Sangeeta and I decided to break the news to Ruchi a day after receiving the test results. Most of our friends already knew. Sangeeta’s parents were extremely delighted and if mine were alive, they too would have been.
‘Honey, we’ve got some news for you,’ I told Ruchi hoping to excite her with my high octane pitch.
‘Some wonderful news, we have,’ Sangeeta added patting her tummy as if it would give Ruchi a clue to what was in store for her.
Ruchi stared at us for a second, before a hint of happiness crept into her doleful seven year old eyes and she asked, ‘what’s the news?’
‘Darling, you’re getting a new playmate!’ I told her.
‘That’s right. Someone for you to play with,’ Sangeeta dutifully chimed.
Realisation slowly dawned on Ruchi. She discarded the PlayStation console and jumped out of her chair, a small smile on her lips.
‘Mummy is going to have a baby!’ I announced in stentorian tones. Sangeeta continued to pat and rub her tummy as if this action would convey to Ruchi more than anything she could possibly say. Maybe she guessed I wanted her to say something because she soon told Ruchi, ‘you’re going to have a baby sister!’
‘Oh!’ Ruchi said in a voice which could have been chirpier.
‘It could be a baby brother,’ I warned her. ‘We’ll know in a couple of months if it’s going to be a baby brother or a baby sister. But it doesn’t matter, does it honey?’
Ruchi shrugged her shoulders. ‘Aren’t you happy? I asked her, quickly glancing at Sangeeta who looked a trifle disappointed. I wished Ruchi would jump into Sangeeta’s arms and hug her, but Ruchi stayed where she was.
‘I’m happy,’ Ruchi said, speaking slowly in a way which meant she was thinking. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her small head.
‘The baby … It’ll be my half-sister, won’t it?’ Ruchi asked.
Sangeeta and I were silent. ‘Yes, it’ll be your half-sister,’ I conceded after a second.
‘Or my half-brother,’ Ruchi said, giving us both a reassuring smile as she went back to her PlayStation.
Friday, 30 January 2009
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Fast, Cheap and Good
When buying any service, you can have two of the above three. You will almost never get all three: Cheap, Good and Fast.
If it's cheap and good, it won't be fast;
If it's fast and good, it won't be cheap;
If it's cheap and fast, it won't be good;
If someone offers you all there, do remember to say "Thank you Santa Claus".
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Book Review: Liberal Fascism: The Secret History of the American Left, From Mussolini to the Politics of Meaning by Jonah Goldberg
Jonah Goldberg is a conservative columnist and an editor at National Review. In his book Liberal Facism, Goldberg makes a very interesting case for the proposition that liberals are a lot more fascist than conservatives, though they constantly use the F word to besmirch conservatives and right-wingers.
The Italian word ‘fascismo’ is derived from the Italian word ‘fascio’ and the Latin word ‘fasces’. Fascio means ‘bundle’ or ‘union.’ In ancient Rome, ‘fasces’ was a bundle of rods tied together and was a symbolic of a magistrate’s authority. It denoted strength through unity since a bundle of rods can’t be broken up as easily as a single rod. Giovanni Gentile, the Italian philosopher who described as the Philosopher of Fascism wrote an essay called ‘The Doctrine of Fascism’ which was signed by Benito Mussolini and attributed to Mussolini. Fascism, as propounded by Gentile and Mussolini, propagated a nationalist ideology, that gave the ruler total authority to solve the nation’s economic, political and social problems. The main difference between fascism in its initial stages in Italy and communism is that communism preaches global brotherhood of workers and is not nationalist. Both idelogoies relegate the individual to the background and give importance to collective rights. It is worth noting that in its initial stages, Italian fascism was not inherently racist. It was only in the late 1930s that Mussolini adopted Hitler’s antipathy to the Jews and expelled many Italian Jews from his party. After World War II started, fascism began to be associated with Nazism, totalitarianism and racism.
Goldberg examines the ‘fascist’ streaks in US presidents ranging from Wilson to Roosevelt, Lyndon B. Johnson to Kennedy and says that liberal fascism in the United States predates Italian fascism. Hillary Clinton is also labelled ‘fascist.’ In simple terms, Goldberg labels any form of authoritarianism and suppression of a dissenting view as fascism and he says that liberals are much more guilty of such ‘fascism’ than so called conservatives and right wingers. Goldberg gives various examples of how so called left-wing liberals have used ‘fascist’ methods to promote their ideologies, be it abortion rights or higher taxes or greater welfare measures. Goldberg’s grievance is that liberals have been so successful in linking fascism with right-wing ideology and conservatism that most Americans tend to make that association.
I do agree with Goldberg that liberals may be as much guilty of using authoritarian measures to promote their goals as anybody else. To give a recent example, animal rights activists in the UK carried out a protracted campaign of intimidating employees and suppliers of Huntingdon Life Sciences, a company which carries out testing of medicines and other pharmaceutical products. Some of those activists were sentenced to long prison terms very recently.
Goldberg’s arguments are not necessarily water-tight. For example, he says that the Klu-Klux-Klan disliked Mussolini and hence are not fascist. Further, Goldberg does not even mention or try to explain the existence of right-wing fanatics such as Aryan Nations or the British National Party. The Oklahoma City bombing was carried out by a right-wing fanatic. None of these find a mention in Goldberg’s book.
Further, I don’t agree with Goldberg when he traces the ‘common’ roots of fascism and liberalism and tries to show them to be the same. It is true that Mussolini and Hitler were socialists. Liberals in the USA and elsewhere did like Mussolini and supported him till he became a German ally. It is also true that Communism as practised in the Soviet Union and the China of the 1950s and 1960s had a few things in common with fascism. However, trying to say that welfare socialism promoted by the some US Democrats and the Labour Party in the UK is fascism is downright silly.
At the end of the day, you may not agree with Goldberg. Nevertheless I would recommend that you read this book, if only to understand how a conservative American’s mind works.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Short Story: Beyond Innocence
I met Reepa's parents outside Roseberry Hall as they parked their car by the road. 'I don't have any change,' Reepa's father Nilesh said as he fumbled in his jacket for some change to pay the parking charge. In a sense I was relieved that Nilesh was able to focus on something like that. I gave Nilesh some change, took them to my room and sat them both down on my bed. They had a look of disbelief, as if they were waiting for me to tell them that the whole thing was a big joke Reepa was playing on them and that they could go home. But I couldn't tell them that. No way. Not after I had seen Reepa in the mortuary and identified her to the cops. The four inch gash across her throat had been too real. The police had questioned me and would have made me stay longer if I hadn’t managed to convince them that I had no plans to run away and that it was vital for me to meet Reepa's parents when they arrived.
'Do you want to use the loo?' I asked them.
'Yes, I do. But you go first,' Nilesh told Pallavi.
'No, I don't want to,' Pallavi said woodenly.
'Nonsense. We were in the car for almost three and a half hours.' He then turned to me. 'We didn't stop anywhere you know.'
Pallavi hesitantly got up. I opened the door pointed her towards the toilet at the end of the corridor.
'Must be a record, to drive from Manchester to London in under three and a half hours.'
'There was not much traffic, Sunday morning, and well, I drove like mad. Now tell me what really happened. Are you sure Reepa is dead?'
I sighed. 'Yes she is.'
Tears came to Nilesh's eyes and his shoulders trembled. 'She had everything going for her. She wanted to go to the LSE ever since she was fourteen. And now this … Life is so cruel.'
I was silent.
'I hope they catch the men who did this. Do you have any idea why they had to kill her? Why didn't they just take what she had and let her live?'
I started to lift my shoulders in a shrug, but didn’t. I continued to be silent. Reepa’s father was making a reasonable inference given the circumstances, though he was dead wrong. How could I tell them about Jimmy? I ought to have told them at least six months ago, as soon as Reepa started to spend all her free time with Jimmy. But I hadn't. It was none of my business I had told myself. I didn't subscribe to the Indian values which my parents and Reepa's folks carried across continents and oceans when they came to the UK to work for the NHS. If Reepa wanted to date Jimmy, that was strictly her business. And now, thanks to Jimmy, Reepa was dead.
'Do you think she resisted them when they tried to mug her? She could be stupid at times!'
This time I shrugged my shoulders and wondered how Jimmy was reacting to Reepa's murder. Did he really care? In his own way? Was he planning to retaliate against the murderers? For some reason, I hoped that Jimmy would be able to kill the people who killed Reepa. My thoughts then turned to more immediate matters. Was Jimmy likely to turn up at Roseberry Hall and remove any incriminating evidence from Reepa's room? Should I try and stop him if he did? I might not survive such an attempt since Jimmy was a six feet four inch tall man with a build to match and most probably carried a gun.
As soon as Pallavi came back into the room, Nilesh got up and went out. You could have gone with her, I almost told Nilesh. The toilets at Roseberry Hall can take more than one person at a time. Didn’t they know that? They had been here many times before. But it was too late to remind them. Too late for not just the toilets. For a second I wanted to laugh hysterically. I'm so sorry Nilesh, I wanted to tell him. I had let both Nilesh and Pallavi down. I keep saying Pallavi and Nilesh instead of Pallavi aunty and Nilesh uncle. That's because I think of them as Pallavi and Nilesh, even though I address them as Pallavi aunty and Nilesh uncle.
'Can’t we go to the mortuary right away and see her?' Nilesh asked in a choking voice when he came back. On hearing that, Pallavi burst into tears. 'Is she really, really dead? My poor baby! Why did they kill her?'
'The police told me that they want you to identify the body. I’ve done that already, but I’m not a close relative. But before you do that, they want to ask you some questions. They will give me a call once they are ready to talk to you. I've given them my mobile number. They'll call me and then we go down to the police station. From there they’ll take you to the mortuary.'
'I don’t want to identify her body. I just want to see here. Why can’t we go to the mortuary right now? Why should we go to the police station first?' Nilesh asked, his voice breaking once more.
