A 78 year-old woman I know recently made a trip to a Government department. The department had sent her housing society a letter. It was in Marathi, but in Marathi so high-flown that even native speakers in the building could not understand and showed no interest in trying to understand. So they gave it to her, a native Tamil speaker, to decipher.
Upshot of asking various people for help was this understanding of the letter: the department wanted the 40 year-old society to explain why it had taken longer than two years, 40 years ago, to erect the building. Now nearly all the original members of the society have passed on. None of the younger, current members of the society were willing to go figure out what this was all about. So it was left to this woman and another, about 65 and herself a Marathi-speaker, to make the trip.
Perhaps you can tell that while having it recounted to me, I was already incensed by this point in the story. The letter, the language, the society folks, a crazy demand for 40 year-old details ... But there was more to come.
When the two women found their way to the office, they met someone I can only describe, from descriptions provided to me, as an oaf. He showed no interest in trying to seat either of the women, so they stood while he sat in his seat and spoke. He insisted in speaking in Marathi. The 65 year-old understood him, of course. But he could tell that the 78 year-old only understood little bits. That was no concern of his. He told them they would have to write a letter to the department, and it would have to be in Marathi as well. Then he said they'd have to wait to sign something, and turned to some other work. They stood there for 20 minutes, until somebody else in the room suggested they could go to the waiting room next door and sit there.
They sat there for one-and-a-half hours. Eventually the 78 year-old suggested to the 65 year-old that she go tell the oaf that she (78) was feeling faint and unwell, and needed to get home. On hearing this, he told them to sign in a book that had been lying there all along, and they were free to leave.
They could have signed it 90 minutes earlier. Make that 110 minutes earlier.
We've all heard stories like this. What produces this kind of crassness? If this is the result of years of insisting on jobs for sons of the soil, of protecting local culture, what culture is served by making two grandmothers stand and wait endlessly?
And I also wonder: what will ever put an end to behaviour as crude and nauseating as this? A Lokpal Bill? Something else? What?
July 29, 2011
July 22, 2011
Notes to myself
My new effort for my "A Matter of Numbers" column in Mint is up and running. It talks about Hertz (but not Avis), rubber bands and holding tight to a small dream.
Take a look: Notes to Myself.
Any comments welcome, as always
Take a look: Notes to Myself.
Any comments welcome, as always
Rectifying anomalies in barbers
Notes from a recent trip through the South:
How terminology varies is fascinating, always. Like, you call them signals, but in South Africa, they're known as robots. Just as well that somebody told me that ("Turn right at the second robot") before I ran into the word painted in large letters across the street. "Robot Ahead", now that might prove somewhat unsettling.
Just as fascinating is a word they use in Tamil Nadu. I've known them as roundabouts, and possibly there are other names too. In TN, the word is "roundana". I first heard it from the back of the car I was driving one evening, as part of the directions to where we were going ("Turn right at the next roundana"). The next morning, I saw it on a spiffy road sign, pointing to the said roundana.
Later discussion suggested that it comes from "round thana", though one spirited lady (you know who you are) put forward a case for "round turner". Either way, I like the evolved word. Nice ring to it (no pun intended), roundana.
***
Speaking of etymology and evolution, Chennai has a "Barber's Bridge", I learned on this trip. The story goes that when built in British times, it was called "Hamilton Bridge" after some engineer or official. Why is it called "Barber's" now?
Story goes too that Tamil-speakers pronounced "Hamilton" as something approximating "Ambilton", and that got corrupted to "ambattan", the Tamil word for "barber". And much later, some English-speaking official asked for a translation of this Tamil-sounding word, and thus did Barber's Bridge make its appearance.
All of which reminds me of how Panaji got transformed to Panjim (in particular, the pronunciation as "pan-gym"), and also how "Puduseri" mutated into "Pondicherry". Those stories, another time.
***
Then of course I must list the things I learned while travelling in an impossibly crowded bus to the railway station.
* A large wall of a school-building had these two words painted in giant blue letters: "Washing Water". I tried for a while to figure how you might wash water, then gave up.
