. I spent next fifteen years practicing five hours a day, every day including birthdays and Christmas. I won competitions, scholarships, medals in the Conservatory of Music and raised hopes of a great music career not only in my father’s breast but in many of my teachers.

It was thirty years ago when I left home for the first time for the final step in my training under a German master in Berlin who had been the leading performer since long before I was born. It cost a pretty penny, I suspect prettier than my father could afford, but any sacrifice was worth it for me to reach the level required to perform on the stages of the great hall on the banks of Thames. There were twenty students from all over Europe and America under the master’s wings. I never found out whether it was by coincidence or design, there were ten men and ten women in the group and it was not long before twenty singles became ten couples. Partners rotated during our term of two years but no one went single for long or found a partner outside of the group. Who else would want to spend days with someone who can only do one thing – play piano and talk one subject – intricacies of music they were practicing?

The time passed very quickly. Our families traveled to Berlin for the last piece of our training - a series of concerts that lasted a whole week. Each student played a sonata, one chamber piece with instrumentalists from a renowned chamber ensemble and a concerto with a local orchestra. It was a tribute to the master’s reputation that the performances were sold out months in advance except for a few celebrity tickets saved for dignitaries who dropped by at the last minute. We could never decipher our relative levels from the master’s demeanour. Rather than earn the wrath of parents impoverished by his charges, he chose a committee of professional performers and academic musicians to do this important job for him. The committee graded the performers and these grades determined whether a graduating student will perform in the leading halls of Europe or teach beginners in his/her home town.

The budding performers were under great stress. They had sacrificed the childhood, adolescence and the youth for the anticipated glory of a Rubenstein or a Horowitz. One lapse of memory, one untimely twitch of finger, one miscue from the conductor, in fact one slightest mishap of any kind whether a performer’s fault or not, could be enough for a prospective Van Cliburn to turn into a Mr. Nobody in a Junior High. Of course no one expected it would happen to them, some competitive souls did pray it would happen to others. Oddly, many of these prayers were answered; that is what an overload of stress does to you.

Before my performance I followed the routine prescribed by the masters; a light meal with a small glass of red wine followed by the rest for half an hour when I tried to get my mind away from music to something of little importance – global warming for example. Half an hour before the performance, I gave a quick look over to the heavily annotated score, reminding myself of the pitfalls I must avoid. The last act in preparation was a five minute soak of hands in a basin of near boiling water to loosen the finger joints. The hands were so hot they did not need drying. I was ready for a sign from the stage manager to walk to the stage looking confident but actually a bundle of nerves.

I walked to the centre of the stage, bowed to the audience, sat on the piano stool, adjusted its position and height and held both hands above the keys for an extended moment for dramatic effect. The stress was excruciating and my hands were shaking but not enough for any one except those in a few front rows to notice. I was to play Schubert’s Sonata in C minor, D958. The stress went away just as the hands dropped on the keys and I must have held the attention of the listeners because there was hardly any coughing. My biggest feeling as I played the last notes was suspense about the response of the audience. Much to my relief the applause at the end was enthusiastic. I bowed gratefully a couple of times and walked slowly off the stage. The cheering became louder and the stage manager suggested another bow. “How about an encore,” I asked. “Not allowed,” He said. I went back to the stage with a heavy heart. To paraphrase Lerner and Lowe I could have played encores all night.

The performances with the chamber ensemble and the orchestra were similar except that I shook hands with the conductor or the leader of the chamber ensemble, both mumbled words of encouragement. The presence of other performers on stage also reduced the stress somewhat although the periods when I was not playing were a little awkward. The audience responded with enthusiasm again and the conductor and I returned twice for the bows.

I attended some of the performances of other students. The audience was just as enthusiastic as it was for my performances. Although not complimentary to the critical faculty of concert crowds, this reaction did have one positive: the judges were not influenced by the audience reaction.

The results were not publicly announced but mailed to the homes of the students. You can imagine the suspense; it almost killed my father. He had mortgaged his home to the hilt, sold the car and borrowed against his life insurance to pay for my training with the German prodigy. At last the envelope arrived a week after we had been back. It was appropriately addressed to my father. He opened the envelope, read the short letter, looked with infinite grief at me and never talked to me, or any one else, again.

I never touched a piano after that day. As for the Royal Festival Hall I have never been inside. But I perform in the building everyday. How do I manage that? No, not as a panhandling musician, I do not need to stoop that low. I am the pastry chef in the dining room. I perform with the best ingredients available for a distinguished audience. Lords and Ladies of the realm wish they could lick the plate after tasting my mango lemon sauce on their sherbet. Some do sneak a lick via a piece of bread. The maitre’d is disgusted but I am flattered. I do wish my father were alive to see them. I score a major triumph when this happens. I have never heard of any one kissing the program after a great performance of a piano concerto. Have you?

A Geologist’s View of Climate Change

Huge daily protests in support of the drastic proposals at Copenhagen clouded the alternate point of view. Unfortunately, the lines are drawn sharply and there is no grey area in between. A review of various issues is in order before we make the decisions which have the potential to change the pattern of human life for ever.

One crucial factor in the debate is the data. Unfortunately there are significant year to year oscillations in the data and different trends can be projected depending on the chosen time span. Each side blames the scientists on the other side of bias. There is no doubt that they are both right to some extent. There was a time when the scientific research was the domain of the independently wealthy who could disregard the financial implications of their conclusions. Alas, those days are long gone. Now the scientists depend on the commercial interests for their grants, often for the salaries too. To expect the absence of bias in these circumstances is not reasonable. To confuse the picture, the climate patterns over the life of this planet show indisputably larger changes than being observed now. According to this viewpoint, carbon emissions are only a minor consideration in the climate change. But that does not mean that they are acceptable. Even if they have not been related to particular diseases as of yet, increasing elements of pollution interact with living organisms and change them, perhaps for the worse. Pollution has to be reduced to protect future generations from undesirable mutations. Thus, the dispute is not about the evil but about the urgency and the ways of fighting it.

Large changes during geologic times caused havoc with life forms as they existed and new forms of life took shape in the environment. If this is what is happening now, it behooves us to prepare for the changes as well as to fight them. Not much is being done to prepare the populations whose lives will be devastated by these changes other than their leaders expressing despair in international conferences to deaf years. An example of this neglect is the city of New Orleans after Katrina: it is being rebuilt over the devastated site rather than being moved to safer land.

Human beings are capable of controlling the pollution without economic upheaval as demonstrated by the cleaning up of the atmosphere in Europe after the war and control of CFC emissions after Montreal protocol. Scientific advances are crucial in this endeavour. Just as the motor car solved the problem of horse manure in large cities by replacing horse carriages in the early years of twentieth century, drastic improvements in the internal combustion engine or the invention of new type of engine or energy source could make our desperation a source of amusement to future generations.

The proponents of drastic steps to prevent climate change must appreciate the extent of economic sacrifices they expect from general population. The suggestions of many climate scientists involve drastic changes to the life style which can not be accomplished in a short time frame without changes in economic structure. This will cause immense suffering to a large population who will lose their jobs and would not be willing and/or able to train for new ones. Politicians will not be forgiven by this constituency at the polls and are understandably reluctant to take such actions.

The per capita emission goals are particularly impractical because:
1. They do nothing to reduce overpopulation, in fact may even encourage its growth. The overall number of consumers is the basic element in total consumption and emission counts. Steps are needed to reduce the population, not encourage its growth.
2. Considering the rate of growth of big population nations like China, India, Indonesia, Brazil, the reductions in developing countries, even if they entirely eliminated the emissions, will be more than offset by the increase in developing world if per capita emissions, emission intensity in some circles, were to be the only consideration.
3. The process of accomplishing these goals will involve a large shift of wealth and industry to the developing countries, some of them not on friendly terms. The citizens of developed world will accept this at their peril.

These considerations show that humans are not likely to control emissions by themselves even if they are crucial to counter climate change and for eventual survival of the species. Let us hope that the dire predictions of climate catastrophe scientists are wrong. If they turn out to be correct, technical innovations on a revolutionary scale are mankind’s only hope.

