Songs for the road

It is bad enough writing a funny babu-blog without Indian politics. It is something like wrestling Dara Singh with one arm tied behind your back. You start with a huge handicap since the biggest source of entertainment is taboo. Any opinion on it in this blog might violate service conditions of Indian bureaucrats. In spirit I don’t belong to the steel frame that is Indian bureaucracy Proof lies in that I have not cultivated that look of heightened self- importance even after 20 years in it. But nope; I shall not risk my job; though I run a serious risk of losing my sense of humour after a few more years in Indian babudom.

I read Indrajit Hazra occasionally ((columnist in HT). This thought comes from his recent column on the crisis in a major political party. Like he, I also had many suggestions recommending songs appropriate to be played at Chintan Baithaks of BJP, Congress Working Committee meetings with nice bolsters on the floor and CPM conventions held under huge khaki tents. You can take your pick between a Malayalam semi Reggae/ Hip Hop number called Lajjavatiye to the ‘Times they are a changin’ by Bob Dylan and ‘bend me shape me anyway you want me’, a 1968 classic by the American breed. I can laugh till my sides split, imagining kurta clad Netas doing a jig to popular numbers of yesteryears. But I shall refrain from setting forth such crazy ideas here.

American politics seem much better. The campaign starts with an important campaign-song choosing and a slogan choosing round. The slogans could sound variously like ‘where’s the beef’ (which had a lot of Hindus scratching their heads wondering what the forbidden piece of meat has to do with choosing the President of USA), ‘read my lips’, ‘shit gives’, ‘stuff happens’ and other such inane one liners which, if heard in isolation, make no sense. Only contemporary Americans can divine the deep, evocative messages that are contained within them. Before you start selling the $1000 a- plate dinners, booking airtime, appointing PR firms, sexy interns and other celebrity cheerleaders you need to choose a song that needs to be played incessantly on the campaign trail.

Fleetwood Mac is a great band to listen to while walking or jogging. The drummer, Mick Fleetwood (after whom the band is named) can make an ordinary beat sound exciting and lift your energy levels. ‘Go your own way’ is a wonderful song to have playing in your ears as you walk a few miles and slowly trot into a brisk jog. But who thought that the Clinton campaign team would dust off their old song ‘don’t start thinking about tomorrow’ and play it continuously in the campaign. I wish we could also do theme songs for important occasions. For anniversaries, campaigns, party politburo meetings and cricket coaching camps. I am given to mouthing lyrics of favourite songs all the time: as I walk, run, work, eat and while in toilet. Although a non believer, I have silly superstitions- like it’s gonna be a good day if I sing ‘I can’t tell you why’ by the Eagles in the shower every morning. Even the name (‘Helplessly Hoping’) of my blog is from the famous classic vocal harmony by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I can tolerate a load of crap; when accompanied with a soothing tune or lusty beat. Give me a song any day……
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I am teetering close to insolvency. Life is expensive here. The scholar ship amount is not sufficient to run a family. The Australian Government has given us student visa which contains permission to work 20 hours a week to supplement scholarship income. The Indian government forbids its’ officers from accepting financial support from other sources. I have borrowed a few thousands from my sis in law which is being repaid from my salary back home. The exchange rate being about Rs 40 to an Australian dollar, the said salary which would have given us a comfortable life in India, has rapidly vanished. Don’t be surprised if I am driven to working in a checkout counter of a supermarket (the only kind of jobs available for the asking) out of sheer necessity…. It is wages of sweat after all, not sin…. Some plight for a Babu who can sheepishly claim to have directly or indirectly controlled resources worth billions in the past. Another two months to go. Maybe this could be my last official foreign sojourn. It has been a great experience. But something tells me that it is not worth it if you don’t have enough of the green stuff. Scrounging was fun when young. Not any more…

Road Rules

Australia’s countryside offers some spectacular visions. Roads are wide, clean and with clear road signs and indications. On either side the Australian countryside whizzes past. There are gum trees, eucalyptus, brown earth, distant hillocks and a patient blue sky as you drive by. I have spent all my time in the South Eastern hub of civilization. This is a vast country and we hope to visit middle Australia sometime in September. The drive from Melbourne to Great Ocean Road by the sea coast is great. The drive from Canberra to Sydney of about three hours and the drive from Melbourne to Canberra of about eight hours are uneventful. While one could drink in the pictures of the country initially, it gets very repetitive as you progress. There is hardly a soul on roads. If you have seen the first ten kilometers, then you have seen it all. One might as well start counting the number and model year of Toyota Corollas that whiz by. My love for long drives remains. I intend to take one more long drive, from Alice Springs to Uluru. That is the heartland of outback Australia.

