Of ‘Personal’ and ‘Institutionalized’ Corruption

India is up in arms. The populace is out on the streets in large numbers to unite under a 74 year-old satyagrahi who wants a ‘Jan Lokpal’, or an Ombudsman with teeth, as against the government proposed milk and water one. Of the protesting crowds few really know anything about the ‘Lokpal’ or the ‘Jan Lokpal’, under which banner they gave been united. So, it is natural to ask whether all of this is one gigantic farce.

To any thinking person the validity, or indeed, the rationale of a fourth body of government, or a Lokpal (‘Jan’ or otherwise) who would necessarily come from our own corrupt society is a matter of the gravest doubt. And even if the ‘Jan Lokpal’ were to materialize, history stands witness to the corrupting proclivities of ‘power’, and it is not unrealistic to say that it would not be long before there is a demand for a fifth body of government!

However, that having been said, it cannot be denied that the angst and the frustration of the people out on the streets and those expressing their support to the movement in various ways, is very real. And if one cares to listen carefully, one realizes that only a select few are actually talking about the Lokpal. The populace of the country en masse is voicing their support ‘against corruption by politicians’.

Why only politicians?

A thinking person, at this juncture, is bound to ask, what about corruption at the grassroots? Why pitch on politicians alone? Why not clean your own fingers before pointing at others’ spots?

What about people pulling strings or paying money to avoid a traffic ticket; to square the police in a hit-and-run; to get their child admitted into schools, colleges and professional institutes; to avoid a municipality challan for littering or for mosquito-infested water around the house; to get a ration card, a PAN card, a passport or a driving licence? What about the tacit consent, and even encouragement to corruption implicit in the high level of matrimonial eligibility of those who have a good proportion of unaccounted income, be it a tax-evading entrepreneur or a bribe-taking government employee?

What about milkmen diluting milk; vegetable vendors tipping the scales or palming off bad produce; shopkeepers short-changing the public and maintaining false bills; government employees presenting false tickets and bills to claim LTC and other payments that are realizable on actuals, misappropriating perks like transportation and various cash allowances for personal use; media persons accepting ‘gifts’ from industrialists and other vested interests in lieu of favourable stories that gloss over unpleasant facts? Let he who has never sinned cast the first stone!

Corruption at the micro and macro levels

The answer is yes, there has always been corruption—in our very fibre. It is not right or justified by any means. As the older generation says, ‘It’s always been there like a pinch of salt in the dough ... a sort of leaven.’ And yes, we need to address it, primarily through self discipline, and a determination not to give in to convenience and take the easy way out by greasing the wheels of government machinery. The laws that can bring this about are in place, but it needs the will of the people to make sure that they are enforced. It can be done, and is, indeed, being done by determined individuals who make it their priority. However, the fact remains, that even though it is regrettable and needs to be redressed, it is, nevertheless, corruption at a ‘personal’ or ‘micro’ level, each instance of which affects a handful of people. Micro level corruption very much exists, and is not right, but it is limited in its scope.

For the past few decades, however, the citizens of the country have been facing a steadily increasing level of ‘institutionalized’ or ‘macro level’ corruption that originates in high places. And this form of corruption is anything but limited in its scope.

The kickbacks in national and international deals, the misappropriation of public funds for various schemes, the blatant disregard for the law of the land exhibited by those holding positions of public trust and their families— it all happens on a mammoth scale and diverts public money from public spending to the secret accounts of a select few: Money that should have been used for the welfare of the citizens. Money that should have boosted subsidies to regulate the astronomical rise of fuel and food prices in the wake of the global economic downturn. Money that might have regulated the out-of-control spiral of inflation that is sucking the common man in like a cyclone.

The whiplash of inflation

With the misappropriation of money meant for public spending, the government is forced to resort to highly inflationary neo-liberal economic policies, which render the day-to-day lives of the populace hideous. The ‘people’s representatives’, with their cars running on fuel funded by the government (read taxpayers’ money), their canteens scandalously subsidized and their every wish for luxuries fulfilled by lobbying sycophants, remain insulated from the lash of inflation. Plus, of course, they have their loot in their secret foreign accounts to fall back upon: money that, as recent events have shown us, no one can make them disgorge, even if they are prosecuted and have to spend some time in discomfort. The ‘representatives of the people’ avail regular foreign junkets while the common man, intimidated by the expense, cuts down on the quantity of vegetables and fruits his family consumes and even the middle class debates how to avoid attending a dear cousin’s wedding.

With the common man writhing under the whiplash of inflation, which is, to a large extent, a direct outcome of this increasing ‘macro-level corruption’, the gap between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ has been widening rapidly. The crime rate has burgeoned as frustration, born out of highly divergent standards of living, brings out the worst in those existing on the fringes of society. And the people of India, so far acquiescent, have been forced against the ropes, as they feel totally stripped by their ‘elected representatives’ of all financial, physical and moral security.

And so, when an Anna Hazare, with his track record of successful social activism (water harvesting and anti-liquor drive in his own village, RTI activism at the national level, etc.) comes along and suggests a ‘Jan Lokpal’ as a panacea for corruption in high places, the people are bound to follow—not for the Lokpal, but against ‘macro-level’ corruption, because they have reached a pitch where they have very little to lose. His agitation has the right mix of populism, media savvy and a Gandhian reference to find a connect with the people.

One needs to read one’s history and remember that Queen Marie Antionette’s reported remark ‘let them eat cakes if they have no bread’ was the igniting spark for the French Revolution!

A Nation on the Warpath

The entirely unprecedented and unexpected countrywide uprising of the populace in protest against Anna Hazare’s arrest has been a resounding slap on the government’s face, indeed. And although Anna’s manifesto explicitly states that they are not opposing any particular political party, but corruption in the country as a whole, the fact remains, that the central government, by virtue of being the entity in power, has ended up with egg on its face!

