Ruth Sequeira

Unlike all the other big words I learnt in my third standard classroom, I learnt the word ‘development’ one evening at the school playground. The playground was not really a playground; it was just a wide open space of red mud with two huge mango trees and a majestic Gulmohar tree that together formed a triangle. These trees were very important to us because as village kids you tend to make use of sticks and stones more than penalty cards and dice. When we played ‘Hide and Seek’ the Gulmohar was the ‘Den’, when we played Blind Man’s Bluff the trees were our boundary, we’d even drawn 3 wickets in red chalk on the tree trunk for our cricket matches.
We were a big group of kids who got together every evening at the Gulmohar tree to play; my friends, my brothers’ friends, our neighbours, their cousins and their cousins’ friends. One evening we were playing ‘Hide & Seek’ and everything was going off well, until I peeped out of my hiding place to look at a white Maruti Omni that drove into our playground. I got spotted for popping my head out and so I climbed the gulmohar and waited for the others to get caught. Three men stepped out of the Maruti. Two average looking men and the last guy was short, grumpy and looked important. The small man scanned the area, his eyes darting from the road to the school to the trees.

Our school principal, Sr. Flora joined these men and they started discussing their “plans”. Though I did my best to eavesdrops, I only heard words like “structure”, “permissions”, “slabs”, “develop”. I didn’t have a clue of what they were talking about, but with all the pointing the small man did I knew it meant something big was about to happen. Half an hour later, the principal and the 3 men shook hands and parted. One to the convent, three drove off and we continued our silly games.

Summer began which meant we spent more time around the Gulmohar tree than at home. The men in the Omni made regular visits over the next few months. A parent-teacher meeting was organised one evening on our playground. There was quite a buzz about it around the village, everyone was trying to guess what the school was planning on doing. On the day of the meeting, a pendal was built, speakers installed and mikes checked “hell-oh..test..1..2..mike check..hello”, even the new plastic chairs from the school assembly hall were brought down and arranged in neat rows. Like most events in our village people came in early to grab a seat but it’s actually because they had nothing better to do. There were mats laid out in the front and my group of friends and other kids were sitting there cross legged and fidgety.

*Photo Courtesy -http://flickrhivemind.net/Tags/gulmohar/Interesting

Our principle, the 3 men from the Omni and the head of the Parent-Teacher Association sat at a long table covered with a white table cloth and 5 glasses of water standing in a line. Our Principle spoke first, welcomed everyone and said what we were to discuss today had been well thought out and in the interest of all, more importantly that there were snacks and rasna to be served to everyone after the meeting. Then Mr. PTA-head said that it gave him great pleasure to announce the plan to build a ‘sports complex’ of international standards. Confused, the audience was quiet; some of the children sitting next to me mumbled in konkanni, not the response Mr. PTA-head had pictured. Our principle began to clap and nod her head in approval and then like the plague the applause spread throughout.

He then went on about how the school believed in an all round education where studies and sports were given equal importance. The management and staff nodded their heads in agreement we kids, just looked at each wondering whether we’d heard right. Mr. PTA-head then said that for years, our students have been denied the opportunity to quality sports equipment and infrastructure. This time all my friends and I nodded our heads. It was time, he said, that they have the support, the training and the facilities to pursue their dreams.. to pursue a career in sports! The crowd erupted in applause.

I don’t remember what exactly the Omni man said because he was talking in numbers and dates and something about a poor chap with square feet. The meeting ended after an hour and all the villagers stood in line for their snack while the children ran around excitedly at the thought of a fancy sports complex and also because of all the sugar in the rasna we drank.

A week after the meeting my brothers and I went on a three-day summer camp to south Goa. We were so jumpy on our ride back, waiting to meet our friends, waiting to awe them with our spectacular stories and brave adventures; only to be struck speechless by what we saw or rather didn’t see. The Gulmohar was gone. All of it, they didn’t even leave a root behind. The shock and pain that pierced through our souls cannot be explained. All my friends felt angry and cheated, I wept more for the tree than Heidi cried when she was forced to leave her beloved mountains!

