I have a dream...

...of meeting this SUPER DUPER rich man. Who doesnt stink. Who's reasonably nice and funny. Who likes travel and adventure, sometimes. And maybe, just maybe, he digs something more than Jeffery Archer or Sydney Sheldon. Dare I dream that he knows who Vikram Seth or Pablo Neruda is? No, I'm getting beyond myself now.

So, he's reasonably nice & funny. and VERRY rich. That's all.

He likes me. and I like him.

We get married (ok, Im not too particular about getting married, as long as I have legal rights over his money!)

I wake up every morning and make orange juice for him. no added sugar.

We go jogging in the park (I can just about manage 7 am, though 8 would be much nicer, thank you).

We both have happy, fulfilled lives. He's busy amassing his riches. I'm busy blowing them up on big rocks of diamonds, little black dresses and pointy red shoes. Just to keep HIM on his toes, you see.

We give each other space. Over the years, he falls for my best friend. And i fall for his brother.

But, this too shall pass.

And we live happily ever after....

Dear Roger

Dear Roger,

I should have paid heed to the age old wisdom of watching my words when I expressed sympathy with Rafa after the French Open final. I thought he was content being the greatest Number Two in the history of the game. I suppose you thought so too.

Looking back, the warning bells rang in the 07 Wimbledon final, when he took you to five sets. Granted, the courts at Wimby are getting slower (I am told this is a deliberate tactic – slower courts mean more long rallies and hence, hopefully, more interest in tennis – no one is talking about the quality of play of course), but let’s also admit that we under-estimated Rafa by assuming he was happy with the tag of clay court specialist, shall we?

After the disappointment at Melbourne and the humiliation at Roland Garros (forgive me, but I still cannot erase the memory of the final set), I was looking forward to redemption at SW 19 . When you lost those first two sets, I was ready to flee to the Swiss Alps. As the third set started, one thought played repeatedly in my mind – Oh God, please don’t let him lose in straight sets, please God, pleeeeeease.

Luckily, God heard our collective pleas, and you drew upon your deepest reserves to fight off the challenger. Your scorching backhand pass when Rafa held match point in the fourth set will remain a part of “Federer Magic Moments” tales to my grandkids. When you pushed the match into the fifth, I was screaming with joy – the Emperor was not going to cede his crown easily, and I was already celebrating a record-breaking sixth.

Oh what a heart breaker the last set was. Just as you seized the momentum after the first rain break, the pendulum appeared to shift towards Rafa after the second rain interruption. I suppose you were taken by surprise too – for who before this gutsy Mallorcan had dared to battle so long and so hard against The Great One, and that too at your spiritual home?
But we consoled ourselves – perhaps it was fair to the prince, given how well he had fought these two years. Did you sense then that the luck was turning away from you? I have to admit that I did not.

Things just seemed to get worse from there, didn’t they. Suddenly you were losing to the likes of a much improved Andy Murray and Giles–who-Simon. The very people who had idolized you now called for your head – he’s lost the fire, he should just retire graciously while he’s on a high. Comparisons with Bjorg were ominously invoked. I’m sure you laughed at their folly – forgive them for they know not about perfection. Yes Roger, Ed Smith was bang on when he said that your motivation is mastery, not competition. Unfortunately, this may just turn out to be your greatest liability against Rafa.

It could have been so easy for you to give up. I have often wondered – What does a gymnast do when she realizes one morning that her body no longer bides her command; what does the marathoner do when his feet do not obey his exhortations to run FASTER, FASTER! ? The fire is still there, but the midas touch is cruelly snatched away. The Gods had blessed you, but suddenly, just before the coronation, they decided to look the other way.

But then, these are the obstacles that separate the boys from the men, ain’t it? And forgive us silly mortals Roger – but we love triumph in the face of adversity. And for the greatest glory, well, a few tumbles, a couple of injuries, a near-death experience – that makes the tale so much more entertaining. If you win it all too easily, like you did, we are a bit disappointed (and jealous). We attribute it to good luck, choosing to ignore the extraordinary effort that you had put in over the years to hone your phenomenal talent. But throw in a slice of bad luck, a run of losses, and we’re back to loving you again – “what an extraordinary talent – he should have got to 20 Grand Slams by now, had it not been for ….” – we say with misty eyes.

