Why Mumbai needs to worry.

Can you imagine ANY walk of life where a person/team is rewarded for non-performance? Well, it happens in Maharashtra politics, for sure. The Congress/NCP has been voted back in for making a total mess of the state.

And this has happened not because the voters are idiots, but because the state politics has been reduced to a one-horse race. With the sort of options available, especially key rivals like the BJP and the Sena, there simply is no choice for the voter. The BJP has been busy drafting its own obit all over the nation. And with Bal Thackeray a spent force today, and his son boasting of as much character and charisma as a safety pin, the victory for Cong was a given. This is like being invited to a buffet spread, and being made to choose between a stale vada, cow dung and, er, safety pins. Which is why it amazes me that in TV studio debates, they continue to wonder why the city doesn’t vote.

So even as the Congress bosses celebrate, they must understand that they are back in by default. And not by design.

But here’s why we Mumbaikars need to be worried:

Vastly emboldened, the ruling Congress will now take the state and the city for granted. Even more so than they ever did. They are now assured that they can sleep, sloth, plunder the city and grab lands openly, and life will simply move on. Why make an effort to work when it doesn’t electorally count at all?

They will continue to give a free reign to Raj’s goondas. Because he has become their most important ally. He is doing their dirty work by making sure the opposition remains exactly that… in the opposition. So the next time Raj decides to terrorise the city, like before, the state leaders will smile and look the other way. He is their most productive employee after all.

Meanwhile Raj, having hit the bull’s-eye with a divisive agenda, will now go all out with his plans. Because this brand strategy is rocking for him. So the migrants can look forward to many kicks and slaps in the coming future. And we can look forward to much violence on the streets. And this will be purely symbolic, and not much else. The illegal encroachments will go on, as they serve as Congress’ key vote banks. No hon, they aren’t going to be removed in a hurry. So the ultra parochial Marathi manoos can perhaps take delight in some bhaiyya getting his pants taken off now and then, but life for him/her will remain unchanged.

Gets worse. The Mr Safety Pin Uddhav will now finally understand that, a, he has no future in politics. And b, his ONLY chance is to go back to his dad’s tried and tested militant ways. Which means in the coming years, the two cousins will compete hard on who can unleash greater carnage on the streets of Mumbai.

Bottomline: Expect corruption, inefficiency, violence and hatred to scale new levels in the state. Jai Maharashtra!

My weekend date

Meet Tulsi Kamble. She’s all of 76 years young, and I date her every Diwali. Without fail. Come hale, high water or terror. And as always, we caught up for ‘chahaa’ on Saturday.

Here’s how it all began: Towards the late nineties, for a few years, I used to live in Powai, a Mumbai suburb. Tulsi used to work with me as, what we in Mumbai call, a ‘chhutta bai’. She’d arrive sharp at seven in the morn, do her number, and leave at around eight. Usually housemaids are ‘blind spots’… we know they are at work, but we don’t really take notice of them. (Unless you are one Shiney Ahuja, but let’s not even go down that road.)

However, what got me chatting with Tulsi was that she was the most unusual maid I had seen or hired. A weak, under-nourished, tottering elderly woman (most colony residents had refused to hire her), but always full of life and beans. Her eyes sparkling with joie-de-vivre, reflecting and spreading happiness and energy. She used to be more like a nagging granny to me than a maid. I cannot recount how many times she gave me an earful. For the odd cigarette, for leaving my used clothes all over the place, for messing up the kitchen, for not waking up in time to open the door for her. On one occasion, she nearly spanked me for yawning too loudly (in my defence, I had had a particularly late night). But almost always, she would surprise me with a plate of warm and delicious kandha poha.

Intrigued by her affectionately fearless behaviour, I ventured to know more about her life, and for her need to slog in her sunset years. This is what I learnt, in her broken Hindi and my broken Marathi: Tulsi had been widowed at a young age. Her two older daughters had married off and were gone. Her only son had dumped her. And the child she lived with, her youngest daughter, suffered from a serious case of both, physical and mental deformity. Tulsi had no option but to work, and work hard, not only to run her meager slum hutment, but to also pay for her child’s medical bills (which, as you can imagine, were always hurtful). And added to that, she was battling her own fears for her daughter’s future after she was gone.

