gappa

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Rules. Ruler. Rudest .

At one time, like decades ago, people seriously followed rules. Now the rules are flouted, sometimes by those involved in making them, and as it happened recently with a lady traffic warden in Bandra (who insisted on the rule being followed, and got hauled up by the cops because the rule breakers had more muscle power....).

These days some four letter words actually start behaving like their idiomatic alter ego.

Like "Rule" . As a noun.

As a verb, there is nothing much happening , unless you are the "ruler".

And so I only worry about the noun.

I worry, because I don't think it is doing me any good to understand the "rule".

Innovative interpretation rules. Sometimes innovation includes strong disobedience.

Rules. They sent out a rule about not keeping plants in your balcony, because when you watered them, the stuff kind of dripped outside disfiguring the outside color. In a matter of 20 minutes, rule abiding family entities emptied my balcony of a bamboo plant, bougainvillea, ajwain bush, hibiscus tree, several tusli plants and a neem plant, not to mention several tomato plants and a watermelon plant which suddenly appeared from thrown peels. Stuff was carted to the compound, and I never saw it again. I look up, and I still see various disobedient plants daringly enjoying the breeze in various balconies. It's the sign of the times. Rule followers are stupid.

Rules. Rickshaws think they are on a well deserved picnic in our area. With kilometres of straight undulating roads, they unfailingly park on a corner of two roads, so the person taking a left turn cannot see traffic coming from the left. Honking, gesticulating and finally rolling down the window, has the fellow menacingly getting out from his seat, questioning if I owned the road, and daring me to do whatever I wish. He will not move. He is waiting for someone, the vehicle is already hired. I stay put. Traffic piles up behind me. Honks. He curses with the confidence of someone who has all eventualities covered , gets out and pushes his rickshaw around the left turn by two feet. I wonder why. And continue wondering. I leave.

Rules. We are a nation that drives on the left . Some folks think they are in the US when they drive. As per "rules" , you overtake from the right, and slow movers keep to the left most , usually imaginary lane (never thought there would be cheating in quality of white paint). However, bikers, whose heads probably spin at additional rpm's when they wear a helmet, consider it their duty to always overtake from the left, even though you've been showing a left turning signal for a kilometre. So blatant is the driving, that they even drive between a bus queue and the stopped bus, and a friend of mine was injured because a biker crashed into her. Gestures to slow down or stop, from passengers disembarking from a bus, are rewarded with impatient looks , and an outrage at being made to decelerate. A fellow I questioned even angrily told me he paid taxes, and I told him that I paid taxes too, (that too, without banging my vehicle into folks), and owned as much of the road as he did.

Rules. Why just bikers and public transport, rules are broken again and again at the top. We have a serious issue about womens' security, a law and order and policing problem, there is sniping and shooting on the western border with an enemy country, a committee urgently deliberates on the improvement to laws and asks for suggestions, and the premier law and order entity of the country whizzes off to BanglaDesh to announce some new improved visa regimes with that country. Despite the fact that the steady influx from BanglaDesh to India across porous borders doesn't happen with visas. When the ability to prioritize is missing, chaos results.

Rules. The new rule about gas cylinders, said we could have 6 cylinders a year at subsidized rates, and the remaining at enhanced rates. As a rule, it isn't clear, when they start counting. I recently ordered a refill, and paid the unsubsidized rate of nine hundred something. When I mentioned not having utilized my six cylinders at subsidized rates, I was told that it is 3 cylinders for every six month period. I was on my fourth cylinder , hence full price. You go and try visiting the dealer, and his office is packed with people and you are unable to enter. Everyone interpreting the rule their own way, the government even deciding how I should consume my quota, regardless of whether I live in a cold climate, whether I have many family members, and other factors that affect gas consumption rates, that might actually vary during a year. Vote bank politics has now decreed the new subsidized cylinder limit as 9. I just wonder , if these rules are simply going to give rise to a new surreptitious business of counting cylinders in a "different" way.

Folks still go the wrong way on one-way streets, I see so many folks driving and talking with one hand stuck to their ear, nicely observable through the not so tinted glass; massive cars blatantly park at an angle, using up two parking spaces, people inside treat you like dirt when you ask them to straighten up.

At a six lane intersection, with only one lane at right angles, and all lanes with two way traffic, a speeding rickshaw cuts finely a cm away from my toe , the driver glares and whizzes away, even though the light indicates that pedestrians may walk then; and a police chowky bang in the intersection is locked from outside, no one policing the intersection, because so many are busy catching drivers, cars , bikes and tempos, down the road.

It is normally traditional to breathe a sigh of relief when someone introduces rules .

You think life is simplified.

No. At least not here.

We have come to a point, that everytime there is a rule specified, an alternative system gears up to counter it, for a price. Those that can pay, pay. At some point soneone up there, notices, and initiates one more rule to counter this.

And this continues ad nauseum, in what people call a loop.

In my younger IT working days, something getting stuck in a loop was bad news.

I guess times have changed.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

The incredible meet ......

I've been to various blog meets. Some with 5 folks in 3 star hangouts, some with 200 people in 5 star places, and everything in between.

But this was different. Two bloggers, who over the years, have become , sight unseen, great admirers of someone, who may be amongst Mumbai's leading blogging dogs, with his own blog. Of course.

Every photo tells a story. And his just became a book.

