The aglet era

Not many people wear shoes with laces any more.

"Oh Desi Babu! You haven't written a post in almost a year, you are too lazy to tie your own shoelaces, and you have the gall to talk about shoes with missing laces?!".

You might say that, if you have been missing my posts.  But you still have to admit the fact that people are slowly forgetting the use of those long stringy thingies called shoelaces.  Most shoes are slip-ons nowadays, and even formal shoes are made with fake laces attached.

In that context, a few weeks ago, a long forgotten word suddenly came to my mind -- the aglet. If you have seen a shoelace, the aglet is a small metal band at its end. While the long shoelace is what keeps the shoe in place, the aglet is what holds the shoelace together. Had there been no aglet, the strands making up the shoelace would go their separate ways.

Ok, ok, enough about shoelaces and aglets. I haven't written for almost a year because I have been busy. Aren't we all? Big events happened while I was gone, including the fact that India got a brand-new majority government, which was hang-gliding in the seventh heaven until a few days ago, when elections happened in Bihar. And as someone, who was born in that state, I have always been interested in what the Biharis are up to. And it seems that the Biharis were recently up to something big, which has resulted in an electoral defeat for India's ruling party, the BJP, in spite of the fact that they pulled out all the stops.

But honestly, how did Mr. Amit Shah's BJP lose Bihar, after he called in the cavalry? With the big horses.

Many will tell you that the BJP was not able to differentiate "right wing"  development (aka jobs) from "left wing" development (aka electricity, roads and water). Many will tell you that the right wing caste equations (upper castes tying up with lower castes) got overwhelmed by the left wing caste equations (the middle castes staying put in terms of their voting preferences). And many will tell you that the right wing tried its best to polarize the voters, which could have worked, but it didn't.

I will tell you that it was the aglet. And that it signals the beginning of the aglet era in Indian politics.

Those of you who have watched "The West Wing" know how the white house runs on the predictions of polls and pundits. How the president is running a continuous campaign while he is in the white house. And how people, who can hold together the various threads of the senate, the congress and key public issues,  into a format that the president can run his agenda by, are the people who run the country.

For the lack of a better word, I will call such holders of threads, the aglets.

In India, we have largely been unaware of such people, and even if they have made significant contributions to famous campaigns, they have largely been ignored when credits have been handed out. Such an aglet -- Mr. Prashant Kishor -- played an important role in winning  the national elections for Mr. Modi. After the victory, he was largely ignored. So, he decided to take his business to the other side, which had so many threads, that it was ready to turn into a fluffy little ball. Instead, he put the strands together, and held them tightly, like the aglet. And when this shoe fell, man, did it hurt.

So, what does this bode for Indian politics?

In my opinion, we have come very close to the way a western style democracy is run. Pollsters, pundits and professional campaign managers, will play an extremely important role in India's future elections. Mr. Modi was the first leader to make use of social media to convey his message to the masses -- expect many more leaders to follow suit in the coming days. Over the next two years, several key states will go to the polls. And it is my prediction that we will see several aglets holding the threads, and perhaps keys, to those elections. In all, perhaps, it is good news for India, where opinions of people will count when policy is shaped, and governments will not be closed to public opinion, once they have been elected for five years.

The era of the aglets is here!

A few weeks ago, I was talking to an old Bihari gentleman who was "let down" greatly by his own people and their recent election. I told him that I write a blog and was considering writing a post about the elections.

"Don't do that!" exclaimed the gentleman, sounding exasperated.  "Those people do not deserve anything to be written about them."

"Sir, then what do you recommend I write about? I haven't written anything on my blog for almost a year." I asked. Looking down as if he was contemplating on the question, and staring intently at his shoes, he finally opened his mouth.

"Write about shoelaces my friend --  if you must."

Sanskrit, German and Owls in Athens

After a long time, India has a right wing nationalist government, that does believe in the supremacy of the ancient Hindu culture. And, just in case you don't know, the ancient Hindu religion was often known as "Arya-Dharma", or the way of life of the Aryans, who used a specific religious symbol, the Swastika, quite frequently. It is said that Adolph Hitler was quite influenced by this religion, and incorporated bits and pieces of it into his Nazi ideology. But, that is where the similarity ends.

Decades before Hitler, a scholar with his head screwed on right (as opposed to Hitler), had come to some startling conclusions about the cultural roots of the ancient Indian tribes, and those of Germania. Max Muller, with his comparative studies of ancient religions, had concluded that the Nordic and Indian concepts of God, could be traced back to abstract descriptions, that were later incarnated into "beings" that became gods. Today, Max Muller is celebrated as a scholar who brought two ancient cultures together, and showed them how similar they were, in more ways than one can imagine.

And today, those two cultures are involved in a very public display of discord.

A few years ago, the Indian government had decided to teach German in a chain of government funded schools. In order to stop the "linguistic indigestion" associated with the instruction of too many languages, they had allowed the children to choose between Sanskrit and German, two languages that Max Muller had shown to be more similar than different.  And, it seemed to be working quite well.

As the new government assumed charge, it decided to enforce its old ideology that things ancient and Indian, were superior to things foreign, and that a thorough cultural grounding was required for all Indian kids.  And so, all instruction of German was to be stopped immediately, and replaced with Sanskrit. This has triggered a nationwide debate over if students can choose a language that improves their prospects of employment in a global world, as opposed to choosing a language that provides them with a strong cultural grounding.

Trust me when I tell you that it is an extremely difficult question to answer. I say this with some authority as I have formally studied both Sanskrit and German, and I personally feel that both had a positive influence on me, during my formative years.

Sanskrit was a compulsory language for my generation, which saw very little of a "non-English" foreign language, taught in schools. When we went to college however, we could study such a language, but it would typically be French or German. And by that time, we would already know all the Sanskrit that we could ever learn -- the Shabd Roop of Deva would still occasionally appear in our nightmares, and German would let us understand what the Nazi general in the war movie was up to, when he addressed his secretary as "Meine Liebchen". Both langauges, it seems had their own use, and they were never in direct conflict with each other.

By allowing the replacement of Sanskrit with German, the previous government made an important statement -- that Sanskrit, was expendable. Depending on what you believe in, it may or may not be. One has to ask if the Germans, whose culture we are so willing to adopt, would so easily allow the instruction of an Indian language in their schools, where most of the curriculum is taught in German. If this reciprocal arrangement is not possible, we have to seriously analyze what our kids gain from letting go of a piece of their heritage, in exchange for a language that was never truly theirs. There is a lot of talk about educational and employment opportunities in Germany, but those can still be pursued if someone takes up German in college.  A short course is all one needs to understand what is being said, when it is Auf Deutsch Gesagt.

So, this debate should not be about Sanskrit or German, but about what the policy makers are going to do about the poor kids, who studied German for a couple of years, and would face significant hardship now, if they had to switch to Sanskrit. This is a delicate matter, that can only be remedied with empathy and lenience. And German could still be offered as an optional foreign language, for those, who would like to learn it.

One of the funniest phrases that I ever learned in German was "Eulen nach Athen tragen". Roughly translated, it means "carrying owls to Athens". Apparently, there was once a time when there were too many owls in Athens, and carrying any to this ancient seat of culture was considered a futile exercise. In some ways, this phrase means the same as our famous Indian equivalent of "Ulte bans Bareily Ko", that I once wrote about. Both phrases, refer to a wasteful expense of time, that no one needs to indulge in.

This entire debate on Sanskrit versus German, has indeed been a wasteful expense of time. Perhaps, it is time for us to move on to things, that are more productive. All an owl needs, is a rat to feed on, it doesn't really need to know if the rat is Indian, or German. And it certainly does not mind, if it is taken all the way to Athens, before it is fed.

First Field Marshal

In my years in the land of the free, whenever the conversation turned to India's freedom movement, my American friends would ask me if Mahatma Gandhi was our "George Washington". My answer would always be an emphatic no.

To me, George Washington was the general on horseback who drove the redcoats to the north. "In the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in the air." Of all the founding fathers of the United States, he is the most revered. His military skills were so valued that it is said that long after he ceased to be president, the reigning president, John Adams wanted to bring him back as a General during the Quasi-war with France -- to "scare the French."

