October is here…

Brother crow was strutting in the Sanctuary, while sister sparrow twittered from the lectern. Brother dog woofed sister cat out of her slumber. She scampered to the safety of the pews, her colouring a perfect camouflage against the trellised woodwork. (I am not being chauvinistic – the genders are accurately assigned. I know. I am on speaking terms with the local fauna*.) Today is the first of October and we shall soon celebrate the feast of St. Francis of Assisi – the man who embraced all of creation in brotherhood (and sisterhood!). Perhaps it is fitting that our church was graced by the presence of his friends. Brother crow, for once, did not annoy by cawing his way through Mass. He must have realised that speech is golden only when it is timely and wise!

I love October for other reasons too. Though this is one of the hottest months in Mumbai, it still signals the countdown to the end of the year, winter and that most beloved occasion in the Christian calendar – Christmas. Christmas will be different this year because many of our own will not be there with us to share and celebrate, and yet there is a stirring in the heart, remembered joy, the anticipation of peace and healing, and the faith that it will happen.

I am reminded of a quote from my collection which goes something like this: ‘People say autumn is a sad season. I do not think so. Nature is not dying; she is merely sleeping and judging from her colours, her dreams are beautiful in anticipation of spring.’

Spring and life renewed. A life that we continue to live for those we love, because we love. Because, those we love are part of us and we are part of them. Because, through us their memory lives on.

And this brings me back to St. Francis. St. Francis lived the message of love – his heart was open to all things, all persons, all seasons, all situations. To read his life is to experience a tug of the heartstrings. And for those who walk with the animals and talk with the animals, this tug is very strong indeed!

(*I’ll let you into the secret: hubby taught me to distinguish between the birds – males are flashy and large, females are more sober and small; the cat has had more than one litter of kittens; the dog belongs to one of our priests and I’ll take his word for it that it’s a boy!)

Ticking Boxes

My mental age is 40; my heart’s age is 80. That averages out at 60 which is my chronological age – thank goodness!! 60 is a lovely time of life: still young enough to push the boundaries and old enough to get away with it.

How did I come by the quoted stats? The online quiz, of course. Friends pass on the links and, being a sucker for the questionnaire, I keep clicking away till I am presented with the result. In the days BI (Before Internet), I would pounce on the various Q&As in the glossies and tick away avidly, collecting the associated alphabets (a, b, c or d) and then totaling them up to find the score. Check Your Compatibility (hubby and I were a perfect match – I knew that, but it is lovely to be told so by an ‘intelligent’ medium); What Shape Are You? (That would be telling!); Are You Antisocial? (Very – I prefer curling up with a book to attending a shindig); Are You Eating Healthy? (Of course not – I’m not yet ready to forgo ice creams and cheesecake); What Does Your Personality Rating Say About You? (Plenty!!); Do You Spend Too Much Time on the Internet? (Probably. But then, I have a lot of catching up to do.) Curious and adventurous, that’s me!

Sometimes the questionnaires come with a bonus. Fill up and post and you may get a lucky gift: I have received T-Shirts, key chains, a scarf, and sundry other items over the years.

I wonder about the people who come up with the questions and answers (some of which are impossible to identify with, even though you are urged to tick the ‘closest answer’). How accurate are the assessments? Having gone through my fair share of psychological tests (college admissions, job interviews), I often queried the reliability. I am affronted by the thought that someone can tell exactly who and what kind of person I am by merely scanning a cold and impersonal interrogation. I have been assured that there are checks and balances built in to ensure veracity and that the method is tried and tested. So, now I enjoy entering wild and wacky choices when forced to take an assessment test. One questionnaire asked if I would like to ‘kill my parents’ (!) I checked the ‘yes’ box. I made it to the interview and beyond!! (Perhaps they were really looking for someone with murderous tendencies.)

Well so much for the questionnaire. I have now to return to that recurring quiz: Are you ready to face the day? I check ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ – Yes, because the day holds out some promises; no, because there are unavoidable routine chores. Does that make me an optimistic pessimist or should that be the other way around?

On Reading – II

Do you believe in coincidences? The next title I picked up gave me a feeling of déjà vu. Once again I travelled the corridors of corruption in our country’s capital. (When I was very little, I always stated with aplomb that I was born ‘in the Capital of India’ – it sounded so much more important than, ‘I was born in New Delhi’!)

I was told by a friend, whose opinion I respect, that I would find Aravind Adiga’s ‘White Tiger’ very readable. And indeed it was. This was a re-acquaintance with all that is familiar; I was enticed by the first person narrative that was so authentic in language, setting and context that I found myself reading way into the night, only to pick up as early as possible the next day. A day spent in the life of India’s teeming underbelly. This book is not for those who prefer fairy tales. It is, however, an excellent read for those who are inured to reality as represented by the daily news.

