No More, No Less

A door opened. A shaft of bright light shone through.

Why hello Pops! What’s up?

Nothing much. Thought I would look in on you. See what you are doing.

Ah. You know how it is. Wondering when the long night will end.

The day follows the night, you know.

Heck, Pops, I didn’t know you followed Dire Straits!

Well, over here you follow a lot of things. I was telling your granddad the other day…

Hey, you met him? That’s cool, Pops! How is he? Did he recognise you?

He’s good. Not aged a day since he came over! And why shouldn’t he recognise me? He sired me after all! I even meet your grandmom every day. She still tends to confuse me with one or the other of your uncles.

Hehe yes I guess so. You all were quite a handful, weren’t you!

ARE a handful, laddie. Things don’t change just because we’re on a different side! But enough about me. Tell me, how are you? Are you still spending money like there’s no tomorrow? When will you learn to save money? Plan for the future?

Pops, the future is as the night. Dark, cold, and bottomless. So, what’s the point of saving money? What’s the point of anything, for that matter?

And that’s where you are wrong. Never thought rationally. God knows how many times I used to tell you to think, ponder, and not just talk. But you didn’t ever listen. And for that matter, what are you doing about your weight? I have told you a thousand times, if not more, that you need to control your weight.

Pops, chill. Relax. I AM looking after myself. And don’t you worry about my weight. Like I used to keep telling you, I have a V-shaped body. Only, it’s an inverted V.

Very funny.

Why Pops! I didn’t you know you had a sense of humour! Developed it over there, did you?

If you only knew, young man! I was known in my circles over there for my wit and humour. Ask your mom and sisters.

Talking of your circle, how are they all? They must have been surprised to see you trundling in!

Umm, not really. As you said in your message that day, the inevitable is well, inevitable. So, the folks over here, with the wisdom granted to them because of their change in status, expected me sooner or later. And well, there I was, one fine evening!

Look Pops, any chance of your coming back? There’s a lot I need to talk to you about. A lot to DO with you! I need you to read my book and tell me if I should continue. I want to….

I haven't gone anywhere. I am still around. Just in a different form. A thought, a memory. No more, no less. And hey, I put that idea of writing in your fat head! So, I obviously want you to continue. At least listen to me now! Instead of being like Balaam’s Ass.

Quit with the classical allusions Pops. Speaking of which, did you meet Plum?

Not yet. It’s too crowded over here, and there’s a long line of people waiting to meet him. But I will meet him eventually. I do have all the time now, you see! Eternity and all that y'know.

Yes, eternity is a rather long time...

Look, I need to go. It’s too hot here. And too noisy. It’s so much better over there, though your uncles could learn to talk a little less loudly. But I suppose it's too late for that! You look after yourself. And everybody at home. Spend more time with everybody. And don’t you worry about me. I will be around. You only have to think of me, and I will be there. In your fat head. And go for walks! Don’t laze around in front of the television.

Right then, Pops. Thanks for dropping by, and for the free advice. Guess some things don’t change, whichever side you may be on! Keep in touch. And hey, wait! The next time round, I want to hear the story of the Jamsaheb of Nawanagar and the Morris Minor...

The light dimmed and disappeared. The door closed.

Quizzes: questionable activity or a quest for answers?

It’s an addiction. Children, teens, young adults, adults. Male, female, cisgender, non-gender, whatever. Everyone can get addicted to it. Because this activity has nothing to do with age, sex, appearance, or socio-economic backgrounds. Success in this activity depends entirely on your ability to recall random information instantly, and the “pre-ability” to absorb and store arbitrary factoids in a dark(ish) recess of your mind.

This addiction is called a Quiz. A four-letter word, which like all four-letter words, promises infinite possibilities. It binds together people from varied backgrounds, walks of life (yes, that’s Knopfler – a quiz question for newbies) and food preferences. All united by the urge to pit their grey cells against a Being – the Quiz Master.

The origins of the activity, and the word itself, are hazy. Surprisingly for the subject matter, no one really knows how the word “quiz” came about, what was the first quiz question (I would have thought “To Be Or Not To Be”, that would be the question), who won the first ever quiz, and so on. One would have imagined that this primordial question would have been answered by the myriad quizzards dotted about the planet. But alas, ‘tis not to be. Theories abound, but no irrefutable sources (the bedrock of any quiz) are available. The mystery is huge, and to delve into the various theories would be the equivalent of several Christie novels. Of course, along the way you might learn the name of the first actor to play Hercule Poirot on television.

Quizzing is a hugely popular British Question. It seems to be most prevalent in the Mother Country and her many ex-colonies. In India (Jewel Of The Crowd, sorry Crown), quizzing is a particularly raucous and heated activity in the eastern and southern parts, though the western part does hold its own! Kolkata especially is a hotbed of questionable activities, with children being taught to read and absorb varied bits of trivia as soon as they can say “Ilish”. The north seems to be stuck on “Who invented Chicken Tikka Masala?” (Disclaimer: this is my perception and is not backed by verifiable facts).

The Brooklyn Eagle Quiz on Current Events (a quiz on an American radio channel started in 1923) is widely considered to be the first ever “quiz show”. This has degenerated into macabre, dystopian shows such as the Spelling Bee (in which young students, usually of South Asian origin, are asked to spell words like Appoggiatura and Smaragdine) and “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" (where answers are exchanged for…money!)

