Tuesday 28 December 2010

A murder long forgotten


It is very unlikely that the Nobel Committee would confer the World Peace Prize on Abdul Nazar Madani, an Islamic preacher/politician from Kerala. He swears that he is a man of peace and many individuals from politics and civil society vouch for him. Listening to his early speeches could be very unsettling. If you are a Muslim youth, you could be inspired enough to go on and plant bombs in crowded markets and 2nd class railway compartments. If you are a Hindu youth, you could be outraged enough to join the radicals who brandish Trishuls, chant the name of warrior gods and cause general murder and mayhem. The evolution of Madani from religious preacher to credible, smart politician is interesting. He is presently under the custody of Karnataka police for acts of terrorism. His recent arrest was a mega media event, with a reluctant police camped outside the orphanage where he is based and media persons speculating on his prayer schedule and health status.

           In the event of his getting nominated for the coveted prize, India may not take the trouble of writing to 180 odd world nations to boycott the investiture function. His chair won’t be empty and he might get there on a wheel chair (he was incapacitated many years ago in a bomb blast).  Many Malayalis might even take pride that the award has gone to a fellow Malayali. When he was in jail for over nine years in the Coimbatore blasts, politicians of various hues visited him to seek his help in various elections. Seeing a hardliner Islamic preacher in jail looked good on their political CV. One wouldn’t fault them for trying to earn brownie points among Muslims for the symbolism contained in these visits. Everything is par for the course in competitive electoral politics. He was set free by the Courts since the evidence did not measure up to the rigorous standards of Indian (actually English) justice. Cynics say (meanly) that he deserved a dose of Medeival Justice which involved cutting off certain parts of his already incapacitated body as was done in the case of a Professor in Kerala. Some suggest that the book of Constitutional justice be junked and Police ought to just bump him off in custody. While in jail, his wife was implicated in a conspiracy to burn state buses as a form of protest.

In other words, Madani is always in the news and he hogs the limelight. He is watched closely by a slowly polarizing educated State which is known to have democratically elected the first communist Government in the world. One would expect the Left in Kerala to fight this slow slide to communalism. But the politics of the left in Kerala today is largely mired in rhetorical slogans, cynical arguments and impractical positions on serious issues of daily life. 

     I almost forgot what I was coming to say. This is about the disappearance of another religious preacher whose life took a different trajectory. Chekannur Maulvi’s body, it is believed, lie un-mourned deep inside the earth or a water body without the benefit of a last prayer or burial.  He was a known contrarian in a world filled with conservative Islamists. He was known to be deeply knowledgeable in Islamic law and called for reforms in many aspects of prayer and conventions. He earned the ire of conservatives. He was sharp witted and brilliant in arguments. In public debates, he would outshine his adversaries while they would be frantically scanning many books for an effective retort. The learned Maulvi could even prompt them to look at a certain page without much ado. He was a clean shaven preacher, a failed businessman and a father of many kids from his two wives. If his arguments for reform of Muslim society were unpalatable to any, the least one would expect is that his adversaries would be try to defeat him intellectually in an informed debate. The brave voices of reform in Muslim community in the early 20th century managed to survive and live another day.  No such luck for a latter day reformist like Maulvi.

     Chekannur Maulvi was fetched from his home by a few young men on a dark night in July 1993. He never reappeared after that night. The civil society in Kerala protested feebly. Along with a few Muslims, despite the risk to their lives from conservatives, they fought for justice and called for an enquiry. A CBI enquiry was eventually ordered. Some men were arrested, some accused went abroad and some are yet to be apprehended. The needle of suspicion points to a certain hard line Islamic organization. For all practical purposes the wise ones who ordered the hit might never see a jail. They did what they did in their Lord’s service.

The Maulvi never fought an election. The Muslim League which has a strong presence in Northern Kerala, has participated in electoral politics, shared power with mainstream parties and reaped dividends for their community. If one has worked and travelled all over India, one could see the higher economic and social standards of a Kerala Muslim vis a vis his counterpart elsewhere in India. Some would say that it is an ideal example worthy of emulation: How democracy and electoral politics can slowly transform the fortunes of a community.

If reforms had to come from within, then the Maulvi had the right credentials to sound the bugle call and seek a debate. In a world of increasing intransigence and rigidity, the Maulvi stood alone, called for reforms and disappeared from the face of earth one evening. He didn’t get the justice that is enshrined in our constitution. He wasn’t called for TV debates with the bearded worthies ranged against him. Nowadays, he is written about more as a victim of a criminal case than as a scholar of Islamic studies. The mainstream society has almost forgotten him.

Therein lies the irony. Abdul Nazar Madani might yet win the prize for peace, with a few right noises and some deft political manoeuvring; while Chekannur Maulvi rests peacefully…unheard and unmourned.

Tuesday 16 November 2010

Death in the time of Climate Change


And quietly she came, in the night, slowly taking away life on earth, spreading wrinkles in skin, callouses in hands, aches and pains slowing movement. Sometimes she came like the whirlwind, snatching away young life, bubbling with energy, fresh skin, beautiful hair... The body is washed, clothes changed, perfumed candles lit. Invariably, relatives turned up to weep, priests came to bury or burn, rituals performed. Then the living got on with life to face just another day.

   The dead don’t worry no more about old age, fears of being poor and indigent, not whether children would fight over one’s belongings on earth. Death is eternal, inexorable and induces a hush in thoughts, in conversations. There are obituaries, increasingly exaggerated legends and hidden values of the deceased that everyone failed to see when they lived.
    M.P Narayana Pillai is a writer who was much ahead of his times- A journalist who transmuted into a story writer. His works of non fiction aren’t available easily anymore. He loved to shock the gentle, staid Kerala society. He shook the notions of political correctness in an increasingly hypocritical society. He wrote on politics, sex, middle class morality and turned conventional wisdom on its’ head. He could foresee the advent of cable and satellite TV so many years before technology took baby steps. He advocated sponsorship of roads and stadiums named after dead rich guys whose relatives won’t mind sparing some rupees to get their forefathers’ names etched in stone; and not after political personalities whose successors treat the country as inherited property. It could defray the cost of construction and who cares if they are named after rubber tycoons in Kottayam or Cashew kings in Kollam. He advocated reservation for Nair caste- who else has family gods, who else usurps priestly duties, who else has matrilineal system? Tribals, of course and if the stuck-up Nairs don’t see the benefits of reservation, they ought to be consigned to mental asylums, he said. So all ye Nair warriors- stop bragging about dubious lineage and sit in dharna in Kerala Government Secretariat, said he.
       And he wrote about suicides and other more painful forms of death. He advocated for the right of humans to die at the time of their choosing. Jains starved to death. Vedas spoke about spreading the holy Darbha grass on river banks and awaiting death. It was the Semitic religions that spread canards about suicide. They spread the belief that your life doesn’t belong to you but to some woozy creature in the sky called god. This wasn’t done with altruistic aims. It is smart to spread that belief to prevent mass suicide among slaves- wouldn’t it destroy the medieval empires if slaves decided to resort to mass suicide and put their masters in a spot? If poultry chicken had brains won’t they expedite their relentless march of death, thus depriving their owners of juicy meat and revenues? 

  If Pillai were alive, he would have reiterated his theories on suicide in these times of climate change. The burgeoning billions of living, breathing humans and their reckless consumption of energy and goods have really raised questions about sustainability of our planet. He would have advocated peaceful, painless suicides. He would have written against burning dead bodies, against using wooden boxes and marble plaques to bury them. He would have argued that it is better to dig a big hole, lower the body sans clothes, fill it with red soil and plant a fruit tree… He would have found a ready supporter in me…

Monday 8 November 2010

Closure


It has been almost two years since I started writing this blog. When I read old posts, I am often embarrassed with my immaturity and poor ability with words. Given a chance I’d rewrite most of the stuff I had written earlier. Still I doubt if they’d look any better.

But the one piece for which I get most responses still remains “The autumn of a Naxalite.” That story itself is part of the reason why I started this blog. I looked around for someone to write it then. I wrote it myself before I forgot much. It was just an evening’s conversation with a man who was trying to move on with life, putting his past behind him. When I re-read it recently, I felt that there is more about me in that story than about the protagonist. 

 Then I started getting a flurry of mails- in the last few months. I discovered that the story has become a link in some websites which are known for extreme left positions. The mails came mostly from people who were reluctant to express their opinion in the blog itself. I had journalists requesting me for a meeting with Bhaskaran. ( He was reluctant to meet journalists). I heard from NRIs who, in the midst of their cosy existence, reached out and told me that the story reminded them of those dark days.  I also had a phone call from a friend who seemed to think that some of the facts have been disputed in another story that appeared in another blog. I was also told to remove a name which I had mentioned incorrectly (I removed it immediately- if anyone has an old printed copy of that story, it could still be seen). Some readers complemented me for the truly neutral stand I had taken in the story. (That’s what comes of many years as a faceless bureaucrat- one learns to be ambivalent about everything!!). Some wanted me to write the story of the victim’s son- who must be about my age. How they lived through the aftermath of the brutal murder. I am just a passive watcher of the left movement who wishes that the Indian society and state could obliterate vast divides in our midst- so that future generations do not drift to violence. I am no writer-Only a pretender who wishes he could write.

