The State of the Nation: Some Irreverent Thoughts

The nation waits with bated breath,
So too Uncle Sam, NSG and the IAEA
As the world's largest functioning anarchy
Turns its wheels of democracy.

Long Live Democracy!
Long Live The Republic!

Post-Script: This is neither poem nor prose, as you will all readily agree! Also, it does not have any rhyme or reason. These are only random, irreverent thoughts. All characters in this Great Indian Drama – or is it The Theatre of the Absurd – are fictional. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is only a figment of imagination of the respective reader, and I cannot be hauled up to any court of law in India or abroad for the same.

Clarification:

The Insider: A novel by the former Prime Minister PV Narasimha Rao.

Honest Abe: The good old Abraham Lincoln who made us all believe that democracy is of the people, by the people and for the people.

The Great Helmsman: Mao Zedong of our unfriendly neighbourhood fame.

Inspiration: Frozen Sun and his Poem!

FIELD MARSHAL SHFJ MANEKSHAW

1914-2008

Silver Jubilee of a Win, and a Grin!

There are moments in one’s life, which comes but rarely, that remain etched in one’s memory, forever. I am sure those of us who watched the 1983 World Cup cricket final 25 years ago, this day – rather this night – still get goose bumps when we recall that roller coaster ride of a match that culminated in an unbelievable win for the underdogs and the launch of a grin made famous by none other than The Leader, Kapil Dev.

It will not be easy for the succeeding generations to comprehend in full measure the sheer magic of that moment. There were a lot many factors that made that victory very, very, special.

India of the early 1980s was not a very exciting place to be growing up in, let me tell you. We were still in the rut of the permit raj; corruption was rampant, politics was very much a cesspool, unemployment prevailed over rural and urban areas, and poverty was very much a reality. Militancy had sprung up with a vengeance in Punjab, threatening life and liberty in many parts of the country.

On the sports front, our hockey was at a new low, what with the 7-0 drubbing at the hands of archrivals Pakistan at the final of the New Delhi Asiad. There was no Indian standing at the podium anywhere for the National Anthem to be played and the flag to go up the mast. The mood was one of gloomy despondence.

When the Indian team left for the Prudential World Cup, not many would have bothered to check out what was going to happen that English summer. The team, of course, had big names, but nothing to show by way of accomplishments: the two previous World Cups saw India battling it out at the bottom of the table. The great Gavaskar had created history by scoring a princely 36 runs of 60 overs, and carrying the bat through the entire innings!

So, when the Editor of Wisden and respected cricket observer David Frith nastily commented that if India won the Cup he would eat the paper on which he was writing that feature, not even the diehard fans back home felt offended! Betters at the Ladbrokes too didn’t show the high five to the Indian team, for all I know!

The tournament began and, in a way, a remarkable transformation was taking place in the Indian dressing room, despite some alleged bad vibes among the top players. The first spark came when India beat the reigning two-time champions West Indies rather comfortably in their very first match. But no one, pundits or purists, was willing to call us the `dark horse’ yet – we were still very much the also-rans. The second win against  the lowly rated Zimbabwe too didn’t inspire confidence in the betters and punters, not to forget supporters like yours truly. Mighty Australia walloped India in the third match, and West Indies showed where we stood – rather they stood – with a convincing win in the very next match. The sheen of the first win was already gone, and the shoulders had started drooping. No wonder, David Frith was smiling vicariously!

And then Tunbridge Wells happened! I still remember that exotic evening which started off so badly for India. At 17 for 5, we decided it was better to go for a beer in that summer of Delhi than get sweating listening to the team losing to everybody’s bunny, Zimbabwe. But one man stood up to be counted, like a true captain, without leaving the sinking ship. When the beer session was over, Kapil Dev had already scored an imperious 175 not out (from 17/5 to 175!) to steer the ship to safety! It’s a pity that there was no television coverage of the match due to a steady drizzle. I don’t think the world of cricket had till then, or later too, seen such a wondrous performance by any cricketer that changed the course of a game of cricket, and I suspect the endearing slogan `Kapil Dev da jawaab nahin’ emerged that rainy, grainy, night.

There was no turning back after that, as it were. Remember, those days, fans never burnt cricketers’ effigies or pelted stones at their houses or abused their mothers and sisters, nor were there occasions for ticker-tape parades. A win was a rarity, and defeats a reality. So, when India thumped the arrogant Aussies by 118 runs in the last group match, we clapped politely like trained Englishmen – the tricolor waving crowds hadn’t started thronging the stadiums yet.

