This mid-term break proved out to be a real blessing in more ways than one, the time that I got to spend with folks at home was indeed precious but there were other benefits as well. I own a small plot of land at Mhow, which was about to re-enact the “Khosla ka Ghosla”, “encroachment” for the ignoramuses who refrain from watching anything bollywood. Fortunately, I happened to be there just at the right time, when a small hutment was erected there; supposedly for watch-keeping of the neighbour’s construction material. My physical presence and perseverance finally saw me return triumphantly with the dwelling having been suitably relocated. But you know how these friendly(?!) neighbourhoods are, as a nation we have been at the receiving end all along; so one can’t be very sure of the intentions of these neighbours either. I naturally decided that it was about time for me to construct our very own “ashiyana”. The pay commission and the massive income tax deductions proving to be added incentives.
Most of us are aware that construction of a house in India is a once in a life time kind, because by the time you finish, you are also finished financially, mentally and of course physically. Although with the advent of modern townships these headaches can be avoided and one can settle for a readymade flat or a bungalow. But the charm associated with a villa in the countryside is unique and quite tempting. So here goes, I met an architect who could guide me on this whole process. The first question which he posed was what kind of a house did I have in mind. The question was a googly, foxing me totally. All these years one has barely even given this aspect any consideration, type of house was the last thing that you thought of as long as on was assured of a roof somewhere. Then all MES houses are alike in their feel, whether temporary or permanent.
But not wanting to look foolish, I said I would prefer an ethnic kind of a bungalow. That only was the starters, the questions simply multiplied exponentially and finally I surrendered meekly, just give me a decent place. In fact I was tempted to get him to visit MES houses, since we would naturally be more comfortable in these conditions, having lived all our lives here.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Confused Confucius
I am a confused person these days, to be honest have been in this state all my life, except for brief periods of revelations when I thought I had discovered my calling. These interludes were rather brief and interspersed at various stages of the four odd decades of my existence on this planet. I can only talk about myself, though I have a sinking feeling that there are many who would in their private moments share this state of confusion of mine. The confusion essentially relates to life in general, but can get very specific at times, for example the ladies are generally quite at a loss in their choice of the couture for the evening party. It is left for the spouse to clear the air more often than not. Then the confusion of the kitchen, selecting the menu for the day is equally time consuming with even the hubby and the kid not coming to the rescue. But irrespective of the fare on the table, criticism is likely as it is indeed a herculean effort to cater for both kinds of palates at the same time. These are the routine mundane kinds of confusion, and then there are some which have national or at times international ramifications. Election time confusion of which is the better of the devils to be entrusted for running the country for the next five years. The choice that you made more often than not makes you rue your decision and questions your own rationale behind the choice.
My recent confusion is borne out of the raw deal which the armed forces have been receiving over the last few months. You guessed it, it relates to the pay commission or should I call it “pay omission”? In a democracy the civilian hierarchy is supreme, this is an established fact. But here, there is a deliberate attempt to ensure that a career in the profession of arms is not just unattractive but downright second grade. Having made a choice over three decades ago (counting my RIMC, NDA and IMA days also), today I am not too sure whether I would find it as challenging as it used to be. The rank structure of the army is only sacrosanct for us in uniform; the outside world has long gone past all that. Our obsession with this hierarchy reminds me of a joke; my friend bought a pup and named it “Lt”. I was amused and asked him as to why this particular name, he responded that he wants it to learn the correct manners and be on the ball all the time. The next time when we met, he had rechristened him a “Capt”, apparently a promotion for a good job done so far and expecting to do even better in the future. It soon became a “Maj”, having pleased his boss no end with his exploits, loyalty and alertness. Now there appeared to be a change in his attitude, his responses were excellent whenever the friend (his boss) ordered him about, the rest of the family he simply ignored. The friend was seized of this malaise and felt may be another promotion would motivate him. Couple of days later, the dog was nowhere to be seen, on my enquiry; I was informed that my friend had shot it dead. The friend then clarified that on having been promoted to “Col”, the dog started to behave in a very strange manner, he was very friendly to all the outsiders but would not only keep barking at the family members but would on occasions not desist from sinking his teeth as well. Thank God he had stopped at that rank itself because beyond that I shudder to think what would have been the consequences!
