against the wind

The Indian race

2009-07-22T11:29:00.000+05:30

The hysteria about “Racists attacks against Indians in Australia” has died down and pubs have restarted serving Fosters (Australian for beer). Of course, Australia is no longer the second-most favoured study destination for Indian students. That honour has now been restored to England.

The good ole deshpremis have roundly condemned the Oz government for not doing enough to protect Indian students. The liberals heaved a collective sighed and introspected on our own racist tendencies. All that can be said has been said and my views on the matter are not very different from those already expressed.

But one thing that just struck me is that if you pick apart the phrase “racist attack against Indians”, doesn’t it sound somewhat fuzzy? For us Indians are not a race per se.

Technically speaking, Indians from the North-East are not from the Aryan-Dravidian stock that the rest come from. On the other hand, a lot of Pakistanis and Bangladeshis do have the same racial roots as us.

Of course, if you leave technicalities and quibbles aside, the aforementioned phrase sounds perfectly natural because we Indians lack an explicitly racial identity. Indians who travel abroad do acquire a quasi-racial identity when they come in contact with other races. I say quasi-racial because that identity is Indian rather than brown or South Asian.

Why is that? Is it because we’ve never been able to get along with Pakistanis and Bangladeshis? Or is it pure Indian hegemony at work—the tendency to assume that anything or anyone from the subcontinent is Indian unless established otherwise.

I’m going to digress for a bit to narrate a conversation that might or might or not be relevant to this post.

As part of an assignment in journo school, a couple of us went to meet an ageing RSS functionary in his ashram. One would expect to see Hindu zealots to see jumping around, tridents held aloft, crying Death to Muslims etc. etc. Yes, the purport of what this guy was trying to say might have been the same but his arguments were much more refined. The first thing he told us that Hinduism wasn’t a religion but a nationality—anyone who is born in India is a Hindu. Which is why they had organized ‘homecoming’ campaigns as opposed to conversions to bring back to the fold Christians and Muslims who had ‘strayed’ from the flock.

I found the argument fascinating and ingenuous in a morbid way. With one swift brush stroke all inhabitants of the Indian subcontinent irrespective of the faith they practice can be branded as Hindus. Of course, this shared Hindu nationality doesn’t stop them from butchering Muslims by the hundreds in state-sponsored pogroms.

Can the same argument be extended to Hinduism as a race?

Is there a subtext to the phrase ‘Racist attack on Indians’ which reads ‘racist attack on Hindus’, or is this is a leap of judgement on my part?

But I do believe a majority of Hindus see Hinduism as being a religion, race and nationality all at once. To most Indians, the terms ‘race’, ‘religion’ and ‘nationality’ all mean the same things. The Indian racial identity is a Hindu identity.

Yawning in protest

2009-07-22T11:26:00.000+05:30

What is the nightmare of every leftist? Having to listen to a speech by Narendra Modi and not being able to, rather not having the guts to, heckle him. At a recent conference in Mumbai, the aforesaid misfortune befell him.

The theme of the conference was sustainable development (how original!!) and Modi’s speech was supposed to be the crowning glory.

His speech was along predictable lines—describing Gujarat before him as a state floundering in the darkness and how he came in like a Messiah and lifted the state out of despair. I had heard him speak once in Chennai, before an audience of fanatical Tam-Brams (Tamil Brahmins). He was at his theatrical best then, cocky and eloquent. Here too he was boastful, but as he was speaking before a more genteel audience, his words were measured.

And I just sat there in a corner of that cavernous banquet hall trying to feel outraged.

This was after all the man who had presided over the massacre of more than a thousand Muslims and had turned Muslim localities into modern-day ghettos. But, try as I did, I couldn’t feel outraged. I was more annoyed by his personality, his manner of speaking, his crass boasts. Even if he hadn’t done any of those horrible things, I am sure I would have found him repulsive only if I was made to sit through one of his speeches.

I was still hoping that a less indifferent soul than myself would challenge him or, even better, send a rain-soaked shoe sailing through the air in his general direction (Ever since that blessed Egyptian journo hurled his shoes at George W. Bush, this form of protest has been most in vogue). However, aiming directly at Modi carried the risk of being peppered with bullets by those cussed National Security Group guys.

But no shoes were lobbed at him, no one heckled him and no one challenged him in the questions session. I was in one-sixteenth of a mind to shoe-bomb him but then it thought about what would happen next and put the idea out of my head. At worst, I would have been thrashed by the security guys and some zealous Modi fans, and sacked from my job. At best, I would only be sacked from my job. I had a feeling I wouldn’t go down in the annals of Indian journalism as a martyr to a lofty cause. On hearing news of my sacking, people wouldn’t say, “Oh, he had such a promising career ahead of him and he threw it all away in a moment of passion.” They would say, “I always knew he was weird and this just proves it.”

So, what was my grand gesture of dissent? A giant, albeit noiseless, yawn.

However, there was one moment when Modi really pissed me off and I almost reached for my shoe. In response to a question about what he had done for women in Gujarat, he began, “If I lived in the West, I would be known as a feminist.”

Now, what puts the Gujarat pogrom of 2002 in a league of its own, is the level of sexual violence unleashed against women. Accounts such as that of wombs ripped open and fetuses stuck on tridents and brandished about, of mass gang-rapes, 30, even 40, men taking their turns at one girl, are enough to make the blood curdle in anyone’s veins. And this man has the nerve to call himself a feminist.

Post script: Here is an argument that a lot of Gujaratis make which really gets my goat. They say, “Yes, what happened during 2002 was unfortunate but Modi is a good non-corrupt administrator and has done a lot for the good of Gujarat.” My standard response is, so did Hitler (Umm not for the good of Gujarat, for the good of pre-war Germany). He did start a hate campaign against the Jews which culminated in genocide but he was credited with pushing the German economy out of its post-first-world-war doldrums. The German economy was booming before the Second War broke out and Hitler was known as an effective administrator. The comparisons between the two are unmistakable. Modi is a textbook dictator if ever there was one. He is known to have scant regard for the opinion of any else, he has worked to hard establish something that can only be described as The Cult of Narendra Modi, and he is known to subvert the course of justice when it is seen to be working against him.

