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.

26/11 Survivor's Account: Painting -"The Sorrow of Mumbai"

I made this acrylic-on-canvas work named "The Sorrow of Mumbai" in September 2009.
I want to portray the pain and grief of this megacity accompanied by tranquility indicating hope and stability. I dedicate the painting to my organization for the effective care it takes of its employees across the world in times of crisis.

26/11 Survivor's Account: Good News 6-The Company

"You are known by the company you keep". Quite literally I think I’m in good company.

Company means my workplace my coworkers and my bosses across the world. Till the day I was injured I knew this company is very dedicated to its professionalism and serves its employees the best it can, but as it happened with me I could know the truth.

We had instances of people being given special armored vehicles for news coverage; they have been airlifted from conflict zones all at the company’s expenses. I used to think this must have been a mechanical affair. But I was wrong, the whole company was worried, the leadership and coworkers across continents and departments were worried.

I received hundreds of well being messages, e-mails and personal visits. Besides Charlotte, Rosemary , Phil, and Ramya, along with other editors based in Mumbai personally met me at the time of crisis.

The global editor David and chief executive Tom mentioned their concerns taking time out of the Thanks Giving holiday in 2008.

The company also tried providing the best medical services it could have been also a month’s off to recuperate. Though I was out of the crisis with simple medical surgery the gesture was heartwarming.

A year after the gesture continued I received well being messages from my editors.

26/11 Survivor's Account: Good News 5- Friends: The gems I have discovered

I never thought of living life without friends. I have been gregarious all my life, but never did I have to discover who’s a real friend or not. The events of 26/11 taught me everything. More than the survival I was happy with the discovery of the gems who were always with me.

The night Mumbai was attacked and by coincidence I was injured my friends and coworkers most of them journalists were shattered. Most of them stayed awake in the night or tried their best to reach me breaking the security cordon across Mumbai. My colleagues and friends across the world at different time zones were trying to find more about me.

My younger sister, the only relative in Mumbai, was well protected by my friends and their families during the uncertain night. At the break of the dawn, my friends Feroze, Geetha, Ankur, Piyush, Debiprasad, Mehul, Anup, Keshab, Abhishek, Dhananjay, Abhineet assisted in my smooth transition to a private hospital, which brought me a speedy recovery and prevented any possible infection from the bullet wound.

Rama, Narayanan, Arshad, Sumit, Devidutta, Swati, Nandita, Rouhan, Samrat, Shubha, Himangshu, Krittivas, Archie, Raghu, Shubhra, Trupti, Radha, Hari, Durgashis, Balaji and many others made me feel good through their constant assuring presence both physically and over phone.

Hundreds of friends also reached me over social networking sites like Facebook and Orkut. And believe me every wish had healing power and made me positive.

The days of healing and surgery was special with friends always around. Geetha, doing special cooking for me everyday and Feroze doing the extra work to get back early in the evening.

Mehul bunking office in an impossible situation for being present with me.Narayanan and Piyush bringing me delicacies of south and north India, and Ankur zipping around in his car for every small need made things so good for me.
The instances of Feroze, the coolest man I have ever seen, fighting with the government hospital authorities for discharging me and Geetha fighting with the insurance company will alway be remembered.
Despite mentioning only a few instances I have vivid memory of the gestures everyone made during time and will remain me forever.
Wish Lord everyone earns such great friends.
I think knowing Kishor and my friends is the greatest happiness I have in this life so far.

26/11 Survivor's Account: Good News 4 - In Mumbai for hundreds of victims, there are thousands of volunteers

Injured and helpless I was, yet conscious and watchful of the movement around. With hundreds of victims pouring in there were thousands of volunteers ready to help. From carrying, cleaning and fetching water, donating blood there were thousands of good souls around to help the victims.

Troubled they look yet confident of their self-taken responsibility and the attempt to let people live another day. That was overwhelming.

I remember the volunteers escorting the ambulance I was carried in while being transferred from St George hospital to JJ Hospital.

The act of young medical students was also worth mentioning. I remember a moment when two thin and teenage girls were trying to carry an obese old man to an emergency ward in absence of as stretcher how they one of them fell, but immediately stood up and ran to the emergency.

Students got water bottles from their own hostel rooms to serve the victims. I distinctly remember the hospital staff putting their best efforts to help the victims while the politicians were obstructing the work.

Most of the staff was ignoring the local politicians and most of them along with volunteers were shouting to the politicians to stay away from obstructing their work.

