Glimpses into Life

Sridevi: Ye Lamhe, Ye Pal, Hum Barso Yaad Karenge

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Sun, 25 Feb 2018 11:20:00 +0000

Murali closed his eyes and sank into what P G Wodehouse would term ‘the dreamless’. The first thing that he saw on opening his eyes was a picture of Sridevi. It was on a strategically placed calendar.

“This is the way I want it. The first thing that I want to see on waking up,” he told a bunch of his hostel mates including yours truly. We all smiled and understood. Despite the fact that Murali was swotting for his 12^th standard examinations and perhaps seeing a portrait of a deity first thing in the morning would have been more appropriate.

What is worth noting is that the conversation with Murali happened around 1980 when Sridevi was unknown beyond South India A quarter century later another friend told me that he too had succumbed to what we shall call the Murali Method! Except that he was at least a decade younger.

That was Sridevi for you. Her appeal transcended generations and bridged the North –South divide. She was not of course the first south Indian actress to do that. That would be an injustice to the long list of South Indian actresses—Vyjayanthimala, Waheeda Rehman, Hema Malini, Rekha-who preceded her into the Bollywood industry and made more than just a mark. What set Sridevi apart was her ability to attain near demi goddess status at a time when movie goers were still held in thrall by one Mr Amitabh Bachchan. She went on to become the first lady Indian superstar.

To recapitulate her well chronicled career when she came to Mumbai, she was already an established star in south India. Her Hindi debut (discounting the role of the child in Julie) was in Solwa Sawaan which bombed at the box office. Her next movie Himmatwala which came after a gap of about 5 years set the box office on fire. This led to a fruitful pairing with Jeetendra in many more movies. Together (sometimes along with Jayaprada) they rode and at times shaped a wave that reflected much of the eighties. None of these movies could be termed as refined or cultured.

But when the chance came she produced a body of work which would live on for generations. Like the immortal take off on Chaplin in Mr India, the double role in Chaalbaaz, and the genius of a performance in Sadma as a grown up woman regressing into a child. Who can forget her beauteous looks in Chandni or the double role in Lamhe of both mother and daughter. The daughter being in love with a man old enough to be her father What is more this gentleman had loved her mother but never secured her affection.

There was however a jarring note to Sridevi’s performance in Hindi films. Every time I catch up on an old Tamil movie starring her, I am struck by her utterly natural looks and performance. This was before she underwent surgery on her nose. Now I don’t know why this was done. Maybe it had something to do with fitting into what was considered the right look for a Bollywood actress. I don’t pretend to be a film critic but her performances in Hindi movies I thought were a little overdone. Slightly exaggerated. Yes, this brought her immeasurable popularity but at the cost of being natural. There is a price to be paid for success after all.

It would however be downright silly to not acknowledge her genius. She was at the end of the day a powerhouse of talent whose body of work would live on long after her.

Millions of Indians would know as they mourn today that there quite simply won’t be another Sridevi. Their feelings can perhaps be best captured from this excerpt from the title song of Lamhe :

Ye Lamhe Tho Hai Bohath Haseen, In Lamho Par Kuch Likha Nahi, Ye Abaad Karenge, Ya Barbaad Karenge, Ye Mausam Chale Gaye Tho Hum Fariyaad Karenge, Ye Lamhe, Ye Pal Hum Barso Yaad Karenge

RIP Sridevi!

Inder Malhotra: RIP

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Sun, 26 Jun 2016 13:32:00 +0000

It was with a bit of shock that I read about the death of veteran journalist Inder Malhotra about a fortnight back. Shock since it represented a breaking of the link with the past.

In the eighties as an impressionable teenager, I grew up reading the editorial pages of the ‘Times of India’. I cannot claim to have understood every scholarly word written there but it certainly shaped my desire to be a journalist. My favourite writer in those pages was Inder Malhotra. I looked forward to his columns especially ‘Political Commentary’ which if I remember correctly used to appear on Thursdays.

I really appreciated his quiet and understated way of writing. That was perhaps the reason that although he was a well known and respected journalist in political and media circles he was not quite a superstar in the public eye. His language held me in thrall. One frequently used expression of his was “More honoured in the breach than the observance”, which means that a particular law is broken more often than adhered to. Subsequently, I realized that this expression is from ‘Hamlet’ but then it captured the essence of the man’s writing: understatement.

Another reason that I shall remember Inder Saab was his ability to stand above the crowd. In 1989 when the media was in the midst of a frenzy writing about the general elections which the Rajiv Gandhi led Congress (I) was to lose, he kept writing about the deteriorating situation in Kashmir which he said had greater ramifications than Punjab. The rest is history.

Life’s journey has taken me from being a journalist to a communications professional. But it has not diminished my admiration for the late journalist. That was the reason for me ordering a copy of his book ‘Indira Gandhi: A Personal and Political Biography’ from a well known e-commerce portal. Sure enough delivery was promised but a few days came the message that the book was not available and the transaction on my credit card would be reversed. It saddened me deeply but in a way seemed to capture the essence of the man : understated but not too well known outside select circles.

RIP Inder Saab. My life will always be tinged with the regret that I never met you.

The best Vijay Played by Amitabh Bachchan

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Sun, 12 Jul 2015 14:39:00 +0000

The other day I was flipping TV channels as is my wont. It was not surprising to be able to watch two of Amitabh Bachchan’s classics –Deewaar and Kaala Patthar (both directed by the legendary Yash Chopra) on two different channels. It was also not surprising to know that Bachchan went by the name Vijay in both movies. A quick Google search revealed that Amitabh’s character went by the name Vijay in more than 20 movies. This brought to my mind the question as to which was the best Vijay? Not in terms of portrayal but in terms of character.

While I cannot claim to have seen all the movies in which the superstar was named Vijay, I am choosing four that I feel are relevant. They are Deewaar, Trishul, Shakti and Kala Patthar.Deewaar for reinforcing the persona of the angry young man created by Salim –Javed in Zanjeer, Trishul for a standout performance, Shakti for being pitted against another legend Dilip Kumar and Kaala Patthar for reasons that I shall spell out later.