* A nondescript building had this sign out front: "Garments Holdall Making Training Unit". I seriously considered alighting and signing up for the training course on the spot, but then realized my Rs 4 bus ticket would go waste.
* Truck on the side of the road had these words on the side: "Love Earth or Leave Earth". Kind of mildly apocalyptic.
* "Don't Take Eatables From Strangers They May Be Drugged." Enough said.
***
Wandering a college campus, I ran across a series of grey electrical junction boxes.
The first said: "BORN MAX (1882-1970) Founder of Quantum Theory in Physics."
The second said: "BOYLE ROBERT (1627-1691) Founder of Boyle's Law."
The third said: "ARCHIMEDES Founder of Archimedean Principle."
The fourth said: "THOMAS ALVA EDISON Inventor of the Incandescent Lamp and 1093 Discoveries."
Question: Where was I wandering?
***
Another railway station had enormous cutouts of a man in shirt and dhoti, with these words: "M Raghavaiah, GS NFIR and President, SRES. Our Hearty Welcome to Architect of VI CPC in Indian Railwaymen (payment of HPCA, NDA NHP MACI) and the only leader of all VI CPC anomalies should be rectified."
That's about as many acronyms as I can handle on a given day. Can someone explain to me what it all means?
The same station also had two large stone plaques set into the side of a building, commemorating the inauguration of the "stop pages" of certain trains.
I had no idea that stoppages of trains were marked by plaques. Learn something every day.
***
On the platform, waiting for my train, I found what I've been searching all my life for: the Crew Booking Lobby. I sneaked a peak inside. What do they do in crew booking lobbies, I wonder?
On a glass partition just inside the door I found some kind of answer: "Momentary Carelessness May Cause Valuable Lives."
Yup, I couldn't agree more.
How terminology varies is fascinating, always. Like, you call them signals, but in South Africa, they're known as robots. Just as well that somebody told me that ("Turn right at the second robot") before I ran into the word painted in large letters across the street. "Robot Ahead", now that might prove somewhat unsettling.
Just as fascinating is a word they use in Tamil Nadu. I've known them as roundabouts, and possibly there are other names too. In TN, the word is "roundana". I first heard it from the back of the car I was driving one evening, as part of the directions to where we were going ("Turn right at the next roundana"). The next morning, I saw it on a spiffy road sign, pointing to the said roundana.
Later discussion suggested that it comes from "round thana", though one spirited lady (you know who you are) put forward a case for "round turner". Either way, I like the evolved word. Nice ring to it (no pun intended), roundana.
Speaking of etymology and evolution, Chennai has a "Barber's Bridge", I learned on this trip. The story goes that when built in British times, it was called "Hamilton Bridge" after some engineer or official. Why is it called "Barber's" now?
Story goes too that Tamil-speakers pronounced "Hamilton" as something approximating "Ambilton", and that got corrupted to "ambattan", the Tamil word for "barber". And much later, some English-speaking official asked for a translation of this Tamil-sounding word, and thus did Barber's Bridge make its appearance.
All of which reminds me of how Panaji got transformed to Panjim (in particular, the pronunciation as "pan-gym"), and also how "Puduseri" mutated into "Pondicherry". Those stories, another time.
Then of course I must list the things I learned while travelling in an impossibly crowded bus to the railway station.
* A large wall of a school-building had these two words painted in giant blue letters: "Washing Water". I tried for a while to figure how you might wash water, then gave up.
* A nondescript building had this sign out front: "Garments Holdall Making Training Unit". I seriously considered alighting and signing up for the training course on the spot, but then realized my Rs 4 bus ticket would go waste.
* Truck on the side of the road had these words on the side: "Love Earth or Leave Earth". Kind of mildly apocalyptic.
* "Don't Take Eatables From Strangers They May Be Drugged." Enough said.
Wandering a college campus, I ran across a series of grey electrical junction boxes.
The first said: "BORN MAX (1882-1970) Founder of Quantum Theory in Physics."
The second said: "BOYLE ROBERT (1627-1691) Founder of Boyle's Law."
