The Uncommon Man

Back to TINA?

2012-01-17T19:21:00.007+05:30

I like the story "35 years ago" that comes with every issue of the magazine India Today. Sometimes the contrast between then and now tells a pitiful transition of some things. Like that of the BJP. 20 years back, the party was at the zenith of its Ram fever and had formed a government in UP, with Kalyan Singh as its CM. Today, UP is readying for polls and the party seems nowhere in the picture. For that matter, the Congress does not seem to be at any advantageous position either.

But think of it. The BJP has been given many opportunities on a platter. Over the last five years, Mayawati has been more busy building elephants and statues than building roads and highways. The Samajwadi Party has lost its way in the maze of Mayawati statues and its leader Amar Singh comes, vanishes and reappears, now looking beyond recognition.

The Congress, having abandoned the nationalist themes of Nehru, is busy with its confounding math on caste and religion, with quotas and night-stays at Dalit homes. The party has never been in a worse condition than it is now, ever since it came to power in 2004. Scams after scams have sullied its image, if any existed. Anna and Baba seem bent on teaching it a lesson. “Our PM is an honest man” is an argument no one seems to buy, the line smacking of Shakespere’s “But Brutus is an honourable man.” The party is unable to sail smoothly with the Bengali didi threatening to rock the boat. Thanks to the ilk of Digvijay Singh, the party has scored countless self-goals.

So where does the BJP stand? Forget the UP polls, where the party is anyway in the ‘also ran’ category, the BJP is least ready for the battle ahead in 2014. The party once boasted of a well-trained cadre, which ran in unison to propel the party to power in 1998 and 1999. The leaders were considered to be less corrupt and the BJP called itself the party with a difference. The much touted lotus in Karnataka has already started wilting in the marsh of mines and corruption. A party crying foul about corruption is busy inducting members who have been rejected from a party like BSP on corruption charges! The party seems to suffering from a multiple personality disorder after two successive defeats at the centre. Through their actions, they have done more to dent their image than to build it, having failed to define its ideology to the new voters. The party seems to be blinking in darkness when any question of the next PM candidate comes up. Does it have another statesman like Vajpayee who can win appeal across board? The party leaders seem more comfortable working from TV studios than in the arteries of India. If the party does not buck up now, the country will be pushed back to the TINA (There is no alternative) days of the 1970s, when Indira was voted back to power, not because the Congress was good at its work, but because the opposition was worse!

And the Bharat Ratna goes to....

2012-01-07T17:37:00.008+05:30

The Republic Day will soon arrive and along with it will begin the fight for Padma Awards. For that matter, the awards season begins from this month and the papers will be splashed with exalted beings holding trophies. But the Padma Awardees always get special attention for it is an honour conferred by the Government of India. It is sad that over the past many years it has become a tool to reward loyalties by the government. But this post is about the highest civilian honour, the Bharat Ratna Award.

There will be many crying out the name of Sachin Tendulkar for the honour. But I would keep such silly assumptions away for a while. Sachin might be the reigning God of cricket and is an inspiration to millions. But honey, Bharat Ratna is not yet another award show telecast for your New Year entertainment. It is a recognition for achievement over a lifetime, for dedication to a pursuit and excellence in a field, whose zenith has been touched by the awardee. Sachin Tendulkar can wait and should contend with the Padma Vibhushan given to him last year.

Not many Indians today qualify to be called Bharat Ratnas. But the list here is for what I believe is an honour due by now.

R.K.Laxman: He defined the Common Man for us. His cartoons in Times of India have enthralled generations of readers and have celebrated the everyday travails of the man on the street in the most tongue-in-cheek fashion. ‘The Common Man’ cartoons are modern day classics for the cartoons sketched in the 1960s and 70s still seem relevant. Times have changed but the common man’s imagery and life remain the same. Many political parties have pledged support to the man on the street during every election that India has seen but none have remained steadfast in their loyalty like Laxman. An award to him will mean an honour to the common man.

Dilip Kumar: He is the Last Mughal of Hindi cinema. He brought in a style of which was a marked departure from the loud theatrics of the 1940s and defined what acting would remain to be in cinema thereafter. Mahesh Bhatt famously remarked that half the actors tried imitating him and the other half consciously tried not to imitate him. Comedy, tragedy, action, romance and drama were on his finger-tips, to be doled out on demand. For that matter, Dilip Kumar never acted. He lived each character to perfection. He is a symbol of India's catholic culture. He was Yusuf Khan in real life and Dilip Kumar on-screen. Both the characters would seamlessly merge and stand out as per the occasion. He was the first superstar of independent India and personified the ideals of a generation. This honour is for the most prized relic of cinema, which continues to inspire generation after generation.

Atal Bihari Vajpayee: It is a tricky and confusing business to bestow this honour on a politician, for it invites criticisms and praises in equal measure. Not many will support the idea of honouring a politician as it means extending support to an ideology. But I feel Vajpayee is a statesman, perhaps the last one India has had and one who clearly stood above party line. He could campaign as a member of the BJP and run the nation as a Prime Minister, who was looked up to as a non-partisan force to reckon with. In an era when politics has become a synonym for scams and scandals, Vajpayee is part of the group we call endangered species.

The list is not exhaustive. The last person we honoured with the Bharat Ratna was the late Pt Bhimsen Joshi. It is high time we recognize another gem in our country.

The Blog Award

2011-10-30T12:50:00.010+05:30

If you are wondering what this award is about, be assured, it is not a Booker or a Pulitzer to sweep me off my feet. It is an award given by bloggers to fellow bloggers who they feel are worthy of it. It’s been four years of blogging and this recognition, though late, has come nevertheless. Here I go with my award acceptance write-up, as demanded by the rule of this game. Let this be my post-award interview!

Seven Random Facts about You:
I’m talkative, much opposed to the first impression that people make about me. I seldom get tired talking and suddenly I can be deeply meditative. I have remained silent for 10 days without much ado.

For all my jingoism and patriotism, I’ve spent only 6-7 years in India, the rest having been spent in Saudi Arabia and Dubai. I’m very much a dharti ka lal and would like to be here for the rest of my life.

People generally perceive me to be calm. But I’ve the worst temper you can think of. I can mouth the most acerbic expletives and things fly across like saucers when I get angry.

My collection of music varies from a K.L.Saigal recording from Devdas (1935) to A.R.Rehman’s songs from Rockstar (2011). There are few things more endearing than good music and good movies.

I want to be in Calcutta at some point of time in my life. I fell in love with the city during my college days in an overdose of Tagore and Sarat Chandra. Things are not the same now, yet I want to be there.

I would like to settle down in Chennai or Delhi – two cities I have loathed and loved for various reasons. Yet, there is something about these diametrically opposite cities that I love.

I’ve always been a story-teller. I was so fond of stories that I used to record them in my voice as a child and play them to see how good I’m at telling them. I dream of winning some big award like the Booker or National Award some day.

My Favourite Song: Plenty of them. But I can never get enough of M.S.Subbulakshmi and Lata Mangeshkar, who I believe are the most gifted singers of the last century. Then I love Rafi, Kishore and in today’s times, A.R.Rehman and Shreya Ghoshal.

My Favourite Dessert. I love Jalebis, Ras Malai, Kaju sweets, Rava Laddu and many more.

What pisses me off: My own anger.The fact that I lost my temper when it could have been controlled increases it further. I also hate to see the inheritance of loss among my own generation. We are like those fools who set off in search of wealth elsewehre, not knowing that they are sitting on a heap of treasure

Biggest Fear: No specific thing. It comes and dissolves away on an everyday basis.

Best Feature: I can laugh at myself. I'm not a joker but won't mind being one for the ones close to me.

Everyday Attitude: Man proposes, God disposes. A miracle might just be round the corner. Live life as it comes.

What is perfection? That stupid idea where you screw-up your happiness in doing the impossible and that of those who help you in doing it

Guilty pleasure. I spend a lot on books and movies. I don’t know how many of them I read again and again but I simply love to see them arranged on my self.

Give the Award to 15 bloggers
15 is a huge number for a person who does not read much of other blogs. But here’s from where I regularly do!

As I muse: I got this award from Vinitha. She has been there almost since the beginning of my blogging journey with me. Some of her works really amaze and I feel that little more dedication and eye for detail will take her far. A person of few words, she compensates for it with her written words.

In search of: We studied together for two years and we share many common goals. We built umpteen dreams of doing this, doing that and writing a book together. Her writings are sure to leave a smile on your face as you finish them. I know we will realize them step by step.

The Ganga Mail: I first read Biswanath Ghosh in The New Sunday Express. I soon became a fan of his columns. They were like a refreshing filter coffee on a Sunday morning. I still follow his writings on his blogs.

Edhey Thumbi Haadavenu: He has his way of bringing up serials of two amazing characters in his blogs week after week. They remind you of some sitcom you would have followed on DD in the glorious days before the Saas Bahu serials attacked us.

Calcutta Chromosome. Perhaps it was the name that led me to it. But I found some interesting and refreshing pieces on topics I loved from cinema to books and f course my beloved Calcutta.

Till I get my Booker, Pulitzer, Filmfare or National Award, this one should do!

Revolution 2020: An over-promised entertainer

2011-10-29T21:16:00.008+05:30

The very cover of Revolution 2020gives a hint about what is inside – a girl hugging her lover with one arm around him and one arm being held by another boy standing by the side. Chetan Bhagat’s new novel Revolution 2020 is no different from a mainstream commercial movie. In fact it has all the elements of a comercial Hindi movie - a loser hero cheated by all, a coughing father who keeps nagging his son about his failure, a girl who chooses a rich boy over him and a kahaani mein twist during the interval after which the hero bounces back with full force.

Gopal, Raghav and Aarti are childhood friends who grow up in the holy city of Varanasi. As they blossom into youth, Gopal wants to get into a commitment with Aarti. Both Gopal and Raghav attempt the IIT-JEE exams. Gopal fails to make it anywhere with his poor rank while Raghav succeeds and gets into BHU. Prodded by his ailing father, Gopal leaves for Kota where he spends one year toiling to crack the IIT entrance without much avail. In Gopal’s absence, Aarti falls for Gopal’s friend Raghav. Gopal is a total loser now.

The twist comes with the entry of a local MLA Shukla who helps Gopal set up an Engineering college. Soon Gopal, who did not even study in a college, greases umpteen palms of government officials with Shukla’s money and sets up an Engineering college, while Raghav renounces all the plush comforts, refuses a job offer in a top IT company and decides to be a journalist, hoping to bring in a revolution to clean up India from the city that washes all sins. Aarti now rediscovers her fondness for Gopal and thus begins a series of events that sets the tempo for the second half of this book.

After having kept his books below Rs. 100 all these years, Chetan Bhagat has for the first time let his book cross the Rs 100 mark. This one is priced at Rs. 140. Even the price of one novel is not more than the cost of a ticket to watch a Hindi movie in a multiplex. Quite opposed to his peers launching books in five-star hotels, Bhagat has always chosen retails outlets, in the midst of his readers. His books are every inch commercial products in the guise of written words.

Those of us who have watched Sudhir Mishra’s classic Hazaaron Khwaishen Aisi would be familiar with the outline of this story of the rich boy going the path of revolution, because he can afford to do so and the middle-class boy, whose sole ambition is to be rich, becoming street smart to make pots of money. At the centre of both is a girl who can turn the scheme of events as she desires.

But this book is not even a pale shadow of the great work of Sudhir Mishra, not that it aspires to compete with it. It is entertaining and provides value for money, something that Bhagat would have had in mind while writing the book. Chetan hinges on the victory of the underdog in this book, a feeling we love as Indians. The problem is with the title and the promotion itself. Chetan Bhagat has bluntly exposed the corruption in our education system. But the book is more about that than about a revolution. Yes there is a character parroting some lines about a revolution but he fails to infuse any confidence, perhaps because Chetan Bhagat himself is not well acquainted with the idea. Though it is supposed to be the titular theme, it has been sidelined to a few pages with repetitive description towards the end. Chetan Bhagat has been carried away by the wave of the Anna brigade and perhaps named this book in the last few months. This book is not so much about a revolution as it is about ambition and corruption. There was much more that could have been done with the plot that he so strenunously developed.

Chetan Bhagat’s Revolution 2020 is like Karan Johar’s My Name is Khan. Both Chetan and Karan are mass entertainers and have strived to make a serious statement with these works, which simply cannot be taken seriously because they lack conviction and fail to look real. People might sit and listen for its star appeal, but that’s it.

Chetan Bhagat's have never been great works of literature just as a Dabbang or a Ready have seldom appealed to the intellect. The next time you are planning a sojourn in a train, do not forget to take Revolution 2020 along. It does disappoint to deliver what it promises, but it entertains as his books usually do.

Vignettes from Freedom Park: The Anna saga

2011-08-21T21:42:00.006+05:30

A few snapshots from the gathering at Freedom Park in Bangalore during this weekend. The masses were swelling by the hour. But what struck me were these interesting placards. Some of them were bordering around hagiography, some were plain, some melodramatic and a few highly imaginative. Enjoy these vignettes of a movement.

The warning label

This is more like Rajnikanth

Deewar comes back!

The chakki of corruption

Now you know why India lost to England in the Test series

A patient's plea

Along Bapu's footsteps

Anna the saviour, freeing India from Corruption

The trinity

A parent's plea though a child

What this movement will lead to is yet to be known. But these images will refuse to fade away for a long time to come.

The Anna hysteria: The swelling masses

2011-08-21T15:19:00.006+05:30

Gandhi topis are everywhere. There is a new face in every poster. He does not look sophisticated, urban and is definitely not young. But the headlines are constantly screaming his name. Shopkeepers are voluntarily closing down their shops in protest. The dabbawalas of Mumbai have stalled work for the first time. At the age of 73, he has captured the imagination of a nation and the young India is perhaps getting its first icon from public life after a long time. This blog is not about the pros and cons of the Lok Pal. But it is about the mood of the nation which has been propelled after a long time to this state.

Those who oppose this movement are pointing to the sanctity of the parliament, which is the symbol of democracy. But has any sanctity been left in the parliament after 64 years? The minsters purchase each other in ‘Cash for Votes’ and the country is being run like a feudal fiefdom, with all powers being vested in a few families of Indian politics. In his recent book India: A Portrait, Patrick French has pointed out that 65% of under-40 MPs come with some prior political connections. Most of the young brigade of the Congress like the Deoras, the Scindias and of course our own Gandhis have a long and strong political lineage. With democracy slowly morphing into feudal dynasty, the masses are being distanced from mainstream politics for they know that ‘It is all about loving your family’. Scams reek of stench costing lakhs of crores. Every day opens up a new Pandora’s Box in the UPA government and our PM sits like Dhritarashtra, blind to the disrobing of the nation by his own men.

Strike when the iron is hot. Perhaps that is what Anna Hazare has done. Anna Hazare is not a creation of the media. He has done some solid ground work in the hinterland all his life as a Gandhian activist. He has fasted for various causes in the past as well, with sometimes partial and at times, complete success. Even if Team Anna is using the media for its benefit, there is nothing new to it for every message needs to be carried across through a propoganda. For Mahatma Gandhi, India’s freedom movement was also a propoganda and he very cleverly used the press in his favour and ensured a heavy media presence during all his crucial movements.

But if you think the angry crowd on the streets is marching for a Lok Pal bill, you are mistaken. Most of them are not completely aware of the intricacies and implications of the bill. All they know is that this is a hammer which will beat down corruption. But more than anything, they are there becasue they want to show the government what can happen if the masses yell in unision. They want the corrupt government to stand on its knees before them and see them punished for treating the national wealth like their family property. The bosses at the centre thought that public opinion is like a poster which weathers down with every monsoon. It is this arrogance which they are protesting against. Collective forces require a face for any upheaval to succeed. Lok Pal is their tool and Anna their face.

But to compare Anna Hazare’s movement to that of Mahatma Gandhi is an overstatement. Firstly, Gandhi’s movement was not urban centric. Anna Hazare’s Lok Pal movement is yet to find voice in the rural areas, where the sound of the slogans is yet to reach. Mahatma Gandhi’s movement was not just a rally. It was Satyagraha and he led an army of Satyagrahis – people who didn’t believe in punishing someone for failings they themselves suffer from. No doubt our limits are tested when money is demanded at every turn. But we are corrupt in forms more than one. We are more than willing to push a Rs.50 note into the pockets of a traffic police to evade fine for jumping signals, we download pirated movies and music. Many among us do not declare the right figures for taxes. We easily grease the arms of the TT to get a berth in the train and pay hefty donations to get our kids a seat in the best English-medium school in the town. Within the limitations we are in, we throw money right, left and centre. A Raja or Kalmadi might be doing the same, just that their limits are far more expanded. Corruption is in the collective nature of this country, not just in a few bureaucrats or politicians. How it started, is like asking the chicken and egg question.

Lok Pal is not a sanjeevani which will cure all the ills of the nation. If the power of Parliament is at threat now, the parliamentarians are at fault for the same. When people who are voted to power fail to perform their duties, attempts will be made to usurp power at some point in time by those who have lost faith in the establishment. That time is perhaps knocking at the door. 35 years ago, the nation saw a similar hysteria when Jayprakash Narayan called for Total Revolution and asked the armed forces to lay down their weapons in protest against the anarchy that prevailed during the regime of Indira Gandhi. Many criticized him for that. Ms Gandhi responded by declaring 19 months of Emergency. But the JP movement led to the end of the monopoly of the Congress in Indian politics. It led to the formation of the Janata Party and later, the BJP. Anna is not a JP or Gandhi, nor does he intend to communicate any such idea. If nothing, he should be saluted for restoring the lost glory of the Gandhi topi and making it cool for a new generation. He should not be deified and thus defeat the cause for which he is fighting.

The arrest of Anna is a dangerous blow to the fundamental rights enshrined in the very constitution, for which the Congress politicians are shedding crocodile tears. Lok Pal should not be allowed to be a law-making or law-amending body. Elections are held every five years to get people do that job. The Lok Pal can be an efficient, independent watch-dog. Even as per Anna’s proposal, the PM, the Leader of Opposition, Chief Election Commissioner, judges of the high court and the supreme court have been given powers to nominate the Chairperson of the Lok Pal. The CBI has become a joking agency more than an investigative agency. It has to be relieved from the clenches of the central government and the Lok Pal can ensure fast tracking of pending cases. Prime Minister is a citizen of India. The anachronistic cry of his non-inclusion is a farce on democracy.