The acme of quizzing as an activity for pure intellectual satisfaction, with no lucre involved, is no doubt Mastermind, aired on the BBC. With its classic line “I’ve started, so I will finish” (inspired no doubt by Nelson just after the first shot at Waterloo), the show is capable of reducing the most erudite contestants to sweaty, blubbery, blobs of unanswered questions. The mother country also has another quiz variable – the Pub Quiz. Burns and Shorter had no idea how wildly successful their idea would become as a marketing strategy when they launched it in 1976. More on this in a later post.

But what is it about quizzing that fascinates people so much? There is no single answer. But to me, quizzing is a lot like life itself. Lots of questions. You know the answers to some questions, you get the answers to some questions from others, and you leave at the end with several questions unanswered.

College is a collage

 

“College” is not just a building with classrooms and gowned and capped scholars kicking down the cobble stones (yes, Paul, it’s your line). It is a stage of life that some fortunate children pass through. “Fortunate children” because not every child can do the college phase for various reasons. I exclude those who voluntarily drop out because they found a way of making a billion. Dollars.

A college is a pastiche of myriad stimuli. It is an institution of higher learning, it is a hub of culture, the source of information on the first shave, and gives the first taste of a freedom that does not exist in school. Even in today’s woke culture where kids go back to school with designer clothes, mobile phones that look like a space shuttle controller, and machine guns.

My college was down the road from my school. The environment was familiar, as was the trudge. It was supposedly one of the better bastions of academe for both the sciences and the liberal arts. We were of course part of the liberal, longhaired set. No complex equations or test tubes for us (that freedom I mentioned above…). The sylvan neighbourhood contained the usual confused mix of communities, and merchants catering to said communities.

My first day in college was unnerving, to put it mildly. I was trained in the navigation of complex & large human gatherings (aka crowds) thanks to my school, but nothing had prepared me for the intricate social conundrum that I – a plump, moon-faced, bespectacled lad - faced. To begin with I was in civvies – no uniforms in college. The outfit I had chosen was a hand-me-down pair of trousers and a shirt that looked like it had escaped from a 70s Bollywood movie – pointy collar and all. Most difficult for someone used to a uniform.

The classroom was a sea of female shapes, and I wondered if the college was actually an all-girls institution, and someone had pulled one on me. However, I stiffened the sinews, shot the cuffs, and entered as nonchalantly as I could. The female faces turned as one to stare at this blot who had dared sully their temple.

I walked rather stiffly to the last row and sat on one of the benches that looked like a refugee from some not-so-fussy prison. The professor (“teachers” in school morph into “professors” in college) – again a lady – marched into the room and I could sense the bonhomie between the female faces and the lady professor. A sisterhood against the male blot on the back bench. The professor took attendance (guess it was too early to withdraw all school habits). At the end of the exercise, I realised with a feeling of horror that I was the only male in the class.  A rock in a sea of one hundred and five mermaids. I would have called it quits right then if it wasn’t for a few familiar faces in the merry throng before me (more on that later). And I noticed a few sympathetic glances sent my way.

The day finally ended, and I trudged back home, prey to nameless fears about the future.

I will not get into the details of the next five years in this hallowed establishment of learning and literacy (acronymically speaking). Suffice to say that it shaped me, presented experiences that smoothened out the rough edges in my make-up, and helped me build friendships that have lasted to this day. I learned the exotic tribal art of “bunking”, a community activity that promotes camaraderie, leadership, and deep philosophy. Incidentally, the tribal leader who introduced me to bunking dropped out after two years and became a monk. Giving "bunking" a whole new, transcendental meaning.

I also learned how to manage the multiple social riddles that a hapless teen faces when thrown into the deep end without a ring. I learned the importance of managing freedom with responsibility, and the need to find someone to foot the bill for a restaurant sandwich.

And most importantly, I learnt the difference between a school and a college. In school, one absorbs knowledge. In college, one absorbs life.

School, or A Witch’s Den?

 

‘tis the Season Of Learning. In other words, School’s In after the summer break. In many geographies, the new school year starts in September. In some, it starts in April in a desultory manner, especially in those latitudes where summer is not so much bright sunshine as the very real risk of sunburn / dehydration, but the full circus starts in September. In a few countries, school starts in June. I come from one such country.

I have never much liked rain. “Wet outside” is not my ideal state of being. This dislike (“hate” is too strong a word) was compounded by having to go to school in what meteorologists describe as “convective cloud formation associated with rainfall and fresh winds with a speed of 40 km/hr over some areas”. In short, the combination of intemperate weather and the need to gain what education one could gain produced one very damp and sodden student. Which darkened my views on that most noble of institutions – the school recess. (Read more on my thoughts on rain here).

I went to a school which took “mass education” very literally. There were over 3,000 students at any given time in the complex, absorbing knowledge in 3 languages. Each grade (1st to 10th) had over 10 “divisions” labelled alphabetically (A, B, C…), and each division had at least 60 students. Do the maths. Assemblies in my school resembled one of those parades on Red Square. This also meant that one could go into any division and not be turfed out for being in the wrong room, because the teacher had no means of knowing who was supposed to be where.

