Men's Empowerment

Recently a couple of friends, who usually strut around like well-endowed peacocks - macho ones at that - came to this scribe, terribly downcast and simpered about the need for someone to be bold enough to stand up for the forgotten cause of men's empowerment.   I was disbelieving and therefore unimpressed, especially in the context of all the high decibel focus on crimes against women, women's education, women's rights etc.  My dear wife simultaneously rolled her eyes, suppressed a smirk and shrugged her shoulders to subtly express her reaction.  But then subsequently when I was not under the glare of my wife's eyes, I chewed the cud on this.  I could clearly see with my mind's eye, a disturbing and moving montage of all those friendly souls who had undergone, to borrow the language of the meteorological department,  heavy to very heavy, widespread persecution most of their lives.   The usually somewhat dormant Solomon in me got a hefty kick on his backside and was forced to perceive the unfairness of the whole situation.

Any actual or perceived injustice to women creates a huge public outcry, as it should - don't get me wrong - and unfailingly merits an eight-member panel discussion on all self-respecting TV channels.  But could any reader recall even the barest passing mention of heinous offences committed on various sections of the male of the species, who have suffered all iniquities in silence, just because the creator inserted spongy spinal columns in their backs?  You see?  That is the blatant unfairness this is about. The fact that the cumulatively thickened crust of all such grievous crimes against dithering men has remained absolutely unscratched, largely due to the callous indifference of our society, seared this author's heart.  That was the genesis of this outpouring.  Lest people misunderstand and for the sake of propriety and absolute clarity it is reiterated that this scribe is neither a misogynist nor is against women's empowerment, but only advances this soulful plea that a shining torch be shown on the hitherto ignored domain of men's empowerment too!  While at one level women are victimised horribly and deserve all the souped up empowerment they can acquire, at another level, other domineering and brutal women are guilty of riding roughshod and leaving battered and bruised men in their wake.  The pity is no contemporary chronicler has mustered adequate courage to record this fact for posterity (except for Ja Ra Sundaresan, also known as Bhagyam Ramaswamy through the hilarious stories of Appusamy and Seetha Patti in Thamizh; those of you who do not follow Thamizh, please forgive this aside).  This scribe has manfully chosen to pick up the gauntlet to right that wrong, unmindful of the consequences.

Stories are legion of sons who have been so thoroughly manipulated by well-meaning, loving but insecure mothers through childhood and adolescence in subtle and overt ways. Obviously such specimens never arrive in life as adult men with any will of their own.  While the mother's inherent defence mechanism is soundlessly triggered early on to protect herself and her son from one specific as-yet-unseen eventual aggressor (you know who, right?), the son ends up being putty in one pair of hands to begin with. Once this is accomplished, only the hands change - somewhat like the relay race - but putty he remains for life invariably! To be given various suitably non-threatening to submissive shapes by other women subsequently.  Being putty in warm hands initially must be very comforting for the unsuspecting son - something akin to the cocoon for the larva - but it becomes an unshakeable habit for life, very unlike the cocoon from which the larva can break free when ready. And, there lies the tragedy.  Males in this constituency should be effectively weaned from such mothers at an appropriate time and empowered to think for themselves, even knowing fully well that this process is highly flawed on its own and may have very harmful consequences anyway.

Let us cut through the hordes of women - childhood mates, school friends, teachers, aunts one never knew existed, grandmothers, house maids and zillion others, who love the look of the putty so expertly moulded by the mother and attempt to give their own shape to it.  Let us take a leap and arrive at the next crucial stage in the life of such a man - when he is ready to take on a  partner for life (well, that last part is clearly an exaggeration in the modern context, which you should concede to any author in the name of prosaic licence!).

What happens here is this:  the most sensitive of the already-puttied men may just fleetingly feel the coming into play of a fresh pair of hands and continue their blissfully subservient existence, as if nothing has changed.  The oracle generously doling out to them instruction for each step in life will change and this can be initially disconcerting, but the demands on them remain so comfortingly similar. You see, such people are specifically identified by their partners as the chosen ones, precisely based on the appeal of this malleable trait in them. Women can astutely perceive and appreciate all the labour the mother has lovingly invested in a man over the years and exclaim ` Voila, here is the guy off the shelf, fully trained and packaged'.  Some women may not like certain rough edges in the package and may make minor modifications here and there - just as they would ask the store to do minor alterations in the dress they buy.  Having said that, they can all recognize classy base material, when they see one.  But those `unputtied' men, who escaped the ordeal with their mothers because of their liberated ways, are now put through the wringer by other women, who may neither have the patience and warmth of the mothers nor the same forgiving nature.  This is very painful for the poor men, not only because it is a change for the worse, but also because they probably expected a very smooth sailing with their partners; based on the women they saw for five years on and off, not knowing that what they saw was really but one shade of a whole spectrum!  This group of men deserve more sympathy because the avalanche hits them without notice and they need all the empowerment to cope with the difficult times ahead.

But, undoubtedly the man who deserves the heaviest dose of empowerment is the one who finds himself painfully compressed in a cleft stick - sandwiched between the loving mother and the doting partner! I see many heads nodding animatedly in agreement and they are all male, obviously.  Having a single dedicated oracle running one's life is difficult enough but having to follow two forceful ones, invariably deliberately contradictory in tone and content, is humongously stressful.  Such a man is damned if he does anything and is more damned if he does not.  Given the fact that the the two rough sides of the cleft stick are only interested in compressing him between them and have no intention of reconciliation, he has no exit route. But then, empowerment alone is not going to help him because what can he do with that?  What he requires is exceptional cunning and wisdom to broker peace between the perennially warring parties.  One thing he can try to do is to get the mother and the partner to arraign themselves on the same side against himself - then he has only one adverse unit to deal with.  He may perpetually be the butt of all jokes at home, but at least life won't be as painful??

Usually this disclaimer appears upfront, but I forgot about this earlier, not knowing how this was going to pan out.  Whatever is written here is not based on personal experience.  The author's mother and wife are absolutely smashing individuals who have never caused the author to pause and think he needs any empowerment.  As such, the request to all those who are itching to comment on this piece is to ensure that the comments are moderated; not to stymie things for the author and vitiate the peaceful atmosphere that has prevailed at the author's home for decades.  And be notified that all such comments will be subject to careful scrutiny by people, who are obviously beyond the control of the author and will remain unnamed!!


 

Outside the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) of a hospital

Obviously no one in his senses would expect Holi-like colours and riotous festivities outside the ICU of a hospital.  But that fact should not deprive one of the right to be dismayed about what one gets to experience.  It was about 9 pm.  Family members of patients in ICU were just recovering from the utterly clinical and sanitized lecture-demonstration given to them by a seriously matronly `sister' who emitted strong signals that she had seen it all and had neither belief nor interest in interactive sessions with her audience.  Her icy cold tone, curt demeanour and stony visage, which was completely bereft of even vestiges of emotion, made for a compelling spectacle and no one even stirred during the 4 minutes, which actually seemed like 40! Come to think of it, everyone suddenly seemed to have developed amazing breath control and was breathing in and out at half the normal pace, just so that he or she did not inadvertently become the target of wrath of the presiding authority.  The lecture part of the performance sought to sear into the minds of listeners the rules of play for the duration of their stay outside the ICU; the demo part involved the protagonist and a superlatively submissive minion, who enacted the role of an `attendant' (meaning, a patient's family member or friend).

Nothing was left to guesswork and even the exact locations from which the attendant should execute chores were identified on the floor with circles painted in white.  Finally, the drama ended with the dire warning that no attendant could ever move away from the immediate vicinity , because the 'shout' could come any time; 'if the attendant was not around to answer ...............' - the rest was left to the imagination and mine ran riot thinking of an entire hospital bed, with all the paraphernalia (oxygen cylinder, array of drips, monitors etc), with the hapless patient still strapped and attached,  being sent crashing out of the ICU for the attendant to take care of, whenever he/she chose to be present again!  When the matron flashed one final glare and left, there was a palpable lifting of the chill which had descended on the scene, pretty much like what Gregory Peck experienced in the presence of you-know-what, in the movie The Omen.  Still, no one dared utter a word for half an hour in the aftermath!

The prognosis neither looked nor sounded good and we are not talking of what was happening inside the ICU.  Let me make this clear since the medical attention given was consistently excellent.  It was made clear that the attendants had the choice of `resting,' even though the hospital staff were programmed diligently to avoid that crucial word in this context and their general drift was something like `do it if you can'.  Support for this proposed activity came from some stone benches and rickety chairs strewn about.  The chairs especially merit a full sentence.  It was one of those arrangements whereby four chairs were clamped together, joined at the hip as it were, and seemed innocuous when a family sat down.  But God forbid if the sitter on either end suddenly decided, without notice, to assume a more vertical position by standing up. When such an abrupt transition occurred, his end of the sitting arrangement swung up pretty much like a see-saw, causing serious disruption in the working of the vitals of those who continue to be sitters.

Or the attendants could retire to another room close by to await the `shout'.  One look at the specified lodging convinced this scribe that the  hardship outside, perceived and real, was a bed of roses.  There was an abundant supply of mosquitoes everywhere - one wondered whether the hospital authorities were breeding them as pets, with some ulterior motive! Some very diffused lighting could be felt rather than seen  (as if the management wanted to impress the clientele with their effort at creating a dimly lit entertainment area but abandoned the idea halfway through), which discouraged any attempt at reading anything.  One could identify the outlines of  a couple of very ancient pedestal fans of monstrous proportions.  They seemed more adept at producing a constantly loud `whoosh',  frequently punctuated by loud crackling noises indicative of their inclination to take off sooner or later, than being successful sources of air circulation.  The hospital no doubt installed them to further their stated objective of  keeping everyone awake.  Frequent `shouts' for attendants from staff members ensured that even `trying to nod off' became a pronounced Sisyphean activity.  Remember that Greek hero who is part of mythology for his endlessly futile effort? This scribe's grouse is that this glorious tradition seems to have ceased; such gutsy but fruitless activity is no longer given due credit.

