Nehru Place Geek

What would you say about a 40 something alpha male who spends his Saturdays in the dirty bylanes of Nehru Place? Unromantic? Sleazy? Voyeuristic? Perverse? In one word Nehru Place can be described as unimaginative. Box like multi storied structures with rows and rows of shops selling Hard drives, printers, ipods, mobile accessories etc which beckon you with cut price offers. Beneath the dirty veneer, it hides the ultimate paradise for the digital shopper. In hot Delhi summers the place looks even worse.
Nehru Place is certainly not the kind of place to ogle at lissome lasses or to laze around on holidays window-shopping. The sheer joy of bargaining Rs 25 off a webcam priced at Rs 750 or buying a blue tooth headset at a rate cheaper than the Electronics Complex in Pantip Plaza, Bangkok is indescribable. The wife is reconciled to these occasional journeys into the unknown where she is uninvited. In early days she was often suspicious of these occasional trips, which lasts more than 3 hours. She is relieved that at an age when men are turning on to paramours, gambling and assorted other vices, here is the Nehru Place geek whose idea of having fun is spending hours in the most unimaginatively constructed market place hunting for basement rate bargains on things digital.
The passion started in the early nineties with an intro to storyboard, the original presentation package and the sheer innovativeness of solutions offered by MSDOS PCs with word processing and data base operations. But those were the days when graphic user interface was in the distant horizon and the trend was to remember complicated commands to weave magic on the monochrome screen. The male instincts were tenderly awoken by the initial advent of Internet. In the latter nineties, VSNL was the only service provider offering a prohibitively expensive Internet service at about Rs 3000 per annum. Spending such money on a facility, which gave no tangible benefit, made no sense. The wife was shocked at the idea of spending that kind of money, which incidentally was a substantial portion of the salary in those days. Early morning hours were spent browsing technology sites, Rediff.com, Pakistani Newspapers (which offered a contrarian view point on Kashmir, Taliban and assorted subjects) and redneckporn.com that offered quality porn on the net, free to boot. In those early days configuring the modem and the PC with the telephone line at crawling speeds itself was considered some kind of expertise. Even the professionals in the field who advertise in the classified columns of newspapers couldn’t do anything better at configuring the modem. Invitations were received from the neighbors for this expertise in return for eternal gratitude and an orange juice.
Then there was email. The world shrank and messages would zip halfway across the globe with replies in cryptic and often unintelligible sentences. And there was spam. Someone out there in cyber space seriously believed that every male’s dream is to increase the size of his private parts or to artificially boost his sexual vigour with capsules and herbs. The average Indian Male’s sexual drive requires no external intervention and the size of their private parts by and large require no further elongation. Even a reply with the choicest of abuses could not restrain the enthusiasm of these cyber entrepreneurs. Then there are these irresistible offers of a million dollars of unclaimed wealth of a dead tycoon, which can be possessed by small handling fees of a thousand US dollars.
As one crosses into forties there is the sinking feeling that your child is too grown up and cease looking up to you as a role model. The wife is too busy juggling with the humdrum of daily life. The balding middle-aged male has to turn to something to keep his passion for life alive. Hours and hours are spent browsing, configuring the mobile phone and ipod with the laptop and doing everything wirelessly. One has become too old for visits to the pub, too weary to get excited at Rahul Dravid’s latest stylish hundred and too young to die. So Nehru place it is - the ultimate Mecca of the digitally awakened Indian Male out for his nirvana in gadgets and digital shopping.

Published in Man's World Dec 2006

Autumn of a Naxalite

Preface

I met Bhaskaran, on a monsoon evening in Palakkad. The fiery ex-Naxalite struck me as a rather withdrawn foot soldier of the extremist movement; not particularly intellectual. But very strange memories rushed into me and I was quite shaken by the experience. Without the ideology of his life, I kept thinking of a person, out of jail, struggling for sustenance. Saddled with a family and memories of an all but dead movement. I sensed a great human interest story in this. I didn't sleep for many days thinking about it. I requested many of my journalist friends to write his story. My friend Hari said that he might refuse to talk to any journalist. Bhaskaran was keen that my association with him should not in any way affect me. He believed that he is still on the watch list of intelligence agencies. He thought it is not exactly good for someone who works in the Govt to be involved with him in any way. (But that is what everyone says when I admit that I have been reading the Pakistani newspaper "Dawn" for the last ten years- How could you do that ? working in the Defence Ministry and all that? Don't they put you under surveillance for doing such things? But I suppose there lies the greatness of our country and its' democracy. There is space for every stream of thought and access to a lot of stuff on public domain) I thought if his story had to be written, let it be written by me- not exactly a skilled writer. But the story must be told. I wanted this to be comprehendible to an international audience- Hence the foot notes. I never tried to send this to any publication to print it. I felt the protagonist in this story may not like this. I sent this script to him to see. He corrected many portions from his ideological stand point.I didn't really like the changes he made to it. I felt the story would be lost unless I tell this as ordinary folks do. I never found the time to glean through archives searching for press clippings to relate the story of the murder, jailbreak and aftermath. Some facts are given below.

The date of murder was 30.7.1970. The accused including Bhaskaran were captured after eight months. Some of them escaped from jail in May 1971. They were again caught nine months later. Finally Bhaskaran was released in 1986. Best part of his youth and life in the jail. Amazingly, he rebuilt his life, settled down with family etc. Some of the details which he missed out in his narration were published by Mundur Ravunni(the Political commander of the Naxalites who committed the murder) recently in a Malayalam Magazine. Like ... two guys in the team just did not show up: And that some of the alleged cruel deeds of Narayanan Kutty Nair were (a) killing Changan the farm labourer,who used to guard the tapioca crop during nights accusing him of sorcery and (b) snipping off the nipple of a woman who did not accede to his sexual demands. Interestingly the leaders of the execution were seeing the man for the first time on the night of murder. They knew of him only through the dossier they had collected and chargesheet prepared against him.
This story does not in any way dilute the other dimension. Children of the murdered man have been rendered fatherless, a wife turned widow.... a way of life destroyed. Some day I hope the story of the victim's child will also be told....

