Crossing the World of Mundane and Magical

Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

On the surface, Sputnik Sweetheart is a study of sexuality, one of different types and shades – lesbianism, asexuality, heterosexuality and maybe more which might have escaped my notice. Like other works of Haruki, this one is also situated in cosmopolitan Japanese landscape which occasionally crosses boundaries and reaches Europe and other places but the most frequent trip is to the realm of fantasy, seemingly unreal, the other unseen side, beyond or inside the mirror. Together in the trip are music and books and exploration of what remains hidden behind the unconsciousness and sub-consciousness. Startling one may find it but the characters in the novel come to terms with it taking it as the way the cosmos operates! Be it Sumire or Miu or the unnamed narrator. Name is not even important. Just like when in the novel, a security guard shouts his full name, it does not generate any response whatsoever. Murakami has a command over transforming a mundane occurrence or event into something totally surreal and dream-like and vice-versa. Even an act of looking at your palm does not remain too familiar a thing to let it go. And this is what makes him different and makes us crave for him, pages after pages, and books after books.

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More than Being a Media Adviser

The Accidental Prime Minister : The Making and Unmaking of Manmohan Singh by Sanjaya Baru


“The Accidental Primeminister “ is a light read and even engages those who are not very much fond of politics. Who would not like to know the gossips and manipulations in the well-lit power alleys of Lutyens' Delhi! But the book offers more than that. It goes beyond the projected image of and public perception about Manmohan Singh and delves deep into the complexities of decision making process at the highest echelon of power. As it is well known that such processes are always convoluted, expedient, involving lots of risk and potential rewards, and above all often guided by politics than principle. Manmohan Singh had a more tough time because of his perceived lack of political acumen and diffident nature. Despite all this, he managed to lead the government for two full terms, first one relatively smooth than the second one. Mr. Baru served as Media Adviser at PMO in first term and hence discusses at length about the events of that time. He was also supposed to return in the second term but as hinted in the book, could not do so because of his disgruntled ex-colleagues, political leaders and ministers. Obviously being in office and working so closely with PM lends credibility to his claims and gossips and to a large extent gives us account of the behind-the-scenes of events like Nuclear Deal with USA, negotiations with Pakistan on Jammu and Kashmir. Personally, I wish that some other officers serving at that time in PMO also publish their memoir which would help us to connect the dots and make a sense of the stories untold or half told in this book.

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The White Shirt

(A super-naturalized, fictionalized and tampered account of a night at a friend’s home)

It was a strange night; it was not supposed to be but turned out to be one. It all started with a benign, in-the-heat-of-the-moment invitation by my close married friend to spend an evening together. I have gone there many times and had no reason to say no and so just said yes. He stays with his wife, he and she, only two members in entire two BHK flat. We were supposed to discuss monotony of a modern existence and ways to ignite and sustain creativity. It started with all possible mundane activities, I took a city bus to suburban Ahmedabad right after my office got over and it brought me exactly where he lived. I had messaged him about my catching bus and did not bother to see the reply lest he makes some excuse and solves his crisis on his own. I desperately wanted to be part of the solution, I was so so keen to pontificate, show off my skill of navigating through tough phases of existence through some clever talks.

The moment I entered room, things welcomed me more than the host couple. Copper flower vase was holding some more flowers. A very small all plastic flower vase with small plastic plant and tiny leaves wanted my attention. I just ignored and went ahead to shake hand with my friend and his wife. We sat down and slipped into small talks as if to make background for coming greater reflection on existential dilemma and such lofty ideas. Lady of the house offered some snacks and I don’t know why but it felt there was a breakdown somewhere, a landslide or maybe a major earthquake. When I gathered my consciousness, it was a different place. We were in a small village of Orissa. I, though, chose to ignore this sudden change and kept myself busy in snacks and small talks.

My friend’s wife told us to go to a village pond nearby. If she had any ulterior motive to send us off, we were not aware but anyway our supposedly intellectual discussion demanded an apt location. It appeared to be a good proposition and who can deny a stroll around a pond in a village of Orissa? The next moment we were talking and laughing and acted normal as if nothing unusual is happening. Just Robin Sharma happened to pass by. I maintained a calm demeanour and did not go to take his autograph on “Greatness Guide” written by him. I had long read this book and was waiting for this moment when he meets me somewhere and I totally see through him just to make him realize how bad his ideas are on self-help. May be they might have worked for others but surely not for me. To lighten the moment, I told my friend I would rather read him (my friend) than any famous writer. He was busy with Kafka. I was so much overwhelmed with this writer and his complexity that I did not dare go near him and ask for his autograph. My friend chatted for a while and then they both parted. He asked me whether I liked Kafka. He is such a big writer, it is impossible to pass my own judgement. He understood my dilemma and gave me word to express myself. Yes, I am so much in ‘awe’ of him that I cannot say anything. On the way, a young plump lady with his plumper son passed by. My friend exchanged greetings with her (of course in Oriya) and gave a warm pat to young boy’s back.

