By Maxwell Pereira
Karol Josef Wojtyla (pronounced Voy-tee-wah) was born in Wadowice, Poland on May 18, 1920 to an administrative officer in the Polish army and a former schoolteacher. When young, Karol was athletic, and enjoyed playing soccer as a goalkeeper. As a daredevil swimmer he ventured often to swim in a flooded Swaka River. An excellent student, he served as president of his school sodality too.
He also enjoyed hiking, skiing, backpacking, and kayaking – like most young people, for whom he had a special place in his heart even in later life. Karol’s love of the theatre made him cherish ambitions to study literature and become a professional actor. During Nazi occupation Karol clandestinely pursued his studies and his acting, while working as a stonecutter to support himself and to hold the work permit he needed to avoid deportation or imprisonment. Karol Wojtyla was active in the UNIA, a Christian democratic underground organization. At the cost of endangering personal safety, he helped Jews find refuge from the Nazis.
While convalescing from an accident, Karol considered a religious vocation and by 1942 was studying for the priesthood. He was ordained a priest on November 1, 1946. In 1958 Father Wojtyla was named auxiliary bishop of Krakow and four years later assumed leadership of the diocese with the title of vicar capitular. He was a visible leader, often taking a public stand against communism and government officials. In 1967 Pope Paul VI elevated him to a cardinal. By this time several of his poems and writings had been published including "Easter Vigils and Other Poems".
On October 16, 1978, at age 58, he was elected the Supreme Pontiff of Roman Catholics all over the world, the 261st successor to St Peter in Rome – to succeed Pope John Paul I. Assuming the name John Paul II, he was the first Polish pope and also the first non-Italian pope since Pope Adrian VI in 1522. The new pope continued the tradition started by Pope Paul VI to travel, and in 26 years of his Pontificate covered 100 countries around the Globe, in effect circumnavigating it three times and logging more hours by airplane and Pope-mobile than any one ever before.
A man in the papal chair in an era when the church confronted the real prospect of nuclear war in a world divided between East and West, he preached a culture of peace. But in 1981 after he returned from a visit to the United States, Pope John Paul II was shot in the abdomen and severely injured as he entered St. Peter's Square to address a general audience. But soon after the hospitalisation and full recovery, he went straight to the prison and met with his would-be assassin Mehmet Ali Agca, in true Christian spirit to forgive him for his deed.
Charismatic and full of intellectual vigour and energy, John Paul II amply performed roles also of a philosopher, theologian, rhetorician and writer - and he brought to the papacy a new dimension of conservative authority while reaching beyond religion into human rights and politics. His encyclicals covering a range of vital issues of social and economic justice, mass deprivation, rights of the poor and human dignity – earning him rightly the sobriquet as the ‘millennium pope’ for more reasons than one.
A man of firm convictions, he practised and lived by his convictions; steadfastdly and stubbornly cracking down on emerging influences of liberalism and radical Catholic dissent. Especially in matters of divorce, homosexuality, abortion rights and contraception, ordination of women, and absolute rule of priestly celibacy.
Uncompromising throughout in his views on Catholicism’s bête-noir – Communism, his papacy reigned over the collapse of the USSR and the erosion of communism around the world. Be it the fall of the Berlin Wall or the defeat of communism, for him these would eventually happen by itself. His moral authority is credited to have demolished communism. Even so, he proved no less intolerant of capitalism for its heartlessness and decadence. With courage he spoke against wars, and opposed US intervention in Central America in the 1980s, the 1991 Gulf War, and the 2003 invasion of Iraq.
Always a supporter of the under dog, he advocated on behalf of the peoples of less developed countries in matters of third world debt; and in matters of extreme poverty – what he characterised as “perhaps the most pervasive and paralysing violation of human rights in our world”. And he opened up new vistas of dialogue for positive interactions with peoples of other religions – Jews, Muslims, and even Hindus. The first pope ever to set foot in a synagogue and a mosque. The peace processes between the Arabs and the Israelis, and elsewhere were not denied his touch.
The fast emerging threats of an advancing secular culture in Europe coupled with the growing thrust of Islam everywhere, the twin scourges of AIDS and poverty in Africa, a steady migration of a traditionally Catholic population in parts to Protestantism in Latin America, the crisis created by the scandal of sexual abuse by the clergy in the United States and the grappling with a fast-changing set of moral questions provoked by advances in medicine and genetics, as also the latest debate on euthanasia following the Shiavo case – are all a legacy left behind by a Pope despite his deft and effective handling of the same, with or without the criticism these issues and the church’s reaction/response thereto invariably attracted.
