Always on a Saturday

PR terms explained in a Knight way

2011-08-13T12:20:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time in a faraway land, a powerful king issued a royal COMMMUNIQUE, stating that he’d like to have Purple Quail in Honeysuckle Sauce for dinner on his 67th birthday.

‘This is our wish and command,’ the king bellowed, ‘that it should be fabulously tasty. If it is not, we shall have the head of the royal cook on a platter!’

The whole royal kitchen scrambled to cater to the King’s wishes. The problem was, nobody had heard of the Purple Quail before! So they sat around a ROUNDTABLE eating donuts and falafel. After a lot of bickering, screaming and debating – in other words, BRAINSTORMING – not one had even the slightest clue if such feathered creatures even existed on God’s good earth!

So the head cook, desperate to save his life, thought of a STRATEGY. He took the sous-cook aside – one of his cronies – and asked him to ‘inform’ the roundtable that the Purple Quail indeed existed and nested in the Red Marshes. ‘Let us put our heads together and execute this my TACTIC,’ the head cook whispered into the ears of the sous cook, ‘for if we fail, my head shall roll, even with yours! But if we succeed, we will be exalted by the King – You and I.’

Now, the Red Marshes were a hundred leagues to the east as the quail flies – a nasty place full of blood-sucking butterflies and quicksand that bred venomous snails. No hunter in his right mind would venture there. Finally, after a lot of searching, they found a hunter who was willing to go to the Red Marshes for an exorbitant 100,000 guineas. ‘One more condition,’ he said. ‘I need at least two collaborators to go with me.’ But no other man volunteered to go on such a perilous mission, so the head cook was hard pressed to find two companions for him.

So they issued a PRESS RELEASE that announced a ‘trick’ contest aimed at a target audience that comprised of all male subjects in the entire kingdom, aged 18 to 40. It was distributed regionally by the brown-haired MADIA relations manager, who was hopping mad to have been assigned this chore on a Saturday afternoon (to mention nothing of her enduring a lengthy press release approval process that included the nod of the king’s barber, head-matron, chemist, gardener and the royal horse.

Anyways, the release was edited smartly and was headlined, ‘Winners of Royal Contest to be Sent On Wild Goose Chase’.

The lucky winners of the mock contest – which received massive COVERAGE plus a whopping 43,598 Likes on FazeBook in just under five hours – turned out to be a butcher and a potter. When they learned of their prize, they both protested, ‘Nay! But we are not skilled in the art of the bow and arrow, so we cannot we go!’

So they were ordered to receive a crash course by the hunter in what was effectively a BRIEFING. As soon as they were ready, the head cook summoned them and ordered: ‘I commission you three to embark upon this vital mission this very second!’

So the mission of the three came to be termed as the SECONDMENT.

The secondees walked for four days until they reached the Red Marshes, and thereafter wandered inside its gloomy wilderness in circles. Here, they were bitten viciously by beetles, Trojans and worms. Still, there was no sight of the Purple Quail – only ordinary white ones. They were about to give up, weary of body and soul – and return, when the hunter chanced upon a book entitled, ‘How to Say No When You Actually Want to Say Yes.’ Then, he hit upon an idea.

‘Listen,’ he told his two compatriots. ‘Am I not thy team leader? Let us, therefore, take collective counsel and agree on the manner we may deceive the head cook. There is only way to appease the king and save our miserable souls!’ he explained. And so he drew a MESSAGE HOUSE in the sand and crafted KEY Messages. Then, they hunted down a dozen white quail and headed back home.

Next, the potter took the birds and immersed them for two days in drums of purple dye in the inner chamber of his workshop. That happened in the nick of time – for the King’s birthday was on the following day! The potter took the colored birds to the royal kitchen and handed them over to the head cook.

The latter examined the delivery and remarked that the birds had a strange look.

‘But don’t you recognize the characteristic bill of the Purple Quail?’ the potter asked, with an air of contempt.

‘Of course, I do,’ replied the head cook with a dismissing wave of hand, since he did not want to appear ignorant. ‘It’s just that this quail here has a strange bill, don’t you think?’

‘May be this one has,’ the potter replied, ‘but the rest of them are 100% BILLABLE!’’

‘Oh yes, they are billable! I will proceed to cook now. Only I know the secret ingredients to the royal recipe of Purple Quail in Honeysuckle Sauce. So clear off, all of you, and let me cook in peace,’ he shouted.

But an hour later, they found the head cook dead. They found the pot boiling unattended, and the expired body of the royal cook besides it. The fumes of the purple dye had choked him.

‘Hurry!’ The kitchen staff said, ‘Salvage the precious quail!’ But too late – it was ruined!

Now the entire problem fell upon the shoulders of the sous-cook. Desperate – as the birthday feast was just hours away – and anxious over the looming deadline – he summoned the hunter, potter and the butcher once more and warned them of dire consequences if they were not able to provide him with more Purple Quail.

‘But sire!’ protested the trio, ‘what you ask is nigh impossible. Such a tight turnaround for such a deliverable! The Red Marshes are a four-day commute away!’

‘Silence! I care not how it is done! Just do it!’ screamed the sous-chef.

Afraid for the own lives, the three repeated what they had done earlier. The hunter shot down white quails in the nearby forest and took them to the potter. ‘I have suddenly just realized that I have run out of purple dye,’ the potter said.

So the potter and the butcher wept, lamenting, ‘Are we not in a situation that’s precariously dire?’

‘Why cry fowl, you two?,’ asked the hunter. ‘Why be dire when we can turn dyer – you both are unlettered in the principles of CRISIS MANAGEMENT. We will use blue dye in the place of purple. Not a soul will know the difference. This is called resource ALLOCATION.’

And so they dyed the birds blue. The sous-chef was delighted and cooked them. He added a lot of mint sauce to improve the fragrance. When the hour of celebration arrived, the dish was brought in by the hands of the royal attendant and was placed before the King. On the king’s lap, was his one year old grandson.

Standing before the him, the attendant suddenly was overcome by stage fright.

'PITCH IT, you incompetent fool! What are you waiting for?’ the monarch thundered.

Now, the attendant was Indian. So he replied in Hindi. The king, of course, did not understand a word. Therefore he screamed, ‘Who has the TRANSLATION to what this nincompoop is saying?’

Tickled by the vibrations of his grandpa’s belly, the infant prince made loud baby sounds as he tugged at the long royal gray beard, ‘Goo, goo, google!’

The entire assembly fell silent and looked upon the young prince on the king’s lap. The proud grand-dad beamed at the baby’s first words. ‘Hohoho, Whoever has heard of Google? Kids nowadays!’

