The Case of the Missing Jacket

 

“Papa, the girls are through with the rides here. Where are you?”

 

It was my son, calling from the children’s section of the Global Village.

 

Let me explain to the uninitiated that Global Village is a 1.5 million square metre complex popular for its shows and pavilions in Dubai. And, let me explain to the conventional that my son was referring to his two daughters by the modern term, ‘girls’. Finally, let me explain to the young readers (because the senior ones already know it) that after a certain age one is more keen on being parked near a loo than on a ride that shoots to the sky at lightening speed and drops so rapidly that some riders fail to prevent the first flow of a warm stream wetting their pants in resonance with the pull of gravity.

 

I don’t need a ride to mobilise such liquid movement; just a thought is sufficient for the urge to materialize. Of course, one does not reveal such delicate information before the kith and kin, though it’s an entirely different matter that they guess one’s condition by the shifty movements and the strategic placement of shopping bags or newspapers.

 

While my son and his wife and their daughters were busy near the swings, my wife and I were ensconced on a bench in close proximity of a toilet.

 

“We are near the Grand Dhaba, at the side of the Floating Market, son!” I answered. I wasn’t lying, those two establishments were adjacent to the toilet.

 

“OK, we are coming.”

 

They came, left Inaya and Aavya and a pram and some bags in our custody, and suggested, “You can take them on that bus ride and then to that movie show till we return.”

   

I wonder why children and even some adults opt for “that bus ride”. That battery-run dwarf metal structure hardly accommodates twelve children, moves like an earthworm, and covers the same area that one has already surveyed on foot. I mean, if you are conversant with a car ride, you cannot expect anything further from that bus ride.

 

Clearly, I am in the minority. Inaya and Aavya ran to the bus, occupied the front of the open deck, and waved vigorously at us. The bus started crawling. I started taking the mandatory video clip that is never seen and simply deleted when the phone becomes sluggish after some months. My wife limped to usurp a fragment of a bench occupied by two persons.   

 

The bus was back before a toddler could count from one to ten. We greeted the children as if they had returned after a sea voyage in the 19^th Century. So much had changed since they went on that trip! Inaya had started feeling cold on a March evening in Dubai. Blessed with the women’s sixth sense of finding hidden objects, my wife extracted a jacket from a pile of junk in the pram.

 

“Wear it,” she asked Inaya.

 

“What about Aavya?” I asked.

 

“She is already wearing it!” Snapped my wife.

 

I don’t like to surrender cheaply, but the odds of my winning an argument were rather few at the moment. I started walking like an epitome of gracefulness.

 

“I don’t expect them to return soon,” my wife thought aloud.

 

We started walking to the theatre. We, i.e., Aavya, my wife, and I. Tired after the bus ride, Inaya wanted to travel in the pram. We emptied the pram. Inaya stepped in, toppled it, and regained balance.

 

We started walking to the theatre again. Aavya stopped us.

 

“Isn’t it unfair that my elder sister gets a pram ride while I must walk?” She asked.

 

A big salute to the pram manufacturer—the pram accommodated both of them.

 

We started walking to the theatre for the third time. My wife carried the bags, I pushed the pram.

 

A show was on at the amphitheater.

 

“Let’s buy the tickets when the next movie starts,” I advised no one in particular. By then, Inaya had already jumped out of the pram and started running down the aisle.

 

Aavya looked at us in confusion.

 

“There are no tickets here,” my wife informed. “Inaya,” she called above the gallery, “take Aavya with you.”

 

Inaya had already started enjoying the movie and was in no mood to forsake her seat.

 

“I’m buying popcorn,” my wife called again.

 

Inaya grabbed the popcorn packet and started running back.

 

“Take Aavya with you,” my wife reminded her.

 

Inaya slowed down a tad, kept her eyes glued on Masha and the Bear, and spoke with a mouthful of popcorn, “Come, Aavya!”

 

We settled down on a nearby bench. My wife started inspecting her swollen feet. I started looking at the families perched on grass with food enough to feed a village in Somalia.  

