Monsters bred by Men

This is an old story…. circa 1999. The land of the pure had recently been rid of self serving politicians and a General in jackboots was running Pakistan. Each new General thought democracy ought to be trimmed, watered, manured and groomed like a Bonsai plant. So the land of pure is blessed with a bonsai democracy with many smart generals with great body language pouring scorn on bumbling politicians. When the Kandahar hijack happened in New Year’s eve 1999, we had Pakistan TV beaming live into our living rooms in Chennai. Its’ discontinuance could be ascribed to lack of viewer ship owing to unimaginative programming than the diktat of India’s soft state apparatus. Expert after expert in PTV held forth on how the hijack is a RAW plot and how Taliban has shown maturity etc (Taliban has been variously credited with an overdose of piety not maturity by even Pakistan media until then). I remember feeling outraged at a nation gloating over the misfortune of Indians and propagating wild theories that Indians have done it unto themselves. Pakistan and Saudi Arabia were incidentally the only two countries that recognized the Taliban and Indians were at a loose end; not knowing how and with whom to negotiate. Pak TV also came out with this theory that a senior Indian Intelligence official is also present in the plane.
Meanwhile relatives of the hostages paraded before Indian TV asking questions and demanding answers as to what would they have done if a Minister’s daughter was inside the ill fated plane. As expected the hijackers got the release of terrorists in Kashmir’s prisons and India got its’ hostages. It was a day of shame for many of us who watched a nation brought to its’ knees. Pak TV was full of praise for the Taliban for handling the situation tactfully. Stories circulated about how the hijackers treated the hostages mercifully. US Officials commended India for showing restraint in the face of extreme provocation.
Comeuppance came sooner than expected. 9/11 happened. Musharaff, with equal felicity joined the war on terror. ISI (the infamous Pak intelligence agency, the abbreviation once stood for a form of quality certification in India- good thing they did away with that) was now at the front end fighting jehadis in the west and aiding them in the east. Distinctions were drawn as to how freedom struggles were different from terror. Stories were circulated in the western media as to how the ISI chief who went to negotiate the release of Osama actually advised them to dig their heels in- also about how Daniel Pearl’s killer (who incidentally was released from Indian prison in return for the hostages) was in ISI protection before he was turned over when the heat got too much.
Earlier we were talking about split personality of ISI itself. Now we are talking about how the Pakistani state is distinct from ISI. We know that all Intelligence agencies play dirty games. But imagine this. A glamorous gangster, basking in media attention in India, seen with lissome actresses in Sharjah is finally implicated in Indian courts for terror attacks. Going by the track record of the inefficient Indian courts that is saying much. There is also an Interpol alert against him. Well, ISI is said to have given him asylum. (Their media says this as much as ours do.) We always knew that Military Intelligence is an oxymoron. But Pakistanis take the cake for brazenness and suicidal strategy. The world be damned; we will do what we please….
I recently read Ahmed Rashid’s book Descent into Chaos. The role of ISI and their minders have been chronicled well. To think that a Pakistani can be scathing in his criticism of such a fearsome state institution is quite credit worthy. I admire the Pakistani media and civil society greatly because it has matured in circumstances not very propitious for its’ development. (While India’s is turning jingoistic with uninterrupted democracy) Rashid says the Americans have been led up the garden path by the ISI. I don’t for a moment think the Americans were fooled. They have immense capabilities to see through crap. But I wish they would spare us the commendations for showing restraint after Mumbai attacks. We have seen the restraint showed after 9/11. You can build your fortresses and sit smug inside them- Wait until they hit you.
The Americans love the Pakistanis for more reasons than one. The world’s oldest democracy has little patience with other lesser democracies. History shows that they have been comfortable with tin pot dictators and banana republics. While any proposal in the US system has to go through a rigorous vetting system (remember the nuclear deal), they can’t wait so long for answers from other countries. We can’t give them short speeches on how something ought to be debated in the Parliament or passed as a bill or has to go through the courts or regulatory agencies. So Generals in jackboots have an edge over us while dealing with the US system. Answers are fast; action swift, what if some arms and aid go down the drain?
Now the struggle in Kashmir- Indians could be accused of many sins; of rigging elections, of thrusting unpalatable state governments etc. But Pakistan has shot themselves in the balls by diverting the leadership of Kashmiri movement to Jehadis in the nineties, especially when they had a good thing going due to the incompetence of the state. Look at this; All they have to do is put Syed Ali Shah Geelani (the only Kashmiri separatist leader to openly demand accession to Pakistan) on national television in fur cap and white beard swearing to run Kashmir according to Allah ki hukumat. (Islamic rule) and not Fauj’s(Indian army’s). Even a dyed in the wool secularist, watching this mid sip of evening vodka, would vow that India shall hold on to Kashmir for a thousand years, if necessary, to prevent takeover by these jokers. He would say the same if a leader of any other religious persuasion said the same thing. Losing the sympathy of liberal Indian secularist and media takes some effort. - Pakistan, a split personality state, has seemingly achieved the impossible.
States go into denial when they don’t acknowledge the obvious. We, with sixty years of noisy democracy and free press should be able to acknowledge the obvious. There is a fringe group in every state. History is replete with the stories of monsters nurtured by Intelligence agencies. Theirs is particularly more lethal, remains state sponsored and hence more dangerous. Earlier only Indians were shouting hoarse about the ISI. Now the whole world does…
In the context of Malegaon blasts, we have seen the Nationalistic leaders repeating what we have been hearing only from minority leaders & vote bank politicians in the past- That the apprehended terrorists are being denied human rights, they are tortured in custody, confessions are extracted by force etc. When the majority hits back it is a reaction to terrorism. With minority it is just terrorism which has been fed by alienation and social deprivation. At the bottom of it all, violence begets violence. But to expect the Indian Muslim to show his patriotism is unfair. For a moment I imagine myself an atheist born in a Muslim family. I would be furious at any insinuation that my sympathies lie elsewhere and that my loyalties are put to test. Where do I go, for instance? The famous Vaikom Mohammed Bashir, one of the great Malayalam writers was once asked’ What would you do if all Muslims were asked to go to Pakistan?’ He said that he would adopt a Nambudiri (a high caste in Kerala) name and pass himself off as one. No way he is going to Pakistan. I speak Malayalam, not Urdu he said.
As an ex refugee from a liberal Islamic state (Malaysia- which could be ranked right up there as one of the most progressive Islamic state), all I can say is that all forms of chauvinism are bad, while chauvinism of the majority (religion/ race or whatever) is worst. It doesn’t give you a choice. If you are born with an identity, you are doomed to live with it. Criminal acts could be legitimized in the name of popular wish. Such a move could certainly find popular support especially in trying times like these. Malaysians believed that the economic backwardness of Bumiputras (sons of soil- yeah even their language has many common elements with ours) needs affirmative action. Hence medium of education changed to Bahasa Malaya, reservations started in higher education, businesses could be started only with Malay partners etc. The country we left behind had a multiethnic soul. When I went back 30 years later, I could see broad highways, tall buildings: but the soul had gone to sleep.
Our diversity is our strength. A few monsters with spitfire guns cannot kill our soul….

Of recession-proof jobs and monkey gazing

Enough of snide jabs at Hugo boss suit wearing investment bankers, which have invited taunts at having failed to join their league and hence reduced to mocking at them. I can do all the mockery of Investment Bankers now since I am in a recession proof job. The good times have ended for them while we (babus) are on an even keel. Alternate career options like joining the Somali pirates, Russian Mafia or the Nigerian email swindle needn't be explored. For the record, I hated banking and that’s why I left it. It stifled my personality and dwarfed my evolution as a human being. I worked in a public sector bank for four years and a half. Had great pals out there. The hierarchy is flatter. (Actually the clerks and peons are on a higher social scale: officers mocked at for putting in long hours). I never did investment analysis. Only tried to balance days books and weekly ledgers. Calculating everything manually. Remember, this was before computers became acceptable to sundry trade union dadas. So it was a hell of a lot of drudgery, except for having women around who outnumbered men in the branch to provide eye candy. And I always suspected adultery was going on between married guys and women. I envied them because I was getting none of it, despite being young and unattached. As they say the ones who have it, always want more and get more. The ones who don’t have it, well..... they can sulk. I left Banking rather happy to do so, but am not sure whether I did the right thing joining the bureaucracy. It hasn’t exactly set my creative juices flowing or my personality enhanced.
Met a colleague-Director in the corridors of South Block. Saw him gazing at monkeys hanging from window sills and scampering up and down the majestic walls of South Block. Mr T (No names, remember). is a batch mate of mine from a different service. Simians attacked him rather brutally while leaving office late in the night.(Moral of the story – don’t work late in a sarkar job or the wrath of the monkeys will befall you). Anyway after requisite painful injections and a week of bed rest he limped back and rejoined duty. Ever since he has been a keen and focused monkey watcher. He can hold forth on the eating, mating and social habits of simians with great authority. Just then I thought I saw a large procession of monkeys following a lead monkey.
I asked- “Is the one in front the leader of the class? “
Mr T says rather resignedly with a tone of someone who explains metaphysics to 5 year olds” Didn’t you know the hierarchy in monkey kingdom?” “No” I said. “It is like this”, he said. “The animals in one area (say South Block) are under the leadership of one chief, lets call him Big Chief. His privileges include sexual rights over all the monkeys of the fairer sex- a misnomer, one must understand, Male monkeys are fairer, but that’s another story altogether. Other males can have very little of it-sex, I mean, on the side when the Big Chief is busy elsewhere or when he ain’t looking. Damn risky affair, could get expelled from simian civil society….” He continued in a tone of authority and with the philosophical airs of a much knowledgeable Guru. “The Big Chief also carries onerous responsibilities. Of keeping his flock intact, protecting them from attacks by Langurs etc. It is a tough job which doesn’t give him much time for sex and other entertainment like monkey Mujra or Qawwali with monkey damsels doing a jig while the Big chief reclines on his bolster eating bananas”.
“ It is interesting if you note the parallels with Humans. Don’t the leaders among us get to screw others… literally, figuratively, metaphorically and in totality? And the rest have to make do with crumbs? Extend the metaphor with the dominance of classes in various spheres, village community, politics, bureaucracy, corporate world, show business… story is the same”
I could see him working up his enthusiasm and noted that this is a very involved kinda subject for him.He had a sparkle in his eye as he held forth on the great dominance theory in simians, which could be extended to homo sapiens. He continued “ See the one at the front with the massive pair of testicles? I think he is the Big Chief. You could see him in quiet contemplation, exploring new avenues, never taking the beaten path. He has the makings of a true leader.” “What about power transfer?” I asked, thinking of changing power equations as generations fade away. He said “that requires some intense and involved study. I am sure it is not dynastical. Power has to be demonstrated. Leadership has to be tested and proven on the field. In that respect, my surmise is that simians are way ahead of homo sapiens. Merit has to be established- cannot be claimed as a matter of birthright.”
I came away awed and enlightened. Bureaucrats could be accused of not possessing domain knowledge in the fields they operate in. But here is one of my creed, who, with sheer observation powers and personal experience, has acquired unparalleled domain knowledge of simians. Being in a recession proof job helps enhancing such knowledge of quirky domains.
PS You could also read Langur contractor in South Block in this blog. Mr T really exists. May his tribe increase