There are obvious similarities in the Vijay of Deewaar and Shakti. In both movies, he is taking on the system. Indeed in both these movies his professional career as a criminal is shaped by his personal angst. In Deewaar, his father a respected union leader barters away the rights of the workers that he represents in order to save the life of his family held hostage by the factory owner. His unfortunate father unable to face himself or the wrath of the workers whom he is forced to betray runs away and Vijay in turn has to live with the mortification of a tattoo in his arm which declares that his father is a thief.An act by irritated workers.

This in turn fuels anger in Vijay’s mind against his father and is one of the driving forces for him turning smuggler. In Shakti his father Dilip Kumar refuses to release a smuggler as ransom when Vijay is kidnapped by Amrish Puri. Vijay nevertheless manages to escape but he develops a deep contempt for the law to which his father is wedded to as well as is never able to get over the feeling of betrayal as by his father. This again impels him to turn criminal.

Now the father in Deewaar deserves sympathy for being caught between the devil and the deep sea but not censure. Clearly Vijay was wrong. The father in Shakti is worthy of the highest admiration for putting duty before family. While the son’s anger is understandable there is absolutely no case for becoming a criminal.

In Trishul, Vijay is clearly on stronger ground. A child born out of wedlock he is brought up by his troubled mother as she is deserted by her lover Sanjeev Kumar in favour of a rich girl. Vijay clearly seeks revenge for his mother’s suffering by trying to destroy his father’s business empire.While there are shades of grey to his character like when he tries to disrupt the romance of his step brother Shashi Kapoor (named Ravi , what else ?) with a ravishing Sheetal ( Hema Malini), he redeems himself by returning his father’s property and by finally winning over his entire family including his father to his side.

While all the three were powerful characterizations, two of them Deewaar and Shakti had one thing in common: The fight was primarily with the environment and this was born pout of personal angst. And a false sense of grouse against the father. Trishul of course was more a case of a son seeking justice for his late mother. And revenge for his own illegitimacy.

This is where I believe that the Vijay of Kaala Patthar stands out . Consider the circumstances. He is the captain of a ship caught in a storm and instead of doing his duty by putting the lives of passengers before his own, he opts for personal safety by fleeing the scene. He is disgraced, and dismissed from service. What is more his own parents ask him leave the house. Enough grounds to embitter a man and cause him to turn criminal. This is where the twist in the character comes in. Far from turning against the world he acknowledges his own weakness and is ashamed of it. He hides in a remote village and works as a coal mine worker in near sub human conditions. The workers there face death every day in the course of their duty. He is drawn to their cause and has run ins on their behalf with the mine owner played by a really nasty Prem Chopra. Along the way he finds love in Raakhee . Finally redemption comes when he rescues workers trapped in the coal mine which is being flooded. He has the option of remaining safely on the ground but much against the advice of all, he goes down into the mine to rescue the miners. He finally succeeds in regaining respect in his own eyes and the icing on the cake is being welcomed warmly by his parents when he comes back to safety.

Truly the story of a man’s triumph over himself. Can anything be more heroic ? or positive ?

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 03 Jun 2015 05:19:00 +0000

The Two Minute Cook

In 1989 when I set out on my journey in life as a professional after my graduation my first stop was the Advertising Agencies Association of India where I did a short term course in copywriting. While I dreamt of writing those dream ads (and still continue to do so !) I was introduced to the case study on Maggi noodles which now appears to be in the midst of a gathering storm with it being accused of having more than permissible levels of lead and monosodium glutamate. The case study was of course on something different. It taught us as to how Maggi had created an entire category and how it was the answer to the needs of the modern city woman who went to work but still could rustle up a meal in just two minutes. It was not just about two minute food but a powerful statement on how the contemporary young urban woman could do justice to her twin roles as a professional and home maker.

Naturally, the success of Maggi spawned many clones. Some survived while many fell by the wayside. What however was indubitable was that a new category had been created. The makers of instant coffee, Nestle, had now come up with instant food. Long before instant gratification was on offer in the form of the internet and social media. Fast to cook. Good to eat, the company proclaimed. And millions across India agreed.

Maggi was not about two minutes of fame though. For three decades, it has ruled the roost in its category. Maggi has however been my route to fame. You see my entire claim to being a cook is based on the fact that I can make Maggi. You could call it my claim to two minutes of fame. I can cook nothing in life but Maggi. Cooked and ate it long before celebrities who too find themselves in the midst of the present controversy endorsed it.

And yes I join the chorus: fast to cook, good to eat. The lead and the celebrities can wait.

PS: I am not taking sides in the current controversy but merely conveying what Maggi has meant to me.

Babu Mama: Thanks for the Memories.

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Sun, 17 Nov 2013 11:16:00 +0000

“You must stop reading trash and start reading the classics,” said Babu Mama (uncle) to a 12 year old. The 12 year old was me and trash was a new word to me at that point in my life. The response had been prompted by my desire to buy some books featuring the Hardy Boys written by Franklin W Dixon.

It was typical of Babu Mama that he bought me a couple of Hardy Boys books. He had come all the way from Bangalore to Mumbai where we stayed to see off myself, my mother and brother as we embarked on our journey to Accra, the capital of Ghana in West Africa where my father had been transferred. It was also typical of him that he took over most off the load where packing was concerned from my mother.

Also in my younger days when I asked him for Rs 50 he would part with Rs 100. Babu Mama was the soul of generosity. These and other thoughts came flooding to my mind when I heard from my mother that he had breathed his last after being troubled by various ailments over the last few years.

There were other thoughts too that crowded my mind. My journey from Chennai to Bangalore as a 13 year old to do what else but spend time with mama and my cousins during the Christmas vacation. It was my first sole journey made more memorable by the fact that some of the leading Indian cricketers of that time (1978) Chandrashekhar, Prasanna and Kirmani traveling in the same train. Catching a glimpse of those deities of Indian cricket at that time was an experience in itself.

