Monday, November 26, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Bus, itna sa khwaab hai!
It takes three lean days at work for Bharati to finish her paperback. And she has mastered the art of reading while in constant motion, most often on a rough track and leaning on to a metal pole. For the adolescent students of the Govt Junior College in Nampally in Hyderabad, Sheela 'Akka' is a great source of inspiration. And advice and counseling! They enjoy their daily journey with her while getting back from college. And Suneeta confesses to a temptation to ring out a piercing whistle and shout at the top of her voice “Right Right!” – “just the way we saw the bus conductors doing all through our lives.”
All these women are conductors on the Andhra Pradesh State Road Transportation Corporation buses, attached to one of the 21 bus depots in Hyderabad. They are among the 5000 plus conductors recruited across the State during the past four years as part of APSRTC’s implementation of 33 per cent reservation for women in all cadres.
The slightly framed women, who wear a grey jacket over their saree or shalwar kameez, wield the full cash bag as well as the sheaf of tickets with aplomb.
Recruitment of women in the APSRTC – which has the distinction of having the largest fleet of buses in the world under a single owner, 20,000 buses - happened without much ado. While the first conductor was recruited in 2001, the number has now grown to 5098. There are also 126 women working as mechanical supervisors and 146 as traffic supervisors.
And Conductors are only one of the segments. RTC has women in every cadre – from mechanical supervisors to Depot Managers.
When it is time for change of shift at the RTC bus depots, there is a huge bustle with new arrivals checking out their tickets and those who finished depositing their cash. Chai, chat and community interaction has to happen during those twenty minutes because, very soon, the women are on wheels.
“There is the occasional smart Alec or someone who wants to feel you up, but we set them right in two minutes. I once slapped a guy for misbehaving with me and refused to let the bus move until he got off. Others on the bus were more than enthusiastic to throw him out,” Suneetha recalls with glee. “We do get complaints of misbehaviour, more often about the drivers and other male colleagues rather than outsiders. We have an effective mechanism in place to deal with it,” Madhavi, Manager (IT), APSRTC, reveals.
APSRTC has set up a Women Grievance Redressal Cell but the complaints are mainly regarding service matters rather than any harassment. “But we have enough evidence to suggest there is harassment. We are doing what we can even without formal complaints,” an RTC official says.
For Sheela, mother of two kids, the work is strenuous. The seven hour shift, the one hour commuting from home and the long hours spent in motion tire her out by the time she reaches home. “But I am grateful for the fact that we were not denied this income opportunity by labeling it a job not meant for women,” she says.
“In fact, we have strict reservation rules even for selection of drivers. But then it is rare that we find a woman who has a heavy vehicle licence and five years experience driving a heavy vehicle,” the official says. Interestingly, the organisation saw a need to teach the lady conductors self-defence techniques. “All our lady conductors underwent Karate classes for a week. Except for this, there is no other way we distinguish between male and female employees,” Madhavi explains.
And though the crossover has been quiet, RTC does seem to keep the ‘delicate sensibilities’ – of the women in mind while assigning some duties. The women get to take the longest route so that there is no jumping about. Except for the mechanical staff, nobody needs to work on late night shifts and the management effectively quells male colleagues with ego hassles.
Some of the concern Sheela has for her children waiting at home is transferred into solving the small problems of her regular adolescent passengers. Whether it is soothing college blues or discussing the latest film, from hair care tips to preventing an early marriage of one of the girls, Sheela does much more than just punching tickets during her eventful day at work.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Dr. Padmabhushan Megastar Chiranjeevi: This is probably the longest link for any living/dead/legended celluloid star on Wikipedia. And the link takes you to a man, whose life's graphs always shot well beyond their coordinates.
All film stars are larger than life. But this is someone monolithic. His name, fame, his films, family, his business, charity, his presence, his labels – all so towering that no ordinary mortal can even look up at him without being blinded, leave alone summon the strength to sling mud at him.
And when a mere mortal actually tries to recall the star is human too, the retribution is swift, irrational, disproportionate and merciless. Few withstood the tsunami of fury that bubbled upwards from the ocean of humblest of fans to the leaders of the associations, themselves important members of civil society in that capacity.