The main attraction of a dictatorship for the merchant classes is that they are hasslefree, pro-business and ruthless. So it is not surprising at all that Modi is held up by some as a hero of Gujarat.

Leave no stone unturned

2009-05-20T07:47:00.002+05:30

Another try at finding a story

It was just another sweltering Monday morning as I wended my way through the swarm of people, rickshaws and two-wheelers outside Thane railway station. I popped into an ATM owned by a large bank that has consistently been stonewalling me whenever I have approached them for information. Of course, I wasn’t feeling vengeful as I entered the ATM. I just needed some cash.

The ATM machine dutifully swallowed up my ATM card and started making gurgling noises—which usually means that a cash dispensation is imminent. This particular time though the gurgling continued for what seemed like five minutes, at the end of which a “network error” message flashed on the screen.

“Bugger!!” I thought as I hurried to catch the 10:10 from Thane to CST. Then it struck me, “What if this bank’s ATMs all over the city are down?”.

In my defense, this might have been a shot in the dark but it was not as far-fetched as it sounds. A few weeks ago, a colleague of mine had produced a story which was carried on the front page. And the story had the same inglorious roots as my experience that morning--a friend had tipped him off about an ATM not working, he had followed up on that and it turned out there was some satellite error or some such big thing. And what really rankled was even I had been unable to withdraw cash that same day but hadn’t followed up on it. That front page story could have been mine.

That morning, in a departure from most Monday mornings, I actually had two story ideas in mindwhich I intended to work on. But I told myself, “greed is good” and the prospect of a front page story was alluring. So, here is what I did—I texted half the people I knew in Mumbai, my folks who were in Pune and a friend in Delhi (on the possibility that it was national, or at least a state-wide, problem) asking them to check if the nearest XXX Bank ATM was working, if it wasn’t too much bother. I figured that out of all these people I had texted at least two would reply, which would be enough to string together a story if indeed there was something wrong while the rest would ignore it. I was in for a surprise.

Two worried aunts and my brother-in-law called me up asking if I was in trouble and needed some cash. Some friends asked me where I was and gave me directions to the nearest ATM (not much help because I was in a moving train at that time). One friend called up and told me that now I could withdraw cash from any bank’s ATM without being charged for it. I told him that I had written a story about the new ATM rule and since that was my only by-lined copy in weeks I wasn’t likely to forget the subject of that story. When I told him I was fishing for a new story he said, “Dude, ATMs conk out all the time. Where is the story there?” Touche.

Of course, it didn’t end there. Two friends had replied that the ATMs they had tried were out of order but no reports of a “network error”. On the off-chance that I was sitting on a big story, I tramped around Parel station hunting for a XXX bank ATM. After half an hour, I was perspiring profusely but still hadn’t found one so I took a cab to an ATM I knew existed. I went in, put card in, the machine gurgled and, much to my dismay, dispensed the Rs 100 that I had requested.

Fortunately, I had messaged only people I know well, who I could afford to have think that I am weird (or who anyway thought so). And I guess you have to follow up on these cold leads (some would call them stone-cold leads).

So, I went to office and started work on my two other ideas, one of which actually translated into a story. Revenge on XXX bank would have to wait for another day.

finding stories

2009-05-09T08:02:00.000+05:30

Having spent the good part of three months as a cub reporter floundering in the impenetrable waters of business journalism, I can safely say that there is no consensus even among the stalwarts on how one must go about chasing stories.

Until now most tradesmen have told me that the only way to find stories is by talking to people, and that’s an advice I have taken to heart. Not that it has done me much good. Most people I met in the course of following this advice had an air of studied tolerance while talking to me, as though I were a tiresome child that must be indulged.

In such cases, although one realizes there is no chance of getting a story, one is obliged to carry on a conversation for at least half an hour. One can’t show up for a ‘relationship-building interaction’ (code for ‘I have no idea what questions to ask you but want to meet you in the hope that you will blurt out your bank’s dirty little secrets) and push off after five minutes no matter how laboured the conversation is. For there are two battles to be fought when meeting people and at least one must be won. One is to find a story, and that’s a battle I have been consistently losing. The other is to try not to look like a complete idiot by blacking out five minutes inside the meeting. So instead of concentrating on the spiel my interviewee is giving me, I must think of what I am going to ask him next. And maintaining a steady pipeline of questions is the most tiresome job, especially when you don’t give a damn about what the person sitting opposite is saying.

So I have learnt that one must have a story idea or at least a ghost of a story idea before fixing up a meeting. Of course, the one time I actually had an idea the person I was meeting completely blew me off. The bugger thought that I had traveled to the other end of the neighboring town just to present my calling card to him and gaze fondly at his mouse-like face broken by looping untrimmed whiskers, sitting atop a shrunken shriveled frame. I clearly remember what he said—“I thought you just wanted to meet me. I didn’t know you were going to ask me questions about my business.” Of course.

So far, so bad. But I thought this is the only way to go about finding stories—at least on paper. So I was in for a shock during the weekly editorial meeting. The higher-up presiding over the meeting had already pummeled me a little for not enough about what was happening on my beat when he asked me how I went about hunting for stories. “By meeting people,” I replied confidently—at least I knew the answer to this one. “That’s not how one goes about finding stories,” thundered the higher-up. “You should follow up on current developments.”

I glared accusingly at the people sitting at the table who had advised me thus. But they continued to stare ahead with glassy expressions on their faces.

Apparently there is a third slightly more extreme approach. I was grumbling to a colleague about how difficult it was to get any kind of information from foreign banks. He told me to just write to them saying I had learnt that their bank was about to collapse or something to that effect and would they like to comment, failing which I would run the story anyway. “You will hear from them within the hour,” he assured me.

I don’t know which of the above approaches will work for me. It is possible that there is no concrete formula for seeking out stories—maybe it is just a matter of luck, persistence and streetsmartness. Only time and a few by-lines will tell.

musical associations

2009-05-09T08:01:00.000+05:30

I recently read a blog post about how certain songs reminded the author about certain people, which struck a cord with me. Now I am far from a music aficionado and my taste in music has never been considered hip—not when I was fifteen and not now. But I do associate certain songs or certain artists with certain periods in my life.