(The above photograph is sourced from V Nayak's collection on Flickr.com)(For more phograph pool on 26/11 you can visit http://www.flickr.com/groups/mumbai_terrorism/pool/)

26/11 Survivor's Account: Good News 3 – Charlotte Cooper

I never talk about my office people in my personal blog but this is a one-off event where humanity was involved, and the story was about human spirit and needed to be told.

Charlotte, the then Mumbai bureau chief of the news agency I work for was somewhere in the roads of south Mumbai, when the attacks were taking place. Daring as she was always, drove on the abandoned and terror struck roads of Mumbai to reach me, a fellow colleague and a fellow human being.

While the Police was cautious after anti-Terrorist chief Hemant Karkare and other senior police officials fell to terrorist’s bullets, Charlotte, her husband Peter and driver Francis drove across and reached St George Hospital.

She waded through dead bodies to finally discover me among the survivors. Her presence lovely, renewed my confidence and belief in the good news.

While I grew more confident, she got back to her job of reporting the horror to the world. Peter and Francis helped injured ones with water, connected them with loved ones using their phones.

26/11 Survivor's Account: Good news 2- The Anonymous lady doctor

As the policeman was trying the control room and the hospital staff debating my possible gangster status, I was writhing in pain and Kishor was requesting for an early treatment for me.
“What happened,” an authoritative yet hopeful female voice came from behind. After some discussion she said,” Let’s treat him we are no one decide his profession.”
She along with others removed my shirt and pressed below my shoulder touching my wounded ribs. A copper coated bullet fell off. She moved gracefully around assuring the staff helped me bandage, saline and injections. “It was mayhem in CST,” came the sleepy policeman running.
A group of policemen came into the out patient’s department ward of St George hospital where I was sitting. There were a few dead bodies and many injured lay on the floor all breathing heavily.
The lady ordered all the doctors, nurses and medical students to come into action. I could watch at least one policeman stopped his breathing before being treated. I found my way to a ward and shared a bed with three others. Holding my saline I could see a small child almost breathing his last on the same bed I was, a bearded old man was crying “Oh Allah-the-merciful,” all the while.
The night unfolded more of human tragedy, helplessness, cries, prayer and silence. I was breathless, (which I later discovered was due to the broken ribs pressing against my swelling lungs) silent and largely blank minded unable to acclimatize with speed with which the world around me was changing.
In between the graceful middle-aged lady doctor came to me and said, “You will survive for sure.”
Kishor, in the meanwhile was helping fellow victims in the Mumbai attack.

26/11 Survivor's Account: Good News 1- Kishor Pujari

The best news for me was Kishor Pujari, the twenty-year-old shopkeeper on the Colaba Causeway, who took me to the Hospital. Blood dripping, breath choking, I was aware of the goodness Kishor was showering upon me. The effort he made in finding a taxi and rushing me to the hospital, the fight with the hospital authorities who took me for a gangster and were hesitant in treating.
Despite the chaos, police scrutiny, Kishor stood by me. After recovery, when I asked him what prompted him to help me, he said, “I just thought it’s my duty to keep another human being alive, whoever he may be.” Kishor, born and brought up in a small village in southern Karnataka state said it was his mother’s teachings that that forced him to act naturally during the occasion.
Kishor confessed, he also thought I was a gangster and had a gun with me like most fellow shopkeepers around. The Police questioning at the hospital was more about why I was shot and why Kishor brought me for treatment. There was no hurry in treating me though I was the first to reach the St George hospital.
I faintly remember the sleepy looking policeman, whom the hospital staff summoned for recognize whether I’m a gangster or not. He said, “Madam isko to nahi janta tab bhi puchhna padega control room (Madam I don’t know him..will have to ask the control room)
It was a piece of a puzzle for the thin exhausted policeman and hospital staff that had associated clues happening elsewhere in the city, which was to soon answer their questions.

Remembering 26/11: The dark side and the good news

I want to dedicate my postings on November 26, 2009 to every innocent life lost on the same day a year ago.

Every dark event in life has some positives attached to it. Like the discovery of great human beings around you, true character of self, development of sensibility and absence of fear. The events of November 26, 2008 provided me with similar experiences.

I was lucky enough to survive the horror, unlike many fellow human beings and discover my share of goodness in life. I sometimes feel writing the goodnews about my survival is selfish considering many others didn't see the good news. But I think I want to make a point how good human beings exsists on this earth irrespective of ethnicity religion and circumstances. I would like to contribute this positive piece of literature to every fellow human being who is hopeful about this world.