'That’s what the police told me. They want to talk to you first, maybe take a statement in the police station and then take you to the mortuary to see Reepa. There will be a post-mortem in a day or so. And a coroner’s inquest in a week or so to determine the cause of death. Only after that will they release the body to you.' I was not playing square with Nilesh. I knew that the police were planning to do some serious questioning before they allowed Nilesh and Pallavi to see Reepa. Her body I mean. But Nilesh had stopped paying attention to me. I guess he knew pretty well the procedure for holding a post-mortem and the coroner’s inquest. He was a doctor after all, as was his wife who didn’t pay attention to a single word I spoke. We were all silent for a while. I desperately wanted to tell them everything, but I could not bring myself to do it. I had been woken up by the resident warden at three in the morning telling me that Reepa had been, well…, murdered and asking me if I could go to the Lewisham Public Mortuary with him to identify the body. After I identified the body, the police asked me to call Reepa’s folks and tell them. The policeman in charge had asked me if I could answer some questions. Did I know anything of Reepa's drug habits? Did I know how long she had been involved with gangs? They had made up their minds that the murder was drugs related. I had denied knowledge of everything, other than tell them that she had a boy-friend named Jimmy. The police knew all about Jimmy. They apparently had a very thick dossier on him, with a couple of pages in it devoted to his girl-friend Reepa.
'Ranjit will be here soon. I called him before we started our journey.' Ranjit was Reepa's elder brother. He was following his parents' footsteps, studying medicine at Newcastle.
'Why don't we go down and get some breakfast?' I asked them.
'Are you sure we cannot go to the mortuary right away?'
'No, we can’t. Unless the investigating officer authorises you to see the body, they won’t let you. You know that, don’t you Nilesh? I think you should eat some food before the police call me and we go to the police station. Once the police call me, we won’t have any time for food.'
'Okay. Where do we go?
I took them out to a nearby place where they served All Day Breakfasts. We placed our orders – An All Day Breakfast for me and just coffee and toast for Nilesh and Pallavi - and waited to be served.
My mind drifted back to the day Reepa and I started as undergraduates at the LSE. We knew each other vaguely since my father was also a doctor with the NHS and he had worked in the same hospital as Reepa's father when they were both very young. I remember seeing her and Ranjit at one of those Indian doctors-dos at Warrington when I was ten or eleven. We had both chosen Roseberry Hall – it was reasonably close to the LSE, closer than Butler’s Wharf, and not as pricey as High Holborn, which was the closest - and had moved into it at about the same time. Reepa's parents were naturally anxious about their daughter and they were very happy to see that I was around. In their eyes, I was an Indian boy who would be a friend to their daughter. I didn't really mind. One look at Reepa and I knew that she didn't want an Indian friend to take care of her. She was ready to spread her wings. You know, she had the sort of look which girls from protected backgrounds have, the ardent desire to go their way, do their thing, make their mistakes and live their lives. But there was no hint of any stupidity. No Sir, if someone had told me then that Reepa would soon start dating a drug dealer, I would have laughed aloud.
Reepa's parents came to see her every month or so during term time. Mine never did, because I was a guy and was supposed to be able to look after myself. Reepa and I did become friends despite the fact that her parents expected us to become good friends. We had a few common friends and once in a while went out together as a group. I remember going for a play at Saddler's Wells with a group of people which had Reepa in it. Whenever Nilesh and Pallavi came to meet Reepa, they would also call on me. How's our Reepa doing? they would ask me. She's fine Nilesh uncle. She's doing just fine, Pallavi aunty, I would say. As you can see for yourselves, I never added. Keep an eye on her, won't you? Nilesh or Pallavi would tell me as they left. I will do that Nilesh uncle, I would dutifully reply.
My All Day Breakfast arrived warm and enticing, but I didn't feel like eating. I wished I had just ordered coffee and toast like Nilesh and Pallavi. Nilesh nibbled at his toast, while Pallavi started straight ahead.
By the end of the first year, I started to see less and less of Reepa. I knew that she was dating a post-graduate with long hair, I think a French guy, but it was one of those casual things which no one expects to last very long. I'm pretty sure her parents didn't know about that French boy-friend. No, Reepa never asked me not to tell her parents, but that was because she knew I would not tell them. I didn't have a steady girlfriend, but I did have my share of friends, many of whom were women. I think I saw Reepa with Jimmy for the first time after we started our second year. I knew that something was wrong since Jimmy was obviously not a student at the LSE or at any other university for that matter. He was a toughie, a man who used his fists without hesitation. But I had no idea then that he was a dealer.
My thoughts were interrupted as Nilesh's mobile rang. It was Ranjit asking for directions. 'Roseberry Avenue,' Nilesh said as he gave directions to Ranjit. 'After you reach Mount Pleasant, you should …………..'
'Is Reepa's room locked?' Pallavi asked me.
'I think so. The police have recovered Reepa's handbag which had her room keys in it. They have it with them.' They had also recovered her wallet with all the money intact. The police told me that Jimmy's turf rivals had most probably killed Reepa as a way of hitting back at Jimmy. I was going to leave it to the police to tell this to Nilesh and Pallavi. There was no way I could explain it all to them. They could understand their golden daughter being killed by muggers. But they would not understand Reepa dating a drug dealer from the Caribbean and getting killed in south London as part of a turf war.
Soon Ranjit stormed into the restaurant. 'How did this happen? Why was she out so late at night?' I had no answers to Ranjit's questions.
'What time did the murder take place?'
'According to the police, at around one a.m.'
'What was she doing so late at night? Was she with someone?' Ranjit demanded of me. I kept silent.
'Was this normal for her? To stay out very late?' This was my chance, to tell them that she was dating a guy, almost living in with him and that she did keep very late nights. But no, I didn't say that. 'Reepa and I are friends.' Wrong tense, I realised, but it was too late. 'But I didn't keep tabs on her. I have no idea if she went out often and how late she stayed back.' Wonderful, I thought as my guts tightened. Once the police tell them the whole story, Nilesh and Ranjit were bound to ask me how long I had known about Jimmy.
'Let's go the mortuary,' Ranjit said. Pallavi had drunk half a glass of coffee and Nilesh had eaten a toast. My breakfast was untouched.
‘We can’t. The police are going to call me and then we go to the police station first and they will take us to the mortuary.’
‘Why’s that? Ranjit asked me.
I did not reply. I didn’t have the energy. I just shrugged my shoulders. I also stopped worrying about Jimmy turning up. Most probably he was keeping a low profile. Shouldn't the police post someone in front of Reepa's room to make sure Jimmy didn't remove anything from there? I wondered. Granted it was not possible to enter Roseberry Hall without an access key and the police had Reepa's keys, but lack of keys was unlikely to deter Jimmy. Maybe they had posted a plainclothes man there already. Never mind. None of my business, I told myself. There was nothing I could do about it. Actually I stopped caring.
‘What was she doing south of the river?’ Ranjit asked me. I ignored him once again.
My mobile rang. It was the police. 'Yes, Reepa's parents are here with me. Shall we come to police station now?'
I turned to them. ‘Yes, they have asked you to come to the police station. It’s a thirty minute drive to Lewisham.'
Pallavi started to weep loudly. Nilesh was sobbing quietly. There were tears in Ranjit's eyes as well. Where were Reepa's other friends? I wondered. There was no reason why I should have to face all this on my own. But Reepa had very few other friends. After she started dating Jimmy, she started losing friends one by one. Some of her friends drooped out because they disapproved of her new friend. Some, because Reepa was no longer the old Reepa. I remember once running into Reepa and Jimmy at a pub on Kingsway, both of them stoned out of their minds. Nilesh and Pallavi had continued to visit Reepa every month. Why didn't they suspect anything, I wondered? There was that other time when I saw Reepa looking totally zonked, her face buried under layers of makeup, waiting to meet her parents. When was that? Not more than two months ago. I was sure that Pallavi, if not Nilesh, would sense that something was wrong. But nothing had happened. Nothing! Why didn't someone do something? Why didn't I do something?
'Shall we leave?' Nilesh asked. Ranjit had settled the bill while I was lost in my thoughts. I led them out of the restaurant and we walked back to Roseberry Hall in a single file.
**A special note of thanks to the London Metropolitan Police’s press office for assisting me with the technical aspects of this story. Any mistake in this story, however, is entirely mine.
'Do you want to use the loo?' I asked them.
'Yes, I do. But you go first,' Nilesh told Pallavi.
'No, I don't want to,' Pallavi said woodenly.
'Nonsense. We were in the car for almost three and a half hours.' He then turned to me. 'We didn't stop anywhere you know.'
Pallavi hesitantly got up. I opened the door pointed her towards the toilet at the end of the corridor.
'Must be a record, to drive from Manchester to London in under three and a half hours.'
'There was not much traffic, Sunday morning, and well, I drove like mad. Now tell me what really happened. Are you sure Reepa is dead?'
I sighed. 'Yes she is.'
Tears came to Nilesh's eyes and his shoulders trembled. 'She had everything going for her. She wanted to go to the LSE ever since she was fourteen. And now this … Life is so cruel.'
I was silent.
'I hope they catch the men who did this. Do you have any idea why they had to kill her? Why didn't they just take what she had and let her live?'
I started to lift my shoulders in a shrug, but didn’t. I continued to be silent. Reepa’s father was making a reasonable inference given the circumstances, though he was dead wrong. How could I tell them about Jimmy? I ought to have told them at least six months ago, as soon as Reepa started to spend all her free time with Jimmy. But I hadn't. It was none of my business I had told myself. I didn't subscribe to the Indian values which my parents and Reepa's folks carried across continents and oceans when they came to the UK to work for the NHS. If Reepa wanted to date Jimmy, that was strictly her business. And now, thanks to Jimmy, Reepa was dead.
'Do you think she resisted them when they tried to mug her? She could be stupid at times!'
This time I shrugged my shoulders and wondered how Jimmy was reacting to Reepa's murder. Did he really care? In his own way? Was he planning to retaliate against the murderers? For some reason, I hoped that Jimmy would be able to kill the people who killed Reepa. My thoughts then turned to more immediate matters. Was Jimmy likely to turn up at Roseberry Hall and remove any incriminating evidence from Reepa's room? Should I try and stop him if he did? I might not survive such an attempt since Jimmy was a six feet four inch tall man with a build to match and most probably carried a gun.
