Blaming It On Raanjhanaa

Raanjhanaa is walking on the razor's edge. At a time when our countrymen are offering major lip service on how the reputation of the Indian male is going to the dogs, this film presents itself on a warm grill, giving every cynic a reason to explode. "What nonsense? You make your hero a total chhapri, chasing girls all day long? That too in UP? And then you expect our laundas not to rape and molest women?" In another era when we were more oblivious to national issues and the rage of the social media, few would have scoffed. Today, every self-righteous person wants to uphold his social sensitivity by questioning that of the filmmaker.

Face it. One of the century's biggest runaway hits, DDLJ, had its lead actor pursue his traditional, value-clad heroine in multiple foreign countries with his crooked smile and countless sexual innuendos. "But that was Shah Rukh Khan, the eternal romantic! And he played the mandolin also, and....and he was at least fair and handsome." You bring a Dhanush in who can, well, be better related to by the common Indian man in question; bring in an honest love story where Sonam Kapoor has featured for the eighth time in a film but has debuted as an actress, and everyone is getting upset about the film giving out wrong ideas to people.
Because Raanjhanaa is totally responsible for the warped mentality that is ruining us, we can conveniently ignore less obvious menaces such as the gaping gender discrimination, archaic and hypocritical Indian - ahem - "values", fewer homes and more people, and increasing collective indifference. Hence, let us together blame art. Yes, then, how disgusting that Anand Rai make a thoroughly riveting, beautiful film based on the purest emotion that humanity has ever experienced? Does he not realize that some wasted fellow in a dark alley of the country is only waiting to watch this movie and go, "Well, here's the go-ahead; here I come in all my assholery to outrage someone's modesty again."
Films give us hope. More importantly, they provide respite from our usual despair. If we were to start deriving moral sermons from them, we would be holding virtually every work of art guilty of villainy as our real demons continue having a field day. If anything, a well-made film like Raanjhanaa does dole out a message that Roadside Romeos don't make for fancy heroes with a happy ending. So, hard luck, but dissing a film doesn't help heal our collective conscience which has many reasons to feel wounded.

55 words story: "Nothing" *

That distance made the heart grow fonder was as convincing as his own state of self-denial all along. Now that they had begun a life together, he had found his calling. Tears followed debate. Reason followed revolt. Once the plane took off to new beginnings, he closed his eyes. And then there was nothing.

* "55 Words Story" is a novel concept owned by my friend Vivek Tejuja. I am merely reproducing my part of the contribution to his blog here. 

55 Words Story: "Speculate"*

She called him as the train chugged away from the platform. There was room for a last conversation at the convocation. But they had speculated a callous dealing of emotions, which got the better of memories. Now as he heard her voice one last time, the call dropped. "Out of network coverage," the screen read.

* "55 Words Story" is a novel concept owned by my friend Vivek Tejuja. I am merely reproducing my part of the contribution to his blog here. 

55 Words Story: WALL*

It once bore the marks of the bride's vermilioned palms. And the sons' graffiti in early years. Today it embodied estrangement between the brothers. The wall was dying. But even today, it allowed the widowed mother to hide her tears and wails in its crevices. "Thank God I ain't human", it seemed to say.

* "55 Words Story" is a novel concept owned by my friend Vivek Tejuja. I am merely reproducing my part of the contribution to his blog here. 

