We love 'The Family'...!

That is Anasuya Devi .... birthday girl! Already clicking away!

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This appeared in Sunday Times today.....

                             ‘The Family’ matters….

We Indians are very family minded. The whole world knows that. We love our families. Karan Johar told us to. And made a fortune based on that sweet and simple emotion. Others have also realized the value of family ties in the lives of desis. They too want to make a fortune out of them. What’s wrong with that? The Great Indian Family represents many things to many people. Understanding how it works is the key to prospering in this great and good land of ours. Whether we are selling movies to the masses or helicopters to the armed forces, it is important to keep ‘The Family’ happy. In Asian societies, it’s a little tricky, though. Where does ‘The Family’ begin and end? Does it include the in-laws?  Does the ‘Damaadji’ count as family?Foreigners dealing with our complex family maze don’t always get it. That makes it easier for us. We can fool them aaram se, by talking about our complicated joint family system and the power of mighty ‘parivaar’ that dominates our society. Where does the joint family stop? Don’t ask. For those who cannot figure it out, we must be considerate and show them a few family soaps on television. Those are an education in themselves. With a cast of hundreds,everybody is related to everybody else.And everybody is out to get everybody else. If we need to access the head of the clan, we have to negotiate our way past dozens of middle men. Each step requires secrecy and skill.And lots of spare cash. There are tacticians for hire, who can point in the right direction, provided they are given a baksheesh for their efforts. The head of the family can be the Tauji or Badi Maaji. These days, it’s generally the all-powerful Daadisa who rules with an iron hand. She is also referred to simply as ‘Madam’ by underlings. Going straight to ‘Madam’ is next to impossible. But there are ways. Madam prefers to leave complicated decisions to her trusted few. These include smart, sharp in-laws, who can be in residence within the sprawling family bungalow or staying overseas. And that’s when the plot gets interesting.

‘The Family’ in India holds a position of enormous privilege and power. In fact, so potent is its position, that rivals refuse to name family members when a scandal breaks out. Actually, this suits everyone splendidly. Indians are used to covering up for the many sins of family members. Elders point out it is this marvelous trait that has kept us together for centuries. They scoff at the way the West deals with the issue.  Family has little meaning there, except in Italy, where, like in India, ‘The Family’ rules. In fact, the similarities between India and Italy on the domestic front are incredible indeed. Which is precisely what makes it easy for us to interact with Italians and understand family dynamics there. Mere pass Mamma Mia hai, is the way it works. Like us, they also support worthless family members, emotionally, financially, legally. They cover up for the naughty ones who break rules and get caught. They reward those who also break rules but succeed. There is an unwritten code of  honour in both countries. Outsiders are expected to respect that and keep mum. Anybody who challenges ‘The Family’ has to pay the price for the betrayal. This is what protects ‘The Family’. And seals mouths. Enemies who threaten to break up families are dealt with firmly and permanently. A deal is a deal. Whether it involves ten bucks or 3000 crores. We are so lucky, here in India, and there in Italy. We know in our hearts and minds that so long as we protect ‘The Family’ we are protected. The minute ‘The Family’ goes, so many heads start to roll. This can lead to anarchy, chaos, instability, insecurity, confusion. People can feel let down and demoralized, particularly those who have stuck to ‘The Family’ through thick and thin and supported rogue relatives during turbulent times. Funny, how crises can lead to long term change. We are at that crossroad right now. The biggest dilemma facing us is what to do with ‘The Family’? Will we be reckless enough to go after the greedy ones who have received hefty kickbacks over the years and are sitting on piles of slush funds? Will it be seen as a witch hunt? Will the designated heir suffer for the sins of others? Can we afford to abandon those we love and worship? If that happens, as Gabbar Singh would ask, ‘ Phir hamara kya hoga,Kaliya?

Being a 'Mahila'...

Do I see the third generation athlete in the family??? Anasuya Devi on her sport's day ...

