Recently I spent a day in Amritsar with two of my best friends, and it turned out to be one of the most emotional ones I have had in a long time. I never thought I could go through such a range of emotions in the span of one day, and I left the city with mixed feelings: joy, sorrow, peace, patriotism, faith and wonder.
We started the day by going to Jallianwala Baug. It was a short drive from our hotel, and we didn't know much about it except what we recalled vaguely from school textbooks. It was fairly crowded, and looked more like a public park than anything else. But as we walked around, a sense of soberness enveloped us. We read about the various people involved with the massacre: their stories, their actions and the consequences of their actions. We peered down the well where several women jumped to their death. We gazed at the hundreds of bullet holes in the walls. A feeling of disgust came over us, at how any human could inflict such pain on another. We were all quiet by the time we left the place, saddened by the first-hand account of what had happened there on Baisakhi Day, 1919.
At sundown, we went to Wagah to witness the daily lowering of the flags at the India-Pakistan border. The sheer realization that we were sitting only metres away from this country that you had been told was the enemy since you were born was overwhelming. It didn't look any different from India, except that the men and women were sitting separately. The five thousand-odd people screaming patriotic slogans got us charged up, and the raw aggression of the jawans got us charged up some more. We left feeling pumped up with adrenalin, our chests swelling with national pride.
As darkness descended, we arrived at the Golden Temple. Very few times in my life have I been to such a pure, serene and holy place. We were enveloped by a sense of calm as we sat by the water, unable to take our eyes off the majestic Temple in the moonlight. The soft prayers that were being sung inside the temple echoed throughout the complex, making us feel at peace at our very core. We took a walk around the complex, and then after praying inside the Temple, sat back down by the water. None of us wanted to leave. The simple beauty in submitting oneself to a higher being, enjoying His presence, feeling Him wean our troubles away, had become evident to us.
It was the perfect end to a wonderful day.
December 5, 2009
October 3, 2009
Sunday at the Willingdon
It was a Sunday like any other, except for one minor difference. I was up at eleven in the morning, quite early given my habit of sleeping in on the only holiday of the week. The reason for this exceptional event was that I had a luncheon to attend. My friend Richa had invited me out to lunch at The Willingdon Club. Now Willingdon isn't just any club. It is where Mumbai's elite go to relax, play a game of golf, swim or play cards. It is quite possibly the most elite gymkhana in the city, if not the country. I was partly curious, and partly excited to go check out this exclusive club. I had vague memories of having gone there as a child, but recalled nothing to write a blog about. As the clock struck one in the afternoon, I got into my car and drove to Richa's place, immersed in thoughts of what this oasis of glamour would be like.
I was shaken from my thoughts as Richa opened the door and got into my car. She was dressed well, and I wondered what the occaision was that warranted it. Maybe people dressed up to go have lunch at The Willingdon. At the Radio Club, where I was a member, shorts and an old t-shirt would have sufficed. Maybe they were strict about these things where we were going. We drove to the club, making small talk and discussing the happenings of our respective lives. There was much traffic along the way, and Thrillseekers' Nightmusic Volume 2 playing softly in the background kept me from getting annoyed at it.
We pulled into the driveway of the club, which looked every bit like something the British left behind. The green picket fence, the cobblestone dividers, the uniformed gatekeeper...all lent a touch of serenity to the place. The guest parking lot brought me back to reality. It was one big muddy ditch. It seemed more like a place where the horses from the Mahalakshmi Race Course across the street should've been kept. I grumbled to myself at having to risk getting my beloved Civic Hybrid stuck in the mud, and carefully backed into what could be called a parking slot.
When we stepped into the entrace foyer, one of Richa's friends was already waiting there. They hugged, and she said to Richa, “Happy Birthday!” Birthday? Birthday! It was Richa's birthday? How did I not know this? Had she mentioned a birthday party? Was I expected to know? I felt like a dunce. I admitted to Richa about not knowing the date she graced the planet on, and to my relief she didn't seem to mind. We walked from one restaurant to another, looking for a place to sit. One was full, and they hadn't held our reservation because we were a few minutes late. Another one had a dress code, and none of us were looking spiffy enough to be allowed inside. We finally settled on the verandah, and I soon realized that I was thankful the other places didn't let us in.
It was a breezy rectangular area overlooking the golf course. The ceiling was gorgeous, almost fifteen feet from the floor. Fans with really long stalks hung from it, dispering air at a height low enough to comfort the pampered cheeks of the guests. Some fans creaked under the weight of their own breeze, whimpering in an annoying squeaky tone. They were the same color as the cieling and the walls, a crisp glimmering white that looked like it had just been painted. Large black lanterns with bulbs inside them adorned the walls. The seemed to bask in the sunlight that flooded through the massive french windows that made up an entire side of the room. In one corner lay a massive thermometer, too heavy for one man to carry. The mercury was still accurate, and I wondered of the days, people and events this outdated antique must have witnessed during its lifetime. The sleek marble floor was covered with white cane chairs arranged neatly at spacious intervals. Privacy seemed to be the theme of the verandah, with tables too far apart to allow a conversation to be overheard by anyone. The chairs had lime green cushions, with little yellow flowers embroidered on them. People spoke to each other in a dignified, hushed sort of way, glancing and occasionally smiling at those who passed by. All in all, it was a quiet room with an aura of peace engulfing it.
We hailed the waiters, who all seemed to be smiling almost unnaturaly, with their hands folded neatly behind their backs. They joined a few tables to form one long table. By now, Richa's other friends had started arriving, and we all plopped down wherever we found a familiar face. As for me, I sunk into a chair from where I could see the ongoing cricket match without someone blocking my view. I had a feeling that I would need the cricket to keep me engrossed while everyone talked about unfamiliar people and situations. I had mentally prepared myself to hear a lot of lawyer talk, given that most of Richa's friends would be from the law fraternity.
People started arriving. By themselves, and in groups. Dressed for chilling, clubbing or showing off their bodies. I realized soon that watching everyone was a lot more fun than watching the cricket match. Heck, India wasn't even playing! There was a girl who looked like she was dressed for a tanning session on the beach. She chattered on and on about movies, her home town, and everything else in between. A couple of the guys seemed more interested in the contstant stream of chinese food bring brought to our table. Some looked at me and smiled politely. Some made small talk on where I worked, where I lived and what my thoughts on the stock markets were. Some complained to me about the losses they had made recently, as if I was responsible. But soon their talk switched to work and goings-on at their own offices. It turns out that I know a fair number of people that they know. It isn't uncommon for that to happen when you work or live in South Bombay. Everyone tends to know the same people, and plenty of shared acquaintances surface during first meetings.
I shifted my gaze to the golf course that this spectacular room overlooked. The neatly manicured lawns shimmered in the bright sunshine. There were large honeysuckle bushes lined along the edge of the building, and they stuck their buds out in the welcome breeze. There were a lot of people outside, glad to be able to play a round of golf after the monsoon. Most of the people playing were men, their visors lined with the sweat from their brows, and their fat tummies bulging against their polo t-shirts. The women stood by disinterested, gossiping among themselves. Occasionally, they lifted up their massive sunglasses to take a look at someone handsome walking by. The whole time, they were fanning themselves with large hand-fans. They were only too eager to get back onto the golf carts and move to the next hole when their husbands were done. Tall buildings made up the backdrop of this golf course, and it seemed unnatural to witness such a large open space in the middle of this chaotic city.
I heard my name being called out, and I focused my eyes back to the scene near me. Richa was asking me if I was getting bored. I smiled, nodded lazily to answer in the negative, and took another look at those in front of me. Smiling, laughing, eating, drinking, chattering, teasing...oblivious to the world and the problems that lay beyond the greens. The peacefulness of this place engulfed me. The world seemed a happy place.
*Names have been omitted to protect the author's right to forget them.
I was shaken from my thoughts as Richa opened the door and got into my car. She was dressed well, and I wondered what the occaision was that warranted it. Maybe people dressed up to go have lunch at The Willingdon. At the Radio Club, where I was a member, shorts and an old t-shirt would have sufficed. Maybe they were strict about these things where we were going. We drove to the club, making small talk and discussing the happenings of our respective lives. There was much traffic along the way, and Thrillseekers' Nightmusic Volume 2 playing softly in the background kept me from getting annoyed at it.
We pulled into the driveway of the club, which looked every bit like something the British left behind. The green picket fence, the cobblestone dividers, the uniformed gatekeeper...all lent a touch of serenity to the place. The guest parking lot brought me back to reality. It was one big muddy ditch. It seemed more like a place where the horses from the Mahalakshmi Race Course across the street should've been kept. I grumbled to myself at having to risk getting my beloved Civic Hybrid stuck in the mud, and carefully backed into what could be called a parking slot.
When we stepped into the entrace foyer, one of Richa's friends was already waiting there. They hugged, and she said to Richa, “Happy Birthday!” Birthday? Birthday! It was Richa's birthday? How did I not know this? Had she mentioned a birthday party? Was I expected to know? I felt like a dunce. I admitted to Richa about not knowing the date she graced the planet on, and to my relief she didn't seem to mind. We walked from one restaurant to another, looking for a place to sit. One was full, and they hadn't held our reservation because we were a few minutes late. Another one had a dress code, and none of us were looking spiffy enough to be allowed inside. We finally settled on the verandah, and I soon realized that I was thankful the other places didn't let us in.