Published comments

Root cause
Re: "Foster children struggle in school," Dec. 7.
Considering the problems these children have, it is amazing that some of them complete school and it is a compliment to their foster parents. The root of the problem is the birth parents who, with some exceptions, are incapable of looking after the children they give birth to. The effort should be directed at these parents--training them in basic life skills including parenting and sharing responsibility for the kids with the partner. Perhaps even more important, adolescents should be taught to understand when they will be ready to bring a helpless baby into this world and how to prevent it before then. While a review of the foster care system may help, the solution lies in developing a society in which fewer children need such care.
(Calgary Herald, 09/12/09)

STRESS LEVELS MOUNTING
Stephen Lautens Nov. 21 column "Adulthood comes with boring burden" rightly complains about the chores in daily life which are exacerbated by lack of help to consumers from organizations. But he is at least partially wrong when he says his parents had all of these problems too. It was not all that long ago that families had one bread earner and one homemaker and managed quite nicely. Life was less rushed then and the chores did not accumulate. There may be reasons to empathize with older generations, but stress is not one of them. This day-to-day stress is a recent phenomenon. The absolute necessity of the two incomes needed by families to get by is the main source of it.
(Calgary Sun, 30/11/09)

GIVE PERPS THE BOOT
Re: "Deportation of siblings sought," Nov. 15. It surprises me there needs to be any proceedings before perpetrators of serious crimes are sent back to their countries of origin. The automatic deportation should be built into law under which they are sentenced and should bar their return in any circumstances. Yes, it would be tough on their relatives living here, but it is tougher on their future victims when the proven criminals stay around.
(Calgary Sun, 22/11/09)

Climate consensus, indeed
(Re: Leaders Agree Copenhagen Will Focus On Principles, Not Concrete Goals (online, Nov. 15): Yet another example of delaying tactics, so familiar to all parents. Who are the leaders fooling?
(Globe and Mail, 16/11/09)

WATER GETS NO RESPECT
Re: "Recession offers drop of relief," (Oct 16). Bill Kaufmann does an excellent job of pointing out the negligence in water management by the cities and province. The total cost of water on my bill is $1.50 for a cubic meter, less than two litres of gas. Is it any wonder it is wasted at every turn by citizens and the industry alike. If you want the water resource treated with respect, start charging appropriately and the problem will likely disappear.
(Calgary Sun, 25/10/09)

DRIVERS NEED TO GET A GRIP
Re: "Season's first snowstorm sees flurry of crashes," (Oct. 14). Every year it is the same story. Calgarians wait for the storm to change the tires and do not take other precautions needed on slippery roads. Then they blame the city for not clearing the roads promptly. Well, you can't clear the roads in a large city instantly and what good is it to clear them when the white stuff is still coming down? Come on Calgarians. Stay home if it can wait and car pool or use public transit if it can't. Keep a safe distance from the next vehicle and slow down. The posted speed limit is for dry roads and has to be adjusted for icy conditions. (Calgary Sun, 18/10/09)

Should We Eliminate Retirement Age?
Since 1840, the life expectancy of humans has been increasing by approximately three months every year. In recent years, it increased to 76 in 2005 from 65 in 1975 but the top retirement age has stayed fixed at 65. In other words, the workers had to retire at the expected age of their death in 1975 and even later before that if they were still around. By the yardstick of 1975 the retirement age should now be 76. In view of the improvement in health of our older citizens this should not sound as scandalous as it does. After all, a large number of retirees continue to work in paid jobs after retiring from their long-term employer long after the retirement, many more do volunteer work for several hours a week What this suggestion does do is to indicate that a fixed age for retirement is not appropriate for twenty first century. Even if the age were tweaked upwards, it will soon be out of date because the improvements in healthcare and living habits will continue to make the general population healthier and enable it to live longer.

Ever increasing periods of training are required to qualify for most professions and the professionals need to work till late in life to pay off debts incurred in training and save for a comfortable retirement. An aging population with its demands on healthcare and social services is straining the economies of developed as well as developing nations. Thanks to these factors, there is a crying need for major corrective steps to avert an economic turmoil. Many economists, but no politician, have proposed a revision of the age for retirement. This will at best be a short-term solution. What we need is not a fixed age for retirement but an option to retire after certain length of employment and flexibility to continue the current employment if health and other circumstances make it desirable. Similarly, the government pension plans should enable a contributor to start collecting after a certain period of membership with the option to delay receiving pension with or without further contributions. “Senior” benefits like supported transit passes or discounts which are currently offered them are for businesses to determine what age suits their purpose. Indeed, there is a considerable flexibility now. Some stores allow senior discounts at the age of 55, some at 65 and others do not offer them at all.

The change to length of service rather than the age will make the dreaded forecasts about growing older population becoming a burden on shrinking young population obsolete because the older people who opt to remain in workforce will contribute taxes to the governments and savings to the economy in growing numbers and for many more years. It will keep qualified professionals and trained workers in labour force and reduce the need of foreign skilled workers just when they have incentives to stay home. It will also give time to depleted Pension Funds of corporations to recover. Employers will probably need some protection when they need to terminate older employees who are not willing to face the deterioration in their capacities. However, this is not an insurmountable obstacle and the advantages far outweigh any other difficulties that may arise.

Eliminating the retirement age is one stone that will kill many pesky birds.

Toothless Tiger
During my long and not so illustrious business career I pounced on every opportunity that came my way, followed every lead to a fruitful conclusion and shared the rewards of my efforts with my partner and the kids leaving bits and pieces for others. My competitors grudgingly compared me to a tiger. I tried to live up to my reputation and, even though I say it myself, some would agree that I largely succeeded.

Time rolls on and our best days are soon behind us. We grow old and with old age come, not wisdom, but the aches and pains. Not counting loss of hair where you need it and growth where you don’t and the number of pills you have to swallow every morning and night to keep blood pressure and cholesterol in check and energy level up, the deficiencies you learn to take in your stride are countless: the back hurts after minimal gardening; knees refuse to hold you up when you run for the bus, eyes do not tell you the extent of the drop in the price of your stock and ears do not catch the soft tones in your favourite symphony. But these are mere inconveniences compared to what happens in your mouth. You eat a pecan, the tongue is all cankers, try to crack a pistachio nut with your teeth, teeth threaten to crack. Of course your spouse realizes the travails of an old body and empathizes when she gets an opportunity but mostly you suffer in isolation because you believe in Tolstoy’s dictum “Wretchedness shared makes one doubly wretched.”

A year ago my time arrived at a more severe stage: the teeth started to ache even when no nuts were in sight. The dentist examined their reflection in a tiny mirror, knocked them with a hammer with varying intensity, took x-rays and decided three of them had to come out. These were adjacent to the ones I had lost in my youth in unpleasant episodes. The teeth came out without much hassle in dentist’s comfy chair. However, I soon discovered that my left jaw was now useless when it came to biting and the right jaw functioned under protest.

It took a few months but I learnt to get by with bite on one side alone. Then one night when the clock was striking two I woke up with a sharp pain on the right side of my mouth. Three different painkillers of increasing potency did not help. What did work was brushing the teeth with my rotating electric brush. The pain subsided and then returned with vengeance after ten minutes. I spent the night alternately on a couch in the living room trying to rest and in the bathroom brushing the teeth. Time does move on, albeit horribly slowly when one is in pain. Morning eventually arrived; grandkids woke up and provided some diversion. Midday was the earliest the dentist could see me. I was in his reception room at 11 sharp.

The usual inspection in the tiny mirror, hammering and the x-rays produced the expected conclusion – the lower wisdom tooth had to come out and it had to come out soon. For once fortune smiled on me and the dentist had time to do it straight away. Out came the syringe, in went the local anesthetic and numb became the right side of my mouth. The dentist mumbled that the tooth had to come out in two parts. My mouth was stretched to its widest as if I were an aging tenor trying to get out my last high C for the expectant audience of thousands and held that way with clamps. The assistant passed a chisel and a hammer and the dentist hammered away at the tooth asking me occasionally if I felt any pain. I answered “Gaaaaa” which encouraged him to hit harder and harder. At last he exchanged the crude but highly effective tools for a tong. My mouth still stretched to its limits, he grabbed the tooth in the tong while the assistant held my face firmly in her hands, head resting on her ample breasts. He pulled up, pushed to one side and then the other and pulled up again and again and again till – aha, the hand shot out and I saw triumph in his eyes and the red culprit in his tongs. The process was repeated with the other half of the tooth till the triumphant doctor had removed the remains of my wisdom. While stitching the gap where the tooth was, he advised me to avoid any food intake for several hours and take painkiller when the anesthetic had worn off in the evening. He then asked the assistant to join him for lunch in a nearby steakhouse.

A week has gone by. I don’t have the ache and I sleep through the night but now my right jaw does not bite either. All my suffering is concentrated at meal times when the family is enjoying the wonderful cooking of my wife while I struggle with broccoli.

No one has ever called me a softie who feels sorry for himself, at least not in my hearing. But let me tell you. There is no one in the forest more deserving of pity than a toothless tiger.

Why Should the Kids Do Home Work

A couple who are both lawyers made the news earlier this week by negotiating with the Calgary Catholic School Board that their kids will not have to do any home work. I will not be surprised if the threat of legal action by not so busy lawyers persuaded the authorities to give in rather than spend taxpayer money on a long battle in the courts. In any event, it appears from the report that the parents were the ones doing the home work when kids were playing hockey, attending ballet lessons, playing video games, “learning social skills” with mates in the mall, whatever.

It reminded me of a flight to Ottawa a few years ago when the middle-aged passenger in the next seat spent all four hours complaining to this south Asian immigrant that his kids were not able to go to good professional schools because “yellow and brown” immigrants had filled all the available places. When I asked him about their grades he responded that the immigrant kids who had “nothing else to do” set the bar so high that his kids had to make do with the C average. By “nothing else to do” he perhaps meant that they did the home work rather than do all the things C graders do, some of them I listed above.

We should have learnt what we don’t seem to have done, globalization means that the Canadians compete with Chinese and Indian professionals and blue collar workers not only in Canada but also in their home countries. China has been able to lend the U.S. two trillion dollars, and the U.S. had needed to borrow that humongous sum, for two main reasons. First, the workers there are prepared to work for less. But second reason is also important, may be more so. Not only the workers have shown ability to learn new skills quickly, they work as long as it takes to get the work done. North American workers have failed on both accounts and therefore, the manufacturing industries have moved to more hospitable environment.

