Heads, hung in shame

He started walking with us, in an apparent mood to chat. I was out with a friend on one of our regular hikes in Rancho San Antonio Park, commonly known as PG&E trail because of the power lines the trail follows. We were just completing 8 miles of rigorous workout early morning, a bit tired. He was older, pudgier, and had a thick accent which I couldn't place. He didn't talk about the weather, about the sunny day which had dawned after a long bout of rains for the El-Niño soaked California. He didn't comment on how green the hills were, neither complimented about the sturdy backpack my friend carried, nor joked about my mud-crusted shoes.

He casually commented on how many Indians are coming to the Bay area, how they are everywhere. He spread his hands like -\_(--)_/- pointing at other hikers. We smiled, he didn't. Then he said how the Americans are losing jobs because of that. I got defensive, "It's not like that". He continued as if he didn't want any debate about this -- "Indians are CEOs now, they are taking over." I again tried reason, "Indians are just handling the affairs, Americans are still the owners of those companies". Why was I trying to appease this petty man? I'm not sure. Maybe it is that gene of servile conduct towards our British overlords. Maybe it was self-preservation, I was concerned, he may be a "gun-toting" American. If he can wield his biases as swords against us, could I not draw out my pre-conceived notions in return?

Ultimately, it was the two of us, in addition to the seemingly Indian walkers around us. He couldn't keep up the charade too long and walked away. We breathed a sigh of relief and began discussing him. My friend saw his point, empathized with him, agreeing how it must seem to Americans that we were taking their jobs. Meanwhile I, for no good reason, felt bad to be assumed to be an Indian, presumably on behalf of those first or second generation Indian-Americans and others of the South Asian disapora. As we do with any such encounter, I started day-dreaming about the retorts. What if I had told him I am an American and how did he assume otherwise? What if I had told him the sheer amount of money we pay in taxes, expecting no support in return from any government in power for our needs? What if I had asked him where he was from "originally" since he didn't come across as a blue-eyed, blonde, white American with a clear accent? What if I had reminded him about the Chinese/Asian Exclusion Act, the internment of Japanese-Americans and other such regressive policies which kept the Asian immigration in check over the past century? 

My friend trying to convince me that we were somehow at fault for being on American soil and the locals being righteously outraged about it, was another humiliation I had to contend with. I had this nagging feeling that the lack of unity about Asians is our downfall -- meekly ticking those checkboxes we're pinned in, on hundreds of those forms we fill in for legally being "in status" in this country. Am I Asian? Or Indian? Or Pacific Islander? By rule of elimination, I have to be one of those three, or sometimes two. Ironically, white has no geography. How do we lobby for our rights, for a positive change, for being accepted in a land of immigrants -- if we wage a war of class, caste or color among each other? Will Andre Ang stand for "Asians" or specifically Taiwanese diaspora? Will "Vivake Ramesami" stand for Indians, let alone Tamil-speaking Brahmins from Kerala? Are the second generation Asian immigrants in politics trying to appease their "British overlords" who ruled the land prior to 1776? Do they have an intercontinental gene of servitude? Will my obfuscation of names stop the search algorithms from singling me out as a candidate for a special diet of immigration hassles in future?

I dwelled on these questions, as I drove forlorn back home, only to dive into the warm embrace of social media.

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Jau De Na Va (Please let me go...)

The song (YouTube link): Jau de na va

Dialogue:

O, chhote saukar, chala khelaila, aaj ravivaarach ahe

Hey little landlord, come to play, it's Sunday today!

Aai, jau ka khelaila?

Nhai mhanla na..

Mom, can I go to play?

I said No right?

Aai.. aai, aai, aai, jau de na.. 

eh..

Mom, mom mom mom, please let me go?

eh..

Me sagla kaam karto na tujha? 

Chaitya!

I do all the work that you tell me!

Chaitya!

Aaj ravivarach tar ai, abhyas pan nahiye, aai..

Nhai!

It's only Sunday today, I don't even have homework..

No!

Yeto na me thodya velaana! Jau de na..

Ja...

I'll come back in a short while.. please let me go..

Okay, go!

(music build up while playing dagad ki maati game )

Aye, chidi nako khelu!