On the way, there was an open shop of hundreds of magazines and books. I just took “The Newyorker” from the bunch of magazines and started showing it to him. He even offered me his favourite monthly “Harvard Business Review”. I was elated seeing “Granta” on the rack too. It was a special issue on India. All familiar Indian- English writers were there on the stall. I did not have time to meet all of them. I just smiled at them and they smiled back at me. In the far corner was Sitakant Mahapatra, my friend showed me. We had not much interest to go to him. With Mahapatra was another Oriya poet who writes in English. I could not identify him, his poems I have read in my graduation and loved them. After a while, we were tired and sat on a nearby bench. We had taken a toll on the monotony of life. Everything seemed afresh. We promised each other to take more such strolls, if possible with more of our like-minded friends who were willing to read magazines, books and meet writers and write themselves. I am damn sure no one knew here at this pond is such a big display of magazines and such writers come. Why on earth do they come! Are they not supposed to go only to big book launch parties and fancy literary festivals. They might be getting tired and what can be more salubrious than a moony stroll on a pond of a small village of Orissa.

It was getting late and we were almost sure that the lady must have finished cooking and we don’t have to move even a single potato and hence right time to go home. Though, it was not to be. She was still unfinished and two minds what to cook. Okra and potato sautéed in the morning was still lying there on the kitchen platform in a big uncovered bowl. She prepared food alone while we pretended to carry on with our high talks. Actually, we were ogling at some Pakistani women with big eyes and shampooed straightened lustrous hair. Isn’t it strange! Pakistani women in an Orissa village!

She served us dalma, rice, roti and the same sautéed okra and potato. We ate to our heart’s content and afterwards I licked my finger as if not to let the flavour wash away in the basin.

I was anxious to leave early so that to reach Gandhinagar on time. I was doing my mental calculations. Isn’t it too far from Orissa to Gandhinagar! If I start early night, might reach in morning. And then I will attend office in fresh clothes otherwise will have to go in the same dirty ones. This idea of going in same sweaty shirt nauseated me and I was fully determined to leave. And then, the unexpected happened again. Audrey Hepburn was there in her floral design knee length frock, all her slender self and narrow waist. She held my hand and made me sit on the faux leather sofa. My friend greeted her and made a request to take a seat too. Closely followed Gary Cooper too with his broad shoulder and sharp jaw and sleek suit. Lady of the house was suspicious towards Audrey. She had reasons too. My friend was gazing at Audrey continuously. To the extent that Audrey sometimes felt uncomfortable. I think that is what prompted my friend’s wife to retire to the bed so early. Usually she is all awake and talking, giggling with us till wee hours of the day.

I completed left the idea of going home. Going directly to the office was my plan B, even in same last day dirty clothes.

We all chatted till past midnight, me, my friend, Audrey and Gary. They shared how they met and fell in love and decided to settle in New York. It was love in afternoon being narrated at midnight in a small village of Orissa. At around 2 AM, they took leave and we were all tears. I was sure Audrey was going to appear in my dream. My friend was totally overwhelmed and I even teased him saying he was getting too melodramatic.

Early morning alarm of the mobile phone waked me up. And lo and behold, it was again the same suburban Ahmedabad flat of my friend’s house. I reluctantly got up and washed myself. Maid was knocking at the door. My friend’s wife opened the door. I proceeded to wake him up. He was too tired and sleepy but nevertheless came to drawing room. I chatted with him while he ritually kept sliding his mobile screen, back and forth, up and down, left and right. Relaxed was I now as had no hurry to attend office from Orissa to Ahmedabad. Morning air had stopped. After all, it was not the same village we were at night. I took milk and stuffed my tiffin with hurriedly made roti and cabbage. It slowly dawned on me that normality had been restored to the last night’s upheaval. But it was not to be. I noticed the last evening small all plastic flower vase with small plastic plant and tiny leaves had grown big, quite big and bloomed and was full of white flowers. Just to be part of this magic or maybe to break this spell, I plucked all those flowers and wore it. Now, was not in my sweaty last day shirt. I was ready and confident to attend my office. 

