A man who lives and breathes in Khadi

P. Gopinath Nair

Temple bells rouse Gopinath Nair every morning at the crack of dawn. Then the sound of the azaan drifts through his traditional Tharavada home in Netinkara, near Thiruvananthapuram. His wife already in the kitchen calls aloud for coffee. The two start yet another quiet day with one reading the Hindu and the other a Malayalam Daily. By the time the newspapers are exchanged, the guests come calling, everyone from friends and neighbors to social activists and the members of local associations. By 9:30 a.m. Mr. Nair leaves for his office at Kerala Gandhi Smaraka Nidhi in Thiruvananthapuram, 45 minutes away. Mr. Nair, who is 88, has served as chairman of the Nidhi for years. “Some days at work are more challenging than others,” Mr. Nair told me. “But every day is new for me.”

The desk in Mr. Nair’s office captures his dynamic personality. It’s piled high with newspapers in Malayalam and English, official documents, letters, meticulously labeled files, and an assortment of books, yet the table still appears organized. In one of the table’s corners sit a miniature charkha and a photograph of Gandhi ji, the man to whom Mr. Nair has dedicated his life. “My life is my message,” he quotes for me. “How many people in the world can say that?”

Born in 1921 in Netinkara, Kerala, Gopinath Nair spent his childhood in the lap of nature. “The Netinkara River is believed to have miraculous powers. I grew up hearing that people find ghee [clarified butter] deposits on the river banks. But as our negative karma grows the ghee deposits are depleting,” he laughs. Growing up in the years when the non-cooperation movement was at its peak, Gopinath was an extraordinary student who could study and appreciate the Upanishads at the age of 13. His father, who was a lawyer, expected him to follow a similar career pat

h. But Gopinath’s life changed in 1933 when Gandhi ji visited Kerala. His first memory of Gandhi ji is of the spritely old man navigating with agility through the eager crowds that had lined up to see him. “Seeing him running through the crowds to keep his time commitments, I realized the importance of discipline and the value of time,” Mr. Nair told me. “He was indeed an extraordinary man.”

In 1938 Mr. Nair joined the Maharaja College for Science in Trivandrum. During college he decided to immerse himself in the struggle for freedom. Dropping a midterm year at college, he joined the Congress and Quit India Movement in 1942, when most of the established leaders had been arrested. He and other students of the Maharaja College protested against the Raja of Travancore, a supporter of the British. Their group was jailed for sedition but released after a couple of days of imprisonment. The incident made Mr. Nair popular in his college’s Congress Youth Wing and he recognized his ability to organize. But at this time Mr. Nair lost his father; another kind of responsibility fell on his shoulders. While remaining active in student and youth affairs, he still studied enough to earn his Bachelor of Science in 1943.

He worked from 1943-46 for the student movement and with Congress the interim government, but also applied for a scholarship to study at Vishwa Bharti University (Shantiniketan). “During the time when ‘Direct Action’ was called [by Jinnah to push for Partition], I went to Shantiniketan looking for Shanti (Peace),” he said with a smile. “But as soon as I reached Bengal I saw dead bodies at the railway station. My introduction to Bengal was rather sad. Gandhi ji’s presence was a big stabilizing factor there. We take our inspiration from events in history like Naukhali, a predominantly

Muslim area where Gandhi ji was present during the

independence hour. He urged people to give up arms and spent his time at a Muslim house. Gandhi ji was deeply disturbed by the riots that broke out"

At the time of independence, Mr. Nair was in Shantiniketan. Even though it was a time of celebration, he remembers having mixed feelings about the achievement even then. In September 1947, Gandhi ji returned back to Calcutta. Mr. Nair went with a group of students from Shantiniketan to meet him. They could not believe their luck when their request to speak with him personally was accepted. Gandhi ji was distraught by the violence around him. He asked the students if they were Hindus or Muslims, but then replied himself: “You are neither Hindu nor Muslim. You are ‘Insaans’ (humans).”

When Gandhi ji was assassinated in January 1948, Mr. Nair was still at Shantiniketan. The tragic moment inspired profound reflection on how he should spend his life. In April, on his way back home to Kerala, he stopped at Gandhi ji’s Wardha Ashram. There he found the Mahatma’s spirit of service still alive. “Gandhi ji was and is not a person but a spirit,” Mr. Nair discovered. “He was not a human being but an embodiment of a spirit, the spirit of a movement that went beyond the struggle for independence.”

The great leader’s simple mud hut in Wardha, just as any other in rural India, moved Mr. Nair to work at the grassroots in his home state of Kerala. He was deeply inspired Gandhi ji’s conviction that the foundations of an independent India must be based on empowered villages. “Many years later, Vinoba Bhave asked me why I decided to quit Shantiniketan as I could have used the opportunity to spread Gandhi ji’s word by using the university platform. I never regretted my decision. Life has its own way.”

In 1950 Gandhi Smarak Nidhi was established as a national organization to preserve and spread Gandhi ji’s message. “I was amongst the first to join the Nidhi. In Kerala we started encouraging Khadi units and Gram Seva work. Later, as a Tatva Pracharak, we started to spread the essence of his message and his vision. I was in charge of organizing three main study centres at Trivandrum, Ernakulam and Calicut.” The Nidhi also organized youth camps and encouraged young people to serve their society. An important part of the camps were prayer meetings for peace.

In 1958 Mr. Nair became a member of the All-India Sarva Seva Sangh, a Gandhian service organization of which he would later become President. This role personally exposed him to the challenges of conflict resolution amid communal tension. “In Kerala, there was a constant tension between Christian and Hindu fishermen and we always felt that it was important to solve the problem peacefully. Even though our approach was seen as slow, one has to go to the core to understand and solve an issue permanently.” He focused on building a Shanti Sena, a nonviolent army of peace workers, to resolve communal conflicts.

Over the next two decades Mr. Nair’s understanding of peace and nonviolent conflict resolution strengthened. In the aftermath of the 1971 Indo-Pak War he worked at the refugee camps for Bangladeshis. He and his Bengali colleagues organized youth from Dhaka University living in the camps and encouraged them to volunteer as service workers. Together they addressed issues like communalism and management of the camps, including basic cleanliness and hygiene. It was a tremendous job that involved massive dedication from both the volunteer trainees and the refugees.

During the 1980s and 90s numerous communal riots broke out in different corners of India. In 1989 the town of Bhagalpur, Bihar, experienced intense violence. Mr. Nair and his team stayed there for six months intensely mobilizing the communities for peace. “It was quite challenging,” he remembers. “When people are angry and violence takes its course, only willpower and tremendous strength can bring a return to peace.”

