The empty ball

Who are you? A bleeding heart liberal? a snooty conservative with empty pockets? What do you stand for? I ask myself. I really don’t know the answer to that. As a public servant, I shouldn’t be speaking of my political beliefs; but let me admit I have none. Long ago, I thought I stood for the weak. I liked to see the mighty bite the dust. I derived inspiration from tales of dark horses who came from nowhere and won races. Then? What happened to change all that?

 I somehow started smelling bullshit in the bleeding heart liberal agenda. We have heard the social activists living in Jor Bagh houses, who went to elite schools and sniffed from cocktail glasses paying lip-sympathy to the poor and the marginalized. They roll their vowels and mouth these nothings to stay relevant and appear good on TV. An economic conservative can cut through a lot of bullshit. Unfortunately they are mostly well bred horses from the stables of corporate houses. Where do I stand then? 

      This angst flows from the stories about India’s Maoist problem. Sitting comfortably in Australian shores these problems appear so distant. But something tugs me deeply and I can’t help giving vent to these feelings. In the last few days I have heard Indian academicians sitting in England ranting about the failure of the State in “delivering development” -as though it is a pepperoni pizza or a café latte that one could order, have it custom-made with right mix of ingredients and get it delivered. I have heard writers in Fab-India clothes eloquently accusing India of surrendering tribal land to corporate interests- as if they’d like to preserve tribal culture in a zoo and charge 10$ a pop for a peek into their lives by foreign tourists in cargo shorts and cameras. I have heard romantic revolutionaries carrying laptops abusing the government for unleashing violence and I have heard ministers and politicians talking of solving these problems with an iron hand. What more can I say?

       I still receive a lot of responses for the story ‘Autumn of the Naxalite’ in this blog. Many people choose to talk to me or email me instead of writing public comments on the blog. Some are very critical and some appreciative (undeservingly)- some have (wrongly) concluded that I have dormant sympathy for the Naxal movement, while some say that I haven’t even scratched the surface of the problem by talking to one man. Some point out errors in the story, which I swear were inadvertent. I have only tried to highlight the human dimension of a poignant story; not of a failed movement- maybe I have failed in my task...

     There is an even more tragic aftermath to that story that I haven't written about- about a father’s struggle to educate his children, the social ostracism that a jail term brings and a lot many other things. A doomed life is bad enough. The closed door of opportunities to build your children’s lives is frustrating. I have acutely felt this helplessness added to my inability to assist in any way. But that is no reason for anyone to go back to a violent movement. It is for us to open our eyes to see what is happening in our midst. Maoists, I am sure like all hard core leftists suppress the personal individual narrative for the larger cause they believe in. Just as there is no living model of a just society that a 6^th century prophet spoke of, there is no living proof of the equitable, socialist societies that the latter day dogmatists of the left movement aspired for. 

So what are they fighting for? What does violence beget? What have they achieved for society or for themselves? certainly not a just society; maybe just a few despondent fathers who tried and failed to rebuild their lives after a long jail term. India once crushed the movement the old fashioned way- with might and guns. I earnestly wish it won’t come to that again. Meanwhile, the Jor Bagh activists might like to roll up their sleeves and start small industries in tribal lands and try giving jobs to landless tribals, if they can’t stand the sight of big corporations. Thus they can put their spare cash to some good use. Even better, they can apprentice as public servants for a  few months and try to “deliver development” in the badlands. I am sure they won’t go anywhere near a TV studio after that. experience. Probably the western liberal ‘sham’ democracy that these activists criticize looks like the only long term workable solution available before us. Let us bet on it and try to make it work, by tweaking it, decentralizing it and empowering it. Where do I stand, then?

    Maybe I am a deconstructed Marxist, rushing to the finishing line with an empty ball clutched tightly to my chest- the ball of rationalism and inclusiveness. There is no hot air called socialistic society in that ball; nor personal greed working the magic of larger good. But I think I will add a dose of allergy to empty talk of failure of development in TV studios and a dislike of organized religion’s power to divert our attention from issues of livelihood to the salvation of soul.

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Some favourite quotes….

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing”

Edmund Burke  (1729 - 1797)

"With or without religion, good people can behave well and bad people can do evil; but for good people to do evil -- that takes religion."

