tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73864169740554287352024-02-19T08:56:49.258+05:30Journey UnbegunMy source blog: a collection of pieces, building up material for a memoir.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-52133644152612081632021-08-16T16:51:00.000+05:302021-08-16T16:51:55.063+05:30"The success of every woman should be the inspiration to another."<p><b>Please do not (not) distort this FH&M into a “Forwarded as Received”<br /></b><br /></p><p>Food for heart & mind (FH&M): <br /><br /><br /><i>"The success of every woman should be the inspiration to another."<br /></i><br /><br />The quote in this e-letter is by Serena Williams, the tennis player, who is a woman and black. Like Wilma Rudolph, whose quote featured in the first post of this series "Food for heart & mind", Serena Williams is an inspiration to all women and human-beings --- across the only Earth we share with all.<br /><br /><i>"The success of every woman should be the inspiration to another. We should raise each other up. Make sure you're very courageous: Be strong, be extremely kind, and above all be humble." </i><br /><b>~ Serena Williams.<br /></b><br /><br />----------------------------------<br /><br /><b>FH&M: a gesture of gratitude ...<br /></b><br /><br />FH&M is presented as a gesture of gratitude to my family, friends, colleagues and students, who follow this blog and keep in touch with me regularly, thereby, giving me a chance to learn life-long. My attempt here is to stretch our thinking & imagination beyond the routine and normal.<br /><br />I look forward to your frank comments about each FH&M in a way deserving of its contents. If U like what it says, and wish to get it regularly in your email in-box, please post your email address in the Comments section and I will put U on the emailing list of FH&M.<br /><br />Please note that FH&M is presented as a gesture of gratitude …<br /><br />Pune, Monday, 16 August 2021.<br /><br /><b>Please do not (not) distort FH&M into a “Forwarded as Received”</b></p>Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-80019054232632281572020-12-13T20:36:00.000+05:302020-12-13T20:36:58.068+05:30On "writing well" during the "dark days ahead"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My dear family, friends, colleagues, students and well-wishers, </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Two bits of different news for the record. No connection between the two activities, except that the teacher-author, is the same human-being, ie, me:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1. Finally, on Sunday 17 July 2016, I started the "Master's Proficiency in (written) English (MPE-17)" course that I had been planning for five years. We came to stay near Akshar Nandan Shala, off S.B. Road, after we had to vacate the flat in which we lived for 20 years, because our cooperative housing society was demolished for "re-development". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2. I have opened an inclusive FB page "Dark days ahead", to consolidate in one place a personal campaign called "Dark days ahead", which I began on my FB wall when the Modi Sarkar was elected on 16 May 2014. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">***** </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">MPE-17 allows me to fully use the specialist books in my personal library. I will be preparing an annotated bibliography of the articles, books and websites, which I will be using during the course.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Finally, nine (09) students completed the course in August 2017. And we privately published a selection of their writing in partial fulfillment of the course requirements. The book is titled: "Nine Persons, One Journey (NPOJ)". If U want a copy, send an email to: <editjoepinto@gmail.com> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Click <a href="http://joepintompe2017.blogspot.in/2016/06/the-what-and-how-and-why-of-mpe-17.html">here</a> for the detailed program of MPE-17, posted on my blog "<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://joepintompe2017.blogspot.in/">Master's Proficiency in (written) English - Class of 2017</a></span></span>, which I have opened specially for MPE-17. Please spread the word. Those interested in the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">course </span>may email me.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">STOP PRESS: The second batch of fourteen (14) students, some on-line and some attending class, is going on well. <br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><sangatizuzay gmail.com=""></sangatizuzay></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><editjoepinto gmail.com=""></editjoepinto></span>
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">***** </span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In May 2020, during the trying pause due to Covid-19, six
years passed since the Modi Sarkar came to power. But, I have not found one
reason to believe that my campaign "Dark days ahead", directed against the RSS/BJP/Modi Sarkar, was misplaced. On the contrary, the days ahead have become even "darker".<br /><br />The Liberalisation, Privatisation, Globalisation (LPG) regime, inaugurated in 1992, by the then Finance Minister Manmohan Singh of the P.V. Narasimha Rao government (following the demolition of the Babri Masjid and the assassination of Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi), is being more ruthlessly and mercilessly implemented by the Modi Sarkar, aided and abetted by the open nexus between the vicious Hindutva ideology and the smooth corporate world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The brutal right-wing ideology of the Reaganites and Thatcherites (despite being discredited in the USA and UK) is being unleashed on the Indian peoples in the name of "nationalism".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The time
has come to strengthen and deepen the impact of the campaign against the Modi Sarkar. The FB page has a companion blog of the <a href="http://darkdaysahead-joepinto.blogspot.in/">same name</a>. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Your support is my strength,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">~ Joe Pinto, Sunday, 13 December 2020, Pune. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div>
Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-43270769444294337212013-11-12T14:09:00.001+05:302013-11-12T14:10:39.794+05:30"... she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break -- her heart..." -- Bob Marley.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tgPb9V8F7ErPy-8eonkNnFUfSU9aL059j6KJ1Gf5t96LpAblH43MdaO7HR7UauoKdsU_TzqIbMa3IKIiIP6GZstWeNwvuURFAvowBpVC2N9gSWLp0vhLhVSLwHPvBxnQIeJYyuySIgab/s1600/bob+marley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tgPb9V8F7ErPy-8eonkNnFUfSU9aL059j6KJ1Gf5t96LpAblH43MdaO7HR7UauoKdsU_TzqIbMa3IKIiIP6GZstWeNwvuURFAvowBpVC2N9gSWLp0vhLhVSLwHPvBxnQIeJYyuySIgab/s320/bob+marley.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Bob Marley is one of my favourite singers. Here is a surprise from him.<br />
<br />
Peace and love,<br />
- Joe Pinto.</div>
Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-2768704912837944102013-10-23T14:01:00.001+05:302013-10-23T14:01:55.229+05:30"She gave me a sense of self-esteem" -- Arvind Gupta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My dear family, friends, colleagues and students,<br />
<br />
Arvind Gupta, my dear and close "brother-in-science", is known in India and across the world, for making "science a fun-filled experience" for <u><b>ALL</b></u> children, no matter whether they can afford to have their own laboratory and library -- or not.<br />
<br />
His methods and materials have also helped children to find out -- on their own and for themselves and at their own pace -- that Nature and the man-made world provides <u><b>ALL</b></u> the basic materials that children need to do world-class experiments and, therefore, good science. <br />
<br />
His <a href="http://www.arvindguptatoys.com/">website</a> has loads of fun and science -- toys, books, and films in Hindi, Marathi and English. <u><b>ANY</b></u> child or adult (in whom the child is still alive and kicking) can do first-rate science, using the materials on this website.<br />
<br />
In his personal tribute to his "best teacher", Mrs Frey of St. Maria Goretti High School, Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh, Arvind tells Rahul Chandavarkar (now editor, Sakal Times, Pune) about how Mrs Frey gave him a sense of self-esteem.<br />
<br />
His mother too played a big role in giving him the sense of self-esteem, which helped him later "to choose a career far removed from his IIT degree".<br />
<br />
Click <a href="http://www.arvindguptatoys.com/arvindgupta/toi03-12-2008.pdf">here</a> to read his tribute, first published in the Times of India, Pune on 3rd December 2008.<br />
<br />
Arvind is now based at the Inter-University Centre for Astronomy and Astrophyics (<a href="http://www.iucaa.ernet.in/">IUCAA</a>) in Pune. You may email him at -- arvindtoys@gmail(dot)com<br />
<br />
Here's wishing you and your children fun and joy in doing small, great and good science. <br />
<br />
<br />
Peace and love,<br />
- Joe Pinto, Pune, India, 23rd October 2013.</div>
Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-50928278801957217652011-12-29T23:50:00.003+05:302011-12-29T23:53:24.721+05:30"I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul."Just saw an excellent film called "Invictus" on the life of Nelson Mandela. This poem inspired him to endure jail on Robben Island.<br />
<br />
Invictus by William Ernest Henley (1849-1902)<br />
<br />
Out of the night that covers me, <br />
Black as the Pit from pole to pole, <br />
I thank whatever gods may be <br />
For my unconquerable soul. <br />
<br />
In the fell clutch of circumstance <br />
I have not winced nor cried aloud. <br />
Under the bludgeonings of chance <br />
My head is bloody, but unbowed. <br />
<br />
Beyond this place of wrath and tears <br />
Looms but the Horror of the shade, <br />
And yet the menace of the years <br />
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. <br />
<br />
It matters not how strait the gate, <br />
How charged with punishments the scroll, <br />
I am the master of my fate:<br />
I am the captain of my soul.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-69288569332110089462011-10-17T10:25:00.009+05:302011-10-17T10:30:06.076+05:30Occupy Wall Street - I am not moving (a short film)My dear students, friends and colleagues,<br />
<br />
You may be following the "Occupy Wall Street" protests.<br />
<br />
Note the irony of this short film:<br />
<br />
http://front.moveon.org/the-most-powerful-occupywallstreet-clip-you-will-see-this-month<br />
<br />
Your support is my strength.<br />
<br />
Peace and love,<br />
- Joe Pinto.<br />
<br />
Pune, India, Monday, 17 October 2011.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-42400837181596733492011-10-05T15:49:00.000+05:302011-10-05T15:49:30.864+05:30"That hour just before the children came home ..."My dear students, friends and colleagues,<br />
<br />
Many of you, especially women at home, may want to know about various techniques used by great writers to find and make time and get down to writing.<br />
<br />
I found this small description of technique in the Carol Shields <a href="http://www.carol-shields.com/biography.html">biography</a>.<br />
<br />
Her novel, Small Ceremonies, was published in 1976. Carol Shields was thrilled when Small Ceremonies won the Canadian Authors Association Award. When asked: "How did you find the time to write Small Ceremonies?" Carol replied:<br />
