Five Wise Men

Pink ka dumm

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:10:00 +0000

(Picture courtesy: Guardian.co.uk )
"Pink on the lips of your lover,
cause Pink is the love you discover
Pink as the bing on your cherry
Pink cause you are so very
Pink it's the color of passion
Cause today it just goes with the fashion
Pink it was love at first sight
yea Pink when I turn out the light
and Pink gets me high as a kite..."

Suddenly, every one's scared of pink.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times and judging by the ready abundance of dyed rolls of cool cotton dress material, I never ran out of pink frocks as I was growing up.

Like eggs, my mother made an amazing cornucopia with various shades and textures of pink. Polka dotted, frilled, sleeved, a light pink setting off a darker rim, a dark body fading into lighter edges, shocking pink, icicle pink, the famous 80's ABBA pink...name it. I had it.

Like a martyr I learnt to only silently obey a higher call (that of my mother) and never questioned the wisdom of investing in candyfloss clothing.

Of course those days the whole gay, transsexual and lesbian movement was unheard of and pink was still the colour of cherubic innocence, unlinked to anything more controversial than a bubblegum.

Thus it unnerves me how all of a sudden the colour pink has started to invite sniggers and meaningful looks from people around. Don't believe me? Wear a pink shirt to work tomorrow and see for yourself.

I encountered this recently when I bought an iPod. Now here's a thing about me. I am severely challenged technologically. Meaning, I need a written manual to operate anything more complicated than an electric iron. So most of the times I choose my gadgets and gizmos based on their colour (what would match the colour of the walls and sheets).

So naturally, I wanted a purple iPod. I refuse to sour my temper debating about meaningless things such as memory, Gigabytes and such. Since the store just had the standard grey and shocking pink, after much self doubt I selected the pink one.

And ever since I'm putting up with well meaning jibes from friends about finally "coming out".

I mean, what's this sudden corruption of the colour of pink? Its the sky at 5 pm on a cloudy day, its candyfloss at zoo, cheeks of a Punjabi lass after a climb uphill.

My men friends have all stashed away their pink T-shirts and formal shirts leaving their mums bewildered. Its 2009 and yet straight men are phobic about anyone doubting their sexuality. Silly, I think.

Where have all the obedient mama's boys gone? The ones who used to wear neat pink and white striped formals and a dash of curd on their forehead before going to an interview.

I am ashamed to admit, I have no qualms when it comes to wearing/eating/smearing/dabbling/rolling in pink.
My sexuality has been questioned for so long that it has steeled against normal wear and tear.

So join me in testing Pink ka dumm.

What can you throw away from past?

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 18:41:00 +0000

There's an old Chinese saying. If you try to get rid of junk, be careful of what you encounter. Or something to that effect. The Chinese had so many of these useful sayings.

I have this cardboard box full of junk stored under my bed for the last 5 years. Each time I moved house I carried it along with me. I'm one of those collectors of garbage. I hate to even throw away post-its marked "October 2004: have to fix leak in cistern. CALL PLUMBER TODAY."

Well, today I decided enough is enough. I just have to sort out the stuff in that box. The lid was taped shut from the last house change...three years back. As I cut it open the first thing that looked up at me with accusing mismatched eyes was a cream coloured teddy bear gifted to me by my mother on my 21st birthday.

Guiltily, I took it out and looked it over. The stuffing was coming out at places and it badly needed a wash. But the best quality in stuffed animals that humans sadly lack is their inability to talk back or point accusing fingers at their owners on neglect.

A polythene bag bulging at the seams peaked from under stacks of journalistic note pads. I decided to deal with it later. I riffled through some of the note pads on the top of the stack. Notes on stories I have done, phone numbers of government officials scribbled in haste who have long since been either transferred to some other department or retired having completed their terms.

As usual, I was in two minds about throwing these away...vaguely remembering some official rule about preserving notes for five years after having done a story. I decided to deal with the dilemma later. On to the polythene bag then.

A whole bunch of cassettes. Not DVDs or CDs or such modern riff-raff mind you. Audio cassettes of Bryan Adams, mushy romantic song collection by Archie's, Jagjit Singh, Feroza Begum, Bhoomi...and mixed tapes either gifted by friends or ones that I recorded off the radio.

As I looked them over I suddenly realised that each and every single song has some memory attached to it. Take for example "purani jeans" - a song that was almost an anthem for me during college. One I hummed through sleepless nights in my college hostel and one we sang on our last day there.

Or "Dil hi toh hai" - during days and nights at heartbreak hotel, to be more precise - my house, crying in to the pillow because the neighbour's son didn't fancy me in my Harry Potter glasses, crazy curly cropped hair and baggy jeans.

"18 till i die" - at 18 I was wonderfully convinced that Bryan Adams took the pain to write a song about me. Hours spent in front of the mirror fine tuning my air guitar and head banging. For some reason, I always thought the secret to perfecting rock music is perfecting the head bang.

What do I throw away from these wonderful, wonderful songs that saw me through days of tears, meaningless chirpiness, coy acceptance of imaginary Grammies and sobbing singing-alongs of heart wrenching filmy pop songs? I'll just have to deal with them later, won't I?

What's the blue cloth bag stuffed with papers behind the sketchbook?

Postcards! Cream coloured 25 paise each post cards from parents back in Kolkata waiting for me to return home.

"12th September 2004: Darling, you are always on our mind. Your father and me count each day as we wait for you to come home," mum writes. "Are you having proper food? Delhi isn't a very warm place from what you write. We were thinking that it's time you get one of those mobile phones as it's risky for you to always go out to the street corner payphone to make emergency calls..."

Those days I was a trainee in Statesman newspaper, earning a staggering 5000 bucks a month. I could on most days not afford to take an auto back home after work let alone own a mobile phone. The post cards took me back to days spent running around abusive bosses, evasive officials and eager NGO workers.

My parents knew I would probably never come back to Kolkata but never stopped hoping. Pot card after post card of heartbreaking pleas to eat well, give my laundry to cleaners and not spend precious off days doing all of it by hand to save 10 bucks. Damn. If just reading the neat scrawl of my mother's hand is bringing a funny tingling sensation in my throat, how in hell will I be able to casually toss these in the waste bin?

I know what I'll do. I'll put these aside for the moment and sort out a bunch of old bills tied with a rubber band first. Surely I don't need these any more? I mean, what the hell is this slip...looks like a stub of...oh right. My first trip to a PVR movie hall in Delhi with my ex-boyfriend. Jesus! Did I actually sit through two hours of 'Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham'!

Yeah, that was a fun day. We shared a plate of over priced chowmein later, happily abusing the film and the cast, promising never to indulge in such frivolities ever again. Yet there's a second stub in the pile. Clearly we never meant to keep that promise.

Restaurant bills, paper bills, bills from the chemists, more restaurant bills, by the looks of it I ate my way through my salary. Some of this can go. Not this one though. Bill for my first Nokia handset. 2023 rupees. A huge sum, transferred to my account by Messrs. Dad who finally got tired of waiting for my weekly calls home.

Yowza! is that my old sketch book? Yes it is. It still has the drawing of India Gate and the ice cream man. Ive improved my pastel technique since but will you just look at this! I've even pompously signed it R.B. Like all artists convinced that their worth will be realised posthumously.

Well this I'm most definitely saving. Looks like I'm through with most of this junk. After a hard hour's work..off to the fridge then. A cold glass of water and a wash later from all the grime from the box. Well, you can't say that I didn't try. But what can you throw away from past?

Gay is as gay does

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 04:50:00 +0000

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal... I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character."

-- Martin Luther King

(Picture courtesy: Reuters)

I have been meaning to write on the decriminalisation of homosexuality by the Delhi high court but never got the time to collect my thoughts. Lets see if I have this time round.

I have always thought that I have lucked it out having born in India at the time I did. I missed the stifling restrictions of a Hindu household guarding its women during British colonialism.

At the same time I managed to capitalize on a Bengali society slowly adjusting to women in loose baggy jeans, 'jeebonmukhi gaan' and the Back Street Boys.

I have always felt that in a strange way, we are a nation of extremely tolerant people, quick to slights yet ready to forgive and forget.

Perhaps I'm not doing a good job explaining the people I have grown up with and known all my life. Let me try.

I always found it hard to fathom the many dos and don'ts that are so drilled into our collective psyche from a very young age. These self-imposed perceptions of rights and wrongs remain with us for the rest of our lives and while we sometime struggle to unbend confronted with a crisis in our own homes, we nevertheless try to pass it on to our next generation without giving them a chance to make their own mistakes.

