Why You May Not Be An Indian

(Note: This post is a response to the Blogadda contest 'Mera Bharat Mahaan' in association with Pringoo )

Not too long ago, I chanced upon an article which, arguably in its own right, ostracized and ridiculed almost everything Indian – ranging from the country’s ethos to its people’s mannerisms. Interestingly, the writer is an Indian. So here goes nothing – my two cents of analysis of the writer’s lament against being an Indian.
Blame it on the days of Baywatch and Santa Barbara. The dope that the Western culture provided us through the advent of cable television offered more than just a grouse in the minds of thousands of conservative Indian parents. It gave us that one element that has become the root cause of the ‘India-will-never-be-any-good’ philosophy – we call that ‘hypocrisy’. And no, I’m not discounting what we have gained from embracing the West, but that’s a separate point of discussion altogether.
Our generation has become very vocal today. It’s a great thing, really, provided this art is channelized at moving a country in a direction of positive construct. Unfortunately, it repeatedly targets only the lacunae in an imperfect system which we are already aware of. But in the entire effort of our so-called evangelists at pointing out these imperfections, we tend to ignore the reality that these loopholes are being bred by us individually, at some level or the other. We are stranded somewhere between compulsive patriotism and a burning desire to project ourselves as a modernist community, seldom understanding what modernism really means.
Every Diwali, the media and public rant about the issues of noise and air pollution alike, simply as a sub-conscious effort to demonstrate our environmental consciousness in the backdrop of a festival that connects us to our roots and our culture. This environmental consciousness disappears into the black clouds of smoke emanated from our manufacturing facilities during the rest of the year.
We have created a fad of ridiculing and lambasting everything associated to the government – from our cops to our defence forces to our intelligence infrastructure. We make senseless comparisons between our systems and those in the West, without bothering to see the obvious difference between the sizes and the demographics of these countries. We cry foul over the corruption amongst the traffic cops who man our roads, but we do not notice that we feed corruption right into their currently deprived pockets by flouting traffic laws in the first place. That traffic constable who lives under penurious conditions offered by our democracy, and who stands on a filthy, polluted road more than twelve hours a day, cannot be expected to decline the temptation of a handsome bribe which most of us consider a frivolous amount worthy enough to weasel out of legal procedures.
Once too often, we come across an average NRI who mocks the Indian system on his favourite social networking site, inviting the ‘This happens only in India’ genre of comments. Little does he bother to realize that he probably has contacts on the forum who are not Indians – people who can afford a snigger at the disrespect an Indian has towards his own country. The real problem yet, is that the same NRI who obeys the smallest of laws in his country of residence, feels the sudden urge to bend the rules when he is in India on vacation. No, this is not a generalization of every NRI’s proclivities, but I know of many such examples that corroborate my argument nonetheless.
The only point I am trying to drive home through the above instance is that we all know our country has its shortcomings. But so is the case with almost all countries. Ghettos exist everywhere, crime is all pervasive, and racial discrimination is a given norm wherever you go. But nothing – absolutely nothing – warrants disrespect towards your own nation. Blaming the country’s inefficiencies for your own failures is also not an explanation that one can subscribe to. This is the same country that has produced the likes of Narayana Murthy, Sachin Tendulkar and Saina Nehwal. Not only have they fought through the same imperfections in our system that we deal with today, but they have also exemplified patriotism in the truest sense.
Those of us who do not quite understand or appreciate patriotism, we must talk to the families of the thousands of cops and defence personnel who laid down their lives while we sat and ranted about our misgivings about the country. Or we must simply ask a racially abused Indian who lives away from home, how much he yearns for the punctured system that at least accepts him as his own. And for those who still can’t help but groan over being born Indian, my humble suggestion to them would be to find the true place where they belong. While I have nothing against Indians who choose to live abroad, I do have a basic grouse against Indians who live in the country without bothering to give it a modicum of respect. My message to them – India really does not need you. As you would surely appreciate, almost all the problems in our country are linked to our large population. And the first step to that solution would be to find a place on the map of the world that suits your aspirations.

PS: I don't endorse bursting loud firecrackers on Diwali either.

