It must be me

This is not about work. I try to keep work and life outside work, including blogging, separate. For my own sanity.

This is about what happened to me after work today.

For the last couple of months, I have joined a small group of my office colleagues for evening "running classes". Nothing fancy - we have a trainer with whom we do some exercises and running. It is just once a week - every Wednesday, for about 1 to 1.5 hrs. Like I said, nothing fancy.

A few other observations. Completely irrelevant to the story. But then, relevance has never been my strongest suit. When I expound, I like extravagance. It costs nothing except the patience of the reader. Considering my story today has its share of grief for me, you will understand if I am slightly unsympathetic towards others' suffering today. So, for today, partners in sufferance, I would say. Or, becoming Shakespeare's Shylock for a moment, I would say "bear it with a patient shrug - for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe."

My first observation has to do with my acute awareness of being the oldest person in the group, with some of the others being half my age and having twice my biceps, triceps and all other muscles in the human body.

And I am talking about the female members of the group here. Years of being fed on Gouda, Alkmaar and various other Dutch cheese, not to mention swimming in the womb of their mothers and riding a bicycle the minute they got out of that womb have definitely resulted in giving the Dutch member of the female human species a reasonably muscular, if not necessarily particularly attractive, frame. (To all Dutch readers of this piece, I want to emphasise that I say this in a most endearing sense and mean absolutely no slight on a most wonderful people).

My other observation, more like a realisation, is that a lifetime of poor housekeeping cannot be undone by a one-hour-a-week attempt at redemption in what, in sporting terms, must be considered a reasonable twilight in one's life. OK, I am not eighty yet, but boy, when I do some of those stretches, I feel like each one of my muscles is getting back at me, with a vengeance, for years of abuse. As realisations come, there are not very many morale-shattering ones challenging this one. Coupled with the experience of finding that in a running group, after ninety seconds, when you look behind you there is no one - not one pathetic mammal - looking back at you, you can be excused for adding to your miseries the additional realisation that it must have been a momentary seizure of madness that made you embark on this physically stretched and mentally wretched experience.

It happens to me every time I go out there - and yet, for somebody who has a remarkable record of not making an effort in anything and just hoping that everything comes to him by itself - I have hung in there so far. I am not sure how much longer I will be able to carry on with this but so far, so good.

The group is talking enthusiastically about taking part in a 4-mile or 6-mile run soon. Just the talk makes me sick in the stomach - as if I did not have enough misery to cope with already. Guys, can we just take it one meter at a time, please ? When I drive, the kilometers on the counter tick along nicely and quickly. When I run, why is it that every meter seems to take ages, much like a tortured Rahul Dravid innings, not moving at all. (Sorry Rahul, just kidding !)

For all this, I keep hearing things like "no pain, no gain". So I feel the pain, will somebody please tell me when I am going to feel the gain ? There better be some gain otherwise this would be the biggest lie since the US claimed that the Apollo mission successfully landed man on the moon in 1969 (kidding again, of course !). Actually, I can think of more recent lies but I want to avoid politics in this piece.

Ok, that's enough of self-pity. Even I am beginning to forget what the purpose of this whole piece - apart from self-pity of course - is.

Coming finally to the point. Or at least closer to it.

The way the Wednesday process works is as follow. The class starts at 6.00 p.m. Which means till 5.45 p.m I am undecided, searching for some reason to skip it this one time (I will certainly catch up next time ! Yeah, right - like THAT is going to happen). I think of reasons, feel guilty - and then at 5.55, after seeing some of my co-runners getting out of the office, my guilt wins and I decide that another evening of torture was probably ordained in my stars.

I then rush to this sports center very near my office where we assemble as a group. We use this sports center to change into our running gear, leave our stuff in our cars and then head out onto the running tracks.

Today, I did nothing different. 5.45 happened, 5.55 happened. And the rest too. Yes, all of the rest. Including the turning back and not finding another pathetic soul.

So I get back home at about 8.15 and just as I turn the key in the front door I realise something. Yes, this piece is all about realisations but this one is more mundane.

I realise that, during my gear-change process at the sports center, I have actually left behind my work shoes. I had, as usual, hurried through the changing process in order not to delay the rest of the group. And, as a result, had left my black pair of shoes behind at the center. My favourite pair actually.

Now, the sports center is a fair distance from my home. And I could actually have picked it up the next day on the way to work. If I really wanted to be sure the pair was still there and kept in safe custody I could probably even have called up the sports center and told them to keep my shoes safely.

I weighed all this and decided I was kidding myself. How would I communicate to a busy sports center that they had to look for a particular black pair of shoes amongst all the stuff they have in their changing room (it is always busy) and keep it aside for me ? Why would they do this at all, anyway ? I don't even actually use their sports facilities - I use only their changing room.

The idea of picking it up the next day on the way to work is great in theory but I know myself. Considering I barely make it to work within one hour of office opening hours (avoiding eye-contact as much as possible with colleagues, I might add), my first priority would be to get to work. Then, going to this sports center would become a project. Yes, I know this sounds ridiculously silly but that is how some things become for some people.

So I decided that I had to sort this out rightaway. I step into my car and drive back all the way. I feel proud of myself when I walk out of the center, shoes in tow.

I am still proud of myself as I am driving on the long road leading to the highway. It is pretty deserted at this time of evening and I am actually in a good mood. I am listening to the radio - and, for a couple of minutes, in a different world.

The camera flashes - and I just realise (yes, another realisation) that I was well over the speed limit !

Come on. The only reason there is a camera there is that there is a school nearby. Totally understandably, the idea is to deter drivers from exceeding the speed limit of 50 km during school hours.

But this was past 8.30 p.m. Surely there is no reason to expect children to be at school at this time of day ? (Some teachers would argue that you are lucky if you find certain children in school at any time of day but I will not go there - I have had enough digression for one evening. No, there is more to come in this piece - at a more literal level).