Mind your own business

Last week, a girl who came to be known by many names, lost her life to a bunch of depraved minds. A country was stirred, angry voices descended on the streets in screams and protests, demanding justice for the girl and for humanity. This wasn't a unique episode - probably just the proverbial last straw, people guessed. A week later, the protests have ebbed, everyone is back home, and we all know this wasn't the last straw either.
We are not to blame. We have our lives to live, and then, it has not happened until it has happened to us, right? Maybe. But more importantly, we don't know whom or what we are protesting against. It cannot be the government, because we are a part of them (hello, democracy). It must not be the legal system, for it is a little fanciful to combat something as colossal. It need not be the culprits, for they are not the only ones we would need to protest against. And one can only hope it is not against the eroding Indian culture, because there is anyway very little left of it to worry about.
Let's worry about how we perceive our democratic rights. Back in school, we were reminded ad nauseam that our rights only complemented our duties, or something like that. One of our most fundamental duties is to recognize that every single person around us has exactly the same set of rights as we do: right to peace, right to progress, right to express, and most importantly, a right to dignity. We all have our demons to deal with. We all feel a sense of deprivation. And that can't be a major surprise for a country with a burgeoning population, limited resources and even more limited education. But we cannot use our discontent as a trump card to go wield our frustration on any unsuspecting person. Because what goes around comes around, you know.
So, no. You cannot question a person's sense of fashion. You cannot start a riot only because a certain faction of the society doesn't play by your rules. You cannot question an 'outsider' who chooses to live in your city. YOU CANNOT LAY YOUR HANDS ON A WOMAN JUST BECAUSE YOUR FAMILIAL ORDER DICTATES THAT THE WOMEN OF YOUR HOUSE DRESS CONSERVATIVELY, WHICH LEADS TO YOUR MIND GETTING REPRESSED. 
Rapes apart, we feel a violation of our dignity almost every day at the hands of our own people - in the form of communal and racial slander, in the name of social and financial inequality, and often even for expressing a simple opinion. The legal system will always have its recourse to such matters. We would much rather examine our own moral stature than taking on something that we have no control over. For all we know, the solution lies in the micro and not in the macro.
A good beginning towards this would be that we learn to mind our own business. Let's not interfere in each other's lives, let alone trying to control or mould them. Respecting each other is asking for a lot. Let's learn not to disrespect each other. That's best done by steering clear of others' territories. The first step to a cleaner country is in cleaning our own minds. Uniting to combat challenges that a country faces as a whole comes a distant second.

Once More, Tendulkar

On a rainy evening of 1990, as we were taking a walk around the neighbourhood, my father told me a young Indian schoolboy had taken the English bowling attack to task in an ongoing match. Quite improbable, I thought, for I had a faint idea of the lethality of someone called Devon Malcolm. Intrigued, I tuned in to my first viewing of the game. I did not tune out ever again, until yesterday morning.
The phenomenon of Sachin Tendulkar to me is far beyond his mind-numbing career statistics which began getting discussed only somewhere in the last decade. He had become my hero well before I had warmed up to the game of cricket. The smooth, angular movement of his blade had me in awe well before I knew it was called a 'flick off the pads'. I secretly prayed I could grow up to be a short man. Before I knew it, Sachin Tendulkar and cricket in that order, had begun to govern every living moment of my childhood.
I bought a cricket bat and broke it soon. I enrolled in a summer cricket camp and was rolled out soon. Over the years, other priorities were made to take precedence over my directionless cricket frenzy. But Tendulkar had become a constant in my life. He stood for inspiration, passion and discipline, a little of each of which I could do with as I hit adolescence. I remember how I bunked school to watch him play. During my board exams, he chose to be at his scintillating best. Just my luck, but I struck a deal with my folks that I'd lock myself back in the study once I was done watching him bat. A Tendulkar innings took precedence over everything, and this was tacit law in the household. Time came to a halt every time he walked out to bat. His bat never ceased to wield its magic. 
With time, reality dawned: he was only human. He failed too. But when he did, it made me irritable and upset. Every time he walked back to the pavilion, I wondered if he knew there was a boy sitting devastated somewhere. It was a while before I knew I was not the only one with the grouse.
Various injuries and career slumps later, people began suggesting fans get over him. Everyone knew this was a distant possibility, including the ones who suggested so. Every time cynics thought they had seen the end of him, he rose like a phoenix, bettering the Tendulkar we had seen previously. We made ourselves believe this dream would never end even as we acknowledged it would.
Once I was exposed to the various uncertainties of my own career, to blundered decisions and to nebulous aspirations, I saw what really made him my hero. He was just another man born to the same country riddled with inefficiencies and flawed systems. But he lived his dream. He defied physical limitations, unsolicited advice, unwarranted slander, and arguably the demons in his own mind. He rose above his own stature, retained his humility, and taught us the worth of grit.
Sachin Tendulkar brought delight to billions of fans across the world. This  may merely be incidental to the pursuit of his own ambitions, but the enormity of his legend makes us believe in our dreams a lot more. Today, as he calls it a day, I feel somewhat cheated. It's like a segment of my memories has been stolen. But then, the legend knows better. I only wish this show could go on. In hindsight, it still does - because that elegant straight drive down the ground is going down in the pages of sporting history as one of the most delightful sights ever.

