It came naturally to him. Whenever he was in the company of the fairer sex he would hold their hands while talking to them. And the women on the other end never seemed to mind. They were very comfortable with their hands in his hands in the most public of all places, the NM canteen, Rasraj, Prithvi Café, Class rooms for crying out loud. And that’s where I met him the very first time. Just before Professor Iyer’s class, explaining Standard Deviation to a maiden while a few guys sitting on the bench behind made cat calls of “ saale haath chhod”.
To say that Chirag didn’t leave her hand is an understatement. He kept holding her hand through the discourse on Variance. And then it hit me. He was not doing it for some cheap pleasure. He was doing it because he was supremely confident that he could do it. And get away with it. Like he could get away with shirts which had every shade from the Asian Paints Diwali catalogue. Or he could get away with asking Talwani for his notes and keeping the originals and asking Talwani to study from the photocopies as he didn’t like that smell. Or he could get away with actually receiving a bribe from a Bombay Police traffic mamu.
He could get away with this and a lot more because he was very comfortable in his shoes. Very few people are. Only those who have the intelligence and know that they have it. He was, unarguably, the most intelligent person I have met. But there is more. Underneath that confidence that sometimes bordered on arrogance, was a gem of a human being. I was a small town boy, gawky, unsure, trying to find my way around the madness that was Bombay when I met him. And he not only showed me the way, he also taught me how to find my own way. I could make my own path because I knew if I went to unchartered territory he was just a call away. There was always that safety harness. Today that harness is gone.
There are things that you take for granted in your life. Sun rises from the east, London is always damp and cold, Air India will always make you feel like giving up flying, and when you dial a certain number you will hear that unmistakable “namaskaar”. Noone bothered to tell me that these “namaskaars” are finite. That I will have to consciously start using the past tense. That someone who personified life itself is not there any more.
We spent a year listening to Madhushala between NM and the rest of the world to Ravi’s constant consternation and never thought life will imitate art, and how.
छोटे-से जीवन में कितना प्यार करुँ, पी लूँ हाला,
आने के ही साथ जगत में कहलाया 'जानेवाला',
स्वागत के ही साथ विदा की होती देखी तैयारी,
बंद लगी होने खुलते ही मेरी जीवन-मधुशाला।
How can this be a just world. Please God, stop, rewind 10 days, play again.
And this time I promise I will make sure the day doesn’t end without an exchange of namaskaars. I promise I will write better and more cohesive sentences, I will not give him mustard oil in a shampoo bottle, I will even eat frozen aloo paranthas and give up rajma. Rajesh will be more responsible and not leave weeks worth of effort in the local. Ravi will not go to the library to “study” without asking. We will do that long pending US coast to coast. We will push a fully functional car on Worli sea face when its pouring. We will watch reruns of Govinda movies. We will…..
We had made it an art of leaving movies halfway. Little did I know you will walk out halfway from the movie of our life. We are waiting in the theater, calling out to that angel who is leading you…”haath chhod”.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Indian Low Commission
Yesterday I visited India. Took the tube from Stanmore to Holborn, walked along Kingsway to Aldwych, a few steps down India Place and lo and behold, I was in India. People visiting London often mistake Southall, Wembley, Illford etc. for India. But these places, while they see multitudes of Desis, are still British in many ways. For one people more often than not obey the local rules and two, what we call Desi is a curious mix of people from all parts of the subcontinent, not just India. However my journey yesterday took me to a sarkari office in an Indian metro, any metro, you name it.
That door or rather Portal on India Place not just Teleports you to India, it also works as a Time Machine. Technology so advanced that it takes you to India of the early nineties. A railway platform, a passport office, a land registration office, any and all of these sarkari offices bundled in one. Everything about that place reeked Bharat Sarkar at its best. I am talking about the Indian High Commission in the United Kingdom of Great Britain. And while the High Commission itself was Raj personified with glittering brass and glass and a spanking black Ind 1 Mercedez S Class parked in front defying all no parking rules, what was hidden in its underbelly was the Consular Office dealing with Passports and sundry.
Was I home sick? Not really. Two things, apart from the usual Desh ki mitti, make you home sick. Food and Family. No Indian can complain about food in London, and family, they are all currently west of the Prime Meridian. So no it was not because I was missing India. It was because my passport/s (like every Indian who has travelled a bit I carry a few with pride and feign inconvenience every time asked about it) was missing space for any more border crossing stamps and I needed a new booklet. The last time this had happened was in Bombay(MNS are you reading this, I want to be roughed up, banned etc etc) in 2002 and it took 30 mins to submit the application and I had a new passport the same day. Modernization, technology etc. have swept India since then and I thought being London, the process will be even faster. Was I in for a shock or what? It took me six hours to just submit my application.