So the camera flashes, I sigh, curse and drive on. I get on the highway - and for five minutes it is like highway driving at 8.45 p.m. Easy, no traffic.

And then, it changes dramatically, much like my mood after the camera incident.

It becomes like highway driving when an accident has just happened. That is what has just happened. I spare a thought for the victims, hoping it is only vehicle damage. As for myself, I can do nothing but just add to the sea of cars inching along. Where is that camera now, I wonder ? I am allowed to drive 120 but I am not able to drive more than 5. So do I get any money back ?

The radio is playing Abba's "Voulez Vous". I can only think "No, this is not what I want". I try to be smart. I get off the highway one exit before my usual one. Ok, it would be another ten-minute drive but better that than the inching along.

I should have known. When it is not your day, it is really not your day. I find diversion signs from my usual route. There is some road construction activity happening. The diversions are well sign-posted (I will give the Dutch that), but it means I will have to digress quite a bit from my usual route, encountering a fair number of traffic lights along the way. Some of them would not be operational at this time of night but some of them make you see red, literally and figuratively.

Anyway, I do the circuitous bit - very mindful this time of my speed since I realise (yes, another realisation) that there are a couple of cameras on this route. I am not going to allow myself to be ripped off twice in one evening !

So I get home with no further damage - a bit tired from it all. I have had my usual post-run shower and I must admit I am feeling much better now.

But I cannot help wondering - why does an evening have to be so complicated ?

Is it normal or is it just me ?

And now the final realisation - and possibly the most damning of them all. I realise it is just me.

The "R" word

This post is about a very sensitive subject - racism. In general, people stay away from this subject. But I have no qualms discussing it. A case of "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread" ?

I am sure I will be raising plenty of eyebrows with this post. If people think I am racist because of some of the things I say here - then, frankly, I don't give a damn. I know what I am and I do not need others to tell me whether I am racist or not.

We have just seen an Indian cricketer being hauled up for racist comment. At the same time, we have seen cheating on a cricket ground, or at the very least, the game not being played in the true spirit of sport. As expected, everybody the world over will go "OMG" about the racist comment. The cheating will be accepted as another of those "what's the game coming to nowadays ?" and people will move on.

Harbhajan Singh will have to live the rest of his life with the stigma of having been banned from a few cricket matches because of his "racist" comment. This is no small matter - being called a racist in today's world. Which is why I am writing this piece.

Let me start by making one thing clear. Racism has no place in any sport. Not in sport, not in life. But before making this United Nations-like diplomatic declaration of condemnation of racism, we need to get it clearly defined.

Because according to me, sadly, there is no universal definition of racism. Maybe there is something in textbooks and in law, but there is no universal definition of racism available to the common man on the street in every country.

And therein lies a huge problem when one tries to apply racism-related laws and rules across cultures which do not necessarily share the same definition of the term.

Why run away from the subject ? Let's face it. It is a fact that there are many races in this world. And each race has its identity and origin. Each person belongs to a particular race. Whether we bring the race into our discussion or not (I know in the West, it is a studiously avoided subject), it just cannot be denied. So why not accept it and deal with it in a mature fashion ?

In my opinion, where racism is clearly an issue is when it is divisive or discriminatory. For example, when opportunities are based on race, and not on merit. Or, when a "colored" MK Gandhi was thrown out of a "whites only" train in Pietermaritzburg, that was about as clear a case of racism as one can get. This sort of discrimination / deprivation based on race is what Martin Luther King fought for, all his life. The apartheid regime in South Africa had racism written blatantly all over it.

I could not agree more with the evils of racism, if THIS is its definition.

But no - what we as a global society have managed to do is to complicate day-to-day life by making anything and everything a "racist" issue. To the extent that people of different races feel uncomfortable talking to each other about something that is pretty basic and undeniable. And why ? Because if you say something to another of a different race, you could be hauled up for being a racist.

Utterly silly. It is time we took off our blinkered glasses, got off our high pedestals and mustered the courage to talk about this from a purely human and not political perspective. Let me give you my own experience. I work in an environment where I have blacks (or should that be African Americans, to be politically correct ?), Caucasian race whites, Chinese and Indians. We need to spend several hours together every day - so we do realise that we better get along with each other. Fortunately, inspite of all our racial differences, we do. In fact, our racial differences are part of the reason we actually get along - we have an opportunity to have a dig at one another or pull each other's leg with, yes, what the whole world would perceive as "racist" comments. Frankly, we could not care less.

Why do we do this ? Because we recognise that each race has its uniqueness - and that is perhaps what makes it charming too. Why pretend otherwise ?

For example, one of the black Americans who works with me was once told by one of my "white" friends - "come on, you don't have a problem if you lose your job - you can always go on the streets and become a rapper. Worst case, you can always play basketball". The Afro-American had a huge laugh about it - and got back with his own "racist" comment.

This is how different races can behave with each other - if they are allowed to behave in this way. But no, we immediately start drawing lines of communication around us and make sure "boundaries are not crossed". This way, we force everybody to become uncomfortable.

I can expect somebody to say "yes, but that is different from calling Symonds a monkey". It may well be but the point is that Symonds has been so indoctrinated into thinking that his being of African-American origin is going to result in him being abused, that he can think of nothing but complaining about this as being the biggest crime ever committed on earth.

Instead, if somebody had just told Symonds long back "Listen Andy, you know what ? thanks or no thanks to your origins, you do resemble a monkey to some extent. People may have a dig at you from time to time about this. It is not your fault - in any case, just forget it, it is no big deal. You are a good guy from the inside - and that is what matters. And even if your face does look like a monkey's, you are good-looking in your own way. So don't worry about these sort of things", things might have been different.

I guess nobody had this chat with Symonds. So he has grown up all along being defensive about his origins. While he has absolutely nothing to be ashamed about, or worried about. Now, as a professional cricketer who has huge talent and can go very far in his career, he is worried about what people comment about his looks ?

