A fax about Anna

Struggling to put together all my thoughts during the recent Lokpal agitation led by Anna Hazare, I thought of -- of all things -- fax machines.

Here's why.

Comments welcome.

Mass graves

I'm trying to think of a country in this world where an official report announces over 2000 unidentified bodies found in mass graves, and this news occasions close to no protest. Where in fact this news occasions remarks like: "Missing person goes abroad, learns how to use gun, comes back, gets a taste of bullets while fighting with forces and dies. These are the missing person graves."

Which country? Syria? Rwanda? Libya? India?

Answer: India. Bodies found in graves in Kashmir, India.

Admittedly Anna Hazare is a huge news story, has dominated the news in the last couple of weeks. And yet I wonder: is news about Hazare really bigger than news about the massacre of thousands?

But scratch that: I'm really not even interested in an answer, in any comparison. I'm just amazed and dismayed that this does not seem to have bothered too many in this country. Are we that indifferent to what happens in Kashmir? Or that indifferent to unexplained killing? Or do we think the killing is justified, maybe it's even in some noble cause like the territorial integrity of the nation?

I don't know, it seems to me that when ordinary Indians are killed and their families torn apart, noble causes suddenly seem pretty ignoble, nauseous. What will it take for us to feel that nausea, again?

I don't know what will stop killing like this in Kashmir. But I do know that every shameful, horrific episode like this reminds me why I wrote this essay four years ago.

Morphing into hope

Bal Thackeray of the Shiv Sena has recently "recalled that Anna Hazare met him at his Bandra residence on October 4, 1996." He has just written a letter to Hazare mentioning this memory. At that 1996 meeting, wrote Thackeray, the two men "had discussed ways to combat corruption."

Apparently Thackeray also wrote these words in the letter: "You later told reporters that the Sena chief is the only ray of hope and only he can dare crush corruption."

I learned all this from this article in the Economic Times (August 24 2011).

Now if Bal Thackeray is "the only ray of hope", I think that's something worth finding out more about. So I went digging a bit.

In 1996, Thackeray was the self-proclaimed "remote control" behind the Shiv Sena-BJP coalition government that had come to power in the state. That year, Anna Hazare went on a fast demanding action against two of the ministers in that government, Shashikant Sutar, minister for agriculture, and Mahadeo Shivankar, minister for irrigation. Hazare claimed they were corrupt.

Naturally nothing happened to these ministers, but that's hardly the interesting thing about this episode.

In response to the fast, a "perturbed Thackeray asked Hazare to first clean his own backyard" of Ralegaon Siddhi.

In response to that, an "agitated Hazare ... was quick to demand the same against Thackeray, targeting his real estate investments."

In response to that, Bal Thackeray's son Uddhav said: "Let anybody investigate our assets. But then there should be an investigation into the assets of everyone making these allegations."

I learned all this from this article in Outlook, issue dated December 11 1996.

Two weeks later, Outlook (i.e. issue dated December 25 1996) carried another article (full disclosure: I'm quoted in it). In it, I learned that "when Hazare sought the resignation of [Sutar and Shivankar] on charges of corruption, [Thackeray] called the much-revered Magsaysay award winner 'mad'".

Hmm. In 1996, Hazare demands an investigation into Thackeray's assets, and Thackeray uses the word "mad" for Hazare. Fifteen years later, those two pronouncements have merged and morphed, according to the Thackerays themselves -- into Hazare saying Thackeray "is the only ray of hope and only he can dare crush corruption."

Margins of a theorem

Mint carries today (Friday August 19) my "A Matter of Numbers" column. It was prompted by the birthday two days ago of a man called Pierre de Fermat, famous for once scribbling in the margin of a text. (I tried that once and I didn't get famous. Odd, that).

I called it "Marginal at Best"; in print it appears as Margins of a Theorem. For anyone who may not know, "Shri" is the Indian "Mr".

Comments welcome, as usual.

Just like a waving

Rising up from the nearby park as I write this are the sounds of the twice-a-year flag-hoisting function. I've been there several times with the family. This time I decided to stay away from the tired words about recalling the qurbani of past heroes, and how there's so much to do and … please, after more than 60 years, aren't there more imaginative ways of speaking of the significance of this day, and then necessarily ending with "Jai Hind, Jai Maharashtra"?

Rising up from the park are the sounds of today's function. I caught stray words and phrases: "kyon ham bhrastachar [something]" and "unke qurbani ki yaad [something else] and some more.