Why I Won't 'Go Air'

Last week, I committed the mistake of booking a flight with Go Air – 13th July 2010, flight G8/101. Will never do so again. Here’s why:

1) I had to travel to Bangalore for a very sensitive cause, and I could not afford to get late.
2) When I crossed the security check point at the Ahmedabad airport at 8.20 AM for the 9 AM flight, I heard an announcement that the Go Air flight was late by an hour.
3) With great difficulty I persuaded the security officers to permit me to cross back to the check-in counter so that I could get my ticket cancelled (even if not refunded) and board the Indigo flight which was to depart soon.
4) The lady at the check-in counter was either too stupid or too pompous, but most certainly very rude and unprofessional in her conduct, without any provocation whatsoever. She declined the cancellation and said the announcement was a ‘mistake’ – the flight was late by only thirty minutes. This behaviour – in spite of having told her I had to go attend a friend’s funeral, and I was already late.
5) Hence she re-issued my boarding pass and I crossed back over the security check point, only to find out that the flight was late by fifty minutes, and not thirty.
6) I spotted a Go Air staff member loitering around the security check area (he was not to be seen earlier), brought this anomaly to his notice, and sought his help in getting me an Indigo ticket.
7) Horror of horrors, he said he couldn’t help me! And that I should have checked with him earlier!
8) I told him he was nowhere to be seen earlier, and that the security officers won’t allow me to cross over again. And that hence he should please assist me in liaising with the Indigo staff.
9) He said I could go find an Indigo staff member around myself! (Hold on, it only gets worse)
10) I finally couldn’t hold my own, and sternly reminded him that it was a goof-up on part of his airlines that I was put to such inconvenience. The least he could do was to help me out.
11) He made statements like “You are unnecessarily getting angry”.
12) Finally, a personnel from Go Air did get me a ticket with Indigo, only in the nick of time.
13) I wrote a complaint to Go Air, demanding an apology from the senior management not only for the inconvenience, but also for the churlish and callous attitude of the staff.
14) I got a call from Go Air the next evening, asking me either for my Indigo boarding pass or a written certification from Indigo that I traveled with them that morning, failing which they could not help me!!! Needless to say, no passenger would keep a boarding pass after travel. And contacting Indigo for a written confirmation would mean inconveniencing myself further. Sounds stupid to me at least.
15) I replied saying I WOULD NOT do any such thing, and that this requirement was but a lame excuse to cover up for their pathetic service.
16) She said “Then we cannot help you.”
17) I said, “Alright then, I’ll take this matter to the Consumer Redressal Forum.”
18) She said, “Ok.”

I have nothing personal against any airline, my only grouse is that customers are often taken for granted. This must stop, and it won’t, if we don’t make some noise. I hope the concerned authorities consider my two cents of advice. Customers have plenty of choices.

The Last Missed Call

Early this week, I lost a friend to an untimely and unanticipated death. As was his wont, he left us a bit of priceless advice even as he took the final walk – of always taking the calls that matter.
Two weeks before the tragedy struck, he called twice, and I couldn’t take his calls. I may have probably been in the midst of some important work, I don’t remember. But I do remember I made a mental note almost every day thereafter to call him back and speak to him. Just that I couldn’t. Two weeks later, I got a call that told me I was too late to do anything about it.
In retrospect, the reasons that held me back for those two weeks don’t weigh well against the loss I feel now. But there is little I can do now, except for remembering in admiration the effort he always made to go an extra mile for his friends. I remember that unassuming smile, and a phone glued to his ears, as he trotted across the campus attending to his daily quota of small talk with friends. I remember not only his facility with good humour, but also his compassionate countenance. And I remember his frequent pats on his colleagues’ drooping shoulders as he asked: “Why are you so glum, chum?”
Ironically, he has a reason to ask all of us that question again. Only, he knows the answer this time. But the least I can do for him now is to retain that sense of humour and his effortless smile. As well as to spread across the message that he always exemplified – to pick up the calls that matter. The phone won’t ring forever.

Housekeeping Has A Name

The health club that I go to is one of the most modish gymnasiums in suburban Mumbai. It boasts of an illustrious clientele (I don’t include myself in it!) of pot-bellied industrialists, toned and botox-ed film stars, and a bunch of twenty-something rich dandies and dudettes. In a stark paradox, you also get to see a handful of housekeepers there, dressed in staid uniforms nearly ready to tear at the seams.
The housekeepers stand at various corners of the gym, looking around curiously, and sometimes aimlessly at the machines and the jazz-exuding spin studios which they will probably never use. They hold a Colin spray or the like in one hand, and a damp towel in the other. When the big sahibs and the memsahibs finish their routine on the treadmill, they rush to the machine and dutifully wipe the sweat off every corner before the next fitness enthusiast hops on to it and trots away to a five hundred calorie burnout.
Occasionally, when he misses a droplet or two, an irate customer calls out ‘Housekeeping’ with all of a hand gesture or a curt clap. Or worse, that ever irritating snap of the finger.
Come on, people! The guy’s got a name. It’s no more than a second’s effort to know his real name, but it might work wonders for his self-esteem. Let alone the self-esteem, I think that is the least bit of recognition he deserves. Rationally speaking, the demand-popularity ratio is severely skewed for the poor chap. Everyone seems to need his attention at the same time, either for cleaning a treadmill or for getting their bottle filled at the water cooler. But surprisingly, nobody considers it necessary to know his name.
I’m not sure if I sound too cynical making a fuss of the whole thing. But I did give it a thought. If I walked into my client’s office and someone snapped his finger at me saying, “Over here, consultant,”, I would not possibly take to it too kindly. Would I? Or would you?
For those who are unaware, or have simply not bothered to be aware: you know that shiny thing on the housekeeper’s tattered shirt pocket? That is a name plate that bears his name in fine print. Next time, do consider walking up to him and reading the name. It doesn’t matter then, if you return to your original position and call him by his name.
Do not take that unassuming smile for granted. It comes at a price too. ‘Housekeeping’ has a name.