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The Last E-mail

It is my last day at my present office where I have spent more than five years of my checkered life with people who have become more than family, family in the sense of spending so much time together, sharing laughter and tears, working on assignments- complicated and easy and monotonous. Coming every day and looking at same faces have never stopped mesmerizing me. They are all sorts of people –fun-loving, practical, idealistic agnostic, serious, religious, garrulous, reticent, and what not. They all got skills and personality traits of different kinds. Whatever be their inclination and preferences, every one of them gives a new insight to life, a novel perspective to see things and an inspiration to acquire what they so authoritatively possess. What would be life without their presence, without their magical touch, without their warmth and without their support! I am what I am because of those wonderful people whom I met as a stranger and gradually became inseparable. And still it is moment to part our ways. Seems unbelievable that we won’t eat together during lunch hours, won’t have tea during dull moments, won’t laugh over silly stuff, won’t talk on phone incessantly over some grim matter, won’t argue over what course of action to follow to make our programme more successful and much more. It has taken some time to dawn on me this realization and had a tough time reconciling with it.

Environment has become an easy scapegoat on the name of development and now we as the vanguards of watershed programme are in a more demanding situation where we have to strive more vigorously to restore balance between the seemingly two opposite but actually complimentary wheels of human survival.

An efficient organization is where knowledge does not flow only horizontally but also vertically. Suggestions are sought not only from people at upper level of the hierarchy but also from the ones who are at lower level. This process of demystification of knowledge has so palpably happened here in our young organization. I am witness to this process where our MIS coordinators are not busy only in data crunching but have also intricate understanding of the programme. Our young lanky and sweet peon knows how to classify files just like a skilled clerk. Our driver knows which EPA activity is more suited to watershed programme. We are never tired of sharing a story of one of our messenger who used to work at one district and he was more capable than many of us in many areas. A matter of satisfaction and a reflection of the truth that it is people who make the organization and not vice versa.

We together have traversed unknown terrains, experimented, piloted and miserably failed and gloriously triumphed and have scaled new heights. In the end, more than our triumphs and failures, its journey with all its excitements and anxiety which remain with us to tickle in the moments of solitude when none is around, yet we don’t feel lonely.

This wonderful journey is coming to a halt but it has shaped me to a hopefully better person and a better professional. However much people tend to criticize the government, there is no denying the fact that working with it gives us a chance to understand the age old systems, procedures and processes and people involved in different capacities. Without letting my sense of judgment getting blurred, I am now more considerate to its errors and failures. And more aware of the magnitude of the implications of those errors and failures on public at large.

It is time to seek your forgiveness, your blessings and your promise of never putting the carpet of oblivion over our shared memories.

One may term it my wishful thinking, but my conviction murmurs me firmly that we all will cross our paths more often and more pleasantly. After all, world is such a small place and its getting smaller day by day.

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The Politics of Love

I am dealing with three separate cases of my near and dear ones who are trying to cope up with the repercussions of their broken heart and home, reason being ostensibly love, pyar wala love, calf love, mature wala love as well.

One of the most basic instincts, love, has triggered epoch-making events and turned the course of history. It is way beyond what biology textbooks would like us to believe and hence nothing surprising if right wing nationalists have seized it as a weapon to wield power over the masses and have forced its own version of “what love should constitute” and strived tirelessly to determine how it can be indianised and expressed. Ends and employing means to achieve them, both have found little resonance with today’s youth except few indoctrinated ones. Reassuring as it may sound, the recent dictat of VHP have met few takers. Few state actors have tried to provide their backing and announced Valentine Day as Matru Pitru Diwas (Parents Day).

At times, I wonder why there is so much public outcry, real or staged, over such a tender and intimate feeling. Is not the path of love is already so complex that these bloody fellows are hellbent to make it more so by their stupid ways and turning it more meandering and narrower, So narrow that not even being one lets u pass through the highway of love and thereby proving proposition of Kabir false:

प्रेम गली अति संकरी, तामें दाऊ न समाई |

जब में था तब हरी नहीं, अब हरी है में नाहीं ||

(The street of love is very narrow, two can’t pass through it at the same time

When I was, there was no God(hari), now there is God but I am not)

Giving every incident a stupid religious undertone has assumed ridiculous proportions. “Love Jihad” is a case in point. As far as I know, this so called love jihad has enabled some of the most beautiful love stories I know. People involved have braved all odds and overcame all obstacles and finally emerged lover in the true sense. One glance at them to make any heart melt, one tale of theirs is sure to change any heart. They are no less than our own legendery Laila Majnu and Romeo Juliet. Only pairing is novel: like Laila Romeo and Majnu Juliet.

