Big Boss, reloaded.....

 Police joining Politics , Politicians acting like Police,  hitherto low lying neta folks indulging in fodderless chewing of the cud , as they plot Telanganic liasons of the splitting kind;   these are clearly exciting times,  with the public watching and reading meanings into actions and words of those who purport to lead us.

A bit like being under the scrutiny of the nation , on television,  and indulging in crises after crises.

I thought this was a bit like Big Boss.  Except that in this case, everyone inside the national house was individually a Big Boss.

And thought that it was time to repost something I wrote in 2010.   Four years down the line , nothing much has changed.


 Big Boss in the Service of the Nation....

It has occurred to me, an ordinary commoner, disgusted with the handling of corruption in the country, that some innovative solutions need to be looked at. And not all of the solutions, can be found in things like retired justices of Supreme Courts/High Courts, Joint Parliamentary Committees, Interlocutors etc etc.

It has also occurred to me, a stupid commoner, that the best way to nab a corrupt person, is to set another person with corrupt tendencies to catch him/her. Which should make for a very very interesting show given the rules.

The thing to do is to announce a special Bigg Boss season immediately. The rules of the Bigg Boss show allow a special house with many rooms to sit around and yak away, but just very few bedrooms and bathrooms. The rule says you must speak in Hindi, which throws up very interesting possibilities of candidate selection. Since you are not allowed to leave for any reason, and maintain outside contact, this will be more secure than those who sit in various different custodies of the law , police,judicial etc etc. And the best part, is that someone like the High Command, hitherto called the Bigg Boss, appears only as a voice that does individual interviews , asks for opinions , and finally issues its own edicts about who to throw out.

Main contenders for entry into the house would be Suresh Kalmadi, Sheila Dikshit, Sudhhanshu Mittal, Lalu Prasad Yadav, A. Raja of the DMK, Mayawati, Ashok Chavan, his ma-in-law (who he deleted as a relative), Raj Thakre, Jayalalithaa, Uddhav Thakre, Vilasrao Deshmukh, Ex Mumbai commissioner Jairaj Phatak, Sushama Swaraj. Various mothers-in-law, daughters , sons, can be added on later as and how required.

While the insistence on Hindi in the Big Boss house constructed in Panvel, Maharashtra, would make for interesting events with the Thakres inside, It will be interesting to see Kalmadi and Lalu bonding over crunches at the gym inside, with A Raja, urging Jayalailthaa to try the treadmill , and she giving him a distrustful look and checking out the speed setting.

Bathrooms, as per slightly older political history have often served as places to store the loot in secret compartments in the walls. Given the paucity of bathrooms in the Bigg Boss house, interesting conclusions can be reached by timing everyone's usage of the same, and the conditions of the walls.

While Sheila Dikshit, Sushama Swaraj, might bond at the kitchen counter , it would be interesting to see if Mayawati agrees to the Manuvadi idlis that JayaLalithaa might prepare. A Raja, uncharacteristically , a bit careful after his resignation, might watch Mayawati for any ill effects of the idli, before trying some himself, simply out of a sense of homesickness, though the possibilities of him enjoying Lucknow cuisine with Sheila Dikshit cannot be denied.

Lalu will be found sitting out in the sunniest part of the house, bare chested , feet up, on a chair, chewing away on his thoughts, as he tries to impress upon Suresh Kalmadi the need to include his son and heir Tejaswi Yadav in the Indian Olympic Committee, so he can learn from the bosses. Every time one of the Thakres ambles by , he will smile and wave, while spouting invective about communal forces. Ashok Chavan's mother-in-law will try and inch closer to Sudhanshu Mittal , thinking that only a tent supplier can now provide her a roof over her head, so cruelly denied to her , by fellows like Vilasrao Deshmukh, out to get her son-in-law, Ashok.

Since no outside contact is allowed, it will illuminating to see how the inmates appear to outsiders watching the serial. Possibilities of hundreds of Bihar and UP politicians watching for secret signs from their leaders cannot be denied. Something like, a scratching of the knee and spitting to the right by Lalu Prasad being a sign that folks needed to look in the lowest shelf of the cupboard to the right of the party office door in Patna. Or Kalmadi , waving his hands around to signify a helicopter, something to be kept ready for escape once he is out. A Raja, depressed at being away from his Relia-ble cronies, will be seen ensconced in a deep sofa, as if twice the gravitational force , 2G was in operation, and wondering if he got out just in time before 3G started acting.

Raj Thakre will practice his speeches in Marathi, with only Uddhav , Kalmadi, Ashok Chavan, Vilasrao Deshmukh and Jairaj Phatak for audience, since the rest won't understand. Mayawati will try and attend , in her effort to learn Marathi , and woo the Marathi Manoos in the next election.

The Big Boss , will actually be a lady. Aloof, up there, and with informers amongst the inmates. She will interview each inmate to get his or her opinion about the others, so that they can decide who and how many to evict. At the end of the day, she will listen to her "own conscience", pull some wool over her own eyes, and reach her conclusions with the help of her son, who has sneaked in as part of her security.

The nice thing is that all the hitherto corrupt types will be together in custody , keeping a keen eye on each other, and watched at all times by the nation, in the Bigg Boss house. They will eventually expose each other. And instead of spending on the various committees & investigations, you will actually have sponsors falling over each other to pay for this broadcast. As Obama is fond of saying, a win-win solution.

In the meanwhile, latest reports have indicated that Pamela Anderson of Hollywood and Baywatch fame, (where she does a 100 metre sprint into the ocean clad in a swimsuit of uneven proportions, chased by lifeguards) , was seen entering Bigg Boss house .

