ऊपर वाले की माया

खत्म हो गया होमवर्क मेरा, समय खेलने का आया;
'बैग लगा लो, जूते पोलिश करो,' मम्मी ने फ़रमाया।

'फल और दूध तैयार रखे हैं, खा पीकर के फिर जाना;
कहाँ जा रही हो, यह बता दो, रात से पहले लौट आना।'

उफ़्फ़! मम्मी को बता चुकी हूँ, पच्चीस बार अपना शिड्यूल;
बार-बार फिर भी पूछेंगी, जाने कैसे जाती भूल!

अबकि फिर से बता रही हूँ, सुन लो प्लीज़् देकर ध्यान;
पार्क नही जाते हैं क्योंकि मच्छर ले लेते हैं जान!

हर दिन अलग-अलग घर में सब साथी खेलने जाते हैं;
सभी के घर हफ्ते में एक-एक दिन डेरा जमाते हैं.

'बहुत सही है,' बोली मम्मी, 'यह तो मैंने माना है';
'पर यह कैसे तय करते हो, कब किसके घर जाना है?'

'यह तो ऊपर वाले पर निर्भर है,' मैंने खोला राज़;
पहुंचे हमारी टोली जहां पूजा, अरदास या हो नमाज़!'

सुन मम्मी को हुआ अचम्भा, और उनका सर चकराया;
देख के उनकी हैरानी फिर मैंने खुल के समझाया.

'जैसे सोमवार को आप शिवजी पर जल चढ़ाती हो;
खीर बनाती हो, हमारी मंडली को भी खिलाती हो.'

'मंगलवार रिंकी के पापा हनुमान व्रत रखते हैं;
वहीं खेलते हैं हम सब भी, मीठी बूंदी चखते हैं.'

'बुधवार राजू की दादी गणपति का भोग लगाती हैं,
बहुत स्वाद लड्डू चढ़ते हैं, हमें ज़रूर खिलाती हैं.'

'बृहस्पती को शीतल के घर साईं पूजा करते हैं;
फिर मिश्री, इलायची, मेवे से सब मुट्ठी भरते हैं.'

'शुक्रवार फैसल के घर जुम्मे की नमाज़ पढी जाती;
फिर आंटी हमको प्यार से लज़ीज़ बिरयानी हैं खिलाती.'

'शनिवार को अमनप्रीत की बीजी गुरद्वारे जाती हैं;
हमें भी मिलते खट्टे चने और कड़ा प्रसाद जो चढ़ाती हैं.'

'और रविवार को सन्डे मास से आकर मार्गरेट की मम्मी
जो पैनकेक्स खिलाती हैं, वो होते हैं कितने यम्मी!'

हंस-हंस कर तब लोटपोट हुईं मम्मी, बोलीं 'वाह उस्ताद!'
'पर चलो, इसी बहाने ऊपर वाले को करते हो याद!'

बदलते रंग

रंगीन फूलों में
पार्क के झूलों में
बीता था बचपन हमारा;
पर फूलों की खुशबू से
गीतों के जादू से
दूर ज़िंदगी ने पुकारा.

मोटी किताबों ने
जूते-जुराबों ने
टाई-बेल्ट ने सपने बांधे;
भारी से बस्तों से
स्कूल के रस्तों पे
दुखते हैं नन्हे से काँधे.

नीले गगन में जो
उड़ते परिंदे तो
अपनी भी नज़रें ललचायीं
'चुपचाप पढ़ लो
यह सब याद कर लो',
फिर पापा ने डांट लगाई.

'जो न पढोगे
तो कैसे बढोगे
फिर कैसे करोगे तरक्की?
अगर कुछ भी पाना है,
जीवन सजाना है,
तो भैया, मेहनत है पक्की.'

नंबर तो अच्छे हैं,
पर हम जिनके बच्चे हैं
वो फिर भी ख़ुश तो नहीं हैं;
एक नंबर कटता है
तो वो भी खटकता है
हर वक़्त रहती कमी है.

ए.सी. लगाया,
कम्प्यूटर सजाया,
कोचिंग क्लासिज़ का है रेला;
पर न कोई खेल है,
न किसी से मेल है:
लगता है हरदम अकेला.

फिर इक सुबह आयी
जब हमने थी पायी
सोशल नेट्वर्किंग की दुनिया;
दोस्त मिले जी भर के,
साथी ज़िंदगी भर के:
लौट आयीं जीवन में खुशियाँ!

अब फार्मविल के फूलों में
सिटिविल के झूलों में
खिलता है जीवन हमारा;
स्टेटस बार पे हँसते हैं
तो स्माइलीज़ बरसते हैं:
झूमता है संसार सारा!

Of Gilded Cages and the Quest for Freedom

published on Unboxed Writers

“What this country needs is good, strong military rule!”

How often have we heard this or similar sentiments expressed by Indians disgruntled by the deteriorating law and order situation and increasing instances of corruption in high places in the country.

I’ve always maintained that the people glibly advocating such simplistic solutions should go and live in a highly developed country under military rule for some time—a little taste of a totalitarian regime would send them scurrying back to the security of their corrupt, lawless countries, and the freedom that they don’t value, because they take it for granted.

The events of the last two months in the Arab world are living proof of this. Be it Hosni Mubarak of Egypt who stepped down peacefully, President Saleh of Syria, who seems to be preparing to follow suit, or dictators resorting to absolutist crackdown on the protesting populace, viz., Colonel Gaddafi in Libya and King Hamad in Bahrain—the Arab world, held under military dominance for decades, is clamouring for freedom and democracy, even at the cost of their high trajectory of growth, because, after the three basic needs, food, clothing and shelter, there is a fourth basic human need, that is, freedom.

