English language nears the one million-word milestone
By Rupert Cornwell in Washington
Published: 13 April 2006
It will not be of much comfort to President George Bush and others who, on occasion, struggle to make themselves understood. But some time soon the English language, according to at least one reasonably authoritative source, will create its one-millionth word.
The Global Language Monitor (GLM), a San Diego-based linguistic consultancy, reckoned that on 21 March (the vernal equinox) this year, there were about 988,968 words in the language, "plus or minus a handful". At the current rate of progress, the one-million mark will be reached this summer.
And how does the GLM know? It started, it says, with a base vocabulary drawn from major dictionaries that contain the historic core of the language. Then it created its own algorithm, or formula, called the Predictive Quantities Indicator (PQI), that measures the language as found in print, electronic media, and on television and radio. That establishes a rate of increase in the creation of new words, and the import and absorption of foreign words into English.
No one argues about the huge richness of the English language - fed by Germanic, Scandinavian and Latin streams, unrivalled in its readiness to borrow from every language, and mercifully free of tiresome bodies like the Academié Française to decide what counts and what does not.
The process is only reinforced by the universality of English. True, more people (more than a billion) may be native speakers of Mandarin Chinese than of English (an estimated 500 million or so, roughly the same as Hindi). French, incidentally, only limps into the top 10 with 130 million native speakers.
But if there is such a thing as a world language, it is English, spread first by the British Empire, then by the economic, cultural and military juggernaut of the US, and now by the internet. And, at every stop on the way, new words are coined, or scooped up from other languages.
But how many and how fast? The GLM claims that its projected figures are conservative - and in fact some estimates put the total of English words at two million or more. The devil lies in definition: what constitutes a new word? Does slang count? And what about archaisms and obsolete words? Another study, the Life and Times of the English Language, by Robert Claiborne and published in 1990, puts the number of words at no more than 600,000. The latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary contains more than 300,000 head words, and some 615,000 "word forms," that include the head words, plus combinations and derivatives. By contrast, Websters Third International Dictionary has 54,000 word families - base words, inflections and derivations.
But no one should feel intimidated. The average vocabulary of an educated native English speaker is about 24,000 to 30,000. Shakespeare used 24,000 words - 1,700 of which he is claimed to have invented.
Nonetheless, with an active vocabulary of just 3,000 or so, you can get along pretty well. And if you are stumped for a word, just make one up. It seems to have worked in the past for the most powerful man in the world, so it could work for you as well. The chances are, it will soon be swept up in the boundless net of the Global Language Monitor. You never know, it might even be the coveted number 1,000,000.
Comparing languages
* Up to 20 per cent of the words used by Global Language Monitor come from hybrids such as Chinglish and Japlish. Words from Chinglish include the business terms "drinktea", meaning closed, and "torunbusiness", meaning open. Bushisms such as "uninalienable" and 'misunderestimate' are included.
* English is evolving faster than other languages. This year's additions to the Oxford English Dictionary include "podcast" and "offshoring".
* Spanish linguists say there are 225,000 words in contemporary use.
* The largest edition of the Duden German-German dictionary contains about 200,000 words
* The Russian language has just reached the 125,000 mark.
* French has 100,000 words, one-sixth of the figure used in the UK.But the Academié Française, the body that defines the language, recognises 25,525.
Kate Thomas
It will not be of much comfort to President George Bush and others who, on occasion, struggle to make themselves understood. But some time soon the English language, according to at least one reasonably authoritative source, will create its one-millionth word.
The Global Language Monitor (GLM), a San Diego-based linguistic consultancy, reckoned that on 21 March (the vernal equinox) this year, there were about 988,968 words in the language, "plus or minus a handful". At the current rate of progress, the one-million mark will be reached this summer.
And how does the GLM know? It started, it says, with a base vocabulary drawn from major dictionaries that contain the historic core of the language. Then it created its own algorithm, or formula, called the Predictive Quantities Indicator (PQI), that measures the language as found in print, electronic media, and on television and radio. That establishes a rate of increase in the creation of new words, and the import and absorption of foreign words into English.
No one argues about the huge richness of the English language - fed by Germanic, Scandinavian and Latin streams, unrivalled in its readiness to borrow from every language, and mercifully free of tiresome bodies like the Academié Française to decide what counts and what does not.
The process is only reinforced by the universality of English. True, more people (more than a billion) may be native speakers of Mandarin Chinese than of English (an estimated 500 million or so, roughly the same as Hindi). French, incidentally, only limps into the top 10 with 130 million native speakers.
But if there is such a thing as a world language, it is English, spread first by the British Empire, then by the economic, cultural and military juggernaut of the US, and now by the internet. And, at every stop on the way, new words are coined, or scooped up from other languages.
But how many and how fast? The GLM claims that its projected figures are conservative - and in fact some estimates put the total of English words at two million or more. The devil lies in definition: what constitutes a new word? Does slang count? And what about archaisms and obsolete words? Another study, the Life and Times of the English Language, by Robert Claiborne and published in 1990, puts the number of words at no more than 600,000. The latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary contains more than 300,000 head words, and some 615,000 "word forms," that include the head words, plus combinations and derivatives. By contrast, Websters Third International Dictionary has 54,000 word families - base words, inflections and derivations.
But no one should feel intimidated. The average vocabulary of an educated native English speaker is about 24,000 to 30,000. Shakespeare used 24,000 words - 1,700 of which he is claimed to have invented.
Nonetheless, with an active vocabulary of just 3,000 or so, you can get along pretty well. And if you are stumped for a word, just make one up. It seems to have worked in the past for the most powerful man in the world, so it could work for you as well. The chances are, it will soon be swept up in the boundless net of the Global Language Monitor. You never know, it might even be the coveted number 1,000,000.
Comparing languages
* Up to 20 per cent of the words used by Global Language Monitor come from hybrids such as Chinglish and Japlish. Words from Chinglish include the business terms "drinktea", meaning closed, and "torunbusiness", meaning open. Bushisms such as "uninalienable" and 'misunderestimate' are included.
* English is evolving faster than other languages. This year's additions to the Oxford English Dictionary include "podcast" and "offshoring".
* Spanish linguists say there are 225,000 words in contemporary use.
* The largest edition of the Duden German-German dictionary contains about 200,000 words
* The Russian language has just reached the 125,000 mark.
* French has 100,000 words, one-sixth of the figure used in the UK.But the Academié Française, the body that defines the language, recognises 25,525.
Kate Thomas
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
http://www.classicalnotes.net/classics/trout.html
The Death and the Maiden Quartet, written in 1824 by Franz Schubert, just after the composer became aware of his ruined health, and D. 810 in Otto Erich Deutsch's thematic catalog of Schubert's works, is a string quartet in four movements:
Allegro, in D minor and common time
Andante con moto, in G minor and divided common (2:2) time
Scherzo: Allegro molto, in D minor and 3:4 time
Presto, in D minor in 6:8
The opening movement is, along with that of the preceding and next quartet and that of his string quintet, among the most extended and substantial in his chamber music output, if not in his output as a whole. It is a sonata form movement whose exposition encompasses three main key regions, D minor, F major and A minor.
The second movement is a theme — taken from his macabre song Der Tod und Das Mädchen (D 531 in Deutsch's catalog) — and five variations, with coda.
The third movement's main theme can also be heard in one of a set of piano dances; its lyrical D major trio varies its 'repeats'.
The relentless finale-tarantella is a sonata-rondo in form — a rondo whose first episode returns as the last, and whose central section contains elements of development. Its coda promises major-mode triumph, and snatches it away.
This is one of the quartet works, along with Beethoven's quartetto serioso that Mahler arranged for use by a string orchestra, mostly by doubling some of the cello parts with double basses.
[edit]
Appearances in Film and Television
Besides the 1994 film Death and the Maiden directed by Roman Polanski, Schubert's quartet has been used in the score of at least the following:
The 1983 French film Le Bâtard
The 1996 Russian film President i yego zhenshchina
The 1996 Jane Campion film Portrait of a Lady
The BBC TV production of Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking
The Death and the Maiden Quartet, written in 1824 by Franz Schubert, just after the composer became aware of his ruined health, and D. 810 in Otto Erich Deutsch's thematic catalog of Schubert's works, is a string quartet in four movements:
Allegro, in D minor and common time
Andante con moto, in G minor and divided common (2:2) time
Scherzo: Allegro molto, in D minor and 3:4 time
Presto, in D minor in 6:8
The opening movement is, along with that of the preceding and next quartet and that of his string quintet, among the most extended and substantial in his chamber music output, if not in his output as a whole. It is a sonata form movement whose exposition encompasses three main key regions, D minor, F major and A minor.
The second movement is a theme — taken from his macabre song Der Tod und Das Mädchen (D 531 in Deutsch's catalog) — and five variations, with coda.
The third movement's main theme can also be heard in one of a set of piano dances; its lyrical D major trio varies its 'repeats'.
The relentless finale-tarantella is a sonata-rondo in form — a rondo whose first episode returns as the last, and whose central section contains elements of development. Its coda promises major-mode triumph, and snatches it away.
This is one of the quartet works, along with Beethoven's quartetto serioso that Mahler arranged for use by a string orchestra, mostly by doubling some of the cello parts with double basses.
[edit]
Appearances in Film and Television
Besides the 1994 film Death and the Maiden directed by Roman Polanski, Schubert's quartet has been used in the score of at least the following:
The 1983 French film Le Bâtard
The 1996 Russian film President i yego zhenshchina
The 1996 Jane Campion film Portrait of a Lady
The BBC TV production of Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking
Der Tod und das Mädchen
[Das Mädchen:]
Vorüber! Ach, vorüber!
geh, wilder Knochenmann!
Ich bin noch jung, geh,
Lieber!und rühre mich nicht an.
[Der Tod:]
Gib deine Hand, du schön und zart Gebild!
Bin Freund und komme nicht zu strafen.
Sei gutes Muts! ich bin nicht wild,
sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen!
-- Matthias Claudius (1740-1815)
[Das Mädchen:]
Vorüber! Ach, vorüber!
geh, wilder Knochenmann!
Ich bin noch jung, geh,
Lieber!und rühre mich nicht an.
[Der Tod:]
Gib deine Hand, du schön und zart Gebild!
Bin Freund und komme nicht zu strafen.
Sei gutes Muts! ich bin nicht wild,
sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen!
-- Matthias Claudius (1740-1815)
Friday, April 07, 2006
Life expectancy of women exceeds men's for first time
By Jeremy Laurance, Health Editor
Published: 07 April 2006
For the first time in history, women now outlive men all around the globe. The milestone is as significant as the eradication of smallpox 30 years ago but is unlikely to be celebrated with the same fanfare, researchers say.
In the West, women have been outliving men for more than a century. Deaths from cancer, heart disease, suicide, accidents and Aids are all higher among men. In England and Wales life expectancy for men last exceeded that for women in 1841.
But in the developing world, women have been held back by the high risk of bearing children.
The biggest killer of women of childbearing age in the developing world is childbirth.
Professor Danny Dorling, of the University of Sheffield, and colleagues writing in the British Medical Journal, say: "We will never know with certainty the exact year in which women everywhere can expect to live on average longer than men, but this year - 2006 - is as likely as any." The authors describe it as "a remarkable achievement".
Professor Dorling said: "The reason for the increase in female life expectancy has got to be improvements in care during pregnancy and the presence of a midwife or other skilled attendant at birth.
"There is still a long way to go but things have improved enough to put women ahead everywhere."
The explanation for the female advantage in life expectancy has taxed health experts for years. Sir Donald Acheson, the former chief medical officer, argued that it was due to hormones. Testosterone-fuelled young men died in accidents and violence while their less driven female peers lived quieter and safer lives, he said. Later in life, men died of heart disease from which women were protected by the female hormone, oestrogen.
But Professor Dorling warns in the BMJ that the gender gap is narrowing as women have become more emancipated and adopted lifestyles more like men. In England and Wales, the gap was widest in 1969 - with women living 6.3 years longer on average.
Smoking is the main reason why it is now narrowing again, which was taken up by women later than men. Deaths from smoking in men peaked in the late 1960s, reflecting smoking habits 20 or 30 years earlier, but were still rising in women until the late 1980s.
The authors warn this year's milestone may not be a permanent achievement. "The largest remaining untapped market for cigarettes is made up of women in poorer countries," they note.
Women versus men: the statistics
* In developed countries, average life expectancy is 79 years for women and 72 years for men.
* Among centenarians worldwide, women outnumber males nine to one.
* Zimbabwe is one of the few countries where men outlive women. The average life expectancy for men is 40 whereas for women it is only 38.
* The mortality gap is widest in Russia where females outlive men by an average of 13 years.
* Men are more likely to smoke and drink than women.
* Oestrogen in women combats heart disease by helping to reduce levels of harmful cholesterol.
* Men are four times more likely to die during the "testosterone storm" between the ages of 16-24. This is often as a result of reckless and/or violent behaviour, such as dangerous driving or fighting.
* About 125 men are conceived for every 100 women but problems that develop in the womb - cerebral palsy, premature birth, stillbirth, deformities - are more likely to afflict males.
* Women have stronger immune systems than men, which scientists think may be designed to combat the rigours of childbirth.
* Men are twice as likely as women to opt for unhealthy snacks during work, such as crisps.
* Of the 72 major causes of death, only five affect more women than men. These include breast cancer and pregnancy.
Tom Harper
For the first time in history, women now outlive men all around the globe. The milestone is as significant as the eradication of smallpox 30 years ago but is unlikely to be celebrated with the same fanfare, researchers say.
In the West, women have been outliving men for more than a century. Deaths from cancer, heart disease, suicide, accidents and Aids are all higher among men. In England and Wales life expectancy for men last exceeded that for women in 1841.
But in the developing world, women have been held back by the high risk of bearing children.
The biggest killer of women of childbearing age in the developing world is childbirth.
Professor Danny Dorling, of the University of Sheffield, and colleagues writing in the British Medical Journal, say: "We will never know with certainty the exact year in which women everywhere can expect to live on average longer than men, but this year - 2006 - is as likely as any." The authors describe it as "a remarkable achievement".
Professor Dorling said: "The reason for the increase in female life expectancy has got to be improvements in care during pregnancy and the presence of a midwife or other skilled attendant at birth.
"There is still a long way to go but things have improved enough to put women ahead everywhere."