An ardent fan of the Blessed Mother Teresa, and an admirer of Mahatma Gandhi, John Paul II endeared himself to India, to which land and its people he specially devoted two of his visits – the first in 1986, and then again in 1999. His last official act was to sign the order elevating three Indian priests as Bishops.
900 words
05.04.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira – who was privileged to be the Personal Security Officer to His Holiness during the Delhi lap of his 1986 India visit
Available for interaction at http://www. maxwellpereira.com and mfjpkamath@gmail.com
:60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001.
Tuesday, 5 April 2005
Tuesday, 15 March 2005
Exercising! Dieting… !
By Maxwell Pereira
There was a time, exercising came naturally, effortless. One did not need to be calculating calories of one’s intakes or the calories expended. The day’s routine and connected activities ensured the needful – kept one fit as a fiddle and trim as a tripod, or as a bi-pod if you prefered it that way! And for effect, erect as a ramrod! – though most ramrods one has seen in movies alone, have been used horizontally to ram bastions of castles and forts to gain access or entry – and not vertically as ‘erect’ would normally indicate.
But returning to the subject of discussion, one agrees that exercise is an excellent and necessary tool in the prevention of heart disease – believedly the major killer of mankind – and offers dramatic benefits for heart patients. Exercise can slow or even reverse atherosclerosis, manage or lower (blood pressure), reduce cholesterol levels, help lose weight in a healthier way, reduce stress and depression and make you live a longer and more energetic life.
As one advances in age, one experiences the sands of time though have gradually evolved exercising concepts from the abstract unconscious to the tangible realm of the conscious, when not only is one conscious, but has to make conscious effort to exercise. And direct such exercise to specific targets – be it specific to parts of one’s anatomy or what’s internal to one’s anatomy. Like one’s aches and pains or other ailments, physical or mental.
With this evolution comes also the need for regularity, failing which adverse consequences are round the corner – and with this regularity comes the need to devote time, take time off to exercise.
The more conscious one gets, the needs increase. The ones who never jogged before find the need to jog. The ones who pooh-poohed yoga as mere mumbo-jumbo suddenly find virtues in it, start reading stuff on it, even taking pains to find a teacher to put you through the basics and processes. It is amazing how yoga has taken the western world by storm, for someone told me the other day that the American continent today has more teachers, institutes, research centres and published literature on yoga, than India has ever produced in all of its history over 5000 years!
But here, yoga is just an example. For some it may be yoga, for others it could be other forms of the same stuff being touted by a plethora of fitness gurus – in the form of the exerting physical yoga, elevating spiritual yoga, vipasana, the art of living, or whatever…. For many others, the truly old tried and tested constitutional, the morning walk. And to those who prefer, the evening walk too. And before you know, you have graduated to the Walkers’ Club, even getting passionately addicted to it, to wax eloquent on its virtues at every opportunity that presents itself.
For those bitten by the exercise bug when still young, the need to get a ‘high’ through more vigorous forms of aerobics, power dancing to synchronised dancing and so on, grip the mind. And lately, the young ones swear by Salsa dancing as one of the best forms of exercise for boosting physical endurance and range of motion; for weight loss and muscle gain by burning up to 10 calories a minute without harmful side effects caused by high impact exercises – all while enjoying the latest social trends of the jet-set salsa types.
Conscious exercising drags in with it the thirst for every other form of recommended habit, practices and therapies – be it hydrotherapy or physiotherapy that gradually spreads its tentacles to meander through trodden and un-trodden realms and paths, and into the passions and pleasures of the masseuse’ world. To reach levels of nigh addiction. Massage and especially the therapeutic ayurvedic type gets addictive, as it improves circulation, encourages healing of sports and age related injuries and assists with managing pain, headaches, fatigue and other chronic conditions. It also supports and encourages a more youthful, vibrant appearance, and assists in retaining healthy, supple skin and muscle tone. Massage is a comforting, supportive, soothing and stress reducing way to recover and heal from the demands of our modern busy lives, and enables us to refresh and return to our lives and loved ones with a new sense of calm, peace, composure and security.
And then, most importantly, the realm of diets! Talking of diets, being one of those subjected to regular and strict dozes through childhood to purgatives like castor-oil and Epsom salts, followed by concoctions of bitters from a variety of tree barks to zardaal nutmegs and kiraten herbs, to decoctions or kashayams of pepper and selected spices or a variety of herbals to ward off severe colds and headaches, and some others laced with hing-asafoetida to ward off stomach ailments or remove flatulence – I had thought I had seen it all.
But no! Into adulthood too followed the kashayams and brews to envigorate you periodically, and cleanse you internally by purification of the blood through calculated dozes of unadulterated karela applications, and ‘neem concentrates insisted on by my late mother – God bless her departed soul – to whose foresight and insistence perhaps I owe a fairly strong and sturdy, and a free-of-serious-ailment constitution even at the stage of superannuation from active police service.
