Monday, December 01, 2008

Where is Ivan Lendl?

My first memory of tennis is watching a dowdy, unattractive Czech play against a fiery young Blonde on the pristine grass of Wimbledon. It needed no deep knowledge of tennis to guess that the Czech wanted to win, BADLY (Im not sure if Lendl's famous grass-is-for-cows had been declared just before this battle). But even my 10 yr old untrained brain could somehow figure out that the dashing blonde would prevail. It was the summer of 86 - the year that Boris Becker became the youngest male title holder at Wimbledon. A strange presentiment told me that Lendl would never win at Wimbledon. And I think he knew it too.

I've been hooked to tennis since then. Through the years, I have frowned upon plodders like Lendl & Courier, saving my adulation instead for the breathtaking brilliance of an Edberg, an Agassi or a Federer. Now, I have much more respect for Lendl's tenacity and ambition.

I guess I'm growing up.

Friday, November 28, 2008

"The God Delusion"

I first heard of The God Delusion from a random sms. A day later, I came across an article on the book by Suresh Menon– though this was primarily a compilation of extracts, he sounded suitably impressed. And the same evening, I started reading Amartya Sen’s Identity and Violence – whose principal argument is that societal violence stems from the tendency to associate human beings with a single identity, most commonly related to the person’s religion or community. The coincidences were too many to ignore – much like a message from God (pun intended!) – enough to pique my interest.

I read the first chapter of the book from NYT, which dwelt largely on the difference between Einsteinian religion and supernatural religion. Not very exciting fare, but one should not judge a book by its first chapter!

The NYT’s review on the book seemed to indicate that the book had its merits, but apparently some of the arguments were far too specious, rhetorical and occasionally caustic to appeal to the rationalist. Wikipedia’s synopsis of reviews about the book appeared to corroborate the views of the NYT’s Jim Holt.

Both Bertrand Russell (whose views I can speak of more authoritatively, having read Why I Am Not a Christian, What is An Agnostic, and Am I an Atheist or an Agnostic – all excellent reads) and Dawkins (who I have not read – so what I say is likely to be an interpretation) present compelling rational arguments for the non-existence of God.

My dissatisfaction with both, however, is that they focus on the Christian God, i.e., both dwell upon the notion of a collective God, as defined by the Church. Indeed, Dawkins’ book would have been more aptly named The Christ Delusion, or at least The Religion Delusion – Russell, to be fair, was more explicit in his naming. Russell, being a precise mathematician, goes to the extent of including belief in Christ as part of his definition of a Christian, along with belief in God and immortality. Dawkins tries giving us a definition of what belief in God can denote – belief in a supernatural creator that is appropriate for us to worship – but his focus thereafter appears to be on a Christian God.

Given this, it is no wonder that both move on to making an impassioned plea for the abolition of the practice of religion, and by extension, abolition of belief in God.

I will try to examine my thoughts on this, but with some modification. I will go with the definitions of God proposed by Russell and Dawkins, but my God will not just be Christian – he (or she!) may as well belong to any other religion. That is easy – I need only ignore the first part of Russell’s definition (about the belief in Christ). Also, while my God has powers that are appropriate for worship, the forms of that worship need not necessarily be collective, and is for me to decide (and may include no worship at all). By this, I want to introduce the concept of a personal God – a belief in God, without necessarily an accompanying belief in religion.

So, why does one believe in God? More importantly, why do most people tend to exhibit a strong belief in the existence of God, and treat the existence of entities such as Martians and spaceships with skepticism, given that we have seen neither?

I think it is partly due to what we learn at our mother’s knee – where did I come from, Mommy? Well Dad and I prayed to God to give us a bundle of joy to light up our lives and He gifted us with you. Any entity that has created the special ‘I’ was bound to have powers to grant, and deny, wishes. And by the time we understand the boring truth about how we to came to be, the belief is too far entrenched for us to discard – the result is regular visits to His House (church, temple, etc.) to demonstrate our belief and convenient explanations of chance instances as ‘acts of God to right the Universe’

It also cannot be denied that a belief in God has the capability to inspire some to reach for the impossible. Everyone needs an anchor, something to hold on to and to believe in when all else is falling apart, and for most people, God plays this role to perfection. I personally don’t believe in any of the miracles attributed to Gods of various faiths, having never been witness to one myself. But I have seen instances where people have been inspired to achieve impossible feats, and have attributed this solely to a belief in God.

Given this conditioning and so-called evidence of his super human prowess, God is built into something to be appeased and feared. Keep him happy, do as he bids you to (which will be decided by his torch bearers), and he will reward you. Anger him, and he will ensure you will get your come-uppance. To quote Russell - It is partly the terror of the unknown and partly, as I have said, the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes. I’ll take that further – his existence not just gives you someone who will stand by you, but also someone you can blame when things don’t go the way you want them to. It is an explanation of the unknown by an artificially known-unknown. You might as well replace him by a robot, or a Martian!
So the good fortune that we usually attribute to a faith in God is really an outcome, partly of our inner strength and capability, and partly a dash of good luck. And the bad times when God is supposedly punishing us for sins perpetuated years ago (or maybe in some other before-life!) is really ‘just one of those bad times’ when our luck runs out.

But we continue to attribute this to God because human beings like having a reason, a justification, for everything, even if that reason is inherently irrational, or leads to irrational outcomes and behaviors.

So, what if God was one of us, Just a slob like one of us, Just a stranger on the bus, Trying to make his way home.

What about religion?
There is no disputing the arguments laid out by both Dawkins and Russell, as well as numerous others, against religion – the misdeeds of the Church (and other religious bodies) perpetuated down the centuries are adequate evidence. In India itself, there are numerous instances of people who flaunt every convention of humanity (deceit, rape, loot and murder), all in the name of God. I am as inclined to believe in the existence of Christ as in that of the Greek or the Hindu Gods – which is almost zilch. In fact, I am sometimes tempted to believe that Christ and the Bible are the outcome of the first successful marketing campaign launched by the chiefs of religion – no wonder the Church is reputed to be one of the best run organizations in the world!

But all the evidence of the misdemeanors of religion relate to religious fanaticism – religion that is exclusive and taken to the extreme. Unfortunately, it does not account for the ‘moderates’ - the significant numbers who are devoutly religious, and have the good sense to not participate in religious extremism, or those who are moderately religious (most people I know, including my parents, would probably fall in this category ) and finally, those who are not religious at all, yet have a belief in God (I was a former member of this clan).

So, on the one hand, we have the faithful who are inspired to greatness by God, but who may not feel the need to impose their faith on others. And on the other hand are the zealots who may not understand God (or religion), but use it as a weapon of power (and destruction). Does the existence of the latter mean that everyone should stop believing in God and/or stop going to a Church/mosque/temple? To me, this sounds as specious as the famous Indian argument to ban ‘revealing clothes’ and ‘public display of emotion’ to cut down on rapes and eve teasing!

At a metaphysical level, there are no rights and wrongs anyways. But given that we agree on a definition of what is right and what is wrong, I see nothing wrong in believing in God or religion, as long as the belief, and the practice, remains personal and non-invasive. In fact, their presence might have more benefits that the Agnostics or Atheists are willing to give them credit for. If God’s presence, even if fictitious, makes life more bearable for me, whether I call him God or Jesus or Ali or John is really no one’s business. Many priests act as wonderful guides for youth, several religious institutions provide food, clothing, shelter and education to the needy, and many religious practices (such as Buddhism) provide support groups to the lonely.

