A cup of filter coffee in one hand, while one tries to do justice to a plate of idli-vada with the other hand even as a hit song from the Tamil film in which popular actor Karthik made his debut blares in the background.
Chennai in the 1980s? Actually no. It is Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia in 2010. As I sip the coffee and drink in the atmosphere I could not but experience a sense of déjà vu of being back in the Chennai or Madras as it was then know of my boyhood. After one steps outside the hotel though all thoughts of being in Chennai disappear. There can be no mistaking the fact that one is in Malaysia or at least the fact that it is not Chennai. Despite, the significant strides that India has made as a nation in the last five years, despite remaining relatively unaffected by the global economic meltdown, India lags far behind other countries when it comes to infrastructure. What all this has resulted is in that while the India story has been good in terms of improving the income levels of at least a certain section of the population, it hasn’t translated into a better quality of life for Indians
Despite this shortcoming there is a sense of pride as one goes about ones business in an elite Kuala Lumpur shopping mall. It only reconfirms my impression that today there is nothing lacking in India. The old paradigm of Indians going abroad for their shopping and then showing off to their neighbors is gone forever. Add to this that fact that India is a vibrant democracy where one can freely speak one’s mind and you realize that you have got a good deal in India. Sure it is a democracy that is flawed. Sure one would give a lot for uninterrupted supply of water and power. And yes, the roads can be much better. But then India has managed to marry democracy and growth. Not many countries from the developing world have managed that particular combination. As India continues its journey on the road less traveled all one wants to make the journey complete is good, clean roads. Then the dream would continue when gets out of a Kuala Lumpur hotel next time.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Living to Fight Another Day
“ Ravi, you are simply running,” away said my friend Ajay. “ I am running away to fight another day,” I returned. The year was 1997 and I had spent about a year in Business Standard as a journalist and had clearly failed to master the art of reporting. No one doubted my writing skills but the consensus in the newspaper was that I quite simply did not know reporting. To tell the truth I myself had come to the same conclusion. The dream of 1996 had clearly turned into the nightmare of 1997.
It was then that I made what in retrospect turned out to be a wise decision. I simply decided to take a break for around 15 days around mid-May and went off on a holiday to Chennai and Bangalore. I can also say that with the benefit of hindsight that I did the right thing by simply refusing to even think about my work and simply enjoyed myself. The net result of all that was that I felt refreshed when I came back.
I also found able allies on the road to making my career work: My friend Ajay and my boss R Sriram who is the present Editor of The Economic Times, Bangalore. Ajay not only assured me that I had the skills to succeed in the profession, but also displayed a surprising knowledge of journalism for one who was not a journalist. He guided me on newspaper requirements. Sriram actually taught me the tricks of the trade. Amongst other things he taught the art of developing sources. Plus the art of simply being firm with companies\individuals who were ducking queries that were uncomfortable for them. For instance, a leading Indian company had submitted a corporate restructuring to the financial institutions and I had managed to get hold of a document outlining that. Despite that, Sriram first insisted that I get a comment from the company and later when the company ducked responding to my faxed questionnaire under one pretext or the other, he insisted on my telling the company in question that I intended to go-ahead with story now without a comment from its end. The response was instantaneous. In two minutes a person from the CEO’s office was on the line gving me a comment. That was Sriram for you. He not only taught me but a bunch of mostly rookie Business Standard journalists between 1996 and 1999 the art of reporting.
All this worked for I did get two promotions in the next three years in Business Standard. Of course it was time to move on from the newspaper and eventually from journalism. I have never forgotten that in life it is important to live to fight another day. Nor of course Ajay and Sriram who helped me make that decision work.
It was then that I made what in retrospect turned out to be a wise decision. I simply decided to take a break for around 15 days around mid-May and went off on a holiday to Chennai and Bangalore. I can also say that with the benefit of hindsight that I did the right thing by simply refusing to even think about my work and simply enjoyed myself. The net result of all that was that I felt refreshed when I came back.
