Scribbling

(Readers are requested not to bug the author, asking for interpretations of 
such meaningless scribblings)

Of thoughtful reflections,

Of old chats, friendship, love and terror-

Of timid strokes of brush and random imagineering,

Of comely dawns and procrastinating afternoons,

Of themed decorations on awkwardly beautiful backdrops.

Of past, present and future

Of freedom, of choice, of force

Of myriad emotions

Of theatrical dramatics

Of art, of dirt on art,

Of philosophical interpretations of miracle

Of time, of timely happiness,

Of troubles rekindled from happiness.

Of amateur craftiness

Of thrifty flamboyance

Of jammed ears, on jammed roads

Of confused souls,

Of untold truths,

Of secret confessions-

Of the precious thing that never was.

(One thing I have learnt on the first anniversary of my blog is: 

write your heart out; it’s your own space, sponsored by an American giant)

The Incredible Host

Why do I keep reminding myself of this trip? There are several reasons: the foremost being it was among the last couple of trips when we didn’t have to care about applying for leaves to go on a holiday. And then of course, there were 16 of us, to-be engineers in the last semester. Oh, and we could spend out of our dad’s pockets! And there were other reasons which we discovered after reaching there. It was a small secluded village in the north of West Bengal, nested in the tranquil lap of Himalayas. The graffiti on walls depicted the voice of the locals: “Fulfill our demand for a new state: Gorkhaland” but there was not a speck of blood. Peace reigned supreme. This place goes by the name ‘Lolegaon’.

One March afternoon, after lunch, we decided to leave the comforts of the cottage of the Forest Department we had unpacked ourselves in, to breathe the fresh air so lacking in the city we had escaped from. So we walked. Unplanned as it always used to be, in those days. It was sunny but the sun was not cruel. Within ten minutes, we were at a point where the road forked: one towards the market (well, a market in Lolegaon means a maximum of eight thatched houses: two selling food to the occassional tourists, another two cigarette and paan, two handicrafts and souvenirs and two grocery) and the other of which we had no clue. After a short stint roaming about in the “market”, we decided to go for a walk along the path which certainly appeared to be less treaded. One of us pointed,”Look at the board!” We turned to where his fingers pointed: Canopy Walk: 1.5 km. Nodding at once, we had already made up our mind.

Walking along the forsaken path gossiping, we reached another even more deserted place called the “Canopy Walk”. It had a board with its name and a ticket-counter. We’d thought, it would be some fancy park. We were wrong; truly happy to be wrong! The ticket-counter was closed; probably it had closed long back due to lack of tourists. We exchanged glances: “But that doesn’t stop us from exploring the inside, does it?” In a minute, we were inside the vast Canopy Walk. The government had stopped pouring money for maintenance; wilderness sprang forth in all possible directions and magnitude. We were walking inside a forest! Thankfully, we didn’t have hosts fiercer than monkeys or dogs. There was no direction-board. Dogs came to our rescue. We followed them and reached what we called the “Hanging bridge”: a wonderful wooden bridge held by ropes on its sides, made more beautiful by the sheer lack of maintenance. Well, no river had to be crossed; it was simply a bridge that probably saved you from feral creatures who despised heights! We climbed on it gleefully. At the same time, we were skeptical of the bridge’s ability to tolerate our increasing body-weights. The engineers had done a good job- so we could cheer and hoot insanely as we crossed what was to us more adventurous than crossing the famous Ram-Jhula. We sat on a huge fallen tree and clicked photographs! Suddenly, we realized: “There could be more falling ON us!” Thus we fled! On our way back, we picked some sticks and started fighting- oh, nothing serious, we just posed for the lenses.

Relaxing on a fallen tree & posing for a fight!

