Category: Lifestyle Article

The house feels quite empty. The Mother Goddess, who was a resident for the past ten days has left for home, leaving me quite bereft. I have no one to offer the daily jasmine garlands, the chrysanthemum wreaths, and lotuses to. Of course, my maid looks quite bereft for a related reason: she cannot call dibs on the flowers the next day, because the pooja is now a simple affair offered with a few hastily gathered marigolds, hibiscus, and the like. No more intricate weaving and decorating, no more impromptu gifts for the ‘Saubhagyavatis’ and no more Sheera to indulge on the next day.

Shardiya Navratri, which falls in the Hindu month of Ashwin (September-October) is quite a favorite of mine. First off, my family deity is the Goddess Shantadurga (a beneficent form of Goddess Durga), so this festival is the best excuse to pray to the Magna Mater of the clan, and try to inveigle myself into her good books for the rest of the year (not that She falls for it, like any good mother, She has eyes in the back of Her head and always knows exactly what I have been up to). A close second is that it spells the end of the rather gloomy ‘Pitru Paksh’ or ‘Forefather Fortnight,’ a time when the dearly departed ancestors are worshipped, as the time is ripe to commune with the spirit world since this is when it abuts the human world, according to Hindu lore. As I have a healthy respect for spirits, (the ethereal, not the drinking kind), I prefer not to cohabit with them. For me, if the Spirits are in their heaven, all is right with the world. Thirdly, all the fasting, and simple food, most of it without the heavy spices, onion, garlic, and non- vegetarian is a nostalgic trip to childhood and a natural way to detox (the offspring wanders around with a martyred air, but is given short shrift and not indulged, for once). Fourthly, it brings out the devout side of the spouse and keeps him safely out of mischief, and last but not the least, it enables me to witness the self-indulgent, vain side of people who otherwise profess to be paragons of all the virtues.

In addition, Diwali, that undoing of me, is still about three weeks away and as usual, I get to make resolutions to avoid sixty shades of shopping, cleaning, and cooking cock-ups. Every year is my attempt to be the ‘hostess with the mostest,’ which, looking at my abysmal track-record is wishful thinking at best and an exercise in futility at worst. But as usual, I digress. We are here to do justice to Navratri and I will get on with it.

That the festival of the nine nights is fast approaching is first heralded by the temperature which soars Northwards just as the sun begins its pronounced Southward course. ‘October Heat’ they call it. Thane, however is the place which winter seems to have crossed off its itinerary permanently, and there is no need to qualify something as ‘October Heat.’ It is just heat, barring fifteen days in January or February. The next is the offspring demanding different favorite foods every waking hour as compensation for the penance which she will soon be undergoing. But the confirmatory test is when the maid starts to harangue me with questions about the ‘colors’ for the nine days, the trees on my street start to sport random strings of fairy lights around their trunks and swinging from their branches and half of the already crowded streets get cordoned off to host various ‘Garba Pandals.’

While the latter has been a Navratri fixture for quite some time now, thanks to the large Gujrati populace and our general inclination to start dancing anywhere and everywhere, the former, regarding the famous ‘colors’ of Navratri is a very smart marketing gimmick. Up to 2003, there was a festival dedicated solely to colors, and that was Holi of course. Women did dress up in their finery during Navratri, but mostly in heirloom, traditional attire, or in case of Bengalis, new clothes for Durga Pooja, since it is THE most important festival of their calendar. The same went for the Garba of the Gujratis. So far, so genteel.

A Maharashtrian who had no business to meddle with people’s wardrobe came up with a sharp marketing strategy in 2003. Perhaps he was in cahoots with a saree merchant in Surat, perhaps he had been at the receiving end of a tirade from his wife about not buying her enough sarees, or perhaps, he was an artist at heart. Anyway, for reasons best left to conjecture, this gentleman who at the time was editor of the Maharashtra Times came up with a concept which was quite unique. Since the mobile phone with its ‘everyone is a photographer’ mantra was all the rage, he began listing out nine colors to be worn by women, each supposedly related to a particular form and attribute of the Goddess. He then asked the women to click pics and send them to his paper, with creative captions, and voila! a tradition touted to be hundreds of years old was born a mere twenty years ago. Given the abysmal level of knowledge most Hindus have about their own religion, everyone fell for it, hook, line, and sinker and rushed to complete their wardrobes with new or not so new attire in the required colors, all the better to flaunt it with my dear! 

