Saturday, September 8, 2012
National Language - a Notional idea!
There is common misconception among most people in India about Hindi being the “National Language” of our country. The truth is, there is no National language of India.
After independence, the constituent assembly had chosen Hindi as the national language of India BUT, primarily because of opposition from non-Hindi speaking states, deferred the implementation of this decision for 15 years, to 26 January 1965. As January 26, 1965 neared, some in the non-Hindi belt, particularly the Tamils, started voicing their apprehensions openly. The idea of making Hindi the sole national language was blasphemous to the students as it involved the simultaneous and complete withdrawal of English, even as a medium for competitive examinations for jobs and education. Between 1948 and 1961, on an average, every year, close to 24% of Central government officials had been selected from the State of Madras (the present-day Tamil Nadu). Uttar Pradesh came second best; accounting for about 16%.The legislation if implemented would mean that Northern regions with their Hindi proficiency would dominate the government posts and also education. Since government jobs were the most lucrative positions before the 1991 liberalization, this was seen as an indirect means to usurp the English-educated South Indians of jobs by forcing them to learn Hindi. Matters came to a head in 1965 with large-scale protests and violent agitations. As a result of these protests, the government headed by Lal Bahadur Shastri decided against the use of Hindi as the sole official language of the government, and India has since continued a policy of conducting its business in English as well as in Hindi
On 11 February 1965, after the resignation of two Union ministers from madras, Lal Bahadur Shastri announced in All India Radio that he would fully honor Nehru's assurances that English would be used as long as people wanted. He also gave the following assurances.
“
Every state will have complete and unfetted freedom to continue to transact its own business in the language of its own choice. Which may be the regional language or English.
Communications between one State to another will either be in English or will be accompanied by authentic English translation.
The non-Hindi states will be free to correspond with the Central Government in English and no change will be made in this arrangement without the consent of the non-Hindi States.
In the transaction of business at the Central level English will continue to be used.
All India Civil Services examination would continue to be conducted in English rather than in Hindi alone.”
Part XVII of the Indian Constitution
As of Today, India has no legally defined national languages. Only 23 official languages as per the constitution. Subsequently, The UPSC exams can now be attempted in any of the 23 official languages.
Read up on your history to reaffirm this fact.The next time, you go around mocking south Indians, questioning their 'nationality' & lack of proficiency in the 'National Language'....think again! Its just a case of geographical barriers.
If the news sources and other related links are too intimidating for you to understand, dont be dejected, for denial is the first step in comprehending truth - all the best !
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Bail out the Bales
Guntur, the tobacco capital of India is the stage for the unfolding of a strange phenomenon. It is that of the tobacco ‘boom’ that has now become a ‘bubble’ all set to go ‘bust’.
Fuelled by increasing demand and record prices over the past couple of years, farmers had resorted to upping the production of tobacco in order to make a fast buck. The bull run of the bumper crop is coming to a halt and the farmers are feeling the pinch. They are now saddled with excess stocks, bundled into bales much like the bundles of AAA rated mortgage securities. The high percentage of rejected bales due to inferior quality has made the average tobacco bale price plummet to new lows. The growers association, a federated body consisting of registered farmers from clusters across Andhra Pradesh has now called for the intervention of the Tobacco Board of India, a body functioning under the Ministry of Commerce, striving to provide fair & remunerative prices to tobacco growers. One of the primary functions of the Tobacco Board is to regulate the production of Virginia tobacco to match with the demand and requirements of customers. Though the authorized limit of production per farmer has been fixed at 170 million kg, lax oversight has led to farmers cultivating up to 200 million kg.
As the first quarter of tobacco auctions come to an end, all eyes are on the Tobacco Board. Will it do a Ben Bernanke and bailout the bales?
Fuelled by increasing demand and record prices over the past couple of years, farmers had resorted to upping the production of tobacco in order to make a fast buck. The bull run of the bumper crop is coming to a halt and the farmers are feeling the pinch. They are now saddled with excess stocks, bundled into bales much like the bundles of AAA rated mortgage securities. The high percentage of rejected bales due to inferior quality has made the average tobacco bale price plummet to new lows. The growers association, a federated body consisting of registered farmers from clusters across Andhra Pradesh has now called for the intervention of the Tobacco Board of India, a body functioning under the Ministry of Commerce, striving to provide fair & remunerative prices to tobacco growers. One of the primary functions of the Tobacco Board is to regulate the production of Virginia tobacco to match with the demand and requirements of customers. Though the authorized limit of production per farmer has been fixed at 170 million kg, lax oversight has led to farmers cultivating up to 200 million kg.
As the first quarter of tobacco auctions come to an end, all eyes are on the Tobacco Board. Will it do a Ben Bernanke and bailout the bales?