Aye leka, tethe chalna, kaila bhandna karu nako, chal lavkar

Hey, don't cheat!

Hey boy, let it go, don't get into squabbles, come let's go..

(music with aye...oooo)

Song:

Madh kiti goad, goad goad...mmm...

Jhadavar jhu, jhu, jhul... mmm..

Honey is so sweet sweet sweet... mmm...
On the tree swing swing swing... mmm...

Kaadivar munglyachi circus gol gol gol..
Tol jaun chaak hoi gol gol gol gol gol gol gol gol... 

On the twig, the carpenter ant circus goes round round round...
Losing balance, the tire goes round round round round round round round...

Tractor var chakkar maraichi duur duur duur...
Kaagdacha vimaan udta bhuur bhuur bhuur...

Roaming on the tractor far far far...
The paper plane flies vroom vroom vroom...

Aai mala khelaicha jaichay, jau de na va...
Nadi madhe pohaila jaichay, jau de na va...

Mom, I want to go play, please let me go... 
I want to go swim in the river, please let me go...

Majha sagla abhyaas jhalai, jau de na va (2)...
Me tujha sagla kaam aikto, jau de na va...

I've finished with all my studies, let me go please (2)..
I listen to everything you tell me, please let me go...

(music) 

Bhur bhur bhur, bhur bhur bhur (2)..

Vroom vroom vroom, vroom vroom vroom (2)...

Roj sakali uthaicha..

Komdicha ghar ughdaicha..

Piluchya maage nachaicha, thui thui thui thui thui...

Wake up early morning everyday...
Open the home of the hen...
Dance behind the chick, (dance sounds)...

Redkucha loab karaicha..

Chakachak anghol karaicha..

Patapat shalela jaicha tamtam madhe bui...

Caress the calf...
Have a sparkling bath...
Quickly go to the school in the three-wheeler...

Vargaat comics chi majjach lai lai lai..

Kachya jamba boranchi goadich lai lai lai..

Saabanache rangit rangit fugge udvu lai lai lai...

Haa dagad ki maati khelaila potte jamvu lai lai lai...

In the classroom, the fun of comics is lot lot lot...
The sweetness of raw jaamb(rose apple) & bora (indian jujube) is lot lot lot.. 
Let's blow a lot of colorful soap bubbles... 
Let's gather a lot of friends to play rock or soil ...

Aey... Aey...

Music: AV Prafullchandra

Singer: Jayas Kumar

Lyrics: AV Prafullchandra

Translation: Myself

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

It was the eve of American independence day in 2008. Barely a year in this country as international students, we received some somber news that shocked us to the core. A few of our university seniors and batch mates had been in a terrible car accident. Two of them had died instantly while the driver lay comatose in the hospital. Over the course of the year, we processed the uncomfortable details of the court proceedings and the final verdict. The driver, who had survived, was sentenced to 12 years imprisonment for involuntary manslaughter of his best friends.

Over the years, I occasionally went back to that period via online searches, trying to make sense of the events and hoping for some closure. An early pardon for good behavior, a deportation to his home country, anything. The deeper I went down the rabbit hole, the more disillusioned I became with the law enforcement in this country.

On the night of the accident, as two of them lay grievously injured in the front seats, the first white patrol officer to arrive on scene made heroic attempts to pull them out of the car wreck. Unable to do so alone, he radioed for help. The second white officer, of a higher rank, allegedly refused to help him save them on the grounds of the two being "dirty (expletive) Indians".  The next day, when the good cop called out the sergeant on his behavior in front of all colleagues, he was placed on leave for insubordination. Not to be outdone, he filed a whistleblower suit against the department that chronicled him being harassed, ridiculed and pressured to retire. He won a settlement of $250k in this particular case that ran for 3 years with support from fellow officers who served as witnesses. Consecutively, the entire police department became engulfed in a whirlwind of political machinations. The two factions, the good cops vs the bad cops, ultimately became a part of another lawsuit that the latter won. The bad cop had dozens of internal affairs complaints against him about racial profiling and uncouth language, and half the department tried to brush them under the carpet. Ultimately, he was let go off by the PD and currently works for TSA at Newark airport.

