Discovery Channel will showcase a documentary on Mumbai 26/11 on Thursday to mark the first anniversary of the brutal killings and the “hi-tech cat-and-mouse game” as the docu called it. While, of course, the docu is a very moving story that takes one back to that horrific time when Mumbai was held hostage, what I also found captivating was a young man’s confession who was, at the time, caught in the midst of all the horror and saw it unfold in front of his own eyes. “My life became a slide show in those split seconds and I realized that I hadn’t done so many things…. I hadn’t played pool… I wanted to learn the guitar,” he said and then made a last ditch effort to save himself.
He did save himself.
Amit Peshave, the restaurant manager at the Taj, Mumbai, is shown playing the pool in the last segment of Surviving Mumbai, the docu which will be shown on Discovery on November 26, 2009 at 8 pm. It’s one of the most endearing images, one that essentially shows how important the simplest things in life are, especially at a time when you’re dangling by that weak thread between life and death.
And I’m sure, many of us, without feeling the fear of death, can relate with that feeling too. On a personal — and a completely different — note, call it mid-life crisis, call it completion of 10 years of writing but I’ve now started feeling lethargic, out-of-sorts and completely withered in the office arena. Strangely enough, it’s a battle in my own head, one that I’m fighting every single minute. And, perhaps, that explains why I end up asking a good – and a very valuable — question to myself: “What is it that I really want?”
Theatre? Yes. Music? Yes. Working with kids in schools and NGOs? Yes. Working towards a completely new venture? Yes.
So, what stops me?
Risk.
But, if it wasn’t for risk, Alex Chamberlain, a guest at Mumbai’s Oberoi hotel, another place which witnessed the bloody siege, would’ve been a dead man. “I saw a door knob and I decided to escape even though there was a terrorist right in front of me. I didn’t know what lay ahead but I had to disengage myself from the rest of the group.” He tried convincing others – without much success – and managed to escape, and survived to tell his tale, along with another survivor who went along with him.
Why, Peshave too wanted to survive – “not at the cost of my guests but yes, at one point, I thought, I really should escape”. What’s more, the need to survive became so clear to him – “I had wanted to do a lot in life and I wanted a chance to live my dreams.” Like Peshave, Anjali Pullock, along with her husband, who was caught in the hostage drama confesses to thinking: “My life has never been exciting…. and I’ll just die.” Today, she holds her husband’s hands and takes the walk in the park: something that the couple was, perhaps, too busy to do otherwise.
Seyfi, another 26/11 survivor, in fact, takes his wife’s shriveling hands in his and says, “It’s a miracle to survive along with your spouse.” Today, the couple, who are, by their own admission, “madly in love anyway” don’t think twice before travelling to other destinations, helping each other in the kitchen and going for long walks and singing and dancing together whenever they get a chance.
There are two things that are common between all these individuals; tremendous luck factor peppered with that uncanny knack of taking that risk just when it was completely unexpected.
On the face of it, they’re doing nothing different — learning to play the guitar, going for a round of pool, sipping coffee at a nearby Barista, taking leisurely walks in the neighbourhood park, playing Scrabble with the spouse, going on weekend breaks. It’s no big deal, really, we might think.
But guess what? They took that one risk and survived to tell their stories. If they hadn’t there would be no Scrabble, no long walks, no dancing, no guitar, no music. Simple? Not quite, no?

A credible answer to this question can be given by only Mr Tata himself. I doubt if he will bother doing it. Well, he doesn’t have to.

But that should not stop us from making some guesses (intelligent or otherwise). This is not the first time Tata has played such an innocent mischief on the Indian media. In March 2003, in an interview to the Financial Times (in the UK) Tata made public his wish to build a Rs 100,000 car, which six years later became the world famous Tata Nano.  Now his retirement plans including the possibility of an expat successor has been handed over on a silver platter to WSJ.