Towards Tomorrow
An organization is a miniature society. As a community, it has a distinct culture that affects the way in which people behave.
I’ve always wondered as to why ITC actually lives up to its sobriquet of a Sarkari Company. Does it have something to do with being Indian and the glossed over phrase- ‘respect for elders’. Or does it derive its framework of strict hierarchy from the caste system that defines people’s roles, status and social order?
Operating in a competitive environment makes a company far more receptive to the need for change, to adapt. The FMCG business has traditionally been characterized by intense competition and wafer thin margins. But ITC’s long held monopoly in the Indian Cigarette Industry along with the huge entry barriers has resulted in the preservation of its imperial past. It is said that leaders play a primary role in shaping the values & norms that form culture. The British may have been ousted, but the current crop has merely taken the place of the former masters. Status, power and formality still form the staple diet of the management. The shadow of the Imperial Tobacco Company still looms large over ITC. There is a tremendous focus on legality, legitimacy and bureaucracy with a spelt out role-oriented culture. Power is associated with positions not people. But, it is yet another thing here that people in power think of themselves as ‘dynamic’ and ‘charismatic’ due to the power invested in them. Interesting fallout of this is that ITC has a strange humane twist to it. The master is a benevolent one. Efforts are made to listen to concerns of people down the hierarchy but often what they hear is rose-tinted, politically right and limited to what the boss wants to hear.
Walking into the organization as a fresh recruit, I have experienced how easy it is to get influenced by its culture and prevailing management style, which represents the expected behavioral norm for managers. Outside of work, I struggle to call people by their first names instead of the salutary ‘Sir’. I get angered if a security guard or any subordinate does not greet me with a God like reverence. .
Over the past decade, ITC’s diversification into multiple businesses has exposed it to a highly turbulent and competitive environment. It is no longer the old boys club in tobacco land. New people have helped spawn new subcultures in this century old behemoth. Change is raising its sleepy head, but it feels too slow. An old stalwart remarked “ITC is 100 yrs old. Change will be slow. Otherwise, it would result in a culture-shock”. I readily agreed but pondered over it much longer, much later.
During an interaction with a senior professional, I quizzed him on bureaucracy and things moving at a slow pace at ITC. He looked at me thoughtfully, but his eyes betrayed the fact that this question had come his way numerous times in the past. He said me to “adapt to the realities of the organization”. Alas, the need to adapt isn’t lost on all.
I’ve always wondered as to why ITC actually lives up to its sobriquet of a Sarkari Company. Does it have something to do with being Indian and the glossed over phrase- ‘respect for elders’. Or does it derive its framework of strict hierarchy from the caste system that defines people’s roles, status and social order?
Operating in a competitive environment makes a company far more receptive to the need for change, to adapt. The FMCG business has traditionally been characterized by intense competition and wafer thin margins. But ITC’s long held monopoly in the Indian Cigarette Industry along with the huge entry barriers has resulted in the preservation of its imperial past. It is said that leaders play a primary role in shaping the values & norms that form culture. The British may have been ousted, but the current crop has merely taken the place of the former masters. Status, power and formality still form the staple diet of the management. The shadow of the Imperial Tobacco Company still looms large over ITC. There is a tremendous focus on legality, legitimacy and bureaucracy with a spelt out role-oriented culture. Power is associated with positions not people. But, it is yet another thing here that people in power think of themselves as ‘dynamic’ and ‘charismatic’ due to the power invested in them. Interesting fallout of this is that ITC has a strange humane twist to it. The master is a benevolent one. Efforts are made to listen to concerns of people down the hierarchy but often what they hear is rose-tinted, politically right and limited to what the boss wants to hear.
Walking into the organization as a fresh recruit, I have experienced how easy it is to get influenced by its culture and prevailing management style, which represents the expected behavioral norm for managers. Outside of work, I struggle to call people by their first names instead of the salutary ‘Sir’. I get angered if a security guard or any subordinate does not greet me with a God like reverence. .
Over the past decade, ITC’s diversification into multiple businesses has exposed it to a highly turbulent and competitive environment. It is no longer the old boys club in tobacco land. New people have helped spawn new subcultures in this century old behemoth. Change is raising its sleepy head, but it feels too slow. An old stalwart remarked “ITC is 100 yrs old. Change will be slow. Otherwise, it would result in a culture-shock”. I readily agreed but pondered over it much longer, much later.
During an interaction with a senior professional, I quizzed him on bureaucracy and things moving at a slow pace at ITC. He looked at me thoughtfully, but his eyes betrayed the fact that this question had come his way numerous times in the past. He said me to “adapt to the realities of the organization”. Alas, the need to adapt isn’t lost on all.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
THE STIFF UPPER LIP
Location: CLX
Time: Early Shift
I arrived at Chirala a few minutes past noon. Waking up from a heady stupor, I could feel my wet back sticking to the hot seat cover. The car was waiting at the railway crossing that separated the ILTD factory from the Sandridge guest house.