Later, they translated the Hindi for him and said: ‘Your Highness. Permit your slaves to present you birthday meal.’

The king was immensely pleased. ‘This was the best Purple Quail in Honeysuckle Sauce I’ve ever had!’ he said licking his fingers.

He congratulated the lot and gave them very high marks in their PERFORMANCE REVIEW. The sous-chef was immensely pleased, and elevated the hunter, butcher and potter for their fine work.

The Ring & the Maiden

2010-01-18T09:47:00.000-08:00

A rare diamond ring came to a maiden, who learned to be delighted in her find. The ring was content to belong to the pretty lady, and she was happy to have it.

Each morning, the ring was the first thing she wanted to see. While having her tea, she looked upon her ring with utmost affection. The beauty of the jewel was simply bedazzling. She put it on her hand with much pride. While she went about her daily chores, she was careful not to bruise it, so she took it off. Her friends admired the ring, and then, all the more she liked the ring. “Oh yes, this is my ring,’ she’d say. “Isn’t the diamond big and beautiful?”

“It certainly is,” they would say.

Every night before turning in to bed, she would take off the ring and buff it till it shone. After that, she would keep it safe in a special box on her bedside table, and go to sleep.

As time passed, the shine of the ring began to fade in her eyes. When she looked upon it, she felt the gold was not as lustrous and the diamond was losing its fire somehow. And the more she saw it, the more she felt this was so. The maiden was getting severely disappointed.

She still wore the ring when she went out with her friends, but she was losing pride in her prized possession. When others would compliment her on the beauty of her ring, she would just smile faintly and say, “Oh, it used to be special, but there’s no charm left in it now.”

The ring felt deeply saddened that its mistress was fast losing her care for its true value. She did not clean it anymore like she used to, and ultimately the rich metal and the stone were drained of their warmth and brilliance.

Time passed and dejection grew. When she visited friends, the maiden loudly marveled at the plain crystals in their homes, while she remained coldly silent about the exceeding preciousness of her own. A point came when she hardly looked at her ring and did not pay it any attention any more. Why, for her, even the silver vessels in her friend’s home were more deserving of praise and credit than the ring she bore. So she kept it on while she washed her clothes, pots and pans, and even while she weeded her garden and cleaned the soot in the hearth.

Neglect turned into carelessness; carelessness bred contempt. The diamond remained unscathed, but the gold surface was full of tiny scratches.

A day came when the ring was lost. The woman, at first, hardly noticed its absence. After a few days, when she did, she searched for it for two minutes, and when she found nothing, quit. She went into her kitchen, put the tea kettle on the boil, and said to herself, “Was it not a valueless piece, anyway?”

Some months later, in a village at a distance, a simple peasant maiden found the ring at the base of a tamarind tree, below a crow’s nest. She was delighted with her find. She took the ring to the mountain brook, and there she washed away the grime and the dirt on it. Using the fine gravel on its banks, she tenderly polished the gold. Then she held it up.

Once more, the ring shone in all its glory in the rays of the morning sun.

How the Watchtower Indoctrinates

2009-10-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

What is one of the greatest lies that Jehovah's Witnesses, particularly, the organization they use - The Watchtower - tell you about themselves? Which is one lie that I feel falls in the most-deplorable-lies list? It is this: That it is OK for them to question your beliefs, but it is definitely not OK for you to question theirs.

An interested person who sits down to study with them (I shall refer to such a one as a 'student'; some people begin 'study' with them because such individuals just do not know how to say 'No' to Witnesses who have been trained to push Bible studies, and thus they begin their spiral into the Watchtower) has little inkling what they are letting themselves into.

Witnesses are taught to present the 'good and bright' front to such students, never telling them what their secret agenda really is, which not simply to convert them, but to eventually wholly consume their energies, time and resources to further the Watchtower's agenda.

Some of the students who study with them are undergoing critical situations in their own personal lives which makes them easy prey for the Watchtower: an abusive spouse, a difficult parent, peer pressure at school, low self-esteem or worry over the worsening world conditions. In fact, check out their magazines, and you will find that the Witnesses will use some of these very topics to attract people and pry open the lid of initial resistance.

They soften the person's reasoning powers by appealing to their emotions, by showering them with love and attention which the student finds lacking from other quarters. If, at this point, the student tries to ask Watchtower-specific questions, this will at once alert the Bible study conductor into giving out a masked answer, and in some cases no answer at all, and simply say, 'You will understand this better at a later time.'

When the teacher perceives that the student has sufficiently let down his mental defenses because he has come to trust the Witnesses, he starts with the Watchtower indoctrination process.

Even how and when they 'move in' is done in measured and calculated ways. The first carriages to move into your mind will never be pure Watchtower doctrine; it will be stuff from the Bible. (Yes, there is an enormous difference to the two, as any person who has been 'in' and escaped would tell you!) More basic teachings which are designed to numb your thinking power and lull you into trusting them completely, are like, What is original sin, who is Satan, why did Jesus have to die. Suchlike is the initial diet a potential recruit is fed on.

Soon comes the doctrine that states that it is us against them. This is also the approximate time when the student is taught that those who do not accept the Bible's (read 'The Watchtower's) message -whether they are his long-time friends or his family members - are unbelievers, and hence, not actually God's friends and deserve to be kept at arm's length. Such doctrine meets up with a lot of mental resistance on the student's part, but the teacher reminds him that the student's first duty is towards God, not men, and besides, there is nothing that he has to give up now that won't meet with adequate rewards in the short and longer run.

Over some months, the student is convinced that the Witnesses really know the Bible enough and have the right interpretation; he has developed a certain degree of reverence for what he is learning, so the student lets down his guard. Whatever they print is lapped up by the student. 'Secular references' that are quoted as proof supporting Watchtower doctrine goes unchecked, strange sounding rules that are laid down by them go unchallenged: the Witnesses are taught extensively how to approach people and indoctrinate gullible ones (but don't worry, soon enough you will be programmed to prey on others too, when you start attending their five weekly meetings!)

All this is groundwork for what will come next: introducing the student to the Watchtower society. Gradually, the society and the 'faithful and discreet' slave are elevated to the position of God's 'spokesperson', and eventually anything that the governing body of Jehovah's Witnesses says is equated to the Word of God. The student is taught how the Watchtower had small beginnings in the late 1800's, and how expansion shows that they are indeed god's organization. He is shown that they are the true congregation of God, which is 'evidenced' by the love they have for each other. He is led to believe that obeying the 'chosen ones' is equal to obeying God, and questioning them is the same as disrespecting God's sovereignty.

