Computer in Allahabad

My first brush with computers was in Allahabad, during the first year of my graduation in the late 90s. The exposure to a giant, greasy pale yellow machine at that time seemed to be a delight.
At the agriculture university where most classes discussed lifecycle of crops, primary constituents of milk or best practices of feeding piglets, computer classes were like a picnic.
The powerful moving visuals, air-conditioned ambience and the excitement of checking your Yahoo mail in the lone desktop powered by mostly dysfunctional dial-up connection, it was fun.
Most of us never got more than a few minutes to touch the black, almost broken key boards, but it was pleasure anyways. The computer session also saw the unlikely pairing of people who were desperate to share a computer overcoming all earthly distinctness.
Like the always fighting conservative Malayali Christian boy and equally conservative Bihari Brahmin, the sophisticated chiffon clad Lucknowi girl and the rustic paan chewing Jaunpuri boy.
Years of differentiation, cultural egos and heartfelt irritation melted for a short while every Saturday at 12 P.M Indian Standard Time, when the computer classes began. The vivid memories of the computer classes come back as I discover more of my graduation tribe on the Facebook or Twitter.

Bhuvan Yadav's case against Barkha Rani

Monsoon rain is the key word today. Not only the farmers for whom it is the lifeline, but almost every individual across villages, cities, chawls, skyscrapers, schools and Parliament talk about it, after experiencing the worst monsoon in four decades, last year. They now know it for being responsible for a good harvest, lower price regime, better rural income, faster growing economy and absence of hunger. This understanding has brought it into popular culture within no time. Yesterday I was watching this creative sarcastic drama ‘Bhuvan Yadav’s case against Barkha Rani’.

The case begins with appearance of frail and visibly shaken Bhuvan Yadav, a poor farmer from some arid region in India, whose crops have failed due to the complete absence monsoon or ‘Barkha Rani’ as we call her from now onwards. Bhuvan has filed a case against ‘Barkha Rani’ for being directly responsible for crop washout and driving him and other farmers into utter poverty, indebtedness and to the verge of hunger death. Bhuvan represents the case for half of India’s population.
The judge then calls for ‘Barkha Rani’ who originally lives in the hilly Cherrapunji in the northeastern India and visits other hills, mountains and beaches whenever she feels like. She however is rarely seen in the vast stretches of arid lands passing through the length and breadth of the interiors of the country.

Now ‘Barkha Rani’ comes to the court all dressed in glitzy white saree and holding a large empty bowl. When questioned why Barkha Rani was absent last year and how it has affected not only Bhuvans of Indian villages but also Dr Manmohan of the Delhi.

Barkha Rani says she has not enough water in her bowl to fulfill the needs everywhere. To which Bhuvan’s lawyer says if she has not enough water why she disburses so much water in the Himalayas. Barkha says that’s because that’s from where water flows across the country through her first cousins like the Ganges, but faulty irrigation schemes and absence of river linking wastes all her purpose.

Barkha further said it’s her husband Badal like most extravagant men lives a high carbon footprint creating lifestyle and uses very large fuel-inefficient vehicles like Hummer which wastes a lot of the water in the process of transportation before reaching the desired destinations.

Also her cousins like Laila and Aila waste a lot of water in a pub called Cyclone every year, before Barkha could do her annual tour of the country. “I am left with very little to sprinkle in the fields of people like Bhuvan, though I really want to.” Barkha further blamed every human being for emission driven global warming which is resulting higher-than-normal temperature and parched farmlands, needing more water than ever.

The judge in the case reaslises the situation, human folly involved and feels sorry for Bhuvan and millions other who bear the brunt. He orders for rectification of all the human created errors and assurance of farm water to Bhuvans of India.
(The storyline in the drama is suitably twisted as per the writer’s imagination)
(The painting above is a reproduction of the famous Vincent Van Gogh 1889 oil painting 'Wheat Field in Rain')

Banyan Treaty: The story of 'Yes' and 'Think'

Once upon a time there were two individuals one named Yes, and the other named Think. They both lived in a place called a Village, but had little in common. Yes was disciplined, almost cultish and was governed by an esoteric group of people about whom the village knew little.

Yes never sat at the village banyan tree, rather he was always seen in another small settlement away from the village called Walled Street. Here everything was walled and mysterious people shaked hands with each other, without smile.
Yes was not popular as you can understand from his exclusivity and seclusion from the mass, yet he owned the biggest house in the village and brought the first bullock cart. Yes dealt in some paper thing called Money, while the whole village lived on barter system.

When people reaslised Yes has more objects, bigger house and visibly more material than anyone else they asked what is it that makes him different, Yes said it’s the paper thing that gets him the best stuff and explained the inefficiencies in the self-sufficient barter system that has kept the villagers without material gains. The villagers felt very small when Yes used numerous exotic words like ‘streamline’, ‘topline,’ ‘bottomline,’ ‘operating margin’ etc with a peculiar ease which indicated his superiority over the villagers in the art of material acquisition.

