Of Zen and starry skies - Part I

This wasn’t the usual Coromandel Express ride: the one that starts at 9:05 sharp and makes you smell mustard oil all the way. This one was minus the friends; one that makes you think that that the true essence of life is to be busy; one which brings out the realization that everyone has something worthwhile to do in life that being on a 26 hour train journey is the last of their things to do. With a mind full of hope of getting my passport finally stamped, I boarded the Coromandel Express which started at 8:45 a.m., again, sharp.

The Calcutta Chromosome is a good train read. Although it had a few bits and pieces of a futuristic Calcutta, it wasn’t too different from the present day city. Only a few cities have that charm to not let time take over and Calcutta will be at the pole position, every single one of those times. She is a city that has all that the future holds, and yet can coexists with the past simultaneously. 
A simple example would be the transportation system in Calcutta. Get down at Howrah -> take a ferry to Babu Ghat -> walk around the old British architecture buildings, whiling away time with a Kachori and cha around the court corners -> hop on a tram -> get down at Esplanade -> take a metro to Park Street -> have nimbupani -> come back in a bus to Madras Café -> have a tummy-filling South Indian meal -> head back to Babu Ghat. Whaddya know - it’s already dark! For anyone not from East, the sky becoming pitch dark at 5:30 is a phenomenon, but that’s how our IST standardization works. Welcome to Calcutta – the futuristic city of the ‘60s!

My train to New Jalpaiguri (it took me some Bangla training to get the pronunciation right. So let’s just call it NJP) was at 5:30 p.m. It’s the December cold that makes the matki-cha wala, a millionaire (in paisa terms) on the platform. Burdwan (or Bardhamman or Vardhamman) invoked the Bengali in me, but it was after office hours and it wasn’t difficult for me to put him on the “Hobe Na” mode. One gets to meet interesting characters in a train journey and the most common thing amongst them is the level of distrust their eyes convey. “So, you are travelling alone eh? I despise you! And don’t think you can steal my kid!” Perceptions change when you take out a withered copy of 1984. Then they trust you like how they would trust a condom. “I trust you, but I pray that you don’t tear up that trust and prove to be a rogue”. Tell them that you are a pseudo-intellectual from NIT-IIT, and you are already family. No one pays any heed to that pseudo-intellectuality though. Brand plays and pays for the free luchi puris that you just shared.

The only good photo I took on the trip

Kamrup Express was on time and NJP was cold. Cold to the extent that the juvenile pleasure of smoking without even lighting a cigarette was possible. I waited and waited for a train from Delhi which was already 4 hours late. Prashant finally made it to the NJP station at around 9 and soon after, we went searching for shared autos to the Siliguri bus stand. The last bus to Jaigaon was about to leave at 11:20 a.m. and we were lucky enough to get seats on the overcrowded bus. Taking the hilly terrain into consideration, a journey of approximately 150 km would take us about 5 hours. The hopes of seeing the sun setting in India looked glim, but the excitement of being in a different country for another 10 days kept my spirits up!

Photo by Prashant Arora

It was 6:30. The sun had set 2 hours ago. And we were still travelling. Google Maps put us at least 20 km away from the destination. At 7:30 we disembarked the bus. The pressure in the groin pushed us straight in the direction of the nearest toilet. If one has to describe that out-of-the-world feeling, you could say we accelerated faster than gravity. How do we know that? From the relief one gets after withstanding this torture for more than 3 hours. This relief could be called as closest to that of a cluttered mind attaining Zen.

Photo by Prashant Arora

With broken Bengali, we found our way to the border. We paid the share-auto-guy in Rupees and he returned the change in Ngultrums. Our first ‘phoreign’ currency exchange! With much fascination, we crossed the border. Wait, wait! Hold on for a minute now. I had to take a step back and peer into India before moving forward. Oh my Gawd! What is this place? Is this how Bangladeshis feel, when they step into India? Serene, clean, orderly, lesser people and smiling ones too (bloody they even use indicators to take a turn). Welcome to Bhutan – the land of the thunder-dragon and I hope you are not carrying any cigarettes!

Photo by Prashant Arora

Posted on 10:40 by Tippu Sultan in Kolkata, Travelogue, Zen | No comments

Calm down Entropy

The elbows are firmly held against the walls. Sometimes they are stable, a few other times the friction is unbearable. I think the skin is off and the wall is in direct contact with my flesh. I try to use my forefinger and thumb to find what the wall is made of. No use. I give up. Will I be able to scratch the surface, find a hole, insert my finger and break the wall open with as minimal force as possible. No hole anywhere and not much of mobility as well. My feet is stuck and the knee is jammed between my forearm and biceps. I am not able to open my eyes. I think I am blindfolded. Let me use my hand to open the blindfolds. Or am I really blindfolded? Try. Try. Try. I am not able to move my hands. My elbows are still up against two walls. Am I entirely sitting on a plank of some sort? Am I? Am I in a stable position right now? Is my external entropy zero? Or am I increasing my entropy by asking such pointless questions?

So, in fact I am sitting in a comfortable position. Or should I say squatting? Yeah! Squatting is the word. But why am I blindfolded? No! It can’t be it. Let me summon up all the energy possible to lift my head. One. Two. Three. Can’t. I give up. I have this strange feeling in my stomach. This feeling of desiring something. Something can be anything, but I need something in my stomach to make this desire vanish. Is it hunger? I can’t pinpoint as I have forgotten how hunger feels. This feeling is strange. It will make you do things which one wouldn’t do in a normal state of mind. What is the point of this feeling? I can smell something. Oh! Is it my own sweat? I need to take a shower as soon as I get home. So salty my sweat tastes!