What shook me to the core was this: here was this woman, living the worse life imaginable at this old age, and yet so full of life and joy and affection. It’s quite eye-popping when you imagine that we, the more privileged, get hassled and rattled at the most trivial things. Tulsi taught me the greatest lesson of my life, one that no teacher ever did: Keep your chin up, man, no matter what shit life throws at you. Because that’s the only way to live, to really live.

Some years later I said good-bye to Powai, and to Tulsi. My saddest memory is of her weeping uncontrollably as I wished her the final adieu. And my bitterest memory is of rebuking the almighty for bringing pain and suffering to the good people in this world.

But I swore to myself that this little bond we shared will not go away. That, every year, at least once, I would establish contact with Tulsi and ask her out for a date. And I ear-marked Diwali at that period. So that I must never forget. And that tradition lives on.

So then why am I sharing this story with you? Because here’s the other lesson I learnt: it doesn’t take much to bring a few moments of joy in the lives of people who are less blessed than us. Tulsi’s huge, huge excitement and exhilaration when she meets me, is to die for. She has never expected financial help from me, nor has asked for it. What matters to her is that I still care. I care that she’s a human being with feelings, I care that she exists, I care enough to take the time out to see her. Even if only once a year. The joy that I feel when I meet her is probably many times greater than hers. Because it helps me wash away the sins and follies I commit for the rest of the year. She, without realising it, plays the role of my conscience cleaner. And I thank her for it.

I am sure you do your own little charities, and you must. But often, more than financial help, it’s this little demonstration of affection that counts a lot to the people who the world has left behind. The children of the lesser god, so to speak. Tulsi makes me feel better as a human being, and I make her believe in humanity. I ensure she does not get overtly cynical about the world that clearly has no interest whatsoever in her. What can be a greater bond and exchange than that?

And yup, as long as both of us are alive, our Diwali date will go on. I would not miss that for anything.

Happy Diwali to all of you.

Sorry, sorry, sorry!

We saw what happened to Tharoor over a remark undoubtedly made in jest. He had to walk all the power corridors of Dilli to hold on to his job. Apart from the dirty politics at play, it was yet another reminder that we Indians sorely lack the ability to laugh at ourselves, we take ourselves much too seriously and self-importantly.

I have gotten into trouble umpteenth number of times too, even though I am far removed from the world of politics. I am aware it would be immodest to state that I have a wickedly funny streak in me, but I just did it. I mean, truth is that I have many problems with my decaying mind, but I do take myself a lot less seriously.

However, this makes my life in this not-so-smiley nation of ours fraught with peril. I find myself apologising for the most silly deeds/utterances. Half my life has gone saying sorry, I kid you not.

Let me give you only a few quick examples, that come to mind immediately.

At a party in Delhi, where I was working in an ad agency, I threatened to drop some beer over the head of a trade press journo who was always reporting unsavoury things about my agency. Instead of laughing it off, she went and lodged an official complaint with her big bosses in Mumbai. Accusing me of violent intimidation! Only a quick ‘sorry’ snipped out what was threatening to spiral into a corporate battle.

During my visit to the tsunami ravaged Nagapattinum, as I was chatting up with some survivors, standing by the sea, a chopper flew extremely low overhead. Someone screamed, “Jayalalitha! Jayalalitha!” And I could not help with ‘Duck for cover, guys… she’s crashing into us!’ A light remark made to bring some unexpected cheer to the sad survivors, who in fact had a good laugh. But I was quickly surrounded by the local cops and babus, who almost got me exported out of Tamil Nadu.

I once wrote in a newspaper column that an Ekta Kapoor serial, featuring a reclusive bachelor tycoon with a fetish for pets, was inspired from Ratan Tata’s life. It had the corporate cell of Tatasons call me for explanations and a ‘clear and unambiguous’ apology.

At an organisation I was an employee with, the lady HR head asked me to suggest one key improvement in the company that would help my team’s productivity rise. Since my guys had no real issues (except leaky toilets), I joked: ‘The HR girls need to have coffee with my boys.’ Promptly, I was summoned to the MD’s office to explain the remark.

