The Cruel Month

If T S Eliot were alive today, he wouldn’t be writing the Wasteland and other such modernist works, which drove many a literature lover to depression and gloom. T S Eliot was a very successful Banking Professional in those days; A successful Banker today would be busy buying homes, cars, paying mortgages at concessional rates of interest and buying natty clothes. I am told Eliot reserved the gloom for reading public. “ April is the cruelest month….’ He said. I would like to postpone it to July. For one, I have no relief from my staid existence: no sabbatical, no training, back to office drudgery.
I must have gloated too much about my father’s health. (You can read about it elsewhere in this blog at “ confessions…”). He was perfectly fine when I visited him in June. He had two falls in July and has ended up with fractures in his hand and hip. Just the kind of thing that an 87 year old man ought to avoid. With none of his children around, it has been difficult. My sister, brothers have been taking turns at looking after him. He refuses to move from his village. His home, his past, everything is rooted in the soil and the river that flows nearby. Old age can be a curse, a time for introspection & soul searching; it is also a time for visits to dull, staid hospitals.
I thought I’d write about books I have read recently. My discovery is Indra Sinha. I can hardly say that about a man who got very close to winning the Booker prize last year. I read his “Animal’s People” last year. The book influenced me profoundly. An insight into the brutalized existence in the midst of the Bhopal Gas tragedy with the strand of a poignant love story weaved into it. I recently read his earlier book. “The Death of Mr. Love”. Loosely based on the Nanavati murder case, a crime of passion that shook Bombay in the 60s. This story runs parallely with it. It is about a bunch of kids and their life shaken by the uncertainties of life. It is also about a reunion, which tries to ignite forgotten passions of adolescence.
I loved the endings in both books. There is a river of grief straining to breach its banks and overflow…. Deepest sorrow tinged with eternal love... I always believed women write Crime fiction best and men write great romantic novels. My favourite crime fiction writers are mostly women. P.D.James, Minnette Walters, Ruth Rendell, Sue Grafton etc. There are a few honourable exceptions of course. Men like Lawrence Sanders and Colin Dexter have also written great crime fiction: John Lecarre’s spy fiction continues to enthrall. His mastery over language is total. If Le Carre had chosen to change his genre, he would have certainly won the Nobel Prize for literature. When it comes to romance, I find the romance stuff written by women very mushy, soppy and unreadable. Even Georgette Heyer whom the Missus loves. I can name several great romances written by men. Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Love in the time of Cholera, an all time classic), Hemingway (Farewell to Arms), Orhan Pamuk (Snow), Nevil Shute (I know, he is an unlikely candidate. I read “A town like Alice” when I was in 6th std and still believe it is a great book. I remember every line of Jean Paget’s journey and romance), Vikram Seth (An equal music) and several others. I add Indra Sinha to that list. I know the list looks eclectic. So are my tastes. Old age is catching up and my memory isn’t good. I am sure I have omitted several great writers from this list.
Orhan Pamuk is one writer I have been reading in the last 2-3 years. I liked “ My name is Red”. “The New Life” and the “Black Book” are in a different class. I loved Snow. I bought his writings called “Other Colours” recently. It gives a good insight into the man, the times he lived in and the places he frequented. I read the “Thunder Bolt Kid” by Bill Bryson. I have always been a great admirer of his works. But he outdid himself with this. A quote from the book- “ Our ancestors built civilizations; we build malls”. That says everything without saying much.
I also read the “Red Sun” by Sudeep Chakravarti. A St.Stephenian look at the Naxal movement (The Missus sniggers at that- a proud Stephenian herself). As I waded through the book I realized my initial prejudices were misplaced. It opens eyes of city types to the discontent brewing in large swathes of the countryside. The author uses an easy conversational style. Thankfully, he doesn’t take recourse to ideological jargon to explain the Naxal Movement. The extreme scenario that the author paints is quite gloomy. India might be reduced to walled city-states with the vast countryside run by warlords and revolutionaries. Good time for politicians to get cracking. I also read the “Prattler’s tale”, autobiography of Ashok Mitra- the erstwhile W.Bengal Finance Minister and academician. I had attended his classes on Growth Economics in Centre for Development Studies, Trivandrum.
