Serious Stuff and Some Gossips

Durbar by Tavleen Singh
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Tavleen Singh, the writer of Durbar, emerges as a brave journalist with high contacts and privileged access to high profile drawing rooms and she generously used these capabilities to make the book an interesting chronicle of the time when Indira and Rajeev ruled the country and strengthened the root of dynastic politics. Many of the events described in the book had already taken place when I was born and many of them happened when I was too young to make any sense of them. So, there has always been a curiosity to get some first-hand account of incidents like emergency, operation blue star, sikh riots, assassination of Mr. Gandhi, Bofors scandal and of course gossips of those times. The book offers them all and even more. It is her memoir of political events and being a political journalist of vast experience, her portrayal of the characters of those times appears quite authentic and believable. She does not shy away from putting Mr. Gandhi and Sanjay Gandhi in dock for the extremities of emergency, holding Rajiv Gandhi responsible for not being able to contain the riots post the assassination of his mother. Few gossips like - Sonia Gandhi was fond of fur coat and used to purchase them from Soviet Union but did not like the stitching and used to send them to fashion house Fendi to get it re-stitched- and many such juicy drawing room discussions provide comic relief in the book and give an insight into the human frailties of the high and mighty of Delhi Dynasty. But it does not mean that author spares herself. On the contrary, she is brutally honest about her own ignorance of the Indian society and how she was part of the same high-class social circles but her journalistic engagements enabled her to see the real India long hidden by the high-walled building of Lutyen’s Delhi. On the expense of sounding hyperbolic, let me tell it anyway, Tavleen Singh appears to be a character from the novel Midnight Children, her fate and presence always crossing the epoch making moments of her time. Incidentally, her own personal story is very interesting especially her relation with irresistible suave Mr. Salman Taseer ( our own charming Simi Garewal also dated him) and a very well-known author came to this world thanks to this brief affair- Atish Taseer who later based his bestselling memoir cum travelogue on this personal story.

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A Rebellious Heart

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

“’The reluctant fundamentalist” is everything except about a fundamentalist. I have read first time a book written by a Pakistani about a Pakistani in America. Only reading few pages was sufficient to take it off from the shelf and get it issued on my name and it did keep its promises till the last page. Narrated by the central character, entire novel revolves around him, his love interest, his American job and even American dream which gets fulfilled only to get unravelled afterwards due to that atrocious-notorious-whatever-you-call event in at least the American history: 9-11 attack. How the attack subconsciously and consciously affect an individual is what Mr. Mohsin Hamid, the author of the novel, strives to depict through his work and in such a believable manner. Changez, the central character, is a brilliant guy who has come to America to realize all those dreams he cannot do being in his own country or if I may say so in his own continent. American official stance of either-you-are-with-me-or-with-terrorists alienated many of his liberal supporters and planted the seed of mistrust among youths like Changez. As an Indian, I empathize with him when he invokes Asia, the mother continent and he ruffles few feather when he appears to be a bit more biased against India. But as a neutral literary reader, the novel provides enough moments to entertain us, educate us, engage us and above all help us grow neutral or even more positive views towards Pakistan, a country we are taught to loathe.

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Heart and Soul and Love

गुनाहों का देवता / Gunahon Ka Devta by Dharamvir Bharati (धर्मवीर भारती)
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I was proved wrong; "Gunahon Ka Devta" is not a crime novel, on the contrary, it is about more tender feelings and kinder characters. It is the story of love and sacrifice, societal norms and self-imposed boundaries, generational gaps and bridging them. For how long, lovers will be condemned to perpetual pining and sobbing on the altar of arranged marriage and respect for elders? The novel raises many such questions and strives to answer even few of them. No more such situation is prevalent in our society except enforced by few khap like institutions and hence the events do sometimes appear anachronistic. But the softness of unspoken feelings is timeless. It is there in the heart of Sudha and Chandar and this is what makes them memorable characters, ones we can relate to while we were their age. Dharmveer Bharti is a master of his craft and his prose is poetic, just like his poetry. In his foreword to the novel, he confesses inadequacies of this novel but we as a reader can afford to overlook them because of many of its positive aspects. Plot is taut and apt is the narrative style, never deviating from the core theme. His characters read Shelley and Browning and Keats. You can guess from where come all those romantic idealist thoughts to them! Understandably, his take on caste-based discrimination is very progressive. The landscape of the novel is dotted not only with lovelorn characters but also with pragmatic ones and counterbalances each other. I won’t say it is a must read but it is indeed a good read if you are interested in Hindi literature and are fond of the pursuit of the concept of an ideal love and the roads of Allahabad.

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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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