We may get out of current recession theoretically by statistical manipulation or by unproductive jobs created by various levels of governments. However, for sustained employment and prosperity we must compete with the countries we have contemptuously called “Third World” for so long. In view of the history of China, Brazil and India it should not have surprised us that these countries are leaping ahead not only in industries that need muscle but also in those that need brains. Unfortunately, developing the capacity of brains needs hard work and discipline. These faculties are developed in childhood and schooling plays a major role in it. The children who cooperate with their teachers and get the most out of their schooling are better prepared to cope with high expectations at the University and in a professional career than those who consistently complain about “home work.” Perhaps, the term home work puts people off because our culture looks down on work. If we called it “life preparation” it might be more palatable.

The Western world is lucky that so many immigrants from these countries have settled here to make up for the chronic shortage of professionals and their children still retain the culture of considering hard work in youth as preparation for life. However, I have a warning note. On my visits to India I used to be inundated by requests for help in emigration by young and not so young professionals – doctors, engineers, managers, entrepreneurs. On my last visit a year ago, not one individual contacted me. Canada hadn’t become colder and otherwise less pleasant destination; just that they were doing fine and had no need to leave home for a strange land.

It is imperative that we rediscover the will Canadians had one or two generations ago to develop the innate skills from an early age. That means doing the home work in all meanings of the term. Alternative is to too depressing to contemplate.

Calgary Herald, November 21, 2009

Setting Priorities
Eventually the snow disappeared from the roads and the chances of it staying for long in the event of an unseasonal snowfall were slim. It was time to replace the snow tires with summer tires. The garage down the road did that one morning for my car and I paid $220 for spin cleaning and balancing the wheels and switching tires without complaint. The mechanic said that there were too many cracks in the windshield and recommended that it should be replaced. Next day I paid $304 for a shiny new curved plate of glass. I will buy new summer tires for my wife’s car later this week and add another seven hundred dollars to my debt to the card company. I will then have spent over twelve hundred dollars, quite ungrudgingly, in the cause of the safety of the family.

This morning I had a dental check up. X-rays, cleaning by the hygienist and an examination by the dentist added up to $375. That was more than replacing the tires but it is to be expected. The dentist is a professional and has undergone many years of training. Furthermore, my teeth are the gateway to my body and soul and they deserve the most expert care available. Not to be outdone by the garage mechanic when it came to suggesting further expense, the dentist strongly recommended that a molar should be crowned, at a cost of approximately $1,100. The sum involved was less than the total bill for tires yet it came as a shock. I decided to think about it for a while.

Why did I not agree straight away and set an appointment date as I had done for the windshield? The safety of the family is of paramount importance and dangerous components in the car are not acceptable. The time window for changing tires is small. The crown, on the other hand, was not urgent and could wait for a while; after all I could still chew and the tooth did not hurt. A few months ago when my wisdom tooth was playing up, its extraction was the top priority and snow tires had to wait. It is the squeaky wheel that gets attended to first, not the silent sufferer. But is it sensible? As a volunteer driver for cancer patients I have come across cases where seemingly intelligent women noticed a lump on their breast but delayed check ups because it did not hurt. The association of pain with sickness runs deep in our psyche. A tumour can grow at its leisure in our body and the host does not pay attention till it hurts. By then it may be too late to do much about it. The cure, in any event, is painful, long and life-altering in most cases.

Do we run to the doctor every time we notice something unusual? Is every cold going to turn into pneumonia, every cut end up in bleeding to death? Well, the life of a hypochondriac is not a happy one. While it is wasteful to run to the doctor at the first sniffle, it is foolish not to pay him a visit after one has been coughing for several days. One can’t run to Emergency Clinic when a Band Aid will do the trick but it is equally silly to bandage a deep cut and hope for the best. Thanks to Medicare we can receive care without worrying about the bill. We must use medical services when needed and if there is error to be made it has to be towards visiting the physician rather than “not wasting his time.” Similarly, it makes sense to promptly attend to the suggestions of the dentist. Delay could cause the tooth to decay beyond repair. However, most of us do not have adequate dental insurance and the dentist’s bill can strain an otherwise comfortable budget. Financial demands are relentless in most families and what does not hurt often goes to the bottom of the to-do list even though we know that the consequences may be dire.

We all have to juggle priorities whatever our means. I believe I learnt how to do it when I was growing up in India. In our family of six, the person with the most urgent need was attended to first and others waited till their need could be met. What if every one’s need was equally urgent? Often the times were hard and once in a while there was not enough for every one to eat. In some families in such circumstances the males got to eat and females went without, in others father got his fill even if little was left for others. In our family my mother made sure that every one, including herself, got something and no one went totally without. By her actions, not words mind you, my mother taught us children that in a loving family every member got his/her due and we shared in bad fortune as well as in good. Our parents earned our love and we honoured their wishes because we respected them, not out of fear of punishment or deprivation. My wife and I have tried to carry on the tradition of familial love and mutual respect. We will discuss all our current cash needs in this spirit and the dentist’s recommendation will receive its due priority as did the cars.

Trading Aid for Professionals: Is it Right?
In nineteen fifties after a few years of independence of India there was a rush of Western countries setting up first rate educational institutions for the best and brightest young mostly men in the country. There were new medical institutes and Engineering colleges and some Universities with established reputations were helped to further upgrade them. The result was the output of well-trained brilliant graduates ready for challenging jobs. Unfortunately, the country had no facilities to provide these. Consequently, a large number of these graduates emigrated to the Universities and the countries of their ex-professors. Western countries scored a huge return for their investment in education by receiving the cream of the crop for their own benefit. Although I have no claim to being the ‘crème de la crème’, I was one of these who left India after attending one of these institutions, never to return. I remember this loss of talent being lamented as the brain drain in India, although very little was done to reduce it. There was a sort of payoff. During the series of economic crises in India in the sixties the money sent by these emigrants reduced the balance of payment deficit. As the economy developed the brain drain reduced and is relatively down to a trickle now although in numbers it is still quite large, tens of thousands every year. On the benefit side, the emigrants have encouraged foreign investment which has helped bring about a mini-revolution. But no one can argue that this even remotely makes up for the huge loss of talent.

The New Yorker of last week had two articles by authors with Indian names. Universities in the West and the industrial and government research facilities are staffed with people of Indian (and other Asian) origin. Some of our best writers and journalists are second generation immigrants lost to the mother country. India is not mentioned in the biography of an award winning writer with Indian ancestry who has written eloquently about her parents’ culture. My own daughters are making an above average contribution to communities they live in and regard themselves, rightly, fully Canadian. Talking about this phenomenon with my wife it occurred to me that the Third World countries that gladly received the Western aid, didn’t just suffer the loss of better brains, they lost a part of desirable gene pool – the people with tradition of high achievement from generation to generation. Thus, their loss and Western gain was not short term, as the term brain drain implies, but long term. It is here to stay. The investment in Indian education fifty years ago continues to pay high dividends to the West and will do so for generations to come.

The negative impact of well-intentioned aid on recipients goes further than human resources. Commodity production has been encouraged resulting in collapse of product prices and common misery, equipment has been given which couldn’t be used. If the long term welfare of recipient countries is the goal of Western foreign aid we need to consider all aspects of the aid to developing countries. We have to consider the need a few years down the road, whether it is the college graduates, capacity to use and maintain facilities for the equipment, market for the product to be manufactured, impact on price of increasing production of a specific commodity etc.. In this respect, the efforts of some of our provinces to attract the medical and other professionals from these countries because of shortages here are counterproductive for the long term harmony on this planet and must be protested. If morality were the only issue Canada would have a quota system for immigrants from developing countries which is weighted by skill and education level to represent the population of the native country rather than our needs.

This comment is contrary to the belief that all humans are born equal and have equal rights. However, there is plenty of evidence that genes play an important part in life. It is time we took their impact into consideration in our policies related to the development in the Third World. Even if one did not believe in success genes, there is no issue about immorality of depriving poorer countries of their most productive human assets leave alone assisting them in developing products that can’t be used soon after facilities are in operation.

Beast and the Burden

Ravi, my dear friend since the college days, often says in all seriousness that he never understood why women, particularly of a mature age, ever get involved with men. Women should know from their experience with fathers and brothers and present and past partners that men are beasts. For some strange reason they think that they can tame the beast and make him a beast of burden. A few no doubt succeed and it gives hope to others. But most women end up living with a beast and shouldering the burden themselves.

Numerous studies in all parts of the world have shown that in spite of countless campaigns by women, they bear a considerably higher share of family responsibilities than men do. This starts at the young age where girls help with chores much more than their brothers and happens even in households where women have jobs with greater responsibility than their husbands. Women in highly demanding professions – medicine, law, finance, you name it - decide the fate of men (and women too) during the work day. Yet, they leave what they are doing at the appointed hour and rush to schools or baby sitters to pick up their children, then go home and cook the dinner while their husbands are downing ‘two for the price of one’ drinks in ‘Happy Hour’ at the bar, presumably developing new business contacts. Is it any wonder that most senior executives are men and women have a glass ceiling which stays just above their heads generation after generation?