He lives in Mumbai's most popular suburb , often called the Queen of the suburbs. The two bloggers reached a landmark, and were escorted from there by something like a pilot motorbike, which was much in the fitness of things because the head of the family where he lives, has connections to both pilots and bikes.

We entered to an amazing welcome , of wagging tails, excitement, and a bunch of uncontrolled leaps; uncontrolled, because it was clear, that he knew who was coming, he was told earlier to go easy, but like any child who loves visitors, he kind of gave in to his impulses a few times.

Much indulgent nosing around with cool nostrils, a surreptitious lick thrown in quietly, a tentative jump to place his front legs on the blogger's shoulder, and stretching his neck to be patted and spoken to, he would sit for a while, and then get up again , unable to contain his excitement.

His eyes simply spoke volumes. The fellow is an excellent listener. When you said something to him, you could tell he understood. He also follows customs which would make any matriarch of any family proud.

Sits quietly by you, as you scratch his back or pat him. Teeth baring and cooing is not really his scene. He does not threateningly hover around, smelling bags and purses. When the bloggers were offered Tilgul by the family matriarch, he may have wanted some, but did not make a song and a dance about it.

His choice of food would warm any one's heart. Chapati sabji, Kande pohe, Upma, and the like. And if you keep bread and Dosa equidistant from him, the Dosa clearly wins. No wonder his mentor in the family, is often found photographing the lovely traditional dishes cooked in his house.

While the bloggers were having a long chat, he wandered around, went to his favourite spot in the balcony, to check out if he needed to shoo away any trespassing birds. There were some barks from somewhere outside. He answered back. The conversation continued a bit more. Maybe he told his friend ," No yaar, I cant come, we have some guests. Maybe in the evening . ...."

He has this uncanny ability to be part of the group, and listen, and participate in silent communion. Maybe he understands a lot more than things addressed to him alone. If you look into his eyes, you will agree.

The bloggers admired his natural coat, that hinted at some special DNA. Someone once made a film on 1001 of those. And he sat quietly, under the divan, listening and probably being greatly tickled by all the praise being showered on him by the two elderly bloggers. Much like a kid, enjoying being praised for a good performance somewhere.

I think he also watches television news. Had he been able to talk and communicate , I am sure he would have made and excellent contributor, say , with Rajdeep Sardesai's discussions on CNN/IBN.

But he must make do with his expressions. Which his mentor, the family head, captures on film. And every week , they inspire a poem. Woof poetry.

He surely had hunger pangs gnawing inside. He came out from his hiding place, as the bloggers got up to leave. Much loitering around their feet, with now, a side foray to an area where there was a tin of biscuits. I've seen kids stamping feet and throwing their limbs around demanding sweets . Or else. But here was this fellow, just with a hint of movement towards the tin, once in a while giving in to the impulse to leap and place front legs next o the tin, but yet, hesitating.

He has his days when he joyfully yelps, charges around, wags his tail furiously, and thinks the house motorcycle is his enemy. But he understands the occasion. And thinks in what one may say, is a very human way.

There were some photographs happening. One of the bloggers gave him a biscuit, which was devoured before the camera could focus. He kind of hung around the visiting bloggers.

Suddenly there was a flash. And instantaneously, he barked an alert. Someone had clicked. Flashes of light were serious stuff. And he had to act. A responsible fellow, enjoying the adulation and love, but always aware of things around him.

The two bloggers waved goodbye to him, and left to go for lunch with the head of the family.

He stayed back. Grandma was alone. And he would give her company.

The two bloggers returned home. Completely impressed and smitten.....

Friday, January 18, 2013

Requiem for a tree.....

My mother had very green fingers. She planted a coconut tree in our small garden in Pune, the year I was born. And before I learned to spell “Kalpavruksha”, I was living and learning coconuts.

Like me, green and smooth as a child, sheltered at the centre, under the generous maternal palm leaves. Like me, at puberty, away from the tree , an introduction to the world around.

Being tough outside. A rough peeling of fake attitudes and cleansing before learning to be useful in the home. The rough dried fibres combed with a machete, like my fashionably dry hair, being combed by my mother, shaking her head, and proceeding with a great coconut oil massage. The typical sound of a coconut being broken, the clamour to get a sweet sip of the coconut water.

The coconut meat, shredded , sitting on a “vili”; some to be used for dal, subjees, and chutneys, and some to extract sweetness in the form of coconut milk. Like a busy young bitter-sweet life, and you remained what your Mother Tree taught you.

Bath soaps in our time were looked down upon. Milk, Cream, or better still, Coconut milk, mixed into a paste with Ambehaldi , and an ayurvedic herb like Ghavalakasri, worked like magic. Nothing to beat the mixed scents of a coal fired copper boiler, and this paste slathered , rubbed and being washed off by the hot water, on a winter morning.

A full active day in school/college, and we would use the coir “shendis” of the whole coconut, to clean our roughened toes and heels, and then rub some coconut milk or even coconut oil on to them at night. More milk for our faces. The natural coconut fat worked itself on our skin, and fought early morning winter cycling winds for us, as we rushed for PT classes In college.

It wasn’t really all about preserving our, sometimes non existent beauty. There was a no-nonsense quality about the coconut. Its life was not about appearing Page 3, but being comprehensively useful to society.

