My neighbour is 76 and dying of cancer. The tragedy is that he is wasting away slowly and in increasing indignity as his body shuts down. It's been months that he has lingered in a sad twilight zone. A vital, creative, energetic and widely loved man is reduced to a shell, and I wish he could just go. He doesn't deserve this. Nobody deserves this.
But no, I was mistaken. The real tragedy is elsewhere.
One sister arrived from her home in a Western country, to be with him for a few weeks. She spent that time complaining loudly to every visitor that his will leaves the flat not to her, but to a nephew. (No thought given to the fact that she has lived in that Western country for most of her life, and has no intention of returning to Bombay). "How will he die in peace?", she'd ask the visitors. When she went back, she left with several things from the house that she wanted, unwilling to take the chance that she wouldn't get those either, after his death.
The brother and his wife lose no opportunity to make remarks about my neighbour's wealth (relative to them), insinuating that he should be leaving plenty of it to them.
Another sister wrote to him from her home in Goa saying she'd love to come see him, but he would have to pay for her ticket. He did. When she returned home, she wrote again to say that after he died, she wanted the computer, the Worldspace radio and several other gadgets in the house.
Christians, all. Regular Sunday church-goers, all. The sister in the Western country is even married to a once-priest.
Vultures, all.
September 29, 2009
Attitude shift
A few days ago I was part of a panel discussion at a nearby school. Our subject was the recent proposal to make the CBSE 10th standard exams optional. Each of the panelists had to speak for a few minutes to start off the discussion.
This is what I said.
***
I'm no educationist, I'm just a father, and I think a lot about my kids' education. As a father, I dread the years when they will come close to graduating from school, because I wonder about their school-leaving exams. I wonder about college entrance exams. I wonder about coaching classes.
And all that wondering makes me worry.
Doing outstandingly well in school-leaving exams has become such a coveted goal that there's a huge amount of pressure on kids. The marks they aspire to reflect that: to get into a good college means you need to bring home 97 percent or more -- and I'd like to know the difference between a 97 percenter who gets in and a 96-er who does not.
But you have to aim for those marks, and more and more it seems you can get them only if you attend coaching classes. That disturbs me.
What's wrong with coaching classes, you might ask. If they help you get the exam marks you need for college admissions, what's wrong? And in fact, there are proposals to recognize coaching classes as equivalent to school or college programmes.
Yet what's wrong is right there: that coaching classes are directed at one or another exam. Everything I believe about education, everything I want for my children, shouts out that there's something twisted there. An education is not a preparation for the 10th standard board exam, nor for the IIT entrance exam. It is instead an investment in turning children into thinking, questioning, participating adults and members of society. It is the most important investment I'll make in my life, the most important one my country can make.
Yet look at where we are now. From the 8th standard or before, kids take coaching for their 10th exams, then the 12th, then various college entrance tests. It's the rare child who resists all this. Too many schools are poorly equipped to fight coaching, because that's where the money is, for teachers. Too many schools become poorly staffed places that even kids know there's no point attending.
Yet in this whole enterprise, are we turning out a generation of children whose greatest skill lies in taking tests? I don't want that for my child, and I wonder how many other parents truly want it for theirs.
So what's the answer? The genie is out of the box -- there's no way to ban or stop coaching classes, not that I want to. The answer then is to remove what makes them necessary: exams. Not all of them, I realize, for you need ways to test a child's abilities. But certainly some of them.
For example, the 10th standard exam. It has never made much sense to me: you do it and you immediately go to work towards the 12th standard exam. What purpose does it serve?
Finally, I'd like to see an attitude shift towards school education, to underline the idea of it being a country's investment in its future. Education is no less national service than joining the Army. Kids who get an education serve India every bit as surely as soldiers do. Make it a rigorous, thorough, broad-based education, sure; but recognize our schoolkids as young patriots. For that's what they are.
Think of them like that, and we'll know what to do about coaching classes and exams.
This is what I said.
I'm no educationist, I'm just a father, and I think a lot about my kids' education. As a father, I dread the years when they will come close to graduating from school, because I wonder about their school-leaving exams. I wonder about college entrance exams. I wonder about coaching classes.
And all that wondering makes me worry.
Doing outstandingly well in school-leaving exams has become such a coveted goal that there's a huge amount of pressure on kids. The marks they aspire to reflect that: to get into a good college means you need to bring home 97 percent or more -- and I'd like to know the difference between a 97 percenter who gets in and a 96-er who does not.
But you have to aim for those marks, and more and more it seems you can get them only if you attend coaching classes. That disturbs me.