George Washington was the only American leader, who could "scare" a reigning superpower at the time.

And that, always brought me back to our own founding fathers and the empire that they took on. Having read all I have about Bapu, I understand that he worried the British a lot. But scaring was reserved for only one national leader, with the same stature as Gandhi. If the British were truly scared of an Indian independence leader, it was Netaji Subhash, because, he wanted a military end to the freedom struggle. The last thing that the British ever wanted, was another 1857, and so, Netaji scared them -- like no other leader did.

During the second world war, Netaji's INA was charging on India's north-eastern frontier.  For a few months, in a small part of Indian territory, the Indian national flag flew. That part of India (Hind) was made independent (Azad), and Netaji became the Indian general on horseback, who took on the redcoats and drove them out. To me, the leader from India's freedom struggle who was the closest to what General George Washington was to the Americans, is Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. No one even comes a close second.

And that brings me to the fresh controversy that is brewing in the air. The newly elected Indian government, wants to honor Netaji Subhash with India's highest civilian honor, the Bharat Ratna (Jewel of India). And since Netaji has never been honored (posthumously) due to a controversy surrounding his death, the new government feels that it is time to give Netaji his due. The people who oppose this thinking say that Netaji was way above this award, and giving him the award after it has been conferred on "lesser mortals", would tarnish his stature. So, I thought that I would give you Desi Babu's opinion in this regard.  

The only other Indian leader of that stature who has never been given the Bharat Ratna is Mahatma Gandhi, since the father of the nation is "above" the award. It is well known that the person who conferred that title on the Mahatma was Netaji Subhash. In addition, Netaji gave a modern perspective to India's freedom struggle and was known to be responsible for India's state symbol and the state salutation (Jai Hind). The only person in the history of the Indian National Congress that ever took on Mahatma Gandhi (and defeated him) was Netaji.

So, if Netaji has the same stature as Gandhiji, how exactly should we honor him?

One option is to do nothing, like we do in Bapu's case. We do not confer posthumous awards on Bapu, although, we do give out awards in his name. Perhaps, we could do the same for Netaji.
 

 
The other option, is to confer a military honor (bold emphasis needed) on Netaji. The highest civilian honor does not quite cut it, but honoring Netaji, who always considered himself a military man, should be a military matter.

In the year 1976, during the American bicentennial, General George Washington, the General on horseback who drove the redcoats to the north, was promoted by a special act of Congress to "General of the Armies" (equivalent to Indian Field Marshal), the highest military rank. Only one serving officer in American military history, received the honor before. This posthumous conferral was unprecedented, but if any American deserved this stature, then it would be Washington.   

So, in Desi Babu's opinion, the government should consult the military top brass and through an act of parliament, create an honorary title of "First Field Marshal". India has two field marshals already, but in the order of precedence, as the first general in command of the army of Azad Hind, Netaji needs to be first.

The Bharat Ratna is an award for civilians. A soldier of Netaji's stature, deserves a military honor of the highest category. And, as the Americans showed two hundred years after their independence,  it is never too late to do the right thing.

Those Bundles of Papyrus

Recently, I read an intriguing comment on this blog, asking me what my favorite books were.  It has been a while since I have thought about that question.

All my life, I have read a lot of books. I have liked some, but never hated any. Books are the fruits of love and labor, and like you don't scorn someone Else's child, you don't scorn their books either. However, the word "favorite" conjures up a completely different set of emotions. The ones, that come from being awake all night.

I have always divided my books into the ones that can keep me completely oblivious of the need to sleep at night -- and, the ones that don't. One can understand the need to complete the journey, if a voluminous account of an arctic adventure on a sledge through a blizzard, is given in a larger number of pages, than a single night allows to complete. But, the ones that used to keep me awake, were always short stories. Somerset Maugham had a knack for spinning a web around characters, living in the most nondescript islands in the pacific, and keeping me awake till I would find out their fates. One story always ended into another, but the night never did. It was much later, that I got somewhat tired of his stories -- his times suddenly seemed remote, so remote, that I couldn't stretch and touch the characters any more.

The writings of Sir Vidiadhar, have always appealed to me. In spite of the times when he referred to me, and a countless number of my compatriots, as denizens of a land of darkness. I forgave him, for he makes me see the things, that I am otherwise quite blind to.

No other British writer has ever appealed to me, not even the great bard, whose plays, I do like to watch.

Among American writers, Hemingway has always been a favorite. F. Scott Fitzgerald is fun to read, and James Michener, for some reason, makes me reach out to the people across time, that Maugham made too distant to touch.

I have no favorites from the Russian, East European and Latin corners of the world. Not because I don't like reading translations, but because a lot gets lost in translation.

Of all the Indian writers that I have ever read, I have three favorites. R. K. Narayan, though from times that are long gone, stirs the soul. Khushwant Singh, now gone, will forever be the only writer that has scolded me, and made me laugh in the same page. And Ruskin Bond has made me cry -- many times.

Of the new crop of "famous" Indian writers, I don't like any. Some are too bombastic with their choice of words, and some are simply too commercial. Biswanath Ghosh, has great potential, for he writes from his heart, but unlike the great sardar, Mr. Ghosh, seems to have a drink too many, when he writes. He does make me laugh and cry though -- sometimes -- alternately.

One more writer that deserves a special mention, is Shobha De. I have read too many Indian writers who like to impress with what they know. Mrs. De, is quite the opposite -- she lets the reader discover what she already knows. She writes beautifully, and the impact of each word is carefully measured. Her language is deliberately kept simple, something, that the new crop of Indian writers can learn from. Her stories, though sometimes shocking, awake me to some aspects of India, that Sir Vidiadhar was perhaps too reluctant to experience and write about. And, being the gracious writer she is, she always responds to my emails.

Other than Maugham, the only ones that have kept me awake through the night are R. K. Narayan and Ruskin Bond. Both, with their short stories, some of which, have also made me cry.

Hark! The Aardvark or the Lark?

Summer holidays in India can be extremely boring.

As a child, I used to get pretty excited in April, about the impending holidays. Around this time of the year, you could still find the red and orange Palash flowers on the hilly trails of Jharkhand. The Lantana bushes would be overgrown and messy, and one would have to wade through them to stay on the beaten track. Then, the summer would quickly arrive. The bushes would become dry and shriveled, and the afternoon sun would be too bright to make a trip outside the house possible. Around an hour after lunch, when everyone would have fallen asleep, a black crow, which used to live in the tree behind the house, would start cawing incessantly. For some reason, it always reminded me of my English teacher.

Right before the school closed for vacation, our English teacher would remind us that at our age, he knew every single word in the English dictionary. And so, inevitably, on most afternoons, after the crow stopped cawing, I would take out my well-worn edition of "The Oxford's English Dictionary", and turn to page one, with the resolve that I too would become the dictionary one day. But it was always the first word, that stopped me dead in my tracks. How in the world, would a snouty ant eater, make it to the most coveted spot in the English dictionary. The Aardvark, I always thought, must have friends in really high places.

Since the two As put the Aardvark in quite an enviable spot in the English dictionary, I always wondered if India's newest political party with national ambitions, had similar objectives, when they chose their name. The Aam Aadmi Party (common man's party), would easily appear at the top of any alphabetical list of political parties in India. Were you to abbreviate it to AAP instead, you still wouldn't be able to dislodge it from the top. In fact, I have had a gnawing suspicion for quite some time, that someone in the AAP, in his or her childhood, had come to envy the Aardvark -- just like me.

Since we are talking politics, and since the largest democracy in the known universe is going through its largest transfer of responsibility and blame, from the huddled masses to a few chosen ones, I thought that I too, should express my opinion by cawing a bit.  And trust me, I would not have. In fact, I was planning to quietly march up to the nearest polling booth on election day, and vote. Simply. And then, came the postman.

The Economist, our favorite family magazine, has decided to usher in the daybreak this week, by playing the Lark. I don't like to beat about the bush, and so, I will just say it -- this week's edition disappointed me.