As the all too familiar train horn sounded in the distance, an attendant from the guest house walked past the car, and saluted at the familiar passenger. Was the driver a bit surprised at the sudden respect commanded by the nondescript passenger? I’d like to think so.
I checked into a spacious room on the far end of the guest house. Sandridge is one of ITC’s oldest guest houses built in the early 1900s. As soon as you walk into it, you can feel the overpowering aura of the colonial era, a British styled luxurious dwelling. Not that I know much about the British raj or their ways of living. But, the residence stands like a rock – unaffected by time or change, far removed from the harsh surroundings. The long porch with its intimidating row of arm chairs reek of power and formal authority. The setting is palatial and the workmen in white- profuse.
My room can house a badminton court or 3 English snooker tables. Every other room is equally large. The rooms are so huge, that comfort and loneliness reside together. I dropped my bags and headed to the dining room for lunch. The factory manager was lunching with a couple of Army majors who had come down for reviewing the plant operations. I uttered a cursory hello and took my place at the lone vacant seat at the table. The waiters swarmed around the table serving hot rotis, rice and curies while the men drooled over some drab operational glitches at the plant. A man I knew from before dined silently at the table. ... Somewhere in the past, the ways of the Imperial Tobacco Company has stayed on at ITC, refusing to fade away and patronized as a display of elitism. In an environment where a manager is equated to the British Sarkar, it has become the foundation for an elaborate display of dramaturgy.
Time: Early Shift
I arrived at Chirala a few minutes past noon. Waking up from a heady stupor, I could feel my wet back sticking to the hot seat cover. The car was waiting at the railway crossing that separated the ILTD factory from the Sandridge guest house.
As the all too familiar train horn sounded in the distance, an attendant from the guest house walked past the car, and saluted at the familiar passenger. Was the driver a bit surprised at the sudden respect commanded by the nondescript passenger? I’d like to think so.
I checked into a spacious room on the far end of the guest house. Sandridge is one of ITC’s oldest guest houses built in the early 1900s. As soon as you walk into it, you can feel the overpowering aura of the colonial era, a British styled luxurious dwelling. Not that I know much about the British raj or their ways of living. But, the residence stands like a rock – unaffected by time or change, far removed from the harsh surroundings. The long porch with its intimidating row of arm chairs reek of power and formal authority. The setting is palatial and the workmen in white- profuse.
My room can house a badminton court or 3 English snooker tables. Every other room is equally large. The rooms are so huge, that comfort and loneliness reside together. I dropped my bags and headed to the dining room for lunch. The factory manager was lunching with a couple of Army majors who had come down for reviewing the plant operations. I uttered a cursory hello and took my place at the lone vacant seat at the table. The waiters swarmed around the table serving hot rotis, rice and curies while the men drooled over some drab operational glitches at the plant. A man I knew from before dined silently at the table. ... Somewhere in the past, the ways of the Imperial Tobacco Company has stayed on at ITC, refusing to fade away and patronized as a display of elitism. In an environment where a manager is equated to the British Sarkar, it has become the foundation for an elaborate display of dramaturgy.
Friday, July 9, 2010
MUMBAI REVISITED
I have now lived 2 full years of my glorious life in Mumbai. Looking back at my early experiences, I can’t quite believe that this is the city that I loathed so much, one that I swore I would never come back to.
I can almost hear a bunch of voices gasp in astonishment- “Ada Paavi, neeya ipdi solre” (My my! I can’t believe it is YOU who is uttering these words. How could you….).
Am I a sellout? Well, the answer is probably yes. But it is the how and why that never ceases to amaze me.
Yes, the infamous local trains are crowded and sticky as ever. Yes, there is pushing and shoving that only worsens by the day.People still come up to me asking for directions like the very first day I landed here.
The queue for the BEST buses after office hours is excruciatingly long and the wait is only getting longer as days pass by. Do I it like it? Not one bit. But, there is something fundamentally pedestrian, warm and comforting at the thought of being able to travel from Sandhurst road to Powai Lake at 2am on public transport. Or the fact that, on a rainy July morning at 4:30am an immigrant taxi driver hailing from Gorakhpur would ferry you from the airport in Santacruz to a residential suburb in Thane. And strictly adhering to the meter without kicking up a fuss. In a city full of imperfections, these little wonders have sufficed to make my heart swell.
I long for those rainy days at the bus queue- my wet shirt sticking onto my cold body, puddles of muddy water all around liberally splashing on my polished formal shoes and a badly battered umbrella that hangs smugly over my head.