At some point now, the student begins to realize that to keep enjoying the 'blessings of the brotherhood more fully and to avail of the privileges in the congregation' he has to follow a set of rules laid down by the Society. Little by little, the student keeps handing over bits of his life to the Watchtower: whether it was his previous decision to attend university, or pursue a rewarding career, cultivate a hobby, own a dream home, or simply marry - all go out of the window.

This quest ultimately consumes his life, to the exclusion of everything else. Fear, guilt, a cracking of the whip, masked expressions of praise and love are what drives him. He knows that if he slips in any commandment, he may lose Jehovah's favour, lose his privileges and perhaps the joy of everlasting life - and worst of all, the infamy of being shunned by his friends whom he begins to regard as his family.

He is kept busy in a neverending routine of preparing for and attending five weekly meetings, long hours in preaching and teaching, and attending assemblies and conventions. Any pursuit of research, education or knowledge that is outside the circle of the Watchtower is seriously frowned upon. Speaking to an ex Jehovah's Witness is a total no-no; such ones know the truth behind the Watchtower, and the only way the Watchtower can keep their flock from listening to them is by labelling ex JWs as God's enemies.

Initially, all in this newfound way of life is hunky dory and picture perfect and therefore a real pleasure, but the deeper he dives into this life, the more he realizes he has entered a never ending maze, with seemingly no way out.

For those of us who have come out, we can only blame ourselves for allowing ourselves to be lured in by the Watchtower (except for those who had no choice because they were indoctrinated by their parents). Most of us feel anger (to put it mildly) at the Watchtower, for the relationships we broke off because of them, the amount of money we directly or indirectly gave to them, the time they took from us, the dear pursuits we gave up... all because we once believed that they were god's true people.

In the end, we are left alone to pick up the shattered pieces of our lives. We were used and thrown away by the Watchtower; cast aside as rejects unworthy of any consideration because we dared to fall out of line with them; while the Watchtower continues to search for new ones to lure. It is our duty to alert them about the deceitful and unloving ways of the Watchtower.

A JW Corpse 'Speaks'

2009-08-29T01:46:00.001-07:00

People who saw her thought she must be one of the 'remnant'. A refined old lady with wool-white hair, a sharp mind, a smiling face and a wonderful grasp of the scriptures. There was something about Sister Vacha that suggested she was a cut above everyone else.

An affluent and dignified Parsi woman who became a Jehovah's Witness, perhaps in the 1960's or the 50s... not sure when exactly, she was one of the most dedicated women in the circuit. Anticipating Armageddon, she never married. She so much wanted to be part of the great crowd who would never die at all. If only she knew the kind of end that was in store for her!

She kept on serving Jehovah for year after year, tirelessly. As she grew older, she naturally had to seek help and support from her relatives, who were unbelievers. Or perhaps she relied upon Jehovah's expressive promise that He would never forsake His ageing faithful ones. And yet he did.

Sister Vacha, even though advancing in years, would always come for the meetings and tried her best to render service, though obviously, she was no longer in a position to do as much as she once did. She was lonely, as you can imagine, she lived by herself in her room, while the other rooms in her apartment were inhabited by her relatives, who did not bother much with her anyway.

About once in a year, I would go and visit her, carrying bars of chocolates she so loved. Hardly anyone of the Witnesses would drop by and visit her, and I could see in her heart the unspoken disappointment brought on by a failed promise.

So gradually, by herself, the faithful old woman decayed. Her meeting attendance started to suffer, and her mental health too was not sound anymore. Even her rare appearances to the Kingdom Hall altogether ceased.

During the last few weeks of her life, I believe she was just left rotting inside her room, with almost no attention from anyone. I wonder what she ate, I wonder how she cleaned. I can understand why her actual relatives did not wish to take care of her. But here, even those who called themselves her spiritual family could not be bothered.

One evening, after many months in which we conveniently put Sister Vacha out of our minds (save for the few brothers who prayed for her health publicly) we received the news that she had expired. She would be electrically cremated, it was revealed. As the congregation started arriving in for the funeral talk, I can never put into words the sight that awaited all of us.

Her lifeless body had bent into the most painful-to-see and unnatural of positions. Her back was terribly curved, best described as being in a suffering foetal position, which not only suggested that she had spent the last few hours in that wretched state, but also that her death was discovered hours afterwards. Thus, in all probability, she breathed her last with no human on her side to witness the moment of her passing.

No matter what, the brothers could not get the corpse to straighten up. So there she lay before the world to see, an obstinate shape, curled up like a shrimp on a slab of cold stone. It was enough to send chills down our spines. No dignity, no ceremony, no shred of respect for this lifelong servant of Jehovah.

The brother who gave the funeral talk extolled Sister Vacha's exemplary life. He highlighted her sacrifices, his own happy experiences with her, her faith and service to Jehovah, and how anyone who serves Jehovah can be assured that he would never abandon them. All through the talk, it appeared as if the eyes of the audience was not on the speaker, but on the horribly mangled remains of a dignified lady, an excellent person - as they contemplated, hearts aghast, her terrible end. The thought that was going in through each one of our friends' minds was, 'Could that be 'me' some years hence?'

It was at that time that we realized that the corpse was saying something to us, through words unuttered: Look what I got for being faithful. To all those who said you were my brothers and sisters and who'd not abandon me, I say, Look!'

Only one sister had the courage to admit afterwards, 'Oh, what did any of us ever do for Sister Vacha? All of us should seek Jehovah's forgiveness.'

It was then that a sister, who was a regular pioneer, brushed away any guilt feelings that crept up in her, and said, 'What a shame she did not will any of her property to the Society.'

Maybe if she had, she would have met with a more dignified end.

The Tale of Two JW Twits

2009-08-27T21:36:00.000-07:00

For twenty years, I have been an eyewitness of the hypocrisy that exists among Jehovah's Witnesses. Millions have turned to this religion in the hope of finding solace and think they are serving God. Most adherants claim they have found the latter, but what they do not know is that they are trapped in an MLM organization which uses them to achieve its own ends.

In this post, I wish to zoom into one of the characteristics of this religion: that the younger male converts are encouraged to 'reach out for the post of an overseer'. I choose to zoom into this facet, because whether one realizes it or not, this directive fosters a lot of spirit of competition within the congregation, and the same becomes the root of division. It is ironical that the Witnesses say they avoid 'ambition', but promote an equally virulent twin quality in its own younger male converts.

