Tale of two Cities (Or is it?)

Man competes with nature, at least for news coverage. Its an outright victory for man in the digital media, and a slightly less comprehensive one on the print media. On two opposite coasts of the Indian peninsula, two cities have had their normal routines disrupted. One by man and another by nature.

Chennai lies flooded, while Bombay is beseiged by militants.
As I sit at my home typing this piece of self adulating attention seeking piece of crap on a working day, inside office hours, I am secure in the knowledge that I am not alone in contributing to a fall, even if infinitesimal, decline in India’s GDP (I know, I know, you are probably going to say that even when I DO go to my workplace, my contribution is similarly negligible, but you don’t know that for a fact, so clam up. Anyway, back to the crap). There are others too, in my city (the ‘my’ here is merely illustrative, I have absolutely no claims to having founded, helped grow, contributed to the rise, or having made a home in, this city) and in another across the country’s land mass. People who have been asked to stay home, people who have decided to stay home, and people who can not step out of home.
In my city (refer above paragraph for clarity on usage of the word), it has been the hand of God, or the fury of Mother nature (your choice, depending on which gender you believe is superior) that has contributed to the decline in office, and school goers. The city is under water, ankle deep, knee deep, or waist deep, depending on where you ankle stands with respect to the ground, and where you stand with respect to the water, too (my advice, though, is to stand well away from the water, most preferably in the (hopefully) dry and comfortable safety of your home). Roads have turned into drainage channels (I am not sure if that was the original intention of the civic authorities, though, to create the roads as alternate storm drains, which would be a brilliant, or exceedingly sadistic town planning ideology), carrying along with the flow of water tons of garbage (oh! so this IS an incredibly brilliant town planning thing! In one go, you clear away the water, the garbage, and you also have a well washed road!!!), the frequent washed along footwear and various other assorted items.
People generally tackle this in two ways.
One is the defiant, resistance fighter approach, where the chap folds his trouser legs, puts on a rain coat, takes an umbrella, scans the road (or the emergency storm drain cum garbage disposal channel, depends on how you look at it, which, again, depends on whether or not you are a member of the city’s municipal corporation) for the spot with the least inundation, plants his feet there, maintains the precarious balance, and scans again for the next least inundated spot in his desired direction of travel, at the same time keeping a wary lookout for the wave generating vehicles that plough by, sending a deluge of water with the intent of drowning the resistance fighter.
The other way of dealing with it is the cowboy approach, which is rather crass, or practical and fun filled, depending on which way you look at it (which again depends on whether or not it is you who washes and hangs out to dry the stinky and dirty clothes that walk into your home draped over the cowboy). Here, the chap puts all the water destroyable possessions into a polythene carry bag, and, bare feet, commits himself to the mercies of Mother Nature (or the civic authorities, depending on who you think is responsible for creating the current predicament). Such people are generally seen drenched, not bothering whether they are putting their feet in one, or two, or even five feet of water, as long as the head remains above. And I have noticed that these same people are also seen with smiles on their faces rather than the scowl that accompanies the resistance fighters.
Then there is the other city where there are still more people sitting at home when they should be rightfully out in offices, pretending to be hard at work (I assume that people pretend to work because that is what I see, and therefore believe happens everywhere), and this time not because of Mother Nature. They have stayed back because a small bunch of determined people decided to give a larger bunch of markedly less determined people the shock of their life. Why, who and how are questions that are best answered by others, but then the fact is that people were detained against their wishes.
Here again, as I understand, there were two ways of dealing with it.
The resistance fighters, determined to live today and fight again another day (wow, that rhymed!), sat back in their homes, switched on the news channels (but hopefully not India TV), and waited for the day to pass, asking themselves the million dollar question of whether to go to office tomorrow or not (ok, considering India’s Per Capita Income, it may be only a few dollar question to them, but looking at a macro level, for my country, it does work out to be a million dollar question) .
Then there are the cowboys, who walked out to the current media hotspots, mobbing the TV crews while trying to get some TV footage for themselves, shouting comments against Pakistan, getting in the way of the rescue services, praising the NSG, and interfering with the services some more. Again, it was seen that the cowboys carried a smile (on all occasions except when they were being fired at and when they were being pushed out of the TV camera’s range by other cowboys) that almost offset the collective scowls present on the resistance fighters.
Well, the roads will revert to the peacetime job of carrying vehicles and people and acting as an infinite garbage dump and open lavatory, the other city will calm down, the News reporters will move on to other articles of interest, but someday, someone (other than me, of course) will read this and wonder whether the two cities really do have a common tale to talk about.