Even so, I am afraid, there has now come a time when one finds oneself with a questioning mind, wanting to know “Oh why! Why do I need to punish my body so much?! Is there really no room left for a less rigorous routine, a mellowed doze to caress the senses and the weakening flesh, to a smoother nirvana?”
900 words
15.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
You can interact with the author at http://www. maxwellpereira.com and maxpk@vsnl.com ; tel-23718822.
published in the Delhi Mid-Day, Wednesday, March 16...
There was a time, exercising came naturally, effortless. One did not need to be calculating calories of one’s intakes or the calories expended. The day’s routine and connected activities ensured the needful – kept one fit as a fiddle and trim as a tripod, or as a bi-pod if you prefered it that way! And for effect, erect as a ramrod! – though most ramrods one has seen in movies alone, have been used horizontally to ram bastions of castles and forts to gain access or entry – and not vertically as ‘erect’ would normally indicate.
But returning to the subject of discussion, one agrees that exercise is an excellent and necessary tool in the prevention of heart disease – believedly the major killer of mankind – and offers dramatic benefits for heart patients. Exercise can slow or even reverse atherosclerosis, manage or lower (blood pressure), reduce cholesterol levels, help lose weight in a healthier way, reduce stress and depression and make you live a longer and more energetic life.
As one advances in age, one experiences the sands of time though have gradually evolved exercising concepts from the abstract unconscious to the tangible realm of the conscious, when not only is one conscious, but has to make conscious effort to exercise. And direct such exercise to specific targets – be it specific to parts of one’s anatomy or what’s internal to one’s anatomy. Like one’s aches and pains or other ailments, physical or mental.
With this evolution comes also the need for regularity, failing which adverse consequences are round the corner – and with this regularity comes the need to devote time, take time off to exercise.
The more conscious one gets, the needs increase. The ones who never jogged before find the need to jog. The ones who pooh-poohed yoga as mere mumbo-jumbo suddenly find virtues in it, start reading stuff on it, even taking pains to find a teacher to put you through the basics and processes. It is amazing how yoga has taken the western world by storm, for someone told me the other day that the American continent today has more teachers, institutes, research centres and published literature on yoga, than India has ever produced in all of its history over 5000 years!
But here, yoga is just an example. For some it may be yoga, for others it could be other forms of the same stuff being touted by a plethora of fitness gurus – in the form of the exerting physical yoga, elevating spiritual yoga, vipasana, the art of living, or whatever…. For many others, the truly old tried and tested constitutional, the morning walk. And to those who prefer, the evening walk too. And before you know, you have graduated to the Walkers’ Club, even getting passionately addicted to it, to wax eloquent on its virtues at every opportunity that presents itself.
For those bitten by the exercise bug when still young, the need to get a ‘high’ through more vigorous forms of aerobics, power dancing to synchronised dancing and so on, grip the mind. And lately, the young ones swear by Salsa dancing as one of the best forms of exercise for boosting physical endurance and range of motion; for weight loss and muscle gain by burning up to 10 calories a minute without harmful side effects caused by high impact exercises – all while enjoying the latest social trends of the jet-set salsa types.
Conscious exercising drags in with it the thirst for every other form of recommended habit, practices and therapies – be it hydrotherapy or physiotherapy that gradually spreads its tentacles to meander through trodden and un-trodden realms and paths, and into the passions and pleasures of the masseuse’ world. To reach levels of nigh addiction. Massage and especially the therapeutic ayurvedic type gets addictive, as it improves circulation, encourages healing of sports and age related injuries and assists with managing pain, headaches, fatigue and other chronic conditions. It also supports and encourages a more youthful, vibrant appearance, and assists in retaining healthy, supple skin and muscle tone. Massage is a comforting, supportive, soothing and stress reducing way to recover and heal from the demands of our modern busy lives, and enables us to refresh and return to our lives and loved ones with a new sense of calm, peace, composure and security.
And then, most importantly, the realm of diets! Talking of diets, being one of those subjected to regular and strict dozes through childhood to purgatives like castor-oil and Epsom salts, followed by concoctions of bitters from a variety of tree barks to zardaal nutmegs and kiraten herbs, to decoctions or kashayams of pepper and selected spices or a variety of herbals to ward off severe colds and headaches, and some others laced with hing-asafoetida to ward off stomach ailments or remove flatulence – I had thought I had seen it all.
But no! Into adulthood too followed the kashayams and brews to envigorate you periodically, and cleanse you internally by purification of the blood through calculated dozes of unadulterated karela applications, and ‘neem concentrates insisted on by my late mother – God bless her departed soul – to whose foresight and insistence perhaps I owe a fairly strong and sturdy, and a free-of-serious-ailment constitution even at the stage of superannuation from active police service.