The flag bearing Indian supporters turned out in their entire splendor at Old Trafford for the semi-finals against none other than the natives. What a sight it was to behold: the stiff, upper lipped three-piece suite wallas vying for seats with the Indian hoi polloi on a beautiful English afternoon. The Indians and people of Indian origin were ecstatic as only Indians could be on a cricket field, the others as reserved as only Queen’s subjects could be. At the end of the day, England’s score of 213 in a 60-over game proved too small for a rollicking India which overtook them, losing only four wickets in the process. The swat six of Yashpal Sharma of Bob Willis and a flurry of fours from Sandeep Patil off the same hapless bowler are still a treasure in mind for many of us. Every four of Sandeep Patil brought the flag waving Indians to the ground and Willis was left laughing at one end at the merriment and joy all around him. The cricket-loving Englishmen joined in appreciation – albeit politely – at this remarkable performance.

Came the day of the finals and the West Indies who had crushed Pakistan by eight wickets in the other semi-final took their rightful place, in quest of a third win. Their form was ominous, and King Vivian Richards gave an early warning by scoring 80 runs in no time against our unfriendly neighbors. David Frith was still in high spirits, and the Ladbrokes lads were adding fuel to his fiery optimism.

The Lord’s, the Mecca of Cricket, was bursting at the seams on the appointed day. The fiercely loyal West Indian fans had turned out in large numbers to celebrate a certain hat-trick, their colorful dress, drums, calypso and beer cans in full splendor. The tricolor waving Indians too came out in full strength to cheer the underdogs that their team still was – no one was willing to term them the dark horse!

But who could blame them??? Led by the six feet plus, bespectacled Clive Lloyd, the West Indies boasted of the best line-up world cricket had ever seen – and perhaps will ever see. Imagine a team that had bowlers like Andy Roberts, Malcolm Marshall, Joel Garner and Michael Holding! Vivian Richards, Gordon Greenidge, Desmond Haynes, Larry Gomes, Faoud Bacchus and Jeff Dujon could single handedly win matches and put any bowler to the sword on any day!

And compared to them India had in their ranks, besides Kapil, military medium pacers like Madan Lal, Balwinder Singh Sandhu, Roger Binny and Mohinder Amarnath. Gavaskar, Srikkanth, Ysahpal Sharma, Sandeep Patil, Kirmani and Kirti Azad, were temperamental players, but none of them, except probably Sunny Gavaskar, could rival their more illustrious West Indian counterparts.

As the match got under way, the Indian innings betrayed the hype of a World Cup final at The Lord’s.  When the team wound up for 183, celebrations had already begun in the West Indian camp, and sports editors were writing obituaries. David Frith was laughing away to glory, so too Ladbrokes’ betters. The only saving grace was Srikkanth’s stunning sixer off Big Bird Joel Garner – the tricolor was still at half-mast for all practical purposes, and beer was flowing like The Thames among the Caribbeans.

The calypso was in full swing as Greenidge and Haynes came out to bat. For the reigning world champions, the paltry score of 183 was attainable in the worst of times, and the openers were settling down nicely. Then Greenidge did something that he would rue for the rest of his life: he left alone an innocuous looking ball from Sandhu only to look back in bewilderment and find the leather scattering the wood. Suddenly, the tricolors were swirling everywhere!

In walked The King, swaggering all the way, furiously chewing the gum, to thunderous applause from all around the ground. Richards meant business – it was as if he was determined to score all the 183 runs of his own bat, and all at the cost of poor Madan Lal. Some of us were inclined to take a walk in the park at that point of time, and away from the TV, so as to avoid watching the massacre on screen!

But, again, like at Tunbridge Wells, Kapil Dev happened! In a maniacal moment, Richards pulled Madan Lal and the Captain ran and ran in all directions never taking the eye off the cherry to complete an unbelievable catch! It was perhaps the most defining moment of the Final. Maddy had his revenge, and The Lord’s went silent as Sir Vivian walked back to the pavilion, though this time the swagger was not so very visible. The tricolor was definitely flying high now!

But, mind you, the West Indies was not one Richards; the warriors from the Caribbean were still out there. Yet, it was not to be their day after Richards left, to be followed to the pavilion by Haynes and Lloyd. Slowly and steadily, the Indian tortoise was inching forward to the finishing line. Every single team member rose to the occasion, taking wickets, grabbing catches, and stopping certain fours. When Amarnath trapped Holding plumb before the stumps, it was all over for the reigning champions. Only the tricolors were flying now at the Mecca of cricket.

Outside the Indian team’s balcony, Kapil held aloft The Prudential Cup, and grinned, an image etched in our minds forever. In distant India, crackers burst through the night and a new chapter in Indian sporting history was written.