While it is fact that each of the nine forms of the Goddess do have specific colors attributed to them, they remain constant EVERY year, irrespective of the day of the week. And thus, Maa Brahmacharini will wear white, even if the second day of Navratri, when she is worshipped, falls on a Friday, unlike the green which the meddlesome editor will dress her in. The colors will never veer wildly between peacock blue, peacock green, and sky blue, or pink, maroon and red. But then again, if not for this brilliant strategy, how will you get to replenish your wardrobe (already bursting at the seams) with the missing shade, without which the Goddess will haul you over the coals for your singular display of lack of devotion? (trust me, She regards all these shenanigans with the exasperated air of a Mother whose toddler always wants the one extra toy).

If marketing has done its bit, how can media be far behind? And thus, for another year my ritual Diwali cleaning starts with the cleaning of my inbox flooded with ‘mandatory’ clicks of guys and gals in coordinated clothes (you know something is far wrong when the hitherto color blind guys suddenly turn into nit picking dandies, giving the gals a run for their money with their fastidious opinions on shades of purple and maroon which they had lumped under ‘red’ until the day before yesterday), couples twinning or complementing (do they like angles, add up to ninety degrees?), entire departments of respectable professionals striking silly poses or dancing as if their lives depended on it. The less said the better about real looking reels, Gujrati ‘Gotillo’ songs (I initially though it was a Kannada song to match my mood, because Gottilla in Kannada means ‘I don’t know,’ which is my usual answer to the is question ‘What is the color today?’)

All the new- fangled traditions notwithstanding, Navratri will always be special. For a cynical stick- in- the- mud like me, it still means the eternal flame of the Nandadeep, the Pooja room awash in marigolds and chrysanthemums, the brightly burnished copper ‘Kalash’ with is coconut and mango leaves crowned with a fresh chrysanthemum wreath, the waiting in line to make an offering to the Goddess who protects the city at the century old temple at ‘Gaondevi’,  the beautiful ‘Golu’ display at a friend’s house, traditional bhondla songs, and fond memories of Durga Pooja feasts at my best friend’s place, all culminating in Dasara, the eternal triumph of good over evil.

Whether you dress yourself in nine colors or whether you send out selfies is inconsequential because the true power of the Mother Goddess is Her compassion for everyone, sans all the trappings, and it certainly needs no marketing!

Listening is an art that requires attention over talent, spirit over ego and others over self

Dean Jackson

When you earn your bread and butter (and some cheese too perhaps) through making sure that people can hear what you say, you are probably a comrade- in-arms: an ENT surgeon or an audiologist. Thanks to the new- fangled habit of ears sprouting ‘buds’ of all kinds (no, not the growing kind luckily, though the ear can be home to funny varieties of fungus thanks to it being a cool, calm, and peaceful cul-de-sac) the number of people who are actually or pretend to be hard of hearing is on the rise. If the S bend of the girls’ toilet can safely house a rather weepy ghost like Moaning Myrtle in Harry Potter world, the external ear canal can house more than its fair share of baddies, including foreign bodies, wax, and the a forementioned fungus.

It is a rather a strange organ, the ear. Home to the smallest bone and the smallest skeletal muscle, situated deep inside a bone with little space for tricky maneuvers (usual story of the body), strange bony protuberances, snail like coils, a good bit of something resembling a bristle brush masquerading as a sense organ, and of course its proximity to the brain. By the time you get to grips with this convoluted anatomy, you can be forgiven for the strange lightheadedness you feel, sans the ‘happy juice’ that is. And thanks to all this paraphernalia packed away, it is sensationally responsible for two sensations: hearing and balance. So next time, you get the spins sans any reason, pay attention to the ear. It is entirely up to you to listen to what it says, whether you hear it or not.

And that, my friends, brings us to the difference between mere hearing and the finer art of hearing between the lines, called what else? Listening of course! Ask any much- married couple and the complaint of “He/She NEVER listens to me” is a universal one. Unfortunately, what was once the shield of an uncomplaining spouse against the frequent tirades of the other, the disease of not listening seems to be catching. And thus, you have this complaint of parent against child, child against parent, teacher against student, X against Y, a social malaise you can call it.

Blame it on most people ‘living in their heads,’ but an inability to listen is at the root of the deafening silence which often stretches between people who seem very well connected socially. A walk down the street is lonely, with only your air pods plugged into a podcast for company. Silence reigns where one was hailed by a dozen different people within the span of a hundred feet once upon a time, not so long ago.

