A Mani-Splendoured Maverick

 Book review

Diplomacy is about surviving until the next century – politics is about surviving until Friday afternoon. Sir Humphrey Appleby in Yes, Prime Minister.

The one thing you can never accuse inveterate ex-diplomat and Congressman Mani Shankar Aiyar of is being parsimonious with words. To put it pithily, the man is never short of a word. Never short of about 500,000 words (give or take), if you count his troika of autobiographical tomes released over the past couple of years. This review, if one can so characterise it, has to do with his latest, and possibly last, of a series of navel-gazing contemplations that he does with such aplomb and panache. However, if the context so demands, I shall freely cherry-pick references from his earlier works. This newly-minted volume titled A Maverick in Politics – 1991-2024, published by Juggernaut Books, is refulgent with dense and detailed descriptions of his colourful journey through the simmering cauldron of political corridors through which he has navigated, at times with consummate skill and at other times with surprising maladroitness, often by his own admission. It comes hot on the heels of his other recent publications, Memoirs of a Maverick, The First Fifty Years (1941-1991) and The Rajiv I Knew.

Given Aiyar’s stature as an eloquent raconteur, prolific writer, occasional disruptor and a willing dispenser of opinion, whether asked for or not, A Maverick in Politics is a must-read for those who simply love the English language, particularly when it is put to use in a unique and often acerbic manner that brooks no argument. His native wit brings home the bacon, a non-vegetarian aphorism his eclectic tastes will not cavil at. He might have considered calling one of his autobiographies The Argumentative Indian, but that title was already taken by the noble Nobel Laureate, Amartya Sen. But Maverick is apposite for a title, the mot juste as the author himself might have put it. As the Bard had it in an entirely different context, “‘tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve.” Indeed, it will serve. Not for nothing has he been so frequently described as a maverick that he chose to anoint himself with the monicker.

Having read the book and trawled through several reviews of the same (and more on the anvil), I arrived at the conclusion that if I must make bold to review something written by the loquaciously (some might even say garrulously) articulate Aiyar, I needed to consider a different tack. Every review of the book I have read thus far, some by very eminent personages, delves deeply into various incidents mentioned in the book. Aiyar at odds with fellow-politicians, Aiyar at odds with the opposition (famously with his own colleagues and even PM Modi) and above all, Aiyar at odds with himself. Honestly, I did not even feel I had the heft or the bandwidth to write a review of this veteran’s memoirs. My dilemma lay in the fact that he invited me to do so. How could I possibly refuse, particularly when he had so readily and handsomely responded to my request by penning an effusive foreword to my latest collection of light-hearted columns published in book form. Noblesse oblige, which called for me to reciprocate. I acquiesced to scratch his back, full of foreboding that I might not be up to the challenge. Happily, I warmed to the task as I went along. Unlike Macbeth, I did not allow ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would.’

As you would expect, the book is full of characters ranging from the high and mighty as well as the down and dirty in politics and bureaucracy. He deals with these individuals and incidents with pitiless candour and a rapier-like satire. He studied in Cambridge after all, where satire was honed to a fine art during the 50s and 60s. However, where Aiyar displays a soft and human side to his personality is when he talks about his family in his first volume, Memoirs of a Maverick. His mother, Bhagyalakshmi takes pride of place for all the trials and tribulations she went through in raising her sons to become men of the world. The untimely and tragic loss of his father and youngest brother is dealt with understatedly. Naturally, his wife, daughters and grandchildren are collectively the apple of his eye and one can almost see his eyes turning moist as he ‘talks family.’ I suppose even the most hard-boiled politician who must needs develop a skin as thick as an elephant’s, will get emotional when he turns to his family. Not that Aiyar is ever capable of getting mawkish or sentimental. Clearly, he is a product of the school of hard knocks, but he gets as close to it as he is likely to where his kith and kin are concerned.

I have deliberately eschewed quoting chapter and verse from the latest volume as many reviewers have done – many of them éminences grises from Aiyar’s rarefied bureaucratic and political world. I would have gone down that path had I not read those reviews. In a strange way, this apparent handicap provided me with an opportunity to talk about what an undiluted joy it was to read the book without the albatross around my neck of pre-conceived notions of political chicanery and skullduggery that was an integral part of his professional life. Furthermore, I had no extended contact with the man to hold strong biases, for or against. I read Mani Shankar Aiyar, never mind what sound or harebrained opinions he might have held on a given subject, for the sheer love of reveling in his ready wit, humour and the ability to not take himself seriously; a trait as rare as hen’s teeth. He will take potshots at anyone with impunity, including himself, and the devil take the hindmost. This review is specially directed towards apolitical youngsters who might never have heard of Waugh or Wodehouse, but in Mani Shankar Aiyar, they might just get a whiff of what it is to write the perfect sentence, sit back and admire it for its own sake. To clumsily paraphrase Oscar Wilde, ‘To write one autobiography might be regarded a blessing. To write three seems like carelessness.’ In Aiyar’s case, his carelessness is our good fortune.

That said, if you are looking for the spicy stuff like how the author was subsequently humiliated by the Gandhis, how he fell foul of his political colleagues, his initial enthusiasm unravelling into a Walter Mitty experience with the Panchayati Raj scheme, how he dared to describe India’s current Prime Minister in less than flattering terms causing an almighty furore and much, much more, you will happily wallow in this tour de force; aided by his sardonic pen (or keypad), masquerading as a poisoned chalice. For a career diplomat and politician, Mani Shankar Aiyar was often undiplomatic and impolitic. His critics averred that his peremptory verbiage caused him to be loved and reviled in equal measure. Therein lies his book’s (or books’) ineffable charm.

                                     

Vedic flights of fancy

Recently, the Governor of Uttar Pradesh, Anandiben Patel claimed that Vedic-era sage Bharadwaj conceptualised the idea of the aircraft. She also described the mythological sleeping giant, Kumbhakaran, brother of Ravana from the epic Ramayana, as a technocrat, who spent six months secretly making machines. Presumably he slept soundly during the next six months. The Governor did not specify as to the precise nature of the machines invented during Kumbhakaran’s waking hours. As for the modern-day claim from the western world that it was the brothers Wright, Orville and Wilbur who invented and navigated the first aircraft in 1903, we will have to take that under advisement. Perhaps with a pinch of salt as well, if the word of the Governor of India’s largest state is anything to go by.

 The west has always been quick off the blocks to take credit for achievements where others have pre-empted them, mainly because the latter were too modest to make a song and dance about it. Not to forget, Madison Avenue in the Big Apple is the spiritual home of advertising. ‘It pays to advertise’ was a slogan the Americans created. The Governor further clarified that Kumbhakaran made these machines secretly. Or even secretively. So much so that no one ever came to know about it. Too shy (or sleepy) for his own good. A failing we shall happily gloss over. Addressing a group of university students, Anandiben exhorted the impressionable youngsters to devour our ancient texts to appreciate the ‘unparalleled research and discoveries made by their ancestors.’ In this respect my late mother would have seen eye to eye with the Governor. She was quick to upbraid me for being a cynical unbeliever for looking askance at mythical tales of scarcely believable triumphs that were narrated to me. I was still in my early teens as I listened raptly to these stories from India’s ancient texts. ‘We gave the world Yoga, Ayurveda and Classical Music,’ she would chide me. ‘And aircraft,’ I could have intoned but she would have thought I was being cheeky. I do believe I might have wronged her and now need to introspect and wonder if both my mater and the Governor did not have a point. Not for nothing did Socrates observe that ‘The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.’

It is instructive to note that India’s first aircraft was built by Hindustan Aeronautics Limited during the 1950s. The flying machine was a two-seater cabin monoplane and was named Pushpak, inspired by Pushpaka Vimana from the Ramayana. Let me quickly clarify, before you jump to conclusions, that it was the name given to the aircraft that was the inspiration, not the fabled aircraft itself!