But the problem arises when I want others too to see him exactly the way I see him, and to mould their actions in deference to him the way I do. We do not expect other people’s parents or spouses or children to emulate ours, nor do we expect them The same degree of moderation, if displayed towards God and religion, will make the world a much saner place

Like Russell, I believe that life in general does not have any purpose, but human beings have purposes. I would like to extend that belief to state that, just because what I am doing is not a part of some grander design, does not in any way diminish the value of my thoughts and actions. Unlike Russell, however, I see nothing timorous in using the imaginary crutches of religion to bolster my confidence, as long as those crutches are not used as a weapon to injure someone else. Look for imaginary allies in the sky, for what is life without a little imagination, but do not let your imagination limit your actions, or the free will of your fellow beings. Reach for the impossible, but do not expect it to happen on its own, and do not be discouraged if you do not get your heart’s desire even after trying. For the greatest miracle is what lies within a wise and compassionate heart.

Coorg Trekking & Rafting







In a way, it was the perfect build up to a weekend full of adventure. The literally last minute shopping for clothes and floaters, the hilarious fiasco of landing up at Mainland China and almost collecting someone else’s order, only to realize that E had placed our food order with the Calcutta branch (the Indiranagar folks were kind enough to rush the food to my Bangalore address – bless them Lord with tons of food, always!), and finally, both of us getting locked inside the bathroom (and the house) exactly 10 minutes before our bus was to pick us up! The last really did frighten me – and I am eternally grateful to B for the inventive rescue.

Finally, we dawdled up to Barbecue Nation at 11 PM to catch our bus – we were on our way to Coorg, for a light trek in the mountains and white water rafting in the river KKR.

The bus was not exactly what we had anticipated (a Volvo was expected for the money we were paying!), but we were too excited about our recent and anticipated adventures to care! The jerky lamb we had devoured for dinner was soon forgotten, and we treated ourselves to Kurkere and Ferrero Rocher while we chatted and finally dropped off to sleep. I slept fitfully – the rain water was seeping in through the window and there was hardly any leg space – but some sleep is better than none! I finally woke up around 6 the next morning as the bus was navigating its way through a carpet of shimmering green. The sky was a pristine white and the air smelt of coffee and spices – we had entered the land of the Kodava’s.

Coorg Guest House was more like a college dormitory, and we were aghast to discover that nearly ten women would be accommodated in our room – which had a single loo! After a long queuing up for our bath, we made our way to the dining room for a wholesome breakfast of poha and sweet coffee. By 8 am, we were loaded into the jeeps to make our way to our trek starting point.

Giving us company in the jeep was Raju, a tall, handsome Coorgi dressed in boots and a hat that reminded one of the cowboy Westerns. It was he who broke the pleasant news that the trekking route was infested with leeches, and conversation quickly turned to the most effective means of fighting the dreaded creatures.

The sky was still misty as we crossed the stream that took us to the base of the our trekking destination. The mountains loomed large in front of us, and we had just learnt that we had to climb nearly 8 km – so much for an easy trek! In a way, we were glad that we would not walk under the exhausting glare of the sun, though the rains would make the path more slippery and treacherous.

We made our way in single file up the first hill – in all, we would scale three small hills before reaching the summit. The path for the most part was rocky but not very steep. There were frequent stops to fight off the numerous leech attacks with salt & deo, and also to take in the breathtaking views of the town below whenever we stumbled upon a spot of plain land. By about 9.30 AM, everyone was exhausted and glad to make the first pit stop – we had covered only 3 km by then! The chatter was diminishing, and it was a quieter and very exhausted group that dropped down at the second pit stop. I was grateful for the muesli bars, and somehow, the peak seemed really far away. We plodded on, however, and finally, our goal seemed a lot nearer. The last one km was the steepest part of the climb, and was made much tougher by our weakening limbs. However, it was an awesome feeling to run up the little hillock at the top of the hill and find a nice rock to seat our tired body on – we had climbed nearly 3000 feet and finally made it to the top!

We made our way back through a shorter route, and stumbled through numerous streams and pretty butterflies. The route was slippery, and I even got a leech bite towards the end of the trek as a trophy for all the exertion! We were back at Coorg Guest House by about 2 pm, and did we have a ravishing appetite!

In the evening, we were driven to Irupu Falls. It took tremendous will power for our tired bodies to climb the 100 odd steps to the fall, but the effort was well worth it. Thanks to the monsoons, the ice cold waters roared down in magnificent splendor, and the tremendous lung power could be heard miles away!

We spent a lovely hour by the Falls, hopping and skipping our way over the rocks and soothing our aches and pains in the refreshing chill of the waters. It was dark by the time we made our way back to the Guest House, and we took a quick shower to prepare ourselves for the evening barbeque. Getting to the barbeque site was a bit of a nightmare, as we had to make our way down a km long rocky path in almost complete darkness (the torch bearers did not provide any assistance!), dreading leeches and other sundry creatures of the night. Two large fires had been lit next to a large lake (Luckily, alcohol was prohibited, else many in the group would have certainly landed in the lake before the night was out!), and we were happy to note that the boys had already started barbecuing the first lot of meat.

Day two was reserved for the adventure we all awaited - rafting! Most of us had no prior experience with rafting (My rafting experience in the placid river Sita in Jharkhand hardly counted!), so we were bouncing with nervous anticipation. We soon discovered that there were only two rafts available, so we had a long break as we awaited our turn! Luckily, Prakash, the owner of the estate (http://www.coorgwhitewaterrafting.com/) has a rudimentary kitchen with a cozy fireplace close to the rafting start point, and he kept us occupied with tales of his youth to the accompaniment of endless cups of tea & coffee.

The first batch returned in a few hours, high on adrenaline and adventure, and it was our turn to pad up in the rafting gear and listen attentively to our coach’s instructions. After a few practice drills, we were ordered to jump into the water! While the swimmers dived in joyfully, the non swimmers had to be cajoled & occasionally pushed in – our shrieks for help and the later whoops of joy at our miraculous survival (or so it seemed) must surely have been heard as far as the next district.

We were now ready to push off into the waters. The first twenty minutes was simple rowing, enjoying the lush greenery, waving to our friends by the banks & oohing at the solitary kingfisher perched on a rock. Soon, the river began to open up, and we caught sight of Morning Coffee, the first rapid on our course. We braced to follow the instructions of our guide, but we needn’t have worried. Just like its name, our first hurdle was short & perky, and presented minimal challenges to us amateurs.

Our first success had us all jumping with bravado, and we whooped with joy as we successfully navigated the next two rapids - The Grasshopper & Ramba Samba. In between, we made a brief detour to a small alcove by the banks – doubtless a shelter from the storm for frequent river travelers.

We were now brimming with confidence, till our guide cautioned us about the next rapid – the Wicked Witch. It’s unpredictable and if you don’t follow my instructions, you can get caught in an endless whirlpool, he warned – and we soon discovered the truth of his words as we kept on going round and round when one of our team members mistakenly rowed forwards instead of backwards! There were a few apprehensive moments as our guide barked out commands like the rapid fire round of a game show – Forward! Right! Duck! Left…Left, Left, not RIGHT !!! - but finally, we were through and emitting war cries as though we were Hagar The Horrible’s soldiers back from massacring the English!

