If you are a regular writer of columns or blogs such as yours truly, you will know that getting your byline to appear in print form in a newspaper or magazine is no mean task. Ditto online is a tad easier. Getting a book published is another kettle of fish altogether. You bung something in to a publication on a wing and a prayer. And wait. It may take a couple of weeks or more before you even get a terse response regretting inability to entertain your vaulting ambition to become a published columnist or author. That is if you get a response at all.

One appreciates that all publications have their own regular contributors, many of them twinkling stars in their own write (weak pun intended – if it was good enough for John Lennon, it is good enough for me), coupled with the fact that space is a scarce commodity. Under such straitened circumstances, one cannot expect book publishers or newspaper editors to jump through hoops every time a submission pops up in their inbox from all and sundry. After all, the likes of Margaret Mitchell (Gone with the wind) and Vladimir Nabokov (Lolita) had to face several reject slips before being published and joining the best-seller list. Somewhat akin to The Beatles being first rejected by the Decca record label and giving rival Parlophone an opening it could never have dreamed of. Decca was licking its wounds and laughing out of the other side of its mouth before hastily signing on The Rolling Stones to rake in the shekels. Rumours that one or two of Decca’s executives jumped out of their 15^th floor window due to the Beatles fiasco, were greatly exaggerated.

 I have learnt this the hard way over the years. Better men (and women) than I have had to face the ignominy of being shown the door. Nevertheless, I must acknowledge that when a positive response does come along once in a proverbial blue moon, indicating that one’s contribution is likely to appear on some unspecified date in the future, one is elated – though the vigil could, at times, be interminable. I shall, for the nonce, not dwell ungraciously on the misplaced apostrophes and missing or mangled sentences that are part and parcel of published material, particularly when some junior sub is tasked with the responsibility of editing the article. I have spotted proofing gremlins in the works of Jane Austen and P.G. Wodehouse. That should tell you something. Still and all, one must give thanks when the material finally sees the light of day.

When I was a callow, wet-behind-the-ears youth, I was advised by my teachers to keep dashing off missives to ‘Letters to the Editor.’ The thinking behind this strategy was that you had a more than even chance of getting something published if you kept your letters short and referred to anything at all that might have appeared in the recent past in that newspaper. If you have managed, over a six-month period, to successfully submit at least six or seven letters which the paper saw fit to publish, then your name would get noticed by the bosses at the establishment. At least, that is the theory. In practice you still need to keep your fingers crossed when you open your paper every day to see if your letter found favour with the editor. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a question of sour grapes. It is just the way it is and I moan in good company. Writing letters to the editor, however, is a good way of breaking into the world of journalism. Even if it means being an off-and-on contributor. Or should that properly be on-and-off? I will leave it to the sub.

 I followed this dictum closely and to improve my skills in this limited area of writing letters to the editor, I would frequently visit the British Council library in Calcutta, my then city of residence, to scour through the newspaper section to study the methods of gnarled veteran scribes who would feverishly send letters to editors of the The Times, The Guardian, The Observer, The Daily Telegraph, The Independent and other esteemed titles of the fourth estate in the British Isles. At the drop of a hat. What is more, quite frequently the editors responded to the reader-writers. This would result in some risible exchanges. Here is one I dredged out from an old source.

‘Dear Editor, I recently read an article in your paper about the dangers of procrastination. I was going to send a letter responding to it, but I kept putting it off.’

‘Dear Reader, I appreciate the irony of your response. Apparently, it wasn’t a very effective article as I too kept putting off my response to you. I’ll have to let the writer know right away that the article needs to be more convincing….or perhaps it can wait.’

In India, editors do not engage in banter with the letter-writing readers other than to print something like ‘The Prime Minister’s name was erroneously printed as Nirav Modi instead of Narendra Modi. The error is deeply regretted.’ I think it would be extremely entertaining for readers in general if they are treated to exchanges between the reader and the editor. Here are some hypothetical examples, of my own making, that I would dearly like to see as I scour my paper first thing in the morning over a hot cuppa. I say this because many of our letters to the editor tend to be self-righteous, self-serving and political with little room for wit and humour. Getting your name in the paper seems to be the limited objective. What follows is a small sample from my wish list.

Dear Editor, I appreciate that advertisements are the lifeblood of your business, but it’s a bit much to read the front-page masthead of your title as ‘The Limes of India,’ ‘The Television of India’ or, God forbid, ‘The Laxative of India.’ All printed in your esteemed publication’s well-known type font. You have to turn three pages before the actual title is displayed. This is in appallingly poor taste.

Dear Reader, we too appreciate your concern. It is the old story of Marketing vs Editorial. Money wins out. As editors, we are helpless. The tail is wagging the dog. Look on the bright side. That free sachet of Lime liquid soap stuck to the advert saves you a day’s expense on washing soap. Can’t comment on free television sets or laxatives.

Here’s another example.

Dear Editor, have you conducted any study to determine if your readers actually read sponsored supplements on educational institutions, automobile brands and awards given to 25 hotels for excellence in different branches of hotel management? The only positive I can glean from them is that the sheets possess excellent absorbent qualities if you happen to own a puppy dog being toilet-trained at home.

Dear Reader, I see your point but again, you are confusing marketing matters with editorial decisions. You can exercise your discretion to read or not read these supplements. You have pointed out the incidental benefits with reference to your pet these supplements provide. That’s a plus. Also, if you happen to be painting your home old issues come in very handy, not just the supplements, to cover your furniture et al. Newspapers cover more than just news.

That is more like it. A bit of irony and veiled sarcasm. Entertains the readers and drives the point home. However, since the editor seems to be hiding behind the fig leaf of his marketing mavens, here is an example where the editor is directly answerable for some hilarious headlines.

Dear Editor, this headline had me foxed. ‘Federal agents raid gun shop, find weapons.’ What did they expect to find? Bathroom fittings?

Dear Reader, while I agree it sounds laughably ridiculous, the fact is the agents found spears, knives, bows and arrows, but no guns. Which was suspicious.

And these two priceless gems.

Dear Editor, thanks to these headlines, I was laughing all day long. ‘Marijuana issue sent to a joint committee,’ and ‘China may be using sea to hide its submarines.’

Dear Reader, these headlines were not errors but serendipitous and, I daresay, joyous double entendres. Happy to have provided you with some light relief in these drab times.

