Mahatma Gandhi’s 150^th birthday came. On October 2^nd. As it always does. And went. As it always does. A bit low key, I thought, the celebrations. I have known previous birthdays of the Mahatma celebrated with greater gusto, as indeed has been the case with Chacha Nehru’s birthday, marked down for posterity as Children’s Day. This may only be my imagination, but what with all the incessant chatter about the Modi / Trump affair in the US, the Modi / Imran joust at the UN, Imran doing all the jousting, and the threatened face-off at the LOC, the Gandhiji birthday landmark has been pushed to the background somewhat. There have been snide words from the Opposition about the present BJP dispensation using the occasion to cynically push their own Swacch Bharat campaign at the very home of Mahatma Gandhi at Sabarmati Ashram, and questioning if that was in decent taste. Seeing as Gandhi himself was a great advocate of cleanliness and tried to get across the message to all his fellow Indians by setting a stirring example (not sure how successfully), our Prime Minister’s attempt to fast track the Clean and Open Defecation Free India agenda even further and seminally on October 2^nd, was an apposite idea.

We will doubtless read and hear from historians, politicians and journalists, all about Gandhi’s relevance in this day and age, if he is only a fading memory or a shining beacon of inspiration. Gandhi’s benign face, now a brand logo, is pinned to lapels of jackets only as a shoddy badge of honour by the leaders of our nation, with nary a thought to treating him as a true Father of the Nation. Only lip service and cosmetic acknowledgment is paid to the values he espoused. The problem is that Gandhi has been elevated to the status of a Godhead (some might say deservingly), but that exalted position at times precludes an objective debate on the pluses and minuses of his mammoth contribution. Some distinguished thinkers in the past have asserted that one should critically assess the role of Gandhi as a great human being, that he was subject to human frailties, and not blindly deify him. That school of thought was given short shrift by the powers that be and did not have many takers. You might as well try and find fault with Lord Rama. As indeed, some have and not without reason. With little to show for it.

It therefore leaves not very much for me to expand on the Mahatma’s influence on India and the world. Sadly, Gandhi was shockingly slain just as India was beginning to preen itself to the world as a free country, a much longed for status that he fought so valiantly to achieve. ‘Fought’ is not the mot juste when speaking of the peacable Gandhi, but you get my drift. It helped that the British were themselves finding things too hot to handle in India and were desperately seeking avenues to beat a hasty retreat, but Gandhi’s relentless non-violent Satyagraha movement which included the statement making Dandi March, were the main triggers that opened the doors to let in fresh breezes that Indians had not experienced for centuries. Leading to millions revering him. In my constant quest to try and imagine what Gandhi would have thought about how things have turned out in his beloved country over the 71 years since his passing, I have attempted an apocryphal interview with him in the fond hope that my mind reading abilities have not completely deserted me. So, dear reader, imagine if you will, the Mahatma seated comfortably on the floor in his clean and spotless ashram, spinning assiduously his charkha or chakra, as some prefer to erroneously call the spinning wheel.

Question – ‘Bapu, you tragically left us, totally bereft, on January 30^th 1948, victim of a shockingly successful assassination attempt. Now that 71 years have passed since that monumental tragedy, what are your thoughts on a day when the nation is celebrating your 150^th birthday?’

Gandhi – ‘My young friend, is it not magical that at the age of 150, I can see and hear you so clearly? And that I continue to spin this charkha with so much dexterity? It is as if my age was frozen at 79 years when I fell to Nathuram Godse’s bullets. You may think all this is unreal and that you are in a dream and will suddenly wake up. Let me just say that as long as you are dreaming, accept my words as reality. Clean living and pure thoughts will also keep you young. Not just mentally, but physically. That is the message I would like to give all my beloved brothers and sisters, no matter what their age.’

Question – ‘That is so amazing, Bapu. If this is a dream, I fervently hope I will never wake up. Tell me Bapu, does it pain you to see that after toiling so hard for India’s freedom, we are still struggling to fight corruption, petty political squabbles, poverty and hunger on such a large scale?’

Gandhi – ‘Of course these things you mention fill me with great sadness. But you know what they say, “Rome was not built in a day.” It takes time. The 72 years since we achieved Independence, is just a grain of sand or a drop in the ocean, in terms of a country’s ability to lift itself up from foreign bondage, become self-reliant and hold its head up in the comity of nations. Patience is required. And I am very glad to see that things are moving in the right direction. You have a point about political squabbles. It happens all over the world. I won’t worry too much about it. Corruption will gradually vanish once prosperity for all is experienced. It is a matter of time. Plenty of time.’

Question – ‘So well said, Bapu. Changing the subject altogether, I thought I should bring you up to speed on some technological developments since your departure. We have these things called computers, mobile phones and the internet. Extraordinary gadgets and services. For instance, if I were to send you a mail or a message, it would reach you instantly. Blink of an eye. If you permit, I would like to open an email account for you (gandhi150@bapujimail.com), as well as a Facebook account and Twitter handle. The ‘hits’ you will get will beat all internet records. Just say the word Bapu, and I will take care of the rest.’

Gandhi – ‘You appear to be speaking English, though I cannot follow a word. But if these new-fangled things you speak of enable me to communicate with my people from my heavenly abode, I will not come in the way of your initiative. Though I will need guidance. Speaking of “hits” I guarantee you Hitler will get far more “hits” than I can ever hope for!’

Question – ‘Ha, ha. That is so cool, Bapu. They always said you were a modernist. Incidentally, I don’t know how you are placed for entertainment in heaven, but did you get a chance to see Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi? It won a pile of Oscars, and Ben Kingsley looked more like you than you do yourself. If that is not an absurd statement.’

Gandhi – ‘It is an absurd statement, but I understand what you are saying. Though I don’t know much about the internet, I did see Gandhi at a special private screening arranged by Attenborough himself. And I must say, I was truly impressed. You are right about Ben Kingsley’s “dead ringer” looks and brilliant portrayal. If I must cavil, his body was much too taut and well-muscled compared to my rather frail frame. I thought Nehru and Jinnah were a bit contrived, but then you can’t have everything. They were a bit contrived in real life as well.’

Question – ‘I shall refrain from responding to the contrivance comment. People back home are very thin skinned. Finally Bapu, what do you feel about the celebrations down below on your 150^th birthday?’

Gandhi – ‘I am very glad it is not being overdone, and that my memory is being celebrated by dedicating the day to cleaning up India, in every sense of the word. Please convey my warm regards to Prime Minister Modi, a man from my state of Gujarat and a man after my own heart.’

I raised my head from my Note Pad and, lo and behold, Bapu had vanished into the ether. At the same time, my mobile alarm went off. It was 5 am and I was in my bedroom, rubbing my eyes in disbelief. Was it all an impossible dream? Then this happens. When I switched on the room lights, I saw a pair of spindly wire spectacles lying on my bedside table and a bamboo walking stick leaning against my work table. ‘It can’t be’, I said to myself.

Happy birthday, Bapu.

The redoubtable President of the United States of America Donald Trump, went head to head, in the nicest possible way, with the indefatigable Prime Minister of India, Narendra Modi. At Houston, Texas. There were hugs and kisses, and a few near misses. But at the heart of the mammoth, fanatical and hugely impressive gathering of the Indian diaspora, Modi and Trump made nice with each other. Amul butter wouldn’t have melted in their mouths. The love feast continued in New York, on the side lines of the UN General Assembly.

 In the midst of all the bonhomie and backslapping (let’s hope there’s no backstabbing), what stood out most, making for great copy and banner headlines, was the US President’s stunning double whammy of calling our PM ‘the Father of India’ and likening him to ‘America’s version’ of pop icon and rock star, Elvis ‘The King’ Presley. What he probably meant was India’s version of Elvis Presley, but we will let that minor solecism pass. Trump’s contemporary description of Modi as ‘the Father of India’ came perilously close to the time honoured ‘Father of the Nation’ label, exclusively reserved for Mahatma Gandhi. Whether Trump was aware of this and cleverly substituted ‘Nation’ with ‘India’ or if it was just a fortuitous happenstance, we shall never know, but for now Big Daddy has a new avatar, and his opponents are not amused.

