Feeding the Hungry Passengers

My four year old sister and I live in Santa Cruz, California with our Momma. We like Santa Cruz because it is on the ocean and nice and warm all year round. We love going to the beach to swim and watch the whales. When we want to cool down and need a change from the beach and the ocean, we go to visit our Grammy and Grampi. They live in Calgary which is in Canada and next to the Rocky Mountains. It is cold in Calgary and even the rain in summer is cold. But it is a great change for us. Grammy and Grampi spoil us. They take us to the mountains where we walk around a beautiful lake, swim in the hot pool and picnic next to the river. We see elks, marmots and mountain goats, the animals we don't have in Santa Cruz. We love going to the zoo where we play on the swings and to the Dinosaur museum in Drumheller where we picnic in the Badlands and play for hours in the kids' playground next to the museum. We do go inside the museum for a short time where huge stuffed dinosaur models scare us so much that we cling to Grammy and Grampi.

On our last visit to Calgary Momma spent only two days there and returned to Santa Cruz leaving us behind for another week. Grampi drove Momma, me and Asha to the airport. I do not know why, but on the way to the airport Asha started crying with tears as big as dinosaurs running down her cheeks and asking in a heart-rending voice, "Momma, don't go." Nothing that Momma and I could say or do made her feel any better. Grampi even promised to take us to the Heritage Park but Asha did not calm down a bit.

On the airport Asha tightly hugged Momma and won't let her leave. Momma and Grampi said all the consoling things they could think of but Asha was inconsolable. Poor Momma, she had to clench her teeth and forcibly loosen Asha's grip to get away. Her cries became even louder and more pitiful as Grampi drove off.

Grampi asked me to sing Asha's favourite song “We love Grammy” and tell her the story of Little Black Sambo. But she very rudely told me to shut up. My feelings were hurt. Now I was losing patience and my head was starting to hurt. Then the miracle happened, as it usually does when one of us is so very sad.

A plane came flying overhead so low that it may have touched the roof of our car. Grampi asked Asha, "Did you see the plane approaching our car?"
"Yes s s s s" she replied in sobs.
"Did you see it go across our car?"
"No o o o o" She said sobbing a little less.
"Kahlo, did you see the plane cross our car?" Grampi asked me.
"No," I said lying; sure that Grampi was up to one of his tricks.
"I did not see either," Grampi said and added, "Wonder if it landed on the roof of our car. Asha, can you feel it in how the car is moving?"
"No o o o o, the car is a bit slower though," Asha whimpered.
"Asha, the plane has landed on our car. I even heard the thud. Lucky this is a big car. A small car would have been squished," I contributed my share.
"I am not going to stop to check up. If I do that the car may not move again. We will go home, let the passengers down and call the airline," Grampi said.

This captured Asha's imagination. She piped in, not crying any more "Grampi, they will be hungry, we will have to give them lunch."
"What a great idea. It so happens that Grammy did a big shop yesterday and she got a humongous bag of pasta. We also have a lot of leftover curry. I am sure she can whip up a nice lunch by the time they all come down from the plane," Grampy replied.
"Grammy can do anything," I agreed and asked, "Grampi, how many passengers are there on the plane?"
"Asha, what do you think?" Grampi deflected the question.
"Hundred, two hundred, nine hundred," Asha answered in the count of a four year old.
"The plane was probably full the way car is feeling to me. That means one hundred and twenty people including pilots and hostesses," Grampi guessed, then asked, "How many children do you think?"
"Fifty!" I ventured.
"Sixty, eighty, two hundred," Asha returned.
"Twenty boys and thirty girls, I think," Grampi said and asked, "How many will have pasta and how many curry, what do you guess, Asha?"
I butted in, "Curry for adults, pasta for kids."
Asha started to whimper, "Grampi asked me Kahlo."
Grampi's anxiety level shot up and he quickly intervened, "Kahlo, let Asha answer. Asha tell us what every body will want to eat?"
"Girls will have pasta, boys curry and grownups nothing," Asha was more realistic.
"Well, grownups will have whatever is left," Grampi said and asked again, "What will the kids drink?"
"Girls will have juice, boys water," Asha said in the tone of a fair minded teacher.
"That seems reasonable to me," Grampi said agreeing with Asha again and turning the car on to the driveway. "Girls, get out and help me with the ladder to let the passengers down," Grampi instructed us with the authority of someone in control of a nasty situation.

