Building an ecosystem, one flight at a time!

 "This place has the potential to be a Bali, this has among the highest number of marine species in the world" said he. I had just hopped off a small 6-seater aircraft onto a tiny island in the Indian Ocean, between the Australian subcontinent and the Indonesian archipelago just off the coast of a country called 'Timor-Leste'. 

There was a tuk-tuk waiting along the airstrip. This random Australian was waiting near the Tuk-tuk. Perhaps he was a tourist there. As is my usual, I started talking. We got into the tuk-tuk together and were taken along a dusty road into the village. 

I looked around. A single old broken basketball board stood in a corner. A few mud-unused dilapidated buildings as well. The greenery on one side of the road was covered with dust. The other side was the blue of the Ocean. The tuk-tuk huffed and puffed through the bumpy ride.

After a few minutes of travel, we entered a small compound. "A small resort", he said. Well, it's a resort of sorts. A few white men were having a meal. My co-passenger introduced me to his friend. Apparently, a volunteer helping out in one of the resorts. The volunteer called me to pull in the chair. 

I had recently been to Bali. That is a different world. How on earth will this place become a Bali? His statement was still ringing in my mind.  

I pulled in the chair and sat cross-legged on the chair like only I could. He was just finishing his meal. We started chatting about tourism on this Island. I was mandated to look at the life of the Indigenous people on this remote island and of course, learn about the importance of MAF on their lives.

What was I doing talking to this white man there? 

"This place has live corals and some of the most beautiful marine beings in the world" he continued. Imagine if they could make this place an important tourist destination, the money will start coming into this country. This being so close to Australia actually is a big advantage I suppose. Snorkelling and scuba diving are big sports in that part of the world as well and where better to snorkel than a place with live corals and thousands of marine beings.

"So what is preventing the place from becoming a Bali", the curious man in me asked. 

The biggest challenge the Island faces is the inability to have, regular, dependable, transport services to and fro. The boats could not be trusted. Rough seas are often a dampener. Since the place is only 15 minutes from an airport, having a small air service is an absolute game changer he reckoned. 

"That was the original plan when we started the flight services to Atauro Island", said the MAF country director of Timor-Leste. "We could bring in more tourists and this can revive the sinking post-COVID economy of the place".

"Imagine, if someone stays there over the weekend, he will have to buy food from the local market, which could help the fisheries business in the village, and that could slowly help create a tourist ecosystem here", said one of the seniors of the Island village. 

I did end up talking to a few more people from that Island village. One of them, a tourist, who had flown down on the MAF flight himself said, he would end up spending a few hundred dollars there in the village. More people, more money coming in I suppose! More money, better lives for local indigenous people. 

"Would you be coming over, if the flights weren't available?", I asked a few of them! Many of them replied in the negative. MAF flights are a definite must it seemed like, for the building blocks of this village to be created. 

I had often asked myself the question, "Why should MAF fly commercial?"

I realised then, before the commercial honchos of the world step in, to establish an ecosystem of business, someone has to do the dirty job of setting up the base. Before the money starts to come in, someone has to be creating the stepping stones.

That I guess, is what MAF is doing to the Atauro Island. Creating an ecosystem of Tourism. One flight at a time! 

When dreams become reality!

It is dark. The night is too far gone that the faint crescent of the waning moon hangs over the trees. The house is dimly lit, too! An old-fashioned yellow chandelier of sorts gives a more cosy feeling than the clean, energizing white light. In a corner, I am randomly looking at the screen, intensely thinking about the few months that have gone by! 

It has been two months and it is still sinking in. The little baby girl is ours. We have named her Diya, meaning Lamp. 

Oh wait, what is happening? 

Cut to the year 2002. I was in class XI. My uncle had taken me to a movie theatre. A movie called "Kannathil Muthamittal (A peck on the cheek)". Something in me broke that day. I promised myself then, that I would adopt a baby. A baby girl! Well, very foolish indeed. Perhaps, childish.Whoever makes such random promises. 

Well, 22 years later, here I am, a father again, having adopted this beautiful baby girl. Sometimes dreams become realities too, I suppose! 

She just slept on me. It all feels surreal. 

Apparently, she was abandoned. Perhaps she was thrown away. Whatever that means. For me, it just meant one thing, She is mine. Ours! 

As she slept on me and I was about to put her to bed, I whispered a prayer, a wish; that one day this young girl of mine would stand on the pulpits of the world and pull down patriarchy and casteism and every nonsense this world had thrown at her and thousands of young girls like her. 

I wish that she will one day be bold to stand for the truth and show light to the dark world, question the unquestionable, brave the high and mighty, and fight every hatred, challenge every bias, bigotry and prejudice. 

Hope one day she will question me, my own insecurities and my idiosyncrasies! The nonsense I throw at her in the name of culture and tradition. One day she will go back to the land of her birth and the land that didn't want her then, will embrace her. She will realise that one day love will overcome; hatred and evil will eventually be destroyed. 

I wish that she doesn't have to walk around dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas as Arundhati Roy puts it, but rather walk freely, over the sepulchre of the broken old world, with little luggage and heads held high to reimagine a fresh new world.

