Grandma letting out gas

“It is all gas and no substance”, I said to no one in particular while watching the prime time ‘panel’ discussions by experts on TV the other day. I had not reckoned my Grandma’s hearing prowess, among many other virtues; she was perched on the sofa within human earshot distance and knitting away furiously.

Grandma (G:): Putr, gas is the in thing...today’s economics is all about gas, grass and grease.

I:  Grandma, why are you always knitting? (I wanted to get away.)

G: (Even Houdini, if he were alive today, could not have got away from my determined Grandma) I will tell you; and then I will tell you about gas and grass and grease. TV bandh kar.(she ordered)

I:  “sigh”! (switching off the TV and remembering the adage “aa bhel muje mar”).

G:  Knitting has calming and stress relieving effects. Repetitive movements of knitting can create the same brain wave state as meditation known as knitation (she continued with a straight face) Knitting also improves flexibility and mobility of joints. Besides while knitting nonchalantly one is able to eavesdrop on what people around the house are saying. All this helps in old age.

I: But you are not old grandma. You don’t even have a single strand of white hair on your head, for whatever reason.

G: I know. I know...how I wish your grandpa were here. La’oreal came into our markets after he left.

I:  Oh! Grandma..did I upset you?

G:  No putr. You look so much like your grandpa when he was young...now I will tell you about gas. When we were young gas meant something else...mostly generated by older folks, especially on days following shaadis or such feasts.

I:  Grandma, no! no! no! not those sound bytes again!

G:  Listen son, I am serious now (putting on a grave countenance). Gas these days drives the economy besides vehicles, trains and planes in different forms. You see gas gives power. Using this analogy those seeking power let out gas when ever and where ever they can.

I:   Now I get the point, why Anna says Kejriwal may be seeking power.

G:  But son like “kante ko kante se nikalte hain, gas ko gas se ladna padta hain”.

I: But grandma with so much gas going around why is the government raising the price of gas?

G:  What a silly question? Don’t you understand? Higher the price more the value! So indirectly the government is increasing the price of power....in whatever form! You see grass fields were converted to gas fields and sold to those who had grease.All for power!!!!!

I: Great grandma! But Grandma are you not a aam aadmi?

G: Why do you ask putr?

I:  You understand so much and lot of others don’t. so......

G: (cutting me short..) Son, I am not a aam admi. Iam a aam aurath, who understands everything better; to perpetuate ignorance the powers that me only talk about aam aadmi and not about aam aurath.

I:  But the with sniaji and sushmaji and meeraji and didiji I and behenji and ammaji, I thought aam aurath had arrived.

G:  Son. Yes. They should have...but you see, somewhere along the way power adds the M factor and they all become Maam aurath.

Mom: (from the kitchen). Putr gas katam honewala hain...zara book karde!

This and that: sense and sensibilities II

There is a saying that “empty vessels make the most sound”...

It is the Indian way. Be it music, politics, humor, movies, a brawl, discussion (on TV and otherwise) or anything else it is loud and colourful while being less appealing to the senses and tickling the sensibilities. We see a sense for drama in all activities. The usually reticent MMS, PM of India, addresses the Nation on serious matters and says during his speech “money does not grow on trees...”. To this a CM (Modi N.) retorts “for the congress money grows on 2G and coal....” or words to that effect...both irresponsible and theatrical utterances, trivialising matters to nonsensical depths. In the rhetoric the purpose is lost intentionally and unintentionally.

But noise creation is in the gene of an Indian. His Gods revel in noise. Last evening as I returned home from office, I encountered a traffic hold up on a road which was a one way path precisely to prevent such hold ups. Vehicles were seen coming from the direction of no go. The procession of vehicles - cars, tractors et al - were accompanied by bands playing a cacophony of tunes from the latest movies. People were dancing on the roads in frenzy normally attributable to inebriation. Majestically perched on the tractor was an idol of Lord Ganesha being taken for the immersion. Who can grudge Lord Vigneswara the annual hold ups as he is instrumental in removing all vignam (obstruction) in our lives for the next year....but couldn’t we do with some less noise?

Most of us work in the extremes. If it is not a loud mouth interaction we indulge in small talk and skip the functional topics. This happens exactly in our debates and discussions aired on live TV. The discussions seem to be for the sake of discussions....but for a change last night there were two discussion which I felt were refreshing...one anchor was alternately airing an MLA from a particular National party leading a ‘Rajhdani’ rail roko agitation and irate passengers (aam adhmi?) expressing their ire. The spokesperson form that particular party was visibly embarrassed when asked “do you support this?” He of course was initially evasive but finally had to concede that the ‘the law must take its own course” in such matters! The second was by another channel about the killing of a democratically elected panchayat member in the Kashmir Valley. The panelist from the two major parties and one sympathiser from a minor party in the Valley had to admit that militancy controlled from Pakistan was still rampant in the Valley! In both cases there was something appealing to the senses rather than tickling the sensibilities.

