In 1981, a good friend from a couple of years below me in college spent the summer at an internship (we called it Practice School, or PS) in Hyderabad. He stayed with my family at the Administrative Staff College of India (ASCI), where my father was principal.
In the years since, he completed a PhD and founded a successful company in a field he more or less carved out himself. Sadly, he and I have been in only sporadic touch, and not at all for 4-5 years now. But out of the blue, we reconnected the other day, and from what he said, I realized he didn't know I had lost my father two years ago.
So I filled him in, and he sent back this message about my father. It both touched me somewhere deep and made me chuckle. (He's only partially right about not cutting positions, but that's a story for another time).
As polished a gentleman as I have ever come across and a talented administrator , he taught me a lot in those two months. Far more than I learned in PS. I remember him walking up after a tough badminton match at ASCI against a much younger opponent, summing the outcome in one pithy line by saying the better man lost. I also remember his innovative plan to reduce costs by introducing three wheelers to replace the staff cars including his own, rather than cut positions. My parents too really enjoyed his company when he visited Kolkata. He will be missed by those of us fortunate enough to have met him, no matter how briefly. The lessons he taught us, the gift of his legacy.
November 30, 2009
November 26, 2009
A fair trial
This article was in the Hindustan Times today (November 26). In the face of plenty of impatience with Kasab's trial, it's good to read a thoughtful, reasoned essay on why he deserves and must get a fair trial.
(I'm proud to call Amit Desai, the author of that article, one of my oldest friends, my classmate going back to when we were 9).
(I'm proud to call Amit Desai, the author of that article, one of my oldest friends, my classmate going back to when we were 9).
Roadrunner: a review
India Today (issue dated November 30) carries this review of my new book, Roadrunner: An Indian Quest in America, by Dilip Bobb.
***
An American Odyssey
Discovering the audacity of imagination in the other great democracy
Back in 1835, French liberal Alexis de Tocqueville published his Democracy in America. Today, it remains a seminal work and is required studying in many US universities. The impact of American-style democracy, he wrote, would resonate around the world. Despite the erosion of its global profile and influence, America remains the touchstone for the definition of true democracy, civil liberties and personal freedom. Dilip D'Souza experienced much of that as a software engineer in the US from 1984 to 1992 when he returned to India and a writing career. He still works as a software consultant which takes him back to a country he was influenced by. After 9/11, America changed and this, his literary debut, part travelogue, part reportage, attempts to define that change, and how Americans judge their country and their place in a divisive world His attempt is also to view American through the eyes of an Indian now living in another kind of democracy, flawed but durable.
There are many parallels, including 26/11, but D'Souza confines himself largely to his American experience, only occasionally using a comparative compass, to try and make sense of post-9/11 America and its impact on Americans in general. He doesn't always succeed but it is not an easy task. He finds, predictably, bigotry and tolerance, hatred and love, tragedy and triumph in equal measure. Where he scores is that he hires a car to touch base with towns and places few people have heard of. Like Greenwood near Selma, the origin of the Blues and the civil rights movement, where he arrives a a charismatic Barack Obama is chasing an impossible dream: to become the first Black President of America. This is Alabama where white racists savagely subdued black civil rights marchers. Today, they hand out cards saying "Bama for Obama".
That capacity for radical change is what he finds across the areas he travels, some negative but most of it positive and elevating. There are obscure rural towns where he discovers both beauty and tragedy: the decline of the rural economy means more young men are enlisting in the army and serving in Iraq and Afghanistan where the death rate for rural youth is 60 per cent higher than the urban rate. What are especially revelatory are his conversations with ordinary small-town Americans wherever he travels and his conclusion that a majority of Americans are fundamentally worried about the future of their country, largely a George Bush legacy.
It is during his travels through the rural backwaters that he discovers the essence of the American spirit: audacity of imagination, the ability to turn vague ideas into reality and the sense of community, dialogue and mutual respect. Much of this audacity is to do with a shared religion and shared purpose, in marked contrast, as D'Souza points out, to the narrow-minded, self-serving bigotry of politicians like the Thackerays and their hate-filled Marathi Manoos agenda.
Defining America today is an impossibility, so polarised is its society about a huge range of issues, from healthcare and religion to Iraq and Afghanistan. In that context, this is an effort worth applauding. America is still the world's only superpower and any attempt to get under its collective skin is worth the read, more so when it's from an Indian perspective.
An American Odyssey
Discovering the audacity of imagination in the other great democracy
Back in 1835, French liberal Alexis de Tocqueville published his Democracy in America. Today, it remains a seminal work and is required studying in many US universities. The impact of American-style democracy, he wrote, would resonate around the world. Despite the erosion of its global profile and influence, America remains the touchstone for the definition of true democracy, civil liberties and personal freedom. Dilip D'Souza experienced much of that as a software engineer in the US from 1984 to 1992 when he returned to India and a writing career. He still works as a software consultant which takes him back to a country he was influenced by. After 9/11, America changed and this, his literary debut, part travelogue, part reportage, attempts to define that change, and how Americans judge their country and their place in a divisive world His attempt is also to view American through the eyes of an Indian now living in another kind of democracy, flawed but durable.