By the way, like Indira Gandhi, Manmohan Singh too believes there is a foreign hand trying to destabilise India. Paranoia can sometimes be funny.

Friendship but not with regret

2011-08-07T00:19:00.014+05:30

Messages will fly off the phones, facebook updates will be full-on, FM radio will be abuzz with dedications and malls will be abundant with them. Friendship Day is back. I don’t remember exactly when I began observing this day. For sure it’s not been more than 5-6 years. But perhaps it stuck the metros first with Karan Johar’s Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Whatever! Today is friendship day and I dedicate this post to this very special relationship.

I grew up surrounded by friends in Riyadh and I had plenty of play mates there. I was the peacemaker in our group and loathed bickering and fights. Plenty of them were there in my building – Mallus, Bengalis and Maharashtrians. In the 10 years I spent there, I developed deep bonds not just with my friends, but also my teachers. I would spend a lot of time chatting with them and I presume I talked sweet little things they loved to listen. I remained in touch with my teachers for a pretty long time. With people moving across countries and mobiles phones not having come in, I lost touch with my teachers and my friends, as I moved to Dubai. I sensed the gap that had set in with my exit from Riyadh and with that entire set of relationships built over time had exited my life.

Dubai failed to strike a positive image in me. It was a beautiful plastic flower which looked good but lacked life. It was a place which respected money and the moneyed only. Friendship in such a place was hard to come by and yet I got one or two with whom I struck a good bond. But it lasted only till I stayed in Dubai for I lost in touch with them or rather I would say they failed to touch me. Even when emails and facebook have made their foray, we do not know much about each other .

After leaving Dubai, I remained in touch with my Hindi teacher who was extremely fond of me. In today’s times, such people are impossible to come by and yet I found them. We kept writing letters to each other because that was the medium she was comfortable with and writing with a pen and paper I knew the difference it made in the e-age.

I had a fairly good company during my graduation in Kerala. My grandmother had let out the upper portion of her house for rent and the doctors who came to stay there became very close friends. Both of them were preparing for their PG and would drop in every evening to have a chat. We would listen to music, watch movies and go out occasionally. When they left after one year, I sensed a vacuum for a long time. I got some good friends in college and talking to them developed my intellect, which was since long seeking to be teased. I started preparing for my MBA and the professors at the coaching institute became good friends. One of them was ebullient and full of life. We would spend evenings over music and poetry and glad to say, we still do so, whenever we find time. Some connections at the coaching institute continue to this day.

My departure from home shook me completely because for the first time I was away from my parents, more so from my mother. A single (not spoilt I believe) child, I got into hostel life and had a roomie who was not so much like me. People who I never thought would be more than acquaintances became my friends. My roomie with whom I hardly got along, the guitarist next door who irritated me with loud music, a loosely held loud extrovert who would arrive unannounced like a wind, a hardnosed journalist who would go to any extent to press her point and an obstinate but highly mature Chennai girl – so many relations were forged, which seemed, was for a lifetime. Some have got married now and some are in the process of getting married.

I somehow believe that the last set of true friends you make are in the college. For they usually like you for what you are and not for how much you earn or what post you hold. Once you enter the job market, you are tagged to so many other things and you never know whether the friendship is with you or with the thing tagged to you. Of the list of friends I can remember, and my memory doesn’t easily fail me in these matters, some have been good, some have been fair and some unfair. Some have stabbed me from the back and some have borne the stab even without informing me.

I have learnt something from all of them. It is not necessary that your friends think like you and share your interests. If it so happens, brilliant! But we all, who have friends, know that friendship is much more than that. It is easy to lose touch and muse over them with a faint chuckle and a drop of tear in your eyes. That is the most normal and mundane thing to happen. But I simply cannot let go the handful left with me in life. For gems are never found in abundance. These gems will be treasured forever and I have no desire to spend an evening musing over a window overlooking the sunset of life counting the moments I once spent happily with them. It is about the life at this moment. There might be times we talk more and times we talk less; but talk we will and continue this saga year on year.... filling page after page in the book of life. Every year should be a new edition and not a dusty book gone yellow with time.

Dedicated to those magicians who have changed my life in ways more than one

Watching history with World Cup

2011-04-03T11:41:00.009+05:30

I’m writing this just minutes after India has won the 2011 ICC World cup. I’m not a cricket crazy Indian in the typical sense. There are times when I don’t even remember that there is a match for India against some team and there are times when I don’t bother about the final status of the match. I hardly followed the IPL last year for it found it too garish to be watched. But then, there are times like these which are difficult to savor in one gulp. These are times when you just don't understand from where the spirits pump up all of a sudden and you are completely swayed away by the soaring emotions of a hysteric nation. What happened on April 2, 2011 is nothing short of a moment of a lifetime! All kinds of messages were going around yesterday. I remember the one which said “Sri Lanka abducted India’s Sita (the trophy) at Eden Gardens in 1996 and after 14 years of Vanvas, we will restore her glory in the battle at Wankhede"! Dramatic to the hilt and quite becoming of an Indian fan. Havans and prayers have been flowing in ample quantity for the past few weeks and television news channels have had no news bigger than this to cover. Now that we have become the first host nation to win the world cup, there will be more reasons to celebrate. An entire generation born after 1983 had been waiting for this day and the day came indeed, in full style and pomp.

The Indo-Pak semis itself was high on hype. Most of the companies had stopped work by afternoon and the match was screened in the offices across the nation. In both the semis and the finals, the beginning wasn’t great and it was the climax which made the game worth a watch. The stability brought by Gambhir and the quick shots of Dhoni made all the difference today. Celebrations are on everywhere. The metros are bursting with crackers and excited bikers vrooming across the city. An entire generation, which waited with bated breath for this moment, got to see this happen in their lifetime. It was deliverance for all the craziness they had displayed.

Deliverance it was, not just for the cricket crazy Indian fan, but also for Sachin Tendulkar, who had been playing world cup after world cup with none under his belt. This was a moment of triumph for his glorious career. He had set benchmarks in cricket and had started resetting his own benchmarks. He even came close to kissing it in 2003 but went home with a Man of the series cup. This will be his day. The empty space in his cricketing career has been filled to make a picture-perfect portrait and there will be no doubt that the most lasting image of this victory will be that of him being carried around the field on the shoulders of Virat Kohli, for whom it was the first world cup of his career! If Cricket be a religion in India and Sachin its God, then this was the grandest festive procession for Cricket's presiding deity!

The frenzy after the T20 World Cup victory was palpable and this is going to get bigger. India looks like a roaring tiger, wanting more after tasting blood. The roll is on and we just hope that this roll doesn’t crush the other games as it keeps rolling on. Till then, Cheers to India… Chak De India (doesn’t matter that Chak De was originally written as a Hockey Anthem). The sun, it seems, has just risen and the day is yet to sink in.

A grand odyssey

2011-03-18T00:21:00.006+05:30

This is post is for all the colours and variety I experienced in the cities close to my heart and the absolutely amazing people who made those cities what they are now in my eyes....

I begin this post with a statement tad too boastful. In the 24 years of my life till now, I have lived in almost five cities spread across three countries. I spent 10 years of my childhood in Riyadh and around 4 years in Dubai. Then I moved to my hometown Thrissur in Kerala for my graduation and then moved to Delhi for my MBA. I got a job in Chennai, where I lived for an year and now I have moved to Bangalore. People assume that I easily adjust to new places. Quite contrary to that I hate being lifted from one place and being dropped to the other.

Moving to a small town like Thrissur after having lived in Dubai was, quite surprisingly, not a tough deal for me. Perhaps I always felt out of place when I was abroad and that could explain why I took to my small town life as duck to water. Three years were well spent andI made acquiantances and friends during the course of time. But I was completely unhappy with the quality of education in Kerala, hampered with a hundred strikes and hartals. I knew I had to move out.

Bypassing popular Mallu destinations for education like Bangalore and Coimbatore, I chose Delhi, which always evoked an exotic image in my mind. Being nuts for history and Urdu poetry, I was always fascinated with the idea of strolling along the lanes of Delhi. Besides, Delhi was the media and political hub of the nation. I rocked my time absolutely in those two years. I took my freelancing more seriously, met innumerable personalities in due course, did some constructive work in the field of theatre and public speaking in my college, put my heart and soul into the election campaign of a National party and got placed like any other MBA of my college at the end of two years.

The flight of pigeons at Jama Masjid

But meanwhile what made the Delhi stint so memorable was the relationship I built with some of my friends, which I was sure would stand the test of time. The first few months were terrible for I stayed away from Delhi in Greater Noida. I missed my home terribly and all dreams of Ghalib and Gandhi went sore. I was forced to share my room with a person whose nature was basically opposite to mine in many ways and we hardly saw much of each other for the first few months, with him being a nocturnal bird and me, an early riser. Food was unpalatable and the subjects in MBA seemed uninteresting. I knew shifting to Greater Noida from Thrissur was a blunder.

But soon things fell in place as I got some angelic friends. Wonder of wonders, my roomie, about whom I wasn’t very patronising, became my closest buddy. Every moment that I spent with my gang became memorable and every place that we visited together was enshrined forever.

Only a dumb for city planning can love a place like Noida, which is one of the most haphazardly planned places in India. But I loved it because it was there that we went for our weekend escapades from the college to eat, shop and have fun. If the lanes of Old Delhi held me with interest even before I went there, they floored me completely after we spent some moments of unadultereated fun in those lanes. We shopped endlessly in Janpath and some of the shopkeepers selling books began knowing me given the frequency with which I shopped there. The associations I made in the political sphere, the satisfaction I got doing something unusual, the free life that I lived there (my first stint with hostel life) made Delhi a chapter which I could never forget.

A sunset view of Chennai Central

When I got a job, I was posted to Chennai and my second innings began. A major chunk of my friends were away now. Two of them got married, one got posted in Goa (it’s terrible to live there, as opposed to the fun one has holidaying there) and three of us were in Chennai. Chennai was not an unfamiliar place to me. Being a Tamilian with plenty of relatives there, I frequented Chennai even before. The beginning was not easy. Chennai is quite unwelcoming to bachelors. They have a tough time getting an accommodation there. You have to be a vegetarian, non-smoking, non-drinking, Brahmin (preferably) and a family man to get it with some ease. But get I did after a lot of effort. But I hardly stayed there. There was my Mama’s home where I often dropped by the evenings and slept there. Everyday, I carried an extra shirt in my bag because I never knew where I would land up at night (no double meaning intended). My friends would suddenly give me a ring at nine in the evening and ask me reach Ega theatre or Satyam Cinema by 10:30 for the night show. I lost count of the number of movies I watched in Chennai and enjoyed the unplanned glides my life took.

Every Thursday, I would unfailingly visit the Mylapore Sai Baba temple where I would catch up with my friends. On days when I left office early, I would drop by the Kapaleeswar temple and walk around, the serene air filling in me. We would hang around Elements in Nungambakkam or go for an unplanned drive across the Marina beach. The December season was filled with one concert after the other, many of which I could attend only during weekends. The weekends were invariably spent in Purusaiwakkam and Sowcarpet, where my friends stayed. Sowcarpet, with its lanes and bylanes was always full of chitter-chatter, banter and life. The Mint Street was lined up with the finest of textile shops and eateries, besides some grand Jain temples. In the presence of my relatives and friends, I got a home away from home in Chennai, where I could land up at any time of the day and get into any of their homes as I would into mine in Thrissur.

But my dissatisfaction with my job led me to a rigorous search and I havenow landed up in Bangalore, the IT city. Every one who hears that I’m in Bangalore goes gaga over the news. “Wow! It’ll be so much fun! You can rock!” I smile like an idiot, unable to share their enthusiasm. I have understood one thing. It’s not the place which really wins your heart. It’s the people. Remove them and even the best of place will fail to lure you. I’m a self-professed wanderlust. But at the end of the day, you need a few voices which ask you “How are you? Did you have your dinner? How was your day? Why do you sound so dull today? It means a lot. After all even a dog falls for affection. We are humans, if I can say with the natural superiority complex! Being in a new place among new people is always a daunting task. If you don’t get the right people, then even paradise seems like hell. With a few soul mates around, even in hell there can be a few heavenly moments. I'm glad I met such people who can create a heaven even in the midst of hell and make life a gift to cherish!

(I'm sure those who read this fit themselves into the right place in the unwritten script)

Josltling with spring and autumn in Old Delhi

2010-09-12T08:44:00.004+05:30

It is quite interesting to see the past, the present and signs of the oncoming future jostling for space and living amidst a riot of colours, permeating the air with ebullience. Being in Old Delhi gives you exactly that feeling. Glamorised and popularised in the recent past through the likes of Dilli-6, Old Delhi, like its name, retains an old worldly charm.

Living in Noida for two years had made us mall rats. All this old world charm was not for my friends Hemanth and Manasi , who wore branded stuff from head to toe. Much to their opposition, I brought them to Old Delhi and soon they found themselves before the Red Fort. The Red Fort has been a witness to much of India’s tumultous history ever since the times of Shah Jehan, who decided to shift the centre of activities from Agra to Delhi. To know more about the fort, we followed a guide hired by a few foreign tourists. It is a much better way than hiring one of your own. The fort lost its glory to the texts of history after the mutiny in 1857. British East India Company captured the fort and plundered it, stripping it off its sheen and glory. Buildings like the Diwan-e-aam, the Diwan-e-khaas, the Rang Mahal, and the Moti Masjid still hold light to the spellbinding glory of the great Mughals. The last of Mughals indeed had a jolly good time in these plush palaces. Resigning their fate to the Raj, they whiled away their time here. Every ruler ruling India has had a fascination for the fort. No wonder, that of all places in Delhi, our prime ministers insist on addressing the nation from its ramparts, for it is still seen as the symbol of supremacy.

We crossed the road opposite to the fort and reached the famed bazaar Chandni Chowk. This is the real walled city, the historic Shahjehanabad. At the beginning of the Chowk is the ancient Digambar Jain Temple. It survived even the fanatical eyes of Aurangazeb’s autocracy. Next to it is the Gauri Shankar temple. A few steps ahead stands the Seesganj Gurudwara, where Aurangazeb executed Guru Tegh Bahadur, in a culmination of a series of clashes between the Sikhs and the Mughals. Next to it stands the Sunehri Masjid. In the 18th century, Nadir Shah invaded Delhi and from here, he oversaw one of the bloodiest slaughters in history where around 20,000 citizens were killed on a single night in Delhi. After a humiliating defeat the Mughal emperor surrendered the Peacock throne from the Diwan-e-khaas and along with it went the magnificient Kohinoor diamond. Opposite to the Sunehri Masjid stands the Baptist Church, a sign of the Christian influence in Delhi beginning from the 19th century. Though unintentionally, I was stuck by the Catholicism and syncretism of the Chandni Chowk.

But how can a mention of the Chandni Chowk be complete without a mention of the gobsmacking eateries at every turn. It is unfortunate but Old Delhi is not a very traveller friendly place unless you know it well; so much so that there was not even a single board showing the way to the famed Parathewali Gali. There are around three famous Paratha shops here dating back to over 135 years dishing out varieties of parathas. We placed ourselves in one of those shacks for lunch, amidst college students, foreign tourists and everyday travellers. “Even Pandit Nehru and Shastriji (Lal Bahadur Shastri) came to our outlet” said a man, who was the fifth generation owner of the shop. “There was no media to spread our fame. It is all word-of-mouth publicity that has earned us the fame which has also brought you here. It is only in the past 5-6 years that papers and channels are coming to feature us. Otherwise, the taste that people carry from here is the best advertisement for us. No one knows the names of our shops. But our work speaks well for us. ” Ignoring his talk, Manasi stared at the butter glossing over the paratha. “Eat Madam. For a day forget your calories. You won’t get it elsewhere” said the shopkeeper, reading her calorie-conscious expression. The shops are also lined with photos of various celebrities and politicians who came here to try the parathas and lassis. The shopkeeper was right in his advice and the food won over my friends. Perhaps food is the only way to a person’s heart!

There are many more eateries lined up in Chandni Chowk like Ghantewalas, Jalebiwala, Hauz Qasi and of course, the delectable Karim’s where a whole goat costs as much as Rs. 5000. Karim’s is run by the descendents of the cooks who directly served the Mughal emperors, who still hold the recipes to themselves.
In Gali Kasim Khan stands the haveli of the celebrated Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib. Ghalib spent here the last few years of his life, though he died without having won much acclaim in his life, losing all name and fame to his celebrated contemporary Zauq, who, with the patronage of the emperor, was then considered to be a superior poet. Today, Ghalib’s name chimes with the beauty of Urdu shayri. The dilapidated haveli seemed shrouded in a wave of melancholy. I heard a silent sigh in the form of a ghazal, but ignored it as my imagination.

We walked towards the Jama Masjid, supposedly the largest mosque in Asia. The arched colonnades and the vast expanse of the mosque seemed to welcome us. We walked into the prayer hall and were lost in meditation for a while. We then began climbing the minaret of the Masjid. A 10-minute walk up the narrow alleyways of the circular stairs lead us to the top of the minaret from where we got a splendid view of Old Delhi as cool breeze gently gushed past us. There were people eager to wheedle money out of us under some pretext or the other, whom we avoided adroitly. Pigeons taking a flight every now and then dotted the skyline. We got down and hired a rickshaw as it glided wearily across the labyrinth of Old Delhi. I sensed a calm and smile on the faces of Hemanth and Manasi. I did nothing. Purani Dilli has a way to cast its spell and win hearts.
Legends, facts and folklore intertwine in any old city. Old Delhi is no exception. In the 19th century, Delhi was a Mughal garden full in bloom in the spring before the autumn of the revolt destroyed it completely. The memories of the spring of yore are so powerful that it is still permeating fragrance at every turn. Seeing the colours, flavours, narrow roads, rundown electric poles and century-old buildings, it seems the spring and autumn are also jostling for space, one taking over the other every other minute. The poetry of Ghalib, the sweets of Ghantewalas, the faith of the Jama Masjid, the qavallis sung at nights, the squalor of the streets and the commotion of vehicles all seem to be operating in an asymmetric tandem. There is life in this labyrinth; a life which tells a thousand stories of many other lives to live which one has to be present there.
How to get there: Old Delhi is well connected by Delhi Metro and also has a railway station.
Where to eat: Karim’s Parathewalas, Ghantewalas and Jalebiwala are few of the eateries not to be missed
When to visit: It is better to visit the place after the monsoons and before the summer sets in as a large part of the journey is to be covered on rickshaws and on foot.