What's wrong with coaching classes, you might ask. If they help you get the exam marks you need for college admissions, what's wrong? And in fact, there are proposals to recognize coaching classes as equivalent to school or college programmes.
Yet what's wrong is right there: that coaching classes are directed at one or another exam. Everything I believe about education, everything I want for my children, shouts out that there's something twisted there. An education is not a preparation for the 10th standard board exam, nor for the IIT entrance exam. It is instead an investment in turning children into thinking, questioning, participating adults and members of society. It is the most important investment I'll make in my life, the most important one my country can make.
Yet look at where we are now. From the 8th standard or before, kids take coaching for their 10th exams, then the 12th, then various college entrance tests. It's the rare child who resists all this. Too many schools are poorly equipped to fight coaching, because that's where the money is, for teachers. Too many schools become poorly staffed places that even kids know there's no point attending.
Yet in this whole enterprise, are we turning out a generation of children whose greatest skill lies in taking tests? I don't want that for my child, and I wonder how many other parents truly want it for theirs.
So what's the answer? The genie is out of the box -- there's no way to ban or stop coaching classes, not that I want to. The answer then is to remove what makes them necessary: exams. Not all of them, I realize, for you need ways to test a child's abilities. But certainly some of them.
For example, the 10th standard exam. It has never made much sense to me: you do it and you immediately go to work towards the 12th standard exam. What purpose does it serve?
Finally, I'd like to see an attitude shift towards school education, to underline the idea of it being a country's investment in its future. Education is no less national service than joining the Army. Kids who get an education serve India every bit as surely as soldiers do. Make it a rigorous, thorough, broad-based education, sure; but recognize our schoolkids as young patriots. For that's what they are.
Think of them like that, and we'll know what to do about coaching classes and exams.
September 25, 2009
Tussle with history
Open magazine carries an article I wrote about the prospects for Somdev Devvarman, the new Indian tennis star: Somdev's Tussle with History, they called it.
I'm appending below the version I sent to them -- it's pretty much the same except that Open added a few lines to bring in a little more "optimism" about Somdev.
Comments welcome.
***
Writing on the Wall
One had played a Wimbledon final. He lost, but his massive serve and solid volleys made him a feared opponent among the pros. The other was short and compact, speeding around the court, smooth strokes pinging off his racket. He would soon win the biggest prize in US collegiate tennis -- the NCAA singles title -- and turn pro.
Kevin Curren, the Wimbledon finalist. Steve Bryan, the NCAA winner. Practicing together on a University of Texas court in Austin, sometime in 1990. Nobody else around but me, watching from immediately above one end of the court. An enthralling enough spectacle that I went often to watch them rally, once or twice even prompting quick smiles of recognition.
Tennis is a sport in which watching it on TV has zero to do with watching it close-up. Even just practicing, these two slammed the ball with power and precision that took my breath away. Executed just below my nose, Curren's monster serve seemed like it would need to be returned from somewhere near Siberia. Yet little Bryan blasted it back with interest, often enough wrong-footing the taller man as he closed in on the net.
Now I play tennis, and in those days I played a lot on that very court. It is one of my lifelong regrets that I never asked either Bryan or Curren to hit with me. Perhaps I was intimidated by their skill. Yet I had played many times with friends who had been on American college teams. I didn't embarrass myself. OK, they were not in Bryan's league. Still, I should have asked. If watching them did things for my game, what would practicing with them have done?
If you follow tennis, you probably remember Curren. He had a barnstorming run to the Wimbledon '85 final, blowing away John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors before turning into one of the game's many footnotes: whom did Boris Becker beat for his first Wimbledon title?
In 1979, Curren had himself won the NCAA title that Bryan would win in 1990. Yet even a tennis fan would probably ask, "Bryan who?" He did turn pro after that NCAA triumph, but did very little at the senior level.
Maybe there's a lesson there for Indian fans, looking at Somdev Devvarman as the next great hope for Indian tennis. For Devvarman is a NCAA titlist too, and twice in a row (2007/8). In fact, Devvarman might even have made it three in a row -- he was the beaten finalist in 2006. American collegiate tennis is intensely competitive, so this record speaks of a seriously talented player. And if that's not enough, there's his recent stirring Davis Cup wins over the best South Africa has to offer; the second match, a victory over Rik de Voest from two sets and a service break down.
Yet the million dollar question: How far will he go in the pros?
If history is any indication, not very far. That's the lesson, a sobering one. The great majority of NCAA champions don't do much in the pros. The last to even reach a Grand Slam final was Mikael Pernfors, who was also the last before Devvarman to win back-to-back NCAA titles (1984/5). In 1986, Pernfors rode his heavy topspin strokes and bounding court coverage all the way to the French Open final, where a certain Ivan Lendl hammered him. John McEnroe, top of the NCAA heap in 1978, remains the last collegiate champion to win a Slam.