On the cover, they have put a photograph of a stern looking Mr. Narendra Modi, who has also thrown in a frown -- for good measure. In its editorial, the "newspaper" has expressed its inability to "back" Mr. Modi for India's highest office. First, it acknowledges the fact that Mr. Modi is perhaps better qualified than anyone else, to lead India to better times and deliver the fruits of economic development to the aspirational youth of today. Next, it reaffirms that in spite of the good things that Mr. Modi might have done, he has not yet apologized for the riots of 2002, from which, the judicial system may have exonerated him. And then, it chides Mr. Modi, for not wearing a skullcap in atonement.

While Mr. Modi may have been condemned for being biased, the esteemed "newspaper" cannot claim to be completely free of the same hazardous human infliction. What if I called The Economist a magazine, generally written for, and read by the rich white anglo-saxon man? What if I said that expressing public distrust in the judicial system of an "inferior brown-black" country, shows bias of the kind that cannot be washed down with the choicest of single malts, that the Scottish bureau might dispatch respectfully to the editor, from time to time? And what if, the fact that the editorial staff does not show up for work in turbans, can be construed as utter disrespect for the Sikh community in Britain?

Nonsense, they would say. And so do I.

Philosophical Soliloquy

Often, when Dhanno ki Amma and I fight, I threaten her that I will leave her for the life of a yogi in the Himalayas. She threatens me right back, claiming that I would not last a day without chicken biryani and Scotch. Deep philosophical  thoughts can only feed the soul -- and -- there is a lot of the corporeal material, still left in Desi Babu.

A few days ago, while flipping through random channels, I came across one of the best made serials in the history of Indian television, ever. Bharat - Ek Khoj created by Shyam Benegal, was based on Jawaharlal Nehru's famous book, The Discovery of India. Over the years, I have watched many episodes over and over again, and yet, they never seem to lose the appeal they had for me, when I watched them for the first time, years ago.

Every episode of this serial begins with a chant in Hindi, which goes like this:

Srishti se pehle sat nahin thaa, asat bhee nahin
Antariksh bhee nahin, aakaash bhee nahin thaa.
Chhipaa thaa kyaa, kahaan, kisne dhaka thaa?
Us pal to agam, atal jal bhee kahaan thaa.

There was no truth before creation, and no untruth
There was no space, and no ether.
What was hidden where? And who hid it there?
At that moment, even the bottomless, calm, water didn't exist.

This is Hindu philosophy at its original best, asking questions, and encouraging people to do the same, rather than giving out all the answers. This text, a translation of the first verse of the 129^th hymn of the tenth book of the Rig Veda, is in a class of its own, representing that very mind set of our ancestors -- people, who were never afraid to ask. And that recollection, has forced me to ask a few questions of my own, in the last few days -- on life, death, and what comes first.

Last week, my personal hero, Sardar Khushwant Singh, passed away.

Like countless other Indians who are his fans, I had always wished that he lived to be a hundred. According to the books that he recently wrote, it was very clear that he did not want to. Ninety nine, seemed to be where he would end up drawing the line. And a line he did draw.

At first, I did not know what to write about Sardarji. While most of us grew up reading his books and weekly columns, over the last decade or so, we had learned to wean ourselves off from his repertoire. But one thing that had consistently struck a chord with me, was his stand on matters such as politics and religion. Sardarji was a lifelong admirer of the congress party, and an agnostic. Although I am neither, I always admired this trait of him -- knowing where he stood on things, and not being a vagabond of thoughts.

So, when I thought of writing an obituary for Sardarji, I ended up reproducing a poem by Kabir Das verbatim. This fifteenth century pearl of wisdom affirms that while everyone has to die, one should know where they stand on things. And Sardarji knew that quite well.

It must have been very strange for him in the final years. To see that people much younger than him, were dying out. An entire generation of actors, musicians and other people that Sardarji must have written about in his heydays, disappeared before his eyes. While it is not easy to die, it is not easy to live long either. However, when he could write, his work was spirited. Life seemed to appear out of nowhere his sentences, even if they were punctuated with stories of death. Often, reading what he wrote, I was reminded of one of the fundamental tenets of Shaivite philosophy, where Shiva says, "Death itself is the the fire, that begets life."

Based on the various interviews that came out, Sardarji did not lose his sense of humor in his sunset years. To him, the question of life and death must have been like the question of chicken and egg. And nothing beats a plate of fried Punjabi kukkad, smothered in butter, and topped with sliced boiled eggs.

A few weeks ago, I had gone to a restaurant for lunch, and ordered my favorite fare, a plate of chicken biryani. Since I am a regular, the waiters there know what I usually order, and sometimes, double check my food before bringing it out to me. That day, as they were bringing the food out, they kept whispering something to each other, and pointing to the plate. I wouldn't have been surprised if they had chanced upon a lizard in that gargantuan pile of fragrant rice and savory chicken. In a couple of bites, I discovered what they were worried about. Somehow, they had switched orders, and brought out a plate of egg biryani to me. As I pointed out the mistake, about three of the waiters swooped down on my plate, took it away, and brought out a steaming plate of my original order within a minute. If someone has told you that being a good tipper does nothing for you, please ignore them.

After I finished my meal, I remarked jokingly to the waiter that while the world was still unsure about what came first, the chicken or the egg -- I could say with certainty now, that the egg came first. He didn't catch my joke, and as ninety-nine percent of the waiters in India are trained to do, he mentioned rather nervously that he would ask his manager and let me know. In a few minutes, he did reappear to let me know, quite seriously, that no one really knew what came first -- the chicken biryani or the egg biryani. However, he could get me another plate of either, if I so desired.

Now that the great Sardar is gone, I wondered what he would have done in my situation. Unlike me, he was blessed with the pithy wisdom of the fertile land that spans five rivers. I am quite sure that he would have put on a big smile and said, "Dono ke ek ek plate le ao, main pata kar loonga kaun aya tha pehle! (Bring me a plate of each, I will find out what came first.)"

I am sure, that Sardar Khushwant Singh is now sitting in his personal heaven, shaped like a light bulb, surrounded by piles of books and bottles of single malt whiskey. And once in a while, he probably contemplates on deep philosophical questions. Like what came first, the chicken, or the egg.

Goodbye Sardarji. We will miss the malice...

 

साधो ! ये  मुर्दों  का  गाँव, साधो!

पीर  मरे , पैगम्बर  मरी  हैं
मरी  हैं  ज़िंदा  जोगी |
राजा  मरी  हैं , परजा  मरी  हैं
मरी  हैं  बैद और  रोगी |
चंदा  मरी  हैं , सूरज  मरी  हैं
मरी  हैं  धरनी  अकासा |
चउदह भुवन  के  चौधरी  मरी  हैं
इन  हुन की  का  आसा |
नौहन  मरी  हैं , दस  हुन मरी  हैं
मरी  हैं  सहज  अठासी |
तैतीस  कोटि  देवता  मरी  हैं
बड़ी  काल  की  बाज़ी |
नाम  अनाम  अनंत  रहत है
दूजा  तत्त्व  ना  होई |
कहे  कबीर  सुनो  भई  साधो
भटक  मरो  मत  कोई ||

-- कबीरदास 


Oh Sadhu! This is the village of the dead!

The saints have died, the messengers die,
the life-filled Yogis die too.
The kings die, their subjects die,
the healers and the sick die too. 

The moon dies, the sun dies,
the earth and  the sky die too.
Even the caretakers of the fourteen worlds die,
no hope for me and you.

The nine die, the ten die,
the eighty eight die with ease.
The thirty three crore devatas die,
the march of time does not cease.

The un-named name lives without an end,
there is no other truth.
Says Kabir, listen, oh Sadhu!
 Do not get lost and die. 

-- Kabirdas

The Three Page Obituary

Around this time of the year, every year, I get to catch up on postponed reading.

Things get quite busy at work by the time December is half gone. And then, like many others out there, Dhanno ki Amma and I, go off on our annual break. Then, there are things to catch up on, when the new year begins. Suddenly, around this time of the month, you feel that the year is not new any more -- when someone you forgot, wishes you a happy new year. And that ,somehow, rings a strange bell.

Someone I know, wished me a happy new year today.