I drive an eighteen year old Nissan Pulsar car, which was given to me by a kindly soul who was going home in a hurry. I have always driven first-hand cars kept in spanking good condition. I am skeptical about taking this old car out in the night or going on long drives. I don’t want the car to die on me. Initially I was driving it Delhi style. That is the old Punjabi might-is-right school of driving. My friends warned me that I could soon be cooling my heels in an Australian jail. So I did some serious study of Australian road rules and familiarized myself with lane driving, right of way and other such irritants of polite road behaviour. Still I can see some drivers raising their fists and muttering at me for breaking the rules. I am trying to sell the car at the earliest since the University is a parking disaster zone. I would be better off travelling in public transport.

But I miss the road journeys back home. India is a great place for long drives. The roads are pot holed. The weather is often oppressive and keeps changing from bright sunshine to intermittent rains. There are check-posts, processions and hartals to break your stride. Road works, toll booths, accidents, stray dogs & stumbling bullocks cramp your style. But the landscape offers a collage of colours, smells, languages and diversity as we drive by. From verdant greens to desolate stretches of barren earth, from winding mountain roads to breezy seaside roads… Dress patterns, languages and dialects change. Road side motels offer vastly diverse cuisines as we move from one state to another- all this in an interval of 200 kms lasting a short four hour drive. You are richer by the experience. Can’t wait till I get there. But I need to buy a car back home. I sold the last one.

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Books read : Stranger to History by Atish Taseer. The author is all of 29 years old. He is the son of Tavleen Singh. He is the product of her rash romantic interlude with Salman Taseer, (presently Governor of Punjab province in Pakistan, ex PPP member) in the eighties. It is an intense personal narrative of a boy’s quest for his roots. His rootlessness springs from being raised without a faith or a father. I found it moving. As they say, one doesn’t become a father by impregnating a woman… but by investing in your child’s days- spending time with him, playing with him etc. In cyberspace one could see that the gentleman father is not exactly a popular guy. The antics of his legitimate children frolicking in violation of puritan Islamic code is splattered all over. In the eighties he apparently advised the journalist mother not to abort his seed and then made his glorious exit.

“Who are we: Challenges to America’s national identity” by Samuel Huntington presents a controversial thesis. Huntington (of the clash of civilizations fame) says that the embrace of Anglo protestant values is the way forward for America. He talks of it as a culture no more exclusive to a people endowed with light skin. Well I am open to the idea as we can see the results here. Indians boast of a civilization 5000 years old but don’t think twice before boorish public behaviour. Australia has not very proud antecedents, but they have built a highly livable, law abiding country. Huntington has a point there but his narrative on Hispanic intrusion in America’s mainstream is controversial. His arguments have a tendency to become prophetic. We will wait and see…

Trying to read : Master of Go by Yasunari Kawabata. When we were young we would read the reviews of great literature by M Krishnan Nair. He would criticize a short story by some poor unsuspecting soul in a Malayalam weekly and then go and comparing it with Marquez, Kawabata, Yukio Mishima, Gunter Grass and other worthies. The unequal and rather contrived comparisons notwithstanding, it aroused curiosity in us about great writers during our years of innocence. I started reading Sartre, Camus and other existentialists after having read about them in his columns. Many of the great works went over my head. I never found Kawabata in bookshops. I am still looking for Snow Country which is supposed to be his classic. Shall post my impressions of “Master.. if I comprehend it and manage to finish it.

