Roadrunner in DNA

Pramod K Nayar reviews my new book in today's DNA, starting by saying "Indian travel writing, never a large or a particularly vibrant genre, comes of age in Dilip D’Souza’s Roadrunner."

See Using America to reflect on Indian realities.

Your comments welcome.

***
A sample of previous reviews:

1) Dhimant Parekh.

2) Anvar Alikhan in the Hindu.

3) Sumana Mukherjee in Mint.

4) Sanjay Sipahimalani in Tehelka.

Matters of concern

A Sikh man is murdered. An Indian minister calls this a "barbaric and heinous" act that is "deplorable in the strongest possible terms." He says this is a "matter of deep and serious concern to the [Indian] government". Other reports say the government is being asked to exert pressure to punish the guilty for this murder.

This atrocity happened, of course, just a few days ago: "Taliban militants" beheaded Jaspal Singh. In Pakistan.

Barbaric and heinous, without doubt.

Over 25 years ago now, some other barbaric and heinous acts happened. I would have thought they too were "deplorable in the strongest possible terms", and that they too were a "matter of deep concern to the [Indian] government", and that in these cases too, the government was asked to exert pressure to punish the guilty.

I refer, of course, to the slaughter of 3000 Sikhs in Delhi, India, in 1984.

As we -- rightly -- express our horror at the beheading of Jaspal Singh, and as we -- rightly -- demand justice for this crime from Pakistan, let's remember that 25 years later, India has managed to punish pretty much nobody for the killings of those 3000 Indians in Delhi.

Not only that. One person named in inquiry after inquiry for having led murderous mobs then is Sajjan Kumar, Congress politician from Delhi. In January 2010, the Delhi High Court issued a non-bailable warrant for his arrest for his role in the murder of 12 people in 1984.

A month later, where is this once-MP, this senior Congress leader whom the Goverment protects in the "Z+" category at taxpayer expense? He cannot be located. He has gone into hiding. (But from hiding, he has managed to get anticipatory bail).

Tell me about barbaric and heinous crimes that are a matter of deep and serious concern to the Indian government.

Conversations, #1

Beena Sarwar is one of Pakistan's most thoughtful and diligent journalists. She has recently joined the Jang newspaper group in that country on the Aman ki Asha initiative they are pursuing with the Times of India. As part of Aman ki Asha, she and I have started a weekly exchange of email messages, trying to talk about the issues that divide our countries.

The first installment was published in Pakistan last Saturday. (I'm not sure when it will appear in India). You can find it here.

Your comments, suggestions and thoughts, as always, welcome.

Roadrunner: Dhimant Parekh

Dhimant Parekh, the man behind The Better India (the woman behind it is his wife Anuradha), reviews my Roadrunner here.

Your comments welcome.

And thanks, Dhimant!

Roadrunner in Chennai

Roadrunner runs on. Beep-beep!

Next week, I'll be in Chennai discussing my book.

* Tuesday March 2, 630pm, Landmark Apex Plaza (Nungambakkam).

* Wednesday March 3, 5pm, US Consulate. If you want to come for this one, please leave me a note right away because I have to give names to the Consulate folks.

Hope to see you (yes, YOU) at either one or all two of these. Be there or be elsewhere! Or, just in case, be there.

A fire

Kiran Jonnalagada lived through something yesterday that not many of us have, or would ever want to. His account of this tragedy -- nine people died -- is on his site here: http://jace.zaiki.in/2010/02/24/fire. I'm deliberately not making that clickable because apparently his site cannot handle the traffic from all the people wanting to read what happened.

So I have cut and pasted it below.

Read it to understand the virtues of keeping a calm head when everything is going bananas around you. I've only met Kiran once, but have exchanged email with him and read some of his notes to email groups I've been part of, and I'll say this much: it doesn't surprise me at all that he kept calm throughout.

But read it too to get an idea of the hindrance that gawking can cause to tackling emergencies. And I mean gawking in every sense: from the road looking up, making meaningless calls, sending pointless text messages, maybe even firing up yet more identical press coverage. May that be a lesson to us all.