The explanation for the female advantage in life expectancy has taxed health experts for years. Sir Donald Acheson, the former chief medical officer, argued that it was due to hormones. Testosterone-fuelled young men died in accidents and violence while their less driven female peers lived quieter and safer lives, he said. Later in life, men died of heart disease from which women were protected by the female hormone, oestrogen.
But Professor Dorling warns in the BMJ that the gender gap is narrowing as women have become more emancipated and adopted lifestyles more like men. In England and Wales, the gap was widest in 1969 - with women living 6.3 years longer on average.
Smoking is the main reason why it is now narrowing again, which was taken up by women later than men. Deaths from smoking in men peaked in the late 1960s, reflecting smoking habits 20 or 30 years earlier, but were still rising in women until the late 1980s.
The authors warn this year's milestone may not be a permanent achievement. "The largest remaining untapped market for cigarettes is made up of women in poorer countries," they note.
Women versus men: the statistics
* In developed countries, average life expectancy is 79 years for women and 72 years for men.
* Among centenarians worldwide, women outnumber males nine to one.
* Zimbabwe is one of the few countries where men outlive women. The average life expectancy for men is 40 whereas for women it is only 38.
* The mortality gap is widest in Russia where females outlive men by an average of 13 years.
* Men are more likely to smoke and drink than women.
* Oestrogen in women combats heart disease by helping to reduce levels of harmful cholesterol.
* Men are four times more likely to die during the "testosterone storm" between the ages of 16-24. This is often as a result of reckless and/or violent behaviour, such as dangerous driving or fighting.
* About 125 men are conceived for every 100 women but problems that develop in the womb - cerebral palsy, premature birth, stillbirth, deformities - are more likely to afflict males.
* Women have stronger immune systems than men, which scientists think may be designed to combat the rigours of childbirth.
* Men are twice as likely as women to opt for unhealthy snacks during work, such as crisps.
* Of the 72 major causes of death, only five affect more women than men. These include breast cancer and pregnancy.
Tom Harper
By Jeremy Laurance, Health Editor
Published: 07 April 2006
For the first time in history, women now outlive men all around the globe. The milestone is as significant as the eradication of smallpox 30 years ago but is unlikely to be celebrated with the same fanfare, researchers say.
In the West, women have been outliving men for more than a century. Deaths from cancer, heart disease, suicide, accidents and Aids are all higher among men. In England and Wales life expectancy for men last exceeded that for women in 1841.
But in the developing world, women have been held back by the high risk of bearing children.
The biggest killer of women of childbearing age in the developing world is childbirth.
Professor Danny Dorling, of the University of Sheffield, and colleagues writing in the British Medical Journal, say: "We will never know with certainty the exact year in which women everywhere can expect to live on average longer than men, but this year - 2006 - is as likely as any." The authors describe it as "a remarkable achievement".
Professor Dorling said: "The reason for the increase in female life expectancy has got to be improvements in care during pregnancy and the presence of a midwife or other skilled attendant at birth.
"There is still a long way to go but things have improved enough to put women ahead everywhere."
The explanation for the female advantage in life expectancy has taxed health experts for years. Sir Donald Acheson, the former chief medical officer, argued that it was due to hormones. Testosterone-fuelled young men died in accidents and violence while their less driven female peers lived quieter and safer lives, he said. Later in life, men died of heart disease from which women were protected by the female hormone, oestrogen.
But Professor Dorling warns in the BMJ that the gender gap is narrowing as women have become more emancipated and adopted lifestyles more like men. In England and Wales, the gap was widest in 1969 - with women living 6.3 years longer on average.
Smoking is the main reason why it is now narrowing again, which was taken up by women later than men. Deaths from smoking in men peaked in the late 1960s, reflecting smoking habits 20 or 30 years earlier, but were still rising in women until the late 1980s.
The authors warn this year's milestone may not be a permanent achievement. "The largest remaining untapped market for cigarettes is made up of women in poorer countries," they note.
Women versus men: the statistics
* In developed countries, average life expectancy is 79 years for women and 72 years for men.
* Among centenarians worldwide, women outnumber males nine to one.
* Zimbabwe is one of the few countries where men outlive women. The average life expectancy for men is 40 whereas for women it is only 38.
* The mortality gap is widest in Russia where females outlive men by an average of 13 years.
* Men are more likely to smoke and drink than women.
* Oestrogen in women combats heart disease by helping to reduce levels of harmful cholesterol.
* Men are four times more likely to die during the "testosterone storm" between the ages of 16-24. This is often as a result of reckless and/or violent behaviour, such as dangerous driving or fighting.
* About 125 men are conceived for every 100 women but problems that develop in the womb - cerebral palsy, premature birth, stillbirth, deformities - are more likely to afflict males.
* Women have stronger immune systems than men, which scientists think may be designed to combat the rigours of childbirth.
* Men are twice as likely as women to opt for unhealthy snacks during work, such as crisps.
* Of the 72 major causes of death, only five affect more women than men. These include breast cancer and pregnancy.
Tom Harper
For the first time in history, women now outlive men all around the globe. The milestone is as significant as the eradication of smallpox 30 years ago but is unlikely to be celebrated with the same fanfare, researchers say.
In the West, women have been outliving men for more than a century. Deaths from cancer, heart disease, suicide, accidents and Aids are all higher among men. In England and Wales life expectancy for men last exceeded that for women in 1841.
But in the developing world, women have been held back by the high risk of bearing children.
The biggest killer of women of childbearing age in the developing world is childbirth.
Professor Danny Dorling, of the University of Sheffield, and colleagues writing in the British Medical Journal, say: "We will never know with certainty the exact year in which women everywhere can expect to live on average longer than men, but this year - 2006 - is as likely as any." The authors describe it as "a remarkable achievement".
Professor Dorling said: "The reason for the increase in female life expectancy has got to be improvements in care during pregnancy and the presence of a midwife or other skilled attendant at birth.
"There is still a long way to go but things have improved enough to put women ahead everywhere."
The explanation for the female advantage in life expectancy has taxed health experts for years. Sir Donald Acheson, the former chief medical officer, argued that it was due to hormones. Testosterone-fuelled young men died in accidents and violence while their less driven female peers lived quieter and safer lives, he said. Later in life, men died of heart disease from which women were protected by the female hormone, oestrogen.
But Professor Dorling warns in the BMJ that the gender gap is narrowing as women have become more emancipated and adopted lifestyles more like men. In England and Wales, the gap was widest in 1969 - with women living 6.3 years longer on average.
Smoking is the main reason why it is now narrowing again, which was taken up by women later than men. Deaths from smoking in men peaked in the late 1960s, reflecting smoking habits 20 or 30 years earlier, but were still rising in women until the late 1980s.
The authors warn this year's milestone may not be a permanent achievement. "The largest remaining untapped market for cigarettes is made up of women in poorer countries," they note.
Women versus men: the statistics
* In developed countries, average life expectancy is 79 years for women and 72 years for men.
* Among centenarians worldwide, women outnumber males nine to one.
* Zimbabwe is one of the few countries where men outlive women. The average life expectancy for men is 40 whereas for women it is only 38.
* The mortality gap is widest in Russia where females outlive men by an average of 13 years.
* Men are more likely to smoke and drink than women.
* Oestrogen in women combats heart disease by helping to reduce levels of harmful cholesterol.
* Men are four times more likely to die during the "testosterone storm" between the ages of 16-24. This is often as a result of reckless and/or violent behaviour, such as dangerous driving or fighting.
* About 125 men are conceived for every 100 women but problems that develop in the womb - cerebral palsy, premature birth, stillbirth, deformities - are more likely to afflict males.
* Women have stronger immune systems than men, which scientists think may be designed to combat the rigours of childbirth.
* Men are twice as likely as women to opt for unhealthy snacks during work, such as crisps.
* Of the 72 major causes of death, only five affect more women than men. These include breast cancer and pregnancy.
Tom Harper
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Scientists find 'missing link' to land vertebrates
By Steve Connor
Published: 06 April 2006
An amphibious creature that lived 375 million years ago has turned out to be a "missing link" in the chain of events that led to the emergence of the first fish-like animals to walk on land.
The animal bears all the hallmarks of a primitive land animal, with limb-like appendages, a crocodilian head and tooth-filled jaws, but it still retains scales, fins and gills.
Scientists have described the discovery as one of the most important in the description of the evolutionary origins of all land-dwelling vertebrates. The "fish with fingers" lived in semi-tropical water and probably used its front limbs to prop itself up or to walk in rudimentary fashion on dry land for short periods.
Scientists found fossils of the creature, ranging in size from four to nine feet long, on Ellesmere Island in the Canadian Arctic, which 375 million years ago was part of a subtropical landmass that straddled the equator.
The researchers have called the species Tiktaalik roseae after an Inuit word for "large, shallow-water fish". Its description is published today in the journal Nature.
Neil Shubin, a professor of biology at the University of Chicago and one of the leaders of the research team, said: "Tiktaalik blurs the boundary between fish and land-living animals in terms of its anatomy and its way of life. This animal is both fish and tetrapod; we jokingly call it a 'fishapod'.
"Most of the major joints of the fin are functional in this fish. The shoulder, elbow and even parts of the wrist are already there and working in ways similar to the earliest land-living animals," Professor Shubin said.
An amphibious creature that lived 375 million years ago has turned out to be a "missing link" in the chain of events that led to the emergence of the first fish-like animals to walk on land.
The animal bears all the hallmarks of a primitive land animal, with limb-like appendages, a crocodilian head and tooth-filled jaws, but it still retains scales, fins and gills.
Scientists have described the discovery as one of the most important in the description of the evolutionary origins of all land-dwelling vertebrates. The "fish with fingers" lived in semi-tropical water and probably used its front limbs to prop itself up or to walk in rudimentary fashion on dry land for short periods.
Scientists found fossils of the creature, ranging in size from four to nine feet long, on Ellesmere Island in the Canadian Arctic, which 375 million years ago was part of a subtropical landmass that straddled the equator.
The researchers have called the species Tiktaalik roseae after an Inuit word for "large, shallow-water fish". Its description is published today in the journal Nature.
Neil Shubin, a professor of biology at the University of Chicago and one of the leaders of the research team, said: "Tiktaalik blurs the boundary between fish and land-living animals in terms of its anatomy and its way of life. This animal is both fish and tetrapod; we jokingly call it a 'fishapod'.
"Most of the major joints of the fin are functional in this fish. The shoulder, elbow and even parts of the wrist are already there and working in ways similar to the earliest land-living animals," Professor Shubin said.
By Steve Connor
Published: 06 April 2006
An amphibious creature that lived 375 million years ago has turned out to be a "missing link" in the chain of events that led to the emergence of the first fish-like animals to walk on land.
The animal bears all the hallmarks of a primitive land animal, with limb-like appendages, a crocodilian head and tooth-filled jaws, but it still retains scales, fins and gills.
Scientists have described the discovery as one of the most important in the description of the evolutionary origins of all land-dwelling vertebrates. The "fish with fingers" lived in semi-tropical water and probably used its front limbs to prop itself up or to walk in rudimentary fashion on dry land for short periods.
Scientists found fossils of the creature, ranging in size from four to nine feet long, on Ellesmere Island in the Canadian Arctic, which 375 million years ago was part of a subtropical landmass that straddled the equator.
The researchers have called the species Tiktaalik roseae after an Inuit word for "large, shallow-water fish". Its description is published today in the journal Nature.
Neil Shubin, a professor of biology at the University of Chicago and one of the leaders of the research team, said: "Tiktaalik blurs the boundary between fish and land-living animals in terms of its anatomy and its way of life. This animal is both fish and tetrapod; we jokingly call it a 'fishapod'.
"Most of the major joints of the fin are functional in this fish. The shoulder, elbow and even parts of the wrist are already there and working in ways similar to the earliest land-living animals," Professor Shubin said.
An amphibious creature that lived 375 million years ago has turned out to be a "missing link" in the chain of events that led to the emergence of the first fish-like animals to walk on land.
The animal bears all the hallmarks of a primitive land animal, with limb-like appendages, a crocodilian head and tooth-filled jaws, but it still retains scales, fins and gills.
Scientists have described the discovery as one of the most important in the description of the evolutionary origins of all land-dwelling vertebrates. The "fish with fingers" lived in semi-tropical water and probably used its front limbs to prop itself up or to walk in rudimentary fashion on dry land for short periods.
Scientists found fossils of the creature, ranging in size from four to nine feet long, on Ellesmere Island in the Canadian Arctic, which 375 million years ago was part of a subtropical landmass that straddled the equator.
The researchers have called the species Tiktaalik roseae after an Inuit word for "large, shallow-water fish". Its description is published today in the journal Nature.
Neil Shubin, a professor of biology at the University of Chicago and one of the leaders of the research team, said: "Tiktaalik blurs the boundary between fish and land-living animals in terms of its anatomy and its way of life. This animal is both fish and tetrapod; we jokingly call it a 'fishapod'.
"Most of the major joints of the fin are functional in this fish. The shoulder, elbow and even parts of the wrist are already there and working in ways similar to the earliest land-living animals," Professor Shubin said.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Tosca
Composer: Giacomo Puccini
ACT I.
Cesare Angelotti, an escaped political prisoner, rushes into the church of Sant' Andrea della Valle to hide in the Attavanti chapel. As he vanishes, an old Sacristan shuffles in, praying at the sound of the Angelus. Mario Cavaradossi enters to work on his portrait of Mary Magdalene - inspired by the Marchesa Attavanti (Angelotti's sister), whom he has seen but does not know. Taking out a miniature of the singer Floria Tosca, he compares her raven beauty with that of the blonde Magdalene ("Recondita armonia"). The Sacristan grumbles disapproval and leaves. Angelotti ventures out and is recognized by his friend and fellow liberal Mario, who gives him food and hurries him back into the chapel as Tosca is heard calling outside. Forever suspicious, she jealously questions him, then prays, and reminds him of their rendezvous that evening at his villa ("Non la sospiri la nostra casetta?"). Suddenly recognizing the Marchesa Attavanti in the painting, she explodes with renewed suspicions, but he reassures her ("Qual' occhio al mondo"). When she has gone, Mario summons Angelotti from the chapel; a cannon signals that the police have discovered the escape, so the two flee to Mario's villa. Meanwhile, the Sacristan returns with choirboys who are to sing in a Te Deum that day. Their excitement is silenced by the entrance of Baron Scarpia, chief of the secret police, in search of Angelotti. When Tosca comes back to her lover, Scarpia shows her a fan with the Attavanti crest, which he has just found. Thinking Mario faithless, Tosca tearfully vows vengeance and leaves as the church fills with worshipers. Scarpia, sending his men to follow her to Angelotti, schemes to get the diva in his power ("Va, Tosca!").