It is remarkable that none of the four Arab nations currently in the process of political transition from a military regime is an underdeveloped one. Bahrain, in fact, on the strength of its status as a desired corporate destination, ranks 39th on the 2010 Human Development Index—right up there among the ‘very highly developed’ nations! Libya comes in at the 53rd place, with a status of ‘high level of development’. Egypt and Syria, at 101 and 111, rank among the ‘medium developed’ nations. All of these countries, incidentally, rank above India (119th) in terms of the HDI, which is a standard means of measuring well-being in terms of life expectancy, literacy, education and standards of living. This, in turn, would seem to imply that although the people of these countries are rather well-off in terms of the amenities and facilities, they have yet had the impetus to break out in revolt—a revolt that was not a flash in the pan, and that has gathered sufficient momentum to make the breakdown of these well-regulated military regimes appear imminent!

My own taste of a military dictatorship, hand-in-hand with high standards of living, came at the age of 11—hardly an age when one understands or contemplates the ins and outs of political regimes, one would say. However, when an 11 year-old suffering from severe travelling sickness is told to throw up inside the car into her mom’s hastily unpacked saree, because it is risky to stop the car on the deserted road near Baghdad Airport (the surveillance is very strict—they’re likely to pepper the car with shots as soon as it stops, before any of us can get down to explain), it does rather encourage thought!

This was when we joined Dad in Saddam’s strife-torn Iraq in 1982, where a couple of Indian public sector companies were constructing grain-storage silos and other strategic structures.

Coming from a third-world India, Baghdad was a revelation—comparable, we were told, to any European capital, in terms of development and facilities. Having left Delhi pre-Asiad, this was our first exposure to world-class flyovers (three-tier ones, at that!), ultramodern buildings, glitzy multi-storied, glass-fronted shopping malls (called Oresdees), ice-cream parlours that made one’s eyes pop out, air-conditioned Toyota cars to travel in, and all the riches of the world, so to say, at one’s feet! This was the new city.

Proceeding to ‘our’ construction site at Tuz Kharmatu near the northern border of the country, there were the souks in the old towns of Kirkuk and Baquba, with profusions of wares of all kinds—cloth, leather, gold, electronics—heaped out in the open with no threat of pilferage (thieves, if caught, were liable to get their right arms chopped off according to the prevalent Islamic law), and women walking aboard (decorously muffled in abbas, of course) dripping gold, at any hour of day or night without fear of either theft or molestation!

Nowhere, in the entire four years that Dad was posted there, did we see a single beggar, or even anyone who looked poor or bedraggled! The people had a red bloom to their cheeks and a shine in their eyes that spoke of good health and plenitude. All the children went to the Madarsas. And when monogamous Indians with small families shopped for a basket of figs, or a couple of melons, a small bunch of fresh dates, or a kilo of black grapes, the shopkeepers, accustomed to polygamous patriarchs buying by the dozen or the bushel, would often waive off the payment!

The cost of daily rations, food items, even clothes, electricity, water, was subsidized beyond the dreams of benevolence! The department stores overflowed with luxury items from all over the world—feather-soft Spanish pure-wool blankets, the finest crockery and cutlery (lead crystal, pyrex ware, hand-painted porcelain), musical stuffed toys, the most advanced science toys (mini-microscopes, mechanical, electrical and magnetic kits), the finest cloth-stuffs (chamois satin, velvets, suedes), the last word in processed foods (flavoured condensed milk, powdered milk, all the international brands of tea, coffee, aerated drinks, tinned foods, etc.) —all the elegances of life that one associated with Europe and USA, made available to the dutiful subjects of an oil-rich dictatorship.

The television and radio aired programs from all over the world. The medical facilities were an eye-opener—all kinds of pathological tests prescribed and conducted on the spot, the results out and the patient admitted, or sent home (according to need), within a few hours—at negligible cost! One really came to appreciate the meaning of the term ‘Gulf money’.

And yet, a menacing crackle in the air underlay the atmosphere as soon as one stepped out of the ‘Indian Colony’ adjacent to the construction site.

We, the children of the colony, were shown the boundaries beyond which we were not to step (Tuz Kharmatu was at the foothills of the Kurdish mountains, on the other side of which, Saddam’s genocidal crackdown on the rebellious Kurds was in process).

The drivers had strict instructions not to take the company cars (emblazoned with the company logo for easy recognition) anywhere except the markets for which they carried government permits. Saree-clad Indian women venturing into the markets on shopping expeditions were supposed to ensure that not a millimeter of abdominal skin was visible, because only belly dancers (read prostitutes) exposed their abdomens, and so, a woman exposing even a miniscule part of her abdomen was liable to be propositioned, or in extreme cases, stoned publicly!

Everyone (not only foreigners, but also citizens of the country) was supposed to carry identification, which could be scrutinized arbitrarily at any time. Men and women moving together needed to carry proof of their relationship, or else, run the risk of being publicly stoned to death for adultery without any sort of trial! Once, exclaiming at the sight of a barrow of peaches (called khumani in Hindi), I was shushed to silence in panic because khumani sounded like Khomeini, and as Iraq was then at war with the Ayatollah’s Iran, my childish delight could have had disastrous consequences!

All the shops, homes and offices—all structures surrounded by four walls—were required to sport large pictures of Saddam. (In fact, a German artist was commissioned to paint Saddam’s bust on the humungous grain silos, once they were completed, and which, we’re told, became extremely visible air targets for the allied attacks during the Gulf War, a decade later). Radio and television programs could be interrupted at any time to make way for coverage of Saddam’s activities, or else, songs in his praise. It was disconcerting indeed, when Marilyn Monroe on TV was rudely replaced by Saddam’s mug and a host of schoolchildren chanting something that sounded like ‘Sera… seram basera … sera … Saddam sera’!

To cut a long story short, the ongoing spate of revolts against Arab dictatorships is, thus, an eventuality which had to occur, sooner or later. However, it in no way justifies the wanton destruction of Iraq by the oil-greed of the West operating in the guise of ‘Defenders of Human Freedom’ or, for that matter, the criminal sacrifice of Afghanistan on the altar of the Cold War with the erstwhile Soviet Union! Even in the current scenario, the ethicality of military intervention by the West in internal uprisings in Libya is highly questionable.

But, going back to where we started—ask the people who have been living in gilded cages for the past decades, why they wish to stretch their wings, even if they get a little less to eat!