Last but not the least, the use of appropriate pseudonyms instead of one’s actual name while writing a letter to the editor is worth pondering over. One does not come across this much in Indian newspapers as most of our readers like their own names proudly emblazoned in print. Yours Anguished from Brixton or Yours Bewildered from Henley-on-Sea are typical examples from abroad. It would be good to come across Yours Terrified from Thiruvananthapuram or Yours Bemused from Bhatinda.

                                         Finis

I paid a visit to my friendly bank, a stone’s throw away from where I live, to renew a fixed deposit account which was due to breathe its last in a few days’ time. As they always do, the bank authorities sent me a text message informing me of this fact and would I come round and complete the formalities. On arrival, I went to one of several desks mostly occupied by young ladies. A sound policy as I have invariably found ladies in service situations far more courteous and competent than their male counterparts. I could have approached any desk of my choice as all the executives were trained to multi-task. One of them was free. I went up to her and sat myself down across her table. Her name was Sunita Chand, if the bi-lingual sign board in front of her desk was anything to go by. As her name was printed in English and Hindi, alongside the bank’s logo, I was doubly sure that I was addressing the correct person.

‘Good morning, Ms. Chand. I have come to renew one of my FDs which is expiring in a few days. I received this text message from the bank, which has all the details. I have the passbook as well. Do tell me how I should now proceed.’ I sat back smugly after that opening statement and waited for her response.

‘And a very good morning to you too, Mr. Subrahmanyan. Firstly, I am not Sunita Chand, who usually sits at this desk, but she is on sick leave today and I am temporarily standing in for her.’

‘Sitting in, more like. So why don’t you display your name? Which is what, incidentally? A bit misleading displaying the absent Ms. Chand’s board, don’t you think?’

‘I am Kavita, Sir. I have been summoned from another branch to fill in for Ms. Chand on a temporary basis. Hence there is no board with my name printed. Sunita should be back in a few days. However, you are quite right. I shall remove her name board right away.’

I was somewhat mollified. Expressing a hope that Ms. Chand will quickly recover from whatever illness she was afflicted with, I proceeded to get to the point. ‘Now about this FD of mine, I wish to renew it for another five years. Would you kindly do the needful?’

‘Certainly Sir. I must advise you that our interest rates have come down and on renewal of this FD, you will be earning interest at 6.5% against the 8% you have thus far been enjoying.’ She said it so sweetly that it sounded as if the interest rate had actually been greatly enhanced.

‘Look here, young lady. I have been banking with this branch for close to 25 years. Instead of rewarding people like me, who are your loyal, long-time customers, we are being punished year-on-year in our dotage by the bank lowering its interest rates.’ Regrettably, I had to raise my voice and other curious customers craned their necks towards me to see what the fuss was all about.

‘I am sorry Sir, but this has nothing to do with us. Please keep your voice down. We follow instructions from our Head Office, who in turn are answerable to the Reserve Bank of India. However, I do have some good news. As a senior citizen, you are entitled to half a percent extra, which means you will be earning 7%.’ She beamed as she said this, like she was informing me that I had just won a lottery.

I sighed and nodded assent and said, ‘I am sorry if I sounded somewhat cross, but your announcement about the interest came as a rude shock. Since I have no choice, let us press on. Just tell me where I should sign and I shall be off in a jiffy while you slip the next customer the bad news.’

‘There are some formalities, Sir. You will need to fill in this KYC form before we can proceed with the FD renewal. It is a simple form. I suggest you take it home, as your wife, being a joint account holder will need to sign the forms as well.’

I tried to stay calm, but this was beginning to irk. ‘Listen, young Kavita. I know you are only doing your job. RBI, HO instructions and all that. As I told you earlier, I have been your customer for 25 years, and I have filled KYC forms on six separate occasions till I was blue in the face. Nothing has changed in my life. My address is the same, you have my date of birth so you can do the math and come up with my present age, my mobile number remains unchanged and lastly, I am married to the same person. Given our age, we are on a till death do us part alliance. I can offer to give you a fresh photograph as my distinguished grey hair of two decades ago is now a snowy white and rapidly thinning. So why do the authorities insist on our repeating the same thing all over again. It’s all there in your computer. If needs must, you do the grunt work. I refuse to fill in this 16-page KYC. I know it stands for “Know Your Customer” but it feels more like “Kill Your Customer.”‘

‘Can I get you a nice cup of tea, Sir? With or without sugar?’

She was a smart one, this Kavita. The sick-leave-Sunita could learn a lesson or two from her on how to handle irate customers by changing tack to pleasant non-sequiturs. ‘That will be nice, thank you. Two sugars, please. And go easy on the milk.’

She signalled a passing peon to do the needful and turned to me. ‘Sir I know the KYC form looks formidable. I would suggest you and your wife just sign only where I have pencilled in an X to mark the spot. I will take care of the rest as I have all the information already. As you have forcefully pointed out.’

‘That’s another thing. These boxes provided for our signature are so small and narrow that only someone with a name like A. Bose can sign in a normal fashion. Suresh Subrahmanyan will spread way beyond the box and stray into the joint account holder’s box, and my wife’s signature is equally long. And please don’t tell me this is as per RBI’s diktat.’

Just as I was beginning to lose it again, the tea arrived. With a couple of Britannia thin arrowroot biscuits. My favourite. I must remember to put in a good word for Kavita. I calmed down again.

‘Sir, have your tea and biscuits. As for the signature problem, do not worry about it. Sign whichever way you want across the box. We will accept it. After all, as you never fail to remind us, you are a 25-year-old customer. Not that I mean you are 25 years old…ha ha.’

‘Ha ha indeed. Thank you for the tea, biscuits and comforting words, Kavita. I could have considered taking my money out of this FD and going to these fancy mutual fund or portfolio management chaps, but their KYC forms are even more diabolical than yours. It’s all a bit Kafkaesque. I may earn more through the stock markets but the paper work will finish me off before I can enjoy the earnings, if any. As it is, once I have paid the 33% tax on your 7% interest, I will be left with little more than 5% in hand, which barely covers inflation. Then again, better a known devil etc.’