A fresh scan of the bookshelf showed me the ‘heavier’ reading which was on my ‘when I have the time and inclination’ list. My head was a little clearer, so I hefted the tomes and decided that a few pages at a time should do no harm. Umberto Eco had stimulated interest in the medieval, and the historical Church has always held its own special fascination, so I picked up the intriguingly titled ‘Holy Bones, Holy Dust’ - a scholarly work on how relics shaped medieval Europe. A few pages at a time? Perish the thought. As each chapter concluded, I would venture a few pages further. Here was history unfolding: a link to the past, and a slice of my own heritage reaching right back to the time of Christ. There was also irony, suspended belief and humour – all ingredients for an excellent read. Now, why wasn’t history taught this way when we were in school? To think that I avoided this fascinating subject for so many years all because of tutoring with tunnel vision! Even when done, I turned back to chapters that held some appealing tidbit or the other, just so that I could savour them again.

More history. Elizabeth I belongs to everyone, even though she was England’s queen. Her life holds a unique fascination not least because of her parentage but also because of her authoritative reign. For me, the definitive Elizabeth is the one described by Jean Plaidy. ‘Legacy’ by Susan Kay was leant to me by a friend; it came to me strongly recommended, but I was skeptical of what it could offer. But offer it did. Fact was fleshed out by description and conversation, attitudes and actions which could only have been imagined and yet sounded unquestionably sincere. Walls can hear but not speak. Perhaps the author gleaned something from the ghosts of London’s bloodied Tower? It certainly seemed as if she had been there on the spot. Another ‘unputdownable’ (my word for it!) read.

After this, there was one more treat in store: Orhan Pamuk’s ‘Other Colours’. I had read bits and pieces in other places, and I was hooked. This was an author whose deeper acquaintance I looked forward to. And I was delighted when I eventually got the chance. The books is a collection of essays: Pamuk has written about his beloved Turkey, his youth, his family, his daughter, his thoughts and aspirations, his writing and in every piece, he has invested himself so completely that the sincerity in the writing lends it a rare integrity. There are books which once read are read; there are others which you are loath to let go. This book belongs to the latter category - a book that will be a cherished companion.

Several titles down the line, I am, as you can see, firmly back in my favourite groove – the world of the printed page. It is a world that I had to leave for a while, and I am really glad to have found my way back.

On Reading - I

I am grateful to a mosquito. Bizarre but true! I was the perfect host, providing my uninvited guest with that nourishing drop of blood and, in return, it deposited in my veins the larvae and the consequent malarial fever which all of us try so hard to avoid. Mosquitoes are persistent little buggers* and despite all the precautions, there was I feverish, cross and confined to bed.

Doubters would wonder how I could possibly find the silver lining. Chills and sweats and bitter quinine are hardly the harbingers of halcyon skies. But there is one thing one can do very comfortably while lying in bed – read. I looked at all the titles on my bookshelf (some borrowed, some owned) waiting for that opportune breathing space. Was this to be it? Why not?

I picked up a light and frothy whodunit by an unfamiliar author (recommended by the library) which took care of day one. I found myself mulling over the kind of reader who could gush over such appalling triviality, a sketchy plot, oodles of amazingly wondrous settings and much too much gratuitous sex. And the blurbs on the dust jacket were ecstatic to say the least! Who was that who said, ‘Never judge a book by its cover’? I turned with alacrity to the familiar and well thumbed Agatha Christies and shed much of my irritation. On to PD James who bids fair to oust Christie from her ‘favourite’ position. James’ language and descriptive sketches – not least of the personalities that walk through her novels – are so wondrously absorbing. The reader actually meets the person and appears to live in the setting. And the prose is impeccable.

Lulled into a false sense of comfort, I became a little more adventurous and decided to sample another new author. Once again, the blurbs used adjectives in the superlative. Once again, I was left wondering about integrity in the world of publishing. Reviewers are supposed to be objective; though it is hard not to bring personal tastes to bear, surely if the work is not up to scratch it should not be foisted onto the unsuspecting reader? Peer reviews, which are a common trend, tend to put the reviewer in an invidious position and are therefore, in my very considered opinion, compromised!!

The book, which brought all this on, was nothing more than a collection of newspaper columns reporting various crimes. Since each successive report of the same crime was included, there was so much repetition, and the phrases ‘he said’, ‘he opined’, ‘he reiterated’ ‘he indicated’ concluded every sentence. Surely, the reports could have been collated and rewritten in more readable prose without negating the ‘true crime’ element? If this is what is required to write a ‘bestseller’, then all one has to do is accumulate clippings from the local newspaper and collate them into a single volume.