Of late I have started fancying my chances at literary pursuits. I have interesting credentials to staking this claim, two articles in “The Hoot” in succession! May be this too shall pass muster! Yes I have had some exposures earlier as well, an article in the “Deccan Chronicle” some seven-eight years ago for which I was awarded a microwave oven. Some articles in “The Signalman”, our school chronicle and a silver medal in the USI Gold Medal Essay competition a few eons ago. I wonder if I can...
This is the confusion then, I do not know if I shall get over it soon or languish in the morass.
Kennedy
Kennedy, no not JFK, but our very own indigenous Tamil anna; our Tamil friends are unique and they adopt the names of dignitaries from across the globe, naturally it is a mark of respect for the country in question as also the person. We have quite a few of them, Stalin for example. Can you imagine any Russian naming his kid Stalin? But our DMK patriarch apparently felt that naming his progeny after the Russian dictator was a testimony to Indo-Russian friendship. Or maybe he wanted to prove his communist credentials and did not want to leave anything to chance. Anyway, the naming of our politicians can be suitably discussed some other time. So it was friend Kennedy we were discussing, this man is a driver; that is his job, so to say, but he is a walking encyclopaedia on Wellington, Coonoor in particular and the Nilgiris in general. He can give you a biography of Sam Bahadur, Fd Marshall Manekshaw giving out each minute detail including his shopping in the Connor market. His disappointment with the govt of the day at ill treating this great general during his last days has been commented on by Mr Nitin Gokhale also. Any queries relating to the possessions of real estate by the rich and famous and he has the answers from Narayan Murthy to Azim Premji, Nandan Nilekeni to MJ Akbar. When the IT czars are here can the bollywood stars be far behind? The bollywood also has some cottages tucked away, Rekha is said to be the recipient of one from the Big B during their lovey-dovey days. Even Amir is said to own one here. The glitterati obviously keep these possessions a closely guarded secret, away from the prying eyes of the paparazi. They have been inspired by our mythology and revert to the Agyatwas (in cognito) of the Mahabharata days, whenever they wish to get away from the hustle and bustle of their rather hectic lifestyle, with literally no time to stand and stare.
But getting back to our friend Kennedy, his expertise is not restricted to matters of real estate holdings alone, he has the memory of an elephant with respect to the senior hierarchy in the military brass as well. He was recruited in the early eighties, I feel that is the more appropriate term rather than employed, (as recruitment is normally associated with military recruits and he is half military as it is, serving here at the DSSC) and since the days of Sunderji, he recalls chauffeuring each Chief of each service. Not just this he even knows their regimental affiliations and the year of their visit quite distinctly. I had the pleasure of being chauffeured by him recently, when I had the privilege of being detailed as the protocol officer to Mr Azim Premji and had to receive him in his own little cottage here in Coonoor. It was a surprise for me, that he owned a dwelling right here, and then my friend Kennedy having realized that I was an ignoramus; decided to educate me on the happenings in Nilgiris.
But Kennedy is one of a type, uniquely gifted with the grey cells which are a storehouse and wealth of information. Ranga, is a name, most psc officers of the bygone era would be familiar with. The khaki clad postman was another such encyclopaedia, who would rattle out your locker number on seeing you and confirming your mail or otherwise for each course, on and on till he breathed his last. He was an institution! Another person comes to my mind with similar traits, Shuklaji of Srinagar Transit Camp. I would often joke with friends that the militants only need to get hold of this man and they would have not only our exact order of battle in J & K but also the details of officers in each unit, including their leave destinations, duration, Temporary duties, courses. Please remember half the Indian Army is there in the valley and the sheer number of officers transiting any day is mind boggling. Incidentally both these individuals have moved on the other world. This unique ability of these individuals is because they are extraordinarily gifted and also because they really enjoyed what they did. How I wish we could emulate and imbibe this passion....
Mr Knowalls!
