Prague, a brooding movie released some time back (and created & executed by friends from my alma mater), had a thoughtful tagline, “Men live in cities. Sometimes, cities live in men too.” This makes complete sense. The world is replete with locations that intrigue, attract, delight and enchant. They tend to grow on an interested observer, and indeed get embedded in thought.
I first experienced Mumbai (or Bombay as it was back then) through the tinted lens of Bollywood. It was the city of dreams, where orphaned boys polished shoes at railway stations and grew up to be swaggering overlords of the city’s underworld. It was the city of the Bandra Fast where a bumbling cartoonist fell in love with a gorgeous but slightly wooden daily passenger. It was the city of the thickly accented Parsi couple and their Irani café with red-and-white chequered table cloths. It was a city straddled by gun-toting dons who were above all law and beyond all reasoning. It was the city of the special Bomabiya/Mumbaiya hindi that (unfortunately) has somehow been pigeon-holed as ‘tapori’ hindi. It was the city of the Gateway of India & the Marine Drive, and of Bollywood itself. Above all, it was the city of hope, the fountainhead of opportunity. Life has taken me to live in Mumbai in subsequent years, and I have found out that Mumbai is all this and much, much more.
I have often wondered what endears me (and many others) to this city. After all, Mumbai is known to many for its outlandishly chaotic local trains, unrelenting monsoon rains and crumbling overburdened infrastructure. But Mumbai has grown on me, both inspite and because of these.
The first thing that anybody is bound to notice about Mumbai is its sense of all-pervasive professionalism. Walk into a train station at 1’o clock at night or 4’o clock in the morning (or at anytime in between), and you will find people scurrying to board trains on the way to or back from work. Walk on the footpaths teeming with hawkers and you’ll find everyone cantering with purpose. Take a look at a bus-stop at rush hour and you’ll find people in neat lines waiting for a bus, fidgety but disciplined. In a megapolis where only about 5% of residents reportedly live within 10km of their workplaces, there’s no time for gossip, hanging about and meandering. As they say, you need to flow with Mumbai or be overwhelmed by it. While this cuts both ways, it weaves a never-say-die attitude in the fabric of this city. When blasts ripped apart suburban trains in 2006, train services were restored within just 6 hours. When Kasab & Co laid siege on Mumbai, people didn’t stop going to work. When rains pummel Mumbai every year, trains stop when the platforms get submerged, but not before that. As Bali Brahmbhatt crooned years ago,”raat ko 12 baje din nikalta hai, subah ko 6 baje raat hoti hai…”. What is really interesting, however, is that people endure all of Mumbai’s super-dense-crush-load with a matter-of-fact approach, neither resigned to their fate nor complaining about it. Auto-wallahs, taxi-wallahs, bus drivers and the average Mumbaikar – all patiently brave Mumbai traffic & suburban train madness as if it was part of Moses’ Ten Commandments. It is this gritty approach to life that makes Mumbai a city worth living in.
The city of Mumbai as we know it today didn’t exist until around 175 years ago, when the Hornby Vellard Project joined seven small islands into one landmass. However, the islands themselves (and subsequently the concatenated landmass) have been under the influence of a diverse set of rulers at various points in time – including the Mauryas, the Satvahanas, the Mughals, the Gujarat Sultanate, the Portuguese & the British. Additionally, communities like the Parsis, who came to Gujarat escaping persecution in Iran and subsequently made Bombay one of their homes, have also exerted significant influence on the fabric of this city.
Mumbai’s architecture bears testimony to this multi-layered heritage: from the Kanheri & Mahakali caves (probably) of the Mauryan period and the Haji Ali of the Gujarat Sultanate to the Indo-Saracenic grandeur of the British and the attractive Art Deco buildings of Marine Drive. Buildings like the Victoria Terminus, Gateway of India, GPO, BMC, Rajabai Clock Tower, Flora Fountain, Wilson College and others with their artistic cornices and crafted gargoyles are distinct landmarks of a city which is now getting immersed in the cheek-and-jowl existence of uber-lavish highrises and sprawling slums. Indian architects have also lent their weight on the architecture scene, creating (among others) the classy Art Deco mansions for the original rich classes of Bombay, and the regal Taj Mahal Hotel at Apollo Bunder. Portuguese influence can be witnessed in the form of the charming Mt. Carmel, Mt. Mary & St. Andrews churches at and near Bandra. And then there is the glamourous Marine Drive, gently caressed by the Arabian Sea and (literally & figuratively) a breath of fresh air in the city’s scrunched existence. These landmarks provide undeniable charm to the Maximum City.
Mumbai food benefits immensely from colourful heritage too. Parsi food – patrani machhi, salli boti & berry pulao; and Irani café fare – bun maska, mava cake & Irani chai – are legendary and deeply embedded in the Mumbai cuisine. Malvani cuisine from the beautiful Konkan coast tickles your tastebuds with seafood, cocum sharbat and bhakri. Influence of the Mughals & the Gujarat sultanate enchants in the form of nalli nihari, bheja fry and kulfi falooda. Typical Mumbai fast food like Vada Pav – reportedly invented by a thela vendor at Dadar station; and Pav Bhaji – created out of the need to quickly and effectively cater to the multitudes of mill workers in Bombay; are more popular in Mumbai than a Zinger burger or Maharaja Mac will ever be. As any keen observer will notice, a large percentage of Mumbai restaurants is owned and operated by Kannada folk, which translates to delicious Mysore Masala dosa and onion uttapam. Occidental flavor cannot stay far behind, and numerous bakeries and patisseries have continued to hold on to the British & Portuguese legacy. To sweeten your taste buds are Maharshtra’s very own puran poli, shrikhand, modak and tilgud laddoo. And while you are on the run riding the Mumbai rush-hour, promising to cater to your hunger are the timeless usal pav, missal pav, samosa pav, omellete pav, sheera upma, kanda poha, sabudana vada, thalipith and masala sandwich. All these cuisines have blended smoothly into the cosmopolitan Mumbai melting pot and yet stand out with a character of their own – much like the vegetable chunks in khada pav bhaji.
Mumbai’s reputation of being the city of dreams manifests itself in the form of existential dichotomy which has now come to become common knowledge thanks to movies, documentaries and novels. Homeless men sleep under benches on the Worli seaface while uniformed chauffers walk exotic canines on the pavement. Dolce & Gabbana handbags are made in claustrophobic shanties built on overflowing drains. People park their Mercs at train stations to board local trains on the way to work. Airconditioning units and dish antennas punctuate slums like polka dots. A tarpaulin sheet strung on a boundary wall or an abandoned railway wagon is what many call home in Mumbai while flats worth 10 crores of rupees are bought even before construction work begins on site. Mumbai is home to every conceivable layer of society – from the owner of the Antilia to the owner of a corner of a garbage dump. This layered pastry of a city accommodates it all, albeit grudgingly and painstakingky. And life goes on, like the endless string of local trains at a Mumbai train station.
To brighten up your mood after the previous paragraph, I draw your attention to the promise of tourism and wanderlust that Mumbai offers. Mumbai sits on the shores of the Arabian Sea on one side, and on the edge of the formidable Western Ghats on the other. Both have enough locales to keep your tour calendar busy. Travel south of Mumbai and you have fantastic beaches at Murud, Kashid, Harihareshwar, Anjarle & Ganpatipule. Head north & you can sample the Arabian Sea and quaint countryside at Kelva & Daman. March east and the Ghats open up with locales like Khandala, Matheran, Malshejghat, Karnala and Kamshet. In fact, just sample the Western Ghats anywhere during the monsoons, and you will be greeted by lush greenery, frothy waterfalls and misty valleys – all at a stone’s throw from Mumbai.
In a nutshell, Mumbai is a megapolis that mirrors the complexity of India’s society, culture and development. It is saddled by the obvious problems of modernization, made worse by the fact that it is just a narrow stretch of land jutting out into the sea. But instead of getting burdened by this onerous task, Mumbai chooses to pick up the cudgels and go to war. And has some serious fun while on the job. Every single day. This is what makes Mumbai live inside men & women. At least that’s how I see it.
Friday, April 15, 2016
Wednesday, March 09, 2016
Siachen
As I dutifully focus on the guard post across the yawning snow, the stove next to me splutters. Tea leaves boil in the all-purpose fauji tin-can. The stove cannot be placed farther, for the beverage will freeze if I don’t drink it straight from the stove. Heavy goggles cover my groggy but alert eyes, lest the glint of the sun on the glacial ice blinds me. The ravenously cold barrel of my automatic weapon weighs against my thickly gloved palms, but it may have to spit fire any moment, or never at all. In this unforgiving and stern lap of Mother Nature, I stand with my brothers to fight the adversary. But there are times when I wonder who the adversary really is. The enemy is most certainly at the gates, but is that the enemy without or within?
The question has confronted me on numerous occasions.
I think of the ambushes, cordon and search operations I routinely do in the valley and the north-east. Generations of residents, pushed to the limits by government apathy and/or political strategy and denied the right to a respectable life, teeter on the brink of insanity. When the law refuses to stand by them, many of them are driven to become what analysts term ‘separatists’. Chaos and carnage ensues, with enough entities ready to fan the smoldering fire. The powers that be are disturbed, and I am called in to ensure “area dominance”. Nobody tells me how to make out a foe from a friend, because nobody knows how to. I am ambushed by the same people I am tasked to protect. I do what I have sworn to do – my job. I thus become the enemy. I patrol the streets knowing that the innocent and the guilty both view me with equal contempt and want me removed. Stray incidents of indiscretion and irrationality from some of my own make things further complicated. Slogans are shouted against me as I put my life on the line to neutralize armed attackers. And I wonder who exactly I am fighting. And if I end up making what is termed as a “supreme sacrifice”, wreaths are placed on my coffin and business goes on as usual.
I think of the flag marches I have done to ensure people don’t kill each other off based on caste, creed, religion, this, that, anything, everything. Power-mongers have quietly arranged for sparks to set the dried timber of poverty and unemployment on fire, have watched voyeuristically from a distance, and have then called me in. Nobody has probably wondered how I, who come from among the same people baying for each other’s blood, have managed to remain unbiased and almost mechanical. But I have, as I must.
I think of the studied lethargy of the governments that has always forced me to work with strained resources and information. Decades are expended in finalizing any major procurement order, and indigenous development projects run decades behind schedule. State-run units work with the smugness of assured monopoly, and even basic equipment like carbines remain in short supply. Coffins are allegedly procured with kickbacks and procured bulletproof jackets are substandard. Indian private manufacturers are shut out, and a Military Industrial Complex remains a pipedream. And I stand out there in the open, knowing that a gun never dies, it just falls silent sometimes.
I think of the dents that are waning away my organization’s reputation for honesty, diligence and ironclad principles. Flag-rank officers have been accused of graft, immorality and irregularities and valuable funds have allegedly been utilized for sprucing up the lifestyles of the top brass. My once unwavering trust in my superior, that he will watch my back while I walk into danger, is now under severe strain.