I let time pass.

Limbs have given up. What next? Ears. Oh my lovely ears. Hear! Hear the gossip that the mates next door are talking about. What are they cleaning? Why should they waste so much water? Good Lord! I need to talk to them right now and stop them wasting any more water. “Hey next door neighbours! Secondly, stop wasting so much water. Firstly, where are we? Help me out of here! Is anybody there? Are you guys dumb? Help me out of here, I say! Ok. I am sorry. Help me out of here, I plead. Please. This is killing me” What arrogant bastards. They don’t even acknowledge me, but keep doing their work.

Give up. Just give up. There is nothing more to this life. Plain, eternal, string of worries, one after the other. Just give up. It is simple.

I let time pass. I give up. Suddenly.

Where the hell am I? Why am I squatting? What am I doing here? Control. Your entropy is increasing. An increase in entropy is going to increase this strange feeling in stomach. But this feeling can make you do anything. Like lifting your head up. Bingo! Increase this strange feeling. Yes, head! Now listen to me. Up. Up. Up. Look up. Yes. I have done it. Phew! Now eyelids, listen to me. Open. Slowly open Sesame. Darn! What was that flash of light? I don’t want light. Shut the eyes up!

I am not blindfolded, but I am used to darkness by keeping my eyes closed. I can’t take in the light. Yes I can’t. No I can. Don’t listen to that voice which says you can’t do a thing. That you can give up and enjoy your slumber in darkness with your eyes closed. Now, listen to me. Slowly open your eyes. It will be difficult, but the juice is worth the squeeze. Come on. Do it. Open. Painful. Bang. Aaah! Stabilize. Yes eyes stabilize. Calm down entropy, you are doing fine. You are able to take in the light. It’s a clear blue sky. I am feeling a drop of sweat trickling down my chin. It’s a bright sunny day. Look around. I am inside a box. I can stand up inside the box with little extra effort. I am losing balance. Oops! Why am I sliding? Oh my Cosmos! Where am I?

In the middle of an ocean stuck inside a box!

Left, Right and Center

You check the petrol level and for another day procrastinate checking the tire pressure level as once again you are running late for office. You share your destiny to reach office in 25 flat minutes with no one else, despite the traffic blockages. You have the power that none can afford to have – For a city filled with cars, you are the lone shining star. You ride the Activa. You don’t give a damn about lane traffic. You crisscross the traffic as if everyone else is obliged to give you way. You think to yourself, “Lanes are just a state of mind, fulfilled by the neatly lined cars”. When the cars and other heavy vehicles have two lanes per road, an Activa has three – Left, Right and Center.

When I enter the flyover, I choose to enter it via the left lane. There is a lot of crowding at the left side of the road, since everyone wants to climb up the flyover and the only way to beat the one on your right is to cut him across. The left lane is accommodative to everyone and doesn’t differentiate despite varying levels of hard work, talent and the kind of bike you ride. Everyone moves at the same speed and everyone is treated equal with no regards to their social standing. You ride are as fast as the leader bike, which in your opinion is always the slowest. The leader bike has all the expanse of lane estate in front of him, but because of his’ ineptitude, he would be dismally slow. He would point fingers at the car guys complaining that they are not allowing him to move forward by blocking and cutting him. He will ask everyone behind to create a ruckus by continuously honking at something that doesn’t exist, but making the pack believe that he is fighting for the common cause. You may start your life as a leftist, but only to realize that it isn’t sustainable if you want to move forward and reach your office in the next 15 minutes.

I shift lanes. I watch my rear view mirror carefully and jump at the opportunity presented. The center lane is one of the most dangerous positions to be in. You are neither here nor there, but you know you will have to keep moving forward at a brisk pace, otherwise the car guys would just eat you up. You entertain the crony car guys with space and barter it for your personal protection. You either have no ideals or not capable of exhibiting one. You look to your left and laugh at the leftists for being so slow and unproductive, but decry the idea that your own fundamentals of stepping onto the flyover was embalmed by their ideals. I am reaching the end of the flyover and get the realization that I need to take the exit. I don’t have a choice but to change lanes once again to become a leftist for a brief amount of time and then discover my way around.

Unhappily I change lanes, become a leftist and take the exit and try to maintain the left-centrist position. When you are near Dadar circle heading into Tilak Bridge, you have no freaking idea on your leaning. You are just opportunistic and head for the right to enter Tilak Bridge – the gateway of Parel. You are on the hot zone now – the right lane. You have just 10 more minutes and you realize that you will have to be that animal to cut off every head that comes your way to reach office on time. You don’t bother about what other people think or how they may react. Your current goal is to take the right at any cost. You don’t estimate the cost because that is not borne by you. You don the hat of rightist, leftist, centrist, zigzagist and make your way through.

When the frenzy dies down, you look back in retrospection of the last 2-3 minutes. What have you done? Was it right? Yes. It was the Right way to do things. Was it wrong? May be. Who cares! I have survived.

I reach office in time and head to the parking. There again, they make me play the same political games that I played in the last 20 minutes. Alright! Game on!