Every time I visit Kerala I pick up a few books in Malayalam. Many of them are left unread. I am no more comfortable with my mother tongue. With the Missus and son constantly talking in English with Hindi words thrown in. I read two books, which deserve mention.
“Barsa” written by Khadeeja Mumtaz is the first one. A doctor by profession, she worked in Saudi Arabia. The novel is based on the life of a Muslim lady doctor (neo convert) and her life in Mecca, the Holy city along with her doctor husband. I bought the book over the net after being impressed with an interview with her. She says with rare candour that my creator (Padachavan in Malayalam, a beautiful word to describe god) isn’t one who insists on covering the skin of a woman, nor is he one to exhort men to treat women as their playing fields. She says that after her Saudi Arabian stint, she is glad to be born an Indian Muslim. Barsa means, one who doesn’t cover her face. Barsa is also a person in Islamic History. The prophet’s relative who is said to be extremely vocal and could defeat many a scholar in debates. I had earlier read “Caged Virgin” by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, an outspoken former Dutch Parliamentarian/ feminist writer. Her views are radical and controversial. She lives under heavy protection fearing attacks by fundamentalists. I was impressed with “Barsa”. The author is not possessed of a great gift for writing. She tells a simple story straight from the heart. The book, I understand has sparked off a debate in the Muslim community in Kerala. Understandably the majority is siding with her. A few loonies of course are ranged against her
The second book is ahem… a bit controversial and I am afraid I will be walking a thin line between my conduct as a bureaucrat and the appreciation of political discourse as a concerned citizen. Apparently the author “Azad”,studied in Kerala University for a doctorate in Malayalam. His age indicates that he must have been around in the Vayassan (old man) hostel for Phd students in Karyavattom Campus, around the same time or after I was there. But the name Azad does not ring any bell. Must be a pseudonym. He is a Professor in a College in Manjeri, North Kerala. (Don’t these guys have conduct rules??) The book is called “Fantasy Park and Karl Marx”. It is a critique of “Fourth World” or “Post Marxists” or “Neo Marxists” represented by Buddhadeb Bhattacharya, Thomas Isaac (Kerala’s Finance Minister), MA Baby (Kerala’s Education Minister) and other “progressive communists” (an oxymoron?). His theories can be summarized as under
1. Identity Politics of the Mayavati/ BJP/ SP kind dilutes the essence of class struggle
2. The Neo Marxists who advocate local self-governance, industrialization and decentralized planning are unwittingly falling into the trap of Imperialism and its’ crony institutions like World Bank etc. In other words by talking of development first and class struggle later, the Neo Marxists are doing disservice to the masses.
3. He stops short of accusing the Neo Marxists of being CIA agents.
4. The Multilateral Financial Institutions, Think tanks, NGOs, development agencies that channel money into micro credit, grass roots level development, self-help agencies etc are part of the Capitalist conspiracy. The Neo Marxists are putty in their hands.
I was reminded of the Book “Wild Swans: Three daughters of China” by Jung Chang. It is about life under Mao’s China during the Cultural Revolution. In the sixties China, an apparatchik and ideological purist like Azad would have been banished to the villages to make pig iron in agricultural land- A grand effort at industrialization during the Great Leap forward as exhorted by the Great Leader to industrialize using crude methods. Most of the iron thus produced, polluted the countryside and was unusable. Many ideological purists were banished to ignominy during those years. Or, he would have hung chappals around the Neo Marxists/ academicians and called condemnation meetings. Those were the smart ones- who sided with the Great Leader. Removal of poverty can wait. Do nothing that would postpone the revolution…. Very romantic notion, I must say. I thought I was living in the seventies when I read this. Great stuff for the erudite village Mallu living in his make believe world. Till that visa to Gulf comes through, of course.