All this makes a dangerous concoction in my mind. My hands tremble for a brief flash of time. And then I remind myself that I joined this organization because I believed in something and because I wanted to live a life less ordinary. I assure myself that the clouds hovering over my country and my organization are but temporary. And I decide to stand up and be counted. And then I pick up the gun and promise every citizen – Sleep sound, for I will protect you, always.
The question has confronted me on numerous occasions.
I think of the ambushes, cordon and search operations I routinely do in the valley and the north-east. Generations of residents, pushed to the limits by government apathy and/or political strategy and denied the right to a respectable life, teeter on the brink of insanity. When the law refuses to stand by them, many of them are driven to become what analysts term ‘separatists’. Chaos and carnage ensues, with enough entities ready to fan the smoldering fire. The powers that be are disturbed, and I am called in to ensure “area dominance”. Nobody tells me how to make out a foe from a friend, because nobody knows how to. I am ambushed by the same people I am tasked to protect. I do what I have sworn to do – my job. I thus become the enemy. I patrol the streets knowing that the innocent and the guilty both view me with equal contempt and want me removed. Stray incidents of indiscretion and irrationality from some of my own make things further complicated. Slogans are shouted against me as I put my life on the line to neutralize armed attackers. And I wonder who exactly I am fighting. And if I end up making what is termed as a “supreme sacrifice”, wreaths are placed on my coffin and business goes on as usual.
I think of the flag marches I have done to ensure people don’t kill each other off based on caste, creed, religion, this, that, anything, everything. Power-mongers have quietly arranged for sparks to set the dried timber of poverty and unemployment on fire, have watched voyeuristically from a distance, and have then called me in. Nobody has probably wondered how I, who come from among the same people baying for each other’s blood, have managed to remain unbiased and almost mechanical. But I have, as I must.
I think of the studied lethargy of the governments that has always forced me to work with strained resources and information. Decades are expended in finalizing any major procurement order, and indigenous development projects run decades behind schedule. State-run units work with the smugness of assured monopoly, and even basic equipment like carbines remain in short supply. Coffins are allegedly procured with kickbacks and procured bulletproof jackets are substandard. Indian private manufacturers are shut out, and a Military Industrial Complex remains a pipedream. And I stand out there in the open, knowing that a gun never dies, it just falls silent sometimes.
I think of the dents that are waning away my organization’s reputation for honesty, diligence and ironclad principles. Flag-rank officers have been accused of graft, immorality and irregularities and valuable funds have allegedly been utilized for sprucing up the lifestyles of the top brass. My once unwavering trust in my superior, that he will watch my back while I walk into danger, is now under severe strain.
All this makes a dangerous concoction in my mind. My hands tremble for a brief flash of time. And then I remind myself that I joined this organization because I believed in something and because I wanted to live a life less ordinary. I assure myself that the clouds hovering over my country and my organization are but temporary. And I decide to stand up and be counted. And then I pick up the gun and promise every citizen – Sleep sound, for I will protect you, always.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
The enterprise called love marriage
Over a cup of bland vending-machine coffee, a friend of mine popped a balloon of statistic in the air. His theory went thus, “More often than not, an entrepreneur will have a love marriage as against an arranged marriage.” I thought about it, and it helped me forget the blandness of the coffee. But then I thought about it a bit more, and realized that the idea was worth ruminating on.
To begin with, the number of well-known entrepreneurs who have met their future wives instead of being led to meet them is not that insignificant. Blockbuster names like Steve Jobs, Sergei Brin and Elon Musk are known to have walked down the aisle in love. But then again, our “sanskaari Indian” thought process would retort that marriages in the Occident, more often than not, do not come with the ‘lived-happily-ever-after’ warranty. Indeed, the last two of these three examples had an acrimonious climax. Let us adopt a Look-East policy then. So, what do N.R.Narayana Murthy, Nandan Nilekani, Prannoy Roy, Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw, Kunal Bahl, Chetan Bhagat & Mohammed Yunus have in common? You guessed it right, all are entrepreneurs and all embraced love marriage. So, we know the idea may not be a wild goose chase.
When you think about it, it starts to make a little sense.
Entrepreneurship is a tough taskmaster. It demands passion, focus, perseverance and, above all, a will to walk a path less trodden or not trodden at all. While nobody can contend that these qualities don’t bolster a salaried professional’s career, it’s reasonable to say that they are oxygen to an entrepreneur’s career. Consequently, if one drinks, eats & breathes about an enterprise, the elaborate and tortuous process of an arranged marriage may become too much of a performance-retarder. And while the entrepreneur’s family may recoil thinking that their offspring is not interested in getting married (or worse!), the offspring may end up becoming betrothal-agnostic. Love marriage, which by definition is an enterprise itself, suits the style of an entrepreneur much better.
Coming back to the “Indian” mindset, a large chunk of us still tends to believe that a salaried job is a stable and mature career choice. Names like Lehman Brothers and terms like downsizing don’t seem to mean much to this chunk. In such a scenario, an entrepreneur is viewed almost like a maverick who doesn’t think about the welfare of his family and wants to take undue ‘risks’. Female entrepreneurs have it even worse. This state of affairs frequently is a dampener to shaadi.com members and their parents. This has two broad ramifications. One, an arranged marriage and an entrepreneur may become chalk and cheese. Two, an entrepreneurial individual will crave for a life-partner who shares his/her passion and/or, more importantly, shares his/her wavelength. While arranged marriage definitely has the potential to provide such a partner, love marriage becomes a more natural, or at least a more desirable path. Of course, whether the synergy continues after marriage is another matter, and the predicament of Alex Rogo whom Goldratt has accurately shown struggling to balance family and work may well become relevant. But that is crossing the bridge when you come to it.
I guess we are indulging in too much of unnecessary arranged-marriage-bashing. So let us take a look from the converse side. An entrepreneur has a fire in the belly that fuels his/her actions every day. An entrepreneur is also aware of the fact that, as mentioned above, the path chosen by him/her is a unique one. When such a person encounters a like-minded individual, at work, at the coffee shop or at a client meeting, hormonal rush can very frequently accompany appreciation and respect. This makes love marriage a natural after-effect.
Finally, proposing to someone is making a sales pitch. Period. This would be something right down the alley of an entrepreneur. Also, this puts the entrepreneur in charge of his/her destiny, which is one of the biggest drivers pushing any entrepreneur. Love marriage is, thus, much more streamlined with an entrepreneur’s flow and could be a strong variable in an entrepreneur’s equation.
Having said all this, I know this could be complete nonsense. But, in a world where we are still debating whether we landed on the moon when we think we did, a healthy-looking argument is all that is required. Argue away.
To begin with, the number of well-known entrepreneurs who have met their future wives instead of being led to meet them is not that insignificant. Blockbuster names like Steve Jobs, Sergei Brin and Elon Musk are known to have walked down the aisle in love. But then again, our “sanskaari Indian” thought process would retort that marriages in the Occident, more often than not, do not come with the ‘lived-happily-ever-after’ warranty. Indeed, the last two of these three examples had an acrimonious climax. Let us adopt a Look-East policy then. So, what do N.R.Narayana Murthy, Nandan Nilekani, Prannoy Roy, Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw, Kunal Bahl, Chetan Bhagat & Mohammed Yunus have in common? You guessed it right, all are entrepreneurs and all embraced love marriage. So, we know the idea may not be a wild goose chase.
When you think about it, it starts to make a little sense.
Entrepreneurship is a tough taskmaster. It demands passion, focus, perseverance and, above all, a will to walk a path less trodden or not trodden at all. While nobody can contend that these qualities don’t bolster a salaried professional’s career, it’s reasonable to say that they are oxygen to an entrepreneur’s career. Consequently, if one drinks, eats & breathes about an enterprise, the elaborate and tortuous process of an arranged marriage may become too much of a performance-retarder. And while the entrepreneur’s family may recoil thinking that their offspring is not interested in getting married (or worse!), the offspring may end up becoming betrothal-agnostic. Love marriage, which by definition is an enterprise itself, suits the style of an entrepreneur much better.
Coming back to the “Indian” mindset, a large chunk of us still tends to believe that a salaried job is a stable and mature career choice. Names like Lehman Brothers and terms like downsizing don’t seem to mean much to this chunk. In such a scenario, an entrepreneur is viewed almost like a maverick who doesn’t think about the welfare of his family and wants to take undue ‘risks’. Female entrepreneurs have it even worse. This state of affairs frequently is a dampener to shaadi.com members and their parents. This has two broad ramifications. One, an arranged marriage and an entrepreneur may become chalk and cheese. Two, an entrepreneurial individual will crave for a life-partner who shares his/her passion and/or, more importantly, shares his/her wavelength. While arranged marriage definitely has the potential to provide such a partner, love marriage becomes a more natural, or at least a more desirable path. Of course, whether the synergy continues after marriage is another matter, and the predicament of Alex Rogo whom Goldratt has accurately shown struggling to balance family and work may well become relevant. But that is crossing the bridge when you come to it.
I guess we are indulging in too much of unnecessary arranged-marriage-bashing. So let us take a look from the converse side. An entrepreneur has a fire in the belly that fuels his/her actions every day. An entrepreneur is also aware of the fact that, as mentioned above, the path chosen by him/her is a unique one. When such a person encounters a like-minded individual, at work, at the coffee shop or at a client meeting, hormonal rush can very frequently accompany appreciation and respect. This makes love marriage a natural after-effect.
Finally, proposing to someone is making a sales pitch. Period. This would be something right down the alley of an entrepreneur. Also, this puts the entrepreneur in charge of his/her destiny, which is one of the biggest drivers pushing any entrepreneur. Love marriage is, thus, much more streamlined with an entrepreneur’s flow and could be a strong variable in an entrepreneur’s equation.
Having said all this, I know this could be complete nonsense. But, in a world where we are still debating whether we landed on the moon when we think we did, a healthy-looking argument is all that is required. Argue away.
Saturday, June 06, 2015
The Passport kaleidoscope...
To put it very simply, life is just a continuum of observation and learning. Observation may be both inward and outward, and learning is derived from observations that we make on a daily basis. If we observe carefully, many aspects, layers and nuances of life are visible all around us. Indeed, while our own lives give us a firsthand experience, cross-sections of life around us can be equally enriching and educating.
One of the Passport Seva Kendras (PSK) offered me such a cross-section the other day. My wife had an appointment for submitting her documents to the PSK and I had accompanied her. At the appointed time, the guards ushered her into the PSK and I realized I had some time to kill while she went through the document verification routine. I bought a cup of elaichi tea and a couple of Osmania biscuits from one of those ebullient thela vendors that somehow always exist outside such offices and settled myself on the low wall of the PSK parking lot.
As I looked around me, I realized the PSK was teeming with hopefuls from all walks of life, looking forward to get a passport for a variety of reasons. There were youngsters, presumably looking forward to academic avenues abroad. Most of them were accompanied by their parents, and the entire family had the look of expectant excitement of their faces. One of the young girls even touched her parents’ feet while going in.