The Booker for Virgins

I was considering the title Booker for idiots. Lest someone should accuse me of being unkind to several compatriots who have made it a habit of winning it, I decided this since it went to someone wet behind the ears. Considering that I am not likely to win any prizes in the creative writing department, I can afford to be critical of all who pass on the fruits of their labour for others to read. The readership of this blog has grown from two to three in the last six months and at this rate it would take about 25614 years for me to qualify as a popular writer. Ever since I have started this blog, I pay a lot more attention to the style of others. I am also convinced that it is a painful effort to create good, flowing prose. It is much easier to write the critic’s brand of English. First let me present a grading sheet for all the winners.

1. V S Naipaul - It is so far back in time. I haven’t read the book for which he won one. For his other works I give him an A. He wields the pen like a surgeon. Is a national movable monument like Nirad Chaudhary, who, alas stopped moving sometime back.

2. Salman Rushdie - A Plus for Midnight’s children. Negative marks for writing tortuous English in later works. A plus for Shame

3. Arundhati Roy - A Plus The God of Small things. Yet to produce another creative work. Wish she would go easy on shrill political positions.

4. Kiran Desai - B for the Inheritance of Loss. I could read only half of earlier work. So no comments

5. Aravind Adiga - B for the White Tiger. One & only work wins Booker. Wait for the next one for grades

One might ask, whether I, who never learnt English Grammar with all its’ rules and structure, whose claim to passable English is only the fleety reading of many bestsellers and some exquisite works, someone who nowadays concentrates on communicating with all four limbs in sanitized bureaucratic English in Office, is fit enough to stand in judgment of these worthies. The answer is a resounding no. I learned my English without a rulebook. I wouldn’t know what is a past continuous, preposition or adverb or whatever. The English I come across these days in Office have its’ origins in Assistants and Section Officers of the Central Secretariat Service, a wonderful group of people ill treated and ignored by the Bureaucratic elite. I always believed that an Officer of the Government ought to strive to present a vision. Somehow the bosses tell me that one ought to stick to the original language in the file so that facts are not distorted. The original language emanates from an Assistant and gets carried through. If one reads files in South Block, one is inclined to think that the milk of human kindness flows from the Government. The word Kind is used in all sorts of places and every occasion. Director may kindly see please: Joint Secretary may like to kindly peruse…The plea for kindness becoming more and more obsequious as one goes higher and higher. The Honourable Minister may kindly like to indicate a suitable decision please… And so on
Surprise, the one Indian writer who has consistently produced three beautiful novels falls short of the Booker. Yes I am referring to Amitav Ghosh. Someone who has matured and grown in his craft- someone who weaves a beautiful story with careful research- someone who recreates great periods in forgotten corners of history. Yeah, he doesn’t qualify. To understand why, we need to understand the Booker Prize system itself.
I read P D James’ autobiography called “Time to be in earnest” long back. We bought it recently from a second hand bookshop. She, as part of the Booker Management Committee found the “God of Small things” lush and overwritten. She confesses she couldn’t appreciate books seen through children’s eyes. But I suspect it is the cultural disconnect: just as I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the books Ian Mc Ewan. I could empathize so much with Estha and Rahel in The God of small things. Having uprooted myself from an alien culture at the age of eight and transplanted in a Kerala village, my eyes were moist as I read parts of the book. Her style is lyrical, her prose metered like poetry and the novel reads like a dream. She once put it evocatively ” I had a book in me and it wrote itself out”. Only I wish she had stopped at that and refrained from writing anything on issues political. Her political positions aim to traverse the contrarian and adventurous path. Sitting on this side of the fence, although with strong anti establishment instincts, I find them ludicrous. Elsewhere in this blog I have been harsh on her, but I truly rate her “God of Small things” as a great work. So much for where I stand on Arundhati Roy.
Back to Booker prize.Basically the publishing houses submit books. Number of books per publishing house is limited; no matter how big the house. Then you have self-published works, books on Internet etc. Now you know how huge and daunting the task is before the committee. There would be many books not fit enough to reach the shortlist. But read one must. And trudge along until you see that flash of brilliance. And the important thing is, first time writers have an advantage. Aravind Adiga’s book is a nice quick read. What clinched the issue, I suspect is the ability of the esteemed committee to relate to it. And not to the period work on opium business with a path breaking love story in part Bhojpuri. No, don’t expect the stiff upper lips to understand that easily. Letter written to Wen Jiabao by a driver telling the story of his life in two Indias looks more like their scene. Adiga tells a story with part exaggerated satire, part dark humour and part keen observation. But the Booker for that? No way. Amitava Ghosh is miles ahead. What we need is an Indian Booker to recognize homegrown talent in the Queen’s language. Meanwhile, Amitav Ghosh, Vikram Seth, Vikram Chandra (Red Earth & Pouring Rain/ Sacred Games etc) and others can join the long list of talented writers who never made it. After all Gandhi never won the Nobel peace prize…

PS : Happened to read The Private Patient by PD James; her latest. Maybe PD James may not live much longer and this could be one of her last Adam Dalgliesh stories. I loved it. Also read The Burmese days by George Orwell. Before the year is out, I am determined to finish other works by Orwell. Trudging through the entire Peter Robinson series now. Spotted the Missus reading “Empires of the Indus” by Alice Albinia. Didn’t pay much heed. One day before it had to be returned to the Eloor Lending Library, I scanned through it. Found it gripping and spent the entire Saturday night reading it. It is the discovery of Indus by a young white female journalist following its’ course interwoven with the history- Quite a remarkable book. When an outsider writes about us, we see ourselves a bit more clearly. I am sure if an Indian had written it, the work wouldn't have got my attention since we take the awareness of readers for granted. She traverses the entire length of the river at great personal peril. There are poignant moments when she finds that the Chinese have halted the origin of the river by building a dam. The Indus we see are the sum total of the tributaries which flow into it and not the original one stopped in its’ tracks

Leonard Cohen for all seasons

I came from Office early yesterday, feeling a bit giddy and my insides were churning. The boss tells me to go home, get well and come tomorrow since we have several meetings lined up.As I lay down in bed to rest, I watch “Leonard Cohen: I’m your Man” coming on Star Movies. It transports me to another world.
There was a time when our choice of music was linked to how good it sounds performing live. Whether there are brilliant guitar pieces or has that druggy somnolent quality to it. I discovered Leonard Cohen rather late in life. After I left music or rather transcended it. I moved beyond just the sound and on to the poetry and the soul behind the music. I rediscovered Bob Dylan all over again. I also started thinking that Dylan may not be the iconic figure he was in the recesses of my consciousness.
I bought a cassette of “Various Positions” by Leonard Cohen from Pai & Co in M G Road Ernakulam in the late eighties. In those days, my first task on receiving my salary is to blow away a substantial portion of it on books and music. I would identify what I would buy if I got rich or got my next pay. I was a dreamer with a boring bank job during the day. In the evenings I would return to my cubby hole in the lodge in Jew street in Ernakulam and read and listen to music late into the night.
I kept listening to Cohen’s deep golden voice singing about love, death, sex, power politics and religion.
“Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin," He sang “Dance me to the end of world”. Somehow it touched a deep chord somewhere……here is a guy who could say what every lost soul wanted to say.
His music belonged to the age of moral liberation. He wasn’t prolific at churning out albums. He grew up in Montreal, went to New York to pursue a career in music and songwriting. Those were heady days of flower children, peaceniks, Newport Folk festival, hippies, marijuana and free love. He looked Jewish with a long hook nose in the cover photograph. Those were days before Google and I had no means of learning more about this poet-musician. But his music grew on me slowly and slowly and became a part of myself. Chelsea Hotel, one of his famous songs have these lines….
“ Giving me head in an unmade bed….
You told me again you preferred handsome men….
But for me you made an exception …..
We may be ugly but we have the music..
Sounded like an unkempt musician getting lucky in an “unmade bed” with a beautiful woman who has a marked preference for handsome guys. Years later I heard Cohen admitting on TV that it was about Janis Joplin, the firefly of the music world who burned bright too short and died early. He also felt it was very ungallant of him to admit it was Janis Joplin because his mother would mind the corny lyrics about a known person although Joplin wouldn’t have minded herself if she were alive. The sexual liberation rather opaque in another beautiful song called “ Seems so Long ago”