The conundrum arising from such a fraught situation is that everyone often goes out of their way to be heard. And thus, we have several (and largely unsolicited) opinion pieces, vociferous and vituperative debates on every media channel you turn to and everyone under the sun lending a voice to the voiceless wearing the blissful cloak of mystery and anonymity on social media. Voices and hackles are raised and language becomes far riper than needed just so that one maybe listened to. There is ‘Janta ki Awaz’, ‘Voice of the People’, ‘Meri Awaz Suno’ and ‘The Nation wants to Know’ galore but nobody to listen to the uproar. Methinks the PM can save his breath because very few people are hearkening to his inner voice on ‘Man ki Baat’.

Only a few decades ago, people had not just developed but perfected the art of listening. A simple inflection or change of tone was enough for the discerning listener to correctly gauge the speaker’s feelings. Most people were men of few words for they knew that a few succinct sentences were suffice to convey the deepest feelings and the profoundest of thoughts. When someone said ‘Lend me your ears,’ people did so without a second thought and with a touching sincerity. Orators great and tall, or even the gossips large and small were listened to with devotion and the hidden meaning gleaned without obvious strain or effort. It was a pleasure to listen to the other’s view point, a display of class and good manners. People who inadvertently or purposely monopolized conversations largely fell into two categories: classless or politicians.

The importance of the ability to listen was generally honed by baby steps from childhood itself, when mothers listened to lisping baby-talk with such deep attention, that the child was automatically conferred with the security of ‘being heard’ by the people who mattered the most in its tiny world. And thus, the ability of listening was automatically inculcated. In fact, ‘companiable silence’ was as common back then as ‘unheard cacophony’ is in today’s world. The ability to listen well was perhaps slightly more prized than the ability to speak. It was perhaps because people valued the sanctity of silence so much that they had an almost innate ability to choose words carefully to convey deep meanings. True believers in ‘actions speaking louder than words,’ listening strangely was through the eyes and with the heart as much as through the ears. No one was so busy in the pursuit of busyness that they did not have the time to listen.

In today’s world, it is almost as if the machines have taken over the ‘listening-and thinking’ process. Lost in a haze of importance and artifice, most people are hearkening to their inner voice on WhatsApp, X and LinkedIn. Listening to an actual voice is a rare gift only to be bestowed on the great and the important. It is sometimes misused as sycophancy. You listen to your boss or your business partner with undivided attention, but the friend who talks on the phone for a minute more than necessary, or a family member, who repeats the same thing twice becomes a ‘bore’ who must be adroitly avoided the next time round.

That listening with deep attention can make a person feel valued and important is a medically acknowledged fact with enough research to show that it is one of the best and simplest ways to make a person feel appreciated. The ‘keep them talking’ rule in most suicide helplines is not a mere ploy to triangulate the location of the caller but also a proven way to make the victims feel wanted. Just the thought that someone out in the void takes the time to listen to their thoughts can help them off the ‘edge’ on which they are poised.

In a world largely centered more and more on itself, being a good listener is one of the easiest ways in which we can make a small difference. Besides, God forbid, what seems like the incessant babble of today may die away into the haunting silence of tomorrow, laced with nothing but regret for there will be no one to listen to us! So, the next time you get a chance to listen to anything, from bird-song, to a hesitant teenager’s idea to the oft repeated reminisces of a septuagenarian, hear with your ears, and listen with your heart for it can be the echo of the Divine.

Once we stop merely hearing and start listening, it can result in the unravelling of the knottiest of problems characterized in the song,

                              ‘Jaane kya toone kahi

                               Jaane kya maine suni

                               Baat kuch ban hi gayi!’

Let the world say what it chooses, I shall tread the path of duty—know this to be the line of action for a hero

Swami Vivekanand

A few years ago, in the unhappier times of the raging pandemic, the offspring emerged from her online schooling session with a long face which had a far deeper cause than mere hunger. A project in Marathi (which was her second language in school) had just been announced. If you are under the impression that said project should have been right up her street, just because Marathi happens to be our mother tongue, gentle reader, you can think again. And the topic was ‘Five great Maharashtrian Industrialists/ Businessmen.’ Not something which even the rest of the family was familiar with. What followed were few hellish days filled to the brim with howls of outrage, tears, sleepless nights for yours truly followed by feverish in- depth research, and much writing until the project was turned in. But with it came the unhappy realization that we (the offspring and I), did not know as much about the quiet builders of the state’s economy as we did the ‘pop stars,’ the actors, singers, and the politicians!

