The Jaipur Literature Festival, 2016

Okay. So I shake out my cold nervous fingers to get some heart back into them, a spiritual response to the gargantuan task of chronicling the phenomenon that was the Jaipur Literature Festival, 2016.

Here goes.

JLF, the world's largest free literary festival, is quickly becoming a must-do for us. We went for the first time in 2014, and left fascinated. 2015 saw yours truly participating in, and winning, one of their contests, and consequently becoming the recipient of free accommodation for the duration of the festival, but due to unforeseen circs, in the form of upset innards of the significant other, the year failed to see our jubilant selves at ye olde Diggi grounds. Though the final month of the year more than made up for the disappointing start, when we did the litfest circuit with IIMBUE at IIM Bangalore (though technically not a litfest, but a not-so-distant cousin) and the Times Lit Fest in Mumbai.
The shenanigans at these two are now the stuff of legend, and I am living in the hope that the day shall dawn when, in between writings of great import, of the suitability and non, of girls and boys, by dint of a charitable soul and a curious mind, a two-line or even less expansive missive will be scribbled and sent on wings of ether, to my inbox. Mr Seth, I live in the hope :)

2016 dawned bright and fair. Truly, it felt like the year of change. It was time to lay in stone this new family tradition, of the annual pilgrimage to dear ol' Diggi.

This time too, I tried taking part in the creative writing contests, 'tried' being key here as I found myself having exceeded the word count on the story, and having created a beast of no mean exoticity in the poem. Of course, one cannot discount the possibility of both of these being simply underwhelming, but intact entries they were not.

Under the tyranny of not having got anything for free, one fine day we saw our bank balance visibly shrink as hard-earned cash dissolved into plane tickets and hotel bookings. But you know, we are what you call - hedonists, out and proud.

So, we arrived in Jaipur on the third day of the fest, determined to stick around till Diggi shut its gates on us on day 5. The air was nippy with promise. Color shone everywhere. The sounds of silence had given way to erudite speech, with tent upon tent of people - curious, energetic, insatiable - people.

It was a magical three days. We have come a long way in the last two years, and the span of things that interests us now is much wider, the knowledge we already hold much deeper. Made the experience even more pleasurable. I am going to try and capture some key highlights here, and to make it palatable, let me do it via my favorite social media tool of the moment - the tweet.
Now I am quite a social media savant, wearing different accounts like a modern day Edward De Bono. At JLF this time, I decided to live tweet my observations, partly to have a lasting memory of the many ideas being thrown at me, and partly to engage with others similarly inclined. Turns out I ended up belting out more than a 100 tweets over the three days, and even won a prize for one or the other - a signed copy of one of William Dalrymple's books. Some consolation :)

So am going to pick out some of the more evocative tweets, and try and transport you to those sessions, those ideas.

"The next time you see a hijra on the road, and she isn't Laxmi, show her the same respect" - Jerry Pinto, at the end of the session with Laxmi, the famous hijra.
India is indeed at some strange crossroad today, on the one hand, an unconventional person like Laxmi beams into every middle class living room as part of the BiggBoss family and on the other, women are still raped for - simply existing. I saw the crowds interact with Laxmi that day, and she was like opium for the masses. They cheered her on, applauding all her provocative sound bytes, and paying her the biggest compliment of all - that of attention. There is no doubt that India is changing, changing out of its straitjackets into garments that allow movement, but the real test of its newly minted mindset will be when no family will feel compelled to throw their gender-bending child onto the streets.
In the meantime, my review of Laxmi's book - here.

"The public doesn't want to pay for media, leaves them to the mercy of advertisers, outside funding." - Shoma Choudhury during the debate on 'Trial by media'.
Now, Shoma C is a wonder woman. Rarely have I seen somebody with such well-thought out views about such contentious topics, The panel was one of journos, from Madhu Trehan to Avirook Sen. Trial by media, that insidious outcome of a damaging set of inputs, the inputs including the usual suspects, corporate interests, favoritism culture, governmental threat but the biggest of all, without which none of this would have been sustainable - the two-headed monster of public voyeurism and public apathy. The public craves sensation as if it were a drug, and in chasing that immediate gratification of having the fastest information, it does not stop to think if it is accurate information. Living in some sort of narcotic-induced haze, neither does it care for accuracy, nor does it want to pay for it. It is indeed tragic that today public sentiment can force media outlets to take unconsidered stances that have such disastrous effects on people's lives.

"The Arab spring has told the world that we are not happy and we are unwilling anymore to live in chains." - Mona Eltahawy, the revolutionary.
Yes, we had a flaming red-haired revolutionary on the panel for the debate 'Beyond the Arab Spring'. It spoke about whether the revolts having taken place in 2011 in Tunisia, Egypt and elsewhere had failed or whether they were simply seeds sown, waiting to reap fruit over time. It was an excellent panel, comprising academics with deep knowledge about the Middle East, immigrants impacted by the dictatorship regimes and revolutionaries ready to die for their cause. You know, there is such a marked difference in the way an academic speaks versus how a revolutionary speaks. While the academic infuses her speech with refinement, a flattening out of every statement in terms of intonation, even-sounding, the revolutionary speaks with a crescendo building up towards the end of every sentence, that feeds into her next, herself getting more and more impassioned with every argument, culminating into an explosion. In this case, it was an explosion of applause that greeted the end of every one of Mona E's fiery speeches. What an experience.