The farthest back that I can remember is when I was in fourth grade. Cable TV had just started making inroads into middle class drawing rooms and we didn’t use to watch that much TV those days. Friday nights were however reserved for a weekly countdown show called Philips Top 10, which featured the top 10 Bollywood songs playing that week. I don’t think the producers went through the trouble of conducting an audience poll—it was just a random assortment of songs that they thought were popular. Barring a few which went on to become classics, most of the songs are long-forgotten, as are the movies which they featured in.

Then in seventh grade I came across a really nice album, ‘Yaadein’ by an obscure artist called Saurav. The music was sad, romantic in an old-world way and even a little cheesy, but as a kid just entering his teens, I took to it like a cat to a bowl of milk. I had just discovered that thwarted love or love lost is a much more interesting theme than madly-in-love, and that preference holds to this day. Saurav was just one in that long list of pop-stars who take out an album and are never to be heard of again. That was before the days of Google, so if you wanted to track a public figure there was only so much you can do in the manner of an enquiry. I saved his cassette for quite a few years and listened to it intermittently until the tape began to squeak. It disappeared after I moved out of my parents’ home and went off to college.

Directly after Saurav, there was briefly fascinated by a pretty ordinary band called Aqua. Ours is a generation which has n’t been raised on radio and our only window Western pop was MTV and Channel V. Foreign music videos had only just begun to enter the Indian market. Along with heavyweights such as Michael Jackson and Backstreet Boys, any average band from the West which cared to make India a part of its marketing strategy was embraced by Indian youngsters. Case in point--the thoroughly annoying song by Aqua “I am a Barbie girl” was a resounding success.

As my taste in music further evolved, I took to Boy zone and subsequently Ronan Keating with an unnatural fervour. How was I to know that most of their best songs were covers. And I thought it was wise of them to stick to covers instead of churning out drivel like Backstreet Boys.

“When you say nothing at all” was our anthem in the tenth grade and we sang it lustily whenever there was no authority within earshot.

In eleventh grade I discovered All India Radio FM service and that was also when a lot of private FM radio stations were launching. Eleventh and twelfth grade is a singularly boring period in one’s student life since it entails staying at home immersed in textbooks for long stretches. One isn’t jaded enough to realize that all that swotting is going to get one nowhere and one still listens to a parent’s entreaties to study. I have FM to thank for making those dreary days a little more bearable. I was also introduced to the Carpenters and my affair with them continues till this day. “Top of the World” is the song I usually belt out on the rare occasions that I am pressed to sing. That, and “Leaving on a Jet Plane” by John Denver.

When I left home and went to Pune to pursue a course in engineering, I was holed up in a depressing hostel building which was located at a sufficient distance from any place that a student would possibly be interested in going. My music collection consisted of a couple of CDs that I had hurriedly put together before going off to hostel. I listened to Jon Bon Jovi a lot in that year more out of compulsion than anything else. Thankfully Bon Jovi’s anthem--his shrill assertion that his life is in fact his life-- was not part of the CD. A friend presented me with a CD of John Denver since I had mentioned to him that I enjoyed country music, and I finally had music that I liked. I would lounge on my bed in my hostel, gazing out of the window at a wall of brown mountains in the distance and listen to Denver croon longingly about his picturesque little red-neck hometown.

If you have John Denver, Glen Campbell can’t be far away. I had heard his most famous “Rhinestone Cowboy” earlier, but I quickly learnt that that wasn’t his best song. I enjoy “Gently on my mind” more and I still listen to ‘True Grit’ when I need a pep talk. I also discovered Frank Sinatra and added ‘Strangers in the Night’ to the list of songs to be sung upon request.

In my final year of engineering college, I was hooked to Bob Dylan. My friend and I would pile into his beat-up Jeep and go on long drives and, since neither of us are the chatty sorts, I would listen to Bob Dylan on my MP3 player. When I listen it to ‘Man of Constant Sorrow’ it reminds me of that year—drives on Pune’s pot-holed roads, loads of free time, the imminent end to engineering.

I know this has turned into a tedious account of the evolution of my taste in music which is still quite undiscerning. The point, however, is the power of association--these songs remind me of particular periods in my life. I don’t even have to dig out old tracks and play old tracks. I just need to hum a verse and the memories come flooding back. And I have always been a sucker for nostalgia.

Which is your stop, sir?

2009-03-22T17:10:00.000+05:30

I think people traveling by Mumbai local trains should have destination tags taped to the front of their shirts. Just like at business events, where they name tags. Of course, that arrangement is not prefect either because the name of the person is printed in bigger letters than the name of the organization. So, if you are a journalist who is looking to save business cards and avoid unnecessary small talk, you are left with no choice but to squint at people’s breasts awkwardly until you decide whether its worth your while to introduce yourself.
But returning to the point, people traveling in local trains should wear destination tags. If you are one of the daredevil types that hang from the door, you are exempted. But if you are one who gets on the train at one of the earlier stops and manages bag a seat, it is mandatory. I shall explain why. Standing commuters who want a seat generally crowd around seated commuters, ready to pounce on the first seat that falls vacant. Of course, given Indians love for forming queues, there is a queue which you can’t jump. So the first in the queue usually stands between two rows of facing seats. Now if this person knew that all the seated commuters were getting off at the last stop he wouldn’t be standing there between the seats with an expectant hang-dog expression on his face. He would give up hopes of finding a seat and stand in a more comfortable position. And the seated commuters would be spared the pleasure of having his crotch and butt in their faces. It’s a win-win for all concerned.
Now we wouldn’t have needed this system that badly if the commuter traffic obeyed the laws. Let me explain. There is a law that holds that the 8:58 local to Thane will empty at a station called Ghatkopar and all standees will get a seat. But commuter traffic doesn’t play by the rules always. So once you have passed Ghatkopar and non of the seated guys have got up, you are just standing there looking pathetic and willing those bastards to get up. It is not just that you are tired and at the end of a hard day--It is also a question of dashed hopes and broken rules. You have come to expect something which you are summarily denied.
So the solution to all this is for commuters to wear destination tags. Whats the alternative—surveying the seated commuters to ascertain where they are getting off? That’s so lame. And also think of all the unnecessary conversation that entails. So, in the interests of overall efficiency and commuter satisfaction, I propose that all local train commuters should be made to wear destination tags.