The Missus is worried that these developments would slot me as a sympathizer to the Naxalites/Maoists and cause me trouble in my unspectacular career of a Babu. I have no such fears. In the social scale, I am somewhat closer to the meek and deprived classes. When I read about protests in front of a writer’s house, I was more shocked by the address of the neighbourhood, than by the undemocratic nature of the protests. No one is surprised by the writer’s overt sympathy to secessionism or Maoism. I am shocked by the duplicity in characterizing every instrument of the Indian State as conspiratorial, corrupt and brutal- while living in tony Chanakyapuri addresses. Do they realize what their strident critique does to the spirit and morale of small foot-soldiers of the State who are earnestly trying to make a difference, while living solely on Sarkar wages? Can we have an apprenticeship scheme in Government, where NGOs, journalists and even Maoists can do a stint as Government Officials and help out in streamlining land records, relocating slum dwellers, preventing crime and maintaining roads, power and water supply in this vast populous country with a noisy democracy? They’d be a lot less shrill after that chastising experience.
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        It has the makings of a potboiler. It has everything, a slice of history, the romance of revolution, police brutality and lives quietly falling away like autumn leaves.    It was a policeman suffering from pangs of conscience who opened a can of worms.  He confessed that Varghese’s (the Naxal leader of the 1960s) murder was no encounter- but a cold blooded murder by police, on the orders of senior policemen. It set in motion a whole new process, a CBI enquiry and trial, which culminated in the sentencing of a retired Police Officer, who is in his 80s’, to jail. Does it bring closure to Varghese’s killing? The old man may not last out his sentence in jail. He was known even in those days as the demolition man of the Naxal movement. But remember, this was the 1970s. Institutions of law, policing etc were effective but not evolved.  

Funnily enough, I can see it from the police perspective. As guardians of law, it is their duty to preserve peace. The guys who attack police stations, burn and kill stand against every democratic institution. The very same establishment that they are striving to overthrow cannot afford the luxury of a trial. So, a cold blooded killing it is. Did the cops do it for money? Did they do it for revenge? Did they do it out of a sense of righteousness? 

They did what they did: driven by circumstances. Do we get closure to Varghese’s killing by sending an old man to jail? No. Let us hold a mirror to ourselves and promise that it won’t happen again.

Friday 8 October 2010

The Gods are crazy

It has been two eventful months. Firstly, I have shifted base to Chennai and reunited with the Missus and Chathu. The average workday is longer and hectic. The workplace is 16 kms away but involves a commute of about two hours, dodging buffaloes, trucks, speeding buses and a vast multitude of two wheelers that swarm around you. I have joined a gym near my place and have been following a punishing ritual. I have also started learning to play classical Guitar along with Chathu. So there is hardly any time to update this blog. To the handful of readers who keep a watch on this space, my apologies. I might never learn to tweet and avidly post inane messages on face book. I am not pretentious enough to believe that the readers of this blog are dying to know what happens in my personal life.

I often miss the feeling of self importance that comes with a job at the Central Government- The feeling that you are in the midst of momentous decisions that have a huge impact on everything. As a middle level bureaucrat, I had increasingly come to rely less and less on people- for the simple reason that there are few below you, who can be ordered to do things. Hence the trivial acts of producing notes, write ups, analyses etc almost completely rest on you. Then there are the grey haired eminences who brutally dissect what you have written.

But I am very relaxed now. There is no tension that accompanies every Parliament session, every high powered meeting and there is no lurking doubt that you are always watched- no matter how exemplary your conduct is. Also, work moves faster. There are people who are reasonably competent and could be trusted to produce analyses, write ups and other such trivia. There is better discipline. Since this is a factory, employees punch their cards and don’t complain about that Punjabi Bagh DTC bus that runs late and reaches South Block only at 1130 AM. (Kya Karein Saab…)
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Karun Lalla, the Child- God, found an existence of His own over the dusty lanes of a sleepy little town. Soon Lalla grew into a mythological warrior and demolished the opponents, among who, were a 20 faced demon and a hedonistic guy who ate and drank six months and went on to sleep another six months. (Aah! To be born again under his skin…No day job? No commuting? Who was sponsoring him? Nestle? Parle? Pepsi? Curlon pillows?). Soon the Child- turned-warrior found a place inside the dome of the revolutionary He-God. The Merciful He-God shot to fame by turning anti-establishment in the 4th century when all one had to do was to obey the king- who rather whimsically worshipped the sun, moon, wind and the queen’s puppy. So the He-God shaved off his mustache, grew a beard, sanctified multiple sex partners, selectively agreed with theories on origin of mankind and killed the king. His followers brutally exhorted their followers to kill and maim those who believed in Other-Than-He. No place for a She there or Pretender-Gods…
The Child God’s followers finally splattered the vote bank of the nation and reduced the dome of the He-God to rubble. The Child-God (who for the purposes of elections and symbolic worship, underwent genetic therapy and growth-stunting surgery, remained a perpetual child) managed to get the country’s famous advocates to argue his case in musty courtrooms and air conditioned TV studios. The PR guys promoted his case for free. Meanwhile the He-God, claimed a stake on the dome (and present ruins) where he was once ensconced. The Lallaites argued that the He-God fought against such symbolism in the 4th century whereas the birthplace of Lalla was important to His followers. After much murder and mayhem (in which an estimated 650 small town artisans died and some Mumbai based smugglers were arrested), the judges in the musty courtroom ordered that the 60 acres of land be divided among the Lallaites, the He- Goddites and the Uttar Pradesh Wrestling Federation- who surprisingly had a piece of paper that said that the entire land belonged to them- and that their ancestors had used the land for mud- wrestling and growing vegetables. There was another bunch of Jholawallas who wanted the land to be turned to secular and non religious uses like building a hospital, stadium, Shopping Mall or Massage parlour. They sounded very disappointed by the faith- based division of land which could have been put to productive use to generate employment. Yet another bunch of followers of the Child-God and He-God variously attired in sackcloth, ashes and long flowing beards said that both Gods stood for the larger good of mankind and the killings by both sides are not sanctioned by scriptures. That left their followers terribly confused, who till now believed that their respective Gods are warriors, not doves.

So finally the Child-God and the He-God have equal portions of the land along with the UP wrestling federation. The next battle is soon to begin with corporate bigwigs adopting the Child-God and neighbouring countries adopting the He-God with financial support from oil sheikhs. The UP wrestling federation is soon going to appellate court claiming that only they have documentary evidence of ownership and the Lallaites and the He-Goddites have based their claim on hot air and dodgy history. The child- God and He-God have now mobilized followers to build worship-halls made of gold. A verdict from higher court is expected in... ahem.. another 65 years. Watch this space!!

Wednesday 4 August 2010

Random thoughts

If someone were to say that in general women write better than men, I’d seriously be inclined to agree with them. Many of my favourite writers are women. I envy the fact that they are (arguably) better equipped with powers of observation, they pay more attention to detail and they have a sophisticated world view. I had read somewhere about the debut novel “Zoya Factor” by Anuja Chauhan before I left India for a year in early 2009, but never evinced much interest because I thought it had something to do with that great game our entire nation is hostage to- cricket. I thought it was chic lit, a pretty young thing trying her hand at writing, full of abbreviations, fashion trends, and youth lingo I might not be able to follow. Surprisingly, I loved this book when I got around to reading it. It is a rip roaring read. Something tells me that this writer will go a long way. Although at times I felt the book could’ve been shorter, it is peppered with interesting incidents and hilarious phrases like “trying to tell in a ‘subtle Bihari Vajpayee’ way” and analysing fielding “poishuns”. I was really impressed with the style- of cool abandon. The story is a bit contrived, of a world we don’t inhabit, the descriptions are funny and the end is altogether unexpected.

The other surprise was “Notes from an Indian Conservative” by Jaithirth Rao. Conservatives are not exactly the toast of the season in the Post Bush era. When corporate honchos of the conservative persuasion write or appear on TV, I am convinced that these guys are so divorced from reality. This book is rich in ideas and contains a lot of sensible thinking on governance, foreign policy etc- except for a few jarring notes. Goes to show that conservatives shoot from the hip- not like bleeding heart liberals who try to look good all the time.
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I never understood diplomacy- especially the concept of holding government level talks. In the year I joined the Defence Ministry, on a pleasant November morning, I went to office, as usual wearing a half sweater. When I reached my office, my boss told me she was busy and asked me to represent her in Ministry level talks with French Defence Ministry delegation. When I reached the venue, I saw that all the members of the Indian Defence Ministry have come decked up in suits- even the leader of the delegation, one of the rare senior officers who wear sweaters to Office. I panicked and felt out of place suddenly. So I told myself that the clothes one wears aren’t so important, took a deep breath and went in. In a room full of suits, I sat in the front row, wearing a half sweater, looking like a flunkey. Even the note takers were in suits.