ACT II.
In the Farnese Palace, Scarpia anticipates the sadistic pleasure of bending Tosca to his will ("Ha più forte sapore"). The spy Spoletta arrives, not having found Angelotti; to placate the baron he brings in Mario, who is interrogated while Tosca is heard singing a cantata at a royal gala downstairs. She enters just as her lover is being taken to an adjoining room: his arrogant silence is to be broken under torture. Unnerved by Scarpia's questioning and the sound of Mario's screams, she reveals Angelotti's hiding place. Mario is carried in; realizing what has happened, he turns on Tosca, but the officer Sciarrone rushes in to announce that Napoleon has won the Battle of Marengo, a defeat for Scarpia's side. Mario shouts his defiance of tyranny ("Vittoria!") and is dragged to prison. Scarpia, resuming his supper, suggests that Tosca yield herself to him in exchange for her lover's life. Fighting off his embraces, she protests her fate to God, having dedicated her life to art and love ("Vissi d'arte"). Scarpia again insists, but Spoletta interrupts: faced with capture, Angelotti has killed himself. Tosca, forced to give in or lose her lover, agrees to Scarpia's proposition. The baron pretends to order a mock execution for the prisoner, after which he is to be freed; Spoletta leaves. No sooner has Scarpia written a safe-conduct for the lovers than Tosca snatches a knife from the table and kills him. Wrenching the document from his stiffening fingers and placing candles at his head and a crucifix on his chest, she slips from the room.
ACT III.
The voice of a shepherd boy is heard as church bells toll the dawn. Mario awaits execution at the Castel Sant'Angelo; he bribes the jailer to convey a farewell note to Tosca. Writing it, overcome with memories of love, he gives way to despair ("E lucevan le stelle"). Suddenly Tosca runs in, filled with the story of her recent adventures. Mario caresses the hands that committed murder for his sake ("O dolci mani"), and the two hail their future. As the firing squad appears, the diva coaches Mario on how to fake his death convincingly; the soldiers fire and depart. Tosca urges Mario to hurry, but when he fails to move, she discovers that Scarpia's treachery has transcended the grave: the bullets were real. When Spoletta rushes in to arrest Tosca for Scarpia's murder, she cries to Scarpia to meet her before God, then leaps to her death.
-- courtesy of Opera News
Composer: Giacomo Puccini
ACT I.
Cesare Angelotti, an escaped political prisoner, rushes into the church of Sant' Andrea della Valle to hide in the Attavanti chapel. As he vanishes, an old Sacristan shuffles in, praying at the sound of the Angelus. Mario Cavaradossi enters to work on his portrait of Mary Magdalene - inspired by the Marchesa Attavanti (Angelotti's sister), whom he has seen but does not know. Taking out a miniature of the singer Floria Tosca, he compares her raven beauty with that of the blonde Magdalene ("Recondita armonia"). The Sacristan grumbles disapproval and leaves. Angelotti ventures out and is recognized by his friend and fellow liberal Mario, who gives him food and hurries him back into the chapel as Tosca is heard calling outside. Forever suspicious, she jealously questions him, then prays, and reminds him of their rendezvous that evening at his villa ("Non la sospiri la nostra casetta?"). Suddenly recognizing the Marchesa Attavanti in the painting, she explodes with renewed suspicions, but he reassures her ("Qual' occhio al mondo"). When she has gone, Mario summons Angelotti from the chapel; a cannon signals that the police have discovered the escape, so the two flee to Mario's villa. Meanwhile, the Sacristan returns with choirboys who are to sing in a Te Deum that day. Their excitement is silenced by the entrance of Baron Scarpia, chief of the secret police, in search of Angelotti. When Tosca comes back to her lover, Scarpia shows her a fan with the Attavanti crest, which he has just found. Thinking Mario faithless, Tosca tearfully vows vengeance and leaves as the church fills with worshipers. Scarpia, sending his men to follow her to Angelotti, schemes to get the diva in his power ("Va, Tosca!").
ACT II.
In the Farnese Palace, Scarpia anticipates the sadistic pleasure of bending Tosca to his will ("Ha più forte sapore"). The spy Spoletta arrives, not having found Angelotti; to placate the baron he brings in Mario, who is interrogated while Tosca is heard singing a cantata at a royal gala downstairs. She enters just as her lover is being taken to an adjoining room: his arrogant silence is to be broken under torture. Unnerved by Scarpia's questioning and the sound of Mario's screams, she reveals Angelotti's hiding place. Mario is carried in; realizing what has happened, he turns on Tosca, but the officer Sciarrone rushes in to announce that Napoleon has won the Battle of Marengo, a defeat for Scarpia's side. Mario shouts his defiance of tyranny ("Vittoria!") and is dragged to prison. Scarpia, resuming his supper, suggests that Tosca yield herself to him in exchange for her lover's life. Fighting off his embraces, she protests her fate to God, having dedicated her life to art and love ("Vissi d'arte"). Scarpia again insists, but Spoletta interrupts: faced with capture, Angelotti has killed himself. Tosca, forced to give in or lose her lover, agrees to Scarpia's proposition. The baron pretends to order a mock execution for the prisoner, after which he is to be freed; Spoletta leaves. No sooner has Scarpia written a safe-conduct for the lovers than Tosca snatches a knife from the table and kills him. Wrenching the document from his stiffening fingers and placing candles at his head and a crucifix on his chest, she slips from the room.
ACT III.
The voice of a shepherd boy is heard as church bells toll the dawn. Mario awaits execution at the Castel Sant'Angelo; he bribes the jailer to convey a farewell note to Tosca. Writing it, overcome with memories of love, he gives way to despair ("E lucevan le stelle"). Suddenly Tosca runs in, filled with the story of her recent adventures. Mario caresses the hands that committed murder for his sake ("O dolci mani"), and the two hail their future. As the firing squad appears, the diva coaches Mario on how to fake his death convincingly; the soldiers fire and depart. Tosca urges Mario to hurry, but when he fails to move, she discovers that Scarpia's treachery has transcended the grave: the bullets were real. When Spoletta rushes in to arrest Tosca for Scarpia's murder, she cries to Scarpia to meet her before God, then leaps to her death.
-- courtesy of Opera News
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Los Machucambos - Pepito
Pepito mi corazón (Pepiti, Pepito)
Pepito de mis amores (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito eres mi vida (Pepiti, Pepito)
Mi cariño, mi querido (Pepiti, Pepito)
Nunca comprendido (Ou-wa)
Nunca comprendido (Ou-wa)
Porque me intereso en ti
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Besa me (Besa me)
Entre tus brazos
Pepito mi corazón (Pepiti, Pepito)
Dame mas de tu cariño (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito mi corazon (Pepiti, Pepito)
Pepito de mis amores (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito eres mi vida (Pepiti, Pepito)
Mi cariño, mi querido (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta comprendido (Ou-wa)
Nunca comprendido (Ou-wa)
Porque me intereso en ti (Ou-wa)
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Besa me (Besa me)
Entre tus brazos
Pepito mi corazón (Pepiti, Pepito)
Dame mas de tu cariño (Pepiti, Pepito)
Y canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito mi corazón (Pepiti, Pepito)
Pepito de mis amores (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito eres mi vida (Pepiti, Pepito)
Mi cariño, mi querido (Pepiti, Pepito)
Nunca comprendido (Ou-wa)
Nunca comprendido (Ou-wa)
Porque me intereso en ti
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Besa me (Besa me)
Entre tus brazos
Pepito mi corazón (Pepiti, Pepito)
Dame mas de tu cariño (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito mi corazon (Pepiti, Pepito)
Pepito de mis amores (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Pepito eres mi vida (Pepiti, Pepito)
Mi cariño, mi querido (Pepiti, Pepito)
Canta comprendido (Ou-wa)
Nunca comprendido (Ou-wa)
Porque me intereso en ti (Ou-wa)
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Quiere me (Quiere me)
Besa me (Besa me)
Entre tus brazos
Pepito mi corazón (Pepiti, Pepito)
Dame mas de tu cariño (Pepiti, Pepito)
Y canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Canta me asi (Ou-wa)
Con amor
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
"Daffodils" (1804)
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).
Monday, March 27, 2006
Edith Piaf - Non Je Ne Regrette Rien Lyrics
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu`on M`a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M`est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
C`est Paye, Balaye, Oublie, Je Me Fous Du Passe
Avec Mes Souvenirs J`ai Allume Le Feu
Mes Shagrins, Mes Plaisirs,
Je N`ai Plus Besoin D`eux
Balaye Les Amours Avec Leurs Tremolos
Balaye Pour Toujours
Je Reparas A Zero
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu`on M`a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M`est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Car Ma Vie, Car Me Joies
Aujourd`hui Ca Commence Avec Toi
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu`on M`a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M`est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
C`est Paye, Balaye, Oublie, Je Me Fous Du Passe
Avec Mes Souvenirs J`ai Allume Le Feu
Mes Shagrins, Mes Plaisirs,
Je N`ai Plus Besoin D`eux
Balaye Les Amours Avec Leurs Tremolos
Balaye Pour Toujours
Je Reparas A Zero
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Ni Le Bien Qu`on M`a Fait, Ni Le Mal
Tout Ca M`est Bien Egal
Non, Rien De Rien, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
Car Ma Vie, Car Me Joies
Aujourd`hui Ca Commence Avec Toi
GOANET READER
Memories of another Panjim...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I could write about Panjim forever, with no objectivity or clarity, but a chuckle and a tear. I won't mention that spectacular cyclone that lifted our neighbours' roof off and sent it clattering into the angry river flowing under the Patto bridge.
Memories of another Panjim...
By Isabel de Santa Rita Vas
She's quaint, they explain. How picturesque, they tell you. And you blink and take another good look. You've never thought of her in such adjectives. To you, she's full of nouns and verbs, she's your home town, where you've always done things, and who's mapped your life in subtle or more determined ways. To me, Nova Goa, Cidade de Goa, Panjim or Panaji are not sign-boards of plush hotels or sheeth-koddi eating-houses. They are the ever changing make-up your cosy mum wears when she goes to town.
I could write about Panjim forever, with no objectivity or clarity, but a chuckle and a tear. I could take vantage points from roof-tops I've climbed, to river parapets I’ve run on, could describe old schools and frisky school friends so exciting that I invariably prayed I'd fail the year, and please-God-let-me-remain-in-this-same-class-next-year. But I won't. I won't mention that spectacular cyclone that lifted our neighbours' roof off and sent it clattering into the angry river flowing under the Patto bridge. Some memories one does well not to share.
But lest I be accused of being excessively possessive, I shall establish my generosity and equanimity by letting you flick through some of these dog-eared memories. Maybe I shall tell you about sounds, about buying and selling, about moving around, about seasonal events, and if you have a stomach for more such jumble-sale stuff, then I'll show you some great faces from this album, all of a half-century old.
Panjim, to me, has been a melodious city.
The alvorada or the cheerful notes of a brass band at dawn on festive occasions -- this is one of the most gorgeous sounds of my childhood, almost as heart-warming as the bulbuls in the glowing sunrise one is too lazy to watch on other days.
The alvorada would be played by the Panjim Police Band wending its way round town on mornings of celebration and if there's an antonym to alarm-clock, here you heard it: a harmony-clock for the slumbering Panjimite. The same band would often play of an evening in the various garden band-stands, and all of us would crowd around, running in the periphery of our parents, waving out to small friends, craning our necks for a glimpse of the sparkling trombone.
A different sound, but oh-so-homey, is the song of the woman carrying a huge basket of salt on her head, or often following a gaddo full of salt, driven by her husband: "Mitt-zaiem-gue-e-e-e…"
To us sweaty kids swinging a school-satchel at noon (hey, nothing like the heavy-weight back-breaking monsters our kiddies today lug around ) the staccato call of the 'ice-fruit-walla', "aiiice-croatttt!" was irresistible, until we spied the sweaty vendor of the yellow and red lollies, lustily slurping them and smuggling them back into the ice-box.
In later years, a more natty young man had acquired himself a fancy hand-cart and went around dispensing mutton patties that he hawked in the most Mediterranean accents, “Pasteis de cabrito….”
The campa who did the rounds, bell and walking-stick in hand, announcing to the neighbourhood the death and funeral of a townsman or woman, he gave charm to the fact of death. The crows at even-tide, specially around the Campal river banks are the signature tune of holiday time, for those were the days when everybody went to Miramar of an evening to meet friends, listen to music, savour some juicy oysters, and scramble into the lacy edge of the waves. The town pealed church bells, carreira horns, and the hopeful sorticar's (lottery vendor) call "sort-abeitt...".
Looking back, the business of buying and selling was not a crass soul-less affair, but a ritual full of textures, smells, sound effects and light and dark, and people, one-to-one sort of folks that a small town accommodates.
Fish came to the house, or the fisher-ladies did -- who ever went to the market, I never knew there existed a Panjim market until I was a full-grown adult. The women-vendors and the women-buyers from the house had a daily ritual by the back steps, exchanging greetings and news, examining the visvonn or the bangddo with experienced hands, haggling for formality’s sake over the price.
As we helped hoist the heavy drippy basket to the lady's sturdy head, food and fellowship had been shared. If there were nice calvan (clams) this morning, some would be sent to the lady next door, who, granny said, could do with them.
To get our load of firewood, we walked downstairs to the river-front and purchased it from the boat that docked right below our verandah next to the Patto bridge; or from the bullock-cart that drove past; and for lighter fuel we carried a gunny sack to the carpenter next door for the huge loads of sawdust that he sold us for a few coins -- the odour of just-sawn wood, the flying curls of shavings and the “bai-go” greeting of the carpenter is all fuel for joy.
For paper and ink bottles we walked down the street a few meters to the Bholo shop, where Mr. Bhale somehow managed to locate for you whatever you needed from his cascading mountain of stationery. The chaos in the little one-door shop had to be seen to be believed, and we kids at home were accused by our mother of being disorganized and a lost cause, in short a complete 'bholo'.
For dress materials, we visited the Armazens Vaglo, where the older Mr. Vaglos, good friends of our grandfather, measured out yards of flowered prints for our Easter dress and saved a silk fan or a box of sweets and little posies of paper flowers for us at agarbatti-Diwali time. For 'bojes' we went to Café Real and for an ice-cream the place was Esquimo.