(This article was published in The New Sunday Express)

Bravado amidst ruins

2010-08-15T12:47:00.007+05:30

This post is dedicated to the sweet little Jhansi ki Rani who was our host during our stay in Jhansi

The train slowly pulled up and I pushed my head out of the door to see the name of the station painted in black on the yellow background, the ubiquitous pattern of the Indian Railways. Jhansi had arrived, or rather I had arrived in Jhansi – an otherwise sleepy town, famous in the tourist map for the heroic Rani who fought the British yoke.
We began our sojourn from the decrepit Lakshmibai palace. Built in the late 18th century, it was partially in ruins and the palace seemed to be shorn of every bit of its former glory, if anything ever existed. Many old defaced stone-carved statues were strewn around the rooms in complete carelessness. These were supposedly ‘preserved’ by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI). Mainly inspired from Buddhism, Jainism and Hinduism, these statues were hardly guarded and it hardly seemed a big deal to smuggle out a few of them in broad daylight. My first experience in Jhansi was far from pleasing and did not seem worth the effort. I asked my friend to take me elsewhere.

We reached the Jhansi fort, the seismic point of the Lakshmibai saga. A guide was more than willing to show us the way. “I don’t need a guide” I expostulated, trying to find my way. My friend held me back and with a lot of effort and I was convinced to let the guide accompany us.
We moved around as he kept belting out tales of yore one after another. “This fort was built in 1613 by Raja Bir Singh Deo, the ruler of Orcha”. The fort too, was seeking maintenance but it was far better than what I got to see a while back. “Maharani (Lakshmibai) was born Manikarnika. Her father trained her in martial arts even though she was a girl” he said as he led us through the inner portals of the fort, through buildings like the Diwan-e-aam, Diwan-e-khaas, the Rani’s private chamber, the room where she used to swing with her friends, after which he led us out to the open part of the fort.
The ramparts of the fort, guarded by ten gates named after the brave martyrs of the revolt, majestically stood high over the city and the settlements far and wide could be seen from there. The fifty-something guide walked far ahead of us, waving a lathi carelessly in his hand while we took our own sweet time, clicking photos all along the way. “From here the soldiers would place their bows and shoot arrows” he said indicating the upper parts of the wall “and from here, they used to fire canons”. A reconstruction of the deadly battle had been made near the fort in stone.
“Jhansi was dreaded for the capital punishment awarded by Maharaj Gangadhar Rao. We have a popular saying here - Jhansi gale ki faansi, datiya gale ka haar, Lalitpur kabhun na chodiyo, jab tak milta udhaar” he said indicating the gallows that stood there, reeking of a millions shrieks of pain. I kept pestering the guide to repeat it umpteen times before we left so that I could get the saying verbatim.

The Rani used to go for her daily puja to the Shiv Mandir here. Since gallows were on the way, she could hear the cries of the prisoners who were hanged to death. This greatly disturbed the Rani and she requested the Maharaj to do something about it. The Maharaj, who loved her dearly, did away with the concept of death sentence. “The Rani became even more popular among the masses. Let us go and have a darshan” he said, leading us to the Shiv Mandir downstairs. The temple is still alive with rites and rituals and sees quite a crowd during the Mahashivratri.
As we moved on, the guide suddenly stopped and knelt down. He seemed to examine something on the floor. “Come here sirji” he called for us. It looked like a man-hole. “This is the dungeon. The prisoner would be thrown into this kaal-kothri and he would reach the basement where no light would reach. It was a dreadful prison!” I held my cell-phone tightly as I peeped into it and turned to see his face animated with the fright of the dungeon.

The story went on, and he finally signed off saying “The Rani fought for the city and attained martyrdom in Gwalior. After the revolt, nothing was left. All the Baniyas of Lalitpur left the place after the city was consigned to anonymity”. I could sense a loyalty in this man to his queen. I handed his fees to him; it was not the price for his loyalty. Seeing many like him in Jhansi, I sensed that loyalty could perhaps never be purchased. He smiled and took it with all satisfaction.
Dusk had crept in and it was time for the ‘Sound and Light’ show. We all seated ourselves in the space marked out for the spectators. As the sky grew dimmer with the sun almost gone, lights were on and from nowhere I could hear horses speeding nearby.

The gala show had started. “Main Jhansi ka Qila hoon” said a familiar baritone. I soon realised that Om Puri’s voice, playing the role of the Jhansi Fort, was the sootradhar of this show. The story of Lakshmibai began. “I saw my queen enter the fort resplendent in her wedding attire...” went on the narrative. The story took a twist. The king was dead and the company agent came before the Rani to impose the Doctrine of Lapse on Jhansi. “Main apni Jhansi nahi doongi!” This punch-line, delivered strongly by Sushmita Sen, who played Lakshmibai, echoed across the fort, setting the tone for rest of the drama. I soon realised, both from my conversations with the guide and from the show, that Lakshmibai was no less than a demi-goddess in Jhansi. People looked up to her and carried all the respect bestowed on a queen to this day. The show ended but I discerned that in her death, she had become a heroine larger than life. In India, immortality comes either with a person being cast in gold as a demi-God or being thrashed in history as a dark-faced villain. The shades of grey are something we are yet to learn to live with.
Subhadra Kumari Chauhan had enshrined the Rani in popular imagination through one of her poems, which is repeated at every turn in Jhansi and is at the tip of the tongue of every denizen of this town. Bundele harbolon ke muh humne suni kahaani thi, khoob ladi mardangi woh toh Jhansi wali Rani thi... (From the bards of Bundelkhand have we heard her saga, the queen of Jhansi gave a tough fight with the spirit of a man). It is a strange mixture of fact and fiction which builds a long-lasting saga. Every stone of Jhansi seemed to look back with pride at that tale of courage, which was no less a fact. After all, it was not a small deal for a woman of twenty-three to shake the mightiest empire in the world with just five words “Main apni Jhansi nahi doongi!”

How to reach there: Jhansi is well connected by rail to Delhi. Nearby towns like Khajuraho and Orcha are spots not to be missed.
Where to eat: Narayan Chaat Bhandar in Sadar market is the ultimate place for gob-smacking chaats.
Where to stay: Many resorts are available in Orcha and Khajuraho. Jhansi has many budget hotels.

(This article was published in The New Sunday Express)

Hands behind the maestros

2010-05-23T08:38:00.006+05:30

Its customers extend from the Late Ustad Vilayat Khan and Ustad Ali Akbar Khan to Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and even George Harrison of The Beatles. If you ask for the shop of Rikhi Ram to any auto driver in Delhi’s Connought Place, he will betray ignorance. But once you reach there, you will be amazed by its aura, before you realise that it is a shop and not a museum.
Its third generation owner Ajay Ram himself serves at the counter and attends calls from musicians big and small. The first thing that catches your attention as you enter the store is the mesmerising hall of fame. The walls are embossed with pictures of the biggest names of Indian classical music. This shop has seen the brightest and dimmest of times.

Pt. Rikhi Ram, the founder, belonged to a family of musicians in Lahore. They specialised in making musical instruments, generation after generation. After partition, they were thrown into the quandry of Delhi where Panditji arrived with nothing except his family, his essential belongings and the rich experience of making instruments, which would later see him through the trauma of displacemement from his hometown. Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru set up the rehabilitation committee and Pt. Rikhi Ram was allotted this shop in Connought Circus.
“My grandfather and my father Bishan Dass Sharma had to start from the scratch. They were in a new city, among new people and were rebuilding their life from all the scattered pieces. Those were tough times” recalls Ajay Ram, son of Bishan Daas.

Rikhi Ram began attending concerts to establish contacts with musicians, assuring them of customised service. Meanwhile, Bishan Dass began working in the maintenance cell of the A.I.R, bringing him in close contact with all the renowned names of the concert circuit. The musicians were impressed with the indepth knowledge that Pt. Rikhi Ram and his son displayed and very soon they had loyal customers in the likes of Ustad Vilayat Khan and Pandit Ravi Shankar. Hordes of musicians followed.
In the 1960s, The Beatles stars George Harrison and Paul McCartney’s liking for Indian classical music brought them to Rikhi Ram, from whom they bought the sitar, Sarod, Tanpura and Tabla. “ My father gave George his first lessons in Sitar. Even today, fans of Beatles visit us saying this is the shop from where George Harrison bought his sitar” says Ajay.

How demanding can the musicians be while ordering instruments? “Today fusion music is in. People are experimenting with sound. When you perform with western instruments, you obviously need to generate a sound of high volume, which cannot be done without some adjustments in the instrument itself. Hence, things like electronic sitar have made an entry, which have to be made as per the demand of the musicians. Recently we came out with a smaller version of the sitar called the travelling sitar, which was widely appreciated in the music community. We are makers of instruments. We have to give what they want” says Ajay Ram.

Talking about the brand ‘Rikhi Ram’ Ajay muses with a smile “Rikhi Ram was my grandfather’s name. But after him, when my father took over, people began referring to him also as Rikhi Ram. He was no more Bishan Dass. My father passed away three years back and I took over. Now even I’m called Rikhi Ram. It has become a kind of sur name for us. It is our identity, which we enjoy”.

Paul McCartney of the Beatles with Pt. Bishan Dass

Musicians old and new continue to throng the store

Times are changing and there is a widespread lamentation of a loss in classical music. But Ajay Ram begs to differ. “All this lamentation has always been there. Interest in art forms is like waves on the sea. They rise, fall and rise again. But they never die. Many fads make an entry and try to push back good music. But they will remain fads. Classical music has a tradition of thousands of years” confirms Ajay Ram with confidence.
I smile and ask him if his own children are interested to carry forward the family business. Ajay’s face beams with pride as he answers “My son is taking lessons in sitar and is very much willing to carry forward the legacy of Pt. Rikhi Ram. He is a product of that legacy like me. It will be carried forward.” He continued, “Besides, classical music has always been for the classes. You cannot expect a rickshaw driver to appreciate a dhrupad or khayal. It requires some basic understanding to enjoy it.” I understood it when the rickshaw drivers failed to take me to the right shop.

Ajay recalls brightly the lessons in business learnt from his father. “Firstly, I must thank my father for having taught me the sitar. One cannot serve the musicians without understanding the product you want to serve them. My father instilled in me an amazing sense of sound. I’ve grown up watching him deliberate on the niceties of sound with the legends of classical music over lengthy discussions. All these things have kept me in good stead. Secondly, nothing has been given more priority than quality. A minor flaw here or there and our name will be tainted.”

Quality obviously comes at a price. “People who know music do not argue about the price with us. But beginners to have an issue and express surprise at the rates we demand. I accordingly guide their way to the music shops at Daryaganj in Old Delhi becasue I do not serve that segment which is not having a basic understanding of classical music. It does not make sense to ask why Rolls Royce is not available at Rs. 5 lakhs.”

Two people enter the shop. Ajay stands up to attend to his customers. Perhaps it is this twin commitment to music and customers that brought them name, fame and even the prestigious Sangeet Natak Academy Award for contribution to Indian classical music. Ajay gets busy with the new customers, leaving me to have a relook at the galaxy of stars lining the walls of the shop. Not many understand the importance of the hands that work behind the magical an sounds of an instrument. Rikhi Ram understood it 60 years back and today the leagcy moves on, undisturbed by the waves of time.

(This article was published in the magazine I-Witness of The New Sunday Express)

Treading different paths with Geeta Chandran

2010-05-07T22:31:00.005+05:30

Three years back Bharatnatyam danseuse Geeta Chandran was awarded the Padmasree for her outstanding contribution to classical dance. But she reveals a sense of responsibility that she feels she has been vested with. “Awards do make you feel nice but then it also means that the society expects more from you now. You start working to set a new benchmark”.

The jouney was not planned. Geeta fondly recalls the day when she paid obeisance to her guru Smt. Swarna Saraswaty, sister of the legendary Bala Saraswaty. “My mother handed me a tray with the dakshina, a coconut and betel leaves and asked me to touch the feet of my guru. I did not know then that I was being surrended to this beautiful art for a lifetime”.
Geeta has been daring, often choosing unconventional themes for her performance. But she says that bringing out social issues through art is purely a personal choice and an artist should be under no compulsion to go for it. “When I decided to bring out issues like drug addiction and discrimination against the girl child, it was becasue of what I saw happening to some of my close friends. It touched me very deeply and my art reflected that concern. There might be concerns regarding the purity of the art form when innovation creeps in. But at the end of the day, there is only good art and bad art. The shelf life of the art will prove it. My teachers gave me freedom and never attempted to impose narrow creative rules on me, which still helps me chart my own course. But invention always needs great control”.

Bharatnatyam has often been about telling mythological tales. But Geeta chose to be different even while retelling the epics through her performances. A few years back, she attempted telling an alternative tale of the Ramayana through her theatre production ‘Kaikeyi’, done in association with Rashid Ansari. “There are some female mythological characters who have fascinated me. Characters like Mandodari, Urmila and Kaikeyi are not oft-discussed like Sita or Draupadi. I was profoundly impressed by Kaikeyi. She was not yet another docile princess. She was mighty enough to face the asuras and save her husband in battles. She loved Ram more than her own son. The circumstances under which Dasaratha declared Ram his successor were not obvious. After all, every mother tries to safeguard the interests of her son. ‘Kaikeyi’ was an attempt to see the epic through her lens.”

Today, she is fussed with whatever is happening in the name of dance in the popular media. “When I am invited for functions in schools, I make it a point to ensure that there will be some performance of a classical art form. One cannot expect me to sit and clap for some cheap item number”.
Geeta makes it clear that she is not at loggerheads with mainstream Hindi cinema. “The problem with performing movie songs is that it stops a student from thinking creatively. You shut innumerable options in the realm of classical and folk art by asking them to dance on movie songs. Art infuses a spirit of thinking. The students who come to learn from me know that I don’t provide packaged capsules to prepare them for some reality show because there is no magic wand in art. It is a slow and steady process”

Geeta enunciates that performance is just one aspect of dance. “Dance is about getting a deep understanding of philosophy to enhance the spiritual quality of the mind. It disciplines the mind and body of an artist and refines him from within. These aspects have been simplified way too far today”.
Today, the youth is largely uninitiated to the classical art forms. Geeta chips in to add “It is not just this generation. As a matter of fact, three generations have gone largely uninitiated to classical dance. The folk arts are being slowly strangulated. People are ignorant of the folk arts of their own district!”
What are the solutions she seeks to offer. “There should be community centres in every locality which celebrate the art forms presented by the local artists. Even the countries in the US and Europe have community centres presesrving the local art forms. There is an urgent need for a dedicated TV channel for the classical arts. It is disquieting that even a country like Romania has a dedicated TV channel for its arts and we, with an artistic past stretching over many a millenia, have none. By a channel, I do not mean another Doordarshan which no one bothers to watch. It should be atttractive and closer to the young eyes. In Delhi, we had Baraat Ghars which functioned as centres of art. Today they have all become marriage halls” rues Geeta.

Geeta discerns the practicalities of the current times. “We have to accept the fact that we are no longer in that era when the masters used to say that the viewers are blessed to watch the artists perform. We are in a market place competing for attention, the span of which is extremely low, with umpteen other attractive options. Hence packaging the art in an innovative way is the only way forward. Besides, advertising needs to be done on a professional level to gain presence”.
Geeta has many ideas for innovation in teaching as well. “Teaching has become a more democratic process today. I also invite other experts in this field to my class, who engage with my students in a positive dialogue. It opens many new perspectives to them. Besides, I accept the fact that no all of them will want to pursue dance throughout their life. But in the process they at least develop the ability to enjoy good art”.
The students start stepping into the room. Geeta politely excuses herself and gets busy with them. “An artist is not one who keeps her art to herself. She has to share it with the society. Every honour bestowed on me increases this feeling” she said at the beginning of our conversation. The sight I carry with me as I depart her residence only confirms her words.

(This interview was published in the Sunday Magazine I-Witness of The New Sunday Express)

Murkier by the hour

2010-05-01T17:17:00.009+05:30

Over the past one month, the UPA has been placed in quite a quandry, having been attacked from all sides on issues ranging from price rise to the IPL and phone tapping to a Cut Motion in the Parliament. The IPL has been quite a sensation this season (not that it has not been in others). But we love scoops and IPL has given us plenty of them. Sure corruption is not a new story. But this drama of corruption has two of the most saleble components of the Indian Media – cricket and cinema. Over the past five years, both have entwined with ease and TV news has been all about these two entities, with a dis-dash of politics in between. Besides, politicians meddle in cricket and movie stars in politics, making it all the more easy to dish it out to the audience as the perfect package.But the issue of corruption is not only huge but it is also getting murkier and confounding by every hour. But the whole affair seems to look like a clash of personalities.

There is a Shashi Tharoor who seems to be helping his ‘friend’ Sunanda Pushkar but gets away extolling the greatness of Kerala and India in defence in the Parliament. There is a Sharad Pawar, incidentally also the Minister of Agriculture, distributing the benefits of the IPL among his family as his daughter refutes it all, spelling out a big ‘NO’ on television. There is a Praful Patel whose daughter, the hospitality manager of the IPL, treats Air India as her personal fiefdom breaching aviation rules.There is the Maharashtra government excempting the league from entertainemnt tax calling it a sporting event. Since when did A.R.Rehman, Bipasha Basu and Shahid Kapoor start playing cricket is a matter to ponder about but eventually be ignored. It is to be noted here that the Delhi government sees things otherwise and has imposed tax on the sale of IPL tickets. Sheila Dixit was sensible enough to discern that a multi-crore revenue can go a long way in finding solutions to Delhi’s electricity shortage in this hot summer.

The giant of all, there is one Lalit Modi, who has his hand in every pie of the IPL. He has single-handedly displaced the other Modi (Narendra Modi’s SIT probe is quite forgotten now) from the national headlines. If he has borne the brickbrats of the BCCI, he was also recently eulogised by Farooq Abdullah for “taking cricket closer to the common man!” His kith and kin are allegedly holding stake in four or five teams and he himself stands suspended from the IPL, though he has given clear indications of revenge. The BCCI has come up with multiple charges of corruption against him. Besides, serious charges of match-fixing have also been raised against many teams. The word be-nami holdings is being propped at every second turn of the franchisees. The Prime Minister has said that IPL does not require a JPC, as demanded by the Opposition.

