Its raining..finally

We have had the first real rain today.Bombay is flooded,traffic disrupted,trains cancelled but Im happy.Thank God for the respite from the heat and TG for rain on the lakes supplying water to the city.I love the rain,but dont like to get stuck somewhere awkward.So let it pour let it pour....

Truant monsoons

Finally its raining a bit and theres much needed relief from the heat and humidity.But we need it to pour all over to avoid serious problems for the rest of the year.This dependence on the monsoons sucks and is like a lottery at times.Good monsoons means a happy year,a bad one spells misery.Somehow I wish we could get out of this dependence,but then that would need a long term perspective from our rulers and our people..The fact is that in spite of an abundance of water we have failed miserably in providing enough for our needs without the help of the monsoon rains.We have not invested in rain harvesting and small bunds in villages.We allow massive wastages and theft and the increase in crops that need huge amounts of water.We build bigger and bigger dams as monuments to our egos but which finally have not delivered the much needed relief to the parched areas on a sustained basis..A country as arid as Israel is able to produce fruits and vegetables and has turned the desert green though hydroponics and the judicious use of water.We on the other hand believe in turning forests into desert and green areas into wasteland.There is no national conciousness that water is a finite resource and needs to be harvested and coaxed and encouraged to regenerate.Somehow it gives me a hopeless feeling as in all else that is not right in this country of ours...

The rains a pain

Its mid-june and no sign of rain yet.The cloying humidity slows down everything including updating blogs.Wonder how much worse it can get.I was trying a small exercise the other day and thinking as far back as I could like they do in the movies with pages of a calendar flapping in the breeze.I have a robust memory of the time I was 3,4 and 5 years old and recall many of the incidents from way back then.I remember how hot Benares(now Varanasi) was.The house we lived in on the main road in Bhelu Pura.And in the heat the road being retarred.The smell of turpentine and bitumen was overwhelming and I would stand at the gate watching the road roller with facination.I remember my eyes falling on a perfect, shiny black ball of tar near the gate which glistered in the hot afternoon sun.Inevitably I opened the iron gate and edged towards it and then hunkered over the treasure wondering what it could be.I remember giving it a gentle, tentative poke and was amazed to see the surface dimple and then regain its smoothness.Again and again my little fingers tested the resilience of the magic ball until one poke too many broke the surface tension of the tar and my fingers slipped in.I recall the panic and the desperate attempts to get the goo off.The more I tried the more I spread the black stuff all over my face and hair.The unequal battle ended with me looking like the tar baby and pandemonium in the house.Paraffin and cold creams were used to remove the clinging tar and suitably chastised I was put under "Attock"(sitting silently with face to wall) for 2 hours.
The house had a flat roof where I would often go when cool to watch the world go by,and next to the house was a playing field where apart from the occassional football matches,RSS parades were held every weekend.I used to crouch on the roof and watch this display of martial enthusiasm where young men in khaki shorts and white shirts would march up and down with sticks.I waited for the final moments where all would stand at attention,put their right palms vertically on their chest and recite the RSS credo.In fact I learnt the whole recitation and would chant along with them from my loft.The only thing was that my version was meaningless gibberish,sounds picked up by a kid which mean nothing.But it sounded exactly like the original if you didnt listen too closely to the words.To this day my aunty Karuna remembers parts of my version(as I do) and remembers how seriously I used to recite it.When I sometimes now see RSS and BJP leaders on TV at similar parades, chanting, it all comes flooding back...but its still meaningless gibberish!!!
I MUST talk about how I ran away with a girlfriend in Benares...but Ill save that for another hot day.

Miracle

My aunty underwent the DnC procedure at the begining of May.It was uneventful and she didnt even feel it at any time.After a nights stay at the hospital,where her daughter Indrani stayed with her,she came home not much worse for wear.The intention of the DnC was to confirm the stage 3 cancer found in her MRI report,and also the quality and likely prognosis.Earlier the doctor had given her about a year to live.It was a tense and stressful time and Im afraid I blew my top more than once.Indrani got a tongue lashing from me which she deserved and her younger daughter in USA Nandini got some too.The 3 days waiting for the biopsy report was bad.Finally last week the report was collected and amazingly it revealed she was cancer free!!!!!! No malignancy.I broke down when I read the report.I wonder why I love this old woman so much.Perhaps she is the last link I have with my childhood,but more because she was so much a part of my life growing up.
There was of course a frantic change of plans by her daughters and she has been whisked off to Calcutta to stay in her old flat again.She didnt want to go but her daughters have this strange conviction that she must stay in Calcutta.Im not in agreement.I have told her that if shes not comfortable there to just come back here.She lost a lot of weight here and consequently was able to move around .Her blood pressure is down and she feels better.I wouldnt want her sliding back again just to please her daughters.I suspect theres some resentment involved too.They want to do the right thing even if it kills her.I wont allow that.I have told her to tell all concerned to go to hell and just come back.More later.......