Good job, Kiran. When I find myself in a place like you were yesterday, I hope I can drum up a tenth of your poise and sense.

(Note: I am not posting Kiran's photos nor linking to them -- and in fact I'm not linking to everything else Kiran links to in his essay. Frankly, I think they only distract from the vividness of his words).

***
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Fire

When someone jumps out of a high-rise window to escape a fire, it doesn’t happen like in the movies. The fall doesn’t proceed in slow motion. There’s no drama, no close-up of the jumper’s face as they go through their emotions. One moment they are hurtling through the air, the next they are a shabby lump on the ground. You might as well have thrown out a sack of clothes. There’s no time for any sort of emotional response in the onlooker.

Douglas Adams delivered the most sage bits of advice over thirty years ago:

1. Don’t Panic
2. Knowing where one’s towel is

When the fire alarm went off at about 4 PM yesterday, nobody budged. We knew the drill. Someone would come knocking on the door, demanding that we keep with the program and get out. We’d reluctantly pack up stuff and lock the door on the way out, because fire drills are such a perfect opportunity for theft. Nobody wanted to be bothered with this. That is, until we saw smoke out of the window.

“Run!” demanded Sashi. “Don’t pack, just run.” Then we saw smoke coming in the front door. Thick, black, stinging smoke. And then it was coming in through the restrooms and the pantry, and leaking in from the ceiling. We were trapped. The fire was right outside and all we could do was shut the doors and stay in. Outside, black clouds billowed from floors above. Spectators had started to gather.

There was neither heat nor visible flame. We didn’t know where the fire was, but it sure seemed to be above us. Smoke continued to seep in. Anjan ran to the restroom and wetted his handkerchief. Getting the idea, I did too with my cycling hand-towel, then passed it on and ran rounds for the others, wetting their kerchiefs. The restroom got harder to enter with each round. I had to breathe deep, open the door, open tap, wet the kerchief, close tap, step out, close the door, and breathe out. One early breath and I’d be choking. Breathing outside air through the wet cloth made it bearable.

Being thus forced to the windows, we turned outwards to look down on the growing crowd. Someone jumped from the floor above. Someone else too. Bizarrely, this was like watching a high voltage action movie in immersive 3D, except we may not be going home at the end of it.

Or you could look at it as a giant fumigation operation. Smoke the building out and watch the humans flee through any exit available, however high off the ground it is.

What does one do at a time like this? Sashi called her husband. Anjan called his wife, produced a string of beads from somewhere, and proceed to sit in a corner and chant. Sanjay called his mother, carefully explained that we were stuck in a burning building, and asked if she could perform a puja for us, and no, this was not a joke call. Sangeetha, I don’t know what she did. As an asthmatic, she was at high risk of asphyxiation. Seetharaman had the worst time of all. As a single father, he had to explain to his very young daughter that this may be a goodbye.

I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want to set off panic. I stayed by the window, watching the crowd below, the fire brigades trying to make their way through, the men assembling mattresses and a cloth net for additional jumpers. We were going to be rescued and would be going home shortly. There was no need to panic.

Except, something was missing. Where was the documentation? So I took out my phone and posted: Carlton Towers is burning and six of us are trapped inside. The fire’s above but there’s smoke everywhere. Saw people jump to their death.

Then I took a picture of the crowd and posted that too.

I had no idea what I was setting off when I did this. Friends started to call almost immediately. The typical conversation went like this:

“Hi”
“Hi”
“Umm, are you all right?”
“I’m stuck inside a burning building.”
“You are… inside?”
“Yes, I’m inside, trapped, and it’s burning.”
“Umm, can I do anything to help?”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

By the time I hung up on one, another would be on call waiting, asking too if they could do anything to help. I could no longer post pictures or text. Seriously, people, if you’re not at the site of the emergency, don’t call. Your concern is appreciated, but by blocking all channels during those precious minutes, you’re being a hindrance. I posted a request: Don’t call me folks, you can’t help. Will keep posting.