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It was one of those trips back to my village in Palakkad to meet my ailing mother. My home and the Palakkad Railway Station are about 40 kilometers apart. Out of sheer habit, on these trips, I would visit my friend, Hariprasad, who runs a Nursing Home opposite to the Railway Station. (He no longer does. Well, that’s another story). I normally reach his place a couple of hours before the train is scheduled to leave. We chat and catch up with whatever has been happening to our lives. His place was certainly more hospitable than the Railway Station waiting room and I enjoyed these moments. We would talk about old friends, often go down to a local eatery for a banana fry 1 or appam 2 and egg curry.
It was a July evening and the sky was overcast. I reached his place a little earlier than usual and my train wasn’t leaving until 8.30 PM. We had about 3-4 hours to kill. Hari was explaining to me about the minor repairs, which had to be done to the Nursing Home to keep the place from falling apart. A dispute among family regarding the property was raging for a long time. He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to retain possession of the Nursing Home. He mentioned in passing that the Ex- Naxalite3 Bhaskaran is now a civil contractor who carries out petty civil Construction work, Plumbing etc. He was entrusted with small jobs in the Nursing home. The name struck a chord in my mind immediately. “Isn’t he still in Jail?” I asked. “ He has been released more than twenty years back. He is married and settled in Palakkad, on the foothills of Dhoni hills” Hari replied. Dhoni Hills is not very far from the Railway station. In fact it is at the end of the Railway Officers’ accommodation in Palakkad Railway Division.4 I have lived in the Palakkad Railways’ living quarters for some time during college days. Much later, I married a Railway Officer. She was living in one of those large Bungalows close to the Dhoni hills. I remember the captivating sight of that picturesque place.
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I will never forget the famous Narayanan kutty Nair murder case. Nothing comes close to it in terms of cruelty or sheer chutzpah. I was an impressionable eight-year-old boy when it happened. We had just migrated to India from Malaysia. The racial riots in Malaysia and the trend towards banishing English from schools only to replace by Bahasa5 Malaya had prompted my father to take this momentous decision. We - my mother and five children were living in a huge newly constructed house in Padur, a village in Palakkad District. I was an unhappy soul. Life had taken a sudden u-turn. There was no TV, no running water. Electricity connection had to be given by pulling the lines from several kilometers away and there were frequent disruptions. I had to learn a new language, Malayalam, my mother tongue in which I could barely converse. Even in the local English medium school everyone spoke Malayalam. I was not very comfortable with it. I had no friends and used to play around with a ball alone.
I still recall the day the news appeared in the Malayalam Daily, “Mathrubhoomi”. There were pictures of a headless body lying in a pool of blood. The severed head was at a few metres away near the gate. It was sensational. It was then referred to as the Kongad murder case. (Kongad is the name of the village where this happened). Narayanan Kutty Nair was a local Landlord. He was brutally murdered late at night by a group of people considered to be followers of Naxalite ideology. The perpetrators of the crime were apprehended soon. Seven of them who were housed in the Viyyur Central jail escaped from captivity after a few days and were at large. On the day following their escape the photographs of all the escaped convicts were displayed prominently in the papers. I remember the photograph of Bhaskaran staring at me from the newspaper. He had hazel coloured eyes: Cold, staring and unforgiving. At an age when I didn’t know anything about the ideology that drives youth to murder, this was truly scary. Viyyur was not far from my house. Viyyur is close to the District Headquarters of Trichur District. We were living close to the Palakkad- Trichur border. Our newly constructed house was in a huge compound and if the murderers were to strike in the dead of night, even our screams would not be heard by anyone. I had these gory visions of the Naxalites entering our house and slaughtering all of us. I spent sleepless nights. I would often imagine myself saving my mother and getting myself killed in the process.
Bhaskaran and some others were students of Govt Victoria College6 - A century old institution where I studied much later. Story had it that the whole conspiracy was hatched in the college accommodation where I stayed during my college days. Bhaskaran was considered one of the first three accused that actually carried out the beheading. Later, I would often wonder how any one could be driven to kill a fellow human being in cold blood. I would visualize the plot of a murder being hatched in the college and its’ laid back environment. In the idyllic villages of Kerala where life goes on peacefully in the seventies, it was just a bit too gruesome to be true.
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Hari and I decided to drive down to Dhoni and meet Bhaskaran at his house. The sky had cleared a bit by then but it was still drizzling. The roads were slushy and wet. We drove through the narrow Railway colony road and reached the dead end of the road. The Dhoni Hills loomed ahead, full of greenery, touching the sky. The trees were in monsoon bloom. Having always seen it from afar, even a small hill like Dhoni looks like a huge presence when seen at close quarters. There were just one or two houses at the end of the road and Hari led me to this small house named “Sri Sri”. It was located in a small compound with fencing of Bamboo shoots and thorns.
Bhaskaran was wearing a Black T shirt and a coloured Lungi.7 He had gone bald. But the eyes looked the same. He smiled as he welcomed us into the house. There was minimal furniture in that small house. His wife, son and daughter live in the house. The daughter is studying for graduation in College at Palakkad. The son has completed Tenth standard and is hoping to join the Industrial Training Institute for vocational training.
Bhaskaran had heard about me from Hari. He appeared quite used to the idea of people still coming to see him out of curiosity. I told him about my nightmares of him as a child. He was quite amused. His wife came and gave us tea. She was a short, fair woman. I asked Bhaskaran about his marriage. He said it happened as soon as he came out of jail. He was released from jail sometime in 1980s. His mother was alive then. She asked him to meet someone known to the family. He met her. Told the story of his life and told her to drop a post card if she is willing. He went thinking that she may never agree to a relationship with a former convict accused of a gruesome murder. He received her post card and they got married in a small function. Life after jail was quite difficult. His friend and co accused Chacko was involved in a low cost housing project in Badagara near Kozhikode. It was a co-operative society which was set up to teach life skills to the under privileged and to train them to earn a living. After a few years, politics caught up with this venture and he had to leave this and start tuition classes for children. This venture also did not last for very long. The local mainstream communist parties had probably played an important role in dissuading parents from sending their children to an Ex Naxalite.
Meanwhile Chacko had gone on and settled in Palakkad near Dhoni. A lifetime of shared past, jail term and ideology had gravitated him to Chacko and Palakkad. He bought a small plot of land adjacent to Chacko’s and built a house. He has been living here with family ever since. Life is OK. The vocation is such that income fluctuates depending on seasons. But the past seems so far away. No, he is not an activist now. Nor are others except Ravunni, another co accused, who is into the Ayyankali movement for resettlement of Tribals.
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“It was a July evening like this. A rainy night lay ahead. I was living with my uncle’s family in the Railway Colony in Palakkad. No, not in the hostel as you think. Only Chacko and I were students of the Victoria College. Others were activists from the movement. Those were the days following the Naxalbari uprising. The activities of the movement were picking up momentum and the tremors were felt in the red bastion of Kerala also. Kerala, the land, which holds the record for bringing the first democratically elected communist Government to Power in the World, could never remain insulated from the happenings around the world. Those were the heady days of the Chinese line of Mao Tse Tung, of a thousand flowers and the Cultural Revolution; of the Spring thunder and visions of villages surrounding towns; of overthrowing the symbols of the state by armed uprisings. The Pulpulli Police station attack case was the first of its’ kind. Comrade Varghese of Wayanad8 was the first leader of the movement. He organized the Tribals and other landless labourers. The movement was organized into cells, where the individual’s identity got submerged in the collective vision of the Movement.
In Palakkad, All Kerala Students’ Federation elections were held. We, the hardliners wanted a stronger ideological slant to the movement. I still recall Pinarayi Vijayan, the latter day CPI (M) leader, bringing in a lot of delegates who didn’t look like students to defeat the Hardliners agenda. We had already drifted away from the Political mainstream communist parties. The Chinese line was our motto and inspiration.
There was an imminent need to activate the movement with demonstrable action and results on the ground. Narayanan Kutty Nair was chosen as an example of feudalistic exploitation in the villages. He was the example to be set. He had the reputation of a tightfisted, cruel landlord with a weakness for women. No, I have never seen him before in my life before that fateful night. The Movement chose him. We were three groups of seven each. We didn’t know the members of the other groups well. My interactions were confined mostly to the seven comrades in my group. At nightfall we arrived in Kongad. No, buses didn’t ply in the villages of Palakkad after nightfall. We went walking the whole distance of more than eleven Kilometres. It was drizzling slightly. We arrived at the house of Kongad Narayanan Kutty Nair. There was a story doing the rounds much later that we had gone to kill a senior Police Officer who was Narayanan Kutty Nair’s relative. No, that wasn’t the intention. But if he were around, it would have been a bonus. Eliminating the feudal exploiter and the symbol of their protectors in one fell stroke would have been an achievement for the movement.
We woke up all the members in the household. We then hustled all the Women, children, other male members and servants into a room and locked the room. The house was located in an isolated large tract of land at the remote part of the village. So the noise of our arrival didn’t wake up anyone. We took Narayanan Kutty Nair to the Padippura9.family Ravunni read out the charges against him. The other members of the movement who constitute the peoples’ court gave the verdict of death sentence. Another person and I performed the killing. No, I would rather not talk about it. No the head didn’t split the body in one fell stroke. We had to cut at the neck many times. We left the house shouting slogans. When did you change clothes? Well, we did that as soon as we left the house.
We were caught very soon and put in captivity. After my escape from Viyyur Central jail, I was at large for a long time. It was sheer arrogance that got me back in jail again. I used to visit the printing press several times in connection with our publication. On one such visit someone tipped me off and in a few minutes a whole contingent of Police was at the premises of the Press to arrest me. In jail we held hunger fast several times for privileges like tea etc. During the emergency10 we would shout slogans while being taken to jail and back. We would get only rice broth and vegetables and had to fight for even small privileges by going on hunger fast etc. But jail was a great leveler. Even today I carry my intense craving for several cups of tea.
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Bhaskaran had finished his narration and it had become dark outside. The sky turned cloudy and it started raining. The smell of wet earth, a typical Palakkad monsoon feeling overpowers your senses. I asked him whether he has any regrets in life and whether he still believed in the movement. He said that he felt that instead of carrying out justice on behalf of the oppressed, he would perhaps motivate the oppressed to carry out justice today. The movement died because of the lack of involvement of the truly oppressed and it could not have survived with the intervention of a few ideologically charged youth. We then went on to talk about the life of other Naxalites. Philip M Prasad, who turned spiritual, Chacko who turned domestic Ravunni who works among tribals and K.Venu who is still at the forfront of the movement. He felt that the movement has picked up in the Andhra Pradesh/Orissa/ Chattisgarh belt primarily due to the oppression by landlords which still continues. In an evolved society like Kerala, the movement faces a bleak future.
Bhaskaran brought an umbrella to see us off. We got into the car and left. On the drive back we were silent. After a long time Hari asked me what I thought. About a wasted youth, about commitment to ideology, or a life on the edges of survival ? I had no answers. I found Bhaskaran very reluctant to talk about the actual murder. I was almost like a little boy probing about small details. I sensed his discomfort. Initially I thought of it as the communist’s reluctance to talk about oneself and to place the collective interests before individual ones. I also sensed some disquiet about the present. Hari told me about Bhaskaran’s frequent inability to afford his daughter’s College tuition fees and his worries about his son. I went to meet him to exorcise the ghosts of my childhood. I went back with more ghosts lurking inside. I had to buy a toothbrush and we stopped somewhere.
Hari told me that the murdered Naranyanan Kutty Nair’s son also lived very close to Dhoni. He is a Gulf returned entrepreneur and has started an Long Distance calling and Photocopying shop in the front of huge house. For ironies in life, this takes the cake. Hari told me that Venu (Narayanan Kutty Nair’s son) is also a good friend of his and has told him many times that he has wondered why his father was killed. He had seen the killing through a keyhole along with a servant. He had in fact identified Bhaskaran when he was arrested. They came to call him from school. He was 11 years old at that time.
Maybe we will visit Venu another time and hear his story. My train was leaving in half an hour.
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1 Pazham Pori in Malayalam
2 White rice based pan cakes
3 Naxalism- An ideology of Marxist-Leninist-Maoist thoughts. The name has its’ origins from Naxalbari, a village North Bengal, where tribals staged an uprising against exploitation by Landlords. The uprising was suppressed by the Govt of W.Bengal, ironically a democratically elected Communist Govt . Charu Mazumdar, the ideological precursor to the movement wrote the historic eight documents, drawing inspiration from Maois Leninist Thoughts.
4 The Palghat Railway Division is strategically located as a gateway to Kerala. The Walayar provides a 20 km long opening in the Western Ghats which separate Kerala from Tamilnadu, the two southern states of India. The Railway Division exists from British colonial times during which Palghat was part of Madras Presidency– Now renamed as Palakkad in a vernacularization drive by Kerala Govt- The exercise being a favourite past time among politicians to obliterate names , symbols of colonial past.
5 Bahasa Malaya – The Malay Language
6 Established by British during the nineteenth century. Named after Queen Victoria I
7 A coloured piece of cloth tied around the waist. Popular in S.India, Burma and certain SE Asian countries.
8 Wayanad is in the North of Kerala. Later on Varghese was killed by the Police in cold blood and was termed as an encounter death.- as one of the Policemen who took part in his killing would confess several years later
9 In old tharavads (matrilineal family in Nair caste is called a Tharavad) the home and the gate will be divided by a courtyard where the harvesting activities take place. The entry to the courtyard is called the padippura
10 The brief interregnum to the uninterrupted run of democratic India. Mrs Gandhi, the then Prime Minister declared a state of Emergency, curtailed human rights and put opposition leaders in jail

Archibald McNally Lives on....