Do we need to make our children prisoners of out-of-fashion value education

There are times when you become a storyteller. You may or may not believe in the stories yourself, but someone else does. The moment you know others believe in the story, your skills imrpove. The stories on truth, happiness, wisdom are always disputed. Real world experiences don't let you agree with a old Panchatanta story you heard years ago as a child. yet you impart the same story-based value education to your child. Why? Don't you have an alternative?

I can cite one example to make things a little clear.
We are trained to worship our teachers. Many stories in support of the great guru-sishya tradition. As children we agreed to every word. A woman friend recently told how she was mentally and physically abused by a old male teacher as a child only because she was taught the teacher is to be worshipped and she can be taken for granted. And as a child she had little idea about what's happening with her.

Don't know if I make sense or not.... but I think making our children prisoners of out-of-fashion value-based-education is immoral and criminal on our part.
Let us tell them the old stories blended with enough real life examples..... I know the fantasy of the old stories will evaporate but at least they know the truth which will make their lives less miserable.

(This beautiful photograh of a shoe-flower is taken by my friend Feroze Ahmed Jamal)

A walk by my side

The evening has softened with an unexpected shower and breeze. Lonely me walking through the green meadows of an unknown settlement, somewhere in central India near the Satpura forest range...far from any railway station or bus station, where you are sure that you cannot get back to city life soon.

Where you know you are not under any obligation. Where you know the addiction of checking your Facebook of Gmail account every few moments, won’t bother you.

Where you know you have no presentations to make and anticipate reactions from the superiors, clients.

Here I am with me. The old good me that doesn’t critically analyse me. The me which is happy with what he sees in the nature. No questions asked. Just walk with a bare-soul, bare feetand bare-chest.

I feel saintly....I consider myself near the moment of truth, near the atoll of serendipity, until some one rediscovers the warm blooded human in me.

A tiny yet sharp voice breaks the connection with truth, serendipity. “Kaha ja rahe ho babu,” asks an angry looking Gond kid. I said,"hello."

Dark night's conversation

Suspicion and deceit have always ruled our mind in one form or the other.

The other member in the family, the best friend, the office colleague, everyone or someone has breached our trust sometimes. We have nursed injuries. We have cried foul and thought of ourselves being at the receiving end.

Yet we have also not been worthy of others belief many a times, knowingly or unknowingly we have hurt others. It seems being human we become part of this precarious game.

Alok was in a thoughtful mood defining and redefining silently what is the essence of 'trust'.

Didi (the maid) has left since an hour after cooking a oil-less meal without chappatis (bread). It’s about eight in the evening.

The tiny Oraon tribal hamlet of 40 houses is into deep sleep, except the dim-lighted broken community toongi (club house), where half-a-dozen men were enjoying semi-distilled mahua. Alok looked at the chapatiless, boiled vegetable dinner neatly placed near his table.

It didn’t excite him, though his conscience was forcing him to have it or else it’s the waste of the pure labour of love with which Didi prepared this food.

Guilty! Yet he moved ahead, opened the thatched gate of the mud house and wandered in the clean red-earth-road of Dhan-Gaon. Still thoughtful, Alok stumbled upon a lonely Jokhi didi loitering in the dark.

“What’s the matter babu...not asleep?” “You educated young men always roam in search of what you only know.”

“See our boys are always in search handi (traditional rice beer) or mahua. Goddess bless them...”
Alok had no point to make, neither was he avoiding Jokhi. He quite liked Jokhi, who must be of the same age as Alok. In her early twenties she looked worn-out, dilapidated skeletal human body.

Her age is that of an old lady in this hamlet, where life expectancies rarely cross beyond late thirties.

Sharp and witty, Jokhi asked Alok again. “Want Khaini(chewing tobacco).” Alok said,”yes,” with thinking and realising he never had it nor did he ever intended to have it. “It doesn’t matter,” he mulled, and put some in his mouth in a manner similar to how Jokhi did.

“What’s the matter with you Jokhi didi? You are the old lady,... mother of two young men why are you roaming,” said Alok jokingly.

“I knew you will have this question. Very predictable of an educated young man,” she said and laughed hysterically, usual of her style.

Alok knew there will be no answers. This was a trust building exercise and he has not succeded building the bridge with Jokhi, or for that matter anyone else in this village to get a straight answer.
Jokhi, the smart one she was, could gauge Alok’s apprehension.

“Not in a mood to be in this village ..sometimes sit with us in the evening have some daru and see how people trust you..we are simple people you just need to be simple with us,” Jokhi said.