I also found able allies on the road to making my career work: My friend Ajay and my boss R Sriram who is the present Editor of The Economic Times, Bangalore. Ajay not only assured me that I had the skills to succeed in the profession, but also displayed a surprising knowledge of journalism for one who was not a journalist. He guided me on newspaper requirements. Sriram actually taught me the tricks of the trade. Amongst other things he taught the art of developing sources. Plus the art of simply being firm with companies\individuals who were ducking queries that were uncomfortable for them. For instance, a leading Indian company had submitted a corporate restructuring to the financial institutions and I had managed to get hold of a document outlining that. Despite that, Sriram first insisted that I get a comment from the company and later when the company ducked responding to my faxed questionnaire under one pretext or the other, he insisted on my telling the company in question that I intended to go-ahead with story now without a comment from its end. The response was instantaneous. In two minutes a person from the CEO’s office was on the line gving me a comment. That was Sriram for you. He not only taught me but a bunch of mostly rookie Business Standard journalists between 1996 and 1999 the art of reporting.
All this worked for I did get two promotions in the next three years in Business Standard. Of course it was time to move on from the newspaper and eventually from journalism. I have never forgotten that in life it is important to live to fight another day. Nor of course Ajay and Sriram who helped me make that decision work.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Children and the art of timelessness.
I was catching up on my CD viewing during a recent public holiday. I decided to watch my collection of Hindi songs from the films of the great Hrishikesh Mukherjee for the millionth time. My son Sanjiv decided to skip his afternoon nap and join me for the viewing. Once he decided to do so it became a venture fraught with possibilities.
As we heard the songs, one by one it became that they were lost on my son. The beauties of the numbers form the 1966 film Anupama or the classic songs of the 1970 film Anand did not leave him dumbfounded. When I asked him for an opinion he gave it freely –Bad. On an instinct, I switched to the song “ Rail Gadi, Chugh Chugh” from the movie Aashirwaad of 1968 vintage where a none too young Ashok Kumar mimics the sounds of an train and announces the arrival of one station after another. Suddenly Sanjiv was rolling down the bed in laughter. What is more he kept asking for repeated encores.
Suddenly, this song from Aashirwad which I used to routinely fast forward had occupied the same place in life for Sanjiv that had earlier been reserved for songs from films like Taare Zaamin Par (Bam Bam Bole). A four year old child in 2010 liked a song from a 2009 film as well as a 1968 film. Children seem to love the same thing down the ages. Whether it is songs or stories. That is the reason that stories form the Ramayana And Mahabharata have been handed down the ages. Reflecting a certain timelessness. Like children themselves.
As we heard the songs, one by one it became that they were lost on my son. The beauties of the numbers form the 1966 film Anupama or the classic songs of the 1970 film Anand did not leave him dumbfounded. When I asked him for an opinion he gave it freely –Bad. On an instinct, I switched to the song “ Rail Gadi, Chugh Chugh” from the movie Aashirwaad of 1968 vintage where a none too young Ashok Kumar mimics the sounds of an train and announces the arrival of one station after another. Suddenly Sanjiv was rolling down the bed in laughter. What is more he kept asking for repeated encores.
Suddenly, this song from Aashirwad which I used to routinely fast forward had occupied the same place in life for Sanjiv that had earlier been reserved for songs from films like Taare Zaamin Par (Bam Bam Bole). A four year old child in 2010 liked a song from a 2009 film as well as a 1968 film. Children seem to love the same thing down the ages. Whether it is songs or stories. That is the reason that stories form the Ramayana And Mahabharata have been handed down the ages. Reflecting a certain timelessness. Like children themselves.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tendulkar and the Art of Breaking Bulbs
“Daddy, you must bat like Sachin Tendulkar,” said my son Sanjiv just a few days before the great batsman cracked the historic double hundred in a one day international. We were playing cricket outside my brother’s house in a courtyard of sorts. Strangely maybe because he is a child, he showed a preference for bowling.
The suggestion I guess could have been made only by an adoring four year son when it comes to me. To reiterate a point made earlier by me during my college days, my friends recognized my passion and knowledge of the game but not my talent.