Stock Markets and the Energy question

The wheat fields are ripe for harvesting. A gentle wind blows. The vast sky above carried little patches of white cloud. I am riding my old Philips bicycle, with the Missus riding pillion and a much younger Chathu seated on the handle bar. A transistor radio playing Hindi songs from the sixties is held close to my ears. The village Moneylender, the Thakur landowner and the sharecroppers are not shown in this frame. Nor are suicides due to crop failure, floods, drowning incidents in the river or violent village panchayat squabbles. But there is no pollution, no smoke, no sulphur dioxide emissions, no fossil fuels, no damage to ozone layer; no carbon footprints… all’s well with life yonder.
Somehow thing were not to be so. When I took my six-year-old Zen for Pollution check, the guy at the petrol pump said that the car needs service and he had fudged figures to show compliance. I told him that that was unnecessary. He said it would still cost me a Pooora Painthalees Rupaiyah (whole of Rs 45) to give a non-compliance certificate as for a certificate showing compliance. He thought he was doing me a good turn but didn’t expect to be ticked off for certifying the car fit. Haven’t you come for a pollution compliance certificate? Don’t you want your money’s worth? I felt foolish as I started the car. In Delhi everybody is looking for money’s worth (Paisa Vasool), I thought and my car guzzles too much petrol. Now Petrol costs me Rs 2000 a month for a small distance of 9 Kms to Office and back. The Govt reimburses me a princely sum of Rs 800 every month. Many colleagues have an Office car and driver to commute. (Including the Missus). But yours truly made his life choices long back based on the commandment Thou shalt not be a pain in the ass of the system…
I am hoping for miracles. In two years I am hoping that the entire energy model will take a different trajectory. Indians should have been at the forefront of the new energy model- Instead of waiting for Americans to attack Iraq to directly or indirectly to control the largest chunk of global oil resources - And still be saddled with highest global prices!! I suppose the oil companies in question must be making huge campaign contributions…
I foresee a disaggregated model wherein consumers turn prosumers. Read about the feed-in model of Germany. Homes generate electricity through Solar panels, wind mills etc and feed the grid. The Energy merchants are obliged to buy home-generated electricity at a rate significantly higher than what is charged to the consumers. Germany, located in Europe with little sunshine has implemented this model, thus greatly subsidizing renewable energy- There is a steep rise in the price of Solar panels globally as a result of demand from Germany & Scandinavian countries. Why can’t dear old Hindustan with large tracts of land blessed with abundant sunshine have policies of feed –in, lower taxes on Hybrids, free parking for pollution-free cars, seamless integration and comfortable public transport ?
I am not particularly known for astrology, tarot card reading, palm reading and other claptrap. Many years ago I had predicted that a certain politician from the South, wearing dark glasses would join hands with the very party which withdrew support to the Govt of the day on the plea that the wearer of dark glasses was considered complicit in a political assassination. Maybe I predicted this in the comfort of my drawing room, sipping vodka with only the disinterested Missus listening in- Who in any case doesn’t doesn’t give credence to rambling predictions mid-sip of vodka.
Here is one more prediction. The nuclear deal will be a laughing matter ten years from now. We would be clutching our stomachs and wondering how it could cost support to the Govt. How reams and reams of newsprint were expended on it. The deal is one of the many things that need to be done for the medium term. Repeat – One of the many things. Nothing will collapse if it isn’t done (except the Govt maybe…). It is amusing to watch big guys staking everything, their reputation, political standing, and loyalties on such a thing. Considering that this prediction is not being made in the comfort of my drawing room with none listening in, I shall find some reasonable excuse if this prediction turns out to be dud one. Before this blog turns political and I get cashiered under a certain clause in the Central Service Conduct Rules, let me turn attention to things more serious.
Yeah, it is the melt down in stock markets. Which is also linked to the global energy question. The price per barrel of crude goes up because of speculation on an imminent attack on a country (starting with I also by a country starting with I- This blog is full of clues: like a secret seven mystery by Enid Blyton) goes up, which in turn, drives futures market on oil. So prices of oil go up, inflation is up- markets are down. Isn’t it ridiculous? Whole lot of world leaders in shiny suits cannot fix this problem? Meanwhile other shiny suits masquerading as Fund Managers and Investment Bankers are pulling out money from India. For the last several years we hadn’t thought of alternatives to fossil fuel since the global big Daddies didn’t think it fit to change anything. In their blessed land, gasoline is cheaper than beer. So the rest of the herd followed them into the Valley of no return.