How often have we had this feeling that in a discussion, it seems we are banging our heads against the walls literally? I am sure we have all gone through this ordeal a number of times. Sometimes it is the stupid sales clerk who just doesn’t listen to any reason but just goes on blabbering endlessly, but when it is a senior person who is the perpetrator then it really becomes a test of patience. Well today was just one of those days, a very senior person decided to preach a sermon which probably was lost on him as well. He was clear about just one thing and that was to ensure that he gets some sort of an endorsement from us, irrespective of the merits or demerits of the case. Annoyingly repetitive, he had no clue on either of the projects but still he resorted to using some “high sounding” words, for example, let us “synergise” if we look at the “larger picture” or holistically speaking so on and so forth, meaningless words thrown in the air, trying to weave a web of confusion. It works on a number of occasions, when you can simply browbeat the listener with this tomfoolery, but one has to be smart enough to realise that not every one falls in the same category, moreover when the other person happens to be better informed.
A common weakness or may be it is a congenital disorder, is the reluctance to acknowledge ignorance, somehow, our know alls; and we have plenty of them, have to have an opinion on every subject under the sun. They feel belittled at admitting that they have no clue about the subject, so they resolve to disguise their ignorance by going into soliloquy, a unilateral declaration of verbal offensive, often achieving the desired end state; a moral supremacy or ascendance over the insignificant other . If the other person is a junior in professional hierarchy, he naturally goes by the age old adage of wisdom is better part of valour and gracefully nods his comprehension and if he wants to add his two penny worth, he adds a few more adjectives in the same vein to further his boss’s cause, i.e. to massage his rather inflated ego. Alternately he really may not just want to join issues and lets it pass without offering any comments on the subject, which may be construed as an act of utter disrespect by the master or an abject surrender. Then there are some who actually reach the end of their tether and respond trying to rationally address the issue, which only renders him vulnerable to another set of verbal volleys. There are no escapes from these and he is forced into a grudging silence, the boss of course now adorns the looks of “the slayer of the thousand demons”, emerging victorious as though from a Roman Arena.
Today I had the misfortune of suffering the same fate, but stupid that I am, I went through all the phases before retiring hurt, but with the satisfaction that at least I made an effort and did not give up without a fight. Anyway ,may be there are lessons in this as well…
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
SHOEGATE
SHOEGATE
At the outset let me put the record straight, this tendency of suffixing a “gate”, after any ignominy is an American phenomena post Watergate; this of course is for the uninitiated. I know present generation, gen X may not be aware of this fact. Now getting back to this shoe business, our footwear suddenly gained prominence after ex American President George Bush was at the receiving end of a shoe shaped missile hurled at him and it was his deft skills of ducking which saved him from a definite strike on his face. How we wish he had mastered the art of ducking on some other important international issues rather than be the bull in the china shop which he chose to be. We are still clearing the mess.
But Indians have suddenly taken to this art like duck to water and this campaign, I obviously mean election campaign, has witnessed a host of these incidents, with politicians across all hues being the target for such a vainglorious attempt. It sparked off with our Finance Minister Mr P Chidambarm and the virus engulfed the PM, PM in waiting and even some lesser known politicians. Well, I am surprised that more of these have not been reported, as it has almost become a status symbol, after all, it is not every day that you get counted in the same breath as Bush, Manmohan and Advani. So some future incidents may actually be orchestrated to be counted as the “haves”.
Indians are no strangers to this art with our ex PM Mrs Indira Gandhi having taken a hit on her nose, the most prominent part of her anatomy during an election campaign in 1971 itself. Obviously it goes on to show that we are a more evolved society than the Yanks and they have to take a leaf or two from us even here. Shoes have a mythological significance for us, with Bharat actually ruling as the proxy of Lord Rama with his footwear gracing the throne of Ayodhya. There are other known collectors of footwear, who preferred to collect them rather than receive them gratis, with Imelda Marcos taking the cake with over couple of thousand pairs, some of them were diamond studded it is reported. In India Dr Jayalalita not to be left behind in such prestigious pursuits is also a proud possessor of a thousand odd pairs.