Instead the government is trying to sort out the matter by tapping telephones of sources of threat to national security (that is where the Supreme Courty supposedly allows a phone to be tapped in public interest). So you have the phones of Sharad Pawar, Nitish Kumar and Prakash Karat being tapped to avert a national disaster. Way back in the 1980s, the Congress was caught red-handed when it was revealed that the private communications and postal covers of the anti-Indira forces like those of the members of Opposition, some journalists, trade union leaders and a few bureaucrats being scrutinised by the then Indira Gandhi government by colluding with the Postal Department and the Police Department, which anyway had no option but to abide by the orders from above. Linemen were also used to tap the telephonic conversations of party leaders. The matter had created a lot of ruckus in the Parliament then. But the BJP then was just an year old and the Opposition was weak under the Iron whip of Mrs. G. But Mrs. Gandhi Senior was always known for her inherent insecurity and believed that everyone around her was scheming against her.30 years down the line, the Congress still seems unsure and insecure. Perhaps that is why it is tapping the phone of its own party leader. “The JPC is a very serious issue. This is not a fit case for a JPC” says the PM. The UPA has sailed through the cut motion with the help of Mayawati. But the penalty will be imposed on the nation as the money gulped in the Taj corridor and the truth about the garlands of currency notes will never come out. Be it the corruption in the IPL or the case of phone tapping, both are grave issues and cannot be allowed to die. An act of fraud in an entity worth arguably 10 billion cannot be a matter of concern of a private body, as long as it is full of public figures, playing with public money.

The BCCI has members from both the ruling combine and the opposition. The nation has a right to know the facts. The BCCI acting against Lalit Modi is a classic case of pot calling kettle black. Today Modi is the villain who did many things to bring disgrace to the IPL. But the very forces, which are feigning ignorance today, supped in with him and shared the cake in good times. Modi, a shrewd businessman that he is, will not allow himself to be thrown away like dirt. “Modi will be excused if his explanation is satisfactory” said BCCI chief Shashank Manohar. What is ‘satisfactory’ is anybody’s guess. The tragic irony of all this is I and you are helpless – before the media which leads us from one twist to another, before the bodies like the BCCI which have made cricket a family fiefdom and before the politicians, who can do anything and get away with some glib talk. Mr. Tharoor can tell you what I mean.

PS: By the time I finished writing this piece, the IPL controversy had by all menas died down. The players got busy with T20 and the media did not find any juice left to extract from the IPL. Mr. Pawar will be busy preparing for the chairmanship of the ICC by now.

In search of Ganga

2010-03-11T22:47:00.002+05:30

“Are you going to Delhi?” I asked him. He laughed at my question and climbed onto the upper berth and went off to sleep.
I had always wanted to know what prompted foreigners to check out India. But it seemed nearly impossible to talk to this man. Throughout the day he almost refused to come down. And whenever he did, in a flash of a moment he would be gone; to where, I did not know. He seemed jocularly mysterious to me.
The day was drawing to a close. As he stepped down, perhaps for the final time in the day and vanished into thin air, the other passengers looked at each other and smiled. It is difficult to be a foreigner and not be noticed in a public place.

“Do you know he drinks five cups of tea simultaneously” said one. I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. “And you know right where he has run away to?” chimed in another, adding to the firangi trivia. “He is high on ganja. He goes to his friends and they all smoke together. Last night after being high, he opened the doors of the train and was almost about to jump out when the chaiwallah pulled him back.” The man returned and silence prevailed. By now we all knew from whatever we heard of him that he understood and spoke Hindi like any of us did.
The next morning, I saw him standing near the door. I went up to him and asked “Where do you come from?” He smiled and replied “Denmark. But now I’ve been in India for the past eight years”.

We were soon into a conversation. “I came to India to make documentaries. Then one day I lost my camera in Varanasi. I landed up in Delhi and got into this habit of heroin. I put some money in a business and lost them all.”
“So what takes you to Delhi?” I asked, my curiosity having built up further.
“I’m going to meet my wife Ganga. She stays there.”
“Oh! That is nice. So your wife is an Indian? How did you meet her?” I asked trying to find a happy patch in his otherwise grim story.
“In the streets of Delhi. As I said, I was stuck to heroin and so was she. We both got along well in the dark lanes of Paharganj. But she fell sick and started suffering from some psychotic disorder. She often got violent. I moved away after that.”
The train was slowing down. He looked at me and asked “Do you know where in Delhi we get girls?” I looked back squeamishly with surprise. He continued without waiting for me to respond “I want to get married. But I also love Ganga a lot. I want her to get well soon. I’m just seeing if there is possibility to start things anew.”

I looked outside. We had reached Mathura. “Delhi is not far away I said” and turned back to go back to my seat. “I’m sure things will fall in place soon for you” I said trying to be empathetic. He again broke into laughter “I really don’t want it to. Once things fall in place, the game of puzzle ends there. There is a fun in playing it endlessly. I know it’s all gone. But there is no harm in hoping right?”
As we reached Delhi, I asked “What’s you name sir?” “Ram Charan” he replied. “My name was George. But now I’m Ram.” I got down and moved towards the side of New Delhi. I turned back and saw him moving towards the dark lanes of Paharganj. Ram had set out in search of his Ganga.

I hate it and you ought to

2010-02-18T15:12:00.004+05:30

“Let us watch My Name is Khan four-five times and defeat these communal bigots” yelled Congress Spokesperson Jayanti Natarajan in a news channel during one of the hot and stale discussions on the Sena versus Shahrukh controversy. Controversy, it should be noted, is the key word. What began from the personal comments of the owner of an IPL team has snowballed into, what it seems like, the greatest crisis of our times.
The Shiv Sena and their ilk have been into this for quite long. A customary spar on February 14, burning copies of magazines which contain articles critical of Balasaheb Thackeray and going on a rampage like wild bulls high on country liquor is nothing but usual for the Sena. Ten years back, the same Sena had an issue with Deepa Mehta’s Fire, which showed a lesbian relationship between the two protagonists. The Shiv Sainiks of course are ignorant of the fact that in ancient India, lovers worshipped Kamadeva during the spring festival for the fulfilment of their love. Similarly, the Shiv Sena’s India does not include the temples of Khajuraho, which artistically combines the divine and the erotic to bring out the essence of the Kamasutra, a classic treatise on sex.

Why just the Sena, every organization or outfit today seems to have some problem or the other with every work that comes out. In 2007, the Rajput pride, which perhaps was asleep for the past 50 years when Mughal-e-azam ran and re-ran in theatres creating history in the annals of cinema, took a blow when Ashutosh Gowarikar brought out the love-story between Akbar and Jodhabai. In 2006, the BJP and the NSUI in Gujarat had serious problems with Aamir Khan’s Fanaa as the actor had lent support to Medha Patkar’s agitation against the Sardar Sarovar Dam. The timing of the support, which coincided with the release of the righteous drama Rang De Basanti, is of course a concern of Mr. Khan’s PR team. Many Sikh groups had problems with Singh is King and Jo Bole So Nihaal; the latter even faced violent reactions upon its release.

But what happens with a controversy is that even a poor work gets free publicity and at the end of the day, any publicity is good publicity. It evokes curiosity with all the veils of hatred, awe and mystery that it evokes. Most of the Mahesh Bhatt movies run some smoke prior to their release and it often ends up as a smoke sans any fire. Many Muslim groups have some serious issues with Taslima Nasreen’s Dwikhandito and Lajja so much so that for the past few years, in a tragic-comic fashion, she is being kicked around the world like a football by those who bay for her blood and the state, which claims to provide her security. With all due respect, it must be said that sans all the controversy, Ms. Nasreen, with all her average works, would have been just another writer struggling to sell her books. A cartoon on the Prophet is drawn in Denmark and the heat is felt in India. The citadel of India’s civilization seems to fall when M.F.Hussain paints Bharat Mata in nude or worse when an Arts student in Baroda comes out with something blasphemously erotic with the strokes of his brush. Are our civilization, culture and religions so weak that the strokes of a pen and brush can wipe them away into obscurity? Why live with something so weak and brittle then, which cannot stand by itself and needs a bunch of goons for its protection?

Take these cases. Devika Rani kissed Himanshu Rai for four long minutes in the movie Karma way back in 1933! Rohini Hattangadi appeared topless in the 1980s movie Party. Did these snippets of information go without much mention because there was no 24x7 television pandering to the interests of those who live on a diet of controversies. Perhaps it was not a prospect attractive enough to gain fame overnight ala the Sri Ram Sene , an unknown outfit, which gained national notoriety after attacking pub-goers in Mangalore last year.

The issue is not trivial. If, in a country, a normal citizen has to think a hundred times and fear a thousand quasi-state forces, then it must be acknowledged that our democracy is at dangerous crossroads. To think that one’s likes or dislikes can lead to serious repercussions is a reflection of our tolerance sliding to dangerously low levels. We all can agree to disagree. But if that disagreement means slitting one’s throat or banning one’s work, then for heaven’s sake we are not in a democracy. The likes of the Sena have all right to protest, as long as it remains just that – a protest. An inch further and they enter another person’s territory. The future of Indian politics belongs to those who can see the Catholicism and syncretism in our culture.

But controversies have many facets to it. Concocted controversies seem to rule the roost, where bipartite or tripartite clashes go on before the 24x7 news cameras in plush conference rooms. The masses, after all, were not idiots to miss the whodunit drama neatly sketched and stretched over the first week of the release of 3 Idiots. Similarly, all the attempts of a leading national TV channel, which has been hand-in-glove with the producers of My Name is Khan ever since the controversy started, seems to be a big waste. The channel has taken the actions of the Sena as a personal affront, looking more grieved and enraged than Shahrukh Khan or Karan Johar. As for Ms. Natarajan, I beg her pardon, for I am, by all means of practical patience and sense, unable to find My Name is Khan to be worth more than a one-time watch. But that, of course, is yet another story.

Disarming with her tales

2010-02-14T15:14:00.007+05:30

As a child, Padmabhushan Uma Sharma used to be invited to perform at the birthday functions of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. She went on performing for all from luminiaries like the Shah of Iran and Queen Elizabeth to commoners like you and me. The Virasat Series of SPIC MACAY was a chance to see her live.

The wait ended. Umpretencious in her walk, with a smile radaiting from her face, Uma Sharma entered the hall and greeted the audience with folded hands. Her accompanists were ready on the tanpura, tabla and sitar. A mike was palced in front of her. Surprised, I looked on. It was a dance recital and the dancer asked for a mike to be placed in front of her throughout the concert. Finally the performance began with a Ganesh bhajan. Recollecting her old times, Umaji paid rich tributes to her gurus Pt. Sunder Prasad, who taught her the rhythmic permutations of foot work and Pt. Shambhu Maharaj, from whom she understood the real idea behind Abhinaya and its importance in performance.

The following two performances were tributes to these maestros and she began a delightful series of sawal-jawab with the tabla giving her company. Sawal-jawab is the series of rhythmic repartees that go on between the dancer and the tabla player. Perfect respect for each other’s territory and knowledge goes hand in hand with putting forward impossible tasks in rhythmic expressions. As she concluded the repartees, she fondly recounted her associations with some greats of classical music and many accompanists who made her performances a wonderful experience while emphasising the chemistry a dancer requires with the accompanying artists. Smt. Sharma seemed to be loving the whole experience. Her joy, be it in dancing or interacting with the audience, was reflecting in the ease with which she moved around the stage, not shedding her grace even for a moment.

The performance continued with a chapter from the Aaranya kand of the Ram Charit Manas. Taking control of the mike, Uma Sharma sketched the epic before our eyes and began her performance after a vivid description. A performing artist seamlessly shifts between characters. In one moment she bloomed like a flower while enacting Sita and in the other she wore a wicked face protraying Soorpanaka. She brought out the valour of Ram, the anger of Lakshman and the arrogance of Ravana; all emanated withing gaps of a moment from her. Like the breeze of the spring, she panced about the stage, enticing Sita and the viewers alike, as the golden deer and ended it up with Ram rushing after it to assuage Sita.

Before the performance was brought to a close after a second round of Sawal Jawab, Uma Sharma presented the Nari bhed. Nari Bhed is about the universal theme of passion of a woman. The woman, though artistically related to a gopi pining for the arrival of Krishna, could be any woman. She gets her hair done immaculately, wears the finest garments and bedecks herself with the best of jewels. Her facial make-up goes into every detail to highlight her features and she adds charm to her body with the most fragrant jasmines and roses. Her long wait gets over only when the dawn is about to break. Her lover finally arrives, ironically not much to her glee. His undone clothes and nail-marks on his chest reveal the other woman who got the time of his night. Heart-broken and furious she destroys all her efforts and leaves herself dishellved to express her anger.

The audience broke into an applause and gave Uma Sharma a standing ovation for a minute. After bowing before the audience, she took leave and moved towards the green room. I went and stood at the entrance yet again, this time gaining some luck. With a smile, she was accepting all the verbal accolades flowing in, as she was untying her ghunghroos. As she sipped some water, I chipped in to talk about guru-shishya parampara - the pillar of strength of Indian classical dance and music.

“What parampara? Who is bothered about the relationship with the guru? It’s all gone...” she said waving her hand backwards carelessly “Just gone...”

Her accompanists informed her of the cab that was ready for her, spurring me to spell out some haphazardly collected questions in the last two minutes left to me. “Umaji dance is a part of the Bombay film industry. What do you think of the dancers there?”

Her facial contortions to the question gave me an impression that she was indeed bitter about the dancers of the film industry. “What dance? You know what is happening” she blurted “There was a time when a danseuse like Sitara Devi shone on the screen. Then came dancers like Vyjayantimala and Waheeda Rehman. Look at her dances in Guide! She looks marvellous. See Rekha in Umrao Jaan. She just sparkles in the mujras. They were trained dancers, who stepped into acting. Unlike what is happening today. Dance has lost its sanctity in films. And on top of that you talk of guru-shishya parampara!”. She took a pause and mused for a while. “ It’s all gone!” she lamented.

She stood up, ready to leave. “So is there no hope that you see?” I asked as she posed with the fans for a last-minute photograph. She turned to me and said “Times are changing. What happened 100 years back cannot happen now. There are a few people trying to keep things alive. My own dance school is fighting these changing trends to maintain some sanctity in art. I have tried to pass on to my students whatever I learnt from my gurus. At least there is interest in the art. But let us see how things turn up.”

She walked away and I stood there looking at the magical trail she left behind. There cannot be a certain answer to a question which poses the picture of uncertainty. Time, as they say, is the best person to answer it and for it to answer, we have to move with the times. Uma Sharma also perhaps knows it too well.

(This article was published in The New Sunday Express)

Journey within a journey

2010-02-10T15:34:00.006+05:30

There is nothing spectacular about a journey in a train, one may say. But the fact remains that for a man with an eye for discovery, every journey can turn out to be spectacular. But this is not about the journey from a starting point to a destination. This is about a journey within the train - a journey within another one.

I woke up and my friend, a man with a liking for the crazy, held me by my hand and led me on the path of my sojourn. In a train bound to Chennai from Delhi, there can be quite a lot to see from the northern to the southern stretch of the country. Besides, on a cold foggy morning, when the train seems to be moving at snail’s pace in a non-descript area, you have nothing much to do.
From the last boogie of the sleeper-class compartment, where we were stationed, we began moving towards the other end of the train. To be frank, the journey through the sleeper class was the most tiring as it never seemed to end. Even in real life, the journey from sleeper class to first class often takes a lifetime, the irony being that by the time you reach there, you lose interest because by that time, you prefer a flight to train.
The train was littered with passengers who had strewn their mattress near the doors and the toilets, travelling with and without tickets. Cuddled in blankets, they looked like huge sacks and cartons placed on the way, obstructing the path of travellers like us. The journey was still inchoate.

Walking, we reached the pantry, where the breakfast was being prepared. It was tempting on a hungry morning but our goal was clear and we moved on. Passengers were slowly lifting their blankets to see what time of the day it was, before realising the watch tied to their wrists. The area around the basins were crowded with some diligent travellers, who, unlike us, never ate or drank anything without the fragrance of fluoride in their mouths.
Giving a tough competition to the chaiwallas, we paced on. We reached the end of the sleeper class and entered the AC three tier compartment. It was extremely cosy and comfortable there away from the biting cold, which had turned my fingers numb. “The aim of an AC compartment is not to keep things cool. The aim is to keep things comfortable and better than normal” came a repartee from my friend, which it seemed, was to my thought.
Walking together, we reached the completely silent AC two-tier compartments. The passengers were ensconced completely in their private worlds, hidden behind many curtains. There were hardly any passengers littered around in an AC compartment, though we still found a few travelling while still on waiting list. But these were exceptions by all means. We moved on and reached the fag end of the AC two-tier compartment. We opened the glass door to move into the privileged and much sought-after first-class compartment.

“Where are you guys going?” came a stern and serious-looking senior citizen. My lips were locked in silence, scourging for a reply. I turned to my friend, who it seemed, had almost entered the privileged class, for a fraction of a second though. He turned back and stepped back, looking sheepishly at the gentleman. “We are just walking” he replied.
“Walk by all means. But you shall walk that way” the man said, pointing towards to where we came from – the sleeper class compartment. We smiled with a half-minded “OK”. Our progress and sojourn abruptly came to an end. “Sometimes you simply don’t get what you want even if you put all your efforts behind it” said my friend to me as we reached where we actually belonged to.

(This piece is dedicated to the friend mentioned in this write-up)

Caught in a dichotomy

2010-01-07T23:49:00.011+05:30

Claimer: To say that characters in this piece are purely fictitious would be a big lie. Any resemblence to people living or dead is purely purposeful.

There are times when emotions surge with multiple components in them, such that it often becomes difficult to find out their exact nature. “One feels sad when your best friend fails in an exam. But one feels sad even when he tops the exam" says the voice over of Madhavan in 3 Idiots.

One cannot say if the dialogue holds true verbatim, though any such thought is seen as an anathema to the ideals of friendship. Such emotions are difficult to explain. What will go over your mind when something really nice happens to your friend? You will be glad, to be obvious. But what if you both were vying for the same thing? I too wore the same shoes.