pass the parcel

2009-03-22T17:08:00.000+05:30

Sometimes I wonder whether I am plain unlucky in terms of social situations that I find myself in. I have been characterized as a social retard, social idiot and a sociopath by different people depending on how pissed they were with me after I had a committed yet another faux pas. In my assessment, I am a blessed with a combination of social awkwardness, revulsion for small talk and a monumental disinterest in the day-to-day lives of most of the people I chance to meet in the course of my work—all in equal measure. In a previous post I ahd pointed out the anomaly of my character make-up and the profession of my choice, journalism. So it is to be expected that when my profession and my personality rub shoulders, there are plenty sparks.
My boss was invited for a social do by this uppity foreign bank and since he was definitely not going to fritter away a Saturday night at a PR event of a company whose payrolls he doesn’t figure on, the invite fell in my lap. I find any form of interaction taxing and when it is a ‘social, interaction—bereft of any direct professional objective or gain—I am naturally at my worst. But since I am endowed with an eternal zest for self-improvement, I bit my lip and strode forth to the event which had promised a spoof of Hamlet on the invite.
The moment I stepped into the hall my worst fears were validated. There was not a soul I knew except the CEO of the bank who looked right through me. So I went to men’s room with the intention of taking as much time. I splashed my face with water, took an inordinately long time over my hair but and hung around for as long as I could before the others took me for a freak. If I had been the only inhabitant of the loo, I would have never come out.
On emerging from the john, I scanned the crowd looking for another person with a haversack or any bag. If you are trying to seek out a journalist, a haversack is a dead giveaway. Who else would come to a social evening with a haversack slung over the shoulder except someone who had come straight from work and didn’t have a car to leave his bag in? I finally spotted a youthful chap but it turned out that he was the bartender coming in for his shift. I didn’t know what to make of the gathering. There were kids, spouses, girlfriends and of course they all seemed to know each other. I felt like I had trespassed on to the bank’s “for the spouse, kids and girlfriend/boy friend” party. There were caricature artists, tarot card readers and some other such trade-peddlers scattered around the hall—a up-market fun-fair if ever there was one.
After a frantic consultation with a friend through text-SMS (it also makes u look busy) I caught hold of some of these suit-clad obsequious young men who were ushering guests in. I told them I was a journalist and would appreciate it if they could introduce me to their some of their guests. Poor bastard, I think he didn’t know what to make of me, so he introduced me to the next, suit-clad obsequious usherer he caught sight of. And so began the ridiculous exercise of pass-the-parcel. I was tossed about from on usherer to another, with the turn-over time becoming increasingly short over between each pass until I landed up with a gent who belonged to a property consultant. He quickly introduced me to another gent from his own company and it was become increasingly clear that I had become a pariah, to be dropped like a hot potato. This next gent didn’t bother to introduce me to anyone else, choosing to just bail out on me. At least that put an end to the pass-the parcel game. I sneaked off to the bar and asked the bartender to fix me up a large. My frazzled nerves needed to be steadied and I took up position in a cozy corner of the room and began ‘nursing my drink.
I was fast approaching the agreeable stage of happy-high when the communications head of the bank showed up. My pitiful, lonely state must have rended her heart and she was quite kind. She apologized for forgetting to tell me to get someone along and I brushed aside her apology—I was too buzzed to be affected by such minor problems as not having anyone to talk to. But she bustled off, promising to be back and sure enough, she cam back with a very agreeable senior bloke from the bank. We struck up a conversation and it was already the longest conversation I had had that evening when the communications lady appeared with two other girls—a girl from the PR agency that represents the bank and her friend. Their brief was surely to not let me out of sight in case I killed myself out of the grief of loneliness because they stuck to me doggedly despite my attempts to shake them off. It is not that I didn’t want their company—I was buzzed enough to start a conversation with a chimpanzee—I just didn’t want them to be there against their will.
But when the hall opened for the play and they followed me as I slunk away to the far side of the hall, I decided they were my companions fro the evening.
The ‘spoof’ of Hamlet was an out-and-out stand-up comedy routine obviously inspired by the ‘scary movie’ tri-quels. It was funny in parts but the humour was pedestrian and not clever at all. It had all the trappings of a contemporary—audience interactions, responding to the audience—but overall, it was a very ordinary affair.
The play was bearable but when they decided to reenact the whole play in fast-forward and backwards even the previously appreciative audience became restive. They finally rounded off the play after threatening to reenact it ‘sideways’ but the evening of fun was not over just yet. Every such event has to have a bubbly annoying emcee and this one was no different. She made one of the characters reenact one of the scenes and insisted on playing after him. On another occasion, I would have marveled at her chutzpah but it time was getting on, I was hungry and I had long journey home ahead of me. The event ended after they had made the men in the audience give their women roses and I rushed off to the buffet table. I was eating my meal doubly quick and was just about done with my first round when my two companions materialized out of nowhere. The either found me damn good company or their brief was to stick to me until I exited the premises. We made casual conversation until I withdrew, with the excuse that I had along way to travel.
So, there it is—my first social do made bearable my two large shots of rum, a kindly corporate communications lady and two determined PR girls.