Let love find its own path, grant it its innate fluidity, make society break manmade artificial barriers and embrace love in its myriad forms: be it between different religions or castes or between same sex, be it between rich or poor and be it between people of different colours!

The one who are so opposed to the idea of love are themselves not immune to it. Cupid (ok ji kaamdev) must have struck them some time somewhere someway too. Is it Freudian repressed suppressed feelings that are rearing  ugly head in the form of meaningless protests and violence!

Commercialization in its crudest form has gripped not only the concept of love but many other joys of life. So for that reason only, should we stop loving and expressing. Should we stop buying cards because its origin is foreign and company is American! Choose not to buy them if you don’t wish so but why to stop those couples exchanging such cards with a sweet little peck if they believe this is how love is expressed!

In a time where bonds of romance is being often smashed by money and power and nihilists are appearing to be winning the fight of life, there is more the need to reinforce feeling of love among ourselves.

So when the day of valentine is coming to a close, it seems nothing untoward has happened as such but their nefarious designs have succeeded nevertheless, design of engaging public discourse and claiming space more than they deserve. Would they care to help my near and dear ones overcome their lovelorn heart or will they keep causing more such cases, choice is theirs.

If love is so liberating, why try to shackle and limit it! On this Valentine Day, let us express our love to everyone who is opposed to the idea and way of love. Just I wish they try to change themselves a bit, be a bit more tolerant and accommodative. 

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Mufflerman has Swept Delhi Clean with a New Improved Broom!

My chance encounter with an auto rickshaw driver, who took me to my meeting venue, had foretold me the Delhi election verdict in August, 2014 itself. He was all praises for then disgraced and seemingly hopeless arvind kejriwaal post Varanasi debacle and predicted with dead certainty that Kejriwalji will return to power. I listened to the Autowallah, maybe because I was stunned by his pronouncements of declaring a spent force to not only take note of but also emerging as a winner. Blinded by the BJP onslaught of everything AAP did and stood for, I, like many, chose to downplay and almost laugh off the the Autowallah.

As it stands, the Autowallah has proved more correct that he sounded that time. AAP has caught not only the imagination of aam janta by its ubiquitous and soon-to-be legendary muffler but has set a new standard for political parties in all areas like canvassing strategy, leadership projection, perception building, manifesto making and everything related to Indian election. The canvassing approach of Mr. Kejriwal has the ring of a familiar style of an apologetic yet sincere next-door guy who comes to us after a tiff and says: Yaar galti ho gayi, ab jaan loge kya (Bro! I made mistake, would you kill me for that!). It seems this style has worked on Delhi electorate. The landslide victory of AAP, as newspaper headlines would scream, has cleansed every single sin of Kejriwal and the electioneering of Yogendra Psephologist Yadav has been vindicated.

Amit Shah, the Chanakya of BJP, must be wondering what went wrong when almost everyone saw the writing on the wall for BJP in advance from the moment Kiran Bedi was foisted upon the party. This self-professed master stroke of his has turned into a reason of stroke for many leaders within the party. Delhi electorate, disappointed by the ever increasing communal voices of wayward leaders and failing in promises made by BJP, has spoken and spoken loudly and clearly. BJP would not have thought that even leader of opposition post would become such a distant dream! What a mirror image of Loksabha election of 2014 in Delhi election of 2015! Has the magic of Modi fizzled out or is it Bedi who could not take the heat of either television interviews or election campaigns. In between her campaign, she lost her voice literally and post election, she has lost her face as well.  How prudent a decision of Bedi was to decline the one-to-one debate offered by Kejriwal. She appeared to be constantly avoiding a direct face-off with Kejriwal. Voters must have taken it as her fatal frailty and not as feminine modesty.

Ascendancy of AAP can find its parallel only in the downfall of the Congress. It seems the hidden agenda of both AAP and BJP was to take congress down to zero which they have achieved without much effort on their part. Certainly, Grand Old Party has refused to learn its lessons but Ajay Maken and Kiran Ahluwalia must be congratulated for taking up the gauntlet and keep trying to turn a clearly bilateral fight into a tripartite one.