It is a fact the brothers are always urged to reach out for 'god-given' privileges of service. These privileges of congregation services are presented as if coming from Above, which indicates to the potential receiver that there is no shame in aggressively going after them. All too often gives the impression that the 'privileges' are a sack of gold that must be grabbed before the other brother does.

What exactly is the lure in the privileges? This: that is allows the receiver degrees of responsibility and power in the congregation. On the surface, it all revolves around 'humble service to the brothers in a spirit of love', but all too often the power that comes along with it is not weilded right, to put it rather mildly. The privilege-bearer also gets the right to instruct the congregation by giving talks and discources from the platform.

It is easy to see why such a position is coveted. Speaking from the platform (at least for the brothers who hold positions such as the ones I'll later describe) always solicits comments of admiration from members of the audience. 'Oh brother, that was such an inspiring talk! You brought out that illustration about the widow so well! It almost choked me with emotion!' Of course, brother is pleased with such admiration. It feeds his own buried and hungry ego.

The platform of instruction is also misused to vent personal vendetta against certain members in the audience. I have seen this done many times. I have witnessed certain brothers even abuse their 'powers' when they showed disdain, arrogance, and sarcasm, either through their words or demeanour, towards certain members in the audience they didn't like.

There is another huge advantage to being a brother holding special privileges. It becomes the automatic ticket to be invited to get togethers and social functions among the Witnesses.

The road to congregational 'Privileges' as follows:
1. Brother must become an exemplary preacher and teacher of the 'good news'. The congregation scrutinizes him during this phase for over a year, perhaps two.
2. If he does (1) well, he is made a Ministerial Servant (MS).
3. If he keeps doing (2) and (1) well enough, he is made an Elder.

Here is a story of Two Twits, Ravi and Joshua, 'spiritual twins' as I called them. They were both into their early 20s when a 45 year old sister, Heather, started studying with them. Heather, it must be said, was one of the most controversial Witnesses I have ever come across. Some hated her, some loved her. All admired her for the way she used the New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. A decade or so ago, she had been disfellowshipped for some alleged conducted, which she has always denied. She was implicated by elders who did not favour her, she used to tell me.

Heather was almost visually blind. You had to admire the woman. Now when I look back, I do wonder where she is now. It appeared to me the primary focus of her life after they re-instated her was to clear the reproach that was cast upon her name. She knew, heart of hearts, that this would not be possible. Once the Watchtower condemns and punishes you for one of your actions it finds distasteful, there is no way it will withdraw its verdict.

Naturally, Heather had a lot of angst buried against the brothers. Her own vengeance lay in her quest that she would labour for the Organization and win it new, zealous converts... converts who would in turn become stalwarts in the organization. This, then, would be proof that Jehovah's blessings remained operative on her.

Heather found Ravi when she was going from door to door. He was a rather quiet, simple, sickly looking lad, undergoing depression in a female dominated household. Heather's words struck the right chords with him, and he accepted a bible study with her. In some way, Ravi's school-time friend Joshua was also roped in, and now the two young men had a regular bible study going in their lives.

Joshua was loud, brash, and even crude, and had, on occasion, abused drugs. As a person, he loved attention, praise and importance. He had his own feelings of inadequacy, because career-wise, his life was not going anywhere. Both were unemployed when they started with Heather. Later, it was Ravi who first got a job in a garment store, and he also managed to pull Josh in.

They progressed very fast in the ways of the Watchtower. They were reared by the same spiritual parent who offered both praise and commendation, and even the same set of spiritual goals. It was only natural that each advancing sibling always measured himself in the light of light of what the other was doing.

The 'love bombardment' each sibling received when they both attended their first meeting at the Kingdom Hall must have been an awesome treat for them, as it had been for the millions before them. First of all, any new people coming into the congregation was a novelty, and two young men coming into it was all the more so. The Witnesses have the knack of welcoming all interested people as home-coming heroes, which makes the person 'believe' that these are indeed God's loving people. It is very difficult not to see through this, because after years of being 'in the world', even such quasi-love is so refreshing.

Having been absorbed into the 'family', thus began the unspoken 'race to the top' between Ravi and Joshua. I suppose everyone in the congregation noticed the rivalry right from the start, but no one said anything. In fact, it was always, Oh they are such nice new brothers! Ravi had once admitted to me that he found Joshua's assertive nature quite overbearing. Not to be outdone by the other, the undeclared war between the 'Siblings' accelerated. In fact, the elders even wanted and encouraged that, because it would have jolted the other 'lethargic' brothers in the congregation to get their asses moving too.

During Stage 1, that is, after their baptism but before their appointment as ministerial servants, when both became publishers, both knew they had to rake in a high number of hours in the preaching work. This was simpler for Ravi, because he lived in the territory the congregation was assisgned to, but as for Josh, he had to travel from the other end of town to make it to the preaching terriotory. Since preaching started early morning at 8 am, this meant he had to wake up really early. But so determined was he in his race to the top - gosh, I do admire his dogged determination - that he maintained this rigourous schedule for years.

Often, Witnesses love to complicate their own affairs, and then get to blame Satan for 'making it hard on them.' (I myself had employed this trick many times. You see, Satan has become a kind of a punching bag for every JW, a pin cushion that gets stuffed with all the blame. But that's another story.) I noticed Joshua was doing the same. He had an option of associating with a congregation that was much closer to home, but he deliberately chose to travel to the other end of the city, to where our congregation was, so that others could witness his labour and give him the praise for his 'hard work.'

Often, the elders heaped praise on Joshua at the cost of pulling down the others. And I suppose Joshua knew what was being done, but he may not have mind, anyways. I recall the unfair and unkind way in which one elder would always choose to praise Joshua, and hold his example up to the congregation to see that 'if a person really loves Jehovah, he will undergo and surmount any challenges in life.' He even implied that the rest of us were lazy, that we made excuses, and we ought to learn something from this man who was so selfless.

But subsequently, all the extra effort took a toll on Joshua. He developed piles! Hardly becoming, since according to the Bible, God scourged the unholy Philistines with piles! Hardly surprising either, given all the straining and pushing Joshua must have done as he regularly sought to clear his bowels each morning in a hurry, in a bid to catch the early train that would take him into town for field servive. Joshua always took pride in the fact that he had piles, in as much the Apostle Paul took pride in the scars left on his body after he was abused. It was a sort of trophy he loved to exhibit to the brothers.... of course, figuratively speaking.