By a strange coincidence, I was to repeat the Bangalore –Chennai trip and back a few days after his death. This time of course there were no cricketers. Today’s cricketers of course fly except when there is no choice.

Another fond memory of Babu Mama was when during another trip to Bangalore during another vacation as a 14\15 year old I visited a popular eatery and paid a handsome tip. My uncle could not get over the amount that I had given away and he ribbed me about it for a long time.

It is this kind of jolly and generous nature that endeared him to all of us cousins and made him such an integral part of all our childhood memories.

Earlier this year came the definitive memory when my father passed away in Mumbai. Despite his ill health he came with his son Badri and Kamala Mami to condole my mother. He flew in and out of Mumbai the same day adding to his hardship. That is something which we as a family can never forget. It was therefore a huge relief to me that I could see Babu Mama one last time before he breathed his last.

And yes over the years I did read the classics largely the abridged versions. And I will give the same advice to my eight year old son Sanjiv when the time comes.

Thanks for the memories Mama. RIP.

The Art of Making Simple Things Complicated

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Fri, 18 Oct 2013 08:16:00 +0000

A few days ago I was struck by the deafening sound of silence. Not quite. The cell had stopped ringing but the heart had started beating faster. It was the start of the work day and there were innumerable calls to be put through the day. Right from clients to colleagues would be trying to contact me all through. How was I to cope?

And then the heart gladdened. For the cell rang again but the heart sank further when the cell stopped ringing almost immediately. Nor could I put through calls. The landline on my desk which was primarily used by me as an intercom now literally became my lifeline.

I was also surprised. I had been with this service provider for eight years and not even once had I been in a spot of bother. The phone had functioned albeit a little intermittently even when Mumbai was ravaged by rain & floods on July 26, 2005. Then I began thinking a little rationally.

Since I was not without influence with this service provider I decided not to go through the usual customer care route but pulled out the stops. Soon enough I got a call from customer care. What exactly was the matter the voice at the other end asked solicitously? “Well,” the voice said, “why don’t you shut down your mobile phone and restart it. These things happen sometimes and are but temporary problems,” the polite voice continued. “Okay,” I said with the air of a man who had attained enlightenment. I rebooted the cell and sure enough it was crackling again. The heartbeat went back to normal almost instantaneously and suddenly the mind began thinking clearly. “Why hadn’t I done this in the first place? Isn’t it what I did every time the PC gave me trouble? The IT helpdesk came into the picture only when this did not work. Come on it was a bit like your grandma’s remedy. “

Then I realized that this little incident had taught me one simple truth of life. Often we don’t think of or do the obvious. Not because we don’t want to. It is just that we end up making life complicated for ourselves. I mean we sometimes excel at the art of making simple things complicated. At times, like in this case it is brought about by panic. And sometimes by reasons we cannot fathom.

I then made a promise to myself. Next time I was confronted with such a problem, I would put on my thinking cap. And keep panic at bay. Then the obvious solution would occur. Then life will be all about keeping things simple. And not about the art of making simple things complicated.

A Tribute to the Famed Gujarati Hospitality

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Sun, 06 Oct 2013 17:11:00 +0000

There were just a few minutes left for the train to move out of Ahmedabad station at around 9.15 pm when the realization struck me that I had to get some food for the overnight journey to Mumbai. At the same time one of persons in the adjoining seat said that there would be no dinner service in the train that night. This was confirmed by one of the vendors who had come into the train. My mind was filled with terror and I cursed myself. I had arrived at the station well ahead of schedule and could have easily ordered and packed the food. But under the mistaken impression that food would be served on the train I had not bothered to stock up on food. As Sherlock Holmes would have said, “Elementary my dear Watson”, or in this case Ravindran. I was now in the horns of a dilemma. I could have got off the train and tried to get my dinner. This also meant that I could miss the train if I did not make it back in time. It was again Elementary. Ravindran chose to play safe, remain in the train and prepare myself for a long night of hunger The train had just started moving and the rumblings were not far from the stomach. “Do you mind having some food, a kindly voice enquired it belonged to an old lady Subsequent enquiries revealed that she was traveling to another part of Gujarat with her daughter in law and two grandchildren Mind! Does one mind Manna from heaven? Soon I was tucking into some typical Gujarati food comprising of Dhokla and Tepla. When I was offered a second helping, I shamelessly accepted it. The rumblings in my stomach were stillborn. A full stomach enables a man to reflect. And reflect I did. On how during journeys strangers were drawn to lending a helping hand to each other. Just two days back on the trip to Ahmedabad from Mumbai a lady had bought me tea when she realized that I didn’t have necessary change. She had later refused to accept money when later I had managed to secure the change. A manifestation of the famed Gujarati hospitality. It was in evidence in even greater measure two days later. After a few pleasantries we all retired for the night. Next day when I woke up close to Mumbai, my Samaritans had already disembarked and nowhere to be seen. I realized that in my joy in securing food I had actually forgotten to aske their names. I wish to thank them as well as the lady who bought me tea earlier for the famed Gujarati hospitality. Thank you friend and let us hope we meet again in the journey of life. This time it will be my turn to return the hospitality.