So you valiantly fought on. And you celebrated the small victories when the big ones eluded you – the Olympics Doubles being a case in point. You still didn’t look your old self – the magical feet seemed be a trifle slower, the precision reflexes just a wee bit off target – but you persevered. Fittingly, you got your reward when you annihilated Djoker & Murray to win a record fifth US Open.

I was more relieved than delighted – The Great One was back. So were you. 2009, and a record equaling 14th Grand Slam title, beckoned.

Let us not talk about the Australian Open final, shall we? Let us not talk about faith misplaced, about the ogre in your head, about being faced with your mortality. But, dear Roger, the facts are these:

- I know you want to reclaim your Number One ranking, but it is going to be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible – not with Rafa’s current form and Murray, Djoker and the young set breathing down your neck.

- You are 27, five years more than Rafa and the Young Brigade. In a sport that gets younger each year, you are a veteran (albeit a much loved and much revered one)

- Undoubtedly, you are the most inventive player in the history of the game. But the Rafa Cavalry can read your game, and if they can’t match you on talent and beauty, they CAN blunt you with raw power. More importantly, they are not in awe of The Great Federer – they step on court to beat you, not to give you a good fight.

- You CAN still win many more Grand Slams, including the French Open (though I do not see you beating Rafa to win it – and it kills me to admit this!). You are physically fit, have looked in much better touch in 09 than the whole of 08, and you still have the fire and desire for ascendancy.

But – there is no doubt that Rafa has improved his game much more over the last two years than you have. True, your game is almost perfect, and your biggest strength has always been that you have no apparent weakness – but the Mallorcan draws out the devil in you, doesn’t he? Over the last year, you have looked uncertain against him – both in your tactics and your execution. Should you try and bring him more to the net? Maybe, but certainly not at the French Open. Should you try and outlast him from the baseline? But you like finishing your games quickly – so you usually run out of patience much before he does. As a result, you have failed to capitalize on precious opportunities and repeatedly allowed him to wrest the game away from you. In short, you have let him do to you what you have done to numerous other worthy players over a career of breathtaking brilliance.

So is there no solution to the Rafa conundrum? Of course there is. But acknowledging that there is a problem is the first step towards addressing it. And I get the feeling right now that you are simply not willing to admit that, possibly for the first time in your life, you are faced with a challenge that you cannot unravel on your own (or with the help of the former Swiss Women’s No 1).

So, why not forget the No 1, why not focus on the Grand Slams, and get some help while you’re at it? Why not get a good coach that you can stick with for a while? Why not visit a shrink who can help bury the demons? (Many years ago, you and Marat Safin had two things in common – prodigious talent and a volatile temper. You sought professional help at the start of your career – and look where you are now compared with the equally talented Russian). And why not borrow a lesson or two from your opponents, especially the one that reads “Don’t give up”?

There is nothing any tennis lover wants more than to watch you play, if possible for ever. And we would much rather see you surprise the challengers with your beauty and guile than hear your views on the WTA rankings. Bring back the belief, the glory will follow.

No Country for Western Wear

Amongst the many attractions of Bangalore when I first landed here five years ago was the security and freedom it offered to young, single women like me. This was especially true of Indiranagar, my adopted neighbourhood in the city. I could drive back from work at 3 or 4 in the morning, every day. I could walk back home after dinner at 10 pm, 11 pm or midnight. I could stop to rescue a puppy at 1 in the morning while driving the wrong way up a one way road. I did not have to think twice before booking the 10 pm movie show (heck, this has become my preferred movie show now!). I could hop into an auto at 11 pm, and be assured of safe delivery. All while wearing jeans (or a skirt) and a t-shirt. Unlike in Delhi, I was not constantly worrying about my safety - no longer did my environment remind me that I was vulnerable.

For the last four days, as I drive back from work, from the late night movie or from a late dinner at a friend's house, I seem to notice many more clumps of men hanging around street corners. Each time I see such a group, I clutch the steering tighter and reach our for my cell phone. If Im walking, I look downwards and quicken my pace. Will they think my jeans are too tight, my t-shirt too short? Or that my dress is inappropriate, unsuitable to Indian culture? Will they heckle me and humiliate me for forgetting my roots and values, even as a vast hoarde of my countrymen will speed past, ignoring my predicament, glad that their wives and daughters and sisters are safely at home?