Ravi could not 'pile it on', so he tried another approach. He decided to plunge deeper into the fray and practically spent all his free time in Watchtower research, so that he could give better comments at the meetings. Both 'siblings' were very vociferous at the meetings, and they never let go of a chance when they could highlight some triumph of theirs. Once, Joshua declared in front of the whole packed congregation that, thanks to Jehovah, he had finally overcome his fight against 'the unclean habit of masturbation.' He went on about it, and even the Watchtower conducter was quite embarassed and did not know where to look, but managed to say something like 'congratulations, brother', on which the congregation broke into a half hearted round of applause!

At other times, Joshua was so brazen that he would unabashedly say that he wanted to become a ministerial servant. Of course, most congregation members would tell you that there is nothing inherently wrong in stating that a brother wanted to reach out to a particular privilege, but it was the tone, manner and the spirit behind his words that betrayed an ambitious spirit which all Witnesses condemn to be Satanic.

These two brothers realized their dream of becoming a ministerial servant two years after their baptism. No sooner had they achieved this, than they started to aim agressively for the next goal...of becoming elders. So they labored on towards this end too, which I believe, they met last year. Since I am no longer in the congregation, I have no doubt that their drive 'to the top' will not stop here.

The last time I saw Ravi, he looked more sickly to me than he ever did before. There was no joy on his face, but instead, an expression of joylessness that comes from overwork, frustration and a lack of composure. For no Jehovah's Witness will admit to this - that theirs is an organization that always drives them to do more in the service, in a hope of a reward that never seems to be coming.

Things No Jehovah’s Witness Will Ever Tell You

2009-08-27T02:06:00.000-07:00

Things No Jehovah’s Witness Will Ever Tell You

Joining us is a One Way street. We will pretend to intensely love you while you walk in.
We will openly despise you if you ever walk out.
We love to say only we are from God. We love to point out that everyone and everything else is from the Devil.
Every person whom you first loved before you knew us, but who does not share our faith, is 'bad association' for you from now on.
Flattery is one of our favorite tools we use to win you over. We like to make you feel special, so that you continue to feel good about listening to us. When it is your turn to preach, we will expect you to use this same tool on yet others.
We will whole heartedly encourage you to ask tons of questions about and research your old religion and all other religions, which we regard as false. While you do this, we will praise you as being 'an honest hearted person', 'a lover of truth', 'a seeker of Jehovah' and 'God's true sheep.' But beware! Once you become one of us, you can question us and what we teach only at your own peril. We may then label you as 'a person having doubts', 'a spiritually weak brother/sister', 'a questionable associate,' or even 'an apostate', as the case may be.
We don’t want you to realize this, but we subtly and effectively use Fear as an ingredient in many of our teachings. You see, Fear is the ultimate control!
We will only accept you if you ‘disown yourself’ and submit entirely to what we call ‘Jehovah’s Organization’.
You will only be allowed to have friends who are Jehovah’s friends. The Governing Body decides who are Jehovah’s friends. This practice also ensures that if you ever consider leaving the Watchtower, you will have to deal with a terrible social vacuum in your life, because all your Witness friends will have nothing to do with you by then.
We are bearers of mock humility. We have immense pride in saying we are the most humble lot on earth. We want you to be proud and have this humility too.
While we theoretically believe that acts of kindness should not be publicized, you will notice that we actually crave the adulation and praise we chance to receive from the world. That is why, you will notice, not only do we regularly publish our 'godly acts' in our magazines, we also have a habit of announcing them publicly at each of our larger meetings and conventions.
As an extension of the previous point, while we say JWs are not men pleasers, you know better now! We love to point out the hypocrisy in other religions, but we regularly put down the errors in our own to 'human imperfection' and 'progressive refinement'.
We take great pleasure in contemplating the destruction of billions of people who have not responded positively to the message we preach. We honestly feel none of them have the right to live, though if you ask us, we will deny we feel that way. We routinely portray, in pictures, the painful and untimely deaths of unbelievers at Armageddon in our publications, and we find such artwork tasteful. Looking at them fills us with immense gratification, and we feel it is all justified as part of the divine retribution that is coming.
To a sane mind, the previous point may fall into the same genre of hateful destruction which is characteristic of terrorist groups, but of course, we don’t want you to realize that.
Our own congregations, outwardly the symbols of love and harmony, are as full of gossip. slander, distinctions, rivalry, back-biting, prejudice and hate, as any other part of Babylon the Great, the false religions we condemn.
We would have you believe that the brothers love each other. In actuality, rivalry is widespread amongst congregation members, as each tries to out-do and outshine the other. After all, there are 'privileges' on offer, and these will only be yours if you tow the Watchtower line.
The more hours you put into field service, the more 'spiritual' you will be called, and the more admired you will be. Of course, on the face of it we appear to say that even service that is comparable to the widow's mite is precious to Jehovah, but know us for a long enough time and you will know that is not true. Hours, hours, hours.... these are so important to us that we document each and everyone into our 'annual global reports'.
You may not realize it is disparaging, but it is not uncommon of us to categorize believers as Bethelites, Special Pioneer, Auxilliary Pioneer, Elder, Ministerial Servant, Spiritually Weak or a Marked Person. Thus, while we profess we are against the making of 'class distinctions,' we actually think that the afore mentioned labels have biblical support, hence we liberally use them in our conversations.
Naturally, the circuit overseers, elders and other prominent members of the congregation are attracted to those members who are rich. We will never expressly state this, but observe us closely, and you will find that's true. We continuously encourage the flock to lead a simple life, but we don't want you to know that some of us at the helm have a taste for luxury, which we feel is Jehovah's rich blessing on us.
Please say good-bye to a good education, rewarding career etc. You are in the Watchtower now. And if you don't, we have unique ways to make you feel horrible about yourself.
Look closer, and you will discover that we are an MLM organization. The rewards and privileges that you yourself shall enjoy in the organization will be proportional to the ‘value’ you bring into it, in terms of new converts, hours spent etc. And your money is important to us. Please spend less on yourself, so you can drop more in the collection box earmarked Contributions for the Worldwide Work.
You can bequeath any such wealth that you own to us, be that gold, financial securities, property, real estate. Yes, it is all 'worldly' but we welcome it all. We can shun you, but not these.
Our love for you, the esteem and value that we hold for you, all actually comes at a heavy price, and with many strings attached. But we hope you never realize that, as long as we are able to keep pulling your strings (including your purse strings).
We have many organizational secrets and skeletons which we don’t want you to find. Those who have ‘left us’ often know them. That’s why we forbid you from ever speaking with them. Similarly, we will try and do everything possible to convince you that the internet is a Satanic trap, so you never read online the things we don’t want you to read and know.
We loathe people who are self-righteous, and yet, that is not what we are.
We believe that Love, Peace, Happiness, Mercy, Compassion are qualities that cannot exist nor flourish in a person that has proven unfaithful to the Watchtower. Which is why we feel that once you abandon us, you would be devoid of such 'godly' qualities, and this makes you as good as a corpse in our eyes.