Such a generalisation would be a dangerous habit. But for someone who commands a $71 billion business empire, with 65 per cent of the turnover coming from outside India, it is only a fail-safe approach to trust a reputed foreign media brand to take some sensitive news to the public and more so to investors. I am not naive to believe that Tata was talking to the Indian public when he gave the interview to WSJ. I think he was specifically talking to the investing community worldwide. He was telling investors from New York to Shanghai (and probably Mumbai on the way) that the Tata Group is a truly global company now and is ready to join the league of General Motors (bad example today, yet), Microsofts, Intels and Wal-Marts of the world. The heads of these companies are chosen without looking at their place of birth place, their skin color or gender.

Television channels and newspaper reports claim that Madhu Koda (former chief minister of Jharkhand) has embezzled Rs 4,000 crore. Recent reports point out that transactions worth Rs 650 crore, a small portion of the money, took place in the Union Bank of India.

I am always bewildered by these numbers. How does one carry this amount to a bank or give it to someone? Even if they are all Rs 1,000 notes, that means 65,000 bundles – one would need at least a van or a tempo (small-sized truck) to carry it. Sure, it could have been done in tranches, but still.

So where did this cash come from? Better still, do people really keep Rs 1,000 crore in their houses or say in ‘godams’ (in hindi movies, especially in villages the zamindar has godams where he hoards all the food grains)?

And when needed he hires a tempo, loads all this cash, gives it to a politician or crook, who in turn, carries it to a bank (in the same or another tempo) and deposits it.

How long does it take the bank teller or the note counting machine to count it? To count even Rs 50-60 crores, it should take at least a few hours, as a single bundle is only Rs 1 lakh.

In smaller cities, branches may have to be closed because of the size of transaction.

Forgive my lack of experience. Being a middle-class person, the only time I have seen suitcases of cash is in the movies.

But it would be rather interesting to know how people hoard cash, carry it around, protect it from rodents (besides the law, of course) – what if one bundle is eaten by a rat (Imagine this sentence: Money hoarder: “chuha mere godam mein ek crore kha gaya or chuhon ne note kutar diye”)

And what happens to this money, once it has been captured. Ok, some part of it would go as awards to policemen or CBI officials. What happens to the rest? – Is black money a state subject or centre?

Questions, questions, questions… And I have no answers.

I hope Mr. J Murugavel, the founder of Bharatmatrimony.com reads this. (In case you are wondering, yes, it is the same company whose ads show incredibly good looking dreamy young people who apparently will settle for nothing less than good-old arranged marriage)

On the long way back from a press conference on the outskirts of the city, a journalist colleague of mine declared that female journalists are not ‘marriage material’.

“Let’s face it,” she said. “We can’t take the mother-in-law for shopping when she feels like it, can’t help out with the home loan with our salaries or worse, come home before midnight! The only category lower than us in the ‘prospective marriage market’ are chain smokers and females with two heads!”

“Make that three” said another member of our group dryly. She would know better. Despite standing reasonably tall at 5′5, with all her fingers and toes intact, having a lovely smile and a pleasant personality, my friend is yet to hear from a single “groom party”.  She touched the ripe marriageable age of 26 last year and her parents have spent the better half of this year frantically searching for a ’suitable match’ for her with no luck.

On the outside, the girl would make for a very attractive matrimonial ad. 27/f/Bangalore, very fair (killer of a quality isn’t it? :p), attractive, loves to cook and watches movies in her spare time, no siblings and parents are retired government officials. However, one line in her ad would shake things up. ‘Reporter in a newspaper, flexible timings’.

So, when prospective grooms from self-professed modern families knock at her door, the first thing they want to know is when she will be home. Of course they may not ask it that way. Here’s one gem of a question my friend got to hear from a prospective groom’s mother.

“Beti, I have heard that you make very good tea. So will I be able to have a cup of your famous tea at my tea time at 6pm??!!!”

Or this one from a guy who came to see her.

“Can you collect all your news before 5.30 pm? Actually it gets very dark in our area after 6..” Thanks for the heads-up, dude. We really appreciate you telling us in advance how sun-deprieved your area is.

“But your dad says your job timings are flexible..so can’t you work from home?” was another landmark suggestion thrown at her. Yeah sure why not, let’s all work from home and send the family dog to go collect information for stories and deploy pigeons to make news pages.