It was a breezy rectangular area overlooking the golf course. The ceiling was gorgeous, almost fifteen feet from the floor. Fans with really long stalks hung from it, dispering air at a height low enough to comfort the pampered cheeks of the guests. Some fans creaked under the weight of their own breeze, whimpering in an annoying squeaky tone. They were the same color as the cieling and the walls, a crisp glimmering white that looked like it had just been painted. Large black lanterns with bulbs inside them adorned the walls. The seemed to bask in the sunlight that flooded through the massive french windows that made up an entire side of the room. In one corner lay a massive thermometer, too heavy for one man to carry. The mercury was still accurate, and I wondered of the days, people and events this outdated antique must have witnessed during its lifetime. The sleek marble floor was covered with white cane chairs arranged neatly at spacious intervals. Privacy seemed to be the theme of the verandah, with tables too far apart to allow a conversation to be overheard by anyone. The chairs had lime green cushions, with little yellow flowers embroidered on them. People spoke to each other in a dignified, hushed sort of way, glancing and occasionally smiling at those who passed by. All in all, it was a quiet room with an aura of peace engulfing it.
We hailed the waiters, who all seemed to be smiling almost unnaturaly, with their hands folded neatly behind their backs. They joined a few tables to form one long table. By now, Richa's other friends had started arriving, and we all plopped down wherever we found a familiar face. As for me, I sunk into a chair from where I could see the ongoing cricket match without someone blocking my view. I had a feeling that I would need the cricket to keep me engrossed while everyone talked about unfamiliar people and situations. I had mentally prepared myself to hear a lot of lawyer talk, given that most of Richa's friends would be from the law fraternity.
People started arriving. By themselves, and in groups. Dressed for chilling, clubbing or showing off their bodies. I realized soon that watching everyone was a lot more fun than watching the cricket match. Heck, India wasn't even playing! There was a girl who looked like she was dressed for a tanning session on the beach. She chattered on and on about movies, her home town, and everything else in between. A couple of the guys seemed more interested in the contstant stream of chinese food bring brought to our table. Some looked at me and smiled politely. Some made small talk on where I worked, where I lived and what my thoughts on the stock markets were. Some complained to me about the losses they had made recently, as if I was responsible. But soon their talk switched to work and goings-on at their own offices. It turns out that I know a fair number of people that they know. It isn't uncommon for that to happen when you work or live in South Bombay. Everyone tends to know the same people, and plenty of shared acquaintances surface during first meetings.
I shifted my gaze to the golf course that this spectacular room overlooked. The neatly manicured lawns shimmered in the bright sunshine. There were large honeysuckle bushes lined along the edge of the building, and they stuck their buds out in the welcome breeze. There were a lot of people outside, glad to be able to play a round of golf after the monsoon. Most of the people playing were men, their visors lined with the sweat from their brows, and their fat tummies bulging against their polo t-shirts. The women stood by disinterested, gossiping among themselves. Occasionally, they lifted up their massive sunglasses to take a look at someone handsome walking by. The whole time, they were fanning themselves with large hand-fans. They were only too eager to get back onto the golf carts and move to the next hole when their husbands were done. Tall buildings made up the backdrop of this golf course, and it seemed unnatural to witness such a large open space in the middle of this chaotic city.
I heard my name being called out, and I focused my eyes back to the scene near me. Richa was asking me if I was getting bored. I smiled, nodded lazily to answer in the negative, and took another look at those in front of me. Smiling, laughing, eating, drinking, chattering, teasing...oblivious to the world and the problems that lay beyond the greens. The peacefulness of this place engulfed me. The world seemed a happy place.
*Names have been omitted to protect the author's right to forget them.
September 4, 2009
The simple (and noisy) pleasures of life
It was 3.30 pm. I was grumbling to myself about having to leave work early. I was being dragged out of office by my mom, since it is Ganpati Visarjan today. I told myself, why must a whole city suffer because one section wants to celebrate this festival? I could have gotten so much work done if I had stayed a few hours more! I got home, seemingly at a loss as to what to do for the rest of the day. I hung out with my brother, wandered aimlessly on the internet, all the while complaining in my head about the non-stop cacophony of drums that was underway seventeen stories below.
The day passed nevertheless, and soon it was time to sleep. I shut all the windows tight, hoping that they would keep the noise out. The same noise which was like a hammer to my skull, which had gotten steadily louder as high tide approached and the larger idols were brought to be immersed. I live in a part of town which serves as a passage for a large number of idols as they make their way to Chowpatty Beach. The sound is amplified as it reaches me up here and comes loud and clear to my window. I wondered when I would be able to sleep, and how I would pull off a productive day at work tomorrow without proper rest.
As I pulled my curtains to a close, I took what I thought would be one last fleeting glance at the commotion below. What I saw left me mesmerized. It was raining, no, pouring down. The sky was lit up brilliantly by flashes of lightning. Water had started to collect near the drains, and the street has begun to flood up to one's ankles. There was a long line of cars, held back by a large procession slowly making its way towards Chowpatty. By slowly, I mean it was moving a metre a minute. There were people dancing in front and at the back of the procession, at the centre of which was a truck with a beautiful idol of Lord Ganesha on it. The idol seemed to be smiling down at the crowd, which looked even happier. There were children, adults, men, women, even a dog or two. They were completely engrossed in the dancing, there was not a trace of worry on their faces. They didn't seem to care about anything around them; neither the water fast filling the street, the cars honking behind them, nor the rain pouring down on their already drenched bodies. Their lives were probably full of problems, but for this one day and night everything was forgotten in the magical experience that was the Visarjan.
In that one moment, it struck me that this was the happiest Bombay could ever be. The combined joy that the people of this city get when they immerse their favorite idol in the mirky waters of the Arabian Sea is far more than the inconvenience caused to those who choose not to participate in this festival. No doubt, life will go back to normal tomorrow, except for the eerie body parts of the clay Ganesha idols that will wash up on shore all along the city's coastline. But it will be a happier life, one filled with memories of the last few days gone by. The dancing, the modaks, the drums, the idols...the beautiful, beautiful idols. This festival unites the masses. It weaves back together the social fabric of a city whose patience is tested every single day of the year, of a city, which seems to be at its wit's end at every traffic jam, power cut and late train.
Thank you Lord Ganesha, you unite this city in a way no political leader ever will.
The day passed nevertheless, and soon it was time to sleep. I shut all the windows tight, hoping that they would keep the noise out. The same noise which was like a hammer to my skull, which had gotten steadily louder as high tide approached and the larger idols were brought to be immersed. I live in a part of town which serves as a passage for a large number of idols as they make their way to Chowpatty Beach. The sound is amplified as it reaches me up here and comes loud and clear to my window. I wondered when I would be able to sleep, and how I would pull off a productive day at work tomorrow without proper rest.
As I pulled my curtains to a close, I took what I thought would be one last fleeting glance at the commotion below. What I saw left me mesmerized. It was raining, no, pouring down. The sky was lit up brilliantly by flashes of lightning. Water had started to collect near the drains, and the street has begun to flood up to one's ankles. There was a long line of cars, held back by a large procession slowly making its way towards Chowpatty. By slowly, I mean it was moving a metre a minute. There were people dancing in front and at the back of the procession, at the centre of which was a truck with a beautiful idol of Lord Ganesha on it. The idol seemed to be smiling down at the crowd, which looked even happier. There were children, adults, men, women, even a dog or two. They were completely engrossed in the dancing, there was not a trace of worry on their faces. They didn't seem to care about anything around them; neither the water fast filling the street, the cars honking behind them, nor the rain pouring down on their already drenched bodies. Their lives were probably full of problems, but for this one day and night everything was forgotten in the magical experience that was the Visarjan.
In that one moment, it struck me that this was the happiest Bombay could ever be. The combined joy that the people of this city get when they immerse their favorite idol in the mirky waters of the Arabian Sea is far more than the inconvenience caused to those who choose not to participate in this festival. No doubt, life will go back to normal tomorrow, except for the eerie body parts of the clay Ganesha idols that will wash up on shore all along the city's coastline. But it will be a happier life, one filled with memories of the last few days gone by. The dancing, the modaks, the drums, the idols...the beautiful, beautiful idols. This festival unites the masses. It weaves back together the social fabric of a city whose patience is tested every single day of the year, of a city, which seems to be at its wit's end at every traffic jam, power cut and late train.
Thank you Lord Ganesha, you unite this city in a way no political leader ever will.
May 14, 2009
The Umargam Diaries
The Verandah
It is a bright afternoon. I sit at the verandah, protected from the scorching heat by the shade of the balcony above, and the cool breeze flowing in from the coast. Every now and then, I glance up from my CFA notes and look around lazily. It is impossible to concentrate on something as drab as a textbook when the view is as beautiful as this one.
The coconut trees wave with the breeze not far away. All that stands in between me and that wonderful green canopy is the swimming pool. The water's shade of blue contrasts perfectly with the earthy tone of the tiles around the pool. The tiny ripples created by the breeze continuously deposit small quantities of water at the edges of the pool, which soon evaporate in the summer heat. Every so often, a bird skims the surface, scooping up just enough water in its tiny beak to quench its thirst.
