Surviving the crossfire

I spent most of Saturday evening sending out text messages to friends, ranting and railing against the inhuman cowardice of the bombers and the pathetic ineptitude of the government in a bid to vent my frustrations and fears. Come Sunday, my sense of anger and disbelief, perhaps much like yours, had waned to pity and a sense of sympathy that was withering by the hour; by Monday, I was back at my desk, sifting through more ‘regular’ concerns like page lay-outs and lead stories… my life, much like rest of Delhi’s had returned to ‘normal’. The possibility that it could be “me” next time, or “a loved one” is not lost on any of us, but in a nation of fatalists, who has the time to compute probabilities...

And what can one do? Is there a way to stop these terrorists or these bombs from going off? We know that terrorists, whether those burning churches or those planting bombs in the name of God at the hour of ifthaar, represent neither a community nor a faith and are merely serving their own twisted agendas. We know that our politicians don’t give two hoots about what happens to you or me as long as their chairs aren’t rocking. Even their rhetoric has lost fizz (perhaps the attacks are so frequent that their speech writers haven’t had the time to innovate). We know our security agencies have been desperately understaffed for more than a decade (an intelligence report had assessed that the Intelligence Bureau needs ten times its current strength in terms of personnel if it is to meet the nation’s needs. Of the 3,000 posts that should’ve been filled up since 2001, merely a thousand have so far been sanctioned.

On the other hand, against the international norm of a minimum of 250 policemen per 100, 000 citizens, with many countries investing in twice that number, India, across states ranges between 25-100 policemen per 100,000 citizens). So can we do more than just hope and pray before the blasts and follow up with tears and empty rhetoric? This time, I was bothered enough to find out, and therefore, sought out a security consultant who has been training security forces for years and has had training experience in red-flag battle zones in the Middle-East. We’ll know him as VK.

“We’re a nation under siege and we refuse to recognise that”, said the hulking giant, who reminded me of a comic book character called Juggernaut, who could walk unscathed through walls and explosions. VK looked every inch the kind of man you’d want on your side when ‘under seige’. A shaven head, a nose reshaped by flying shrapnel, meaty arms adorned by burns and scars, and quick, intelligent eyes that didn’t miss a thing, VK had been through enough mayhem around the world to know how to get out alive. “You wonder why terrorists had to plan the strike of the century to hurt the United States and without an encore, in spite of the US being on the radar of nearly every jehadi outfit in the world, while Indian cities seem to get bombed at will? Well there’s obviously a difference in levels of surveillance technology available, but most of all there is a difference in the levels of commitment and application at all levels of the security set-up. Don’t waste time thinking about it though because there’s nothing we can do about it. In that sense we’re not a nation but individuals, practically on our own.”

I asked him about his time in Israel… “There’s a lot we can learn from others, be they friends or enemies. And Israel can teach us a lot. They might seem heavy handed but no one attacks them with impunity and hopes to get away with it. Every Israeli, even a child, is aware that there are threats in their environment and they’re trained to identify and react accordingly. For instance, if the 12 year old balloon seller had been trained like his Israeli counter parts, he would’ve alerted relevant agencies well before the explosions and a tragedy could’ve been averted. The success of the ‘Eyes and Ears’ programme of the Delhi Police which led to two of the bombs being diffused and the security drill in a market-place are steps in the right direction but it can’t just stop at training rag pickers and traders. This programme has to extend to you and me, to schools, offices and colleges, to housing complexes and welfare associations. Bombs don’t discriminate between class, age or creed. A community civilian defence programme that prepares us for appropriate and prompt reactions is important because not only would it remind us not to settle into a false sense of short-lived normalcy and complacency but also builds a sense of unity of purpose which is essential in such times.”