There are many parallels, including 26/11, but D'Souza confines himself largely to his American experience, only occasionally using a comparative compass, to try and make sense of post-9/11 America and its impact on Americans in general. He doesn't always succeed but it is not an easy task. He finds, predictably, bigotry and tolerance, hatred and love, tragedy and triumph in equal measure. Where he scores is that he hires a car to touch base with towns and places few people have heard of. Like Greenwood near Selma, the origin of the Blues and the civil rights movement, where he arrives a a charismatic Barack Obama is chasing an impossible dream: to become the first Black President of America. This is Alabama where white racists savagely subdued black civil rights marchers. Today, they hand out cards saying "Bama for Obama".
That capacity for radical change is what he finds across the areas he travels, some negative but most of it positive and elevating. There are obscure rural towns where he discovers both beauty and tragedy: the decline of the rural economy means more young men are enlisting in the army and serving in Iraq and Afghanistan where the death rate for rural youth is 60 per cent higher than the urban rate. What are especially revelatory are his conversations with ordinary small-town Americans wherever he travels and his conclusion that a majority of Americans are fundamentally worried about the future of their country, largely a George Bush legacy.
It is during his travels through the rural backwaters that he discovers the essence of the American spirit: audacity of imagination, the ability to turn vague ideas into reality and the sense of community, dialogue and mutual respect. Much of this audacity is to do with a shared religion and shared purpose, in marked contrast, as D'Souza points out, to the narrow-minded, self-serving bigotry of politicians like the Thackerays and their hate-filled Marathi Manoos agenda.
Defining America today is an impossibility, so polarised is its society about a huge range of issues, from healthcare and religion to Iraq and Afghanistan. In that context, this is an effort worth applauding. America is still the world's only superpower and any attempt to get under its collective skin is worth the read, more so when it's from an Indian perspective.
Daphne and Juergen
November 25, 2009
Uncivil lines
Apologies, been too distracted with too many things to be regular in this space. There are, thus, some things to catch up on.
The current issue of Open magazine carries my review of Written For Ever: The Best of Civil Lines -- here.
(I'm not sure why it's been called "Uncivil Lines").
The current issue of Open magazine carries my review of Written For Ever: The Best of Civil Lines -- here.
(I'm not sure why it's been called "Uncivil Lines").
November 18, 2009
A book, and a panel discussion
It feels sooo good, I tell you: I have with me an advance copy of my new book, Roadrunner: An Indian Quest in America. A lot went into this (thanks due to so many for so much), and it's something to see all that now in this tangible form.
***
As part of the Celebrate Bandra festival, there will be a Meet Bandra Authors discussion on nonfiction writing: tomorrow, Thursday November 19, Crossword Bookstore (Linking Road, Bandra), 7pm.
I'm on the panel with Darryl D'Monte, Soumya Bhattacharya and Ayaz Memon. Vikram Doctor will moderate. Please come. There will be a few advance copies of my book available then.
There will be a few other events around the book itself over the next few weeks; please watch this space.
And I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
As part of the Celebrate Bandra festival, there will be a Meet Bandra Authors discussion on nonfiction writing: tomorrow, Thursday November 19, Crossword Bookstore (Linking Road, Bandra), 7pm.
I'm on the panel with Darryl D'Monte, Soumya Bhattacharya and Ayaz Memon. Vikram Doctor will moderate. Please come. There will be a few advance copies of my book available then.
There will be a few other events around the book itself over the next few weeks; please watch this space.
And I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
November 13, 2009
Last two names
Elle magazine asked me for an essay to mark a year since the attack on Bombay. What I wrote is a story I've wanted to tell all these months.
It's called "Last Two Names", and it's in the November issue of the magazine. And below. Your thoughts welcome.
***
One year since the November attacks. What's changed, my friends from out of town have asked through the year. The cynic that I am, my most truthful answer has to be "Nothing".
Sure, there was a lot of anger at the time, directed at politicians and the "system". Sure, there was a groundswell of calls to "stand together as Indians" to fight terrorism. Sure, all this led various "people's candidates" to stand for the Lok Sabha elections last May. But has the energy lasted a year, has it made a difference? Do we have better governance, security, justice than we did a year ago? Do we have less focus on the empty issues that only divide us -- think "sons of the soil", for just one of those -- and more on what binds us?
No.
Of all things though, there is a widespread impatience with the ongoing trial of Kasab, the lone murderer caught alive. Only days before I wrote this, an otherwise thoughtful acquaintance sent me this exasperated note: "We bend over backwards to appear to be just, even though the proof of [Kasab's] guilt is there in technicolor."
Here's evidence of our attempt to live up to an ideal of law and justice -- that we are actually putting this man of all men through a trial -- rather than the murder and anarchy that's the preferred terrorist style, the anarchy Kasab's pals and trainers dearly want us to descend into. Yet enough Indians seem impatient with even that. Forget the trial and hang Kasab in public, they demand. Shoot him down like he shot people down, they demand.
Why would we want to imitate terrorists? And if we did, would that not be their greatest triumph?
Yes, I'm cynical about and dismayed by where we find ourselves a year after the attacks. That's why I find a strange comfort instead in one story out of the many in that tragic four-day maelstrom, a story that gives me an out-of-the-ordinary perspective on both the massacre and our condition, one year later. For instead of cynicism and anger, it is about spirit and enthusiasm. It is about the old and affectionate ties to India that brought a middle-aged couple to my city last year. My city.
And being about those things, for me it is a good reminder of the enormity of last year's tragedy.
As a young girl growing up in Delhi in the late 1950s, Daphne Thomas was a member of the Delhi Polo Club. This afforded her assorted unusual delights, like riding along the Yamuna River and Sunday hunts and what she called "wonderful Tent Picking Shows". But what she remembered best was learning polo from a young officer in the Presidential bodyguard. As she wrote to him in October 2008, 50 years older, this was "a most courageous thing [for him] to do."