The officials of the Indian High Commission are smart. Very Smart Robert. First act of smartness, they do not issue Visas from this location. Hence no Non Indian has any reason to visit this place. Second, the entrance to the consular section is so far removed to one side of the High Commission that to a passerby the long queue of Indians outside a door in India Place might seem like an audition for Gandhi 2 in the adjacent BBC building. Like a true patriot I went and stood in that queue that circled around a statue of Nehru with a sly grin on his face as if the building opposite was called Mountbatten House. After about 30 minutes I reached the counter and got a token number. I am a great fan of Token Numbers. They are a great equalizer. Irrespective of where you come from, once you have a token number, caste, creed, colour, religion all merges into that number. Readers of Ayn Rand including a certain Mr Greenspan might disagree but I for one believe there are places where individuality has to give in to uniformity. Unless as an individual you play golf with the High Commissioner and in that scenario you will have no reason to visit the basements of India Place.
With that token in hand I opened a door and found myself in India of 1995. While the rest of India has progressed, the Indian High Commission in UK is desperately trying to latch on to the last vestiges of the Raj and the red tape that came along with it. The door led me to a hall full of people. They were everywhere, or atleast it seemed that way. There were eight counters and every counter had about 20 people all over the counter window. Plus there were hundreds who were sitting staring at the 3 LCD screens displaying counter numbers and their movements, if any. A little investigation revealed that every counter had two or three persons with tokens next in sequence and the rest were either general hangerons who you find in thousands in any Indian sarkari office or those trying to catch the attention of the lady behind the counter with that half grin, half pleading look to help jump the queue. Aren’t we Indians the master of that look.
I decided to wait for my turn with the token. The movement of numbers on that screen was excruciatingly slow. Infact the lady behind my designated counter was a great fan of Karan Johar’s Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. For about 10-15 minutes numbers would not change on her counter, and then they would move, two or three in a row. I knew it would be hours before my turn came hence I started observing and analyzing that microcosm of India. Except I had to change seats in between when my neighbor realized that the British have hidden the Kohinoor up his nose and was using all fingers and thumbs at his disposal to reach it.
There were eight counters in total. Out of which two were for Passport services, or in other words catering to Fresh off the Boat, like yours truly. Four were for consular services like PIO, OCI etc, more organized as they were dealing with those shouting in that strange British Indian accent. And the last two were people surrendering their passports, cutting that umbilical cord for good. Can you take a guess which counters were the most unruly? The first two and the last two. The first two is obvious because we are like that only. We can beat up people in the Parliament, this was just a consular office. And the last two because this was their last chance to display their Indianness. Once they left that hall, they were expected to be British, get drunk and beat people at Football Games.
And the staff, courteous, multilingual (with Punjabis they were speaking in Punjabi and with Gujaratis in Gujarati and so on, until I realized it was all English) and always smiling (more at your plight). I can understand they were dealing with a difficult people. But that does not give them a right to be self indulgent, self righteous and condescending. It seemed they had graduated from the Air India school of customer service summa cum laude. They had no clue on what token numbers were running as the screens were facing the crowd, so every now and then they shouted, ‘what number on screen’. They were all specialized in their specific jobs like Passports, OCI etc. I guess the concept of cross skilling will last reach the Indian Government. If all this was not enough, promptly at 1:30 the system went down. As Mr Murphy said, right when it was my turn at the counter. “System went down and will be back up at 2 PM please come back after lunch”.
Do they realize that Systems do not go down even in India. We Indians pride ourselves in keeping the Systems up for the entire world. Its time you read The World is Flat which talks of India of 2002 and learn a thing or two about India’s progress Mr High Commissioner. I can't bring myself to call you Excellency, the experience yesterday was not even mediocre leave aside excellence.
That door or rather Portal on India Place not just Teleports you to India, it also works as a Time Machine. Technology so advanced that it takes you to India of the early nineties. A railway platform, a passport office, a land registration office, any and all of these sarkari offices bundled in one. Everything about that place reeked Bharat Sarkar at its best. I am talking about the Indian High Commission in the United Kingdom of Great Britain. And while the High Commission itself was Raj personified with glittering brass and glass and a spanking black Ind 1 Mercedez S Class parked in front defying all no parking rules, what was hidden in its underbelly was the Consular Office dealing with Passports and sundry.
Was I home sick? Not really. Two things, apart from the usual Desh ki mitti, make you home sick. Food and Family. No Indian can complain about food in London, and family, they are all currently west of the Prime Meridian. So no it was not because I was missing India. It was because my passport/s (like every Indian who has travelled a bit I carry a few with pride and feign inconvenience every time asked about it) was missing space for any more border crossing stamps and I needed a new booklet. The last time this had happened was in Bombay(MNS are you reading this, I want to be roughed up, banned etc etc) in 2002 and it took 30 mins to submit the application and I had a new passport the same day. Modernization, technology etc. have swept India since then and I thought being London, the process will be even faster. Was I in for a shock or what? It took me six hours to just submit my application.