You see, the list goes on. Girls who were able to tag a fellow in their school/college/office etc are the smart ones ( Go on, gloat!). For the rest, I hope Mr. Murugavel of Bharatmatrimony.com comes up with something like a journalistmatrimony.com exclusively for journalists.

So instead of the option- “your skin colour” with options like Very fair, fair, wheatish, dark and very dark (lol seriously they do exist in most marriage portals), maybe we could have something like how many stories do you file in a week or how many pages do you make in a day! Maybe it could have an option of what beats do you cover or even how many cups of tea do you drink in a day! Options that would not require a furious use of fair and lovely!

The newspaper business is not easy to understand. Most people think the stork drops it on their door every morning and curse it for not coming by on the day after a national holiday. Perhaps it is not easy living with a person whose profession tends to consume most of his/her time. But that is not to say journalists make bad life partners.

We’ll be there for you if you need a lift at 2 am, we would probably know all the best places to eat and life will never have a single dull moment with us around. We might even consider waking up before 11 am if it’s really important to you.

Just one request.

Do NOT ask us when we’ll be home!

Reproduced below are excerpts from a 48-page report of the Competition Commission of Pakistan on the sugar shortage currently on in Pakistan. The CCP was asked by the Supreme Court to file a report. Who/what does this reminds you of? One guess:

• As will be revealed later in this Report, the Government of Punjab admitted during the hearings held by the Commission that no professional exercise was done to arrive at the cost of production-related data while fixing the “support price”. 
• Punjab government’s crackdown adversely affected the supply-chain — trucks belonging to the USC were stopped from carrying sugar across provincial lines as well. 
• This crisis of non-availability was precipitated, in particular, by the actions of the Government of the Punjab in August 2009 when it sealed the sugar mills and seized the stocks lying with the mills. This contributed in a most direct manner to interference with the normal demand-supply linkages of the sugar market. The panic on the part of the provincial governments disturbed these linkages to the detriment of all stakeholders, especially those on the supply-side such as sugar mills, dealers and retailers. 
• It is the Commission’s considered view that the present crisis did not arise because of a price hike but more so because of mismanagement on the part of the Federal and particularly the provincial governments. The crisis actually began when the Punjab government panicked at the rising sugar prices in August and sealed sugar mills while seizing the stocks lying with them.

As they say in Hindi “ham sab ek hain” (we’re all the same) 

With grateful thanks to fiverupees.com  

Much before Manchester United took giant strides into my life, the only sporting passion I had was Sachin Tendulkar . Watching Sachin Tendulkar bat was the only thing that got me going. The mood fluctuated accordingly on how Sachin had performed on the field.

At my local colony ground, me and my friends tried to imitate the strokes which Sachin used to play and I am sure that’s something people growing up in the Tendulkar era also did. And I am very sure that kids even now would rather imitate his strokes than those of MS Dhoni.

As any kid growing up in India, I was always fascinated by cricket from my early years. As a six year old, I had the privilege of watching the only ODI century Sunil Gavaskar has scored and the first ever hat-trick in a World Cup, which Chetan Sharma took. Both these distinictions happened in the same match, my first ever experience in a live stadium. And the memories are still fresh as a daisy.

But this is not about my cricket watching expereinces. It’s about a man who has rewritten history books and changed the way cricket was watched, played, broadcast in this country and who certainly changed me as a cricket fan.

As the clock ticks by, I know that the moments which have made me happy over the last two decades are now scarce commodities. Each century will be treasured more. There will be elation but mixed with a tinge of sadness. Sachin might look unbeatable but it’s impossible to beat Father Time.

Much before Abdul Qadir was smashed out of the park by a 16 year old-kid and the legend was born, Indians had two favourite cricketers. Sunil Gavaskar and Kapil Dev.