There is something about crime fiction with a central character in a series of novels.....It gives the reader a sense of security.It is probably familiarity with the protagonist that drives the reader to read more of the same.The British have their genre of crime fiction which has produced some memorable sleuths.In modern fiction,Colin Dexter's Chief Inspector Morse and P.D.James' Adam Dalgliesh have their own fan following.There are yet many who should find a mention like Ruth Rendell's Inspector Wexford,Ian Rankin's John Rhebus and not to forget the all time great Hercule Poirot of Agatha Christie.
Cross the Atlantic and crime comes with not so much of the sombre and serious atmosphere that goes with it. The protagonists are either not so serious or not so central to the works.The alphabet series featuring Kinsey Milhone of Sue Grafton and Lawrence Sanders' Mc Nally series fall within a distinct genre.Crime laced with doses of humour.It makes reading a lighthearted experience .The reader would not so much look for a nailbiting finish than a quick pleasurable read.
The creator of Archibald McNally is dead-but the Private Investigator lives on.Super sleuth par excellence ,lover of exquisite Palm Beach women and Florida’s most eligible bachelor continues to enthrall readers around the world with his peccadilloes while fighting crime.Lawrence Sanders ascent to fame began with the “Deadly Sin “ novels featuring the strong New York cop Edward X Delaney.The "First Deadly Sin " has been made into a memorable movie.Lawrence Sanders died some time back.Vincent Lardo has been commissioned by the Sanders’ estate to churn out the McNally series of novels.As an avid fan of the Mc Nally series I have always mourned the end of the series.When I read the first in the series of books by Vincent Lardo,I really concluded that the Mc Nally magic is over.But the latest novel in the Lardo’s series,ie Mc Nally’s Folly has redeemed hopes of a revival of the character in all his glory.
To the uninitiated, a brief introduction would be in order.Archbald Mc Nally,age permanently hovering around the mid thirties,is the scion of the Mc Nally family.A junior partner in Mc Nally & son,the Law firm.He being the son and father Mc Nally the lawyer.Legend has it that Archy’s exit from Yale Law School was not exactly under congenial circumstances.He ran across the stage during a particularly soul stirring performance of the New York Philharmonic-wearing nothing but a Richard Nixon mask.He didn't have to wait to graduate since the Yale authorities couldn’t wait to send him home minus the Law degree- Only to launch an interesting career as the head of the discreet enquiries cell in the elder Mc Nally’s Law firm.Number of employees -one.His office in the sprawling Mc Nally Offices is a cubby hole with no window but only the air conditioning vent as the outlet.Same goes for his digs in Mc Nally mansion.Can’t beat the rent,he says,which is zilch.Archy maintains that the ill treatment by Pater Mc Nally is to stave off accusations of nepotism.Drives around in a blazing red Miata convertible which cannot be missed in conservative Palm Beach society .
The redeeming features of a typical Sanders novel are familiar.There are great descriptions of food.Readers of Sanders’ Deadly Sin series would vouch for the detailed exposition into sandwiches and how they are best made.The same affectation to food is ever present in these novels.The Pelican Club is the regular hideout of Archy and his ilk.A club run by a family of colour.Simon Pettibone could whip up the awesome cocktail with gastronomical delights to go with it.Well, if you are deceived by his looks you could be missing out on those winner tips on the stock market.Try this for lunch....grilled grouper sandwich on Italian ciabatta with spicy sweet potato fries and homemade ketchup.Salad of bibb lettuce,avocado slices,paper thin slices of red onion and a sun dried tomato vinaigrette.Or this....pie adorned with broccoli,slivers of artichoke hearts and gorgonzola cheese on wheat bread.... The loving and detailed descriptions of food would keep the reader salivating.
There is also the outrageous dress sense which borders on the comic.But only Archy carry it off with aplomb amidst sarcastic digs from friends.How does a Puce berret or a Kimono with pictures of Mickey mouse fancy you?That is the Mc Nally dress sense for you.A wee bit worrying bald patch is kept hidden with an interesting collection of hats.Our hero is found soberly dressed on occasion in black pants with pleated fronts,white silk turtlenecks,Madras jacket and designer sneakers or in chinos,cord jacket and a lavender silk shirt which goes well with lavender suede loafers(no socks ,of course). Archy's speech as always is peppered with sly innuendos and underplayed humour.He constantly fights the temptation to smoke an English Oval,not exceeding three a day, the last, to round off the day with a marc.In matters where a conflict ensues between head and the heart,needless to say ,the heart wins over.And if it is a conflict between the glands and anything else,no prizes for guessing the winner.
Archy’s enemies are the baddies who land in Palm Beach Society to hoodwink or rip off the rich clients of the Mc Nally firm. Archy is not beyond the temptations of submitting an expense account which admittedly is the greatest piece of fiction or cheating on his longtime amour Consuela Garcia,social secretary to a prominent Palm Beach Socialite. But his sense of righteousness is stirred by the sight of the type of characters who snap their fingers at waiters or of crooks from afar who migrate to Palm beach with a new identity.( but retain the same initials so that they need not throw their monogrammed boxer shorts away)!
Mc Nally's Folly starts with a brief for Archy to probe into the antecedents of Ouspenskaya,the latest psychic whom the Palm Beach ladies hail as the real thing.Desdemona Darling the silver screen goddess of yesteryears is in search of a reel of film which figures her in rather compromising postures.Things get worse when she receives threats to publicise them and she seeks the help of the psychic.Archy stumbles upon the not so prominent network of temporary house help in various Palm Beach mansions.Jamie Olson ,the resident help in the Mc Nally manse is of great help inpite of his rough and less communicative demeanour.
While preparations are on for the staging of a play by the community theatre,the first dead body surfaces.....of none other than Desdemona's husband who commissions the firm.Our hero has a friend in the Police Department.Sgt.Al Rogoff whose bulky and rough deportment hides great love for Opera-a passion which ,if revealed ,would entail his expulsion from the fraternity of beer guzzling Joe six packs in the Police department.While Ouspenskaya's game is called rather easily by Archy,the murderer still lurks behind the scenes.There are surprises in the end.

Then there is a posse of endearing characters-the lovable Binky Watrous,occasional sidekick of Archy.eternally in search of employment ....In Mc Nally's Folly,Binky is on the verge of snapping up the mailroom man's job in the Mc Nally firm.Binky arouses motherly love in middle aged women like Mrs.Trelawney,secretary to Father Mc Nally.But his love life is a a constant search for the elusive mate.Meanwhile he has to survive threats from the Duchess, a rich Aunt who raised orphan Binky, of being cut out of the legacy if he fails to find profitable employment soon.Father Mc Nally is the perfect foil for the jolly and lighthearted son.Dresses traditionally ,speaks with precision,drives a lexus and is a man of impeccable and predictable tastes.He never misses out on the family cocktail hour and reads through tomes of Dickens' works late into the night .Also possesses the ability to raise a single eyebrow- something that never ceases to amaze the son.Mother Mc Nally is the picture of innocence, a member of the Palm Beach Current Affairs Society who raises begonias (and talks to them too!!) .She is revered by both father and son and kept away from the seamy underside of Society and its' affairs which the firm deals with.
The Lardo series of Mc Nally is getting better and approaching near the real thing.We are not ready yet to read Mc Nally's funeral.Hi ho Lardo...good job.Keep churning them out by the dozen.


* Mc Nally's Folly (paper back) is published by the New English Library,Hodder & Stoughton.Distributed in India IBH .Price 2.25 pounds
This Article appeared in Indian Express in Jan 1999

Travelogue: Malaysia & Singapore Circa 2000

Maybe it was the airport that dampened my spirits.It was my first trip to foreign shores in thirty years.I always thought of airports as large,clean,bright places where ordinary folks fear to tread.The Chennai international airport was dusty and ill planned. The plane arrived one hour late from Delhi which delayed our departure from Chennai.No announcements at the airport.Everyone sort of drifted towards a queue which was automatically forming at one of the departure gates.I had to fend off anxious questions on whether the queue was for the Singapore flight or not.Maybe I had the look of an authentic frequent flier in this route.It was only after boarding the aircraft that the Captain helpfully attributed the delay to the excessive VIP traffic in Delhi.The contrast couldn’t have been more stark as one landed in the sprawling Changi airport in Singapore.Clean and efficient-The entire process of clearing immigration,baggage etc was over in 25 minutes flat.Instructions and guidelines were displayed in prominent places.Even the long walk is aided by conveyors.My sister in law,Anita Nayar,Indian diplomat in Singapore was there to receive us.
Being small helps.The island- all 625 sq.kms of it –is so compact and well planned.The long arm of the State in Singapore is all pervasive.Planning meticulously as to the extent of tree coverage to the number of cars permitted on roads.ERP or electronic road pricing is the automated toll collecting mechanism on roads. The state decides which buildings to demolish and where to resettle the displaced tenants.The state doesn’t subsidise electricity,water and roads.But health,education and housing are subsidised.Sounded a bit warbled in the Indian context.Talking of City States,one comes away wondering whether any democracy grants such powers to its rulers.
The Singapore Press Holdings,a huge government owned media conglomerate publishes The Straits Times.It lands on your doorstep with a huge thunk-hundreds of pages of it.Prominent news of the day are gory descriptions of death from heights.Maids ,children and suicidally inclined citizens hurl headlong to death from various floors of high rise apartments .Drying clothes in the balconies and the danger posed by hanging pots in high rises are other issues in the realm of intellectual debates. Numerous pages of classifieds,advertisements add to the bulk. I took a particular fancy to court proceedings in the Straits Times.The judge often laments about the fall in morals and thunders at the accused whether he or she realises the gravity of the crime.Petty burglaries,shoplifting,vandalism etc are disposed off, in a grim and solemn manner with admonitions and heavy sentences. The Evidence Act as we all know of it is not much in evidence.Often the arresting cops deposition is taken as iron clad evidence.In recent times the SPH has launched the rather unimaginatively named New Paper which caters to the Singaporean’s need for sleaze,sex and violence in mild doses and other youth interests. The Singapore society has reached a point of affluence where the state calibrates and encourages a certain dose of humour and self deprecation. Somehow the emergence of Singapore as a modern financial capital has necessitated it to stir out of its’ longstanding image of a state which discourages long haired men and bans chewing gum.