The process of a staff member shouting the name of a patient and calling for the related attendant itself provided some comic relief from time to time.  The hospital did not necessarily screen the names of the patients for eligibility for ICU - not part of the criteria - and this gave rise to some occasional confusion, petulance and mirth.  When the call was for `Rafique's attendant', `Ravi's attendant' went bleary-eyed and half-comatose to receive instructions, his only mistake being he was relatively more awake.  He unquestioningly bought medicines worth a few thousand rupees from the pharmacy, paying cash, without realizing he was procuring medicines for a stranger.  When the drugs reached the ICU, they were administered promptly and correctly to Rafique, thank God, because the ICU staff was vigorously trained to focus on the destination of the drugs rather than the delivery channel.  A few minutes later, `Ravi's attendant' was again jolted from stupor with instructions to haul another load of drugs and other consumables.  When he saw the list, the only identifiable item for him as a half-awake layman, was 'Inspection Gloves-50'. He querulously told the sister he had just delivered 50 gloves, among other things, ten minutes ago and asked whether that item formed part of the night-time diet for all inmates of the ICU including the staff! When the mystery was eventually solved, Rafique's attendant got admonished for dozing off and gave an IOU for the cost of the medicines to Ravi's attendant because the former's treasury situation did not permit such an outflow immediately.  Hope was that the final settlement would happen to everyone's satisfaction.

A smart attendant, quick on the uptake, became acutely aware that even if no `shout' came his way, he could neither read nor sleep during the tenure outside the ICU.  While the tendency to blame the hospital for the state of affairs was inevitable in the attendant-victim, a clear thinking individual could definitely rise above the mundane and see the process as well as outcome for what they truly were - masterstrokes in achieving desirable social behaviour.  Obviously,  the authorities were creating genuine empathy in the attendants for those inside the ICU, without too much dance and drama.  When their near and dear ones were lying in the ICU, either semi conscious or in pain, how could the attendants shamelessly seek creature comforts, as if everything was hunky-dory?  This state of deliberate deprivation, carefully organized by the hospital through well-orchestrated moves, resulted in the attendants suffering a bit themselves and thereby forced to dwell on the trauma of the inmates of ICU.  There could be no denying the fact that if the attendant stayed in an air-conditioned room with 400 TV channels and music for company and was able to read Steig Larsson's `The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest' (I was honest when I reaffirmed to my wife I read the book during the daytime) or sleep for 8 hours like a baby, forget about empathy, not even a fleeting thought about the ICU inmate would have crossed his mind.  So, the hospital's superior motivation and well laid out strategy to help people achieve the goal should come in for praise rather than criticism, according to this scribe.

If, in the process, some attendant unfortunately developed malaria after a few nights' co-existence with the hospital's invasive mosquitoes or if continuous stone-bench-sitting-and-sliding aggravated one's sciatica or if the `uplifting' contraption of chairs caused grievous physical injury or if mere sleeplessness for a few days culminated in disorientation bordering on dementia in some dainty darlings, the positive aspect was that they were in the right place! The venue was luckily a hospital and one could  undoubtedly count on very prompt medical attention.  What more, one may, with some good fortune and help from the hospital authorities, gain entry into the same ICU as a patient and (a) make others outside go through the meticulous course in empathizing that the hospital had designed and (b) satiate one's baser instincts by gloating over revenge on the society at large!

PS:  With profound apologies to and prayers for all those inside all ICUs!!

Festivals in India

Heart aflutter, like a student anxiously scrutinizing the notice board for examination results, I made the customary call to my mother in Madras one week before Deepavali.  Between them -  she and my dear father - they sift through a dozen almanacs, consult a couple of spiritual gurus; talk to a bunch of relatives (who are completely retired, yet stressed out due to overwork involving such critical issues); and also strain their well-calibrated antennae to trap information floating in the ether - all in an effort to fix the exact date on which our family is to celebrate Deepavali.  So, invariably this is what transpires. My dear wife, going by the very straightforward announcement by the government that 12th November is the holiday for the festival, organizes the mornings and evenings for a few days to the T, well in advance. Then her mother calls and tells her that the Mangalorean Deepavali is on the 13th, no questions asked and the commotion begins.  Neighbours who are true blue Bangaloreans (please observe how that one letter at the beginning changes things drastically!) vociferously advertise their intent to celebrate on the 11th because, well, their mothers told them that IS the day. Finally our matriarch imperially decrees over phone that we should unequivocally uphold our Iyengar heritage by doing the honours on the 14th morning between 4 am and 7 am.   An ancient uncle, a rabid Vaishnavite offering extreme advice on such matters gratis, calls and categorically tells us that we should diligently avert all traps set by the scheming Iyers, who want to celebrate on the previous day; as if he is marshaling troops to out-manoeuvre the enemy in battle.

The whole scheme of Deepavali in India is so dynamic and varied that once, when I called a friend in Mysore to wish him, instead of being cheerful and pleasant - true to the spirit of the festival - he barked at me on his cell phone and told me to buzz off; the angst was not my doing, but caused by the fact that his organization had decided to declare Deepavali holiday two days later, depriving him of the joy of being with his larger family and friends on that day.  So I learnt that it pays to be sensitive to regional differences in these matters and send email messages out instead of calling to greet.  To confound the confusion, celebrations are in the morning in some parts of South India (other parts seem to have rebelled sometime earlier and broken away from that tradition, because my wife swears that in Mangalore it has always been in the evening), while the North and West deliberately get out of bed a few hours late on that day, to make a point.  We really don't know whether they celebrate anything except Durga Pooja in the East-- blessed people.  May be they can add Mamata Pooja from next year??  That would be unique and noone else in India would probably want to celebrate that.

Similar confusion reigns in the case of many other festivals in India, since mothers, uncles and pandits (am not specifically mentioning fathers because they are, by default, folded into `mothers' as is well-known) are at this game all the time.   Take Janmashtami or Krishna Jayanthi, God Krishna's birthday, for instance.  Going by the Hindu calendar and knowing Krishna's birth star, the day could come only once a year, one would think.  But, people are simply averse to any unanimity regarding that one day to celebrate.  When I was a student, once I essayed into a rational exercise with all the elders ganging up to protect their turf, to find out why our neighbours were celebrating Krishna's birthday one day before we did - you guessed it, they were Iyers.  As is inevitable in these fuzzy matters, when they realised there was no way their distilled wisdom was going to be adequate to win the day, the conversation abruptly ended with my grandfather sternly declaring in that special tone which brooked no further argument and indicated an immediate shutdown of democratic debate, that I was too young to comprehend such weighty issues.  I am sure similar problems exist with the birthdays of whole host of gods in the Hindu pantheon, like Subramanya, Ganesha and Rama.  Perhaps Shiva and Dasaratha, as devoted parents, deliberately misrepresented birthdates of their progeny, to persuade the rishis at the time of their intake into the gurukul!  Thereby creating multiple birthdates for their wards?  And perhaps, that was the genesis of the subsequently prevalent practice of parents initiating their children into school with a lie - a modified date of birth for convenience!

If we have such difficulty in having a uniform date for festivals, is it surprising that the lore, mythological and otherwise, attached to a festival like Deepavali, is also different in regions?  I grew up in the South, listening to the story of Narakasura, a rampaging demon being killed on that day by God Krishna and the latter enjoining the populace to celebrate the day as Deepavali, with rows of brightly lit lamps.  When I moved to Delhi, I realised that Diwali was being celebrated there to commemorate the return of God Rama from his arduous life in the forest for 14 years, after overcoming the evil Ravana.  With the change in the spelling, the underlying reason also shifted - tectonically by a whole yuga, from Dwapara to Treta! The saving grace is just that both the interpretations stress that the celebration is for the demolition of evil forces by the good ones.  Thank
God that good sense has so far prevailed to retain that overarching reason.  Similarly, the story behind Dussehra also differs from region to region.  Generally the festival glorifies Goddess Durga, who annihilated evil in the form of Mahishasura and in the East, this theme prevails.  In the North, God Rama again makes his presence felt by getting the nine days celebrated as Ramlila.  In the South, contemporary Dussehra has become more social and cultural, with the religious significance receding a bit.  Of course, most of the Hindu gods find their place in the Kolu in miniature form.

Look at the western world's calendar for festivals; they have set dates for Chistmas, Thanksgiving and Halloween.  There has been no attempt by any faction to celebrate these festivals on other days for whatever reason, I presume.  Provides for simplicity and takes out the confusion factor completely.

Do I sound like I would prefer a uniform date for our festivals also?   Nice, but I think that would be too pat for India.  We do enjoy and thrive on the confusion caused by such inconsistencies in life.  No, I would stick with what we have and be buffeted by the unpredictable variations that come along with the festivals.  They augment the fun.  And, I definitely do not want to miss calling my mother to find out when Deepavali arrives at our home - there is some thrill in that.  And remember the mothers, pandits and uncles - they have something exciting to do for a fortnight and I would hate to deprive them of that fun.

Garbage Dump that is Bangalore!