Not this time, Mr Kejriwal

It takes nerve to renounce a steady, sustainable life to champion a cause that has few takers. Arvind Kejriwal's intended fight against corruption in the country is as inspiring as it is fanciful. And sure enough, he has gained due merit for beginning to convert into action what most of us had systematically initiated in the form of armchair philosophy.
But quite like a frail leaf in a lovely bouquet, or a caveat in every appraisal evaluation, or like the odd worm in a KFC burger, some of Kejriwal's invocations to us stick out like a sore thumb. The latest among them being his grand suggestion to all HSBC India employees to quit their jobs in the wake of his money-laundering allegations against the bank.
Seriously, man! Get real. We are talking nearly thirty-seven thousand people here. So when you urge us to sacrifice our jobs for the sake of the nation, surely you have a notion that this nation also takes responsibility for offering us new jobs with the same unlaundered money that has been ensuring the functioning of our ordinary lives? Our ordinary lives, yes - they hinge around our jobs so much that we talk about them wherever we go, from public urinals to social dos. Do we look like we care about the black money we will never get a whiff of, any more than we care about fending for our basics?
Maybe we do, at some level. We feel ashamed and angered at the dismal gaps between the economic layers of our society, and at the thought that these gaps could be bridged were it not for the ill-gotten money by a few whose fancy lives we secretly covet. We are convinced by your intent, but we have our fears about the plausibility of an outcome. Our country is no stranger to corruption, and a menace as deep-seeded won't find a solution through our jobs going on the line. Moreover, we are bothered more by the micro than the macro - the micro being our struggles to keep up with escalating prices, intimidating loans, social pressure as well as our ineptness to deal with uncertainty. We can live a little longer with the macro issue of social biggies stashing away black money to that place we might only visit on discounted Cox & Kings group tours. But we can't live a day without our bread.
We wish to make India a better place too, so we can tell our future generations we weren't mere fence-sitters. Our contribution will be intended at beginning with our own social reformation, followed hopefully by our collective intellectual pool that can bring about a reformation in processes related to compliance and ethical practices in the government and the private sector. Having said this, we are indebted to you for taking up the cudgels against this affliction that has riddled India. We might join you too, once we have stashed some white money in our Indian banks to secure the future of our families.
Until then, please don't grudge us the semblance of stability in our lives. Our choices are often our constraints.

'Quick lunch' and other pieces of office fiction

Nakul is in a fix again.
In a stark contrast to the high-stake assignments he is always entrusted with at work - such as noting minutes of lapsed meetings and maintaining trackers for impending meetings - he has now been asked to mentor NRI Rick Shaw, Rutwick Shah in better days, who has just joined his team after a long stint with some firm in the Bahamas (who sets up firms in the Bahamas? Preposterous). Now, besides the implacable blow he was dealt when Rick innocently quoted his obnoxious salary aloud, Nakul is also faced with helping NRI-man getting used to the good ways of the Indian corporate setup. One week down, Rick isn't any less confused about certain things.
Take the manager's introductory email, for instance, which ended with a polite "If you have any questions, feel free to revert to me." Rick felt so free he barraged the poor chap with a volley of questions ranging from their 'unique' business strategy of  inclusive growth to why the office sprinklers didn't use water recycled from the lavatories. The manager resorted to an unscheduled vipassana program and seconded all these questions to his subordinate.
A tad more rational in the matter, the subordinate summoned Rick for a one-on-one chat and asked him to classify his questions in order of priority - P1, P2, and some such. Rick explained his biggest issue was that he hadn't yet gained independent access to the work building. "Oh, that's easy," said the subordinate reassuringly, "Do one thing:" He gave Rick momentary relief with the triviality of his command, before adding, "Do one thing. Write a mail to the admin with your employment details. Then take two passport sized photographs and submit them at the security office. Bring me a copy of a no-objection letter which I shall sign for you. Send the signed copy to the head office in Delhi. That's all."
Understandably on the edge after the rigmarole, Rick was now hoping to get some time with the team to understand lesser crucial details about the project and his role therein. "Right after a quick lunch?" suggested Nakul - a lunch which lasted its usual average of an hour and a half, and ended an entire hour before the team's mandatory afternoon tea break. By the end of the day, Rick was beginning to ask everyone how they calculated their weekly percentage productivity.
"The guy needs to learn to sit back and relax," reckoned Nakul.
"Do one thing," I suggested. "Let him be. Give him time. Lead by example. Whatever that means."