And then we snigger at Pakistan ceding ground to the Taliban in Swat valley.

Here comes the spring again

The sky is a brilliant blue, reflecting the color named so aptly after it, watching indulgently as the clouds play their quiet but violent tug of war.

The trees are proudly flaunting their newly acquired coat of shimmering green leaves, gently swaying to the music of the wind.

The African tulips have disappeared. The rich-red flowers of the Gulmohar are being roused from their sleep, yawning as they prepare for their glorious profusion all over the country. Already, the jacaranda is stretching its lavender wings towards the sky.

Here comes the spring again.

The Friends Scavengers

I can choose my friends no longer.

In many ways, FB is a blessing. I am connected to most of my Masters batchmates and seniors & juniors, thanks to which I know how old their kids are, the international vacations they took, the re-unions they had with their families, what they thought of the latest flick in town, whether they think Rafa owns Fed, ....... and vice-versa. I've also reconnected with zillions of school friends on FB - almost all of who I had lost touch with, thanks to the lets-pretend-school-never-happened phase that all of us go through (I have been in regular touch with precisely four friends from school over the years - and this is a much better number than most!).

But what do I do when a random colleague from work (as opposed to a work-friend) sends me a request on FB? Or when the guy I've just been introduced to over lunch wants to be friends on FB (and leaves a comment on my pictures just 5 minutes after I accept his virtual hand of friendship - I shuda followed my instinct to ignore his request!). Can I be friends with my ex-ed on FB while not being friends with them in 'real' life? And how do I react when someone from my team wants to be my friend on FB? Just stay away from the website, I guess.

Not surprisingly perhaps, this is not just limited to personal networking sites. At work, I have been occasionally pursued for 'friendship' by co-workers who I have bumped into at a cafe or a restaurant, or who have 'discovered' my profile on the intranet. These un-gentlemen then make it a habit of pinging me every day, refuse to catch subtle and not so subtle hints to bugger off, till I have to finally tell them in no uncertain terms to clear off or else...

Time was when we were choosy about who could be called a friend, a close friend or a best friend. Friendships would be forged over shared moments of laughter, madness, tears, bitching, pranks, music, books, nite-outs and drunken driving. A friend was not the cheap commodity it has turned into today. Good friendships were hewn over years, often over decades (I just realized that K, S, A & I have known each other for two years short of two decades, whoa!).

Have we turned into such a lonely people that our social quotient is measured by the size of our 'friends network' on FB or Twitter?

Just another day

Chopin. Polonaise. Mazurka. Etude. Prelude. Waltz. the Funeral March. And the Fantaisie Impromptu.

Eliot. Love songs. Lost city. The yellow fog that curled once more about the house. Souls etherized against the sky. Measuring life with coffee spoons. Coversations that slip between velleities & carefully caught regrets, attenuated tones of violins mingled with remote cornets. Lilacs. Hyacinths. The drinking of tea. Preludes. A heap of broken images, fear in a handful of dust. HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME. Tirisuis. The third who always walks beside you. Hypocrite lecteur. Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata.

A rocking chair.

Neruda. I can sing the saddest lines tonight. Isla Negra. Slowly dies who. Something of yesterday clings to today. The spans of cements, two breasts, two abysses...held by the concrete calligraphy that writes on the page of the river.

Seth, too. All you who sleep tonight. The Room & the Street. A kind of loving. Unstated intentions. Plums. Red suitcases. A helve of dares, a loaf of shoulds. Sit, drink your coffee. Chinese sunsets. Perhaps, this could have stayed unstated...

And maybe, just maybe, The Who. Run, run, run. A quick one.

A touch of spring.

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn

My dear X:

Thank you for wanting to wish me on my birthday. And for wishing me on new year's. And telling me about your vacation plans. And your reading list. And the name of your poodle.

And the name of your wife. And the link to her blog.

What exactly were you thinking? Was it a case of one upmanship, a so-what-if-you-write-so-does-she and look-what-a-kool-wife-I-got? If that's the case, good for both of you, says moi.