No, you read it right; there is no mistake.  The title is intentionally that.  The reason is probably pretty obvious to those who have made Bangalore their abode, but others will require elucidation, which begins NOW.   During the past two months, Bangalore's politically driven and absolutely useless administrative set-up is so mixed up with garbage that it has become conveniently redundant to make any distinction between the two.  When the news media got tired of the saga of politicians' shameful shenanigans - small, medium and big (one size does not fit all in this field because hierarchy is critical) - they thrived on stories of garbage lying around in the city, uncleared for weeks.  A lot of like-minded people agreed with this scribe that they could not figure out what caused the more offensive part of that all-pervasive stink, the garbage piles or the political and bureaucratic classes (let us refer to this group collectively as Masters of Garbage or MoG, for the sake of brevity and convenience) tasked with keeping the city relatively clean.  As we go to press with this, suspicion is gaining ascendancy that there has been an effective and silent merger of the two parts - the garbage and MoG; the latter seem to be voluntarily and comfortably hiding somewhere under the mounds of garbage to escape the wrath of the public.  To boot, courts are sniping at MoG to act immediately, with some dire legal threats.

As is customary in India in matters relating to public funds, garbage disposal also provides immense scope for MoG to exploit for personal gains.  This group is tickled pink by the idea of using their own acolytes and sycophants as designated contractors and making a `clean and healthy' profit out of garbage. Of course, MoG diligently ensures that the best qualification such contractors have is virtually no experience or expertise in garbage disposal.  MoG's nexus with such contractors who actually pretend to clear garbage once in a while, pocket increasing amounts of money from the local government as charges and share a sizable portion (no, not of the garbage but the money) with the former, is a fool-proof mechanism perfected over the years by `public servants' in government for all kinds of contract dole-outs.  The problem is, as usual, that not even half the sanctioned funds get used for the assigned purpose because of leakages. That also means the contractor has far less resources to do the job and reluctantly does a quarter of the required work.  Accountability is non existent simply because this is a classic case of `fence eating the crop'.

The above situation is further complicated by health-conscious villagers around Bangalore suddenly developing the temerity to ask the government why their villages should act as dumps for Bangalore's garbage.  How can they?  The city has given them so much (!!), what is a daily dose of  some hundred tonnes of garbage in return?  While MoG is roiled seriously at this revolt, they cannot openly retaliate; not because their collective  conscience has woken up from the perpetually moribund state and their minds' eyes have suddenly been opened to the physical and moral wrong being perpetrated on the villagers; but because ultimately they need all the votes from all those surrounding villages.  Urban dwellers are probably not going to vote anyway for the party in power because garbage is not being cleared, among other things; it is not politically savvy to be bitten from both ends!  The only prudent thing to do is to look for another set of unsuspecting villages further out, which will be suckered into receiving `the wealth of garbage' with open arms, using, what else - bribes to the village chieftains and other important folks and an one-time-bonus of toddy and trinkets for the general populace.  This works better for the MoG because with the garbage moving out to the next concentric circle around the city, distance increases from Bangalore and garbage disposal can justifiably become costlier.  Who do you think benefits??

A somewhat optimistic, brave, new officer was indeed put in charge of the utility that oversees the garbage disposal.  He started in earnest by going around the city early in the morning, talking to workers and encouraging them to do the needful.  He seemed enthusiastic, despite the stink associated with his rounds and our hearts warmed to him.  Agreements with all existing contractors were to be cancelled and companies with expertise were to be brought in for garbage disposal.  Simultaneously he also pushed the city government to put out rules regarding garbage segregation at the source, that is, at people's homes.  Well begun, we thought.   But, within a month or so, this officer has sought a transfer out of that, errr, garbage!  We do not know the exact provocation for this request, but we can surely hazard a good guess.  If the steps taken are allowed to fructify, the racketeering in garbage will reduce significantly and clearing might truly happen.   Companies with expertise, especially the foreign ones, may not `participate' in the established `you-line-my-pocket-and-I-line-yours' routine, thereby depriving the MoG of serious cashflow.  They may actually do a good job, instituting proper recycling processes etc, which will shut down this avenue for MoG forever.  More critically, if this succeeds, what about all those other dysfunctional areas like road-repairs and other civic work?  Could there be a clamour for change in all those too, thereby accelerating the deprivation of the MoG?  With so much at stake, would the MoG permit such good officers to succeed?  Obviously not.

Now, Bangaloreans themselves do not come out smelling like roses, from this garbage crisis.  A very simple mechanism to segregate dry, wet and other wastes was communicated to everyone.  Each household was to hand over segregated waste to the cleaners.  Instead of doing this bit diligently, mixed garbage was handed over, rejected by the cleaners and dutifully dumped by our own respected fellow citizens in the usual place, the street corners.  Actually one serious lady cleaner told the media `if educated people like these do not segregate properly after all the instructions, what do we cleaners do'?  We can conveniently blame the cleaners, the system, the city government and everyone else in and out of sight, for various things like lack of training, poor communication, absence of infrastructure etc.  But, ultimately we are not talking rocket science, but garbage, for God's sake.  How difficult is it to adhere to some basics and ensure that we do not provide any excuse to anyone to dump the garbage back on the roadside??  If we cannot even do that, do we deserve anything better than what we get now?  Without the active involvement and co-operation of the people at ground level, no such initiative will succeed and despite all the hullabaloo created by city dwellers, as of now we are part of the problem, not the solution.

It is funny that legislators and city government officials from Bangalore regularly do foreign jaunts to exotic locations to learn governance and management but things seldom get better and quality of life in the city goes down a few notches annually.  There is a city in Gujarat, which almost got overwhelmed by plague a decade or so back - Surat.  Today it is very clean, thanks to the work of a couple of administrators, one of them is a resident of Bangalore now, I believe.  So, the city need not look elsewhere to get a blueprint of a possible solution.  But, is there a desire to do that?  If there is, city officials could have learnt temporary solutions from neighbouring cities like Chennai, whose solution for garbage disposal may not be ideal but at least it seems to work.  But given the political and chauvinistic sensitivity, that would be anathema, I am sure.  So why not Gujarat, which is politically aligned to Bangalore and does not need Cauvery water from Karnataka? Ultimately, if politicians, bureaucrats, contractors and people themselves do not collectively rise above the garbage levels we have all sunk to, in order to find lasting solutions, who is to blame?

Beyond Shelf-Life

`Let me serve the public for a few more years', the reporter can barely decipher, through an educated guess,  what this once-eminent orator-politician is whispering hoarsely, hampered by ill-health.  The former was granted a thirty second interview with the ailing leader. The guardians of the party shrewdly concluded that anything longer would expose the all-chinks-no-armour condition of the leader and the reporter too was hoping only to confirm that the leader was breathing still. The leader's verbal output is an incomprehensible jumble of sibilants and plain hot air, mingling with strong vapours of onion and garlic from the breakfast. Lip movement is of scant help in determining what he intends to convey.  The attendant, who is the seventy year old son of the elder statesman and a frustrated and desperate forever-waiting-in-the-wings-leader himself, smiles broadly and almost triumphantly; all eagerness, he asserts that the `leader is as clear in his thinking and lucid in communication today as he was ten years back'.  The reporter cannot recall it being this bad a decade ago and it was a major disaster then.  But though aghast, he wisely decides against any contradiction, minding his own physical welfare.

The nonagenarian leader has lived the last twenty years of his life, vaguely recognizing only silhouettes of even elephants brought by sycophantic followers to garland him, from time to time.  Being the original visionary, he has been able to rule his kingdom, using the eyes of lesser human beings -a la Dridhirashtra- around him.  The only saving grace is that his hearing faculty still remains excellent, as evidenced by the fact that he recently expelled three unsuspecting and indiscreet minions from the party because they were heard, at a reasonable distance but within his earshot, discussing the consequences to the party when `the great leader' kicked the bucket.  And the Policy Making Committee had promptly and jubilantly decided the next day that equipped with just that single ability in an otherwise severely disabled physique, the leader can run the party and possibly the government for the next five years; some brainless pollyannas hoped for ten, driven by their extreme anxiety about being swept prematurely into political wilderness. All because the leader has been the lone vote-catcher for 60 years for the languishing party, which was thrashed badly in the last election.

Sounds very familiar in the Indian context??  One can be sure that there are about ten politicians like this in every state, one for each party, holding forth from a wheelchair, kept alive by an expensive and state-of-the-art artificial support system funded by the government when the leader was in power.  Well, may be somewhat exaggerated,  but not a lot.  Why are we so fond of keeping such half-dead political leaders in the limelight, way beyond their shelf life??  Is it because we do not have good substitutes?  Certainly not.  The reason is more like the inability of the subsequent generations to dislodge the old bandicoots, who have tasted blood and want to perpetuate their stronghold.  And the rather insecure and less confident younger politicians are mortally afraid of an abrupt collapse of their own political world if the wily old foxes withdraw intentionally or otherwise, which again is a state of mind carefully created and nurtured by the senior leaders for their own benefit.  This explains why sixty year olds are considered `young blood' in most parties in India and we have seventy year old debutant ministers in governments.

But what is even more puzzling is that politics in not the only domain wherein this phenomenon is uniquely manifest.  Take the music industry for example.  One should be amazed by every upcoming playback singer and music director, in clear displays of utter sycophancy towards an eighty year old singer who was an undisputed queen-bee earlier, exhorting her to keep `those superb melodies' flowing for ever. When, in reality, she can barely hold her voice steady for a chit-chat.  No doubt, she is a legend, has an absolutely enviable body of work done over 50 years and completely deserves to be deified.  But is that a good enough justification for her to have continued singing odd songs in a shaking voice, which does not even have a vague resemblance to the melodious one of her heydays, trembling and croaking her way through a few lines of lyric??  Pitiably, when you hear the recent numbers of this lady, you actually get so offended that you dont even want to listen to all those fascinating songs of yore.  Being such a good musician, it is not as if this lady cannot tell the difference between what she was and what she is now.  So, why does she inflict this on herself and others, knowing fully well that she is well past her sell-by-date??  Can't she see that a dignified and complete exit to the sidelines, where she can truly bathe in the glory of being a great mentor or a guiding spirit, is probably going to serve her interests better, with all that glorious work standing her in good stead?