Age affected the coconut tree, and sometimes the palm fronds fell off. I have seen folks sitting in the afternoons with sharp implements, and creating fine long sticks, that ultimately became a broom. There was even some kind of oil extracted from the tough brown shell, that was used medicinally for discoloration on limbs, by older folks. We used coconuts to honor elders, and God, breaking them in front of the latter as a check on our egos.

I don't have a tree now, but I have something the Parachute folks have introduced. Though I cannot understand why they spell "Advanced " with an "S".

My mother gave me the unshelled coconut from “my” tree when I got married. I still have the wrinkled shell. Twenty five years later, my mother passed away.

Strangely, the tree has never borne fruit after her , and later passed away itself.

Submitted as an entry for the Parachute Advansed Goodness Of Coconut contest
at Women's Web.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Then and Now.

Vignettes from old Pune. Of the sixties.

Everyone cycled to college. Between 9:45 am and 10:15 am , rush hour was all about thousands of students cycling to college. Colleges had compulsory PT or Physical Training , for all students, which happened at 5:30 am. Attendance was checked, and those bunking were denied permission to give the academic final exams.

Jackets and windbreakers were only seen in foreign movies, and early mornings in December would see us wrapped in home knitted sweaters, mufflers, monkey caps and shoes, pedalling away at 5 am, clutching ice cold cycle handles. The darkness did not worry us. You saw similar folks somewhere along your ride, and you got approving looks from those doing their early morning trips to the Parvati Hill Temple, muttering all kinds of stotras.

Then there was the annual collegiate sports. One had the opportunity to play badminton for the college team, and these tournaments always happened in the evenings. You waited your turn to play and then to cheer your team, and it was often 11 pm when things got over. Forget mobile phones, not everyone had a landline, there were no PCO's and you didnt make or receive phone calls every few hours from home, or in turn call them.

I remember cycling back , accompanied by some folks who had to go my way anyway. At a particular corner, I took a turn, and cycled home, alone , without fear. My parents knew some of my teammates would be partially accompanying me, sports was considered important, and they exhibited no anxiety as they opened the door to me.

Fifty years down the line, the daughter does the yearly 10 km Powai run, in this part of Mumbai. She tried it for fun last year, surprisingly completed in good time, and was practising this year. The route was specified by the organizers, and it involved going around the periphery of the lake , in the vicinity of which I live. She started practicing along that route to get a feel of the ups and downs.

An alternate work assignment at 6 am , meant she ran before that. She wanted to practice and time herself on the actual route, and so she would be out by 5 am, in her tracks and tee, in considerable darkness, broken everytime a speeding truck, or car whizzed by with full lights. And sometimes, possibly a cruising slow vehicle too. She carried her cell phone in a special contraption that attached to her arm, and some application displayed her speed, distance, time et al when she returned home. Regardless of the fancy phone application, to me, it was a relief that she carried a phone.

It is a sign of our times, that we are clobbered with news 24 x 7 , and the final practice days coincided with the Nirbhaya days in Delhi. And so one would be anxiously awake, trying to occupy oneself otherwise, with morning things, hoping she was not the only one running along the road. That there was a promenade around the lake that came later, was a different sort of anxiety. It was not the traffic, but possibly a population that slept there at night, who would observe her. You werent sure if cops were around, and you were not sure it would help. You just hoped there were other people running too. It did not bother her and she ran, anyway.

One would wait for a mild glimmer of light at 6 am, when she would have to reach her morning assignment. Normally she cycled there. Now she ran all the way . For practice. An occasional phone then to ascertain that she reached, would set our minds at rest.

Occasionally the phone would ring and ring. One would take a deep breath and try again. And again. Till she answered. She would return running, post 7:30 am, when things were different.

She had been banged into, in her non-running, but cycling-to-work days, at 6 am, by one of those call-centre transport vans , that took an unannounced sharp turn across her, making her fall. No one stopped. But some were amused. And even then, there were hardly any bystanders to demonstrate the Bystander effect. Or otherwise.

And so I wonder, what kind of life we have today, in Mumbai.

Where might is right.

You sit with bated breath, as folks hang onto steps of buses, and get crushed in train compartments , en route to work. You could be driving your own vehicle and still be unsafe. Underage spoilt kids raging around in cars, and cleaners of trucks practicing their driving wildly on roads; a so called star drives wildly killing folks on a footpath, and the judge "grants him the permission" to stay away from a court hearing, based on some facetious reason, which has to do with films, that exhibit outrageous visuals. The same star does a song and a dance at the police gymkhana annual program, in front of folks who, under normal circumstances, would travel with him to court in police vans, shackled to him.

Anyone can say anything to anybody, throw acid, attack, and maim, if they dont like it. Action by authorities depends on who is in power, when the elections will be, and who has connections to whom.

Instant 24 x 7 phone connectivity, in-your-face-over-the-top indiscriminate security as a status thing for selected types, and I still dont have a sense of family security, that my parents had 50 years ago, when we kids went out.

Sometimes I wonder.

About which direction we are heading in. And whether there exists a return path at all......

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Banking for Dummies ?

As a child, for a long time, I used to think banks printed money, and you went and got some whenever the need arose. Then, when simple interest/compound interest happened in school, someone explained banks to me, how they offered to keep your money, and paid you interest to use it. I used to think it was pretty decent of the banks to pay me interest to use my money, and yet, still have it there when I needed it.