As we walked back towards the junction where we’d seen the board showing the distance of “Canopy Walk”, another board which had earlier escaped our eyes was “Sunset Point: 1.5 km”. From what we guessed, we still had about an hour to reach before sunset. Enough time. So we set out. It had been 200 meters and we were undecided: two roads diverged and again we were reminded of Frost’s “The Road Not Taken”. We, however, hardly wanted it to make any difference; prosaic that we were, only sunset interested us. And then out of nowhere appeared a dog- a black one. It stopped before us, looked at us and started springing along one of the roads. One of us said-“Let’s follow him. He knows the road.” Some nodded at the idea, smilingly. Others laughed out loud, totally dismissing the thought. But we had little choice. We had to choose one before it was too late. We knew, if we took the wrong one, we could miss the sunset. We followed him.

                                                                     Spot our guide

And it made a difference! We realized that after half an hour (or may be even more) of strenuous trek along a steep narrow track which can barely be separately identified as a route from the dense foliage, but for the generous pathfinder who led us all along the way to the top, ensuring at regular intervals that none of us were left behind in this tremendously exhausting exercise. One of us wittily remarked, “This is 1.5 km of vertical height!” We doubted if we could reach the top before sunset. But, there was no looking back once we had chosen to be part of it. The path, strewn all over by leaves, branches and fallen trees, was almost always inaccessible and we had to make our way through it by tactically using our hands and feet. Eventually, we made it. Felt like champions!

Elated and tired. Never been more tired. The sun was still there- waiting for us. The only reason we figured out that this place was actually the Sunset Point was that there were a couple of benches. Besides the sixteen of us, there was nobody. As we waited for the sun to hide behind the mighty mountains, somehow we gathered strength to “play” that age-old game of Antakshari. Now that’s the advantage of being in a forlorn place; you can sing your heart out. We were so engrossed in our game that we never realized that a couple had also reached there, silently sitting on the other bench, listening to us, arms around each other. They were such a remarkably adventure-loving honeymoon-couple, sharing the victory-stand with us.

As we sat on a rock, enjoying the most pleasant view from the top, I realized that our guide, the dog, was silently relaxing, eyes fixated at the Sun as the sky turned from blue to yellow, then to orange and blood-red before going dark. Indeed, the dog had guided us to the serenest place. I was reminded of the Mahabharata where a dog had accompanied the Pandavas during their ascent to heaven. We were no Yudhisthir but this poor creature had taken the pains to guide us to the gateway to heaven- indeed, what sight is more fascinating than watching the changing colors of nature! We were overwhelmed: we sat still in silence; believe me, it’s a momentous task for a group of sixteen young guys from college; but we did feel a force that calmed us down. The sun only went behind the clouds and it wasn’t the most perfect sunset in technical terms. But, the beauty of the entire setting had left us spell-bound. Suddenly we realized it was getting dark and that we had to tread the same path through the jungle to reach the main road. It wasn’t easy, either. We knew that we had found a guide, of the most unbelievable kind, one who did not expect anything in return. He was the most incredible host, showing us his home around, leading us to a heavenly abode, living true to the cliched- “Atithi devo bhava”- the poor creature upholds to this day in my minds, the philosophy of an ideal Indian host.

This post is an entry under "Incredible Stories!" contest held by Mahindra and Indiblogger.

Trainphobia

If you had never had the opportunity of travelling with the Indian Railways, you have indeed been deprived of an experience you could make use of when you end up in hell. Well, unlike probably what my opening line indicates, I am not here to curse or condemn one of the largest (probably fourth) railway networks in the world. Indeed, I will keep the discussion short and simple: there are some phobias that didn’t let me sleep in trains. Literally. Having travelled in trains in almost all parts of the country, I have had to travel in all the three, um, five possible berths in the three-tier system the Indian Railways offers. And I suffered from a different kind of phobia while sleeping in each of these berths.