We studied together, ate together and shared the same room. We were the ‘best buddies’ around. We both came from middle-class families, had taken loans for our MBA and slogged thoroughly only with the hope that it would all just last till the placement week. We both were sitting for the same interview, looking forward to the same job. We crossed all elimination rounds, gave the interviews and came out with an apprehensive satisfaction. When the results came out, we both held our breaths in unison with a fearful hope. He was in and I was out. My eyes seemed to have moistened as he hugged me with joy, unable to discern if it was his victory or my failure which jerked this stream. But I was suddenly at sea, as we were swarmed by students who came forward to congratulate him. Should I have celebrated his success at this point or tried to take some time for myself to get over my failure? After all, like suitors in a swayamwar, we both awaited the garlands of the same job. Till a moment ago, you wanted the girl to be your wife and a moment later you are asked to... ahem you know what!

Believe me, it was a tough call. You are at the top of this world as it is ‘your’ friend who has cracked it when the whole college ran behind the job like rats in a mad race. It was a dream company with a dream profile, offering a dream package. You prayed for his success whenever you prayed for yours. God finally heard your prayers, though half in measure.

But I was also a part of that rat race and I lost the coveted job even before getting it, which perhaps could have changed my life in a big way. Loans and family all seemed to emerge like some dragon; I wonder whether it arose from the ashes of my defeat or from the honey of his success. I kissed the dream company and it gushed past me like a breeze. But join the celebrations I did, not just because it would have looked odd when a friend’s victory was being celebrated and I were found missing. I really wanted to celebrate his special day for I had waited for it.

But then in life, you reconcile the differences growing within you. The cake was cut and cola flowed out of the bottles as I cheerfully splashed some of it on him and hug him with joy. These hugs could not have been fake. Could they? Was I hugging him from my heart or was I putting on yet another mask so that my false ego was not found out? But a day which was special for him had to be special for me as well.
Thoughts clogged my mind. I came out to take out a moment for a while. It was yet another game on yet another day, a day which simply was not mine. If half the prayers can be answered so soon, then the picture post interval must be all the more interesting. As Shahrukh said in Om Shanti Om, “Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost”.

QED: The movie post-interval was equally, if not more, interesting. The author got a job in week’s time and there was a joint celebration to mark the completion of the answers to the prayers.

This piece is dedicated to the friend mentioned in the write-up

Tete a tete with Salim Arif

2009-12-20T07:38:00.003+05:30

Salim Arif’s Aap ki Soniya, starring Farroque Sheikh and Sonali Bendre, is currently making waves in the Delhi theatre circuit and has won aapluse abroad. Having explored the wounds of communal riots through the lens of Gulzar’s poetry in his Kharaashein, Arif looks back at the time he entered the theatre scene in the late 1970s when the field upcountry was largely influenced and dominated by Ebrahim Alkazi. For all his tall stature, Alkazi was also criticised for being western at the cost of Indian ethos — but Arif begs to differ. “On the contrary, Alkazi Saab understood the importance of Indian forms got veteran artists to train the students. I would say it was the golden era of Indian theatre.”

Then comes Arif’s rider: “But it has got stuck there. Theatre (in India) looks dated today.” And the renowned director-designer reasons, “The two major strengths of theatre — the quality of acting and scripting — has gone down. It has failed to revive ever since.”
An alumnus of Delhi’s National School of Drama, Arif has more to say about the problems theatre in India is embroiled in today. “The main goal of the NSD was to create a national face for theatre, when India, with all its diversity, cannot have just one national face. There not enough places in the country for the NSD graduates to go back and work. Only two theatres — Prithvi and Raj Shankara — are able to stage a play everyday. None of the so-called Hindi states have a repertory company. Another issue is that the Hindi television and film industry were not born in the Hindi heartland. This shifted their focus to cities away from their linguistic roots.”

So how can this imbroglio be eased out? “Encourage new playwrights and theatre practitioners. Introduce schemes to support them during lean times. What they need are not just awards, but fellowships, like the ones avalable for classical artists. Another problem is that actors who gain fame through theatre are forced to move quickly to television and cinema for their bread and butter. If these stars return to theatre once in a while, the star value can bring some new audience to theatres. Nasseruddin Shah was one who kept in touch with stage even at the peak of his career. Just imagine the impact Shahrukh Khan can have if he decides to do one play in four years! Theatre needs support from society and state”.

Unfortunately, a successful artist moves quickly from the stage to the screen. Even Arif moved from theatre to television in the late ’80s and later to cinema, though he has always remained a theatre person. Shyam Benegal’s Bharat Ek Khoj was a landmark on Indian television and Arif was the designer of its costumes. The serial leapt into a new era every two episodes and therein lay the challenge — to make the viewers feel the change in era through the costumes. “It was not the only problem,” quips Arif. “It entailed the research that went with any historical. It was not easy, say, to make Om Puri look like Duryodhan in one episode, Ashoka in the other and Raja Raja Chola in yet another one. Today, the costumes of Bharat Ek Khoj have become a point of reference for historicals in India. But now, when I look at it, I feel a lot of things could have been better, had I had more time at my disposal. I believe I did a better job in Chandraprakash Dwivedi’s Mauryan epic Chanakya”

Arif broke certain conventions while presenting certain characters in Bharat ek Khoj. “I believe in seeing costumes as an extension of the director’s vision. The costumes we see on the images of the Hindu deities today are mainly influenced by the calendar art forms, which owe their designs to the art of Raja Ravi Verma. I decided to go by my own research. For instance, when I had to show Ram, Sita and Lakshman during their exile, I had read that they had worn the valkal (tree barks). Hence I got the trio into jute garments. It became a talking point those days.”

Television today has expanded like never before and has assumed the shades of the Bombay film industry. “The effort you put does not translate into value for time on television today. Earlier, the television projects ran for a fixed period of time, which gave you the time and possibilities to explore. Moreover, today, there is too much intolerance around, with many small and big censors operating at multiple levels. Twenty years ago, Govind Nihlani could showcase partition in its raw format in Tamas. It is impossible to have another Tamas made today”.

People have lost their tolerance for multiple interpretations. History, which has been Arif’s forte, has become a holy cow. “We love to keep myths alive. Just imagine, the biggest love story of Hindi cinema, Mughal-e-azam, is based on one big myth. But then there is also something called creative freedom”.
So how do we express our disapproval? “Through another work. Else, ignore it and it will die a natural death. When Salman Rushdie wrote The Moor’s Last Sigh, it was seen to be a dig at Mr. Bal Thackeray. But Mr. Bal Thackeray was smart enough to ignore it. The book just sold a few hundred copies in Mumbai” he says. “But when you go around on a rampage sabotaging things, even cheap works sell on the basis of that publicity. Nevertheless, an idea, whose time has come, can never be killed with a hundred protests. Godse killed Gandhi. He was not able to kill Gandhism”.
The call seems timely. But in the volatile times that we are living in, the answer to this call is yet to be known. Perhaps more mirrors like Kharaashein are needed to show what we have become from what we were.

(This interview was published in The New Sunday Express)

When reality strikes with GODAN

2009-11-27T14:56:00.004+05:30

There are many things in life that you appreciate and understand better over a period of time. What one made of a book or a movie in one’s school days need not be what he/she makes of it 10 years later. Godan was a book that the elders in my home often praised. But I never got a chance to lay my hands on it and I am not sure whether I would have read it if I got a chance to do so. A review of Godan might seem passé in today’s times – when regional language literature is often held with contempt and is getting fewer takers by the day. While reading Godan, we will see it attacking each of us somewhere as Premchand’s pen is often unforgiving.

A story of epic proportions cannot be summarised easily. Perhaps this might explain as to why Godan ( the movie starring Rajkumar and Shashikala) flopped at the box office and was declared a screenplay disaster. Gobar with his family consisting of his stoic yet shockingly assertive wife Dhania, his rebellious son Gobardhan and his daughters Sona and Rupa go through the ups and downs any peasant would go through. They are starved yet optimistic, unlettered yet experienced, and unsophisticated yet know the ways of the world. The story begins with their desire to own a cow. As the book unfolds, Premchand takes us through the domestic clashes between Hori and his brothers, the ambivalence of the Zamindars (who suck the blood of the peasants, yet are at the receiving end of the British Raj), the tragic-comic lives of the journalists, stock-brokers , industrialists and the urban labourers, which are all very much relevant. A chat with any worker in Dharavi will give us the same experience that Premchand gives us through Gobar. The experience of Hori will find take a million takers in the farmers of India. Today, when live-in relationships are being debated, you have Malti and Mehta deciding to go ahead with it without any hullaballoo. At a time when feminism is trying to find a new definition for itself, you find the same strife going on in the Women’s Societies of Godan. The lives of Dhania, Selia, Jhunia, Malti and Govindi resonate with those of the true unsung heroines of India- its women. Life itself can be revelation with a work of art and it becomes so with Godan.

Many consider Godan to be the tale of the farmer Hori and his family, who traverse a path of pathos, momentary joys, ups and downs, always hoping that things will fall in place one day. Godan is a commentary on the Indian society and to call it purely a rural epic would be a misnomer. It is as much about the life of the socialites, intellectuals and urbanites as it is about the zamindars, Pandits and rustic villagers. The lecherous moneylenders, the dogmatic priests, hypocritical minds and debt-ridden farmers are all hallmarks of any novel on rural India. But what sets Godan apart is the shocking realism, the dexterity with which Premchand plays with the tragic-comic situations of human life and how it is ruthless before hypocrisy. The characters, like real-life, are a bundle of contradictions. On one hand you see Dhania being beaten up by Hori and on the other you see him standing helpless, when she, with her acerbic tongue, rubs their neighbours and her own husband the wrong way. The characters, be they rich or poor, are a mixture of the good and the evil, a relief from cardboard caricatures. Life in Godan is very much practical and the life itself fights for its place against pretence. If Hori accepts the illegitimate child of Jhunia, born of his son, then the doctor Malti prefers to live-in with her friend Mehta for the rest of her life. Characters like Mehta and Malti are symbolic of the transition of the human mind – from rigidity to aceeptance, from pretension to simplicity and from elitism to realism. In fact, Godan can be seen as a tale of transformation. The dogmatic Matadin, goes on to accept his low-caste wife; the unsophisticated Gobar, learns the ways of the world after his brush with urban life and earns respect; Malti, who is cut-off from realities becomes a self-conscious woman, free from bias; Mehta a doctrinaire understands the meaning of life from Malti; and even the playful Sona and Rupa transform from little girls into ‘women’ as they understand that life’s not a game played on their father’s lap.

The small and big tales of Godan have lived the test of time. One realises that life isn’t as straight as it seems.Godan was the swansong of Premchand. Perhaps, providence wanted so to save Premchand from the herculean task of bettering his own masterpiece. Humanity survives even in the most inhuman circumstances. Premchand’s Godan is a testimony to that.

Winning hearts in Fatehpur Sikri

2009-10-12T23:09:00.005+05:30

“Will you listen to my Shayri?” asked a tiny girl, with a smile that exposed the broken tooth behind her lips. I refused with a smile and walked on. A man approached us soon and offered to show us the entire city of Fatehpur Sikri for a hundred rupees, thus saving some money for our entire group. We agreed hesitantly and were led to the Buland Darwaza which flanks the dargah of Salim Chisti, the famous Sufi saint with whose benediction Salim was born. The mausoleum was Akbar’s tribute to the saint.

The guide belted out sher after sher trying to lead us to the era of yore. “This is the main part of Fatehpur Sikri” he declared after reaching near the dargah. We were taken aback. So what about the grand palaces we had seen on television? “There are some palaces more, but you can see them yourselves. My job was to show you this”. A hundred rupees for two rotten shers and a mile-long dialogue? We soon learnt that the fraudster had no access to the main palaces of Fatehpur Sikri. Saving our money, we got a government-appointed guide, who settled for less than that amount.
He led us through the alley of palaces. Do not expect historical accuracy from any guide here. “Akbar had three wives, a Muslim, a Hindu and a Christian. The most famous was Jodha Bai, the sister of Man Singh and the mother of Akbar’s successor Salim.” This was quite contrary to the knowledge I had of the five-thousand women in Akbar’s harem. Palace after palace, he went on explaining the logic behind the intricate carvings and the inherent Catholicism, which have absorbed many traditions into it.

The pillar in Diwan-e-khaas

“Do you know why these palaces are all in red sandstone?” he asked us. This was the format of the whole sojourn, making us realise our ignorance before enlightening us with his logic. We nodded, betraying our ignorance. “Lal means red and lal also means son. The whole city was constructed in the joy of Salim’s birth. Akbar loved Salim a lot. Hence he did the whole set of palaces in Lal Pathar or red sandstone.” I wondered. How much a father did for his son! Yet, Salim remained a rebel throughout his life. Akbar, the emperor who won hearts and kingdoms with equal magnanimity, died without having won over his son. The temple used by Jodha Bai, the Panch Mahal and the palaces of Akbar’s other queens were all grand structures. These palaces were guarded by eunuchs as the queens were not guarded by the male guards. The actual history of Jodha Bai and his other wives is disputed.
The guide suddenly turned back and said “Many people will tell you about Anarkali. But sir, it is all the masala of movies and theatre. There was no Anarkali.” Who knows if this is a 500 year-old royal conspiracy to hide the darker side of Akbar?

“Here” he said pointing to the seat in the middle of Anup Talao “Tansen used to sing for Akbar. We entered an adjoining palace. “There” he pointed at a raised platform “Akbar used to sit with one of his queens”. I wondered what the others did when he enjoyed the music with just one.
We went on. The astrologers’ seat, the stable, the Diwan-e-aam and Diwan-e-khaas were all treat to the eyes. “When Akbar reigned here, the queens used to shop here, at Meena Bazaar”. I now got the answer to the question that bothered me, regarding the occupation of the other queens when one spent time with Akbar. Shopping money was the easiest way to mollycoddle one’s wife, even then.
In front of the Panch Mahal is the ground of Chausar, where Akbar played the game of dice with slave girls as pawns. Surprisingly, the grandest of all the palaces seemed to be that of Birbal. With his wit, he even managed to get the best part of the cake for himself. The palace, constructed for one of his queens, was gifted later on to Birbal. The guide tried to entertain us with a few Birbal jokes, which we had read to death in our Amar Chitra Katha comics. The way out of the massive stable lead us to the exit and we moved on, back to the dargah.

The Buland Darwaza flanking the dargah of Salim Chisti

The sun was about to set. It was the month of Ramzan. “Are you not keeping fast?” I asked him. He nodded “Everyone does not have the capacity dear, to keep a fast. I’m quite old and sick. I roam around these palaces endlessly till I get enough for a day.” I moved on. After covering my head, I entered the dargah. “People pray for themselves, their parents and their friends. This has been built by a father in remembrance of the saint who gave him a son.” I spread a shawl over the tomb and strew flowers over it. As I moved to the marble screens and tied the thread, my heart choked with an mystifying sense of trance. The singers had begun singing quawalli for the evening. I did not know when I came out of that trance.
It was time to leave. Life seemed anew within minutes. The divinity had cast its spell over us. The little girl was still standing outside “Will you listen to my Shayri?” she asked with the same smile. I smiled back. My friend handed five rupees to the girl and she belted out her lines. I could not make anything out of the half-broken Urdu of the six-year old but I was feeling light from head to toe. As I was about to board the bus, I turned back once again. The dargah and the palaces stood kissing the skies. Every brick of Fatehpur Sikri sings the glory of Akbar and the inclusive past of India as reason why Ashoka’s successor in greatness is found in Akbar. Akbar did not win over his son though he won over history.

How to reach there: Fatehpur Sikri is one hour’s drive from Agra. It is well connected by road from Delhi and Agra.
Where to stay: The best option would be to put up at Agra and travel by road to Fatehpur Sikri. Many star and budget hotels are available in Agra.
Where to eat: Fatehpur Sikri is famous for its Mughlai paratha, an eight-layered paratha. A good tourist guide will direct you to the hotels serving the speciality. Many famous eateries are there in Sikandra, on the way to Fatehpur Sikri.

(This travelogue was published in the Magazine I-view of The New Sunday Express)

Banning Minds

2009-08-28T21:54:00.008+05:30

Jaswant Singh must be thanked for opening a Pandora’s box of debates, which was long due. Every commentator worth his words has come up with his own take on the issue. But there is a unanimous opinion that too much has been made of what was an attempt to look at history through objective lens. It's not just the question of a party banning the book. The party can no doubt disassociate itself from the book. But it has no right on earth to impose its lopsided thinking on the nation by telling us what to read and what not to read. We shout about freedom of expression from the rooftops. But whether the India of today is giving complete freedom to an artist is a question worth pondering over . A beautiful work like Jodha Akbar was banned in Rajasthan as it seemed to hurt the Rajput pride. Taslima Nasreen was hounded out of India in the middle of night for the CPM to build its image prior to the elections. WE were the first country in the world to ban the Satanic Verses, even before Ayotollah Khomeni let out a tsunami of anger against the writer. When a historian like James Laine came out with a scholarly work on Shivaji, self-appointed goons of 'Mahratta pride' vandalised research centres/libraries and tore down rare manuscripts. We seek a ban on books and movies even before having a look at it. The worst part is that none of the officials in the Gujarat government have read the 700-page tome which they felt ‘denigrated the Sardar, was against the tranquility of the state and national interest and mislead the public’. How else can the offcial statements of a state government be used more carelessly? The ostensible reason is that the BJP has fared poorly in the Junagadh polls and this is nothing but a desperate attempt to bank on regional pride, by both the Congress and the BJP. The Congress too supports the ban as no one wants to lose a chance to thump one’s chest with pride.

We have been modelled to create pigeon-holed caricatures out of history. History has also been cast on the same mould as the epics, where we fail to see the shades of grey. We are very easily prone to hero-worship.Strange as it may sound today, we are a nation where multiple interpretations of Ram and Ravan were popular simultaneously. But of-late, we have even lost the ability to see the failings of the characters of history, who have been made out to be heros without failings today.

The current state of affairs and the quality of discussions happening on public forums betray the reasons as to why we still have a long way to go to be an intellectually mature nation. Karl Marx has said that in this world, there is thesis on one hand and antithesis on the other. When they come together, synthesis is born. The constables of national pride have removed the scope of a possible antithesis. Many argue, “What will you do with debates and intellectual discussions? At the end of the day, the common man needs food, clothing, shelter, jobs, health and education.” Nations like the UAE, Saudi Arabia and Cuba have made more concrete efforts to improve their social infrastucture than we have. But are these nations counted among the progressive societies? Those who come up with the above argument fail to realise that a nation is built with much more than food, water and jobs. Perhaps this narrow vision of a nation-state is responsible for us not generating Nobel Laureates and intellectuals who can face the world. The argument of the ‘common man’, hence, falls flat. We are no doubt, an immature democracy. We never tire enough of invoking our glorious past, quoting Ashoka and Buddha. We love to picture a bygone era when we were all that we are not now – progressive, open-minded, forward-looking and tolerant.