This story remains my personal example and a stark reminder of what I could expect from the law enforcement agencies in this country if my fellow Indians or I ever find ourselves in a dire situation. Luckily for us, the closest encounters we've had with the police has been unfair treatment over traffic violations, which isn't surprising in retrospect. We are all too familiar with another chilling video of an Indian grandfather being slammed to the ground by a white officer in a neighborhood in Alabama. While the victim struggles to walk due to partial paralysis, the perpetrator walks scott-free today.

As this nation rightfully roils over the gruesome murder of George Floyd and the 'Black Lives Matter' movement gathers steam once again, a tiny portion of us brown spectators who have no say in partisan politics, are secretly rooting for justice for George along with many like him; and an end to systemic racism in the institutions that are here to protect us.



When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

To consume is human, to create divine?

You are born. If your parents and the hospital staff are lucky, you will produce an endearing scream to make their hearts swell. For most part, you will consume - copious amounts of attention, food, colors, smells, sounds, sights. Your senses are working overtime, so are your bowels.

You are eight. You have consumed small books by now, some music that your parents love, some movies your friends told you about. You probably learnt an instrument or became multi-lingual. But you've also produced - paintings in art competitions, regurgitated dances performances from songs you saw on TV, maybe an essay about your favorite animal or a well-navigated goal in your school soccer team.

You are a feisty teenager. As much as you are voraciously consuming media that will align you with your peers' tastes, you are showcasing your angst at the world through a high school band. You are devouring tweets and instafluencing other teens with your peculiar style and thoughts. You may have started caring about the state of the world we're in and try to band together other denizens to alleviate some perceived social evil. And you've been introduced to the adult version of the birds and the bees, so you've begun exploring.

You are in final years of college, planning for a grad school to get that edge over others or eyeing that particularly lucrative job market. You've read the textbooks, may have listened to your professors in classes and argued vehemently over some nuances. You written tedious assignments and exam solutions for good grades, along with buttressing your resumes with extracurricular activities. Maybe a stint at web development for a small-time company, a few hours each week at an elderly care facility, some shifts as a swim-instructor.

You have a stable 9-to-5 job. All you produce is what your work entails and sign off your rights to it. You have unending queues on all streaming platforms, have books you read at a snail's pace, inhale news from 24/7 news and social platforms, join forces with your friends to watch a popular sports event. Maybe you hum a tune once a while, cook for reasons apart from sustenance and strum the dusty guitar. You may be posting your rambling thoughts on subjects you understand partly or sharing pictures of your weekend excursions, if you managed to get up and get out.

You are middle-aged, living an ideal life with your lovely family. You are disciplining your kids, scrambling to keep a roof over their heads and paying off your multiple loans with an even more stable job. You do the dishes, check on the bills, keep an eye on those investments, think of ways to get more tax benefits. You try to watch the movies your friends tell you about, play some of your band's songs, wax nostalgic over the pictures you posted ten years back. You plan a cruise once a year.

You have retired. You have paid off those loans and the bills are taking care of themselves through your myriad of investments. You played with your grandchildren when you could but mostly spent hours trying to understand how the newer technology could connect you with your old self. You occasionally call a friend and dig in each others' memories for the same treasures. You use your well-earned money to plan tour-bus trips to distant places if your health allows it and avoid eating those funny-looking foreign dishes or participating in activities that seem too adventurous.

Finally, you've been fortunate enough to be on your comfy death bed at a ripe old age. You engage in some mental calisthenics over what were your contributions over your span of life. What percentage of your life did you spend in consuming stuff that others produced - be it social media posts, music, art, literature, sports feats, culinary delicacies? How much of the tally is in favor of you having produced masterpieces to the best of your abilities at different stages in your life? Would there be any kind of judgement from an otherworldly entity if those numbers do not look right? Does it matter if you left no tangible mark on the planet? And if it did matter, would you turn off that all-encompassing smartphone, email-ridden tablet and wall-size flatscreen and begin creating original content today?




When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Ship of Theseus

Home.