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                Being a ‘mahila’…

Let’s start with being a ‘mahila’ at the two Mumbai airports first. Domestic and International.For some entirely illogical reason,there are separate lines for women at the security gates, and trust me, they are often longer than the several lanes reserved for men. This arrangement is obviously based on an assumption that far fewer women than men travel by air. And that one queue reserved exclusively for women, ought to facilitate easy movement for all passengers. Clearly , the mighty authorities have forgotten to remove their puraana  blinkers . Hello? Wake up! Have you not noticed the number of women on the move these days? Try taking any morning flight out of  Mumbai and you’ll see a serpentine line of long suffering mahilas, often with babies in their arms, waiting to clear the bottleneck without actually collapsing. Picture their plight : One newborn in their arms ( after a maiike trip to deliver the baby), another toddler  tugging the mother’s dupatta, not to forget a stroller brimming over with nappies, bottles, toys and other baby stuff, along with a back pack with more bachcha paraphernalia, plus a laptop bag. Also, waiting impatiently in the same endless line are our fierce corporate women dressed in no nonsense business suits and high heels. They are all set to rush to a meeting straight from the airport and rush right back at night. The queue has stayed frozen for over fifteen minutes. The conveyor belt leading to the x-ray machine is clogged with gigantic handbags ( look… women need their stuff, okay?). The person manning the machine is taking a chai break. The female cops in the screening area are taking their gossip break. Meanwhile, there are several babies screaming in one voice. All the men who had checked in at exactly the same time, have  finished negotiating their far shorter and rapidly moving lines , and are striding off to grab a coffee before boarding the aircraft. But we are still stuck in the blessed queue waiting for bodies to budge from the exact same spot .

 Is this fair? We don’t need those special made-for-mahilas concessions in such a scenario.Thank you, Finance Minister, we really don't need banks for women... .W e need more loos! We are good with regular mixed queues that actually move efficiently. That’s how it works all over the world. One queue fits all. Except in the Middle East. This is how it should be at our airports , too. If  jostle we must, let’s do it in a more equal way. I have watched foreign ladies shaking their heads in disbelief when they have been firmly told to go stand at the back of the line meant for women after they have waited for half an hour and made it to the front of   the men’s section. If these separate queues are designed to protect our modesty, it’s a sweet but essentially silly attempt. I get shoved around far more by aggressive women in a tearing hurry to rush past everybody else, than those poor guys behaving themselves in the other lines would ever dream of doing.  The clumsy  manner in which this system is working at present, makes zero sense. And amounts to reverse discrimination. Plus, we are at the receiving end of pretty rude stares and comments from men who mistakenly think we are in some amazingly advantageous situation. Relax, guys. Try crashing that line and find out for yourselves.

During peak hours ( and these days, every hour qualifies as ‘peak’), a harried airline staffer generally shows up out of nowhere and requests some of the women to go ahead and place their bags on the ‘other’ belt. Women push past one another to the freshly formed, shorter queue. Guess what? This is a totally dumb plan, because even if the bags slide smoothly through the x-ray machine, you still have to go back to the ‘mahila’ queue for the body search! There has to be a sensible way out of this annoying rigmarole. Why not more screening booths for women? And two or three x-ray machines instead of one? If discriminate we must, let’s do it intelligently. More and more women are travelling by air these days. Female traffic at airports is bound to double and treble in the coming years. Let’s factor that in and increase those wretched lanes to accommodate  additional numbers, or else us ‘mahilas’ will be left holding the baby… as usual.

Go on, David.... maafi maango, yaar!

Nostalgic! Summer of 2012.Athens! Am ready to go back!!!
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This appeared in Asian Age /Deccan Chronicle....

                          Go on, David…. maafi maango!

Gawd! Will this farce never end? What’s with this apology mania? First the dishy David Cameron, Prime Minister of Great Britain ( simply ‘David’ to Mukesh Ambani, the richest man in India) nearly apologises for a tragic incident that took place before even his own father was born. Then Sushil Kumar Shinde decides to actually say sorry for his saffron terror remark. This is such rubbish, really. And we must identify rubbish for what it is. Let’s not endorse these meaningless half-apologies, regrets, full blown apologies, transparently fake ‘sorry-s’, and other equally annoying attempts at covering up deep, old wounds with flimsy band aids. There is that old saying about not scratching scabs and making old cuts bleed again. Scars are scars. That the skin has come together over them and dried up the wound, means the healing process is over. It is time to move on.