I don't know why she thought that. Perhaps she had been a particularly obstreperous student of polo? In any case, she continued in that letter, she wrote it "in the hope of being able to bring a smile and a few memories back of what seems to me another life." She addressed it to Brigadier Sawai Bhawani Singh, Maharajah of Jaipur. As if in a fairy tale, the charming young officer of a little girl's memory had grown up to be a real-life Maharajah.
But why did she write to His Majesty, fully half a century on? Because she and her husband, Juergen, were going to travel through India in late 2008, together revisiting her youthful memories for the first time.
Daphne's India connection goes back to well before her polo lessons, all the way to British times. Her father, Geoffrey Benion Thomas, was a distinguished doctor who spent years in this country. Trained in gynaecological surgery, he was a professor of Medicine in Madras before Independence. Daphne was born there. After 1947, he was Senior Medical Officer at the British High Commission in New Delhi, and among his patients in those years were ladies of the royal family of Jaipur.
Perhaps the good doctor was attending to them even while a son from that family was teaching polo to his young daughter.
As for Juergen, he was looking forward to this Indian journey too, and for his own reasons. After an illustrious career with the German Air Force and NATO, Juergen had turned to photography in his retirement, and India would be a visual feast. As a relative later wrote to me, he was "thrilled to be touring India as a photographer."
And this pilgrimage to the land of Daphne's birth, this journey here with her husband of many years, was also a celebration for her. For she was in remission from an attack of ovarian cancer a couple of years earlier.
Through most of 2008, Daphne and Juergen planned their trip. A travel agent in Trichy drew up a tough but rewarding schedule for them: Delhi, Rajasthan for two weeks taking in the Pushkar camel fair, Kerala, Goa and then Bombay.
Here in her beloved India finally, the occasional breathless email message to family in the US spoke of a hectic, happy journey. "We will need a rehab when we get back," she wrote about halfway into it. Right on schedule, Daphne and Juergen flew Kingfisher Airlines to Bombay on their last day. Their flight home to Germany was not till much later that night, so they had several hours to spend in my city. The travel agent had arranged a car and driver for them. So they took in the sights of South Bombay: Marine Drive, the Gateway, Flora Fountain, Victoria Terminus. Juergen bought himself some Punjabi music. They stopped for a final Indian dinner, thinking they would go to the airport directly after their meal.
My city, my city.
Nearly 24 hours after they stopped for dinner, my phone rang. It was an old school chum, calling from Boston. Friends of his there, he told me, were trying to get news of relatives, a couple who had come to Bombay. The driver they had hired for the evening had dropped them off for dinner, but in the mayhem that then overwhelmed that part of the city, he hadn't heard from them again. Any way I could use journalist contacts to find out what had happened?
I promised to try. Then, just as he was about to hang up, I remembered something. Wait, I said, stay on the line, let me check this blog I know about that's been posting various details about the attacks, mumbaihelp.blogspot.com. Pulled it up on my laptop, and there in Boston, he did the same. The second item, a list of names. Pulled that up on my laptop, and there in Boston, he did the same. The last two names on the list: "Shri Jurgem Hetraz Rudalf" and "Smt Studdar Daphne".
Mangled in the transcription, but there could be little doubt. Juergen and Daphne Schmidt, on the last night of a trip 25 years in the making. Daphne and Juergen, rounding off a memorable Indian safari with dinner at a Bombay institution, a Lonely Planet tourist favourite: Cafe Leopold.
Juergen and Daphne. On a crisp Wednesday evening in November a year ago, among the first of nearly two hundred slaughtered by heavily armed terrorists.
My city, my city.
It's called "Last Two Names", and it's in the November issue of the magazine. And below. Your thoughts welcome.
One year since the November attacks. What's changed, my friends from out of town have asked through the year. The cynic that I am, my most truthful answer has to be "Nothing".
Sure, there was a lot of anger at the time, directed at politicians and the "system". Sure, there was a groundswell of calls to "stand together as Indians" to fight terrorism. Sure, all this led various "people's candidates" to stand for the Lok Sabha elections last May. But has the energy lasted a year, has it made a difference? Do we have better governance, security, justice than we did a year ago? Do we have less focus on the empty issues that only divide us -- think "sons of the soil", for just one of those -- and more on what binds us?
No.
Of all things though, there is a widespread impatience with the ongoing trial of Kasab, the lone murderer caught alive. Only days before I wrote this, an otherwise thoughtful acquaintance sent me this exasperated note: "We bend over backwards to appear to be just, even though the proof of [Kasab's] guilt is there in technicolor."
Here's evidence of our attempt to live up to an ideal of law and justice -- that we are actually putting this man of all men through a trial -- rather than the murder and anarchy that's the preferred terrorist style, the anarchy Kasab's pals and trainers dearly want us to descend into. Yet enough Indians seem impatient with even that. Forget the trial and hang Kasab in public, they demand. Shoot him down like he shot people down, they demand.
Why would we want to imitate terrorists? And if we did, would that not be their greatest triumph?
Yes, I'm cynical about and dismayed by where we find ourselves a year after the attacks. That's why I find a strange comfort instead in one story out of the many in that tragic four-day maelstrom, a story that gives me an out-of-the-ordinary perspective on both the massacre and our condition, one year later. For instead of cynicism and anger, it is about spirit and enthusiasm. It is about the old and affectionate ties to India that brought a middle-aged couple to my city last year. My city.