 

“Don’t ogle at the women, keep your focus on our children,” my wife admonished me.

 

There they were, two figures clad in identical jackets, almost lost in a crowd of humanity.

 

A sudden burst of firecrackers jolted me. Fireworks had started. All eyes remained fixed on the sky at a corner of the Global Village for the entire two or three minutes till the display continued. Back on terra firma, I noticed that my son and his wife and their two daughters were standing together not far from us.

 

Inaya and Aavya rejoined us after the movie was over. We were ready to go home after they had fun at the Turkish ice-cream kiosk and we had a generous fill of coconut ice-cream.        

   

“A nice outing,” my son’s wife observed as we reached the approach road of our neighborhood.

 

We murmured in agreement. The taste of the coconut ice-cream still lingered on my palate.

 

“Where is my jacket,” asked Inaya.

 

While my son and I were on the front seats, Inaya and Aavya were sitting sandwiched between their mother and grandmother.

 

“You are not wearing it?” Both ladies asked, looking at her.

 

I looked at Inaya.

 

My son was driving. He didn’t turn his head, but might have looked at her from the rear view mirror.

 

All of us, including Inaya, were certain that she wasn’t wearing her jacket.

 

“I gave it to you when you got down from the bus,” my wife remarked.

 

She admitted, “Yes!”

 

“You were not wearing it when you were watching the fireworks!” My son accused.

 

“Papa, it was so hot that I couldn’t keep wearing it,” she retorted in a weak voice.

 

“I’m still wearing my jacket!” Aavya declared.

 

“So you left it in the theatre! When will you learn to take care of your belongings?” Her mother was getting angry.

 

Inaya started crying.

 

“If you cry, I will drop you right here,” her mother threatened.

 

The atmosphere was becoming tense. I shuffled in my seat. Something rubbed against my shoes. It was a plastic packet. I might have kept Inaya’s jacket in that packet, I thought. I picked it up.

 

“Here is a jacket,” I started triumphantly, only to lower my voice immediately, “but it is mine!”

 

If my son and his wife and my wife and Inaya cursed me, the malediction completely escaped my senses.

 

“How old was it?” I had inadvertently started using past tense for the object.

 

“May be, two or three years! And I had bought it at a discount sale for only four or five hundred rupees.” My son’s wife was clearly attempting to trivialize the loss.

 

“That is hardly 22 dirhams which is less than what we pay for a haircut at a not-so-decent salon,” I observed.

 

“Hmm … let’s order chicken burgers for all except Padma and Inaya,” my son said.

 

His wife, Padma, cannot stand meat in food. His daughter, Inaya, cannot stand anything other than meat in food.

 

“Why no chicken burgers for me,” Inaya shrieked between sobs.

“It’s a punishment for losing that jacket,” my son replied.

 

Inaya looked at her grandmother, important communication was held between the two in complete silence, and Inaya looked comfortable again. My wife must have conveyed that she would secretly exchange her chicken burger with Inaya’s vegetarian dish.

 

“Should I go back to Global Village?” My son pondered over his chicken burger.

 

“No point! The entry ticket costs more than the book value of that jacket,” his wife advised.

 

“Then?” He asked.

 

“I’ll call the Lost & Found department there,” she said.

 

About 40 thousand people visit the Global Village every day. The children’s theatre runs several back-to-back shows. Each show is attended by more than hundred children and adults from Asia, Africa, and other continents. Only the most optimistic can expect to reclaim a carelessly left jacket under the circumstances.

 

My son’s wife called up Global Village. A two-minute wait and some more calls later, she was connected to the Lost & Found executive.

 

“See, my daughter left her jacket in the kids’ theatre at around nine this evening. It’s a white jacket with pink polka dots … no, it’s a pink jacket with white cheetah prints …”

 

“Well, the shows continue till two in the morning. If our cleaning staff finds it, it would be deposited at the Lost & Found”. Please call up at six tomorrow evening,” came a polite reply.