Such draconian attempts smack of colonial diktats and dictatorship. A free society cannot afford to expose itself to quasi-norms imposed by pseudo-political-social-religious-ethnic orders. These threaten the very fabric of what our nation is made of. A society operates at many levels. The intellectual growth is as important, if not more, as the material and physical growth. The day many shadows loom large over these free thoughts, cracks will be visible in our society. A minoroty of ruffians cannot exert influence through the barrel of the gun over an open-minded majority. No one can stop an idea, whose time has come. Perhaps now is the time to come to terms with the horrors of partition. But Jaswant Singh and his publishers will be having the last laugh. Man, after all, does what he is told not to do. It applies to reading this book as well.

The Genie of Jinnah: The larger questions

2009-08-26T01:07:00.005+05:30

So the genie of Jinnah is once again out of the lamp of history, placing the entire nation of hypocrites that we are, at discomfort of the highest level. The BJP is groping in the dark cave to find the Aladdin who let this out. The writer in Jaswant Singh has come to haunt the party three years after his Call to honor led the media discuss frantically about the missing mole in Narasimha Rao’s government. Mr. Singh tried warding off the queries in interview after interview till his book slowly waned away from public memory along with the mole. But now the daring Rajput has committed another crime. He has shown the impunity to raise a finger at the pillar of the BJP’s ideology – Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. The crime was unpardonable. He had to meet his political nemesis for this ideological thesis.

Since when did Patel become the icon of the BJP? After the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, Patel banned the RSS for a good two years. In the aftermath, all the RSS pracharaks, including L.K.Advani, who has been modeled around Patel as the Loh Purush of the BJP, went underground and lived a nomadic life for two years. It is another story that Patel, much to Nehru’s discomfiture, lifted the ban. Patel was one of the faces of the Congress then. Today, he has been conveniently pitted against Nehru in the pages of history as the right-wing face of the Congress. It is true that Patel differed with Nehru strongly on various issues. It is also a known fact that barring Gandhi and a few others, all the top leaders of the Congress, the Hindu Mahasabha and the Muslim League were directly responsible for the partition and the riots that followed. Jinnah and Nehru were two lions, who could not be accommodated in the same den. Partition was a tool to accommodate the political passions of the men who called the shots those days. Patel was more of Gandhi’s protégé, who would do things as directed by Gandhi. This explains the easy ascendance of Nehru to the Prime Ministerial rank without a word of protest from Patel. The above adage proved to be too true in India with the Congress being polarized between Nehru and Patel. Perhaps India would have seen the rise of a strong opposition in the 1950s had Patel not died unexpectedly in 1950. It is this anti-Nehru, anti-dictatorial and pro-Swadeshi streak of Patel that the BJP has tried to associate itself with.

As far as Jinnah goes, his religious beliefs are well known. A London-educated barrister, he ate pork and drank liquor without the slightest ado and never professed faith in Islam. He joined the Muslim League only to bring the party closer to the mainstream agenda of the Congress and was hailed by Sarojini Naidu as the ambassador of Hindu-Muslim unity. He loathed the idea of bringing religion close to politics and was unsurely fearful of the Khilafat movement launched by Mahatma Gandhi. In fact, the very word Pakistan was framed by a Muslim student in Britain named Rahamat Ali. But Jinnah was a man of ambition which made him switch sides, making him a pawn of the British Raj in the noxious game of Partition. He painted Gandhi as a ‘Hindu’ leader, who, with his Ram Dhun and Ram Rajya would create a Hindu Rashtra after independence. Jinnah knew to cater to the baser instincts of man and appealed to the faith in every Muslim in India, dressing the partition as a game of religion. Playing the political game on the other side were the Indian leaders led by Nehru, whose future seemed insecure in an Indian political setup inhabited by Mohammed Ali Jinnah. But Jinnah never foresaw the bloodshed that would follow and wanted his nation to be built on the ideals of democracy and secularism, which, whether we like it or not, is evident in the speech delivered by him to the newly formed nation of Pakistan on 14th August, 1947.

When the ghost of a leader who died 60 years ago gets precedence over the problems of today, be sure the party has lost its way. When the poor performance of the party’s cadre, succession plan, infighting and sycophancy should have been matters of concern, the party is fighting, like Don Quixote, an enemy which does not exist.

But we, as our instincts and actions betray, are a nation of hypocrites, ruled by people who deserve to rule over us for being even bigger hypocrites. We love carving heroes and villains out of human characters of history. We cannot accept shades of grey. And if someone tries to do it, he does so at the peril of facing the wrath of the goons, who have steadily vandalized the very though process of this nation. We are not allowed to question our heroes of history nor the actions which resulted in their apotheosis as heroes. Like intellectual eunuchs, pushed to the realms of impotence of thought, we are feeding on the same stale food cooked decades ago, when we were more open to reason and questions. The citadel of our civilization seems to crash with a few paintings, speeches and books. Is the saga of Indian civilization we were taught since childhood to be proud of, so feeble that a stroke of a pen or brush will wash it away?

If nothing, along with Jinnah’s genie has begun an urge for a serious debate on India’s intellectual voice. The BJP was known top be party which provided enough room for free expression of thought. Way back in the 1970s, Atal Bihari Vajpayee hailed Indira Gandhi as ‘Durga’. Did he demean the goddess, or did he eulogize a lady responsible for the breaking-up of India’s democratic set up? The BJP has completely alienated Arun Shourie for writing in The Indian Express, what can be called one of the finest pieces on Indian politics in recent times. The party admonished L.K.Advani for quoting Jinnah, when that was a rare opportunity for the party to reposition itself. Yashwant Sinha has been sidelined for all trying to show the way forward. When Sudheendra Kulkarni called for a renewed look at Hindutva, the party again prefered to let go of a chance to reform. With the imminent exit of Arun Shourie and the exit Sudheendra Kulkarni, the party has lost two of its foremost thinkers.

Jaswant Singh might be wrong with the timing of his book. But then, it means that a man in public domain is shorn of all his intellectual and creative self and should chop his body to fit the frame of the polity he is a part of. Narendra Modi, who himself seems to be lacking any intellectual capability now, has banned the book in Gujarat. But just as the gushing winds can never be stopped, knowledge too knows no walls. Mr. Modi, in an attempt to block the book has blocked a mighty river of thought. This will finally inundate his own territory and destory the very ground on which he stands. An objective discussion on partition is a need, whose time has come. A nation’s intellectual tradition prospers only by providing a room for multiple interpretations. Through a ban, we are slowly morphing into an insecure nation, basking in the glory of past which it feels confused about and trying to chart a future which it is least sure of. This is perhaps the end of India as we know it.

(A shorter version of this article has been published in the Op-ed page of The New Indian Express)

The doors of heaven

2009-06-20T10:39:00.011+05:30

Mention the word Haridwar and snapshots of many small temples, sadhus, the Ganges and the aarti come to our mind. It is with these snapshots that we decided to spend a few days of the hot summer, away from the heat of Delhi, in the foothills of the Himalayas. We were awaken from our slumber by the battering noise of the langoors on the roof tops.

Our day in Haridwar began with a dip in the Ganges at the Brahm kund at Har-ki-pauri, the spot where Lord Vishnu is believed to have left his footprints. To beat the strong currents of the river, we held on to the metal chains suspended from the ghats. Surprisingly, the water was colder than the weather outside. During summer, the Himalayan glaciers melt into the river and bring down the temperature. Purified thus, we came out of the water and offered our prayers at the temples around the ghats. After the puja, it was time for pet puja – breakfast. The Pooriwalas at Har-ki-pauri is a must visit for all foodies.

Har-ki-pauri, the most famous ghat of Haridwar

Haridwar has more temples and ashrams than homes. If required, one can roam around the Jwala Market in the centre of the city. But of more importance is the famous Manasa Devi temple. One can reach the temple either by ropeway or stairway. The Maya Devi temple is considered to be a Shakti peeth – one of the holy places, where the heart and navel of Sati’s burnt remains fell when Vishnu chopped it into pieces with his discus. The Daksha Mahadev temple is the spot where Daksha performed the fated yagna to insult Shiva. Nearby is the Sati Kund, where Sati, outraged by her father’s impunity, cast off her body to the divine flames. A place, of less religious and more national importance is the Bharat Mata Mandir. The museum in the storeys above is a repository of India’s civilizational history.

In the evening, we proceeded back to the Har-ki-pauri, where arrangements had been made for us to witness the famous aarti from comfortable quarters. If you do not book your seats, you can still watch the grand aarti from the opposite bank. We descended on the ghats. After offering our prayers, we settled down on the platforms which was booked beforehand. Dusk was setting in with its garment of golden saffron. The Gods, it seemed, were arriving to witness a divine spectacle. Suddenly the temple bells began to chime and the priests held up the huge trays of camphor lit fire. The sound of the conch shells resonated across the ghats, leading the devotees to a state of trance. The grand aarti had begun. The aarti went on like it has been going on for the past many thousand years, at the same time and same spot. The same crowd has been pulled with its magnetic charm day after day. Gujaratis, Bengalis, Tamilians, Gorkhas, Punjabis and Biharis, seemed indifferentiable in the crowd. But they were there, their diversity spun into one thread of devotion towards mother Ganges. As the aarti ended, hallelujahs of ‘Har Har Gange’ resonated across the ghats. We visited all the small shrines near the ghats. As I returned with a tray of flowers and diyas to be offered to the Mother, a pandit stood there at the ghat to receive me. He made me recite a few mantras for a few minutes and finally said “People offer dakshina to Brahmins as per their capacity. Some offer hundred, some five hundred and some...” I froze as the numbers rose. My pockets weren’t deep enough to accommodate those numbers. I replied softly “My capacity is for Rs.11”. His face sank. But accept he did. Later many of my friends recounted hw they lost 50 or 100 to the pundits.

The grand Ganga aarti in the evening

After having our dinner, we set off to Rishikesh. We put up that night in an ashram. The day dawned. One by one,we came out of sleep and arrived at the ghats behind the ashram. The chill waters discouraged most from taking a dip. But the glow of the waters and the weather was too good to hold us back. After the ablutions, many of us meditated, sitting along the ghats. It was a rare moment – to see the self in the reflection of nature. One hears nothing but the sound of the Ganges which roars lightly with the the force of her flow. The Ganges with her pristine magnificence was flowing along her destined path, cleansing everything – the air, the land, the pilgrims and the entire gamut of living beings- along her way.

A view from the ashram where we stayed in Rishikesh

Tryst with the self

After a sumptuous breakfast, which we had sitting on padded durries, we left for the day. The trip around Rishikesh was a joyous one. Water rafting is an option not to be missed, though the lethargy of our team made us miss it. But we did see the bravado and exuberance of many rafters along the path. AS one stands over the famous Lakshman Jhoola, one can see many rafters rowing away to joy. At the ashram Paramarth Niketan, many young students are taught the Vedas and other scriptures. These young boys are not born Brahmins. Many of them are Dalits. The seeds of a revolution in the Hindu society can be seen here. They were once forbidden to even hear these mantras. In the evening, as they perform yagnas before the Ganges at the time of aarti, one can see the manifestation of that long waited revolution. Many young children picked up the trays for the aarti. As they began the hymns, I was shifted back to a state of trance, an ecstasy, which goes beyond the capacity of words. For it is a moment to be drenched in. The Vedic hymns have been percolating through these ghats for millennia uncounted. Perhaps that is why the doors of heaven begin here.

(This article was published in the column 'TIME OUT' of The New Indian Express)

The Green Corridors of Monsoon

2009-05-30T10:44:00.008+05:30

Monsoon has its way to enter India. When the heartland of India becomes a cauldron of heat, the winds from the southwest make headway for India, passing through the Arabian Sea. For four months – March, April, May and June – the heat builds up and the masses long badly for a downpour of relief. The coastal state of Kerala experiences pre-monsoon showers during the months of April and May, which are considered to be good for the growth of the mango trees. Accompanied by lightening and heavy thunder, these showers are sporadic and provide a much needed succour from the scorching heat of these months.

The view from the balcony of my room

The fields wear a green carpet

This time, monsoons have struck Kerala before the slated time. Last night, as I lay on my bed listening to music, trying to catch sleep, there was a wave of cool air outside. I saw a glimmer of lightening and the sound of water drops, drumming slightly on the banana leaves, could be heard. Then the whole thing turned into a heavy downpour and the trees outside began waving to the music of the water drops. Monsoon had finally arrived in India. The downpour continued for hours. In the morning, the skies were overcast with dense grey clouds. The sun rays were attempting to pierce through the cracks in the eastern horizon. Like rays emanating from a golden lance, they shot through the skies for a moment, before they were pushed back by the increasing clamour of rain clouds. Like a phlanx arranged for a fierce battle, they were surging ahead in unison from the western horizon. The war cry of thunder was more audible now. It is simply magical to watch this spectacle by the sea coast. Fishermen are warned during these times to avoid journeys to the sea. But the fun from the sea side as the waves lash against the beaches is not to be missed. The huge banyan leaves by the temple side swirl around the branches like a fan set in motion by the wind. The leaves twirl to and fro setting a wave of a thousand small fans, the breeze from which gushes past you like a spray of rose water. Finally, the clouds settle down and the rains resume.

A snapshot of the scenary, taken while landing at the airport

The monsoon view from the Munnar Lake

The roads, washed by the new rains, gleam up for a while. The snakes too come out of their holes, their homes now flushed with the new bout of rains. Women rush up the stairs to remove their clothes from the clothesline tied up in the terrace. The force of the wind is such that no umbrella can save you from getting drenched. The winds blow against your face, carrying the raindrops with them. Lashing against you, the drops get absorbed by the clothes, which by now would be completely drenched. The frame of the umbrella above your head bends outward by the force of the wind and you are left grappling with your bag and the now deformed umbrella, leaving nothing between you and the dense sky above. The mundus (dhotis) are folded till the knees as slush starts forming around. In spite of the heavy rains in this coastal belt, one never sees floods of catastrophic proportions as one sees in Mumbai or Chennai. Man here knows the dependence on nature. He has not transgressed his lines so far. The nature too, hence, provides him protection. There is no fury here. If anything is left, is the joy of the first showers. Rains will continue now for the next four months as well. The monsoon’s doors of entry as well as exit are after all present in the green corridors of God’s own country. Hail Monsoons!

Good Old Directory

2009-05-27T12:41:00.002+05:30

I really missed a few things over the past few days. First and foremost among them was my good old telephone directory. I had really forgotten its existence for the past one year, ever since I moved out of my home and depended solely on my mobile phone for making calls. Whenever my number was to be exchanged with an acquaintance, I would simply pull out my phone and store it in the contact list. In fact, I only knew my residence number by heart. But there was a time when my capacity to recollect numbers was envied upon and I’m sure there were many like me who were proud of their ability to recollect numbers. With the arrival of an inbuilt directory in the cell phone, this ability became out of date.

But I felt stranded all of a sudden, when even after relentlessly rummaging around through my pockets and bags upon disembarking from the bus, I could not find my mobile phone. In a new city, with many new contacts, I felt distraught. I rushed to my office, borrowed the phone of a colleague and tried calling my number. The intention of the person in whose hands my phone had fallen became quite clear when I frozenly heard the message “The number you are trying to reach is currently switched off”. It was gone for good. The next thing to do was block my number completely. In a city like Delhi, you never know where a terrorist is looming around. At the suggestion of a friend, I even decided to lodge an FIR. So I went, for the first time in my life, to a Police Station. The FIR was not lodged as the policeman told me to lodge a complaint in the area where I lost it. Now in the 35km stretch from Greater Noida to Delhi, where exactly did I lose it?
I sat without a clue about all the contacts I had. Suddenly I was cut off from the world. Orkut and Gtalk were of some help. Mails apprising my friends of my current situation was quickly sent. You realise how important you are when people reach out to contact you. But what if they sigh relief saying “Good Riddance!”?

The replies that poured in read thus “So sad! How did you lose it and where?” Now I really wished I knew how I lost it. Perhaps they wanted to know the story behind the ‘Great Mobile Treachery’, where the hero of the drama (yours truly) is purged of his invaluable possession by a faceless villain and is left desolate and marooned, hoping for an angel to drop down to save his treasure. But the story ends tragically with the commiserations of all the near and dear ones.
The saving grace was the spare phone lent to me by my friend till I got a new one, but not before being cautioned against losing this one too. As the old numbers got ready to be poured in the new bottle, I made it sure that it went through the pages of the directory. But I didn’t have one. I bought a new one, which I felt was after a long time, and made the entries one after another. But for two days till got a new phone, I had to repeat the same story a zillion times to whoever asked me for my number.
On relating the whole incident to a friend, he gave me a piece of his mind on ‘how not to lose a mobile’ for a while, before he signed off saying “Never mind... even I lost three phones. By the way, how did you lose it?”

(This article was published in the 'Time Out' column of The New Indian Express)

Rahul's neighbourhood Kalawati

2009-05-08T19:15:00.010+05:30

The Vote of Confidence episode last year was high on drama and emotion. Rahul Gandhi invoked the plight of an obscure woman called Kalawati to bring the nuclear issue as close as possible to the issues of the common man. The whole nation sympathised with this unknown lady in a far away village in Vidarbha, who was the beneficiary of Rahul’s benign grace, and Rahul’s speech hit the headlines for all the right reasons.