The Nation Decides to Know

The village Vasville has existed ever since the Y-chromosomal Adam walked this earth in Africa. If and whether God existed, was unknown. Thus Adam, either being agnostic or having known better, called himself God. He found company elsewhere, mated and multiplied; warred and divided. Today, the thus evolved human beings are the ones ruling and being ruled. The best of the lot were too hot headed to persist and thereby perished in the wars, while the cowards survived. The genes of cowardice survived. The genes of cowardice ruled and they were being ruled.

Radolf Gannon belonged to the fourth generation of the ruling community. His family has been ruling Vasville ever since they gained freedom from their next door neighbor Briville. His family, having been entrusted by the people to rule, have since then ruled. The family changed their internal policies outlook from socialism to capitalism to neoliberalism, but people still remained poor. When it came to religious outlook, the family was confused with too many religions owing to their gene-mixing, although they all came from their common ancestor – Adam. Unaffected by communalo ileitis, the deadly disease that turns man into a wild dog and makes him hunt, at a point in history, the Gannons propagated the condition to avenge a key family member’s death. Yet, they never came out to apologize for the outbreak. Nevertheless, people being people, bestowed the family with the name ‘A perfect secular’.

The common man saw the Gannons grow in number and influence, but his hunger and struggle remained constant. In his fight for basic rights, many a two have died starving. Corruption was at its highest order, yet Radolf couldn’t control it. He didn’t have a say in how the village was being ruled, even though he wanted to rule the village someday. His internal conflicts were no less than a Pandora’s Box. Neither could he live without opening the box because of the curiosity of knowing the evil within, nor could he live with the truth that there is evil inside the box. Radolf was torn within himself.  Even as his family’s rule was running its last lap, people started calling him ‘Robber Radolf’ - not because his family robbed the village of everything that it had, but because he aided the robbers in everything that could be robbed. But, Radolf still believed in himself. He trusted the idea that he could be the one messiah they all have been waiting for. He wanted to empower the women of his village and saw clearly that the youth needed empowerment as well. His motto was ‘to find you and empower you’.

Meanwhile, Robber Radolf Gannon was facing stiff competition against a rags-to-riches, bigger-than-life persona Nathan Sircar. The story of Nathan is no ordinary story. Nathan was born into a family which went through cycles of poverty owing to poor mismanagement of resources by the Gannons. Nathan was born poor and educated poorly; but that allowed him to learn the knack of being street-smart. He could talk his way out of anything and could convince anyone. Poor people were his friends and they saw a lion in him that could roar against the atrocities being committed. Wearing patriotism on his sleeve, Nathan went on to win hearts of the many poor. When you become popular among the downtrodden, the rich befriend you. The powerful industrialists and wannabes fueled his growth. People loved him but for a section of people who loathed him for what he did. Ends don’t justify the means, so does what Nathan did a decade ago.

A decade ago, there was an outbreak of communalo ileitis in Nathan’s area. People thronged to Nathan’s house and asked him to help the people suffering because of the disease. What Nathan did was not only astounding but also shocking. Instead of finding a cure to the disease, he was alleged to have given a free hand to decimate the alleged cause. There was no proof that the converted wild dog breed Merizund was the cause of the disease, but Nathan didn’t care. He asked his people to let out the affected, even the closely associated ones. Thus was formed another breed, Hallyzund. He made the Hallyzund find and destroy the Merizunds on the whole. It was a nightmare for the area. Every Merizund that the Hallyzund could get hold of, was killed. After 3 days of Holocaust, there came an eerie calmness to the area. No one was cured of the disease, but there was a temporary control of the outbreak. There was no strength left in anyone to fight anymore. The biggest problem with the village was that the disease communalo ileitis outbreak was well controlled by the elite few for selfish reasons, but the common man continued to suffer from it during any and all outbreak hence. The debates around Sircar’s engagement in the Holocaust raged on. The interesting part during this whole ordeal was that the Gannons were tightlipped about it and offered no support or resistance to any of the suffering souls. No one noticed the conspicuous absence of voice. Thus, Nathan came to be addressed as Murderer Nathan. The name Murderer was not because he actually murdered, but because he could have avoided, but chose not to.

In the subsequent years, Nathan grew in stature. And with an unhealthy opposition that the Gannons have received due to their swindling activities, Nathan faces them as their biggest challenge. Irrespective of anything that has happened over the years, the common man has suffered. The common man has no say in whatsoever policies that their rulers bring in and he accepts that he has no power. And, thus comes the twist in the tale of two power centers of Radolf and Nathan – the rise of common man. The common man like anybody else in the village wanted to be an engineer, went on to serve the nation as a civil servant and was fed up with the way things worked. There was rampant corruption everywhere and he questioned the status quo and of the Gannons involvement at each and every juncture. He got no answers, but he persisted with the struggle. The common man questioned Nathan’s closeness to industrialists and his association with crony capitalism, but faced a dead end. Like in movies, the common man challenged Nathan Sircar’s wave with his share of anti-corruption youth’s wave. What was a tug of war between Sircar and Gannon became a triangle of contention with the common man becoming the vertex.