Just sound bites will not fill the pot...we will remain hungry as long as the pot is empty...

My First Diwali at NDA

I recall my first Diwali at NDA. The year was 1969. 42^nd course had joined NDA on June 13 of that year. Diwali duly arrived in November (or thereabouts…).

My cabin (room) was on the first floor second on the right from the central landing. First on the left was that of Arun Khetarpal. My cabin was flanked by that of two Nigerian naval cadets – lanky guys with an accent.

I had not officially left the confines of NDA since joining. On Diwali day, 1969, I applied for liberty and got it. I was off to Pune after breakfast. I had some friends there; when I left, as I was to realize only later, I made the cardinal mistake (?) of leaving the venation blinds open on a Diwali day.

On my return late evening I found my cabin in a shambles. The ‘seventh heaven’ was lying outside on the floor. The kit bag corner was a mixture of burnt remains of my kit bag and contents, foam, water and much more.

As dusk fell, I was told, and crackers were being burst one errant ‘rocket’ seemed to have found its way from the out side into my kit bag through the open venation blind - a bulls eye. When fire and smoke were detected there was panic amongst the few who had gathered in front of the locked cabin. That is when the Nigerian cadets put their best foot forward. Acting in unison, I was narrated, they brought down the heaven and with one climbing on top of the other, the shorter (6’ 2” I think) of the two was inside in a jiffy. Fire equipment et al as rehearsed were passed into my cabin, and potential widespread damage was arrested.

I heard different versions of the incident and smiled. A lot of guys patted me on my back for taking all this in without a tinge of sadness. Thankfully, my bed was undamaged and I slept well that night. Next day there was an inquiry which concluded that my venation blind was faulty. I was told to give a list of all equipment / kit I had lost in the fire. Now can you ask for more than a brand new set of equipment and kit re-issued towards the end of the first term when you could, with your eyes closed, recognize all your squadron mates?

Reflections: Agitated agitation

Grandma (G) is at it again. She is whole of twenty years older than Anna and so she does not refer to Anna as Anna (elder brother) but as Gandhi thambi (younger brother (Thambi)…Gandhi because of the topi and not fasting….

G: What is this thambi up to again?

I:   Grandma don’t you know!? There are twelve senior ministers in the union cabinet against whom enough proof exists for their indictment in many scams.

G: Oh! I see. Who says so…?

I: Team Anna of course…they have collected various reports of different agencies…..

G: So, Thambi expects the government to dismiss the ministers and file an FIR against them, arrest them, allot their cases special courts to fast track the trials and send them all to Tihar jail, is it?

I:  No Grandma, Annaji is smart…he knows the reality; he just wants special investigating teams to look into the allegations…

G:  So he wants more SITs like the one assembled to look into allegations of complacency of Modi N. in Gujarat riots of 2002 eh? I hope you know we are nowhere near a resolution in that matter, in spite of Ms Teesta Setalwad and Ms Medha Patkar….

I:  But Grandma, look at the efforts of the team fasting and all that….and then support from Ramdevji…..

G:  Son, in any confrontation there are no winners…even in the Dharma Yudh in Kuruskhetra there were elements of deceit in the Pandva’s declared success in the war.

I:   Now grandma, you always come up with the epics like an old hag whenever we discuss such matters…..

G:  Son, that is not because they are Divine such as you youngsters tend to believe….it is just so that everyone seems to know the story line especially after the two magnum opuses on TV during the airtime of whose broadcast, the Nation came to a standstill….

I:  But Grandma…you have no respect for Annaji…

G:  Son, once APJ Kalam met Field Marshal Sam Bahadur Manekshaw on a flight where both were engaged in a conversation…the one piece of conversation which influenced APJ was when Sam said to APJ “Tum to abhi bacchha hain”….respect is mutual and relative…

I:  So should corruption be allowed …..

G:  when we say politics is a business, and not a social service,  it has to have an implied or designed model where inputs are processed to obtain desired outputs. Unfortunately the output ‘desired’ by the politico-business class is profits. Therefore the processes are so manipulated so as to maximize profits…..

I:  Grandma you are talking business now…

G:  Son. Don’t interrupt…

I:  But Grandma you are so boring…come to the point….