It is observations like these which prompt Ravi’s dilemma. He points out that the old adage “When you are young you are foolish” may apply to bright young girls who fall for young men to get their sex fix. One can also appreciate mothers of young children putting up with a heavier load and humouring their men to protect the family unit so the children would have a father. But why, oh why, would a mature single woman with adult children no longer at home want a man in her life? Is the solitary life so unpleasant that one would trade it for the servitude to the bloated ego of an often inconsiderate and sometimes violent person? And why is this man generally older, sometimes with serious health concerns? If it were for sex, women would be looking for younger men with more vitality. It could be the nurturing gene that leads them to an older helpless person who needs to be taken care of. Or it may be their martyr complex that demands a justification for the feeling of “Poor me”. There may be instances where financial considerations in the form of maintenance during lifetime and an inheritance after his death play a part. It may be a combination of some or all of these factors that prompts women to do what Ravi finds so incomprehensible.

Being a mere male with not many brain cells I do not have an answer for Ravi. But I do tell him that I am grateful the women feel the way they do towards older males, being one myself. However, my gratitude does not extend to anything more than minimal help with chores when I am not busy otherwise. That is in the genes too. Men are takers – women are givers. As long as humans have inhabited the earth, women have given men the life and sustenance and men have not only taken every kindness as their due, they have taken women for granted as well.

Ravi believes that if men do not realize the inherent unfairness of their attitude and do not take on larger share of responsibilities, women will give up on them and start pairing with each other in ever greater numbers. Men should take heed: recent medical developments make them superfluous in the process of procreation.

When I am on my way to the bar after work, Ravi’s warning crosses my mind and sends a shiver down the spine. It takes several drinks to wash away the feelings of guilt and the fear of consequences.

9 published comments

Change Afghan culture
Re: Taliban insurgency in Afghanistan growing, says U.S. general, Oct. 1.

The tribes living in remote mountainous regions are solitary people with distinct cultures which they are determined to preserve at all cost. The problem in Afghanistan is no different than those in Tibet and North East India. China is resolving the problem by diluting the indigenous population by mass immigration while the Indian army has been fighting for 50 years without resolution. Our soldiers will die in Afghanistan until we give up -- unless the West can devise a strategy to change Afghan culture. Unfortunately for the U.S. general, changing ancient cultures takes time and needs peace to develop infrastructures for education and transport.
(Ottawa Citizen, 12/10/09)
***
Breathing room
Re: "Alberta faces long road to clear $7B deficit;Top economist predicts province will continue struggling for five years," The Journal, Oct. 9.
While I have a great respect for the ability of economists to predict the future, I do not believe that putting Alberta's resource-based economy with low taxes in the same basket as Ontario's highly-taxed industrial economy makes sense. If the royalty situation does not improve in spite of higher oilsands production, Alberta has room to reinstate health-care premiums and introduce a sales tax; if deficits persist, they will not break the back of citizens.
Unfortunately, Ontario does not have additional tax capacity and will continue to suffer from deficits.
(Edmonton Journal, 11/10/09)
***
Emulate Ernie
Re: "Energy report finds power ratio at three times demand," and "More cracks in Tory club wall," Don Braid, Opinion, Oct. 7.
Enmax is in the business of supplying electricity and if they don't see the need for power lines, who will use them when they are built? It seems to me that the massive victory in the last election has gone to the heads of Ed Stelmach and his ministers, and whether it be health, power, royalties or education, they know it all and Albertans have to live with whatever they decide. It is time the Tory MLAs took a cue from Ernie Isley and bolted the party. There is no other way to bring these dictators to their senses.
(Calgary Herald, 08/10/09)
***

Speaking of disparities
According to the annual United Nations Human Development Report (Canada Ranks Fourth In Quality Of Life – online, Oct. 5), “these gains [by migrants] often directly benefit family members who stay behind as well as countries of origin indirectly.” I suggest that it is the educated and enterprising people who emigrate and that these direct gains do not make up for the contribution they would have made to the developing countries if they had stayed behind.
(Globe and Mail, 06/10/09)
***
Power’s the goal
Monte Solberg ("Elections are about issues, nor power," Sept. 15) is repeating the mantra of Preston Manning when he founded Reform. Whatever his pretension, Solberg knows elections decide who will wield the power and that discussion of how the important issues of the day would be tackled by different parties is important only because it helps voters make a choice. The solutions presented during the election are not binding and the winners often handle issues differently than they promise. The proper forum for discussion is Parliament, where issues are debated in every session, not the pressure cooker of elections. Elections are interesting because power is at stake -- power to deal with issues as much as the rewards of power, not because any party propounds novel solutions for issues of the day.
(Calgary Sun, 17/09/09)
***
Fix Bosco, don't close it
Re: "Youth home to shut down; Announcement comes three months after Bosco runaways charged in murders," The Journal, Sept. 10.
It must have taken a lot of public money to establish a facility like Bosco Homes. I can understand the concern over the circumstances that led to two youths being charged in connection with the deaths of two neighbouring residents.
Given our society's problems, troubled youths are not going to disappear and will need some place to stay where they can be treated for their problems. I would have thought that it would be better to fix the problems at Bosco Homes than to close the facility.
(Edmonton Journal, 9/11/09)
***
Emissions compromise
Re The Costs of Climate change (Sept. 7)
Both India and the developed countries have valid points. Blaming each other is not going to solve the problem. The solution may lie in setting emission standards based on either the population or the area of each country, or some combination of both. This way the developed countries will have to reduce their emissions while the developing countries will have an incentive to develop with efficient technology.
(Globe and Mail, 08/09/090
***

Self-defeating
Re: "NDP may try to keep Tories in power, party's national director says," Herald Online, Sept. 2.
The story makes it clear that Michael Ignatieff is barking up the wrong tree if he believes the NDP and the BQ will support him to bring down the Tories. These parties run their polls too, and they know when it will be in their particular interest to bring down the government. They will be in opposition whether it is Stephen Harper or Ignatieff who calls the shots. While it may not be critical for the BQ, it will be foolish for the NDP to bring down the government when Tory support is holding and the Liberals are ahead in the polls, mainly at the NDP's expense. Jack Layton may be a socialist, but he has no wish to commit political suicide.
(Calgary Herald, 05/09/09)
***

It is all in the lag
Since the Canadian economy suffered the least over the past year, it's to be expected that it has much less to recover than other developed economies (Canada To Lag G7 economies: OECD - online, Sept. 3). Therefore, rather than worrying over the lag, we should worry that other economies are not recovering faster and that the lag is not as large as it should be.
(Globe and Mail, 04/09/09)
***

Quantum of Energy

Two runners have died in marathon races in Alberta over last few days. One moment they were hurtling forwards as fast as they could manage, next moment they had collapsed and passed away. The medical examination revealed the malfunction of the organs in the bodies which resulted in unfortunate deaths. I suggest we need to look deeper to determine the true cause of the unfortunate incidents

According to ancient Hindu scriptures every living being has a soul which comes with a quota of energy to last his/her life time. The individual is, of course, at complete liberty to live in the way she/he fancies and to spend the quantum as he/she wishes. The size of quantum depends on the actions of the bodies in which that soul resided in the past lives; higher current station and bigger quantum are granted for good deeds in former lives, conversely selfish and cruel deeds beget lower form of life and small quantum. The soul becomes cooler as the quantum shrinks and freezes solid when the whole of it is spent and person’s living days in the current body are over. When the body is cremated the soul warms up and departs to its next abode where a new life begins with a fresh quantum, the size determined by gods based on their evaluation of the merits of the life lived. The scriptures do not say what happens to the soul if the body is buried. Presumably, the soul stays frozen till the day of Resurrection.

This idea has had a great impact on me personally. I am married to a much younger woman of a different faith. So much younger that her father accused me of cradle snatching when I asked for his approval of our marriage and we had to elope. I do not want to leave a young widow and two orphans behind and it is of utmost importance to conserve the quantum I still have. That is why I avoid physical work as much as possible, either in the office or at home. Pushing a pen and using the few brain cells do not consume much and my colleagues have the same attitude albeit for reasons of their own. It is at home where my ingenuity is tested. The family can’t be persuaded about the validity of Quantum theory of energy although they have no problem with much more complex theorems in quantum mechanics. The children want me to swim or play hockey with them, wife wants me to do chores which include hard physical work like loading the dishwasher, emptying the garbage bins, digging the flower beds and trimming the bushes. I do manage to get out of doing such exhausting activities once in a while by pretending tiredness but most of the time I have to do them to preserve peace in our humble abode. I carry the burden of anxiety about dwindling quantum on my own; no doubt a consequence of not leaving my meager possessions to a religious order in former life.

The impact of quantum idea on Hindu culture through the ages is immense. This is why Yoga is a low energy form of exercise and Indians do not train for physical fitness as hard as the men and women in other cultures do. Consequently, the Indian physique is generally small and Indians do not distinguish internationally in athletics or sports. That may be why the average life span in India is shorter than in the West: most of the Indians were not able to live a noble life due to prevailing poverty and the quantum of energy granted to them became progressively smaller with each successive generation. It may even explain the strange fact of Indian history: no foreign invader was ever defeated by the reigning Indian king of the day; his soldiers did not want to waste a part of their already small quantum in fighting. It is to be hoped that the economic growth of last few decades will enable many people to become philanthropic, return with bigger quantum in the next life and thus reverse the direction of the pendulum in a generation or two when the average quantum and the physique would grow to such an extent that the soldiers will be willing to spend a little of their precious energy to defend the country and athletes and sportspersons will not be sparing in training and win Olympic gold medals and World championships in sports. If in the process some of them exhaust their quantum prematurely and pass away, so be it.