Steven Weinberg (1979 Physics Nobel Laurete)

Puppy Love

Isn’t it wonderful to have a pretty young girl doting on you in middle age? What if it is a female pup with white mane and brownish long hairy ears, with a huge bellowy bark? I’ve found love again. The object of my affections is Saba, my landlady’s puppy. She came in May from Queensland by air, a small cute cross-breed of Golden retriever and poodle. She was tiny when she came but she has grown bigger and her white mane has started covering her eyes now. She spends her time out in the grass gnarling at passersby, twisting her head vigorously chewing something or running amok in the garden. In the mornings she would wait at the kitchen door for the Missus to give her breadcrumbs to eat. She would sun herself in the grass, sniff the air and drive away the parrots and Cockatoos that seek grains in the garden. She is an endless source of pranks and amusement. Let her in the house and she will make way with a pair of slippers or socks. But there is some bad news. She has a congenital kidney problem and the prognosis is that she may not last long. I am hoping that by some miracle she recovers. We would miss her more than anything else when we leave Australia.

Chathu was always keen to have a pup at home. For the last so many years we’ve been living in flats in big cities. The inconvenience of taking the dog out for its’ daily poop always deterred us. I had a dog called Benny long back, with a dark band around his neck. He looked like a cross between a mongrel and an Alsatian, but his ancestry is largely unexplained. During Vishu, a festival of fireworks, I tied some crackers to his tail and set them off. He ran away from home and didn’t reappear for several days. I started crying and my Mom sent delegations to search for him in the village, amid much admonitions of having got just what I deserved for treating the dog cruelly. After three days he reappeared out of the blue. I was overjoyed and swore never to scare away my dear puppy. He died years later at ripe old age. I didn’t think of having a dog ever after that. But Saba just might make me rethink my resolve when we get back to India. It is nice to have someone welcoming you when you get home.
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We finally did that trip to Alice Springs and the long road journey to Uluru. Alice Springs is typical heartland Australia. It is a small outback town. The long drive from Alice Springs takes 5 hours each way. We did that in a hired Toyota Kluger which drives like a breeze. There were acres and acres of desolation, with vast stretches of bare countryside with patches of bushes. There are four small outback stops with shops displaying the quaint inscription “No shirt, No service”. That sounds so much from another era, while aboriginals walked shirtless and white Australians wore top hats.

One is more likely to find regular Aussie binge drinkers without a shirt these days. The Ayers Rock, a large monolithic rock looks as if it dropped down from another planet. We gazed at it at sunset and sunrise and drove to the Kata Tjuta National park nearby. While there were sandstorms while driving to Uluru, it was raining when we were driving back. The weather varies from day to day in this country. There are places where it hasn’t rained for twenty years. While it was hot when we landed in Alice, it was chilly when we left. The long trip fulfilled an old dream of mine. I remembered it was this vision of Australia in “A Town like Alice” that finally drew me to this country to spend a year.

It's Spring!!!

The long hard winter is over. It was a time of chilly mornings, and icicles on the grass, interspersed with some pleasant afternoons, when the warm glow of sun bathed everything in gold. Winter, in a way summarized my mood. Despondent, sullen and cooped up at home with the central heating on. The night time temperatures would often dip down to minus 2. For a tropical creature like me, it has been a difficult time.

It is spring at last. The world around here is splattered with a profusion of flowers. Violets, hyacinths, daffodils, tulips, daisies and marigold are in full bloom. The Ginenderra Lake near my house is placid and the trees and strips of grass around it look greener. There is still a nice chill in the air, a distant reminder of the harsh winter. The sun burns bright and there are white wisps of clouds in the sky. The air we breathe is clean and pure. I realize what a beautiful small town this is. There are only 300000 residents and there is a forest in the middle of the city. If it weren’t for noisy automobiles zipping around in tearing hurry, I’d rename it as heaven.
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A few years back the Missus suggested that I read a book called “Foreign Correspondence” by an Australian author, Geraldine Brooks. She had got it from a library. I have hazy memories of the book. It was about the author’s lonely childhood filled with books and penpals. I saw a bit of myself in her. I too passed eventless days in my village walking by the river, staring at the endless greenery of paddy fields and reading whatever I could lay my hands on. An occasional letter from a pen pal in Czeckoslovakia, Morocco or Philippines was a big event and I would look forward to the postman’s arrival everyday. We liked the Geraldine Brooks’ book so much that we wanted to buy it. We couldn’t find a copy in the bookstores so we did something very unusual. We took a photocopy of the book, bound it and kept it with us. It still lies in our Delhi home. I just finished reading another book called “Nine Parts of Desire” by her. She is now a highly successful Pulitzer Prize winning Middle East correspondent of the Wall Street Journal. This book is about her journey to understand women in Islamic lands. She travels through Iran, Egypt, Turkey, Saudi Arabia and many other countries to discover the women behind the veil. She tops her journey by belly dancing in a Cairo restaurant to an audience of highly appreciative Arabs in head clothes and Egyptians. There are tales of women fighting all odds and spinning tales of success in the most oppressed & liberal countries. There is a chapter on the Prophet’s women, which is a storehouse of information. The book’s name comes from a saying of Ali ibn Abu Taleb (husband of the Muhammad’s daughter Fatima & founder of the Shiite sect) that Almighty God created sexual desire in ten parts and he gave nine parts to women and one to men. Geraldine Brooks has branched off into fiction also; and has written a couple of novels. She is really a writer to watch out for.
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What we are