<br />
"Everyone asks me this, including my own children. What my children forget is that I did not have a job; they are all raising children and having jobs. But I didn't have a job. I didn't write until they went to school, and I didn't write on weekends and I didn't write in the evening. None of this was possible. <br />
<br />
"But I used to try to get that hour just before they came home for lunch, 11 to 12. You know, got all those socks picked up, etc. and then I tried to write a couple of pages. <br />
<br />
"That was all I ever asked myself to do. <br />
<br />
"Then sometimes, in the afternoon, before they came home from school, I would get back to those two pages, and maybe have a chance to do them over again. But I really only had about an hour or an hour and a half a day. This was how I organized my time, that I would give myself one or two pages a day, and if I didn't get to my two pages, I would get into bed at night with one of those thick yellow tablets of lined paper, and I would do two quick pages and then turn off the light. <br />
<br />
"I did this for nine months, and at the end of nine months, I had a novel. I could see how it could be done in little units. I thought of it like boxcars. I had nine boxcars, and each chapter had a title starting with September, and then October, November, December, so it was a very easy structure for someone writing a first novel to follow."<br />
<br />
[Interview with Terry Gross on Public Radio, 1 May 2002]<br />
<br />
If you come across any other technique, please share it with me.<br />
<br />
Your support is my strength.<br />
<br />
Peace and love,<br />
- Joe.<br />
<br />
Pune, India, Wednesday, 5th October 2011.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-85338417879684964582011-09-25T10:24:00.005+05:302011-09-25T10:33:54.041+05:30Settling for a pass-fail in fathering<b>By A.C. Snow, Correspondent, 19 June 2011, News & Observer, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.<br />
</b><br />
<br />
<b>I SUPPOSE</b> it's only natural that on every Father's Day, while not consciously meaning to, I revisit my father, that is, the memory of him.<br />
<br />
Also, every Father's Day, I re-evaluate my own performance as a father.<br />
<br />
I am even tempted from time to time to call my daughter and ask in what ways I failed or disappointed her as a father. But I usually back off, knowing that she loves me too much to be totally honest. Anyway, I'm not looking for an "A." A pass-fail grade will suffice.<br />
<br />
Surely, many of you have experienced that same temptation and warned yourself, "Don't go there!"<br />
<br />
Although I'm not complaining or blaming him, it was almost as if I never had a father, at least not in the way that today's kids interact and enjoy their dads.<br />
<br />
Dad was 64 when I was born, already around the bend of his life's road. Because I was the youngest of his 10 sons, he had little energy for or interest in me.<br />
<br />
I can't recall him ever holding me in his arms. I never heard "I love you," from him, which was not that unusual for those times when the expression was pretty much nonexistent in father-son relationships.<br />
<br />
<b>Something missing<br />
</b><br />
<br />
A friend once told me that he only heard his father say "I love you" once during his lifetime.<br />
<br />
As a little boy, he was playing in the yard when his father accidentally ran him down with a riding lawn mower, breaking his arm.<br />
<br />
The distraught father, picked him up in his arms and blurted, "I love you! I love you!"<br />
<br />
"It was wonderful!" he said. "Those words were well worth the pain."<br />
<br />
In a recent "All in the Family" rerun, overbearing Archie is visiting daughter Gloria in the hospital after she has miscarried her and Meat head's first baby.<br />
<br />
Archie sits by his daughter's bed, staring at her, overcome by emotion.<br />
<br />
"Daddy, are you trying to say something?" Gloria asks gently. Archie silently nods his head.<br />
<br />
"Are you trying to say 'I love you?'" Gloria asks.<br />
<br />
Archie, his eyes welling, again nods in the affirmative, whereupon his daughter says softly, "I love you, too, Daddy."<br />
<br />
<b>He did care<br />
</b><br />
<br />
How great it is that those three powerful words, "I love you," seem so much easier for today's fathers when interacting with their sons.<br />
<br />
My father was a good man, a gentle man. It wasn't his fault that I spent most of my youth vainly looking for a father figure.<br />
<br />
He was never abusive, either in word or action toward his children. Although I sometimes thought that even negative attention would be better than no attention, I now can't imagine anything more traumatic or tragic for a child than growing up with an abusive father.<br />
<br />
In his book, "Dear Dad: Letters from an Adult Child," comedian-author Louie Anderson described with poignancy the pain of living with an alcoholic father and the emotional scars he endured.<br />
<br />
In this collection of bittersweet letters written to his dead father, he mentions the time when he saw a $4.88 toy car in a store and asked his father for it. His dad told him he couldn't afford it, then promptly bought a $5 case of beer.<br />
<br />
Anderson said one of the few times he ever embraced his father was when he was helping him to the bathroom as he was dying of cancer.<br />
<br />
"Just holding you up, I knew, was enough," he wrote. " It was all I ever wanted ... and as I held you, I remember thinking, 'I won't let you down, Dad. I won't let you down.'"<br />
<br />
<b>How did I do?<br />
</b><br />
<br />
Some tension between parent and child is normal. Friends with sons tell me that's especially true during the teen years.<br />
<br />
As the father of two daughters, I came to realize that granting them freedom as they move from childhood into the uncertain, dangerous terrain of adulthood without being judgmental is a major challenge for any parent.<br />
<br />
My wife, recently sifting through and discarding items from one of several boxes marked "Don't throw away!" came across a very wise observation by Khalil Gibran, Lebanese-American author of "The Prophet:"<br />
<br />
<i>Your children are not your children.</i><br />
<i>They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. ...<br />
And though they were with you, yet they belong not to you. ...<br />
You may house their bodies but not their souls,<br />
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. ...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
This past week, I finally succumbed to that nagging temptation to ask "Honey, how did I do?"<br />
<br />
"In what way did I most disappoint you as a father?" I nervously asked at the end of telephone conversation.<br />
<br />
Without a moment's hesitation, she replied, "I never had a pony."<br />
<br />
I could hear the humor in her voice.<br />
<br />
You may email Mr. A.C. Snow at ac.snow@newsobserver.com or <br />
if you're in the US, please call him on 919-836-5636.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-50887568850583640892011-09-12T12:03:00.002+05:302011-09-12T12:04:14.218+05:30Children learn what they live ...If a child lives with criticism,<br />
He learns to condemn.<br />
If a child lives with hostility,<br />
He learns to fight.<br />
If a child lives with ridicule,<br />
He learns to be shy.<br />
If a child lives with shame,<br />
He learns to feel guilty.<br />
<br />
If a child lives with tolerance,<br />
He learns to be patient.<br />
If a child lives with encouragement,<br />
He learns confidence.<br />
If a child lives with praise,<br />
He learns to appreciate.<br />
If a child lives with fairness,<br />
He learns justice.<br />
If a child lives with security,<br />
He learns to have faith.<br />
If a child lives with approval,<br />
He learns to like himself.<br />
If a child lives with honesty,<br />
He learns truth.<br />
If a child lives with acceptance and friendship,<br />
He learns to find love in the world.<br />
<br />
- Dorothy Law Nolte.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-20590464045721802892011-06-02T19:39:00.000+05:302011-06-02T19:39:16.379+05:30Go placidly amid the noise and haste ..."Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.<br />
<br />
"As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.<br />
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.<br />
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.<br />
<br />
"If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.<br />
<br />
"Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.<br />
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.<br />
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.<br />
<br />
"Be yourself.<br />
Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.<br />
<br />
"Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.<br />
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.<br />
<br />
"Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.<br />
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.<br />
<br />
"Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.<br />
<br />
"With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,<br />
it is still a beautiful world.<br />
Be cheerful.<br />
Strive to be happy.<br />
<br />
Written in 1927, by Max Ehrmann (1872-1945), also referred to as the “Desiredata Poem”.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-40747336638342038922011-04-13T21:52:00.000+05:302013-10-29T10:00:44.966+05:30When I was 27 - a report to Gunjan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My dear students, friends and colleagues,<br />
<br />
Gunjan Chaurasia, one of my most sincere & honest students from SIMC, Pune, batch of 2004-06, completed 27 years on 5 April. As a human being, Gunjan is one of the bravest and gentlest persons I know and -- learn from. Because she tastes deep and strong from the springs of life. I promised Gunjan I would share my life with her, when I was 27, and send her a report as a birthday gift. <br />
<br />
Since my other rare students also deserve to read this report, I am marking this email to some others too. Please feel free to fwd it to your friends and colleagues, who can (not may) appreciate what I am sharing with Gunjan.<br />
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Report to Gunjan - When I was 27.<br />
<br />
My dear precious and brave Gunjan, <br />
<br />
You are one of my most precious students. I shall always hold you close inside my heart.<br />
<br />
I was 33 years old when you were born in 1984. So let me recreate those heady times for you, so that you may more fully appreciate my five Ws and one H -- when I was 27. Though I am telling you my story, Gunjan, writing about it in the present tense, like in a diary or a letter, this is an illusion for, I have the advantage of hindsight. I was not a journalist then; I joined a Pune paper only on 2 May 1983.<br />
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***********************************************************<br />
<br />
I am 27 today, 5 March 1978. <br />
<br />
The mynahs and sparrows are chirping under my window. The sun tries to warm me, but my heart is still as cold as the body of my mother, who died nine years ago in 1969.<br />
<br />
The Emergency that began in June 1975 ended last year, but even now terrible stories are surfacing of political prisoners, who were brutally tortured by terrorists like Sanjay Gandhi and his goons, under the Maintenance of Internal Security Act (MISA). Some of them are my dear friends.<br />
<br />