Asha was first out of the car. She looked up and screamed, "There is no plane!"
"It must have taken off again," I said smiling.
"Yes, it must have taken off again," Asha repeated.
"Wonder why I did not feel the car becoming lighter?" Grampi asked.
"You were too busy counting," Asha replied and we ran inside laughing.

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Affair with Wife's Best Friend

“Oh God, how will I get to church?” Deb exclaimed when she raised the blind and looked out from the frosted window of the bed room. It was almost nine. The ground had a thick covering of snow that would make the roads slippery; downright treacherous at intersections, particularly for her small car. But she had to go to church; the husband of Freda was giving the sermon. Norman was a lay preacher and needed as many friends as possible in the congregation. Her presence at the church was especially important because Freda was probably her best friend, probably because Deb had a lot of good friends and it was hard to say who stood where in the hierarchy. In any event Freda was one of a number near the top.

Ravi, Deb’s husband of forty years, trusted neither her driving nor her car on slippery roads; there was no good game on TV anyway. Therefore, he offered to drive her to the church. Deb could not believe her ears. Ravi was a devout atheist who argued against a Superpower till cows came home. Why would he drive her to the place where she would worship One he did not believe existed? Still, she was more than a little nervous of driving her little Prius in bad weather and was happy at the prospect of a safe ride in the SUV with four wheel drive that was her husband’s pride and joy.

Ravi and Deb form an unusual couple. He is convinced that life has no continuation after death; no reincarnation believed by his parents, no Last Judgment believed by his dearest wife. “Once you are dead you are dead’ is the phrase he throws out when some one even vaguely mentions the possibility of the consequences of worldly deeds in the afterlife. Most of their friends considered him a fairly decent man and thought he had nothing to worry about. But not Deb. She believed that unless he was saved by the Son who gave his life on the cross for this purpose, they were destined to have separate abodes in the next world. She often tried to talk him into giving at least a minimal consideration to her faith but, while considerate in every other matter, his ears were plugged against the matter which was becoming increasingly urgent to her as they grew older.

No wonder Deb asked Ravi what he was doing when he did not drive to the front door to let her out of the car but headed for the parking lot. After opening the door and helping her out of the unusually high car seat he did not let go of her hand and walked down with her to the church hall, nodding pleasantly to the members of the welcome committee. Deb wondered whether her entreaties were bearing fruit and her beloved husband was beginning to transfer some of his respect for her views on matters of finance to her concern of his disrespect for the Creator. This was not the time to discuss the issue though, much less gloat. She did give his hand a loving squeeze as they sat down on the front pew.

Ravi had not been to a church since their wedding long long time ago. The ceremony of the service amused him at first. By the time the pastor got up to deliver the sermon his mind had begun to wander. However, the booming voice from the lectern brought him back into the dimly lit holy building with ornate walls and coloured glass windows with gaudy devotional graphics. Pastor was relating the story of an evil man who had an affair with the best friend of his wife. When the affair ended in misery for all concerned, he saw the light of the day, apologized profusely and asked for forgiveness. Lo and behold; he was saved, not only from his wife’s wrath but also from the consequences of his sins by the Saviour in Heaven.

Freda was well aware of Ravi’s views on religion and quite pleased to see him in the congregation. She invited them to accompany her to the pastor’s office for coffee with Norman. She handed him a plastic cup of Kona coffee with a drop of cream and loaded with sugar to suit his taste and said, “Norman and I are so happy to see you in the House of God. I hope you found the service interesting.”
“Yes indeed, particularly the sermon,” Ravi replied.
“I helped Norman with it. God looks after his flock, even the sinners. More particularly the sinners; they need more tender care. What can be more sinful than betraying your wife’s confidence with her best friend? Yet, merciful God saved him because he asked for forgiveness.”
Ravi said with a smirk, “I did find the affair with wife’s best friend most interesting. It is something I could indulge in, only if I could identify who the lucky woman is. Freda you must help me find her. It will be the first stage of my salvation.”
Unbeknown to Ravi Norman was not known for his sense of humour. He did not like this tongue in cheek response and said with due indignation, “You are mistaken in your interpretation of the sermon and even more mistaken if you think Freda will help you in what is sinful to think of leave alone indulge in, as you put it. It will be much easier if you asked for forgiveness for the sins you have already committed rather than contemplate new ones. If you will excuse us, Freda and I have some other matters to attend to.”