So saying, I took leave of the industrious Kavita who asked me what Kafkaesque meant. As a parting shot, I told her to read The Metamorphosis. What I did not tell her was that I have parked some funds with mutual funds and some portfolio management experts. Spreading the risk, as it were. Next time they come to me with KYC forms to fill, I shall call up Kavita with my meagre capital. That is to say if Kavita has not been replaced by Savita or Paromita or just plain Mita.

My late father was a highly thought-of banker. When he passed on, all he left behind were two passbooks – one for savings bank account and another for fixed deposit. He did not own any property. The term ‘mutual funds’ was gobbledygook to him. His sons were the beneficiaries of his modest nest egg which, when split three ways, accurately defined the word modest. In his 50-year service with the bank, I have never ever heard him mention the acronym KYC. He slept soundly and dreamlessly all his life.

The trial, in a curious case of a cyclist accused of rash driving, is currently under way at a local high court. Even more curiously, the person accusing the cyclist of reckless driving is the owner / driver of one of the newer, luxury models of a BMW. We take up proceedings at the trial with the cross examination of the cyclist, a Mr. Ashokan, aged 17, by the Counsel representing the owner of the BMW.

Counsel – ‘Mr. Ashokan, what model or brand of bicycle do you own?’

Ashokan – ‘I am not sure. Possibly a Sen-Raleigh. It has been handed down to me by my father, who in turn inherited it from his father. The brand name of the bike is now completely illegible.’

Counsel – ‘By my rough calculation that would make your Sen-Raleigh bicycle at least 60 years old. Am I right?’

Ashokan – ‘If you say so. I was not even a twinkle in my parents’ eyes when my father got the bike from his father. As to whether my father was a twinkle in my grandparents’ eyes going back in time, I am in no position to hazard a guess. Just for your information, the Raleigh brand of bicycle was the first to be brought into India from Britain. Then one Mr. Sudhir Kumar Sen, an enterprising entrepreneur from Bengal, entered into a collaboration to make the brand in India around the turn of the 20^th century. The Sen-Raleigh brand was born and soon became a household name.’

Counsel – ‘Thank you for the history lesson, Mr. Ashokan. I will sleep the better for it. For a 17-year-old, you are precociously well-informed and possess an interesting conversational style. You can talk the hind legs off a donkey.’

Ashokan – ‘Thank you. You are not too bad yourself.’

Judge – ‘Counsel, where are we going with this? Can we get to the point and keep the back slapping for later?’

Counsel – ‘I beg your pardon, your Honour. It is just that one does not come across too many young kids who are well-spoken. Let me, as you so succinctly put it, get to the point. Mr. Ashokan, have you clearly understood the charge made against you?’

Ashokan – ‘A millionaire driving a swank BMW is accusing me, a first-year college student of riding a 60-year-old bicycle rashly. That is what I have understood to be the laughable charge against me.’

Counsel – ‘Bicycle riders are meant to pedal their bikes at the edge of the road. You were zig-zagging in the middle of the road while singing a song from one of the latest Hindi films, perhaps trying to impress some of the college girls strolling by. My client, driving his car, was in grave danger of sustaining a dent to his car bonnet had an unfortunate accident taken place. Do you know how much it costs to repair a dent in a BMW?’

Ashokan – ‘What about the grave danger of sustaining a fatal dent to my head, being run over by a BMW? I would have been sent to the grave post haste. And what do you mean edge of the road? There is no edge to the road, only a big ditch. And I was not zig-zagging. The tyre had, just as the BMW was about to overtake me, developed a puncture and I momentarily lost control of the bike. By the way I do not know any Hindi film song. I was singing a snatch from one of A.R. Rahman’s latest Tamil offerings. In the event, there was no actual collision. So what imaginary dent are you talking about? If there was no collision, where is the case to answer?’

Judge – ‘The boy is making a valid point, Counsel. Why is he on trial if no accident, in fact, took place? Why are we wasting the court’s time when we have so many arson and murder cases still pending resolution?’

Counsel – ‘Your Honour, while it is true that the boy’s bicycle did not collide with the BMW, the driver of the car had to apply his brakes suddenly. This resulted in his being hurled forward, thus hitting his head against the steering wheel violently. He is now in hospital is a semi-comatose state. We are holding the boy, Ashokan, solely responsible for this unfortunate injury to my client.’

Ashokan – ‘Fiddlesticks! Was he not wearing a seat belt? And what about the inflatable safety cushion installed in all modern cars. Ha! That’s got you by the short and curlies.’

Counsel – ‘Why don’t you speak like normal people? About the seat belt, the complainant insists he was wearing it. As regards the inflatable safety cushion, there might have been a malfunction.’

Judge – ‘Fiddlesticks, if I am not infringing on Mr. Ashokan’s copyright. Just get on with it, Counsel. The boy’s vocabulary is clearly superior to yours.’

Counsel – ‘Your Honour, I strongly recommend that this boy be sentenced to serve in a correctional facility for riding a bicycle that was obviously not road worthy and that the vehicle itself be sent to the scrap yard.’

Judge – ‘A heritage museum would be a better house for this ancient vehicle, I think. My father too owned a Sen Raleigh. The vehicle is gone, but the cycle pump is still there collecting dust in our attic. Sorry, I get carried away. Back to business. Does the boy have a defence counsel to plead his case?’

Ashokan – ‘The boy does not, your Honour. I mean I do not have a defence lawyer to plead my case. Complete waste of money given their sinful fees. This BMW owner will get an even bigger headache when he comes out of his semi-coma and sees his lawyer’s bill. I am studying for law myself and given the idiocy of this ridiculous charge, I am defending myself. What we have here, Sir, is a David and Goliath situation. Me David, Counsel Goliath. Unfortunately, I left my slingshot at home.’

Judge – ‘Very well put. Biblical references, as well. However, the records show that the boy is 17 years of age. Which means, technically he is a minor. Counsel, how come you have agreed to a minor conducting his own trial? Are we not breaking some laws here?’

Counsel – ‘You should be the judge of that, Your Honour, if you will forgive the unintended pun.’

Judge – ‘We are not amused. I have no time for puns, intended or otherwise. Does the defendant, Mr. Ashokan have any closing remarks to share with us before I pass judgement? I would much rather hear you speak than our learned Counsel for the Prosecution.’