You could litter the floor with empty peanut shells at the Long Bar of the Raffles hotel in Singapore.The famous Singapore Sling,a heady cocktail is to be had there.The hotel is all colonial charm.Huge white arches and tall ceilings.Indian food has its’ enthusiasts there and the Indian buffet has many takers.
Another interesting feature is the public transport system.The thick book on bus routes and fares can be an engrossing piece for literature for the masochist.A multipurpose value embedded card could pay your fares in the MRTS Rail system as well as the Bus routes.The precise amount of rail fare will be debited as you swipe your card at the alighting station.In the buses if one doesn’t carry the card it is better to carry hordes of change,count carefully and drop the precise fare to collect your ticket.The guy standing behind you could get quite impatient.There is no fall back option for technophobes to deal with a live human being who would collect the change and issue a ticket.Any attempt to do so at any of the counters would be met with detailed instructions on how to use the coin issuing machine and the ticket issuing machine.Could be quite frustrating .
I spent my days reading and ruminating.A break from my job seemed so welcome.Anita’s flat is located close to Orchard road.We could always drop in at the Great Wall shopping Mall.I read all works of Peter Mayle,George Mikes and some Rumpole books.The diplomat’s book collection on Kashmir is quite formidable and I read a whole lot of stuff on that.It was Shishir Gupta’s book which seemed most informative and objective.
We went to Malaysia by car.The Six lane expressway is a testimony to the young country’s ambitions.Stayed the night at the residence of Kuldeep Bhardwaj of the Indian Foreign Service.They are great hosts.After several drinks,at around midnight ,we decided to check out the Petronas Towers the tallest building on earth..I am not quite sure if two long prominent spears on top of the twin towers are counted for adjudging the height. It was quite a sight-so were we.Variously attired in ready –to- sleep garments.
Malaysia is the haven of seafood buffs.We had prawns ,lobsters,crabs,scallops and squids in all shapes and sizes that at the end of it all, the stomach felt like a mini refuge of sea life.The prawn cooked in rice wine at a mini eatery in Kuantan,a port town was the highlight of the gastronomic yatra.I was desperately looking for the fried Mee Hoon which is a pleasant memory from childhood.Turns out that it is only sold in Indian Muslim joints.The Roti Pisang and the Chana Roti is a big hit with the local populace,often branded as authentic Indian food.Basically layers of Paratha stuffed with Chana or bananas.A metamorphosis from the land of its’ supposed origin.Then there are food courts.Near apartments,shopping malls,parks and just about every place you can think of.There are hordes people at all times of the day chomping away as if there is no tomorrow.
A long severed connection was restored in Port Klang.My father worked there for many years as chief clerk in The Golden Hope Estate there.It was an emotional journey.The memory of childhood was a huge patch of greenery where two houses stood on wooden stilts near a lotus pond.The estate with its’ Palm and rubber trees loomed gloomily beyond.
I was restless with anticipation as we drove down.Luxury cars gliding past,I wondered if this is the land I left 30 years back. The landscape was not striking any chord within the deep recesses of memory.I remember my father’s peon Periyaswamy driving me down to kindergarden in his bicycle.The surroundings used to be lonely and wooded.Stretches of dark trees planted in rows with nothing to break the silence but the the occasional chirping of birds.I was trying to place where my kindergarden school was located.I remember being fascinated by the Chinese Miss who taught me.I would be constantly worried if Periasamy would desert me and run away.A mirror placed in the classroom offered me a view on his activities while classes were going on.The moment he vanishes from sight,I would start weeping.Periasamy was a notorious drunkard who would get sozzled beyond control on Kavadi festival of Thai poosam.I recall devotees on a spiritual high ,piercing their bodies with the steel strips which hold the Kavadi dancing to the tune and parading the streets.I never saw these seemingly painful acts replicated in India ,the land of its’ birth.
When we finally got to the place where our home stood,it turned out to be a sandy desolation being developed for a housing and commercial complex.Metres away a huge flyover whizzes past. A journey thirty years into the past is not easy on your emotions. I made a fool of myself crying in front of everyone. I have read of homecomings.Mentally I had conjured the event and replayed it in my mind several times before leaving India.Should I kiss the earth like the Pope does when His Holiness visits strange lands?Spend a few hours in quiet reflection? Nothing prepared me for what I saw finally. Somehow I came away so disappointed.
On our way back,we stopped in front of La Salle school where I studied in Class I.The summer of ’69 is a favourite song of my 5 year old son’s.Bryan Adams’ famous number has that rollicking feel to it.It was in the summer of ’69 that my life changed so interminably.In May ’69,there there were widespread riots in Malaysia.At the end of it Malaysia adopted the policy of affirmative action in favour of the Bumiputras or sons of the soil.The immigrant communities of Indians and Chinese were relegated in Education,Business and Employment.It was then that my father decided to send my mother and children back to India.I came to India with a smattering of Malaysian accented English.Growing in a village in Kerala at an impressionable age,Malaysia remained a distant memory.
Malaysia has grown beyond the Estate culture.What remained of the estates are now getting rapidly urbanised.I also met an old friend Murali who lived in the same Estate when we were toddlers.He is now a successful Malaysian citizen of Indian origin. Our paths have crossed intermittently and unexpectedly during the last thirty five years (Sounds suspiciously like a Yash Chopra Movie-our host Kuldeep swears when I described our chance meetings in life)The Indian diaspora is now a marginalised entity with a few flashes of brilliance. The Bhumiputra Policy of affirmative action and encouraging Malay participation has succeeded in reducing the clout of Chinese business interests.But it has also marginalised Indians who are predominantly plantation labour based .Opportunities for higher education are restricted for racial minorities.It hasn’t advanced native Malays educationally much yet.The old generation Indians are caught in a time warp.Although success stories abound I could sense a quiet unease among them.The success stories of Indians in the West have not had their effect in South East Asia.Wealthy Indians have sent their children to Australia and the West for education.Many have been sent to India for Professional education.Migration has frozen decades ago.
I spent the night with family friends.There was a time when we were kids raising a ruckus around the household.It was nostalgic to see our kids running around the very same ground.It was really an emotional reunion with Punchi and her family.Punchi’s daughter Suja whom I last saw 17 years back leaving India and an unhappy marriage behind is now married again and a mother of two lovely children.All sorts of people landed there trying hard to place me as Nair's youngest son.There were embarassing questions.Aren't you the boy who would play the record player without power just rotating it with your fingers?Aren't you the boy who would have tears in his eyes everytime your mom would go shopping and then claim that it is only water and tears that are flowing from your eyes?……It was sweetly nostalgic.
After the emotional homecoming at Port Klang we drove down to Kuantan and spent a week with Punchi’s brother and my old friend Narendran and his family.The long drive to Kuantan reminded of Jean Paget and displaced families in one of my all time favourite novels,”A Town Like Alice”.The countryside has been described beautifully in Nevil Shute’s novel.Kuantan is a beautiful coastal town-Shades of Kerala.We crawled pubs .A pair of middle aged baldies spending night after night hopping pubs.Narendran is a succesful Insurance executive.He has come a long way from the student life in India.He always had tremendous zest for life.
Airfares are cheap in Malysia. I flew back to Johore and took the bus back to Singapore.