Take the example of marrying outside community, caste or status. A Bengali lass marrying a Punjabi or Gujarati in the 70s was unacceptable if not impossible. A girl in a family I knew ran away with the driver of the auto rickshaw that ferried her to her college. It was the scandal of the year. The broken parents put up a fierce resistance, tried to bring her back and in the end disowned her. Yet when she became pregnant with her first child they brought her home, cared for her and treated her uneducated husband quite decently.

Nothing has changed in society. Religion is still the great divider. Hindus and Muslims still wage wars and a sharply divided society wait and fume and do their part in spreading communal disharmony. Yet when children from the two religions get into a scuffle over a game of marbles on the streets, I have seen their respective parents dismiss it with "they're just kids" and chuckle about the scrapes they themselves would get into at that age.

I don't know how the theory of tolerance and acceptance works. But to me glossing over issues that have no bearing on our immediate lives or are not disruptive of our individual choices - is tolerance. Or maturity as I see it.

So why is homosexuality suddenly an issue?
We have always known of women in 'ladies hostel' who do "unspeakable stuff" with each other or of the weird elderly Mr. Das living down the road who never married having lost his heart to a young Sepoy in the 50s (as rumour goes, and "you are NEVER EVER to visit his home alone or talk to him unaccompanied by an elder. Do I make myself clear?")

Yet when the aged, friendless man one day on his way back from the market suffered a mild cardiac arrest and collapsed on the road, local boys from the 'Evergreen Club' who did nothing but lech at girls all day, raised money for his treatment, admitted him to a hospital and visited him with tiffin carriers packed with bland home-cooked food as advised by the doctor. The gesture of an unknown, prejudiced, but kindly mother or aunt.

This is our people. Don't let them tell you any different.

If we are repulsed and embarrassed by hijras clapping their hands and harassing us for money at street lights, we also invite them over and seek their blessing when a son is born. In no other country in the world are transgenders revered such.

Is all this debate about gay sex really necessary? We are a country where newly married couples sneak out to rented hotel rooms to consummate their marriage, driven to frustration by their extended family spread over two rooms.

We might take a while to get adjusted to seeing doting same sex parents at their child's birthday parties or women dropping off their kid at the bus stand, but it will happen.

A time will come when same sex couples will easily discuss their inflated electricity bills or their partners' annoying sexual habits during evening group walks and we would not bat an eyelid.

After all everything is mundane after a while. And we are a nation of causal easy-going people, subconsciously tolerant without making much of it. Aren't we?

This is your captain speaking: you may now say your prayers

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 05:56:00 +0000

A Tunisian pilot who paused to say his prayers instead of taking emergency landing measures has been sentenced to 10 years in jail.

His split second of mortal weakness cost 16 passengers their lives. Read the story here.

I have always felt that moment of queasy uneasiness when a plane takes off and gravity does its trick. In situations when my life is in the pilot's hand I try not to piss off the air hostesses by asking for peanuts and free mini bottles of water.

Lay off people, it's enough that they are stressed and taking orders from the man in the cockpit who, for all you know, may have had a quarrel with his wife before gearing up. At 30,000 feet, I do not want to be messing with their minds.

But this Tunisia incident does bring to my mind a certain flight to Colombo when I had the express bad luck of sitting beside a Nigerian who hated flying.

In addition, I also met with an air hostess who despite years of training still believed that nature and God are bigger forces than man's engineering and aerodynamics progress.

The Nigerian kept mumbling "I don't like this maan...no, I don't like this one bit."

In such situation I choose to bury myself in a paperback because 9 out of 10 times the maan is likely to make a dash for the washroom to throw up and I do not want to be the git to catch a stream of projectile vomit. I have outgrown such childish competitions with siblings.

But in this case the poor man's misery was compounded by the most violent turbulence I ever encountered.

I did the next best thing, to look around for one of those dusky, chubby air hostesses who are trained for this kind of emergencies.

Only, the one nearest to my seat was sitting board stiff in her chair, head bowed, hands clasped on her lap, muttering a prayer in Sinhalese.

Now, I don't know about others, but a praying air hostess tends to fill my weak heart with terror. They are trained for air pockets and turbulence and emergencies such, right? As an ignorant passenger you seek them out like a child seeks its mother and want to be reassured that you are not going to die.

But its a bother when they shrug their shoulder and tell you casually "you never know."

Her candid submission did nothing for the pale and clammy Nigerian and I wanted to know what the hell did she do at training school - file her nails?

But such is life. You've got to pray when you've got to pray. Science sometimes gets its ass kicked by faith. You can jail a man for giving in to a moment's terror and faith in the supernatural but you can't mess with faith.

Indian reality TV - a series of 'beeps'

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 04:55:00 +0000

I have been watching MTV Hero Honda Roadies on and off for the last two years. When the Roadies started out it promised to be the mother of all biking shows on Indian television.

A brat pack on bikes, hitting the road, fighting to survive challenges and internal politics while a camera crew clocked their every single waking moment.

I tried following the show just for the pleasure of watching the biking across barren terrain and the challenges that must be overcome if a Roadie wants to show the stuff he/she is made of.

Sadly, it hasn't happened.

What HAS happened is a desperate attempt to mix mature content with the sensational spice that Indian audiences really want. Grit, physical fitness, tolerance and endurance are ultimately not necessary qualities to tough it out.

You will survive just fine if you are loud mouthed, bitchy and a bully. Why did I hope to see action on reality TV when sensational content merely means a series of "beeps" to mask cursing.

What drives our TRP is calculated juvenile swear words, a bikini scene or two, a very suitable and a tad forced love element between contestants and bingo! You have your reality television.

For those following MTV Roadies like one possessed, the cat fights and fist fights between women contestants were the beginning of the ultimate downhill journey.

I was beginning to sit up when the show went to the Australian outback thinking at last I will get to see some real action instead of hours and hours of inane conversation between contestants.

That brings me to another MTV show - Splitsvilla. Last season a bunch of girls who look like they have all the time in the world to kill, fight out for the "affection" of two guys through a series of tasks.

If I had been a feminist I would immediately write to the National Commission for Women at the sexist nature of the show. But I'm lazy by nature so that did not happen. But the protests did happen and this season it's an even number of men vs women.

I sometimes wonder if auditioning for reality TV can be etched out as a career. The CV for candidates would read -

Former Experience: Reached the interview stage of Roadies and got rejected. Have reached the penultimate round of Nach Baliye.

Strengths: Great at plotting. Can swear in eight languages. Can dare to lift women's skirts to seek the land of no return. Have the right amount of clueless look to reassure fellow contestants but also the right amount of cunning to back stab them at vote-outs.

Weaknesses: Can't spell long words. No general knowledge. Continuous exposure can be hazardous.

I wonder if straight out performance based shows like Nach Baliye or Laughter Challenge are better. There's really no way to cheat on jokes or two-steps, is there? You can come in a two-piece bikini to LC, but it won't get you laughs.

Which brings me to the end of this tome - who are we kidding with our reality TV? Unless we get meaner, spicier and more intelligent content I'm not buying this reality nonsense.

Sins of the flesh - being fat in an anorexic city

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 16:52:00 +0000

Looking at thin women I have often felt what the starved might feel at a banquet they were not invited to. In short mortally hungry, dissatisfied, depressed and neglected.

It is very hard being fat in a city of plateau chested, thin waisted women, where fancy under wear is for the under sized.

Years of attempted diets have made me a crack philosopher - if you have it, flaunt it, but do keep a friend handy to set up bail. Having said that, I also admit that nothing sharpens your sarcasm like sour grapes.

There are thousands of us out there doing the same thing every day. Cutting out on dinner, having two meager meals for six days and gorging on pizza and biriyani on the seventh.

Most say it's a battle of the bulge, shadow boxing with an expanding hip and paunch. What it mostly is, is an ongoing fight with insecurity and demons imposed by curvaceous women who look at you with such overt sympathy in their eyes that you want to crawl into a hole and pull it in after you.

So what is it like living in an anorexic city? I have woken up every single morning for the last two years promising to go slow on the rice and egg curry. And yet, with the first hunger pang my genetic make-up modifies, the nervous system sort of gets re-wired and all well meaning signals to my brain shuts down, until it's too late.

There have been stretches of two or three weeks when I have steeled my nerves to bolt down salads, have miraculously fitted into my old pair of pants and then like seasoned dope pushers have relapsed with the first biriyani.