One could say that I was the stereotypical man who never asked for directions (I never asked for anything anyways!) and tried to ‘figure out’ the route- often from incomprehensible station codes and similar looking confusing platforms. The introvert that I was (I still am) I wallowed in my pitiful condition waiting for somebody to come and help me. The wait was long and frustrating. Day after day, I would walk through a sea of unknown faces, of people hurrying across to nowhere, of people chasing their dreams, of people who couldn’t care less for some random bystander. And to all of them I would silently look up with an expectant face. But I remained a faceless soul.
Slowly and steadily I learnt to speak up, to think on my feet and to make bold moves (like, launch a courtesy shove on co-passengers that signals that you need to alight at the next station and that you mean business!). I went after the city, the city that I was unsuccessfully attempting to shake off my back. And it embraced me – a shrewd mentor that it was. Though I’m still the silent kid that I was, I realize that silence is not always golden.
As the waves gently lap onto the concrete rocks on marine drive, it never ceases to amaze. Watching the long row of people seated at the promenade, one can feel the enormity of thoughts, feelings and aspirations floating in the air above the water. This is the place where countless anonymous souls, away from their distant homes find freedom, this is the place where they discover little reasons to celebrate and sink their sorrows into the sea. It is here that they gather strength to see another day.
I remember my first visit to marine drive. It was on the top of my ‘30 things to do in 30 days’ list and I couldn’t wait to strike it off. Despite the monsoons, I braved it across the city in the harbor line to reach VT. As I stood on the road, waiting for a taxi, the steady drizzle wet my head. I could feel the heaviness of my damp hair and it pissed me off to no end. I was half cursing myself for putting me through it, when I flagged down a taxi and barked away orders to take me to ‘intercontinental on marine drive’ - the lines in Hindi, practiced and perfected meticulously with help from a local friend. That day was a forgettable one to say the least. I was in a foul mood and everywhere I could see pretty much the same thing- foulness. The air smelt foul, the weather was rotten and water – black as dirt. It would take the passing of clouds and a warm winter afternoon to change my opinion.
Much of what I’ve come to love as Mumbai is derived from experiences in the eastern suburb of Chembur. Of late I dream of pleasant things - of gliding up the elevator at K star mall, ordering food from Mc Donald’s and looking around for a free table amongst the ‘family crowd’ at the perennially crowded food court.
I’ve visited Mc D outlets across Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore and Chennai, but the burgers served at the Chembur outlet are the tastiest. Maybe it is more than just taste buds or olfactory senses at work. Hotel Naveena is a small eatery in Chembur run by a Christian migrant from Thanjavur. The soft parotas and spicy kari-kolambu served here more than compensates for the sweet sambhar dished out by innumerous Udipi ‘Bhavans’. (Which are not surprisingly flocked by sweet loving Gujjus). The flavor is straight out of the Tamil heartland and surpasses even the delicious Parotas available in good ol’ Madras. As I sit at a table watching lungi clad men whipping, lashing and kneading the maida dough with oil, talking in thickly accented Tamil, I’m starkly reminded that it is Bombay when a chotu from Jharkhand takes down the order, his speech peppered with broken Tamil.
The first time I witnessed the grandiose scale of ganesh Chaturthi celebrations, I felt alienated. People made merry all around and the loud drum beats and men dancing along the procession whipped up some of that old regressive fear. Wafts of mari-attha songs in Chembur offered succor during the winter season. But come second year and my heart raced with excitement when I heard the drum beats, almost wanting to break into a jig.
A lot about the city remains much the same as it was- filthy, crowded and harsh. The streets are filled with boys sporting fluorescent tees and crinkled jeans and girls dressed in halter tops, chequered shorts and oversized shades parade the latest line worn by this Bollywood star in that movie. Driving around Bandra or Colaba at night, scenes of young men and women, outside popular hangouts, engaged in animated conversation and smoking with gay abandon greet you. The pretence of cosmopolitan air chokes you more than the thick nicotine flavored air.
As June approaches, the wake of the monsoon fills the air with the stench of the city. But it is the same stench that reminds me of sweet memories of a season long gone by.
For it is the wonder of human experience- the joy of hearing voices that you’ve grown to love, of simple memories that now mean the world to you, of unasked favors and unspoken promises, of uninhibited laughter- that has woven an invisible net around you which tugs at your heart’s strings every time you look back on the city. It could happen at any place- but it happens a lot more in Mumbai for ‘This is Bombay man’.
I can almost hear a bunch of voices gasp in astonishment- “Ada Paavi, neeya ipdi solre” (My my! I can’t believe it is YOU who is uttering these words. How could you….).
Am I a sellout? Well, the answer is probably yes. But it is the how and why that never ceases to amaze me.