G:   There are no instant solutions to anything….even for a good cup of coffee…

I:  What do you mean?

G:   Sending a few people to jail won’t eradicate corruption as there will be new people to take their places with doubled determination to make money….the process will be perpetual and one day the situation will become beyond redemption…

I: So, what do we do?

G:   One way is to shun democracy and install a dictator with sweeping powers…even in the face of opposition to manual scavenging, so to speak….

I:  Come on Grandma, you know better…

G: The other option is to institute an autonomous body on the lines of the Election Commission to monitor poll expenditure from Panchayat to LS elections.

I:   But will the government relent……

G:   Let Thambiji agitate for this one, he may get more crowds and support…..you have surely heard the term “nipping in the bud”

I:  Oh Grandma and they did not make you the President!

Coffee, anyone?

Recently a friend of mine was discussing coffee available around the world at places like Barista et al.  I say, any discussion on coffee is incomplete without the mention of South Indian decoction coffee (also known as filter coffee because of the method of its preparation). Two aromas typifying South India are those of filter coffee made from freshly ground coffee powder and garden fresh Jasmine flowers. Actually the combined smell of both wafting in the morning air is sure to awake anyone to his senses. Just the smell of Jasmine though is like any aphrodisiac and just the smell of filter coffee may remind and prepare you for the day’s work ahead. The taste and effect of filter Coffee at any other time of the day is really unpredictable.

Because of my growing up away from home I am a devout tea drinker like any soldier. I prefer hot piping tea in a mug or a glass rather than in bone china. So when I call on friends and relatives during the day and they find me preferring tea over coffee I am looked at as if I have landed from another planet. The looks seem to ask “OMG, how can you survive without kapi?” How could I tell them that I don’t drink coffee not because I don’t like the brew but not everyone can make drinkable coffee – even filter coffee.

The ideal coffee is made from freshly ground Coffee powder. The aroma stays with the seeds while stored powder loses the original characteristics by passage of time, even hours. The decoction is made in a filter which is a four part contraption, usually of steel, with two cylindrical vessels placed one on top of the other. The upper vessel has small perforations to allow the coffee decoction to percolate to the lower vessel. Coarsely ground coffee powder is put into the top vessel. The powder is then lightly pressed with another perforated plate with slightly larger holes than at the bottom of the upper vessel. This plate is fitted with a handle from the middle reaching to the top of the upper vessel for ease of operation. Boiling hot water is then poured into the upper vessel. The vessel is then closed with a semi tight lid. The water rests on the perforated plate passes slowly through the holes onto the pressed coffee where the water is allowed to seep into each grain of the powder forming the decoction which is finally collected into the bottom vessel. The process is slow and should be started at least two to four hours before coffee time, depending on the quantity of decoction required.

Wait, coffee is not ready yet as fresh milk is to be boiled. To the warm decoction add the boiling milk in proportions as desired. The correct proportion is something that is learned from experience and handed down through generations. With such variables it is wont that the process and the mix has to be perfect for that delectable tumbler of coffee. When the decoction is allowed to percolate overnight, the coffee in fresh milk served at the crack of dawn tastes special.

Coffee at any other time of day does not taste the same. 

Road to progress Part I

My office was only 863m from my house till the other day, when we had to shift to a bigger place which is 8630m away now.  These days I can only define the time I leave my house. The time of reaching my destination, my office, varies. It depends on a whole lot of factors such as receiving a call on my mobile just as I exit from my house and move towards the car to getting into a personal conversation with the pretty little thing next door.

Once in the car, the journey to and fro from house to office is an exhilarating experience projecting the true nature of incredible India in its entire splendor and horrific. The travails of day one was something akin to what the reluctant warrior Arjuna may have experienced when the Lord is said to have revealed his true form (viswarupam) to him on the battlefield at Kurukshetra many millenniums ago. The feeling is of awe, reverence and scariness. What kept my knees apart and prevented them knocking against one another in sheer fright was the distance between the pedals for application of clutch, brake and the accelerator.  The difference here is that while Arjuna experienced it once in his long life time I endure it twice a day, six days in a week.  So after the first few days I was less scared and these days I enjoy the ordeal as I can see and feel the Nation on the roads.