Mr. Nair resolved to undertake a peace mission to Punjab during the height of the insurgency there. He remembers that on the day of his departure his relatives and friends were in an especially somber mood at the railway station. “They thought that was probably the last time they were going to see me!”

One of Mr. Nair’s biggest victories as a peace builder was in his home state of Kerala. In 2002 and 2003 brutal communal violence tore through Marad, near Calicut in northern Kerala. Arms were hidden at places of worship and the situation worsened as political parties and other vested interests encouraging the two sides in the conflict. “A violent riot had broken out there and it was a big showdown since no conclusion was being arrived at,” he said.

Mr. Nair and his team organized 100 meetings and conducted foot marches, vehicle yatras, and processions in the riot-infested areas. They held intensive workshops on how to preserve peace that were well attended by both Hindus and Muslims. “Another Kranti [revolution] has returned,” one newspaper exclaimed about the efforts. Hindu leaders recognized him as the principle negotiator for peace in the area and he helped broker a unanimous decision to stop the violence. “Gandhi’s way of peace brokering still works,” he told me.

After the violence subsided, he set out to bring back the 950 Muslim families who had been driven from their homes. “Our teams worked at this for long. Our biggest triumph was that we did not charge the state government a single rupee for putting up our men at Calicut [for this work]. When the first batch of Muslims arrived [back at their homes], there were festivities and a happy atmosphere. Peace is something that need not be government-enforced. People understand peace because it is natural to seek it.”

“With experience, we have realized that a lot of work can be done with little money and with smaller groups,” Mr. Nair told me. Since 2008 he has focused on counteracting local problems in Kerala like alcoholism and environmental degradation by developing small groups of proactive citizens. “We are called Mitra Mandal, a group of friends,” he said. “We organize meetings about issues that concern us deeply. Now and then some concerned groups of citizens come to me during evenings and we work together on how to mobilize people and address issues like environment and education more effectively.” Mr. Nair’s long years of experience as a Gandhian have given him insight into a wide array of social problems. Today he works with numerous different kinds of social organizations to improve the lives of Keralites. “Though disparate, all these programs, be it about prohibition, education, teachers’ training, or cleanliness, are influenced by Gandhi ji’s vision.”

“I like to work with people,” the tireless Gandhian told me. “After my office hours I work with villagers. We are trying to bring together nature clubs for the village youth.”

Doesn’t he ever need rest?

“Vinobaji said, ‘All this [work] that I do is rest.’ I enjoy my work.”

Though well into his eighties, Mr. Nair has never stopped focusing on young people in his work. “Young people have to become young first,” he told me. “I have realized how people are no longer young these days. They are either looking back to adolescence or busy planning for future. Vinobaji used to say that yuva (the youth) link the old and the future. They should be aware of the challenges that every generation has to face.”

I wondered whether youth today might face different challenges than in the India in which he grew up. “Time changes but fundamentals do not. Truth and love are the greatest fundamentals in a life and they apply to any time and age. The challenge is how to apply these fundamentals. It is important to commit three to four years of your life to service and public work and then to go back to cushioned jobs. A balance is important in every way.” He reminded me that though the outward crises of a society may change, the moral challenges we face are timeless. “Life is about moving from a lesser Truth to a higher Truth.”

Living to Tell the Tales of the Flowing River

I imagine a day circa 1953. A reputed pathologist in an old, tradition-bound city sits patiently for hours in his laboratory, testing samples and writing reports. Once evening comes around he rushes to the ‘City Dramatics Society,’ where he changes his garb and takes on an altogether different role. The doctor also writes serious academic articles on topics stretching far beyond medicine, using over one hundred pseudonyms. He coordinates the activities of a curiously named literary club and religiously attends the musical mehfils (recitals) for which his city is renowned.

Then, as now, 89-year-old Dr. Bhanu Shankar Mehta of Varanasi has lived anything but a sterile medico’s life. His careers and passions read like a comprehensive list of college subjects: History, Maths, Biology, Drama, Geography, and Literature. In each one he’s excelled.

Born in 1921 in Jaunpur, Dr. Mehta’s arrival into this world was marked by a ‘100-gun salute’. His grandfather, the Superintendent of Police of Jaunpur district, ensured that the festivities marking his first grandchild’s birth befitted his own position as a ‘Sahab’. I could not help but smile when this octogenarian clad in a crisp white dhoti-kurta adds softly, “But I have no resonance of guns in me!”

We sit surrounded by a vast sea of books as Dr. Mehta recounts his lifetime of explorations. My thoughts drift away from the imagined echo of ‘a 100-gun salute’ to the well-known names I see on the books’ spines. It does not take long to figure out that Dr. Mehta spends most of his time in his study. He knows his sanctum well enough to fish out the right book each time he stretches out his hand.

Dr. Mehta’s life story soon begins to unfold before me there in his study. I picture his father, an erudite school teacher who had moved from Junagarh to Banaras to pursue Sanskrit studies in his adolescence. As a fatherless boy, living in Junagarh, Manilal Vaccharajaani saw an opportunity when Raja Munshi Madholal, a rich ‘Seth’ of Benaras announced a scholarship to deserving Indian boys who wished to pursue higher study. Manilal packed his bags and, like many other Gujarati compatriots of his time, set out to pursue opportunities in an unfamiliar territory. Finishing his Masters from the famous Sanskrit College and L.T from Allahabad University, Manilal Vaccharajani never returned back to Gujarat. He instead married the daughter of a ‘Sahab’, an I.P.S officer, and settled down in Banaras.

The Naagar Brahman community of Gujarat proudly distinguishes itself from other Brahman sub-castes. Naagars consider themselves progressive and endowed with artistic skill. Any Naagar would proudly tell you how the women in their community have equal rights as men. In true Naagar fashion, Manilal married the Kundan Kunwar

, daughter of a ‘Sipahi Naagar’ (the soldier-Brahmans from Gujarat who were in the service of Raja Chabilaram Farukhsiyar), in plain clothes and sans dowry. Class barriers are uncommon in the progressive world of Naagars. This marriage did not change Manilal’s decision to teach in a high school, where he would later become the headmaster. Two contrasting worlds – an austere father’s simple city house and the his maternal grandfather’s lavish garden house– fused easily in the young Dr. Mehta’s mind.

As Dr. Mehta recalls some impressions of his carefree early years in Banaras, I am reminded of just how much life in the city has changed. The sounds of generators, honking horns, and blaring televisions come in through the window, as I imagine the carefree days he describes, when young boys longed to watch ‘Ramleela’ weeks before it began every fall (The Kashi-Ramnagar Ramleelas were and continue to be an extravaganza). This was a time when you could spend long hours munching peanuts and watching the river Ganga flow by, while precariously perched on the railway track of the Dufferin Bridge. The Banaras of Dr. Mehta’s youth was free of plastic refuse and ubiquitous pollution. But life was not all footloose. The anti-British Sarkar movement was at an all-time high and our octogenarian, despite his middle-class upbringing, participated in it.