Son’s Reconciliation

My family history is strange, even for someone born and brought up in India when it was the jewel of British empire. My mother was born in a landowning family. Although the only child, she was deprived of her inheritance because of her gender. My father, the son of a well-to-do civil servant, focused on sports and fun as a teenager and did not finish grade school. He was a debonair young man who won the heart of his fourteen year old cousin by uncle’s marriage who resisted all sane advice and insisted on marrying him. My mother loved him to her dying day although he never earned a rupee, never helped with the chores and left it to her to fend for the family. She did this by first selling her jewellery and silk sarees that came with her dowry, and when these ran out, begging from her mother and rich aunt at whose mansion she had met my father. I never heard a word of complaint from her mouth about my father’s inability to provide for the family. Her only comment was “at least he doesn’t drink or gamble.” She had a grade two education but loved to read whatever was available. A proud woman, she inculcated in her three sons a desire to do well. They worshipped her and spent their childhood years avoiding their father.

The motto of my life, even after he was long dead, was “not to be like my father.” He was a poor student, I worked hard to be the top in the class; he was a good sportsman, I avoided sports; he could spend the whole day apparently doing nothing, I had to be busy every second I was awake; he was religious, I became an atheist; he did not provide for his family, I worked long hours to make sure my wife and daughters got everything they needed to develop their talents, whether to become an Olympian or the respected professionals. Unlike my mother, I never had a good word for my father and never grasped what she saw in him. It took a long discussion on my childhood with a psychologist friend for me to start seeing him and his relationship with my mother in a new light. “He does not have any bad habits” meant that he respected my mother and never had a harsh word for her. It meant he was proud of her and their children and never uttered an unpleasant word about them outside the home. It also meant that he said his piece but left it to us to decide its worth. If I were to be honest, I could not claim any of the above.

During my visit to India last year I had several discussions about him with my brothers. One of them pointed out that social customs of the day prevented our father from doing menial jobs which would have reduced the ‘standing’ of the family in society, making it harder for the children to grow up to be successful. Similarly, my mother could not work as a maid or a cook without her sons ending up in menial jobs too. In any event, such jobs would not have provided the means family needed for anything but the most basic necessities. My uneducated mother understood these implications and wanted more, much more, for her sons than mere survival. She wanted them to grow up into adults others looked up to, not looked down upon as her rich cousins tended to do. Strange though it may seem, I chose to disregard this aspect till recently. It is now obvious to me that the dye was cast for my father in his teenage and for my mother at birth. Thanks to his upbringing by an alcoholic mother my father, who was a decade younger than his siblings, did not develop the confidence needed to run a business nor the personality to supervise people. My mother was of the wrong gender to inherit the wealth and status due to her but she retained a burning ambition to recover it through her progeny. It has taken me most of my years to appreciate what should have been clear long ago: It is to the immense credit of both my parents that they were able to hold the family together and maintain a respectable social status, whatever the emotional cost, for the sake of the future of their children. “Children is all we had” my mother said to me the last time we met before she passed away. I now realize that my father’s love for my mother - which she reciprocated fully - kept the family together and enabled us brothers to make the best of the genes we inherited. I owe a huge debt, not only to my mother which I always acknowledged, but also to my father who struggled with his inner demons in silence all his life. I so regret that it is now too late to tell him this realization in person.

Late Delivery

It was more than fifty years ago but I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was a delivery boy in India, delivering Times of India in my neighbourhood. The paper had to be on the doorstep by six otherwise the customer did not have to pay. I started at five and was back in bed by six. The money I made paid for the school fees. Life couldn’t be better.

Then a problem arose. One of my best customers was a tall Sikh gentleman of a princely bearing who was always dressed in spotless white and crisply ironed clothes, baggy cotton pants and the long shirt down to his knees. He wore a black turban with his beard held close to his face by bright black netting. He was respectfully addressed as Sardarji by all who knew him. He lived in one of the two adjacent bungalows on Subhash Road, his was elegant with freshly painted walls and clear glass windows with flowery curtains and the other was rather dilapidated with peeling paint and broken glass in the windows with no curtains. While collecting one evening, Sardarji, after giving me an extra rupee as usual, casually asked why his paper had not been arriving till seven. His query perplexed me. I had no answer and I don’t believe Sardarji expected any. However, I decided to make a note of the time of delivery every morning to present him the list at the next collection. I did not need to do it though; the problem was resolved in the most unexpected way.

A couple of days later I was running a little late, breakdown of old delivery truck or something like that, I don’t quite remember why. I carefully placed the paper at Sardarji’s door, walked back to the road and stopped to make note of the time. When I looked up Ramesh, a boy I knew vaguely, was closing the front door of the other bungalow, the paper I had just delivered tucked under his arm. I went back that evening and reported the incident. Sardarji called Ramesh who was playing cricket on the street with his playmates. He confirmed my findings, head bent and tears in his eyes.

Imagine my surprise when Sardarji did not scold the culprit. Instead, he said looking at me, “From tomorrow you deliver the paper at the door of Ramesh.” He then turned to the penitent, “Ramesh, the paper will be delivered to you as long as you make sure that it is at my door by six thirty. Now run up, your team is waiting for you.”

A few years later Sardarji was elected mayor of the town and when he died twenty years after the event I have related, thousands of people attended his funeral. Ramesh went on to attend the best medical college in the country on a full scholarship and his name is revered far and wide, not only for providing excellent medical care but also for helping the poor in many more ways.

Do we have to grow and die?

“Either we grow or we die” screamed the headline on Globe and Mail’s Report on Business section on September 11. The irony of the date notwithstanding, companies die even when they are growing. It happens for many reasons, most frequent being the debt they take on in the process of growth, sometimes they are growing in an industry which is becoming outdated as they all do sooner or later. Looking at it another way, uninterrupted growth for ever is not consistent with limited resources of the planet. At some point something has to give and if the current economic doctrines have their way it will be the life systems on the planet. We will all stop growing and therefore die.

It has been clear to many thinkers, even before the meltdown of 2008, that the economic model is faulty. One important fault is that the system requires vast majority of workers to do repetitive mind numbing work. The human race needs to cope with the stress they are under without going mad and without daily dose of drugs. It is only possible if they derive satisfaction from what they do in the process of making a living. In a system where most workers obtain satisfaction, emphasis would not be on more and more growth for more and more profit but on more and more enjoyment by more and more workers.

The industry needs capital to establish plants where widgets can be manufactured in large quantities. Capital justifiably demands its share of income from the production. An entrepreneur is needed to build the plant and he needs to make a profit from the production. If he needs to coax employees to do routine work in a joyless environment so be it. Mahatma Gandhi realized that conflict in employee employer interests sixty years ago when he advised Nehru that long term sustainable growth in India is only possible through cottage industry in every hut in every village. Nehru chose instead the path of industrialization. Sixty years after independence, the country has great economic growth which benefits top ten percent of the population while the majority suffers increasing destitution. Of course every one suffers from impure water and breathing air without even realizing it. Heavens forbid the global warming bringing a dry summer season: the country of more than a billion mostly underfed people will suffer famine on a scale never seen before.

Is it too late for us to change into a society where every individual is a craftsperson; where every adult produces what he/she enjoys making and therefore is good at and trades it for things he/she needs from people who can make it. Of course no one will make car or TV but then no one will spend a significant amount of time driving to work. One can’t watch the favourite program squeezed in between infernal ads for things one shouldn’t need but one can enjoy family and friends performing for their enjoyment. Of course, this is reverting to life as it used to be a few centuries ago when many people died young and most illnesses had no cure. But this assumes that our transformation will make us forget what we have learnt over the centuries. Perhaps the sophisticated medical care of today will not be available, but people will not forget the rules of hygiene and many drugs will still be available. No doubt life will be simple; it will also be less stressed and generally more enjoyable.

My primary concern is that seven billion and growing population of the planet can not consume at the rate a few million of us do and the rest want to. The gluttonous among us must consume less, much less, for an average human on the Earth to live in reasonable comfort. If we do so, the industry, instead of continuously growing, must shrink to a sustainable size which will, of course, be different for different communities. A less dense population like Canada could have some industrial production although on a much smaller scale than now and densely populated countries of Asia would have small scale cottage industries. This model sustained humans for millennia before industrialization began in eighteenth century. On the other hand, ever accelerating economic growth has brought us close to annihilation in less than three hundred years. Fortunately, we have a few decades to adjust to new/old reality. But to achieve this, our leaders will have to first appreciate and then promote the drastic changes required in our thinking process. This work will have to start soon; there is no time for dithering.

If humans don’t change the way they live, nature will do it for them. History has shown that Nature’s ways are cruel and drastic and it behooves us to take charge for the sake of our future generations.

An Atheist’s Prayer
Some people are addicted to drugs, some to caffein and a few to an artist, often obscure. The last variety travel all over the world, spend their last cent to see her work in an art gallery or the performance in a theatre or the opera house. Thanks to my lucky stars, I have no such addiction. Even if I had it, wife and the teenage children would have cured me of it. Dear reader, if I have given the impression that I am a strange bird with no addiction of any kind, I am sorry I misled you. I did not intend to and I will clear the false impression straight away. I have an addiction which is of a very rare kind. So rare in fact that no one has studied its causes, leave alone finding a cure. If you google it you may not find any entry for it.