I also learned that you could not print money at will. And there was a government mint that did that. In those days, banks invited you to open accounts. Staff was limited. They almost knew all the customers. I still have one such account courtesy my late mother, who, some old timers at the bank, now retired , still remember. For her ability to call a spade a spade where banking functions were concerned, and for insisting on certain clear documentation in passbooks.

Today, banks behave as if it is all their money, and they are doing a favor by allowing us to withdraw cash. They charge you for chequebooks, for using your own money, even though the computers now do the calculations and reconciliation. Sadly, I find them wanting, where integrity of the data is concerned.

I am told that my pension account must exist on a single name. I can have a nominee. The bank decrees who it can be be. That, is an intrusion into my personal space. And one day, when I ask for a new chequebook on that account, I get one , with the name of the spouse (still in service) on each chequebook leaf.

It takes me 3 people, and 3 repetitions of the problem, and a week, to rectify this. Why their static/master data should show my name as my spouse's on a single name account, has no explanation. There is simply no data checking and verification. Or possibly, no protocol on who can see and change what data. Or possibly careless implementation of hitherto strict rules. As I leave , I am told I must pay postage for the correct chequebook again. Some banks have no grace at all.

For several months one has been seeing a certain , non trivial sum being credited to one's account on the 15th of a month, and debited the next day. When this happens a lot , I ask. (In retrospect , it might have been a great idea to study this and actually withdraw sums before they could debit. That would have woken up the folks. But then I do not accept what is not mine).

I am told the CD for monthly transactions comes from the head office, and I should check there. I go there . Turns out, the CD is received from the municipal authorities, and pertains to monthly salaries. A perusal of the data (how it was perused, is a subject for another blog post) , with the same "amount " and date indicates, that someone has a similar account number to mine. (This account which is now mine has existed since 1950, with no problems.).

The manager has no explanation, but a lot of jargon. It seems they "reverse" transactions when something like this happens. I am alarmed that someone else other than me can debit things . Then it turns out that the person whose salary is being credited and debited into my account is actually an account holder at an extension counter elsewhere , of this branch. The manager has simply allocated certain numbers from 1 to n to this extension branch. And unfortunately, not indicated that it is an account at the extension counter, with an appropriate code, different from that of his branch.

There has been no training in codification of accounts, the various types of concatenated data that make up the key . I ask if they have a users manual for the software in use (they claim that they do not), and the matter is resolved by changing the account number of the municipal person appropriately. I cannot but help wonder if some of my credits have been posted against this person's account instead.

I check my statements. I promise them that I will be writing to the head office. They need a refresher course in codification of maybe a newer software version that highlights such discrepancies and ambiguities.

I have spent 2 days and several hours a day solving this, and some of the old timers who now sit in FD section on the ground floor, have seen me going around, fairly agitated. One of them stops me on the way out. Asks me if I am my mother's daughter. I reply in the affirmative , and he says , "You are just like your mother. She too never tolerated shoddy work" .....:-)

I guess although my name is now different, similarities exist. In more than looks.

It isn't always computers. Sometimes it is people. Sometime in the late 80's , it was required to send a large sum by telegraphic transfer. Petrol was then Rs 3.50 a litre, Rs 1000 was a huge amount. The telegraphic transfer amount , several times more, was related to a government housing loan.

They said it would reach the next day and charged me for it. It took 21 days. When I asked the bank to pay me interest for "using" this amount for 21 days, when it should have reached overnight, the manager gave me a superior look , and rudely asked why I was making such a fuss. As if the amount was huge. I expect banks to treat a ten rupee interest with the same respect as a 10 lakh rupees interest.

And I had to tell him that (a) in 21 days, even I would have reached the destination, walking backwards with eyes closed, with the amount in a bag, and returned with a receipt, and (b) Anything above four zeroes after a digit had me going into a dead faint.

Maybe he was used to dealing in lakhs and crores****. As a customer, I am too small, and can be brushed off. Hundreds were too small for him. Nevertheless, I mentioned about banks making a living off peoples' deposits, with nothing really of their own to start with. Someone clearly had great fun with numbers for 21 days. He didn't like that.

Today, crores is the buzzword. One hears of scams in banks. In crores. Scams elsewhere, by those close to centres of power. In crores. Scams by those who idolize the wrong folks. In crores. Scams by shameless greedy types siphoning of stuff meant for those with nothing. All in thousands of crores.

Many more stories about banking. For some other time.

I just saw this news about an individual offering Rs 1500 crores to develop the pilgrim town of Pandharpur. Something that needs to be done. Something like simple amenities like toilets and washrooms for the Warkaris that converge in thousands as they come to the grand finale of their pilgrimage, each year. Something, that regrettably, has still not been done by our government. Busy as they are erecting statues in the Arabian Sea..

As is my habit, not being on backslapping terms with crores, I start counting the zeros.

Till now, thanks to newspapers, I have basically associated such amounts with scams. I mean I've heard of double digit crores spent on posh bungalows ,weddings and such stuff. But the irony is, thanks to the massive scams unearthed, one conversely thinks, any person associated with such amounts to be a scamster.

It is such a telling fact about what we have become as people, that a donor of a big sum like this, is automatically suspected as a scamster, unless proved otherwise.....

*** 1 crore = 10 million , 1 lakh - one hundred thousand

Monday, December 31, 2012

A day in the life of "T"......