"He is not serious enough to have a sense of humor." - Oscar Wilde, channelized by Stephen Fry. It was mostly entertaining to listen to him, but at times, awe-inspiring as well. And what inspired awe in me was the same old chestnut that I have been struggling with for so long - a life spent in pursuit of what you really love to do - to be or not to be. Mr Fry is a case in point, as was Mr Wilde, one with a happier story than the other. Stephen Fry's reverence for Oscar Wilde is not unknown, but I had not known how deep a connect the former feels for the latter. It is amazing and gratifying to see people live on, immortalized in another's life, inspiring generations separated from one's own.

So these were some of the sessions I loved the most. There were a host of others that were equally thought-provoking, with panels ranging from lawyers to politicos, to doctors, and social workers. From talking about the possibility of a 'Partition museum' at the borders, to a new way of looking at geriatric care, from Shashi Tharoor's intellectual quips to his equally shameless BJP-bashing at the slightest chance, from Irving Finkel's witty enthusiasm to Desraj Kali's languorous irreverence, it was a feast for the mind, heart and soul.

And how can I end without touching upon the grand debate? The debate to end all debates, that took place at the end, as a fitting climax to the five days of stimulation. Well, that's what it was supposed to be, but it turned out to be a war zone with these usually sane individuals turning into rabble rousers. And as you know, it is mighty easy to rouse the rabble these days.

"Have never seen such a politicized atmosphere in India as in the India of today. Every debate is a debate of political affiliations." - Me.

So the debate was about Freedom of Speech and more importantly whether it should be absolute or not. It had entities such an Anupam Kher and Suhel Seth on the Nay, and Madhu Trehan, Salil Tripathi and Kapil Mishra on the Aye.
It was a crazy debate, surreal, with each speaker playing to get the maximum cheers, claps and whistles, trotting out flogged-to-death arguments that a high school student could have thought of. Some bits were illuminating like Madhu Trehan's examples from her early journalistic days and her information on why article 19 was laden with qualifiers (was due to Nehru's personal insecurities as per her, have to read up on this), as were some of Salil Tripathi's comebacks acerbic enough to raise a laugh. But mostly they all of them missed the essence, choosing to debate more about Freedom of Speech and less about its Absolute-ism.
It was fun though, good to see some good ol' punch-in-the-face tactics sometimes.

And so the event wound up, and one thing that stayed with me as the organizers and festival directors said their good-byes, was Namita Gokhale invoking that rarely called upon entity, Saraswati, to bless everyone.

Porn and Popcorn

Weird thing I noticed today.

I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.

Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.

Hmmm..

The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.

But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.

Aurang-ajeeb

Aurangabad airport feels like home. It is as small as, okay not anybody's home that I have ever visited, but enough to feel cozy. I know the staff, they know me. In fact, some of the women who frisk me are on rather intimate terms, having posed a variety of questions to me, ranging from where I work to whether I am married and suggesting good naturedly (or so I choose to believe) that I should now find a good boy and tie the knot. It does feel good to come to this airport after a long day of being in the hot sun which threatens to beats me into a sweaty, pulpy mass of headache and dehydration. It does feel good to know that I am soon going to board a cute little ATR and zoom off to what is really really home.

It is a small airport, but it has international flights. It also has a good percentage of foreign passengers, what with the caves at Ajanta-Ellora being some sort of firang magnet. And that explains the availability of Diet Coke and Pepsi. I would know, being somewhat of a pro on small-town-ism that Diet drinks being available is a sure sign of the place having arrived.

But amongst all the contradictions that this airport presents me with, what really smites me between the eyes is this - Karlsburg, the International brand for men's clothing and accessories!

This airport does not have a restaurant and consequently perhaps, even working flushes, but it has a Karlsburg showroom! The sole upholder of consumerism in this kindergarten of airports! The brave lone Columbus discovering new lands, albeit a little barren but having the potential perhaps to turn into an America! Hats off to the guys who own the label in India. They have clearly been paying attention to the Diet Coke Index.

Ratnagiri Ramblings

Me: Er..Could I have a word with you?

L: I hope it's about removing that silly plastic film that you have covering me. How would you like wearing one on your face?

Me: Well, people have become maniacal about keeping you guys dust-free nowadays. I know this person, who first bought some elaborate liquid-solution-set for the purpose and has lately added a mini vacuum device to his arsenal. Would you like that? This is simpler!

L: Who is this guy! Stop hanging out with him!

Me: Errrr..hmmm..yes, will think about it. So, as I was saying, this is important..hmm..ho..hummm..yes, here it is - IthinkIwillgoexplorethetown.

L: Okay, I pick up signals which are of the speed of 3-into-ten-raised-to-you-know-what. But this even I couldn't understand!

Me: Hahaha, you are funny! (Jeez, what a moron). I said, umm..I think I will go explore the town a bit.

L(incredulously): Explore? But you never do that! You spend all your time only with me! Especially when you are not in Bombay, oops, Mumbai (Small Saffron dots blink up everywhere)!!

Me (patiently): I know, I know. But suddenly I feel that I should have some more perspective about the places I visit apart from knowing their godowns better than the back of my hand, you know?

L: No, I can't say I do.

Me: There is a world outside of this hotel room, you know.

L: Again, no.

Me: Okay look, I think you need some time off too. What with all those blue faces you have been pulling off-late. Why don't you spend some time alone and I will remove myself from the premises.

L: I have been sort-of over-worked. And spending a large part of the day cooped up like this, with nobody to talk to, while you go around gallivanting to all sorts of interesting places, it's not easy, you know.

Me: (Interesting?!) I do. Yeah, so why don't you recharge yourself, while I have a look around.

L: Hmm..sounds ok.