Since then, NCAA winners have been less tennis forces than footnotes like Curren. Yet before McEnroe, the NCAA winners' list has illustrious names like Connors, Ashe, Smith and Trabert, all Slam champs. What happened after the late 1970s, and what does that mean for Devvarman?
My feeling is, the game of professional tennis has moved on and up, to another level completely. The premium on fitness and power means that the really talented players turn pro as soon as their bodies mature. If they want a successful pro career, they're better off skipping college altogether, instead of wasting their most athletic years chasing a degree. So if American collegiate tennis remains fiercely competitive, it really isn't a springboard for success in the pros.
Thus none of the recent generation of Slam-winning American superstars -- Chang, Courier, Agassi, Sampras and Roddick -- even enrolled in college. McEnroe? After winning the NCAA tournament as a Stanford freshman, he dropped out to turn pro. Becker was 17 when he defeated Curren for that Wimbledon title: not only did he not attend college, he did not even complete high school.
All these champions made marks in the pro ranks by their late teens.
In contrast, Devvarman's four years at the University of Virginia means he is already 24, a year into his pro career. These days, that is positively middle-aged in tennis terms. McEnroe won the last of his 7 Slams at 25. Roger Federer had won 6 Slams by the time he was 24. Rafael Nadal, winner of 6 Slams, is a year-and-a-half younger -- younger! -- than Devvarman.
The writing is clear: the pro ranks are filled with powerful teenagers and early twenty-somethings who will steamroll even NCAA champions.
So what can an Indian tennis fan expect from Devvarman? From what I know of him, he has a solid all-court game and a refreshingly positive attitude: "I belong with the big boys", he said from this year's US Open. That will make him one of the dangerous floaters who lurks in the early rounds of the Slams -- the men who will pull off a stunning upset or two, whom the stars remain wary of, but who don't have the game to go several rounds. His ATP ranking will probably peak at about 75. He may find more success playing doubles, where teamwork rather than individual brilliance wins you matches. He will also do well in the Davis Cup, where the charge of playing for team and country often lifts players to spectacular feats.
In short, we can expect what previous Indian tennis stars have given us -- Paes, Bhupathi, Amritraj, Krishnan junior. When Devvarman enters a Slam, we'll rejoice in his first-round victory, like the straight-sets pasting he administered to Federico Gil in New York. Then we'll mourn the second-round loss with its moments of flair, like his four-set battle with Philip Kohlschreiber in which Devvarman raced through one set 6-0, but lost the other three. After that, he'll play Davis Cup and dazzle us with hard-fought, inspiring triumphs.
That is, the roller-coaster of the last few weeks might just be a microcosm of Devvarman's professional career. Believe me, I hope I am wrong, that someone will find me and rub my face in this article when Devvarman pulls off a Wimbledon championship.
But I don't think so.
After Bryan won his NCAA title in 1990, he was interviewed by Sports Illustrated. SI described him as a "mentally tough and terribly earnest" young man who had won the final "with a blazing demonstration of cunning and consistency." Now of course I had only seen him practicing. Yet those words fit the man I knew from that Austin court. Even just trading blows with Curren, he was muscular, clever and precise in his shot-making. And on the verge of turning pro, Bryan told the magazine: "I can see myself in the Top 30."
Realistic, you might think. The guy knows he won't make it to #1, but a top-30 player can still have a solid and lucrative career. Nothing to sneer at.
Reality bites. In 1994, Steve Bryan reached his highest ranking as a pro: 80. Three years later, still only 27, he read the writing and retired.
Me, I still nurse the hope that I'll run into him one day, remind him of those sessions with Curren, and get out on the court to hit with him. Hey, I want to measure myself against a cunning and consistent NCAA champion.
I'm appending below the version I sent to them -- it's pretty much the same except that Open added a few lines to bring in a little more "optimism" about Somdev.
Comments welcome.
Writing on the Wall
One had played a Wimbledon final. He lost, but his massive serve and solid volleys made him a feared opponent among the pros. The other was short and compact, speeding around the court, smooth strokes pinging off his racket. He would soon win the biggest prize in US collegiate tennis -- the NCAA singles title -- and turn pro.
Kevin Curren, the Wimbledon finalist. Steve Bryan, the NCAA winner. Practicing together on a University of Texas court in Austin, sometime in 1990. Nobody else around but me, watching from immediately above one end of the court. An enthralling enough spectacle that I went often to watch them rally, once or twice even prompting quick smiles of recognition.