The third said: "ARCHIMEDES Founder of Archimedean Principle."
The fourth said: "THOMAS ALVA EDISON Inventor of the Incandescent Lamp and 1093 Discoveries."
Question: Where was I wandering?
Another railway station had enormous cutouts of a man in shirt and dhoti, with these words: "M Raghavaiah, GS NFIR and President, SRES. Our Hearty Welcome to Architect of VI CPC in Indian Railwaymen (payment of HPCA, NDA NHP MACI) and the only leader of all VI CPC anomalies should be rectified."
That's about as many acronyms as I can handle on a given day. Can someone explain to me what it all means?
The same station also had two large stone plaques set into the side of a building, commemorating the inauguration of the "stop pages" of certain trains.
I had no idea that stoppages of trains were marked by plaques. Learn something every day.
On the platform, waiting for my train, I found what I've been searching all my life for: the Crew Booking Lobby. I sneaked a peak inside. What do they do in crew booking lobbies, I wonder?
On a glass partition just inside the door I found some kind of answer: "Momentary Carelessness May Cause Valuable Lives."
Yup, I couldn't agree more.
July 21, 2011
Two boys and an old man
From a friend, earlier tonight, this Bandra story.
Sent to me because I tweeted this: "Tragedy happens 100m from the room where you are. Would you run out to see if you can help? Twice now I know of people who didn't. Why?" Sent to me to remind me that there are a lot of fine folks out there, and that I can learn things from 7th standard kids.
Some minor edits, among which names are initialized to protect something or the other.
***
This evening R was going down ZigZag road on the scooter when he saw an old man lying on the side of the road clutching his chest and frothing at the mouth. He went to him. The guy had medicines in his pocket and indicated to R to give him one. As R did this, lots of people stopped. One brought water.
Then two little boys in a car with their driver stopped to ask what happened. These were small hipcat Pali Hill boys, 7th standard. They insisted that R put the old guy in the car and take him to the nearby Holy Family Hospital.
Once there they acted far more mature for their age than we give kids credit for. One went to get the man's reports. Held the old man's hand. Asked him if he wanted to eat something. They refused to leave (the boy whose car it was had already called his mum). They even bought R a cheese sandwich (R had no money on him).
Turns out the old man had lost his daughter in an accident yesterday and had come to Bandra to ask a friend for money. The guy was not home so this 70 year-old was going back to Thana, to his home at a construction site.
I dropped some cash off with R for hospital etc and then the boys dug into their pockets and gave the old guy the 300 bucks they'd been given to spend at candies.
R said he won't be cynical anymore. He will of course. But those boys are lovely!
Sent to me because I tweeted this: "Tragedy happens 100m from the room where you are. Would you run out to see if you can help? Twice now I know of people who didn't. Why?" Sent to me to remind me that there are a lot of fine folks out there, and that I can learn things from 7th standard kids.
Some minor edits, among which names are initialized to protect something or the other.
This evening R was going down ZigZag road on the scooter when he saw an old man lying on the side of the road clutching his chest and frothing at the mouth. He went to him. The guy had medicines in his pocket and indicated to R to give him one. As R did this, lots of people stopped. One brought water.
Then two little boys in a car with their driver stopped to ask what happened. These were small hipcat Pali Hill boys, 7th standard. They insisted that R put the old guy in the car and take him to the nearby Holy Family Hospital.
Once there they acted far more mature for their age than we give kids credit for. One went to get the man's reports. Held the old man's hand. Asked him if he wanted to eat something. They refused to leave (the boy whose car it was had already called his mum). They even bought R a cheese sandwich (R had no money on him).
Turns out the old man had lost his daughter in an accident yesterday and had come to Bandra to ask a friend for money. The guy was not home so this 70 year-old was going back to Thana, to his home at a construction site.
I dropped some cash off with R for hospital etc and then the boys dug into their pockets and gave the old guy the 300 bucks they'd been given to spend at candies.
R said he won't be cynical anymore. He will of course. But those boys are lovely!