Many friends believe I am a shrewd investor. For someone with an unmentionably tiny net worth, that is quite a reputation. My stock picking has always been intensely personal (like Amar Singh’s Politics, I daresay). More based on loyalties, petty incidents and sometimes just because the CEO looks like a serial killer. No industry specific PE analysis, Alpha curves, support levels, quality of management etc. I still don’t buy into a famous company involved in fratricidal wars due to a small incident when I was dealing with their textile account in Ahmedabad bank 23 years back. (It deeply shook my sense of self worth: today I would shrug off something like that nonchalantly) Long ago, I sold a huge chunk of Sanghi Polyester (very few people must have heard of it) at its’ highest price since I was running short of cash to visit a dear friend in Lucknow. My friends still wonder how I could time it as sweetly as Gundappa Viswanath's square cut. The company went sick soon after...
Those were days when one couldn’t press a button and sell/buy shares. One passed on instructions to broker and signed blank transfer deeds. Then one went on and engaged in visions of the broker flaying arms and yelling at the top of his voice in the Stock Exchange. One day a phone call is received saying that the sale is done. Then one waits for the cheque. I also sold a huge lot of Reddy’s Laboratories at Rs 50 to part finance a black Hero Honda Motor cycle while working in Ordnance Factory, Trichy. They tell me that if I hadn’t sold that huge chunk then, it would be enough today to import a Toyota Hybrid (with sunroof and paddle shift) and save the planet.
When the Harshad Mehta scam happened, the Govt issued guidelines stating that Govt servants have to declare purchases in Mutual Funds/ Shares above Rs 10000- etc. I sort of decided to stop being in the market for a long time, about ten long years. I reentered in 2003 when the market was in dumps only to see it going up later. I sold all shares in L&T when I realized that they are competitors to companies I deal with administratively. A stupid decision. Actually no one cares. I bought a laptop with that money. If I had waited, I can buy five laptops, three ipods and a Bower and Wilkins Hi Fi system that I lust for with that kind of money). I was seized by visions of the Hero Jack Ryan in the famous Tom Clancy novels. Jack Ryan had to disclose personal information and prove that his investment in certain companies did not constitute a clash of professional interests. Such things happen only in CIA theme novels written by insurance salesmen. They don’t even happen in USA, leave alone India. I have been buying small lots of shares of companies in the Non conventional energy, biotechnology and other futuristic sectors. I see my fortunes see sawing everyday and more often in dumps in these troubled times. At least no one will accuse me of having profited from the share market. Meanwhile the dream ride on the Philips bicycle continues….

Sree...the best of times

It is a hot summer day. I wake up to a detailed commentary by Vasudev Nayar aka Chathu, my 13 year old son, on how the Spaniards dribbled, passed, possessed the ball longer and achieved the impossible in Euro Football last night. He went on to deride the managers of European Clubs for not being good at spotting good talent. As I listen to him sleepily, I wonder how something as inane as the sight of several guys running behind one ball excites him so much. As a Malappuram Muslim (known for their cocky innocence) suggested “ buy them all a ball apiece…..”
It has been good and bad: the past month I mean. I should have been on a sabbatical: for a 9-month course in Delhi from July first onwards. That has been cancelled at the last minute. Here I am, back in South Block, the archetypal middle class Babu suffocating in the hot air being generated all around. I have been nominated for a foreign course for a year (in Australia): keeping my fingers crossed till January 2009 when it is due to start. I had a nice vacation in Kerala. Met folks in Belgaum, Bombay and spent a couple of days in Goa on the way down.
