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.

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.

********************
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

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.

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.

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.