Believe me; I am not making things up. Being an addict is nothing to be proud of and I am duly ashamed. But now that I have raised the ugly subject, I have to come clean about it. But please, do not tell any one about it. I do not want my family to find out any more than you would if you were so afflicted. My addiction is writing letters to the Editor of newspapers. I love to vent my opinions, rather than keep them to myself. What better way to have them out there than in a newspaper. I admit that not many people read the Letters to the Editor column, not unless they are addicts themselves, so the opinions do not get the exposure they deserve. Still, more people are likely to read it than a blog, at least mine. Moreover, seeing my opinion in print is such a thrill. It makes my day. I spend the day humming Bach and Purcell and not much gets done.

Caffeine addict has a problem: there are only so many Starbucks in town and you can go blocks without finding one. I have a similar dilemma. There are a dozen or so newspapers in Canada and some of them restrict letters from out-of-town contributors. As if that were not enough to send me in a coma, others limit the publication to a maximum of one in any period of thirty days. So if a letter was accepted on August 15, computer will send the following letters to delete bin till September 14. Neither quality nor the subject matters. I am free to spend an hour or two to write the letter, but sending it is an unnecessary work for the fingers. To minimize this effort, I keep a log of dates and place of letters which have made into print. The log tells me when the editor of a particular paper will accept my fulmination and I make sure she is not disappointed.

The reader will perhaps appreciate, though she may not sympathise, that the problems arise often. Most difficult to get over is the one when a letter by some ignoramus or a controversial piece by an ideologue columnist demands an answer and I have just the right one itching to get out of my head, on to my fingers and then to the computer screen. But the pesky editor just published my letter last week and the filter on his inbox is on. What do I do?

Not much, to be honest. Once in a while I put it down on the screen and then delete it. Some other times I keep it on file for future use. But most frequently I find some item in another newspaper to distract me. That was till yesterday. A column on the economic recovery, a subject close to my heart, riled me. The words, all two thousand of them, would have agitated any one who had been impoverished by the recent upheaval. I was furious. I sat down on the computer and the words poured out of my one neuron. Not two thousands, not two hundred even; just fifty. But I am not verbose. I can express complex thoughts in a few succinct words. That is why the editors welcome my letters when they arrive precisely thirty days after the last one. These fifty words did what I intended. They proved the writer wrong and pointed to the true state of affairs. I loved what was on the screen. I moved the cursor to SEND and a mere nanosecond before the click my neuron thudded back to Earth. It was too soon and the letter in its current form was destined for the delete bin no matter how good and timely it may be.

The neuron started circling in the space and generating ideas: expand the letter into a proper response which can be a column on its own; stop being an egotist and forget about it, save it for later use, send it to some other paper and then – Eureka: Change the name of sender. If I imaginatively changed the address and other details and sent it from the daughter’s post, editor will never know. No sooner thought than done. As the sages said - one who hesitates is lost. In a few seconds the letters was on its way with a fictitious writer, address and phone number. Then I got a shock. I discovered that one who hurries can be lost too. Out of curiosity, I looked to see what the sent file looked like. On the top was my daughter’s name and email address, on the bottom a different name with a strange address. Now the neuron was really working. Will the editor notice the difference and start checking? The name and address together with the style of writing could lead a suspicious person to me. Worse, he could publish the letter with daughter’s name. That will make her furious. She is an economist with her own opinions which are quite different than mine. I could visualise her in the form of goddess Kali with the hood of vicious cobras devouring a devil who pretended to be her father. If an atheist could pray, I would have, “Please Almighty, make the letter disappear – if not from editor’s screen then from the newspaper – and if not even that, at least from the copy delivered to my beloved daughter.” But being true to my lifelong belief I could not have the consolation of prayer. Therefore, I had nightmares all night. Goddess Kali appeared in different forms – tiger one time, lion the other, finally as an eagle with a beak one foot long and devoured me with relish. It is a compliment to my innate courage that I did not scream. It helped that the dear wife was really tired after a long hike in the mountains and in no shape to notice any sound coming from me.

I was up at dawn to check whether the newspaper had been delivered. It had not been. I sat just inside the door and waited. I must have dozed off because the thud of a missile landing on the door step felt like a rock had hit my head. I rushed out, tore two pages while pulling out the rubber band and turned to the Opinion Page. I looked from top to bottom, looked again, once more for the third time to be totally certain. Then I breathed. The atheist’s God had felt His devotee’s silent prayers. The letter had vanished at some stage between my computer and printed page. I didn’t really care where.

Return of the Native.

I had a hard time when I immigrated from India. Driving on the wrong side of the road was a simple matter compared to coping with freezing weather and all that goes with it. But I was young and hot-blooded, fell in love and married Monika, a wonderful local girl. Before I knew it, she was training me. I learnt to enjoy the fine points of bland Western food and to honour her wishes unlike in India where a wife anticipates her husband’s whims and fulfills them before they are expressed. Our holidays were to exotic places on this continent and rarely did I go ‘home’ to see my family.

Last time Monika and I were in India was five years ago. It was past midnight when we arrived at my brother’s home and after a drink of hot creamy milk we hit the comfortable bed under the canopy of a mosquito net. Sleep was not in the cards though. Noise of continuous traffic in which blowing the horn every ten seconds is de rigueur, recorded prayers blaring on a microphone in the nearby temple, call of a muezzin, again on the microphone, in a mosque across the main road are not conducive to a restful slumber. Fortunately we got used to it in a couple of days.

A tropical travel specialist in Calgary had prescribed a number of pills to be taken daily and some others as required. The need arose two days after arrival. Monika was attacked by Delhi Belly – diarrhea by its Western name. When pills did not help she started the course of antibiotics. After two days she could keep the delicious food in again and we breathed sighs of relief. A little too soon, as it turned out. At the breakfast table the next morning, I coughed gently with a handkerchief on my mouth. Every one noticed it and a barrage of questions were let loose.
“Do you have phlegm?” asked brother Vijay.
“Did you cough in the night?” asked sister-in-law Nirusha.
“Were you cold in the night?” asked niece Kamala.
Nephew’s wife Manju shot the final arrow, “Did you sit under the A.C. vent on the airplane?”
Monika, a real doctor and most concerned with the health of her only husband, tried to interject but no one let her. They did not listen to my replies either. Vijay rushed to a cabinet and returned with a musty old bottle and shoved in my mouth a tea spoon full of green syrup spilling some on my sparkling white new kurta (long shirt). He did not notice the spill and confidently assured every one “His cough will be gone in ten minutes.” Nirusha went to the kitchen and brought an Ayurvedic powder wrapped in a brown paper and a bowl of tomato soup with a liberal sprinkling of black pepper. “Take these” she commanded and assured all who would listen, “The cough will be gone in ten minutes.” Kamala produced a yellow tablet from her handbag and handed it to me, “I took this last week and my cough was gone in ten minutes.” Manju watched me consume all this medication and thankfully did not produce any herself. But she did offer this bit of advice, “Stay in bed and drink a lot of sweet chai with cardamom. The cold will be gone by the evening.” Her prescription seemed to me the most attractive because duration of her treatment was a shade less unrealistic than that of the others.

Monika watched in consternation as I consumed all the offerings and prepared to stretch on the sofa with a cup of prescribed chai. The doctor was the only one who thought that the much ballyhooed cough was merely a sneeze and was nothing to worry about.

I later discovered that the duration of every event in Delhi is ten minutes whether it is a two hour drive to visit the relatives at the other end of the city or an hour wait for a visitor who announced his imminent arrival on the ‘mobile’. As for my illness, every one turned out to be wrong though no one admitted it. It was indeed the cough but it took much longer than ten minutes to go away. In spite of gaining several inches around my waistline due to the consumption of syrups, pills, powders, gels, soups, teas and miscellaneous brews, the cough persisted during the whole stay in Delhi and left only when the dusty grimy air of India’s bustling capital city was a memory.

Seven Letters

Hunt adults

Sign on a forestry trail: No hunting children.
(Globe and Mail, 18/08/09)
***

Farms before oil

Re: "Alberta drought worst since 1930s," The Journal, Aug. 9.
It may or may not be global warming-- after all, it was not thought to be global in the Dirty Thirties.
But overall indications are that the current warming is global, and carbon-dioxide emissions are behind it.
Then why does our government not pay more attention to the problems we are facing now?Is the extraction of oil for American markets more profitable than the farm products?
The farms will produce forever if allowed to, but the oil will run out some day.
Humans need to eat, and they can't eat oil.
(Edmonton Journal. 11/08/090
***

Changing courses

Why are college students like old rivers?
Because they are always changing courses.
(Globe and Mail, 07/08/09)
***

MEMORIAL DRIVE HEADACHE

Although Rick Bell (City urged to go with the flow, Aug. 1) has a point, the problem here is Memorial Drive has become a major artery rather than the pleasant drive along the river it once was. The cyclists need room over weekends, residents need rest from week's traffic noise and drivers need to get from Crowchild Trail to Deerfoot Trail or the zoo or the their homes in the East Calgary. There is no solution other than convincing people to take public transit. But it costs money to have a decent transit system which we can't afford. Rick is right -- such inconveniences will grow until the city stops growing. For many of us it can't be too soon.
(Calgary Sun, 06/08/09)

Is United Church Antisemitic?