The Lower Berth: Considered the safest and is usually recommended for the aged and the women, this one is not actually the safest (Yes, I don’t remember having read in a newspaper that someone died from falling off a higher berth in a train! Did I say- died? Well, didn’t hear about someone breaking his tibia or her phalanges either!). Particularly when the train is travelling through certain states (UP and Bihar to name a prominent few), there are more passengers in the same coach as you than permits the number of berths. This is because a “reserved” compartment is not actually a reserved one. A lot of people, men and women of different ages, travel alongside you, sitting on the same lower berth you are sleeping in, occupying approximately one-twelfth the area to place their uncomfortable buttocks in an even more uncomfortable journey. So, you have a smaller “leg space” and a tenser night arising out of the thoughts that either your legs might touch that person (if you are overly religious) or (if you are practical) that you might find your bag unzipped in the morning and the person already heading home with a big smile! Add to that the never-ceasing fear that the two berths above you (with a fat man on one and a fatter woman on another) may fall and suffocate you to a death of the most unimaginable kind! (Remember the movie series, Final Destination?) Other trivial uneasy feelings might be contributed by the window (of a non-AC coach) that refuses to be shuttered completely on a wintry night, thus letting in enough of the biting wind and giving you a sore throat.

The Middle Berth: With no fellow passenger sitting “on” your feet to bother you all night, do you think you’re in a better situation? Hell, no! If you are sleeping with your head on the aisle side, you (or if you are an optimist, lets suppose, your fingers) could be crushed under the feet of that fat man trying to get down that three-step “ladder” from the upper berth in the middle of the night to visit the loo. There is again a similar phobia of getting sandwiched between the two berths in case of a mishap. And believe me, it’s not very comforting to be the patty in a burger when you know you’re going to be devoured by the cruellest glutton! Plus, the senile fan is barely able to deliver air to this somewhat “hidden” berth.

The Upper Berth: Although the height can be a turn-off for most women, kids and the aged, this is a safe choice for people like me. No sensation of claustrophobia; okay, lets change the “no” to “low”. There is the dirty fan making noise trying to make its presence felt. And then God said-“Let there be Light”. God could have done better; some people don’t want to switch it off. Either they never manage to finish their dinner on time (now who decides that? Perhaps we can take that up in another blog post) or they never manage to arrange “things” and get their makeshift bed ready. There are others who do it for fun, to irritate fellow passengers! (Trust me, such people exist: I tried it during my college days myself; come on, I had bad company). So, the bright light stares straight into your eyes, forcing you to contract and expand your pupils uneasily till more people join you and complain vehemently enough to finally get it to be turned off. Climbing the stairs or the “ladder” is tricky and in a train in India, you have to precisely know the time to use it in order not to end up kicking the woman carrying her baby to the bathroom or toppling the hot tea off the kettle of the poor chaai-vendor. Still, being located at a secluded spot, this remains my favourite berth location. (And even if the fan doesn’t work, it’s not very hot out there; probably air seeps in through the ceiling; now that would be a revolutionary discovery, won’t it be?)

The Side Upper Berth: All side berths, for those who don’t know, have been designed to fit a hobbit. Well, being slightly taller than that, I have difficulties adjusting my body into it. Unless it’s too cold for you to sleep without crouching like a new-born, you’ll never have enough space to extend your legs. So, forget about sleeping. Add to that the miseries of any side-berth- the continuous cacophony of vendors and passengers walking down the aisle. In this case, it doesn’t matter which side you place your head (and hence the ears), either ways are on the aisle side.

The Side Lower Berth: This is mostly not meant for sleeping. Usually all trains are so crowded that two people are allotted seats (popularly known as RAC) in this berth for them to travel without the “comforts” of a complete berth. Any non-Indian would be (pleasantly?) surprised to witness the fact that two complete strangers share a bed, um, the berth in a train in India. And usually in a position that would embarrass both of them when they wake up in the morning! If you’re lucky (?) to travel in a train where side lower berths are being used as berths (because it’s less crowded) and you have been allotted the same, all the miseries of lower berth and side berth appear in harmonious conjunction.

So, good luck, my friend! You have to weigh all pros and cons to decide on which factors you consider less tormenting while choosing a berth (as if you get what you choose!). Indeed it surprises me how people in India manage to put up with these maladies without uttering a word of complaint!

I reiterate: Only in this great country can two strangers share the bed because they are part of the same journey.

Dirty Fan

At least three months. I hadn’t looked at the fan hanging from the ceiling. The blades have lost their shine. Who would dare predict its original color? A layer of dirt, probably with a touch of soot, has clung on to all the three blades almost equally. Dirt has concentrated along the edges, its thickness consistently reducing towards the centre. Winter is a good time to reflect on fans!