 

Wouldn’t a 22-dirham jacket challenge the honesty of a low-paid cleaner, in the remote chance of none of the hundreds of viewers having already walked out with it, we asked ourselves.

 

The son’s wife called them the next day.

 

“Do you have a picture of the jacket?” She was asked.

 

She sent the picture over WhatsApp.

 

“Yes, it is here! Please come to the exit and ask for being taken to the Lost & Found department. You don’t have to buy a ticket for that,” came the advice.

 

She went to the designated place. There it was, neatly folded, on the table. My son’s wife had successfully extracted a needle from the haystack.

 

We were happy. Our faith in morality, human values, and management systems had risen further.  

The Woman with Many Husbands

 

Once I stayed with a friend for a few days. I noticed that at every opportunity his daughters used to exclaim, “My Daddy’s the best in the world!” He used to become pleased, his chest used to expand a little to accommodate the latest dose of pride, and he used to return the favour by asking, “What do you wish to have, darlings?” Why he, in spite of being a salesperson, behaved in such a naive manner was beyond me. As the girls and the doting father continued with the routine three times in a twenty-five-minute car ride one evening, I looked at his wife with questioning eyes. She immediately ejaculated with full conviction, “Yes, he is undoubtedly the best in the world, Amitabh! The best father, and the best husband!”

            I could not suppress my laughter. Her response had reminded me of a story of the four women who suddenly came across a naked man. The first one said, “Wow, what a man! Alas! He is not from my family.” The second one added, “You are right. He is neither from your family nor from any house in this lane.” The third woman gasped, “What a lovely specimen! Isn’t he a stranger to our locality?” After a good look, the fourth lady sadly remarked, “How I wish we had at least one man like him in our entire village!” While the fourth woman intimately knew all men in her village, my friend’s wife was claiming to personally know all men on the Earth!

            Exaggeration is a favourite tool of writers. Mark Twain wrote in ‘Old Times on the Mississippi’: “I could have hung my hat on my eyes, they stuck out so far.” The good old Shakespeare made Romeo speak of Juliet, “The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars!” Cartoonists take advantage of exaggeration to catch eyeballs. Stage actors, dancers, and singers fall prey to the lure of exaggeration to add charm to their craft. A long journey is often termed as “to the moon and back,” while a dull person is branded as “pea-brained” in common parlance. Right from infants to the very old, everyone takes the help of exaggerated gestures to …

            To achieve what? Why do we exaggerate? Is it necessary to exaggerate? Would my friend have ignored the demand of his daughters if they had not pumped up his ego?

            Some form of exaggeration is habitual, and is generally an indulgence in propriety and politeness. Nursery rhymes from a toddler earn the accolade of “very good,” first attempts at classical dance are greeted with “very nice,” an abusive child in the nursery is called “very bad,” the newly-wed wife is always “very beautiful,” an overcharged meal is usually “very bad,” an ambient temperature of 18 degrees Celsius in Dubai is “very cold,” and people who cease to be your friend may be “very cunning.” It matters little that most of the rhyme remains clung to the interiors of the reluctant mouth of the toddler, that the dance is a demonstration of a disastrous disconnect between rhythm and steps, that the abusive child shares toys with classmates but they don’t, that the newlywed wife sports owlish eyes on a simian face, that not a molecule of the food is left uneaten, that wearing even a light sweater at 18 degrees Celsius in Dubai may be akin to standing next to a blast furnace, and that each of the lost friends has a personal reason behind their inability to contribute to the friendship any longer.

            Exaggeration is a part of the Urdu culture and a practice in humility, following which one’s own mansion becomes poverty’s abode (ghareebkhana) while the hut of the other person is deemed fit for being termed as full of riches (daulatkhana) and the not-so-respectable guest gets a name of honour (ism-e-girami) while the host becomes similar to dust (khaksaar).   

