Reducing Violence in Our Public Places

“Coming soon to a theater near you” has taken on a macabre meaning after the shooting in Aurora, Colo., that has left at least 12 people dead and 59 wounded.

24-year-old James Holmes is only the latest psychopath to spill blood in our public places. Remember Virginia Tech, Arizona, Pennsylvania’s Amish County, and scores of other sites that has made such violence routine? 13 years ago, on April 20, 1999, at the Columbine High School that is only 15 miles from the Century multiplex where Holmes unleashed his havoc, two students slaughtered 12 of their fellow students and a teacher before turning the guns on themselves. Columbine became synonymous with our out-of-control gun culture.

As a nation we had the right to claim that things change after Columbine, only that they haven’t. In fact, it is closer to the truth to say that we have regressed as far as gun control laws are concerned. One of the most feared lobbies in the United States today is the National Rifles Association. Their coercive power of fear is such that Congress has even refused to consider laws that would ban the sale of assault weapons capable of firing 100 bullets without reloading. That’s assault weapons, not your run-of-the-mill handguns!

The Second Amendment states that “A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” It is futile to expect that the Amendment will be “amended” anytime soon, not in the next 50 years anyway, but there is no question that the right to bear arms by someone does not preclude our right to be safe from that someone wielding his gun to settle scores.

Many of us nurse real or imagined grievances but we wouldn’t dream of acting on them by taking the law in our own hands, even considering the frightening fact that 45 percent of Americans own guns. Not so the psychopaths. Their inner demons lead them to murderous rampages on a society that they believe has let them down. And it is easy to do, because the hugely profitable gun shops throughout America make it disarmingly simple to arm them with killing machines. The system is as porous as it gets. Universal background check on gun buyers is a joke.

So how do we keep our schools, campuses, malls, theaters and other places of gathering safe, given that the right by deranged individuals to own guns is not going away anytime soon?

First, we must continue efforts by citizens like you and me to curb the power of the N.R.A. This is slow and painstaking work and it may take decades to bear fruit but we must trudge on.

Second, we need to raise our internal alert level by a notch, instead of expecting only the police and security personnel to keep us safe in public places. It is not a question of being paranoid; it is more a question of exercising common sense. If we see someone moving aggressively in a crowded area, for instance, clutching their coats or fatigues, we should raise an alarm. A little more watchfulness, a little more keenness in perception, just a little more sense of what is going on around us, can go a long way toward reducing the routine violence that is tearing our nation apart.

Turkey Crossing

I patiently wait in my car behind three other commuters on our way to work. It is a narrow 2-lane road. The stoplight is further down but we have stopped nonetheless, watching with wonder as a wild turkey guides its chicks to the other side. It takes its time with its brood of 4, supremely indifferent to us, but we don't mind, knowing that this will be the most meaningful experience of our day.

Wildlife officials introduced wild turkeys in the woodlands and hills of California’s Santa Clara County several years ago. The bird is not native to California but thanks to the farsightedness of park officials, these ‘modern’ turkeys have thrived. The region is rich in turkey food – acorns, nuts, berries, chestnut, clover, pine seeds and hickories. You come upon them unexpectedly, ranging freely in hills and cow pastures, the male puffing his feathers, spreading his tails and dragging his wings to win the love of a female. All you have to do is see a turkey in this mode to know exactly what ‘strutting’ means. Alas, a turkey doesn’t give his heart to a single hen but to as many as it can, twenty even, strutting (one supposes) with equal ardor for all. You can accuse a tom of polygamy but not of favoritism!

Turkeys nest on ground. Breeding occurs in March, eggs are laid in April and poults are hatched in May. Turkeys can fly up into trees to escape predators like mountain lions, bobcats, coyotes and even owls and eagles. Unfortunately these predators also abound in the hills and woodlands of Santa Clara County. I have seen carcasses of turkeys here and there several times on my way to and from work.
But such grim images are far from my mind this perfect summer morning as I follow the rather clumsy progress of this particular turkey crossing the street with his chicks. Even after the 5 of them safely reach the other side, there isn’t any open range to forage for food at this particular spot. Development has taken over what used to be pristine wilderness. New homes have usurped what belonged to the wild birds and animals not too long ago in the valley.

Still, seeing wild turkeys foraging in hills and by roadsides brings perspective to commuters rushing through life. Don’t hurry, they seem to be telling us. Pause and savor life while you can. Enjoy today. Don’t live only for tomorrow.