Worse was to follow. There was a lot of talk of the deep bonds and friendship between the two countries and the need to take the relationship forward. Most of it hot air without any substance. When it was my turn, I mumbled something which sounded very trivial compared to the nice, prepared speeches which preceded mine. I came out deeply scarred by the experience. Ever since I have always been wary of such meetings. My sympathies went out to the Foreign Minister of India who is being criticized for not defending the Home Secretary in Islamabad. Damned if you do: damned if you don’t.
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We are all set to showcase India as a rising power. Have we really thought why chairs are hired at Rs 8000 and air conditioners hired at Rs 4 Lakhs a piece for the Commonwealth Games? Why aren’t we surprised or shocked? If you thought that reputable Indian companies would love to do business with the government, think again. Most middle class Indians think corruption is the biggest problem with governance. I disagree. I would rate incompetence as the biggest problem. Lace it with liberal doses of corruption and archaic procedures; you have a lethal combination- enough to take the country 50 years back in time. Any bill for material supplied to the government does not get cleared for payment in a hurry. And the self important Babus at the top are blissfully unaware of what it takes to get payments sanctioned for legitimate business done with the government. It would take many visits to decrepit government offices and the convenience of small Babus in several departments, who are eternally on tea-break or have a different interpretation of the rule or wear their honesty on their sleeve, or are corrupt until a consideration is paid or are just absent from work. We also have a complex set of rules and procedures which are a throwback to the colonial era where the natives were considered dishonest and he/she needs to be actively monitored- All in all, a system which suffers from an excess of oversight and procedure, backed by a corrupt and ill-equipped workforce. These problems at the operational level translate into serious issues of governance. So ultimately who does business /supplies goods to the government? The sleazy business person, who has inside knowledge of the mysterious workings of the government, knows how to fix the maze of issues, has deep pockets and needs to be compensated for the long wait for getting things done. So you have a situation where margins are huge, transaction costs are high and returns are unpredictable. Isn’t it a wonder that the government still runs? I hope a time will come when a good or service is supplied to the government, the sanction is done online by the official who inspects it and the payment gets credited to the suppliers bank account electronically on the same day. A percentage of such transactions could be audited every year. Probably then the best companies in India might not shy away from dealing with the government…

Still can't get away from the fact that even by our wildest and most pessimistic government standards, Rs 8000 for chairs and 4 Lakhs for air conditioners look absurd…

Friday 30 July 2010

Middle Aged Man's guide to living alone

Never get into long distance arguments with your teenage son on phone. You can never win.
The Missus is always worried. Whether you live with her or you live away. So quit worrying about that too.
Eat frugally.
You can piss in the wash basin- No one is watching
Drink only with friends with whom you enjoy having a conversation. Office parties are a strict no-no. You are better off not knowing that the boss is having a roaring affair with the sexy steno who has worked with you all these years…
Watching Porn after the age of 45 is not Kosher
Don’t look at the mirror- you look horrid. You don’t need frequent confirmation.
Your bones start creaking and body starts aching: you can dream having a massage- preferably by a bikini clad babe as in James Bond/ Amrish Puri movies. But you can’t let anyone see your horrible body.
There is no cure for baldness in the near future and you can’t afford a hair transplant. So quit worrying and just get rid of that mop on your head.
Give up Pizzas. Eat Idlis.
It is good to pretend you are a cordon bleau cook. Young Women these days are sick of hormonally endowed studs who can’t cook.
For all you know you must be doing Yoga the wrong way.Don’t offer to teach it to anyone.
Keep snacks at home. Don’t eat them. You will look silly when someone drops in and there is nothing to offer.
Don’t accept offers for dinners with friends. Sympathetic Bhabhijis can stuff you with enough calories to last you for a month.
Go walking in the park. Don’t look at young lovers. You are a major distraction.
Spend little. Learn to like being called a Kanjoos.
Invest in experiences- not on a 42” Plasma TV

Friday 23 July 2010

Scandinavian Crime

If the number of successful writers of crime fiction is any indicator, one could be deceived into believing that Scandinavian countries top the crimes chart. The last week I finished reading all but one novel in the series of books written by Per Wahloo and Maj Sjowal- a husband & wife team that wrote a ten book crime fiction series. When they went to receive a prize in the US, someone quipped-‘ I can’t collaborate with my wife in making an Omelette. I don’t know how you guys collaborate:” True for many of us, I am sure.

What is interesting about the Martin Beck series is that they signified the early genre that is often categorized as “police Procedurals”. The plots are tightly weaved, they unfold realistically and the characters have many failings, which makes it altogether believable. The marriage of the protagonist, Inspector Martin Beck, crumbles through the series, a slow process which has a sense of inevitability to it. He often suffers from stomach ailments and the occasional killer cold. Mankell Henning’s Kurt Wallander series appears profoundly influenced by the series. If you count Jo Nesbo, Mankell and Steig Larsson, then it is a no-brainer that the Scandinavian countries have churned out the best quality of crime fiction per capita. The names and places are tongue-twisters. It is not easy to for the reader to build a sense of occasion in his mind when he reads “ Martin Beck walked along Kungsgatan and turned at Nortandsgatan.” The plot often gets submerged in the melee of unpronounceable names.

A nation of One billion ought to do better than that, don’t you think so? But police procedurals are not exactly something we are known for. Every day we watch crime scenes on TV where the actual scene is not cordoned off, leading to destruction of valuable evidence. Maybe a few years from now, our police would be better equipped to deal with evidence, DNA etc. from crime scenes. Here is an attempt at Indian crime fiction. A warning: this could be traumatic to the readers…
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Constable Ramlal navigated through the garbage dump and the little kids shitting by the wayside. The overnight rains had considerably worsened the overpowering stench that greeted him and all thoughts of having breakfast vanished. He walked towards the crowd assembled at one of the jhopdis. A huge gathering of curious onlookers had swelled close to the crime scene. The police wireless was dead and he got on the mobile phone to brief his DCP. After a long wait while the caller tune “ Om Jai Jagdish Hare” played, he picked up and grunted. It sounded like he was getting a massage at home from one of the prisoners in judicial custody for pick-pocketing and an important nerve just got seriously tweaked. Or was he labouring under the weight of the big bossomed, wide hipped mistress No 2 who lives in Janak Puri? Ramlal wondered as he explained the situation at the crime scene. “Has any politician turned up?” asked the DCP. “No” said Ramlal. “Dekh Lena. I will come in the afternoon”, the DCP lazily intoned and went back to whatever pastime he was indulged in. Ramlal couldn’t help but imagine bald, paunchy, hairy DCP Ratan Singh groaning under the undressed heaviness of mistress no.2 at her Janakpuri DDA flat.

The body of the 17 year old girl was lying in the bedroom. Rigor mortis has set in. The unemployed brother is missing. Another honour killing, thought Ramlal as he persuaded the onlookers to help move the body to the floor into a more comfortable position. This way the public could take a better peek, thought Ramlal. There ought to be another body somewhere; that of the victim’s lover from the same gotra, thought the dormant Sherlock Holmes lurking within Ramlal. And surely the Khap Panchayat must have ordered a hit on the unsuspecting babe and her impudent lover.

The missing brother was seen in the hooch shop drinking himself silly till early hours yesterday, said an onlooker, with five rings in each hand and pan stained teeth. He went on to helpfully add that the perpetrator might be a thousand miles away by now. Ramlal asked around if there was anyone from the family. The parents were away for a week and Ramlal was disappointed at the lost opportunity to threaten a couple of old fogies with dire consequences in full public view. He also missed the breakfast which is readily commandeered under similar circumstances for visiting cops from the nearby teashops. No point in calling the fingerprint experts since by now a hundred hands have touched the body, behenchod he swore, … almost with a touch of fatality.

(to be continued)
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My close friends and family know me as a gadget freak. I don’t spend much money on gadgets but I do have a layman’s superficial understanding of emerging technologies. I heard a movie-star-hunk in a TV interview some months ago. He was asked what kind of gadgets he would hope for the future. He said the appropriate favourite music ought to stream in from his personal media player depending on his moods and thoughts. I found the answer silly and self centred. Is that all he can dream of? A music player which intuitively recognizes the moods of the listener? It could be a very dangerous thing. Sex is constantly on the minds of many in our blessed nation. We could have “Shake your Body” kind of songs blaring out of a million ipods.

What do I seek from the future? Well many things. How about solar umbrellas and helmets that create a cool, comfortable field around the wearer under the scorching sun? Construction workers slaving away in the Delhi heat might be better off. Or have them create a similar warm field in cold countries. It could greatly relieve the burden of cops on winter-night-patrol in Moscow. Or have it installed on car tops so that the insides of parked cars remain cool/ warm? In Delhi I see many cars run by their drivers in idle mode with the engine running and the AC on, so that the fat posteriors of the VIPs remain cool when they get in.

How about magic pipes which spew clean drinking water in any remote location by mixing the necessary gases from the atmosphere. It could solve drinking water and irrigation problems. How about silent vehicles and refrigerated transporters for agricultural produce which run on cheap non polluting energy sources?

The thought of genetic solutions to failing body parts like hearts and kidneys sounds great but is not so great if you think deeper. One could save little kids from serious conditions. But soon we might end up with a lot of geriatrics walking around with replaced body parts, living eternally. And what if the more money one has, the more critical body parts one can afford? Like Warrant Buffet can afford a spare heart or two while Sharmaji next door can afford only a prosthetic palm. Weird, isn’t it? I gues it is better if one lives just as long as willed by nature.

Monday 5 July 2010

Solitude

I have been posted out of Delhi- on my own request since the Missus is in Chennai. The Indian Government has detailed guidelines on the subject of posting husband and wife to the same station, even if they belong to different departments. In a perverse move, I have been asked to move to Jabalpur, in Central India. Chathu is in 10th Standard and I think it is time that I need to be around him.(Although I seriously doubt if he thinks so) Somehow in life such pointers pop up which makes one rethink whether it is worth hanging around in Government. Well, fight I must, says my heart. Quit, says my inner voice. After twenty years in government, I am not too sure that I will find something to do in the private sector. I have started wondering if I can ever make a difference to things in Government, as I originally set out to do. My conscience confronts the ugly reality at workplace and my sheer helplessness in doing something to alter it. Quitting is not really an affordable option since I will need to pay the amount spent by the Government for the Australian education back.