Meeting people

2009-03-22T17:07:00.002+05:30

This happened in Chennai during my journo school days. On a typical oppressively hot Chennai afternoon, a couple of us from ACJ bundled into an auto and headed to a coffee shop. Everyone was on a self-depreciatory trip and was trying to come up with reasons why he or should would never make a good journalist. There wasn’t much to chose between the contenders for the “worst aspiring journalist award until I waded into the contest. “The reason I won’t make a good journalist is because I don’t like people”. I had routed them, left them all speechless. They were forced to concede that my misanthropic proclivities couldn’t be overstated and that I, indeed, had the most unjournalist-like personality.
I have always hated small talk—not because I prefer to talk about heady, intellectual stuff but because I find small talk tiring. I envy people who can banter with a perfect stranger and have him/her eating out of his hands in under five minutes. People might describe me as being a tight ass or having a stiff upper lip depending on how blunt they are but, yes, I am an awkward conversationalist, not the shy, meek type just plain awkward. Now my Dad is all those things and I probably have him to blame for the way I am, but apparently, there is a crucial difference between us. He might not say much but is a good listener, which translates into he doesn’t look bored when people are talking to him, unlike me. It is all I can do to keep from yawning when I am having a perfectly random conversation with a stranger. I am not shy when it comes to going up to strangers—I just cannot be bothered.
Turns out there is hope for people like me even in the world of journalism—in a depressing, stifling place called the news desk. To be fair, I have worked only on one news desk which is also known to be structured differently to the rest. But that single experience ahs filled me with a life-long dread fro the place and sincere empathy for the people who work there.
I managed to free myself form the unforgiving confines of the desk and the struggle has been extensively chronicled on this blog and elsewhere. So, now I am a reporter with a different newspaper and a different city and I am forced to reckon with my misanthropic tendencies.
So what should a young man whose just starting out as a reporter do to enable him to further his prospects in this esteemed profession? Ask the old hands and they will invariably tell you, “Just, go meet people! Talk to people!”. They sound as though the only dilemma in my mind is whether to “ go out and talk to people” or not. Okay but what kind of people should I be meeting and talking to? “Everyone”. Like even the surly lift boy who hates stopping at our floor for some reason? I hate it when people talk about people as though it is a homogenous entity which can only be engaged on the group level.
Since the old hands have forgotten what they did when they were rookies, I am left to my own inferences. I decide that the people to meet at this stage are the corporate communication representatives of the various banks that I shall be tracking. The first bird I call sounds delighted that I am proposing to come and see him. Having been a journalist himself, he is still unused to being sought rather than being the seeker and revels in such small joys. After a tiresome two hours he thanks me profusely for coming and seeing him. I learn my first industry truth as a journalist. Not to expect anything from ex-journo corp comms because they are only in it for the ego trip.
My next interview is better, not least because the guy is a namesake, which instnaly puts us on an amicable terms. But the third and last one for the week is quite different. The guy knows nothing about his company and instead chooses to regale me with stories from his days as a journo. He also manages to smuggle in his views on the political situation in the country before we settle into a discussion about which newspaper is reporter-driven and which is desk-driven. And I am suddenly visited with a question—how is this meeting furthering my prospects as a journo? This guy is a person alright, so technically I am meeting ‘people’ but is anything going to come out of it?

my ruined first-job story

2008-12-27T17:53:00.006+05:30

Habits, bad or good, are not easy to kick but I recently managed to shrug off a particularly tiresome one. It was causing me a lot of distress and I had more or less surrendered my life to it. Plus, my near-and-dears were starting to get concerned about my mental well-being. So, all though it was a potential launching pad for a stellar career and the source of a meagre monthly income, I ditched my first job.
I'm aware that twenty years from now, if I were to achieve some modicum of success, I will not be able to tell an inspiring first-job story to youngsters starting out in the profession. I wont be able to speak of humble beginnings but limitless prospects, of a god-father who took me under his/her wing, of that insufferable, demanding boss who "nevertheless helped me become who I am today." Mine will be a story of humble beginnings and humble prospects, of stalwarts who had nothing more to offer me more than their sympathy, of a mentor who branded me as 'lazy' for life, of thwarted chances that were my doing and thwarted hopes that were someone else's doing.
For sure, I did learn quite a few things on the job. Prone to over-confidence, the clerical nature of my work took me down a peg or two. Before starting out I was afraid of ideological differences with the paper's editorial line. On the job, I learned that my superiors wouldn't have given two shits even if i were an undercover Naxalite.
But there were more enduring lessons. I learnt that intelligence is in the eye of the reader, that learning to cover your own tail is a praiseworthy goal, that unquestioned submission to authority is a virtue, and for there to be rockstars in your newsroom you also need sufficiently submisive underlings for them to beat up.
My first-job tale will be singularly unappetizing. But that's just something I will have to live with.

yellowing pages

2008-05-31T16:59:00.000+05:30

One week into a new city and a new job and you can be excused for feeling a little rudderless. ACJ already seems a distant memory although it has been less than a month since I graduated. And then there are even more distant memories- engineering college and junior college. Further back is school.So how does one continuously reorient oneself in the face of constantly changing circumstances? Is there anything to be gained from pondering over the change in one’s circumstances?
Technology today allows one to visit all these people and memories simultaneously. One is bombarded by recollections from different periods of one’s life. Looking back feels like sifting through an old dusty book in which every chapter is unlike the others. There are sad chapters interspersed with happy chapters and turning the leaf on a happy chapter is always painful. And one is always left wondering whether the last chapter will be the happiest in the book.
A recent happy chapter is visited again and again. Technology allows us to visit not-so-recent chapters frequently as the people who inhabit those pages are just an index finger-press away. But as the pages keep adding to the book revisiting long past chapters becomes more and more laborious. We bookmark some pages and people for quick reference and leave the others to yellow away peacefully. Technology has, in some senses, made human memory irrelevant. There are enough visual, audio aids to aid memory that it seems like one need not remember anything at all. One need just store in a flash drive or as a digital photo. Technology allows us to freeze moments of time for posterity. But, for all its glories, it cannot arrest the motion of relationships. It can freeze memories of a relationship but not the relationship itself. It can remind us of what certain people meant to us but cannot influence what they mean to us now. Relationships are fluid and certain people become less dear to us as time goes by. And it is this I fear. That I can’t freeze all the relationships from a recent happy period of my life. I must watch as people drift away from me, as they become less dear to me and me to them. I’m not worried about the bookmarks, or the main actors in my story. I am worried about the supporting actors who go a long way in defining a period of one’s life. I might think of them and imagine what their life is like right now. But, they will yellow away and every time I revisit them I will realize that they mean less and less to me. At such meetings pleasantries will be exchanged and good memories invoked. But conversation will dry up eventually, soon enough. And there is nothing I can do about it.