Goodbye to the old and welcome to the new

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Fri, 13 Sep 2013 09:10:00 +0000

August 18, 2013 was one of the most poignant days in my life. For all practical purposes my weekend Executive MBA classes had ended that day. Yes officially there was still one more lecture left and I still had to clear an examination and complete a project. Since my presentation had been completed on that day I had the option of not attending the last lecture on August 25. As I walked away from Welingkar College that afternoon on towards Matunga station, my classmate Ajeetabh yelled out “Is this the last time that we are seeing you?” I don’t recollect what I said. My mind was filled with doubt. Was I doing the right thing by not opting for a specialisation programme in Finance which would have taken another three months? My weekend classes had kept me sane during a trying period in my life. I was jobless (a condition of my own choosing) during the first year of my MBA. These classes had been something to look forward to during that period and had given me the much needed mental stimulus and morale boost. Also interacting with a young class and being part of the college jokes had been fun. Plus the priceless friendship of Rohinton Lala who was a genuine source of comfort during that tough period. In a sense I was walking away from all this. At the same time, the classes had come at a price after I entered formal employment. I had to sacrifice my family life entirely. Although I worked five days a week, I had often been on calls on Saturdays. Added to this was the stress of transitioning to a new career role. Also during this period my father had fallen terminally ill and passed away in April this year. In a sense I had been looking forward to the end of the course. Yet when the moment came I was filled with indefinable sadness. I decided to come the next week for purely sentimental reasons. I didn’t want to miss out one last day with the class. Plus I wanted to attend the last lecture as I had missed the first lecture due to an injury. The last day was of course the time for saying the sentimental goodbyes. I still hadn’t been able to make up my mind on whether the decision to not opt for specialisation was the right one. As I rang the doorbell, my son came forward to open the door. Even before I could come in the question was out of his mouth “What will you do next Sunday”? I said,” I will now be at home on all Sundays”. He clasped me in a tight hug. At that the cobwebs were cleared from my mind. The decision to take a break from academics was certainly the right one. It was tough not to feel sentimental about what was changing. There was also the promise of a new beginning. More time for the family, who ultimately is the single biggest reason for our existence. Goodbye to the old and welcome to the new. A cliché perhaps. But like many clichés, it captured the essence of the moment.

At last, an answer to the chicken and egg riddle !

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 10:15:00 +0000

“Venky’s solves the riddle. Venky’s chicken came before Venky’s eggs,” I said with a laugh. “We will use that”, said my friend Girish and thus was born a classroom ad campaign. But first things first. I and Girish were students of Copywriting (the art of writing advertisements) along with seven others in the Advertising Agencies Association of India (AAAI). The nine of us were divided into two groups and given the momentous task of coming up with an ad-campaign to sell branded eggs. Girish, me, Pravina, Sarabjeet and Vernon constituted one team while Rajashree, Vivek, Sunil and Melroy constituted the other team. All of us of course dreamt of emulating the feats of legendary copywriters like David Ogilvy and the the other bright stars in the advertising firmament. The immediate business was of course to create the ad-campaign. Girish loved what I had purely meant to be a joke and since he was the accepted leader of our group we went about creating the campaign. To the uninitiated Venky’s was the abbreviation for Venkateshwara Hatcheries. Venky’s had first launched branded chicken and now we decided in our infinite wisdom that they were going to be the pioneers in branded eggs as well. If I remember correctly, we zeroed in on a hoarding campaign. The Venky solves the riddle was to be a teaser unveiled on hoardings. I honestly don’t remember after all these years as to what went into the rest of our campaign. Both teams of course had to make a presentation on D-Day before securing a certificate. The judge was a senior representative of one of the well known Indian advertising agencies. He agreed that we had an “interesting” teaser but plumped for the campaign created by the other team. They focused on a campaign which wanted to know whether consumers were buying eggs blindfold. We were of course disappointed but took the decision in good grace. I also personally brightened up for a different reason. True , we had lost out in the eyes of the judge. But we had made the most coherent attempt to answer the Chicken and Egg Riddle. Yes, Venky’s eggs came after Venky's chicken.

Main Har Ek Pal Ka Shayar Hoon

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 04:51:00 +0000

As I see the various tributes pouring in for Yash Chopra on television channels, the heart swells with a welter of emotions. It is impossible to believe that the great man who only recently celebrated his eightieth birthday and announced his retirement is gone. Dengue has claimed an unlikely victim. My mind goes back to a time 20 years back when Yash Chopra was a sprightly sixty and I was a cub reporter with a popular film magazine. I had gone to cover the shooting of one of the great man’s least known films –Parampara-at a location near Pune. The image that I have of Yashji is of a well-built person who spoke English with an accent but came across as warm and transparent. When a pesky journalist queried him about the behaviour of one of the movie’s stars Saif Ali Khan, Chopra replied with politeness. He said that he behaved very well and that you had to make allowances for a boy coming from a well to do family. Yashji also displayed superhuman patience every time Aamir Khan asked for a retake even after the director had okayed the shot. The actor who has a rage for perfection was trying to improve upon each shot of his and the great director was acceding to that request. And Yashji joined the entire crew for lunch. This was as egalitarian as it got. Quite frankly apart from this I have very little recollection of the visit. But the heart and the mind are full with a bunch of memories which will go with me to the grave. Memories of pure pleasure that come from watching a Yash Chopra movie. Whether it is the “Mere Paas Ma Hai” gem from Deewar or the intensity of Amitabh Bachchan in Trishul, the “Dekha Ek Khwab” number from Silsila or the title song of Kabhi Kabhi. While each and every one of these will hold special memories for me and lovers of Hindi cinema, my defining memory will be “Main Pal do Pal Ka Shayar Hoon”. This is not your conventional Hindi film song but poetry of the highest order. It conveys more about life than anything that I have come across from the great movie maker’s works. Especially the haunting lines “Kal Koyi Mujko Yaad Kare Kyon Koyi Mujko Yaad Kare Makroor Zaman Mere Liye Kyon Waqt Apna Barbaad Kare” We cannot but remember you Yashji. For you have now become a part of our consciousness. Something to be transmitted from generation to generation-just like your movies and songs. Just as there is a variation of the song towards the end of the movie Kabhi Kabhi-Main Har Ek Pal Ka Shayar Hoon. RIP but you will live on Yashji.

