Tharoor's Interlocutors

Shashi Tharoor has tweeted himself into trouble for the umpteenth time. This time over the role visualized for the Saudis in sorting out Indo-Pak problems. When there was a hue and cry over involving them in what India has always maintained to be bilateral disputes, the Minister of State took shelter in semantics. He has been misunderstood, he claimed, since what he had in mind for the Saudis was the role of an ‘interlocutor’ and not a ‘mediator’. Oxford’s Advanced Learners’ Dictionary defines an interlocutor as ‘one who takes part in a discussion or a dialogue’. One wonders how the Saudis would do that without getting involved in the dispute. If the intent was to use Saudis’ leverage with Pakistanis (remember how they bailed out beleaguered Pakistani leaders like Nawaz Sharif, Zardari & Musharraf !) to put a stop to terror strikes from across the border, our delegation failed to visualize that the Saudis can do likewise in raking up Kashmir problem at Pakistan’s instance. Tweeting apart, it is time for our government to understand that we have to fight our own battles and secondly, prudence is better than valour

On Success & Failure

I have lately become a Robin Sharma fan. In his book, 'The Greatness Guide', he says, 'Nothing fails like success.. Success actually breeds complacency, inefficiency and -worst of all- arrogance'. People 'go on the defensive, spending their energy protecting their success rather than staying true to the very things that got them to the top.'
The thought was striking since one always heard the opposite. So I circulated the quote among friends. This morning, a lady friend emailed her response and emphatically stated that she disagreed and the matter was debatable. I went back to the quote to be able to appreciate what made her express such strong disapproval.
Well, who doesn't seek success? All of us do. And those who do manage to become what in Bollywood or Sports rankings is often described as Number 1, do flaunt their position, market-price and often contempt for competitors. Robin Sharma is merely highlighting that our focus, even while at the top, should be to go on improving ourselves rather than become complacent or condescending. If our industry and innovativeness has taken us to the top slot, we must continue to excel rather than assume airs and worry only about slipping or sliding down the ladder. Most of us do falter, lose focus and come down the rankings. We end up with the first best-seller, be it a movie or a book; the first grand slam; the first major success. A perfect example of success finally failing to deliver consistently.
It will be misreading Robin Sharma to infer that he is decrying success. He is only highlighting the need not to be bogged down with our achievements but aim still higher. The message displayed outside the local YWCA once read, “The widest room is the room for self-improvement”.

Chiki Sarkar's review of Chetan Bhagat's 'Two States'

Chiki Sarkar's review of Chetan Bhagat's latest block-buster 'Two States' (Outlook, Jan. 25) was typical of critics running down works, which become a rage among readers, ostensibly for not coming up to one or the other literary benchmark. Every successful work has its intrinsic merits and need not emulate others. Nor it needs to be banned like Rushdie's or its creator to be exiled, like M.F.Husain in order to be recognized. A critic's job is not to look for what the work never claims to be but to approach and analyze it with empathy. Two States would remain a hit for the simple reason that readers can relate to different characters portrayed with keen observation and gentle sarcasm. Chetan Bhagat's narrative, from whichever couch it may emanate, is extremely interesting, entertaining and gripping, which makes the novel hilarious and simply 'unputdownable'. It is a pity Sarkar has been as petty as the makers of 3 Idiots were in acknowledging Bhagat's merit. The reviewer's attitude is reflective of the way Indians treat sex- enjoy it to the hilt but don't approve of it in public.

God's Own Country!

The Air India’s Flight to Kochi, though punctual, was a listless affair. The only interesting thing happened towards the end when I learnt that my co-passenger was an MP representing the same area we were headed to. He was all praise for the educated Kerala electorate who threw out those playing communal politics, wanted development and did not promote film heroes like Tamilians. He thought the current parliamentary session was a success, formation of a separate Telangana state in Andhra a certainty and his week-end visit home only meant to meet his constituents. While I mused over why the same electorate with the highest literacy rate never reposed faith in a single party and had to flee God’s own country to find jobs elsewhere, we were asked to fasten the seat belts for landing at Kochi’s picturesque airport. On arrival, I told the cab driver that I had met his MP on the flight. He cynically smiled to say, ‘They are only seen during elections’. My wife, meanwhile, was deeply upset that the agent whose card had a logo depicting the silhouette of a houseboat and palm trees with the promise of ‘whispering waves’ had put us up in a budget hotel. She turned out to be right. Abad group ran too many properties to enable us to remember the details. ‘Banta Singh and Santa Singh are the same’, I suggested to her but she called Delhi to ensure that Nair took no more liberties with our itinerary and compensated us with complimentary dinners during the rest of the trip.