Doing the Right Thing in Syria

U.N. observers have confirmed the horrific massacre that took place in Mazraat al-Qubair, a farming village of about 160 people in central Hama province. Nearly 80 men, women and children were shot, hacked and burned to death by Assad’s bloodthirsty death squad known as ‘Shabiha.’ The observers could smell the stench of burned corpses and see body parts scattered about the village.

The massacre follows one in which 108 people were slain in the Syrian town of Houla on May 25. Reports have surfaced, particularly in Germany, that Syrian rebels were actually responsible for the Houla massacre but most sources close to the ground, including a UN Human Rights Council group, said evidence pointed towards militia loyal to Assad in the region.

Bashar Assad has been exploiting Kofi Annan’s peace plan to continue his genocidal suppression. In the 15 months of bloodshed, he has been instigating fear among the country’s 2.1 million Alawites – 12 per cent of the population – that they will be massacred by the Sunni majority – 75 per cent - if he were to fall.

As the moment of truth nears in Syria, the opposition has been at pains to assure the Alawites that they will not be targeted in a post-Assad Syria. “We are all in this together,” has become the opposition’s motto as they implore ordinary Alawites to defect.

For many pundits and policymakers in America, however, the situation in Syria can only be understood in the context of a geopolitical chess game.

Writing in the Washington Post, former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger summarized his analysis of the Syrian situation this way: “Military intervention, humanitarian or strategic, has two prerequisites: First, a consensus on governance after the overthrow of the status quo is critical. If the objective is confined to deposing a specific ruler, a new civil war could follow in the resulting vacuum, as armed groups contest the succession, and outside countries choose different sides. Second, the political objective must be explicit and achievable in a domestically sustainable time period. I doubt that the Syrian issue meets these tests.”

In other words, let the killings continue because we are not sure who will inherit power and whether or not they will push America’s interests. A well-known columnist, writing in the Los Angeles Times, raises the same concern: “The situation in Syria is further complicated by the familiar question of who's the good guy. The bad guy is clearly Bashar Assad. But his opposition is a mixture of unattractive clerics and their followers, liberal reformers and left-wing radicals.”

The question of what is just and what is right do not figure in the equations of these analysts.

One consistent voice in the wilderness has been that of New York Times’ Nicholas Kristof who wrote in a recent column that “when a government devours its own people, as in Syria or Sudan, there are never easy solutions. That helps explain President Obama’s dithering … Yet the president is taking prudence to the point of paralysis … In Syria, we should make clear that unless the security forces depose Assad in the next 30 days, our Middle Eastern allies will arm the Syrian opposition. We should work with these allies, as well as with major powers like Russia and China, to encourage a coup, or a“retirement” for Assad … Stopping a government from killing its own is an uncertain business. But our existing policies in Syria and Sudan alike are failing to stop the bloodshed, and they also are putting us on the wrong side of history.”

Muslims are aware of the serious problems that can follow the fall of Assad. The path to openness and responsible governance after decades of tyranny and dictatorship is not achieved in weeks or months. Just look at Egypt and Libya. The peoples’ revolution is far from complete. It will take time for a new era to dawn. So it will be in Syria.

Besides, Western fear that intolerant religious zealots (always a minority but exaggerated by Western media) will find a way to turn the Arab Spring into a Winter of Despair is unfounded. Using a statistically sound sampling technique called “controlled snowball,” 186 opposition activists were asked about their preferences for a post-Assad Syrian government. 73% said it was important for the new Syrian government to protect the rights of Christians. While many respondents voiced support for religion in the public square, only a small fraction favored clerical influence in government. As to which country they would like to see Syria emulate after Assad, 82% chose Turkey. Perhaps the biggest surprise was that the U.S. earned 69% favorable rating as a political model, followed closely by France, Germany and Britain.

Bashar Assad may soon be forced to flee to Moscow as opposition forces overcome their differences and mount a united assault against the government. There will, of course, be chaos and turmoil. Some Syrians will be tempted to settle old scores. Sectarian conflict may raise its ugly head. UN observers may have to be deployed to ensure a peaceful transition so that one tyranny is not replaced by another.

But there is also reason to believe that Syrians will come out stronger through their trial-by-fire and forge a government of consensus, justice and accountability, with “malice toward none and charity for all.”

Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)

Scanning the latest double-issue of The New Yorker magazine yesterday, I saw a single-page piece by Ray Bradbury called “Take Me Home.” The Transit of Venus would begin soon, and I had just enough time to read it. I read it once, then re-read it, then read it a third time. The language was so lyrical and evocative and the word-images so vivid that I was transported to the porch of Bradbury’s grandparents’ boarding house in Waukegan, Illinois.