What about Roll Call, you ask? A non-utilitarian concept meant for effete schools with under 20 students per “division”. Usually found in the South of one’s hometown.

I was a rather shy and reserved lad in the pre-teen and teen years. The onset of visual aids at an early age, the need to wear shorts as part of the uniform even after the voice had broken, and a stammer, all combined to make me crave that “Solitude, where we are least alone” (per George, Lord Byron). The situation was compounded by the fact that the school was a “mixed” school, i.e., it provided gainful education to boys and girls. Simultaneously. In the same room! Imagine the plight of a wee lad, unaccustomed to the company of strange ladies, forced to engage in education with skirted beings assembled to starboard and giggling under their frilly lace handkerchiefs.

The divisions were built around an invisible caste system, wherein the bright students were in the first three divisions, and the rest were arithmetically divided into the balance divisions. That was rather mean on average students like myself, with no access to brighter minds and kindly teachers who went over and above the call of duty to drill knowledge into brains whose neurons fired so frantically that they almost made the students keel over.

I struggled to understand most of the education that was fired like cannon shells at myself, and this led to my being enrolled in a phenomenon called “private tuition”, which merits a full post by itself. Mathematics and Science were beyond the pitiful limits of a brain more attuned to words and a fantasy world where there was no need to explain why A squared + B squared equalled C squared. I mean, why?? And what was I going to do with the knowledge that inert gases were not what I thought they were?

But the years passed by, through rain and shine. In 9th grade I managed to slip into the C division because I took French as a 3rd language (bless the French, I always say). One’s ego and sense of self-worth inflated like a balloon filled with the best helium money could buy. By the way, for the non-Indians reading this, most Indians are at least trilingual by the time they leave school. Many are pentalingual. Which adds a lot of depth and flavour to our arguments. And which speaks volumes about the quality of education in our schools.

In spite of the trials and tribulations I went through, I did manage to rise through the ranks and clear each grade with reasonably decent results, all thanks to the tenacity and determination of the schoolteachers to hammer in reams of education into receptive or unreceptive cerebrums (somethings do stick from Biology…).

And finally, one glorious April day, in spite of being in classrooms full of the slings and arrows of outrageous education (sorry Bill), I managed to scrape through the 10th grade and pass out (feet first) with an honourable discharge. And went on to a rite of passage called College.

So, in short, school was what Bill meant when he said, “Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here”. But it had its compensations. Like the relief one felt on leaving it, and the knowledge that come what may, I did not have to go back to school.

Little did I know that I was entering a school called Life! Where "We are all just prisoners here of our own device". Guess Don also went to a kind of Dotheboys Hall.

The Name's Bond. Raksha Bond-han

 

It’s that time of the year in the native when ladies, under the guise of a festival called “Raksha Bandhan” (Securing Security), extract protection money from their brothers. Yes, Yes, I know it should be the other way round – the sisters paying the bros for their protection – but I suppose the ladies didn’t get the memo from Il Consigliere! Or they ignored it – sisters can identify a good deal when it lands on their laps.

There are many stories and tales about the origin of this festival, and most natives know most of them, so we shall not get into that. Robustly cultural, the festival takes on different hues and different emotions for all of us. To the extent of pushing the boundaries of siblinghood to “Orally Anointed Brother / Sister” who are not biologically related but are emotionally tied in a bond that transcends ages. There was also that theory, propagated in textbooks across schools in the native, that “all Indians are my brothers and sisters”, thereby questioning the sanctity of another relational matrix. Thankfully, it was ignored. This festival is also useful for converting amorous males into deflated siblings – the orally anointed variety.

I have a number of sisters across the Family Line. Most are elder to me, save one, who is not only the youngest, but is also the Brat of the family. From an era when brats were (and are) much loved siblings. Growing up with this band of sisters was an incredible experience. Not only were they a window to a world of possibilities, but they were also a shield from that self-same world when it became a bit too heavy for one’s frail shoulders.

One lamented the fact that these sisters went into a new world and relationships after marriage, but thankfully the gents who took away our sisters were kind-hearted enough to allow the bonds to continue and prosper. Of course, knowing our sisters, the gents didn’t have much of a choice. “Fait accompli” is a phrase coined expressly for sisters. And yes, the gents also had their sisters, who went into their own new worlds, and so the chain went on.

Over the years we bros have seen our sisters building bonds, creating families, taking on the multiple roles that are the lot of women everywhere. We have seen them managing joy, grief, stubbed toes, toilet training, illnesses, graduations, and myriad other peaks and troughs in their timelines. Always with a smile, sometimes with a frown and rarely with a glare. Incidentally, a sister’s glare is a red alert – something bad is usually afoot for the bro who has received the glare. The best solution for him would be to go off to the jungle and hide.

To my sisters, and to sisters everywhere, the bond shall neither be shaken nor stirred. The thread you tie stays firmly tied. And to the ladies who left their bros and came into our family, you only strengthen the ties.

Razor sharp close shaves

As a wee child I used to be fascinated by the shaving process. Watching the guv’nor do his daily ritual with brush, soap and water was possibly the nearest thing to the perfect start of a day that one reads about in verse and song.