A Glimpse into Life from the Mahalakshmi Temple

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 15:30:00 +0000

“I have made a mistake by coming on this trip with you people. It is very uncomfortable traveling by car for such a long time. I should have stayed at home with mummy,” said my six year old son Sanjiv with the gravity of a person beyond his age. Sanjiv had chosen to accompany me and my parents on a trip to the Mahalakshmi temple in Mumbai. The trip was to take approximately two hours. “Come on. Your father used to travel by train and bus when he was your age to get to the temple while you have problems traveling by car,” returned my mother. Traveling by bus and train was to Sanjiv taking the road less traveled. Nevertheless my mother’s statement brought back a flood of memories about various trips to this temple beginning in the early seventies. Typically, my family (including my brother) would take a train to Byculla and then the bus to the temple. One of the joys of this trip was that we would get on to a double decker bus. My brother and I would scramble to the front seat and lean over the window just ahead of us as my parents urged us to be careful. The breeze would simply waft on to our face while we laughed delightedly. After worshipping at the temple, the next stop would be at the canteen in the temple premises where we would gulp down some tea and snacks. This would be followed by a foray into the rocks alongside the temple which led into the sea. Also there would be a wonderful view of the Hajiali dargah. This time too after worshipping the goddess of wealth, I took Sanjiv down to the canteen. We skipped the tea and snacks but I badly wanted to take him at least close to the rocks. We found out however that no trip was possible to the rocks as the entire place had been barricaded by a fence presumably on security grounds. I was deeply disappointed as I was keen on taking my son to a place which had given me considerable pleasure in the past. The view of the Dargah was however as good as ever. Nevertheless the disappointment lingered. Sanjiv despite his complaints had been able to travel to the temple in style in a car- a sign of the changed times. I could not take him to closer to the sea thanks to the fence. Alas, this too is a sign of the changed times.

Black Hair and the Art of Parenting

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 04:13:00 +0000

Last weekend I was trying to get my son Sanjiv to get ready for a competition. After his bath, I was trying to get him to apply oil on his hair. He was doing his best to avoid it. That is when I thought that my big moment had arrived. “Look at daddy’s hair. It is still jet black and that is because I have applied oil on my hair all my life. If you want to have black hair you too must apply oil,” I said with considerable flourish.
My son wasn’t to be denied his say though. “If you don’t have grey hair now, you will have grey hair eventually.” Words of wisdom from a six year old which stumped a 46 year old.
Now one of the things of which I am inordinately proud of is my black hair. Naturally black, let me assure you. None of the fancy hair dyes that are available freely in the market have ever found their way into my hair. The truth as they say is as dark as it gets. Except that this time the dark truth is a fair picture of things.
Now I am a person who hates to lose an argument as much as my son likes to win one. “Come on Sanjiv, my hair is not going to grey anytime soon. People younger than me have grey hair but your daddy hasn’t got a single strand. My hair will remain black forever,” I said with considerable glee if not triumph.
Now Sanjiv had an answer for this one too. “Daddy you will have grey hair at the time of my marriage,” he said with conviction. I was again stumped for an answer. Granted that this is a generation on the fast lane. Agreed that we live in the Web 2.0 era which is charecterized by user generation content and interactivity. But a six year old speaking about his marriage and being able to co-relate it with the colour of his daddy’s hair. At one level I was amused. At another level I was stunned and even apprehensive and it also raised questions in my mind about my ability to be a good parent. Reinvention I have realized is not only the norm in the workplace but also at home. The Web 2.0 parent can respond to user generated content by only being interactive. Words like empowerment, delegation which have become a part of the workplace lexicon now have found their way into parenting too. As I steeled myself to be a different kind of parent, I caught my reflection on the mirror. The face may have looked grim with the dawn of new realities but the hair was still jet black. The years of applying oil on my hair-not even subscribing to the fad of dry hair during my teenage days- had paid off. My lips creased into a smile with the realization that Sanjiv’s marriage is still some years away and only at that time we will see as to who has won the final argument. Till then it is back to the next dab of coconut oil.

The Kinder Side of Life:

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 05:01:00 +0000

“Please sit down here,” said the old man at the Bank in a classic case of role reversal. The younger man was being offered a seat by an elderly person. The younger man was none other thane me while the old man was one of many who displayed the kinder side of life to me for about three months last year.

The reason for this was that a fall in my office had resulted in a torn ligament. Thanks to modern surgical shoes I was quickly up and about. While the surgical shoes got me back on my feet quickly, they could not camouflage my discomfort. Add to this the fact that I had to often walk around with a stick and the world had ceased to be a stage and had become more of an oyster as I was largely confined to home.
Indeed the old man was not the only person who displayed this side of life to me during my short travails. On the rare occasion that I stepped out o f my house, the people in my building (mostly the elderly) wondered how I was managing since they had seen me take my brisk morning walk regularly. One of them said,”Tumhe nazar lag gayee,” meaning that an evil eye had befallen me. Even that much maligned species, Mumbai’s autowallas often melted enough to ferry me over short distances or literally go the extra mile.

I have now resumed my walks and my life. As I look back, I am filled with a sense of gratitude to all those who conveyed their good wishes to me during a rather trying period. And who can forget Nimish, Gurdeep and Vidhata the three original angels who ferried me to hospital after my fall in the office or my boss Srini who lent his car for the purpose.

This tribute to the kinder side of life would not be complete without a special reference to my friend Deepak. Early on in my treatment, a decision had to be made as to whether I should opt for the surgical shoes which entailed a sizeable investment or opt for the conventional cast. All of us friends when we have a medical problem immediately get in touch with Deepak. Sure enough, I was dialing Deepak and he had the answer as usual. “Ravi, I know you. You are incapable of sitting still and being in a cast will hamper your movements no end. This will totally demoralize you. Forget the cost, just opt for the shoe,” he said. That decided it. Needles to say that Deepak’s words were prophetic and his advice was based as much on the psychology of the individual as on medicine. Looking back, I must say that being mobile made a huge difference to my treatment. And it was more mental than physical. In the immortal words of Jeeves, Deepak the best doctor to walk the planet without a formal medical degree had grasped “the psychology of the individual.” Thank you Jeeves, I mean Deepak.