Eleven months later the sports complex was finally inaugurated with similar settings – techni colour pendal, big speakers, plastic chairs and lots of orange rasna. Our local MLA cut the red ribbon and gave a speech about the sports hall being a great initiative, about moving forward and how he was thrilled to have a five star sports complex. As an eight year old, I was familiar with the starring system and if Miss Blanche ever gave this grey block five shiny stars she’d better have given me seven for my somewhat cursive handwriting. If you looked at it from the top (you know like you look at your Barbie house) it was a rectangular box with some shutter windows. The borders of a badminton court were painted in white on the cement floor and there were 2 poles that held a net across the center of the hall. There was a table tennis table, a couple of chess boards and two separate changing rooms for girls and boys.

When it first opened it was so new, we were scared we’d break the glass panes hitting a six. Over time we found it small, hot and claustrophobic, so we abandoned it altogether. Thirteen years have passed since that bloody sports building was inaugurated and I can say with confidence that more people have done illegal stuff in it than actually played some sport.
During the construction period we were forced to find another playground. We shifted to the fields but that didn’t work out too well because the ground wasn’t smooth enough for cricket and the farmers didn’t like us running over their precious crops. We then had to cycle all the way to the church grounds but that was far and we were always treated like aliens invading someone else’s sacred playground. Eventually our evening ritual of playing died out and we hung out with the TV. When we did play, we did so in smaller groups and treated that sports complex like we treated Rupesh, the boy who had snot all over him, - acknowledging his presence but never bonding with him.

When mama bought me a blackboard,
I thought I’d grow up to teach.
Now, I’d like to buy a surfboard,
and travel to a nice sandy beach.

Daddy said I’d make a good news-reader,
he wanted me to be on TV.
Now, I don’t mind being a political party leader
or just another rich VIP.

A friend wanted me to be a DJ,
and mix house tracks.
My brothers just wanted me to go away,
and never come back.

At five, everyone wanted me to be a doctor,
so I thought I’d be one too.
A chef? A nun? A lawyer? A janitor?
At 21, I still haven’t a clue.

I cannot keep shut nor can I sit still,
Taking medication is always done against my will.

Doing slightly complex math is beyond me,
so is communicating in fluent Hindi.

Asking me to be nice or kind to a cat
is like getting me to put on weight and become fat,

I cannot walk respectably in high heels,
or drive anything with more than 2 wheels.

I can never keep a straight face during a prank,
Nor can I fill any of those forms they give you at a bank.

I can never draw or cut in straight lines,
or distinguish between expensive wines.

The stuff mentioned above are just a few
of the things that I simply cannot do!

To,

The Editor,
Times of India,
Mumbai

Dear Sir,

This is with regard to the article ‘Reaping Gold through Bt Cotton’dated August 28, 2011. It was most disappointing to see such an article which sounds almost like an advertorial, but written by a journalist of the paper being published in your newspaper. There are a few points I would like to highlight:

1) A footnote states that the article is a ‘Reprint of.. TOI Nagpur edition’. There are sufficient stories on successful ecological farmers that can be highlighted if the publication feels it has a scarcity of stories to cover and it is forced to reprint!

2) A note by the journalist mentions that the trip to Yavatmal was “arranged” by Mahyco-Monsanto Biotech, it therefore comes as no surprise that the story is one sided with no independent views and sounds like a promotional piece for Mahyco-Monsanto’s Bollgard I and Bollgard II.

3) Yavatmal is a district that has 2117 villages of which only 2 were visited. This is an insufficient and inaccurate representation of the district and a particularly bad one as the district has seen a large number of farmer suicides.

4) All the farmers mentioned in the article have land ‘anywhere between 10-40 acres and none of them was ever a marginal farmer’. The author fails to describe the plight of majority of our farmers, who are small and marginal farmers mostly dependent on rainfall for irrigation, money from private money lenders and other problems.

The appearance of this article is particularly significant at a time the biotechnology industry is trying to get the BRAI bill, favourable to industry, cleared as per news reports. It is also pertinent that a series of advertisements are being published in the Times of India, Economic Times and Mumbai Mirror. One hopes that the editorial content of this newspaper is not governed by advertising revenues alone.

As you are aware biotechnology and particularly the GM crops issue is a very contentious and problematic, with numerous problems with GM crops surfacing around the world. At this juncture it is hoped that newspapers like yours will report objectively on the issue in the true spirit of responsible journalism.