Cue to present times, when I came across an insightful write-up on Facebook with pictures of popular actor Ranveer Singh and Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma side by side questioning the comparative popularity of the two and why our leap into space was a long overdue leap of faith. The reason was simple. Not only did the ‘hero’ command more face value, but his films marched to the tune of far bigger budgets than what the good folk at ISRO were sanctioned. Also, Wing Commander Sharma led a life hidden behind his helmet, dressed in a regulation space suit unlike our pied piper of Bollywood who loved to flaunt his outlandish shirts, his wife’s skirts and if occasion warranted, his skin. Mind you, had Wing Commander Sharma chosen to dress himself in garish tiger-print or peacock feather print space suits, he would have been easily spotted whirling away by Mrs. Gandhi, the then PM, who would have pointed to him with pride!

These two episodes of stepping out of the ‘pop culture’ zone got me thinking. Why was the limelight (itself a term borrowed from English theatre) often stolen by figures who did little other than prance, dance, stir up controversies or generally create a nuisance to some section of society? Were these venerated figures worth the adulations heaped on them or were they milking the ‘there is nothing like bad publicity’ truth to the hilt? And what did it say about the society of today who seemingly chose these wonderfully weird role models with wide open eyes? Why was the bilgewater which constantly dripped down from the lives of these ‘larger than life’ beings the holy grail to many?

The answer, being the naked truth, was not very pleasant. In fact, it traced its origins to the days when the glory of the Roman empire was on the wane. The satirical Roman poet Juvenal penned the Latin term ‘Panem et Circenses’ which roughly translates as ‘bread and circuses.’ The concept being that people could be pacified by food and entertainment when they should be rallying to their prescribed civic duties. And that was the reason why entertainment and entertainers (could range from acting, dancing, singing to even sports) often ‘hogged’ a far larger space than needed in the lives of common people.  It was the escapism at its best. An escape from the travails of everyday life into something far more glamorous, where everything was as it should be rather than the way it was.

This ‘Great Escape’ is now one of the fundamental truths of life. Thanks to the tapeworm like growth of social media, we have added those happy souls who call themselves ‘influencers’ to the list of the doubtful rather than the redoubtable in our lives. Truth be told, most of the times the ways in which they ‘influence’ as questionable as their influence if not more! But then again, if an emperor can parade around town in invisible new clothes, people can certainly worship those who have no other talent than stuttering out dialogue, baying at the moon with arms spread out or gyrating to questionable lyrics with other actors half their age (I am sure you get the hint about a certain ‘young’ actor staging a self-acclaimed comeback with an eponymous recently released movie)

Popularity plays an important role in the human psyche and believes in the ‘catch-‘em-young’ adage. We are all familiar with the two inadvertent groups we come across in school: the popular kids and everyone else. Unsurprisingly, everyone wants to jump onto the popular bandwagon as we all want to belong, be seen and feted. Never mind the quiet achievements of the rest whether it is being a good classical singer, an artist or simply being the kindest person around. In the race to be the sun, the fireflies have lost even before they begin. In addition, some achievements require one to work harder and this of course forms a major impediment to the ‘quick fame dream.’

As a matter of course, this is naturally carried forward into adulthood where everyone can name the ‘Heropanti’ of the five popular actors, three cricketeers, six social media influencers and ten rabble rousers of the day, but think long and hard when asked about five heroes of the Kargil war or the names of five scientists who worked on the development of the Covid vaccines, before shrugging insouciantly and saying ‘who cares?’ Thus does a Dr. Dilip Mahalanabis (I am sure even most of my medical brethren do not know him well either, so to quote our erstwhile professors, please READ up) lose out to Dilip Kumar, S Somanath to Shahrukh Khan and Jaswant Singh Rawat to Dhruv Rathee and Kunal Kamra. While the latter three ‘greats’ might have their own rags-to-riches stories and may have undeniably worked hard to get where they are today and may deserve their place in the sun, what irks is the unnecessary adulation they command, thanks to a larger-than-life image which again, they do not lift a finger to rectify. And thus, we have them endorsing poisonous chemicals (saying bolo zubaan kesari), sugary drinks, salty snacks and the like, which they would not touch with a barge pole themselves, which of course the public laps up. It is cash for conscience at its worst, laced with a frighteningly callous attitude towards social responsibility.