The four storeyed, light lemon yellow and olive green/brown building, with veils of blackish moss that trickled down every monsoon. The sixteen houses, with two protruding patios, some fettered with balcony grills and the rest openly inviting in the winged denizens. The thin brick fences around the perimeter that took on the menacing form of bulkier stone and cement walls with broken glass pieces on the top. The ten-foot wide frame of corridor paved with large square stones, with a slight tilt to direct floodwaters to the gutter by the road or the small playground on the opposite side. The plethora of trees planted in the narrow strips of soil next to the wall; Ashoka, Suru, Jambhul, Jaswand, Buch, Anant and many more. The water pump room in one corner, with a 8×8 tank closed with a heavy iron lid.

The unique smell that lingered on each floor, distinctive by its inhabitants, only to be overwhelmed on occasions, by an intense odor brought in by the wet dogs looking for shelter from rains. The freshly painted green walls of the stair case, sometimes sprayed paan red by outsiders. The initial three steps, followed by a series of seven, ending with the final eleven to the forbidden terrace. The constant need of key to that door, mostly held by the Secretary or Treasurer. Once opened, the mosaic expanse of the terrace lined with pipes, splattered with tar to deter rains from seeping in, sometimes layered with drying homemade snacks and crowned by metal antennas.

The general kindness of neighbors, the intermittent squabbles and the mysterious society meetings. The door to door Help-Age-India campaigns or the exchange of dried Aapta leaves on Dasara. The myriad types of rangolis, mango/ashoka leaves and marigold festoons, the sparkling gudhis, the twinkling electric lights and lanterns of festivals all year round. The morse-coded hand-conch calls, the matchbox telephone lines running from one balcony to the other, the ferrying of prized objects via sutli rope loops. The adopted stream of stray dogs and the occasional caring for birds’ nests or bee hives. The din of the passing traffic, building cricket, multi-building istop palti, barking canines, cawing birds. The vocal rhythms of peacock-feathers capped Vasudev, elongated yells of Bhangaarwala, crackle of the whip alongside drum vortex from Kadak laxmi duo, fear-inducing resonating claps from Chhakkey/transgender tolis. The hunt for earthworms, carpenter ants and Alu leaves in adjacent playground during monsoons. The new year eve celebrations on the building roof demanding performances from all young ones and the wise-beyond-years discussions sitting on the roof of the water tank.

****

When the axe came down, I was in a different universe trying to find a foothold in a land of addictive abundance. The videos and pictures sent by friends and family, of a structure torn down, of an existence wiped out, did not evoke too strong an emotion in an heart that was already brimming with new experiences to reconcile with. My subsequent visits to the city saw an entirely different landscape and the temporary rented apartment seemed as alien as a hotel room. Three years was all it took to raise a shining new home complete with a security guard, commercial spaces, additional stories and two split terraces.

The new home.

Does the elevator have a grill or closing metal doors? Is the water tank still around or relocated? Is the staircase made of white marble or cream colored tiles? Do all the houses have single brown doors? Was the smell that wafted in the staircase from delectable food or construction materials? Did it have a grid with sunlight streaming in or ventilation pipes? Do kids still make the same din outdoors or do they plug in to wide screens in their free time? Does the video screening provided for visiting guests work? Are any of the native trees surrounding the premises still around?

Is it still… Home?


When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Harley my problem

“Popop pauz… poppoppoppop pauz.”
1:30 am. Eyes pop open. ‘Ugh, it’s probably the fan’s noise..”. Kevin punches a button and nods off.
“Poppoppoppop pauz… poppop…”
What time was it? 2:17 am. He mops his sweaty forehead. Ah, turning off the fan was a mistake. ‘Whirrrrr….’ Sleep takes over.
“Poppoppoppoppop pauz… poppoppoppoppoppop pauz.. Poppop..”
‘What in the name of!’ He storms out of bed, livid, glares through the window. ‘There! That bastard! Who rides a fucking Harley at … *looks at his clock* .. 3:30 am in the night! And on a work day!’ He falls back in bed and groans as his upper back hurts. That was tough work, moving all on his own, to this new town and house. He had hoped all that hauling had tired the shit out of him. Guess not.’ He remembers that the landlord told him about how the street around the corner was notoriously known for its bike racing a couple of years ago. Then the police cracked down on it and how their spirit fizzled out. ‘Are they trying to revive the event in the middle of the night? I better finish my lease and move out in that case!’