It then occurred to me that, had Donald Trump carefully planned to introduce the Elvis motif deliberately into the conversation, which was not the case (it was clearly spontaneous), he might have summoned his think tank in advance to name check a set of Elvis the Pelvis’ major hits and cleverly juxtapose them with both Trump’s and Modi’s respective political scenarios. It has now fallen to yours truly to take up the slack and do something about it. In my callow youth, I was a big fan of Elvis Presley’s oeuvre, and I thought it would be a bit of a blast to see what I can do with some of his fabulous numbers and relate them to our topic of discussion. So here goes:-

Jailhouse Rock – ‘The warden threw a party in the county jail / The prison band was there and they began to wail.‘ Those are the opening lines of that blockbuster hit, and what better way for India’s version of Elvis, our beloved Prime Minister to visit Tihar Jail, than with a song on his lips and a word of good cheer to his dear friends, P. Chidambaram, D.K. Shivakumar and several other detainees with a huge price tag on their heads. This being the festive Navaratri and Diwali season, he could distribute sweets, light a few lamps, all just to show there’s no ill feeling. Also sending out a message to Vijay Mallya, Nirav Modi and Mehul Choksi that their cells are being kept warm for them in Tihar.

It’s Now or Never (‘O Sole Mio) – We will never know whether the PM and his Home Minister had this wonderful Elvis song in mind when they decided to abrogate Article 370, but they certainly did not allow the grass to grow under their feet when they took the bold call on the vexatious Jammu and Kashmir issue. They discussed, decided and declared. And Parliament (both of them – Rajya and Lok), roared in assent. Macbeth would have approved, ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’

All Shook Up – Still on Article 370, many people across our borders and indeed, even in this country, were ‘all shook up.’ India’s avatar of Elvis would have been fully aware of this, but as he himself might have put it had he been aware of the phrase, in this case paraphrase, ‘you cannot make an omelette without shaking up a few eggs.’ Being a strict vegetarian he might have employed a more acceptable culinary reference, but you get the picture.

A Little Less Conversation – Many critics of the Trump / Modi tête-à-tête in the United States felt there was too much chatter on both sides, and fretted if the leaders would be able to put their money where their mouths were. Cynics will always be cynics, but with Elvis as their abiding inspiration, I feel confident that in the months to come, there will be more action and less conversation. Which may or may not suit Im the Dim from across our western borders, but we can only wait and watch. What was that unforgettable line from Eli Wallach in ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly? ‘If you want to shoot, shoot. Don’t talk.’

Return to Sender – This well-known postal terminology, which Elvis (Presley, that is) put to good use in his frustrated love song, has acquired a new meaning and gravitas in the present world geo-political environment. Essentially, the song title captures the policy of the nuclear deterrent to a nicety. Trump and his soul mate Modi, are pretty much saying the same thing to their adversaries. ‘We have the bomb, but have no wish to use it. We want peace. Should you, however, in a moment of sheer madness, decide to press the button, rest assured it will be “returned to sender”. With interest.’ That’s telling them.

Suspicion – Many decades ago, the singing sensation from Memphis, Tennessee warned the world that constant mutual suspicion can only torment your heart. Not too many world politicians took heed of the words of this sage with the golden voice. And most of them came to grief. Today, India’s answer to Elvis (at least in Modi’s opinion), is eloquently fighting not just for world peace, but also for climate change and a clean environment. ‘Swacch Bharat’ is his clarion call, and he is being heard loud and clear. If only more people were less suspicious.

Suspicious Minds – Another brilliant hit from Elvis, with the same sentiments as ‘Suspicion.’ I am only featuring it to show how dedicated the great man was to remove this cancerous emotion that he had two hits with the same theme. No wonder world leaders like Trump are quoting him at every turn.

The Wonder of You – When Trump and Modi were introducing each other to the 50,000+ crowds in Houston, you could have been forgiven for blanching just a wee bit at the overblown praise, bordering on hero worship, gushing back and forth from both leaders. Many watching this on television here in India may have been squirming in their seats. But then, this is politics baby. In their defence, it must be said that the bosses appeared to be truly in awe of each other – a Mutual Admiration Society. The crowds loved it, and Elvis hit the nail on the head again with ‘The Wonder of You.’

(You’re the) Devil in Disguise – There are many in India and the United States who would be only too ready to concur with this particular Elvis song title, with reference to the two towering heads of state we are discussing. Good thing is if you are elected to be the captain of the ship, you have to learn to take storm tossed seas and hurricanes with equanimity, a quality both Modi and Trump possess in spades.

Always on my Mind – As Modi and Trump took leave of each other from Houston, as they waved goodbye, they seemed to be telling each other that they will always be on each other’s minds. I am not sure if Trump, applying his handkerchief to his left eye was to staunch impending tears, or to take care of an errant gnat, but the scene was high on emotion. Like Elvis’ song.

I would like to conclude this essay by thanking Donald Trump for bringing Elvis Presley into the equation. From an American President showering praise on an Indian Prime Minister, there could not have been a more telling compliment. Bob Dylan wouldn’t have cut it. Nor would Babe Ruth. But Elvis? You betcha!

The Annual Convention of India’s Celebrity Ghosts happened recently at the lavish Seventh Heaven Resort somewhere in the Milky Way. The fact that such an extraordinary gathering was taking place at all, became known to me through an Ouija board seance in which I decided to participate with some of my madcap friends who, I was convinced, were doing this for a lark, a throwback to our carefree, nostalgic boarding school days. Shades of Enid Blyton’s ‘The Famous Five’ and their crazy capers. My lunatic pals went a step further. Having fixed a precise time in which to activate the planchette and contact our angelic forefathers and mothers, not in the biological sense, the time to meet was fixed at the witching hour, between 2 and 4 am. Although we treated the whole thing as one big joke, a couple of stiff drinks did help us face an uncertain prospect and wipe away our silly, scared-out-of-our-wits grins. And settle our rumbling stomachs. In order to please the invited ‘ghosts’, a plate of sumptuous chicken or veg biryani (depending on the intended angelic recipient’s dietary preference) was to be placed next to the planchette. That was the accepted practice. Purely as a symbolic gesture. Guess what? The plate was licked spotlessly clean when the housemaid arrived the next morning! As to ‘who ate the biryani,’ the maid was in indignant denial, and it wasn’t the resident cat either. Eerie.

While I was still sniggering, my mind doubtless clouded over by the intake of spirits and being in an inexplicably happy state, I suddenly found myself thrown violently into some other dimension. Just like that. One minute I was very much earth bound, the next minute I was transported to some nether world I was trying to come to grips with. When I came to, I could not believe what I saw. I materialized out of thin air and found myself gazing at the imposingly crafted iron gates of the Seventh Heaven Resort, the place awash with a sea of great and late Indians standing in groups enjoying their heavenly nectar, along with some toothsome starters. A silk banner proclaiming the ‘Annual Convention of Celebrity Ghosts – India Chapter’ was draped across the gates. I had, unknowingly, gatecrashed into this incredible get-together. It was time to get to work.  

I spotted Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore straightaway and buttonholed him. ‘Tell me Rabi da, it’s all very well writing feelingly about the mind being without fear and knowledge being free. Have you any idea what it is like to get admission into a good school in India these days?’

‘Arre Babu moshai, don’t rub it in,’ said the great Bard stroking his flowing white beard. ‘I tried to push my great, great, great grandson into St. Xavier’s School in Kolkata last week. I paid a surprise visitation to the Principal’s office to put my two pice bit in. But before I could say anything, he saw my apparition and collapsed in a heap, dead as a door nail. For all I know, he might be amongst those present at this party. Khub kharab awastha.’ So saying he simply wafted off into the ether, muttering something unintelligible about ‘Keep me fully glad with nothing. Only take my hand in your hand.’-

I decided to keep my hands to myself, left the dead poet’s society and looked around for another prey, and hey presto, whom do I run into but Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. I sidled up and ingratiated myself to India’s first Prime Minister by adjusting the rose on his patented, eponymous jacket. ‘Good evening, Panditji,’ I hesitantly greeted. ‘You look spiffing in your Nehru jacket. But what is happening to the party you led with such pride and panache? I mean, Soniaji, Rahulji, Priyankaji – do you think they have the stomach for a real fight in the trenches? That too against Shah and Modi, with no one to turn to but the likes of Mamata, Mulayam, Akhilesh, Chandrababu and Stalin?’

‘Stalin?’ Panditji expostulated. ‘Surely, he died long before me. 1953, if I am not in error.’ I quickly put him right.

‘No, no Panditji, you misunderstand me. I am talking about the DMK leader, Karunanidhi’s son.’