The rather nasty aspect of the latest public expressions of  remorse is the essentially manipulative nature of the act. David Cameron was “expected” to apologise.Two days prior to Cameron’s scheduled trip to the site of the Jallianwalla Bagh massacre of 1919 where 1,000 innocents (official figure) were killed, I received calls from a few  British presswallas.. Those Brit blokes wanted to know whether Indians were expecting an apology. And if Cameron did indeed apologise ( which, of course, he didn’t), would we feel a little better? I found the questions ridiculous. Better? About what? A dashing young Prime Minister came a-calling, heading a trade delegation (“The largest ever…” he bragged), clearly looking for juicy contracts  in India. He shrewdly chose to visit Amritsar and then the  Memorial, obviously with an eye on the substantial Sikh vote back home. And we are supposed to feel …. what? Grateful? Overwhelmed? Come on. Was Cameron trying to make up for the batty,old Duke of Edinburgh’s crass, insensitive remarks  when he’d stared at the plaque at Jallianwalla Bagh and  said he thought the “numbers were vastly exaggerated”? Did Gen. Dwyer ghost whisper that into the Duke’s ear? Would it have been okay to gun down 500 natives, but not okay if the number doubled? The Queen had discreetly skirted around this particular landmine and declared it a ‘distressing example’ (of what?), adding for good measure that ‘history cannot be rewritten’. So it can’t, guys! Can you not get it? Sure, Winston Churchill described the horrific episode as ‘monstrous’. But that was then. And there it should have stayed. Now, chances are we shall spend weeks and weeks deconstructing Cameron’s words (“ a deeply shameful act”) and actions (no jootas, head bowed), perhaps reading much more into his brief visit than was ever intended. Clearly, Cameron’s minders are more aware of local sentiments than the ones who used to advise his predecessors. Note how everybody applauded Cameron’s sensitivity to local customs when he removed his shoes and bowed respectfully in front of the Memorial. That was a good move, we all agreed. But why are we so impressed by common courtesy? Do we not observe tradition when in Rome , visiting the Vatican? Or attending a church ceremony in England? If we can remember to cover our heads and keep our shoes on, surely Cameron and others can follow our rules without all of us keeling over and dying? But that’s how we are. Especially when it comes to Goras going native.

It’s too early to say what exactly Cameron’s visit will yield in concrete terms. Yes, The Mummy is visiting our shores. And the Museum in Mumbai is filled with eager school kids who believe they are at a promo event for the movie, ‘The Mummy Returns’. And no – the Kohinoor  stays where it is. Boo to you, you over reaching idiots! Other lucrative deals will have to wait for a bit, till we sort out our own mess with Choppers from Italy brokered by a British agent. Even so, Cameron’s flying 3-day visit is being hailed as ‘significant’. And every sentence he has uttered while in India is being scrutinised for hidden meanings and signs. When Cameron  chose Mumbai  over Delhi as his point of entry, it was promptly  notched as a plug for capitalism and big bucks. If Cameron mentioned (well-timed pauses and all), that he had decided to make India his first stop, glances were immediately exchanged between corporate honchos, who nodded approvingly (“ take that, you Chinese entrepreneurs. Cameron prefers us!”). Unfortunately, Indians have still to shake off the rather pathetic colonial hangover, no matter how deeply embarrassing it is. Cameron’s ‘approval’ matters to us. We refuse to see his visit for what it is in reality  - a shopping trip. A trunk show. Cameron was here to sell British wares. Conclude mega deals. Woo India. That’s it. Because Cameron needs us to save him back home. He needs those desi votes to hang on to power… to consolidate his position and to wow the locals . The moment of truth will be upon him soon enough. Sushil Kumar Shinde’s story  is similar. Both men have taken the same route – I am very , very sorry….” sang  our Shinde. “I regret…” declared Cameron. It’s  ‘Kissa Kursi Ka’  time all over again.

Someone forgot to remind these men, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Thank you Erich Segal.

Because I love Rumi....

I feel so privileged tonight , after spending an elegant and refined evening listening to Rumi's poetry and having an erudite gentleman discuss the finer, deeper nuances of each verse and image. Nawab Mir Jaffar Imam has spent most of his 72 years imbibing the essence of Rumi.... in Persian. He has translated a great deal of Rumi's 60,000 plus poems into Urdu , and English. After a traditional high tea, we settled down on a terrace, and surrendered to the Nawab saab's voice and words...

