Its a wonder to me that a privately owned financial organization called S & P could alter the way the world looks at economics,  and pressurize governments of ( say the Eurozone) to take steps that could destroy their social systems and radically alter the lives, security and future of millions of people.  Why would a downgrade by S & P radically alter currency values (especially the Euro).  What do they know that others do not ?  What do they know that the governments of the nations do not ?

After all in 2008 it was radically clear that no one knew. Almost everyone that understood capitalism in one way got it completely wrong. Capitalism turned tables on all known financial systems and showed that there is a time when the rules suddenly change, where the bubble suddenly burst and the flaws come bursting out.

There was a time when the World Bank policies were pushing developing nations to make decisions that in theory and paper looked great, but which from a huge social cost perspective were a disaster.  Especially large infrastructure projects that not only caused huge human displacement, social injustice and trauma, police atrocities, and environmental damage. And in a cost/benefit analysis 10 years down the line, the only benefit turned out to be was to the corporations, politicians and middle men.  Not the people.

Thankfully the World Bank does not wield that power (at least in India) or Indian financial systems would have been far more hit by the sub-prime crisis than it was in 2008. Not a deliberate path of ‘overlordship’ by the World Bank I think, but the Western Economic System was the only one that was considered valid then. It was the economic mantra taht failed. Post 2008 has been a lesson – the one which we are in danger loosing sight of again. A lesson that cultures often come into conflict with economic development models understood in , and imposed by other cultures .

Back to Europe, then.  I wanted to know who owns S &P. Is it men in pin stripe suits in darkened board room ? Like the proverbial Gnomes of Zurich ? Here’s what I discovered :

http://tinyurl.com/7jyxznw

S &P is owned by a series of banks and financial institutions that stand to profit by hugely by the movement of currencies, bond markets and financial markets if they has prior knowledge of downgrades from the very company they own.  And for those that wonder if it such large multi nation manipulations can at all take place should remember the Asian currency crisis of 1978 where “market overreaction and herding caused the plunge of exchange rates, asset prices, and economic activity to be more severe than warranted by the initial weak economic conditions”.  The crisis destroyed millions of livelihoods all across Asia, and some economies have still not recovered.  From market speculation.

Is S & P completely above board ?

The good thing though is that the latest downgrade of European nation did not cause the market chaos that was expected. Speculators must have lost a lot of money. Thank God. And perhaps S & P has now ‘cried wolf’ too often and no body really cares

Or maybe, like everyone else, they just don’t know.

from Eshla

Why do we still see in color?

When color came to film, it was a thrilling moment.   When color came to television, it was a groundbreaking moment.   We celebrated the richness of the colors and they’ve only sharpened over the years.  Today our images are even more alive, our colors more vibrant.

Yet, while we celebrate color in the digital world, why don’t we do the same in the real world?  Why do we still stop there?  Why do we build so many differences – race, ethnicity, religion, class?  Why?

As one who’s traveled widely, criss-crossed continents several times, and even bumped up and down on the socio-economic ladder, it’s become quite apparent that people are people, no matter what color – pink, purple, green even!  It’s become apparent that our frustrations, worries, concerns, fears are so universal.  That is why great art, literature, and music sees no divide.  Because its message is of human emotion.

That is why health is so critical to all.  Disease has no patience for such differences.  It is, in that sense, most fair.

Why is it that we live in such rich, complex societies with stories that stem from different corners of the globe and yet we still hesitate to truly embrace one another?  Why?

When the rawness of humanity is so universal, why do we dwell on the superficial?

A friend sent me an article this morning that delineated our inability to truly live in our lifetimes because we are too eager to please.  We are creatures who oddly think of others before ourselves many times.  We are inclined to bend to the wishes of family and dear friends, even if they are against our deepest desires.  We gravitate towards what we are told us “right.”  But what is “right?”  Is it my “right”?  Is it your “right”?  Who came up with “right”?

And in the mad cacophony of voices in our head, we forget our own.  What if we do not see the differences?  What if we do not see color, race, ethnicity, religion, or class?  Should we because the world does as well?  Should we because our families do as well?  Should we because it is easier that way – to drive in the lane that you’re currently taking?