Narrator: No sooner than this reluctant 'ok' makes itself audible, a hole in the shape of the author appears in the door as a fast getaway is made. I mean, really fast. Before something can come up which has the potential to push all thoughts of arbit ambling through the streets of Ratnagiri to the dark recesses of said author's mind. And as you may or may not know, she has many of those. Last seen, she was sitting on a dark sandy beach along the Konkan coast, staring somberly at the sea, undoubtedly thinking thoughts of great psychological depth or universal importance.

Me: Damn. I wish this place had some Diet Coke.

Lizards and their fancy degrees

Met a man on a flight. Small flight, all of forty-five minutes and we managed to discuss the herculean work-pressures of aircraft-controllers at Atlanta airport, and insidious ways of wiring the phone so that callers are met with an engaged tone, within those forty-five minutes. Make no mistake, most of it was led by him.

He was one of those old men, who travel the world, picking up languages (he knew fifteen!), acquaintances, and a way of chatting up strangers.

At one point, he said -

A lizard stuck on the ceiling probably thinks it is holding the roof up. You young mbas have the same weird notion of yourselves. You'll think the company would go kaput were you to take an off-day. So, stop being a lizard.

The moral of this story is that old men have character, confidence. Young men? Are like investments. A man at twenty-five has just started to be what he really will be. A man at fifty has lived and even his scars have stories to tell.

South South East

The vacation was brilliant. Just what the doc had ordered. Ten days and I must have spent around ten minutes thinking about work. To add to the bliss, neither the laptop nor the phone were working for the larger part.

Thailand - don't claim to know it all. Delved into Bangkok and grazed past Pataya. Bangkok, with its many many many mega malls. I am quite the mall-rat you know. Asian food is also my thing. After making it through six weeks in China, the stir-fried noodles, Nasi Gorengs, Phad Thais etc sound heavenly and taste even better. The roads are terribly and inadequately narrow though and traffic is nightmarish in Bangkok - the worst I have ever seen, I, whose veins are hardened by the clogged up arteries of Mumbai.

One of the most striking things about Thailand - even good hotels there have scrapbooks for tourists with pictures, maps and details of places in and around they want to visit, and the last few pages of these scrapbooks are devoted to sex shows, nude beaches, places where you can get action of any and every variety, complete with pictures and addresses. Mammaries of Thigh-land.

Malaysia - is the ultimate multi-cultural hot-pot. Malays, Indians and Chinese form almost all of its population. Most of the Indians are Tamilians. There are Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, Christians and you can detect multi-racial notes in people - their features, their dressing. There are 'Happy Dipawali' signs everywhere and the newspapers talk about Beyonce's skimpily clad concert being a threat to culture and moral probity.

Kuala Lumpur is vast and sprawling. Roads, gardens, bridges, monorails, rapid transport system - all well planned out. The twin towers are grand. Could not go up as they were shut for maintenance work the day we were there.

We managed to catch a Tamil movie shooting in front of the national monument there. A dance sequence was being shot. The hero was tall and good looking, standing around watching the choreographers explain the steps to him. The choreographers had conjured up some crazy steps, same old ants-in-pants routine which looks ludicrous without the music but strangely normal with. The heroine was nowhere in sight. There was a smattering of Malays watching trying to imitate the steps. At first when the hero tried, he made mistakes and I thought to myself, just cause this idiot is better looking than the other people in the cast, he gets to be the hero. But then, they started the music and he switched on his expressions and the scene was transformed. Whereas earlier, it was pure technique I could have admired, now the entire scene came together as being paisa-vasool. He may not dance as well as the choreographers, or even the extras, may not act as well as some of the stalwart character artists, can not sing for nuts, has no talent for directing, writing, shooting, but he is the one people will pay to watch. The Hero.

Like Bangkok, there was only so much one could do in KL. We headed off to Langkawi, an island in the Andaman Sea for the next two days. And that was idyllic. The beaches were white, sandy and all of that, the waters were crystal and the people around few.

And then there was Genting. Enough cannot be said about Genting. We have all heard of white, sandy beaches and pristine waters, islands that inspire getaways and glossy catalogues. But have you heard of an entire town-ship that is indoors - complete with amusement parks, shopping boulevards, 'roadside' cafes, cinema theatres, casinos, restaurants and everything else that the average tourist can aspire for? Have you heard of hotels which have huge waiting areas, for the people who throng there every weekend and wait hours in line to get themselves checked-in? Waiting areas, with the same system of electronic numbering and counters being assigned to numbers, that is employed in banks and for railway bookings?

Genting was all that and we did some fun stuff there - like winning ten times over in Blackjack, or Pontoon like it is called there (although I did not put in any money, maybe next time I will), go-karting, boating, cable-car-riding and other normal touristy stuff. The thing I must mention here though is the free fall amusement park ride I took, where they elevate you first, let you hang in the air for some extremely anxious seconds and then let you dropppp! I must mention it because I took this ride against all instincts. I don't think am too fond of heights, as was clear from the rappelling experience earlier this year.

And then there was shopping. Ah. That the was the high-point. I got some good funda-clothes. Which means clothes which have a different funda to them. Also did some good clubbing, visited a couple of Hard Rock Cafes across. Managed to read alongside, watch a couple of seasons of Coupling and a few movies. And of course, there was the ubiquitous Starbucks. Starbucks is my happy place, it resonates with the ethos with which I want to live my life.

Nuff said. Now must get around to reading those 400 e-mails in my inbox.

Wedding belles and cow bells

Rashmi got married. We went to the reception. A whole lot of us and it was great fun. I rediscovered the joys of hanging out with more than two people at a time.