And being about those things, for me it is a good reminder of the enormity of last year's tragedy.
As a young girl growing up in Delhi in the late 1950s, Daphne Thomas was a member of the Delhi Polo Club. This afforded her assorted unusual delights, like riding along the Yamuna River and Sunday hunts and what she called "wonderful Tent Picking Shows". But what she remembered best was learning polo from a young officer in the Presidential bodyguard. As she wrote to him in October 2008, 50 years older, this was "a most courageous thing [for him] to do."
I don't know why she thought that. Perhaps she had been a particularly obstreperous student of polo? In any case, she continued in that letter, she wrote it "in the hope of being able to bring a smile and a few memories back of what seems to me another life." She addressed it to Brigadier Sawai Bhawani Singh, Maharajah of Jaipur. As if in a fairy tale, the charming young officer of a little girl's memory had grown up to be a real-life Maharajah.
But why did she write to His Majesty, fully half a century on? Because she and her husband, Juergen, were going to travel through India in late 2008, together revisiting her youthful memories for the first time.
Daphne's India connection goes back to well before her polo lessons, all the way to British times. Her father, Geoffrey Benion Thomas, was a distinguished doctor who spent years in this country. Trained in gynaecological surgery, he was a professor of Medicine in Madras before Independence. Daphne was born there. After 1947, he was Senior Medical Officer at the British High Commission in New Delhi, and among his patients in those years were ladies of the royal family of Jaipur.
Perhaps the good doctor was attending to them even while a son from that family was teaching polo to his young daughter.
As for Juergen, he was looking forward to this Indian journey too, and for his own reasons. After an illustrious career with the German Air Force and NATO, Juergen had turned to photography in his retirement, and India would be a visual feast. As a relative later wrote to me, he was "thrilled to be touring India as a photographer."
And this pilgrimage to the land of Daphne's birth, this journey here with her husband of many years, was also a celebration for her. For she was in remission from an attack of ovarian cancer a couple of years earlier.
Through most of 2008, Daphne and Juergen planned their trip. A travel agent in Trichy drew up a tough but rewarding schedule for them: Delhi, Rajasthan for two weeks taking in the Pushkar camel fair, Kerala, Goa and then Bombay.
Here in her beloved India finally, the occasional breathless email message to family in the US spoke of a hectic, happy journey. "We will need a rehab when we get back," she wrote about halfway into it. Right on schedule, Daphne and Juergen flew Kingfisher Airlines to Bombay on their last day. Their flight home to Germany was not till much later that night, so they had several hours to spend in my city. The travel agent had arranged a car and driver for them. So they took in the sights of South Bombay: Marine Drive, the Gateway, Flora Fountain, Victoria Terminus. Juergen bought himself some Punjabi music. They stopped for a final Indian dinner, thinking they would go to the airport directly after their meal.
My city, my city.
Nearly 24 hours after they stopped for dinner, my phone rang. It was an old school chum, calling from Boston. Friends of his there, he told me, were trying to get news of relatives, a couple who had come to Bombay. The driver they had hired for the evening had dropped them off for dinner, but in the mayhem that then overwhelmed that part of the city, he hadn't heard from them again. Any way I could use journalist contacts to find out what had happened?
I promised to try. Then, just as he was about to hang up, I remembered something. Wait, I said, stay on the line, let me check this blog I know about that's been posting various details about the attacks, mumbaihelp.blogspot.com. Pulled it up on my laptop, and there in Boston, he did the same. The second item, a list of names. Pulled that up on my laptop, and there in Boston, he did the same. The last two names on the list: "Shri Jurgem Hetraz Rudalf" and "Smt Studdar Daphne".
Mangled in the transcription, but there could be little doubt. Juergen and Daphne Schmidt, on the last night of a trip 25 years in the making. Daphne and Juergen, rounding off a memorable Indian safari with dinner at a Bombay institution, a Lonely Planet tourist favourite: Cafe Leopold.
Juergen and Daphne. On a crisp Wednesday evening in November a year ago, among the first of nearly two hundred slaughtered by heavily armed terrorists.
My city, my city.
November 10, 2009
Signs of unity
Coming up to one year now, since a gang of murderous maniacs came off a boat and slaughtered 200 people in Bombay. I remember those 60 hours vividly. I also remember vividly so many calls for us Indians to unite, because finding that unity would be the best response to, the best way to fight, terrorism.
Coming up to one year since those calls, we can look around us to find:
* Some folks refuse to sing a song. Some other folks insist that they, and everybody, must indeed sing it.
* A man pronounces that people who call it "Bombay" must be, and I quote, "thrown out of this city".
* Several newly-elected members of Maharashtra's Vidhan Sabha assault a fellow newly-elected member for taking his oath of office in Hindi.
So you see: coming up to one year since that terror attack, we are united indeed. And we also have in place, didn't you know, the best way to defeat terrorism bar none.
The next time a terrorist comes off a boat and says something while on his way to causing mayhem, I'm sure those members of the Vidhan Sabha will be right there, ready to do what needs to be done above all.
They'll demand that he speak in Marathi.
That'll show the murderous maniacs.
Coming up to one year since those calls, we can look around us to find:
* Some folks refuse to sing a song. Some other folks insist that they, and everybody, must indeed sing it.
* A man pronounces that people who call it "Bombay" must be, and I quote, "thrown out of this city".
* Several newly-elected members of Maharashtra's Vidhan Sabha assault a fellow newly-elected member for taking his oath of office in Hindi.