Tennis is a sport in which watching it on TV has zero to do with watching it close-up. Even just practicing, these two slammed the ball with power and precision that took my breath away. Executed just below my nose, Curren's monster serve seemed like it would need to be returned from somewhere near Siberia. Yet little Bryan blasted it back with interest, often enough wrong-footing the taller man as he closed in on the net.
Now I play tennis, and in those days I played a lot on that very court. It is one of my lifelong regrets that I never asked either Bryan or Curren to hit with me. Perhaps I was intimidated by their skill. Yet I had played many times with friends who had been on American college teams. I didn't embarrass myself. OK, they were not in Bryan's league. Still, I should have asked. If watching them did things for my game, what would practicing with them have done?
If you follow tennis, you probably remember Curren. He had a barnstorming run to the Wimbledon '85 final, blowing away John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors before turning into one of the game's many footnotes: whom did Boris Becker beat for his first Wimbledon title?
In 1979, Curren had himself won the NCAA title that Bryan would win in 1990. Yet even a tennis fan would probably ask, "Bryan who?" He did turn pro after that NCAA triumph, but did very little at the senior level.
Maybe there's a lesson there for Indian fans, looking at Somdev Devvarman as the next great hope for Indian tennis. For Devvarman is a NCAA titlist too, and twice in a row (2007/8). In fact, Devvarman might even have made it three in a row -- he was the beaten finalist in 2006. American collegiate tennis is intensely competitive, so this record speaks of a seriously talented player. And if that's not enough, there's his recent stirring Davis Cup wins over the best South Africa has to offer; the second match, a victory over Rik de Voest from two sets and a service break down.
Yet the million dollar question: How far will he go in the pros?
If history is any indication, not very far. That's the lesson, a sobering one. The great majority of NCAA champions don't do much in the pros. The last to even reach a Grand Slam final was Mikael Pernfors, who was also the last before Devvarman to win back-to-back NCAA titles (1984/5). In 1986, Pernfors rode his heavy topspin strokes and bounding court coverage all the way to the French Open final, where a certain Ivan Lendl hammered him. John McEnroe, top of the NCAA heap in 1978, remains the last collegiate champion to win a Slam.
Since then, NCAA winners have been less tennis forces than footnotes like Curren. Yet before McEnroe, the NCAA winners' list has illustrious names like Connors, Ashe, Smith and Trabert, all Slam champs. What happened after the late 1970s, and what does that mean for Devvarman?
My feeling is, the game of professional tennis has moved on and up, to another level completely. The premium on fitness and power means that the really talented players turn pro as soon as their bodies mature. If they want a successful pro career, they're better off skipping college altogether, instead of wasting their most athletic years chasing a degree. So if American collegiate tennis remains fiercely competitive, it really isn't a springboard for success in the pros.
Thus none of the recent generation of Slam-winning American superstars -- Chang, Courier, Agassi, Sampras and Roddick -- even enrolled in college. McEnroe? After winning the NCAA tournament as a Stanford freshman, he dropped out to turn pro. Becker was 17 when he defeated Curren for that Wimbledon title: not only did he not attend college, he did not even complete high school.
All these champions made marks in the pro ranks by their late teens.
In contrast, Devvarman's four years at the University of Virginia means he is already 24, a year into his pro career. These days, that is positively middle-aged in tennis terms. McEnroe won the last of his 7 Slams at 25. Roger Federer had won 6 Slams by the time he was 24. Rafael Nadal, winner of 6 Slams, is a year-and-a-half younger -- younger! -- than Devvarman.
The writing is clear: the pro ranks are filled with powerful teenagers and early twenty-somethings who will steamroll even NCAA champions.
So what can an Indian tennis fan expect from Devvarman? From what I know of him, he has a solid all-court game and a refreshingly positive attitude: "I belong with the big boys", he said from this year's US Open. That will make him one of the dangerous floaters who lurks in the early rounds of the Slams -- the men who will pull off a stunning upset or two, whom the stars remain wary of, but who don't have the game to go several rounds. His ATP ranking will probably peak at about 75. He may find more success playing doubles, where teamwork rather than individual brilliance wins you matches. He will also do well in the Davis Cup, where the charge of playing for team and country often lifts players to spectacular feats.
In short, we can expect what previous Indian tennis stars have given us -- Paes, Bhupathi, Amritraj, Krishnan junior. When Devvarman enters a Slam, we'll rejoice in his first-round victory, like the straight-sets pasting he administered to Federico Gil in New York. Then we'll mourn the second-round loss with its moments of flair, like his four-set battle with Philip Kohlschreiber in which Devvarman raced through one set 6-0, but lost the other three. After that, he'll play Davis Cup and dazzle us with hard-fought, inspiring triumphs.