I suggest that if rest of the world let Israelis and Palestinians sort their problems out by themselves, they will reach a solution before too long. It is the interference of the well-wishers abroad: Islamic countries in the Middle East for Palestinians and the Western governments and Jewish sympathizers for Israel who prolong the conflict. If the United Church and other do-gooders minded their own business and let others mind theirs, the conflicts will be resolved by the parties themselves and wars, if any, will be short-lived and less destructive. (As submitted)
(National Post, 06/08/09)


Two-way street

Re: “cyclists dial up dread when motorists use cellphones.” Letter, July 31.
There have been occasions when I was not considerate enough for cyclists while driving, but there have been occasions too when cyclists were riding without warning gear in dark clothes on dark streets, sometimes in double file. The cyclists have to realize their vulnerability and take precautions with their equipment as well as in their riding habits. This does not remove primary responsibility from the motorists, but dear cyclists, if you help them see you, it might save you from injury some day.
(Calgary Herald, 04/08/09)
***
Celtic dilemma

Economist Glen Hodgson (A Celtic tiger stumbles and falls – July 31) unwittingly shows the dilemma that Western economies face. On the one side is to retain lower taxes, one of “the underlying reasons for the 20-year foreign investment boom’ in Ireland and the need to deal with “the huge stack of non-performing mortgages.” On the other is the need to bring government’s budget under control by reducing spending and increasing taxes.
There is no quick prescription for reconciling the two sides of the equation, and that is why the western economies will sputter for a while longer.
(Globe and Mail, 01.08.09)

In the Shadow of a Giant

1

I lived in his shadow most of my life. He basked in the glow of fame while I composed in almost complete anonymity what came out of my soul. No one cared for my music except for a few friends who listened to what I played and sang and who played and sang what I wrote for them. Outside this small circle, no one knew Franz Peter Schubert or his music. They were too busy listening to Ludwig van Beethoven, praising him to the skies or attacking him as a vain composer who composed incomprehensible unplayable music. Herr van Beethoven could take the praise as nonchalantly as the criticism. He told them, “I put down on paper what my God tells me and God does not care for what a poor fiddler can or can not play.”

Herr van Beethoven came to Vienna to learn composition from the masters. But none could satisfy him. Mozart, Haydn, Salieri, they were in awe of young Ludwig’s genius and there was nothing they could teach him. He did not hide his contempt for them, said their art was for the dying eighteenth century, not for the new century waiting in the wings. Music of the nineteenth century shall have emotion and melody of course, but it will also have passion and it will be full of surprises. It will be as fresh after years of performing and listening as it would be the first time. Not only will it touch heart strings, it will raise the spirits, rouse the patriotism of oppressed people and make the weak feel strong. Old masters did not understand how music could do all this and the young genius did not understand why it would not.

It took a while for young Ludwig to make his mark. But he did make his mark. People flocked to his concerts, to listen to him playing his piano sonatas and concertos, to listen to his trios, quartets and symphonies and the nobility showered him with commissions and invitations to play his chamber works, not when they were dining as they did for other musicians but when they were paying full attention. Proud Ludwig entered the palace from the front door not through servants’ entrance as Haydn used to and was announced by the butler with his full name with due emphasis on van. He discoursed with the counts as their equal and no one dared to keep him waiting without a reasonable excuse. Before long he was being offered commissions from all over Europe and travelers to Vienna made special efforts just to be able to see the great man.

Three years leading to 1809 were difficult in Vienna. Napoleon was the hero of common folks and many in the arts community adored him. It was rumoured that Herr van Beethoven had composed a special symphony, the longest any one had ever contemplated, and dedicated it to the French Emperor. However, without any provocation, the French marched into defenceless Vienna. This wanton aggression so angered the great composer that he scratched the dedication from the manuscript. When calm had returned to the city, the work was premiered with no dedicatee. The overflowing hall was stunned with the work in which passion was paramount. The applause after each movement was deafening and so long that it took two hours to finish playing it and some parts of the advertised program had to be omitted. The music raised the spirit of Viennese people who felt that the end of misery was not far off.

As a young singer in Royal Boys’ Choir, I heard these and other stories of young Ludwig who soon became Herr van Beethoven. Of course I took the opportunity to study his eight symphonies, five piano concertos and countless works for solo piano and chamber groups. I was amazed at the novelty of the music, it was so different than the music of Mozart and Haydn we were told to emulate. When I was fifteen, famous composer and teacher Antonio Salieri heard some songs and two symphonies I had composed for the young musicians of the school. These works were in traditional style and the master was so impressed that he offered me free lessons in composition. I was grateful and learned much from him. About this time Herr van Beethoven asked Master Salieri for advice on his opera but disregarded it when it was offered. Naturally my master was upset and I was too when I heard of such intransigence. However, when I had the good fortune of seeing the opera performed I fell under the spell of Herr van Beethoven for the second time and this time it was for good.

During my teen years I set numerous songs by Goethe, Klopstock and Heine for me to sing and play with my friends in the school and in their homes. Since I was not composing for any temperamental diva, I gave as much prominence to the piano as to the singer which was not customary. We had great fun with the friends standing around with me at the piano and singing from the music sheet even before the ink was dry. I also composed pieces for solo piano and loved playing them in private soirees but it never occurred to me that they were worthy of being played in public. I was afraid that they would be compared with the works of Herr van Beethoven and found wanting. However, I did not destroy any music; I stored everything I composed in a steel trunk.

2

1815 was the year when I started my first and only job as an assistant to my father who was a teacher. I was an unprepossessing eighteen years old, shorter and wider than almost everybody. I hated the job from the moment I first walked in front of the students. The boys were noisy and I was too gentle to bring peace to the room by punishing them. I was glad at the end of the day when the boys rushed out of the room. I would sit in the silent room for a while to recover my composure before dragging myself to my tiny apartment. I would open the door and there stood the piano waiting for me. I would sit on the stool, caressing the keys as if they were the body of a young woman. Then a melody would spring in my mind as if from nowhere. Sometimes the melody was related to a poem I had read and was moved by, other times it was on its own. I would play it, go where it took me and forget the school, the children, the tired limbs. When I had done all that could be done with the melody, I would jot the whole thing down. Many of them stayed there, scribbles on pieces of paper, never to become music, to stir the imagination, to play on the heartstrings, to move the spirits.

Next few years were difficult for Herr van Beethoven. He suffered from poor health, lost all of his hearing and had problems with the family on his brother’s death. There was a long drawn out legal case before he got custody of his nephew. It is amazing that in spite of so many problems he got any work done at all. He composed a great piano sonata and a Mass and was rumoured to be drawing sketches for what would be the greatest symphony of all times. He attended soirees whenever he could and I had the good fortune of watching him from a distance. I was too shy to introduce myself to this great man.

I was working steadily all these years and storing the compositions in my trunk. I set hundreds of songs to music, composed piano sonatas, lyrical quartets for my friends sometimes using the melodies from songs. Good old Paumgartner. He heard me play the song I called Trout and immediately commissioned me to write a piano quintet. I didn’t even know what to charge him. It took me a few weeks to compose it and he was very pleased with it. Soon after, Royal Opera commissioned me to write a heroic opera. I worked on it for a year but the House ran into financial difficulties and it was never performed. Over the next few years I wrote 17 operas, none with any success.

It was at this time my music received some notice. My songs, for one or more singers, were in demand, as were my piano works for two or four hands. I was even being hailed as Prince of Song in some circles. But there was a thought growing in my head. Vienna will need a musician to look up to if something were to happen to Herr van Beethoven. Why can’t he be Franz Schubert? I knew the answer. Great composers write great symphonies, concertos, operas. You are not recognized as great for writing lieder and music for drawing rooms howsoever artistic it is. To graduate from the Prince of Song to King of Music, I must write successful operas, symphonies, and of course serious artistic chamber music for Schuppenzigh to perform in his concerts, just not simple pleasant sounding pieces for amateurs to play in informal gatherings.

These thoughts inspired me to write two symphonic works. They were longer than half hour each and much better developed than six such pieces I had composed in my teens for the conservatory orchestra. But I needed some worthy opinion and after wavering for several weeks I gathered the two symphonies and some piano music and walked over to the home of the greatest symphonist of them all, Herr van Beethoven. Unfortunately, the great man was out for a walk and the maid could not say when he would return. I left one symphony and the piano music with a note signed “your humble admirer, Franz Schubert” and rushed out breathing only when I had stepped on the street.

3

It must have been January 1823 when I read the poem “The Beautiful Daughter of the Miller.” I felt the tragedy of the rejected lover of the maid, after all rejection by the other sex has been my fate too. The poem buzzed in my head day and night. I dreamt of the daughter, of the stream, of the lover. I saw my lifeless body floating in the cold stream and, strangely, felt good about it. I was so occupied by the poem that I couldn’t play the piano, did not even eat many evenings. I walked aimlessly along the Danube, in the Prater, on the streets often colliding with people I did not see. Fortunately, the spell was broken one evening when I was resting on a bench under a linden tree. The gentle perfumed breeze had a calming effect and I must have dozed off. When I woke up, I must have had a smile on my face. My head was not buzzing with the words; instead it was playing the music to go with them. I sat there till the whole poem was played out in my mind. Then I rushed home and put the music down on paper. I did not need to play it; the perfect match of the music and the words was crystal clear. As soon as the last note hit the paper, I felt hungry for the first time in weeks. I picked up a large sausage and sauerkraut from a stall and after the dinner had the most refreshing sleep for a long while.