The diversity of India is visible on its roads. Heavy overloaded load carriers , earth movers, JCB, buses, lorries, light load carriers, SUVs, cars of all sizes and shapes, auto-rickshaws, motor cycles, scooters, scootys, bicycles, hand carts, cows, buffaloes, dogs and pedestrians all use the same road at the same time moving at different speeds in varying degrees of urgency. Traffic moves like water – flowing into vacant areas oblivious to the environment, haphazardly so much so that one can often espy a mobiker between you and the car in front parked horizontal to your direction of travel traveling in that direction nonchalantly waiting to move into a vacant space ahead in his line of travel - traffic weaving its way literally! Everyone is in a hurry to get to wherever they are headed, others be damned.

This morning, returning from golf I found that in a narrow neck the road was dug up in a manner to allow only one vehicle to pass that stretch going either way. There was nobody around and no sign posting to indicate why the rod was dug and how long will it remain that way. Sure enough I encountered a traffic hold up in that neck on my way to the office. Exactly how the government works – in silos. Mining scams take place right on these roads as I believe each time a road is dug up, ostensibly for some work to make life for the public more comfortable, money is mined to line the pockets of all the powers in the hierarchy.

On a day when Team Anna is setting out to fast for a lost cause, we the people must reflect…and promise to change ourselves…each one of us allowing the other to pass on the road and as Indians not come in the way of one another…Turning India into a police state will not help…Just work out how many policemen will be required to monitor every individual’s activity 24X7.

The two factors to be addressed for progress are inclusive growth and education to all.

Those were the days: Minimum Hindi!

As I negotiated the peak hour traffic in Bangalore this morning the Music Jockey (MJ) from the FM channel playing on the car radio was saying  “Usko dehkte hi mein bezuban ho haya, kyunki weh itni ugly  thi” . There is a programme on the channel titled “Prithvi(MJ) ko hindi kyon nahin athi” in which Prithvi has to form a sentence with a word texted to him by the listeners…She or He whose word was used in the sentence broadcast got some goodies from the sponsor. As you guessed the word to be used in the sentence was ‘bezuban’. This reminded me of my tryst with hindi which started in school and has now taken me to enjoy Hindustani / urudu gazals, shayari and some simple poetry. Along the way my troops taught me Punjabi.

In the 1960s Kerala was not as averse to Hindi as was the state of Madras (Now Tamil Nadu, since 1969). In school I had to learn a third language, the second being Malayalam, which by selection was Hindi – Sanskrit and French were the other options. This third language was something which was there but could be ignored with impunity as the subject language was not part of the final papers for the board exam. This sublime situation did not take many of us beyond the alphabets of the language. So when I was called up for the SSB in 1969, I went in for Hindi tuitions aiming to master the spoken language. It was neither enjoyable nor beneficial. The lady had only a slightly better knowledge of the language than I had. At least I knew the first two lines of all hindi movie songs played out on the Binaca geetmala by Ameen Sayani. I also knew some intricate words like sartaj et al. In the event Hindi was not required in SSB and initially in NDA as well wher I duly joined the Lower Hindi class whose status was no better than my third language in school. But unknowingly I began to pick up the language conversing with you all in the four years we were together. During my training once when on leave I was visiting relatives in Tamil Nadu I visited a chemist for some medicines. I explained my requirement but elicited only a stare him. I repeated my request with same result. It was then he told me in Tamil that all the while I was talking in Hindi a word of which he did not grasp.

When I was told in Talbehat in 1975 that I had to pass an exam in Hindi (Minimum Hindi) I was surprised but prepared. While posted in Darbuk in 1975, I had the unit Education NCO come and teach me the Urudu alphabets. Punjabi surprisingly came naturally to me while I commanded Sikh troops in my Battery.

Now probably Hindi has become my second language with Punjabi and Urudu taking fifth and sixth places.

Forever young

Sixty they say is the half way mark. With a healthy mind in a healthy body man’s life span is expected to be 120 years. Arjuna was whole of 78 years young when he fought in the Mahabarath Yudh. So why this kolaveri about sixty? For the uninitiated, (kolaveri means “desperation to murder”)…so why this desperation / exuberance to kill youthfulness and embrace “senior citizenship” which is nothing else but a euphemism for “old”. Traditionally turning sixty is a socio-religious event in South known as shashtiabdapoorthi, which is celebrated with all the trappings of a marriage except going around fire, assuming that the fire in the belly is still strong. Growing to be sixty should be a celebration of life instead of looking for concessions all around flaunting the age. Look at most of our politicians…they are all (majority of them) past the sixty ‘land mark’ and each one of them without exception is thriving. It is all in the mind…If you still insist it is in the groins…..then listen to this ….. our mind controls the body. I agree that your Driver will take you a little shorter from the tee at sixty than at thirty…all other conditions remaining the same. But a good approach shot with an iron will get you to the hole. So don’t try to hit the covering off the ball from the tee…play safe & slow and you will still get the result as you did when you were thirty! You have to make experience count to compensate for the numbers in years…and stay young forever!