The common man carried his own set of flaws. He was inexperienced and too honest to play politics. There were so much improvement to be desired in his day-to-day life that the common man’s policies didn’t echo with the majority. He was beginning to be viewed as left-leaning and anti-capitalist. Propaganda started pouring in that his will would stall development. There were too many diseases to be treated, but the common man focused on only one disease. He set out to satisfy the village, but fell well short of what he intended to. People asked him for a manifesto, but the common man has got no answer to it. With age one gains wisdom. On an individual level, everyone have their reservations, but as a group, people always side with the popular belief. Vasville people were no different. They trust PR campaigns more than the truth. With the stage set, Vasville was set to vote for

1. Robber Radolf Gannon – Empowerment

2. Murderer Nathan Sircar – Development

3. Common Man – Anti-corruption

No matter what happened in the past,

No matter what happens in the future,

One can’t help but endure,

Ab ki baar, Nathan Sircar.

Will the common man rise to rule the village, or is it going to be another drab of five years by the Robber or Murderer?

Wait, the spaceship just landed….

Blah! Blah! Wedding

The article is based on real-life experience of self and others (my wife included in others!). Any sentence denoting a person living or dead is purely intentional.

Wedding, shaadi, kalyanam, thirumanam, vivaham is one of the most complex rituals in India. It is so difficult to get through one that starting a new political party and winning elections becomes a cakewalk. It’s filled with rules and regulations of do’s and don’ts and one shouldn’t be surprised if one comes across IIPM offering courses on them. IIMs can’t because marriage execution involves a lot of Planning. :P

So, marriage is less about the two individuals under the scanner and more about the two ‘broad extended’ families scanning the two individuals. The definition of ‘broad’ is quite broad that even the length and breadth of the universe wouldn’t suffice to define and demarcate the broad extended families. Everyone has an opinion and every opinion counts. And there is a scale of hierarchy to whose opinion matters when, which must be included in the course Opinion Management Systems (OMS – 101). No matter how distantly one can be related, the age always count. They all accede to one common philosophy here – the elder the person, the wiser he is, even if uncle Alzheimer has visited the elder person long ago. If there is a clash on the elderness (yes, I had to invent the word, as my editor is away for a while), they choose the person who is closest to the family. They can’t go and verify the birth certificates and all you see, because these people are so old that dinosaurs used to be their pets. You can easily identify them with the phrase, “During my times and all……” and your response must be, “How cute?? Was it a Trigonosaurus or a Tyrannosaurus?”

Once that is ascertained, the few ones who have the heads at the right place would say that these rituals are not practically possible to be performed, “See, times have changed and we will have to move to the modern times..” That’s it. That’s the end of story of their participation in the marriage. They are impeached that very second and their pink slip is sent through an overnight courier called ‘Ignore Express Ltd.’ Although they are fired, their perks such as food and lodging are retained. Only their consultancy services are severed with immediate effect. Based on their reconciliation, their future services for the upcoming weddings in the family will be evaluated.

Now that the sane ones are out of the picture, here come the diplomatic ones. Although they are the spine to any wedding, they are the ones to get hounded in between the trio of modern generation, the wedding executioners and the old-ritual-based-elders. They try to take the side of everyone in the picture that they lose their identity. They are like the call center employees who for no fault of theirs get screwed by the customers because they represent a particular company, “Welcome to Airtel customer care service. How may I get screwed for you now?” Finally, when they try to bring every stakeholder on to the same platform, the arriving guests will have a problem with the schedule, the photographer will have a problem with the angle, so-called-well-wishers will have a problem with the date being on a weekday, caterer will have a problem with salt and pepper, some wayward guests will have a problem with accommodation and food, decorations-wala will have a problem with the length of the stage, speaker system will have a problem with compatibility, light-years-distance relatives will have a problem of not-being-welcomed-properly-and-not-given-importance and more and more problems.

Amidst all this, there are a very few people who are really close to you who don’t have any problem at all. They are the brothers, sisters, friends and relatives who care for your happiness more than anything else. They keep telling you one thing, “Only, you decided that you want this to happen. You were firm that the juice is worth the squeeze and you went ahead. It’s the squeezing time. Get through with this. Rip the band-aid off. After a day or two nothing of this will make sense.” And with no option, you get through this. In the historical date of events, it will go down as your marriage. But, to tell the truth, it is not your marriage, but the marriage of the families. You two were just the focus of it.

You go to your honeymoon, come back, open the presents and make a note of who all gave you what all. You look through the pics and make a note of who all attended your wedding despite the issues of not getting leaves, sickness, boss is very angry, he is marrying a Muslim, she is marrying a Parsi, etc. You get back to real life and start living a live-in life as if whatever happened were just a formality and a legal binding.

In the end, if you are not happy you are screwed, but if you are happy also you are screwed, because you are bloody married bro!!

P.S 1: Those of you who didn’t attend my wedding; save your time, money and efforts in adding me on to your wedding mailing lists and spare me from the FB wedding invites. Unless, it is going to be in the same city as I live, I won’t be able to attend it for the free food. You definitely don’t deserve the gift anyways!! :P

P.S 2: Those of you who were a part of the wedding, thanks a lot. I know that mere thanks wouldn’t suffice, but I hope the experience was worth cherishing.

While I Took a Sabbatical

The closest I had gotten to North India during the first 17 years of my life was to Tirupathi, a mere 150 km north of Chennai. My first trip to North India, rather East India was my trip to Calcutta for obvious reasons, close to my 17^th birthday. Travelling is fun I thought. Exploring new places was exhilarating. Experimenting with unknown places was adventurous. Then came the biggest twist in my life – The Motorcycle Diaries. Being an Indian, it gives you the birthright to copy the onscreen actions in real life. Actions like tapping a cigarette from your palm and holding it with your lips or humming, “Tujhe dekha to yeh jaana saname”, with outstretched arms or “Arey saala” depicting the angry young man. But, my choice was different. I wanted to travel on a bike. Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara inspired me to explore places.