What about Sports?  Cricket, specifically? Some astute and perceptive cricketers who have served the country with great distinction, seem to have kept their fingers on the pulse of their careers and timed their retirements so exquisitely that people are left wondering `A pity; he could have played for a couple of years more'.  This has happened twice in the past year and our respect for such individuals has not diminished one bit even though they wont be in the limelight as players.  And then we have this demi god of a cricketer, who has always struck you as a wise and dignified individual all through his career, deciding to hang around even after he has himself admitted that `not much cricket is left in him'.  His recent performance has been up and down by his own high standards and his fan following has plummeted a bit.  One heard clear murmurs of `isn't it time for retirement' in the public domain; something that was anathema just a year back is being aired freely now.  But he hangs on - God only knows for what! Money or TV time or fame cannot be the reason because he has seen it all and must be beyond all that.  Loving cricket cannot be the only reason because a lot of people love cricket.   He may still score a couple of centuries and send unadulterated fans into raptures, but is it worth the risk of being lowered a few notches from being the game's presiding deity to just another great player?  One cannot fathom this at all.

And then, we had that rather unedifying spectacle of two ageing tennis players with bloated egos, repeatedly getting into public spats, culminating in an ugly showdown regarding selection for Olympics.  A lot of dirty linen was washed in public and that served only to divide even the players, while considerably dimming the aura of success that shone on these two individuals, thanks to their significant achievements in doubles play, never before witnessed among Indian players.  Could these two have gracefully given way to younger players earlier and avoided all this muck?

Certainly such specimens abound in other spheres too.  It looks like India suffers from this syndrome, despite the fact that we have our population coming out of nooks and crannies and youngsters are snapping at the heels of the earlier generation in all facets of life.   It would be nice to see the oldies, however great they have been, willingly and happily getting out of the way a bit earlier and actively mentoring youngsters who can take over the mantle eventually.  Think about it; innumerable gifted teachers have done exactly that, all through the ages.  But then those teachers did not really bask in the glory called limelight, I guess.  Is that the difference??

Bharath Bandh (India Shutdown)!!

The forlorn face, which seems to have miraculously managed to stay attached to the skeletal frame through all the trials and tribulations Life has violently and mercilessly thrown at the combined entity, said it all without even a feeble moan escaping from the mouth.  It has always been like this during the past few years, ever since we moved to this neighbourhood.  Within a day of the latest wallop bruising her body afresh, the lady would show up at our doorstep.  Without even a mumble most of the time, absolutely wordlessly, she would manage to convey to my wife the bad tidings that she had descended an inch further into structurally debilitating monetary problems and needed immediate sustenance for the survival of her brood and herself.  The requirement never runs into thousands, but is discreetly kept at a few hundreds; just enough to probably feed everyone for a few days, until the new low is painfully overcome.   In short order, every single rupee is repaid graciously, with a wan crease on the face, which goes for a smile.  Even when the body and the spirit remain perpetually stricken, pride shines through - that she is no longer in our debt and can come back again, as and when needed.

That is the story of the lady who earns her living, selling vegetables out of a few baskets on the sidewalk, near our home - a true blue representative of the `common man' in this particular context.  The latest instance of her fidgety presence at our threshold inevitably coincided with the Bharath Bandh (India Shutdown), called by various `sagacious' political parties, throbbing with overwhelming concern for the welfare of people at large, to protest a few decisions taken by the government, purportedly against the interests of the common man.  This scribe tends to believe that the opposition parties' primary and most virulent objection is to the fact that `any' decision was taken at all, despite their own best efforts to stall things, by a government which was almost ready for a postmortem.  One can empathize with them, if they thought this was unacceptable deception and a betrayal.  A moribund government, thriving with that status and tag, was being gently nudged deeper into coma by a thorny companion, masquerading as an ally.  It was going to be a matter of time before the end came in sleep, when suddenly the government exploded from its slumber, galvanized into a flurry of decisions it could have (and should have, probably) taken months ago.  All the other political parties, which were enjoying a cozy, paid holiday, engaged in a `parliament bandh', were taken unawares by the `uncalled for' burst of activity on the part of the government.  Feeling guilty that someone had gone to work when they themselves were more idle than usual, these parties could not think of any rational response other than a `politically savvy' and `dripping with concerns for the common man' call for an All India Shutdown (Bharath Bandh).  Very generous of them; all they wanted was for the common man to enjoy at least one `holiday', while they were revelling in theirs for a month or so. The only telling difference was that they were getting paid all through their idling, whereas the single day's shutdown caused enormous hardship and livelihood issues for the common man, the supposed beneficiary for their thoughtful action, depriving many daily wage earners of their income for a few days and much more.

Let us see who gets what out of such enforced bandhs:

Hooligans from various political parties, who somehow completely bypassed that part of God's assembly line which dispenses brains (something tells me this is not accidental), but got double the quantum of  `mutton' in their bodies and heads as a bargain, create panic (some buses are burnt, glass panes are broken, public and private property is destroyed/damaged and a few bystanders are injured) in the minds of people to coerce them to stay indoors, even if they can ill afford that.  This exercise in destruction and spreading fear should provide some entertainment and pleasure to the hooligans, otherwise why would they indulge in it?  One cannot think of anyone doing this other than by choice!

But there are people who just cannot sit at home, for fear of losing wages or even jobs.  Public transport buses generally vanish from the roads, leaving such commuters at the mercy of this special tribe called `Autorickshaw-wallahs'.  Usually these guys assault sensibilities with verbal jousts as well as demands for double the actual fare.  On `bandh' days, they get ruthlessly aggressive and strip people of enormous amounts of money - upto 15 to 20 times the airconditioned bus fare.  Their justification is `there are very few days on which we can make such money, why would anyone grudge them that'!!  Obvious beneficiaries of bandhs.

Those with cars manage to reach their destinations faster on this day since there is virtually no traffic on the roads and breezily comment that they wished the roads were as good always.  However, they do realise that they run the risk of being pelted with stones or some other brand of arson.  

There are some other beneficiaries too, apart from the autorickshaw-wallahs.  I came across at least a dozen cases in which the employers chose to ferry their domestic help from and to the latter's residences, because otherwise they would be left holding the baby, literally!  One such employee beamed to me `Sir, I came by car to work today'.  Good for her! Those people with important ad hoc chores or emergency fixes did the same - got the required help brought home or elsewhere in their own vehicle and paid handsomely for the services.  One such workman was heard saying he wished there was a bandh everyday!  May be this is the constituency the organizers of the bandh are wooing.

Then we have those unfortunate small vendors, who have to sell all their perishable wares every day and make their margins in order to get their meal through the next day.  Theirs is a difficult life on normal days, but it gets terribly complicated on such days.  They think they have some advance notice of the shutdown and try to make an extra buck by bringing additional stock to sell on the day.  But, customers also plan for the shutdown and fail to show up, leaving such vendors to incur unaffordable losses.  This was what happened in the case of our lady mentioned in the first para.  Actually it was even more tragic.  She was prevented from keeping her stock on the sidewalk by the same hoodlums, who collect protection money from her, but had taken the new avatar of enforcers of the bandh, thanks to the mandate from the ruling political party!! Due to direct threats, she had to abandon her unsold stock and run helter-skelter.  The next day she came home for the loan.

Organizers of these bandhs can claim to be visionaries interested in the long-term benefits accruing to the common man from such bandhs, even if there is inconvenience in the short run.  What long term benefit are they talking about??  All the measures against which the bandh was organized remain in place.  Industry associations send out routine bulletins indicating production losses amounting to billions of rupees, due to the bandh.  God only knows how many people would end up losing their livelihood consequently.

Even judiciary tentatively agrees `bandh' is a legitimate instrument of protest in a democracy.   So, it looks like there is no getting away from that.  However, we should ensure that these bandhs take place without the element of force and without pushing ordinary men and women over the precipice.  I am an advocate of all such disruptive rallies and bandhs being held in pre-designated Rally Arenas, away from towns and cities; these should be fully televised to engage those interested.   That would be real democracy for a change.  But then, for the organizers, they may not seem like success stories to brag about.  Is a change in outlook possible?  I guess not, because politicians know that public memory is so short that by the time the next shutdown comes (pretty soon, eh!) this one will be long forgotten.  

So, unfortunately, our representative `common man', the vegetable vendor lady, has no option but to make repeated trips to our neighbourhood, beaten black and blue by every bandh, seeking solace in a small loan for her survival.   Long live democracy in India!!

Never a lender be!!

Coming from someone who had been a banker for 35 years and derived his compensation primarily from the banks' lending activity, that is bemusing, right?  Dont get me wrong, this has nothing to do with banks and similar entities which do their lending, using somebody else's money.  Honest bankers will readily admit that it is always fun to dole out funds that are not one's own.  So what, if the borrowers fade away and the loans go kaput; one does not personally lose anything.  Actually, come to think of it, nobody loses anything, so long as only a small portion of the borrowers play truant.  That is actually expected, part of the game; if every borrower repays everything, it would be absolutely boring. In such a scenario, a number of bankers might end up losing their livelihood since there is precious little for them to do and managements might just deprive them of employment. Only when the repayment-dodging-malady gets widespread and a bank fails as a result, depositors may be affected.  May be not, even then; the idea of a failed bank is so repugnant to any government or regulator that such `bad' banks unfailingly get merged with some large, good public sector bank, which can mask all the losses and everybody can pretend that nothing serious has happened.  So, the wise man he was, Shakespeare could not have had lending institutions in his mind when he spilled these precious words. This is strictly for individuals, who cannot rely on public funds but have to lend out of their own resources; and are not in the same mould as Shylock, romping about, demanding pounds of flesh for unpaid dues!