The celebrations seem to have been a-plenty: Christmas was mid-night Mass and visiting neighbours and relatives and sharing news of family and good wishes. Diwali was doing the rounds of the shops to say hello and good luck. Chathurti was a visit to all the beautifully decorated shrines of Ganapati within the houses of neighbours.
Lent was full of long winding candle-lit processions and opa-garbed men shouldering life-size dramatic statues, wending through the streets of the town. December was a shower of fireworks by the Church square and kaddio-boddio and white-sugar-cashewnut-sweets from Divarkar’s stall at the fair. Carnival was small brothers armed with cocotes, and the commencement of the school year in June was the glorious smell of new rain and freshly baked books and wagging fingers of parents, and splashy puddles to run through on the way back home.
Reminiscing about how we traveled, in, around and out of town, I am transported to another world, one that moved more leisurely, perhaps more thoughtfully.
My father's Morris Minor was so much a part of our childhood that it held no excitement for me -- unlike the previous -- Citroen? --- that needed an energetic manivela or henddel to chug it into motion.
The carro de cavalo was poetry pure and simple, since our grandparents never came back home from their evening drive in the carro pulled by a lovely pair of horses, without bringing something exciting to be tucked into our childish hands: a box of crayons, some peppermint.
But mostly we walked, to Church, to school, to the dentist. We got to know the town, and it grew close to us -- footpath, gully, hill, river, and sea-front. My dream was to travel by carreira -- those squat little buses that have quite vanished from our landscape -- which I finally did when I started commuting to College at Miramar, for the princely fare of four annas.
The bullock-cart trotted downtown too, laden with Mangalore tiles, or salt and what else? Single-bullock carts for passengers were more common after we had crossed the ferry to visit relatives in Divar. The rivers were busy thoroughfares from dawn to dusk.
Tonas (or larger boats) transported merchandise to town, canoas (or little canoes) carried a couple of people in them.
We set out in a lancha (launch) well-stocked with a lunch packet to visit our own village of Aldona; it was the ferry-boat that took us to Betim; the patmarim sailed in the distance and was excitedly pointed out to us, and the barge pregnant with mine ore sailed coldly by. The Bombay Steamer was a thrill beyond compare, and if you were coming home from Bombay for your holidays, your heart swam ahead of the boat, dreaming of the glint of tears in your parents’ eyes, of cashews and mangoes and the rang-te-teng band at the Chapel feast in Aldona.
The city was clean, though I have no idea who swept the streets. I remember no water shortage, ever -- we had plenty of wells that were later deliberately choked when the building fever began -- and no power cut, ever (the charm of candle light and petromax was reserved for the villages).
I never saw the town flooded even in the heaviest downpour. The houses had what an architect friend calls a good connection with the sky and a generous amount of protection and shade from its verandahs for the passerby. In the late 50s and 60s it had a fair quantum of road traffic but no real din on the streets.
Panjim was full of people -- or so I thought as a ten year old. My parents knew so many people. I always wondered how I would get to know all these nice folks on the streets who waved hello and pecked us on both cheeks. I decided that probably my parents would some day hold a large meeting and introduce me to all the people they knew. Alas, they never got round to it... but I still receive my quota of hellos, thank God.
Faces from my childhood are wrinkled with love and grace. Professor Kenkro who taught us drawing at the Liceu; Venkatesh, the old man with and unbelievable little queue on his tonsured head, who always came from Aldona with coconuts by boat; the six-footer of a family tailor whose name was Alfaiate Comprido (the long tailor), who remembers my brothers' names even today; the bhangui lady whose tough lot was to carry the night-soil in a can to the river-front; Laurente, our cook, who composed tiatr scripts in the attic. Friends, family, domestic help and a small town that was safe and home.
Decades later, Panaji is more democratic today. More cosmopolitan: many languages, many ideas. The handshakes cut across many old barriers. But I must confess the old town of the old days had a charm all her own.
It strikes me that it was a kind town that harboured my childhood and youth, probably a place of some privilege for me, a middle-class child.
Was I insensitive to those who must've been on the margins? A vague twinge gnaws at me. But the town did not isolate me, or so I hope. I am grateful for the safety, the human face of a small town, the roads, windows, doorways, river-ways and sea-ways she graciously provided to a child busy growing, asking, questing and -- quietly -- painting the town red. (ENDS)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ISABEL DE SANTA RITA VAS teaches English at the Dhempe College of Arts and Science, Miramar. She's a member of the Mustard Seed Art Company, member of the NGO Positive People for HIV/AIDS awareness, care and advocacy, and a member of the Research Institute for Women, Goa.
This essay was first published in PARMAL, the annual journal of the Goa Heritage Action Group, under the title 'Painting The Town Red', from where it is being reprinted with permission. PARMAL is an easily-recommedable buy, priced at Rs 100. and can be purchased from the GHAG at ghaggoa at rediffmail.com or www.goaheritage.or See http://groups.yahoo.com/group/goaheritage
Memories of another Panjim...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I could write about Panjim forever, with no objectivity or clarity, but a chuckle and a tear. I won't mention that spectacular cyclone that lifted our neighbours' roof off and sent it clattering into the angry river flowing under the Patto bridge.
Memories of another Panjim...
By Isabel de Santa Rita Vas
She's quaint, they explain. How picturesque, they tell you. And you blink and take another good look. You've never thought of her in such adjectives. To you, she's full of nouns and verbs, she's your home town, where you've always done things, and who's mapped your life in subtle or more determined ways. To me, Nova Goa, Cidade de Goa, Panjim or Panaji are not sign-boards of plush hotels or sheeth-koddi eating-houses. They are the ever changing make-up your cosy mum wears when she goes to town.
I could write about Panjim forever, with no objectivity or clarity, but a chuckle and a tear. I could take vantage points from roof-tops I've climbed, to river parapets I’ve run on, could describe old schools and frisky school friends so exciting that I invariably prayed I'd fail the year, and please-God-let-me-remain-in-this-same-class-next-year. But I won't. I won't mention that spectacular cyclone that lifted our neighbours' roof off and sent it clattering into the angry river flowing under the Patto bridge. Some memories one does well not to share.
But lest I be accused of being excessively possessive, I shall establish my generosity and equanimity by letting you flick through some of these dog-eared memories. Maybe I shall tell you about sounds, about buying and selling, about moving around, about seasonal events, and if you have a stomach for more such jumble-sale stuff, then I'll show you some great faces from this album, all of a half-century old.
Panjim, to me, has been a melodious city.
The alvorada or the cheerful notes of a brass band at dawn on festive occasions -- this is one of the most gorgeous sounds of my childhood, almost as heart-warming as the bulbuls in the glowing sunrise one is too lazy to watch on other days.
The alvorada would be played by the Panjim Police Band wending its way round town on mornings of celebration and if there's an antonym to alarm-clock, here you heard it: a harmony-clock for the slumbering Panjimite. The same band would often play of an evening in the various garden band-stands, and all of us would crowd around, running in the periphery of our parents, waving out to small friends, craning our necks for a glimpse of the sparkling trombone.
A different sound, but oh-so-homey, is the song of the woman carrying a huge basket of salt on her head, or often following a gaddo full of salt, driven by her husband: "Mitt-zaiem-gue-e-e-e…"
To us sweaty kids swinging a school-satchel at noon (hey, nothing like the heavy-weight back-breaking monsters our kiddies today lug around ) the staccato call of the 'ice-fruit-walla', "aiiice-croatttt!" was irresistible, until we spied the sweaty vendor of the yellow and red lollies, lustily slurping them and smuggling them back into the ice-box.
In later years, a more natty young man had acquired himself a fancy hand-cart and went around dispensing mutton patties that he hawked in the most Mediterranean accents, “Pasteis de cabrito….”
The campa who did the rounds, bell and walking-stick in hand, announcing to the neighbourhood the death and funeral of a townsman or woman, he gave charm to the fact of death. The crows at even-tide, specially around the Campal river banks are the signature tune of holiday time, for those were the days when everybody went to Miramar of an evening to meet friends, listen to music, savour some juicy oysters, and scramble into the lacy edge of the waves. The town pealed church bells, carreira horns, and the hopeful sorticar's (lottery vendor) call "sort-abeitt...".
Looking back, the business of buying and selling was not a crass soul-less affair, but a ritual full of textures, smells, sound effects and light and dark, and people, one-to-one sort of folks that a small town accommodates.
Fish came to the house, or the fisher-ladies did -- who ever went to the market, I never knew there existed a Panjim market until I was a full-grown adult. The women-vendors and the women-buyers from the house had a daily ritual by the back steps, exchanging greetings and news, examining the visvonn or the bangddo with experienced hands, haggling for formality’s sake over the price.
As we helped hoist the heavy drippy basket to the lady's sturdy head, food and fellowship had been shared. If there were nice calvan (clams) this morning, some would be sent to the lady next door, who, granny said, could do with them.
To get our load of firewood, we walked downstairs to the river-front and purchased it from the boat that docked right below our verandah next to the Patto bridge; or from the bullock-cart that drove past; and for lighter fuel we carried a gunny sack to the carpenter next door for the huge loads of sawdust that he sold us for a few coins -- the odour of just-sawn wood, the flying curls of shavings and the “bai-go” greeting of the carpenter is all fuel for joy.
For paper and ink bottles we walked down the street a few meters to the Bholo shop, where Mr. Bhale somehow managed to locate for you whatever you needed from his cascading mountain of stationery. The chaos in the little one-door shop had to be seen to be believed, and we kids at home were accused by our mother of being disorganized and a lost cause, in short a complete 'bholo'.
For dress materials, we visited the Armazens Vaglo, where the older Mr. Vaglos, good friends of our grandfather, measured out yards of flowered prints for our Easter dress and saved a silk fan or a box of sweets and little posies of paper flowers for us at agarbatti-Diwali time. For 'bojes' we went to Café Real and for an ice-cream the place was Esquimo.
The celebrations seem to have been a-plenty: Christmas was mid-night Mass and visiting neighbours and relatives and sharing news of family and good wishes. Diwali was doing the rounds of the shops to say hello and good luck. Chathurti was a visit to all the beautifully decorated shrines of Ganapati within the houses of neighbours.
Lent was full of long winding candle-lit processions and opa-garbed men shouldering life-size dramatic statues, wending through the streets of the town. December was a shower of fireworks by the Church square and kaddio-boddio and white-sugar-cashewnut-sweets from Divarkar’s stall at the fair. Carnival was small brothers armed with cocotes, and the commencement of the school year in June was the glorious smell of new rain and freshly baked books and wagging fingers of parents, and splashy puddles to run through on the way back home.
Reminiscing about how we traveled, in, around and out of town, I am transported to another world, one that moved more leisurely, perhaps more thoughtfully.
My father's Morris Minor was so much a part of our childhood that it held no excitement for me -- unlike the previous -- Citroen? --- that needed an energetic manivela or henddel to chug it into motion.
The carro de cavalo was poetry pure and simple, since our grandparents never came back home from their evening drive in the carro pulled by a lovely pair of horses, without bringing something exciting to be tucked into our childish hands: a box of crayons, some peppermint.
But mostly we walked, to Church, to school, to the dentist. We got to know the town, and it grew close to us -- footpath, gully, hill, river, and sea-front. My dream was to travel by carreira -- those squat little buses that have quite vanished from our landscape -- which I finally did when I started commuting to College at Miramar, for the princely fare of four annas.
The bullock-cart trotted downtown too, laden with Mangalore tiles, or salt and what else? Single-bullock carts for passengers were more common after we had crossed the ferry to visit relatives in Divar. The rivers were busy thoroughfares from dawn to dusk.
Tonas (or larger boats) transported merchandise to town, canoas (or little canoes) carried a couple of people in them.
We set out in a lancha (launch) well-stocked with a lunch packet to visit our own village of Aldona; it was the ferry-boat that took us to Betim; the patmarim sailed in the distance and was excitedly pointed out to us, and the barge pregnant with mine ore sailed coldly by. The Bombay Steamer was a thrill beyond compare, and if you were coming home from Bombay for your holidays, your heart swam ahead of the boat, dreaming of the glint of tears in your parents’ eyes, of cashews and mangoes and the rang-te-teng band at the Chapel feast in Aldona.
The city was clean, though I have no idea who swept the streets. I remember no water shortage, ever -- we had plenty of wells that were later deliberately choked when the building fever began -- and no power cut, ever (the charm of candle light and petromax was reserved for the villages).
I never saw the town flooded even in the heaviest downpour. The houses had what an architect friend calls a good connection with the sky and a generous amount of protection and shade from its verandahs for the passerby. In the late 50s and 60s it had a fair quantum of road traffic but no real din on the streets.
Panjim was full of people -- or so I thought as a ten year old. My parents knew so many people. I always wondered how I would get to know all these nice folks on the streets who waved hello and pecked us on both cheeks. I decided that probably my parents would some day hold a large meeting and introduce me to all the people they knew. Alas, they never got round to it... but I still receive my quota of hellos, thank God.
Faces from my childhood are wrinkled with love and grace. Professor Kenkro who taught us drawing at the Liceu; Venkatesh, the old man with and unbelievable little queue on his tonsured head, who always came from Aldona with coconuts by boat; the six-footer of a family tailor whose name was Alfaiate Comprido (the long tailor), who remembers my brothers' names even today; the bhangui lady whose tough lot was to carry the night-soil in a can to the river-front; Laurente, our cook, who composed tiatr scripts in the attic. Friends, family, domestic help and a small town that was safe and home.
Decades later, Panaji is more democratic today. More cosmopolitan: many languages, many ideas. The handshakes cut across many old barriers. But I must confess the old town of the old days had a charm all her own.
It strikes me that it was a kind town that harboured my childhood and youth, probably a place of some privilege for me, a middle-class child.
Was I insensitive to those who must've been on the margins? A vague twinge gnaws at me. But the town did not isolate me, or so I hope. I am grateful for the safety, the human face of a small town, the roads, windows, doorways, river-ways and sea-ways she graciously provided to a child busy growing, asking, questing and -- quietly -- painting the town red. (ENDS)
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ISABEL DE SANTA RITA VAS teaches English at the Dhempe College of Arts and Science, Miramar. She's a member of the Mustard Seed Art Company, member of the NGO Positive People for HIV/AIDS awareness, care and advocacy, and a member of the Research Institute for Women, Goa.