As soon as Pallavi came back into the room, Nilesh got up and went out. You could have gone with her, I almost told Nilesh. The toilets at Roseberry Hall can take more than one person at a time. Didn’t they know that? They had been here many times before. But it was too late to remind them. Too late for not just the toilets. For a second I wanted to laugh hysterically. I'm so sorry Nilesh, I wanted to tell him. I had let both Nilesh and Pallavi down. I keep saying Pallavi and Nilesh instead of Pallavi aunty and Nilesh uncle. That's because I think of them as Pallavi and Nilesh, even though I address them as Pallavi aunty and Nilesh uncle.
'Can’t we go to the mortuary right away and see her?' Nilesh asked in a choking voice when he came back. On hearing that, Pallavi burst into tears. 'Is she really, really dead? My poor baby! Why did they kill her?'
'The police told me that they want you to identify the body. I’ve done that already, but I’m not a close relative. But before you do that, they want to ask you some questions. They will give me a call once they are ready to talk to you. I've given them my mobile number. They'll call me and then we go down to the police station. From there they’ll take you to the mortuary.'
'I don’t want to identify her body. I just want to see here. Why can’t we go to the mortuary right now? Why should we go to the police station first?' Nilesh asked, his voice breaking once more.
'That’s what the police told me. They want to talk to you first, maybe take a statement in the police station and then take you to the mortuary to see Reepa. There will be a post-mortem in a day or so. And a coroner’s inquest in a week or so to determine the cause of death. Only after that will they release the body to you.' I was not playing square with Nilesh. I knew that the police were planning to do some serious questioning before they allowed Nilesh and Pallavi to see Reepa. Her body I mean. But Nilesh had stopped paying attention to me. I guess he knew pretty well the procedure for holding a post-mortem and the coroner’s inquest. He was a doctor after all, as was his wife who didn’t pay attention to a single word I spoke. We were all silent for a while. I desperately wanted to tell them everything, but I could not bring myself to do it. I had been woken up by the resident warden at three in the morning telling me that Reepa had been, well…, murdered and asking me if I could go to the Lewisham Public Mortuary with him to identify the body. After I identified the body, the police asked me to call Reepa’s folks and tell them. The policeman in charge had asked me if I could answer some questions. Did I know anything of Reepa's drug habits? Did I know how long she had been involved with gangs? They had made up their minds that the murder was drugs related. I had denied knowledge of everything, other than tell them that she had a boy-friend named Jimmy. The police knew all about Jimmy. They apparently had a very thick dossier on him, with a couple of pages in it devoted to his girl-friend Reepa.
'Ranjit will be here soon. I called him before we started our journey.' Ranjit was Reepa's elder brother. He was following his parents' footsteps, studying medicine at Newcastle.
'Why don't we go down and get some breakfast?' I asked them.
'Are you sure we cannot go to the mortuary right away?'
'No, we can’t. Unless the investigating officer authorises you to see the body, they won’t let you. You know that, don’t you Nilesh? I think you should eat some food before the police call me and we go to the police station. Once the police call me, we won’t have any time for food.'
'Okay. Where do we go?
I took them out to a nearby place where they served All Day Breakfasts. We placed our orders – An All Day Breakfast for me and just coffee and toast for Nilesh and Pallavi - and waited to be served.
My mind drifted back to the day Reepa and I started as undergraduates at the LSE. We knew each other vaguely since my father was also a doctor with the NHS and he had worked in the same hospital as Reepa's father when they were both very young. I remember seeing her and Ranjit at one of those Indian doctors-dos at Warrington when I was ten or eleven. We had both chosen Roseberry Hall – it was reasonably close to the LSE, closer than Butler’s Wharf, and not as pricey as High Holborn, which was the closest - and had moved into it at about the same time. Reepa's parents were naturally anxious about their daughter and they were very happy to see that I was around. In their eyes, I was an Indian boy who would be a friend to their daughter. I didn't really mind. One look at Reepa and I knew that she didn't want an Indian friend to take care of her. She was ready to spread her wings. You know, she had the sort of look which girls from protected backgrounds have, the ardent desire to go their way, do their thing, make their mistakes and live their lives. But there was no hint of any stupidity. No Sir, if someone had told me then that Reepa would soon start dating a drug dealer, I would have laughed aloud.
Reepa's parents came to see her every month or so during term time. Mine never did, because I was a guy and was supposed to be able to look after myself. Reepa and I did become friends despite the fact that her parents expected us to become good friends. We had a few common friends and once in a while went out together as a group. I remember going for a play at Saddler's Wells with a group of people which had Reepa in it. Whenever Nilesh and Pallavi came to meet Reepa, they would also call on me. How's our Reepa doing? they would ask me. She's fine Nilesh uncle. She's doing just fine, Pallavi aunty, I would say. As you can see for yourselves, I never added. Keep an eye on her, won't you? Nilesh or Pallavi would tell me as they left. I will do that Nilesh uncle, I would dutifully reply.
My All Day Breakfast arrived warm and enticing, but I didn't feel like eating. I wished I had just ordered coffee and toast like Nilesh and Pallavi. Nilesh nibbled at his toast, while Pallavi started straight ahead.
By the end of the first year, I started to see less and less of Reepa. I knew that she was dating a post-graduate with long hair, I think a French guy, but it was one of those casual things which no one expects to last very long. I'm pretty sure her parents didn't know about that French boy-friend. No, Reepa never asked me not to tell her parents, but that was because she knew I would not tell them. I didn't have a steady girlfriend, but I did have my share of friends, many of whom were women. I think I saw Reepa with Jimmy for the first time after we started our second year. I knew that something was wrong since Jimmy was obviously not a student at the LSE or at any other university for that matter. He was a toughie, a man who used his fists without hesitation. But I had no idea then that he was a dealer.
My thoughts were interrupted as Nilesh's mobile rang. It was Ranjit asking for directions. 'Roseberry Avenue,' Nilesh said as he gave directions to Ranjit. 'After you reach Mount Pleasant, you should …………..'
'Is Reepa's room locked?' Pallavi asked me.
'I think so. The police have recovered Reepa's handbag which had her room keys in it. They have it with them.' They had also recovered her wallet with all the money intact. The police told me that Jimmy's turf rivals had most probably killed Reepa as a way of hitting back at Jimmy. I was going to leave it to the police to tell this to Nilesh and Pallavi. There was no way I could explain it all to them. They could understand their golden daughter being killed by muggers. But they would not understand Reepa dating a drug dealer from the Caribbean and getting killed in south London as part of a turf war.
Soon Ranjit stormed into the restaurant. 'How did this happen? Why was she out so late at night?' I had no answers to Ranjit's questions.
'What time did the murder take place?'
'According to the police, at around one a.m.'
'What was she doing so late at night? Was she with someone?' Ranjit demanded of me. I kept silent.
'Was this normal for her? To stay out very late?' This was my chance, to tell them that she was dating a guy, almost living in with him and that she did keep very late nights. But no, I didn't say that. 'Reepa and I are friends.' Wrong tense, I realised, but it was too late. 'But I didn't keep tabs on her. I have no idea if she went out often and how late she stayed back.' Wonderful, I thought as my guts tightened. Once the police tell them the whole story, Nilesh and Ranjit were bound to ask me how long I had known about Jimmy.
'Let's go the mortuary,' Ranjit said. Pallavi had drunk half a glass of coffee and Nilesh had eaten a toast. My breakfast was untouched.
‘We can’t. The police are going to call me and then we go to the police station first and they will take us to the mortuary.’
‘Why’s that? Ranjit asked me.
I did not reply. I didn’t have the energy. I just shrugged my shoulders. I also stopped worrying about Jimmy turning up. Most probably he was keeping a low profile. Shouldn't the police post someone in front of Reepa's room to make sure Jimmy didn't remove anything from there? I wondered. Granted it was not possible to enter Roseberry Hall without an access key and the police had Reepa's keys, but lack of keys was unlikely to deter Jimmy. Maybe they had posted a plainclothes man there already. Never mind. None of my business, I told myself. There was nothing I could do about it. Actually I stopped caring.
‘What was she doing south of the river?’ Ranjit asked me. I ignored him once again.
My mobile rang. It was the police. 'Yes, Reepa's parents are here with me. Shall we come to police station now?'
I turned to them. ‘Yes, they have asked you to come to the police station. It’s a thirty minute drive to Lewisham.'
Pallavi started to weep loudly. Nilesh was sobbing quietly. There were tears in Ranjit's eyes as well. Where were Reepa's other friends? I wondered. There was no reason why I should have to face all this on my own. But Reepa had very few other friends. After she started dating Jimmy, she started losing friends one by one. Some of her friends drooped out because they disapproved of her new friend. Some, because Reepa was no longer the old Reepa. I remember once running into Reepa and Jimmy at a pub on Kingsway, both of them stoned out of their minds. Nilesh and Pallavi had continued to visit Reepa every month. Why didn't they suspect anything, I wondered? There was that other time when I saw Reepa looking totally zonked, her face buried under layers of makeup, waiting to meet her parents. When was that? Not more than two months ago. I was sure that Pallavi, if not Nilesh, would sense that something was wrong. But nothing had happened. Nothing! Why didn't someone do something? Why didn't I do something?
'Shall we leave?' Nilesh asked. Ranjit had settled the bill while I was lost in my thoughts. I led them out of the restaurant and we walked back to Roseberry Hall in a single file.
**A special note of thanks to the London Metropolitan Police’s press office for assisting me with the technical aspects of this story. Any mistake in this story, however, is entirely mine.
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Short Story: The Perfect Wife
Inderjit looked Cheryl squarely in the eye. 'Can you work under pressure? Can you deal with chaos? Will you run away if things get messy?'
Cheryl did not bat an eyelid. 'I guess that means everything is in a mess right now.' She gave Inderjit a grin. 'That's fine. I can deal with chaos.' Inderjit did not look convinced. Cheryl wearied of grinning and looked over Inderjit's shoulder. Nineteen storeys below, the traffic rushed past. None of the sounds or smells associated with traffic, blaring horns, screeching tyres or gut-searing smoke fumes, reached the air-conditioned comfort of the glass-paneled office at Nariman Point.