So we start another journey! It could well be the most interesting of all: parenting a girl. How different will this be from being a parent to my now 2-year-old boy? I don't know. How different can parenting an adopted child be? I'm not sure. 

The dreams I had dreamt 22 years ago had come to light. Why not the dreams of today? 

What is a better life?

"There is a crocky here", we should look out for him said 'P'. 'Crocodile' you mean, I asked him. Oh yes, there is one crocodile here, came the nonchalant reply. "Ah, we are fine. We are sitting at quite a distance from him", said he. His body gyrations suggested he wasn't bothered much about a crocodile. 

We had just found a place to talk! On the northern tip of the Australian coast, deep into the aboriginal territory of Arnhem land, in Northern Territory, Australia. I was in my usual cross-legged position till 'P' told me about the crocky. We looked around for it, and a little further down in the shallow sea, we did spot him. Strangely we were comforted having spotted him. "It is easier to have an eye on him if we can spot him, said 'P'". His actions did not suggest a tensed muscle. He was as calm as the surrounding ocean.

So with a crocodile as a listener, albeit at a distance, we started our conversation. 

My organisation had sent me there to listen to and if possible measure the work of  'P' in that part of the world. 

We started discussing his life, his work and its impact on the community! Aboriginals, the ancestors of the land till people from Europe came colonising the land, had lived there forever. Their population though has over the years diminished and only a remnant remains. Now there are workers like 'P' who are trying to empower these people to live better lives.  

But, what is a better life? 

How do we define a better life? Who can give one a better life? Can human beings help each other to have a better life? 

'P' is a professional pilot. From a country and a culture completely different from his current location. All his batchmates are captains in big commercial Boeings and Airbuses these days. But he chose this place. "In the middle of nowhere", as he defines the place. Among Aboriginals who the world doesn't want to live with. 

It suddenly dawned on me, that 'P' is not even facing the crocky. He had an absolutely stunning sense of calmness to him. Perhaps there is a better life. Perhaps 'P' knows it. Perhaps that is where the calmness comes from. Perhaps the 'Ps' of the world, will keep throwing us the light on our dark paths to the so-called 'better life'. 

Is there a better life? 

"P" showed us a freshwater spring right beside the sea

In the middle of nowhere

                                                      We flew this to the middle of nowhere

Of 38 or some such random number!

Writing absolutely heals! In times when life sucked, when the world collapsed right before me, when darkness was all I could see around, when the light at the end of the tunnel could never be seen, I always, always turned to my pen! Rather, my keyboard. Inevitably, every time I have come out better; stronger; and sometimes, even cleaner. 

I guess, to each their own. 

But why do I come back to this page today? It is such a clear day. I'm as happy as happy can be! Everything I had been prescribed in life has been good so far. So why write now? 

My earth completed one more of its round around the sun! It has done so many times that I don't even want to remember the number. Some random number! Yet, it feels good to be alive and well and happy after completing one more of its rounds. 

Well, I'm absolutely grateful for what has been billowed to me. Surely there have been frustrating times but in the long run, it has all evened out! Only the good things remain. 

Do I look forward to running one more round? Absolutely! I look forward to many more rounds. 

As I get ready and drag my earth along for more rounds of the same, I promise to be kinder to the world around me, to keep my senses open to learn more new lessons, to be more intense and to push more hard. 

For there are miles to go; kingdoms to conquer; more people to love; novel lessons to be learnt; and The future beckons. For the 39th time around the world. Or some such random number. I don't care! 

Writing not only heals pain; It also cleanses! And that is why I'm here again. To clean the cobwebs of the mind and get ready to run again. 

Two years of Love!

'Appa, Valikithu' (It is painful) little K complained. "Where is it paining", I asked him and kissed his foot, the part of his body where the pain emanated from, according to him. He showed his right leg and then his left. After getting kisses on both his legs, he showed his hands. One by one. "Inga valikithu" (It is paining here) he told me. He got kissed on every part of his body. I kissed his every part. He got love. I loved! 

For a hardcore unemotional logician like me, this is new. This is a different feeling! 

Love and Marriage did happen to me. The wife showered love like there is only me on this planet earth. I did feel special; The love had developed into a bond of friendship built on mutual respect. 

I can hardly write about love without mentioning the mom. She just bled love! The extended family has shown love, pure and pristine at various stages of life. 

But nothing had me prepared for the tingly feeling of the melting heart when little 'K' sees me and runs to me and jumps on me. 

'Appa, yennaachi' (What happened)? he asked me! I had just sprained my neck and had shouted a loud arghhh. "I have a pain in my neck", I told K. "Kaluthaa?" (Is it the neck?), he asked me again. I replied in the affirmative. He kissed my neck. 

Ah, that feeling again! The feeling of the melting heart. 

Today 'K' turns 2! Two years. Time has just flown by.

We didn't plan massive elaborate celebrations. In the quiet corner of my room, I closed my eyes and said a prayer. 

I prayed that the love of his heart, and the tingly feeling of mine will be a constant companion of our lives. 

