Universal Adult Franchise

Another first today - I cast my vote! 

As a teenager, I had always waited to become 21 - the age then for Universal Adult Franchise. We read it in Civics. But there was so much more to elections that Calcutta taught me. The excitement the city would whip-up during the run-up to elections, was almost equal to the run-up to Durga Puja. If you know what Durga Puja is to Calcutta you will know what I am talking about. 

Months before elections one would see myriad party candidates visiting homes, distributing pamphlets, with benign faces and folded hands. Para (neighborhood) dadas (an older man, not goon) would make their follow-up visits after the candidates and explain the good things about their leader and a gossip or two about others. 

I can't forget those (mothers of all) rallies with miles of party supporters. I learnt later that the 'supporters' would be paid two meal and some toddy, takers for which were abundant in Calcutta. And the hinterland from where they would board local trains - ticketless of course - to arrive in the city, walk in endless lines flags in hand, to that humongous patch of green in the heart of the metropolis called Brigade Parade Ground. Brigade cholo was the slogan like it was Quit India in 1942. Then there were those passionate speeches, legendary traffic jams and endless frustration that Calcuttans suffered. The din was unmissable!

And of course, there was public art on ANY available spot. Your bad luck if you had just re-painted your house a virgin white. But credit where it's due, the posters and graffiti were unique with art, satire, humour, caricature, historical allusions, brilliantly appealing to the entire spectrum from subaltern to intellectual. There was something about the visuals, they were very Soviet-esque. 

On election day there were banners, festoons, pamphlets and party workers in their Sunday best. And of course, my parents getting ready early in the morning, for their walk with the neighbours to the polling booth. Later, they would tell us who they voted for. Their vote was always split. Then we would take sides and have a loud debate about who we should support when we grow up. 

I left home for NDA at 18, three more years for Universal Adult Franchise. The year I turned 20, with a year to go, I learnt there was a legislation which reduced the voting age to 18. What a pity, I thought! 

In the IAF years that followed, I turned the divine patriot, the chosen one, above the rest of them civil servants, the babus, of whom I was cynical, but they ran the system. And for politicians I held special hatred. I was loathe to associate myself with elections. To me, elections got us back the same folks with different faces. 

I held that belief and still do faintly, but my 40th year has been one of change. Improbable as it may seem that one vote makes a difference out of hundreds of millions, I embraced the possibility. This year I exercised my vote. And to be honest I felt that I contributed.

Besides friends who exhorted me to get up and vote, there were some more reasons. Firstly, India to me, had moved on. From those days of badly designed Ambassadors from Hindustan Motors, to Toyotas andand more. Earlier, privileged Oxbridge elite would hold our nation in rapturous awe to speeches about trysts with destiny. Like a mute herd, uneducated and unaware, a nation listened and clapped. While the political class and their cohorts skimmed off and stashed away for their descendants. Today we have an economist PM, and his Cambridge tag may inspire respect but not awe. A million educated Indians can not only eyeball him but also beat him in a debate. And he'd rather not make speeches about trysts because that will not get the masses to exult. The masses now look for results and don't get excited by floral speeches and platitudes. 

It was the time for action I thought, and if I did not vote for change, I must not expect change to happen. 

(DISCLAIMER: THIS POST IS FROM 2008)

Music in my life & the new laureate

Music was my first love and it stayed. Can’t say if it came from the family: parents, older brother and sister all music lovers, plus, the larger family full of singers and musicians. Or Calcutta where I grew up. So many things about the city was to do with the practicing and preaching of music, the exact word in many Indian languages, charcha. Neighborhoods at dusk would resonate with evening riyaaz, often cacophonous. Music was part of every child’s initial curriculum, a pursuit abandoned should they fail the litmus test. And those who abandoned it (parents included) became fans in the neighborhood of the ones who persisted. And so some of us who did persist not because we were prodigies but just possessed the initial sparks, were adored in the para (neighborhood). That was encouragement. 