Three things English Vinglish teaches you

I finally made it to the cinemas this evening after having been holed up indoors on account of yet another bandh (didn't bother figuring out the reason this time - someone told me it was because Arnab Goswami asked Sachin Tendulkar all the wrong questions in yesterday's interview - which was probably not true).
It was an evening well spent. Barring, of course, the first ten minutes of the show where I patiently waited for a fellow member in the audience to finish telling his bank manager to open a new FD account or something.
English Vinglish marks Sridevi's comeback, who blends so effortlessly into her role you hardly feel she was gone all this while. This, supported by an ensemble of fine actors, funny jokes you have not heard before, and very sharp direction - makes for a commendable film. The positivity aside, there are three key lessons I see we can learn from the film:

1. Don't be a grammar nazi:
Take it easy. The world functioned before English as a language came into being. It will do just as well with people who don't meet the benchmarks you have, ahem, set for them. We need expressions to thrive and communicate, not some Wren & Martin-on-demand. And if you still insist on going around the social network randomly asterisk-ing the universe's grammatical mistakes, do consider charging people for it. You will at least end up feeling a little important.

2. Do if you must what they think is absurd:
Life is too short. And worrying about what others think of your decisions is as passe as the previous sentence. Do what matters to you. That is your best shot at not being regretful about your life. There will always be people who will deter or mock you for your persistence. It doesn't matter. Chances are you won't run into them again. If you still do, chances are you are by then already in a position to have set an example for them. In either case, your critics and your patrons are nothing more than an audience. The stage is only yours.

3. Mothers are rockstars.
Respect your mother. Do what you may, but you will never be a patch on her. Learn from her sacrifices. Those sacrifices have a large role to play in what you have made of your life. Thank her as much as you can, for one lifetime is not enough to do so.

This vacation has only just begun

Not really. But this Europe junket was only so gorgeous and surreal I am mentally still there even as I clear disputed transactions with my bank and fight with my neighbour who thought it was his due right to usurp my parking space while I was away.
So, after a healthy debate in which my wife dictated commands and I quietly acceded, we planned a rather fluid holiday, choosing to plan most of our schedule on the go. For most parts, this approach works - except when a Thai tourist takes so long to frame a question at the information center that you end up missing an important train. But the sheer beauty of the continent will help you overlook the glitches.

Take London for instance. We were warned of unprecedented chaos owing to the mad rush at the Games. But the city showed no signs whatsoever of traffic snarls, chants of "Sir, you made lakhs" or congestion in the tubes. God, can't stop raving about the London tubes. I took a day off only to hop on and off them with no destination in mind. The passion Brits showed towards the Olympics, and towards sporting in general, kind of embarrassed me. I joined them on the open lawns at the Thames to watch a game of Fencing. Couldn't figure out for the life of me why Fencing must excite them so much. But then, these guys are generally passionate about everything. You need to see the tour guide at the Tower of London, for instance, to know what I mean. They will take jibes at everything that is not British, in particular Americans, to sufficiently emphasize they have the grandest empire and the richest history in the world. Four days in London, and you can almost certainly agree with them.