But if I know you (and I could be horribly mistaken here), this wasn't about scoring a point. So what, then? Possibly it was just a polite bringing-two-bloggers-together. But did you really think that I would visit the link, read her posts, drop her a note about her Wodehouse-ish wit or Kafka-esque insights? And she would reply in kind, one of us would invite the other for coffee, and we would soon become bossom buddies who would exchange notes on a myriad topics ranging from the best way to make prawn curry to how you are in bed? And we would all live happily ever after.

Of course. Except that you forgot to pay heed to Ms Parker's wise words : Shoot if you must, but hold in view; Women and elephants never forget.

Through the looking glass

I started blogging towards the end of 2005 at what seemed, at that point at least, to be a particularly low time in my life (yes, some clichés are true, all it takes is pressure and time to forget, if not forgive). Till then, my pet strategy when faced with such difficult situations had been to run away to a new place - and it had always worked. This time, however, I was faced with a dilemma – I liked Bangalore and did not want to abandon it. More importantly, I did not want to run away.

So I dropped anchor. But shorn of my usual armor, I needed diversions to cope. A friend suggested blogging. What will I write about? I wondered aloud. It comes on its own, you’ll find it therapeutic, he reassured me.

Short on options, I decided to give it a shot. I certainly did not believe I would last beyond a few posts, much less that I would have a little less than a hundred posts over three erratic years of blogging (yes, I am trumpeting my perseverance ;-). So I am tempted to indulge myself by reflecting on the years since my first declaration that “2005 will go down as the year of losing faith for me”.

2006 was the year of renewal. The unexpected shock – learning to cope with its presence; constantly preparing ourselves for the worst; desperately, desperately hoping for a miracle each time we met a doctor; the relief and joy at survival… it challenged how we would function as a family, and in doing so changed our lives and each one of us in incontrovertible ways. Looking back, I realize that it also provided me with a much needed ‘new battle to fight’ - something that occupied my energies so completely that I had neither opportunity nor inclination to dwell upon the past. The disappointments of the previous year appeared insignificant, even ridiculous, compared with what we were facing now. And so overcoming the disease also came to represent a symbolic victory of sorts…as S rightly remarked, this was the year I found myself.

2007 was certainly the year of celebration. I was so exhausted with the stress – both physical and mental – of the previous year that I just wanted to go out and celebrate life. I had never come this close to mortality – and while it made me not afraid to die, it also made me happy to be alive. So we did numerous places in and around Bangalore and of course – Kanha, London, Normandy, Belgium, Amsterdam, Thailand & Singapore. Most certainly the year of travel.

Which brings me to 2008. A tough cookie, this one – for I still can’t figure out what 2008 was about. Singapore, Costa Rica, Coorg, Tranquebar & Shekhawati notwithstanding, this certainly wasn’t the year of travel - I’m extremely disappointed at not having traveled to a new country this year, the first time this has happened in six years! No life changing love, and so no losing of faith; no insurmountable obstacles, and so no major triumphs to be proud of. Yes, there were some challenges on the home front, but I guess I’m getting used to them now. I hate to admit it, but it was a year that was possibly more interesting on the professional front than on the personal one. It was a year of driftwood…a very ordinary year.

Hasta la vista, baby!

One of the craziest weekends I’ve had in a while – here’s remembering a wonderful November weekend!

Friday evening : Rock Nights at Opus, did the place groove !!! I was completely bowled over by the guy who rendered ‘What’s Going On’ and the lovely guitar riffs by the Kunal Kapoor lookalike. Had a fantastic, rocking time after ages !!!

Friday Midnight – Saturday Night : Driving, Driving, Driving !!! A few watered-down drinks ( I had a Caipirinha-cousin and two Margarita’s, D some beer and gin/vodka tonic) + totally groovy rock music + another weekend stretching ahead + two nutty people who love driving = INSANITY. On an impulse, close to midnight on Friday, we decided to drive 400 km to Jog Falls. Why Jog Falls? I have no clue – but I do know I would have agreed to drive to Kandahar if you had asked me!