I guess Shakespeare was a rather generous, avancular lender, with little or no experience in credit analysis and paying no heed to credit bureau ratings.  He must have collected funds at the box office in a sack during his plays and while smugly carrying the booty home, must have doled out loans to whoever accosted him with a polite request.  That meant the delinquency ratio for his lending business must have been sky-high since those who took advantage of his kindness did not think it necessary to repay the loans; probably that was never part of their plot. Obviously, Shakespeare did not run a decent collecting agency to chase them, which complicated the scene.  Why else would he make Polonius in Hamlet give this rather timeless and universally sound advice `Never a borrower nor a lender be' to his son??  But I have a bone to pick with the bard on this.  He should have concentrated only on the `never a lender be' part, because there are immense benefits in borrowing (and not repaying), as we all know.  That is a great and easy way of creating wealth for yourself and your progeny, as many contemporary worthies have demonstrated over the years; especially if the lender is a public sector bank!  Well, one's reputation may be impaired a wee bit in the corners or even damaged seriously, but that is a very small price to pay in a world shamelessly devoid of honour, which glorifies money, idolizes the wealthy and chooses to read and peremptorily ignore the footnote in bold print as to how the wealth came about!  Especially when you can change your name and resurface in some other location, doing your own reincarnation without dying! But I am forgetting that in Shakespeare's time, honour meant something; so, let me not be overly critical of the big S. in this context. Since it would be anachronistic today to dwell too much on `never a borrower be', let us focus on the other part.

Almost all of us, with a retinue of staff such as drivers, maids, gardeners, cooks and the like, are rather forced to be reluctant lenders repeatedly.  Invariably, even before the new driver, on a test run, has taken us to the next block or the cook has made the first roti, the ubiquitous loan application has already landed with us.  For some strange reason, we are only too willing to suspend disbelief and imagine that this driver or cook is going to be significantly better than the previous one.  In our desperation we are absolutely delighted to expose ourselves to an even larger loan than the one which the previous employee took and decamped without repaying, as is the norm.  Actually the higher the first-day-loan-demand is, in some strange way we are more convinced of the `good' intentions of the new employee to stay with us and work the loan off!  If one is rather wary of parting with 3 to 6 months' salary as loan on Day 1 and wants to protest, an angry glare and muttered-under-the-breath warnings from the spouse propel one with outstretched arms (laden with the money) towards the new recruit!  Once this hara-kiri is committed, the rest is like watching the first minute of an MGM or Columbia produced movie - the same lion roaring or lady with a torch benignly looking at us; only the title (in this case, the name of the individual) varies.

This is a real life story.  One vendor in the area where I live was so impressive with his conduct that I was bowled over.  He would not even cross my path, when I walked.  When he saw me coming, he would dismount the cycle and wait for me to pass.  Even in the middle of the road, he would remove his sandals and then answer my question, if I had one.  Such exemplary show of respect, nay, reverence!!  It was all too good to believe and I should have read the hidden signs, but did not.  A couple of times, he touched me for small `advances' and returned them as committed to, thereby building up his case and reputation as a borrower.  One day he brought a mini truck and parked it in front my house and said he wants some funds to buy that one.  He very respectfully urged me to take the documents for the vehicle as collateral.  He was even willing to park the vehicle in front of my house to assuage my concerns as a lender (that was what I thought initially, but subsequently realised that parking elsewhere was a problem and expensive!).  Suitably impressed with his approach, I agreed to lend him some money, despite alarm bells jingling inside me all over.   Well, the rest is... what......yes....like watching the first minute of an MGM or Columbia produced movie etc etc.  He is still profoundly respectful and takes off his sandals while I pass him, but no repayment is forthcoming nor do I see any intent on the horizon.  The only vague comfort is that he does provide a service to us and we can adjust a miniscule amount every month against the loan!! So, all is not lost.

But this one takes the cake.  Recently there were glowing newspaper reports about a very honest auto rickshaw driver, who restored to a customer, a bag with some articles and a large amount of money which were left behind in the vehicle.  The reports said he was poor and could not even afford treatment for his ailing wife.  We called this chap, spoke to him and he shed copious tears on hearing we were willing to bail him out of his problems.  We decided to fund him to the extent of the other expensive loans he had taken from moneylenders so that he can get on with him life peacefully.  Just as a small test, we gave 50% of the amount as a gift and the balance 50% as an interest-free loan, to be  repaid monthly in installments.  He elevated all of us to the level of gods overseeing the poor and the helpless; fell at our feet and thanked us.  Out of the 20 installments he was due to repay, we got 2; then there was stony silence.  A couple of calls to him yielded no response and we had to see a replay of the first minute of an MGM or Columbia produced............. And to think that we gave him the money to appreciate his integrity and honesty!!! What an irony!

So, I have gotten wiser and have decided that if I wanted to help someone, I will hand the money over as a giveaway.  No expectation of repayment and no sour feeling of having been cheated. 

Death of a public servant

I made that seamless and successful move three years ago from being a stretched-time slave to multinational corporations who paid me rather well, to being a piecemeal slave to various people I did not even know existed till then, who wanted compensation from me for their slave-driving efforts!  Since then, this masochistic thought that I should try my hand in public service through an elected office has been eating my brain - the remnants of that, anyway - like the veritable `canker in the bud', to quote the bard. Desperate calls from beacons like Anna Hazare, backed up by earnest endorsements from Kalmadi, Raja, almost the entire political tribe in Karnataka and many of their ilk elsewhere, for all right-minded and honest individuals to enter politics to clean that sewer up, just fanned the flame a bit more.  And then the first opportunity gently floated on to my lap, as if someone watching over me wanted to put me through a baptism by fire.

The association of the owners of the villas we live in goes through this gut-wrenching and exciting annual experience to elect its management committee of seven and I had some fiftysix people urging me to contest that year.  My arithmetic was still razor-sharp and my teacher-wife helped me firm up the numbers, which seemed to scream that I had the backing of at least 30% of the voters, if not more.  As a seasoned public-servant-to-be I looked for sephologists ready with exit interviews and not finding any, I smartly demanded assurances of my victory from the populace.  When they  came through in various forms, my mind was made up and I said 'yes' to the collective glee of my supporters.  Only when someone yelled with relief `Aha, one down and six more to go', I realised that something was amiss. But by the time I got wiser to the situation that every year the owners had to literally drag seven sacrificial lambs to the altar kicking and screaming, it was too late.  It seems there never was an election due to acute paucity of candidates and the management committee was usually filled up with the unanimous choice of the owners!! So much for the euphoria over my first success to a vaguely quasi-public office!  The ensuing year was by no means traumatic because people were so very smug that they managed to put seven of us in place that they did not demand anything serious from the committee.  But this stint did give me my side-door entry into 'public' affairs.  Despite limited activity in the committee, there was adequate politics involving 200 households and I could imagine the nightmare, managing a larger population generally baying for your blood.

I was armed wih the above experience when the election of corporators came around and many of the political parties invited `qualified' people to approach them for selection of candidates. Some of my friends who knew I was a sucker for any public office promptly proposed my name to one of the parties and I was asked to present myself for an interview! I was very puzzled as to the need for that pow-wow because I knew I was probably overqualified educationally and my 35 years of working experience would have outstripped most others.  But, as a well wisher reminded me, this was serious politics and politics of any kind was `different'!  So, I landed at the venue for the interview on the appointed day, curious but not very anxious.

As I walked into the room, the three wise men managing the selection process greeted me warmly and after a short introduction, serious business commenced in earnest.  My effort to highlight my education and experience were peremptorily ignored, causing significant agitation in my mind.  But I was somewhat assuaged when I realised the three wise men wanted to discuss specific attributes which they considered essential for the job of a corporator.  They began with `integrity'.  My fervent launch into corruption in public offices and the need to restore probity  was brutally cut short after 8 seconds and they said they just wanted to know whether the party can `trust' me. My answer was categorical, yes, absolutely.  Next came the critical quality of being a team-player.  Extremely keen to impress, I began with being a member of these school teams and those college teams but again they would have none of it.  All they desired to hear was that I had no problem in working as a team member in this specific context and sharing credits with others working with me.   I triumphantly declared that my credo was always to share whatever success we achieved with colleagues and was pleased with myself for a job well done.  Then came the query whether I subscribed to the philosophy of Public-Private-Partnership (PPP) process.  I was pleasantly surprised that the party-men even knew about that and avidly identified myself with the principle.  That was it.  The interview was over and I was told that I was being shortlisted for the next meeting with the `leader'.

When I met the leader, he was again very focussed on the three attributes his lackeys discussed in the earlier meeting.  He expressed happiness that he can trust my integrity to keep all the monies collected from various sources during my tenure at the party's disposal; no accounts, no paper, just plain old trust, he reiterated.  Then he proceeded to applaud my team spirit; he clarified that without that, party leaders cannot hope to get their shares of the booty from corporators, especially when there are going to be no accounting books involved.  Finally, he explained the importance of the PPP process and the need to squirrel away a major portion of the public funds allotted to my constituency and deposit the same with specific private parties identified by the leaders.  I was too dumbfounded to even react when the leader asked me whether I was ready to firm up the percentage of shares etc. Being the terribly busy leader he was, he did not tarry long and went quickly to the next candidate, who seemed to be more clued in.

My desire for public service through elected office died a quiet and dignified death that day.  I do not even know where it lies buried now!  Not that I am looking out for it.

Air Indian Airlines (??!!)