2007-04-30T12:57:00.000+05:30

was introduced to Orkut a few months back. Actually it was more than a year ago and I should have written this piece ages ago when it would have seemed relevant. So let assume for the sake of argument that I have just been introduced to Orkut. For the uninitiated, its an online networking site where you can meet friends, join communities and leave public messages on people’s scrapbook. I chanced upon an ex-community from my school and suddenly I found a lot of people I had lost contact with. The inevitable round of “hi…remember me?”’s followed. It got me all nostalgic and misty-eyed. It had been six years since I had last seen or talked to any of them. The ensuing conversation was invariably along these lines—“ ya of course I rem u..im gud..im doin thisthis course in this this place.what abt u???”. “I’m doing this this course in this this place”. Then the message boards go silent. What do you say to a guy with whom your only shared memory is the chalk fights you used to have between periods(oops!! between lectures.used to call them periods in school). Or how he used to pick on you or vice-versa.( in which case you might still hate him or vice-versa) And suddenly the euphoria ebbs. The “ its so great to meet everyone after sooo long” is replaced by “ Glad to know you are alive. Hope to hear from you again after another six years..if not longer.” Which makes sense. I have kept in touch with school friends with whom I had a deeper relationship than a common loathing for Maths and the Maths teacher. Of course I had a rollicking time with all those people back in school. But I guess friendship needs fuel— common interests, common values some common ground. What works best is common destiny. Destiny often brings people together and we sail along thinking about how merry our company is, how well we get along. And when destiny separates us we are left with the remains of a withered friendship. But it withers so gracefully, so unspectacularly that we barely feel the pain.
People change, so how can friendships be expected not to. The interesting thing about friendship is that its end need not be acknowledged. Infact friendships are not known to end except as a result of a feud or falling out between friends. “We shall always be friends”. We are going our separate ways. Chances are I’m never going to talk to you or think about you. But we shall always be friends. If we ever run into each other in the local we shall make casual conversation. The hand of friendship is easily extended and need not be withdrawn.
Continuing on the topic of ephemeral friendships, I have been on a dozen Himalayan treks almost each with a different set of people. I got along like a house on fire with most of them. But I’m not in touch with a single person. We have never even tried to keep in touch. Friendships that spring up in the confines of a group in the lap of nature, among people determined to have a good time cannot withstand the vagaries of everyday life. These friendships come with an expiry date.
On the other end of the spectrum are my childhood friends — my colony buddies. We are at widely dispersed locations our interests are even more disparate. But whenever we meet up there is never a lull in the conversation. I wonder why? Nothing in common here,right. Maybe because whatever we are today, to each other we are still kids. We remember each other as kids and still see each other as kids. There is the consequent lack of pretence. Common childhood experiences count for something.
My brush with my school friends rekindled some memories, lightened my heart as I thought about those happy days. But it did only that. Some living people cease to be except in our memories.

2007-04-04T20:10:00.000+05:30

I just finished reading a book called ‘When corporations rule the world’ by David Korten. It talks about the pernicious influence of corporations on economic, political and social fronts. How corporations play an active role in shaping a nation’s economic, foreign and fiscal policy which is a heavily covered issue in liberal circles. And how competing corporations can make common cause and pool their resources to together to serve mutual interests.

What I found particularly interesting was his analysis of the marketing function of corporations. How the goal is not just to sell products and promote a consumer culture but to create a political culture that equates the corporate interest with the human interest in the public mind. TV with its ability to implant identical images in the minds of millions of people can homogenize knowledge, tastes, desires and most importantly perspectives. If you achieve a certain measure of success in controlling how people think, not just what they think about that’s half the battle. How the natural evolution of a populist culture based on people’s aspirations and their interactions within and without their community has been thwarted and replaced by a global homogenized consumer culture based on a warped sense of reality.

And all the while the people are lead to believe that the ultimate power—that of choice, rests with them. Consumers can always use their dollar-votes to wield influence on the corporations is the argument of most neo-classical economists. The idea that consumer decides and the market responds is a fanciful notion which projects an exceedingly benign image of corporations. Widely dispersed consumers who make their choices independent of each other, are no match for the highly organized giant corporations united in their quest to squeeze consumers dry.

Korten is a vociferous critic of the corporate libertarian school of thought which believes in free markets, open trade and a globalized economy. He is however an avid fan of Adam Smith of the famous Invisible Hand Theory which is seen to be the cornerstone of the capitalist school of thought. Korten seeks to salvage his idol’s reputation from the machinations of neo-classical economists. He says that firstly that the Invisible Hand Theory only holds true under ideal conditions of perfect competition and absence of monopolies, externalities etc. He also takes pains to illustrate that Adam Smith was vigorously against corporations and all twelve mentions of them in The Wealth Of Nations have been unfavourable.

Korten describes himself as neither a fan of big government nor of big business . He believes in the power of the market and imagines a scenario in which almost producers are small and consume a major portion of their produce themselves and no one producer is big enough to influence the price. Something akin to rural American life in the nineteenth century before the food giants moved in. However the pastoral setting he so fondly describes seems far-fetched. And there is no reason not to believe that the present day corporation is the natural progression of the small private enterprises he vouches for.

His analysis of the problem was incisive and thought-provoking. However I found his solutions less engaging, which is why I gave the book up midway.

2007-03-30T22:35:00.000+05:30

My roomie and I were driving back from a movie festival the other evening. I was feeling a little blue because my results were out and as it turned out I would have to reacquaint myself with one especially tiresome subject. Not that I had really worked for the exam but I had hoped I had worked enough. To make matters worse (for me) my friends, my erstwhile companions in distress had left me far behind. They were jubilant and I was anything but.. And suddenly all the talk about us, the farzi (shamming) engineers, not caring about how we fared in exams, rang hollow.

We were driving on a dark by-lane when suddenly my eyes made out a form in the distance. I immediately told warned my roomie and he flashed his dipper which caught a petrified cyclist tinkering with his bike in the middle of the road. My roomie slammed his brakes and moments latter we heard a loud screech as the car behind us did likewise. It was a close shave for the cyclist and for us because onlookers are not known to be charitable towards car owners who run over cyclists, no matter whose fault it is. Similarly car owners are not known to be charitable towards other car owners who brake suddenly and cause a crash, especially if the former heavily outnumber the latter.