Coming back to the present, perhaps inspired by my son’s words I unleashed what by kids’ standards was a ferocious drive. The speeding ball found an unlikely mark—a tube light and of course there was a crash. Why anybody should keep a tube light with a blown fuse (as subsequent enquiries revealed), in a courtyard was of course a mystery. Anyway, any chance that the tube light would at least flicker during its dying embers was put to rest. as it split into numerous pieces. Also for sometime the game came to a halt as father and son retired to the safe precincts of my brother’s house and watched the remnants of the tube light being swept away. Later on when the game resumed, Sanjiv wisely did not let me bat and showed to the world that here was a batsman in the classic Sunil Gavaskar mould when it came displaying a tight defence.
This took me back to my college days when I managed to combine singing (again something at which I am no good at) with breaking bulbs. While humming a popular Shammi Kapoor number of the 1960S I threw the ball in the air in my kitchen only to hear a bang. Of course it was a bulb. I guess old habits die hard. As I have transited from being a college going adolescent to being a father, I continue to be bad cricketer, a bad singer but continue to display a talent for breaking bulbs. The canvas has only widened with the courtyard replacing the kitchen and of course the bulb giving way to a tube light.
The suggestion I guess could have been made only by an adoring four year son when it comes to me. To reiterate a point made earlier by me during my college days, my friends recognized my passion and knowledge of the game but not my talent.
Coming back to the present, perhaps inspired by my son’s words I unleashed what by kids’ standards was a ferocious drive. The speeding ball found an unlikely mark—a tube light and of course there was a crash. Why anybody should keep a tube light with a blown fuse (as subsequent enquiries revealed), in a courtyard was of course a mystery. Anyway, any chance that the tube light would at least flicker during its dying embers was put to rest. as it split into numerous pieces. Also for sometime the game came to a halt as father and son retired to the safe precincts of my brother’s house and watched the remnants of the tube light being swept away. Later on when the game resumed, Sanjiv wisely did not let me bat and showed to the world that here was a batsman in the classic Sunil Gavaskar mould when it came displaying a tight defence.
This took me back to my college days when I managed to combine singing (again something at which I am no good at) with breaking bulbs. While humming a popular Shammi Kapoor number of the 1960S I threw the ball in the air in my kitchen only to hear a bang. Of course it was a bulb. I guess old habits die hard. As I have transited from being a college going adolescent to being a father, I continue to be bad cricketer, a bad singer but continue to display a talent for breaking bulbs. The canvas has only widened with the courtyard replacing the kitchen and of course the bulb giving way to a tube light.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Dad, Cricket and Beer
It has been a couple of weeks since my father has been admitted to hospital and finally we have the news that he is likely to be discharged tomorrow. He called me up a few minutes back and while he appeared recovered, he also sounded weak. After kindly enquiring about my wellbeing as only fathers can he came back with the question, “What is the score?” He wanted to know the score in the ongoing second test match between India and South Africa. I could not but marvel that even while in hospital his appetite and enthusiasm for cricket remained undimmed.
This took me back to the magic year of 2003 when India under Soured Ganguly’s captaincy made it to the world cup final in South Africa. I had been married for only a few months at that point and when my wife returned from work she opened the refrigerator only to find a few bottles of beer. This was sacrilege. The pre-wedding script that had been given to her was that I was a teetotaler. She suddenly began doubting whether the Tamil Brahmin she had got married to recently was all that he had been portrayed to be. It was my mother who put her on the right track. It was not me but my dad who had ordered the beer to celebrate India’s march to the semifinals. This of course restored my wife’s confidence in me. My dad of course had one more bottle of beer when India made it to the finals. I suspect he had one when India lost the finals –this of course was downed in sorrow while the other two had been washed down with joy.
This is not to say that my father is prone to drinking. Indeed the only other time I remember him having a glass of beer was after my brother’s engagement in 1996 that too when some relatives wanted to celebrate. At the bar, we ran into some of my close friends and we all celebrated the moment together. I have to concede that a glass of beer did bridge the generation gap on that day. To this day my friends cannot get over the fact that a man well past 60 years joined guys less than half his age for a drink.
Well, all I can say is that he has been a great father and really I have no complaints where he is concerned. In short, welcome home again dad.