Storyteller

After a few years being coddled by Catholic Irish nuns in Ranchi,I was thrown like a lamb in the rough and tumble of public school life at Bishops in Poona at the age of 12.I still remember my first day there.I arrived in new white uniform and maroon striped tie with my aunty Karuna in a autorickshaw.I had never seen so many raucous boys before,being used to a gentler kinder environment of silent, pink nuns , pretty girls in uniform and flowers, where boys were tolerated at best. The few that studied in Loretos were a tightly knit well behaved band.
So here I was and the first guy I met was a thin,weedy Sindhi chap called Lacchu Vasandani, a cross between the artful dodger and Reggie,who briefed me about the class and teachers and what was expected.During the day I met some of the characters who would have an impact on me over the next few years.Desmond Tomlinson was a large, friendly good looking guy with light eyes and a Kirk Douglas dimple on his chin.He was facinating because he had these endless stories of cowboys and Indians which we listened to with rapt attention during the 10 minute stretch break and after lunch.The stories were so good especially because of 2 reasons.First because Desmond would intersperse his tales with the appropriate action sounds such as gunshots,horses hooves,arrows flying through the air and the crack of the bullwhip..kapowww,zippp,ktchakkkk,pinggg and so on.The second reason was that Desmond assured us that he was actually on close talking terms with cowpokes like Tom Mix,Roy (Rogers) and Lash Larue,apart from the stars that played Cochise and Geronimo.And he enslaved us by saying that maybe,just maybe he would introduce us to them on their next visit to Poona and actually let us ride one of the cow ponys.One of the most stunning revelations he made was that Lash(Larue) on his last visit had actually placed a silver dollar on Desmonds tongue and from a distance of 30 feet had flicked it off with his trusty bullwhip with a sound like gunshot.He was a master storyteller whose descriptions of Shanes fast draw , the Colt 45 and the Bowie knife would leave us asking for more.Im sure if he had been trained,Desmond would have turned out to be a master novelist.The fact is that he left school about a year after I joined, and migrated to the UK with his sister and mother.We never heard from him again,and the last anyone saw of him was as an usher in a cinema theater in London.Maybe that was the job he really wanted.

Summer blues

Sorry havent blogged for a while.Maybe its the unnatural summer heat and humidity for this time of the year or maybe Ive just felt dull and stupid.The heat has been awful with humidity hitting 90% on some days.Went and bought a new airconditioner for the living room,even though I know Ill soon get humongous power bills soon.My mind has not been at rest ever since my Aunty Karuna underwent an MRI two weeks ago.The doctors prognosis isnt too good and I feel very tense and fearful for the future.Her daughter is arriving on Sunday from the USA,and I cant help but feel a tad resentful that they(she and her sister) didnt get her checked up a bit sooner during one of their visits to Kolkata.I really dont know how this is going to be handled.Meantime Moti continues to be as exasperating as ever with his know it all comments and doing things his own way.The good news is that both his cataract operations were successful and now he can actually see.Thats a reward for all the trouble taken getting him to and fro from hospital and putting eye drops.Talking about eyes I got myself a new set of spectacles and reading glasses.The old ones were really bad and needed to be discarded.Moreover they hurt my nose.
My favorite Alphonso mangoes this season are non existent and for the first time I still havent tasted the fruit so late into April.A bad crop means no arrivals of the fruit in the market and the little being sold are at astronomical prices.I have bought a few dozen,but they have been ripening for the last 5 days.Im wondering whether Ive been ripped off .