Inderjit ran his fingers through his hair. He could not afford yet another mistake. This would be his fourth secretary after he became the company's CEO three years ago. He had fired the third one after he discovered nine typos in a two page letter he had dictated. Each time a secretary left, things only got worse. Right now, there were mountains of unanswered letters, his personal accounts were in a mess and he had no clue if his membership fee for the Bagpiper's Club had been paid yet. Unlike his first and second secretaries, Cheryl was not a looker. However, she looked chic and smart, unlike his third secretary who was the sloppiest dresser he had ever met. A friend of his had come up with the theory that pretty secretaries were not good at their work. After two bad experiences with attractive secretaries, he had accepted that theory and stupidly assumed that his third secretary, a very average looking woman with atrocious dress sense, would be smart and efficient.
A week after Cheryl started work, things became noticeably better. Every day Cheryl stayed back and worked for an additional hour to get things in order. By the end of the month, Inderjit decided that he had won the lottery. Cheryl got a pay hike and Inderjit got back his piece of mind.
Inderjit worked long hours. He did not have any family in Mumbai. His parents lived in faraway Kolkata. His marriage had ended in a divorce many years ago and he had been living on his own since then. His ex-wife had been very beautiful and very messy – her clothes strewn all over the sofa and dining table most of the time.
A year after Cheryl starting working for him, an idea slowly entered Inderjit's head. Initially he dismissed it as silly, but it would not go away and after a few weeks he decided that it was not a bad plan after all. Once he made up his mind, he moved fast. 'What plans for the weekend? he asked Cheryl one Thursday evening. He took her to the Khyber where they ate Afghani kebabs and thin roomali rotis, interspersed with Kingfisher beer and thick mango lassi. Cheryl was pleasant and a good conversationalist. And she was not bad looking in her sober skirt and blouse. Unlike the time when Inderjit dated his first wife, his heart did not beat faster, nor did his palms get sweaty. But Inderjit knew where his priorities lay. A clean and orderly home run by an efficient wife was infinitely preferable to a beautiful wife and a messy home.
Cheryl accepted his proposal with alacrity and little fuss. They had dated for six weeks and reached a stage where Inderjit would kiss her deep and hard before she ran out of his car into her home. Cheryl's parents were not too happy with their forty-year old son-in-law, who was not only not a Goan catholic, but was also a divorcee. But they were progressive people and respected Cheryl's choice. In any event, Inderjit looked reliable, the sort of man who would take good care of their darling daughter. Cheryl found another secretary for Inderjit, a woman in her late forties, who she assured Inderjit was as good as her in terms of secretarial skills.
A few days after their honeymoon in Mauritius, Inderjit noticed that his flat in Cuffe Parade was getting messier by the day. Cheryl's clothes were strewn all over the sofa in the living room. The kitchen was a mess as well, even though a domestic help turned up everyday to wash the dishes and sweep the entire flat with a broom. Initial days, Inderjit told himself. Cheryl was a newly married bride. She would soon be her normal self and have everything under control. True, the flat hadn't been spick and span when he was on his own. However he had always kept it functionally tidy and it never took him more than a minute to locate something.
Things did not get better. Actually they got worse. And finally one weekend when Inderjit found that his music CDs were not being put back in the same order, his temper snapped.
'What the heck is wrong with you?' he screamed at Cheryl. 'Can't you make sure you put the CDs back in their proper place after you've listened to them?'
Cheryl gave him a stony look. 'Fine, I won't listen to your CDs. And I'll keep my collection separate from yours.'
'I don't care if it's your CD or mine. I want you to put back each CD in its cover once you've listened to it.'
'I'll try, but no promises.' Cheryl smiled indulgently at Inderjit.
'But, but, you were never like this at office.'
It was now Cheryl's turn to turn on the fury. 'Did you expect me to be a secretary at home? Did you want a wife or a housekeeper?'
'But I thought you were naturally clean and tidy. I thought …'
'No, I've always been a messy girl,' Cheryl said with a toss of her head. 'You should have seen my room when I was at my hostel.'
'Oh! I didn't know that.'
'Well, now you know.'
Cheryl walked over to the pile of CDs and DVDs kept on a shelf near the DVD player and picked up a CD. She ejected the CD inside the player and replaced it with the one she had taken out. She kept the ejected CD on top of the pile which had many empty covers and quite a few DVDs and CDs without their covers and walked over to the sofa. As she put her feet up and let the soothing music wash over her, Inderjit asked, ‘after all that I said, was it too much to have put that CD back in its cover?’
‘If it’s so important to you, why don’t you do it yourself?’ Cheryl asked Inderjit and closed her eyes, allowing the soothing music to wash over her once again.
Cheryl did not bat an eyelid. 'I guess that means everything is in a mess right now.' She gave Inderjit a grin. 'That's fine. I can deal with chaos.' Inderjit did not look convinced. Cheryl wearied of grinning and looked over Inderjit's shoulder. Nineteen storeys below, the traffic rushed past. None of the sounds or smells associated with traffic, blaring horns, screeching tyres or gut-searing smoke fumes, reached the air-conditioned comfort of the glass-paneled office at Nariman Point.
Inderjit ran his fingers through his hair. He could not afford yet another mistake. This would be his fourth secretary after he became the company's CEO three years ago. He had fired the third one after he discovered nine typos in a two page letter he had dictated. Each time a secretary left, things only got worse. Right now, there were mountains of unanswered letters, his personal accounts were in a mess and he had no clue if his membership fee for the Bagpiper's Club had been paid yet. Unlike his first and second secretaries, Cheryl was not a looker. However, she looked chic and smart, unlike his third secretary who was the sloppiest dresser he had ever met. A friend of his had come up with the theory that pretty secretaries were not good at their work. After two bad experiences with attractive secretaries, he had accepted that theory and stupidly assumed that his third secretary, a very average looking woman with atrocious dress sense, would be smart and efficient.
A week after Cheryl started work, things became noticeably better. Every day Cheryl stayed back and worked for an additional hour to get things in order. By the end of the month, Inderjit decided that he had won the lottery. Cheryl got a pay hike and Inderjit got back his piece of mind.
Inderjit worked long hours. He did not have any family in Mumbai. His parents lived in faraway Kolkata. His marriage had ended in a divorce many years ago and he had been living on his own since then. His ex-wife had been very beautiful and very messy – her clothes strewn all over the sofa and dining table most of the time.
A year after Cheryl starting working for him, an idea slowly entered Inderjit's head. Initially he dismissed it as silly, but it would not go away and after a few weeks he decided that it was not a bad plan after all. Once he made up his mind, he moved fast. 'What plans for the weekend? he asked Cheryl one Thursday evening. He took her to the Khyber where they ate Afghani kebabs and thin roomali rotis, interspersed with Kingfisher beer and thick mango lassi. Cheryl was pleasant and a good conversationalist. And she was not bad looking in her sober skirt and blouse. Unlike the time when Inderjit dated his first wife, his heart did not beat faster, nor did his palms get sweaty. But Inderjit knew where his priorities lay. A clean and orderly home run by an efficient wife was infinitely preferable to a beautiful wife and a messy home.
Cheryl accepted his proposal with alacrity and little fuss. They had dated for six weeks and reached a stage where Inderjit would kiss her deep and hard before she ran out of his car into her home. Cheryl's parents were not too happy with their forty-year old son-in-law, who was not only not a Goan catholic, but was also a divorcee. But they were progressive people and respected Cheryl's choice. In any event, Inderjit looked reliable, the sort of man who would take good care of their darling daughter. Cheryl found another secretary for Inderjit, a woman in her late forties, who she assured Inderjit was as good as her in terms of secretarial skills.
A few days after their honeymoon in Mauritius, Inderjit noticed that his flat in Cuffe Parade was getting messier by the day. Cheryl's clothes were strewn all over the sofa in the living room. The kitchen was a mess as well, even though a domestic help turned up everyday to wash the dishes and sweep the entire flat with a broom. Initial days, Inderjit told himself. Cheryl was a newly married bride. She would soon be her normal self and have everything under control. True, the flat hadn't been spick and span when he was on his own. However he had always kept it functionally tidy and it never took him more than a minute to locate something.
Things did not get better. Actually they got worse. And finally one weekend when Inderjit found that his music CDs were not being put back in the same order, his temper snapped.
'What the heck is wrong with you?' he screamed at Cheryl. 'Can't you make sure you put the CDs back in their proper place after you've listened to them?'
Cheryl gave him a stony look. 'Fine, I won't listen to your CDs. And I'll keep my collection separate from yours.'
'I don't care if it's your CD or mine. I want you to put back each CD in its cover once you've listened to it.'
'I'll try, but no promises.' Cheryl smiled indulgently at Inderjit.
'But, but, you were never like this at office.'
It was now Cheryl's turn to turn on the fury. 'Did you expect me to be a secretary at home? Did you want a wife or a housekeeper?'
'But I thought you were naturally clean and tidy. I thought …'
'No, I've always been a messy girl,' Cheryl said with a toss of her head. 'You should have seen my room when I was at my hostel.'
'Oh! I didn't know that.'
'Well, now you know.'
Cheryl walked over to the pile of CDs and DVDs kept on a shelf near the DVD player and picked up a CD. She ejected the CD inside the player and replaced it with the one she had taken out. She kept the ejected CD on top of the pile which had many empty covers and quite a few DVDs and CDs without their covers and walked over to the sofa. As she put her feet up and let the soothing music wash over her, Inderjit asked, ‘after all that I said, was it too much to have put that CD back in its cover?’
‘If it’s so important to you, why don’t you do it yourself?’ Cheryl asked Inderjit and closed her eyes, allowing the soothing music to wash over her once again.