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This appeared in Mumbai Mirror

                       Mein  Chhup Rahoongi….

“ Raise your words, not voice…

It is rain that grows flowers,not thunder.”

                                           -  Rumi

Next week,  we have been invited to what promises to be a divine evening dedicated to Rumi. The timing couldn’t   be better. Raised voices are drowning out civilised conversation and intelligent discourse.Everybody is yelling and shouting these days. Not just Mamata. I grew up in a household that featured six highly opinionated family members ( sigh! It’s in the genes… what to do?). Our daily dramas were , how do I put it – rather animated and very vocal. Laryngitis became  a constant condition. Which wasn’t such a bad thing. Alas, I was forced to modulate my voice when it started to do the disappearing act a bit too frequently. The ENT surgeon I finally consulted, told me my condition was caused by voice abuse, which in turn had created nasty little nodules on my vocal chords.  This was serious.  Suddenly, the decibel levels got automatically reduced. I discovered the beauty and power of silence. This happened years ago. But it was an important turning point. These days, I rarely raise my voice even though there are innumerable times when I’m tempted to do just that. But I can’t! My vocal chords protest too much.

With International Women’s Day next month, there will be the usual seminars and workshops.  And giddy, boozed up events for women, by women, of women. Most of these sham , self- conscious gatherings generate nothing more than  a temporary feel good emotion that rapidly wears off  the moment wine levels correct themselves. After the brief euphoric  high , for a lot of enthusiastic participants, it’s back to keeping mum. Shutting up. And putting up. Personally speaking, years of  anguish, angst and annoyance later, I am at a stage when I am asking whether shutting up is such a terrible option. I think not – and kill me for saying this. Strident, shrill female voices are as off putting as body odour. There is too much body odour around these days. I think of a woman like Aruna Roy and marvel at her gift – Aruna is one of the most soft spoken activists in India. She doesn’t need to raise her voice – her message gets through loud and clear regardless. Aung San Su Kyi showed the way decades ago.Then  I think of one of my girl friends – a happier wife and mother would be hard to find. She declares proudly that she is a homemaker by choice. When she speaks, her voice smiles. It’s her grand mother’s training she says. As a young girl, she was told by her naani to practice just one thing for a contented, stable domestic life : during an argument,  keep quiet, listen keenly, stay calm and smile. Once the other person’s anger subsides, open your mouth and say what you need to. My friend follows the advice scrupulously. I also remember Chef Anando’s experiences in Thailand, when he stayed with local families and mastered Thai cuisine. He told me, the one thing he learned during that period was to speak softly at all times.He said the Thais never yell out to anybody (not even a child. They prefer to go up to the person and address him/ her with respect and humility. Anyone who has interacted with the popular Chef , will confirm this – Anando  runs his kitchens fabulously well without ever  hollering at minions.

And I think of my mother, yet again. She was an outspoken lady, alright. And unambiguously feisty. As was my grand mother. You really didn’t want to mess with these ladies. My father used to say, “ Aie chha raag tichya naakavar.” That’s pretty hard to translate, but broadly speaking it refers to a short fuse. Despite that trait, I don’t recall any major blow outs at home that brought neighbours into their balconies . There was dignity and restraint in her anger. Anger provides a much needed safety valve. Especially for women. It’s how one expresses anger that separates the girls from the women. You can keep the thunder.

 I want to be the rain that grows flowers… not quite there, yet. But trying…

Which David do you prefer???

Both Davids were shot by Arundhati. One , in Florence a few months ago. The other, in Mumbai last night. You pick your favourite David!

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This appeared in Sunday Times...