It's always a little strange to see one's friends with their family. Even stranger to see them with in-laws. It's like Copernicus discovering that the Earth is not the center of the universe.

Some time back, on one of my travels, I chanced across a Cattle Bazaar. Yes, that means a congregation of folks who want to sell their cattle and folks who want to buy those cattle. There were around a hundred buffaloes there, with their owners sitting around them, waiting for bids. The most striking thing about the whole shindig was that these cattle were all done-up like they were going to dance at Kareena Kapoor's wedding. Their vast jello bodies had been covered in abeer of various colors, some had bells on their horns, some colored ribbons. Maybe Big Ben is right. The markets do look - bullish.

As I sit and write, I steal a glance at my deflated de-beaned bag. And I just cant hold it in anymore! People of the city of Bombay - have you never wondered about Bean Bags? Not actually about bean bags, but about these two words scrawled all over the city, with a phone number in tow? I have been around in Mumbai since the past thirteen years, and in almost all of those years, have seen these omnipresent signs at the least expected of places - on asbestos sheets at constructions sites, steel pipes, chipped walls that you pass from the inside of a train. How, why, what? Which surreptitious bean-bag store owner stalks the city post mid-night and makes the whole world his visiting card? Do these owners have secret associations? The Priory of Sion? (For non-mumbai junta, Sion is also a place in central mumbai).

Back to the wedding. Kavity looked resplendent in black. Lighter, much. Deepa-sans-hubby, was the only one who knew the pain of standing on stage with arc lights beaming and strangers - coming-grinning-shaking. (Although it must be said that the bride was more preening than pained). Jags, Shahrukh-esque, 'stole' stylishly flung around neck, was the star of the trip. Don't ask me why. Katrix, though a much-improved version as far as socializing with the female of the species is concerned, spent the day with both his feet inside his mouth. Tatha, at one point, turned to me and said - Good you are here, at least one other person beside me shall be boozing. I had to pick up my jaw from the floor post this shocking revelation. Mani, the lean-mean-case-writing-machine Mani. Also gym-going, daaru-drinking, laundi-aspiring Mani. VVB, quiet, quite.

Rashmi looked like she had the whole evening in the bag. She knew what to say, whom to say to, how to say. In her element, centerstage, beautiful, shimmering, glimmering, Mrs Rammohan. Dijo promised not to read that night.

Think marriage is not all that bad. My sidie am sure will rock the other side of that prickly fence too.

Tambakoo

Some things in life are simple.

The other day in Satana, which is a town somewhere near Dhulia - if you know where that is, I learnt that the government had made it mandatory to put pictures of cancerous crabs on local zarda. Which had resulted in a 50% decline in sales.

Wow. That's cause and effect. As simple as it gets.

Back-pack and a road-map

I don't know what it is with traveling and me. One of those infamous love-hate relationships. I have traveled more than most people I know. Have lived in numerous cities, had homes in four. Traveled eighteen countries and over forty cities in Europe. Been to the far east - the land of the stinky food and chinky people. In the last year itself, have been to more than seventy cities, towns and villages in India. And I love it. I love my job and my life.

Yet, yet. Most of this is not the kind of traveling that sets my pulse racing. I dont like going to places for four days, blurring past all the hot-spots, leaving with a lot less money and a zillion photographs in my touristy bag. I dont like squeezing out time from sardines-in-a-can like day to clock in some moments as a wander-lusty tourist, laptop firmly in bag.

Traveling isn't a morning-evening journey. It isnt going to the famous Lucknawi chikan market on the way back to the airport and buying half the shop in a tizzy of excitement to carry gifts home. It isnt staying in the best hotel in Gorakhpur with toilet paper, but being too fatigued to get the ayurvedic massage in Varanasi. It isnt disembarking on the red-earth of Chiplun at 5 in the morning, having the best haafuz and pomfret that coastal Ratnagiri has to offer and then throwing-up after four hours of non-stop travel on those serpentine roads of the ghats. It isnt visiting a Sericulture farm in Kolar in between village visits, watching the moth and the female mate, after which the female gives birth and dies and the males are recycled. It isnt having the best filter coffee ever at T-nagar in Chennai in between gruelling interviews, or spending some now-missed idle moments at one of the beaches of toy-town Pondicherry in the midst of that one-week schedule packed with assembly lines, pack mats, gigantic distillation chambers and safety boots. It isnt having sweet bengali rasmalai at a dhaba on the road between sultry Kolkata and buzzing Burdhawan.

None of this is travel. Or atleast not the kind of travel that I can say I have a passion for. What is it then?

Traveling is - when you have a sense of timelessness. When you can get up at 4 in the morning and watch the sun rise, come back and sleep till noon. When you stroll aimlessly in whichever direction the wind takes you in, spend the day being a spectator, and come back with a sense of accomplishment. When you take the same buses and trams that locals take. When you shop at the same markets that they shop at. When you hang out at the same joints. You do visit the famous places, but you also revisit. You want them to become a part of you, you don't want to leave with just photopgraphs, you want to leave with memories - you want to leave the Eiffel with memories, of your visit.

But maybe I am wrong and need to get my priorities right. It is not about squeezing in a coffee when the flight is delayed at the airport in Kolhapur, but about squeezing in some work while primarily on a visit to the Ajanta-Ellora after having spent a couple of fully-paid-for-by-company days at the awesome Taj, Aurangabad.

Sun, Shanghai and S

I am glad I got the chance to work with a woman. There is this notion one has about women bosses. They tend to go overboard in their zeal to appear efficient, no-nonsense. This one has the perfect balance. Yin and Yang. She is the most soft-spoken person I remember meeting in a long time, and she cuts to the chase too. Cultural barriers are inside people’s heads. This lady cottons on to my thoughts, before I utter them.