Here comes the role of Think in this story, Think was the only villager who didn’t agree with Yes. The village council was convinced with Yes’s view that the closed economy and self sufficiency is restricting the entry of newer, bigger and better things in their life. So the village decided to sell their huge rice stock stored in mud bunkers to outsiders in return of money, which they later used to build large houses, getting bullock carts and every other luxury they could think of. They were paying a charge to all the sad looking, supposedly intelligent and polyglots at the Walled Street settlement.

Walled Street people never cultivated anything in the recent history but knew where to buy and sell things and they build a wall to prevent the outside villages to know about them.

In the mean time Think, dejected by the disapproval from the villagers started staying to himself. He was the only one who saved his share of rice for three years and stayed in the smallest hut. Everyone else had a bigger existence than him in the village. Yes became the richest and bought a boat which he rowed in the lake near the village. Villagers also wanted to board the boat, where Yes started charging them and made more money.

Yes by now owned more exotic things and would charge everyone to use it. The villagers adapted to the culture of being charged for earning the new source of pleasure that Yes brought into the village.

Everyone pitied Think for his foolishness of not selling the grains and living a small and undignified life. But they had little time and interest to sit and talk with Think, by now treated as the Village lunatic.

The villagers were interested in having more paper money than anything else and Yes was their guide. Yes found out all the grains are finished in the village and tilling the land, waiting for rains will take another year. He proposed the villagers to sell their land completely or enter into a ‘strategic alliance’ with people of the Walled Street to ‘reinvent’ opportunities in their farmland which till then was only meant for rice cultivation.

The Walled Street people now pay an annual fee to the villagers and use it for cultivating Opium, considered as the pleasure flowers, using labour services from another village with who they also had strategic alliance.

Money flowed for another few years. Think was the only one who tilled his ahre of rice land and also collected forest produce to save enough food in his mud bunker, yet he remained the ‘poorest’, as Yes defined him in technical terms.

Around this time the Walled street people stopped paying a fee to the villagers and proposed a forced acquisition using army of people from another village with whom they too had strategic alliance. The people of Yes and Think’s village had no option but to lose their lands to the Walled Street people, who till few years living on alms from the village people.

Every villager sold his house and later sold themselves as bonded labours for assisting in Walled Street people in opium cultivation in the fields which used to be their own few days ago.

The only person who survived the entire crisis was Think, who had enough food that he managed to get some money and bought his own securitymen and protected his farm land and even acquired some more in the uncultivated forest area. The Walled Street was keenly watching him but didn’t touch him for they knew Think has the sense of what they are upto and will never be conned.

Now you would want to know what happened to Yes. He was caught and held captive by a group of villagers who now live in the forests nearby after being evicted of their farm by Walled Street owners and are organizing themselves to fight back and cultivate their land once again.

Over a period of time the lands were back to the original villagers after non violent protests in-front of Walled Street and agreeing to the proposal that only Yes will be considered guilty of any in appropriate behavior they think that Walled Street might have done to them.

The villagers agreed under the leadership of Think. Yes was hanged under the Banyan tree and peace and confidence building treaty was signed with Walled Street later taught in history books as the ‘Banayan Treaty.’

The End of Romantics: The promise keeper

The End of Romantics: The promise keeper

The promise keeper

Indian Idol has been one of my favourite shows and I’m sure many of us like the format, where chances of bias till the final stages are least. It’s also our favourite because it brings the human emotions into real play.

Sometimes humiliating, some times jubilating and sometimes heartbreaking, but always genuine.

Last evening the show for this season began with auditioning across India for the final Mumbai competition.

As every year, the sets of audition this time also brought the varieties of people. The arrogant tailor from Aligarh, who sang exactly like Anu Mulllick, but to his dismay was disqualified, the over confident uber-chic girl from Delhi who sang effortlessly yet found no takers, the 19-year-old sweet, nervous girl who sells insurance policies to fund her education and needed a hug from the gorgeous Sunidhi Chauhan before making the judges spell-bound with her melodious voice, the almost blind boy whose voice is a gift and so on.

After the end of IPL cricket, this well suited to my dose of entertainment, despite the moral nagging from inside to stay away from watching the harassment of simple lads from small towns and villages, I was glued to the show, laughing uncontrollably, when colorful people with their idiosyncrasies pestered the judges Anu, Sunidhi and Salim Merchant.

But one moment in the show forced me, the judges and I believe everyone with a heart into tears, for two minutes at least. There came this thin, cool eyed, Armyman Manoj with his simplistic demeanour, characteristic of people from the hills of Uttarakhand, where he came from.

As he entered Manoj touched the podium where he was to sing and said something which was very painful and stays today when I am writing.

He said he after long efforts of getting leave from Army has managed to come to this audition in Delhi where 12,000 others were also present, and he thinks himself lucky for reaching the podium not because he wants to become the Indian Idol, but because he made a promise to someone which will be fulfilled today.

His sister, who would have turned 23 by now, lost the battle to cancer a year ago, but took a promise from Manoj that he must go to Indian Idol audition, in her death bed.

An Army personnel, who spends most of his time protecting the motherland, also turned a good brother and appeared at the audition. He and the judges believed his sister must be watching him as he sang, ‘phoolon ka taron ka sbka kehna hai, lakhon hazaron mein meri behna hai...saari umer humein sang rehna hai....”