I am living alone in Delhi. Looks like I will be doing that for a long time to come. It is not too bad, living alone, I mean. Firstly, you are in full control of your time. I think nothing of sitting up and finishing books late into the night. I am not able to read serious stuff with my present disturbed mind. So Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series is in my list of reading. Sort of Amitabh Bachan and Rajnikanth rolled into a white man 6’5” tall, ex military, spreading vigilante justice across USA. I have also learnt to cook a bit. I have rigid tastes and am likely to go on a diet of Idlis and Chinese for the rest of solitary life. I am trying to stop watching TV since I realized that watching news in various channels doesn’t add any value or depth to your understanding of contemporary India. I have reignited my musical tastes. But I haven’t discovered any new singers so far, as I promised myself early on this year. Got to keep myself going amidst this adversity. I have quit the occasional sip of vodka since I am scared that it might grow into a habit. Have been able to stick to the one cigarette a day routine but holidays are tough. With nothing to do, I end up smoking a couple extra. I am still prone to backaches and sprains and it is on such days that I feel helpless and lonely.

The thought of Jabalpur also makes me sad because I don’t know whether I will get access to good libraries. I have been living in metros for the last 13 years and it will be a bit difficult to readjust. Life in our defence factories in B town India is good. But I am not sure that I want to spend my life playing Tambola in Officers’ gatherings. I am not sure that I want to take a break for lunch, have a nap and get back to Office. I am not sure that I want to play billiards, badminton,swim and tone my muscles in the Gym. I am also not sure that I want to fight with trade union leaders, bosses and sundry local Dadas. I will keep myself busy and keep hoping that I will be reunited with Missus and Chathu.
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I read Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. If you are interested in British History, especially the reign of Henry VIII, during which far reaching changes took place, then you will love this book. Thomas Cromwell is the central character and his role in the rapidly unfolding events of the most spectacular time of English History is written with passion and verve. I could barely keep my interest sustained, primarily due to the complex web of characters. The underlying theme is interesting. The faceoff between the king and the church was triggered off by that one factor that caused many earthshaking changes in history- women.It was the king’s determination to take a new wife while the church forbade it. Learned man, King Henry…but he couldn’t control his hormones, I suppose.

Wednesday 16 June 2010

Smiling God

In the fading winter of early 2006, the Lido show in Champs-Elysees, Paris didn’t disappoint. With multitude of costumes, dances, movements and songs, it enthralled the audience that paid a tidy sum to gulp champagne, eat dinner and revel in one of the greatest shows on earth. In the half century of its existence great artists like Shirley Maclean and Elton John have performed there. More than 70 artists, 600 costumes and 23 settings are meticulously planned, choreographed and presented to a dazed audience in a show that lasts a little over an hour.

But that year, a delegation from India (of which yours truly was a humble member) was among the audience. The show and its themes had much to do with India. The mythical figure of Hanuman was showcased as funny, risqué, bawdy and irreverent. Some of the members of my team were provoked by the show. One of the members took it up with the Indian Embassy officials. The diplomats said that a few others had also complained. But it didn’t make sense to ask to withdraw such references from the show or asking them to close down for being derogatory to Hindu mythological figures. The matter ended there.

Hindu mythology contains stuff that couldn’t be mentioned in front of polite society or impressionable children. Semitic religions have Genesis and other such illogical stuff like the inescapable subtext of incest. Wade through any old religious scripture and one is bound to stumble upon a loads and loads of nonsense. Religious preachers try to put them in some ancient context to rationalize such nonsense. I am afraid that if one day I am told that I need to believe in some God and religion to qualify for citizen’s rights, I would be spoilt for choice. Maybe I will choose Buddhism, the Ferrari of religions as Jeremy Clarkson, the BBC’s auto writer describes it. The bullshit meter reads lowest in Buddhism.

The French republic was founded on the principle of true separation of religion from politics. When the French display a deep aversion to visible religious symbols like the Burkha, headgear & Kripan we must try to understand why. The separation of state and religion is absolute in France, unlike in other western democracies where religion is visible in state affairs but tempered with tolerance of all religions. During the French revolution the property of the church was confiscated and divided among the poor. It is amusing to see Burkha debates on TV which show liberals argue that the French intolerance of Burkha is discriminatory. I believe that that the time of anti religion and liberal thought died in the 70s’ and 80s’ and the forces of darkness are back. These forces are in the garb of religious preachers aiming to convert an entire generation to piety and intolerance. We read Ingersoll, H G Wells, Abraham T Kovoor and M C Joseph when we were young and atheism was so in. Richard Dawkins may be popular today, but I suspect his readership is mostly confined to people of a certain generation. If in need of a spiritual fix, our youth is more easily swayed by TV evangelists, the most dangerous of the lot.

I have always encountered propagators of religion, dripping sympathy at me since paradise is not mine. Believe in my God, they say and paradise shall be yours. The religion that I am born into says you are doomed to be born again and again as lesser creatures if you do not live by the code of acceptable deeds. Facebook was banned in Pakistan and Bangladesh. They were restored after taking solemn assurances to remove all references to a drawing competition of the prophet. Books are banned for unsavoury references to living or dead Gods. India has its’ own sporadic communal riots like the big ones of Gujarat 2000 and Mumbai 1993. Ahmedis have been butchered in Pakistan for believing in their own prophet. Society is increasingly turning to religion, astrology and other claptrap without questioning the foundations of these beliefs. Some of the biggest crooks I have seen in life are deeply devout. They are regular at prayers in temples, mosques and churches. They wouldn’t bat an eyelid before slitting the next man’s throat.

With so much evil all around in the name of God and religion, I can only pray that God cultivates a sense of humour. God’s followers need to reinvent a smiling, tolerant God. Not the grim, humourless guy out to kill, maim, ban books & websites and stifle free thought.

World Class

While studying in a foreign university that is ranked 16th globally, I was often asked why I chose the Australian National University (ANU) by my teachers. They half expected me to say wide eyed that I heard so much about the great education dished out there. I would disappoint them by saying that going to Australia was a childhood dream ever since I read “A Town like Alice”. A sis-in-law in Melbourne and an opportunity from the Government to have the Missus & Chathu along on a scholarship helped swing the decision.

In all fairness, I must say that I am not too enamoured by the education I received out there. I had to toil much more for grades in my Post Graduate Diploma in Management from MDI Gurgaon, 18 years back. Even a part time Law degree from Chennai needed some sustained hard work. This foreign Masters degree in Public Policy was a breeze. But I still rate the institution high for several reasons. While Indian colleges emphasize on memorizing, theoretical rigour and hard work, the Australians were high on fairness, transparency, maintenance of academic facilities, application oriented education, student’s capability to independently work and deliver. Do I welcome the advent of foreign universities to India? Considering that I am not supposed to voice my opinions on emerging government policies, I still can’t resist saying a thumping no. Two important reasons. One, only money spinners among foreign universities will be attracted to the idea of setting up shop here. So there would be no world class education as we have come to expect. Two, when we have global brands like IITs, NITs and IIMs, can’t we give them freedom to expand and establish more campuses independently in collaboration with State Governments and corporations? It is a no brainer that in due course we will be able to attract foreign students to this country. We have a reputation of having produced bright guys who did well globally. All we need to do is leave education to academicians and keep Babus/politicians out of it. Isn’t it ironical that most of the autonomous universities and professional colleges in India have been cornered by politicians? (with a liberal dose of help from Babus!!)

We should be able to replicate the administrative systems in foreign universities. In fact it is the easiest part. In ANU, the number of printouts that I could take from the online network printer during each semester was specified and anything above my quota has to be paid for. My identity card could secure me entry to buildings after University hours if I wanted to sit late and work on an assignment. Assignments are submitted online, and they are checked by “turnitin” software for academic honesty. The University offered a good quality of life. Libraries are extremely well maintained and computerised. Every facility is linked to our identity. Class rooms are bright, clean and well maintained. The lawns are neat and trimmed. Probably, our universities could train their administrators to replicate world class facilities here- at a much lower cost. The tougher part comes next. The Academic supervisors out there were fair in their assessment- no mean task, considering that in Australia, we were such a diverse group of students from all over the globe speaking in several accents. Fairness and transparency has to be built in over a period of time. For Indians that could be the real challenge.

It is surprising to hear icons of Indian software industry arguing for higher fees and autonomous, self-sustained universities so that students could take loans and pay for a world class education. They can always pay back the loans when they start working, they say. I disagree. I suspect a section officer in my Ministry can hardly afford to send his child to IIM even if he gets admission, if the fees were very high. We are just not that kind of people (who won’t mind taking a loan to give a pricey education for our kids). On a government Babu’s salary, it is a tough choice. So the fees need to be calibrated at an affordable level, with more scholarships and some government grants.