Predictably, the opposition parties have been quick to mock what they view as Ms. Patel’s outlandish claims. She is not the first to proudly point to Bharat Mata as being the harbinger of pathbreaking inventions. On a previous occasion, one of our politicians claimed at a gathering of scientists that several centuries ago, the hydra-headed Ravana had 24 types of aircraft, and Lanka was equipped with a state-of-the-art airport to house these flying marvels at the behest of Lord Rama’s bête noire! Even if the cynics characterise these claims as farcical, it is undeniable that 7th century Indian mathematician, Brahmagupta discovered the zero. He was no cypher.

Indians are naturally blessed with calculating brains. They can be calculative as well. Many of them are billionaires abroad. When they become billionaires in India, half the country wishes to see them behind bars. How ironical is that? Speaking of irony, I found it piquant that one of the Wright Brothers, Orville, credited with inventing the aircraft, himself died in an airplane accident! Hoist with his own petard. On the other hand, Anandiben might tell you that sage Bharadwaj and technocrat Kumbhakaran died peacefully in their sleep. I suppose if you are in dreamland for six months in a year, there is a danger that you might not wake up. Finally, to all those naysayers who refuse to stand in solidarity with our leaders as they heap encomiums on India’s ancient wisdom, I have just one thing to say. Oh, ye of little faith!

    India and China see eye to eye

While I cannot totally admit that the game of chess is a closed book to me, it can be safely stated that beyond being aware of how each of the pieces moves on the chess board, I will not be able to claim even the slightest degree of proficiency. I have, on the odd occasion, to while away the time on a rainy evening, made a few smart moves with a friend. Within five minutes of the start of the game, I hear the words ‘check mate,’ not uttered by me and it’s all over in a trice. After that, I am unable to bring myself to play another game, fully cognizant that I will hear ‘check mate’ again from the other side of the board with that deadly ring of finality and snootiness which is so off-putting. It matters not a whit whether I am playing the white or black pieces. The result is the same.

Under these circumstances, following the game has also been an arduous task when international stars square off against each other, timer at the ready. Several decades ago, even if the intricacies of the game escaped me, one could follow, in a very superficial way, the world championships involving the likes of Spassky, Fischer, Karpov, Korchnoi and others, mostly from the eastern bloc countries, the American firebrand Fischer being an exception. One reason for even this distant interest in the game could have been that chess in those days had a great deal of political significance. When Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky went eyeball to eyeball over the 64 squares for the world championships at Reykjavik in 1972 it was, in a sense, Richard Nixon taking on  Leonid Brezhnev. Chess was a metaphor for international intrigue. The chess wizards themselves were merely pawns, if you will excuse the unintended pun, doing their masters’ bidding against the kings, queens and knights. The bishops were merely supplicants while the rooks stuck to the straight and narrow. In short, Communism versus Capitalism. As to why they decided to play in the capital of Iceland, the only plausible explanation could be that a neutral venue would have neutralised any political tension that would have been palpable.

That was about as much interest, growing up, that I evinced in a game which, as per conventional wisdom, was discovered in India. An admonishing slap on the wrists is in order. After all, life is not all about cricket, football and tennis. Things have changed now. Ever since Vishwanathan Anand had the world and India agog with his brilliant moves, India is now home to a profusion of international grand masters – both men and women. In truth, many of them are just mere boys and girls, their mothers and fathers accompanying them all over the world with home cooked food in tiffin carriers. I don’t mean that literally, about the tiffin carriers, but home food being cooked in their hotel rooms by Amma is now de rigueur. It comes as no surprise, therefore that an Indian, D. Gukesh, all of 18 summers old, is vying for the title of World Chess Champion right now against his Chinese opponent Ding Liren in Singapore. And it promises to be a battle royal. India pitted against China. If nothing else, I decided that out of sheer patriotism, I should follow the proceedings of this tournament for world chess glory. Particularly at a time when the two uneasy neighbours are exhibiting signs of a thaw. Let Rohit Sharma, Virat Kohli and company duck and weave against the bouncing, moving ball in Australia. I shall sit firmly behind young Gukesh and urge him on.

That is all very well but the first challenge was to figure out where and how to watch this all-important board game, not reputed to be a thrilling spectator sport. A spot of research told me that YouTube was a good option. Thither I streamed, if streamed is the word I want and hey presto, I had a ring side seat from the comfort of my home. A steaming cup of tea and a plateful of cream crackers and I was all set. When I first tuned in, all I could see were the two protagonists (or antagonists) with their chins resting in the palm of their hands and just staring at each other. I could discern no movement of any kind. Were they just trying to stare each other down, some kind of subtle psychological ploy? I was not even sure whose move it was. They were so still, not even the merest blink of an eye was in evidence. I was sure there was a cable snag and that the picture had stalled.

After about six minutes of this fine imitation of still life featuring two statues sitting becalmed, Gukesh suddenly came to life, got up and started walking around, which took his stock-still Chinese opponent completely by surprise. By then I had finished my cuppa and four cream crackers. Still, action was afoot and that was something. Gukesh was walking, Gukesh sat down. Now it was Liren’s turn to get up and get some exercise. This was getting exciting. I could not take my eyes off the screen. After a few minutes of perambulating, Liren too sat down and the two of them started again with the staring.

I know there are some rules governing how much time a player might take to make his move. It was clear that they are given a long rope. Time was not pressing on them. Now that I was getting the hang of things, I decided I would scan the nation’s news front before returning to the chess. Someone was complaining about the poor performance of the government on the economy side of things, GDP clocking in at a miserable 5.4%, but that things will improve from herein on. Is anyone really worried about the GDP figures? Are we travelling less or eating less because of the declining GDP? Is Adani or Ambani concerned about the GDP? Come to that, is the vegetable vendor on my street concerned about it? I rest my case. Meanwhile, India has lost three more wickets in Adelaide and hurtling towards defeat. Social media is full of ‘Virat and Rohit must go,’ and Gambhir along with them – throw the baby out with the bathwater. They might change their minds after one or both of them score centuries in the next Test in Brisbane. Hope springs eternal and we are so fickle in our loyalties.

Now back to the chess. Amazing news from Singapore! Liren has moved his black pawn up one square to bravely confront Gukesh’s threatening bishop. It took about 50 minutes but he seemed well satisfied, rubbing his palms and looking smug. After which they went back to sitting and staring at each other. By now Liren had committed to memory how many hairs there were on Gukesh’s preternaturally hirsute face. Gukesh was at a disadvantage here because Liren, literally on the face of it, appeared to be completely hairless, facially speaking – a smooth operator.  Had Liren been familiar with the Book of Genesis, which I greatly doubt, he might have recalled Jacob’s immortal one-liner, ‘My brother Esau is a hairy man and I am a smooth man.’ Instead, the prodigy from Tamil Nadu fell to humming one of A.R. Rahman’s latest tunes sotto voce. Liren was not best pleased, but that was the idea. At this point, I broke for lunch.

I then took a brief, post prandial siesta and returned to the scene of action. In the blink of an eye, about 90 minutes that is, the two chess wizards had made as many as three moves between them. Lightning kids! This was getting too frenetic for me. My pulse was racing. I decided to call it a day. Next morning’s papers revealed that Gukesh had outwitted Liren and taken an overall lead of 6 games to 5, still 4 games of riveting action to go. This short-lived lead was nullified the following day by Liren, crying ‘Vengeance is mine’ in Mandarin. That’s what happens with chess. Take your eyes away for a few hours and the next thing you know everything is topsy-turvy.

I am now having second thoughts on how closely I wish to follow this time-consuming game of kings and queens. I think I will turn my attention to bridge, a card game about which I am clueless. Now to find that book on contract bridge by Edwin Kantar that my uncle presented to me 35 years ago which is still gathering dust up in the loft, pristinely unopened. Will it be a bridge too far? Who can tell? In which case I shall take up Chinese checkers.

‘Check mate.’ That was Liren drawing level with Gukesh. The battle rages on.