This essay was first published in PARMAL, the annual journal of the Goa Heritage Action Group, under the title 'Painting The Town Red', from where it is being reprinted with permission. PARMAL is an easily-recommedable buy, priced at Rs 100. and can be purchased from the GHAG at ghaggoa at rediffmail.com or www.goaheritage.or See http://groups.yahoo.com/group/goaheritage
Saturday, March 25, 2006
255-year-old tortoise dies in Kolkata zoo
By Indo Asian News Service
Kolkata, March 23 (IANS) Adwaita, the nearly 255-year-old
giant tortoise that roamed the Alipore Zoo here, has died.
The Aldabra-Seychelles tortoise had not been well for the
past few days. It was found dead by zookeepers Wednesday when
they went to his enclosure with medicine.
'He had developed a wound on his chest. He was not keeping
well. We were keeping a close watch on him,' West Bengal
Forest Minister Jogesh Burman said, mourning the death of
Adwaita, meaning the peerless one or the only one.
In deference to his more than two-and-half-century's
existence, this grand old resident of Kolkata was named
Adwaita by Burman last year and given more green space to
amble along.
The 250-kg male was a vegetarian. He was brought to the city
255 years ago by the British colonialists.
Adwaita was brought to the zoo 130 years ago after spending
years in the garden of Robert Clive (1725-1774), the victor
of the Battle of Plassey in 1757 who consolidated the British
empire in India.
When the zoo came up 130 years ago, the tortoise was shifted
to the premises.
Since then, the dark grey land tortoise has lived in a small,
rocky enclosure.
Alipore Zoo director Subir Chowdhury said there were
documents to prove the tortoise is about 255 years old.
'A tortoise of this species can live up to 320 years
according to available records. He may even be over 300
years,' Burman said.
If only the tortoise could speak, what a tale he would have
to tell!
There was an old tortoise that got sent off
Whose life had an East India kick-off
Tho’ never that nifty,
He made 200 and fifty
Which is more than Strauss and that Flintoff!!
By Indo Asian News Service
Kolkata, March 23 (IANS) Adwaita, the nearly 255-year-old
giant tortoise that roamed the Alipore Zoo here, has died.
The Aldabra-Seychelles tortoise had not been well for the
past few days. It was found dead by zookeepers Wednesday when
they went to his enclosure with medicine.
'He had developed a wound on his chest. He was not keeping
well. We were keeping a close watch on him,' West Bengal
Forest Minister Jogesh Burman said, mourning the death of
Adwaita, meaning the peerless one or the only one.
In deference to his more than two-and-half-century's
existence, this grand old resident of Kolkata was named
Adwaita by Burman last year and given more green space to
amble along.
The 250-kg male was a vegetarian. He was brought to the city
255 years ago by the British colonialists.
Adwaita was brought to the zoo 130 years ago after spending
years in the garden of Robert Clive (1725-1774), the victor
of the Battle of Plassey in 1757 who consolidated the British
empire in India.
When the zoo came up 130 years ago, the tortoise was shifted
to the premises.
Since then, the dark grey land tortoise has lived in a small,
rocky enclosure.
Alipore Zoo director Subir Chowdhury said there were
documents to prove the tortoise is about 255 years old.
'A tortoise of this species can live up to 320 years
according to available records. He may even be over 300
years,' Burman said.
If only the tortoise could speak, what a tale he would have
to tell!
There was an old tortoise that got sent off
Whose life had an East India kick-off
Tho’ never that nifty,
He made 200 and fifty
Which is more than Strauss and that Flintoff!!
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
From modems to alarms: the world of bird mimics
By Steve Connor, Science Editor
Published: 22 March 2006
If your computer modem sounds a little odd - try checking the tree outside.
According to a new CD released by the British Library today, what sounds like the search for a connection may, in fact, be a blackbird in full voice.
The CD, Bird Mimicry, is compiled from recordings held by the British Library Sound Archive which stores the world's largest collection of the sounds of nature.
Birds can mimic almost any sound, whether it comes from an animal within earshot or the noises of inanimate objects such as a squeaky farm fence, a mobile phone or a digital alarm clock.
Starlings have been known to learn the high-pitched, duo-toned screech of a car alarm. The sound archive's CD includes Sparkie Williams, a champion talking budgerigar, and the hand-reared bullfinches who were taught to whistle German folk tunes. "As the birds were taught the same tunes by different trainers, each bird sings a slightly different version - much like if two humans were whistling the same song," said a sound archivist, Cheryl Tipp.
Then there's the fawn-breasted bower bird in Papua New Guinea which learnt the sounds made by workmen mending a tin roof: the noise of hammering, sawing - even the rattles of a stray ball-bearing rolling around inside a paint can.
Mimicking sounds is an integral part of how birds learn to build up the vital repertoire of songs that they need to defend a territory or attract a mate, said Professor Tim Birkhead, an ornithologist at the University of Sheffield. "For a bird it makes absolutely no difference whether the sound is from an artificial source, from another bird or whether it comes from its dad," Professor Birkhead said. "Mimicry is the entire basis for how they acquire their songs and there are whole categories of birds that will happily incorporate other strange sounds into their songs to produce a vast, rambling repertoire," he said.
Marsh warblers and starlings are particularly good mimics and have been known to pick up and incorporate the distinctive songs of other species. "I once knew of a captive goldfinch with a very distinctive song. Within three months, the local starlings had learnt to imitate it and they were still singing the song two years after the goldfinch had died," Professor Birkhead said.
Andre Farrar, a spokesman for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, said that his father used to call his Jack Russell terrier with a distinctive whistle. The local starlings soon learnt to imitate it and quickly learnt how to "call" the dog to the bottom of the garden. "There's an evolutionary advantage to birds who can augment their songs. Females of many species choose those males with the most complex songs, so there is a biological imperative to imitate sounds," Mr Farrar said.
Perhaps the strangest bird mimic is the black-throated honeyguide of Africa which mimics the sound of a bees' nest to attract the attention of local people. The bird then guides the humans to the hive itself to share the spoils.
But beware - birds don't like noisy neighbours. Studies have shown that as ambient noise from towns and roads increases, so does the tendency for songbirds to move to quieter sites.
Dutch scientists showed that it was the younger and more inexperienced birds that were forced to build their nests close to busy roads. Older, more experienced birds preferred to establish their territories well away from the sound of traffic, the scientists found.
If your computer modem sounds a little odd - try checking the tree outside.
According to a new CD released by the British Library today, what sounds like the search for a connection may, in fact, be a blackbird in full voice.
The CD, Bird Mimicry, is compiled from recordings held by the British Library Sound Archive which stores the world's largest collection of the sounds of nature.
Birds can mimic almost any sound, whether it comes from an animal within earshot or the noises of inanimate objects such as a squeaky farm fence, a mobile phone or a digital alarm clock.
Starlings have been known to learn the high-pitched, duo-toned screech of a car alarm. The sound archive's CD includes Sparkie Williams, a champion talking budgerigar, and the hand-reared bullfinches who were taught to whistle German folk tunes. "As the birds were taught the same tunes by different trainers, each bird sings a slightly different version - much like if two humans were whistling the same song," said a sound archivist, Cheryl Tipp.
Then there's the fawn-breasted bower bird in Papua New Guinea which learnt the sounds made by workmen mending a tin roof: the noise of hammering, sawing - even the rattles of a stray ball-bearing rolling around inside a paint can.
Mimicking sounds is an integral part of how birds learn to build up the vital repertoire of songs that they need to defend a territory or attract a mate, said Professor Tim Birkhead, an ornithologist at the University of Sheffield. "For a bird it makes absolutely no difference whether the sound is from an artificial source, from another bird or whether it comes from its dad," Professor Birkhead said. "Mimicry is the entire basis for how they acquire their songs and there are whole categories of birds that will happily incorporate other strange sounds into their songs to produce a vast, rambling repertoire," he said.
Marsh warblers and starlings are particularly good mimics and have been known to pick up and incorporate the distinctive songs of other species. "I once knew of a captive goldfinch with a very distinctive song. Within three months, the local starlings had learnt to imitate it and they were still singing the song two years after the goldfinch had died," Professor Birkhead said.
Andre Farrar, a spokesman for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, said that his father used to call his Jack Russell terrier with a distinctive whistle. The local starlings soon learnt to imitate it and quickly learnt how to "call" the dog to the bottom of the garden. "There's an evolutionary advantage to birds who can augment their songs. Females of many species choose those males with the most complex songs, so there is a biological imperative to imitate sounds," Mr Farrar said.
Perhaps the strangest bird mimic is the black-throated honeyguide of Africa which mimics the sound of a bees' nest to attract the attention of local people. The bird then guides the humans to the hive itself to share the spoils.
But beware - birds don't like noisy neighbours. Studies have shown that as ambient noise from towns and roads increases, so does the tendency for songbirds to move to quieter sites.
Dutch scientists showed that it was the younger and more inexperienced birds that were forced to build their nests close to busy roads. Older, more experienced birds preferred to establish their territories well away from the sound of traffic, the scientists found.
By Steve Connor, Science Editor
Published: 22 March 2006
If your computer modem sounds a little odd - try checking the tree outside.
According to a new CD released by the British Library today, what sounds like the search for a connection may, in fact, be a blackbird in full voice.
The CD, Bird Mimicry, is compiled from recordings held by the British Library Sound Archive which stores the world's largest collection of the sounds of nature.
Birds can mimic almost any sound, whether it comes from an animal within earshot or the noises of inanimate objects such as a squeaky farm fence, a mobile phone or a digital alarm clock.
Starlings have been known to learn the high-pitched, duo-toned screech of a car alarm. The sound archive's CD includes Sparkie Williams, a champion talking budgerigar, and the hand-reared bullfinches who were taught to whistle German folk tunes. "As the birds were taught the same tunes by different trainers, each bird sings a slightly different version - much like if two humans were whistling the same song," said a sound archivist, Cheryl Tipp.
Then there's the fawn-breasted bower bird in Papua New Guinea which learnt the sounds made by workmen mending a tin roof: the noise of hammering, sawing - even the rattles of a stray ball-bearing rolling around inside a paint can.
Mimicking sounds is an integral part of how birds learn to build up the vital repertoire of songs that they need to defend a territory or attract a mate, said Professor Tim Birkhead, an ornithologist at the University of Sheffield. "For a bird it makes absolutely no difference whether the sound is from an artificial source, from another bird or whether it comes from its dad," Professor Birkhead said. "Mimicry is the entire basis for how they acquire their songs and there are whole categories of birds that will happily incorporate other strange sounds into their songs to produce a vast, rambling repertoire," he said.
Marsh warblers and starlings are particularly good mimics and have been known to pick up and incorporate the distinctive songs of other species. "I once knew of a captive goldfinch with a very distinctive song. Within three months, the local starlings had learnt to imitate it and they were still singing the song two years after the goldfinch had died," Professor Birkhead said.
Andre Farrar, a spokesman for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, said that his father used to call his Jack Russell terrier with a distinctive whistle. The local starlings soon learnt to imitate it and quickly learnt how to "call" the dog to the bottom of the garden. "There's an evolutionary advantage to birds who can augment their songs. Females of many species choose those males with the most complex songs, so there is a biological imperative to imitate sounds," Mr Farrar said.
Perhaps the strangest bird mimic is the black-throated honeyguide of Africa which mimics the sound of a bees' nest to attract the attention of local people. The bird then guides the humans to the hive itself to share the spoils.
But beware - birds don't like noisy neighbours. Studies have shown that as ambient noise from towns and roads increases, so does the tendency for songbirds to move to quieter sites.
Dutch scientists showed that it was the younger and more inexperienced birds that were forced to build their nests close to busy roads. Older, more experienced birds preferred to establish their territories well away from the sound of traffic, the scientists found.
If your computer modem sounds a little odd - try checking the tree outside.
According to a new CD released by the British Library today, what sounds like the search for a connection may, in fact, be a blackbird in full voice.
The CD, Bird Mimicry, is compiled from recordings held by the British Library Sound Archive which stores the world's largest collection of the sounds of nature.
Birds can mimic almost any sound, whether it comes from an animal within earshot or the noises of inanimate objects such as a squeaky farm fence, a mobile phone or a digital alarm clock.
Starlings have been known to learn the high-pitched, duo-toned screech of a car alarm. The sound archive's CD includes Sparkie Williams, a champion talking budgerigar, and the hand-reared bullfinches who were taught to whistle German folk tunes. "As the birds were taught the same tunes by different trainers, each bird sings a slightly different version - much like if two humans were whistling the same song," said a sound archivist, Cheryl Tipp.
Then there's the fawn-breasted bower bird in Papua New Guinea which learnt the sounds made by workmen mending a tin roof: the noise of hammering, sawing - even the rattles of a stray ball-bearing rolling around inside a paint can.
Mimicking sounds is an integral part of how birds learn to build up the vital repertoire of songs that they need to defend a territory or attract a mate, said Professor Tim Birkhead, an ornithologist at the University of Sheffield. "For a bird it makes absolutely no difference whether the sound is from an artificial source, from another bird or whether it comes from its dad," Professor Birkhead said. "Mimicry is the entire basis for how they acquire their songs and there are whole categories of birds that will happily incorporate other strange sounds into their songs to produce a vast, rambling repertoire," he said.
Marsh warblers and starlings are particularly good mimics and have been known to pick up and incorporate the distinctive songs of other species. "I once knew of a captive goldfinch with a very distinctive song. Within three months, the local starlings had learnt to imitate it and they were still singing the song two years after the goldfinch had died," Professor Birkhead said.
Andre Farrar, a spokesman for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, said that his father used to call his Jack Russell terrier with a distinctive whistle. The local starlings soon learnt to imitate it and quickly learnt how to "call" the dog to the bottom of the garden. "There's an evolutionary advantage to birds who can augment their songs. Females of many species choose those males with the most complex songs, so there is a biological imperative to imitate sounds," Mr Farrar said.
Perhaps the strangest bird mimic is the black-throated honeyguide of Africa which mimics the sound of a bees' nest to attract the attention of local people. The bird then guides the humans to the hive itself to share the spoils.
But beware - birds don't like noisy neighbours. Studies have shown that as ambient noise from towns and roads increases, so does the tendency for songbirds to move to quieter sites.