Jokhi’s 10-year-old daughter came running. “Mai mai (mother, mother) come fast chutki (the small one) is running high fever.”

Jokhi gave all her khaini to Alok and ran saying, “Babu this looks like bada bukhar (Malaria).”

Another day in Shobhita's life

The main character here is a woman fictitiously named as Shobhita.
I was not out of my battered soul yet, when Rukmini knocked my door. Unhappy with her new boss and workplace, which I have been hearing for the past two months, she almost banged my door till I broke my inertia and opened the door.
She had this very original worrisome facial expression on her egg-shaped beautiful face ....and as always she anticipated some genuine concern from my side. I was not too enthused at that moment entertaining her trivial woes. She demanded my attention anyways.
I had to wear a fictitious smile in an effort to soothe her imaginative worries which included how her boss may not allow her to order from Pizza Hut as the company has tied up with Dominos.
"What say...see how unlucky I am,” she said.
I had no words and conviction to cajole her and say,” this is just a phase in life you will soon get to work at a new place and order from Pizza Hut." But I did it anyway.
When you enter into this long phase of relationship where you do things out of habit rather than realising them, it gets seriously boring. But then you have never really tried to behave any other possible way and allowed this habit to grow.
"It doesn't matter," I thought. Just five months to go and I'm out of this place.
Rukmini and I have been staying in this working women's hostel since the past two years and never have there been a day she has not complained about her life.
She's perpetually happy in the morning at the breakfast table in the music room....then goes the days her depressing SMSes flood my hand-phone.
Co-workers smile suspiciously as if some romance is brewing...unfortunately it would have been some message reading, "pata hai me an aaj bahot sad hun.. know this guy with that Harvard-type degree..my new manager yaar gives me hi funda and forces me to accept that mine is a nondescript degree...I fought with him..u see my MBA degree is the best in Jabalpur your may be in the US... I'm so sad he is also very cute but that Delhi girl is getting all the bhao...my life is all sad ...mujhe call kar na."I would be preparing some presentation for our new clients in clean energy business...and will typically not respond to her.
Then a flurry of her SMSes reiterating how the damsel-in-distress is almost doomed.
When I go back home she won't be there typically i will have my session of television and non-fiction reading. When I'm just into my bed she will come running he Shobhita what the hell yaar you didn't even call me.
"Where were you ..why so late today," i will ask with little interest. You know I was sad in the day then in the evening Rohit took me to the cafe near the sea-face, I was amazed. ...but then he pissed me up he told, "I can work with you despite your poor education in Jabalpur."
I said he must be joking. She said," tu sunna ..he also said that he was joking." But I didn't believe....you know why?
"Why" I had to ask.
That Delhi hot girl was waiting for us to join at the bar in the inner city circle. He thought I won’t understand.
Then all the nonsense will continues till 1:30 and then she will say chalo mujhe sona hai or else I will have pimples.
I don't know but by this time I never felt like sleeping she i will have to wake up and read some stuff like "The world most respected companies,” The biggest financial disasters in the world history," and so on...
What a day....what a night ...what a friend I have I would think subconsciously with no hope and strong feeling of escaping it.

My date with alcohol; the highs and the not so highs

This post is a work of fiction and it has nothing to do with me. The main character here is refered to as 'me' for ease of reading. (Photo courtesy: http://lmgfieldmarketing.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/usable-all-breezers.gif)

I’m not necessarily an alcohol aficionado, but I had my share of getting drunk, high and wild too. A decade ago I hated the smell of alcohol, the dipsomaniacs and their unpleasant behavior after a spell of drinking.

I was introduced to this not-so-heavenly liquid by force during one of the ragging sessions in my early graduation days by four gentlemen in one of the British styled 100-year old hostel rooms, on the banks of wide Yamuna river in a dark winter night.

It disturbed me, I vomitted and I went back to my room praying for forgiveness to my God with the explanation that bad times made me touch something as untouchable as alcohol.

The next day I complained to the University Procter that landed the above mentioned gentlemen in a soup. They were suspended from the hostel for 2 months but that did no wonders for me.

They were back with a vengeance and with the determination of converting me into an alcoholic. And they succeeded in a way. I had to drink a glass of concentrated cheap rum, and vomit almost everyday.

They wanted me and other fresher students to join the movement 'a-glass-of-rum everyday', until one late night drinking session on a highway dhaba followed by a disastrous accident killed one of those seniors.