‘Thank God for that’, cried the relieved former PM. ‘For a moment, I thought the Russian supremo had ghosted in here, uninvited. Incidentally, why should a leader from Tamil Nadu be called Stalin? Beats me.’

‘That’s Tamil Nadu, Panditji. Almost another country.  They even have a cricketer named Washington, who plays for India. To get back to the Congress Party’s present parlous state, Panditji’ I said, steering the conversation back on track.

‘Don’t worry my fine, feathered friend, the Congress Party will survive and come back strongly,’ declared Panditji, motioning to a serving wraith for a refill. ‘I am sitting down after this party with Indira beti, Rajiv baba and Sanju baba and drawing up a master plan for all future elections. Narasimha Rao is also here, but I’ll keep him out, for the sake of domestic peace. And if you’ll pardon my quoting myself, “at the stroke of the midnight hour, India will awake……”’

I couldn’t take any more of that. I had had it ‘up to here’ with that midnight hour stuff since my school days. But I did have one more question for Nehruji. ‘Tell me Panditji, everyone is blaming you for heeding Lord Mountbatten’s ‘request’ not to annexe POK, which you could so easily have done. Instead, you ran to the UN for a solution. Has the UN ever solved anything? And now look at the pickle you have landed us in. And why did you give up the offer of a prestigious seat at the UN Security Council to replace China? Hindi-Chini bhai bhai? That Zhou Enlai pulled a real number on you! What were you thinking, Panditji, if you’ll pardon the cheek?’

Bristling, Nehruji riposted, ‘That’s two questions and I will not pardon the cheek. What is more, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me and my progeny. What’s even more, Sheikh Abdullah is approaching this way and I wish to make myself scarce. So be off with you, you silly earth man.’

I know when I am beaten. Smartly avoiding Morarji Desai, who appeared to be sipping on a straw coloured cocktail of his own concoction, I spotted Bharat Ratna and Nobel Laureate for Physics Dr. C.V.Raman. The place was crawling with Nobel Laureates and Bharat Ratnas. Nursing a glass of masala buttermilk, as is his wont, he seemed lost in thought muttering to himself, ‘virtual and vibrational energy states, infrared absorption leading to the Stokes and Anti Stokes Raman scattering….’

I butted in. ‘Sorry to intrude on your flow, Raman Sir, but I couldn’t help noticing that there’s plenty of crackling static in India about Ramanujan. Biopics are being made, and the media can’t seem to get enough of him. Why are you being ignored?’

Dr. Raman was peeved. ‘Siva, Siva, you are a real Narada, aren’t you, my mischievous friend, whose credentials I haven’t the faintest notion of. Trying to sow discord between me and the estimable Ramanujan. By the by, is he here? I wish him well, and may he shine in Bollywood as well. You see, I have nothing against Ramanujan, other than the fact that he was obsessed with numbers and could dazzle everyone with his brilliant calculations. Like our recently joined colleague, Shakuntala Devi. There is also this Iyer Iyengar thing, which your simple, uncomplicated mind will not comprehend.’ So saying, he trailed off, humming Tyagaraja’s immortal classic in the raga Reetigowla, ‘Dvaitamu Sukhama, Advaitamu Sukhama.’

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was well versed in Carnatic music, and fully au fait with ‘this Iyer Iyengar thing.’ Luckily, I was saved from further musical snatches from The Trinity, when I spied with my little eye, former Indian cricket captain, the great Lala Amarnath raising a toast with Vijay Merchant, C.K. Nayudu and Mushtaq Ali. And as Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi joined them, swirling a Glencairn glass of Balvenie, all the other celebrities surrounded them for selfies. Cricketers! Everyone wants a piece of them. And you could have knocked me down with a feather, when I looked at the selfie on Tiger Pataudi’s Samsung I10. I was not in the picture, though I know for a fact I was sitting right in front, at Panditji’s feet! That was scarily weird. As I was leaving the party wondering how to access the gravitational pull back to earth, I thought I heard Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s voice from a distance speaking on his mobile. ‘Howdy, Modi’, he seemed to be saying, though I couldn’t be sure.

I was almost past the magnificent gates of heaven when I beheld the Mahatma approaching slowly. And as if by divine intercession, all the drinks in everybody’s hands had turned to masala buttermilk. Pataudi was not best pleased. ‘Hey Ram’, sighed the Mahatma, and wearily sat down cross-legged and asked for a glass of goat’s milk, his favourite tipple. He then gestured to Bharat Ratna M.S. Subbulakshmi, standing demurely in a corner, to come forward and render his favourite Meera bhajan, ‘Hari tum haro.’ Everyone else stood stock still.

It’s not often one can manage to weave in Frank Sinatra and Pink Floyd in the same headline and achieve a happy serendipity vis-à-vis the subject on hand. What can I say? I shall affect a false modesty, shrug my shoulders and go, ‘It just came to me.’ Those of you not quite in tune with the oeuvre of western popular music may approach Google search for enlightenment. So much for preliminary pourparlers.

Now then, listen up everyone. Please gather round and let’s hear it for all our heroes and heroines from the Indian Space Research Organisation (ISRO) who worked their socks off and burned the candle at both ends, to say nothing of the midnight oil, to put Chandrayaan 2 on the moon. Well, more or less. To be precise, the Vikram Lander was tasked with the touchdown, and the Orbiter living up to its name – orbiting the moon and taking pictures. There have been some minor hiccups, but let’s put that to one side. For now, you can raise your glasses, holler three cheers, shout hip-hip hooray, blow squeakers, jump up and down, in fact all the things you are accustomed to doing whenever India wins the World Cup. Which is twice, last I checked.  I am referring to cricket and not football (that’ll be the day). Seriously folks, getting back to Chandrayaan 2.0, to accord it its fashionably current terminology, this is one achievement about which we can all be fully justified in going over the moon. Sorry folks, but this is moon puns time. That said, let us pause for a moment, gather our thoughts and try to recollect what it was that Chandrayaan 1.0 accomplished. Stands to reason, if there’s a C2, there ought to have been a C1. And this is what my snooping around yielded.

In simple layman’s terms, eschewing all the scientific gobbledygook which most of us will struggle to comprehend, C1 was primarily involved in orbiting the moon and gathering loads of information including sophisticated imaging and to see if there’s any spare water on the lunar surface that we thirsty earthlings are so concerned about. I may be guilty of oversimplification, but that’s as far as I am prepared to go. C2 has been doing pretty much all that its older sibling achieved, but with one major exception. Its remit was to actually land on the south or dark side of the moon, a feat not attempted so far by the other space heavyweights. Vikram was to be the Lander. The promised landing did not actually take place, at least not at the first time of asking, the blip vanishing off ISRO’s radar screens some 2.1 kms shy of the surface of the golden orb. The whole of India was hoping and praying that this devoutly wished consummation would eventuate, putting India firmly on the moon map, with the rest of the big boys involved in the space race. While that did not quite happen to ISRO’s complete satisfaction, our scientists have still shown they’ve got what it takes to keep India striving for greater things in the future. Take a bow, ISRO.

One issue to ponder over C1, which was launched in 2008. Official sources are silent as to what exactly happened to this satellite, and one version has it that it went off the radar at some point in 2009, after concluding much of its appointed tasks, and was never heard of since. Probably sucked in by what Isaac Asimov might have termed ‘the third dimension’, akin to the Bermuda Triangle. We shan’t speculate any further on C1 as our thoughts are currently engaged with the supreme challenges of C2.

 Our indefatigable Prime Minister was with the scientists at ISRO HQ in Bangalore all the way through the ebb and flow of tidal emotions that must have buffeted everyone involved. That we fell just a wee bit short of the ultimate goal of a perfect landing did not deter the PM in the slightest. He had stirring words of encouragement to all those who had toiled sleeplessly for months on this immense project. Displaying his inimitable chutzpah, the leader of the nation exhorted all concerned to hold their heads high and be proud of what they’ve achieved – and that more exciting challenges are on the anvil. Narendra Modi has certainly shown a thumbs up to foster the scientific temper of the nation. His emotional and extended embrace with the humble head of ISRO’s operations, K. Sivan, was touching. He appeared to be echoing Kipling’s immortal words, ‘If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster; and treat those two impostors just the same; yours is the earth and everything that’s in it; and—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!’