Exaggeration is an effective tool for grabbing attention. It is also used to divert attention. Most magic shows will fall flat like a leaked soda water bottle if the attention of the audience remains continuously focussed on the relevant activity. Move a step further, and we encounter exaggeration done to gain sympathy. If you are disinclined to go somewhere and by the grace of god manage to bump your big toe into something hard, introduce a limp in your walk, twist your face in pain, and confirm in a weak voice, “Yes, sure, I am coming!” Unless you have a date with a tyrant who nests a slab of ice in place of heart in their chest, you are likely to be excused from the meeting. Remember, though, that I will consider you as a wonderful actor, but also as a deceiver and a responsibility-shirker once you pull off that stunt successfully.

Experts in exaggeration impress people by boasting about themselves with false claims, and succeed in manipulating the audience. As I write these lines, a herbal medicine company, after being rapped on the knuckles by the Supreme Court of India, has submitted an unconditional apology for making misleading claims about the efficiency of its products. The company sold 2.5 million “immunity boosting” kits for Rs.250,00,00,000 (about 34 million US Dollars) in the first four months of their launch in the mid of 2020, the year Corona made its grand entry in the country. How many succumbed to the dreaded disease in spite of the availability of such a wonderful drug, is anybody’s guess.

Exaggeration, when stemming from cognitive distortions, leads to an inaccurate assessment of reality. One may underestimate problems and fail to overcome them, or catastrophize situations and lose hope. Falling in the first category, a close relative has ended up with a financial burden after all his commercial ventures in twenty-five years failed one after the other. Last contacted, he was planning to set up a fresh business by seeking private funds. A single negative event may be enough for those in the second category to sink their self-esteem further, making them feel that they would never succeed. Of course, you know that Walt Disney, Oprah Winfrey, Steven Spielberg, Soichiro Honda, Isaac Newton and many others became successful only after tasting failure initially.

Narcissists are notorious for exaggeration. After jumping a metre they fabricate a scenario of great difficulty and increase that distance multifold. I wonder whether such exaggeration improves their self-esteem.

Unless exercised for humour or to lift up the spirits of a terminally ill person, exaggeration almost always leads to something negative. After reading “finest” on the packaging of many substandard items, I have simply stopped believing in the printed line on product packages. Their stretching and twisting of facts makes me doubt all claims made on social and traditional media. It may not be much different for you. Sooner or later, people who exaggerate or lie lose credibility and trust. They seem to lack honesty even when stating facts.

Even with a single member’s exaggeration, teams can be easily misled to take wrong action, misuse resources including money and time, and fail. As an aftereffect, healthy and efficient teams may become sick, get infested with infighting, lose reputation, and even get disbanded.

So, now that we know why we exaggerate and how it harms us, the question arises: Can we identify and manage it?

Thankfully, the answer is: Yes!

As a first precaution, be vigilant about superlative terms such as “very,” “incredibly,” “best,” “super,” etc. Judge, are they really necessary or have been added for effect? Can the adverb be replaced with data? For example, instead of calling something a “super-silent engine,” can we describe its sound level in decibels?

Secondly, replace bombastic words and expressions with plain speech. If you had a decent breakfast at 10 in the morning, would you be “starving,” “ravenously hungry,” or simply “hungry” at 2 in the afternoon? Does the regular office work really leave you “exhausted” at the end of the day, or do you actually feel only tired?

Thirdly, rather than throwing lofty figures, start submitting facts that propel or throttle the prospects of a newly introduced product in the volatile, uncertain, complex and ambiguous environment. If everybody follows suit and sticks to reality, no exaggeration would creep in.

Fourthly, watch yourself and correct the slip ups. Old habits die hard. Learn to control the damage, for example, with statements such as this: “I’ll do it tomorrow … on second thoughts, let me correct that I will do it on the next working day, as tomorrow is a holiday.”

Finally, sincerely examine the reason underlying your exaggeration. Chances are, you will find it in this article itself. You can also count the number of hyperboles in this piece.  

Good luck!

Promoting Nonviolence Violently!