Lastly, education might be the next revolution waiting to happen. I can see it in my home state, children of auto rickshaw drivers, maid servants etc, struggling to educate their children for an Engineering or medical degree. It wasn’t like this in our time. The flip side of it is that the opportunities for vocational education and careers in blue collar have not kept pace. The not-so-bright among us ought to have opportunities for vocational education and lead a decent life, get married, educate their kids and move up in life. In Australia plumbers often earn more than doctors. Professional standards for any vocation are stringent and well defined out there. It is getting tougher to find a good professional plumber or carpenter in India these days. Plumbing is a demanding job that involves fixing toilets or in other words dealing with shit. A doctor isn’t insulated from that either…

Tuesday 11 May 2010

Caste Census

The potion was cooking in the cauldron. A busy looking guy in a top hat wiped the sweat off his brow and said; “could we now decide what to do?”
“Let’s add some technology” the geek helpfully said. “All you got to do in a country with a billion plus is to have a headcount with clean, unique and non duplicate data. By deploying more indifferent and corrupt Babus on the ground, we can’t achieve that. We need to scale up technology to reach the masses, to help identify the needy. Imagine when your identity is linked to your income tax account number, your bank account, your share trading account, your demat account, your property titles. Also your monthly electricity bills and credit card spending… We would know exactly who doesn’t have a home, who doesn’t have a steady income, who is in need of fair price cereals and who is in need of cheap medical care and education.” And he went on to add a lot of gobbledegook which no one could follow.
“Wouldn’t that be too intrusive? Citizen’s right to privacy and all that?” someone asked.
“Right now we are accused of not knowing what goes on under our noses. Not being able to target spending towards the needy. Let us put in place systems where very little direct interface with the state and its’ representatives is required. Today we have people with more than one ration card, voter IDs which are no more valid and driving licenses issued to minors.”
“Hmm.. sounds good. Will it work? In Britain, for example…” He was abruptly cut short by the guy in the top hat. “Please don’t go to Britain with your analogies. Do they have electronic voting machines? Do they have inaccessible villages with no drinking water? Do they have tribals living on bamboo shoots?”
“Won’t this be misused by the security agencies?” asked a tall brawny guy. “We will work around that and put privacy laws in place later”, replied someone.
“Shall we go ahead? Finally?” asked the guy in the top hat
“Yes. Let’s have it” said the others and so the cauldron kept boiling. They added a whole lot of technology. Iris scans fingerprints, national population register, Census data and other things were added to the cauldron.
“Caste anybody?” someone squeaked. There was a moment of silence. It looked as if the silence would stretch forever and ever. Suddenly everyone started talking- First in low voices and then in sharply rising tones. Then no one was listening to others. Someone threw a paperweight to gain attention. Soon there was pandemonium. Microphones were uprooted from the table. Slippers and tomatoes were thrown. There was yelling and screaming from someone who got hurt. Someone climbed on a chair and shouted, “Is this what the makers of our Republic wanted?” No one was listening to him.
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When I joined the government on a hot April morning twenty years ago, I was given a paper to sign. In it was a declaration that I shall uphold the constitution of India, so help me God. (I didn’t bother to clarify that I don’t believe in God. Does that make my declaration invalid?) For several years, I never gave it a thought. All along I was doing small things, playing by the rule book, where the constitution in its’ larger sense did not come in to play. Abiding by the constitution meant maintaining transparency, fair play and non- discrimination in official transactions. I have seen officers of the state maintain none of the above, freely criticize the constitutional provisions (especially of reservations etc) and hand out their valuable personal opinions to anyone who would listen. I realized that many of us had forgotten that small scrap of paper we signed.

Questions abound from both sides of the divide- those for a caste based identity and those who don’t believe in it. Isn’t caste the cornerstone of our centuries-old identity? Wasn’t affirmative action planned to help unfortunate souls who experienced centuries of discrimination? If we reject caste won’t we lose our social safety net of caste associations and local networks? Won’t we be saying goodbye to a rich cultural heritage? Do we divide people on the basis of class or their caste identities? What about Khap Panchayats that dispense medieval justice? Aren’t the poor unified in their deprivation? Do we need caste to identify their needs? Do we need caste leaders to look after the poor and needy among them? Isn’t the state duty bound to look after the needy irrespective of their caste?

Suddenly we have no answers to anything. Among the very rich and the very poor, caste plays a marginal role at best. Caste is a middle class burden, an identity that we unwittingly fall prey to. We marry, we socialize, we procreate and we build housing societies based on the ancient myth of caste. Caste still plays a big role in rural India. Urbanization, westernization and mixed marriages have helped a great deal in modern times to suppress these identities we are born into. Might be a good idea to ask to what purpose are the Members of Parliament asking for a caste-based census. To calculate their vote banks? To decide appropriate candidates? To seek reservation for newer categories?

Someone forgot to ask; doesn’t a caste-based or religion-based headcount implicitly go against the spirit of the constitution? Just like how we forgot about the scrap of paper we signed years ago...

Friday 7 May 2010

Bye Delhi ?

Two books that read recently are of successful bloggers. Sidin Vadukut of whatay.com made his debut with Dork. Arnab Ray of Greatbong.net has published “May I hebb your attention pliss”. While Sidin’s book is fiction, Arnab’s is a compilation of his posts. Both are roaring reads.

The handful of readers of this blog tells me that it is not so much fun to read it any more. We read for entertainment and not to know your weighty, considered opinions on matters of great import, they say. The reason that I am not sounding funny anymore, as I explain it, is that there is nothing funny about life anymore. But I am hoping to leave Delhi soon. Looks like I might end up working in a strange place, with no family, doing menial work. I have chosen to cut short my tenure in Delhi with the intention of joining Missus and Chathu in Chennai. Looks like that won’t be happening (I mean the joining-up-with-the-family part). But in a few days/ weeks I will be certainly bidding farewell to this city.

I have spent 5 long years here (except for the 11 month break in Australia). My Delhi is not the culturally rich, architecturally resplendent city with a life peppered with evenings of plays and literature societies. I have lived the life of a middle class Babu. I reach office at 9 AM -which is something very few Babus do- when I reach office the cleaning crew is busy cleaning up and is wondering what is this guy doing here so early. As I enter the building, I often try to fool the security personnel into thinking that I am a senior general. I am sufficiently grey and hairless to fool others into thinking that a wealth of experience has added to my rank. I try a different body language, a different walk, salute, expand my chest. But they are rarely fooled. They can see that I am a civilian Babu with slightly above average height and a funny walk.

I go home in the evening at indefinite time. I tell friends that I go to Office like a soldier- all disciplined, dressed, and in time. I go home squeezed dry like a civilian. In my spare time, I watch TV- shows like Tech Toyz, Highway on my plate, the week that wasn’t etc- shows that neither increase my general awareness nor broaden my perspective. The meals in between are insignificant. Finally, I curl up in bed with a book before going to sleep. Weekends are cooped up at home with more of the reading, except for a fortnightly visit to Eloor library nearby. We haven’t entertained friends or socialized much- except with a few notable exceptions. I have given the miss to the winters of Mushairas, plays, cultural societies, visiting Art galleries, thumping feet at Rock shows, chilling out at lounge bars or Barista pubs and eating out at new restaurants in posh localities that Delhi is famous for.

No sirree, I am not regular at India Habitat Centre (I am a card carrying, fee paying member, but have gone there only twice in four years), Gymkhana club or India International Centre (only as a guest a few times when friends invite me for lunch). It is not because I didn’t want to do any of these things. I really can’t use the alibi that I have to bring up Chathu. He is really growing up unmonitored by indulgent parents and grandparents. I really have no excuse that I can’t afford these pastimes since some of these are not all that expensive pastimes. I have no excuse that I have no time, because the weekends are free and I don’t burn the midnight oil in Office (except for a few days in end March for meeting targets). But from that summer 22 years ago, that I got into a train to attend the civil services interview, I have been haunted by the feeling that this is one city I can never really belong to.

Slowly I am overcome by a feeling that life in Babudom is transient. Survival in life’s choppy mess isn’t easy in our blessed land. I should be happy to be alive. I have built my safety net and remained smug in my cocoon. Often I think of spicing it up a wee bit with hectic socialising, party late into the night, plonk my life’s savings on obscenely expensive hi-fi equipment, find a paramour, go on a cycling-cum-camping trip to Rishikesh, start playing the guitar all over again, re-discover philately… But alas, there is a fear of the unknown, a sense of comfort in the pattern that life has fallen into. So it is really no fault of Delhi. The city could still claim to be the throbbing-with life capital with old world charm. If anyone recommends Delhi for its’ many splendoured life, give it a serious look. My word’s no good. But it helps to be rich in this city…remember that.
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Just as I finished reading Basharat Peer’s “Curfewed Night”, a book that I wanted to read for many months now, word comes that a Kashmiri Doctor came first in India’s Civil Services Examination. I felt a strange sense of pride in my country. Elsewhere in this blog, I have been critical of the exam, its’ obverse caste system of slotting those with a few marks less into the forgotten cadres and dying departments. The fairness of it is remarkable. Some would argue that a liberal dose of luck helps. You need to slog and work it out. Life isn’t great after you get in, though.
Curfewed Night is a book that can put you in an introspective frame of mind. The author gives the subject of Kashmir a very personal treatment. Entwined with many pleasant memories of his childhood and the violent and conflict ridden days. I think all Indians should read it to understand how the average Kashmiri thinks. The book gives insights into how conflict zones turn perfectly normal individuals into monsters.

Friday 30 April 2010

Adieu to Sarat

What can I say of a man I met once? And years later learnt that he died a tragic death? Did he make an impact? Did I sound like a pompous bureaucrat, talking of my life in Delhi? Or did we talk politics? Did he sound displeased with my unconventional views? Did he talk of the causes he passionately believed in? I can’t seem to place things right. When I read about his death, I was shocked. He seemed so alive. In death I knew him better. It was moving to read what his friends had to say about him. A life committed to making documentaries on environmental issues and lives of people affected by it. I remembered how modest he was, in spite of all the fire inside him.