800 kilometres of driving across twenty hours, endless cups of sweet coffee, the hunt for clean loo’s, idli-vada for breakfast, dhaaba made dal-roti-egg bhurji (my favorite road meal!), Kurkere, Bingo, the same tape playing repeatedly for hours, random conversations (how else would you describe talk about cuff-links!), the stupendous stretch between Sagar & Shimoga, the non-existent roads in many stretches (will the Karnataka government pleeeease wake up – I don’t mind paying more than 23 rupees for real roads!). A looong drive, that too unplanned, with someone with whom there is no memory of the past and no possibility of a future – this was just what I needed to beat the blues !

Sunday – Surprisingly, I am up at 9 despite not having slept the night before! Rush to Giri’s house warming ceremony – the drive to Bannerghetta National Park (well, almost) should only be undertaken on a Sunday morning! Rush back to Chinnaswamy for the India-England ODI. We lead the series 3-0, so I am secretly hoping for an English win to keep the series alive.

We reach the stadium around noon. Get our faces painted, buy the tiranga jhanda and troop along to our stand, FURIOUS to discover that the one-hour queuing up and the considerable ticket price has got us a seat behind the camera crew, cutting off the view of the pitch completely ! Luckily, this is Bangalore, the organizers are helpful and we are two abla naari’s – so there is some adjust maadi and we get some vintage seats at the corner of the stands.

Chinnaswamy is a wonderful stadium to watch a cricket match in. The grass is a freshly painted green, and since the grounds are not very large, you get a fantastic view of all the action. Of course, the buzz at a cricket match in the subcontinent is a must-have experience – even Ravi Shastri draws big applause (certainly much more than his ignominious World Cup days!)

The weather looks dubious – there are a few raindrops occasionally, followed by a hint of sunlight playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. Fingers crossed.

We are delighted when KP puts India in to bat, and Sehwag sets the pace with a cracking boundary on the first ball! He has to be seen to be believed – standing nonchalantly with his bat slung over his shoulder (almost like he is at a dhobi-ghaat) and then plundering the ball in all directions. Annihilation at its finest. Sachin joins in the fun at the expense of Broad, but looks tentative thereafter.

The first showers arrive unexpectedly, but in full force. I don’t mind it too much – after all, this is part of the fun! We take cover in the hall behind the stand (I’m sure the coffee man is sick of me by now – if the organizers discontinue with the practice of free ‘High Tea’, I am partly to blame). The downpour gets heavier, and we are suddenly faced with the depressing prospect that there may not be any further play!

Luckily, the Bangalore showers are true to form, and depart as unexpectedly as they made their first appearance. We rush back to our seats to catch 30 minutes of the supersoakers in action – I must say I am mighty impressed with their performance in soaking up the water! Broad runs in to resume the proceedings, and there is a stunned silence when Sachin is dismissed in the fourth ball of the over. However, Gambhir continues the party by flicking the first ball he faces for a four.

The run making feast continues, much to our delight, but the clouds want to join in the fun. A light drizzle soon turns into a torrent. It appears highly unlikely that the match will resume. Just 11 goddamn overs – this is worse than a T20! We decide to drown our sorrows by indulging in a sumptuous dinner at the Only Place. Our painted faces attract the attention of the oh-so-good looking owner – there is some compensation for having missed the cricketing fireworks after all! Hot soup, some delicious fish and lots of creamy pasta – with deep sighs for you-know-who - do their bit to revive our spirits. As we get into the car, D sms-es saying match is likely to resume. We decide to ‘chake a tance’ and head to Barista to kill some time – we’ve just ordered when D calls to say match will resume in 10 mins – hurray! Coffee in hands, we rush back to Chinnaswamy – complimenting ourselves on our brilliant foresight of dining close by : -) Our seats have been occupied by the stadium guards and there are more officials than spectators in the stands, but who cares! The English batsmen do not disappoint – they display admirable efficiency and commitment in making a complete hash of a simple job. When KP walks in, P & I just can’t resist cheering for him – what a hunk of a man! Both of us are secretly hoping for a long innings from him – but our man disappoints and is out before we can say hello. Bluhdy. The old saga continues, England continues to lose wickets regularly and do a great job of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. It is midnight, I wave goodbye to the camera crew. My fantastic weekend has come to an end - look forward to many more!

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.

"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!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!