While we continue to await more information on what C2 has been able to achieve (ISRO claims a 90 to 95% success, a claim swiftly mocked by the Cassandras), there are a couple of things which happened here on earth that left a somewhat bitter taste in the mouth. Opposition firebrand, Mamata Banerjee had to put her maladroit oar in to criticise the government, the PM in particular, for spending so much time on the C2 project when more pressing matters here at home needed urgent attention. She dubbed it a ‘distraction’, a comment that did not go down well with most denizens of the country. Methinks the lady doth protest too much! She did attempt to make amends later on by joining several luminaries in lauding the efforts of ISRO (taking care to keep the PM out of the encomiums), despite the project falling fractionally short of attaining its stated objective. That said, her attempts to soften the blow appeared more like a case of ‘damning with faint praise’.

Media coverage of the C2 event, as the hour of reckoning approached, was disproportionately over the top. All the television channels were clearly playing the usual game of one-upmanship which we have grown accustomed to. However, most channels seemed to have puzzlingly pre-decided that the operation was an unqualified success. The grammatical tense in which the hyperventilating anchors talked up the event, with exaggerated nationalistic fervour and rah-rah-ing, was that it was a done deal. All this while C2 was still on its way to the lunar surface, and no one had any fingernails left. Talk about counting chickens before they are hatched! If one can adduce a cricketing analogy, it was rather akin to popping the champagne corks while the last wicket was still at the crease. If you’ve been following the ongoing Ashes series, you will know the last wicket can often prove to be a stumbling block. Everyone put on a brave face when the final denouement became agonisingly apparent, and for once, most of the opposition members joined the government in lavishing plaudits for the sterling efforts of ISRO. The praise was tinged with a touch of consoling, but that was kosher under the circumstances. Anything to the contrary would have landed them firmly in the soup. They have plenty of other sticks to beat the government with.

In sum, the nation was fully engaged in Chandrayaan 2’s brilliant tilt at the lunar windmills, the populace waxing and waning, like the moon, as it neared its target. The jury is still out as to the level of success it achieved and is still to achieve. The situation is ongoing. As we go to press, there is some susurration over reports that a thermal image of the Lander Vikram has been spotted by Orbiter, but ISRO is loath to give away anything more. Understandably playing its cards close to its chest. They have, however, confirmed touchdown, though not with the pinpoint accuracy hoped for, which has led to some communication issues with the Lander. All hands are on deck to try and solve the problem, but with each passing day, hopes are receding. Fingers are being kept firmly crossed.

This much we can say. The moon mission kept Kashmir, the economy, the auto industry crisis and mind-numbingly boring, domestic politics out of the headlines for a while. That’s something to cheer about. Despite the setbacks, ISRO has come out of this smelling of roses, which no one will begrudge. To importunate questions on why we spend so much time and expense on the moon, the answer is, ‘Because it’s there.’ As singer songwriter Joni Mitchell so simply puts it, ‘At least the moon at the window, the thieves left that behind.’

Illustration kind courtesy of Raghupathy Sringeri

Up until a few weeks ago, only a handful of Indian tennis buffs and those involved in running the game in India, had any inkling who Sumit Nagal was. Speaking for myself, I had not heard of him and I follow the game closely. Then the young man qualifies for the main draw at the ongoing US Open and he is drawn to meet Roger Federer in the first round. So even before they stepped on court, the Indian media was already abuzz – the little known Nagal going head to head with the God of tennis. Had he been facing someone like Bautista Agut or Alex de Minaur, no one would have taken a blind bit of notice. Then the young hopeful takes the first set off the GOAT.

Madness time! Tennis followers were receiving early morning WhatsApp messages that a great upset was in the offing, so wake up and watch the magic unfold. Remember it was crack of dawn in India and well into late evening in the Big Apple. By the time I switched on the television, Federer had taken the next two sets and swept through the fourth set. The match swiftly sewn up. It wasn’t quite a case of ‘one small step for Nagal, one giant leap for Indian tennis.’ There was a momentary flutter of anticipation and excitement, but Federer soon extinguished the embers with his customary, ruthlessly elegant efficiency.

Flashback time. In 1969, the handsome Premjit Lall played the then undisputed numero uno of world tennis, the peerless Australian Rod Laver in the second round at Wimbledon. Laver, amazingly twice the holder of the calendar Grand Slam. Before anyone knew what was happening, Premjit had pouched the first two sets! Was the mother of all upsets about to happen? Flattered to deceive alas, our Premjit. Laver came roaring back and took the third set, and the last two sets without the loss of a game. After the match, this is what Laver had to say, ‘I was very fortunate to come through that match. I pretty much underestimated him playing so well on the grass courts. He had a good serve and I was struggling. My confidence levels weren’t there.’ Premjit Lall was involved in many a stirring battle, particularly in Davis Cup encounters alongside the legendary Ramanathan Krishnan and Jaidip Mukerjea, but most tennis buffs will remember him by that near miraculous upset that didn’t happen at Wimbledon against Laver.

In other Grand Slams, Vijay Amritraj took out Rod Laver, now in the evening of his career, in the 1973 US Open 3^rd round but could not get past Laver’s ageing compatriot Ken Rosewall in the quarter finals in consecutive years, 1973 and ’74. Ramesh Krishnan was a set up against John McEnroe, again at the US Open quarter finals in 1981, but the left handed, temperamental genius had his way. In his autobiography, ‘A Touch of Tennis’, co-authored with his father, Ramesh self-effacingly recalls McEnroe’s famous post-match comment, ‘The guy serves at 10 miles an hour and I still can’t return it.’ And we all know how Ramesh’s father, Ramanathan Krishnan twice entered the semi-finals at Wimbledon in 1960 and 1961, going down on both occasions to the ultimate winners, Aussies Neale Fraser and Rod Laver respectively. Both Vijay Amritraj and Ramesh Krishnan are multiple Grand Slam quarter finalists and they have earned the undying admiration of Indian tennis lovers. As indeed, have Leander Paes, Mahesh Bhupathi and Sania Mirza for their many doubles conquests. Above all, India’s magnificent Davis Cup triumphs against Brazil in 1966 in Calcutta, and France in 1993 in Frejus are indelibly emblazoned in our sporting history, both ties going right down to the wire.

The purpose of elaborating on these sporting minutiae was to draw attention to how starved we are when it comes to sporting attainments, that a player taking one set off Federer had the Indian media going berserk for the next 24 hours. And we celebrated P.T. Usha’s creditable 4th placing in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics 400 metre hurdles like she had struck gold. P.V. Sindhu saved India’s and her own blushes by finally winning the World Badminton Championships, and the media clamour that followed was completely understandable. To put things in perspective, we have had our moments under the sun in fits and starts. Padukone, Nehwal and Sindhu in badminton, the Krishnans, Amritrajs, Paes, Bhupathi and Mirza in tennis, Mary Kom in boxing and our forgotten hockey heroes from several decades ago and of course, the Indian cricket teams in recent decades who have put us well and truly on the map.

Let me get back to the Nagal / Federer story and what one learns from that result. That as a nation, we the people and our hyperventilating media need to display a sense of proportion and be more circumspect in the way in which we talk up our sportspersons at the least pretext. In this case, no blame attaches to Nagal who did creditably well to qualify for the main draw, was then up against the Fedex. He can take some consolation from the fact that Roger didn’t exactly wipe the floor with him and had to work hard for his win. We need to raise the bar when we go gaga over small moments of thrills and spills though the result is a foregone conclusion. Had Nagal actually beaten Federer, we would have had something to exult and go over the moon about, provided he was not beaten in the next round by some relative unknown, as happens often to unseeded players who play momentary party poopers. Beware of the false dawn.

If I have concentrated mainly on tennis in this piece, the main provocation was that Nagal / Federer encounter. Let me turn briefly to India’s favourite sport and pastime, cricket. When India stunned the world with those twin Test series victories, back to back against the West Indies and England in 1971, giving birth to India’s first cricketing superstar Sunil Manohar Gavaskar, our legion of star-struck fans could not contain themselves. That is the level of achievement that should properly be celebrated, albeit slightly over the top. India announced themselves as a force and several decades later, we are among the top cricketing nations in the world across all formats, having won everything there is to win and producing one icon after another in the process.

So my earnest plea to all our sports followers and particularly the media is to rein in their unbridled rush of adrenalin when a young tennis player manages to capture a set off a legend. I fervently wish young Nagal will achieve great things in the future. Till then, let the young man just play the game and let us all hold our horses. For myself, I shan’t be holding my breath.