I also had several family members (male, of course) who resembled a moving mass of hair rather than a human, and I suspect they shaved at least twice a day. They got to mind the celebrated Russian novelist Vladimir Brusiloff, peering at the world through dense shrubbery.

I despaired of ever having enough dermal growth to merit more than a token scratching of an otherwise innocent face, interrupted midway by a foul pair of spectacles which looked more like windshields than ocular aids. The angst was deepened in the latter part of school, when I had classmates who claimed (as adults in schools are wont to do) that they shaved several times daily.

I am no pogonophobe, but men who looked like Assyrians coming down on the fold were excluded from my social circle upon pain of dry shaves.

Coming to teenhood, the epidermis still refused to sprout, and I was left forlorn, condemned to a hairless hell that threatened to deepen an existential angst. I used to gaze wistfully at the array of shaving creams, after shaves, and razors that lined the shelves of the neighbourhood pharmacy. The owner of the pharmacy did not help matters by waxing lyrical about the merits of menthol v/s plain, cream v/s foam, and multi-blade v/s single blade. The maniacal gleam in his beady eyes as he gazed sideways at me while extolling these questionable virtues to profusely clean-shaven customers excited a desire to inflict grievous bodily harm on his closely-shaven face.

And the guv’nor continued with his daily ritual. Which now seemed an infliction of barbarous proportions rather than a celebration of the dapperness that he was known for.

I at last reached man’s estate and started praying fervently for lush tendrils of growth to adorn my rather chubby face, now graced with the kind of spectacles that John Lennon wore. I pottered around doing odd-jobs and to my jaundiced eyes every boss I worked with flaunted a spotless chin and reeked of the latest after-shave lotion. I even started chanting an invocation called “The Hökutoppur”, hoping that this ancient Icelandic song would invoke various Nordic gods to bless me with Viking-esque growths which would involve long hours of shaving. But…nada.

The years passed. I finally started shaving but it was more a token gesture (like elections) rather than a full commitment to facial governance. And even these gestures caused pain as my face remained smooth as silk. Not for me "the heavenly touches on earthly faces" of ol' Bill (ya ya he was as bearded as a clam.) Since I had started earning my keep I invested in multi-blade razors, electric shavers, aloe-enriched foams, and gels with chamomile extracts, to be ready for the day when I could plough through the foliage like a lawn mower gone doolally.

And at long last, came the day! When I noticed a heavier than usual stubble. A proper, dark mantle upon my chin, rather than a smudge. When mom commented that I looked like something from under a stone. I grabbed my latest, 5-blade, titanium-edged razor made from the same material as the space shuttle. I lathered on the rich, bergamot-scented foam gifted by a beautifully-shaven friend who took pity on me one rainy Sunday. My hands moved over my chin and cheeks like Sir Zubin leading the Vienna Philharmonic through a thunderous Straussian symphony. The smooth skin that emerged was as bewitching as Venus appearing from the sea.

However, I have not reached the stage of daily shaves, and never will. I have made my peace with this dermatological anomaly, and in keeping with my Gemini character I now sport a rather lush beard that startles passers-by and makes them hurry on away from me. 

After all, close shaves are for those who walk close to the edge.

The thin end of the wedge (of cheese)

I have always wondered whether Tolkien meant "Lord Of The (Onion) Rings".

I have always been on the thin side of plump. Which means that I am not unhealthily thin or not-thin – just thinly plump. Call me thump. As a tot, as a child, as a bespectacled teen and as a bespectacled (now despectacled) adult, I always needed a larger-than-usual of everything, be it clothes, foods, shoes, or just my personal space. Strained midriff buttons, popped trouser bands and outgrowing belts faster than they could be upgraded were pastiches of a life lived for food. I was born large, and I just continued along the merry way. More of me to love and admire is how I see it.

I am a food lover (“foodie” is quite overused nowadays). I may not live to eat but I do believe that food (one of my favourite four letter words after “Baxi” and before “wine”) is meant to provide meaning to life. Growing up in a household and within a larger family context where food was treated with respect, and formed an important narrative in every gathering, I learnt to appreciate the nuances of food. I also learned not to have hangups about food, not to waste food, and appreciate that food habits varied within families, communities and even countries. I grew up swinging both ways where food is concerned and love potatoes as much as the steak that sizzles by their side. I even look kindly upon those people who go ecstatic over bitter gourd (karela for the natives)

So yes, food was, and is, an important construct in my life. I am fairly easy-going as a person (thumps can’t afford to antagonise anyone – we can’t run very fast) but woe betide the purveyor of less-than-optimal food offerings. Many are the restaurants and individuals who have got an earful from me for supplying provender that was fit only for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. My online posts are full of diatribes against restaurants who came within the measure of my wrath for giving bad food. (I keep saying sorry to Bill but it’s all his fault for creating these words and phrases.)

The chance to live in Paris was the acme of my quest for good food. I will refrain from getting too dense about the kind of food this paradise for gourmands offers. Suffice to say that I understood the true meaning of ambrosia while in this city of cities. My current domicile, Dubai, has exposed me to more food choices than the V & A has paintings. And let me not forget to mention Nigeria, where the food may not always be elegantly plated, but is hearty, bounteous, and cooked with a lot of love. And ferocious spices. A month in Hong Kong proved to me that one can eat whatever does not eat one. And the food choices within the native are worthy of a separate post. So, what does one do?