Perversely, I tried yet another new author. This time I laughed my way from cover to cover. No literary pretentions here. Another whodunit set in New Delhi, the narrative evoked the sights, sounds, smells and personalities of the locality so colourfully that it was impossible not to enjoy. Good ‘time pass’ to use a local phrase. I may not seek out this author (Tarquin Hall), but if another of his works comes my way, I will not turn up my nose. The review (in a magazine) was honest and reality met expectation.

I love to read and will continue to dip and delve and explore. Reading is like life – you have to take the bad with the good. Forget the first and savour the latter.

*One of the recent reference texts that came my way was titled ‘Teaching the Buggers to Write’, so I guess that’s one bit of slang that is now mainstream and I have taken the liberty of using it!

I am a Catholic

Raised in a Catholic family, I was educated in Catholic institutions and, since our Parish Church provided us with a Youth Club, I spent my leisure in a very Catholic social environment too.

We wore our Catholicism like a badge. This had its positives and its negatives. One appalling negative was the ‘holier than thou’ attitude which, thankfully, has now been shed. But the positive is what I would like to dwell on here.

If we were truly Catholic, we had to be perfect. Now, don’t get me wrong. We were not superhuman or even supernatural; it was just that we were expected to put in our very best effort and take pride in all that we did. Let me illustrate: employers and prospective spouses always wanted the ‘Convent trained’ because this meant that the best possible education had been provided. Catholic teachers, nurses, secretaries were always in demand because they could be expected to deliver and deliver quality. To say, “I am a Catholic’ was as good a certificate as any. If someone needed a repairman or wished to make a purchase from a particular vendor, you would recommend the person with the postscript, ‘Go to so and so. The work is excellent, you won’t be cheated and he(or she) is a Catholic.’ Yes, we had a very good name.

I once numbered among my acquaintances a Catholic carpenter who rejoiced in the name of Romeo. He was so much in demand that you had to plan at least a year in advance, book him for the work and issue interim reminders lest he forgot. He never did, but I was a nervous customer. His work was first class and he always followed up on the job. He made sure that the customer was fully satisfied. I still look on his work with pleasure, some 30 years on. Considering the demand, he could have overcharged, but he never did. Then there was Robert the contractor. He started out as a simple stonemason but went on to be a builder in his rural community. He was a byword and no job was too small to merit his personal supervision. I once queried a wall that he had constructed for me. His reply? ‘This is built by Robert. It will stand for a hundred years!’ I will certainly not live to see that, but a quarter century on, that wall is still robust and it stands tall against the elements.

When did we start to fall by the wayside?

The decline has been insidious. I first noticed it when some years ago I entered into a contract for renovation with a ‘Catholic’ contractor. The work seemed good. Once the final payment was made, however, things started coming apart. That was when I discovered that the fervently promised guarantees were nothing but dust in my eye (pun intended). I put it down to individual aberration.

Now, several years down the line, I have clocked many more such incidents and I am deeply saddened. It is a blot on our collective escutcheon.

It has happened and we cannot turn back the clock. But we can remedy the situation. Perhaps we need to make it known that this is ‘not Catholic’. Perhaps we need to go out and reaffirm our faith and values. Perhaps we need to remind ourselves that, in the words of a much loved mentor, ‘We must shine for Christ!’

Where should the line be drawn?

The newspapers are suddenly full of it. People are full of it. The very air is full of it! Corruption, that is a way of life, is under verbal assault. Will words give way to action? I am by nature a pessimist. That way, if good results, I can be pleasantly surprised!

One newspaper announced, “If you have never paid a bribe, influenced a decision, paid black money towards purchase of a flat … write to us about your experience.” I thought back to my one experience of holding out in order to obtain a ‘bribe free’ ration card – my right as a domiciled national. That one incident cured me of expectation. That is how bad it is.

My father, a stern individual who tolerated no grey between right and wrong, also learnt this lesson the hard way. A pensioner of the Indian Army, he would walk the half hour distance to the Pay& Accounts office only be told by the peon that the necessary forms were not available. Father would diligently walk to and fro each day, only to be given the same reply. When he found out that others had obtained the forms by the simple expedient of greasing the peon’s palm, he was furious. He rebuked the organization but to no avail. Lethargy and corruption are two sides of the same coin. Father needed his pension to survive. Reluctantly he succumbed. But not without a sarcastic comment about ‘chai pani’ to the peon, who smirked in response. Considering the number of government pensioners at any given time, that peon must have raked in the moolah. This was thirty-five years ago.