People who think Parisians are snobbish and refuse to help tourists have clearly not been to Malaysia. But seriously, this isn't true. The poor chaps just don't know "Hello" is a commonly used term for exchanging pleasantries. Try "Bon jour", and they turn so friendly they are almost ready to hop on along with you on to the tour bus. Do hop on to the tour bus. It shows you around the stunning architecture of the city and allows you to take postcard-worthy photographs of its countless admirable monuments and institutions. Photographing them is very important, because the pictures are all that will remain with you - you are not likely to be able to spell or pronounce their names by the time you return home. That doesn't include the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, of course, for these sites need separate tours of their own. Among the scores of other breathtaking paintings and sculptures at the Louvre, there is obviously the Mona Lisa, which justifies all the hype around it when you step close enough to it to see the crazy genius that Da Vinci was. Take a walk around the Mona Lisa, observe it from every angle possible, but those eyes never seem to leave you. Spooky, but lovely.
Built in 1887, over a period of two years, the Eiffel Tower stands over a thousand feet tall and is one of the most intimidating structures you are likely to ever see. Only, you marvel at it a lot more standing at the base than you would by getting to the top for an aerial view. Spend plenty of time at the base. Once you reach the top, all you are going to say is, "But Sears Tower is so much better! And it has a glass floor too."

You need lesser time in Switzerland than you think. Of course, it's the kind of country you can't get enough of. But it also bears the kind of tranquility that gets on your nerves if you are not used to seeing more cows than motorists. Also, its cities follow some sort of a template in structure and layout. Jungfraujoch, the highest peak in Europe, is no doubt a place you must visit so you can slyly throw snowballs at ill-behaved and queue-jumping Chinese tourists. The Swiss rail has its charm, but if you like the occasional stopover, don't hesitate to rent a car.

The beauty of Amsterdam lies in, apart from its charming city centre, in the easy access to some pretty towns in Belgium and Germany. A day each at the town square of Bruuge and leisure kayaking along the river in Durbuy provide the quaint flavour Belgium is known for. The famed Red Light District in Amsterdam needs little introduction. You can take a walk around it, or visit its coffee shops for your dose of marijuana, or...you know, or whatever rocks your boat, really.
But at no cost must you miss a visit to the Anne Frank museum. Regardless of whether you have read the book, the house gives a painful insight of the dark times the Frank family had seen during World War II. A look at the closed windows and curtains of the house, the dingy rooms, and the glimmer of hope seen in Anne's writings, and you know what it is to take one's freedom for granted.

Europe is every tourist's grand buffet. Take your pick and have your fill.
Travel light. Except, of course, if you are a married man.

We have issues larger than Oprah

And by this title, I don't mean to take a potshot at Ms. Winfrey. What I mean is, we really need to set our priorities right. A foreigner makes a quickfire visit to our country, expresses surprise over our dining etiquette, and we get our knickers in a bunch? Come on, there is so much more we need to get our knickers in a bunch about. That we still eat with our hands is probably the last thing we need to feel upset about - for all you know, Oprah might have got miffed on being served some half-cooked Chicken Dum Biryani she wasn't able to dig her fork into, and hence the outrage.
Let us worry about what we know plagues us. It doesn't take an Oprah to tell us we have plenty to be ashamed about. For starters, we are growing increasingly insensitive - towards ourselves more than towards others. We are making our peace with the contemptible conditions we live in, mainly because we are responsible for creating them. Much as we may like to blame flawed governmental decisions for our miseries, we cannot ignore our own callousness towards maintaining basic hygiene, respecting our fellow civilians, and...don't get me started on traffic discipline and such. We are quick turning into a nation of armchair philosophers who will cry foul over everything from an elected president to apparently errant cops.
We need to learn to respect our cops. They are as human as we are. Every one out of ten times, their actions may not be justified. But never forget they are the ones to face the line of fire each time some gun-toting bastards decide to ruin our lives, before we carry candles in a peace march in "expression of solidarity". They are the ones who stand at polluted traffic signals through the length of the day - yes, those signals that become the death of us in our air-conditioned cars - to ensure they do their best in making our lives easier. And they are the ones who hear of cheap jokes and lame calculations on how much money on a day's average they make while letting off errant drivers with minor bribes. WE are the ones who err. WE are the ones who prefer minor bribes over legal fines. WE are the ones who do not know the penurious conditions these men live in. WE are the ones who drive them to the brink. All this, for a force that at least tries to ensure basic safety standards.
Foreign nationals who visited India often wrote about how unsafe our country is. Now, Indians write about how unsafe our country is. That is hardly the kind of social progress we expect us to make. Women are being raped and molested on schedule, but the newness in the menace is the rising mentality of blaming "deviations from the Indian culture" for this nonsense. The real question we need to ask ourselves is - what exactly is the Indian culture?
Oprah Winfrey sure cannot answer that.