Having got away with their heavy-handed tactics with the Saffron Baba a couple of months ago, (as well as with an unending list of scams) they seem to have expected to literally ‘get away with murder’ in perpetuity. And so, the turning of the worm, that is the long-suffering, so-far-acquiescent Indian public, was the last thing they anticipated, or indeed, were prepared for!

The drama continues on multiple levels: the various factions of the opposition have been rendered temporary bedfellows, as the saying is, for the purpose of reviling the government; the Baba has not been slow to rush in to grab a piece of the limelight. And in perhaps one of the most farcical twists in the entire imbroglio, the populace, having offered arrests en masse and bundled into Chhatrasal Stadium, has been reportedly demanding that the overflow be accommodated in Nehru Stadium ‘to get some value out of the public’s money squandered in the name of the Commonwealth Games’!

Now, pacifists and ivory tower intellectuals have been heard to condemn fasts-unto-death as blackmail and thus, undemocratic—no less a personage than Dr. Ambedkar being quoted ad nauseam to this effect over the past months. However, the point that has been missed here is that desperate situations call for desperate measures. And for the common man, writhing under the twin whiplashes of corruption and inflation, the situation is desperate indeed!

As scams upon scams surface with increasing frequency, and as no facet of public life is left untarnished by corruption and graft, the common man has, for the past decades, stood by helplessly, watching the gap between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ getting wider and wider, bearing mute witness to ‘his elected representatives’ stripping the country of its dignity, the public of its hard-earned money and the citizens of security at all levels, be it physical, financial, emotional or moral!

The way politicians deal ‘democratically’ with swindlers and with rampant and unabashed corruption in public life is no secret. Given such blatant failure of the democratic machinery to effect checks, and the consequently worsening plight of the citizens of the country, if it takes a ‘fast-unto-death’ by a 74 year-old idealist to spur the youth of the nation into a definitive stance against injustice, so be it!

‘Anarchy!’ scream the pacifists. Really? And what would they call the prevailing state of lawlessness, complete lack of accountability by the people’s representatives and the comprehensive denuding of the citizens’ security? Why is it anarchy only when the people raise their voice, and not when the establishment fails them on all fronts?

And this is no tirade against the ruling party—as the Anna says, almost everyone in the political arena is equally culpable! ‘Why doesn’t Anna contest the elections?’ is hardly a valid argument. Those who did contest the election and were voted to power chose to do so themselves, and if they have abused the people’s trust and the responsibility reposed in them, the civil society has the right to call them to book. If they feel it is unfair, it would, perhaps, be better for them to step down from the public arena.

Me First!

My favourite folk tale from Haryana …

‘Hmmm… something smells good!’

Chaudhary Maan Singh sniffed appreciatively as he entered the house, returning from his early morning chores on the farm. Having left at dawn with a thick leftover parantha and a glass of frothing milk, he was ravenous, and judging by the smell, Kalawati was frying some of her mouth-watering goodies! Ah!

He really was lucky, thought Maan as he washed his hands and feet at the pump in the courtyard. The Almighty certainly knew what he was doing when he matched a foodie like him with a fabulous cook like Kalawati. His parents too had left for the customary pilgrimage to Hardwar after his marriage, secure in the assurance that their daughter-in-law would take good care of their only son. And as for him, he just couldn’t get enough of her cooking, and had been systematically overeating ever since they got married, two months ago. Thanks heavens for farm work, or he’d have had trouble entering the house through the door!

In the kitchen Kalawati was frying gulgule and fuming: ‘Here he comes! I love cooking for him and like the fact that he loves my cooking; but he really is the limit—as long as there is anything special left, he just won’t stop stuffing himself! I cook in such enormous quantities, but not one bite do I get! I wish my duty as a wife did not forbid me to taste these gulgule before my husband, or I’d have sneaked a few before ever he set foot inside the house’.

‘GULGULE!’ exclaimed Maan as he entered the kitchen. He gazed adoringly, first at the mound of golden-brown balls of goodness piling up in the basket beside the stove, and then at his wife working her magic on the mundane flour and sugar. As he reached out for a couple, the unprecedented happened:

‘Don’t touch them!’ shrieked Kalawati.

‘Why?’ he was shocked. ‘I’ve washed my hands and feet!’

‘It’s not that …’, she hunted in her mind for a plausible reason … ‘They … they have to be taken to the temple for puja (ritual prayer) first,’ she blurted out.

‘What kind of puja?’ he asked, drawing back, disappointed.

‘Yesterday the panditji (priest) at the temple told me today is Ludhkan Chauth (ludhkan: to tumble; chauth: fourth day of the lunar month),’ she babbled, improvising wildly. ‘We fry gulgule and offer them up in prayers first. Then we bring them home and place them on the chhappar (the canopy that runs round the house). The ones that tumble down are to be eaten by the women and the ones that stay up are given to the men.’

She put out the stove and went to get ready for the temple, leaving Maan in a thoughtful mood.

‘Hmmm … that sounds peculiar! The chhappar slopes downwards, so obviously all the gulgule are going to tumble down … and she gets to eat the whole lot!!! And I’ll probably have to eat the khichdi (rice and lentil stew) or leftover paranthas she would have eaten after I was through with the gulgule … What nonsense!’

Rendered resourceful by the exigencies of his taste buds, he tied some bamboo poles all round the lower edge of the canopy. ‘There! Now let’s see how many gulgule are able to escape!’

Kalawati, meanwhile, went to the temple with the basket of gulgule and rendered prayers and apologies for her perfidy. ‘But I just can’t take it any more dear God,’ she pleaded. ‘I too have the right to eat good things for a change—something apart from the leftover paranthas that usually fall to my lot when my insensate lump of a husband is through guzzling on the goodies I make for him—I do think I have the right to at least a bite or two!’