Jamboree

Well elections are round the corner and somehow I just cant get enthused,notwithstanding Jago Re ads.Every time I read about the machinations of the political leaders or see their venal faces on the TV,I get a what I call the Titanic feeling...sinking.I feel a sense of hopelessness when I see corrupt regional leaders using every method to get that extra seat and vie for the PMs position.Every action is designed to prepetuate their own rule or of their progeny.Every decision is taken more often than not for personal enrichment.What was done furtively under cover of night before is now proudly displayed at mass rallies with gold crowns and garlands of currency.The fact that 125 of our MPs from a total of 543 have criminal cases filed against them is indicative of the muscle power of the goons and lumpen in the elections.Its shameful that the huge amounts being spent to woo voters includes not only underhand inducements but the use of public money to hand out freebies like TV sets,cellphones,clothes etc.In short the mantra is get into the chair by hook or by crook,all will be taken care of.The fact that the politicos refuse to take strict action against criminals and corruption belies their pious pronouncements that these are really abberations and the class as such is sincere and honest.I wonder where else in the world a criminal can stand for elections while behind bars,or represent the people with the background of a Mafia Don.
Of course its said the elections are free and open for all and everyone is welcome to try.There is the small matter of money..one would need 5-10 crores (1-2 million$) to even be noticed in the election process.And without protection ,try and get elected in UP or Bihar.So its pretty much an old boys club literally, with 70 and 80 year olds ruling the roost with their extended family filling in the supporting positions.
Finally with as many parties as there are permutations and combinations with the alphabets,how can democracy be healthy and in good shape? theres the BJD and JDS and BSP and SP.What about the DMK and the AIDMK.Dont forget the TMC and maybe the TDP.The TC is tying up with the C but not with the BJP.That leaves the NCP out but includes the JMM.And this is just the tip One needs a computer program to track the different permutations and combinations.Witness the CPI,followed by the CPIM,and that followed by the CPIML.For crying out loud!!!!
Will Ivote???? I dont know yet.

Gomkay

I once wrote a short story(never published) about my friend Sukhnath Munda,a dark,wiry,cunning tribal from Ranchi who also happened to be the village headman and Im guessing,around 50 years old.I was all of 6 when I met him and over the next 7 years he was probably my best friend.He created magical memories for me which I cherish to this day.Show me a little boy who has someone to show him the best fishing spots in the lakes and pond around where we stayed.The fact that I accidentally caught a duck is another story.Who can boast of a conjuror who within minutes creates a sturdy bow and arrows lethal enough to kill ?What mysteries he would talk about when we went tramping round the rice fields and hills.Im sure he made up many things,especially when we came upon heaps of animal bones left behind by predators or snake skins shed in moulting.But to my childish mind,nothing could be truer.I loved the old guy and I know that he had a very soft corner for me in his flinty heart.He wore thick,rough sandals made from old truck tyres and a white turban on his head with a jaunty tail which gave him the seal of authority.Oh yes he had a snow white moustache on his dark, leathery and noble face.That was briefly,Sukhnath.
Come friday and he could barely contain his excitement.For it was Market Day in town and he could therefore indulge in both his favorite pastimes,cock fighting and drinking Haria,the potent local rice liquor.I was never allowed to go with him by my stern grandmother.Drinking for her was akin to hobnobbing with the devil.Late in the evening I could hear him weaving his way to our house,high as a kite shouting out the name he used to call me..."Heyyyy Gomkay,I won today...Gomkayyyyyyyy" .It meant Little Chief.I would run down the road to meet him and would see the dead cockerel slung across his shoulder, which was his prize from the cockfight.He would have that sweet smell of Haria I remember so well like a happy cloud round him.In the background would be my grandmother shooting bolts of lightening at this dissipated heathen who was out to corrupt her grandson.I didnt care and would often hug him then just to get a good whiff of the Haria.
We left Ranchi after some years and I left a sobbing Sukhnath at the railway station..his face hidden in the tail of his turban.He died a few months before I visited Ranchi again,and walking down the village road in the dusk on that visit I could swear I saw him and heard him calling out .."Gomkay...I won Gomkay.Im so happy Gomkay."On my wall in a place of honour hangs a black and white picture of Sukhnath and me sitting and playing Ludo on an ancient stone table.The deep bond betwen us is obvious and will remain with me for the rest of my life.

Holi

Holi is over thank God.All our festivals have one thing in common,they are all loud,destructive and polluting.I really wonder why.For example,this Holi the children of the society decided (no doubt with their parents assent) to pelt each other with disgusting little plastic bags,rather than use the more traditional pichkaris.The bags are not only dangerous(people have lost their eyes) but create enormous litter.Also the fact that the thin plastic is totally illegal since it blocks drains and kills animals, makes for a really happy Holi for all.Im not sure I understand the psyche of the parents who allow their children to do this..and mind you these are the so called upper crust,intelligentsia of society.As far as sound is concerned,the new mantra is the louder the better.So in the next society they set up humongous speakers of a million watts and dance their hearts away,quite oblivious of the fact that the decibel level is killing,especially for the neighbourhood. Lest i forget,elsewhere trees,including protected mangroves are hacked down to light Holi fires the night before adding to pollution and reduction in our green cover.I wonder what it is in our genes that we tend to be loud,dirty,rude and generally obstreperous.Holi in the north is a nightmare,especially for women.And instead of improving civic sense its getting worse.If asked, people smile indulgently and say we are like that only!!! Oh well,on to the next festival.......

