God is Barry, a white Australian....

The handful of readers of this blog are convinced that I am a heretic, godless creature whose past sins will revisit him in world yonder. Happy to announce that I am convinced that God not only exists, but he is a white, stockily built Australian called Barry, who chauffeurs a car for a living..
The last few days in Delhi were a flurry. Affectionate farewells from colleagues, bills to pay and things to attend to kept me busy. I was wistful and sad as I left the familiarity of Delhi and took a leap into the unknown. I landed in Canberra on the 13th of Jan with the Missus and luggage. No, I didn’t carry any pickles, Dal and fried Malabari prawns: Australians have strict quarantine rules. We also were subject to a limit of luggage of 20 kgs- The fact that we were going to be in Australia for a full year merits no consideration by the Government of India. So we chose to wear layers and layers of winter clothing so that it is not counted towards the baggage allowance, only to arrive in Canberra on a hot and sunny day.
We were taken to the accommodation which we had booked almost two months ago. We were earlier supposed to arrive with Vasu aka Chathu. Luckily we found someone else who was flying to Melbourne later in the month to accompany him so that our one and only son can continue in India in the pampering care of his maternal grandparents until schools reopen in Australia. We had been paying rent to keep the place vacant until we arrive. Contrary to the promises of the landlord we found the room we had was too small. We were sharing the Kitchen with a Bhutanese couple, who were out mostly during the day. There was hardly place for three members more. Moreover the loo was away from the room and didn’t have a latch to bolt it from inside. We had to hang a board which said “engaged” to prevent unsuspecting visitors from stumbling inside in a hurry. We made it clear that the loo has to be exclusively for our use.
The neighbourhood is wealthy upper-class Australian with many old people walking the dogs or watering the plants. Trust them to smile at you and say “hello” or “Good morning “sweetly. The nearest shops were at least half an hour’s walk. The high school which Chathu was expected to attend was also far away. Considering the number of senior citizens doddering about, probably the last boy from the neighbourhood went to high school in the 1950s. Not really the kind of place to raise a Delhi teenager full of energy, attitude and chutzpah.
We started off on the house hunting almost the very next day onwards. Soon we realized that it is a seller’s market. The landlords sort of fix rentals by throwing darts at a Monopoly board choosing the amount depending on whether the dart hit Piccadilly or Eastham in London. Quote high if it is Piccadilly and chances are that they get what they quote. It is a good time for Jai Mata Di and Khurana ‘Praaapty’ dealers in Dwarka to shift base to Canberra. If you have seen Boman Irani in Khosla ka Ghosla, you will know what I mean. The scene where Boman Irani acting as Khurana adjusts his private parts as he gets down from his huge car rather publicly is a classic. Either the Director or Boman Irani had been watching Delhi property dealers very closely …. I digress.
The guys working at Canberra’s property agents are normally very young and not very well informed. It is basically a holiday pursuit to earn quick money. The houses on rent are normally open for inspection for a princely 10 minutes on a Friday or Saturday. You could land up there to find 100 guys waiting in line to have a look at the house. You then make a formal application citing previous references; ie a recommendation letter from earlier landlords showering encomiums on your conduct as a model tenant. Now where would a couple newly arrived from India get that? From among the successful applicants one is short listed-Rumored to be by a process of throwing all the applications in the air near a wide mouthed garbage bin and plucking one from the air before it lands in it. I soon saw that we don’t stand a chance. The other option was to get a house far away from the Australian National University where we were studying or far from where we could admit Chathu. We would then be spending most of the time reading thrillers while waiting for or riding in Canberra’s rather infrequent public bus service.
So it happened that Anita (my diplomat sis in law) arrived from Melbourne the very next day to check us out. Like all the privileged foreign office types, she came in a large chauffeur driven car driven by Barry, an archetypal beefy white Australian driver- Quite polite for an Australian… Comes from driving embassy cars, I suppose. Anita had gone to the High Commissioner’s residence to drop off something. I sat and chatted with Barry for a long time about my housing predicament. Barry promised to keep an eye open for anything that comes his way. He noted down my mobile number too.
The next day I received a call from Barry in the morning. He said it sort of struck him that his sis in law had a vacant house in the suburbs lying empty. He told me that it pained him as a long-time Canberra resident that the city could be so unwelcoming to students from other countries. Rhonda, Barry’s sis in law is quite a busy professional The house was primarily built for her mother as an extension to her house. The said mother passed away before she could live in it. It has been lying vacant for the last one year or so. He said that we could move in immediately since she has no plans to let it out until Christmas 2009. By that time, we would have winged our way back to India. Suited us just fine.
We saw the house on a Sunday when Rhonda was around and we loved it. It is a fully furnished, brand new house with two bedrooms, central heating, lovely minimalist furniture and all modern conveniences. Rhonda, was kind enough to ask us how much we could afford. We told her to fix it slightly below the market rent so that she also doesn’t lose much. Although the rent is huge by Indian standards and it almost drains away our combined allowances by almost half, we thought it was worth it; considering that it was a beautiful house in a tony neighbourhood. She could get a much higher rent. But she sort of expects us to just keep the house clean and occupied. After we finalized the home, she even drove us down to check out Chathu’s School and she showed us the nearby markets. Quite sweet of her.
Chathu arrives on 28th Jan at Melbourne. We hope to go there, spend a couple of days and drive down with him. We expect to move into the new house around 1st Feb. It is slightly far from the University but there are Schools nearby for Chathu to go to. We have been going around Canberra; a small beautiful city; but with too many norms of acceptable public behaviour. It is rather vexing for the average Delhiite. So here I am with a place to rest my head with family in the capital of Australia, thanks to God, who actually is someone called Barry, a white Australian who drives the embassy cars for a living.