What is this all about senior citizen and all?

Grandma on underachiever

With my demonstrated capabilities of aggression and leadership during childhood and as a teen my mother expected me to lead the Indian Army one day, when I joined NDA in 1969. She was (and all of us were) unaware that my DOB would not have allowed that.  When I hung up my boots as a Colonel and returned home with the kit bag slung over my shoulder, my mother called me an underachiever. My father who knew better, was unfortunately not with us by then. For instance my mother thought that my capabilities with the sling shot with which I nonchalantly felled mangoes for the neighbour’s daughter was talent enough to mow down enemies at will…and wasn’t defeating enemies the prime duty of a soldier? She reasoned. We can’t fault her for that. Can we? Last week when the time mag cover with the caption “underachiever’ emblazoned across a photo of MMS was being splashed on all TV channels, she gave me a knowing look. I can understand my mother believing in her son, all mothers do. But that ‘daughter’s’ (for who I felled mangoes) father has always felt that I was good for nothing. I knew all along he was wrong and may be so is my mother.

I am a firm believer that to achieve something, under, par or over, one has to swing the club. You have to get on to the course compete, negotiate hazards and handle rough conditions and make the tricky putts to get a score. You can’t do it sipping beer on the 19^th hole. The TIME magazine, once considered the last word (even before Karan Thapar was born) in politics, put out a sexy and alluring cover with the photo of an inconsequential PM of a ineffectual council of ministers calling him an underachiever. The National media bit the bullet and gave it wide publicity in the process catching the fancy of various political outfits in India. By this the publishers of TIME magazine hope to increase their market share in India, albeit briefly, as nobody is buying the magazine elsewhere in the world. Oh! The gullible Indians!!! Little do they know that the cover is only for copies to be circulated in India and possibly the Asia-pacific region.

But my grandma was unfazed. She has always been a fan of the Time magazine since the time Sachin Tendulkar was featured on its cover. The other day she recalled the cover with the caption “GOD of cricket” or something like that and wanted to know God of what this Higgs Boson is made out to be. She backed the Time magazine to the hilt. She condemned our knowledge of the English language to worse than that of Sub Maj (Hony capt) Kanshi ram (She knows all about him from me) and declared that underachiever meant achieving something under cover or under the table…That, she emphasized, can’t be denied about this Government.

Her head held high in triumph, having proved the Time magazine right, she proceeded for her afternoon nap.

The art of seeing with eyes closed

The perception of the world is different with eyes closed and open. For the effect to be complete and wholesome, it is recommended to meditate both with closed and open eyes. Closing the eyes is shutting out one sensory perception.  Seeing is also the easiest sense to withdraw. Withdrawal from all senses is a prerequisite for meditation. You will agree with me that eyes closed is not the same state as eyes open. Whereas you can’t see things with closed eyes (you can only imagine) sometimes you fail to see things with eyes wide open. That is what happens when meditating with eyes open – you withdraw the sense of sight even while the eyes are open. That is why Budha taught to medidate in standing and walking positions! Moreover, when meditating with closed eyes there is always a chance of falling asleep and crediting the resultant dreams to divine intervention! Maybe the best way to meditate is with eyes half open and half closed.

The actual danger is when we don’t see things staring on the face when your eyes are open and you are not meditating. This phenomenon is severally termed as ‘closing your eyes’ (when it is actually open) or ‘looking the other way’ (when you are actually looking at it). This is a very dangerous affliction these days in our young, middle aged, old and even ministers including the Prime Minister – well, that is another story.

The art of ‘seeing’ with closed eyes (or ‘seeing’ that which is not presented in front of you) is beneficial when it is evident that ‘What you see is NOT what you get’.