Deb did not like being bundled unceremoniously out of the office. Ravi apologized to her for trying to be funny when it was most inappropriate. Deb had suffered through his tactlessness before but not easily. However, she was in a generous mood and decided to let the matter slip. She left it for later to ask Ravi whether he would set up a dinner date for her with his best friend.

Ravi was no longer the age to have an affair, although the thought of being held tight by a warm body on a cold afternoon was pleasant to contemplate. But there were several problems. To begin with, how could he ascertain who the best friend is? There were many claimants but why would they indulge a short, fat, bald, brownie with a quirky sense of humour. Then there was the prospect of asking Deb’s forgiveness when the affair was discovered as it would be sooner rather than later. Deb was a kind person and forgiving too so long as the sin was minor. An affair, particularly with her friend, good, better or best is immaterial, is not a forgivable sin in her book and if she doesn’t forgive why would her Saviour help someone who has contested His existence all his life and now gone out of his way to hurt His devotee’s feelings?

After musing for a while Ravi reached a sensible conclusion, “No, this will not work. Why bother. Deb is the best there is and foolish though I may be, I am not fool enough to risk losing Deb.” No first step of the two-step redemption for this sinner.

Notwithstanding Ravi’s new found wisdom, Deb found a plausible excuse when Freda invited them for dinner.

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What is Wrong with Assimilation?

“We recognize that this policy of assimilation was wrong” says Mr. Harper in his apology. As an immigrant from a different culture who has done his best to assimilate, let some one tell me why was it wrong?

For last four centuries members of second, third, fourth and umpteenth nations have come to Canada and made their homes here. Some were well equipped to settle down in harsh conditions and did well for themselves and their progeny. Many were poor, uneducated and ill equipped for the conditions. But a large majority of them learnt from other settlers, worked hard and sooner or later assimilated in their lifestyle while preserving their culture and in some cases religion. Their progeny is now proud to call themselves Canadian and contribute to the welfare of the nation.

Imagine for a minute what would have happened if all the immigrants had adopted the hunting gathering life style of the original residents. Or they did what they did at home exactly as it was done there. The country today would be a sparsely populated land far from being one of the richest and most desirable countries in the world. Now look at the political and business leadership of the first nations. Look at your first nation neighbours, colleagues or professionals you come in contact with. Almost all of the respected and successful members of this distinguished group, with the exception of those who inherited their positions, were educated in public school system or in the schools which are being apologized for. Many of them were brought up by second nation mothers or grandparents or adoptive parents. Now look at the first nations who are living in poverty, suffer from addictions, lack self-respect and are generally not equipped to earn a living. Many of them live in remote helmets the way they did several generations ago, as hunters and gatherers. And their life is no better or worse than it was of their forefathers then. A comparable helmet of second nations will either be a self-sustaining farming community or some industrial facility. It is impractical for the communities living in isolated areas as hunter gatherers to expect the benefits enjoyed by Canadians of both first and future nations who have moved on to a modern lifestyle.

It is the same story all over the world. Unassimilated tribes in Southeast Asia, Africa and South America who live the ‘traditional’ lifestyle do not generate the means to have the amenities we take for granted. When these amenities are supplied to them by the governments or the aid agencies, the communities are usually not able to maintain them. In any event, access to these amenities is the first step towards assimilation. The individuals with innate abilities to learn and assimilate do so and move on and those who don’t stay behind in poverty.