Returning to my grammage, I must confess to occasional frenzied bouts of efforts to drop the load. Growing up next to one of the largest open spaces in Mumbai should have been motivation enough to get going, but the mere sight of people in designer athletewear made me mildly nauseous. A popular gym near the house got my custom for a year but it was more for the interesting company and the sandwich guy at the gate. Ditto the Olympic-sized swimming pool. The taste of the “vadapavs” in the pool canteen continue to linger on the palate. I do get these bouts even today, but I have learnt to control them and channelise that urge towards better things. Like writing blogs about food. And reading food blogs.

I did have a phase where I actually dropped the grammage and discovered a jawline. Thankfully the phase was short-lived. I reverted to the “round is a shape” philosophy fairly quickly.

I do not for a minute intend to imply that eating per se should be the raison d’être of our existence. All I wish to say is that good food, like good books, good wine, and good company, does more for our physical, moral, and mental well-being than any exercise, yogic contortions or marathons.

After all, it’s a matter of perception. A V-shaped bod is good. No one said it shouldn’t be an inverted V shape. And “fat” is just one vowel away from “eat”…!

p.s.: you can read my earlier food posts here , here and here 

Tide in the affairs of men

 

There is a tide in the affairs of men.

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

-      Brutus and Cassius, in conference.

Although this is fiction from a completely different era, context and geography, the lines, especially the first two, always remind me of 26 July 2005. A day which the good folks of Mumbai will never forget. I certainly will not.

Today, 19 years later, the day continues to evoke vivid memories.

The tide and flood which rendered the city afloat on a full sea (‘twas high tide after all) was one of those freak weather phenomena which are increasingly getting normalised. 944 mm of rainfall – about 50% of the annual rainfall – fell on the city in less than 24 hours. “Unprecedented” is too weak a word for this catastrophic weather event.

Many stayed put where they were, hoping to ride out the situation to the best of their resources. But a vast majority of people (this author included) tried to return to home and hearth for various reasons. The inevitable roadblocks, traffic jams, flooding of railway tracks and closure of the airport compounded a situation for which there was no playbook. Long lines of people trudging through waist-high water, cars abandoned on the road, trees on the roads, and destruction of homes and infrastructure painted a picture in darkest tenebrism. Bleaker than Dante’s Seven Hells. Noah’s flood was a mere bucketful in comparison.

Many people have asked why this happened and continue to ask even today. While there may be no straight or easy answers, suffice to say that nature’s obiter dicta cannot be tossed aside like a broken umbrella. Just like karma, nature too can be a bitch, of frightening proportions. Mankind’s blithe ignorance of the laws of nature and the disdain for the need to co-habit with nature, and not try to master it, will continue to produce such mind-bending calamities.

And the overriding question - did we take the current when it serves - to ensure that such events do not recur? No. We are seeing more of these natural disasters created by man’s intrinsic ability to shoot himself in the foot where nature is concerned. This must stop. We must go back to building harmony with nature. Or lose our ventures.

As for myself, how did I spend the day nineteen years ago? I was headed back home in a colleague’s car, with an old monk as co-passenger. Though I was on the road for over twenty-four hours, the monk’s sage counsel to “be wet inside and dry outside” guided me to my destination.

A Tale of two CTs (with apologies to C.Dickens)

 

I like general elections.

To many they are serious exercises of democrazy in which the electorate – that chunk of age-enabled citizenry that is suspected to be sentient enough - chooses its political representatives through a quaint process called “voting”. This “voting” is touted as a “duty for the citizens” of the country they inhabit.

To others, they provide a lot of CTs (Cheap Thrills). As aspirants clash for that most important currency – The Vote – those whose votes are up for grabs are treated to a show that rivals the best circuses going. From portentous proclamations of fighting for the greater good of our constituency, to thunderous assurances of showering benefits in exchange for Our Vote, all the way to sickly smiles and meet-and-greet marathons, We Who Vote get to see a side of human nature that would make Machiavelli nod gravely at this vindication of his belief that Politics Has No Relation To Morals.

And I just love the way people Show The Finger after voting.

2024 is a year filled with elections across the globe. I mean at the national level of course – granular level elections are held almost every day somewhere (for instance, I was elected Prime Mini Stirrer of Coffee in my house today). Four are of great social (media), political, economic and circus import – India, UK, France and the USA. Of these India and the UK elections are of particular interest to this author owning to his ancestry, roots, interests, and general curiosity levels.

The elections in India were mammoth, to put it mildly. 642 million people (you read that right) voted in an election festival that lasted 7 weeks. People were elected, the PM was duly (re) appointed, and the good citizens of the country went back to their argumentative selves (Dr. Amartya Sen, profound apologies). There were a few twists in the tale though. There was a whole doodah about faulty calculations (two zeroes that weren’t at the fore – from the land that invented zero, imagine!) and estimates of seats to be won – something possibly connected to the Indy 400. Then, the opposition benches suddenly became crowded. And noisy. For the first time in a decade, the country had a Leader of the Opposition in Parliament. This gentleman (one hopes to see a lady there soon of course) suddenly developed teeth and started baring them at the government. Finally, the country went back to reliance on ABC (Administration By Coalition). But all’s well that ends well. We the Voters showed that karma can really be a bitch.