We drove through morning to Vaikom, on to a very narrow, broken road. My spine, already weakened with osteophytes, groaned loudly at every thud while I made a cushion of my right hand to pat it with patience. Somehow the road did not fit in with the global image of Kerala’s backwaters. I did not know it then that the actual point where the popular cruises begin was several miles down at Kumarakom or furher down at Alleppey -the southern end of backwaters while we were at the northern tip, being developed as a tourist destination. While I scanned the serene waters spread along the horizon, my wife quizzed the wily Ramesh, who kept more to himself than revealed, about our exact whereabouts. The boat we were supposed to occupy was a beauty but someone in its driver’s family had ostensibly passed away so we were made to move into a larger boat with two bedrooms. Minutes ticked away inexplicably and as our romance with Kerala’s backwaters began, Ramesh also talked us into accepting another couple on board. ‘I told you, Sir, na that the driver has a tragedy so please don’t mind. They will be in a separate room.’ A steam boat brought them to our house boat while it idled around lunch and a harassed young couple came on board. No hellos, no smiles! They vanished into the other bedroom. While we wondered whether they have had a fight or found us bad company, food, enough for six, was served to two of us. The fried fish made up for all bad feelings. They re-emerged when we were asked to move to the upper deck as the ‘other family’ wanted to have lunch. We chose to retire to our room with a fidgety air conditioner and a CD of ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. Ramesh was at it once again, ‘Sorry, Sir. This is the only one we have.’ I preferred to read Chetan Bhagat’s ‘Five Point Someone’ (No, the boat didn’t keep any books) while my wife plugged in her headset to listen to music.
The next two hours were heavenly. We decided to focus on what we had come all the way to see. The house boat slid over the serene waters silently as we gazed enchanted on the embankments lined with countless coconut and palm trees. You could see women washing clothes at the a distant bank and then an odd boat being stuffed with sand. Ramesh had turned a guide now and told us whatever he could. ‘Best sand, Sir. He turned to my wife, ‘Madam, are you enjoying? Should I click your picture- on your second honeymoon’, he chuckled. We didn’t know it then but learnt later that the other couple, on the first-ever honeymoon, had been robbed of privacy. The crafty Ramesh had shown them the same boat and told them the same story. ‘Only you were to go on this exclusive boat. Someone passed away and the driver is not there so we have to put you up on the other house boat! Please don’t mind, huh! Separate room.’ The bitter lady in the other room confided later that the romancing couple had to watch the violent ‘Gazni’ on their honeymoon. ‘Sorry, madam. Only one CD.’


The house boat turned and entered a narrow waterway. There were huts on both sides. Small children came out of some homes to wave to us. Inquisitive men looked at strangers peeping into their lives. An elderly man, already neck-deep in water, looked at us and took a dip. Small boats lay tied on both banks to tree barks dug deep into the still waters. Working jetties! The boat swerved to the left again, stopped intruding into their privacy and entered wider water bodies. The afternoon sun shone relentlessly setting the splashing waters aglow. It looked as if deep, dark surroundings had been set afire. We sailed past an abandoned Chinese fishing net, which looked like a huge squarish bowl, which used to be dipped into waters and then pulled up with a wooden lever along with the booty. We were to see more of them at Alleppey later, some of them in action. A couple of steamers sped past us carrying passengers and gurgling waters around them breaking the deafening silence. We turned right yet again and the boat went past a hamlet with women in nighties busy in household chores. ‘Whatever happened to the traditional Keralite costumes’, my wife wondered. ‘Perhaps convenience and affordability comes first’. Ramesh made his last appearance as the familiar steamboat slid alongside. ‘Sorry, Sir. There is an emergency.’ He jumped on to the steamboat a little later and got away not to be seen again till our departure. We moved along the bank as the distant sun to our left prepared to go down. The houseboat anchored for the night allowing us to come on ground. A row of colas stood on a table. We picked up one and asked about the price. ‘Forty rupees.’ Nothing comes cheap if you are a tourist. We spoke to our daughters to tell them they were being missed as darkness enveloped the sky.