Assimilation is not opposed to multiculturism the way it is practised in Canada. Citizens originating from all over the world and belonging to every conceivable religion live and work in the same communities and work places. While they often have different belief systems and speak different languages at home, the general behaviour pattern is quite similar in public. The newcomers have maintained their religion, language and some elements of culture while adopting the lifestyle developed over the centuries by the second nations and they have benefited by it. The partial assimilation has helped every one while those who wished to maintain their identity were able to do so. The schools Mr. Harper is apologizing for were an attempt to achieve the same ends. While it is regrettable that some individuals in important positions misused their authority it is churlish to deny that boarding schools were considered very desirable in Britain and much of the leadership of the Empire was fostered in these schools. The system introduced for the first nations was far from perfect, and no doubt caused some misery, but these schools were set up in good faith and it is unfortunate for all Canadians that they achieved the ends they were set up for only partially.

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Sad Story of a Novel

Jonathan – Jonathan please, not Jon – and Gloria have been our nodding acquaintances for quite a while. When we cross paths in the shopping plaza we exchange ‘hello, how is the family?’ and move on, often without paying attention to the answer. Jonathan is in his late sixties, a shortish, bald on top with a fringe of grey hair, a little overweight and always immaculately dressed retired business executive who helped oil magnets maintain their pull till he turned sixty five. Gloria, a stately blonde a little younger than her husband, was a school teacher before and after a long spell as the homemaker. After retiring from their professional activities a few years ago, they counted their money, thanked the Lord for their many blessings and decided to focus on gardening and their family for the rest of their days. But things have a bad habit of turning out differently than one wishes. Their only son had a stroke when in his prime and was found dead in the bathroom by his wife. They were shattered by the shock and grief at their son’s loss. It was eighteen months to the day when they recovered enough of their composure to appear in public.

Our lives have followed a similar trajectory except that our daughter survived her often fatal illness. Another difference was that we do not have a garden. What with golf and bridge, extrovert extraordinaire Monica has a busy social life and no time for gardening. Being a solitary type, I spend my spare time, which I have a lot of, reading business news and writing short stories and essays for my enjoyment. One or two of these have been glorified by the ink of the press. I am probably being more humble than many would be in my situation. The truth is that a collection of my stories was published a year ago. My occasional sensitivity is due to several unpleasant factors: the book was not deemed worthy of a review by any media outlet, only the odd bookstore stocked it and it sold only 47 copies, mainly to Monica’s friends and my ex-business associates. But most of the time I feel a certain pride in being a published author. Of course, my good wife encourages this sentiment. She regards it as a spousal duty to promote her partner’s ego and I am grateful to her for it.

Some six months ago Monica ran into Gloria in the local shopping centre. Ran into is a little bit of exaggeration since they managed to stop before colliding. Gloria beamed with delight when she recognized the face only inches away from her own, “Hello, Monica. What a pleasant surprise. How are you doing? How is the family? I have been thinking of calling you for a while.”
Monica responded to the torrent of words with her usual calm, “I am so happy to see you. It has been a long time. Every one is well at our end. Ravi is still writing. No one wants to publish his writings but he doesn’t seem to mind. Having a book published makes him content.”
“That is why I wanted to call you. My granddaughter Gale was rummaging on Marty’s computer to help Jennifer, her mother, in locating information on family’s finances when she found what she thought were the sketches of a book. Jennifer was not interested at all and told her to delete them. But Gale sent them to me before following her mother’s order. I am too old to be glued to the screen, so I printed it.”
“Did you read it?” Monica asked as Gloria stopped for breath.
“Of course I read it. It is much more than sketches, more like the first draft that needed finishing. Poor Marty was called before he could do it, much like Mahler was when composing his tenth symphony. The book needs an editor. That is why I wanted to call you. I am wondering if your husband can help me find one.”