“ It seems so long ago, none of us were very strong;
Nancy wore green stockings and she slept with everyone.
She never said she'd wait for us although she was alone,
I think she fell in love for us in nineteen sixty one……
And now you look around you,
see her everywhere,
many use her body,
many comb her hair.
In the hollow of the night when you are cold and numb
you hear her talking freely then,
she's happy that you've come,
Cohen drones on in my iPod as I walk and in my Office PC as I work. There is that sad quality about his songs. Of love cruelly spurned, of heartbreaks, of the power of violence, of God, spirits and religion…... Sometimes I admit his poetry makes little sense unless you know what he exactly he had in mind. His poetry isn’t just the arrangement of words. Cohen conveys strong themes and emotions through his lyrics. Even he admits he can’t hold a tune properly and is rather humble about his musical talents- just as some would suspect of Dylan but Dylan would never admit. But as he belts out his next number in his deep voice, I am transported into another world. Into my past and into all the beautiful moments that contain in it. Of silly heartbreaks and the anxious moments. Cohen is incredibly romantic in a very very sad way. I tell my son to listen to Cohen too see the other side of music. Sample the revolutionary here in “Everybody Knows”
Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes …….
Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you've been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you've been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows
Isn’t that a rather stunning indictment of just how things are and how everybody knows but don’t talk about?
Even in my generation few people seem to know him. Slotted as a niche singer, he has a loyal following. His background as a poet and novelist gives his songs that edge over others. Probing deep into the dark corners of human existence and putting them to music. One of his later songs is “Gypsy’s wife”

And where, where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight
I've heard all the wild reports, they can't be right
But whose head is this she's dancing with on the threshing floor
whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Ah the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, "My body is the light, my body is the way"
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride's bouquet…..

I can pick a Leonard Cohen song to suit every mood; every moment in life…He lived a full life. He had dalliances with many women, some famous, some not so. He wrote great poetry and produced soul stirring music. He spent five years as a Zen Monk in Mount Baldy. A few years were spent in a Greek Island. He still lives. But somehow the recent albums lack the poetic turn of lyrics. Great music nevertheless…..

The Super Presidency

Delhi turns cold early morning these days. As I drag my sorry butt out of bed I wonder why is there smoke outside. I thought Anbumoni Ramadoss (India’s hyper active Health Minister whose wrath befalls on guilty smokers and odd Chief Surgeons) has stopped it all over India and how come Delhi is still simmering with early morning smoke? Could Aam Janta be doing their morning ablutions smoking beedis in the open ? Are they reading The Hindu newspaper also while at it, like me, who treats it as the best laxative in the world ?(I mean The Hindu , not the beedi) I realized that it is the poorly paid security guards of government colonies making bonfires to make their night vigils a bit more tolerable. Couple of times, I was tempted to tell them not to do it. That I have breathing problems in winter, I am asthmatic etc and hence Bhaisaab, please refrain from lighting that fire in the open. But remembered that while I am snug and cosy at home, these guys are on beat in the dead cold of Delhi winter.
I get ready for the walk of four rounds and jog of one round, panting and nearly dead, at the end of it all. Nothing much has changed in my life. Except for a few tiers of flesh around the waistline and a rapidly thinning hairline. And a guy my age and colour is about to become the President of the United States. Strangely I feel nothing much at all. It is symbolic than anything else. Just as Indians claim that a Scheduled Caste Indian became the president/Chief Justice, an Indian Muslim became President/Cricket Captain etc. Doesn’t change anything on the ground, but makes us all feel a bit better. Incidentally many of us don’t know that India introduced Universal Adult Suffrage before the oldest democracy introduced it.
As McCain looks like rapidly becoming a part of history of also-rans, I take a closer look at him. -My favourite is always the underdog and McCain now qualifies to be that- Just as Obama was the underdog among the many candidates for the Democrat ticket. This guy has sure got stuff. But he chose the wrong time in history to run for office. A war hero with self-deprecatory sense of humour- Someone who refused release from prison unless his mates were released too. He represents old world values which have no place in a world where draft dodgers make Presidents. Looks like he is the kind of guy who would call a spade exactly that and would have the humility to admit when he is wrong. It was a particularly interesting moment when Obama and McCain debated Pakistan. Obama advocated military intrusion subject to blah …blah…. McCain, the realist said he would walk softly and carry a big stick. What neither knew was that it is typically the American proximity that is losing votes to politicians of every hue in Pakistan and even making the Army unpopular. The McCain position in the ultimate analysis sounded more plausible.
As I hear Obama’s booming voice and body language glowing with success lately, I wish him humility. To see things not just in black and white but in many hues, to think that one could be very wrong and also to see reality beyond the US made tinted glasses. Who else is better positioned to do that considering his Afro- Asian multi-racial background? It is good to know that our contemporaries are going to occupy positions of importance. In a way it is the first major generational shift in the Post World War period. Hope he has a good Presidency. Hope he realizes that protecting or advancing American interests around the globe does not necessarily mean that the world would turn into a better place. Hope he pays heed to the voice of nations marginalized by the voice of the developed. Hope he doesn’t drown in his own rhetoric. Wish him the wisdom and fortitude to see through troubled times…..

Serious Cash

Last heard, no one was offering serious cash for changing my faith. Interestingly, the guys with serious cash to blow do not seem to have that glint of religious fervour in their eyes that says come hither… Join the flock and your soul shall be saved. Nor am I the kind of guy who could be enticed with offers of multiple sex partners in after-life- With little luck in this life, I am sure things aren’t going to be better in the great Babudom in the sky. For offer of serious cash, one could consider mumbling something from any scripture, a slight sprinkle of water and even sacrifice a small & insignificant part of one’s anatomy, which has little practical use. What if our land turns into a theocracy and the threat of sword hangs over my head if I don’t convert? Then convert I shall…but shall strive to publish a compendium of jokes as underground literature about the humourless ruling theocrats and their principals up there. Also fervently hope that I don’t get caught and get publicly executed like Najibullah. The execution of Najibullah (the Soviet stooge who ruled Afghanistan before it was liberated by Afghan warlords) is an interesting study in the art of public execution. He was killed publicly after generous doses of torture, but not before his private parts were chopped off and stuffed in his mouth.
Gods seem to have lost their sense of humour as they cross the Hindukush Mountains. Try some transmigration of soul. You are a tribal, eking out a subsistence living in the badlands of Jharkhand or Orissa. The only offers that come your way are from Naxalites: offers to blow up Police stations and raid armouries. You don’t join them because you are sort of peace loving: although the big guys who run the place almost tempt you into turning Naxalite. The alternate offer is a quiet prayer, some concern, a little financial and physical support during times of crisis. Call that enticement? No serious cash is being blown up. That is more than what our politicians have to offer. The other allegation is that Hindu Gods are being denigrated by the proselytizers. I thought we were proud of having the largest number of Gods and we are also free to tell jokes about them. Yeah, we tolerate as long as they are told by our brethren, but not by others.
Serious cash is also being pumped into US financial system to bailout the financial markets. Americans have Hank Paulson for Treasury Secretary. Hank Paulson is kinda the King of Investment Bankers who was at the helm of affairs at Goldman Sachs. What a choice! They hand over the treasury to the Bandit in chief. Americans can take comfort in the fact that he wears a digital watch and not a Rolex. A bit like Indians taking comfort in the fact that our politicians wear Khadi and not designer suits and hence our money is safe with them. The solution offered in the great US bailout is simple. The Govt buys the financial products, which have turned bad. It will be all done in a tightly monitored process. And an Indian Engineer who is among the numerous whiz kids who have turned to Finance for easy money will be in charge of the process. Talking about Engineers turning to Finance, we get to see many bright IITians switch disciplines. So it is in France and Germany, I have heard. Why spend time in noisy shop floors, assembly lines when you can wear nice suits and play with other people’s money. (And pay yourself a nice packet too). Hence the solution lies in the problem itself. No one asks how these ingenious financial products have been designed, who designed them and for what god-awful purpose? How could the problem be solved by the State buying into these financial products that brought down a whole economy in the first place? God does have a sense of humour when you cross the Atlantic. And there is serious cash to spare out there.
Gordon Brown has been more conservative in thinking. He wants to bail out Banks by going the Indira Gandhi way. Part nationalization by increasing the capital base of banks is the panacea offered by him. Mrs Gandhi didn’t have a patent on this strategy and Gordon Brown can replicate it partly or fully. But he better be careful of the babus (the British version). They turned Indian Socialism into a nightmare of gargantuan proportions.
Tailpiece: The arrears of 6th Pay commission are being doled out. Hopefully I will be part of a gated community. I am yet to receive it, but with some serious cash I might realize the dream by paying ten percent of the total mortgage amount and acquire a home in Chennai, if not Delhi.