I look to my left. The laborers toil away in this heat. I wonder how they do it. I find myself breaking into a sweat just sitting on my cozy swing, reading notes. There's an old man carrying soil in a large metal bowl. He looks over sixty, and is dressed in nothing but a loincloth and bright blue rubber sandals. Not for a moment does he falter while carrying all that soil, which I imagine must not be a light load. His upper body is naked and gleaming with sweat, rippling with muscles that only hard labor can develop. A girl, no older than eighteen, is waiting for him to bring the bowl full of soil. Once he passes the bowl to her, she carries it the rest of the way to the end of the field. Her facial features and her walk show off an untainted grace, especially when she walks while perfectly balancing the heavy bowl on her head. Every now and then, someone cracks a joke. They all laugh aloud, their toothy grins shining more than the sweat on their brows. They talk in a tribal language that sounds somewhat like Marathi, but one I don't understand a word of nonetheless. Sometimes, they break into a song. One that sounds so sweet and pure, I find myself wanting nothing more than to know what it says.
I am transfixed on watching them go about their routine jobs. Soon, my attention is diverted by the dog stretching lazily next to me. I don't know how he came to call our farm his own, but we just can't seem to get him to leave. I look into his droopy eyes, and he looks back.
I grin, at nothing in particular. Then I take another sip of my Sprite and go back to reading my notes.
The Moon
It's a full moon. I sit at the verandah, absorbing the soft glow that the moon radiates. Its reflection in the still pool makes it seem like there are two of them. A reflection still as a photograph, only moving when the calm surface is disturbed by a bat skimming it to lap up some water. The trees aren't waving about. It is almost as if they are sleeping. It is awkward to see so many stars, most people from a big city aren't used to seeing them at all.
A soothing calm descends over me. I can hear the sounds of a radio playing old Hindi songs. It belongs to the laborers who live on our farm. Their huts are a hundred yards away, but the quiet night allows the songs to pierce the night sky and reach my ears as if they are being played in front of me.
Though there is no breeze, it is unnaturally cool for a summer night. I feel at peace, and wonder whether I am really only sixty miles away from the outskirts of my bustling home town. I know I must get to sleep soon, I have to be up early to study tomorrow. But something about the moon has me hooked, maybe even addicted. I want to continue to just sit there and look at it. Not move an inch.
I finally muster the strength to get on to my feet. Almost as if the night knows I am leaving, it throws a cool breeze my way, weakening my knees. I am held powerless to resist the allure of this beautiful night. I drop back into the swing. I say to the moon, “You win.” It makes me wish I had someone there with me, at that very moment, to share it with.
But for the time being, I am content being moon-struck.
The Beach
It's a perfect evening. Instead of going to the part of the beach I usually visit, I decide to try something new today. I park about a mile before the parking lot, on the side of the secluded coastal road. I climb down the embankment onto a part of the beach that few visit. The sun is a few minutes away from calling it a day, and is celebrating its departure by painting the sky in violent shades of orange and pink.
I take off my slippers and carry them in my hand. The sand is still wet from the waves that have now started to recede. I can feel the sand sinking just a little bit under my weight as I take small lazy steps. The cool sand on my soles, combined with the warm sea water that occasionally laps up my ankles, make for an eclectic experience. It is so hard to let anything worry you when you are enveloped in such beauty.
I always imagined, that if God is indeed with me at all times, I would see His footsteps besides mine on a beach. Simply because it is the purest place for one to walk barefoot. As a kid, I would be disappointed when I'd look back, searching for two sets of footprints. I would only see my own. One day I told myself, that the single set of footprints is actually that of God's own feet. He is actually carrying me on his shoulders. Ever since, I always look back at my footprints and smile at that comforting thought.
I ponder whether the sea has any dangerous creatures inhabiting it. Just then, something brushes against my foot. I squeal like a little girl and run a good twenty feet before I realize that the dangerous creature attacking me is just a harmless piece of seaweed. I pretend to be cool and ignore the kids swimming in the sea who are laughing their little butts off at me.
I can taste the salt in the breeze. The sun is almost gone, and the pink and orange hues have turned purple. Much as I want to continue walking, I turn back. I've walked over a mile down the beach, and my tummy is craving a dabeli (bread stuffed with a spicy paste, a Gujarati specialty). I have been eating them every day, served hot and fresh at the Mewad Special Dabeli-walla's stall. I see a tiny crab scuttle across my path, and hurriedly put my slippers back on. Experiencing nature in its unadulterated form can wait until the crabs are done running around and the killer seaweed has receded back into the depths of the sea. I walk back a little faster, imagining the delicious dabeli. Dayabhai, the stall-owner, sees me coming from a distance and shouts in Gujarati, “Aaje ek ke be?” (One of two today?). I scream back, “Aaje ekaj!” (Just one today!). My dabeli awaits me when I reach the stall. I sit on a plastic chair next to the stall and enjoy every delicious bite.
I pay Dayabhai the princely sum of five rupees, and promise him that I will return the next evening as well. I switch on my iPhone and put on my headphones. As the heavenly lyrics of the song 'Arziyan' from the soundtrack of Delhi-6 fill my thoughts, I walk back to my car. My slippers are back in my hand. The feeling of cool, wet sand on my naked feet is worth the risk of a crab-bite.
If only I could do this every day, for the rest of my life.
It is a bright afternoon. I sit at the verandah, protected from the scorching heat by the shade of the balcony above, and the cool breeze flowing in from the coast. Every now and then, I glance up from my CFA notes and look around lazily. It is impossible to concentrate on something as drab as a textbook when the view is as beautiful as this one.
The coconut trees wave with the breeze not far away. All that stands in between me and that wonderful green canopy is the swimming pool. The water's shade of blue contrasts perfectly with the earthy tone of the tiles around the pool. The tiny ripples created by the breeze continuously deposit small quantities of water at the edges of the pool, which soon evaporate in the summer heat. Every so often, a bird skims the surface, scooping up just enough water in its tiny beak to quench its thirst.
I look to my left. The laborers toil away in this heat. I wonder how they do it. I find myself breaking into a sweat just sitting on my cozy swing, reading notes. There's an old man carrying soil in a large metal bowl. He looks over sixty, and is dressed in nothing but a loincloth and bright blue rubber sandals. Not for a moment does he falter while carrying all that soil, which I imagine must not be a light load. His upper body is naked and gleaming with sweat, rippling with muscles that only hard labor can develop. A girl, no older than eighteen, is waiting for him to bring the bowl full of soil. Once he passes the bowl to her, she carries it the rest of the way to the end of the field. Her facial features and her walk show off an untainted grace, especially when she walks while perfectly balancing the heavy bowl on her head. Every now and then, someone cracks a joke. They all laugh aloud, their toothy grins shining more than the sweat on their brows. They talk in a tribal language that sounds somewhat like Marathi, but one I don't understand a word of nonetheless. Sometimes, they break into a song. One that sounds so sweet and pure, I find myself wanting nothing more than to know what it says.
I am transfixed on watching them go about their routine jobs. Soon, my attention is diverted by the dog stretching lazily next to me. I don't know how he came to call our farm his own, but we just can't seem to get him to leave. I look into his droopy eyes, and he looks back.
I grin, at nothing in particular. Then I take another sip of my Sprite and go back to reading my notes.
The Moon
It's a full moon. I sit at the verandah, absorbing the soft glow that the moon radiates. Its reflection in the still pool makes it seem like there are two of them. A reflection still as a photograph, only moving when the calm surface is disturbed by a bat skimming it to lap up some water. The trees aren't waving about. It is almost as if they are sleeping. It is awkward to see so many stars, most people from a big city aren't used to seeing them at all.
A soothing calm descends over me. I can hear the sounds of a radio playing old Hindi songs. It belongs to the laborers who live on our farm. Their huts are a hundred yards away, but the quiet night allows the songs to pierce the night sky and reach my ears as if they are being played in front of me.
Though there is no breeze, it is unnaturally cool for a summer night. I feel at peace, and wonder whether I am really only sixty miles away from the outskirts of my bustling home town. I know I must get to sleep soon, I have to be up early to study tomorrow. But something about the moon has me hooked, maybe even addicted. I want to continue to just sit there and look at it. Not move an inch.
I finally muster the strength to get on to my feet. Almost as if the night knows I am leaving, it throws a cool breeze my way, weakening my knees. I am held powerless to resist the allure of this beautiful night. I drop back into the swing. I say to the moon, “You win.” It makes me wish I had someone there with me, at that very moment, to share it with.
But for the time being, I am content being moon-struck.
The Beach
It's a perfect evening. Instead of going to the part of the beach I usually visit, I decide to try something new today. I park about a mile before the parking lot, on the side of the secluded coastal road. I climb down the embankment onto a part of the beach that few visit. The sun is a few minutes away from calling it a day, and is celebrating its departure by painting the sky in violent shades of orange and pink.