* Conditions Apply - First Look.

After thorough deliberation, Mohit decided to send an invitation card to the Talpade family too. Alas, the wedding menu included alcohol, but the Talpades would have to make peace with that little hindrance. He stopped by at their house one morning before work, welcomed by a look so grumpy it could put Karan to shame.

‘Hello, uncle.’ Mohit smiled.

The uncle did not smile back. He looked at Mohit closely, and then frowned. ‘Sinha?’

‘Yes, you can call me Mohit.’ His suggestion was conveniently ignored by the uncle who had already turned his back to the guest.

‘Please come in, Mohit,’ Amit shouted, leaning from his dining chair.

Mohit stepped in. All of a sudden, time seemed to have come to an abrupt halt in the Talpade household. Everyone except Amit stopped whatever they were doing and started staring at Mohit, silently and intently. The aroma of thalipith had filled the house and Mohit hoped the mother or the aunt would fetch some for him from the kitchen. But all he got from them were the same investigative looks. Just then, Amit’s father and the dictator of the camp marched out of the bedroom, adjusting the knot of a tie knitted in a very archaic fashion. He suddenly gagged on seeing Mohit, as though his own tie was doing him in.

‘Uncle, I wanted to invite you all for my wedding next month,’ Mohit finally broke the awkward silence and handed Ashok Talpade a wedding card.

‘You are getting married!’ Ashok Talpade exclaimed. ‘To whom?’

‘Her name is Neha,’ Mohit said.

‘Neha who?’ he demanded. The uncle on the sofa turned his attention to Mohit too and listened on carefully.

‘Baba, please,’ Amit pleaded as he got up from the table.

‘That’s not a problem,’ Mohit cut in. His voice grew somewhat stern. ‘Neha Tandon.’

‘Tandon Bihari?’ the uncle threw up an open question to the audience and looked around the room like a curious little teenaged brat.

‘Tandon Punjabi,’ came a woman’s reply from the kitchen.

The uncle gave a disappointed look and lay back on the sofa with one wagging leg crossed over the other.

‘Same thing,’ the father commented drily.

‘Baba, please,’ Amit said more firmly this time. ‘We are late. Let’s go, Mohit.’

‘Yeah, you can go sit in his lap all day if you want, I don’t care,’ Ashok Talpade grumbled in a fluent dialect, parts of which Mohit latched on to, much to his own displeasure.

‘Why, is something the matter?’ Mohit asked with a frown. As he had anticipated, his question was ignored once again. Ashok Talpade pulled the card out of the envelope and began examining it with a grimace, as if reading a statement from the bank.

‘Where is the wedding taking place?’ Amit’s mother asked the first kind and relevant question as she came out of the kitchen, wiping off a thin sheet of flour smeared on her palms with the corner of her sari.

‘Delhi.’

Ashok Talpade suddenly shouted excitedly. The grimace turned into a delighted chuckle, just like that. ‘Are you going to Delhi?’

‘Just for the wedding,’ Mohit clarified. ‘Neha will be moving here after we are married.’ Ashok Talpade looked crestfallen once again.

‘Why?’ the uncle demanded gruffly.

‘Why not?’ Mohit retorted.

‘Isn’t Delhi a rather spacious city?’ the uncle asked curiously, once again throwing the question open to the audience. ‘And then this CWG gang decked up the city even more – Delhi looks like an extravagant garden now.’

Even till this point, Mohit was gullible enough to consider that to be a friendly suggestion from his neighbours. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But Bombay is home, after all.’

The father’s voice shot up. ‘First of all, please get the pronunciation right. It is called Mumbai. And why do I feel this isn’t really home for you?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Mohit craned his neck forward and looked at Talpade almost threateningly. ‘You belong to Calcutta,’ Ashok Talpade explained, changing tack suddenly to a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Isn’t that where your parents live?’