Life in kerala - Circa 19th Century

My favourite postprandial reading is not DH Lawrence, Dostoevsky, Antonio Gransci or a piece of elegant Victorian Erotica called Pearl. (Read Pearl.. you will learn more verbal titillation that a million playboy stories cannot teach you). It is not the time to read the legal thrillers passing off the assembly line of John Grisham, with quality declining with every new product.
I read a thick bound volume in Malayalam called Kerala in the 19th century by P. Bhaskaranunni. A writer, the brief introduction reveals, who lived a most unspectacular life. He dropped out of college, worked as a clerk, as a schoolteacher, married rather late in life, and died in 1994. This work is a very painstaking effort to re create life, as it existed in the 19th century in Kerala. It is a study of customs, practices and history of Kerala, written in elegant prose, without losing the essence of language as it was in use in the 19th century. Normally not available in bookshops, one might order it from Kerala Sahitya Academy in Thrissur. One critic has argued that this writer ought to be given multiple Phds for each chapter in this book.
Nothing can match the pleasure of a couple of drinks and an easy posture in bed to curl up with this bulky book on a winter evening in Delhi. One gets transported to a magical world. You could see a procession of Kings with their armies, riding on caparisoned elephants. You could see Noblemen, with hairy, bare chests, wearing white Mundus, earring (much before it became the cool thing) and hair tied up in double knots on either side of the head. You could also see Princesses in dazzling gold jewellery, shapely women heavy around the deriere in everyday clothes, flaunting breasts, Mohiniyattam dancers in off white sari with gold borders, with eyelashes painted long and black. It was a world, where women had no compunction to show skin (but with a rider….only before equals and upper castes). Visions of noisy armies with horse hoofs pounding the ground, war cries filling the air, marching to subjugate distant kingdoms, greedy merchants, with loads of spices & silks sailing to unknown lands pass before your eyes in a procession. The evenings bring entertainment, before lighted lamps, accompaniment of percussion beats and dancers with painted faces contorted in complex kathakali mudras. The audience shaking their heads in deep appreciation, their jaws steadily chewing beetle leaves. There is the obsequiousness of the rulers of Princely states to the Europeans. There are extravagant displays of wealth, grinding poverty. There is black magic, the transportation of imaginary souls and prayers to please a variety of gods and goddesses. You could also see deceit, victory, grief, joy and unconsummated passion in these pages. You can’t miss the cry of anguish of the slave, artisan and sharecropper silently filling the melancholy air of the period- the untold story of every society. You would also be convinced that the original liberated society existed right here before Soho in New York became famous for the bohemian life. You would also be convinced that Kerala could also lay claim to the most iniquitous social order.
My practice is to read from in between. Not in any particular order. This book has given me a better insight into class relations than any Marxist treatise. It gave me a better understanding of caste, aristocracy and the sheer injustice of it all than any other book. It gives a view of Kerala society from the tinted glasses of conquerors from alien lands. Swami Vivekananda’s damning indictment of caste practices in Malabar is described in great detail. Tippu Sultan’s Kuttippuram declaration was made in February 1788, 12 years before the 19th century. He arrived at Kuttippuram with 30000 soldiers from Thamarassery. The proclamation carries the arrogance of the victorious towards the vanquished, with the looming threat of conversion to Islam, if restraint is not shown in the 18th century Malayali women’s penchant for multiple sexual partners. (What about the guys, heh? heh?). I must have read it at least ten times. Roughly translated like this-
“ For the last twenty four years, from the time of our conquest of the land of Malayalam, you are seen as disobedient and stubborn. During the skirmishes in monsoon, many of our soldiers have been made to drink the nectar of death. Let bygones be bygones. Changes are required to your way of life. Live in peace and pay your taxes regularly. It is seen that women among you, have conjugal relations with 10 men. Many among you allow your mothers and sisters to lead such a life without any restraints. Hence you are all born bastards, and in the realm of male- female relations, you are more shameless than cattle that graze the fields. I command you to discontinue such sinful practices and live like ordinary human beings. If this command is not obeyed, you will all be made to join the Holy religion of Islam and the noblemen among you will be dispatched to death…”. . I learnt that the country roads in my village were basically “tank Roads’ made by Tipu for access to the countryside, an instrument of domination. He was a compassionate king. He could tolerate multiple wives to a single male that was consistent with the moral and social code of a 6th century desert kingdom- but not the female-dominant version. Tippu had inter alia put an end to an ongoing sexual revolution and taken Kerala to Puritanism and the nuclear family code.

Market meltdown for idiots

In the beginning there was man.. Oops, I am off to a start that smacks of a style reminiscent of a loony religious sect. Ok, in the beginning there were companies and markets. Companies were distinct entities from humans who sweated behind them. When companies made profits, everyone partied. There are profits to be shared by shareholders, increased growth & demand in the economy, salary hikes for executives & workers, assured spreads for banks who lent money who in turn made more credit available to fledgling companies. Companies went bankrupt periodically due to changes in demand, inability of company to survive and grow in competition etc. Banks went broke when a disproportionately high number of creditors go belly up. Till now things are understandable to Sharmaji next door.
Things get complex from now on. The guys from fancy business schools with affected accents, gelled hair and Hugo Boss suits take over. They introduced financial derivatives. The closest analogy to the entry of financial derivatives is the introduction of the forbidden fruit of temptation into the garden of Adam & Eve where originally, there was only nice lounge music, uninhibited sex and minimalist/ avant-garde clothing. Now these snooty nosed guys said financial markets are much more complex than what Sharmaji-next-door can comprehend. They said it is possible to leverage your assets to produce more resources, fancy salaries and exuberant markets. So we have arbitrages, futures, options etc. The assets underlying instruments were considered strong enough to keep the party going. Then the fund manager stepped in. He said Sharmaji ought to entrust his hard earned rupees to finance professionals in shiny suits who study the markets, invest and optimize returns. Then these guys got greedier and greedier. They started lending to Joe jobless whose repayment abilities were suspect due to a drinking problem and alimony issues. These suspect assets were in turn converted into bonds and sold to unsuspecting buyers who believed that the party could never end. Many speculated in the futures market. As derivatives grew more complex and innovative, they grew more and more distant from the underlying fundamentals and realities of the market.
When the party ended, it affected almost everybody. Coupled with volatility in crude and food prices, things couldn’t get any worse. Inflation shot up, interest rates went up, liquidity shrunk, business sentiments grew bleak and loans turned bad as Joe jobless shifted to inferior liquor and defaulted on alimony payments. As investment banking collapsed, the shiny suits spiffed up their CVs for opportunities in the job market. Big investment Banks are being bailed out by Western Governments. These Governments who were beacons of liberty, equality, justice and a strong faith in the invisible hand of profit motive now stand discredited for privatizing profits as long as the party lasted and nationalizing losses when investment banks went kaput. Writing off debts of these institutions sound like banditry compared to writing off debts of suicidally inclined farmers in India’s hinterland. At least the Indian farmers didn’t play with derivatives. They did straightforward business. They borrowed money from banks & village money lenders, bought seeds & planted, applied fertilizers & insecticides and either lost their crops due to bad monsoons and/or faced with lower market prices for crops, could not repay the loan. They deserve every bit of our sympathy as compared to the investment bankers in Hugo Boss suits. We ought not grudge our tax money being spent on them.
I read the Economist for a conservative viewpoint. It is a magazine that has been espousing the cause of limited Government and sound public finances for ages. When The Economist strongly condemned the Nuclear Deal due to the unintended benefits it conferred on India, I naturally believed that it must be good for India. (Suspicions confirmed when our northern neighbour acted funny in NSG- No comments about Indian politicians who opposed it). When Economist blames Western Governments for bailing out Investment Bankers, one is glad to be Indian and bailing out only poor farmers.
The bonfire of vanities by Tom Wolfe contains a very interesting conversation between an Investment Banker and his child. I quote from memory. Something about the child saying that a friend’s father is an engineer/ architect and builds bridges/buildings. Sherman McCoy, the Investment Banker tries to explain to his child that investment banking is something close to that, funding infrastructure projects. Soon he realizes that his convoluted analogy fails to convince his child. Moral of the story : If you came out of a fancy business school, try doing something honourable…like selling idlis!!
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Favourite TV shows: The Week that wasn’t, Cyrus Broacha & Kunal Vijaykar in CNN IBN at 1030 hrs Sunday. Had been watching tech2.com, a gadget show in TV18 that has been discontinued. I don’t have the patience to watch stock market shows where Fund managers use clichés like “let’s watch how the India story plays out” and “let’s watch how the oil story pans out”….etc. The language and gestures look increasingly the same as the suits look shinier and anchors look prettier in studio lights.
Liked ‘Highway on my plate’ in NDTV Good Times. This is about two large guys (one in a pony tail) trekking the country, eating in Dhabas and off beat eateries. It is great fun. The shows end with a flourish: a nonsensical rhyming verse mostly. Saw something similar in Discovery Travel & Living. If the Indian Show is an imitation, all I can say is that the forgery has outdone the original.

