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| Diary |
Magazine | 29 Jun 2009 |
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| Bangalore Diary by Rahul Jacob |
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‘Reservation’ is such a divisive term that to type it almost requires a @#$%—a swear word. Yet it is a sign that reservation of seats for women in Parliament and state assemblies is so long overdue that the decision to legislate this has been met with near unanimous approval—aside from the dark mutterings of sundry Yadav demagogues. Nonetheless, with such large numbers of the fairer sex, educated and fed so poorly, let alone discriminated against in their mother’s wombs, we remain a country of chauvinists. We are complicit Sharads and Mulayams. Still, this is a start. Outlook’s recent article showed that one of the less heart-warming aspects of this historic election was that the Congress, BJP and the Left Front were united in their male chauvinism; women accounted for a tiny fraction of the total candidates and most of the female candidates were wives or daughters of politicians. ‘Familyism’, increasingly, is the only ideology we believe in. Karnataka, where one sees female bank managers, software engineers and doctors at every turn, was among the worst with just one winning woman MP.
The real reason to have more women in Parliament is because they are generally imbued with a greater sense of public service than men and are more likely to focus on the challenge of health and education—so vital if parts of India are not to turn into a more populous version of sub-Saharan Africa. In this case, affirmative action would lead to more action where it counts. (As a formidable woman sarpanch in Rajasthan told US president Bill Clinton some years ago, one of the first things she did was build a school close to the village because otherwise girls would not go to school because even young girls were subject to sexual harassment. This was just months after the Lewinsky scandal.)
Rants and Raves
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Republic Of Hypochondriacs
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I am scribbling the outline for this diary in the waiting room of the Sagar hospital, which might explain why I initially wrote on the page: Are Bangaloreans hypochondriacs? Or more charitably, is it this city’s characteristic civic solicitousness taken to the nth degree; you ask someone how they are, they reply they have an allergic cough, you confirm you have had the same problem for months and everyone then heads happily ever after for the nearest pharmacy. Why are there pharmacies every 100 metres and as many hospitals as there are traffic lights in other cities? That there are so many hospitals in one of India’s most affluent cities points to the increasing number of so-called lifestyle diseases in the middle class—obesity, diabetes and the like. In our villages, meanwhile, MIT research shows that most patients are treated by quacks and indiscriminately prescribed a steroid injection and saline drip, which have the short-term effect of making people feel better.
Rants and Raves
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The auto home takes me past one of Bangalore’s prettiest sights—ancient trees that might well have taken root in the garden of Eden form a triumphal arch over R.V. Road for a couple of miles. But there’s trouble in paradise. Most of the trees will survive, but the area has been earmarked for an overground section of the Bangalore metro, which means some of them will be cut down. Of course, tree-lovers are appalled. I love those trees more than anything else in the neighbourhood but a mass rapid transit system is urgently needed to reduce vehicular pollution and the number of often-fatal two-wheeler accidents. Trees are being planted elsewhere for the ones that will be felled. Tunneling underground would cost much more and delay the metro further. A sign a few weeks ago said a meeting would gather early on Saturday to discuss the issue with the local MLA. I can’t help wonder why trees bring out the environmentalist in all of us while we mostly overlook untreated sewage, open drains—into which a six-year-old was sucked away—inadequate housing and schooling for our servants’ children.
Rants and Raves
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Bangalore South, the constituency I live in, had about as disappointing a voter turnout as Mumbai South. One exception was my father, who lined up all the documentation necessary to battle the bureaucracy and ensure he was on the list. On polling day, he located his name on a list provided by the BJP but voted for the Congress. In the last stages of pancreatic cancer, he needed help getting to the booth but then sent out e-mails declaring triumphantly: "I voted." When I woke him up from a mid-morning nap to tell him Manmohan Singh, who he much admired, would be prime minister again, he cried with happiness, saying voters knew Singh was doing his best for India. His tears were a reminder of the quiet patriot he was. That depth of feeling did not surprise me: I was born on November 14, the year Nehru died and my parents did not choose as my middle name the name of my grandfather—they decided on Jawahar instead.
Rants and Raves
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