Sushama Swaraj was seen pursing her lips and shaking her head, Sheila Dikshit closed her eyes, Mayawati stood still as a statue, and while Lalu, Raja, the Thakres, the ex chief ministers, Suddhnashu Mittal, and the ex mumbai commisioner stood open mouthed and staring, Jayalalithaa was seen removing her voluminous cape, and rushing to cover Pamela Anderson with it.....

Further news is awaited...

Edited to add : I dont watch this show, and have simply observed it in the process of surfing channels. But Wikipedia mentions all the rules. While the recent government (nov 17th) rule about not broadcasting it in prime time, and relegating it to 11 pm slots is very welcome, in the above situation, it will simply serve to keep all the worthies out of public view : a typical quick way to get the stuff out of the public's memory....so what's new ...?

A Different Parade

I've known about Award Nights . (I didn't say I have been to one. Just saying....)

And red carpets, and flared gowns, bow ties, and people ties,  swishing cars and banging doors, gliding Mercedes and  flashing diamonds, sachharine comments and sweet truths, and folks literally flying in, harnessed to a massive cage above a stunned audience....

I wonder if anyone has heard about Award Afternoons.  About arriving sputtering in a vehicle, with one less wheel than a Mercedes, open air style, convertible on the sides.  To be greeted by a spiffy shining dark jet black dog, who smells the air around you with deceptive ease, and lets you pass with his boss  saying "Namaste".  Then someone takes everything on your person (except you)  and passes it through an X-Ray machine. I am just glad they don't see my broken rib and fused tailbone.  Your belongings are then returned to you, and you enter the Republic Day Brunch Parade.

This is about the Parade, I did. On Republic Day, January 26. 2014.

At the Courtyard by Marriot Mumbai Airport. Who held a contest to define Republic Day as a dish, and asked us what it should be and why....

Naturally, as befits a 64 year old person, brought up on the celebratory properties on Payasam,  my entry was a poem about the Patriotic Payasam.

I won . :-)   Those Payasamically curious, may read the poem here.

A Brunch for 2, on Republic Day , at their Mo Mo cafe. Naturally,  the family photo expert attended with the camera.

The only thing different here was, that WE were the parade, as we walked amidst the breads and the salads, and chaats, and regular lunch stuff and pastas, regaled by the mocktails.

A bit different from sitting in one place, inside barricades, either  cheek by jowl with muffler wrapped folks, or elegantly wrapped in shawls in special enclosures, applauding , seeing the various   folks go by....

Ours was a perspective of the parading types. who watch the folks in the stands and galleries.

And naturally , this being Election Year, we had something to say about certain folks.


Stiff upright breads, puffed and positioned in important reserved places, hierarchical and hot in power...

 ADC's  standing in formation behind the Breadpati, unaffected by the spicy going ons...

 The ministers,  external affairs, home style, internal matters, agriculture, and milk matters, in place,based on their proximity to the boss, the onion, tomato peons standing by to the side,

 The bureaucratic olives, zuchhini habitat centre chholes, subdued onions, and powerful corns and sprouts, sitting in importance , watched by the lettuce balconies,

 Khatte Meethe security types, waiting to slowly arrive at important places , some tough , some sweet, and some downright sour,

 And to one side,  Delhi chaat types,  wrapped in jeerapani, crackling away in sev puri delight, with showers of tomatoes, sauce , and a glaring chilly look..

 Some clearly, dressed for the occasion, in orange and green chutney style, watched by the churmuri onlookers around,

 And then to one side, the armed forces, with the mocktails, fashionable cool and spiffy, flavored by the tangy orange, mysterious litchi, and in keeping with AAP, the AAM Panna,

 Some special seats across the gap, for hefty Dalwalas, and Paneerbegums and Mutterbens, respectfully sitting around the sophisticated handi rice folks hobnobbing with the newfangled carrot soup visitors....

 Sweet kulhad kids, playing with caramel,  with raspberry tops, and funny upside down pineapple types,  some older spicy cake kids, watching the fruit custards, and guavas , while the doodhihalwa kids whoop it up with the brownie pudding types watched by apple, pineapple and dragon moms, lying in syrup; what to do , kids will be kids......

 The Kiwi heads and Hazelnut tortes, keeping their distance; you see, the parade is nicely visible from a platform, they think.....

 The Tiranga Barfis, swathed in national colors, escorted by the paneeri ladies, respectfully sitting to one side....

 And the general veggie public, surrounded by white barricades, falling over each other, marinated in excitement, waiting since dawn, to watch the Republic Day parade.....

 Sometimes, an occasional bread security chap, standing to the side, one eye on the dahi vadas all immersed in themselves, as the cherries stand up to see better, leaning on the apples....

 A special place of course, for special folks, escorting the dragon fruit, an esteemed visitor to the capital, invited for the parade.....

 The custard fruit, salutes as the parade goes by, as the cake climbs to one side, to see better; perhaps the paneeribegums know what is in the parade, since they rest quietly, stewing in their own sweetness

 In all this celebration of the Republc Day , a lone Curd Rice, sits  amidst the salads and influential dhoklas; much like  a Kejriwal, at the Presidents reception, wondering, whether he is in the wrong place or they are..

 And yes, the AAM Panna,  made a mock-tale of  , possibly to suit the tastes of some, who have forgotten the taste of a winkingly sour raw mango and a summer nagpur orange, while fitting into the corridors of power ....

.....
.....