So you see: coming up to one year since that terror attack, we are united indeed. And we also have in place, didn't you know, the best way to defeat terrorism bar none.
The next time a terrorist comes off a boat and says something while on his way to causing mayhem, I'm sure those members of the Vidhan Sabha will be right there, ready to do what needs to be done above all.
They'll demand that he speak in Marathi.
That'll show the murderous maniacs.
Book on the way
Some more about my upcoming book Roadrunner ...
The first copies should be out in under two weeks.
On November 19th, as part of the Celebrate Bandra Festival, there will be a "Meet Bandra Authors" event at Crossword's Linking Road outlet. I will be participating, and if all goes well there should be a few copies of the book available there then. Please come.
There are plans afoot for a few events around the book itself, starting in early December: one in Delhi, two or three in Bombay and one in Bangalore.
More details as the plans get hammered out. So watch this space! And as always, be there ... or be elsewhere.
The first copies should be out in under two weeks.
On November 19th, as part of the Celebrate Bandra Festival, there will be a "Meet Bandra Authors" event at Crossword's Linking Road outlet. I will be participating, and if all goes well there should be a few copies of the book available there then. Please come.
There are plans afoot for a few events around the book itself, starting in early December: one in Delhi, two or three in Bombay and one in Bangalore.
More details as the plans get hammered out. So watch this space! And as always, be there ... or be elsewhere.
November 07, 2009
November 06, 2009
No Stealing the Curves
I called it "No Stealing the Curves", the magazine decided "Dream Run" would be better. Either way, it's about a train journey and it's now live on Our Judgement Free.
Please do read!
Please do read!
November 04, 2009
Unease in the Museum
The edit page of the Hindustan Times today (Nov 4) carries a short essay by me that's about some of what's been discussed in this space before.
The folks at HT sliced and modified it a bit, so I'll append the original below anyway.
Any reactions welcome.
***
The Golden Temple in Amritsar is one of my favourite places: welcoming, spectacular and peaceful. But tucked away up a steep staircase, in the Central Sikh Museum, are reminders of less peaceful times. On a recent visit, I take the stairs two at a time, then walk through room after room lined with paintings of gruesome incidents from Sikh history, all the way to what is, for me, the heart of the Museum.
On the walls, plenty of portraits of admired men. On my left, a handsome one of Shahid -- note, "Shahid", meaning martyr -- Bhagat Singh in prison shackles, awaiting his fate. In front, Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale; this is when I get my first flutters of unease. These images, complete with explanations in English and Punjabi.
To the right of Bhindranwale, an artist's rendition of "Sri Akal Takht after Military Attack, 6 June 1984" -- at the climax of Operation Bluestar, when the Indian Army entered the heart of Sikhdom to defeat armed men holed up here. The painting shows the Akal Takht badly damaged and burned. In fading English below, these lines:
"Under the calculated move of Prime Minister of India Indira Gandhi, Military troops stormed Golden Temple with tanks. Thousands of Sikhs were massacred. Sri Akal Takht suffered the worst damages. Sikhs rose up in a united protest. Many returned their honours. Sikh soldiers left their barracks."
There's one more sentence: "The Sikhs, however, soon had their vengeance."
The unease, again. It grows as my eyes move further right, to settle on three portraits, all the same size as Bhagat Singh's. These list only names and dates:
"Shahid S Beant Singh Ji, 1949 to 31 Oct 1984."
"Shahid S Satwant Singh Ji, 1967 to 6 Jan 1989."
"Shahid S Kehar Singh Ji, 1940 to 6 Jan 1989."
You know those names and dates.
Note, "Shahid" again, all three times, exactly as it is used for Bhagat Singh.
She has plenty to answer for, Indira Gandhi. My feeling is that a vast number of this country's myriad intractable problems can be laid at her door. It's why I have minimal regard for her.
Yet even so: she was, when shot dead by Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, India's Prime Minister. To see her killers accorded the same esteem as Bhagat Singh, to see them called "Shahid" like him, is to ask some serious questions about nationhood. About terrorism. About freedom and those who fight for it. About what those words really mean. About India itself.
Then the memory of the days after Indira died. To me, the slaughter of 3000 Indians because they were Sikh remains the greatest act of terrorism in our 62 years. That we have not punished the murderers is, a quarter century later, a national shame.
But this Museum underlines what so many of us find hard to swallow: one man's terrorist is another's … what? Martyr, freedom fighter, hero? On this wall is a revered martyr of our freedom struggle. On this wall too are three other men, also called martyrs. Yet how many would agree with that characterization; how many would instead find it repugnant?
And doesn't that reflect our essential dilemma about terrorism? We agree that the killers of 200 innocent Indians in Mumbai in November of 2008 were terrorists. How many of us agree that the killers of 3000 innocent Indians in Delhi in November of 1984 were terrorists?
Yet what else were they?
The Golden Temple is a favourite spot, yes, despite the unease. Yet perhaps we could all use some unease.
The folks at HT sliced and modified it a bit, so I'll append the original below anyway.
Any reactions welcome.
The Golden Temple in Amritsar is one of my favourite places: welcoming, spectacular and peaceful. But tucked away up a steep staircase, in the Central Sikh Museum, are reminders of less peaceful times. On a recent visit, I take the stairs two at a time, then walk through room after room lined with paintings of gruesome incidents from Sikh history, all the way to what is, for me, the heart of the Museum.