The questions seem endless.  And yet, the answer repeatedly seems to be the same — no.

In a conversation with another friend this evening, he shared his admiration for those who take the sayings like “follow your heart,”  “do what you love” and really do it.  He says to me, there are so few in the this world who actually do it.  Many of us hear it, admire it, delude ourselves to believe that we’re doing that, but how many of us go naked with our fears and take the challenge?  Very few, he whispered.  That’s why it’s admirable.

But, it’s also very hard.  It’s very hard to explain to others; rather it’s very tiring.  And sometimes, the daily strain of that exercise just tears us down emotionally.  And so we return to the “right” path.

For so many of us, the lives that we live are the lives that have been crafted for us.  They are not our raw desires.   They are not our original vision.  They are not our first love.

We do so to please others.  To fit into the sweeping definitions we are defined by.  Even if they sweep our lives by.

But, we live only for a few moments, only a few years on this planet, only a short lapse in the grander scheme.  Why not please ourselves?  Why not be guided by unfiltered passion?  Why not go blind, using only what we feel?  Why not be absolutely true to our deepest wishes?

Because it is difficult?

But nothing is difficult.  As I’m told repeatedly, life is simple.  People complicate it.

To my 11 year old daughter, Kaveri

You left for India last night leaving me in NYC.  Really missing your  laughter.

Luckily I have friends here, with whom I will spend emotional time . Not defined as just being ‘truthful’ or honest, but going beyond that. Becoming vulnerable.  Vulnerability is the essence of a real relationship  between people.  Vulnerability is the essence of your  relationship with yourself, with God, with everything. Become so vulnerable that you become like water. Accepting of everything,  And then let go of everything in its flow.

Here’s a story for you.

There was a little girl that fell in love with two pigeons. One was a beautiful white pigeon, and the other shades of blue and green and grey. She named the white one Elizabeth and the other one Paul. Everyday she would rush back from school just as the shadows of the afternoon were getting softer and longer. Elizabeth and Paul would flutter together and sit on the sill of the bedroom the little girl shared with her younger  brother.  Not facing towards the bedroom but always towards the backyard of the house.  There they would sit in a very regal manner. Facing outward gently speaking to each other in what the little girl called ‘gooterrr- goon’.

The little girl was convinced that Elizabeth and Paul came from the kingdom of  ’Gooterr – goon’ and had lost their way.  She would rummage through the store house of the kitchen and feed them with any seeds she could find.  Of course being an Indian household, it was full of lentils, grains and seeds of all varieties. So there was no shortage of food for them.  Every evening at 4 o’clock the little girl would start a conversation with the Elizabeth and Paul.  She would make the guttural sounds of ‘gooterr- goon’ and they would respond back. She was convinced they were trying to tell her something, and if she would learn their language, she could help them.

No amounts of arguments from her parents that the pigeons just came for the food would convince her otherwise.  The fact is that when her little brother would try to go ‘gooterr-goon’ with them , Elizabeth and Paul would just fly away.  She would show the family the hundreds of pigeons that would fly back  to their homes every evening, and ask why only Elizabeth and Paul would come to see her.   Soon the family became used to their little daughter going ‘Gooterr-goon’ every evening. A sort of ritual. And the pigeons became accepted as part of the family. They would fly away to wherever pigeons go, and come back the next day at the same time.

Till one day Elizabeth, the white pigeon, never came back. Paul would be there, looking lost and lonely. But not Elizabeth. The little girl would go out and shout at all the pigeons that would fly by and go ‘Gooterr-goon’ as loud as possible. It was then that the family realized how familiar they had got to Elizabeth and Paul’s visits.  As they watched their little girl come back with tears in her eyes because Elizabeth had not come, they would hug her and all pray that Elizabeth was fine and happy wherever she was.