Yes, the infamous local trains are crowded and sticky as ever. Yes, there is pushing and shoving that only worsens by the day.People still come up to me asking for directions like the very first day I landed here.
The queue for the BEST buses after office hours is excruciatingly long and the wait is only getting longer as days pass by. Do I it like it? Not one bit. But, there is something fundamentally pedestrian, warm and comforting at the thought of being able to travel from Sandhurst road to Powai Lake at 2am on public transport. Or the fact that, on a rainy July morning at 4:30am an immigrant taxi driver hailing from Gorakhpur would ferry you from the airport in Santacruz to a residential suburb in Thane. And strictly adhering to the meter without kicking up a fuss. In a city full of imperfections, these little wonders have sufficed to make my heart swell.
I long for those rainy days at the bus queue- my wet shirt sticking onto my cold body, puddles of muddy water all around liberally splashing on my polished formal shoes and a badly battered umbrella that hangs smugly over my head.
One could say that I was the stereotypical man who never asked for directions (I never asked for anything anyways!) and tried to ‘figure out’ the route- often from incomprehensible station codes and similar looking confusing platforms. The introvert that I was (I still am) I wallowed in my pitiful condition waiting for somebody to come and help me. The wait was long and frustrating. Day after day, I would walk through a sea of unknown faces, of people hurrying across to nowhere, of people chasing their dreams, of people who couldn’t care less for some random bystander. And to all of them I would silently look up with an expectant face. But I remained a faceless soul.
Slowly and steadily I learnt to speak up, to think on my feet and to make bold moves (like, launch a courtesy shove on co-passengers that signals that you need to alight at the next station and that you mean business!). I went after the city, the city that I was unsuccessfully attempting to shake off my back. And it embraced me – a shrewd mentor that it was. Though I’m still the silent kid that I was, I realize that silence is not always golden.
As the waves gently lap onto the concrete rocks on marine drive, it never ceases to amaze. Watching the long row of people seated at the promenade, one can feel the enormity of thoughts, feelings and aspirations floating in the air above the water. This is the place where countless anonymous souls, away from their distant homes find freedom, this is the place where they discover little reasons to celebrate and sink their sorrows into the sea. It is here that they gather strength to see another day.
I remember my first visit to marine drive. It was on the top of my ‘30 things to do in 30 days’ list and I couldn’t wait to strike it off. Despite the monsoons, I braved it across the city in the harbor line to reach VT. As I stood on the road, waiting for a taxi, the steady drizzle wet my head. I could feel the heaviness of my damp hair and it pissed me off to no end. I was half cursing myself for putting me through it, when I flagged down a taxi and barked away orders to take me to ‘intercontinental on marine drive’ - the lines in Hindi, practiced and perfected meticulously with help from a local friend. That day was a forgettable one to say the least. I was in a foul mood and everywhere I could see pretty much the same thing- foulness. The air smelt foul, the weather was rotten and water – black as dirt. It would take the passing of clouds and a warm winter afternoon to change my opinion.
Much of what I’ve come to love as Mumbai is derived from experiences in the eastern suburb of Chembur. Of late I dream of pleasant things - of gliding up the elevator at K star mall, ordering food from Mc Donald’s and looking around for a free table amongst the ‘family crowd’ at the perennially crowded food court.
I’ve visited Mc D outlets across Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore and Chennai, but the burgers served at the Chembur outlet are the tastiest. Maybe it is more than just taste buds or olfactory senses at work. Hotel Naveena is a small eatery in Chembur run by a Christian migrant from Thanjavur. The soft parotas and spicy kari-kolambu served here more than compensates for the sweet sambhar dished out by innumerous Udipi ‘Bhavans’. (Which are not surprisingly flocked by sweet loving Gujjus). The flavor is straight out of the Tamil heartland and surpasses even the delicious Parotas available in good ol’ Madras. As I sit at a table watching lungi clad men whipping, lashing and kneading the maida dough with oil, talking in thickly accented Tamil, I’m starkly reminded that it is Bombay when a chotu from Jharkhand takes down the order, his speech peppered with broken Tamil.
The first time I witnessed the grandiose scale of ganesh Chaturthi celebrations, I felt alienated. People made merry all around and the loud drum beats and men dancing along the procession whipped up some of that old regressive fear. Wafts of mari-attha songs in Chembur offered succor during the winter season. But come second year and my heart raced with excitement when I heard the drum beats, almost wanting to break into a jig.
A lot about the city remains much the same as it was- filthy, crowded and harsh. The streets are filled with boys sporting fluorescent tees and crinkled jeans and girls dressed in halter tops, chequered shorts and oversized shades parade the latest line worn by this Bollywood star in that movie. Driving around Bandra or Colaba at night, scenes of young men and women, outside popular hangouts, engaged in animated conversation and smoking with gay abandon greet you. The pretence of cosmopolitan air chokes you more than the thick nicotine flavored air.