Saratchandran left his job in the Gulf. He saved up enough to buy film making equipment, married the woman he loved and settled down in Ernakulam. He had no kids. His looks betrayed his age- 52 years at the time of death. He spent his life on causes he believed in. Not on professions that pay you or reimburse your travel bills. Making documentaries on Cola companies that drive down the ground water, on expressways that divide people of a town, on tribals affected by mining companies denuding forests in distant lands, against detention of activists. He participated in World Social Forum, other such ‘alternate’ events and documentary film festivals. One couldn’t always agree with his causes but he had intense passion behind his belief in them. He spent his life on his terms, spurning a life of relative comfort.

He came to our house one evening with Sunanda- his sister & Anil, his brother-in-law. Anil & Sunanda are friends from my days at University Campus in Trivandrum. Sarat was Anil’s favourite brother-in-law. Sarat readily agreed to take my son & Anil’s son to see “The Goblets of Fire” the then latest Harry Potter film in town. There were no volunteers among elders to do that. I remember picking up Sarat and the kids from the movie hall. We had dinner at home and they all left. He called me up once later to know whether DVD duplicating can be done in Nehru Place. (He would give copies of the human interest stories to audiences where his documentaries were not allowed to be screened, I learnt later)

The next I heard of him was about his death. On the night of his death, no one knew what exactly happened. Except that he got thrown off a crowded train. When I read more about him, I felt silly. There he was, spending an evening with us- never talking about his life or his favourite causes. We probably discussed the right recipe for fish curry and the madness that is Delhi. I felt silly that I didn’t probe his mind or try to understand what drives him. I felt silly that while we remain cocooned in our middle class safety zone, there are those like Sarat who chase their dreams for the world. Adieu to a life cut short by fate, to a man who dedicated his life to his beliefs. He leaves behind grieving for him a wife, siblings and parents.

Sport in the time of innocence

The flight was delayed from Goa. I had reached the airport at 5.30 AM. I hadn’t slept through the night. Although the airport is only a short distance from the Guest House, all my journeys have been like this. I am ridden with anxiety about missing the flight, what if the Guest House caretakers oversleep and forget to wake me up with a cup of tea as instructed, what if the car doesn’t turn up to take me to the airport…. I twitch and turn in bed.

In the airport, I saw large kits being loaded on to the luggage scanner. There was excitement in the air. The Indian and Sri Lankan cricket teams were travelling in the same plane; I was told when I checked in. When I got into the flight I didn’t see any cricketer. Amazingly I could see all around me guys with who were connected to the business of cricket. There were Sponsors, media, advertisers, commentators, ex players and many guys in suits and black berries. Is this real? Am I the only “non-cricket” person in the flight? I wondered. Then I could see our modern day superheroes ambling in like gladiators to a Roman Coliseum. I could see a young, excited guy taking snaps of his idols in the plane. I saw a Sri Lankan player with funny coloured hair. The Executive class was full of the super heroes. The junior players were herded into the economy class. The guy sitting next to me was engrossed in a conversation about the advertising rights and other stuff I couldn’t follow. I slowly fell into a peaceful nap.
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The great wars were fought in the summer. The sun burns bright and the paddy fields were barren after harvests. The earth was parched, dull brown in colour. The volleyball court was a patch of land; a paddy field in monsoon, which has been pounded to an even surface by players with constant serving, boosting, smashing and placing. The players wore lungis and some of them sported a towel tied tightly across the forehead- with the intention of going for a dip in the river nearby to wash away the sweat of the game and the dust of the day long toil. The bare chest players were the village working class society, strong guys who lead a brutal life on the fields all day. The upper crust was mostly onlookers with their fair, decadent bodies and life of leisure. They were equally enthused in the ongoing matches. The Muslims were strong, good players. But they would take breaks when the Mosque sounded Azzan for prayers. The matches were played until sunset. The players would call out to each other loudly to smash or boost. The teams were spontaneously formed on the basis of skill sets of each team. Official matches were played with the nearby village when the enthusiasm would run at its highest.

This silly pastime was looked down upon by village elders who sat on their haunches with sunken cheeks, white hair and tired, worn out bodies. “Waste of time”, they cursed as they puffed their bidis one more time and spit on to the bare earth. The matches were never scheduled in monsoon when most of the players would be busy ploughing the rain drenched lush green fields or planting saplings. Some would be busy fencing off the coconut groves and some, with low lying paddy fields would be worried about the eventual arrival of irrigation water. Some were busy studying for the exams almost guiltily when the rest of the family is busy rustling up the means of survival.

The game was in full swing. Points being notched up with great effort, lost in foolish mistakes. There is excitement in the air… No one talked of money: No one talked of valuations. The Panchayat Members, village Pradhan and Block Development Officers ignored the game and its’ proponents in the village. Some players were brilliant. They didn’t foresee a career in sports. In fact they didn’t foresee anything at all- Just a long life of toil and frugal living. A job as a constable in the State Police would be a great stroke of luck. They weren’t sponsored by sports equipment companies, soft drinks, airlines, razors, insurance companies or banks. They were playing for village pride. No one tried to nurture their talent… That was sport in the time of innocence…

Monday 19 April 2010

A Railway Journey

It has been years since I had a long Railway journey. The Missus being in the Railways entitles me to privileges to travel in relative comfort in trains free of cost. In return I give up my LTC benefits. Things changed as I grew older in government. Flights became the norm. In a tough posting there have been occasions when one had to take a flight as many as eight times a month. Slowly I developed an intense dislike of the food served in flights and started longing for a Railway journey where one could lie back reading a book in air-conditioned comfort as the train rumbles on. There is of course the bonhomie among co- passengers which is sorely missing in a sanitized short plane ride. A night and day in an enclosed space often brings co-travelers a great deal closer.

I read a very interesting book by Biswanath Gosh called Chai Chai- about places one would stop on a Railway journey but would never get off. The author takes a break at stations one would only stop at on a long journey and spends a couple of days at each non-descript junction with a fame that befell them by virtue of being situated at the cross roads of Indian Railway lines. Places like Ballarshah, Itarsi and Shoranur…

With the Missus and Chathu in Chennai, I am back to one of those inevitable phases of separation among Government spouses. I was in the Rajdhani express to Chennai last week. In younger days one would wish for single attractive women to be your co-passengers. Now I only wish that no elderly person, pregnant woman or a mother with infant child one would displace me from the lower berth that has been allotted to me- With an unceasing back pain, I am no more in a mood to clamber on to upper or side berths where my long legs won’t fit in.

As soon as I got in and settled down in my lower berth, I could see a hyperactive elderly Mami (short term for an elderly Brahmin woman) who had her entire extended family travelling with her in various parts of the train. In a few moments she had convinced half the guys in my compartment to take up berths in other coaches so that she could travel in close proximity of her family. The males of her family left her to coordinate the brouhaha that accompanied this re-arrangement, which involved hectic consultations and negotiations with strangers before the train got moving. I must have sounded cussed when I refused to move citing a back pain and inability to lug my luggage around. (I wasn’ t fibbing- a year back I would have readily moved) But she offered to do the shifting of luggage also. But I discovered that in exchange I would be taking a upper side berth two coaches away, which is an inch and a half short of six feet (my height). I politely declined. So did the guy sitting in the lower berth facing me. He was going on a pilgrimage to Rameshwaram. He was from UP and I overheard him telling someone on his mobile that ever since his younger son expired he had been planning this pilgrimage- for the peace of his soul. Suddenly I felt a rush of grief and sympathy for this rather non-descript old man living with the burden of memories of a predeceased son.

The train started moving. Tea is served. The passengers are quiet and were busy reading, gazing out, plugged into their personal media players or talking on their mobiles. A young typical Tamilian Chennaite got talking. He, incidentally landed close to us as a result of the complex reshuffle of berths. Throughout the journey, he went about the task of helping North Indian travelers fix up appointments with Doctors in Chennai, book bus tickets to many destinations like Chidambaram and Trichy. “ Yeny place in Tamilnad, Saar, Yacee super deluxe buses are there. It is naat like Narth India, he said. But don’t trust the Aato chaps, he said, they bring a bad name to an otherwise lovely, warm city. Really a good Samaritan, salt of the earth, the kind of guy, who reinforces our faith in humanity. I also realized that he is the archetypal South Indian bumbler with a funny accent, poked fun at by pretty much everyone in the North of Vindhyas. By the end of the journey, most travelers had his two mobile numbers (one his brother’s and the other his) to be accessed in distress.

In my return journey, my co passenger was a Subedar Major in the Army travelling on posting from Ordnance Depot Avadi to Jammu. Since we both belonged to the same mother of all departments in the Government, we got chatting. Another Tamilian family (a couple working in State Govt with an only son) were going on LTC to Delhi, Shimla and Jaipur. There were feeble attempts between the Subedar and the Tamil family to communicate with each other. I realized how different they were. After several attempts both sides were communicating through me, with arguably good conversational abilities in both Tamil and Hindi(or bad, depending on how you look at it).