Wending homewards, and feeling thoroughly guilty by now, she thought, ‘I can’t possibly eat all these. I’ll keep a few for myself and make up some kind of a tale and give him all the rest,’ when she saw from a distance, her Lord and Master, atop the roof with bamboo poles and ropes.

‘Oho! So it’s like that, is it?’ she thought, with the light of battle in her eye, taking in the situation at a glance. ‘Well, we shall see who wins: brain or brawn!’ By the time she reached home, Maan was back down, looking quite innocent and the bamboo poles were out of sight from the ground.

‘Hey! Good news for you,’ she chirped with a smile on her face. ‘Panditji says he’d mistaken the lunar date. Today is actually Reh Reh Paanche (reh: remain behind; paanche: fifth day of the lunar month). So, that means, that the gulgule that remain on the canopy are eaten by the women, and the ones that tumble down go to the men…’

And she sailed away in triumph, to scatter the gulgule on the canopy …

How to make Gulgule

Ingredients: (8 to 10 pieces)

1 cup wholewheat flour (atta)
½ cup sugar
1 tsp powdered fennel (saunf)
A pinch of baking soda
Oil for frying
Procedure:



Mix the flour, sugar, powdered fennel and baking soda together. Dissolve in just enough water to get dropping consistency. Cover and keep for 5 minutes.
Heat the oil in the kadahi or deep pan. When it starts smoking, drop in tablespoonfuls of the batter and fry to a light golden.
Drain and remove from the oil on a newspaper or sheet of blotting paper to soak the excess oil.
Can serve either as finger snacks or in combination with kheer (see recipe in 'Sweet Nostalgia').

Gulgule and kheer as a combination is a traditional monsoon snack in many parts of North India.

Additional tips:

Can use crushed gur (jaggery) instead of sugar to make it more nutritious.
Can mash a small overripe banana into the mixture to increase fiber and mineral content.
Can add powdered almonds into the batter to make the gulgule crisper.

Madness at Midnight!

I wake up sweating and swatting (mosquitoes) in the middle of the night. Hubby is swearing under his breath, mindful of the 11 year-old making irritated noises from her bed at the other end of the room.

A power cut on a sweltering July night. I’d been sleeping like the dead after an especially exhausting day, but to judge by the vibes of irritation eddying about in the pitch dark, and from my own drenched and mosquito-bitten condition, the power must have been out for some time.

“About one hour,” growls hubby.

“What do they say at NDPL?”

“No idea ... haven’t called!”

“Why not?” I’m indignant. “Am I the only one who can call up and lodge a power cut complaint in this house?”

“Yes, because the number is saved in your phone and I didn’t fancy groping all over the house in the dark for it,” he says unanswerably.

“And whatever happened to the inverter?” I shrill. “At least the fans and light bulbs should be working!’

“The batteries dried up, remember? And you were out every day this week, so there was no one to get them serviced,” he reminds me.

Oh! So now it’s my fault! Typical!

“My night’s rest is ruined!” wails kiddo. “How will I ever wake up in time for school tomorrow?”

“Don’t even start!” I snub her. “You cannot stay home from school tomorrow.”

“Oh, but ...”

“No buts ... you are old enough to be able to do with a little less sleep for one day.”

As she subsides, muttering, I grumpily retrieve my phone from its nightly resting place under my pillow (for the morning alarm, as hubby should very well have known) and ring up NDPL.

“Good-Evening- NDPL- ‘XYZ’-here-How-may-I-help-you?” rattles off the voice at the other end, without break and without expression.

“I need to lodge a power cut complaint for ABC Colony, PQR Zone, New Delhi, India.” The process is outsourced now, so the call center guy needs to know the precise geographical location. And although I was told that the call center is at the other end of the city, it is better to play safe and provide complete information.

“Which part of ABC Colony are you calling from?”

Suppressing the urge to say, “the part between its ears”, I hold on to my patience and reply, “I’m calling from house no. 123, the residence of Mr. Goyal.”

“What is your exact location?” comes the next question and patience flies out of the window.

“Talk sense!” I snap. “I’ve told you the number of the house, the name of its owner, the colony, zone, city and country. What more do you want to know—the location of the room I’m calling from?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Ma’am,” the BPO operator reverts to the standard fallback.

“May I know your K number?” comes the next query.

“My WHAT?”

“K number—the 10 digit number on the top left corner of your electricity bill ...”

“Why in heaven’s name do you need the K number?” I ask, amazed.

“Our system can track you and lodge your complaint only by your K number,” comes the deadpan reply.

I’m speechless.

"Then why were you badgering me about the minutae of my location?"

“What’s the problem?” asks hubby.

“They want our K number to lodge our complaint!”

Hubby takes the phone from my hand and says with awful patience: “Listen mister, it’s past midnight and pitch dark. The 10 digit K number is not something you remember off-hand. You have our name, address and phone number. Surely your system can register our complaint on the basis of these details?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir,” parrots the operator. “Your complaint cannot be lodged without your K number.”

Hubby disconnects the phone in dudgeon, muttering, “Go to hell!”

Half an hour elapses. The heat, humidity and mosquitos are getting more and more unbearable by the minute. I get up, cursing, switch on the flashlight in the phone, stumble over to the chest of drawers and scrabble around for an electricity bill. Call up NDPL again.

“Good-Evening- NDPL- ‘XYZ’-here- How-may-I-help-you?”

“I’m calling from house no. 123, Mr. Goyal’s residence in ABC Colony, PQR Zone, New Delhi, India. I need to lodge a power cut complaint and our K number is ----------,” I say triumphantly.