The officials of the Indian High Commission are smart. Very Smart Robert. First act of smartness, they do not issue Visas from this location. Hence no Non Indian has any reason to visit this place. Second, the entrance to the consular section is so far removed to one side of the High Commission that to a passerby the long queue of Indians outside a door in India Place might seem like an audition for Gandhi 2 in the adjacent BBC building. Like a true patriot I went and stood in that queue that circled around a statue of Nehru with a sly grin on his face as if the building opposite was called Mountbatten House. After about 30 minutes I reached the counter and got a token number. I am a great fan of Token Numbers. They are a great equalizer. Irrespective of where you come from, once you have a token number, caste, creed, colour, religion all merges into that number. Readers of Ayn Rand including a certain Mr Greenspan might disagree but I for one believe there are places where individuality has to give in to uniformity. Unless as an individual you play golf with the High Commissioner and in that scenario you will have no reason to visit the basements of India Place.
With that token in hand I opened a door and found myself in India of 1995. While the rest of India has progressed, the Indian High Commission in UK is desperately trying to latch on to the last vestiges of the Raj and the red tape that came along with it. The door led me to a hall full of people. They were everywhere, or atleast it seemed that way. There were eight counters and every counter had about 20 people all over the counter window. Plus there were hundreds who were sitting staring at the 3 LCD screens displaying counter numbers and their movements, if any. A little investigation revealed that every counter had two or three persons with tokens next in sequence and the rest were either general hangerons who you find in thousands in any Indian sarkari office or those trying to catch the attention of the lady behind the counter with that half grin, half pleading look to help jump the queue. Aren’t we Indians the master of that look.
I decided to wait for my turn with the token. The movement of numbers on that screen was excruciatingly slow. Infact the lady behind my designated counter was a great fan of Karan Johar’s Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. For about 10-15 minutes numbers would not change on her counter, and then they would move, two or three in a row. I knew it would be hours before my turn came hence I started observing and analyzing that microcosm of India. Except I had to change seats in between when my neighbor realized that the British have hidden the Kohinoor up his nose and was using all fingers and thumbs at his disposal to reach it.
There were eight counters in total. Out of which two were for Passport services, or in other words catering to Fresh off the Boat, like yours truly. Four were for consular services like PIO, OCI etc, more organized as they were dealing with those shouting in that strange British Indian accent. And the last two were people surrendering their passports, cutting that umbilical cord for good. Can you take a guess which counters were the most unruly? The first two and the last two. The first two is obvious because we are like that only. We can beat up people in the Parliament, this was just a consular office. And the last two because this was their last chance to display their Indianness. Once they left that hall, they were expected to be British, get drunk and beat people at Football Games.
And the staff, courteous, multilingual (with Punjabis they were speaking in Punjabi and with Gujaratis in Gujarati and so on, until I realized it was all English) and always smiling (more at your plight). I can understand they were dealing with a difficult people. But that does not give them a right to be self indulgent, self righteous and condescending. It seemed they had graduated from the Air India school of customer service summa cum laude. They had no clue on what token numbers were running as the screens were facing the crowd, so every now and then they shouted, ‘what number on screen’. They were all specialized in their specific jobs like Passports, OCI etc. I guess the concept of cross skilling will last reach the Indian Government. If all this was not enough, promptly at 1:30 the system went down. As Mr Murphy said, right when it was my turn at the counter. “System went down and will be back up at 2 PM please come back after lunch”.
Do they realize that Systems do not go down even in India. We Indians pride ourselves in keeping the Systems up for the entire world. Its time you read The World is Flat which talks of India of 2002 and learn a thing or two about India’s progress Mr High Commissioner. I can't bring myself to call you Excellency, the experience yesterday was not even mediocre leave aside excellence.
Monday 2 November 2009
Cheeni Come?
Irrespective of which side of the political spectrum we belong to or more importantly which side of the rational spectrum we belong to we all think a Chinese adventure in India is imminent. And the adventure can range from a harmless “expression of unhappiness” to more than occasional “incursions” to actual annexation of a piece of land. All eyes are on Arunachal and despite posturing by various Netas in charge, I honestly do not think India, or more importantly the Indian leadership has it in them to take a firm stand in case any or all of the above situations present themselves.