It went mostly unheeded. People called anyway. Bala from DNA made the first press call. And now that it had hit the news, it was time to call family. I called Zainab first and asked her to tell mom, and to tell her to please not panic. Another person jumped and collapsed.

The firemen meanwhile had assembled a ladder and were attempting to scale up the other end of the building. The ladder went up to the fourth, while I could see many hands waving from the fifth, our floor. They were tossing a rope up for someone to catch. Elsewhere, men were bringing in a bamboo ladder. The men with the cloth net caught two jumpers, who were quickly whisked away to a waiting ambulance. (Apparently, one died.) Then they started to put in place a ladder directly below us. A ladder rescue, it was going to be. We waited. We continued hollering for attention, actually. The ladder was taking forever.

A Corner House treat to whoever gets a picture of me looking out of the window. Seriously, people, there’s no need to panic. Bad for you. [Another Kiran tweet]

And then there was a knock on the door. A fireman was outside. The smoke had cleared sufficiently for us to walk down the stairs. I quickly unplugged my desktop, grabbed my gear and stuffed as much as I could into my pockets. Seetha switched off the UPS. There had been no power since before the fire started, but we didn’t want to be the cause of another mishap, what with all the soot flying around. I went out last to watch for anyone stumbling ahead of me. We passed a small fire on the fourth floor and exited on the first, walked across the roof of the ground floor and down the B wing stairs. The firemen had blocked entry to the ground floor of our building. It was still sputtering.

As we walked across, I noticed another rescue operation in progress on the inner side of the building and stopped to watch. Someone had let down a fire hose from the roof and folks were swinging down one at a time. The staff of the restaurant downstairs were also there. They said it was suspected to be an electric fire. I posted: Heard it’s not a fire, just an electric short-circuit. Only smoke (itself quite dangerous).

Pavanaja called to say a local TV channel wanted to interview me. I accepted and went on the air explaining what I had seen in my broken Kannada. They wanted to know how many people were on the floor and what sort of companies they were. I had no idea, so I made guesses from what I remembered of the directory downstairs. Deepa Kurup from The Hindu was next, followed by a series of publications and channels that I can no longer remember. I was on the phone almost continuously for the next hour.

The crowd outside had swelled to cut off all transportation: Massive crowd outside. This must have choked traffic for kilometres around.

Sashi’s husband, a senior executive at Dell, arranged for a medical check-up at Dell’s campus up the road. The doctor gave me a clean chit. Blood pressure normal, breathing normal, just a lot of soot in my nose and hopefully not in my lungs.

We settled into a conference room to let our nerves settle. NDTV called next, and attending to this, I have to say, was a mistake. They tried to keep me on line for as long as they could while they interviewed the fire chief and others, asking me what I thought of the arrangements. I eventually got fed up, told them politely I had to talk to my family too, and hung up. (The clip is only 3 minutes, but the call went on for over twenty.) My phone said I had sixteen missed calls and several more messages waiting. One was from CNN-IBN, who ended up reading out my tweets. I was in no mood to return calls or do any more interviews, so I posted: Cycling home. Won’t take calls. Please feel free to use my pictures as needed.

The very helpful folks at Dell insisted that I take a cab home. They had booked a large car so I could fit the cycle in it. I insisted on cycling home. They didn’t think it was appropriate after facing this sort of trauma. I pointed out that I wasn’t the least bit traumatised and the doctor had confirmed. They relented, and I cycled home to parents who had been unable to watch television until then, fearing the worst.

Calls and messages continued to pour in late at night, and again this morning, thanks to the newspaper coverage. All this media attention is being a lot more stressful than the fire itself.

Requests for interviews continue as I type this, forcing me to switch off. Turned down two phone calls requesting in-person interviews. Switching off phone for today. Will be on Twitter though.

What is the point of an interview? It sells advertising for the interviewer, but will it do anything at all to improve fire safety? Will it make up for the disruption caused to the lives of the affected?

200, and 5 minutes

It must say something that within 5 minutes -- I kid you not -- of Sachin Tendulkar reaching a double century today, I got email with a link to a press report about it.