The collective Indian heart should weep, looking at the deplorable way in which a good airline has been run into the ground with sinister precision over the last few decades.  The title has been deliberately picked to reflect the utter confusion in which our malfunctioning national airline has chosen to wallow for a long time now.  It is a moot point whether the company is heavily bleeding with losses because of the negative attitude inherent in a labour-union-driven mindset of the average employee - especially when that kind of attitude does not help sell even chewing gum in a competitive environment, leave alone airline seats to customers with choices!  Or have the airline employees, based on track record, developed the temerity to believe that the government will bail them out of any deep hole they dig for themselves, using tax-payer money and therefore do not care? When decently run airline companies all over the world are fluctuating between losses and marginal profits despite much better efforts and work ethics, what chance does our airline have, with its strike-hungry employees?  If it is cabin crew today, it is the pilots tomorrow, with the engineers queuing up for the day after - all clamouring for something or the other.  The fact that collectively they are doing a great disservice to paying customers does not seem to affect this callous bunch in the least, since they have developed pachydermal hides over the years, engaging in strikes with practised ease and impunity.  How many times has one read news reports of passengers being left hung to dry in local or foreign airports by this airline, just because the whim of one set of employees dictated so?? And in comparison, very rarely does one come upon a similar report regarding any other private airline in the country.  Means what?  That the government, which owns the airline, has been guilty of terrible management practices?  Possibly, but there are many other government-owned companies which seem to be running well, without disruption as we have seen in this airline.  Where does that leave the blame?

A cursory glance at the immediate past history tells us that there have been strikes in this airline every single year from 2007 (may be multiple strikes each year!) and this scribe is sure that if we go back further, we will find more of the same.  Why don't the management and employees come together and negotiate a schedule of strikes for the upcoming year and post it in their website, so that customers are inconvenienced less?    Currently the problem is that we know there will be strikes, but we do not know when and that problem could be solved thus.  We can even suggest the summer months for such scheduling, as in schools and courts, because that is when the traffic could be the highest, workload the most and this would ideally be suitable for the employees.  Obviously the professional and seasoned `strikers' will not bite because the `impact' would be lost.  Interestingly many of these strikes in the past few years have been in April, May and June.

I came across one unbelievably entertaining vignette today about this airline.  In 2007 some Canadian organization seemed to have honoured Air India with an award, yes, award!!  That propelled me forward in my seat and I delved a bit deeper to see what the award was about, since any type of award to Air India could only have been 'fixed', in my humble opinion. It transpires that the award was for creating awareness regarding the vanishing ozone layer.  That figures, isn't it??  If your employees take turn to engage in strikes and perform this annual ritual religiously, that would indeed mean lesser flights from Air India; and that would mean lesser depletion of the ozone layer! Ah, Air India got the award for creating this awareness among its own employees, who avidly demonstrated that they know and care about the ozone layer (more than their paying passengers, of course!).

Our government seems to be labouring under the misconception that national pride would be wounded and  the average Indian would be driven to hang his/her head in shame and sadness if this airline is padlocked.  The truth is that by such a forceful action, the government will be providing a golden opportunity to the employees to go somewhere else and `strike' absolutely unfettered and enjoy themselves in life doing what they do best, without causing public nuisance.  Nothing can be more beneficial to the country and the users, from a common man's point of view.  Anyway, one cannot feel any greater shame and sadness in the context of this airline than what has been thrust on us relentlessly over the years, due to the pathetic actions of the employees and management.

Some Indians living overseas in the 80s and 90s would unfailingly take an Air India flight to come home, ignoring many negative attributes that went with the airline, compared to, say, Singapore Airlines.  They simply enjoyed the India-like feel the airline gave them, something akin to a movie trailer.  Good Indian food, some Indian movie, sari-clad hostesses, Hindi, Tamil and classical music channels - unlike today, these were available only on this airline those days - prompted one to put up with rickety seats even in business class,  antiquated projection/audio equipment etc.  Times have changed and the employees, in their ostrich-like state and very busy with `striking work', have not recognized the fact that other airlines offer all these and more now and there is no reason to prefer the `national airline', at its erratic best.

It has come to light that while 400 and odd pilots of the airline are on strike currently, over 70% of the flights are being operated with the remaining pilots and some 100 executive pilots.  The numbers could be here and there, but the point is the airline is way too overstaffed and is groaning under its wage bill, supporting an aging crew all the way to its glorious retirement.  If it is a private organization, the situation would have been drastically different.  But our government, which wants to mark the price of petrol to market in the name of reform, has done just zilch about this ridiculous condition in the airline for many years.

In a recent development, this airline has sought compensation from Boeing for delayed delivery of planes ordered long back.  Ethically speaking, Boeing should not be penalised because it has done a big favour to the airline.  Consider this - if all the planes were delivered on time, this generous airline would have hired some 500 more employees, had a heftier wage bill, a larger group striking work and incremental losses to boot.  The government should see the hollowness of the argument of `opportunity loss' and refrain from pressing their case for compensation.  It is indeed `opportunity loss' for the 500+ employees who did not come on board to enjoy their tenure and perquisites, but then that is not what we are talking about, right?  If the compensation does come through, as it will because it is a commercial transaction, I suggest the airline just specialises in ordering more and more planes and hope for delayed deliveries; that would be more profitable than actually using the planes randomly for transporting paying passengers between strikes!!

When this current strike commenced, someone had circulated a photo of a few Air India planes sitting on the tarmac, with the caption `Saare Zameen Par'!! That perfectly fits this airline and what its striking employees do best -- staying blissfully disrupted and losing pots of money!!

Story of my lower berth!!

This is something new.  Nowadays, this feverishness sets in whenever I am on my way to the train station.  There is no problem with the reservation - all that was done three months ago, when the online reservation process opens up a wee bit, enough for me to get the foot in.  Obviously, since even the grey market operators do not commence cornering tickets that early, I invariably manage to get a seat/berth I want.  These days, I prefer lower berth for overnight journeys; not because I am too enfeebled to climb up the few steps of the ladder to the upper berth.  This has more to do with my inveterate inability to sleep on trains or buses or flights.

I believe God has been very equitable in distributing good sleeping habits; so equitable that two people in the same family are not blessed with the talent to nod off within five minutes of the vehicle, whatever be the mode of transportation, vibrates from some form of movement.  You can guess who the lucky one is in our family.  It takes some 90 seconds flat for my wife's head to meet her shoulder once the train starts moving.  I think she will sleep earlier, if I just tell her the train is in motion, even if it is not!!  My story is woefully different.  Even in the comfort of home, after adjusting everything surrounding me to be just-so-perfect, after a prolonged struggle, I have to normally sing to myself a lullaby in a hoarse, tired voice in order to attain Nirvana!  I tend to be of least help to myself, since as a habit, I insist on completing the whole lullaby, so the last few minutes before sleep are always tense and filled with drama. With two strenuous and mutually incompatible activities, if performed simultaneously by the same person, fervently competing with each other, one stays in a la-la-land for a period.  But, during travel, my pre-sleep discomfiture multiplies manifold.  I potter around the limited space graciously provided by the Railways, endlessly adjusting the pillow, the bed-sheet etc; trying to read a bit under that abysmally low-wattage lamp they have carefully fitted in the most inconvenient place possible; getting up and walking around a little, all the time thinking if others who are awake wonder whether I am somnambulant!!  Singing a lullaby in a train coach is not an activity even I would like to indulge in, so it gets infuriatingly frustrating when others around you are oh-so-blissfully-asleep so fast!

No, all this is not the ranting of a sleep deprived soul.  The angst comes from elsewhere.  Given the propensity to wallow in a pool of sleeplessness for most of the night, I make it a point to get a lower berth, so that I can sit up comfortably, if required, and continue my struggle to read under the dim lamp.  If one has travelled in an Indian train, one knows this is an impossible task to execute on the upper berth, which at best is good to crawl into and crash face down and then turn over to achieve one's favourite sleeping position!  This is the crux of the problem, which causes feverishness in me two hours prior to the commencement of the journey.  Why should I worry since I have a lower berth, you ask?  Let me explain.

The last few overnight journeys I have undertaken, fortified by the knowledge that I was fully equipped with a lower berth to take on all the travails the long night can throw at me, something goes amiss every time.  Once, someone older than me limped on one crutch into the compartment and even before sitting down, bleatingly asked me if I could give up my lower berth and take his upper!  Since then, if someone slightly out of the ordinary steps into the coach, my blood pressure ebbs significantly.  The next time it was a frighteningly pregnant woman, whose husband stood at the window, on platform and skillfully coached her to extract the same exchange deal.  When it is more than one lady in your section of the coach, you know you are doomed and that lower berth which you have nurtured for three months so carefully is slipping away from you.  The last time it was a man, his wife, a kid and the maid who were co-travellers and when the man popped the usual question, I did try to protest because this was becoming a routine and there was no respect for the effort I make in getting the lower berth at an early date.  But lower-berth-seekers on the train are a fiercely persistent lot.  They tell you sob stories, offer to roll up their trousers to display their old or new injuries, hold up the child as a weapon and even make their women pretend to struggle up the ladder one step, just to elicit your sympathy.  They rest only after they manage to seize what they feel is rightfully theirs and taken by you in an entirely unethical manner.  After a point, how do you stave them off??  During a recent trip, a man came with three ladies and was carrying something large under his armpit, apart from the bags.  When he came close, I realised it was an MRI film.  He actually kept the film out to show to me (I refused the honour) and prove that the only lady in the group who was in the sub-100 kg category, could not climb even half a step due to a freshly minted fracture and consequent treatment in the hospital.  What does one do??  I just heave one of my longest sighs, give up, tuck my tail between my hind legs, climb and crawl into the upper berth.  I cannot bring myself to be rude enough to decline all conversation with such specimens and this tribe can smell a sucker from a couple of miles away and go for the kill without remorse!

