LIARS ROLL OF (DIS)HONOUR

In the world, Darwin and others would have us believe (and there is evidence to be found everywhere), there is survival of the fittest. Liars must be very fit indeed because their tribe or breed appears to be flourishing. Like cockroaches (who can get out of the fridge and go straight onto the cooking gas stove) liars too appear to be everywhere; surviving and thriving.

There is, like a reality show on the television, great tussle to win the top spot. Two of the breed vying for the Numero Uno position are the politicians and the lawyers. Opinions are divided who gets to win; both lie through their teeth, both have thick skins, both have short memories, and both do it with others' money. But, the fact that many lawyers strive to become politicians puts the latter in winning position. Lawyers can only befool some of the people some of the times; but, politicians can befool all the people all the times. They are in a league by themselves. On another score too the politicians win; which is that lawyers do have to study and acquire a bit of knowledge to become lawyers, whereas, you can start lying your way to becoming a politician without any qualification. Ignorance of the politicians is a bliss; but, if the general public can be perpetually kept ignorant, it is even greater bliss for them.

I think there is no doubt about the third spot: the babus in govenment offices who tell you that your file has received the highest attention and your case, hence, is about to be decided. These worthy gentlemen and ladies are the most versatile excuse makers. One cartoon showed someone walking into a government office and asking a babu, "No one seems to take any responsibility here. Why doesn't anyone feel accountable?" The reply given was, "Don't ask me; ask someone who should know." 

The fourth spot in our compilation of list of liars should go to the film stars. They are masters (as also mistresses) of the game. From big lies about how much they liked the acting prowess of, say, fellow actresses, to small lies about current boy or girl friend, they bring more elan to their lies than to their acting. Their lies often are at the verge of bitchiness; you can't make out one from the other.

The fifth on the list must surely be women literally taking years to answer a simple query related to their age. Some of them confront you with their interpretation that instead of lying they are merely consistent for the last ten years or so by maintaining the same age. These are the only species who goad their gadgets too to lie; for example, their weighing machines and the mirror on the wall.

At the sixth rung are, without too much ado, husbands coming home late. "Darling, in all this sweltering heat, I was getting dehyderated and they rushed me to the nearest clinic (bar). They have a long drawn out treatment (you bet!). Today, they have just given me the first part of the course but, in my own interest, I have to take the full course for the next one year (after which I can surely come up with some other plausible excuse) to get out of this terrible congenital (my father too was good at making excuses!) problem." Don't beleive me? Well, how can you forget about the man who went to the bar and kept ordering double-martinis. His excuse: his wife had sent him to buy olives!

The seventh spot surely must go to the members upper middle class filling up income tax returns. These are, by the way, the rare breed that tells lies in writing. If all or even some of their lies are to be believed, the IT Department should be actually giving them money so that they can survive!

At the eighth notch should be the weather men. I am putting them so low in hierarchy because I actually feel for them. Weather and Women both start with the letter W and can be unpredictable for men. Hence, these are the only gentlemen caught without umbrellas in driving rain after predicting 'clear and sunny skies'. They are also in so pitiable a situation that no one believes their truths, let alone their lies.

At the ninth spot are our media personnel. Their style of telling lies is to tell half truths or to ignore any news that does not fit with the findings of the analysis they are presenting. They are often honoured for their efforts at such lies as investigative journalism.

The tenth spot is consistently maintained by the statistics department of the planning commission. These worthy men and women juggle figures that affect lives of the people, eg, people Below Povert Lines (BPL). I have put them so low in hierarchy because left to themselves they cannot do much damage; but, in collusion with politicians at the Number One spot, much harm can be done and is being done.

Why have I left out Investigators or those in fact-finding commissions? Surely they must be fairly high in the hierarchy. Once again, the reason is that I have made (dis)honour roll of what I feel are independent liars or those who have free-will to do so. Inquirers and Investigators are merely paid authors writing their stories at the dictates of the politicians in power.