“I would go out to that lawn on summer nights and reach up to the red lights of Mars,” Bradbury wrote, “and say, ‘Take me home!’ I yearned to fly away and land there in the strange dusts that blew over dead-sea bottoms toward the ancient cities.”

Has anyone ever written anything so redolent about the red planet, or about the longing of a bookish boy wanting to hop on a balloon or a spaceship and soar away?

“While I remained earthbound, I would time-travel, listening to the grownups who on warm nights gathered outside the lawns and porches to talk and reminisce … it was the special time, the sad time, the time of beauty. It was the time of the fire balloons … I’d helped my grandpa carry the box in which lay, like a gossamer spirit, the paper tissue ghost of a fire balloon waiting to be breathed into, filled, and set adrift toward the midnight sky … Once the fire got going, the balloon whispered itself fat with the hot air rising inside …”

Surely you can see that fire-balloon! Not any fire-balloon but that specific balloon that the writer's grandpa had saved for him so that together they could set it “adrift toward the midnight sky.”

If the image is still vague, don’t give up. More stunning visual clarity is coming.

“But I could not let it go. It was so beautiful, with the light and shadows dancing inside. Only when Grandpa gave me a look, and a nod of his head, did I at last let the balloon drift free, up past the porch, illuminating the faces of my family. It floated up above the apple trees, over the beginning-to-sleep town, and across the night among the stars.”

Up, over, across. The words trace the flight of the balloon as lyrically as any poet or stylist ever could, carrying with it the enormous sadness of the boy who had just let it go.

“We stood watching it for at least ten minutes, until we could no longer see it. By then, tears were streaming down my face, and Grandpa, not looking at me, would at last clear his throat and shuffle his feet … Twenty five years later, I wrote ‘The Fire Balloons,’ a story in which a number of priests fly off to Mars looking for creatures of good will. It is my tribute to those summers when my grandfather was alive.”

After savoring the piece, I hurried off to see the Transit of Venus at a local observatory.

This morning I learned that Ray Bradbury has passed away at age 91.

I read only two of Bradbury’s work: “Fahrenheit 451” and “The Martian Chronicles.” What interested me even more than his work was his work ethic. Bradbury worked almost every day of his life (fans of Stephen King can identify), pounding out a thousand words a day on his typewriter. No computer or word processor for him. He was self-taught. The library was his refuge, his teacher. These days, people cite examples of tech icons like Bill Gates or Mark Zuckerberg to prove that you don’t have to go to school to make your mark. We forget that before tech titans, there have always been self-taught writers who made lasting contributions to literature and civilization. Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize for literature without having ever seen the inside of a classroom while growing up.

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.”

Bradbury’s own words perfectly sums up what inspired and motivated him.

Go out tonight and look up. See that tangerine light overhead? That’s the planet Mars, with its “strange dusts that blow over dead-sea bottoms toward the ancient cities.” It is the celestial body that Bradbury made familiar to millions of us through literature.

Venus as a Beauty Spot

We gathered at the Montgomery Hill Observatory in the northern hills of the Evergreen Valley College (EVC) around 3 in the afternoon, all agog about the celestial drama unfolding in front of the sun. Venus was moving across the solar disk, something that would repeat 105 years from now, in 2117, making viewing it literally the chance of a lifetime.

Parents brought their infants (one of whom promptly let out a wail to the amusement of all), toddlers and teenagers. Several grandmothers in saris and flowing dresses lined up like kids to peer through the telescopes.

Inside the dome was the 7-inch refractor telescope that Dr. Celso Batalha, professor of astronomy at EVC, fitted with an H-alpha filter to let in only the red light (wavelength of about 656 nanometer) emitting from the sun. Outside the dome, he had also set up four 8-inch portable, parabolic Dobsonians with clear filters. He was wise to do so because the space around the dome was soon milling with eager and curious visitors.

My first view of the transit was through the refractor telescope. The dark, perfect circle of Venus making its shy entrance at the lower left edge of a crimson sun was wondrous, simply wondrous. I looked for as long as I could before the next person in line gently nudged me to remind that there were others waiting for a chance to glimpse the wondrous sight as well.

Last night I read a piece in the New York Times by a professor of astronomy named Jay M. Pasachoff who wrote that “people on Earth can see with their own eyes the beauty spot — as beautiful as Marilyn Monroe’s — bestowed by Venus on the Sun.”