And that, reminded me to pick up an old issue of The Economist from December -- to catch up on postponed reading. On the cover, is Mr. Narendra Modi, India's pretentious pretender to the peacock throne, which he will probably bring back, someday. A few months ago, I would have been excited to see him on the cover of my favorite magazine. But now that he is everywhere, all the time -- somewhat like Saddam Hussein in his heyday, or God almighty on a typical day, I was not so excited.

Over years of reading, one develops certain habits. When I was a child, and when my turn to read the newspaper came, I would invariably turn to the sports page first. It was only after I was reassured that my favorite sportsmen were hale and hearty, that I would turn to the front page. Many years later, when I took an interest in politics, the sequence was somehow reversed.

Nowadays, when I open an issue of The Economist, I always turn to the last page, which carries the obituary of a famous person who has recently passed on. I have no idea where I picked up this rather morbid fascination for obituaries -- perhaps, over the years, as one becomes more acutely aware of one's own destiny, one takes an interest in what people are remembered by.

In my opinion, The Economist employs the finest writers in the world, and they really are in their Sunday best, when they write the obituaries. If you don't believe me, you should perhaps read two of my favorites -- those of Dr. Norman Borlaug, the father of the green revolution and our very own Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw. In spite of the fact that these obituaries are top notch, what makes them stand out is that I have never seen them exceed the "standard" page length of one. Perhaps, I have missed an issue or two, when this rule was violated, but then, I tend to remember exceptions quite well.

Imagine my surprise then, when I saw that there was no obituary on the last page of the issue I was reading. And then, when I flipped a page back, I found that the Economist had published a three page obituary. Apparently, one makes an exception, when the departing soul belongs to Nelson Mandela.

Dhanno ki Amma and I still disagree on why Mr. Mandela was given this rare honor. She believes that if anyone deserved a three page obituary, it was him. I still think that what you can say in three pages -- is always said better,  in a single page. However, we both agree, that these obituaries belong right up there, with the Nobel prize, the Oscar -- and the Olympic gold medal.

What makes the economist obituaries more special, is that you never really know, if you will ever know, that you made it to the hallowed last page. Just being exceptional is not going to get you there, you have to be interesting. Now that word itself, deserves closer examination, when the readership consists mostly of economists, who are not famous for being interesting.

If you are an India, trying hard to be on that last page, you have to be someone like Sailen Manna, the famous footballer, or Captain Lakshmi Sehgal of the Indian National Army. Both obituaries, made me tear up the first time I read them. Deep down, in all of us, lies a man or a woman, who would like to be remembered -- not for the wealth or the fame that we earned, but for the things that we stood for, in the life that we lived. When I read these two obituaries for the first time, they made me wonder if the life I was living, was really the life that I would have liked people to remember me by.

Since making it to the last page of the economist is an "award", you have probably guessed by now that I am eventually going to write about which Indian, in my opinion, should get it. And why not, since we are already on that path?!

And this is where I bring in the "two and a half" sardars. God forbid that anything happens to my favorite two-and-a-half, but then, eventually, we all have to go, don't we? So, what's wrong with assessing the "suitability" of my favorite candidates for the hallowed "economist" page?!

I will start with the half sardar -- the angry young man of Indian cinema, Mr. Amitabh Bachchan.  I still remember the first movie that I ever saw with Dhanno. She was three months old then, and my wife was having a well deserved nap after handing her over to me. With her on my lap, I turned on the television, and found that the famous dacoit movie, Sholay, was on. I tried explaining to my three month old, why Amitabh Bachchan was the greatest star in Bollywood, and what a great legacy he would leave behind. I remember Dhanno looking at me with her big eyes, and giving me a momentary smile -- many have told me since then, that it was probably gas. And that, brings me to the legacy of Mr. Bachchan. Till recently, he had it going pretty strong, and he would have probably found his way to the last page, but then, I saw an ad on television in which the "angry young man" of Indian cinema was trying to explain what "making charges" are, when you get bangles made for your wife. Now that, Mr. Bachchan, will get you big money, from wealthy jewelry shops. But legacy? ... that is an entirely different ballgame.

The "two-and-a-half" sardars: as Desi Babu would like to remember them.

So, that, leaves me with the two whole sardars -- Milkha Singh and Khushwant Singh. I think both have a real good chance of making it to the hallowed page. I recently saw a very well made movie on the life of the "flying sikh". If nothing else will get Mr. Milkha Singh to the hallowed last page, I am sure that his sobriquet will. And as far as the most malicious sardar in the world goes, I am convinced that Mr. Khushwanth Singh has no equal -- there never was. And if no one lobbies to the Economist editors for a last page tribute to him, I am sure that the beverage industry in Scotland will. 

And then, there is the million dollar question. Will anyone else in this century get the three page obituary, like Nelson Mandela did? Who knows! Look around you, you might just find someone.

The Return of Flora Aunty

I don't watch much news on television nowadays. In fact, for the last year or so, I have been getting all my news the old fashioned way -- mostly from the morning newspaper, and sometimes, from Sitamma, the flower lady, Laxman the fruit seller, or Nagaraj, the greengrocer. And, (although I don't feel very good when I say it), the quality of news-reporting is much better, when I get it from the people, who do something else for a living.

Something seems to be terribly wrong with Indian journalism.

A few weeks ago, I woke up to find that all the major newspapers were printing front-page stories about a famous "sting-journalist", who in turn, had been stung by one of his interns -- on sexual harassment charges. I had never heard of Mr. Tarun Tejpal from Tehelka before, and other than the fact that I saw a small alliteration hiding in his identity, I was not amused much with the news. But Indian television channels, when I flipped though them for a minute, seemed to be having a field day. I was glad that I did not watch news on television any more.

Last week, I finally summed up enough courage to switch on the news on TV once again. We just had elections in five states in India, and the results are supposed to be very critical for the national elections that lie ahead. I have always considered election coverage to be a good test of competence, for the various television "anchors", who call themselves journalists. Newspapers simply don't have it in them, to compete with news that streams in, up to the minute, and hot off the teleprinter, when election results are on. On such occasions, I always like to compare three news channels in India -- each with its own "face" of so called television journalism.

Times-now, a television "tabloid" channel, has a gentleman called Arnab Goswami at the helm. I have never seen a more perfect example of what psychiatrists like to call multiple personality disorder. After Mr. Goswami asks a question, and before someone can answer, one of the many voices in his head takes over and interrupts the conversation. Between his own personality and the six or seven others in his sub-conscious, Mr. Goswami, can run an entire news show by himself. I pity the others who have to be on his show, but then, I have a feeling that he probably compensates them well for their time. It goes without saying that I did briefly enjoy the election coverage that was made by Mr. Goswami and the voices in his head.

A study in contrast is Mr. Prannoy Roy, one of the veterans of Television news in India. We don't get to see him much on TV nowadays, as a younger and more brash crowd has taken over his channel, NDTV. But, come election time, one can see Indian television journalism at its best, when Mr. Roy takes the helm. With a calm demeanor, and an old-school style of journalism, that encourages the speaker to finish a line of thought, Mr. Roy is a delight to watch. It's a pity that we get to watch him doing what he does best, only when we go to the polls.

But the third channel that I accidentally flipped to, when I was trying to get a taste of Indian TV journalism, was CNN's Indian avatar, CNN-IBN. And the program I stumbled upon, was a post election analysis of why the Congress party in India is going through its last throes. But before I tell you what I felt about the journalist, Ms. Sagarika Ghose, I have to tell you about Flora Aunty.

During our long exile away from Des, when we used to live in the land of the free, I used to miss the warm and bright colors that define India.  The western world has a very different idea of what colors should look like, which is why, travelers to India are dumbstruck, when they see the bright colors for the first time. If you are a Desi living in the west, you almost go through withdrawal symptoms, when you first see the widespread chromatic reticence which seems to draw from similar levels of reserve in social conduct, that people seem to prefer.

Imagine my surprise then, that after we moved back to India, I saw that the old Indian colors had disappeared, perhaps, because people preferred less exuberance in the clothes they wore, or perhaps, because the "high-end" clothes, made in China, had no way of appealing to the visual palette of Desis.

And then, came Flora Aunty.

Manorama, the "original" Flora Aunty.