Prophecies and Predictions

Hi, wherever in the world you are let’s stop a minute and pray to the infinite Almighty in whatever shape or form you like, that HOPE and HEALING floods Japan in more than tsunamic proportions and anywhere else on the planet where it is needed. Seems only fair.

Ok. Here's a link to a guy who predicted the tsunami in Japan http://blairrobertson.com/blog/japan-earthquake-tsunami-prediction-proves-true/ and couriered the prediction in an envelope to the mayor of his city. The mayor opened it [you guessed it] after the event. One response accuses the author of seeking fame, because he didn't courier it to the mayor of any city on the north-east coast of Japan. I've signed up for his newsletter. It pays to be safe in these uncertain times. Also, the man is modest enough to say that he didn't believe it would be this big.

There is a hierarchy of stars in this prediction business. Frontrunners include the Psychic Twins who always wear matching outfits and look quite nice too, and whose claims often hit base and often don't at http://www.psychictwins.com/predict.html

Another new and rising star is a psychic whose website design makes me want to believe whatever he writes, only he doesn’t write very often or very much. He has a hotline to Nostradamus, who issues new prophecies through him from his eternal rest out there in the great beyond. This guy doesn’t claim the prophecies are his – they come to him in visions shown to him by Nostradamus, so they are the New Nostradamus Prophecies. The website is called http://nostradamusnewpredictions.blogspot.com/ Smart, is what methinks. But who cares, the stuff is readable and entertaining. I have found some strange references to dalits and panthers, and he coyly asks if anyone from India understands this. Yes we do but we are not telling you. He also predicts doom and gloom for the next generation of British Royals, including princes William and Harry, but says Charles will be king. I am not British but nobody can touch the standards QE II has set. Not Charles anyway, he and the ghastly former Parker-Bowles have already failed, if you go by the bulk of British [and possibly global] public opinion. Personally, I loathe much of what she has accomplished in other people’s lives.

Ok coming back to the topic in hand, another wonderful and spooky-looking website is www.newprophecy.net. where the author interprets Nostradamus’ written prophecies. Upcoming: August 2O11, he predicts the murder of any one of the following: Madonna, Britney Spears, or Paris Hilton. The website has masses of stuff, but that includes plenty of news stories and pictures of events. You’ll find yourself wading through info and looking for the predictions. I got this website off another one that popped up during a random google search, http://www.abovetopsecret.com/forum/thread118010/pg1 the name of which of course drew me like a magnet.

That wraps up this edition, there’s tons more; who can forget Edgar Cayce, Estelle Roberts, Leslie Flint, Jeanne Dixon et al. More on them next.

Thriving on Voyeurism

Published in Sunday Deccan Herald on 21st November 2010

Devious mind games, sleazy power ploys, mud-slinging matches, vicious backbiting, what used to be known as ‘shipboard romances’, hand-in-hand with the agonies of heartbreak, oaths of eternal friendship followed by backstabbing, in fact, the entire spectrum of human nature in the raw.

Garnish this with an ‘in-house wedding’ and an international hottie, and what you get? You have Bigg Boss 4, currently being aired on Colors channel, hosted by Bollywood’s enfant terrible, Salman Khan.

One wonders what it reflects upon our television-watching populace that a ‘reality’ show thriving on all of the above garners one of the highest TRP ratings. Which is why, even someone like me, who abhors reality shows and all they stand for, decided to watch the show for two weeks, to find out if there’s something I was missing all along.

Now, this is what I’ve found — you create a three-month long time-warp for a dozen assorted celebrities with some claim to fame or infamy; throw them together into ‘the house of the Bigg Boss’ without any means to contact things such as a telephone, television or internet. Then you put them under the microscope, so to speak, recording randomly timed observations on their day-to-day lives via closed circuit cameras.

And now that you’ve let them loose onto each other, you let nature take its course and demonstrate the law of survival of the fittest. Sooner or later the strain of existing in a vacuum with ill-assorted strangers begins to take its toll on the nerves of the ‘inmates’.

Normally sane human beings start demonstrating behavioural aberrations. And into this melting pot of bubbling human psyches and passions, you occasionally stir in explosive ingredients such as wild card entries, tasks allotted by the omniscient Bigg Boss, and of course, eviction of one person by (un)popular vote every weekend, with the final survivor emerging as the winner to claim fabulous prizes!

Small wonder then, that all the tenets of jungle law come into play in this grotesque version of Agatha Christie’s famous whodunit And Then There Were None, to be pitifully exposed to the ghoulish enjoyment of the channel’s viewers.

This season the show has reality show veteran Shweta Tiwari; some shock value contestants such as erstwhile dacoit Seema Parihar and former thief Davinder Singh (Bunty Chor); and some from Pakistan (Ali Salim aka Begum Nawazish Ali and rakos model Veena Malik), apparently just to stir up additional publicity via controversy with Shiv Sena.

In addition, the last few weeks have witnessed TRP boosters galore — the entry of placid and good-natured WWE sensation, the Great Khali, followed by firebrand wild card Dolly Bindra, whose business it apparently is to stir up as many people as possible in the most offensive manner imaginable.

The most recent gimmick has been the highly controversial (and allegedly scripted) wedding of Sara Khan with Ali Merchant. The couple who was supposed to have broken up recently, apparently patched things up when Ali followed Sara on the show, and got married on November 10 (for the fabulous amount of Rs 35 to 40 lakh, say unkind persons). To top it all there is the three-day stint of international hottie, Baywatch star Pamela Anderson at a cost of Rs 2.5 crore!

And then, of course, there is the ongoing subtext of spats, backstabbing and general nastiness, not to mention the X-rated antics of Ashmit Patel and Veena Malik. The fact remains, however, that whatever be the motivation behind the behaviour of the various participants, the end product is some ugly insights into the seamy side of human nature.

Perhaps what the viewers, avidly glued to their TV sets, watching these distasteful antics of their fellow human beings don’t realise is that they are in the grip of a deadly virus that is devouring all sense of common decency and rectitude, spawning in its wake legions of voyeurs who thrive on vicarious thrills!

Watching News being abused

Published in Sunday Deccan Herald on 11th July 2010

Is the world really going to end in 2012?' my ten-year-old asks me anxiously, reminding me irresistibly of Chicken Little.