‘My parents lived in this city for thirty-five years before going back to Calcutta,’ Mohit reminded him angrily. ‘My father has served a long tenure in this city, and I think you know this. We also own a house here.’

‘In a suburb far from here, I know.’ Talpade nodded with a smirk. ‘And yet you decide to rent a separate apartment here in Versova – now tell me, what’s the next game plan to stuff this city like a chicken coop?’ Amit’s mother sauntered gently towards her husband, beseeching him to stop. But he would hear none of it and dismissed her with a flick of his fingers.

‘I meant this to be an invitation,’ Mohit said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m afraid it’s turning out to be an interview. But if you insist on knowing, I chose to rent this apartment because it is closer to office and makes life more convenient. It’s not illegal, is it?’

‘Bhau, Sinha’s landlord is even smarter.’ The uncle laughed bitterly, thoroughly enjoying himself as he gently stoked the argument. ‘Vipul NRI Mehta.’ All this while, Mohit had not even been offered a seat. Sensing this was taking longer than he expected, he sought a chair himself, an action that did not please Talpade in the least. Amit whispered something to Amita; she scurried into the kitchen, came out with a glass of water and handed it to Mohit courteously.

Mohit took a sip of water and looked at Ashok Talpade once again, who had been staring at him all this while. ‘Sir, it is important for me to know this because we are neighbours,’ he began cautiously, ‘is there a very specific reason you seem to have a problem with me?’

‘Mohit, I think we must leave,’ Amit said anxiously. ‘We are running late.’

‘Let him get his answer,’ his father growled. ‘Tell me, Sinha, have you ever stood in a crowded fair?’

‘What about it?’

‘How does it feel when someone in a crowded fair stamps your foot?’ Talpade asked. ‘That’s what people like you make me feel.’

‘People like me would be …?’

‘All of you.’ He wagged his finger at Mohit angrily, now bellowing with rage. ‘You, your idiotic landlord who buys a house here and runs off to another country, and all of you in the new tower whose maintenance we have to pay for, at the cost of our own comfort.’

‘We shouldn’t have allowed the construction of the new tower at all,’ his wife concurred remorsefully. ‘It has left us with nothing – no space to walk, to park our cars, and certainly no ground for our children to play.’

Mohit laughed nervously. ‘Wow! I didn’t see this analysis coming. You know what – I’m out of here. I don’t think I should entertain this discussion any further. Amit, I’ll see you downstairs.’

‘What sort of a friend is he, Amit?’ a belligerent Talpade demanded. ‘Look how he talks to your father. Is this what his parents have taught him?’

‘Sir, may I request you not to say a word against my parents?’ Mohit charged down the aisle and breathed down Talpade’s throat. ‘Not one about my parents, not one about my fiancée. I’ll hear none of it.’

He thumped his way out of the room and was just about to slam the door when he decided to give Talpade a final piece of his mind. As he would opine often in his life later, it turned out to be a bad decision.

‘And, sir,’ he said. ‘If I may – your problem does not lie in the way we live our lives. It lies in the way you cannot live yours. Don’t blame an NRI who can afford to buy a house here and fly off elsewhere, simply because you are holed up with a family the size of a film starcast.’

---- * Conditions Apply: Coming soon to a bookstore near you.

Change Is A Rogue

A rusted padlock, two keys in a trinket,

And a defunct old clock that needs to be reset.

I grab the hour’s needle and down it goes gently,

It springs back, I sigh, I heave up my trolley.

Farewell, amigo, for change is a rogue,

A charming little story, then a sour epilogue.

New hopes and new joys, I’m comfortingly told,

A travesty, this market – where your memories are sold.

My home, my speechless friend, you did hear much

Of my rues, of my highs, of my glories and such,

You echoed my triumphs, you vaulted my fears

In the cracks of your walls that guarded my tears.

I scoffed at your dwindled lamp, at an oft leaking tap,

But you know, in the evenings, solace lay in your warm lap,

Change is a rogue, and I can’t help but comply.

Do you feel the way I do? Do you silently cry?

I write your unsaid answer on the walls of my heart,

I stash away some memories, with some I must part –

A rusted padlock, two keys in a trinket,

And a defunct old clock that needs to be reset.

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.