The imagery seemed perfect as I was viewing the transit: Venus was indeed a beauty spot on the sun, and its changing location only enhanced the fierce beauty of the duo. I also reminded myself to look up a picture of Marilyn Monroe. The sun as MM? I bet no poet ever thought of that. Kudos to Dr. Pasachoff.

If there was a hush of awe inside the observatory, outside was noisy celebration. Kids and grandmothers gave running commentaries on the minute-by-minute progress of Venus’s journey from left to right as they squinted through the Dobsonians. Of course, the experience had to be preserved for posterity, and so everyone (and I mean everyone) brought out their iPhones, Androids and SLRs and tried to capture the celestial scene. It was no simple point-and click, though. Only at certain frustrating angles could the view be captured and that required endless trial-and-error.

A teenage girl grew impatient with her father who kept fiddling with his camera for the perfect shot. Finally she could stand it no longer. “He will be doing this until Venus has completed her journey in six hours,” she said to everyone around. “He will still not be done.”

The girl’s mother, also getting angry at her husband, corrected the daughter. “No, Casalco will still be looking for the perfect picture when Venus returns again in one hundred years.”

As laughter erupted, the otherwise-imperturbable Mr. Casalco sheepishly withdrew.

Through the Dobsonians, we viewed the bright-yellow sun and the backlit Venus in the clear California sky. There were clouds but they were near the horizon. I helped Dr. Celso adjust the eyepieces as excited kids kept moving them.

The atmosphere was festive and yet there was an undertone of sadness. This was it for us. No more view like this in our lifetime. I felt the chill of mortality.

Scientists have correctly predicted the transits of Venus that come in pairs of 8 years: 1761 and 1769, 1874 and 1882, 2004 and 2012. What will the earth be like in 2117 and 2125? Will we still be fighting wars? Will there still be 1-percenters and 99-percenters, tyrants who indulge in unimaginable luxury while the rest survive on crumbs? Or will our succeeding generations conclude that our ways were unimaginative and untenable, and after much sacrifice and soul-searching, design a peaceful world where everyone led a reasonably good life?

Who can say? The thought  that I came away with from the celestial drama was that we were a part of what we had witnessed, no more and no less, and that the fate of our earth was entwined with the fate of the big, beautiful star and the planet moving across it, not only in a scientific but also in a transcendental sense.

Henna as a Cultural Catalyst

Mehndi is the art of body painting with henna, a paste created by crushing fresh or dried henna leaves and mixing the powder with lemon juice. When applied to the skin, henna leaves a red-orange “body art” image that lasts for about one to three weeks.

The practice of henna has been a part of the culture of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East for hundreds of years. Botanists believe that the henna plant first originated in Persia, spread to Egypt and was carried to India several centuries ago, perhaps by the Mughals.

There are three distinct trends. African Mehndi art is bold and large and consists of geometrically patterned angles. Asian mehndi is characterized by fine lacy lines, with floral patterns covering hands, forearms and feet. Middle-Eastern mehndi uses elaborate floral designs on hands and feet. African mehndi is black while Asian and Middle Eastern mehndi is usually reddish brown.
Until recently, henna was used in the U.S. mostly as a hair dye but now it is becoming popular as a dye for the skin as well. Mehndi is nothing if not exotic patterns and intricate designs. Used in wedding ceremonies, engagements, rites of passage occasions, bridal showers and distinctive parties, mehndi is safe, painless and redolent of the mystery of the East.

An ethnic club of the Evergreen Valley College in San Jose recently held a “henna fundraiser” to promote cultural events to reflect the diversity of the campus. Professors and student flocked to see firsthand how this ancient art was practiced. After only a few minutes of observation, a long line of eager and curious “henna lovers” formed on the stage.

Spanish teacher Sara Jacome had brought her class to show what the art of mehndi was all about. “I want Hispanic students to learn about other cultures,” she said. “They need to know that there are many cultures in the world. They need to understand the similarities and the differences and gain an appreciation of the world’s diversity.”
Three experts painted henna designs on the palms, arms and feet of patrons. The cost varied from five dollars to twenty, depending on the complexity of the pattern. To show their commitment to culture, teachers patiently sat through the $20 design while most students settled for the $5 variety. The president of the college dropped by to lend his support, sponsoring several delighted students for henna tattoos.
A rainy day at the campus was lit up by bright henna colors and the glowing smiles of students and faculty. With the decent sum of money raised, club members are already preparing to stage some fabulous cultural shows at the college in a few weeks.
America is in no danger of becoming a cultural desert anytime soon.

May Day Reality

I missed my exit due to heavy traffic while returning from work today. After driving in a meandering loop, I finally got on the freeway, only to see a "work in progress" at the other exit that would take me home. A policeman stood guard to make sure no stray motorist was tempted to ignore the sign.