Indian summer

What is it about the summer that makes us break out in a sweat? every one has an opinion ranging from "Thank God its not winter" to "I hate this f-----g heat".For me though summer is a mixed bag.I hate the humidity and the stickiness and would much rather freeze my butt off in New York.But not being able to do that frequently,I look for solace and succor in memories and the small mercies that summer sometimes brings.I remember well the lung busting football games in school during the hot months and drenched in sweat, the feel of a leathery tongue on palate at the end of a game,I would go to Pintos tuck shop and gasp out an entreaty for a bottle of lemonade.This was made by a local company called Frams( Framjees),in thick unattractive bottles.But it was chilled,nay frozen, under thick chunks of ice and had a taste which after a game could be likened to Ambrosia.The harsh,gassy ice cold liquid would be gulped down and every drop would be absorbed immediatly by the bodys thirsting molecules.Inevitably a second bottle would be savoured ...a bit slower though.Oh yes,lest I forget, each bottle cost 25paise!!! For the same price if I was so inclined,I could have a glorious mango ice fruit from Manjis flask.So good in the heat.And in case I was short of funds,I could have a flavoured strawberry ice fruit,which was nothing but finely crushed ice and flavor on a stick at half the price.Those tastes will remain as memories of summer.
For those who have not experienced water shortages,I cannot explain the joy of a copious cold shower in the heat.Victory Hotel was notoriously short of water and all of us tried to squeeze in baths and showers when there was running water which was for only a very short period everyday.Sometimes when I felt grungy and like the Incredible Heap didnt dare raise my arms over my head for too long,there would be a war cry..."Waters come!!!!".it was akin to the cry of the Israelites finding a spring in the desert.Inevitably there would be rush for the bathroom.At such times Sebastian in a magnanimous gesture would invite us to use his bathroom in the ground floor.Oh bliss,oh blessed water of life.The shower would be enjoyed and the grime and heat of yesterday sloughed off.Oh yes I must mention in an aside that Sebastians bathroom had one problem...Annie, his 5 year old daughter who was an inveterate voyeur.The bathroom door had small cracks about 2 feet off the floor,and if one looked closely during the shower,one could spot a beady eye watching in rapt facination.Not the best thing to happen during ones ablutions.A shout would drive her away,but inevitably after a few minutes the watcher would be back.She was an ugly little girl with a round face and in Sams words"cunning eyes".I never figured out her facination for looking at soapy,wet naked men.Maybe the fetish stayed with her into adulthood.But I never let that spoil the pleasure of the shower.Afterwards,feeling so human and fresh it was time to light up a well deserved cigarette.Amazing,the simple pleasures one can enjoy Annie or no Annie.

Oh Calcutta!!!!

Sorry about the gap in posting.Had to rush to Kolkata to meet my aunty Karuna.After her husband died over a year ago shes been living alone in her large South Kolkata flat with a host of servants and Moti.But its been a lonely grind even though her daughters have been coming down pretty frequently from the USA and I have been seeing her on and off.Afraid this ,and even the daily phone calls were not enough to ward off the demons of a suffocating solitude.Therefore I decided to get her back to Bombay and take it from there.Easier said than done though.Shutting down there was a tedious process and bringing her physically I called Operation HuffnPuff.She has difficulty walking because of bad knees and her 3rd floor flat inKolkata proved a huge barrier.Anyway in short, she was carried down in a chair,carried up to the plane,carried down and wheeled to car and carried up by elevator at my place.Moti her faithful man friday for 40 years followed by train and arrived 2 days later and duly got ripped off by a Mumbai cab driver.How predictable is that? Moti is a small bald man with a tiny moustache who is ageless.I remember him when I was in college and he was exactly the same.Estimates of his age have ranged from 65 to 100.No one knows.He had to come too because he has really no other family and he helps my aunty in 100s of different ways.The bad news is that Moti has views about food,shopping and eating which are almost impossible to change.For example send him to buy some vegetables from the coner shop,he will come back with that along with a bagful of fried fast food and soda which he will insist everyone eats.BTW my aunty is four feet ten in height and weighs 200 pounds.I know she has put on a good 10-15 pounds in the past year and counting.With her knees and high BP she needs to cut back some.But theres Moti to overcome.He reminds me of a Gnome who is terribly useful and at the same time horrendously frustrating.Maybe he is one.Hes a great cook of Bengali food and makes the most moutwatering fish with mustard.But woe betide you if u try and restrain his quantities or ingredients.Oh yes,he himself eats some weird stuff which is the wonderment of our Sunanda bai.Every day he mixes a chick pea powder called Chattu in Bengal,with water and drinks it.Then he has a spoonful of a herbal sweet sour mixture called Chawanprayash which promotes good health.After all that he consumes a big bowl of fried potato chips or something similar.So thats Moti.More of him later.Will sign off now and catch up later.Cheers

