the chengez of our times

I would really like to know who exactly advises Bal Thackeray on political matters these days. Just so that I can help my adopted state with some peace and tranquility by wringing the necks of those so-called advisors. Because as much as I might have a problem with the man’s politics, you cannot deny the fact that inside that head ticks a very good and capable brain. And all the buffoonery we saw in the name of one nonsensical film – that too directed by Karan Johar- cannot be a product of Bal Thackeray’s brains.

Having known Maharashtrians quite intimately for a host of reasons including having been in a relationship with one for them for several years, I know them as remarkably intelligent people. The kind who dearly want to up their stations in life with the help of white-collared jobs.

Precisely the reason why despite Kolkata, Chennai and several other cities being by the sea, the elements chose Mumbai- Bombay then- as the magnet of riches in India. A lot of that credit has to go to Mumbaikars and their essentially Marathi ethos. Just look at the mess the bhadralok and their love for culture has got Kolkata into.

In such a place, building up a political party, a thought process and a following as fanatical as the Sainik is nothing short of the kind of genius that we have read of in conquerors in history. I have seen the reverence the man evokes even among politicians who have left the Sena fold and have hopped onto other parties. It is always Balasaheb, never Bal Thackeray. One of them still addresses the old man as ‘saheb’ though he was rather unceremoniously booted out of the party some years ago.

The legend is that Bal Thackeray revolted because he was given a lesser raise than several of his ‘outsider’ colleagues. I don’t know how true this legend is but if someone can make a movement out of something this miniscule and convert the theatre of Maharashtra politics into ‘him’ and the ‘rest’, then I would believe the man has the same capabilities and qualities as another fabled hero of yore- for more information please access Chengez Khan on Wikipedia. From fatherless in a patriarchal Mongol society with an impoverished mother and brothers to feed to the man who shook up history of the times in such a magnificent way that the Arab custodians of the fastest-growing religion of the time had to mutilate history down to the last grave to deny the great Khan his due as a conqueror-statesman-prophet.

But as My Name is Khan plays in the theatres- I’m being bombarded by news that it is houseful- we all know the Sena romance is in its last reels. And probably like Sholay, it is a film that was brilliant in every reel save the last. Now don’t tell me you didn’t want Thakur or Dharmendra to kill Gabbar.

But as Sholay was just too good for a bad ending to kill its place in our minds forever, the Sena too would evoke the same nostalgia among millions of Marathis long after it is gone.

Mighty prince, your bucephalus waits

More than two thousand years ago, King Philips of Macedonia was having trouble with a horse that had made up its mind that just no ordinary donkey would ride him. Horsemen from far and wide climbed and fell off the horse in almost one action. Till a young prince moved in. Philips was a bit apprehensive to throw his beloved son to the lions- in this case Bucephalus the horse- but beneath that soft face, the prince hid a resolve stronger than the surrounding mountains.
Five minutes later, the prince astride, the horse appeared to be as calm as when he slept standing. He stood looking into the horizon, wanting to gallop into it with his new master holding the reins. An arrogant smile escaped King Philips’ lips and as he looked at the court jesters- somewhat like our Congress Working Committee- one of them came forward with a verse that earned him a few gold coins. The verse was something to the effect of the earth being too small for the prince standing proud and tall. And how the prince and his stead would want more when they had overrun it all.
The jester-poet wasn’t wrong. The stead and the prince overran almost half the known world at the time and came knocking at the doors of the biggest civilisation at the time- India- and only went back when his soldiers said that thus far and no further.

A couple of days ago that legend of the taming of the horse was played out in India’s richest city. Of course this horse likes to call itself a tiger.
Our prince, under the able guidance of its Angel Mother who plays fairy to the meek and benevolent ruler of India, arrived with a glint in his eye and belief in his heart that the horse/tiger that refused to be tamed did so because Bucephalus had not met its Alexander as yet.

The belligerent tiger/horse told his minions that they were all to appear on both sides of the road with black flags to greet the invading prince. The minions told their master that the city would look like a sea of black flags.
The prince landed, took a ride in the sweaty-rust-smelling chariots meant for the common man, touched the commoners, smiled his dimpled smile, stole hearts, longed for the sight of some black flags but failed to see any.

The horse/tiger next day told the world that his people had failed him and henceforth he would not ask his minions to carry out any idiotic command that came to his mind first thing in the day.
As for the prince, like the Greek one of yore, he gave out a warning loud and clear to every kingdom on the way that come 2014, standing in front of the storm he would create would be similar to standing in front of the Rajdhani at top speed.