The victory of 1983 by bits-and-pieces players against the best of the world, that too against all odds, was a redeeming point for many of us who were waiting for something positive to happen to dispel the gloom and the despair. Today’s generation wouldn’t really know what that win meant to many of us twenty-five years ago – and I don’t grudge them that. I know, a lot of people would argue that this win was what led to the demise of all other games in the country: in fact, I saw a newspaper item the other day, which said the history of Indian sports would have been very different if Greenidge hadn’t left that Sandhu ball alone, or for that matter, if Kapil hadn’t taken that catch of Richards! Am I being told to believe that we would have been winning Gold Medals at the Olympics in scores but for those deeds at The Lord’s! Well, let us not get into that mood this day!

Let us for a moment look back at that win – and that grin – of a team that beat the best in the business against all predictions to the contrary, and savor the pleasure of that euphoric night. Let us also salute the indomitable will of the Team of 83 that brought smiles to our faces with that wondrous win.

Kapil Dev da – rather Kapil Devils da – jawaab nahin!

Oh, let us not forget dear old David Frith either! Records say that, true to his words, the wise Editor of Wisden ate the paper in which he wrote that article against India’s chances of winning the Prudential Cup – with a little help from a bottle of the choicest red wine!

Three cheers to that!

Photo courtesy: Internet

All, in a Day!

“It’s 720, and you are still sleeping as if you haven’t had even a wink in the last one week”.

Muzzeebatein pehle batake nahin aate!

“You better get up now” – this is one wake-up call no husband could pretend he didn’t hear. “You see, I went for a walk all by myself. Your colleague Mr. Sharma was walking with his wife”.

“Why, did you expect him to walk with some one else’s wife?”

“You sleep till 730 and then complain in the evening you are having pain in the neck, back and I don’t know where else.”

“Mein, aur mera saaya – my pains will go with me only.”

“OK, don’t ask me in the night to put Volini and hot water bottle here and there”.

Another day has broken in all its glory…

“Accha, we are leaving, come and close the door”. (For the uninitiated, Accha is dad in God’s Own Language).

“Son?”

“Yes, I have taken the house key, I will call you when I am back from school, and I won’t open the door for anybody: you don’t have to repeat that”.

“Good boy! But finish your homework when you return, rather than sit and watch Hungama channel.”

“Accha, I think Delhi Daredevils are going to make it to the semifinals of IPL. Just see that sixer Sehwag hit! They couldn’t even locate the ball! Bye”.

What a ball, I say!

I don’t have any option now, but to get out of the bed. You can trust the world, but not the robbers of Delhi who can give a run for one's money for every run that the Daredevils may hit! What appropriate choice of Team name!

War-torn Kabul during the heydays of the Taliban would have looked more orderly than my house at this point of time. But I had left it more like the clean and orderly Frankfurt last night! You blame it on me: keeping order is a disorder with me – of the obsessive, compulsive type.

Time for action: a quick look at the headlines to see if Bush had bombed what is left of Iraq, what is right and what is wrong in Pakistan, who killed whom, whether any `leader’ had been caught in a sting operation, and if Federer had finally won the first tournament of the year. Oh, clothes have to be washed, so set the machine – and bring some order in the house – at least like Delhi’s traffic; and wait for The Maid to come.

There’s something great about The Capital’s Maids. Mine knows that I have to leave necessarily at 930; so, she will make her grand appearance right at 858 when I am about to enter the bath. Well, maids have a choice, beggars don’t!

All set to go, fans, lights, gas, all switched off. 928, my, my, the clothes are still in the washing machine. Daley Thompson of Olympic Decathlon fame will doff his hat to yours truly when I enter the car at 930 after finishing the mean machine business!

945, and I am in my room. First things first: before office starts, I have to check all my mails. I am sure the Interpol must be in mighty trouble these days, what with each world citizen having not less than five different IDs.

I open Sabeer Bhatia’s Hotmail first. Vanitha says GM J Lycos, my oldest ID, comes next, followed by the two G-mails. In between, I respond to Vanitha’s GM. “I am busy today, will try to catch up with you later in the evening”. “No probs”, says the good friend.

Hotmail, Lycos, and the two G-mails together remind me every morning of my favorite post “My Inbox Floweth Over”. Rich widows of senior statesmen still want to share all their bounties with me; and I have won yet again the Euro/Spanish/British lotteries, all in one day, which would put me ahead of Laxmi Mittal in the Forbes’ list. But Michelle from Madagascar still wants me to take treatment for erectile dysfunction; I still haven’t been able to make out how she came to that conclusion sitting so far away in Madagascar!