The Eighties: More than just “Ooh la la” and Oomph

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 07:11:00 +0000

I am a great fan of the relatively new music channel Sony Mix which is devoted exclusively to music. A few days back I was watching their programme “Hits of the Eighties” and was waiting for one of the so –called songs that defined the eighties. The films of the eighties have been a lot in the news thanks to “The Dirty Picture”. The movie is not only supposed to be a biopic on the late Silk Smita but also some kind of a reminder if not a tribute to the eighties. ‘Ooh La La from “The Dirty Picture” has become some kind of an anthem to the eighties. In short the movie and the song have become a symbol for some very crude music\movies and by extension the eighties.

I do not dispute for a moment that the mid-eighties was the most vulgar era in the history of Indian cinema. This period is best remembered for the movies\songs featuring Jeetendra-Sridevi-Jayaprada. Crass commercialism conceptualized vulgar art. The majority of the movie halls were badly maintained which made the average middle class family think twice before venturing into them. Add to this a disruptive technology called the video cassette recorder or VCR (It was indeed disruptive although in today’s era of movie downloads it may seem like an antique piece) which allowed people to view the latest movies at home thanks to piracy. The only way producers and theatre owners could make money was to make movies for the lowest common denominator who would flock to the theatres as they had little or no access to these new VCRs.

Now to get back to my original point, I was awaiting some of the songs of the “vulgar” era. What I got instead was gems like “Neela Aasman So Gaya” (Silsila); “Dikhaayi Diye Yun” (Bazaar) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVsIxzMgwVY); “Sheesha Ho ya Dil Ho” (Aasha); “Hazaar Raahein” (Thodisi Bewafai); and “Sun Sun Didi Tere Liye Ek Rishta Aaya Hai” (Khoobsurat). What you have is as good a collection of Hindi songs as any. There are some other songs as well from the eighties from movies like Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak- “Hai Mere Humsafar;” “Dil Deewana Bin Sajana Ke Mane Na” from Maine Pyar Kiya; the party song of the eighties “Ek Do Teen”(Tezaab) and not to forget “Kahdo ke Tume Meri Varna” as well as “So Gaya Yeh Jahaan”from the same movie. Can anyone forget the immortal “Mujhe Tum Yaad Karna” from Mashal or “Sun Sahiba Sun” from Ram Teri Ganga Maili which was another landmark in the career of Lata Mangeshkar. The list can go on really. The point that I am trying to make is that if “Ooh La La” is one reality of the eighties so was “Dekha Ek Khwab” from Silsila. If it was the era of a Bhappi Lahiri, it was also the era that saw Shiv-Hari compose music for Silsila and Chandni. Granted “Ooh La La” was the dominant theme of the eighties but by no means the only one. And Thank You Sony Mix for helping put things in context.

Balu the Bull

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 10:50:00 +0000

“Balu the Bull, eats stomach full”, chimed a bunch of teenagers including (yours truly) hovering between the ages of 15 and 17.

The Balu in question being no bull but a well built young lad of around 15 with a good measure of adipose thrown in. Not all adipose but a certain amount of muscle too which used to deter us boys from going too far. The combined effect of muscle and adipose was to give the impression of a man who enjoyed his food and consequently beat the inflation rate quite comfortably.

Balu or G Balasubramaniam was my hostel mate at the Hindu Senior Secondary School, Chennai where I studied from the eighth to tenth standard between 1978 to 1981. Balu was two years older than me and a bright student. He also loved reading books. Thanks to Balu I was introduced to Forsyth’s immortal work “The Day of the Jackal” and the definitive book on the mafia “The Godfather” by Mario Puzo. Balu would read excerpts from these novels while me and another hostel mate Muthu listened with rapt attention. These readings were conducted during study our in our room. All I can say in mitigation is that at least we read while the majority of the hostel mates pretended to be engrossed in studying while all they were waiting for was the dinner gong.

Apart from introducing me to the great works of crime fiction Balu occasionally helped me with my studies as well. Balu, me and Muthu formed a trio who were well regarded by the warden as well as the students. Looking back I can say with some pride that we did manage to raise the bar as far as education standards where concerned in the hostel.

There is one incident which standouts in my mind. One of my relatives Kavita (another teenager) used to visit me quite often in the hostel. Now the rumour was that Balu had developed a soft corner for this girl. My protective instincts were aroused. Friendship was secondary to the cause of protecting the members of the fairer sex. I did not know how to deal with the situation. I began to keep an eye on Balu. The next time I thought that the Bull was on a prowl I began following him. Balu I think cottoned on and led me to a merry dance. Apart from, a little pain in my legs nothing really came off the exercise. The bull of course gave me a huge grin. As subsequent events were to prove my doubts were entirely unfounded and the whole story in journalistic parlance was nothing more than a plant designed for an audience of one-me.

Soon after Balu alas completely disappeared from my life. After his Class X examinations, he left the hostel. Apart from a chance meeting near Bangalore station, I haven’t seen Balu for over a quarter century. The memories of the man who introduced me to Michael Corleone and the chacal (French for Jackal) however refuse to fade. As Don Corleone said in The Godfather, ”Everyman has but one destiny”. Balu I guess is pursuing his while I am pursuing mine and our paths may never cross again.

Back To School

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 12:45:00 +0000

"Hello," a bunch of voices greeted me."Hello" I returned instinctively as I walked into class looking a like a martian since my right foot was encased in the costliest shoe that I had worn in my life. I was wearing a surgical shoe as I had during my journey in life fallen down the stairs and torn a ligament on my right foot. More on that historic occasion at some other time.

I occupied the first seat that came to my mind-which was actually on the last row. I had been a confirmed back bencher all my life and I reaffirmed my credentials. A word of explantion is in order here. I had enrolled for an Executive MBA programme. I had done this after two decades of service (distinguished or otherwise) to journalism and then corporate communications. I am on the wrong side of 40 actually forty five and what is more I look it. (Although, I must clarify that there are no silver strands as yet).