The Deep State in deep waters

There have been occasions when I have had the pleasure, a dubious pleasure some might say, of overhearing conversations at unexpected moments and in unexpected places. I have not gone in search of snooping around expecting to pick up spicy gossip from strangers. I am not that kind of person. Things just happen. One minute you are sitting on some park bench trying to empty your mind of all thoughts, a practice yoga masters encourage their students to indulge in but extremely difficult to achieve. Just when you think the last vestiges of thought are beginning to ebb away and your mind is on the cusp of attaining supreme mindlessness, everything is shattered by hearing a voice close to you saying, ‘I say Rajan what do you make of this Deep State thing? What is Deep State anyway? All these years, I never heard anyone mention Deep State, and suddenly that is all I am hearing and reading about. Can you enlighten me?’

That’s it, end of yoga session and mindlessness. I have been called mindless before but not in a good way. Will have to try it again some other time when I am not even remotely close to any form of human habitation. For now, I am all ears tensely waiting to hear what this Rajan, whoever he is, is about to reveal on the mysterious Deep State. Not to be confused with Deep Throat, which is another kettle of fish altogether. I could have ignored the whole conversation and walked off to find another place to sit where no one else was around. I realised soon enough that that was a hopeless task as the park was buzzing with walkers, many with their pet dogs in tow, joggers, clandestine young lovers whispering sweet nothings to each other and people just sitting around gossiping. Then again, they could be Deep State agents pretending to be clandestine young lovers whispering sweet nothings to each other. It was hopeless. I was in a deep state of helplessness. I might as well have been continuing my yogic asanas sitting at home on my toilet seat. For the present, I decided to do what any sensible person would have done in my place. Make the most of a dicey situation. Curiosity might have killed the cat but I decided to enjoy a bit of eavesdropping. One of them was Rajan, as I was able to glean. The other’s name was soon revealed. They might both have been in their mid-to-late forties, prime of life. Intellect as sharp as a tack. At least that was my impression though one of them was floundering while attempting to unravel the depth of meaning involved in the expression Deep State which has gained wide currency in our political patois.

Rajan responds. ‘Look here Dilip. The Americans are the ones who are openly talking about the Deep State. Apparently, the term refers to a machinery within the government that in reality runs the government, as per the dictates of some higher power. Like George Soros for instance, to pick a name out at random. Those occupying the Oval Office or other important offices in the White House merely follow the dictates of these shadowy individuals in the Deep State. Are you with me?’ Reader, you will have observed that I have assigned an upper case to the term Deep State to stress its importance, except when I employ the term in common parlance, like being ‘in a deep state of helplessness.’

Dilip looks perplexed. ‘I hear you Rajan, but I am not sure I follow. These are deep waters. What higher power? What can be more powerful than the President of the United States?’

Rajan sports a knowing smile. ‘That’s all you know, Dilip. The President is merely a rubber stamp. At least, in the party that is currently in charge but soon to relinquish its position. If the Deep State tells Biden to press a red button that will send guided missiles to Russia from Ukraine, he will press that red button.’

‘But look here,’ interjects Dilip agitatedly, ‘if the missile is to go from Ukraine to Moscow, should not Zelenskyy be pressing that red button instead of Biden? Is that not a huge risk? Biden is not well. Have you seen him walk? He might even be colour blind. Age can do that to people. He might press the yellow button instead of the red one, and the missile might just take off from Washington and blow-up New York and most of the east coast. Did you ever think about that?’

‘You have a vivid imagination, Dilip. Biden is not that unwell. He slurs on his words now and then. Says London when he means Leningrad, which could be a problem. He also has a tendency to trip and fall every now and then, but I think we can count on him to press the right button when it really matters. Particularly when some sharp aide from the Deep State will carefully guide his hand and place his finger on the red button. And if he is really feeling under the weather, they could always call on Kamala to do the honours.’

‘Kamala? Kamala Harris? Are you kidding me? Have you taken leave of your senses, Rajan? That lady cannot make a single move without a teleprompter placed in front of her and if it goes on the blink, she is dead in the water. Only if the screen shows in large, capital letters the words ‘PRESS THE RED BUTTON,’ will she tentatively stick her forefinger out. Even then there is every chance she might press the blue button signalling one transatlantic, guided missile to head China-wards. And smiling non-stop the while, all 32 teeth in full glare for the cameras. No, no, she won’t do. Incidentally, have the media approached Kamala for her opinion on the subject?’

‘Of course they have, Dilip, but she is unable to proceed beyond “I come from a middle-class family and my mother brought my sister and I up single-handedly,” after which she freezes up, waiting for the teleprompter to come alive. Ask Oprah Winfrey.’

‘Since you touched upon Biden, Rajan, what about his latest masterstroke of issuing a Presidential pardon to his son Hunter, for all his alleged crimes and misdemeanours? With one stroke of the President’s pen, Hunter is no longer the hunted.’

‘Nice one Dilip, but seriously, if a father cannot forgive his own son, who else is going to? Cut Joe Biden some slack. Blood is thicker than water or haven’t you noticed? Don’t you follow Indian politics? Anyhow, Biden will be quitting office soon. His wife Jill must have given the President hell to get Hunter off the hook, though she is not Hunter’s biological mother. Remember this was Joe’s second marriage.’

‘Perhaps his first wife was turning on the heat? I must say Rajan, you are really well-informed on American politics.’

‘Nothing to it really, Dilip. Fox News, podcasts on YouTube and a bit of Google search is all it takes these days to be up to speed on happenings around the world.’

‘Quite so. And soon, it will be Donald J. Trump to entertain us and make no mistake, he is a far more engaging entertainer than Biden ever was. He has some sexy dance steps as well. And he will push all the right buttons.’

‘In more ways than one, but enough of U.S. politics. It’s getting late, Dilip. Let’s do a quick round-up of important happenings in our own country, shall we.’

‘Why not? Shall we start with the post-election drama in Maharashtra?’

‘We shall start and end with that subject, Dilip. Nothing else has been happening to keep us bored stiff in front of our television sets.’

Dilip stifles a yawn. ‘On second thoughts, I think we should skip this whole Maharashtra mini-epic with its unending suspense on the appointment of a Chief Minister and other partners in the coalition acting like spoilt brats wanting more of the enormous political pie. Fadnavis seems to be the anointed one, the frontrunner but conspiracy theories are flying thick and fast. I am referring to one sulking brat in particular who seems to be extremely adept at playing ducks and drakes. Let the situation unravel and we will meet again to discuss this vexed issue.’

‘You said a mouthful there Dilip. Let us conclude on the American situation. Trump is letting the world know how much respect he holds for people of Indian origin. There’s Vivek Ramaswamy, Kash Patel and Jay Bhattacharya. Not to forget Tulsi Gabbard who hails from Hawaii but everything else about her is not just Indian but Hindu. I saw her on YouTube, kumkum on forehead and strumming a guitar, singing Hare Rama, Hare Krishna, like the late Beatle George Harrison. Not forgetting Usha, the Vice President-elect J.D. Vance’s wife, who might also have a say in policy making. Above all, Trump and Modi love hugging each other.’

‘Last time Trump was in India he even referred to “Swami Viveka-mundan” (sic). He should take lessons from Tulsi. Small wonder the Deep State has been training its guns on the Indian sub-continent. Not to worry, Trump and his ‘Indian’ team will set everything right. Vivek and Mighty Musk have vowed to fight the good fight and clean up the mess.’

At this point, I decided to make my exit. There is just so much politics one can take of a morning. I have also decided that if I want to get an informed opinion on matters of worldwide interest, there is no point in watching television or reading the papers. Just take a stroll in your park and sit yourself down next to a few wise men exchanging thoughts. You will learn much. And, which is more, you’ll be a Man, my son.

The Winter’s Tale

‘Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.’ Shakespeare, Sonnet 73.

The English winter – ending in July, to recommence in August. Lord Byron.

I have been turning my mind to the weather lately. There is just the hint of a cold snap in the air and most of us are rubbing our hands in joyful anticipation at the onset of winter. Now, I do realise that when I casually talk about welcoming winter with the proverbial red carpet rolled out, I speak from an Indian perspective. It’s all very well for Nobel Laureate John Steinbeck to say things like ‘What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.’ He is used to wallowing in the cold. I am more on the side of Virginia Woolf who held that ‘Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.’ Then again, she would say that, having weighted her pockets with stones and walked straight into the nearest river, never to surface again.