Even so, I am afraid, there has now come a time when one finds oneself with a questioning mind, wanting to know “Oh why! Why do I need to punish my body so much?! Is there really no room left for a less rigorous routine, a mellowed doze to caress the senses and the weakening flesh, to a smoother nirvana?”
900 words
15.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
You can interact with the author at http://www. maxwellpereira.com and maxpk@vsnl.com ; tel-23718822.
published in the Delhi Mid-Day, Wednesday, March 16...
Monday, 7 March 2005
Shakespeare – Indian ?
By Maxwell Pereira
A debate had raged a while ago, regarding the claimed actual origins of the greatest ever play-write, Shakespeare. The controversy was over the belief of some Arabs that the Bard of Avon was indeed their own Arab trader Sheik-Zabir, whose literary legacy the English had usurped! According to them, the worthy while in England on business, had observed the obsession of the locals for theatre, and sought to use this to his advantage. To promote his own trade by catering to their love of the stage, he put up a play titled Othello based on a Mediterranean tragedy he was familiar with. The play was a run-away success, and its writer was motivated into writing more for the stage; which ultimately led to this Arab trader to permanently settle in England.
I had occasion recently to remember this tale, when I encountered an even more intriguing claim that Shakespeare was in fact an Indian, and really a woman. A claim like the Arabs’ Sheik-Zabir, and more, recorded in 1942 in the college magazine of my alma mater St Aloysius’ at Mangalore – through the humorous pen of an alumnus Haridas Purshattam. This interesting piece of writing merited a place in the compilation “On Eagle’s Wings” of tid-bits put together by Prashanth Madtha from across 125 years of the College’s existence.
Dr Aybeesee Ph.D (Physical Director), the worthy informed his fellow college mates – during his recent excavations at Konchadi, had come across a rare inscription to prove that Shakespeare was none other than Tippu’s soldier Sheshappayya. During the Third Mysore War, this soldier was taken prisoner by the British. Cornwallis mistook him for Tippu himself, and took him to England where he was received by Sir Walter Raleigh. By the time Cornwallis realised his blunder and released him, Raleigh had been so deeply impressed by Sheshappaiyya, that he urged him to stay on. Sheshappaiyya gained employment in the Globe Theatre and started writing dramas (plays) and eventually was transformed into Shakespeare.
If this story was not enough, the writer had more – this one from the ‘unearthly’ pot in Bengal that Professor Exwyzed M.Sc. (Moral Science) had unearthed. Here, one Shah Behari who went to England for higher studies, fell in love with a not-so-beautiful lady. He then abandoned not the lady, but the idea of his return to India, and remained with his name changed to Shakespeare. In yet another tale, it was Khan Sahib Prof Hakeem M.D. of Kasaigully who discovered an inscription at Kudroli. Here it was Sheik Byari, a wealthy perfumer and a poet who went to England to become Shakespeare.
The writer in the St. Aloysius’ magazine continued, with another latest discovery by a gentleman who preferred to remain incognito – for only he knew that Shakespeare was a woman! And that was queen Mumtaz mahal, generally known as Shah-ki-Pyari (darling of the Shah). She received English education, wished to go to England to play tennis in slacks at Oxford; where, lo and behold, her name was entered in the Oxford rolls as Shakespeare instead of Shahkipyari.
The legends and myths surrounding Shakespeare are legion. But I am sure none of them would have made the poor play-write turn in his grave as many times as the ones perhaps that link him to his Indian origins – so claimed, in my College Annual of 1942. More, the one that makes him not a he, but a she.
William Shakespeare, the Brits are very sure, was born in England, on 23 April – the date known traditionally; and the register at the Holy Trinity Church at his birthplace Stratford, records his baptism on 26th April. He was one of Mary and John Shakespeares’ five children, of whom two died before William was born, and another was lost when still young. The town Stratford-upon-Avon where he was born in 1564 is located in the centre of England, which has always been, and still is, an important river-crossing settlement and market centre.
William’s father, John, trained as a glove-maker and married Mary Arden, the daughter of Robert Arden, a farmer from the nearby village of Wilmcote. John and Mary set up home in Henley Street, Stratford, in the house now known as Shakespeare's Birthplace. John Shakespeare was a prominent citizen, serving on the town council for many years and becoming Bailiff, or Mayor, in 1568. Besides his craft as a glover, he traded as a wool dealer and was also involved in money-lending.
As the son of a leading townsman, William is said to have studied at Stratford. Some of his ideas for plots and characters probably came from Ovid's tales, the plays of Terence and Plautus, and Roman history. It is not known what Shakespeare did when he left school. At the age of 18, in November 1582, he married Anne Hathaway (26), the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a local farmer. They had three children - Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith.