The prince’s main rival- a Gujarati bachelor ruling his province with an iron fist for a decade now- looks a good bet but the problem is that the Muslim populace of the kingdom would rebel, gang up against the bachelor and hand the prince a sweeping win. In the 2009 elections, the Muslims have shown that they are the most intelligent community when it comes to voting. In Uttar Pradesh they gave the Samajwadi party a resounding slap on the face when it became clear that the Congress was the only one that could checkmate the BJP. In Kerala they have been voting for Gujarati Banatwala for ages now.
In Guwahati they elected an Uttar Pradesh-born Muslim who made his millions in Mumbai.
The sweep of Wahabism across the world means slowly but surely the difference between a Tamil Muslim and a Kashmiri Muslim is diminishing by the day.

So 2014 would be the year of the prince. The tigers can make space between their legs for their tails. His cubs will shiver and hide under the bed when the prince visits. When they want to gnaw on meat, the cubs can take on lesser mortals like Azmi or Bachchan and the benevolent prince- dimpled smile, calm demeanour ---would allow it. Like Alexander did when mighty Pururava- Porus- told him how he wanted to be treated like a king.

Rejoice. Because Alexander is going to ride once again. Bucephalus/ India can now look into the horizon and like that jester-poet said, say-

O heavens, for this time you have erred:
Why did you make this world so small?
Our prince, standing proud and tall:
Will want more when he has overrun it all:

forsake religion, make heaven on earth

A devoutly atheist relative of mine once told me that for heaven to be built on earth, the first thing that we need to forsake is religion. It gives nothing except a false sense of piousness to the follower and acute disturbance to the one who isn’t following your herd on that particular day.
Today is a holy day for the Shias. Probably a remembrance day of somebody’s martyrdom or some such thing that I have not bothered to find out. But what I did find out is that when these black-clad gangs –for want of any better word- get into trains to get to the place where the collective sigh of remembrance will be let out, they are a pain in the neck.
For youngsters it is a day of going out and behaving like the goons many want to be but cannot because becoming a goon requires large parts of the heart to be free of the fear of law. Most of us overstuff our hearts with fear anyway.
So taking the energy derived from the strength of numbers, these gangs will block the gangways and doors of trains, spit profusely into the wind unmindful of whether the blob of spit falls smack on the face of some passenger hanging perilously on the door simply because there isn’t enough space to go in. Of course once they reach the spot where they will meet several more of their ilk, they will pull down a façade of piousness and sorrow over their faces, mouth time-tested hollow chants and go home.
I think in 1947 we made a promise of building a nation where your religion will be as private and comfortable as your underwear.
But thanks to Nehru and his massive urge to appropriate the nation for his brood, we lost our way. Today we are caste Hindus, Dalits, Shias, Sunnis, Wahabis, Tablighis, Catholics, Protestants, Jains, Biddhists. Any bloody damn denomination but Indians.
One nation, one people can go up the anal openings of all of us if anyone cares enough.
Oh by the way which reminds me, a small sect of Sikhs, who follow the preaching of Sant Ravidass, have announced that they are no longer a sect of Sikhism but a full-fledged religion. They will be called Ravidassis, their symbol would be the ‘Har’ and their chant would be ‘Jai Gurudev’.Fantastic. So now we have started on the path where religions will change as you hop from street to street. We well and truly have begun the process of putting the last log on India’s pyre. Till then enjoy the warmth.

Rahul Azmi zindabad

So finally Rahul baba has said something that brings him down to the level of the Uddhavs and the Raj Thackerays of the world. The cousins were really having a problem sparring all the while with Abu Asim Azmi. Now Azmi might be an MLA but he is not exactly the cream that the upmarket newspapers would want to milk for saleable news. So the wholly empty buffoonery that had come to signify the debates on who owns Mumbai between the Thackeray cousins and Azmi was in serious danger of making it to the bottom heap of media room trash.
The kind of fate that has befallen the blabbering of some of the Republican Party of India leaders in Mumbai. Now how many cared as much as a rat piss when Athavale said that he had been booted out of the Big Boss in favour of Sanjay Nirupam because Nirupam had a more elitist personality?
But Rahul Gandhi is just something else. Even if he does something rank Azmi-ish by trying to give a swarthy north Indian colour to a fighting machine like the National Security Guards, the media really can’t throw the press release into the dust bin.
Now that Rahul has said it, the Thackeray cousins are happy. Over the past two days every branch of Rahul’s hallowed family tree is being shaken down to the roots by the two big-mouthed tiger cubs.
Jawaharlal, Indira, Motilal, Rajiv, Sonia you name it and Rahul has got it.
Of course the debate will never end because it will be impossible to stop migrants from making the journey to dream-infested Mumbai. It will be impossible to stop the caravan out of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh. It will be impossible for Biharis and Uttar Pradeshis to fully integrate with the Marathi Mumbaikar. It will be impossible for the Mee Mumbaikar gangs to fully accept the bhaiyya.
But what is very worrying in all this ‘national mouth shooting off competition’ is to see the real mettle of a young man who is arrogant enough to believe that the only job that this wretched nation can give him that is worthy of him is the Prime Minister’s chair.
Rahul is no different from politicians like Amar Singh or Azmi or even the Thackerays. It is just the carefully-illuminated halo- built up meticulously by media and party sycophants who are nothing but royalists in the garb of democrats- that makes Rahul Gandhi different. That halo is slowly giving itself up to a load-shedding of ideas.For India it is a pity. Another one bites the dust.