Dhanno Ki Amma used to watch a late night serial, called "Is Pyar ko Kya Naam Doon? (What shall I call this love?)" Although she never managed to convince me to watch the serial, I was taken aback, when I watched one of the supporting characters called Mrs. Manorama, for the first time. Florescent in her bright colors, and resplendent in her jewelry, Manorama, was the epitome of what an Indian color palette could achieve. For the first time in decades, I felt that Indian civilization, along with all the bright colors that it had to offer, had not surrendered to the Chinese. My Desi pride was back. 

Since all good things have to come to an end, the unnamed love of "Is Pyar ko Kya Naam Doon", evenually ended as well. And Mrs. Manorama, who we used to refer to as Flora Aunty, disappeared off the airwaves. Our lives were dark and bland again, with all the colors gone -- taken away, by Flora Aunty.

When I saw Ms. Ghose on CNN-IBN for the first time, I gave off a cry of delight. As Dhanno ki Amma joined me, I gleefully pointed to the television, and shouted, "Flora Aunty is back!". The large LCD screen was florescent with the colors Ms. Ghose was wearing. The same colors, that Mrs. Manorama had taken away from us, when she left us in pain.
 

Ms. Ghose, the "new" Flora Aunty.

Ms. Ghose is actually a delight to listen to, because she seems to combine the pointedness that the new generation of Indian TV journalists seem to use, with the patience and decency of Mr. Prannoy Roy. I was quite impressed with the way she conducted the entire show, asking questions that I would have liked her to ask on my behalf, as a viewer. But her choice of colors had me bowled over, since both Dhanno ki Amma and I, were sorely missing Flora Aunty.

I can tell you that we are going to watch a lot more news on television, now that we have rediscovered our Flora Aunty, albeit, in a completely new Avatar. And in spite of all the brashness and the frequent use of simian projectiles, by the new crop of Indian journalists, I am glad that Flora Aunty is here to stay, as an alternative to them.

And of course, I pray to Shiva, that she does not ever change the person, who is in charge of her wardrobe.  

The Battle for the Ruins

The Indian general elections are coming. And, during such times, I always remember the most spectacular loss that a political party had to endure, during recent times.

In 1989, Vishwanath Pratap Singh, cobbled together an uneasy coalition of partners, with some inside and some outside of his government, to become India's prime minister. This was the second election, in which, the Congress party had to be outside the corridors of power in New Delhi. Although most people viewed these elections as a spectacular victory for V.P. Singh, and his anti-corruption crusade, a lot, including Desi Babu, also appreciated the fact that it was a spectacular loss for the Congress.

Rajiv Gandhi, had led his party to a massive victory in 1984, while the embers of his mother's funeral pyre were still cooling. This "sympathy wave", that gave his Congress party more than a four fifths majority, was completely absent in 1989, and Mr. Gandhi, and his political party, were routed. During those days, I remember someone saying with a lot of authority, that the days of the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty, were finally over. Mr. Gandhi's party did come back to power in 1991, again, partially riding a sympathy wave, that was present due to the assassination of another "Nehru-Gandhi". This time, unfortunately for Mr. Rajiv Gandhi, it had to be him.

Many wonder, what would have happened to the Congress, had Mr. Gandhi been alive. Desi Babu believes that Mr. Gandhi would have led it to oblivion, as he simply did not have it in him. In death, perhaps, he helped the Congress party much more than he was capable of ever helping it, in life.

Most people in India today are discussing the upcoming electoral victory of Mr. Narendra Modi. Many, are planning his agenda, or his cabinet for him, and the rest, are speculating about the number of seats that he might win. Just like in 1989, Desi Babu is trying to figure out what will happen to India's oldest political party after the upcoming elections.

Never before in the past, has the Congress party gone through such a "life and death" situation.

After the elections, it will become very clear to the Congress mandarins that Mr. Rahul Gandhi is not really someone who can take them to electoral victories. After all, he has tried hard and failed so many times that 2014 will be a mere affirmation of a fact that they already know. They will also come to the realization that the Indian people, specially the young voters, have outgrown the "dynasty". The "family" does not hold a special place in their hearts, and they would really like to move on.

Another rude shock that will await them at that time, will be that the "left of center" political discourse, with a Gandhian flavor,  will no longer be owned by them. The "Aam Aadmi Party", a recent entrant to India's political space, is both left-of-center, and Gandhian. The Congress, being heavily invested in one political family, will be quite sore, when they find that the current heirs are not very competent at running the family business, and that the competition has a better product, which sells well.  The other leaders of the past, that they could possibly lay claims on, will have been usurped by the opposition. The coins of legacy, would have been exhausted.

When a citadel crumbles, first, there are the ruins. And then, there is a battle for the ruins.

Desi Babu believes that after the massive loss that the Congress will go through, there will be a rebellion in the party. Some will leave for greener pastures, and those who stay, will have to assert themselves as alternatives to the "Nehru-Gandhi" family. And Desi Babu also believes that this process has already started.

Mr. Kapil Sibal and Mr. Chidambaram, the two most recognized faces of the Congress party, will start positioning themselves for the leadership of the party in the coming months. As they realize that the Congress is headed for a big loss, and the family is headed into oblivion, they will become more assertive. It is also possible that they will start clandestine talks with people like Mr. Sharad Pawar, Ms. Mamata Banerjee and Mr. Jagan Reddy -- to bring back the prodigal sons and daughters that left -- since the "family" will not matter any more.

In 2014, the right of center, will probably win. It remains to be seen if the Congress will stay the dominant player in the space to the left of center. And if it does, who, outside the Nehru-Gandhi family will make that possible. 

Bapu Special

It has been more than a couple of years since I started blogging. In my writings, I have made no secret of my admiration for Mahatma Gandhi, or Bapu as we like to call him in India.

In the Indian public discourse, discussions about Bapu are usually sombre and guarded, and reflect the way opinion on famous political personalities is made -- and shared.  A serious, and perhaps academic, piece of writing on Bapu, is always deliberate in being politically correct. To the writer, the experience is often like walking on a tightrope strung between two highrise buildings, lovingly named as Lugubria and Soporifica.

Over the years, I have often written about Bapu, sometimes perhaps, in the jocular vein, but I have always been respectful. Today, since it is Bapu's birthday, I have decided to refer back to some of my posts from the past, that the reader might find interesting.

Perhaps, you remember the time when I had gone out with a bunch of friends on Bapu's birthday, and remembered that we could not buy ourselves a drink. Perhaps, you remember when I was trying to figure out who the Mahatma's reincarnation would have been, according to the Hindu scriptures, only to be told by one of the blog's readers that perhaps, it was Mr. Vijay Mallya, the famous beer bursar from Bangalore.

And of course, there has been a time, when I have written a serious and long piece on the possible libertarian leanings of the Mahatma, only to be reminded by a reader that perhaps libertarianism is not the answer for an already fractured country like ours.

Champion of Liberty -- Libertarian?

My favorite post on The Peanut Express, about the Mahatma, had little to do with my own writings. In that post, I  had reproduced a few lines, verbatim, from one of the columns written by my personal hero, Mr. Khushwant Singh. Mr. Singh, is known for his sharp wit, which is sometimes mixed with mischief -- like whiskey is often mixed with soda. In the end, while intoxicating, it leaves a strange taste in the mouth, and a deep longing for real scotch in the heart.

But then, on Bapu's birthday, perhaps, I should refrain from using such metaphors.

भैंस के आगे बीन

पूछा मैंने भैंस से, क्या अब भरपेट खा पाओगी ?

तुम्हारा चारा खाने वाले, दो दर्जन या तीन,
बैठ कर जेल में अब काट रहे सजा संगीन|
सोचा था हमने उनको छू भी न पायेगा कोई
किसको पता था कि देख रहा है इलाहे दीन।

मासूम सा मुंह बनाकर, भैंसवती देवी बोली,
सलाखों के पीछे बैठ कर गाने बजाने  से क्या होता है?
जिसको खाना था, वह तो खा कर पचा भी गया,
बाहर जो बैठे हैं,  उनको पता तक नहीं चला|
धरती खिसक गयी पैरों तले से उनकी,
आसमान सरक गया सर के ऊपर से|
पर भनक तक नहीं पड़ी इन बेचारों को

क्योंकि,  ये  भैंस के आगे सिर्फ बजा रहे हैं बीन।

Soorma Bhopali Redux

Central bankers are boring people. I once heard a speech by Alan Greenspan during the days when a couple of shots of the strongest moonshine wouldn't do a thing for me. A couple of lines by the great tormentor of irrational exuberance were enough to doze me off.