That is, the roller-coaster of the last few weeks might just be a microcosm of Devvarman's professional career. Believe me, I hope I am wrong, that someone will find me and rub my face in this article when Devvarman pulls off a Wimbledon championship.
But I don't think so.
After Bryan won his NCAA title in 1990, he was interviewed by Sports Illustrated. SI described him as a "mentally tough and terribly earnest" young man who had won the final "with a blazing demonstration of cunning and consistency." Now of course I had only seen him practicing. Yet those words fit the man I knew from that Austin court. Even just trading blows with Curren, he was muscular, clever and precise in his shot-making. And on the verge of turning pro, Bryan told the magazine: "I can see myself in the Top 30."
Realistic, you might think. The guy knows he won't make it to #1, but a top-30 player can still have a solid and lucrative career. Nothing to sneer at.
Reality bites. In 1994, Steve Bryan reached his highest ranking as a pro: 80. Three years later, still only 27, he read the writing and retired.
Me, I still nurse the hope that I'll run into him one day, remind him of those sessions with Curren, and get out on the court to hit with him. Hey, I want to measure myself against a cunning and consistent NCAA champion.
September 23, 2009
Promises, promises
Many weeks ago I signed up for a contest and asked gentle and not-so-gentle readers like you to vote for us. No fault of yours, but we didn't make it to the shortlist of 100 couples. The contest went on from there, ended over a month ago and this pair was the winner.
Why do I bring this up now? Most of the contest was conducted online. Since it was essentially a marketing/PR exercise for a car called the Mitsubishi Cedia Sports, it needed to keep a buzz going through the event. It needed plenty of eyeballs/hits/footfalls/[insert your term-of-the-moment] as long as it lasted.
Thus the organizers announced prizes for people who followed the event: hourly ones of gloves, daily ones of some gizmo or the other. The grand prize for such followers was a trip to Singapore to watch the F1 Grand Prix there this coming weekend. If you selected the three finalists correctly, if you chose the winner, you were eligible to win one of these trips. Three such trips altogether.
These were attractive enough prizes that lots of people signed up, hoping to win them. Mitsubishi and their Indian partner, Hindustan Motors, got plenty of that buzz they were looking for. At the prize-giving party at the end of the contest, somebody from HM announced that the site had got some enormous number of hits, making it one of the most-visited Indian sites on the Web.
So here's the point. Those Singapore prizes have not been awarded. Not even a mention of them, since the contest ended.
A large company conducts a contest as a marketing campaign. It announces attractive prizes. It does not deliver. What would you call this?
Me, many words come to mind. "A marketing disaster" are just three.
I mean, would I consider buying a Cedia Sports? Or suggest to a friend that they buy one? Not a chance.
Good job, Mitsubishi and Hindustan Motors.
***
Postscript: If you feel like telling HM and Mitsubishi what you think, you can do so via these "Contact Us" forms: Hindustan Motors, Mitsubishi India.
Why do I bring this up now? Most of the contest was conducted online. Since it was essentially a marketing/PR exercise for a car called the Mitsubishi Cedia Sports, it needed to keep a buzz going through the event. It needed plenty of eyeballs/hits/footfalls/[insert your term-of-the-moment] as long as it lasted.
Thus the organizers announced prizes for people who followed the event: hourly ones of gloves, daily ones of some gizmo or the other. The grand prize for such followers was a trip to Singapore to watch the F1 Grand Prix there this coming weekend. If you selected the three finalists correctly, if you chose the winner, you were eligible to win one of these trips. Three such trips altogether.
These were attractive enough prizes that lots of people signed up, hoping to win them. Mitsubishi and their Indian partner, Hindustan Motors, got plenty of that buzz they were looking for. At the prize-giving party at the end of the contest, somebody from HM announced that the site had got some enormous number of hits, making it one of the most-visited Indian sites on the Web.
So here's the point. Those Singapore prizes have not been awarded. Not even a mention of them, since the contest ended.
A large company conducts a contest as a marketing campaign. It announces attractive prizes. It does not deliver. What would you call this?
Me, many words come to mind. "A marketing disaster" are just three.
I mean, would I consider buying a Cedia Sports? Or suggest to a friend that they buy one? Not a chance.
Good job, Mitsubishi and Hindustan Motors.
Postscript: If you feel like telling HM and Mitsubishi what you think, you can do so via these "Contact Us" forms: Hindustan Motors, Mitsubishi India.
September 21, 2009
Clay
The Times of India reports that LK Advani did not want Jaswant Singh expelled from the BJP. But it happened anyway.