I am surprised that the incidents have not been hailed as the greatest leveller and an act of purging our caste ridden society of this evil practice. The cobblers were considered to be at the rock bottom of the social hierarchy, so utilising the footwear for this noble task the shoe-throwers have broken the shackles of caste and symbolically have proved their mettle!
At the outset let me put the record straight, this tendency of suffixing a “gate”, after any ignominy is an American phenomena post Watergate; this of course is for the uninitiated. I know present generation, gen X may not be aware of this fact. Now getting back to this shoe business, our footwear suddenly gained prominence after ex American President George Bush was at the receiving end of a shoe shaped missile hurled at him and it was his deft skills of ducking which saved him from a definite strike on his face. How we wish he had mastered the art of ducking on some other important international issues rather than be the bull in the china shop which he chose to be. We are still clearing the mess.
But Indians have suddenly taken to this art like duck to water and this campaign, I obviously mean election campaign, has witnessed a host of these incidents, with politicians across all hues being the target for such a vainglorious attempt. It sparked off with our Finance Minister Mr P Chidambarm and the virus engulfed the PM, PM in waiting and even some lesser known politicians. Well, I am surprised that more of these have not been reported, as it has almost become a status symbol, after all, it is not every day that you get counted in the same breath as Bush, Manmohan and Advani. So some future incidents may actually be orchestrated to be counted as the “haves”.
Indians are no strangers to this art with our ex PM Mrs Indira Gandhi having taken a hit on her nose, the most prominent part of her anatomy during an election campaign in 1971 itself. Obviously it goes on to show that we are a more evolved society than the Yanks and they have to take a leaf or two from us even here. Shoes have a mythological significance for us, with Bharat actually ruling as the proxy of Lord Rama with his footwear gracing the throne of Ayodhya. There are other known collectors of footwear, who preferred to collect them rather than receive them gratis, with Imelda Marcos taking the cake with over couple of thousand pairs, some of them were diamond studded it is reported. In India Dr Jayalalita not to be left behind in such prestigious pursuits is also a proud possessor of a thousand odd pairs.
I am surprised that the incidents have not been hailed as the greatest leveller and an act of purging our caste ridden society of this evil practice. The cobblers were considered to be at the rock bottom of the social hierarchy, so utilising the footwear for this noble task the shoe-throwers have broken the shackles of caste and symbolically have proved their mettle!
GAMES WE PLAYED AS KIDS: WHERE WAS BOREDOM
Games We Played as Kids: Where was Boredom!
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, an adage which the colonial masters not only believed in but also practiced it. This is amply illustrated by the sports facilities in small towns, which were princely states in the pre-independence era. The resident military officer in each of these states was a VIP and his whims and fancies were always honoured. Tennis, Billiards, Cricket were club games which were the favourite pastime of these officers. Tennis courts of various hues are therefore a common sight in even small towns. In fact the club culture itself owes it to the lat sahib for its continued prevalence even today. Since it was more for pleasure, a pursuit such as this was never taken too seriously to pursue it as a career. Dhar is one such small town, where I had the privilege of growing up. The town is approximately 55 kms from Mhow, which needs no introduction for the men and the ladies in uniform. A small princely state once ruled by the “Pawars”, it boasts of a similar facility which was patronised by the sahibs of yester years, the district administrative, judicial and education hierarchy, as also by the local well to do business persons, who could exploit this proximity to gain favours.
We, me and my younger sibling, took our first rookie lessons in Tennis here itself. The gentry covered the complete spectrum of the society there, not only in terms of their professions, but also of all ages with pre-teens like us to retired oldies in their seventies. But the common link amongst us was the love of the sport itself and it cut across all barriers and united us when it came to stepping on the clay courts. Let me introduce you to them, the best player of the club was a Mr Hamir chand Choudhary, a zamindar who was a graduate of Poona University of yore and he had honed his Tennis skills at the hallowed precincts of the University campus. His strokes were fluent and he could not suffer the unorthodox methods of putting the ball across the net. However, in his eagerness to play aesthetic Tennis, he would often end up losing to even us youngsters, upset at our comeuppance with strokes which were unorthodox to say the least but they worked and won you points nevertheless. Then there were a few who would play bare feet as they felt more at home without the shoes, Mr Jagdish Maltare an advocate practised this art to perfection, the smiling assassin, he could on his day humble Mr Hamir chand, although his strokes were laboured but his was the street smart style, which was useful in unnerving the suave zamindar and in his frustration he would end up as a loser.