The office ID, as usual, has steamy stuff about who is sleeping with whom, who filed a false LTC claim, who was sighted at the PVR Cinema during office hours and the like: nothing of “Breaking News” standard…

My room has no windows, only glass panes. Birds of the chirping variety hang outside, and enquire once in a while whether things are going fine with me. From my seat, I can also see who has entered the complex and who has left!

“Lots of work to finish today, Sir”, reminds PS at 1010 – sadist: it is as if he derives some pleasure out of inflicting such pain on me. “Done”, I say. “What if your friend Mr. Ranjan calls?” “Tell him, I am not in the room/busy in meeting/whatever you like”.

Attendance Registers land at 1030. Mr. Verma, whom I saw enter the building just a few seconds ago, has put the time as 1002. If you look at Attendance Registers, all your apprehensions or misapprehensions about government servants will vanish in no time –just like some stain removers. Every one comes in religiously at 10 and leaves dutifully at 6!

Files and files come one after the other. As I go to the loo, I find Mrs. Trivedi, all of 59 years, taking her regular walk through the air conditioned corridors; she smiles benignly at me. The big, fat, yet young Mr. Patnaik is behind the atrium talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone. When I return, he sees me and tries to hide the cell.  “How’s your girlfriend?”, I ask. Without blinking an eye, he says, “No Sir, that was my grandmother!”

PS announces that the draft brief for the VVIP has come, and gives it to me, adding that his office wanted it urgently. I open the file – it carried the paternity leave application of an attendant, a file that should have been cleared at least five levels below. I demand PS to seek an explanation. An hour later, the VVIP brief comes with the file subject as paternity leave application of attendant!

It’s 1240 and I see the steady stream out of the building – going for lunch, talks, walks and what not. I ask for Mr. Arora when PS tells me, “Sir, today is Tuesday”. I retort, I didn’t ask for the day, I asked for Mr. Arora. Cool as cucumber, PS says, “Sir, Mr. Arora goes to Hanuman Mandir every Tuesday at 1215 PM.” “What about Mr. Talwar?” “Oh, Sir, didn’t you know that they have started a Bhajan Club in the office? They meet every day from 1245 to 2 PM”. Whoever said India is a secular state!

115, and I walk down for a quick lunch. And then, it’s Rediff time. Whatever happened to my `honest pardner’ VT? Saakshee too is missing, even though iLand has proclaimed her as Blog O’ Maniac! Could it be that the keen observer that she is, Saakshee didn’t really like the `maniac’ part and decided to migrate? KB is not to be seen too, PK Madhavan has become a rarity, The Ambrosia a celebrity. Indigo Iris, Ekantapadhika, Alakananda – no news! TG, or is it TGIF, Moe M is still there J

It’s 215: Guptaji, Sharmaji, Talwarji, Vermaji, and other assorted Ji’s are still outside under the greenwood tree, discussing the latest rumors on the capital’s grape wines or most probably the latest episode of `Waar Parivaar” on Sony Entertainment Television.

315: VVIP vest, oh, I mean, brief, has acquired some shape after repeated tailoring. PS peeps in to say friend Ranjan had called three times, and had threatened to call home later in the evening.

“Where is Mr. Nair?” “His Director says that Nairji will come late”. “What does he mean, PS? It’s already 340 PM!” How late can late be, I wonder…

As I come out of the loo, Mrs. Trivedi is still on a stroll. “How many rounds do you take every day”, I enquire innocently. “Six rounds is almost a km. So, I take eighteen rounds in all, in three shifts. After all, I have to be in good health if I have to work hard”, she replies equally innocently. Now I know why this stinking rich woman doesn’t take voluntary retirement. The roly-poly Mr. Patnaik is still clutching his mobile for his life’s worth. “How’s your grandma?” “No, Sir, I am talking to my girlfriend!” Double jeopardy, is it???

Finally, the VVIP brief has gone – I hope it fits him fine J Several more papers need to be cleared, you know. I ask for Mr. Arora. PS tells me, “Sir, he has other programs in the evening; so, he leaves early”. Not bad, Hanuman Seva in the afternoon, other `sevas’ in the evening! 540, and the exit procession has already started. All of them who put 6 pm are trouping out one by one. PS walks in, “Sir, I am leaving”. Et tu, Brute?

625 pm, and the table is almost clear – phew! I check out Vanitha, chat for a few minutes about the weather, kids and old Malayalam songs. 700 pm, and time to leave…

As I walk in, my son asks, “Accha, how come you are early? No work in office?” I stroke his hair. “Accha, is it true that the uncle next door is a much, much bigger officer than you, and that is why he has a blue beacon atop his car?” “True son, but who told you this?” “The maid”. I thought I paid for the maid! “And Accha, why don’t you carry a bag to office like other uncles do?” “Because I don’t carry lunch, newspaper or Manohar Kahaniyaan to office”. And I believed that the son-dad-duo Q/A series had come to an end when Karanjia stopped publishing The Blitz!