They say that central bankers are required to be boring. In fact, if a highly decorated economist is not boring enough, he can never be a successful central banker. Armed with this information, Dhanno-Ki-Amma and I had once attended a talk by the great  Raghuram Rajan, during the release of his book a few years ago. As we had walked out of the auditorium, I had told my wife that the great doctor was destined for the same levels of greatness that Alan Greenspan had once attained.

A couple of days ago, as Dr. Raguram Rajan took his oath of office as India's top banker, I seriously contemplated a career in soothsaying. But we will talk about that on some other day.

In the last few days, Raghuram Rajan has been projected by the Indian media as a "rock star" economist, who is going to instantly stop the exchange rate slide, elevate the stock indices, eliminate the current account deficit, and fix everything else that is wrong with the Indian economy. Don't get me wrong, I really admire the guy. He is an extremely bright individual, with a sense of purpose, who comes across as someone, who genuinely cares about where the country is headed, when our leaders seem to have bailed on us. But, the last time I checked, rock stars don't fix anything -- they never have.

What came to my mind, when I thought about what the Indian economy really needs, was more of a knight in shining armor. I have no idea why this happens to be, but the word for knight in Desi Babu's favorite languages of Hindi and Urdu, happens to be Soorma. 

Now, hold that thought for a couple of minutes while I tell you about something else. Raghuram Rajan, has been named after the Lord of Ayodhya -- twice, if you care to count. I could not, even in my wildest dreams, imagine that our esteemed right wing, would question his "Indian-ness", but as it turns out, they did. Because, for various reasons, including the fact that he seems to be more devoted to India than many of our politicians do, it was suspected that he was not Indian by birth. Apparently, the matter was quickly settled when Dr. Rajan produced a birth certificate, proving that he was born in the capital of the state, known as Hindustan ka Dil (the heart of India) -- Bhopal.

That makes Raghuram Rajan a Desi! And Desi Babu feels quite elated that a fellow Desi is in charge of the great hoard of national gold, buried deep in some pit, somewhere. But just hold it, right there, because the real interesting part is yet to come.

If Raghuram Rajan is a Soorma, and he is from Bhopal, what does that make him? You got it right -- Soorma Bhopali!

Soorma Bhopali (center) with Jai and Veeru in Sholay

For those of you who don't know, Soorma Bhopali, was an interesting character, played by Jagdeep in the greatest Indian movie of all times, Sholay. Apparently, there was a gentleman in Bhopal, who went by the name of Nahar Singh, who was the inspiration for the character of Soorma Bhopali. And if legend has any truth to it, Mr. Singh was quite the white knight, with a heart of gold. Unfortunately, he passed away in a road accident, leaving behind a pair of large shoes that no one has been able to fill.

And so, perhaps, the best thing that could happen to India during these troubled times, is if someone brought back Soorma Bhopali. If Raghuram Rajan does his job alright, we might finally conclude that the great Soorma is back amongst us.

And for that, our prayers are with Dr. Rajan. 

The ones with the Tehzeeb

Dhanno ki Amma does most of our family shopping. And she likes to buy from places that have the best quality of merchandise, without caring much for what she has to shell out.  She buys our weekly supply of fruit from a hole-in-the-wall shop in our neighborhood. Laxman, who owns the shop, is an extremely enterprising young man. However, like most fruit-vendors in India,  he is quite selective in his manners.

When Dhanno ki Amma gets down from her chauffeur-driven car and spends a fortune on mangoes and lychees, without haggling about the price, she gets the royal red carpet treatment from Laxman. Most people, who walk in to buy a couple of guavas or papayas, would be lucky to get a nod from him. So, a few days ago, when my wife asked me to buy some fruit, and my driver was trying to find a parking spot in front of the fruit shop, I walked in with a shabby look, and an equally shabby shopping bag in tow. Laxman looked through me, and didn't even blink an eyelid.

In a few minutes however, as our car slid in to a space in front of his shop and he recognized me as the poor husband of the  rich woman who spends, he rolled out the red carpet to me. He picked my mangoes for me and smelled the bad ones out. He went "inside" to get me a fresh bunch of bananas, and he gave me a lychee to taste -- a privilege reserved for the most "esteemed" of customers. But, the way he offered me the lychee just bowled me over, because that is how fruit vendors would formally offer a lychee for a customer to taste --  in the India that I grew up in.

When a fruit vendor formally offers someone a lychee, it is first half-peeled, with the white flesh in the top part exposed. The peel stays in the part that lies towards the stalk. Then, he offers the lychee holding the unexposed part for "cleanliness". The customer, presumably with clean hands, can grab the fleshy part and enjoy the lychee. This "half-peeled handover maneuver", as some military-folks might call it, is a classic example of well mannered Indian customer service. And to me, it brought back memories of the small-town India of the yester-years, where such things did matter. 

A few lychees, with one ready for sampling.

 The lychee maneuver reminded me of another example of Indian Tehzeeb (culture) that many people are no longer familiar with. As is the custom, at the end of dinner, if you have to offer your guest a paan (betel leaf), what would be the best way to do it?  Tehzeeb says that the pointed end of the paan, should always be towards you. If it helps, just treat the paan like a sword, and remember that the paan is always mightier than the sword.

The right way to offer a paan.

You might wonder why Desi Babu has this sudden fascination with Tehzeeb?

In the last year or so, I have seen my country go to the dogs. If you tune in to any news channel, or open up the morning newspaper, all you can see are news stories about who else has scammed the government of boatloads of money. All the key economic indicators are down, and the India growth story has been written off as "told". The ordinary people are worried about their future. Things look bleak, very bleak.

In big cities, you can see people in a terrible rush, to get nowhere. People don't seem to have the basic courtesies that you would expect them to have irrespective of the value system they believe in. So, when I see random flashes of a bygone era, in fruit vendors and pan-wallahs who still seem to be preserving our culture, I get happy. Happy enough, to write about it.

There was one thing that was sweeter than the half-peeled lychee maneuver though. The lychee itself. If you don't believe me, go ahead and try one yourself. The first showers have almost come, it is only a matter of time before the lychees go away.   

Peanuts, Literal and Figurative

I saw him walking towards my car. He looked young and had a face that needed shaving for a while. He had a bandanna tied to his head that had a very prominent "om" written on it. He was wearing spectacles, and had the piercing gaze of an intellectual, fresh out of school, and still without a job. To me, perhaps, he would have qualified as a hippie, or a writer, or perhaps -- both.

But at the moment, he just looked like a homeless guy, looking for a handout.

This was not a good part of town, and I was planning to flee it as soon as the red light turned green. As the man came close to my car, and smiled expectantly at me, I rolled my window down. My wife used to caution me about giving money to homeless people, since they were known to blow it on drugs.

I had a nice large pack of salted peanuts on the front seat. I picked it up and handed it to him. He looked shocked. The conversation that followed was quite interesting.

"But these are peanuts!"

"Yes!"

"No man, you see, these are just peanuts!"

"So I see. Perhaps, I should know, since I handed these to you, right?!"

"No, no, you see, you don't understand. When I said that these were peanuts for the first time, I meant literally. When I said it for the second time, I meant figuratively. As in not much stuff, man!"

I always mixed up my literals and figuratives, and so, I smiled at him, and said, "Thanks for the education, I really need to improve my English."

"You might want to start by not trying to hire a monkey for a teacher, man!"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know! They say that if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys! And you sure don't want to learn from a monkey, man."

The light had turned green. I yelled, "Enjoy your peanuts!" and drove away.

After driving for a mile or so, I decided that if I ever wrote seriously and regularly, it would have something to do with peanuts. And, that once in a while, I would bring the monkeys into my writing.

Literally, and figuratively.