In an interesting aside, both the LOG (Leader of Government) and the LOP (Leader of the Opposition Party) have beards. Macho democrazy. In Bengal they would be called Macho Das.

The elections in the Mother Country were apparently a foregone conclusion. A drop in the ocean compared to the one in its former colony. But the country laboured to prove that it is the Mother of Democrazy. The current Tenant tried to get inspiration from Ginger Rogers (Singin' In The Rain) but forgot that pithy one liner from Bill - “There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune”. My personal opinion is that Brown may be a common name in the Mother Country; dermal shades of the same hue may be rising (there is a significant land mass there which should be called India Occupied UK), the (ex) colonials may be contributing massively to shore up the afore-mentioned fortunes, but the country is not yet ready for a reverse power play. If I were part of IOUK, I would focus on that fortune bit and not worry about the affairs of men.

At the time of writing, the elections in France have thrown up the usual bouillabaisse. Though a highly author-itative country, it showed that Le Pen is not mightier. Le peuple français had obviously read Steinbeck’s Grapes Of Wrath and rightly pushed her sods away. Apparently they were going to shorten the length of the baguette. Quel horreur! One hopes the country is left to its own devices.

The elections in the USA are more of a Senior Citizens Home election. There should be a minimum and maximum age limit for candidates here. The mind boggles at the prospect of the Land Of The Free being run by a person who cannot run. With one candidate getting an earful, and the other likely to cast his vote for George Washington, one wonders if elections should be held at all here. I don’t think the average DonJoe is really bothered. After all, most can’t name their Senator, or the capital of their own state.

In closing I just realised why the Chinese don’t have elections. It’s because in Mandarin, there is no difference between the L and the R sounds.

Where have all the Brits gone?

I make no bones about my Anglophilia. Like most Indians of my vintage – caught between old rotary dial phones and the first tentative mobile phones – I grew up on Wodehouse & James Herriot, walked among old Gothic structures in areas called Fort, Churchgate, and Marine Drive, and wondered what fish and chips tasted like. I was (am actually, of course) the scion of a father who had not only studied Law in one of those Gothic Structures, but was adept at solving crossword puzzles of The Times, wrote “Esq.” after his name and frowned upon meaningless abbreviations. And was able to tie a Windsor knot effortlessly.

My friends in college were of similar persuasion and many a pleasant hour was spent on the cricket field boundary wall facing our college discussing Wodehouse and the doings of Wooster. In fact, if I removed my spectacles and gazed at the cricket field, I could be forgiven for thinking I was watching a match in rural Shropshire.

I visited London for the first time in 1992. My emotions on first arriving in The City (via Paris but that’s another blog) were understandably incoherent. I was all a-twitter (yes, the word existed even in the 90s and meant a completely different thing) and could barely wait to reach Oxford Street and imbibe…Englande! I tumbled out of the Underground and onto the Street, took a deep breath, and heard a peremptory voice asking for directions to Wembley… in Gujarati! I looked wildly around but all I could see and hear was non non-English folks and tongues (with Indian folks and tongues predominating).

Over the years I came to terms with this divergent binary to all that I held dear about the Dear Country. I put it down to that quaint British habit of taking rather than giving. I met natives (of my country) who were more English than the Archbishop of Canterbury. I met natives who had long strings of alphabets after their names or had a “Lord” prefixed to a decidedly Kathiawari or Gangetic-plain origin name. In all this I was reassured that the things that I held to be Truly British – the Queen, the BBC, the Prime Minister, fish and chips, tea, and cricket – were Truly British. These would never be anything but.

But of late, that reassurance has been shaken. Profoundly. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the First Minister of Scotland and the Taoiseach of Ireland are of South Asian origin. The newly appointed Director-General of the BBC was born in a dusty town to the north-east of Mumbai, India. The current and previous two Home Secretaries of the Sceptered Isle trace their origins to the colonies. Chicken Tikka Masala, and not Fish and Chips, is the preferred cholesterol inducer.

Do not get me wrong. All these individuals have succeeded to the highest levels in their chosen profession by dint of hard work and talent. They deserve to be, or not to be, where they are. CTM, though a hideous amalgamation of chicken and cream which should never have been permitted to exist, speaks to the soul of every Ordinary Englishman in his cups.

Still, Where Are The Brits?

Summer's a bummer

I have never felt kinship with ovens. They signify heat, burning, and a Vulcan-ish degradation that does no good to anyone. But I live in Dubai. Where nature itself becomes an oven in summer, and man, like steak, transforms into a sizzling mass of melting fat and brown skin.

To most people, summer is beaches, ice creams, chilled beers, even colder Chablis, and bikinis. To others, it is peeling noses, blistered skin, and red rashes. Happy days, essentially. Especially for those who live in European climes, where rain, fog, mist, and grey are the most frequently used words.

Summer creates a two-way traffic lane. The folks who call this country home go back to their actual homes, or congregate in said grey climes, glad to be away from the near-blinding sunshine, roads crowded with the pale migrants, and heat that can fry eggs on the pavement (been there, done that...). The city is suddenly overrun with paunchy, pale migrants from grey, dystopian lands, hoping to soak in the heat, get sand in their sandals and proudly carry back the "Dubai Tan". In this part of the world, sun, sand, blue sky, and air conditioning are part of the landscape. Like Chicken Tikka Masala in Brixton.