Me, Myself, Middle Class

Yesterday an ex-colleague told me about a very happening newspaper appointing a certain person- lets call him Mr X- to a very senior position there. My only reaction was ‘great choice’. My ex-colleague found the response a bit surprising since I all along never had much of an opinion about this Mr X. But you could look at it in the same way as most drivers never have a good opinion of their seths. A streak of jealousy perhaps.“Come on what has happened to you? You really think this chap is good?” this ex-colleague asked me.Of course I said. Look at everything that he has and tell me how he can go wrong there? I asked this ex-colleague.“What does he have?” he insisted.“He is not middle class, bloody middle class like me so what are his chances of going wrong anyway” I said and added that at the end of the day that is the greatest asset you bring to the table. And sadly yours truly, the ex-colleague and another very senior and extremely talented reporter we weaved into the conversation were all just that – bloody middle class.Mr X was a smooth talker, you could never know if he knew his onions but he definitely showed he knew the entire grocery market damn you. He spoke with a twang that you get when you go to the elite public or boarding schools. Now this includes saying ‘skedule’ instead of staid ‘schedule’ with the ‘sch’ the same as in ‘shit’. If you tell anyone that your favourite musician is Michael Jackson, you get slotted as bit of an upstart and it gives away the game but if you say you love listening to Brothers Four or say Rosemary Clooney and her Italiano Mambo - just some of the fabulous songs on the Ipod of a colleague-, then that is class. And your pedigree needs no introduction anymore into the rarefied air engulfing the top offices of the new age economy where middle class is nothing more than the stench of an open sewer.
I have seen so many attempts made by people to get away from that cursed phrase all their lives that sometimes that is in itself a life.
A friend from small town Jamshedpur did such a fabulous job of it that almost a decade after we left school and met at Marine Drive, I could place no bits of memory I had about her growing up in Jamshedpur to the person standing in front of me.
Her lips were a seductive shade of brown- aided of course by lipstick- but that she said was to hide lips gone off-colour with all the cigarettes she lit up through a tough day. Her prim business suit and the skirt just inches above her knees made it a great sight for several of the all-guy gangs that come to Marine Drive from middle class places like Virar. Her hair, a salon frizzy, had light streaks of blue that gave it a nice glow in the yellow light that bathed Marine Drive. Her voice had turned husky probably with all the cigarettes or simply with time. After all I had last met her when she was 15 and now she should have been around 28, the kind of age where a lot of working girls start turning into women, and the sari comes out of the cupboard more often to be worn seductively at office parties. The voice at that age also achieves varying degrees of modulation as is required to beat a tough day at office when just work might not suffice in keeping your name out of the wrong logs maintained of the rat race by bosses
She had come along with some colleagues for a business conference to Mumbai, were all put up at the Oberoi and when she handed me her card later, I got to know that when compared to me- just a reporter at a city newspaper- she had run the race as a sprint and not like a marathon as I had and still did.
The middle class uncouthness in me couldn’t resist telling her that she had changed. Changed for the better or the worse is best to avoid because you can really never be sure about these things. The butcher might love the stench of carcasses because that for him is money in the cash box.
“Ya I have” she said. “It took me some time. But yes today I am not the person you ever knew. Am I happy, I don’t know but if you are living a life fast enough to never think about it, I guess it just doesn’t matter,” she added. I guess she was right. She acknowledged she at most times of the day felt she was not good enough for the job she was holding but yes the attitude which made her say so had long gone. In a world where it doesn’t matter how much you know but how much you show you know, our girl had all of it covered perfectly.
When I suggested to her friends that we could go to Gokul for a drink- and talk about old times- she looked at me, then her colleagues – all of them the perfect shirt crease and gelled hair and scrubbed face types- and said, “Binoo, so middle class man”. I looked at my baggy pants, my Rs 200 Jockey T-shirt and my Rs 250 Bata floaters and allowed my case to be rested in her favour.
Another example I remember is when some top marketing guys of a hugely successful newspaper went to meet a top railway official whose English is dodgy and his choice of shirts and pants a reminder of his genteel upbringing in north Bihar. The meeting ended with the marketing hotshots realising that the Indian bureaucracy is probably the only place where you need not be as suave as Shashi Tharoor- never mind the bungling- to be somewhere at the top of the rung. The man used his head to calculate all the figures thrown at him by the marketing suits and then sent them packing saying the Indian railways- because of an animal called the Central Bureau of Investigation and because of a human tendency to get jealous- offered no free lunches to corporates who could very well pay.
So there you go. Middle class gets you only till the middle like the station in life I find myself in, and then you wait for the tide to take you wherever the tide plans to go...