The point I am making - and I know I am making it in a very laboured fashion - is that racism is in your mind. Since its definition is anyway not universally consistent, you will have problems of perception more than reality. Yes, if you have been deprived opportunity on the count of race alone, by all means, scream. Use the racist card. But if somebody in another culture has called you a monkey, frankly, if you are mature - you should not give a monkey's. You know what and who you are and no names that anybody else calls you should matter. Not if you are a thorough professional who concentrates on the job at hand.

If we are talking just racist remarks that hurt a person, I don't see it very different from sledging. Sledging is also intended to hurt or disturb the sledgee. In the final analysis, it is the hurt you cause to another that should be the measure of the crime - not whether it was a "racist" comment or not. You can sledge really cheap and dirty (like the disgusting McGrath-Sarwan incident) but not call somebody who looks like a monkey a monkey because, ooooh, that is a "racist" comment ? Come on. If this comment hurt, so did that comment of McGrath to Sarwan. Where do you draw the line ?

Now, my final point - I am tiring a bit. Cheating. Now, there can be no two views about that one. Here the rules can be set much more clearly because this is universal. There is one game (it is not like one person is playing cricket and the other football). There are rules of the game, there is a spirit of the game. Every person who enters the sport is educated on this from day one - so anybody who breaks this is cheating. As simple as that.

Since cheating is done with the primary objective of obtaining an unfair advantage over the other party, there is no doubt about whether there is hurt caused by it or not. There is - and the party cheating has to realise that he has been out of line. He needs to be brought to book. With cheating, there is no scope for misinterpretation.

Cheating in sport, in life whatever. I don't see it as being any less a crime than what I would like to label "pseudo-racism" (as distinct from genuine racism as I have defined above). In fact it is worse.

In my book, Symonds' case is one of pseudo-racism. Very much in fashion. But pseudo-racism, nonetheless.

One day in the future, I hope Symonds looks at himself - and feels proud of his immense abilities. Some of this may even actually be race-related. Instead of feeling defensive about his race, he may even be able to joke about it.

Maybe even joke about it with Harbajan ? It may be a dream but it is worth dreaming. For this, more than anything else, will make a difference to the perception of racism around the world. The more you cry "racist", the more racists you create. As simple as that.

My Experiments with Truth : Black

I was a very simple, "goody-goody" boy growing up in Orissa, completely oblivious of the big, bad real world. I lived a pretty protected life where most things in life were taken care of for me. So my experience in actually DOING things myself in the real world was very limited. I learnt a lot about life only after I left the comfort of my parents' place in Orissa.

One of the things that got taken care of for me was movie tickets. Somebody would always arrange the ticket beforehand, often in advance booking. Or, even if we reached the hall, somebody else would somehow manage to get the tickets. I would just walk in and enjoy the movie. In a sense, I guess I was quite pampered.

The year 1977. Three of my friends and I suddenly got into the mood to see "Hum Kisise Kum Nahin".

It was the last day before school would re-open after the pooja holidays. The movie had been released a couple of months earlier and had become a rage pretty much all over the country. Almost all our friends had already seen the movie (some of them "first day, first show" - which was a HUGE deal in those days. Arrey yaar, first day, first show nahin dekha to kya dekha ? types ("Hey, if you haven't seen it first day, first show, what have you seen?").

Those who had seen it would discuss all the scenes, the songs - and we would just get more and more irritated. The songs (all nine of them) were hits - some of them superhits (like Kya hua tera vaada, yeh ladka hai allah, chand mera dil, bachna aye haseenon). We knew all the songs pretty much by heart.

Feeling like the only boys on the planet who had missed the show - and fearing for the ostracisation by our other friends, we decided enough was enough. We just HAD to see it. And had to see it NOW. After all, it had been playing for many weeks already.

We informed our parents and set off - the four of us.

The film hall was about 25 km from home. But we had a direct bus to take us, so there was no problem. The idea was to see the 6-9 evening show. What we had not reckoned with was that the busdriver was not seeing the 6-9 show. He had absolutely nothing to gain by taking us there in time.

By the time, we got there it was 5.50.

There was pandemonium all over the place, some people were screaming at the counter, others were dejectedly going back.

The reason ?

The most dreaded sign for any Indian movie-goer who lands up to see a movie at a hall was up. "House Full".

We felt very upset. What to do? We could have reached there earlier but for that stupid bus driver! My friends blessed him with some colourful gaalis (abuses) - we then decided that we would somehow try to still get tickets.

We dispersed - each trying his luck.

A guy walked upto me, "Kitna chaahiye?" (How many do you want?)
I : "Chaar" (4).
He : "Chaar ka bees". (20 for 4).
I was thrilled.
I :  "Ticket hai?" (Do you have tickets at all?).
Just to confirm my luck. This sounded too good to be true.

People were desperate to get tickets. And here was a guy who had four tickets, exactly the number I needed, and who was willing to give them to me.

I said "ek minute, abhi aata hoon". (Give me a minute, I'll be right back!).

I raced back to my friends saying "hey, mil gaya, mil gaya". (Got them, got them!).

"Sach?" (Really?)

"Haan yaar, there is this man who has four tickets and he wants to sell them".

"Black?"

"Nahin, yaar...not black!". I recoiled. How could they even THINK I would buy tickets in black ?

"Kitna?" (How much?)

"Twenty Rupees...Five rupees ka ticket hai yaar. Balcony four rupees ka hai na..yeh DC hoga, five rupees ka". (Rs 20. Each ticket is Rs 5. Balcony's normally Rs 4, this must be the Rs 5 DC ticket.).

"Not bad yaar, Raja...chal chal, jaldi kar....usko pakad nahin to ticket chala jaayega". (Not bad, Raja...come on, hurry up, catch the guy before we lose the tickets).

I felt like my chest had swelled a few inches. Never before in my life had I done anything practical like this - I felt like I had saved the day.

As we approached the guy, one of my friends stopped.

"Wo hai kya?" (Is that the guy?)