Short period of forty nine days was wasted in staging Dharna, tackling alleged prostitution ring, lamenting over non-cooperation of opposition parties and scoring brownie points. AAP will have to be cautious not to repeat the past mistakes and be diligent in implementing its transformative agenda as pledged and not indulge in political posturing and non-significant issues. It has come on the tall promises of lowering electricity rent, ending corruption, promoting liberal politics, reining in corporates-politicians nexus and so forth. It is right time and bold opportunity to meet those promises. No more hanky panky, please.

Listening to Aam Admi does pay off as it has done for AAP Party. I would be now more willing to pay heed to my autowallh Bhaiya, they clearly are more clued-up on the pulses of Aam Janta than Chanakya surrounded by too many wannabe Chandraguptas. 

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So Vogue is “Magazine of the Year”!!

How many of us have heard of the Ellies awards (interestingly named after elephant shaped trophies) being given every year in America. Not many I guess in India. At least not as many who know about the Oscars and Emmy. So, when some random browsing on the internet landed me on the page of American Society of Magazine Editors (who sponsors this award), it was a pleasant surprise. So, at least there is some institution which recognizes the worth of printed words somewhere, somehow. But the next moment, this ephemeral satisfaction was gone. Vogue has been chosen the magazine of the year (2015)! There was a boring unanimity in the shocked response across the board. Is it not the same magazine which unabashedly promotes fur and anorexic models? And what is there to read except looking at photoshopped models in their weird haute couture and giving a blank stare. 

Whatever be the responses, I was thrilled by the fact that Americans still have some institution to show their solidarity with magazines and I started wondering if there is a corresponding arrangement here in India! Perhaps we don’t have. And my immediate proposition was: can’t we handover the charge of awarding our poor magazines to one of those multiple award dispensers who are too enthusiastic to honour the pampered Bollywood fraternity. Come January and every second guy appears to organize glamorous extravagant Nights for our much derided yet exalted Bollywood industry where awards are fixed just like our cricket matches!

My-magazine-awards-in-india Google search threw obscure printweek India awards which was entirely off the mark for my intended search. I was just expecting that there must be some wannabe Indian version of this award in India just like The Caravan is that of The Newyorker.

In an age which is witnessing growing apathy towards reading in general, it is heartening to see people recognized for their contribution towards the promotion of magazines. Mode of entertainment has seen a topsy-turvy. Who knew just few years back that WhatsApp would be so much claiming and shaping our life for better or worse? The emergence of “10 most wonderful shits to worry about” format of articles has also perhaps contributed to less of reading and more of couch potato type instant impatient entertainment where we have more to look at .gif images with oversimplified generic pronouncements well tailored to make us agree while our attention is divided between silly pictures and ping of WhatsApp.

These awards, however much rigged and fixed it may be, act as a guide to fish best piece of writings from the ocean of worthless ones and saves our labour which we can put into use by reading the already chosen ones. There may be probable dangers in this approach though. In already chosen piece of write-ups, we may miss out on equally deserving but somehow not awarded works. But, let us have faith in the judgment of the jury of these awards. Won’t it be worth spending our time in relishing some of the best pieces rather than puzzling over what to read and what to ignore. Anyways, who stops us to have a look at those works which have failed to impress the jury! We cannot give award to everyone anyways.

At a time when reading is on the wane in USA, there are still a number of quality magazines being published there. More importantly, they influence and shape the public discourse. Does this proliferation of magazines because of America being a rich nation and full of resources and can afford to publish these many magazines despite their untenable circulation. May be this is one of the factors but it needs a deeper introspection to analyze the reasons of existence/survival of so many quality magazines in a single country.

So which are the other countries which have such award? Not many and this may be matter of dubious relief for us, but if looked holistically, it is not a good trend. Almost every country worth its name will have some kind of award for its film fraternity, so why this generousness is not extended to the wordsmiths of magazines? If not for any other reason, Canada and America must be congratulated for felicitating their magazines which I guess must be one important factor in making this industry flourish there.

I crave for a magazine like the Newyorker or Granta in my country too. Perhaps that’s the reason as well that Jhumpa lahiris, Upamanyu Chatterjis and Hari Kunzrus prefer sending their write-ups to The Newyorker and Granta than a desi magazine. So even if I am not elated at Vogue being declared magazine of the year, I m glad that there is something called “magazine of the year”! More power to them. 

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