Dutch scientists showed that it was the younger and more inexperienced birds that were forced to build their nests close to busy roads. Older, more experienced birds preferred to establish their territories well away from the sound of traffic, the scientists found.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Goa's last King Wadiyar dead
PANJIM: Raja Savai Veer Sadashiv Rajendra Basavling
Wodeyar, Goa's last king who later became feudatory of Portuguese,
passed away at Belgaum on March 19. He was a direct descendant of the
Vijayanagar empire rulers of Belgaum. Popularly known as Raje Saundekar, the
King of Sonda, a historic place 10 kms from Sirsi in Karnataka, was
cremated at Nagzar-Curti, Ponda on March 20. The Kingdom of "Sonda"
consisted of the talukas of Ponda, Sanguem, Canacona and Quepem before the
Saundekars clinched a pact with the Portuguese in January 1764. The kings
lived for some time in a palatial house at Goalim Moula before shifting
to Nagueshim. He was 72, they said. The mortal remains of Wodeyar were
brought to Shiv Tirth palace, his residence in Nagueshi from Belgaum
for the last rites. Before the cremation, Prasanna Kumar was sworn in as
the new king in the palace in a colourful ceremony by his mother,
Umaraje Vadeyar in the afternoon at a packed audience, which spilled into
the compound of the Nagueshim palace and beyond, watched in rapt
attention. (GT)
PANJIM: Raja Savai Veer Sadashiv Rajendra Basavling
Wodeyar, Goa's last king who later became feudatory of Portuguese,
passed away at Belgaum on March 19. He was a direct descendant of the
Vijayanagar empire rulers of Belgaum. Popularly known as Raje Saundekar, the
King of Sonda, a historic place 10 kms from Sirsi in Karnataka, was
cremated at Nagzar-Curti, Ponda on March 20. The Kingdom of "Sonda"
consisted of the talukas of Ponda, Sanguem, Canacona and Quepem before the
Saundekars clinched a pact with the Portuguese in January 1764. The kings
lived for some time in a palatial house at Goalim Moula before shifting
to Nagueshim. He was 72, they said. The mortal remains of Wodeyar were
brought to Shiv Tirth palace, his residence in Nagueshi from Belgaum
for the last rites. Before the cremation, Prasanna Kumar was sworn in as
the new king in the palace in a colourful ceremony by his mother,
Umaraje Vadeyar in the afternoon at a packed audience, which spilled into
the compound of the Nagueshim palace and beyond, watched in rapt
attention. (GT)
Monday, March 20, 2006
24 Hours In: Mumbai
It's the home of Bollywood, a city of dreams. You've got just enough time for a snapshot...
By Kate Simon
Published: 19 March 2006
Day breaks across the bay
08.00: Open the curtains and survey the scene. Look beyond the crowds gathering on the sea wall to that hulking shadow cast across the waters of the bay. That's the reflection of your hotel, The Oberoi (1), a modern monolith on Nariman Point, (00 91 22 5632 5757), with 333 rooms arranged around a sky-high atrium.
Mingle with the 16 million
09.30: Grabbed breakfast? Then step out into the heat - and noise - and make your way through the throng to the Gateway of India (2). Throng is the word - this city is home to 16 million people and while it may be India's commercial centre and home to Bollywood, you will be shocked by the poverty. The Gateway was built in 1924 to celebrate the visit of George V. Ironically, it wasn't finished in time and is best known as the point from which the British left in 1947.
Cut loose in the caves or shops
11.00: Now you've got a choice. You could take a boat across the harbour to Elephanta Island (3), and spend the morning exploring the remarkable caves there, which contain Hindu carvings dating from the 6th century. Alternatively, head for Courtyard (4), 41-44 Minoo Desai Rd, a showcase for some of India's top fashion designers. Mumbai is shopping heaven, and if this is your favourite pastime, try out the personal shopping service offered by Greaves Travel (see below), where you'll be shown the best of Mumbai and introduced to a tailor to run up any garments you desire.
A lunch stop on every corner
13.00: It's lunchtime. Try some authentic local food from one of the street hawkers: a channa puri (raised bread with chickpeas) or dosa (lentil pancake).
History on foot, and a few overs
14.30: Take in some more culture with a guided Heritage Walk (00 91 22 2369 0992; heritagewalks@ hotmail.com). A good sightseeing choice is the Fort area, taking in the Victoria Terminus (5), a glorious Victorian-Gothic railway station, and the Maidans (6), the green lungs of Mumbai, where you can watch the locals playing cricket, from kids' games to serious matches. Then relax in the Oberoi's Banyan Tree spa.
Dine out with the in crowd
20.00: For chic dining try Vetro, the Oberoi's Italian restaurant. Or for Bollywood glamour, see and be seen at Indigo (00 91 22 5636 8980), 4 Mandlik Road, in trendy Colaba, which serves a European menu. Then on for drinks at Dome, on top of the InterContinental Hotel, 135 Marine Drive (00 91 22 3987 9999). Or join the locals for a stroll along Chowpatty Beach (7) and a beer at one of the shorefront bars.
The author travelled to Mumbai with British Airways (0870-850 9850; ba.com) and Greaves Travel (020-7487 9111; greaves india.com). BA offers return flights to Mumbai from £456. Four nights in Mumbai with Greaves Travel costs from £999 per person, based on two sharing, including BA flights, transfers, room only, sightseeing, services of a personal shopper
Day breaks across the bay
08.00: Open the curtains and survey the scene. Look beyond the crowds gathering on the sea wall to that hulking shadow cast across the waters of the bay. That's the reflection of your hotel, The Oberoi (1), a modern monolith on Nariman Point, (00 91 22 5632 5757), with 333 rooms arranged around a sky-high atrium.
Mingle with the 16 million
09.30: Grabbed breakfast? Then step out into the heat - and noise - and make your way through the throng to the Gateway of India (2). Throng is the word - this city is home to 16 million people and while it may be India's commercial centre and home to Bollywood, you will be shocked by the poverty. The Gateway was built in 1924 to celebrate the visit of George V. Ironically, it wasn't finished in time and is best known as the point from which the British left in 1947.
Cut loose in the caves or shops
11.00: Now you've got a choice. You could take a boat across the harbour to Elephanta Island (3), and spend the morning exploring the remarkable caves there, which contain Hindu carvings dating from the 6th century. Alternatively, head for Courtyard (4), 41-44 Minoo Desai Rd, a showcase for some of India's top fashion designers. Mumbai is shopping heaven, and if this is your favourite pastime, try out the personal shopping service offered by Greaves Travel (see below), where you'll be shown the best of Mumbai and introduced to a tailor to run up any garments you desire.
A lunch stop on every corner
13.00: It's lunchtime. Try some authentic local food from one of the street hawkers: a channa puri (raised bread with chickpeas) or dosa (lentil pancake).
History on foot, and a few overs
14.30: Take in some more culture with a guided Heritage Walk (00 91 22 2369 0992; heritagewalks@ hotmail.com). A good sightseeing choice is the Fort area, taking in the Victoria Terminus (5), a glorious Victorian-Gothic railway station, and the Maidans (6), the green lungs of Mumbai, where you can watch the locals playing cricket, from kids' games to serious matches. Then relax in the Oberoi's Banyan Tree spa.
Dine out with the in crowd
20.00: For chic dining try Vetro, the Oberoi's Italian restaurant. Or for Bollywood glamour, see and be seen at Indigo (00 91 22 5636 8980), 4 Mandlik Road, in trendy Colaba, which serves a European menu. Then on for drinks at Dome, on top of the InterContinental Hotel, 135 Marine Drive (00 91 22 3987 9999). Or join the locals for a stroll along Chowpatty Beach (7) and a beer at one of the shorefront bars.
The author travelled to Mumbai with British Airways (0870-850 9850; ba.com) and Greaves Travel (020-7487 9111; greaves india.com). BA offers return flights to Mumbai from £456. Four nights in Mumbai with Greaves Travel costs from £999 per person, based on two sharing, including BA flights, transfers, room only, sightseeing, services of a personal shopper
It's the home of Bollywood, a city of dreams. You've got just enough time for a snapshot...
By Kate Simon
Published: 19 March 2006
Day breaks across the bay
08.00: Open the curtains and survey the scene. Look beyond the crowds gathering on the sea wall to that hulking shadow cast across the waters of the bay. That's the reflection of your hotel, The Oberoi (1), a modern monolith on Nariman Point, (00 91 22 5632 5757), with 333 rooms arranged around a sky-high atrium.
Mingle with the 16 million
09.30: Grabbed breakfast? Then step out into the heat - and noise - and make your way through the throng to the Gateway of India (2). Throng is the word - this city is home to 16 million people and while it may be India's commercial centre and home to Bollywood, you will be shocked by the poverty. The Gateway was built in 1924 to celebrate the visit of George V. Ironically, it wasn't finished in time and is best known as the point from which the British left in 1947.
Cut loose in the caves or shops
11.00: Now you've got a choice. You could take a boat across the harbour to Elephanta Island (3), and spend the morning exploring the remarkable caves there, which contain Hindu carvings dating from the 6th century. Alternatively, head for Courtyard (4), 41-44 Minoo Desai Rd, a showcase for some of India's top fashion designers. Mumbai is shopping heaven, and if this is your favourite pastime, try out the personal shopping service offered by Greaves Travel (see below), where you'll be shown the best of Mumbai and introduced to a tailor to run up any garments you desire.
A lunch stop on every corner
13.00: It's lunchtime. Try some authentic local food from one of the street hawkers: a channa puri (raised bread with chickpeas) or dosa (lentil pancake).
History on foot, and a few overs
14.30: Take in some more culture with a guided Heritage Walk (00 91 22 2369 0992; heritagewalks@ hotmail.com). A good sightseeing choice is the Fort area, taking in the Victoria Terminus (5), a glorious Victorian-Gothic railway station, and the Maidans (6), the green lungs of Mumbai, where you can watch the locals playing cricket, from kids' games to serious matches. Then relax in the Oberoi's Banyan Tree spa.
Dine out with the in crowd
20.00: For chic dining try Vetro, the Oberoi's Italian restaurant. Or for Bollywood glamour, see and be seen at Indigo (00 91 22 5636 8980), 4 Mandlik Road, in trendy Colaba, which serves a European menu. Then on for drinks at Dome, on top of the InterContinental Hotel, 135 Marine Drive (00 91 22 3987 9999). Or join the locals for a stroll along Chowpatty Beach (7) and a beer at one of the shorefront bars.
The author travelled to Mumbai with British Airways (0870-850 9850; ba.com) and Greaves Travel (020-7487 9111; greaves india.com). BA offers return flights to Mumbai from £456. Four nights in Mumbai with Greaves Travel costs from £999 per person, based on two sharing, including BA flights, transfers, room only, sightseeing, services of a personal shopper
Day breaks across the bay
08.00: Open the curtains and survey the scene. Look beyond the crowds gathering on the sea wall to that hulking shadow cast across the waters of the bay. That's the reflection of your hotel, The Oberoi (1), a modern monolith on Nariman Point, (00 91 22 5632 5757), with 333 rooms arranged around a sky-high atrium.
Mingle with the 16 million
09.30: Grabbed breakfast? Then step out into the heat - and noise - and make your way through the throng to the Gateway of India (2). Throng is the word - this city is home to 16 million people and while it may be India's commercial centre and home to Bollywood, you will be shocked by the poverty. The Gateway was built in 1924 to celebrate the visit of George V. Ironically, it wasn't finished in time and is best known as the point from which the British left in 1947.
Cut loose in the caves or shops
11.00: Now you've got a choice. You could take a boat across the harbour to Elephanta Island (3), and spend the morning exploring the remarkable caves there, which contain Hindu carvings dating from the 6th century. Alternatively, head for Courtyard (4), 41-44 Minoo Desai Rd, a showcase for some of India's top fashion designers. Mumbai is shopping heaven, and if this is your favourite pastime, try out the personal shopping service offered by Greaves Travel (see below), where you'll be shown the best of Mumbai and introduced to a tailor to run up any garments you desire.
A lunch stop on every corner
13.00: It's lunchtime. Try some authentic local food from one of the street hawkers: a channa puri (raised bread with chickpeas) or dosa (lentil pancake).
History on foot, and a few overs
14.30: Take in some more culture with a guided Heritage Walk (00 91 22 2369 0992; heritagewalks@ hotmail.com). A good sightseeing choice is the Fort area, taking in the Victoria Terminus (5), a glorious Victorian-Gothic railway station, and the Maidans (6), the green lungs of Mumbai, where you can watch the locals playing cricket, from kids' games to serious matches. Then relax in the Oberoi's Banyan Tree spa.
Dine out with the in crowd
20.00: For chic dining try Vetro, the Oberoi's Italian restaurant. Or for Bollywood glamour, see and be seen at Indigo (00 91 22 5636 8980), 4 Mandlik Road, in trendy Colaba, which serves a European menu. Then on for drinks at Dome, on top of the InterContinental Hotel, 135 Marine Drive (00 91 22 3987 9999). Or join the locals for a stroll along Chowpatty Beach (7) and a beer at one of the shorefront bars.
The author travelled to Mumbai with British Airways (0870-850 9850; ba.com) and Greaves Travel (020-7487 9111; greaves india.com). BA offers return flights to Mumbai from £456. Four nights in Mumbai with Greaves Travel costs from £999 per person, based on two sharing, including BA flights, transfers, room only, sightseeing, services of a personal shopper
The Mumbai working lunch
Each day 'dabbawallahs' collect lunches from apartments and deliver them to thousands of workers in the city. Jeremy Hart reports
Published: 19 March 2006
The traffic lights outside Churchgate Station are red. And for a second the mayhem of Mumbai driving takes a breather. Hawkers are selling everything imaginable to drivers as they wait for green. A team of men balanced precariously on bamboo ladders are changing the Bollywood poster above the Art Deco Regal Cinema. Across the road, on a patch of brown grass, kids in whites are chasing the Indian cricket dream.
The most bizarre sight comes though when I check my rear-view mirror. There, above the dented roof-tops of black-and-yellow taxis, bob what look like two pall-bearers. Balanced between them is a 5ft wooden crate, supporting 50 rattling insulated tin tiffin boxes, or lunch containers, known in Mumbai as dabbas. That makes the men carrying them dabbawallahs - as much an institution as the London bobby.
Before the lights change, two more pairs of dabbawallahs fire across the bows of my Indian-built Ford Fusion, so close I fear this is where its unblemished bodywork (a rarity in Mumbai) will lose its sheen. They too are heading for Churchgate at the end of a daily operation that feeds half a million people with home-cooked food, delivered to them at work by an army of dabbawallahs.