Funny, I thought iron men were expected to stand up for things they believe in. Not merely mutter about them when it's too late. If he truly did not want Singh expelled, why did Advani allow it to happen? Why did he not make a point of preventing it?
Not that I much care whether Jaswant Singh is or is not part of the BJP.
Advani's remark brought to mind his comment about the demolition of the Babri Masjid on December 6 1992. That was, he said then and has said many times since, the "saddest day" of his life.
Well, that's fine, but how are we supposed to reconcile that sentiment with Advani doing nothing to prevent the demolition? With the views of others in his party, who refer to it as a day of honour and redemption?
It must be India's tragedy that its leading politicians are blessed with feet of clay, and that they stick in the mud anyway. To mix metaphors a little.
***
Postscript: I had an idea that there would be comments asking me what my point is. Which is partly why I held back a third example of Advani's reluctance to stand up and take responsibility. I refer, of course, to his contention that he had no idea about Jaswant Singh's trip to Kandahar in 1999. No routine sight-seeing trip, this, of course. Jaswant Singh travelled with terrorists released by India's government in exchange for the lives of hostages held on board a plane in Kandahar.
In that government, Advani was Home Minister: the country's ultimate authority about law and order and security issues. He didn't know?
Not that I much care whether he knew of Jaswant's trip or not. But to claim that, as Home Minister, he was unaware of the goings-on in this serious crisis his government was faced with -- I mean, this not only strains credibility, it is a commentary on that government itself.
Funny, I thought iron men were expected to stand up for things they believe in. Not merely mutter about them when it's too late. If he truly did not want Singh expelled, why did Advani allow it to happen? Why did he not make a point of preventing it?
Not that I much care whether Jaswant Singh is or is not part of the BJP.
Advani's remark brought to mind his comment about the demolition of the Babri Masjid on December 6 1992. That was, he said then and has said many times since, the "saddest day" of his life.
Well, that's fine, but how are we supposed to reconcile that sentiment with Advani doing nothing to prevent the demolition? With the views of others in his party, who refer to it as a day of honour and redemption?
It must be India's tragedy that its leading politicians are blessed with feet of clay, and that they stick in the mud anyway. To mix metaphors a little.
Postscript: I had an idea that there would be comments asking me what my point is. Which is partly why I held back a third example of Advani's reluctance to stand up and take responsibility. I refer, of course, to his contention that he had no idea about Jaswant Singh's trip to Kandahar in 1999. No routine sight-seeing trip, this, of course. Jaswant Singh travelled with terrorists released by India's government in exchange for the lives of hostages held on board a plane in Kandahar.
In that government, Advani was Home Minister: the country's ultimate authority about law and order and security issues. He didn't know?
Not that I much care whether he knew of Jaswant's trip or not. But to claim that, as Home Minister, he was unaware of the goings-on in this serious crisis his government was faced with -- I mean, this not only strains credibility, it is a commentary on that government itself.
Ba bump ba bump ba bump
September 20, 2009
The flaw
"Instability is an inherent and inescapable flaw of capitalism."
Who said that?
No Googling etc.
Who said that?
No Googling etc.
Ask the hard ones
Tomorrow September 21 is the International Day of Peace. To mark it, I wrote Ask the Hard Ones for Citizens for Peace.
The TIME magazine article referred to there is The Grassroots Abortion War, by Nancy Gibbs.
Your comments welcome.
The TIME magazine article referred to there is The Grassroots Abortion War, by Nancy Gibbs.
Your comments welcome.
September 17, 2009
About my ego
With travel and other distractions, I've had an umpteenth blogging slowdown over the last couple of weeks. So now I embark on my umpteenth attempt to turn that around.
Our Judgement Free carries a small tale about what recently happened to my ego.
Comments welcome.
Our Judgement Free carries a small tale about what recently happened to my ego.
Comments welcome.
Frozen entree
A bakery near my home has been around for years. In the early days, the staff lived above the establishment, where there were a few rooms and a terrace. Most of the time, there were just two or three young men there, so there was also space to store stuff: old equipment, appliances waiting to be repaired, that sort of thing.
At one point, the bakery employed a youth known to one and all as, simply, "Chicken". Nobody now recalls why, but that's what they called him. During his tenure at the bakery and in the rooms, somebody lugged a large non-functional fridge upstairs and left it on the terrace, pending repair. It sat there, large and looming.
The men in the rooms were prone -- as many other men in such rooms might be prone -- to pouring down their throats beverages with some little alcoholic content. Chicken was no exception. In fact, he was known to be rather more prone than most. As a result, there were times when he was rather more prone than most in other ways too.