'The High Bridge of Rohm' ~ by Burgess

2008-05-12T19:59:00.000-07:00

The smell of ozone was unmistakable. A storm was brewing in the deepening dusk. Flashes of lightning lit up the underbellies of clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Already, there was a drizzle. David wrapped his coat closer to himself, while his horse Atars followed continuously.

For two days they had cut through rugged terrain in a desperate bid to reach Mohsoon, his town on the eastern plains. On the first night, they had barely five hours of rest with little to eat. And now the mountain of Yevgern lay before them.

David, a twenty-one year old, by nature forever cautious and wary, had never cut through the mountain to reach Mohsoon. He had always used the long, safe road that went around Yevgern’s base. This time, however, he had to take to the mountain road, for that course would save him two days. The quicker he reached his old ailing mother, the better.

By the second afternoon, they were mastering the slopes of Yevgern. His attention was riveted on the steep gradient and the unfamiliar terrain with its many curves and bends. Presently, he noticed the western horizon darkening. He paused for a while and peered into the distance. There was a storm approaching.

As he rode on, he worried the storm would overtake and hinder him. He purposed to reach the eastern part of the mountain and camp there for the night. Somewhere along the way – he did not know where exactly – the deep Gorge of Rohm had to be crossed. A wooden bridge spanned the gorge. He thought briefly about the stories he had heard regarding travelers who attempted to cross that bridge after dark. Not that David gave much credence to them – but he was in no mood to test the truth behind such legends. He beckoned Atars to increase speed. The steed heeded his master’s pat and lengthened his stride as much as sure-footedness on a precarious incline would permit.

Some parts of the road were strewn with sharp stones, and David did not catch the moment when a flint cut and wedged itself in Atars’ foot. By the time David realized that his horse was limping, the damage was done. He examined the hoof and extracted the shard. The winds were now picking up. Now how could they ever reach the eastern slopes on time? Hoping against odds, he proceeded on foot with Atars trotting behind him.

For half an hour they trudged through gusty rain, even as torrents washed down their pathway. Fringes of the approaching storm shrouded the mountain. David could not see what lay fifteen feet in front of him. He blamed himself for having abandoned familiarity and for having come this strange way. If only he knew how the elements would turn against him! But then, images of his old mother flashed up in his mind. He pressed on – nearly blind, cold and wet.

The evening was getting older. Abruptly, the road turned and seemed to fan out. This part of the mountain was relatively sheltered from the winds. Almost no cloud had penetrated here. The air was relatively clear. It was a wide area of level land which held a cluster of cottages fenced by shrubs of redberry, with pine trees towering in the background. There was one cottage, a little away from the cluster, which was illuminated and had smoke rising from its chimney. Hoarse laughter came from it at intervals, as if its inmates were having a jolly time. It looked like the right place to ask for help, he thought.

Yevgern’s Table, read a sign on its doorpost.

Leaving Atars at the entrance, David opened the door, went in, and closed it behind him. He stood there dripping wet. Three middle-aged men were sitting around a round table drinking frothed beer. They dropped their animated conversation and gawked at the stranger.

‘I am David from the western plains. I need help to reach Mohsoon,’ David met their inquiring looks. ‘My mother is grievously ill. I must reach her by evening tomorrow. But my horse here is injured. So I need another one to continue my journey now.’

His explanation was received with more silence. All of them had round faces, bulbous eyes and big moustaches. They almost looked as if they were brothers! ‘There are no horses here that we can spare,’ replied one in his husky voice. ‘But some hot soup we can! Come, warm yourself by the fire and lodge here for the night.’

‘I must rest for the night on the mountain’s eastern face. I absolutely must reach there. I have no choice. I absolutely must!’ David said, sounding awkwardly desperate.

‘Look, son – you say your horse is injured. The evening light has almost faded and a heavy fog hangs outdoors. The mountain is being gathered into the grips of a storm. Even if you could go on, would you risk crossing the High Bridge of Rohm at this hour? It’s a mile from this spot and dangerous to cross at such a time, in such weather. Take off your mantle and hang it by the fire place. Take a chair and knock that silly idea out of your head. Dolly, pour the handsome lad some of the pea soup you made. Or would you rather have beer?’

The storm grew wilder as he spoke. As the old man had said, no corner of Yevgern was spared. There was a barn behind the cottage, and Dolly – she looked barely fifteen, though her demeanor bespoke that she was much older – said David could keep Atars sheltered here. She brought a bowl of soup and placed it before the young man, who neglected it while he sat buried in thought. How circumstances had conspired to block his progress! He felt hopeless. What could he do? He could attempt to move on, but Atars was wounded. He felt the crushing weight of guilt and despair over him, because now he sensed he was failing his mother. He grew restless. There’s just got to be a way out. I cannot stay here!

‘Come!’ said Dolly in a soft voice. ‘Let’s proceed to the bridge. I shall take you there. First, eat up your soup for strength. I have also tended to your horse. He’s doing better now.’

‘Do you plan to lead the lad to his death, Dolly? Are you insane? But of course, you are!’ hollered one of the three.

‘If the man must reach his dying mother, shall I not help him by all means?’ she asked in a tone that was more ambiguous than assuring. Suddenly, there was a white flash of light, and instantly after it, a sound as if the very sky above them was rent in two. The mountain convulsed for a few moments. David felt the blood curdle in his veins.

Moments of deafening silence followed. ‘A part of the mountain must have broken away. It happens,’ said one of the three men with a wave of his hand. David gobbled his soup. Everything around him had an eerie feel to it. The tempest had swallowed Yevgern entirely.

‘Are you ready?’ asked the young girl.

David nodded.

‘Then bring your horse and follow me closely. Clouds linger outside. The road ahead of us grows narrower. Stray a little and you will plunge to your deaths,’ she warned, wrapping herself in dark cloth. She carried a lighted lantern and led the way. The pathway held water that was ankle deep. For what seemed like half an hour, they walked. Presently, the storm was losing power. The fog was lifting. That brought hope to David.

‘Who are you? Where are your parents?’ he inquired, feeling his spirits rise.