I am one of those fortunate Indians who has been to Arunachal. And that too for pilgrimage. Legend or rather mythology has it that Parashuram (of the Sita Swayamvar, Shivji Dhanush fame) washed away his sins on the banks of River Lohit (Brahmaputra). Every year in January thousands of pilgrims from mostly North Eastern India cross the Brahmaputra and its tributaries, by ferry, foot, elephants etc etc to reach this picturesque place and take a dip in the icy cold waters of Lohit. Maybe it is more accessible now because my frame of reference is 1984. But I doubt it, as the place still does not find a mention as a popular pilgrim ‘four day five nights’. In-fact whenever I mention the place, I immediately get the “what on earth was Parashuram doing there”. But then come to think of it, what on earth was any of our Gods and Goddesses doing in any of those unreachable places that dot our pilgrim landscape.
I have a theory, and would like honest opinion. Its these places of worship that help make India. Or at the very least define our boundaries. From Dwarka to Jagannath Puri and from Rameshwaram and Kanyakumari to Haridwar, Amritsar and Vaishno Devi, millions of Indians travel across the great land mass to bow, touch, see and take a dip to be one with the creator. And I think this mass movement of souls not only defines religion, it personifies India. Taking it one step further, I think it helps mark territory. This sea of humanity on foot, trains, buses, is India and this India is as much at home in Haridwar as it is in Tirupati or Rameshwaram or Sabarimala.
Taking the same argument forward, I believe the reason Jammu still feels mainland is it’s the gateway to Vaishno Devi. And in those queues from Katra to the temple, you will find Indians from every state, caste, colour and bank balance. My bad, the one’s with means try and take the chopper and go for VIP darshans (like airport security, the path to Nirvana also has a Fast Track option). But VIPs apart, if Lord Rama had gone north instead of south, Srinagar might have been the setting of Bharat Milap or Sita Haran and not just our religious but our socio-political landscape would have been very different today.
The net state domestic product data released by the National Accounts Division of the CSO recently states that 7 out of 8 North Eastern states in India lag the national average in terms of per capita income. Only Mizoram has incomes above the national average. Moreover except Sikkim, for all the other states the delta between their incomes and the average national income has increased in the last 15 years. This despite the fact that Mandarins in Delhi have spent crores in the name of development. Perfect recipe for disaster. And if this does not precipitate Chinese designs, what will.
The only solution is better amalgamation. And we all know it. We have known it all along. Its one of those obvious truths that stare you at the face and mock you to do something about it. The government has tried its best and having spent 12 years in the Northeast I know a Government solution will never work. The way to amalgamation is Parashuram Kund. Or rather multiple such Kunds. The moment millions of Indians start travelling to all corners of Northeast to kneel, bow, bathe, it will pave a path for the region’s prosperity and integrity. Nothing in India sells better than religion and I for one believe a polluted Brahmaputra is worth keeping the country together.
Today mainstream India is indifferent to Northeast. Tomorrow if that same area is home to a few pop Gods and Goddesses (have to be pop like Ganesha or Ma Vaishno or Balaji) we won’t have to worry about Cheeni in our Tea Gardens.
I am one of those fortunate Indians who has been to Arunachal. And that too for pilgrimage. Legend or rather mythology has it that Parashuram (of the Sita Swayamvar, Shivji Dhanush fame) washed away his sins on the banks of River Lohit (Brahmaputra). Every year in January thousands of pilgrims from mostly North Eastern India cross the Brahmaputra and its tributaries, by ferry, foot, elephants etc etc to reach this picturesque place and take a dip in the icy cold waters of Lohit. Maybe it is more accessible now because my frame of reference is 1984. But I doubt it, as the place still does not find a mention as a popular pilgrim ‘four day five nights’. In-fact whenever I mention the place, I immediately get the “what on earth was Parashuram doing there”. But then come to think of it, what on earth was any of our Gods and Goddesses doing in any of those unreachable places that dot our pilgrim landscape.
I have a theory, and would like honest opinion. Its these places of worship that help make India. Or at the very least define our boundaries. From Dwarka to Jagannath Puri and from Rameshwaram and Kanyakumari to Haridwar, Amritsar and Vaishno Devi, millions of Indians travel across the great land mass to bow, touch, see and take a dip to be one with the creator. And I think this mass movement of souls not only defines religion, it personifies India. Taking it one step further, I think it helps mark territory. This sea of humanity on foot, trains, buses, is India and this India is as much at home in Haridwar as it is in Tirupati or Rameshwaram or Sabarimala.
Taking the same argument forward, I believe the reason Jammu still feels mainland is it’s the gateway to Vaishno Devi. And in those queues from Katra to the temple, you will find Indians from every state, caste, colour and bank balance. My bad, the one’s with means try and take the chopper and go for VIP darshans (like airport security, the path to Nirvana also has a Fast Track option). But VIPs apart, if Lord Rama had gone north instead of south, Srinagar might have been the setting of Bharat Milap or Sita Haran and not just our religious but our socio-political landscape would have been very different today.