Psst. If I were a Pulao or Tandoori Roti watching this parade, I wouldn't be too thrilled about having to watch a greying senior citizen in a salwar kurta and a young girl in a more celebratory outfit, lugging cameras and lenses.  I might add though, that there were several interestingly outfitted people one noticed later, in the parade . That would clearly, be fodder for another post ....

Just saying....

Wondering Times ....

Sometimes , I wonder.

How someone, with a paneer obsession for almost a quarter of a century, can suddenly now, actually turn her nose up and away, when faced with a paneer choice ?

How someone, who almost always gravitated to the T-shirts and jackets section in shops, suddenly cannot pull herself from the kurtas and salwars section overnight ?

How a bracelet-and-charms aficionado,  seriously looks up and says "You are supposed to wear 12 green glass bangles in one arm, and 13 in the other...." and looks troubled when someone else disagrees ?

How someone who swore by heels and despised flats, suddenly turns away in shoe shops, when confronted when heels guaranteed to topple you as you run for 6:56 am fast suburban train service.... ?

How a confirmed midnight chocolate snacker (with a yet unbroken record of imbibing 1 kilogram of assorted Hershey's chocolates  over a 2 day weekend), seriously looks up and says "you know you are supposed to fast before the pujas and rituals...." and proceeds to berate you for offering something to eat.

Well ?     It happens.

When certain life stage changes are imminent.  

Virtual lenses modify the eyes,  ear drums percuss louder when  inputs are special,  and wings appear in the mind.

One tries to research the origins of customs  that are so convincing to some.  And finds out that the original custom was a brand ambassador of commonsense;  in an effort, over the years, at mindlessly following things, we have managed to mess up the real priorities .

Some one's troubled face when confronted with the absence of a full fledged celebrated "haldi" ceremony in the planning of a wedding, led to a few discussions with someone who is a a scholarly officiating wedding priest  who explained.

Turns out, that in Maharashtra, earlier in the last century, the ideal marriageable age for girls was 8 years. (Never mind the boy's age. You thanked your stars if he was 20, and practiced looking stoic if he was 32. )  This was an age when kids played outdoors in mud, climbed trees, enjoyed swimming in local rivers, since there was no Internet, cell phones, malls with multiplexes, television, movies, and so on. When faced with an imminent marriage,  the religious rules demanded some elements of cleanliness  and purity , and the kids were subjected to a decent scrubbing with haldi and besan before bathing. Haldi (turmeric) was a well know antiseptic (among many other properties) , and it made sense to land up at the wedding rituals as clean and pure as you could be , in the days before L'oreal, Fair and Lovely, and Ponds.   

It was also useful to check out about the fasting.   There is much to be said about not encouraging the currently prevalent system of following strict fasts to be concluded by eating a selection of heavy celebratory rich foods, all in the name of "customs".

Sometimes, those  who cannot bear to be away from food, do so if God is involved. 

And then , there is also the ancient classification of food into Taamsi food and Satwick food.

Folks today, tend to over imbibe taamsi stuff, and look askance at a vegetarian you,  if you object to  them mixing up serving spoons in the vegetarian and non vegetarian stuff.  You are derisively called a  ghass-phoos type if you get your kicks from spinach and cabbage, and many aspire to eating things that have  hearts and eyes , in an effort to keep up with the times and Joneses.  Asking someone to fast before a religious ritual ,  avoids taking sides in the satwick and taamsi debate,  and gives the body a decent break , so it can rest and rejuvenate fresh and clean inside ,  before approaching God.

(The gentleman I spoke to, was all for those with problems like old age, diabetes, acidity and other stuff, partaking a light meal , milk etc before attending and performing a ritual. He also mentioned the need to wear new and or freshly washed clean  comfortable clothes at the ritual , instead of the  specially, touch-me-not silk dhoties often required ...  )   .

While this may perturb those whose idea of honoring the Almighty is to sit at the ritual studded with gold, diamonds and heavily adorned silk,  it is clear, that the various other customs really arose out of the social interaction systems prevalent in the old days.

Mehndi was never about  designs, but about plans.

Young girls , at 8 and 10 ,  apprehensive after a childhood with societal restrictions closing in as you grew up,  were clearly stressed going into their marriage. They probably saw the husband for the first time at the wedding ceremony.  Mehndi applied to the extremities of the limbs, strengthened  and cooled the nerves . The artistry took their mind away from anxieties about an unknown future.  And the girls enjoyed the mehndi fellowship with other girls in a life where there were not too many social occasions for them to enjoy outside the house.  There was also a custom of hiding the husband's name/initials somewhere in the design on the palms, and various theories were propagated about dominance depending on whether the husband was able to find his initials in the design on the wife's palm after a search.

Clearly, this was not about party games.  In an age, devoid of online matrimonial portals, Cafe Coffee Day, Starbucks, cell phones, whatsapp, and discos, this was a kind of game-cum-smart-effort, to get the couple to feel at ease with each other, as the husband held the wife's hand, and searched for his name in the design on the palm.

It boggles the mind to think about how all this degenerated into  the currently fashionable so called "customary"  events where folks in fancy clothes, gyrate to specially choreographed  filmy songs, with suggestive lyrics.

Yes, cultures across the country are different.  There are womens' traditional dances like the garba and certain maharashtrian game-like events, where the girl's friends do traditional graceful dances,  to songs with lyrics that talk about the various   in-laws  in a humorous yet respectful  way. A kind of "Introduction-to-inlaws 101" course.....

Many things, originally of great utilitarian and comfort value, have now been thoughtlessly parodied, and the original meaning has been lost. Vested commercial interests  market occasions in a way that makes folks feel insecure unless they do them .