For the nonce, raise another glass to P.V. Sindhu.

Every now and then, I ponder on the mysterious ways of our stock market. Try as I might, the erratic ways of Dalal Street defy comprehension. If bank fixed deposits or government bonds would unfailingly yield us 10% annual interest post tax, I don’t think I will even look at the bourses. Or, indeed, mutual funds which are directly linked to the vagaries of the Sensex and the Nifty. Since numbers of that sanguine nature belong to the ‘those-were-the-days-my-friend’ era, we have no option but to try and get our heads round the complexities of the here and now. If you belong to the super rich category, I don’t really think it matters one way or the other. Ironically, the same logic holds if you are languishing somewhere at the bottom of the rich-poor pyramid, to employ a fanciful jargon. It’s always the poor sods in the middle who find themselves in a muddle.

Middle class investors in India have nowhere to turn to but the stock markets. What with bank fixed deposits offering a measly 5 to 7% annualised returns pre-tax, most of us are pushed to ‘play the markets’, with a promise of 30% returns and a delivery of -10%. The problem is ‘we don’t speak the lingo’. When your investment consultant lands at your doorstep, conspiratorially whispering into your shell like ear that he has received a tip that ‘should make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams’, you are not sure if you should roll out the red carpet or slam the door in his face.

The well-off middle class is a myth. There is no such thing. Study the budget speeches over the past couple of decades, and if you find anything sympathetic to the urban middle class, I’ll buy you a ‘one-by-two’ tumbler of coffee at the local Sukh Sagar. Which is all I can afford. A last resort is to become a farmer, in which case you need pay no taxes at all. That piece of governmental munificence to agriculturists I have never been able to fathom. Is the farmer’s currency, stuffed in trunks under his charpoy, of a different hue? Why this extraordinary partiality towards a sector that boasts some of India’s wealthiest individuals, many of them going on to become ministers at State and Central levels? Seek and ye shall not find, the answers that is, about sums it up.

 Nevertheless, my fleeting thoughts about turning my hand to tilling the land, raising livestock, milking cows and growing potatoes does not hold out much promise and I have junked the idea. Mind you it’s not roses, roses all the way being a farmer either. Instead of following the stock markets, you have to closely monitor the weather patterns. Singer songwriter Sting tried to be a farmer once and ended up composing a memorable song, ‘Heavy clouds but no rain.’ Clearly he made more money with that one song than he would have ever done growing spuds in his back garden!

Then there are other issues: the ubiquitous oil prices conundrum, Trump playing footsie with North Korea and China to fret about, volatility at our borders post the 370 abrogation, the Brexit imbroglio, the automotive sector in dire straits and I haven’t even touched on inflation. All this and more are part of our daily lexicon if we are to keep pace with what’s going on universally. Not merely to improve our general knowledge, but because the welfare of our finances is driven by these global, earth shattering events. We are unsteady of feet in shifting sands. Try reading the Finance Minister’s budget speech and if you can follow any of it, ‘you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’ Watching the minister live on TV is no better, though you can snigger at some of the weak jokes he must necessarily indulge in, to soften the blow. To say nothing of the statutory Ghalib or Tiruvalluvar quote, depending on whether the FM was Jaitley (RIP) or Chidambaram (RI/CBI/ED).

I am therefore doing what most ‘knowledgable’ experts in India do when they are at a loss to plumb the mysteries of the market. Which is to turn to the Bull, the oracle Rakesh Jhunjhunwala (RJ), he of the cherubic countenance to match his sunny optimism. As I could not actually obtain an appointment with him, I shot off an email questionnaire, to which I received a well worded, if characteristically outspoken, response. I can only surmise the great man himself authored the replies but if it was some underling from his office trying to save his boss some trouble, given that he must be receiving truckloads of mails, I take no responsibility for the authenticity of the mail. Though I must say it sounds a lot like RJ.

SS – ‘First off Rakeshji, what do these investment bozos mean when they say buy long and sell short? That’s a real bummer. I am afraid to display my ignorance lest they take me for a solid ride.’

RJ – ‘My friend, the long and short of it is that you should beware of short covering. If the short is covered, then the long will take care of itself. Samjha? Long term perspective is crucial. Be patient for 20 years and you’ll make pots of money.’

SS – ‘Hmmm, I think I am grasping the gist, but I am still confused. 20 years eh? I will be 90 years old, if I still have a pulse. How does that help?’

RJ – ‘Age is only a number. You can live in a very posh old age home. They are all the rage now. You see, you can never time the market. I have said this so many times, but nobody listens.’

SS – ‘And I guess I could also afford a 21-gun salute funeral. But Rakeshji, why was everyone saying the market will go through the roof if the GST bill was passed in Parliament? That did not happen. What has GST got to do with the price of fish?’

RJ – ‘Price of fish? What rubbish you are talking? I am a strict vegetarian. Please stick to price of onions. Or tomatoes. Or potatoes. I am not fussy. Anyway, you are asking about GST. See, the stock markets are very emotional. They work on sentiment. Sensex is even more sentimental than Nifty. The fact is nobody actually knew what GST entailed. All they knew was share prices will zoom if the bill was passed. But then Demonetisation came along, providing a double whammy. Get my meaning?’

SS – ‘Sort of, Rakeshji. Warren Buffet is quoted as saying, “Wall Street is the only place that people ride to in a Rolls Royce to get advice from those who take the subway.” What exactly did he mean by that?’

RJ – ‘Arre bhai, this is the problem with you smart alecks. How does it matter what Warren Buffet said in America? Listen to Dhirubhai Ambani who said, “As a school kid, I was a member of the Civil Guard, something like today’s NCC. We had to salute our officers who went round in jeeps. So I thought one day I will also ride in a jeep and somebody else will salute me.” That is desi akalmand. Homespun philosophy, mere dost. Forget about your Buffet shuffet. In India, it is only buffet. Self-service!’

SS – ‘That was so moving and inspiring, Rakeshji. Pardon me while I brush away a tear. One last question. What is your secret, that X-factor for making money in the stock market?’

RJ – ‘Ha ha. If I reveal all my secrets why would you come to me for interviews? But seriously, it is very simple. Strike a good balance between debt and equity, avoid automotive and bank scrips like the plague, mutual funds are ok but the thrill is in buying and selling shares, listen very carefully to what your investment advisor is saying, and do precisely the opposite. Never watch CNBC, Bloomberg, NDTV Profit, ET NOW and all those channels, except when I am on the show. Sure recipe for a stroke. Listen to my friend Bejan Daruwala, who has Lord Ganesh on his side. Above all, remember what Mark Twain said, “never invest on any day of the week that ends with a Y.”’

SS – ‘Thank you, Rakeshji. You have been very helpful, and I am even more confused.’

I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion. Alexander the Great.

The world is going through turbulent times. India is contributing its mite to the turbulence with a great show of truculence, with the Jammu and Kashmir saga being played out mutedly, thanks to the deafening silence of media censorship and blackout, only serving to fan the embers of wild speculation.  Hong Kong is simmering and could reach boiling point. The United Nations’ expanded Security Council got together at Pakistan’s instance to discuss the fallout of the abrogation of Article 370, and the resultant dribs and drabs communication to the world, such as it was, from some of the 15 members of the Council was ambivalent. We always knew where China stood, but the United Kingdom’s too-clever-by-half chicanery is redolent of Mountbatten’s shenanigans at the time of India’s Independence and the painful partition. The Brits are backtracking with hasty denials, but they should tell that to the marines. And our dear friends Russia have not exactly been gushing in their support for India, more humming and hawing than clearly articulating their stand. Yes, yes, we all know it’s a bilateral issue, but which side of the bilateral divide are you morally supporting? Spit it out, man. As the Good Book says, ‘let your yea be yea and your nay be nay.’

 Then again, typically, both India and Pakistan have been ‘celebrating’ the UN meeting outcome, each claiming the other has been sent to Coventry. Familiar strains! Donald Trump is, well, just being Donald Trump. Having dropped a brick once during his talks with Imran Khan and falsely dragging India into the equation, decided to keep his counsel. Which is a blessing. China has its hands full with the Hong Kong imbroglio to tackle, and to side with Pakistan in the latter’s never ending sabre-rattling with India. The bright new face in Parliament from Ladakh, Jamyang Tsering Namgyal has expressed immense joy at Ladakh being part of the conversation at the UN, when it hardly ever got a mention in the Indian political discourse over the past 70 years. Understandably, Namgyal (get used to that name) hails Prime Minister Modi for putting Ladakh on the map, quite literally. At least, someone is happy at the turn of events.