I cried, the judges cried and you can understand there was no tempo in the voice when someone is managing such a tough emotional moment. He was chocked all the while he sang but delivered the greatest promise he ever made to his sister. I’m in tears as I write this. It must have been very tough for him. I wish he feels very good after the auditions and may his sister rest in peace. Amen...

Midnight thoughts: social networking is good

I had always hated to become a writer by night, except some educational writing, compelled by the desire to earn a degree. But the last few days have brought the writer in me to wake only after midnight.

The IPL is surely to be blamed for this. I read my daily dose of book after the night IPL match ends around 1130 pm and after midnight your body and mind gets diluted and flows in the ether.

If you listen to equally airy thin music from the collection of ‘Guns and Roses’, Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan, the heart pounds like a unstable volcanic mass and thoughts erupt and spread like clouds that can burst as the right temperament touches them.

One such thought burst yesterday, technically this morning as I write. The thought is about being eternally happy and innocent. Do we ever manage to stay innocent in all our thoughts and actions? I think we don’t.

The ability to hide sorrow with the faint smile and happiness with the dumbfounded awkwardness is familiar to all of us in workplaces.

Those who are lucky have a family and friend network to be innocent and real whenever they want to. I think for millions of others the gift of social networking is doing miracle.

It’s like the village chowpal or you, where you have your small society that gathers, drinks chai, hookah or whatever they want. They talk about all sorts of issues -- sensitive, insensitive, political, social – and that too in small groups of likeminded ones.

Here you have the option to share your mundane views without being rebuked. You share your best moments through pictures, which can be enhanced with the gift of technology and spares you the time and effort of actually looking good.

You can share your disillusioned state of mind by sharing Bob Dylan‘s Knocking on Heaven’s Door video through YouTube, despite actually being a hope less singer yourself.

It’s good for your self esteem, your heart and mind too. You learn the slangs and management case studies here before anywhere else. I dare to disagree with whoever did the study inferring social networking sites reduce productivity. I claim they boost in more than one ways the individual’s moral, ego and power her/him even to stay on the top of her/ his professional developments.

Even in personal relationships it helps you find some and also protects you from losing some. It helps you with regular birthday wishes, which all men now can’t blame they forgot.

It also gives you opportunities to wish at personal and professional developments thereby cutting on actual travels. Lot of carbon foot prints reduced. Besides you chat and save millions of trees every year, it’s another thing you destroy them as toilet papers and on Pizza delivery.

The verdict is social networking makes your life better. As I am writing the last line, I can say it took me about 25 minutes to compose this prose and I’m still listening to Knocking on Heaven’s Door on the background.

Note: By the I posted this story I had switched to Lady Gaga's hit number' Bad Romance' so that my romance with midnight writing ends and I could catch some sleep.

PHOTOGRAPH: By Samrat Mukherjee. We all social networking aficionados, like the thirsty little boy pumping and getting his water, do our tweets, FB messages and meet our thirst of virtual society.

When I was young and innocent

When I was young and innocent. Discovered this photograph yesterday. The ease, interest and innocence I used to have a decade ago inspired me. Devoting a complete post to my photograph is a narcissistic idea, but I am compelled to post it for the sheer happiness it brought to me. Behind me in this photograph is a coniferous plant, which was my idea of a Jurassic era plant. Thousand metres on right was the large orchard, two-hundred metres on right was the girl's hostel, a road I usually avoided for the fear of being ragged. Thousand metres on the north was Yamuna river. The month was December and the photographer was Junwa, a friend from Burma, who went into oblivion after graduation.

The Lonely White Horse

The Lonely White Horse, my latest acrylic-on-canvas work is a portrayal of the peaceful Indian security personnel. He may be from any section of the Indian security apparatus, always smiling, judicious with power and protector of the sovereignty of the large sub-continent. But almost complete absence of political leadership has converted him into a sitting duck. The enemy of the country like the blood thirsty red horse is engulfing him from all the sides – north, west, east, south - and even within the country. Salute to the bravery and spirit of such a white horse. But will he find a good leader who is as concerned about the country’s security and autonomy as him?
(Disclaimer: I have learnt my horse patterns from MF Hussain's horse paintings.)

'The Rosewood' restaurant on Varuna lake road

Neelima Bhat was a reluctant restaurateur, forced into the profession by the untimely demise of her husband. Thirty years after taking reins of ‘The Rosewood’, she still had not accepted the fact of her, a woman, managing an eatery. Married as early as 16, Neelima knew that her husband’s family owns one of the best restaurants in this small hill station, but managing it for rest of her life never crossed her mind. Bhats are among the most respected and wealthy families in the town and reside on the lake road, the exclusive address which had unobstructed view of the grand Varuna lake. Not even tourists had an easy way to this part of the Himalayan hill town. Everyone had a private balcony that overlooked flowing clouds that fell over Varuna changing colour every few hours.

The Bhats converted a part of their bungalow into ‘The Rosewood’, way back in 1920s. ‘The Rosewood’ remained the only comprehensive and easy access for the tourist to the lake view. No wonder it was never out of business whether it snows or rains, Neelima always had visitors. The Rosewood was styled in colonial architecture and always charmed the foreigners, babus from Delhi, writers and romantic urbanites who always looked for the last best symbols of the Raj on a Himalayan journey. And undoubtedly the lake view offered a lot more in addition.