You think it is bad? Have a rethink because in a neighbouring country easily the first ten spots are occupied by the government itself starting from the academic qualification of its (un)worthy members to habitual lies about not having sufficient proof about their country's involvement in terror attacks in India. They even lied about a certain Kasab and other terrorists not being from their country even when all evidence stared them in the face. Lying comes so easily to them that when they say, "We won't take things lying down" they actually mean quite different from what is ordinarily understood.

So, readers, mine is just an Indian national list. Internationally our neighbouring country is so far ahead in the art of lying that we are mere rookies, all of us.

Should the readers have their own lists or rolls please share with us in the 'Comments' below.

LOVE AND FENCING

She loved him. He loved her. There was a thick white line between their ends of the court. The match started.

First, she held her breath, extended her arm and muttering ""Love, love, love.." went charging into his side of the court. If only she could touch him and return across the thick white line.

He looked at her. She had love in her eyes, on her breath. But, why did she want to score a point? Anyway, he tried to grab and keep her on his side but she was elusive. Finally, she was getting out of breath and she went across the line.

Now, it was his turn. He too held his breath and ventured into her territory whilst muttering "Love, love, love..." This time she tried to grab him and keep him permanently on her side. Once or twice he was very close to touching her and changing her forever but whilst she wanted love she did not want to be changed. She detested any change because it appeared to her as encroachment on her independence.

This continued for sometime; both having love on their lips but both wanting to score points and return across the line. At one point she touched him and he actually grabbed her but she dragged him all the way back to the line and scored a point. He was at a disadvantage even when he grabbed her. He looked into her eyes and forgot all about the game.

After this, everytime she ventured into his territory, she was quick to realise and exploit the advantage it gave her to make him look in her eyes and then score points. She thus raced to nearly the end of the game (match point) whilst he was still at Love.

Finally, she won, or so she thought. She returned to her side. On the sidelines her fans were there cheering her up; some of them even so bold as to lift her up and display her as a prize.

He just watched and kept standing there. He was still standing when she went away with her complete fan club, cheerers and followers.

He was still standing there when it rained. Slowly, there was no thick white line, nor the court, and no signs of the Love Game.

"Love, love, love, love..." he kept muttering, barely audible now....

The last breath was taking longer than he'd expected.

INSTANTLY

If this appears deceptively similar to Cliff Richard's famous number 'Constantly', the similarity stops there. No one has the time these days to do anything constantly let alone to walk in a dream and think about one's love. These days the world moves 'instantly'. No one has time to deliberately do anything or deliberate over things.

At one time we used to hear a song over the Short Wave radio and then hope to hear it again over the next few months. In order to remember the lyrics we would sit with a paper and pencil when the Geetmala would be broadcast again and, if there would be no disturbance on the shortwave, we would be able to fast write the lyrics, or, most of those. Nowadays, we download any number from the You tube and not only hear it but also see its video; and, have its lyrics before us instantly.

Take the case of photographs. Even though it is obvious, let me say it. Earlier we used to take pictures of the family during the holidays or engaged in diverse activities. We used to get them printed and stick them in the family album and then invite unsuspecting guests at home; and sort of lead them into viewing our album. They were forced to show interest whilst waiting for the dessert to be served (No one ever took the risk of showing those pictures after the dessert). But nowadays, we put them up on facebook even when the event is going on and enjoy the attention. The plus point is that we don't get to see the yawns and the furtive glances at the watch.

Remember how we used to cringe when visiting a friend's house and the couple insisting that we must see merit in their son Gaurav performing as Gabbar of Sholay with a dacoit's belt loosely hanging from his shoulder. Now we go through the videos in our own time. We don't have to match our comment, "How cute Gaurav looks!" with our own (disgusted) looks. In addition, we can instantly subject the sender to some return torture (like return gifts on birthdays) of seeing our own son Vivek doing the rendition of Michael Jackson's moonwalk.