Videshi Bank Story

This is the true story of an experience with a new age MNC Bank's service.Did someone say that gone are the days when credit was difficult to obtain?Well,that still holds true.But I have experienced that dealing with a new age MNC Bank(hereinafter called the Videshi Bank).... can be frustrating .......Made me wish I had stuck to my not so friendly neighbourhood PSU Bank.
Well, it all started the day I got tired of my four years old Maruti 800.Although it had done service uncomplainingly to my heavy usage ,I felt the time had come to move up and go for a new car.After many test drives of the WagonR,Santro,Palio and Alto, I had zeroed in on the Zen.
Now I needed a person to buy my old car .I rang up to the used car division of a new age Private Desi Bank.He sent a man who was very professional about the task.He finalised the sale for a good price and passed me on to the credits division.But then,I was wavering a bit.I still rue the day I decided to act smart and negotiate for better interest rates.The friendly neighberhood PSU Bank offered me credit at 12%.The new age Private Desi bank offered at 11% .But the car dealer suggested a new age Videshi Bank who sent his man to my doorstep.Good service,I thought.Then I asked him for ID.He turned out to be the employee of an agency employed by the Videshi Bank for roping in new customers.Maybe the Videshi chaps are too busy dealing with the big fish to justify their indecent salaries and snooty accents,I consoled myself.
The offer was the best .Interest only 10.57%,paperwork at your doorstep etc etc.I was impressed by the interest rate and the service.How do you do it?,I asked.We have this arrangement with dealers and the dealer's discount is passed on through the financier,he said.As for service,it's just that the Videshi Bank has outsourced its' operations to such an extent that service is personalised.Well....hm... out sourcing,discounts packaged into finance.....it was a new world,I thought.Gone are the days when you had to stand hours before the PSU Bank Manager for his loan sanction.
He took a few signatures and pronto came the new car.The loan amount was given directly to the dealer by the Videshi Bank and my life was so much more enriched.
A few days later I got a whole bunch of material which contained detailed instructions about the Savings Bank Account which I had opened (unknowingly )with the Videshi Bank.Must be one of those papers I had signed ,I consoled myself.There was a nice personalised cheque book and debit card wherein my name was spelt wrongly.Maybe these Videshis can't get Indian names right,I thought.Or maybe the agent had given my name wrongly.One day,I met my PSU Bank Manager friend.He asked me whether I had bought the car.I told him,yes....and also that I got a better rate from the Videshi Bank.He warned me that the service and rates of Videshi Bank hides a lot of things.What? I asked.You will know soon,he replied.Firstly we don't charge any prepayment penalty.And secondly the videshis are not exactly transparent, he said,with a wink.
In all the papers that the Videshi Bank had sent me,there was no mention about how to pay instalments etc.Mostly it dealt with the Savings Bank Account.I contacted the agent and he advised me to drop the instalment cheques in their ATM drop box.The savings bank account is only a zero balance account which is extended as a gesture of goodwill to build an enduring relationship with clients . I need not use it if I don't want to.That sounded like a lot of gobbledygook to me.
I paid my instalments promptly.Dropped a cheque every month at their swanky ATM located in a posh locality in the city.Every month two statements would come.One of a Savings Bank Account showing a nil balance and the other,a slowly depleting loan account.
The trouble started when I received a notice stating that an instalment has not been received and that penal charges will accrue until the payment is received in the car loan account.I was surprised.Could my cheque for the month have not been debited?Or had I forgotten (unlikely) to pay this month? I received the notice on a Friday and was frantically trying to contact the Customer service Officer's number given in the notice.There was no reply.Being the New Year/Christmas weekend ,I thought maybe the Videshis were living it up on the dance floor.Finally on Monday after several attempts,I got through to the customer service Officer.He said that a princely amount of Rs 3 has been debited to my savings Bank account as a result of which the entire instalment amount of almost 4000 rupees had not been accounted against the loan.Why was Rs 3 debited? I asked.He didn't know.I would do better by calling the Savings Bank people,he said.Why can't you at least credit the remaining amount to the loan account?I asked.Can't be done,he said,since it falls short of the instalment due.I was getting irritated by now.I explained that I never wanted a savings bank account with them.I said "You couldn't even get my name right in the cheque book and debit card.And now you say that I owe you Rs 3 as a result of which my entire installment has fallen short. You better reverse the 3 rupee debit and pay my installment." He promised to speak to the Savings Bank people about it.Any way I don't want a savings bank account with you and I am returning the misspelt debit card,cheque book etc,I said and put the phone down.
I returned the chequebook, debit card etc along with a covering letter and dropped it at the swanky ATM.I expected to hear from them soon. There was no word. Finally I decided to speak to the Savings Bank people. It is an interactive voice response system, which greets me. I am told that all the customer service officers are busy at the moment and also reminded me that I am a valued customer and hence would I be kind enough to hold on? I was treated then to a rendering of ….was it the theme from Greensleeves,that great romantic and sad piece rendered by Vaughan Williams played on telephones worldwide for call waiting to soothe frayed nerves…. or was it the Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven ? I forget now… I was in no frame of mind to enjoy great music. The announcements interspersed with music went on and on. This went on for a good five minutes and I was getting fidgety. Just as I was about to give up, finally a sweet voice responded. She asked my name and pin numbers. I plead that I can't remember my pin number. How can I remember the pin number of a Savings Bank account I have never used? She asked me several intimate questions, like my date of birth, address etc.When she is finally convinced that I am not impersonating, I pop the question. Why have you debited Rs 3.She punched a few keys. Asked me whether I had done any transactions? I said no.I have never used the account which I never wanted in the first place. And also that you people had not even got my name right. She says it is inexplicable. She said I could get back after 4 working days to get an answer. I lost my cool. I explained the position regarding my car loan and said that penalty on the loan is accruing. She said nothing can be done now and I should get back after four working days. You get back to me, I said. Your loan people already promised me that they would get back to me and it has been four days already. No way, she repeated. You get back after four working days. I bang the phone down in frustration.
I spent a couple of days more fuming and fidgeting. Finally after the New Year was over I got through to the loan people. They said that now there is a credit of Rs 12 as a result of which there is enough money in my account to pay the installment. I again lost my cool. First you said there is a debit of Rs 3 and now there is a credit of Rs 12.I have paid my money to the loan account and who asked you to debit or credit any amount in Savings Bank Account? He had no answer.
After three days I received a letter from them stating how sorry they are for the inconvenience caused to me. They also said that they are closing my savings bank account and I can continue to pay my installments to the loan account. As for the mysterious debit of Rs 3 from a (supposedly) zero balance savings account, I am yet to learn what it was for. Nor have they offered any explanation for the entire mix up.
I thought the story would end with that. But a bigger surprise awaited me the next month. I received another notice from them stating that my loan account has fallen short by another princely sum of one paisa and would I be kind enough to remit it failing which penalty charges would accrue. For good measure the letter was dispatched to me in a postal envelope spending five rupees towards postage. I thought these guys were business savvy!!!!This was a revelation….
I rang up to them once again. The loan officer asked me to ignore the notice. He said it is a computer generated one and issued from their headquarters in Mumbai. Wouldn’t someone read the notice before it goes to the mailroom? I asked. He had no answer. My name is still spelt wrongly in the notice.
I am looking for a way to end my relationship with this Videshi Bank at the earliest. This would entail raising a loan at a higher interest rate from elsewhere. It would also mean that I will be shelling out a large amount as prepayment penalty also. But I am convinced that these Videshis are no good at the retail banking. They have entrusted their entire business to a few computers and faceless call centres.They should stick to their pricey clients and leave us Aam Janta alone.

Babu Types

BABU TYPES

Delhi is often described as the land of Babus, Netas and Dalals. In recent times Delhi has seen great affluence- An offshoot of the liberalization era, which spawned an increasing number of successful businessmen. Someone described Delhi as the city where, half the population consists of Police constables and the other half consists of crooks. But Delhi will always remain the seat of federal power and the omni present Babus. It is the Babudom, which defines the character of the city. Here are the various Babu types including certain rare ones.
Constipated types: Looks glum and serious, as if he hasn’t had bowel movements for several days now. He routinely takes credit for national reconstruction, appointment of Cabinet Ministers and assorted other momentous events in the history of the nation. He can make or break, move or shake anything in Govt. Normally seen in Gymkhana Club/India International Centre rubbing shoulders with similar types. Reluctant to talk to lesser Babus and is very curt and dismissive to personal staff, clerks etc. On a Babu’s salary, he is able to afford Brooks Brothers suits and Rolex watches - nothing mysterious about it. Usually married into wealth and power. This type gets plum postings and foreign stints.
Networker : Is heavily into the lingo of batches and services and cadres. Is naturally motivated by the acquaintance of officers spread across services/states. Normally from a service categorized as inferior in Babudom. Is capable of putting in a word sideways to get things done. Often lapses into daydreams of what could have been a better life if a few marks more were scored in an examination conducted by the UPSC fifteen/ twenty years ago.
The Loud Feudal : Vernacular with a good academic record. He made life’s choice of plumping for the bureaucracy enchanted by visions of a chauffer driven, Lal Batti-fitted, white Ambassador car with white frilled curtains in the back windows- while the Indian reality passes by outside. Loves having several peons, clerks, cooks, gardeners, window cleaners, Brass polishers and other servants at his command. Forsaken chances to pursue studies in Cornell, USA for the hot & dusty Indian feudal existence and social recognition. Is rather disappointed with the recent deterioration in facilities in Government. Gets his daily dose of adrenaline from servility, deep bows and salutes.
The frustrated ones: Easily constitutes the large majority of Babus. Frustrated by a confluence of factors like miserly salary, pitiable lifestyle, lack of professional satisfaction and gloomy forebodings of the future. Is constantly awaiting the next pay commission report and dreams of a miracle salary hike which has a chauffer driven car thrown in for good measure. Little interests in life except children’s education and the Dal-subzi-roti –dhobi routine and mounting electricity bills every month. Could be spotted eating peanuts and sunning himself outside the North Block during winter afternoons. Eagerly looking forward to the next Dearness Allowance hike.
The misfit : Still entertains dreams of working as a lecturer in Delhi University or a journalist. Extremely well read and can quote from Jose Saramogo and Pablo Neruda effortlessly. Often with a JNU or St.Stephens background. But this is a vanishing breed after the eighties. Not too comfortable with fellow bureaucrats and is often considered a snob by colleagues. Given the right breaks, capable of flashes of brilliance in his work too. Speaks good English, a rarity in the Jatlands of Delhi. Has integrity and fine tastes in Clothes, music etc. Could be spotted in the British Library, Indian coffee House and Fab India showroom after office hours.
The maverick : Was possibly playing in a rock band in college and is an avid reader of off beat literature like Che Guvera’s Motor Cycle diaries and J D Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Believes that there is no real music after the breakup of the Grateful Dead. Reached the bureaucracy due to parental pressure. Could be seen occasionally strumming the air guitar amidst dusty files. Wishes to sport a pony tail and a single earring but scared of peer disapproval. Family rates him as a poor husband/lousy father. He dreams of throwing it all away and retiring to a coastal village in the pristine natural environment of Goa/ kerala. Nurtures desires to junk the old Maruti Zen and drive an overpowered Harley Davidson Motorcycle.