This took me back to the magic year of 2003 when India under Soured Ganguly’s captaincy made it to the world cup final in South Africa. I had been married for only a few months at that point and when my wife returned from work she opened the refrigerator only to find a few bottles of beer. This was sacrilege. The pre-wedding script that had been given to her was that I was a teetotaler. She suddenly began doubting whether the Tamil Brahmin she had got married to recently was all that he had been portrayed to be. It was my mother who put her on the right track. It was not me but my dad who had ordered the beer to celebrate India’s march to the semifinals. This of course restored my wife’s confidence in me. My dad of course had one more bottle of beer when India made it to the finals. I suspect he had one when India lost the finals –this of course was downed in sorrow while the other two had been washed down with joy.
This is not to say that my father is prone to drinking. Indeed the only other time I remember him having a glass of beer was after my brother’s engagement in 1996 that too when some relatives wanted to celebrate. At the bar, we ran into some of my close friends and we all celebrated the moment together. I have to concede that a glass of beer did bridge the generation gap on that day. To this day my friends cannot get over the fact that a man well past 60 years joined guys less than half his age for a drink.
Well, all I can say is that he has been a great father and really I have no complaints where he is concerned. In short, welcome home again dad.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Yoga and New Year Resolutions
I don’t break new year resolutions for the simple reason I don’t make them in the first place. This year I would say that I did make one (although would still hesitate to use the term) and more importantly have stuck to it with a certain steadfastness for a month.
I decided that every weekend I would spend two hours learning Yoga. Sure enough I am ready for my Yoga teacher when he comes home in the morning, having already taken a bath. Every Saturday and Sunday in 2010 (alright I did skip one Sunday) I have been learning Yoga for an hour. What has helped me is what in management jargon can be termed as “the customized home delivery model”, which when translated into simple English means that I have a person teaching me Yoga at home and I don’t have to get up early during the weekend and rush to a class.
The truth is also that I have actually been ready to get out of bed and attend Yoga classes and even enrolled in one. This led to a very strange situation where the student was willing but the teacher was simply unavailable. The institute very kindly offered to refund the money as they were having a problem getting a teacher for the particular batch that I had enrolled. I graciously offered to wait. Like all great problems this one too had a simple solution. A yoga teacher landed quite literally at my doorstep. My wife and mother chanced to speak to my neighbour Mule aunty who informed them that she had a teacher come over to her house everyday. Then matters as the great story tellers say took their course and I am finally learning Yoga.
On a more serious note, this perhaps illustrates best what my teacher Shyamji says in practically every session: Yoga is learnt only by those people who are destined to learn it. While doing Yoga has added a certain amount of peace to my life, it has also served to remind me that I am not getting any younger. The Sarvanghasan, (an exercise where one has to kind of support oneself using the neck) which was child’s play when I was a child is now not so easy. In fact, I have already deferred trying it a couple of times.
The body may not be so flexible but still willing. The mind of course is still willing as I continue on my journey of learning Yoga. This is one year resolution which I shall do my best to keep.
I decided that every weekend I would spend two hours learning Yoga. Sure enough I am ready for my Yoga teacher when he comes home in the morning, having already taken a bath. Every Saturday and Sunday in 2010 (alright I did skip one Sunday) I have been learning Yoga for an hour. What has helped me is what in management jargon can be termed as “the customized home delivery model”, which when translated into simple English means that I have a person teaching me Yoga at home and I don’t have to get up early during the weekend and rush to a class.
The truth is also that I have actually been ready to get out of bed and attend Yoga classes and even enrolled in one. This led to a very strange situation where the student was willing but the teacher was simply unavailable. The institute very kindly offered to refund the money as they were having a problem getting a teacher for the particular batch that I had enrolled. I graciously offered to wait. Like all great problems this one too had a simple solution. A yoga teacher landed quite literally at my doorstep. My wife and mother chanced to speak to my neighbour Mule aunty who informed them that she had a teacher come over to her house everyday. Then matters as the great story tellers say took their course and I am finally learning Yoga.
On a more serious note, this perhaps illustrates best what my teacher Shyamji says in practically every session: Yoga is learnt only by those people who are destined to learn it. While doing Yoga has added a certain amount of peace to my life, it has also served to remind me that I am not getting any younger. The Sarvanghasan, (an exercise where one has to kind of support oneself using the neck) which was child’s play when I was a child is now not so easy. In fact, I have already deferred trying it a couple of times.