So, what do I plan to do?  Am buying a couple of braces for the ankle/knee, so that I can wear one for each journey (and both, if the `opponent' seems overly determined) as my own weapons.  I am also going to append a walking stick to myself.  I will limp my way to my coach and the moment talk of a barter starts, I will bare my knee and ankle and have my own sob story to tell!!  You think it will work??  I hope it does; otherwise, I have to find a different mode of travel because that upper berth is not for me!

God, please mend your ways!

When we were young, frequently we could hear parents admonishing children for kiddish indiscretions - like killing a few ants crawling on the floor thoughtlessly or kicking an elder playfully or wasting food already served.  The kids were told `Don't do that, God will hurt you just as you are hurting the ants'; or, when the next time the kid complains of some pain in the leg, `see, that is what happens when you kick elders; God is punishing you with that pain'; or `Don't throw away food; wasted food will complain to God and He will make sure some day you do not get enough to eat' and so on.  Even if the innocence of those years prevented us from either comprehending or believing all these fully, we were indeed forced to think of God's retribution for every `bad' action of ours.  We were made painfully aware of the Omniscient one watching over our routine activities and jotting down in his ledger against our names what punishment should be doled out on some future date for deviant behaviour.   Did that deter us from bad deeds and serious crimes when we grew up??  That is a moot point.  But, this correlation between our `bad' acts and God's fist descending on us some day for those was deeply etched in our consciousness and conditioned to some degree the way we grew up.

As we left our childhood behind and became adolescents and adults, there was no repreive from the above process.  In the context of every wrong committed by someone, one generally heard mutterings under the breath about how justice will be meted out by God eventually.  Helpless and affected bystanders cursed the offenders with God's wrath.  And the slightest sign of something negative happening to an individual, people promptly ascribed that to a punitive burst from God.   As a Thamizh saying goes, `King kills (punishes) immediately; God waits and kills (punishes)' and the faithful were pretty clear that even if the guilty escaped the clutches of justice momentarily, God will land the knock-out punch in time.

May be today's parents continue to put that same fear of god in their children with similar dire warnings, but generally the theory of crime and punishment seems to be more diffused, if not very diluted now, especially in the minds of grownups.  If a five-year-old falls and hurts himself while chasing an insect with the intent to hurt, a parent is more likely to encourage the kid to pick himself up and continue the chase.  That is the parent's way of ensuring that the kid does not lose his confidence or get put off by failure in life.  Likewise, a lot of things that were taboo earlier are no longer seen as acts `punishable' by God.  Have you ever wondered why that is?  I have and have concluded that people have lost that fear of God's retribution because (a) He is taking far too long to mete out that punishment, given the humongous population explosion that has come about and also due to the enormous spike in all kinds of petty and serious crimes (b) He is waiting for our tortoise-like judicial system to punish the offenders and spring into action after that, if further intervention is required (c) He is taking the Thamizh proverb too seriously and is waiting endlessly to strike with punitive action, even as it has been proven that our government and courts are just not capable of meting out justice.  Whatever the reason, it is clear that most people have gradually lost their faith in the correlation between misdeeds and retribution and this is manifested in the ways they go about their lives.

If you stand at a street-corner and hurl a brick blindly, you will probably hit eight people who should have earned the wrath of the God earlier, but are flourishing in life, despite all their crookedness and guilt.  The son of a minister grows up watching his father conniving and thieving away to glory, completely aligning himself to the `fact' that wrong actions pay and do not hurt. So, when he is barely twenty, the son also jumps into the fray to improve upon his father's criminal record through innovative and well-crafted shenanigans, so that he could carry the flaming torch of success and family pride into the future.  And the minister, the father, focuses on training the son not to get caught while plundering everyone around.  The same thing happens with a contractor's son or a policeman's son (I am sure the daughters are also going that way - going by some recent examples - but let us, for this exercise keep it to the sons!). They see that their fathers have been highly successful in plying their dishonest trade in blatantly criminal ways and have not been taken to task by God during their lifetimes.   They decide that they are not accountable to anyone since God has also seemingly diluted his standards to suit the times and is willing to give a lot of leeway to His subjects; so why should I, the son or daughter, not take advantage of an easy system already perfected by my father and ensure further growth??  Actually, with the home-advantage such people have, if they throw it all and walk away because they believe what their fathers are doing is `wrong', this society will brand them `failures' and `losers' instead of praising them for their ability to distinguish between good and bad.

Who is to blame for this mess?  Elders in the family invariably fault Kaliyug, in which they have seen travesties of justice in all matters being commonplace.  Yes, the first stop should be the government and systems of justice in place now, but then they are being run by the same bunch which is trying to perpetuate their ugly and criminal hold on everything through muscle and money; what else can we expect??   Next in line is God, who was seen to be more prompt and proficient with punishment earlier.  He seems to have lost his touch and also the desire to dole out penalties in order to keep his flock in good shape.  He has to sharpen up and get better technology and systems (one of the supercomputers?) in place to promptly identify offenders, give them a chance to turn and punish if they fail to.  He cannot work his current load with the ancient system of a ledger and cannot afford to wait and kill `eventually'!!  By the time He comes around looking for someone, that guy is probably gone without having suffered the slightest indignity or pain in life, leaving the bad legacy to his descendants.  The only way to rein in the people is for God to demonstrate His ability to punish when someone is alive and is into bad acts.  People today do not bother about after-life, simply because they are busy getting more skewed in their thinking, without fear of any accountability for their actions.  They have to see pain and suffering in this life; the sequence of crime and punishment has to be played out by God in all its severity, for those who cause pain to others so that there is a compelling deterrent.

I cannot but recall the way movies made during those times ended.  Invariably, the bad guys lost and got punished or they confessed to their crime and vowed to change.  The word `Subham' appeared on the screen and the audience walked away, savouring the fact that justice had been done and all was well.  Consider, in contrast, as to what happens today - The Don cocks a snook at everything in sight and jauntily declares that `Don ko pakhadna mushkil nahin, namumkin hai' (Catching the Don is not just difficult, but it is impossible)'.   Sign of the times?? That, in essence, is the prevailing scenario.  That will not improve unless God changes his ways and upgrades His punishment methods to align with the times.  He will have to carry the AK-47, even if his targets are cockroaches.  That is the only way He will regain the respect of the people!

God, please mend your ways!! Don't be a wimp and wait for too long to punish!! We have empirical evidence that it does not work!!

Taking toll on you and me!

Frequent users of the Bangalore-Madras highway, on which they strip one of roughly Rs.240 for the drive, or for that matter, any toll road in India, will find the contents of this post resonating well with them.  This particular road is still good, but has deteriorated in quality over the past year or two -- pretty abysmal, considering the fact that it has been functional only for 4 years or so -- with glaring and recurring evidence of some genuinely `sub'-contractors having displayed their `skills' on the road showing up.  Long stretches of the road are being closed for re-laying the top surface within such a short time, thereby drastically reducing the four lanes in two carriageways to two lanes in one.  This indicates that the age-old practice of  the sub-contractors using sub-standard materials, labour, techniques etc was seriously at work even on toll-road.  Surprising, because one wonders how the contractor forgot that he will have to dip into his own pocket to re-lay the toll-roads and cannot look to the munificence of the babus for government funding. 

While the quality of the ride may have improved significantly compared to the so-called national highway of yore, some of the quirks of road-travel during the trip are throw-backs to the earlier days - almost as if we will not be allowed to forget what things used to be!!

The first thing that strikes you when you line up and pay toll at the booth is that you are not dealing with the toll collector on equal terms, literally and physically.  He is sitting in a box which is at least a foot above the car window and it would be difficult for most drivers to reach out to him.  This difference in levels has created an additional employment opportunity in that the toll companies have had to introduce a special-purpose-vehicle in the form of an interlocutor, standing between the car and the toll collector, to bridge the distance as well as the gap in height.  As you approach the counter, this interlocutor has a single-word-question to all drivers - `single'??  He is not gathering information on your marital status for a survey, but is asking whether you plan to return on the same day, when you can pay the reduced `return' toll amount.  And even before you finish saying `yes' and hand over a 100-rupee note, the next robotically delivered question reaches you - `do you have 5 rupees'?  Invariably the toll is fixed by the company, in their infinite wisdom, at Rs.25, Rs.35 or Rs.45 for some unfathomable reason - I suspect it is only to provide this individual with incremental conversational opportunity - and he always tries to ferret out that 5 rupee coin you seem to be hiding for its numismatic value.  Not that they suffer from a severe dearth of coins; they just love to peel one from you to gloat over their good fortune and do a calypso at the end of the shift and so have to ask.  Once you express your inability to supply the coin of the desired denomination, which most of the drivers routinely seem to do, you do get the balance promptly (this includes a five-rupee coin obviously), along with the receipt, thereby indicating the collector has adequate supply of coins.  The height of the irony is that during one such exchange recently, a third individual inside the booth had some 4 bags of 5-rupee coins and was involved in some serious counting business, when the usual query was popped to my driver `do you have 5 rupees'??  We all laughed and said in chorus, pointing to the guy inside the booth, `No, but he does'.  If you thought this is unique with 5-rupee coins, you are wrong; if the toll is Rs.40 and you gave Rs.100, they will ask you if you have a 10-rupee note, so that they can return a 50-rupee note!! The characteristic Indian hoarding mentality never fails to hold forth and never fades!!