The real enemy

Sinead O'Connor, the popular singer with a trendy shaven head created history. At the end of singing her version of Bob Marley's "War" she announced,"Let's fight the real enemy " and went on to shred a photogragh of the Pope to pieces.The studio people were caught unawares since the programme was coming on in The Saturday Night Live on US Television.

Vatican was silent on the issue, but a spokesman for The Bishop of Brooklyn seriously suggested that she may be in need of professional therapy and maybe spiritual too !! To Roman Catholics around the world,the Pope is the religious head and Sinnead's act amounted to iconoclasm ; The sensibilities of many have been hurt.

Marxism contains a scientific exposure of Religion as part of the Social structure that influences the masses. The bastions of Marxism have crumbled all around us. Marx's famous statement "Religion is the opiate of masses " is an important cornerstone on which the Marxian analysis of the social superstructure was based. Marx was making a profound statement on the exploitative value of religion.It throws many questions. Does rligion exploit ? Does it Kill ? Does it divert attention of the masses from the real issues facing societies and nations ?

Does Sinnead O'Connor need help ?


The track record of religion is rather dubious.The Pope's own religion ,Roman Catholicism, has a tainted record .There was time in history when Inquisitions were misused by religious and
political authorities (comfortable bedfellows as elsewhere in the world ) and caused untold sufferings to masses and especially, proclaimed enemies of the order. The Inquisition was a Papal judicial institution to combat heresy,alchemy,witchcraft, sorcery etc later on deteriorated to the status of a convenient political weapon to victimise alien religions.The Roman Inquisition was used to fight Protestantism and under Paul IV , it was so severe, that all parties were alienated.The more infamous Spanish Inquisition was sanctioned in 1478 by Sixtus IV to combat apostate Jews,Muslims and heretics such as Alumbrados. The Spanish Crown used it as a weapon ; Burnings at stake,torture and confiscation were used to eliminate enemies.Violence reached new heights under the first grand inquisitor the Dominican, Tomas de Torquemada. If nothing else,it was for the sin of being born into Judaism, that Hitler deemed it necessary to unleash genocide on a people.It appears almost impossible that a good German Soldier who loved children and dogs and was a strict vegetarian could be capable of such violence.Is Hitler at fault ? Or is it his perception of a religion and his social conditioning which teaches him that the Jew is the real enemy ? The " Greek Passion ", a classic work by the famous Greek Novelist Nikos Kazantzakis,is a subtle social satire on how the Church turns into the real enemy.If Jesus was persecuted years ago, the modern day Christs are persecuted by the Church, which stands to protect and propagate the teachings of Christ. The innuendo was not missed on any of the readers of "Greek Passion".Yet another work by Kazantzakis "The Last Temptation of Christ " stirred up a controversy over Martin Scorcese'film based on it.Analogies are not far to seek. We are a nation steeped in the pangs of development.Many a village exist without drinking water.Basic universal education has not been achieved after years of developmental effort.The population growth threatens to overtake our capability to solve burgeoning unemployment and poverty.The partition resulted in the death of many in the subcontinent.Partition was essentially a geographical and demographic divide based on religious denominations. This was thrust on a subcontinent plagued by poverty and illiteracy.Even in modern days reams and reams of newsprint and energy of the nation is wasted on where temples stood in the forgotten strands of history.For the starving millions in this country this could be the culmination of a comic opera and the joke is on them.It goes to show that religion still remains a potent force and is still very much capable of distracting society from the real problems facing it.History abounds with examples to that effect.People are killed,exploited, nations plundered, land and money grabbed, elections and wars fought in the name of religion.And the future too doesn't promise to be very different from the past.

Marxism has lost its' enthusiastic practitioners. But Marxian analysis on religion,society and other institutions remain relevant as ever . Marx was right.So is Sinnead O'Connor.

The contrast in their persona couldn't be more striking.An impoverished academic Jew with long flowing hair and beard and a modern day egg head pop singer.Yet they made the same simple but profound statement from different platforms, at different points of time in History.

Let's fight the real enemy !!!

Story of a Langur Contractor in South Block

This is a funny look at life with simians, life in Delhi and bureaucracy. No offence meant to Animal rights activists, self important bureaucrats and the Delhi Police.

Dear Reader,

I am the Langur Contractor in Lutyens’ Delhi. Before you ask me what is a Langur Contractor, let me explain. By some accident of history, after the British built the new capital in Delhi, they couldn’t rid the place of all the simians hopping around sand stone buildings. Much before animal rights activists achieved TV space, newspaper space and political clout, the problem was easy to solve by some plain old-fashioned genocide of the monkeys. Goes like this - Call the monkey catchers, trap them and kill them, burn them or bury them….or call the monkey catchers, trap them and take them away, ask no questions, see no evil. Somehow in those days they weren’t quite sure which Ministry would be administratively responsible for tackling the monkey menace. The famous Indian bureaucratese ran into several reams of light green note sheets in various govt bodies, from Municipal Corporation, NDMC, Delhi Zoo, Police Dept and the archeological survey of India where officials endorsed their views in strong terms peppered with precedents, constitutional provisions and settled law. Still a solution evaded them. They never got as far as to decide who would be responsible for ridding Lutyens Delhi of its’ monkeys. Meanwhile animal lovers like Blue cross and Maneka Gandhi grew in stature and old-fashioned solutions to eliminate monkeys became …. Well… just that ; old fashioned. Well-heeled high society women with plucked eyebrows and painted lips started holding forth on compassion to monkeys trapped in the urban jungle and the need to sterilize them after giving painless anesthesia to prevent further breeding. Thereon the solutions grew more complex and more expensive.
Meanwhile the monkeys had the run of the place. They were worshipped on Tuesdays and harassed sometimes. Generally they were ignored by all except the occasional child or the amused white skinned tourists who can’t get away from the fact that man and his original ancestor coexist in the corridors of power in Delhi. The key to co existence of mankind with monkeys is simple. Follow one dictum- don’t stare at the eyes of the monkeys. Occasionally the monkeys would launch attacks on unsuspecting bureaucrats who then, have to undergo several injections in their stomach and medical leave to recover.
My job is simple. Langurs (the black faced monkey) are the natural enemies of red-faced monkeys. I am the keeper of Ramu, my Langur from Jabalpur. Ramu is a friend and a pet in loose captivity. He eats, drinks and sleeps with me. I see people clicking photographs when they see Ramu riding pillion on my bike with his back pressed against mine and facing the other side. It is a magnificent sight. I parade Ramu along the corridors of the two large buildings, the North Block and South Block, straddling the house of the President of India. . As I walk with Ramu along those grand but ill maintained & stinking corridors, all the simians disappear just like that…. Kaput… gone. I needn’t do much. For that reason alone, mine is one of the most fulfilling careers in Govt. You get to see the fruits of your labour instantly. The monkeys run for their lives at the sight of Ramu and seek refuge outside the building. After several years of racking brains to tackle the monkey menace, an IAS Officer with IIT/IIM qualifications dreamed up this temporary solution of just rattling the monkeys by parading Langurs. Sure put his first class education to some good use. The solution was simple, crude, effective and kept the monkeys at bay without annoying the animal rights activists. It wasn’t expensive like the wooly headed schemes of the Blue cross ladies either.
As for my career, I couldn’t ask for anything better. I enjoy flexible working hours. No political interference, no market interventions, no changes in policy by overenthusiastic government officials, no pressure to improve performance by adopting fancy 6 sigma models and all that crap. In times when several BPO firms and garment exporters are folding up due to increased exchange rates and entry of new players into the market, we ( I and Ramu) operate in a monopolistic market. There is no pressure to reduce my remuneration, which I’d rather not reveal for fear that many well-paid Govt Officials like Directors, and Joint Secretaries in the Govt might aspire to take over my job and inject competition. Govt is not contemplating the creation of a permanent post of Langur operator in Delhi. Think of the problems… It is a single post. They’d be saddled with problems of drawing up recruitment rules, reservation of post to OBCs/STs/STs, mandatory Hindi training, answering questions from Parliamentary committees regarding lack of promotional avenues for Langur keepers and all that shit. Who knows; animal rights activists will demand posts in Govt to maintain audit and oversight mechanism on the unbridled functioning of Langur keepers. There could be representations from Langur keepers to upgrade their posts equivalent to Group A & IAS services and redesignate the post to Langur Managers since it is a niche competence requiring specialized skills. Alternatively pay scales similar to that of Air India Pilots could be demanded. So a contract it is, albeit a permanent one, till kingdom come.
II was born in Jabalpur and lived near a temple. I studied upto 5th standard. Ramu became my friend ever since I rescued him from annihilation in the Great War between the reds and blacks. If you didn’t know the history of the animal kingdom in middle India, let me explain. The red faced and black-faced simians had a raging war in the jungles of Jabalpur. Both sides took heavy causalities. It is the equivalent of the first world war of humans before the invention of penicillin, in which many lives were lost and many children were orphaned. The baby Langur Ramu took shelter in my house and I raised him on bananas and nuts. When I dropped out of school, it was my uncle who lived in Delhi that proposed this idea of embarking on a career scaring away the monkeys from Lutyens’ Delhi. In any case I had become the object of derision in local circles as the Langur boy. So we embarked on a long journey hitchhiking on trucks with ‘Jai Mata Di’ , ‘Bure Nazar Wale Tera Munh kala’, ‘OK TATA’ and ‘Sound Horn’ painted on the rear and went to Delhi carrying goods. We got rides from amused drivers and cleaners of trucks. We traveled the nights and took rest during days. Drivers would take breaks for country liquor and other assorted entertainment in roadside brothels and Dhabas. I managed to feed Ramu in local eateries where lot of attraction would be drawn to him. I even contemplated on terminating the journey to Delhi and opening a traveling road show. In border check posts we had to alight and take a detour to catch the truck from the other side. Often this takes hours since the drivers had to subject their goods for checking, produce elaborate documentation and bribe the check post officials.
Finally we reached Delhi. I sneaked into my uncle’s house in the wee hours of the morning. The neighbours spotted Ramu and complained to the local police station about the presence of a monkey in the neighbourhood and that their children are in danger. Constable Ramlal visited my uncle, drank tea, ate three samosas, which were hurriedly obtained from the nearby teashop and collected Rs 300 from me. He suggested in conclusion that I ought to find another place to keep the Langur. Another place? Like where? The zoo, he replied. I was driven from the concrete jungle of Delhi into the villages adjoining Palam Village where the neighbours considered the Langur a friendlier neighbour than many two legged ones. I set up a home; Ramu and I. Soon we went to Lutyens’ Delhi and negotiated the terms of the contract to parade Langur with a sardarji in the administrative Dept in South Block who was rather serious about the proposed solution and not one bit amused or cynical as some other guys tend to be. Since I couldn’t take Ramu by public transport, I had to shell out a huge amount on three wheelers. I bought a motorbike on installment basis and now carry Ramu back to back to Office. It is a great sight in Delhi traffic. Some days when the humourless Delhi traffic police detain me for carrying a Langur I just call up South Block and announce that I am not coming because the traffic cops have detained me. Frantic calls would go to the DGP, Police Commissioner and other big wigs who travel in ambassador cars with white frilled curtains in the back windows about how work in the higher echelons of Govt has come to a grinding halt because of monkey menace. I would be released immediately.
Hence here I am serving the Indian Govt’s highest body on contract basis. My job fetches results instantly in govt., which is notorious for poor outcomes on spending. Once when the Accounts clerk in the administrative establishment delayed passing the bill, in protest, I went away with Ramu back home to Jabalpur. Monkeys became aggressive in Delhi with their newfound freedom. Finally, they sent a clerk on official duty to Jabalpur to cajole me into rejoining duties. The errant Accounts clerk had to apologize to me. They never dared to delay my payment again. I have heard that the Govt has greatly messed up concepts of domain knowledge and expertise. Often, one could see experts in Milk marketing, election commission, poverty alleviation and revenue collection transformed into Policy wonks deciding telecom policy and purchasing hi- tech fighter aircrafts for the country. I was in a way born with the skills I stumbled into and it would not be easy for someone to replicate my success or acquire my domain knowledge. In a country known nototriously for throwing tax payers' money after wooly headed schemes which do not bring results, I am proud to say that money spent on my contract is every bit worth the taxpayers' bucks. Permanent solutions for containing monkey menace in Lutyens Delhi are still being contemplated; like transporting all the Delhi monkeys to jungles in Madhya Pradesh; hiding oral contraceptives in bananas and feeding them; using RFID tags to identify and track monkeys (that’s rich, in a country where even humans do not have a citizen ID card). Meanwhile I ply my trade waiting for the next big idea that may drive me out of business….