Then there were the overseas job-seekers. Many of these hopefuls, evidently, were financially stretched (or perhaps even jobless) in India and were probably looking at greener pastures like the Middle East, Canada or even Africa to prop up their and their dependents’ lives. They came clutching crumpled polythene packets containing their documents, their faces frequently betraying their anxiousness. Some of them had disheveled looks, evidently having travelled from neighboring towns or villages to the PSK. You could guage the criticality that the PSK held in their scheme of things.
Senior citizens represented a third category of applicants. Elderly couples helped each other as they painstakingly climbed the stairs of the building. Some applicants waited patiently, running a final check of their documents through reading glasses perched on their noses. Some others kept flitting around nervously, occasionally stopping to look around, ask someone a question or just to catch their breath. A variety of situations that had brought them to the PSK could be extrapolated on observing them. Some were going to visit their children who were living or settled abroad. Maybe some had a daughter who was expecting maternity soon. A couple I accidentally overheard was being forced to move abroad to live with their younger son as the elder son in India was not inclined to share a roof with his parents. The PSK was, for these elderly ladies & gentlemen, a portal to either a family reunion or family dismemberment.
And then there were the frequent flyers. These were professionals working in multinational firms who were used to frequent overseas visits and their passports had either expired or run out of pages. They were probably even tired of attending visa interviews. The look on many of such people was plain irritation, non-productive but mandatory work eating into their exacting but handsomely paying working time.
As I kept absorbing what I was seeing, the dichotomy of India’s so-called development seemed to play out in front of me. While some sections of our society are clear benefactors of India’s tryst with development, misery and seemingly fathomless struggle still stare unflinchingly at other sections. Bright minds are moving abroad and weakening our demographic dividend. Social structures are weakening and emotional strains are on the rise. The future of our nation is indeed bright, but on that day at the PSK, it seemed at best to be a light at the end of a pretty long tunnel.
One of the Passport Seva Kendras (PSK) offered me such a cross-section the other day. My wife had an appointment for submitting her documents to the PSK and I had accompanied her. At the appointed time, the guards ushered her into the PSK and I realized I had some time to kill while she went through the document verification routine. I bought a cup of elaichi tea and a couple of Osmania biscuits from one of those ebullient thela vendors that somehow always exist outside such offices and settled myself on the low wall of the PSK parking lot.
As I looked around me, I realized the PSK was teeming with hopefuls from all walks of life, looking forward to get a passport for a variety of reasons. There were youngsters, presumably looking forward to academic avenues abroad. Most of them were accompanied by their parents, and the entire family had the look of expectant excitement of their faces. One of the young girls even touched her parents’ feet while going in.
Then there were the overseas job-seekers. Many of these hopefuls, evidently, were financially stretched (or perhaps even jobless) in India and were probably looking at greener pastures like the Middle East, Canada or even Africa to prop up their and their dependents’ lives. They came clutching crumpled polythene packets containing their documents, their faces frequently betraying their anxiousness. Some of them had disheveled looks, evidently having travelled from neighboring towns or villages to the PSK. You could guage the criticality that the PSK held in their scheme of things.
Senior citizens represented a third category of applicants. Elderly couples helped each other as they painstakingly climbed the stairs of the building. Some applicants waited patiently, running a final check of their documents through reading glasses perched on their noses. Some others kept flitting around nervously, occasionally stopping to look around, ask someone a question or just to catch their breath. A variety of situations that had brought them to the PSK could be extrapolated on observing them. Some were going to visit their children who were living or settled abroad. Maybe some had a daughter who was expecting maternity soon. A couple I accidentally overheard was being forced to move abroad to live with their younger son as the elder son in India was not inclined to share a roof with his parents. The PSK was, for these elderly ladies & gentlemen, a portal to either a family reunion or family dismemberment.
And then there were the frequent flyers. These were professionals working in multinational firms who were used to frequent overseas visits and their passports had either expired or run out of pages. They were probably even tired of attending visa interviews. The look on many of such people was plain irritation, non-productive but mandatory work eating into their exacting but handsomely paying working time.
As I kept absorbing what I was seeing, the dichotomy of India’s so-called development seemed to play out in front of me. While some sections of our society are clear benefactors of India’s tryst with development, misery and seemingly fathomless struggle still stare unflinchingly at other sections. Bright minds are moving abroad and weakening our demographic dividend. Social structures are weakening and emotional strains are on the rise. The future of our nation is indeed bright, but on that day at the PSK, it seemed at best to be a light at the end of a pretty long tunnel.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
An eye on the goal(ie)
Another football World Cup came to a reasonably exciting end, with a deserving team winning the coveted title. The last edition of the World Cup had left me dissatisfied, with Spain, for all its Barcelona firepower, willing to just tumble over the finish line with only eight goals in the tournament. Germany won in a much more alive fashion this time, scoring prolifically and defending solidly. But if Higuain had not hit wide with Neuer at his mercy, maybe Messi wouldn’t have been holding only the Golden Ball today.
This World Cup was also about the monumental crumbling of Brazilian football, something similar to but much more catastrophic than what happened to Australian cricket some years ago; a generation of stars retired and those who succeeded them were pretenders at best. Incidentally, German football experienced a nadir around the end of the 20th century, when with typical German regimented discipline a football rehabilitation programme was implemented that touched both the grassroots and the helm of its system. The results are for all of us to see today. Brazil has a long hard road ahead.
But amidst all the goalscoring, a welcome trend was the amazing quality of goalkeeping on display. To begin with, this World Cup had probably the highest number of goalkeeping captains, with Casillas, Buffon, Lloris, Bravo (Chile) & Valladares (Honduras) all donning the captain’s armband. That aside, we had some fantastic displays of goalkeeping that had a longlasting impact on the individual games as well as on collective memory. While Guillermo Ochoa kept the eventually disgraced Brazilian attack at bay and saved fantastically throughout the tournament, Tim Howard redeemed the faith Alex Fergeusen had shown in him in the pre-Van der Saar days by creating a record of saves. (I am not sure of FIFA’a selection criteria, but I was surprised at seeing Sergio Romero in the final 3 nominees for the Golden glove and not someone like Howard). I had liked Vincent Enyeama’s fitness and commitment in the last WC, and this time was no different. Keylor Navas was in prime form, and justifiably in the shortlist for the golden ball. Romero and Tim Krul had their moments of glory. Manuel Neuer, of course, is a worthy replacement of the iconic Oliver Kahn at the German goal. Igor Akinfeev, such a seasoned campaigner, would however remember his howler against South Korea for some time to come.
Many talented goalkeepers were, however, missed at the World Cup for reasons beyond their control. Petr Cech lost out as the Czechs did not qualify. David de Gea and Pepe Reina were under the Casillas-shroud. Their presence would have added more colour to the proceedings.
Goalkeeping has always been a thankless job. As the Pele-defying Gordon Banks put it accurately, “Nobody will remember the ones you saved, everyone will remember the ones you let in.” Ask Moacir Barbosa, who allegedly made Brazilians cry after allowing Uruguay to score a second goal at the Maracana in 1950. The once-celebrated goalkeeper died a taboo-ed figure, not allowed to visit the Brazilian team in 1994 as he was deemed to be bad luck. (Never mind the fact that Claudio Tafferel eventually benefitted from the bad luck of Roberto Baggio in the final) Ask Rene Higuita, the colourful & controversial scorpion-kicking Colombian, who allowed Roger Milla to snatch the ball from his feet at the centerline and score a decisive goal in 1990. Football is all about goals, and so the goalkeeper, whose mandate is to keep a clean sheet, becomes almost like an anti-hero in the scheme of things. Of course, if you act like Harold Schumacher, you have justifiable reasons of being called an anti-hero.
I grew up watching the likes of Oliver Kahn, Peter Schmeichel, Gianluigi Buffon, David Seaman, Edwin van der Saar, Fabien Barthez and Santiago Canizares man the goal like their life depended on it. Later, talents like Iker Casillas, Petr Cech, Victor Valdes and Manuel Neuer took centrestage at club and international level. There were colourful characters like Jose Luis Chilavert who loved scoring goals and getting involved in set pieces. The names of Lev Yashin, Gordon Banks, Peter Shilton, Walter Zenga, Dino Zoff and others will always spell magic.
Goalkeepers have always caught my fancy, for the simple reason that they are like the last men standing between victory and defeat. Especially in penalty shootouts and spot kicks, the mind games that goalkeepers can and do play makes these set pieces extremely intriguing and exciting. I have always thought goalkeepers have the mental advantage in a shootout; they will get sympathy if they can’t save and instant glory if they can. Over the years, goalkeepers have had to revisit their capabilities and sharpen their senses, as balls have evolved from the dead leather spheres to Bernoulli-friendly lightweight balls. Balls swerve much more in the air now than they did earlier, and goalkeepers have to judge the complex trajectory of balls in split seconds, or be tagged as “caught napping”. People will remember the discontent the Jabulani had caused in 2010 due to its unpredictable trajectory. Angles and vectors will always be a good goalkeeper’s lifelines.
Goalkeeping is an extremely absorbing and demanding responsibility, and the number 1 jersey justifiably goes to the first choice goalkeeper. The kick that you get out of seeing a forward’s frustration as you glove a ball away can be intoxicating. After all, if someone has an eye on a worthy goal, he needs to work hard to get there.
This World Cup was also about the monumental crumbling of Brazilian football, something similar to but much more catastrophic than what happened to Australian cricket some years ago; a generation of stars retired and those who succeeded them were pretenders at best. Incidentally, German football experienced a nadir around the end of the 20th century, when with typical German regimented discipline a football rehabilitation programme was implemented that touched both the grassroots and the helm of its system. The results are for all of us to see today. Brazil has a long hard road ahead.
But amidst all the goalscoring, a welcome trend was the amazing quality of goalkeeping on display. To begin with, this World Cup had probably the highest number of goalkeeping captains, with Casillas, Buffon, Lloris, Bravo (Chile) & Valladares (Honduras) all donning the captain’s armband. That aside, we had some fantastic displays of goalkeeping that had a longlasting impact on the individual games as well as on collective memory. While Guillermo Ochoa kept the eventually disgraced Brazilian attack at bay and saved fantastically throughout the tournament, Tim Howard redeemed the faith Alex Fergeusen had shown in him in the pre-Van der Saar days by creating a record of saves. (I am not sure of FIFA’a selection criteria, but I was surprised at seeing Sergio Romero in the final 3 nominees for the Golden glove and not someone like Howard). I had liked Vincent Enyeama’s fitness and commitment in the last WC, and this time was no different. Keylor Navas was in prime form, and justifiably in the shortlist for the golden ball. Romero and Tim Krul had their moments of glory. Manuel Neuer, of course, is a worthy replacement of the iconic Oliver Kahn at the German goal. Igor Akinfeev, such a seasoned campaigner, would however remember his howler against South Korea for some time to come.