Even then I wasn't prepared for what quite happened. There was this guy who suddenly came upto me and who not only engaged me in conversation but actually sought my guidance. A few minutes into the conversation and I realized that that the guy had mistaken me to be well-- a teacher. Much to his disappointment, I had to clarify that I was a student just like him. This young chap said " I thought that the entire class greeted you since you were the teacher. Another chorus rose in protest, " Hey,we always knew that he was a student." I looked round at the class gratefully, with my ego restored.

I must say that the past two months in B-School have been a delight. While I had done some some short term distance education programmes before, this was the first time that I had actually entered the hallowed precincts of a class room after more than two decades. The students are a mixed lot in the age groups of 25 to forty five. I have realized why companies prize classroom learning over distance learning when it comes to an MBA. Like one of our profeSsors said," An MBA is a state of mind". The collaborative experience of working together in groups is something one looks forward to as it enables you to learn from others apart from getting to know people better.

Sorry my dear young friend. At this point in life, I prefer to be a student Teaching, will have to wait.

PS: This young kid who mistook me for a teacher has not been seen in class since my first day and seems to have quit the course. I guess he prefers to be a teacher.

Driver Jagannath Again

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 01:30:00 +0000

I am driver Jagannath again. Although I am not in the service of master Ravi any longer (and thank God for that) I still have to see him everyday. You see I have got another job in the same complex that he lives. Everyday, as I come in, I see him finishing his morning walk and flash my smile at him. At least master Ravi thinks that I am smiling at him. In reality, I am having a good laugh at his predicament. Months after he sacked me he is yet to find another driver. He has some temporary driver who my sources tell me make me dance to his tune.
This is what comes of not recognizing a good man who is doing his job. Look earlier, the population (pedestrians) had a problem. Now it is him.
On the other hand, my new master is a guy after my own heart. Look I am not even naming him. That shows you the kind of respect I have for him. No silly restrictions like driving at 60 kilometres per hour. He clearly believes that the world is a stage for drivers to parade their art. Nothing less than 100 kilometres on the highway. If in the process, some members of the population have to use their medical insurance, so what? No nonsense like, not getting into arguments with vehicles that are bigger than you. It is all about giving them a real run for their money. The cuts and thrusts on our vehicle are badges of courage. Finally, a master after my own heart. The guy is calling me. Obviously, we can take off.

Jagannath’s Master: How does one deal with Jagannath ? Granted that he is not mad but that is not saying much. He thinks that I really enjoy his driving. The facts are otherwise. I am too terrified to say anything when he whizzes past at 100 or is it 1000 kilometres per hour. I don’t care about the scratches on the car? Of Course I do. I shoud be in a state to admit this. Usually, I am too happy to just get off and run to safety. What does Jagannath mean by saying that he is not smiling but laughing at Ravi? Ravi takes it out on me. Whenever he sees me he doesn’t smile or laugh. He has no need to. He just shakes my hand and gives me a wink. That is his way of telling me: I know the feeling.
At last , I have mustered the courage to tell Jagannath that he has to go. That is why I have called him. My parents refuse to get on to the car. So much as I dread facing this modern version of James Bond with his own interpretation of a licence to kill, I am going to ask him to go. It is all about loving your parents you know. And will someone now tell Ravi that he can stop winking and actually start laughing.?

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 09:00:00 +0000

A Tribute to an Unknown Indian

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 08:55:00 +0000

November 10, 2010 is a day in my life that I will never forget. My son Sanjiv completed five years and we visited the family temple at Kalidaikurichi village in Tirunleveli District of Tamil Nadu. We were at the village after 35 years at the express desire of my father who wanted me to worship at the temple at least once in my life. Apart from my father and son, I was accompanied by my brother-in-law—Parthu-and father-in-law Mr Krishnan.

As the priest was performing the prayers, my worst fears came true. Suddenly my brother-in-law looked at my father and exclaimed that he appeared to be in trouble. A word of explanation is needed here. My father is a diabetic and at times he tends to lose consciousness, ironically enough when the sugar level dips. Indeed my father appeared to lose consciousness; we gave him sugar as we are generally prepared for such contingencies. He recovered but it was apparent to us that he was still not completely okay. My father however insisted on being in the temple as the prayers were still on.

Soon, it was clear that that this was not sustainable and my father fell unconscious again. My brother-in-law then acted swiftly and carried him on his shoulders to the vehicle parked outside the temple while a priest accompanied us to in order to give us direction to the hospital. A big thank you to these two men who were instrumental in saving my father’s life by their timely action.

Once we got to hospital, and explained the problem, the doctor put him on intravenous medication and wanted to see his case reports. I promised to secure it, went out and hailed an auto and explained the situation to the driver. The driver quickly took me to our relative’s place where we were staying and agreed to wait while I secured his case history.

Soon I was back in the auto with the reports and my mother. When we reached the hospital, we found out that my father had regained consciousness. I went back to the auto driver and offered to pay him extra money. He refused. I was touched and asked him for his name. “Ramaswami”, he replied. I thanked him fervently. I thank this unknown Indian again who resides in the small village of Kalidaikurichi but has kept alive my faith in human nature. Thank you once more Ramaswami.

Driver Jagannath, and James Bond’s licence to kill

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 07:20:00 +0000

Hi I am driver Jagannath and I drive master Ravi’s Swift. He is a good man this master Ravi but he doesn’t know a thing about driving and I wish he would simply stay out of it. Instead he tries backseat driving all the time.

Take his ridiculous idea about speed for instance. He insists that I restrict to driving at 60 kms per hour. On the Highway ? Come on if you drive at less than 100 kms per hour it is a sign of disrespect to the highway as well as its builders. I am of the firm opinion that even in the narrow bylanes of Ghatkopar which we traverse everyday, anything less than 100 kms is an insult to the car, the roads and the engineers who conceived these narrow bylanes. When I express my views to master, Ravi he wonders as to where I got my licence from. Come on, I got it from the RTO. Also, although I am not much of a reading man I have heard of someone called James Bond and his 007 licence. Now 007 gives a man the licence to kill. Once you have a legitimate driving licence, in my opinion it is really up to the population (pedestrians) to take care of themselves. Did James Bond ever hesitate while using his licence? Why should I?