And I was there playing my piece in the evening symphony on tabla, sometimes accompanied by RamDa who would play Chandrakauns on the harmonium, and sometimes with my brother on sitar. All my other interests - a multitude drifting in and out at various points - are now only a faint memory. Like making catapults from the y of a tree's branch and strips of cycle tube, or flying kites or painting clay pots or collecting stamps and first day covers. Music survived my ADHD. 

As a pupil of one of the best tabla Gurus then I may have had another reason. Plus with parents who sang along and encouraged everything musical, Hindustani classical, film music, even the stuff we listened to. And then of course there was The Beatles, mentioned last for reason. Who without any doubt occupied the singular spot for the favorite, a permanent answer to if there is one band which one would it be.

Music also got me friends before I hit my teens. Friends with whom LPs were exchanged and much time spent listening together. These friends stayed and conversations with them to this day gravitate to music. Those days if there was talk, it had to be music trivia. By the mid teens, we had to know all the facts. Like Joni Mitchell wrote Woodstock and also illustrated the jacket of CSNY's So Far, the album with their cover of her song. We collected rare LP s. A friend had a Blue Album that George Harrison had autographed, with a large Om below the signature. That was worth a million, it still must be. Am sure SG has kept that. Would like a selfie with it someday!

The stereo and turn-table were important possessions. Cosmic was an expensive brand. Sonodyne was cool to have. Both were Indian and produced the decibels you needed to deliver to your neighbours. Phillips was a tad inferior. Of course the more resourceful ones had Sansuis, Sonys and Akais. Few, whose fathers globe-trotted, had spool decks and fancier stuff. Cassettes came later and were difficult to manage. They somehow became mainstay despite the tendency to get flicked (a word in our dictionary then, for stolen) easily and the regular watch one had to keep against humidity and fungus attacks. By the time we were leaving school, CDs had appeared and were aspirational. My first one was a gift from my sister, a collection of Brahms produced by Polydor for the Festival of the USSR in India, in the mid-eighties.

Then, there was music one could select and curate from rare LPs in Calcutta. Piracy in today's language. I remember buying my first collection of John Mayall, Robert Cray and other British blues artists from AC Market on Theatre Road, circa, 84/85. They would let you select songs from LPs. BASF was known for the best blank tapes, next was TDK. The quality of the recordings were good.

One thing though. I bothered less for the lyrics and more for the music. It had to sound good to the ear. I was probably slow. I sometimes couldn’t fathom the lines, but that did not matter. The music just had to be rich: the vocals, the instrumentals, the composition. And so the love for all the Jobim, Gilberto, Joao Bosco, Pavarotti and Placidos of the world. Closer to home, Mehdi Hassan remains to be comprehended to this day, i.e., Mir or the others whose ghazals he sang. At home there was one LP I loved of Rafi and Begum Akhtar. A classic, specially the mellow and glorious Urdu of Kaifi Azmi between the songs, narrating as Ghalib in 1st person the events of 1857. 

And so it stayed that I never got past the first 10 seconds of Bob Dylan, read his off-putting nasal whine. I still struggle.

In my later years, with weed, thinking it might help, I ended up particularly liking neither. Rather, I developed a dislike for both: his music and weed. So I chose never to collect Dylan’s music in spite of the poetry and always smirked in the inside mixed with amazement, when some friends would gush over him. To me there was more and better music to explore. But here’s the twist. I did collect AND love not his but covers of his songs by others, example, the 40 odd versions of 'All Along the watchtower…’ from Ritchie Havens to DMB. Speaking of which my favorite still is Hendrix's, where the raspy guitar opening and sharp drumming can wake up a neighborhood. That opening transformed the song and was adopted by Dylan himself. It packed more kiloton than Joe Cocker's cover of With a little help. So here's conceding basically that I did love Dylan, the lyricist and composer! Maybe some rearrangements by others shone more brilliantly and sounded better to my ear, but to be fair those were all covers!