The night too was eventful with air conditioner switching off intermittently and a few of the ants spotted in a row on the boat’s floor managing to climb on to the bed. That was quite scary! The boat scampered back to the spot where we had started from by the time we sat for breakfast. This was when the newly-wed young lady took every crew member to task for terminating the cruise more than an hour before the scheduled time. ‘We paid so much money and you return one hour before time. What’s this? We are not leaving the boat.’ Our local agent happened to call right then and she asked him to reprimand hers in Malayalam. “Are you a Tamilian? he queried and learnt that she was from Hyderabad and spoke Telugu, Hindi and English only. The verbal duel that followed helped her extract another four hours of cruise from the houseboat owner. We felt good for them and packed off hurriedly to Alleppey to give the couple some privacy they deserved. The afternoon was spent shopping for handicrafts saving the evening for the Alleppey beach. Also as Alappuzha beach, it is a beautiful, vast expanse of sands and turquoise blue waters of the Arabian sea. The old lighthouse looked mystical in the evening. There is a century old dock whose pier extends deep into the sea. We felt like walking on it but saw the missing planks in time and returned to the waves. We kept stepping forward and let the waves go past our ankles filling our slippers with sand. Walking long the coastline revealed dozens of young boys and girls befriending the waves. A toddler caught our eye as he tried repeatedly to break free from his father’s clutches to rush in to the sea. As the Sun slid down, our eyes were glued to the horizon while shutters of cameras and mobiles clicked throwing flashes of light forward. Dozens of gleaming Chinese kites rose in the darkening sky. At the same time, the Naval Symphonic Band celebrating the Navy week ironically played the song ‘Suno gaur se duniya walo, Buri nazar na hum pe dalo, Chahe jitna zore laga lo, sab se aage honge, Hindustani.’


We left Alleppey next morning to race to Fort Kochi, 50 kms away and best known for Church of St. Francis where Vasco da Gama lay buried for fourteen years before his remains were taken to Portugal. The once Roman Catholic Church is now managed by the Church of South India and draws the curious and faithful alike. We stepped out to find a row of stalls, Janpath style, selling bric-a-brac, and picked up a few souvenirs after hard bargaining. It was quite warm outside and sighting a fresh coconut vendor was a relief. My wife argued you could get one for 15 rupees even in Delhi but the vendor ignored her and looked over our shoulders at the foreigners for better deals.

Our next halt was at the bowl-shaped Chinese fishing nets, said to be introduced in 13th century by Chinese traders and now a tourist attraction. The size of some of the big fishes being sold next to them, despite being video graphed by a gullible tourist, made me suspicious. A shopkeeper selling garments close to the site confirmed that only the tiny ones were caught in the nets while the rest were supplied by the fishing trawlers from the deep sea. Our nest destination was the Paradesi Jewish Synagogue, which is at the end of the narrow Jew Lane, almost monopolized by the Kashmiri traders who step out of shops to accost tourists. The Synagogue was closed during lunch hour so we chose to shop for spices. When it opened, we went past an exhibition of a series of paintings beginning with the arrival of Jews in Cochin. Most of them either migrated to Portugal or converted later. Female visitors wearing revealing clothes, sleeveless tops and skirts specifically mentioned, could borrow scarves to cover themselves up before entering the prayer house. We were asked to remove our shoes. The Synagogue’s Scrolls, the Torahs, meaning the instructions or laws of Judaism, were hidden behind a curtain inside. A guide was asking a Belgian tourist to look at the glass chandeliers. ‘Do you know from where these came? You made them.’ Oil lamps, one of them was lit, were first filled with water and then oil, which would stay at top, before lighting them. A brass-railed pulpit stood in the middle. ‘Look beneath your feet, Madam. These are all Chinese, 18th century, hand-painted porcelain tiles.’ The lady repeated the information to her male companion in Dutch who nodded intermittently. Near the gate, the man on the counter informed us that prayers are offered on the weekends. ‘Why prohibit photography’, I asked. ‘Security’, he evasively said but the intent could well be to sell brochures and picture post cards showing the Synagogue.