Dr. Mehta mentions that his grandfather, the man who earned the title of ‘Sahab’ during the Raj times, retired voluntarily from the police to serve the City Municipal Board in Varanasi. Despite his association with the British, ‘Sahab’ one evening unfurled the Indian flag atop the Municipal Board Office. Dr. Mehta emphasizes, ‘The people were not against the British, but against the system. We were not against the Goras or the White Race but against the discrimination. The freedom movement also brought with this an inner awakening; people began to question themselves about what freedom means to them personally and collectively as a nation.’

Following their seniors, young boys at Harishchandra High School, where Dr. Mehta studied, raised slogans like, ‘Ek, Do… Laal Pagdi Phenk Do!’ (Rhyming in Hindi as slogans do: ‘One, Two… Discard your Red Turbans!’). In junior school, Dr. Mehta wore a round cap (signifying his position) but by the time he graduated to Class V, he threw his cap in a bonfire. Dr. Mehta remembers the sad day when he read in the newspapers about Bhagat Singh’s death sentence. ‘I could not, and did not eat,’ he recounts. This inner exploration of freedom and its meaning continued with him till his college years in Lucknow, where he moved in 1940 to pursue higher education.

I am impatient to learn more about the next stage of his life in Lucknow, but Dr. Mehta does not wish to move on so quickly. He mulls over those years so long ago and starts speaking about his grandmother, who was his first teacher. Learning from her was organic. She had songs for every occasion and would sing religious and secular songs throughout the day while doing her daily chores. Another influence was his neighbor, Dr. Shobha Ram who also edited ‘Banaras Akhbar’. Dr. Shobha Ram’s spacious haveli was a world apart from his own home. Together with the neighbourhood children, Dr. Mehta enacted famous roles at Dr. Ram’s home, wrote simple scripts, designed costumes, and performed. ‘This is what we understood from ‘freedom’- To be able to express freely…’ School teachers, including Videshwar Banerjee, Pt. Kamlakar Cahubey, Sanjiva Rao and Chandi Prasad were not teachers but gurus. Each of them added unique dimensions to their students’ intellectual, artistic and spiritual journeys.

Determined to unravel the mysteries of human anatomy after high school, but unable to pass the qualifying exam, Dr. Mehta studied science at the under-graduate level but never lost his focus. He sat for the Medical School Exam after his under-graduation and moved on the next step of his journey. Seeing a satisfied look on my face after I scribble ‘Medical School’ on my notepad, he backtracks again. I am getting used to his method. He wants to pay a humble tribute. Retracing his steps, Dr. Mehta starts to speak about a man, his teacher, whose name I instantly recognize: Dr. Birbal Sahni, the famous paleontologist who taught science to the undergraduates at Lucknow University. “A thorough gentleman, Dr. Sahni was also a nationalist who did not mark us absent when we missed our class to participate in a protest against Vinobha Bhave’s arrest. He even congratulated us on the peaceful nature of our protest but when we requested him to repeat his lecture; he simply said that freedom also entailed sacrifice.” Dr. Mehta’s priceless possession is a certificate signed by Dr. Birbal Sahni declaring him a Bachelor of Science.

The Quit India movement coincided with the beginning of Dr. Mehta’s Medical College studies, and amidst arrests an

d a tense atmosphere the ‘Batch of 1947’ began its classes as late as January 1943. Despite a rigorous study schedule, the students participated in the freedom movement in their own ways. ‘We would hoist Indian flag atop the hostel buildings much to our teacher’s annoyance.’ Dr. Mehta was a good student and earned scholarships more than once during his medical college years but the college refused to promote him to M.D. The reason: indiscipline. Activities like hoisting the Indian flag, participation in protests, and open discussion on the freedom struggle earned him a bad reputation in the eyes of college authorities. ‘I apprenticed under the laboratory in-charge for a year and returned back to Varanasi,’ he says. ‘I borrowed Rs. 10,000 and travelled down to Bombay, purchased laboratory material and set up a pathology laboratory in Independent India.’ He received a formal degree in pathology almost a decade after starting his practice when he received a diploma in Clinical Pathology.

Marriage and children happened soon after medical college but Dr. Mehta’s creative explorations continued in the form of writing stories and plays, editing newspapers and acting on stage. ‘I moved from one genre to another, one medium to another in search of true expression.’ Today, Dr. Mehta has to his name about 40 books and hundreds of articles written or translated. He spent some of his quality time nourishing, the ‘Thalua Club’ (literally meaning the Idlers Club). The Thalua Club was symbolic of avant-garde expression in the field of literature and drama. For the club, Dr. Mehta organized seminars on theatre and acted, directed and even formally studied theatre. He presented programmes on the radio and lectured in person on cultural, medical and social issues.

Dr. Mehta went on to become a highly sought-after pathologist and practiced until 2004. He was actively associated with the Indian Medical Association, becoming its regional president and eventually was elected as a president of the All India Medical Association. As a president of the A.I.M.A, he travelled to Japan where he spent time interacting with the locals. The other delegates went out shopping and sightseeing but Dr. Mehta documented his experiences and informal interviews with the Japanese. On his return back, he published his experiences as ‘Yatra aur Yatra’ along with Leena Mangaldas (of Shreyas Foundation, Ahmedabad) who wrote a similar account on China. ‘These were pre-internet and cable television times. Any kind of account on an unknown corner was welcome by readers.’

Moving away from theatre to cultural studies was natural for Dr. Mehta. His vast knowledge on the tradition and performative aspects of Ramleela was the stepping stone. Dr. Mehta wrote and lectured on this subject and conducted research into unexplored aspects of Banaras’ rich cultural tradition. He put together the Banaras Gallery at Bharat Kala Bhavan, the University Museum at B.H.U. He is also credited with reviving an old and popular but forgotten festival (exclusive to 19^th century Banaras), Burhva Mangal.

I ask him for his message to young people today. ‘Honesty and hard work, he says, ‘and to think out of the box. Going into the depth of your calling and passion is wonderful but to think out of the box and feel your calling along with hard work and honesty makes you yourself feel good.’ It’s a typical summer afternoon when I take his leave. A creaking ceiling fan cools the three lazing dogs, while Dr. Mehta fishes into his sea of books to read.

Living the Teachings

Ahalya Chari is an educator whose career has spanned 65 years. She was the force behind numerous schools, colleges and several institutions in India, including the Central Institute of Education, the National Institute of Education, the Regional College of Education, and Krishnamurti Schools for many decades. Ms. Chari’s extraordinary career in the field of education has also been an inner-journey through the many meanings of life.