Conversations with God on Phone replacement

Why change your phone now? The Lord thundered…. He looked just like he did in those comic books. Flowing white beard, kindly wrinkled face and a booming voice.
“ Lord,” I stuttered. “ I bought the Motorola V3i because it looked…. Well sexy” wondering at my choice of words. “ It had iTunes” I continued …”and Bluetooth, GPRS,1.3 MP camera, video recording and the works..”
“How long did you use it ? the Lord asked
“More than a year, lord” I said. “ I still think of it as a sleek tool, although every Gupta, Verma and Kapoor owns it nowadays “
The Lord nodded, not amused at my feeble attempt at humour
“Did you grow out of it?, The Lord asked
“ No Lord, I still love it. It all has to do with synchronization…”
“Synchronisation?” The Lord yelled…”with what?” He asked.
“With Microsoft outlook “, I said “ there was a time when I believed that I could do my bit to discourage global monopolies. I would use the free version of Lotus smartsuite address book which smartly sat on top of my screen and could be pulled down alphabet wise for easy viewing. But soon I realized that the dominance of Bill Gates over our lives is complete” I gulped, hoping that the Lord would take my cue and do something to the stranglehold of huge corporations on the daily grind of minions like me.
I continued “ I realized that it is with Microsoft outlook that my earlier Nokia 6600 synchronizes best. The phone was however too chunky and didn’t sit well in my pocket. That is why I switched to V3i. Moreover I change my PC in office rather frequently. They always come with Outlook preloaded. I have to install smart suite separately and transfer the data.I bought the Nokia 6600 for an indecent price which I refuse to discuss and owned it for almost 2 years. I transferred my address book, notes, calendar and everything from Smartsuite to Outlook with great difficulty and synchronized it with the Nokia 6600’s symbian software. The 6600 had great synchronization features with outlook although it is not a windows mobile phone. I refused to replace the chunky model for a long time for the simple reason that I had paid too much for it”
The Lord nodded. This was getting too much ,I thought. This is the great Lord himself. I thought I could discuss only metaphysical, lyrical, philosophical and whatever other stuff they write in scriptures featuring him. Like why fish don’t fly and why mountains kiss the sky…Here I am discussing the relative merits of mobile phone models with him. This is one cool guy. He is in sync with times.
“Why did you buy the V3i ?’ The Lord asked
“The Nokia 6600 was becoming the butt of every joke in the circles I move” I said. “At the age of 44, it is not the music listening and camera toting crowd I move with. I have hardly any use for the camera. I am a great music lover, I They are professionals who juggle with emails, appointments, tasks, stick it notes etc. So I graduated to the V3i after exchanging my 6600. I ”
“Didn’t I see you surreptitiously click the photograph of the actress in the airport lounge last week with your camera phone?” the Lord asked.
“Well” I fumbled sweating and looking around, glad that my twelve year old son is not listening in. I felt like kicking myself. This is the God you are talking to. I should have known better not to lie or talk crap.
“That was just to show my friends and wife that I saw her….sorry about that. But coming to why I was frustrated with the V3i was …..”
“Wait..” God said. “Didn’t you think that the design is cool?”
“Yes Lord. I still think it is slim snazzy and uber cool. I realized rather late that the mobile is a rather useless music player. Early on I saw the advantages of synchronizing it with my favourites playlist in the iPod with the V3i thus avoiding carrying the iPod on journeys. Soon I realized it wasn’t a smart idea. Listening to music on a three hour flight drains the battery so soon that there won’t be enough juice left to power it to call a taxi in Mumbai or to tell your friend that you will be late arriving. So I sort of stopped using it as an iTunes player. I needed that synchronization features with my address book, calendar, notes and to do items. The Motorola just don’t synchronize as well with the PC as the Nokia symbian software does.”
“Hmm… Continue..”
“So I just went and exchanged the V3i for the Nokia E 65 “
“What… E65?” The lord thundered. His voice was quivering I suspect,,
“I didn’t want to shell out big bucks for the N95 or the other 30K plus phones. Who knows, they may come for a song three weeks from now. Yeah I think E65 is the best deal for all of only 14K. Has Wifi,GPRS, EDGE, 2MP camera and the great Nokia symbian software that I love so…It works like a dream with the outlook. I can even go back to my favourite Lotus smart suite software if I want to. All in all it is future proof”
“You fool… that’s what you thought when you bought the 6600 also. There is no such thing as future proof. I couldn’t foresee the future when temptations first struck Adam & Eve. So they said wait for the iPhone. Now they say wait for the Google phone. The future has always been a mystery. Keep gazing at your 2.5” screen of your iPod, Mobile and other handy devices. The future would make them look silly. You would laugh at how you agonized for hours to buy them….”
Thus spake Lord with an air of finality and flew among misty while clouds into his abode in heaven. Meanwhile I am trying to catch that signal in my Nokia E 65.