 I had forgotten all about it. Who remembers incidents that happened 52 years ago? But then, as I watched the 1923 movie ‘Society of the Snow’, it started gradually coming back. On October 13, 1972, a short-duration chartered flight had crashed over the Andes. Search for the aircraft was abandoned after eight days, and the survivors were left to fend for themselves under extremely cold conditions. There was hardly anything to eat. A single biscuit for three days, cotton stuffing of the seats, leather of belts and shoes—the survivors tried everything till their body started consuming itself. Their urine output reduced to a few drops of black liquid. The ordeal continued for more than 70 days for the final survivors, who were left with no option but to cannibalise the dead co-passengers.

            Some creatures are carnivore. Other animals are their food. The herbivore mostly eat plants but may also drink milk which is an animal product; and the omnivore eat plants and food of animal origin. Humans, and many human deities, are omnivore. The Muniyandi Swami temple in Madurai offers chicken and mutton biryani as prasad on its annual three-day festival, the Vimala temple in Puri doles out fish and mutton dishes during the Durga Puja festival, the Tarkulha Devi temple in Gorakhpur serves mutton during the Khichari Mela, the Parassinik Kadavu temple in Kerala has a prasad of fish and toddy, and the meat or fish at the Kalighat temple in Kolkata, the Kamakhya temple in Assam, the Tarapith in Birbhim in West Bengal and Dakshineswar in the same state are not unknown (The Times of India, July 13, 2022). Some years ago my aunt was appalled to see eggs being offered at the Pashupatinath temple in Kathmandu. I have seen meat dishes being enjoyed at Durga Puja pandals. Bengali and Maithil priests relish fish and meat. The meat and seafood delicacies served to Budhhist monks in Thailand can easily be the pride of the best gourmet meals. The Dalai Lama is not averse to eating meat. Some people quote an instance of Ram and Lakshman eating deer meat from the Valmiki Ramayana, while some others point out meat-eating instances in the Mahabharata.

            As per a mythological story, the Buddha-to-be was a hare in a previous birth. He decided to perform sacrifice by offering his favourite food, green succulent grass, to humans. Finding no takers, he realised that humans didn’t eat grass but loved to eat animal meat. Exercising the highest sacrifice, he resolved to offer himself as food. Learning about it, Lord Indra came to him in the disguise of a hungry Brahmin and asked for food. The hare jumped in the fire to get cooked. However, Lord Indra saved him and commemorated the ultimate sacrifice by placing an imprint of the hare on the moon. Some other versions of this story also exist, but the gist remains the same.

            Violence, a killing to be exact, is associated with meat eating (to be fair to him, Dalai Lama advocates eating naturally dead animals). Seekers of non-violence oppose the consumption of meat because of that reason. American Indologist Wendy Doniger writes about (Non)Violence as below in The Hindus - An Alternative History:

            The term “nonviolence” (ahimsa) originally applied not to the relationship between humans but to the relationship between humans and animals. Ahimsa means “the absence of the desire to injure or kill,” a disinclination to do harm, rather than an active desire to be gentle; it is a double negative, perhaps best translated by the negative “nonviolence”, which suggests both mental and physical concern for others. The roots of ahimsa may lie in Vedic ritual, in animal sacrifice, in the argument that the priest does not actually injure the animal but merely “pacifies” him; the primary meaning of ahimsa is thus to do injury without doing injury, a casuist argument from its very inception. In the Rig Veda (the earliest Sanskrit text, from c. 1200 BCE), the word ahimsa refers primarily to the prevention of injury or violence to the sacrifice and his offspring, as well as his cattle (10.22.13). 

            For Mahtma Gandhi, nonviolence was the search for truth and love in the sense of selfless service of one’s fellow beings. He considered poverty as the worst form of violence.

In other words, a soldier killing the enemy may be simply performing his duty, a butcher slicing strips of meat may just be creating food for the needy, and an eagle picking up a mountain goat may be just carrying its meal. At the same time, a thief stealing money, a policeman slapping a helpless widow, and a youth setting fire to someone’s house may be indulging in violence.