Another time I wondered how the desi chauffeurs would pronounce the car’s name, when Skoda’s ‘Laura’ was launching in the market. And my computer crashed with the load of irate reader e-mails.

I could go on, this is endless, really. I have always believed the evolution of a nation cannot be measured by its GDP or nukes or medical science or architecture or its quality of life. It has gotta be by the ability of its citizens to laugh at themselves.

Sorry, if I have offended any reader!

Diary of a school re-union

I recently met up with my mates from school, about twenty of them, almost all of them after a staggering period of thirty years. The experience was both, exhilarating and disappointing at the same time.

Let me explain: quite obviously, it’s extremely gratifying to re-connect with lost childhood pals and colleagues. Not just for the emotions and memories at play, but also because we knew each other long before we met our respective partners, adulthood friends and work colleagues. School buddies are a part of one’s formative years, and the bonds and experiences we shared are singularly precious: unadulterated, uncorrupted, innocent and naïve. In other words, we knew each other long before the reality of the big bad world invaded our lives. Before we stepped into a sordid life of career ambitions, raising families, battling all the yorkers life throws at us… even survival (terror attacks have become more common in modern times than Rakhee Sawant’s appearances on TV).

I, like many of you, have been invited to college re-unions, management institute re-unions, office re-unions, family re-unions… and I have either ducked them, or have taken part in them as a ‘time-pass’ exercise. Have some pegs, indulge in some silly shoo-sha, discuss the weather, and then head for home. But a school re-meet is uniquely alluring. It’s a rarest of rare chance to catch up with purity and innocence again.

However, I was left a tad empty and disillusioned. The general feeling I got at our little gathering, is that people have irreversibly moved on in life, have been so hugely influenced by adulthood, that they no longer cherish the innocence of childhood. I was searching for lads and lasses at the re-union, I instead ran into very serious men and women. And some old fogies too. In parts, I felt I was participating in a corporate meet, a seminar, a heavy-duty conclave (gosh!). Had we sat an hour longer, we would have been discussing environmental pollution, Mumbai’s crumbling infrastructure and the stock market fluctuations. The guys were so damn formal, solemn and matter-of-fact. These weren’t folks I grew up with, they were complete strangers.

Some people feel I am being ‘childish’. That I am stuck in the past. Maybe they are right. But that’s pretty ironical, when you consider my chosen profession: my job is bloody serious. Serious as hell. As a journo, I constantly have to stare at, analyse and report on the dark underbelly of this nation. This 24X7 life rolling in dirt and grime can often be very depressing, it catapults you into adulthood in like nano-seconds.

Which is why, to be honest, I am a little rattled. Maybe the problem lies with me. Maybe I am too emotional of the past. Maybe I don’t move on easily. Maybe I value innocence more than the others do. Maybe I don’t live my life in water-tight compartments. I must be deranged! Dunno. No easy answers, I guess.

Grow up, SRK!

It was cringe-making, watching SRK whine endlessly on the TV channels all of Independence Day (he even managed to get the Red Fort and swine flu off the headlines), cribbing and carping about the extended security interrogation.
What’s the big deal, yaar? Every nation has the right to protect itself, to introduce processes and procedures that reduce chances of terror attack on its soil. If we don’t approve of its ways, there’s always that easy option: don’t go there!

SRK enjoys cult status in India, and within the NRI community abroad. They love, adore and revere the star, and clearly, all this insane adulation has gone to his head. He now expects every earthling to go down on him, and naturally, that’s not gonna happen. For an American security officer, the name Shah Rukh Khan means zilch. To him or her, all that matters is effective execution of the security protocol laid down in the book. And I admire them for this, I respect them for doing their jobs. If Muslims get peeved at being racially profiled at American ports, they must accept that it was Islamic fundamentalists who brought the twin towers down (and badly damaged America’s pride), so naturally people with Muslim names would be scanned a bit more than the rest. This is the way things are, and cannot be changed in the short run. Sadly, all the good Muslims of the world have to suffer because of the crimes committed by a few, but that’s the harsh reality. I mean, if it was a bunch of Parsis who flew aircraft into buildings, names like Mistry, Contractor and Karkaria would be scanned more carefully.