No one knows when or why Shakespeare left Stratford for London, or what he was doing before becoming a professional actor and dramatist in the capital. Among the tales concerning his 'lost years' between 1585 and 1592, is one that tells how he was caught poaching deer in Charlecote Park, near Stratford, and went off to London to avoid prosecution.
Shakespeare's reputation was established in London by 1592; in the year Robert Greene, another dramatist, called him 'an upstart crow' - envious of his success. 1n 1594, Shakespeare joined others in forming a new theatre company, under the patronage of the Lord Chamberlain, and for almost twenty years remained its regular dramatist, producing on average two plays a year.
900 words
07.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
The author would love you to interact with him at http://www. maxwellpereira.com
published in the Delhi Mid-Day
A debate had raged a while ago, regarding the claimed actual origins of the greatest ever play-write, Shakespeare. The controversy was over the belief of some Arabs that the Bard of Avon was indeed their own Arab trader Sheik-Zabir, whose literary legacy the English had usurped! According to them, the worthy while in England on business, had observed the obsession of the locals for theatre, and sought to use this to his advantage. To promote his own trade by catering to their love of the stage, he put up a play titled Othello based on a Mediterranean tragedy he was familiar with. The play was a run-away success, and its writer was motivated into writing more for the stage; which ultimately led to this Arab trader to permanently settle in England.
I had occasion recently to remember this tale, when I encountered an even more intriguing claim that Shakespeare was in fact an Indian, and really a woman. A claim like the Arabs’ Sheik-Zabir, and more, recorded in 1942 in the college magazine of my alma mater St Aloysius’ at Mangalore – through the humorous pen of an alumnus Haridas Purshattam. This interesting piece of writing merited a place in the compilation “On Eagle’s Wings” of tid-bits put together by Prashanth Madtha from across 125 years of the College’s existence.
Dr Aybeesee Ph.D (Physical Director), the worthy informed his fellow college mates – during his recent excavations at Konchadi, had come across a rare inscription to prove that Shakespeare was none other than Tippu’s soldier Sheshappayya. During the Third Mysore War, this soldier was taken prisoner by the British. Cornwallis mistook him for Tippu himself, and took him to England where he was received by Sir Walter Raleigh. By the time Cornwallis realised his blunder and released him, Raleigh had been so deeply impressed by Sheshappaiyya, that he urged him to stay on. Sheshappaiyya gained employment in the Globe Theatre and started writing dramas (plays) and eventually was transformed into Shakespeare.
If this story was not enough, the writer had more – this one from the ‘unearthly’ pot in Bengal that Professor Exwyzed M.Sc. (Moral Science) had unearthed. Here, one Shah Behari who went to England for higher studies, fell in love with a not-so-beautiful lady. He then abandoned not the lady, but the idea of his return to India, and remained with his name changed to Shakespeare. In yet another tale, it was Khan Sahib Prof Hakeem M.D. of Kasaigully who discovered an inscription at Kudroli. Here it was Sheik Byari, a wealthy perfumer and a poet who went to England to become Shakespeare.
The writer in the St. Aloysius’ magazine continued, with another latest discovery by a gentleman who preferred to remain incognito – for only he knew that Shakespeare was a woman! And that was queen Mumtaz mahal, generally known as Shah-ki-Pyari (darling of the Shah). She received English education, wished to go to England to play tennis in slacks at Oxford; where, lo and behold, her name was entered in the Oxford rolls as Shakespeare instead of Shahkipyari.
The legends and myths surrounding Shakespeare are legion. But I am sure none of them would have made the poor play-write turn in his grave as many times as the ones perhaps that link him to his Indian origins – so claimed, in my College Annual of 1942. More, the one that makes him not a he, but a she.
William Shakespeare, the Brits are very sure, was born in England, on 23 April – the date known traditionally; and the register at the Holy Trinity Church at his birthplace Stratford, records his baptism on 26th April. He was one of Mary and John Shakespeares’ five children, of whom two died before William was born, and another was lost when still young. The town Stratford-upon-Avon where he was born in 1564 is located in the centre of England, which has always been, and still is, an important river-crossing settlement and market centre.
William’s father, John, trained as a glove-maker and married Mary Arden, the daughter of Robert Arden, a farmer from the nearby village of Wilmcote. John and Mary set up home in Henley Street, Stratford, in the house now known as Shakespeare's Birthplace. John Shakespeare was a prominent citizen, serving on the town council for many years and becoming Bailiff, or Mayor, in 1568. Besides his craft as a glover, he traded as a wool dealer and was also involved in money-lending.