‘Yevgern’s Table is my home. My parents owned it. They died when I was three. I am a maid to the village of Yevgern. I manage my living.’

They went on for half an hour more. The storm had left Yevgern, leaving its air cool and clear. Dolly kept on walking without a word. Her hand never tired of carrying the lantern. All of a sudden, she froze, and David wondered why.

‘The gorge has taken the bridge. See!’ she said. She gave more wick to the flame and held the lantern higher. In the better light, David could see the gorge. They were standing on the edge of it. There was a gap of at least twelve meters to the other side, and goodness knows how deep to its bottom. There were signs of a rock fall which may have torn the bridge away and destroyed it. Only a few broken beams remained to show where the bridge once was. David groaned. Thunder mocked cruelly in the distance.

‘There’s only one way out for you now,’ she said. ‘Take your horse and leap over to the other side.’

‘But that’s suicidal! It’s a treacherous jump even for a horse in good condition. And Atars is injured!’

‘What choice do you have? Trust yourself. Trust your horse. He will jump clear if you believe. Fear is good. It can lead you to do either of two things: To retreat, or to confront the difficult and conquer it. You have played safe all your life, David. Which one will you do now? Retreat or confront?’

There was something about her piercing gaze and her soft voice that made him feel uneasy. Awe came up over him. ‘Your parents – how did they die?’ he asked, with a tinge of suspicion.

‘They were crossing this very spot, on a night such as this one. The gorge took them too,’ she said. Suddenly, the flame leapt in the direction of her face, and in the increased illumination it afforded, he noticed her face was almost blanched –– bloodless. A strange fear ran down David’s spine. He quelled it and turned to Atars. He put his arms around his neck and spoke closely to him: ‘The bridge is gone. The gorge is deep. We need to jump high and clear to the other side. Let’s both keep away our fear and pain. You and I – we will make it!’

He rid himself of all unnecessary weight to ease the burden off his horse and mounted him. He nodded in gratitude to Dolly. She took a step back and kept the lantern down on the ground, just a foot away from the brink of the abyss, saying, ‘It will light up your way to the other side.’

With those words ringing in his ears, he rode Atars seventy meters away from the edge of the precipice, in preparation of the run that would propel them to leap over to the other side. The road, fortunately, was relatively straight and smooth, with almost no gradient. They had a chance of leaping over.

Atars broke furiously into a gallop, his hooves drumming awesomely upon the mountain road, as if he was going in for his final charge into battle. With each stride, the lip of the gorge drew near. The darkness on the opposite side looked terrifying. For a moment, David thought of aborting the leap, but even that moment of decision passed out of his hands –.they had crossed the point of no return. The lantern was so very close now.

‘Up, Atars!’ he cried shrilly.

The horse was airborne with astounding grace. The gorge, it seemed, opened up its jaws to receive them. But now they were flying over it, rebuking its yawn. They were one – the rider and his horse – indistinguishable in the perilous gloom. The other side drew within reach. Atars landed on it in triumph, almost as if he never needed the bridge, and galloped on.

Their hearts were pounding. With jubilation, David stopped to turn and see where his young friend had stood on the other side – but she was not there – only the burning lantern remained. Perhaps, she was in a hurry to return home.

The moon came out from behind the clouds. Soon, he reached a large village where he chanced upon a few people at the gates. They welcomed him. Among them were the village elder and his son. How did you get here in the tempest? But the High Bridge of Rohm is broken! It was torn away some hours ago by the tempest. Oh, so your horse leaped over the gorge! Amazing! Anyway, welcome to Yevgern. You can come and stay over in our cottage. We have a chamber that’s hardly used. Like a storeroom it is, but cozy enough.

‘Yevgern?’ repeated David. ‘There are not two villages by that name on this mountain, are there?’

‘There’s only one and this is it,’ the elder’s son replied. ‘In fact, this is the first village a traveler would come by on his route from the west.’

‘But there was a village there on the other side – and an inn called Yevgern’s Table. I had soup there. And there was Dolly, the young girl who befriended me...”

It seemed that his words fell upon deaf ears.

David rested for the night in the house of the village elder. It was a beautiful dawn after the storm, and he woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed. The old man was most kind. After breakfast was done, he saw his guest on his way. ‘You know, not many believe in stories such as these, but I had it from my grandfather,’ the old man started to say, even as David prepared Atars for their descent into the eastern plains. ‘Two hundred years ago there was a family who lived on the mountain. What maddening circumstances drove them to cross the Old Bridge of Rohm on that tempestuous night, no one knows. But William was a fine man, they say, always heartily welcoming weary travelers into his inn. His wife Rhoda was as lively and lovely as a young woman could be. Theirs was a terrible destiny! They had their young child with them – Dolly. She was in the arms of her mother while they crossed –– the night the Old Bridge fell.’

The Cherry Tree on Lonely Knoll

2008-04-23T04:41:00.000-07:00

Nestled high up in the northern mountains, Woody Valley abounds with trees of all kinds – tall trees and short trees; proud ones and feeble ones; those whose barks are as dark as soot, and others whose barks are as light as chalk. The air here is cool and fresh, laced with the sweet scent of perpetual blossoms, and ringing with the melodies of merry birds and calls of mimicking monkeys as they leap from tree to tree.

Now, Woody Valley has, in the midst of it, a knoll – a very small mound – that was once barren. It wasn’t that Lonely Knoll was dry or infertile – it was just that, for some strange reason, no tree wanted to take root there. The only moving thing you could probably spot on the knoll was a puzzled rabbit, emerging out of his burrow, hopping here and there among the bushes, and quickly sinking underground again.

One day, the rabbits, during one of their excursions for food, hopped upon a hoard of bright red succulent cherries. In triumph, they carried each and every cherry back to the knoll and hoarded them in their burrows. All night they feasted upon them –.they even held a pip-spitting contest to see which one could expel a pip to the farthest distance – until they were all bloated and sick at the mere sight of them.

Two such gamed seeds lay huddled together in a rabbit home. To these, Lonely Knoll fed warmth and moisture and they sprouted, side by side. Quickly, they grew in depth, height and girth. In a year, the stems of the twins fused, becoming one. They stood and grew all the more powerful for their union. Seasons turned, the years rolled, and branches that were slender became as thick as the mother trunk once was, while the mother trunk grew to cover even more of the knoll, until the towering Cherry tree looked breathtakingly royal.

Countless birds came to sing upon its dense green foliage, and many made their home in them. Monkeys, squirrels, and honeybees all lived together in the tree, while deer, wild horses and herds of buffalo came to feed off its tasty fruit and the green grass that grew in the cool shade. Once, even a large snake made its nest in the Cherry Tree for a season, gobbling up a few rabbits during the tenure of its stay, but thankfully, after she was done mothering its offspring, they all went away, never to return.