Certainly a lifeline in the hot Delhi summers for those who cannot afford air-conditioners, every effort was made to ensure that this device never stopped rotating. And now I realize that I didn’t care to glance at it for all these months because I never needed it, thus allowing dust to gather around it.

As I write this, my parents are here on a visit. They have worked hard all these years- before and after my birth, trying to bring me up with the best they could afford, like almost every parent in this world. And thus I am not overly grateful to them; it is certainly their duty and I hope to do it in the same or a better way. But when their greying hairs peek out of the artificial hair-dyes, they send out a message. All those years they have provided me fresh air by continuously rotating all day and all night, they have exhausted themselves and gathered dirt. Like the fan which heats up from uninterrupted motion, their temper has gotten ‘hotter’. From excessive wearing out, they sometimes tend to refuse to ‘rotate’. I get irritated. Never did I try to wipe off that layer of dust and remind myself of the pleasant breeze they helped me enjoy in summer.

It’s high time I take up the wiping cloth….

‘Another Chance’ by Ahmed Faiyaz: Review

‘Another Chance’ by Ahmed Faiyaz is an engaging work of fiction about the complications

of modern day relationship. The story revolves around a fresh MBA graduate Aditya, his 

meteoric rise to glory early in his career and the way he struggles to juggle his responsibilities

as a manager and a lover. However, if I attempt to glorify his role in what I would call a

‘romantic-thriller’, I would be doing injustice to another protagonist who is probably more

responsible in keeping readers fixated than anyone else: Ruheen, a (some may choose to 

call her ‘spoilt’) lady who grew up under her affluent Nana’s care and attention.

Ruheen is ravishingly beautiful and a heart-throb in college. Of the several guys she goes out

with, Vishal, the son of a minister, turns out to be a violent stalker. And when our protagonist

Adi gets too “close and personal” with Ruhi by some luck, Vishal interferes, more like a villain

from Bollywood, forcing both to find their own ways out of the relationship. Their lives take

their own course in different cities.

One day, Ruhi finds herself drawn to an NRI brat from London in a Delhi club. They get 

married but once in London, she discovers that life is not what she had least expected. Her

husband, Rohan turns out to be a violent drug-and-playstation addict, tormenting her- mentally

and physically while also getting involved in public brawls. She somehow flees to Amsterdam

secretly with help from Rohan’s sister. There, while Adi is on a business trip, she meets him 

and they fall in love all over again! Too much of a coincidence, eh?

They fly back together to India and start living in Mumbai. However, the happiness in their

live-in relationship is marred by Adi’s nature of job; he has to spend long hours in office and

go out on business trips every now and then. Despite Ruhi’s unceasing complaints and Adi

trying hard to strike a work-life balance, he is unable to keep Ruhi out of her loneliness, 

especially during her pregnancy. To make matters worse, their first child dies before birth. 

This leaves a permanent mark in their relationship, each blaming the other for the disaster.

With Nana down with severe illness in Shimla, Ruhi meets a more responsible Varun than 

what she had known him from high-school; she feels attracted to him. On the other hand, 

Malika, a divorcee who is also on a business trip with Adi, tries to seduce him into falling in

love with her- Adi is largely undeterred, with Ruhi still in his dreams. But Ruhi starts to realize

that Adi is too busy with his own career to meet her even on her birthday! Adi, on the other

hand, gets Rohan to divorce Ruhi without legal complications by paying him a lump sum; 

Ruhi is unaware of this. So, she decides to split up with Adi. Adi is shattered but accepts it

gracefully. The author deftly ends the story by letting the readers know if Adi gets a second 

chance, ahead of Varun, who would certainly be wronged if Ruhi decided to marry Adi.

This story is more about heartbreaks than love. At several instances, you’ll feel sorry for Adi,

Ruhi, Varun or all three of them for the turn of events that so adversely affects their relationship.