Many talented goalkeepers were, however, missed at the World Cup for reasons beyond their control. Petr Cech lost out as the Czechs did not qualify. David de Gea and Pepe Reina were under the Casillas-shroud. Their presence would have added more colour to the proceedings.
Goalkeeping has always been a thankless job. As the Pele-defying Gordon Banks put it accurately, “Nobody will remember the ones you saved, everyone will remember the ones you let in.” Ask Moacir Barbosa, who allegedly made Brazilians cry after allowing Uruguay to score a second goal at the Maracana in 1950. The once-celebrated goalkeeper died a taboo-ed figure, not allowed to visit the Brazilian team in 1994 as he was deemed to be bad luck. (Never mind the fact that Claudio Tafferel eventually benefitted from the bad luck of Roberto Baggio in the final) Ask Rene Higuita, the colourful & controversial scorpion-kicking Colombian, who allowed Roger Milla to snatch the ball from his feet at the centerline and score a decisive goal in 1990. Football is all about goals, and so the goalkeeper, whose mandate is to keep a clean sheet, becomes almost like an anti-hero in the scheme of things. Of course, if you act like Harold Schumacher, you have justifiable reasons of being called an anti-hero.
I grew up watching the likes of Oliver Kahn, Peter Schmeichel, Gianluigi Buffon, David Seaman, Edwin van der Saar, Fabien Barthez and Santiago Canizares man the goal like their life depended on it. Later, talents like Iker Casillas, Petr Cech, Victor Valdes and Manuel Neuer took centrestage at club and international level. There were colourful characters like Jose Luis Chilavert who loved scoring goals and getting involved in set pieces. The names of Lev Yashin, Gordon Banks, Peter Shilton, Walter Zenga, Dino Zoff and others will always spell magic.
Goalkeepers have always caught my fancy, for the simple reason that they are like the last men standing between victory and defeat. Especially in penalty shootouts and spot kicks, the mind games that goalkeepers can and do play makes these set pieces extremely intriguing and exciting. I have always thought goalkeepers have the mental advantage in a shootout; they will get sympathy if they can’t save and instant glory if they can. Over the years, goalkeepers have had to revisit their capabilities and sharpen their senses, as balls have evolved from the dead leather spheres to Bernoulli-friendly lightweight balls. Balls swerve much more in the air now than they did earlier, and goalkeepers have to judge the complex trajectory of balls in split seconds, or be tagged as “caught napping”. People will remember the discontent the Jabulani had caused in 2010 due to its unpredictable trajectory. Angles and vectors will always be a good goalkeeper’s lifelines.
Goalkeeping is an extremely absorbing and demanding responsibility, and the number 1 jersey justifiably goes to the first choice goalkeeper. The kick that you get out of seeing a forward’s frustration as you glove a ball away can be intoxicating. After all, if someone has an eye on a worthy goal, he needs to work hard to get there.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Omellete-paav in the hills...
Sorting through largely meaningless stuff on the Times of India centrefolds the other day, I came across a piece that said that Beyonce Knowles bought an island for about 3 billion US dollars for a personal holiday. I am no big fan of Beyonce (though I love “Beautiful Liar”), and I don’t even understand just how big that sum of money is. But the news got me thinking. I felt the sentiment that presumably would have led Beyonce to make this purchase nestles in many of us – to tear away from the humdrum and juggernaut of daily life, take a step back and to be able to reflect on life with a studied peace of mind, without the rush of life’s flow to flush us away.
Life is a busy enterprise. Every day dawns with the possibilities of new acquaintances, unanticipated experiences, soaring joys, crushing sorrows, fights, reconciliations, disclosures, discoveries, and a whole lot of surprise packages and/or routine deliveries. While we, in the spirit of living life to the fullest, try to take it all in as it comes, we sometimes tend to lose the essence of the moments that go past us, because we are too busy flowing with life. Get up in the morning, go to work, attend meetings, meet friend for lunch, go out with family in the evening, call parents after dinner, watch Dhoni hit winning sixes on television, read some pages of the latest novel, call it a day… not typical but a possible template. Swim with the flow, swim with the flow…
But how wonderful and refreshing, once in a while, it would be to swim to the banks, stand on the edge and just study the ripples and cascades in the flow. To analyze and assimilate. To reason and reflect. To learn and live. Imagine waking up at dawn in the lap of the hills, taking a leisurely walk around a mist-covered lake, sitting on a cold-damp wooden bench at the edge of the hill, sipping steaming milk-tea with omellete-paav (crisp rusk-cookies for the vegans), beyond the blinking light of the Blackberry and with the yawning valley as your confidante. There’s a lot you can think about in such a state of mind.
Your family. Your bedrock of existence. Your parents who train you for life and also give you pocket-money to go alongwith it. Your sister who dotes on you and takes more pride in your achievements than you do. Your brother who cries as a child as his toys are given to you but gives you his favourite Casio wristwatch as a present on the eve of your first board examination. Your spouse who takes diet lessons so that you can keep your cholesterol in check. And then there are the ever loving and giving grandparents, uncles and aunts who would always see you as an extension of their life and as a beacon of their principles. We owe our existences to the love, devotion and diligence of these personages. As we move forward in life and carve a niche of our own in this world, we knowingly or unknowingly tend to shift our focus away from them. We go for higher studies abroad and then make professional careers there, while our family continues to live back home. We take promotions and postings which advance our career goals but which mean we cannot always live with our parents and/or wife & kids. We work for long hours and even bring work back home because we are responsible professionals, but we tend to forget that we also need to be responsible offsprings, parents, husbands/wives, grandchildren and nephews/nieces. It is true that all those who love us also want us to be successful. But is success of any significance if you cannot share it with the people who have made you capable of being successful? It is an extremely difficult decision to make, but it definitely requires some focused thought and retrospection.
The love of your life. The person who rejoices in your smallest joys. The person with whom you can share your deepest fears. The hand you want to hold whenever you need to be loved. The shoulder you can cry on whenever life gets tough. Someone who senses the pain behind your smile and the joy behind your tears. Someone who understands things you can’t explain even to your family. Some people are lucky to find such soulmates very early in life, some have to labour a little harder but finally find their destination, while some remain travellers all their lives. In many cases, we fail to understand why we are loved and why we are not, which creates a lot of problems. In some cases, we realize the existence of love for somebody but fail to express or reciprocate it because we are unsure of feelings on both sides or fear losing a friend at the cost of trying to find our love. And in other cases, we fail to break the shackles of family, tradition, society, expectations and misgivings and thus give up on what we assume to be pure love. In other cases, we find and actualize mutual love but later fall prey to conflicts and demands of personal aspirations and changing environments. Love, without a shred of doubt, is life. Thus, when it comes to love, tremendous reserves of maturity, restraint and reasoning need to be harnessed before taking any decision. Thought processes need to be attuned to keeping love alive.
And then there is fun and enjoyment. As I said before, life has enough cards up its sleeve to keep us guessing all the time. But that should not desist us from breaking away from the mundane routine of everyday life and giving the child in us a chance to surface again. It does not come in the way of being responsible individuals or professionals, it actually bolsters it. Whenever you get time (in fact, you will have to carve out time), head for the nearest market and down some pani-pooris at the thela at the chowk. Call friends or family home and organize a cookout. Play a game of gully cricket with the colony boys. Run out in the rain and feel the drops on your face wash out your anxieties. Smile whenever you can. Give life a chance and you will be a better man.
These are thoughts that live in me but are not always actualized. But I guess they may/should live in most/all of us. Hope all of these see the light of day, sooner or later.
Life is a busy enterprise. Every day dawns with the possibilities of new acquaintances, unanticipated experiences, soaring joys, crushing sorrows, fights, reconciliations, disclosures, discoveries, and a whole lot of surprise packages and/or routine deliveries. While we, in the spirit of living life to the fullest, try to take it all in as it comes, we sometimes tend to lose the essence of the moments that go past us, because we are too busy flowing with life. Get up in the morning, go to work, attend meetings, meet friend for lunch, go out with family in the evening, call parents after dinner, watch Dhoni hit winning sixes on television, read some pages of the latest novel, call it a day… not typical but a possible template. Swim with the flow, swim with the flow…
But how wonderful and refreshing, once in a while, it would be to swim to the banks, stand on the edge and just study the ripples and cascades in the flow. To analyze and assimilate. To reason and reflect. To learn and live. Imagine waking up at dawn in the lap of the hills, taking a leisurely walk around a mist-covered lake, sitting on a cold-damp wooden bench at the edge of the hill, sipping steaming milk-tea with omellete-paav (crisp rusk-cookies for the vegans), beyond the blinking light of the Blackberry and with the yawning valley as your confidante. There’s a lot you can think about in such a state of mind.
Your family. Your bedrock of existence. Your parents who train you for life and also give you pocket-money to go alongwith it. Your sister who dotes on you and takes more pride in your achievements than you do. Your brother who cries as a child as his toys are given to you but gives you his favourite Casio wristwatch as a present on the eve of your first board examination. Your spouse who takes diet lessons so that you can keep your cholesterol in check. And then there are the ever loving and giving grandparents, uncles and aunts who would always see you as an extension of their life and as a beacon of their principles. We owe our existences to the love, devotion and diligence of these personages. As we move forward in life and carve a niche of our own in this world, we knowingly or unknowingly tend to shift our focus away from them. We go for higher studies abroad and then make professional careers there, while our family continues to live back home. We take promotions and postings which advance our career goals but which mean we cannot always live with our parents and/or wife & kids. We work for long hours and even bring work back home because we are responsible professionals, but we tend to forget that we also need to be responsible offsprings, parents, husbands/wives, grandchildren and nephews/nieces. It is true that all those who love us also want us to be successful. But is success of any significance if you cannot share it with the people who have made you capable of being successful? It is an extremely difficult decision to make, but it definitely requires some focused thought and retrospection.
The love of your life. The person who rejoices in your smallest joys. The person with whom you can share your deepest fears. The hand you want to hold whenever you need to be loved. The shoulder you can cry on whenever life gets tough. Someone who senses the pain behind your smile and the joy behind your tears. Someone who understands things you can’t explain even to your family. Some people are lucky to find such soulmates very early in life, some have to labour a little harder but finally find their destination, while some remain travellers all their lives. In many cases, we fail to understand why we are loved and why we are not, which creates a lot of problems. In some cases, we realize the existence of love for somebody but fail to express or reciprocate it because we are unsure of feelings on both sides or fear losing a friend at the cost of trying to find our love. And in other cases, we fail to break the shackles of family, tradition, society, expectations and misgivings and thus give up on what we assume to be pure love. In other cases, we find and actualize mutual love but later fall prey to conflicts and demands of personal aspirations and changing environments. Love, without a shred of doubt, is life. Thus, when it comes to love, tremendous reserves of maturity, restraint and reasoning need to be harnessed before taking any decision. Thought processes need to be attuned to keeping love alive.
