Corrupt? Who, us?

People’s power asserted itself peacefully and forcefully-as would be expected in a vibrant and functioning democracy- when the Government agreed to form a committee to draft the Jan Lokpal Bill.

I remained in ignorant bliss as history was being made. After the cricket world cup, I did not consider any event as worthy of being reported. So I had stopped reading the newspaper and did not pay my cable television subscription. Now, with the impending Jan Lokpal Bill, I told myself to take my obligations as a responsible citizen  very seriously.   I must make amends quickly.

First, I will get myself and a few friends photographed with the national flag. Then I will superimpose our picture on a newspaper photo of the scene of the historic fast. Many years hence, I must not be found wanting when my grandchildren ask me about “the second struggle of independence”. I must have a good story to tell. But, on second thoughts, that is still too far into the future.Life is so short and uncertain. Instead, I will put the photo on my Facebook page.

I am also concerned over reports of disagreements amongst the committee members. In my opinion-which is just one out a 1.21 billion- they are not focused on the basics. As I also have the right to be heard, I have decided to write to the committee with a few suggestions.

In my view the committee must address two fundamental points:

DEFINE CORRUPTION:   The effectiveness of the Lokpal Bill depends on the clarity that it brings to the meaning of the word corruption. Because of the far reaching effects of the  Bill, corruption must be defined and explained in all our constitutional languages so that it is understood by all Indians in the manner it is intended. If necessary, sub- committees must be formed to select regional language experts. This is serious work and its importance must not be underestimated. We cannot afford to have lawyers holding up cases while courts deliberate on the interpretation of the word. India has waited for forty years and a few decades more will not matter.

HEAR THE VOICE OF THE COMMON MAN. The common man supports the Bill, but is also worried that the rhythm and flow of his daily routine may be disturbed. The Committee must take these concerns into consideration. Let me explain.

Managing situations are an integral component of our everyday lives. We manage the policeman when we break a traffic rule. We manage the lineman when he arrives in our premises to cut the electricity because we have not paid the bill. A friend of mine also manages the VAT department whenever he misses the pay-by date. (The VAT officer will also vouch for my friend’s excellent hospitality). These are just a few examples that came immediately to my mind.

The committee must understand that we are honest, hardworking citizens. Most of us who cannot afford Chartered Accountants even pay our income tax on time. It is just that we do not want to bring any inconvenience and trouble upon ourselves.

So, would the committee kindly see to it that the Bill does not apply to us common folk? I am sure that there will be enough scams, frauds and Swiss Bank accounts to keep the courts busy

Opium for the Masses

"Then ye returned to your trinkets; then ye contented your souls
With the flannelled fools at the wicket…..” Rudyard Kipling

The Minister was working very hard. It was not enough that India won the World Cup. True, during the month or so that the tournament held public attention, he did not have to be reminded daily about failed election promises and face awkward questions in Parliament. The challenge now was to keep the nation’s attention fixed on cricket. The Prime Minister wanted ideas. The Minister had responded with a proposal for a Ministry of Cricket The Prime Minister was pleased but also wanted the idea to be followed with quick administrative action. But that was not all.

A delegation of the sponsors had met him with a list of their demands. They were not satisfied that only 67.6 million had watched the finals. They had put in a lot of money and wanted more. India has a population of 1.21 billion and it was reasonable to expect that at least 500 million should watch the game. With so many people hooked to the television screens, commercials would reach a huge audience, which in turn could lead to a surge in purchases. Naturally, this would result in manufacturing growth, increased employment and more purchasing power.

The delegation also cautioned that all this will not be possible unless the game is supported by the government and built into an Institution. The Minister was impressed and the delegation left with a promise to build a cricket stadium in his village.