"Haan". (Yes.)

"Wo black bech raha hai yaar." (I tell you he's selling tickets in black).

"Nahin yaar....tu bhi kya bakwaas kar raha hai..." (No, what rubbish are you talking!)

"Wo kya bola tere ko? Kitna mein bechega?" (What did he say? How much is he selling them for?)

"Arrey twenty rupees yaar...chaar ticket ka twenty...ek ka paanch". (Rs 20...for 4 tickets...that's Rs 5 per ticket).

"Wo kya bola...chaar ka bees?" (What did he say...4 for 20?)

"Haan." (Yes).

"Yaar...tu gadha hai...awwal number ka gadha hai...saala, uska shirt pant dekha...(Man, you're a real dumbo of the highest order...just look at that guy's shirt and pant, for crying out loud!)

Only then did I actually look at the guy a bit closely. Till then I had just been too excited to notice anything. He did look very unkempt...dirty black shirt..first two buttons open, revealing a very ugly hairy chest. A pant that looked like it had never been washed. Unshaven. Hair uncombed).

"Saala, bet laga black mein bech raha hai". (You want to bet he's selling in black?")

I looked at him, pained.

"Yaar Raja, tu bahut bhola hai yaar...chaar ka bees means he is selling one ticket for twenty rupees, samjha?" (Raja, you are just way too naive...4 for 20 means he's selling each ticket for Rs 20).

"Nahin yaar". My chest had deflated at a very unhealthily rapid rate and my "nahin yaar", uttered in a rather low voice, had a clear mix of shame and disappointment in it.

My friend now took total charge.

"Lagta hai aaj ticket nahin milne waala hai. Tum log ko black dekhna hai?" (It looks like we're not going to get tickets today. You guys want to see it in black?)

My friends immediately nodded. They could not care less.

Yours truly, typical Tamil Iyer, turned red. I could not bring myself to nod. Black was wrong! I could not be doing this.

"Kya bolta hai, Raja ? Ticket to aise nahin milne waala hai. Jaldi bol - picture start hone waala hai. Ho bhi gaya hoga". (What do you say, Raja? We're not going to get tickets any other way. Decide fast - the movie's going to start any moment now. It may already have started actually).

That last bit "ho bhi gaya hoga" (it may have started actually) was enough for me. I hated missing even one minute of the trailers that came before the movie. Even the U certificate for the trailers (with the scrawling of two dates, like 1-11-77 to 1-11-87, on them. You know what I mean).

I said - in a very low voice - "chal dekhte hain". (Ok, let's see it).

In their desperation to see the movie, my friends had already begun negotiating with this guy, completely ignoring my opinion. Thanks for asking my opinion, guys, I thought.

We did not have Rs.80 on us - I think we had about Rs70 or so between the lot of us. That was a decent amount of money in those days, considering the ticket would normally have only cost us Rs 16 for balcony or maximum Rs20 for DC.

My friend negotiated all four tickets for 40 bucks. It was getting to be just over 6 by then and the "black" guy, desperate to make whatever he could would have been happy to get rid of the tickets.

We rushed in - it was already dark. The usher scowled at us, muttering something under his breath. When he went about flashing the torch at our seats - and we made our way, bending so as not to hinder the sight of the guys in the next row - we got a few more abuses coming our way.

But it was all worth it. When Rishi Kapoor sang "Bachna aye haseenon" we forgot all about the world outside the hall. We enjoyed every song (including the 4-song competition) and when we came out of the hall, we felt - yesssssss ! Hum bhi kisi se kum nahin. (We are also as great as anybody).

The next day in school, my three friends told all the other guys in class that we had seen the movie. What they also said was "jaanta hai, ticket bilkul nahin mil raha tha. Raja jaake black mein leke aaya". (You know, we were just not getting tickets. Raja finally got them for us in black).

I tried to look the other way. That was my way of denying it.

All my friends looked at me like "Wow".

It took me a while to realise this but then it struck me.

I had actually grown several feet high in their esteem.

From the quiet boy in the class, I had become a guy who does stuff...who buys tickets in black.

I realised that THIS is what being cool in school is all about. Not being a good student and all that.

"Raja, tu black mein khareeda?" (Raja, you bought the tickets in black?)

"Haan yaar, mil hi nahin raha tha, chaar ka bees bol raha tha..." (Yes, we were just not getting them otherwise, so when he said "4 for 20"...)

A lungi, a movie and a haircut - happy birthday!

Last Friday was my birthday.

Now a birthday is a day that most people use to either reflect or celebrate. Some in India even go to a place of worship or, alternatively, have some sort of prayer session in the privacy of their homes. At the very least, many make it a point to wake up early that day – in the belief (or should that be hope?) that it will set a precedent for the next 364 days.

I must confess that last Friday I belonged to that minority to which none of the above apply. I woke up at 9.00 a.m – and had my mother not wished me a happy birthday, with a look that I had, with years of experience, managed to interpret as suggesting at least mild disapproval, I might well have lazed around in bed for a while longer. Somehow, 9.00 a.m didn't seem too late an hour to wake up.

After breakfast and coffee, I had to work out my schedule for the rest of the morning. I say morning, because the afternoon and evening would be consumed by office work. I was working European hours – which meant my working day would start at 12.30. I had about three hours to kill.

Reading the paper would take up close to an hour. Not that the content deserved this kind of respect, but the realisation that I was travelling to Europe in a couple of days, and that for an extended period of time, suddenly made me want to practically devour the papers, for the smallest bits of news.

I decided to put the remaining time to good use and not just while it away. One’s last few days and hours in India are always precious. There always seems to be so much to do, and so little time to do it in.

Since I was leaving in a couple of days, I decided to have my customary pre-departure haircut that morning. I quite like to support my hyper-local saloon in Bangalore. It's not a particularly sophisticated place – for twenty-five rupees one should not expect Taj-style hairdressing - but the guys who work there do make an effort to keep it clean. And, in all the years that I've been frequenting the place, I've never had any cause for complaint.