 Someone reading this in Europe, Russia, the United States or Canada will not take kindly to my wintry observations. In those countries, winter denotes unpleasant things like shovelling snow from your doorstep, heating pipes blocked, water pipes frozen, cars stalling and your pets pooing or peeing inside the house seeing as it’s too cold for them to venture out to do their business. Always assuming that the pets’ pipes are not irrevocably blocked to allow free flow of bodily wastes. In sum, I can only thank the weather gods that I do not live somewhere in the northern hemisphere. Conversely, we do not anticipate our summers here with glee whereas those from far north of the equator can’t get enough of the sun. Clearly, in this instance what is sauce for the goose is not sauce for the gander.

Where I live in Bangalore, we enjoy what the experts call moderate or temperate weather. The winters are mild and pleasant. Our pets return from their walkies outdoors looking very pleased with themselves, having deposited their ordure in front of somebody else’s gates! That said, nowadays most pet owners carry around fancy gizmos to responsibly scoop up the dog turd and dispense with it elsewhere, presumably flush it down their own toilets. Which still leaves us with the problem of stray dogs treating the entire neighbourhood as their public urinal or lavatory, but we shan’t worry our pretty little heads with that for the moment. After all, what do we pay the civic authorities for? Point to ponder – why do we never talk about cats in this context? Think on it.

 If Bangalore’s winters are balmy, the summers are hottish, air-conditioning required at nights for about six to eight weeks tops. Blame it on global warming. I know things are much harsher in the northern parts of India where room heaters and electric blankets are pressed into service during winter and most homes have installed central air-conditioning during the stifling summer months. I shall not entertain some smart-alec, idealistic, bleeding-heart college student shedding crocodile tears asking me ‘What about the poor, huddled masses, who have to sleep on the pavements?’ What about them, indeed? There is not a lot I can do about it though deserving charities do get my modest attention. I am as distressed about their plight as you are, and just as helpless. So go back to your air-conditioned rooms and weep into your goose down pillows (again with the geese) for the unfortunates and dispossessed. Otherwise, go and sleep on the pavements with the masses and show some genuine solidarity. Not unlike what some of our former leaders apparently did to experience what Mahatma Gandhi was going through during his incarceration under the British. If not, hold your peace.

Sorry if I got carried away there. There are times when you, as a writer do not always control the direction in which the narrative takes you. One thought leads to another and you veer slightly off the beaten track. Let me return to the weather. In India we essentially talk about three distinct types of weather patterns – summer, monsoon and winter. Period. Did I hear someone pipe up with, ‘What about our spring festival, Holi?’ In certain English-speaking quarters in India, we do refer to Holi as the spring festival, but go and ask the man on the street what he understands by ‘spring’ in the weather sense. He will look at you blankly, shrug his shoulders and walk on. On the other hand, he might make some passing reference to his bed which has a spring mattress in urgent need of changing as some of the springs are poking out dangerously.

The same goes for autumn. Autumn Leaves is a lovely song by Nat King Cole. Autumn is also referred to as fall, particularly in America, but autumn is the more common currency. Just as well. Fall Leaves does not quite work as a song title. In India we do not see leaves falling gently to be raked in by gardeners. Here we see whole trees fall when thunderstorms and typhoons strike, blocking roads, snapping electric poles, cleaving cars in twain (at times with passengers in them) and generally causing mayhem and power shutdowns. Along the way, many human lives are lost.

So much for the grim side of the weather. Let me look at the lighter side of human behaviour in India with respect to weather changes. In Calcutta, where I lived for many years, winters can be quite chilly during December and January, cold enough to bring out the woollies and the monkey caps. Add to that the fog and smog that envelope the city, leading to respiratory illnesses in every other family. The average denizen of Calcutta, however, goes by the dictates of his calendar, irrespective of weather conditions. November 1st means the full-sleeve sweaters for men and the ladies’ shawls must be brought out in all their finery. So many parties to attend what with Christmas and New Year just round the corner. Never mind that it is still clocking a clammy 32 degrees Celsius in the shade. The wall calendar has declared winter and its commands as to the appropriate attire shall be scrupulously obeyed.

The city of Chennai has three seasons: summer, summer and summer with the barest hint of a cool breeze when the weather gods feel so disposed. Sea breeze, they call it, being located on the coast, but we only have their fabled word for it. Incredibly, some of the Madras-vasis can be spotted wrapping a scarf round their faces and a shawl to cover their torsos while visiting temples early in the morning or attending concerts in the evening at the various sabhas during the famed music season. The acrid, camphor-like, pungent smell of mothballs aka naphthalene balls, spread out for long periods in the almirahs keeping the termites at bay, announces its arrival from several yards away as the shawls swish with the mythical sea breeze.

 As for the state of Kerala, I don’t think they even have a concept of what winter means, even in its mildest form. ‘God’s own country’ is hot and insufferably humid right round the year, and when the rains make landfall with much fanfare to announce the onset of the eagerly-awaited Indian monsoon, it just pours sheets for days and weeks on end. Only the school going children are happy, thanks to the enforced holidays. At the same time, elsewhere in the country the parched earth reels from drought as the suffering millions pray for rains. Top that for tragic irony. Many other Indian cities and towns will have their own tales to narrate about how our changeable weather affects them. I had to confine myself to the metros I have lived in.

That is the Indian weather. In a nutshell. Two extremes. Feast or famine. Take your pick. Rains are good for the crops, but excess of it spells misery, even for the crops. In conclusion, King Leontes in Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale exclaimed, ‘Too hot, too hot.’ Not having read the play (and not intending to), I lack context, but it does seem a very odd thing for the good king to say in a tale about winter. Perhaps his menials placed too many logs in the royal fireplace.

Bingeing on subtitles

Subtitles for our worldwide Chinese audience

At the outset, let me make it abundantly clear that my specific focus with respect to this article is on English serials and movies on home television with the aid of subtitles. Home television because I have all but stopped visiting cinema halls, even with our state-of-the-art multiplexes offering plush seats at extortionate rates with facilities to gorge on hamburgers and Cokes even while watching a movie. Those calorific, artery-thickening burgers and chips, blood sugar-enhancing treats, carbonated soft drinks to wash it all down, collectively and rightly dubbed junk food, all costing a bomb for the dubious privilege of partaking in a cinematic feast. The binge watchers and binge eaters are firm in their belief that ogling Brad Pitt and George Clooney ogling J. Lo and Kate Winslet without biting into KFC’s or McDonald’s deep-fried offerings is a complete waste of time. Donald Trump and Elon Musk, gormandizers beyond compare, will heartily endorse that view. English movies, not because I have anything against Hindi or Tamil films but that the latter do not require subtitles. Not for me, at any rate. You may well ask, why do I need the aid of subtitles for English films when I am more than comfortable with the language I was groomed in at a decent boarding school? Good question.

The thing is, in earlier days English movies featured actors who spoke their lines with clarity. It was rather like watching a play where the players needed to ‘throw’ their voices such that it reached the very last row in the stalls as well as those seated in the dress circles in the balcony. Our elocution teachers dinned this into us. The theatrical principle was applied equally to the cinema as the stars enunciated every syllable with great deliberation. Diction ruled ok. Give me a histrionic Peter O’Toole any day over a mumbling Marlon Brando with marbles in his mouth, à la Demosthenes. At least, the Greek orator’s excuse for putting marbles in his mouth was that it cured his stammer. It takes all sorts. Watch O’Toole as Lawrence of Arabia giving Arab chieftain Omar Sharif a polished ticking-off: ‘My name is for my friends. None of my friends is a murderer.’ 10 on 10 for grammar and enunciation. Some may have criticised this method of acting as being too stagey, but it was what it was and, more to the point, it obviated the need for subtitles. Method acting is different now. Most of the modern films and television serials which are offered to us at home for our delectation, appear to be under the misapprehension that they are sitting on our laps and whispering into our shell-like ears, though in a literal sense they are. Did I say whispering? Make that mumbling. Whispering and mumbling: a potent combination that cries out for subtitles.