Neelima was always charmed by the beauty of the lake when she came into “The Rosewood” nonchalantly in her late teens, on a quiet evening to have some romantic moments with her husband away from the gaze of the in-laws. Prakash, her husband would often show her the lonely moonlight dinner suite in the restaurant.

Even today, Neelima sits alone in the moonlight dinner suite on days of full moon remembering the beautiful moments she shared Prakash in the that corner. Ram Parwesh, the sixty year old manager and Prakash’s old friend managed everything such days and closed the moonlight suite from tourists.

Neelima’s young daughter is now back at home after spending six long years in a boarding school in Dehradoon. She wanted more of her mom and was not quite comfortable with her being in the restaurant all the day. Neelima also wanted to bridge the distance with her daughter by making surprise intermittent visits to the house during the day. But Nidhi, her daughter was not amused.

(The picture here is taken by Samrat Mukherjee, one of the best photographers of our time at Har-ki-Dhun in the Himalayas)

Jesus, Allah, Ram and Gods of all religion please protect South Asia from terror

Six nations – India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Nepal and Afghanistan -- that make most of South Asian geography are infected with an incurable disease or obnoxious commodity. Terror it’s name. Home grown, imported, exported but transmitted or traded freely within the boundaries of these five countries. Religion, tribe, caste, class or economic disparity, terror finds its reason with almost everything. It doesn’t talk, negotiate. It just strikes and whom? The innocent the most.
It can’t be stopped or at least it seems so with the democratic governments in the five countries are yet to find a solution.
No hopes from anyone now. May Jesus, Allah, Ram and all Gods of all religion including Scientology protect South Asia from terror.... Amen.
(Wish the serendipity visible in the picture of the Himalayas prevail over South Asia)

Sarju, the stone breaker of Badagaon

Sarju loved this town anyday. Despite a population of little less than 50,000, it was the biggest centre in the whole district. The moffusil town had four telephone booths, one health centre, one police chowki and one primary school. The entire infrastructure, concrete and stable, was an amusement to the 200-odd hilly villages that surrounded this valley. Like Paris to France, Badagaon was macroscopic for the people Jangalia district.

Sarju’s village at 32 kilometre away, was the farthest in terms of distance from the district headquarters, yet Sarju made no hesitation in choosing a job there. “Tough to travel everyday,” he thought. "But never mind there are growth opportunities and a life larger than it ought to be in a forest village, like his own."

He made 12 kilometres by walking through the dense forest before getting on to some town bound truck of the local bauxite miner. After a two-hour travel Sarju would break stones at one iron ore processor.

At the age of 14, the boy had the strong and stout built of a gym going city lad. He was much adored for his extraordinary physique in his 20 hamlet tiny village. And perhaps that was the reason why the labour thekadar chose him to become a stone breaker. Stone breaking was the toughest job around tougher than ploughing, wood cutting and even working at the brick kiln.

In a month's time money flowed to his modest home. Small enough to be described but enough to make his hut look the best in the settlement.
He became the 'stone breaker' for the villagers. At a young age the money and the enviable physique made him the most celebrated man in the village.
Every boy in the village now dreamt of being a 'stone breaker'.

The picture is of a print of Gustave Courbet's 1849 painting -'The Stone Breakers. It depicts two ordinary stone breakers in average French life.

Batak Mian's story must be told

Batak Mian’s story must be told to every Indian. Despite the unfamiliarity of the name, the absence of his story in India’s history, Batak Mian cannot be ignored. One Indian mainstream news paper recently took the pain to digging out and publishing the story of this extra-ordinary Indian, without whom India’s independence might not have been possible.

The story goes back to 1917 British India. Mahatma Gandhi was visiting Bihar’s Champaran district where he started his career India’s politics, supporting the cause of the local indigo planters.

Batak Mian was serving as a cook with a British indigo plantation manager who apparently instructed him to offer Mahatma poisoned milk. Mian disclosed the plot in front of Mahatma and Rajendra Prasad, who became the first President of an independent India later. Result Mahtma’s life saved and the rest is history as we all know.

I understand the story sounds loose and slightly heroic. Even as an objective writer I find despite the folklore involved in glorifying Batak Mia’s role, it’s worth remembering. And at least his grand children shouldn’t earn their wages as daily labourers.
Here is a link to the original story http://www.hindustantimes.com/Family-of-Mahatma-s-saviour-in-dire-straits/H1-Article1-500334.aspx

What went wrong: another life lost

As I reached office today, the colleague next to my cubicle informed me about the sad demise of an ex-colleague.

Shocked we remembered her. She was one of the sweet young women full of life and attitude. One who always puts a smile on her face, genial, helpful and gorgeous.

Her love for life was personified in her blog which was titled She loves life. What went so wrong that she let go the very life she was so passionate about. Prayers her soul rests in peace. Amen....

Why good people suffer?