Now, the custom – at least where I come from - is to wash one’s clothes thoroughly after a haircut. This, I believe, is for hygienic reasons. Anyway, with Bangalore’s weather at that time being about as sunny as New Jersey in mid-Jan, I decided that any clothes I'd wash that day wouldn't probably make it through a drying - and ironing - experience in time for my return flight on Sunday. And I didn't want to leave any clothes behind in Bangalore.

So I decided to go to the saloon in a lungi (a striped one!) that I was planning to leave in Bangalore anyway. I'd never gone to the saloon in a lungi before – and I must admit I wasn't totally comfortable with the idea. A lungi needs a little more caution than trousers, but it seemed the practical thing to do. So I told myself “what the heck, let’s just do it!” and set off.

It must have been a distance of two to three hundred meters, no more, but it felt like I was swimming the English channel. I saw a number of raised eyebrows – or maybe I was imagining some of them. I was suddenly very conscious of the way I walked, acutely aware that the lungi was all that stood between me and respectability.

I was relieved when I reached the saloon in one piece. The guy greeted me with his usual warm nod. I nodded back, hopefully as warmly. Despite several encounters over the years, our communication had not progressed beyond this nod. This guy was Telugu. Probably all Telugu guys who do not end up as software engineers or doctors in the US - or real estate agents in India from the Reddy community - end up opening hairdressing saloons.

Anyway this guy’s domain expertise was in Telugu and Kannada, mine is English, Hindi and some Tamil. The Telugu I know does not go beyond “Reddy garu, cheppandi”, “randi”, “ikkade petko” and “manch neeru kavaali” – none of which, those of you who know Telugu will agree, are particularly useful expressions to be deployed in a hairdressing saloon.

I noticed that the saloon had upgraded itself since my last visit some months ago. I found that the wash basin area had been renovated, the furniture had been replaced - heck, even the Filmfare edition was of July 2007 (Very disappointing. I was hoping to read some 2005 news. Where do I go now? Maybe I should try the dentist, I thought).

As usual, the TV was set at its loudest possible volume. And as usual, it was playing a Telugu movie. The hero was reasonably rotund with a round face, big moustache and curly hair. The heroine was reasonably rotund with a round face. No big moustache or curly hair but she had more make-up on, than Lakme can produce in a day. I thought their faces looked familiar, but in the South Indian film industry you could spend your lifetime using these descriptions to try to identify the specific hero or heroine.

I gave up trying to do so. Instead, since I was waiting anyway, I thought I'd try to follow the story. (I had lost interest in the available issue of the Filmfare magazine as soon as I discovered it was a July 2007 edition. I'd have much rather read the 2005 issue, if only to derive pleasure from seeing how wrong predictions turned out in the two years since. How this movie, which was supposed to be “different”, bombed so badly that nobody recalls the name anymore. How relationships of 2005, projected as lifetime relationships, have come a cropper in 2007. I know it sounds mean but when one is waiting, at the hairdresser’s or at the dentist’s, one can be excused such perverse pleasures).

Back to the point. Or rather the movie. So this rr and r-faced hero and the rr and r-faced heroine (with massive m-u) go around trees singing a song, and making all sorts of lovey-dovey sounds at each other. The song wasn't a particularly bad one - I quite liked the tune though I did not understand the lyrics. Then the hero comes to the heroine’s home to request the heroine’s father for his daughter’s hand. The father is wearing a long, silken, flowing gown (?) – the type that Rahman has worn in countless Hindi movies of the 60s and 70s. I could make out that the hero came from a poor background. Without understanding a word of the dialogue, I could make out that the father insults the hero, the hero pledges his love for the heroine, the father isn't convinced he offers the hero some money, the hero refuses it and walks away. He then sings a sad song as he kicks the earth under his feet. Back in her plush bungalow, the heroine weeps inconsolably. The father is unmoved.

Memories of a 1960s/70s Hindi film that I'd seen not so long ago came to mind. The father offering the hero a suitcase full of cash, and the hero walking away. This formula has been played out in so many Indian movies, whether with cash or with a "blank" cheque, probably in every Indian language, that I cannot imagine this storyline being of any help to anybody here to try to now identify the movie. Especially since the descriptions of the hero and heroine were not particularly zoom-worthy either.

Anyway, my turn came and I sat in the hot seat. The hero now burst into another Telugu song. This seemed to be a happy song – which seemed a bit odd. That the hero should be singing happy songs so soon when film-making protocol demands that that the suffering/pining phase should last at least one hour , was unusual. Maybe, in this day and age, even film-making has gone T20, I thought. Nobody can sit through one hour of pining anymore.

These thoughts were rudely disturbed by the realization that my man had decided to animatedly join in. I must admit that it was a pretty catchy song. It must have been a big hit amongst knowledgeable audiences (which obviously included one Telugu hairdresser in Bangalore).

That his voice would not exactly win him any Sa Re Ga Ma awards was immediately obvious to me, even if it wasn't to him. But I could live with that. After all I have to live with the likes of Himesh Reshammiya too in today’s world. No, this realization was not panic-worthy enough as much as the realization that I had a razor, almost grazing my ear, being waved around like an orchestra composer’s wand to the tune of some admittedly catchy music.

Ears are not the most respected of organs and with Reshammiya and his ilk dominating the music scene in India at the moment, the respect for ears must have fallen in recent times. Having said that, I had expected to be one year more on my birthday, not one ear less.

After what seemed like eternity, the song ended – and the razor thankfully returned to a more static position. My man had been completely oblivious to my condition. He now continued to work on the rest of my hair, clicking his scissors with an uneasy exuberance - uneasy for me, I mean. I prayed that another animated song would not break out any moment – and thankfully for the rest of my hot seat experience, except for some angry dialogues between father and prospective son-in-law, some more sobbing from the heroine (I wonder whether the m-u got wiped out in all that sobbing) and some fight scenes where the hero took on twenty men at one time, there was no reason for my man to wave that razor around. After fifteen-odd minutes, it was done. I offered him his twenty-five. He said thirty, I gave him thirty-five. He nodded warmly, I nodded (I hope as warmly). I wondered - did he notice the sweat on my forehead? I should thank him for that!