Take master Ravi’s other silly idea. Don’t get into confrontations on the road, he says. Remember to not get into silly arguments with BEST buses, the huge Volvo tourist vehicles and myriad lorries who simply get in the way of a man discharging his fundamental responsibilities on the road. Come on I know better. I have driven tourist vehicles in my earlier jobs and let me tell you that they didn’t win all the arguments. Yes the Swift may occasionally get a few scratches and even get smashed up. These are occupational hazards. Anyway, he has insurance. These cowards—how do they get to own cars in the first place. On top of that the guy doesn’t pay me properly. And he expects me to be on call. Oh God, he is calling me again. I will have to stop now folks and will update you later.

Post Script: This is master Ravi here although I have personally considered myself to be nothing more than a slave to Jagannath’s driving. I called Jagannath to inform him that after considering various options like buying hefty term insurance, I have decided to sack him. Thanks to that, I hope to celebrate my next birthday.

Celebrating Ganesha

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 08:23:00 +0000

This year’s Ganesha festival which was celebrated last month proved to be one with a difference for me. A mix of circumstances which began with my wife falling sick resulted in my performing the prayer. Usually, I was very happy to let my wife do it and prior to my marriage my father conducted the prayers. This has been in keeping with my nature of not being a great believer in rituals despite being a firm believer in God.
Well to perform the prayer, I had to get into traditional clothes and on earlier occasions I have made an issue of these things. This year though I got into them without any fuss and sat cross legged on the floor. I repeated the mantras after my father who read them out to me. The prayer lasted for about half an hour or so.
At the end of it all, it was time to ring the traditional bell, bow to the lord and seek his blessings. Strangely, after all this I was filled with a sense of peace and satisfaction. Maybe not the same peace that I felt at the Samadhi of the Father of the Nation at Rajghat.
http://glimpsesintolife.blogspot.com/2009/11/connecting-with-mahatma.html
A peace nevertheless.
Next day it was time for the immersion. Normally since the day after the Ganesh festival is a working day (which is the immersion day for many Tamilians), I have rarely been for these. Since, the next day was a Sunday, I went to immerse the statue of the Lord along with my mother at an artificially created lake near my house. We handed over the statue of Lord Ganesha to a young person who swam a bit and then immersed the idol. As I caught a glimpse of the Lord bobbing up and down with the sacred thread draped around it, I was filled with a senses of peace, quiet and joy. An image that has been captured in my mind in way no high resolution camera can. As the poet said “The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more.”

Celebrating Ganesha

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 08:23:00 +0000

RIP: Dr Sethna

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 10:25:00 +0000

“You guys write anything,” said the elderly gentleman across the table to us two journalists-myself and another colleague. The gentleman in question was Dr H N Sethna, the man who was the driving spirit behind India’s first peaceful nuclear explosion in 1974 and we were meeting him in his capacity as the chairman of the Tata Power Company. Dr Sethna was clearly making known his disdain for journalists. At that time (around 1997) I was a correspondent with a leading business daily tracking the power beat and my senior colleague who was covering the Tata group had arranged for this meeting. It was in some ways a dream come true for me as I was aware of the history of the man and also getting to meet the chairman of any Tata Group comp any was not easy for a junior journalist like me.
To get back to the meeting, my senior colleague protested and laughed his way out of the rhetorical statement while Dr Sethna too answered his questions with considerable vim and vigor. After that meeting I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting him on a one –on-one basis although I did meet him at the company annual general meetings.

It was the last annual general meeting that he chaired where I had another interesting conversation with Dr Sethna. I had been tipped off before the meeting that he was going to step down on that day. Sure enough he did. As he walked off at the end of the meeting, I had to ask him the question: Why? “I am too old,” he shot back as he walked away. What he meant was that he had attained the age of 75 under which Tata Group none-executive directors had to step down at that time. I could not help chuckling at this.

A fortnight back, when I read about his death at the ripe old age of 86, memories of my two meetings with him came flooding back. I could not help smiling again at the thought of my last meeting with him. Or at the thought of the message that was sent when India successfully tested its first nuclear bomb in 1974: The Buddha has smiled. For India’s rivals who got the message loud and clear, it was no laughing matter.
RIP: Dr Sethna

Yoga & Hari Om

noreply@blogger.com (ravindran subramanian) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 08:49:00 +0000

“Hari OM,”said the voice at the other end of the phone. “Hari OM”, I returned. “What a wonderful thing it is to hear Ravi say the name of the Lord,” my wife interjected. This was prompted by the well known fact that, I am not religious by nature despite being a firm believer in God.

To get back to the telephone conversation, the voice on the phone was my Yoga teacher Shyamjee, asking when he should come over the next day. After finalizing the timing, I began ruminating on the change that Yoga and more specifically Shyamjee had wrought in my life. I had become a calmer person and reoriented my focus on life with a firm emphasis on health.

“Consider this body to be your property and remember that it is priceless. People spend all their lives running after money but spare little time to look after their health. What is the use of all the money in the world if your health is damaged? So many world leaders are able to spare sometime to look after their health Are you busier than them,” Shyamjee would say every week as we did Yoga.

The simple truths of life. Something which all of us forget as we go about the business of life and living. Simple truths brought home to me by Shyamjee every Saturday and Sunday while learning Yoga from him.

While teaching me to breathe in and breathe out he would say, “Remember it is this very breath that keeps us alive. It is this very breath that is the source of life”. Again life’s meaning explained at the simplest possible level. Life itself stripped to the bare essentials. These are insights I look have been looking forward to every weekend. And of course to hearing Hari OM.

Please click on link below to read related post
http://glimpsesintolife.blogspot.com/2010/02/yoga-and-new-year-resolutions.html