Another aspect which sticks in the craw is the way in which the general public accepts the tripe dished out in the form of popular cinema as the gospel truth, just because of a big- name actor who plays the role of a saviour of the masses, conveniently portraying the rest of society as a morass of misdeeds. And thus, they spout nonsense with regularity, questioning authority with impunity and offering an unsolicited opinion about anything under the sun, about which they have no knowledge to begin with. The debate between actor Swara Bhaskar and TV host Rubika Liaquat where the utter ignorance of the former on the CAA NRC was laid bare before the world by the latter being a case in point.  Well researched films are easily labelled ‘divisive’ or ‘communal’ all to further a well-set agenda. All I can say is people must have sold the family tomatoes to buy multiplex tickets to watch the medical miracle of an actor on the wrong side of fifty being labelled ‘Jawan.’

Maybe we need to rethink our goals and transform into the ‘thinking kinds,’ where we correctly learn to identify who our real heroes are. An egalitarian society will be possible only when we learn to separate the chaff from the grain and recognise all those who works towards the betterment of the world. Correctly identifying and idolizing those who choose NOT to be larger than life although their contributions speak for themselves is a measure of our maturity.

Perhaps, picking the right heroes is the real Heropanti!

The wise see knowledge and action as one; They see truly and go beyond death

Brihadaranyaka Upanishad

Now that the South Pole of the moon bears not just the imprint of the Indian Emblem and the Vikram Lander in sleep mode, not to speak of the Indian Flag, it is time to set our sights on newer horizons to conquer. We have perhaps been the first civilization to know that the ‘Brahmand’ as we call it, is in a way limitless and in a way limited to the smallest sub-atomic particle. Though we embraced modernity in the space race, the tolling of ancient bells somewhere in the subconscious has given us an edge in what we seek in the heavens.

It seems strange, but you may try to take Indians out of science, but you cannot take the science out of Indians. This has been proved time and again. The Indian Institute of Science was set up in the face of tremendous odds, a brain child of such visionaries like Swami Vivekananda and Sir J.N.Tata, which was finally brought to living, breathing life by the hard work and generosity of  Sister Nivedita and Maharani Kempananjammani Devi, the regent of the kingdom of Mysore. It is not strange therefore that a stalwart like Homi Jehangir Bhabha decided to make a fledgling nation an independent nuclear power, while Dr. Vikram Sarabhai set his sights on launching the nation into space much to the horror of the ‘Big Brothers’ of the world, the powers of the West, the biggest of whom of course, was uncle Sam. ‘Precocious’ was the only way to describe this new kid and it was certainly unbecoming.

It is no secret that ‘bullying’ is a traditional welcome offered to most new kids, whether on the block, on the street, or in school and if the kid happens to be rather down- at -heel with a torn satchel, second-hand books, dressed in hand-me-down clothes and is brown to boot, well, your imagination can fill in the blanks. And this was precisely the unsubtle ‘cancellation’ which the Indian Nuclear and its offshoot, the Space Program faced since its inception. It always faced the shadow, rather than the light of the moon.

The withholding of technology and the sanctions applied were all par for the course, but the real price India paid was the loss of scientific talent. With a seriously flawed education policy already in place, the stage had been set for a rapid brain drain. But this was compounded by death, which stalked the ranks of those scientists who remained, carelessly culling the best and the brightest with scant regard for age or knowledge. And not just any old death, but the planned and pre-mediated kind.

Beginning with the death of Dr. Bhabha himself, in a tragic air-crash in the snow-laden heights of the Alps in 1966, an incident which was never given the gravitas and investigation warranted (not least because it followed the death of the then PM Lal Bahadur Shastri by less than two weeks), the toll grew and grew like an unstoppable dirge, swelling well into the second decade of the new millennium, further besmirched by a spying case in the last decade of the nineties. A popular media house was somehow roused from its apathetic state of semi- somnolence to publish a piece on ‘The Case of the Missing Indian Scientists,’ but there was none of the hue and cry which would have been caused if there had been a few missing politicians (who certainly did nothing extraordinary other than rabble-rousing) or a few missing ‘popular actors’!

The sudden death of Dr. Vikram Sarabhai, a non-smoker and teetotaler with no known history of cardiac disease, the founder and first director of what began as INCOSPAR and what we now know as the much- feted ISRO, due to sudden cardiac arrest in a hotel room in Thiruvanantapuram on 30^th December 1971 and the subsequent refusal by the family to carry out a post-mortem, led to more than just niggling doubts which have never quite been silenced. Of course, the statement of the great man himself that he was being watched by both the Americans and the Russians did not help matters. Conspiracy theories aside, the loss of two top scientists in a span of five years was a setback which took a long time to overcome.