I have not been listening to much music. I always loved to hear the rich royal sound of Mridangam, a percussion instrument widely used in Carnatic music.
Naino Mein Badra Chaye by Lata Mangeshkar is an all time favourite. Also Kuch Door Hamare Saath Chalo, a Ghazal by Hariharan. These songs give me goose pimples and I hear them again and again. I have lost touch with Mehdi Hassan Ghazals of which I had been a great fan. My friends up north tell me that I haven’t enjoyed a tenth of it if I don’t know Urdu.

I have been out of touch with Malayalam songs too. But I love some old ones. Try this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIHFt9Skoxc
The women back then had large heaving breasts and were generously proportioned. They had thick natural eyebrows, not shaped thin. Mallu men liked them that way in the seventies. And the men? They took great pains to shape their moustaches pencil thin. And their unruly hair was tossed, shaped like a bird’s nest. Their faces had cakes of makeup and had a rather unhealthy glow. Look at them and laugh all you want… But the music? It is divine. Straight from heaven…The poetry is incredibly romantic and the voice of Yesudas uplifting.

Friendly neighbours

Even sane journalists and defence analysts of India these days advocate the strategy of keeping Pakistan on the boil and tying them down to their Western frontier. Forget peace overtures with that country, they say- in peace times they are busy destabilizing us. Keep them busy fighting a war on the west of their own making. Let us get on with the business of development. I have friends here who belong to the Pakistan Civil Services. The cab driver who picked us up from the airport was a Pakistani- a post graduate from Australian National University who decided that driving cabs lets him be in control of his life- a remarkable attitude to life. They are no different from us. They speak chaste Urdu (for a South Indian like me it is basically Hindi with some additional strange sounding words) and are quite affectionate towards Indians- (it is hard to believe how much). Although I have been a keen Pakistan watcher, I hadn’t really met a Pakistani in flesh and blood until I reached Australia. They are just folks like us. One people divided in the name of fuzzy religions.

But it surprises me how much animosity exists in certain parts of Pak media towards us. Things aren’t very different with Indian media. But they reach a crescendo during brazen external interventions like Mumbai attacks, Parliament attacks and Kandahar hijack. Then they sort of die down and get busy with gory tales of rape and murder in Indian hinterland, tinsel town gossip and displays of wealth by the nouveau riche. But what explains this animosity in Pakistan? I was listening to talks by this guy called Zaid Hamid in Youtube. His theories are strange to say the least. I am told (with a wink and a nudge) that he is an “Agency’s Man”- the “Agency” being a hushed reference to the ubiquitous ISI of Pakistan. Hamid has many interesting theories- that Mumbai attack was orchestrated by Indians…even that Ajmal Kasab’s real name is (clutch your stomachs now) none other than Amar Singh. He is a Pakistani patriot who believes that Pakistan should be ready for the next Panipat war which kick-started a thousand years of rule of Hindustan by the “righteous”. He also declares that the Swat agreement is a result of disillusionment with the English justice system and if Pakistanis want instant justice; let there be Sharia. There are such many more amusing nuggets that I shall not care to recount all of them. He seems to be heard widely and is favourably commented upon by Pakistanis. If this is the Agency’s man then may his God save his Agency.

It is this elitism/ chauvinism that supposedly lost them East Pakistan - A belief that the Bengalis are not sufficiently infused with religious and martial fervour and subsequent refusal to transfer power to them in spite of Mujib winning a legitimate election. The scope for forgetting the past and moving on with development appear pretty slim right now. But a peaceful subcontinent busy working towards development of its’ impoverished populace can make a lot of difference. What divides us in the trajectory of development in post colonial era? I do not hold many strong beliefs or convictions (except for a few naïve beliefs like vodka martinis go well with crab fajitas and that Bengali women are beautiful) But I subscribe to this theory about democracy. The beauty of democracy is that it enables a generational shift of power from the elite to the underclass. Watch the shift of post-independence breed of Oxbridge intellectuals, maharajahs and landed gentry of India who dominated politics to the present lot of politicians among whom there are cowherds, tailors and school teachers. Most of India’s states are today presided over by ordinary people who spent a lifetime in politics. This imperceptible shift has occurred during our life time. We sneered at it in the beginning. Today there are a lot more seasoned politicians from the masses who are holding or have held high office. Yet one might say, don’t we still have dynasties? Yes, we do. But many dynasties are sprouting without the baggage of the past. I believe this transformation is what prevents India from breaking up or fighting too many internal wars. But dangers lurk in every corner, let me hasten to add.