Let me stick to the strange experiences widely known. A journalist who dared to say a certain mega movie was average had his car burnt down by incensed fans. Another who gave a three star rating was almost killed on Film Nagar road in Jubilee Hills in Hyderabad, involving a lorry and a wonderfully freakish accident, staged in perfect filmi manner. Call it sheer coincidence. And another journalist who committed the blasphemy of saying that it is time this talented actor considered meatier roles and made a special place for himself in the annals of Telugu cinema, is threatened with grave (pun intended) consequences and is asked to 'publicly apologise' since her review in the largest circulated Hyderabad daily does not - for the zillionth time in the history of cinema writing - say the mega star dances well.
When Chiranjeevi’s film is released, it is with a record number of prints, to record collections. When he makes a public appearance, it is mass frenzy. Every award he wins is followed by a million other eulogies, wishing for the sun, moon and everything in between. So much so, another demi god of the Indian screen, Amitabh Bachchan, himself went so far as to say nothing less can be a worthier tribute than the Bharat Ratna for this actor. And when he seeks support, it is Kishkindha resurrected in support of their Lord.
The man himself, once one manages to access him breaking through the purportedly protective layers of fans and well-wishers, is a man worth knowing. Ever courteous, humble and remarkably balanced, Chiranjeevi demonstrates how exactly he has succeeded in winning hearts on and off the screen. And why his one plea can make his otherwise belligerent fans go all charitable, donating eyes and blood to the now-massive Chiranjeevi Blood bank with a visible sense of pride.
And today, as his young, stoic daughter faces a battery of cameras, displaying an almost scary clarity of thought, even those who have been at the receiving end of the wrath of his fans, remember him with a pang of sympathy.
Like always, this is big too. It is big rejection from a chit of a girl, who took three of our largest institutions – media, police and courts - along with her, in her stride against a celebrity father, who never seemed anything but benevolent. And that she should hold the hand of a faceless young man in her defiant voyage. The news is big, the father's reaction shell-shocked, the family's response befuddled. And, for once, his fans are speechless. They just do not know what to say, which side to take in this clash of the Titan and his toddler.
A journalist would understand the media's avid interest in the entire bizarre episode. The tone is of suppressed delight, the frame enlarged to fit in the blown up dimensions of a small flutter. The clamour of statements, interviews and investigations much louder in face of dignified silence from the wounded parent.
It is the first-ever opportunity for the media to peep into a life that has never dipped once it touched the skies of stardom; into the insides of a persona who never let anything but humility appear on his handsome face. It is a chink in armour carefully built around a man who was positioned beyond even reasonable critique. It is a chance to throw pebbles at someone who has, for many years, been a colossus, not a mere human. And, this probably, is the only chance they would ever get.
Stardom disproportionate to human scale spawns anomalous public responses. Glorification of a pedigree generates obnoxious curiosity about roots. And a mega star's personal life and trauma become comic book stuff, dinner-time conversation and luscious dissection pieces for lustful media.
It is another day. Another scandal. The drooling public turns to a new piece of bone. And the story of the young couple is forgotten. But, while it lasted, at least some people must surely have given this saga a dramatic title - Poetic Justice!
All film stars are larger than life. But this is someone monolithic. His name, fame, his films, family, his business, charity, his presence, his labels – all so towering that no ordinary mortal can even look up at him without being blinded, leave alone summon the strength to sling mud at him.
And when a mere mortal actually tries to recall the star is human too, the retribution is swift, irrational, disproportionate and merciless. Few withstood the tsunami of fury that bubbled upwards from the ocean of humblest of fans to the leaders of the associations, themselves important members of civil society in that capacity.