The evening was reserved for Kochi’s Marine Drive, a poor cousin of Mumbai’s in terms of length but lined with many more boats, most with upper decks, which take you across to the harbour end @ 50 rupees an hour. We fell for it and were made to wear life jackets, post-Thekkady tragedy in October this year in which nearly forty people lost their lives. The evening sky changed colours rapidly as the sun went down allowing The Taj hotel’s neon sign to emerge. A coastguard vessel blew its horn twice as we came in its way and in the melee, you could no longer hear the waters lapping against the hull. I tried clicking a few pictures of the ships anchored on the other side but failed. The movement of the boat and darkness all around frustrated my attempts. An engine sound caught my ears right then and a steam boat raced past us without any light. For the first time, the rotatable headlight was switched on as the driver swerved right towards the now illuminated shore. We rounded off the trip with a visit to a five-storied store. My wife called home:

‘Hello! I am at Mahalakshmi store..’
‘No, Madam. Jayalakshmi’, the group of sales girls spoke in unison. ‘on M.G.Road’. As if the location would have altered the name itself.
‘O.K., O.K. Jayalakshmi. Should I pick up a Lehenga and some Punjabi suits for you?’
Punjabi suits in Kerala! Whatever happened to the traditional Pattu-pavadas and Thaavanis! Thank God my wife finally picked up a Kasavu saree for herself!

At dinner, we had fish for the umpteenth time before flying out of God’s own country.
***

India's Indira

It were the discussions on TV channels that reminded most people that it has been 25 years since we lost Indira Gandhi-the charismatic leader of Congress party and India’s most widely known prime minister after Nehru. There have been many assessments of her career. The favourable ones mention some of the progressive steps taken under her leadership including nationalization of commercial banks, abolition of privy purses, the decisive victory over arch-rival Pakistan and for providing leadership to the Non-aligned group in international politics. The critical voices justifiably fault her for curbing inner-party democracy, declaring emergency, press censorship, assault on Golden Temple, empty slogans like Garibi Hatao. There is some truth in all these observations.
Indira Gandhi was brought in ironically by the Congress’ old guard who believed they could manipulate her easily. However she proved to be their undoing when she split the party and forced them into oblivion. Her early encounters with such hardened politicians may have made her steely enough not to brook any opposition to her. The way she axed Vasant Sathe, who was gaining popularity as I&B minister in her cabinet was a case in point. Today, the Left parties claim credit for the progressive steps taken by her disregarding the fact that the Congress’ economic policy was anything but Left-of-Centre in that phase. She wooed USSR and annoyed US a lot by giving the same orientation to the foreign policy. The non-aligned group in UN was dismissed by the West as India’s baby despite it being a 118 nations-strong group representing 55% of world’s population. Cuba’s Fidel Castro, Palestine’s Yasser Arafat, Yugoslavia’s Tito & Egypt’s Nasser rubbed shoulders with her at one summit after another. Her frontal attack on the issue of UK-owned Diego Garcia being turned into a US naval base was a constant thorn in West’s flesh. At home, she called the shots in all states and dictated who should be the CM and for how long. Over time, she was surrounded by a coterie restricting access to others. The decisive war against Pakistan brought her a lot of fame. The military gains were largely lost during the Simla summit where Bhutto surprisingly sought the territory captured on the Western Front rather than 80,000 POW in India’s custody. India exploded a nuclear device at Pokhran in 1974 under her leadership that led to sanctions. She was unseated in an electoral malpractice case that led to demand for her govt.’s ouster under the leadership of J.P Narayan. She fought back, declared internal emergency, imposed press censorship, and imprisoned opposition leaders but lost power in an election called 18 months later. This was the darkest phase of her political career. This was the only time I met her in 1978.