Yes, I have paid a bribe for an out of turn gas cylinder (six months of cooking on a kerosene stove cured me of holding out), I have paid a bribe for an out of turn telephone connection (that was in the time before mobile phones and considering that all my neighbours treated my home as a public call booth, I more than paid for that ‘crime’) and yes, I paid a cash component towards the purchase of a flat – I needed a roof over my head and no builder, then, ever sold a flat on ‘cheque only’ payments. The tax component made the final price prohibitive. And that tax component was actually ‘fixed’ by the dealing officer who deliberately set a higher penalty in order to receive something under the table for a considerable reduction. You learnt to subvert the law in order to avoid a bribe! When I spoke to an officer of the Income Tax about it, he replied. “Madam, even I have paid cash for my flat. I cannot say so openly but everyone knows.”

Even when all is in order, the powers that be hold out and harass till they get what they want. So deep-rooted is corruption that one is suspicious of anything that comes without a price.

And as long as there is need, as long as there is greed, as long as there are those who can sniff opportunity and exploit it, there will always be those who take from givers willing and reluctant, able and unable.

Only those who have nothing or want nothing could ever be free from corruption. Given our vulnerability to need, would that ever be possible?

Wir bitten um das Gebet für unseren vestorbenen Mitbruder…

This is the concluding line of the necrology marking the passing of Herr Pfarrer Bertrand Georg Puchwein at the age of 87, and as I peruse the accompanying letter from friends who have conveyed the news, I endorse the prayer and the sentiment.

I met Father Puchwein, for the first time, when he was the 75-year young parish priest of St. Severin’s in Sievering, Vienna. He belonged to the Augustinian order of Canons or Choir-monks (for want of a better translation – the correct form is Augustiner Chorherr des Stiftes Klosterneuburg) of the monastery at Klosterneuburg – more about that later. And he was selected on the basis of his golden tenor. Only those who could sing could make the grade. And how he loved to sing!

We (my husband, one of my sisters-in-law and I) had barely stepped off the plane and into the parish house, when we were greeted, in a strong German accent, by this burly, red-cheeked, white haired priest: ‘Welcome, welcome!” His next words were, “Do you sing?” My husband and sis-in-law politely declined, while I responded with, “A little.” “Can you sing the Missa de Angelis?” “Yes, Father!” He had touched a chord – the sung Latin Masses are a much treasured relic from my childhood and the Mass he referred to was one that I can sing in my sleep. I was promptly trotted off, in my travelling clothes, to meet the group that was practicing for the Feast Day of a sister church. All Austrians who spoke only German and sang Latin, they welcomed me with beaming smiles and once the singing got under way, the smiles grew wider. I might have been wearing a sari and sporting a complexion of a darker hue, but I sang the same music!! There were several more practices, all of which concluded with white wine, crackers and cheese. The ‘treat’ was well earned – Fr. Puchwein was a perfectionist. And, yes, I sang with the choir at the Feast Mass at St. Vitus. The gift of music and the gift of inclusion are my lasting souvenirs of that visit.

During our stay, I got to know him and his larger than life personality, very well. After all, we were guests in his home and his hospitality was lavish. And he filled his home with music thanks to a powerful sound system - an offering from his parishioners who had known him for forty years. His knowledge of church music was wide as it was deep and he was eager to share this knowledge at every opportunity. I was an amateur and a novice, with just a smattering of German, but this did not deter him in the least! And when shadows fell, he would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the supper table the old favourites and folk songs from the region.

One of the high points of our visit (and there were many) was the visit to his monastery, the imposing Klosterneuburg with its even more magnificent wine cellars which descended three (or more?) levels underground. The vineyards and the wine were the monastery’s source of income. We were treated to a wine-tasting and attended Vespers. Both unforgettable. There is nothing so solemn or as wonderful as plainchant – invocation and response – sung by male voices (all powered by their own lungs – no microphones) under the vaulted roof of what was literally a vast castle. I was spellbound, experiencing in reality what I had only imagined of monastic life in the cloisters.

It seems more than coincidence that my present reading is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Set in a fictitious monastery, the descriptive passages returned memories to life. Once again I walked within cloistered walls and felt the shadowy presence of robed monks, hooded, hands tucked in sleeves, silent except in their songs of worship.

And now, when the relevance of monastic life is being questioned and vocations are few, old stones have seen once more the passing of one who graced their existence with God’s praises. Old stones whose rafters will continue to be raised in song, but for how long?