Ashokan – ‘Thank you, Your Honour. I may be, technically as you so delicately put it, a minor but I will be celebrating my 18^th birthday in three months’ time. At which point, I shall apply for a car driving licence. I have already passed the driving test informally. The Sen-Raleigh bike is a family heirloom and we shall not part with it to rot in some woebegone museum which no one visits. That said, I would urge this court, most humbly, to dismiss this heinous charge made against me by this filthy rich BMW owner who, but for having to apply his brakes suddenly, would most certainly have sent me to the great bicycle factory in the sky. I seek punitive damages with costs, if you please, Your Lordship.’

Judge – ‘Your Honour should meet the case, young man. Lordship is surplus to requirements. As I anticipated, that was a fine closing address. Counsel, you should learn a thing or two from this child who will become a fine litigant in the years to come. I rule in favour of the defendant, as no adequate case has been made out against him. He rode his Sen-Raleigh bike which developed a puncture while singing a Tamil film song. By A.R. Rahman, I am reliably informed. No accident occurred. As a sidebar, I would like to add that Indians, however rich, should buy cars manufactured in India, even with overseas collaboration, and not import extortionately-priced foreign brands like the BMW in question. Their brakes are too sensitive for Indian conditions. You can be severely injured even without an accident occurring, as has happened to our unfortunate BMW owner. Case dismissed.’

(This is a work of fiction, loosely based on several such incidents that take place in our country).

The ‘good old times’ – all times when old are good. Lord Byron

Nostalgia. Those who wallow in it are almost certainly, and let us not mince words, long in the tooth. They are defined by the length of their teeth. I freely admit that I belong to this category. As I write this piece, armed appropriately with my rose-tinted glasses, a flood of memories comes rushing by. If you belong to a generation that was born post 1990, much of what follows is likely to be yawningly boring. That has never stopped those from an earlier vintage holding forth ad infinitum, ad nauseum on any subject that harks back to events that took place over forty or fifty years ago. We revel in it. It is an article of faith. The warning signal is any sentence starting with the words, ‘You know, I remember it as if it happened yesterday…’   At which point you can look at your mobile, which you pretend was on silent mode, and exclaim, ‘Sorry guys, I have to take this.’ You rush out, never to return. The younger generation has described us varyingly as insufferably boring, cynical, curmudgeonly, cantankerous, intolerant (and intolerable) but we have our faults too.

Those of you who are Wodehouse fans will readily recall his rib-tickling golf stories and the central character, the Oldest Member, who sits in the clubhouse and button-holes one of the unsuspecting, hapless young members to reel off his interminably long tales of golf and romance. All this over a gin and tonic or some other health-giving libation. By the time the young golfer tries to dodge the ancient sage, it is invariably too late. This is how the story usually unravels, as I hand you over to the Master.

‘…It is curious that you should have brought up this subject, [said the Oldest Member] for only a moment before you came in I was thinking…but perhaps I’d better tell you the whole story from the beginning.’

The young man shifted uneasily in his chair.

You get the drift, methinks. Allow me to get back to my narrative. Here is a typical snippet of a conversation between two senior citizens for whom the game of cricket has ceased to hold any interest once the rapid-fire limited overs variant of this once pristine game, came into being.

‘I say Mehta, do you recall that Test match when M.L. Jaisimha batted on every single day over two innings? Across five days. It still stands as some kind of record. The details escape me, but you can easily look it up. Whether he saved the game for us or not is neither here nor there. It is one of those obscure landmarks we cricket aficionados, with long teeth, hold dear.’

‘My dear Venky, of course I recall that innings by Jai, the victorious lion as veteran commentator of yesteryear Vizzy, Maharajkumar of Vijayanagaram dubbed him. Transliterated his name. ‘Jai’ for victory and ‘simha’ for lion. Quite clever. Speaking of arcane cricketing records, few that I can recall could have been more dubious than Sunny Gavaskar’s ignominious 36 not out in 174 balls, in a losing cause, over an entire 60-over innings at the inaugural World Cup against England at Lord’s in 1975. Somebody forgot to tell Sunny it was not a Test match.’

‘Your ironic observation is well taken, Mehta Saheb, but let us not dwell too harshly on the little master. He went on to redeem himself many times over with his record- breaking feats, becoming an icon of the game.’

‘Touché. Speaking of little masters, Sunny’s alter-ego, little Viswanath, later to become his brother-in-law, played alongside him throughout their distinguished careers. Gavaskar scored tons of runs, but the crowds loved Vishy for his delectable 30s and 40s and the odd hundred. His wristy flicks and cuts square of the wicket had fans on their feet, drooling for more. All this without a protective helmet, though Sunny fashioned a skull cap for himself later on. We were fortunate to have both these greats playing contemporaneously. Meaning at the same time,’ added Mehta gratuitously.

‘Yes yes, I know what contretemp-whatever-it was means. No need to spell it out.’ Venky was clearly miffed at this perceived slight to his vocabulary.

The evening inexorably wears on but the two raconteurs keep the conversation going till they realize it is well past their dinner time and they could face the wrath of their better halves if they do not step on the gas, homeward bound.

I shall close this reflection on the boredom of nostalgic reflections with some thoughts on how the sexagenarians and beyond look back on the music they loved in years gone by, as opposed to the stuff that is dished out ‘nowadays.’ I will cite contrastingly different streams of music that I have grown up with, starting with Carnatic music. Once again, we are overhearing two geriatrics, enjoying a tumbler of coffee at the Chennai Music Academy’s canteen while the December music season is in full swing.

‘Okay Bhaskaran, I agree with you that the girl performing right now in the main hall shows much promise. Flexible voice capable of reaching the upper and lower registers with ease, but too much speed. No soul. Remember MS or DKP? So meditative and melodious.’

‘I agree Ramky, but contrastingly GNB and MLV exhibited a real burst of speed and they were hugely popular as well. Their renditions were not entirely soulless, either. Even Ariyakkudi, Semmangudi, Madurai Mani, Maharajapuram, TNS and TVS were confirmed votaries of the madhyama kala style. Some of today’s stars swear by this school of music. Let us not be so biased.’

‘I can also counter you, Bhasky, by citing MDR and Brinda & Muktha who took the slow train to stardom. But yes, I must concede they were worshipped more post their demise than when they were actively performing. It is one of the great ironies. Incidentally, bias is the lifeblood of Carnatic music rasikas like us. It is embedded in our DNA.’