The net state domestic product data released by the National Accounts Division of the CSO recently states that 7 out of 8 North Eastern states in India lag the national average in terms of per capita income. Only Mizoram has incomes above the national average. Moreover except Sikkim, for all the other states the delta between their incomes and the average national income has increased in the last 15 years. This despite the fact that Mandarins in Delhi have spent crores in the name of development. Perfect recipe for disaster. And if this does not precipitate Chinese designs, what will.
The only solution is better amalgamation. And we all know it. We have known it all along. Its one of those obvious truths that stare you at the face and mock you to do something about it. The government has tried its best and having spent 12 years in the Northeast I know a Government solution will never work. The way to amalgamation is Parashuram Kund. Or rather multiple such Kunds. The moment millions of Indians start travelling to all corners of Northeast to kneel, bow, bathe, it will pave a path for the region’s prosperity and integrity. Nothing in India sells better than religion and I for one believe a polluted Brahmaputra is worth keeping the country together.
Today mainstream India is indifferent to Northeast. Tomorrow if that same area is home to a few pop Gods and Goddesses (have to be pop like Ganesha or Ma Vaishno or Balaji) we won’t have to worry about Cheeni in our Tea Gardens.
Sunday 11 October 2009
Preemptive Strike
‘Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate’ or Occam's Razor.
The 13th century English Franciscan friar Occam was put on trial for heresy for this statement. Loosely translated it means if there are competing theories making the same prediction, the one that is simpler is the better. And now we know that any statement that made its proponent fall out with the powers that be (read The Church) in the middle ages is worth its weight in gold.
Last few days have seen the theory mill work overtime. The moment Malia, or was it Sasha, ran into the Oval office to announce that their Dad had won the Nobel Peace Prize, everyone and their neighbor had a theory. So much so that the man himself had a few. While he knew it was Bo’s birthday (Bo is America’s first dog) but what kind of people gift a Nobel Prize to a dog’s owner for its birthday. Given the owner is the President of the world, don’t they all behave or more importantly believe that, but its still stretching things a bit far. Even Occam might turn in his grave, simple he would say, not stupid.
So if we discount the Bo’s birthday theory, the next one in order of simplicity is the Eve meet Snake theory. Harry Belafonte explained it thus, ‘ Garden of Eden was very nice, Adam never worked in Paradise, Eve meet Snake, Paradise gone, Adam had to work from that day on’. In India this theory is further simplified and is called the ‘Make Marriage will be responsible’ theory. In other words, if your son is good for nothing, get him married. Once he realizes he has to shoulder the responsibility of a family, he will automatically get responsible and make a family. In other words Responsibility maketh man responsible. And India’s burgeoning population is a living example of the success of this theory. Get them married and the next thing you know there is a family of half a dozen staring at you.
Now how does this apply to ‘hum do hamare do’ Obama ji. Well, it doesn’t apply to him at all. It applies to a bunch of Norwegians who every year get together to decide the winner of Nobel Prize for Peace. Why the peace prize is given by the Norwegians and not the Swedes is a different topic. Alfred Noble chose Norway and according to Nobel's will, the Peace Prize should be awarded to the person who:
“
during the preceding year [...] shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.
For someone who had just spent two weeks in the White House when this year’s nominations were made and spent the entire last year fighting McCain, Palin and the Clintons, none of the above applies. So why? As I said earlier, ‘Make marriage will be responsible’. And here I do not imply that Obamaji is not responsible, in-fact I have been a huge fan and believe ‘Yes we can’. What the Norwegians have done is put the onus of responsibility of world peace on the White House as an institution. They believe that it will be very difficult for a Nobel Peace prize winner to send troops to Iran, or not recall troops from Afghanistan, or at the very least not go and bomb Iraq just because it was his Dad’s unfinished agenda. So in effect the Norwegians have made a preemptive strike.
And by doing so the Nobel Peace committee has tried to buy a few years without American war adventures. In other words war Insurance. And that makes one think, if Bush Junior or rather Dick Cheney was awarded the Peace Prize in 2001 after 9-11……oh no come on that’s too far-fetched. I can see Occam’s ghost throwing up. And as far as the Obama Insurance Policy is concerned, the Norwegians tried the same with a certain Dr Kissinger in 1973 and it didn’t stop the Cambodia, East Timur and Latin American adventures. Maybe the world deserves better this time.
Friday 9 October 2009
Cricketing Blues....
Every fifth human being is an Indian. But if you live in the British Isles, especially in and around Greater London, you know this is pure baloney. Every second person on the streets of this great Metropolis is from the subcontinent, or it seems. And on that bright sunny June afternoon, every single one of them, or rather us, descended on the Home of Cricket. “Two of us and two million of you”, exclaimed the “gora” standing behind me in the queue for a Pimm’s refill. And it sure felt like that. Venue: Lords, Occasion: India-England 20-20 game. But hold on. Where were the two million when India’s national anthem was being played. A whisper here, a murmur there, a few like yours truly mouthing the words, self conscious, careful not to emit any sound. And then the handful of “goras” reverberated the stadium with God Save the Queen. 1-0 England, and it pretty much stayed that way through the evening.