Indian Idol - talent hunt or a debris of hopes?

Somewhere in the corners of our vulnerable hearts, each one of us is a star. This belief is instilled in our minds like a tacit law, governed by our talent that people around us swear by. The adolescent girl in your neighbourhood is told by her friends that she is made to walk the ramp. A middle-aged man in a nearby village struggles year on year to have his stories published because the kids subscribe to his narrations with immense awe. Among the shanties that line up a distant suburb, dwellers reckon there is a certain rockstar among them. Riding on a million such assurances is a dream – a dream that all of us have seen now or before – of being admired as an idol. When we set off in insane pursuit of such a dream, there is but one emotion that catalyses all our moves – our self-pride.
A few weeks back, countless such dreamers congregated at what they thought would be the platform where they could show the world their flair. They lay outside the gates of the Indian Idol audition buildings for a whole hot night, yearning for that single moment that could convert their dreams into reality.
For most of these contestants, the smug judges sitting inside the hall may have been their idols they looked up to. I only wish the esteemed jury would spare a thought for the emotions, the pain, the struggle that nestled in the susceptible sensibilities of these people before lampooning them in front of an entire country. Of course, not everyone is necessarily as talented as one expects to be. But that does not warrant such assassination of emotions. Because at the end of the day, the self-pride is a constant. It doesn’t vary with the level of talent that a person claims.
If anything, a reality show should focus on encouraging new talent. That certainly cannot happen when its agenda changes to ridiculing someone’s emotions to an extent that he loses faith in his own talent.
Nobody is born a star. Nor were these three judges. Forget not that what goes around comes back, and it comes back hard.
(The irony that Anu Malik judges a singing contest is an altogether different matter. )

A Simmer Of Dreams

Saw her last evening in the front seat of a car,
A young face riddled with a grimace and a scar
A kerchief clenched in her fist, she struggled to speak
As a teardrop contoured along her pale cheek.

Seated at the rear, decked in Prada new,
The mistress screamed foul like an incorrigible shrew
“What an incompetent mutt you make as a nanny,
Gosh, use your brains! Or oh, do you have any?
You were asked to keep an eye on little Grace,
And not to run amok all over the place!
What were you to get anyway in that expensive mall
That you left my child behind for your meaningless trawl?
You do get ‘em all, good food and my old suits,
Why, then, must you act too big for your boots?
The laxity aside, you must have some nerve
To ignore the paradox between what you get and deserve.”

The nanny said nothing, but much did her eyes
Of the simmer of dreams that beyond them lies,
A simmer that sees no equations of affluence
It rises in every heart, like an unsaid ordinance.

“To your mind they seem like trifles,” she seemed to say,
“But such modest nothings are enough to make my day.
Your wallet rings louder, but I wish you would know
That human pride sees no class, high or low.”