I have friends and acquaintances with slim body types who wear anything they want to and eat portions of food that would shame a bird. We the bulky, heavy and neglected gape at them like love struck adolescents, secretly envy them and hope they get pregnant soon so that they can become 'One of Us'.

After much deliberation I have come to realize that I am going to probably stay this way for ever and nothing I do will make much difference. So I have secretly developed an immunity to counter sarcasm and pity from size zeros.

Humour always helps, I pepper it with a liberal dose of laughing at myself. I still cringe every time an old friend or colleague says "wow, you look...er...different." But I never fail to add "I know!! I LOVE it that my assets are now bigger!!"

I hate it when the best clothes come in dainty small sizes. And the ones that come in my size are like circus tents. I am uncomfortable at weddings where women wear chiffon that hug their bodies. Men almost always open a conversation with me with "Who's that friend of yours? Can you introduce us?"

They never said it's going to be a laugh. And it isn't. But its really not that bad, this flab. It makes me freakishly strong too. I can twist open a cap of a bottle like a breeze. Men are more comfortable once they know they really do not need to waste their energy on me by preening up.

We look older than our age, which always daunts bouncers at pubs.

It's not a bad deal. Really.

Things Not To Say To Your Shrink When He Thinks You're Cured

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 11:24:00 +0000

1. All of us here think you did a great job, don't we Tanya, Natasha, Roan?
2. I will go now. They are coming for me.
3. Why don't you come home sometime? My wife will love it. She gets lonely in her attic.
4. Mmmmm...zzzzz....what? hummmmm...zzzzzzz...yes, you were saying? This buzzing is really annoying.
5. What buzzing?
6. That's what I said. What zzzz....buzzing....zzzzz?
7. Tha' medicine was really GRRREAT. Except after the 8th spoon, really.
8. So you think you have cured me. I have cured you. I could cure you.
9. Really? I can go home now? Great! The zoo was getting a bit crowded really. I barely had tail space.
10. Grrrr....rrrr...woof!

VDay: Don't you just love a binge!

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 18:31:00 +0000

(Picture courtesy: Reuters)

You know, objectively speaking, I'm not sure whether these Ram Sena blokes do not actually have a valid point.

Valentine's Day and all the hoopla that goes with it is a tad tiring if I might say.

The Karnataka police of course have no sense of fun, throwing Muthalik behind bars on February 13, effectively ruining his V-Day celebrations.

But not a fat chance for the several odd couples who were literally given armed escorts to walk hand-in-hand into over priced cafes and pubs and blow their parents' hard earned cash on poofy schmoofies in dimly-lit rooms.

If you think about it, the ram sena came out the winner in this entire idiotic controversy. It was a wannabe hardline Hindu group struggling for recognition by slapping around the occasional couples on streets a few years back.

And now it is a household name all over the country. For aspiring hardliners, and there are many, its leader is something of a hero.

His preventive custody on V-Day will be compared to "self sacrifice by a martyr in the face of torture (read being forced to wear great fluffy pink underwear in public)".

We are a nation whose overworked security personnel shoot themselves on being denied leave. We are hard pressed for additional personnel strength. Yet we are forced to deploy them nationwide on Feb 14 so lovers can safely go on binges in pubs.

Why is there such an ambiguity on the intention of the Ram Sena? They are no moral vigilantes. They are just a bunch of molesters who try to hide their misdirected fanaticism under a self-righteous front of "upholding Indian's culture and safeguarding our women."

So treat them like you would any molesters.

I find the anti-moral policing groups who have risen to the occasion marvelously in ferrying lovers to and fro from pubs, clubs and cafes and raising slogans at Jantar Mantar and patrolling the streets for would be trouble makers a tad amusing.

I have always found that the best way of squashing dissent is by ignoring those who are seeking attention by raising ruckus.

Quietly arrest them, charge them, deny them bail and move on as if nothing happened. Let your front page news still be recession and Indo-Pak talks and cricket. The ones on the road who hope to milk the issue to death will be warned.

But we, with our inherent love of the dramatic, reacted exactly the way they wanted us to.

By sending pink underwear, raising it in the media, leading processions, commenting on social network sites and looking over the shoulders before depositing a quick defiant peck on the lips of our lovers.

So who's laughing now?

Getting back to the topic, if you leave out the ideological part of it, yes, V-Day is a pain in a place where the sun don't shine.

Is it just me or are today's giggling bunches of adolescents identical down to their noodle straps and low waist jeans and alien jargon of "ssup lova?" The hotels are packed with them and at every place it's the same question "Do you have reservation? Sorry we are booked today for Valentine's Day celebrations."

The traffic is a mean killer and I won't even go into the idiotic confetti that rains down on your nose every time you look up at lobbies.

I love capitalism, but even then I might add, in just few hours yesterday, crores of rupees better spent on development went into online bookings for flowers and gifts, dinners and drinks and car fuels.

Is Valentine's Day that big a deal or do we just love a binge?

And then there was one

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 15:00:00 +0000

Hi to all.

I can't believe its been a month since I last posted. I'm tempted to pompously claim that I have been very busy etc. and thus the delay.

But my boss might be reading this and call my bluff pronto. Damn connectivity and bringing people closer.

The past few months have not been very good for the media. We have come under fire from every quarter. Many have lost jobs post a worldwide economic slump.

Some others have taken a beating for supposed irresponsible reporting. The Mumbai attacks have elicited a vigorous debate on what constitutes good reportage.

While I'm honour bound to defend my clan, I have cringed many a time at appalling lack of sensitivity in some of my much celebrated colleagues. Similarly I have grudgingly appreciated, if crude, but very effective news reporting that have led to action by authorities.

the point in argument being the "torture" on camera of a six year old girl by policemen in Etawa and their dismissal thereof. However like many others, I wondered how it's possible to keep on filming the macabre display without attempting to stop the cruelty or at least interfering long enough.

The blogosphere has been buzzing with criticism of the coverage of the 26/11 attacks, of media in general and NDTV in particular. Journalists have been accused of trivializing news before. But for the media, which gave space to even some of the harshest criticism of it, the debate would have run its course and fizzled out.

However, I have been meaning to write this post ever since I saw that a news item some days back that made me sit back and smile.

Celebrated journalist P. Sainath of "Every body loves a good draught" fame has refused a Padma Sri.

In his own inimitable style he said “Journalism should not be judged by government and journalists should not accept awards from governments they are covering or writing about.” Sainath compared it to “The external auditor of a company taking an award from the company he is auditing or scrutinizing.”

I met Sainath in journalism college and the first thing that struck me about the man was his energy. Late into the night he walked the campus, throwing ideas at a bunch of youngsters eager to break into the world of media.

K A Abbas once described Sainath as "incorrigible, irreverent, indefatigable and, at times, infuriating. To this I shall add one more word: incorruptible."

A Magsaysay award winner, Sainath perhaps underplays his title as a 'rural reporter' but drives his point with panache and humour that simply put, is him.

As all Indians who do not hesitate to claim Shah Rukh Khan or Amartya Sen as their "own", I have always thought Sainath as "ours" - of the media.

In the face of intense ripping apart of our profession, crude generalisation and repeating cliches, I cannot help but feel proud and fond of a man who carelessly tosses away a Padma Sri on grounds of principles that many have found hard to walk away from.

Satyam all the way

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 11:51:00 +0000

Conscience is a bothersome thing. The more I think about it the more annoyed I get.

Hitler did fine without one. Gandhi had loads and still got shot.

It is that persistent nagging voice that makes a mess of a great bank robbery.

Or lands you in jail for fudging your company's profits.

Ramalinga Raju, the tainted former chairman of Satyam Computer Services Ltd. wrote to the board of directors that his fantastic profit figures had started to become a “tremendous burden on my conscience”. In other words Rs 5040 crores of inflated bank balances and cash just did not exist.

It is hard not to feel sorry for the guy. Termed as the biggest corporate fraud India has ever seen, Raju pulled off a stunning feat that will put his name in history for ever a wrong reason as there ever was.

You might argue that with the failed Maytas (Satyam spelled backwards) acquisition deal, the truth was to come out sooner or later. But writing out that dramatic letter must have been hard.

How do you step away from a company that you built over two decades? How do you go from leading the industry as a roaring IT whiz to sharing a tiny cell in the jail with your brother, stretched out on a thin blanket?

Such is conscience.

When he gets out, after a long long time (if law takes it's course, which in our country merits another blog post) I hear the West Bengal government is looking to set up a public-private partnership with him.

They are simply delighted to finally find a man who represents what they stand for. Inflated development figures on paper, non-existent rubbish on ground.