Today, at 88 Ahalya Chari feels that work has a central place in life. Her day begins with quiet watching, reading and contemplation in the serene environs of Vasant Vihar, the India headquarters of the Krishnamurti Foundation in Chennai. As the day progresses she meets people from different walks of life who come seeking her guidance. Certain days she prefers quiet solitude for reading and listening to music. Ahalya Chari is not new to appreciating the value of maintaining a fine balance in life. She has striven for it in all her many years.

Born in Rangoon in1921, Ahalyaji belonged to the third generation of Charis, Tamil Brahmins settled in Burma. Her father was sent from Rangoon to study at the Central Hindu Boys School and College that Dr. Annie Besant had started in Benaras in 1898. After finishing college, he returned to Rangoon to teach at the Theosophical Society that had sponsored him and where he would go on to serve as headmaster. Ahalyaji’s mother, who married at sixteen, completed her studies after marrying and raising children.

Ahalyaji first attended an English-medium girl’s convent school. Growing up away from her grandparent’s homeland, of which she knew little, and studying in a British run school, she learned important life lessons. Her school laid emphasis on discipline and rigour in every aspect of life, qualities that she continues to sustain in herself even now. British schooling then gave students a love for purposeful learning. The atmosphere at the Chari household that prevailed also affirmed integrity, truthfulness, purposeful study and space for affection and goodwill. “It was natural for us to follow, to obey and not to question the generation that laid down the law,” Ahalyaji told me. After moving to her father’s school in Grade VIII, Ahalyaji came into contact with the universal culture that the Theosophists believed in. “Unconsciously, we were brought up in a way that is today called a secular atmosphere. We believed that people of all faiths, and all nations should live together.” Despite a secular conditioning, Ahalyaji and her friends had no political consciousness. “We were not conscious that we were Indians living in Burma ruled by the British or that we were slaves of an empire!”

Growing up in the early 20th century Rangoon had its share of fun moments. “I remember the first time I heard the radio…..The first voice that came out of the radio was that of the King Edward VIII abdicating his throne for wanting to marry the woman he loved. And we all sat listening to his speech. I heard my father feeling glad at the end that England had stood by its principles . But I was saddened that someone had to do this. But I could not raise my voice or any questions.”

With new technologies making their way from the West to the colonies, the young in early 20th century Burma witnessed a life no different than across the ocean. Young Ahalyaji and her aunt would go out to watch silent movies like Charlie Chaplin films. But in a movie called Shirley Temple Curly Tops, a young girl on the screen started speaking. The awestruck audience got up and started clapping when they heard her speak on the screen. That was the first transition from a silent movie to the one that talked.

And there were also excursions to the countryside and to several Buddhist temples, or Pagodas as they are called in Burma. “We used to light candles, sit down quietly and pretend to meditate”.

Ahalyaji’s first brush with her identity as an Indian came when she was about 12. She attended a ladies meeting with her mother in Rangoon. A strange, half- naked man with a broad smile shocked her young eyes. After his speech, for some unkown reason, many of the women took out their bangles and their ornaments to give the old man, who was holding out a piece of cloth. To Ahalyaji’s utter disbelief even her mother put in some money! That was Mahatma Gandhi, Ahalyaji reminisces. ‘On our way back home, I asked my mother who this poor Gandhi thatha (grandfather) was and why did women give him so much money’. My mother explained that India was a colony of the British and it was struggling for freedom. Upset, I asked my mother ‘why must the British leave? ….’they are so nice and I don’t want my teachers to leave.’

At the University of Rangoon, Ms. Chari studied English with History as an ancillary. Some unrest in India had already penetrated into the minds of youth, even in Rangoon. She recalls Jawaharlal Nehru’s visit to the University, where he spoke to a captivated audience. She participated in several debates on non-political subjects like co-education, social reform set with other fiery students. Among these was Aung San Suu Kyi’s father, who was two years’, her senior.

In 1941, just after she had finished her bachelors, the Third war came also to the East. The Japanese were threatening to invade Burma. Despite, months of preparation, when incendiary bombs fell on homes, no one knew what to do but run. The Chari family spent the next four months running from one place to the other in the interiors of Burma, moving by train, cart and even walking. “We never took life for granted after those years on the run.”

Finding their way to a refugee camp at Shwebo, they were spotted by an old student of their father who kindly helped them get evacuated by air to Calcutta. And from there they went to Benaras which was the only place in India they knew.

After shifting to India, Ahalyaji’s subsequent years appear well planned and laid out in retrospect, but as she says now, “I just flowed with life. I never planned or applied for a single job or position.” In Benaras Ms. Chari finished her masters at Benaras Hindu University. Soon after she was offered a job as Lecturer at Vasanta College for Women.*

Ms. Chari had grown up seeing Mrs. Besant’s photo on the mantle piece at her family home in Rangoon but recognized Mrs. Besant’s extraordinary life and contribution to Indian education after working as an educator. Ahalya ji says, “She wanted to give a spiritual regeneration to the country through education and wanted the Indian spirit to be uppermost in our schools; which for her meant being not westernized but learning English, being open and liberal and learning Sanskrit and ancient Indian philosophy, history, and deep rooted Indian traditions of no competition and no fear...” Her job here was an excellent beginning for a teacher who was to discover the teaching was indeed her calling.

The waves of progressive education in the west and corresponding developments in India made way to Vasanta College. The college laid emphasis on universal mind and values and as for as possible no competition. For Ms. Chari, her time in Benaras was a very special period in her life’s journey when she absorbed influences from various concurrent academic, spiritual, progressive and cultural movements happening in the1940’s. Ahalya Chari served Vasanta College for ten years making most of her time as an educator- teacher, house parent to grow intellectually and spiritually.

Amongst other interesting colleagues and friends, Ms. Chari met at Vasanta College was a man who influenced her profoundly. Young Ahalya had grown up seeing his photograph on the mantelpiece of her house alongside Mrs. Besant’s. By now, away from the tutelage of Theosophical Society, J. Krishnamurti had taken the world by a storm.

At Rajghat, Ms. Chari realized the balance to have alertness as well as sensitivity to understand a child and understanding the young individuals as an ongoing learning experience. Discussions on freedom, intelligence, transformation, responsibility and order helped her see a new side to living and uplifted her. The teachers and students were encouraged to approach nature and the world around them with extreme care and sensitivity.