This story is about managing the problems that come with responsibilities at a young age; about 

setting the right priorities- of career and family. It is also about being given ‘another chance’

to make amends in life. I don’t know how many are that lucky! But if one is, it is equally

important to go all out to grab that hard earned fortune.

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Around the world with awesome people

(This is an entry under "Around The World With Expedia!" contest held by Expedia and Indiblogger)

Blessed with a bloodline which enjoys traveling, I have been a traveler since birth,

moving from one place to another for reasons most ‘worldly’ people would not find 

convincing. They say-“Habits die hard”. My father was kind enough to administer

the drug of ‘traveling to get rid of the monotony of every day life’ into my blood early

in my life. Today, I travel (at my own expenses) at least twice a year to some tourist 

destination- mostly natural, sometimes historic, rarely religious and almost always 

Indian. Besides, the university I studied in and the organization I currently work for, 

I believe, wrongly chose me to represent them at international destinations; I must

admit that these experiences have also been equally gratifying. From what I saw, I

can affirm that any place in this world can be distinctively characterized by its people.

And certain special people residing there or visiting the place make a trip all the more

interesting. Here I bring forth a collection of chronologically-arranged (because I 

can’t think of any other reason why one should be placed before the other) stories 

from four different countries and three different continents.

[Thanks to Indiblogger (http://www.indiblogger.in) and online travel company 

Expedia (http://www.expedia.co.in/) for giving me a reason to write stories which

otherwise would have lost in Oblivion.]

Bhutan, 2002:

                                                        Could’ve lost here that night!

[Photo courtesy: http://bhutanjournals.com/politics-current-affairs/bhutan_news/
thimphu-by-2027-vision-or-nightmare/]

It has been a long time (for someone who has lived less than three decades) but
some people leave an impression that last a lifetime. It was October and I was 
traveling with my parents from Phuentsholing- a town that shares its border 
with India- to the capital city Thimphu. The public bus we boarded was
slowly crawling along the mountainous curves, gifting us a breathtaking view on 
the valley-side. At around 3 PM, the bus broke down. Except the tourists who 
wanted to enjoy the roadside beauty, all wore a depressing look. My parents and
I got down to feast on the changing face of nature while the bus driver and his 
assistant tried in vain to get it repaired. One of them had to travel to a nearby 
town to get a broken part from the engine replaced. We waited in tense anticipation
until he returned. When we finally reached Thimphu, it was 10 PM. We had no hotels
booked in advance. The bus-driver assured my father, “Don’t worry, Sir. We will 
not go home unless we find you a hotel.” Most hotels had shut down by then and 
the ones that were open weren’t suitable for a family to stay overnight. The driver
went with my father to every hotel by the road, literally knocking their closed 
doors begging for a positive response. Finally, one benevolent hotelier, almost woken
up from sleep, allowed us in. A middle-aged man, his wife and their fifteen-year-old
son would have left stranded on the streets of Thimphu that night but for the 
bus-driver who didn’t care about the extra fuel he spent on us or the time he spent
in getting us to safety. I don’t remember his name; in fact, I don’t even remember
if we had asked him his name. It is no wonder that Bhutan is today one of the 
“happiest” nations in the world. Trust me, I have now got ample reasons to believe
in what the economists have to say.

 Belfast (UK), 2008

                                                         There he is, welcoming us!

A group of 20 University students from India were invited to The John Hewitt pub
by the NRI professors. The only thing then on our mind was Guinness. Of course,
we had our share of the world-famous beer and the soulful ‘live’ jazz music that
was being passionately played to a cheerful crowd. Some time later, in the next room,
we were in a discussion with one of the professors: Satish. He had graduated from
a reputed University in Delhi and had gone on to become a teacher at a University 
in Belfast. His stories were amusing. His friends in India were largely influenced
by Marxism: while some were MPs in Lok Sabha, others became militant Naxalites! 
He said with an air of pride, “I am in touch with either faction.” We exchanged glances. 
He continued to amaze us: how he had to literally “ship” his huge collection of “two
tonnes” of books from India; how dearly he valued his Indian Passport and how
desperate he was in Indianizing his Irish fiancee. Certainly, the entire audience
wasn’t drunk! In fact, the next day, during his lecture at the University, we could 
feel that his love for India was oozing out in his words. There he is, Satish- an 
Indian savant in a foreign land- standing tall in my memory, for peculiarly
patriotically sentimental reasons.