While everyone is waiting with bated breath to follow the unravelling drama in J&K, while 95% of India is fully behind the PM’s bold steps, while Home Minister Amit Shah refuses to rest on his laurels and is already exhorting his party members to action with crucial assembly polls in the offing, while Shah’s temporary hiatus from the mainstream provides the relatively low profile Defence Minister Rajnath Singh a chance to flex his muscles in chaste and stentorian, Vajpayee-ish Hindi and tell the Pakistanis where they get off, while a handful of Indian activists, who look good on television and speak the Queen’s English, are getting their knickers in a twist, trying to move the courts against the Government on the ubiquitous Kashmir issue (with friends like these….), while much loved former Finance Minister Arun Jaitley battles for his life at the AIIMS and not helped one bit by a raging fire breaking out in that very hospital, while smug-faced Chidambaram plays footsie with the cops in Delhi only to succumb, while all these earth shattering events are happening even as this missive is being word-processed, there are other things in our country to worry about. Very important things!

I am talking about sheep. Not the human kind, but genuine quadrupeds who provide us with wool, meat and when in a good mood, go baa baa. If they are black sheep, that is. En passant, let me add that no one seems to care two hoots if I conjoin the words ‘sheep’ and ‘meat’. But if I tried to attach the word ‘meat’ with ‘cows’, the whole country (nearly 85%) goes ballistic and starts beefing about it, if you’ll excuse the serendipitous pun. It’s a crying shame none of our epics records sheep worship as an integral part of the storyline. Shame for the sheep, that is. No wonder these animals look so sheepish, like so many lambs to the slaughter. But I digress. Let me get back to my sheep story.

The news item that caught my eye involved a separated couple, the woman running off to live with another man and his 71 sheep. Allow me to be more lucid. This happened in a remote hamlet not far from Gorakhpur in Eastern UP. On learning that the woman would prefer to enjoy conjugal bliss with her not-so-secret lover and not her legally married husband, the local panchayat was in sympatico with the runaway lass and told her that the arrangement will get its approving nod with one proviso. That the woman’s lover should return half the number of sheep he owed to her heel of a husband. The panchayat was silent on whether the eloping girl should marry her new lover, or if they can just ‘live in sin.’

Apparently the husband readily agreed to this arrangement. I am guessing he was not awfully sold on the idea of conjugal bliss with his wife either, and may have cast his glad eye on someone else’s wife. So he gains twice over – loses his recalcitrant wife with a clear conscience and gains a pen full of fat sheep. And a new wife, to boot! Everyone is happy. Or are they? There were more complications to this sheep story with more members of the respective families staking all manner of claims, but that is not germane to this piece. We can only bow in respect that problems in our rural belts are solved swiftly with such sagacity and wisdom. Even the wise King Solomon would have been proud. Watch and learn, you spoilt urbanites!

 And hot off the presses, another gem of real life hilarity from UP (what is it with this state?) A man has sought divorce on the grounds that his wife has decided to feed him only laddoos for all meals, this on the sage advice of a local tantric, the better to help them achieve wedded nirvana! Paraphrasing the old ad jingle, ‘laddoos in the morning, laddoos in the evening, laddoos at supper time.’ Fat lot of good the laddoos did for their nirvana. The man was literally sick to his stomach. Far from sweetening the deal, this story is headed for a bitter end.

The limited point I wish to make is that in the general scheme of things in the world, India, Pakistan, Kashmir, POK, Hong Kong, Trump, Putin and some Chinese bigwigs whose names I cannot spell – these are not the only important issues and personages that people should be grappling with. The little people in remote Eastern UP with their lovers’ tiffs and sheep barters are equally important. Go and ask them their opinion on the Kashmir issue and they will stare blankly at you. Engage them in a discussion on sheep farming and they will be unstoppable. Or lovers’ tiffs and how to solve them, come to that. Mostly amicably, but if pushed to the edge, they won’t think twice about beheading you while you sleep. Justice is meted out swiftly in our remote parts.

Is there a lesson in this? Yes. Our television channels should spend more airtime on subjects like these. Imagine, sheep today, cows tomorrow, dogs the day after – our dumb chums from the animal kingdom can provide endless fodder for some pretty heated exchanges on one of Arnab’s interminable Sunday morning talk shows. What say you, Arnab? You can even consider bringing the animals to the studio to participate. Tether them to the feet of those pathetic Pakistani generals you invariably invite, merely to roundly insult them. And don’t fret yourself that they will dirty your studio (animals that is, not the generals) when nature calls or things get animated. It will at least be pure, honest, if a trifle smelly, excrement as opposed to some of the stuff your panelists spew out on a daily basis. Just make sure you have enough dry grass, hay and dog biscuits in the studio.

Postscript: I thought this article was concluded. However, it just occurred to me that one particular news channel has, over the past couple of months, been doing precisely what I am advocating. They have been loftily ignoring any news item of current interest. Let Chandrayaan 2 do its stuff, let J & K hit the headlines elsewhere, let Kohli hit another hundred, let Chidambaram sweat and squirm under the glare of his alleged misdeeds, this channel will remain supremely aloof, instead showing us an endless pre-recorded loop of India’s wildlife, its glorious temples and places of interest, interviews conducted many moons ago with people of no great significance – all this in an aesthetically wrought blurred and hazy offering. Dear reader, please join me in a smart salute to Tiranga TV, for showing us that life is not all about politics. Or cricket. That the big cats, if not the fat cats, and historical monuments are all that matter. Not to mention the bakras.

          

I don’t know about you, but I am frequently, almost constantly, pestered over my mobile phone by people I do not know from Adam or Eve, trying to dragoon me into buying something I am not in the least bit interested. Like investing in an apartment complex promoted by builders I have never heard of, banks or some shady financial institution attempting to get into my ribs for a few lakhs of rupees promising mouth-watering returns without even my having read the small print, membership of a proposed new club in my vicinity at dirt cheap rates for first movers (never mind that the club will take five years to come up, if at all it does, and that’s beyond my sell-by date) and all that is merely scratching the surface. The new age marketing mavens have found all kinds of innovative ways in which to keep you occupied over your mobile. Of course, a lot of the blame for this abominable nuisance is down to me. I unthinkingly keep giving out my mobile number to all kinds of shops and establishments whenever they prepare the bill. They just ask you, very casual like, ‘Mobile number, Sir’, like it was a piece of information you were legally obliged to provide. My response is Pavlovian. The mouth starts working before the brain kicks in. ‘98765 43210’ you respond mechanically. And you do this in several different places over the days, months and weeks. And it all adds up, the multiplier effect. Incidentally, if you thought that was my mobile number, you’ve got another think coming.

For a number of years now, I have been attempting ways in which to answer these calls with a brilliantly witty, cutting and telling put down. But when the nuisance of a call actually comes, you’ve forgotten the punch line and mumble something pretty tame like. ‘I am busy, kindly call later.’ That, of course, is a terrible mistake. That ‘Kindly call later’ is clearly surplus to requirements, for the next question inevitably is, ‘When will it be convenient, Sir?’ Never a good option, asking them to call later. Much better to bark, ‘How about never and stop bugging me’ and slam the phone down. Speaking metaphorically, of course. You’re on your mobile and can’t ‘slam’ the gadget down, risking irreparable damage to the instrument. You can violently press your forefinger on the touch screen, but it’s a waste of effort with only a sprained finger to show for it.

I have been thinking long and hard about this pestilential problem all of us face on a daily basis and I decided, after careful consideration, based on my personal experience, to share a typical mobile telephonic exchange with my bank (actually it is some remote service provider who probably can’t tell the difference between an FD and an SB account) and how I tend to tackle such untimely calls. If you must answer the call when an unknown number flashes on your screen (you never know, it could be that lottery company from Nagaland from whom you blithely bought a ticket, informing you of an unexpected windfall – hope springs eternal), you can at least have the satisfaction of having delivered a few great snubs that will, hopefully, put the caller off for at least a couple of weeks. They are possessed of very thick skins, these service providers. So here goes.