By now, the river had opened up to reveal vistas of dense tea plantations and mist covered mountains. The view was breathtaking - the weather just right with a warm sun creating a sheen of shimmering yellow and green against a brilliant blue sky. We would have been happy to chug along at an easy pace while soaking in the fantastic sights, but our last rapid awaited – the Big Bang. This was reputed to be the toughest hurdle on the course, but luckily did not pose much of a challenge to us veterans.

All too soon, the banks of the river were visible - our adventure was drawing to a close. The swimmers dived in for one last tryst with the blue waters, after which we dragged our water logged bodies & the rafts across the sand. We strolled along the coffee plantations & admired the brilliant hues of the greenery and the variety of flowers. The elevation afforded a superb view of the river and reminded us of our recent adventures. As we piled into the jeep for our return journey, we suddenly realized how exhausted and ravenous we were – but our dreams of a piping hot meal were interrupted by the extremely bumpy road revealing brilliant vistas, sprinkled with conversations with a 20 year old on the disastrous effects of the Nano & the Tata’s massacring of Oliver Ridley turtles. The discussion was a fond reminder of my college days when the world was painted in strong shades of right and wrong – there is still nothing more intoxicating in this world than a delightful combination of youth and idealism.

A word about the organizers – the Bangalore Mountaineering Club. Kudos to Neeraj & his team for regularly coordinating outdoor and trekking activities in and around Bangalore and bringing together a diverse set of nature lovers. I do think that there is scope for improvement in the organization – for instance, the buses & accommodation can certainly be improved upon. But I also recognize that this is not a full time job for Neeraj, so one cannot have the same expectations as from a professionally run travel outfit. I’m quite hopeful that as the club grows in popularity (and it already is!) and the founders get regular cash flow, these aspects will be looked into – it would be wonderful for Bangalore to boast of an adventure club that offers the best of the very best travel experiences in the world!

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Shame

Goa is one of my favorite destinations in India. It is one of the rare places in India where you can just BE, if you know what I mean. There is a sense of freedom in Goa that I am yet to experience anywhere else in India, except maybe in Bombay.

But the recent cases of rape & murder have sullied Goa's idyllic reputation, revealing the sordid politics and drug dealing that seem to chase all good things in India. This recent article in the press makes me ashamed of Goa and of my country.

The mother of the German minor, who was allegedly raped by Goa Education Minister Atanasio Monserratte's son Rohit, has withdrawn the charges against him. The German woman has written a letter to police, saying 'the whole system has failed her'.
On November 5, Rohit was remanded to three days police custody by a Goa court in connection with the rape case. Rohit had surrendered before the Goa police. He was booked by Goa police on October 14 for allegedly raping the German girl and had gone missing after that.He appeared before the police on November 1 to give his statement, a few hours before the 14-year-old German girl deposed before a magistrate after initial reluctance.

Too many of us exult over India's GDP growth and the growing number of Indians in the world's richest list. We live in the dangerous delusion that India is finally being recognized as a developed country. I find this ridiculous, for true development is indicated by how well a country's policies & systems treat its 'less advantaged' citizens -the poor & marginalized, women and children, amongst others. And if people, both from within and outside the country, repeatedly experience systemic failure, we should abandon all pretense of democratic development. Hell, this is not even civilized behavior, forget about development.

Monday, October 06, 2008

S F T - Scarce Fed Transmission !

Tennis-wise, this has been amazingly intense year. With all the excitement in the Slams and the recent high of the US Open, I was raring to see some more of the old Fed at the remaining hard court tournaments. But just when I was seriously evaluating the business case for attending the Shanghai Masters, Fed announced his withdrawal from Stockholm -worse, he said he may not play for the rest of the year! While I agree with the logic of his move (I strongly believe he should just focus on the Grand Slams now – the ranking race should be secondary, and exhibition matches only in India!), I feel strangely bereft.

Strong dose of Scarce Fed Transmission. Whatever will I do once he retires?

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

When the Gods want to punish you

they answer your prayers! But not the way you wanted it :-)

So I dreamt of hopping to Argentina, skipping across Brazil & jumping intoMexico. Instead, I am back in Costa Rica. As if once wasn't enough.

Why does my life move two steps back for every step forward?

Movie-thon

E came up with the perfect antidote to beat the blues two weeks ago - watching five movies across three days!

I can laugh out loud when I think of how we plonked ourselves at the PVR counter in Forum on Thursday afternoon, with E declaring: Now you have to listen carefully...first you give us X tickets for Y movie for today's show, then XX tickets for YY for tomorrow afternoon, then.......I tried my best to pretend I didn't know her as we succeeded in confusing a series of ticketing attendants and caused adequate exasperation amongst the folks standing in line behind us (poor guys probably wanted tickets for the show that started 5 minutes ago!) . But I could not help giggling every time she threw the charlie into an even bigger tizzy by demanding tickets for King Lear or Shakespeare’s Lear (as opposed to The Last Lear)!

So here was our Movie-thon Itinerary:

1. What Happens in Vegas: Predictable chick-flick, with both Ashton Kutcher & Cameron Diaz doing what they do best - acting silly & romantic. Great 10PM week day fare when you are looking for something mindless and completely timepass. Good start.

2. The Last Lear: Why did we decide to watch this on Friday 10 PM ! The story had potential – the last shot at Shakespearean glory for a talented stage actor who is persuaded to act in a movie by a brilliant but diabolical director. The casting was also good – the original Angry Young Man is now a masterful Cranky Old Man and did a fantastic job of depicting Harry’s anguished brilliance and of mouthing Shakespeare; the ethereal Shefali Shah was brilliant as Harry’s mistress; and Preity Zinta as the inexperienced model-turned-actress & Arjun Rampal as the director were adequate. But somehow, Ghosh lost his way – the story within the story of the clown was not given sufficient attention and came out sounding hollow, the reason for AB quitting stage was very flimsy, and Ghosh spent un-necessary time dwelling upon the unhappiness of the two women. P was probably right when she remarked that Rituparno Ghosh has made a habit of disguising lazy filmmaking as art cinema - when will he realize that showing dirty sinks and torturously lingering over the despair of his female protagonists do not a good movie make.

3. A Wednesday: Ironic that I got an sms about the blasts in Delhi while watching this movie. Neeraj Pandey has done an outstanding job with this movie about terrorist bombings - given that they are alarmingly becoming a more frequent part of our lives. A timely and relevant story, well etched characters, great pace and humor (the Police Commissioner gets a call from a credit card company on his counter-terrorism hotline), a twist-in-the-end and fantastic acting (Naseruddin Shah & Anupam Kher were at their brilliant best). Great watch.

4. Mamma Mia: So I say, Thank you for the music, the songs we’re singing, thanks for all the joy they’re bringing…. Watch this only if you’re an ABBA fan – and if you are one, go watch it NOW and have a blast! Who would believe that Meryl Streep is close to 60 when you see her rolling & jumping & dancing with sooo much energy– what a fantastic actress she is (so what if she is barely able to open her mouth thanks to all the Botox – P’s astute observation again). This is not a movie that you sit down and watch in a cinema hall– I wish Opus would screen this on their Kroakanites and let everyone just sing and jump and dance alongwith! I’m sure E & I irritated quite a few of our neighbors in the hall by loudly singing out each and every song – but who cares when we got extra large dollops of joy and verve for our Saturday evening!

5. Righteous Kill: Jon Avnet gets Al Pacino & Robert de Niro together in a movie after decades, and what does he do? Casts them as boring old New York police detectives and gives them a story where the so-called suspense is evident in the first 30 minutes itself. No pace, no drama, no story, no suspense – no wonder Sonny & Bobby sleep walk through their roles and give us a dud of a thriller. Russell Gewirtz can surely do better than this, especially after giving us the brilliant Inside Man.