The Minister got down to work immediately. He was a man of destiny and this was his chance to leave his mark. His vision and plans soon took shape:

• Cricket will drive –was that a pun?- the economy
• There will be a Ministry of Cricket and, of course, the Minister would be honored to head it.
• The Ministry would be run by the finest bureaucrats of the country so that cricketers can play cricket and ex-cricketers can commentate on matches.
• There will be wide screen television sets in every office so that dedicated, hardworking employees do not miss a game
• April 2 would be celebrated as World Cup day and declared a national holiday.The Department of Personnel will also be persuaded to add another category of leave. In addition to Earned Leave, Casual leave and Sick Leave, every employee would be entitled to seven days of Cricket Leave to watch at least one Test Match or a few one day or T20 games.
• There will be an allowance so that employees may be able to travel to the match venues. An employee would be allowed to accumulate both leave and allowance for four years-enough to watch a full world cup
• Exam schedules will be approved by the Ministry so that that they do not clash with match days. Students must be spared the stress of having to miss games because of exams
• A special Act of Parliament was envisaged which will exempt cricketers from paying income tax (Farmers don’t pay tax, do they?). The Minister was also hopeful that gifts of cars, yachts, airplanes and such like would also not be taxed.
• The Ministry will also look after the interests of cricketers who have sacrificed the best part of their lives. A special purpose vehicle will be formed to acquire land for houses and cricket academies.

There were more proposals. Indeed, the Minister’s head was brimming over with ideas. This was going to be definitive phase in Indian cricket and he wanted be known as the “game changer”.

"…eleven flannelled fools chasing a red ball, with eleven thousand fools cheering them" George Bernard Shaw

The Minister smiled as he recalled Kipling and Shaw. He had studied in England, was fashionably contemptuous of the British but, cricket- he just loved the game. In his mind, he strapped his pads and twirled his bat. He then squared his shoulders and strode to the Prime Minister's office.

Urban Landscape-A Walk Home

Depending on your perspective, you might want to call Pune a pensioners’ paradise(which it most certainly is not any longer),  the Oxford of the East( the jury is out on that one)  or the two wheeler capital of India( which is a pretty accurate description- it is perfectly acceptable  to cite the anarchic  traffic  as the reason why you were delayed for the meeting )

Runaway urbanization has resulted in an urban environment that is definitely pensioner unfriendly. The best and the not so-good educational institutes flourish cheek-by-jowl. Motor vehicles of all sizes and shapes democratically share limited road space. The green cover is fighting a losing battle with concrete. So what’s new here? We have heard this before. My point is that, we are losing in many ways and it is not easy to articulate the sense of loss.

Some months back I sold my car, the deciding rationale being that it was nearly ten years old and the family deserved something better. At the same time, a sense of idealism pulled tangentially and I decided that, for the time being, I would walk or take the bus. Three months on, there has been no cause for regret. One recent experience opened my blinkered eyes to face up to how much I have missed.

Blinkered Vision: I parked my car outside this lovely house for many years

and hadn't even noticed. The Ashoka trees outside can't be blamed for

blocking my sight

One day, I walked  from Deccan Gymkhana to my home in Kothrud. Everything about the decision went against good sense. It was late afternoon (35 degree Celsius plus), the traffic was getting thicker (the homeward exodus had begun) and, with no clear pavement to speak of, a walker had to be both stupid and brave to bear with the traffic. heat, noise and the foul air for most of the  distance (5km).

Going, Going... and soon will be gone. A huge mound of rubble outside this

partly demolished house waits to be removed. In a few months an unfamiliar,

imposing , glass and concrete structure will intimidate those who pass by

What struck me immediately- and hard- was that that very few of the familiar houses were left. They were there for many years and they imparted a sense of permanence and reassurance, the no-matter-what-I-am-there-for- you feel. Many of them barely appealed to one’s aesthetic sense; yet, their presence was so taken for granted that they are now conspicuous only by their absence. (Hey-I passed-this-house-every-day-what-happened-to-it). 

Handsome, Solid and Dignified: Who does not want to be known to possess

these qualties? More importantly, who would really notice?