“Where is Amma, by the way?” “Oh, she is lying down; she has a swollen ankle waiting at the Gurgaon Toll Plaza for about 45 minutes”. I never knew that you had to pay toll to get a pain in the leg!

“Son, I am going for a walk”. The next three-quarter of an hour is my time with the nature. There is a cool breeze from the green belt; the small temple looks Godly in the glow of an earthen lamp. The few walkers on the road have replaced their spouses with dogs who make friendly or unfriendly exchanges as they pass one another, and very promptly mark stones to record the event. A colleague pretends he didn’t see me, but his dog says `hello’. Thank you, I say, you are more civilized than your master! I, though, pretend I didn’t see the neighborhood uncle, now walking without the blue beacon! My beacon too will come, I should tell my son J

I ring the bell and son promptly opens the door. “But why did you not first ask who it is?” “Why should I? Who else comes at exactly 45 minutes after he leaves?”

A quick shower does wonders. Wife is up and about, her toll paid swelling now showing for free. “Dinner is ready”, she announces, which is repeated twice again at five-minute intervals. And then the final call…

Friend Ranjan chooses that very moment to call. For the next twenty minutes, I had to listen to an overview of men, women, matters and material. The food had turned cold.

Wife retires for the night, but son hangs around for some more time. “Accha, how many times does she call Sanju in that life insurance advertisement? Your options are - A: 4; B: 6; C: 8; or D: Lost Count”

“Muzzeebatein pehle batake nahin aate! He was resting so comfortably at the end of a hard day’s work, and she chose to exercise option D”.

“Accha, I too am going to sleep”. “Why, no IPL match today?” “Oh, all the fun has gone out with Bhajji being thrown out; if Bhajji is not there, there won’t be any action, you see. Any way, if Gopumon Sreesanth gets slapped and starts crying, do wake me up, good night”.

I open Set Max, and cheerleaders of different hues are going haywire. It’s as if all unemployed young girls of different sizes and shapes from Estonia, Moldova and Kazakhstan have suddenly found greener pastures on Indian soil, thanks to the BCCI and Sharad Pawar. I suspect Rakhi Sawant’s future is in serious trouble, though.

Time for some Gandhigiri and his experiments with his People and an Empire. 20 pages of font-size eight, and I have to bid adieu to the Father of the Nation.

The Kabul backyard needs to be brought back to the Frankfurt level, or else Herr Hitler can rise from the ashes; so, I get busy with my OCD.

1145 pm: I call it a day, or rather night! Every day has to end, and a new day will dawn. Till then, as my friend Hellz Angel always ends,  “…peace…!”

30 Questions Tag!

Alakananda (sowparnika.rediffiland.com) had tagged me twice before. This time, though, she was wiser, I guess! Nonetheless, I thought, why not try a third time – and may be surprise her! So, here I go…

1. LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATER? On my son's insistence, I went for Taare Zameen Par. I fell in love with Darsheel Safary and his buckteeth. Lots of tears all around, I can tell you. On a personal plane, it was a sad day: curtains came down on the Chanakya Cinema, a very familiar landmark for many of us who, once upon a time, used to frequent the hall and the nearby Nirula's.

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING? Rajmohan Gandhi's Mohandas: A True Story of a Man, his People and an Empire. The biography gives lots of rare insights into Gandhiji's life and times. My only complaint is about the unbelievably small font size used, that too for a 745-page book! To make things easy, I am simultaneously reading the adorable Dead Famous series: this time, it's Elvis and His Pelvis! Try it, and I am sure you wouldn't regret it!

3. FAVOURITE BOARD GAME? Wordplay is an addiction (or is it an affliction?): so, naturally, scrabble.

4. FAVOURITE MAGAZINE? Outlook. Many might consider Vinod Mehta a pseudo-secularist (whatever that means) but the man has guts, a self-deprecating humour - and class. After all, which other Editor will name his dog, Editor!

5.  FAVORITE SMELLS? "Fragrance of the Forgotten Years" – I don't wish to add to that…

6.  FAVORITE SOUND? The sound of raindrops falling on the tiled roof, that too on a sultry night, back home in Kerala. Also, the clock striking three on a wintry night, meaning I can sleep for another four hours!

7.  WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? You did your best, and you know it is real good. And then, someone who doesn't have any idea of your effort talks disparagingly about it, not because that was not good, but just to spite you.