And then there is fun and enjoyment. As I said before, life has enough cards up its sleeve to keep us guessing all the time. But that should not desist us from breaking away from the mundane routine of everyday life and giving the child in us a chance to surface again. It does not come in the way of being responsible individuals or professionals, it actually bolsters it. Whenever you get time (in fact, you will have to carve out time), head for the nearest market and down some pani-pooris at the thela at the chowk. Call friends or family home and organize a cookout. Play a game of gully cricket with the colony boys. Run out in the rain and feel the drops on your face wash out your anxieties. Smile whenever you can. Give life a chance and you will be a better man.
These are thoughts that live in me but are not always actualized. But I guess they may/should live in most/all of us. Hope all of these see the light of day, sooner or later.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Life & death...
“Death fixes forever the relation existing between the departed spirit and the survivors upon earth.”
The phenomenon of death is profound. Medically, death is just like night falling after day, a routine logical phenomenon. Spiritually, life and death are like night and day, one following the other in eternal cycles until absolution. But, in everyday life, in the context of the social matrix that frames our existence, death of a person brings with it a lot of unique effects and responses in the world that person leaves behind. And though death is thought to be a dark event, which it is in many ways, death can have a silver lining too.
As far as the person renouncing physical existence is concerned, death can have different connotations. If a person lives a full, virtuous, successful & healthy life and dies a natural death with minimum suffering, it is a befitting end to a life well-lived. But, as it is correctly said, a person who has attended to all the responsibilities and obligations to the best of his/her ability is sure to live on in the minds of people he/she has touched, even though things may not have been rosy during his/her lifetime. Death, thus, proves to be just a semi-colon rather than being a full stop.
It is often remarked, mostly sarcastically, that death has a curious ability to paint a person in a saintly aura – “bada achha admit tha...” But death does indeed lead people to look back on the life of the deceased and try to take lessons and inspirations in a way they never did when the person was alive. There are devoted patriarchs who spend their lives trying to reconcile and keep together their immediate or extended families they have nurtured with care and effort, while the family members keep bickering on various issues of vanity, property and the like. During their lifetime, the patriarchs are termed as nosy and time-warped people. However, their death, in some cases atleast, serves as a catalyst that brings the family together, even if for a brief period of time. The intense recognition of the permanent loss can galvanize a lot of faultlines. And if that happens, the person is most certainly still alive even after death.
Death also tends to open the floodgates of nostalgia. From my own experiences, as the tears begin to dry out and the embers of the pyre begin to turn into ash, all the memories of the departed souls – of times good and bad, of celebration and acrimony, of achievement & deprivation, of elation & heartbreak – come flowing through the mind. The eyes swell up again in a bittersweet emotion and the person is alive all over again. In a life of hectic everyday demands, such times stop the clock for an ephemeral moment, and help us in remembering what we are neglecting or leaving behind, knowingly or unknowingly. Equally importantly, it reaffirms to us the values and principles the departed stood for and, if we respected and loved and cared for that person, it forces us to vow to uphold those principles and values forever. This is what makes the person immortal, the guiding light.
Of course, when a person you love is physically gone, a void is created that can never ever be filled again. But, firstly, death is inevitable and it is bound to find its mark someday; you only wish it does so elegantly. Secondly, if you put your best foot forward to continue what the person endeavoured to do in his/her life, you will forever find a guiding and loving spirit taking you home.
“To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.”
Monday, November 21, 2011
Taxi wallah blog
They are ubiquitous in Mumbai’s fabric. They are as intrinsic to the Mumbai landscape as the Marine Drive, the chowpatty and the Ganesh festival. They are, in a sense, the movers and shakers of this maximum city that keeps running from dawn to dusk in a seemingly eternal cycle. You cannot miss them, you cannot ignore them and, of course, you cannot do without them. They are the taxi-cabs of Mumbai.
While the suburban trains occupy the pride of place in the connectivity media available in Mumbai for obvious reasons (sigh), the yellow-black cabs are your messiahs if you want to avoid the ruthless ecosystem of the local trains, or if you just want to take a leisurely drive with your spouse, girlfriend/boyfriend or someone like that. Traditionally typified by the archaic sedan – the Premier Padmini – the cabs have now partly graduated to more contemporary cousins like the Santro, Alto, Eeco and WagonR. The taxi meters have also found digital alternatives to the “Don’t tech me” Meter-Down blackboxes. However, though the cabs all look similar on the outside, they have a world of their own once you get inside, done up to the whims and fancy of their owners. So, while some are rickety, dusty and have coir fibres bulging through gaping holes in the upholstery, others look like the sets of Tamil movies – gaudy seat covers, fluorescent tubelights, big woofer speakers for the audio system, festoons of all kinds, photos of movestars; I have even come across a cab with a mini chandelier hanging in the middle of the cab! Heady fare, I tell you…
But more interesting and intriguing than the cabs themselves are the characters that drive these cabs. As Saif Khan explained in “Hum Tum”, every time you hail a cab your life intertwines with that of the driver’s for a brief interval of time. And, if you look closely, each driver has a story to tell – verbally or otherwise. Some drivers are diffident woody characters who wouldn’t do anything else except drive the cab and telling you how much to pay at the end. Some are on the other end of the spectrum, humming songs, picking up stray bits of conversation now and then, whether you like it or not (it goes like, “Arre sahab, aapka shirt ekdum rapchick hai, aap fashion street se liya hoenga, udhar sab mast maal milta hai…”) and inciting the mothers and sisters of every driver who dares to overtake them. Most of the drivers are from the part of India the Shiv Sena hates, and you can make that out from the typical slow, deliberate, musical accent they speak in.
The cab drivers have a tough life in many respects, spending about 18 hours a day sitting cramped behind the wheel, driving around people of all types to all corners of the city, through traffic, heat and sweat, all for a loaf of bread. All this hardship often finds expression in the personality of the cab drivers. There’ll be old men who’d tell you all about their exploitative owner and his antics, even though you didn’t ask. There’ll be policy makers who’ll tell you all the places the government needs to build flyovers or diversions urgently (and they’ll be right most of the time). There’ll be haggard fellows who’ll recount all the routes they had driven to on that particular day, cursing the Gujarati who left without paying the full fare and the cop who fined him for driving without a seatbelt. Then there’ll be men with flowing beards & skullcaps who’ll rue the fact that Mumbai is now ghettoized and far-removed from communal harmony. Some’ll have a flair for the language, and when asked, “arre bhaiya Thane chaloge?” will reply with, “arre sahab aap margdarshan karenge to chaand par bhi chale jayenge”. One particular man, on coming to know that I had lived in his hometown Varanasi, treated me to a cutting-chaai and omellette paav and said he missed home in this unforgiving city. The kaleidoscope is endless, and you do get to know Mumbai better through the eyes of these people.
Well, I am sure that if you are a Mumbaikar or have visited Mumbai, you would have taken a ride on one of these taxi-cabs. And if you have, you have a high probability of having a colourful memory of the ride. After all, Mumbai wouldn’t be the same without these yellow-black sentinels, ready to take you to your destination like Aladin’s carpet with a clink of the meter.
While the suburban trains occupy the pride of place in the connectivity media available in Mumbai for obvious reasons (sigh), the yellow-black cabs are your messiahs if you want to avoid the ruthless ecosystem of the local trains, or if you just want to take a leisurely drive with your spouse, girlfriend/boyfriend or someone like that. Traditionally typified by the archaic sedan – the Premier Padmini – the cabs have now partly graduated to more contemporary cousins like the Santro, Alto, Eeco and WagonR. The taxi meters have also found digital alternatives to the “Don’t tech me” Meter-Down blackboxes. However, though the cabs all look similar on the outside, they have a world of their own once you get inside, done up to the whims and fancy of their owners. So, while some are rickety, dusty and have coir fibres bulging through gaping holes in the upholstery, others look like the sets of Tamil movies – gaudy seat covers, fluorescent tubelights, big woofer speakers for the audio system, festoons of all kinds, photos of movestars; I have even come across a cab with a mini chandelier hanging in the middle of the cab! Heady fare, I tell you…
But more interesting and intriguing than the cabs themselves are the characters that drive these cabs. As Saif Khan explained in “Hum Tum”, every time you hail a cab your life intertwines with that of the driver’s for a brief interval of time. And, if you look closely, each driver has a story to tell – verbally or otherwise. Some drivers are diffident woody characters who wouldn’t do anything else except drive the cab and telling you how much to pay at the end. Some are on the other end of the spectrum, humming songs, picking up stray bits of conversation now and then, whether you like it or not (it goes like, “Arre sahab, aapka shirt ekdum rapchick hai, aap fashion street se liya hoenga, udhar sab mast maal milta hai…”) and inciting the mothers and sisters of every driver who dares to overtake them. Most of the drivers are from the part of India the Shiv Sena hates, and you can make that out from the typical slow, deliberate, musical accent they speak in.
The cab drivers have a tough life in many respects, spending about 18 hours a day sitting cramped behind the wheel, driving around people of all types to all corners of the city, through traffic, heat and sweat, all for a loaf of bread. All this hardship often finds expression in the personality of the cab drivers. There’ll be old men who’d tell you all about their exploitative owner and his antics, even though you didn’t ask. There’ll be policy makers who’ll tell you all the places the government needs to build flyovers or diversions urgently (and they’ll be right most of the time). There’ll be haggard fellows who’ll recount all the routes they had driven to on that particular day, cursing the Gujarati who left without paying the full fare and the cop who fined him for driving without a seatbelt. Then there’ll be men with flowing beards & skullcaps who’ll rue the fact that Mumbai is now ghettoized and far-removed from communal harmony. Some’ll have a flair for the language, and when asked, “arre bhaiya Thane chaloge?” will reply with, “arre sahab aap margdarshan karenge to chaand par bhi chale jayenge”. One particular man, on coming to know that I had lived in his hometown Varanasi, treated me to a cutting-chaai and omellette paav and said he missed home in this unforgiving city. The kaleidoscope is endless, and you do get to know Mumbai better through the eyes of these people.
Well, I am sure that if you are a Mumbaikar or have visited Mumbai, you would have taken a ride on one of these taxi-cabs. And if you have, you have a high probability of having a colourful memory of the ride. After all, Mumbai wouldn’t be the same without these yellow-black sentinels, ready to take you to your destination like Aladin’s carpet with a clink of the meter.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Mama & music, freak & freakonomics ...