The many failings, a new start

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 08:59:00 +0000

Excuse the loose emotions in this post.

Whatever I write under the influence of apple vodka cannot be used against me in any court of law.

I have survived another year and escaped with minor injuries, so a vodka will kill me now?

In retrospect it has been a great year and a terrible 365 days of hope struggling against despair.

Work place was fun, working long hours tiring, but it was also sheer drudgery some days and exhilaration on others.

Personally and spiritually I have known inner turmoil, found friendship and betrayal and struggled to adjust to new roles and responsibilities.

On mornings I have woken up with a raging headache and gone on to work or shopped like a maniac and crashed at midnight when the chariot turned back into the pumpkin.

I have done

the trivial bitching and bad-mouthing and then on sudden impulse some random act of kindness. I have put on eight kilos this year and vowed to shed 20. Again.

The goofy moments were there when I have walked into men's washroom drunk shitless or sent a Valentine's day card to a colleague (passionately asking him to be my Valentine) accidentally on Facebook and hid under the desk all day long after.

I have wandered off beside the Kosi Kalan river and stayed awake listening to crickets in Jim Corbett park. I saw snow for the first time in my li

fe at Rohtang (and ate some of it too!!!)

The year brought me new friends even as I lost loved ones to silly quarrels.

I have matured some and held onto a childish streak stubbornly. But in the end as I sort out my tax filings and throw out stuff from last year which I would not even care to read ever again, I am wondering what made this year so different.

May be a scrap of paper I found at the bottom of my work drawer, dated Jan 2008, that said "Don't fret that it's over, may 2008 be all that u wanted and then some.

I have moved back to my hometown and I need to see what roots are all about. Lose that 20 kgs you have been promising yourself :).

And if we don't meet ever we would still move on curiously to find out what life holds for each one of us. yours in weakness and strength."

Verdict 2008: Jammu and Kashmir’s “vote for democracy”?

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 14:30:00 +0000

(Pictures: Reuters)

As the pro-India National Conference emerged as the single largest party in Jammu and Kashmir assembly elections, the writing on the wall is a tad difficult to miss.

Fed up of living under the constant shadow of violence in a state divided under religious lines, Kashmiri voters surprised seasoned political pundits by turning up in large numbers to cast their ballots.

They defied calls of poll boycott from Muslim separatists and belied fears of violence in the wake of the bitter Amarnath Yatra land row that led to the fall of the Congress-PDP coalition government and imposition of central rule.

Prime Minister Manmohan Singh has called the high voter turnout a “vote for democracy” and Congress President Sonia Gandhi has said this should be a message for “our neighbours” (about what the people of Kashmir want).

Whether it is their desire for better governance and development first and the issue of autonomy later, the Jammu and Kashmir voters have set the ball rolling on the counting day in many ways.

Conducted in seven phases, the elections this time came on the heels of agitation over the Kashmir government’s decision to give forest land to the trust that runs Amarnath, a cave shrine visited by Hindu pilgrims.

This enraged many Muslims.

The government then backed down on its decision, which in turn angered many Hindus in Jammu, the winter capital of the region.

The deep divisions that surfaced and the polarized electorate seems to have helped the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), a party that has traditionally struggled to make its presence felt in the state. The BJP won 11 seats from Jammu, a gain of 10 seats from 2002.

Both the National Conference and the People’s Democratic Party have done well in the valley.

The National Conference has kept the doors open for a possible alliance with Congress to make the half-way mark in the 87-member assembly.

But such an alliance will not come without its customary wariness given the history of their political tie-ups in the late 70s and 80s, most of which were followed by periods of Governor’s rule in the troubled state.

It remains to be seen whether the NC and Congress take advantage of the lull in overall violence in the state and live up to voters’ expectations of giving more weightage to development issues.

Or will they get cowed down by separatists looking to regain their foothold in the region?

Christmas advice for the lonely and single - how to make the most of your misery

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 17:50:00 +0000

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! We're here!" sang a bunch of my friends over the speaker phone on Christmas eve. One thoughtful deed deserves another. So I growl politely "bugger off...!"

"Whats with the grouch Bhowmik?" One cheerful elf asked while I could clearly hear giggled whispers of 'PMS" and "sex starved depression" in the background.

"I can hear you, you know?" I say.

I'm not anti-fun as such. I have tried fun in a hygienic and controlled environment and its fun.

But I have begun to dread this festival euphoria and the "are you having fun?" syndrome which hits worst when you are single, grumpy, and down a drink or two.

It is a must that you have a Plan.

The Plan includes pretty men and women clad in the latest boots and fur coats with posh accents. They must have the right mix of devilry and corporate suave to know a punch from a cocktail. And uh...they must be a part of your friend set.

Since I do not have such a Plan, and most of my friends look at the right hand column of a menu first and exclaim openly at the outrageous prices of food and drinks, once again I find myself alone at Christmas, wallowing in my private misery.

I feel the pressure of 'having fun' too much to handle every time a national holiday or a festival comes up. Every one seem to be asking the question I dread so much. "What are your plans?" Normally I ho-hum a bit, look shifty and say "Well I did have to line my kitchen shelves with newspaper..." Till a close friend pointed out the folly of it all.

"What are you, an ogre? Never admit that you don't have plans. Say you will be out till 4 am partying. No one will check up to see if you are actually downing tequila shots in a pub or wearing your ugly pajamas and polishing brass candlesticks."

Years and years of such constant pressure to "have fun" has forced me to come up with a list of things to do to counter frantically happy people who have perfect lives and cool friends to have fun with. It's the Plan against the List.

The List (for the lonely/single/divorced/widowed/dead/all of the above)

1. Stock enough vodka and lime juice to last a nuclear holocaust.

2. Spend the day shopping for peanuts, DVDs of F.R.I.E.N.D.S or Seinfeld or comedy movies

3. Come home by 4 pm, switch off your phone/blackberry/laptop/desktop. If company policy prevents you from switching off these gadgets then put them on silent mode.

4. Get dressed for the occasion. Best if you have a threadbare pair of pajamas and a sweatshirt/top.

5. Drag a pillow and blanket to the living room and make your sofa/couch/bed as comfortable as possible.

6. Bring in the drinks and the peanuts and stock it in reachable distance from the TV.

7. You are set for the night.

8. Its 930 pm and you are sloshed beyond decency. Get up, sway over to the fridge and get some food. This is the right time to call up old friends.

9. Call up old friends and slur "heyyy bitch...how are ye doing?" Most fun conversations happen when you are drunk. You will of course kill yourself in the morning, but hey, you are allowed your pathetic night out.

10. 11 pm. You are a rock star, but for heavens sake go to bed now.

You can alter some or all of these points in my list if the situation so demands.

This list always works for my lonely and pathetic life. It might work for you too. Or you can just go and buy a new set of friends on eBay.

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night"

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 05:40:00 +0000

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." - Dickens (A Christmas Carol).

Don't blame me if I spoil your appetite for cheer and good will this season. I have found out the world has become a very complicated place for me in the last few decades.

I've been around for much longer than most of you. So excuse me my condescension.

I have survived the Cold War, Great Depression and 'Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi' and I have lived to tell the tale.

It's true my red sack is considerably lighter this year and mostly filled with crappy recycled gifts that no one wants but I have an appraisal coming up and I have to still get up and go about my job even when all I want is to curl up with my pint on the sofa.

I was wanting to write to you guys for a long time but postage costs shit these days and Internet connection isn't always reliable in North Pole.

I have stopped using my wi-fi ever since I got a very scary mail from the FBI saying some little known terror group in India had hacked my network to transfer data to their associates in Pakistan.

Those fat fools in the FBI would not believe me when they interrogated me at length about my alleged connections with this Lashkar something group. I told them I wouldn't be involved on principal with a group whose name I couldn't spell.

And beside, terrorism isn't really my field of work anymore. Especially since Social Services has made it illegal to leave out naughty children from my Christmas gifts list, even if they are the devil's offspring.

They say it breeds inequality and the trauma of not getting any gifts can scar children for life no matter what their crimes are. They suggest counselling, I suggest good old fashioned spanking across the knee. They force me to bring goodies to 15 year old dope pushers on street corners.

But I have always been known for my tolerance and love for all, rich or poor. So even as I offer candies to a character who answers to "Blade", he asks my mother to do unspeakable things to his brother.

But how I ramble.

In this yearly newsletter to my followers, I write to let you know that Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet and Cupid have been grounded by the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals this year.

Even as I write this, a bunch of them are protesting right outside my office wearing nothing but a great red clown ball on their noses and stuffed reindeer horns on their heads.