We too have suffered our share of miseries. The local leaders in Kasarpimpalgaon (taluka Pathardi, district Ahmednagar, Maharashtra), where we were doing drought relief work since 1973, got emboldened by the terror, unleashed during the Emergency. If it was not for a kind IAS officer, who tipped us off in time, we would have been also arrested.<br />
<br />
So our adult literacy work is in a shambles, and abandoned. I can only console myself reading "Pedagogy of the Oppressed" and "Cultural Action for Freedom" by Paolo Friere, whose 'conscientisation' methodology we used in our classes. "Liberation theology" is a new subject for me now.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Let me tell you a little bit about Vistas, the group we formed in 1973, to work in the villages, after we had passed out of St Xavier's College. We were nine or ten young people in our early 20s. As for me, Gunjan, I used to wear flowers in my hair, which I grew to my shoulders, inspired by the protest song, "When you're in San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair."<br />
<br />
I could not explain to my father and help him to understand why his brilliant son, a first ranker, and a National Science Talent Scholar, one of only 350 from India in 1969, had chosen to drop out after finishing his B.Sc, and did not continue further studies like his classmates, especially his best friend, Spenta Wadia.<br />
<br />
The drought of 1970-71 was one of the severest in the history of Maharashtra. Having stayed in a village for four years, I would not hesitate to call it a 'famine'.<br />
<br />
Initially we started with drought relief work, with 'Food for Work' programs, with maize, wheat and milk powder being provided by international funding agencies like Caritas, Casa, Lutheran World Relief, etc. Then we started supplying seeds and fertilisers through Afarm and Afpro. Later we worked with Oxfam on adult literacy and organising youth.<br />
<br />
I was mainly inspired by the writings of John Holt, Ivan Illich, Frantz Fanon, Jean Paul Sartre, Will & Ariel Durant, Paolo Friere, etc. I was already influenced by Vatican II and Pope John XXIII, who spoke about Christians standing up for justice and peace as well as the liberation of the poor and the oppressed.<br />
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I used to carry a copy of the Communist Manifesto by Marx & Engel. But the only thing I recall was admiration for the beautiful description about the rise of the bourgeosie and the proletariat.<br />
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We read feminists like Simone de Beauvoir, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem, and Germaine Greer.<br />
<br />
The songs of protest by Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, moved us. The names of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd were on our trembling lips. With the Beatles, we believed in: "Can't Buy Me Love." We took the slogan "Make Love, Not War" to our hearts and minds. <br />
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I was learning to speak Marathi from the illiterate natives, even as I taught them to read and write their mother-tongue.<br />
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When we formed Vistas in 1973, I was 22. The world was young and, for me, anything was possible. Still is, dear Gunjan. I was not afraid to stop my studies and go to the villages, where the poor lived. By now, I had decided, on ideological grounds, to get out of the rat race. A topper for years, I discarded competition and its connotation of war, welcoming cooperation among humans as the foundation of peace.<br />
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*****<br />
<br />
The proclamation of the Emergency in June 1975 by Sonia Gandhi's mother-in-law, the dreadful Indira Gandhi, came as a shock to me. (In 1968, my first year of college, I had been thrilled by her nationalisation of banks and challenge to decaying Congress values.)<br />
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I remember, Gunjan, we had taken the morning train from Bombay to Pune. When we reached Pune and saw the newspapers, some of them had blank patches on the front pages. The courageous editors left the columns blank, when the government censors objected. The name of Jayprakash Narayan was like a magic mantra.<br />
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Today in 1978, I am 27 and disillusioned. I went hopeful to the villages in 1973. Our raw idealism collapsed in the face of the brutal assault by Sanjay Gandhi. We realised we were soft boys and girls, pampered and spoiled in the cities. Within 20 months, the Emergency (June 1975 – January 1977) made us men and women.<br />
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Now my first taste of direct resistance and protest on the streets is in the form of the Committee for the Protection of Democratic Rights (CPDR). I am working to set up a Centre for Education and Documentation (CED), which will set up a library of clippings for use by activists and journalists. <br />
Three friends become journalists: Ivan Fera, Ayesha Kagal and Chaitanya Kalbag.<br />
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Yes, I am disillusioned, Gunjan. But I have not given up and succumbed to the temptations of a comfortable job. I am brave. I struggle and learn.<br />
<br />
***********************************************************<br />
<br />
The rest of my story -- in brief. After 1978, I joined trade union work and organising slum dwellers in Bhandup, Mumbai. Then, we formed the Lok Vidnyan Sanghatana for taking science to the people in 1980. I got married to a Pune girl, Kalpana Joshi, on 26 January 1982. Since you were born in 1984, Gunjan, you could have been my daughter.<br />
<br />
Full-time journalism came in 1983. I started teaching journalism in 1987, and at the Symbiosis Institute of Journalism and Communication (SIJC) in 1990. After 13 years in Maharashtra Herald, Pune, I left in 1996 and joined to set up the Corporate Communication Dept at Deepak Fertilisers. So, though I disliked it, I did internal PR for seven years. No choice: just a job.<br />
<br />
When I came to teach your lovely batch at SIMC in 2004, my dear Gunjan, I had just returned fresh from Goa, where I was editor of Gomantak Times for one year.<br />
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*****<br />
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I hope you like my birthday gift to you, my dear brave, precious Gunjan. I enjoyed writing it, though I cried when I recalled the trying times. But crying comes before laughter. Just as the winter precedes spring. I see a lot of myself in you, when I was your age. Twenty-seven and in heaven -- daring to build a heaven on earth. A happy life for all, not after but before death.<br />
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Happy birthday, Gunjan.<br />
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Remember, anything is possible. Dare to dream. Believe in yourself -- my gentle and brave and precious Gunjan. <br />
<br />
Peace and love, <br />
- Joe.<br />
<br />
Pune, Wednesday, 13 April 2011.</div>
Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-8953033240588016782011-03-04T21:02:00.000+05:302011-03-04T21:02:48.688+05:30This is me, Joe Pinto, since 1967 - for the smobs of 1967My dear family, students, friends and colleagues,<br />
<br />
After being a boarder in St. Stanislaus, Bandra, during 1961-63 in stds VI-VII, I joined St Mary’s (SSC), Mazagaon, and was there during 1963-67 in Stds VIII to XI. I passed out from school in 1967, winning the Esso Prize as the best all-rounder. I got my first pair of long pants to wear at the prize distribution ceremony and Vullu Uncle gave me a Sowar Prima wrist-watch, as a present.<br />
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I finished my B.Sc. with Chemistry from St Xavier's College in October 1971. In December, the war broke out with Pakistan, resulting in the formation of Bangladesh.<br />
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Then, I took a break from my studies.<br />
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From 1973 to 1983, I worked as a full-time volunteer in Maharashtra with:<br />
1. a rural development agency in some drought-prone villages (1973-77)<br />
2. a science popularisation organisation (1978-83)<br />
3. a trade union and a slum-dwellers organisation (1977-83).<br />
<br />
By 1970, ie, the third year of college and at the age of 19, I had had decided, on ideological grounds, that the competitive “rat race” was NOT for me. Since then, I prefer to compete only with myself. So the spirit of cooperation, team-work and peace pervades what I have done during the last 40 years, am doing and may do in future.<br />
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*****<br />
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I moved to Pune in 1983, after getting married on 26 January 1982 to Kalpana Joshi, a Pune girl. I stopped chain-smoking, as a wedding present to my beloved wife.<br />
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Our only child and the loveliest daughter of my life, Pallavi, was born on 23 October 1987. <br />
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You can say I am based here in Pune – for now.<br />
<br />
Since 1983 to 1996, I worked with Maharashtra Herald (MH), the one and only local English daily in Pune - and one of the greatest local dailies the world has known, if you fondly imagine (as we did at the old MH) that "Pune is the centre of the world".<br />
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During 1990-93, we were in Leeds, Yorkshire, England, where my wife did her Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering. I took three years leave without pay from MH, to take care of our daughter, who was three years old then. I recommend such a sacrifice to all fathers.<br />
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During 1996 to 2003, I was part of a team that set up the Corporate Communication Dept at Deepak Fertilisers, Pune, and was editor of <br />
its unique newsletter "Mile Sur Mera Tumhara (MSMT)" for seven years. <br />
<br />
Then I went back to print journalism, as editor, Gomantak Times, Panaji, Goa, during 2003-04.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
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Side by side with working at the Desk in Maharashtra Herald, since 1987, I have also been teaching print journalism as regular visiting faculty<br />
in the Pune University Dept of Communication & Journalism and other mass communication institutions, including Symbiosis Institute of Media and Communication (SIMC), in Pune. I teach mainly “Editing” and also Feature Writing, Current Affairs and Development Communication.<br />
<br />
I have hundreds of journalism students, all over the world. But only a few of them, I call “my sincere and serious students”. If you are my student, you can earn this honour, by starting to awaken and listen to that inner voice, namely, your conscience.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
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Today, my wife Dr Kalpana Joshi is Reader, Dept of Electronics at S.P. College, Pune. She also holds eight (8) patents -- three US and two European -- in microwave engineering.<br />
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Pallavi (23) is working as a software engineer with <a href="http://www.marvell.com/">Marvell Semiconductor</a> in Pune, since July 2009 -- her first job.<br />