I take off my slippers and carry them in my hand. The sand is still wet from the waves that have now started to recede. I can feel the sand sinking just a little bit under my weight as I take small lazy steps. The cool sand on my soles, combined with the warm sea water that occasionally laps up my ankles, make for an eclectic experience. It is so hard to let anything worry you when you are enveloped in such beauty.
I always imagined, that if God is indeed with me at all times, I would see His footsteps besides mine on a beach. Simply because it is the purest place for one to walk barefoot. As a kid, I would be disappointed when I'd look back, searching for two sets of footprints. I would only see my own. One day I told myself, that the single set of footprints is actually that of God's own feet. He is actually carrying me on his shoulders. Ever since, I always look back at my footprints and smile at that comforting thought.
I ponder whether the sea has any dangerous creatures inhabiting it. Just then, something brushes against my foot. I squeal like a little girl and run a good twenty feet before I realize that the dangerous creature attacking me is just a harmless piece of seaweed. I pretend to be cool and ignore the kids swimming in the sea who are laughing their little butts off at me.
I can taste the salt in the breeze. The sun is almost gone, and the pink and orange hues have turned purple. Much as I want to continue walking, I turn back. I've walked over a mile down the beach, and my tummy is craving a dabeli (bread stuffed with a spicy paste, a Gujarati specialty). I have been eating them every day, served hot and fresh at the Mewad Special Dabeli-walla's stall. I see a tiny crab scuttle across my path, and hurriedly put my slippers back on. Experiencing nature in its unadulterated form can wait until the crabs are done running around and the killer seaweed has receded back into the depths of the sea. I walk back a little faster, imagining the delicious dabeli. Dayabhai, the stall-owner, sees me coming from a distance and shouts in Gujarati, “Aaje ek ke be?” (One of two today?). I scream back, “Aaje ekaj!” (Just one today!). My dabeli awaits me when I reach the stall. I sit on a plastic chair next to the stall and enjoy every delicious bite.
I pay Dayabhai the princely sum of five rupees, and promise him that I will return the next evening as well. I switch on my iPhone and put on my headphones. As the heavenly lyrics of the song 'Arziyan' from the soundtrack of Delhi-6 fill my thoughts, I walk back to my car. My slippers are back in my hand. The feeling of cool, wet sand on my naked feet is worth the risk of a crab-bite.
If only I could do this every day, for the rest of my life.
April 9, 2009
Corruption in the RTO
It was the 26th of May, 2004. I got out of the car, overwhelmed by the heat. I wiped my sweaty brow with one of the handkerchiefs I was carrying (yes, it is that hot), and looked around. The vast Road Transport Office (RTO) head office campus stood before me. I was finally old enough to get a driver's license! I walked around for about twenty minutes from one end of the campus to the other, trying to figure out where I could take my driving test. I kept being deflected like a hockey puck from one counter to the other.
I finally found the right counter, and waited another thirty minutes in line for my turn. I finally had the pleasure of standing before one Mr. Ghorpade from the RTO. He looked up at me, and grunted something that sounded like the word 'name'. I told him my name. He wrote it in Marathi on a slip of paper. He then asked me, “Standard or express?” I asked him to elaborate. He was clearly annoyed that I was not down with the RTO lingo, and he bellowed at a timid clerk sitting nearby. The clerk quickly hobbled over, and took me aside. He told me in a hushed tone, “Standard means you take the driving test, and the license will be mailed to you in a month. Express means you attach three hundred bucks with the application, and your driving license will be given to you right away, without a driving test.”
I was appalled at this suggestion, and I told him I would not pay a bribe. In fact, I said it so loud that everyone stopped momentarily to look at me. The meek clerk almost pulled me out of the office by my arm and asked me in Marathi with a bewildered face, “Are you trying to get us into trouble? This is the way things work here.” I gave him a disgusted look and walked back inside. I went up to Mr. Ghorpade, and told him I wanted to get my license the 'Standard' way. He looked up at me again, and smirked, “You are the first one to say that in weeks!” I said to him, “Deal with it. Can I take my test now?” He said he would send someone out right away.
Apparently, 'right away' means about an hour or so in RTO lingo. I sat in my car in the searing heat, listening to songs on the radio. I wished the world would end, and I would go to hell. I'm sure it would be cooler there. Anyways, the driving test supervisor ambled to my car eventually, picking his nose the whole way from the office building to my car. He got into the back seat of the car, as my friend was sitting in the front passenger's seat. He grunted, "Ration card". I said I had brought my passport. To which he replied, "Nahi chalega" (Won't do). I asked him why. He said that the RTO did not recognize the passport as a valid form of ID. I didn't know whether to feel pity at his ignorance, or angry at his incompetence. I told him, "This is the apex identification issued by the Government of India, and if you don't accept this, it means that you are a moron." He frowned at me, and took my passport in his hand. He asked me to start the car, and started flicking through the pages. He read out aloud the names of the countries whose visas were in my passport. "Amrika, Englund, Singapoor, Indo..Indo...nesia, Ostreliya...seems like you have traveled all over. I'm sure you know how to drive. You pass." That was it. He passed me based on the countries I had visited!
I began to protest his lack of seriousness towards confirming whether I can actually drive or not. He said, "Look. It's bad enough you want to make us go through all this paperwork to give you a license, when you could just pay us and get it done in a day's time. On top of all this, you actually want me to take your test? What is wrong with you!" He spat his paan outside my car, and simply walked off. I stood there exasperated, not knowing what to think of it. A full two months later, I got my license. It was my first encounter with RTO corruption. And thanks to the twenty-five year validity of my driver license, probably my last encounter for a long time to come.
I have thought on an off about that incident since. I have wondered, whether my encounter with RTO corruption really ended when I walked out of that campus. I have come to a conclusion that this encounter never stops. By requesting for a driving test, I was an exception. Even then, by not taking my test seriously, the RTO gave a license to one more person who it wasn't sure could drive or not. Thousands of people get driving licenses every day, and I'm pretty sure most of them have no idea how to drive. I don't mean how to operate a car, I'm talking about road etiquette, traffic rules and safety rules. The RTO is not considered to be one of the departments whose corruption affects daily life. But given that it unleashes bad drivers by the dozen every single day, the pathetic traffic situation is as much the fault of the RTO as it is the fault of bad planning. A lot of the traffic jams are caused by indiscipline on the part of motorists. Drivers don't follow lanes, they run stoplights, they park where they want, even if the car end up blocking other people's way. It gets scarier when these illiterate drivers take their cars out on the highway. I have seen people overtaking trucks from the wrong side, and even coming the wrong way on a freeway because they don't want to drive the extra mile to take the u-turn. It's no surprise that India has one of the highest numbers in the world of deaths by road accident. It took forever for the RTO to make the use of helmets and seatbelts compulsory. The law is unsatisfactorily enforced in the big cities, and ignored in other places.
The corruption in the RTO is not limited to the issuance of driving licenses. It also extends to giving vehicles a Pollution Under Control (PUC) certificate. Most truckers, taxi drivers and transport vehicle drivers bribe the RTO left, right and centre to get PUCs for their vehicles, even though the vehicles would not have passed the test. Look at the sky on a usual day, and compare it to how it looks on the day taxis are on strike. The difference will tell you how much pollution is released by cars driving on fake PUC certificates. The pollution levels in most Indian cities are very high, and I firmly believe that the corruption of the RTO is to blame for the vehicular pollution in the country. The pollution has a ripple effect on one's quality of life, and on the incidence of diseases like asthma and bronchitis.
The only way to solve the problems related to automobile pollution and road safety is to take a look at the decay in the RTO first. If efforts are made to ensure that only people with all requisite skills pass driving tests, Traffic discipline would improve manifold. I would even go so far as to say that every driver in the country should be re-tested. I'm not sure how many would pass. The systems and processes should be strengthened to make sure that polluting vehicles are not given PUC certificates. An improvement in air quality across urban areas in India can only do good to the quality of people's lives.
As for my next encounter with the corruption in the RTO, I hope there won't be one.
I finally found the right counter, and waited another thirty minutes in line for my turn. I finally had the pleasure of standing before one Mr. Ghorpade from the RTO. He looked up at me, and grunted something that sounded like the word 'name'. I told him my name. He wrote it in Marathi on a slip of paper. He then asked me, “Standard or express?” I asked him to elaborate. He was clearly annoyed that I was not down with the RTO lingo, and he bellowed at a timid clerk sitting nearby. The clerk quickly hobbled over, and took me aside. He told me in a hushed tone, “Standard means you take the driving test, and the license will be mailed to you in a month. Express means you attach three hundred bucks with the application, and your driving license will be given to you right away, without a driving test.”
I was appalled at this suggestion, and I told him I would not pay a bribe. In fact, I said it so loud that everyone stopped momentarily to look at me. The meek clerk almost pulled me out of the office by my arm and asked me in Marathi with a bewildered face, “Are you trying to get us into trouble? This is the way things work here.” I gave him a disgusted look and walked back inside. I went up to Mr. Ghorpade, and told him I wanted to get my license the 'Standard' way. He looked up at me again, and smirked, “You are the first one to say that in weeks!” I said to him, “Deal with it. Can I take my test now?” He said he would send someone out right away.