Now I really like their costume, distracting as it it for my working elves, who anyway have been complaining about a meager bonus package this year. I would appreciate these PETA kids more if the missus wasn't home to breathe fire down my neck. But as it happens, no one tells me how to treat my rein deers.

As it is, I'm fuming and frustrated over the list I got from kids the world over this year. Now let me tell ye good people, I have been running this show for the last thousand years. I have given out the strangest gifts to good boys and girls who ask me nicely before Christmas.

A black parrot for the prince of Persia, a diet for BritneyS pears, the secret of youth for Dev Anand and facial hair for Himesh Reshamiya. So dont tell me about strange gifts.

But what in Saint Nick's name is an "Xploder"? I double checked the IP address to make sure it isn't a sneaky request from a trainee terrorist to slip one over me. I do not want another visit from the busy elves at the FBI headquarters thankyouverymuch. It's actually from a kid in Chicago and he says "Its like the coolest game, yeah, so like...cudja pls pls gimme me ok?" Sigh. What has happened to Monopoly and Scrabble? Or to grammar?

I have of course the standard requests for world peace and as always I have marked them as spam. But I have one very interesting mail from a black guy in Washington who claims to be the President of US in waiting. He writes to let me know that he has been a very good boy this year and could I please, if it's not too much trouble, get him out of the auto crisis which in a way is his legacy born of mainly an out-moded system of union contracts.

Ho Ho Ho.

I used to be the embodiment of everything jolly and nice. My flowing white beard and huge belly, is a child's delight as he sits on my lap whispering his heart's desire in my ear at super malls.

Not anymore it seems. According to new regulations, any unseemly physical contact with a minor is jailable up to 12 years. Thanks to a ghoulish looking pop star in US and his way with children.

I was discussing this with an elf at work today. I said, really, what are they going to think up next? Sliding down chimneys into homes is breaking and entering? Punishable with 4 years? So Greenbell the elf says "whatever you do chump, don't touch the stockings."

Don't touch the stockings? Excuse me, I was under the impression that was my job. To stuff stockings. So Greenbell sniggers and informs me "you dirty old thing, you. that's a major kink doncha know?"

I had the most harrowing time at the North Pole air traffic controller's office. They ran over everything in my sack with a great big metal detector which went off thrice a minute. "What's in here grampa?" The evil looking officer questioned me. I drew up to my full height and let them know that it's gifts for kids all over the world. "Whatever it is, you have to check it in. Cant allow food items, liquid and weapons on board."

Its a toy squirt gun for a kid in Israel for heavens sake. "Israel, yeah right. Squirt guns are not what they want at the mo, do they?"

When did it become this complicated? At the Cambodia airport I had to line up for vaccination as a very friendly stewardess informed me about a fresh outbreak of bird flu.

If this despair I am feeling is bird flu, then I'm definitely coming down with it. I am Sinter Klass, Saint Nicholas, Santa Klaus for crissake! I have always been around, I have spread love and have worked Christmas miracles.

I have come in children's dreams and I have merry Ho Ho Hoed for years.

I do not have to go under the metal detector, be frisked or stay away from minors. Or for that matter be asked to inject liquidity into the market. (What the hell does that mean, anyway? Weird nerdy requests always bugger me)

So my sugar plums if this Christmas isn't that good for you, do not blame me. Its not "rocking" for me either. I have been asked by the government to quit smoking my pipe as it is bad for passive smokers (yeah, like my rein deers care! snort!) And I do not have the nerve of Shah Rukh Khan to yell back at the government.

Hope you get the discounts at the super malls and the couple night passes at pubs that you really wanted instead of my usual photo frames and gilt bracelets. I waited all year to visit you when you are sleeping in your dark silent houses. But looks like I cannot do that either without tripping up the burgler alarms or getting clicked by the CCTVs.

So Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

I Am Going Into Terrorism

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 13:15:00 +0000

The owl glasses have spoken.

I am going full time into the terrorism business.

All things considered, I think it's the safest bet in these unsteady times of recession and bankruptcy.

I have tried this journalism business for some time now and the only thing I have to show for it is a holier-than-thou attitude and hardcore cynicism that my mother thinks lends me the distinguished air of a jack ass.

A friend across the border called in really early this morning to say there is a buzz on the share market circuit there that Lashkar-e-Taiba shares have hit rock bottom since constant raids by government soldiers and missile strikes by U.S. drones.

If this is the state of a perfectly dependable organisation based on solid old world Jihadi economy, then how will the smaller fringe groups survive in these hard times?

"So listen," my friend says, "there is word that the government will liquidate the outfit. There were some talks of a bailout plan but they got squashed by meddling non-state actors from India and U.S."

I of course sent him a five rupee note to stick on the entrance to the cave in the wild wilderness where the front office of the outfit operates from.

I checked out the risks involved in going into the terror business with a moll who often worked with trainee operatives in finishing school.

Dressed as a virgin, her role was to train these 20 something gawky youngsters in etiquette required of them in jannat.

"We cannot of course have them pawing virgins and behaving like a kid in Disney Land," she says.

I still had my doubts on the return on my investment.

"Look, I won't lie to you. There are chances are that your brains will be blown out and your bones spooned up from sidewalks. But lets be realistic here. That happens only in Sri Lanka and that too if you are dumb enough to wear a bomb on yourself."

"Things have changed now. We have outsourced and the guys that apply from some of these Middleeast and even some western countries are simply the best in the business. We have expanded into hostage taking now."

I was still worried. I have never taken a hostage in my entire life.

Unless you count out the time I locked my sister in a bathroom in fourth grade for 40 minutes and ate all her candies.

"You just have to open fire till you get a crowd rounded up inside a prominent building. Then on, you will not have to worry about a thing."

How will I know whats going on if I'm locked up myself inside a building with a bunch of people?

"Just turn on any TV set and you will know what's happening, including pictures of commando action," she says.

I brighten up visibly. But as always I drive a hard bargain.

Look my job might not make me a millionaire but at least it keeps my family going. I'm leaving all this to join groups whose fourth quarter profit looks grim. It's easy to prance around a training room in a "Like a Virgin" costume surrounded by Versace clad men. But it's my ass on the firing range here.

"We have thought all about that. Here are season tickets to the best virgin shows in jannat for you and this neat package paid in instalments for your family after you are gone."

What do you mean 'gone'? You said it was a cakewalk and even if I get caught It wouldn't be so bad in jail.

"It wouldn't. Have you heard what Kasab eats in jail? Four meals a day running into four courses. We have lined up some human rights groups who will go on a chain hunger strike as soon as you are arrested to ensure that you are not tortured. We have links in the UN who will keep enquiring about you from time to time."

What if they trace me back to you guys?

"Are you kidding me? They are still shuffling papers trying to trace the last eight attacks, and we are here getting stronger. Aren't we? And anyway, your dressing will confuse them, I am quite sure."

Hey! I never cross-dress when I'm on a serious job. How did this get around anyway?

"(laughs) I didn't mean cross dressing you big oaf. You will have a saffron waist band, Gucci shoes, a red bandanna, and a Halloween mask."

The saffron, Gucci and Red I understand. What's the Halloween mask for?

"Er, have you seen the last lot we sent to CST and Taj? Our new world motto is to combine beauty with terror. Would you really care to bare your ugly face on national TV?

World's best crank call, a war that almost was

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 14:38:00 +0000

Time: 2 am IST
Place: Somewhere in New Delhi

Caller A: Haallo haallo!! Operator? Please put me through to Jordaari, immediately.

Operator: Who is this? Who do you wish to speak to?

Caller A: Jah shala! didn't I just say? Jordaari Jordaari! It is a matter of bhery much importance.
Operator: You must have the wrong number. There is no Jordaari here. This is the President House.

Caller A: Yes, yes, I know. I must get Jordaari. Aarey, he is your President or no?

Operator: Ah I see. Just wait a moment while I connect you please. And Sir, my apologies for the delay.

Time: 2:30 am
Place: President House, Pakistan

(Hectic conversations between intelligence officials and presidential aides)

Official 1: It can't be Mukherjee. It just can't, I don't know, call it my ISI experience, or plain intuition, it can't be him.

Official 2: Has your ISI experience taught you when to shut up?

Official 3: Guys, guys, this is not the time for argument. I have checked the call details. They bloody match. It must be him. We have to wake the president. These are drastic times.

Official 2: On your shoulder be it then

Official 1: I knew I should have taken up the offer with the FBI when it came. This could be something major.