On the walls, plenty of portraits of admired men. On my left, a handsome one of Shahid -- note, "Shahid", meaning martyr -- Bhagat Singh in prison shackles, awaiting his fate. In front, Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale; this is when I get my first flutters of unease. These images, complete with explanations in English and Punjabi.
To the right of Bhindranwale, an artist's rendition of "Sri Akal Takht after Military Attack, 6 June 1984" -- at the climax of Operation Bluestar, when the Indian Army entered the heart of Sikhdom to defeat armed men holed up here. The painting shows the Akal Takht badly damaged and burned. In fading English below, these lines:
"Under the calculated move of Prime Minister of India Indira Gandhi, Military troops stormed Golden Temple with tanks. Thousands of Sikhs were massacred. Sri Akal Takht suffered the worst damages. Sikhs rose up in a united protest. Many returned their honours. Sikh soldiers left their barracks."
There's one more sentence: "The Sikhs, however, soon had their vengeance."
The unease, again. It grows as my eyes move further right, to settle on three portraits, all the same size as Bhagat Singh's. These list only names and dates:
"Shahid S Beant Singh Ji, 1949 to 31 Oct 1984."
"Shahid S Satwant Singh Ji, 1967 to 6 Jan 1989."
"Shahid S Kehar Singh Ji, 1940 to 6 Jan 1989."
You know those names and dates.
Note, "Shahid" again, all three times, exactly as it is used for Bhagat Singh.
She has plenty to answer for, Indira Gandhi. My feeling is that a vast number of this country's myriad intractable problems can be laid at her door. It's why I have minimal regard for her.
Yet even so: she was, when shot dead by Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, India's Prime Minister. To see her killers accorded the same esteem as Bhagat Singh, to see them called "Shahid" like him, is to ask some serious questions about nationhood. About terrorism. About freedom and those who fight for it. About what those words really mean. About India itself.
Then the memory of the days after Indira died. To me, the slaughter of 3000 Indians because they were Sikh remains the greatest act of terrorism in our 62 years. That we have not punished the murderers is, a quarter century later, a national shame.
But this Museum underlines what so many of us find hard to swallow: one man's terrorist is another's … what? Martyr, freedom fighter, hero? On this wall is a revered martyr of our freedom struggle. On this wall too are three other men, also called martyrs. Yet how many would agree with that characterization; how many would instead find it repugnant?
And doesn't that reflect our essential dilemma about terrorism? We agree that the killers of 200 innocent Indians in Mumbai in November of 2008 were terrorists. How many of us agree that the killers of 3000 innocent Indians in Delhi in November of 1984 were terrorists?
Yet what else were they?
The Golden Temple is a favourite spot, yes, despite the unease. Yet perhaps we could all use some unease.
November 03, 2009
Light of the night
Madhai is one (the?) entrance to the Satpura Tiger Reserve. You cross the Denwa river here, where it is actually part of the massive Tawa reservoir, to enter the Reserve. It's a five minute boat ride and on the other side you're greeted by a couple of elegant deer, grazing on the grounds of the MP Tourism resort there. From here, you can sign up for a safari through the Reserve in open MP Tourism Gypsies.
Which is what we do. With our driver and a guide, we -- my wife, two kids and I -- get going about 430pm. It is a bumpy but fun ride. The jungle is green and thick. We see sambhar, chital, wild boar, gaur, alert kingfishers, a silent stork on top of a dead tree, and screeching angrily from just above us, a crested hawk eagle. Handsome sort, if somewhat reminiscent of stern teachers from my youth. Miss R, in particular.
Then, just as the light starts to fade, our Gypsy stops. The driver tries and tries to start it, but has no luck. The guide takes a bottle of water and pours it into the radiator. We wait several minutes. The driver tries again. This time it starts. We move on. Ten minutes later, it stops again. It's now quite a bit darker, if not completely dark yet. Both young men peer into the engine, fiddling here and there. It won't start. The driver gets back into his seat and peers at his dashboard. Unable to see whatever he is trying to see, he yanks out his mobile. There's no connectivity in the middle of this forest, I checked, but that's not why he pulls it out anyway. He tries to see what he can by the light from the screen of his little celphone. The authorities here have not only sent a group of tourists out in a dodgy car, they haven't even seen fit to give the crew a flashlight.
Luckily I had clipped my flashlight to a belt loop before leaving our room, for no reason I can think of. Now I unclip it and hand it to the pair, and they use it to fiddle some more under the hood. I hear one of them spitting, and I know he has tried to suck petrol through the hose. They shut the hood and try the ignition again. It sputters and stops. Then it starts.
We move on. Five minutes later, trying to get up a steep muddy and rocky slope, the Gypsy slides back down and stops again. It is now, simply, dark. I mean, dark like someone has thrown a blanket over us. How far is it to the resort, I ask the men. "Oh, not far", they say, unconvincingly. Yes, but how far? Can I walk? "Oh about 3 km," they say ("teen-ek kilometre" are the guide's precise words), still not convincingly.
I'm starting to get tense about the tigers and leopards I know are in this forest (about 25 of the former and about 75 of the latter, the guide had told us). I'm starting to wonder about how we'll hunker down for the night. All of us crammed into the two front seats? I'm starting to think about whether I should go for help on foot. An uncertain 3 km in this forest in the dark, leaving the family, but what are my options?
Meanwhile, the same rigmarole with the men, the hood and my flashlight. It takes longer this time, but they get it started. By now, I know the score: Five more minutes, it stops again. Later, again. My nerves are shot and so are my wife's, though we're both trying hard not to show it. It was a game for the kids at the beginning, and they've taken it well, but now they are fretting too. The men still cannot say how far it is. The darkness is impenetrable. Without the light of my torch, we can't even see the trees and bushes we know are nearly within touching distance.