So, a lot of really great things happened yesterday.

Sun happened. Spring came to Shanghai and my happy feet contracted the delicious disease. I tapped my way to office. To the beats of everything from Atif to ABBA, Shanu to Simon. With jacket carelessly flung over arm.

Random people smiled at me. On the subway, in the supermarket. Here’s the thing about the Chinese, they don’t smile at you of their own accord. They maintain distance, protocol. The Great Wall of China. Although people here are always staring at me. As a Brazilian colleague, recently drawled - Yeaaah man, they are always staring at you, and they want to touch you and they want to take pictures with you and...it’s crazy.

My sympathies to him. I may not be quite the tourist attraction that he claims to be, but people definitely do stare. Only non-chink for miles, in the Yellow Sea. Imagine being Paris Hilton at a Nobel laureates' convention. Or Albert Einstein at a rave party. Well, on second thoughts, he would have been quite in the Einsteinium there. The point is, I look like a freak. And that these descendants of Confucius smiled at me, without provocation. It was like the aura of happiness surrounding me penetrated their reserve.

I succeeded in my mission of befriending a Chinese woman. I drafted a plan of action, did some ‘target-setting’, practiced a few ‘opening lines’. They worked. I am trying to seduce her into showing me places around during the weekend. Don’t judge me, it’s mainly for the conversation.

Past deeds bore fruit. I met an Indian in office, a senior guy. First of all, we spoke in Hindi. Bliss. Secondly, while talking I happened to mention that I was working in the Andheri office for some months last year, sitting in the adjacent cubicle to this person, who happens to be his boss. A look of awakening dawned on his face and he immediately started rummaging through his cell-phone. And came up with a picture he had taken of a ‘quote’. Written by blue felt pen on a bit of chart paper in terrible handwriting. You guessed it and if you didn’t, go do some syllogisms. That quote was one of the many I had put up in my cubicle; he, on one of his visits, thinking it was interesting, had taken a picture of it. Okay, okay, not quite the Slumdog saga, but it felt good. To see one of your whims having made this journey across the continent. With me in tag.

Sex and the city. While sex in this city is more or less off-the-charts, I did manage to find a DVD set of the series, seasons 1 to 7, for 20 Yuan. Quick calculation. INR 140. F*** me.

Too much stimuli is there. Coming soon is an account of the Chinese woman’s obsession with her skin, me being all too painfully aware of it since the unit I work for is called - Beauty Care. Along with some tid-bits regarding the way the Chinese government manages PR through its newspapers, and how, if things were left to it, the much touted India-China story would have the ‘India’ part determinedly scratched off.

Scent of a city

Shanghai. It looked just like Gurgaon at first glance. The ride from the airport to downtown was marked by a feeling of deep satisfaction as all things fell into place.

It’s still early days. Been raining off-late. Cold winds. The works.

But I like it. The city is convenient. It didn’t take me any time to adjust to its beat. The beat itself is not distinctive. Shanghai is like one of those world-cities. Center of finance and business and what not. Or maybe I haven’t discovered the finer notes yet.

The Chinese are inscrutable. They look unapproachable. Serious people going about their business. Like they have the weight of the entire world’s manufacturing on their petite shoulders or something.

Ouch.

So anyway, although they look like Sir-when-I-ope-my-lips-let-no-dog-bark-Oracle, they actually are the sweetest people on earth. If you ever are in trouble and there’s a Chinese near, have no fear. Talk about the ‘State’ being different as different can be from the people it governs.

About those errant notes, by the way. I tried to discover them. I undertook a 2 hour walk, one way, to The Bund. Beautiful. In a surgical sort of way.

While I like the comforts of Shanghai, nay, I adore the comforts of Shanghai - where the streets have signs and no one knows my name, I do have a few questions. I wonder what brought those disfigured beggars at the Bund Tourist Canal to Shanghai? Was it the dream of a better life? Or are they native Shanghai-nese and have nowhere to go? How did they get disfigured? Is it similar to the racket that runs in Mumbai? How do the guys incessantly peddling their wares to exotic looking foreigners - from fake watches to portraits - make ends meet? Are they making enough money from all the people they dupe, o-so-sweetly? Which are the areas of Shanghai where the not so white-collar live? Have they lost their jobs yet? What do they have to say about China’s recent declaration on a news channel - China refuses to acknowledge the recession?

I want to see the underbelly of the city, any city. I don’t just want to go to the Bund, marvel at the array of retina-blinding-white-neon-golden-lit-branded-displays at People’s Square, restrict myself to traversing the criss-cross of super-super highways and architectural marvel that is Shanghai. I want to get into the brain, the heart, the soul of a city. Walk across its dirty gullies, be privy to the shameful secrets that it tries to hide so religiously.

Say my name, Shinlee Xihou

They can't pronounce my name here.

That pleases me. Makes me feel exotic.

On another note, need to get better shoes.

A tale of many cities - A tale of just one city

You know you are in Kanpur when

1. You go to a mall, the city’s best and biggest, itching to spend some money and the only stuff you find to spend it on is some really oily dosa and half-boiled corn
2. A walk on the main road at 2 in the afternoon is punctuated by vulgar comments and some really vulgar comments
3. There is no transport that looks palatable, except if you want to make your journey with some suspicious looking characters in ten-seater tempo-vans. I dare you, especially after having had a sufficient dosage of the afore-mentioned vulgar comments
4. Every T,D and H (and by that I do not mean Tall, Dark and Handsome) dons a leather jacket
5. On the subject of leather, you see carts and trucks piled with leather shavings. You see towering tanneries dotting the landscape fortress-like
6. There are more educational institutes and coaching classes than tanneries
7. There are more chemists and angrezi dawakhane than educational institutes and coaching classes
8. There are more angrezi sharab ke theke than chemists

Like my Senior from Savories, I too fall in love with cities. I fall in love with the time having spent there, with the people.