Finally, I asked VK if there was anything one could do to survive an explosion in one’s vicinity. He nodded, “Duck! Hit the floor on your stomach, head down, ears covered; cross your ankles, clench your buttocks and close your anus.” I was a little intrigued by the last bit. “Pressurised air can enter any open orifice and rip the body apart…so close all orifices and lie low”, he explained (see slip stream for other precautions).

VK left with a parting shot. “The terrorists are one of us. And we’ve gone wrong somewhere… we need to rebuild… the rest are all temporary measures”. I couldn’t agree more. Maybe we could start undoing some of our wrongs as part of the silent moderate majority, across faiths, by insisting, forcefully if necessary, that those who assume our representation have to stop pretending to win people’s souls by burning their bodies, be it Orissa, Ayodhya, Ahmedabad or Delhi.

The slip stream

Prepare for the worst

It’s a sad but true fact of our modern lives that we’re increasingly likely to be directly affected by a bomb blast. With terrorist activities growing everyday and bombs being planted in crowded markets, it’s wise and prudent to at least know basic do’s and don’ts and be prepared for the day (may it never come)... just in case...

Ok, first things first, remain calm. Too often a stampede breaks out immediately after a bomb blast (caused by people panicking), resulting in more deaths than caused by the actual blast. Secondly, take cover under something sturdy, like a table or a low ledge to protect yourself from any follow up explosions. Thirdly, make sure that you’re safely away from anything that could fall on you, like electric poles, fans, glass, etc.

And lastly, remain where you are and wait for evacuation for there could be more bombs planted in the exit routes (a favourite terrorist trick) but this rule doesn’t apply if the explosion has caused a fire or some other hazard which threatens your life (naturally). Follow these rules and it’s a guarantee that you will have more than an average chance of making it through your worst nightmare, alive.

Valley of the immortals

The summer of 2000, somewhere between Geneva and Paris : The train is chugging past a series of European clichés framed against the train-window-rolling meadows, blue lakes, and chunky piebald cows… A soft summer sun, the rolling inertia of the TGV and the constant chatter of some of my students I was travelling with had my drowsy head lolling in rhythm in no time, until…“Ram-me-ya, What’s-the way-ya, Ram-me-…” The lyrics I couldn’t vouch for, but the tune seemed vaguely familiar… this was… this was…. Oh yes, this was Lata Mangeshkar with an accent; Ramaiya Wasta… Raj Kapoor’s Shree 420. I woke up with a start to see a tall slim middle-aged lady, dark glasses on her forehead holding up a lock of thick auburn hair cropped short, crooning, hopping on and off key, to some enthusiastic support from the students… Antakshari in the Alps!

“Ketarinah Kerovpe from Armenia...here with the United Nations. I love India… and Raj Kapoor” she’d said when we sat down for coffee later in the dining car. “Raj Kapoor? That must’ve been long ago…” the words tumbled out before I could hold them back. She laughed… “It was... I must’ve been in university then… almost half a century ago”. Half a century? That would make her not a day short of seventy, at least, and here she was looking not a day older than 45, and I said so. She seemed charmed. “It’s my mother”, she said. “Although my father is Armenian, my mother is from Abkhazia, in Georgia, although my mother would tell you that Abkhazia never really was ‘in’ Georgia (did you read the papers today)… She’s in her 90s and strong enough to do her own gardening… I owe this compliment to her.” Abkhazia?! Sounded familiar but I couldn’t put my finger on it... “and to the yogurt I guess”, she said, scooping out another spoonful. Yogurt?! Yogurt!… I remembered now... when I was a child, my grandfather would force feed me a lot of yogurt… so much so, that at a point I was sure that if you’d cut me up, yogurt would ooze out of my wounds instead of blood. And he did so because he’d heard the Georgians lived incredibly long lives because of their ‘yogurt’ diet.