The movie got over. I came out of my room enthusiastic and told me best friend next door that I wanted to ride a bike to explore places. The best advice that was offered was to participate in Roadies. Arrghh! Someone understand me. I want to travel the world on my bike. Nothing against Roadies, but it was just a misnomer for a soap serial with biking as a small part, since the then Hero Honda wanted to promote their Karizma. Days passed, with that the years too.

Then happened Royal Enfield in my life. Perceptions changed, life turned on its head. Every weekend (mine used to be a Thursday), I explored a new place. With a bettering technology, Maps were reduced from big sheets to apps. Rising up early (it used to be the day continuing the night shift) had a new meaning. The dawn breaks, and you are already on the road with a cold breeze finding its way through the gaps in the helmet to caress your ears to give Goosebumps. Speed was never a deterrent and the roadside tea shops became your adda. Early in the morning, when you see the shy sun combating its way through the milky white clouds, you look into the horizon and the mind goes blank. You may be driving at 90kmph, but everything around you moves so slowly. The road ahead leads to oblivion and you don’t think about the past or the future, when the present is so pleasurable. It’s a new high and you are brought back to your senses by the potholes and the loud trucks.

During the journey things may not go your way and it calls for adjustments. Adjustments that you would hate to do, but have to do inorder to survive. The journey is long that you may either choose to give up or push yourself to get past the hurdle so that you get enjoy what lays ahead. Biking is no easy, but in the words of Mr. Venki Padmanabhan, CEO of Royal Enfield, “The Odyssey transforms a child into a boy, a boy into a man, a man into a sage and a sage into a child.” It teaches the essentials of life like endurance, sportsmanship and ownership.

You learn to endure tough situations like driving through barren land and surviving without water on a hot summer day. When the first drop of water touches the lips, you will value life. Tough situations like beating the bitter cold – when the hot chai enters your esophagus, you can trace it to your stomach. You bike with likeminded people with a zeal of sportsmanship. You may be competitors on speed to assess who reaches the next checkpoint first, but the sportsmanship of helping out a fellow biker takes priority over everything. Ownership of your bike, the most prized possession and also your life gives you a sense of belonging. At the end of it, it’s not the thrill, but the humaneness in you is rekindled when you bike to travel and explore places. You appreciate nature which is at its best behavior always.

Biking gave me a new identity. Although I am not even close to what I set to achieve, I appreciate the journey. Whenever I say that I am going to travel on a holiday, the first question is stumble upon is, “On your bike is it?” As a biker, it leaves you an everlasting good feeling about yourself, because at the end of everything, at the top, you will be that lonely biker wading your way through to achieve what you set out to.

“The first commandment for every good explorer is: An expedition has two points, the point of departure and the point of arrival. If your intention is to make the second theoretical point coincide with the actual point of arrival, don’t think about the means – because the journey is a virtual space that finishes when it finishes, and there are so many means as there are different ways of “finishing”. That is to say, the means are endless.” – Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries

Posted on 13:39 by Tippu Sultan in bike, India, liberty, Motorcycle, Travelogue | No comments

Closer to Reality - Gwalior Fort

So, I reach the station, cross over the flyover, take the right before DD mall and wriggle through the narrow road to reach the entrance of Gujari Mahal - the rear entrance to Gwalior fort. Thank you Google Maps. It seemed like a perfect evening plan for a Sunday!

I asked the security guard at the base of Gujari Mahal where I could park the borrowed Activa. Prompt was the reply - I could take it up right into the fort.  It was steepest of many climbs and with a 110cc autogear scooter, I couldn’t expect the ride to be of much finesse. One of many times when I thoroughly missed my Thunderbird! I rode up, up, in the air to reach yet another entrance of the fort. That’s where I decided to park the bike and take a walk for the rest of the distance. The non-existent parking lot was almost empty with just one another bike. Sunday evening and I had the fort all to myself? Wah! Craning my neck in awkward angles to look through the narrow doorway, the BGM of Om Shanti Om started. Flurry images started passing through my mind! Who were these people in the grand kingdom setup? Real disturbing images of pseudo-reality. Cut back to reality, the narrow doorway was just an orifice when compared to the magnificent big door that separated the fort from the rest of the world. It was one of those grand doors which would need zillions of horsepower to operate on a daily basis. I stepped inside the fort only to find more motorcycles. And notorious that I was with my luck in such cases, there was a motorcyclist approaching me. There were only seconds left to avoid a clash. Thanks to my reflex, I could avoid a head –on collision; although I did expect him to crash into the grand door.  But agility, kraft (sorry, craft) and practice made him exit the fort through that orifice, almost effortlessly. The very same orifice which I struggled through. Gwalior never stopped to amaze me!

