Many things have been happening around us and for quite some time. These come down to us in snippets and it is often impossible to see it all as a part of a single canvas. It is no painting and I probably went overboard with 'canvas'--let's use the word 'page'.
Rajat Gupta is close to being imprisoned and D Raja and Yedurappa are in deep trouble. I am delighted! Money making, as we Indians are in error in conjecturing, is not the sole purview of the politician. Corporate corruption goes hand-in-glove with political corruption. In fact, what politicians receive is a puny cut--the business men are the ones who who mint the real mullah. And, this is one of the greatest gifts of post-liberalization India. Liberalization has meant quite a few things to the middle class. You can buy a house, a car or a television far more easily than when your world was quite close to "Wagle ki Duniya.' You can transfer and withdraw money easily and air tickets are cheap and you can carry a cell phone even if you manage to starve most of the days. But, hang on. Are these markers of change in opportunities or a publicity driven change of your consumption basket? In other words, has our Marginal Utility maths gone for a toss?
But more importantly the larger maths, the maths of social utility, has indeed gone for a toss.
On 18 July 2011, The Economic Times carried a report on Narayanamurthy's take on India and its Human Development Index ranking. He said that we ourselves are to blame for our 119 rank. As if we needed Infosys to know as much! One of the reasons why we have not done our due to the millions who go hungry (except for trying to redefine the poverty barrier so that we have fewer poor to show!) is that the government has nothing better to do than dupe Kashmiris, free bandwidth licenses, nuke neighbours (or at least claim to do as much) and fend extremely fishy reformists like Anna Hazare. What are the things that capture our imagination? In Delhi, people are really angry that Metallica cancelled its show, really excited that India has been a fantastic host to Lady Gaga, F1 and all that jazz. The other thing that people talk about is 'corruption' of the likes of politicians and civil servants. I am amazed that none of us ever bother to question the real crooks. When was the last time that we saw a business man on the docks? Well, it was right when reforms had started and our businessmen did not know how to hide, and we had caught Harshad Mehta. Politicians face tax-fraud raids, land in jail, and die in anonymity but nothing happens to Subroto Roy who has no business to show but all the money to host F1 races. The race track cost us ten billion rupees, cost farmers land and livelihood and generated only ten thousand jobs!
Ponty Chaddha, inebriated drivers mowing down people on the street with Lamborghini at 200mph, Kingfisher fishing for public money for a bale out, the list is endless the scams scarier than ever before. Bofors pales before the Bhopal and yet fewer politicians bother. How many strikes has the CPM called for Bhopal or for that matter illegal mining in India? This is indeed a paradise for Lutherans. I mean, come on, can we not spare the pope and catch the money laundering pirates who set up colonies and turned nations into slaves with impunity? Can we shift our protests from Ram Lila ground to Dalal street and silicon valley in Bangalore? Not really.
Well then, take a hike.
Monday, February 27, 2012
My evenings, of late
My evenings have become more vulnerable to emptiness. Hence, I mingle in the crowd, try to retain the dying nip of the last winter breeze on my skin and in half-lit alleys find sights and smells so lost on me for many years.
She and I walked together in an evening bazaar looking for little things—nimki, gods with mountains in their hands, tungsten bulbs, stuff from a frail tailor--and I see this sweet shop in the corner. Mother and son sit together and the son dotingly gobbles kachouris. The shop is poorly lit, the walls and the staff are greased with soot, the wooden benches would creak if a fly moved on them, but people thronged it nevertheless. Once upon a time, even I looked forward to radha ballavi and chholar daal from ‘Bardhaman Mishtanno Bhandar’ when Ma and I went to get veggies from Benachity Bazaar in the evening. Dashakarma Bhandar , vegetable chops, vegetable sellers at Ghosh Market, my father’s scooter parked at Salbagan—memories rushed in Bergsonian style. I am no Eliot, I am no Pound and I write a blog with dreary irregularity. I loved it all. After many days, I felt outside the ‘here’ and the ‘now’. It was so light, the wind so sharp, the shadows so endearing.
The World Book Fair is in town. That evening she had left early and I was with my friends, two of them. They are a couple and they walked ahead. They had been friends for long, very long. I’d always wished that each of them had someone to love, someone to go back to. Now they are together—hand in hand, quiet and whispering, mature and thinking. Later we go for dinner. In the meanwhile, he smokes a cigarette and I gobble some mishit—in secrecy that lasts less than a quarter of an hour. But, I remember those days at Patparganj. Again, I am somewhere else and I feel happy as I drift.
She and I sit in a cafe. It is upmarket stuff. It is at Cafe market and we sit on the terrace overlooking yellow lights and a white Audi. The white walls wear a worn look. Cheap lights wired to a net on the terrace blink . Cigarette smoke and full-throttled political bull shit abound. The corner becomes warm and nice as I look into her eyes. The food is bad but we love the place. We take an auto after that. It is pretty cold. Cars rush on NH 24. A bespectacled greying man drives past us . He drives a badgered and much battered Maruti 800 oblivious of time and speed. He is the gentlest man I have glimpsed in this city. I see the wheels of a lorry roll ferociously and I keep looking at the wheels. It wheezes past us. A man is cuddled on the cardboard box wrapped in a blanket oblivious of time and speed. I wish I too could sleep such a sleep.
She and I walked together in an evening bazaar looking for little things—nimki, gods with mountains in their hands, tungsten bulbs, stuff from a frail tailor--and I see this sweet shop in the corner. Mother and son sit together and the son dotingly gobbles kachouris. The shop is poorly lit, the walls and the staff are greased with soot, the wooden benches would creak if a fly moved on them, but people thronged it nevertheless. Once upon a time, even I looked forward to radha ballavi and chholar daal from ‘Bardhaman Mishtanno Bhandar’ when Ma and I went to get veggies from Benachity Bazaar in the evening. Dashakarma Bhandar , vegetable chops, vegetable sellers at Ghosh Market, my father’s scooter parked at Salbagan—memories rushed in Bergsonian style. I am no Eliot, I am no Pound and I write a blog with dreary irregularity. I loved it all. After many days, I felt outside the ‘here’ and the ‘now’. It was so light, the wind so sharp, the shadows so endearing.
The World Book Fair is in town. That evening she had left early and I was with my friends, two of them. They are a couple and they walked ahead. They had been friends for long, very long. I’d always wished that each of them had someone to love, someone to go back to. Now they are together—hand in hand, quiet and whispering, mature and thinking. Later we go for dinner. In the meanwhile, he smokes a cigarette and I gobble some mishit—in secrecy that lasts less than a quarter of an hour. But, I remember those days at Patparganj. Again, I am somewhere else and I feel happy as I drift.
She and I sit in a cafe. It is upmarket stuff. It is at Cafe market and we sit on the terrace overlooking yellow lights and a white Audi. The white walls wear a worn look. Cheap lights wired to a net on the terrace blink . Cigarette smoke and full-throttled political bull shit abound. The corner becomes warm and nice as I look into her eyes. The food is bad but we love the place. We take an auto after that. It is pretty cold. Cars rush on NH 24. A bespectacled greying man drives past us . He drives a badgered and much battered Maruti 800 oblivious of time and speed. He is the gentlest man I have glimpsed in this city. I see the wheels of a lorry roll ferociously and I keep looking at the wheels. It wheezes past us. A man is cuddled on the cardboard box wrapped in a blanket oblivious of time and speed. I wish I too could sleep such a sleep.
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