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My mother was killed, on 2 May 1969, in an accident, before she could turn 44. Out-living her by 34 years, my father died on 26 March 2001, five days after he celebrated his 78th birthday in hospital.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Since 2 August 2005, nearing six years now, I am with <a href="http://www.bjsindia.org/">Bharatiya Jain Sanghatana (BJS)</a> as master trainer, in designing, developing and delivering, training and empowerment programs for trustees of educational institutions; principals and teachers of schools.<br />
<br />
I survived a heart attack on 2 September 2006. Now it’s over four years.<br />
And I’m OK -- lucky to be around and still be here with you, my family, students, friends and colleagues. <br />
<br />
On 5 March 2011, I complete 60 years, on the one and only beautiful earth we care for.<br />
<br />
Have a look at my blog <a href="http://www.sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/">“Against the Tide”</a>. Especially read “Memoir of my Mother” and give me your comments. I plan to bring it out as a book.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
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This post is a copy of the catching-up piece that I prepared for my school-mates of the Class of 1967, from St Mary's (SSC) High School, Mazagaon, Mumbai, while we were planning to hold a reunion on 11-1-11. This is also for the record.<br />
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Your support is my strength.<br />
<br />
Peace and love,<br />
- Joe Pinto.<br />
<br />
Pune, Friday, 4 March 2011.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-62533580027377821612011-03-04T20:39:00.000+05:302011-03-04T20:39:17.394+05:30Along the line, partly – 25 random things – FB noteMy dear students, friends and colleagues,<br />
<br />
When Kajal Iyer tagged me on Facebook to write 25 random things about myself, I listed 25 random things on 14 February 2009. The following is an exact copy of that FB note:<br />
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1. I am the eldest son of a railwayman, transferred from place to place, so I know what it is to settle down and what it is to be on the move.<br />
<br />
2. I am also the eldest son of one of India's greatest playback singers, often called the "Lata Mangeshkar of the Konkani stage" in the late 40s -- Amy Pinto, nee Mary Therese D'Cruz (1925-69).<br />
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3. When I was in college, I used to have long hair up to my shoulders. Later I even had a beard.<br />
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4. The protest movement against the Vietnam War is a part of my growing up years - a deep and permanent influence.<br />
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5. My first crush was virtual: on a character -- Agnes -- from a Charles Dickens novel "David Copperfield".<br />
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6. Though a non-veg by upbringing, I can't stand chicken.<br />
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7. Now, I'm pure veg and low-fat, with a little fish once or twice a month.<br />
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8. I can't remember a day when I was not in love -- with words.<br />
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9. The greatest human love in my life -- after my wife Kalpana, ours is a love marriage -- is my daughter, J. K. Pallavi.<br />
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10. What would I give for all the money in the world? A chance to meet my school-mates when I was a little boy at Jabalpur and Nagpur (1956), Solapur (1957) and Manmad (1958-61)<br />
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11. I used to be a great one for winning prizes in school, till my mother learned me the lesson: "If you have the guts, compete - only with yourself".<br />
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12. I am waiting for the student, who can exceed me, who can dare to go beyond imagination.<br />
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13. I am playing my second innings now. After surviving my heart attack of 2 September 2006, life is new and fresh. I'm lucky to be alive.<br />
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14. Besides love and peace, compassion for the poor moves me -- beyond tears.<br />
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15. If there is one thing I have to learn -- NOT to hate the "chhote shaitan" on two-wheelers on Pune roads.<br />
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16. The red mud, swaying coconut trees, fish curry rice, the lilt of my Konkani mother tongue, a few drops of kaju feni, cotton -- these are a few of my favourite things.<br />
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17. My favourite movie critic, Pauline Kael of the New York Times, who dubbed the "Sound of Music" as the "Sound of Mucous". Read the review.<br />
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18. What do I miss about Mumbai (I won't call it Bombay to pander to the imperial English)? The trams, when I was a little boy; uncrowded local trains on a Sunday morning; the common crows, sparrows, mynahs; textile workers and their great struggle against the robber mill-owners; red flags in a morcha at Azad Maidan; the heady mix of faces and tongues from all over India; the discipline on the roads; above all, the couples clasping hands in municipal gardens ...<br />
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19. What do I NOT miss about Mumbai? The idle rich, gambling on the stock market, who have raped the city; the skyscrapers that blot out the sky; the private cars that kill worse and more than terrorist guns; the curse of the Shiv Sena that has brought shame to the glorious descendants of Chhtrapati Shivaji ...<br />
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20. I remember the three years in Leeds, Yorkshire, taking care of my three year-old daughter, while my wife did her PhD.<br />
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21. My mother, confined to the four walls of her home, teaching us -- her Class of 3.<br />
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22. Let me pay tributes to my father, Denis John Pinto (1923-2001), the most upright and fearless man I have known, who faced suffering and deprivation because "Honesty is the best policy"<br />
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23. My friends, without whom I would have not known that friendship can match up to love.<br />
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24. I am grateful to Mother Earth, whom we do not care about.<br />
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25. The approaching age of retirement - I shall be 58 on 5 March this year.<br />
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This is a list of 25 random things about myself. I have copied it from the FB note 14 February 2009. This post is for the record, since "Journey Unbegun" is a source-blog of various reference material.<br />
<br />
Your support is my strength,<br />
- Joe Pinto.<br />
<br />
Pune, Friday, 4 March 2011.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-91078733023970298322009-07-20T13:41:00.000+05:302009-07-20T14:07:38.345+05:30The philosopher who changed our worldMy dear students, friends and colleagues,<br /><br />No sooner had I uploaded my Sunday, 19 July, post, "<a href="http://sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/2009/07/dubai-seen-in-words-of-philosopher.html">Dubai seen in the words of a philosopher</a>" on my blog "Against the Tide" than <a href="http://gaurigharpure.blogspot.com/">Gauri Gharpure</a> had read it and commented:<br /><br />"This post is relevant to me for I am attempting to read the manifesto. Every 20 pages, I go back and read again for I find it somewhat difficult. So, I am still where I began. When I complete reading, I will seek your help." <br /><br />Here is my reply to Gauri on Monday, 20 July:<br /><br />*****<br /><br />My dear Gauri,<br /><br />I did not dream my piece would be relevant to you, "attempting to read" the Communist Manifesto (CM). I distinctly recall reading it the first time when I was 22. Let me tell you the story.<br /><br />I used to buy a lot of science books by Russian or Soviet authors from a shop run by the People's Publishing House (PPH), near Flora Fountain in Mumbai, when I was in college during 1967-71. Slowly, I got to know a salesman well and we became good friends. One day, after I had bought some chemistry books, especially one by Glinka, he gave me a complimentary copy of the Communist Manifesto (CM) "just like that".<br /><br />When I decided to take a break from my studies in 1972, and went to the drought-prone villages of Maharashtra to do rural development work in July 1973 (that is, exactly 36 years ago to the month), I took with me the best of my science books. The CM is a thin, little book. So it came along with the others, without my knowing it.<br /><br />One day, I was lying down in the village hut, where I had been put up by the sarpanch of village Pangri Budruk, taluka Sinnar, district Nashik. Today the place is full of factories and crawling with Sai Baba pilgrims going to Shirdi. Then in 1973, only women beedi workers slogged in dry huts for a pittance. Their menfolk were toiling in Mumbai.<br /><br />I chanced upon the thin, little CM, and began to leaf through it. Even yesterday, as I was writing the piece on "Dubai seen in the words of a philosopher (Karl Marx)", the same feelings of wonder came over me as the waves of joy that immersed me that day 36 years ago. I shall always remember Marx's CM for the beauty of its language. I was swept away by the words. But I was not impressed by the meaning -- then.<br /><br />So, dear Gauri, I have copied out the same passages that had over-powered me when I was 22, and do so even now when I am 58. I have tried to relate the meaning of CM to what I saw in Dubai: the power of the bourgeosie to redo the world in sand.<br /><br />And, in passing, I have tried to introduce you, dear Gauri, one of the best of my students, to a philospoher who dared to change the world. Agree or disagree with you, but do not ignore him. I hope you read him."<br /><br />Peace and love,<br />- Joe.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />That is the story of how I read the CM the first time. I have read it hundreds of times, since that day in 1973. And Marx never fails to learn me. What he predicted in 1848 is happening today before my eyes. Not the details, which are for us to explain and understand, but the outline.<br /><br />Peace and love,<br />- Joe.<br /><br />Pune, India, Monday, 20 July 2009.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-41454518496323220912009-06-10T19:19:00.000+05:302009-06-11T00:11:22.342+05:30Lessons my mother learned me - Parts 1-5Part 1<br /><br />Our mothers … and our fathers, are the most beautiful persons in the world to us. They are the kindest and the warmest. They may not be the wisest or the most intelligent, but they are the most caring. We children are the only ones that matter to them. Our parents think about us all the time and feel for us like no one else. And our mothers are with us … all the time.<br /><br />I imagine a part of the brain of our mothers is permanently switched on to us children. We may be at school or college; at work, travelling; in another part of the world; accessible by phone; remote and out of reach. But we are held in the fondness of the hearts, cling close in the warmth of the hugs, fondled dear in the minds – of our mothers. We are the most beautiful persons in the world to our mothers … and our fathers.