Therefore here’s also a belated toast to Robert Allan Zimmerman and fans of his I know who have loved him a 100% in spite of his nasal whine. @Shouvik Gangopadhyay, @Bhaskar Khaund, @Sandeep Talwar: wherever you are, you probably rejoiced his Nobel and it is most deserved. I raise my glass to your (our) laureate! 

Am also off now to collect his stuff, at least grab copies of his lyrics and explore him better. A bit like when every time someone I’ve never heard of wins a literature Nobel, I get a copy of their work. The better part is this time I will read the literature. Read by listening to the music (his own and the glorious covers). And yes I am not the literary type, so I cannot argue about who wrote better, specially after I hear that another Dylan deserved the Nobel more!

Feb 2012, Delhi Shining & Kingfisher down but not out

BLR - DEL  by Kingfisher on 13 Feb 2012

It was the 13th of February 2012, a day after my birthday. I woke up at 0600h; stepped out of the front gate and hopped into the easycab at 0645h, post shower, shave, et al., AND a tuck of biscuits; reached BIAL (KIAL as it is known today) in 60; paid 850 for the ride and immediately experienced an early morning hurt wallet syndrome.

The Kingfisher card (it used to work then!) got me a speed check-in, and, after security before boarding, I was left with 15 minutes to spend. The retail outlets screamed P L E A S E with mega-fonted discount signs but I was determined; to seek redemption from the exorbitant taxi fare I parted with in my first transaction of the day. I walked into the KF lounge, a place I don't visit unless I was done strolling or was sleepy, but that morning I was determined!

Inside, there was couscous upma, chicken salad and coffee. Interesting, so I granted myself a 25% pardon for spending the 850 instead of 200 on a red Volvo. Also, Volvo wouldn't have got me my 15 minutes at the lounge I thought. I checked another box and arrived at zero sum. The day was doing ok on the books!

Then, the flight took off on time and that got me to say wow, not bad at all! 

Then came the meal: Ragda patty! 

'What?' I asked the attendant and stared in disbelief as she went about her drill in a cosmetic accent. It sounded like rice-and-lentil pancake with dough ground in a stone pestle & mortar, allowed to ferment overnight in ambient temperature... the bla bla on menu cards that lists regular fare. I wanted to shut her up with when's the airline closing down...but I did not. 

I was sorry, for her and Kingfisher. There were stories about their debt and how salaries were not paid. And I thought just imagine the time she spent this morning donning those layers of make-up, despite no salaries for months. Plus, she has definitely woken up before me this morning, poor thing! 

But that aside - the empathy, sympathy, damsel in distress etc - nothing in the world could convince me to eat ragda patty. Or paw bhaji, or vada paw, this or that paw, dhokla, thepla and the rest of it from the Gujju / Bombay veggie street-food spectrum, except if I were to save my life!

I asked damsel to keep the ragda patty and leave the fudgy chocolate cake on the tray table. And fudgy chocolate cake...wasn't that sinful? It r-e-a-l-l-y was. I thanked my luck for the couscous and chicken salad I ate at the lounge and with this, I had just pieced together (and enjoyed) my free three course breakfast! The next happy event was the two and a half hours of languid, no-commitments-after, siesta. The day just notched up MANY more points on my book.

The flight landed on time and at 1200h in Delhi the taapmaan (temperature) was 18 degrees Celsius. I imagined some Bangaloreans in the aircraft sliding into their jerkins and looked around to see. The fasten-seatbelts-light was on then, but later, I did spot some.

Stepping out of the aero-bridge, into a longish winding and carpeted pathway, through escalators and travelators, one realized, oh so this was the new airport everyone spoke of, particularly those from Daelhi (a casual drop of T3 added gravitas to a conversation, as if it were some new hip word that statusified you, and ensured they know you've been globetrotting).

But I concede, I saw jaws drop. Of those who had not been to DEL in a while, including mine! I mean in the tough-guys-don't-dance sort of way. I began comparing T3 with some slick recent airports I remembered, the world-traveler-critic me. I couldn't help accept that T3 was impressive. It was international, intuitive and easy. BIAL, where I boarded this morning, compared like a mofussil aerodrome from vernacular India.