Lava-Rishop (India), 2010

                           What do we owe him? Respect? Sympathy? A bit of both, may be?

Sixteen of us, basking in merriment in the final year of college, were to trek from 
Lava to Rishop, both small villages in the lap of the immaculately serene 
Himalayas in the state of West Bengal. It was nearly a 5 km-walk along a rugged 
terrain. For any experienced trekker, this would be a cakewalk but for amateurs
like us, it was indeed expected to be tiring. But the moment we started, our guide
Bhutia kept our spirits high. All through the journey, he entertained us with his
jokes in a mix of Hindi, Nepali and Bengali; we called them “PJs”.  Poor jokes, by 
definition, would not make anyone but the presenter laugh. However, Bhutia’s
PJs were so poor that we always burst out laughing! The very idea that Bhutia 
called his jokes “jokes” made us laugh. In fact, he was so charged with enthusiasm
every time we laughed that he kept telling us jokes every now and then and even
repeating them during our return trek. Sometimes, he told us stories from his 
village, spiced them up with a touch of history and served them to exhausted but
fun-seeking palates. True to his innocent nature and placid temperament, his  
jokes were remarkably simple and goaded us through a tiresome yet joyful walk.
When I look back, I’m not sure why exactly I feel sorry for this poor man. But I, 
despite a self-proclaimed non-believer, silently pray to God: May Bhutia entertain
travelers with his stories and jokes for years to come!

 Plano (USA), 2010

                                           Somewhere in a crowd that defied the music…

It was a chilly December night. Five of us decided to leave the comforts of the hotel
after a tiring day of work. “Let’s go to a club…and party all night. Tomorrow’s off”-
said one of us. At about midnight, we were with a crowd dancing to live music. 
Some people in our group complained that the crowd was ‘racist’; that most Americans
there made them feel so. While we were discussing the nature of the crowd in one 
corner, there approached a man who knew one of us from office. He was from Pakistan. 
He shook hands with each of us and introduced his friend Khan to us. Another 
tall Pakistani with broad shoulders, Khan did not shake hands with me. Instead he 
came close to my ears and said-“Why are Indians and Pakistanis standing so far 
apart?” I was taken aback. Common sense does strike me sometimes! Now that he was so 
close to my ears, I instantly said- “Really? Are we standing far apart? I don’t think so!” 
The next thing he did was to embrace me hard. For quite some time. I will never forget 
the spark of emotion in his glittering eyes; yes, I could see it in the dark. We, I felt, were
united by a common sympathy. He bought me a drink of my choice and asked me to 
keep in touch. He didn’t share his phone number. He was too drunk by then. What 
still moistens my eyes is the ‘sub-continental’ camaraderie of a stranger. 
People like Khan immensely contribute in bridging the walls created by petty politics.

Around the world in places known and unknown

Lives a drone, suitably adorning the throne

In the heart of a wanderer- some peculiar,

Some poor, others compassionate and pure.

The earth is adorned with Eiffel and bridges,

Rivers and wildlife, museums and caves,

They said that beauty lay in human heart-

What a piece of art! What a piece of art!

My views on “The Elephant, the Tiger & the Cellphone” by Shashi Tharoor

The name of the book would invoke interest in anyone. The author’s fame, although not yet as much as a novelist, is pervasive. A man rooted in Kerala, born in London, who studied in Mumbai, Kolkata and Delhi, earned a Ph.D at the young age of 22 and almost made it to the top of the United Nations as its revered Secretary General had finally decided to join the swampy grounds of Indian politics. This achiever, I felt, wanted to serve India in a way most NRIs would dare not venture into but would be secretly proud of. And thus, I had decided to order the book. (Special thanks to a friend who often sang high praises for this man during our college days, whose words I got reminded of, every time I heard Tharoor in news).