“How long has the power been out at your place?”

“More than an hour and a half!”

But if I thought I had cracked the NDPL complaint system, I had another think coming.

“Is it just your place, or the whole colony?”

“Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that in the middle of the night?” I ask in exasperation. “Conduct a door-to-door survey?”

“NOW what do they want to know?” asks hubby resignedly.

“Whether the power is out at just our place or in the whole colony!”

Hubby takes over the phone.

“Mister, you have been provided all the details you need to lodge a power cut complaint, including the K number. Now please register our complaint and let us know the complaint serial number,” he instructs in his Senior MNC Manager voice. It apparently cuts no ice with the programmed automaton on the other end of the line.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir, but ...”

“DON’T KEEP APOLOGIZING,” bellows hubby, past patience now. “JUST REGISTER THE COMPLAINT SO THAT SOMEONE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!”

The instruction to ‘DO SOMEHTING’ is clearly not part of the automaton’s programming. It gets confused and promptly disconnects the line! We try again ... and again ... but the receiver is off the hook!

Paradise on the Pavement

Kitaab Bazaar or the Patri (pavement) Book Market in Darya Ganj, in the walled city of Old Delhi, is an institution in its own right. The pavements of this oldest commercial hub of the Capital, which bustles with activity from Monday to Saturday, continue to be the venue of one of the largest known markets for used books every Sunday for the past 50 years and more. The market stretches along the pavements of the spine of Darya Ganj, Netaji Subhash Marg, for more than a kilometer, from Delhi Gate to the Iron Bridge. It houses more than 200 bookstalls every Sunday and attracts about 25,000 devotees on a normal business day, and is as much a part of the city’s identity as Paranthe Wali Gali, Kinari Bazaar, or indeed, India Gate, Red Fort, Parliament House or the Rashtrapati Bhawan.

For the Capital’s bibliophiles—indeed, bibliomaniacs—who haunt the hallowed pavements of Darya Ganj compulsively every week, missing their ‘Sunday’ is a major catastrophe, and there abound tales of domestic strife and family feuds that have arisen around their obduracy over it. The tales seem exaggerated, as they did to me before I became a part of it, but what happened on that first Sunday beguiled me into the cult of the Kitaab Bazaar fanatics, which I remain to this day.

My first impression of Kitaab Bazaar was that of an infinite ocean of books as far as the eye could see. I was first lured there at the age of 19 by the prospect of being able to indulge in my passion for buying books at prices that would not strain my college allowance. Regulars to the bazaar proudly declare that one may find any book in the English or Hindi language that has ever been published in any part of the world. And indeed, the place seemed like heaven to me on that first Sunday when I was initiated into the fellowship of Delhi’s book lovers.

Having been told that, (a) the place was the Mecca of book lovers, and (b) that it was advisable to reach there in the early hours before the hordes rushed in, one winter Sunday in my 20th year found me confronting the vacant pavements of Netaji Subhash Marg at 8.15 in the morning, waiting for the appearance of a bazaar that officially opens at 9 am and goes on till 9 pm.

I had not long to wait, for by 8.30 am, the bookseller with their stacks and stacks of books started arriving and unpacking their wares, and proceeded before my fascinated eyes, to transform that bare stretch of pavement into my notion of paradise!

Finding myself almost the only customer at that hour, I prepared to browse to my heart’s content, and soon realized that the claim of being able to find there any book in English or Hindi that has been published anywhere in the world was no idle boast! The sheer number and volumes of books of every shape, colour, size and subject was overwhelming, to say the least.

Forgotten friends would turn up in different clothes (covers), and just as I would reach out for them delightedly, some tantalizing newcomer would beckon invitingly. And very soon I was in the grip of a bibliomanic frenzy—much like an alcoholic running amok in a well-stocked cellar!

Grabbing greedily at Agatha Christie whodunits; browsing reverentially through Tolstoy’s unabridged War and Peace (and then, looking incredulously at the unbelievable price, hastily buying and stowing away the hefty volume in a polybag); augmenting Dad’s collection of Wodehouse humour back home with four well-chosen gems; even finding some items that had been missing from my childhood collection of Enid Blyton series—I was soon staggering around, weighed down by the unbelievable finds at unbelievable prices.

My saner self told me that it was sheer idiocy to go further down the market carrying a donkey-load of books, when I could very well do this another Sunday—actually, every Sunday, if I so desired (and I have been doing it most Sundays that I can manage). Common sense told me that I was already chin deep in trouble, as I now had the task of getting this load of more than 20 books back home, which was a round 20 kilometers away, and that too by DTC bus—the alternative was to blow up on the fare of an auto rickshaw all that I had saved on the books!

However, insanity, my guiding light for the day, egged me on to a final bookstall, and there the miracle happened! Browsing as usual, I suddenly saw a very familiar and popular book on childcare, the sight of which made my heart skip a beat. This was a used copy of an out-of-print book that had been my mother’s parenting bible.

I had lent the book two years ago to a friend whose sister had been expecting her first baby and was desperate for ‘some good literature’ on the subject. The friend had left Delhi with her family about six months after the incident, without bothering to return the book, and I had been dreading the day when Mom would inevitably miss the book amidst the hundreds of books in the bookshelves at home.

Now was my chance to replace the book without her noticing … after all, she was hardly ever likely to want to open it again, since all three of us were grown up. I rested the bulging bags of my purchases on the ground and reached out for the book. It felt absurdly familiar in my hands. And opening it at the cover page I found Mom’s name scrawled across the top in her own handwriting! Madam’s family had obviously ‘disposed of’ unwanted items before moving and Mom’s book had found its way back home via the Kitaab Bazaar.