Rahul Gandhi and Miliband on their poverty tour in UP

But there is a catch. Walk along the Tughlaq Lane in Lutyens Delhi and beside the posh bungalow of Rahul Gandhi is a slum consisting of more than 200 hutments. It is hard to believe that in the island of prosperity, that Lutyens Delhi is, a jhuggi of such proportions can also be found. Perhaps Lutyens forgot to create a separate space for them when he envisioned Delhi.
The jhuggi was no different from any other claustrophobic slum in India. Open sewages crisscrossed the path way, huts had plastic sheets to cover the ceilings, the garbage seemed to merge with its surroundings, naked children ran around excitedly and young men sat aimlessly in the hot verandas. The women seemed outraged standing for hours before the singular tap in the slum, with innumerable buckets lined up like parched fields for a drop of water to fall into them.
As I went closer to talk about the issues they faced, they replied, their answers laced with scorn and anger for I looked like yet another ‘educated, rich, public-service wallah’ who would come, sigh, pity them and leave. Their problems were countless. They had no ration cards. They never got electricity supply on time and the water supply was irregular. The food grains, that the ones with ration cards got, had more pebbles and dust than grains.
They live in the backyard of the crown prince of India, who takes pride in sleeping in the homes of the Dalits in UP. “Has Rahul Gandhi come here to meet you people?” I asked an elderly man who lead me through the slum. “He hasn’t turned to this side. People say we live near an emperor. But what use is it to us if our lives seem seas apart?” he replied with caustic indifference.
Rahul went on a poverty tour of India with David Miliband in the beginning of this year, with extensive media coverage. The poverty and filth of India was examined with sample stays in hutments under the scanner of the camera. Perhaps Rahul saw no incentive in targeting the poor in his own backyard. The poor in Lutyens Delhi cannot evoke the same sympathy evoked by the poor in the parched hinterlands of Maharashtra and Uttar Pradesh. There are different degrees of poverty in different social set ups. This set up doesn’t give a political profit to any politician. After all, who would like to expose the dirt in his own home? This slum was a classic case of the proverbial darkness under the shadow of the lamp.
I came to the end of the slum. The women were still waiting for the buckets to fill, with water filling the drums and buckets at a tortuously slow rate. The water would fall perhaps and they would return in some time. But their non existential existence, right under the nose of governmental prosperity would continue for it would take a really long time for the buckets of sympathy to move man into action. Till then, this slum would continue to exist unknown in the otherwise spotless face of Lutyens Delhi; unknown even to Rahul Gandhi, who would be busy invoking a few Kalawatis in the Parliament Hall. Can these countless Kalawatis get a spokesperson for a while?

(This article was published in the Op-ed page of The New Indian Express on June 2, 2009)

A Young election masala

2009-04-20T14:50:00.006+05:30

“My vote is for India, my vote is for Congress” says one of the poll ads of the Congress. I chuckled as a stream of thoughts came to my head. It has been almost 35 years since the Emergency was imposed but the self directed eulogies of the Congress has ceased to end. It was in the heydays of the Emergency that Debkant Baruah declared “Indira is India and India is Indira”. The party drew a cropper across the Hindi heartland in the elections that followed and went into a hibernation. India’s democracy won then though Indira lost.

Nothing can be more ridiculous than saying that a 125 year old party is the same as a 10,000 year old civilization. And the public loathes anything that ridicules them. The country consists of the people. The whole nation, its growth and the story of its civilization is made up of the people who carry forward its undying saga. Even when the Congress led the freedom movement under the aegis of Mahatma Gandhi, it never claimed to equate itself with the nation. But power in weak hands gets into the head.

Walking past the streets of Delhi, one can see that the BJP and the Congress are fiercely competing for hoarding space, the BJP being the obvious winner in the ad-war. But being in the opposition for five years obviously gives you enough slogans to mouth for you are not in the driver’s seat. And what if the driver runs his car only after permission from two super drivers. The Left parties raised the red flag for every step that the UPA considered for four long years before pulling the rug. Sonia Gandhi’s influence over every activity of the PM is evident from the fact that today 10, Janpath is the most famous address in the country today.

One such ad of the Congress gleefully declares ‘JOSH’ with the smiling face of a twenty-something girl beaming from the hoarding. I sarcastically returned the smile. What energy or JOSH is being talked about? Youngsters are bearing the load of pink slips and B-School pass outs are finding no ground to stand on. Factories are stopping production after stocks have piled up with no man to buy them. All this looks frightening to my generation which has never seen an economic crisis in its lifetime. We have been the beneficiaries of the Rao-led reforms and the Vajpayee led IT-Telecom revolution. Shopaholism was the disease that we suffered from. Not anymore. Time has its own cures.

But selling a rosy picture which mocks the day to day life of the common man boomerangs as a hard rock on your face when the election results are declared. BJP’s over-confident declaration of India Shining is case. The BJP kept whirling in its feel-good slogans. But Summer 2004 ended up being the hottest one for the party. The public would perhaps forget a few bomb blasts. But if the campaign of a party mocks their misery, they will see to it that the misery is shared by the party, sooner or later.

Everybody loves to be young today. The young voter is the new gold mine of the vote market.The Congress obviously is trying to bank on its ‘young’ face Rahul Gandhi. He is being projected as the rightful inheritor of the Nehru-Gandhi legacy; someone who will sooner or later come of age as the faithful ‘mahamantri’ safeguards the throne from invaders. He has been freed from all competitions with Priyanka’s blank refusal to enter the poll fray. Well, the Congress can only have an intra-family competition as the party is nothing more than the army living off the grants of the Gandhi family.

But there is a catch. This is the most apolitical generation post-independent India has produced so far, a generation that flaunts its apolitical badge. The political ignorance is something they are even proud of. Who will attract them? Will they give the number during the polls? Mr. Advani can no longer talk of his days of incarceration under Emergency as they are only aware of the Emergency ward in the hospitals. They cannot be told of the economic stagnation that the country faced in the socialistic era of Nehru and Indira as they only know that Manmohan Singh brought in liberalisation under Narasimha Rao’s government. But yes, they have seen the Kargil war and proudly recall the Pokhran tests.
But what will happen to our democracy if the citizens turn apolitical? This election will be over in a month but the country will move on. How, then, will this civil society move ahead in the vaccum of educated political opinions? This is a million dollar question that the country will face even after the polls add heat to the summers this year.

Blogging all the way to glory

2009-01-25T12:04:00.002+05:30

I realised a few days back that I have successfully completed more than an year as a blogger. I came across the term blogging around two years back when I heard the news that the government was planning to monitor the contents of the blogs. The entire blogging community had come up in arms against the decision and the government eventually bulked down before the collective voices.
This word remained dormant in my mind. During those days, I was trying to get a few of my articles published in a leading daily. I did meet with some success but then I had to avoid topics which went against the ideology of the newspaper. I felt that this would leave me nowhere and decided that I needed a platform of my own.

I happened to come across Sulekha.com. I read somewhere in the papers that this site had a tie-up with Penguin Publishers. Prospects to see myself published by Penguin led me with its siren like charm into the new world of blogging. But then there was a lull for a long while. I got registered but didn’t want to publish anything on a blog of all places. Wasn’t I someone who had been paid earlier for my write-ups?
But as the days passed by, I felt that I should be posting my unused articles on the blog lest they go out of date. Soon I found myself posting all my unpublished articles on my blog. My blogs got featured on Sulekha and comments started pouring in. I must say that it were these comments that spurred my instinct to write more and better.

I started searching for issues around. I sensed an opportunity in every upheaval that stirred my mind. Thus began a long innings of blogging. I always felt that not many were interested to listen to what I had to say on these burning issues which kept my head preoccupied. I found a channel, and rather a constructive channel, to let out all that I felt strongly about. It could be the Gujarat elections, the release of Jodha Akbar or a book review. But write I did and found many takers for those writings.
Slowly my friends started reading those blogs and those who shared my passion started with their own blogs as well. I met people from far off lands who were co-travellers on my path. WE regularly posted comments on each other’s blog posts. I sensed a new vigour in my life.
Exams and interviews came in my way. But they failed to be dampeners in my stride. Reading and responding to different views also made my thinking more broad and accommodating.
Then came my MBA program, which I felt would mark a full stop for my blogs. I refused to be cowed down by my workload. I would utilise every small break I would get to read newspapers and write blogs using my laptop.
Meanwhile, many of my articles started appearing in print. Some newspapers also picked up my blogs and paid me handsomely. I also found new converts along my way. I persuaded some of my lecturers to start their own blogs and articulate their opinions.

Today, I see a prospect for a write-up in everything that comes my way. To become an opinion maker is every writer’s dream but being so is not an easy task. But I do hope that in three years’ time, I will no longer have to be obliged to see my work in print; it should rather be the other way round. But even then, I will continue to blog. Like any blogger, I too dream to be an acclaimed writer swarmed by Pulitzers and Bookers. Hope and dreams, after all, know no limit called sky.

(This article was published in The New Indian Express on May 11, 2009)

In the crossroads of history : Purana Quila

2008-12-27T12:04:00.001+05:30

Very few places are there which simultaneously carry layers of history in its womb. Purana Quila, located at the heart of Delhi near the India Gate, is one of them. Today it is better known as the spot where Yash Chopra’s blockbuster Veer Zaara was shot.
According to the Mahabharata, the Pandavas were given the rugged plains of Khandavaprastha, who, with the expertise of Krishna converted it into Indraprastha - a city which rivalled Indra’s heaven in beauty and grandeur. It is believed that the place where the fort stands today was once the capital of the invincible Pandavas. Later, the Guptas built many structures around this place. In the Medieval ages, Delhi fell into many hands, one after another, with the marks of the regimes left behind in the zillion nondescript structures that stand around Delhi, unknown, unattended.

The cool and embalming breeze of the gardens

The exteriors of the mosque display an amalgm of the Hindu, Afghan and Islamic architecture

The chunk of Purana Quila’s current structure was constructed by Sher Shah Suri, after he dethroned Humayun from the throne of Delhi. I walked in through the Bada Darwaza and entered the ramparts of the fort. The lush green gardens, with the cool breeze passing through the flowers lining the bushes, embalmed my heart. The fort is flanked by the Bada Darwaza, the Taliqi Darwaza and the Lal Darwaza.
Purana Quila was constructed at a unique crossroad of history. The structures stand as an amalgam of Hindu, Afghan and Mughal architecture. It was a time when the Mughals had arrived and the Lodhis had been forced out of Delhi. The carvings in the pillars of the mosque bear semblance to the forts of Chittorgarh.

When Veer met Zaara (The Quila-i-Kuhana)

Light at the end of the tunnel (The interiors of the Quila-i-kuhana)

“This is the spot where Veer bid farewell to Zaara in a dramatic scene” said one pointing at the Quila-e-Kuhna – the mosque built by Sher Shah. I found many Veers and Zaaras ensconced in each others’ arms in the chilling winter of Delhi. In front of the mosque are a dysfunctional fountain and a waste pit, which once used to be the mosque well. The view of Delhi one gets from the balustrades is simply remarkable. The entrance arch of the mosque is built in marble, with patches of red sandstone. It is believed that Sher Shah had to clip his dream of building the entire mosque in marble due to shortage of white marble and had to salt it away for special inscriptions and designs. The final effect is magical. The bright red sandstone provides the right contrast to the white marble and the inscriptions stand out in their sheen. The prayer hall is badly disfigured with umpteen ‘Bunty loves Bubli’ kind of marks. The entire stretch of the hall-way provides a perfect frame for a photograph.

The Sher Mandal - Humayun's Library

Humayun's Gate - a story in ruins

A few steps away from the Quila-i-Kuhna is the Sher Mandal. After recapturing the throne of Delhi, Humayun converted the Sher Mandal into his personal library. In 1556, he tripped down the stairs of the library and met his nemesis. Near the Sher Mandal is Humayun’s gate, which is today in complete ruins. The Purana Quila, unlike its more famous cousin in Old Delhi – the Lal Quila- seems to be cut off from the ultra modern exterior of New Delhi. Old Delhi, on the other hand, seems to be on a continuum, juggling history and the present in a rare chemistry to preserve a unique gift for posterity. It is not to say that the Purana Quila is all neglected. The fort seethes with life often, when the strains of the sitars, cymbals and anklets bring it back to life during Delhi’s revelling art festivals. Moreover, it takes hardly an hour to cover the whole fort, after which one can also go boating.
One of the Persian inscriptions in the Quila-e-Kuhana reads thus “As long as there are people on this earth, may this edifice be frequented and people be happy”. The words, like this edifice have stood the test of time.

Frozen Frames in Motion: MUMBAI BLASTS

2008-12-08T17:41:00.001+05:30

The 60 hours that passed when the city of Mumbai was held to ransom was unprecedented in the 60 years of the nation’s history and the financial nerve of the nation almost broke down. Commentators have called this India’s 9/11. It is another matter that hundreds of districts are still held to ransom by the Naxals. But that, of course, is a different story. Nevertheless, every disaster tells a story. Loss of innocence before it is born

A few images of the blasts have led many of us wondering about the irony of life. The attacks took place in the imperial interiors of the likes of the Taj and the Oberoi. Many of those who died there were some of men of deep pockets. Andreas Liveras was a Greek Millionaire who owned several luxury yachts. He arrived at the Taj to have some dinner but reached his nemesis. Many hoteliers saw the last day of their life and no amount of wealth could save those were trapped inside. They kept staring at the pounds and dollars which could be of no use at this hour of crisis.
Places like hospitals were one’s wounds are attended to have been targeted. But then, which place on earth can be safe? When the stated hour has come, death is bound to happen no matter where one is. This may be fatalism. But this is also the fact. What drew some to the points of attack at the fateful hour while many left the place just minutes before the attack?

I wonder what would define the photo essay of the blasts. The starting point would be the picture of Taj in a cloud of orange flames. The second picture would be of the irresolute Shivraj Patil addressing the media, for both became the paragons of recklessness. The third would be the picture of hostages rushing out, their tense bodies fleeing out with their faces laced with traces of the joy of liberation and their eyes still engulfed in the trauma of the past 3 days. The fourth would be a picture of an unknown millionaire, whose body is lying unattended among the heap of many others, many being the waiters in the hotels. Death has played a leveller here, leaving no difference between the two. The fifth would be the funerals of our officers who gave their lives on duty, as their inconsolable relations stand devastated yet dignified before the national guards. The penultimate one would be the face of the two-year old Israeli boy Moshe, whose pictures showed him sobbing uncontrollably, clinging on to the ball of innocence in his hands. This would perhaps be the most heart-wrenching of all as it speaks for the hundreds who were injured for life, traumatised or dead in the attacks. Their future has become a game of ball and their life has become the result of a petrifying game of terror.

Devastated yet Dignified

But the final one would be the image of workers repairing the damaged structures as the pigeons take flight for yet another day; traumatised, yet holding on to the hope for a better day ahead for it is this hope that they live by. Life moves on and like those of the pigeons. Man also returns to roost in the evening and ponder. What was this all about? Was this the end or was it the beginning of the end? On a rethink, should I end the essay with the images showing South Mumbaikars protesting against the Politicians? But then, these are people who have played little role in the politics of our nation. South Mumbai has a grand turnout of 40% during the polls. I leave that image to display hypocrisy, rather than conviction.

In the labyrinth of Old Delhi

2008-09-30T21:29:00.001+05:30

Delhi is like a palimpsest over which the glory and history of many empires and legends have been written, and yet, none of the dynasties have erased the marks left behind by its predecessors. From the Pandavas and Guptas to the Mughals, Delhi has seen them all. Later, New Delhi - the dream of Lutyens- was born. All these tell many a silent tale, through the monuments left behind. Each brick is waiting to tell a story, provided it gets a patient listener who can look beyond it and sit through a lifetime, noting down its tales of yore in the parchment of hearts.
The Jama Masjid Complex (top); The flight of pigeons in Jama Masjid (bottom)

My journey began from Connaught Place in New Delhi, from where I took a metro and reached Old Delhi, which is flanked by the Ajmeri Gate, the Turkman Gate, the Kashmiri Gate and the Delhi Gate. Purani Dilli is not for mall rats. It is stuffy, congested, polluted and is everything that is the antithesis of the new SHINING INDIA. I hopped onto a cycle-rickshaw and my sojourn through the labyrinthine Old Delhi began. Old Delhi has its own pace. Juxtaposed with the ultra-modern environs of New Delhi, it is one of the rare places where you can always witness a traffic jam of cycle-rickshaws. Every other minute a rickshaw will bump into yours. Meandering through the narrow lanes of Chawri Bazaar, the rickshaw took me to Jama Masjid. From there, we walked to the Red Fort. A paltry sum of Rs.10 will open the gates to one of the marvels of Mughal architecture. I realised that the red sandstone wall of the India postcards is but a facade behind which some amazing structures stand. Half of the fort was destroyed by the East India Company during the Revolt of 1857. The remains are there for posterity. From the Red Fort one can see the Digambar Jain temple, Sisganj Gurudwara and the Sunehri Masjid (all in a line). Sisganj still stands as a testimony to the martyrdom of Guru Teg Bahadur, whose head was severed on the orders of Aurangazeb. A whole century later, Nadir Shah oversaw the massacre of Dilliwalas from the Sunehri Masjid, before leaving the country with Shah Jehan’s famed peacock throne.
The Red Fort (top); the marble palaces in Red Fort

From there, I took a rickshaw to the famous Parathewali Gali. The rickshaw wended through Nai Sarak, where you can get the choicest and the rarest of second hand books in India. Parathewalas is the shack where every dignitary from Jawaharlal Nehru to Cyrus Broacha has had food from. The hot parathas were washed down with a jumbo-sized glass of lassi. If you are a street-foodie, then this is then Old Delhi is ‘the’ place for you. But the vegetarian in me disallowed me to taste the kababs of the Karims- the eat-out opposite to the Jama Masjid. The Karims were the cooks of the Mughal Emperors and still retain the secret recipes of the of Mughal kitchen. Near Ballimaran is the residence of the legendary poet Mirza Ghalib – a must visit for the literati.
I took a rickshaw back to Jama Masjid. As I entered, I saw two foreigners arguing with the gate-keeper over a princely fee of Rs.200 for allowing cameras inside the masjid. This was, when I had freely clicked many photos without any hassle. A fleet of pigeons, which was feeding on the grains scattered on the floor, welcomed me into the masjid. Many devotees were offering their namaz. I sat near them for some time and closed my eyes, deep in meditation, after which I moseyed around the masjid, reflecting on the fine craftsmanship displayed hundreds of years ago. The huge domes stood majestically over the skies of Delhi. One shouldn’t miss a chance here to climb the minaret and have an overview of the entire city from the top. I left the Masjid, walked through Meena Bazaar, carrying the strains of qawallis in my ears all through the way. The whole route is lined with a dysfunctional fountain, the waters from which once sprang up in the air when the emperor walked from the Red Fort to the Jama Masjid. As I boarded my bus, I sensed, I had left my heart in Purani Dilli itself. In the maze of apocryphal tales, the more you try to discover, the more you feel is yet to be discovered.

