life's a dream

Story behind the story

2009-06-15T05:08:00.000-07:00

It was while reporting on the cholera outbreak in Hyderabad last month that I made a discovery, and it wasn’t about the presence of E coli bacteria in the water pumped into our homes. The city was reeling under the shock of the poor quality of water being supplied by the water board, residents were crying foul and water board officials were busy denying reports. In the midst of all this, a senior official of the National Institute of Communicable Diseases (NICD) landed from Kolkata to conduct tests to verify whether it was indeed a cholera epidemic in the IT hub. Needless to say, she had scribes like me calling her up constantly for a clarification or for that one question that we forgot to ask the last time. But ironically, after the first call itself I, and I believe a dozen other scribes covering the outbreak, had started hoping she wouldn’t take our calls. Not that she was rude or anything, in fact she was very obliging, but her caller tune, it had left us helpless. It was a rare Bengali melody and I for one knew I had to get not just my cholera stories from her but also lay my hands on the song.
Thankfully, I managed to hear it a few times and with the help of Google and a Bengali colleague finally found the song that had been haunting me — ‘Ayi shundoro sarnali shondha’ — sung by Geeta Dutt, from the film `Hospital’. And thanks to the Bengali colleague’s uncle’s impressive song collection, had the song finally playing on my system. I also managed to find the black-and-white video of the song featuring Suchitra Sen and Ashok Kumar on YouTube and the senior NICD official was finally spared of incessant calls.
It was a happy month for a die-hard fan of old film songs like me, as far as lilting melodies were concerned — this was the third discovery I had made. After all, it is not often that old gems like these surface from nowhere. After all, you may find ‘Mausam hai bada awesome’ easily but it is rare for a ‘Thandi hawaye lehra ke aaye’ to crop up.
A few days before the cholera surprise, another rare melody had surfaced, surprisingly in the midst of a dusty election rally in the Old City of Hyderabad. A first time candidate’s campaign manager had Mohammed Rafi crooning ‘Baad muddat ke ye ghadi aayi’ from Jahan Ara. I had to call this manager over a dozen times for the candidate’s affidavit details (since they were not put up on the election commission website yet) and for once chasing someone for information wasn’t a hassle at all. Reports of the day over, it was time to hit Google again.
But the most pleasant of the three surprises that sprung in a short span was the visit of Shamshad Begum to Hyderabad for a felicitation function. At the function, many of her songs were rendered by a bunch of young people and the playback singer of ‘Kajra Mohabbatwala’, ‘Kabhi aar kabhi paar’ and the now remixed song `Saiyaan dil mein aana re’, sat quietly, clapping gently once in a while, a half smile never leaving her face.
Much like the smile that an ‘Aa chal ke tujhe, main le kar chalun ek aise gagan ke tale’ playing creakily in an auto rickshaw brings on the faces of people sitting in it. Or that half annoyed smile of a man with a heart condition as he listens to ‘Pal pal dil ke paas’ that plays tellingly as his cardiologist’s caller tune.
Yes, sometimes the grim realities of life are ironed out thanks to a few strains of music, of melodies. And now with swine flu surfacing in Hyderabad, I’m hoping that perhaps the lady from NICD will be brought back, just in case she has a new caller tune — one that lifts the mood even while reporting on the many ills that ail us.

Lost in the din of DJs

2007-12-04T02:32:00.000-08:00

Sitting in his small office with a yellow smiley adorning the otherwise bare walls, Ali Sagar smiles when he says he was known for his flawless rendering of Mohammad Rafi's `Dard-e-dil', a hit song from the movie `Karz'. As part of an active orchestra team, he recollects the months of November and December as the busiest time of the year with 25 to 30 shows slated through the month at various wedding venues. The money was good, the popularity even better. ``Our rate was fixed. No haggling,'' he says, with a hint of pride. This was less than a decade ago, in 1999. Now, these two months are as charm-less as the rest of the year for him as a singer.
Requests for performances started dipping in early 2000. His team wasn't getting enough work to stay together so they split. Ali, who is now an event manager with `Fun 2 Events Creations', says he would call his orchestra team members as and when he got a performance request. But, that is never more than three to four times a month. It wasn't that Ali's performance had deteriorated. It was just that city weddings were waking up to the synchronised beats of mixed and re-mixed music. The orchestra comprising the tabla, guitar, keyboard with a live singer was no longer the status symbol a DJ so readily gifted to a marriage party.
When the Indian wedding story is undergoing a glossy makeover, when functions such as mehendis and sangeets are being embraced by more and more `non-Punjabi' communities and marriage celebrations have extended from two-day affairs to week long ceremonies, these activities have inadvertently promised more employment opportunities and more money than ever before. But, the people who once pepped up wedding receptions with renditions of `baharon phool barasao' have nothing to celebrate.
Clearly, the big fat Indian wedding has left orchestra parties in the cold. They now form the subaltern reality of the great Indian wedding industry __ of skilled instrumentalists and singers earning much less, ironically in a sector where spending has sky rocketed over the last few years.
If an established orchestra team commanded a price of Rs 20,000 to Rs 25,000 until a few years ago, they admit that they perform even if offered Rs 14,000 now. ``But even then, some other party would agree to perform for as less as Rs 7,000 to Rs 8,000 and we lose the contract,'' says a musician, not wishing to be named.
While `established' musicians of orchestra parties still manage to make Rs 1,000 per show (given that an orchestra team comprises an average of ten members), others have to do with earnings as low as Rs 500 to Rs 600, certainly not good enough when even getting shows everyday is not guaranteed.
So, while some tabla players now practice the drums or at best the `dholki', the keyboard player has started lessons for children. Some offer choreography lessons for `sangeet' parties, others are now into event management, their instruments safely locked in their cupboards.
Musicians say that though the process of getting sidelined from the wedding industry has been gradual, it has left them shocked. After all, Hyderabad was a culturally sound city and it had takers for live music bands. Orchestras were integral to weddings. ``I came to Hyderabad from Kolkata about 14 years ago. There was a lot of respect for artists here,'' says Partho Mukherjee, tabla player, who rues that the city has lost its respect for musicians.
Mukherjee, who took an eight-year break from the city's orchestra scene when he went on to play with a well-known bhajan singer and on spiritual channels, is all the more offended with the changes in the orchestra scene in Hyderabad. ``It hits me now, since I was out of the circuit for so long. When you saw you are a tabla player, they just brush you aside,'' he says.
Singers, too, who have been serenading audiences for years now, are sidelined. ``I came back from Saudi Arabia and started this work in 1986. My wife is a singer, so she would perform and I would manage the events,'' says AAH Roofi, recollecting he was doing a 100 shows yearly. While his business has expanded, offering entertainment solutions, it has lost its old-world feel.
And Roofi misses it. ``We go only to selected people now,'' he says, adding that despite the caution exercised, not all shows are successful. ``Last week, we were called for an evening of traditional songs. But, soon the crowd wanted new songs so we had to end the live show and play CDs,'' he says.
The clamour for new songs has also ensured that there is little scope for instrumentalists to perform. After all, they point out very few contemporary songs have the same emphasis on each instrument as was the case in the past. The popular songs like `jhalak dikhla ja' or `tere bin' have little role for instruments, they note. Mukherjee, however, is thankful for the occasional `kajrare' or `subhan allah (Fanaa)' that come by to keep him busy on his tabla.
Industry observers note that given the metamorphosis weddings have undergone and the category of people orchestras are pitted against for survival, it is only predictable that they are ignored in this marriage melee. ``The orchestra has gone dead. We are now getting troops from Bangalore, Chennai and Sri Lanka. They are called fusion dance troops and are immensely popular,'' says wedding planner M Krishnatma, who heads Pebble Stones, an event management firm. These `fusion' troops cost anywhere between Rs 3 to 4 lakhs to up to Rs 15 lakhs, he says.
``Moreover, the orchestra does not belong to this cadre of event,'' says Rakhi Kankaria, who heads an event management company adding that if an orchestra is required, they are sourced from Mumbai or Delhi. These are teams headed by a small time celebrity. ``It's the status of people you are inviting,'' she says.
So, while there is enough music in weddings, there is no space for these musicians. For instance, there are item girls, mujra and belly dancers or both that are in demand for the bachelor's party bash. An estimated Rs 5 lakhs is spent on the performers alone. ``We also have DJs, one dedicated for adults and another for the young, and `serenaders' who strum their guitars and sing along while the cocktails are on. It is more of style and aplomb,'' Kankaria says.
Besides, with marriages revolving around concepts of decor and colour themes, even music is fine-tuned. ``If the wedding set is based on the theme of European architecture, we will have English music, and not the regular,'' says B Yadukrishna, an art director who models sets for marriages.
While one would assume that this is the reality of only high-end weddings, wedding planners note that the fascination for style now cuts across all sectors, irrespective of paying capacities. Just that, if one may not be able afford the serenaders (priced at Rs 15,000 for an evening and flown down from other metros and put up in hotels), they may not opt for the orchestra either but go for a DJ, their per evening rate ranging from Rs 7,000 to Rs 20,000.
Small wonder then, that musicians from orchestra parties have to carve out other job roles for themselves. Uday Singh of an orchestra named after him, has been in the business for the last eight years that performs even now. He insists that business is fine, but adds that they get more `sangeet' offers than wedding receptions. ``We prepare family members for performances for the `sangeet' ceremony,'' he says, adding that the cost of choreographing them ranges from Rs 8,000 to Rs 15,000. ``If we give our dancers, the cost shoots to Rs 20,000,'' he says, adding that he got into this line of activity two years ago.
Ali too woke up to other options soon enough. He started approaching schools and colleges with `entertainment solutions’, orchestra squeezed between dance performances and mimicry shows. He says he does get requests for singing but the demand is no longer for `Dard-e-dil'. People want `Dard-e-Disco'. ``I hire younger performers who belt out such numbers. I cant do that,'' he says.

To cook or not to cook

2007-07-14T04:25:00.000-07:00

It's been almost a month since we moved into our new rented house and life has not been more hectic ever since. After the packing came the unpacking and after the unpacking came the endless arrangement and rearrangement of stuff. Amidst all this chaos came two oustation trips and a minor accident. And adding confusion to all this chaos was my resolution to cook myself.

I had three maids in the house we stayed in earlier. One to cook, the second to clean and the third to straighten cushions and fold clothes. We felt outnumbered more than once with the presence of three women in the house floating around doing their work as we watched them. Apart from watching them, I also made tea and packed our lunch boxes.

Now, I have one maid who cleans and helps a bit in the kitchen. I insist that my cooked food tastes better and is also healthier. I resolved not to keep a cook and make `ghar ka khana'.

The resolution lasted for quite some time__one week to be precise. I pasted a weekly menu card on the kitchen cupboard that listed sandwiches for Monday breakfast and poha for Tuesday. I followed it religiously and I have two burn marks, albeit small ones, one on my left arm and another on my left little finger to prove the same.

But, if the first week of cooking was regular, it has been anything but that the following weeks. If the first week of cooking had paneer capsicum masala for lunch, it is now plain boiled dal and rice. The breakfast options too have changed from parathas to simple boiled egg and bread combo.

Either I am waking up late and have no time to cook or just the idea of turning to the fridge to take out vegetabls is turning me off. The restaurant across the road with prompt home delivery service has been of great help, of late. Fishing out his menu card from the kitchen drawer is the closest I find myself going to the gas stove, particularly in the evenings. By now I have tried most of his north Indian specialities and two Chinese dishes. I have started asking the man who takes my calls for orders to suggest what he thinks I have not had in a long time. He suggests grudgingly.

Now, I am tired of his food too. Last night, I ordered from another restaurant and didn't really enjoy it. I introspected and decided it was time I bend over my growing paunch and pull up my socks and start cooking. I cooked this morning. I made pizzas and dal and sabzi. It tasted good and I now think that I should stick to cooking :) .

Fearing Equality

2007-06-11T03:47:00.000-07:00

I had visited Medak district last week and came across this man there. What he said was not only interesting, but thought provoking as well.
Here is the story I did on him.

Nayinijalalpur (Medak): On Mrigasira Karti, Dakkali Kotaiah enjoys a traditional lunch of fish and rice prepared by his wife and daughter-in-law and then sits lazily under a tree picking his teeth and talks about how equality among social classes and castes is not entirely a fair idea.
Kotaiah is neither regressive nor is he on top of the human created social order looking down upon the lower castes. He, in fact, stands lowest on the social scale created in the ancient times and was once treated as an untouchable and made to eat near garbage bins. But now, he says, things have changed and he is no longer treated as badly. He doesn't use the word `improved' when he talks about the change in the attitude of people towards the community he belongs to__ the Dakkalis.
His unfavourable views about the changing times, one soon realises, are due to his practical economic concerns. The Dakkali community, he says, has been dependent on Madigas for their livelihood since time immemorial. ``For them (the Madigas), it is a duty to part with a share of their earnings every year and hand it over to us. For us, getting this share is a right. It has been going on for many years. As a child, I used to accompany my father when he visited Madiga families for his share, now I am carrying forward this family tradition,'' Kotaiah says, adding that even those Dakkali families that are now well off continue to practice it.
There are five Dakkali families in this sleepy Nayinijalalpur village in Kolcharam mandal, about 90 km from Hyderabad, tucked about 10 km away from Medak highway. Kotaiah, 50, is the senior most member of the Dakkali community in this village and says that the line between castes is now getting blurred.
``Earlier, we were never allowed to cross the threshold of the Madiga homes when we went there to seek our share. We were given money and the food was served to us near garbage dumps,'' he says matter-of-factly. Now, he says, he is allowed inside the houses. ``They serve us food properly inside the house. They even ask us to dine with them,'' he says.
Strangely, Kotaiah is not happy with this invitation and is, in fact, perturbed. ``I don't want to sit with them and eat,'' he says, stubbornly. His refusal does not stem from memories of the past when he was treated poorly by them. ``If I eat with them, I will be considered their equal and not dependent on them. They could then stop giving me money,'' he says. One reason why he takes his eldest son along with him on each trip to these houses is to familiarise him with the process and so that the Madiga community members never forget to part with the Dakkali share.
``Each Dakkali would have a claim on a certain number of Madiga families,'' Kotaiah says. So, his claim is on a few Madiga families, that are at a slightly higher social level than Dakkalis, spread across 20 villages in Medak district. While some of these Madiga families earn a living by playing drums on weddings and festivals, others double up as informers announcing festival dates and events to be held in their villages.
``We visit them once a year and collect money. Some give Rs 100, some a bit more,'' he says. Ask him how much he made last year, he hesitantly gives a modest figure of over Rs 1,000.
That money, he says, is additional to what he earns from other means. Kotaiah owns six donkeys and his thatched roof house bordered by a small fence appears one of the bigger ones in the village. His father owned a piece of land that the family sold and Kotaiah and his brothers shared the money among them. He now goes for daily wage work and earns about Rs 30 a day. His eldest son, who got married recently, sells donkey's milk which they say is known to have medicinal value.
The fairly smooth life that he seems to be leading is, however, not without concerns about the changing and emerging trends. He grudges that his two younger sons resent the practice of seeking alms from Madigas. ``They are going to school and learning new things. They don't like me going to these families seeking alms. I don't think they would carry forward this practice once I am gone,'' Kotaiah says, adding that while the eldest son helped him in this, he was educating his other children, two sons and one daughter, hoping that they would find jobs under schedule caste quota.
``But, if they don't get jobs, they could have banked on this tradition for a livelihood which they dislike,'' he rues, adding that even Madigas were getting educated and may decide to discontinue this discriminatory practice. ``I am worried about such times to come,'' Kotaiah says.