                          Silvio Berlusconi must be an Indian…

In India, we believe in past lives. Our television industry relies heavily on that belief. In fact, if  a canny businessperson from the organized sector actually got a business plan in place, cashing in on the past life theory could make him/her a billionaire. Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s ex-P.M. must have been an Indian in several previous avatars. Matter of fact, he sounds alarmingly like an Indian even in the present one. Perhaps, there is a dominant Indian gene in his  DNA? It is entirely possible. When he declared ,  “Bribes are necessary,”  a chorus of approval was heard across political classes in India. Netas of any and every hue rejoiced at the audacious comment, and probably kicked themselves for not having had the  errr… testicles… to beat the billionaire three -time P.M. to the delicious quote. The irrepressible Silvio  brazenly said what we in India accept wholeheartedly. Bribery has been a way of life here for as long as we can remember. It is the great equalizer, and undoubtedly Asish Nandy has a unique perspective on the subject. Indians bribe. It’s a given. Indians do not think before bribing. Indians are convinced there is no alternative to bribing. ‘Chai –Paani’ does not refer to “Tea-Water” as every Indian child knows. Talking of children , we bribe our own kids… we bribe teachers to get them into good schools… and later, we bribe employers to get those kids a job. Kids watch mothers bribing the gaswallah for an out of turn cylinder.  They watch fathers ‘pataoing’ traffic havaldaars after breaking a light. Even grand parents aren’t spared as they offer  a few hundred bucks to the clerk releasing their well earned pension. We have embraced bribery and corruption unconditionally. Indians  believe it is impossible to do business in the country without greasing palms. Chhota ya bada – it doesn’t matter. Even the illiterate migrant looking for work in the big , bad city arrives with a potli filled with whatever little cash he possesses. He knows he will have to pay a cut to the labour contractor who will hire him .The nasty truth is that bribery is not considered a moral issue any more. It is seen as a survival tool.

Berlusconi is bang on when he states, “ Bribes are a phenomenon that exist. It’s useless to deny the existence of these situations. These are not crimes.” Hear! Hear! He also mentions that if one lets such trivial issues (“ moralisms”) get in the way, one cannot become an entrepreneur  “ on a global scale.”  Our chaps have known that all along – from the biggest to the smallest. For them, Berlusconi’s words may sound like nursery rhymes – a bit too obvious. For the Big Boys of  India’s mighty business empires, keeping aside money for  “corrupt activity”  (as was done by Italy’s State-controlled Agusta-Westland, for the chopper deal) is just another requirement, especially when the stakes are this high (3,600 crores). Giving  middlemen ( former Air Chief S.P.Tyagi’s cousins) a piddly Rs.72 lakhs in cash, is not worth wasting a sneeze on. As for the silly nexus between the Air Chief and the Tyagi brothers, why, come on, let’s listen to the former Defence Minister Jaswant Singh as he pooh poohs the coincidence, helpfully adding,“ My first cousin was a smuggler. Does that make me a smuggler?” Sir, we are not saying that – you are!

So, here we are with yet another messy scandal involving a former Air Chief. It’s a pretty foul story and no matter what the main players say, the stink cannot be passed off for anything but a stink. Grazia, Silvio Berlusconi, for the clarity of  your thinking. And for pointing out to the rest of the world that the hefty bribe was necessary because “ those are the rules in that country.” So they are. As Bofors’ middleman, the notorious Ottavio Quattrocchi  before him had  figured way back in ‘80’s and ‘90’s. So much water has flown down the Ganga and the Arno. And we are still playing holier than thou. Let’s drop the charade, pronto! And hail Berlusconi as our hero. He sounds as desi as homemade ghee.  In a clumsy attempt to brush the scandal away, Jaswant Singh has jauntily accused the Italian Government of  being the “ Gold  Medal winners in corruption.” What does that make the Indian Government?  Platinum World Champions in the corruption stakes?

Letter from the gallows....

That's Arundhati, shot by me as we sailed into the historic port of Dubrovnik, Croatia..

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This appeared in The Week....

                       Letter from the gallows….