So the old idea of families travelling by bullock kart and on foot for days together to the bride's place for the wedding  ceremony, leading to the custom of offering warm water to wash feet, has been parodied into a custom where the groom's feet on arrival,  are washed by people double his age, although the groom arrives from somewhere by an air conditioned car, and sometimes the  last few metres on a horse taller than the car. A not so subtle suggestion of some one's deemed high status.

So many , customs and events, earlier existing for reasons of hospitality and convenience have now become situations where importance is given to all the wrong aspects.

We are experts at doing this.  Disobeying the original intention and parodying things.

Long time ago, the registration of a marriage was not compulsory.  If you so wished, you went to  the registrars office, filled up forms, showed proofs, and your marriage was registered after suitable safeguards were in place,  like public announcements and a waiting period.  People in that office looked on with great interest at the couple in question, and even fantasized about whether they had run away to get married, whether there was some interesting opposition or simply just rule obsessed folks with lots of time on their hands.

The minute the government made the registration mandatory, the erstwhile quiet office, is now teeming with all kinds of staff, officers, lawyers, touts, and people out to make a quick buck. There is a price for everything.  A parody of something that was introduced with good intentions.

We so excel at flouting rules, sidestepping things and finding loopholes.   

I often think about how things will be, say twenty  years hence. What will be the customs then . What stuff we will parody .   What stuff we will market as an unavoidable requirement.

And whether someone will actually look back in history, and write a post like this.

And whether I will be around to read it :-)

Like I said, sometimes,  I wonder.  

Techno Militants

There comes a time in the lives of humans, when  the excessive sparkle of technology,  blinds. Not just the eyes, but more so, the brain.

Early on in our lives, or should I say, my life, the technology I used , was , to say the least , personalised.  Meaning, that the component of technology that  was designed , based on my actual personal preference,  was non trivial.

Electronics was in its nascent days. Elsewhere across the world, it had rushed  around by leaps and bounds, but thanks to our economic and other rules, we were late starters. Electronics afforded you a way to enjoy leisure times.  Sometimes, things like telephones, were , of course, great conveniences, but they were never , personal or even family accessories.  Mixers and blenders were on the horizon, but they were a luxury , and we still swear by the chutney ground on the stone, and the buttermilk churned with a "ravi", all at non life threatening speeds.  There was a sense of values-in-what-we-traditionally-had, combined with a sense of quiet wonder about what was on the horizon. Very slowly, convenience won out. Bicycles became complicated and posh. Cycling to work in fresh air got replaced by stationery bikes pedalled to the tune of some hit songs in a big hall full of sweaty people .

The real problem arose, when technology started entering the personal realm. It was now a question of technology influencing , not just the eyes, but the brain.

Visual technology perfected for television combined with entities employed to fool people , started affecting the way folks thought.  Ethics fell by the wayside,  as  folks agonized over being unable to fit into clothes that were not meant for them anyway. Young girls  lost sleep over the shape of their nose, and their inabilities to match up with vital statistics of people they saw all the time on screen. Medical specialities proliferated and some folks  made , and continue to make a career out of  chopping and changing  the original product, with a nip here and  tuck there,  sometimes big cuts,  giving "sculpture" a new meaning.

 The problem arises today, because technology is now used to fool the mind. Fooled, to believe, that  there are hierarchies, binary standards, and there is a non trivial probability of you falling by the wayside, if you don't fit yourself in.

In an outstanding example of how minds can be weakened,   little girls look on wide eyed, as they are bombarded  with one photographically overexposed face after another on television, ignoring camera tricks, applauding fairness.  In complexion, that is.

Young boys, look on goggle eyed, as a fellow sprays stuff on himself, and  is suddenly overcome with female visitors, whose parents clearly are not aware of their whereabouts and activities. Success, as shown, is almost always attributable to beautiful faces, and never mind things like common sense, intelligence and ability to put in hard work.

And it doesn't help, that  we are a land of people with a diverse mix of religions, colors and physical statures.  We always were, and were actually comfortable in our own skins,  but then technology happened, and we've never been able to reverse the effects of that perturbation.  And it has certainly not helped, that parental attention has simply not been the same, since the economy has forced both parents into the workplace.

It has been an uphill task, to shore up the self esteem of a child , who doesn't fit in, at birth , into the color scheme of things.  Sometimes , excelling at some activity as a youngster , being applauded by ones peers, and being singled out for praise at school etc, helps; but it takes a lot out of parents and extended family (if it is available)  to keep at it for large periods of time and reach such a stage.

This, combined with a wilful shuteye towards the bad side effects of a  technology for so called enhancement,  has only meant more unsolvable worries later on   Watch the beauty pageants. Read about chemicals used to lighten skin.  Read about unchecked advertisements for diet pills, some with known cardiac side effects.  Not just women, but young men and boys, emulating half knowledge elders  taking steroids and stuff in a hurry to get there. Read the skin whitening entry in Wikipedia.   

We are a society that has given in to the technology militants. Technology being used to spread certain ways of thinking, and spreading selective information to mislead us. Science is no longer important. Your ability to fool someone , makes you smart.  And so ,we have a government that allows , completely misleading ads on television, including those hitherto banned liquor ads, where the stuff is called Casettes and CD's or soda, followed by a winking hollywood actor.  The list is endless.

I just read this post.  It brings back to my mind some one's similar hurtful experiences.

I've met the little girl in the above post.  And her joie-de-vivre , sparkle ,  shining  face and innovative logic,  would actually start a new slogan about chocolate , beauty, and  growing up  smart.