Not my day, I sighed.

It was a long detour and the expressway was dense with traffic. Road rage is not my thing but this departure from routine agitated me. It took all of about fifteen minutes for me to finally come to the intersection from which home was more or less a straight line. Relax, I told myself.

That’s when I saw her. I have rarely seen so emaciated a woman in America. She was standing at the corner, holding up a sign that read, “Hungry and homeless. Just trying to survive.” Sitting on the pavement was her dog, panting under a sun that was still burning brightly in the late afternoon.

Normally I don’t carry much cash with me. We are, after all, progressing toward a cashless society in which our phones will soon become our wallets as well. But I had some money with me, thank God, so I called out to her and handed over what I had. I noticed that she seemed not only hungry but also in some kind of a trance, as if she wasn’t aware of what was happening to her. The dog watched her intently as she walked toward my car, wary perhaps that she might slip and fall.

Afterwards, I thought about my missed exits. Few minutes of inconvenience had led to a shattering encounter. The image of this woman crystallized for me what was happening to my country.

Today being May day, people have been busy rekindling the “Occupy Wall Street” movement. The 99 percenters are holding protests in New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, Philadelphia, San Jose, Oakland and other major cities. Actually it is from coast to coast and continent to continent. Protesters have massed in front of banks and other financial institutions. They have also shut down ferries, bridges, harbors, ports.

The economic situation remains grim. Almost 13 million Americans are out of work. After showing some signs of life, the recovery has begun to sputter again. Away from the enclaves of wealth and abundance, the sense of gloom and doom is palpable. As Justice Louis Brandeis put it, “We may have democracy, or we may have wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can’t have both.”

The wealthy – the 1 percenters - apparently made a killing on Wall Street today. Their bank accounts have swelled by millions of dollars on May Day while hard-up worker-slaves are toiling to make $4-$10 dollars an hour doing meaningless and degrading “web-based” work, if they are lucky to find such jobs. Talk about irony!

Mortality rates have risen dramatically among the unemployed, as has the suicide rate. Unemployment rate now is a full 3% higher than the postwar average, and the percentage of working Americans has not been this low in 30 years.

Anton Chekhov wrote in one of his short stories: “The scoundrels are sleek and well-dressed, while honest men feed on crumbs.” But this is America, not Chekhov’s 19th-century Russia!

Tomorrow the Internet and the newspapers will be full of pictures of protesters laying siege to symbols of inequality and injustice in America. For me, though, the image of a lone woman holding up a heartbreaking sign of despair at a busy intersection in the heart of Silicon Valley summed up the immorality of what Wall Street and the banks have wrought with their greed, arrogance and outright thievery.

May the better people win.

Spring Stargazing

We went out stargazing tonight. The spring night was warm, the stars brilliant. The Montgomery Hill Observatory, run by the Evergreen Valley College, is practically in our backyard. We walked up the winding road and gave our eyes time to adjust to the darkness.

Then, one by one, the stars began to bloom and we knew right then that there could not have been a better way to spend the night than looking at the universe.

Just above the western horizon, above the faint glow of the city, was a dim Jupiter. About 30 degrees above it was the dazzling Venus, easily the brightest object in the sky. At the zenith was Mars and as you completed the arc at the eastern sky, I was told that the unassuming star there was Saturn. "I will believe it when I see it," I said. The resident astronomer of the college, Dr. Celso Batalha, could only smile.

But first, Venus. Peering through the telescope, I saw a crescent Venus, a first for me. It was just like the moon, only brighter. Unlike the moon, however, crescent Venus is not visible to the naked eye. She was so bright, though, that I thought I could extend my hand to touch and tickle her. Her laughter would no doubt ripple across the sky if I succeeded.

Children were excitedly running around. Young boys and girls looked longingly at the stars, then at each other. I had eyes only for Saturn, though. And when my turn came to see it through the telescope,  I was overwhelmed into uttering two utterly inadequate words: "My goodness!"

The ring was a fat ribbon around a perfectly spherical shape etched against the dark horizon. There was something so delicate about it that for a moment I thought it would come free off its gravitational bondage and float away like a balloon. When I first saw the Saturn several years ago in wintertime through the same telescope, it was in the western sky and its beauty seemed more set, more mature. But this version was brighter, yet more intimate, more fragile. It was so achingly beautiful that I lingered more than my allotted time at the eyepiece until politely nudged by the fellow behind me.