Apparently, 'right away' means about an hour or so in RTO lingo. I sat in my car in the searing heat, listening to songs on the radio. I wished the world would end, and I would go to hell. I'm sure it would be cooler there. Anyways, the driving test supervisor ambled to my car eventually, picking his nose the whole way from the office building to my car. He got into the back seat of the car, as my friend was sitting in the front passenger's seat. He grunted, "Ration card". I said I had brought my passport. To which he replied, "Nahi chalega" (Won't do). I asked him why. He said that the RTO did not recognize the passport as a valid form of ID. I didn't know whether to feel pity at his ignorance, or angry at his incompetence. I told him, "This is the apex identification issued by the Government of India, and if you don't accept this, it means that you are a moron." He frowned at me, and took my passport in his hand. He asked me to start the car, and started flicking through the pages. He read out aloud the names of the countries whose visas were in my passport. "Amrika, Englund, Singapoor, Indo..Indo...nesia, Ostreliya...seems like you have traveled all over. I'm sure you know how to drive. You pass." That was it. He passed me based on the countries I had visited!
I began to protest his lack of seriousness towards confirming whether I can actually drive or not. He said, "Look. It's bad enough you want to make us go through all this paperwork to give you a license, when you could just pay us and get it done in a day's time. On top of all this, you actually want me to take your test? What is wrong with you!" He spat his paan outside my car, and simply walked off. I stood there exasperated, not knowing what to think of it. A full two months later, I got my license. It was my first encounter with RTO corruption. And thanks to the twenty-five year validity of my driver license, probably my last encounter for a long time to come.
I have thought on an off about that incident since. I have wondered, whether my encounter with RTO corruption really ended when I walked out of that campus. I have come to a conclusion that this encounter never stops. By requesting for a driving test, I was an exception. Even then, by not taking my test seriously, the RTO gave a license to one more person who it wasn't sure could drive or not. Thousands of people get driving licenses every day, and I'm pretty sure most of them have no idea how to drive. I don't mean how to operate a car, I'm talking about road etiquette, traffic rules and safety rules. The RTO is not considered to be one of the departments whose corruption affects daily life. But given that it unleashes bad drivers by the dozen every single day, the pathetic traffic situation is as much the fault of the RTO as it is the fault of bad planning. A lot of the traffic jams are caused by indiscipline on the part of motorists. Drivers don't follow lanes, they run stoplights, they park where they want, even if the car end up blocking other people's way. It gets scarier when these illiterate drivers take their cars out on the highway. I have seen people overtaking trucks from the wrong side, and even coming the wrong way on a freeway because they don't want to drive the extra mile to take the u-turn. It's no surprise that India has one of the highest numbers in the world of deaths by road accident. It took forever for the RTO to make the use of helmets and seatbelts compulsory. The law is unsatisfactorily enforced in the big cities, and ignored in other places.
The corruption in the RTO is not limited to the issuance of driving licenses. It also extends to giving vehicles a Pollution Under Control (PUC) certificate. Most truckers, taxi drivers and transport vehicle drivers bribe the RTO left, right and centre to get PUCs for their vehicles, even though the vehicles would not have passed the test. Look at the sky on a usual day, and compare it to how it looks on the day taxis are on strike. The difference will tell you how much pollution is released by cars driving on fake PUC certificates. The pollution levels in most Indian cities are very high, and I firmly believe that the corruption of the RTO is to blame for the vehicular pollution in the country. The pollution has a ripple effect on one's quality of life, and on the incidence of diseases like asthma and bronchitis.
The only way to solve the problems related to automobile pollution and road safety is to take a look at the decay in the RTO first. If efforts are made to ensure that only people with all requisite skills pass driving tests, Traffic discipline would improve manifold. I would even go so far as to say that every driver in the country should be re-tested. I'm not sure how many would pass. The systems and processes should be strengthened to make sure that polluting vehicles are not given PUC certificates. An improvement in air quality across urban areas in India can only do good to the quality of people's lives.
As for my next encounter with the corruption in the RTO, I hope there won't be one.
March 24, 2009
Life's little moments
A loud bus horn woke me up with a start. I sleepily rubbed my eyes, wondering where I was. A quick look around was enough to tell me that I was stuck in the traffic at the infamous Haji Ali intersection.
I grumbled to myself about the traffic, thinking what the situation would be like once the Tata Nano floods the streets. I was in a mood to complain to someone on how my life sucks because I spend three hours a day stuck in traffic.
As I was scrolling through my phone book deciding whom to call and complain to, I glanced upwards out my window. An overcrowded bus was stuck in traffic next to me. A young child no older than six was sitting on his mother's lap, his tiny fingers tightly gripping the window grill. He looked thirstily into my car, staring at the bottle of Pepsi sitting cozily in the cupholder next to me. A young woman stood in the aisle of the bus, her one hand holding the strap hanging from the cieling of the bus. In her other arm was her crying baby, obviously unhappy at being jostled about a crowded bus.
What was a simple glance into the bus hit me like a train. I sheepishly turned to looking out the window on the other side of the car and switched on the cd player. The Haji Ali shrine gleamed in the evening sun, the peaceful ocean waves enhancing its grandeur.
I closed my eyes, and the sounds of the violin from Suite for Orchestra No.2 in D Major filled my subconscious mind. Feeling the warmth of the soft sunshine on my face; I realized how beautiful life is in all its little ways. A small smile escaped my lips. Sometimes it takes a traffic jam to remind you how lucky you are.
I grumbled to myself about the traffic, thinking what the situation would be like once the Tata Nano floods the streets. I was in a mood to complain to someone on how my life sucks because I spend three hours a day stuck in traffic.
As I was scrolling through my phone book deciding whom to call and complain to, I glanced upwards out my window. An overcrowded bus was stuck in traffic next to me. A young child no older than six was sitting on his mother's lap, his tiny fingers tightly gripping the window grill. He looked thirstily into my car, staring at the bottle of Pepsi sitting cozily in the cupholder next to me. A young woman stood in the aisle of the bus, her one hand holding the strap hanging from the cieling of the bus. In her other arm was her crying baby, obviously unhappy at being jostled about a crowded bus.
What was a simple glance into the bus hit me like a train. I sheepishly turned to looking out the window on the other side of the car and switched on the cd player. The Haji Ali shrine gleamed in the evening sun, the peaceful ocean waves enhancing its grandeur.
I closed my eyes, and the sounds of the violin from Suite for Orchestra No.2 in D Major filled my subconscious mind. Feeling the warmth of the soft sunshine on my face; I realized how beautiful life is in all its little ways. A small smile escaped my lips. Sometimes it takes a traffic jam to remind you how lucky you are.
March 17, 2009
A Walk to Remember
A few weeks ago I took part in the company cricket tournament. To suit our staff, most of whom stay in the western suburbs, the matches were held in the Poisar Gymkhana which is in Northwest Bombay. Since it is very far from where I stay and is very close to where my maternal grandparents stay, I decided to go stay with them the night before so that I would be spared of an early morning commute to the cricket ground.
My grandparents live in Borivali West. I lived in Borivali East until I was six, and spent a substantial amount of time at their home when I was a kid, mostly during the hours between when school got over and my parents came home from work. I haven't gone back to Borivali too often since we moved town-side in 1992, but I still have vivid memories of the place.
I pulled up my car into the tiny building compound. The watchman woke up with a startled look on his face. He asked me who I was and where I wanted to go, and also said that outside cars were not allowed. He was adamant even after I explained why I should be allowed to park my car inside Apparently growing up somewhere does not mean one can park one's car there fifteen years later. Too tired to argue with him, I parked on the street outside and dragged my suitcase up one floor to my grandparents' flat. I was coming to their place after more than six months and pretty much nothing had changed. I thought for a moment whether to tell my fiery grandmother that the watchman had not let me park my car inside the building compound. But I took pity on the poor soul's life and chose not to mention it.
After the customary cup of tea, I looked around for something to do for the rest of the evening. Borivali isn't exactly the most happening place in Bombay. Besides, my grandparents live smack on SV Road, which is undergoing a radical transformation from a quiet suburban street to the retail hub of a suburb of half a million people. The noise and dust overwhelmed me pretty quickly. I figured, maybe I should go visit one of my relatives in Borivali East. I decided to go to my dad's aunt's place. She was, and continues to be, one of my favorite people. I vaguely recall how she would tell me stories from the Ramayana while putting me to sleep on Saturday afternoons.
I began the walk to her place. I tried my best to soak up the surroundings, and notice the changes they had gone through in the last fifteen years or so. I couldn't recognize any of the buildings on SV Road. The old three story apartment buildings with names like 'Kamal Chhaya' (Lotus Shade) had given way to glitzy malls with massive signboards advertising some sale or some brand of perfume. I thought of taking a short-cut I knew from the back side of the building through a back-alley that went straight to the railroad crossing. When I reached the back side of the building, the alley no longer existed. What I saw instead was a construction site. I grumbled to myself on how the only thing constant is change, and walked back the long way to the railroad crossing. The railroad crossing didn't exist either. It had been walled up, and a pedestrian subway stood glumly.