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Forty years after her death, my mother is the most beautiful person in my life. Saturday, the second of May this year, will mark her 40th death anniversary. Many of you who responded to my piece, “<a href="http://sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/2009/03/along-line-at-railway-gate-no-58.html">Along the line, at railway gate No. 58</a>”, expressed an interest to know something more about my mother, since I had mentioned that she was known as the “Lata Mangeshkar of the Konkani stage”. Most of my relatives, whose parents knew my mother well, would also be happy to read about her, since they too knew her as children.<br /><br />I was 18 years old and had just finished the second year of my B.Sc. in Chemistry at St Xavier’s College, when she left us on 2 May 1969. We were staying in a first floor flat at the Officers Quarters, along the railway line at Dadar (East), Mumbai. She had not been well for some time, and used to regularly visit a family doctor friend on the sixth floor. That day too, she walked out of our home in front of us like on any other day, telling us sitting there in the front living room that she was going to meet Dr Shrivastava.<br /><br />A little while later, somebody screamed to tell us that she was lying on the ground below our balcony. It was an accident; she had vertigo, what is called “falling” sickness, I have it too, she must have gone in to the balcony and fallen.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />After reading this account in Part 1 of my series of memoirs on my blog, "Against the Tide", my brother Vincent (Vincy), who was seven years old at that time, wrote to me, "I do not recall that Dr. Srivastava was ever in Dadar quarters at the time we were there (but I could be mistaken). But he was at the Mazagaon flats on the 6th floor above us when we were on the 2nd floor. And during the little while we were staying at Mr. Veerabhadriah's home on the 6th floor, and being Dr. Srivastava's neighbour.<br /><br />But the new bit Vincy narrates is: "I recall being the last person to accompany her. We first went to the 3rd or 4th floor on the side above the Jadhavs, because she wanted to call a doctor. The public phone was not working, so she said there is a public phone on the 6th floor our side. So we took the lift up. When we got off at the sixth floor, I said I would wait for her to finish the call. <br /><br /><em>"Naka puta, thun sakael vos khel, awoun maagir yetan"</em> was what she told me (Not needed, son, you go down and play, I will come later). I was eager to play and so came down by lift. But I did not go to the ground floor. I came back home. It was about 9:15-9:30 in the morning."<br /><br />My sister Flavia (Flavy) says, "You (Vincy) are right. Mum had gone to the 3rd floor first to telephone her dentist - to the house of a Bengali family, who had guests in the house so it was noisy. So they suggested to Mum to go to the 6th floor to another Bengali family, the Sarkars. The rest of the events are unknown to us. <br /><br />"One thing is clear. Mum had vertigo and it was bad. I recall she could not even climb a stool to take off cobwebs; she used to say she feels like someone is pushing her off the stool. These events are 40 years old and so there could be some confusion in names, etc."<br /><br /><strong>How do I see her, after these 40 years?</strong><br /><br />The most beautiful and kindest person in my life had left us.<br /><br />When I look back after these 40 years, how do I see her? I see her in a kimono dress, sitting by a lighted window with the soft light falling across her face in profile. A book or magazine is in her hands and she is reading, head bent and often glancing around to keep an eye on us, her children. <br /><br />At other times, she is in the kitchen cooking, softly humming to herself some Konkani <em>“cantara”</em> (songs). But mostly she is reading, and sometimes, writing letters.<br /><br />From stories of her childhood told to us by her and our relatives, Mary Therese D’Cruz, the eldest daughter of Pauline and Joseph D’Cruz, resident of Urva, Mangalore, in South Kanara district of present-day Karnataka went to Lady Hill School and St. Agnes College in Mangalore. Born on 6 October 1925, Mary had two brothers, Pius and the late John (who died of typhoid at the age of 14).<br /><br />My grand-father was a “writer” in a coffee plantation and my grand-mother took care of the house. They were not poor; not well off. I recall my mother’s resourcefulness at getting by with whatever we had; not cribbing, whining or moaning; and making do.<br /><br />My father, who was proud of the fact that she was more educated than he was, would tell an anecdote about her, which happened when we were staying at Mazagaon Terrace. She had some Anglo-Indian friends, one of whom was particularly arrogant and proud that she was well-off. <br /><br />One day, my father says, she "caught" our mother coming back from the market, lugging a bag full of vegetables. She asked my mother, "Do you buy vegetables from the market yourself?" implying that my mother could not afford a servant. My mother replied, "Yes, I work for my husband and children. Whom do you work for?"<br /><br /><strong>English is a "foreign" language</strong><br /><br />My mother passed out from St Agnes College, Mangalore, with History and English. So you can see where my passion for the two subjects comes from. She not only “learned me lessons” in English, but also about the history of English literature. But for all her excellence at English, to her it was always (and is today for me) a “foreign” language.<br /><br />Her one and only passion in life was Konkani – the language, the songs, the literature, the culture. She knew English well and spoke it fluently; we had been put in English medium schools for my father was a “transferable” railwayman. But she noticed, during 1956-63 when we were at Amla, Jabalpur, Nagpur, Solapur and Manmad, all railways towns on the Central Railway section, that we children tended or tried to speak in Hindi or Marathi or English at home. <br /><br />I remember her swift response with gratitude and reverence today. It was strong, fierce and clear: she told us she would reply to us, if and only if we spoke to her in Konkani. Otherwise, she pretended she was deaf and had not heard us at all. We had no choice but to speak at home in Konkani. Our father too was happy with this rule, for he too was a lover of languages, not only Konkani but as many languages as you could learn.<br /><br />When she referred to English she called it <em>“porkiyo”</em>, which meant “foreign”. When she referred to other languages like Hindi or Marathi, the languages spoken around us during those days, she called them <em>“thanchi bhas”</em> which meant “their language” and she motioned with her hands pushing away from her.<br /><br />Only Konkani to her was <em>“amchi bhas”</em> which means “our language” and then she held her hands close to her heart. To her, the world was simple and divided into two parts, “them” and “us”. Us is Konkani.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />Parts 2 & 3<br /><br />Many of you, and even some relatives, were taken aback by the exclusive and fierce passion with which, according to my description in <a href="http://sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/2009/04/lessons-my-mother-learned-me-part-1.html">Part-1</a> of this memoir, my mother loved and lived the Konkani language.<br /><br />A few words of background about my mother tongue may put her love for Konkani into perspective for you. Konkani used to be one of the “persecuted” languages. The Portuguese, who ruled Goa ruthlessly for nearly five centuries, proscribed and banned Konkani; they hounded the Konkani-speaking peoples mercilessly.<br /><br />Soon the sweet and mellifluous language with its song-song intonations and gentle lexicon (recall the great dance and song from the Raj Kapoor film “Bobby”) was driven into hiding, degraded into being uttered by maid-servants, cooks, farmers, labourers and lowly, humble menial folk. <br /><br />A few wise and learned Gaud Saraswat Brahmins, both Christian and Hindu, who were aware of Konkani’s ancient linguistic heritage, nursed the language in the private secrecy of their personal homes. <br /><br />Severe persecution (Goans were skinned and flayed alive) and conversions also forced the Konkani-speaking peoples to flee and migrate on a mass scale. This is the beginning of the Konkani Diaspora; still going on, though for entirely different reasons now.<br /><br />With her sensitive heart, perceptive mind and vast reading, my mother inherited this Konkani legacy and was determined to preserve Konkani, even if it was only in her own family and home.<br /><br />Our family, the D’cruzes and the Pintos, knows that my mother’s ancestors, mostly with the Rodrigues surname, moved away from the taluka of Pernem, in Bardez, northern Goa, and found refuge and asylum in Mangalore more than two hundred years ago. <br /><br />The Goan origins on my father’s side are unclear, though there are various unconfirmed hearsays that trace the Pinto line to the region of Cuncoliem, in Salcette, southern Goa.<br /><br />The Konkani-speaking peoples, scattered throughout the world, were overjoyed when Goa was liberated from the cruel Portuguese colonialists in 1961. Goa became a state in 1987. After a long struggle, Konkani was declared the official language of Goa.<br /><br />The sweet sing-song Konkani ‘bhas’ could now raise her shy head and walk, freed from official persecution; and out of the suppressive shadow of its sister languages, the dominant and arrogant Marathi, as well as the tolerant and protective Kannada, and come into her own. <br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />This background of persecution, dear reader, is necessary to appreciate why my mother, a teacher who spoke fluent English and an ardent student of history, barred us her children from speaking English at home. She knew that only under her own care, supervision, protection and vigilance; within the four walls of her own home where she reigned supreme with the consent of our father; completely out of reach and insulated from the cruel persecution of the State and the other dominant languages, her own tongue could be nurtured and survive – among her children.<br /><br />During 1956-63, the lovely and quiet years I spent as a little boy in the railway towns of Jabalpur, Amla, Nagpur, Solapur and Manmad, my mother was able to imbibe in me love for and intimacy with Konkani. She is gone forty years, snatched from us. But ‘her’ Konkani voice abides with me like a holy picture, which even Death cannot steal like a thief in daylight.<br /><br />I speak Konkani comfortably and with ease even today, because of her diligent ‘home schooling’ till I was 18 years old, and the occasional practice during langourous visits to our relatives in Mangalore. My mother was not, nor can I be, a fanatic supporter of Konkani, come what may. <br /><br />Like her and my father, I am aware of the innate weaknesses, even among those who claim to be her protectors, for sometimes even ‘the fence may eat the crop’. But I can defend ‘amchi bhas’ from those who seek to confine and arrest her as a dialect of Marathi; or others who look down upon her, because she does not have one unique script.<br /><br />How come then, you may ask, we studied in English medium schools? Sheer expediency. There were no Konkani medium schools in Mangalore, so my father and mother studied in Kannada medium schools, only later going to English medium colleges, my mother to St Agnes and my father to St Aloysius, both in Mangalore. <br /><br />My father was working in the Signals & Telecommunication (S & T) Department of the Central Railways. So we were put in English medium schools, initially railway schools and then Jesuit or Convent schools, so that we did not ‘suffer’ when my father got transferred, which could be anywhere and without prior intimation, to a region where the medium of instruction in schools was Marathi or Hindi.