That special Kanpuri accent, actually central-UP accent. Enunciate every word. Not like your Dilli-rajdhani that eats up half its words and blurs the edges of the remaining.

Nahi Bhaiiiyaa. Har ek shabd ko dabake boliye. Haan. Bilkul aiise hi. Kya samjhe?

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel I will be taken to be an outsider because I speak with the newspaper-wala and the dukaandaar and the traffic cop and the thanedaar in Hindi. Hindi is the local language here. (In Delhi, you don’t speak to anybody. I don’t know if they have devised an advanced technique of robbing you just by speaking to you).

Then there are the paan-walas of Kanpur. I saw a board which said - Ladies Paan Center. Go figure.

Oh, the milk-trains. UP and Bihar are not called the cow-belt for nothing. So everyday thousands of men from villages make their way to the towns and cities with their pitchers of milk. I saw a train the other day and the entire length of it had milk cans hanging from outside its windows.

Yes, I have lived in many cities and each one has a place, in my mind, in my memories.

I do feel like an outsider though.

I always will. In any place in the world. Except one.

These others, they mean nothing. I keep coming back to you and you draw me into your steely embrace. You make me feel like I belong. I admire your sensibilities - your ability to absorb, your ability to bear, your temperance, your infinite aspiration, your tendency to flatten everybody into nameless entities - the great leveller that you are, your resourcefulness - you never disappoint, your devilish dual nature - you want to crush people into oblivion and yet and yet, you want them to crush you, you want them to prove their mettle to you so that you can elevate them to the dizzying heights of achievement.

You know you complete me.

The Cow Belt

I was in Pondicherry last week and am in Kanpur now. Every day, I go to a couple of villages and see how rural sales happen. More importantly, I see what the rural way of life is. Strangely I feel at home. But that’s another story.

Villages are no longer what they used to be. Lives have improved in the past few years, is my first impression. Roads have been built, they are being built. Places that used to be inaccessible in the monsoons due to huge tracts of muck, are now not so. There are schools - private schools and government schools and there are colleges on the highways. Although a person would have to travel around 20 kms to study in one of them. There are organizations that provide teachers to schools on a contractual basis. There are hand-pumps, which have made the bore-wells obsolete in many places.

There is easier access to loans. Quite a few banks around to lend money and waive off some part of it too. The disadvantage here is that, while earlier stringent checks would happen before the money was released; now sometimes, due to reduced red-tape, the Presidents and Secretaries of the Panchaayats pocket it.

Don’t get me wrong. There is huge scope for improvement. There need to be more schools, colleges, more awareness of what these children can do with their lives after that. Better sanitation facilities, more exposure for women, better reach to towns around. Pukka houses, better farm equipment, more emphasis on health and hygiene. The list is endless.

But in the heartland of Uttar Pradesh, as I zip across the many many lovely dancing-in-the-sun-daffodillian mustard stalks, the cabbage patches and the pumpkins on the roof-tops, I think to myself - these people aren’t woe-begone and destitute, I have seen worse. I have seen worse expressions on the faces on those kids who lunge at every car at the traffic signals - to sell something or wash windows or simply beg. That haggard look of malnutritioned-grief or cunning which comes from living and surviving on the streets. Children with injection marks on their arms, children with broken bodies - possibly broken by the local gundas who push them into begging, children who scavenge in the dumps for their daily meal.

All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.

City Lights

Last night Chennai took my breath away. I belong to the school that thinks that nothing can beat the aerial view of Mumbai, with all it's glittering lights and their shimmering reflections in the sea.

Till I saw Chennai. Nay, beheld Chennai. Chennai is vast, it has roads criss-crossing it's body like conductor on a giant Printed Circuit Board, and those roads have traffic on them. Thousands and millions of tiny pin-pricks of red, yellow, green and blue.

How does one hang-on to such an image for posterity? To invoke it when one needs to feel beauty and grandeur? Like Paris from the Eiffel, only better.

I am very peppy this morning. Barack Obama is home.

The Waters of Cologne

I was watching DDLJ for the umpteenth time and was struck by the fact that had I been watching this movie for the first time, could still have fallen in love with Raj. Truly the stuff of evergreen.

Our next trip was to Northern Germany and Netherlands. In Germany, we were to go to Köln, Düsseldorf and then onto Berlin. However the building came crashing down even before the foundation stone had been laid. A day before we were set to leave for Köln, somebody luckily took out the tickets and checked, thus illuminating the fact that they were for the wrong date; and even as we were standing there, looking at each other in dismay, the train we did have tickets for was pulling out of Gare Montparnasse.

Anyhow, it turned out okay. We did reach Köln, through a series of change-of-trains and night-long journeys. I do not remember all the details now, but I believe Hamburg was involved in some way. I remember having an early morning breakfast at Hamburg station, waiting for the next connecting train.

A little bit of history about Köln, because not only do I strive to entertain the reader, but also endeavor to educate him. Köln is the German name (Cologne being the French one) of the 4th largest city in Germany, after Berlin, Hamburg and Munich; it is also one of the oldest cities, founded by the Romans in 38 BC. It lies by the River Rhine and interestingly, Eau de Cologne means The Water of Cologne; since a couple of Italians set shop there to sell this preparation made of herbs and what-not which Napolean could not get enough of.