‘Not again!’ I feel like banging my head against the wall in frustration! I thought I’d laid that ghost to rest nearly two years ago! “I have made it clear to you about 50 times that nothing of the sort is going to happen,” I say, curbing my irritation. “Where did this come from after all this time?”

“My yoga teacher was saying that it is going to happen.…” Of course! And any teacher figure – even a half-baked teenager teaching yoga to the colony kids in the evening has to know more than mom! “It’s only two years away,” worries my daughter. “I’ll barely be 12 years old!’

I remember the spate of news channel ‘coverage’ predicting the imminent end of planet earth in 2012, that had spread a wave of panic through certain gullible sections of the populace. The kids at home and the maids had talked of nothing else over the next few weeks, after which newer topics had arisen to claim their respective interests. However, it seemed now that the ‘end of the world’ nonsense hadn’t completely died out.
One would think news channels would be a little more circumspect about their programming, given the power they seem to wield over vulnerable minds. The contrast between homegrown channels (Zee News, Aaj Tak, India TV, Star News ...) and international ones (CNBC, IBN7,

BBC …) is painfully evident in this context.
And it’s not only about influencing gullible minds; it’s also about the kind of ‘coverage’ the viewers are subjected to. Remember the two-minute coverage that news channels managed to grab, first of the rumoured Abhi-Ash ‘marriage’, and then of their actual wedding a few months later? Then there was the Preity Zinta-Ness Wadia ‘break-up’ — what is the point of concocting ‘programs’ based on pure conjecture when the principals in the ‘story’ refuse to comment, and then repeatedly inflicting the semi-fairy tale upon the poor viewers?

Perhaps even more objectionable than the sensationalisation of scant or non-existent ‘news items’ is the standard fall-back of ‘astrologically oriented programs’. When nothing else works, a panel of ‘pop-astrologers’ (complete with contact numbers and addresses, and having paid fabulous sums to the channels) attempts to scare the living daylights out of viewers with ‘This is bad news for rashis. The following is the list of astro-remedies to be followed… 500 grams of coal, four kilograms of urad beans and a 700 gram block of lead to be deposited into the nearest river or canal….’. Result? Countless superstitious people rushing to pollute the said rivers and canals!

As a modest exponent of the occult sciences myself, I am far from denying the beneficial or baleful effects of planetary movements, but this kind of mass marketing of an ancient and venerable science, with sweeping predictions and generalised remedies is (or should be) abhorrent to any thinking person.

Preying as these programs do, on the deepest fears and insecurities of the human mind, it is appalling to see even people from educated families succumbing to the psychological blackmail thus perpetuated, rushing to have prayers performed at exorbitant prices, and then, when the first round doesn’t work, going to other ‘practitioners’, throwing good money after bad and digging themselves deeper and deeper into the morass of blind superstition.

The list is endless — what is called the ‘silly season’ phenomenon on Fleet Street seems to have descended to ‘ridiculous’ on Indian television. I mean, why not go in for some good quiz or general knowledge programming instead of feeding people’s appetite for the sensational and the inane? Aren’t news channels supposed to be ‘opinion makers’? However, given the kind of ‘news’ they are propagating, the masses are much better off watching saas-bahu sagas and mythology-based serials.

Keeping the Score

posted on Unboxed Writers

Loud noises in the house at seven in the morning, reminiscent of a cow being sick. I look around, irritated. It’s that horrible ringtone on Ankit’s mobile phone. The one he refuses to change despite all entreaties because it is so distinctive and cannot be mistaken for anyone else's. This time, however, the joke’s on him. He hasn’t a hope in hell that I won’t recognise the sound, or trace it to the pocket of his school uniform trousers.

I command, "Leave your phone at home!"

He entreats, "But mom..."

“No buts, Ankit! You only got the phone so that you could stay in touch with home when you’re out with friends or at tennis and music classes. And anyway, students aren’t allowed mobile phones at your school.”

“But mom ... Have you forgotten that India is playing in the World Cup today?’ he asks incredulously and adds with immense patience, "How can I go without knowing the score all through the day?”

“And have you forgotten that you have your Math exam today?” I remind him with surpassing patience.

“No mom, I haven’t forgotten,” he grins. “I promise to switch off my phone when I enter the exam hall,” he assures me and edges towards the front door.

“Wait,” I persist, “It’s not about switching your phone off, it’s about breaking the school rules !”

“Grow up, mom!’ he expostulates, “Almost everybody’s carrying a mobile or an i-pad to keep track of the match scores. The teachers know it too, and turn a blind eye.”

“What?”

“Yeah ... well, the alternative would be that they’d be pestered for scores all day long, because they, of course, have their phones with them. So ...”

I roll my eyes heavenwards and he reacts, “I guess it’s hard for you to understand. There were no mobile phones when you were in school. You had no option. We do.” He pats my shoulder patronizingly, and leaves for school without noticing the wistful smile on my face. Little does he know that though technology changes, the typically Indian longing to know cricket scores, does not.

Flash back. 1987. Reliance Cup in India. I was in high school like Ankit and no, we didn’t have mobile phones or i-pads, but we did keep track of the match scores in school. We had mini-transistors. With earphones!

Ours was the ‘studious’, shareef section, neck deep into ED (Engineering Drawing)—not like the Arts and Commerce boys, who were almost ‘expected’ to do everything that was prohibited. The achchha bachchas in ED studied hard and abjured all outlawed pursuits. However, the lure of cricket score updates at the World Cup, especially on days when India was playing, proved too much of a temptation, even for us.

Five boys in the 50-strong class managed to get the mini-transistors flooding the market just then, along with the earphones. A lot of time was spent in practising poses. The little blue contraption would be tucked away secretively in the trouser pocket, the shirt would be worn sloppily, tails hanging out to conceal the earphone wire that was to crawl beneath the shirt and up the torso, to emerge above the collar, right next to the ear. The adventurous ones rehearsed sitting at their desks with their heads supported by their left hand (which effectively covered the earphone), while writing busily with their right hand and faking intense concentration!