What this means is that for those couch potatoes like me, who sit back for hours in cushioned comfort at home to watch movies or serials (hello lumbar spondylosis), we are free to choose our entertainment of choice in any language. I might as well opt to watch a serial in French, Japanese or German in place of English, since the subtitles have enabled me to broaden my cable horizons. We are now binge-watching polyglots. Happy Valley is a marvellous English crime drama, but set in Yorkshire, the local Geoffrey Boycott-inflected accent makes switching on the subtitles an absolute must. In other words, we are now forced to enjoy English films and serials with English subtitles! Which then gives me a humongous choice to watch a film in any language, even Korean, if the plot and acting are above par. The subtitles give me that liberty. The highly appreciated serial, Pachinko, is a fine example. And with any luck, I can pick up a couple of Korean cuss words which might come in handy if I ever visit Seoul.

Truth to tell, I hated watching anything with subtitles. For the human eye to dart about between the subtitles at the bottom of the screen and quickly revert to the actual dialogue on the screen, this posed challenges well beyond my capacity to cope. Over time, I managed to overcome this handicap. My eyes grew accustomed to rapid-reading the subtitles and still enjoying the action on the screen. I also felt that the experience of having to read text that kept constantly changing to keep pace with the spoken word, was aesthetically less than pleasing. I have had this experience when I attempted to watch something in an Indian language that was foreign to me, if you get my meaning. I don’t even wish to get started on subtitles that outpace the actor’s delivery, leaving the viewer befuddled. Subtitling for films is a subtle art and when they get it just so, once in a rare while, watching films and serials in any language is an undiluted pleasure.

Incidentally I don’t need subtitles, for the most part, if I am watching a Hindi, Tamil or Bengali film, as I am reasonably fluent in those tongues. However, if an arty friend of mine exhorts me to watch some award-winning film in, say, Bhojpuri or Assamese, I should be stumped without subtitles. I should be stumped even with subtitles, but what the hell. One must oblige one’s arty friends now and then. There have been times when, at my prompting, they have had to endure the never-ending Tamil soliloquys of the late thespian, Sivaji Ganesan. Noblesse oblige. I too was subjected during my initial college days in Calcutta, when I barely spoke Bengali, to watching an award-winning Satyajit Ray film about the Bengal famine. At times the film moved so slowly that I thought the projector had stalled and that the projectionist had pushed off for his matka cha and singaras. And possibly a quick drag on his Charminar. Having watched the celluloid famine day in and day out, the poor chap must have been famished at all times of the day. I should have known that was the way with art house films. Then again, Satyajit Ray was God in Calcutta and you dared not be flippant about him. Status of divinity was also accorded to the likes of Bergman, Kurosawa, Fellini, Truffaut and others of their ilk in the City of Joy.

We are also given the option of watching foreign language films dubbed in a local language, which I feel is misguided. Doubtless it is done with the best of intentions. Why should we not offer the best of Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino mouthing their punch lines in Hindi, Tamil or Telugu? The vast Indian population, fed on a daily diet of Rajani, Salman or Shah Rukh’s antics could be stirred out of their ennui by watching a bit of hyperbolic Pacino in Scarface as he wields his M16 rifle, his nostrils stuffed with cocaine, ‘Say hello to my little friend.’ Dear reader, I will leave you to translate that line in whichever language you feel most at home. Incidentally, I am not a big fan of dubbing. Dubbing does not work for me. Most of the time, we are subjected to dialogues being transliterated, word for word, rather than translated. This often results in hysterical distortions of the meaning that was intended to be conveyed in the original iteration. To say nothing of lip-sync going completely haywire. I would rather the Germans speak in their own Teutonic tongue and let me unscramble the message through the subtitles. Loosely translated, ‘Vazhga Hitler’ in Tamil simply does not have the same authentic ring as ‘Heil Hitler.’

To sum up this contemplation on film subtitles, the absurdity of this exercise is never more starkly displayed than when barely readable lines of text are moronically splashed across our screens when they are clearly surplus to requirements. I am talking about scenes where there is no dialogue and we can arrive at our own conclusions even if we are blessed with only half a brain. A French soldier looks vacantly into the middle distance as the audience is treated to the helpful subtitle, Soldier looks blankly. A cat scurries through an empty room, Cat runs across.  A woman is shown being sick into her toilet, Woman vomits into toilet. A man burps, Man burps. My favourite? As gun-toting villain approaches heroine, on padded feet, stealthily from behind, Threatening music playing. There is a school of thought that subtitles are helpful for the deaf to follow the proceedings. That is dumb. When a person with normal hearing is unable to follow the convoluted logic of subtitles, how do you expect a deaf person to be any the wiser?

I can go on in this vein, but I am done. Now where’s my Director’s Cut DVD of My Fair Lady? I have watched it 63 times since my teens, six times in cinema halls before we knew what a VHS tape or a DVD even looked like. I could do with a bit of the peerless Rex Harrison reprising his stage role as Professor Henry Higgins as he sing-speaks, with crystal clarity, Why can’t the English teach their children how to speak? I won a plastic mug for reciting that at a local club in Calcutta. Furthermore, I will make sure to turn off the subtitle options generously offered in 17 languages: including Swahili.                                       

If you must deny, sound plausible

‘I know nothing. I forget everything.’ Andrew Sachs as Manuel in Fawlty Towers.

The important thing is we maintain plausible deniability. Richard M. Nixon.

The accepted definition of the term ‘plausible deniability’ is the ability to deny knowledge or responsibility for actions taken by others, even if one was involved or at least wilfully ignorant. It’s often used by high-ranking officials to avoid blame when illegal or unpopular activities become public. What a carefully crafted definition this is and how nice for those high-ranking officials that they can stubbornly stick to stout denial with impunity when some wrongdoing or the other comes to light. And not an iota of guilt sticking to them so long as there is a readily available fall guy to carry the can. In India, we call them bakras, or sacrificial goats. One comes across increasing use of this expression (plausible deniability, not bakras) in American or British political thrillers that keep many of us engrossed in front of our television sets. I am not sure if there is an Indian vernacular equivalent for ‘plausible deniability’ but its import and application is something we witness on a regular basis in our country’s rapidly evolving and changing political and corporate scenario. More often than not, the political and the corporate go hand in hand. Or hand in glove, come to that.

Let me attempt to illustrate this through an imagined situation in a government office. An under-secretary in a sensitive ministry decides to import some contraband material through mail order, an act which is clearly illegal. One assumes his motives were sound and in the national interest, to give him the benefit of the doubt. Though every precaution is taken to keep the matter under wraps, truth will out and the minister in charge of the concerned department comes under the scanner as the buck stops with him. However, he is now in the happy position to vehemently deny any involvement in the matter as he is genuinely unaware of what has taken place. If it was brought to his notice later on that one of his underlings was the culprit, he himself shall remain blameless. Pure as the driven snow. When the media searchlight is trained on him, he will be snug as a bug in a rug. And smug as well, I shouldn’t wonder.

That is the theory behind a denial being plausible in high places. In practice there is a more than even chance that everyone up and down the chain of command is secretly aware of the crime, notwithstanding the soundness of the reason for the act. In such a situation, the only real sin was to have got caught with the proverbial hand in the till, a mixed metaphor but a handy euphemism in this case for something more sinister. The fall guy’s lips are sealed as he takes the rap and lives in denial. While he does time in the cooler, he and his family are well looked after till the cows come home. In this case, it is more properly the chickens that have come home to roost. A small price to pay in the long-term interests of the country. Incidentally, I quoted former U.S. President Richard Nixon at the top of this piece who also said, apropos the Watergate scandal, ‘I am not a crook.’ There was not even the slightest hint of plausibility in his denial! If you must lie, keep a straight face.