We only had a few hours in Köln. As soon as you step out of the station, there lies its famous Cathedral. This imposing Gothic structure once held the title of the world’s tallest structure, before Eiffel and many others arrived on the scene. Legend goes that in spite of being the object of several aerial bombings in World War II, this Cathedral stood tall and proud in a largely flattened city.

The station area had enough excitement surrounding it. There was an open space, with tourists milling around, the market-place started almost immediately and of course, there was the Wailing Wall. The Wailing Wall is a series of paintings, drawings, poetry, newspaper clippings, gory and inspirational messages - from all over the world, mostly pertaining to the Second World War, but also showcasing a bit of the Israel-Palestine conflict. It tries to promote peace in this crazy crazy world.

We walked into the market, so much exciting stuff was up for grabs, and for a change, it was quite inexpensive too. I bought a beautiful shawl and some kitschy jewellary. We even went into a bar and drank a little and then stood by the riverside taking pictures.

One thing I must put down here, the people of Köln were very happy to see us for some inexplicable reason. Everybody kept smiling, waving and greeting us. It made us also very happy. Incredible how happiness and cheer are so infectious.

The evening kept getting more and more picturesque as it descended into night - The silhouette of the gigantic cathedral against the skyline, with the dark and mysterious river at its feet; a thread of bright yellow street lights lending even more glamour to the scene, their reflections bouncing off the onyx waters.

A Kodak moment, to be frozen in time, in my memory.

Amdavad!

Long-time-no-see daahlings. I am in Amdavad. Have been since the past one week. Has it only been a week since I landed straight from Baroda at the distributor’s avec almost all my worldly possessions – ready to take charge?

Truly speaking, it has been the best week at work so far. Life does the hula-hoops around targets, invoices, inventory, margins and discounts. There are market visits – irate shopkeepers who lay bare all the torturous practices (real or imaginary) that Levers has subjected them to, or extremely ingratiated ones who want to transfuse your blood with Wagh Bakri. I fire-fight, and when actions fail, words soothe. Saving the best for the last, the crowning glory of this week has been - being in a position where I am to lead seven grown men – all graduates and experienced at their work – the Salesmen. People, whom I am supposed to motivate, monitor, remonstrate quite frequently and nurture. I try.

The other stud in the stable is the distributor - one of those picture-perfect seths – cash-cribbing, daughter-doting, wily-little-magnate, who probably learnt aatte-daal kaa bhaav before the alphabet.

Sales is something else. It’s dog-eat-dog and dynamic – extremely affected by externalities – be those in the form of a dip in the share market or the new school year. To explain – both of the above result in ‘market mein mandi’ since trade does not have the purchasing power. Then there is the fact that all the stakeholders are constantly trying to take you for a ride. I sleep like a dog – an eye and a ear open, on constant alert.

A shopkeeper recently kept asking me – Madam, kya aap practical ho? I finally asked him to explain to me the meaning of the word and as it turns out, he was worried that being a girl, I wouldn’t be able to get my work done, if need be, through underhanded means – tedhi oongli kaa istamaal. I wonder. Although it has nothing to do with being a girl. That if anything, is an advantage.

You may ponder if you have the time and patience that this that I am describing does not sound all that different from what I was doing in the first two weeks. Let me explain. Then I was a hanger-on, an observer, a side-kick at best. Now I am the one whose head will roll. A couple of cool crores hold me to ransom.

As of now, I am celebrating, one of the many targets has been met and I am taking my boys out to dinner. They worked hard towards it – madam se party jo leni thi. Smart boys – street-wise since they spend so much time on it, making ample use of psychology and subliminal coercion to meet their ends. I like them, but my mind at times screams in militaristic fashion – saavdhaan!

Watte industry. I am sorry to see little red riding hood, or whatever of her was left, take flight. On the other hand, someone had once said, which went on to make television history – Welcome to the real world; it sucks; but you will love it.

Brest - Part Deux

I had warned my reluctant readers that Exchange Escapades would be back. So let me detach myself from the bizarre baroda-ings of present and teleport to half a year back.

We didn’t spend a lot of time in Brest, but it’s incredible how much there is to talk about.

Our Institute – ESC Bretagne Brest. It was total paisa-wasool. Firstly, it was wi-fi. And then, we met some interesting people there. All our courses were in English and our classmates were exchange students from other countries as well as locals who wanted to try their tongues at the language. The professors were mostly visiting faculty from another school or industry experts. And they were all top-notch. Well, almost all. They were knowledgeable and well-versed in the art of teaching – taking time, and giving many practical examples to drive a point home.

We were the kings though – we would come back from trips, complete projects overnight and make jaws drop by what everyone thought was exhaustive research and diligent hard-work. And the jaws would remain dropped when we revealed that a mere night-out had resulted in those histrionics. It’s not like the French are dumb. But we Indians have been through a very rigorous system, right from our child-hoods. We definitely have higher standards of output and much more practice at delivering them.

That said, I like the pedagogy there. Relaxed and non-competitive to a large degree. The class strength is small and there is something to be said for that. Individual attention is possible and is conducive to exploration and learning. Professors take much more effort to explain concepts, using visual and literary aids to ratify and emphasize. Sure, the education system we have here makes us hard-working and ambitious, competitive to a fault. But it doesn’t make us curious enough.