I hope she grows up and starts her own set up. And makes sensible ad-films. And gives some wonderful talks and speeches, as well as writes great books. And inspires lots of little girls and their mothers.  And gets applauded, for changing the way people think.

It is easy for me to say . It is difficult, but doable.

Her parents run the marathon every year.

I am sure, she will run hers.  And complete hers too.  Brilliantly......  

  

      

   

Charge of the Bull Brigade

It has been a long time since I have ridden a two wheeler, and very clearly, never a Vespa.

 I have ridden stuff which was like a motorized bicycle with a two  litre petrol tank, and an engine so small, it didn't need a license number plate.

Then there have been a bunch of 100 cc scooters , way back in the days when all scooters looked the same , and didn't give in to the dictates of  fancy designs with sloping seats, high backs, and outlandish colors.

Then it was the evergreen M-80, which was a like a scooter unable to make up its mind, on whether to keep in touch with the aforementioned motorized cycle, or clearly take sides with the fancy new scooter types.

The daughter has done some serious pillion riding in her younger days before it became unfashionable to be seen  here and there with me , as I furiously pedalled down a slope to start the lazy engine.

Why am I suddenly talking about his ? Because I just came across a contest  announcement from Indiblogger  about "recharging" (of all things) , my hair , with a particular shampoo,  and the first prize is a Vespa :-)

Words change. Meanings change. 

 The word "charge" brought two things to mind , in the old days.  One, the electron. And two, the poem "The charge of the light brigade", which we all memorized in school back then. "Recharge" as a word, is a modern invention, ever since rechargeable batteries happened.

And it has been made completely insignificant now with its meaning extended to recharging phones with money.

Hair, of course, often had a charge associated  with it, when you combed it in a certain way, and tried to show off in front of folks who had not learnt yet about static electricity.

It also had a " discharge" associated with it, when you went to someone to have your hair cut, and set, and looked acceptable in the mirror one last time, before breezing back on your two wheeler in the monsoon winds, arriving back, totally discharged in a disarray of hair which had meekly given in and blown haywire.

I guess charging  and recharging your hair using a specific shampoo is for those whose curls have a life of several hours, and whose hair falls just so, as they step out of a fancy car, reflecting and glinting in the sunlight deflected by their sunglasses.  

But "charging" and "scooters"  brings back some different memories.

The daughter trained for years , as a competitive swimmer, and since one lived on a campus with various facilities,  I would take her to the pool every single day for her workouts as a child.   

One evening as we approached the steps leading to the pool, the daughter riding pillion,  I saw a person in front staring at me , open mouthed, with fear on his face. 

I knew this person, and was a bit puzzled, and some good sense made me look behind, as the daughter prepared to disembark.  There was a huge black bull, horns pointed in my direction, galloping towards us.  The guy in front didn't know what to say , but his expression said it all. I urged my daughter to get off and run inside, while I accelerated for dear life, and took off at what were considered amazing speeds around the students' gymkhana , ever done by a lady in her 50's on a two wheeler, the bull hot in pursuit, charging behind me. 

We stay in a wooded campus, which has some cattle as original inhabitants.  Occasionally, they get intimidated by the sound of changing of gears.  Particularly , when a calf is around with them.  I had changed gears when taking a turn on an incline,  and had inadvertently threatened the bull, which was now being greatly aided by the slope of the road..

And so we had this big episode of a race between a frightened desperate old lady on a scooter, and a raging charged black bull  bigger than the lady and scooter together, one accelerating to save her life, and the other , in an enraged attack.

A full circle around the gymkhana, watched by dumbstruck students, and the bull lost momentum, as I coasted back to the pool, parked the vehicle , and ran up the steps to the viewers gallery at the pool, to be applauded by friends who were observing this spectacle. 

Don't know about my hair, but this entire chase had charged me so badly, I sat down with friends in the viewers gallery  with my eyes closed, as my daughter watched while doing backstroke in her assigned lane.

I don't know that I am submitting this for the contest,  since I am saying little about the specific shampoo, Sunsilk, and the hair charging  and recharging.

But given that the Vespas are participating , is there any truth to the rumour that Hindustan Unlever has now Italian partners ?     Just saying ......   :-))

  

  

Management by Sternocleidomastoid (SCM)

One has suddenly realized that there are new techniques in management and decision making.  The IIM's , IIT's and guys who write jargon filled  books haven't yet come up with new jargon.

So it has fallen upon me to define this new technique , the "sternocleidomastoid" technique, or simply SCM, to those intimidated by spelling. 

The Sternocleidomastoid or SCM is the name given to the neck muscle, that allows humans to nod and shake their heads on demand. 

The key is to realize who the demand is from.  What must always be ignored is reasoning and logic in your own  insignificant cerebral cortex.

Consider the story of  Ashok, who belonged to a reasonably well off family,  hated school, and was into various sports with a vengeance. Career planning , for him,  unlike for the hoi-polloi , was almost a genetic thing, and given his parents' clout, many folks in the building restrained themselves from shouting when he continue to break their windowpanes with his random sweeps and flicks of the seasoned cricket  ball. 

Till one day, someone who had newly moved in, simply cribbed to the building secretary. 

Foolish chap. 

It was a special building , created with the blessings of powerful folks with great synaptic connections , all upwardly mobile.  And the powerful folks kept a benevolent, and sometimes indulgent eye.