Worse, I lost my cousin Sree to a long bout of cancer ( I call him Kuttetta, and his wife Shobha Chechi). I met him in Bombay a week before he expired. He looked shriveled but was in cheerful spirits. When we met in 2006, I had promised to bring my wife and son to meet him. He was the first one from my immediate family to venture into an inter-faith marriage 24 years back. I still recall those days vividly. My entire “Matrilineal Nair Khandan” closed ranks against it. I was one of the few supporters. A love marriage against societal norms with the Khandan ranged against you sounded incredibly revolutionary and romantic. Truth be told, I was later disappointed to learn that his marriage had a “spiritual package” attached to it. He was marrying Shobha, a South Keralite Christian, but also embracing Christianity whole-heartedly. I always believed that the meeting of two souls had nothing to do with caste/ religion/nationality. My eighties college education and reading of eclectic stuff had hardened my position closer to that of Nehruvians/ Marxists who considered religion a superficial factor in our battle against poverty and illiteracy. I also pitied those who sincerely believed that earth is flat, salvation is available only to those who followed the path of their particular brand of God/ scripture, several virgin/ Houris await the suicide bomber, Genesis is the origin of mankind and prayed that cows and Brahmins are happy and (hence??) the world might be at peace. I am not being cynical here.
Sometime immediately after his marriage in mid eighties, I visited Sree in his small apartment in Parsi dominated neighbourhood in Grant Road. I was on my way to Ahmedabad, where I worked as a probationary officer in Indian Bank. I found the place with some difficulty. I met Shobha for the first time. Spent the day with them. It was my first insight into life in Mumbai. I saw them sharing a drawing room with another family. It was a revelation for someone who lived in large spacious homes in the village. Beneath the stairs I could see a young yuppie couple kissing.( seen that only in Hollywood movies until then) I had lunch with them. I went back and told my folks that Sree is lucky to have a good wife (faith or no faith). I was greeted with a lot of skepticism.
I did visit them again- maybe on my way back from Ahmedabad to Kerala. They were staying in Byculla this time. They had a little Baby, Jonathan. Sree’s migration from Nair Hindu values to Christianity was complete. He also sounded very involved with Church activities and prayers etc. I loved spending time with them but was a bit disappointed with his complete transformation and submission to his God/ religion. I saw this third party ominous presence (God) dominating many of our conversations when he had no business to be there. I saw the whole religion question as external to the choices he made in life. How wrong I was!!
I have always been agnostic. I do visit temples; take part in rituals primarily not to strike out as a sore thumb at family occasions- also not to disappoint my mother who deeply wished God to provide everything best for me. I dreaded the possibility that I may end up defending my position in solemn occasions, spoiling the atmosphere. Hence I never bothered to wear my non-belief on my sleeve. Much that I wish believers would also do the same with their deep convictions and stop imposing them on others. I carry this theory that God is harmless, but religion has killed more people than Atom bombs, wars and natural disasters. ( I could prove that with some statistics) I had debated with Sree on this subject whenever we met. I always told him that some of the biggest crooks I have come across in life are great worshippers of God: their piety in full flow in churches, temples and mosques, not given to sympathy to fellow human beings….
There ensued a long gap to our meetings. I met him briefly in Palakkad for a family function. We came to know that he was affected by cancer of the intestines about two years ago. In between I lost another cousin of mine to breast cancer. From the time she discovered that she was affected till her death, it took her only four months. Sree was a great solace to her. I visited Sree and family in their Vasai Road apartment twice. It was quite some distance from Bombay. Sree had resigned his job sometime prior to surgery. Shobha was working in an NGO with flexitime hours. Jonathan had started working. (I have seen him only as an infant - whenever I visit them, he is away in Office). I felt that each time I visit him, Sree was cheerful but it does something to me. I come back thinking about the strange thing called life and its’ many hues. I could see that Sree and Shobha were involved in many charitable activities, prayer groups, NGOs etc. They earnestly spread the God’s word to bring solace to the destitute and underprivileged. That’s much, much more than what many politicians in this country are doing.