Telengana is the way to go

If one reads newspapers today, you would imagine the people of Telengana who have supported the movement to create a separate state are as dastardly as Qasab and unpatriotic as probably the jehadis.
I think it is high time we saw smaller states, time we saw states forming informal groupings among themselves, sharing economic resources without much interference from the Centre.
The type of federal democracy that the founding fathers envisaged for India has long been compromised by leaders like Indira Gandhi and subsequent Congress leaders who gave it a name that has become part of official lexicon- High Command. Time and again we have heard after state elections that the ‘High Command’ would decide on the chief minister. As if the people of the state who voted were idiots and came out to vote because they did not get stall tickets for the movie they were planning to go on the afternoon of voting day.
Smaller states mean resources can be utilized better, project outlays could be smaller leaving them not just more manageable but also protects them from too much stealing. Now think of it, if the total outlay for computerization of all RTOs in Uttar Pradesh is say Rs 10000 crores, just imagine the scale of the project, the time it would take and the number of babus through whom the files will have to routed. The work might never take off and by the time we realise it, almost 25 percent of the total outlay might have reached the pockets of sundry netas and babus. But if we had smaller states, the outlay for the same work might be say Rs 2000 crores, the scale limited. So work might have been done and at the most the netas would have pocketed say Rs 150 crores. We will live with that, thank you. Similarly almost all other aspects of administration get better.
Just think of Andhra. With Hyderabad gone to Telengana, along with it goes the cyber city and the billions of rupees worth of investment.
The challenge would be to now create a new capital, a new powerhouse of economic activity, a new magnet for investments. As a state they might be able to do it if the economic climate provided by the government is good enough. What does the nation as a whole get in return? In place of one Hyderabad, we get another one in the region formerly known as undivided Andhra Pradesh.
Dividing babus and IPS officers has never been a problem except for those corrupt ones who do not want to leave the city they have preyed on for long. Like some cops in Mumbai who do not mind heading to nondescript departments without any manpower or cases as long as they are left in peace in Mumbai, close to their daily watering hole and to the neta they serve at Mantralaya.
At the end of the day the simple logic is that it is better to have smaller states within our national boundaries. Than allow the apathy and blind eye to give people and states a reason to move out of them. And in the process give our nation a black eye.

Islam is as peaceful as Hindus are intelligent

The Asian Age has a good opinion piece on page ten in its Sunday edition on the ban on minarets in his native Switzerland by Peter Stamm. Nice because Stamm writes simple lines and probably does not think of himself as in intellectual. Some of the opinion pieces- save the ones by Swapan Dasgupta and MJ Akbar in the Times of India and Admiral Arun Singh in Asian Age- can be very bombastic and tough to follow after a couple of paragraphs because the writer is busy trying to sell himself as a ‘know all’.
However I have a serious problem with Stamm’s idea of a friendly, peaceful, accommodating Islam.
The religion as I know it in India isn’t any of the above three. It is just a religion whose proponents have realised that come hell or high water, they would be pampered for their ability to rise above local issues and unite behind imaginary persecutions and ‘Islam is in danger’ cries during the elections. Plus every Muslim who votes knows that his ability to carry around a persecution complex in garb of inequality is rewarded in election after election by ‘secular’ parties. And he uses the unique gift.
Secondly the Muslims of India know that the vast majority of Hindus in this country are hypocrites, frightened, unlearned and vain. All of which is true since I myself am a Hindu and possess all these characteristics in abundance.
Just lo look at us. When a group of like-minded Hindus get together, they form a party like the Bharatiya Janata Party. When those who dislike the Hindu ethos or culture of this country- the negationists like Nehru- come up with a party, they make the Congress. The Congress is probably the brainiest party in any part of the world and its ability to divide and pamper different groups of people in the right amount and at the right time is so legendary that even when they are up for the count after ten years of stupendous inactivity and mismanagement, they still win elections. Look at Maharashtra. The problem with a lot of foreign writers like Stamm is that they live in worlds far removed from the bile of lesser developed nations and have this amazing urge to show themselves as secular as is defined by the West. Probably how I might react if I am told that some bloody black Nigerians have blown up some oil pipelines in the Niger Delta. My first reaction would be savages, heathens and the like. But my view might not be the truth because I would not be knowing the angst of a group like the Movement for Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND) because I read newspapers run by big corporates whose brotherhood with big corporates, who sustain the former with their ads, is too strong to give in to the urge of reporting what is true.