And suddenly I didn’t feel so bad any more. At least no one was dead. As long as there is life there is possibility. Things are never as bad as they are made out to be. As long as there is life you can always retire to fight another day.

2007-03-05T00:04:00.000+05:30

Got a call from my cellular service provider asking regarding some user verification.Uptil now they had been content to pester me with recorded messages every time i dialled a number. Its a pre-paid number so you buy a card use it up and refill it whenever you like.No grounds for the service provider to call you up,no unpaid bills etc.You would think.But apparently these guys want to keep tabs on people using their phones.But that is n't half of it. They want you to go down to their showroom and submit proof of address,a photograph etc.I had to pinch myself to make sure I was n't dreaming.Look im not applying for an American H1-B visa. Im not asking for anything except being left alone to continue using the number i have been using for the past 3 and half years.And i dont photograph well.So I dont like handing out freebies of photos in which i look alright.When the girl told me to do it i asked her if there was a last date.She said there was n't one. Then she hastily added that i was supposed to do the needful within 2 days of receiving this call failing which i would n't be able to make out-going calls. I told her i was busy and i would n't be able to find the time.She asked me what my problem was as though i was some loony who had called her up to harass her.And i had to pinch myself again to make sure this was n't a dream in which i was a hapless call-centre coolie peddling loans to irate potential customers. Hang on for a second now.Are n't i supposed to be the irate customer here?How did this role reversal happen?So much for the private sector being efficient,customer-friendly and prompt.I am no champion of the public sector or of government services.But atleast they are not out to fleece you.They are only callous and indifferent to your problems which i dont mind. I go to electricity board office to pay my bills not to feel good about the world in general and people in particular.And to their credit the time they cut of our electricity(due to unpaid bills of the previous tenants) they did such a shoddy job that my enterprising roomie was able to set it right himself.My experiences with private-run services have been that great.Our last internet service provider would give us connectivity only every alternate day.Our present isp makes feel like we are asking for free adult movie downloads when we ask to be compensated for no-connectivity days.Once our friendly call-centre executive had hung i was in half a mind to call the enquiry number and let of some steam.But then i thought--'what if its not a toll-free number and they charge me for calling up and asking them why they were harassing me?'.In any case it might have been an empty threat.As an engineering student i'm no stranger to empty threats.That's the favoutite hobby of our professors and even if a fraction of those threats had been serious almost no one of us would have reached final year.So i'm just going to stay put--waiting and watching

2007-02-26T16:44:00.000+05:30

Watched a documentary called Occupation:Dreamland. It was about American troops stationed in Fallujah—a hotbed of anti-occupation resistance. The film focused exclusively on the rank-and-file of the army—the people in the centre of the action.
. The documentary was firmly anti-war which is fine with me. I guess there is no such thing as an impartial film. The very fact that you were moved to make a movie on a particular subject shows that you have strong opinions about it. Fence-sitting is for mainstream media talk show hosts who cant afford to offend either side in lieu of TV ratings. The best you can do is make a balanced movie—give both viewpoints adequate space or else you end up with a movie.
This movie was n’t about the politics of the war which has been covered extensively. It was about the people on the ground. American troops are usually characterized as ruthless killing machines or selfless, patriotic youths ready to lay down their lives for the cause of freedom, depending on where you stand on the political spectrum. I think the USP of this movie is it shows them as just young men, no different from millions all over the world.
There were all shades of political opinion even though most soldier said they were n’t political. Some pro, some anti-war, some doubtful but still trusting of the higher-ups. Some telling themselves they were there for a reason to keep their heads from getting messed up—the sheer practicality of it. All of them agreeing they had to follow orders no matter what their personal opinions were. I suppose most armies condition soldiers to obey orders implicitly and discourage a culture of political consciousness. Which is perfect for the army. The lesser the guys doing the dirty work think the smoother things run. Almost none of the soldiers in the movie were keen on building a glorious career in the military. Infact one of them expressed mild contempt for the ambitious ones always volunteering for missions in which they would n’t be in harm’s way,just to rack up points. Most of them were kids who had no great ambitions, no great prospects for the future. The ones who did could n’t afford college. Some of them had ‘screwed up’-- got into a little trouble with the law. Easy prey for the sophisticated recruiting machinery. Most of them there because they did n’t have a place they’ rather be.
I believe the American Army has to try much harder to get people to enlist than ,say, the Indian Army does. The American troops are n’t really crazy about giving their lives up for their country. But why should they be when a lot of their countrymen are busy pursuing the much touted Great American Dream. In an aggressively materialistic society self-sacrifice is n’t valued. Which underscores my point that patriotism and similar lofty ideals are the luxury of people who are n’t inconvenienced by it. What really surprised me was how hard the army tries to get its soldiers to renew their contracts. They are required to sit in a slew of meetings regarding this. Apparently, there is a popular notion that the Army is the refuge for anti-social freaks who can’t cope with civil life and the guy conducting the meeting was quick to denounce this idea as untrue. Then he asked the soldiers if they had figured out what to do with their lives. ”You need to have a plan about where you want to be 5 years, 10 years from now.” Its amazing how people who tell you that you need to have a plan almost certainly have a plan for you. Its like—“look, you need to have a plan which you do n’t but I do. So go with my plan.” I can definitely identify with this experience. They are told that some of them are not responsible, not mature enough and still need the firm guiding hand of the military. Tap into the fears and insecurities of youth and you know you ‘ll have them eating out of your hands.