Change is inevitable and we are all a part of it. The old must eventually make way for the new. I know that. But I also hope that some things don't change. (I still miss the reassuring warmth of my grandmother’s embrace).We flirt with the transitory, but yearn for permanence. Many of the houses I passed  probably  reflect the qualities of the people who first built them-qualities that we claim to value so much,yet fail to appreciate when they present themselves before us.

So, for now, I will continue to walk. The new car can wait.

This path connects Prabhat and Bhandarkar Roads. A pity

that many people don't use it- for about 400 metres one is

spared the stress and din of traffic

 

How Scams are Investigated

The basic lessons were learned one warm afternoon in early summer….. It was also that phase in our lives when our minds were illuminated with the realization that there was more to birds and bees than, well, just birds and bees. There was a lot to be learned, the mind was fighting to be freed and imagination would often run out of control.

It was no secret that our class mate V…. had eyes on S…. Ours being a boys’ school, pairing opportunities were almost non-existent. Thus, V… was the envy of everyone. No one knew what S… looked like, so it was left to the creative minds in the class to describe - and often draw- her. Not surprisingly, her appearance changed almost daily, depending on what one thought about V…on a given day.

Classes were over that day and we were out playing in the school ground. The teachers were relaxing in the classrooms, correcting our exercise books and glad to be rid of us for the day

Earlier, one creative mind had come up with the noble-but unnecessary-idea of immortalizing the relationship between V… and S…. He drew a sketch which was passed around the class for comments, changes and approval. Expectedly, the sketch quickly metamorphosed into something quite graphic. During the games hour, the class snitch or-if you prefer-the whistleblower got hold of the incriminating drawing and, with a righteous smirk, presented it to the teacher along with a few names.

The teacher decided that the matter was serious and warranted a proper investigation. A teacher from the next class was co-opted into the inquiry. The first group of suspects was rounded up and made to stand before the panel.

BOYS! How could you do such a thing?!!

Miss, it wasn’t us.

But you drew this

Miss, but A… told us to.

Call A… ( A… is summoned from the playground)

What, miss?

These boys say that you said something about V…

No, miss

Don’t lie!

Yes, miss (almost a whisper)

Speak up!

Miss, I saw B…C…D…talking about it. God promise, I swear!

Call B…C…D… at once!

B…, C… and D… are hauled in. They were quite puzzled about the accusations but were anxious to get out of the mess. They did the obvious- by implicating a few more. It went on like this till the classroom was filled with forty bewildered and frightened  ten and eleven-year olds with nightmarish visions of punishment-both in school and at home.

It was no easier for the teachers. They were getting nowhere. Hopes for a quick detection and punishment vanished and the only thought in everyone’s mind now was that of a dignified exit and, of course, of not missing the bus.

And the collective wailing was making matters unbearable

The teachers sighed loudly.

SILENCE 

Forty terror-stricken and tear-stained and faces looked up..

Are you sorry?

Yes, miss. Forty voices chorused as one.

You won’t do it again?

No, miss

Now, go.

Yes, miss, thank you, miss

We grabbed our backs and rushed to our buses.

And the anonymous artist continued in his creative vein for the rest of the school year.

Many years later there was Bofors, which was followed by the Telgi incident. CWG and 2G are still in the news. Investigating methods haven’t really changed much; nor have they been particularly effective. 

Of Cricket and Exams

Up until the cricket world cup, C… was a very worried man. His tea-shop was the hub of local gossip. With the local elections over and the stock market having sunk below the horizon, there was nothing of topical interest to keep a conversation going. As a result, there was a drop in customers and those that remained found that the tea being served was also worthy of analyses. The scrutiny made matters awkward for C… and put his business model at a considerable disadvantage as he was compelled to use more milk. Naturally, his bottom line hurt badly.