8.  WHAT IS THE FIRST THING THAT YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP? To make sure that son dear takes the house key along, so that I don't have to rush home during office hours to open the door for him when he returns from school.

9.  FAVORITE FASTFOOD PLACE? The wayside wagon-on-wheels Chinese joint in South Extension in Delhi and the Thattukadas in Kerala. The Chinese joint acquires favorite status not really for the quality of food but because, once upon a time, when still a student, that was the only Chinese joint which the pocket could afford.

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME? We are one, and we have only one! If, however, I have to go for a name for the future, it will be Neelanjana.

11. FINISH THE STATEMENT: `IF I HAD A LOT OF MONEY, I'D…' buy at least an acre of land near Lake Ashtamudi and the Arabian Sea and do farming; also, a few pedigree dogs to take care of things around.

12. DO YOU DRIVE FAST? You joking??? You think Delhi's drivers would let me do that, unless you think 40 kmph is Formula racing!

13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? A very insensitive question to ask, so no answer for that! May be, my wife would be happier answering this question!

14. STORMS: COOL OR SCARY? Cool, unless you are caught in one, or in its eye!

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR? Maruti Zen. The Suzuki guys told me the color is `Silver Moon Beam Gray’. Till then, I never knew that there is a color by name `Beam'!

16. FAVORITE DRINK: Fresh lime soda, salt and sugar in equal measure (with due apologies to VT: he would, however, agree that at least I am consistent!)

17. FINISH THIS STATEMENT: `IF I HAD THE TIME, I WOULD…' love to spend a few days idling in the interiors of River Amazon. It's not that I don't have the time or the inclination, but I need money too, you see! No package tours to the Amazon: how sad!

18. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI? Steam it, add salt and pepper, may be a dash of lime (and some mustard sauce) – you have the whole of it! 

19. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHOICE? Since Alakananda has already donned the patriotic mantle with the tricolor, I would settle for VIBGYOR!

20. NAME ALL THE DIFFERENT CITIES/TOWNS YOU HAVE LIVED IN: Quite

`simple’: Kollam (Quilon), Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum), and then Delhi, Delhi and Delhi… Thank God, Delhi has remained Delhi!

21. FAVOURITE SPORTS TO WATCH? An India-Australia one-day international, preferably at the MCG or the Eden Gardens. The alternative is to watch the Brazilian magic on a soccer field. If these two are not possible, then a Federer-Nadal final at the Roland Garros! (You would appreciate my tastes are simple!22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU: Alakananda didn’t tag me a third time, but I can assure you she is a very sensitive and creative blogger. Take time to read her, and you will agree with me!

23. WHAT’S UNDER YOUR BED? My bed suffers from flat foot! How sad, I can’t shove even my bedroom slippers underneath!

24.WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE BORN AS AGAIN? Call it egoism or egotism or narcissism or any other `ism’. No compromise on this: I wouldn’t like to be anybody but me!

25. MORNING PERSON OR NIGHT OWL? I would be a mourning person and/or a moaning person if I were to be a morning person! I can sit through the night but for heaven’s sake, please don’t wake me up before seven in the morning, which makes me a night owl, I guess. Also see my answer to question number six: that would give you an idea why I am not a morning person!

26.OVER-EASY OR SUNNY-SIDE UP? Sunny-side up, provided I am not left moaning or mourning, or both!

27. FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX? Charu Kasera! Mallus will know what I mean! Isn’t it a hammock, in a way, though not hung out across tree branches?

28.FAVORITE PIE? Certainly not `humble pie’! Now, don’t laugh, I loved the Pumpkin Pie when I had it last!

29.FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOUR? Pineapple Banana Ice Cream, any day: I scream!

30.OF ALL THE PEOPLE YOU TAGGED THIS TO, WHO’S MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND FIRST? I take the cue from Alakananda – and leave the field open!

Accha’s Accounts

Accounts and accountants have always fascinated me; perhaps, `intrigued’ may be a better word. For a time, I toyed with the idea of joining a bank – that too, only as a cashier!  In those impressionable days, `the cashier’ was the most impressive person around. Walk into any bank, and you find a long queue waiting upon him. And he sits smugly inside a closely guarded cubicle, with money all around him! Unless he smiles, the money doesn’t reach those in the queue; no wonder, the cashier was held in awe by all those who needed money, apart from the likes of me!

I was `intrigued’ on the other hand wondering how tough it must be for the guy to keep account of a hell of a lot of money. When he comes in the morning, not a less than a lakh of rupees must be at his disposal, or so I thought. By the time the cash counter closed, not much would be left. Accounting for every rupee in his custody must not have been a joke – poor chap, I used to feel sorry for him when such thoughts crossed my mind.