India between 1942-48 was unfortunately in great turmoil and she and her colleagues were inwardly challenged by a wave of Indian nationalism that surged around them. Ahalyaji remembers listening with rapt attention to the stalwarts of the times: Gandhiji, Jawaharlal, Sarojini Naidu, Sardar Patel and so on and getting emotionally charged. In 1947, she and a few friends were in Delhi to hear the famous 'Tryst with Destiny’ speech of Nehru's on August 15th. It was thrilling to see the tri-colour go up.

But there was also the anguish of partition, the killing of innocents, death and destruction unimpeded and so she was to witness war and violence once again. They came back to Benares wondering what freedom was all about.

It was at that point in January 1949 that J.Krishnamurti came back to Benares after the war years. Listening to him for the first time, she was shaken to the roots. 'Can't you see that nationalism is poison?' he asked his audience. "Is not war of any kind evil?” 'And are you not responsible for war? Are you free from violence within you? Are you not like the rest of mankind?' They sounded harsh at first but coming as they did from a source of great sorrow and compassion, the teacher held us in spell, she reminisced. After that there was no turning back. She knew he was the teacher she had yearned for.

Her passion for education kindled by the wonderful initial training she had had as a teacher in Benares was even stronger after listening to Krishnaji and so in 1951 she went to Delhi in search of new pastures.

Delhi in the fifties and sixties was to see a resurgent India; a new creative wave of life could be discerned in every sphere of life. Nehru's passion for creating a scientific temper within India saw the emergence of many national science laboratories. Maulana Azad as the Education Minister pledged to bring about a new direction to education. It was his vision that helped set up a pioneering institution for the education of teachers. He appointed Prof. Ananthnath Basu who had had his training under Rabindranath Tagore as the head of the new Central Institute of Education in Delhi.

And it was to this institute that Ms. Chari went first as a student in 1951 and after a stint in the US as a Fulbright fellow to quench her thirst for what was new in educational philosophy then in the west, she joined the institute as a Lecturer after two years and was engaged for a couple of decades in the education of teachers. The Institute’s ideal of a teacher’s role being much larger than that of a mere transmitter of knowledge in a school was rather unique. It stood for giving attention to the whole life of the child and the creation of an atmosphere of participatory learning. Today, Ahalyaji feels that most colleges of education do not carry the same spirit any longer but have become commercial entities.

The fifties also so creative energies flow in the discovery of Indian art and culture in many ways. Women like Kamala Devi Chattopadhyaya and Pupul Jayakar revived our traditional arts and crafts and textiles and there was a filling of pride about the extra-ordinary skill of our craftsmen and artisans in the villages of India.

In the early 1960s, USAID along with consultants from Columbia University came to the C.I.E for discussion about starting what later came to be the NCERT. Ms. Chari found that to be an exciting venture and became one of the initiators of the National Institute of Education (later NCERT). Ahalyaji recalls how she and her colleagues of that generation had worked hard to set up this institution and dreamt a new dream for India. That was also the time when the Centre and the States could work together exploring possible areas of improvement.

At NCERT/ NIE, Ms. Chari headed the Curriculum Department where she prepared all the text books from those days. “My team and I went around to all the states communicating with the directors of education, training teachers about new ways of looking at curriculum and text books. It was tough work.” Ahalyaji worked with the NCERT for seven years, from 1962-69.

In 1961-62, she spent a year at Edinburgh University training for a course in applied linguistics. Returning back to India at the NCERT, she started working on mother tongue learning and English learning projects. “I felt that unless reading skills in these two languages were established, there would not be much of an understanding of other subjects later. Reading was never encouraged in our country; the practice was to learn by heart.” With this challenge, Ms. Chari and her team started a reading project. They traveled all over the field before writing books and preparing material. The team came up with reading readiness material for pre-school so that a young mind could get ready for reading.

Around the late 1960s, four regional colleges of education at Bhubaneshwar, Bhopal, Mysore and Ajmer were set up by the government of India where the focus was to train future teachers. Ahalyaji was asked to join the Mysore Regional College of Education as principal.

Just when Ms. Chari was deeply into teacher education, she was asked to take charge of building the Kendriya Vidyalayas that had been set up by the Central Government. She confesses that initially there was great resistance to this idea for such vast administration would mean dealing with files and sitting in an office. But she was soon to discover that behind each file was a human problem. Also, a cabinet resolution signed by Pandit Nehru indicated a much larger opportunity when it said ‘these schools are meant to be not only conveniences for transferable central government servants offering a common curriculum but should also be recognized as opportunities for developing an all India mind in children. This gave much more meaning to the work. It was possible to visit schools, interact with principals, teachers and children to inculcate a spirit of oneness. Ms. Chari said that it was great to see a major general’s child sitting along with a jawan’s or a group of children from Manipur performing a folk dance in Trivandrum. Such is the variety in our country that schools of this kind have a much larger role to play and indeed even now they do so.

Why then, I asked did she want to give up all this to go to the Rajghat Education Centre at Varanasi at this point in 1973. She paused for a while and answered that the decision came very naturally and was in fact the right one to take at that point of time. She was eager to work with Krishnamurti having listened to him for long decades, having participated in small discussions and having walked with him some way. There were fundamental questions that needed to be addressed and the ambience of the Krishnamurti centre seemed the right place for her to engage in this.

Ahalya Chari has spent her entire life in the field of education and continues to do so even now in Chennai as a trustee of the Foundation. Immediately after my discussion with her she met a group of teachers and asked those questions about their own experiences, their challenges as teachers and about the school as a whole. Her questions to each member of the group inspired a soul searching on our part. “Do feel that this is worthwhile?” Is there a spirit of enquiry in your own lives and in what you do at school? Have you understood what freedom is all about in a school? Where do you draw the line? – And so on.