This debate has no ending. It is stream-of-consciousness running on an endless loop. You will observe that the performers are often referred to acronymically. MS, GNB, MLV and so on, or by their village names like Ariyakkudi and Semmangudi – terms of endearment triggered by intense familiarity. Decades from now, the then elderly ‘experts’ at the Academy’s canteen will be saying pretty much the same thing about Sudha, Sanjay, Bombay Jayashri, Sowmya, Ranjani & Gayatri, TM Krishna and others who rule the roost today. No village prefixes to their names as today’s urbanite musicians don’t live in villages any more.

It is no different in the case of western or Indian popular music when it comes to the ‘boring’ generation. The Beatles and Bob Dylan will take the honours against Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift. Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar will be the overwhelming favourites against Alka Yagnik, Kumar Sanu and Sonu Nigam, while T.M. Soundararajan, SPB and P. Susheela will clearly have the edge over Hip Hop Tamizha Adhi, Shreya Ghosal and Chinmayi.

Nostalgia is a continuum. Our children can gently mock us today. Till they come face to face with it tomorrow, when they will wake up and smell the coffee.

Extracted from an article published in the Deccan Chronicle dt 26/8/24.

 A man can’t soar too high, when he flies with his own wings. William Blake.

Our Prime Minister Narendra Modi, whose brand equity suffered an appreciable dent after the recent General Elections in the country, continues to hold the reins of power, albeit tenuously, at the Centre. If he were a fan of The Beatles, which I doubt very much, he would have recalled the title of one of their hit songs, With a little help from my friends. Those friends, fair weather or otherwise, being the Chief Ministers of Bihar and Andhra Pradesh. The threesome shook hands so firmly one got the impression they were loath to un-shake their paws, to coin a phrase, lest their house of cards should quiver at its foundations. The results of the forthcoming assembly elections will tellingly inform us if Mr. Modi’s popularity is waxing afresh or waning further. Some television channels, despite having egg on their face last time round, continue to stick their necks out to predict the likely outcome of these elections. Based on these studies Mr. Modi, unlike Usain Bolt, is not showing a clean pair of heels to his opponents. Typically, the PM remains unfazed. Nonchalantly scattering all that to the four winds, our PM shows he is clearly made of sterner stuff. He can take the rough with the smooth, like any seasoned politician. And they don’t come more seasoned than him. He is Teflon-coated and is firmly digging his heels in for the long haul. By which I mean the remainder of this, his third term.

While domestic issues of varying hues are doubtless exercising the men from the ministry, particularly with state elections looming, the PM is traversing the eastern bloc of the western globe with special focus right now on Russia and Ukraine. Not forgetting Poland. His stated objective being to talk to the heads of the two warring nations like a Dutch uncle and bring about a lasting peace. He has touched base earlier with Putin in Moscow, but meeting with Zelenskyy in Kyiv will be a first. Modi will be walking a tight rope attempting to beard these two antagonistic lions in their own dens. All the while, the bullets continue to be fired from both sides and the rest of the western powers shoving their collective oar in to ensure the Russians are held at bay. Under the circumstances one wonders what the Indian Prime Minister is likely to achieve, but he is pressing forward with his vaunted diplomatic skills. And hugging anyone within reach. He may have made efforts to reach out earlier to the battle-scarred adversaries with not much to show for it, but ‘once more unto the breach’ seems to be his watchword, if he is familiar with the Bard’s rousing battle cry in Henry V. Again, a moot point.

Those in India who are not PM Modi’s greatest fans, might be raising questions like why he should be so bothered about what is going on in Russia and Ukraine, or even Poland for that matter when Bharat Mata is currently having to deal with the crisis in Bangladesh which puts our ‘friendly’ neighbours like Pakistan and China in pole position to do some lasting mischief to our country while metaphorically shooting from Dacca’s shoulders. Even the United States appears to be cozying up to Bangladesh. For now, an uneasy calm prevails in the region. Which brings me to an interesting area of speculation.

There is a school of thought, though I have no means of confirming its veracity, that India’s PM extraordinaire is being widely considered a ripe candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize. Those who admire Narendra Modi, and they are legion, are firmly of the conviction that he should be a shoo-in for the award. The cynics, and they too form a large part of the body politic, are convinced that the PM is traipsing around the globe when he ought to be addressing domestic issues, to draw attention to his burgeoning stature as a global leader and to bump up his southward trajectory at home. Hubris, they cry.

The PM’s tireless peregrinations could go a long way in favourably impressing the Nobel boffins at Stockholm. After all, when you think of some of the Nobel Laureates who have been awarded the Peace Prize in the past, Indians could seriously pin their hopes on our current PM, who is serving his third term, being decorated with the laurel wreath. Should he be so recognised, and eftsoons, it will be a feather (or a laurel) in his cap which he and his party will put to optimal use leading up to the next General Elections. Everything has to do with elections. Never one to miss a half-chance, our PM and his henchmen will grab the opportunity with both hands and make capital out of it. From the Nobel, should it eventuate, to the Bharat Ratna is but a foregone conclusion. In fact, the latter is a given, unless a new dispensation comes to power in New Delhi.

When you carefully look at some of the distinguished Nobel Peace Prize awardees from the years gone by, you must wonder what the Committee was thinking. Try these on for size, not in any particular order. Yasser Arafat, Yitzhak Rabin, Shimon Peres, Dag Hammarskjöld, Kofi Annan, Henry Kissinger, Lê Đức Thọ and Barak Obama. Hammarskjöld and Annan, as with other Secretaries General of the United Nations, were seen largely as acceptable decorative heads. The Security Council, with its powerful members clearly divided on almost all issues, call the shots. One veto is all that is required to put the kybosh on any resolution. The UN could never actually achieve peace anywhere in the world, though you can proffer a weak applause for trying. What’s the sound of one hand clapping? Henry Kissinger and Lê Đức Thọ of North Vietnam presided over years of bloody battles and enormous loss of young lives in Vietnam. The war ended finally out of sheer ennui. The palpable relief prompted the Nobel Committee to award the Prize to those two worthies. As for the others, their contributions were invariably described in a typically vacuous and anodyne fashion by the Nobel Committee. Something on the lines of ‘extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.’