So, now I am a firm adherent of the bazaar, and never again will I doubt that one can, indeed find here ANY book in English or Hindi published anywhere in the world!

Love in the Indian Joint Family

Everybody loves a love story, especially a real life one. But, while stories of people who had the courage to break the bounds of convention hold universal appeal, there also exist real life stories of deep and abiding love between people who live out their lives within the shackles of convention, in soul-destroying conditions, and yet, find the strength, through their love, to create a special world of their own that nothing can impinge upon. And here the allusion is not to poverty or material hardships (that’s a separate story for another occasion), but to unnecessary, created ones, stemming from insecurities that engender intolerance, jealousy, envy and set in motion chains of sordid, unsavoury events that are carefully kept within wraps to safeguard the family’s ‘honour’ in public.

Indian society has always prided itself upon its system of family support. However, this support often comes at the almost prohibitive price of avid interference, intrusion and imposition, not to mention the never-ending power games. While cases of exemplary support from in-laws do exist (albeit rarely), and those of exploitation of elders by the younger generations are publicized far and wide, the travails of young couples locked in the stranglehold of family pressures, guilt trips and unreasonable expectations often go unsung. Almost the only place these are aired is on family soap operas on the idiot box, to be treated with disdain by ‘sensible people’. So, it is quite on the cards that a number of readers might find the incidents discussed here either improbable, or even exasperating, just like people’s reactions to the movie ‘Patiala House’—while most positive, go-ahead people panned the movie in unequivocal terms, the story of the depressive, defeated, dutiful son struck a chord with a number of people who are themselves unable to break free of similar situations due to a (maybe misplaced) sense of filial duty.

The anecdotes referred to here are real life stories. However, the names have been changed, as have some minor details, since the protagonists have put their duty towards their family foremost all their lives and have agreed to let this story see the light of day only under condition of anonymity. And while the cases mentioned here have successfully navigated the shoals of family pressures and expectations, there are many, many others who have been forced apart … either into the divorce courts, or into legal separations, and sometimes, even to suicide.

Sadhana from an affluent Delhi-based business family relates how she and her husband were startled by an urgent banging on their door, minutes after they had entered their room on their wedding night. It was her husband’s sister, furious with her brother for wanting to spend time with his bride, and with the ‘usurper’ Sadhana for suddenly becoming so important in his life. The lady and her mother continue to do their utmost to wreak havoc in the couple’s married life, even after almost 15 years of marriage!

Incredible as it might sound to a rational mind, there are innumerable such cases that no one talks about—in metropolitan cities, no less. Bela from Mumbai shares how her extremely orthodox and ritual-loving mother-in-law brought her into the house after marriage without performing any of the traditional threshold rites. Thereafter she stood guard over her for about 12 hours, refusing to let her son be alone with his bride, till she was forcibly evicted (laughingly) by some helpful relatives. And in this 12-hour period of vigil she even managed to plonk herself in the middle of their marriage bed and take a two-hour nap, while the newly-weds and all the relatives stared at each other in shock!

Rama, the daughter of an affluent Delhi businessman married her college sweetheart after seven years of waiting for him to become ‘self-supporting’ and started her married life in a two-bedroom government quarter in South Delhi—the bride of the second of her parents-in-laws’ three sons. In spite of the fact that the sons were all earning well and could very well afford larger living space, the in-laws were adamant about ‘living together’. Rama and her husband were assigned a ‘bedroom’ made of plywood boards in a corner of the lobby, with a queen-sized bed and a rickety wardrobe. And to add to it, they were not allowed to shut the door—if they did, the in-laws would start hammering at it hysterically!

Aruna was married into a ‘traditional north-Indian joint family’—in Detroit, USA, of all places—in the late 1990s. She was expected to cover her head in the presence of elders, not speak to her husband in public (much less, touch him), and to take over the entire running of the household (albeit without any authority or decision-making power) from the day she got married. To top it all, her father-in-law, a cancer patient for the past seven years—a fact that Aruna’s parents had been unaware of—succumbed to his illness within a year of her marriage, earning for her the stigma of ‘manhoos’ (inauspicious), and causing untold misery in her married life.

The couples in these cases—and innumerable others like them—have managed to find their equilibrium after the inevitable misunderstandings, heart-burnings and tumultuous times, sometimes lasting as long as 10 years. Some have found their answers in spirituality, others in a blind adherence to astrology and the occult sciences, and yet others in mastering the art of ignoring irrelevances. Life goes on, and people learn to work their way around the most difficult situations. However, an interesting observation in most such cases is that the elders are usually people who migrated to metros from small towns or to Western countries from India. While never having lived in joint families for any length of time themselves, they are, nevertheless, determined to cling, limpet-like, to the lives of the younger couples.

Says noted Delhi-based psychiatrist Dr Kamal Kumar, “It is usually their fear of finding themselves ousted from their sons’ lives, the way their own parents were ousted from theirs, that makes them try to maintain a stranglehold on the young couples from the day they get married.”

“Another factor that comes into play,” he adds, “is the fact that the parents have always lived by their own rules and upon their own terms, and are thus, unable to tolerate any signs of individualism in the younger couples. They want to rule the roast as always and deny their children even basic acceptance as a couple”.

However, economic factors too are often seen to play a role in such situations. Dr Kamal Kumar agrees: “In quite a few families, mothers and sisters are actuated into their destructive behaviour, not only by possessiveness towards the son/brother and intolerance for the ‘outsider’, but also by a determination to retain control over the next ‘earning member’, as the son is perceived in traditional societies.” As an Economist friend remarks: “You can call it ‘primitive capital accumulation’ in its most elementary form: absolute control over the means of production, both monetary and human.”