Well, why this accounting story now, you must be wondering. Blame it on the genes, I say!  I was born and brought up in an environment where accounting was a daily affair. Now, before you get any funny ideas, let me clarify that no one in my family is an accountant and none has been the butt of jokes as most accountants are. To tell you the truth, my interest in accounting can be traced to my dad – may his soul rest in peace!

My Accha  (that’s how we call the old man in God’s Own Language) has had this obsession with money matters because he knew from experience that money did matter; it was as `simple’ as that for him. It was made simpler  - or was it more complex? -  by the fact that there was always a wide gap between demand and supply as far as he was concerned. In the good old days of Nehruvian Socialism – which, by the way, was an article of faith for him – money was hard to come by and there were too many days left in the month at the end of the money. The fact that he didn’t have a job or steady income, but five kids who were going to school/college, made managing the limited `supply’ a lot more difficult, considering the considerable `demand’, you must remember.

Any way, dad was damn serious about his accounting. You must be thinking why it was so necessary for him to account when he had no income. To be honest, I must admit, after all these years, even I don’t have any answer to this question, you see! I can very well understand why the State Bank of India or Mukesh Dhirubhai Ambani would like to keep track of their accounts but why should my dear dad should have been so particular about tracking money which was not there in the first place! Let us leave it there like that for the time being.

My earliest memories of Accha’s Accounts are a strange mix of a long Ledger book, many coins and a few currency notes – and lots of arguing, if not shouting! Never an economist, not even an accountant, he was still very particular about a proper Ledger! Accounting, on a normal day, started at around eleven in the morning. Dad would empty his already near empty wallet on his bed and then arrange money in order, which was a fairly easy task because there was hardly any! Remember, those were the days when coins were aplenty – of every denomination, starting form one paisa through two, three, five, ten, twenty, twenty-five and fifty on to one rupee. Believe me, you, all these coins did exist in the none too distant past. Then, there were currency notes in the denomination of one, two, five, ten, etc. We needn’t go beyond that because dad’s wallet didn’t have to account for higher denominations.

For dad, it was tough: coins of smaller denominations were much more and the currency notes few. Once all denominations were piled properly in small heaps, he would check out with the balance of the previous day’s account. Then came the difficult job of matching every paisa spent with the previous day’s balance and to tally it with the many coins and the few notes spread on the cot. Being a strict disciplinarian, he kept a record of every paisa he spent. That was fine, but he expected everyone else to follow suit! Since we kids never got the privilege of pocket money, we were left out; that meant, the only other person who was the beneficiary of his income, if we could call it so, was my mother. So, mom was summarily summoned to account for her part of the money.

That’s when the arguments and the shouting would start! Till today, I can’t fathom why there should have been any argument or shouting, because dad had hardly any money to give mom!   Nonetheless, he would insist on a paisa-to-paisa accounting. I can still remember those days when Amma would insist, truthfully at that, that she couldn’t recall how much she spent on vegetables or eggs or fish, and then she would add for effect, “in any case, you gave me only one rupee yesterday, so how much do you think I could have spent?” But dad was one who wouldn’t take that for an answer. After about half an hour, the argument would still be on, which would end when Amma would take out some twenty-seven paise from somewhere, saying, “ok, here, take it, and now it is settled, right?” Accha would smile triumphantly, adding, “see, I told you, it must be somewhere here”. Action ends for the day, only to resume same time, same place, the next morning.

We grew up seeing this drama day after day, year after year. As years passed, as we settled in life, and Accha’s wallet assumed some shape and size, accounting continued, albeit daily, without any let or hindrance. I got to see it, though only when I visited every year. And were I glad that the passing years had not reduced its intensity at all! My brother who stays at home told me that nothing had changed. Dad’s grandchildren too were enamoured by the morning drama. I remember a joke that I read somewhere: “Accounting: a collection of figures running around looking for an argument”. Probably, they had in mind the daily routine in my own household!

Dad hardly traveled out of Kerala, but when he did, daily accounting was not done away with. The Ledger traveled with him, much to my mom’s consternation. But I do recall my mom telling us wistfully after dad’s death, how she was missing the morning routine…

Accha’s Accounts also tell us the value of money – in real terms, I hasten to add. If I want to know how much money was spent on my eldest sister’s marriage way back in 1972, I just have to check out The Ledger. Right down to the last laddu, everything is recorded. If my son is interested to know how, over the years, the bus fares have increased or how the barber’s rates have gone up, the best reference would be The Ledgers. I can tell you the exact money spent on every brick that helped dad build our house; it doesn’t matter that the accounts for this purpose would be spread over a decade because of dad’s financial constraints.