Let me stick to the strange experiences widely known. A journalist who dared to say a certain mega movie was average had his car burnt down by incensed fans. Another who gave a three star rating was almost killed on Film Nagar road in Jubilee Hills in Hyderabad, involving a lorry and a wonderfully freakish accident, staged in perfect filmi manner. Call it sheer coincidence. And another journalist who committed the blasphemy of saying that it is time this talented actor considered meatier roles and made a special place for himself in the annals of Telugu cinema, is threatened with grave (pun intended) consequences and is asked to 'publicly apologise' since her review in the largest circulated Hyderabad daily does not - for the zillionth time in the history of cinema writing - say the mega star dances well.
When Chiranjeevi’s film is released, it is with a record number of prints, to record collections. When he makes a public appearance, it is mass frenzy. Every award he wins is followed by a million other eulogies, wishing for the sun, moon and everything in between. So much so, another demi god of the Indian screen, Amitabh Bachchan, himself went so far as to say nothing less can be a worthier tribute than the Bharat Ratna for this actor. And when he seeks support, it is Kishkindha resurrected in support of their Lord.
The man himself, once one manages to access him breaking through the purportedly protective layers of fans and well-wishers, is a man worth knowing. Ever courteous, humble and remarkably balanced, Chiranjeevi demonstrates how exactly he has succeeded in winning hearts on and off the screen. And why his one plea can make his otherwise belligerent fans go all charitable, donating eyes and blood to the now-massive Chiranjeevi Blood bank with a visible sense of pride.
And today, as his young, stoic daughter faces a battery of cameras, displaying an almost scary clarity of thought, even those who have been at the receiving end of the wrath of his fans, remember him with a pang of sympathy.
Like always, this is big too. It is big rejection from a chit of a girl, who took three of our largest institutions – media, police and courts - along with her, in her stride against a celebrity father, who never seemed anything but benevolent. And that she should hold the hand of a faceless young man in her defiant voyage. The news is big, the father's reaction shell-shocked, the family's response befuddled. And, for once, his fans are speechless. They just do not know what to say, which side to take in this clash of the Titan and his toddler.
A journalist would understand the media's avid interest in the entire bizarre episode. The tone is of suppressed delight, the frame enlarged to fit in the blown up dimensions of a small flutter. The clamour of statements, interviews and investigations much louder in face of dignified silence from the wounded parent.
It is the first-ever opportunity for the media to peep into a life that has never dipped once it touched the skies of stardom; into the insides of a persona who never let anything but humility appear on his handsome face. It is a chink in armour carefully built around a man who was positioned beyond even reasonable critique. It is a chance to throw pebbles at someone who has, for many years, been a colossus, not a mere human. And, this probably, is the only chance they would ever get.
Stardom disproportionate to human scale spawns anomalous public responses. Glorification of a pedigree generates obnoxious curiosity about roots. And a mega star's personal life and trauma become comic book stuff, dinner-time conversation and luscious dissection pieces for lustful media.
It is another day. Another scandal. The drooling public turns to a new piece of bone. And the story of the young couple is forgotten. But, while it lasted, at least some people must surely have given this saga a dramatic title - Poetic Justice!
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Life Elusive!
There are many ways to reach this village. And you have to take all of them. Your car will desert you at the first streambed and you splash out to set off on a rough track. Drivers of passing bullock carts solicitously offer you a ride but remember carts don’t have shocks. Then a moped ride, a bicycle ride, a trek and a trudge and you reach your destination.
The destination is least bothered that it is so inaccessible. Mainly since it needs nothing from outside; it is a world in itself. Thirty families, about a hundred and eighty people, almost half of them children, dirt roads, indolent cattle, sturdy homes, a small temple, a tiny school, and a common granary. The village nestles in a valley, green-sheathed hills sheltering it from belligerent winds.
All the adults are land-owning famers, all the kids study in the school which has a 21-year-old girl teacher cycling in from ten km away everyday. The kids grow up and are sent to the social welfare hostel in the town where they finish schooling, they grow up a little more, get married and come back home to start working on their crops.
This village is Ravan Palli – the village of Ravan – in the Adilabad district of Andhra Pradesh. The village is amidst hills on the Andhra-Maharashtra border and, by default, all villagers speak at least three languages. Why Ravan? “Ravan was a king. An administrator and he ran his kingdom well. He was a great devotee too, so why not?” Bheem Rao counters. “In any case, it has been named generations ago,” his sister Suman adds.