Times of trouble

On Saturday night, the 13th of September 2008, I was mobbed by calls from old friends to see whether I am alive. Delhi has come under attack once again. Five explosions spread across the city. The mobile lines were jammed and the landline kept ringing. While mechanically affirming that I am hale and hearty, I wondered where the motherland is headed and how long is this mayhem going to continue. I know that our time will also come. If it is death by terrorist attack, I can only hope that it results in instant death; not in prolonged battle for life. Even walking close to garbage dump can pose a hazard to life
Islam is perhaps going through the midlife crisis that Christianity went through in the Middle Ages. Read about the Spanish inquisition, proselytization, dark arts etc practiced through the ages. Christianity has evolved into a compassionate religion after a violent past. Islam being the newest Semitic religion, which draws a lot from the same theory of Genesis in the Bible, is perhaps in that stage which Christianity was in the Middle Ages. All religions carry a lot of absurdity in their holy books and scriptures. Hence we have misguided youth believing in life hereafter where, seven virgin houris await to entertain and titillate their senses for services rendered to further the cause of jihad on earth. Eastern religions, while beiong equally absurd are less structured and freer in terms of choices. I wish every religion would leave that space for the non-believer and tolerate them in their midst. I also wish religion would become less important in our public discourse. Increasingly society is being segmented into compartments with very little interaction at any level. With increased westernization and globalisation, it is surprising that these identities are not being submerged.
It is sad that public places are bombed in the name of a compassionate God. If nothing else, it would only result in Ghettoisation of the minorities. A community that is backward is now being viewed with mistrust. One of my friends with whom I enjoy these debates on God/ religion and spirituality says that at least 30 % of Hindus trapped in the cruelty of caste system lead a much more brutalized life. Discrimination in jobs, social norms, means of survival etc make the dices loaded heavily against them. Nevertheless they suffer in silence. They aren’t bombing public places in the name of Caste or justice. I tell him that what worries me more is the feelings of the ordinary liberal Muslim who is under the scanner of suspicion for no reason other than belonging to the faith or just born to parents of belief. Let us not view our fellow human beings with suspicion for the dark deeds of some. We can only hope that this scourge is limited to a few misguided youth and will be wiped out soon.
Witness the US Department of Homeland Security in action. One is bound to feel discriminated due to the colour of brown skin while traveling in the US. But these guys don’t take chances. The public employees don’t bend rules. You can’t possibly say “Jaante Ho Main Kaun Hoon ?” (Do you know who I am) when flagged down by the Traffic Police for a minor violation. It is worrying to see the Indian security and intelligence agencies coming for most flak. They have the toughest task to perform. And they work in a hostile environment. Hope these incidents would result in a long-term revamp of the security architecture. In our time, we might yet see an end to constables doing domestic chores in the homes of VIPs. We might also see biometric cards issued to all citizens- something, which even third world countries have succeeded in doing. Suppose fingerprints are collected from a blast site. Is there a national database for verification? I earnestly hope things change….
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Books : Read “One hundred years of Solitude” (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)once again during my father’s illness. This time didn’t go past 200 odd pages. Most of it through the night on a vigil outside the Intensive care unit in Jubilee Mission Medical college Hospital in Thrissur, Kerala.
Someone suggested that I read British author Peter Robinson knowing my passion for British crime fiction. I read “Dead Right”. It is an OK book. Not in the league of Colin Dexter or the various women writers I admire. Looking forward to more books on the DCI Banks mysteries.
Books piling up near the bedside and yet to be read are “Argumentative Indian”, by Amartya Sen, “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins and “Military Inc” by Ayesha Siddiqa- (bless my anonymous friend who donated this expensive book, knowing how eager I was to read of Pakistan’s Military Industries: I would never bring myself to shell out Rs 1700 on a slim volume).
The Missus is reading James Herriot’s biography. I never took a shine to Herriot- A Yorkshire veterinarian peddling his skills in the placid quiet of the English countryside- occasionally disturbed by bovine constipation or feline cataract.
Am now trying to finish “Sea of Poppies” by Amitav Ghosh- a book borrowed by the Missus from the Eloor lending library in South Extension, Delhi. This is one writer who has matured and grown with age like exquisite wine. I loved the Glass Palace and Hungry Tide. I read him savouring every word. We have been members of Eloor Lending Library for more than 19 years in various branches in Cochin (only I, before marriage), Chennai, Kolkata and Delhi at various stages of life. They ought to give the Missus and I Lifetime achievement awards. I read “The White Tiger” by Arvind Adiga also from Eloor. It is surprising to see Adiga and Ghosh short-listed for the same award. Being Time correspondent in Delhi helps I suppose.
Eating joints in Delhi: Can’t afford them anymore. Even my favourite Swagath at Defence Colony has hiked their prices beyond the Babu’s means. I am not a party type who would take up every invitation for dinner. In a job where many would love to wine and dine you, I would rather do that with old friends with similar tastes. Even if I have to pick up the tab!!! Did try China fare in Khan market, which makes a mean Prawns Mee Foon. It is fairly inexpensive. Longing to indulge in the seafood fare at Ponnuswamy Hotel or the Velu Military Hotel in Chennai. Cheap and Best Saar!!!! As the Chennai makkal are bound to say….
Favourite Blogs: Sidin Vadukut is the only one I read with regularity. Lest someone should accuse me of nepotism, I reduce five marks from him for being a Keralite. He has a great sense of humour of the self-deprecatory kind.
I also discovered Mayank Austen Soofi. The name initially conjured up visions of an a-historic, transgender breakthrough in genetic science. No, it is someone called Mayank Singh, a correspondent in Hindustan Times, a journalist who runs four blogs including one called Pakistan Paindabad. He has his heart in the right place- a strange affinity for Arundhati Roy notwithstanding.

Music: Still stuck in the same grove. I promise myself to try Black-eyed Peas and Cold play some time during the next year. My old Pioneer system has been sold for a song. I bought an amplifier and bookshelf speakers from Norge, a small time Bombay company specialized in making audiophile grade equipment. Mr. Bajaj, the owner is running his company / workshop from a dinghy building in Hammersmith Industrial Estate in Sitla Devi Temple road, Bombay. I met him twice before finally zeroing in on his audio system. The equipment is not exactly great in terms of finish. It is inexpensive, but produces good sound. I have thus done my bit in favour of small scale Indian Industry as against big companies like Bose, Onkyo, Marantz and Denon. I am yet to buy a dedicated CD player. For the past one year I have been connecting the ipod to the Norge system; which is a sub optimal solution. Let the pay hike take effect… We’ll think about a CD player.

Waiting for Godot

I was informed of my mother’s death on a cold winter dawn in Delhi. She had died in her sleep on 21st January 2006 late at night. I rushed out of my home into the dark, foggy and biting cold, tears streaming down my eyes, trying to hail a taxi/ auto rickshaw. I had an open ticket to Kochi- taken as a precaution; a premonition of impending bad news. The flight to Kochi had left. The Airline staff was kind enough to change it to Bangalore. I reached my home in Palghat by evening. For a son, a mother’s death marks an end of many things. As the saying goes, the richest guy is one whose mother is alive. (translated from a Pakistani saying… Duniya ke sab se bada Daulatwala woh hain, jiska Maa Zinda hai). I felt incredibly lost. I wished I could nurse her in her old age, talk about old times, and gain strength from her as she fades gently into the sunset.
I just lost my father too. Which explains the long absence from this blog. He had a fall resulting in a compression fracture in his vertebrae. He was in pain for two months: but was bed ridden for about 12 days. I was with him during the last six days of his life. He gave me the opportunities that my mother denied me. I experienced the vagaries and the sheer indignity of old age. Every time I felt reluctant to handle the unpleasant aspects of a bedridden old man, I tried to remember the times when he held me in his arms, when I was a small boy. I sensed self-loathing in his eyes. And those eyes never left me. Castigating me when I took him to the hospital, reproaching when I took him to various tests: He told me several times that he wanted to die. I whispered in his ear that he might have given up hope of living. But I can’t give up on him yet- Just as he wouldn’t give up on me during my worst times. He apologized many times for having inconvenienced me in the midst of my busy life. (Yeah, he thinks I am a big guy. I never tried to disabuse him of the notion. In Delhi’s bureaucratic caste system I fall somewhere between night soil carriers and gypsies. Some truths are better left unsaid; especially if they cause discomfort to a dying father). He told me that he was very proud of me when, as a child, I would read three books at a time and narrate the stories. I thought that was an overstatement. Yes I am in the habit of reading three books at once. I sort of reached my peak in reading at the age of 13. (It has been a downhill ride ever since). Nice to know that someone out there is proud of me: especially when I am low on self-esteem…
I sit in the sands on the banks of Nila river near my home - A beautiful river, denuded by the sand mafia. My three elder brothers who have come from abroad and my younger sister sit in wet clothes. The “Inangan” gets us going through the rituals of passage ( a strange Nair custom in which a member of the community carries out the rituals facilitating the departed soul’s ascension to the nether world.) It is daybreak. We had dipped ourselves several times in the river. My eldest brother who had come from England wore the white cloth that signifies the rights of the eldest son. We take water from a jar, splay it on the rice, coconut, weeds and other stuff. Prayers are chanted.
After 11 days, we got back to our respective lives, our parents only a memory. I have heard of Samuel Beckett’s play “Waiting for Godot” which is about two strangers waiting for Godot; neither knows how he looks or why are they waiting for him. They indulge in a long conversation. Critics have called it an allusion to life. A meaningless dialogue while waiting for death without really knowing what it signifies.
My father was a serious guy. He belonged to a family in Palghat, (Methil House, which produced many artistes, teachers, corporate honchos, stenographers and writers) which took pride in their aristocracy. Being anti-caste, I paid no heed to such origins. They were light-skinned, soft-spoken and had sharp features. Our old family friends swear that none of us, his sons, have inherited his good looks when he was young. As we rapidly lose hair on our pates, some have affirmed that we have started to look like him. As a chief clerk in a plantation company in Malaysia, he afforded us the lifestyle (by honest means), which we can’t afford to our children today. In spite of his international exposure, he was a deeply conservative man. He ate little, spoke little, had a couple of drinks every night and generally maintained good health. He lived a good life- With wonderfully solicitous neighbours/relatives and a reasonably good state of physical & financial health.
I held many things against him, Settling in a village and closing our opportunities, leaving my mother with five children to fend for herself for six long years… very important growing up years for me. For many years we maintained a superficial acquaintance. I made up for all that in 6 short days. On the 27th night, the doctors told me that his chances of recovery are bleak. He might survive for a day or even for a year. The other option is to let him undergo a high-risk surgery, which may be a more compassionate way of bringing things to an end. I consulted my siblings and my sister (who was with me and nursed him in a way that all the money in this world cannot buy) and decided to take him, ready for the long haul: waiting for Godot. I rang up the Missus and said I am leaving Delhi, going back to my Dept, take two months leave to nurse him. I planned to get a posting in South India and be near him. I hung on for a day just to say goodbye to the Doctor who saw him first. He breathed his last the same night. An ominous end to all the inconveniences he had imagined he would cause me.