Our classmates were from all over. A trio from Slovakia – blonde and statuesque. The guy among them was extremely sharp - as quick as silver. A pair from China – they were strange. Disparate in age and life-styles, one was the perfect Yin to the other’s Yang. The guys in my gang came to know a couple of local fellows from the school Rugby team which even led to one unforgettable rugby-playing-session for them. There were some others we would talk now and then to, but maximum air-time has to be given to the Ruchis. Ruchi Jain and Ruchi Aggarwal - both management students there. We made friends with them early-on, and hung-out often. I even had a couple of girls’-nights-out with them. Wild times, will elaborate a little later. The thing to be noted here is that even for the short duration of three months - we could not keep controversy at bay and were soon privy to the tangled equations between these two girls. My take-away from it all - it’s tough, living in a foreign country, especially when you’ve never been away from home before. It’s like a crash-course on life. Ruchi Jain would know.

Memories are like the streets in Venice – crissing and crossing unexpectedly, way leading to way. Back to the present for now- it’s 1 o’ clock on a Sunday and I need to get going. I will try the whole sitting-alone-in-coffee-shop-with-book thing today. Can’t get over the romance of it.

With love from Baroda

It’s been some time. I am, as of this moment, in a three-star hotel room, in Baroda. The television is on and some prannoy-roy-sound-alike is belting out pop-news. Yes, my dears, I am on my sales stint and my area of rampage is Gujarat. Dry-days are ahead, in more ways than one.

The above was jotted down by me four days ago and today is the second time in five days when I have the time and inclination to write some more. I am still in my hotel room. But the television is off. Have watched more of it in these five days than the whole of last month combined. It’s that and the mobile phone that keep me company when I get back from the grind. Long live technology.

Baroda is a nice city. Spacious and broad, the rickshaw guys here are a gentle breed. They are chivalrous and not as abrasive as their counter-parts in other cities. Have realized how much that contributes to the feeling of well-being one gets. It is a small place and I dare say, you can traverse the length of it (not that I have, yet) in less than Rs 60. Sayaji Gaekwad is to Baroda what Shivaji is to Mumbai. Omnipresent.

My work - is all that I had expected from it and more. Most of my day is spent at the distributor-point. The salesmen come and go. I, sometimes, hang around in the godowns, familiarizing myself with the mind-boggling array of goods that adds so much complexity to the range; but is taken in such a non-chalant manner by the layman - for whom it’s as simple as asking for the ‘naano Lux International’ instead of the ‘moto Lux pink’. Naano – small, moto – big. Dear readers, I have added another language to my less-than-impressive kitty-bag of spoken-tongues. Or, at least, am in the process of doing so. So, work is exhilarating, although a steep-uphill-climb at times. But I don’t believe in easy. Easy is like junk-food.

I went for a market visit yesterday. And saw what good salesmanship is all about. Customer-focus is, in fact, all that it is vaunted to be. The guy in-charge of half of Baroda worth a monthly turn-over of two crores – the man who is currently training me, is also a salesman par excellence. He is quite a colorful character. Jitendra Patil aka Jitu Patil is a proud Maratha, based out of Baroda. Cracking at numbers, smart with people, his post is one that I shall be joining as boss of, once I am done with my training. I have yet to discover why I am better than him. I guess it has more to do with the opportunities I got, and the training which enabled, encouraged and equipped me to look at the larger picture. Sounds like quintessential-mba-jargon. But nothing in mba is jargon when coupled with strong execution.

Enough banter. Today is a Sunday and the malls in the city shall be seeing some of me. Wheel and Knorr are all okay, but the system requires some pampering.

Brest-Part Uno

Let me talk a little bit about our life in Brest. Having completed our first trip with flying colors, we returned to Brest, but not to rest. Some heavy-duty accommodation-search was in the offing.

It’s like this – we spent the first week in firangland at Hotel Balladins, as I have mentioned before. After that, we had booked ourselves into an establishment called Apartcity - a hybrid between a guesthouse and a hotel. A woman who called herself Sabine presided over its affairs and ruled with an iron-fist, some would say. We had this roof over our collective heads for a month and after that, were relying rather heavily on serendipity to lead us to our next abode. Apartcity was a great place, having more than all the conveniences of modern living, but we were having to pay a tidy sum for it. It had to go - as the Red Queen would say, although not in so many words.

Elucidating a bit on life at Apartcity – it was an era. One of the boys in my troupe, Rahul Pal turned out to be a master-chef, also possessing the willingness to provide the rest of us with gastronomic delicacies. We would sit down to a hearty meal of chicken and chawal almost every night – much missed. The rest of us did play our bit-parts too. Som would help with the cooking at times. Chandan was the self-appointed chawal-champ, and to watch Bobby cut onions was like being mute witness to a symphony being played. Okay, I exaggerate, but he is a pretty-darn-quick cutter of onions, among other things. Yours truly, would try her best to be useful, taking charge of the ‘Ready-to-eats’; the culinary-challenged would know that this is not a particularly demanding undertaking and the alert reader would be abreast with the fact that these space-age and time-bending eatables were by no means central to our diet and well-being.

So anyway, we had to look for another place inspite of all the rollicking fun we were having there. Various agencies were hounded; numerous apartments were visited as a result. But to no avail. We did not have too much time, since another trip - this one to the rest-of-Germany and Netherlands was looming on the horizon. More on that later.

To sum - Brest was the good life. We went house-hunting; did the whole setting-up-of-household thingie upon finding it; lived a bountiful existence in that home of ours with plenty of food, booze and discussions; and also partied like bohemians. We made some friends too, interesting ones at that – some firangis and some desi-atarangis.

A few posts it shall take to talk about all of the above in the detail that they deserve. And if Ruchi Jain is reading this – stay tuned, you will figure.