If that is all it takes, it should surprise no one if Narendra Damodardas Modi throws his hat in the ring and lays legitimate claim to be given the Nobel Peace Prize. Not that the candidate himself puts his hand up, but there are wheels within wheels behind the scenes that work tirelessly to put forward the claims of their candidates. Lest I am misunderstood, let me hasten to add that many others, particularly those not from the political arena, have truly deserved the award. The Dalai Lama and Mother Teresa, to name just two from an impressive galaxy. While on the subject, why did world icon, apostle of peace, M.K. Gandhi miss out on the Nobel? Why was such an obvious choice not in the running, though he was nominated a number of times? Think on that.

If you ask me, politicians of all hues, worldwide, should not be considered for the Nobel Peace Prize. Given their record over centuries, their nominations must surely be an aberration. By definition, every political leader in the world has a hidden agenda. Serving the people is good as an election plank. Good intentions are expressed, but the road to hell is paved with them. The primary objective is to gain or retain power. At all costs. Gaining a Nobel Peace Prize is a bonus, an optional extra.

The candle flame gutters. Its little pool of light trembles. Darkness gathers. The demons begin to stir. Carl Sagan.

In the year 1973, when I was barely out of college, the talk of the town was a movie called The Exorcist, based on William Peter Blatty’s magnum opus novel of the same name and directed by William Friedkin. A Hollywood production, it was dubbed a supernatural horror film boasting a cast that included the likes of the admirable Max von Sydow and Ellen Burstyn. Not to mention the young Linda Blair, who is possessed of a demon she is unable to rid herself of. To this day, I have no idea why I went to see this hair-raising, blood-curdling, stomach-churning film. I guess it was one of those things we did those days. A kind of herd mentality. Everyone else is going, so must I. Why did I not like The Exorcist, I hear you ask. For one thing, there were too many vomiting scenes for my refined taste. Allow me to explain.

Every time the young protagonist of the film felt the dreaded demon acting up inside her, she would start puking all over the place and generally behaving like a raving lunatic. She was possessed, yes, but that did not make for pleasant watching. While her mother and some priestly type tried to help her out, waving a wooden cross at her and chanting incantations, she (or her demon) was having none of it, throwing up – wave after heaving wave. The Alien had the same effect on me several years later, only there the monster ripped itself out of the victims’ innards. In plain sight, as it were, leaving little to the imagination. Getting back to The Exorcist, by now I was feeling awfully queasy myself, and rushed to the cinema’s toilets, only to discover that it was already full of grown men hawking and retching their guts out. There was nothing for it but to run out of the hall and bring up my lunch on to the pavement, much to a passing stray dog’s annoyance. Fussy pooch. Nauseating would be an apposite word to describe The Exorcist, though it has been hailed as an artistic triumph. One can never account for taste, I guess. Many countries banned the film on grounds of depicting untold horror associated with demonic possession. India was quick to ban it but not before it was screened for a few days when some of us managed to catch it. Couldn’t sleep for a few nights after that for running frequently to the loo, but the feeling passed. Incidentally, a short film titled Sartre’s Nausea, based loosely on Jean Paul Sartre’s famous novel was produced in 1962. Just as well I did not see it.

This column was not intended to be a quick review of The Exorcist, 50 years after its release. However, I felt it was a good way to introduce the subject of demonic possession in the light of a typically absurd story I came across in my esteemed daily newspaper a few days ago. Now here is what happened. Somewhere in the boondocks in the state of Bihar where power outages are a commonplace, the local villagers swore blind that one of their transformers, probably the only one, which was in the habit of tripping and catching fire frequently leaving the community in total darkness, was haunted. Having thus convinced themselves, it was the work of a moment for the village chieftains to approach an exorcist, one who was wise to the ways of demons and devils unknown and unseen. Our rural folk place immense faith in sorcery and witchcraft when it comes to battling ghosts and phantasms. What followed was something that could have attracted the attention of India’s film industry.

The village exorcist, most likely a charlatan, duly arrived covered in sacred ash and clad in vermilion, accompanied by a bevy of dancers and local percussionists who drummed feverishly away vaguely at the transformer. Mantras were chanted while the exorcist and his aides danced the night away, trying desperately to get the reluctant equipment to respond. Doubtless aided and abetted by the finest, illicit local hooch, invocations were petitioned with incense sticks but no dice from the object of their prayers. If an animal sacrifice was performed as part of the propitiation, that has not been reported, though I would not rule it out.

The recalcitrant transformer, however, hid its secrets well and flatly refused to cooperate. The demon slept soundly inside the bowels of the giant transformer, biding its time. Frankly, I would refuse to play ball if a bunch of loonies, claiming to be sorcerers or exorcists kept leaping up and down in front of me, mouthing all manner of unintelligible nothings, keeping the entire neighbourhood awake. To be fair to the villagers, it appears their attempts to engage a local electrical or mechanical expert to deal with the problem did not yield the desired result. Evidently the man told the villagers that this transformer was beyond repair (and hope) and that it was probably haunted by an evil spirit. ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,’ as Dante warned in The Divine Comedy. Only the villagers were not laughing. Who can blame them if they decided to fall back on their tried and tested method of summoning the exorcist?

Whether the local black magic man ever had the opportunity to view The Exorcist or not, I cannot say with any degree of certainty. That possibility cannot be pooh-poohed away in these days of the internet and YouTube. I only raise this point as being somewhat pertinent, because the village transformer was heard making strange, belching type of noises in the dead of night accompanied by sparks of flashing lights. Some saw this as the transformer’s way of communicating to the local denizens that it was sick to its stomach and was attempting to bring out the evil spirit by making these retching sounds. We know this to be credible thanks to the Linda Blair character’s shenanigans in the much-quoted film.

At this point one is well poised to pop the question as to why the local electricity board was not consulted in the matter. Apparently, there were many reasons for this including the fact that the nearest office of the nobs who run these matters in this remote village was several miles away and the villagers reposed greater faith in, well, faith healers. That may or may not have been true, but when the local scribes finally managed to reach out to them, the electricity officials were understandably dismissive of the entire affair. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ proclaimed the official. In the native lingo, of course. ‘Probably the result of a short-circuit, faulty connection or an overload. Happens all the time.’ Very dismissive he was, accusing the wide-eyed local yokels of being needlessly alarmist and attempting to create a sensation amongst the gullible village folk. He promised to have the matter looked into soonest. The reports did not provide the reader with a happy ending to the story. We do not know if any qualified electrical or mechanical engineer visited the site to set right the transformer’s strange, undiagnosed malaise. We will have to let sleeping transformers lie.