The aspiring bowlers wanted to be Kapil, while aspiring batsmen used to ape the forward defensive stroke perfected by Gavaskar. Then the autumn 1989 saw a curly haired boy with the thinnest of voices and a demeanour which suggested as Denzel Washington said in Remember the Titans, “This is my sanctuary”, the Indians found a new hero.

Even before Sanjay Manjrekar scored a determined 218 against Pakistan, all eyes were fixed on how this boy would do. Poor Manjrekar, didn’t get too much credit for scoring loads of runs against an attack comprising Wasim Akram and Imran Khan, who were at their peak then. As if there was a force telling us “wait till you see the boy bat”.

As the legend grew, so did the madness.  Apart from driving bowlers and captains all over the world insane, the people of India were growing crazy over a 20-something boy.

My first ever experience of watching Sachin in flesh came six years after he had made his debut. My father took me and my brother 400 kms away to Nagpur to see India play New Zealand. I knew the only thing I wanted was a century. After all these years of watching him on TV, this was my chance to see him bat. India were smashed to bits and pieces by Nathan Astle in that game. Back in those days a score of 348 was unheard of. But New Zealand did that. Had the crowd given up?

No way! We cheered on and remained confident of beating the score. We knew with Sachin on the field, anything was possible. And Sachin didn’t disappoint. Although India lost the match, I got a glimpse of things to come in the future. A 60-ball 65 studded with a towering six and some trademark boundaries, we went home happy. It was the day when I probably realised, India winning was secondary to me. I was happy to see Sachin bat and the result was almost secondary.

Perhaps that’s why my indifference to cricket these days doesn’t come as a surprise. Though other factors have contributed to cricket falling down in the pecking order, Sachin still manages to get me in front of the TV. The day he hangs up his boots would be the day all ties with cricket would be severed. You can lose faith in the religion and still have it back. But once the man who started that religion walks away, it’s almost impossible to find a way back.

Late one night in early September this year, a young relative of mine drove to the Delhi international airport to pick up his girlfriend, who was arriving from a Western land. She had threatened him with consequences if he met her without a bouquet of flowers in his hands and sweet words on his lips.

Having forgetfully failed to fortify himself with the flowers during the day, the young swain was nervously inventing excuses as he drove towards the airport.

Right outside the airport entry, he was therefore delighted to see an illuminated flower stall. Equipped with a suitable bouquet he turned onto the airport entry road, where a queue of cars waited to pass the police dogleg. The officer at the barrier was putting his head into the passenger window of every car.

Came the young relative’s turn at the naka, and the officer put his head in, saw the flowers on the front seat and without explanation picked them up and took them away. Asked why, the officer said only “Chalo, chalo,” and waved the young man on rudely.

With a line of impatient Delhi drivers waiting behind, the young man obeyed, unhappily.

Not 50 yards on the young relative noticed a man running after his car and gesturing. So he stopped, and the pursuer ran up to his window and asked, eagerly: “The policeman took your flowers. Do you want to buy some more?”

The answer was, of course, “No, thanks,” but as he drove to the parking lot my young relative found himself thinking:

Scam?

Delhi, the city that at most times has something for everyone — fails miserably on one count — transportation. While this issue has been oft debated, the government questioned, and many promises made, visitors and residents await a concrete backbone. To say the least, the current state of affairs is embarrassing — a national capital territory with no steady public transport network to speak of? The metro rail — however good and widespread — can never cover the entire city, and the same argument goes for the low-floor bus system.

Some will argue that both these systems will take some time to fall into place, perhaps around the start of the Commonwealth Games — but that is quite besides the point. Why has it taken this long to even get to this point? An effortless basic commute is the least a big city (forget being a globally important capital city) should be able to offer its residents and visitors. And what about those who are willing to pay a little more for an alternate transport to buses and the metro — what about cabs and autorickshaws? On any given evening, practically all cab companies report they don’t have free cars to send, and as far as hailing an auto rickshaw is concerned, oh, well, that is nothing short of a mammoth task. What kind of growth and development do we keep applauding if we cannot even get from one part of the city to another without having to struggle? It’s almost as if you are punished for not owning a car!