I was calling my bank to inquire what my meagre bank balance was as on date. After tapping 2 for English, 6 for account inquiries and 8 to talk to a representative and being told ‘all our service staff are busy attending to other customers, kindly hold the line and we appreciate your patience’, I patiently wait for 12 minutes while a nameless, hotel lobby tune (sounded like an unrecognizably watered down version of Beethoven’s Für Elise) keeps reverberating mesmerizingly in an endless loop, interspersed every two minutes with a recorded message asking me to invest in one of the bank’s new Fixed Deposit schemes offering 5% pre-tax annual interest. Like I was born yesterday! What’s more, that ‘service staff busy, appreciate your patience blah, blah’ keeps repeating itself every three minutes. Finally.

‘Good morning, Mr. Subrahmanyan, you have reached the National Bank of India, and this is Shweta. Can you kindly confirm your mobile number?’

‘Look, after 12 excruciating minutes of waiting, I was about to hang up. Listen Shweta, you have just correctly identified my name by the simple expedient of linking it with the mobile number I called you from. What further confirmation do you want? And can you please do something about that dreadful Yanni-type music?’ I was quite irritable. With just cause. After asking me what ‘expedient’ meant, she continued.

‘It’s standard procedure, Sir. You could be somebody else speaking from the same number. Can you please confirm your date of birth?’ I did as bid. It could still have been somebody else who knew my birthday! She completely ignored my Yanni wisecrack. Probably never heard of him.

‘Thank you, Sir. Please answer this simple question. What is the name of your favourite musician, as recorded in our KYC?’

‘For crying out loud, I can’t remember what I entered in the KYC 15 years ago. Does it matter? Could be anyone, John Lennon, Bob Dylan or Sanjay Subrahmanyan. And definitely not Yanni. For heaven’s sake!’

‘There’s no call to be rude, Sir. We are only doing our job.’

‘And not very well, I might add. Forget about it. I’ll call again and hope I will be connected to someone who will not insist on my revealing the location of my birthmark. Where that is, of course, is not to be divulged to an impressionable, young lady. It’s bad enough that you can read it on my KYC.’

I promptly hung up. Thought I heard a snigger from the other end before the line went dead. I allowed matters to stay that way for a couple of days, felt a cooling off period was in order. I might have been a bit harsh with young Shweta at the bank, with good reason mind you, but really she was only doing her job, and I should have been less crotchety. For all I know, she may have been crying on her boyfriend’s shoulders over a cappuccino at Costa’s that evening. I resolved to be more conciliatory next time.

A few days later, ‘next time’ arrived. The call came at 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday. Siesta time. I was not best pleased and reacted angrily at some other lady from the same National Bank.

‘Listen, it’s Sunday afternoon. Don’t you have any consideration when to make a sales call. For the last time, I am not interested in your latest Fixed Deposit offer, your pension-linked mutual fund scheme with a freebie insurance plan thrown in or any other hare-brained idea your boffins at Head Office keep pulling out of their hats. Please do not call me again. And how come you’re working on a Sunday?’

‘Just one minute, Sir’, the lady cooed icily. ‘I am Mrs. Bhide, Assistant General Manager – Portfolio Management, calling from Head Office. I rang to inform you that your last long term investment of Rs.10 lakhs has matured accruing a cumulative interest of 9.75%, and I wanted to know if you wished to redeem the same or reinvest at a much lower interest. However, if I have disturbed your beauty sleep, we can forget all about it, and the amount will automatically be locked in for another 10 years. And I am working overtime on a Sunday because people like you can’t be bothered about your own investments. Goodbye!’ Would you believe it, she actually slammed the receiver down. She was calling from a landline.

Hoist with my own petard. These things obviously cut both ways. I had to eat humble pie and call her back immediately with craven apologies. Mobile telephony. Can’t make up my mind if it’s a blessing or a curse. Whatever happened to the days when you could walk into your local branch, sit in the manager’s air-conditioned ‘chamber’, and discuss the latest cricket scores and political upheaval over a cup of weak tea and a thin arrowroot biscuit? Now it’s Shweta one day, Sita the next, but keep your ears open and eyes peeled for the dreaded Mrs. Bhide!’ Never mind if you’re enjoying a nap. You ignore her call at your own peril.

                   Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent. Ludwig Wittgenstein.

The Austrian philosopher Wittgenstein (1889 -1951) bequeathed to us an armful of quotations like the one above, which were often opaque, which only he understood, and took a dim view of those who didn’t. It is said that even Bertrand Russell struggled to figure out Wittgenstein, which is saying something. Happily, we are free to make our own interpretation, particularly when the man who wrote it is no longer there to contradict us. Which brings me rather neatly and delicately to the subject I wish to touch upon – Indians and our strange attitude towards sex. A topic on which we would rather remain aloof and silent, ‘Whereof one cannot speak.’ Thank you, Herr Wittgenstein.

As a general rule, Indian women do not discuss sex. Come to that, neither do Indian men. I may be accused of generalizing, but that comes with the territory. However, with a population of 1.3 billion and counting, Indians can hardly be ignorant of the missionary position. If population is to be used as a criterion for sexual awareness, only China can claim bragging rights for the gold medal with India snapping at its heels. So you see, we are right up there with the best. Now I am fully aware that there are these so-called liberated types in urban conglomerations in our country who keep talking and writing about sex in a studiedly open and self-conscious manner. However, one Shobha De does not a summer make. And I am not even going to touch on the subject of multiple religious denominations and their attitudes towards sex, protected sex, family planning et al. The Kama Sutra has been done to death. There’s enough stuff about that doing the rounds in academia. The government even has a ministry devoted to family planning, and doubtless they keep spreading the good word about the birds and the bees to the huddled masses. Trouble is the huddled masses are not taking a blind bit of notice, and continue to huddle, which is part of the problem.

It is in this context that my attention was drawn to a recent report in the newspapers (some of us still read them), about a well-known manufacturer of condoms, Durex India, who aggressively took to social media to awaken women to their sexuality. Hitherto largely considered a self-imposed taboo subject, Durex roped in a number of prominent women to air their uncloseted views openly about sexual pleasure, or the lack of it, amongst women in India. The blame for this unfortunate deprivation was laid squarely at the door of ‘The Indian Male’, his inflated ego (if nothing else), seeking pleasure only for himself. Singer-songwriter Carole King famously crooned about the earth moving under her feet and we’ve all read about a billion stars exploding in our brains, but these myths have largely been confined to the novels of Judith Krantz, Harold Robbins and their ilk. The new-age, ‘aware’ Indian woman, who is not afraid to speak her mind, has dismissed all this as just so much bunkum and hogwash. The whole point the women interviewed seem to be making is that sex cannot be a self-serving one-way street, with nary a thought to the ‘gentler sex.’ It takes two to tango about sums up the female point of view. Quite right, too.

Point eloquently made, one would have thought, but not quite game, set and match to the ladies. The men are now up in arms and Durex India is facing plenty of flak with some danger of their sales curve threatening to go into limp mode. Hashtags are sprouting like a rash with all kinds of appellations among the twitterati. One of the more risible consequences of the twitter war was a call to all right thinking men to switch to another brand, Kohinoor, to punish the errant Durex, little realising that Kohinoor and Durex belong to one and the same parent company! Clever sods. ‘Heads I win, tails you lose.’

Here’s something that bothered me particularly. Durex India, as part of its social media initiative, put out this tweet – ‘Nearly 70% of women in India don’t orgasm during sex.’ I was deeply offended by this tweet, despite its drawing 5.2K likes and 850 retweets. Why am I offended? You may well ask. After all, they were just stating a statistic that came out of research. No, my problem was one of grammatical usage laxity. ‘….don’t orgasm during sex.’? How can you convert the noun ‘orgasm’ into a verb? You can experience or fake an orgasm, but you can’t just orgasm. It might be pedantically correct, just doesn’t sound right. The late Dr. Kinsey would have concurred. I wasn’t going to take this lying down, if you’ll pardon the serendipitous double entendre.

The news report further talks about an actress, Swara Bhaskar, whose provenance is a closed book to me, who was quite forthright in demanding equal rights of pleasure while indulging in a spot of slap and tickle, to employ a quaint British expression. Good on you, Swara. Sorry you got trolled badly by a handful of MCPs. You have displayed courage above and beyond. And I am not being patronizing. Had I been wearing a hat, I would have gladly doffed it to you.