Let me narrate a story involving my friend Col Iqbal Singh (IS) working in the same office in Delhi in the late 90s. IS was a dashing young man at the threshold of hanging up his boots. Being a Delhiite and having a palatial house in Jankpuri he attended office from his own house and climbed rent allowance. Whenever I met him he was impeccably dresses like Sidhu (Not Himmat but Navjot). The turban was always elegantly placed on his pate with immaculate precision. As his daughter lived in London he spoke with a typical British accent. As his retirement date neared, he appeared very enthusiastic. His wife also concurred that his energy levels were raised since he started his evening walks in the park in front of the Tihar jail. On being confronted IS confided that his walking partner was a pretty young psychologist, who though addressed is as uncle he did not mind. He had an invitation from her to visit her parents and he did not know what to do. It was indeed a very piquant but explosive situation. His problem was who should know what and how much. He was not decid3d whether he should take his wife along or not. He reasoned ‘You see is love is blind, even when eyes are open, and age is but a number’. Obviously seeing his ardour I concurred and became pensive myself. Bereft of any ideas (obviously) I asked him “have you ever given it a clear thought without the turban on the head. Maybe you will get the answer”. He concurred and duly removed the turban – in his state anybody will do anything to get an answer!!!!! That was when I noticed that there was just one hair (so I could count) on his head – The motto of the Regiment came to my mind which I repeated aloud – “IZZAT ‘O’ IQBAL”. I told him to take his wife along. It so happened that this pretty little thing had invited IS (she must have also added "Uncle bring ‘aunty’ along no...", which IS may not have ‘heard’ or mistaken the word 'no' in the sentence to mean 'aunty' is dispensable – all senses being shut in a state of walking meditation) to her house that evening to introduce the Iqbals to her fiancé.

It is a good habit to develop a sense to see things even with eyes closed. 

Education and God particle

Grandma was upset with Italy losing the Euro cup final.

Grandma (G): It is all because of that Buffoon.

I:  Grandma, it is Gianluigi Buffon (as in fun) and not Buffoon(as in spoon); he is the captain of the Italian team.

G: Whatever, he did end up as a buffoon letting in four goals past him. But son did you hear about this God particle?

I: No Granma what is it? Is God being divided among Nations?

G: No son; a bunch of scientists think they are hot onto something with which this Universe was built.

I:  Oh! Boy! Great! Now what? If they say “let there be peace”, do you think Granma that all will be peaceful with this world.

G: When they discovered the atom half the world was destroyed and when they will discover the elusive subatomic God particle, I fear that will lead to the destruction of this world as we know it.

I: Come on Grandma….you know better.

G: No son…all this is happening because of a faulty education system where a lot of people are either undereducated or overeducated. These are types who ostensibly take over the world. The former join Governments and the latter become scientists. Generally both do not know what they want and when they find something they say that is what they were looking for.

I:  Sometimes you are very confusing, Grandma.

G: You see that is because of your over education…you just do not understand simple matters…..

I:  But Grandma I am an……..

G:  Putr..Don’t interrupt. Look what this fellow Sibal is doing he is interrupting a well defined system of IITs and IIMs and neglecting the larger system….

I:  I have to intercede … You confuse too much, Grandma… and you are always critical of the government.

G:  Son…see how these guys in the government fool you… There are a hundred times more Government run schools and Colleges in the country than IITs and IIMs…..all very poorly managed…so that politicians can establish private educational institutions and make money…IITs and IIMs being autonomous while being Government institutions, there is no scope for third party to make money there!

I: Oh! Grandma…and they don’t make you even the President….

Simplified economics

On most days, as I enter my driveway in my 2002 Hyundai Santro, returning from a round of golf in the morning at about 9’O clock, I find my neighbor Flourishing Singh (FS) hurrying into his Honda Civic while waving a hurried hi-bye to me. FS who is the CEO of a mid-sized Company is always in a hurry whenever I see him which is not very often. He works 16 hours a day, six days a week. On Sundays he is besieged by his family of 13 - including sons, daughters, daughters-in-law, sons-in-law and grand children – who submit a list of demands ranging from school /college fees to pocket money to sundry expenses. An evening sojourn between FS and me over a glass of whisky, though planned many times, has not taken place even though we have been neighbours for over three years.

We, my wife and I, live on my pension. FS earns five times more, so his GDP is also five times mine. But he has six times more mouths to feed; so the per capita income of his household is less than in our household. Besides, his expenditures are more. His older children (including SsIL & DsIL) refuse to seek employment as jobs offered to them are not commensurate with their stature (they do not bother to improve their skill sets).In addition to feeding and clothing all inmates of his abode, FS also has to give them each a monthly dole for personal needs. FS did make a couple of vain attempts to establish a self sustaining business for his older wards. The only outcome was he lost some money out of his income. He had to hold the family together and keep everyone happy, being its head.. Obviously every year FS ran up a deficit budget. His loans are now more than 60% of his total annual income (GDP). There is now a danger of his creditors taking away his house due to default interest payments.

The milkman, grocer and all sundry service providers want to do business with FS’s household as they see a willing ‘market’ there giving each a considerable turnover vis a vis efforts.  Easy accessibility to these goods has increased the expenses of FS’s house hold most of which is unnecessary.