<br /><br />Later, when I got married to Kalpana, a Pune girl whose mother tongue is Marathi, it was natural for me that our daughter Pallavi, like my wife, studied in a Marathi medium school, with ‘semi-English’ for the science subjects. The school is called His Highness Chintamanrao Patwardhan (HHCP) High School for Girls, better known as ‘Huzurpaga’ (‘paga’, a stable, for the horses of ‘huzur’, his highness) located on Laxmi Road, Pune.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Besides an abiding love for Konkani, my mother’s affair with that ancient language (with so many words of its corpus taken directly from Sanskrit) also learned me another lesson: the strong and mighty should protect the weak and meek. Throughout my career as a working journalist and a working editor, I have single-mindedly, openly and proudly championed minority issues. Let me take one example.<br /><br />Encouraged and supported by my veteran seniors – S.D Wagh, Nalini Gera, Harry David, Taher Shaikh and Y.V. Krishnamurthy – as well as my warm colleagues – Vijay Lele, D. Sanjay, Ashok Gopal, Gouri Agtey-Athale, Usha Somayaji, Huned Contractor, Babu Kalyanpur and Mohan Sinha – in the thriving (till the late 90s) but now defunct Maharashtra Herald, I used to write, edit and rewrite stories as part of our ‘community’ beat, revealing the non-Maharashtrian, non-Marathi-speaking face of Pune.<br /><br />Since 1983, we unearthed the Malayalis, Kannadigas, Tulus, Telugus, Tamils of south India in the bylanes of Rasta and Somwar Peth; the Bengalis and Oriyas in Khadki; the Gujaratis and Rajasthanis spread across the old city peths; the Hindi-speaking uttar bharatiya ‘<em>biradari</em>’ of Madhya Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh and Bihar; the Punjabis and Sindhis (to whom the Sangtanis and Geras belong).<br /><br />On this journey of discovering Pune, the spirit of my mother accompanied me, urging me to record the cultural silhouettes of the migrant communities, dig up their early history, their joys and sorrows as various communities arrived, struck roots and settled down … in a foreign land.<br /><br />Aided by my mother’s love for Konkani culture, I could gain insights into the stirring motivations and driving forces that gave birth to and sustained the various community organisations, associations and clubs, which enrich the ancient city of Pune, providing an opportunity for the majority of Marathi-speaking people an opportunity to learn that India is, in reality, a throbbing and pulsating “unity in diversity”. <br /><br />I soon realised that, try as they might and would, no religious fanatic or language chauvinist or opportunist manipulator, intoxicated by political ambition and poisoned by the resurgent ideology of a mythical golden past, could dare threaten the strong bonds laid down deep and watered daily by the lively communities, who rightfully and justly may call Pune – their very own. <br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Yes, my mother loved Konkani ‘exclusively’ when she sensed concrete threats to her existence. But she also loved all the other languages of India and the world ‘inclusively’, when she tasted their sweet literature. <br /><br />I repeat what I wrote in <a href="http://sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/2009/04/lessons-my-mother-learned-me-part-1.html">Part-1</a> of this memoir. “I see my mother in a kimono dress, sitting by a lighted window with the soft light falling across her face in profile. A book or magazine is in her hands and she is reading, head bent and often glancing around to keep an eye on us, her children. At other times, she is in the kitchen cooking, softly humming to herself some Konkani “<em>cantara</em>” (songs). But mostly she is reading, and sometimes, writing letters.”<br /><br />So she recognised that her eldest son was, like her, also a passionate lover of the written and printed word and introduced me to the world of the universal imagination. <br /><br />From among the hundreds of writers, I cite a few: <br />Russian: Dostevesky, Chekhov, Tolstoy and Pushkin; <br />Hindi: Munshi Premchand, Bhishma Sahni, Amrita Pritam;<br />French: Balzac, Maupassant, Victor Hugo, Emile Zola and Voltaire;<br />Bengali: Rabindranath Tagore;<br />Americans: Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman; <br />Malayali: Vaikom Mohammed Bashir; <br />. . . and hundreds of other obsessed creatures like herself, story-tellers and weavers of books.<br /><br />If you scrutinise this partial list, you may spot the defiance and rebellion in the names, their secular and universal feeling for all humans, the longing for peace and compassion for the poor and suffering. <br /><br />These authors and their writings remain my companions, long after my mother passed away suddenly 40 years ago; but not before placing me gently into their safe laps and clasping their hands.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Part 4<br /><br />Small is beautiful, and some of the smaller lessons I learned from my mother I remember today as vividly as her love for Konkani.<br /><br />For example, her lessons in cooking. My mother learned me all the basics of cooking - making rice, dal, and vegetables. And I can clean, cut and cook meat and fish. But I do not like chicken. My mother, however, took a lot of trouble in learning me patiently the intricacies of spices and grinding masalas on the traditional stone used in Mangalorean cooking. <br /><br />I recall sitting with her as she measured out the spices for various dishes and I was her obedient helper for grinding masalas, cutting vegetables, salads and fruits. She used to say, "<em>Tuka aun randap shikaitan. Tuzhem kajar zalya uprant, muzhea sunek, muzho udas yeje</em>." (I will teach you to cook. After you get married, my daughter-in-law must remember me.)<br /><br />I think she was a traditional wife, accepting a woman's duty to cook for the family and the home. But, secretly, I know she hoped for another world in the future, where women would be equal to men and work shoulder to shoulder. And for that brave new "Amrita Pritam" world, she wanted to prepare her eldest son, by learning him how to cook. <br /><br />Unfortunately, by the time I got married in 1982, my mother had been gone 13 years. But I tell my wife that if I can cook, it is because of my mother. I cannot claim to be a good cook, though I can cook well enough to live without having to depend on others. However, cooking is not something I would do for a living.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />How do I miss her lessons, let me count the ways?<br /><br />As a little boy, I remember we had just entered a new house in Nagpur. It was pitch dark and the railway khalasis, who unpacked the luggage and the boxes went away leaving us three children alone with our mother. I must have been five years old. And one of my memories is carrying a kerosene lantern at the head of a line, with my brother and sister behind me with my mother at the end. And I can hear her comforting voice behind me, "<em>Bhein naka, Babu, aun thuzhea patlyan asan.</em>" (Do not be afraid, Babu, I am behind you.")<br /><br />She is not with me today. But I do not fear the dark. For she is always behind me, taking care of the unknown. <br /><br />She always called me "Babu" at home. As I grew up, I used to feel ashamed when she called me "Babu" in front of my friends. For I felt I had grown up and was too big to be called "Babu". My teachers used to call me "Joe" in school and college. But she did not mend her fond ways. <br /><br />Today as I reflect on her habit of calling me "Babu", I prefer to believe it was a pet name for her eldest son, a honeymoon child, born within nine months of her marriage on 22 May 1950. Calculate the days, I was born on 5 March 1951. <br /><br />Do not be afraid.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />One more story, my grandmother "Manjya" told me when I grew older and I will be done with this fourth part of my serial memoir. "Manjya" (why did we call our mother's mother by that name?), told me that once when I was a little baby in my mother's arms and she was expecting her second child, she had been waiting at a bus-stop.<br /><br />Suddenly, she was overcome by a fainting spell. My mother handed me over to a stranger saying, "<em>Aka sambhal</em>." (Take care of him.) And fainted.<br /><br />Even today, when I see a pregnant woman carrying a baby, I recall my mother at that bus-stop and see myself being carried by my mother. Maybe such a story stirs in me compassion for the weak and helpless. Maybe it is such a story that inspires me to trust complete strangers. For didn't my mother entrust me to the care of a stranger that day? Is that where our values are born?<br /><br />Trust people, even strangers. Help the weak.<br /><br />How I miss the lessons my mother learned me?<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Part 5<br /><br />Words and songs. Words I have loved; my mother learned me to say and write them. Songs I have loved; my mother learned me to sing and hum them.<br /><br />I used to hear from my uncle, the late Pius D’Cruz of Malad, Mumbai, that my mother Mary Therese D’Cruz, was a great Konkani playback singer. He said, in her heydays, she was called the “Lata Mangeshkar of the Konkani stage”. <br /><br />Born on 6 October 1925 and educated in Mangalore, she came to Bombay with her brother and started to teach English in Hume High School, run by the American Marathi Mission at Byculla. My uncle finally got a job in Life Insurance Corporation. He too acted on the Konkani stage.<br /><br />As a child, I had seen my mother’s song-book, from which she used to sing us songs. It was a plain ruled exercise book, the kind children use in school, and Mummy had written out the songs in her beautiful cursive hand-writing. <br /><br />I wrote to my family, if any of them had seen her song-book. My sister Flavia has replied, “I have her song book and I have preserved it well. It would be of antique value now, I think. Some entries go back to 1940!” That means my mother started her song-book when she was 15 years old. As and when I lay my hands on a photo-copy of the song-book, I shall reproduce some of the songs.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Here I have copied out the anthem of <a href="http://www.stagnescollege.org/htmldocs/index.htm">St Agnes College</a>, Mangalore, where she studied and whose motto is “God is our Strength” to give you an idea of the values, which my mother held dear. She was brought up by the Apostolic Carmel (A.C) nuns, who were one of the deep and pervasive influences on her gentle yet strong character:<br /><br />“God is our strength, let us commit <br />Our lives into His hands this day; <br />Trusting in Him to compass it <br />That we may find the perfect way.<br /><br />“Fearless of foes, we cast aside <br />The days of ease we loved of yore; <br />And stand to the shock of battle-tide <br />Despite all trials hard and sore. <br /><br />“God is our strength, why fear the foe? <br />His love like armour doth enfold <br />Our weak and wayward nature so, <br />That vanquished lies the tempter bold. <br /><br />“Behold His arm of valour strong, <br />We'll cling to it in stormy fray, <br />Nor fear we any harm or wrong, <br />God is our strength, now and for aye.”<br /><br />When I read the words of this anthem (I do not recall my mother singing it at home to us), I can hear the lyrical resonances of the Romantic English poets like Keats, Shelley, Byron, and Wordsworth, whom I have loved all my life.