(The Times of India, Hyderabad edition, June 11, 2007)

Houseful

2007-05-17T23:16:00.000-07:00

On my way to work this morning I saw this huge board annoucing yet another mall on a yet another busy junction. I was stuck in a jam when I saw the board and started thinking of the days when I had just moved to Hyderabad.
Three years ago, when my husband moved to Hyderabad I wasn't too keen on joining him, until I visited the city myself. I clearly remember the day I first visited the city and was taken in by its wide tree lined roads, gulmohar trees in full bloom, the smooth traffic flow.. it was too picture perfect. I went back to Mumbai and submitted my transfer application, a decision I had thought I wouldn't be taking in a hurry.
From over an hour-long commute to a nine-minute auto ride to reach work was heavenly to say the least. There were loads of eating places to choose from and many were just a five-minute walk away. Theatres didn't need advance booking. Life was comfortable.
Now, the nine-minute commute is an hour long ordeal in the evenings and 40-minute polluted rides in the mornings. The restaurants that were once a few kilometres away are now distant by several hours. The bright gulmohar flower laden trees that stood out as bright spots even on a gloomy day have been chopped for road widening. The traffic that was once smooth is now chaotic.
Many flyovers have come up and some are under construction, but the congestion has only worsened. And just when I thought that things can't get any worse, a traffic police official said that more flyovers were being planned. He warned that if immediate steps were not taken the city would come to a standstill. Well, the immediate steps taken until recently have only left the city dug. Wonder what these new steps would result in.

(pic courtesy: www.hindu.com)

Happy Tokenism Day

2007-03-07T21:42:00.000-08:00

March 8 has been more of an SMS day. While some messages coaxed women to either celebrate their inner strength others suggested cherishing dreams. Some messages reminded women that they were lovely people and, yes, they should pass on the SMS to other lovely women they knew.
I was reading the messages soon after hearing out a cousin’s wedding plan, wherein among other things a brand new top-end model of a car had been promised to the groom’s family. It’s a done thing, I was told, and explained it’s difficult to get a ``suitable boy’’ these days minus such `perks’__ perhaps a new name for dowry__ that still is an integral part of many weddings. And a woman’s day celebration does not promise to change this disturbing social reality.
Nevertheless, the day is extremely popular. At work, the otherwise indifferent office boy, who I have observed prefers to first fill the water bottles of male colleagues, wished me a happy woman’s day. I wondered if he would give me preferential treatment through the year since it has finally dawned on him that I am a lovely person because I am a woman.
My office help is only the latest entrant in this gimmick-ridden celebration of womanhood, the first being mobile service providers. The others being political parties (soon after the mushy messages on dreams and strength, came those from political parties announcing the time when their party leader would make a `statement’ on women’s day), and of course, not to be left behind state government that sent an SMS a day before women’s day signed off by the women and child welfare department. The SMS was sadly only a good wish, not supported by any encouraging statistics on women welfare in the state.
E-mails too remind me how women `cement lives and families’ and are an `unbreakable bond’ or some such. The words fail to impress me even though I know they are true. A talented friend who left a job she loved to take care of her child indeed cements her family but her employer like much of the corporate world has not realized it and refuse to make facilities like day cares a mandatory feature that would help ease the burden on the overworked working mother.The hype surrounding women’s day has inadvertently brushed serious issues under the carpet. Would the day be better celebrated if it was supported by statistics of balanced sex-ratios and fewer cases of violence against women? Would it not make better sense to wish a fairly treated sex a very happy women’s day? Until then, it’s plain tokenism.

Black Friday

2007-02-09T23:17:00.000-08:00

It is very rare that I catch a film on the first day of its release, but I managed to watch Black Friday first day, first show and must say it was worth it.

I don't think I have seen a film where characters play real people and are even called by their real names. Not just that, the locations too are real. Restaurants and hotels too are not only identified by their real names but the scenes involving them are even shot there.

Also, the film does not editorialise and gives (as we journalists say while writing a story) all versions. The police are shown not only making arrests but also making mistakes by picking up innocent people. The bombers' reason to carry out the blasts and the eventual change of heart of one bomber is brilliantly done.

But, the surprise package clearly was this talented long time telly actor Pavan Malhotra as Tiger Memon. While he has played brief roles in Hindi films and I always felt he was wasted in many, in Black Friday he stands out, as the scheming right hand man of Dawood Ibrahim. And, did the filmmaker by any chance get the real Dawood to act in the film? For a minute I thought it was the real Dawood or a computer generated image of the don. (Google search gives me his name as Vijay Maurya).

More than anything else, I felt the film was well researched and I stepped out of the theatre a better informed person.

(pic of Pavan Malhotra as Tiger Memon in the film. source:indiafm.com)

Daydreams come true too...

2007-01-23T21:49:00.000-08:00

the only problem is, at least with me, that i fail to to track my daydreams and forget to feel happy when they get fulfilled. Funny but true. It isn't that I desperately await a daydream to become reality but it is a fact that i do enjoy imagining a moment and the happiness it brings me but fail to `live' it when it actually happens.
Well, my daydreams aren't about achievements or money. They are largely about inane stuff __ soaking the sun lying aimlessly on a lush green lawn (mainly because of being brought up in Dehra Dun), giving a piece of my mind to someone at work (which i rarely end up doing) and standing in the midst of a forest with a gurgling waterfall closeby (thanks to Nathaniel Hawthorne's David Swan which had a similar scene and which promptly found a place in my daydreams ever since I read the short story in school).
Strangely, I realised yesterday, that one of these inane moments i had daydreamt about actually came true but i wasn't clapping my hands in glee. In fact, I was at peace as the moment appeared mundane, almost like something that I took for granted, until i realised (much later in the day) that it was one of my many `daydreamt moments'.
Perhaps for a compulsive daydreamer like me it would be a tad difficult to keep track of all my imagined moments. But, given the amount of time I have spent since childhood staring blankly at my teachers, ceiling fans, text books and bosses during meetings, lost in my world of dreams I cannot let the whole `exercise' go waste.
I should at least stick a list of my daydreams on my desk and tick the fulfilled ones. Or check the list every morning for a fresh recall so that when the daydream gets fulfilled I at least remember to smile.

News updates that leave you speechless

2006-12-06T02:56:00.000-08:00

Correct me if I am wrong.. but have the courts not declared them criminals?

"The ex-cricketer (Sidhu) received a candlelight welcome on Tuesday evening when he arrived in Chandigarh for hearing the quantum of sentence.
Over 500 youth and BJP activists, carrying candles, welcomed him as he alighted from the train."
http://www.ibnlive.com/news/sidhu-gets-three-years-in-jail-wont-be-arrested-now/27815-3.html

"The courts may have held him guilty but Sanjay Dutt's fans within the industry have planned a signature campaign in support of the actor. All those in the industry who Sanjay helped from spot boys to actors would get together at Film City on December 12 to show the world what the real Sanju Baba is. Dutt, who has been held guilty under the Arms Act in the 1993 blasts, is currently out on bail."
http://www.ndtv.com/template/template.asp?category=National&template=93mumbaiblasts&slug=Industry+campaigns+to+support+Sanjay+Dutt&id=97502&callid=1

Stuff daydreams are made of

2006-11-25T01:42:00.000-08:00

From DH Lawrence’s Women in Love (yes, the passage does mention food):

“Lunch was served on the lawn, under the great tree, whose thick blackish boughs came down close to the grass… The food was very good, that was one thing…. Ursula loved the situation, the white table by the cedar tree, the scent of new sunshine, the little vision of the leafy park, with far-off deer feeding peacefully. There seemed a magic circle drawn about the place, shutting out the present, enclosing the delightful, precious past, trees and deer and silence, like a dream.”

Sigh.

He threatened to put me behind bars ...

2006-11-06T04:50:00.000-08:00

As I lost an ``important government document".

Well, I have been meaning to write about this incident for over a month now ever since it happened…so finally I let out steam here.
After a rather tiring three-days in the villages of Vizag and Kakinada, I took a train from Kakinada to Secunderabad. I was tired, after a long day spent in the sun, and crashed soon after I got into the train. I woke up only to find that the train was nearing Secunderabad station and would reach in the next five minutes. I hurriedly gathered my stuff, by which point the train reached the station, and got off.
As I headed the exit, a lady TC stopped me and asked for my ticket. My nightmare started now. I rummaged through my obscenely messy bag and did not find it. I looked for it in my jeans pocket and it wasn’t there either. I remembered holding the ticket in my hand at Kakinada station and showing it to the TC in the train before dozing off. Where could I have kept it. So, in all humility I told the TC that she could check the reservation sheet (the one pasted outside train bogies) and see my name there and that I could show her my identity card to her for name verification etc.
The lady said it was not her job to check the chart and that I will be fined. I lost it. I told her that if I am fined, it means that I have traveled without a ticket. “Meaning, you are announcing me guilty without giving me a fair chance to prove that I am not,” I said. The lady in black coat still maintained that I had to be fined.
Well, I asked her to put me onto her superior in that case. The superior was standing close by and she directed me to him. There, controlling my temper, I told him that I could not find my ticket but he could check the chart to verify that I did pay for my travel and that I did have a ticket. To this he said that I had to be fined since I had lost an ``important government document”. I was speechless for a bit and then I managed to say that I will not pay him a penny and that he could do what he felt like. At this point, he lost his temper and said, “do constable bulao”!! Huh!!
I stood there, waiting for the constables, who did not come and after a while, the man said that I could go back to the train compartment and check if my ticket was there. I said ok and asked him to send his subordinate so that I could show my name on the chart. Thankfully, the train terminates in Secunderabad and was still there when I went back with the lady TC who had stopped me. I entered my compartment and the cleaner was folding the blankets but hadn’t reached my berth yet. Under my blanket, I found the ticket.
With the ``important government document” in my hand, I marched to the big boss TC and showed him the ticket and asked him how he could threaten a regular passenger with constables etc knowing fully well that he could not do so until the crime was proven. To this, he hollered that he was well within his rights to put me behind bars for having lost that “important document”. I was by then mentally prepared to lodge a complaint with the railways about the man’s conduct and asked him for his name. He declined and said “You are my daughter’s age and you are threatening me” and started moving towards a box to put my ticket in. I said, don’t put my ticket in the box, I need it back. He said, “You cannot get your ticket back .. its against the rule”.
I told him that I was not off the mark in asking for the ticket and I knew it could be returned. Now, our man holding the government document was hopping mad. And took me to the station master. I was more than happy to do so to get rid of the curious crowd that had surrounded this whole ugly scene that I was creating with much help from the TC.
The station in-charge turned out to be a remarkably reasonable woman. The TC narrated the entire story to her, albeit sprinkled with huge helpings of masala (I got the train compartment door opened for her so that she could look for her ticket!!!) I told the station in-charge that she should take his story with a pinch of salt and all that I am asking for was my ticket. I forgot I needed his name too. She asked him to return my ticket and by then I was both exhausted and was smarting tears (problem is I get all teary-eyed by the end of a big argument) so picked my bag and left, mumbling a faint thanks to the station in charge. Thought about writing about it or sending it to reader’s grievances, but then got busy with some work stuff and had, frankly, lost interest too.

Umrao Jaan

2006-11-06T03:44:00.000-08:00

I first saw Muzaffar Ali’s Umrao Jaan as a child and still remember being taken in by the film’s story and the performances of the lead actors. When I could understand the film better, I saw it again and again and again. To date, it has remained one of my favourite films with some of the best dialogues, scenes, music and, of course, lyrics.
The film’s strength, I still believe, was its narration. The tragic story of Ameeran, kidnapped and sold in a `kotha’, her failed love life and the sad and lonely life she has to reconcile with in the film’s end, was beautifully told. The grandeur in the film was subdued, didn’t shroud the story or the characters. As Muzaffar Ali himself had said that he didn’t wish to go for elaborate sets as it was the story and the acting of the lead roles that he wanted people to notice. And it worked as planned by the gifted filmmaker.
There isn’t, according to me, even the slightest flaw in the film’s gripping direction. It takes the viewer to a different era when girl children were randomly picked, sold and later disowned by their own parents/family. The most heart rending scenes being that of a teenager Ameeran being kidnapped even as she played with her kid brother and that of her returning home and her brother declaring to her that she did not exist for them. The best and biggest tear-jerker scene, of course, is when Umrao returns to the kotha she had left and removes the dust from the mirror in her room.
Rekha, though I was never really fond of her, gave her finest performance of a sad and lonely courtesan seeking love. Farooq Sheikh was a treat to watch as he played his role of a rich and spineless lover believingly. Naseeruddin Shah as a pimp was predictably as brilliant as the film’s award-winning soundtrack.
While all the songs from this film were hits, my all-time favourites have been `Yeh Kya Jageh hai doston’, which she sings while performing in Faizabad where she was kidnapped from as a child. The best lines that speak of her plight in this song, that has haunted me to date, are `tamam umra ka hisaab maangti hai zindagi.. yeh mera dil kahe to kya ..yeh khud pe sharmsaar hai’ and… `mere liye bhi kya koi udaas bekarar hai’.
Yet another melody is `zindagi jab bhi teri bazm mein…’ which has this gem of a romantic yet realistic line…`har mulaqat ka anjaam judai kyon hai’.
With such a masterpiece already crafted, why then would I watch a new version of the film, whose promos have been enough to put me off.

Who are you scared of?

2006-11-02T00:09:00.000-08:00

Last night, while tuning into radio I stumbled on this private FM channel where the jockey was asking “aap kisse darte hai (who/what are you scared of)”. I thought it was one of those programmes wherein the jockey herself would give answers like failure in professional life, financial or marital problems, and then go on talking about some philosophies of life and then play an encouraging song like ``mein zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya…”
In a nanosecond I realized I was way off the mark. After repeating the question twice, “who are you scared of?”, the jockey soon chirped, “The options to the question are a) Your boyfriend or girlfriend b) your boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s parents and c) your boyfriend or girlfriend’s dog. SMS your answers to me on this number…the winner will get a goodie bag!”
I stopped reading to hear the options carefully when she repeated them again and realized it was not a joke. The jockey was serious and this was a serious contest. Then, I started thinking. Given the options I wondered what was the right answer to this question? I wondered what was there in the goodie bag (perhaps a book on `overcoming fears’). I also racked my brain about how the radio station will decide who to give the goodie bag to? I understood the gravity of the question only after the options were listed. After all, what can be more scary in life than your girlfriend or boyfriend’s temper, or either’s parents or either’s disapproving pet? Profound! The jockey broke for a song which was not `main zindagi..’’ for sure…but a more peppy `Kajrare’’.
It wasn’t a coincidence that yesterday hundreds of comments flooded news sites with people wishing a certain celluloid goddess a happy birthday. Television and radio had played songs featuring her all day. Yes, the music channels just fell short of changing their logo as they do on other `important’ days such as Independence and Republic Day and Diwali and Holi. Perhaps by next year, they will make amends. I was touched at how the nation got together once again in wishing this certain lady (strangely with no hits to her credit in the last few years) a happy birthday.
And celebrations continued this morning with news channels devoting a segment, a song, a report and an `in-depth’ feature on the ruling king of bollywood on his birthday. Predictably, the day’s schedule across channels…entertainment and news… comprises generous segments and films featuring this actor who could once act, but no longer can. Nevertheless, people can wish him by logging onto news websites and even take part in trivia quiz contests that a news anchor announced only three times this morning.
And as I write this, I think we are living in Trivia times.. when trivia makes main news, when trivia contests comprise sizeable chunks of television, internet and radio programming.
If I were to answer who/what am I scared of, I would add another option to the list. Option (d): the changed priorities of the media.