Indira Gandhi was determined to prove that she continued to be popular. A South Indian travel group included a visit to her residence in the sight-seeing itinerary for local tourists. I received an invitation to the release of a book on her infamous son, Sanjay Gandhi at her residence and took my wife of less than a year to see her. She adored Indira Gandhi and was sceptical of my claim. We sat under shamiana in the open, some twenty rows away from the dais, which was crowded by the local leaders. The rays from the afternoon sun fell on my wife’s eyes, which she shielded with a brochure. Indira Gandhi strode into the venue briskly, held the book, made some off the cuff remarks, ignored the crowd on the dais and walked back while we stood up. As she passed by our row, she leaned toward my wife and smilingly said, “Aap par to sara waqt dhoop hi padti rahi”. My wife, totally disarmed by her keen observation and unexpected attention, was too dumbfounded to muster even a response.

Indira Gandhi returned to power soon after but the spark was gone. Punjab began to burn with hundreds of Hindus being shot in its fields. Golden Temple became a sanctuary for Sikh terrorists with arms being smuggled in kar seva trucks day in and day out. People who wrote against Bhindrawalan, Lala Jagat Narain of Punjab Kesari for instance, were summarily shot dead by his goons. Senior Akali leaders lay low while a parallel govt. ran from Akal Takht. Finally, Indira Gandhi’s govt. ordered Operation Blue Star to flush out the Sikh terrorists. She paid for it with her life as twp of her own Sikh bodyguards sprayed bullets into her.

Controversies apart, Indira Gandhi was a powerful symbol in her own right. When she assumed power, all men and many women mocked her. ‘Petticoat raj aa gaya hai’ was the popular refrain. But she proved herself superior to most men. Even Atal Bihari Vajpayee, BJP’s senior leader and later prime minister of India, compared her with Goddess Durga when she won the 1971 war against Pakistan. She was elegant, stylish, aristocratic and sensitive- all at the same time.
R.I.P.

China’s Hindu!

It is October 2, celebrated as Gandhi Jayanti across the country and a national holiday. I opened the daily “The Hindu’ expecting some inspiring and incisive analysis associated with the father of the nation or the principles and policies he enunciated. What I found instead was a banner headline “Tian’anmen showcases rise if China” and a write up by its editor datelined Beijing. More reports and pictures followed inside. Curiously there was not a word of criticism about the blatant display of 50 weapon systems including inter-continental nuclear missiles when the world is seriously concerned with issues of proliferation and universal disarmament. Nor was there any analysis of what it forebodes for us whose borders have lately seen increasing incursions across the northern boundaries. There was verbatim reproduction of what Hu Jintao said about ‘socialism, Marxism, reforms and opening up policy without any analysis of how the disparage elements blend together. It is the only country in the world, which has the temerity not to stamp visas on the passports of Indians belonging to J&K and Arunachal Pradesh but to issue them on loose sheets. In fact it went so far as to protest visits of not just H.H. Dalai Lama but also our prime minister to our own North-Eastern State. While there is no denying the fact that China has recorded spectacular growth, much of it has also been allegedly achieved by denying democratic freedoms and labour rights. Behind the soldiers donning ‘2007-style uniforms’ and marching smartly in Tiananmen square, infamous for suppression of pro-democracy protestors, lies hidden abject poverty and corruption of common man. But even a serious newspaper like ‘The Hindu’ cannot pierce beyond what can be described as the Great Wall of Chinese Opacity and censorship.
Many may argue that it’s nothing to raise eyebrows about considering our neighbour in the north celebrated 60th anniversary of the People’s Republic. I am not sure whether other nations in our neighbourhood, there are half a dozen surrounding us, enjoy the same privilege. ‘The Hindu’ in fact ‘showcases’ everything about China far more enthusiastically than the Chinese themselves, which may explain why its editorial staff is extended Chinese hospitality so frequently and so generously. Its full-length laudatory editorial on Tibet in the past without a word of sympathy for thousands of refugees living in exile across the world would substantiate it. Letters of protest from readers were ignored except one written by Ram Chandra Guha, the noted historian and others, a heavily edited version of which was squeezed into its columns. The intent surely was not to reflect a dissenting opinion but for the sake of record. One could even argue that everything is fine so long development takes place and the standard of life of its 1.3 billion people improves. Should we, then, ban strikes by affluent pilots who report sick make our national airlines lose billions? Should we follow the Chinese example and tame press eulogising foreign governments by publishing the handouts issued by their news agencies more religiously than the handouts of PIB? Let responsible sections of press, like ‘The Hindu’, cover international events freely but in a manner, which is objective rather than subservient