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />But I do remember another song that I hum to myself even today when I am down and out. My mother taught it to me. The song soothes and comforts me like a lullaby that puts a child to sleep. I can feel the caress of her soft hands and the smell of the “Afghan Snow” she used on her face and the Mysore Sandalwood soap on her body, as I sing it forlornly to myself. <br /><br />The song she taught me is actually a Welsh song, “<a href="http://www.gurman.org/ashgrove/ag_body.html">The Ash Grove</a>”. I have taken it from the Net for your reading pleasure, though I can distinctly recall that the words my mother used to sing to us were different:<br /><br />“Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander<br />When twilight is fading I pensively rove.<br />Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander<br />Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove.<br /><br />“Twas there while the blackbird was cheerfully singing<br />I first met that dear one, the joy of my heart.<br />Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing<br />Ah! then little thought I, how soon we should part.<br /><br />“Still glows the bright sunshine o’er valley and mountain,<br />Still warbles the blackbird its note from the tree;<br />Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,<br />But what are the beauties of Nature to me? <br /><br />“With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,<br />All day I go wandering in search of my love!<br />Ye echoes! oh tell me, where is the sweet maiden?<br />She sleeps ‘neath the green turf down by the Ash Grove.”<br /><br />I have also discovered on 10 June 2009 some recordings on YouTube, which give a feel for the folk beauty of this Welsh song. The first is from the film "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zd99wZbCykI">Pride and Prejudice</a>", based on the classic novel by Jane Austen. The song Ash Grove starts at 1:02. These are the words I fondly recall my mother singing to us. Second, John Kovac plucks the song on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ay9-8POXH7w&feature=related">harp</a>, the music coming through so clearly for those who want to pick up the notes. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Pqu5oFOQG4">Rosa Wol</a>, soprano, also sings Ash Grove. You can feel the lingering beauty of the folk song by a classical singer. And then <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWmi2IxgDuk&feature=related">Nana Mouskouri</a> presents her own husky version.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />If I recall these words and hum the tune to myself, I also remember the beautiful Hindi film songs she used to sing. Later, much later, when she was no more, my father gave me some audio-cassettes from his personal collection. Among them was his favourite song: “<a href="http://atulsongaday.wordpress.com/2009/04/23/tu-mera-chaand-main-teri-chaandni/">Tu mera chand, main teri chandni</a>” from Dillagi (1949). The singers are Suraiyya and Shyam. Lyrics by Shakeel Badayuni and music composed by Naushad.<br /><br />“Tu meraa chaand main teri chaandni.<br />Main teraa raag tu meri raagini.<br />Tu meraa chaand main teri chaandni.<br />Main teraa raag tu meri raagini.<br /><br />Ho, nahin dil ka lagaanaa koyi dillagi, koyi dillagi,<br />Nahin dil ka lagaanaa koyi dillagi, koyi dillagi.<br /><br />“Saath hi jeenaa saath hi marnaa,<br />Ulfat ki hai reet, haan, ulfat ki hai reet.<br />Saath hi jeenaa saath hi marnaa,<br />Ulfat ki hai reet, haan, ulfat ki hai reet.<br /><br />Pyaar ki murli hardam gaaye teri lagan ke geet.<br />Pyaar ki murli hardam gaaye teri lagan ke geet.<br /><br />Main teraa raag tu meri raagini.<br />Tu meraa chaand main teri chaandni.<br />Main teraa raag tu meri raagini.<br /><br />“Bhool na jaanaa rut ye suhaani,<br />Ye din aur ye raat, haan, ye din aur ye raat.<br />Bhool na jaanaa rut ye suhaani,<br />Ye din aur ye raat, haan, ye din aur ye raat.<br /><br />Jab tak chamke chaand sitaare, dekho chhoote na saath.<br />Jab tak chamke chaand sitaare, dekho chhoote na saath.<br /><br />Tu meraa chaand main teri chaandni.<br />Main teraa raag tu meri raagini.<br />Ho, nahin dil ka lagaanaa koyi dillagi, koyi dillagi.”<br /><br />Theirs was a love marriage of the 1950s, consumated along the railway line. And I can recall my mother singing this haunting 1949 number, at my father's request. She died on 2 May 1969, just 20 days before their nineteenth wedding anniversary. Tears used to roll down his eyes, as he thought about her, listening to this black and white melody. He out-lived her by 32 years and passed away in Pune on 26 March 2001.<br /><br />One day, while I was browsing I chanced upon the Scottish folk-song "Roaming in the Gloaming" by Sir Harry Lauder, a 12-inch, 4-minute recording from the 1930s. I recall my mother singing the chorus lines. By and by, the tune would come to me, whenever I used to feel down and needed to get up and walk again. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7N4mxz02y-k">Click here</a>.<br /><br />I have already described how she learned me to cook. And she also learned me how to control and modulate my voice. She trained me to exercise my lungs and control my breathing so that I could “throw” my voice, while speaking and singing. I use this technique today when I give lectures, though the latest microphone and loudspeaker technology has conspired to make speakers and singers lazy, just as computers and the Internet have made journalists slothful.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://gaurigharpure.blogspot.com/">Gauri Gharpure</a> has requested me, “Can we see a picture of the great lady?” In response to her query, I quote my sister’s letter again, “I have a not-so-clear picture of Mummy. Dad used to say she had an aversion for photos. Seems when you and Leslie were small (before I was born), on one happy day they were sitting and admiring both of you. Mum said, ‘We must take a family picture.’ The very next day it seems both of you came down with a bad cold and fever, which eventually led to whooping cough. Soon, she had a pair of sick babies to care for the next three months! So that’s the reason why she had this aversion for taking pictures.”<br /><br />My father also told me that he used to carry a beautiful photograph of our Mummy, which she had given him in the days before they got married. He kept her photo, which showed her in pigtails, in his wallet safely in the back-pocket of his trousers. One day, his purse was picked as he was getting on to a BEST bus. And gone was the picture of our beloved mother in pigtails! <br /><br />Eventually, because of the manner in which he lost her picture to a pick-pocket, my father stopped stitching back-pockets for his trousers! Even today, I do not carry a wallet, preferring instead to carry my money in re-used plastic pouches that are made to pack milk. <br /><br />Because of our mother’s aversion for having her or our photographs taken, we do not have her picture. My sister has a not-so-clear picture. So Gauri, you can see the blurred picture of my mother (see the margin at the top of my blog), now that my sister has sent me the scanned picture on 27 May.<br /><br />But what do I care that I do not possess a clear photograph of the mother I love? She is engraved in the deepest recesses of my heart and mind; she abides in the secret nooks and crannies of my memory; she sings her songs and hums to me as I drift off into sleep and move awake; she is imprinted in my mind’s eye; she stands fearless before me today, walks with me, her hand on my shoulder; undiminished and unvanquished by the passage of forty years.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Much after I wrote this post, I chanced upon this 9 November 2008 poem, <br /><a href="http://ambaree.blogspot.com/2008/11/blog-post.html">Kya tum samjhogi ma?</a> (Will you understand, mother?) by Smriti Mudgal, one of my SIMC students, who has already written two beautiful pieces earlier for my blog on <a href="http://sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/2008/12/mumbai-city-and-people-with-sense-of.html">Mumbai</a> and a tribute to her school-teacher, the late <a href="http://sangatizuzay.blogspot.com/2008/12/mumbai-city-and-people-with-sense-of.html">Chitra ma'am</a>. Smriti has a blog "Ambaree" in Hindi which I could not read till today, 4 June 2009, due to the Devanagari font. But I share the universal feelings Smriti expresses, and I am sure, that my mother though gone 40 years now would have understood.<br /><br />This is the fifth and final part, concluding the series of memoirs on my mother. I await your comments and suggestions, since I intend to publish a small printed book in her memory.<br /><br />Concluded.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7386416974055428735.post-68760774991063006302009-03-07T13:19:00.000+05:302009-03-07T14:19:34.173+05:30Our mothers learn us our worldMy dear readers,<br /><br />Welcome to "Journey Unbegun".<br /><br />These were the two words that kept recurring to me as British Airways Flight No. ____ was still stuck on the tarmac at Mumbai airport on ___ July 1990. Like my forlorn mind and weeping heart, the plane too it seemed to me did not want to fly away that day.<br /><br />For the first time in my life, I was taking a plane away from the Mother India that I loved so much.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />We know the world through our mothers. <br /><br />First, my dearest mother Amy Pinto (nee Mary Therese D'Cruz). School-teacher; known in her time (the late 1940s) as "The Lata Mangeshkar of the Konkani stage". Born 6 October 1925; married 22 May 1950; gave me birth 5 March 1951; died 2 May 1969. Snatched away, too too young.<br /><br />Second, Mother India. Ancient civilisation. Freed by Sangati Shahid Bhagat Singh and other freedom-fighters from the imperial British on 15 August 1947. Liberated from the clutches of the Realm, the monarch of England, on 26 January 1950. In tatters, but with a crown of gold, only now finding its feet.<br /><br />Third and final, Mother Earth. I am not taking care of it, as much as I do care for my family, friends, students, work colleagues and well-wishers.<br /><br />Our mothers learn us our world.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />The plane did take off the next day.<br /><br />Throughout my three years in Leeds, Yorkshire, England, "Journey Unbegun" were again the two words that kept popping in and out of my mind, as I walked through the terrifying cold and wet to the warmth and comfort of the Central Library.<br /><br />I survived that cold and wet Hell. Now nearly 20 years later and standing at railway gate No. 58, I blog my tale.<br /><br />My first post is taken from my other blog, "Against the Tide", which I started at the request of my journalism students. But it properly belongs here. For, it is an integral part of "Journey Unbegun."<br /><br />*****<br /><br /><strong>Along the line, at railway gate No. 58</strong><br /><br />Today, 5 March 2009, I complete 58 years. Along the railway line of my life, I stand at railway gate No. 58. For all these years coming freely to me, I am grateful to my mother, the late Amy, and my father, the late Denis, and to our Mother Earth, for whom I know I have not cared enough, when I look at the way I selfishly care for my family, students, friends and work colleagues.<br /><br />I am also playing my second innings now. For this, I am thankful to modern medicine, the Pune Heart Brigade (phone 1050), my wife Kalpana and daughter Pallavi, neighbours, friends and my brother-in-law Rajeev, who rushed me to hospital. Having survived my heart attack of 2 September 2006, unlike so many of my good friends and relatives, life is new and always fresh.