Television too projects pictures and news for us instantly. Gone are the days when a politician's denial of his involvement in corruption would be read after a week. Nowadays, thanks mostly to his media-managers, his denial appears instantly whilst the scam is being aired. Do you remember when Pramod Mahajan was shot? When he was battling with life, the media used to instantly show details of his innards, knowing well that most of us are genuinely interested in the inner news.

At one time we used to deliberate over national and international issues and then form our views and much later express these. Nowadays, Twiiter has made sure that important views of such leading personalities as those who specialise in having views on everything under the sun are instantly available. It is another thing that we had never known that these worthies had any views on anything until then; but, then, a view is a view. Everyone, from Obama to O' mama, is reduced to 140 characters.

Earlier, we would get news from the battle front days later. Nowadays, the scenes of the battle are instantly flashed before us even as the first shots are fired. Many so called war-correspondents vie with one another in reaching news to us before the bullets hit the targets.

Thankfully, in all this intantaneity there are two things that still move at leisurely pace and we are sure never going to change. One is something called a 'File' in government offices. Its movement is exactly at the same pace as, say, in 1949. From noting number 1 to 478, all aspects of the case are deliberated upon at great length. Some of these notes are tagged Immediate, Most Immediate, Urgent etc but there is never any undue hurry. Five years later, the File, knowing that in the fable of the Hare and the Tortoise, it is the latter that wins, crawls even slower than the tortoise.

The second is the Indian judicial system. A fast moving case is often the one, which has advanced from being posted to its fifth hearing in about five years time.

In most other things everything is instantly done. For example, it used to take many years from love at first sight, to marriage, to children, to divorce. Nowadays, before you can switch channels on a television the divorce is through and the guy, having been instantly free again, is enjoying honeymoon with the second wife in Pattaya.

What about instant fame? Have you forgotten Prince? He became instantly famous and rich by the sheer bad luck of falling in a 40 feet open hole; the exact opposite of golfing term, that is, one-in-hole.

Many of us, however, still miss the slow pace at which things used to move. There were no ATMs, no cell phones to instantly connect to people, ODIs and T 20s. There were no prizes for reading books fast or pressing the button in fastest finger first.

Oh, how we miss those slow moving days? "Dil dhoondta hai fursat ke chaar din..." (Heart searches for those leisurely days).

Alas, no more.

IF YOU DRIVE IN INDIA - PART II

This article has my tweets on the thread #ifudriveinindia (Part I was published in Jul 10). Comedy and humour apart, more people die of road accidents in India than in any other country in the world. It is because of our peculiar driving habits. One of the old Hindi movies had this song: “Zindagi ik safar hai suhana, yahan kal kya ho kisne jana?” (Life is a pleasant journey; but, no one knows what will happen tomorrow). Well, whilst driving in India you have no idea of what will happen the next moment. Read on; these tweets may be of some use to foreigners desirous of driving in India or even Indians not yet totally initiated.

If you drive in India: 