I have often wondered how a few Goras ruled over millions of us. And imagine they were playing away from home in alien conditions. Not only did they rule us, they battered our ego so badly it will take generations to overcome the deep rooted stigma, the chronic inferiority nesting in our subconscious. And all this façade of a super power in making has done nothing to (yess my GRE/GMAT friends, I have been dying to use this word) ameliorate this. A few hours spent at The Lords, and I think I have part of the answer.
One of the reasons espoused by historians, and here the JNU Pinkos and the ultra-right we-don’t-believe-history-in-English-whether-by-English-or-not see eye to eye, for the failure of the revolt of 1857 is that Indians didn’t fight British soldiers. Indians fought Indians. And ‘revolt’ is right, as by no stretch of imagination was it a fight for independence. There were enough and more reasons for that chingari to become sholey. Economics (soldiers had grievances regarding their cost to company and the calculation of the same), Religion (they did have a beef and a lard issue), Racism(obviously), you name it, all the ingredients of a pot boiler. And what did we get. RGV ki Aag. Instead of an uprising it became such a damp squib that even the otherwise bankable Amir Khan couldn’t make anything out of it. And why, because the Sikhs and the Madrasis (now my friends south of Vindhyas, don’t get offended as I am using the term to refer to the Madras Sappers) had a bone with the Purbias and the Bengalis, who they thought helped the Brits beat them in the Punjab and down south. So in 1857 the Sikhs and the Madrasis fought the Bhaiyyas and the Bongs in what is touted by many as a glorious outcry for Indian Independence.
And 150 years later the same drama unfolds between Messrs Dalmia, Pawar, Yadav, Muthaia and Bindra. The epic of BCCI. And the winner is?
I have often wondered how a few Goras ruled over millions of us. And imagine they were playing away from home in alien conditions. Not only did they rule us, they battered our ego so badly it will take generations to overcome the deep rooted stigma, the chronic inferiority nesting in our subconscious. And all this façade of a super power in making has done nothing to (yess my GRE/GMAT friends, I have been dying to use this word) ameliorate this. A few hours spent at The Lords, and I think I have part of the answer.
One of the reasons espoused by historians, and here the JNU Pinkos and the ultra-right we-don’t-believe-history-in-English-whether-by-English-or-not see eye to eye, for the failure of the revolt of 1857 is that Indians didn’t fight British soldiers. Indians fought Indians. And ‘revolt’ is right, as by no stretch of imagination was it a fight for independence. There were enough and more reasons for that chingari to become sholey. Economics (soldiers had grievances regarding their cost to company and the calculation of the same), Religion (they did have a beef and a lard issue), Racism(obviously), you name it, all the ingredients of a pot boiler. And what did we get. RGV ki Aag. Instead of an uprising it became such a damp squib that even the otherwise bankable Amir Khan couldn’t make anything out of it. And why, because the Sikhs and the Madrasis (now my friends south of Vindhyas, don’t get offended as I am using the term to refer to the Madras Sappers) had a bone with the Purbias and the Bengalis, who they thought helped the Brits beat them in the Punjab and down south. So in 1857 the Sikhs and the Madrasis fought the Bhaiyyas and the Bongs in what is touted by many as a glorious outcry for Indian Independence.
And 150 years later the same drama unfolds between Messrs Dalmia, Pawar, Yadav, Muthaia and Bindra. The epic of BCCI. And the winner is?
Chakley or Chak Ley
A few years after Independence, Sahir wrote ‘Chakley’ (Brothels). The poem was later immortalized by Rafi in Gurudutt’s Pyasa, circa 1957. However for the celluloid version, Sahir simplified it for the masses and replaced “sanaa-Khwaan-e-taqdees-e-mashriq kahaaN haiN?” with “jinhe naaz hai hind par vo kahaaN haiN”. For those of us challenged in our Alif Be Pe Te’s, the former can be loosely translated as “those who praise the pious Eastern ways”. In contemporary, India International Center terms, they range in varying degrees from The Sri Ram Sene, Baba Ramdev, The Old men from Deoband and the Older Man from Delhi’s Jama Masjid. The self appointed Treasurers of “Our Culture”.