Revisiting Indo-Pak Border

8 August and an evening to spare in Firozepur! There could be nothing better than to rush to Hussainiwala border on the outskirts of the sleepy town. And that is precisely what I did, hiring a Maruti car, which raced to the border in ten minutes. How far is it from the centre of the city? ‘Barely 8 kilometres’, the driver mumbled and led me to the Martyrs’ Samadhi before I could even think about being overcharged for such a small distance. The way to the wall carrying images of Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru has been laid out in red stone. It nearly burnt my soles (the shoes are taken off out of reverence!) and I wondered why no one ever had thought of spreading a mat for the visitors. There were many children who chose to splash in the water being filled up in the pond near the statues of the three martyrs whose names have become inextricably interlinked in the annals of our history. The fourth, Batukeshwar Dutt, was acquitted in the infamous Lahore trial and later died in Calcutta in 1964. Alternatively, they rushed to the green lawns below where a Samadhi in black granite stands in memory of Punjab’ Mata- Bhagat Singh’s mother in fulfilment of her last wish. ‘Have the sacrifices of such young men gone in vain’, I wondered, ‘as thoughts about the self-centred, power-hungry politicians invaded my mind. Beyond her Samadhi, there was a row of brick pillars on which Firozepur-Lahore trains used to run in good old days and made the district prosperous. Now it just highlighted the eternal divide.

A five- minute walk takes you to the gate manned by BSF who issue a small paper token allowing you to proceed. There is a notice announcing a ban on cameras, video cameras, mobile phones etc. I am carrying two of the forbidden items so check with the sentry. I am told that I can carry my mobile phone, which wouldn’t work in view of jammers installed at the border and the camera too is fine. The Notice must have been put up before they heard about Google Earth, which makes it unnecessary to shoot pictures of likely targets on the ground and no one ever thought of removing it. I walk for another ten minutes to pass through a tall arch with the four lions visible in the middle. The actual gates are just a little ahead but we are herded in to enclosures on either side- women to the left or men to the right. ‘Why this segregation?’, I felt like asking but the stern demeanour of the burly six feet plus Sikh soldier made me melt away without a whisper. There were the privileged ones who were allowed to drive right to the gate behind us and also to occupy chairs perched on our side. The commoners like me were pushed towards a stair case leading to steps behind.

The heat was unbearable and beads of perspiration kept falling from my chin. I wondered whether the BSF jawans guarding the border were made of better stuff or wore an absorbing fabric. The stands were filling up fast. The Pakistani side had lots of men in long shirts and salwars. Their women sat in a separate enclosure draped in black burqas or ethnic decorative dresses. A woman and her cameraman were shooting the entire sequence with unhindered access. They must be from PTV, I thought. Patriotic music was also being played on their side. I could not restrain myself any longer and asked the BSF officer close by why their speakers are silent. There was a shout for someone who nonchalantly replied that he did not know how to play a tape. Hope he knows how to fire a shot, I thought raising my eyebrows. Nonetheless ‘Chak de India’ did pierce through the silence a little later and I felt better.

The ceremony was a repeat of what I witnessed at Wagah and recounted in the earlier post on my blog. There was lot of stamping of feet by half a dozen men on both sides and long shouts, raising the rifle with a single hand and handing it over to the man standing next. The crowd on both sides was blatantly partial clapping for their own men and derisively laughing at the other. The presence of a couple of East Asian women with covered heads in the front row on Pakistani side and their enthusiastic support for Pakistani rangers was duly noted by the crowd.

As the Sun dipped over the horizon, the soldiers changed sides and brought the two flags down diagonally meeting for a minute at the middle. The symbolism was not lost on me but the crowd did not care and had begun to melt away. As I walked back in the twilight, I noticed barbed wire farther to my right with the flood-lit double-fencing to my left. I asked the BSF guard whether both the security rings belonged to us. He confirmed they did and we were walking between the two.

‘Don’t the Pakistanis need any barrier against us?’

‘What for? He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who would like to go there?’
***