Each day, 5,000 dabbawallahs descend on appartments across Mumbai to collect a home-made lunch and take it up to 30 miles across town to office and factory workers. "The British used dabbawallahs because they wanted their own food for lunch," explains Farida Dordy, a guide who uses a dabbawallah each day. "But they were just one group who preferred to have their own kinds of food for lunch. My husband and I are Parsi. He prefers a Parsi meal for lunch, so I or our maid Sulbha will cook him lunch and the dabbawallah will pick it up just after 9.30am each morning."
Logistically, what the dabbawallah army achieves each day is nigh on impossible. A team of Harvard statisticians has proved as much. Without computers, pretty well without mobile phones, relying on a relay system fraught with the potential for dabbawallahs being late, ill or even dying en route (two did last year), they weave across the city on a spider's web of routes. Churchgate Station is the hub of the dabbawallah network. At 11am, the station forecourt is packed as the lunch carriers pass their tiffin boxes down a supply chain that Forbes magazine rated with six stars - as reliable as GE or Motorola.
"They've never lost one of the lunches I do for my husband. In fact I've never heard of them being late or losing one," says Mrs Dordy, who pays 300 rupees (£4) a month for the service. "These guys are not like delivery people in London or New York, doing it for a short time. They are dabbawallahs for life and they all come from the Sahyadri range of mountains east of Mumbai, from a group of families who have been dabbawallahs since the 1890s. They offer a great service: messages, business, offers of marriage are all sent through the dabbawallah system."
At 2.30pm, about the time I am passing, the dabbawallahs make their return trips through Churchgate. Bicycles and Mumbai's train system are the dabbawallahs' preferred modes of transport. "On a bicycle we are king of the road," says DK Choudhry, a dabbawallah I meet the next day at Mrs Dordy's house. "We can go down no-entry roads, through red lights. You can't do that in your car, can you?" I dare not say yes. Mumbai driving might be free-form but there are still rules.
In terms of car ownership, Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. It won't be long before the infrastructure of India's biggest city has to change to accommodate all the new drivers. How much longer before dabbawallahs get motorbikes or even cars? "Never," reckons DK, who each year travels about 6,000 miles for his job.
Any moment now, Mrs Dordy's regular dabbawallah, Papu, will arrive to pick up lunch and take it to her husband at his office. She has prepared a paneer jalfrezi, or cheese curry, which will endure a two-hour journey that involves bike, train and three dabbawallahs following a series of codes inscribed on the tiffin box.
Spot on 9.40am, a wiry man in a loose-fitting Nehru suit and open sandals appears at the door. It is Papu. In 90 seconds he must be gone or he will start running behind schedule, which could throw the whole system out of kilter. Like a ghost on the wind, Papu is away.
DK comes with me in the Fusion to see if we can get to Captain Dordy's office before delivery at 11.45am. DK has never travelled in any car other than one of the marauding black-and-yellow taxis. I fear the shock might distract him from his job. But there is another problem: delayed by my complacency and a delicious breakfast, DK and I leave a half-hour behind Papu; we have about 70 minutes to beat him over 11 miles.
Twenty years of living in London does nothing to prepare me for the gloves-off fistfight of Mumbai driving. DK, though, is smiling. He seems to be enjoying the experience of a crazy European adopting a dodgem driver's attitude to his city. The traffic is glutinous. Each mile takes a good 10 minutes. The clock on the dashboard reads 11.35am. And there's still a mile to run.
Then disaster strikes. In the maze that is Colaba, Mumbai's business district, I miss a turning. For what seems like an eternity DK cannot help. But a unique code on the tiffin box, understandable only to dabbawallahs, pinpoints the area and the street and the building, even the floor number of the delivery address. DK points wildly at a dour 1960s office block to our left. Trouble is, the time is now almost 11.55am.
"You Jeremy?" enquires a suave middle-aged man as we puff out of the lift. I nod. "Glad you are here. We didn't want to start lunch without you."
I am gutted. DK is not sure whether to be disappointed or pleased that we have lost by nearly 20 minutes. "It shows that the old ways are better," he tells me. "The car was much nicer, much more comfortable, and, if we had left on time, just as quick. I'd much rather go by car every day. I just think I might have trouble delivering 35 lunches in time."
For £35 per person, Indus Tours and Travel (020-8901 7320; industours.co.uk) will organise a day with the dabbawallahs delivering lunches in Mumbai by train and bicycle. It offers seven nights in Mumbai from £1,150 per person, based on two sharing, including return flights, private transfers and b&b accommodation.
The traffic lights outside Churchgate Station are red. And for a second the mayhem of Mumbai driving takes a breather. Hawkers are selling everything imaginable to drivers as they wait for green. A team of men balanced precariously on bamboo ladders are changing the Bollywood poster above the Art Deco Regal Cinema. Across the road, on a patch of brown grass, kids in whites are chasing the Indian cricket dream.
The most bizarre sight comes though when I check my rear-view mirror. There, above the dented roof-tops of black-and-yellow taxis, bob what look like two pall-bearers. Balanced between them is a 5ft wooden crate, supporting 50 rattling insulated tin tiffin boxes, or lunch containers, known in Mumbai as dabbas. That makes the men carrying them dabbawallahs - as much an institution as the London bobby.
Before the lights change, two more pairs of dabbawallahs fire across the bows of my Indian-built Ford Fusion, so close I fear this is where its unblemished bodywork (a rarity in Mumbai) will lose its sheen. They too are heading for Churchgate at the end of a daily operation that feeds half a million people with home-cooked food, delivered to them at work by an army of dabbawallahs.
Each day, 5,000 dabbawallahs descend on appartments across Mumbai to collect a home-made lunch and take it up to 30 miles across town to office and factory workers. "The British used dabbawallahs because they wanted their own food for lunch," explains Farida Dordy, a guide who uses a dabbawallah each day. "But they were just one group who preferred to have their own kinds of food for lunch. My husband and I are Parsi. He prefers a Parsi meal for lunch, so I or our maid Sulbha will cook him lunch and the dabbawallah will pick it up just after 9.30am each morning."
Logistically, what the dabbawallah army achieves each day is nigh on impossible. A team of Harvard statisticians has proved as much. Without computers, pretty well without mobile phones, relying on a relay system fraught with the potential for dabbawallahs being late, ill or even dying en route (two did last year), they weave across the city on a spider's web of routes. Churchgate Station is the hub of the dabbawallah network. At 11am, the station forecourt is packed as the lunch carriers pass their tiffin boxes down a supply chain that Forbes magazine rated with six stars - as reliable as GE or Motorola.
"They've never lost one of the lunches I do for my husband. In fact I've never heard of them being late or losing one," says Mrs Dordy, who pays 300 rupees (£4) a month for the service. "These guys are not like delivery people in London or New York, doing it for a short time. They are dabbawallahs for life and they all come from the Sahyadri range of mountains east of Mumbai, from a group of families who have been dabbawallahs since the 1890s. They offer a great service: messages, business, offers of marriage are all sent through the dabbawallah system."
At 2.30pm, about the time I am passing, the dabbawallahs make their return trips through Churchgate. Bicycles and Mumbai's train system are the dabbawallahs' preferred modes of transport. "On a bicycle we are king of the road," says DK Choudhry, a dabbawallah I meet the next day at Mrs Dordy's house. "We can go down no-entry roads, through red lights. You can't do that in your car, can you?" I dare not say yes. Mumbai driving might be free-form but there are still rules.
In terms of car ownership, Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. It won't be long before the infrastructure of India's biggest city has to change to accommodate all the new drivers. How much longer before dabbawallahs get motorbikes or even cars? "Never," reckons DK, who each year travels about 6,000 miles for his job.
Any moment now, Mrs Dordy's regular dabbawallah, Papu, will arrive to pick up lunch and take it to her husband at his office. She has prepared a paneer jalfrezi, or cheese curry, which will endure a two-hour journey that involves bike, train and three dabbawallahs following a series of codes inscribed on the tiffin box.
Spot on 9.40am, a wiry man in a loose-fitting Nehru suit and open sandals appears at the door. It is Papu. In 90 seconds he must be gone or he will start running behind schedule, which could throw the whole system out of kilter. Like a ghost on the wind, Papu is away.
DK comes with me in the Fusion to see if we can get to Captain Dordy's office before delivery at 11.45am. DK has never travelled in any car other than one of the marauding black-and-yellow taxis. I fear the shock might distract him from his job. But there is another problem: delayed by my complacency and a delicious breakfast, DK and I leave a half-hour behind Papu; we have about 70 minutes to beat him over 11 miles.
Twenty years of living in London does nothing to prepare me for the gloves-off fistfight of Mumbai driving. DK, though, is smiling. He seems to be enjoying the experience of a crazy European adopting a dodgem driver's attitude to his city. The traffic is glutinous. Each mile takes a good 10 minutes. The clock on the dashboard reads 11.35am. And there's still a mile to run.
Then disaster strikes. In the maze that is Colaba, Mumbai's business district, I miss a turning. For what seems like an eternity DK cannot help. But a unique code on the tiffin box, understandable only to dabbawallahs, pinpoints the area and the street and the building, even the floor number of the delivery address. DK points wildly at a dour 1960s office block to our left. Trouble is, the time is now almost 11.55am.
"You Jeremy?" enquires a suave middle-aged man as we puff out of the lift. I nod. "Glad you are here. We didn't want to start lunch without you."
I am gutted. DK is not sure whether to be disappointed or pleased that we have lost by nearly 20 minutes. "It shows that the old ways are better," he tells me. "The car was much nicer, much more comfortable, and, if we had left on time, just as quick. I'd much rather go by car every day. I just think I might have trouble delivering 35 lunches in time."
For £35 per person, Indus Tours and Travel (020-8901 7320; industours.co.uk) will organise a day with the dabbawallahs delivering lunches in Mumbai by train and bicycle. It offers seven nights in Mumbai from £1,150 per person, based on two sharing, including return flights, private transfers and b&b accommodation.
Each day 'dabbawallahs' collect lunches from apartments and deliver them to thousands of workers in the city. Jeremy Hart reports
Published: 19 March 2006
The traffic lights outside Churchgate Station are red. And for a second the mayhem of Mumbai driving takes a breather. Hawkers are selling everything imaginable to drivers as they wait for green. A team of men balanced precariously on bamboo ladders are changing the Bollywood poster above the Art Deco Regal Cinema. Across the road, on a patch of brown grass, kids in whites are chasing the Indian cricket dream.
The most bizarre sight comes though when I check my rear-view mirror. There, above the dented roof-tops of black-and-yellow taxis, bob what look like two pall-bearers. Balanced between them is a 5ft wooden crate, supporting 50 rattling insulated tin tiffin boxes, or lunch containers, known in Mumbai as dabbas. That makes the men carrying them dabbawallahs - as much an institution as the London bobby.
Before the lights change, two more pairs of dabbawallahs fire across the bows of my Indian-built Ford Fusion, so close I fear this is where its unblemished bodywork (a rarity in Mumbai) will lose its sheen. They too are heading for Churchgate at the end of a daily operation that feeds half a million people with home-cooked food, delivered to them at work by an army of dabbawallahs.
Each day, 5,000 dabbawallahs descend on appartments across Mumbai to collect a home-made lunch and take it up to 30 miles across town to office and factory workers. "The British used dabbawallahs because they wanted their own food for lunch," explains Farida Dordy, a guide who uses a dabbawallah each day. "But they were just one group who preferred to have their own kinds of food for lunch. My husband and I are Parsi. He prefers a Parsi meal for lunch, so I or our maid Sulbha will cook him lunch and the dabbawallah will pick it up just after 9.30am each morning."
Logistically, what the dabbawallah army achieves each day is nigh on impossible. A team of Harvard statisticians has proved as much. Without computers, pretty well without mobile phones, relying on a relay system fraught with the potential for dabbawallahs being late, ill or even dying en route (two did last year), they weave across the city on a spider's web of routes. Churchgate Station is the hub of the dabbawallah network. At 11am, the station forecourt is packed as the lunch carriers pass their tiffin boxes down a supply chain that Forbes magazine rated with six stars - as reliable as GE or Motorola.
"They've never lost one of the lunches I do for my husband. In fact I've never heard of them being late or losing one," says Mrs Dordy, who pays 300 rupees (£4) a month for the service. "These guys are not like delivery people in London or New York, doing it for a short time. They are dabbawallahs for life and they all come from the Sahyadri range of mountains east of Mumbai, from a group of families who have been dabbawallahs since the 1890s. They offer a great service: messages, business, offers of marriage are all sent through the dabbawallah system."
At 2.30pm, about the time I am passing, the dabbawallahs make their return trips through Churchgate. Bicycles and Mumbai's train system are the dabbawallahs' preferred modes of transport. "On a bicycle we are king of the road," says DK Choudhry, a dabbawallah I meet the next day at Mrs Dordy's house. "We can go down no-entry roads, through red lights. You can't do that in your car, can you?" I dare not say yes. Mumbai driving might be free-form but there are still rules.
In terms of car ownership, Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. It won't be long before the infrastructure of India's biggest city has to change to accommodate all the new drivers. How much longer before dabbawallahs get motorbikes or even cars? "Never," reckons DK, who each year travels about 6,000 miles for his job.
Any moment now, Mrs Dordy's regular dabbawallah, Papu, will arrive to pick up lunch and take it to her husband at his office. She has prepared a paneer jalfrezi, or cheese curry, which will endure a two-hour journey that involves bike, train and three dabbawallahs following a series of codes inscribed on the tiffin box.
Spot on 9.40am, a wiry man in a loose-fitting Nehru suit and open sandals appears at the door. It is Papu. In 90 seconds he must be gone or he will start running behind schedule, which could throw the whole system out of kilter. Like a ghost on the wind, Papu is away.
DK comes with me in the Fusion to see if we can get to Captain Dordy's office before delivery at 11.45am. DK has never travelled in any car other than one of the marauding black-and-yellow taxis. I fear the shock might distract him from his job. But there is another problem: delayed by my complacency and a delicious breakfast, DK and I leave a half-hour behind Papu; we have about 70 minutes to beat him over 11 miles.
Twenty years of living in London does nothing to prepare me for the gloves-off fistfight of Mumbai driving. DK, though, is smiling. He seems to be enjoying the experience of a crazy European adopting a dodgem driver's attitude to his city. The traffic is glutinous. Each mile takes a good 10 minutes. The clock on the dashboard reads 11.35am. And there's still a mile to run.