This transformation could never take roots in Pakistan. With democracy interrupted by bayonets periodically, even today, the leaders of mainstream parties are from the elite. There really was no leftist movement representing the Aam admi cutting across regional affiliations. The leader of the Mohajirs (so called under-class of Indian muslim migrants) sits in UK, reluctant to face politics at home. Take a reality check. The Bhutto family, the Sharif family, the Chaudhries of Gujrat, Imran Khan… They are all riding on family wealth and connections. For a young bright Pakistani, joining the Army appears to be a more legitimate method of wielding political power eventually. Can you think of a Pakistani who rose through the ranks of the dust and grime of electoral politics?

Do you then blame the disgruntled common man for gravitating to the mullah with piety in his eyes and fire in his heart? Do you grudge him for following the preacher who leads a life of modest means and constant prayer? I suppose not. In similar circumstances, we could be also swayed by these pious worthies instead of wealthy politicians riding in Toyota Prado with gunmen for protection. Maybe two or three generations of power shifts to the underclass through democratic elections could see beginnings of change. Let us wish them that. Instead of wishing them a million wars of their own making…

Twittering Generation

For a guy pushing the wrong side of forties, I am reasonably techno-savvy. The most valuable testimony comes from my son Chathu. Once I was advising him on his choice of jumper (yeah, sweaters are called jumpers in Australia) with a hoodie; which I thought made him look like a drug dealer in New York streets. He said all his friends wear hoodies. They are the in thing, the new look. What do you know about fashion? About teenage styles? Agreed; you are good in gadgets; technology… But you know nothing about us. He went on. Yeah, the compliment slipped through and escaped from his lips in the middle of all that generational angst.

But I can’t figure out facebook and twitter. Do we need short sentences with dodgy acronyms to indicate what we are thinking while in toilet? Nothing like reading a nicely coined turn of phrase, a cleverly constructed sentence that delicately underlines the ironies of life… So blogs are OK- as long as they are not too self centred. I joined facebook based on an invitation from a friend. After joining I realized that an automatic invitation went from me to so many old forgotten acquaintances with whom I have infrequently kept up a correspondence. I had them crawling out of the woodworks and saying Hi nice to find you on face book. I am in California. Watch me on the vineyard round with my daughter. Someone from Japan writes, good to know you exist. It is raining in Kyoto. Yeah, it is a bit trivial.

The interminable wait for the postman, the anxiety and expectations that accompany it, have all vanished with emails and SMSes. Now my mobile flashes a silver light when emails arrive. Being a light sleeper and Australia being 5 hours ahead of India, most of my mails arrive at midnight. I am distracted by the flashing light. But I still get up, read the mail & go back to sleep. Some of the mails are forwards that I have seen before. Some very interesting ones, nevertheless. Chathu has an itouch and I discover the joys of touch-screen browsing these days. We also have a cheap, secure Wi Fi network at home to which two laptops, one VOiP phone, one PS3, one PSP, three mobiles and the iTouch are connected. It is a networked home, I bet.

We love technology for connecting us across mountains and seas in an instant. We love technology for making things easier by cutting, pasting, scheduling and reminding us of things to do. We love technology for putting us in touch with long lost friends who send funny forwards. We love it for the cozy comfort with which we send money and book holidays. But I guess technology has also extracted its’ toll by trivializing many aspects of our existence. For making us believe that the whole world might be interested in knowing who we chill out with, how the weather is out there and whether we believe Man U will win the next league outing. Technology tells us to communicate without thinking…and turns our youth into asocial creatures, cooped up before silly machines, playing mind numbing games which challenge pretty much nothing of our modest cerebral assets. Sometimes I wish, give me a few good books and no connectivity. I might spend months in our lonely house in the village which looks so empty without my mother. Maybe I will feel rejuvenated. I will start waiting for the postman to bring good tidings from old friends.