Sunday, 11 January 2009
Short Story: THE SCHOLARSHIP
The economist travels all the way from New York. His wise and tired eyes have seen most parts of the world in many cruel dimensions. Though past retirement age, he continues to teach and write. His latest book on China is still on the bestsellers’ list. As the sun sinks into the Arabian Sea, the economist ignores his jet lag and goes for a long walk along the marine drive. His baggy trousers flap in the sea breeze and crowds jostle him. The rich are richer and the poor have become poorer. A prosperous couple with a very chubby toddler in tow walk past. Even after the orange rays give way to dusk, the glaring discrepancies in wealth distribution cannot be hidden. The economist sees a skinny young girl with a shy smile and tattered clothes selling peanuts. As he walks towards her, another peanut seller, a rough looking man in his thirties, blocks his path and thrusts a paper cone brimming with roasted peanuts towards him. The economist brushes him away and manages to buy a large cone full of peanuts from the young girl. He pays her with a fifty rupee note and walks away before she can find the change.
The next day, the trustees send a car to the hotel to collect the economist and take him to the trust’s offices.
‘Who was the interviewer last time?’ he asks one of the trustees.
‘Oh, last year it was the head of the economics department from ABCD college.’
‘And this year you decided to bring me here, all the way from New York?’
‘Just an excuse for us trustees to meet with a Nobel Prize winner.’
The economist lets it pass. He does not tell them that he had made a few discreet enquires before catching his flight. An Indian friend has told him that the previous year the trustees’ drew a lot of flak after the scholarship was awarded to a minister’s son.
The trustees have short-listed six candidates for the final interview. One of them will win the scholarship and spend two years at an ivy league institution of his or her choice. The economist spends around thirty minutes with each candidate. All the interviewees are very good, with degrees from some of the best colleges. Each of them has the potential to be a world famous economist.
The candidates are in awe of him. They have read most if not all his books. One candidate responds to his questions solely with quotations from his books. The economist has not experienced such adulation. Finally he is done. It’s actually a choice between two candidates: a boy and a girl. The boy is slightly older than the girl and he has an extra year’s work experience.
The trustees take him to a fancy restaurant, bustling with executives, most of whom are men. Over lunch he tells them, ‘it’s the candidate whom I interviewed fifth.’
They all go back to the trust’s offices and the results are announced. The girl is congratulated.
‘Either Harvard or the LSE,’ she tells the other candidates.
The candidates leave. A limousine with a chauffer waits outside. The girl gets inside the limousine and raises the shades. The boy starts walking towards VT. He pauses for a moment. His train leaves only at eight and he has almost five hours to kill. Enough time to catch a movie at Sterling. He counts the money in his wallet. Just enough money for the movie and the train ticket home. On second thoughts, he decides to skip the movie and keeps walking.
The next day, the trustees send a car to the hotel to collect the economist and take him to the trust’s offices.
‘Who was the interviewer last time?’ he asks one of the trustees.
‘Oh, last year it was the head of the economics department from ABCD college.’
‘And this year you decided to bring me here, all the way from New York?’
‘Just an excuse for us trustees to meet with a Nobel Prize winner.’
The economist lets it pass. He does not tell them that he had made a few discreet enquires before catching his flight. An Indian friend has told him that the previous year the trustees’ drew a lot of flak after the scholarship was awarded to a minister’s son.
The trustees have short-listed six candidates for the final interview. One of them will win the scholarship and spend two years at an ivy league institution of his or her choice. The economist spends around thirty minutes with each candidate. All the interviewees are very good, with degrees from some of the best colleges. Each of them has the potential to be a world famous economist.
The candidates are in awe of him. They have read most if not all his books. One candidate responds to his questions solely with quotations from his books. The economist has not experienced such adulation. Finally he is done. It’s actually a choice between two candidates: a boy and a girl. The boy is slightly older than the girl and he has an extra year’s work experience.
The trustees take him to a fancy restaurant, bustling with executives, most of whom are men. Over lunch he tells them, ‘it’s the candidate whom I interviewed fifth.’
They all go back to the trust’s offices and the results are announced. The girl is congratulated.
‘Either Harvard or the LSE,’ she tells the other candidates.
The candidates leave. A limousine with a chauffer waits outside. The girl gets inside the limousine and raises the shades. The boy starts walking towards VT. He pauses for a moment. His train leaves only at eight and he has almost five hours to kill. Enough time to catch a movie at Sterling. He counts the money in his wallet. Just enough money for the movie and the train ticket home. On second thoughts, he decides to skip the movie and keeps walking.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Short Story: A Happy Reunion
Vaijayanti was about to leave for Deepti’s house when the phone rang. It was not the shrill, short ring which implied a local call, but the long-drawn out screech which suggested an STD call from maybe her parents in Bhopal or her sister in Delhi. Vaijayanti would have ignored the bellowing phone and left the house, since the card game at Deepti’s place started punctually at three and it was already ten to three, but for the small possibility that it was Nitin calling from Kazakhstan. Vaijayanti ended up walking back to the dining room where the phone was kept, even though Nitin rarely called at this time of the day. It was a good thing she went back since it turned out to be Nitin.
‘I’m coming back! In a month’s time! Got a promotion!’ Nitin gasped over the phone all at once. The phone line conveyed Nitin’s excitement as if he were next door, rather than many thousands of miles away in Kazakhstan. ‘M.D called my just now to tell me that he has decided to promote me and bring me back as the Deputy Manager for Western India’, Nitin elaborated once he caught his breath.
‘That’s wonderful. Are you sure M.D will not change his mind this time?’ Vaijayanti was a bit skeptical. A year ago M.D had told Nitin that he could return to Mumbai from Astana as soon as they managed to find a suitable replacement for him. But the man who had built Pluto Films from scratch and made it the biggest distributor in the world for Bollywood movies had been unable to find a suitable replacement for Nitin. Till now, that is.
‘Absolutely sure. That’s because M.D has decided that Mohan will replace me. Poor chap. He has got a ten year old son and a six year old daughter.’
‘Isn’t Mohan in Kolkata right now?’
‘Yes he is.’ The possibility that Mohan might refuse to move to Kazakhstan was not even discussed. M.D was good at getting people to do what he wanted. He had doubled Nitin’s pay and given him a hardship allowance for relocating to Astana. An offer they couldn’t refuse. M.D always got his way. And he would have his way with Mohan as well.
‘I can’t wait to get there and live a normal life. It’s Sunday today, isn’t it? Pooris for breakfast on Sundays!’ Vaijayanti could imagine Nitin smacking his lips as he said that in faraway Kazakhstan. Today was indeed Sunday. If Nitin were around, Vaijayanti would have her hands full doing the things that made Nitin happy. Pooris for breakfast. A three course lunch with carrot halwa at the end. A cup of coffee every hour. And when Nitin came back from his evening walk, Vaijayanti would have a light dinner of rotis, lentils and curds waiting for him. Vaijayanti smiled to herself. It would be so good to have Nitin back.
‘You just can’t even imagine how much Arman and Alisha miss you.’
‘True and I’ve missed all three of you as well. But we’ve saved some money in the last three years, haven’t we? In another two years, we’ll have to send Arman to a good college, after that Alisha will have to be ……’
‘Are you getting a pay hike along with the promotion?’ Vaijayanti asked, as she glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to three. The card game would start on the dot at three o’clock. Deepti hated waiting for anyone.
Nitin laughed. ‘A pay hike? When M.D has given me a promotion and allowed me to return to my family? You’ve got to be joking!’
It didn’t really matter, Vaijayanti told herself. Nitin was coming home.
‘Well, at least he gave you decent hikes for the last three years.’ The last three hikes which Nitin got were not decent. They were obscenely huge hikes given to persuade Nitin to take up his current post as Manager for the Central Asian region and to stay on there.
‘I wish I could tell Arman and Alisha myself. Where have they gone?’
‘Arman has special classes today. So he will not get home till six. As for Alisha, I hardly have any control over her. She told me that she will be going to a friend’s house after lunch and will get here only by six-thirty. And she is only thirteen yet. When I was her age…’
‘Don’t blame her for having some fun. Children are under so much pressure these days. They need to unwind.’
‘What time is it over there? Three thirty?’
‘Yeah. Is it three o’clock over there?’
‘Yes.’ Thank God Nitin was in a place which was almost in the same time zone as India.
‘I need to go to Almaty tomorrow. From there I’ll go to Bishkek and then get back to Astana after two days.’
‘You must be tired of traveling back and forth.’ Vaijayanti was concerned. It wouldn’t do Nitin any good to travel around so much. But it couldn’t be helped.
‘Well, at least I am being paid well. I told M.D that he should sent two people to cover this area. One in Astana and one in maybe Tashkent or even Bishkek. Business has really grown. Hindi movies are really popular in these parts. Almost as popular as they are in Russia.’
‘Poor Mohan. Will he be on his own as well? Why can’t they send two people? Doesn’t your company have two people each in Moscow and Tokyo? How can one person cover the whole of Central Asia?’ Astana and Bishkek and Akshabad and Dushanbe and Almaty and Tashkent. These were names Vaijayanti had not even heard of three years ago when Nitin decided to accept M.D’s offer and move to Bishkek.
‘Russia and Japan are much bigger markets. Also, Mohan will get paid more if he handles Central Asia on his own. If he were to ask for help, he will not get much of a hike.’
‘So, you will be back soon! I just can’t believe it.’
‘I had almost given up hope of coming back without quitting from Pluto Films.’
‘They don’t deserve to have someone as dedicated as you are.’
‘Well, I can’t deny that it is thanks to me that Bollywood movies are so popular in this part of the world. Over twenty percent of the adults in Kazakhstan have seen at least one Hindi film distributed by Pluto films.’ If Vaijayanti weren’t so deliriously happy, she would have poked fun at Nitin’s smug, self-congratulatory sermon.
They were both silent for a few moments, the telephone line connecting them both to the promise of a happy reunion. Vaijayanti look at the clock and a wave of irritation swept over her. It was now five past three. Could you please call me back in 2 hours’ time? Vaijayanti was tempted to ask Nitin. Instead she said, ‘are you sure you will only be the Deputy Manager for Western India? If you can be the Manager for all those countries, they ought to make you the Manager for Western India. ‘Not fair!’ Vaijayanti was tired of standing up and sat down.
Nitin laughed out aloud. ‘It is a question of numbers. There must be ten thousand times as many viewers for Bollywood in Western India as there are in Central Asia. You won’t understand these things.’ Vaijayanti nodded her head in acquiescence, though it was unlikely that Nitin could see her.