The television. The newspapers. Twitter. Facebook. News about Nirbhaya and the protests. Reactions. The strange unexplainable governmental silences. Early Saturday morning brought the news.

It was too late for the Saturday newspapers, and then Sunday newspapers were full of it.

My morning household help "T", (who now shares some of "S"'s work , as the latter is getting on in years"), comes very early, even on Sundays, and saw me immersed in the extra papers we get only on Sundays. She was finishing up, and I got up to make an extra cup of tea for me and her.

"Did you hear about the girl ? " Me

"Which girl ?" "T" , looking puzzled.

"The one in Delhi, who was battling for her life in a Delhi Hospital, and who they sent to Singapore suddenly overnight ? She died ..."    Me.

"Which girl ? What happened ? No, I hadn't heard anything about any girl...." "T" now confused, and asked me what it was all about.

I wondered to myself how all this did not reach her.

I told her.

"T" lives in a slum area in the hills a bit away from us. Works 5 houses a day. Goes home in the afternoon, to cook and clean in her own house, and sometimes rushes to fill water at the communal tap, if the water has played truant at dawn. Her two teenage kids , one of them a stepson, come home late after work and evening college, and she stays awake with dinner till they return and study almost till midnight. Dawn heralds the arrival of low pressure water in the communal taps, where she rushes at 4 am. She has an old TV , and still doesn't get time to watch , because with the miles she walks daily to work and back, through questionable neighborhoods, besides saving transportation costs, tires her a lot, and she rests occasionally when at home.

She had not heard a thing about this. She gets no newspapers. She, a widow, keeps to herself in her home, to avoid tangling with inquisitive types with questionable intentions, and is very wary about the goonda element in her locality and the effect they may have on her sons. She once told me she was glad her daughter was older, married and living away in a different better locality, as this was no place for a girl .

She set down her broom, and listened to the whole thing as I told her that the murderers had been all caught and in prison. She nodded in support when I told her about the protests in Delhi, and the attacks on protesters. Shocked and stunned.

And I wondered. How we take so many things like "leisure" for granted. There was a massive churning amidst the populace in reaction to this heinous crime, and we had all the time to immerse ourselves, read, discuss, react and shout about it.

And "T" lived in an area, where this probably frequently happened and no one was caught and blamed. Where parents and single parents like her, burned their energies, time and money ensuring their children kept away from the bad influences. They never believed the custodians of the law, and the leaders , who "T" said came only to "buy" their vote. And who did nothing when such crimes happened.

"T" thinks Delhi is something great. It's the capital. So it has to be something great. All the speeches and parades , and awards happen there in glittering splendour. She sees fleeting glimpses when the sons put the TV on, or when she notices a photo in a newspaper that was used to wrap up something from a shop. She doesn't care to know the names of any of the big folks in Delhi. Or what they do.

I told her they were now thinking of making the laws much stricter, and the work places and transport safer for women.

And she said " I hope this trickles down to us in my lifetime. Every alternate house in my locality, has drunkard husbands, and sons who boss around, demand things, and even slap their own when their demands are not met. For women with daughters it is even worse. Who do we complain to ?"

And I thought, there must be millions of women like T , completely uninformed about what had happened to shake up a lackadaisical nation, the fight of a brave girl.

They probably understand what happened much better because they see it everywhere around them. They prioritize their own family's needs and work around those, constructing their own diversions across dangerous paths.

They don't argue about life imprisonments and death penalties and pardons. They have nothing to say about 1 man commissions. But they understand anger. And its management. It is a skill developed without formal education. Passed on to the children, carefully and strictly.

T tells me she wont be able to come the next day, as she needs to go to the kid's college to pay fees. She doesn't send the teenage kid with large sums of money, as there are elements in the neighborhood who are known to threaten the kids and steal it. (And these "large" sums are those we spend on something, saying how cheap the thing was on sale.....)

One more day over. One more step in life successfully completed.

I wonder how many more like T . I wonder how their lives will change. Or will they ?

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Straightened Lives ....

Genetics is never enough.

I mean I can show you proof, that a wavy haired mother and a father with more visible scalp and less hair, can beget a son with straight silky hair, which does not stay in place easily.

I can also allow you to meet a member of the same family, whose hair, for years together, grew radially outward in curls. Somewhere at the fag end of teenage , and the onset of twenties, there was this big urge to straighten things out.

Thoughts, Attitudes, and most of all, hair.

The first two, are an ongoing process. The last one, has introduced me to several technologies.

"I beat Venus Williams technology" : You buy a packet of say, a hundred tiny rubber bands. Nobody really counts them, but then you don't count your hair either. You establish yourself on a sofa with a comb, in front of the television, with Fear Factor on, and for the next three hours make millions of little braids that end with a tight rubberband. Between the braids drooping under their own engineering, and the visual hair paths created due to tight pulling of hair, you are a vision. You sleep on this, and next morning, you spend a similar time unravelling all this. Yes, the hair looks a bit straightened, like a chastened child, but you still don't play tennis like Venus.

"Steam Iron Special" : Gives a new meaning to to Hair Spray. Except now it is plain water that you spray through the spray iron. Use a large toothed comb, and comb out the wet hair , and then actually iron it . Someone once tried this with the head down on the ironing board, and said it felt like a guillotine. Moving irons across hair holding it straight as you stand up, has been tried , with marginal success.