• You would learn the virtues of patience as you go along; it is not important to reach anywhere!
• You would become a very spritual person at the end of your journey!
• And the road sign gives you a number to call for assistance it would always be engaged.
• And carry a map for directions it is false security since many roads and their names would have changed since publication.
• On a long journey you would need to know different languages to read road signs in different states. 
• You should be prepared for the entire traffic to be diverted, even on a highway, for a VIP to cross. 
• And stop to ask directions don't go by the person's words; look at his gestures; try to match them together. 
• Remember that brake, accelerator, indicator lights, clutch etc are not as important as the horn. 
• And are thinking of enjoying your journey, you have not been reading my tweets! 
• You should have a volley of choicest abuses ready to hurl at the other driver who rams into you and starts doing the same. 
• You should be prepared for vehicles overtaking you from both sides on a single or double lane highway! 
• And find that the main road or highway has suddenly landed into a river or canal, just enjoy the scenery and......pray! 
• You have to compete with such traffic as vehicles, carts, animals, people, processions, statues and hoardings on all roads. 
• Do not be taken aback by seeing about 300 people riding in a 45 seater bus; many will be on the roof top. 
• And get the impression that drivers all around you are trying to kill you, it is not a hallucination; they are if you are not careful. 
• And are totally hassled, there is nothing new because all around you there are totally hassled drivers. 
• Remember that Indians don’t respect road medians and don’t mind risking lives by coming on the wrong side to save 1/2 litre fuel. 
• Be prepared for perpetual work going on the roads. 
• Remember we got our freedom on 15 Aug 1947 and we haven't stopped celebrating this freedom on roads to do anything and everything! 
• And have to overtake a roadways bus you can only do so when the driver is not looking your way. 
• You have to drive very carefully all the time as danger lurks where you would least expect it. 
• And there is only one other vehicle with you on the highway you should never take your eyes of it; else it would surprise you. 
• You must realise that roads are environmentally friendly and kept close to original state of being rivulet, field, ditch or forest. 
• And reach home without dents on car, personal injury, and bruised ego, you have performed a miracle. 
• Remember that upon overtaking you a vehicle will immediately be turning left; it just couldn't wait to do it after you cross. 
• You will realise you have very little chance of keeping yourself from becoming mad. 
• You will realise that there is ALWAYS work going on the roads especially on your lane or your side of the road. 
• Remember that you will feel safest in a road-roller even if you don’t go anywhere far; in any case in India you should not go too far. 
• Remember that on Indian roads it is the survival of the fittest, nay, biggest: truck has right of way over car, car over scooter and so on. 
• The commonest expression that you will hear is, "Yeh sadak tere baap ki hai kya?" (does this road belong to your father?) 
• And give dirty look to a driver who has done something wrong you are in for trouble. In India everybody is someone big especially in politics. 
• And park your car in a parking place and go to restaurant or movie; it is as safe as a virgin girl in a colony of rapists. 
• And get out of crowded city and heave sigh of relief you will realise that your relief is short lived. In India two is a crowd. 
• And stop to let pedestrians cross, everyone around you will honk to show their displeasure at you for delaying them. 
• You should remember that hardly anybody cares about lanes; people drive with the lane marking line between the two tyres. 
• And start going through a One Way Street; it does not mean traffic will not come at you from opposite direction.

IN THE WAR ZONE

No, this is not a review of the play by this name of my favourite playwright Eugene O'Neil. This has got much limited scope: the War Zone called Sector 20, Kharghar in Navi Mumbai. If you had similar war zones in your own neighbourhood during Diwali, I can only add a disclaimer, as is found before movies and books: ‘The resemblance is purely coincidental’.

Everyone’s been warning us that the Maoists are eyeing urban landscape for expanding their war against the state and its citizens. Little did we know that this war would come to us from unexpected quarters: revellers trying to celebrate a certain Ram having returned home safely. My take is that he was lucky he was exiled to the forests; if he was to be exiled to Sector 20, Kharghar, returning safe would have been a tougher challenge.

Initially, during the day, it started with sporadic firing of small arms but enough to make our dog Roger cringe and look for shelter. But soon the calibre of the weapons used increased in inverse proportion to the calibre of the users. By night, unguided missiles, heavy artillery, rockets and grenades had been brought out. The scenes of blood curdling warfare with unintelligible screams of “get them”, “bachne na paaye” (don’t let them get away), “aaj nahin chhodenge” (tonight we shall not leave them) filled the air. Soon, no place was safe for the enemy.

 

In a distant place called Guantanamo, American investigators used to disorient their prisoners by constant loud noises; so that finally the terrorists would own up their guilt or collusion. But, the kind of torture, Sector 20, Kharghar, subjected its inhabitants to would have put any Guantanamo to shame.

The technological excellence of the raids left us gaping. Like Iraq war, first the targets were softened by continuous aerial bombardment. Tracers were used to illuminate the targets and then it was tchak tchak tchak boom boom boom blast. The enemy could not be seen but must have been running for life. Flushing out operations were the hardest; boom, boom, tchak, bang, wroom.

Just as we thought there was a let up,the door to door fighting resumed with renewed zeal. Sounds of determined explosions continued the whole night. We were in our homes like people cowering in nuclear bunkers, expecting the worst.