Last week I was asking myself a question. A question that has stayed with me since my childhood but rises to my conscience on certain occasions leaving me bewildered.
The question is –“Why good people suffer?”
And I know no one has a satisfying answer.
It’s both difficult and dangerous to be good. Being good gives us simplistic happiness, honesty of purpose etc. But it needs courage to remain good.
I have seen people who practice good going to jail, losing in relationship at workplace, money and health wise. Though not all of them, but many of the good suffer. So do many of the bad.
But the problem is both good and bad exist. And the fine things in life come to both of them irrespective of their purpose in life.
Picture this: A teenager like Ruchika who lost her mother as a kid was harassed by a senior police officer and saw her family being harassed for years. While the police officer who has got everything in life does this act and has woman, his wife, to protect him all the way.
How could one justify this situation? Nothing asking from the government or judiciary....asking God if such a situation exists. Then why?
Ruchika never had the option to enjoy life while this old man has lived his life to the fullest. Even if the case progresses against the alleged culprit and he’s convicted punished. How much harm will it do to him?

Ruchika’s story is just a case point there are many such instances where injustice is inflicted upon the good. And we have never found an answer why?

You know you are from Delhi when...

This stuff is sourced from a forward mail.
It's very apt while describing the cultural practices in Delhi. There are few descriptions we may not like but they are mostly true.


You know you are from Delhi when...
1. You drink only on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday to Sunday evenings. And try
not drinking on Tuesday.

2. Treating a friend means - Daaru Shaaru te kabbab shabaab.

3. Even in the most posh colonies, you hear, "Aaloo lelo !!!, Bhindi le lo !!!!
Pyaaz le lo !!!!, Tamatar le lo......"

4. And you hear women asking the vegetable vendor "Bhaiyaa dhaniya hari mirchi
nahi diya!" [Even with Half a kilo Carrot - Dhania & Hari Mirch is expected free
] ;-)

5. A place to meet is Mocha, (CCD), Barista, Hookah.

6. You use the word "setting" or "jugaad" at-least once a day.

7. You have not visited either of - Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Lotus Temple. It is
only for tourists, so Delhiites say.

8. You ride on the cycle rickshaw in NOIDA (more popularly known as NEODA) -
haggle over the price, but still pity rickshaw walla's condition and give him
what he asked.

9. You glare at people who call Gol Guppas as Pani Puri!

10. You always ask the vendor "Bhaiya yeh Gol-Guppe Aate ki hai ya Sooji ke?"
11. Schooling is best is Delhi not because of CBSE, but because you've had
school cancelled thrice due to cold in winters & summer vacations preponed due
to sudden increase heat in Summers and at least two Rainy Day off during
Monsoon.

12. You have been to a wedding at a Mehrauli farmhouse at least once.

13. You understand all important words in Punjabi & punjabi "helping
verbs" like teri m*******, teri b&&&&&&&... oye etc etc. Almost every Delhiite
understands Punjabi to an extent. PUNJABI unites everyone.

14. You call the waiter in the restaurant "boss" or "Pappey" & tack on "yaar"
"bhai" to almost every sentence.

15. You know that Pappay Da Dhaba or Kake Da Hotel has better butter chicken
than Taj. You've at least tried it once! And you see a BMW, a Porsche OR a
Mercedes parked outside it!

16. You describe practically every other person on the planet as "Vella".
('Idle' or Nikamma in Punjabi).

17. You see middle-aged Aunties wearing Gucci shades and holding LV bags having
Gol-Gappas in GK or Bhelpuri in South Ex along with Diet Coke !

18. You call every stranger 'Bhaiyya'.

19. You refer to East Delhi as 'Jamuna Paar'. Recite Nanak dukhiya sab sansar
par sabse dukiya Jamuna Paar.

20. You refer to AIIMS as Medical.

21. Pretty girls as Totta, Maal or Bamb (Punjabi for Bomb).

22. Aashiq mizaz boys as Majnu di Aulad !

23. You dont buy tickets for a music concert or cricket match, but try to use
political contacts... of the deputy secretary of the chief secretary of the
Minister of State for Khadi.

24. You overtake everyone from the wrong side and stare into his/her eyes while
doing so.

25. You have at least two cars and a motorbike at home.

26. And you have fought at least once every month with neighbors over parking...

27. You park your Car and take a Auto-rickshaw to Lajpat Nagar / Rajouri/ Kamla
Nagar/ Karol Bagh. But CP, you don't get parking space easily, yet you go always
in your own vehicle.

28. And then you say apni Kanvense (conveyance) howe na ta badi Kanvinyance
(convenience) hondi hai ji !!!!

29. You've hit 120 kmph at Nelson Mandela Marg and waited for midnight to do it.

30. You have bribed a traffic cop (Mama) at least once, every month.

31. You know that a farmhouse has nothing to do with cattle or farming. It is
luxurious hangout for whole night.

32. You use "contacts" (jugaad) for everything, from getting movie tickets to
restaurant bookings to play-school admissions.

33. You have had Anda parantha outside Vikram hotel and Bun Omlette at Dhaula
Kuan, Kulfi at Karol Bagh, Gol Gappe at India Gate, Dosa at Madras Hotel,
Chana/Kulcha at Scindia House and Chaat at UPSC.