All was going well and the five enterprising volunteers would write down updates on slips of paper and pass them around periodically. If the teachers knew what was going on (and how could they not?) they possibly had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and so were looking the other way. Also, it was noticeable that most teachers would vanish into the Principal’s office in their free time, and come out discussing the match in hushed tones.

And then came the fateful day when India played against New Zealand—a day that was to go down in the annals of cricketing history and become a red letter day for every Indian—a day that our class never forgot, albeit for slightly different reasons.

It was Math class and we were being tested on Differential Calculus (how sadistic can you get!). Anand sir, better known by the affectionate sobriquet of ‘Baby Elephant’, prowled the aisles between the desks with enormous majesty, casting critical glances at sundry notebooks, muttering at intervals: “not bad,” “good,” or “moron!”

It happened just as he was passing Aniket, one of the class toppers and his personal favourite.

“HAT TRICK!” yelled the model student, jumping up from his desk and punching the air euphorically.

“YAY!” roared the class, forgetting itself for an instant. Then followed, pin drop silence.

“Hat trick? Whose?” this from Anand sir. The class stared speechlessly at him.

“Tell me who made a hat trick!” he demanded. Some of the girls giggled.

“Chetan Sharma, sir,” answered his favourite hesitantly. The class held its breath, not knowing what was coming next. Anand sir suddenly remembered where he was.

“You good-for-nothing! Hand over that contraption at once, and get on with your test ... and God help you if you perform badly!” The transistor was duly handed over to him. In a further effort to retrieve his lost dignity, he growled: “I’m letting you off because it’s your first offence. Do it again and you’ll end up in the Principal’s office.”

“And what could be better than that?” muttered a wise guy from the back of the class; “he’ll get to see the match live instead of just listening to the commentary!”

Aniket as it turned out was not so lucky. According to reliable sources however, Anand sir was later sighted in the staff room, with his ear glued to Aniket’s transistor!

Parantha Supreme

Published in Sunday Deccan Herald 9th August 2010

For lovers of Indian food, although Mughlai would be the actual equivalent of gourmet cuisine, the ubiquitous north Indian Parantha (stuffed flat bread), has a place second to none. And any mention of parantha naturally leads to the Paranthe Wali Gali or the ‘Parantha Lane’ in Old Delhi—home to the world’s most delicious, mouth-watering, perfectly browned paranthas!

Paranthe Wali Gali is perhaps the only lane in the world to be named after a food item, and the Parantha is perhaps the only food in the world to have an entire lane named after it. Paranthe Wali Gaali is infact a narrow lane off the road that runs parallel to the Chandni Chowk Metro and has been a popular culinary destination for nearly a century and a half, numbering among its clientele, many celebrities from various arenas, including politics, media, as well as the glitterati of Bollywood (being the birth place of cine idol Akshay Kumar).

At the mouth of the lane stands Kanwarji, the 100 year old sweet
shop whose delicacies like sohan halwa and dalbiji mixture are bywords in the homes of native Delhiites to this day. The gali itself, with its jostling crowds, bicycles, and narrow-fronted shops far below the road level, has the ambience of a period drama.

In the time of the Mughal emperors, the Gali was known as Dariba Kalan or ‘Mini Dariba’ and was a popular destination for clothes and jewellery shopping. It was only in 1911 when the lane, having become home to about 16 shops turning out the world’s most succulent paranthas, and attracting both commoners and celebrities from far and wide, was rechristened Paranthe Wali Gali.

The first impression of the Gali is still that of a bustling, narrow by-lane lined with shops selling sarees, jewellery and thousands of varieties of kinari—decorative traditional laces and piping for garments and traditional handicrafts. Penetrating deeper into the lane, however, one experiences an onslaught of mouth-watering aromas on one’s nostrils, as the soul-stirring sizzle of the world’s most sumptuous paranthas being fried in pure desi ghee in deep, curved griddles by some of the master chefs in Indian cuisine assails one’s senses.

The paranthas here are unlike any others. Lovingly prepared by chefs hailing from families with generations of culinary expertise in their genes, each parantha is a masterpiece in its own right. With the finest of ingredients and the choicest stuffings, and served with potato and cottage cheese gravy, pickle and sweet-and-sour pumpkin, these paranthas make for a sublime gastronomical experience.

No wonder then, that despite the original 16 shops having dwindled to four, the gali remains a popular hang-out in Old Delhi.

Apart from the tourists and celebrities it attracts, the Paranthe Wali Gali is also an everyday haunt of many of the residents of Old Delhi —a popular venue for working brunches and lunches, as well as a favourite dating place for youngsters. Many a deal has been finalised over these paranthas, and many a proposal accepted (or rejected, as the case may be!), as habitués continue to throng the parantha shops here.

“Our regular customers cannot bear to eat their breakfast anywhere else,” proudly claim the shop-owners here. The customers agree. “Tasting the paranthas here is like a tiger tasting human blood,” pronounces one, perhaps not very felicitously, sending all those present into fits of laughter. “I mean,” he smiles, “you get one taste, and you are compelled to come back for more …”

“It’s a swell place to bring your date,” confides a youngster who has been enjoying a plate of rabdi parantha with his girlfriend. “It has so much going for it: it’s world famous, so your girl is impressed; the food is out of this world; the prices are so reasonable—what more can a guy ask for?”

It all started in 1872, when Pandit Gaya Prasad Shiv Charan, scion of a family of royal chefs in Bhadawali, Madhya Pradesh, who had relocated to take up agriculture near Agra due to the dacoit menace in the area, was impelled by a hankering to revisit his culinary roots, to set up a parantha shop in this lane. And the rest, as they say, is history.

People whose families have lived in Chandni Chowk for generations now narrate how, six generations ago, Pandit Gaya Prasad Shiv Charan’s paranthas worked their magic on the palates of Old Delhi, making rapid inroads into the traditional poori-kachori territory. Soon his parantha joint had more business than he could possibly handle, and more and more of his family followed him into the greener pastures of Chandni Chowk, eventually creating a gastronomic empire of 16 parantha joints!