I made my way back home, holding on to my lungi, avoiding gazes from all and sundry and went straight for a hot bath. With the tune of that Telugu song still ringing in my ears. Boy, was it catchy!

So friends, that is how I spent my birthday morning.

And yes, one more thing. Before my next trip to the guy, I have to brush up on my Telugu. This is just getting too dangerous to be funny anymore.

Children of a lesser God ?

This piece was written on 6th August 2006. The war in Lebanon had been raging for almost a month. Pictures of the war were being streamed into our living rooms every minute. Some of us can remain detached. Some cannot. I must confess to getting rather despondent at that time.

At such times, I write. Write whatever comes to my mind. Write for myself - not for anybody else. It gives me some peace of mind. No, that is not right - not peace of mind, just some psychological relief.

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I am a disturbed person.

As the war in the Middle East rages on, the rest of the world tries to conduct its business in as normal a manner as possible. To be able to do so, requires a tremendous ability to distance oneself from events that one cannot control or influence. For the pictures streaming in on one’s home TV or on the internet (which is becoming as much of a medium, if not a more potent one, to share live pictures and opinion) make it very difficult to stay disengaged.

Those focussed on their own lives, and on the immediate world around them, will not have an issue at all. They realize that world events, especially wars and natural disasters, happen all the time. And as long as this does not touch them, they see no point in wasting time getting involved.

Sometimes I wish I could be indifferent too. Or just take it in my stride. If there is a war going on in Lebanon, why does it bother ME so much ? I don’t live there. None of the persons particularly dear to me in my life live in Lebanon or Israel, or even Syria for that matter.

Yet I am extremely disturbed by the war that has been raging there for close to a month now. It is not just the horrific pictures. From years of watching pictures of war on TV, I cannot remember images other than those of destruction, bloodshed, weeping family members and vows of revenge. And of course the mandatory military press briefing. That is the face of war that the public at large sees.

It is obviously not quite the same as actually being in a war-zone. Wondering when that next rocket is going to fall and how far from you that will be. Wondering whether you should move to another place (maybe a bunker close by) or stay put. Wondering how long the supplies you have will last you and your family and whether you should go for a replenishment trip. And if so, when.

The smallest of travails seems to have risk associated with it – something that those of us, sitting in the comfort of our living rooms, do not have to put up with. We just have to put up with the images we see on TV. And even that we do not have to – there are always the entertainment channels to switch to.

After all, it is somebody else’s war. It is somebody else’s nightmare. It is somebody else’s fate. We cannot espouse every cause in the world, nor can we help our own cause by getting involved. There is the political machinery of each country and established international institutions like the United Nations which have the political framework and the military apparatus to tackle war – it is their job to do so.

Indeed it is. We, the common people, have no role to play. We may have an opinion but it counts for zilch.

Maybe I just need to accept this. That my opinion counts for nothing. If I had wanted to be able to influence global events, perhaps I should have entered public life. Even then it would have been a very long shot to be able to make a difference but at least I would have been in the right profession. From where I am today, I feel I cannot even influence things happening in my own backyard, let alone things happening halfway around the world.

Somebody once said something about the pen being mightier than the sword. I think it was Rabindranath Tagore. Maybe that is an option. To be able to express oneself so powerfully and to be able to communicate with the masses and the powers-that-be , with just the power of the pen.

With the proliferation of communication means nowadays, it should be easy, sitting in one’s own drawing room, to be able to get one’s message across. A lot of people do this – and some, quite effectively too. My challenge is that I lack the self-confidence to put my views out there and to be able to engage in debate on them. I cannot argue on history, on what happened thousands of years ago around the time of Christ, what happened on the formation of Israel, what UN resolutions have or have not been issued since then to attempt to keep peace in the region.

The bottom line therefore is that if I choose to go the “power of the pen” route, I do not have enough content to be able to make a meaningful case for my argument. (To be honest, I doubt that a case can anyway be won on content in this highly-emotional, highly-disputable and fuzzy issue). I do not have a choice of going any other route because I have no political influence whatsoever.

On top of this, I feel that this war, whenever it officially ends, is only a precursor for bigger wars to come because the battle lines have been drawn so clearly now – and in blood – that rapprochement, always a difficult objective, is now going to be almost impossible to establish. Co-existence, for long a difficult but still viable mission and vision, now seems to be a million miles away.

And, I am not able to distance myself from this subject. It may sound stupid but I am just not able to look away from those scenes or switch off the TV or change the channel. For the truth is what it is – and does not disappear by one's choosing to ignore it.

This is our world - these are our children who are dying due to politics and war. What have they done wrong ? I don't care whether they are Israeli or Lebanese. Jew, Muslim or Christian. Try explaining to these innocent souls about UN resolutions. Are they children of a lesser God ?

Like I said at the start of this piece, I am a disturbed person. Small wonder.

Nights at the Opera

Having spent a lifetime perfecting the art of appearing to be interested in the finer aspects of art and culture - including a monthly visit to the opera which made even visits to the dentist seem pleasurable - I decided that enough was enough. Not only was this making a serious dent in my pocket, I found myself, even after half a dozen visits, completely unable to appreciate any of the supposed subtleties of this form of culture. I never managed to understand the variations from bass to baritone to tenor to soprano, though I tried hard. Honest, I did.

Adding to my misery was the realization that the timings of the opera often seriously clashed with day-night cricket and football, making me the only possible sports lover in the world sitting in a room full of culture geeks on a Friday evening when I could be sitting in front of the telly, beer in hand, perversely watching Australia dish it out to England in the one game and Brazil do likewise to England in the other.