Best Time to Visit: Old Delhi should be seen in the mild winter of November. Try to visit the Jama Masjid during the Ramzan at the time of sunset.
Best places to eat: Ghantewalas, Karims and Parathewalas
How to reach there: Old Delhi is connected by Metro from New Delhi. A rickshaw can be hired to reach the walled city.

(A shorter version of this blog was published on 30-9-08 in the Time Out column of The New Indian Express)

Rajiv: Past & Present

2008-08-30T16:30:00.000+05:30

A few weeks back, the newspapers were flooded with ads of the Government of India. If one were to believe the full-page colourful ads, one might think that Rajiv Gandhi was the greatest gift the nation could have ever got. Every scheme (especially the ones related to Bharat Nirman) was shown to have had their origin under the auspices of Rajiv Gandhi. No stone was left unturned in glorifying the pilot-turned politician.
But the fact remained that he could hardly turn into a politician in his lifetime and was most uncomfortable moving from the aircraft to the PM’s office. While his brother did display political acumen (terrifying though), Rajiv was more or less the Baba-type who was propelled into Politics by the sudden death Sanjay Gandhi. In fact in his early days, he loathed any sort of political discussion over the dining table. But the air crash changed all that. Indira’s insistence on the ‘divine right of dynasty’ forced Rajiv into limelight and following him, entered Sonia Gandhi.

When the shocking assassination of Indira Gandhi led Giani Zail Singh to declare Rajiv the PM at without even consulting the Council of Ministers, Rajiv proved to a huge disaster at handling his first job at hand. For three days, carnage of Sikhs took place in Delhi, killing 3000 Sikhs in the process. His deplorable ‘When a big tree falls the earth beneath is bound to shake’ reaction only echoed 18 years later when Narendra Modi coldly declared ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction’. Every riot thereafter went by and large unpunished and since then India has seen blood baths, enough to fill the dry rivers of the Northern plains. The urn containing the ashes of Indira Gandhi was taken across the nation to gather sympathy votes for the next General election.
But his ascendance to power was not all that grim. The Indian Middle Class’ infatuation for ‘non-politicians' helped Rajiv a lot and he did live up to those expectations for a while. In the elections held in 1985, many old-time chamchas of the Congress were shown the door and were replaced by Rajiv’s friends from the Doon School. This lease of educated class into the Political mainstream was brimming with optimism of a new India. He also created history by winning 2/3 majority in the Lok Sabha, a feat unachieved even by his charismatic grandfather Jawaharlal Nehru. The fact that the year marked the centenary of the formation of INC was only an icing on the cake. A dream was born.
The telecom department then was placed in the ICU of public departments. The first telecom revolution was brought in after Rajiv Gandhi brought in the telecom genius Sam Pitroda to India. The Panchayati Raj system was given a revival and indications of Gram Swaraj were visible in the horizon. The PM also began the process of computerisation and talked of it in a big way. His confession of only 15p reaching the people out of every rupee spent echoed the public opinion ‘Here is a man who speaks like us’.
But the honeymoon was all over in 2 years. The fateful Shah Bano case set the fall for Rajiv’s house of cards. The Supreme Court held that Shah Bano, a divorcee was eligible to get an encomium from her husband. The judge also went further passing a comment on the Shariat, which infuriated the Islamic clergy. Rajiv, in a damage control mode of minority appeasement, passed a law whereby Muslim women would loose their right to encomium. This led to a wave of protests across the nation by the BJP and Women’s Organisations. Fearing a Hindu backlash, he opened the disputed site at Ayodhya to the Vishwa Hindu Parishad and even sent his Cabinet Minister to conduct the shilanyas of Ram Lalla. The stage for a disaster was set. The fuel was set on fire and more fuel was added by the Rath Yatra of Advani.
His government tried to throttle media freedom with the Defamation Bill, which led to a relentless opposition in an agitation led by Ramnath Goenka. The bill had to withdrawn later. Rajiv also indulged in the suicidal mission of sending the IPKF to Sri Lanka. He paid for the decision with his life.
The bomb of his disaster exploded when a sting operation conducted by N.Ram led to what was later known as the Bofors scandal, which exposed the kickbacks received by Rajiv amounting to Rs.60 crore. His Mr.Clean image was shattered forever. The end was near. The government became the beta noire of all – the secularists, the fundamentalists and the civil society. Rajiv also got a preposterous law passed whereby a party could not get registered with the EC unless it explicitly mentioned Socialism as one of its objectives. The effect was felt a decade later when, a surviving member of the defunct right-liberal Swatantrata Party (founded by Rajagopalachari)tried to re-register the party with the EC. The application was rejected
The Congress Party under Rajiv Gandhi, after setting all the wrong precedents, was voted out of power to bring in the venomous government of V.P.Singh. All these decisions went horridly wrong because Rajiv Gandhi could never become a politician in practice. Whether one likes it or not, a country like India needs a politician with acumen rather than a citizen with noble intentions. Rajiv lacked that badly and could never learn them, though many believe that he would have fared better, had he been given a second chance.
The governments that came later fell one after another. Fresh elections were declared. Rajiv had at last learnt to be one with the people in his campaigns. The sight of Rajiv being carried along the wave of his followers on their shoulders still makes a wonderful sight. But soon India got its first taste of suicide bombing when Dhanu pressed the button in her belt, blowing off the ex-PM along with herself.
Today, the dynasty continues. No doubt Rajiv did bring in some freshness. But he was a part of the same old structure, which gave blood-line preference anytime over ability. Most of the organisations in India named after Nehru, Indira and Rajiv are non-performing. The money invariably goes down the drain. Every scheme of the Congress governments was named after some scion or the other. But now, the precedent for places has also been set with Connaught Place being rechristened Rajiv Gandhi Chowk. If Panchayati Raj and Telecoms brought in a new wave, India is still reeling under the heat of the monstrous disasters that were a direct result of his incapacity. Let us not attack the dead, but what if the past attacks the present? History repeats itself. Rajiv atleast set aside his discomfort once he donned the PM’s cap. But Rahul still looks confused and has not shown any promise. Like a non-performing PSU, the scions continue to function under the patronage of Dynasty politics.

MY COUNTRY, MY SPEECH

2008-08-15T12:01:00.000+05:30

With the 61st Independence Day, our PM will address the nation yet again (and perhaps for the last time) from the Red Fort. Next year, we might see a new face. Perhaps Advani, or may be Mayawati and if our voters are at their indecisive best, any Tom Dick and Harry... Democracy dear! But they all will be coming out with a well drafted speech, impeccably politically correct. But I, as a citizen of India, am using my liberty to speak my mind.

My dear countrymen, let me first of all wish you on the occasion of the 61st Independence Day. I congratulate you all for having withstood the fissiparous forces for so long and in spite of all warnings, we have remained one, at least on the map. When someone asks me “How has India survived all its problems?” I reply, “Problems are all in the mind. We imagine we have no problems. It solves half of it. As for the other half, we give vent to it through strikes, uprooting railway tracks, burning effigies and at the most by voting out a government. Then the whole cycle restarts. We believe in the idea of "MOVING ON”
Your resilience is worthy of a Nobel Prize for peace. Whenever some force has threatened our unity, be they the Naxalites, fundamentalists or secessionists, you have all joined hands with the government and considered it the lesser evil. In spite of making the stupidest of judgements at times, your jurisprudence is to be applauded.
I wanted to address you all, class or community-wise. But I then realised that even a lakh pages will not suffice as I then will have to keep in mind the length and preference of each address, else I will be charged of giving less space to a Dalit ki beti. I agree that the quotas and divisions that the governments bring leave much to be desired as it has not been able to properly capitalise on your diversity.
Like the first government formed in 1947, even we are also facing trouble in J&K. The state has a siren like charm which invites all the trouble that can be created. But I hope my brethren there, like my brethren in other parts, will imagine that there are no problems and move on.
People are saying money-power has hijacked Indian democracy. Such commentators are new to India. Indians moved on after JMM scam and they will ‘move on’ even now. India has survived worse disasters in the 1970s and 80s. We are too strong for any Water-gate or Cash-gate. At the most, we will vote out the government.
Our neighbour Pakistan has once again returned to flirt with democracy. We wish them all the best till they repose their faith on another military leader. We also wish all the best to our new rulers in Nepal, who, we hope, won’t serve as Chinese satellites like some parties in our country.
Terrorism is on the rise. Our government has already condemned it in the strongest possible words. But we know that bomb blasts will continue unabated. We always have the option of plugging our ears during such blasts. At the most some will die. Their families can always be paid off and we are quite sure that none of us will belong to those families. Or let us imagine that there are no sleeper cells and there are no blasts.We are not hypocritical. We curse the politicians for all the mess. But some complain that we are not performing our duties. WE DO VOTE, for the news channels. In this age of e-banking, something has to be done for the elections as well. Who has the time to stand in the sun and vote?
The rich-poor divide is staring at our face today. India has many billionaires in the Forbes list and it also has the maximum number of malnourished children in the world. But it is all for the larger good. Please appreciate the fact that none of those who are reading this now are going hungry. Let us imagine that the rest are also enjoying their weekend like us in a shopping mall.
Let us imagine. That we turn sensible one day. That we realise why we are independent today. That there are many things in life that money can’t buy. That the future generations will never forget for the apathy that we are displaying today. That we realise that this day and this speech means nothing when I have to hungry to my bed everyday. That there isn’t anything left to be divided in India. That the fact that we are still going on is a 6000 year old miracle, which is yet to be explained.
And after reading this, imagine me addressing you all from the Red Fort.

Indian Women on the Silver Screen

2008-07-27T11:30:00.000+05:30

Over the past few years, much has been said about Hindi Cinema breaking the stereotypes related to women and the phenomenon of the Indian Woman ‘coming-of-age’. Too much euphoria has been on display and some callow and over-enthusiastic film journalists have declared this to be the defining stage of Indian Cinema. Such euphoria arises from lack of awareness of the past of cinema. By past, I don’t mean the masala factories of 1970s and 80s. I’m referring to the era when subtlety was considered to be priceless (which indeed has no price today!). The recent spate of unconventional new-age movies reminds one of the movies of the 1950s and 60s. I was reminded of a few moments of the cinema of yore, when women were shown, not just in shades of white or black, but also in different shades of grey.

Meena Kumari as Choti bahu, The passion of a woman- Nutan in Bandini

Many film journalists usually write off Meena Kumari and the movies of 1960s as outrageously patriarchal (thanks to her movie title Main Chup Rahoongi). It is a misnomer to say that Meena Kumari, with her Main Chup Rahoongi tag, symbolised the woman of that era in Hindi Cinema. The same Meena Kumari played the eternal nihilist in Sahib Biwi aur Ghulam, where her character broke the prudery of the Hindu aristocracy by drinking to her comfort and seeking an emotional support outside marriage. She also played the courtesan in Pakeezah, who tries to break away from shackles of her trade and moves out seeking respect in a better society. Waheeda Rehman shocked the purists in the 1965 classic Guide, where she portrayed an ambitious and frustrated wife, who chucks out her husband from her life and moves out to live openly with her lover, who would also help her further her career. Bimal Roy, in his 1964 masterpiece Bandini, brought out one of the most layered and complex characters Hindi cinema has ever seen. Nutan, as Kalyani, brought out the passions of an unsophisticated woman in full display. Even the excessively timid protagonist of Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Anupama had the spine to refuse the match chosen by her authoritarian father and walk away with the man of her choice. Compare this to her ‘modern’ day cousin Simran of DDLJ, who begs to her lover to RESCUE her... FROM HER FATHER!
The best of course came with Mehboob Khan’s milestone Mother India, in which Nargis, as Radha, brought out the myriad emotions, travails and triumphs of a woman. What was so splendid about Mother India was that in spite of creating a character of epic proportions, it was able to stick on to reality. Satyajit Ray, in Bengal, too came with some profound female characters in Devi, Charulata and Pather Panchali.

(From top) Nargis in Mother India and Shabana Azmi in Ankur

Though the trend continued with Pakeezah, Aandhi and Anubhav, the popular Hindi cinema stopped portraying women in the true spirit by the mid 70s. She was, by then, an add-on commodity to please the hero (and the audience) and screech for help towards the climax, when the hero would break through the glass panes and bash-up 20 or 30 villains single-handedly. It was then that the parallel cinema, with beacon lights such as Shyam Benegal, Sai Paranjapai and Govind Nihlani, came up with awe-inspiring characters in Ankur, Nishant, Sparsh, Mandi and Bhumika. Of course, one cannot forget Mahesh Bhatt’s Arth, which I still believe is a movie which any follower of liberalism would love.
Glimmers of hope were always there in the dry 80s too. Be it the prostitute who rebels against the system of flesh trade to find the path of her destiny in Umrao Jaan, or the wife who refuses to accept the illegitimate child of her husband’s misadventures in Masoom, the commercial movies too came up out with a few surprises here and there.
But the so called ‘rot’ didn’t set in one fine morning. It was a part of the society, which always portrayed women in the way it wanted. Is it much surprising then, that all the poets who have authored Ramayan have been men and that is why they conveniently forgot the strong and high-spirited Sita of Valmiki and carried forward the meek Sita of Tulsidas? The ideal woman has been more of the latter than the former for us. Our popular ‘no brains, all fun’ masala factories also compared a meek woman to Sita and a westernised and assertive woman to Durga, understanding neither of them. By strong, I don’t mean a hunterwaali out there to bash up the men or a biased feminist with jaundiced eyes. A character can be highly dignified and self-respecting and yet surrender herself to her love (as seen in Parineeta) because one doesn’t look for political-correctness when it comes to real life.

The Chak De girls

The feel-good movies of the 90s failed to make any bold portrayal. Fresh air entered towards the end with movies like Deepa Mehta’s Earth and Shyam Benegal’s Zubeida.
This decade, thankfully, has given some points of relief. I’m not talking about those movies which sold sleaze in the name of modernity. But movies like Devdas, Parineeta, Page3, Guru, Omkara and Chak De came out with some of the finest portrayals of women. Chak De was a catharsis, not only for Indian Hockey, but also for many Indians, who found a voice through the characters. The biggest change is that these women are no more made to fulfil neither the male fantasies and draconian dogmas nor the trite feminist prejudices, but to live their own life. They are not morally squeamish and are ready to take a definite stand. But it isn’t time for jubilation yet. Very few directors like Bimal Roy, Guru Dutt and Shyam Benegal have shown some ingenuity in understanding the mind of the fairer sex. Be it in the past, or now; those who have traversed the unbeaten path have always been exceptions. Hence the best thing would be to wait and watch.

Let us (Un)Bind Sita

2008-05-03T15:58:00.000+05:30

Since time immemorial, Sita has been the definitive ‘ideal Indian woman’ for our society. Sita’s pigeonholed image as a meek, weak and submissive woman has been ingrained in the Indian psyche for generations and has been entrenched time and again by the popular media and the patriarchal society at large. But is this the real Sita?

To find the real Sita, we will have to visit the Sanskrit epic of Valmiki, for there lies the other half of Ram. Sita as perceived by Valmiki is different from the Sita we know today - who is a creation of the medieval mindset. Things have changed but we have forgotten to change her image. The fact is that the Ramayana is shrouded in many myths and the problem arises from the umpteen versions of the epic, written right from the times of Valmiki to that of Rajaji. There perhaps existed an oral tradition of the Ramayan even before it was written down by Valmiki.

Sita literally means ‘furrow’. The comparison of Sita to a furrow and Ram to rain provides the idea of creation. In Valmiki’s Ramayan, Ram (an avowed monogamist) describes Sita as his co-pursuer in dharma. Here Sita is a mistress of enormous ability of acceptance as well as outrage. Her outburst is deadly; be it during the golden-deer episode where her fury falls on Lakshmana or during her conversations with Ravana, where she pouts fire with each word or in the controversial episode of the fire ordeal, where she flares-up and accuses Ram of ignobility. There are many instances in the epic where she passionately argues with her husband and proves her point. As a child, she playfully pushes away the divine bow of Shiva with her left hand, when the mighty emperors couldn’t even budge it. Being the daughter of nature, forest life was not a problem for her. Contrary to the popular view, her effortless rejection of court life and coming out unscathed from the worst of quagmire shows that she was a woman of unparalled strength.

This is all a stark contrast to the popular ‘helpless’ tag that has been forced upon Sita. As she walked into the medieval era, she was asked to keep mum like an obedient ‘Indian’ woman, so as to serve the male ego. She was no more the embodiment of strength and her weakness was dubbed as a cherished womanly quality. From the stature of the other-half, she was enshrined as the dutiful slave of her husband and was presented as a role-model to every woman. Her identity now sprung only from her husband. The writers even created the concept of a Lakshman-rekha (a metaphor for social dictums), which she could cross only at her own peril. This Lakshman-rekha continues to bother her even today, when a woman is invariably held responsible for inviting unwanted attention from men and is ordered to follow a litany of dos and don’ts to safeguard her modesty. Though this cardboard Sita- a victim of clichés- potrays the mess women find themselves in today, she is unable to inspire confidence. Moreover, Ramanand Sagar, whose Ramayan created television history, did little to change this tainted perception of Sita. His Sita (played by Deepika) carried the charnon ki daasi tag throughout the serial.

Exploring Ramayan through the lens of prejudice has done most of the harm. While continuous references have been made to Sita’s chastity, Ram’s devotion to his wife (ekapatnivrata vow) and his share of sufferings have seldom been highlighted. Many scholars opine that Sita’s humiliation in the Uttar-Kand is a contradiction to the post coronation period being referred to as Ram Rajya (ideal state) and they consider Uttar-Ramayana as an attempt by a sorrow-laden writer to depict the falling standards of women in the society. The fire ordeal of Sita in the Yuddha-Kanda might have been Valmiki’s attempt to dispose off the painful legend of her abandonment in the main epic itself, though such an ordeal sounds inconsistent with Ram’s character.

Ram and Sita have always served as a prototype of the ideal couple. But the truth is that Sita has been the easiest manipulative tool of control for the patriarchs down the ages. From the educated and liberated woman who always spoke her mind, she turned subservient and docile as the ages passed on.

But when will we unshackle Sita from the Lanka of patriarchy? The answer is difficult as it is always a man who brings out newer versions of the Ramayana. But Sita will find her lost glory when our women get liberated; for Sita has always been a mirror image of the Indian woman.