Do these green fields look like wasteland to you, mantriji?

2006-10-24T23:57:00.000-07:00

The Andhra Pradesh state government describes these fertile paddy fields as `wasteland' and has acquired acres and acres of such fields for developing Special Economic Zones.
I met the farmers here (U Kothapally mandal in Kakinada, East Godavari district) and even in Vizag in Rambilli and Achutapuram mandals.
The desperate farmers said that the government was leaving them with no option but to commit suicide. Incidentally, its the same government that came to power on the crucial farmer vote.
The government has not only forgotten the promises it made to the farmers but also the difference between wasteland and fertile land.

Sorry

2006-10-05T00:41:00.000-07:00

I read somewhere that "failed writers and half-wits" blog. The article went on to say/imply that bloggers write rubbish or those who write rubbish choose to blog as their writings cannot appear anywhere else.
Wow!
And I thought blogging was all about sharing ideas and opinions. I think I got too excited not just blogging but also reading interesting blogs from all over the country and the world that the fact that I (like thousands of bloggers) was indulging in this activity as I was a half-wit and a failed writer missed me! Tch. Apologies. But, can't help blogging, sir. So, please put up with the rubbish :(

The high point of Calcutta trip...

2006-10-05T00:27:00.000-07:00

Was the visit to Belur Math. The evening I spent at the math was both splendid and serene. Although we reached after sunset and were not allowed to go near the river, my day was made as the campus at that time of the evening was reverberating with the lilting notes of a prayer being sung in the math’s main hall.
The sound of music reached even the farthest end of the sprawling math. I wanted to see the river flowing and imagined sitting by the river and listening to the most soulful bhajan (I assume it was a bhajan) I had heard in a long time.
Nevertheless, the walk around the math was peaceful and seemed to clear my head of all thoughts good and bad. There was a beautiful numbness I felt and wished I could stay in the math’s campus for a lifetime__ breathe fresh air, sit by the river and read my book, listen to prayers in the evening and walk around the campus absorbing its beauty. Sigh.
(pic: www.mapability.com)

Left not right

2006-10-04T06:23:00.000-07:00

On the day I was leaving for Calcutta, I got a mail in the morning from a social group protesting the eviction of thousands of people in Singur district to make way for West Bengal’s perhaps most coveted deal in a long time_ a mammoth small car manufacturing plant to be set up by Tata Motors.
The same day, when I landed at Calcutta, I saw Azim Premji stepping into the airport. Later, I read in the newspapers that he was in Calcutta to discuss expansion plans in the state with the chief minister.
Here, I must admit that I have been largely ignorant or rather indifferent to West Bengal’s industrial plans and also the `growth’ it has apparently already witnessed over the last few years. I never paid much attention to industrial or political activity in this part of the country as both, I assumed, remained much the same. The Singur mail and Premji at the airport were, for me, the first indications of business houses evincing interest in the state.
Since it’s been the red `left’ flag ruling the state for as long as one can remember, my view of the state government there has been one which is so pro-poor in its approach that it had forgotten the industrialization needs that a region requires for growth, not to mention the job opportunities that would come with the same. At the same time, what it (the state government) really did for the poor, I fail to understand. Those who do, kindly enlighten me on this.
It was while sifting through various news reports on the Singur displacement issue that I learnt how complacent the state government was being as it made one statement after another on how it would go ahead with its acquisition of farmlands and how displacement at Singur was not really as big an issue as was being made out by the opposition. (Well, I wasn’t touched by Mamata Bannerjee’s tear stained tired face resting against Gandhi’s statue and I am sure nor were the people who were being displaced and were losing their fertile land to the government).
Political parties and their contradictory statements ceased to surprise me long back but since it was the Left in power taking the rather anti-poor stand, that came as a surprise. Is it not the same Left that opposes just about every industrial plan in the country and is incidentally doing so in Andhra Pradesh? Appallingly, in its own state it contradicts itself.
I have, on several occasions, found the left’s reactions rabid such as to those on disinvestments in PSUs and always felt their views on liberalization needed a fresh thinking. And when the party finally looks at industrial growth in its state, it compromises the very interests it had allegedly been fighting for. It even goes about it like other political parties would __ displacing the poor to place and please the rich. So much for the party’s ideology!

Life rating

2006-10-04T04:43:00.000-07:00

took this test.. try it out..its fun. but, i disagree with some rating.. fun, nonetheless.

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	8.2
Mind:	7.5
Body:	7.3
Spirit:	8.8
Friends/Family:	5.8
Love:	7.3
Finance:	8.6
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

Waking up

2006-10-02T00:52:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: the observations here are my personal opinions on a city and should be treated as that. I do not wish to hurt the sentiments of any community or residents of the city in any manner.

Weeks before I left for Calcutta, my Bengali colleagues in office started preparing me for the `pujo’ (yes, I learnt the `a’ of puja is replaced by an `o’ like all things bong, perhaps). They told me about the decked up city and its people, the pandals, the frenzy.
Calcutta, I was told at least 29 times on last count, was splendid during the pujo. Now, I must admit that my last two visits to Calcutta had left me rather disappointed with the city. I found the city of joy’s pace sluggish and I could sense sitting in the yellow-painted cabs a strange dullness and sadness around me. I would inadvertently draw comparisons between Calcutta and Bombay and wonder how the latter was so strikingly vibrant and zestful. The comparison only worsened my dislike for Calcutta. And carrying such an impression about the city, it was difficult for me to think of any festivity shaking Calcutta out of its slumber.
Predictably, I wasn’t in the least excited about my impending trip but decided to view the city and its big festival objectively. Now that I am back, my friends have been asking whether I liked the pujos? Much to their joy, my answer is in the affirmative.
I am not really a festival person and have tried to refrain from community festivities all my life. For this reason I sparingly took part in the Ganpati festival in Bombay when I was there and perhaps never really observed the festival closely.
I did that with Durga Puja in Calcutta and found that it was simply beautiful. I would have not realized the beauty, had I not been dragged out of the house and shown around the pandals in South Calcutta. And it was not just the idols of Goddess Durga and the carefully designed and decorated pandals (some so gorgeous that Bhansali’s Devdas sets would appear sober in comparison), but the activity on the streets was the most striking. The city appeared to be holding an all-night mela with people in their finest clothing (as someone rightly said that people dress up for the pujo as is there is no tomorrow) hopping from one pandal to another, with well-lit buildings providing the perfect festival backdrop.
My better half, who is from Calcutta but was attending the pujo after a long gap, told me about one pujo when he walked 15 kms to cover as many pandals as possible. This time, we moved around in a cab we had booked for the night and saw people walking, sitting on cycle-rickshaws, cars, bikes.. whatever.. but moving around through the night, mingling, talking and yes, like in dandiya nights in Bombay, eyeing strangers and falling in love with them.
When I reached home after my first pandal hopping, I for the first time felt the gloom lift from the city. Calcutta, does wake up from its slumber, to celebrate.

In all fairness

2006-09-14T06:42:00.000-07:00

So men need not be tall dark and handsome. Well, no longer. It is decided that they should be fair complexioned or else they will have to spend their lives hiding behind bushes stealing women’s fairness creams or playing insignificant doubles to popular (read fair) actors. Now, for decades to come young boys will grow up applying generous volumes of fairness creams on their faces thinking that life would be fair to them only if they look fair.
There can be no debates on this matter. After all, it’s the country’s leading fairness cream company that has taken the decision. It took the same decision for women several decades ago. It knew that women needed to become the fairer sex, rather literally, and flashed this well-intentioned noble message across all publications and television.
Predictably, the cream did well. Well, with most girls being differentiated in their homes itself owing to their skin colour, the fairness cream only strengthened the notion. Fairer is better, they said. Innumerable women agreed.
It became a leading product in the fairness creams segment but still wanted to do better. So, it had to come up with brighter ideas to market itself better. The ideas largely revolved around the sad lives of dark or not so fair women. They didn’t get jobs nor did they get men. They were sniggered at by prospective grooms or their families and they were, well, generally losers. Their parents were sad people too and lived in badly painted houses and cried about them not having a son until the fairness cream changed their lives along with the colour of their daughter’s skin who instantly gets a job and takes her parents to a five-star hotel for coffee! I cried for the family, with joy of course!
Gradually, the dark-complexioned girls discovered that talent was not enough. They needed fair skin to realize their dreams like giving cricket commentary.
Now, it’s the turn of men to be told how their lives would change if they used the cream that made so many women successful. Oh stop studying guys. All you need is a peaches n cream complexion to rule the world with a fair babe by your side. And stop idolizing actors like Ajay Devgan, so what if he is extremely talented. Put up posters of the fair-skinned Dino Morea.
It’s only fair, right?

Waiting..

2006-09-10T03:27:00.000-07:00

For Nagesh Kukunoor's Dor. Saw its promo on tv the other day and I was hooked. The song in the promo, Yeh Honsla, was awesome and i have been playing it on the net over and over again. Had thoroughly enjoyed Kukunoor's Iqbal last year and hope that Dor too is as much a treat.

(pic credit: http://www.webindia123.com/movie/national/preview/dor/index.htm)

grim reality

2006-08-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

I was on my routine trips to news websites to check the latest in the country and was also keenly following the arrival of the 12 detainees to Mumbai. On a news channel's site that allows people to leave comments, I was reading the story of their homecoming, their reactions to the ordeal when the comments section caught my eye. Readers/viewers had left comments like "they should know how to behave" and "they have no choice but to forgive Dutch authorities as their behaviour was suspicious" and about ten more comments in a similar vein.
I was first surprised and then saddened by the kind of reactions the incident had evoked. I had thought or had perhaps taken for granted that the entire nation would be up in arms against the Dutch authorities for targetting Indians. Sadly, that was not the case.
I am no Congresswala, but this was one incident, I thought, that clearly showed the fear Muslim minorities have to deal with now every single day of their lives for the fault of some members of their community. It was depressing to see their own countrymen find faults with their behaviour and not with the Dutch authorities. Did they not once think that they would have not behaved in the same way with a bunch of clean shaven goras exchanging seats and fidgeting with their mobile phones? And when the incident should best be viewed as a slap on Asians, some of our very own countrymen view it as a "minority not behaving themselves" issue.
I, for once, stand corrected. All along I have debated with my friends that the minorities in India are not as victimised as some political party would want us to believe. That all Indians feel for each other, irrespective of caste, creed and religion. After reading the comments on that news site, I have to sadly admit that is perhaps no longer entirely true. Religion not reason colours judgment today.

KANK - Kabhi Acting Na Karna

2006-08-20T23:23:00.000-07:00

Three and a half hours is a long time. Perhaps a lifetime for filmmakers to tell their stories convincingly, to explain their characters and help the viewers explore their characters’ black, white and grey shades. Three and a half hours is a luxury for storytellers vying for five minutes of reader attention. Having an entire nation (almost) concentrate on what you have written is a dream that rarely comes true. Well, storytellers whose stories get converted into films enjoy this privilege.
Then, why, may I ask, was Kabhi Alvida Na Keha, such a badly written and badly told story?
Was three and a half hours not enough for a director (who rather bizarrely claimed to have matured during its making!!!) to flesh out his characters, to make the audience believe that his point was (I suppose) not infidelity but true love found late, rather late? Was the story writer sleeping while penning down a romance that didn’t strike a chord.. that didn’t tug at any heart strings? It didn’t even evoke a sigh among the viewers.. for a love affair that was supposedly so passionate that it ended two marriages?
I, for one, did not see the lead pair fall in love, at all. I didn’t see the compelling factors that drew them to each other. You don’t need men and women dressed in blue and red and lilting music to convey that. The actors failed even the soulful Mitwa, their drab emoting a sad contrast to the brilliant score.
Mr Johar should know. He had Kajol crying in the rain in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and the theatre sobbed with her. In KANK, nobody cries. They are too busy looking at the watch, waiting for the movie to get over.
I would not blame the cold treatment to a supposed hot romantic true love found late story, on bad acting alone. The storyteller, I think, simply forgot to write scenes that showed how a much married man fell in love with another married woman. Remember SRK from the rather low-budget Kabhi Haan Kabhi Na coaxing you to fall in love with the girl he had a crush on.. his climbing a pole to get her scarf.. among many other stunts.
Yes, I know the film (KANK) was dealing with ``matured’’ people, but, for god’s sake, for all the jazz on maturity the only way the ``committed’’ man and woman think of working on their marriages is by pepping up their bedroom lives? I read somewhere the subject was sensitively handled. Yeah, sure.
Another unexplored angle, which could have perhaps added so much to the poorly etched characters, was how the married man (who was happiest at the birth of his child, we are told) had no lines on the dilemma he was facing choosing between true love and his child? And, a foul-tempered father hollering at his child was the supposed comic element in the film? What were you thinking, Mr Johar?
I am sure that the movie has already made enough profit for Mr Johar to plan his next venture. But, I for one, will stay out of SRK-K Johar films.
SRK has lost a fan of 20 years and Johar a viewer for his subsequent ventures. Goodbye.

`Stationary' schemes

2006-08-09T05:49:00.000-07:00

Read a report this morning on the Andhra Pradesh state government deciding to give land to flood-affected farmers through a variety of schemes. I imagined a report a few months later that would quote a flood-hit farmer saying that he did not receive any land. I could be wrong, but with my (limited) experience with government schemes, I do know that most of them are rather well-intentioned, but they stay firmly on paper.
I was reminded of a scheme that is still quoted by successive state governments and mentioned in the central government health files on initiatives to improve institutional deliveries among rural women. Called the `Sukhibhava (stay happy if loosely translated)’ scheme, it was meant to encourage women from rural parts of the state (AP) to opt for deliveries in government hospitals or nursing homes. The incentive for them to chuck the mid wife and opt for trained nurses? A princely sum of Rs 300. The well-intentioned scheme wanted to check maternal mortality rate.
To the best of my knowledge, the scheme is still in place. On paper, it is not a bad idea to encourage pregnant women to opt for institutional care, to protect them from possibilities of infections and death. I had my doubts about the incentive amount as even in government hospitals one tends to spend on medicines etc. and wondered whether Rs 300 would be good enough.
A ruckus at a government maternity hospital early last year cleared my doubt. About 200 young women, cradling pink-cheeked infants in their arms, stood in the heat waiting for the promised Rs 300. All of them had opted for a government hospital or a nursing home to deliver their children and claimed that they had spent hundreds on their deliveries. They said the hospital had announced that it would give out the money on that day. The women made long trips from distant areas, spending a couple of hundreds in the process only to be told that the hospital cant give them the money.
I found the hospital superintendent and her staff sitting inside almost oblivious of the commotion across the wall. It was lunchtime, they told me. However, the superintendent said that the hospital had no money to give. The government had announced the date but had not disbursed the money to given to the women. The superintendent was helpless.
So were the women waiting outside. They had spent more than what the government had promised. When I left the hospital after a couple of hours to file my report, the women were still sitting there, their babies were still crying. When I headed home that evening, I wondered if those women, some of whom had exhausted their money on their trip to the hospital, had managed to go back home.