The food served by these shops is strictly vegetarian or ‘Vaishnav’, without even garlic or onions! The first shop started out in 1872 by serving four types of paranthas: potato, dal (cooked lentils), besan(gram flour) and methi(fenugreek leaves). Today these shops serve paranthas with 25 different types of stuffings, including exotic ones such as dry fruits and rabri, as well as improbable-sounding ones like tomato and karela (bitter gourd)—you name it, they have it!

Post-independence, the shops of the Gali were patronised by political bigwigs like Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Vijaylakshmi Pandit, Jayaprakash Narayan and Atal Behari Bajpayee. The oldest shop, started by Pandit Gaya Prasad Shiv Charan himself, proudly displays framed photographs of those golden days.

The 1980s witnessed a drop in the fortunes of the Gali, with a number of shops being either sold, or given over to other businesses such as dairy, sweets, or even fabrics.
Says Manish Sharma, the sixth generation descendant of Pandit Gaya Prasad Shiv Charan: “Families whose direct male lines became extinct gradually sold out their interests in the parantha business and moved out. Some others too wanted to do something else and left’.

He is, however, optimistic about the future: “At one point there were only three of the original shops left. But recently, another member from a branch of the family that had quit the parantha business has set up the fourth parantha shop in the Gali.”

Be that as it may, four shops or 16, the fame of Paranthe Wali Gali is an intrinsic part of India’s gastronomic lore and continues to tempt and to grow.

The Joy of Many Selves

Published in Sunday Deccan Herald 24th October 2010

A senior, Indian executive working for a multi-national group in the US, and a highly sought after doctor in Delhi, dabble in creative and imaginative cooking over weekends to counter work stress. An actively working chartered accountant in his 60s loves the harmony created by crafts, and creates wall-hangings and crocheted table-covers for his drawing room. A retired engineer of robotics writes books on astrology. A young professional in a multinational telecom company paints and does Reiki healing in her spare time. A young doctor at Lady Harding Medical College is a highly accomplished Kathak dancer. A senior surgeon at Guru Tegh Bahadur Hospital, Delhi, creates masterpieces in Origami. A successful business tycoon relaxes by doing riyaaz for Hindustani music. And a builder in my neighbourhood personally tends a flourishing kitchen garden on the terrace of his home.

Surprised? Surprise is a normal reaction under the circumstances, given most people’s predilection for categorising people into slots on the basis of preconceived ideas. For instance, a high-profile corporate professional is associated with serious pursuits—even her/his modes of relaxation or hobbies are somehow expected to be serious and earnest. Likewise, anyone perceived as ‘artistic’ or ‘creative’ by virtue of their everyday professional pursuits is expected to be creative in most areas, and somewhat lacking in a business sense.

The abundance of research about ‘right brained’ and ‘left brained’ people seems to support this school of thought. But is everybody really as unidimensional as research would have us believe? Let’s take a look at some prominent people who are living refutations of this.

Dancing to the beat of life

Currently a Member of the Planning Commission, Arun Maira, a widely acknowledged expert in leadership and organisation transformation, has a lively passion for dancing. A frequent speaker at international fora and a regular contributor to management and business journals, he is the author of several non-fiction books.

Maira has advised clients across a wide variety of industries and in many countries on issues of strategy and organisation. He has worked with clients in industries ranging from automobiles, steel, and oil, to pharmaceuticals. He has also advised governments and international agencies on leadership processes.

Dancing is however one of the greatest passions in the life of this highly esteemed technocrat. Says he, “I enjoy dancing very much. And I enjoy getting people to dance.” Relating a memorable incident that happened a few years ago, he says, “At the WEF Davos in 2004, when India was being celebrated, India was the host at the concluding dance-dinner. Several guests were there. We had Indian food, Indian stoles for the women, scarves for the men. And we had Shiamak Davar and his troupe to entertain the crowd. As they danced on stage, the President of CII, who knew my passion for dance, turned to me and said, “Arun, you have got to get the world to dance with India.” So, I asked a lady in a gown standing nearby, tapping her feet to the music, if she would like to dance. She did. Then I turned and asked another man and woman to join us, and then another, and soon the floor was alive with dancers swaying to Indian Bollywood rhythms. At which stage, Shiamak’s dancers came down from the stage to dance with the crowd. One of them wanted to dance with me. She said, “You should have been one of us!”

Even though dancing will never be his primary vocation, it will always be his primary passion and the reason behind the spring in his step as he goes through the business of life.

Passion for cinema

Apurv Nagpal, Managing Director Saregama, has gone beyond his corporate vocation to address his passion for cinema. An IIM-A graduate with an impressive list of former employers in the corporate world, Apurv writes reviews of Hindi films on his highly popular blog (www.apurvbollywood.blogspot.com) with its readership in 75 countries across six continents.

Asked what inspired him to take out time from his extremely demanding work schedule to write film reviews, he says, “I had always been a Bollywood fan, ever since childhood. But sometime around college days, I stopped watching Bollywood movies. I felt they had become too cheesy and formulaic. Then MBA happened and my work took me out of India and out of touch with Hindi movies. But when I returned to India after 11 years, I was pleasantly surprised to see a major change in Hindi movies—in terms of content, technology, music, everything, and I was hooked again. Plus, writing has always been something I am passionate about. So, for me writing film reviews became an ideal way to combine my passion for writing with my rediscovered passion for Bollywood.”

Asked about his current post as MD of Saregama, he says, “I have always been passionate about whatever work I have done, be it selling cigarettes, beer, soap, or whatever, but this time I am actually working with something I have always been passionate about.”

Poetic musings

Y S Rajan, distinguished professor at ISRO Headquarters, is the co-author of India 2020 along with former President of India, Dr Abdul Kalam. But within this scientist’s heart, pulses an abiding love for poetry.

Formerly Principal Advisor to CII, he has held a number of eminent positions including that of scientific advisor to Government of Punjab, Chairman of Board Council and Vice Chancellor of Punjab Technical University, Founder and Executive Director of TIFAC, etc. One of the foremost Indian experts on space science today, his contributions in shaping ISRO from its initial experimental phases into a major service delivery organisation have been remarkable.