Thus, no one welcomed the World Cup more than C… did. His mood brightened considerably. The shop was getting crowded and the animated chatter at the tables was clear signal that his tea was forgiven and forgotten. He turned up the volume of the television and went back to serving his tried and trusted concoction.

That morning, we had gathered at the tea-shop after our calorie burning routines. God was in heaven, cricket was being played in India, C….’s tea was forgiven and all was well with the world.

Well, not quite……Cricket is funny game-both on the field(about which much has been written) and off it(about which we know nothing).

It was exam time and in some families, cricket and exams didn’t seem to mix. In fact, it brought unimaginable stress to one home. My friend F…. had this story to tell about his neighbor.

It began with Mr N…..., a senior bureaucrat, informing his family that he could not get his son’s exam postponed. Equally worrying was his failure to obtain an exemption from appearing for the exam.

(The minister had told him that the rules did not permit exemptions to watch a game and even he, the Minister, could do nothing about it. He also –somewhat sternly- advised N… not to compare government employees absenting from work watch a cricket match with children wanting to miss  an exam for the same reason. To emphasize his point he even wished Junior well for his exams).

This was indeed bad news as the family had placed lot of confidence in Mr N…’s ability to manage things. Indeed, he had never let his family down before.

It was a worrisome situation. To begin with, N… had managed tickets for the best seats in the stadium. Being able to skip an exam to watch the game would have raised Mrs.  N…’s status among her friends. But this was the least of the problems. Indeed, as F…’s narration continued, the picture got more and more and more complicated.

To his parents, Junior was Indian cricket’s next big hope. It was small matter that that this view was held only by his family. But so unshakeable was their belief that they spared no efforts to ensure his smooth ascent to the summit- a place in the national team. The trip to the world cup match was a part of the larger plan, which was set in motion with junior’s school coach being instructed to pick ten of his best players.The principal exercised his discretion and chose  the eleventh. That player, of course, was Junior.

There was no dearth of well-wishers as Junior’s cricketing career continued on its smooth progress-till today.

It was a tense scene at home. Junior sulked as only a pampered child would, his mother searching for more words to berate her husband with, and Mr. N….desperately trying to restore calm.

“Dear boy,” he began, “Write your exams. We will go to Singapore afterwards. I will arrange everything”.

His wife snorted in contempt at the promise to “arrange everything”.

“Papa, I have not studied.” Junior was wailing now. “You had promised that I won’t have to take the exams”.

Mrs N… looked hard and long at he husband. “My son will not suffer for no fault of his.You have to do something”, she said. Her tone was uncompromising.  Mr N... was silent for some time.

"Hmmm. Let me see", he responded after a while.

At this point, F… paused in his narration. Every story must have an ending and, naturally, we were curious to know how N… would redeem himself.

F…. looked bemusedly at the bottom of his glass. “Would you believe it?”, he muttered,"The chap is now trying to get his hands on the question papers”.

HOWZZAT?

The Great Crossing -my First Phoren Trip

It was my class reunion and we were comparing notes.

“You must come over and see my pictures of the pyramids at sunset”, said H

Our plane flew low over the Angel falls,” gushed K’s wife,” It was just magical”

“In Peru…” D began, ever the quiet and diffident one.

“I will tell you about this woman at Bondi ..,” F interrupted. His eyes were bright and glassy and he held his glass at such an angle that it could hold no more than a few drops. His wife looked uneasily at him. Deciding that family secrets were no longer safe, she took away the glass and led us back to Peru.

D looked at Mrs. F as he did his teacher three decades ago-with admiration and gratitude- and proceeded to lecture us on the fascinating dietary habits of Andean villagers.

And thus continued the travellers' tales

Pattiveerampatti, Machharwa,and Kot Kamte  do not find a mention in our geography texts. Naturally, my visits to these places could hardly be considered the stuff of heady discussion at a class reunion. In the company of Marco Polos, I was the frog in the well.