What are my options, really?
As they suck fuel through the pipe for the nth time, as we wait in the Gypsy, we hear, faintly, a thoroughly welcome sound: the rumble of another vehicle's engine. Soon enough, we see the glow of its lights, then it's suddenly upon us. Two men, sent out in a Mahindra pickup to look for us. Relieved, we transfer to the pickup.
We urge them to leave the Gypsy behind to be picked up tomorrow, while all of us return in the pickup. No, they try some more to get the Gypsy started again, and drive off with us in the pickup behind. Yep, it stalls again. This time when they get it started, it rushes off into the night and the pickup won't move. Turns out it has got stalled in the middle of some large rocks. The family and this pickup driver, now, alone in the forest in the middle of the night, trying to negotiate these rocks. Talk about shot nerves.
We finally do limp into the resort. This is true.
When we get there, an official is giving the guide and the Gypsy driver a serious dressing down from an official. It's all in Hindi, but for some reason he switches to English for this final remark: "And you guide, you please go, I don't want to see your face here!"
Early tomorrow morning, says the guy taking us back across the river in the boat, we can do another forest safari. Thanks, I say, but I think we'll pass.
Which is what we do. With our driver and a guide, we -- my wife, two kids and I -- get going about 430pm. It is a bumpy but fun ride. The jungle is green and thick. We see sambhar, chital, wild boar, gaur, alert kingfishers, a silent stork on top of a dead tree, and screeching angrily from just above us, a crested hawk eagle. Handsome sort, if somewhat reminiscent of stern teachers from my youth. Miss R, in particular.
Then, just as the light starts to fade, our Gypsy stops. The driver tries and tries to start it, but has no luck. The guide takes a bottle of water and pours it into the radiator. We wait several minutes. The driver tries again. This time it starts. We move on. Ten minutes later, it stops again. It's now quite a bit darker, if not completely dark yet. Both young men peer into the engine, fiddling here and there. It won't start. The driver gets back into his seat and peers at his dashboard. Unable to see whatever he is trying to see, he yanks out his mobile. There's no connectivity in the middle of this forest, I checked, but that's not why he pulls it out anyway. He tries to see what he can by the light from the screen of his little celphone. The authorities here have not only sent a group of tourists out in a dodgy car, they haven't even seen fit to give the crew a flashlight.
Luckily I had clipped my flashlight to a belt loop before leaving our room, for no reason I can think of. Now I unclip it and hand it to the pair, and they use it to fiddle some more under the hood. I hear one of them spitting, and I know he has tried to suck petrol through the hose. They shut the hood and try the ignition again. It sputters and stops. Then it starts.
We move on. Five minutes later, trying to get up a steep muddy and rocky slope, the Gypsy slides back down and stops again. It is now, simply, dark. I mean, dark like someone has thrown a blanket over us. How far is it to the resort, I ask the men. "Oh, not far", they say, unconvincingly. Yes, but how far? Can I walk? "Oh about 3 km," they say ("teen-ek kilometre" are the guide's precise words), still not convincingly.
I'm starting to get tense about the tigers and leopards I know are in this forest (about 25 of the former and about 75 of the latter, the guide had told us). I'm starting to wonder about how we'll hunker down for the night. All of us crammed into the two front seats? I'm starting to think about whether I should go for help on foot. An uncertain 3 km in this forest in the dark, leaving the family, but what are my options?
Meanwhile, the same rigmarole with the men, the hood and my flashlight. It takes longer this time, but they get it started. By now, I know the score: Five more minutes, it stops again. Later, again. My nerves are shot and so are my wife's, though we're both trying hard not to show it. It was a game for the kids at the beginning, and they've taken it well, but now they are fretting too. The men still cannot say how far it is. The darkness is impenetrable. Without the light of my torch, we can't even see the trees and bushes we know are nearly within touching distance.
What are my options, really?
As they suck fuel through the pipe for the nth time, as we wait in the Gypsy, we hear, faintly, a thoroughly welcome sound: the rumble of another vehicle's engine. Soon enough, we see the glow of its lights, then it's suddenly upon us. Two men, sent out in a Mahindra pickup to look for us. Relieved, we transfer to the pickup.
We urge them to leave the Gypsy behind to be picked up tomorrow, while all of us return in the pickup. No, they try some more to get the Gypsy started again, and drive off with us in the pickup behind. Yep, it stalls again. This time when they get it started, it rushes off into the night and the pickup won't move. Turns out it has got stalled in the middle of some large rocks. The family and this pickup driver, now, alone in the forest in the middle of the night, trying to negotiate these rocks. Talk about shot nerves.
We finally do limp into the resort. This is true.
When we get there, an official is giving the guide and the Gypsy driver a serious dressing down from an official. It's all in Hindi, but for some reason he switches to English for this final remark: "And you guide, you please go, I don't want to see your face here!"
Early tomorrow morning, says the guy taking us back across the river in the boat, we can do another forest safari. Thanks, I say, but I think we'll pass.
November 02, 2009
A call, 25 years ago
Must be 25 years ago today, or one of these days, since that call.
It came from a man who topped the rankings in my college, who later completed a PhD from one of the premier engineering institutions in the USA. A brilliant, gentle, thoughtful man: my friend G. In 1984, we were both living in the USA. He was on his way to his PhD; I was in Texas, trying to cope with my first job. One day in November that year, even while 3000 Indians were being slaughtered in India solely because they were Sikh like him, G called.