Soon after I left Delhi for my studies, dad sent me some money to pay the hostel fees and the like. Considering his accounting traits, I apprised him in detail how I had spent the amount. A few days later, he wrote to me, “it’s ok, you don’t have to send me any such details; just make sure you know the value of money”. See, basically, dad was a nice guy!

After dad’s death, The Ledgers have been retained intact. When we all get together, we talk about his accounting fondly. Sometime after he passed away, we took out his last book, which made us know the man that he was a little more intimately. He used to help several girl children in the village with small donations for buying textbooks or guides, or for paying their tuition fee. For this, he was dependent on the money that we – his own kids – sent him fairly regularly. In between, if any of these kids needed assistance, he would borrow money from anyone he knew and give it to them. And we had to settle a few loans like that after his demise.

Dad was a daily visitor to all the temples in the one km range of our house and he would liberally spent money on various poojas, which called for accounting. The clot in his brain which neither he nor any one of us knew about had suddenly become active.  And we came to know of it later only from The Ledger, after his death.  Till the day he was admitted to the hospital, he had kept the accounts religiously. Accha’s daily balance was coming down, literally and figuratively, with every passing day. The cash availability for the last day was a princely sum of five rupees and seventy-five paise. But the shape of things to come showed up in a contribution entry against one of the temples that read: “orma illa”, meaning `can’t remember’. And that was the very last entry in my Accha’s Accounts…

George Bernard Shaw once said: “My father must have had some elementary education, for he could read and write and keep accounts inaccurately”. Ain’t I lucky on that count: my father was quite accurate in his accounts!

PS: Taking a cue from my dad, I thought I too should keep accounts. It started off fairly ok, but after about a month or so, one gloomy wintry morning, when I asked about her accounts, my wife said: “Dilip, we need to talk”. Having heard this dialogue in several English films as a prologue to the inevitable divorce, I closed The Ledger – for good, and forever J

Fiction – and Fact: Hues of Life

It is trite to say that life – a fact – is stranger than fiction. When one reads newspapers or watches television, and when events unfold, one notices that what the Hollywood or Bollywood shows pales into insignificance before reality: as they say, reel life as opposed to real life. Increasingly, one realizes that human life takes such twists and turns that facts are, more often than not, more unbelievable and incomprehensible than fiction.

Let me come to fiction first: I chanced to read two books by Khaled Hosseini, the Afghan writer settled in the United States of America, last week [please see www.khaledhosseini.com for more details.] The first was A Thousand Splendid Suns. In the publisher’s own words, it is is “a breathtaking story set against the volatile events of Afghanistan’s last thirty years—from the Soviet invasion to the reign of the Taliban to the post-Taliban rebuilding—that puts the violence, fear, hope, and faith of this country in intimate, human terms. It is a tale of two generations of characters brought jarringly together by the tragic sweep of war, where personal lives—the struggle to survive, raise a family, find happiness—are inextricable from the history playing out around them”. To me, it was a devastating experience, to say the least, to read of the horrors that the Afghanis, especially the women and children, had to live through.

So, when Hosseini’s The Kite Runner came my way, I was not too sure whether I should read it or not. The publisher described it as “the story of a young boy…who juggles to establish a closer rapport with his father and cope with memories of a haunting childhood event. The novel is set in Afghanistan, from the fall of the monarchy until the collapse of the Taliban regime, and in the San Francisco Bay Area. Its many themes include ethnic tensions…in Afghanistan, and the immigrant experiences of (the boy) and his father in the United States”. The printed word has a charm of its own, and I am one who cannot resist temptation when a book beckons. Knowing full well that this could well be another depressing read, I still went ahead – and I was not wrong.

Afghanistan baffles me – not just me, but the world as a whole. It is as if it is the most fertile ground for invasion, and tragedy and trauma. Down the millennia, this land has been pillaged and ravaged by assorted invaders. Yet, it is a testimony to the will and spirit of the Afghanis that they have survived these catastrophe over the centuries, though badly battered and bruised in mind, body and soul.

Afghanistan and its people went through yet another traumatic period starting with the Soviet occupation, followed by the internecine fight among the rival war lords, and then the Taliban occupation. The abysmal depths of human tragedy which the Afghans were forced to descend have been poignantly portrayed by Khaled Hosseini in his works.

As in any other conflict, the worst victims of the Afghan imbroglio were children and women - all through the Soviet era, the warlords’ time and the Taliban days. Of course, it reached a new low under the Taliban. No woman, even a girl child, could come out of the house unless accompanied by a male member of the family. If by any misfortune a woman was seen outside alone, she would have had to face