What must be opposed—meat eating or violence? If meat eating is synonymous with violence and so must be opposed, is it justified to make that protest violent? Isn’t that a fallacy?

Why Singh is King but Syed is not?

 

Let us play a game of guessing!

 

Are you ready? Let’s begin.

 

Imagine for a second that you have just joined as the chief recruitment officer in an organisation in India. You have to fill up positions right from the lowest level to the highest rank, post-haste. As a list of candidates is thrust in your hands, you realise that you don’t know any of the candidates personally and that they belong to the following communities: Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain, and Adivasi or tribal.

 

You look only at the religion column on the first CV and think: Perhaps this candidate would be a little foolish, flexible, liberal, hardworking, and brave. The next CV, again only a glance at the religion column, and your thoughts are: This candidate is likely to be conniving, rigid, partisan, pleasure seeking, and cruel.

 

Guess, what are the religions of the two candidates?

 

My guess: If you are a Hindu, your answer would be “The first candidate is a Sikh and the second one is a Muslim”.

 

If your guess was different, I stand to be corrected and shall be thankful for your views on the matter.

 

Though Sant Kabir died some 900 years ago, even now popular Hindi film songs are created on inspirations from that great Indian poet and philosopher. We are aware of his poetry, but are not sure whether he was a Hindu or a Muslim. His religion is irrelevant.

 

For that matter, we don't bother much about the religious bent of the original inhabitants of India, be they the Bhils, the Jarwas, the Santhals, the Bodos, the Mundas, the Bhutias, or some other tribe. The Buddhists and the Jains also mostly pass unnoticed. The gruesome murder of the Christian missionary Graham Staines with his sons, Philip (aged 10) and Timothy (aged 6), by burning them while they were asleep in their vehicle, has also become a twenty-five years old incident now.

 

However, we can’t say the same about the Muslims. They matter. They have been living in India for about 1700 years and form about 14% of the population of the country (census of India, 2011). Though the Sikhs constitute only about 2% of India’s populace (census of India, 2011), they, too, matter significantly in modern India. The Sikh religion was introduced initially about 900 years ago among the residents of the Indian sub-continent.

 

The Adivasis are the original inhabitants of the land, followed by the Jains and the Buddhists, both of whom enjoyed prominence before the Christian Era. These three do not ruffle the behaviour of a common Hindu in India as much as a Sikh or a Muslim does.    

 

Several traits are common between the Sikhs and the Muslims:

 

1.     Both are foodies. They love to eat and cook elaborate and exotic meals. You can’t ignore the popularity of Amritsari Machchhi, Chhole-Bhature, Kulcha, Lassi, Kebab, Samosa, Biryani and Sewai served at a Sikh or a Muslim eatery.

2.     Both respect Indian culture and participate in the festivals of other religions. For example, many effigies in the Dussehra festival across India are made by Muslim artisans. The Haji Ali Dargah in Mumbai and the Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah in New Delhi are decorated with special lights on Diwali. Important Sikh festivals coincide with Diwali, Dussehra and Holi.   

3.      Both are not shy of picking up the sword. Brigadier Mohammad Usman laid his life in the 1948 Indo-Pak war and was awarded the Maha Vir Chakra. Havildar Abdul Hamid Idrisi was posthumously awarded the Param Vir Chakra for his valour in the 1965 Indo-Pak war. Similarly, Subedar Joginder Singh Sahnan and Naib Subedar Bana Singh were decorated with the Param Vir Chakra during the Sino-Indian war (1962) and Operation Rajiv (1987) respectively. On the flip side, Muslims have been engaged in many communal riots and street brawls. Two Sikh bodyguards, Beant Singh and Satwant Singh, assassinated Indira Gandhi, India’s prime minister, in 1984. Some Sikhs demanded the creation of a separate nation, Khalistan, in India in the early Eighties.  

4.      Both don’t believe in idol worship. They follow the scriptures of the Holy Quran and the Adi Granth and condemn badmouthing other religions.