In the spring of the following year Vienna was in a state of great excitement. Herr van Beethoven was preparing for the performance of his latest symphony and had booked Karntnertor theater. It was a huge work, needing a large orchestra and a larger choir with four soloist singers. People had hard time believing it. What was the great man doing, booking the opera house for a concert? Was he putting on an opera or a concert? What is more, he was planning to conduct the vast forces on the stage himself although he was known to be almost deaf and had not appeared on the stage for twelve years. The word had leaked out that Schiller’s great poem was set to even greater music with all these people on stage ready to bring the heavens down; may be raise us all to heaven. There were no tickets to be had, for love or money. I managed to get one only due to the kindness of Schuppanzigh who was organizing the concert for Herr van Beethoven.

The rumours of all sorts swirled round the city. The time was going fast and it was being said that there were problems in putting together the choirs and orchestra in numbers demanded by Herr van Beethoven. The whole city breathed a sigh of relief when the performers were engaged but there was time for only two rehearsals. What Schuppanzigh told me later really shocked me. It became clear to him during the first rehearsal that the deaf maestro could not really hold the orchestra and choir together. With great difficulty he persuaded Herr van Beethoven to let Kapellmeister of Karntnertor theater Michael Umlauf share the stage. He then instructed the performers to follow the Kapellmeister during the performance and ignore Herr van Beethoven altogether.

On May 7 the Karntnerstrasse and other streets in the area were packed with carriages of the nobility. Ladies, resplendent in silk gowns and diamond necklaces, had to alight from their carriages some distance from the hall and walk to the theatre on the arms of their escorts. Every seat in the hall was occupied several minutes before the concert was due to start. The loud cheer broke out when it was announced that the performance will start with the Consecration of the House Overture to be followed by first three parts of another new work, Missa Solemnis to be followed by a new form of symphony. I noticed the Kapellmeister with the music on the lectern in front of him. He was standing among the violins partly hidden from the audience. Suddenly the orchestra stopped practicing and an expectant hush settled over the hall. Herr van Beethoven walked to the stage as serious as ever and faced the players. He mumbled something to them and raised his arm.

Many in the audience were familiar with the Overture and there was only a mild interest in their performance and a little more than polite applause. Missa Solemnis received much better reception but the audience was there for the symphony. Therefore, thunderous cheers greeted Vienna’s greatest composer when he returned to the stage to conduct it. He could not have heard them but he felt the vibrations and bowed stiffly a few times. Then he turned to face the orchestra and my heart jumped with the first barely audible notes from violins and horns. Then the orchestra exploded into a burst of activity. It was as if the creator, after a long period of meditation, has come alive and started the work of creating the universe. For the first three movements the music continued in this vein. Although it seemed repetitious at times, it was always pleasant to the ear and must have been challenging to a serious listener. Then the fourth movement began with the recapitulation of first three and the bass telling the audience to forget what has gone on before, the music had to tell us something new. Indeed it was. The drudgery of work of creation was over; it was the time to celebrate the greatness of human spirit, now and for the eternity to come. The audience jumped up as the last note sounded and the ovation was deafening. The great man stood still facing the performers till the soprano turned him around to face the cheering mass.

The premiere was followed by another performance a few days later. Most of the nobility had left for summer palaces and the hall was no more than half full. Still, Schuppanzigh told me that it was a great performance and pleased Herr van Beethoven.

4.

Vienna gradually returned to normal. I never received a note from Herr van Beethoven regarding the music I had left with his maid. It did not surprise me considering how busy he must have been. One evening I ran into Schuppanzigh on my way to the tavern. He looked unusually cheerful. He shook my hand heartily and asked, “Haven’t seen you for a while. What are you working on these days? It is time you moved up to some large scale work.”
“The performance inspired me and I agree with you. I have some ideas about a new symphony. I had left two full symphonies with Herr van Beethoven and was hoping his comments will give me some direction,” I replied.
“I don’t think you should wait for him. He is very busy with some quartets he has been commissioned to write. Dear Franz, if you want to be worshipped in Vienna there are only two ways for a composer of your genius. Either write operas like Rossini or orchestral works like Beethoven. You know from your own experience how hard it is to get an impresario to accept a German opera, doesn’t matter how good it is. That leaves great orchestral works; symphonies, concertos, may be a mass or two. You can do these better than any one else in Vienna if you put your mind to it. I will make you a promise. If you get busy and put enough music together I will arrange a benefit concert of your music. It would acquaint Viennese with your talents as well as bring in some cash. Think about it. You know how to get hold of me.” With that advice, the celebrated violinist waved goodbye, crossed the street and walked towards Karntnerstrasse.

I decided to work on a symphony. But first I had to clear my mind of the clutter of all the ideas for other works. Over next eighteen months I composed a song cycle from the poems of Muller, an Octet, a string quartet, arpeggione sonata and a piano sonata among other works. Symphony was not forgotten though. In the autumn two years after the Choral Ninth, ideas gelled for a four movement classical symphony. Counting the ones I wrote at Imperial Seminary and the two I had left with Herr van Beethoven it would be ninth. It would be melodic, it would have movement, it would be thrilling. What is more, people will hum and whistle the tunes. Over the next six months I wrote the whole work including the orchestration. For a diversion, I wrote a quartet based on the theme from the setting for a song “Death of the Maiden” I had worked on a while back. I liked the symphony. It was in C major. It was melodious; it had excitement and joy oozed out of every note. I made a copy and sent it to the Society of the Friends of Music.

The spring arrived early in Vienna in 1827. Or that is how it seemed to me because the performances of my songs and piano pieces were being received well by the Viennese. Then the bombshell dropped. I heard someone say that Herr van Beethoven was very ill. I made haste to his lodging. There was a crowd of well-wishers in the courtyard and I joined them. I did not think that the last moments of this great man should be wasted on someone like me and did not make any effort to see him to pay personal homage. It was quite late when the word came that his condition was stabilizing. The crowd thinned out and I sat down on a bench with my head in my hands, “What will happen to music now that the greatest of them all is on his deathbed?” “I still hope to be able to make something of myself, but who can do anything after Beethoven?” My thoughts were confused. Then I felt an arm around my shoulders. It was Schindler. He had a folder in his hands. I recognized it straight away – the one I had left with the maid for the master. He had tears in his eyes, “For last year or two Beethoven has been asking, ‘What will happen to music after me, where is the successor?’ I called on him one morning last week. He was shuffling through pages of music looking perplexed. He did not notice me and continued his study. Then he got up and played some notes on his special piano. He turned around, saw me and a sigh escaped his lips, ‘Schindler, at last a successor.’ He instructed me to make sure that the music got back to you when he was finished with it. I don’t believe he will look at any music again.” Tears flowed freely from our eyes. When we had collected ourselves I took the folder. I seemed much thinner than I remembered it to have been but I did not say anything. “At last a successor”, the words of the master were spinning round my head with a ferocity that made the loss of music irrelevant.

Next day, March 26 1827, Ludwig van Beethoven, who had defied authority as a citizen and the convention as a musician, passed away with a gesture of defiance. In spite of thunder and lightening, the crowds gathered in the courtyard and the streets to pay last respects to their hero. However, it was bright sunshine when the huge procession followed him to the cemetery three days later. I had the honour of being one of the pall bearers.

5

Vienna recovered from the loss and the wheel of life resumed its normal pace. I set about composing driven by the urge to live up to the master’s words. I was thrilled to hear that the Society had accepted my symphony for performance. “My day has arrived at last” I thought. But it was not to be. The orchestra rehearsed it and decided that the work was too difficult for an orchestra to play. They sent it back to me with regrets suggesting that if I made it easier to perform they would consider it again. I was shocked. My headaches, which had resumed a week earlier, became worse. Whole of my body ached and I felt feverish. I could not eat. I felt weak and my clothes hung loose. There was some good news though. Schuppanzigh sent a note saying that he had booked Theater an der Wien for March 26 for my benefit concert and was gathering the performers. The irony of the date, the first anniversary of the death of the great man hit me straight away. I did not feel well enough to revise the symphony for that day; in any event it would be too expensive to perform without any patronage.

The concert was a big success with the public as well as the critics even without the symphony. This encouraged me. Over the summer I was busy composing. I completed the revision of the symphony, set to music two groups of songs, most of them poems of Heine and Muller, and sketched another symphony. The autumn was beautiful. I joined some friends on a walking holiday to Eisenstaedt. However, after we had visited the grave of another master, the opposite personality of my hero Beethoven, that unique genius Haydn, the headaches of a couple of years ago returned with great ferocity and I had to cut the visit short. Back in Vienna I developed a fever and lay in bed muttering to Ferdinand, my dear brother, “Ferdinand, you are so kind to me. I do hope that the fever will go away as it did last time. If it does not and my life were to end, I would be so sorry I did not live up to my hero’s expectations. I am not worried about what will happen to music after my death. After all is said and done though, music is greater than an individual, howsoever talented. It is a reflection of human spirit. Like all true Art, it will prosper as long as the human spirit is alive. Oh Ferdinand! The pain is too much to bear. Oh my head! It is exploding.” I closed my eyes tighter but the pain did not go away. Then my whole life passed before my eyes.

Thanks for your interest. Next entry: First week of September, 2009.