34. Metro rail is your Pride but you travel in your Car.

36. You think EVERY South Indian comes from ' Madras ' and is a Madrasi.

37. You feel indicating which way you are going to turn your vehicle is an
information security leak.

38. You are a good driver coz you are correct in your guess of what the driver
in the front vehicle will do.

39. The only time you went to the Chidiya Ghar (Zoo) was on a school picnic.

40. You expect around 10 FM STATIONS in every city! Woho.!

41. DESPITE all the good and bad........You still Love Delhi...

42. You keep singing ..... Dilli hai Dil Walon ki..... Oye Balle Balle !!!

Noble piracy or guilty pleasure: The case of Ram and Bhagwanji

This morning a friend of mine asked me if I have watched 3 Idiots, the Hindi movie. I said yes on my computer using a pirated DVD borrowed from someone. She was aghast to discover this part of me. “Not you.” Never expected something like this from you, she said. I was rather confused realising how I was unknowingly acknowledging something so unlawful, almost criminal! I’m supposed to be the sensitive, morally responsible, law abiding, patriotic individual. Someone, who’s not even travelled a single day without ticket in the local trains, someone who has never dared to disrupt the discipline in his workplace, school or college, even if no one is watching.

Yet someone like me buys roadside cheap novels photocopied from the licensed book and pirated DVDs without any signs of doing anything wrong.

Is it a systemic problem in India that discounts piracy as something criminal though the law says so? May be? Am I embarrassed? Don’t know, but I have a logical reasoning why piracy is thriving without people noticing the criminal side as if it’s a genetic disorder.

Picture this: Ram Chander Tiwari, the sixth son of landless Pujari somewhere in eastern Uttar Pradesh. Ram is the most brilliant student in the local school but rarely goes to school thanks to the poverty that has forced him to work at the local Halwai, (sweet-meat maker). The sixteen-year-old manages to borrow some book or the other from the Halwai’s lousy son and manages to appear in class ten examinations. Comes out as a topper and easily gets admitted in the best college in Allahabad city. He toils hard even to pay his fees and travel expenses, which is less than 10 US dollars annually. In the meantime Ram’s father dies and three brothers leave for brick kilns and live on their own.

Now Ram has to earn for his family while helping her mother to get her two elder sisters married. Ram does very well again, joins medical and gets a scholarship, most of which he sends home while eating one time and not joining the hostel mess. Ram works as a salesman with a bookshop as well.

Now medical books are expensive. Ram with no money to spend on his food and clothes, goes to the book shop owner Bhagwanji, a generous man. Bhagwanji gets him photocopies of most expensive books and even provides coloured copies whenever they are needed to explain a medical case. So the books which would have cost 20,000 rupees come at 400 rupees, even that is bought by Ram’s friends who share it with him.

Ram struggles for almost a decade becomes a surgeon and later a civil servant. Even now he visits Bhagwanji, who also helped him in providing access to pirated IAS study material.

One morning Bhagwanji gets a heart stroke. Someone informs Ram, then the collector of the district. When Ram reaches the small local hospital he was greeted by the chief secretary of the state. “Sir, How come you are here?” The chief said guy I would not have been what I’m today had Bhagwanji not been there. Slowly in the crowd Ram discovered hoards of civil servants, doctors and scientists making a cue to show their presence to an ailing Bhagwanji.

Bhagwanji did piracy work for a righteous cause. He did the work of Bharat Nirman, which may be rated as good as the total contribution of India’s education ministry.

No doubt he cheated the authors, publishers and breached the law, but he made an underprivileged India reach the power corridors and write policy for the country.
May be we can call it ‘noble piracy’.

Everyone must not have solved the same dignified purpose with their piracy skills in India, but they did their bit to feed, enlighten and entertain an impoverished India.

Millions of Indians with whom money has not been kind also dream to study, wear, eat and entertain themselves. They can't pay the monopolistic giants of food, water, education and entertainment a fee for this.

The stale Dabeli infront of a MacDonald, contaminated flavoured water, pirated books and DVD keeps them abreast of a changing India. The one which they want to become a part of. May this bit of piracy keep help India to tick the unreachable 10 percent plus GDP growth?

This is an age where information is power and facilitator of equality the faster it spreads the better its for the country.

May be I can afford the spend 250 rupees for a three hour show of 3 Idiots, but not many like Ram Chander Tiwari. For me piracy is ‘guilty pleasure,’ for them it’s ‘Bhagwanji’s treasure.’

The decade ends; remembering poppy flowers, ghats, rock pythons and friends

In past few days, I had a sudden consciousness about losing or going past another decade, the third one in my life.

When you think voluntarily, the recollections become vivid, unpredictable and leave you with sighs and mild laughter depending on what situation has appeared from memory lane like calling up a rare video from YouTube.

It comes up in your mind all the time. While preparing a cup of pepper-mint special tea for yourself on a Sunday morning, while jogging inside the small park in your locality, while travelling in a jam-packed Mumbai suburban train or even while chewing a Kalkattia mitha paan from the local cigarette and paan vendor in posh south Mumbai after office hours are over.