And the Caravan Moves on

And the Caravan Moves On: Ghulam Naqshband


He was a young man growing up in the 1930s in a small town of what is now Pakistan. From these provincial beginnings, he would go on to discover the vast world beyond his own—and bring the two together. Ghulam Naqshband, popularly known as the 'travel guru of India,' founded the Caravan of India, an influential cultural organization, in the 1940s and India's first branch of the Alliance Française. He was an employee of the Government of India when Partition came and one of only two Muslim government servants from what is now Pakistan who opted for India. No one else from his family joined him. But he believed in the idea of the new nation of India and played a vital role in the forging of its international identity. He was always the 'different' son of a Sufi Khalifa in Kasur, a town in the Pakistani Punjab best known for Kasuri Methi (fenugreek). When he was studying in an all-boys school and college, he took an immense interest in becoming pen pals with the 'goras' of other countries. When his brothers were simply being boys, he could often be found penning letters to friends in faraway lands that he had little hope of visiting then. From these pen friends he came to know of an international socio-cultural movement called the Caravan. The young man was immediately drawn to the core beliefs of the movement. "The Caravan believed that in the World of Tomorrow, the people will salute One Flag, symbolizing this great, round, rolling Earth created without frontiers," Mr. Naqshband reminisced. From that stage he began organizing activities that would bring people of diverse backgrounds and cultures together; the kinds of activities he would continue organizing for the rest of his life. As a young man he invited the editor of Star Magazine in Lahore, a Hindu who wrote under the pseudonym Qamar Jalalabadi, to visit predominantly Muslim Kasur and speak on Krishna at the Town Hall. The event was organized with help from some of Mr. Naqshband's similarly 'different' friends in Kasur and the town crier who went about announcing the event. The response was over a hundred people, almost all Muslim, coming to listen to the story of Krishna. Mr. Naqshband founded India's official branch of the Caravan in January 1944. The Statesman in its NEWS IN BRIEF, January 8, 1944 stated, "A Branch of the 'The Caravan', an American youth movement which aims at inspiring young people of all nations towards a better world order has been formed in Delhi. The Society's next meeting will be held on Sunday at 4, at 7, Rajpur Road, Delhi." This clipping along with several others from popular dailies of the 1940's form the first pages of Mr. Naqshband's meticulously prepared and preserved scrap book. As I flipped through this thick book full of clippings, complete with photographs and event details of the Caravan of India, the organization's activities struck me as almost a prototype for the Programmes Desk at the India Habitat Centre: events featuring statesmen, writers, artists, and intellectuals coming together from India and around the world. As I carefully turned more leaves of the scrap book, I discovered that in the 1940s this intercultural youth movement spread like fire. Eminent speakers and patrons from various walks of life and countries addressed the young members. A clipping of an article from October 1944 published by the New History Society, New York, of which the Caravan of India was a branch, states that the Caravan under the leadership of G. Naqshband intends to do big things in a big way. "In a country where the population is so gifted and varied, Mr. Naqshband and his branch may strike a unifying note that will electrify the different communities." Indeed the Caravan organized inter-communal Diwali and Id celebrations, hosted receptions for national and international dignitaries, held fundraising dinners and balls, and collected funds for famine relief and orphans. In June 1945, the Caravan organized a world-wide contest and announced $ 1000 as prize-money for the best essay on 'A United States of the World and a Universal Religion.' The Caravan of India's young members were most active in arranging lectures and art exhibitions on subjects ranging from trends in modern Indian literature to youth movements around the world, recreation, health, India's economic future, and feminist movements. Some of the Caravan's speakers, who were rather unknown then, are highly respected figures today. The movement of the Caravan of India took another turn when Lady Mountbatten and her daughter Pamela, the wife and daughter of the British Viceroy, responded to Mr. Naqshband's insistence that they take up an active role. A hesitant Pamela Mountbatten gave her first public speech in May 1947 with the encouragement of the Caravan's members. With Pamela and her mother as patrons, a new momentum grew behind the already popular Caravan activities. The movement's activities began receiving extensive coverage from national and international newspapers and magazines. This prompted many older people to seek membership in the Caravan. In retrospect, Mr. Naqshband feels that these new members did not join because they believed in the movement's cardinal principles of being a non-political, non-religious, and non-sectarian force for unity. "They thought of it as an elite networking group that would help them with social connections," he told me. The Caravan moved from its first residence at a home in the Civil Lines of Delhi to Room Number 42 of the Y.M.C.A in New Delhi. The move to New Delhi facilitated more guest lecturers and activities in the form of a reading room and an auditorium. The space for a reading room was obtained through a clever request to the Commander-in-Chief, Indian Army. Mr. Naqshband wrote to the chief requesting the donation of an Army tent that the Army Commandant used during his travels. The Army donated the tent and encouraged the Caravan's initiative. The tent was duly pitched on the Y.M.C.A. grounds and the Caravan had itself a reading room. How did he manage to work with so much dedication for the Caravan, though he also had a full time job as a government officer? His answer was as prompt as the man himself is: "Since we all worked after office hours and were committed to our movement, we worked voluntarily without expecting any money. We devoted some part of the day to the Caravan religiously." Even before I could think of the next question, Mr. Naqshband added. "Those days the leaders would come to our social gatherings to speak. They were deeply dedicated to the society that they wished to serve. They appreciated a platform such as the Caravan and happily shared their time and views. There were times when the response of acceptance to our last minute programmes was sent with equal promptness by the leader." He added that esteemed figures such as Pandit Nehru, Rajagopalacharyaji, Rajendra Prasad and other leaders were happy participants in the movement. He noted one incident in particular of which I saw many photographs in his scrap book. On the United Nations Charter Day in June 1947 the Caravan organized a last-minute celebration at the Constitution Club. Mr. Naqshband was in such a rush he could not personally hand over the invitation to Pandit Nehru's office, so he was forced to post it. Nehru, to everyone's surprise, arrived right in time for the event and spoke extemporaneously at the request of the gathering. After independence, the Caravan continued to make inroads as a major youth movement. Active branches had already opened in cities such as Lahore and Shimla. The group organized regular health and sanitation workshops in the refugee camps and 'good-will' concerts in the troubled post-partition times. But with success also came inevitable challenges. The movement became a bitter ground for political rivalries to play out. Older people with vested interests took control of a movement that was meant to be lead by the young. Mr. Naqshband left the scene quietly and never looked back. So what did he do after he left? He continued building institutions to bring peoples and nations together. "I started the Club Française," he told me. The Club was founded in 1952 and he became its secretary. Together with other French-speaking friends in India he held the first French classes and ran a small library out of his own home. "Basically we got hold of any French-speaking people and convinced them to either teach or join our club." The library began with the support of a retired I.C.S officer living in Mussoprie. Mr. Naqshband along with an officer from the French Embassy drove to Mussoorie one weekend and brought back the donation of books in the boot of his car. In 1955, the French government recognized Mr. Naqshband's promotion of Indo-French friendship by inviting him to visit France. The Club Française would later transform into India's first branch of the Alliance Française. Mr. Naqshband decided to join the travel business in India when it was still in its infancy. There were very few companies then organizing tours for foreign visitors to India, but Mr. Naqshband brought to his new job the organizational and public relations skills that founding the Caravan and the Cercle had given him. He became a pioneer of India's travel industry. Having now traveled all over the world to promote India as a destination, I asked him how he feels now about his life's work. He told me that he still wakes everyday up with new ideas and works towards achieving them. Today at 85 years old, he still goes to his office each day at a travel company, where he serves as Chairman Emeritus, with the same enthusiasm he had 60 years ago. Many of us are so stressed by our studies and work responsibilities that we find little time to even sleep and eat properly. How did Mr. Naqshband ever find the time for all the activities he has undertaken? His advice for young people today comes down to this: Time management and discipline are extremely important in the creation of a better society. If you have honesty of purpose, the rewards will come. Today you have the benefit of technology and social networking groups on the web. The youth should prioritize their lives and give some time back to their society and country. There is endless potential and one needs to keep looking for ways to make a contribution. Do not wait for people to make a contribution. Start making your own efforts from today. Mr. Naqshband has now outlived many of his colleagues and fellow Caravan members. But he's not giving up on working for his vision of the world anytime soon. "I believe in God—after all he saved me when I religiously cycled up and down from Old to New Delhi during the intense post-partition days for work. I also believe in unity of the world and I think God wishes that." During those troubled times at India's birth, Mr. Naqshband and the other young people stood against the division and mistrust to build a more united nation. They remind us how powerful youth with dedication and vision can be in shaping our country's future.
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A Hiatus