Two months have passed. Dark circles frame his eyes and veins jutt out of his temple, as if he decided to sport a villainous Comic-Con makeup forever. His mind is constantly buzzing, not akin to bees, but more like an airplane drone. He cannot believe it had to come to this. At first, it was a single night, then two nights in a row. So he got curious and googled it, ‘Harley biking calle cristobal road’. The top few links talked about a young Harley Davidson biker, a freak accident, a ghastly sight of flesh grated on tarmac. ‘Well, good riddance!’, he thought then. After a week passed, he accosted John, the owner of the house.
‘You cheat! You hid these nightly theatrics from me!’.
John was flummoxed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Those wretched bikers pumping their engine to wake up the whole community!’
‘But.. but, we haven’t heard a thing!’
‘Probably because of all that wine you drown yourself in, moron!’
He broke the lease and moved to a gated community. But it got worse. A bunch of bikers, reverberating sounds, circling this one guy. He could swear he felt palpable anger in those men. His new roommates think he has schizophrenia, suggested he got it checked out. The security guard yelled at him, calling him insane. He doesn’t have any mental history in his family. So that left one plausible explanation. But why, why was he after him?

**************

‘Dats hardly my problem.’ Aymee jumped at the sound of the text, looked at the screen, tears welling up in her eyes. It was 2 am. She must have waited six long hours after she messaged him the news.. ‘I’m pregnant.’ She knew she should have met him before he left, held his hands, eased him into the world she was facing. Now, he was beyond her reach, in a city of his dreams for a lucrative new job. Maybe now he fancied all the loose women there, on whom he could pull all those nightmarish fetishes which she blatantly refused to partake in. She slammed her phone on the wall which printed a beautiful web mosaic on it. “Ding dong.” ‘Great, the pizza boy is here! If only I hadn’t stuffed myself with those cheesy slices, he would have liked me more.’ She opened the door, grabbed the box from the bewildered boy, thrust cash in his hands and slammed on his face.

‘Jeez, what a bitch!’. Sean was working nights to pay for his college, he didn’t deserve this. And he definitely didn’t deserve an absence of tip at this late an hour. He kicked his Scooty in a fit, to ape those actors who make that look so cool in movies. Tiny crunch, mighty pain. His toenail was a color that looks like the one made from a towering street light and the black of the night. He sat on the curb, nursing his injury, cursing his fate. The phone rang. ‘What!!’ ‘Sean, dear, I need to go to hospital, I may have overdosed on the Vicodin.’ ‘Stop the drama Mom, I have grown up watching your incessant calls for attention. No wonder Lisa left us…’ ‘But Sean, I’m seriou…’. Click.

Mary had led a hard life, as hard a white woman of alternate sexuality could lead. She ran away with her childhood sweetheart, when her parents wouldn’t accept their love and settled in a city known for welcoming immigrants of all eccentricities with open arms. Lisa found work in a microbrewery, while she joined an NGO to care for orphans. She fell in love with Sean, the moment she saw those round playful eyes and skin that glistened like her favorite brand of dark chocolate. She brought him home of her own accord and didn’t spot the tinge of dislike in her lover’s eyes. In one of those arguments of passion that followed in the years to come, Lisa spewed her racist venom out that shocked Mary to the core. After all, who could imagine a person of a repressed group fostering repressive thoughts about another? Lisa abandoned them, but Mary painted her as a woman of substance for her little boy. Soon, drugs found her despair, and by the time her son left for college, she was hooked. And this phone call left her shattered.

Barry was whistling, as much of a muffled whistle his helmet would allow. His wife had just delivered twins after some unexpected labor pains and he was on his way to them with the choicest of dad jokes. It was a pity he would have to sell his prized two-wheeler, but hey, life’s like that! ‘One day, you’re wearing your leather jacket and picking up chicks from bars and the next day, you are riding on those leather SUV seats and picking up kids from school!’ It seemed like the universe had conspired to speed him up to see his babies. He probably passed a dozen green traffic lights, and here came another! Followed by a sudden splash of white across. In his last ephemeral moments, he spied a distraught woman at the wheel, foaming around the mouth , making a desperate bid at survival.



When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

All that twinkles is not a star

I am not sure where it all started. Or if it was anything unique about me. Every child loves to look up at the night skies with a dream to reach the stars I guess. I was no different. I just put that in words, as my first career objective.