July 18, 2011
On China: Kissinger
The Sunday Guardian (July 17 2011) carries my review of Henry Kissinger's recent book, On China. If you read it (or, preferably, the book), you'll learn about Mao searching for advantage in a swimming pool.
Therefore, please do.
Therefore, please do.
July 15, 2011
A banner
This banner came up not far from where I live yesterday, the day after three bomb blasts killed about 20 and injured about 100 people in Bombay.
Genuine question: Have you ever seen a similar banner with "Hinduism" on it instead of "Islam"? Why or why not?
Genuine question: Have you ever seen a similar banner with "Hinduism" on it instead of "Islam"? Why or why not?
July 14, 2011
Trash-flinging continues
On the train to Dadar, a painfully thin man wearing a silver and grey Adidas jacket plays the harmonica. Quite beautifully, too, though I don't know any of the tunes. It's one of those instruments with stops too, like one I have. When he's done our eyes meet and I give him a thumbs up. He comes over and I tell him, you played well. We get talking about music and I mention that I play too.
His eyes light up and he pulls the instrument out of his pocket. "Play something", he says. I launch into "Jaaneman jaaneman", from "Chhoti Si Baat". People are watching, listening.
And I'm feeling sadder and sadder with this song from a much simpler, more naive time. Who would have thought, in those balmy years of the mid-70s, there's random terror in our future?
I get off at Dadar and find my way through the rain to Kabutarkhana, where a bomb went off about 90 minutes earlier. The police have cordoned off the area, so nobody can get closer to the spot than about 50 metres. Several Toyota Innovas with dishes on top are present, thick cables from these vehicles snake underfoot, knots of people form here and there. The knots, I realize, are made up of spectators hoping to catch a glimpse of a TV correspondent as he files his report, and perhaps stick their faces into the broadcast. This may be why the knots, in this time of tragedy, seem filled with cheery, bantering, laughing, joking young men. The incongruity is something fierce.
Beyond the rope that holds us back, a troop of khaki-clad policemen, one carrying a long gun, suddenly turn on their heel and march away, towards the other side of the cordoned-off area. Beside me, a man points to a bus-stop there. "That's where it happened," he says in Marathi. "9 dead, they say, I'm sure it's double that." Then, inexplicably, he asks me what happened here. A few others turn their heads to listen to what I might have to say. By virtue of having been here 15 minutes longer than him, I'm an expert. He's carrying a large umbrella with a portrait of Bal Thackeray on it, and the way he holds it, it keeps the rain off my head too. I answer him politely enough and then excuse myself. I don't want shelter from the rain under a picture of Thackeray.
At the Innova belonging to Network 18, the knot of men is particularly boisterous. "Shiv Sena Zindabad", someone shouts from within it, but gets no answer. He shouts it again, a little softer this time.
Suddenly there's a small commotion from within the knot, and calls to clear a path through it. "Close umbrellas!" someone shouts this time. Inadvertently part of whatever's going on, I feel like I'm part of a reception line for royalty that will emerge from within the knot. But it's only the correspondent and his cameraman who walk past, all the way to the cordon where he positions himself to file a report. Behind them walk two young spectators, cellphones held aloft, capturing the movements of this correspondent on video.
One of the young men lowers his cellphone, turns and walks off, reviewing his film clip as he goes. On the other side of the police barrier, another painfully thin man berates us: "You want to know what happened here? Blast, blast, Mumbai!"
Half an hour later I am in the lobby of a friend's building nearby for a quick visit. Oblivious to the world, two boys are in a corner, playing chess. Still later, on the way back to Kabutarkhana, a woman walks past carrying a bulging plastic bag. She goes to a roadside garbage dump -- just the usual, trash overflowing onto the road and pavement, muck underfoot -- and carefully flings her bag onto the road too.
Blast or not, chess continues. Trash-flinging continues.
His eyes light up and he pulls the instrument out of his pocket. "Play something", he says. I launch into "Jaaneman jaaneman", from "Chhoti Si Baat". People are watching, listening.
And I'm feeling sadder and sadder with this song from a much simpler, more naive time. Who would have thought, in those balmy years of the mid-70s, there's random terror in our future?