And as the sex appeal of Yoga grows, voices espousing “our culture” and more importantly those denouncing “their culture” are increasing in decibel levels. As always, it’s easier to de-sell competition than sell on one’s own merit. Its easier to say don’t call your mother “Mummy” because it means a wrapped corpse rather than call her “Ma” because, well personally, it just sounds right. All successful salesmen play to the gallery. Otherwise why on earth would anyone ever buy a bottle of coloured water, knowing fairly well that it doesn’t do any good. So if Baba Ramdev says that their coloured water is only good as a toilet cleaner, and instead drink the coloured water that he sells, I for one see nothing wrong. Haven’t we been enjoying the cola wars since the day Richard The Lion Heart and Salahuddin Al Ayoubi featured in the finals of Extereme Crusades 3 (First on Playstation). Oh sorry, my bad. I often get my wars mixed up.
But truth be told, and here I use the word ‘truth’ very loosely as I haven’t laid a hand, or anything else for that matter, on Gita or even Sita or Rita. Just Punita and I don’t know how much that helps. (Ever wondered, in an Indian courtroom, the clerk who holds the ‘book’ and the witness who touches it are the only custodians of truth. Everyone else, the lawyers, the judge and the bailiff who shouts ‘haazir ho’ have full liberty to say whatever is convenient, as they haven’t touched Gita. But then for Gita’s sake we don’t want her to be molested). So truth be told, I have often contemplated, and on many occasions especially with the aid of good Single Malt this contemplation has woken up my neighbours, on what is “our culture”.
I can think of many elements of our lives that over the years, generations after generations, have passed on as “sanskriti and sabhyata” or rather “our culture”. Some good, some not so, and some outright ridiculous. But to say that ours is better than theirs!
Moreover if culture is passed from generation to generation, does it remain constant or it evolves? If it evolves, then what we have today is a morphed, bastardized version of the original that generations before us have shaped to their convenience. And if it remains constant, it must be out of context and stale. If caste system is our culture, I would trade it any day with any element of ‘western culture’. And what most attackers of things western do not understand, or rather choose not to understand is elements like divorce, bikini, valentine day greetings, women in pubs, do not a culture make. Similarly purdah, the inability to say no, literally painting the town red with one’s spit are not elements of “our culture”. These are conveniences that we try to legitimize. And what better way to do that than package it nicely and call it Sanskriti.
And to say that the west is adopting our ways. Yes they find Yoga beneficial. In the same way as we find aspirin helpful. Sahir saw through this charade within 5 years of the birth of our nation. As they say, “ poot ke pair paalne mein….”.
And as the sex appeal of Yoga grows, voices espousing “our culture” and more importantly those denouncing “their culture” are increasing in decibel levels. As always, it’s easier to de-sell competition than sell on one’s own merit. Its easier to say don’t call your mother “Mummy” because it means a wrapped corpse rather than call her “Ma” because, well personally, it just sounds right. All successful salesmen play to the gallery. Otherwise why on earth would anyone ever buy a bottle of coloured water, knowing fairly well that it doesn’t do any good. So if Baba Ramdev says that their coloured water is only good as a toilet cleaner, and instead drink the coloured water that he sells, I for one see nothing wrong. Haven’t we been enjoying the cola wars since the day Richard The Lion Heart and Salahuddin Al Ayoubi featured in the finals of Extereme Crusades 3 (First on Playstation). Oh sorry, my bad. I often get my wars mixed up.
But truth be told, and here I use the word ‘truth’ very loosely as I haven’t laid a hand, or anything else for that matter, on Gita or even Sita or Rita. Just Punita and I don’t know how much that helps. (Ever wondered, in an Indian courtroom, the clerk who holds the ‘book’ and the witness who touches it are the only custodians of truth. Everyone else, the lawyers, the judge and the bailiff who shouts ‘haazir ho’ have full liberty to say whatever is convenient, as they haven’t touched Gita. But then for Gita’s sake we don’t want her to be molested). So truth be told, I have often contemplated, and on many occasions especially with the aid of good Single Malt this contemplation has woken up my neighbours, on what is “our culture”.
I can think of many elements of our lives that over the years, generations after generations, have passed on as “sanskriti and sabhyata” or rather “our culture”. Some good, some not so, and some outright ridiculous. But to say that ours is better than theirs!
Moreover if culture is passed from generation to generation, does it remain constant or it evolves? If it evolves, then what we have today is a morphed, bastardized version of the original that generations before us have shaped to their convenience. And if it remains constant, it must be out of context and stale. If caste system is our culture, I would trade it any day with any element of ‘western culture’. And what most attackers of things western do not understand, or rather choose not to understand is elements like divorce, bikini, valentine day greetings, women in pubs, do not a culture make. Similarly purdah, the inability to say no, literally painting the town red with one’s spit are not elements of “our culture”. These are conveniences that we try to legitimize. And what better way to do that than package it nicely and call it Sanskriti.
And to say that the west is adopting our ways. Yes they find Yoga beneficial. In the same way as we find aspirin helpful. Sahir saw through this charade within 5 years of the birth of our nation. As they say, “ poot ke pair paalne mein….”.