But despite the exponentially rising rates of divorce and legal separations, it is to the immense credit of these innumerable couples that they, even today, in these ‘changed times’, cling to their commitment to each other in the midst of such conditions … for them their love is, indeed, forever.

Delhi Beat: A mouthful of bliss

Published on Unboxed Writers on 11th May 2011

Delhi summers are to die of. Not for. Come school vacations and Delhiites head for the hills in droves—the middle class to domestic hill stations and the affluent to ‘foreign’ ones. Those constrained by work schedules take refuge in air conditioned offices and homes. Shopaholics abandon the open air markets and head for air conditioned showrooms and malls in air conditioned cars. Street urchins turn amphibious and are to be found beside or inside the canals at all times. Mounds of succulent water-melons and refreshing green coconuts line the roads for the relief of the scorched wayfarers. But for children (and indeed youngsters) summer is synonymous with ice cream!

And when the brand of ice-cream in question evokes the tingle of the most delicious kulfi and chilled rabri in living memory, it is hard to resist in any weather, by any generation.

The Giani chain of ice cream stores is a name to reckon with in the Capital’s dessert and ice-creams market—one of the few businesses that continued to expand unfazed, even in the teeth of the recent economic downturn. And why not, since besides catering to the Capital’s sweet tooth in the most economically viable way, it also felicitously combines the nostalgia of Chandni Chowk’s traditional rabri-faluda and chilled mango shakes with the contemporary demand for chocolate whisky ice cream, a variety of sundaes, mousses and shakes, as well as that for gelatos, frozen yogurts, ‘lite desserts’ and innovations like jamun sorbet for the health conscious.

Over the past 12 years, Giani ice creams have made it from a single (though celebrated) traditional dessert shop in the lanes of Fatehpuri in Chandni Chowk, to franchise outlets in every nook and cranny of the Capital, and into the hearts of its people. You do, of course, have other ice cream and dessert chains, but Nirula’s is largely nostalgia value for the generations of the 1970s, 80s and 90s; Baskin Robbins is for the ‘hip crowd’ and Cocoberry, with its extremely niche clientele, is yet to tap the mass market. The Giani chain, however, has managed to cut across age groups and find universal appeal among the Capital’s ice cream lovers.

It all began in 1956 at Giani di Hatti, nestled amidst the bazaars of Fatehpuri, Chandni Chowk, and still one of the landmarks of old Delhi. It was here that Gyani Gurcharan Singh, a traditional sweetmeat maker from the then Layallpur (Faislabad), Pakistan, set up shop upon migrating to Delhi and started serving his famous rabri-faluda and mango shake. His mouth-watering goodies, made with loving attention and dedication, with the best quality ingredients, struck an instant chord with the discerning residents of the walled city. In no time at all, Giani di Hatti was a household word. And even today, more than half a century later, customers continue to flock to this home of traditional desserts and the most popular delicacy, the rabri-faluda, is prepared non-stop as long as the shop is open.

His son, Paramjeet Singh, joining him in 1989, augmented the range of traditional desserts with ice creams. But not just any ice creams. Taking a ‘learning tour’ around the world with brother Amanpreet, the two scions of Giani di Hatti absorbed the craft of fine ice-cream making and preparation of gelatos from Italian dessert chefs and imbibed marketing savvy in the world’s biggest ice cream market, USA. They combined the two to give to the Capital’s inhabitants, fine ice creams and desserts—both traditional and international, at affordable prices, playing the ‘volume game’ to scale new heights in their business. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Around 12 years ago, on the eve of the new millennium, the next generation at Giani, decided to spread the family business further. That is when, in 1999, Giani’s first branch came up in Rajouri Garden, then a newly ‘happening’ market in West Delhi. To keep up with the changing demand trends, the outlet had a much wider range of ice cream flavours, sundaes, shakes, gelatos, sorbets and mousses.

Says Taranjeet Singh, Head of Giani Ice Creams, “The magic prevailed once more and we realized we could grow really big.” Soon there were franchisee outlets, literally springing up all over Delhi, with the two branches of the family naming their respective outlets ‘Giani’s’ and ‘Giani Ice Creams’ respectively. Taranjeet Singh’s Giani Ice Creams, retaining the rights for the range of gelatos, has also expanded into fast foods such as burgers, pizzas, sandwiches and French fries—all strictly vegetarian.

Today, you literally can’t step out in Delhi without falling over a Giani outlet—all doing roaring business. With these placed so conveniently, business is not as brisk as of yore, even for the ice cream carts making the rounds of colonies on summer evenings. The new generation prefers its consumables in glitzy packaging, and the new look of the Giani parlours and outlets is definitely a big draw. The staff members at these outlets speak to ‘upmarket’ customers in English; and the decor at some of the ‘posh’ outlets is reminiscent of New York’s Haagen-Dazs.

But despite all this, the philosophy behind the success remains simple, the same as that of the founder of the house: ‘Never lose touch with the middle-class customer. Keep your customers happy and the rest will follow’.

To Mamma, with love ...

Published on Unboxed Writers on 8th May 2011.

I don't think we ever saw eye to eye
About anything under the great blue sky;
In fact, as Dad often says:
We were a pair of book-ends, looking opposite ways.

But now, as I see my own child grow
In a mould that I, oh! so intimately know,
I've come to realize so many things
About the joys and the angst that motherhood brings.

And yearn for the days when I'd dump every care
In your lap, and relax, 'coz 'Mamma is there'!
You were my harbour when I floundered amidst woes;
My bulwark against life's cruellest blows.

The one who rejoiced more than me in my joy:
Whose unconditional love nothing could alloy;
Whose eyes showered love and benedictions in my life;
Whose strength gives me courage in my hours of strife.

If I can do a tithe of all this for my child,
My life as a mother would have been worthwhile.