Imagine a tall hairy brawny Sikh, brought up in Scotland, holidaying in India. No, he doesn’t go to Taj Mahal with a video camera strapped around his neck or the Golden Temple in Amritsar to offer prayers. He doesn’t try to catch up with Pinky Aunty whom he knew as a kid or Bunty uncle who taught him how to ride bicycles. He visits cities in India and cooks English cuisine at the most unlikely places. Why English cuisine? Well I couldn’t quite appreciate his reasons, except for a strange belief that to understand a people you need to understand their cuisine. Well, we didn’t understand the English even after 200 years of English rule. Why bother to teach us? I thought they adopted our cuisine and went back. Imagine Karuppusamy’s thatched restaurant in Mahabalipuram in Tamilnadu. Imagine a Sardar with a clipped Brit/Scot accent cooking shepherd’s pie and stovies there to feed the customers. I can imagine the uncomprehending looks on the dark faces of people gathered around him. He must have been the source of amusement for many days. The book is ‘Indian Takeaway’ by Hardeep Singh Kohli, a broadcaster and newspaper columnist. It is a fun read but a bit poorly edited- could have done without the repetitions of phrases at many places. The descriptions of railway journeys and his observations of every day Indian life are truly hilarious.

Often we see ourselves better through the eyes of outsiders. The other book I am reading is ‘Holy Cow- an Indian adventure’ by Sarah Mac Donald. It is written by an Australian woman who courageously lived a life of sin with her fiancée in India and lived to tell the tale(living together outside marriage is not yet considered kosher in polite circles in India…although we get by with worse sins like bride-burning and female infanticide). There are tales of Delhi male bravado, the ogling and pinching of female flesh, the dirty water and polluted air, and the loathsome public habits of men with fingers in nostrils, constantly re-adjusting their crotch. She experiences all this in a secluded and tony neighbourhood in Delhi, reasonably insulated from the dark side of the cruel city. I wonder what would she say if she had to experience the middle class existence of Indian babus in Government Colony Delhi?

Surprisingly I wasn’t offended by the descriptions of unjust Delhi. We are often caught up so much in our daily lives that we fail to see what is apparent. We are a highly hierarchical society and our importance flows from our exclusivity. It stems from how many people do we manage to exclude from our cozy circle. We snap at drivers, we scoff at servants, we heckle clerks, we abuse fellow drivers on roads and we violate the queues at movie theatres. Our membership to exclusive clubs, our family lineage, our position in the bureaucracy, and the garish furniture and drapes in our living rooms, all scream for attention to our exclusivity. We revel in this importance and turn up our noses at all the unwashed people on our streets. I could understand Sarah. She sees us for what we are… a people smug in our exclusivity. And this exclusivity is constantly redefined by excluding more and more people from it. All this while our politicians talk of inclusive development. Might be a good idea to start some inclusiveness from Delhi and from within the government….

I still yearn to go back to the melting pot that is Delhi, despite all that. But I dread going back to work. I have enjoyed much of this past one year, on the couch, reading, browsing, studying a little and day dreaming. The good time is running out and the show is about to begin... I try practicing the evil look of a self important Babu before a mirror every day…
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I am hooked onto the song’ Heads in Georgia’ from the J J Cale & Eric Clapton album called ‘The Road to Escondido’. It has a dreamy, laid back beat to it. Wonderful blues music!!

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…