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Awards and rewards

On the last count there are two and a half people reading the senseless drivel appearing on this blog. I can afford to be candid and forthright about things without fear of being downsized, reengineered, redeployed or just given the pink slip. The two people reading it regularly are not bureaucrats, but I suspect are strongly inclined to self-torture. (Why would they subject themselves to this?) The half person is not exactly a growth stunted midget but someone who can be called an infrequent reader who takes a fleeting look at the blog and goes back to watching Karan Johar shows which reek artificiality and makes one believe that the India is full of handsome guys who buss cheeks of beautiful women. I am more likely to be assaulted by friends than being pink slipped.
News is that the Babus are given a pay hike by our kind and generous nation. I have been flooded with calls from old friends congratulating our good fortune. My views on the subject are extremely unpopular. If known to other Babus, they would wish me death by a slow fire hanging upside down.- Or by slow mutilation of various body parts and leaving the rest to the increasing population of stray dogs in Delhi. At grave risk to my life let me set this to my blog- now competing for honours as the least read one this side of Suez.
Yeah…the Indian civil service is a strange thing. A few marks here and there in a strangely devised examination can turn you into a glamorous diplomat or a non-entity for the rest of your life. The Missus, also a public servant always had better privileges. She always had Govt transportation at her disposal. And me, with just a few marks less in the same examination had to always fend for myself with self driven Bike/ car and several trips in the Chennai local trains along with flower sellers, milkmen, chicken and goats. I always felt that it gave me better insight into Indian reality and also a severe slide down the greasy self- respect pole while exchanging notes with other Babus.
I advised my nephew to learn Persian and Chinese Literature seriously if he wanted to become a hot shot Indian bureaucrat- Subjects which will not fetch you a living in China and ahem… Iraq. But you could do that in India and these subjects are, I am told, easier to score in the Civil Service examination. So you have this civil service where economists are diplomats, historians are accountants, civil engineers are health specialists and Chinese language experts are in Water supply. Once they enter service, at the Centre, they are fitted into the most divergent kinds of assignments in a scheme known as Central Staffing Scheme- a scheme under which yours truly is working at the centre. So you have professionals with multidimensional skills handling specialist tasks like Defence, Science & Technology, Steel, Chemicals, and Telecom. Imagine sanitation experts in Defence, you could have someone who believes that the enemies can be just flushed away by pulling the chain. (An exaggeration, of course. I am sure Defence can learn a lot from sanitation: Sure a lot of scope for flushing here….). And on top of that there is a strange hierarchy at work in Delhi. One mentions one’s year of recruitment and service one belongs to. A few microchips start whirring, lights blink and you are fitted into a slot in the bureaucratic caste system. The hierarchy being dependent on the number of marks scored in an exam twenty years ago, number of years taken in our service to become a joint Secretary and such other factors presently not under your control. Yours truly being slotted somewhere at the bottom of the rigid compartmentalized steel frame. One has a surreal feeling that a different caste system is back in India with a vengeance…
The Indian bureaucracy doesn’t believe in grooming officers to take on specific roles. Except for the Foreign service and a couple of other services, the top most post, also known as the Secretary to the Govt of India is occupied by a person whose eclectic experience would put Lord Krishna to shame in terms of number of avatars. So basically, we have a bunch of generalists (under the politicians, who in any case are generalists) running the country. After 61 years no one seems to be in a hurry to change things.
Politicians, I believe, are incidentally a better breed. Look at Nehru’s first cabinet. He insisted on Ministers from various political hues and walks of life to occupy important positions, TT Krishnamachari, John Mathai etc who were not politicians. Nehru thought them good enough to become Ministers, just as Narasimha Rao thought it fit to make Manmohan Singh as FM. In Kerala when the first Communist Ministry came to power in 1957, it had even a Doctor (Dr A R Nair) as Health Minster- an erstwhile Congressman who was supposedly lured with promises of ideological neutrality in Health matters. It also had luminaries like Prof Joseph Mundassery and VR Krishna Iyer in charge of Education and Law Affairs respectively. EMS, the Chief Minister is said to have written to the centre, seeking massive reforms of bureaucracy, inter alia stating that the bureaucracy in India is fit to govern a colonial state. Also that in the light of modern realities of independent India, massive changes to the bureaucratic structure is called for. I don’t know what changes he had in mind- I hope it wasn’t the appointment of party apparatchiks to public posts.
One could even go along with elected offices to important development activities at the local level, as they happen in some other developed countries. Today we have Panchayat Members, MLAs and MPs twiddling their thumbs, while bureaucrats don’t show up for work. They have stood many hours in the sun, given fiery speeches and won elections. Why can’t they be trusted with local administration? I am sure it will surely evolve into a major managerial reform in local governance. My friend, a Doctor in Palghat was telling me that the recently introduced oversight by Panchayats in public health centers is irritating. It burdens educated doctors with control in the hands of uneducated Panchayat Members. I tried to explain to her that probably it is the best development model. With passage of time, it would evolve into an effective mechanism to at least ensure attendance of Govt doctors in PHCs and teachers in Government schools. Who knows, we might get Doctors and Educationists as Panchayat members one day. They might transform these institutions at grass roots level.
There are many fine professionals among Babus. But as a class, it is slowly losing its’ relevance. It is primarily due to a general lack of accountability, lack of domain knowledge / specialization and absence of grooming for designated roles. I can’t think of solutions. The experience with Central Govt bureaucracy suggests that we need a lot of lateral entrants with specialized skills for policy making with a few generalists who have an all round perspective. The specialists should then be groomed by rotating them in the same or related fields until they are ready for the top posts. Today the Central Govt imposes an upper limit on the number of years one can serve at the Centre. Most senior Officials are picked from the states where governance is a different, more challenging ball game. Centre needs some skills and domain knowledge. (Check out the bureaucracies of France, US and UK) So the system itself is designed not to develop specialized skills in anyone- rather it exposes a few guys to various departments and add value to them. They learn their job in each assignment for short intervals at grave cost to the nation.
We have hordes of well-paid drivers, peons, and clerks- Persons with skills that come cheaply in this country. And you have ill paid generalist officers as decision makers who are not equipped for these onerous responsibilities. We are happy with the pay hike- it is still less than what a newly appointed BPO employee with marginal skills take home- But then he/ she is groomed for that role and his efforts. And a company would not pay that person so much if it were not worth it….
In Delhi, Babus amble towards their work place more than an hour late for work. Why can’t we at least ensure discipline? Why can’t we have biometric cards that clocks in time of entry and exit? In Malaysia and Singapore, the Prime Minister punches his ID card when he reports for work. There are several senior Babus who come late and sit late. It would be an abomination in Delhi’s feudal society to even suggest that senior babus to punch their cards. It would not jell with the general body language of a senior Babu to carry his bag or lunchbox to office. So here we are, an extremely short sighted and self-centred class of people. Give all the pay hike you want.

I have said my piece…Now throw all the chappals you want…
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I read an interesting article on gated communities in the “Outlook” magazine. It was full of descriptions of how urban oases are being created across the country. Giving a lifestyle comparable to the best in the west- Swimming pools, Gyms, club with steam bath, Health centre, Mini Golf course and the works. Gives a great feel good factor and makes retired life look like a breeze.
I confess to having been for a moment enticed by one of these ads. The flats being advertised were about 35 Kms from Delhi. It had pictures of an elderly guy in T- shirt playing golf, an attractive woman in the Gym and a young handsome couple strolling in the park with a kid in a pram. Looked like a nice idyllic life style. I rang up the phone number given in the ad. Some one picked up. I told him about my interest and asked him the cost of the apartments. When I heard the amount, I had to clutch on to something for support. Three successive generation will not be able to pay off the debt to buy such a house. I quickly said thanks and hung up. I hadn’t since been brave enough to make calls for membership to gated communities.
I did try, on behalf of my sis-in law, to buy a flat in Dwarka in the outskirts of Delhi, now a booming metropolis by itself. Anita, a diplomat has a reasonably better lifestyle, since she earns allowances in Dollars. I gave a call to some Wing Commander (Retd) who was now a property broker after having toiled for the Defence of the country. Haanji, he said, how can I help you? I specified my requirement. Yeah, my sis in law needs a flat in Dwarka, preferably with three bedrooms. (Anita, a spinster needs two bedrooms to fill her books in and one in which to read, eat, sleep, drink, smoke and live)He cited several obscenely high figures. Also added that some proportion will have to be paid in Black and some in white. What white? What black? I asked. He said Black Money sirrrr. I said we have only white money and that too not enough of it.
When I related this experience to someone, he told me that the last honest Babu bought his flat in Delhi 15-17 years back. If at all an honest Babu buys a flat now, he has either got a fat inheritance or he has won a lottery. So forget about living in gated communities in cities. Either go back to your village or lease a Jhuggi in Delhi’s slums from the land mafia, pay hafta to the cops and stand in line for drinking water. Not a very pleasant thought… *******************