The Invisibles

I kno, the job sucks. But the job has to be done, and most often than not, it falls into the hands of the chap who is lowest on the pecking order. And quite a few times, I fit that description. So, there have been a few days, only a few, I must add, nonetheless, there have been a few days when I have stayed later than the regular hours at work. Regular hours at work end at 530 officially, barring some of the kind who wish to impress upon others that they are the hard workers. So, generally, the office is deserted by 550, and even the stragglers leave by 6. this here is the story of my office after six.

 

Its hot and humid. The AC is switched off at 530, and by 6 the sweat really starts to build up. The cave that has been passing off as the office is dark, humid and hot by 615. a security guard comes in for his rounds. Now don’t get the impression of a capable guard who can shoo away burglars. The chap who comes in is an old, wiry guy wearing a dull, discoloured uniform comprising of the regulation light blue shirt and dark blue trousers. No shoes, few of the chaps don’t even have chappals. A torn topi that was not meant for his head. Not too uncommon in an environment where uniforms outlast people in the job. He walks in, with a bunch of keys jangling from his hand, almost too heavy for the hand to carry the weight. He shuffles up to the cabin nearest to the entrance, stops, and with an ease and assurance that come after years of practice pulls out the right key in the first try. Key in hand, he opens the door, shuffling up to the switchboard to switch off the appliances in the room. Shuffles out, and the key locks the door. The tired, slipper clad feet carry the frail body to the next door, where he repeats the same process over and over again. He completes the circuit of the entire office, closing the 15 doors, checking the 15 boards, locking the 15 cabins. Having completed the circuit of the entire floor, he goes back, making some notes on the thick hard bound register that he habitually carries. A short while later there is more shuffling, and this time the originator is an old, stout woman dressed in an elaborate, though faded and well worn sari. She carries a purse which is not really cheap, but not exactly new either. The visible contents of the purse are one hard bound register, of the type that is omnipresent in our offices, and a handkerchief. The handkerchief comes out, removing the clouds of incomprehension that had formed. Incomprehension? Well, that old, poor, proud and somehow bitter figure fits into the office as cleanly as chalk fits in average South Indian 3 compartment tiffin box, which is so ubiquitous in my office.

The movements are rehearsed, approaching military precision, yet totally adverse in their intent. Unlike the need for doing things right, as expressed in the precise movements of the military, her movements are orchestrated to be energy conserving and time saving. As if carrying treasures form King Solomon’s mines, she carries the purse with her, never letting it be beyond arm’s length. From table to table, cabin to cabin, the purse moves with her.

On approaching the table, she sets down the purse, takes out the handkerchief, makes one sweeping motion (more symbolic than effective) on the table, moves to the phone, lifts the receiver, makes another symbolic sweep over the phone, and moves on. Table, purse, sweep, phone, sweep, purse. The routine is as predictable as the movement of the hands of the clock.

There is a similarity. Apart from the fact that they are in inconsequential jobs, living out the time that they have left on this planet. It is their invisibility. The same guards and the same cleaners pass by me innumerable times in the day and yet I fail to notice them. It is not that I do not see them, I do. Yet the mind does not register their presence, their existence. It is not just me, it is the general reaction (or the lack of it) to them. It is si hard to believe that in their life, they are probably the centre of universe for a handful of people, or at least a primary pillar of support for them.

In the job that I am, I do wonder if it is a curse or a blessing to be invisible. I debate the pros and cons of the situation, and have come to varying conclusions. Yet today, I understand that there is no curse, nor is there any blessing. It is merely a way of life. As with so many things, you accept it, get used to it and finally claim it as your own.

And that’s the way it is.

 

What happened to my country!

News channels have found the headlines for the next few weeks. Cameramen, reporters and other journalistic professionals have let out a collective sigh, confident and comforted in the knowledge that their jobs have nothing to fear, at least in the next few weeks. Policemen have died in their line of duty; the Common Man has died, well, because he always does. India has been attacked again.

 

I was in Bangalore a few years ago, when Bangalore was the land of pubs and discos, with probably the second best night life in India. I remember being in NASA till 2, 3 in the night, coming out and riding home, with nary a trouble from the law enforcers or the law breakers. I remember the time when Biharis, UPites and anyone and everyone else could go to Mumbai, Bangalore or any part of the country to pursue whatever dreams he had dreamt the other night, or the other day. I don’t remember the time when Kashmir was untroubled, when the Naxalites did not exist or when the AK47 was an unknown entity. But I do know that the time did exist.

 

Some maps have changed, showing her to be headless, having acceded parts of Kashmir to Pakistan and China, but one has to agree that the country is the same. Sure, we have added a few states, subtracted a few, converted a few UTs into states, changed PMs, created new national level political parties, modernized our armies, stopped farming and started servicing, but we are the same country. The population has grown, the Brain Drain has reversed, then started again, we have built a navy, supercomputers and advanced avionocs, but the country is the same.