At one stage, I ventured out like an intrepid war – journalist and tapped a combatant as young as 14 years old who was about to light up the fuse of serial bombs of a few hundred kilo-tons and asked him, “Beta yeh aap Ramji ke liye kar rahe ho?” (son, are you doing it for Lord Ram?) His reply was muffed in the blast of the explosions but I could understand the essential part of it: He was doing it for fellow combatant Ujjawal, who had taken a break to replenish ammunition from the nearest store.

 

Another one told me that life depended upon subjecting the enemy to continuous firepower; something similar to Basanti in Sholay: “Ab nacho; jab tak tere paer challenge, tere aashiq ki saans chalegi” (Now dance; as long as your feet run, so will the breath of life of your lover).

To give credit to these warriors, their devotion to duty was so complete that they continued relentlessly the whole night. Basanti would have given up long ago.

In the morning we were gratified to get the news that Sector 20 Kharghar had emerged the winner in urban guerrilla warfare. It had to face extremely tough competition but the young men of our neighbourhood had fought determinedly and without respite. We are going to honour them in a felicitation ceremony as soon as we have collected a billion old sandals and chappals, one each for the tchak tchak boom boom.

I saw a young warrior returning home at wee hours of the morning, rockets and missiles popping out from his back-pack, grime and grease on his face, and satisfaction of a job well-done. His only complaint was that victorious though he and his gang were, there was shame in returning home with unused ammunition. I assured him that life had not ended for him (even though it nearly ended for us) and that there would be a next time.

I went for a walk at the other end of the Central Park and found a few familiar mongrels. These gathered near a trash mound there and looked pretty inactive and morose. I told them that they did not have to come this far since Sector 20, Kharghar had adequate number of garbage dumps to welcome them. Their reply made me think highly of our young men’s commitment to their cause, “All very well for you to say so. Everyone in Sector 20 Kharghar is very cooperative in throwing garbage everywhere so that we can enjoy. But, last night we were out-manoeuvred by really heavy firing. On one hand you welcome us like proper Indians with trash everywhere. On the other hand, you slam the daylights and even nightlights out of us by war cries, explosions and blasts. You can continue to stay there because you have no choice; but, we will not return until peace prevails.”

Peace prevails? Lord Ram, you have returned after fourteen years of exile and we welcome you. But, tell us when will peace return to Sector 20, Kharghar?

THE GREAT INDIAN TRAIN JOURNEY

The opening ceremony of the recently concluded Commonwealth Games 2010 at New Delhi showcased Indian culture really well. One of the most fascinating items was the ‘Great Indian Train Journey’. Let’s face it; if you are an Indian, trains are as much part of your life as, say, gods, Bollywood films, potholed roads, and cricket. Whether you try to cross a railway crossing by tilting your scooter under the barrier or hang precariously on to the handle bars in the locals, you are never beyond the overpowering influence of Indian Railways.

Indian Railways fill you with all emotions known to man. As you stand in the queue at the reservation counter, from the night before, so that you are amongst the first lucky ones to get ‘Confirmed Reservation’ when the counter opens at 8 AM, you go through a set of emotions ranging from suspense, extreme tolerance, abiding faith in God, frustration, anger, acceptance, and finally untold joy when the clerk informs you that two of your family have confirmed seats and the other two are wait-listed one and two, which you know is as good as confirmed since within the next 60 days there would be many cancellations. It was, you tell yourself, well worth it, to stand in the queue overnight so that your overnight journey in the train would be comfortable.