Now popularized by the film ‘Rocketry,’ which recently won the national award, the story of aerospace engineer and scientist S Nambi Narayanan, which mercifully does not end in murder and mayhem is no less sinister, not least because it spotlights the depths to which foreign powers can penetrate the best of our institutions and achieve their ends by ruthlessly mowing down all who stand in their path. His arrest and the subsequent spurious espionage charges made India not only lose out on cryogenic tech, but also a large chunk in the space economy, which was the ulterior motive all along.

What strikes one as truly devastating is that the price for which PEOPLE can be bought or sold is significantly less than the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas betrayed Jesus Christ! A distinctly unhappy scenario. When the ruling powers at the center, state, and the intelligence bureau all act in collusion and a certain person involved later becomes the Union defense minister, one can only wonder about what else is being sold in the open (black) market. Of course, when the IB officer involved in the arrest also joins politics later, one can assume that what smells fishy is much more than the fresh ‘Karimeen’ caught off the Kerala coast.

But there is worse. Between 2009 and 2013, eleven Indian nuclear scientists died unnatural deaths. It was bizarre because they were found dead on railway tracks or simply vanished while out on morning walks, only to be found dead in forests. According to a PIL filed by RTI activist Chetan Kothari in 2011, around 684 deaths had been reported in a fifteen- year period at various nuclear and space centers around the country. With most deaths being attributed to ambiguous causes with insufficient or downright shoddy investigations, it hard to prove or disprove the real reasons behind them.

A series of interviews with a former CIA operative, Robert Crowley by journalist Gregory Douglas has been published as a book ‘Conversations with the Crow’ where Crowley without mincing words talks about Dr. Bhabha ‘being a dangerous one’ who was bent on ‘stirring up trouble.’ Reading between the lines it is easy to see that crossing scientific swords with the powers that be is perhaps the most dangerous of all and the people who show the gumption to walk this path are marked men. Although Douglas has often been lampooned for being a ‘conspiracy theorist,’ some coincidences are one too many to ignore.

With the recent laurels in the crown of the Indian Space program, it is perhaps better late than never that so many of our ‘back-street boys and gals’ who slave away in labs and tech centers, unknown to most of us have been pulled into the limelight they deserve. Accolades aside, they are not only more deserving of the traditional ‘Lal -batti-ki- gadi’ than some of the scum who have nothing more to their names other than being born in the right cot, but deserve a safe and long life like (m)any other Indian citizens.

With the successful launch of the Aditya L1, the first Indian solar mission, let us hope that Indian scientists find their safe place in the sun without being haunted by the dark side of the moon!

( This article is the concluding part of the series ‘Dreaming by Moonlight’)

Picture Credit : Aryaa Rege

“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon,
  The little dog laughed to see such fun and the dish ran away with the spoon!”

English Nursery Rhyme

The Vikram Lander from the Chandrayaan 3 landed with a soft thump on the moon’s surface, echoed by a billion relieved Indian hearts. Ten minutes later, I woke up with a heart thumping regretfully because I had missed the moment, having drifted into dreamless slumber, thanks to a busier-than-usual day in which I, unlike the lander had lost the battle with the elements and a particularly virulent head-cold which left me bleary-eyed and rather sorry for myself. Consoling myself that these were the days of recordings and reruns, I immediately placed myself in ‘watch’ mode.

Congratulatory messages poured in. Every news channel worth their salt had full screen coverage devoted to the moment. Even the normally ‘couldn’t-care-less’ denizens of the Mumbai rush-hour halted in their usual mad scramble for the local trains and trained their gimlet eyes on the huge screens put up on the railway platforms instead of the train notifications board, waving hands and mobiles in unabashed glee. Horns blared, whistles screeched, the Prime Minister waved a small Indian flag on screen and cries of ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai’ rent the air. It was a time for exhilaration, jubilation, and celebration for R.K Lakshman’s common man.

It was also a validation of the great Indian dream. That the unknown could be conquered with the right combination of persistence and grit. Indians now knew that they could aspire for and literally ‘reach the moon.’ It was the ultimate leap of faith for the largely middle- class Indian ethic of the importance of getting a good education which could be the ticket out of a humdrum existence. The song ‘Tere vaaste falak se main chaand laoonga’ which until recently had had most of the country gyrating madly on Facebook and Instagram suddenly seemed more ‘real’ than merely ‘reel.’ Indians were proud of their scientists, their largely home-grown technology and vicariously of themselves. It was the supreme ‘feel good’ moment and it was certainly well deserved.