Sari state

2006-08-09T04:44:00.000-07:00

The last I heard, Sari was still India’s national dress. But if the kind of reactions the dress evokes from people it almost appears that you are wearing a kimono.
Just how can you explain reactions ranging from “Hey, what’s up?” to “Aha! What is the occasion” and from “Kya baat hai” to an all-knowing office help smiling and saying “Happy birthday, madam”.
Well, I should be used to it by now, if not the sari, the reactions at least. After all, I started wearing sari to work about two-odd years ago not just to experiment with my rather drab wardrobe but also to start getting comfortable with an outfit I so admired. Also, I made it a point to wear it often enough for people to stop asking me why I was wearing it and whether I was celebrating birthday, anniversary, the rains.. the floods…anything.
But, despite this rather impressive (me thinks) frequency of me turning up in the five-yard wonder (at least once or twice in a month), people around me continue to react in the same manner. I am greeted with broad smiles and curious looks. And then starts the routine “Hey, what’s this” question sessions.
I almost feel that I am the only participant in a cancelled fancy dress who turned up in a strange outfit while the others are dressed sober.
Initially, I did not lose my cool. I would smile and explain that I liked wearing a sari once in a way. I told them I looked for opportunities to drape this awesome fabric around me.. given that there are no family functions that I attend. I told them I found sari the most elegant dress on planet earth, albeit a bit inconvenient when you have to jump around the city interviewing people, managing the pallu.
But, since am dressed in rags most of the time, predictably, the reactions of the curious ``what’s the occasion’’ people are not really off the mark. But, how do I explain that my worn out jeans would appear as my first love, but it’s the sari that I have lost my heart to.

Equality or discrimination?

2006-08-02T22:56:00.000-07:00

I don’t get this. Women who harp on gender equality and gender sensitivity do not as much as bat an eyelid while demanding gender-based reservation. How different are these women from Arjun Singh who does not (at least seemingly) understand that giving reservation without improving basic education facilities/standards will be of no good.
The women’s reservation bill is shockingly being supported by the so-called educated thinking women. Are they oblivious to ground realities such as the high drop out rate of girl children from schools? Or, for that matter, the poor density of government-run secondary and high schools that enables `elimination’ of the girl child from school education as their parents are not too keen on their young daughters traveling a distance forcing them to drop out soon after they complete their primary education.
Why don’t these women fighting for reservation fight for better education facilities for girls? Why don’t they force the government to set up more schools for girl children? Why don’t they move around creating awareness among parents on the importance of education for the girl child.
But, why should they? As they have a quick-fix solution to the problem__ reservation for these girls. How many girls who would really benefit from a reservation would actually manage to reach that stage of seeking admission into a university or apply for a job, I wonder. How can a quota for girls bring about their elusive equality in society, when the section it is really meant for may remain alienated?
Then, who would benefit from the reservation for women? Those who have perhaps received the same education and have had the same privileged upbringing as boys? But, why should they get admission or a job over a more deserving candidate just because of their gender? Which self-respecting woman would interpret a placement or an admission that she has secured not because of her performance or grades but her gender?
The women fighting for the bill or supporting the bill have no faith in themselves. I, for one, feel the bill is discriminatory. It makes women (like me) feel that they may not work as hard or study as hard because they would still get admission and a job just because they belong to the privileged fairer sex.

Am not really jobless..

2006-07-29T02:18:00.000-07:00

..but i did spend a good one month, or perhaps more hunting for the CD or even the lyrics of the song `sansar se bhaage firte ho' from the film Chitralekha. As luck would have it, Vividh Bharati played songs from the film on two occasions in the last one month, but, sadly my favourite was not their chosen one. I searched high and low for the lyrics on the net but could find stray mentions of the song in articles on Sahir Ludhianavi. Well, after finishing my story yesterday, i got back to hunting for the song again.. and after a good two hours of real surfing I found a site from where I could play the song and hastily took down the lyrics.
And now I am dying to put the lyrics here on my blog ever since for two reasons. One, i dont want people surfing for the lyrics of the song to face the problems i did and two.. i just love the way this song challenges just about every philosophy on life, ideals and indulgence. While seekers of the eternal truth describe pleasures of life ephemeral, this song begs to differ.
here goes -

sansar se bhaage firte ho
bhagwaan ko kya tum paaoge
is lok ko kabhi apna na sake
us lok mein bhi pachtaoge

yeh paap hai kya
yeh punya hai kya
reeton par dharm ki mohren hai
har yug mein badalte dharmon ko
kaise aadarsh banaoge?

yeh bhog bhi ek tapasya hai
tum tyaag ke maare kya jaano
apmaan racheta ka hoga
rachna ko agar thukraoge

hum kehte hai yeh jag apna hai
tum kehte ho jhootha sapna hai
hum janam bita kar jaayenge
tum janam gawan kar jaaoge

The pit(fall) of news

2006-07-26T03:04:00.000-07:00

(Sorry, if this sounds insensitive but with due respect to the child and the trauma his family went through, but, from an `average’ newsperson’s perspective, I cannot fathom how a child falling into a pit becomes national news.)
A child who accidentally fell into a pit could rake in lakhs of rupees. The government, I am sure, wanted to splurge more. Like, promising a job when he turns 18. Or, promising a career in medicine or engineering, whichever he decides. The child, when he grows into a thinking adult, would some day surely understand how the pit-fall changed his life.
I was forced to think of the umpteen children who are living their lives in pits, literally.
Be it the pit of poverty or illiteracy or simply the pit of government’s indifference to their plight. Child workers working in hazardous conditions need to be rescued too… but that doesn’t become national news. There are many pits in the form of dingy zari units or the pesticide-saturated cottonseed farms. But, the nation doesn’t pray for them or force the government or the local administration to `spring into action’ and `announce aid and support for them’. There are no cameras to record their plight and air it live.
Their families too are poor, many of them live of the money earned by their children. There is no financial aid for them. These are soft stories and they don’t sell, I hear often. Predictably, they don’t make national news.
A day after the child’s rescue from the pit, a news anchor gushed that reality television had come of age. Well, I would like to see `real rescues' before I can say that.
(Pic: child workers at a cottonseed farm in mahbubnagar district.)

Connecting with Bombay

2006-07-22T00:03:00.000-07:00

It is not without an ulterior motive that I ask my parents to settle down in Bombay. Though I never say it in as many words. I tell them about how they have been in the city for over 12 years and how they have a rocking social circle. I also tell them that Bombay offers the best medical facilities. What I don’t tell them is that my connection with the city I so love will be snapped once they step out of it.
Yes, I have friends there who will never move out of Bombay and will always draw me to the city, but having family there is a different feeling altogether __ it makes Bombay home and me a resident not a visitor.
My father is due for retirement next year and most of our conversations revolve around where they would want to settle down. They were pretty indecisive until the blasts.
While people were busy, once again, saluting the spirit of Bombay, after the blasts in local trains a few things changed, sadly. A colleague in Bombay who I call up on the hotline almost everyday, declared half in jest and half seriously, “I have to leave this city.” A Delhiite, he had moved to Bombay last year and one of his first experiences in the city was the July flood that left him stranded in office for a good 36 hours.
My father too was stuck in the flood and spent a horrendous night sitting in his car watching the water level rise and eventually stepped out of it and waded through the waist-deep water like thousands of Mumbaikars that night, to reach home, wet, tired but not defeated. The flood did not really break the spirit of Mumbaikars, as they said ad nauseum. But, the blasts surely did.
My mother, who swears by her life in Bombay comprising music and yoga classes, kitty parties, club get-togethers and long walks on the promenade by the sea, told me that she now wants to move out. The blasts, she said, had changed her decision to settle down in this city where her friends were. “You could have been in the local train. I was glad that you are out of this city,” she told me. Now, fearing their safety, even I am not too keen on them staying there though I did tell them that all the cities would be the same one day. How many cities will we move out of?
Nevertheless, the bombers seemed to have succeeded in scaring people. They had not only left hundreds of Mumbaikars scarred for life, but also snapped my umbilical cord with the city.

A bad trip is over and a ban is lifted..

2006-07-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

And so i can finally crib about the crib-fest I indulged in the whole of last one week. Or so was my plan. But, got pictures of the trip (that was responsible for the cribbing) developed yesterday and was surprised to see how beautiful the place was. Well, I did realise that the place (B R Hills) looked like a picture postcard when I was there for three days, but, I was either too pre-occupied with the bad arrangement made for us or was holed into a conference room for day-long sessions.
I cribbed the least, which my friends pointed out repeatedly and described me as a `diplomat' and even `politically correct' as I ho did not join them during a showdown with the organisers. Well, the post is not about defending myself but about how picture perfect the place was. And the morning walks were certainly something I could have enjoyed better if I wasn't too worried about having my breakfast on a greasy plate.
Here are some pics I took during those very peaceful morning walks. Wish I could absorb the beauty better when I was there. Sigh.

Kiddo Birthday party

2006-07-07T02:55:00.000-07:00

Five-year-olds leave me, well, stupefied. My darling nephew celebrated his fifth birthday in complete style on July 5 at a happening food joint in Pune with his friends from school and day care. They were all from similar family backgrounds, and like my nephew spoke fluent English and broken Hindi and all were familiar enough with birthday party routines and what they should be looking for in them.
They headed for the tattoo counter soon after they handed over gifts cutely saying `happy birthday’ with my nephew nodding his head mumbling his thank-yous. They knew the games they were going to play and didn’t need instructions. In fact, they smartly checked the person who was doling out dos and donts asking him to start the game without telling them how to play it (“we know the game”, girl in pretty pink frock and spaghetti straps squealed at him).
The kids called the eldest in the group “boss” and teased a misbehaved one as the “bully”. I watched them all from a distance, as they jumped, played their power ranger games and gaped at their excellent vocabularies, wondering how evolved the kids were. One of them came and asked me who I was, as I was neither a mum watching over her kids nor a kid myself to which I asked him to find out. He didn’t have to. He said, “you are birthday boy’s masi,” to which I smiled and said yes.
I saw a strange level of confidence among the children. I call it strange because I do not think I was ever even remotely close to this kind of a confidence level at their age or even much later, tugging to my mother’s sari-pallu and being coaxed to eat.
While coming back to Hyderabad, sitting by myself in the train I realized how different our childhoods were. My elder sister and I had birthday parties but they were at home, with mummy with the help of a domestic servant and a few friends from the building managing to cook for the lot. The evening parties ended with my sister and I running up and down the building with plates of food to be given to neighbours. And come to think of it, I felt shy of that too __ of ringing the doorbell and telling the smiling aunties that it was my birthday and that I had got cake and chole for her. And I almost always rehearsed another line that I was made to say several times, "Aunty, please return the plate now only". This, I was explained, was to ensure that they don't have to think of what to fill our empty plates with when sending it back. However noble the intention, the thought of repeating these lines made me squirm.
I am sure the confident five-year-olds some of whom were instructing their mothers not to mix their noodles with manchurian will perhaps even do a better job at asking for empty plates without squirming.

Stiff upper lip…my foot!

2006-06-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

What do these firangs think of themselves? Just because they ruled us for 200 years, do they, by any chance think that they are a superior lot? What else would explain a semi-literate (I assume in my hopping mad state of mind) office assistant to turn down my request to take a message for his boss, that too on international call.
Have been chasing this lawyer in London all day, running down to this cubbyhole of a telephone booth outside office (office here does not have ISD) to call him up only to be told curtly “call him back after half an hour”. Initially, I didn’t lose my cool, trying my other techniques to get through him such as “put me on to someone else in the office in that case” meeting with the same irritating response “please call up after half an hour”.
In regular circumstances I would not have lost my cool. But, because this man insisted on repeating the sentence despite my rather polite requests (repeated three times) to leave my name and number, the man simply repeated “call up after half an hour”. And I lost it.
I told him that as an office assistant the least he is expected to do is to take down my details and ask his boss to call me back. The man, I assume, can only speak not hear. Or, he turns a deaf ear if it’s an Indian on the other end of the phone. And so he said for the nth time, “please call up after half an hour”.
Well, now after having shot a stinker to big man writing damaging things about his office assistant, am still seething.
I just feel that firangs do believe that they are notch above us and can get away with murder. What explains the racist abuses hurled at call center employees in India.
Was reminded of an incident at the Asian Development Bank meeting, when this group of firangs sniggered rather condescendingly when an Indian bureaucrat asked a state chief minister on why students from his state were not considered `employable’.
Am pretty certain that these unemployable graduates from India would make for far better office assistants, who will, if not anything else, have simple phone etiquette.
Huh!

Bad Monday

2006-06-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

After a rather nice and peaceful weekend, i dont think it was a good idea for me to check things that upset me. I did. And I started hating my job.
Don't wish to say much.
MY favourite cartoon character's expression says it all.

That's me on a buggy!!

2006-06-19T05:13:00.000-07:00

Hopped on to this buggy from the Nizam era at Chowmahalla Palace this afternoon. It felt rather royal...the upholstery, the size of the buggy...it was good fun!

An addict’s story

2006-06-16T05:21:00.000-07:00

As a child, I remember watching the popular tele-serial ‘Chunauti’ on Doordarshan with rapt attention trying to figure out why young college boys were injecting stuff into their bodies and shuddered to see them whine in pain when they did not get the drug they were addicted to. I didn’t understand the serial much at that point in time.
I could never understand what pushed people to drugs and, honestly, I couldn’t care less. But, yesterday, when I came face to face with an addict, I found myself wanting… I lacked the understanding or perhaps suffered from `disinterest’ in an issue that didn’t affect me.
His story, however, made me discover the dark side of the world I am living in and put me in an awkward situation as well, as I didn’t know how to respond to his desperation to end his life.
“Curiosity killed the cat” he said at least five times in the one hour that I spent with him. He said the saying applied to his life, literally.
The man, in his mid-30s started doing drugs about 16 years ago “out of curiosity” when he had just joined college and ended up in a situation where he tried killing himself three times. He showed me a deep gashes on his neck from his first suicide attempt, slash marks on his wrist were proof of his second bid to end his life. He was telling me about his third attempt when I asked him to spare me the details.
The life he had lived over the last 16 years that he narrated calmly with remarkable honesty made me think of the `dark world’ that coexists with this regular world that I live in. People in the dark world do not socialize with those outside their circuit. The sun shies brighter on the other side, the man said, but narrated how he would lock himself up in a room for days together if he was unable to get his daily dose of one gram heroine.
“I would turn to alcohol then, finishing off two bottles of vodka or whisky everyday. But alcohol could never give me the same kick.”
He had friends who did drugs with him. Two of them died in front of him. “I was shaken, but still did not quit,” he said.
He said he took pride in the fact that he maintained friendships with a couple of `normal’ boys. “I would look at them and wonder how I reached this stage. I wanted to be like them, but even when I was hanging out with the regular bunch, I had to take my daily dose to keep me sane.”
From a rich family and pursuing medicine, the man had lost touch with his family and would take up odd jobs to buy his daily drug dose. “I have worked in food stalls, sold fish in the market, only to make enough money to buy the drug,” he said, his hands still shaking from years of abuse.
Now in rehab, the man said that he never thought he would ever get back to a normal society with normal people. Then he said how he felt terrible for having wasted so many years of his life but was glad that he didn’t get married. And then he paused, collected himself and said he was ashamed of himself and the life he had wasted. He had nothing to look forward to in life.
Since he is in rehab, I hoped he would have more to look forward to in life. I could not give him much hope, smiled at him, said all will be fine and walked out. On hindsight I think I could have wished him luck.