Last evening a desperate FS came to me. I poured him a drink and we had a long chat. I told him that in order to mitigate the problems of his domestic economy there is a requirement to increase the GDP by augmenting internal accruals. Domestic productivity has to be increased by deploying the free loaders in his family. The freeloaders have to contribute to increase the GDP by seeking whatever employment available to them. He had to cut down on expenses including trading his Honda City for a Santro.  The maid should be packed off and the chores in the house be undertaken by the inmates. Last night, I believe, he read the riot act to his family…

Country	GDP   ($ m)	Population (b)	Per capita ($)	Debt to GDP ratio(%) Higher the ratio, worse for economy)
Brazil	2492908	.2	12,000	66.2
Russia	1850404	.14	13,000	9.6
India	1676143	1.21	1,400	68*
China	7298147	1.34	5,000	25.8

·                     * Note : A positive note is, the external debt to GDP ratio is much lower and has nearly halved in the last two decades. This means the country is not at risk of failing to meet obligations of overseas creditors. The debt service to GDP ratio has also seen a consistent decline over the years.

All the jargons apart; despite planning commission; FDI or no FDI; Monsoon or no monsoon; Corruption or no corruption….our economy will improve only if

1.    The manufacturing base is expanded (for this we have to strengthen core sectors (steel, power, roads, rail, ports r et al) and infrastructure improved.

2.    Ensure inclusive growth by expanding manufacturing away from only cities  to hinterland also.

3.    Improve education system to produce employable youths.

Those were the days: The baby beach

In Cannanore (now Kannur) in North Malabar, Kerala just a few meters from my ‘boarding house’ at school, there was a small beach we called the baby beach. The beach was so small that it could take not more than fifty people at one time. Besides our school, the possible claimants to the beach were the local church, St Theresa’s convent and school and the DSC Centre. In those days none other than our school laid claim to the beach. There were no ‘visitors’ from the other institutions in the vicinity for reasons of their own. The DSC Centre had another exclusive beachfront of their own. The Church, oh well, is it blasphemous to lay claim to a beach…I wouldn’t know…but they did not. Anybody from the convent was always welcome to the beach. But visitors from the convent to the beach were rare…during normal hours – that is another story.

Imagine a private beach 24X7. It was a clean beach with white sands which I can today assure you will rival the beaches of Rio, Hawaii and Goa. It was a beach with no hawkers and no shit. The best time on the beach was on full moon nights when the tide was coming in high. Occasionally we stole (please forgive us, of father! It is never too late to pardon) wine from the rectory larder and made our way to the beach by way of the tree leaning onto the terrace of the boarding house. We went there on rainy nights during the monsoons too. The roaring Arabian sea was a sight to behold from close quarters on those thunderous wet nights. We were not frightened by the foreboding dark waters hitting us on the shore. We felt comforted and relaxed. It was as if there was a bond between us and the sea…a bond of understanding each others’ ways.

 But then one day we flirted with danger – all in jest we thought. Occasionally we went to the beach on a new moon day too; just sitting on the shore and watching ship lights on the horizon, across a clam sea. On one such night we decided to play a prank with Venu (No, Not the Bard or NV; a third Venu who is today a child specialist). He was a bit timid type and thought ghosts from the graveyard of the church roamed the area on new moon nights. We told him that ghosts existed only in stories and persuaded him to come to the beach on a new moon day and see for himself. Satish ( a Kerala state schools pace bowler those days  who actually bowled faster than Sreeshant, even in those days, but never really pursued cricket and is today settled in Singapore) was already at the beach, covered in while bed sheet, atop a scraggly tree standing beside a disused well. What was meant to be a prank turned serious when Venu spotted Satish before we could and ran for his life in all directions before falling into the disused well. With a fractured skull and limbs he lay in the hospital for a month. The bond was such that the incident as it happened was hidden from the subsequent inquiry. Venu told the inquiry that he just fell into the well on the dark night by accident while visiting the beach. We did get reprimanded for going off to the beach at night, as if it were the first time we did it, and wee made to promise that we will never do it again. Such promises came easy those days.

Post the incident, Venu was convinced that there were no ghosts…After Venu came back as a full boy, we continued with our escapades as usual and now with Venu joining us.

Atop Marsimek La @ 18634ft (Chang-Chemno Range)

Mule is the better known beast of burden. The Yak is another in the same genre but more versatile in its multifaceted service offering to mankind than the mule.    Domesticated yaks have been kept for thousands of years, primarily for their milk, fibre and meat, and of course as beasts of burden. Also their dried dung is an important fuel, used all over Ladakh and is often the only fuel available on the higher reaches of the Himalayas beyond the tree line. Unlike a buffalo the Yak will not eat grain. It eats only grass. My first close encounter with the Yak was at heights beyond 15000 ft in the Ladakh ranges. 