Then one day Elizabeth did come back. She looked sad and weak. And when the little girl went ‘Gooterr – goon’ at her Elizabeth would not respond. To her shock the little girl realized why. Somebody had shot Elizabeth. The lead pellet from the air gun was still embedded in her throat.  Anything that Elizabeth pecked at would just come out of her throat. It was miracle she was still alive.  It was a horrific sight and the little girl panicked and thought Elizabeth was going to die, and that she had come back to the little girl asking to help.  The whole family was distraught.  They all realized how much they too had come to love the pigeons.

The little girl’s father was one of Delhi’s more famous doctors. Unable to take Elizabeth’s suffering he took her into his surgery, and cleaned her wounds. He took out the pellet that some unthinking cruel person has shot her with. To that person it was just a game, a sport. But to Paul, Elizabeth was his companion. To the little girl, her best friend. To the family now, a a precious life that needed to saved.

I still remember how my father gently cleaned the wound, and then stitched together Elizabeth’s wounds, saying words of comfort to my sister.  But because I was a ‘man’ he would look me in the eyes. The expression telling me that there was little chance for Elizabeth surviving. I remember my mother bringing Elizabeth into our prayers every night.

Elizabeth did survive. I watched in wonder as her wound healed, as the wound of a human being would. The family stood around happily on the day Elizabeth could finally eat without the seeds spilling out of her throat. She never got her ‘Gooter-goon’ quite back, but she was active again and could fly as she did before. I have never worked out how my father, a pediatrician, could operate on a pigeon and heal her, but will always remember Elizabeth for bringing such joy to our  family.

So dear kaveri. The grandfather you only remember as a much older man struggling with age, was once the most compassionate doctor I have ever seen. Your aunt, my sister, once a little girl consumed with fantasies, dreams, love and life, now coming to terms with the experiences of life.  Remember that compassion is the greatest gift of them all.

from Uric Hubert Rainard to me , yes, but to the community we have created around this blog.  I cannot say my blog, because if your do not read, I do not write. That is the true sense of the new way of Media, the end of Iconism as we know it, but the beginning of Iconism as a fulcrum around which the community develops and then the Icon itself dissolves into the community.

As I was struggling with my first challenges with fame, I took a local train in the ordinary class in Mumbai.  At rush hour its an experience that defy’s your sense of individuality.  Your are just part of sweaty bodies exchanging breath . Your existence just an extension of the other. I started my first poem that to this day has remained unfinished :

Give me the courage

my friend,

to be ordinary ….

Amazingly fame created not a sense of strong identity but a loss of identity.  Now of course I have gambled with fame long enough, like a game of dice, up one day and down the next, to know that life’s lessons compel you to be ordinary always, but extraordinary through the path of humility  that life enforces upon you. So now the only thing I have to add to the poem is the line :

lost in humility ..

Uric’s letter :

Dear Mr. Shekhar Kapur I am not totally amazed that you are just as accessible as you were three years ago, and just as adroit and wonderful a host, as you are, who is always available in the sense that it is here that you share your world and that we as your guests are welcomed to be ourselves respectively. It is a deep honor and I came by accidently because I looked up my name on the internet search, and a comment I made when i was last here came up. It was when Anthony Minghella passed away… sorry for your loss, then… and I remember being moved by the great array of your blog… it’s total open-ess. I was also present to read and be a part of the wonderful hopeful gifts of support, when Heath Ledger passed away and the strength of spirit, that must have taken. You are just amazing and I say that because _In every way I feel the very expanse of knowledge that surrounds you. I presume you travel so easily, by this heart that is your foresight_ that you are always prepared, because you live in the immediacy of Now. I can feel it as I write. I used to blog a lot, but I have not for awhile, except to blurb on the Facebook, but this year I will be re-creating my attenuation to the great orb of consciousness, because I believe the existence of true wonder is to be found in our natural selection and cultivation of honored friendships. I hope that you and all of your most honored guests have a most wonderful New Year. Ulric(seattle)

Thank you Ulric, from me on behalf of the community that urges me to host this blog.

In Grand Rapid’s, Michigan ??

And so I thought that after a week in New York, New Years Eve in Grand Rapids, Michigan was going to be  was going to be the dullest ever.