The food got worse in the return journey. With my Subedar friend threatening the caterers that Saab’s (i.e my) wife is a General Manager in the Railways and that this quality of food will not be tolerated. This sudden elevation of the status of Missus to GM (which is a couple of notches above her present exalted position- I haven’t reached her level; thanks to the slow pace of promotions in Defence Ministry Departments) failed to impress the caterers and they went about their task businesslike. The food and the general cleanliness of the train only got worse as we neared Delhi.

Years back, food used to be served in large round steel plates containing small steel bowls for vegetables and Dal. They were loaded from designated stations like Guntakkal, Itarsi, Gwalior and Jhansi. After each meal the plates were taken away, the wasted food containing only organic stuff dumped in large sacks and the plates and bowls go for washing. Now the caterers in spiffy uniforms give a whole lot of pouches. Pickle, Jam, butter, tea, milk powder and a whole lot of other stuff comes in small plastic or paper pouches which after use, contribute greatly to the degradation of the environment. The Railway tracks and the common areas near the toilets become inundated with plastic and paper garbage by the end of the long journey. These guys are clearly not equipped to deal with large mounds of recyclable garbage.

I really didn’t do much reading. I had hopes of finishing Niall Ferguson’s Ascent of Money on this trip. Instead, I just lay myself down and watched the landscape rushing by, past ravines, mountains, desolated countryside, cities and coasts. The whole experience puts you in a reflective mood, about life and its’ many uncertainties. Many years back I undertook journeys to join my post in Ahmedabad in a bank, to appear for interviews in the civil services, to meet a dear friend in Lucknow, to fight a court case in Allahabad, to meet my parents in Palghat. I remember a night interchange in Jhansi when I discovered that my berth has been sold by the TTE to another passenger for a small consideration. I remember becoming friends with an Australian school teacher of the Kodaikanal International School. I also have vivid recollections of an attractive lady journalist (where would she be now, I often wonder: we did keep in touch for some time), a student from BITS Pilani, an Assamese with whom I shared a joint, a Tirupur textile industrialist who played songs from the Hindi movie Chandni loudly in his first class compartment and survived on cucumber, carrots and copious amounts of whisky thoughout the journey. It is almost as if I see a microcosm of the country in these journeys. And these journeys are very different from three hour flights with snooty nosed guys who treasure their privacy and laptops so much.

Thursday 25 March 2010

Walk with Comrades

I read Arundhati Roy’s walk through the forests of Central India with great interest. The handful of regular readers of the blog would know my predilection with the leftist movement and more interestingly my not-so charitable view of Ms Roy’s brand nonfiction. But this is one woman with great felicity with words. One wishes one could write like that. The description of a long hard journey through the forests is dreamy eyed and romantic. What is however, not so romantic is the weapons, gory murders and the Maoist perspective on all events of near and distant past.

Faith begins where thinking ends, as they say. Maoism for the 21st century Indian intellectual is the new religion driven more by faith than by hardnosed reason and realism. Where the romance of the revolution begins, objectivity ends. A thousand years of inequity is sought to be washed away in blood and flesh. It is even more saddening to think that we have been this way before. The new Maoist has MP3 players, laptops and crude guns and bombs. The Naxalite of 60s was well read, sported a birds’ nest hairstyle and was driven more by grinding poverty and an alive and kicking Mao. Mao’s mortal remains have subsequently been suitably embalmed and preserved. China is growing at an amazing clip by burying his teachings along with him. The Maoists of Dandakaranya are still motivated by the long dead Chairman.

What never ceases to amaze me about Ms Roy’s nonfiction is that she has a conspiracy theory of the role of the state. Those of us who are privy to the inner workings of the State can’t help but have a nice long gut wrenching laugh. Accusing the state of being a super intelligent conspirator, almost redeems the State from its’ incompetence. As I silently suppress waves of laughter, I think: The Maoist insurgency would never have arisen if the state existed in the first place in many parts of Central India.

Years ago, a job in the Government was considered to be important. Today, I have friends mocking me and sending internet jokes on non-performing Babus. Would our cities become garbage dumps, will our education system be so rigid, would there be so many people unemployed outside the organized sector, if, and only if the Government were efficient? So, while reading the fetchingly attractive Roy, I couldn’t help but balk at the description of the Government and its security establishment as brutal co-conspirators with the corporate interests, who are out to bleed the tribals to death.

She has cited interesting parallels to the Malaysian strategy of fighting the communists with what is known as strategic hamleting, by General Sir Harold Briggs in the 1950s- a strategy of driving people into roadside camps to insulate them from the Communist influence in the hinterland. The good lady avows that the Indian State does it all in a day’s work in every part of the country; Nagaland, Mizoram, Telengana etc. Why pray are we unable to build expressways, SEZs, railway lines, dams, airports etc at the blisteringly fast pace at which Maobadi China is doing them? All it takes is to string together and “strategically hamlet” poor souls out of their existing homes, drive them into roadside camps and bingo we can get on with the business of building roads and airports to beat the Chinese. Many of her statements stretch credibility.

But she has a great audience outside India. Ms Roy is avidly read in Pakistan. The Dawn has published her tome almost simultaneously as Outlook in India. Faiz rings loud in Central India, claims Dawn. Our lady heard a downloaded version Iqbal Bano’s rendition of “Hum Dekhenge” from a Maoist comrade’s ipod and goes on to describe it. One couldn’t blame Pakistanis for believing that Faiz is sung in Central India and not Bollywood hits. Ms Roy has added to the romance of exterminating the class enemy (much like the term Maoist infested area- a term she finds reprehensible; akin to a reference to pests or insects. We must brace up for a repeat performance of the 1960s and 70s. If feudal landlords were the targets in the 60s, today it is the hapless traveler in Rajdhani Express or the underpaid police constable doing a tough job. I hope the end won’t be brutal or violent this time. I hope it wouldn’t shatter the dreams and lives of a whole generation as it did then. I hope we won’t have romantic revolutionaries trying to eke out a living long after that dream has died. Might be a good idea to see if Ms Roy sees how old revolutionaries are leading their lives. Kanu Sanyal has just committed suicide.

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I was one of the first to migrate to the iPod bandwagon. I still consider it a great product. The iPod Touch is even better. I can’t afford the iPhone and hence am eternally waiting for prices to crash.

The iPad is all the rage. It is touted as the next big reader to beat kindle, the next media player and the constant companion of the future. The one crucial flaw with kindle or ipad is that it hasn’t got some of the cool features of the good old fashioned papyrus stuff that occupies our lives and our bookshelves: Something that folds and can be held with one hand. It needs no power input or battery charging. You can snuggle into bed with a book and the bedside lamp on. Until solar powered ipads come on the scene, I think the ipad needs a stand which can prop it up in bed and can be read hands-free. Or it has to be made in the form of a book, foldable and holdable with fingers of one hand. Am I buying it? Well I am excited at the idea. But I remember that my first pure white ipod (presented by my sis) got two facelifts in 4 years. I shall bide my time. Let me see how it evolves…Meanwhile my gorodesk (a beautiful Japanese contraption which is very useful to prop up the laptop in bed) has broken. I got it imported from Japan through a friend who was posted there. Am looking for a replacement. I bought something from ebay. It just isn’t as sleek as the Gorodesk

Tuesday 9 March 2010

Indus vs India

Mani Shankar Aiyar’s definition of Pakistan was simple- He tries many alternatives and comes to the rather interesting definition that “what is not India is Pakistan”. It was their un- Indianness that gave Pakistan a definition of Nationhood. Years later, one sees the nation grappling with its’ multiple identities as an Islamic State, a modern Nuclear Power, a hotbed of fundamentalism, military rule interspersed with democracy, one can’t help being convinced by that definition.

The book “Indus Saga” written by prominent Pakistani Lawyer & Politician Aitzaz Ahsan is remarkable for many reasons. I have been trying to read it for the last few years and didn’t know that it has been published in India also (by Roli Books). Thanks to the simple wonders of internet shopping, I own a copy now and have been reading it with great interest these last few days. These are days when the stress at workplace doesn’t make it easy to do serious reading.

Ahsan, was a Minister in successive PPP (Pakistan People’s Party) ministries and more recently he came into limelight for leading the struggle to reinstate the Chief Justice of Pakistan. My Pakistani civil service class-mates from Australian National University say that Ahsan chose not to join the Civil Services of Pakistan, in spite of securing a high rank. He chose a life of politics and law. The movements for democracy and restoration of legal institutions that he spearheaded helped to retain Pakistan as a South Asian democracy and not another despotic theocracy or a military dictatorship. He is a politician who has even gone against his party leaders to stand up for the institutions he believed in.

The book gives an interesting perspective to the civilizational origins of Pakistan. Ahsan makes a distinction between India and Indus. The land west to the Indus river, he says, constitutes a civilization all by itself going back to the Harappan era. One that is different from mainstream Indian and West Asian cultures. He states that the Indus civilization is not entirely evolved from marauding armies from the West, or the cultural osmosis by predominantly Hindu India. From the Harappan days, Indus had its own culture and hence, the author argues, the idea of Pakistan existed prior to the artificial divide caused by partition. One may disagree with the author, but couldn’t but be impressed with his marshalling of facts to sustain his argument and develop it.