Where I live, summer is not so much a weather pattern as a retail extravaganza. Summer implies massive "sales", "fantastic offers", and stock clearance promotions of last year's parkas and woolens. Because we trade in everything which can earn a margin!

If you are here at this time of the retail calendar, summer is something to be enjoyed from the icy-cool confines of your home, office, car, or nearest temple to retail excess. Though near-nudity is frowned upon, most people in the open push the margin (aka the hemline) as much as possible without being bunged into the dark confines of a holding cell (also air conditioned, by the way).

Summer is all very fine and dandy. But when you live in a country where the sun shines for most of the year, ditto blue skies, the temperature in summer is that of a rare steak (pardon the meaty references), and rain is a four-letter word you read about in rare manuscripts, you do yearn for a touch of the Boreas, a whiff of cold, and a nod to Jack Frost.

I can take summer or leave it. In my home country, summer was a precursor to the monsoon and the start of the new school term, both in June. These are not happy memories. My name means "winter", and though not a cold person, I am happiest in this weather.

And where I live, winter is not so much a weather pattern as a retail extravaganza. And the temperature is akin to a well-iced Riesling.

On a head lies a crown

You would have to be in your 80s or 90s to have watched both an earlier coronation and the one today, of a monarch of the "United Kingdom and other Commonwealth realms". Since I am not in the age band mentioned, the chance to watch the coronation ceremony today was a once in a lifetime occasion (hopefully).

I couldn't watch today's ceremony in its entirety - a common man's labour is a burden not to be mocked at - but I did follow a bit. And no doubt, yards of media real estate will be devoted to the event in the days to come. So I am assured of enough fodder to feed my curiosity, nosiness, and general interest in trivia.

And I suppose (and hope) that this post will also go down as part of the coronation archives.

There are many monarchs scattered around the globe - some serving, some retired, some forced out. But none of them can come close to generating the grandeur, history, and plain spectacle-worthiness of a British monarch.

The British monarch carries more history on their (damn pronouns) shoulders than most other monarchs. A central part of social and political life in the island for the better part of a thousand years, and a global phenomenon for nearly 300 years, the British monarchy get its share of barbs today, well into the 21st century.

But modernity is nothing but the continuity of tradition in new clothes, so the enthronement of a new monarch today was merely a part of the continuum that is the British monarchy. And never mind if the commoners (read republicans) moan about the lack of relevance of this institution.

The late Queen Elizabeth II was considered a "mother figure" by most Britishers, and her passing was almost unthinkable. Especially because it happened so suddenly. But the immediate declaration of the current King as the new monarch (aka Head of State) assured the public of continuity, if not synchronicity with the mood at large.

Unlike other monarchies, the British monarchy is a very familiar feature to most people on the planet. Most of our ancestors were "subjects of the crown" at one time (I remember trying to claim "British ancestry by virtue of my grandfather and father being British subjects", when asked why I should be given a British visa). 

Due to this massive footprint of Empire, I sometimes feel that there are more "Brits" outside the British Isles than in the Isles! Most former colonies still cling to most things British, while the colonies seem to have colonised the UK entirely. Remember, the Prime Minister is of Indian origin and the First Minister of Scotland is of Pakistani origin. On my first visit to Oxford Street as a wide-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool Wodehouse fan, I could only hear Gujarati! And when I asked a pale-skinned lad where the Brits were he replied "Can't say, I'm Irish." In my 12 visits to the country since then, I have met a Baronet, a Lord, and the richest person in England. All are Indian. Many of the key players in today's coronation are of non-British ancestry, and this flexibility of accommodation is a key feature of today's monarchy in the United Kingdom.

There is much chatter about the monarchy being a closed user group due to its inherent "heriditary" nature. That the monarch is an accident of birth. That it's not a given that a monarch may have the ability to lead. But there is much to be said about absorbing "leadership" and "ruler" traits from a thousand years of collective family experience. Yes there are the bad eggs - which farm doesn't have them? But the British monarch has a very visible, active, and involved role in the Armed Forces of the country, and the entire sequence of responsibility to, and of, the armed forces (a much loved and respected institution in any country), is something that underscores the centrality of the monarchy to life in the UK. And being part of the Armed Forces does imbue one with leadership traits. If nothing else, you learn to bite the bullet. Or dodge it. Depends on your outlook and position in life.

Today the British monarch is more an advertising campaign for their country rather than a "ruler of all that they survey" (I really need a solution to these pronouns!) The pomp and pageantry of today's coronation is no doubt as much a media success as an organisational one! As long as the TRPs and talking heads see merit and value (even transitory) in the monarchy, I see no immediate threat to this institution. 

Be that as it may, as someone who lives in an absolute monarchy in the Middle East, I know that the bonds tying the monarch to their subjects can be as strong or as tenuous as the monarch wants. I can see the huge respect and affection given to the rulers of the country where I live, and how they respond in kind.

And on that note, let me return to my tea and cucumber sandwiches with chutney.

God Save The King!