Nowhere is this situation more apparent than when international spies, for all their cloak-and-dagger cleverness, get caught eavesdropping or peeping through bedroom keyholes at the enemy’s defence minister making nice with a blonde femme fatale. The sort of stuff Frederick Forsyth describes so vividly in The Day of the Jackal. Such a situation, naturally, is ripe for blackmail and the spy from a foreign country is only doing his job. Not very well, one might add. The Peeping Tom analogy is no longer applicable in the advanced technological age in which we operate today. Far more sophisticated equipment can be employed and one can spy unseen and unheard. Which is a shame if you get off on peeping through keyholes, but hey, you can’t have everything.

However, as we are here only to make a point, if the voyeuristic spy is apprehended and sweetly claims he was only getting cheap thrills, he will be frogmarched to the nearest dungeon. After the tried and tested method of gaslighting fails to yield results, they will pull his nails with pliers, apply electric shocks into unmentionable anatomical apertures and give him the waterboarding treatment for good measure. Through all this, he will stick to his story that he was grossly ill-treated as a child, that his nanny lusted after him, all of which led to his perversions, ogling through keyholes being one of his lesser fetishes. Mercifully, for his government that is, he can take the torture no more and dies in his dank cell having kept his country’s honour intact, his lips Fevicol-sealed forever. After he is buried in an unmarked spot, his minister at HQ, on being questioned about the mysterious disappearance of his cultural attaché in Washington, Beijing, Moscow, Toronto, Karachi, London or wherever, can claim he hasn’t a clue who or what they are talking about. Thank God for plausible deniability, as we are witnessing almost every day in real life.

It all then boils down to the vital issue of burden of proof. When it comes to international skullduggery, nothing is ever proven. Only deep suspicions remain and innuendoes strewn about like confetti. No government has ever been unduly worried about suspicions and innuendoes. So long as they can deny plausibly, all will be well. Life goes on. The cardinal thing to remember, even at the cost of repetition is that old axiom, ‘Do not get caught,’ a dictum that some of our own George Smileys have failed to follow. We all know that in the world of intrigue and espionage, spies crawl out of the crumbling woodwork like white ants. They have been thoroughly groomed to blend in with the locals and ensure that their credibility is beyond question. In spite of all this, if they make a false move and blow their cover, on their heads be it.

Spies from different countries rotting in foreign jails are legion. It is cold comfort for an Indian spy to be contemplating a bleak future in a prison cell in Paris or London, daydreaming that the  Champs-Élysées or Lord’s is just three blocks away. His ultimate boss will be speaking nothing less than the truth when he shrugs his shoulders and claims, à la Manuel from Fawlty Towers, ‘I know nothing.’ The same cannot be said of his immediate boss who knew everything but chose to keep things from his big boss, for the latter’s own safety. Plausible deniability in full swing.

I will leave you with a sequence from Ian Fleming’s The Man with the Golden Gun featuring the peerless secret agent James Bond, which best captures the concept of plausible deniability. Bond’s boss M, is in the chair.

M: “What do you want?”

Royal Navy Officer: “We’ve picked up Goodnight’s signal, sir.”

M: “Well, that’s something.”

Officer: “But there’s something rather curious, sir (points on map). Our sector’s here, and we’re receiving her signal from somewhere off this coastline here. Now, here it is on a much larger scale. That’s where she is. In this group of small islands.”

M: “That’s all we need! Red Chinese waters.”

James Bond: “We could stray inadvertently into them, sir. I could fly low under their radar screen.”

M: “Absolutely out of the question. If the PM gets to hear of this, he’ll hang me from the yardarm.”

Bond: “Officially, you won’t know a thing about it, sir.”

There you have it. Plausible deniability, in a nutshell. Even now I can visualise the style icon of the 60s, Sean Connery delivering those lines laconically in his characteristic Scottish brogue though it was, in fact, Roger Moore who starred in The Man with the Golden Gun as Bond. Along with Moore, many others have played James Bond in subsequent films. Moore and Daniel Craig came close to challenging Connery’s pre-eminent position as the definitive James Bond. Take a poll and we all know who will win hands down. ‘The name is Connery. Sean Connery.’ Legend. Undeniably.

     ‘Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything’

In his comedy As You Like It Shakespeare, as is his wont, gave us one of his long declamations, waxing eloquent about Man’s seven ages. I am talking about the ‘All the world’s a stage’ speech. From the newborn baby puking all over the place to the spavined geriatric whose every faculty was being threatened with extinction. In between these two extremes, I am painfully reminded of the whining school boy with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school. The play was part of my school syllabus and I am stuck with it. For a comedy, I frankly did not find As You Like It all that funny. Not enough punch lines. At my age I would rather not dwell on intimations of mortality. Perhaps the Bard of Avon intended the play to be a light-hearted romp, portraying his heroines Rosalind and Celia having the time of their lives with the male leads Orlando and Jaques, besides a strong supporting cast. However, old habits die hard and the Bard felt terribly upset when everyone told him tragedies like Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello and similar are more his line of country and where his strengths as a playwright lay.

All this traipsing about in the Forest of Arden with funny man Touchstone clowning around mouthing his PJs was not quite cutting it for me.  ‘A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own. A poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will.’ I mean, when the man himself admits to his humour being poor, I have no wish to rub salt into the wound. Which forced Shakespeare to change his tack for As You Like It. He got one of his main characters, the aforementioned Jaques to keep droning on lugubriously about how if you lived long enough you will need to visit a dentist for a complete change of dentures, undergo cataract surgery, be on a permanent diet of bland food and book a slot at your undertakers as the end is near. Or nigh, as the playwright might have had it. As I said, not exactly laugh-out-loud stuff, but the melancholy Jaques’ monologue is ranked among Shakespeare’s top hits, along with ‘To be, or not to be,’ ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen,’ ‘Now is the winter of our discontent’ and ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?’ Shakespeare was big on monologues. And soliloquys. So brilliant were they that the audience at the famed Globe theatre at times screamed for an encore! They brought the house down. So, who am I to cavil?

You may very well wonder, dear reader, where I am going with all this Shakespeare guff. A red herring it is not, I assure you. The fact is, given that I am not enjoying the first flush of youth, I am partial to a spot of self-indulgent soliloquizing myself, standing in front of the mirror when nobody is around and holding forth, affecting a Laurence Olivier or Richard Burton timbre. The subject of my speech usually being my state of health. I dive into the deep end. The eyes and the ears have not been pulling their weight for some time now. However, the teeth are in fine fettle, that’s a plus. A couple of extractions and implants, and they are as good as new. Thankfully the same can now be said of my eyes. Cataract surgery has taken care of my sight, what with the state-of-the-art lenses. You can present me with a copy of As You Like It (though I won’t thank you for it), printed in 6 point type and I shan’t bat an eyelid, though I would much prefer Uncle Fred in the Springtime. Why opticians insist, while testing your eyes, that you must read inane stuff like ‘The cat bit the rat that sat on the mat’ in varying type heights is beyond my comprehension. Why not cull out of our reverberating Bard’s sonnet, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ Nevertheless, these were not facilities that the pensive Jaques had at his disposal. Dentists, ENT specialists and eye surgeons, I mean. Books he must have had aplenty – Shakespeare’s Complete Works, for a start. Or ‘books in the running brooks.’ When I tell you that in those bygone days, they employed leeches as the preferred mode of treatment for sucking out infected blood from patients, you can well imagine their plight and Jaques’ dark mood.

Hence the great playwright’s deep contemplation on man’s advancing age, its inevitable depredations and generally negative attitude towards life. Coming back to my health issues, as I said, the teeth are kosher, ditto the eyes. It is the hearing part that I am not quite sure where I stand. I think I can hear perfectly well, but my wife puts a different spin on it. ‘Deaf as a post,’ being a favourite expression of hers, delivered through clenched teeth (her teeth are in mint condition, by the way). That said, I fear she is guilty of making a mountain out of a molehill. I also suspect she deliberately speaks sotto voce to me such that even a person with perfectly sound hearing capability is likely to keep saying, ‘Pardon?’ or ‘Excuse me?’ or a simple, monosyllabic ‘Sorry?’ Not an ‘I am sorry,’ sorry but an ‘I didn’t quite catch that’ sorry. If you are still with me.