As the son of a leading townsman, William is said to have studied at Stratford. Some of his ideas for plots and characters probably came from Ovid's tales, the plays of Terence and Plautus, and Roman history. It is not known what Shakespeare did when he left school. At the age of 18, in November 1582, he married Anne Hathaway (26), the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a local farmer. They had three children - Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith.
No one knows when or why Shakespeare left Stratford for London, or what he was doing before becoming a professional actor and dramatist in the capital. Among the tales concerning his 'lost years' between 1585 and 1592, is one that tells how he was caught poaching deer in Charlecote Park, near Stratford, and went off to London to avoid prosecution.
Shakespeare's reputation was established in London by 1592; in the year Robert Greene, another dramatist, called him 'an upstart crow' - envious of his success. 1n 1594, Shakespeare joined others in forming a new theatre company, under the patronage of the Lord Chamberlain, and for almost twenty years remained its regular dramatist, producing on average two plays a year.
900 words
07.03.2005: Copyright © Maxwell Pereira: 60 Ashoka Road, New Delhi-110001
The author would love you to interact with him at http://www. maxwellpereira.com
published in the Delhi Mid-Day
Friday, 4 March 2005
A Faithful Remembers….
By Maxwell Pereira
maxpk@vsnl.com
As millions around the world pray today for the most prominent religious leader in the world, my mind goes back to February 1986. The time when Karol Josef Wojtyla visited India for the first time. Of Polish origin and a survivor of the II-World War ravages, he had opted for priesthood and risen to become the Supreme Pontiff of Roman Catholics all over the world, the 261st successor to St Peter in Rome, who chose the name John Paul II when he was elected Pope in 1978 soon after his predecessor John Paul I died with less than a month in office.
I recall the excitement within me, as just before and in the run up to the impending visit, I was informed I would be the PSO (personal security officer) to the visiting Pontiff during the Delhi lap of his India visit. A job normally assigned to officers from Delhi Police’s Security Unit, and usually at an Assistant Commissioner’s level. Not only was I slightly more senior, not from Security, but handling a normally-not-spared-from ‘District’ charge, as DCP/South.
So I was there at Palam airport on Feb 2, hovering behind the line up of VVIPs there to receive His Holiness as he stepped out of the plane, and waved to those assembled below even as spontaneous shouts and cheers rent the air. President Giani Zail Singh, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and other dignitaries waited patiently for the Pontiff to climb down the ladder, but before they could shake his hands in greeting, there was the Pope bending down fully prostrate on the tarmac and kissing the soil of the country of his visit in blessing.
Following the ceremonial reception, the first port of call was to the Sacred Heart Cathedral near Gol dak-khana – and throughout the long drive involved, I found myself in a trance, literally in awe in the virtual presence of the man – The Almighty’s representative on earth. An unbelievable unlikely happenning even in the wildest of my dreams. The hair on my hands was standing, even as I sat on the edge of my seat just in front of the Pontiff sitting in the back seat of the six-door Presidential Mercedes with Delhi’s then Archbishop Angelo Fernandes – fighting my awe-stricken trance for the alertness needed of a security officer guarding a VIP.
There are some unforgettable visages indelibly planted on my mind’s screen of experiences that brought me down to earth to tell me he was still a human: Like when throughout all jouneys in Delhi over the next two days, I was acutely conscious and aware of the Pontiff’s hand placed on my right shoulder, even as he conversed with the Archbishop and took in the sights and sounds of Delhi as we travelled. Like the time when a ‘thunderbox’ portable commode of some old nuns from the neighbouring CJM had to be smuggled into the Cathedral Sacristy for the man to do something no one else could do for him in a church without a toilet – an unpardonable lapse of an unanticipated contigency. Like when I, a Catholic boy brought up with immense reverence to the cassock and the ‘habit’ had to heave and shove the lot of stampeding Bishops from all over the country at the IG Indoor Stadium, eager to hold the Pontiff’s hand, touch his body or even just the tip of his robes! Like when the accompanying tall Swiss guards on sighting a tiny-tot in the gathering would yell out “bambino, bambino” and His Holiness would hold aloft the baby with delight, for all around to view. Like the time during one of the car journeys, he willingly obliged me and blessed the family rosaries and all the gold which I carried in a pouch just for the purpose.
And not the least, a personal audience and blessing he granted me, my wife and three little children, just before departing to the airport for other ports of call elsewhere in India. My delight had known no bounds when weeks later the Vatican Nunciature in Delhi had invited me over for the Papal Nuncio to present me with a parcel of large sized photographs received from Rome, so graciously sent by the Vatican for me and my family to remember our moments with the Pope.