Incidentally, the tone of surprise in the previous sentence is because it took less than 5 minutes. But perhaps what I really should be surprised about is that it took that long at all.

Roadrunner in the Hindu

In the Hindu today February 21, Anvar Alikhan reviews my Roadrunner. Take a look at India, Indiana.

(Oddly enough, my first tentative title for this book was "Americana, Indiana").

Earlier reviews (including critical ones) available here.

***
On a related note, I will be in Chennai for two events around the book, March 2 and March 3. More details soon. If you want to attend the March 3 event, in particular, please leave a note for me as a comment. I'll get in touch.

Jumping bean

"He's a flying jumping bean, a bundle of hyperkinetic energy, with the tour's quickest hands. Still, he's never learned to hit a tennis ball. He hits off-speed, hacks, chips, lobs -- he's the X of Y. Then, behind all his junk, he flies to the net and covers so well that it all seems to work. After an hour you feel as if he hasn't hit one ball cleanly -- and yet he's beating you soundly."

Questions: Who wrote this? About whom?

No Google/Wiki/Bing/whatever. As they apparently say in quizzing circles, this is "workoutable". Eminently.

Extra credit: What is X, what is Y?

Upper echelons

Morning news today had two dismal items that brought back old memories.

The first is about the spread of a disease nurtured by assorted Senas in Bombay: thrashing the "outsiders". Ten such assaulted by Telengana activists -- among other things, not quite the recipe to build support for Telengana. But where does this end, anyway? Do we keep drawing our boundaries closer and closer to home, keep snarling at anyone outside them as "outsiders"?

OK, so I look forward to the time when we'll assault our neighbours from across the landing for being so bold as to actually be our neighbours. Thank you, Senas and Telengana activists and whoever else across the country believes in this stuff.

But the reason this brought back memories is that I once worked at that BHEL facility, doing "Practice School" as part of my college curriculum. Six months of fascinating microprocessor programming among some sharp people indeed. (Where are you now, Mr Suryanarayana?)

The second item is about the small plane that was flown into a building housing IRS offices in Austin. The man responsible, Joseph Stack, seems to have been one more of that peculiar breed: people so disgruntled at what they perceive as injustice and mistreatment from the world at large that they set out to kill complete innocents.

But the reason this item brought back memories is that I once worked in a company housed in that same building. When it was first set up in the early 1980s, MCC was housed in this very Echelon building and a couple of neighbouring ones, one of which was called Kaleido (see the reference here).

MCC's Software Technology Program hired me in early 1986, and I spent two years in a very nice office on the top floor of Kaleido, staring at the Austin landscape through enormous plate glass windows, and working in any time off from the staring. No but seriously, I'm pretty proud of something four of us built there, PlaneText, in some senses a precursor of the Web itself. (See reference GDLT86 here).

But PlaneText aside, one of my clearest memories from my time in that office is sitting in my chair and watching small birds fly into the plate glass and fall to the ground outside, stunned. Yesterday there may have been someone in similar office in next-door Echelon, watching a small plane fly into that plate glass. Something inside me shivers at the thought.

Impaled

Not since the days I used to frequent the locker rooms before and after squash sessions at Brown University, yes, not since then have I seen so many penises in such a short time. What's with guys who strip off and grab their genitals in front of a webcam for utterly random people across the globe to see? What are they thinking?

I speak, of course, of Chatroulette. I had a couple of surreal sessions with the site, and I mean surreal. Stick a pin at random into a map of the world: what does the person you've figuratively impaled look like? What do you say? What will she or he (well, mostly he) say? Well, that's the Chatroulette experience. The thought of being connected, even for fleeting instants, to these completely random people in completely random corners of the planet is both strange -- when before this Web age would it have been even conceivable? -- and strangely seductive.

And they are fleeting. Because I am who I am, and look it too, the vast majority of connections are promptly broken at the other end. (Though there was the young lad who typed out these words while smirking dopily at me through the void: "You're a boy pretending to be a girl". Who knows). But when I had my wife sit, statue-like and impassive, before the laptop -- ah, that didn't result in promptly broken connections. Not one.