There were other attractions in the crowded sky: Orion and the Big Dipper and so many more stars and constellations whose names I did not know or wanted to know, for fear that some mystery would go away if I knew their names.

So I went around the hill, taking in as much of the beauty of the night sky as I could with unaided eyes, feeling not insignificant at all but part of an ineffable whole whose meaning I could only dimly glimpse. The warm and breezy spring air was filled with the fragrance of freshly-cut grass and the chirping of crickets

Just when I thought it was time to leave, a shooting star fell. I waited for more but none came. Still, what a finale, what a memorable night!

Wilderness in the City

The Montgomery Hill Park adjacent to the Evergreen Valley College is perhaps San Jose’s best-kept “nature” secret. Its rising and dipping hiking trails are the city’s best, as are its serene meadows and sublime vistas. This unusual and unexpected 60-acre wilderness in the midst of a metropolitan city perfectly sums up Shakespeare’s observation: “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”

The Park is named after John Montgomery (1896-1011), an aviation pioneer and professor who developed flying gliders and tested them in Santa Cruz and Santa Clara counties. A gliding accident caused his death in 1911. The Park was declared a California Historic Landmark in 1967 in his honor.

What makes the park and its trails unique is that they are undeveloped. Surrounded by rows and rows of dense housing, crisscrossing roads and congested traffic, the park is a miraculous oasis of peace and quiet.

On a recent unseasonably warm winter day, I walked around the park, keeping to the dirt trails sometimes and wading through the grass at others. The temptation to roll down the hills was strong but I resisted. Rain has been scarce and the hills were not as green as they ought to have been. But the exhilaration of open space and rustling trees were enough to lift the soul.

From atop a hill, I could see the college campus sprawled out, the dome of the astronomy department’s observatory glistening in the sun. Cars crowded the parking lot of the shopping center at the base of the park, separated thankfully by a line of trees and hedges.

Some days later, the rain came. The dazzle of lightning and the boom of thunder one Friday night meant only one thing to me: I would be spending hours in my backyard park the following day.

Almost overnight, the meadows are full of tall grass, mustards, sorrels, poppies, thistles, wild roses and lupines. Although only a trickle flows in the stream at the park's edge, the oaks, the laurels and the pines are loud with robins, jays and sparrows. I am serenaded by crickets along the reddish trails that meander through the park like rivers.

Parents are out hiking with children and their dogs. Bicyclists pedal with purpose up the steep dirt paths. People fly kites. Some even fly, soaring and circling on machine-driven gliders. A pair of eagles above a grove of eucalyptus trees wheel, bank, pause, dip and soar, as if in homage to John Montgomery. Their grace and beauty is something to behold. An excited dad points out the eagles to his son and daughter and they are wonder-struck. Everyone looks up to see the eagles against a beckoning sky, their wings etched by spring light. All four picnic tables by the park’s college entrance are occupied by families enjoying a day in the “great outdoors.”

In the seductive shadow spread by an ancient oak in the middle of a hillock sits a musician strumming his guitar. The music mingles with birdsongs and floats upward. Like ripples in a pond, it also spreads outward across the open space. This is what repose means, earth, sky, birds, wildflowers and humanity connected in a holistic web. No matter where you are, you don’t have to venture too far beyond your backyard to find it.

Sachin Tendulkar's Milestone

Three hundred and sixty nine agonizing days after scoring his last century, Indian cricketer Sachin Tendulkar scored his 100th. He is now the sole owner of 100 100's (51 Test, 49 ODI). That the Little Master's milestone came in a losing cause (Bangladesh defeated India in the Asia Cup ODI by 5 wickets, with 4 balls remaining, at Mirpur, in Dhaka) will probably be forgotten when the achievement is placed in its proper context. This is bound to be a record for the ages. Tendulkar's nearest competitor is the veteran Australian Ricky Ponting with 79 centuries (41, 30). It is almost a certainty that Ponting will not play long enough to score another 21 centuries.

Tendulkar scored his first hundred against England at Old Trafford on August 14, 1990, at the age of 17. He scored his 100th on March 16, 2012, at the age of 38. As of today, he has played in 188 Test matches (311 innings) and 462 ODIs (451 innings) for a total of 650 matches, and has scored more runs than anyone in both the 5-day (15,470) and 1-day (18,374) versions of the game. He was also the first to score a double-century in an ODI test. His sheer professional longevity of 22 years and counting is a testimony to his greatness as a cricketer.

Is there any comparable, untouchable record?

As I see it, there are two.