The surviving three left alcohol forever and preached the benefits of being non-alcoholic. That was the end of more alcohol for me in during the period of my four-year graduation.

I however learnt and loved the idle urdu gazhals in the praise of alcohol and women and regularly won prizes at inter university events.

After graduation I joined a reputed media school where liberty, intellect and alcohol enjoyed the same status. I was slightly curious! How could such decent looking intellectual types are friends with alcohol? Even the teachers would speak about it with dignity in the classroom.

This changed status of alcohol made me think about it with some respect. I did research about the colour and nature of different varieties of alcoholic drinks....this time it looked better.... didn’t smell as awful... But I continued to resist from touching it.

A year after, I landed in the city bureau of a national daily newspaper. Day one, the forty year old city editor welcomed me by taking to an event in a luxury hotel, where booze flowed free and everyone had a glass in hand.

The bureau slowly discovered about my distance from alcohol. A bureau of 12 women and 4 men, all of them except this beautiful lady from Kashmir was a drinker.

They didn’t ridicule me but rather sympathized about how I’m missing something so adorable in life.

Still unaffected.... I stayed away ... but alcohol no more looked ugly or untouchable to me. I accepted being friends with those who loved alcohol and discovered the pleasures of smoke filled cramped pubs in an otherwise spacious Delhi.

In the meantime I was losing my heart to a female reporter in a rival newspaper, thanks to the job of reporting at the not-so-cool late night page three parties.

We shared the goal of spotting celebrities, their gossips and their glamorous lives, while we had to come back to our humble lives in the by-lanes of typical south Delhi villages.

Those trips back home in some PR sponsored car on wide Delhi roads at about 2 hours past midnight that made us closer. She was a rebel child born to a strict Bengali teacher’s family almost similar to mine except for the region.

She was a year younger to me but was a step ahead at least in her experiments with alcohol.

Almost a year after we both were on a junket to a beautiful Himalayan hill station, where a large hydropower corporation arranged for a luxurious stay and trekking adventures for journalists before their entry to the primary market for raising funds.

There was no reportage to be made except the interview with the chairman, which ended on day one of the five day trip. Rest of the four days was for us to retreat.

We succumbed to the idyllic charm of the hills and absolute comforts of life for those few days. It was easy to be romantic and shed all inhibitions. And that was a good chance for alcohol to enter into my life.

She introduced me to the finer and expensive, non-smelly and no-vomit side of alcohol. I was floored. We had more Himalayan adventures and more introduction, appreciation and to some extent addiction to alcohol.

The high continued as long as we romanced. It ended in a year’s time when she chose to go for higher studies abroad, as many journalists do after their fling with journalism in junior positions. I lost my interest in alcohol again note merely because I was heart-broken or something but because I couldn't afford the finer expensive stuff she introduced me to.

This time, male friends tried to revive the trend by introducing me to the dark, cheaper alcohols of our times, thanks to the duty free thekka shops in otherwise dutyful Delhi.

And the cheaper variety of alcohol comes as a natural support to the guys nursing their broken hearts at least in India.

Ever heard that, “Rumko pio aur ghum ko bhulao.” (Drink rum and forget the sorrow)

By now I was graduated to a learned appreciator and critic of alcohol, a much needed quality in the media and party circuit in the city of the Djinns.

Then work and professional excellence took over me and I had to move to Mumbai, the maximum city, where you have to survive on the minimum. Minimum sleep, minimum romance and minimum parties, because your maximum time is taken by the suburban trains.

Here you have a outlet for journalists called the Press Club, where you network rather than the party meets of Delhi. You have to be in good shape to go back home safely in the trains.

So being a Mumbaiah in Mumbai I here, discovered an alcopop, called Breezer, smooth alcoholic yet keeps you fit for a train journey back home. I just slip into some networking group and sip a bottle of red, yellow or green coloured Bacardi Breezer much to the annoyance of the young women journalists around.

The girls must be thinking this as an intrusion of sorts. I heard a remark once, “Look that uncleanly shaven un-cool guy holding a bottle of our drink as if he will eat it like a Wada-Pao.”

So it be, but I’m a breezer man now.

My Guru Gets Magsaysay

Last month one of my mentors got rewarded by the society. The great soul, I idolize for inspiring and bringing me into the world of social engineering, worked for long before being noticed by the society for consideration.
However, it’s another fact that he never wanted any attention for being good.

Deep Joshi, the founder of Professional Assistance for Development Action or PRADAN was considered for Ramon Magsaysay award for his pioneering work in rural development on August 3.