As a former advertising professional, I am now wondering if all this hullabaloo, involving bouquets and brickbats, was not just a cunning plan by the brand boffins at Durex and their ad agencies to create a ‘doctored’ storm in a tea cup, getting their brand name into the print and social media for about 24 hours of fetid fame. Negative publicity need not always be bad publicity is a misguided notion some marketers harbour. Perhaps the Durex and Kohinoor condoms are flying off the shelves. Stranger things have happened. And get this. Some of the angry male tweets were reportedly even tagged to the PMO and the Home Ministry! Allegedly heard in the corridors of power. Amit Shah – ‘Narendra Bhai, should I tackle J&K or D&K?’ Modi – ‘D&K? Woh kya hai?’ Amit Shah – ‘Durex & Kohinoor.’ That little exchange between India’s two most powerful men may or may not have taken place, but it’s a near thing. In the light of recent, momentous and earth-shattering developments in J&K, it would be perfectly safe to assume that D&K would not have featured prominently in the Government’s scheme of things.

In conclusion, experts will tell you that there can be no sex without love, or vice-versa. I am no expert, but Frank Sinatra and Shirley MacLaine had some words of wisdom to impart in this excerpt from their duet, ‘Let’s do it’, from the musical Can Can.

The Dutch in old Amsterdam do it / Not to mention the Finns / Folks in Siam do it /Think of Siamese twins / Electric eels, I might add, do it / Though it shocks them, I know / In shallow shoals, English soles do it / Goldfish in the privacy of bowls do it / Let’s do it (Let’s fall in love)

                

Note: For the benefit of readers, I am giving below the so-called banned words and phrases shunned by Mr. Jacob Rees Mogg, Leader of the House of Commons under the Boris Johnson administration, to enable you to better appreciate the contents of the letter.

Very / due to / ongoing / hopefully / unacceptable / equal / too many ‘I’s / yourself / lot / got / speculate / invest (in schools etc.) / no longer fit for purpose / I am pleased to learn / meet with / ascertain / disappointment / I note / understand your concerns / And a few rules: provide double space after a full stop / no comma after ‘and’/ use imperial measurements, not metric etc.

Dear Mr. Rees-Mogg,

I am not sure I can address you thus, given that I have already bestowed upon you the recommended ‘Esq.’ appellation in the heading to this open letter. But a repetition of the term ‘Esquire’ might have meant too much of a good thing – even for a man of your ancient linguistic proclivities. That’s three more ‘I’s in that opening sentence than might meet with your approval. Further, I am not quite sure what an ‘open letter’ entails, but the phrase is oft employed these days, meaning presumably that any hobbledehoy who has access to this blog can read it. As very (another one of your bete noires) few people actually read my blogs, there is every chance it will not come to your notice. And, that would be a disappointment. That last sentence begins with ‘And’ and a comma after it. Woe is me! You have every right to squirm, JRM.

 You will have further noticed that I prefer to provide just the single space after a full stop. The eye has grown accustomed to this apparent aberration. What’s more, if I were to provide a double space after a full stop, as advanced by your good self, it looks wrong and Microsoft Word flashes a red squiggle to remind me that I must close the gap. Or, in the immortal phrase of the London Underground, Mind the gap. Do I then go with the Rees-Mogg method or the Bill Gates manual? While I yield to no one in my admiration for your passionate, if antiquated, obsession with 18^th century English, on this matter I must come down on the side of Mr. Gates, or William Gates Esq. Just to show there’s no ill feeling.

While I note and understand your concerns, Mr. Rees-Mogg, I find it strange, ironic and (this will get your goat) unacceptable that under the forward-looking, dynamic dispensation of Mr. Boris Johnson Esq. (note that I shoved in a Mr. and an Esq. to bookend BoJo’s name, not wanting to take chances with the PM), you should be so dogmatic and obtusely single-minded in sticking to Dickensian English, when the world is attempting to inject new life into Anglais. As an Indian, I could have also said Angrezi, but knowing how much you love the French, I felt that would have got your attention more readily. And what have you got against lot? Or, for that matter, got? I can understand your concern if I were to convert lot into Lot, with your Biblical worries about being turned into a pillar of salt, as was the case with Lot’s hapless wife. However, no such threat looms here.

Hopefully, you will reconsider your position regarding this ongoing controversy which has led to many people around the world wondering if you are equal to the onerous task of being the leader of the House of Commons. Will a beep go off during Parliamentary debates every time an MP utters any of the ‘banned’ words or phrases? Like that old, wonderful BBC radio programme, ‘Just a minute’, when a loud hoot would indicate that the speaker has hesitated, deviated from the subject or repeated himself. Should be fun. While I have no wish to speculate on what may or may not happen in Westminster’s Lower House, I am invested in the beauty of the English language and would be disappointed to see it stuck in a subjectively selected time warp of English history. I mean, why 18^th century, why not Shakespeare’s English? All those stirringly rousing speeches written by the Bard, just waiting to be rephrased and regurgitated. Churchill’s We shall fight on the beaches springs to mind. Perhaps you feel, in your infinite wisdom, that Shakespeare’s English is no longer fit for purpose, but you should speak to all your fellow MPs and ascertain their opinions first.

A quick word on your exhorting your colleagues to revert to imperial measurements, which I am pleased to learn. You have a point there, I readily concede. I mean, I have always felt that Mike Powell’s world record for the long jump of 29 feet 4.25 inches sounds far more impressive than 8.95 metres. Ditto Javier Sotomayor’s high jump record of 8 feet 0.46 inches, as opposed to a piffling 2.45 metres. This is perhaps the only point from your linguistic ‘Style Guide’ that I find myself in consonance with. Style Guide, lovely moniker for your new age / old age language guide! Professor Henry Higgins would have approved. Coupled with your own impeccable sartorial elegance to complement your plummy voice, the terminology is apt.

Finally, something you have not thought of, Mr. Rees-Mogg. No, I am not referring to whether people should any more be burdened with hyphenated, double-barrelled names, which brings to bear its own redolence of imagined regality, urbanity and sophistication, just as your distinguished pater, Lord William Rees-Mogg so grandly sported and, which you have inherited. I daresay as Editor of The Times, he could have punctuated his name whichever way his Fleet Street fancy took him. After all, he was a ‘belted earl,’ to pinch one of Wodehouse’s phrases. No, no. Rather, I am speaking of an Englishman’s (that should properly be English person’s) unvarying habit of introducing strange wordless sounds when he or she speaks, yourself not excluded, Jacob old chap (forgive the informality but after all this, I feel we’ve become close chums). For instance, the sound ‘uurrmm’. Listen to some of your speeches, or Boris Johnson’s, or Cameron’s or even Thatcher’s. I could go all the way back to Churchill or Chamberlain. When they are not reading from a prepared text, this is how they are likely to sound. You may cavil and nitpick that Thatcher was not an Englishman (‘man’ being the operative word), but many will disagree. In common with Indira Gandhi and Golda Meir, Margaret Thatcher has often been described as ‘the only man in the cabinet.’ 

‘Mr. Speaker, I have uurrmm, come to the inescapable conclusion that Britain, uurrmm, is not yet ready to leave the European Union. Europe and Britain are, uurrmm, inextricably joined at the hip, and we should, uurrmm, be ever mindful of this. Brexit has placed us, uurrmm, squarely on the horns of a dilemma.’ I realise those words, with or without the ‘uurrmms,’ are from a ‘Remainer.’ As a confirmed ‘Leaver’, those words could never have issued from your lips, but you get my drift.

There you go, Mr. Jacob Rees-Mogg. What’s an ‘uurrmm’ between friends, eh? If you’re partial to ‘eh’ that is. You have been burning the candle at both ends, to say nothing of the midnight oil, waxing lyrical and warning us of words and phrases we should not use. Here’s an ‘uurrmm’ you can and do use and should be formalised and officially enshrined in the Oxford Dictionary.

Speaking for myself, I come from India and there are many of us who feel there are more Indians who speak English better and more chastely, even if a tad archaically (as this missive exemplifies), than do many denizens of the UK. And if you have a smidgen of doubt on that score, we can set the dazzling, silver-tongued Oxford Union debater (he of the exaggerated British accent) and present MP from India’s Congress Party (no longer fit for purpose), Mr. Shashi Tharoor Esq. on you – a man who runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds with equal felicity.

I remain, yours faithfully,

Suresh Subrahmanyan Esquire