As June approaches, the wake of the monsoon fills the air with the stench of the city. But it is the same stench that reminds me of sweet memories of a season long gone by.
For it is the wonder of human experience- the joy of hearing voices that you’ve grown to love, of simple memories that now mean the world to you, of unasked favors and unspoken promises, of uninhibited laughter- that has woven an invisible net around you which tugs at your heart’s strings every time you look back on the city. It could happen at any place- but it happens a lot more in Mumbai for ‘This is Bombay man’.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
A slice from my journal....
August 25, 2009
1158 hrs
A guy came up to my cubicle at office and asked for ‘Kavita Madam’ (the loud-mouth) and I actually directed him to her! I was a novice here and hardly knew anybody by name, and yet I pulled off this one. It just reminded me of how people always ask me for directions at stations. I was traveling to Andheri on Sunday night and was accosted by a man who wanted to get to ‘saanthakarooz’. Just as I was done with him another guy came up to me – his savior who would tell him which side of the train, Khar road platform would be on. I invariably gave him the wrong answer. Then a third asked me if he was on the right platform for the Bandra train and I safely nodded. Even on the night after dinner at China gate, I wasn’t spared. It was 12:30am and the station was pretty deserted. Yet, a guy came up to me in search of the train to Churchgate! Today’s travel from Versova to office was so fucked up. It was drizzling steadily when I walked out and I wanted to get into an auto at the earliest. But, I couldn’t get one even after a 15min wait on the main road and that’s when I took the fatal decision of travelling by Bus-249 to Andheri (w) station. It was quite reasonable until I got off at the station. I got on to the overhead rail bridge connecting the west and east, and suddenly found out to my horror that it wasn’t meant to be a public passageway (An I used to think only Kurla had that fucked up rule). I was stopped by a ticket collector who asked me for my ticket-
“This is a railway bridge. Where is your ticket? Or do you at least have a platform ticket?”
I was like “Oh Oh”.
I put on my best show of an innocent guy trying to get to the other side. In fact, I was so optimistic that I thought he would let me off, if I explained things clearly. But, I guess he has seen hordes of such cases and remained unmoved.
He said “give 260 rupees. You should’ve seen the notice. This is the railway bridge not the public passageway”.
I profusely apologized and told him I wouldn’t repeat it again (like a kid!). He seemed to pause for a moment, and I thought I had him there. But, he handed me over to his superior and told me to try my reasoning with him. I almost gave up at that point, and was like “ok, take the damn money you morons; this is like the last reason I want to get held up for”. His boss, a burly guy with a no-nonsense attitude barked at me-“You given 260. You first given 260” and motioned me to pay-up. He was in no mood to listen to some lame story of mine. I reached into my wallet and pulled out 300 bucks. He took the money and was about to hand out the change when I asked him the way to get to the public passageway. He shrugged his shoulders and said “you ask that person”, pointing to his sub-ordinate. That was it. I flew into a frenzied rage and literally yelled at him and at the same time my voice choked and tears welled up in my eyes.
“I’ve given you the money. I’ve paid the fine. Now, all I’m asking you for is directions to get to the public bridge. And you tell me ‘ask that guy’. I’m only asking out for help. How can you be so heartless? Aren’t you supposed to guide people like me who are lost in a new city?”
He was gaping at me open-mouthed and stunned. He stuck out the 300 bucks at me and said “300 no need. You go buy platform ticket for Rs.3” and patted me on the back. I too was stunned to say the least. But, it wasn’t really the end yet. The queue for tickets for a hopeless serpentine one and I set off towards the public passageway. En route, I stepped into sewage water and muddied my shoes. I couldn’t avoid this despite taking a circuitous route through the parking lot behind the station. I hate it when my socks get soggy and I can’t get out of them till evening. I was reminded of those painful days at Mukand Steel. And it was at that moment, when I was coming out of the crossing into Andheri (e), braving the steady drizzle and dodging muddy splashes from vehicles zipping by, that I swore to myself. I hate this fucking city. And even more strangely I was reminded of Chennai and I felt homesick after a really long time. It felt like my first couple of weeks in Bombay- “fuck this shit. Fuck Bombay. Fuck TISS” .Hmmm. When I look back in wonder, a faint smile comes across my face. But, the thing is, it is not funny!
One of the toughest things to accomplish in Bombay is to get on an Auto from Andheri (e) station during peak hours. If you think otherwise, do let me know how you do it (drop me a mail!). Ok, this is how it basically plays out. There is a steady stream of autos ferrying passengers to the station. Now, there are twice as many people who are waiting on the roads to get onto one of those autos. So much before the auto stops or the passenger alights, you need to chase the auto, negotiate with the driver to take you to your destination and most importantly out-smart at least 3 other passengers who are doing the same thing- chasing the same auto, flagging it down and barking off orders to take them to a different destination. The most pissing off thing is, when you finally manage to do all of the above, the auto guy refuses point blank.