I get off at Dadar and find my way through the rain to Kabutarkhana, where a bomb went off about 90 minutes earlier. The police have cordoned off the area, so nobody can get closer to the spot than about 50 metres. Several Toyota Innovas with dishes on top are present, thick cables from these vehicles snake underfoot, knots of people form here and there. The knots, I realize, are made up of spectators hoping to catch a glimpse of a TV correspondent as he files his report, and perhaps stick their faces into the broadcast. This may be why the knots, in this time of tragedy, seem filled with cheery, bantering, laughing, joking young men. The incongruity is something fierce.
Beyond the rope that holds us back, a troop of khaki-clad policemen, one carrying a long gun, suddenly turn on their heel and march away, towards the other side of the cordoned-off area. Beside me, a man points to a bus-stop there. "That's where it happened," he says in Marathi. "9 dead, they say, I'm sure it's double that." Then, inexplicably, he asks me what happened here. A few others turn their heads to listen to what I might have to say. By virtue of having been here 15 minutes longer than him, I'm an expert. He's carrying a large umbrella with a portrait of Bal Thackeray on it, and the way he holds it, it keeps the rain off my head too. I answer him politely enough and then excuse myself. I don't want shelter from the rain under a picture of Thackeray.
At the Innova belonging to Network 18, the knot of men is particularly boisterous. "Shiv Sena Zindabad", someone shouts from within it, but gets no answer. He shouts it again, a little softer this time.
Suddenly there's a small commotion from within the knot, and calls to clear a path through it. "Close umbrellas!" someone shouts this time. Inadvertently part of whatever's going on, I feel like I'm part of a reception line for royalty that will emerge from within the knot. But it's only the correspondent and his cameraman who walk past, all the way to the cordon where he positions himself to file a report. Behind them walk two young spectators, cellphones held aloft, capturing the movements of this correspondent on video.
One of the young men lowers his cellphone, turns and walks off, reviewing his film clip as he goes. On the other side of the police barrier, another painfully thin man berates us: "You want to know what happened here? Blast, blast, Mumbai!"
Half an hour later I am in the lobby of a friend's building nearby for a quick visit. Oblivious to the world, two boys are in a corner, playing chess. Still later, on the way back to Kabutarkhana, a woman walks past carrying a bulging plastic bag. She goes to a roadside garbage dump -- just the usual, trash overflowing onto the road and pavement, muck underfoot -- and carefully flings her bag onto the road too.
Blast or not, chess continues. Trash-flinging continues.
July 08, 2011
Short answer: 22
My "A Matter of Numbers" column in Mint is on air today (July 8). It talks about a recent fuss over 823, as also what one consequence of my having 37 fingers might be.
Take a look. Short Answer: 22.
Comments welcome.
Take a look. Short Answer: 22.
Comments welcome.
July 06, 2011
My foundation, my family
"Fans of different races, castes, ethnicities and religions who together celebrate their diversity by uniting for a common national cause. They are my foundation, they are my family. I will play my cricket for them. Their spirit is the true spirit of cricket. With me are all my people. I am Tamil, Sinhalese, Muslim and Burgher. I am a Buddhist, a Hindu, a follower of Islam and Christianity. I am today, and always, proudly Sri Lankan."
The last few words spoken yesterday at Lords' by a man of clearly uncommon substance: Kumar Sangakkara. Read his whole Spirit of Cricket Colin Cowdrey lecture.
Is there an Indian cricketer who will speak like this?
The last few words spoken yesterday at Lords' by a man of clearly uncommon substance: Kumar Sangakkara. Read his whole Spirit of Cricket Colin Cowdrey lecture.
Is there an Indian cricketer who will speak like this?
July 04, 2011
823 and counting
What is it about the peculiar appeal of any random "numerological" claim to do with the calendar? The latest is here, a bit of flim-flam that's also making the sms and twitter rounds (and who knows, FB and blog rounds too).