The body may not be so flexible but still willing. The mind of course is still willing as I continue on my journey of learning Yoga. This is one year resolution which I shall do my best to keep.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Message from Matheran
It was about a quarter of a century ago in Matheran (when I was all of 20 years) that I discovered that the sky was blue. Rather late in the day one might think. If you are however brought up in Mumbai you would have never seen a blue sky. I dare say that this is true of most Indian cities. Finally looking up at the heavens in Matheran that I managed to confirm what I had learnt probably in kindergarten.
It was during that trip to Matheran that I also discovered the meaning of another expression “Blue Haze of Smoke”. All had just started smoking. It wasn’t until I visited what is described as the world’s smallest hill station that I was finally able to grasp the meaning of the expression. Finally, I could see the blue haze of smoke as it wafted it ways across to the sky.
Naturally, the first thing that I wanted to see when I visited Matheran this weekend was to check out whether one could still see the smoke. Forget the fact that I had quit smoking or there is a ban on smoking in public spaces, I could clearly see the person in front of me smoke as I rode on a horse covering the last mile in Matheran. Sure enough the kid in front of me (possibly 20 years) smoking and the blue smoke curling up. The smoke however didn’t travel the distance. I asked the escort\owner of my horse as to whether the climate in this hill station had deteriorated. He answered in the affirmative. This despite the fact that no pollution emitting vehicle is allowed inside Matheran. After all even this hill station could not remain immune to the overall deterioration in the atmosphere.
Over the course of the next 24 hours I had to concede that the place had retained its pristine purity and not fallen prey to commercialization unlike other hill stations. While I rode on horse most of the time, my wife and son rode on a rickshaw drawn by two people. Horses and rickshaws are the only two modes of travel available in Matheran. Since my 4 year old son vetoed the idea of riding on a horse, we had to enlist the services of a rickshaw. This set me thinking again.
Matheran had managed to retain its charm by not falling prey to commercialization. Maybe the decision to not allow vehicles in just had something to do with the fact that the roads are extremely narrow. At any rate, this had resulted in many of its inhabitants having to take up pulling risckshaws for a living. Something against which the very fiber in one’s body revolted. If other hill stations had paid a price for commercialization, the residents of this hill station had paid a price for not going the commercial way. Taking the road less travelled clearly extracts a price too.
It was during that trip to Matheran that I also discovered the meaning of another expression “Blue Haze of Smoke”. All had just started smoking. It wasn’t until I visited what is described as the world’s smallest hill station that I was finally able to grasp the meaning of the expression. Finally, I could see the blue haze of smoke as it wafted it ways across to the sky.
Naturally, the first thing that I wanted to see when I visited Matheran this weekend was to check out whether one could still see the smoke. Forget the fact that I had quit smoking or there is a ban on smoking in public spaces, I could clearly see the person in front of me smoke as I rode on a horse covering the last mile in Matheran. Sure enough the kid in front of me (possibly 20 years) smoking and the blue smoke curling up. The smoke however didn’t travel the distance. I asked the escort\owner of my horse as to whether the climate in this hill station had deteriorated. He answered in the affirmative. This despite the fact that no pollution emitting vehicle is allowed inside Matheran. After all even this hill station could not remain immune to the overall deterioration in the atmosphere.
Over the course of the next 24 hours I had to concede that the place had retained its pristine purity and not fallen prey to commercialization unlike other hill stations. While I rode on horse most of the time, my wife and son rode on a rickshaw drawn by two people. Horses and rickshaws are the only two modes of travel available in Matheran. Since my 4 year old son vetoed the idea of riding on a horse, we had to enlist the services of a rickshaw. This set me thinking again.
Matheran had managed to retain its charm by not falling prey to commercialization. Maybe the decision to not allow vehicles in just had something to do with the fact that the roads are extremely narrow. At any rate, this had resulted in many of its inhabitants having to take up pulling risckshaws for a living. Something against which the very fiber in one’s body revolted. If other hill stations had paid a price for commercialization, the residents of this hill station had paid a price for not going the commercial way. Taking the road less travelled clearly extracts a price too.
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