Even though you have a confirmed reservation, no one can describe the elation of finding your name on the reservation chart on the platform just before boarding the train. Eager passengers look up to these charts in a manner similar to looking for your roll number in the matriculation exam results. Compartment, in both cases, is welcome, and is better than failure. Meanwhile wait-listed and RAC (Reservation Against Cancellation) passengers try to seek the TTEs (Travelling Ticket Examiners); but, like all public servants, these men make themselves scarce and busy elsewhere until you have sorted out most of the confusion yourself. After that the TTE starts the great Indian trick called ‘adjustment’. This is almost like magic: he looks at his chart, looks at you, shakes his head to indicate no berths available, you reach for your wallet to pay for his sincere efforts to somehow find a berth, he looks at you a little more kindly, looks back at his chart, and lo and behold, like a conjurer, pulls out a vacant berth that had earlier totally escaped his attention. You have song on your lips when you return to the family patiently waiting for you in the space between the western style and Indian style toilets.

Now, if only you can find a place for your one trunk, two suitcases, two baskets and one cardboard box containing Bikaneri namkeen, pau bhaji, sweets, parathas, achar, onions, aloo ghobi subzi and two each packets of cheewada and chikki. The people already on the berths near you have filled in every possible crevice under and around the seats and there appears to be no place for your baggage. But, thanks once again to the great Indian trick, all your baggage gets 'adjusted' somehow, some of it hanging from hooks provided for clothes, whilst smaller packets are neatly tucked under the pillow.

It is incredible to think after what you have gone through that the journey has not yet commenced. And how do you know the journey is about to start? Well, not merely by the Guard's whistle and waving of the green flag; but, also by the fact that an equal number of people (farewell parties) have to get out and make place for those on platform who are actually the passengers. An old Punjabi anecdote describes this confusion of mass movement: On the platform a sardar is waving at his friends in a departing train and laughing uncontrollably. When reminded that parting is a sad occasion he replies, "Do you see those people waving back from the train? They are the ones who came here to see me off."

In the 'General' compartment bigger confusion prevails; it is meant for 68 passengers and generally the number is exceeded by a few hundred. In the slowly moving train some are seen half hanging out since they decided to take the plunge at the last minute and launch themselves on unsuspecting passengers inside who had taken hours to find their seats. They know as the train catches speed they cannot be thrown out and somehow have to be adjusted in the compartment.

Within about an hour, like dust, all confusion settles down. The conversation ranges from the coolie's attempt to hoodwink people, to the poor decision on Dhoni's part to have sent Bhajji as a pinch-hitter. Those who did not want to budge an inch to make place for co-passengers are now in animated conversation with them and insisting that they have a bite of the stuffed paratha that their only daughter packed for them. "What does your daughter do?" asks the man appreciatively taking a bite of the stuffed paratha. One thing leads to another and a betrothal is very much on the cards.

From the next compartment when you hear utterances that resemble Chinese, that is, "Cho Chweet", these are actually meant for the young infant on the next berth. Earlier, the neighbouring passengers were fed up with his incessant wailing, but now that he has been rocked to sleep with the moving train he looks so sweet.

In another part of the bogie there is heated discussion going over a cards game with a man-of-the-street predicting with authority, "Yeh sarkar nahin chalegi" (This government won't last) and another one irritated with his pontification, "Per Chopra ji, aap patta to pehle fainko; sarkar ko maaro goli" (But, Chopra ji, first throw your card; shoot the government later".

Then there are these women who are returning from Brindavan and are full of Krishna's charisma (quite a tongue-twister that). They break out into what they feel is melodious hymn about Krishna, Radha and gopiyan. An old man next to them congratualtes himself that he had the sixth-sense or a sense of higher number to have brought his portable tape recorder for just such an eventuality. So he plugs in his ears with the headphones and is partially oblivious of the hymns.

The great Indian train journey, in many ways, is a true reflection of how Indians make peace with their circumstances. So, when they get up next morning and the chai-wallah tells them that the train is running some eight hours late, the general consensus is that it could have been worse.

Finally when the train screeches to a halt at the destination this peace is broken and nobody wants to wait for even thirty seconds to allow passengers ahead of them to get out. It is push, scream, fret, and get-out with all your baggage in flaming hurry as if the bogie is on fire.

As you get on the platform with all your belongings and family members, the one thought foremost in your mind is that the great Indian train journey never ends.

Life goes on...