Indian No. 1
Last week two events, unconnected unless you take into account the string theory which manages to connect yours truly with both Mr Obama and Mr Osama, shook my faith in numerical ratings of any kind. India became the No. 1 ODI cricket team in the world and an Indian, Mr Vijender Singh became the No. 1 boxer in the world in his weight category,
The eternal whiner, some friends might comment. He doesn’t find joy in the fact that his countrymen are achieving the distinction of being the best in the world. Hold on friends, don’t get me wrong. I like the first numeral as much as the next bloke. Infact so much that I am partly responsible for the success of a certain Mr Dhawan and his string of Heroes, Coolies and Biwies, all of whom shared a single trait, that of being No. 1. I rejoiced with my countrymen whenever Mr Anand’s ILO PILO ratings made him the No. 1 chess player in the world. I know that it is not often that we get a chance to celebrate anything Indian being Numero Uno, unless we are talking about population growth, illiteracy, poverty, number of blind people, the list goes on. And more so Indians and being No. 1 in sports, you must be kidding. We rank 148 th in Football. I think the only country ranked lower than us is Vatican City, and that too because priests are forbidden to don football jerseys and it gets kind of unwieldy running around in those costumes and the hats.
So why am I not jumping from the rooftop when the Indian cricket team reaches the Number 1 ranking. Well, here is a team that is outplayed in every department of the game by New Zealand, Pakistan and Australia (those of you who think India had a chance against the Aussies in that rained out fixture, well sir, hats off, you personify everything that is wrong with sports in our country) within the matter of a week. And while we are losing game after game, our rankings go up. Why, I ask? Because South Africa is losing too, the purists are quick to point out. The same holds true in boxing. Here is a man who came 3 rd in the recently concluded World Championships. No mean feat by Indian standards. But suddenly he rises to No. 1 in the world, and guess who is No. 2, the guy who just beat him in the world championships and has consistently performed better. Can someone explain this? Performance and rankings, I thought they went hand in hand, or glove. Or maybe in order to make rankings more scientific, we have taken out the art of performance from the equation.
On the flip side, I feel vindicated. I kept telling my parents that not getting the first rank in school didn’t mean I was not the best student. And standing first is as much about me getting more marks as it is about the next person getting less marks. Or maybe its about making the rating system so complicated that you need to be a rocket scientist to decipher. And off late we Indians have been doing exceptionally well in rocket science. While we haven’t been able to find water in Delhi, we have found it on Moon. First country to do so. And this is one rating I would want to believe.
The eternal whiner, some friends might comment. He doesn’t find joy in the fact that his countrymen are achieving the distinction of being the best in the world. Hold on friends, don’t get me wrong. I like the first numeral as much as the next bloke. Infact so much that I am partly responsible for the success of a certain Mr Dhawan and his string of Heroes, Coolies and Biwies, all of whom shared a single trait, that of being No. 1. I rejoiced with my countrymen whenever Mr Anand’s ILO PILO ratings made him the No. 1 chess player in the world. I know that it is not often that we get a chance to celebrate anything Indian being Numero Uno, unless we are talking about population growth, illiteracy, poverty, number of blind people, the list goes on. And more so Indians and being No. 1 in sports, you must be kidding. We rank 148 th in Football. I think the only country ranked lower than us is Vatican City, and that too because priests are forbidden to don football jerseys and it gets kind of unwieldy running around in those costumes and the hats.
So why am I not jumping from the rooftop when the Indian cricket team reaches the Number 1 ranking. Well, here is a team that is outplayed in every department of the game by New Zealand, Pakistan and Australia (those of you who think India had a chance against the Aussies in that rained out fixture, well sir, hats off, you personify everything that is wrong with sports in our country) within the matter of a week. And while we are losing game after game, our rankings go up. Why, I ask? Because South Africa is losing too, the purists are quick to point out. The same holds true in boxing. Here is a man who came 3 rd in the recently concluded World Championships. No mean feat by Indian standards. But suddenly he rises to No. 1 in the world, and guess who is No. 2, the guy who just beat him in the world championships and has consistently performed better. Can someone explain this? Performance and rankings, I thought they went hand in hand, or glove. Or maybe in order to make rankings more scientific, we have taken out the art of performance from the equation.
On the flip side, I feel vindicated. I kept telling my parents that not getting the first rank in school didn’t mean I was not the best student. And standing first is as much about me getting more marks as it is about the next person getting less marks. Or maybe its about making the rating system so complicated that you need to be a rocket scientist to decipher. And off late we Indians have been doing exceptionally well in rocket science. While we haven’t been able to find water in Delhi, we have found it on Moon. First country to do so. And this is one rating I would want to believe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)