The book turned out to be an engaging read. That he is a very eloquent writer he made it clear from the beginning- words flowed smoothly. If I had to point out two reasons why you should read it, they would be:

1. It is a collection of essays and you can choose to skip one if you don’t find it interesting and move on to the next (no, I didn’t do that) without missing the link.

2. It is about India- something all Indians can relate to. However, Tharoor dedicated it to his wife Christa “in the hope of introducing her to my India” and hence also acts as a guide for all non-Indians who wish to sail through the history of a land of snake-charmers, brilliant mathematicians and the greatest democracy in the world.

In his book, Shashi is able to portray a very true picture of India, thanks to his access to the most ‘untouched’ of the bureaucrats both inside and outside the geographical boundaries of the nation to the ones considered “untouchables” in this country.

Tharoor takes up the subject of the tale of an extraordinary transformation of an equally extraordinary nation that has been able to evoke deference from rest of the world, both secretly and candidly, for a wide spectrum of reasons. He clearly believes in the importance of Indian middle class in this transformation. Tharoor outlines the evils that made India what he calls “a highly developed one in an advanced state of decay”. Of course, there is no denying the fact that India once boasted of the best mathematicians, scientists, philosophers and poets. Besides, this has been the land of religious toleration (He cites the example of the Jews who after facing the wrath of all nations found shelter in Kerala). The author points out how we have let our rich heritage go down the drain over time.

Of the current social evils, he has been vehemently vocal about the politics over Hindutva by a vengeance-seeking group of vandals who have no understanding of arguably the most tolerant religion in the world. Tharoor laments, among several others, the rising challenge of illiteracy, the graph that challenges to beat China in terms of population, the falling trend in wearing saris (taking into account the difficulties it poses), the increasing belief in superstitions amongst the “educated” and the increasing re-naming of cities, roads and railway stations!

Tharoor is also proud of the fact that India has a Bangalore (ah, Bengalooru), that cellphones are selling like hot cakes in India, that it still produces brilliant minds that rule the Silicon Valley half a world away and how we all are minorities in this country (a very interesting conclusion he has repeatedly harped upon) with more differences than similarities and still manage to stay together in harmony.

Besides, Tharoor writes about the ever-increasing craze over a game he is equally mad about- cricket. And of course, he mentions the Bollywood heroes who are worshipped not just in India. He writes about Ajanta caves, the legacy of St. Stephen’s College, Sunil Gavaskar, the attitude of Indians towards NRIs and the mushrooming of call-centers with equal ease.

He turns out to be a great fan of Gandhiji, equally of Nehru, not as much of Indira and somewhat of ‘Congress’. But he also points out the flaws with each of them. He is indebted to the individuals that made India India: from Gandhi to Tagore, from a not-so-known nun Mariam Thresia to the genius Ramanujan, from the savant Amartya Sen to his beloved family.

A polymath himself, Shashi has indeed done a wonderful job, his wide knowledge about the country he considers his despite not having lived here for quite some years, exuding all over the place in his book. Of course, Shashi hasn’t listed the solutions to all the evils marring the face of this nation but has indeed done a brilliant research on the root-cause analysis of several of them. The best thing about him is- you can’t research and write things you don’t care about- so, his concerns are genuine, unlike most other politicians of our age. Cheers to his vision of India!

PS: To find out the reason behind the title of the book, read it.

The Album

Leafing through the album

Out of boredom,

I ran across some photographs-

Clicked at a time

When there were only laughs.

Plain in-house celebrations

To gorgeous neighborhood weddings,

The small town that lent me wings

And the city that let me fly in the breeze.

The soothing touch of mother

That withered not in weather;

Fun and frolic with friends at the sea

When days were carefree;

At the terrace with siblings

Exchanging interpretations of dreams.

The hazy analog family shots

Or the rehearsed digitals,

These are memories frozen on paper or bits

Don’t know if they’re gold or gilts,

But when they said- ‘All that glitters is not gold’

It felt so good to see-

All that matters is still not sold...