True to nature, I have successfully passed close to nine months without blogging, and some would say that’s enough gestation time to produce a human being, leave alone a small piece of writing. So, here I am, back with a collection of random thoughts:
The best and brightest thing that happened to me in this inter-blog period is that I became the mama (maternal uncle) of a chubby cheerful boy in September. As is pretty well-known, a new-born brings unparalleled joy and warmth in the family (in most cases, that is, given that it is also pretty well-known that society still houses and nurtures some ungodly convictions). But the real and overwhelming magnitude of emotions that well up when you hold the little bundle in your hands for the first time and look at the two curious unfettered eyes peering at you though the cloth-wrap is something that can only be experienced first-hand. The baby has since grown rapidly, and has now graduated from the sleep-cry-drink milk-sleep sequence to the more elaborate sleep-eat-drink-shout-play-cackle-cry-eat-drink-play-sleep routine. Going by the mischievous smile that he sports when he is not hungry or in need of a nappy change, his mom and dad are preparing for tougher days when he starts to crawl and walk around the house with all the curiosity in the world. For me, one of the most fulfilling moments has been singing a lullaby to him and watching him slowly drift into an innocent sleep in my arms.
Moving to other stuff, it is but natural to talk of the cricket World Cup. We are after all a country which worships cricket and erects temples in honour of our cricket players. But given all the hoopla and whipped-up frenzy regarding the tournament, it has turned out to be pretty insipid fare, the reasons for which may be the overkill of cricket and the disappointing performance of the team that has been turned into a veritable deity by the Indian media. But a particular aspect of the tournament has been a disappointment for me – the theme song. There are a few sides to this. Firstly, the song in itself is nothing great, and coming from such versatile and able musicians is a let-down. Even the Commonwealth Games anthem was sleepy fare, and it is sad that a country that boasts of such accomplished and talented musicians and has such a rich heritage of music has nothing special to offer the world in one of the biggest showcases provided to it. Waka waka was a song with a distinct flavor of the host nation but with international appeal and an incredibly zesty touch to it. But, in my opinion, both “Let’s go” and “De Ghuma Ke” have missed the mark, especially disappointing coming from such stalwarts of international acclaim as Rehman and S-E-L. Even the alternate anthems have been few in number and equally unappealing (Compare this with the numerous anthems that went around during the Football WC, the best-known of them being “Waving the Flag”.). Secondly, it is somewhat tough for me to understand why an anthem for a tournament being co-hosted by 3 countries on a world stage should be a typical Hindi filmy soundtrack. With leading exponents of fusion available in India, it would have been great to have an anthem that reflected the music flavours of all the hosts. Also, given that all the 3 countries have great music to offer to the world, maybe a joint composition by artistes of all the 3 countries would have really been great.
Now on to another global phenomenon. I first came across Colonel Muammar Gaddafi many years back when I read the novel “The Fifth Horseman” by Collins & Lapierre. The novel has Gaddafi holding Washington DC to ransom by setting up a powerful bomb in the city. As much as that novel was fictional in nature, the specter of Gaddafi has stuck with me – a firebrand defiant & dictatorial leader with overflowing vitriol against the West and the economic muscle to back it up. There is one thing common to people like Hitler, Saddam, Gaddafi, Osama – and that is the fact that for all the fiendish atrocities that these people are blamed for, they are all products of ruthless policies of personal gain that the First World countries have pursued over the years. And stuck in the crossfire of cold blooded business-minded policy and vendetta are the common people who have to pay for this with their peace of mind and much worse in many cases, generation after generation in country after country. And as Operation Odessey Dawn brings in a string of Hornets and B-2s and Tomahawks and Gaddafi expectedly digging in, more innocent lives are sure to be lost.
Now onto something refreshing. A book I recently finished reading is called “Superfreaknomics” by Steve Levitt, an economist who has gained fame for his distinctly queer but intriguing fields of research and Steve Dubner, a journalist who has worked closely with Levitt. “Superfreakonomics” is a sequel to “Freakonomics”, and both the books use in-depth research and undeniable logic and compelling arguments to reach some startling and funny deductions about various earthly phenomena. In a lucid manner and with a whacky sense of humour, they tell you that a prostitute is more likely to end up having sex with a policeman than being arrested by him, that you are more likely to be killed walking drunk than driving drunk and that if you are a terrorist, you are less likely to be caught if you buy a life insurance. The book is educational as it is funny, and I strongly advise people who love non-fiction to go for this book (if you haven’t already) as I rush to grab my copy of “Freakonomics”.
I guess I’m done for now. Let me know what you feel …. And do something that makes me blog more often, please!!
The best and brightest thing that happened to me in this inter-blog period is that I became the mama (maternal uncle) of a chubby cheerful boy in September. As is pretty well-known, a new-born brings unparalleled joy and warmth in the family (in most cases, that is, given that it is also pretty well-known that society still houses and nurtures some ungodly convictions). But the real and overwhelming magnitude of emotions that well up when you hold the little bundle in your hands for the first time and look at the two curious unfettered eyes peering at you though the cloth-wrap is something that can only be experienced first-hand. The baby has since grown rapidly, and has now graduated from the sleep-cry-drink milk-sleep sequence to the more elaborate sleep-eat-drink-shout-play-cackle-cry-eat-drink-play-sleep routine. Going by the mischievous smile that he sports when he is not hungry or in need of a nappy change, his mom and dad are preparing for tougher days when he starts to crawl and walk around the house with all the curiosity in the world. For me, one of the most fulfilling moments has been singing a lullaby to him and watching him slowly drift into an innocent sleep in my arms.
Moving to other stuff, it is but natural to talk of the cricket World Cup. We are after all a country which worships cricket and erects temples in honour of our cricket players. But given all the hoopla and whipped-up frenzy regarding the tournament, it has turned out to be pretty insipid fare, the reasons for which may be the overkill of cricket and the disappointing performance of the team that has been turned into a veritable deity by the Indian media. But a particular aspect of the tournament has been a disappointment for me – the theme song. There are a few sides to this. Firstly, the song in itself is nothing great, and coming from such versatile and able musicians is a let-down. Even the Commonwealth Games anthem was sleepy fare, and it is sad that a country that boasts of such accomplished and talented musicians and has such a rich heritage of music has nothing special to offer the world in one of the biggest showcases provided to it. Waka waka was a song with a distinct flavor of the host nation but with international appeal and an incredibly zesty touch to it. But, in my opinion, both “Let’s go” and “De Ghuma Ke” have missed the mark, especially disappointing coming from such stalwarts of international acclaim as Rehman and S-E-L. Even the alternate anthems have been few in number and equally unappealing (Compare this with the numerous anthems that went around during the Football WC, the best-known of them being “Waving the Flag”.). Secondly, it is somewhat tough for me to understand why an anthem for a tournament being co-hosted by 3 countries on a world stage should be a typical Hindi filmy soundtrack. With leading exponents of fusion available in India, it would have been great to have an anthem that reflected the music flavours of all the hosts. Also, given that all the 3 countries have great music to offer to the world, maybe a joint composition by artistes of all the 3 countries would have really been great.
Now on to another global phenomenon. I first came across Colonel Muammar Gaddafi many years back when I read the novel “The Fifth Horseman” by Collins & Lapierre. The novel has Gaddafi holding Washington DC to ransom by setting up a powerful bomb in the city. As much as that novel was fictional in nature, the specter of Gaddafi has stuck with me – a firebrand defiant & dictatorial leader with overflowing vitriol against the West and the economic muscle to back it up. There is one thing common to people like Hitler, Saddam, Gaddafi, Osama – and that is the fact that for all the fiendish atrocities that these people are blamed for, they are all products of ruthless policies of personal gain that the First World countries have pursued over the years. And stuck in the crossfire of cold blooded business-minded policy and vendetta are the common people who have to pay for this with their peace of mind and much worse in many cases, generation after generation in country after country. And as Operation Odessey Dawn brings in a string of Hornets and B-2s and Tomahawks and Gaddafi expectedly digging in, more innocent lives are sure to be lost.
Now onto something refreshing. A book I recently finished reading is called “Superfreaknomics” by Steve Levitt, an economist who has gained fame for his distinctly queer but intriguing fields of research and Steve Dubner, a journalist who has worked closely with Levitt. “Superfreakonomics” is a sequel to “Freakonomics”, and both the books use in-depth research and undeniable logic and compelling arguments to reach some startling and funny deductions about various earthly phenomena. In a lucid manner and with a whacky sense of humour, they tell you that a prostitute is more likely to end up having sex with a policeman than being arrested by him, that you are more likely to be killed walking drunk than driving drunk and that if you are a terrorist, you are less likely to be caught if you buy a life insurance. The book is educational as it is funny, and I strongly advise people who love non-fiction to go for this book (if you haven’t already) as I rush to grab my copy of “Freakonomics”.
I guess I’m done for now. Let me know what you feel …. And do something that makes me blog more often, please!!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The occasional blog, reloaded
As always, the lazy dog in me has ensured I don’t blog regularly. And so, this blog of mine follows a familiar pattern, my take on some recent and some not so recent happenings around the world.
To begin with, the court’s verdict on the Bhopal gas tragedy. As a dispassionate onlooker, I was really amused at the mudslinging that ensued between the political who-and-who after the verdict on how the head honcho of Union Carbide was allowed to leave the country and the rest of the related stuff. To me, India has time and again shown the world that it has the utmost potential of being a soft state, for whatever reasons, and this was just another episode. But as an Indian, I am aghast I could type the previous sentence without flinching. When a catastrophe of dimensions far beyond any industrial disaster in the history of mankind in terms of affected people takes place and all that the victims get is fraud, false promises and a judicial decision as weak as the Argentinean defense at South Africa 2010, something is really rotten somewhere. India as a state needs to take a cold hard look at itself, if possible with a dash of contempt and shame, and come up with a really tough statement some way or the other. There is really no point comparing the US stance against BP versus that of Union Carbide, as that would be like complaining about the sun rising in the east. The Kandahars and the Bhopals and the Mumbais are piling up on our existence, and it is really high time something changed.
Next up on my palate is the Football World Cup 2010. The atmosphere was really colourful, but the football was really colourless, except a few streaks of colour. The sad plight of teams like France, Italy, England and Argentina was certainly a letdown, and rubbing salt on the wounds were the crazy Jabulani, the oh-so-few goals, the underperforming giants like Ronaldo & Torres (it would be wrong to call Rooney a giant, any which way) and, of course, the ear-splitting vuvuzelas. To me the lesser names were the real heroes of this tournament, namely the teams like New Zealand, Ghana & Uruguay and players like Paston (the Kiwi goalie), Tsorvas (the Greek goalie), Neuer (the German goalie), Mueller & Ozil (no intro required), Gyan, Suarez and many others. (Yes, I have a little something for goalkeepers!) And Spain, they moulded the apple-a-day saying to suit them: a goal a match keeps everybody away.
Next up is the fateful Jnaneswari disaster and the CRPF massacre (and the ensuing massacres). A lot of analysis has been done on the issue of tackling the Maoists. Sweeping that aside, I would tend to agree with analysts like the legendary KPS Gill (and many other defense analysts) who stress on understanding the adversary better rather than charging at them blindly like raging bulls made of cotton. Instead of pushing in more and more CRPF cadres into battlefields to gain “area-dominance” and then calling for the Army and Navy when these cadres are butchered, is a wrong approach. It is being stressed that the trick is in training the CRPF adequately and properly in jungle warfare and guerilla tactics so that they don’t end up being lambs to the slaughter against the better-trained and well-entrenched Maoist cadres. The collateral damage that an Army or Air Force operation will cause could be extremely counter-productive.