I’m like “Chakala?”
He’s like “Are you out of your mind?” The polite ones tell me “Sorry sir, too much traffic”
But, this is how the majority react.
I’m like “Chakala?”
He’s like “Vrooommmmm…..” spewing petrol fumes on my face. He doesn’t even look in my direction. It is like I’ve uttered the unmentionable. What’s wrong with Chakala anyways, huh?
1158 hrs
A guy came up to my cubicle at office and asked for ‘Kavita Madam’ (the loud-mouth) and I actually directed him to her! I was a novice here and hardly knew anybody by name, and yet I pulled off this one. It just reminded me of how people always ask me for directions at stations. I was traveling to Andheri on Sunday night and was accosted by a man who wanted to get to ‘saanthakarooz’. Just as I was done with him another guy came up to me – his savior who would tell him which side of the train, Khar road platform would be on. I invariably gave him the wrong answer. Then a third asked me if he was on the right platform for the Bandra train and I safely nodded. Even on the night after dinner at China gate, I wasn’t spared. It was 12:30am and the station was pretty deserted. Yet, a guy came up to me in search of the train to Churchgate! Today’s travel from Versova to office was so fucked up. It was drizzling steadily when I walked out and I wanted to get into an auto at the earliest. But, I couldn’t get one even after a 15min wait on the main road and that’s when I took the fatal decision of travelling by Bus-249 to Andheri (w) station. It was quite reasonable until I got off at the station. I got on to the overhead rail bridge connecting the west and east, and suddenly found out to my horror that it wasn’t meant to be a public passageway (An I used to think only Kurla had that fucked up rule). I was stopped by a ticket collector who asked me for my ticket-
“This is a railway bridge. Where is your ticket? Or do you at least have a platform ticket?”
I was like “Oh Oh”.
I put on my best show of an innocent guy trying to get to the other side. In fact, I was so optimistic that I thought he would let me off, if I explained things clearly. But, I guess he has seen hordes of such cases and remained unmoved.
He said “give 260 rupees. You should’ve seen the notice. This is the railway bridge not the public passageway”.
I profusely apologized and told him I wouldn’t repeat it again (like a kid!). He seemed to pause for a moment, and I thought I had him there. But, he handed me over to his superior and told me to try my reasoning with him. I almost gave up at that point, and was like “ok, take the damn money you morons; this is like the last reason I want to get held up for”. His boss, a burly guy with a no-nonsense attitude barked at me-“You given 260. You first given 260” and motioned me to pay-up. He was in no mood to listen to some lame story of mine. I reached into my wallet and pulled out 300 bucks. He took the money and was about to hand out the change when I asked him the way to get to the public passageway. He shrugged his shoulders and said “you ask that person”, pointing to his sub-ordinate. That was it. I flew into a frenzied rage and literally yelled at him and at the same time my voice choked and tears welled up in my eyes.
“I’ve given you the money. I’ve paid the fine. Now, all I’m asking you for is directions to get to the public bridge. And you tell me ‘ask that guy’. I’m only asking out for help. How can you be so heartless? Aren’t you supposed to guide people like me who are lost in a new city?”
He was gaping at me open-mouthed and stunned. He stuck out the 300 bucks at me and said “300 no need. You go buy platform ticket for Rs.3” and patted me on the back. I too was stunned to say the least. But, it wasn’t really the end yet. The queue for tickets for a hopeless serpentine one and I set off towards the public passageway. En route, I stepped into sewage water and muddied my shoes. I couldn’t avoid this despite taking a circuitous route through the parking lot behind the station. I hate it when my socks get soggy and I can’t get out of them till evening. I was reminded of those painful days at Mukand Steel. And it was at that moment, when I was coming out of the crossing into Andheri (e), braving the steady drizzle and dodging muddy splashes from vehicles zipping by, that I swore to myself. I hate this fucking city. And even more strangely I was reminded of Chennai and I felt homesick after a really long time. It felt like my first couple of weeks in Bombay- “fuck this shit. Fuck Bombay. Fuck TISS” .Hmmm. When I look back in wonder, a faint smile comes across my face. But, the thing is, it is not funny!
One of the toughest things to accomplish in Bombay is to get on an Auto from Andheri (e) station during peak hours. If you think otherwise, do let me know how you do it (drop me a mail!). Ok, this is how it basically plays out. There is a steady stream of autos ferrying passengers to the station. Now, there are twice as many people who are waiting on the roads to get onto one of those autos. So much before the auto stops or the passenger alights, you need to chase the auto, negotiate with the driver to take you to your destination and most importantly out-smart at least 3 other passengers who are doing the same thing- chasing the same auto, flagging it down and barking off orders to take them to a different destination. The most pissing off thing is, when you finally manage to do all of the above, the auto guy refuses point blank.