Since I am not Omar Abdullah, I don’t have to be politically correct, incorrect, or even political. The case of Afzal Guru’s hanging is far too complex for any and everybody to jump in with an opinion. But, as a woman, wife and mother , I was deeply concerned about  Tabassum ( Afzal’s wife ) who received what would be the last communication ( the rejection of his mercy petition)  about her husband at 10. 20 am , hours after her husband was hanged. The letter was delivered to her home in Sopara by John Samuel, the Post Master General of Jammu & Kashmir Circle. Afzal’s hanging (code named Operation 3 Star ), was conducted on a Saturday. Afzal, the condemned- to- die prisoner, wrote a farewell letter to his wife and son (Ghalib) on Friday night, after he was told he would be hanged the next morning. The letter ( written in Urdu) was posted to the woman who went from being a wife to widow without even knowing when or how or why it happened. This action by the  authorites has been described as ‘inhuman’, with arguments that say Afzal’s family members should have been allowed  a final meeting. The State insists all procedures were adhered to as per the rule book (“ Secrecy necessary or the State cannot execute”). So be it. It’s a done deal now. What’s the point of quoting from rule books and jail manuals. The man has been hanged. Afzal Guru is dead.

 But Tabassum is alive.Unauthorised and unauthenticated leaks about the contents of this important letter  suggest Afzal wrote his aakhri khat  most thoughtfully. Apparently, he advised his wife to remain calm and dignified, to hold her head high and raise their son with the special responsibility her position demands. There is a great deal of poignancy in those words. Afzal must surely have known the historic value of that final letter. And I ask myself, how does anybody frame such a letter knowing it will inevitably be in the public domain now and forever? What about the emotions of the writer who is composing the text, not just for a beloved to whom he is bidding goodbye….but for the prying eyes of the world? For posterity? Imagine the inconceivable tragedy of that moment : A man knows the gallows await him at dawn. He has but a few short hours left in this world. He is asked if he has any final wishes – something he’d like to eat, maybe? A favourite dish ( I find this the most absurd of all the procedures listed in jail manuals). Which human being can think of food at such a time? Not even a glutton. Well, the ironies continue to pile up… the condemned man is offered treats as he prepares to die. Afzal asks for a paper and pen, instead. The world shall never ever know what went through his mind as the countdown began. Most prisoners turn to prayer.  Afzal also turned to his wife…

And what of her emotional state when she received a letter from beyond the grave? Did she tear it open? Push it away? Did her tears prevent her from reading it? Perhaps, she felt cheated and angry ?Maybe her rage at what had happened superseded every other feeling? Did she collapse? Faint? Stop eating? Weep uncontrollably? Hug her loved ones? Lock herself into a room ? Block out the pain somehow? Go into denial? Spent  quiet time with her son? Mourn in the privacy that only the dark offers? Seek solace in the scriptures? Contemplate her bleak future? Remind herself that the inquisitive eyes of the watching world would be boring holes into her during her hour of grief? And  that she was duty bound to honour the memory of her dead husband by not breaking down in public? I have tried to put myself in Tabassum’s place and ask what I would have done. It is a useless, meaningless, exercise. There are no answers. No rules. No manuals. In any case,how many women in the world have been  in Tabassum’s extraordinary position and been informed about their husband’s hanging… that too, 50 hours after it has taken place? Was Tabassum mentally prepared for such an eventuality? Can any wife be ‘prepared’ for her husband’s death?

What happens to Tabassum and Ghalib now that Afzal Guru is dead? Philosophers will say they will eventually move on… life will go on… as it must. Tabassum and Ghalib will become footnotes in history, regardless of any fresh development in their lives. Soon , the world will forget. And the name of Afzal Guru may cease to interest even those who are trying hard to keep it alive right now. By this time next year, most people will ask, “ Tabassum? Who’s she?”

Life is indeed fragile, uncertain and precious. Cruel, too.

Meet my Valentine...

Anasuya Devi is all set for Valentine's Day, appropriately dressed in red, and clutching her favourite doll.
As for me, I am stuck in Mumbai. My Pakistani visa was issued much too late for me to make the PIA flight! This is such a shame... I was all set to participate in the Karachi Lit Fest. I had two major sessions lined up, plus, a press conference. I am not sure why Gulzar Saab hastily returned after a few hours spent in Lahore. But my decision was taken independently. I had no choice! Inshallah, I'll be invited next year. And hopefully by then the relations between the two countries will have improved sufficiently not to have problems of the visa kind! I was going there as a writer, not a politician! Khair... at the moment, things are super sensitive and touchy. No point escalating matters. I want to post the sweet and touching responses from Karachi. These were sent by the organisers when they realised I couldn't make it.
 On Valentine's Day, my heart is a little broken...