Another very interesting piece of news which I came across could be good food for thought. While we beat our breasts with pride for our superior armed forces, a very alarming situation exists when we look at the field of procurement of defense equipment. And no, I am not just talking about the Bofors and the rotten politics. The problem is with the system itself. Defense procurement in India is a curious case of conflict where the buyer and the seller are the same. Very limited private partnership is allowed in this field, and the vendors are chosen by a board that includes high officials of the armed forces. So here you have a situation where orders for equipment, urgently needed by the armed forces, are being placed to selected vendors, who are already running woefully late on previous orders, by the armed forces themselves (as they have representation on the approving boards). The case of the Indian aircraft carrier to replace the Viraat is a classic example, if not the only one. For a country which is surrounded by hounds waiting to pounce, this is seriously disturbing.
That’s about it for the moment. Do get back to me with comments…
To begin with, the court’s verdict on the Bhopal gas tragedy. As a dispassionate onlooker, I was really amused at the mudslinging that ensued between the political who-and-who after the verdict on how the head honcho of Union Carbide was allowed to leave the country and the rest of the related stuff. To me, India has time and again shown the world that it has the utmost potential of being a soft state, for whatever reasons, and this was just another episode. But as an Indian, I am aghast I could type the previous sentence without flinching. When a catastrophe of dimensions far beyond any industrial disaster in the history of mankind in terms of affected people takes place and all that the victims get is fraud, false promises and a judicial decision as weak as the Argentinean defense at South Africa 2010, something is really rotten somewhere. India as a state needs to take a cold hard look at itself, if possible with a dash of contempt and shame, and come up with a really tough statement some way or the other. There is really no point comparing the US stance against BP versus that of Union Carbide, as that would be like complaining about the sun rising in the east. The Kandahars and the Bhopals and the Mumbais are piling up on our existence, and it is really high time something changed.
Next up on my palate is the Football World Cup 2010. The atmosphere was really colourful, but the football was really colourless, except a few streaks of colour. The sad plight of teams like France, Italy, England and Argentina was certainly a letdown, and rubbing salt on the wounds were the crazy Jabulani, the oh-so-few goals, the underperforming giants like Ronaldo & Torres (it would be wrong to call Rooney a giant, any which way) and, of course, the ear-splitting vuvuzelas. To me the lesser names were the real heroes of this tournament, namely the teams like New Zealand, Ghana & Uruguay and players like Paston (the Kiwi goalie), Tsorvas (the Greek goalie), Neuer (the German goalie), Mueller & Ozil (no intro required), Gyan, Suarez and many others. (Yes, I have a little something for goalkeepers!) And Spain, they moulded the apple-a-day saying to suit them: a goal a match keeps everybody away.
Next up is the fateful Jnaneswari disaster and the CRPF massacre (and the ensuing massacres). A lot of analysis has been done on the issue of tackling the Maoists. Sweeping that aside, I would tend to agree with analysts like the legendary KPS Gill (and many other defense analysts) who stress on understanding the adversary better rather than charging at them blindly like raging bulls made of cotton. Instead of pushing in more and more CRPF cadres into battlefields to gain “area-dominance” and then calling for the Army and Navy when these cadres are butchered, is a wrong approach. It is being stressed that the trick is in training the CRPF adequately and properly in jungle warfare and guerilla tactics so that they don’t end up being lambs to the slaughter against the better-trained and well-entrenched Maoist cadres. The collateral damage that an Army or Air Force operation will cause could be extremely counter-productive.
Another very interesting piece of news which I came across could be good food for thought. While we beat our breasts with pride for our superior armed forces, a very alarming situation exists when we look at the field of procurement of defense equipment. And no, I am not just talking about the Bofors and the rotten politics. The problem is with the system itself. Defense procurement in India is a curious case of conflict where the buyer and the seller are the same. Very limited private partnership is allowed in this field, and the vendors are chosen by a board that includes high officials of the armed forces. So here you have a situation where orders for equipment, urgently needed by the armed forces, are being placed to selected vendors, who are already running woefully late on previous orders, by the armed forces themselves (as they have representation on the approving boards). The case of the Indian aircraft carrier to replace the Viraat is a classic example, if not the only one. For a country which is surrounded by hounds waiting to pounce, this is seriously disturbing.
That’s about it for the moment. Do get back to me with comments…
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The brotherhodd of Anjj
It may not be not in the same league as the “Coffee House culture”, but its almost as colourful, stimulating and free-wheeling. And if course, there are the customary rounds of steaming beverages and wandering smoke rings. Life at IIT wouldn’t have been the same without the Anjj brotherhood!!
It all started with the search for a place that served good “North Indian style” chaai, which for dummies is tea with extra sugar and milk and served in thick walled glass tumblers. (No regionalism involved here, its just a lifestyle choice!) The vending machine fare at Gurunath, for all the eye-candy charm of the place, wasn’t good enough and Tifany’s was OK but too far-off from the hostel zone. (Proximity was an issue because chaai for the lot of us was like antivirus software updates – regular editions were required for smooth functioning of our systems.) It was then that these outlets outside Krishna gate were discovered. The tumblers were in place, and the tea was definitely acceptable. The fact that you could light up in these places was a big plus. (The “electricity-powered” lighters that these places sported were unlike any I had seen anywhere before.) This initiated the trips to these chaai stalls, which soon settled into a regular, rarely disturbed pattern – after breakfast, after lunch, in the evening, after dinner, near midnight and any time in between whenever deemed necessary. Sipping tea, coffee or “Boost” and sitting on circular stools of moulded plastic or on the cemented steps of the shops, the tea-lovers club would have lively, boisterous and unbridled discussions on truly “arbit” topics – sometimes sensible, sometimes utterly insane. Politicians were abused, World Cup soccer history was revisited, professors were cursed (and their daughters blessed!), the Tata-Corus deal was analyzed, the future of renewable energy was pondered upon, the origins of prevalent expletives were unearthed, Himesh Reshammiya was consigned to ashes, the mating-cycle of the monkey was discussed, menus of extrapolated marriages hotly contested … you basically get the idea. As more and more chaai stalls were identified and sampled, they were given unique code names by the brotherhood – the one with the best tea (and the most frequented) was chaai anna (its officially called the Balan tea stall), the one adjacent to the Krishna gate was gate anna, the one which served special ginger-cardamom tea was SPL anna, the one opposite to a doctor’s clinic was doctor anna, and the late night vendor who operated from 10pm – 6am to cater to the TCS nightstaff was TCS anna. In due course of time, the tea-zone acquired a personal sense of belonging for the regulars (who called themselves the Anjj gang), and occasional visitors were deemed as guests and treated to free tea as a mark of courtesy. Standing at the fag end of my end of my IITM days, I realize that the chaai phenomenon has almost become a physical part of me which cannot be separated from me without a certain amount of pain.
Of course, apart from the regular goings-on of the tea-zone there were always some quirky happenings that add spice to the story. There was the case when one of us accidentally broke a tumbler and prepared for a tirade from the tea-stall owner. To our surprise, the man calmly walked upto us, flashed an open palm at us, mouthed the words “anjj rupa” and started cleaning away the shards of glass. We had no idea what that meant, until a Tamil-speaking guy explained that “anjj rupa (meaning five rupees)” was the penalty we had to pay for destroying the tumbler. That was that. This incident was the genesis of the name the tea-regulars acquired later on – the Anjj gang. Then there was this dogess (“bitch” really has very negative connotations in our mind) which grew fond of us when we fed her with biscuits every time we came for chaai. She would wriggle with joy whenever she spotted us coming, and would accompany us till the hostel gates every single night. Then there was the day one of us narrowly missed being drenched by a dash of water, splashed by a resident who was traumatized by the ruckus we created while we had tea. And of course, there was the regular haggling with the guards at the Krishna gate when we went to have our midnight tea at about 11:45pm. Eventually the guards realized we were harmless desperados and ceased accosting us. These, and many other moments, are endearing tea-moments of a lifetime.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
A lifetime of ecstacy
Whichever way I look at it, i got more here than I had bargained for. Be it academics, friends, extra-curriculars, love, hate, fun .... the works. This video has come from somewhere in my heart (not sure if it's the bottom) and, in many ways, reflects the true story of my stint at IIT Madras. The amount of mileage we have clocked up as s class despite differences is truly something to cherish. At a personal level, of course, I have made some really good friends. I have also learnt a good deal about life and its meanderings, through pleasant and not-so-pleasant episodes. Hope you enjoy the video ...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Bill, Bigelow & Backpack
Symbolism and allegory is indeed a potent tool to add layers, colours and texture to issues and discussions. It can be fantastically bang-on or damningly misleading and lot depends on the intelligence of both the formulator and interpreter of the idea. No my friends, this is not my learning from the hugely successful Dan Brown genre, though it indeed was involved in the genesis. Instead, what I am referring to here is much closer to real and “de-crypted” life. A three pronged rambling – read on …
The first two observations are linked at their source, but fan out thereafter. The first and most important, at least for me as an Indian, is the 108th Constitutional Amendment, better known as the Women’s Reservation Bill. After millennia of prejudice, amidst shameful hooliganism and against ruling anarchy, the Indian woman has made a small but joyous step towards hope. Before you lash out at me with your sabres, let me clarify that “small” here is a downright relative expression. The acceptance (though still very provisional, for Lok Sabha MPs would still surely use every rule in the book to save their seats which are set to go to women if the Bill is passed) of a formidable right to decision making in the world’s largest democracy still plagued by patriarchal and feudal bias is in itself a gigantic and unprecedented step forward for women. It’s indeed tempting to tend towards symbolism considering the fact that the present ruling party, the opposition, the Lok Sabha and the Indian state all have women in pivotal positions presently. Sorry to sound like a cynic, but the acid test would really be if and after the 108 comes into force. How the empowered woman community wields and uses its power is where the real essence of the issue lies. When you look at the fact that a party like Trinamool Congress, led by a woman, did not think it was correct to evict MPs who belittled the office of the Rajya Sabha speaker, you’d start to see what I’m trying to say. Politics today, at least in India, is starkly discordant with public welfare and farsighted policy making and has instead turned into a combined game of monopoly, trapeze and poker. On the road, in the fields and at home, the Indian woman is still fighting for identity, equity and dignity. I sincerely hope that the 33% does not get sucked into the black hole of materialistic and virtue-less politics but uses the power to really make a difference in the life of the Indian women and set her free. The government lost out the symbolically fantastic opportunity of getting the bill passed on International Women’s day, let’s hope the Indian state doesn’t take the symbolism too seriously.