The first memory I had was of the undergraduate university days in eastern Uttar Pradesh. My university consisted of large colonial academic structures, a whitewashed small Chapel and vast stretches of green farm land and Orchards spread over 600-acres on the banks of mighty Yamuna River.

The 100 year-old campus was secluded from the crowded Allahabad city, separated by an old dilapidated Naini bridge that officially expired in 1970, but was able to support five-million-strong city populace, hundreds of passenger trains and every logistics carrier on its way from the north down Madhya Pradesh.

The winter months of December 1999 and January 2000 were full of hope and hesitation thanks to the the next century will be India's optimism, world will end fear, Y2K buzz etc. Those were also the months of floriculture practical classes for us. We were given small plots to grow and identify flowers. There was faint love affair with the delicate flowers in an otherwise boring and secluded campus. Three flower patches -- gladiolus, carnation and poppy – were in my kitty.

I loved of all, the bulbous red and pink poppy flowers which belonged to the Papaver genera popularly known as the Oriental or Opium poppy . When I remember how I welcomed this decade and millennium, tossing poppy flowers on windy wintry evenings instantly appear on my mind.

The early years of the decade also remind me of the morning and evening Yoga classes in another University in neighouring city of Benares, the mindless but spiritual wanderings on hundreds of ghats of the 3000-year-old settlement, the occasional association with bhang and regular listening to BBC Radio to improve English pronunciation and soft old Bollywood songs on Vividh Bharti to get a nice sleep.

The long hours spent in the huge lighted central library of the university, where I was the only one reading The Economist, Times and The New Yorker always taunt my present day painful reading adventures on a bean bag in my small sub-urban apartment balcony in Mumbai.


The memory lane also took me to my early days with the Indian Express newspaper in Delhi. The support from the Police, the threat from a builder and the protection from another bigger builder while doing a particular story was interesting.

A year in solitude, when I dared to craft a dream livelihood intervention project in southern Jaharkhand districts, and failed against the system touches me till date. I still remember the early morning trips to impassable villages crossing torrential rivers and rock pythons with a passion to connect with village women and build self-help groups for them.

The passion that forced me to try for cheaper innovations for the villagers.... How aggressively I fought with the local bank employee, when he passed lewd comments against my clients a 27 year-old Oraon tribal woman, whom I called didi, and her 14 year old daughter Chini, when they had approached the bank for a loan to buy a goat to sustain their six member family. There were many haunting moments that come to the memory but I have no words or intention to shock myself or readers.

The later half of the decade showed me journalism of different shades. Investigative, page 3, human, colourful and business. I travelled across many parts of India, exposed to its diversity and unique blending propositions.

Living in two megacities -- Delhi, followed by Mumbai – has been less than fun but an immersing affair. Witnessing the mindless terror acts and being a victim of one left me a changed person, almost like a new born.

The greatest discovery of the decade for me, were friends, who stood by me at all costs involved. That was the most permanent and satisfying discovery precious than hitting crude oil blocks or gold mines or even being nominated for a Nobel.

Idiots sell in India

I am an idiot and following is my analysis on all kinds of idiots that rule India. The grading of the idiots is inspired from Chetan Bhagats's novel 'Five Point Someone'. The grade points are between zero and ten.I'm posting this analysis after my comment on facebook attracted good audience so thought of sharing with blog friends.

"Idiots sell in India never the talented ones.
The zero point no ones become the policymakers.
The one point someones become historysheeters.
The two point someones grab land for SEZs.
The three point someones become kingmakers.
The four point someones become successful filmakers.
The five point someones like Chetan Bhagat become bankers and successful authors. The six point someones like me do facebooking and tweeting to get attention.
The seven point someones teach the nation. The eight point someones protect and build the nation.
The nine point someones treat and cure the nation and the ten point someones take orders from the zeropoint nonones. Cycle completes.

PIS (Post Idiotic Script):The above description is not to be taken seriously, This is for pure fun and fiction similarity with any person's name is purely coincidental.

Orissa, mining, marriage and smartphone

On an early December evening two news agency journalists and an investment banker were travelling in a crowded intercity train into the mining and industrial belt of Orissa. The three hour journey seemed longer than usual.

It was pronounced winter, cramped train coaches and jostling of people from all walks of life - executives, government employees, fruit/chat vendors and daily labourers – catching the last train to the mining hinterland of Orissa. The three from Mumbai were on a their way to a journalist friend’s wedding in Angul, industrial capital and the most centrally located city of Orissa.

The immobility inside the train forced them to converse relentlessly in order to evade the drudgery of the small yet tough journey. Topics discussed varied from whether to sell gold just when it has hit the peak to the charisma of Obama that was worthy a Nobel. Heated arguments followed and the intellectual cells of the brain were stimulated.

The concentrated intellectuality was also lightened by some talk of women, i-pod and twitter, but it couldn’t beat the pursuit of talking about money and economy. The three realised they despite there humble background were talking something incomprehensible to their fellow passengers, who were dumbfounded.

The three realised exposure to metro-life and education has already created a water tight compartment between them and their own people who are pressed against them in this cramped coach, who speak their own language and about their own region.