In fact, so desperate had my desire to enjoy the small pleasures that I hold sacred in life become, that I even toyed with the idea of carrying with me into the concert hall, hopefully unnoticed, a transistor radio to at least catch, if only sneakily and occasionally, the commentary of the games that I was destined to miss. It would be no substitute for the fully stretched-out, lazy couch-potato opportunity but, hey, it was still better than nothing.

But, for all my craving, this remained no more than an idea, partly due to an entirely unrewarded sense of sensitivity for fellow opera-goers but more due to a fear that this might result in thrusting me prominently in an unfavourable light with the one for whom I was going through all this torture in the first place, should she catch me in my moment of indiscretion. No sir, if a charade had to be carried out, it had to be carried out to perfection, however tempting other options may be.

After six-and-a-quarter opera sufferings, I could take it no more. (The quarter, for those interested, was when I managed to feign jetlag and oil out of one of these occasions when it was less than an hour into its horrendous glory. I had just arrived from New York that morning and, although I felt perfectly fine, it would have been criminal to have allowed this great opportunity to use this mother-of-all-excuses for serious avoidance to go waste).

I asked myself – is this the basis of our relationship ? Granted that she is worth every bit of opera suffering but I could not help feeling that surely there was something wrong about the situation. The fact that she had not shown the slightest interest in anything that I was interested in – and then I am talking cricket and football in particular – did not escape me. Whenever I had brought up the subject, she had conveniently managed to flutter her eyes and talk about the next art exhibition coming to town or a visit to Christie’s. No, not the slightest interest in my interests.

And here I was, pandering to her every request like a lapdog, completely devoid of any sense of self-esteem. What would be next ? A ballet-dance trial ? Or a high-society costume party ?

I cringed. The truth, painful though it was, had hit me all of a sudden. I knew where I belonged. And more importantly, knew where I did not.

The phone rang.

“Don’t forget to pick me up at 6.30 sharp. We need to be there by 7.00 and I do not want to be there a minute late”.

“Who is on tonight ?” I still feigned interest, though I could not care less.

“Frittoli”.

“Sounds like a nice Italian dish”. I murmured under my breath.

“What ?”

“Nothing. Listen, can you excuse me for tonight ? Something’s come up”.

“Cancel it. You know this is our opera night - and you also know how I feel about this”.

“Yes, I guess you are right”.

“Good. 6.30 then”. She was about to hang up.

“Hang on. You are right – I know how you feel about opera. Pity you don’t know how I feel about cricket.” I could not believe I was saying this. I do not know from where I mustered the strength to say this but I knew I had to put an end to this madness.

Silence.

“You know what ? There’s this neo-realism exhibition that everybody’s talking about. I think we should definitely go there next Wednesday. It is on only for three days”.

“Wednesday is European Cup football. Sorry, no can do”.

Silence.

“What are you saying ?”

“Listen, I like you a lot. But let’s face it – we live in different worlds. My world is cricket and football. Yours is operas and art exhibitions. Unless there is an exhibition on high-society cricket, I doubt we will find ourselves together in one place, both enjoying ourselves.”

“Ok, 6.30 then”.

“Fine”. I sighed - it was worth a try anyway.

And that, my friends, is how I got to hear and hear of Barbara Fritolli. And Sonia Ganassi. And Michele Pertusi.

And yes, I too wish they were pasta dishes.

The genesis of war

It is when I am in a Wordsworthian "vacant or pensive mood" and do not, unfortunately, have the serenity of watching daffodils out of my living-room window that my mind begins to dwell on subjects, abstract at a personal level, but close enough to my heart to occupy meaningful mind-space.

One such subject is war - often glamorised by the victors (as if there are any). As Israel-Lebanon commemorate the passing of one year since the Lebanese war - and lives continue to be lost in Iraq every day - and there is not the slightest signs of any quelling of the voices of mistrust and jingoism around the globe - I return to a piece I wrote a while ago.

Normally, any writing tends to get dated and loses its relevance and sting over a period of time. It is a sad and sobering reflection of the power (if that is the right word to use) of war that it enjoys perennial currency.

So when I picked up this piece that I had written exactly a year ago (mentally troubled as I was during the Lebanese conflict), I found that, sadly, nothing much has changed. The one positive development in the last twelve months is the brokered peace in Northern Ireland - one that I hope will be sustained. The key ingredient for any brokered peace is trust, and while I am cautiously optimistic about the situation, it is early days yet.

Anyway, onto my piece - as it was written on 18th July 2006.

Since time immemorial, man has been fighting man. Over land, over religion, over women (for example, Helen of Troy and Rani Padmini of mediaeval India).

One of my ex-bosses, a cynical man if ever there was one - an Italian by origin, a Welshman by birth, an Englishman by upbringing and a Dutchman by domicile – once made one of the most startling comments I have heard about war and peace. In his inimitable style, he said “Peace is just an interlude between two wars. It is man’s biggest folly that he believes he can live in uninterrupted peace”.

He was a cynical person, so let us not take this statement too seriously. But he was also very well-read – especially on world history and politics and could discuss, in great detail, events that triggered off and occurred during the Greek, Roman, Persian wars before Christ. He could just as well analyse the Crusades, wars that happened during the “dark ages”, wars fought in Europe for the last five hundred years (almost every country fought with every other country and the map of Europe has been changing every century), wars fought in Japan and China, down to the most recent wars of the last few decades.

I was amazed at his knowledge. He would be able to analyze cause-and-effect and the spillover effects of various wars. For example, Russia pulled out of Afghanistan finally in 1989 – and immediately the Kashmir issue, which had been dormant for many years, suddenly raised its ugly head again with kidnappings and increased violence in that region. Could it be that suddenly there was a huge availability of arms in Afghanistan (most of them provided by America by the way), there was a generation whose only skill was to fight – and suddenly there was a vacuum when their primary cause for fighting died out ? So, hey, suddenly “the liberation of Kashmir” becomes a welcome cause for this passionate, restless soldier community.