‘Right-O then! I’ll try and call you from Almaty tomorrow when I get there.’
Vaijayanti quickly locked the house and took the lift to the lobby. The dust and heat enveloped her as she started walking towards Deepti’s flat, which was just two blocks away. It would be so good to have Nitin back. Life was horrible without him. Of course she would have to make a few minor adjustments once he was back. She had stopped making Pooris on Sundays. Arman and Alisha did not mind having toast or cornflakes for breakfast. Carrot halwa had been replaced by ice-cream bought from the shop and stored in the fridge. She had stopped making coffee altogether. So what? Vaijayanti though as she adjusted her dupatta and squared her shoulders. It was a small price to pay for Nitin’s company. She walked faster as she neared Deepti’s flat. A taxi drove dangerously past her honking loudly. Vaijayanti stopped for a second, her heart pounding. Had she been walking carelessly? No, she had been walking very much on the edge of the road, where the footpath ought to have been. It was the taxi that was at fault. Vaijayanti opened the squeaky gate and walked towards Block-C. The watchman squatting under the shade of a mangy tree ignored her familiar figure. As Vaijayanti climbed the stairs to reach Deepti’s first-floor flat, it dawned on her that she would have to give up her Sunday afternoon card games once Nitin got back. Vaijayanti felt a small twinge of regret, but brushed it away quickly. Nitin would be back soon. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?
‘I’m coming back! In a month’s time! Got a promotion!’ Nitin gasped over the phone all at once. The phone line conveyed Nitin’s excitement as if he were next door, rather than many thousands of miles away in Kazakhstan. ‘M.D called my just now to tell me that he has decided to promote me and bring me back as the Deputy Manager for Western India’, Nitin elaborated once he caught his breath.
‘That’s wonderful. Are you sure M.D will not change his mind this time?’ Vaijayanti was a bit skeptical. A year ago M.D had told Nitin that he could return to Mumbai from Astana as soon as they managed to find a suitable replacement for him. But the man who had built Pluto Films from scratch and made it the biggest distributor in the world for Bollywood movies had been unable to find a suitable replacement for Nitin. Till now, that is.
‘Absolutely sure. That’s because M.D has decided that Mohan will replace me. Poor chap. He has got a ten year old son and a six year old daughter.’
‘Isn’t Mohan in Kolkata right now?’
‘Yes he is.’ The possibility that Mohan might refuse to move to Kazakhstan was not even discussed. M.D was good at getting people to do what he wanted. He had doubled Nitin’s pay and given him a hardship allowance for relocating to Astana. An offer they couldn’t refuse. M.D always got his way. And he would have his way with Mohan as well.
‘I can’t wait to get there and live a normal life. It’s Sunday today, isn’t it? Pooris for breakfast on Sundays!’ Vaijayanti could imagine Nitin smacking his lips as he said that in faraway Kazakhstan. Today was indeed Sunday. If Nitin were around, Vaijayanti would have her hands full doing the things that made Nitin happy. Pooris for breakfast. A three course lunch with carrot halwa at the end. A cup of coffee every hour. And when Nitin came back from his evening walk, Vaijayanti would have a light dinner of rotis, lentils and curds waiting for him. Vaijayanti smiled to herself. It would be so good to have Nitin back.
‘You just can’t even imagine how much Arman and Alisha miss you.’
‘True and I’ve missed all three of you as well. But we’ve saved some money in the last three years, haven’t we? In another two years, we’ll have to send Arman to a good college, after that Alisha will have to be ……’
‘Are you getting a pay hike along with the promotion?’ Vaijayanti asked, as she glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to three. The card game would start on the dot at three o’clock. Deepti hated waiting for anyone.
Nitin laughed. ‘A pay hike? When M.D has given me a promotion and allowed me to return to my family? You’ve got to be joking!’
It didn’t really matter, Vaijayanti told herself. Nitin was coming home.
‘Well, at least he gave you decent hikes for the last three years.’ The last three hikes which Nitin got were not decent. They were obscenely huge hikes given to persuade Nitin to take up his current post as Manager for the Central Asian region and to stay on there.
‘I wish I could tell Arman and Alisha myself. Where have they gone?’
‘Arman has special classes today. So he will not get home till six. As for Alisha, I hardly have any control over her. She told me that she will be going to a friend’s house after lunch and will get here only by six-thirty. And she is only thirteen yet. When I was her age…’
‘Don’t blame her for having some fun. Children are under so much pressure these days. They need to unwind.’
‘What time is it over there? Three thirty?’
‘Yeah. Is it three o’clock over there?’
‘Yes.’ Thank God Nitin was in a place which was almost in the same time zone as India.
‘I need to go to Almaty tomorrow. From there I’ll go to Bishkek and then get back to Astana after two days.’
‘You must be tired of traveling back and forth.’ Vaijayanti was concerned. It wouldn’t do Nitin any good to travel around so much. But it couldn’t be helped.
‘Well, at least I am being paid well. I told M.D that he should sent two people to cover this area. One in Astana and one in maybe Tashkent or even Bishkek. Business has really grown. Hindi movies are really popular in these parts. Almost as popular as they are in Russia.’
‘Poor Mohan. Will he be on his own as well? Why can’t they send two people? Doesn’t your company have two people each in Moscow and Tokyo? How can one person cover the whole of Central Asia?’ Astana and Bishkek and Akshabad and Dushanbe and Almaty and Tashkent. These were names Vaijayanti had not even heard of three years ago when Nitin decided to accept M.D’s offer and move to Bishkek.
‘Russia and Japan are much bigger markets. Also, Mohan will get paid more if he handles Central Asia on his own. If he were to ask for help, he will not get much of a hike.’
‘So, you will be back soon! I just can’t believe it.’
‘I had almost given up hope of coming back without quitting from Pluto Films.’
‘They don’t deserve to have someone as dedicated as you are.’
‘Well, I can’t deny that it is thanks to me that Bollywood movies are so popular in this part of the world. Over twenty percent of the adults in Kazakhstan have seen at least one Hindi film distributed by Pluto films.’ If Vaijayanti weren’t so deliriously happy, she would have poked fun at Nitin’s smug, self-congratulatory sermon.
They were both silent for a few moments, the telephone line connecting them both to the promise of a happy reunion. Vaijayanti look at the clock and a wave of irritation swept over her. It was now five past three. Could you please call me back in 2 hours’ time? Vaijayanti was tempted to ask Nitin. Instead she said, ‘are you sure you will only be the Deputy Manager for Western India? If you can be the Manager for all those countries, they ought to make you the Manager for Western India. ‘Not fair!’ Vaijayanti was tired of standing up and sat down.
Nitin laughed out aloud. ‘It is a question of numbers. There must be ten thousand times as many viewers for Bollywood in Western India as there are in Central Asia. You won’t understand these things.’ Vaijayanti nodded her head in acquiescence, though it was unlikely that Nitin could see her.
‘Right-O then! I’ll try and call you from Almaty tomorrow when I get there.’
Vaijayanti quickly locked the house and took the lift to the lobby. The dust and heat enveloped her as she started walking towards Deepti’s flat, which was just two blocks away. It would be so good to have Nitin back. Life was horrible without him. Of course she would have to make a few minor adjustments once he was back. She had stopped making Pooris on Sundays. Arman and Alisha did not mind having toast or cornflakes for breakfast. Carrot halwa had been replaced by ice-cream bought from the shop and stored in the fridge. She had stopped making coffee altogether. So what? Vaijayanti though as she adjusted her dupatta and squared her shoulders. It was a small price to pay for Nitin’s company. She walked faster as she neared Deepti’s flat. A taxi drove dangerously past her honking loudly. Vaijayanti stopped for a second, her heart pounding. Had she been walking carelessly? No, she had been walking very much on the edge of the road, where the footpath ought to have been. It was the taxi that was at fault. Vaijayanti opened the squeaky gate and walked towards Block-C. The watchman squatting under the shade of a mangy tree ignored her familiar figure. As Vaijayanti climbed the stairs to reach Deepti’s first-floor flat, it dawned on her that she would have to give up her Sunday afternoon card games once Nitin got back. Vaijayanti felt a small twinge of regret, but brushed it away quickly. Nitin would be back soon. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it?
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Fear and Agony
Amelie knew that the black bag posed a clear and present danger. It was around ten inches away from her left arm and if it were possible to slide forward, Amelie would have shoved it as far away as possible. Maybe even thrown it out of the car. The further away from an explosion you are, the better it is, Amelie firmly believed. Ducking for cover was just not an option when she was trussed up so well. She had screamed for help when they lifted her up against her will and dumped her in the car, but now she had a piece of plastic in her mouth and couldn’t scream any more.
The harness around her chest and stomach did not restrict her from moving her arms or shaking her legs, but Amelie was a person with so little physical dexterity that she did not even try to unbuckle the harness. Even though escape was impossible, Amelie made yet another futile attempt to wriggle out of the harness. At the moment, it was much more important to get away from that black bag than escape from her captors, Amelie thought as despair took hold. It was her fifth month in captivity.
Her captors paid no attention to her as Amelie waved her arms and legs. The man and woman sitting on either side of her looked out of the window most of the time. Once in a while, they turned around to talk in a language which Amelie did not really understand. Earlier in the day, before they put her in the car, Amelie had tried talking to them, to see if she could make them see reason. But she had failed yet again. Amelie had burst into a fit of heart-breaking sobs, but they just did not understand her trauma.
At times, especially when they crowded around her and passed her around from one person to another, causing her immense pain in the process, Amelie had the feeling that her captors thought they were acting in her best interest. The whole of last week and even yesterday, Amelie had maintained a cheery disposition and smiled at them many times in the vain hope of winning them over. But the communication barrier remained as wide as ever.
The driver and the woman sitting in the front were also speaking among themselves. They seemed to speak a language different from the one spoken by the people sitting in the rear on either side of her. Time and again, the woman sitting in front would turn around and say something to the people in the rear. They were short, clipped sentences which seemed to be a third neutral language. The man and woman sitting beside her would respond in kind, barking out responses in a similar tone or using monosyllables to agree or disagree. Amelie thought she could understand bits of what was being said.