Monica told me of the conversation when she got home. I gave her Alana’s phone number. Alana had taught me a Creative Writing course and did teaching and book editing to support her writing addiction. A month later, Gloria bypassed the middlewoman and called me directly.
“The editor you recommended did a great job, thank you so much.”
“I am glad it worked out.”
“She looked through the manuscript I printed out for her. All four hundred single-spaced pages of it. She says it has the potential of a big hit but it does need some editing.”
“Congratulations. Did she recommend you some editor?”
“She offered to do it. She said it will take three months to produce a version for the prospective publishers. I wonder if I should offer to pay her and how much”
“What did she charge for the review?”
“I did not ask. I thought she was doing it as a courtesy.”
“Gloria, this is what she does to feed and clothe her teenagers. You know how quickly they empty the fridge and wear out the clothes.”
After a long silence that disconcerted me a little, I heard “I should settle this account first before I proceed to editing. What do you think I should offer? Two hundred?”
“Editors, like plumbers and other tradesmen, have their rates. It probably took her a hundred hours. Twenty five dollars an hour will be twenty five hundred dollars, I guess. But I do not really know. I have never hired an editor.” I replied, hopefully overestimating her cost so that she was not disappointed when Alana dropped her bombshell.

It turned out that Alana had spent forty hours and charged her a total of twelve hundred dollars, taxes included. She also quoted a set price of three thousand for editing and preparing the final draft. Gloria was shocked with both numbers. The total sum was nowhere near what would have made a smallest dent in their budget, but spending anything more than a few dollars for a book was incomprehensible to Gloria and Jonathan. Gloria asked Monica if we could all meet to discuss her options. Monica agreed for us to join them for a drink at their residence the following Saturday afternoon. Monica warned me not to be a smart Alec as I often try to be and be helpful with anything they want to know. I caught the wind and made a list of useful contacts as well as gathered a few magazines with helpful material.

We were warmly greeted by the couple and escorted to the elegant lawn furniture in a beautiful gazebo surrounded by a symphony of colours. Jonathan popped the cork of an expensive champagne bottle wrapped in a sparkling white napkin and served it with due ceremony in Venetian flutes straight from the freezer. We toasted the welfare of both families and sat down on well padded cast iron chairs. Without further ceremony Gloria came to the point, “I checked around about Alana and her rates. She is highly esteemed by her colleagues and her quote was by far the most reasonable. I am sure that she is the best person to do it.” She looked me squarely in the face and added, “It was kind of you to recommend her. Now the question is – Do we proceed or not?”
It was a loaded question and my brain took a while longer to analyse the information than most computers would. I had not forgotten Monica’s instruction either. At last I opened my mouth, “It is a ..”
“The money is not the issue. The issue is whether the effort is worthwhile,” Jonathan felt his rejoinder was more important than my reply.
It was Monica’s turn to put her dollar worth in, “You can’t think of money when your child’s memory is involved. Only thing to consider is the best way to preserve it.”
“Of course it is. You hit the nail on the head, Monica,” Gloria chipped in.
“Do we publish the manuscript as Marty left it, or we let an editor mess about with it? The question I ask is this – Will it still be Marty’s book when Alana is done with it?” Jonathan asked looking towards me as he topped my flute.
“I don’t think …..”
I did not get very far before Gloria decided my opinion could not be of interest to any one. She had her opinion which was what mattered after all, “I am going to make sure that Alana edits, not rewrites. Every book is edited and most of the time you don’t even know who the editor is. Is that right Ravi?”
“You have…”
Monica had more important point than I could raise, “It is always a writer’s book and it will always be good for Marty’s memory. Gloria, Jonathan does have a valid concern – how much latitude do you grant Alana in editing?”
Gloria did not take the comment in the spirit it was intended, “I know what is involved. I did some writing in my teaching days and published several pieces in the community broadsheet. Jonathan does not have to worry on this score, or any other score if I may add. The most important issue to me is this – do we find an agent or do we look for a publisher ourselves? Ravi, how did you find an agent or a publisher?”
“I struck…” Again someone had better answer than I did. It was Gloria herself, “If we wanted to self-publish there would be no problem. But so-called vanity publishing puts me off. If the book is any good, finding a respectable publisher should be a piece of cake.” After a sip of champagne she repeated her previous question, “How did you do it?”
“As I was about to say…”
Now it was Monica who interrupted, “You can’t go by what Ravi did. A friend knew a publisher who was desperate for a book; novel, essays, stories anything. He had this grant coming, subject to meeting a quota. The friend sent him Ravi’s book which was the right size and did not need much editing. He rushed it to the printer, met the critical deadline and grant paid his costs and some. He had no budget for promotion, no contacts in publishing industry, no distributor, nothing. The book only sold a few copies, and those to our friends who only bought it to be kind. You need to do better than that. From what Alana says, you almost certainly will.”
I was deflated. I had nothing to say. No one wanted my opinion any more any way. I was relieved to see that the bottle was nearly finished. As if on a cue all of us got up. Gloria and Jonathan were gracious hosts. Both gave parting hugs to Monica and pumped my hands vigorously. Gloria was effusive, “Thank you for your suggestions this afternoon. They will help us a lot.” Jonathan added, “Of course they will. Now we know what to do and how.”