I still believe he was exaggerating when he made that comment. But sometimes you have to exaggerate, for effect. He had me for sure completely shocked by his statement. That statement was made sometime in 1997 or so but it has remained etched in my memory. I have thought a lot about it in the years since.

War is a complex subject and to try to analyze it purely factually would be to do grave injustice to the many non-quantifiable factors that play their role in the creation of circumstances that lead to a war or to the war itself.

I am a simple man and I try to figure out, for my own simple mind, why people fight with each other. And I come to the following conclusions.

Greed. This is the single biggest reason why people fight with each other. Whether you are arguing with your neighbour over what exactly constitutes your fence boundary with him, or you are eyeing that weak country that you could “grab” hold of, it amounts to greed. In previous millennia, it was very common for emperors to expand their territories by marching into others’ territories and forcing submission by war if necessary. Reason : acquisition of more wealth, lands, slaves.

While the flavour of such expansionist ideas did change over the centuries, the concept continued till at least the end of the First World War. The powers of the world then (many of whom by then had whetted their appetite for political expansion) suddenly tried to appear more civil and set up the “League of Nations” – a first, rather hurried effort to try to bring “world order” into place.

Mr. Adolf Hitler, who had not only missed out on all the fun of land-grabbing but also felt that the final whistle had been blown at a wrong time for his country (Germany lost huge terrority to France when the Versailles Treaty was signed after World War I ), decided to give it one more try. It did not work for him. The biggest villain of the twentieth century was, to put it simply, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just a century or two earlier, and he would have been remembered as an inspiring leader. Now he was consigned to be remembered as the man who cost the world a few million lives.

Coming back to my point – the biggest reason for war is, in my opinion, greed. Greed for more power, more land, more wealth.

Supply-Demand imbalance. This to me is another major reason for war. As long as there is plenty of supply of any commodity, mankind will be relatively at peace. I say “relatively” because there are still those greedy elements who, inspite of having more than their requirement, will not spare anything for the more needy. But, by and large, surplus supply of any asset is not something that one often complains about.

When there is a shortage, that is when there is definitely stress – and struggle. Whether it is a shortage of jobs, or land – tensions mount. Where there are haves and have-nots in one society, and there are extremes between these two, there is always a chance of civil war. There may be other mitigating factors for this but if the institutions of that society are not strong enough (for example, if the power is not derived through democratic means), the exposure level of that society is high. The most recent example we have of this is Nepal. One may argue that there were other reasons for the Nepalese tensions but in my simple mind, it comes down to haves and have-nots and the imbalance in the power equation.

Make no mistake - the war in the Middle East (in and around Israel) is not just a war about ideologies, although this is used very effectively to rally forces to your cause. It is also a war about limited resources, land, jobs, water – everything that you fight for in those regions. And then, the difference in religious ideologies just takes the conflict to a different level altogether.

So, would an economically developed Israel, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon be able to live in peace together ? I would love to say yes but that is where I would be very naïve in not recognizing that third demon of all wars – religion.

Many are the wars that have been fought over religion. This is very ironic considering every faith professes peace as one of its primary teachings. But, whether it is the Crusades fought over centuries, or wars fought in Bosnia and Chechnya, they have had religious differences as their driving force.

There are other reasons for war too. Anything that divides people can cause war if the circumstances build up to such a flashpoint. In Rwanda and Burundi, the war between Hutus and Tutsis in the 1990s which killed millions, was one fought on ethnic differences. If you delve deeper, you will find that even here, the root cause is the more dominant ones – supply/demand imbalance and to some extent, greed for power. The Hutus were the original settlers in Rwanda and tilled the land. The Tutsis were a nomadic tribe whose main occupation was cattle-herding. As they got more economically dominant to the soil-tilling Hutus, they began ruling the Hutus, though they were in a minority. The Hutus began losing more and more of their land, though they outnumbered the Tutsis. The stage for a grand civil war was set and it was a disaster just waiting to happen. The world could only watch as the atrocities mounted every day and people died by the millions.

A rather perverse reason for war, and one that is not realized very often, is the sheer availability of means. We keep talking about motive – but any good detective story will tell you that motive and means are both required for a successful murder to be committed. All the above reasons are about motive – but if there are no means for war at all, there is a chance that a disagreement will not blow up into a full-scale war. But if the means are also readily available – as in my earlier example about the situation in Afghanistan after the Russian retreat – then the situation gets that much more explosive.

As I said earlier, war is a complex subject. There is rarely just one reason for it, often one reason feeds another. Greed for power or land, often creates a supply-demand imbalance.

So, now that I have had my theoretical say on what I believe is the genesis of war, do I have solutions ? At least theoretical ones ? I daresay I do.

As with my holistic approach to try to explain to myself why people go to war, my solutions too are only holistic. Unless one side in a war is so overwhelmingly dominant as to completely exterminate the other side and its ideology – that too, for generations to come, I fear that violence will only serve up more violence. Unfortunately, modern weapons of warfare are not confined to just one side in a war and that makes the likelihood, scale and duration of a war far more frightening than ever before.

But, if my assessment of the root causes of war is even reasonably accurate, would it not help to at least try to mitigate conditions that create war-like circumstances ? For one, reduce the supply-demand imbalance. Share more resources instead of the “I want it all” approach.

I know that a suggestion to reduce means will directly hit at the supply capability of the not insignificant global armaments industry. After all, in peacetime, production goes on and stockpile only accumulates dust. I have always been a bit wary of sincerity in various “arms reduction treaties” between warring factions – but where there is a will for warfare – and a means - there is, frighteningly enough, almost always a way.

So work on the will AND on the means – and you will working on the root causes of war.

And hopefully, my erudite ex-boss, for all his knowledge of every war that has ever been fought by humanity, will be proven wrong about that “war and peace” observation.

I know, for all his wisdom and ego, he would love to be wrong on this one.