If you have travelled by road in Europe or US, you would have noticed that the right/left extreme lane remains unclogged and is used only by those overtaking others.  Such overtakers pass the vehicle in front and promptly move back to the other lane, as a matter of road discipline.  In India, we are new to the luxury of having multiple lanes to drive in and the inherent and complete lack of discipline that is the hallmark of Indian driver just got multiplied manifold by the generously additional space made available by the toll roads.  The result is that you notice frequently a tempo carrying a full load and then some, travelling at its 25 kmph peak speed  in the extreme lane even if the other lane is free.  But invariably that is not the case, as it is used by an ultra-long carrier holding something humongous -- actually it turns out to be a windmill blade that is about 60 ft in length -- going full tilt at 24 kmph.   That means all those fancy cars which are touted to reach 300 kmph in 20 seconds (of course, conditions apply and will never be met in India!) have to toodle along at 20 kmph and toot their horns in collective frustration, behind the aforesaid vehicles.  But there is some reprieve from boredom though.  Now, the drivers of these cars have to punt on whether the tempo or the carrier will be the eventual overtaker in this rather absorbing race and stay behind that vehicle.  Just that the process might take over 10 minutes, what with the drivers of the racing vehicles taking umbrage at each other for trying to compete intensely and accelerating by about 1 kmph, to keep the interest going for the punters!!  To boot, this might happen in some hilly part of the road where the gradient is steep; this means the speeds in question nosedive to 8 kmph and 7.5 kmph  respectively and you can imagine the agony of the other drivers, waiting for a small gap to emerge to dash through!  Wherever you see signs screaming `Heavy vehicles must stay on the left lane', you should expect in the next 50 metres, steep climbs and clusters of competing heavy vehicles anywhere but on the left lane!!

But it is not always fun and frolic.  Some typically thoughtless actions with possible deadly and tragic consequences are also played out on toll roads.  When you are moving along nicely at about 120 kmph, suddenly a couple of confounding headlights move towards you in your own carriageway - reminiscent of the old, two-lane roads.  This is a 'local' truck or tractor, fully loaded (the driver too, if probably fully loaded!), having used a gap in the verge to cross over and reach its destination on your side by the shortest possible route, ignoring all known rules of safety.  Such drivers have the temerity to think that they have done their duty as well as a big favour to you by switching on their headlights to warn you that they are doing something stupid and illegal.

The toll road is built with villages/towns all along the route (to be fair, the villages were always there, the road came later), very often one sees people standing around in clusters on either side of the road as well as on the middle verge.  Then, literally dripping with suicidal instincts and momentarily possessed by the village deity,  someone steps off the middle verge and runs across the broad highway looking straight, just as your car is approaching; I used to wonder how they knew I was coming and why they choose my car to sacrifice limb or life!!  There is no way of finding out and I have come to the conclusion that I should do serial offerings at all the temples along the route, to placate all the local deities and convince them to opt for some other car!!  The scary part is that most of such crossers are old men and women, who might have lost their vision partly and are probably short of hearing too; nothing else explains their hair-raising run.

Then, there are the mini tankers with their long hoses, used for watering the grass/plants on the verge in the middle of the road.  Invariably, the drivers of such trucks, with uncanny judgement and the exceptional skill they are endowed with in such matters,  park the trucks in the extreme right lane, around a bend in the road, such that you cannot see them even from 300 metres.  And there are no traffic-regulating-cones to warn you of activity around the bend.  As you belt down and run the bend, you suddenly come upon this gay, group activity akin to a lecture-cum-demonstration on `how to water plants using large hoses in the middle of the road' and have to brake heavily and swerve maniacally to avoid manslaughter.  I think the idea of plants in the middle of the road, however beautiful they are and even if they provide miniscule relief from the tedium of road travel, is a century ahead of its time in India.  Make it two centuries, to be safe.  As usual,  my wife disagrees and wants small gardens in the middle, all along the 350 km road, so that local people can also participate in the development of India and have a sense of ownership of roads and camaraderie with the road users!!  I shudder more violently than when I was doing that aforementioned, maniacal swerve!!

Turning Sixty

Till recently, I was quietly proud of my own track record of never having submitted to the ordeal of cutting a birthday cake, not once.  When we were young, that custom was not prevalent in our circles - most probably because egg was taboo at home and eggless cake was not even work in progress.  The celebration, if one can give it that nomenclature, started with the classic pink coloured cotton candy and abruptly ended after a merry-go-round ride, if one could be found.  Mind you, not in a party with the other kids, but just by yourself, accompanied by some frowning elder, who was mortified having to do what he was doing .  Elders could not be blamed because they never partied either.  By the time I was 10 or so, even that small bit of fun ceased because my little brother caught diphtheria after indiscriminately stuffing his young face with cotton candies, especially made for him with a heavier dose of bacteria than what his body was accustomed to.

Since that time, whenever there was an attempt to drag me, even kicking and screaming, to cut a cake, I had always dexterously found some exit route.  For someone who had grown older with such serious aversion to cake-cutting, my pride was dented recently, not once but twice in quick succession, within a ten day period.   My mistake was just that I turned 60 and none around me was willing to concede it was a natural process beyond my control; that it was not some monumental achievement I had worked for, with enormous skills not commonly identified in humans.  My protestations that even animals dumber than me age every year did not cut much ice and I was forced to go through two parties.  Don't get me wrong, the parties were enormous fun alright and the friends who put them together were so loving and thoughtful; but the cake cutting was not a joy! 

The first party was a surprise, absolutely so.  Usually with surprise parties, the only individual who lacks the critical knowledge that the person who is not supposed to know (let us call him/her the birthdayer, for want of a better term) about the party is actually in possession of this priceless information, is the party organizer.   This happens because an obtuse invitee chooses to call on the landline phone and without any preamble asks `So, what time are we supposed to meet for the surprise party'?, not realizing that the person at the other end is the birthdayer.  Or, a dimwit among the invitees meets the birthdayer a couple of days earlier and blurts out something about looking forward to the fun party and moves on without even realizing that he has given the game away.  In my case, this one was a genuine surprise because I had no clue, despite the fact that closer to the date, as a practice, I consciously deploy additional, ultra-sensitive antennae to catch all signals in the ether around me because I am always suspicious of a conspiracy to bring me and my cake face to face.  My dear wife had quietly outsourced the entire process of organization to some friends, with her own singular contribution regarding all the goodies I am fond of.   On the appointed day, I was feeling a bit under the weather and was taking things very easy.  My wife, unusually I must say, wondered why I had not even shaved and that should have sharpened my instincts.  But lethargy induced by the feeling that one was unwell had clouded my antennae completely.  A couple of friends called and tried to pull me out of the house, so that they could create party ambience without my knowledge.  I inadvertently threw a spanner into their machinery by declining because I did not feel like stirring out, without realizing I was inconveniencing a big crowd of 50 people already assembled somewhere else.  And actually went to sleep!! The next thing I knew, this group of people carrying all kinds of eats and drinks, marching into the house an hour later, as I was trying to nap.  There was a shower of confetti by some 10 kids and I was shocked out of my wits, still not any wiser about what was going on.  I was forced to shave, shower and then, horror of horrors, cut a cake, with a knife pointed at my ribs!!  It almost looked like it was either the cake or me, and I wisely opted for the cake to be cut.

The other party was not a surprise in that I knew about the arrangement.  The friend who graciously hosted this one knew me well enough and was afraid that I might just decamp on the day, if I was not told upfront - wise man! But I did not expect such a congregation of friends of a few decades from various cities; but the niggling thought that there was a cake hidden somewhere and would make its menacing appearance soon, was smothering all the joy bubbling up at the sight of old friends.  The fact that I share my birth date with a very dear friend, who was also present,  was a  great consolation because I was not going to face the ordeal alone.  This friend is a shameless, avid cake-cutter (he looks for knives to cut cakes on display in bakeries and his wife has to physically restrain him!) and I knew he would take over without a pause, if I were to prove unequal to the demanding task.  When those tiny wedges were cut off the whole cakes, my friend was beaming from ear to ear, while I felt mortified for a second time in ten days at the sickening thought of my track record having been besmirched irredeemably.

It was so funny, seeing other grey-haired men breezily calling me`old man', just because they had a few more strands of black hair (actually it did not matter, some had no hair at all!) and were two weeks behind me in reaching the milestone of sixty.  Even that is dubious because some of them are very capable of a shenanigan a la the Army Chief - have two different birth dates, one for seniority in the office as well as special situations which demanded `elderly' bulldozing; and another for going around calling others `old men'.

While I was not the least bit uncomfortable about being sixty (I was more worried about the cake-cutting!), some cheer came my way in the next few days.  First, I went to the Indian Railway's website to reserve tickets for travel in May.  Even with three months to go, the chart, as usual, mocked at me screaming `berths not available'; but wait-listing was possible.  So, I went ahead and sought to wait-list myself.  When I hesitantly ticked the box to declare for the first time that I was a senior citizen and hit `go', I had a pleasant surprise.  It looks like there is a separate quota for senior citizens (this is not disclosed upfront for some reason), from which I got a lower berth allotted pronto, that too at a concessional rate!!  Considering that there is not much difference between say fifty eight and sixty,  I wished I was the latter two years earlier, to reap these fringe benefits!  How many times had I been rebuffed earlier by the same reservation system with that foul, stern message that `even wait listing was not possible'?  And then came the biggest surprise - when I half heartedly asked the cashier at my golf club whether there was a concessional rate for `senior citizens', he glumly disclosed `Yes sir; it is less than 30% of the normal rate'.  He knew it was a big cut that my game did not deserve, but could not do anything about it!  That was the icing on the cake, you will agree.  I only hope I don't have to cut any more cakes, ever!  Unless of course, they would let me into golf clubs and trains completely free, gratis!!