Junetenth

I hated June. Primarily because it heralded the start of yet another laborious, benighted, sodden academic year. In India the academic year for all levels of education (such as it is) starts around the 10^th of June. This dystopian situation is compounded in Bombay by the onset of the monsoon season, with its grey skies, flooded rail tracks and damp, garbage strewn roads. I wasn’t particularly enthused by education at that time, and I am sure the feeling was mutual.

Bombay in my growing up years wasn’t a pleasing place at any time of the year, but the monsoon made it particularly noisome, fit for neither man nor beast (the average Bombayite falls into neither category, so he is totally fit for purpose.) As a student I was in an intermediary stage of evolution and my pleas to avoid school during this season, for fear of potential damage to my nascent psychological well-being, were fobbed off with earnest exhortations of how education was important to Get Ahead in Life!

I particularly disliked this period of the year due to the necessity of walking to school with a bag full of books – I abhor all forms of physical exertion except turning the pages of a book or raising a glass or fork to my mouth. My school was about 3 miles from home and the parent body felt the exercise would build a growing body and mind. Umbrellas of course were not an option to keep both boy and books safe and dry. The raincoats then in popular use barely reached one’s ankles and made the wearer look like a sherpa with a secret sorrow.  With the dampness seeping in through rubber shoes and making the socks wet, said boy was miserable, to put it mildly.

College years didn’t change my point of view of Junetenth, at least in Bombay. However, opportunities for travel began to show themselves and I discovered the joys of traipsing through boroughs and vales, hills and plains away from Bombay. The new-found liberty of parking oneself in a restaurant overlooking a verdant vista on a side road to somewhere and titillating the taste buds with tea and fried foods (apparently a Thing in the monsoon) helped reduce the mordant dislike that I used to feel for Junetenth.

Coming to man’s estate I found myself in Paris one grey September day, set to

rise further in the realms of academe. It was fall, it was raining that day, and it was raining heavily. But to my utter surprise, I found myself standing in the rain on the street outside the métro station and absorbing the genteel, delicate drops falling on my upturned face. The air felt fresh and clean, the roads were glistening like the lips of a beautiful woman drinking wine and the sheer profusion of colourful rainwear lifted my spirits no end. Of course, my spectacles misted up and I caught the death of a cold after that and was laid up for almost a week with fever and the shivers. But the realisation dawned on me that Junetenth was no more a problem!

The academic season in this developed and beautiful country starts in September, when the weather is fit for spoils and strategems of love, good wine and long walks (as Shakespeare would have said if he had lived in Paris as a student.)

I now look upon rain as a partner in fun and an affirmation that life is not just a four-letter word!

Ego, Igitur Scribo

I stuttered badly as a child. Really badly. I couldn’t even speak an entire sentence fluently, leave alone hold my own in a debate or other verbal activity. Growing up in the 70s and going through the rigors of education by numbers, I developed an extreme form of shyness and preferred my own company.

This shyness and preference to be in a shell made me gravitate towards the written word. I found books (not textbooks of course) to be a convenient and easy escape from the taunts and “sticks and stones” as Shakespeare put it so nicely. Books also allowed me to think – which I could without stuttering.

I also discovered a flair for languages and found French to be a wonderfully expressive language in which to put down ardent words of love and desire (though these were never delivered to actual living persons). And most importantly, I didn’t stammer at all when I spoke in French!

From reading to writing was a natural progression (though the third R wasn’t, and isn’t, my forte at all). Writing allowed me to express myself fluently, without halting, hesitating or pausing. In school, I delighted in writing essays, short stories and other pieces of prose. Esoteric topics like “The Autobiography Of An Umbrella” or “A Trip Through The Rain In India” were easy as pie for me. I could write, and keep writing, without fear of breaks or mockery. Long form essays and literary critiques in college were finger-snappingly easy!

I discovered a few channels on which to write - no digital platforms then but essentially the “middles” of prominent newspapers and some newsletters recommended by friends. The newspapers of course rejected my submissions without grace or gentleness. But I still treasure (and framed) the first ever rejection note I got – at least they bothered to reply! I also got opportunities to do English-French-English translations and earned enough to pay for my ticket to France for higher studies.

I started working in advertising and found myself doing more copy work than client relations. The opportunities to meet writers in different languages who could weave magic with words was exhilarating beyond…words! I also got opportunities to work in PR where I could use my writing skills to generate a lot of content such as press releases, white papers, ghost articles for clients and so on. This also helped me learn how to shape my thoughts and writing flow into coherent content and not just confused rambles on a page!

I moved to Dubai in the early naughties and continued to work in advertising. One of my core functions was to manage copy and content for all my clients. I thus got a chance to practice my writing skills on a wider canvas and explored industries as diverse as foods, airlines, telecom, medical services and financial services. The growth of the internet, social media and digital channels, and the development of the “smart phone”, gave me innumerable opportunities for pithy, silly or plain thought-provoking content which could be published at the click of a button.

I also started a blog to document the quirks, delights and tragedies of everyday life. You are reading this on my blog!

To conclude, my motto is “Ego, Igitur Scribo” – I Am, Therefore I Write. I can think of no more fulfilling activity than writing and I can’t wait to put down all the ideas jostling in my head on to paper till the ink dries out!