While holding various positions of responsibility related to science and technology, he has shaped key policies and implemented several successful R&D projects but in addition to his achievements in science and technocracy, professor Rajan is also a highly acclaimed poet, with three published books of poetry in English and seven in Tamil.

Writing poetry for children is his special passion and he feels impelled to constantly spread his wings in as many directions as possible. “‘By the grace of God, I am able to foresee and perceive a lot of things and I like to make the best possible use of my talents apart from developing technologies for the betterment of all sections of society,” he says. His spirit of experimentation extends not only to his work with science, but also to his writing and his poetry. He shows with his life and work that dichotomies can co-exist and with a great deal of harmony.

Happy crafts

Kochi-based freelance writer and blogger, Resmi Jaimon loves to make soft toys in her spare time. “I made my first soft toy in April 2008,” she says and adds, “I am associated with Gurumahima, and was asked if I could come up with some craftwork. Since I had been for a while thinking about learning to making soft toys, I grabbed this opportunity. I got the idea of what materials to use from a book. Then, I worked on designs to create a soft toy. Fur being costly, I mostly use felt that helps in reducing the cost. I also make fancy pillows using felt and cotton dress material and make earrings and chains as well for many of Gurumahima’s shows.

Elaborating on the personal aspect of her hobby she says, “Making soft toys, helps me to be creative and take a break from the regular writing schedule. It also gives me the satisfaction of doing something for kids. I feel happy when I see their innocent faces brighten up at the sight of the colorful toys, I gift them.”

Aquamarine passions

Anand Iyer, a busy medical device scientist in Birmingham, Alabama finds bliss in creating beautiful aquariums. “I have put together about 10 to 12 aquariums of varying sizes and complexities, starting with a 10 gallon tank with plastic decorations to a 75 gallon tank with live plants, carbon dioxide infusion for the plants, etc,” he says and adds, “ I started my first aquarium in 1998 when I was single and in graduation school. I spend about two hours on it every two to three weeks, really minimal for a hobby that gives you fun literally round the clock. My kids love it, and it gets them interested in learning about eco-systems and responsibility of caring for pets in an easy way. I have also put together aquariums for friends and family members. I do the initial setup, and guide them to care for it. Anyone who has lounged at the end of a busy day in front of a peaceful aquarium can attest to the calming effects that only a school of peaceful colorful fish can bring,” he states.

So what is it that drives these people (and many, many others like them) to explore he myriad facets of their personalities? Is this diversification of pursuits a defense mechanism against what is called the ‘stress of modern life’? Or is it, finally, the liberation of the individual from the shackles of social typecasting?

“A bit of both, probably,” opines Upasana Pahwa, a chartered accountant who has now turned into a Vaastu practitioner. “I took a lot of flak, from both family and peers, when I started studying Vaastu, astrology, Reiki and other occult sciences 10 years ago. But now that I have a sound base of clients who swear by my advice, everyone has backed off. Of course, the trend in society too has changed in recent years, and more and more people are doing things that, some years ago, would have been considered strange.”

Nature has always been generous in endowing many talents but we choose to concentrate on just one facet, to the exclusion of all else. My own great grandfather, I am told, was considered ‘strange’ by the people around him because apart from being a successful legal practitioner in Lahore in the early 20th century, he also practiced healing through a combination of homeopathy and hypnotism.

Today, however, there is a definite shift in social consciousness, from specialisation to diversification and multifaceted people are unabashedly exploring various aspects of self-expression.

The Aquarian age of untrammeled individualism and self-realization has finally arrived.

Through Fire and Flood

‘Amazing’ is the word that comes to my mind when I think of Omwati. Her life as a woman estranged from her husband and bringing up three children in a highly judgemental society has been anything but easy, but her dignified handling of harrowing, often sordid, and always difficult circumstances has been exceptional, to say the least. She has been working at my parental home for the past twenty two years as domestic help or ‘mai’. Her home, a bedsit on the outskirts of Delhi, shelters her married son, his wife and two children as well as her younger, unmarried son, and a year ago she managed to get her daughter married to an ‘educated’ industrial labourer.

Dark-skinned and reed-thin, Omwati carries herself with an air of aloofness and dignity, even in her cheap, well-worn sarees and handed-down rubber slippers. The wife of an impoverished agricultural labourer from Eastern UP, Omwati migrated to Delhi twenty two years ago, with her husband, their two sons aged four and two, and their newborn daughter. She started working as domestic help in a few houses in our colony and her husband became an itinerant vegetable vendor. Like all other mais of that time, she lived in a jhuggi in Madipur village; like all of them, she had the bulk of her earnings snatched and gambled away by her husband; and like all of them, she was beaten black and blue almost every night when her husband returned home drunk, the welts showing clearly, even on her dark skin. However, unlike most mais, her spirit remained undaunted by the sordid reality of life on the fringes of a big city, and her eyes remained firmly fixed on her ‘immigrant dream’ of a better future, if not for herself, then at least for her children.

Extremely quick to imbibe progressive thought, Omwati was struck by the common sense behind birth control, in an era when the concept of family planning was struggling against the ‘cultural mores’, even amongst the educated classes in India. When her husband refused to cooperate with her wish to have no more children, she had an overiectomy at the nearby public health centre and stoically bore the odium from her family and peers for taking such a step.
She saw education as the path to her children’s progress and enrolled them in MCD schools. She would skimp and save to buy sweets for them, as incentive for regular attendance and good performance. However, when she proudly brought her ‘class topper’ eldest son to my mother, she discovered that he had not even acquired basic literacy, in the best ‘sarkari school’ tradition of that time! My mother appreciated her spirit and taught her children to read and write.

However, Omwati needed to save for her children’s secondary education so that they would be able to become industrial labourers at the very least. For this she needed to keep her earnings away from her husband’s clutches. On my mother’s advice she opened a bank account, operating it with Ma’s help, depositing the bulk of her earnings in it every month and keeping her passbook secure at our place.

She was made to suffer for her ‘progressive attitude’, not only by her peers and neighbours (who virtually excommunicated her), but also by a number of women she worked for. How could they tolerate a mai getting so much above herself as to have a bank account of her own – something even most of them didn’t have in the early 1990s?