The Cherry Tree became the happy home for a countless creatures.

One evening, an enormous dark cloud, with thunder rumbling in its belly, crept angrily upon the land. It kept forking out bolts of lightning, striking peaks of lofty mountains that lay under its shadow, as it itself sailed on towards the Valley. At its approach, the animals shivered and the birds quivered. The cloud presently eyed the Cherry Tree on Lonely Knoll. It saw its lofty leafy crown borne upon its proud boughs. Grinding its teeth with fury and malice – for this dark cloud was the sort that hated the sight of anything beautiful – it grew blacker than the blackest night.

From deep within its guts, it shot out an evil bolt that struck the tree with lethal force. There was a blinding streak, a deafening crack, and a part of the tree burst into flames. Pandemonium reigned as the creatures shrieked, ‘The knoll is on fire! The tree is being consumed!’ Had it not been for the abundant moisture inside its trunks, the whole tree would have been certainly reduced to ashes.

The morning sun arose to find the Cherry Tree drooping in pain. It had lost two of its big boughs, and with it, much foliage and fruit was singed. The frightened animals that had lodged in it had all but gone. The tree felt crippled and forlorn. It wept amber over its burns, and soon the tears congealed to form crystals that shone like jewels in the sun. When autumn came, the balmy day breeze instilled the tree with courage. Winter’s lullaby caused it to enter deep sleep – for the withered tree needed that – and it slumbered all the way until spring.

One April dawn, the sun smiled – for look! – the tree had put forth a new tender shoot at the same place the one of the two fallen boughs had been attached. And the following week, there were three more tender shoots close to the first one. The spring sun, the morning dew and the westerly wind allied together to nurse the four tender shoots, which now began to grow at a vigorous pace. The tree, for its part, sent its roots deeper and wider into the earth, until they dipped into a subterranean stream, from where they drank deep.

Soon, the animals returned, many of them with gifts. The bees were the first to arrive with their honeycombs. A colony of green ants set up base near the roots to ward off any harmful creatures. In the first year, the Cherry Tree yielded its tastiest fruit ever, because the bees and the ants worked in frantic unison. As the new branches grew, the monkeys pressured them to grow horizontally rather than skywards. At first, everyone used to reprove the monkeys for their senseless behavior, but soon they realized that the monkeys meant well, for now the tree gave more shade, and it was less likely to be struck by an evil cloud’s eye on account of its diminished height. Then the monkeys received praise for their wisdom.

If you visit Woody Valley, you can still see the Cherry Tree on Lonely Knoll. You will still see the pearls of golden amber that cling to its wrinkled bark at the very place the two mighty limbs once grew. Sit under the shade of its branches and recall how in place of the two old that were lost, four new were gained. Then feel the power of the living tree seep in and regenerate you too.

For with time, love and endurance, even the hate of darkest cloud can be undone.

Crossing the Arabian

2008-02-22T21:09:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, my Managing Director indicated that I will be transfered to Dubai in April 2008.

Though I had been expecting this development for the past few months, those words yet bore a thrilling charge. For thirty-five years I had never strayed far from home, save on holidays in and out of India, but now I was scheduled to leave for a foreign destination for a period undetermined.

So certain was the expectation of this transfer that even before the director had expressed his approval, I had already brought down my suitcase and had commenced dumping stuff inside it. It gave me a 'gosh-this-is-finally-happening!' aura to the whole thing. It has often been said that when you desire something, act it out as if you have already received it, and you will receive

And so it was true for me!

Since the transfer will take effect only in April, I have little more than a month to spend with family and friends in India. There is mom to console and reassure, for she did not take the news too well, although she expected its coming. There are aunts and uncles to hug, cousins to be called on, friends scattered across Mumbai and Pune that I must meet up over weekend lunches and dinners. And crazy as it may seem, there are certain parts of Mumbai that hold almost-sacred meaning for me which I intend going to before I fly away.

Gosh! I'm almost making it sound as if I am never returning to my homeland!

Dubai is not too far from the shores of India ~ it's just across the Arabian Sea. The way of life there too is not so different from the one in Mumbai ~ yet there are feelings that are a mix of joy, sadness and excitement that wash in and out of the heart like a moody tide. A slush of memories comes pouring in while I walk down the roads of South Mumbai, some of which, it seems, the sheer force of my departure has resurrected out of my subconscious mind.

There is a month to go before many formalities are sorted out. Even so, I am ready to cross the Arabian.

Saturdays are Special

2008-02-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

The very sound of Saturday is sweet.

Before I learned that my favorite day of the week had something to do with the sixth planet from the sun, I had my own childish views about the word Saturday. To my 3-year young mind it suggested that for all these days I had actually been standing (standing, to my mind, always symbolized punishment) but come Saturday, I could actually let go and sit.

Ah, the blessed comfort of Sat-urday!

Saturdays have a special aura. Even the sun appears more golden on Saturdays! Sunflowers appeared fuller and yellower, and butterflies emerged out in larger numbers. Mom would take me on outings on such mornings - to a friend's place at Kemp's Corner, to the bank to get some money work done (even the bank staff looked radiant working on a Saturday), or to the dog shows at Cooperage Gardens.

Saturday afternoons means a delightful lunch followed by a carefree siesta. Even the breeze picks up on Saturdays' afternoons, making the fronds of the neighboring coconut palms rustle and chuckle.

Saturday evenings are special too, because it meant going out with mom and dad. A family visit to the Museum music store to pick up new music there, or to just a quiet sit on the rocks at Marine Drive, watching the Saturday sun set over the Arabian Sea.

Sundays have stings. Saturdays have no such things. Sunday night would always be filled with the dread of returning to school on Monday, but no Saturday night ever placed such a burden on me. On the contrary, Saturday nights command me that I enjoy them beyond limits! They are ever reassuring that no matter how long I stay up, I could always count on that special Wake-up-Late pact it had with Sunday.

Saturday nights were intensely favored for community events in Cusrow Baug, the residential colony in South Mumbai where in I live. I remember the fashion shows and the live musical evenings they used to organize at the Cusrow Baug Pavilion when I was little. We used to dance and dine into the star-cast Saturday night, in the same style the Gauls of Asterix fame would, typically marking the close of each one of their adventures.

It was only when I was 14 that I learned that even God proceeded to rest on a Saturday, making it blessed. It made sense!