Back to the turf ! Some of the new entries in Windows to India are based on my articles that profile unsung heroes in India from the days when the idealism that freedom inspired was still palpable. As the hope and pride generated by Obama's victory sweeps America, and young people there find new inspiration to bring change to their country, it's important to remember those in our own country who once used their talent and creativity to build a new India. The article will consist of intimate interviews with men and women who in the late 1940s and 50s were young leaders in India's budding civil society. One such individual built a movement to break down national and cultural barriers by exposing Indian society to other nations. Another individual used the print media and the power of the pen to break down gender barriers and protest social injustice. These were among free India's earliest social activists and investigative reporters, the men and women who first exercised the liberties of our new constitution. There is so much to imbibe from these men and women as India cries out for inspirational figures today. And recording their messages of hope is of such importance now, as they may soon be lost. If we remember those who acted on hope over half a century ago, perhaps we may inspire a similar activism in our youth today.

Relentless Guardians

Qamar Azad Hashmi

Qamar Azad Hashmi is an 83-year-old educationist, activist, author, mother, and survivor. Today her apartment in Delhi is scattered with the writings and photographs of people she has outlived, including one of her two sons, the pioneering playwright Safdar Hashmi. Her life has mirrored the tragedies, fractures, and separations of the subcontinent. Yet in spite of all she has endured, Qamar Azad remains deeply driven by her vision of a creative, dynamic system of education for India’s children. No matter has stood in her way, she has always lived life on her own terms.

Within a few moments of my first meeting with her, Qamar Azad revealed the strength and determination that has sustained her delicate frame all these years. Despite a constant struggle with age-related health problems, she moves effortlessly around her apartment, talking with visitors and undertaking her daily chores. When she finally sat down at an elegant study table designed by her husband—“the table’s older than you”, she exclaimed—I began to appreciate what it is that drives and inspires her.

Surrounding her study table are black and white photographs of her father (who looks strikingly like Lokmanya Tilak), biological and ‘rakhi’ brothers, and extended members of the family. Among the images is a framed photograph of Pandit Nehru taken on the momentous occasion of India’s birth as a nation. Qamar Azad Hashmi is one of the few remaining from a generation that believed deeply in that ‘tryst with destiny’ Nehru professed. She read the last lines of his speech that night for me: “It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of India and her people and to the still larger cause of humanity.” She paused and then added, “I do not understand you girls talking about liberation and modernity today. On 14th August 1947, I left my house with my brother’s friend to hear Panditji’s speech at midnight. There was a sea of humans who had flooded the roads of Delhi. I was one of them and even though I could not see the stage or get any where near it, I was proud to have heard Panditji. I was 19 then.”

Born in 1926 in Jhansi to mother’s name and Azhar Ali ‘Azad’, Qamar Azad was educated in Aligarh, Lucknow, Malihabad and Kasmandi. Her father was a tehsildar who had to move his family around constantly. Apart from his administrative position, Azhar Ali Azad was a poet who wrote in Persian and Urdu. He contributed verses to literary magazines. He also published a literary journal that was edited by Qamar’s mother. Qamar describes her family as ‘not wealthy’ but intellectual and creative. Learning in her family was based on recitations of verses and stories that she and her siblings mimed while resting under mango trees outside their home. Young Qamar rejected the family surname Abbasi and chose to call herself ‘Azad’ or ‘free’ (from her father’s pen name).

She had early brushes in her childhood with serving as a teacher. “I was not as bright as my elder sister or as beautiful as my younger sister,” she told me. “But I had a gift—I could monitor well.” Her teacher, who was also the head mistress and the administrator of the small school of 40 girls in Malihabad, asked her to teach the girls while she was busy finishing her other odd responsibilities.

Family fortunes kept changing over time and the family moved to Delhi to stay with Qamar’s elder brother, who was a lecturer in English at the Kashmiri Gate Polytechnic. Despite the communal tension rising before independence and partition, young Qamar simply dreamed of finishing her education. But tremendous upheavals stood in her way. Her brother surprised everyone at home by opting to migrate to Pakistan. Because her parents and younger siblings were dependent on him, they reluctantly agreed. The family faced numerous threats to their lives before reaching Pakistan. But to Qamar the biggest loss was leaving her books and notes behind.

Adapting to life in Pakistan was a challenge. Qamar and her parents could not find the space for a progressive, educated Muslim family in the bitter social and political environment after independence. Qamar took it upon herself to add to the family’s diminishing income and growing expenditures. She wrote for a newspaper called Imroze and made handkerchiefs for a shopkeeper in the Anarkali Bazaar of Lahore. The need to earn something extra inspired her to create a new line of handkerchiefs for the shopkeeper. He was so impressed by her creativity and conversational skills that he requested her to teach his daughter. Qamar took up the assignment and within a month her student’s grades improved, much to the shopkeeper’s delight. So he entrusted his son’s tuitions to Qamar as well.

Qamar’s life would take a new turn through the influence of the politically active Hashmi family, friends of her parents since their days in Delhi. The Hashmis encouraged Qamar to attend meetings of the Progressive Writers Association. She met young poets of the Indo-Pak literary movement, listened to their poetry, and studied trends. Her literary horizons expanded.

But the Hashmi family’s influence would extend beyond literature. The Hashmis proposed that Qamar marry their son Haneef, who had opted to remain back in Delhi. Haneef Hashmi was an avant-garde craftsman whose workshop made furniture for embassies in Delhi. Qamar and her family accepted, though it meant saying painful goodbyes. She would not see her family again for decades.

Qamar set up a home with her husband in Delhi. Upon a family friend’s request there, she filled out the forms for International Montessori training at Delhi College and informed her husband only after getting admission to the school. The family was going through one financial misfortune after the other, but Qamar was still determined to let nothing come in the way of her learning. By that time she had three young children at home and another was born just four days after her final Montessori exam. But nothing could deter her.