Joshi two decades ago founded PRADAN with the hope that technically qualified people will turn livelihood interventionist. Six years ago, when I first interacted with Joshi in the Kesla, a central Indian settlement surrounded by dense jungles of Satpura, a had a complete metamorphosis.

In a Gond tribal village nearby we discovered how people educated in Indian Institutes of Technologies and Managements have created livelihood opportunities from mushroom cultivation. The interesting thing the mushroom is flaked and sold as the popular Knorr-soup brand by fast-moving consumer goods major, Hindustan Unilever Ltd.

Joshi said, “This product and livelihood integration fits in and around this part of the country ..as a professional you can work different livelihood concept as per the location.”

Joshi was always shy of admitting that he did anything, instead he promoted the local team as the owners of the success. It worked well promoting innovation at more that 30 locations in India, where PRADAN worked.

In my early 20s and raring to do something for the country, I remembered each of his word, until I created a livelihood concept in South-Jharkhand. It was about introducing hybrid corn in about 30 villages.

This concept prevented a imminent large scale migration from the region to brick kilns in Uttar Pradesh, and added on an average an income of about 5,000 rupees or nearly $100. I still find this the most satisfying work in my life.
And I thank Deep and the villagers who believed in me for all of it.

Joshi, an alumnus of MIT and Harvard, saw the first to realize the potential in professionals working a village. However it’s true that every large organization has problem, PRADAN too has.
At the height of decentralization few people started becoming egotist, they chose to exploit the very people whom they were to help. But such minor instances will not take the idea of success as ‘PRADAN’ that Deep Joshi conceptualized.

Cheers Deep. Do inspire more people.

The 'Dalal Street' as I know

I have mostly been parsimonious in my lifestyle and detached from the act of multiplying money in a spectacular manner.

This has to do with the Hindu Brahminical household surroundings, followed by a social and left-affiliated education system I was exposed to in India.

For the initial twenty years in my life I knew stock market is all about speculation and opacity, where no one ever gains. A stock-broker or dealer was a kind of taboo word in the educational and family discussions.

And interestingly in eastern India, where I come from, never did I meet anyone who had dabbled in stocks or the unreal money as they call it.

The ‘Mehta’ and ‘Parekh’ scams that rocked Indian capital markets in the nineties vindicated the belief of me and folks, teachers around me. “This is such dirty scandalous world all about black money and you see they sell papers and write on computers to make money,” said a teacher once in my senior school years.

“It’s only for the dalals, the middlemen, who make money even when the country is at war. They are thick skinned and thin blooded people only money runs in their blood,” told a senior who was an aspiring left student leader.

At 1700 kms from Mumbai I saw in Bollywood films only smugglers in Amitabh Bacchan films play in ‘satta’ or stocks and race course. One movie ‘Satta Bazaar’, showed how a family is ravaged only because the son becomes a stock broker.

My uncle, a senior official with a nationalised bank once told me “See I’m simple man but even I can make out from the name of the street where this Bombay Stock Exchange is. It’s called Dalal Street.”

‘Dalal’ in eastern India carries a certain negative connotation. It refers literally to a miser, some one who makes money from unethical means. I as a school boy had little idea, but thanks to daily reading of newspapers I was not sure or convinced what all people were saying.

I thought if ‘dalal’ is so much of a bad word, why a journalist called Sucheta Dalal was instrumental in unearthing the stock scam. There must be something more to it.

And I was true there was more to it. Much more. ‘Dalal’ is a surname like a Mishra or Chopra and they are successful individuals in all professions and as entrepreneurs. Stock market is no dark land; it’s one of the indicators of the country’s economy.

And India’s Bombay Stock Exchange is the oldest bourse in Asia and Dalals, or the brokers have kept it alive facilitating flow of high value investments in the country. It has a flip side too which the scams have brought out, but it’s like any other necessary evil the country has like its tax system, postal department, banking system etc.

They are great tools for the growth of India, but have to be well regulated. Four years ago I also became a party to the share trading world, thanks to my job as a market writer with a leading economic Web site.

Off late direct market participation is off limits for me due to some professional obligations, nevertheless we are always linked to the market through our mutual funds portfolio.

And guess what. I liquidated a portion of my funds portfolio, invested a year ago, with an average 30 percent return and used the profits (read the unreal money) for some social cause, which I’m proud off.

This is where markets are good. The gains can fund some one’s education, medical bills, or even food. But only if we use it for good and not buy inflated luxuries.