The last words Sree told me were….(Cancer had affected his throat. He had to write in a slip of paper to communicate towards the end) “ Jesus is a person and not a religion for me. I wish you the best this side of heaven…” I was moved to tears. He lived a full life. Had a loving wonderful wife who stood stoically by him and enriched every moment of his life. He raised two great children. He passed on early leaving a grieving family, an inconsolable mother (my mom’s sister) who kept wondering why God had left her to grieve a son who predeceased her. Two sisters, many cousins on our side of the family quietly consoled his mother. His other family consisted of his fellow brethren from his Church community who stood by him resolutely during his last days. Offering prayers, keeping his spirits up. For once I felt religion does many things civil society cannot. In our cities we often do not see what happens in the neighbourhood. In addition to his prayer family, Sree was privileged to have a Doctor couple as neighbours who would check on him every few hours. Cancer is a deadly thing. But Sree and Shobha celebrated his journey through life and his ailment. Never losing their sense of humour. Often they would offer consolation to me. Admittedly, I am too weak hearted to see dear ones in pain.
Sree passed away on 24th June 2008 Morning. I couldn’t be there for the funeral. Shobha said she would like me to be there. I had got back from a long holiday the previous day. Funerals were never my kind of occasions. Nor are marriages or other such joyous occasions. I would have loved to spend time with a living breathing Sree, discussing God and religion. I read a write-up on how his funeral was held from his Church brethren. It sounded great. That here is someone I knew, who lived and loved everything in life and went away with great dignity. I felt proud of him. Of having known him and lived through the best times of life…..

A walk in the park

Long ago, in my village in Kerala, it was inconceivable for anyone to be seen walking for exercise to lose weight, combat cholesterol, BP, Blood sugar and generally to keep in shape. The natural question that would pop out from a dyed in the wool villager would be “ Why is he walking with no apparent purpose? He seems to be going nowhere. Why can’t he plough the fields?” Good questions, considering that ploughing the fields brings economic returns and other tangible benefits: good crops, good appetite, and good sleep. Above all able bodied males are kept busy and weaned away from temptations like gambling, drinking etc or standing on village corners posing as head load workers eternally waiting for a lorry to come bearing goods to be unpacked or loaded.
Head load workers in Kerala are an economic phenomenon with a work culture and philosophy of its’ own. Loading and unloading of goodies are considered major economic activities, albeit without any spin-off. So you could find youngsters wearing blue of red shirts (depending on their political/union persuasion), waiting for a lorry carrying bricks or sand to be unloaded for home construction. The wages of loading/ unloading are divided on the basis union strength/muscle power of respective unions. Massive house construction all along the Kerala countryside is the one activity that fuelled this trade (apart from effectively denuding the sand banks of the beautiful rivers of Kerala). Malayalis follow the example of heroes of MT Vasudevan Nair’s novels (famous Malayalam novelist). A child born to poverty, gets a smattering of education, makes good overseas and returns home to build a huge mansion to wreak revenge on the society that was so condescending to him once. The postscript is untold… They then go on to lead a lonely retired life, far away from children seeking fortunes abroad and die with inadequate medical care.
In the eighties slowly a lot of agricultural labour shifted to head load workers, generally lazing around in the village teashop, playing cards and waiting for work. Owners of brick kilns or contractors were allowed to unload the goodies themselves, but not before paying the unloading charges to these worthies. Pinarayi Vijayan, the Kerala communist leader has recently said that the practice of collecting fees for just watching has to be discontinued by the head load workers. In Kerala, it was interpreted as a seminal and earthshaking statement for a Marxist leader to make. Something like Deng Xiao Ping’s statement on colour of Mice…. So much for sedentary vocations like loading and unloading which kept the population engaged notionally. Since livelihood itself was a question mark, physical fitness was a distant concept.