 

I know that you are probably plussed at the number of times I have said that the country is the same, but this is not a concentrated effort to bore you. It is a feeble and despairing attempt at convincing me that the country has not changed. I have always believed in the lenient, all absorbent India that allowed short durations of incursions and raids, in the long run absorbing the aggressors into the mainstream of her own, giving them a unique yet distinct identification, and a small, cramped yet comfortable and accommodating place in between the millions who have similarly come to be called Indians.

 

And it does seem so difficult to imagine that this is the same country.

 

The first doubts came to my mind when, on a beautiful, pleasant Bangalorean evening, my leisurely stroll on Brigade Road was disrupted, not by another lot of sight seeing, window shopping bunch, but a group of Kannadigas carrying black paint and using it to deface the hoardings that did not carry names in the Kanadd language. Then came the time when bomb blasts became a daily occurance not only in Kashmir, but in Bombay, Bangalore and Delhi. Not too long down the line were the days when policemen became targets, not saviours, and then moved on to becoming exploiters. The day dawned when people let small crimes go unreported, because the effort and money involved in reporting it had become more than the actual crime itself.

A country that had lived on celebrations, devotion and love turned to hate.

Hatred. Of the Fidayeen for the Kafirs, of poor for the rich, of the Mumbaikaras for the Biharis, of the Kar Sevaks for the torch bearers, of the natives for the aliens, and the mother of them all, the hatred of one religion for another.

Hatred that has started affecting the way we live, the way we think and the way we exist. Daughters are being advised to stay away from malls, markets and other crowded places, people are being asked to stay indoors, defying the very social nature of all humans. The average office and school going Indian and his wife know what the AK 47 looks like, the first reaction to every gas cylinder explosion or of a tyre burst is “Bomb!”. The reaction to someone trying to set up a car factory is a violent protest, the reaction to someone taking jobs in your state is a violent campaign, the reaction to someone taking part in one too many crimes is an encounter. Quite a far cry from the ‘Satyagraha’ of yore. The country that was an extremely fit description to “Make Love, not War”, somehow morphed into a hate generating nation, its citizens baying for blood for any reason that hurt even a bit.

I am yet to understand the cause that brings out such forces and feelings for another man, merely because of the birth or the place where one has been living. Agreed, I have not have had any of my people killed abducted or harmed in any way, nor have I been made homeless or jobless.

But the question remains. I hope we figure it out. Because that is the only hope we have.

 

The Automobile

Well, this being my first public piece of writing, i will stick with topics that i am comfortable with. For the time being. And what is more comfortable to me than that erotic, heart warming, lung searing, eyeball attracting combination a few kilos of rubber, some more of plastic and lots of steel (or, for the really exotic kind, Aluminium) that we call the automobile.

I am stuck in a horrible, low paying, self-depreciating job (more on that later). and this is primarily because of this disease that stuck me probably around the time i was sitting on the ground looking up at the underside of broken down Maruti Gypys that were lying in the repair yard of some godforsaken place. I might add that at the same time, my buddies were lying around looking at the undersides of other, albeit not man made combination that has the same erotic, heart warming, lung searing, eyeball attracting effect as the aforementioned automobile. Yes, i am talking about the female of our species, an attraction that i migrated to a little later in my life(more on even this later).

But well, about the automobile. I can launch into a lengthy lecture into the different kind there are, why they are and how they are different from each other. But I'll let that pass. I will, instead, concentrate on the very different, albeit equally boring topic of what effect they have had on me, and others around me. Me, there's no other way to describe it, but to say that the automobile that 'drives' every aspect of my life. I am watching the latest Bond flick, bad guys chasing Bond, shooting and there are things falling apart all over, and all i am wondering is whether the second car after Bond's Aston Vanquish is an Alfa Romeo 147 or a 159. There's this movie going on, comic scene with the actors in an open top car, cracking some funny, and many not-so-funny jokes, and i am wondering if the bus following them is a Mercedes or an Iveco.

I was a kid once and we lived in a sleepy, secluded mining town called Noamundi, about 3 hours by road from Jamshedpur. When you wanted to visit civilisation, you either took a slow passenger train or drove down the slow, potholed road. My earliest childhood memories are of those rides, especially those in the night, where i used to play a game of identifying cars, as they approached our car, by their headlights. Then i wanted a bike. This, i remember, is right after i saw Kamal Hassan rev his bike up in front of the heroines house in Ek Duje Ke Liye. I guess this was also the time when i my preferences shifted towards the non man made combination mentioned earlier.

Well, this is all for today. Not too bad for the first time, i hope.