Even after a myriad security scans, checks, frisks and some not-so-finished public spaces (a hallmark of all new chrome-glass-steel infrastructure Indian), I reached the Metro Express line station...without having to ask ANYONE for directions. This, ladies and gentlemen, was a transformation!

In the past, when I'd land in DEL (or the poorer NDLS), I'd delay starting a conversation with any local, in their guttural localese for as long as I could. I'd speak in monosyllables and only on dire necessity. Just to avoid the bargaining, negotiating and falling for those arguments that always threatened to get violent. And overpowering a lesser mortal, linguistically or otherwise, never felt good, then or later. In the past, Delhi never spared me that stressful opening. This time, just the signage did everything for me. I was gliding along!

And  don't miss this: The metro ticket to Shivaji Stadium was for just Rs.60 and the train took 20 minutes to reach. Soak it again. 20 minutes and 60 bucks to get that far! I stepped out of the station and into an auto in five minutes. Beat that for efficiency! The auto driver was a Sardarji. A smily-faced Sardarji who you'd want to call Happy not just as a cliche. He asked for 50 to Copernicus Marg. I was advised by Augie it would be 30, but Happy smiled and his arms were not akimbo. My defences were down after that lightning ride on the plush metro and the day so far. I said 40, he smiled OK and I almost gave him a high five!

Back in Bangalore later, I surprised myself recounting the things I saw and experienced this time in Delhi. I remembered my first visit there as a young boy with my family in 1977 when we had stayed in Kasturba Gandhi Marg. And saw those beautiful parts of Lutyen's Delhi, saw Agra, Fatehpur Sikri, Haridwar, Hrishikesh, Dehradun and Mussoorie. We ate tandoori chicken at Moti Mahal and saw for the first time, large oval dosas being made at Nirula's in CP's outer circle. Delhi was beautiful then and now it has become slick. I love slick. I was prepared to delete the memories of the gazillion angsty trips I had made to that city between 1977 and this last one.

America – from the plane and at the Philly Airport Transit Lounge

My first sight of America from the window of a Boeing 747 was not one the best of the earth below. Not as pilot, nor as passenger. I thought some not-so-beautiful parts of India look better.  The sky over Pennsylvania was some six octas in grey and the dark green patches in between did not combine well with gloomy grey. I was also very hungry. I was flying United for the first time, on a plane with some not so young flight attendants (who seemed to need attending themselves), some older than the ones you saw in Air India. You get the picture!

But moving on, I decided not to disappoint myself, and avoid quick conclusions, and stop being a critic. Something I saw myself fast becoming after my fortieth, though, friends might like to antedate that! 

I firmed up to be patient, to wait and watch. I did, but sadly it was only getting plainer. I could now spot clearly misshapen and unkempt urban patches that were possibly honest American attempts to being modern, but, as are many things American, the patches showed least concern for style.  My excitement greyed.  It was not what one saw before landing in a European city: aesthetically distinct, sharp and beautiful, an enduring image the mind captured for good. But then, Philadelphia was not in Europe and so my expectation of it to appear like a manicured lego-land from the sky was flawed!

Then suddenly I brightened up, seeing a complex cluster of flyovers; many of them stacked on top of each other like a giant jigsaw of complex arcs. I was fascinated. I was taken to those elaborate toy race car tracks of my childhood that could be assembled, possessed by boys who had globe-trotting fathers. I also scared myself for a flash, thinking, what if there was an earthquake!

When the undercarriage and flaps came down, my perspective was sharper. In a sense, it was a vision no more. I was landing in America, in one of its greatest cities!  And those cars below were real traffic, real stuff that I would be part of in the days to come, not in the same place exactly,  but somewhere similar, for the next 45 days. Pressing my face to the window I looked down and said to myself, this is America! You’ve seen it in the movies...  I braced up, confused and excited, and ran over my after landing check-list.

Between then and my wait at the lounge for my next aircraft, there was nothing significantly exciting. Boring yes, but there were many things to remember - visuals, sounds, tastes and smells, the first impressions to sponge for posterity. 