Ganna Juice technology : Uses the Ganna Juice press in off hours. The Ganna Juice platform is cleared of all patelas, glasses, strainers et all, and you lie back on it with your hair inserted into the press, instead of sugarcanes. You may use this manually and electrically, though the latter involves quick use of on and off buttons, and you need to extract yourself out during the Off status. Of course, folks like ants, have noticed a certain sweet flavor and texture to the resulting hair, not to mention certain fibre streaks, so much the fashion now.

Rapunzel technology : Specially for super long hair. Our tropical country allows us to stand in balconies and dry our wet hair. This has been a custom since balconies became popular. That this could be used by the construction folks to allow folks to climb , has occurred to certain greedy minds. The ensuing pull would be sufficient to straighten the hair. But as expected, the construction industry is dicey, and someone is insisting on helmets. So we wait for this civil technology to take root.

Multipurpose door railing technology: This is again for more than shoulder length hair, and folks who need to become tall. The age old technique of hanging from horizontal door railing, and pulling your self up. The hair is tied to the railing, and it gets nicely stretched on your way down from the railing. Muscles relax as the hair pulls, and vice versa. Recommended 50 pull ups/pulldowns a day.

Shampoos and stuff : These things are a bit less drastic than all the above. I hear Sunsilk types have something where you shampoo your hair, wash it and then slather on some stuff , leaving it in for a while. You then wash it again, and voila, when you comb and dry out , you get a new look with straight hair.

Of course, there are levels of straight. There is solid straight as in rod, where if you twirl around, someone gets injured; there is straight as in broom, where if you twirl around, someone gets clean. And then there is straight, with just a hint of the earlier curl. You can adjust this depending on how long you leave thing on in your hair.

However. In keeping with the e-fication of everything today, there is a new technology that involves the Government. No, you do not need an Adhar card, or PAN card, and there is no last date to apply for this. And most of all, this technology is self sustaining, and green.

Aam Barber technology : Raw material permanently available, and while all other technologies will drive Aam Barbers out of business, all you need here is a brave barber......

Let me tell a story, I just heard, to illustrate it.

"While cutting hair, the official Barber asked the Minister,
‘’What’s this Swiss Bank issue?”

The Minister shouted, “You! Are you cutting hair or conducting an inquiry?”

Barber: "Sorry Sir, I just asked."

Next day, while cutting the hair, he asked President ,
“Sir, what’s this Black money issue?’’

The President shouted, ‘’Why did you ask me this question?’’

Barber: ‘’Sorry Sir, just asked you’’

Next day, CBI interrogated the Barber, ‘’Are you an agent of Aba Namdev?’’

Barber: No Sir.

CBI: "Are you the agent of Nana Azare?"

Barber: No Sir.

CBI: "Are you the agent of Sarvind Bajriwal?"

Barber: No Sir.

CBI: Then while cutting the hair, why do you ask Ministers about Swiss Bank and Black money issues?

Barber: "Sir, I do not know why, when I ask about Swiss Bank or Black money, Ministers’ hairs stand up straight; and that helps me to cut the hair easily; that’s why I keep asking."

This really is the cutting edge :-) hair straightening technology.

Creates an intelligent, curious, informed citizenry, straight hair, and does not spoil the environment. No discriminating between genders.

I have seen a TV ad where a girl has such straight hair, you can tie knots with it to a truck's fenders; and then pull the truck!

You know, straight hair isn't meant for that. We have tow trucks. It is better to be a smart, silky haired, honest, socially responsible straight haired cop, and write a ticket for that truck.

For everyone else, there is the Sun, there is the Silk. And then there is the aforementioned technology. .

You choose !

This post is a part of The Sunsilk Hair Experiment on IndiBlogger.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Corprate "Narowa Kunjarowa".....

One of the signs of being powerful, is when you become an expert in giving unclear ambiguous answers, all the while behaving as if these are definitive answers.

Unable to decide if you want a gulab jamoon or cake is OK; it doesn't hurt anyone except you (Whatever you chose ,it is bad for you).

Unable to say yes or no when asked if you like the gift you have just received ? Its a toss up between lying and hurting someone. And lying is so much easier.

It even happened in the scriptures. Kaurava Senapati Guru Dronacharya , with his special powers was invincible. Lord Krishna, advised folks to kill an elephant called Ashwatthama and then go around spreading the news that Ashwatthama was dead. Unfortunately, Guru Drona's son bore the same name. Assailed by doubts he decided to ask Yudhistir. So when eldest Pandava Yudhishtir, known for always telling the truth, was asked about it, he gave an ambiguous answer with the voice volume selectively modulated. All said amidst celebratory planned conch shell blowing, shouting et al to drown the clarity.

He said "Narowa Kunjarowa". (Which isn't Japanese. Please. ) It is Sanskrit for saying, in this case that " it could be elephant or man ". Who was dead. Guru Drona,did not hear the elephant part, and unable to handle this news which he presumed was about his son, laid down his arms and along with it a big strength of the Kauravas in the battle. Yudhistira, whose chariot always rode so many feet above the ground in celebration of his erstwhile single minded truthfulness, suddenly noticed his chariot touch the earth, hopefully with a thud.

Politicians do this all the time. The Narowa Kunjarowa stuff. A step towards "power".

Conversely, someone who is really good and habituated to this, will always make a good politician, and possibly has an excellent future in the realm of power.