I remember the excitement I would experience while waiting for the faatak (railroad crossing) to open. I would watch all the vegetable sellers shouting away, trying to sell their wares to the people waiting for the train to pass. In the meantime, hawkers selling everything from stationery to trinkets to handkerchiefs would walk among the crowd. There would always be some smart-alecs who jumped over the faatak and crossed the tracks right before the train would come through.
But they were all gone, and all I could see was the entrance to the subway. It seemed dark inside. It had paan stains all over the walls. It looked like the entrance to hell, with the red stains looking like little flames. I made a face describing disgust and went inside. Crossing from west to east through a subway was no fun compared to running across a railroad crossing pretending the train was about to come.
I reached the east side and heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing seemed to have changed. Maybe it was just me, but even the air seemed cleaner. There was a peacefulness about the place which seemed a distant world away from the hustle and bustle of SV Road. I walked towards Carter Road #1, which is where my grand-aunt lives. She actually lives in the same building where I used to live. I recognized a lot of places along the way. Crystal Classes, where Joan miss would smack me with a ruler when I spelled a word wrong in English tuitions. Bharat Gas Service, where I would come with my nanny to order a new cylinder of gas. Chimanlal and Sons, where to this day I don't know what they actually do. The tiny grocer's store into which a BEST bus had rammed into. The whole neighborhood couldn't stoop talking about it for days. They had a clipping of the news article about the accident stuck on the storefront window. The buildings were the same, the streets were the same. It seemed a lot of them hadn't been painted since I had left. I recalled a well at the intersection near my building. One summer, I had engraved my nickname 'Ada' on one of the cornerstones of the well. I remember throwing stones in the well along with my friends before being chased down the street by the building watchman. My eyes hungrily searched for the spot where the well stood.
A big grin appeared on my face as I found the well. It was no longer an open well; it had been sealed off and on top of it was a pigeon-feeding enclosure. However, the cornerstones of the well that once existed were still in place. I crouched down near the spot where I had engraved my name over seventeen years ago. I found the very stone, and I started rubbing the dust away with my handkerchief. A couple of people stopped and looked, wondering what the hell I was doing. A few seconds of dusting later, I saw it.
The letters engraved into the stone had endured seventeen years of dust, pollution and construction activity to be found once again by the very kid who wrote them. I smiled from ear to ear. Unfortunately, it was too dark to take a picture. I took a moment to absorb the memory, to etch it in my head for ever.
I entered the building compound. I saw the watchman's cabin, inside which five of us kids would hide while playing cops and robbers. I saw the boundary wall with the license plate numbers of the residents' cars painted above each parking spot. I saw the cricket stumps drawn with chalk on the building wall, which kids used as the batting end. They all looked much smaller. The watchman's cabin was barely big enough to fit me now. The building looked tired and in need of renovation. The tiny printing press which operated out of a small office on the ground floor was now a tailor's store. As I climbed up the stairs, thoughts filled my mind about how some things had changed beyond recognition, some had fallen into decay, and some bore remnants of the time that was my childhood. As my grand-aunt opened the door, I gave her a big hug.
Everything was the same once again.
My grandparents live in Borivali West. I lived in Borivali East until I was six, and spent a substantial amount of time at their home when I was a kid, mostly during the hours between when school got over and my parents came home from work. I haven't gone back to Borivali too often since we moved town-side in 1992, but I still have vivid memories of the place.
I pulled up my car into the tiny building compound. The watchman woke up with a startled look on his face. He asked me who I was and where I wanted to go, and also said that outside cars were not allowed. He was adamant even after I explained why I should be allowed to park my car inside Apparently growing up somewhere does not mean one can park one's car there fifteen years later. Too tired to argue with him, I parked on the street outside and dragged my suitcase up one floor to my grandparents' flat. I was coming to their place after more than six months and pretty much nothing had changed. I thought for a moment whether to tell my fiery grandmother that the watchman had not let me park my car inside the building compound. But I took pity on the poor soul's life and chose not to mention it.
After the customary cup of tea, I looked around for something to do for the rest of the evening. Borivali isn't exactly the most happening place in Bombay. Besides, my grandparents live smack on SV Road, which is undergoing a radical transformation from a quiet suburban street to the retail hub of a suburb of half a million people. The noise and dust overwhelmed me pretty quickly. I figured, maybe I should go visit one of my relatives in Borivali East. I decided to go to my dad's aunt's place. She was, and continues to be, one of my favorite people. I vaguely recall how she would tell me stories from the Ramayana while putting me to sleep on Saturday afternoons.
I began the walk to her place. I tried my best to soak up the surroundings, and notice the changes they had gone through in the last fifteen years or so. I couldn't recognize any of the buildings on SV Road. The old three story apartment buildings with names like 'Kamal Chhaya' (Lotus Shade) had given way to glitzy malls with massive signboards advertising some sale or some brand of perfume. I thought of taking a short-cut I knew from the back side of the building through a back-alley that went straight to the railroad crossing. When I reached the back side of the building, the alley no longer existed. What I saw instead was a construction site. I grumbled to myself on how the only thing constant is change, and walked back the long way to the railroad crossing. The railroad crossing didn't exist either. It had been walled up, and a pedestrian subway stood glumly.
I remember the excitement I would experience while waiting for the faatak (railroad crossing) to open. I would watch all the vegetable sellers shouting away, trying to sell their wares to the people waiting for the train to pass. In the meantime, hawkers selling everything from stationery to trinkets to handkerchiefs would walk among the crowd. There would always be some smart-alecs who jumped over the faatak and crossed the tracks right before the train would come through.
But they were all gone, and all I could see was the entrance to the subway. It seemed dark inside. It had paan stains all over the walls. It looked like the entrance to hell, with the red stains looking like little flames. I made a face describing disgust and went inside. Crossing from west to east through a subway was no fun compared to running across a railroad crossing pretending the train was about to come.
I reached the east side and heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing seemed to have changed. Maybe it was just me, but even the air seemed cleaner. There was a peacefulness about the place which seemed a distant world away from the hustle and bustle of SV Road. I walked towards Carter Road #1, which is where my grand-aunt lives. She actually lives in the same building where I used to live. I recognized a lot of places along the way. Crystal Classes, where Joan miss would smack me with a ruler when I spelled a word wrong in English tuitions. Bharat Gas Service, where I would come with my nanny to order a new cylinder of gas. Chimanlal and Sons, where to this day I don't know what they actually do. The tiny grocer's store into which a BEST bus had rammed into. The whole neighborhood couldn't stoop talking about it for days. They had a clipping of the news article about the accident stuck on the storefront window. The buildings were the same, the streets were the same. It seemed a lot of them hadn't been painted since I had left. I recalled a well at the intersection near my building. One summer, I had engraved my nickname 'Ada' on one of the cornerstones of the well. I remember throwing stones in the well along with my friends before being chased down the street by the building watchman. My eyes hungrily searched for the spot where the well stood.
A big grin appeared on my face as I found the well. It was no longer an open well; it had been sealed off and on top of it was a pigeon-feeding enclosure. However, the cornerstones of the well that once existed were still in place. I crouched down near the spot where I had engraved my name over seventeen years ago. I found the very stone, and I started rubbing the dust away with my handkerchief. A couple of people stopped and looked, wondering what the hell I was doing. A few seconds of dusting later, I saw it.
The letters engraved into the stone had endured seventeen years of dust, pollution and construction activity to be found once again by the very kid who wrote them. I smiled from ear to ear. Unfortunately, it was too dark to take a picture. I took a moment to absorb the memory, to etch it in my head for ever.
I entered the building compound. I saw the watchman's cabin, inside which five of us kids would hide while playing cops and robbers. I saw the boundary wall with the license plate numbers of the residents' cars painted above each parking spot. I saw the cricket stumps drawn with chalk on the building wall, which kids used as the batting end. They all looked much smaller. The watchman's cabin was barely big enough to fit me now. The building looked tired and in need of renovation. The tiny printing press which operated out of a small office on the ground floor was now a tailor's store. As I climbed up the stairs, thoughts filled my mind about how some things had changed beyond recognition, some had fallen into decay, and some bore remnants of the time that was my childhood. As my grand-aunt opened the door, I gave her a big hug.
Everything was the same once again.
February 23, 2009
Attitudes towards dating and marriages in Indian society
This article is part three of my series on how one's birth year plays a part in shaping one's attitudes towards various things. So far, I have talked about consumerism and government. In this article, I elaborate on dating and marriage. To recap, the four groups according to birth year are: pre-independence, between 1947 and 1965, between 1965 and 1988, and post-1988. Each groups thinks of dating and marriage differently.
The first group has never understood the concept of dating. The members of this group often think of dating as something that 'good children don't do'. According to them, a guy and a girl meeting alone before marriage in not exactly acceptable. Let alone dating and then eventually choosing their spouse, they didn't even get to see their faces before they married them. The parents made the decision, and they simply accepted it. The marriage was not of two people, it was of two families. Once married, they couldn't even think of the possibility of a divorce. The fear of what family and society will think is just too great. Just like dating, the engagement and the honeymoon were non-existent too. Showing affection for the spouse in front of anyone, in public or at home, is not common either.