So I saw: Shadowy figures behind curtains. Two guys, mercifully clothed, who slowly smiled and even more slowly raised all four middle fingers to the camera -- the old Slow Motion Quadruple Bird Flip, obviously. "Show us your tits for Haiti!". An inflatable life-size plastic doll impaled you-know-how. Counters showing "tits" and "bums", with the former comfortably ahead. Another set of counters totting up "Europe" and "USA", dead even as far as I can tell before the disconnect. The female sex in perhaps one of every thirty connections (if you don't count plastic dolls). And yes, the penises, many times more frequently than the female sex. (I mean, you don't see women grabbing their genitals for their Chatroulette webcams. Why do men do it?)

But I did have two thoroughly entertaining and satisfying conversations. One with someone who claimed to be a civil servant in London, had lived in Delhi, asked about dams and Amartya Sen and micro-finance and Kerala and plenty more. Another with a young man in Hunan province in China, sitting in what he called a "web-bar", with other Hunan folks strolling around the room behind him. Making those two connections, even if we never speak again, was the beguiling part of the Chatroulette experience.

Though as I write this I cannot help wondering: at this very moment, how many men around the world are putting their genitals on display for Chatrouletters flitting by? My educated guess is 3268. And as Chatroulette spreads its seductive wings, that number will only rise exponentially.

There's a thought.

Of motivation and inversion

"Every intelligence officer will tell you that the motivation of the Indian jihadi is not Guantanamo or Iraq, it is, STILL, Gujarat."

That's Samar Halarnkar of the Hindustan Times, on his Twitter page.

This reminded me of these lines with which I began an article I called Just as Orwell predicted a few years ago:

"According to the [Srikrishna Commission] report, the [1993 Bombay bomb] blasts were the fallout of the riots that happened after demolition of the Babri Masjid. Why have only we been found guilty? What about the culprits who have been named in the Srikrishna Commission report?"

That was said by Abdul Ghani Turk, found guilty on September 19 2006 in the (March 12 1993) bomb blasts trial.

As I asked in 2006, let's punish Turk as he deserves, but who's willing to take a stab at answering his questions? Who's willing to take a stab at reacting to Halarnkar's observation? Anyone? You?

***
Incidentally, while that article I referred to above (Just as Orwell predicted) starts with Turk's questions, it is really not about them. It is instead about a perception among many people that the riots in Bombay actually followed the blasts for which Turk was convicted. That the riots were actually set off by the blasts.

Which perception is impossible, of course, given that the riots happened in December 1992 and January 1993, whereas the blasts happened months later, on March 12 1993.

But impossible, of course, is just a word. Consider some lines I read at the top of this page on the site mumbaivotes.com.

Terrorists has been made the situation of the country quiet vulnerable Since 1992-93 B.C. Bomb blasts took place on 13 places and around 900 people were lost their lives. Thousands of people were injured. As a result of which, big religious riots took place between Hindus and Muslims and so many innocents were killed.

This was, as you will read at the top of that page, "condensed and translated from the original version [of a manifesto] at shivsena.org."

Yes, some parties strive to invert history. In an election manifesto, no less.

Pune

Jaipur. Delhi. Bombay. Malegaon. Bangalore. Guwahati. On and on. Some of those places, again and again. Going back 25 years and more.

And now Pune. Eight fellow citizens dead and probably counting. The same dismal counting we've done so many times.

Do we need to get used to the idea -- are we already used to the idea -- that terrorism is here to stay, that murderous scum will kill innocents every now and then and this will go on into the indefinite future?

I'm not used to that idea, and I never will be.

But I believe this that I've said before: until we recognize homegrown terror for what it is -- no less than anything from abroad -- and until we stand against every kind of terror, we will never defeat terrorism.

Sadly, I don't think I see that recognition happening, that stand taking shape.