We Indians even have a "head bobble" which comes to us naturally, but to others feels as if we are being ambiguous about yes and no.

The trouble is , all these things are feasible when you have a fancy title, give oral instructions, blow conch shells to drown answers, and employ a lot of PR.

You don't have to write down things. And send them to people.

But then sometimes, one even has long transcripts of emails, all in black white and even color, documenting one thing

Telling you one thing. "No permissions were taken"

Then you get another email from another bigger party, saying exactly the opposite regarding whoever sent the earlier emails. "Permissions were taken.."

Happened in the case of two parties concerned with the appearance of my copyrighted post in one of the leading newspapers. See my earlier post.

Turns out (as of Monday Dec 24, 2012, just received email), that the book where my article was published in print, was sent to TOI for review a long time ago, and permission was given then. (And everyone forgot. ) The paper then gets to print excerpts of the book, without special permission, and the publisher is grateful for the free publicity. This happened so long ago, possibly 2011, that the junior staff at the publisher who handled it forgot all about it.

Stupid Me. And I thought that when they review and publish, at the end of what they have to say, they always give details about the book, such as its full title, pagination, ISBN, year of publication, publisher, and sometimes, price.

What appeared in the Times didn't look like a review to me. If they reviewed the book earlier in 2012, I have not seen it. This Dec 9, 2012 thing was a plain and simple printing of my article, that too, with their own title on top.

No clarity in all this. All ambiguous. In posh terms it is called Human Error.


I guess the Pandavas won the battle, but not the war. Yudhishtir's exalted status for honesty came down several notches, post-Mahabharata the descendants of the Pandavas messed things up with their misrule, and the Yadavas fought each other.

Every thing came to a head with a massive flood, rising of the seas, and the drowning of that civilization under the ocean.

Yes, I know world will not end, the Mayans may have made a mistake. It's OK.

One set of rulers will go, another set will come.

Somehow, I do not know who to believe. About the emails. Or whether i should even bother.

I feel like the elephant Ashwatthama. Who quietly died. Unambiguously.

While all around folks were ambiguously misrepresenting things

So that they might simply get on with their business of power ....

Friday, December 21, 2012

Jo mera hai woh tera NAHI hai.......or the Times of Indignation

I have now been blogging for 6 years. And counting. The sheer expanse of years, thanks to being on the wrong side of 60, and the rich experiences and amazing people I have met , make for wonderful subjects when I think of doing a post.

Think of millions of folks like me, writing up stuff , and posting it.

We now have a publicly available mighty source of articles anyone can read. Some read, enjoy, comment and discuss.

And some, use the blogosphere as an infinite sink from which to blatantly pick up articles to fill up their columns in print.

In 2011, one such post of mine, "A touch of a thousand words" was selected by the publishers/editors of the Chicken Soup series of books, for inclusion in the Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul-A Book of miracles. I signed a contract, and was delighted to get my 2 free copies and a payment .

Imagine my consternation when a friend from Delhi, saw my entire Chicken Soup article, published under a title called Soul Soup , in Dec 9, 2012, in the New Delhi edition of the Sunday "The Speaking Tree" weekly edition on page 4. It mentioned my name, the book series, and the publisher. She told me about it, and was aghast when she learned that I had no clue about its appearance, since I was not contacted. She even sent me the hard copy of the paper.

Strangely enough, when I tried looking at the e-version of this , the other articles by folks like Ashwin Sanghi, also on Page 4 that day , showed up , but my article did not show up. The said article by Ashwin Sanghi appeared next to my article column in the actual paper, and should have shown up in the e version.

Something in my contract with the publishers mentioned that people needed to take permission of the publisher before reproducing the article. I checked with the editor and publisher, and was told that no permissions were asked . I have emails saying that.

I hold the copyright to that printed article. The blog post of mine that I submitted that later got selected, appears on my blog with a creative Commons license declarations on screen.

I would like to ask why big media houses like Times of India, with all their resources, libraries, eminent contributors, staff, hardware software and humanware, feel it necessary to blatantly pick up articles written by others in violation of copyright. What stops them from sending a quick email and asking for permission ?

(To be fair, Femina once featured my blog link and some small information about me on one of their pages. They emailed, communicated and took permission before proceeding. And informed me when it appeared in the magazine. No problems. )

I had an earlier experience with another leading Mumbai newspaper, that published another blog post without my explicit permission. I was told I gave permission. I sent them copies of emails exchanged, that clearly asked them to check with me and ask before using my material. And that they never asked for it, regarding that post.

They then said they would not compensate monetarily , as the online page where it appeared was "demonetized" ie it did not earn them revenue !. Despite Google ads showing up with liver transplant,singing classes, housing and Air India ads to name a few. Then I was told Google ads happen by themselves. I had to remind them that surprise, surprise , I knew one needs to sign up for Google AdSense, and one earns from that. I just wondered what someone who didn't know about Google ads would have done . Maybe they thought they could intimidate with jargon like demonetise and lies about Google ads. I have the entire email history record of when this was discussed.    After a detailed skirmish, they sent me a cheque and apologized.

Is this a sign of the times ? Is lawlessness, powerhungryness, and blatant lifting, the new mantra amongst the media types ? Are scruples old-fashioned ? Does ambition blind ? Is taking some one's permission a sign of weakness ? And does everything operate on the basis of quid-pro-quid ?