Ravana Palli never communicated with the rest of the world. Not for any transactions, at least. They didn’t need to. They grew their own food, married within their clans and continued with the pattern for generations together. They run their own bio-diesel generator for a couple of hours in the evening until after dinner with each household sporting two bulbs. Their techniques, technology, traditions and traits were all their own. Even after the world decided to poke its nose into the village life.
Something else came to be common to the farmers of Ravana Palli. Organic farming of cotton! The farmers grow their own food and alongside grow cotton that goes directly to branded T-shirt makers of the US. They are all covered under an initiative which not just encourages them to practise organic farming but facilitates for sale at a better price.
And, yet, life has not changed in any way for the denizens of Ravan Palli. There is still no road, still no electricity supply, still no transport, no phones and no gadgets. No external governance, no bosses. They live happily ever after.
Life without technology, gizmos, phones and pen drives. Life without multiplexes, without pubs, laptops. No internet, no chat, no downloads. No eating out, no entertainment, no targets, no projects. Time does not stop here, it is just a kind of timelessness. Just a circle of survival. And of procreation. And of natural fruition. Is this what Gandhiji had called Gram Swaraj?
The village ambience is bright. In spite of the silence that reverberates in wind, the blobs of dirt that softly suck in your feet as you walk, cow dung, clouds hovering over the looming hills, there is colour in the air. The adults look content. The kids are perky. Visitors are treated with polite stoicism, as if the inevitability of their exit is well known. And there is self-reliance to a stunning level. What are we missing here?
The destination is least bothered that it is so inaccessible. Mainly since it needs nothing from outside; it is a world in itself. Thirty families, about a hundred and eighty people, almost half of them children, dirt roads, indolent cattle, sturdy homes, a small temple, a tiny school, and a common granary. The village nestles in a valley, green-sheathed hills sheltering it from belligerent winds.
All the adults are land-owning famers, all the kids study in the school which has a 21-year-old girl teacher cycling in from ten km away everyday. The kids grow up and are sent to the social welfare hostel in the town where they finish schooling, they grow up a little more, get married and come back home to start working on their crops.
This village is Ravan Palli – the village of Ravan – in the Adilabad district of Andhra Pradesh. The village is amidst hills on the Andhra-Maharashtra border and, by default, all villagers speak at least three languages. Why Ravan? “Ravan was a king. An administrator and he ran his kingdom well. He was a great devotee too, so why not?” Bheem Rao counters. “In any case, it has been named generations ago,” his sister Suman adds.
Ravana Palli never communicated with the rest of the world. Not for any transactions, at least. They didn’t need to. They grew their own food, married within their clans and continued with the pattern for generations together. They run their own bio-diesel generator for a couple of hours in the evening until after dinner with each household sporting two bulbs. Their techniques, technology, traditions and traits were all their own. Even after the world decided to poke its nose into the village life.
Something else came to be common to the farmers of Ravana Palli. Organic farming of cotton! The farmers grow their own food and alongside grow cotton that goes directly to branded T-shirt makers of the US. They are all covered under an initiative which not just encourages them to practise organic farming but facilitates for sale at a better price.
And, yet, life has not changed in any way for the denizens of Ravan Palli. There is still no road, still no electricity supply, still no transport, no phones and no gadgets. No external governance, no bosses. They live happily ever after.
Life without technology, gizmos, phones and pen drives. Life without multiplexes, without pubs, laptops. No internet, no chat, no downloads. No eating out, no entertainment, no targets, no projects. Time does not stop here, it is just a kind of timelessness. Just a circle of survival. And of procreation. And of natural fruition. Is this what Gandhiji had called Gram Swaraj?
The village ambience is bright. In spite of the silence that reverberates in wind, the blobs of dirt that softly suck in your feet as you walk, cow dung, clouds hovering over the looming hills, there is colour in the air. The adults look content. The kids are perky. Visitors are treated with polite stoicism, as if the inevitability of their exit is well known. And there is self-reliance to a stunning level. What are we missing here?
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