Happy Birthday my little Munchkin

Will my son ever know my mom?

'Appa', my son 'K' had an exciting tone! He had just recognized me in a picture. It was one of those family pictures that most Indian families had at home. The parents sitting in a chair and the children standing behind them. 

"Who else is there in the picture, chellam", I asked my boy. He looked quizzical. He was still trying to comprehend my question. 'Appa', he said again! This time a little louder. Stressing on the 'pppaaahhh'. 'Who else?, who else? ', I asked again. 'Thatha', 'Gio thatha'; Bang came the reply. 'Chithapa', he continued, pointing to my younger brother. 

'Go on', who else? I asked him! He stopped. He could not identify the fourth person in the picture. Sadly, the fourth person in the picture is not in his life. 

It hit me hard. I had a lump in my throat. A sudden tear drop emerged. My heart felt heavy. My son will never know his grandmother. He will see her pictures and will eventually identify her in them. He may even hear stories about her greatness, but nothing can replace knowing the person in flesh and blood and sadly my son will never get to know her enough. 

One of my life's greatest regrets is not having my paternal grandparents around growing up and listening to their stories, cuddling in their laps, perhaps fighting and arguing economics with my economist grandfather or getting to know about what it meant to be among the first women medical doctors of the country from my grandmother. 

On one of those long nights when my mom and I went about chatting, like best friends do, she talked about having grandchildren. In her own inimitable way, she talked about how she would be inadequate to be a good grandmother.  Then once after she was diagnosed with that dreaded disease and again on one of those long-nighters, when she knew she had very little time, she threw in a passing comment saying she wished to have spent enough time on this side of life to have grandchildren. 

I truly hope that one day 'K' will search to know more about his late grandmom, search for stories on how she was almost worshipped in a small town in southern India, how people thronged to see her, to know how she touched the lives of many, to know that there are people on this earth named after her, to understand that her life was a legacy to not only admire but can even be emulated. 

I wish people were as kind to 'K' as they were to my mom and he could show the kindness and the grace which she radiated. I wish that every time someone calls his name, he knows he is named after one great lady! I wish he would possess that sheepish innocent smile she had. 

Wishes! Hopes! 

Well, what can I give to bring her back in flesh and blood for him to touch and know her? 

 

When an air-ambulance team went the extra mile!

Some stories are hard! Painful! The pain of the oppressed and the anger against the systemic flaws overshadows the heroism of the protagonist. 

More so, if it is not a story but reality. Life in blood and sweat and not what you watch in theatres for three hours, wipe your back, and walk out of. 

I heard one such story yesterday, rather a real-life incident, and it has been haunting me ever since. 

'V' is 15, and wants to pass himself off as a 17-year-old. Which 15-year-old doesn't? He even rode a motorcycle against the law of the land and crashed it. Survived the crash with major fractures. Sadly, his part of the world doesn't have good quality medical service. An air ambulance was called in. Perhaps he would have collapsed if there was no air ambulance service and they had to wheel him on the roads to the hospital which most of the time is at least a good five-hour drive away. 

'V' is not rich enough to afford air ambulances. Thankfully some good souls of the world subsidize air ambulances for people who could not afford them. 

Well, the story starts only now! 

The air ambulance team makes sure 'V' reaches the hospital on time and gets him admitted. 

A few days later, the air ambulance team again decides to visit 'V' in the hospital. After searching the hospital they found 'V' in a different ward, frail, more confused with the same filthy bandage, and possibly even more malnourished. The team asked the inevitable question "Why isn't he operated on yet?"; The answer came, "The doctor will only operate if there are 6 units of blood; we do not know what to do!". 

That answer hit me hard! What are doctors and nurses for, if they could not help a patient understand and get units of blood? Aren't there humble enough human beings in that hospital to ask and clarify simple questions and doubts of patients? Ah, the apathy of the learned! Wasn't education supposed to enrich lives with empathy and compassion or at least interest and enthusiasm? 

I told you, systemic flaws make us go mad! don't they? 

So the story continues...

The boy had to be operated on after the air ambulance team worked on arranging blood! Once operated on and settled down, by the time the team could visit again, 'V' was discharged, without leg support, with no assistance and an open wound. He would end up going back to his village and with no proper help in the village, the wound became worse and septic. 

By the time the air ambulance team decided to do a home visit, the legs had only enough strength to be saved from amputation. Another emergency admission and another long time in the hospital meant the legs got saved finally. 

Well, of course, the air ambulance team is a superhero. They could just have dropped the patient in the emergency and be gone doing their own lives. Their constant follow-up ensued the life, or at the least, the legs of a young 15-year-old got saved. Well, we perhaps need to celebrate real-life superheroes! 

But the story for me is about the apathy of the systems! the indifference of the upper class to the world around them. The detachment from reality. The languor of the privileged. The arrogance of the learned. 

If only the superheroes in the air ambulance team could be everywhere! If only, I could put my ears to the ground and listen to the heartbeat of reality? If only the privileged like me have enough empathy? If only I could take that extra step, just like that air ambulance team. If only! 

When the boy was dropped back home by the air ambulance team!