Would their attitude change if I was an advertiser of the paper ?

We see this trespassing attitude everywhere. Chalega. Usme kya hai ? Dekh Lenge. Rules are for others.

See how those in power behave across the country. Personally or commercially.

They say money speaks. Having a lot, and being a big set-up media outfit is a potent combination that sometimes misleads folks.

And makes them forget what the elders/founders taught them when they were little.

To say Please, and May I, and Thank you.

(I am in communication with the folks of TOI.   So, I am told, are the publishers. Waiting for a response. Me, that is. None as yet, 24 hours after email was sent. Will update when I hear from them. )

Sunday, December 16, 2012

The Search.....

Long ,long time ago, folks got their children married, without them(the couple) ever meeting before marriage. Those who watch the wonderful Marathi serial "Unch Maaza, Jhoka" will know what I am saying.

In the early and middle part of the last century, you met each other from a distance.

Somewhere in the latter half, families met over kande-pohe, tea etc, and introduced their children, and the couple got several chances to meet over coffee et al later , and decide. (I can only talk about urban middle class Maharashtra).

The last quarter of the century saw a pattern change. The children were actually asked about their preferences , and parents kept on the lookout for likely candidates, along with their children. Sometimes it was formal introductions, sometimes informal hellos. Sometimes all this led you somewhere, sometimes it didn't and you changed track.

Today , we are in the era of marriage portals, that advertise on television, have web pages, Internet searches, and specify all kinds of things on their individual pages, , about, say grooms, that you would have found out earlier only a month after you got married.

Like, he is a limited conversationalist or a non stop talker. Religious/Non religious.   Owns a two wheeler/four wheeler. Desktop. laptop. Sometimes even owns a flat. Hangs out of Facebook, Linkedin. For some reason, ownership of a split AC is considered a big plus. He enjoys mainly vegetarian food, of the non spicy type, fast food or non vegetarian for some change. Most fellows enjoy some sports, some mention proficiencies, and hobbies like music,photography, social service, and so on. There are instances of someone mentioning " I like to roam" as a hobby .....

Some portals have a "verified" category of grooms. Some agency telephones the house to verify what information is given, for an extra charge. When folks at the other end of the phone answer in affirmative to the things asked , the groom is declared "verified" .

Amazingly, when it comes to expectations of how the girl should be, most fellows specify ability to live in joint families, and that the girl must have the ability to look after his family . They specify, not just their choice in terms of height, build, community, existence of glasses/contact lenses, complexion, job, possible salary, acceptable cities (where she might hail from) , diet preferences, but a set of acceptable degrees !

Grooms resident abroad with parents ask for GRE-TOEFL exam scores of prospective brides. It is not unusual for fellows to specify highly qualified, and educated brides, with say one or more of CA, LL.B, CS, CWA, BTECH, BE, MBA, B.Arch, MBBS, M.D., Interior Decorator, BBA, B.Com . And before I forget, B. Physiotherapy. Of course, M.Sc, Ph.D are also tolerated. Some even specify the MBA specialization; HR, Finance et al. (All the above choices were actually specified by a single groom candidate).

Some parents are known to send regrets saying "we are looking for a BE ot IT girl".... despite everything about the girl being nice , except her wrong degree.
Is this a collaboration , merger or both ?

Then there are what one may call personal details of his own that the groom supplies. Like a traditional, or modern, family background, food preferences, religious views. One guy even said " Self-proclamation is difficult thing for me. Honesty, modesty and passion describe me." Another actually described himself as "charming. ". Some magnanimously say, they couldn't care about the girl's having or not having a job, but almost always specify a salary.

And then there is what I call euphemistic terminology. "Sales professional" for salesman in a shop, health care professional for front office worker in a doctor's office or pharmacist's assistant, and the best is the use of the word "HR professional". I mean you are human and a resource, what more classification do you want ? Covers everything from an officer to administrative assistant, secretary, Man Friday etc . Another one is "Banking Services".

Sometimes one wonders if the system actually groans under so much specification.
Of course, a horoscope is ALWAYS asked, although, some do mention that they will be taking only a "cursory" look at it and not look for "exact" matches. I guess that allows exit loopholes. Whatever that means.

I wonder what else will happen in the future. Will they conduct "recruitments "? Will a bunch of girls attend a group discussion ? Will they have levels of selection and shortlists ?   Why not contracts with terms and conditions ?

The irony lies in the meaning of "ON LINE".

In the older days, with much less information about each other, people got married, had kids, lived with elders, moved on their own, fought,laughed , cried and in general, life was lived in an on-line mode, facing up to new discoveries about each other, and learning to handle them in real time, sometimes, with a few mental injuries and hurts, but lessons learned.

Today, with such a flood of information , and this weird insistence of educational degrees having to do something with it all, time and again, people find, that they are ill equipped to deal with situations post marriage, because of faulty system specifications, and outlandish expectations.

There exists no algorithm for spousal selection. Definitely not in a discretized world, where 1 + 1 is always 2 and many are not able to handle any other result.

Early on, 1 + 1 could always be 2, 0r 3 or even 4., and whatever the result , it was valid and manageable.

Between Kande-Pohe systems and relational database query systems, there has to be a middle path.

Some find it at work, some in college, some amidst their hobbies they share. But it is important that it is found for society at large , regardless of the strata to which one belongs.