Monday, September 22, 2008

The Laughing Policeman

Book sales are a wonderful opportunity to pick up usually unaffordable coffee table books (or the complete works of Sherlock Holmes with the original typescript & illustrations). To me, they also provide occasion to pick up stuff that is not on my books-i-must-read or books-that-sound-vaguely-familiar list - a reasonably interesting storyline with the bonus of nice paper, a nice or unusual typescript or an attractive cover is usually enough to seduce me.

This year at the Landmark sale, my focus was on light reading – which means a bit of fantasy and a lot of detective fiction. I wanted something different from the variety that I usually read, and it was sheer coincidence that I stumbled upon The Laughing Policeman on my way out to the billing counter.

The blurb sounded interesting, the paper was slightly yellow (I dislike Rin-white paper), the type just the right size (not scrimping on paper), there was a lovely green hard bound cover and a recommendation from Sunday Telegraph on the authors (the Swedish communist couple Maj Sjowall & Per Wahloo). On a depressing Wednesday evening when the inclination to cause serious bodily damage – to your boss, spouse/boyfriend, parent or self – is at its peak, the perfect antidote to the unfortunate realization that you cannot commit murder is to read about one.

It turned out to be a delightfully different read. The authors’ communist leanings are revealed in the first chapter itself when the police are reported to be busy because “they were obliged to protect the American ambassador against letters and other things from people who disliked Lyndon Johnson and the war in Vietnam”. And so a small girl holds up a placard that says “DO YOUR DUTY! KEEP FUCKING AND MAKE MORE POLICE!” while an old woman waits in vain for a patrolman to smile and take her across the street. Meanwhile we meet Superintendent Martin Beck and Lennart Kollberg playing chess – with the former attributing his inability to win to a lack of chess sense!

Soon, the crime takes place in the cold November rain and we are slowly introduced to the other policemen - Kristiansson & Kvant, Gunvald Larsson, Hammar, Ake Stenstrom, Melander, Ek and Ronn. As the investigation unfurls at an excruciatingly slow pace, the reader becomes better acquainted with these men as their characters (and personal lives) are slowly revealed in vivid detail.

Almost the entire story unravels through the actions of the officers, either in the police station or on the beat – and the wry humor and commentary on world happenings during the conversations is what makes the book transcend an ordinary thriller. There are digs at America (the frequent mass massacres there and how it is possible to ‘order a gun by mail order’, Vietnam – the book was written in the 60’s), the press, The Great Detective General Public, politicians, bosses and consumerism. The sentences are short and simply worded (possibly because it’s a translation) with barely concealed irony.

The policemen are painted as ordinary humans, with their foibles and special talents and stupidities. As the photographic memory man Mellander remarks on the public’s distrust of the police: The reason is that the police are a necessary evil…The crux of the problem is, of course, the paradox that the police profession in itself calls for the highest intelligence & exceptional mental, physical and moral qualities in its practitioners but has nothing to attract anyone who possesses it.

And so, when Ronn is dispatched to get a possible statement out of the dying man who was still dying at XX Hospital:

(Ron) had carefully thought out two questions, which for safety’s sake he had written down in his notebook.
The first one was:
Who did the shooting
And the second:
What did he look like

Or, the reflection on the personal lives of Beck & Kollberg:

She (Gun) was exactly what he (Kollberg) wanted, but it had taken him over twenty years to find her and another year to think it over.
Martin Beck had not spent twenty years in search of his wife. He had met her seventeen years ago, made her pregnant on the spot and married in haste. He had indeed repented at lesire, and she was standing at the bedroom door, a living reminder of his mistake, in a crumpled nightdress and with red marks from the pillow on her face.

The title is derived from a record named The Adventures of the Laughing Policeman by Charles Penrose – a Christmas gift to Beck by his daughter that is unsuccessful in her attempt to make him laugh. Beck does laugh at the end of the book though. After the mystery is solved, he discovers that the answer lay all along on the desk of his murdered colleague - Beck & Kollberg had forgotten to check under the blotter when they kicked off their investigations in Stenstorm’s office. An appropriately self mocking conclusion to a book that refuses to take anything too seriously - a good lesson for life, or something like it!

Encounters with Officialdom (2) - International Driving Permit

It started with another of my peculiar obsessions – I wanted to obtain an international driving permit. Why, I still haven’t figured out - given that I have successfully driven without one on four continents. Perhaps I can blame it on the scare I had in Lille when the French nearly denied me the car I had booked for my driving vacation!

So when I went home to Delhi in March, I enlisted the help of Mrs B, the trusted lieutenant who has helped everyone in my family navigate the complex and murky Transport Office world in our bid to acquire the precious DRIVING LICENCE. For her unique brand of assertive charm well disguised under the “Sir”’s and “Please”’s is just what one needs to deal with the officers at the RTO.

The fun began when we got the application form. The documentation required a medical certificate from a doctor and a signed affidavit from a legal practitioner. I was mentally agonizing over how to locate a doctor and a lawyer at such short notice, forgetting that the motto of Indian bureaucracy is: rules are made so someone pays to break them. Sitting right outside the crowded and dirty office building were two women with typewriters, calling out the rates for a medical certificate and a legal affidavit the way hawkers sell onions & tomatoes in a bazaar. Yes, the first was a registered doctor, the second a practicing lawyer – and each had hit upon the golden goose of her profession. For a princely sum of 250 rupees, I would get an official stamp of being in sound mental health and of being a bona-fide citizen with no existing criminal record against me - no questions asked.

And did I mention that the women took shade under a large banner that proudly proclaimed the celebration of National Traffic Transparency (Anti–Corruption & No– Bribery) Week? But in India – sab chalta hai.

Documentation ready, Mrs. B employed her charm to snake to the front of the long queue for the submission of the documents (Bhai Sahib, please make way for ladies!). The next step was a personal interview with a ‘senior officer’. We were ushered into a miniscule room that was just about the size of a regular office cubicle. An extremely fat man dominated the room – his back rested against the wall, and his stomach supported the small table in such a way that it was impossible to distinguish the boundaries between flesh and wood. I briefly wondered how many people were needed to pull him out, for I certainly could not imagine him being able to pull his weight to a standing position on his own. Maybe he went around with the desk attached to him….my reverie was interrupted by a loud blob as the ‘officer’ spat some beetle juice into the waste paper basket conveniently placed at his feet. My interview was about to begin:

So you want to apply for a driving license?
Yes, Sir (this was Mrs B)

Do you know how to drive?
I quietly showed him my driving license issued 10 years ago, restraining myself from stating that this very office had issued the same to me.

Why do you want an international driving license, Have you ever been jailed before? He was clearly not impressed with my credentials.
I looked at him in surprise, wondering if he really expected an answer, when Mrs B discreetly stepped in – Sir, her mother is ..., her father is …., very respectable and educated family Sir…”, thus cutting off my sharp response of “ If I have been to jail, you have surely served life imprisonment ten times over!”

Did you write this application yourself, he continued belligerently?
I did, I reply quietly (I really did, even though the ‘lawyer’ had offered to fill it for me for free).