Dr. Zakir Hussain, then the Vice-Chancellor of Aligarh Muslim University and a family friend, encouraged Haneef Hashmi to move to Aligarh. During her years in Aligarh, Qamar was itching to be useful and do more than create fancy dress costumes for her children’s school functions. She enrolled in a graduate degree course at the Aligarh Muslim University. Her husband took over the household responsibilities for three months during her exams. The young Qamar’s dream of being a graduate, a dream disrupted by partition, marriage, and children, was finally fulfilled.

Qamar took a vacation with relatives in Delhi that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. She interviewed for the position of a nursery teacher advertised by the Delhi Municipal Corporation and was not only accepted, but swiftly upgraded to the position of head mistress. She was at the threshold of a new journey.

Qamar lived alone in Delhi for over three years, meeting her family in Aligarh only every ten days. Her “independent lifestyle” became a matter of debate within the family but Qamar remained determined. Her position’s administrative duties coupled with burgeoning family pressures only increased her determination to keep going.

When Qamar speaks of her career as a head mistress her voice fills with enthusiasm. She took me to her study where she has cartons full of material she has been busy creating for over 40 years. One almirah holds three decades of experiences in education. As I unraveled the contents—match-boxes, beads, seeds, elastics, corrugated sheets, cardboard shapes and jars of various shapes and sizes—I heard her say, “Sometimes people find it embarrassing that I scan the dust-bin before I send it out. I never let anything interesting, any shape, pass out of the house. They all enter this box to be a part of my nursery kit.”

The genesis of her collecting is Maria Montessori’s resource kit that she and her teachers struggled to implement at the NDMC Nursery School. In order to create new experiences for children, so they would have a better understanding of the world around them, she and her team of teachers stretched their imaginations to prepare more effective and economical means of preparing the Montessori kit. They adapted and expanded the kit and Qamar was proud of her teacher’s creativity. Three of them won prestigious awards from the NDMC.

Qamar’s reputation as a determined, no-nonsense, and dependable Head Mistress grew with each school she was transferred to. She fought with the authorities, teachers and parents to get new learning materials, improved resource kits, stronger roofs, and better teachers. She wanted her students to have membership to Bal Bhawan and pushed to take them on weekly trips to Lodi Gardens. She also advocated for teaching materials that incorporated visuals and the dynamic contents of her brimming cartons, perceived then as “unconventional.” Her attitude was always, “Of course we can do this!” She encouraged her teachers to “unlearn” the books and follow their instincts.

Three decades of distinguished service in education did not mean her life was without grief or tragedy. She witnessed her husband weaken with an illness and then pass away. Later, in 1989, her son Safdar was brutally murdered for his strident and creative opposition to government oppression. But tragedy has never derailed her life’s struggle to improve children’s education.

“Struggles keep going on and life without struggles is not a life enough. But I disagree with the idea of learning by heart. What total non-sense,” she told me. “Teachers find the learn-by-heart pattern easy as it is unchallenging. But observation and using sensory organs is the most effective way of learning. One of the mandatory subjects at my school was to sow seeds and see the various stages of growth. We would relate this to the child’s personal growth. I am amazed how students of the so- called good schools lack basic application. We had no resources… we were poor but we had a fire in us.”

Whether she was working with her daughter to run informal schools for Muslim girls in Nizamuddin basti or speaking at public functions, Qamar’s life during her school years was always 9-9. ‘I just cannot stop imagining,’ she exclaimed.

In 1988 Qamar was honoured with the State Award for Best Teacher. After her retirement in 1990, she completed her Masters in Urdu and published an anthology of her father’s poetry. She also wrote a book The Fifth Flame about her deceased son’s life. Now she is busy working on a book based on her thirty years of experience as a nursery school Head Mistress.

As she read out some passages from her manuscript to me, I remembered the “tryst with destiny.” Each carefully handwritten page recorded her own tryst with educating the children of a free India. Some lines go like: “It is wrong to correct a child. We need to be prepared for a child’s boundless imagination which is not caged like ours. Their strength of mind is different than ours and they can surprise us.” She stopped and reminisced: “Oh, how tough it is to have your teachers think out of the box! Just to use simple words, simple tools...” Another passage of the manuscript notes: “For thousands of years humans have been following their own intellectual and mental freedom to follow pursuits like painting, writing and even today the artist is master of his thoughts. A child can express through colours or clay with his limited verbal vocabulary. We need to observe closer. I always told my teachers to leave them alone while they are painting.”

As we spoke in her study, Qamar began re-arranging her cartons. “I love to keep myself busy. These boxes are a result of fifty years of ‘being busy.’”

Long silence

Been away from the blog scene for over a month now. It has been a month since I left Mumbai to be in Delhi. June 08 for me was a month of inconsequential meetings, discussions and ominous telephone calls but also of incidental discoveries about self and common sense. Since I had some time to myself I decided to reconnect with friends and acquaintances. I made certain professional decisions during those meetings and helped others make theirs. I also experienced an unwanted insomnia for three very long nights in June. During one of the three nights that I spent struggling with my mind, coaxing and coercing it to sleep, I listened to Pandit Jasraj. The tireless mind that I was anxious to sedate began imagining the beautiful and solacing Ragamala paintings that I had once researched. After a long hiatus from my art-history days, I began to think of the colour pallette, characters and props in the early Mewar and Chawand paintings that I have had an opportunity to study closely. The artists (who probably were rasiks themselves and knew music) used a unique colour scheme, props and themes to represent the musical notes. These combinations of colour, theme, and positioning of characters became established as an acceptable iconography of ragas and raginis. As a student of the history of art, you can easily identify these painted Ragas and Raginis on the basis of, well, a kind of list. Soliatary woman with a deer/buck; lady with snakes in seclusion; the hot sun and a man on an elephant. Most later artists followed an established set of icons. It was much later that expansion and addition in the repertoire was made. But what has always amazed me is the initial process of visualization that the early artists undertook and the challenge that they must have facedd in transforming sounds into pictures.

As I tried hard that night to concentrate on the color gradations in these images I could not think anymore; my heavy eyes were falling into an abyss of darkness and just before Morpheus could finally take over my phone rang. It was a lady's voice I recogonized and in her classy accent she asked me if I would be interested in looking at a set of Raagmala paintings that she was researching into. It was 5.30 a.m. and I could no longer pretend to sleep. I left for a nearby park to get some exercise. The birds sounded as restless as I was at that hour. I sat observing a tall jamun tree; its freshly bathed leaves hung from drooping branches and its squashed fruit carpeted the soil around it. As I looked closer I noticed a swing hanging from one of its knotted branches. Just then a melodious voice blew toward me from a nearby Gurudwara. My yellow night dress fluttered around me as I swung through the air to the music.