The Devil Called Consumerism

I remember the first time I visited my favourite ice-cream joint in Baroda, circa 1989. It was a quaint hut-shaped shop, small yet inviting. I had topped my class and my parents had afforded me the liberty of buying two ice-creams that day. I chose a Mango-Vanilla cone, followed by a Chocolate-Vanilla one. I distinctly recall they were priced at Rs. 18 then. There was not much room inside the shop – just two narrow tables, one of which I stood against for support as I took my time to lap up the ice-creams. For the next seven years or so, I visited the same shop no less than once a week, which must have been a total of at least 365 times. But my choice of flavours never changed. There was something about the memory of the first visit that lingered on, and I stayed loyal to the same two flavours. Years later we left Baroda, much to my intense grief and resolution that I would never eat ice-cream anywhere else. (I did not really stick to that.)
Last weekend, I took my wife to Baroda. On our way to the same ice-cream shop, I told her about that unique smell and ambience of the shop, and how it had come to be my first love. But when we reached the joint, I saw something that wrecked my nostalgic reverie. The hoarding was in tatters. The tiles on the floor were evidently not being cleaned. And the smell was gone – probably overpowered by the aroma of a McDonald’s outlet somewhere nearby. On enquiring with the staff, I was told of the diminishing demand of the shop with the advent of various branded outlets in the last decade and a half.
“Impact of consumerism,” my MBA-wife threw in a smart one. I cringed. I looked at the menu card in dismay. The simple, earthly names of Mango-Vanilla and Chocolate-Vanilla had been renamed to ‘IPL Twenty-Twenty Mango Ripple’ and such. God knows what that meant, but it sure didn’t feel the same any more.
I’m quite the victim of consumerism myself, so I can’t scoff at it. But there’s something about this devil that has taken away a prized memory of a place I associated myself with. For the sake of a few such chronicles, I pray that a part of our past is retained. And while the world may subscribe to the classiest outlets today, I still prefer my narrow table to lean against as I take leisurely bites at my cone. At any rate, it is more fulfilling than a ‘Finish your ice-cream in three big bites and win a free trip to Timbuktoo’ contest.

A tryst with the Lord

We were at the Hilton, Mumbai on the evening of Saturday, minutes before the MI/RCB IPL clash. Fans had thronged the lobby with autograph books and throbbing hearts. After a long wait, familiar faces (heroes to some) began coming out of the front elevators in trickles, building up the cadence in the hotel, slowly but surely. As kids and grown-ups flocked around them alike, we observed the pointed gleam in their eyes. The stars reciprocated, some with autographs, and some by getting just plain chatty with the crowd before they headed out towards the bus.

And then a few minutes later, the security guards began persuading the crowd to step back a little. A certain excitement gripped the air as five bodyguards blocked the passage between the main foyer and the elevator. Out came the Lord himself, in full blood and flesh, like a divine ray of light. There was a moment of silence, almost disbelief, before the crowd erupted into a loud roar chanting 'Sachin' like obsessed devotees. But unlike the other players, and much to the disappointment of many, he went past everyone without as much as a cursory glance of acknowledgement. His eyes and face gave away nothing - not the ecstasy of his achievements, not the dismay of betrayal when he was in the pits, not the grimace from his endurance - just a stoic calm that said he was not done yet. He was there not for the accolades, he was there not for the titles. He was there, only to play for passion.

And while some misconstrued his indifference as sheer arrogance, I saw it as the mark of a true champion with a linear focus.

One Hell Of An Over-rated Word! (Presented to a college magazine)

Dear Students,

My first indulgence in the word ‘love’ had resulted in a rather demoralizing catastrophe. I was eight, and I told little Florence sitting next to me in class that I loved her. God knows why – maybe it was a fallout of the boring math class that needed a pleasant digression. She told on me, and I got smacked on the knuckles by the teacher, who glared at me like I had engaged in the biggest profanity there ever was. A day later, my mother was summoned, and I was given another sermon at home the memories of which are not endearing either.
In the days that ensued, my frail sensibilities gawked at the ruckus created over a word that, we were taught, was but a simple expression. Years later, I realized that the moral lessons on love missed an important caveat – that the word had indefinite prerequisites associated with it. Today, in order that I can love, I should be a) wealthy, b) well qualified, c) sensitive (whatever that means), and preferably d) a well chiseled body that can pass off as a wax statue. Just for the record, Florence finally chose Francis over me because he was a product that fulfilled all the aforementioned criteria (and he also gifted her a soft toy).
In hindsight, the entire concept of love has become so complicated that we humans have become compelled to treat it rather frivolously. We revel in our cash registers, wine & cheese, and even in massaging our boss’ ego at work. With so much to do, there is little time for love. Add to that the technology we so insanely make love to, and we are left with nothing but an i-Pod in our hands and greed in our hearts. What the heck, our i-Phones today can even sing lullabies for our babies – why do we need worry about true love and compassion?
Let’s step out of the parochial view of love now. Our school textbooks had a pledge printed on the front cover that taught us to love our fellow global citizens. The global love is about as real as a hologram, but we are presently in a situation where we find it hard to love even our own countrymen, or our statesmen, or even our neighbours in the society. It is probably high time we bring down the standards of a good citizen then to the quality of ‘tolerance’, rather than ‘love’. Let us first set up a pledge to be able to tolerate people around us, to not give in to social, regional and religious misgivings, and to build a peaceful world. You never know, a miracle called love might just follow.
Even as I write, I get a call from my parents. And I realize, some relations make you realize that the world is indeed a nice place, and people are nice too if you look at them the right way. Thank God for the seldom felt unspoken love!