What I can tell you is that here in urban Bangalore a few days ago, at the witching hour when the city was fast asleep, we were rudely awakened by a loud bang, a long hiss and several sparks flying all over the place. It was the transformer that serviced our apartment block! We had no power for the rest of the night. Happily, the electricity board people put things right by the time dawn had well and truly broken, but just for a moment there…

 One final word of advice. If anyone invites you to an evening at home promising beer and popcorn to watch the new and improved version of The Exorcist on Blu-ray DVD, decline. It may be new and improved with more vivid colours but it will still be sickening, in more ways than one. You are probably better off paying obeisance to your transformer and performing a special puja.

I am baffled beyond words as to why so many of us in India are going ga-ga and being insanely suffused with vicarious joy and pride whenever a person of Indian origin makes a mark in the world of politics, industry, sport or any other field of endeavour in the western hemisphere. When Rishi Sunak was tipped to become the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, our television channels and newspapers just could not get enough of him. Going berserk would be an understatement. We are not inclined to do that when the Prime Minister of Poland is elected. Unless, of course, his grandparents happened to be natives of Kumbakonam. At least Sunak’s wife is the daughter of one of India’s original IT czars and she hails from true blue Indian stock. The erstwhile incumbent at No. 10 Downing Street is no more Indian than our PM Modi is British. Now that Rishi has been shown the door, in a manner of speaking, and the Labour Party chief Keir Starmer has assumed office as Prime Minister, the occidentals in the UK are heaving a sigh of relief. But not before Starmer went around visiting Hindu temples and Gurdwaras to pay obeisance to the Indian diaspora. Every single vote counts. Welcome to Little India, Keir. We are everywhere. Others like Priti Patel and Suella Braverman will be breathing down your neck if you make one false move.

Then there is Kamala Harris. Joe Biden finally decided he will step down as the Presidential candidate for the upcoming election and after some hesitation, make way for his Vice President Harris to be his party’s nominee for the White House. For this to happen, Biden had to remember Kamala’s name, but his staff came to his rescue and bailed him out.  Earlier he had introduced his good lady Vice President as ‘a great President’ at a function. Perhaps he knew something he himself did not know at the time. That may sound nonsensical, but the man, in recent times referred to Ukraine’s chief Zelensky at a NATO Summit in Washington as President Putin. Ye Gods! Zelensky put a brave face on it. Not quite sleeping with the enemy but close enough. Biden could have built a mansion with the number of bricks he kept dropping. That he has decided to call it a day has been received by the American public with undisguised approbation. Not a day too soon, they seem to be saying.

Enough of the stuttering detour about Biden who, let’s face it, could just about manage to put one hesitating foot in front of the other. To get back to Kamala Harris, as the whole world knows, she is part Indian and part West Indian. By that I do not mean Mumbai or Maharashtra but more like Jamaica. Kamala’s mother, as every Indian is aware, hails from Tamil Nadu. More specifically, her maternal grandparents live in Chennai, and Kamala speaks with practiced ease about idlis and dosas, than which, you cannot get more south Indian if you tried. Kamala certainly tries hard which, at times, can get a bit trying.

If Kamala Harris is equally at home with quintessential Jamaican dishes like ackee, saltfish and jerk chicken, then that is something we in India are yet to learn about. Perhaps the burghers of Jamaica can put us wise on her culinary preferences. Meanwhile, pujas are being performed in various parts of Tamil Nadu to ensure the Gods look favourably upon Kamala when the results are gathered in come November. The market for the lotus flower in various parts of Tamil Nadu is distinctly bullish. All part of the offerings to propitiate the Gods. To those who may not have cottoned on to the connection, the Sanskrit term for lotus is kamala. Since I am drawing a parallel with a species of flower, the capitalisation of the word is redundant. LOTUS for POTUS, or its Tamil equivalent, is the cry ringing out in many parts of Tamil Nadu.

Lest we forget, the wife of the Republican Party’s vice-presidential nominee J.D. Vance, is none other than Usha Chilukuri. A few weeks ago, we would have said ‘Usha who?’ A highly qualified lawyer, Usha’s family originates from the West Godavari and Krishna districts of Andhra Pradesh. That being the case, one can expect celebrations and divine propitiations galore in various parts of Andhra Pradesh and Telengana. Sworn enemies in domestic politics in India, the populace from both these twin states will be visiting holy shrines to ensure their daughter Usha, her husband Vance and the boss supremo of their party, Donald, come up trumps at the upcoming hustings. Respective Chief Ministers Chandrababu Naidu and Revanth Reddy could find themselves on the same side of the fence because Madam Chilukuri, thousands of miles away in the United States but boasting a Telugu bloodline, could be America’s second lady.

What a prospect all these political rumblings in the USA promises to reflect here in India that is Bharat. The people of Tamil Nadu are hurling lotuses and other goodies at their places of worship to ensure a Democrat claiming half-Tamil Nadu origin will grace the White House. Whereas, their next-door neighbours, Andhra and Telengana are doing everything they can to bring in a Republican to the same White House, such that they can enjoy bragging rights over their daughter Usha, holding the Vice-President’s hand. And who knows, perhaps move into the White House if the next mad marksman atop a building manages to hit bullseye as his crosshairs zero in on the President, God forbid. Now that India’s own election circus is well and truly over, we can all have some fun watching Indians or People of Indian Origin shine on either side of the political divide in America.

Over the past couple of decades, Indians have come to dominate the business landscape in the west, particularly in the United States. The Nadellas, the Pichais, the Bangas, the Nooyis, not to mention the Vivek Ramaswamys and the Nicky Haleys and so many more have been calling the shots in various fields of endeavour. And now, our brethren and sistren (even if only by accident of birth) are showing their mettle on the world’s biggest political stage. In a sense, therefore, we can take some pride in these developments, but it is little more than a chimera, and the comfort we in India derive is cold. America is a melting pot, the proverbial land of opportunity with the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Their egalitarian ways allow every denomination of the public to live and prosper, if it has what it takes. Some of them migrated from India, some of them were born there but their inborn, genetic brain power is now finding full and glorious expression. Why do so many Indian-origin boys and girls routinely win spelling bee contests abroad, I ask rhetorically. To say nothing of crooning their way to ecstatic, tear-jerking glory on American Idol. Increasingly, on American and British television serials, more and more Indian migrants are featuring in important roles. In recent years, many American-Indian children have taken to Carnatic music and have made a significant mark in their ancestral homes in the four main states of south India.