It occurs to me, at this point, that deaf people, or should I be sensitive and say ‘the aurally challenged,’ invariably never admit to their handicap. A deaf person, on being asked if he is deaf, is likely to confidently respond by insisting that he is not dead. ‘Very much alive, as you can see, or are you blind?’ I could issue a curt riposte by letting him know that I can see perfectly well having just had my cataract surgically removed, but I worry that he might counter my assurance by saying that he is glad to know my singing contract has been renewed. Unintended non sequiturs frequently slip into the dialogue with those afflicted with impaired hearing. The conversation tends to screech to an abrupt halt after that.

I must make abundantly clear that there is a difference between being stone deaf and being hard of hearing. The former puts you in the ‘no hoper’ category while the latter still gives you a chance to get by and even pretend that you can hear perfectly well. Writers often exploit situations involving deaf people to provide comic relief. Like this example from one of Wodehouse’s gags. Stop me if you’ve heard it before.  “Chap goes up to deaf chap outside the exhibition and says, ‘Is this Wembley?’ ‘Hey?’ says deaf chap. ‘Is this Wembley?’ says chap. ‘Hey?’ says deaf chap. ‘Is this Wembley?’ says chap. ‘No, Thursday,’ says deaf chap.” Whether you think that is funny or not depends entirely on how hard of hearing you are and how fond you are of Wodehouse. Or not. Incidentally, as an aside, from most of my acquaintances who have opted for hearing aids, the verdict is that one is much better off without them than with.

I am fully conscious that we live in extremely sensitive times. People possess very thin skins and are apt to take offence at the merest of slights – real or imagined. One must perforce be constantly tip-toeing on egg shells. Making jokes about folks with handicaps will be taken amiss and you could find yourself debarred from your circle of acquaintances. All because you asked a nice lady you met for the first time at a late evening party if that gentleman wearing dark glasses standing at the other end of the room was making a fashion statement. When she responds that he is not, he is blind and that he is her husband, you hope the floor would cave in and swallow you up.

I had my ears tested recently. The results were inconclusive and the ENT man refused to declare me as certifiably deaf. Bully for me. He asked me to concentrate deeply when someone was addressing me and to preferably look at the person who was talking to me. He did not actually say it but I think he meant, ‘Read my lips.’ I felt cautiously happy about the consult. As I got into the car and drove off with my wife I said, ‘There you are. It’s all good. The doctor just gave me a clean chit and the de-waxing helped.’ As I was expecting a response, I turned to look at her and read her lips as instructed. A dangerous thing to do while driving. Still, I think she said, ‘Bill chef for the bladder and book eight for dinner.’ Then again, it might quite easily have been, ‘Still deaf as an adder and look straight while driving.’ Thanks to all the traffic noise, I couldn’t hear a thing. Shakespeare was remiss in not adding ‘sans ears’ to the quote headlining this piece.

Deepavali and Diwali. One festival. Two facets.

Oil bath terror in south India at 3.30 am

Caveat: This piece was written nearly a decade ago and published in the Deccan Chronicle. It is being presented here with some added embellishments and cosmetic changes. I am counting on the fact that more people would not have read it than have. And among those few who have, only a handful might recall having read it. The passage of time has done little to change anything about how we Indians celebrate Deepavali and Diwali. Read on.

I was born into an orthodox Tamil Brahmin family, and nowhere are the hallmarks of orthodoxy more strictly observed than in our religious festivals. The plethora of rituals almost every month kept me in a constant daze, but the culinary feast that followed each auspicious day, was mouth-watering.  Deepavali, or the festival of lights (and noise), perhaps best typified the rigours and revelries in households such as ours. In Indian mythology Deepavali, amongst other things, symbolically celebrates the demonic Ravana getting his comeuppance against the virtuous Rama – good prevailing over evil, as narrated in the Ramayana. As if you didn’t know.

Let us examine these rigorous practices more closely. Deepavali dawned for our family well before the sun broke blearily over the eastern horizon. We were woken up at about 3.30 am or some such ungodly hour, our faces still deeply sleep-lined. Before we realised what was happening, my mother would pour a ladleful of hot nalla ennai (gingelly oil) on our heads, and thereafter over the rest of our bodies. After allowing the sanctified unguent to soak into our system, we had to have our ‘oil bath,’ and try as we might the sticky, oily feeling never left us for days. Our eyes burned due to the early rising and the well-oiled face, but that was a small price to pay to keep the gods and my mother in good humour. The shikakai podi (Acacia concinna powder) in lieu of soap, only added to the pungent, but not unpleasant, odour we carried around for days on end.

By half-past four, we were dressed to kill in our brand new clothes, usually a half-sleeve, bush shirt and a veshti, which were kept overnight in the prayer room for divine blessings, liberally smeared with sandalwood paste and kungumam (kum kum) the stains of which, like the oil, never left our clothes. After paying our obeisance to all the framed gods and statuettes displayed in the puja room, it was time for some fun, though we were still groggy from sleep deprivation. The cuckoo clock had just tweeted five. ‘Tweeted’ means something entirely different today, but the early cuckoo bird, looking for worms to catch, was ahead of its time.

The ‘fun’ consisted primarily of lighting sparklers and bursting crackers, and various other exciting but potentially dangerous playthings like rockets, chakras and phooljadis (flower pots) that could have been seriously injurious to health. I have never known a single Deepavali pass without some poor child sustaining grievous bodily harm. If not properly supervised, irreparable damage could be done to one’s eyes, and the decibel level of the crackers bursting has caused many a child’s hearing to be permanently impaired. I still believe my brother’s hearing problem was a direct consequence of a pataas going off before he realised the wick had even caught. Thereafter, stuffed with earphones and listening to the brilliant G.N. Balasubramaniam’s Todi or Khambhoji all night long, could only have exacerbated his hearing further. For myself, I exercised adequate caution during the festival, keeping a safe distance from all incendiary objects, even at the risk of being branded a sissy. Discretion was the better part of valour. My valour, at any rate.

Somehow the time had now crept up to 7 am, time for some toothsome bakshanams – crispy crunchies and a variety of sweetmeats. Any other kind of meat was unthinkable! After prostrating before our parents, we were expected to visit neighbouring friends and relatives and seek the blessings of our elders. Our house was also constantly visited by a number of family friends. It was more like a visitation. It must be said that the feeling of gaiety and good cheer was manifest, and the air reeked of a heady admixture of sulphur (from the crackers) and the medicinal but tasty lehiyam, a highly concentrated (and consecrated) paste made of clarified butter and all manner of spices, deliciously sweetened with jaggery – a most efficacious digestive. The Ayurveda chappies are making a killing out of lehiyam.

As an aside, elders in our community greet each other on Deepavali with the Tamil salutation, ‘Ganga snaanam aachaa?’ This refers metaphorically to the much-touted oil bath, the imagined source of the holy water from your tap or shower being the holy of holies, the Ganga or Ganges river. Never mind if the ablution actually took place in your humble bathroom in downtown Chennai. As someone whose name I cannot recall said, ‘Blind faith is the only kind.’ The only Blind Faith I followed as a teenager was a rock band from the 60s!

As the clock crawled towards 10 am, we were all ready for the traditional Deepavali lunch, with all the usual Brahminical fixings topped off with a delicious paayasam. By noon, after the exertions of a long morning, we could not keep our eyes open. The post-prandial afternoon siesta was sound and deep. It also marked the end of the festivities, leaving us at a loose end for the rest of the day. This is pretty much the way families like ours from the south celebrated Deepavali.