Warnings were half heartedly issued, meetings held so they could be minuted, and certain folks appointed to look into it , prepared a report. In the meanwhile,  the management folks tried to deflect the issue, by  talking about various other things. "Nature" even helped, by creating a short circuit fire in a section of the building.  That had the public mind latch on to something else. The building suddenly got new external paint, CCTV's (as is the current fashion), and solar water heaters, for certain sections. Even a watchman with a keen eye.

As expected, the Ashok report was expected to die a quiet death by ignorance.  The building committee shoved it under some hefty files.  Ashok continued his cricket. Windows  continued to crack . People continued to look out of their windows and shake their heads. 

Till one day,  this whole affair manged to reach outside the compound wall. 

Powerful folks heard about it. Instructions were passed, and the building secretary stopped  smiling at Ashok's father when he met him in the foyer. 

Ashok's mother got left out of the ladies' bhishi party.   

Word had it that the powerful folks felt differently.  The benevolent eye transformed into an angry glare. On a visit, by the powers,  to the building, there were declarations on how careless destruction of property would not be tolerated. 

Here is where the concept of management by SCM, or Management by Sternocleidomastoid  comes into play. 

The lowest levels have the strongest SCM. They simply use the muscles as directed and nod. Yes, no, and a vague maybe.  There are invisible rewards for using SCM correctly. 

If the problem persists,  the management by SCM goes higher.  These guys are masters of SCM. A nodded YES can mean a NO and vice versa.  Some even specialize in oblique and undefined nods. 

In what can be only called as the  Reverse Swing Sweep facet of SCM,  the powerful types, are able to reverse the entire function and meaning of the Sternocleiodmastoid muscle action

With a single public utterance.

The secretary of the building now dusts the files, extracts the Ashok report, and begins to turn the pages again.  His SCM is in reverse mode.  Nodding the head is now shaking the head. 

Breaking windows with a carelessly swept cricket ball is now once again a crime.    

No filing RTI, no going to courts, no arguing on TV channels, no caning by riot police, no nothing. 

No reasoning, no logic, no ethics, no shame. 

Just an awareness of what year it is. 

And  the amazing ability to  manipulate other people's SCM  at will, and get credit for your management skills, without being blamed for your erstwhile earlier silences.  

Anyone going to  err...  Harvard Business School to give lectures on Management by SCM ? 
   

BEST travels

(BEST is the acronym of the company that runs Mumbai's bus transportation)

A lifetime of driving in the worsening traffic in Mumbai, the disastrous quality of air prevalent at his face level   at traffic jams with heaving trucks spewing fumes of Diesel, and the variable leg space in 3  wheelers for a six foot plus person causing trauma to the patella,  has convinced him about the superiority of bus travel, where you travel at a height......

More so, since his age  and the color of his hair allows him the privilege of special entry into it from the front door of the bus, which means he gets to avoid the general shoving and pushing at the rear entrance used by younger folks.  The single seat right in the front of the bus, meant for senior citizens and/or differently abled folks  allows a certain level of leg stretching, and he always sits there, but gets up to offer his seat when he sees older seniors and folks with disabilities.

Maybe he doesn't look like someone who gets kicks out of free travel .  And the conductor takes his own time, making his way through the increasing crowd at the back, tapping the seats , getting folks to buy tickets,  grumbling about folks not offering change and so on.

More than half way home, and the  conductor is still way behind. He turns around, trying to catch the conductors eye, to tell him that he still has to buy his ticket. He holds a currency note in his fingers, to signal to the conductor.  The conductor can just nod, blocked as he is by the sea of passengers, actually moving in waves as the bus lurches through potholes.

Five seats behind him, another elderly gent catches his eye.  Beckons with his hand.   He gets up, bends across and passes a hundred rupee note across to the gent, mentioning the stop where he must disembark, and needs a ticket for.  The elderly gent, passes the money back, via many others, mentioning the place , which the others repeat, till it reaches the conductor.  Who looks up, then looks down, tears a ticket, punches it, and dips into his money bag to return the considerable change.

Any other time, and he would be forced to make a comment on how people needed to bring lesser denomination currency notes. It wasn't always possible to carry so much change.

 Prosperity means never having any change.

He quietly hands the ticket and the change to the man nearest him, who hands it to the man in front, who again himself does likewise.  Till it reaches the elderly gent in the middle, the guy with the initiative.   A few exchanged smiles, nods, and the man in the seat in front, has his ticket, and his change, before he reaches his point of disembarkation.

He marvels at the trust, the acknowledgement of a need to follow rules,  and the unity amongst those who decide to play their parts in this simple act to ensure that a senior citizen in the front seat  can buy his ticket. Every person who passed across the ticket and change, very carefully ensuring that no change dropped anywhere in the crowd, despite the lurches and jam packed moving human standing walls in the aisle.

At the fag end of a year that has seen more worst times than best times,  made you wonder about how low we as humans could stoop when hurting others, and made us lose trust in those who we thought were folks with good sense, shame and scruples, he suddenly feels lighter. 

There are still the good, simple everyday folks around.  Concerned about simple everyday issues.  Particular about following rules.

He gets up,  as they approach his bus stop. Moves up to the exit door. The driver beckons to him, to stand a bit behind, for his own safety.  As a responsible driver, he  must keep one eye on the side, keeping such disembarking passengers safe,  with the other eye on the horrendous evening traffic.

He waves to the driver as he gets down.

All is not lost. There is a lot of good left in this world.   It is a good feeling on which to make his way home.
..
..
..

He suddenly moves to one side, as a biker speeds past him, narrowly missing touching him with the handlebars.  The helmet hides the shamelessness and brazenness.

He thinks people drove better when they had nothing to hide.