Write on the legal affidavit that you have filled the application yourself, and that all the information declared herewith is correct.
I looked at Mrs B in surprise – isn’t a legal affidavit meant to affirm the truthfulness of my details? She nodded imperceptibly, and I began to write, when our man cut in – Write it in Hindi. I shrugged and defaced the legal affidavit with a handwritten statement reaffirming what the affidavit already stated

By now, the officer had run out of other insults to throw at me - or maybe he was saving them for the long queue waiting outside. He affixed his stamp & signature on the application, and dismissed us with another spat of beetle juice.

Why have you written on the affidavit in hand, it is illegal! - shouted the clerk on the ground floor when we returned to him. Ask your officer, he made me do it – I snapped at him, ready to slug it out if he dared to refuse my application. But the clerk was evidently used to the ways of our man – he quietly accepted the documents and ordered me to return in the evening to collect the license.

I made my pilgrimage in the evening, only to join a queue of ten others ahead of me. The clerk at the counter reluctantly drew out a big file and started filling in the driving application for the first candidate in the line – in a laborious and illegible hand. I will spare the details – suffice to say that it was another hour of shuffling between floors, pasting slips in a notebook and trying to decipher the clerk’s calligraphy before I was handed my license.

So where are you moving to in the US? asked the guy behind me as we were leaving (we had become friends by now). Nowhere, I muttered. So why did you apply for an international permit, anyway you can drive on your existing license in any country if your period of stay is less than 6 months, he asked me in surprise? I am probably a crazy sadist, I mumbled.

The fat officer would have spat another round of bettle juice in agreement.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Encounters with Officialdom - 1

A pleasant Saturday evening. After weeks of running around and ‘follow-up’, I finally seem to have a permanent solution to the recurring problem with my car’s power windows! I roll down my window as I drive back home, partly to enjoy the pleasant breeze, and largely to relish the joy of a window that rolls down when I want it to :- )

As I navigate the steep bump in front of Figurine Fitness while speculating upon how I should celebrate my car’s fitness, I hear a rude honk from behind. A black Safari, with dark tinted glasses to match, evidently in a hurry to save the world (as usual!). The road is narrow with houses on both sides, and is speckled with numerous cars and side lanes a – I cannot risk accelerating beyond the 45kmph that I am currently at! But my friend in the Safari is more daring, and resumes his incessant honking. I raise my hand in the rear view mirror as a signal to him to take it easy. Suddenly, he swerves from the left, overtakes my car and then deliberately swerves to the right to ram into the passenger door, and then speeds away. For a moment, I can’t believe this has happened – I had heard of, and expected, such irrational behavior in Delhi, but not in peaceful Bangalore. My next thought is to give chase to express my indignation, but the pragmatic part of my brain is already telling me this won’t work – the guy is driving like a maniac, and I have no idea how many men are inside the car. I quickly note down the car’s registration number, and still in shock, drive to my home a km away to inspect the damage.

What I see breaks my heart! There is a huge dent on the left side of the bonnet, and an ugly scar running all along the passenger door! I am furious by now at the completely uncivilized and barbaric behavior of the guy – this can happen only in India! I decide I will not let him get away. Immediately, I call 101 to give them the car’s registration number, but they tell me I will need to go to a police station to file a case.

By this time, I am seething. I decide I will go to the station, but I also realize I need to mobilize some resources – a lone woman who cannot speak the local language (except – Kannada gottilla) is unlikely to meet with blazing success with the notorious Indian police. P is out of town; I call D –she’s out with friends; C doesn’t pick up his phone. My mind’s numb by now – all I want is to DO something! Heck, I’ll go it alone, I tell myself. 101 had directed me to the Ulsoor police station. I ignore the openly curious looks of all the men squatting in the station, and march up to the duty officer and pour out my tale. Our man, however, is unimpressed, and continues to pick his teeth as he gleefully informs me this is not under his jurisdiction. But 101 directed me to Ulsoor, I splutter. He shrugs. So what do I now, I demand. Go to Jeevan Bhima Nagar station, he states dismissively.

Thanks, I mutter, I didn’t expect any better from you, so why be surprised. By now the angry indignation is wavering – going by this experience, I am unlikely to get anywhere even at JBN. So do I bow in and keep silent, like most of us do, ineffectual against the notoriously corrupt SYSTEM, I wonder. Not quite yet, I decide. If we ‘evolved’ people also start giving in without a fight, then the future of our country is indeed bleak.

As I drive to JBN, I again try to mobilize some resources – H, my landlord’s son is out with friends, but he suggests I contact Uncle whose clinic is very close to the station. Unfortunately, Uncle has just stepped out, so I take a deep breath and decide to face this alone.

Unlike the sprawling campus of Ulsoor, JBN station is a small corner house converted into a station – two or three small dinghy rooms in a straight line, one room leading to another, all crowded with harassed fellow sufferers. As you move from one room to the next, you get the feeling of being sucked into the vortex of a deep well – or maybe it is just my imagination working overtime! However, I am pleasantly surprised when the first officer I meet with offers me a seat before I can spill out my tale. I am escorted into the innermost chamber (the bottom of the well?), where two or three officers are frenziedly manning the phones. One of the officers remarks they got the car details from 101, and have traced the car’s owner. A driver was driving the car, he says – we know the owner, he is a nice man. If he’s such a nice man he should be more careful about the people he chooses to drive a car, I rage. The officer shrugs and says the owner lost his son a few days ago, thanks to the manic driving of one of his drivers.

I am so angry by now that I have no sympathy for the owner, even when I hear about his son’s death. What about my case, I demand? We can give you the phone number of the owner and you can negotiate a settlement, the officer says. But I don’t want settlement, I fume – I want to meet the driver and I want to see him face the consequences (probably slap him, Hindi movie style? But I don’t say that!). The other alternative is that you file a case with us, the matter will go to court, your car will need to be left with us for the examination, and well, you let the law take its course, he suggests with a deadpan expression.

I can see where he is leading to by now. In my beloved country, the law literally takes its own course, and a very long and tortured course spread over decades at that! Letting the law takes its own course would mean constant haranguing (and bribe paying) by police officers, countless visits to the courts, endless dealings with petty officers...for in the Indian judicial system, the powerless (or less powerful) is guilty and the influential innocent, no proof needed.

My mind baulks, the resolve weakens. I had marched into the station demanding to “see justice done”, but in my outrage, I had momentarily forgotten what that means in India. And despite the odds, if I still decide to pursue the long path of justice, would I really be fighting against the ‘right’ accused? The owner claimed the accused was a driver, but because of the dark windows, I had no means of verifying the claim. For all I know, a family member was driving the car, and a poor man at the bottom of the food chain would pay the price (I have grown up on a staple of Hindi movies with such incidents you see). Or even if it was the driver who was at fault, maybe he was exhorted to drive faster by someone, or under pressure of an unrealistic deadline. Who could tell the real story?

Plagued by moral doubts, uncertainties and unease at the thought of dealing with the complex system, I decide to give in. I write out a letter, but I do not file it – instead, I meekly tell the officer I am open to negotiation, and head back home to retrieve what remains of my weekend.

In the end, I was left with a vague sense of disappointment . I was pleasantly surprised by the civility and responsiveness of the officers at JBN, and was glad that I did something (contrary to my middle class upbringing of deferentially giving in to the notorious system). Yet, I could not get over the nagging thought that a civilized society would never allow such incidents to take place at such alarming regularity, and that I, as a part of this so-called civilized society, was in a way as much to blame as the ‘system’.