The members of the second group had considerably more freedom than their parents in choosing spouses. It was not considered inappropriate for them to 'have their eyes on' a prospective match. When the appropriate time to get married came along, the families would be brought into the picture, and the parents would do the talking on behalf of their children. A commonly used term for such a marriage is 'love-cum-arranged' marriage. The approval of the family was an important, but not the only factor in deciding who to marry. Though inter-caste marriages were not common, they weren't frowned upon either. Dating while in college was becoming normal, but it usually meant going out in a big group of guys and girls, with every member having someone special in the group.
The third group embraced the concept of dating and being in a relationship before marriage. Inter-case marriages are common, and so are the so-called 'love marriages'. The members of this group find nothing wrong in finding their own spouse, but also appreciate the benefits of arranged marriages. The last of this group will be married in the next three to five years, and a lot of them are marrying someone they've dated for a few years. With the obvious exceptions, it is uncommon to see members of this group having had multiple girlfriends before marriage. They figure that it is okay to date and see if things work out, otherwise there is always the option of having parents find someone nice for them. They look at the arranged marriage as a backup option.
The last group probably thinks life should be like the way it is in the sitcom 'Friends'. Members of this group will get married much later, and have their first boyfriend/girlfriend much earlier in their lives than those in the third group. They are comfortable with the concept of a live-in relationship and with dating in high school. They look at marriage as a tool to get society's approval for two people living together, something which they do not care much about in the first place. They are also much more accepting of homosexuals then the members of the previous groups. Just like their attitudes with consumerism, they find themselves to be closer to the western world. A lot of energy is spent by the other groups discussing the loosening morals of and lack of a value system in this group.
As of now it seems as if each generation marries later, is more liberal and more accepting of alternative lifestyle choices than the one preceding it. Each generation takes some amount of pleasure in the fact that its value systems are better than the 'kids of today', but worries that its own children would grow up just like those kids of today. Though inter-cast marriages have become very common, so have divorces and broken engagements. One thing that hasn't changed, however, is that very few people marry outside their own religion. Indian society has traditionally been highly segregated and no amount of liberalism has changed that in a substantial manner.
The first group has never understood the concept of dating. The members of this group often think of dating as something that 'good children don't do'. According to them, a guy and a girl meeting alone before marriage in not exactly acceptable. Let alone dating and then eventually choosing their spouse, they didn't even get to see their faces before they married them. The parents made the decision, and they simply accepted it. The marriage was not of two people, it was of two families. Once married, they couldn't even think of the possibility of a divorce. The fear of what family and society will think is just too great. Just like dating, the engagement and the honeymoon were non-existent too. Showing affection for the spouse in front of anyone, in public or at home, is not common either.
The members of the second group had considerably more freedom than their parents in choosing spouses. It was not considered inappropriate for them to 'have their eyes on' a prospective match. When the appropriate time to get married came along, the families would be brought into the picture, and the parents would do the talking on behalf of their children. A commonly used term for such a marriage is 'love-cum-arranged' marriage. The approval of the family was an important, but not the only factor in deciding who to marry. Though inter-caste marriages were not common, they weren't frowned upon either. Dating while in college was becoming normal, but it usually meant going out in a big group of guys and girls, with every member having someone special in the group.
The third group embraced the concept of dating and being in a relationship before marriage. Inter-case marriages are common, and so are the so-called 'love marriages'. The members of this group find nothing wrong in finding their own spouse, but also appreciate the benefits of arranged marriages. The last of this group will be married in the next three to five years, and a lot of them are marrying someone they've dated for a few years. With the obvious exceptions, it is uncommon to see members of this group having had multiple girlfriends before marriage. They figure that it is okay to date and see if things work out, otherwise there is always the option of having parents find someone nice for them. They look at the arranged marriage as a backup option.
The last group probably thinks life should be like the way it is in the sitcom 'Friends'. Members of this group will get married much later, and have their first boyfriend/girlfriend much earlier in their lives than those in the third group. They are comfortable with the concept of a live-in relationship and with dating in high school. They look at marriage as a tool to get society's approval for two people living together, something which they do not care much about in the first place. They are also much more accepting of homosexuals then the members of the previous groups. Just like their attitudes with consumerism, they find themselves to be closer to the western world. A lot of energy is spent by the other groups discussing the loosening morals of and lack of a value system in this group.
As of now it seems as if each generation marries later, is more liberal and more accepting of alternative lifestyle choices than the one preceding it. Each generation takes some amount of pleasure in the fact that its value systems are better than the 'kids of today', but worries that its own children would grow up just like those kids of today. Though inter-cast marriages have become very common, so have divorces and broken engagements. One thing that hasn't changed, however, is that very few people marry outside their own religion. Indian society has traditionally been highly segregated and no amount of liberalism has changed that in a substantial manner.
February 11, 2009
Political sentiments and the Indian populace
Continuing from my article ‘Consumerism in India’ in the last issue, on how one’s birth year affects one’s consumer habits, I feel the same also affects one’s perceptions towards the government and the political system of India. To recap, the four groups, according to birth year, are: pre-independence, between 1947 and 1965, between 1965 and 1988, and post-1988. Each group has a different attitude towards the duties and rights of the government, and what they think of the political class, both of which I refer to as the system henceforth.
The first group has witnessed politicians who were closer in nature to freedom fighters. They have seen a political class that genuinely cared about the progress of the nation, and made use of the government machinery to achieve it. They remember a government that worked tirelessly in the years after independence to create a foundation from which the nation could progress. They still believe in the system, and are willing to wait for it to work, even if it means suffering in the process. They are too scared to try to demand change. They accept the system the way it is, almost as if the prevailing scenario is a part of their fate. The word for the government, ‘Sarkar’ is used extensively by this generation. Just the fact that it actually means ‘master’ tells us that this group looks at the government not as a public servant, but as an entity that is above the common man.
The second group remembers an era of Indira Gandhi’s abuse of the system. They recall a license Raj, corruption, the Emergency, artificial shortages, and abuse of power. Nothing positive comes to mind when they talk about politicians and the government. They are skeptical of the system and always try to work their way around it. They firmly believe that following the law is equal to being left behind. If one has to succeed in India, one must have the government and the various components of the system, such as the bureaucracy, the police, the judiciary, etc. in one’s pocket. Bribing is considered the first step, not the last option. They think of politicians as scum which has to be tolerated. They do not believe in suffering while waiting for the system to work, or in trying to change the system. They simply bribe their way around it.
The third group does not have the patience to deal with an incompetent and ineffective system. As mentioned in the previous article, it is the first group to have had first-hand experience of the developed world in a major way. The members of this group have seen how governments function in other countries. They realize that a country must have an effective and accountable system in order to keep up with the rest of the world. They don’t accept the system as it, nor do they believe in simply working around it. I’m sure there are many who do, but there are a sizeable number of people who are willing to take a stand, ask questions, make some noise and hold the government accountable. They are starting to believe that to clean the gutter; one must climb down into it. They believe that the system is constantly improving and the time will come when efficient governance will be the rule, not an exception. Their efforts have brought about changes the previous two groups never thought possible: a transparent passport issuance system, efficient railway bookings…the list goes on.
The last group is apathetic when it comes to the system. The members of this group are pretty young and have not had to deal with systemic inefficiencies so far. They are used to someone older taking care of everything. They probably don’t consider it important to vote, read a political party’s election manifesto, or even know who the Governor of their state is. Life is fine without having to worry about political issues of the country, and they would like to keep it that way. They feel closer to the developed world than they do to India, and often turn a blind eye to the problems of their motherland. They will bear the gutter’s stench for a few seconds as they pass by, and then forget about it. They will not even consider the fact that cleaning it up is as much their problem as it is someone else’s. What remains to be seen is whether the attitudes of this group will change as it grows up and becomes part of the workforce and mainstream society. Will it become more apathetic towards the system, or will it further the demand for accountability of the third group?
The first group has witnessed politicians who were closer in nature to freedom fighters. They have seen a political class that genuinely cared about the progress of the nation, and made use of the government machinery to achieve it. They remember a government that worked tirelessly in the years after independence to create a foundation from which the nation could progress. They still believe in the system, and are willing to wait for it to work, even if it means suffering in the process. They are too scared to try to demand change. They accept the system the way it is, almost as if the prevailing scenario is a part of their fate. The word for the government, ‘Sarkar’ is used extensively by this generation. Just the fact that it actually means ‘master’ tells us that this group looks at the government not as a public servant, but as an entity that is above the common man.
The second group remembers an era of Indira Gandhi’s abuse of the system. They recall a license Raj, corruption, the Emergency, artificial shortages, and abuse of power. Nothing positive comes to mind when they talk about politicians and the government. They are skeptical of the system and always try to work their way around it. They firmly believe that following the law is equal to being left behind. If one has to succeed in India, one must have the government and the various components of the system, such as the bureaucracy, the police, the judiciary, etc. in one’s pocket. Bribing is considered the first step, not the last option. They think of politicians as scum which has to be tolerated. They do not believe in suffering while waiting for the system to work, or in trying to change the system. They simply bribe their way around it.