In the car I complimented Monica for her wise comments. I was miffed at the reception my comments received but relieved that Monica did not notice it. Neither of us was surprised that our hosts did not show any curiosity about my book.

I saw Alana in a writers’ gathering the other day. After profusely thanking me for the business she told me of the sad ending. When Gloria, bursting with justified pride, showed Jennifer the finished book, the ingrate daughter-in-law refused the permission to publish. “I suspect scenes of marital disharmony cut too close to the bone” said Alana as she turned to greet a prospective client.


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Slumdog Millionaire and Real India

India is a poor country with a long history of exploitation by the Asian and the European invaders. The country also has the history of culture and the long ago glory which is a source of pride for the well off and for good reasons. Thanks to this pride India always had a large section of population who valued learning and consistently made significant contributions to sciences and arts and which is now instrumental in the much accelerated economic growth. But the pride in ancient glory does not feed the family and is irrelevant to the parents for whom the next meal for their children is the only consideration.
The poverty in India, economic and social, increased steadily in the nineteenth and the first half of twentieth centuries till it reached the extremely low levels depicted so effectively in the movie Slumdog Millionaire. Since independence in 1947, the economic and social conditions have been improving; slowly in the first four decades when the foundation was being established and rapidly for last fifteen years. Unfortunately, the growth in population – the current population is three times what it was on the independence day- counters much of the growth in economy on the per capita basis. The rapid rise in population is mainly responsible for the poorest group still being dirt poor. However, their relative numbers are in decline, although not as quickly as we all wish. What makes the situation particularly alarming is that while the educated middle class is limiting the size of their families, the poor and uneducated people are having more surviving children, at least partly due to improved sanitation and better availability of health care.
That said, during my last visit in the fall of 2007 the people on the street, even the beggars, looked better fed than ever before and a feeling of confidence was in the air. One can not dispute the existence of exploitation, corruption and terrible living conditions in the slums shown in the movie. It is unfortunately still true after sixty years of independence that young girls are sold into prostitution, sometimes by their parents, young orphans are kidnapped and mutilated and sent out to beg, police and other authorities are corrupt and there are many hurdles for the poor to raise themselves. But there are stringent laws against these activities although enforcement is sometimes lax. Yet it happens much less often than it used to under the British Raj when the authorities looked the other way. Available statistics confirm what is obvious to a frequent visitor that a vast majority is much better off, even those living in the slums. Belief in caste system is fading and only a small portion of the general population treats lower classes as untouchables. The situation of lower classes is much improved and there are many avenues for them to move up the social ladder through free education and job opportunities. In fact, many poor people of ‘higher’ classes claim the ‘scheduled caste’ status to avail the privileges granted to them in the constitution. In spite of the headlines and the propaganda from some neighbours, Hindus and Muslims generally live and work in peace as indicated by the composition of governing bodies and sports teams where minority Muslims are well represented. The improvement in living conditions is so significant that it is changing the demographics of Indian emigrants; thirty years ago highly educated Indian professionals left the country in droves, now it is largely the relatively uneducated who come to join their relatives. This may be bad news for the English speaking western countries where the professionals born and trained in India have played increasingly important roles in the second half of the last century.
Yes, there is poverty in India, some of it extreme, and social inequalities persist. But it will be churlish to deny that the situation is improving and if the population stabilises the poverty will disappear more rapidly and the society will become more homogenised. However, if the population continues to grow at the current rate, it could cause an environmental disaster of unimaginable magnitude and the economy will become irrelevant.

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