The Music of Words

I had a manic-Monday-types Friday – chock a block with difficult conference calls, meetings and interviews. I was so exhausted by the time I was done by 8 that I discarded all thoughts of gymming and headed straight home. Dined on some soup and dinner rolls. I was alone at home, and somehow, time appears to inflate when you are alone – unless you are drunk or asleep. There wasn’t anything interesting on TV (I get bored of TV very quickly anyway), I didn’t have the energy for a full fledged movie (not the kinds that I had at home anyway) or a book – but it was Friday for chrissakes, and I detest turning in early on a Friday night. Somehow, the more I stretch my sleeping hour on a Friday night, the more I tend to savor the seemingly endless possibilities of the weekend – so what if most of these possibilities remain just that, limited to the realm of my imagination.

Unexpectedly, it started to rain. Not the gentle pitter patter of a Bangalore evening shower, but more like the gentle drilling of a crane, coarse but blunted as if a piece of cloth covered its mouth. I could almost imagine the raindrops falling straight down - not slanting - but vertical. Slow, incessant, seemingly endless - just the kind of rain that depresses me. Give me a tumultuous downpour any day – one that knows that a quick departure is always better than a long drawn farewell.

So it was probably the combination of my solitary-yet-content state and the slow, unending rain that made me drift towards reading poetry after a long time. Surprisingly, I did not drift towards Vikram Seth. Instead, I dwelled upon the lyricism of Eliot’s Burnt Norton & The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, the latter a poem that I can read and re-read a thousand times and one; the wonderfully constructed Patterns that compassionately but unsentimentally chronicles a young Flanders woman who has just learnt that her beloved fiancé who she was to marry a day later has been killed in war; Under One Star by Wislawa Szymborska, a delightful peep into all the delightful little pieces of life; Maya Angelou’s And Still I Rise – oh, what a powerful writer she is!; Wilfred Owen’s cry against war, Dulce Et Decorum Est; the wonderfully ironic A Strange Problem by Kanwar Narain on ‘the power to hate with all my heart Is ebbing by the day’; Harivanshrai Bachchan’s melancholy reflections on life in Kya Bhoolon Kya Yaad Karoon; and finally; Books, by Gulzar, an interesting eulogy to the decline of the physical reading of books.

A bit of caustic wit and irony was called for after all this sentimentality, and who better than Dorothy Parker and Emily Dickinson to supply it! I shared Parker’s disappointments in being forced to live with one perfect rose, and shared Dickenson’s Presentiments on “Faith” (a fine invention), “Hope” (the thing with feathers), formal feelings after a great pain, not being able to stop for Death, and a certain slant of light in winter.

I ended with Vikram Seth of course – a seven course Michelin meal should be polished off with a fitting dessert. I suppose if I was given the chance to take just one book on a marooned island, I’d take his Collected Poems. That, or Neruda, is all the nourishment one needs!

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Unintended

First, the unexpected death.
Then, the blasts.

Suddenly, I am more alive to the mortality of those I know & love.
And hence, the white flag.

Perhaps, I regret it already.

Words, silly words
reckless
sometimes ridiculous
casting their spell of inevitability
when all I desire
is a certain ambiguity.

Monday, July 14, 2008

The Peach Orb

An ode to our trip to Ranganathittu - composed by Elina. Editors scouting for the next Sylvia Plath may please contact her directly.

The waterfall belonged to Gulliver’s Lilliput Land
And yet inspired a lot of freakishly frolicking folks
Who looked beyond the torn black slippers?
Bobbing along the blue green current and
The catch of the chilly marinated day!
The coracles weaved themselves
amongst the slight waves of the man made dam
And the memories of kingfisher colored children
laughing into the peach orb of a vanilla sky.

In the winding roads of an unborn morning
We had set out to meet a few birds and
And a scarcely traveled path of kindred time
And we discovered out of bounds marshes,
Amongst bound bamboo growth in definite gardens
Foxes and lions of Indian Politics, an insecure Indica
And a foreign cuisine for our north of the Vindhya tongue
And some light which fell through the
Canopy of trees and kissed our foreheads as we literally
Cooled our heels by a brook bordered by fish scales and
Love Ballads which celebrated the genre of gullible childhood.

And it is all a celebration of the times we live
Saluted by Mona Lisa smile on dark glasses
A discovery of ‘What The Point’ amidst surreal banality
And this poem to us.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Here's looking at you, Fed

It is heartbreaking to watch a magician suddenly lose his art. There he comes charging to the net, only to miss a volley he would have usually aced with his eyes shut. The perfect forehand goes just long, the incredible angle has disappeared. The razor sharp serve is uncharacteristically vulnerable. Not just once, but again and again. The proud shoulders droop, the head nods increasingly in desperation. The heart still hasn't lost the fight, but the body has lost the midas touch.

When the agony ends, as end it must, the winner is more apologetic than ecstatic. For he recognizes that in his victory he has humbled, maybe even humililated, a master.

Today Rafa won a record 4th French Open, defeating The Great Federer 6-1, 6-3, 6-0.

During the final, ignoble set, I mailed to a dear friend telling her how disappointed I was. Here is what she replied:

What is to separate this man from the Gods? Every once a year he is confronted with his mortality and to the fact that there is one aspect of his prowess that one other human is better at, thanks to Nadal.

The wisdom of her words made me think - what about Rafa? Everyone talks about Roger Federer and how Roland Garros would be the crowning jewel in his coronation as the Greatest Tennis Player Ever (if not the greatest athlete ever). We all sympathize with TGF for being repeatedly denied the only major title to elude him for four successive years by this ONE man (for everyone acknowledges that were it not for this kid from Mallorca, Pete's 14 and Andre's Slam would have been conquered years ago). The French crowds, delighted with TGF's charm and fluency in their language, have unsuccessfully rallied behind him against the defending champion. But had it not been for Fed, Rafa would have undoubtedly been Numero Uno in men's tennis. For now, however, he has to stay content with winning at Roland Garros and being the best Number Two ever in men's tennis.

So in a way, they each take away from the other, and in that taking away, add to each other's greatness. Their evident mutual respect and affection only adds to the allure of this great rivalry. Shakespeare could not have scripted this better - for in the decades to come, no mention of The Great Roger Federer will be complete without naming Rafael Nadal. And this is how it is, this is how it should be.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Watch Agneiszka Radwanska

Justine Henin's untimely exit from women's tennis, though unfortunate, has made the women's draw at Roland Garros much more exciting. The Williams sisters, true to their erratically scintillating form, have lost to rookies. Sharapova seems to have lost the razor sharp brilliance she displayed in Melbourne, and has relied more on her shrieking grunts than her shot making to get through to the 4th round. Ivanovic and Jankovic have been consistent, but frankly, they present minimal threat to Henin-Williams-Sharapova on a good day. Kuznetsova, Dementieva, Chakvetadze & Safina can always spring a surprise, but the greatest thrills have come from watching the under-19's in the main draw.

I haven't caught too many of the matches, but two girls I am really impressed with are Suarez Navarro and Agneiszka Radwanska. I saw parts of just one match of the former - the 4th round match against Penetta (who got rid of Venus Williams in the 3rd round). S Navarro boundless energy reminds you of Sanchez Vicario, but she is fitter and much more lethal - with a one handed backhand that makes you wish she would play against Justine Henin, the queen of the single handed backhand. Will Suarez Navarro go on to become a Djokovic, or remain a one Grand Slam wonder aka Tsonga? - only time will tell.