Even as I reminisce and write this, the Vatican and millions of people around the world are bracing themselves for the apparent inevitable. Newsreports everywhere are announcing that Pope John Paul II is edging closer to death, having sufferred multiple organ failure and other complications. In what is likely the last struggle of his 26-year papacy, the 84-year-old pontiff has prayed with aides and doctors as his kidneys faltered, his breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat slowed and his blood pressure plummeted…. the vicar of Vatican City, has told thousands of anxious worshipers gathered in St. Peter's Square, "This evening or tonight, Christ will open the gates to the pope."
maxpk@vsnl.com
As millions around the world pray today for the most prominent religious leader in the world, my mind goes back to February 1986. The time when Karol Josef Wojtyla visited India for the first time. Of Polish origin and a survivor of the II-World War ravages, he had opted for priesthood and risen to become the Supreme Pontiff of Roman Catholics all over the world, the 261st successor to St Peter in Rome, who chose the name John Paul II when he was elected Pope in 1978 soon after his predecessor John Paul I died with less than a month in office.
I recall the excitement within me, as just before and in the run up to the impending visit, I was informed I would be the PSO (personal security officer) to the visiting Pontiff during the Delhi lap of his India visit. A job normally assigned to officers from Delhi Police’s Security Unit, and usually at an Assistant Commissioner’s level. Not only was I slightly more senior, not from Security, but handling a normally-not-spared-from ‘District’ charge, as DCP/South.
So I was there at Palam airport on Feb 2, hovering behind the line up of VVIPs there to receive His Holiness as he stepped out of the plane, and waved to those assembled below even as spontaneous shouts and cheers rent the air. President Giani Zail Singh, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and other dignitaries waited patiently for the Pontiff to climb down the ladder, but before they could shake his hands in greeting, there was the Pope bending down fully prostrate on the tarmac and kissing the soil of the country of his visit in blessing.
Following the ceremonial reception, the first port of call was to the Sacred Heart Cathedral near Gol dak-khana – and throughout the long drive involved, I found myself in a trance, literally in awe in the virtual presence of the man – The Almighty’s representative on earth. An unbelievable unlikely happenning even in the wildest of my dreams. The hair on my hands was standing, even as I sat on the edge of my seat just in front of the Pontiff sitting in the back seat of the six-door Presidential Mercedes with Delhi’s then Archbishop Angelo Fernandes – fighting my awe-stricken trance for the alertness needed of a security officer guarding a VIP.
There are some unforgettable visages indelibly planted on my mind’s screen of experiences that brought me down to earth to tell me he was still a human: Like when throughout all jouneys in Delhi over the next two days, I was acutely conscious and aware of the Pontiff’s hand placed on my right shoulder, even as he conversed with the Archbishop and took in the sights and sounds of Delhi as we travelled. Like the time when a ‘thunderbox’ portable commode of some old nuns from the neighbouring CJM had to be smuggled into the Cathedral Sacristy for the man to do something no one else could do for him in a church without a toilet – an unpardonable lapse of an unanticipated contigency. Like when I, a Catholic boy brought up with immense reverence to the cassock and the ‘habit’ had to heave and shove the lot of stampeding Bishops from all over the country at the IG Indoor Stadium, eager to hold the Pontiff’s hand, touch his body or even just the tip of his robes! Like when the accompanying tall Swiss guards on sighting a tiny-tot in the gathering would yell out “bambino, bambino” and His Holiness would hold aloft the baby with delight, for all around to view. Like the time during one of the car journeys, he willingly obliged me and blessed the family rosaries and all the gold which I carried in a pouch just for the purpose.
And not the least, a personal audience and blessing he granted me, my wife and three little children, just before departing to the airport for other ports of call elsewhere in India. My delight had known no bounds when weeks later the Vatican Nunciature in Delhi had invited me over for the Papal Nuncio to present me with a parcel of large sized photographs received from Rome, so graciously sent by the Vatican for me and my family to remember our moments with the Pope.
Even as I reminisce and write this, the Vatican and millions of people around the world are bracing themselves for the apparent inevitable. Newsreports everywhere are announcing that Pope John Paul II is edging closer to death, having sufferred multiple organ failure and other complications. In what is likely the last struggle of his 26-year papacy, the 84-year-old pontiff has prayed with aides and doctors as his kidneys faltered, his breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat slowed and his blood pressure plummeted…. the vicar of Vatican City, has told thousands of anxious worshipers gathered in St. Peter's Square, "This evening or tonight, Christ will open the gates to the pope."
Friday, 3 November 2000
Mission Mum-day
Times of India: Middle:
Mission Mum-day
By MAXWELL PEREIRA
THE Sunday before the feast of Christ the King in October has always been observed as Mission Sunday. As I remember, for us kids in those days it had nothing to do with missions, the meaning of `missionary' perhaps totally lost on us.