“Not all Georgians,” Ketarinah pointed out “only those living in Abkhazia… that place is truly Shangri-la. Tall mountains and clear sweet water… but you’ll be disappointed if you go there expecting to see everybody looking like they just walked out of a Baywatch set. You’ll see a lot of ‘middle-aged’ people though… crinkly eyes, a missing tooth, or a streak of grey. But the interesting bit is that they’re all far older than they look, are incredibly active, ride horses, chop wood and work on their farms at an age where most people elsewhere would consider being able to go to the toilet on their own an accomplishment.”

Usually, I’m a sucker for such stories… but this time, I was skeptical. … could such a paradise really have remained undiscovered for so long… “Not undiscovered, just forgotten…” said Ketarinah. “In the 1970s, a popular magazine had stumbled upon Abhkazia and its super centenarians… it was said that in Abkhazia, people didn’t grow old. They just got better…”. And their secret? Yogurt? “Dunno… was a popular myth at the time,” she said. “but wasn’t very popular on our dining table…” Humph!

Baited by the conversation, I tried to find out more. After all, who wouldn’t want to live to be 150? Initially, I was disappointed. You wouldn’t find any Abkazhian in any official list of centenarians. Skepticism surrounds every longevity claim from the region. Names like Khfaf Lazuria, claiming to be 140 and Shirli Muslimov, apparently an astounding 168, couldn’t substantiate their claims because neither they nor the other super-centenarians had reliable birth certificates. To compound matters, it was discovered that the erstwhile Soviet Union’s communist propaganda machinery might’ve exaggerated these figures to prove the superiority of their socio-political setup.

But wait, there is hope…

While it’s undeniable that most Abkhazians don’t have reliable birth documents, visitors to this region have confirmed that many of these golden oldies were actually exceptionally sprightly great-great grand parents. Muslimov himself (died 1973), was one such great-great grand father who was busy riding miles and tilling fields till his last days. Though exact life-spans are difficult to ascertain, most Abkazhains have very low incidences of cardio-vascular diseases or cancer compared to the rest of the world, maintain a slim profile and actually live long, and very healthy, lives.

Still interested in their secrets? Okay, here goes… they eat right – lots of organic, home grown tomatoes (anti – cancer) and citrus fruits, cheeses and nuts; they shun stressful deadlines (hope my editor’s reading this) and walk a lot in the high mountains. But that isn’t the real secret of their vigour and vitality. In Abkhazian society, senior citizens are valued like national treasures. The older they get, the more sought after is their advice and families take pride in taking care of their elders… good conversations, social utility and strong family bonds seem to be the real secret of the Abkazhians. And yes, ahem…there’s one more thing… Abkhazians marry late (30s and 40s). Since pre-marital sex is frowned upon, these people are late bloomers in more ways than one. As a consequence perhaps, they can keep at it for far longer and till much later in life; ‘experts’ feel that here too might lie yet another key to the secrets of Abkhazia.

So, there you go, give what you can a shot, and don’t bother about the rest… later, we’ll explore some other regions which are home to super centenarians … meanwhile, don’t hold your breath.

Long live life!

Did you know there existed careers in ageing? Gerontology is the science that deals with the stage of life that women fear and men refuse to acknowledge. The social, biological and psychological aspects of ageing have for long been subjects of scientific study, mainly with aims of extending the youth phase infinitely or conversely, adjourning the greying blues sine die.

According to the Gerontology Research Group (GRG), there are 78 living supercentenarians (individuals who have lived to 110 or beyond) as on August 29, 2008. While the GRG roster lists persons from USA and Japan to be among the longest living, Italy, England and Canada also make their appearances (some of which will be subjects of future columns in this series). Claims to validated demographic data on supercentenarians are however as many to be found as there are possibly the ‘wizened’ folks around, thanks to un-standardized data collection methods and poor record-keeping. It can be one reason to explain the absence of Abkhazia, even with its assertions to be a romantic Shangri-La, on the GRG list. At the same time, Abkhazia’s claims, although unsubstantiated could not altogether be rejected, for its inconspicousness may have to do with its very remoteness.