The wait at immigration was legendary both by measure of boring and irritating. I was tired and anything that added to that not-so-happy state, made me more impatient. I was looking for a place to stretch my legs, and, probably take a short nap.  I had never seen such a long queue before. But, the person at the counter totally reversed it. He was a complete opposite of the experience till then. He was courteous as a legend. 

(And I must make this note, that everyone I met at a POS or any customer counter from then on, everywhere else in America during that and later trips, were courteous and smart. Professional and quite the opposite of what one sees in Europe!)

I then reached a very large place, a mall of sorts, with a humongous food court. It all seemed like it was constructed yesterday. And then I saw some really huge black men. Not some, but many black men and women. I had never seen so many in one place before. Not like those trendy black people one saw in Paris. These were very casually dressed. American! Some wore track pants, some wore sleeveless Ts, they even spoke like in the movies and rap videos. And hey, this is not about black alone, there were badly dressed white and coloured men. Then, there were school kids who had baby faces but built like adults, big, strong, humongous, like the food court. Many looked like they were back from a summer camp. In similar track suits, charging at huge platters of food. 

Man, this is a country of eaters I thought, an unabashed eater myself!

Mirror

Seeing one's face in a mirror after a win is intoxicating. It's more self-gratifying than any other high I know. It's one's own private Nobel moment, done with a quick exchange of beatific smiles, a slight raising of the eyebrows ending with bows of acknowledgement.

The opposite, i.e., seeing one's face while in a low is deeply depressing. It's like some heart-shattering revelation, like learning life's lesson in a flash, like compressing years into a second, years wasted! A second that says you were wrong, you stooped and how hopelessly irreversible the result has been. And as Henry Derozio described, '...groveling in the lowly dust art thou!'

Other times, not so broken under the weight of your remorse, a mirror can show you a path to redemption, salvation, even the road to a future win. But mirror there must be. I have experienced this. I am sure most of you have. Those who haven't, must try it.

This what I speak of is only for those who have won and have lost. Those who have neither, live ordinarily busy lives on 365 ordinary days, every year of their life. They consider mirrors mundane and sometimes vain. And rightly so. They don't know winning from losing while they drift with the tide.

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Chris: Hello, you're chatting with Chris. How can I help?

Kaushik Khaund: hi Chris, I was with Natalie a little while ago

Chris: Hi Kaushik!

Kaushik Khaund: anyways, the issue is, I was trying to book online, I would get some great deals and then on clicking next, would be told 'sorry these flights are not available'

Kaushik Khaund: ~28 Jul, BOM to SFO

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Kaushik Khaund: oh k, i chatted because I was prompted to by the site, what is the chat for?

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Kaushik Khaund: oh, it's for folks who cannot use the internet well, not for folks who are frustrated by the inefficiency of the website!! nice!

Kaushik Khaund: quite a service for internet virgins, don't you think!

Kaushik Khaund: cheers!

Chris: We can assist as much as possible, however for your query we would need to check to see if all of the flights have availability.

Kaushik Khaund: get the website to work, that will solve all problems

Kaushik Khaund: tata

Chris: That is something that we are unable to do on this service, it does inform you when you accept the chat that we are not able to check flight availability or make bookings.

Chris: It maybe that the website is working, but one or more of the 4 flights you are trying to book is sold out.

Kaushik Khaund: sure, but the website should be as close to real time as possible

Kaushik Khaund: not have such a lag, there are travel sites in India that have lesser or no lag, in India!!

Kaushik Khaund: there's technology that can enable this

Chris: You are looking at travelling over a peak time of year, the flights to San Francisco will be extremely busy in late July because of the school holidays in the UK.

Kaushik Khaund: ask Mr Branson to contact me, I can help

Chris: The website is in the process of being updated, but this does take time to design and implement.