Star-loving Indians would argue that SRK is a global icon, and all that the ‘offending’ officer had to do was consult his/her ‘more informed’ Jet Airways colleagues. That’s true. But he/she won’t do that. One, because that’s not the option listed in the rule book. And American security officers are supposed to follow the rules (perhaps that’s a concept we desis just don’t understand). And two, even if the star gets recognised, how can one be 100% sure it really is SRK??? It could be a look-alike chappie from the by-lanes of Murdike, travelling on a false passport, courtesy Bin Laden! Remember, terror agents think ten steps ahead of security agencies. They innovate big, they are the guys with big ideas. (9/11 was the single biggest idea of the century.)

Net, net: SRK, like the rest of the adult world, should simply have taken the harsh questioning in the right spirit, and moved on. And if he gets pissed with these procedures, he must simply quit doing that nation. Two, I personally am very pleased by the news. If a demi-god can be scanned so hard, it makes me really feel safe travelling in that country. Good for you, America!

I entirely blame the media

By now, it is abundantly clear to every Indian that when shit hits the ceiling in this country, it’s each man or woman for his/her own. And if you still believe that the great Indian State will bail you out of the mess, then you must be a chap who still believes in Rakhi Sawant.

Whether it’s a terror attack or a flu virus, you will have to save your own arse. The government reps will only gas inside TV studios, the crooks will clean you out of your money, selling masks and meds in black, and the government run hospitals will ensure even if you didn’t contract swine flu, you got other deadly diseases, thanks to the utter lack of hygiene and discipline in their premises.

Which is why there’s chaos on the streets; people are running around like headless chicken, ignorant of what to do and who to run to when that dreaded sneeze arrives. So all we have is panic and more panic.

To my mind, the biggest villain of the story is the media. In a desperation to outdo one another on the blistering flu coverage, all they have done is to alarm the public, leading to mass hysteria in the hospitals and medical shops. Just imagine if this was 1984. The flu would have come and gone, possibly a few hundred people would have died (a thousand time more die of malaria, TB, car crashes, AIDS, common cold, dowry deaths, terror attacks and cancer), and life would have moved on as usual. For the affected, and the docs, the masks would have been easily available at the market price, and Tamiflu makers would not have made a needless killing.

All the media had to do was run basic safety precautions in a box on Page 10. Or a little section on a news bulletin, and that’s about it.

But try telling that to editors and content heads who would invent a problem to raise their TRPS and readership figures, if none existed. The virus exists!

‘VIPs’ MUST be frisked

While Kalaam hasn’t really expressed an offence at being frisked by Conti, he hasn’t yet come out and said, ‘Bugger off guys, that was no big deal.” And the lack of that rejoinder disappoints me about the nuke man.

Here’s what I think: EVERY single one of the so-called VIPs, especially the netas, MUST be frisked at airports, just as the rest of us aam janta. They are one of us, a part of us, and there’s no reason they should get special treatment.

In fact, this totally reprehensible VIP cult really gets me hopping mad, we forget that these netas aren’t our rulers and kings (last heard, we are a democratic nation, right), they are public servants, they are supposed to serve us, we, the people. And to a large extent, the crowning of the politicians is our fault, we have treated them like masters, we have spoilt them, we have encouraged them to behave like lords. (Is it any wonder then that one of them is busy building her own statues??) In many demo nations, leaders mingle freely with the janta, and expect no exclusive treatment. When I was in London, during the tube strikes, the city’s mayor grabbed his laptop and went to work along with the other passengers on a boat. Of course, he has a BMW, he simply used the moment to bond with the people, and to make a statement. I hope in our lifetime we make an effort to bring these godly figurines down to earth.

In any case, what’s the big deal about frisking? It just takes a few seconds, and if you are gay, it’s a joyful ride too. I feel sad for the airline. FIRs, show cause notices and threats to cancel the license for doing its job!!! Wow!