Once the woman in front asked the man sitting next to Amelie to pick up the black bag and give it to her. Actually Amelie wasn’t too sure what was being said until the black bag was passed to the front. The woman in front fiddled with it, took a black tube out of it, pressed the black tube to her lips, put the black tube back into the black bag and returned it to be put back near Amelie once more. Were they taunting her? Trying to break her by deliberately creating a panic situation?
The man sitting to Amelie’s left picked up the large colourful object which Amelie detested from behind his neck and gave it to Amelie. They wanted her to take it apart as only she could, despite her lack of physical dexterity. This was one of the reasons why they were holding her, Amelie knew. She wasn’t sure she could dismantle it, even though her captors thought she could. They had an assortment of such brightly coloured objects which they gave Amelie from time to time. At times Amelie did make a show of trying to do what her captors wanted, if only to escape from captivity, but so far she was unsuccessful. But at that moment Amelie was in no mood to oblige anyone. She threw the object back at the man with all the force she could muster, without giving a damn about the consequences. They could refuse her food when she was hungry; torture her by stripping her clothes and dumping her in a large tub filled with water to induce the sensation of drowning. The man did not seem to be put off by what happened. He just laughed. The woman to her right joined him.
Amelie then tried to push that piece of plastic out of her mouth once again. ‘Mom, she seems to hate the pacifier,’ the boy told his mother. ‘Shall I take it out?’
‘She might start screaming yet again. She is in a bad mood today.’
‘I wonder what goes on in her mind,’ the boy mused. ‘If only she could talk!’
‘I wish I were a baby,’ Amelie’s sister said. ‘They don’t have to go to school.’
‘I too wish I were a baby. No more homework in that case,’ Amelie’s brother said.
‘To be honest, even I wouldn’t mind being a baby,’ their father said as he drove the car. ‘At least, I wouldn’t have to worry about the mortgage.’
‘Or the car loan,’ their mother added.
Amelie nervously waited for the black bag to explode and blow her to smithereens at any moment.
The harness around her chest and stomach did not restrict her from moving her arms or shaking her legs, but Amelie was a person with so little physical dexterity that she did not even try to unbuckle the harness. Even though escape was impossible, Amelie made yet another futile attempt to wriggle out of the harness. At the moment, it was much more important to get away from that black bag than escape from her captors, Amelie thought as despair took hold. It was her fifth month in captivity.
Her captors paid no attention to her as Amelie waved her arms and legs. The man and woman sitting on either side of her looked out of the window most of the time. Once in a while, they turned around to talk in a language which Amelie did not really understand. Earlier in the day, before they put her in the car, Amelie had tried talking to them, to see if she could make them see reason. But she had failed yet again. Amelie had burst into a fit of heart-breaking sobs, but they just did not understand her trauma.
At times, especially when they crowded around her and passed her around from one person to another, causing her immense pain in the process, Amelie had the feeling that her captors thought they were acting in her best interest. The whole of last week and even yesterday, Amelie had maintained a cheery disposition and smiled at them many times in the vain hope of winning them over. But the communication barrier remained as wide as ever.
The driver and the woman sitting in the front were also speaking among themselves. They seemed to speak a language different from the one spoken by the people sitting in the rear on either side of her. Time and again, the woman sitting in front would turn around and say something to the people in the rear. They were short, clipped sentences which seemed to be a third neutral language. The man and woman sitting beside her would respond in kind, barking out responses in a similar tone or using monosyllables to agree or disagree. Amelie thought she could understand bits of what was being said.
Once the woman in front asked the man sitting next to Amelie to pick up the black bag and give it to her. Actually Amelie wasn’t too sure what was being said until the black bag was passed to the front. The woman in front fiddled with it, took a black tube out of it, pressed the black tube to her lips, put the black tube back into the black bag and returned it to be put back near Amelie once more. Were they taunting her? Trying to break her by deliberately creating a panic situation?
The man sitting to Amelie’s left picked up the large colourful object which Amelie detested from behind his neck and gave it to Amelie. They wanted her to take it apart as only she could, despite her lack of physical dexterity. This was one of the reasons why they were holding her, Amelie knew. She wasn’t sure she could dismantle it, even though her captors thought she could. They had an assortment of such brightly coloured objects which they gave Amelie from time to time. At times Amelie did make a show of trying to do what her captors wanted, if only to escape from captivity, but so far she was unsuccessful. But at that moment Amelie was in no mood to oblige anyone. She threw the object back at the man with all the force she could muster, without giving a damn about the consequences. They could refuse her food when she was hungry; torture her by stripping her clothes and dumping her in a large tub filled with water to induce the sensation of drowning. The man did not seem to be put off by what happened. He just laughed. The woman to her right joined him.
Amelie then tried to push that piece of plastic out of her mouth once again. ‘Mom, she seems to hate the pacifier,’ the boy told his mother. ‘Shall I take it out?’
‘She might start screaming yet again. She is in a bad mood today.’
‘I wonder what goes on in her mind,’ the boy mused. ‘If only she could talk!’
‘I wish I were a baby,’ Amelie’s sister said. ‘They don’t have to go to school.’
‘I too wish I were a baby. No more homework in that case,’ Amelie’s brother said.
‘To be honest, even I wouldn’t mind being a baby,’ their father said as he drove the car. ‘At least, I wouldn’t have to worry about the mortgage.’
‘Or the car loan,’ their mother added.
Amelie nervously waited for the black bag to explode and blow her to smithereens at any moment.
Book Review: Vishnu’s Crowded Temple: India since the Great Rebellion by Maria Misra
Having liked Maria Misra’s first book on managing agencies so much, I got hold of her second and much more recent one, a couple of weeks ago. In Vishnu’s Crowded Temple, Misra undertakes the challenging task of analysing India’s history from the time immediately after the mutiny (1857) till the present. Misra proves herself equal to the challenge. Her 450 odd page tome is not only a very thorough examination of India’s history during this period, it is also crammed with Misra’s analysis of the prominent events and personalities. Irrespective of whether you agree or disagree with Misra’s various assessments, you can’t help appreciating that Misra knows her history very well and has all relevant facts at her finger tips.
Misra’s stand out achievement in this book is in examining every issue from multiple points of view. For example, when discussing partition, she explains how each of the actors, the Congress, the Muslim League and the British, performed their roles and did what they did in a manner that is entirely comprehensible, though with the benefit of hindsight, many serious mistakes were made. Equally brilliant are Misra’s description of the Emergency and the raise of Hindu nationalism in the 1990s. The personalities of Gandhi, Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Laloo Prasad Yadav, V.P. Singh and Mayawati are dispassionately analysed and laid bare. Their contributions to India are examined ruthlessly without any drama. Also of great interest (to me at least) was Misra’s examination of the (failed) attempts to have a Uniform Civil Code for India and to make Hindi India’s national language.
Misra’s language is simple, to the point, non-melodramatic, slightly sarcastic at times and in short, it’s just right for a book of this sort. For example, while describing the Congress’s (unsuccessful) attempt to remain uncorrupted and keep India unified as it neared the goal of Independence, she says, ‘By the end of the 1930s, it was clear that much of Congress politics was fast degenerating in an unedifying scramble for the spoils of office. Gandhi had not woven the tough, rough-textured and inclusive fabric he had originally designed. Rather, the Congress nation was silk not khadi. Threads from the prosperous peasantry, urban petty bourgeoisie, the progressive intelligentsia and big business had somehow been woven into a single cloth. But it was distinctly frayed at the edges. Skeins of regional, Muslim and low caste politics hung loose and it would prove difficult, if not impossible, to weave these back into a united and independent Indian nation.
Cricket does not find a mention in the post-independence part of this book and neither does Bollywood, though Sholay is discussed as are film actors turned politicians MGR and NT Rama Rao. The implied assessment here, I assume, is that neither Bollywood nor cricket has influenced post-independence India. In a sense, I would agree with Misra that Bollywood is not as much of a nation unifier as it is hyped out to be. For example, people in Pakistan, Nepal and Bangladesh enjoy Bollywood movies though anti-India feeling runs high in these countries. Cricket does bring Indians together and alleged Muslim support for the Pakistani team is the cause of much tension and quarrel. I do wish Misra had commented on the impact of cricket on Indian society.
Misra makes a few minor mistakes which do not have any impact on the overall quality of this book. She says that A.O. Hume, the founder of the Indian National Congress was an Englishman (when he was actually Scottish). The Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) is translated as “Dravidian Forward Federation”, something which will bring a smile to any Tamil speaker. In my opinion, it ought to be the “Dravidian Upliftment Party”.
Misra’s book has a very detailed bibliography. Since I am not a qualified historian, I am not going to comment on it.
Misra ends her book with the story of how Laloo Yadav, long considered a maverick and joker, reformed the Indian railways and made it profitable. However, Laloo has no qualms about having his in-laws travel ticketless in a first class railway compartment. Misra tells us in the epilogue that her objective was to explain India’s peculiar form of modernity, one which is a mix of so many contradictions. I would say that Misra has admirably succeeded in her endeavour.
I am setting out here a few of Misra’s theories and assessments which I found to be interesting and a few facts I ‘discovered’ from this book, which the average desi doesn’t easily get to read elsewhere.
Impact of British Rule: The role of the British on the subcontinent should not be exaggerated. According to Misra, the subcontinent is too vast and too ancient and the British presence too brief and microscopic to be seen as a leading player. Initially I shook my head in disbelief, but then as I thought about this, I started to feel that Misra might have a point. However, this is a very moot point on which it will be possible to canvass a variety of views.
Caste: Till the British arrived, Indian society was very fluid. Castes were not frozen. However, the British found it easy to understand the Varna system as hard and fast. Also, the educated Brahmins were the ones the British turned to for tutorials on India. It made sense for the Brahmins to explain the caste system in such a way that they were on top, though in reality, the intermediate castes were the property owners and the generally, especially in southern India, the most powerful. Misra says that there’s a great deal to be said for the view that untouchability was an institution initially confined to some locations. As India industrialised, the poorest and lowest castes migrated to the cities where they did the dirtiest jobs and the stigma of untouchability grew.