It was a weekend outing with family and friends, at a beautiful little bungalow named 'Saavli' (Shadow) in Nagaon, a couple of hours drive to the north of Mumbai. Some of the elders were having a round of drinks at night, and we kids were called up as part of the introductory games planned for the evening.
"What do you want to be when you grow up, son?", asked one.
"Astrophysicist... mala chand taare pahayla avadtat (I like to watch the moon and stars)", I replied.
"Viju, tujha porga tula divsa chaand taare dakhavnar ahe... (Viju, your kid is going to show you moon and the stars in the day..)". The pun was intended and laughter ensued.

Astrophysicist. Not even an astronaut. I was that clear about what I wanted from life. I wish I had that clarity now. The seed may have been put in my mind by a book gifted to me by uncle Mohan. 'Broca's Brain: Reflections on the Romance of Science' written by the much-celebrated scientist Carl Sagan, had fabulous short stories based on a plethora of scientific wonders with one chapter named 'Can we know the Universe? Reflections from a grain of salt'.

My parents seemed to take my vocation seriously and encouraged my half-formed ideas. They bought me a star-chart which you hold up against the night sky, spot the North Star from the small hole in the center and align the direction of the sheet. This was a time when the concept of personal computers was just setting in, and they were more about the Prince of Persia and Lion King than to be seen as aids to education. One Christmas, I asked "Santa" for a rocket filled with Gems (shabbily sketched on a greeting card) and the wish was magically granted. The next year, I grew more ambitious and demanded a book on Astronomy, and poof, there it was, neatly placed under my pillow the next morning! Santa must have had vested interests in gifting kids who wanted to hone their navigational skills by reading the night sky.

In school, we designed a magazine (kind of a little encyclopedia with paintings and written material) every year and the topic we went for in 9th standard was Space Exploration. I still remember the beautiful cover drawing of a Space Shuttle by my classmate Manali, and my feeble attempts at drawing something similar. All those colorful A4 pages, distributed to our writer team and our "committee meetings" to avoid attending some lectures. The jokes we cracked, the fights we had about someone stepping on others' talents. A microcosm of future corporate lifestyle.

It wasn't only about books. I participated in a Mars Rover contest at school and got to play around with the controls of a simulated rover vehicle. In summer holidays, I was enrolled in a 10-day astronomy workshop at Nehru Planetarium. It was a long drive from home with a couple of school friends Aneesh and Makrand, but I enjoyed every aspect of it. The thorough polishing of glass with sandpaper to design a lens for a cardboard telescope, the paper sundial I designed which may have been my first watch; and my personal sky-chart. In our free time, we were left spellbound with the informative shows about the universe and our place in it. Then there was always the Science Center nearby which had countless activities to engage the young minds in.

Finally the day arrived when life stopped handing out lemons and gave me a college form instead. I attended some seminars for a degree of Bachelor of Sciences, majoring in Physics. Apparently, it wasn't the coolest (read: lucrative) career goal for kids with better-than-average grades in Math-Physics. So taking cue from the not-so-subtle hints given by my elders, I forayed into engineering.

It feels like ages since I made that decision, but my first love never waned. I signed up my name to be sent to Mars etched on a microchip inside the 'Curiosity Rover' prowling on Mars as of now. My heart went out to all those seven astronauts aboard the ill-fated Challenger. How giddy I was with excitement while visiting the Johnson Space Center in NASA at Houston, Texas! That moonless starlit long drive along California's famed Route 1 alongside the Pacific, those camping trips in Adirondacks or simple quiet walks under the dark skies in tiny villages and national parks. Every time I begin narrating my treatise on how to find the North Star using the Great Bear or Cassiopeia constellations to whoever listens, my friends roll their eyes and quip, "Here he goes again...".

I write about all these today, as I rejoice with billions of other Indians congratulating the team at ISRO who successfully completed the MOM (Mars Orbiter Mission). Along with the spew of positive social media updates about the low cost of the mission, there have also been snarky articles from the naysayers who believe the 450 crores would have been better spent on tackling poverty. As a child who developed a love for the Sciences for reasons quite akin to inspirational missions like these, I have to say, I disagree.




When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.