I climbed the steep road to the Museum, got a ticket and ventured in. Frankly speaking, there was nothing interesting in there. The museum usher learnt that I had parked my bike outside the grand entrance doorway. He gave me looks that I deciphered to be - “What do you take this place to be that you left your bike outside for the world to see?? Bring it in you moron!” . He had won the non-existent argument. I climbed down and with a few beggars help,..ta da! I brought my bike inside and headed for the fort. Without much ado, I parked my bike at a makeshift parking lot and entered Tomar palace. Explored! Clicked random pictures! Took unknown stairs! And found myself in dungeons with no light only to hear bats squeaking. Scary enough! Took unknown stairs again, with little light from the mobile; this time to hear someone moaning at the end of the tunnel. Oops! Wrong tunnel. A couple in search of some privacy landed in the dungeon only to be disturbed by the sound of footsteps and the light from my mobile. Sorry guys, no voyeuristic intentions meant. Please continue! Retraced my steps a little, and then there was light! There was an end to the tunnel.. Phew, that was close!

I came out of the Tomar palace to find my way into a library of Mahals – Karan Palace, Jahangir Mahal and Shah Jahan Mahal.  Was it under renovation or was it that badly maintained, one should ask. Again the disturbing images of Jahangir and Shah Jahan approaching me passed me through. The ticket vendor brought me back to reality. After paying ten bucks, I was let inside a bigger than usual gate. Once in, no one stopped me ever, no frisking, no checking of bags – you are just out in the open of wild architectural wonders. Then it dawned on me – No one cares! I went to the West end. The sun was blazing down even at 4 in the evening. I figured that the east side should be wonderful then. I roamed around and finally found myself a spot overseeing the entire Gwalior city. When you have found that one spot of perfect light for quiet and tranquility, there was only one thing to do – read. So I took out my book and spent close to half an hour reading. At around 5, I roamed around and found the best place to spend the evening. The top of East Tower of Jahangir Mahal, atop the minaret. Wow! View of entire Gwalior was breath taking. I must accede that the kings had taste. They definitely knew how to live and it must have been a life worth dying for! What a way to spend your evening.  To stare into the horizon and feel nothing; every evening! All philosophical concepts of how to keep oneself at zero entropy state came to mind. There is nothing that I could think of than take in the view and beauty of it. Listening to Vellai Pookal by ARR took me to an altogether different plane of bliss, melancholy and solitude!  I forgot where I was, who I was.

The sun started to set at around 6:30. It probably was time to leave. Things were starting to get a little spookier too. I kept hearing thuds and taps in rhythm. When I walked out, there was no one else to be seen. Five minutes later, I reached the entrance and found the gate locked. What the….. ! I called the security guard and he asks me if I had fallen asleep. I said I was ‘all philo and forgot about myself’ which made him suspicious. He started walking towards me, when I muttered, “yes boss, I had fallen asleep. Now please help me out?” He asked me to go inside and search for labourers who may have the key to the locked gate. I nodded, darting in again. Inside looked spookier with twilight setting in. I heard someone call my name. Who in the fort could know my name! When I turned back, obviously there was no one. I searched for the labourers, but no luck. It took a few moments to sink in – I was screwed!

Jahangir spoke first. Followed by Shah Jahan. Then it was someone who had died here having got locked out too. They all asked me to stay back, promising interesting narrations of their lives.  Then on, I wasted no moment; I ran. I ran as if there was no end to the race. I caught the steel gate and wringed myself to it. I shouted, but there was no one to hear my plea. The gate was 10 feet high. Mustering courage and strength, I began climbing. I slipped. So I tried again. And fell on the ground, yet again. Feeling more determined, I took a few sips of water and a bar of Cadbury Perk (Not only SRK, even I can do it). This time I got atop the gate. I bid adieu to the voices of Jahangir and Shah Jahan and I jumped. Phew!

I walked to the makeshift parking lot and checked the bike. Gwalior continues to amaze me - the rear view mirrors were stolen!  I met the security guard en route the grand doorway. He lectured me on how robbery takes place in the fort and asked me not to venture out crazily like this. I thanked him and found my way out of the orifice. Vrooooooom I went; to the next place where you would find hot Madu girls of Gwalior – The Pani Puri stall!!

Incredible India Shining for Bharat Nirman

This article has been inspired (partially copied) from David Aaker’s “Nation Branding – What works?” People who know Aaker needs no introduction. He is probably the best in the business of brands. For people who don’t know Aaker, don’t even try to find out. You are better off without management education.

India is a country that has been highly misinterpreted and misconceived in the past, present and the way things look like, the misconception trend will continue in the future also. Pre-colonization, we contributed roughly 25% of the world’s GDP. After 190 years of British Raj, we were contributing approximately 8% and currently at 3%. What has happened in those three centuries that our market share (of course it is kind of a market share) has dropped from 25% to 3%. It’s like what a Kodak or a Fiat Padmini has managed to do. So, India has been subjected to more of a management problem than political, economic or social ones. We have poor trade secret ethics and we sell everything too cheap. We sold cotton cheaply during the British Raj, we sold our freedom fighters pretty cheap and finally after independence we started selling our human capital as well. In other words, by having a License Raj and restricting opportunities prior to 1991, we sold the best of our people to the outside world where they became successful and the word “brain-drain” was introduced. We concentrated more on our selling that we forgot to hold back what was needed for ourselves.

Our biggest strength has been always been our people. And our biggest weakness has always been, too many people. When asked in an interview about your weakness, we smartly maneuver the answer that we end up convincing the interviewer that my biggest strength is also my biggest weakness, as if the interviewer is a noob. We should also do that – dress up our weakness and portray it as our strength. Fortunately, truly in our case, our strength and weakness has been the same (I hope you are convinced – our biggest weakness is actually a strength :P) H. G. Wells once said, “Advertising is legalized lying.” Every organization advertises or promotes itself. And so do nations. David Aaker gives a four pronged strategy to do the same.