Adieu to Hindustan, briefly

Sorry about this long absence: I owe an explanation to my three readers. I am busy packing up to leave India for a year. A flurry of farewells, visitors and loose ends remaining to be tied up keeps me busy these days. Have been eating and drinking at places I haven't heard of before:(The Chilly seasons in Defence Colony and The kitchen in Khan Market takes the honours for good affordable cuisine- run by the same guy I heard). Also been eating at the Gymkhana Club- an indicator of upward social mobility in Delhi where my friends are members. Also at a couple of five star hotels I 'd rather not name or comment on- since I just don't belong there.

I am wistful and sad as I leave. When I was young I yearned to leave the country and make a life elsewhere. I thought I was doomed to remain here. Now I feel lucky to have been part of the change that is sweeping all over India and don't want to miss a moment of the excitement. I am much travelled now. I can hold a wine glass and make sensible conversation with important people. But my heart yearns for home.

I might be able to find more time to contribute to this blog (hopefully) since I will be having some free time when I am not seriously pursuing a Master in Public Policy in Australian National University. I am leaving on 12th morning with the missus who is also going to be my class mate.(Not really excited at that prospect). Chathu follows after a couple of weeks. Bye

Monsters bred by Men

This is an old story…. circa 1999. The land of the pure had recently been rid of self serving politicians and a General in jackboots was running Pakistan. Each new General thought democracy ought to be trimmed, watered, manured and groomed like a Bonsai plant. So the land of pure is blessed with a bonsai democracy with many smart generals with great body language pouring scorn on bumbling politicians. When the Kandahar hijack happened in New Year’s eve 1999, we had Pakistan TV beaming live into our living rooms in Chennai. Its’ discontinuance could be ascribed to lack of viewer ship owing to unimaginative programming than the diktat of India’s soft state apparatus. Expert after expert in PTV held forth on how the hijack is a RAW plot and how Taliban has shown maturity etc (Taliban has been variously credited with an overdose of piety not maturity by even Pakistan media until then). I remember feeling outraged at a nation gloating over the misfortune of Indians and propagating wild theories that Indians have done it unto themselves. Pakistan and Saudi Arabia were incidentally the only two countries that recognized the Taliban and Indians were at a loose end; not knowing how and with whom to negotiate. Pak TV also came out with this theory that a senior Indian Intelligence official is also present in the plane.
Meanwhile relatives of the hostages paraded before Indian TV asking questions and demanding answers as to what would they have done if a Minister’s daughter was inside the ill fated plane. As expected the hijackers got the release of terrorists in Kashmir’s prisons and India got its’ hostages. It was a day of shame for many of us who watched a nation brought to its’ knees. Pak TV was full of praise for the Taliban for handling the situation tactfully. Stories circulated about how the hijackers treated the hostages mercifully. US Officials commended India for showing restraint in the face of extreme provocation.
Comeuppance came sooner than expected. 9/11 happened. Musharaff, with equal felicity joined the war on terror. ISI (the infamous Pak intelligence agency, the abbreviation once stood for a form of quality certification in India- good thing they did away with that) was now at the front end fighting jehadis in the west and aiding them in the east. Distinctions were drawn as to how freedom struggles were different from terror. Stories were circulated in the western media as to how the ISI chief who went to negotiate the release of Osama actually advised them to dig their heels in- also about how Daniel Pearl’s killer (who incidentally was released from Indian prison in return for the hostages) was in ISI protection before he was turned over when the heat got too much.
Earlier we were talking about split personality of ISI itself. Now we are talking about how the Pakistani state is distinct from ISI. We know that all Intelligence agencies play dirty games. But imagine this. A glamorous gangster, basking in media attention in India, seen with lissome actresses in Sharjah is finally implicated in Indian courts for terror attacks. Going by the track record of the inefficient Indian courts that is saying much. There is also an Interpol alert against him. Well, ISI is said to have given him asylum. (Their media says this as much as ours do.) We always knew that Military Intelligence is an oxymoron. But Pakistanis take the cake for brazenness and suicidal strategy. The world be damned; we will do what we please….