Teen patti revelry in north India at 11.30 pm

Outside of south India, particularly in the northern states, and through poetic license, that can be extended to include the east and western parts of India (in fact, anything that is not the south of the Vindhyas), Deepavali metamorphoses into Diwali. Diwali, to the best of my knowledge, involves no rigours whatsoever. Only revelries, and how! They can wake up whenever they want, do whatever they like, and all the action happens after sundown. While some superficial concession is made for religious observances, to show there’s no ill-feeling, the general idea is to have a good time. Good food, followed by teen patti, the Indian equivalent of the well-known gambling card game, Flush or Poker. Lest we forget, gambling has a religious throwback to that other monumental epic, the Mahabharata. A dice game, said to be an ancient form of Ludo, is referred to in the ancient texts variously as Pachisi, Chausar or Pasha. I looked that up, in case you’re wondering.

For spiritual uplift, the traditional Indian milk-based stimulant, bhang, is consumed in large quantities and pretty much everyone gets sloshed to the gills. It’s all a bit Bacchanalian, but a rollicking time is a given. Dinner is late and the feast royal, and almost certainly not vegetarian. The sweets are rich and massively calorific. The north Indians don’t believe in doing things by half. They spread themselves high, wide and plentiful, and throw themselves into the festivities with oodles of vigour. Rigour is strictly for their southern counterparts.

Days after the festive fireworks, our streets tend to resemble the blood-spattered detritus of a battlefield. The red wrappings of the crackers, mangled sparklers and blackened flower pots turn our roads into a red sea. Or even a black sea. To say nothing of the sulphuric fumes and pollutants that remain heavily laden in the atmosphere. Small wonder the Supreme Court put the kybosh on the use of firecrackers in the capital till November 1.

Let us also spare a thought for all the stray animals that roam our streets running helter-skelter for shelter as the bursting crackers literally drive our poor, dumb chums, crackers. Not to forget our terrified household pets – canine, feline and avian – whose hyper-sensitive auditory canals send them scooting under the beds for sanctuary or have them flapping about helplessly in their gilded cages. Then again, when do the powers-that-be ever empathise with what our beloved fauna are going through?

There you have it. Deepavali or Diwali, one festival in the same country, but celebrated in vastly different ways. The way I look at it, to each their own and there is no room for being judgemental. If a sense of unctuous religiosity is palpable amongst south Indians but missing in the north, the latter makes up for it by celebrating the festival in a markedly Rabelaisian and boisterous manner. Either way, it’s a public holiday and a splendid time is guaranteed for all. Just mind the fireworks.

To all our readers, I extend a very happy, bright, colourful and safe Deepavali. And Diwali.

     An Orwellian redux – 1984 meets 2024

A still from the movie Nineteen Eighty-Four

I am not sure if Big Brother is watching you, but by now there is hardly anyone left with a mobile phone who has not received a call from an unknown number to which, if you absent-mindedly respond, a seductive, recorded voice will coo these magic words, ‘This is a call from the Telephone Regulatory Authority of India,’ TRAI to its friends. If you commit the cardinal error of pressing 2 for further information from TRAI, the disembodied voice will connect you to a live person masquerading as a member of the long arm of the law, who will then go on to level charges at you for  making obscene calls to six different numbers in Mumbai and that your mobile phone will be disconnected within two hours if you do not follow the instructions that you will now be receiving. Why they grant you this grace period of two hours is, as Winston Churchill put it, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. In any case, unsurprisingly your number remains active even after two hours, which is a dead giveaway, presaging something distinctly fishy. Based in Bangalore as I am, why I should go to the trouble of making obscene calls to unknown numbers in Mumbai, when I could do precisely the same thing from my residence to unsuspecting denizens in Bangalore, is a point that does not impress the caller. Not that I would even remotely consider such an atrocity. Perish the thought. ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ you mutter to yourself, if you know your Hamlet.

Those who are naïve enough to ‘follow the instructions’ will then be advised that they are under ‘digital arrest’ and will be tracked 24 x 7 and commanded to await further instructions. You are also ordered not to leave your residence till further notice and be available on video call whenever needed. Which involves the added nuisance of your having to look respectable from your torso upwards for the camera, and not like something the cat had brought in. That rules out lolling about at home in your night wear, hair in comfortable disarray. One’s home is one’s castle, after all. Or so we thought.

As if all that were not enough, apart from being accused of making heavy breathing sounds to unknown women, you could also be charged with planning terror attacks, raping underage victims, transferring millions to numbered Swiss bank accounts, and illegally smuggling contraband goods into the country. Rare species of exotic reptiles are also included in this category. Not that you can do it legally, of course, but the list of ‘charges’ is as long as your arm, enough to be getting along with. They like to throw in a bit of variety when they call, these telephonic fake merchants. One of these days we will also be accused of ‘thoughtcrime,’ a possibility envisaged by George Orwell in his dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. Some smart phones alert you with a helpful ‘Suspected Spam’ or ‘Potential Fraud’ warning, enabling you to cut or block the line pronto, but these online geeks find ways of circumventing this obstacle, canny sons of Belial. If you ignore their calls altogether, they stay true to their assumed name and follow Robert the Bruce’s dictum to his troops (forgive the paraphrasing), ‘If at first you don’t succeed, TRAI, TRAI again.’

Once you have allowed yourself to be thus ensnared, a whole host of other headaches, and that is putting it mildly, will assail you. Incidentally, such a call can also come from a bank in which you hold an account or from a completely alien source of which you know next to nothing. The latest variant of this fakery is the caller from your fictitious courier service to inform you that an important document from FedEx is awaiting collection, details of which can be had if you press 3 or 9 whence you will be patched through to ‘our customer service representative.’ Why brand FedEx is the chosen one for this caper completely escapes me. Why not DHL or Blue Dart? Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and be hoist with our own petard. That is a matter for FedEx to unravel and for us to prick up our ears and sense the red flag when their name is mentioned. All I can say is pressing 3 or 9 is fraught with the same dangers associated with pressing 2. You have been warned.

 Welcome to the world of fake calls, now no longer something to be taken lightly but capable of inveigling you into a dark vortex of deep stress and anxiety. The crime these bozos are involved in is sinister and the wide-eyed victims are putty in their hands. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights. Furthermore, you will also have divested yourself of a great deal of money, before realisation dawns that you have been had – hook, line and sinker. As Bob Dylan said, you are ‘only a pawn in their game.’ Then you find yourself running to the nearest police station to register a formal complaint, after which you hare off to your family doctor to rid yourself of a severe case of migraine, dangerously elevated blood pressure and the onset of depression brought on by helplessness and hopelessness in attempting to deal with a situation only Kafka could have imagined.

Dear reader, you are well aware of this present-day scourge and should know enough to make absolutely certain that you DO NOT PRESS 2, or any other digit for that matter, when that idiot voice calmly asks you to do so. Even if you don’t take my word for it, the newspapers remind us almost every other day that this is a clear and present danger. What is it with so many of us that we flatly refuse to do anything our elders, or our better halves, tell us – mundane things like ‘have your bath before the water stops and switch the geyser off,’ ‘toast your bread slices before the electricity cuts off,’ ‘don’t forget to take your BP pills,’ or ‘make sure to release the car’s handbrake before driving off’  but are perfectly willing to follow to the ends of the earth instructions to ‘press 2’ from an unknown voice over our mobile phones? And I am not even getting into flights being delayed by calls threatening hoax bomb threats. The mind boggles.

What continues to puzzle me is why our guardians of the law, in their various avatars, have not yet been able to wrap their heads around this mobile telephonic curse. India now supposedly leads the way in the IT sphere and yet, we are not able to bring cyber-crime under control. I realise there are various hues of crime being committed in the cyber world, but when ordinary folk like you and me are daily wondering if we should respond to that number which we are unfamiliar with, in case we are unwittingly drawn into a conversation that leads to the rapid depletion of our bank balance, then it’s a bit thick. After all, that unknown number could also be from a long-lost friend or relative whose number you had not saved. We are in the heady realm of a Brechtian dilemma. While our lawmakers are still grappling with this problem, we can protect ourselves by just this simple expedient. At the cost of repeating myself, you can either take my advice and exercise extreme caution or go ahead and press 2,3 or 9 and the devil take the hindmost.