I walk in the Sadiq Nagar Aurobindo Park near my residence in Delhi- Early morning and sometimes late in the evening. There is a more up market park close to my house, behind the Ansal Plaza. I keep away from the place in the evening because one is bound to stumble into young couples indulging in public displays of affection. In addition to turning wistful and sad about an eventless youth, one fears that the intrusion of bald middle aged Babus in their midst might make the whole scenario unromantic and unsuitable for such activities. In the morning the crowd is distinctly upper crust. Wealthy old men, powerful bureaucrats, women in lycra outfits displaying curves are seen around the place. I don’t feel part of that crowd. So Sadiq Nagar it is. Mostly consisting of low-middle level Babus, their spouses and their children could be spotted there. But the walking does some good. Once you get going, it is a breeze to complete a few rounds. There is a distinct feeling of physical wellness. In the winters, it is too cold to venture out in the morning & evening. I thought of buying a treadmill and doing a few kilometers at home. But the prices of good ones put me off.
Often there is loud raucous laughter from the group in the middle of the grassy middle of the park performing Ramdev Maharaj Yoga methods, or deep breaths and sudden exhalation with blood curdling noises. I did see Ramdev Maharaj at the Kolkata airport last year. The sight of a CISF security person frisking him and in a smooth flourish, touching his feet is still there in my mind as an unforgettable Kodak moment. You could even see some standing near trees performing various facial and bodily gestures, which could be considered as suggestive of those who have gone soft in the head. Then there are the kids: basically 16-20 year olds who see the walk in the park as a social occasion for meeting their loved ones away from the gazing eyes of parents and to discuss entrance examinations & career options. Sometimes there would be RSS types doing morning exercises- I suppose it is time for them to engage a designer to conceive a different uniform- the khaki shorts are from another era, it is almost like watching a sepia tinted period film from the 1920s.
I have my ipod plugged on to my ears while walking. I listen to some of my old songs, the favourites play list increasingly populated by folk songs from the sixties. When I get tired of them, I switch to my son’s music- Jay Z, Green Day and Linkin Park. On overcast days when rains are imminent, I switch to Classical Western or Carnatic classical, to suit the mood of the occasion. During summer, the park is full with a lot more kids around. Karate and Tae Kwondo classes are held in a corner. Winters see thin crowd. I limit my walks to weekends, to escape the wheezing problems that plague my lungs with the onset of winter. But everytime I walk, I imagine what a walk by me in the countryside would be seen by headload workers awaiting the next load to arrive.

One day in the life of James Bond

James Bond, fascinates everyone. Remember that the real James Bond is a mid level British Civil Servant, who is significantly paid higher than his Indian counterpart. But not really enough to afford the lifestyle Bond seems to be able to have. He gets to drive Ferraris, speedboats, owns and operates many gizmos, romances sexy babes in bikinis, wears shiny white suits.
One day in the life of Desi James Bond starts like this. Wake up to Bhajans from next door; Azan sounds from nearby mosque. Shouts of kabadi vendors and chirping of the rare bird resonate in Delhi’s desolation. He gets inside the mighty small kitchen of the small unimaginatively built CPWD house and makes tea for the whole family. He shakes the sugar bowl and stirs vigorously after emptying the contents into the cup. Not exactly vodka Martini, thought Bond as he proceeds to wake up his son, well in time for school. Morning ablutions come next and a brisk walk in the park among Yoga practitioners who watch Swami Ramadev on daytime TV and other elderly walkers. Bond had a quick shower after that and observed himself in the bathroom mirror. The paunch is showing and the hairline has receded alarmingly. Ursula Andress (Undress ?) wouldn’t be impressed, Bond murmured to himself. In one hour he is ready for office in CGO complex. The world has to be saved from marauding spies, terrorists, assorted wheeler-dealers, thought James Bond as he set out.
As he got into his car, he remembered his first journey in a newly purchased Maruti 800 car 10 years ago in Madras. He had started out in a red T shirt, jeans and dark glasses. Liberal dose of perfume was dabbed on armpits and behind the ears. The AC was on full blast in the car giving relief from the brutal coastal heat outside. Bryan Adams’ Summer of 69 was playing inside loudly. He got out of the Govt colony and manouevred out into the road. No one was following him except the cycle rickshaw carrying steel rods. Immediately a blue Ambassador car hit James Bond’s car and the bumper of the new Maruti went flying exposing its’ front light fittings and bare panel. Anyway James Bond got out of the car and a million dark faces from nearby shops and slums stared back at him and abused him in choices gaalis in Tamil. The abuses in a classical language like Tamil sound quite sweet to the ear- James Bond has a bare recollection …. Start with O…a and T…y…i. something which signified as one who indulges in unnatural and incestuous sex acts with close members of the family. James Bond, shrugged it off, got into the car and drove away. Cool as a cucumber, this guy Bond….. Nothing rattles him much. Gaalis just bounced off like water on a duck’s back.