I’m like “Chakala?”
He’s like “Are you out of your mind?” The polite ones tell me “Sorry sir, too much traffic”
But, this is how the majority react.
I’m like “Chakala?”
He’s like “Vrooommmmm…..” spewing petrol fumes on my face. He doesn’t even look in my direction. It is like I’ve uttered the unmentionable. What’s wrong with Chakala anyways, huh?
Monday, August 17, 2009
LIQUOR RUINS COUNTRY, FAMILY, AND LIFE (and the whole of the next day!)
Kudi Naatukkum, Veetukkum, Uyirikkum Kedu!
That was the message embossed on a metal plate outside the Leather Bar, welcoming patrons into the supposedly happening hangout at ‘The Park’ Hotel in Chennai. As I walked in on a Saturday night way past the legal closing time of 11pm, taking in the pumping trance beats played by the DJ, my mind was faintly asking, “Now why do people drink?" I was afraid that the old dissonance was coming back again.
Being a teetotaler, I have always faced tremendous peer pressure to conform, to pick up that bottle of beer (It’s just beer; now don’t act like a sissy!). Why are we fixated with the idea of losing control or is it just about having a fun time (And a little groping*) ? Is the idea of escapism inherently built into the social structure? Is it related to the idea of ‘freedom’? The powers that control society, those which provide for norms and values – also provide the means of escapism. But why is there such a stigma associated with alcohol. Maybe, people aren’t comfortable with ideas of sexual promiscuity in their normal behavior states or any state for that matter. Alcohol helps reduce the dissonance that comes with the desires of the libido.
People have often quizzed me, “you don’t drink? So what DO you do to have fun….you know like go out and stuff?” Truth be told, I have no answer to that question. You can probably take me for a little guy who refused to ‘grow up’. I’ve just been doing the same stuff that I do to enjoy, since I was a kid- watching movies, go out for dinner , have a fun outing, play outdoor sports, sing, dance and play the fool. But, along with the teetotaler tag come the experiences of being an alienated soul. Suddenly, all the childhood friends you knew are not the same anymore. All they want to do is drink up and create a boisterous scene. The culturally disapproved rites of passage are here to stay.
But, is it really the rebel yell? Isn’t it ever so common? Isn’t it conformance to the conventional identity of a “youth”- (Flaunt your guts and flout the rules). Are youth being deviant during binge alcohol sessions? I feel it is more the opposite. It takes a teetotaler to be a non-conformist, to stay un-cool, to resist social pressure to hit the bottle. And yes, it takes a teetotaler to be the real Rebel.
That was the message embossed on a metal plate outside the Leather Bar, welcoming patrons into the supposedly happening hangout at ‘The Park’ Hotel in Chennai. As I walked in on a Saturday night way past the legal closing time of 11pm, taking in the pumping trance beats played by the DJ, my mind was faintly asking, “Now why do people drink?" I was afraid that the old dissonance was coming back again.
Being a teetotaler, I have always faced tremendous peer pressure to conform, to pick up that bottle of beer (It’s just beer; now don’t act like a sissy!). Why are we fixated with the idea of losing control or is it just about having a fun time (And a little groping*) ? Is the idea of escapism inherently built into the social structure? Is it related to the idea of ‘freedom’? The powers that control society, those which provide for norms and values – also provide the means of escapism. But why is there such a stigma associated with alcohol. Maybe, people aren’t comfortable with ideas of sexual promiscuity in their normal behavior states or any state for that matter. Alcohol helps reduce the dissonance that comes with the desires of the libido.
People have often quizzed me, “you don’t drink? So what DO you do to have fun….you know like go out and stuff?” Truth be told, I have no answer to that question. You can probably take me for a little guy who refused to ‘grow up’. I’ve just been doing the same stuff that I do to enjoy, since I was a kid- watching movies, go out for dinner , have a fun outing, play outdoor sports, sing, dance and play the fool. But, along with the teetotaler tag come the experiences of being an alienated soul. Suddenly, all the childhood friends you knew are not the same anymore. All they want to do is drink up and create a boisterous scene. The culturally disapproved rites of passage are here to stay.
But, is it really the rebel yell? Isn’t it ever so common? Isn’t it conformance to the conventional identity of a “youth”- (Flaunt your guts and flout the rules). Are youth being deviant during binge alcohol sessions? I feel it is more the opposite. It takes a teetotaler to be a non-conformist, to stay un-cool, to resist social pressure to hit the bottle. And yes, it takes a teetotaler to be the real Rebel.
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