This was written for my Mom in 2003, when I was in USA with my husband and she was undergoing chemotherapy in India. It was subsequently published in an anthology of poems by Poetry.com and won their Editors’ Choice Award.

Delhi Beat: Traffic Snarls!

Published on Unboxed Writers on 3rd May 2011

A neighbour’s teenaged children leave home every evening for about an hour when it’s time for him to come home. Visits to friends, trips to the market, or to the sports complex, are all scheduled around this time to avoid Dad, who comes home spitting and snarling as a result of having battled Delhi’s office rush hour traffic on his 20 kilometre daily work commute, ever since the driver quit his job a month ago. His wife wishes she could follow suit! The situation is worse for multiple income families where almost everyone is fit to be tied by the time they make it home!

As traffic-related problems rise exponentially in the Capital, driver woes have surpassed maid servant laments as the prime topic of conversation among Delhiites (a raw nerve for the commuters as well as for the members of their households), even as ‘traffic-talk’ has become the standard drawing room conversation. The incidence of road rage is the highest in NCR Delhi among all Indian cities, including as it does, numerous instances of street brawls, broken limbs, and not too long ago, even a murder! Parking space is another nightmare that Delhi’s denizens face regularly, be it within their own colonies, or outside.

Small wonder, when Delhi NCR, apart from its own population of about 19 million, and a population density of more than 9000 persons per square kilometres, also houses an extensive expatriate population, and accommodates thousands of commuters from outlying areas who come to work in the city every day. Delhi has a car density of 85 cars per 1000 persons—roughly 10 times the national average, and 1992 kilometres of road per 100 square kilometres, as against the nation’s average of 74! And these figures don’t come anywhere near explaining the chaos that reigns on the Capital’s roads 24×7.


For one, they do not spell out the fact that most car-owning households have almost as many cars as members. The entry of all the automotive majors of the world into India post-liberalization, coupled with the fact that Delhi is near the top in the tally of per capita incomes and has arguably the highest incidence of bandwagon hopping, has spawned an upsurge in car-loans, and consequently, the number of cars. Nearly 3.5 lakh cars are added to the roads of the Capital every year!

Second, they cannot depict the fact that flyovers that have literally mushroomed all over the capital, have merely become fresh points of traffic congestion, not only because of the sheer volumes and numbers being added on a continuous basis, but also because during the peak rush hours, there are usually a couple of broken down trucks/ buses/ tempo carriers causing traffic snarls for miles and miles!

Further, the statistics do not capture the fact that since almost as much of NCR Delhi’s population lives in slums and ‘semi-rural’ settlements as in posh colonies, bungalows, mansions and apartment complexes, the traffic clogging its roads at all hours of the day and night has multifarious, heterogeneous elements, that turn the act of driving through it into a nightmare on wheels!

It is impossible to explain in terms of figures the proliferation of two-wheeler and three- wheeler passenger vehicles, and buses of all descriptions—DTC (both AC and non-AC) as well as private (school buses, tourist coaches, interstate buses and private stage carriages—yes, the rogue Blue Line buses, though officially phased out, still continue to ply nonchalantly, though in smaller numbers than before); not to mention the hoi polloi of cycle rickshaws, bicycles, RTVs, three-wheeler carriers, tempos, trucks, tractors, horse and bullock carts, occasional camels and elephants, construction cranes, cement mixers, dumpers, and tractors with wagons that populate the roads of Delhi. And they could be carrying anything—a load of potatoes or cabbages, a contingent of cars, livestock, garbage from colonies to the landfills, construction material, furniture, or even villagers en route to a political rally or a festive occasion!

All these diverse components of Delhi’s traffic ply blithely at their own varied, merry paces, regardless of frivolities such as traffic rules, red lights, lanes, overtaking norms, free left turns, and of others sharing the road with them! Enforcement of traffic rules seems to be an unheard-of concept (at least ever since Dr Kiran (Crane) Bedi was relieved of the charge of Delhi’s Traffic Police), and traffic cops have a field day, reeling in prime ‘catches’ for their ‘private collection’, especially around festival time. There have been observed instances of pedal-happy drivers brazenly jumping signals, sticking out their arms to pass a currency note to the traffic cop on duty with practised ease, without even bothering to slow down!

Plus, the state of the city’s infrastructure, be it roads or drainage, ensures that the first showers wash away major chunks of the best roads and flood what is left of them, leaving the increasingly congested traffic floundering on waterlogged rutted thoroughfares! It is not uncommon for a 10 kilometre commute to take as much as an hour in normal rush-hour traffic, and up to two hours on a rainy day!

The Metro is already overcrowded to the extent that guards have occasionally been observed stuffing in stray arms and legs sticking out of carriages, to enable the doors to close and the train to move! It is unlikely that the Metro, even when upgraded to its planned 200 km of track length as opposed to the present 100 km, would be enough for the commuter population of the city. The Bus Rapid Transit System (BRTS), which might have introduced some sort of method into the madness that is Delhi’s traffic, failed spectacularly at the inception and may not be given another chance.

The pot holes on the roads would be almost funny, if only they, amongst other reasons, had not earned for Delhi, the doubtful distinction of the slowest traffic in the country, with an average speed of 15 kmph (Mumbai comes second at 18 kmph). It seems wiser to either stay at home or walk to destinations less than 2-3 kilometres away, even if it means tying moistened handkerchiefs around the nose and mouth to filter out the noxious traffic fumes. The traffic travails also seem to have revived some variant of the purdah system, as women forced to negotiate the roads on foot muffle themselves in dupattas, stoles or scarves to minimize the damage to their skin and hair.

Delhi is crying out for better road infrastructure, a much larger Metro network and stringently enforced traffic rules. The vocabularies of those who drive regularly on the roads of the Capital are generally among the most colourful in the world, and it is not hard to see why!