But the one who really caught my attention is 19 year old Agneiszka Radwanska, voted the emerging player of the WTA tour in 2007. Yes, she lost in straight sets to Jelena Jankovic in the 4th round, but did she give Jelena a scare! Radwanska has a good game of course, but what gives her an edge over her contemporaries is her tenacity, level headedness and surprising physical stamina, her frail frame notwithstanding. She just did not give up against Jankovic, keeping her kool and saving several match points to force the second set into the tie breaker. Had Radwanska made better use of her serve, Jelena would have been under serious threat of not making the QF's.

Fortunately, Radwanska has time on her side, and if she gets the right guidance and manages to stay fit, we'll surely see much more of her on the women's tour in the later rounds.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

How to be Strong

Someone on the radio was interviewing a breast cancer survivor today. Amongst the several facile questions, this one took the cake: (incredible wonder in her voice) How did you find the strength to cope with this, how did you muster the strength?

I found the question so ridiculous I burst out laughing. If you have cancer (or any other potentially fatal disease), you do not have the luxury to brood over questions such as how will I muster the strength to cope with this disease? Because that is not a choice – if you do not find that courage, you are dead. Quite plain and simple. You put your faith in your oncologist, your God, you family, your friend, your astrologer, your dog - whoever – and just keep on fighting the goddamn cells and hope that you destroy them faster than they breed in your body.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

More on Thailand

Unfortunately, and unlike most other countries, taxi drives in Thailand are boring. The driver doesn’t speak English, and if he does, all he wants to know is how much you earn, and hence how much he can cheat you.

So the scene for surprise and interest shifted, surprisingly, to my hotel’s elevator.

Giving me company in the elevator one day was an American man and a Chinese-American lady – they were both emerging from the excellent Spa, and the lady was passionately elaborating on spa hygiene and related horrors. As the elevator doors closed, she remarked (shouted is more like it, but I am a polite listener) – I mean, nayl fhunghus is extrehmely diffhiculht to gaid rid auf. As I was leaving the elevator, her subdued male companion remarked – anye fhunghus, for thad madder. Touche'. The brilliance of the conversation left me spell bound. I hope they saw the smile as I left. I wish they understood what it meant.

Another morning. I am heading out to work. A short, slightly plump (healthy looking?) Arab enters the elevator. He gives me a brief, disdainful glance, then settles down to admiring himself from all possible angles in the full length mirror, lingering a wee bit longer on his womanly bottom. No surprise that he got off at the Health Club – there are full length mirrors there all along the wall behind the treadmills. I suspect he didn't get much of running done though.

I guess you need a bit of madness to stay sane in this crazy country.

Holidays in Hell – Doing Business in Thailand

I blame this on PJ O’Rourke. If I hadn’t been reading Holidays in Hell in, appropriately, Thailand, I promise I would not have called out the country by name in this post. But after my third visit to this land, I am in no mood for niceties. And if Mr O-Rourke can describe hell in the beautiful city of Beirut, I don’t see why I shouldn’t spill the beans on the ‘best tourist destination in Asia’.

The stupidity starts with the visa. You can get a visa upon arrival for tourism, but you need a non-immigration visa if you are traveling on business. But that is not enough. You also need to apply for a temporary work permit after you have entered the country – the non-immigration visa is simply for you to get out of Suvarmbhoomi airport and reach your office. But officially, you cannot work at your office till you have the work permit.

No one understands English of course, even the ones who can supposedly speak it. Communication is excruciating – and this is not because of the language alone. The bigger problem is that a Thai’s comprehension level is at least ten times slower than that of an average human – and I am being polite here. Everything needs to be explained, re-explained, re-re-explained…and numerous irrelevant questions need to be patiently answered. A has to be followed by B, and if you jump to C, prepare to spend an extra fortnight to explain the why’s and the what’s.

Have you attended a meeting with over five of these blokes in the same room? It’s like playing Chinese whispers with people who are deaf, but God compensated that with the faculty of speech. First, they will look you over and discuss you loudly with each other in Thai, frequently looking and pointing at you so you know you are the object of attention. After this polite welcome, they will settle down to the bawling in Thai, with frequent looks at you to confirm that you do not comprehend a word, which being the case the decibel levels will keep on rising. The amount of noise and stupidity that goes around is enough to drown an army of Chinese pigs.

The favorite Thai word? It may be a three letter word outside the workplace, but inside, it’s ISSUE. A glow comes into their eyes when you mention this word – and they will have a two hour long meeting every two hours to discuss issues. Don’t forget to send minutes of meeting, else that will be another issue. But don’t expect them to do what you asked them to do – they wont read what you sent. You can bring it up at the next issue meeting, but in the end, it’s all your fault anyway. They are remarkably well organized that way – they will do all the shouting and cribbing while someone else will do the work.

As for Thai men in the workplace, they all appear to be the same with their soft voices and Buddha like countenance, cultivated no doubt after years of training and suffering. The women simply outnumber –and outshout – them.

Next time I hear about going to Thailand (on work), I am jumping from the thirteenth floor of my office.

Created Dec 07

Monday, May 05, 2008

Romulus, My Father

Raimond Gaita's father loves to collect beetles* and make them fly in the wind. "For luck", he says. And also for self belief and resilience - words he does not state, but lives his life by. The film adapation of Romulus, My Father, starring 'Hector' Eric Bana, is a touching interpretation of Raimond Gaita's novel by the same name.

At heart a simple tale of survival and kinship, there are several interesting scenes in the movie. The young Raimond once takes eggs for one of his friends - an old, decrepit man who lives in the back of beyond in remote Australia. The old man is delighted, but there is no water - so our man pees into a pan and boils the eggs in them, much to young Raimond's consternation!

Then there is Hora, Romulus' s friend in need and a father figure to young Raimond. An unlettered handyman, Hora loves reading and dispenses several words of wisdom to the eager youngster during their outdoor pursuits. While kayaking with Raimond, he quotes Bertrand Russell and states - If you enjoy wasting your time, then it is not a waste. Later, during a difficult time for the family, he remarks - Things change; watch your thoughts, for they decide what you become in life.

Probably the best part about the movie is that while it is a tribute to Romulus, the audience gets enough time to get to know the other key characters - Raimond, his manic depressive mother Christina, Hora, and Hora's brother Mitru, who falls in love with and marries Christina but is finally driven to take his life by this decision.

Romulus himself is outwardly no hero, just an ordinary man who loves his son and posesses an intense will to survive against all odds. So it is that he recovers from a near fatal accident and a later bout in an asylum after his wife's death, and lives to see his son study at St Joseph, a dream he had cherished and nurtured.

There is an interesting scene when Romulus is beating metal against fire to mould it to his will (he is a handyman - good with his head and hands - which may explain why the locals call him Jack). The beating of the metal fades into the incessant ringing of the bell at St Joseph's, interrupting young Rai's reverie. Thus it is that the lives of the father and the son are entwined.

The ending manages to bring in a bit of suspense. Romulus is back home from the asylum, but has he recovered? He wakes his son in the middle of the night - it is time to move home. On the way, upon Raimond's prompting, he narrates how Mitru was killed: He biked to the top of a tower, and jumped; but before that, he stuck a knife pointing upwards in the ground, "Just to make sure". They stop for the night by a cliff, Raimond sleeps, Romulus is gazing across the rocks. Morning breaks, Rai awakens and looks around - there is no sign of Romulus. He rushes to the cliff and looks down in fear at the sheer drop. The despair on his face echos the question in the viewer's mind - has Romulus abandoned his son too, just like Christina and Mitru did? "Pappi !", screams Raimond. "I am here", comes a gruff voice . Romulus is collecting beetles by the side of the cliff - for luck, and life.