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I read P J O’Rourke on the constitution of the US of A in twitter speak. It is hilarious. Here is the link.
http://www.weeklystandard.com/Content/Public/Articles/000%5C000%5C016%5C721mjcvw.asp

Also discovered this author Christopher Mathew who has written the Crisp Report and Family Matters. Much in the style of Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole Diaries- of which I am a huge fan.

Also been reading Tariq Ali's Clash of Fundamentalisms and Duel-Pakistan on the Flight Path of American Power. A bit repetitive but gives a different, new perspective. Also read Rashid Ahmed's book on Taliban. These works tend to be too pessimistic on Pakistan.
A friend suggests that I should read the Martin Beck series by Per Wahloo and Maj Sjowall, a team of Swedish writers. They are not in the library and are expensive to buy. If anyone finds them in Darya Ganj second hand market, please buy: Promise I shall reimburse..

Missing something

Sorry about this long interlude. It is so cold out here. The temperature often dips to the minus zero ranges. These are days when one wants to curl up and read. Imagination freezes and one long for the sunshine and warmth of home country. Reports of fallen girders, monsoon failure, power cuts and water shortages fail to douse my enthusiasm for home.

I have been requested by a dear friend to write about MJ. My musical tastes have always followed a two- generation lag. I listened to most of my music in the eighties. We were not so clued in on Bee Gees & K C & the Sunshine Band. Instead, the music of Beatles, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd & Simon & Garfunkel which belonged to an earlier generation filled our lives. When Michael Jackson broke into the scene, we thought he appealed to callow youth whose musical tastes weren’t as refined as ours was (sounds pretty arrogant, I know). Don’t blame us if we found white socks, shiny pants, wavy hair and moonwalk a bit crude. Over the years, I consistently made serious efforts to plug myself in on to contemporary music. Savage Garden, Green Day, Metallica and Linkin Park are all bands I discovered along the way. But Michael Jackson passed me by without making an impact. Billie Jean was probably the only song which got my attention. But he inspired a whole generation as the obituaries would reveal. Maybe I missed something there.

But then one shouldn’t sneer at musical phases spanning generations. When four boys from Liverpool with funny haircuts started singing silly love songs, many sneered at them. Today, when I look back I really don’t think they were great, musically, I mean. But then songs like Norwegian Wood were anthems of our youth- although our youth happened much after Beatles ended their music. Contemporary music in the eighties reached the shores of India pretty late. In the nineties, the lag almost disappeared. My son listens to the latest that releases in the west.

Simon & Garfunkel are touring Australia. Tickets are priced too high. Sounds familiar. A couple of old men who sang for the young and passionate working-class during their heydays are squeezing out the last ounce of moolah from their musical careers. The music that inspired a whole generation is being flogged for all it is worth. And the working class boys in tattered jeans who grew up listening to them are now in suits and don’t think twice about paying a few hundred dollars for a peek at their icons. I consider the “Boxer” as one of the greatest songs of all times. I must have seen their DVD of the reunion concert in Central Park a hundred times. But no way am I paying a hundred plus dollars from my pitiful allowances to see them live. I could claim to my grandchildren that I saw them with my own eyes. But my grandchildren wouldn’t know who they were anyway…

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I am constantly accosted with questions on India’s defence prowess and the growing economic might. There are dedicated Indophiles in Australia. I evade these questions for one simple reason. For the large majority of us, becoming a super power doesn’t mean much. We’d rather see hunger and poverty eliminated from our land, our streets freed of crime, our rivers banks not stripped of sands, our forests pristine and green, our atmosphere filled with clean air to breathe, affordable power available round the clock, drinking water and education provided to all, and our youth gainfully employed. If economic might is a precondition for achieving all that, so be it. We certainly wouldn’t want a few tycoons and MBAs wallowing in wealth while the large majority tries to eke out a miserable existence.

And India’s defence prowess, did someone say? It is a bit too complex. Not a subject I would like to write about in a blog. While we have many fine Officers in the Armed Forces and several fine technocrats in our Military Industrial complex, these guys are often caught in the nitty gritty of troublesome daily existence. Higher defence management and superpower pretensions are left to those in the seminar circuits and media talk shops. I advise them to catch hold of someone in the leisure class to talk about these high fangled things.