Anyway, one particular full-moon night -- I added that little detail, why not? -- a particularly sloshed Chicken wandered onto the terrace to survey the scene. Noticing the fridge, perhaps hoping he'd find more beverages inside, he opened it. Then he stepped in and shut the door. Just as you and I might do, of course, climbing into a fridge. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Only, when he shut the door, an outside latch clicked into place. From his vantage point inside the fridge, Chicken could not get out. He pushed. He pulled. He rocked. He kicked, as best as he could kick while wedged into that compartment. Nothing budged the door.
He tried to shout, but he found that the beverages he had poured down his willing throat had temporarily inhibited his vocal capabilities. Besides, it was getting hard to breathe. So his attempts to shout emerged as something else.
This was the setting when, many long minutes later, one of Chicken's bakery colleagues, who had himself partaken generously of beverages, wandered up to the terrace to survey the scene too. In the moonlight, he heard a series of gentle clucking sounds: "Cucu, cucu, cucu", as it was described to me these years later.
Rather, the colleague thought, like a chicken.
Of course, it wasn't a chicken. But it was Chicken. The colleague pulled open the door of the fridge. With a resounding thump, Chicken fell out.
True story. I swear.
At one point, the bakery employed a youth known to one and all as, simply, "Chicken". Nobody now recalls why, but that's what they called him. During his tenure at the bakery and in the rooms, somebody lugged a large non-functional fridge upstairs and left it on the terrace, pending repair. It sat there, large and looming.
The men in the rooms were prone -- as many other men in such rooms might be prone -- to pouring down their throats beverages with some little alcoholic content. Chicken was no exception. In fact, he was known to be rather more prone than most. As a result, there were times when he was rather more prone than most in other ways too.
Anyway, one particular full-moon night -- I added that little detail, why not? -- a particularly sloshed Chicken wandered onto the terrace to survey the scene. Noticing the fridge, perhaps hoping he'd find more beverages inside, he opened it. Then he stepped in and shut the door. Just as you and I might do, of course, climbing into a fridge. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Only, when he shut the door, an outside latch clicked into place. From his vantage point inside the fridge, Chicken could not get out. He pushed. He pulled. He rocked. He kicked, as best as he could kick while wedged into that compartment. Nothing budged the door.
He tried to shout, but he found that the beverages he had poured down his willing throat had temporarily inhibited his vocal capabilities. Besides, it was getting hard to breathe. So his attempts to shout emerged as something else.
This was the setting when, many long minutes later, one of Chicken's bakery colleagues, who had himself partaken generously of beverages, wandered up to the terrace to survey the scene too. In the moonlight, he heard a series of gentle clucking sounds: "Cucu, cucu, cucu", as it was described to me these years later.
Rather, the colleague thought, like a chicken.
Of course, it wasn't a chicken. But it was Chicken. The colleague pulled open the door of the fridge. With a resounding thump, Chicken fell out.
True story. I swear.
September 08, 2009
Scepticism overboard
Ask a random Indian what their opinion is of the police, and I'm willing to bet it will be unfavourable. Few people trust them. It's a pity, and it is unfair on a whole lot of splendid policemen (I know enough), and it has a bearing on the way the police functions -- but unfortunately, that's the way it is. Scepticism about police deeds is built into us.
But let the same police carry out an "encounter", especially if they pronounce that the person(s) they killed is a "terrorist", and suddenly that scepticism is forgotten. Suddenly we believe them. We're willing to trust their word for what they do.
In June 2004, the Ahmedabad police killed four people in a car, one a young woman called Ishrat Jahan. They told us that these people had arms in the car, that they fired at the police, who fired back in self-defence. They told us that the four had links to terrorists and wanted to kill Gujarat CM Modi. They told us that two were actually Pakistanis.
Plenty of us believed all this. One example: "Any reasonable human would assume that all the occupants of the vehicle were terrorists", and the four were "a group of terrorists" -- these remarks from the comments here.
What makes us swallow our innate scepticism as soon as the police say "terrorist"?
But never mind. Yesterday, a magistrate released a 240 page report of an investigation into this very incident. He tells us that the police "staged" the encounter. That they did so because they were "eager to get promotions and the appreciation of Chief Minister Narendra Modi" (quotes from this report, one among many).
Just reading that report makes my flesh crawl and thoroughly depresses me. What is the meaning of justice, if there are policemen who work like this?
What is the meaning of justice, if we are unwilling to be sceptical?
But let the same police carry out an "encounter", especially if they pronounce that the person(s) they killed is a "terrorist", and suddenly that scepticism is forgotten. Suddenly we believe them. We're willing to trust their word for what they do.