I guess the point I am striving to make to all my gloating friends in India is this. Kamala Harris, Usha Chilukuri and Rishi Sunak are not Indians. They are full-blown Americans or British, even if they pay obeisance to Lord Ganesha and celebrate Deepavali. They will not go soft on India if and when they come to power simply because they happen to be brown-skinned and their parents speak Tamil, Telugu or Punjabi at home. They may enjoy a plate of idli, chutney and sambhar for breakfast or aloo parantha and chicken tikka masala for lunch. I too enjoy fish and chips, Yorkshire pudding or shepherd’s pie once in a rare while, washed down with a tall glass of Guinness. Does that make me a dyed-in-the-wool Englishman?

I rest my case.

A housewife was arrested recently in Bangalore for attacking her husband with a pair of scissors. She was deeply upset over his refusal to eat dinner her mother had specially cooked for him.  She is being questioned by the police. Press Reports.

‘Madam, do you realise you could have killed your husband? Why did you attack him with a pair of scissors?’ the investigating officer asked quite politely, under the circumstances.

The housewife replied calmly. ‘Because I could not readily find anything more lethal in my fit of rage than a pair of scissors. I regret that I did not kill him.’

The police officer harrumphed impatiently. ‘I did not mean why the scissors, Madam. My question was why did you attack him at all?’

‘What did you expect me to do, Officer? He calls me from his place of work to say that he will be coming home late, and would I rustle up something substantial for dinner as he is already quite famished. I requested my mother, who lives close by to prepare his favourite mutton biryani along with some side dishes, and now this happens.’

‘What happens?’ asked the puzzled cop.

‘Surely, he must have told you. Have you not spoken to him?’

‘At the moment Madam, the nursing home where he is admitted is dealing with several deep cuts and quite a few bruises, resulting from his struggles while you went after him with your weapon of choice, a pair of scissors. He is not in a talkative mood. Why scissors, for God’s sake?’

“I already told you…’

‘Of course, yes. Don’t bother answering. You could not find anything more effective at the time that could have killed him. You botched it up. Yes, I get it. Instead, you are left with a live witness, or should I say victim, namely, your husband who will spill the beans once the stitches from his upper and lower lips are removed. For now, his lips are sealed. I must say, Madam, things are not looking good for you. Aggravated assault and causing hurt with a dangerous weapon are very serious crimes.’

‘You have not heard my side of the story fully, Officer.’

‘I am all ears, Madam. Shoot.’

‘An odd but appropriate choice of word, shoot. If only I had a gun lying around in the house, you would have been questioning me on a murder charge and not aggravated assault. Pity.’ She sounded very sorry for herself.

The policeman was quite intrigued. He pressed on. ‘Are you feeling sorry that you find yourself neck deep in the soup or that you could not finish the job with a pair of scissors? As an aside, could you not find a sharpened kitchen knife or something instead of a rusty pair of paper cutters?’

‘Ah, so you sympathise with my quandary, do you? And they were not rusty.’

‘That was just a figure of speech. I was being facetiously ironic. Sir Winston Churchill once famously said, “Give us the tools and we will finish the job.” Obviously, you were not happy with your tools. Then again, remember a bad workman blames his tools.’

‘You have lost me completely, Officer. Who is this Churchill, and who was he trying to kill? Anyhow, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not quite a crime of passion. I was livid. Try going late home tonight, while your wife waits anxiously at the door with her mother’s biryani in the microwave and tell her you have already eaten and got sloshed at a nearby bar and restaurant. See what happens. I wouldn’t fancy your chances, Officer. Expect a black eye and hide the scissors.’

The policeman was not amused, ‘Ha ha, very funny. Since you ask, Churchill was trying to kill the Germans but I do not have time to give you a history lesson. Tell me, why did you ask your mother to cook? I am curious. Were you not well?’

‘I was out of doors and was forbidden from entering the kitchen. That is why I asked my mother to cook.’

The police officer was foxed. Then realisation dawned. ‘Out of doors? Oh, I see. That. I understand. Sorry.’

Mr. Plod made some notes in his diary. “Accused out of doors, three to four days out of action” he scribbled as if it was an important breakthrough. ‘Boozed as well, did he? I see your point Madam, but why do you feel so aggrieved simply because he ate out and had a couple of large pegs at a restaurant? Maybe he did not want to disturb you and your child that late at night? Hmmm?’

‘You have not been listening to me, Officer. The fact is he wanted to insult my mother. I had specifically told him before he left for work that my mother will be cooking for us that night. She is a great cook. Had it been his mother, he would have been home by eight in the evening to gorge on her tasteless bise bele bath. You see where I am coming from?’

‘Look here young lady, I am a police officer. It is not within my jurisdiction to judge the relative culinary abilities of your mother and your mother-in-law. If your hubby does not hold your mother’s cooking in high regard and finds an escape route, you cannot go after him with the nearest weapon you can lay your hands on. I still cannot believe you chose a pair of scissors, of all things. Thank God you did or else you would have been looking at the noose.’

‘What is that? Noose?’

‘Believe me Madam, as far as you are concerned, no noose is good noose.’ Then he made a gesture with his hand encircling his neck, his eyes bulging out and his tongue hanging out to one side.

‘You are a good mime artist, Sir. They can hang me for this? Then, please tell me what are my legal options?’

‘Divorce springs to mind. Your husband will almost certainly be thinking along those lines. He is most concerned about your child. The duty nurse at the hospital claims that he was extremely worried about a bottle of rat poison in one of the kitchen cupboards which will give you more bad ideas. It could just be delirium. He is heavily sedated, but we will need to talk to him once he comes to, when he can comfortably part his sutured lips and say a few words.’

‘That rat poison expired long ago. Even the rats won’t expire on consuming it. Why can’t we just talk it over and try and settle the matter out of court?’

‘Yes Madam, that option can be explored. Get a lawyer first. Is there anything you want now? Tea, coffee?’

‘Coffee please, thanks. And Officer, do you know how to play rock / paper / scissors?’

The policeman abruptly concludes the interrogation and flounces out of the room in a huff. The case continues.