No more tired words. So we flipped open a laptop, typed a few letters into a browser and, with what appeared on the screen, had our own private commemoration of this day.

We watched the future of this country speak in an impossibly eloquent silence.

This is what appeared on the screen.

Spend a few minutes watching. It left us all in tears. But this was not sadness.

So on a country's 64th birthday, I wish for you and me:

* that we feel again the spirit in those kids' eyes.

* that we know again, like they do, why each word in that anthem is in there, from "Punjab" to "Ganga" to "tiranga".

* that we let those words stand for others that are not in there: take your pick.

* that we remember that freedom means you and me and the guy who might need help with his salute.

Let a million hands wave. Just like a waving flag.

Hello Bastar: a review

Yesterday's Sunday Guardian (August 14 2011) carries my review of Rahul Pandita's new book, Hello Bastar.

For various reasons, I was thoroughly looking forward to reading the book; for various reasons again, I was left mildly disappointed.

The review is here.

Any comments welcome.

Gandhi Out of Africa

The current issue of Forbes India has an essay I wrote after a recent trip to South Africa, and it's nice that on that page they've called it their "Top Story".

Take a look: Gandhi Out of Africa.

Comments welcome, as always.

Salt-shaking isn't a tradition

A few years ago, someone got into an argument with me. He lived outside India, and something about my being here while he was there (wherever) annoyed him. "All right," he said suddenly. "What the hell are you doing for India in India?"

Naturally, given an opening like that, I rattled off a whole series of activities: navel-gazing, table-mat-picking-up, salt-shaking, rum-bottle-emptying ... somehow, inexplicably, each one only seemed to get him more annoyed.

So to put him out of his misery, if that's what it was, I eventually asked him: "All right, and what are you doing for India outside India?"

He drew himself up, puffed out his chest, and said: "Do you know, I teach Indian children who live nearby about our culture and traditions?"

He waited for applause. Instead, I said "And?"

Got him still more annoyed. Haven't heard from him since.

But in the years since, I've sometimes wondered: why is teaching Indian culture and traditions to Indian kids abroad considered a virtue (this guy saw it that way, for sure)? Why do it?

Can anyone take a serious stab at an answer? This is a serious question.

***
Postscript: And if that's a serious question, there is also this cartoon.

Lost he have

Flimsy pink sheet's been pasted on the wall next to our lift, on the ground floor. It's from the Deputy Commissioner of Police, and it's titled: "Alert Citizen Jagrut Mumbaikar". It's a list of "Precautions to be taken when suspected devices (bomb) is found". Or two lists: Dos and Don'ts.

The Don'ts are first, and it's a fairly routine list. "Do not open the package." "Do not puncture package." "Do not accept identification marks on its face value." "Do not bring suspected device in security control room or police station."

Things like that.

Until the last entry in the list, which reads like this, and I swear this is verbatim:

"Don't be a dead-hero. you can reconstruct a building or soul which house but you cannot recreate a lost he have."

I'm baffled by this point. What does it mean, well, that's one puzzle. But what happened to the man who composed the otherwise ordinary lines on this sheet, when he got to this point? Did he have a sudden and hefty swig of vodka?

I saw cell phones

When bombs went off in Bombay on the evening of July 13, I took a train down to Dadar's Kabutarkhana (where one of the bombs had been placed). Later, I wrote a short essay for Khabar magazine on some of what I found there.

The essay is in their current (August) issue. Take a look: I saw cell phones.

Comments always welcome.

As many holes as you want

Seems I have potholes on the brain. Just got back from a very late night drive where long stretches of major roads were no more than long stretches of potholes.

My latest essay for my Mint "A Matter of Numbers" column is on the air (today Friday Aug 5). It's about potholes, and it finds a way to relate them to both Benoît Mandelbrot and a (large) tablecloth.

Take a look: As many holes as you want.

Comments welcome, as always.

Test driving away

Our trusty little red Indica is over seven years old, with not a whole lot of miles on it, still runs perfectly, never given us problems. The ride is noticeably bumpier than before, and there are quite a few more creaks, is all. Both of which we can probably fix. Still, our one complaint remains the space for luggage, which is really minimal. Especially on the long drives we like to do -- MP, Delhi, Coorg, Kodaikanal, Goa, etc -- it gets a little tight. Forces us to pack light, which is good, but tight.