Time: 2:25 am
Place: President's bedroom, Pakistan

Operator: Sir, putting your call through

Caller A: About time!.......Hallo hallo Jordaari?

Caller B: (stifles a yawn) Namaste! To what do I owe this very late pleasure?

Caller A: Pleasure! Mumbai is burning and you talk of pleasure! Have you no conscience?

Caller B: (startled out of slumber) Yes, it is very unfortunate. I have sent my condolence via fax, didn't you get it?
I tell you M, the state Musharraf left things in here is simply disgusting. Nothing works. Can you believe it, I don't even get to keep my Blackberry. Although I'm not complaining, I heard Obama also gave up his. When you become president (hint of pride in his voice) what's a few material things, eh old chap?

Caller A: Listen Jordaari, if I had to do tete-a-tete at this time of the night, I would wake up Manmohan no? I have called to lodge serious complaints about you.

Caller B: Me? What did I do now?

Caller A: I am sorry to say you have again, ki jeno kothata, (what's the saying?) ha, 'dropped the ball.'

Caller B: (getting angry now) Look if this is again about Palin, I must tell you I am fed up of this. I only complimented Palin, I swear I never laid a finger on her. She is like a sister to me.

Caller A: DHUR CHHAI! (dammit) who is talking about Palin? I don't like the way you let your ISI do whatever damn well they please. Ui are bhery bhery angry about Mumbai. And let me tell you ui will take sturn action. Ui will make war, yes, Jordaari, NOT LOVE, BUT WAR, with you.

Caller B: (completely awake by now) Wait a second! wait a second! this is not the diplomatic briefing I got! Who is talking about war? We are bhery (dhur chhai!) very sorry it happened. But there is no need to arm twist me.

Caller A: (chilling laughter) He he he, you will see. (Disconnects)

Caller B: (to officials who were eavesdropping outside the bedroom)
Immediately call the White House! Wake up Rice! (looks under the bed), wake up Bush! we are at war! India is attacking us! WHERE ARE MY SLIPPERS WHEN I NEED THEM!!!

Time: 3 am
Place: Somewhere in New Delhi

Caller A: Damn. I ran out of coins. I knew I should have got 20 bucks more in loose change.

The next day is history. Indians living near the Line of Control woke up to see heavy troop movement on the Pakistani side, US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice flew in to Delhi to "reassure India of its continued support", the media went berserk and the Indian Foreign Minister maintained that India is appreciative of Pakistan's support.

This piece is a figment of my imagination. But the incident is true. A prank caller pretending to be Pranab Mukherjee to Pakistan President Asif Ali Zardari had both nations almost on the brink of war with few minutes of a midnight conversation.

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 05:27:00 +0000

This mail is doing the rounds. I am hosting this on my blog as something I have NOT written myself but feel needs to get around.

He is the "manoos", he is the busy "mumbaikar"… he is the youth….he is the aged…he is the oppressed… he is the angered… and today he is just an Indian!!

Thus, with threat of 4 kgs of RDX seized at CST (which later turned out to be true), with the threat of some terrorists still moving about scot free in the neighborhood, with the threat of a political unrest…he comes out from the safe recluse of his daily routine and starts walking through the hustle and bustle of the CST station and Hutatma Chowk, crossing the Flora Fountain, to reach one destination… The Gateway of India!

He must have received a sms or a mail which asked him to be present at the Gateway of India for a cause that affected him…his family…his co-passengers….people he had known.. people he had not known… but today he was there to prove his existence amidst the ocean of humanity by the sea, for his country.

"His Country", a sentiment long publicized to earn money for film-makers, used to gather votes by political parties, a sentiment he felt has been drubbed within the pages of the History Book.

He took to the streets out of compulsion, on the 26th of July, the 11th of July…he was compelled to stay back home on the 27th of July… but today he had had enough.

Suddenly I notice, that this "he" was in fact "everybody"….I did not have a choice but, be a part of this "everybody"…. Well then… be a part of this "everybody", reach the "Gateway of India" and do what?

Hurl slogans to demand resignation of politicians? Demand to curb all facilities for politicians at the cost of public money?

Scream slogans of death for a neighboring nation? Try to establish that we are living in horrific conditions where we do not have a way out? Demand better training and equipment to fight terror for our police?A group of people even went to the extent of demanding the "return of bargirls"….who, they proclaimed, could protect the city better than the politicians we had elected.

The agenda was however, one that of paying homage to the deceased in the blast & shootout and condemn terrorism.Whereas, Slogans that raged on like a storm were blowing fire… the fire of frustration that this city and this country had endured for years… All of them spoke of hatred…they were all protesting against the system that has cut them into many pieces.

As on observer and a participant one opines that there were more to this gathering than just giving way to frustration.

Maybe we did not realize, but probably it was the first instance after the Indo-Pak war that, a non-political mass of people had gathered out of their own will, essentially non-violent, fuming and fretting with anger, chanting "Bharat mata ki jai" and "Vande Matram" making the opportunists tremble with the echoes.

Maybe after a long time the common man had decided to take the onus on himself to fight injustice, not waiting for somebody else to do it for him.

Maybe after a long time, the old and aged would not dare question the patriotic sentiment of youth in this nation, who had worked hard to convey messages of protest against NOT BEING INDEPENDENT in their own country in this gathering.

Maybe after a long time somebody was asked to tear his clothes and make a TIRANGA out of it, when in his spree of enthusiasm he almost tore a flag when he tried to get one for himself from a lady distributing the same at the venue.

Maybe after a long time, the mob did not want to stand in front of the media cameras installed wherever possible, such that their folks back home get to catch a glimpse of them at the venue….

Today everybody wanted to move ahead… they knew that they were not here to have a nice little picnic going.

Maybe after a long time such a huge mob had conducted themselves so well in a gathering where the situation could have gone out hand at any moment. Maybe after a long time, people wanted concrete results arising out of this statement of protest!

They did not want to forget this bruise in a short while………. As the night progressed, the crowd thinned… the wind started blowing stronger by the Arabian Sea….A small tree at the Gateway seemed unruffled with the wind…….

Where a hundreds of candles burnt around the bark of the tree… a small bouquet of roses was kept with a message…."Dear Patriots… We the people of INDIA salute you"A little kid was seen bending down on the sand, beside the tree, trying to light yet another candle there… His father was helping him out against the strong wind that had started blowing. My appeal to all my fellow countrymen…. This time…..let us keep the candles burning!!

Fighting disasters with humour, camaraderie

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 12:47:00 +0000

This post is all about personal experiences.

After the Oberoi Hotel operation, commando Karamjit Singh Yadav handed a card to commando Bharat Singh who had a part of his ear nipped off by a bullet fired by a terrorist.

The card simply said “Life is too short - 2 inches.” Signifying how close they came to getting shot.

But the message caused a lot of good natured ribbing by Singh's colleagues.

No one would believe these men only a couple of days ago darted through dark corridors, matching bullet for bullet at a bunch of young guys pretending to be grown ups.

If they laughed reading the card now, the commandos wept for Major Unnikrishnan who lost his life trying to save one of them.

It reminded me of another disaster four years ago when a beaten and shattered bunch of people laughed at themselves when they did not know what else to do.

December 2004, the tsunami ravaged parts our southern coast and engulfed withing hours whole thriving villages of fishermen. I was sent to cover the disaster 7 days later and as any paradropped journalist from Delhi, beelined to Cuddalore district where portions of a coastal village was swept away in swirling waters.

I did not know Tamil and my famous hand gestures are still spoken of by the village elders.

When I met the Panchayat head and tried to coax details out of him through my local colleague who also acted as an interpreter, he appeared baffled.

After 15 harrowing minutes and much amusement of the locals who gathered to watch a journalist from Delhi make a fool of herself, I got some facts and figures and decided to call it a day.

It was only when I turned to go away, did he call out to me, in chaste Hindi, asking me to visit any time I wanted and that I was very welcome.

Many of the villagers joined in his laughter as I gaped at him in shock. These are the men who had lost their family members in the tsunami, their boats and livelihood and still they smiled in unadulterated pleasure at the humour in my predicament.

When I stopped fuming I realised that they had every right to laugh. I was a visitor from the distant and posh national capital and had assumed that I would sweep in amidst their tragedy, get cold and hard details and walk out regally. They obviously didn't think so.

And the surprise showed in their eyes as I smiled back at the panchayat and thanked him in Tamil. Gotcha!

To reach the island of MGR Thittu I waded in waist deep sea water for over a kilometre and all the while the locals who walked along with me to retrieve their soggy belongings from destroyed huts joked with each other and teased me about the quick sand that I might step into.