1. Hosting global events:

We are a pioneer in that, aren’t we? We host those global events through which we can make money. For say, there was the CWG in Delhi and we made a lot of money and the same case with ICC Cricket World Cup 2011. The previous edition of the same that we hosted in 1987 and guess who the sponsors were? Reliance. So, by hosting global events we promote our country by being caught in all possible scams, spams and spasms.

So, when and where can we host Olympics? If we start working towards our “where”, the “when” will take care of itself. Since our major metropolitans have maxed out, we must look at a place which has rich cultural history, represent India on the whole and has been completely ignored until the recent past. No better place than Wasseypur. After Sardar Khan, Ramadhir Singh, Faizal Khan and their clans have settled their scores, Wasseypur unanimously becomes the perfect choice to host the Olympics in a safe and sound manner. The only gunshots that will be heard are that of the Olympic event “Shooting”.

2. Events created and owned by industries:

All software related global events are held or atleast tried to be held in our country. But, apart from that, we can create Knowledge Forums like DDDKF (Dynasty Democracy Duplicity Knowledge Forum) or KFC (Knowledge Forum for Corruption) or say KFCCI (Knowledge Forum for Control of Corruption in India) which can be duly organized by BCCI (Board for Control of Corruption in India).

We can also focus on promoting arts and give a fillip to our Jaipur Literary Festival and make it to the top of the newscharts by inviting legends like Salman Rushdie and then acting to unwelcome him. More art forms in the neglected part of North-East India can be given some focus before China claims it to be theirs.

How can someone forget Bollywood or Indian Cinema on the whole? We are the pioneers in sending entries like Barfi, Jeans, etc. as nominations to Academy Awards (Oscar) for the Best Foreign Language Film and also enjoy meaningful movies like Tees Maar Khan and Student of the Year. Next time when we send our nomination, we should send the movie Teen Sau (300, dubbed in Hindi) and baffle the Hollywood on our smartness. Why don’t we stage our own Aascars Award and invite foreign films to file their nominations for the Best Firang Movie Aascars Award. Stumped!

4. Identification and leverage of country symbols:

Australian Cricket team comes to India and loses a test series and its captain takes his wife to Taj Mahal. Totally unrelated, yet you get the point right. Taj Mahal, the symbol of love, is the symbol of India outside India. Named like (Mu)Barack Obama, (Mum)Taj Mahal would have too big a brand name to be promoted. Like Taj, we have zillion other structures which promote peace, tranquility, arts, natural miracles, etc. that needs promoting. To reduce the traffic at Agra, why don’t we promote the poor man’s equivalent of Taj Mahal known as Bibi ka Maqbara built in Aurangabad by Aurangzeb. Now, how many of you knew about that before wiki-ing about it.

We have temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras, tombs, bridges, dams, historical war locations and the list is endless. The only thing we don’t have is structures denoting Ancient Aliens invasion. Wait, didn’t India exist even before the Aliens came down!

4. Encourage and leverage corporate brands:

This we have done fairly well. Tata, Birla, Reliance, Bharti, Infosys, et al. have created a positive image about India. We are not only a land of elephants and snake charmers but also of software engineers and back-office customer care executives. We are also the businessmen who are recognized today on a global level, thanks to the brain drain. The biggest competitor to the private sector business houses today is the government. They are always there for all the possible wrong reasons hogging the limelight. As the cliché goes, any kind of publicity is publicity.

So, when we can’t do anything on our own, we seek foreign help. So, can we bring in a Business Consultant from Italy to run it for us?? Or we already did!!!

What are you smoking, dear leader?

In the world conclave 2030, the head of the world asked, “How many of you countries are corrupt?” Almost every country’s representative raised their hand. Atleast they were being truthful. Sensing that the times have changed, he rephrased his question, “How many of you countries are not corrupt?” None. He beamed a sigh of relief and asked “How are the whistleblowers doing? Where are they gonna find shelter when all of you are corrupt? If you are not going to feed the world with problems, the world will retaliate with problems. The have-nots will fight for wanting to have what they haven’t had, as if it is their birth right. The ones requiring the have-nots support to sustain their government, will promise them glories that they won’t be able to fulfill. If the promises are fulfilled, the have-nots become the haves and then there will be equality…. But, no justice to the haves. Instigating the haves against us is the last thing that we want. My dear friends, don’t create equality without justice. That is more harmful than inequality with injustice as in this case at least inequality and injustice have company for each other. If you are not able to control, create chaos. Remember, the big bang was a chaos. Once it all settles down, there will be peace only to be shaken by another chaos created by another of you my friend.”

“By making each and every one of us corrupt, is the only way out. All of us being corrupt is the only way to bring about equality and justice. Then will raise the problem of who is more corrupt? Inform them like a slow poison, that the punishment for committing a murder is the same as committing ten or a thousand. Provide them with the just society they have been asking for. Let them fight for topping the charts of corrupt survival. Let the society create inequality within itself on the lines of being highly and lowly corrupt. Without inequality there is no progress. When there is no progress, the human race will degrade.”

There was pindrop silence as if everyone were waiting for his final order. He paused for a moment, looked up with outstretched hands and then murmered into the mic, “Let there be chaos.”