<br /><br />Sometime back Kajal Iyer tagged me, asking to know 25 random things about me. I took part for fun. But I am now going to rewrite the note I made then, and edit that list to write up this auto-sketch – at railway gate No. 58.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />Why at railway gate No. 58? Simply because I am the eldest son of a railwayman, who used to get transferred from place to place. So I know what it is be on the move like a gypsy. And therefore I can appreciate settling down and setting down roots. What would I give in exchange for all the money in the world? A chance to meet even one of my school-mates from that “lost childhood” when I was a little boy in the small railway towns of Jabalpur and Nagpur (1956-57), Solapur (1957-58) and Manmad (1958-61).<br /><br />As I recall that journey, let me honour my mother, one of India’s greatest playback singers, hailed in the late 1940s as the “Lata Mangeshkar of the Konkani stage” – Amy Pinto, nee Mary Therese D'Cruz (1925-69). I’m older now than her then by 14 years; she died at the age of 44. Nearing 40 years since she died, yet she sings within my heart.<br /><br />Confined to the four walls of our home, she taught us, her children – her Class of Three; after 1962, it was a Class of Four. I used to be a great one for gathering piles of books as prizes in school, till my mother learned me the lesson, “If you can, compete – with yourself”.<br /><br />Also let me shower flowers on the fair name of my father, Denis John Pinto (1923-2001), an upright and God-fearing man, who put up with endless pain, suffering and deprivation because … “Honesty is the best policy”. The other person as equally upright is my father-in-law, Prof. K.L. Joshi (born 1922).<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />When I was in my early 20s and the hippies wore flowers in San Fransisco, I used to have long hair up to my shoulders; later I grew a beard. This was the result of the world-wide protests against the unjust war in Vietnam and the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), a part of my growing-up years in school and college – a deep and permanent influence. Also let me mention the dearly-held musical relics, including the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger.<br /><br />I can’t remember the day when I was not in love – with words. So my first crush was virtual, even before the Personal Computer – Agnes – appearing on the pages of the Charles Dickens novel, “David Copperfield”. Now the love in my life, after my love-marriage wife Kalpana, is my daughter J.K. Pallavi. I remember the three years in the cold and wet of Leeds, Yorkshire, England, taking care of her in a back-to-back basement when she was barely three, while my wife did her Ph.D. (And what of my friends, without whom I could have not known that friendship can match up to love?)<br /><br />I have spent years, off and on, in Mumbai. First as a little boy in the mid-1950s; then in school, college, etc. (1961-73); again after the Emergency (1977-82). What do I miss about Mumbai (I shan’t call it Bombay as the imperial English did)? The trundling trams, when I was a little boy; uncrowded local trains and red BEST buses on a Sunday morning; the common crows, sparrows, mynahs; the great struggle of the textile workers against the robber mill-owners; red flags in a worker morcha at Azad Maidan; the heady mix of faces and tongues from all over India; the discipline on the roads. Above all, the entwined couples clasping hands in municipal gardens ...<br /><br />What do I NOT miss about Mumbai? The idle rich, gambling on the stock market, who have raped the city; the skyscrapers that blot out the sky; the private vehicles that kill and maim far worse and more deep than terrorist guns; the curse of the Shiv Sena and their ilk, who have brought shame to the glorious inheritors of Chhatrapati Shivaji ...<br /><br />To give you some more feel and touch for the passing show of my life, here goes. My favourite movie critic, Pauline Kael of the New York Times, who dubbed the “Sound of Music” as the “Sound of Mucous”. A few of my favourite things: the red mud, swaying coconut trees and the fish curry rice of Mangalore; the lilt of my Konkani mother tongue; a few drops of kaju feni, soft cotton garments. And always, books.<br /><br />Besides, love and peace, compassion for the poor moves me beyond tears. Alongside this post on my blog, I have catalogued my values and beliefs, as well as quotes from my favourite authors and a list of books and websites, including some by my students. <br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />What made me sketch this auto-bio? In a way, groping to prepare for the reality of aging, at the threshold of retirement. Can I retire? Maybe not, in the sense that I’ll stop working. But I shall retire from doing what I do not like. I am coming to grips with work on different terms. <br /><br />Along the line, at railway gate No. 58, I also await the student, who may exceed me, who may dare to go beyond imagination, against the tide. To whom I can entrust the torch given to me by my ancestors and teachers.<br /><br />First, my English teacher from Standard VII in St Stanislaus School, Bandra, Mumbai, during 1962-63. Mrs Philomena D’Souza (nee Valladares) used to give us five topics to write one essay every week; I wrote on all five; Mrs Valladares corrected all five, sometimes rewrote them in her own neat hand-writing! Where have all the great Goan gurus gone?<br /><br />Second, my Chemistry professor from B.Sc. in St Xavier’s College, Dhobitalao, Mumbai, during 1969-71. Prof V. V. Nadkarny, with his white open shirt, dhoti, and black round topi, taught me not only about organic molecules and carbon chains, but also about facing up to life. When arrogantly, I had refused to apolgise after back-answering a laboratory demonstrator, Prof Nadkarny apologised on my behalf though he was the Head of the Department then. His kind and free classes at his Dadar home, under the benign gaze of Ramakrishna Paramhansa, are with me today, though I do not use the chemistry I learned.<br /><br />Third, the unlettered mofussil elders of village Kasarpimpalgaon, who taught me, “JoeP of KP”, to speak Marathi and learn of “sanskar” when, as a founder-member of the rural NGO called Vistas, I was working in the drought-prone areas of Pathardi taluka, Ahmednagar district, Maharashtra, during 1973-77. <br /><br /><em>“Those were the days, my friends,<br />We thought they’d never end,<br />We’d sing and dance for ever and a day.<br />We’d live the life we choose,<br />We thought we’d never lose,<br />For we were young and sure to have our way.”</em><br /><br />The ones who are no more: Smita Patil, Norman “Vikram Salgaonkar” Dantas, Anna Salve. Now the rest (in alphabetical order): Biplab “Bulu” Basu, Vilma Colaco, Dominic D’Souza, Eric D’Souza, Glynis “Asha” D’Souza, John “Babuti” D’Souza, Lancy Fernandes, Nafisa Goga, Pradeep Guha, Ayesha Kagal, Aspi Mistry, Lakshmi “Buchy” Rameshwar Rao.<br /><br />Fourth, the late Feriwala Francis and Bhabhi as well as the slum-dwellers of Kaju Tekdi, Bhandup, Mumbai, and my comrades at the CITU unit of Prabhakar Sanzgiri. During this same period, my participation as a founder general-secretary of the Lok Vidnyan Sanghatana not only immersed me in the popularisation of science but also introduced me to my Pune girl Kalpana Joshi, whom I married on 26 January 1982.<br /><br />Fifth, my scribe seniors – S.D. Wagh, Taher Shaikh, Harry David, Y.V. Krishnamurthy – and delightful colleagues at the one and only “our very own” local English daily of Pune, Maharashtra Herald (estd. 1963), where I joined as a sub-editor on a salary of Rs.600 per month on 2 May 1983 and left as assistant editor in 1996.<br /><br />Sixth, working since August 2006 with the eminent social worker, Shantilal Muttha, Founder and National President of the Bharatiya Jain Sanghatana on trustee empowerment and training programs.<br /><br />And finally, my students in Pune where I have been teaching print journalism and communication as a regular visiting faculty since 1987, at the invitation and with the cooperation of Dr. Kiran Thakur, P.N. Paranjpe, Dr. Vishwas Mehendale, Prof M.S. Pillai, Ujjwal Chowdhury, Shashidhar Nanjundaiah, Dr. Keval Kumar and many others. If my students have learned anything from me, I have surely learned a lot from them.<br /><br /><strong>*****</strong><br /><br />And so, at railway gate No. 58, I come full circle. <br /><br />The packed local trains are the reason why I left the Mumbai that I love so much. When we were staying at Dadar in the late 60s, I used to travel 10 minutes by train from Dadar to school in Byculla. The locals were getting difficult. But my father was a railway officer and, therefore, we got a free First Class pass, so we missed the crush in the third class bogies. <br /><br />When I joined St. Xavier's in 1967, the journey only got longer, 20-25 minutes from Dadar till VT. But in the first class it was still bearable. Fortunately, I escaped from the locals of Mumbai in 1973 and worked in village Maharashtra from 1973-77. If not for the horrors of the Indira Emergency, I may have never come back to Mumbai. When I got back, the trains were choking.<br /><br />Slowly, travelling by local trains became a torture that I would dread. And when I was in Bhandup, the agony became too much to bear. Fortunately again, I got married and decided to move to Pune, where I also became a full-time journalist.<br /><br />On the brink of 58, I dread travelling in Pune too. There are no trains here that can be packed (though I have heard that the locals to and from Lonavla are worse that the locals of Mumbai!!!).<br /><br />But here we have our local variant of torture on the cruel roads, what I call the “chhote shaitan” – the two-wheelers that in the end may murder Pune, unless public transport improves.<br /><br />Now the wheels are turning within the wheels. At railway gate No. 58.<br /><br />Your support is my strength.<br />- Joe.<br /><br />Pune, Thursday, 5 March 2009.<br /><br /><br />*****<br /><br />My dear readers,<br /><br />That was the bit of memoir I wrote on the occasion of having reached "railway gate No. 58" of my journey "along the line". This blog will trace the rest of that journey, explore aspects of it -- vistas, turnings, stops, views, corners, the horizon -- hidden from the public eye. For the journey is the reward.<br /><br />Please make your suggestions and suggestions so that my writing, and therefore your reading of these memoirs becomes enjoyable. For it is through this intimate dialogue between me and you that this journey" shall unbegun.<br /><br />I shall sign off this post every time as "Sangati Zuzay" and not Joseph Pinto. Sangati in Konkani means companion or comrade, like the Hindi "sathi" or Marathi "sobati". Zuzay stands for Joseph in Konkani like Yusuf in Arabic or Jose in Spanish. My mother wanted to call me Joseph, not the "Frederick" that the Christian calendar prescribed as the name of a boy born on the fifth day of March. With her keen ear for music and passion for language, my mother said she did not want the neighbours calling out to her first-born as "Peddy". For she knew that is what Frederick would eventually have become: first "Freddy" in English, and then "Peddy" in Konkani. <br /><br />Welcome to "Journey Unbegun."<br /><br />Love, peace and solidarity,<br /><br />Sangati Zuzay.<br /><br />Pune, Saturday, 7 March 2009.Joe Pintohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09816903724816351432noreply@blogger.com6