The water tweet

I went to a college in the middle of nowhere. And as engineering schools used to be, the student population was unusually skewed in favor of men. There were a few women in our graduating class, and during our days on campus, everyone knew who they were seeing.

On one particular Saturday evening, I went to a restaurant on campus, with a bunch of my friends. And there, as we looked around, all of us got the shock of our lives. On a table for two, a few yards from ours, was sitting the prettiest girl on campus. And opposite her, was sitting a friend of ours, who in these more modern times, would perhaps have been called un-cool. To say the least, that is.

They were engrossed in a conversation. So much, that they didn't even seem to notice the rest of us. In a few days, there was a rumor on campus that the two were in love. A few days later, when I met my friend alone, I asked him about the rumors. And, he gave me a curt  answer.  

"Oh, we were just making conversation in the restaurant. The chair opposite her was empty as I walked in, and all the other tables were taken. So, I sat down with her permission. And then, we talked. What else are you supposed to do when there is a pretty girl sitting opposite you?!"

A few days ago,  I was in a restaurant, waiting for my lunch. In India, in the cheaper restaurants that I seem to like, you don't wait for an unoccupied table, or, for a waiter to seat you. You walk in and find an empty chair. And then, you sit down to eat. It is quite efficient, and works well for most. So, I had walked in, and found an empty chair, which was opposite to a gentleman, who, with his emaciated look and unkempt beard, looked like a farmer. And then, as I looked around, I saw a pretty girl sitting a few tables away. The chair opposite her was empty. In just a few minutes, I saw a very handsome young man walk up to her table. He asked her if the seat was taken, and sat down.

They both looked like college students, and I suddenly remembered the incident from years ago, when a boring friend of mine had struck up an interesting conversation with a pretty girl. These two looked like a handsome pair to me, and so, my ears perked up for any interesting conversation that might float by.

To my disappointment, the young man pulled out a cellphone from his pocket. Then, he plugged in a headset and started listening to music, as he presumably surfed the web. Feeling completely ignored, the young lady looked out the window. If they were a few years older, they would have easily passed for a happily married couple.

Feeling completely let down by the twitter and facebook generation, I turned my attention to the farmer friend of mine, sharing the table. Although I didn't know his language, and his Hindi was passable, we had a pretty nice conversation. His district was going through a drought and he was in town to talk to some important people for help.

In the middle of our conversation, I heard a cellphone ringing. The farmer pulled out a phone from his pocket, and started a long conversation in the local language. From the tone, I could feel that he was joking with someone. And, he sounded very patronizing.

After he put the phone down, he told me that a young man had called him from the agriculture department trying to help him. The man had apparently offered to look at his soil report and using the internet, fix his problems for him with an SMS. The old farmer had asked him, with a twinkle in his eye, if he could SMS him some water. Given, that his district was facing a drought.

And that, was the end of the conversation.

I felt like cheering for the old farmer. Yes! There were more people like me out there. Those, who had a fair degree of skepticism for social media. SMS, Twitter and Facebook included.

Still elated, I looked at the table of the young and the restless.

The young man was still playing with his phone. The young lady had pulled out her own, and was busily tapping something into it. She had a full plate on the table in front of her. The waiter had forgotten to bring her water.

Perhaps, like my farmer friend, she badly needed some water. And perhaps, she was tweeting that to her friends on facebook, before sending an SMS to the waiter.

We were out of water too, and the waiter was nowhere to be seen. My farmer friend realized that yet another drought was imminent. And so, he reached out to the next table, and grabbed the jug -- to pour us some. If I had a Facebook account, I would have told everyone in the world that I knew, that it was simply brilliant of him to do so.

Too old for this stuff...

This weekend, I was watching a late night movie with Dhanno ki Amma.

The 1993 made  movie, 'In the Line of Fire', is an action thriller about a veteran secret service agent, Frank Horrigan (played by Clint Eastwood), who lost president Kennedy to an assassin in Dallas. Horrigan is tormented by an ex-CIA assassin gone nuts, Mitch Leary (played by John Malkovich). Leary wants to assassinate the president at the time, and Horrigan would do everything humanly possible to stop him.

The movie has a pretty intense scene, where the president hits the campaign trial, and a disguised Leary sits in the audience. At an opportune moment, Leary bursts a few balloons with a contraption he is carrying, driving the security detail into a frenzy. When people realize that it was a false alarm, there is a lot of yelling and cursing, directed at Horrigan. At the end of the long day, Horrigan is shown having a drink with his colleague, Sam Campagna.

Campagna tells Horrigan, "Dammit Frank, you are too old for this shit. You should retire."

At this point in the movie, I already had a couple of drinks, and I was nursing a third one. At the same time, I was looking up some interesting information on the movie on my laptop, which is quite old and moody, to say the least. Since I wasn't having much luck with the computer, I shut its lid down with an audible snap, and said something under my breath, that I probably shouldn't have.

As I placed my laptop next to my wife's, which is also quite old, I swear that I heard it say to mine, "Dammit Frank, you are too old for this shit. You should retire."

Now, I am just trying to figure out who named my laptop Frank.  I always called it Joe. You should know the names of your drinking buddies.

Islands in the ocean

Every year, the last week of January provokes many thoughts. And every year, around this time, I get to collect those thoughts and analyze them, together.

It all starts on the 23rd of January, the birthday of Netaji Subhash, one of the prominent freedom fighters of India, who took a stand opposite to that of Mahatma Gandhi, that freedom could be won by Ahimsa (non-violence) and Satyagraha (insistence on truth) alone. Netaji went on to raise an army of Indian expatriates, establish a free Indian government in exile, and win Indian territory back from the British in battle. He was lucky to raise the tricolor in free India, a few years before our first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru could. Many believe that had he succeeded, Netaji would have become to Indians, what general George Washington became to the Americans -- the general on horseback, who took on the mighty British empire, and chased its redcoats out of his country.

A few days later, on the 26th of January every year, along with millions of my fellow Indians, I celebrate the founding of our republic. It is an extremely important day for us, because we celebrate our constitution, along with the rights and the freedoms that it guarantees. Many believe that it is on the 26th of January 1950, that we truly became independent, with our own president as the head of state.

And, then, just a few days later, along with countless other Indians, I mournfully remember the day that Bapu was assassinated. On January 30, 1948, a Hindu fanatic, Nathuram Godse, shot Mahatma Gandhi during an open prayer meeting. And with that, died the person that Netaji Subhash had called the father of the nation, in spite of the many disagreements that he had with him.  

Bapu and Netaji

At the end of the week, like countless other Indians I try and imagine what India would have been like, if Netaji had won the war, or, if Bapu had been alive a little longer. Unfortunately, neither of them had much say into what India eventually became. In the final days of the second world war, Netaji disappeared without a trace. And Bapu, fell to an assassin's bullets, two years before our constitution came into force.

Many times, when I complain about the tyranny of the majority that India has come to be,  my friends, who know about my libertarian leanings, call me a jackboot sympathizer. I make no secret of my admiration for Netaji Subhash, but I admire him for only one thing. I don't think that anyone in our history has had the amount of selfless love that Netaji had for India -- and no one gave so much for India and got so little in return, like him. But, unlike what most people think of us, libertarians do not believe in "jackboot dictatorships." And, I certainly do not believe that India would have been a better country, if it became a military dictatorship following its liberation under Netaji's command.

Just like libertarians do not believe in the "tyranny of the majority", we do not believe in the "tyranny of the minority" as well. Libertarians like small governments, and they believe in the power of the individual to determine the liberties that they should have. One could say, that some of us are borderline anarchists. But, one should know that anarchy is not necessarily the same as lawlessness, but simply, less power available to a repressive state to implement, what it sees as the law.

And that brings me to Bapu, and what he thought India should have become.

Many believe that Bapu was a libertarian. If you want to take on a mighty empire, and rip it apart, you have to strike where it hurts the most. Bapu's movement had questioned the legitimacy of the British empire to rule by law, when simple law abiding subjects had to face the full brutality of the state for peacefully making a point. Bapu had cleverly put anarchist sentiments in a country, which was never completely unaware of  them. Bapu was against the state that he managed to dismantle -- and so, you could perhaps say, that he was a libertarian.