Then disaster strikes. In the maze that is Colaba, Mumbai's business district, I miss a turning. For what seems like an eternity DK cannot help. But a unique code on the tiffin box, understandable only to dabbawallahs, pinpoints the area and the street and the building, even the floor number of the delivery address. DK points wildly at a dour 1960s office block to our left. Trouble is, the time is now almost 11.55am.
"You Jeremy?" enquires a suave middle-aged man as we puff out of the lift. I nod. "Glad you are here. We didn't want to start lunch without you."
I am gutted. DK is not sure whether to be disappointed or pleased that we have lost by nearly 20 minutes. "It shows that the old ways are better," he tells me. "The car was much nicer, much more comfortable, and, if we had left on time, just as quick. I'd much rather go by car every day. I just think I might have trouble delivering 35 lunches in time."
For £35 per person, Indus Tours and Travel (020-8901 7320; industours.co.uk) will organise a day with the dabbawallahs delivering lunches in Mumbai by train and bicycle. It offers seven nights in Mumbai from £1,150 per person, based on two sharing, including return flights, private transfers and b&b accommodation.
The traffic lights outside Churchgate Station are red. And for a second the mayhem of Mumbai driving takes a breather. Hawkers are selling everything imaginable to drivers as they wait for green. A team of men balanced precariously on bamboo ladders are changing the Bollywood poster above the Art Deco Regal Cinema. Across the road, on a patch of brown grass, kids in whites are chasing the Indian cricket dream.
The most bizarre sight comes though when I check my rear-view mirror. There, above the dented roof-tops of black-and-yellow taxis, bob what look like two pall-bearers. Balanced between them is a 5ft wooden crate, supporting 50 rattling insulated tin tiffin boxes, or lunch containers, known in Mumbai as dabbas. That makes the men carrying them dabbawallahs - as much an institution as the London bobby.
Before the lights change, two more pairs of dabbawallahs fire across the bows of my Indian-built Ford Fusion, so close I fear this is where its unblemished bodywork (a rarity in Mumbai) will lose its sheen. They too are heading for Churchgate at the end of a daily operation that feeds half a million people with home-cooked food, delivered to them at work by an army of dabbawallahs.
Each day, 5,000 dabbawallahs descend on appartments across Mumbai to collect a home-made lunch and take it up to 30 miles across town to office and factory workers. "The British used dabbawallahs because they wanted their own food for lunch," explains Farida Dordy, a guide who uses a dabbawallah each day. "But they were just one group who preferred to have their own kinds of food for lunch. My husband and I are Parsi. He prefers a Parsi meal for lunch, so I or our maid Sulbha will cook him lunch and the dabbawallah will pick it up just after 9.30am each morning."
Logistically, what the dabbawallah army achieves each day is nigh on impossible. A team of Harvard statisticians has proved as much. Without computers, pretty well without mobile phones, relying on a relay system fraught with the potential for dabbawallahs being late, ill or even dying en route (two did last year), they weave across the city on a spider's web of routes. Churchgate Station is the hub of the dabbawallah network. At 11am, the station forecourt is packed as the lunch carriers pass their tiffin boxes down a supply chain that Forbes magazine rated with six stars - as reliable as GE or Motorola.
"They've never lost one of the lunches I do for my husband. In fact I've never heard of them being late or losing one," says Mrs Dordy, who pays 300 rupees (£4) a month for the service. "These guys are not like delivery people in London or New York, doing it for a short time. They are dabbawallahs for life and they all come from the Sahyadri range of mountains east of Mumbai, from a group of families who have been dabbawallahs since the 1890s. They offer a great service: messages, business, offers of marriage are all sent through the dabbawallah system."
At 2.30pm, about the time I am passing, the dabbawallahs make their return trips through Churchgate. Bicycles and Mumbai's train system are the dabbawallahs' preferred modes of transport. "On a bicycle we are king of the road," says DK Choudhry, a dabbawallah I meet the next day at Mrs Dordy's house. "We can go down no-entry roads, through red lights. You can't do that in your car, can you?" I dare not say yes. Mumbai driving might be free-form but there are still rules.
In terms of car ownership, Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. It won't be long before the infrastructure of India's biggest city has to change to accommodate all the new drivers. How much longer before dabbawallahs get motorbikes or even cars? "Never," reckons DK, who each year travels about 6,000 miles for his job.
Any moment now, Mrs Dordy's regular dabbawallah, Papu, will arrive to pick up lunch and take it to her husband at his office. She has prepared a paneer jalfrezi, or cheese curry, which will endure a two-hour journey that involves bike, train and three dabbawallahs following a series of codes inscribed on the tiffin box.
Spot on 9.40am, a wiry man in a loose-fitting Nehru suit and open sandals appears at the door. It is Papu. In 90 seconds he must be gone or he will start running behind schedule, which could throw the whole system out of kilter. Like a ghost on the wind, Papu is away.
DK comes with me in the Fusion to see if we can get to Captain Dordy's office before delivery at 11.45am. DK has never travelled in any car other than one of the marauding black-and-yellow taxis. I fear the shock might distract him from his job. But there is another problem: delayed by my complacency and a delicious breakfast, DK and I leave a half-hour behind Papu; we have about 70 minutes to beat him over 11 miles.
Twenty years of living in London does nothing to prepare me for the gloves-off fistfight of Mumbai driving. DK, though, is smiling. He seems to be enjoying the experience of a crazy European adopting a dodgem driver's attitude to his city. The traffic is glutinous. Each mile takes a good 10 minutes. The clock on the dashboard reads 11.35am. And there's still a mile to run.
Then disaster strikes. In the maze that is Colaba, Mumbai's business district, I miss a turning. For what seems like an eternity DK cannot help. But a unique code on the tiffin box, understandable only to dabbawallahs, pinpoints the area and the street and the building, even the floor number of the delivery address. DK points wildly at a dour 1960s office block to our left. Trouble is, the time is now almost 11.55am.
"You Jeremy?" enquires a suave middle-aged man as we puff out of the lift. I nod. "Glad you are here. We didn't want to start lunch without you."
I am gutted. DK is not sure whether to be disappointed or pleased that we have lost by nearly 20 minutes. "It shows that the old ways are better," he tells me. "The car was much nicer, much more comfortable, and, if we had left on time, just as quick. I'd much rather go by car every day. I just think I might have trouble delivering 35 lunches in time."
For £35 per person, Indus Tours and Travel (020-8901 7320; industours.co.uk) will organise a day with the dabbawallahs delivering lunches in Mumbai by train and bicycle. It offers seven nights in Mumbai from £1,150 per person, based on two sharing, including return flights, private transfers and b&b accommodation.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Amália Rodrigues
Uma Casa Portuguesa
by Reinaldo Ferreira
Numa casa portuguesa fica bem
pão e vinho sobre a mesa.
Quando à porta humildemente bate alguém,
senta-se à mesa co'a gente.
Fica bem essa fraqueza, fica bem,
que o povo nunca a desmente.
A alegria da pobreza
está nesta grande riqueza
de dar, e ficar contente.
Quatro paredes caiadas,
um cheirinho á alecrim,
um cacho de uvas doiradas,
duas rosas num jardim,
um São José de azulejo
sob um sol de primavera,
uma promessa de beijos
dois braços à minha espera...
É uma casa portuguesa, com certeza!
É, com certeza, uma casa portuguesa!
No conforto pobrezinho do meu lar,
há fartura de carinho.
A cortina da janela e o luar,
mais o sol que gosta dela...
Basta pouco, poucochinho p'ra alegrar
uma existência singela...
É só amor, pão e vinho
e um caldo verde, verdinho
a fumegar na tigela.
Quatro paredes caiadas,
um cheirinho á alecrim,
um cacho de uvas doiradas,
duas rosas num jardim,
um São José de azulejo
sob um sol de primavera,
uma promessa de beijos
dois braços à minha espera...
É uma casa portuguesa, com certeza!
É, com certeza, uma casa portuguesa
More Amalia Rodrigues here: http://amalia-rodrigues.lyrics-songs.com/lyrics/230953/
Uma Casa Portuguesa
by Reinaldo Ferreira
Numa casa portuguesa fica bem
pão e vinho sobre a mesa.
Quando à porta humildemente bate alguém,
senta-se à mesa co'a gente.
Fica bem essa fraqueza, fica bem,
que o povo nunca a desmente.
A alegria da pobreza
está nesta grande riqueza
de dar, e ficar contente.
Quatro paredes caiadas,
um cheirinho á alecrim,
um cacho de uvas doiradas,
duas rosas num jardim,
um São José de azulejo
sob um sol de primavera,
uma promessa de beijos
dois braços à minha espera...
É uma casa portuguesa, com certeza!
É, com certeza, uma casa portuguesa!
No conforto pobrezinho do meu lar,
há fartura de carinho.
A cortina da janela e o luar,
mais o sol que gosta dela...
Basta pouco, poucochinho p'ra alegrar
uma existência singela...
É só amor, pão e vinho
e um caldo verde, verdinho
a fumegar na tigela.
Quatro paredes caiadas,
um cheirinho á alecrim,
um cacho de uvas doiradas,
duas rosas num jardim,
um São José de azulejo
sob um sol de primavera,
uma promessa de beijos
dois braços à minha espera...
É uma casa portuguesa, com certeza!
É, com certeza, uma casa portuguesa
More Amalia Rodrigues here: http://amalia-rodrigues.lyrics-songs.com/lyrics/230953/
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Mon vieux Lucien!
Mon vieux lucien
Paroles: Michel Rivgauche. Musique: Charles Dumont 1961
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
8,39 €
Edith Piaf - Master Serie : Edith Piaf Vol. 2...
443 offres chez 5 marchandsPowered by Kelkoo
Quelle chance que t'as
D'avoir, Lucien,
Un vieux copain
Comme moi.
Moi, tu m' connais.
J'aime rigoler
Et m'amuser,
Pas vrai ?
Alors ce soir,
Histoire de rire,
Et tu peux m' croire
Sans réfléchir,
Comme ça pour voir
Et sans prévenir
J'ai dit aux copains :
"On va chez Lucien."
Quelle chance que t'as
D'avoir, Lucien,
Un vieux copain
Comme moi.
Tu peux t' vanter,
Lorsque j'y pense,
D'avoir d' la chance,
Tu sais !
Mais tu n' dis rien.
Tu m' laisses parler.
J' te connais bien.
Tu m' fais marcher.
Moi ça n' fait rien.
Tu peux y aller,
Mais maintenant, ça va
Et dis-moi pourquoi
Tu fais cette tête-là
Comme ça ?
Mais... Regarde-moi...
T'as les yeux gonflés.
Je t'ai réveillé ?
Ah non ! T'écrivais à ta Bien-aimée...
Qu'est-ce que tu caches là ?
Là...dans ton tiroir...
Eh ben, quoi, fais voir !
...
Tu voulais m' faire peur ?!...
Ah...Ha ! C' que t'es blagueur !
Quelle chance que t'as
D'avoir, Lucien,
Un vieux copain
Comme moi.
Mai j' te connais
Mieux que personne.
C'est c' qui t'étonne,
Pas vrai ?
Un autre que moi
N' comprendrait pas
Mais moi j' devine
Que tu m' taquines.
Tu veux peut-être
Finir ta lettre...
J' vais l' dire aux copains,
Et puis, tu nous rejoins...
Quelle chance que t'as.
C'est pas pour dire
Que j'aime bien rire,
Crois-moi !
Un autre que moi
Aurait marché
A ton ciné.
Pas moi !
Allez, au revoir.
A tout à l'heure.
T'en fais une tête, sacré farceur !
Ah non ! Bien sûr que j'ai pas peur !
Toi 'y a pas d' danger
De te voir un jour
Souffrir et mourir
D'amour...
...Lucien !...
Eh bien quoi, Lucien !...
Donne-moi c' que t'as dans la main !
Ah ! C' t'agréable, d'être ton copain !
Ah non, Lucien !
Allez...
Viens !...
Paroles: Michel Rivgauche. Musique: Charles Dumont 1961
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
8,39 €
Edith Piaf - Master Serie : Edith Piaf Vol. 2...
443 offres chez 5 marchandsPowered by Kelkoo
Quelle chance que t'as
D'avoir, Lucien,
Un vieux copain
Comme moi.
Moi, tu m' connais.
J'aime rigoler
Et m'amuser,
Pas vrai ?
Alors ce soir,
Histoire de rire,
Et tu peux m' croire
Sans réfléchir,
Comme ça pour voir
Et sans prévenir
J'ai dit aux copains :
"On va chez Lucien."
Quelle chance que t'as
D'avoir, Lucien,
Un vieux copain
Comme moi.
Tu peux t' vanter,
Lorsque j'y pense,
D'avoir d' la chance,
Tu sais !
Mais tu n' dis rien.
Tu m' laisses parler.
J' te connais bien.
Tu m' fais marcher.
Moi ça n' fait rien.
Tu peux y aller,
Mais maintenant, ça va
Et dis-moi pourquoi
Tu fais cette tête-là
Comme ça ?
Mais... Regarde-moi...
T'as les yeux gonflés.
Je t'ai réveillé ?
Ah non ! T'écrivais à ta Bien-aimée...
Qu'est-ce que tu caches là ?
Là...dans ton tiroir...
Eh ben, quoi, fais voir !
...
Tu voulais m' faire peur ?!...
Ah...Ha ! C' que t'es blagueur !
Quelle chance que t'as
D'avoir, Lucien,
Un vieux copain
Comme moi.
Mai j' te connais
Mieux que personne.
C'est c' qui t'étonne,
Pas vrai ?
Un autre que moi
N' comprendrait pas
Mais moi j' devine
Que tu m' taquines.
Tu veux peut-être
Finir ta lettre...
J' vais l' dire aux copains,
Et puis, tu nous rejoins...
Quelle chance que t'as.
C'est pas pour dire
Que j'aime bien rire,
Crois-moi !
Un autre que moi
Aurait marché
A ton ciné.
Pas moi !
Allez, au revoir.
A tout à l'heure.
T'en fais une tête, sacré farceur !
Ah non ! Bien sûr que j'ai pas peur !
Toi 'y a pas d' danger
De te voir un jour
Souffrir et mourir
D'amour...
...Lucien !...
Eh bien quoi, Lucien !...
Donne-moi c' que t'as dans la main !
Ah ! C' t'agréable, d'être ton copain !
Ah non, Lucien !
Allez...
Viens !...
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