Now, it’s time for the red carpet. The famed “Battle of the Ex-es” at this year’s Oscars ended in the Oscar for the best Director going to a woman for the first time in Oscar history. The Dan Brown-esque media again linked this with the International Women’s day. First things first, “The Hurt Locker” is indeed a raw and scathing look into the horror, rigour and monotony of pointless and protracted war. A columnist has remarked that the “sweaty, sour and defeatedly masculine tang seeping out of every frame” in the movie could only have been captured so shrewdly by a woman. Something about such remarks rings a bell somewhere in me. Why is the woman – angle looked at with such scrutiny in such situations? Around the world, with all the talk of progressive humanity, gender-bias still is a menacingly strong undercurrent. To me, underlining the fact that a female director deserves extra credit for making it the Oscar winning list, and similar such statements, have roots in a deep-seated patriarchal conviction. I definitely need more minds to develop this line of thought.
Finally, a musing on something entirely different. As a part of the process of watching the Oscar nominated movies, I came across George Clooney’s “Up in the air”. I thought the film has used a very different technique to look at the importance of social security in human life, which is refreshing. Riding on the concept of a backpack, used as a symbol of the materialistic and social commitments that ride on the shoulders of a human, the film very subtly underlines the beauty, importance and criticality of not cocooning yourself from the world in a bid to stay away from responsibilities and commitments. It was a nice breezy movie, and without any over-the-moon dialogues or situations, drove home a point effectively. I wonder why Bollywood doesn’t get “inspired” by this genre ….
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Of righteousness & resentment ...
The time of the call had already given me the message. Over the phone, my mother’s grief - stricken voice confirmed what I had already figured, “Daadu aar nei re …. (Grandpa is no more, son)”. For several moments, my entire sensibility was numbed. There was veritable poetic justice in how the end came.
Throughout his life, daadu had personified and exemplified the concept of principled and dignified living. Hit by the cruelty of the Bengal partition, his family had been reduced from an affluent household to a struggling unit. As attempts were made to start living again, circumstances crowned daadu, still just a student, as the prime bread-earner of the family. He did not bat an eyelid. He joined the Indian army, and by the time he retired as a Subedaar Major (the seniormost rank for a non-commissioned officer in the army), he had seen action in WWII and in 1962 & 1965. The army had turned a resolute human into a lifelong fighter. All this while, he had been responsible for raising his 3 younger brothers and 1 younger sister, apart from running a huge joint family. Stretched by finances, he made every penny count but never let the household feel deprived in any way. He lived a Spartan, indeed a deprived life, but never evaded responsibility. As the army pension proved insufficient, daadu painstakingly learnt basic accounting studying Batliboi books all by himself, and got a job at a office at Fort William, Calcutta. Step by step, bit by bit, he moved forward in life and ensured his siblings received respectable education and started families of their own. Bolstered by the unquestioned support of his devoted wife, he worked hard to instill a framework of values, discipline and sensibilities into the household he was responsible for. The magnanimity of his character was a striking part of his existence. Throughout his life, he interacted with everybody around him with the same set of values. He cared for everybody's well-being and if anybody was erring in his actions and philosophy, according to him, he did not think twice before raising a flag. This attitude earned him numerous admirers but also earned him the wrath of people who thought they deserved biased behavior by dint of being his relatives, superiors and the like. As the household he had painstakingly built brick by brick started to disintegrate under pressure of self-centredness, narrow-mindedness and wanton greed, he did all he could to stem the rot. He even curbed his instinct to call a spade a spade and refrained from speaking his mind if that could avoid needless confrontations. He lived a life of dignity, discipline, courage and unwavering determination and never bowed before anybody, not even death. The man, who at 82 years of age could arm wrestle and decently built youth into submission, died a swift, almost painless death at the Army Command Hospital in Kolkata. He was known at the hospital not by name, but as the distinguished World War veteran and was given a treatment that moistened eyes not with pain but with pride. His loss was a blow I have never been able to tide over.
When I look up to his life and try to imbibe his values, I realize I am seriously incompetent in trying to follow in his footsteps. I have struggled to develop his magnanimity and maturity in handling adversities. I judge with my heart most of the times and that has landed me into trouble. My mind has been held to ransom on several occasions when I’ve encountered the darkness of human character – all the more painful when they are your near and dear ones. I have seen people sway in intoxicated materialistic stupor. I have seen people operating with inexplicable double standards for personal gains. I have seen people ignore sentiments and feelings and get sold on unbridled showmanship. On the other end of the spectrum, I have also seen the restraint and maturity that has to be exhibited to manage the complex fabric of human relations. I have often given in to my short temper and, as a result, created even more complexities. We, maybe justifiably, rely too much on keeping our social fabric free of stains and strains, which we are taught is the true achievement of human endeavor. I saw daadu relentlessly strive to do that, and now see my parents doing the same. This has often meant reconciling to unacceptable conduct by relatives and seemingly unpardonable behavior by friends and others in society. I am seriously pained and aggrieved when I see this state of affairs, but somehow have been unable to break the shackles of deep-rooted convictions. I hope to develop the traits that people like daadu stand for and be a worthy individual. So, help me God ….
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Musings ...
It has been an awefully long time since I last blogged, and for the life of me, I cannot come up with a proper explanation for this. Anyway, I finally found enough inspiration and drive to blog again, and I hope you enjoy this effort. As usual, there are multiple issues I have commented on here, in no particular order, but they are all subjects that attracted me unusually and significantly.
A lot of stuff has been happening lately that is worth mentioning here, but about which I wouldn’t elaborate. Michael Schumacher returned to F1 to pair up with old pal Ross Brawn, a celebrated tiger found his territory ravaged completely, a Nobel peace prize winner pushed thousands of troops to fight in a heavily protracted theatre of war, the Ferozshah Kotla pitch again was in the news for the wrong reasons (Last time, the ruckus was followed by Kumble’s 10-wicket haul. Let’s hope for something similar this time around too…, though it doesn’t take away the ignominy and embarrassment.), and a grossly inaccurate movie & a hopeless sham of a conference marked the global “awareness” about the fate of Mother Earth
But I have some other things I’d like to talk about. I watched two Hindi movies in two days which had, for a change, a soul of their own and had a warm feeling about them. The first, strictly in chronological order, was Rocket Singh – Salesman of the Year. A no-frills movie about a young man who strives to carve out a niche for himself by superimposing his ideals and sensibilities on an ethically-flawed cut-throat business environment, has a distinct message for the contemporary global environment. Backed by a highly sensible story by the impressive Shimit Amin, and excellent performances by Ranbir Kapoor (the believable & likeable Rocket Singh), Manish Choudhary (the arrogant and stop-at-nothing Suri), Naveen Kaushik (with his trendy sideburns & street-smart sharpness), Gauhar Khan (the intelligent “customer relations executive”) and D. Santosh (the porn-loving Hyderabadi maintenance guy), and others like Prem Chopra and Mukesh Bhatt, the movie is as much a statement in-sync with the times as it is an ode to integrity and ethics. Though set in Mumbai, the film has a distinct Delhi feel, and that is not because the protagonist is a “Joker Sardaar”. The message of the movie is very much in line with emerging business sensibility that emphasizes relentless customer focus and people management. A nice watch…
The second movie, 3 Idiots, is another masterpiece from Rajkumar Hirani’s stable. Notwithstanding the mud-slinging that is going on regarding the credits of the movie, the film has its own charm and beauty. It has significant similarities with Munnabhai – the wonder treatment of patients, the face - offs between the protagonist and the principal, the “is baar ka paper main set karunga” situations, the South Indian stuck at the second position on merit lists and yes, the same healthy sweet heart-warming feel. The trio from RDB, teamed up with the Munnabhai stable, has done it once again, aided by others like the adorably irritating Omi Vaidya as Chatur and the sweetly restrained Kareena as Pia. Yes, the plot has its implausibility and yes, the movie may be interpreted by some as glorifying indiscipline, but I liked the movie solely because of its treatment and its after-taste.
Shifting tracks, next on my agenda is a disturbing trend that is slowly pervading the field of journalism. It is the phenomenon of yellow journalism and its more criminal variant which is nowadays being termed as the “paid news syndrome”. This refers to the condition where powerful entities are buying media space and obscuring unbiased news by projecting engineered information. In an age where customer is fashionably projected to be the king, this corporatization of the media is in effect tantamount to making the customer is just a meek bystander, indeed a slave of the money-wielding powers. Recently, it was highlighted how a series of “articles” (they were nowhere labeled as “advertisements”) extolling the virtues of the then Maharashtra CM candidate Ashok Chavan adorned huge centrespreads of various dailies across Maharashtra (including the largest circulated daily in Maharashtra) during the election campaign. All the pieces appearing on a certain day had almost identical wordings in all the dailies. While Mr.Chavan has declared that he only spent a total of Rs.5,379/- for advertising in the print media, the pieces, if “paid” by Mr. Chavan, must have cost him crores of rupees. (A contesting candidate cannot spend more than 10lacs of rupees for electoral candidature promotion.) This, at once, points to 2 malices – apart from the prospect of “paid news” being published, this also points to a clear breach of electoral norms. The Times Group runs a service called Medianet Online whose official focus is “to augment print media with other media vehicles to provide a complete end-to-end PR solution to customers.” But a look at the website would reveal that the site has immense potential for yellow journalism and creation of paid-news. Indeed, journalists from prominent media mastheads have been arrested accepting bribes from parties for posting laundered information on various modes of mass media. The villainous prospects of news laundering were also covered, albeit immaturely, in the movie Mission Istanbul. Additionally, the mushrooming of news channels in the recent times is both a cause and an effect of news – corporatization and yellow journalism. All this creates an alarming setting where the media, lured by financial distractions, is increasingly losing its righteousness, its allegiance to the ethics of news coverage and is fast becoming the world’s most elaborate soap serial.
Finally, I focus on the recent initiative jointly launched by the Times Group from India and the Jung Group from Pakistan called “Aman ki Asha” or the Hope for Peace. The initiative aims at fostering a climate of mutual trust and friendship between the ill-fated step twins, India and Pakistan. The initiative, as worded by the editors, aims at initiating a people-to-people contact, hoping sincerely that a significant success in this endeavor would force the respective governments to engage in more meaningful and forcefully reconciliatory dialogue. Aman ki Asha, a commendable concept in itself, correctly identifies that the common awaam on both the sides of the border is willful of a mutually peaceful milieu in the region. But it is a little naïve to hope that a people-to-people contact would lead up to a government level bonhomie. This is neglecting political and strategic machinations and foolishly hoping for a resolution. It is well-known that the common people never wanted the partition, they never wanted the wars, they never wanted Kargil, and they enjoy Lata Mangeshkar and Euphoria as much as they adore Abida Parveen and Strings. But state diplomacy and political will has its roots somewhere else, and these roots are too strong and well-developed to be uprooted by a friendly “public” environment. Thus, I fear “aman ki asha”, for all its well-meaning charm, may end up just being a good beginning.
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