Films on books

2006-06-11T05:40:00.000-07:00

I have never been this lucky. Within a few days of having finished reading The English Patient, I promptly found the film’s VCD. It was perhaps after a very long time that I saw a film as moving and wonderful as this and I cannot decide whether I loved the film more or the book. It is so rare to find films so true to the books they are based on. Be it the patient’s room, the kitchen, the cave…and even the appearances of the nurse, Hana, and Kip, the Indian sapper, were just the way I had imagined them to be while reading the book. While Kip’s role wasn’t as big in the film as it was in the book and the film and the original text did not really end the same way, yet, the film was certainly true to the spirit of the remarkable story.
While reading the book there were a few lines that stood out (call me a die hard romantic for picking up these as favourites from a book full of gems) like “When you leave me, forget me" and “I just want you to know, I don’t miss you yet” (to which Katharine says “you will”) and these were so movingly said in the movie as well.
However, its not always that you fall in love with a film based on a book that you adored. Most films are disappointments and one that comes to my mind is the film Tim based on the book by the same name by Colleen McCullough.I read Tim over a decade ago when I was still in school but, to date, itremains one of my favourite books. For, it was a fine love story realistically told. The love story of a mentally challenged 22-year-old Tim with a woman in her forties, who is described as one with harsh features and not really the kind of a woman men Tim's age would fancy was not only unusual but it also had the most unusual ending, a non-mush, bitter truth end to an otherwise perfect love story.Tim's helpless attraction to Mary when she takes him out on long drives and his first child-like attempt to kiss her end with Mary and Tim getting married. At this point, I remember wondering why there were so many pages still left in the book as I thought the story ended with the two getting married and living happily ever after.However, in a freak kitchen accident Tim lands up in the hospital and Mary like alovelorn teenager runs around looking after him. Reality bites, when adoctor attending to Tim asks a visibly ageing Mary to take rest and not getovertly anxious about her `son'.
Well, I would have perhaps liked the film had I not read the book. For me, the book’s charm was in the way it ended and the film simply glossed over it. I would have loved to see the best part of the book performed to perfection but was so disappointed to see it end abruptly (at least I thought so).
Another film which was strikingly true to the original text was Maqbool, based on Macbeth. Before the film released I wondered how the director would adapt the Shakespearean play to contemporary Indian context. The opening scene of the film dispelled all doubts in my mind. The film started with the thunder and lightning that characterized the opening scene of Macbeth with prophecies being made by two evil cops playing the three witches in the play who drive Macbeth to destruction. While some friends called Maqbool a rather dark film, I simply felt that the director was true to the book and did not take the so-called “creative freedom”.
I gave full marks to the director for having brought out my favourite part in the play so well: Lady Macbeth scrubbing her hands clean of imaginary blood (“even the perfumes of Arabia will not clean this little hand” in stark contrast to what she had told Macbeth earlier in the play after he kills Duncan “A little water clears us of this deed”). Tabu, as Lady Macbeth, was mind blowing.

Chinese Torture

2006-06-09T03:55:00.000-07:00

That’s precisely what I have been subjected to over the last ten days. But, it wasn’t torture initially. I enjoyed it the first day for exactly 12 minutes… but it started hurting me slowly, the pain is now excruciating and I can’t take it anymore.
I was suspicious from the day four office boys came to my floor and started playing with a few wires. I knew they were up to something fishy and now I know that my fears were not unfounded. I dreaded it more when they put a white metallic net kind of a thing on the ceiling, it looked like a speaker to me and I wondered what it was for.
Now I know for am subjected to its incessant blaring all day. For an inexplicable reason I have radio at my workplace and believe me I can do WITHOUT this music. Can you write a single sentence with Mr Reshmaiya’s mind numbing `jhalak dikhlaja’ playing in the background? Or, for that matter, can you make a single conversation with any of the current crop of songs playing on your head, literally.
Thankfully, after repeated complaints and requests of shutting the radio down completely, the volume has been lowered and is not really disturbing to others. But, I am ultra-sensitive to bad music. Had it been old classics, I would have not reacted like this for sure, but then, the world seems to be rocking to the beats of `aap ki kashish’ (why, God, why) so who really cares to play the simply awesome `ban ke panchi gaaye pyar ka tarana’. Huh.
The main problem with most radio channels, I think, is that they don’t play music in tune with time and weather, which I strongly believe can be their USP. I really think that most of the channels play the same set of songs, have almost the same programmes, but rarely make an impromptu choice of a song to play in line with the weather or the time of the day (radio expert friend cum blogger, I know you disagree).
A few days ago when I was in Bombay, it was raining and all the channels were dishing out the same set of numbers__ from aashiq banaya aapne to aap ka surorr. But, among all the channels one stood out, Vividh Bharati, that was playing the choicest of monsoon melodies.
And, even as I am writing this it’s playing, `chalo ishq ladaye’. Do I care?

Forrest Gumps? Nah!

2006-06-07T03:50:00.000-07:00

``When XYZ came to Hyderabad, I went running to ABC, a far flung suburb, to get his interview…all the reporters here were running that day after him,’’ said a colleague a couple of years ago just when I had moved to Hyderabad. Soon, I realized that a lot more reporters I came across in the city measured their quality of work from the miles that they had run for the story and not the story’s content.
For instance, they would have run a hundred miles for a press conference and termed their 248-word report on the same as ``valuable’’ contribution, not to journalism, but to fill space.
I have never been able to understand this yardstick of measuring quality of reports__ the distance traveled for a report that is. So, if one goes to, say, Hi Tech City in Hyderabad everyday, his/her work is the best qualitatively? Is the quality of stories reflected in how worn out your shoes are?
Cover a workshop on `mind management’ just because the other reporters too were `running’ around covering similar inane stuff or being asked by a fresh college grad to cover an elocution as there was nothing better happening in the city __ suggestions of this nature were made to me routinely to ensure that I ran as well. Memories of covering some of these `important’ news events such as one earth-shattering kids and dogs carnival will make me shudder even in my grave, am sure.
I write this because I see this person everyday, running, even when going to the loo. What could be the breaking news there…I wonder. The person runs up and down, left and right all day, through the month. I watch the person with disinterest my head shaking the way it would while watching a lawn tennis match.
Not too long ago the person was running to get a report on some politician who had written a poem!! Yet another reporter ran to get a quote from a breaucrat on his plans for the city (innovative, indeed). Not to forget this one person (a non-runner) who was made to run to find out how people were reacting to bus conductors opting to shout to the bus driver to start the bus than making the `ting-ting’ signal by pulling the string.
Well… I choose to use my running shoes more judiciously.

“Youngsters make mistakes”

2006-06-05T05:24:00.000-07:00

Yeah, Mr Vajpayee, I agree with you. After all, what did Rahul Mahajan do? Snuffed a bit of cocaine or was it heroine… whatever… the poor hapless chap made a ‘mistake’ …just about a mistake. Not a punishable offence.
These are exactly the kind words of support the country’s youth expect from our senior leaders, who understand their situation and sympathise with them. After all, how will it help if a senior leader says that doing drugs is a crime and criminals should be punished? Will it reform the poor child in bad company? Our leaders know that these youngsters who have gone a bit astray need handholding not punishment.
So, a statement like “such mistakes happen in young age” would go a long way in helping…ummm…well… at least Rahul Mahajan.
In fact, going by that logic, we should free all the “youngsters” `trapped’ in prisons. After all, they too have been arrested for committing similar offences…nay…mistakes. They too fell in bad company and robbed, looted, raped… but then… such mistakes happen in young age.
The police should actually keep a list of these innocent youngsters ready and none other than Rahul Mahajan should free them from the country’s jails when he walks out of the hospital. What a warm gesture it would be!! Showing kindness to these innocent babies lost in the woods.
He will then go on and win a key position in a political party, win an election… smile and wave at television crews that once discussed whether he consumed cocaine or heroin. He will then give interviews thanking god, his father, mother and all those who stood by him at his hour of crisis. His now sensational case will in some time find a mandatory mention in the last para of crime stories on drugs that will read like…it may be recalled, Rahul Mahajan was in the midst of a cocaine/heroin controversy….
But, much before any of that happens, a glossy newspaper supplement or a television channel will have an exclusive interview with Mahajan Jr with a headline: “I have moved on”. Ah! Readers will feel so good to see/hear that.

(I, for the record, admire Mr Vajpayee. But, for the life of me cant understand why he didn’t issue a stern message instead of making himself appear like a doting mother who is so blind to his child’s vices)

Really?

2006-06-01T01:47:00.000-07:00

I was watching a debate on reservations on CNN IBN, on the day the resident doctors called off the strike, when a pro-quota panelist said that just about 25 per cent Indians fell in the `other castes’ category while the remaining 75 per cent comprised SC/STs and OBCs and so it was valid to give them 50 per cent reservation.
Really? Could anyone please enlighten me on this? Had no idea that the backward classes constituted the country’s majority.

Of thunder storms and a bagful of memories

2006-06-01T01:22:00.000-07:00

An overcast sky, high tidal waves, the gusty winds shooing away the sweaty summer in Bombay __ that’s just how I love the city I lived in for over a decade. Predictably, I was overwhelmed to be there to welcome and absorb the first monsoon spell as I zipped across city's roads from Churchgate to home in Bandra, chatting up with a friend I met after ages and then spending the latter half of my cab ride enjoying the view… the breeze…enjoying being in Bombay.
Well, I just got back from Bombay and though have about a hundred mails to delete and a few to respond to apart from of course finding out what’s happening in the city, I cant help give blogging the first priority also because I just could not get over the city I had once hated so much.
The cab ride home yesterday with thunder and lightning orchestrating each raindrop falling on the ground, licking ice cream in the drizzle made me more nostalgic about my days in Bombay than ever before.
The buildings looked cleaner, the trees greener…I ignored the puddles, the overflowing garbage at some points… even the hour-and-a-half long traffic jam between Mahim and Bandra I was stuck in…nothing stopped me on my trip down memory lane.
I thought of the innumerable days I would cab it up home only to enjoy the sea breeze either at Marine Drive or at Banra-Worli sea link. Or go out with friends after office for a while before heading home. Asking the cabbie to play the radio particularly after night shifts in office when even the funky channels would play `bhoole bisre geet’ would always set the mood for a relaxed drive back home after calling up the fire brigade and the police all evening asking them `kai vishesh’.
But, it was not always like this. I hated the first three years in Bombay. I hated the muck, the people (I always saw them running), the overcrowded locals. I hated the rains and the dirt floating around. In the packed ladies’ compartment I would close my eyes and visualize my house in Dehra Dun, the litchi trees, the comfortable life there.
I have changed now. I don’t close my eyes in Bombay anymore.

Pic: www.hindu.com

Am off to Bombay...

2006-05-25T02:36:00.000-07:00

If my Air Deccan flight takes off, that is. Have received two regret messages and one regret call over the last 24 hours by the airline’s executives telling me the flight has been rescheduled. So, from 5.30 pm it was rescheduled to 6.50 pm and now I am told its 7.30 pm.
If this was not enough a dampener, it has suddenly started raining in Hyderabad. The breeze is awesome and I am cursing the rain god for being so insensitive. Why couldn’t it rain when I was sweating it out literally all these days. Now when am headed to a hot n humid Bombay, am so tempted to enjoy the cool breeze here.
Or perhaps I should not curse the rain god, after all. For all you know the god of showers has masterminded my flight delay so that I can get the best of both worlds__ enjoy the cool weather in Hyderabad and then reach my parents in Bombay who I am so longing to meet. :)

Update: flight rescheduled to 8.35 pm. and its pouring here...plus thunder and lightning!! I dont think air deccan will take off today, at all.

Kya kehna!

2006-05-23T06:09:00.000-07:00

My friend, Monica, angry with her colleagues from other cities criticising Mumbaikars for their indifference towards Mumbai came up with this gem:
"A city is like a husband. I can criticise it as much as I want, I don't want others to do it."
Wah!!

I completely disagree with your colleagues, Monica. Have not seen a more proactive set of citizens anywhere except Mumbai.

Thanks for dividing us

2006-05-20T03:06:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the vote-hungry politicians of this country, we are more divided than perhaps ever before. As if dividing the country’s Hindus and Muslims was not enough, now we have a division among classes, castes, sub-castes…What next Mr Politician? Division based on dialects, complexion, size…
And look at the co-called opposition party not even whispering a word against the policy…too scared to lose its vote bank. For that matter, how come none of the political parties are keeping mum on the subject. Let the students be lathicharged. Let industry leaders and those heading prestigious institutions express their reservations on reservation. Mr Politician cannot see anything beyond votes. So what if it means ripping apart the country social fabric and compartmentalizing every community.
Here’s to more ghettos in the country… wherein one generation will grow up grudging the other (for no fault of theirs), blaming them for their repeated failure of not getting a job or an admission. But, let the country stay divided, Mr Politician would be thinking. Better to woo one set of people for votes than a united country.

SRK

2006-05-19T23:33:00.000-07:00

Listening to `Yun Hi Chala Chal’ from Swades while doing my work and cant help thinking of how cool SRK looked in those denims and cool blue shirt. Ah! My heart skipped a thousand beats perhaps when he did his little jig in the song … I was watching him spellbound… wanting to rush to screen and dance with him.
I know the world loves to hate him but I have had a crush on him from the time he first appeared on television in the serial `Fauji’. I have been a loyal fan ever since.
(pic:indiafm.com)

Sarkar

2006-05-19T01:27:00.000-07:00

Routine Responses when you call up ANY government department or try to get through any sarkari babu.

Me: Can I speak with XYZ?
Govt dept (GD): Who is calling?
Me: ABC from DEF publication
GD: Saar is `in’ lunch
Me: What time should I call then?
GD: After 3.30 pm?
Me: But, lunch time is till 2 pm. I will call at 2 pm
Phone line disconnected

Huh!!

So try to get through the next in command

Me: Can I speak with….
GD: Who is calling
Me: ABC…
GD: Madam is in meeting
Me: Give me her mobile number
GD: we don’t have it
Me: put me onto any other official. I need very basic information
GD: Nobody has information. Only madam will speak.

Yeah.. sure.

The best responses collected over the years
Sir is taking nap madam. (I was told at 3 pm!)
Sir has gone home, madam. He cannot be disturbed (I was told at 4 pm)
Fax us your question. Sir will get back to you in a week’s time (have they heard of newspapers?)
I told sir that you want to speak to him but he is in a meeting and will be free only tomorrow now. (I was told after being put on hold for 5 mins)
You tell me the question. I will then decide whether saar will speak (a smart secy once told me)

MY FAV:
After having rattled a long question to a senior minister on his mobile.. he said: ``I will answer, ma… but I am taking my bath.’’
Why did he carry his cell phone to the bathroom beats me.

