Of recession-proof jobs and monkey gazing

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

The Booker for Virgins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leonard Cohen for all seasons

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


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

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

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