In June 2004, the Ahmedabad police killed four people in a car, one a young woman called Ishrat Jahan. They told us that these people had arms in the car, that they fired at the police, who fired back in self-defence. They told us that the four had links to terrorists and wanted to kill Gujarat CM Modi. They told us that two were actually Pakistanis.
Plenty of us believed all this. One example: "Any reasonable human would assume that all the occupants of the vehicle were terrorists", and the four were "a group of terrorists" -- these remarks from the comments here.
What makes us swallow our innate scepticism as soon as the police say "terrorist"?
But never mind. Yesterday, a magistrate released a 240 page report of an investigation into this very incident. He tells us that the police "staged" the encounter. That they did so because they were "eager to get promotions and the appreciation of Chief Minister Narendra Modi" (quotes from this report, one among many).
Just reading that report makes my flesh crawl and thoroughly depresses me. What is the meaning of justice, if there are policemen who work like this?
What is the meaning of justice, if we are unwilling to be sceptical?
September 03, 2009
Woes in perspective
Some interesting reflections from an Australian journalist in India, here.
What's your take on the para near the end that begins "Almost 800 ..."? On the whole thing?
What's your take on the para near the end that begins "Almost 800 ..."? On the whole thing?
Her fieldnotes
AV Ramani is a doctor I know who has worked for many years in rural MP, Orissa and Chhatisgarh (where she now is). She sometimes writes about her experiences in a clear, no-frills style that underlines the almost different world they speak of.
In the past, I've posted a few of her articles in this space: Death in the dispensary, This one child and Bitten by dog.
Ramani has just started a blog, her fieldnotes. Go take a look, not least at a piece of glass.
In the past, I've posted a few of her articles in this space: Death in the dispensary, This one child and Bitten by dog.
Ramani has just started a blog, her fieldnotes. Go take a look, not least at a piece of glass.
September 02, 2009
That breakdown
A recent controversy has resulted in this announcement from FDI magazine.
I wrote the letter below to the editor of FDI. Essentially, it makes the same argument I made in a post from last January, Anywhere else.
***
No doubt you have received plenty of letters already about Narendra Modi and your decision to present him an award, later modified to award it to the state he governs as Chief Minister, Gujarat. I won't repeat the arguments you have also no doubt heard plenty of times.
I'd like to say only this much. People will argue endlessly over whether the bloody tragedy of Gujarat in 2002 was actually "genocide". People will try to suggest that when critics of Modi like me speak of that tragedy we deliberately ignore the killings of nearly 60 Hindus in a train in Godhra. People will laud Modi's subsequent record of governance and say we should therefore overlook what happened in 2002, and some will argue over that record. People will argue over whether Modi was himself culpable at all.
But here's the point that there is simply no arguing over because it is a bald fact: as Chief Minister in 2002, Narendra Modi presided over some of the worst terrorism India has witnessed, and over one of this country's worst breakdowns of law and order. Simple.
The fundamental duty of any government, and especially an elected one, must be to offer security and dignity to its citizens. This is what Narendra Modi utterly failed to do in 2002. Other Chief Ministers in this country have lost their jobs over similar failures -- for example, last November's terror attacks in Mumbai, after which both the CM and his Deputy were asked to quit.
When Mr Modi and his government have a record like that, what does it mean to reward him, and his government, for "attracting foreign investment"? This is the question so many of us ask you.
I wrote the letter below to the editor of FDI. Essentially, it makes the same argument I made in a post from last January, Anywhere else.
No doubt you have received plenty of letters already about Narendra Modi and your decision to present him an award, later modified to award it to the state he governs as Chief Minister, Gujarat. I won't repeat the arguments you have also no doubt heard plenty of times.
I'd like to say only this much. People will argue endlessly over whether the bloody tragedy of Gujarat in 2002 was actually "genocide". People will try to suggest that when critics of Modi like me speak of that tragedy we deliberately ignore the killings of nearly 60 Hindus in a train in Godhra. People will laud Modi's subsequent record of governance and say we should therefore overlook what happened in 2002, and some will argue over that record. People will argue over whether Modi was himself culpable at all.
But here's the point that there is simply no arguing over because it is a bald fact: as Chief Minister in 2002, Narendra Modi presided over some of the worst terrorism India has witnessed, and over one of this country's worst breakdowns of law and order. Simple.
The fundamental duty of any government, and especially an elected one, must be to offer security and dignity to its citizens. This is what Narendra Modi utterly failed to do in 2002. Other Chief Ministers in this country have lost their jobs over similar failures -- for example, last November's terror attacks in Mumbai, after which both the CM and his Deputy were asked to quit.
When Mr Modi and his government have a record like that, what does it mean to reward him, and his government, for "attracting foreign investment"? This is the question so many of us ask you.
September 01, 2009
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