Stage performances

2006-05-12T22:45:00.000-07:00

I have a truck load of stories on this topic i.e. my performances on stage. None of them are about me proudly walking up on stage to receive an award or a certificate of appreciation or the audience clapping wildly for me.
They are about my undying interest in the performing arts and how these performances have now become funny anecdotes that I narrate often to people who, I hope, listen to the stories without being judgmental.
Thanks to a dear friend who reminded me of one such incident, I am tempted to narrate a few of my favourite funny moments. But, will restrict myself to a couple of stories for now. More will come soon.
Each time I hear a celebrity say, oh I started acting at the age of 7 or 9, I mutter to myself… yeah sure, who is to check, baby. Its not sour grapes but my skepticism finds its roots in my horrendous stage debut that I made when I was in class IV.
On a freezing cold Doon morning, a couple of senior girls walked inside our classroom, had a hushed conversation with the class-teacher, following which they sized up all the children in the class. Then, one of them asked, “Who wants to act in a senior school play?” Me, the enthusiast, raised my hand, jumping a bit to catch their attention. I succeeded. I was chosen. Acting in a senior school play was no joke and I would proudly walk out of the classroom acting all-important every morning for rehearsals, the class teacher nodding in approval.
I was so excited about the play, that a few `minor’ details skipped me. Like, I was given no dialogues, I had no idea when my part started or ended during the rehearsals. I was too busy imagining my jealous classmates watching me act in a senior school play. To add to their jealousy, I would discuss the fancy clothes that I might be asked to wear for the play.
I never told them I had been asked to wear the oldest or the most worn out frock I had.
Well, the D-day arrived and I was all excited about my debut. My classmates too were excited, at least they told me so. Anyway, the play started and my friends waited for my part eagerly. I was standing backstage waiting for the prompter to signal my entry. When she did, I entered the stage, a girl dressed like a nun came and hugged me and took me to the other end of the stage, left me there and walked back to deliver some dialogues on the stage. Yes, my part was over. I just had to walk from one of the stage to another. I was told later I was a destitute child who was given shelter by Claudine Thevenet.
It was then I realized why they chose me for the part. I was a skinny scrawny girl who was almost always assumed to be malnourished (those who know me well, stop laughing a this line!).
I was predictably ragged after the play. “Hey, why did you have to go for rehearsals,” asked one `friend’ while another said, “were you there at all?”. Huh.
I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. I still thought my classmates were jealous of me as I could officially bunk class for a good one month. :)

My next stage debut was no better, perhaps worse.
My mom, yes, my mom was directing a play for a summer vacations cultural fest in Ashirwad Enclave, a nice peaceful residential area in Dehra Dun. Children from the entire colony were participating in some event or the other. Some were dancing, others singing. I was in Class VIII and was neither fitting among the kids nor the adults. There was just one more girl my age who did not wish to put any performance.
So, I was waiting to be included somewhere, anywhere. And I was given a role in the play my mom was directing. Some kids were made lawyers, another a judge, two of them witnesses… my mom was unable to find a `darban’ for the play__ a court sequence__ who had to announce the next witness. Since I was the only jobless one around, I was told to become the darban. All I had to do in the play was stand straight, wearing a red blazer in that heat, and call out names of witnesses followed by `haazir ho’.
And I did that staring at some of my friends in the audience who giggled through the play. It was funny for me too as I stood at the corner of the stage, wearing a moustache, a pagdi, holding a wooden shaft and looking bored, waiting to call out `haazir ho’ to a witness.

The Sound of Music

2006-05-11T00:05:00.000-07:00

During the hectic shopping for my wedding on a sunny humid afternoon, I was losing my cool, as always, wondering whether I would be able to reach office on time. After the last sari was purchased, I was rushing to Bandra station, perspiring profusely, frowning, checking the time, hoping that I don’t miss the 12.14 pm local to VT. While sprinting through the congested pavement outside the station, I heard the lilting notes of the Kishore Kumar song, `Aa chal
ke tujhe, main le ke chaloon ek aise gagan ke tale'.
I was no longer in a rush to catch the train or even reach office. I was at peace, suddenly and strangely. I stopped for a bit to catch a few more lines of the song. I walked up the staircase at the station humming the song. I even got the train.
This might sound repetitive to those who have read my previous posts, but then, I am obsessed with music, correction, good music.
Nothing brings me more peace than listening to songs, particularly the ones my mom used to sing to us__ 'tum na jaane kis jahan mein kho gaye', 'oh aasma waale shikva hai zindagi ka', 'o sajna, barkha bahar aayi'__among many others.
It is strange how songs almost effortlessly change my mood and bring so much peace of mind. Yes, I know of music therapy and other such alternative therapies, but the soothing effect music can have on in day-to-day life surprises me no end.
Like this morning, having been maid-less for a good two weeks, the housework was getting on my nerves. Interviews of prospective maids who claimed to be too eager to work but said no to most of my requirements were adding to the disgust and the disappointment of being without a good domestic help. As I turned to the kitchen on a yet another gloomy morning, I turned on the radio, Vividh Bharati, and to my sheer delight this perhaps long forgotten radio station was playing Talat Maehmood’s “Mohabbat hi no jo samjhe, who zaalim pyar kya jaane”.
The song worked like a magic wand. The morning started looking beautiful. The pile of unwashed utensils was no longer an eye sore. The cooking was suddenly fun. I even made morning tea almost after a week and enjoyed my cup reading the morning paper with Shiv Kumar Sharma’s santoor recital in `Sangeet Sarita’ programme that was playing then on the channel.
I dressed well to work and am still humming Talat’s melodies that am sure will keep me happy for the rest of the day.
Here’s to the sound of music!

"Please cooperate, madam"

2006-05-07T06:29:00.000-07:00

I heard this request made at least 100 times over the four days I spent reporting on the family of K Suryanarayana, the Hyderabadi engineer beheaded cruelly by the Taliban last Sunday.
The day the news of his kidnapping broke, I rushed to Suryanarayana’s house in a city suburb, wondering how awkward it would be for me to meet the family when they must be so devastated.
I was too naïve.
When I reached the house, it was teeming with mediapersons and a bewildered family was being asked repeatedly by camerapersons and reporters to “cooperate” with them and say something to the hundreds of cameras trained at them. “Madam, madam, please, madam, cooperate. Say something. Anything.” the camerapersons pleaded to Majula, Suryanarayana’s wife, who was crying inconsolably and was perhaps getting more flustered with the sea of inquisitive strangers in her house.
I wondered how this regular middle class family was coping with the sudden media attention, their household, their grief being discussed threadbare on national television and newspapers.
Meanwhile, I heard the “please cooperate line” yet again, several times, being repeated by reporters seeking exclusive interviews with the family, with Manjula, Suryanarayana’s parents or his children. The same line was repeated ad nauseum once again for interviews with the second wife, when she surfaced.
I heard “please cooperate” even at the funeral in the cremation ground, when OB vans were parked outside and cameras were recording the last rites and the wails of a heartbroken, devastated family.
I wondered whether the family thought, even for a fleeting moment, that had Suryanarayana not died in such unnatural circumstances, Manjula and the rest of them would have been spared of this public display of a very personal grief.
I still remember the Sunday morning when the news of Suryanarayana’s death broke. I saw Manjula sitting in her own house but surrounded by more strangers than her own family. Did she not wish to sit in a corner all by herself and cry her heart out than being besieged with reporters, now offering their condolence but still looking for information they can use to pad up their copies on how the family received the news of their loved ones death.
I wondered whether she would have still attempted suicide had the news of her husband’s second wife not been made public.
But, most importantly, I wondered why personal space was invaded.
Because, the family was too humble to say no to the media or did not know how to handle it. Because, the media kept asking them to cooperate and that the media attention was in the best interest of Suryanarayana. Or, because, they were ordinary people who had no right to their space, even if they wanted to be left alone to mourn a family member’s death.
I thought of the last reason when Pramod Mahajan passed away a day after Suryanarayana’s funeral. There were no images of a shattered family shot inside their homes or the hospital. Manjula was filmed even in the hospital when she was being given first aid after she gulped down a bathroom cleaning liquid. The media stood guard outside the hospital where Mahajan was being treated. I wondered why they didn’t barge into the five-star hospital and ask the family and the doctors to “please cooperate”.

When I shoplifted… and got caught

2006-04-27T05:06:00.000-07:00

I was four. She was seven. And we were bored to death at a sari shop in Paltan Bazar, Dehra Dun’s main market, where mummy had spent close to two hours looking at saris but not liking any of them.
My sister and I were initially interested looking at the bright coloured saris but lost interest in no time. Perhaps also because of this carpeted staircase inside the shop that caught our fascination. We were running up and down the stairs giggling and relieved to be out of that sari section when we spotted a pen stand on the landing of the staircase. There were bright coloured plastic pens kept neatly in the stand. We hesitated for a bit and then without giving much thought picked one pen each.
To be honest, we didn’t know we were stealing but for some reason knew that we could not show the pens to our parents sitting at a distance looking at the saris. So, we hid the pens inside our ponchos, which were an integral part of our clothing through the winter season in Doon.
After the sari was purchased, finally, we went to Laxmi, the only south-Indian restaurant in Dehra Dun where we had our regular masala dosas. My parents would have guessed then that we were hiding something as we ate our dinner with our left hands inside the poncho all along. It was then that we started getting tensed.
By the time, we reached home didi and I had perhaps started sweating apprehensive of being caught. We were not off the mark. Our discomfort at the restaurant had been noticed and we were caught.
Funnily, my sister locked herself in the bathroom when my mom discovered that I was hiding a pen under the poncho. I don’t remember what I told her or my father but I do remember saying sorry several times (on hindsight I think I should have said it was justified given that they took so long to buy one sari). Then it was my sister’s turn. She came out of the bathroom and she too was asked to show what she was hiding.
The two yellow ugly plastic pens were placed on the bed. Didi and I stood there ashamed of our `crime’. We were asked to hold our ears and say sorry. We were even made to do ten sit-ups. It was fine until then. But, the shocker came when my parents decided to take us to the shop again to apologise to the shopkeeper and return the pens to him.
Even to my four-year-old mind, it sounded bizarre. What would the owner of a big shop care for two plastic pens. I didn’t dare to reason with my parents. The next day, didi and I sat behind Papa on the scooter feeling embarrassed at the prospect of apologizing to the shopkeeper. We reached the same shop. Papa handed over the pens to the fat man, who was the owner, and asked us to say sorry. We squirmed but managed to mumble a sorry. The man smiled and said it was ok.
I thought of this incident while watching Oprah the other day where she was interviewing people who had secret lives. The first interviewee was a shoplifter who was profusely apologizing to her family for this secret she had hidden from them much like the pens didi and I had hidden from our parents under our ponchos. Luckily, we were made to apologize on time.

Awadhi: my mother tongue?

2006-04-25T03:52:00.000-07:00

Hindi. Well, that’s the language I have always assumed to be my mother tongue until last evening when I asked myself whether it was really so. While my parents have conversed with me and my sister in Hindi at home and continue to do so even now, it was always understood, never questioned, that they spoke in `Awadhi’ with their parents and siblings, but never to us.
Here I would clarify that Awadhi is a different dialect from Bhojpuri and Bihari. The three dialects may have similarities, but they are very different from each other, a fact reiterated by my parents each time they would watch actors (usually playing servants in films or television serials) goof up on the dialect big time in their unsuccessful attempts to represent an eastern UP immigrant to Bombay.
It is strange that I have this newfound fondness for a dialect I never paid much attention to. As long as I was in Dehra Dun I would hear it at home all the time as Baba and my mother would talk to each other in the language. We were always encouraged to polish our Hindi and English but never asked to learn Awadhi. My sister and I didn’t even try.
Even now, each time my mom calls up her brothers in Gonda (a place in Uttar Pradesh) its never, “`kaise ho” but always “ka haal hai bhaiyaa”.
The sweetness of the dialect never registered because perhaps I was hearing people speak it very often as long as I was in Bombay. It could be my mother over the phone or the innumerable `bhaiyas’ in the city__ I was always in earshot range of Awadhi. But, no longer so.
The fact that I miss its presence in my day-to-day life suddenly struck me in office one day. There is some construction work happening on the floor where my cubicle is and one day I almost jerked I heard one of workers say, “ka bhaiya, kab tak kaam chali”. It was perhaps after many many months that I heard somebody speak in good Awadhi. And I loved it.
Last evening, it was while watching the extremely talented Ashish Vidyarthi perform his solo act in Nadira Babbar’s Dayashankar ki Diary, that I started pining for the language again. Vidyarthi, who plays Dayashankar, a boy from UP working as a lowly clerk in a government office and weaving dreams of marrying his bosses’ daughter, speaks in very UP-Hindi through the play. In the end when he takes a beating, both emotionally and physically, that he starts missing his mother, his motherland and breaks into perhaps the best Awadhi I have heard in a long time… “humka hiyan se le jaaon amma”, he cries out to his mother who lives in a village in UP.
After the play got over, Vidyarthis’ last lines kept haunting me. I realized that how I had enjoyed the last part the most__ not only because it was the most well enacted part but also because I connected with the language he spoke in.
That's when I asked myself whether Awadhi should technically be my mother tongue? But, can a dialect that I have never ever spoken in be my mother tongue?

Doctor ki kahani

2006-04-19T22:49:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking of the Pankaj Kapoor-starrer `Ek Doctor ki Maut’ since last evening. The film, loosely based on a true story, was about a Calcutta-based brilliant but frustrated scientist (Kapoor) who is sidelined at work and later posted to some remote village to prevent him from continuing his research work on a vaccine, thanks to ego tussles and bureaucracy typical of government departments.
In one particular scene of the film when Kapoor is visited by his wife (Shabana Azmi) in the village where he is posted, he brilliantly portrays the angst of genius unable to do what he is best at since the facilities in the village were poor for any kind of research work.
I thought of the film while speaking to various state government officials and a famous doctor while working on a report on a rare case of conjoined twins who have been brought to a government hospital in Hyderbad from Guntur for treatment.
The two-and-a-half-year-old twins, who were abandoned by their parents soon after birth, were being treated at the government hospital in Guntur and were even fortunate to have a world-famous doctor, Dr Y Nayudamma, treating them. The doctor, who has performed similar surgeries on three cases of conjoined twins over the last 15 years, retired from the hospital last year. I wondered why neither the state health department nor the hospital superiors extended his tenure knowing fully well that he was perhaps the only hope the twins had.
During his tenure, he had already performed a preliminary surgery on the twins and was planning to undertake another surgery after the two conjoined babies had put on weight, he told me. But, that was not to be. Even as he was consulting other doctors about the twins, the hospital decided to move the babies out of Guntur as the hospital there did not have the infrastructure to take up the surgery.
The doctor is now watching from the sidelines even as fresh investigations are being conducted on a case that he knows far too well. I wondered whether he was feeling as sidelined and frustrated as Kapoor had felt in the film. The doctor did not say anything like that to me except that "58 is n o age to retire".
Meanwhile, the government hospital in Hyderabad is preparing to undertake such a surgery for the first time.

Celebrating the moment

2006-04-17T00:04:00.000-07:00

Its been raining here since last night and I have been fishing out my favourite music from the nanosecond the first raindrop hit the ground. So it was old Lata numbers including the very melodious `uthaye jaaye unke sitam’, `thandi hawayein lehra ke aaye’, `aayega aanewala’ and `thandi hawa kali ghata’ among at least a hundred others that have been playing on the system setting the perfect mood for a perfect weather.
I love celebrating these small moments in life with music. While listening to these Lata songs, I started thinking of the lines I remember from my other favourite songs that are about living in the moment.
The song `Aanewala pal’ from the very funny `Golmaal’ film, has a line that goes, `Ek baar waqt se, lamha gira kahin’. I listen to this song several times only to hear this particular line over and over again. In a very funny filmi way, I mentally give a background score for situations in my life. So, this particular line is the perfect score when I am in love with a particular moment.
Another song, a ghazal that has been my all time favourite, coaxes people to live in the present__Farida Khanum’s `Aaj jaane ki zid na karo’ has this gem of a line: “waqt ke qaid mein zindagi hai magar, chand ghadiyan yahin hai jo azaad hai.. in ko kho kar kahin jaanejaan umra bhar na taraste raho”. I truly believe that there has not been a more beautiful expression to explain the reason why we need to live in the moment.
But then, some songs even question such moments that people treasure. Shyam Benegal’s `Sooraj Ka Saatwan Ghoda’ has this song: `Yeh shaamein, sab ki sab shaamein..kya in shaamon ka arth nahin. Ghabra ke tumhe jab yaad kiya, kya un shaamon ka arth nahin’ filmed beautifully on a depressed Pallavi Joshi and Rajit Kapoor who are singing the song to each other on the former’s wedding day as she is getting married to someone else. The imagery, which I vividly remember, is simply beautiful. Joshi clinging to Kapoor for dear life, rainfall in the background, light blue-coloured curtains swaying softly in the gentle breeze.
And even as I am writing this, I am listening to another melody, MM Kreem’s ‘chup tum raho, chup hum tahe..khamoshi ko khamoshi se baat karne do’ from Is Raat Ki Subah Nahin. I agree with these lines __ the most beautiful moments are best celebrated in silence.