Bapu wanted an India, which was very different from the India that finally came into being on republic day. He dreamed of a state that was a loose federation of villages and city-states, sharing a common military and foreign policy. Bapu's India would have an executive president, directly elected by the people, and unlike many executive presidents the world over, he or she would have minimal powers.

Bapu knew that Indians liked to organize themselves as families, clans and tribes. He understood very well that a pathan from the northwest frontier had nothing in common with a naga from the north eastern frontier. And so, it was futile to try and subject them to a common set of rules along with half a billion other Indians (at that time). It would have been best for people to locally manage their business, with their own cultural identities, religious practices and languages. For whatever reasons that might be, India never went that way.   

In the last sixty or so years of the republic, we have simply tried to become a replica of the west. We started out by adopting a Westminster style democracy, which works well for a few islands in the Atlantic, but miserably fails for a country of  India's size. Then, we turned it into a monarchy of sorts, which maintains all the trappings of a republic -- some say, that this evolution is a close reflection of our feudal mindset. At various times, in various states, we have been ruled by people who believe in a religious theocracy, or in a dictatorship of the proletariat. And, on many occasions, many of us have longed for an American style presidential system, where perhaps, we would be able to elect our very own "emperor" in a country, that seems to need one. Quite badly.

Assuming just for a moment that Bapu's dream of a loosely bound confederation of villages was indeed what modern India became, I keep wondering what things would look like. Perhaps, our villages would be much richer than they are, perhaps our people would be much more involved in the governance of their cities. Perhaps, we would not have separated ourselves into three nations, two of which are at perpetual war with each other. There would not have been a need to separate, as Hindu and Muslim villages would exist side by side with each other, each applying its own justice in the area that it ruled over. Those, who did not like a particular village, would always be at liberty to move to another. The country would simply have too many choices, where something unique existed for everybody.

Perhaps, a libertarian India of Bapu's dream would have been like islands in the ocean, at peace with each other. As many islanders will tell you, there is always plenty of fish to go around, and coconut rum to drink. And at the end of the day, the sunsets are beautiful. Always.

Unidentified Flying Monkeys

Last week was quite eventful for people who work with rockets in Asia.

First, there was news, that the Indian defense research organization, DRDO, successfully launched a submarine based missile. As I understand it, these types of missiles are the most difficult to design, because, as a rocket leaves the undersea environment and enters the atmosphere, there is a dramatic change in the properties of the fluid surrounding it.  If you have ever flown in an aircraft during turbulence, think of what would happen if you experienced a thousand such turbulence events, all at the same time. Making the aircraft stable during such an event, is virtually impossible.

The Indian scientists figured out, how to make a rocket stable during a "thousand turbulences" event, which is specially useful, when the rocket carries a nuke on it. And it again put them in a select list of countries around the world, who know how to launch a missile from a submarine, and make it hit a target in the enemy territory,  thousands of miles away.

Then, there was news from South Korea, that they managed to launch their own civilian rocket for the first time. This is really a big deal for them, as they are having a hard time convincing their cousins to the north, that they too can do things in style. Gangnam style.

But then, the rocket launch that really caught my attention, was the Iranian one. The Iranians launched a rocket, and just to make things more interesting, put a monkey on it. So, Iran now belongs to the select group of nations, that have put a monkey in space.

What gave me heartburn on this one, is that India, having been a space and rocketry power for decades now, and being the country that has sent a probe to the moon, and a country that knows how to launch an undersea missile, never managed to send a monkey into space. Alas, while we have actively looked into sending humans into space, we have never managed to send a monkey to space!

Kyon bhai, yeh kaisi baat hui?

Erudite Indian rocket scientists with long flowing beards might convince you that all that stuff is monkey business, and we only do serious stuff in India. But still, when I recently met a friend of mine, who follows rocket technology very closely, I asked him why we don't launch monkeys into space.

He knows that it is completely futile giving Desi Babu a serious answer to such questions. And so, he gave me the answer that I was looking forward to.

Apparently, before an Indian monkey is launched into space, we have to determine what its caste and religion is. If we do not give it appropriate consideration in such matters, our politicians from all castes and religions will raise a big ruckus, and shut down India's defense and space programs, with the help of  our leaders, who prioritize such matters over everything else, including those of national interest.

Then, there is the fear that a tribe of unidentified flying monkeys will land from space and invade the republic of India, if they feel that their cousin, the space monkey was used as an experimental subject. In such a situation, since monkeys don't talk much, and  they don't like others to talk, they might clamp down on  the freedom of speech in the republic of India.

So, if India is ruled by a tribe of unidentified flying monkeys from space, we the people, will not be able to speak our minds at literary festivals, or make movies about various socially important subjects any more. Our constitutional rights will be suspended -- and the people protesting for those rights in the streets of New Delhi will be beaten with batons and hosed down with cold water in the middle of  the winter. Things would indeed be very terrible if we dare to launch a monkey into space.

And then, my friend paused for a second, thought for a while and said, "What the hell, let me write to the prime minister and ask him to allow ISRO to launch a space monkey. Why worry about the consequences, when you have already faced them!"

I am with him. Are you?

Just let me be

On every republic day, the government of India comes out with a list of honors.

For many years, no one has been awarded India's highest civilian honor, the Bharat Ratna (The jewel of India). However, just down a notch, and a couple of more notches, there are plenty of awards to go around. Known as the Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan, and Padma Sri, these awards make up the "next level" of recognition in the eyes of the Indian government. Since all three have the Sanskrit word "padma" (lotus) in them, I like to think of the recipients of these awards as the lotus eaters of India, but that is a completely different discussion to have, on perhaps, another day.

Like it happens every year, some people did not like the fact that they did not get the award, and some, thought that they deserved a better award. The nicest thing about awards, is that you can make people fight over them. Perhaps that is why, governments like to give them out.

And every single year, I wait for someone to take the high moral ground and decline the award, making a statement such as, "I don't  deserve it", or, "There are better people than me, who deserve this award", or  even better still, "The very idea of an award is wrong, so, please do take it back, will you?"

In fact, a few years ago, when the Nobel committee sprung a surprise by awarding Mr. Barack Obama the Nobel peace prize, I had hoped that Mr. Obama would decline the prize with a "Thanks, but no thanks" statement. No one, including Mr. Obama, had a clue about why he deserved the prize more than a lot of others out there. And no one understood why Mr. Obama decided to just keep it.

Every time these awards are handed out, I think of  the greatest existentialist philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre. Monsieur Sartre, as far as I know, was the only person in the history of the Nobel prize in literature to decline it, with the simple explanation that "a writer should not allow himself to be turned into an institution."  I keep wondering how many others were out there,  in the world of literature, who would have trampled over M. Sartre, to see if the prize could instead be awarded to them.

And that, brings me to India's largest literary slug-fest. Of, for and by the people, who write with both ends of their pens -- words -- which seem to come out of both ends of their alimentary canals. The Jaipur literary festival is underway again, and that, primary means that no one has shut them down yet, or, that they have once again managed to attract a large force of gullible "litterateurs". Perhaps both.

A certain sociologist known as Mr. Nandi, who otherwise seems to be a very balanced thinker on late night television shows has become the latest victim to the foot and mouth disease that seems to be plaguing India. He apparently made a remark about corruption and certain castes in India which was apparently taken out of context and given an apparent political twist by the people in power, who thrive on such things, apparently. Yes, I know, I shouldn't be using the word "apparent" so many times in a single sentence, specially, when the great Jaipur literary festival is in session.

But apparently, people can now take me to court for speaking my mind in the democratic republic of India, specially, on republic day.  A day, on which, the constitution which guarantees us freedom of speech, is celebrated with a parade of guns, tanks and missiles, which can protect that fundamental of all rights, that I have come to cherish. Apparently.

Sartre comes to mind, once again. For the simple existential approach to the philosophy of life that he and others tried to put forth. An approach, which among other things, said, "Just let me be, please?"

It seems that in this sixty-third year of the republic, when we keep fighting over awards and words taken out of context, or not, we should perhaps do the best thing that republics and democracies are famous for. Let us leave people alone, and they will figure out the things that really matter to them. And, to the rest of us.