The failure of the previous two moon missions which had almost resulted in the country’s moon aspirations being consigned to the dust-bin of history, made this victory that much more special. It was a much- needed confidence booster. The difference between ‘moon-on-flag’ and ‘flag-on-moon’ philosophy had been driven home. Everyone was mightily pleased, or at least so it seemed on the earthly if not the lunar surface. The Indian cow had arrived and how! Much to the chagrin and eternal disgruntlement of the New York Times, it was now comfortably ensconced in its new pasture and was contentedly chewing the cud. A truly ‘holy cow’ moment.

Wisdom, they say, can be found in the most unexpected places and one such nugget which remains with me to this day is a dialogue from the popular film Three Idiots. “Dost fail ho jaye, to dukh hota hai, lekin dost first aa jaye, to us se bhi jyada dukh hota hai,” and with the moon landing, India had the distinction of being the first to successfully attempt a soft landing on the lunar South Pole, a notoriously difficult terrain to navigate. And thus, it was time for the frenemies to come crawling out of nooks and crannies. They did not disappoint, rising to the occasion with aplomb.

While brick-bats from abroad questioning the validity and necessity of the Indian Space Program, apparently funded by ‘foreign aid’ when the country could put the amount to better use providing food, water, and medical aid to its impoverished citizens were par for the course, (there is something called sour grapes and colonial hangover after all) it was the home-grown litany of criticism which left many a citizen, including yours truly, truly baffled. Masquerading as cautions and well-intentioned advice of ‘not going gaga’ about one achievement, they were nothing but thinly veiled jibes with the single point agenda of giving a political slant to what should have been a singularly apolitical scientific achievement.

The complaints, it seemed, were not directed at the moon landing at all, but at the Prime Minister, of all people. There were complaints because he appeared ‘on screen’ to applaud the achievement and ‘hog the limelight.’ There were complaints because he dared to look for water on the moon when many Indians were starved of clean drinking water.  Within a short time, the internet was replete with stories of scientists ‘not being paid’ for the past eighteen months, and when this was refuted, of one of the companies involved in the construction of the Chandrayaan being ailing, never mind that the MOS for industries later replied in parliament refuting the involvement of touted company in the project and yet others who spoke lugubriously about ‘budget cuts’, failing health care, growing unemployment and a hundred and one other things which were wrong and in some strange convoluted way were direct offshoots of a successful moon-landing. Then there were those brilliant brains who questioned the pooja offered by the ISRO chief at the Tirupati temple. And yet others who had made a career out of being permanently stroppy about all the things which went right.

Of course, there was comic relief as well, when some people in responsible legislative positions demonstrated their grip on the subject by congratulating ‘the citizens travelling to the moon,’ and by agreeing to set up a welcome committee when the ‘lander came back.’ But the choicest vociferation came from the remarkably voluble chief minister of an intelligent eastern state who asked her fellowmen to recall the happy time when Rakesh Roshan, a popular actor of yesteryear had gone to the moon back in the ‘80s (FYI it was Rakesh Sharma, an astronaut who orbited the earth in a Russian craft, not landed on the moon).

The youth leader of the nation (who has mysteriously found the fountain of eternal youth, how else is he an immature fifty-two?) declared that a rover on the moon would not put food on the table. All that is awaited is full-page advertisements from the sagacious chief minister of Delhi, trumpeting the crucial role he played in the whole enterprise accompanied of course by a demonical cackle. The less said the better about the unnecessary furor caused by naming the point of landing ‘Shivshakti,’ which of course in they eyes of several is a sinister plot to make the moon a ‘blood moon’ (saffron, if you get my drift) once and for all.

Politics aside, this chapter of Indian history is a pean to the power of the people. The formerly elitist space program is now within the grasp of all Indians and it is heartening to hear them express themselves so lucidly. People have imbibed the ‘reach for the stars’ spirit and are finally shedding the inferior mindset brought about by centuries of colonialism. Apart from the expected development in the fields of telecommunications, defense, weather forecasting and aerospace engineering, the most noteworthy achievement of the moon landing is self-confidence. For only a confident people can forge themselves a new path.

Perhaps Mr. Anand Mahindra had the last word on the subject when he replied to a pesky BBC anchor who questioned what the anchor deemed an unnecessary expense “What going to the moon does for us is that it helps restore our pride and self-confidence. It creates belief in progress through science. It gives us the aspiration to lift ourselves out of poverty. The greatest poverty is the poverty of aspiration…”

So, like it or lump it, the Indian cow is on the moon and it is there to stay!