"I feel completely betrayed by India," he told me. "I will never go back there again."
I tried. But I had nothing to say. No comfort, no argument, no explanation, no rationalization, nothing. G was unable to comprehend how the land that had given him birth, that had nurtured him and his talents, could have turned against him so completely. Through those crisp November days, he was struggling to come to terms with the thought that had he been in Delhi instead of the USA, he would have been murdered. I could feel his anguish pour through the phone. Yet I could offer him nothing.
Consider what we know about those bloody days in November 1984. A Congress government was in power then, though its head, our PM, had just been gunned down. After the slaughter, various inquiry commissions picked out senior Congress politicians like HKL Bhagat and Sajjan Kumar for their roles in the killing: the commissions found that these men instigated and directed looting, murdering mobs. Cases against Bhagat and Kumar, filed by brave
women widowed in the killing, tried for years to find the light of day, stalled by the pernicious efforts of the very men they sought to bring to justice. Eventually they failed. Bhagat himself, having successfully eluded justice for 21 years, died four years ago.
As far as I can tell, three murderers from that time have been punished. (Their crime was exactly 25 years ago today).
3000 murders, three men punished.
In November 1984, India lost much more than a brilliant young man like G. The loss is compounded with every year, every day, that passes without justice for Indians slaughtered.
A quarter century later, we know well the fruits of that compounding. The massacre of hundreds and thousands of Indians -- take 1984, take Gujarat in 2002, take Bombay in 1992-93 -- is considered no more than part of the landscape. Just as the men who dreamed up and led the 1984 massacre have eluded justice, the men who instigated slaughter in Bombay and Gujarat are free and unpunished. Whichever political party it is, it sidesteps the issue of punishment. Criminals dominate politics everywhere you look, whichever party you pick. They are there because they know well, as Bhagat and company knew well, that politics will protect them from their crimes.
That our own, your own, particular partisan leanings will keep them protected.
And even so, even with all that to bemoan, the saddest thing for me is the profound betrayal I knew my friend G felt, that day in 1984.
***
A sample of the other writing I've done on the same subject:
Inquiry into inquiry.
See you at 3000.
Martyrs.
It came from a man who topped the rankings in my college, who later completed a PhD from one of the premier engineering institutions in the USA. A brilliant, gentle, thoughtful man: my friend G. In 1984, we were both living in the USA. He was on his way to his PhD; I was in Texas, trying to cope with my first job. One day in November that year, even while 3000 Indians were being slaughtered in India solely because they were Sikh like him, G called.
"I feel completely betrayed by India," he told me. "I will never go back there again."
I tried. But I had nothing to say. No comfort, no argument, no explanation, no rationalization, nothing. G was unable to comprehend how the land that had given him birth, that had nurtured him and his talents, could have turned against him so completely. Through those crisp November days, he was struggling to come to terms with the thought that had he been in Delhi instead of the USA, he would have been murdered. I could feel his anguish pour through the phone. Yet I could offer him nothing.
Consider what we know about those bloody days in November 1984. A Congress government was in power then, though its head, our PM, had just been gunned down. After the slaughter, various inquiry commissions picked out senior Congress politicians like HKL Bhagat and Sajjan Kumar for their roles in the killing: the commissions found that these men instigated and directed looting, murdering mobs. Cases against Bhagat and Kumar, filed by brave
women widowed in the killing, tried for years to find the light of day, stalled by the pernicious efforts of the very men they sought to bring to justice. Eventually they failed. Bhagat himself, having successfully eluded justice for 21 years, died four years ago.
As far as I can tell, three murderers from that time have been punished. (Their crime was exactly 25 years ago today).
3000 murders, three men punished.
In November 1984, India lost much more than a brilliant young man like G. The loss is compounded with every year, every day, that passes without justice for Indians slaughtered.
A quarter century later, we know well the fruits of that compounding. The massacre of hundreds and thousands of Indians -- take 1984, take Gujarat in 2002, take Bombay in 1992-93 -- is considered no more than part of the landscape. Just as the men who dreamed up and led the 1984 massacre have eluded justice, the men who instigated slaughter in Bombay and Gujarat are free and unpunished. Whichever political party it is, it sidesteps the issue of punishment. Criminals dominate politics everywhere you look, whichever party you pick. They are there because they know well, as Bhagat and company knew well, that politics will protect them from their crimes.
That our own, your own, particular partisan leanings will keep them protected.
And even so, even with all that to bemoan, the saddest thing for me is the profound betrayal I knew my friend G felt, that day in 1984.
A sample of the other writing I've done on the same subject:
Inquiry into inquiry.
See you at 3000.
Martyrs.
November 01, 2009
Still gathering
The vultures are at it still.
The brother and his wife took away the scanner the other day.
Meantime my neighbour lies in the other room, sinking slowly and oblivious. Which vulture will be next and what will it carry away?
The brother and his wife took away the scanner the other day.
Meantime my neighbour lies in the other room, sinking slowly and oblivious. Which vulture will be next and what will it carry away?
Ten year-old view
Ten year-old I know took me to see "This Is It" (the Michael Jackson film) on Saturday evening. On returning home, he wrote a review. Take a look: A Song of a Film.
He has some earlier poems up on that site too, if you'd like to browse a bit.
He has some earlier poems up on that site too, if you'd like to browse a bit.
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