The reaction I fully expect to this post from some -- the usual spluttering outrage that I can even think of calling murders by Indians (e.g. 3000 killed in Delhi, 1984) terrorism, that I can even think of comparing that to what happened on 26/11 -- that reaction is exactly what I mean in the sentence above that begins "Sadly ...".

Five people

Meanwhile at Kala Ghoda again, I find myself speaking with five engaging writers. No harmonicas involved, either.

Your thoughts, yes they are welcome.

Joyful

South Africa rolled over India in the just-concluded Test in India. India probably lost the match after tea on December 8, when the fast bowler Dale Steyn blew a irreparable hole in the innings.

Amid all the reports about the match and that Steyn special in particular, this one by Sidharth Monga stood out. It was a delight to see him describe Steyn's spell as "lethal and joyful." Made me wish I had seen it.

High class fast bowling, especially against a batting line-up as pedigreed as India's, is like that: breathtaking, awe-inspiring and yes, joyful. Thank you, Sidharth Monga.

My name is

Here's a great way for patriotic Indians to fight Pakistani terrorists: tear down posters of an upcoming film, vandalize the theatres that plan to show it, threaten violence against it to the extent that police personnel have to deployed in front of all such theatres.

I'm sure that's deterred plenty of terrorists already. I can see it now. The next time a boatload of armed men turn up on this city's shores, intent on mayhem and slaughter, they will be met by people shouting: "Get lost! Before we tear down the posters of My Name is Khan!"

That'll show the terrorists.

More seriously.

Is there someone who can tell me of one positive thing the Shiv Sena has done for the Marathi manoos? I mean, at their inception nearly half a century ago their beef was with the non-Marathi "outsiders" who, they said, were taking away jobs that belonged rightfully to Maharashtrians. Today their beef is with the non-Marathi "outsiders" who are, they say, taking away jobs that belong rightfully to Maharashtrians. If after nearly half a century this party's rhetoric and argument remain absolutely unchanged, the question must be asked: what has it achieved in 50 years?

The answer must be given: nothing.

And that is why they must pretend that patriotism and defending India equates to vandalising film theatres. Terrorists out there must be quaking in their boots.

***
May plenty of Bollywood folks and others show the spirit and decency of Hrithik Roshan.

Somebody like you

Meanwhile at Kala Ghoda, somebody like you comes into my life.

It's true. I'm not making this up.

Your thoughts welcome.

Vadouvan and Taco Bell

For various reasons, I missed almost all of the first three days of the Kala Ghoda festival this year (and so far, most of the fourth). The one event I have attended was a discussion on food writing.

On the Kala Ghoda blog, here's my account: Vadouvan and Taco Bell.

Roadrunner: At the Black Horse

Short notice again ... this evening I'll be on a "Fresh off the Shelf" session at the ongoing Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, discussing my book Roadrunner.

February 9, 630pm. David Sassoon Library. Be there! Or be there!

On Tuesday morning

77-year-old lady I know relates this incident that happened to her in Bombay recently. Any thoughts welcome. Has anything like this happened to other women out there?

***
A Tuesday morning like any other. As I walked along the road from Khar [Bombay suburb] to where it met 14th Rd – I had not been here before - I noticed how shady it was and rejoiced in the trees.

A voice called behind me, a young man who pointed to another man further down who was beckoning. The young man said it was a police officer who was trying to get my attention. Puzzled and curious I turned and walked toward the second man who was standing beside a parked van, not a police vehicle. He took out a scruffy ID card which said "Police". Motioning me to come closer he said in a low voice that there was some trouble in the area and he was cautioning me.

They sighted a third man walking on the street and got him to come over, told him that he should not be wearing that gold chain around his neck, asked if he lived nearby and said it would be better if he took it off and put it into his briefcase. He complied readily.

I turned to carry on as I had some work on 14th Rd and the first young man stopped me and said to take off my chain and put it into my bag, repeating that the police officer was only interested in my safety, with the third man joining in to commend the police person’s concern. I said I needed to hurry and turned again to go and they said I should take off my bangles and put them also in my bag. By this time I was a bit annoyed and saying I could take care of myself I walked away briskly, with the first young man trying to protest and stop me.