Aryan Invasion Theory and Pre-Aryan Dravidian Utopia: The Aryan invasion theory came into vogue between 1901 and 1911. The proponents of this theory found it very convenient to explain the caste system and the hierarchy within. Soon census takers were carrying ‘nose callipers’ to measure the length of Indian noses and categorise people. The Theosophists propagated the Aryan invasion theory and the upper castes gratefully seized upon it to show that they were superior to other Indians and were linked to Europeans. Please note that Misra does not at any point express her own view on the Aryan invasion theory. I wish she had.
In the south, a British preacher Robert Caldwell pioneered the study of southern languages. Caldwell wanted to destroy the influence of corrupt priests and Brahmins in order to make conversions easy. For this, he propagated the view that the Aryan invasion had destroyed a pre-Aryan Dravidian utopia and that southern languages are totally autonomous from Sanskrit and Hindi. Tamil intellectuals accepted Caldwell’s theories, though they did not convert. They also took them further by saying that pre-Aryan Tamil possibly existed prior to the movement of the tectonic plates when Asia, Africa and Australasia was a unified landmass called ‘kumarikantam.’
Changing British attitudes to India and Indians: Prior to the mutiny, the British wanted to modernise and reform India. After the mutiny, the British only wanted to preserve the existing order, and use it to strengthen their own presence in India. The British set up a College of Arms which would produce for various Indian princes various assorted ensigns, emblems and other signs of power. The Statutory Civil Service was an attempt to make bureaucrats out of the scions of Indian aristocracy. Sons of Princes were enrolled in this service as a birth right and trained to be bureaucrats in order to avoid having middleclass Indians rule India through the Indian Civil Service. Colleges such as the Mayo College at Ajmer, modelled on Eton, were established. This attempt ended in a dismal failure since Indian princes were too much fun loving and lacked the necessary discipline to become mandarins.
British attitudes to different Indian ethnic groups is one of the topics covered in Misra’s first book. Misra takes up the same topic in this book as well. The Afridis, Dogras and Sikhs were believed to make good soldiers, since they physically resembled Europeans more than other Indians. Sikhs especially were the apples of the British eye. The British were so keen to keep the Sikhs pure that Sikh recruits to the army had to be baptised, have uncut hair, bangles, a dagger and have ‘Singh’ as the last name. The British maintained Sikhism in the army at a standard higher than it was elsewhere. Bengalis were considered effeminate and non-martial, though they had formed the bulk of the British Indian army prior to the mutiny. It was only during the Second World War that stereotypes such as these were abandoned.
The British also condemned many communities as criminal classes. In the south, the British started to prop up the Dravidian parties to fight the Brahmin dominated Congress. Reservations were made for non-Brahmin communities.
British - Hindu – Muslim relations: Misra devotes a lot of time and space to explain how Hindu and Muslims came to be poles apart. Initially, the British were very tolerant of Hinduism. This morphed into contempt. With regard to Islam, the British were closer to the Muslims till the mutiny, after which there was a period of bitterness. Later, the British grew to develop cordial relations with a few select Muslims, like Syed Ahmed Khan, who benefitted a lot from their closeness to the British. Such select Muslims got British largesse and protection from Hindu domination, as the British played one community against the other. The bulk of the funding for the Aligarh University came from the British
Occasional Hindu-Muslim violence did take place in the 19th century, but such violence was local. In 1809, there were riots in Banares. British reports classified these as religious violence that erupted when a Muharram procession insulted Hindus, though in reality it was the result of a land dispute.
Till the early 19th century, Hindus and Sunnis celebrated Muharram along with the Shias. Similarly, Muslims participated in Ramlila celebrations. Towards the end of the 19th century, Tilak started to promote the Ganapati festival and made it a lavish and public affair. With that, Muharram processions and Ramlila festivities ceased to attract people from other faiths.
Regionalism among Indian leaders: At the Indian National Congress’s Lahore session in 1893, the great leader Bal Gangadhar Tilak boarded and lodged with his fellow Maharashtrians Gokhale and Ranade who were moderates and his ideological adversaries since he didn’t want to mix with Bengali leaders who subscribed to his own extremist views. South Indian leaders, almost entirely Brahmins, were fussy eaters and would not eat with others.
Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, a leader of Hindu renaissance in the 1870s, attracted the cream of Bengal’s intelligentsia and preached the rejection of western values and advocated a return to a rustic lifestyle. He was a gender bender who liked to dress as a woman and flirt with his largely male followers, at times sitting on their laps. Keshub Chandra Sen was a westernised Brahmo Samaj leader who reverted to Hinduism under Ramakrishna Paramahamsa’s influence. Ramakrishna Paramahamsa advocated child marriage and Keshub Chandra Sen gave his 9 year old daughter in marriage to the ruler of Cooch Behar
Fitness First: Since the British were busy portraying upper caste Hindus as non-martial and effeminate, the Hindu renaissance brought in its wake a great deal of interest in exercise and fitness. Various akharas were started. Wrestling became a favourite pastime for many Indians. The great Indian wrestler Gama was said to live entirely on milk, ghee and almonds which he consumed in vast quantities. These were supposed to be all that was needed to make a man strong.
Max Muller was a German orientalist who promoted the theory of the noble Aryan race which migrated to India and from whom the upper castes were said to have descended. The Aryans were said to have founded in India the greatest civilisation the world has ever known, though they weakened themselves by marriages with the lower castes. Muller opposed woman’s liberation which he said would weaken the fabric of Indian society.
Bankim Chandra used to be a proponent of women’s rights, till he took a sharp U turn. After his change of mind, he went about advocating that women should not behave like babus. He advised such women to rid the earth of their useless weight by applying ropes to their necks.
The Age of Consent Bill: In 1891, the Age of Consent Bill was proposed after many child brides died after sex with their husbands. This bill made intercourse with a child below the age of 12 years statutory rape even if the girl was married to the accused. Bankim Chandra opposed this bill tooth and nail. He said that if this bill was passed “Bengal would be plagued with females in groups hanging from door to door, begging men to gratify their lust”. Many Indian dailies opposed the Bill. Anand Baraz Patrika changed from a weekly to a daily to meet increased subscriber demand. The Bangabani saw its subscription soar to 20,000, whilst Sanjivani which supported the bill had only 4,000 readers.
Bal Gangadhar Tilak too opposed the Age of Consent Bill.
Aurobindo Ghose was a Hindu revivalist and Swaraj advocate who studied at St. Paul’s and Cambridge. He advocated revolutionary violence though his goals were quite vague. He talked about the golden age of the Vedas and declared that his ultimate objective was the ‘Aryanisation’ of the world
Annie Besant was a Theosophist who believed that high caste Hindus were Aryans who ought to be given the power to unify India as they had done earlier. She had a controversial attitude to non-Brahmins. She wanted to “humanise them because, as in Britain, the lower classes are a menace to civilisation and undermine the fabric of society.”
The Gurgaon experiment: Frank Bryne was a civil servant who carried out an experiment in Gurgaon to change the ‘bad’ habits of the Indian peasantry who were given to idleness and filth. To fight idleness, he made them give up canal irrigation and switch to inefficient Persian wheels. To make them conserve fuel, he promoted a magic ‘Bhoosa’ box. For disciplined defecation and fighting filth, he got them to dig latrines, though the latrines became traps for mosquitoes. Though none of his experiments really worked, a few successful monsoons meant that Gurgaon showed progress. Bryne’s books became standard texts for Indian bureaucrats.
Bombay Pentangular: So named for the five religious communities who took part, namely the Parsis, Hindus, Muslims, Europeans and the rest. In the initial days of this tournament, the Parsis refused to play the Hindus since they thought only the British were their equals. In 1939 the Hindus won the tournament and their supporters sang the Bande Mataram, which the Muslims found offensive.
Congress’s Hindu tilt and rift with the Muslim League: On many occasions Misra says that, at its lower echelons, the Congress was very much Hindu nationalist. Membership of the RSS and Congress overlapped to a considerable degree. Hedgewar, the founder of the RSS was a disciple of the Congress leader Tilak. From the 1920s , there was practically no Muslim participation in Congress led agitations. The 1930 civil disobedience movement which led to a sharp fall in the demand for imported fabrics, disproportionately affected Muslims, since most importers of foreign cloth were Muslims.
Misra blames the Congress for breaching its relations with the Muslim League. Jinnah was willing to renounce his demand for separate Muslim electorates if the Congress would agree to more Muslim majority provinces in Sindh and the North West Frontier Province. The Congress refused. In the 1937 provincial elections, the Muslim League cooperated with the Congress, but the Congress reneged on a deal to share ministerial posts.
Frontier Gandhi: Khan Abdul Gaffar Khan and his Khudai Khidmatgars followed Gandhian principles when fighting the British. However, their fight was mainly for the reunification of the North West Frontier Province with Afghanistan and had little to do with the national movement.
Subhash Chandra Bose and the INA: Subhash Chandra Bose established contact with Nazi Germany through the Kabul office of Siemens Company. He did not really get along with Hitler who refused to delete a few bits from his Mein Kampf which Bose considered insulting to Indians. Bose then went to Japan and Singapore and took over leadership of the INA. “Relations between the INA and the Japanese were appalling. The Japanese regarded the INA troops as turncoats, inherently untrustworthy and cowardly. At best they were a propaganda unit for spreading pro-Japanese stories among Indians and at worst as coolie corps.” The INA was not particularly effective and Subhash Chandra Bose himself was regarded by the Japanese as “incompetent and stubborn”. Misra says that this view was not totally unjustified since Bose kept insisting that a march on Delhi was possible in the midst of a catastrophic retreat.
Allied Army atrocities: During the Second World War, the enormous allied army in Eastern India misbehaved. There were many cases of rape, arson and looting.
Gandhi’s approval for Indira Gandhi’s marriage: Indira Gandhi’s marriage to Feroze Gandhi, a Parsi, was controversial. Mahatma Gandhi gave his approval, but said that the marriage should be celibate.
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