But the most memorable character there, was the grand old man Mr Dingankar, father of a car garage mechanic, he was the most regular person on the court and loved the game immensely. Always ready for a game, even his failing eyesight and arthritic bones could not keep him away! He would land up there and wait patiently till someone needed a partner. His attire was always the same, a string tied around the waist (for want of a belt) to keep his pants from descending to the ankles.
We also had a princelings who graced the courts once in a while, the propah public school groomed youngster, he was athletic and was a natural at the courts. But he played with only a select few. It took us quite a while to come up to his exacting standards(!)His Highness the Raja was also quite regular and enjoyed the evening playing with any and everyone, he of course dabbled in doubles primarily. He prim and proper, dressed in immaculate white sports gear, he was a thorough gentleman. He had served in the army during the second world war in Burma and then retired probably somewhere around the time of independence. Being a Rimcollian (an old boy of Prince of Wales Royal Indian Military College Dehradun), I enjoyed a special affinity there. The younger prince was the “enfant terrible”, both on and off court, his tantrums kept us from enjoying the game with his father, he decided to make a dignified exit from the courts thereafter, never to return. We were of course blessed that we got an opportunity to rub shoulders with some of these gentlemen and ladies and in the bargain learned a few tricks of the trade. These tips proved invaluable in days to come as we managed to pull off some tricks when we faced a tough nut as an opponent. The street smartness always won the encounter and we emerged victorious.
We indulged in all kinds of sporting activities, some of these have been lost to our kids’ generations. Kabaddi, Kho Kho are recognised activities but “Khar Neeemuch” I am sure is unheard of “Ghulam Danda”, was another one. These games were played with the farm hand urchins, with no caste or status barriers amongst us. We played them in the farm itself, dust laden, bruised but highly competitive and enjoyable. Khar Neemuch was played by dividing the court into a fixed number of segments and a player had to cross from one end to the other extreme by dodging his opponents without being touched. Naturally it was quite rough, one hardly spared a thought about one’s clothes which bore the consequence of our pursuits. We tore a few, some buttons disappeared but obviously the incidents were our best kept secrets. Ghulam Danda required tree climbing skills of a very high order and Sujay my younger sibling was an expert, he could give the apes a run for their money. The den required throwing of a stick “Danda” and the denner had to catch the others without letting the danda being touched by the others. The others climbed the nearest tree(s) so it was fun unlimited. The experts would jump off the trees, test the elasticity of guava tree branches, a failure would result in an unceremonious fall, miraculously we never broke any bone. Our parents were blissfully unaware of our exploits lest we be barred from these earthy pursuits. During these adventures we raided mulberry plantations, picked fresh green gram (Chana), peas, green mangoes and Jamun. We enjoyed all the seasonal fruits without getting caught (thankfully!).
I feel sorry for our kids as they have only PSPs, TV and ipods to keep them company. Real life games and those invented ones and the indoor games were even more interesting. More about those some other time.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, an adage which the colonial masters not only believed in but also practiced it. This is amply illustrated by the sports facilities in small towns, which were princely states in the pre-independence era. The resident military officer in each of these states was a VIP and his whims and fancies were always honoured. Tennis, Billiards, Cricket were club games which were the favourite pastime of these officers. Tennis courts of various hues are therefore a common sight in even small towns. In fact the club culture itself owes it to the lat sahib for its continued prevalence even today. Since it was more for pleasure, a pursuit such as this was never taken too seriously to pursue it as a career. Dhar is one such small town, where I had the privilege of growing up. The town is approximately 55 kms from Mhow, which needs no introduction for the men and the ladies in uniform. A small princely state once ruled by the “Pawars”, it boasts of a similar facility which was patronised by the sahibs of yester years, the district administrative, judicial and education hierarchy, as also by the local well to do business persons, who could exploit this proximity to gain favours.