Tale of Two Cities

2006-04-11T23:17:00.000-07:00

The disparity between the two cities situated within Hyderabad has perhaps never struck me as much as it did last week.
The Old City of Hyderabad and the Hi Tech city are perhaps as different from each other as the colour black is from white. It is difficult to assume that the Charminar area is in the same city as the ever-grwoing IT hub expanding from Hi Tech city to Gachibowli, where the biggest multinationals have set shop.
While the difference between these two poles of Hyderabad has always intrigued me, it was last week when I was working on a story that it became most obvious.
On a hot afternoon, I was touring the Old City, where the Charminar is located, interviewing young girls in their burqas who had taken up computer classes with dreams of getting jobs at a call center. These girls were smart, spoke their mind, and very candidly shared what they wanted to do in life.
It was during my interaction with these young girls, aged 9 to 22, that I realized how these spirited girls assumed that the computer classes they were going for were perhaps the best vocational programmes on offer. They spoke about their parents with a modest monthly income of a few thousands shelling out a princely sum of Rs 7000 for their classes. I also realized that despite the poor quality of the course, the fact that these girls were coming out and taking up the programme said a lot about changing mindsets in this part of the city, once known to be conservative.
After a long day’s work, I was gathering my thoughts, writing down the quotes I wished to use for my story when the ISB crorepati news broke. Four students from the Indian School of Business had been offered salaries over Rs one crore each. By late evening, there was a mad chase for the names of these students. While the ISB was tight-lipped about the names, they did help in getting some students speak to me. One of the girls I spoke to had over five years of work experience, had traveled all over the world and said that ISB was the best institute in the country and had helped her get an almost 100 per cent raise from what she was getting in her previous job.
Even as I was interviewing her, the images of the burqa-clad girls I had interviewed earlier in the day in the Old City kept flashing through my mind.
I saw the contrast between the two ends of Hyderabad through the people I had interviewed during the day.
At one end of Hyderabad, an ISB girl was getting ready for her job in London, her dream fulfilled.
At the other end, girls in the Old City were mouthing English words and learning computers to embark on perhaps their longest journey __ from their homes in the Old City to a plush call center in Hi Tech City.

Mandal Commission

2006-04-08T03:39:00.000-07:00

I vividly remember the Mandal Commission days mainly because they marked an unending vacation from school.
As a Class VIII student in Dehra Dun, I remember going to school on several mornings only to be turned back by the principal who would be standing on the school’s main gate speaking to a bunch of boys holding placards. After refusing to close school for several days, the principal had to announce that school would reopen only after the Mandal Commission matter was settled.
It was during this time that I first saw riots breaking out in the otherwise peaceful Doon valley. Memories of the last riots, after India Gandhi’s assassination, were vague as I was in Class III then. The only image of those riots that stayed with me was that of my classmate who came to school bare feet and in a torn dress. Her father (a sardar) had lost his shop, house and the entire family’s belongings to the riots.
But, the riots during the Mandal Commission are still fresh in my mind. I remember watching news reports on Doordarshan that always mentioned the rioting in this part and that part but never ever showed images. I saw the first images of the riots in New Delhi on NewsTrack, an extremely popular news video then that gave viewers uncensored versions of stories. Nothing like `breaking news’ and `news flash’ that is the norm across all news channels now but news, simply told.
On this video, which sold like hot cakes during the Mandal Commission, I saw images of boys being brutally caned just because they had staged a dharna outside the then PM V.P Singh’s house. Then I remember Rajeev Goswami immolating himself. I remember the police dragging a boy by his arm, the one where he had a bullet injury. I clearly remember his arm dangling with a piece of tissue.
There were heated debates everywhere I went to those days. People were upset with the government enforcing Mandal. There were discussions on merit vs quota at my friend’s house. At my place, we didn’t spend a single evening without Baba, my grandfather, leading a discussion on the demerits of reservation.
With time, I too formed an opinion. I simply could not agree with someone getting admission merely because of his or her caste. Didn’t the Mandal issue divide the society more than any caste system would have? It was during this time, I remember reading a letter in one of the newspapers where a girl had recounted how her friends started treating her differently, when they found out that she was from the SC/ST quota. A meritorious student, the girl had written it had offended her no end to be looked down upon because her friends wrongly assumed that she got a seat in the college because of her caste.
I believe that reservation is important in a class-divided country like ours. But then, the reservation too has to be class and not caste-based.
Let the government reserve seats for financially backward. Let the government support those who go to night schools and work during the day and help them get admissions into the best colleges. Let the government first make school education for all a reality. Let the government first open more secondary and higher schools. Let the government then implement reservation policy for these deserving candidates.

Honey, I shrunk our `palace’

2006-04-07T01:47:00.000-07:00

My journalist friends would understand this better, my feelings that is.
When I moved to Hyderabad from Bombay, the only thing that brought me immense joy in a new city, new office was the house that we moved in. Thanks to a friend from Mumbai who had also recently moved to Hyderabad and was staying on the first floor of this independent house, that we found this very very spacious, un-Mumbai kind of a house.
Palace. That’s how I used to describe the house to my jealous friends who were still in the two-BHK houses of Mumbai. Here, we had a separate dining room, which to my Bombay-dyed eyes appeared like a banquet hall. Yes, a bit of exaggeration here, but, honestly, I had never imagined moving into as spacious a house as this after I left my beautiful house in Dehra Dun (where we had a kitchen garden and a lawn and of course, a separate dining room).
So, the palace fascinated me no end. The first time I realized it wasn’t as big after all, when a couple who live in a oh-so-beautiful bungalow in the posh Banjara Hills visited us and the wife sweetly commented, “What a sweet compact house!” I laughed out so loud that she got scared. I told her I called this house a palace. It was so huge, for us.
Her comment not withstanding, I continued to believe that this was the most awesome house on planet earth.
This morning, I shrunk the palace. It is important to mention here, that we had minimal furniture…actually no furniture apart from a bed and a table. Yes, four chairs too. Of late, I had been obsessing over the idea of “doing up” the `palace’. Last night, I brought an auto-rickshaw full of stuff that is now sitting in my once spacious drawing room.
This morning, as I was busy giving the finishing touches I had mixed feelings about having “done up” the room. Yes, it was looking nice but I missed the open space.
I have taken care to keep room but still its not the same. I, for the first time, felt that it was small house. A bigger drawing room would have been better. Or, was it a right decision to get furniture in the first place? Have I shrunk our `palace’.
Now, why I said that my journalist friends would understand my feelings better is because I was very driven and passionate about decorating the drawing room with a nice sofa set, hanging lamps... the works. I worked hard on all this, almost as I would for a story that I feel very passionate about. But, there are times when you put your heart and soul into a story but you yourself do not know how it reads. Are there too many quotes? Or, are there too few? Should I remove this line or paraphrase this quote? In my case, until someone gives my story a read I can never be sure whether it’s good or bad.
It’s with the same feeling that I view my done up drawing room. I want an opinion. To be honest, am scared of an honest opinion.

Friends

2006-04-03T03:54:00.000-07:00

I am at my wits end these days. I am strangely ill at ease with most of the people I meet. I don’t find them ``my type’’ and they don’t fancy me either. I don’t blame them.
Is it old age? Nah, I brush the thought aside. But, it is a fact that I, for reasons unknown, cant seem to like the new people in my life and more often than not, have problems with the way they think and, perhaps more importantly, the way they interpret friendships and friends.
It’s strange because the best friends I made are still thick with me. I cannot possibly end my day without having messaged them or spoken to them or at least having thought of them. Calling them up suddenly late in the night, or simply dragging them out of office for a film or bhutta at Marine Drive on a pleasant windy rainy day in Bombay or to discuss an unpleasant day in office over Britannia slice cakes and coffee sitting cross legged in the local train hoping that my station would not come for at least another hour__ they all appear to be distant memories.
Going for long drives listening to `dil mein jaagi dhadkan aise’, a song from the film `Sur' , and sharing life’s details without any concern of being judged. And of course, calling them up at weird hours for directions to this place or that place. Yeah… I didn’t know where Kala Ghoda was. I kept discovering Bombay through the eyes of my friends.
I cannot imagine being as spontaneous with anyone right now. I cannot think of one person whom I can call for directions. I cant think of one person whom I can spend a rather enjoyable evening with without having exchanged a single word. I can’t think of one person who can give my story a dispassionate read and ask me to rewrite it from scratch. I can’t think of one person who would understand my silence and interpret the way I would want it to be interpreted. I can’t think of one person whom I can proudly `own’ as a friend. I have none here. The ones I have are not in Hyderabad. I miss them.
Until I see them again, I can only wonder why God stopped making more such people. Perhaps I am no longer the same person.

CJM, Dehra Dun

2006-03-21T23:50:00.000-08:00

Thrilled to find my school picture on www.schoolnetindia.com. This picture is just how I remember my school. The block on the left is senior school and the one across the playground (which I realised was huge only after I saw schools in Mumbai) is junior school. The block seen in the first picture (top) was on the right side of the playground. The three science labs and the principal's office are located in this block.
If there was a close-up shot of the junior school block I could've pointed the bench where Ms Gatmell used to sit. The two pictures, however, are less than one half of the school campus. On the other side of the junior school block was the kindergarten section, the dormitory for nuns and a huge church where we were taken on important days.

My Fair Lady

2006-03-21T21:59:00.000-08:00

I have seen My Fair Lady perhaps as many times as it rained in Dehra Dun in the winters of 1993 and 1994.
On those biting cold foggy mornings, I would suddenly become a sincere student keen to go to school. On other days, I would be a grudging dullard feeling too lazy to leave my warm cozy bed. But, a night of thunder and lightning was surely followed by two things that I knew would set a perfect mood for a perfect day ahead __ the view of snow capped Mussoorie and poor attendance of teachers in school.
So, on these wet mornings, I would first run to the terrace to check out the snowfall in Mussoorie. After staring at the snow-capped hills, I would get ready in a few minutes skipping my bath yet again, much to my mother’s chagrin, have my toast and scrambled eggs and start for school. The school dress was warm, very warm, red blazer, a woolen grey skirt and white shirt. I used to wear a red cardigan on my shirt under the blazer like all my classmates did and of course wore gloves and a muffler.
Yet, the half a kilometer walk on a narrow stretch of road lined by wild bushes on one side and an overflowing canal on the other side to Ballupur chowk for conveyance would leave my bones and teeth rattling. From Ballupur I would get into a six-seater, funnily called `Vikram’ in Doon valley, that dropped me almost half a mile away from school. I would walk to school from there again.
I trudged to school like this on several such mornings braving the wind and the rain to reach my warm classroom. The attendance would predictably be thin, just a handful of girls __ all rain enthusiasts like me__ who I would find rubbing their wet hair with their small white handkerchiefs.
Soon, the staff room ayah would come and give us the news we were waiting for. ``Just a few teachers have been able to make it to school because of the rains. So, don’t make noise and study on your own.’’ We were in Class XII preparing for our all-important board exams. But, on these rainy days, we always wanted to take a break. So, we, a handful of Class XII girls would go to the principal’s room and seek permission to watch My Fair Lady in the TV room in the nun’s dormitory. After all, Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion was in our English Literature syllabus and what better way of understanding the text than watching the film, well, several times.
The principal would give us permission and we would go running to the nun’s block. The TV room was next to the nun’s kitchen and we would sit there dreamy-eyed watching Eliza Doolittle singing ``Wouldn’t it be Loverly’’ and ``Just you wait Henry Higgins’’ the umpteenth time humming the songs ourselves even as we could hear the cook prepare lunch for the nuns.
I loved the film as much as I loved the book. I loved it more on rainy days. Initially, we would carry our copies of Pygmalion and kept comparing the text with the film. After a point, there was no need to carry the book. We were all too well versed with every scene, every dialogue.
The next morning, our class teacher Mrs Gill, an upright strikingly attractive woman who taught us English and was largely responsible for our fascination for the film, would ask what we did the previous day. And she was always happy to know that we watched My Fair Lady.

(pic: www.thefairestlady.com)

Vizag

2006-03-19T21:41:00.000-08:00

Took these pictures at Vizag where I barely spent a day. The picture with Buddha is Bheemli beach, where I had gone for a story.
Don't know the name of the beach (top) but it was a nice view and I could not resist capturing it.

The Passenger Train

2006-03-14T21:48:00.000-08:00

It’s difficult not to tell this story when I am talking about my grandfather.
Baba, as I called him, worked in the railways, and for a good part of his work life as a stationmaster. Being a transferable job, he was posted to various places, big and small, but among all the stories of almost all his postings that he narrated to me, the ones to Nishangada and Kartinyaghat (both in Uttar Pradesh) stood out. For, both the places were isolated, far from civilisation, in the midst of wilderness.. and Baba spent close to six years in each of the postings, alone.
My grandmother could not accompany him to the postings for the simple reason that there was just no humanity around these sub-stations leave alone a school which was important as my father, the eldest, and his two siblings were all school-going. So, dadi stayed in Gonda with the children.
And these were not the regular railway stations that had railway platforms where passengers came and waited for their trains to come. There were no tea-stalls. There were no hawkers selling newspapers or samosas. There was nobody else there except the official posted at the sub-station.
There was a one room structure atop a concrete machan. The machan was necessary to protect the station in-charge from being attacked by wild animals given that they were situated in the midst of jungles.
So, Baba lived and worked out of the one-room structures for years together. He spoke about these postings to me rather matter-of-factly… about his routine, how he spent his time alone for innumerable days. But, he never indulged in self-pity. Work, he said, was very important, irrespective of work conditions.
Well, my grandmom would visit him with the children once in a way, when the school was closed for vacations and even he would make a trip to Gonda on festivals. But these moments were few and far in between. The only companion Baba had for years, apart from the wild animals that prevented him from venturing out much, was a passenger train, the only train that passed through Nishangada every afternoon, when he would wave the green flag __ the only moment of activity in an endless day.
There were no trains in the night as both Nishangada and Kartinyaghat were protected areas under the wildlife act. Now, my father tells me that both places are well connected and several trains take the route to various destinations.
Even as Baba narrated the stories to me, I wondered what it would have been like to live all alone for so many years. I imagined him waiting for the passenger train, standing at his window before the train’s scheduled time, with his green flag folded neatly under his arm, his ears strained for the train’s whistle… and then it would pass him in a minute leaving him alone, again. I would look at Baba closely when he told his experiences to me to see if he was trying to hide any emotion from me… he never was. He used to say how he was always happy with his work. Yes, once he mentioned that the ‘white’ stationmasters were never posted to Nishangada or Kartinyaghat.