The third group does not have the patience to deal with an incompetent and ineffective system. As mentioned in the previous article, it is the first group to have had first-hand experience of the developed world in a major way. The members of this group have seen how governments function in other countries. They realize that a country must have an effective and accountable system in order to keep up with the rest of the world. They don’t accept the system as it, nor do they believe in simply working around it. I’m sure there are many who do, but there are a sizeable number of people who are willing to take a stand, ask questions, make some noise and hold the government accountable. They are starting to believe that to clean the gutter; one must climb down into it. They believe that the system is constantly improving and the time will come when efficient governance will be the rule, not an exception. Their efforts have brought about changes the previous two groups never thought possible: a transparent passport issuance system, efficient railway bookings…the list goes on.
The last group is apathetic when it comes to the system. The members of this group are pretty young and have not had to deal with systemic inefficiencies so far. They are used to someone older taking care of everything. They probably don’t consider it important to vote, read a political party’s election manifesto, or even know who the Governor of their state is. Life is fine without having to worry about political issues of the country, and they would like to keep it that way. They feel closer to the developed world than they do to India, and often turn a blind eye to the problems of their motherland. They will bear the gutter’s stench for a few seconds as they pass by, and then forget about it. They will not even consider the fact that cleaning it up is as much their problem as it is someone else’s. What remains to be seen is whether the attitudes of this group will change as it grows up and becomes part of the workforce and mainstream society. Will it become more apathetic towards the system, or will it further the demand for accountability of the third group?
January 26, 2009
Consumerism in India
There is a lot being said and written on the consumerism boom that has been witnessed in India since the economy was opened up in 1991. I would like to add my two cents (or paise, in this case) to the Indian consumerism debate.
I have classified the Indian consumer into four broad categories, based on age. The people of each category have been shaped by the time they grew up in. Their experiences in life up to the point they become young adults explain a lot about their behavior, their attitude to society and even their spending habits. It goes without saying that the attitudes overlap to some extent over the group, and that there will be exceptions depending on the exact environment one is raised in. This is also my opinionated subjective classification based on my observation and I can only offer personal experience as a validation to my arguments. Here goes:
The first group is those born before independence. The members of this group have seen a lot of pain, struggle and scarcity. In their childhood, they remember India going through the pains of partition, and struggling to find its feet as a young nation. They struggle to accept consumerism as being something that is ‘okay’ to do. For example, my grandfather always tries to appear as if he never ‘wants’ anything. He loves ice cream, but he will never accept the fact. He would be more likely to say, “If there is any ice cream left over, give me some. Don’t go downstairs to buy some just for me.” Sometimes I think he probably feels guilty in regularly consuming something that was considered a luxury when he was growing up.
The second group is those born between 1947 and 1965. The members of this group would have seen India coming to terms with its independence. The days of the green revolution, the corruption of Indira’s term, the artificial scarcities and hoarding mentality brought in by the license Raj are all part of the memories of this group’s young days. One will never see them wasting anything. Everything is saved or recycled. These habits are reflected in almost every Indian home. People my age (early twenties) who have parents in this demographic are used to seeing jam jars being used to store pickles, newspapers being used to line bottoms of desk drawers. This group has seen times when it took ten years to get a telephone line, so when they get something; they take it even though they may not have immediate need for it, thinking they will use it later. On numerous occasions I have seen people on flights who take a soda even if they don’t want one and put it right into their bag or purse for later consumption.
The third group is people born from 1965 to 1988. They form the bulk of India’s working population. When India opened up its economy in 1991, they were old enough to see the rapid change in the social and economic environment of the country. However, they also remember the days of scarcity and are ideally placed to appreciate the striking contrasts of pre- and post-1991 India. This group was the first to start migrating to other countries on a large scale for work and education. Unlike the two groups preceding them, they have had significant first-hand experience of the way the developed world lives. They generally believe in working hard and spending hard, and are responsible for the current boom in consumerism. They have no qualms about borrowing and spending money, showing it off or bring materialistic. For instance, people from the first or second group would not be as comfortable driving an expensive car. They might feel guilty about showing off their wealth, feel scared that the government might come after them, or simply believe that one should save and not spend. But someone from the third group will have no problems buying one, showing it off and working harder to buy another one. You can stand on a sidewalk at Malabar Hill (one of Mumbai’s most exclusive neighborhoods) for five minutes on any given evening, and the number of BMWs, Audis, Bentleys, Range Rovers and Porsches you will see will prove my point.
The last group is those born after 1988. This group has always lived in a time of relative prosperity and consumerism. They can’t imagine waiting for than a day for a phone connection, or when an entire nation had nothing to do but listen to Binaca Geetmala on the radio for entertainment. They are confident of themselves and their capacity to earn money, and they spend a lot of it. They will soon outpace the third group in spending power, and take to credit on a much larger scale as well. On the contrary, the first two groups are still not comfortable using taking loans from people other than family and friends or having outstanding credit balances on their credit card accounts. They consider themselves culturally closer to the developed world and unfortunately will spend like them too once they start earning money in the next three to five years. For instance, most urban kids play less cricket and more video games then the third group. They have tremendous choice in what they want to eat, wear, play with and study. They have add-on credit cards that their parents give them. One regularly sees high-school kids spend a thousand rupees on “a night out” in expensive nightclubs in Mumbai.
This broad classification provides clarity on why people spend money they way to do and what one can expect in the next few years as far as consumer spending in India is concerned. I see a boom in organized retail, consumer lending and luxury goods sales. These groups also tell a lot about people’s attitudes towards society, relationships and the government. But that is another article for another day.
I have classified the Indian consumer into four broad categories, based on age. The people of each category have been shaped by the time they grew up in. Their experiences in life up to the point they become young adults explain a lot about their behavior, their attitude to society and even their spending habits. It goes without saying that the attitudes overlap to some extent over the group, and that there will be exceptions depending on the exact environment one is raised in. This is also my opinionated subjective classification based on my observation and I can only offer personal experience as a validation to my arguments. Here goes:
The first group is those born before independence. The members of this group have seen a lot of pain, struggle and scarcity. In their childhood, they remember India going through the pains of partition, and struggling to find its feet as a young nation. They struggle to accept consumerism as being something that is ‘okay’ to do. For example, my grandfather always tries to appear as if he never ‘wants’ anything. He loves ice cream, but he will never accept the fact. He would be more likely to say, “If there is any ice cream left over, give me some. Don’t go downstairs to buy some just for me.” Sometimes I think he probably feels guilty in regularly consuming something that was considered a luxury when he was growing up.
The second group is those born between 1947 and 1965. The members of this group would have seen India coming to terms with its independence. The days of the green revolution, the corruption of Indira’s term, the artificial scarcities and hoarding mentality brought in by the license Raj are all part of the memories of this group’s young days. One will never see them wasting anything. Everything is saved or recycled. These habits are reflected in almost every Indian home. People my age (early twenties) who have parents in this demographic are used to seeing jam jars being used to store pickles, newspapers being used to line bottoms of desk drawers. This group has seen times when it took ten years to get a telephone line, so when they get something; they take it even though they may not have immediate need for it, thinking they will use it later. On numerous occasions I have seen people on flights who take a soda even if they don’t want one and put it right into their bag or purse for later consumption.
The third group is people born from 1965 to 1988. They form the bulk of India’s working population. When India opened up its economy in 1991, they were old enough to see the rapid change in the social and economic environment of the country. However, they also remember the days of scarcity and are ideally placed to appreciate the striking contrasts of pre- and post-1991 India. This group was the first to start migrating to other countries on a large scale for work and education. Unlike the two groups preceding them, they have had significant first-hand experience of the way the developed world lives. They generally believe in working hard and spending hard, and are responsible for the current boom in consumerism. They have no qualms about borrowing and spending money, showing it off or bring materialistic. For instance, people from the first or second group would not be as comfortable driving an expensive car. They might feel guilty about showing off their wealth, feel scared that the government might come after them, or simply believe that one should save and not spend. But someone from the third group will have no problems buying one, showing it off and working harder to buy another one. You can stand on a sidewalk at Malabar Hill (one of Mumbai’s most exclusive neighborhoods) for five minutes on any given evening, and the number of BMWs, Audis, Bentleys, Range Rovers and Porsches you will see will prove my point.
The last group is those born after 1988. This group has always lived in a time of relative prosperity and consumerism. They can’t imagine waiting for than a day for a phone connection, or when an entire nation had nothing to do but listen to Binaca Geetmala on the radio for entertainment. They are confident of themselves and their capacity to earn money, and they spend a lot of it. They will soon outpace the third group in spending power, and take to credit on a much larger scale as well. On the contrary, the first two groups are still not comfortable using taking loans from people other than family and friends or having outstanding credit balances on their credit card accounts. They consider themselves culturally closer to the developed world and unfortunately will spend like them too once they start earning money in the next three to five years. For instance, most urban kids play less cricket and more video games then the third group. They have tremendous choice in what they want to eat, wear, play with and study. They have add-on credit cards that their parents give them. One regularly sees high-school kids spend a thousand rupees on “a night out” in expensive nightclubs in Mumbai.
This broad classification provides clarity on why people spend money they way to do and what one can expect in the next few years as far as consumer spending in India is concerned. I see a boom in organized retail, consumer lending and luxury goods sales. These groups also tell a lot about people’s attitudes towards society, relationships and the government. But that is another article for another day.
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