Oh Calcutta-II

It is early morning. It is a sweaty Calcutta day in 2003. My son Vasudev Nayar aka Chathu is running high fever. I had been awake through the night, trying to keep the temperature down by continually pressing on his forehead, a cloth dipped in ice-cold water. At daybreak, I set out looking for a Doctor. I walk around Bhowanipore area near the multistoried Nizam Place Building where we lived- A small one room apartment till we get a regular allotment. I realize that none of the doctors are open for business before 1130 hours. Standard opening time for Bengalis- In my office, men arrive around 11 AM after buying fish and vegetables in the market, getting it cooked and having a good meal. I asked a security guard about availability of doctors and explained in my poor Bengali that my 8-year-old son was sick. I could see worry lines furrowed in his face. He insisted on accompanying me to show a Doctor’s house where I could show him in an emergency…. Forgetting his duties. That’s Calcutta at its best.
I had asked for a posting in Calcutta and landed there as a bureaucrat in 2003. Creative Dimensions was no more. I lost touch with Himanshu Lathia and Abhijit Banerji after I left Calcutta in September of 1983. The wooden staircase to the old office In New Market were creaky. But some Computer Company had set up office where it stood once. The security guard asked what is my business there. I swiftly beat a retreat. Prince Henry tobacco was no more available (Kompany bandh Ache, the cigarette seller told me that the Tobacco company had closed business as it happens to many companies in Calcutta.) There were no power cuts this time- my friend told me with a wink that the State hasn’t exactly increased supply much but has tackled the problem from the demand side. Many companies have closed down and hence the demand was much less. Linton Street was unrecognizable as I tried to find out House No 41A. The street barbers were still plying their trade and the customers, mostly rickshaw pullers looked more majestic as they were shaved and given a hair cut with a free head massage thrown in. People were still having open-air bath near the public water line. Nizam’s in New Market has closed down and the striking employees were selling rolls on the roadside. And these days they put Maggi tomato sauce inside the Kathi roll…. What an abomination.
Free School Street is now known as Mirza Ghalib Street, an Indianisation that one couldn’t disagree with. The hedonist poet Azadullah Khan Ghalib would have loved to have a street full of prostitutes, sellers of second hand books and exquisite music in a city beyond his cozy confines in Delhi named after him. The music sellers are not knowledgeable as before. For instance, you could see a blinking uncomprehending eye or two as you ask for “Slow train coming” by Bob Dylan or “Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking” by Clapton and Dylan. That was the kind of rare stuff that one could always find 20 years back.
Eating out is still cheaper than other cities in India. Kathi Rolls are now good at Kusum Rolls in Park Street and also Sher e Punjab in Theatre Road. There is nothing Punjabi about Sher-e- Punjab. The best Mee Foon and Kathi rolls are available there- It became a permanent fixture for our requirements of home delivery. The Zen in Park Hotel is probably the best Chinese I had in India. Mainland China’s Calcutta branch is also good. In two years we had done the entire round of the restaurant scene in Calcutta. The missus’ cousin, Ram, a journalist in Telegraph was a tenant of the Chef in Oh Calcutta- the new age restaurant chain by Anjan Chatterjee- Ram says the Chef has an ear for the music of the “Grateful dead”. I went there several times- Checking out the Raj menu in their restaurant in Forum Mall and eating crabmeat, Railway Mutton Curry and Goan Prawn curry. A chef with an ear for Grateful Dead must have great culinary skills, methinks. Can’t help it, my standards are so shallow.
The Bong wedding is a celebration of food. You can skip the part where the groom wears a headgear and is led to the venue with hands around the shoulders of strong males and hanging on to them. This is to ensure that the groom’s feet don’t touch the ground. Caterers and the bride’s father see the wedding as an occasion to demonstrate their finely honed tastes and generosity. Once you are seated, the menu comes. It is just a list showing the order in which items are pushed into your plate. Guys like me with predictable tastes would wait for item no 16 (Prawn curry, Rossogolla or Fish) or 18 (Sandesh, Mutton curry) and generally skip all foodstuffs that come in between. The order is also strange I must say. Sweet chutney comes right after a heavy dose of Pulao at No 5 or even heavier items come at No 21 when your stomach is about to burst and you need to go out, take some air and do twenty five pushups to work up an appetite.
Ask for directions in Calcutta and you shall get very detailed ones: short of accompanying you in a bus or rickshaw. There is that earnestness in explaining so as to be sure that you, a stranger to the city, don’t get lost. Try the same in Delhi…you know what I mean. The Bengali women look great & sexy. Many admit to a general weakness for them (including yours truly). With big eyes and expressive gestures as they talk in their sing song tones. I could see some young mothers hanging around Chathu’s school for the whole day. Motherhood is an involved process in Calcutta. Bengali mothers spend the whole day in School waiting for their offspring to finish classes- gossiping with other mothers, dissecting the little one’s performance, teachers etc. The average Bengali male still stands by the street sipping tea from a mutka…. wearing thick glasses, loose pajamas and a vest. He is busy smoking endless cigarettes, discussing football, Nicaragua and Cuba passionately. He is tied too closely to the women in his life, mother wife, and sister. The relationship of a Bengali male and his mother is almost Biblical. The mother thinks the son is God who walked on earth. The son in turn thinks the Mother is Virgin Mary who carried him in her womb without the usual messy biological processes. (I heard this from a Bengali Male, so forgive me Lord for trashing thy name)
Once my son walked all the way from school (about 4 kms) due to problems with the school bus. I virtually went crazy trying to track him down. He reached home safe all right with a little help from strangers. I still believe I got him back only because it was Calcutta. I can name cities where a lost child would end up as body parts with mercenary organ traders. My staff at Calcutta is the most attached to me even today. Calling me up on every festival, dropping in at my Office at Delhi to see me.
My heart still beats for the city of Joy. Oh Calcutta, proof that the redemption of human soul lies amidst great poverty, the milk of human kindness isn’t extinct…. city of great contrasts, city of my dreams: I would go back there given half a chance. I have seen the world, the efficiency of Singapore, the romance of Paris, the beauty of Madrid, and the cosmopolitanism of New York. I have breathed the air of Nice in France, the top holiday destination in the world. I have enjoyed the grassy knolls in green green England. I have walked the streets of Seoul and Bangkok and marveled at the way cities of the world are administered. Calcutta cannot be judged by any known standards. There was a time when Calcutta and Singapore were touted as the Athens of the east. Singapore sold its’ soul to development, efficiency and prosperity. Calcutta remains vibrant, throbbing with life and its’ glorious uncertainties.

Dark Knight

How things have changed!! There were times when we would queue up before Hrudaya Theatre in Palghat to see the Hollywood movies that have been released in India a good five years after their opening in the west. We would sit in the Rs 2 ticket, which is second cheapest- (slightly better than sitting on the floor also called “Tara ticket”, a term used to signify one’s ancestral lineage, state of penury, tightfistedness and a host of other things). The Rs 2 ticket in Hriduya Theatre is a great leveler in Palghat. Even the kids of big business men studying with us are not permitted anything better than that. They would be ridiculed, derided and lampooned for the rest of their lives if they as much as attempted to take a higher priced ticket. I still remember Anand, the owner of Lakshmi Vilas (in those days a big hotel in Palghat) thoroughly embarrassed since several of his employees were sitting in the balcony and were amused to see their master and owner lolling around with a bunch of good-for-nothing friends in the Rs 2 ticket. A trip to Hriduya for night show and eating Idlis in the only all-night hotel (catering primarily to Truck drivers on the Coimbatore highway) was an essential feature of night life in Victoria College Hostel. Wearing Lungis and all.
And we all left college one day. There ensued a long break, when there was no first-day first-show syndrome. Never had the urge to rejoice in the latest exploits of Amitabh Bachan/ Shah Rukh Khan/ Mohan Lal movies as soon as they are released in theatres. Never jostled for ticket, paid a margin and purchased a ticket in black. DVDs had become common, and there are plenty of movies on HBO, Star Movies and other movie channels. Today I line up for first day first show: only for kid movies. I have seen the entire Batman, Superman, and Spiderman, Harry Potter movies early on as they are released in India. Else you suffer the wrath of Vasudev Nayar aka Chathu, my son. Every day after release of the said movie in India, is spent in restless anticipation, often turning into opportunities for blackmail for him. Do your homework Vasu, the Missus screams, but you haven’t shown me the latest Spider man, yells Vasu back. Hence the young man is whisked away to multiplexes where these shows run, when the ticket prices are at their highest (Saturdays and Sundays) and there are hidden costs involved (petrol, parking, the essential plate of nachos, popcorn, chips and coke- and the precious time). And there is the wait at the ticket counter, often returning without tickets. The place is packed with mostly junior citizens accompanied by oldies who are under similar threat of blackmail.
To my credit, I must say that this time around I resisted for a very long time. Dark Knight (Batman series) has been released almost a month ago and I hadn’t succumbed to threats and blackmail. You are thirteen now… I said: old enough to go for a movie alone. I will drop you there and wait outside to pick you up; spare me the torture. You can take some of your friends also along…. I said. It was finally the Missus who succumbed. So we went yesterday.
As the name signifies, it is a dark movie. With plenty of violence that it doesn’t merit classification as a “Bache wali” (Kids) movie. The essence of the movie can be summed up as follows.
1. The world is full of violent people.
2. No one can be trusted
3. Everyone is a potential criminal/ terrorist
4. Some do it for money, others just like to watch the world burn (I think I know where the jokers who set up blasts in Bombay, Ahmedabad and Jaipur get their inspiration from- certainly not from a benevolent god; more likely from the monsters shown in such movies)
5. Vigilantes like Batman are more equipped than the Police Department. (Cry beloved country…. with no Batman to rescue us from and indifferent and inefficient intelligence setup)
6. A city can be run much in the fashion of grown up members of famous five or secret seven stories
Vasu tells me that Heath Ledger (acting as Joker) has died of a drug overdose and Christian Bale (acting as Batman) has been arrested for domestic violence. Some penance…. for shoving this movie down on a whole generation of innocent kids. Aaron Eckhart (acting as Harvey Dent the young handsome District Attorney who teams up with Batman to combat crime in Gotham city) appears in the second half of the movie with one half of his face gruesomely burnt. It is really I sight no one would like to see. Only butler Alfred (kindly and genial Michael Caine) seems like a tolerable character. Hospitals are burnt, city is evacuated, even evacuated people are threatened with annihilation. There is death and destruction all around….
I came out of the theatre in a daze. Feeling awfully miserable. Even the end of the movie is not redeeming. Good hasn’t triumphed and evil hasn’t been destroyed. You come out with the feeling that the world is not a good place for your kids to grow up in. I hugged Chathu closely to myself and swore to myself that we are not coming for any more kiddy movies first day first show……