At home, her husband decided to ‘teach her a lesson’ and brought home a woman from a brothel. The two of them made it a daily practice to heap verbal as well as physical abuse on Omwati and her children. Omwati had expected retaliation from her husband’s thwarted ego and was initially determined to weather out the situation, hoping that things would revert to normal, sooner or later. However, things just went from bad to worse over the year that followed, and she saw her children bearing the brunt of their father’s and his mistress’s frustration at their inability to beat her into submission.

Finally, recognizing a lost cause, she made enquiries and got a ration card in her name, rented a room in another locality and moved there with her children. When her husband tried to force himself upon them, she made it clear to him that he would have to give up his mistress and lead a decent, self-supporting life as a responsible householder. He, however, refused to accept her effort to ‘wear the pants’ and left her, probably trusting in the Indian society’s chastising attitude towards ‘left’ women to bring her to her knees. He was to learn his mistake, as she bore all the brickbats aimed at her from all sides, and with her eyes firmly fixed on her dream for her children, continued to work and save tirelessly.

Ever since they were toddlers, she had encouraged her children to work for what they wanted, do chores for people to earn spending money, and save part of it to buy ‘something big’. It was a tribute to her exemplary upbringing that by the time he was ten, her elder son had saved two thousand rupees to buy a second hand black-and-white television!

Over the years, Omwati has managed to acquire the trappings of a ‘basic, decent’ lifestyle: beds for everyone, a fan, an air cooler, a gas connection and even a small ice-box. Both her sons, having passed higher secondary school, are working in factories. Her daughter-in-law stays at home because ‘her son is earning enough to support his family’ and no more women from her family need go into the domestic labour market. Grandma Omwati, however, continues to work, as always, determined to be self-supporting to the very end, and a source of inspiration to all who come in contact with her!

Splendidly Single!

‘For the last time, Mom, I’m not going to the wedding with you!’

‘And for the last time, you’re coming, and I don’t want any arguments!!!’ she stormed. ‘Wear the fawn and saffron tussore silk saree and the gold and tulsi beads. NOW!’

Jeez! She forgets I’m more than twenty-five years old! I try again. ‘But I’m exhausted, Ma. It was a very, very busy day at office. I had two interviews on the other side of Delhi. I’m totally pooped! Please!’

‘Oh! You mean your father doesn’t work in office?’ she asks sarcastically. ‘And what about all those other people attending the wedding after work? Are they useless idiots? Are you the only one in the world who works hard?’

I know when I’m defeated, and go to have a bath and deck myself out like a Christmas tree on display. It’s no use telling her that when you are under thirty, female and single, it’s a trial of nerves mingling with the extended family, especially on wedding-related occasions.

I realize that my attending these functions is as important to her as it is abhorrent to me. This incident took place about fifteen years ago, when a twenty five year old single daughter was a social anathema. So, for Ma, such an occasion is an opportunity to prove to the world that if her daughter is unmarried at twenty-five, it isn’t because she is ugly, or jobless or any such thing. Plus, there is also the unexpressed hope that someone in the family might pass on word of my ‘eligibility’ to an interested party!

And that is precisely why I shy away from all this … relatives, especially old, female ones, have a tendency to peer at you, and wonder aloud in your presence: ‘She’s not bad looking … well educated, good family, and has a good job too … why isn’t she married as yet?’

Must be involved with someone …,’ some other gossip monger would whisper in scandalized tones. And I would be barred by my upbringing from telling them that if I were involved with someone, I’m sure my parents would support me.

Suddenly remembering a cousin in a parallel situation, I ring her up quietly and ask: ‘Are you coming to the wedding?’

‘As if Mom would let me skip it’, she retorts, ‘even though I utterly loathe all this, and I’m dead on my feet!’

‘Same here,’ I reply gloomily, ‘but hey, it won’t be so bad if you’re there too … we can always sneak away into a corner’. I hang up, somewhat cheered.

Duly presenting myself to mom in said saree and jewellery, I’m instructed to ‘hold myself up and smile pleasantly, for God’s sake!’

SMILE PLEASANTLY!!! I’m not scowling or making faces, or anything … so why am I expected to simper? We reach the venue and are greeted with: ‘Oh! Welcome! So glad you could come … and bitiya (daughter) too … are you very tired?’

‘No, aunty,’ I lie through gritted teeth. We move away.

‘See? I told you to smile, but you have sworn never to listen to your mother.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, mom … look! I’m smiling! Okay?’

My eyes search frantically for my fellow sufferer. I finally spot her, trying to be invisible between a pedestal fan and a potted plant. I excuse myself and head for her, followed by Mom’s instructions to ‘mingle, and not hide myself in a corner’.

My cousin sees me and hails me with relief, and we thankfully slink away into a corner where there are two chairs and no relatives! Bliss!

‘Did anyone comment on how tired you are looking?’ I ask.

‘What d’you think? It’s their stock-in-trade’ she replies. ‘So many people here look more tired than us, but they’ll pick on us because they want to imply that as independent career women heading towards spinsterhood, we must be fading blossoms, and that’s why we look perpetually tired’.

‘Hey, you’re exaggerating! It’s not as bad as that… it’s just the way they are,’ I say pacifically.

‘Then tell me, why don’t they comment on the exhausted looks of our male cousins?’ she asks.

‘Maybe they do?’ I say. She laughs derisively.

And, as if on cue, my grandmother’s sister and her daughter pass by:
‘Ma, bhabhi’s son looks really tired; he must have come straight from office … poor boy! And uncle’s grandsons too look exhausted … well, what can you expect on a weekday? The poor things have come directly from work and haven’t had the time to freshen up’. I look significantly at my cousin.

And then, in the next breath … ‘Oh Ma! Just look at those two madams … totally off-colour! Well, what do you expect! Growing older by the day, and not married yet … obviously the bloom of youth is on its way out! Poor things!’

‘Let them be’, I sigh, holding my cousin back, as she starts from her chair, presumably to tell them off. ‘Just let them be’.

‘You’re right’, she says, calming down. ‘Let’s go eat … I saw some wonderful kulfi!’