2007-02-05T18:27:00.000+05:30

my first comment...infallible evidence that atleast someone has stumbled upon my blog.ofcourse some friends did"i did n't know u blog" but they did nt comment on the blog(maybe out of politeness which is highly out of character of them)The artless blogger has some valid points--"that micro actions(like singing the national anthem) do influence our nature in not very tangible ways.I agree and even admitted to getting that queasy feeling when it plays.Im not for or against it--- i just mentioned it as one of the ways in which we choose to express our patriotism and the incongruity of the situation.BUt my beef with patriotism is it is always invoked against an extenal adversary.Lets forget the inner evils and concentrate on the outer evils.It also suggests that all sections of society have an equal 'stake'in India and gain equally whenever India secures a victory on the international stage.So the billionaires in Malabar hill are Indians first and filthy rich later.A man in the Dharavi slums is Indian first and hungry,wretched,destitute,jobless later.Of course you dont need to be rich to be a 'patriotic' Indian.That's the beauty of it.You can be poor,hungry and homeless and still be patriotic if you are willing to ignore the fact that you are poor, hungry and homeless(and why you are poor,hungry and homeless) and get behind the government.

Enough of the cynism.I have a uncanny feeling that i'm beginning to sound like a bitter,old retired communist which i'm not.So i shall save these tirades for when i reach my father's age(his present age,i mean) i think the most patriotic thing to do is to increase one's social and political consciousness.To figure out how the economic machinery runs and 'for whom the bells toll'. To learn to look at things from other people's perspective. To question old and established beliefs and doctrines.And above all not to take anything for granted.

lone fox....

2007-01-23T18:03:00.000+05:30

"As i walked home last night
I saw a lone fox dancing
In the cold moonlight.

I stood and watched.Then
Took the low road,knowing
The night was his by right

Sometimes when words ring true,
I'm like a lone fox dancing
In the morning dew."
----Ruskin Bond

2007-01-16T09:21:00.000+05:30

"patriotism"--have never really managed to grasp the significance of the word. The dictionary says it means loyally supporting one's country".I always assumed it meant loving one's country.Or believing your country is the greatest in the world by virtue of your auspicious birth within its borders.These days patriotism is in vogue. A guy from a prominent business family fought successfully for the right to fly the indian tricolour anywhere and everywhere--American Style. In a multiplex you are obliged to stand before the movie begins and have that weird sinking feeling in your gut as you watch the indian tricolour fluttering on the giant screen and the national anthem playing in thebackground. After that you are free to watch the movie you paid for--even if its about how the American Army saves the world from being overrun by crazed maniacs(yet again!) by going into another country and blowing up the baddies into smithereens.
Is n't Patriotism being aware of your culture and history-- even the unflattering and downright gruesome bits.Most ancient civilizations have seen a lot of bloodshed and thats a fact that has to be contended with.And appreciative of the nice bits of course.The interesting fact is patriotism needs an adversary to manifest itself.Now that the Goras have gone how about the Pakistanis.So here is the deal.I come from a rich civilization with an enduring heritage which goes back hundreds of years.Yet i'm supposed to owe allegience to an entity which was carved out from the Indian subcontinent 60 odd years ago.And i'm supposed to hate the people who fall out of that chunk.The funny thing is if you go to England you might be called a'Paki'--- a common racist slur for all brown-skinned people.Which would be doubly insulting because you hate Pakis.You might stop to state your opinion of Pakis and how you are decidely not a Paki but dont think it ll make a difference.

2006-12-31T17:16:00.000+05:30

was watching a reality show to pick a new VJ the other day on TV. And if u think bearing 1 VJ on TV is bad enough try 8 each trying to outdo the other. I have never seen a group of people try harder to be funny.imagine the pressure when u r up against 7 other people each 'whacky' in his/her own right.every syllable that drops from ur mouth needs to be uproarious. So cant really blame them if most of their jokes fell flat.
They had the usual suspects lined up. The guys were all over-energetic and kept pulling funny faces for our benefit. And there are 2 kinds of female VJs i guess-plain gorgeous and perky gorgeous. All the females fell into the above 2 categories except one. She was plain-looking,clearly on the heavier side and yes,bald. Maybe they picked her as the quirky weirdo, the odd 1 out in the group. dont think she would have been picked except for her bald pate which could be and was an inexhaustible source of lame quibs.
Most of their rounds were pretty lame.For eg. the guys had to wax their legs,the girls had to milk a cow--been-done-to-death reality tv stuff.But one round was interesting. They had to stand before a mirror and poke fun at themselves. And most of them did hopelessly. They could n't identify a single peculiar trait of their own.Obviously they thought the world of themselves. Except the bald girl. She was funny.And i have always had a soft corner for people who can laugh at themselves especially girls who can make fun of their looks. A lot of people r really good at making digs at others but when the joke is on them suddenly thier sense of humour vanishes.If u cant take it u should nt dish it out.
.Chances are she wont be picked unless they r trying to break a mould.She is just not pretty enough to be on TV.Which is a pity because would nt it be nice to see a jolly,likeable girl with a keen wit instead of those PYT's with the fake accents who do little more than embellish the set.

just another obscure blog

2006-12-29T18:26:00.000+05:30

( I meant to write this in my blog description but, turns out, they just allow you 500 chars. Which, I discovered, is n't much more than what you can scribble on the back of a match-box.)

I 've always been fond of writing. Back in the school days I used to take part in essay competitions and suchlike. Then the focus used to be on style and verbal jugglery rather than content. A good essay was one which left you slighly zonked with an open dictionary fluttering in your lap. Not blaming the teachers here.I'm sure they kept an eye open for content.The idea was to get kids to express themselves confidently and become comfortable in English. But some of us over-zealous kids took this concept to its etymological extreme.

That was some time back. My writing habit has waned considerably and i have nt taken part in an essay competition, or anything of that sort, in ages. I am seized by inspiration from time to time and maintain a diary for these outbursts but these instances are few and far between. So basically i want to recultivate the writing habit. I know for a fact that the physical act of putting pen to paper( or typing) helps you organize your thoughts better and lends some coherence to them. Otherwise they are just muddled ideas gadding about in your head.
My choice of profession made my literary skills expendable and now i'm not obliged to write for anyone but myself. This is not to say I do n't care for other people's opinions. Its just that i don't care how my postings reflect on me as a person. I used to be very concious about what other people 'thought' of me and, believe me, thats not a very comfortable place to be in.
So here I am. I have no one to compete with, nothing to prove,no pressure at all. This is just another blog floating alongside millions of other obscure blogs in cyberspace but i revel in its obscurity.