The Terminal

The burning hot chai-in-matka on Platform no. 2 of Jharsuguda Railway station was soothing to the esophagus on this cold January evening. Unusually, there seemed to be more people on the platform than in the whole of Jharsuguda, all rearing to have a go at any train that would wade its way through the platform. I only hoped they were not waiting for mine. As luck would have it, my train Azad Hind Express from Pune was dot on time. But, the three of us were flabbergasted to find our seats occupied. As one can expect such abnormalities to happen in Odisha, we should not have been as shell-shocked as we were. It is way of life there. Survival of the fittest is bred since the time they are born and all they do is fight for rights which were rightfully theirs while exploited by others. I am no Maoisht (MB ishtyle) in voicing my opinion, but just one of those spineless citizens who adjusted himself to the presented hostility to move ahead. There were three of us – Mukundh, Monica and Tippu called the MMT trio who booked their tickets through MMT (makemytrip.com) as we shared the same traumatic experiences with rest of the Internet-enabled Indians in booking railways tickets. So, come what may, we would have to take the train to reach Calcutta the next day morning. In Azad Hind express, there was no Azadi to express anything. We got a small portion of our seats to ourselves and sat down dreading an awful night ahead.

One of the few things that I like about fellow Indians is their urgency to portray their machismo. The lady of the trio got her berth all to herself thanks to the growling from fellow passengers that they must atleast let a girl sleep comfortably although they tampered with the sleeping pattern of others. Somehow we reach Howrah. The truss balanced bridge, once known to be of Cantilever in design is the first thing that you see when you step out of Howrah station. And, of course the Yellow Ambassadors if you are not color blind. Although I am a pseudo-Bengali having spent four years in the second biggest city of Paschim Bengal, I have never been to Dum-Dum airport to take a flight for myself. I have been there to drop those filthy rich Muscatian friends (Yeah Sangeet, it’s you) or the diseased friends who needed immediate medical attention down south. So, here I was, to talk to the Bihari/Jharkhandi/UP cab drivers in broken Bengali, negotiate a rate and reach Dum-Dum as early as possible. If I was given an alternative, I would have optimized the route by taking a ferry to Babughat, strolled through the High Court lanes where you find more number of typists sitting on the platform than the cha-dukkans and reached Esplanade Metro Station. From Esplanade, I would have taken a Metro to Dum-Dum and then taken a shared cab to Airport entrance (and walked a kilometer to reach). The whole exercise in 2006 would have cost me Rs. 32.50, with the Rs. 2.50 for the matka chai. But, here I have to guide the MMT trio to Dum-Dum with as less dissonance as possible.

Our flight to Chennai was at 1140 hours and the sun had just risen at 0520 hours. Quite some time to kill. With the “kotho lagbe” and “taratari chalon”, we reached Dum-Dum at 0600 hours. Quite early for a 1140 flight! We thought of settling down at the Departure section, but found no place. Wading our way through the airport, we reached a virgin section of the airport where there were empty seats. To add to our joy, there were empty power sockets too. We had the over-priced breakfast, over-priced chai, but when it came to water, we were as chindi as possible by filling our empty Rail Neer water bottles. For some weird reasons, there were no announcements made. Hustle-bustle of crowds started. Very few were had chosen to sit; predominantly it was the floating crowd making much of the noise. It was getting very boring, when finally we decided to watch a movie. I had a copy of Kamal Haasan’s comedy riot, Panchathanthiram. We laughed and laughed and laughed. There is a not-so-common belief that too much laughter makes Karma bite us in the ass, but who cares about the pitfalls when the going is good. Finally, when the movie reached its half-way mark, we took a break to check on why there were no announcements made.

It was 1115 and yet, there were no announcements. Weird right? We repacked and, deciphering the undecipherable signs in the airport, we reached the Jet Airways desk. We showed our tickets and got a smirk from the other side of the counter. The smirk turned into a grin and then a smile. I smiled back. With her fake accent, the Jet Airways attendant told me that the flight was closed for boarding. I couldn’t get any clue of the technicalities. And when I told her that, she put it in lay man terms saying that we have missed our flight. With all guns blazing, I asked her a simple question, “How can I miss my flight when I am 20 minutes before departure?” The IRCTC guy in me crash opened my chest to come out with this logic. Things can get really embarrassing if you don’t read the fine print on the tickets. Like they say at the end of a Mutual Fund ad, “Mutual Fund investments are subject to market risk. Please read the offer document carefully before investing.” It holds true. “Report to the check-in counter minimum 50 minutes before the Departure time. Boarding closes 15 minutes prior to departure.” Adding insult to injury, the person sitting in the next Jet counter told us, “I saw you guys sitting in Arrival. I thought that you were waiting to receive someone.”

Ah. Now it dawned on us. We were watching the movie sitting in the Arrival area oblivious to our surrounding. And that was why there were no announcements. But, I still contend the logic of having heard no announcements of even those flights arriving in as well. Nevertheless, Jet agreed to pay to full refund as the flight was overbooked as they didn’t lose any revenue. We later booked an evening SpiceJet flight, for double of Jet’s price. Since our flight was in the evening, we continued with the movie, this time from Departure. With Panchathanthiram done, we went on to watch another movie - Tom Hanks’s starrer “The Terminal”. Frankly there was not much of a difference between the second movie and what we went through!