Seasons in the sun

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

- T S Eliot, The Wasteland (The Burial of the Dead)

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Do you....as much as I .....

They tell you that after a period of intensely missing someone comes a time of forgetting and healing. They are correct.

What they do not tell you, however, is that the period of forgetting is often followed by one of intense re-remembering, where the temptation to peel off the cure is nearly as strong as the original feeling itself.

The Cells must be crazy

The word ‘cancer’ and its associations is probably the strongest signal of impending mortality to the human mind. I remember how, when we were first faced with its inevitability, everyone would whisper the word softly and deferentially, in a tone that indicates fearful respect for something that one does not really understand. Almost like we were in a temple or a church.

So a cancer hospital seems to be an unlikely place to make new friends and revive broken and forgotten relationships. But when you remember the coming of winter by ‘that time when we were in room 304’, the hospital does become your second home. You start recognizing not just the doctors, nurses and the staff, but also the other ‘regulars’. You exchange notes on treatments and medicines and kids and hopes and dreams. You think about all that you have done and all that is still left to be done, and wonder if you can get the fickle caravan of time to stay awhile with you.

It is not a pretty sight, but in a strange and perverse way, it also gives you strength. You see little kids with their heads shaved off for the treatment – some smile mischievously through the pain, others howl with an agony that haunts you for days. Any feelings you may have of ‘why me/why my family’ disappear when you hear a 25 year old man talk reassuringly to his wife after his first chemo session – she is not at his bedside because she has just given birth to their first child.

So it didn’t appear that strange after all that Dad mended the breach with one of his oldest friends at his bedside in the hospital. Or that a dear friend with whom he had lost contact some years ago should emerge from the room next to his, herself undergoing chemotherapy. He also made a lot of new friends, and surprisingly, not just with the nurses (whose phone numbers and e-mails he assiduously noted in his notepad – a job that was later entrusted to us when his cataract started troubling him more).

Of all the new friends we made, probably the closest bond was with a brother-sister duo, whose father had been admitted in the room next to ours with lung cancer. Uncle was a role model – he ate and lived healthy (we heard him advising his daughter against all ‘white’ stuff while refusing sugar in his tea), shunned drinking and smoking, had been managing the entire household (including washing & cleaning) as his wife was an invalid, and faced his unexpected illness with cheerfulness and optimism. Mridula-di and Vishal clearly worshipped him, and why not?

Uncle’s first visit to the hospital coincided with dad’s later cycles, and they would often ‘consult’ with us veterans. Dad stayed in touch with Vishal, while I exchanged an occasional email with Mridula-di. Dad’s visits to the hospital reduced (touch wood), but sometimes he would run into Vishal, in which case he would always pass on detailed updates on Uncle to me.

Over the months, life limped on and then gathered momentum, and communication dwindled. Last week when I was in Delhi, Dad asked me if I’d heard from Mridula-di. He’d called Vishal a few days ago, but hadn’t got a response. We hoped Uncle was better.

Vishal called Dad today to tell him that Uncle died a few weeks ago. Apparently, Dr Chaturvedi, the friendly doctor who loved talking about his son’s video games when he caught me watching movies on my laptop, hadn’t given him much of a chance. But when you are battling the errant cells in your own body, the faintest chance can offer brilliant hope.

I wonder what Dad told Vishal when he heard the news. It is difficult mouthing clichés about death when you know how close you came to it yourself. All you can say is a silent thank you – to Life for giving you company, to Death for staying away. Amen.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Paved Paradise

Saturday evening. It’s raining again in Bangalore. I used to joke when I moved here three years ago that the moment you think about stepping out on a weekend, it begins to rain in Bangalore. Mercifully, however, the downpour is neither torrential nor incessant – more like a show of crackers that dazzles and delights for a few moments, and then disappears, just as suddenly as it appeared.

So when there was a brief lull – which can be but an interval or the final bow for the day, always maintaining that element of intrigue - I decided to go for a walk down 100 Feet Road. It had been a while since I had taken in the smell of wet earth and savor the freshness that seems to imbibe even the dullest of objects after it has rained, and I was suitably armed with my old floaters and a black umbrella.

It turned out to be a horribly rude nudge into reality.

I have stayed off Indiranagar 100 Feet Road since I came to Bangalore more than three years ago. I still remember falling in love with this stretch of concrete as I was driven down it in a rickety auto rickshaw on my way to inspect my second house. The vast expanse of the road, the wide cobbled pavements straight out of a European town, the gracious houses deferentially sitting behind the majestic trees that formed a leafy arch across the width of the road, the red jacarandas in full bloom - I was reminded of a story of an enchanted grove that I had read as a kid. I confess that the road played a big part in my saying yes to the house, and continuing to stay in its vicinity since then.

But the slow rotting of this beautiful city has predictably not failed to escape 100 Feet Road. Many of the houses have been sold off and converted into shops and restaurants, leading to drastic cutting of the graceful old trees that once lind its banks. The beautiful stone pavements – once one of the widest in the city – have also been dug up and destroyed due to the construction and a stated intention to widen the road (which, of course, has not been followed up with any action). The road itself is in a pitiable condition – potholed at several places, overloaded with vehicles and noise and people, deprived of the many hued flowers that lent to it a unique calm and serenity. Destroyed by a hungry marauder who, unable to understand or appreciate the beauty of a beautiful Van Gogh, viciously slashes and rips it apart.

And so a walk that started with pleasurable anticipation turned into an incessant dodging of slush on the pavements and navigating between angry traffic at places where there was no pavement. Within five minutes, I was forced onto one of the more peaceful by-lanes (relatively speaking) to escape the vicious anger of this once beautiful road.

They paved paradise, and put up a lot of shops.

Blackout

Come, let us go our own way, without remembrance of what passed and could have passed between us. Let us meet as were to perchance meet two strangers, without recognition or recollection, devoid of memory and possibility.

Friday, January 04, 2008

The Sound of Patterns

An old unpublished post (is that an oxmoron?) - Aug 2006

A few days ago, I attended a formal office conclave to celebrate the inauguration of our new facility in Costa Rica. It was an elegant affair – about twenty of us from the office, and after a brief speech by the Costa Rican President (the guest of honor), we were shepherded into the cafeteria-turned-into-ball-room for champagne and light snacks. I noticed a pair of musicians at one end of the room, and immediately headed for that corner.

Throughout the two hour affair, which saw a score men, and a few women, all dressed in somber black and grey, network and talk shop, the man on the guitar and the lady on the flute plucked their melodies – oblivious to their audience, their bodies gently swaying with the music like soft waves – now the flautist would smile and challenge the man with a melody, now the guitarist would respond admirably and throw back the gauntlet.

What I liked best about the pair was not the music they played, but they way they played the music. Although they had been called upon to perform for an audience (albeit an indifferent one in this case), the music that they played was first for themselves – for them to create and them to savor. The artiste’s enjoyment was primary; making the audience happy was secondary.

And I think that is how any beautiful creation should be – a pure, confident and forthright expression of your heart, unencumbered by doubts and disbelief….not targeted towards the lowest or the largest common denominator, but created solely for the pleasure of creation. Like Howard Roark’s architecture in Fountainhead.

Later in the evening, the guitarist’s place was taken by a lady with a harp! I have never seen a harp before – it looks like something you would weave pretty patterns with. Come to think of it, that’s what music does too – except that you need to hear the patterns.