Sincerely,

Ruth

Image for representational purpose only. Image curtesy Google Images

There are people, who will be around when you’ve got a broken heart,
also when you let out a big loud fart.

There are people, who will help you when you’re in pain,
also when you’ve got a period stain.

There are people, who will click when you laugh and pose
also when you’re quietly digging your nose.

There are people, who will make you smile through the toughest defeat,
more so, when you’ve got something stuck in your teeth.

These are the people you call your closest friends,
they make you laugh no matter how your story ends.

I've been looking out for inspiration for a new blog post for the past few weeks. Like most things that I'm searching for in my life it came straight to me, I just had to wait, with arms wide open. In this case, however, inspiration whacked me straight at the knee, in the form of a rubber cricket ball.

Goans don't usually welcome dry days, but after almost a week of being stuck indoor thanks to the rain and the thunderstorms, it was warmly welcomed. At times like these, the women dry damp clothes out, the elderly nervously go for their evening walks, the children run out to play and the men (being men) continue to watch Star Sports. Going according to what I have just mentioned, my brother Luke should ideally have been indoors, but when I went out into the garden, I saw him playing gully cricket with a bunch of school boys. I've always known Luke to have a very childish side, but it was only yesterday that I noticed a similarity to Peter Pan.

I walked over to where they were playing and the boys (being young boys) gave me a derogatory stare, which very clearly conveyed their message - 'girls aren't allowed here'. I walked ahead, smiling from ear to ear, hoping to make friends, but judging by the intensity of the vibes, I wasn't too confident I would. Luke didn't notice me at first, but when he did, he gave me a very sheepish smile. When the boys saw their captain and coach smile at me, they decided they should end all hostility.

I had seen most of these boys in their half pants, running around, creating chaos, but I didn't know them by their names. I asked Luke for introductions, but he was too busy bowling. Over time, I figured out a) their names and b) that Luke didn't know their names. There was eleven year old Cyril, who Luke called Damien (“a stark resemblance to Damien of 'The Omen'”), ten year old Pritish whom Luke called “Munna”which is incidentally his father's name, then came ten year old Daniel, who Luke referred to as “you” and finally 8 year old Emanuel who was tagged “smally”.

The boys were playing the usual roadside cricket, with basic rules of; “If the ball hits the red wall, you're out”, “If the ball bounces once and then you catch it, your out”, “If the ball goes all the way to the yellow wall. It's a four” and finally and most importantly, “If you break someone's windowpane, everyone must flee within 15 seconds”.

It was very amusing to watch the boys playing, I am absolutely certain that the kids I played with 15 years ago were more skilled than this lot. Daniel didn't seem as brave as his biblical predecessor and often gave a little shriek when the ball headed in his direction. Damien, on the other hand, was a bit too bold. When fielding he took his position right in the middle of the pitch and at some point he was nearly smacked on the face by Emanuel, who was finding it difficult to control the heavy bat. Pritish was the only guy who seemed to have some cricket in his blood and gave Luke some competition. Little Emanuel sat with me for most parts of the match and when he did venture on the field, he was very distracted and missed quite a few catches, which annoyed Pritish greatly. In the one hour that he did play, he slipped and fell five times, which is more than the number of runs he scored.

I joined the boys at their game and unlike earlier, the boys seemed to have no objection. On the field, we were all the same sex and the same age. We were now buddies. I was glad to have met these young lads and shared the evening with them, I was transported back to my childhood,(not such a long time ago) where I was always the only girl playing with all my brothers' friends. It was a complete deja vu moment when I was bowled out and was given a second chance by these fine gentlemen, because as one of them explained “you're a girl”.

“Skinny”, “bony”, “tall and lean”,
“Banana”, “French fry”, even “French bean”.

“A rod”, “a pole”, “a walking stick”,
“A pen”, “a pencil”, even a “toothpick”.

“You have no curves or cheeks to show”
“Your Bulimic”, “Anorexic”, a “Size Zero”,

“A chalk”, “a fork”, a “coconut tree”,
“You look like Olive Oyl and have her knees”.

I am like this because of my genes.
You think it’s funny, I think it’s mean.