Autorickshaws, as we would all have experienced, are troublesome in any city — in Delhi, however, it’s a unique scenario. Not only to they demand a high price for any distance of travel, 60% of the time they flatly refuse to take you anywhere! It almost seems as if their sole destination is either to return home (and you are lucky if your own home falls on the way to theirs), or the CNG station (which on an average takes half an hour to 45 minutes in the queue to fuel up). Infact, it’s more likely that you will find jumping into a bus at peak hour easier than being able to convince an autorickshaw to take you to your destination.

Honestly, I don’t blame the autorickshaw drivers for their standoffish behaviour. Theirs has been a long time rebellion of demanding better rates on the meter which has been far from addressed in a fashion that can put this issue to rest. Instead of tackling the issue of fares head on, the transport department preoccupies itself by introducing schemes such as smart cards which in effect does nothing to solve the basic problem at hand. Officials continue to say the problem will be resolved once they introduce more autos on the road — if only it was that simple!

It’s a sight to behold. It was incomprehensible how a road that was just about fine just the previous night now had a trench cut right through the middle like we are prepared for a bombing raid by an enemy air force. It is like all of us are only waiting for the sirens to go off before jumping into the safety of the trenches.

I had heard stories of people having to jump into the trenches, first hand, from a teacher who had to do just that during the Indo-Pak war of 1971.
All the while, we only hope it will not rain heavily. But, rain gods have their way. It drizzled a little heavily. We got to see some slush, but not enough to stop us.

If a European, who lived through World War I horrors, and lived through the trench warfare woke up from the graves today and walked on the road where the office is, and voila… I am sure he would find nothing amiss. The trenches were practically of the same dimensions as they were in 1915. The difference he would find would be the concrete and glass buildings all around, and of course taller buildings.

I wonder how are the well-heeled denizens in the locality managing their lives. Do they stay cooped up or go out leaving their airconditioned cars behind and fell the petrichor (the smell of rain on dry ground) perhaps?

But, it is many a times better and definitely healthier than what I have had to see and smell… the pure sewage that flows on the very same road when it rained. I remember at the start of the career, in 1999, it was a story of the raw sewage and the story is repeated every time on the road when it rains in Bangalore… that is twice a year — during the monsoons and again during the retreating monsoons.

At night the excavators continue to hum and haw, sounding perhaps like the advancing tanks that often sent a shiver down the spine of the soldier hiding in the trenches. Now, when the trenches will be filled we may need caterpillar tracks for the vehicles knowing the skillful work done by the civic authorities.

I may also need to buy some gum boots to deal with the freshly dug earth having played with by the rain gods and the civic gods. As I walk on the road I ensure that I as at atleast 4 of my colleagues are with me as we all walk hand-in-hand. At least even if one loses his/her foot, the others can hold the person up and prevent him/her from falling onto the road which could leave looking like a person working in a paddy field.
Or, perhaps an easier option would be for me to go on a week’s vacation while the trenches are filled up, and come later to answer questions of the superiors.

The problem with this world is globalisation. Recently I travelled to London on holiday and was going to stopover at Dubai where my three-year-old neice Anika lives. Most of my London trip was spent thinking about that perfect gift I could buy for her.

I looked high and low and then some. Finally running out of time and tired of stomping through the streets of London, I zeroed in on a toy that I thought would make the perfect gift for her. I paid good money and then immediately regretted my decision.

The weight of this toy was backbreaking. And in the absence of being able to afford a cab, I had to lug this huge toy to a tube station. My only consolation I thought was the look of happiness on little Anika’s face on receiving the gift.

Alas, the wickedness of globalisation put paid to my well-laid plans. After I reached Dubai, while paying a perfunctory visit to a mall there, I saw the exact same toy displayed. There was a minor price difference but apart from that there was no difference.

This is the problem of now travelling to most parts of the developed world. The same chain stores are everywhere. And they are laid out in the same malls. The joy of shopping and bringing back memories of the countries visited is now lost for you just buy high street brands that are now everywhere.

Next time, wiser by this experience, it may be better to just not buy gifts. Or buy them locally.