A quick realisation was enough to stop the discussion about stock market, 8 percent growing economy, mergers/acquisitions, investment banker fees and switchover to local issues. The three spoke to their co-passengers in Oriya about the best trains in the route, new industrial development coming up in their neighbourhood and how is the government paying after the sixth pay commission report was implemented. It was relaxing to all of them.

The three finally reached their friend’s wedding reception and joined the celebration dinner. Here they were surrounded by locals, many of them related to the the hundreds of small and large neighourhood industries.

They overheard two of them talking in distress about China’s pressure tactics about lowering the offer price of some commodity.

One of them soon recalled a coverpage story he did about black gold (iron ore) and China some years ago. The three soon discussed how thousands of small time exporters have turned rich overnight by exporting minerals primarily iron ore from Orissa to China, world’s biggest steelmaker. However, with insatiable demand and import monopoly Chinese authorities are deciding prices in the past few months.

While chatting over Orissa's mineral policy and unknowingly meandering through the large open air banquet space the three spotted the glowing faces of the bride and groom which reminded them of their own families.

The gorgeous pink designer lehnga and neatly tailored western suit was making the couple look like one of those from the Shahrukh Khan starring Bollywood movies. Both of them were sitting on two large princely chairs, ususal in most Indian weddings.

At the entry of the marriage hall there was red ticker going on intermttently --Devidutta Weds Purabi-- all in capital letters. The guys joked, it looked a ticker on a television set or a news platform.

The groom, a telecom reporter and the bride, an engineer were trying to hold eachothers' hands in the absence of few attentive eyes but had to soon stay away from eachothers like a playful couple in a garden.

The groom, 48 hours ago on his wedding day amused everyone by his typing skills on the his smartphone. The instrument was in his hands even as he was tying knots with the bride. Whether it’s his affiliation to technology or effort to update his status on Facebook, the invasiveness of the tech revolution was loud and clear.

The bride also earned some reputation 48 hours ago by beating hands-down the technosavvy groom in a thousand-year-old game of finding the cowdy. The groom complained about the sharp nails of the bride going against him.

The three idiots had a nice wedding experience afterall.

(all characters here are fictitious and don't bear any resemblance with anyone living or dead)

Bhubaneswar Post

Early December I had to plan a quick holiday to my home town Bhubaneswar to be a part of the mostly unplanned year-ending weddings of friends and relatives. The sojourn was demanding from the beginning as I had to opt for the 40-hour long train journey from the west-cost to east coast of India with air tickets suddenly out of reach after the wedding rush began.

As every unwanted event in life provides us with some pleasant surprises, this laborious journey provided me with the opportunity to finish ‘Sea of Poppies’, a five-hundred page long novel by Amitav Ghosh, which I had my hands on for the last six months.

Bhubaneswar, the capital city of Orissa state in eastern India, is a large, expandable and beautiful settlement but without the million plus population that every large Indian city possesses.

As the wedding season was in progress I had move throughout the city which exposed me to the newly developed roads, malls and hospitality infrastructure in the city. It was a surprising and refreshing moment to discover the beauty of your hitherto neglected sleepy town after struggling nearly a decade in the dismal infrastructure of some supposedly largest and most developed cites of the world.

I understood the with population just under a million, radius stretching over fifty kilometers and initial town planning by legendary Le Corbusier, Bhubaneswar remains one of the best definition urban cities in India along with Chandigarh, also designed by the French architect.

The largely unmanaged yet clean structures of hundreds of Shaiva temples, Jaina and Buddha caves surrounded by numerous water bodies and greenery intermingle gracefully with the clean, western swanky buildings. The good thing is that most people of Bhubaneswar can still see the sky in the morning and evening, get their vegetables from the garden and buy their grains annually from villages in the outskirt to beat inflation.

Middleclass, confident, moderate and aspiring is how the city represents herself in the first decade of the new century. All is well in the political and administrative epicenter of this small eastern Indian state. But like acid test paper a certain part of the city its changes colour everyday to showcase the distress in the hinterland. The road stretching from Bhubaneswar station to the legislative building always hosts quiet protestors of various sort amid small policy cover.

Most protestors are people from the tribal dominated non-costal parts of the state where world’s largest miners and steel makers are waiting to set shop. Most protests are about losing land, insufficient compensation and rehabilitation. As mining related protests dominate, real issues like malnutrition, hunger, lack of health facilities and illiteracy take a backseat.

Some of my friends from Delhi and Mumbai made some passing comments at the hoardings across the town. “Like brokerages, asset management companies grabbing every corner of advertising place in Mumbai … steel, ingot and billet companies do the same in Orissa.

Soon I discovered the truth in their observation Bhubaneswar airport there are two-dozens of hoardings of natural resource firms. One of the most controversial projects had a large hoarding depicting a happy tribal family with a caption larger that the photograph saying, “Mining happiness for the people of Orissa.”



My neighborhood pan shop endorses ‘Surana billets’, my dilapidated primary school walls had ‘Vijay saria’ asymmetrically painted on it and to my horror I discovered the lichen adorned walls of my boundary bears the names “Too Strong saria,” written in cheap brick colours. I quickly removed the stains and breathed easy.

As mining advertisings are creeping on everything in this coastal city discontent and people’s war is creeping in the vast tribal plateaus of the state.