An open letter to Vir Sanghvi

AN OPEN LETTER TO VIR SANGHVI

After I read the column by Vir Sanghvi on the America concert in Hindustan Times, Brunch Sunday Magazine I said “ There couldn’t be two more different kind of guys on earth. I mean me and Vir Sanghvi.” I could spot a smile on my wife’s face when I said this. She looked amused at my temerity to even go as far as to make a comparison with a famous journalist.. a public face. Here I am a small time Govt employee living in a CPWD apartment in Delhi. Vir Sanghvi is right up there. Oxford educated, appears on TV, wields a nifty pen, eats and lives in luxury hotels in India and abroad, rubs shoulders with celebrities, businessmen, politicos and TV stars. Yeah that’s he, diametrically at the opposite end of the social spectrum.
And I, well.. I studied in Govt Victoria college in Palghat, a small town in Kerala (which I am sure no one has heard this side of the Vindhyas), worked some time in a PSU bank and now work in the Defence Ministry in Delhi. My average eatery is Saravana Bhavan , I used to love the Chennai Br but the Delhi one is not exactly cheap in comparison. A visit to Swagath in Defence colony (one of Sanghvi’s favourites) is an occasion for celebration with a typical order of fish curry and plain rice. The prawns and crab don’t fit my pocket although on a day when we are feeling rich, we do indulge in such luxuries. The rare visit abroad is on official duty with delegations of the Govt. Although we stay in luxury hotels on such occasions, I never could distinguish between wines or various other kinds of liquers and champagne. Our allowance is $75 per day with free breakfast in the hotel. Lunches and dinners are normally official affairs and hence it never came to looking around for the nearest Mc Donalds, the only place we could afford on the allowance. For all I care Foie gras is a piece of salty, thick and pasty substance and the revelation that is the liver of a bird makes me want to puke. I frankly don’t see how caviar is categorized as luxury food. Those beds with multiple layers and pristine white sheets in Hilton, Paris and Willard Intercontinental Washington etc don’t bring me sleep. The average tariff for a night in these places is close to what I take home as salary every month. I care two hoots about the service of the Bell boys and receptionists in these snooty places since I just don’t belong there. I dress poorly since I can’t afford nice tailored suits with my Government salary. I drive my small, battered, six year old Maruti Zen to office and come back to a cosy evening with my wife and 12 year old son in our Government quarters in HUDCO place in Delhi.
It is when Vir Singhvi writes about music that I realize how similar we are. I am not allowed to state my opinions on his views of politicians and politics, nor do I wish to. Having had occasion to see governance at close quarters, I have more scandalous things to share. When I read his columns on music, it is almost as if a musical soul has been transplanted by the Almighty on two different people in opposite ends of the social strata. When I read him on music and his favourite bands I wonder how many such similar souls exist. In the late seventies and early eighties I spent every waking hour listening to Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Simon & Garfunkel, Bread, America, Jethrotull, Pink Floyd and other such bands that defined a generation. I too can recollect every word in ‘A horse with no name’ by America. I didn’t catch the next plane and be there for the America concert in Bombay for the simple reason that I couldn’t afford such luxuries in the midst of my middle class existence. Yeah, America did produce some great music but I think their “Lonely people” is a great song for the sentiments they convey. He forgot mention of it in his column. I think ‘Wasted on the way’ & ‘Helplessly hoping’ are two great songs of the CSN which blends the vocal chords of three talented persons to create magic. I love the Bread for their lovely song called “Everything I own”. Recently I have gotten around to downloading video clips from Youtube using a converter into my ipod. I wish we could do that when we were younger. We listened to a whole lot of music without knowing how they looked or how they played on stage. And I am amazed at the choice of music that is available in stores these days. Although I am a bit irritated that some niche Folk singers like Pete Seeger and Peter, Paul & Mary are even now not available. My mobile alerts me with the starting notes of Clapton’s Lay Down Sally, a great song with lovely blues style guitar play. When my wife calls, the tune changes to Acres Wild by Jethrotull, a country style banjo piece- just the sort of music that could snap me back to reality.
I did sincerely try to make that generational leap. My twelve year old son listens to Green Day, Eminem, Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit and Black eyed Peas. I think Green day is rather good- great lyrics in some numbers like Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Linkin Park is good in parts, a bit loud though. But Black eyes Peas with continuous repeated chatter Bebot Bebot beb…and sudden yells of Philippino …Philippino in the background is not up my alley. I did seriously try to instill in him some appreciation of music of a bygone era. Started by telling him that most of the bands I listen to are from a time before my college days in the early eighties. But I now leave him to explore his own choices.
I start my day in Office booting up the PC softly playing “Love will keep us alive” a latter day love song from Eagles’ Hell freezes over album and go on progressing to some soulful songs from Leonard Cohen, Dylan, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Joan Baez and then some lusty beats from Sting, Fleetwood Mac, some guitar wizardry by Dire Straits, some good old soft rock from Bad Company, Reo Speedwagon and Barclay James Harvest. There is always music playing softly in the background at work, very unlikely tastes for a Govt employee. My office is a small hole in the wall in South Block. Yeah in my college days, I chose my friends on the principle that if he listens to Beatles he can’t be a bad guy. Although it might sound shallow, I never went wrong in my choices.
I am sure Vir Sanghvi would approve of my tastes in music. Good going Vir Sanghvi…… Nice to know there are more of us. Keep those columns going. Meanwhile I can tolerate those pieces on food in famous restaurants and service in luxury hotels which cost a bomb. If you love my favourite bands you can’t be wrong about food and board either.

Elegy to False Alarm

False Alarm is the name of a Western Music Band, which existed in the small provincial town of Palghat in Kerala in the early eighties. To give you a sense of time and place we must digress a little.
Those were times of innocence. Palakkad is the small district headquarters of an agrarian district. It is the Rice Bowl of Kerala and the general populace depended directly or indirectly on agriculture. The other main income groups were the NRIs who left the shores of Kerala with minor skills like shorthand and typewriting and made their fortunes in Malaysia and the Gulf. We studied in Govt Victoria College, an institution more than a 120 years old, named after the original Queen Victoria I. It was a time when bell-bottoms were out and rampant unemployment was in. Liberalization had not touched the shores of India and music was difficult get. Vinyl records were out and Cassette tapes had just become popular. Videocassettes had made an entry but were available in the houses of a few rich NRIs. The run of the mill provincial type student was busy watching movies of Prem Nazir and Jayabharati(one sexy siren, more about that later: lest we digress too much) and humming tunes of Yesudas from Malayalam movies. We, then in college, had a bleak future. Many of us were condemned to run small businesses or work as pharma representatives.
Our day in Victoria College in those days was only an opportunity to eye the girls as they waft in and out in two shifts, doe eyed, wearing dhavanis and saris. We were singularly unsuccessful in romancing any of these maidens for the simple reason that they were too scared to complicate their lives. They and we believed that true romance happened only in movies. We kept trying nevertheless…. Life was a journey in a crowded bus, attending classes, an occasional movie in the local movie theatre and back to home. The walls of the college had graffiti, the class rooms had tall ceilings with cobwebs. The desks in the classroom had a small round slot to keep your inkpot in which probably students of a bygone era would probably dip their quills and write their notes. We were sex starved and had plenty of time in our hands.
We read Nietzche and Sartre, Harold Robbins and Ayn Rand. And we listened to plenty of music. To give you an idea we were pretty advanced in spite of our limited exposure. We heard Gerry Rafferty, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Gordon Lightfoot, Pink Floyd, Deep Purple and watched video tapes of the Woodstock Music festival. And there were some of us who could strum chords in a guitar. We were passionate about music and some of us spent all our living hours playing guitar trying to get tunes right. We had an occasional smoke from a joint and booze binge for diversion. We started a band and started playing in youth festivals. We certainly got a lot of attention doing something different in a provincial town. There are conflicting versions of how the band got its’ name. My memory is clear. We were sitting on the Verandah of the hostel on a lazy college day afternoon, watching girls passing by. The words fell out of my mouth when I saw a fire engine (or was it an Ambulance? ) going with sirens screaming. My band mate Anand thought it was a great name for a band and so we became the False Alarm.

It began innocuously enough. I still remember the first performance. We managed to rope in two girls (who were sisters of class mates), hired a good sound system and played Devil Woman by Cliff Richard with screaming vocals and some basic guitar runs. It was appreciated but the prize went to another Band, which played Country roads by John Denver with great vocals, and harmony. That was a revelation- that good music primarily calls for oodles of talent. Good equipment comes next. We went back into a huddle. We gathered experience playing at college festivals, beat competitions even marriages. We became known to be professionals of a sort playing largely to an audience, which couldn’t care less for music of the western kind. Lyin’ eyes by Eagles and Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel were played to an audience largely consisting of unsuspecting souls raised on a diet of Malayalam Playback singers. And there were no more girls wearing skirts on stage. We were a bunch of passionate dreamers dedicated to making great music. We hoped one day to play great music before a musically enlightened and discerning audience. We popularized some songs by playing them repeatedly. There was no MTV and hence we didn’t know the basics of dancing/swaying on stage or using smoke generators. We played only cover versions but had one number, which we composed and told no one that it was ours. It was the unthinkable then. A far cry from today when playing cover versions is supposed to be the vocation of bands playing in Hotels. We stood right up there on stage, stiffly, playing music and occasionally winning compliments, prizes and appreciation. But it was great while it lasted. We knew there was no career in it. Some of us were so passionate enough about music to want to make playing in Hotels/ restaurants a career. I had entertained visions of working on a regular job during the day and playing music in the night wearing a wig so that no one would recognize me.
I recall many small things from those days- Of how one of us was Korak (a nickname) was better looking than the rest of us. He did get the eyes of all the women….and we envied him but were deficient in looks. Of how Anand, certainly the most talented one of the lot, who was more interested in impressing the girls than making good music. Of how Ramki, probably the most passionate about music, had briefly become addicted to grass. Now it all seems so distant and oh so silly.
Today we are all in regular jobs, running families, leading staid and boring lives. Our kids are grown up and are on the threshold of doing college and I often wonder whether any of them would inherit the passion if not the music. I suppose they have too many distractions around them and it would be difficult to focus on anything in a sustained manner.
I still recollect vividly how it ended. We were so intense about our music and had ground rules for practice sessions. Everyone turns up in time for some solid practice and we immensely enjoyed these sessions. The drum rolls were perfected, guitar licking fine-tuned and the vocal harmony put to test. The drummer, incidentally the youngest guy in the band, failed to turn for practice twice before the University Arts Festival. It was the big day for which we had been practicing for many months. We fired him & went on stage without him. The show was a disaster and we lost. I put the guitar down and never touched it again. The band False Alarm continued in various avatars with different artists for some more time and wound up one day. Heard about a hot new guitarist who joined the band briefly and made it very lead guitar centric with very little attention to vocals.
Years later, twenty five years later, to be precise, my friend who still runs a small business in Palakkad, told me this story about a reminder of False Alarm. He had gone for a temple festival. He over heard a bald guy pointing him out to his grown up daughter and telling her how False Alarm used to play music in college days & how listening to our performances kindled his interst in music of the western kind.