Sebastian

Sorry about the gap,though Im not sure if anything is being read.Hell so what???? the words will remain in e-space for posterity,maybe to be seen a thousand years ahead by a race of evolved beings clever enough to download the eternal ether swirling around us.Todays topic is Sebastian D'Lima,my erstwhile landlord of Victory Hotel.Tall,heavy set,oily would describe him physically.In his 40s,Sebastian had cultivated a personality which was both unctuous and, what I would term as avuncular.He wore his trousers high ,belted above his generous belly and would stride around managing the establishment with its staff of 3.First there were the 2 waiters, Joesph Santa Maria and Cajetan Fernandes both in their 70s.Joesph,in some ways reminded me of Peter Sellers in disguise and used to have a running battle with us,the lodgers,whom he looked down upon.Cajetan on the other hand was like a small shrivelled mummy,few strands of grey on his bald head.He perenially looked unwell and we wrongly believed that he wouldnt last the week.In fact we often thought he was dead when having a nap .The last was John the cook,a villanous Dickinsonian figure who spent long hours in a huge, dark ,smoky kitchen preparing the most awful food for us while cooking up the most tantalising dishes for the paying customers in the restaurant.He would come out now and then for a smoke,his apron dirty and face sweaty,survey the clientale and return again.Oh yes,he was assisted by Mrs D'Lima,a humourless lady who had a face like a ball of dough with spectacles planted on a potato baglike flowered dress.The D'Lima family was rounded off by 5 children.Agnelo the eldest,a pleasant guy who went in and out of the kitchen and managed the customers in his fathers absense.Unfortunately he looked a lot like his mother...not that looking like his father would have helped!!!! there were 3 younger boys,all quite pleasant, and finally there was Annie the 5 year old who looked so much like her father(without the mousch of course).More about Annie later.
What Sebastian lacked in education(he worked as a cook when younger),he made up in plain savvy.He kept the right people in good spirits and often we would see Police Officers or Municipal officials being entertained lavishly with booze and food.He had cultivated this humble, "I am a simple man" facade which saw him overcome any hiccups which he inevitably faced.Every day he would put on a solar hat, get on his 1955 model Lambretta scooter and zoom round the city,shopping,meeting people and going to church.Oh yes the D'Lima family were extremely "pious".With us,the younger ,student lot Sebastian was more like a not too liked Uncle.He would always complain about the noise or the fact that we had asked the waiters for better food.The food ,ah the food.Brings a smile to my face.It was more or less the same things every day..fried eggs and bread in the morning.The eggs sometimes were suspiciously short of the white which we felt the cook was keeping aside for other stuff he would make.For lunch and dinner we would get a plate of curried meat with rice or bread.And here is where the temperatures rose.The meat,the origins of which were unknown, was often tough enough to resole your shoes with.I would often try and chew on it and leave a pile of uneaten cud on the plate,infuriating our friend Sam who was older and who having lived there longer,knew the art of survival.Oh yes we did get bananas for dessert and tea at7AM and 4PM.Sebastian would try and restore order by telling us that he bought the best meats for the kitchen and Johns cooking was close to cordon bleau.To mollify us he would (rarely) ask Joesph to serve us the special stew being made for the Mayor or a slice of dessert baked for the Colonel.His favourite line was that"full full colonels come to eat here" so how come, we,(who are not even half half corporals) dont appreciate the dish.But there were other moments too with Sebastian like when he whipped out his trusty voilin after a few drinks...but thats another story.Will continue another day...