Goes like this: There are five weekends (defined as Fri-Sat-Sun) this month. This is a once-in-823 years occurrence. Astrologers and numerologists and Feng Shui experts are being quoted left, right and centre about this wondrously rare event. One, a Ajay Bhambi, has it that this is a "mathematical rarity in the calendar". Another, a Sanjay Jumani, uses this as an opportunity to trumpet what he had "predicted": "This year … has been expensive right from the beginning. It will be expensive even till the end."
(Does anyone take these guys seriously? Really, anyone?)
What do you say about this stuff? I have to confess being nearly speechless on reading this 823 news. I mean, July 2005 had five weekends. July 2016 will be the same. 823 years? Where did they get that number from, this nonsense from? Why does triviality like this get gasped at and passed on in wonder?
All it takes is a little reflection, really, to know how routine a five-weekend month is. It can only happen in a month with 31 days (less than that, and you won't have three days all occurring five times in the month). There are seven such months in a year. For such a month to have five weekends, it must begin on a Friday (in which case the five weekends are 1st-2nd-3rd, 8th-9th-10th, 15th-16th-17th, 22nd-23rd-24th, 29th-30th-31st). There are seven days in a week. So it's a good bet that one of those seven 31-day months in the year will start on a Friday and will thus have five weekends.
In other words, it's a good bet that one month every year will have five weekends.
(Given the way the calendar is structured, the probabilities are not quite so straightforward, but the analysis is close enough).
And this is borne out, if you look at your calendar. In 2011, July has five weekends. In 2012, no month does. 2013: March. 2014: August. 2015: May. 2016: January AND July. 2017: December.
What was that about 823 years?
What really should happen only once every 823 years is any attention paid to astrologers and numerologists. Preferably, make that 8230 years.
Meanwhile, I have this to offer: this year has been 2011 right from the beginning. It will be 2011 even till the end.
Goes like this: There are five weekends (defined as Fri-Sat-Sun) this month. This is a once-in-823 years occurrence. Astrologers and numerologists and Feng Shui experts are being quoted left, right and centre about this wondrously rare event. One, a Ajay Bhambi, has it that this is a "mathematical rarity in the calendar". Another, a Sanjay Jumani, uses this as an opportunity to trumpet what he had "predicted": "This year … has been expensive right from the beginning. It will be expensive even till the end."
(Does anyone take these guys seriously? Really, anyone?)
What do you say about this stuff? I have to confess being nearly speechless on reading this 823 news. I mean, July 2005 had five weekends. July 2016 will be the same. 823 years? Where did they get that number from, this nonsense from? Why does triviality like this get gasped at and passed on in wonder?
All it takes is a little reflection, really, to know how routine a five-weekend month is. It can only happen in a month with 31 days (less than that, and you won't have three days all occurring five times in the month). There are seven such months in a year. For such a month to have five weekends, it must begin on a Friday (in which case the five weekends are 1st-2nd-3rd, 8th-9th-10th, 15th-16th-17th, 22nd-23rd-24th, 29th-30th-31st). There are seven days in a week. So it's a good bet that one of those seven 31-day months in the year will start on a Friday and will thus have five weekends.
In other words, it's a good bet that one month every year will have five weekends.
(Given the way the calendar is structured, the probabilities are not quite so straightforward, but the analysis is close enough).
And this is borne out, if you look at your calendar. In 2011, July has five weekends. In 2012, no month does. 2013: March. 2014: August. 2015: May. 2016: January AND July. 2017: December.
What was that about 823 years?
What really should happen only once every 823 years is any attention paid to astrologers and numerologists. Preferably, make that 8230 years.
Meanwhile, I have this to offer: this year has been 2011 right from the beginning. It will be 2011 even till the end.
July 03, 2011
Enemy in our hands
The newspaper Mint has a Saturday "Lounge" section. Yesterday (July 2), I had an article there about driving through the Karoo desert in South Africa.
I need to tell you that the essay mentions a stolid cat.
Please do take a look: The Enemy in Our Hands.
All comments welcome.
I need to tell you that the essay mentions a stolid cat.
Please do take a look: The Enemy in Our Hands.
All comments welcome.
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