I was unsettled and shaken by this and also uneasy as the man did not seem at all like a police person - suddenly I felt quite vulnerable. Just a few yards ahead I noticed a young woman who came to her scooter parked near the kerb and I stopped and asked if she was going straight on. I told her what had happened and we turned to look down the road and the three men had melted away! The young woman asked if she could drop me and I gratefully accepted her offer.

I have been puzzling over the incident which obviously was staged to trap me and relieve me of my chain and bangles.

Two entries in a ledger

Caravan is an old Indian magazine that shut down for many years. Its publishers have revived it in a new avatar, and in some ways it aims to be an Indian New Yorker: narrative and long-form journalism, the arts, that sort of thing.

In the February 2010 issue, I have an essay about the Asirgarh fort in Madhya Pradesh and the Narbona Pass in New Mexico: Two Entries in a Ledger.

Comments welcome.

Roadrunner at the alma mater

So, if you just happen to be at BITS Pilani (Rajasthan) tomorrow, February 5, please come to the discussion around my book, Roadrunner.

Room 5104, Lecture Theatre Complex. 5pm.

Be there or be elsewhere!

The depths of character

Friend A sent me a link to a recent article, Why Pakistan Can Never be a Great Neighbour, by Vivek Gumaste.

I wrote back to A with my reactions, and then thought perhaps it could do with a slightly wider audience. What's below is pretty much what I wrote. And thanks, A, for the pointer.

I've had exchanges with Vivek Gumaste going back several years. He's a thoughtful guy, I'll say that for him, though I almost entirely disagree with his thought process.

In this case. First of all, I couldn't really care less what the IPL does or doesn't do with Pakistani players. It's a business and the owners of the business have every right to choose or not choose who they want to employ, end of story. I don't see it as an insult to Pakistan that its cricketers were not chosen.

But here's where Gumaste's argument falls apart.

For one, just as I can't see it as an insult to Pakistan that IPL won't have its players, I can't see it as India "revealing a depth to its character, an ability to stand up for itself, a new found confidence" (which is what Gumaste writes). It's just some hard-nosed business folks taking a decision, that's all. Why should I presume that says something about India, good or bad? At the Wagah border in October, I saw plenty of Indian trucks going over to sell Indian vegetables in Pakistani markets -- again, a business decision by hard-nosed vegetable sellers who belong to those parts. So does that business decision say something about the depth of India's character or new found confidence?

For another, consider these lines from Gumaste's article: "Is it not barbaric that we choose to continue playing cricket with a people whose compatriots routinely massacre our innocent civilians? I find it uncouth when we walk over the dead bodies of the carnage of 26/11."

Let's refer to domestic cricket, and let's change "26/11" to "1984" (picking just one example, and let's not forget that in 1984 we slaughtered 15 times more Indians than died in 26/11). We then get: "Is it not barbaric that we choose to continue playing domestic cricket with a people whose compatriots routinely massacre our innocent civilians? I find it uncouth when we walk over the dead bodies of the carnage of 1984."

If Gumaste's question is valid and it is barbaric to play, then surely the second (changed) question is also valid and that is barbaric as well. But what would Gumaste say to that second question? Applying his own logic, should Indians stop playing cricket (or hockey or anything else) with other Indians?

Roadrunner in Telugu?

CB Rao attended one of the events I had in Hyderabad around my book Roadrunner last week. He wrote up the experience here.

Unfortunately, it's in Telugu, a language in which all I know to say is "I want some drinking water." (A useful sentence to know, you'll allow). Since I don't think CB Rao restricted himself to saying that much in his essay about the Roadrunner experience, I'd be grateful if anyone out there can give me a gist of what he says.

Thank you, Mr Rao!

Question about belonging

"Mumbai belongs to all Indians."

Words (or slight variations) pronounced in recent weeks by Sachin Tendulkar, Mukesh Ambani, Mohan Bhagwat and many other Indians.

Question: why are these words so offensive to some?

This is a serious question. I really would like to know. Those willing to answer it seriously, please go ahead. Thank you.