He turns in at the gate. 

He has nothing to hide. Very clearly, not even the  smile at the experience in the bus.

Mystery Dreams

I've often wondered about dreams. 

As in, when you sleep....

A day ago, a few hours into my 65th year on this planet,  there was a strange dream.

I was in, what appeared to be , a East European country, or may be  Germany, possibly to attend a conference of sorts.

Mind you,  this was all a bit exalted for me, as in my entire career in what is one of the nation's premier technological  institute,  my work  rarely involved going to conferences; when one was deputed to attend something, it was the type where the authorities quibbled seriously over whether to grant me rickshaw fare or taxi fare, and I ended up taking the good old trusty BEST buses or suburban local trains out of sheer disgust. 

So going to Europe for a conference , even in my dreams , was a bit rich.

And so there I was, all the signs around me were in some sort of German , and  I was walking to the venue  which was a massive old heritage palace type, now converted into a convention place.  There was a lot of nodding, bowing , smiling and hand shaking while registrations happened, and  someone,  a kind of senior functionary  introduced himself, as the convenor of the section  that I was interested in.

Cut to the next morning, and I was once again walking over to the venue .

I climbed up some stairs to the main reception area, and then went to look for the participants and convenor of the section, as well as the halls where the sessions would be conducted. What followed was hours and hours of me walking around all over the place, peeping into rooms, asking people for directions, and returning home at , say, noon, without finding anyone or anything .

Next day, I went back, and I wandered once again,but in a different area , again seeking the conference stuff that I  had come for. But once again, everyone looked different, and strangely, no one remembered me wandering from the day before. One more day of futile wandering, fatiguing me at the end of the day.

The dream suddenly moves to the International airport in Mumbai, where I am suddenly walking out with all the conference participants who were on the same flight, and they were shaking my hand and saying what a great presentation I did. There's the usual crowd around the luggage area, customs, and long walks to the exit.

I wave to someone who has come to receive me.

And the dream ends. 

They say early morning dreams sometimes come true.  I dont know whether I should be thrilled to bits about going to attend a conference in a Germanic country, or I should get worried about impending loss of memory , either on my part or someone else's part.

I wonder if the inability to recognize the place and people on the second day, was all happening in the dream, or was the dream interfacing in real time, with a sluggish actual brain refusing to jog its memory cells. 

I wonder , why everyone except me, in the dream , remembers that I did a presentation, and did it well.  

Is this a sign of things to come ? A warning sign ?  Is this information overload messing with my brain bandwidth, and causing jams in typical Mumbai traffic style?

Or may be I just had too much of the fresh winter veggie spicy pickle the previous night's dinner ?

I guess I am just glad to be back.

And yes, lest I forget, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone.....

Run, Lata, Run.....

For many years, you wore clothes as a basic need. Sometimes,  slightly different designs and cuts to celebrate occasions , for yourself or with others. 

But never, in one's wildest imagination did one think that one was making , what is today referred to as a fashion statement.

One grew up in a no nonsense environment that encouraged exercising and sports, along with studies. The only concession made to sports outfits , was  a divided skirt for school sports and badminton , and  an everlasting red swimming suit that defied all the chemicals in the chlorinated pool. Heated pools were completely unknown, and anyone who hesitated to get into a cold pool at  , say,  a winter morning at 6 am , was simply pushed in. Acting self conscious while wearing these things was frowned upon, towelling robes were worn only in movies, and you basically got on with what you came to do.  You must understand that this was a time when frocks as uniforms elicited caustic comments from certain folks.

The pool would be filled with folks who abhorred wearing swimsuits, and landed up in shorts and tops,  self stitched swimsuit stuff with sleeves , high necks and legs (you now know where speedo got inspired from)  , and some ladies even swam in 9 yard sarees worn in an innovative way , so your legs were free , but completely  covered.  A bit like the 9 yard sarees worn by reality show dancers, koli fisher women and so on,  and one of my own abiding memories is of a tall lady wearing one of these 9 yards, executing a graceful dive, and emerging out without being smothered by fabric floating all over .  Many years later I would greatly admire a senior lady  of prosperous proportions, a very traditional minded lady , who wore this frilled swimsuit with complete nonchalance, and executed one of the smoothest dives I have seen anyone do. Turns out she spent her childhood in Varanasi, learned swimming in the Ganges, which had currents, and became an expert swimmer. It was a pleasure to watch her swim, and no one really cared about what she wore.

By and by,  many decades later , the daughter took up swimming at 7 (or is it 9) , in a red frilled swimsuit. Those were the days you wore speedos for serious swimming where you wanted to reduce the "drag" factor in the water, since timing mattered. The speedo suits were very expensive, available in limited places, and i remember waiting for a few months to see how serious the child would be about the competitive swimming (for which she trained), before investing in one. Theoretically, one could swim wonders even in frilled suits and shorts, but by now suits and caps were mandatory.

There was a time when the coach wished to have the kids swim with certain added loads, and we outfitted them with pull-on synthetic shorts available anywhere, and loaded the pockets with pebbles and stitched them up.  We also made belts were we could put known loads and tied these around the swimmer waists.

Today it is all about making sports a fashion.  There is no life without track pants, and tops , which sometimes look like sleeveless saree blouses, exposed midriff and all. Rank beginners in swimming,  arrive outfitted  with the latest in speedos, fancy expensive  goggles, caps, floats, flippers and what have you, matching towels, magic dryers, lotions, sunscreen et al.  You see guys in cricket smearing some white sunscreen stuff on their faces while playing; all this started happening after teams from other countries started doing this to keep from getting sunburnt and television started spying in closeups and stuff.  Every person doing sports has some kind of wrap around him, whether its ankles, knees, wrists or elbow, and even thighs. I just often wonder whether folks in the older days tanned less, or had better muscles.