Delhi Beat: The place to be

Published on Unboxed Writers on 26th April 2011

Netaji Subhash Place at Pitampura, flush by Wazirpur Depot on the Ring Road, is perhaps the only commercial complex in Delhi to felicitously combine the attributes of an office complex, shopping hub and food court. The complex, along with the expanse of assorted shops selling an eclectic mix of clothes, jewellery, street food of all kinds, sweets, household gadgets as also provision stores, realtors, automobile dealers, photographers, restaurants, bakeries, electronics, tuition bureaus, hobby classes, specialized coaching centres and pavement bookstalls, that stretch from Wazirpur Depot on Ring Road (inner) to Madhuban Chowk on Outer Ring Road, constitutes what has been dubbed ‘North Extension’ or simply ‘North-Ex’, as a counterpoint to the ‘happening’ South-Ex.

An obscure, unheard-of, downmarket locality till about two decades ago, North-Ex is now an integral part as well as the face of the changing realities of the capital. One of the first areas to be served by the Delhi Metro, it has grown by leaps and bounds. Today, with its easy access to upcoming trendy residential complexes by the best builders, schools, cultural centres, movie theatres, malls, adventure parks, restaurants and newest five star hotels, it is rapidly coming up as the place to be in the Capital.

Thus runs the story of Delhi. At one time, it used to be Chandni Chowk market for traditional finery and jewellery; Pahar Ganj for chaat and chhole bhature; Jama Masjid for traditional non-vegetarian food; Karol Bagh, Kamla Nagar and Lajpat Nagar markets for medium-range everyday shopping; Defence Colony market, Khan Market, GK market and South Extension (South-Ex) market for the fashionistas and trendsetters; and Sarojini Nagar Market for patri or pavement shopping. And at the heart of it was Connaught Place, where it all came together, and where you could do it all at the same place. This was at a less congested time when the population of Delhi was less than a million and the capital stretched from the Yamuna River in the east to Najafgarh village in the west, and from Pithampur village (now Pitampura administrative zone) in the north to Mehrauli in the South.

And then came the decade of the 1990s, and with it, the spread of Delhi in all directions. As immigrants from rural to urban areas who initially used to flock to Mumbai—the country’s de facto industrial capital—in search of livelihoods, grew insecure in the wake of Shiv Sena’s activities, the more secular and tolerant Delhi with its rapidly developing infrastructure, industries, employment prospects and facilities became the country’s new ‘land of opportunity’.

In the past two decades, the population of the city has soared from 0.82 million to nearly 19 million at the most recent count. And to accommodate the burgeoning population, the city has extended itself to its present area of 1483 square kilometres, initially spanning the Yamuna and spreading to its eastern side, and then engulfing neighbouring towns and areas such as Noida, Greater Noida, Ghaziabad, Faridabad, Badarpur, Bahadurgarh, Sonipat and Gurgaon into the National Capital Territory (NCT) Delhi. And this is the present Delhi—an extremely congested cosmopolis, with an average population density of over 9000 persons per square kilometres, and a highly developed public transport system as well as network of roads which, however, falls perpetually short of the requirements of its almost impossibly dynamic populace!

The combination of the city’s sheer geographical spread and its extremely high population density resulted in the inevitable outcome. No longer were these ‘specialized’ markets sufficient to serve the needs of the people of the city. The interminable commutes and the humungous traffic jams clogging the roads spawned the universal demand for everything much closer home, even if it came with a higher price tag—anything to avoid a needless tussle with the traffic in extreme weather!

And so came the era of self-sufficient markets in every area of the city, preceding the ‘mall culture’. No more trudging through the alleys of Chandni Chowk and Karol Bagh for wedding finery—Ushnak Mal Mool Chand, Rati Ram Ram Vinod, Ram Chandra Krishna Chandra, and now Chhabras and Narangs all have outlets in various parts of the city, as do all the top jewellers, plus a host of new ones. No more battling the traffic to browse the pavement markets at Sarojini Nagar and Lajpat Nagar—you have it all at almost walking distance! And no more lugging the family to Connaught Place for a Nirula’s ice cream or to South-Ex for Baskin Robbins. Nirula’s and Baskin Robbins (along with the newest ice-cream chain, Giani’s) have all come to your doorstep, so to speak—either in a market accessible almost on foot, or at the nearest mall. And even today, though nuclear families with little children might find air-conditioned, brightly decorated malls with the latest trendy retail outlets and play areas more convenient, really avid shoppers worth their salt still prefer to browse the open air markets for their needs as well as for unexpected surprises and treasures.

It was in this era that North and West Delhi, considered slightly infra dig till about two decades ago by inhabitants of Central and South Delhi, started coming into their own. From being looked down upon as the bastions of ‘refugees’ (from Punjab) and laalas (residents of the old, walled city relocating to escape the congestion), these most thickly populated localities of the Capital became, almost overnight, the most promising markets in post-liberalization Delhi. The original ‘refugees’ and lalaas with their immense drive and ‘go-getter’ spirit made it good and have been replaced by their second and third generations, now living amid the city’s most modern civic infrastructure and cosmopolitan amenities (the last to be developed, hence, the best).

The current inhabitants of these areas, thus, have the advantages of both, the money and luxury provided by their progenitors and the most updated infrastructure and civic amenities provided by the government. They have studied in the best schools, imbibed the global culture and have brought together the choicest elements of commercial, industrial and cultural development into ‘their area’—shopping complexes, offices, eateries, malls, adventure parks, movie halls; even Dilli Haat—and all conveniently located to be accessible from the Delhi Metro! ‘North-Ex’, thus, truly epitomises the ‘immigrant revolution’ that is underway in Delhi.