When I gulped and asked them about the quicksand, they replied laughingly and assured me that they were not as dangerous as the coastal snakes.

At the hastily erected community kitchens, the young monks from Ramakrishna Mission ate sitting on the ground with the fishermen. It was pongal, a festival of abundance and the happy cries were missing.

The children played hopscotch inside the camp ground, apparently thrilled to bits about something. I asked a girl who looked about 11 years old the reason behind all these very sneaky smiles.

"Our school is washed away. All our school books are gone."

At the village of Devanampattinam, where actor Vivek Oberoi camped to help the villagers, my introduction of "I am from PTI (Press Trust of India)" was greeted with very hopeful smiles.

I was amazed at my own popularity, till one doctor in Oberoi's camp pointed out that the people thought I was sent by the Port Trust of India with some news about their boats.

These were some of the glimpses of the aftermath of the tsunami as I experienced. the pain of losing lives and livelihood was there, but so were these snatched moments and I am glad I saw both.

Thank god that men, through the bloody ages, have not lost their sense of humour, something that keeps them going when nothing else will.

I thank the Black Cats and oh yes, the Sena

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 15:24:00 +0000

(I base this post on a quirky sms doing the rounds.)

Only a month ago Raj Thakeray was all bravado and big talk about how he is the messiah of the people of Mumbai.

I could sit in Delhi and still see the enormous chip on his shoulder as his hired goons methodically smashed taxis run by North Indians and beat up visibly clueless and shaken UPite and Bihari boys as young as 20 years old as they sat government exams.

I could see his men (actually the jury is still out on that) relaxing for a while (beating up people is a tiring job) waiting for the TV cameras to arrive before going at it again with great zeal.

So when the Mumbai attacks happened I expected the Great Sena to tighten their belts, tie their head bands and rush into the fire and ammunition to save the Marathi Manoos from terrorists.

Or wait. I must be forgetting.

There weren't that many manoos in those buildings to save. Only foreigners and businessmen who add to the city's economy and the Sena never had any problems with them.

These types never do. It is the weak, middle class and the poor who want to carve out a living in the all embracing city they are after.

So when the situation looked black and the nation watched in shocked silence the unfolding of Mumbai's horror, the men in Black arrived.

The NSG Black Cat commandos get a gruelling training when they enlist to a job they do extremely well. They do not have international gears and their discomfiture in dealing with a seasoned media show.

But they know how not to care for their lives and do a job with efficiency and cruel discipline. They did just that.

They lost some of their best men in the encounter and spoke in Hindi (wow, imagine their audacity), Punjabi, Tamil, Bengali and a multitude of other languages.

And they won the day.

The crowd waiting for the bloodshed to end, broke into an impromptu applause and patted our men on their backs when they came out of the hotels exhausted, covered in soot and blood and completely baffled by the affection and adoration of common people and the media.

One said on national TV looking embarrassed and solemn at this unexpected fame - "but it's my country and my duty to defend it. This is what I do for a living."

So as an insignificant Indian writing this from the safe comfort of my home, I salute the men in black.

But my even bigger heartfelt thanks to the Sena men who cowered but generally kept their big mouths shut and stayed out of the way of things and helped make the Mumbai operations a success, if you can call it one, after losing so many lives.

The 'Super Baba' strikes again

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 07:58:00 +0000

Ever since I heard that Baba Ramdev graced the premises of a news organisation in Delhi and demonstrated his amazing yoga tricks for a healthy living to a bunch of journalist who survive on cussing and stale junk food, I have been itching to share a long lost memory.

As I keep reiterating, I am strictly against all forms of health food.

If I'm having salad, I make sure I have three plates to fill my ample stomach.

My opinion on sprouts is well known. Sprouts are best when planted in pretty porcelain pots by the window sill and not on my breakfast plate.

In these circumstances, it's for the best that Baba and me have not yet met.

We would have formed an unholy pair. Like my good man says during an argument - "either you convince me or I convince you."

I for sure would not be able to roll my abdomen and shoulders and swing my thighs rhythmically while sipping bitter gourd juice. So he would have to tuck into Tandoori chicken and Vodka/lime cordial. I have a nagging worry that he would not.

I'm not entirely godless. I have my faith in the supreme being.

But my fanaticism is reserved for more serious issues. Like why Mc Donald's has increased the price of its Aloo Tikki Burger. Or why Hyderabadi Biriyani House has decreased the quantity of its spicy chicken biriyani while almost doubling the price.

So I do not quite understand what perfectly normal, albeit plump, Delhi women see in the Super Baba to leave their household unguarded and flock to his sessions of deep breathing.

Their eyes shine with a manic light even if the Baba is so much as criticized by the media. I have seen women in formal office wear sitting in the cosy depths of their cars at traffic lights, breathing in and breathing out, trying hard to roll their stomach muscles and wiggle their shoulder blades.

But I know all about mass yoga sessions.

It was the summer of 1997 and around 50 of us had trooped into the Bengali extra class in 11th standard. Some of my close friends and me adorned the back seats of the huge classroom where we could carry on with our mischief undisturbed.

I wasn't ready for the pop test nor the acid tongue of the teacher and was hugely relieved when she announced regally "we will do something new today."

The front benchers looked worried, flicking surreptitiously through their syllabus for additional chapters they have not mugged yet.

"We will do pranayaam." she declared.

She could have well said that she's a descendant of an Italian mafioso family and the effect would have been the same.

"What the hell is pranayaam?" we whispered hopefully. Whatever it is, this means we do not have to trudge through grammar.

She showed us soon enough. "Close one nostril with your thumb and breathe through the other one...." And she wanted pin-drop silence in the room of course.

There's a trigger somewhere in the brain for helpless, uncontrolled laughter especially in situations where it would be severely punished.

And my brain refused to heed to any of my stern warnings of dire consequences if I so much as smiled.

But the girl next to me had her eyes closed with such a silly solemn expression pasted on her face, her blocked nose making a 'wheee' sound every time she took in air and alternated her thumbs for both nostrils, that it was my undoing.

Me and another friend (both of us will burn in hell for eternity) keeled over with silent laughter under the desks.

Laughter that would not stop, even when I imagined past deaths of family members, my breakup with a boyfriend, world hunger, poverty in my home state - the damned laughter just wont stop.

It was novelty of it all. A classroom full of girls breathing in and out while we shook in silent laughter on the floor in the extreme corner of the room, students and teachers passing by on the corridors looking in curiously, sounds of chatter coming in from the next room, contrasting with the silence in ours as 48 odd girls practised pranayaam on command.

That friend of mine and me still laugh over it sometimes, though we still don't get what's so funny about it.

When I imagined the Baba perched on a glass topped table on the Editor's work station, surrounded by surly journalists who normally would not be caught doing exercises during mid-afternoon, the dam very nearly broke again.

I have my utmost respect for yoga exponents and do not mean to berate them, but I have a silly grin pasted on my face as I write this.

Indian on Moon - death of poetry?

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 06:41:00 +0000

Indian poets who make a living off comparing their beloved's face with the moon are dying a slow death imagining a high-tech probe scanning the surface of the "mystical orb of the night sky" for trace of metals.

Really, what is all this to-do about the moon?

From Kalidasa to Banbhatt to modern day poets - hundreds of them have sighed and starved away with a vengeance, wasting reams of precious parchments describing their beloved's beauty to the moon.

Had Kalidasa access to the latest pictures released by NASA of the moon, especially its barren craters and dusty lifeless, airless atmosphere, he would have jumped off the terrace of Vikramaditya's palace.

I came across this post on an Internet chat room, presumably for Indian poets. (No, I'm not a member, I would admit to writing poetry only under torture)

LoveSong21 writes "why are they doing this to the moon? Why are they taking away all the mystery? I do NOT want to know its secrets, when I look up I only see Tanya....glowing like an ancient queen on her throne...Oh Tanya why did you leave me to go out with that jack ass Vikas?"

My heart filled with pity for this emotional heart, filled with tender pain. (Although I do not much care for the name LoveSong21. Who does he think he is? Pavarotti?)

Tanya writes back, a tad carelessly if I might add, "stop giving out my name on a public chat room you donkey. you are not worth Vikas' toenail."

But then the business of love thrives on heartbreaks.

India's moon mission has taken off with a bang. and in the next two years scientists hope to get a glimpse of what keeps the moon people ticking.

I do not know if stripping the moon of all its mysteries will do science any great deal of good, but I know for sure it will kill Indian poetry.