Was I in for a surprise ! There is something about small town America that is more than just friendly and warm (of course) , it is .. how should I say it .. cosy and comfortable, with a plethora of restaurants and bars clustered together downtown.  You could cover them all in an evening walk.  Some of them quite outstanding. Dinner at the Tre Cugini was amongst the best Italian food I have had anywhere. Try the Trout. Outstanding. http://www.trecugini.com/

But the treat today was a chance visit to an extraordinairy shop.

Kaveri (my 11 year old daughter) and I were walking through the freezing high street. She kicking up the snow and trying to stuff it down my collar. At a temperature of 20 degree F it’s not a game that was very welcome.  And suddenly in front of me was a shop selling Olive Oil.  I am an Olive Oil lover, often harassing my Italian friends to get me the first pressings from their friend’s farms. The stronger the taste of Olive Oil the better for me. Not something my Indian friends can understand for whom any oil undisguised by spices is merely a lack of sophisticated taste.

My first encounter with Olive Oil came on a sailing trip with some of my friends in the 70’s. Hugging the south coast of Spain starting in Gibralter, we sailed  a huge 80 foot ketch built so early in the century that it should not have been considered sea worthy. And I, in the search for spicy food found the Spanish Paella. Well … it looked like a curry. So I thought why not ? Put a handful in my mouth and almost threw it out – for which I almost got thrown out myself by the cafe owner when I complained it was rancid. Maybe I just could not pronounce the Spanish word for Rancid. Of course now I know. It’s Rancio. Of course it would be.

Try telling a passionate Cafe owner in the port city of Cartagena that his Paella was Rancio.  See what happens.

Well Rancio it was not. It was my first bitter encounter with local Olive Oil.  I have come a long way since. Learning to  cook with Olive Oil is an art in itself. How do you preserve the consistency and nutty strong flavours contained in the best and freshest of cold presses by not heating it too much, and yet allowing the food to be cooked ? But ah .. the taste of freshly picked Cherry Tomatoes cooked gently and slowly over low heat of fresh olive oil is the greatest addition to scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Back to Grand Rapids, Michigan. And there was the most wonderful Olive Oils shops I had encountered in all my travels. Oils from Tunisia, all over the US, Spain, Chile, Italy and various parts of the world that I did not even know grew Olives.  Spicy oil with spices from exotic parts of the world. And all kinds of Balsamic Vinegar, which to me was a new experience. For other than organic or not , was the extent of knowledge I had about Balsamic Vinegar.

And just as my 11 year old was getting restless enough to shove more snow under my collar, the great lady who owned the shop sensing that, brought out to her the wonders of Maple Syrup. And I thought Maple Syrup was just Maple Syrup. Well not in this shop it isn’t. There were all kinds of Maple Syrup from various places over the US. Never tasted Maple Syrup so sweet and rich. Perhaps its a speciality in Michigan. Is it ?  So its Maple Syrup from Old World Olive Press – the most fascinating Olive Oil store I have visited.

Small towns like Grand Rapids certainly have some wonderful surprises in store. Like this one http://www.oldworldolivepress.com/store/

Visit it, you will not regret it.

And I was kicked enough to buy both me and my daughter a pair of the latest Jordan shoes. Which though far more expensive than I would usually pay for a pair of sneakers (sorry , sorry, I know they are not mere sneakers, they are Jordans !) , I know that stores had run out of stock all over the US on the first day. But here in Grand Rapids. Michigan I got them, much to my daughters delight.

Not shoes she said, Jordans.

Was filming at Grand Rapids Vet Centre in Michigan. Forbidding red bricked building with darkened windows that gave it an even more foreboding look. But in some of the most beautiful natural surroundings you could imagine. Wide meadows. A river. Lake. Trees. Awesome. And that’s in midwinter. Imagining what it would look like in summer.

I could see some of the Vets. Disabled men in long shaggy beards in self driven wheelchairs. Two of my favourite American  films have dealt with the problems of US Vets coming to terms with rehabilitation when they get back home.  Born on the Fourth of July by Oliver Stone and Deer Hunter by Michael Cimino. Have always wondered how men as young as 19 or less felt when the were disabled in a War neither they understood, nor did their country. Especially when they came back expecting to be treated as heroes, only to find that their nation considered it a misjudged war.