The first is Australian Donald Bradman's cricket test average of 99.94. The record has stood since 1948. No one has come close and it is safe to say that no one will. Yes, records are meant to be broken, as the cliche goes, but it is inconceivable that one like this will ever be.

The second belongs to the 7-foot-1 basketball player Wilt Chamberlain who scored 100 points on March 2, 1962, playing for the Philadelphia Warriors against the New York Knicks. It was beyond sensational, beyond belief. Kobe Bryant of the Lakers came closest with his 81 points in 2006 but Bryant had the advantage of the 3-point field goals, unknown in Chamberlain's time.

64 years and counting for Bradman's record, 50 years for Chamberlain's. Shall we give at least 50 years to Tendulkar's?

Starry Sky, Life and Death

It's a magnificent sight, the evening sky now. In the West, the irrepressible 'evening star' Venus glows with such luminosity that you want to extend your hand and touch it. Above it is Jupiter, not as bright but compelling nonetheless. Overhead, the moon is swelling as it moves eastward toward the Diablo Range. But the eastern sky belongs to Mars with its twinkling reddish hue. In the north, the two pointers of the Big Dipper are oriented up and you can easily trace their line to locate the Polaris to the left.

Last week, on February 24, the crescent moon was below Venus and just above the western horizon. The next night it had moved between Venus and Jupiter, forming an almost perfect right-angle triangle. (Pythagorean Theorem, anyone?) The next two days brought much-needed rain to the Santa Clara Valley and clouds covered the sky. A night later, the moon had moved past Jupiter near Orion. The pink plum-cherry blossom have been out in profusion along the quiet avenues and appear like snowflakes in reflected light as you look up to drink in the beauty above.

But tonight the moon has gone far past Orion. In two nights or so, the full moon will rise big and yellow-orange above the hills and one will be overwhelmed by the ineffable beauty of the March sky.

What is it about the sky, particularly when it is so star-studded, that compels us to consider other perspectives? What exactly are we after in life? Fame, glory, wealth, happiness? Does it really matter, after we have reached a certain level of satiety, to add more? Is it worth it, this relentless pursuit of more? Does it in any way enhance our insignificance?

A dear aunt passed away a month ago and I just heard that uncle (they were married for 50 years) has died today, in the same hospital, in the same ICU unit. Both of them refused medications and the experiments that doctors wanted to run on them. They were determined to leave this life with dignity and they did, surrounded only by their loved ones. No tubes, no surgeries, no medical intrusions into the sacred. Both accepted death with uncommon grace and I cannot but think that uncle has left to join his beloved. If he could look at the sky last night, the final night of his life, I think he would have known more than ever before in his heart that love transcends all.

The seasons come and go and the earth renews itself with rain and becomes brown again, and the ancient cycle continues. The old move on and their grandchildren grow up. Someone departs, someone arrives. For all our striving and advances, the sum of human joys and sorrows remain more or less constant across centuries. The planets and the stars swim along in their orbits, unhurried and unchanging, reminding us only of those things that matter, if we take the time to see and listen.

Caring for Cats on Campus

It was love at first sight for Cathy Kost and David Eisenberg. The three feral kittens had appeared outside their offices at Evergreen Valley College (EVC) seemingly out of nowhere. The kittens looked vulnerable, in desperate need of some tender loving care. Cathy and David immediately adopted the kittens and named them Misha, Jasper and Rocket. That was ten years ago.

Now Cathy and David look after a colony of a dozen feral cats on the Evergreen campus. Over the years, the two long-term EVC employees gave away several cats for adoption, mostly to faculty and students.

They unfailingly feed the cats every day at 7:30 AM and at noon. “As soon as they hear my truck coming down the hill.” says Cathy, an administrative assistant in the Language Arts department, “my feline charges line up, meowing excitedly for their first meal of the day.”

She and David, a professor in the Computer Instructional Technology department, come to the campus every weekend as well. “We can’t let them go hungry on Saturdays and Sundays!” They have been buying bulk cat food out of their own pockets for a decade now.

“They are feral but they are also tame,” says David. “Cathy and I can pet them but most other people cannot. They know us as family.”

The cats rest and sleep in empty spaces under the buildings and in the hills around the campus. “They obviously know how to take care of themselves,” says Cathy, “because when I come every morning, they are fresh and ready for the day!” Several cat food bowls line the side of a building that has been cleared of vegetation just for the cats.

Cathy and David take under their wings any cat that people dump in the campus. A custodian once brought over a cat he found in a garbage can. David has rescued several abandoned kittens from in front of the school gym and some from outside the campus as well. The two employees have also trapped a few of the cats.