In the winter of 1976 I,  was part of a Long Range Patrol (LRP) across the Marsimek La pass and rendezvous with a Patrol from Northwest somewhere ahead along the Shyok river. I have not enjoyed a trek or a walk more than during that outing in the divine higher reaches of the Karakorum ranges.

The mainstay of the patrolling party was the load carrying Yaks and tattus. Tattu is a variety of pony generally found in the High Altitudes in India. They are domesticated for riding and load carriage. Tattus are credited with a bit more intelligent than mules but are places below the lowest class of horses. The local guides completed the retinue of the patrol party along with the soldiers.

Marsimek-La is on the northern-most tip of the Changthang Plateau. From Darbuk we take the track (as it was then, it is probably a road now) to Lukung on the NW tip of Pangong-Tso from where another dirt track breaks to the left. The pass is still 32 kms away from this turn. The track is so small that if you are not alert, you will miss it. This track  takes you to Marsimek-La via Phobrang.  We set camp at the foot hills of the pass proper at dusk on a wintry day. That night and for three nights thereafter it snowed continually.  We were cooped up inside the snow tents, that served as bed cum living rooms and kitchen, to the last man while the guides stayed in Nomadic tents made of yak wool with the yaks and tattus tethered just outside.  There we were holed up, at an altitude touching 18000ft, crowded inside a tent with many feet of snow all around and still snowing heavily, trying to keep ourselves warm and at times wondering whether we will get out of it at all. I thought “what the heck if it is this way let it be this way” and ventured out into the snow on the third morning…morning it must have been I guessed from my biological clock, as we had not seen the Sun for a couple of days by then ( I have never ever worn a watch). I usually tell the time of the day judging from the position of the Sun or the Moon; much easier; Otherwise it is always “time kya hai baisaab?” – this always works. Notwithstanding this uncertainty of time of the day, I looked out for snow leopards and mountain goats.  Of course in that type of snow even the snow leopard wouldn’t have ventured out of its lair. Yet, hope or wait (what do they say? “jo majah intezar mein hain, who mulakkat mein kahan?) is what we ride on and there was nothing wrong in being imaginative or romantic. Of one thing I was sure; that I will never ever be in that position again (Siachen is different and in any case was yet to happen). I just stood out there in the snow and soaked in the atmosphere – I knew I will not get wet in that temperature!!!!! And what an atmosphere…it was white all around the air was thick with that peculiar odour when there is lesser oxygen content, the ranger near and very near were silhouettes, so much so that even if a snow leopard was sitting next ti me I may not have known. Was there one lurking nearby then? That is Army…could life have been more adventurous. You bet…..some events of the following day were more death defying (or so I felt)…

The Sun shone brightly on the fourth morning. We struck camp and prepared to move. The young blood and the feeling of an aura of invincibility on seeing the Sun prompted me to volunteer to lead the way. A wrong move by real standard of our training!!! Ten I was a nonconformist like most people from my state are supposed to be.  Soon I was leading an advanced guard perched on a yes, you guessed it, a tattu. I was told that a tattu followed by a yak was the best way to cut through snow. The ‘guide’ was on the yak following. We were soon on the Marsimek La pass proper.  I have often wondered in later years why in hell was I leading and not the guide and as you will see, with good reasons too. The means of communication with the guide was in my chaste Hindi and his broken Hindi. In knee deep snow (the tattu’s and NOT mine) when he wanted me to turn left, I suppose, I turned right, or was it my inability to control the tattu I will never know. I soon found myself in knee deep snow (this time my knee astride the tattu) and sinking further. I looked back to find my guide a good six feet behind standing on the yak and shouting at me. I too stood up as well, on my tattu(ha!ha!) which by then was in neck (tattu’s neck)deep snow. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath prepared myself to do a standing broad jump on to the yak which was also neck deep (yak’s neck) in snow…I reckoned that yak’s neck being lower than a tattu’s the overall depth of snow there would be shallower. But before I could take the leap the tattu seemed to have found firm ground and did a 180 degree turn as I found myself facing China, with the yak behind me. We returned to camp and reported that the pass was un-passable. That night it snowed again.

After an aerial reconnaissance next day, it was decided to call off the patrol in view of the inhospitable weather conditions. I learned later that the patrol did go the following month and complete the mission.

 I was not on that one.