Letters in Ink

2006-03-10T20:56:00.000-08:00

The fondest memories of my childhood are those of writing letters to ``priya Bansi mistriji’’ when the school closed for summer vacations. Baba, as I called my grandfather, would sit with half a dozen yellow post cards on lazy summer afternoons and ask me to write letters for him. It was a vacation ritual that started when Baba was confident that I could hold an ink pen properly. I was in Class V then.
No, Baba was not illiterate. He was fluent in English and Persian but not in Hindi. He could only converse in Hindi but not write in the language. Nevertheless, he preferred dictating letters than writing them on his own, irrespective of the language.
So, I wrote several letters to Bansi mistriji (artisan), whom I didn’t know and never met. The letters were mainly about Baba’s next trip to our ancestral home in Gonda, a few hundred kilometers from Lucknow in Uttar Pradesh, and that he wanted Bansi to come and fix the broken windows and seal the cracked walls in the house. He would ask him to get a plumber along. ``The water taps could be leaking,’’ he would reason to me, looking excited at the prospect of his visit to Gonda, which was still a few months away.
He would sit on the edge of the bed and I would sit cross-legged next to him. For me, it was an important assignment and I would meticulously keep the postcard on a cardboard (the one I used for my exams) and write the letter with my new ink-pen. In my best handwriting, I would write to Bansi mistriji to drop at 4 pm sharp on December 2. I wondered why Baba was sending the letter in May when he was planning his trip to Gonda only in December. I realized much later that Baba had no other way to pass his time. Dictating letters to me took care of at least 30 minutes of a rather eventless day. Also, writing letters to Bansi mistriji gave him a valid excuse to talk about his house in Gonda that he loved so much but could not live in as he was too old to stay alone there.
It’s another story that Baba would come back from Gonda rather upset with Bansi for not having turned up on the scheduled date and time. ``How can he forget? I wrote to him much in advance,’’ he would grumble. I didn’t blame Bansi mistriji one bit.
But, those were not the only letters I wrote during my vacations. I wrote to important people as well including the Prime Minister and the President. I remember Baba signing these letters with a flourish.
But, these letters were sad. Baba lamented how the country’s leaders were indifferent to its sluggish progress. ``The best roads and buildings came up during the British Raj. Look at the condition of our roads now,’’ he would dictate to me in an emotionally choked voice. He would then comment on corruption, the long queues for gas connections (this was in the early 80s) and then he would add his favourite question ``did we fight for independence for this day?’’ I wrote this question several times in several letters for several years. At the end of his dictation, he would read the letter, point out how my handwriting needed improvement and then sign it, his hand shaking with age, ``Lalta Prasad, retired station master’’.
(pic from google images)

Young brides and grooms

2006-03-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

I had heard of child marriages, even wrote about this social evil, but, a visit to Gangiredulla Gudum in Medak district of Andhra Pradesh was indeed an eye-opener.
A beggar community that lives in this hamlet believed, until recently, in marrying off babies sleeping in their cradles.
It is a common sight to see school-going girl children in the one-room school in this village wearing mangalsutras (see the black bead necklace worn by the two girls in the picture), I was told before I visited the village and indeed, it turned out to be true.
My interaction with the ``married children'' was at times sad and at others even funny. The children knew they were married but did not know what it meant apart from the fact that they were asked to wear the mangalsutra and a red `bindi' all the time.
One boy, all of seven years and married for four years now was shying away from the camera when we tried to click him (extreme left). When asked if he was married, he sheepishly smiled and said, ``She has gone to another village. So, I don't know.'' I laughed with the other villagers at his reply, more so for the fact that this nomadic beggar community is now amused by a social evil it patronised for years.
The community has now stopped the practice of child marriage, completely.
As I spoke to people, I found that innumerable awareness sessions and health camps conducted by activists in this hamlet had helped in ending the practice. However, a young mother, Bothula, gave her own reason: “I don’t remember my wedding day as I was in the cradle on the day of my marriage, but I want my children to remember their marriages,’’ she said.

Ms Gatmell

2006-03-09T00:37:00.000-08:00

Class II C. That was the class I had to settle for as the two other sections Class II A and B were packed to capacity. I was directed by the principal’s assistant to take the second desk on the first row under the pasteboard. I looked around my new class and thought it was the most peculiar looking classroom in the entire school.
While the other classrooms were in the school building, Class II C was isolated, and resembled a house by a street side. There was a huge wooden entrance that led to a rather spacious lobby occupied by a couple of wooden benches. A smaller wooden door on the lobby’s left side was the entrance to my classroom. The peculiarity did not end here. There was yet another door inside the classroom facing the small benches where we sat. That was Ms Gatmell’s bedroom.
Ms Gatmell was our class teacher. A short-statured stocky woman with cropped salt and pepper hair, yellow teeth, always in a pair of navy blue trousers, a grey sweater and a black coat. The clothes were so loose, that unless one was told she was a lady, most mistook her for a man. Her bellowing voice and throaty laughter just added to the traits that made her more manly.
Needless to say, she had a reputation in school. From her gait to her temper, everyone had a story to tell. How she flung a book once. How she yelled at a student so loud she could be heard until the next building. With time I realized that these were stories told without context. Yes, she had a temper. Yes, she flung books. But, as Class II C students soon found out__ she was a great teacher and she loved us.
Her classes were full of fun. ``Hey, do you drink soup,’’ she once asked the girl who sat next to me. She nodded. ``No,’’ bellowed Ms Gatmell. ``You always eat soup. Never drink it.’’ The lesson was well-learnt and I have not forgotten it to date.
Her classes were never `read from the book and I will explain later’. What she taught us was never really from the textbooks. She did not have to look at them. After all, she was nearing 60 (we assumed) and had been a teacher for almost four decades. Teaching Class II was certainly not difficult.
Apart from her regular English and Maths lessons, she would even take rather enjoyable music sessions with us.
We loved singing `row row row your boat’ with her. She looked happiest then. She would improvise with each rendition of the song. While one group touched the higher notes at `merrily merrily merrily merrily .. life is but a dream’ she would ask the other half to touch the lower ones. Or, she would ask one section of the class to start singing, asking the other half to start from the song’s beginning after the first group had finished singing the first line. ``Do the rounds,’’ she would exclaim once we were well trained on how to go about it. The class reverberated with our voices and all of us thought we were fine singers. Ms Gatmell made us feel like that.
So obsessed was I with her that I would narrate every incident at home. My grandfather, greatly amused by her name teased me by calling her `Khatmal’, which offended me no end.
Despite our growing fondness for her, Ms Gatmell was most of the time stern with us. But, that did not stop our curiosity to find what was behind the door -- in Ms Gatmell’s bedroom. Our young fertile imaginations gave birth to various stories__ from extraordinary `imported’ toys to exquisite crockery __ we knew there was a treasure trove behind the wooden door. Bets were laid but none were lost or won, as the only glimpse we had of the room was when Ms Gatmell came out of it. We would crane our necks to see inside each time the door opened, but it was strangely dark all the time offering no glimpse whatsoever.
And one day I entered the room. But, it was not a great moment and I shall tell you why. My father had just returned from an official junket to Europe and, mind you, in those days (early 80s) that was a huge status symbol and which, predictably, I used in school to score above my peers flaunting my `imported’ gifts. I do not remember what got into me that I decided to show one of my new gifts__ a scale __ to Ms Gatmell. I distinctly remember the white scale with pictures of the world’s seven wonders on it. When it was inclined a bit, the images changed to those of some rare birds. I was proud of my new scale and carried it to school.
After recess when the class was still settling down and Ms Gatmell looked at ease, I approached her with my ruler. ``Miss, my father got this from Europe,’’ I managed to tell her. But, nothing had prepared me for her reaction. ``Oh. It is very nice Rolly Polly. Thank you so much. Go keep it inside my room,’’ she cooed.
I was aghast, fumbling for the right words. ``I was just showing it to you. It is not a gift for you..’’ The words flashed in my mind but I could not utter them. Here I was entering her much-hyped bedroom but there was not even a tinge of enthusiasm left in me. I was parting with my beautiful scale. I am so foolish, I kept cursing myself. The entire class looked at me with awe as I opened her bedroom door and walked in. There was a low-voltage bulb glowing in one corner in the light of which I saw what I had never imagined.
An ill-kempt room, an unmade bed, books littered all over. There was a strange stale smell too, which, on second thoughts, was familiar. Ms Gatmell too smelt that way and we were used to it. There were some pictures on the bedside table, which I looked at fleetingly. I kept the scale on her bed, picked it again to look for a better, cleaner place for my precious gift. I did not find any and left it on her bed, determined to get it back from her soon.
The days that followed were terrible. I kept framing sentences in my mind: Miss, I was only showing my scale to you. Miss, can I take my scale back as all my other rulers are broken. Miss, can you give the scale just for this unit test.
I never uttered a word about the ruler to her.
Needless to say, I did not tell my father about having parted with my new ruler. He never asked me too, thankfully.
Soon, the year was coming to an end and it was time to bid Ms Gatmell goodbye. On report card day, she said a few generous things about me to my parents. I may sound immodest but I was one of her favourite students and I somehow sensed it in the way she always spoke to me. She told my parents too that I would go far. I remember that day clearly__ Ms Gatmell in her trademark navy blue trousers, grey sweater and black coat, sitting on her desk at the classroom’s corner as always while parents queued to collect report cards.
I met Ms Gatmell often in school. I would just drop by to ask how she was doing or tell her about my marks in a test (obviously if I had scored well). Perhaps another reason for me meeting her frequently was that she always showered praise and affection at me and I was more than pleased about it at least for a few years after leaving Class II C.
It was after I left her class, I learnt more about her. When I was in Class V I had a new best friend and took her to Ms Gatmell. ``Miss, meet Vinti. She has joined Convent today. She is very intelligent,’’ I told the visibly ageing Ms Gatmell. Ms Gatmell always kissed me when we met. That day too, she first kissed my cheek. A lot of other girls in school avoided her kisses but I did not have a problem with her stale breath. Not until that day at least.
So, Vinti and I spoke to Ms Gatmell about Convent of Jesus and Mary being among Dehra Dun’s better schools and that she would enjoy studying here.
On our way back to the classroom, I told Vinti Ms Gatmell’s story which by now I was familiar with. She was flying to India several years ago when the plane crashed and she lost both her legs. ``She has artificial legs now. That’s why you will always see her sitting,’’ I told her. I also told her about how pretty she looked in a picture she carried in her wallet __ soft blonde hair, white skin. ``She is old now and needs help to move around. She lives in the school itself. Her bedroom is inside Class II C,’’ I told her.
Years drifted and so did my interest in Ms Gatmell.
After a few years, when I was in Class X, I stopped by the ayah who attended to Ms Gatmell and asked her how she was. ``She had a fall. She is not too well. She remembers you. You must meet her.’’ I did not.
I kept thinking that I will drop by one of these days but found myself too busy. One day I saw her sitting by the school playground enjoying the sun on a cold December morning. I went up to her, avoided her kiss and asked how she was doing. She said she was fine. But, she looked pale. I was not too interested in taking in other details of her ailing appearance. My friends were waiting for me.
The last year in school brought me closer to Class II C once again. Class XII was in the same line as Class II C divided by another classroom. Despite being this close to her it never occurred to me that I could drop by to ask how Ms Gatmell was doing. I did not notice her absence from the bench by the school playground where she sat for as long as the sun’s rays fell on her. She had stopped teaching some time back. I never bothered to find since when. I was a grown up girl and had board exams coming. I excused myself each time I thought of Ms Gatmell.
And then, on one cold morning, I met Ms Gatmell’s ayah again near the washroom. She told me Ms Gatmell had passed away.
The news crushed me. Suddenly, I found myself recalling every moment I had spent with her. The singing in the classrooms, the idle chats on the bench near the school playground. The picture in her wallet. Her dirty room. Her stale breath. And then I thought of the ruler I left in her room. I thanked God that I never went back asking for it. That was the only gift I gave to Ms Gatmell, who deserved a lot more.

(I wrote this story last August. Ms Gatmell was my teacher in school)

Pochampalli Sari

2006-03-08T03:42:00.000-08:00

I visited Pochampally in July last year and was touched to see the lives of people living in this village revolving around their looms and how liberalisation had hit the community of poor weavers.
I was told this story by a village elder: An annual ritual in the leafy village of Pochampally has come to a tragic abrupt end. Every year on Ramnavami day, Pochampally’s finest weaver Ch Ramalingam would load a miniature loom on his bullock cart and weave a sari on his way to the temple from his hutment. This sari would then be draped around the deity amidst cheering and festivities. Ramalingam passed away in 2003. And, the tradition of draping the goddess in a freshly woven Pochampally sari every year ended with Ramalingam’s life.
In this picture Ramalingam's son is seen with a three-sided sari, a special sari woven by his father on his humble equipment__the loom.

The man with a gun

2006-03-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

I did not think that I would live to tell this story. I even wrote about it in the paper I work for, but somehow, I felt I had not done justice to an experience that left me rattled, confused and much later, even disappointed.
I had gone to Mahbubnagar district for a report on child workers in cottonseed farms. It had been a long day, given that I had started at 7 am from Hyderabad and had managed to reach our destination, a small village in Kolapur taluka, only by late noon.
After spending a few hours in three cottonseed farms and interviewing really small children, mostly girls, with sore thumbs (from the endless plucking work), I started for Hyderabad at about 7.30 pm.
I was exhausted and was almost nodding sitting in the car’s back seat. The stretch from the village to the national highway was long, deserted and wore an eerie look in the night. But, I was too tired to notice much.. not until I saw a man with a gun standing by the roadside. I was partially awake then but jolted when I saw him. ``Is he holding a gun,’’ I asked the social worker who had accompanied me to the village. ``Yes, looks like a naxalite to me,’’ Subhash, the social worker, replied.
I had barely recovered from my shock of having actually seen a naxal with a gun, when I saw this man in a white shirt holding a gun and stopping our car. I think I lost my voice then. It was too surreal for me, also `filmi’.
The man asked the driver to step out of the car and made him switch on the lights inside. Soon, the social worker was asked to alight. I remember clutching my bag, completely tongue-tied and resolute not to step out. I looked at the absolutely dark stretch of road ahead and noticed some more men standing across the road__ all holding guns. Comrades, I guessed.
Suddenly, I heard a knock on my window. It was the man in the white shirt asking me to step out. I had no choice.
Scenes from Hindi films, particularly those on police atrocities, loomed large in my mind. If he is a naxal, he will run away with the car, I panicked. How were we supposed to reach the still so far national highway? Just then, another, more disturbing thought, crossed my mind. If these are policemen on the lookout for naxals, they might just ask us to run and kill us in an encounter (thanks to Sudhir Mishra’s very real Hazaarein Khwaishein Aisi which I had watched recently)! I looked at the fields on the road side and imagined myself dead, covered with blood in the greenery.
The man checked the car and our bags and then asked us to leave. We were stopped for about ten minutes, but it was more than a lifetime for me.
We sped back to Hyderabad. It was only after I had locked myself inside my house__ after a good six hours of the ordeal__ that I managed to breathe easy.
For writing my first person account, I spoke to the police officials of Mahbubnagar to find out who had stopped my car. I was told it was a combing operation and that the police had been tipped off of naxal movement on that stretch of road. Why didn’t they bother to identify themselves? Well, they did not want to alert the naxals. But, the naxals would anyway recognize a cop even if he is in plainclothes. Well, the police cant take chances. Moreover, a journalist coming all the way from Hyderabad should not get so easily scared, I was told. Really, officer? I really do not think it was an impossible possibility for me to become statistic in the alleged encounter-friendly police data.

(I wrote this last September soon after I came back from a rather happening visit to Mahbubnagar district of Andhra Pradesh)

I just want...

2006-03-07T23:43:00.000-08:00

I don’t want the moon
I just want the star-lit sky

I don’t want the sun
I just want the warm sunlight

I don’t want the earth
But just a calm river and a green riverside

I just want a breeze rustling the leaves of a tree
And green grass cushioning my feet

An endless afternoon
Of sharing stories and giggling with friends
Sitting by a spring absorbing the sun

Call them lazy dreams
Or simply brush the silly thoughts aside
But, this is all I need to give life my best smile.

(Posting stuff i would have perhaps not shared with people ever. i wrote this a few days ago)

my first

2006-03-07T23:37:00.000-08:00

Have been planning to blog for over three months now, and am finally doing it. let's see how it goes.