Republic Day

Its the day after R-Day.Everything shuts down and the city takes a breather.I watched a bit of the Delhi parade,but now it looks repititive and dated.Somehow the display of military might for the benefit of the foreign janta has shades of days gone by,retrieved from the cupboard,dusted and put on display.Why cant we have a celebration of music and dance which involve the aam admi? why not a day of introspection when we can contemplate the last 60 years and put some true joy and fun in the proceedings? Im tired of the tacky floats and the tribal dances down Rajpath,the childrens faces tired and tense from having lined up since dawn for their 2 minutes of glory.Unfortunately things never change here for the better and there will always be dissenting voices.
Meantime life goes on for our brave Senas R-Day or no R-Day..this time its the Shri Ram one which has covered itself with saffron glory by beating up a few defenceless girls in a pub in Mangalore.I really wonder how much lower we can stoop and to what levels this process can take us.Looking at their faces I see hate,arrogance,venality and a desire to control.In spite of their vermillion streaks on forehead and saffron scarves,they are no better than the Nazi thugs in pre war Germany.At least the Nazis were willing to fight in the field against the enemy...these Senas crawl out at opportune moments from under rocks and slither in again when the heat gets too much.Meantime the Govt.in Karnataka does nothing with the leaders mouthing the usual inanities,making sure their allies are protected.What a shame for the nation........

Morpheus

Sunday today.Its a day I like for some reason.The newspapers,lack of traffic and the sheer dullness of the day has a sopoforic effect which is soothing in many ways.Sunday is like a blank page of the week on which you can pretty much write what you want.You can even just snooze the whole day and get up for periodic sustenance if you wish.Can you believe Im yawning as I write this? well thats sunday for you.Back to bed for me zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Victory Hotel

I have a memory like an elephant I always say,and remember things which most contemporaries have forgotten.Its a boon sometimes,at others an uneccessary cabinet full of grey dusty files.I still remember the Poona I loved so much with its old world buildings and alleys behind Main Street.The low roof houses with wooden slats through which you could see the Parsi residents sitting on reclining chairs reading the sunday papers.I remember the smell of fresh baked bread from the many Irani bakeries and the cold winters when temperatures dropped to near freezing.But most of all I remember Victory Hotel.Dont know where to begin because its a place I virtually called home for several years.In fact it was not a Hotel at all but a section of a rickety one storey building,partitioned off on the top floor to make several small cubicles on one side, leaving a large open area for a restaurant.The cubicles were rented out to bachelors and students on a monthly basis and the tarrif included food.The ground floor was partly occupied by the landlord Sebastian D'Lima , wife and brood of 5 children.A large, adjacent independent "suite" was carved out for a long time resident Dr Benjamin.More of him later.How I landed up there is another story,but the fact is I came for a week and stayed for years.Why one may ask.The awful food,unrelenting bed bugs,lack of regular water and clean toilet facilities and Sebastain with his middle parted hair , Hitler moustache and constant whining were enough to drive anyone away.But Victory had something to die for.......location,location,location.It was open to a broad uncrowded road in the heart of the camp area.Next to the West End movie theatre and a hundred yards from Main street.Everything was within a stones throw.Plus the fact that the company was interesting.....other students,older guys,transients,regulars.It was an amazing experience.One that I wouldnt miss for the world.So because its been such a part of my life I will talk about some of my experiences there.I might go back and forth but forgive the rambling because its a slice of life......

First post

I thought that opening a blog spot in the New Year is appropriate.The year gone by has been eventful,albeit with the wrong kinds of events.Stuff we do not need encores of.But then there is hope,however cautious,and a desire to make things better.The common citizen wants change and he wants above all else peace and security.Is he going to get it? I dont know.I am not sure that new systems,checks,weapons,equipment et al will do the trick.The change we need is to root out the apathy and corruption which is so hard wired in the genes of those in power.I am afraid that without this no system,however modern, can work.As long as we have a group of people for whom rules,checks and balances are just another opportunity of making money,there can be no real progress or security.In times when things are "normal' this corruption is viewed as a neccessary evil.Something that facilitates the wheels of society.However when we are hit by a virtual terror invasion and lives are lost, guns misfire,bullets pierce outdated helmets and we are left weeping, holding the bloody remains of our city,then the rot hits closer to home.The "what ifs" and "if only" questions start pouring in.We have seen the heroism of our foot soldiers,laying their life on the line.What is needed now is some real patriotism from those who lead.It is time to say Enough!! let there be accountability instead of rhetoric,governance instead of grandstanding,concern instead of arrogance and nationalism instead of vote bank jingoism.