And so it was with a great deal of pleasure that I came upon this article in the DNA newspaper, relating to a lady wearing a 9 yard traditional saree,  an immigrant working on a  farm site, who decided to run the Baramati marathon near Pune. 

No , the folks at Nike, Reebok , Puma et all do not know her at all,  neither do folks who manufacture track pants and tops, with assorted bands to tie around your hands, necks, and foreheads.  

Because she ran and won the race, wearing her normal 9 yard saree, long sleeved blouse, palloo covering her head. She ran in her slippers, till one broke, whereupon she got rid of the other and continued on to win the race.

This news report appeared in the DNA newspaper and you can read about it here.

Lata Bhagwan Kare , 61, mother of a grown up son,  works as a farm labourer, left all the "athletes" way behind within minutes of the starting, and was adjudged this year’s Fastest Marathon Runner.

Many congratulations  to this amazing gutsy lady....!

A thought just occurred.

I've been looking for outfitters to make   pull-on 9 yard sarees (pleats and tuckins and all) , which one can wear, say, like a salwar, and then organize the palloo as required . 

All the folks offer 4 varieties of 9 yard saree styles : Peshwai(Brahminical), Paramparik , Kolhapuri  and Tamashaa(Dance)  style. 

Maybe time has now come, to honor Latabai, and define a new style, the Marathon Winner 9  yard saree style .....

The age of money

A short midmorning queue for tickets at one of the suburban railway stations in northeast Mumbai.  Recently.

There are a total of 5 windows, 2 are open.  One joins the shorter one, and within a minute rues the decision.  While the lady at the other window, sells the ticket briskly, to a suddenly never ending queue, the lady at my window, suddenly gets up, discusses something with an official at the next window (closed), and proceeds to spend the next 15 minutes, opening and closing  drawers, retrieving and receiving money from some official, and counting it , before depositing it in the aforementioned drawers. Several trains go by, people wait and shuffle from one foot to the other. Very clearly, the sudden money accounting and checking cannot happen in the ticket issuing time. The windows are officially closed periodically, with clearly announced timings, just for that. The adjoining queue continues its brisk move, and our queue is now interrupted by a few folks buying first class tickets. They are entitled to buy those at the same window, without getting into the queue.

Money talks. Officially.

A family death leading to a cremation. In 2000.   A certificate from the cremating authorities, is submitted while going out at the office near the exit.  Some knowledgeable folks, urge me to part with extra amounts like Rs 400 at the gate.  I refuse. Out of respect for the departed soul,  who would have abhorred that.  One month later, the concerned paperwork from the crematorium office  has not reached the municipal ward office, that can only then issue a death certificate.  This normally takes few days after cremation.  I threaten to visit the crematorium gate office, and question them. In the presence of other citizens who might be there.  Nobody needs a ruckus.  But I have learned one thing. And it doesn't matter if you are dead or alive.

Money continues to talk.  Unofficially.

Long ago, several decades ago, one had occasion to visit the Marriage Registration Office. Then the only one near Town Hall .  To submit an application specifying intention of getting married, and arranging to call the Registrar to a residence for the short legal ceremony.  An almost silent abandoned office, and one is keenly observed by folks who think only those running away, or facing opposition, come there to get married /invite the Registrar. Marriage registration then was not mandatory. The Registrar noted the date, signed, was escorted to and from with great respect on the appointed day.  The government then trusted its citizens.

Cut to a few weeks ago, and the office, or better still, now a branch of the original, for the suburbs,  is now an overcrowded bustling set up, with long queues, lawyers offering to get stuff done for you, for a fee.  The mandatory 1 month waiting period rule still exists.  But there are people , right now, offering you guaranteed dates of marriage  after that, for a bunch of fees of course. Which probably get shared up and down the official hierarchy.  Officials appear to be available to visit residences . For a fee.  Which makes my jaw drop. And my head reel in disgust. We are told it is an unofficial fee.  Marriage registration is now mandated by the government, many NRI types need to do visa work immediately after marriage for their spouses, and need immediate certificates, and  so this entire service is available at a premium.

Money continues to talk. Unofficially.

Those who get married with religious ceremonies, must get it certified by the presiding priest, and then apply for a marriage certificate at the above office.  Turns out there is a  long queue at the office, and some folks offer to get you a place in the queue.  You reach a bit late thanks to the permanent vagaries of Mumbai traffic. You are told your place in the queue has been missed out. Payment of a certain amount will retrieve the place.

Money continues to talk. A bit too much.  Unofficially.

And now it talks  like in the Bollywood movies.   It is the leading hero in sting operations, shown continually on our television sets.  There are villains, threats, denials, lies, and beautiful vamps. It even appears as the fourth or fifth umpire in certain ball games. 

Way back, we did not have so many educational institutions, but we had education for those who wanted  it. Today, money talks so much, and from so many towers and hi-fi rooftops , that education has become an industry. You pay, you get; you have rules , then you pay someone and defy them .

Money continues to talk. Blatantly.  And everytime the authorities make new laws and rules,  it rubs its hands in glee at the prospect of defining loopholes and breaking the laws.

There is no stage of life immune to its influence.

 
One is glad one grew up when one did.

Money didn't talk then. Perhaps it occasionally whispered. And swore.

But mostly ,  it simply pursed its lips and glared .