It was a sore point in my family that I had not set foot outside India. The opportunity to travel abroad did not present itself to me; nor did I look for one. It was as simple as that and I was quite sanguine about the whole thing. But the family fretted that I was fast reaching the “untravellable” age, a condition that I understood to be as undesirable as  an “unmarriageable” one.

The discussion would invariabley end with my solemnly promising to travel abroad whenever the opportunity arose. Like all political treaties, the result was confusion over its interpretation and a tenuous peace on the domestic front.

The opportunity came up sooner than expected and I grabbed it with both hands. It was also far easier than I imagined.

No stone faced customs and immigration

No jumpy security

No demanding to see your passport ( or any kind of identification)

Don't trouble the sentry, just go around the barrier...

..and you are in another country

No baggage checks, no X ray scanners, our customs is clearly overwhelmed





It was so simple that I made two
phoren trips in as many days.

WELCOME TO NEPAL





The Punjab Mail-Memories of a Summer Afternoon

Dang..dadannng…..dang…danng,  Dang..dadannng…..dang…danng….

The Bombay(now Mumbai) bound Punjab Mail is passing slowly over a small bridge, the  wheels drumming rhythmically against gaps in the rail joints which, in turn, transmit the vibrations to the steel columns. The locomotive driver leans out of his cabin. The station is in sight. He tugs at a steel wire above his head and the engine lets out a rasping hoot to warn people standing on the platform of the approaching train…..

“Igatpureee”, the driver announces.

It is the summer of 1968.

                 

We-my younger brother, my mother and I- are on vacation at my grandparents’ home in Matunga. Lunch is over. Mother and grandmother are relaxing and indulging in desultory conversation. Grandfather is away at office and the aunts in college. My brother and I are playing in the balcony of the flat. It is early afternoon and Vincent (now Dr Ambedkar) Road is quiet save for the occasional rumble of a bus or the honking of a car.

My brother is perched on a high stool and is leaning out of the balcony. He is the driver of the Bombay-bound Punjab Mail. The train has just chugged into Igatpuri Station and the steam locomotive will be replaced with an electric one. The driver puts his lips to the web of his thumb and index finger and blows. The engine hoots again and draws slowly away from the train.

I am the fireman of the locomotive. I have been shoveling coal without pause into the firebox without a pause so that the driver is able to maintain a full head of steam. The shovel is a skillet tied to one end of a long bamboo stick. I bend, gather the coal in the shovel, straighten, turn around and toss the coal into the firebox. I repeat this action over and over again. It is backbreaking work. But the train must not run late and the driver is a hard taskmaster.

          

 I don’t like the job. Actually, I want to fly a Boeing 707 (without my brother, of course) to Tokyo. But mother has decided that the fireman’s job is more important for the sake of the driver’s safety. The driver must not be allowed to lean too far out. 

For the time being, my ambitions are put on hold.

My brother, of course, is driving the electric engine that will pull the train to Bombay. The hoots and huffs and puffs will gave way to a loud horn and a brisk clackety-clack, cackety-clack as the train speeds to its destination

The electric locomotive has been coupled to the train. The driver checks that job has been properly done and makes doubly sure by using a rope to fasten the leg of his stool to the balcony grille. He jumps onto his perch .With a loud, bass “oooooooomp”, the Punjab Mail sets off from Igatpuri on the final leg of its journey.

The fireman has become the electric loco driver’s assistant. The driver gives me a green towel which I must wave as we pass the stations en route to Bombay. The train must reach on time and my brother does not want a red light to hold him up. Kasara, Titwala, Asangaon, Kalyan, Thana… he announces the names of the stations as they whiz past.

“Daaadarrr…”, the driver calls out and, satisfied that he has completed the journey, prepares to leave the engine.  I stop waving and rub my arms. They are hurting.

My brother jumps off the stool and runs into my mother’s arms.

End of journey? Wasn’t the train supposed to go up to Victoria Terminus? Did the driver forget? I suppose we will never know.