5.      Both indulge in charity and social service.

 

Muslims have a distinct edge over the Sikhs in certain areas:

 

1.      The number of Muslim exponents of Hindustani classical music far exceeds that of the Sikh maestros.

2.      Muslim artisanship; be it woodwork, brasswork, embroidery, weaving, or calligraphy; is known for its refinement and quality.

3.      Muslim poets, litterateurs, scribes, and journalists have greatly impacted the Indian culture with their work. 

4.      Unlike the Sikhs, who must sport facial hair and a turban that easily distinguish them from the common man, the Muslims are under no such obligation and can easily merge with general public.

 

Though the anti-Sikh riots of 1984 are a blot on India’s constitutional ethos and hate crimes against Sikhs are not uncommon, why is it that a Sikh is generally more acceptable than a Muslim to an average Hindu?  The following points immediately come to mind:      

 

1.      Welfare activities organised by Sikh bodies or individuals are publicised and the general public is encouraged to take their benefit. The needy get free boarding and lodging at Gurudwaras and special relief camps are run by the Sikh after natural calamities.        

2.      The wealth and employment generation by the Sikhs doesn’t remain confined to people of their religion.

3.      Sikhs are never shy of showcasing their achievements. When they do something good, they let the world know about it. 

4.      Sikhs have a magnificent ability to ignore ridicule and move on.

 

While hurting a Sikh may also mean indirectly hurting the Hindu interest, hurting a Muslim doesn’t pose such qualms before misguided Hindus. The common people in present day India may continue to be suspicious of the Muslims till they realise that doing so is not in their favour. Their mindset will change only when the Muslim image is given a makeover. Will that happen? When? All peace-loving Indians would like to know.

The Naked Woman

 

The woman was naked. From a distance of about two hundred metres, I was able to catch only a glimpse of her. As it happened, I was walking towards her and would, in a few moments, be able to see her clearly.

Even from that distance, I had no doubt about her nudity. She WAS naked, exhibiting her glory right on the divider of the busy Bishtupur road in Jamshedpur, right at quarter to nine in the morning of a weekday, right in the midst of cars, auto-rickshaws, cycle-rickshaws, cycles, and pedestrians.

I started walking faster. The curiosity and excitement of a twenty-five years old unmarried man had taken control of me. My moccasins were not great for walking on the pavement, the briefcase in my left hand had started banging against my left knee, the road was uphill and the effort was negating the effect of the antiperspirant; but these impediments were too minor to dampen my determination to have a good look at the woman before she vanished from the scene.

It was 1982. Or, 1981, perhaps. I was no stranger to public nudity. I had envied the lack of inhibition of the effervescent women bathing with hardly any clothes in the canals of Bargarh in Sambalpur. I had witnessed men do a full Monty near the wells in Bastar. I had seen hordes of bare-breasted women laughing and walking on the hills of Singhbhum. I was aware of the custom of nudity in Nagaland and had interacted with blouse-less women who nonchalantly went about their daily chores in the plains of Bengal, Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and Orissa. There was no sense of shame, guilt or perversion associated with the public display of nudity. It was natural, a part of the culture in those regions.

The naked woman was hardly twenty meters away from me now. On the pretext of shifting my briefcase from the left hand to the right, I stopped to have a good look at her. Alluring, curvaceous, gorgeous, hedonistic, licentious, voluptuous, young … no, these adjectives don’t do justice to her.

She was paper thin and oak-dark. Pouches of loose skin were all that she had as breasts. Her hair was short and thin and wet and white. She was rubbing her eyes and tears were glistening on her sunken cheeks. Her only vestige, a discoloured and torn sari, was hanging on the divider grill for drying up. Till the cloth became wearable again, the freshly-bathed homeless poor woman had no choice but to stand naked and cry in shame.

Somehow, she passed on her shame to me. And more than forty years later, I share it with you. Can we really do something substantive to cover the shame of women? Isn’t it overdue?