So while we're in no hurry to buy, we've been test-driving a few cars. And so we're getting an up-close and personal look at the methods of car salesmen. I'd forgotten how much fun that is. Some notes:

* One young man started by asking how we will use the car. Almost before I had started to reply, he was saying: "Perfect! Then this car will be ideal for you!" I said, we feel our current car's trunk is small. "Perfect! Then this car will be ideal for you!" I said, we like going out of town. "Perfect! Then this car will be ideal for you!"

Your car sucks, I wanted to say. Just to see if he would reply: "Perfect! Then this car will be ideal for you!"

* I've been asking each guy who shows up, do you have a model without power windows and central locking? I always feel those are more things to go wrong in a car. Memories of the downpour of July 26 2005, when plenty died because they could not get their power windows, now without power, open. I also like the small mental stimulation of making sure the windows are up and the doors are locked, without a button push doing the job.

Hearing this request, one man wrinkled his nose and said, we have manual windows and locking on our "J" model -- "but don't take that, sir!" Why not, I asked. "It is our lowest model, and usme prestige nahin hai sir!" ("There's no prestige in it.").

Prestige being, I shall presume, an option like every other option.

* Another man chose to reply to this query about manual windows by email. I can do no better than quote his message here, in full: "There is no such variant of [our brand] with manual windows setting. Although you have provisions to break the glass in case of any emergency."

Well, that's a relief. Heartfelt gratitude to this particular manufacturer for providing this particular "provision" in their cars.

* This same man also said they were temporarily out of stock of the particular model we test-drove. "When it comes in, sir, I'll call you." OK I said, and was about to hang up. "In the meantime, sir, you can please feel free to buy from our competition." You mean other dealers of your brand? I asked. "No sir, I mean other brands."

The not-so-subtle implication: "Look, we want to give the impression that our cars are in great demand, and therefore we don't really need your business. Thus be prepared for no negotiation on the price."

I replied by email. I will certainly look at the competition, I said. Especially because I'm in absolutely no hurry to buy, but even more so given your proclivity for silly games.

Name for a river

Early one morning two or three years ago, I found myself on the bank of the Ganga with nothing much to do. It was a ghat, a relatively small one as it happens, at a spot where the river, flowing right to left before me, was so wide I could not see the other side. I found myself a place to sit under a tree, pulled out a book and began to read. I must have spent three hours there, and actually I didn't get much read.

What was far more interesting was watching the people who visited the ghat.

To my right there was a ceremony in progress for someone who had died, the body lying on a bed of flowers in the midst of much quiet chanting and whispering. Fairly early, two young boys arrived at the waterline, unfurled long strings with something attached at the end, whirled it about their heads and cast it into the water. Magnets, with which they were trawling the river for metallic objects. People brought flowers. One man stood near me with folded hands, eyes closed and lips murmuring a prayer. Several man lowered themselves into the water and bathed.

In most respects it was a languid, peaceful three hours that I thoroughly enjoyed.

There were moments I didn't enjoy quite as much. Several men hawked and spat into the river, one of them producing long streaks of paan-coloured spittle. Every now and then, somebody brought a bag filled with trash and emptied it into the river. One didn't bother emptying the bag: he cocked his arm and flung it as far as he could. Four or five men brushed their teeth, rinsing their mouths with the same river water. At least two men walked past me, turned right, edged along the lowest step of the ghat about 20 metres, then stood and peed into the river. At least two men did the same edging, then squatted and defecated into the river.

So yes: I'm sitting there on the bank of the river, and I am trying to get used to the idea that there's sputum, garbage, toothpaste saliva, urine and shit going past me in this river. That there are men bathing in this murky concoction.

And when someone in Australia uses words like "junkyard" and "shithole" to describe India and this river, I cannot help remember the morning I spent on the banks of this river.

At least at that spot where I sat, he was right.

Now if there are those who feel like the river purifies itself and therefore it is clean, that's fine with me. They are welcome to their belief. In exactly the same way, they should allow others their revulsion at what they see happening to the same river. To call it what they think it is.

Potholes, and counting

Last Sunday (July 31), the Hindustan Times carried an article I wrote about potholes. It's something I've been thinking about of late, and there might be more in the pipeline (words, not potholes).

I can't find it online, somehow, except as this e-paper version: Potholes, and counting.

Comments welcome.

***
Actually, potholes are not something I've been thinking about only recently, and in fact are by no means a recent Bombay phenomenon. I recently re-read something I wrote six years ago about potholes and wondered, how much or how little would I need to change that article to publish it again today?

You tell me: Western Stretch of Potholes.