They also neuter the cats. Sometimes they put a few up for adoption on Craigslist and give them away only after being convinced that the potential owners are genuine cat-lovers who will give them a safe and nice home. They once gave a cat to a teacher’s sister who was battling cancer and who needed to care for a living while she underwent treatments.

“The cats are good for the campus,” says Cathy. “Right now, a company called Sunpower is installing solar panels in the surrounding fields. When they first dug up the ground, rats, mice and gophers invaded the campus. Were it not for the cats, we would have had rodents all over the place, in classrooms, offices, libraries, just about everywhere. These cats can hunt real well. Thanks to them, we have a rodent-free campus!”

It is said that the best way to express gratitude for life is by selflessly caring for other living beings. Cathy and David have been caring for feral and abandoned cats at the EVC campus for a decade now. They do it quietly and with love, in spite of their busy schedules. If you are feeling down, if it seems that the whole world is turning against you and you are about to give up your faith in humanity, come and see Cathy and David feeding some happy cats.

An Iranian Masterpiece

If you are looking for a breather from the daily grinds of life and want to lose yourself in a light fare of romance and laughter, steer clear of this movie. But if you want to witness an unflinching look at life in all its pathos and ambiguities, in which faith, loyalty, family values, traditional culture and class distinctions clash in a draining suspense worthy of both Hitchcock and John le Carre, then go see the Iranian masterpiece called “A Separation.”

Director Asghar Farhadi’s movie should win the Best Foreign Language Oscar this year. If not, we can conclude that something is seriously wrong with the Academy. The film has gained worldwide acclaim since its release in 2011 and has been racking up awards at film festivals, most recently the Golden Globe.

But award or no award, this is a superbly-crafted film that deals intelligently and unsparingly with the big questions of life. It pulls no punches. We are gripped by the emotional conflicts of the actors because we realize with a shock that these are our conflicts as well, in one form or another.

Nader (Peyman Maadi) is resisting divorce from his wife Simin (Leila Hatami) because she wants to migrate to a foreign land and he does not. He cannot bear the thought of abandoning his Alzheimer-stricken father (Ali-Asghar Shahbazi). The custody of the couple’s 11-year old daughter Termeh (Sarina Farhadi, the director’s daughter) is the bone of contention. It is unresolved at this point but Termeh decides to stay with her father when her mother moves in with her parents.

Nader has to find a caretaker for his headstrong but helpless father in a hurry. At his wife’s urging, he hires Razieh (Sareh Bayat), a chador-clad religious working-class woman. Razieh has problems of her own. She has to care for a young daughter. She has a psychopathic husband, Hodjat (Shahab Hosseini, to deal with. She has to travel a considerable distance by bus to reach Nader’s apartment, a perilous daily undertaking considering that she is pregnant (not known to the protagonists at the outset). She has to lie to her husband about the job because he would not approve of her caring for another man, even if he is over 80. But most of all, looking after an incontinent man turns out to be a nightmare, especially since Nader’s father has a habit of wandering off from the apartment when she is mopping floors or preparing food.

In this combustible mix, things can explode for any number of social, cultural or religious reasons, and they all do. Nader comes home one day in the very first week to find his father unconscious, his hands tied to the bed. Razieh is nowhere to be found. When she does show up, bedlam ensues. A crime of some kind is committed, although we are not sure who actually committed it. Nader finds himself in a court battle with Razieh and her husband, and soon his wife, daughter and neighbors are dragged into it as well. The autocratic and impassive judge infuriates both parties as he oscillates between indifference and high-handedness.

The key event on which the entire movie pivots is never shown, even in flashback. This is Asghar Farhadi’s masterstroke. By visually withholding what really happened (it is only revealed in a few words near the climax), he heightens the tension and achieves a shattering effect. I will not be giving away anything if I paraphrase what Nader says to Razieh as the two families are on the brink of working out a settlement: “Can you swear by the Quran that I am responsible for what happened to you?”

Razieh is unable to do so because, as a believer, she feels that if she lies and commits a sin, it will cast a shadow on her daughter.

A happy ending thus slips away. And when Termeh has to finally decide before a judge who she wants to live with – mom or dad – we see the parents waiting outside in the corridor, separated by a glass door, lost in their private agonies. The ending seems incomplete, similar to the ending in that famous 1882 short story by Frank Stockton called “The Lady, or the Tiger?” But in leaving us with a question, director Farhjadi has in reality made his movie complete, for in the moral universe that we inhabit, heartbreak occurs not from having to choose between right and wrong but between two equally compelling rights.