Wanted to speak to the Veterans. But was afraid to be curious. How many people must have asked them the same questions I wanted to ?  Where were their loved ones ? How did they handle the loneliness of Disability. Questions about bitterness,

My friend Deepak Chopra always says ‘ask the Universe honest questions and it will provide you with answers’.

Was watching two films back to back with my 11 year old daughter in Grand Rapids (why are Hollywood films becoming so predictable ? Even the ones with great reviews ?). Grand Rapids was hit by winter’s first snow storm by the time we came out. There was no transport available to take us back to the hotel. None of the drivers were willing to take on the icy and dangerous conditions out there. Bitterly cold and hungry I was considering our options.  Especially with an energetic 11 yr old, who thought this was an outstanding adventure !

But finally one car service said they would send a car. Which arrived in 20 minutes. Driven by a charming and friendly lady I shall call Karen. Because I do not have permission to name her yet.

Karen told me just why it was dangerous out there. It was New Year’s day and the State budget cuts had ensured that there was no salt laying drivers for the roads without heavy overtime. So we were dependent on the skills and experience of the drivers. As Karen drove slowly and carefully I could feel the car skid on the new ice under us on every turn and acceleration. On the way Karen told us how the owners of car services would not allow the cars to go out because the cost of towing cars in snow drifts was prohibitive. About $ 250. Not a comforting thought that.  It was then that Karen told me something extraordinary. That she had lived in Mumbai ! Off and on about 30 years ago. When I worked it out, I realized it must have been over 40 years ago. How ? Wait for it.

What were the chances of the one car that came to pick you up in a small town called Grand Rapids in the middle of freezing winter being driven by a woman that had once lived in the city I live in. I looked at Karen again. She was blond with beautiful features. A little overweight, but then with the food in the US that’s easy, I thought. The real truth came out later.

She told me her Grandfather was a lawyer in Bombay (as it was then) and we soon worked out that she lived in Marine Drive. She remembered the best places in Bombay from 30  years ago.  Places that still exist, and were the hot spots of social life then. I could imagine the life of a beautiful blonde American teenager in South Bombay. I began to wonder that somewhere I may have encountered her. After all, those were the places that all young men like me went at that time. Looking for excitement. And if you are wondering thats where the story is going, you are so wrong. It was what she told me next that left me in complete shock.

Karen joined the US army. Went to Vietnam. Got combat status. So was one of the few women allowed to be on the front line. As the US army was retreating under fire at Saigon Airport, Karen was out there helping get the wounded into the planes for evacuation. Seven days from the end of her one year Term of Duty from  Vietnam , Karen was caught in cross fire. In the ensuing battle her knees were shattered.

On a freezing night, when no car was willing to come out to us for the icy near blizzard conditions, one disabled woman, her knees shattered in Vietnam helping wounded soldiers evacuate drove  us.  After a day of filming at a Vets facility where I was wanting to chat to a Vet from Vietnam all day. What were ever the chances of that ? And one who had lived in Mumbai ! As they say there are no coincidences in life.

Karen and I spoke. Of the futility of war. Of her resentment against the Government that promised her a medical degree but trained her just as a nurse. Of the futility of the war in Afghanistan and in Iraq. But also of her memories of her life in Mumbai. The smells, the warmth of the people and the colours. She remembered the colours the most. We spoke of the depression in the US and how it was affecting small town like Grand Rapids. Especially her. How she felt let down by her Government, but that she still managed to put her two kids through college ! All the time I was resisting the temptation to look at Karen’s shattered knees that were negotiating the icy roads well past midnight.

Karen had said” I’m sure your Government treats their war disabled soldiers better”.  I knew an honest answer to that question could not be contained in one word called ‘no’, as in no way did it bring out the reality of India’s war disabled.

As Karen dropped us at the hotel. Holding my little daughter’s hand warmly and wishing a great stay at Grand Rapids I shot a quick look at Karen’s knees. What I saw brought to me me the famous American words ‘True Grit’.

True Grit is not bravery in a moment of battle. It is the courage to live life with grit against odds.