We, me and my younger sibling, took our first rookie lessons in Tennis here itself. The gentry covered the complete spectrum of the society there, not only in terms of their professions, but also of all ages with pre-teens like us to retired oldies in their seventies. But the common link amongst us was the love of the sport itself and it cut across all barriers and united us when it came to stepping on the clay courts. Let me introduce you to them, the best player of the club was a Mr Hamir chand Choudhary, a zamindar who was a graduate of Poona University of yore and he had honed his Tennis skills at the hallowed precincts of the University campus. His strokes were fluent and he could not suffer the unorthodox methods of putting the ball across the net. However, in his eagerness to play aesthetic Tennis, he would often end up losing to even us youngsters, upset at our comeuppance with strokes which were unorthodox to say the least but they worked and won you points nevertheless. Then there were a few who would play bare feet as they felt more at home without the shoes, Mr Jagdish Maltare an advocate practised this art to perfection, the smiling assassin, he could on his day humble Mr Hamir chand, although his strokes were laboured but his was the street smart style, which was useful in unnerving the suave zamindar and in his frustration he would end up as a loser.
But the most memorable character there, was the grand old man Mr Dingankar, father of a car garage mechanic, he was the most regular person on the court and loved the game immensely. Always ready for a game, even his failing eyesight and arthritic bones could not keep him away! He would land up there and wait patiently till someone needed a partner. His attire was always the same, a string tied around the waist (for want of a belt) to keep his pants from descending to the ankles.
We also had a princelings who graced the courts once in a while, the propah public school groomed youngster, he was athletic and was a natural at the courts. But he played with only a select few. It took us quite a while to come up to his exacting standards(!)His Highness the Raja was also quite regular and enjoyed the evening playing with any and everyone, he of course dabbled in doubles primarily. He prim and proper, dressed in immaculate white sports gear, he was a thorough gentleman. He had served in the army during the second world war in Burma and then retired probably somewhere around the time of independence. Being a Rimcollian (an old boy of Prince of Wales Royal Indian Military College Dehradun), I enjoyed a special affinity there. The younger prince was the “enfant terrible”, both on and off court, his tantrums kept us from enjoying the game with his father, he decided to make a dignified exit from the courts thereafter, never to return. We were of course blessed that we got an opportunity to rub shoulders with some of these gentlemen and ladies and in the bargain learned a few tricks of the trade. These tips proved invaluable in days to come as we managed to pull off some tricks when we faced a tough nut as an opponent. The street smartness always won the encounter and we emerged victorious.
We indulged in all kinds of sporting activities, some of these have been lost to our kids’ generations. Kabaddi, Kho Kho are recognised activities but “Khar Neeemuch” I am sure is unheard of “Ghulam Danda”, was another one. These games were played with the farm hand urchins, with no caste or status barriers amongst us. We played them in the farm itself, dust laden, bruised but highly competitive and enjoyable. Khar Neemuch was played by dividing the court into a fixed number of segments and a player had to cross from one end to the other extreme by dodging his opponents without being touched. Naturally it was quite rough, one hardly spared a thought about one’s clothes which bore the consequence of our pursuits. We tore a few, some buttons disappeared but obviously the incidents were our best kept secrets. Ghulam Danda required tree climbing skills of a very high order and Sujay my younger sibling was an expert, he could give the apes a run for their money. The den required throwing of a stick “Danda” and the denner had to catch the others without letting the danda being touched by the others. The others climbed the nearest tree(s) so it was fun unlimited. The experts would jump off the trees, test the elasticity of guava tree branches, a failure would result in an unceremonious fall, miraculously we never broke any bone. Our parents were blissfully unaware of our exploits lest we be barred from these earthy pursuits. During these adventures we raided mulberry plantations, picked fresh green gram (Chana), peas, green mangoes and Jamun. We enjoyed all the seasonal fruits without getting caught (thankfully!).
I feel sorry for our kids as they have only PSPs, TV and ipods to keep them company. Real life games and those invented ones and the indoor games were even more interesting. More about those some other time.
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