We looked on Mission Sunday then, as a `fun' day because of the fete organised after morning mass on the chapel grounds of St Aloysius, my alma mater. Obviously, it's objective must have been to collect funds for the missions. But such laudable objectives never registered on our minds. All that interested us was the chance to participate in games of skill and lucky-dips at the fete. We got a certain amount of spending money that our parents judiciously earmarked perhaps as their contribution towards the missions - through our spending hands of course.
There were the usual games. The elders making a beeline to fish beer bottles by competing with each other to slip the ring over the bottlenecks. The rings hung from a string at the tip of a fishing rod. Among games for us was the one where blindfolded we had to draw a tail to the pig on the blackboard; and the one with the coin on a plate in a tub of water. If you managed to throw your own coin to land on the coin in the tub, you walked away with double the amount. Rarely did one manage this, because of optical illusion caused while viewing the coin through the mass of water. And then, the de-husked coconuts placed atop the hollows of bamboo stumps buried in the ground - may be three, four or more in number - spaced about two feet apart. One tried knocking the nut down with tennis balls from a distance of 15 to 20 yards.
It was years later that the meaning of Mission Sunday really sunk in. At this year's service, my eyes opened to yet another lovely rendition on who is a missionary. Among the supportive readings was this story of a girl who was asked to write an essay about any missionary she knew. A few great missionaries came to mind, such as Mother Teresa, St Thomas and St Francis who had come to India, and so on. Then she thought, ``I can't do justice; It is true, I have heard their names and read about them, but I don't really know them''.
The girl then said to herself, ``I know who is a true missionary. My mother''. She wrote in her essay: ``My Mum's Mission is to be a good housewife and a mother. My mother has never been selfish nor put herself before her family. On the table she never served herself first, and she carried out duties and obligations faithfully. There were problems and difficulties, at times things had gone from bad to worse. Yet she had the courage to face them all...and make supreme sacrifices. Just like the famous missionaries, my Mum too needed a lot of courage. I am very lucky to have a Missionary Mother''.
It may come as a surprise, but one doesn't have to be a priest or religious to be a `missionary'.
----------------------------------------------------------
published in the editorial page of The Times of India: Friday, 3 November 2000
Mission Mum-day
By MAXWELL PEREIRA
THE Sunday before the feast of Christ the King in October has always been observed as Mission Sunday. As I remember, for us kids in those days it had nothing to do with missions, the meaning of `missionary' perhaps totally lost on us.
We looked on Mission Sunday then, as a `fun' day because of the fete organised after morning mass on the chapel grounds of St Aloysius, my alma mater. Obviously, it's objective must have been to collect funds for the missions. But such laudable objectives never registered on our minds. All that interested us was the chance to participate in games of skill and lucky-dips at the fete. We got a certain amount of spending money that our parents judiciously earmarked perhaps as their contribution towards the missions - through our spending hands of course.
There were the usual games. The elders making a beeline to fish beer bottles by competing with each other to slip the ring over the bottlenecks. The rings hung from a string at the tip of a fishing rod. Among games for us was the one where blindfolded we had to draw a tail to the pig on the blackboard; and the one with the coin on a plate in a tub of water. If you managed to throw your own coin to land on the coin in the tub, you walked away with double the amount. Rarely did one manage this, because of optical illusion caused while viewing the coin through the mass of water. And then, the de-husked coconuts placed atop the hollows of bamboo stumps buried in the ground - may be three, four or more in number - spaced about two feet apart. One tried knocking the nut down with tennis balls from a distance of 15 to 20 yards.
It was years later that the meaning of Mission Sunday really sunk in. At this year's service, my eyes opened to yet another lovely rendition on who is a missionary. Among the supportive readings was this story of a girl who was asked to write an essay about any missionary she knew. A few great missionaries came to mind, such as Mother Teresa, St Thomas and St Francis who had come to India, and so on. Then she thought, ``I can't do justice; It is true, I have heard their names and read about them, but I don't really know them''.
The girl then said to herself, ``I know who is a true missionary. My mother''. She wrote in her essay: ``My Mum's Mission is to be a good housewife and a mother. My mother has never been selfish nor put herself before her family. On the table she never served herself first, and she carried out duties and obligations faithfully. There were problems and difficulties, at times things had gone from bad to worse. Yet she had the courage to face them all...and make supreme sacrifices. Just like the famous missionaries, my Mum too needed a lot of courage. I am very lucky to have a Missionary Mother''.
It may come as a surprise, but one doesn't have to be a priest or religious to be a `missionary'.
----------------------------------------------------------
published in the editorial page of The Times of India: Friday, 3 November 2000
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