Oh Calcutta

It is a Broadway show, a movie with plenty sexual innuendos, it is a new age restaurant by Anjan Chatterjee, home to Mother Teresa, and it is the city of joy, a state of mind… Oh Calcutta. 25 years back after my graduation exams got over I boarded a train to Calcutta. I left behind a deep passion for music, a degree that was not going to be worth the paper it is written on, many friends in Palghat and a lonely adolescence filled with books which were of such eclectic choice it made no sense. On the train I had a last small paper folded neatly containing the magical weed (marijuana) which I claimed gave me a better perspective to life (What bumkum!!!) and also made Pink Floyd sound much more heart wrenching. When I got down at Howrah, the smell hit me. I don’t know how to describe this. It is like dirty water with iron content. The smell followed me through my three months stay.
This was my first step to life in a big bad city and I saw a very bleak future ahead. My brother was then employed in Calcutta, living with his bachelor friends in a house in Linton Street near Park circus. He bought a small cot for me to shack in. I shared the room with his friend Achu, Manager to Anand Shankar, the Musician. Achu was a great aficionado of Bob Dylan, Salman Rushdie, John Steinbeck and beer. On weekends I went to my friend Satish’s house. My Victorian class mate who failed to make good in life and was living off his father- a senior Official in Garden Reach Shipbuilders- a company with which I was to associate later. The story of Satish is worth telling. He messed up many opportunities in life. When he made it, he really made it big time. Now a big shot in the media business, Satish’s story is an inspirational one I like to relate to friends. We would smoke grass and ogle at Bengali women, our amorous attention centered on women who were at least ten years older than us. One day Satish received an acknowledgement letter from the girl across the balcony that we ogled at. I still don’t remember the exact contents; but something to the effect that Satish’s father, Cdr Mukundan (Indian Navy retd) is a far more handsome guy than the oafs ogling at her from across the balcony. That broke our hearts. We swore to grow up and have sweet vengeance…. Satish had been slowly polishing off the whisky bottle which his father had received as a gift from someone. The unsuspecting teetotaler father never knew this. Satish was smart enough to keep the level in the bottle constant by mixing it with golden coloured tea mix. Until one day the generous Commander offered the concoction to visiting guests. All hell broke loose.
I started working in a small ad agency called Creative Dimensions in New market. Officially it was my first job- although it didn’t pay enough for coffee, cigarettes and bus fare. It was July and the heat was oppressive and sweaty. I would spend hours walking the streets, eating Kathi rolls at Nizam’s at New Market, raiding used-book shops and music shops in Free School street. Also watching the fallen women eking out a living soliciting sex in dirty cubicles on the side streets.
We smoked Charms cigarettes, which pretty much summed up our life. Charms is the spirit of freedom: Charms is the way you are… the slogan said with the picture of a well-worn pair of jeans in the ads. Maggi noodles were recently introduced in India. We ate Rossogollas from the nearby halwai. We watched the late night show in Globe theatre. We would have a shot of brandy in the bar attached to the theatre. Have you seen that anywhere else in India? I mean a bar attached theatre? The streets had homes close to each other. Tall vertical structures with dirty unpainted exteriors and dank interiors where life throbbed. Outside there is a boisterous neighbourhood with children playing cricket on the roads. Hundred-year-old homes from where Rabindra Sangeet would waft out in the early morning hours. Then came the rains.
I was used to the Kerala village rain. The prelude to a rain was always ominous. The sky is dark. Leaves rustle and a whistling wind blows. It is much cooler. And the aroma of cool large droplets of rain on warm earth titillates your nostrils. And then it starts raining and it goes on raining and raining. In the nights you press your head to a cool pillow and listen to the pitter-patter outside. In a few hours the river grows wider, richer, carrying twigs and tales from upstream. The Calcutta rain was different. The skyline turns dark. There are rumblings in the sky. And suddenly it pours without warning. It is still sweaty. The streets are not distinguishable from big broad streams. Brownish water containing drain water, excrement and all that mess sloshes around the streets. In the nights one could hear huge splashes in the water. You peer out and realize that water has filled the streets and is almost on the verge of flooding your warm abode. A rickshaw puller is wading through all that water and trying to make it somewhere. The rains do not bring respite from the heat. It is still muggy and sweaty outside. A city that was meant to accommodate 200000 inhabitants is home close to 17 million today. As expected the drainage system is dysfunctional. There are still vestiges of colonial practices- that of washing the streets with water every morning.
One could see dark bare bodied slum dwellers taking a bath on public water pipes. My favourite hobby was watching the roadside barber plying his trade. A chair is placed on the street side with photos of gods with adorned by flower garlands on the branch of a nearby tree or a wall with the knife, shaving brush and other tools. Rickshaw pullers and construction workers and other lesser human beings are primary customers. Of particular interest is to watch the expression on the face of the person being thus serviced. He has that look on his face, on top of the world, being taken care of……. A rare moment in a life spent taking care of the needs of others and being treated like servants.
I loved munching on the barbecued raw corn from the stalk (Butta in Hindi) sold on the street side. I recollect a very talented musician called Bertie D’Silva who would hold shows in Gyan Mandir at Shakespeare Sarani. Bertie is a one-man band with an acoustic guitar and several mouth harps. I marveled at his talent and felt good that I am no more playing music, lest I should be exposed for what I am: just a pretender musician. Another friend of Achu, Cyrus Tata, and a Parsi businessman in the film distribution business would join in after the break and make the concert richer with Electric guitar. I remember Bertie singing, ”Send me the pillow that you sleep on”- it still rings in my ears.
Work was just a pastime. The owner of the Ad agency, Mr Chandra a bald man from UP speaks fluent Bengali. He was very unlike archetypal Advertising professionals. His clients were primarily shops in New Market. I had to write copy for ads and sometimes, even go and collect payments. Mr Chandra’s whole life saving was the lease on the Office in New Market. I had two young friends, Abhijit Banerji and Himanshu Lathia who did the marketing. For once my NRI Mallu sensibilities were shaken at how everyone did a nice spoof of South Indian English. Yell… Yemm, Yenn… it went on and giggles followed with sympathetic looks thrown in at me. Here I was thinking that I am from the English speaking Elite of Kerala and everyone was laughing at me in spite of my perhaps more refined (than today and than others’) pronunciation. Eshtanding Eshpeaking Undereeshtanding etc were graded as Queen’s English in North Of Vindhyas. The Bengali V and B were always pronounced interchangeably and I would strain to make sense out of it. I would stand outside during lunch break and eat Singara or Channa Batura from the small eating joints. I also developed a taste for a tobacco called Prince Henry, a pipe tobacco with a rich aroma. I would buy cigarette paper and roll it in them before smoking. Smoking a pipe, I thought was too uhm… upper class and loudly demonstrative for my quiet plebeian tastes. Also rolling paper made the task of occasional weekend weed smoking easier.
And then India won the World cup. I watched the match in a relative’s house till late night. When we came out there was celebration all around. And it went on for weeks together. That was Calcutta, celebrating life and its small victories on the streets, dancing, bursting crackers and playing loud music. In the evenings I would attempt to take a tram to Park circus. It was always crowded. Running silently through the boisterous Calcutta streets with an occasional tinkle of the bell to disperse the crowds lazing in the middle of the road. More often than not, I would settle for a mini bus- we called them spondylitis chambers. Six footers have to stand bent through the journey. Not a very comfortable ride. But the aggressive soliciting by the cleaner always wins over lazy customers like me who can’t wait too long for the tram or a less crowded bus. The cleaner would shout “Beck Bagan, Beck bagan, beckgan, beckgan…. in a loud musical rendition, reaching a crescendo and falling rapidly, tapping the metal door vigorously as the bus maneuvers dangerously and screeches to a halt. When successive buses are crowded, I would walk into KC Doss & sons in Esplanade for a plate of Rossogollas. Then there were frequent power cuts. The city was dug all over to build the Metro. In those days, very few people believed Metro would really be operational one day.
I attended a job interview with the Hare Krishna organization. They wanted me to act as a marketing man for their books and ideas. A Caucasian gentleman interviewed me. Bald, tall and well built guy with an exotic Indian name. He gave me an insight into the Hare Krishna movement. Among other things, he told me that they didn’t believe that man set foot on the moon and the whole drama was a western conspiracy. That did the trick; I wasn’t going to work for a loony religious sect that refused to believe that the great step for mankind ever happened.
It was September. The nights grew pleasant and there is a nip in the air. Park Street started wearing a festive look. Durga Puja was around the corner. Soon the Paras(Mohallas or neighbourhoods) will start putting up pandals. Young men in the Puja committee had begun collecting money to make the event a big hit. My results had come. I had done not too badly. I took a call on the future. I decided to go back and pursue studies. A stupid decision, when I see the whole situation in retrospect. I took the train back home one day. I have a great future in advertising- that was Mr. Chandra’s prognosis when I said good-bye to him. It felt good to hear that, although I didn’t believe it. Since bald sweaty Mr Chandra who speaks English with a thick UP accent wasn’t exactly my idea of Advertising professional. But the old man gave me a break, after all. I never knew that I would go back to Calcutta again twenty years later……

To be continued

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.