Ten years later, Delhi’s streets are a breeze as he veers in to the streets in his 6 years old Maruti Zen swearing at the biker who cut across his route. The windshield comes down in a jiffy and smooth words are thrown at the helmeted bike driver whose return abuses in Jat accent could not be heard since the helmet’s visor stifled them a bit. One- Love, Advantage James Bond, he thought as he turned into the BRT corridor. The morning hours are busy near the slums outside the colony. The water Lorry has arrived and there is great activity as the unwashed bare-chested children of Delhi’s jhuggis start out on another pleasant day, defecating on the streets and jostling for water. Buckets were lined up and kids were indulging in cute banter. They hone and polish abuses to such refinement that the MCD schools in Delhi cannot give you the kind of education that the streets provide.
The cheek of Delhi administration, thought James Bond as he got into the main road. They really intend to segregate buses, cars and cycles into separate lanes. He zigzagged cross various lanes (except the cycle lane since it is segregated physically to the footpath. Another late day at office thought James Bond as he sidled close to a DTC bus. A huge blob of dark red liquid shot down from the bus and fell on the top of the car. Bond could hear the loud thud as it fell plonk on top of the car. Thanks to Delhi weather, Bond thought. It is either too hot or too cold as a result, of which the windows are always up. These liquid attacks can’t get to me thought Bond as he swerved into his Office complex, narrowly missing a chartered bus from sidelong collision.
Ramlal was waiting with paan stained mouth greeting him and taking his bag plus Tiffin carrier. (Which contained exactly 2 chappatis, one sabzi , one dal and curd. The missus must have measured it in calories before packing them lest Bond should go out of shape. Why do the Ramlals of the world have to wait in the portico to pick up his Boss’ stuff? It is all about body language, thought Bond. Desi James Bonds are out to save the country from food crises, poverty, insensitive village clerks, corrupt cops and famines. They can’t be spotted carrying their Tiffin box and bag like the Mango people. (Translation- Aam Admi). What would the millions of subjects think of them? Hence Ramlals are necessary to carry stuff, arrange tea, carry files and generally materialize whenever Bond presses a bell. They spend the rest of the time spitting red chewed betel leaves on the white walls, drinking endless cups of tea and smoking bidis in the corridors.
A dull day in Office. File after file were sent up & down with suggestions, recriminations, admonitions and mostly with no comments, just initials. They seem to multiply in number as Bond worked his way through the piles on his table. Some decisions required pretty deep thinking. No cliff hanging moments. No nuclear weapons neutralized agonizing which button to press and which wire to snap, thus saving the planet and pretty babe hanging to his arm. No underwater acrobatics sending murderous sharks to partake in meal largely consisting of the flesh of Russian mafia dons. No betrayal by the Mata hari who would take Bond up the garden path near Qutb’s tomb and betrayed him amid tears. Happens only to the British Civil servants, muttered Bond as he wound up Office and drove precariously home through Delhi’s streets. An evening is spent in son’s homework, watching TV news and synchronized hip shaking by actresses and models in movie clips. The missus calls out for dinner. Another day goes by, thought Bond as Bhajans start sounding from the neighbour’s house signifying an end to the day. James Bond thought deeply whether to fix a strong whisky before dinner. The missus’ reproachful face changed his mind. He had dinner and slept. In the night he had pleasant dreams of wearing shiny suits, driving a Lamborghini and visions of a beauty in skimpy bikini coming out of the sea. He clarified to her that he wasn’t bird watching but just watching…. (To be precise he almost said line maroing) Must have been another time , another place… Bond woke up to another day…