I recently read Ahmed Rashid’s book Descent into Chaos. The role of ISI and their minders have been chronicled well. To think that a Pakistani can be scathing in his criticism of such a fearsome state institution is quite credit worthy. I admire the Pakistani media and civil society greatly because it has matured in circumstances not very propitious for its’ development. (While India’s is turning jingoistic with uninterrupted democracy) Rashid says the Americans have been led up the garden path by the ISI. I don’t for a moment think the Americans were fooled. They have immense capabilities to see through crap. But I wish they would spare us the commendations for showing restraint after Mumbai attacks. We have seen the restraint showed after 9/11. You can build your fortresses and sit smug inside them- Wait until they hit you.
The Americans love the Pakistanis for more reasons than one. The world’s oldest democracy has little patience with other lesser democracies. History shows that they have been comfortable with tin pot dictators and banana republics. While any proposal in the US system has to go through a rigorous vetting system (remember the nuclear deal), they can’t wait so long for answers from other countries. We can’t give them short speeches on how something ought to be debated in the Parliament or passed as a bill or has to go through the courts or regulatory agencies. So Generals in jackboots have an edge over us while dealing with the US system. Answers are fast; action swift, what if some arms and aid go down the drain?
Now the struggle in Kashmir- Indians could be accused of many sins; of rigging elections, of thrusting unpalatable state governments etc. But Pakistan has shot themselves in the balls by diverting the leadership of Kashmiri movement to Jehadis in the nineties, especially when they had a good thing going due to the incompetence of the state. Look at this; All they have to do is put Syed Ali Shah Geelani (the only Kashmiri separatist leader to openly demand accession to Pakistan) on national television in fur cap and white beard swearing to run Kashmir according to Allah ki hukumat. (Islamic rule) and not Fauj’s(Indian army’s). Even a dyed in the wool secularist, watching this mid sip of evening vodka, would vow that India shall hold on to Kashmir for a thousand years, if necessary, to prevent takeover by these jokers. He would say the same if a leader of any other religious persuasion said the same thing. Losing the sympathy of liberal Indian secularist and media takes some effort. - Pakistan, a split personality state, has seemingly achieved the impossible.
States go into denial when they don’t acknowledge the obvious. We, with sixty years of noisy democracy and free press should be able to acknowledge the obvious. There is a fringe group in every state. History is replete with the stories of monsters nurtured by Intelligence agencies. Theirs is particularly more lethal, remains state sponsored and hence more dangerous. Earlier only Indians were shouting hoarse about the ISI. Now the whole world does…
In the context of Malegaon blasts, we have seen the Nationalistic leaders repeating what we have been hearing only from minority leaders & vote bank politicians in the past- That the apprehended terrorists are being denied human rights, they are tortured in custody, confessions are extracted by force etc. When the majority hits back it is a reaction to terrorism. With minority it is just terrorism which has been fed by alienation and social deprivation. At the bottom of it all, violence begets violence. But to expect the Indian Muslim to show his patriotism is unfair. For a moment I imagine myself an atheist born in a Muslim family. I would be furious at any insinuation that my sympathies lie elsewhere and that my loyalties are put to test. Where do I go, for instance? The famous Vaikom Mohammed Bashir, one of the great Malayalam writers was once asked’ What would you do if all Muslims were asked to go to Pakistan?’ He said that he would adopt a Nambudiri (a high caste in Kerala) name and pass himself off as one. No way he is going to Pakistan. I speak Malayalam, not Urdu he said.
As an ex refugee from a liberal Islamic state (Malaysia- which could be ranked right up there as one of the most progressive Islamic state), all I can say is that all forms of chauvinism are bad, while chauvinism of the majority (religion/ race or whatever) is worst. It doesn’t give you a choice. If you are born with an identity, you are doomed to live with it. Criminal acts could be legitimized in the name of popular wish. Such a move could certainly find popular support especially in trying times like these. Malaysians believed that the economic backwardness of Bumiputras (sons of soil- yeah even their language has many common elements with ours) needs affirmative action. Hence medium of education changed to Bahasa Malaya, reservations started in higher education, businesses could be started only with Malay partners etc. The country we left behind had a multiethnic soul. When I went back 30 years later, I could see broad highways, tall buildings: but the soul had gone to sleep.
Our diversity is our strength. A few monsters with spitfire guns cannot kill our soul….

Of recession-proof jobs and monkey gazing

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

The Booker for Virgins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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