Kalidasa's description of a moonlit summer night in Ritusamhara, Sukanto's hard-hitting "khudhar jogotey prithibi godyomoy, purnimar chaand jeno jholshano ruti (all is prose in the world of hunger, the full moon seems like bread to the hungry), Tagore's ode to the moon - over the ages, poets have idolized, worshipped and feted the moon.

And not just in India. Shakespeare writes "O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon".

Not to mention the one million songs written in Bollywood comparing the female lead with the timeless beauty of the moon.

Who will explain to these romantic types that the gravity and atmospheric pressure of the moon is such that it will never support life forms. Its extreme temperature, combined with lack of atmospheric oxygen and water is ideally suited for tourism, if you want a very expensive and violent death.

But will that stop people the world over from eulogising about the moon? I think not. I have a suspicion, that the Indian Poets Association was silent all this while because it was Europe, America and Russia that were intruding the moon.

Since its India doing it now, their hurt, silent, and gentle indignation knows no bounds.

My heart goes out to them and if I were a poet I would not worry so much.

We now know all marine species and life forms there is to know, right?

But has it stopped men from comparing their lover's eyes with the "deep blue sea"?

Election, politics and good looks - lethal combination?

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 15:53:00 +0000

At least no one can accuse US President-elect Barack Obama of leading an ugly team.

His Chief of Staff is a hunk of a man called Rahm Emanuel, possessing demonic good looks.

And Obama himself is not hard to look at - combining a cutting charm and classy suaveness comparable only to the Kennedys.

Yes, this time the US elections were unique for the sheer volume of brawn it combined.

Take Hillary Clinton for example. An initial favourite front-runner with the backing and funding of key politicians and the corporate to see her through vote 2008, or so people thought.

Her shortly-cropped straight blond hair and business suit spoke of style and efficiency.

Tipped to be the first woman President in the history of the US of A, Hillary, along with her husband and former President Bill Clinton and daughter Chelsea formed a pretty picture.

Almost a sensory overload of beauty if you ask me.

On the other hand, I have no doubts that Michelle Obama as the first black First Lady in the White House would hold her own. With her couture consciousness and affordable designer wear she is quite (if I may borrow the term) "cool".

I have always wondered why in the US the divorced, convicted or single people are not encouraged to run for President. Following this election closely I now know why.

You might start a torrid affair once you climb the WH walls, but till you are there you have to present to voters the picture of a perfect, cloyingly sweet family. Better even if you're wife is a stunner.

On the Republican side they had their Weapon of Mass Destruction Sarah Palin - a former beauty queen and a stunner even at her age. They needed her, badly, if they were to balance John McCain's grounded grizzly bear looks

on the poll plank.

So many months of watching these beautiful people campaigning in designer clothes, flashing dazzling smiles, waving manicured hands, I was wistful about elections back home.

Lets see what we have.

The average age of our candidates is 55 plus. Most walk with a limp and suffer from arthritis when the weather is damp or on a full moon.

Some have applied to their jail wardens to let them out on parole for campaigning and some cannot read their own posters - having dropped out of school.

It depresses me to see myopic eyes behind heavy glasses, white moustache, white dhotis and pan stained teeth. At least we have our khandaan ka chiraag Rahul baba - the saving grace with his boyish good looks.

A special mention also of Omar Abdullah and his brother-in-law Sachin Pilot - two men with easy grace and clean cut features.

At least we can boast we have the world's best political brains on our side. They are not much to look at, but over 30 years in the dark alleys of Indian politics have given them an uncanny knack of spotting the people's pulse.

But still I envy the Americans for their good looking leaders.

It doesn't matter if you're Barack or White

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 14:07:00 +0000

Michael Jackson must be on teleconference right now with his plastic surgeon cajoling him to change him back to black, now that it's fashionable to be black again.

Barack Obama has changed all that.

I say this with the supreme confidence of one in the 'know', since I've had to hear the "ujjal shyam borno" (bright wheatish skin colour) rubbish all my life.

Globalisation is a wonderful thing.
Who would have thought Shoma kakima from college street, North Calcutta would be glued to the TV as results from the US Presidential election poured in early morning.

No, she is not an economist worried about global recession. Her bailout package goes as far as the monthly debt at the local grocery store.

Neither is she one of the rabid social worker type obsessed with world politics.
She is a mother of two and a housewife. Her dark skin colour excluded her from the perks that go with being fair, as she keeps telling us.

Plum marriage alliances from NRI grooms, stacks of love notes at college, sweet adoration at home from relatives, envy of girl friends, in general all the things that women secretly live for.

When I asked her why she is so obsessed with the US elections, especially at the cost of irking her husband and in-laws for neglecting household duties, this is what she said with a strange gleam in her dark doe eyes.

"I know nothing about how voting works in America, I do not understand their local issues. But in New York lives an NRI man who my parents approached once for my marriage. He turned me down, rudely, because not only was I dark skinned, I could not even be passed off as wheatish.

If he is watching today's vote, he will know that it's all changing. I can truly feel in my dark Bengali heart what pain and atrocities the blacks must have had to undergo in their day to day struggle for equality. Obama da has changed all that."

Change. The devilish simplicity of the political campaign strategy of Barack Obama - the 44th American President and the first black to lead the nation.

May be Shoma kakima's reasoning is personal and not strictly objective or informed. But the message is sinking in slowly - the humongous attitude change in a nation where segregation has always remained a sore issue for politicians.

He is the rock star for the moment and my black face is aching from smiling so much at his win - a win for every single one of Americans who once in their life time have put up with verbal or physical abuse for their skin colour.

I had to write this post to vent my surprise at how this win has connected, in the strangest way, a dingy north Calcutta home with so many cheering millions in the US.

Myself Kartik. Nice to meet you. Do you blog?

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 06:26:00 +0000

1974. My parents are taking a stroll beside the Ganges in Calcutta, hand in hand, cooing to each other, probably planning me.

"Do you enjoy poetry?" my father must have asked my mother. (They are both enthusiastic readers of poetry and prose still)

2008. Hola! Myself Kartik. Nice to meet you. Do you blog?

Have I really been as busy as that to not notice when the dating scene has undergone subtle changes?

Where are the pink rose printed writing papers with neat rows of painstakingly written praises of the goddess? At 28 I suddenly feel eons away from comprehension as friends looking for dates casually ask each other "do you blog?"

Till 2005 my friends in the US asked me with unbridled wonder "Really? you do not blog? how do you take care of all that anger?" "The good old fashioned way," I used to say. "by smashing some one's skull."

Everyone blogs these days. And as a girl friend says "If you are thinking of marrying a man, first read his blogs."

Wait. Isn't that twisting some other saying?

She states firmly - a man who does not blog must have been brought up by wolves. Because his blog gives an insight into his world, his upbringing, his passions and his yin and yang.

Apparently it's as uncool to ask someone "what are your hobbies" as it is not to blog.

Even when people like me, brought up by suspected villagers, let slip that question, the answer is a friendly "you can get all that from my profile info, you dummy. I'll ping you the link."

Privately I always believed that most of this sudden hype about blogging is the sheep-falling-into-gutter theory.

Which is why online peddlers of second rate pornography dare to call their blogs "inspired works of Indian eroticism".

Who will call a spade a spade when it is also apparently "uncool" to leave unflattering comments on what everyone else is hailing as prophetic.

Which is why the vicious who-sleeps-with-whom gossip blog about colleagues was suddenly a rage among journalists some time back.

I get the line "please check out my blog" all the time.

And when I do, sometimes I am pleasantly surprised with original poetry, startling photography and truly humorous prose.

And sometime, as is common these days, I trudge through a marketing page for products as boring as electric heaters.

Despite my cynicism, I have helped some of my unenlightened friends start blogs, sometimes simply because it is a fun thing to do.

I have had to remind them once in a while of course to update what they have created in a moment of unprotected passion.

Sometime I thank god for getting over with the dating scene in the very late 90s.

When swapping Back Street Boys music cassettes was all that was required of me, apart from looking all pretty and flustered of course.

A perfumed note written on fancy paper, caught in the wrong hands, back then would mean a session of tongue-lashing from mom with the suspended threat of "wait till your father gets home."

With my limited knowledge about the Internet and techno jargon, I think I would not have made it very far with a volley of questions about "Do I blog? Am I on AIM? Can I link to your profile? Are you on Facebook chat? Do you Flickr?". Yes, times have changed.

Happy Diwali

noreply@blogger.com (Five Wise Men) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 04:59:00 +0000

Have a happy Diwali!