Kaushik Khaund: hmmmm, i agree and sympathise

Kaushik Khaund: i have a fee though, to take Virgin over this technology hump

Kaushik Khaund: kaushik.khaund@gmail.com, just in case

Kaushik Khaund: cheers

Chris: For your immediate concern, you would have to call through to our Contact Centre where an agent would be happy to check the flights for you and offer alternatives, if one of more of the flights is not available.

Kaushik Khaund: i'm flying BA, bye

A fine Samaritan in Bangalore

On the verge of falling asleep a few nights ago, I was shaken awake by my wife. A colleague had called, he had a flat tyre, he was very close by and needed help. His car's tool kit was no good for some reason and I had to lend him ours.

'Why do I have to be woken for that? You know where it is, hand it over!'

"It's very late at night, besides, I don't know how to use our kit, he too may not know..."

('He's your colleague all right but he is a guy, he WILL know') 'I can understand late at night but firstly, all tool kits are the same, if he does not know how to use our tool kit, he is not fit to drive'

"That's very mean, if you don't help people in their time of need, no one will help you ........!"

'Yes yes I know!...'

Cursing the night, I stepped out half asleep.

The Tata Indica tool kit did not have a spanner that worked on his suped-up alloy wheels. I cursed Tata Motors and the owner of the car under my breath.

'How could anyone change a critical part of the car and not have the tools to maintain it?'

I offered the one I had in our Hyundai. That did not work either. Nor did any other contraption or combinations thereof, applied with our combined mid-nightly scientific intelligence.

In an effort to end my agony I concluded that the car be left at our place and he sleep over and fix things in the morning. But he said that was not possible. For some reason I don't remember now (I didn't register then either), he was not sleeping over! He was taking his car home (a good 20 km away)! It was 2.30 am, the breakdown service would not answer the phone. I cursed the maker of the alloy wheel for pushing non-standard products in the market. 'Must have brought it in a container from China with plastic flowers, fake barbies and me-too-Ming vases. Must have cost a hundered rupees each, cheap Chinese import!'

I was readying to curse again, when I saw the lights of a car turning into the road. This was the third or fourth one by. Every time that happened, we stepped away and stood behind the Indica. One never knew midnight drivers. We were about to follow SOP and step off when this red Alto pulled up and stopped.'What does he want at this hour, we didn't flag you down?'

The man was fair, short, round and wore a red shirt. He was in his mid forties, had a pair of thick black handlebars and did not reek of alcohol. Benign! He lit a cigarette, walked up and asked what the problem was. We told him it was a flat tyre and our spanners won't fit, whatever!

In something like a grunt, he asked his companion, Or driver (also short and round but a very dark version of Redshirt) to get something. (Driver Or bodyguard, I couldn't say, but theirs was a relationship poised in true harmony. Where communication had the nuance of a touchscreen and onomatopoiac monosyllables got seamless responses). The dark man produced a small briefcase like box that hid a whole assembly of tools. He took a quick look at the flat tyre and got on the ground to unscrew it. A few attempts later he gave up. Nothing from the briefcase would fit!

Redshirt, by now, had finished his cigarette. He stubbed it the classic way (under his toes, heel swinging sideways) went over to his boot and pulled out another set of tools. He then rolled up his sleeves, squatted on the road and got down to business. Like magic, the tool worked this time! He then handed over the rest of the work to his bodyguard or assistant (at which my wife's colleague took over), lit another cigarette, discoursed on the merits of alloy wheels, offered us information on the best places in Bangalore to get them and some more free tidbits later, it was all over. We were now saying our thank yous and goodbyes.

The business card said he owned a restaurant down the road (Ohhh, the steak place, of course I knew it! But I used to never visit because it did not serve alcohol!). He was going home with his driver. He knew the neighbourhood well and stopped to help someone in distress.

The assistant or manager got behind the wheel this time, and they drove off leaving us in a daze, over the shared smoke, wondering. Who would stop at 3 am, volunteer to assist, then squat on the road and fix your flat for you? That night I could not decide if I would ever do this, help a stranger at 2.30 am. I still am not sure. All I can say is God bless his tribe!