At another level, he argues that the martial/ feudal culture of the Indus as against the mercantile culture of India was what distinguishes the two nation-states. From the Harappan era through the colonial rule, the author plots the trajectory of the Indus culture. The absence of a maritime culture and the inability to assimilate the mercantile culture of the British are some of the features that distinguish the Indus culture. He tries to encapsulate the Indian culture as bourgeoisie as against the feudal culture of Indus- the accountant/ trader/ book-keeper of India as against the artisan/ peasant/ landlord of Indus. He argues that it was easier for Indians to assimilate the British mercantile system whereas the Indus couldn’t manage the transition as effortlessly.

The danger with Ahsan’s definition of India is that it doesn’t cross the Vindhyas or try to understand the many splendoured North Eastern States. Even the present state of Pakistan subsume several identities and cultures- Pathan, Sindhi, Baloch,Punjabi and many others within its’ fold. Ahsan defines the Indus culture competently. The colourful and pluralistic entity called India doesn’t render itself easy to simplistic characterizations. In the national consciousness of Pakistan, India is primarily the belt consisting Punjab, UP, Haryana, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Bihar and J&K (which they believe ought to have been theirs). The period prior to National movement could be described as the one in which the distinctions, especially among the elite, between Indus and mainstream India came into sharp focus. I had always thought that a Punjabi from Pakistan can seamlessly integrate into Delhi culture today. A Malayali from the South or the Manipuri from North East is sure to feel alien. One couldn’t fault Ahsan for having swayed by a definition of India, which, I am sure many in India unwittingly hold. Even mainstream India couldn’t be easily characterized as bourgeoisie or mercantile. There are tribals, fuedals, artisans and several other strands that constitute the vast populace of India.

The book traces the development of the artificial divide of Hindu India vs Muslim Pakistan that continued for two centuries up to the end of colonial rule. Jinnah’s vision was not of an Islamic State but a state for Muslims. A vision, which was probably driven by a sense of alienation by sub-continental Muslims -or caused by the patronizing approach towards them by Nationalist leaders. A vision, which in hindsight, has gone horribly wrong. Without going into the sub text underlying the Indus-based definition, I can say that this book, written from jail during one of the author’s many detentions, is an un-prejudiced and candid analysis of Pakistan’s rich civilizational origins. This book would help us understand our neighbour better- and not let our impressions be shaped by the religious fervor of their bearded Mullahs or their violent loonies with suicide jackets and dreams of sex starved virgins in paradise or their Generals bandying about conspiracy theories.

Tuesday 23 February 2010

Acquired tastes

Why would 25 rupee National news magazines come with a free glossy pullout splashed with brands peddling million dollar watches, race cars, clothes, perfumes and expensive wines? Is it to appeal to the secret voyeur within us? Or to remind us how depraved and poor we all are? Or to tell us that if we can’t afford caviar and champagne, our lives are not worth living? Why do I still buy those twenty five Rupee magazine and glance through the glossy pullout quickly before I go on to read the grim and gory stories of the badlands of Chattisgarh, or the shenanigans of politicians?

I remember the times that I first went to work as a Bank Officer as a callow, impressionable 22 year old youth. In the Karyavattom Campus where I was studying then, my jhola toting, bidi puffing, Kurta clad friends were convinced that I had made it to the big times. Getting a decent job before I have officially not yet completed my post graduate course was a master stroke and all that remained to be bagged was a buxom, sexy wife, they said.

It is going to be a quarter century since I started my working life. And I am humbled that I have nothing much to show for it. As a village boy, I aspired to a certain refinement. Polish the rough edges, look good, carry oneself well, speak with great clarity, erudition and sophistication, live the good life, read interesting books and listen to great music. I made several unfruitful attempts to break free from middle class smugness and rise above hoi polloi.

One of the earliest attempts was a hand at Golf- that great game where big guys in tees and sports shoes chase tiny white balls. Once, about 18 years back, I went for Golf lessons to a mini Golf course in Gurgaon with an instructor who entertained visions of making men out of country bumpkins. One of my friends ( I seem to have many friends from that anarchic Demi-republic of Bihar!!) had his mouth full of Paan and in the midst of frenetic instructions, rather nonchalantly let loose a long stream of chewed red cud and liquid to the pristine, trimmed grass. As the rest of the group stood horrified, we decided Golf is not for us. Much later in life, a senior member of the uniformed services who was kindly predisposed to me offered me a chance at a Golf Club membership and a good quality Golf set at a special price. He really believed that I belong right up there; and also that I would grab the deal and go on to rub shoulders with the big boys at the pretentious game. I turned down the offer without a thought.

The other long drawn attempt was at enjoying fine liquor. I can lay claim to have downed some exquisite liquor, but without really being able distinguish between a single malt and other down market stuff like Diplomat- or a good vintage red and a $10 for three bottles of cheap Chilean wine. When I read men of taste write eloquently on the smoky, peaty aftertaste of the golden whisky and the wines that have the flavor of blueberries with a fruity tinge, I can’t for the life of me figure it out: nor can I figure out how these worthies acquired such complex tastes.

One major disappointment was the inability to appreciate classical Western Music. I have always preened at having a fine ear for music: or so my friends said. But my music shares its origins with the Vietnam War, flower children and Folk rock. I would get these calls at midnight “Could you check out this Barclay James Harvest number from the album "Gone to Earth"? An endorsement from me meant something to my musically inclined friends- Even today my good friends are not from the Babudom; but from a forgotten time when we lived and breathed music. But Classical Western always stumped me. Not that I am completely impervious to the charms of the music from heavens, where men in black suits and bow ties and women wearing pearl necklaces sit in many rows and play to the hushed silence of appreciative music lovers. Pachelbel’s Canon, Bach’s Air on a G string can still send me into paroxysms of joy. But my untutored ears never achieved the refinement to distinguish between the best and the rest- or to compare the relative merits of different renditions.

Not for me the glitzy charm of malls chock a block with clothing stores, watch and perfume stores. Not for me exquisite liquor coming in fancy casks or vintage wines that cost a bomb. Not for me the Adagios, contraltos and Tchaikovsky. Not for me the correct deportment; or the right accent. I come from the back of beyond and that’s where I am gonna go…. eventually.

Friday 19 February 2010

Prisoner of the State

The sun doesn’t shine anymore. The air is chilly and vision blurred with fog. Mornings bring a queer sense of depression: the downbeat weather seeps into one’s weary, tired bones. Moods plunge, tempers rise and life is not very pleasant at the workplace. If I have slipped very badly in keeping this blog going, it has to do with the down and out feeling that seems to taken hold of me.

I read Zhao Zhiyang’s secret autobiography called Prisoner of the State. He was the Chinese Premier who was discredited after the Tiananmen clampdown and spent the rest of his life under glorified detention. He had maintained copious notes on his life in house arrest after the Tiananmen clampdown. Here is a man who occupied the highest pinnacles of power only to spend his sunset years of life as a non-entity. Often the Tiananmen uprising is linked to the death of Hu Yaobang- another icon of the youth who stood for openness and allegedly, a liberal political environment. Hu was discredited and sent to oblivion. He eventually died early. The uprising was seen by the dominant lobbies in the power structure in China as something profoundly influenced by the values of the decadent west. Secondly the pro democracy movement was going out of control with the lumpen elements taking law into their own hands. Zhao’s soft line was decried and a clampdown was ordered. Zhao’s discussions with Gorbachev regarding status of Deng Xia Ping in the Chinese power structure also unwittingly contributed to his downfall.

The book gives an insight into China’s party politbureau, which is interesting at many levels. Firstly the single-minded and earnest pursuit of growth which lifted millions out of poverty over a quarter century is probably the most remarkable success story of our time. When India’s SEZ policy, evolved democratically is being slammed for being a sellout to the real estate lobby, the Chinese had used it as an instrument of development of Coastal and backward regions. While they have managed to urbanize and create jobs for millions in the organized manufacturing sector, have we only created a few investment bankers, consultants in fancy suits and software professionals? Don’t we have the largest chunk of population still eking out a marginal existence in the unorganized sector? We don’t know if their society has been rid of divisions. But clearly it is a richer society with better health, education and infrastructure indicators. Sometimes an opaque system can generate as much meaningful debate and produce quicker results. Is there a lesson in it for us somewhere? No, thank you please. I have seen how a transparent system itself is twisted to personal benefit. In a very complex, multicultural society such as ours, the more open, the better. With a robust constitution, Right to Information Act, active media and judiciary our people get away with brutality and sheer ruthlessness. Think about a system without these deterrents... It would be something like Nigeria multiplied into five. Give me a messy, flawed democracy anyday…

The book gives a rare insight into the workings of a system that is little known to the outside world. It is interesting to see words like mistakes, rectifications, self criticism etc used to analyze policy perspectives. No complex mumbo jumbo that one would encounter in the capitalist world. The power structure in the politbureau had clear divisions of reformists and the old guard. One fact also shines through. No matter how much the individual roles and perceptions are underplayed in the Communist system…. In the end, individuals hold the key. The power structure had its' own dynamics with complex interplay of lobbies. Zhao probably played his cards wrong. It was heartrending to read how Zhao tried to seek small privileges like permission to play Golf etc from captivity. He would cite party rules for more freedom; but in the end the mammoth unfeeling system did what it wanted to do.

In many ways we are all prisoners of the state, in different degrees I suppose. Tied to a job that I loathe- to an existence that restricts freedom in many subtle ways- tied to the social norms and the perverted hierarchy of Delhi’s Babudom. To be scoffed at by the elite… to be insensitive to the many inequities of life. I often wonder whether we are of the 21st century bureaucracy of an ambitious nation or a 16th century feudal serfdom.