(This article is Part 1 of a series called ‘Dreaming by Moonlight’)

“If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way”

Napoleon Hill

The sight of jam-filled cookies fills me with indescribable nostalgia. The sweet centers linger in my heart long after the taste has vanished from the tastebuds. They carry me back to that happy and innocent time called childhood when the ‘dil’ was small, not just in size, but also in demands. When something as tiny as a jam biscuit emerging from my father’s pocket, had the ability to make me feel on top of the world. While the biscuit no doubt played its role, the real reason for the transports of delight was different.

Baba, as I called my father, was a busy man. Of course, being ‘busy’ in a small town, where I grew up carried a far different connotation from the harried (and sometimes unnecessary) ‘busyness’ of the metros which we see these days. Initially being too young to understand much, I only knew that he was a member of ‘committees’ and was a lawyer, all of which meant many meetings. The committees convened at least once a month to discuss things best known to them and since the meetings lasted for the better part of two hours, tea and biscuits were a given. The biscuits in question were the jam filled ones and Baba (who never ate any himself) always got one for me. Just one. Never more.

Now, when I look back on that little indulgence, I realize that the real source of joy was not the single biscuit (he could have well afforded to buy an entire packet) which he gave me, but the fact that he remembered my likes even amid his work. That he cared about the smallest things was the biggest reason to feel cherished. It was one of the first lessons that life was not a matter of milestones but of moments. This was the ‘dil has more’ moment for me and thus the small stuff became the corner stone of my life.

In one of my previous screeds, I have already mentioned that in addition to food, clothing and shelter, appreciation is also a basic human need. There are myriad ways to show it and while grand OTT gestures are the way to go these days, in the wise words of Winnie the Pooh (the real one, not his doppelgänger Xi Jinping), sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. It is why we sometimes come undone and save a small page hurriedly torn out of a notebook with ‘Happy Birthday’ scrawled across it in childish letters in garish markers, decorated with even more lurid puffy stickers of roses and crystals, though the child in question may now be ‘video-calling’ on said birthday to say that he has booked the parent a holiday at a cherished destination and to enjoy it though he may not be able to make it. It is why the sound of the opening strains of a favorite song make us linger longer than necessary near its source and it is also why just a whiff of a long-forgotten bar of soap can make a gloomy day come alive.

Grandiose gestures, goals and achievements are of course to be admired and if possible, emulated whole-heartedly. But in the race to reach this loftiness, it will not do to belittle the little things which go into their making. After all, all that it takes to form a pearl is a tiny irritant grain of sand! In the constant race for loftiness, it is sometimes not just a need, but also a relief to look back at the tiny steps which have led thus far. To send out a tiny reassurance to oneself, that the same power which created the sun also created the fire-fly, blessing each with a different light, and its own distinct place in the scheme of things.

For, on a dark night, it is the fire-fly which fills a floundering soul not just with hope, but also with wonder that even though the darkness is huge and all encompassing, a single point of light is all that it takes to dispel it. And thus, every gesture of love and kindness, no matter how small does contribute to happiness, although it may not be immediately apparent. All that is needed is the patience to await its blossoming.

Never has the race for the ‘bigger and the better’ been so apparent as in current times. With ‘give me more’ being the modern-day slogan, it is very easy to overlook the small deeds which enrich our lives far more than we think possible. With most of us leading dual lives: the real messy one, and the other glossy one on social media, never has it been easier to fall into the airbrush. In this endless chase of being or having the best, it is very easy to snuff out the tiny sparks of everyday joys. It is only when their tiny pinpricks of light are smothered and extinguished by the looming cloud of our own great expectations that we know what they were: stars in the dark sky to light our path.

It is therefore important to keep up with the tiny acts of kindness and caring. Smiling at the night-shift guard when he is stepping out for home, while you are heading out for your morning jog, thanking your maid for fetching you that cold glass of water without waiting to ask, when you step in after a long day, calling your parents in a faraway town, for no reason, other than to talk to them or sending an ‘All Okay?’ message to your spouse when you are out of town for work, despite the busy schedule, are all gestures which we normally dismiss as being too tiny to notice. But do them sometime and the joyful beams and happy voices you are rewarded with will be the rich dividends that you will reap.

If the universe can be built from the invisibly tiny atoms, we can only guess at the importance of the ‘small good deeds’ which will take root to grow into the redwoods of kindness and compassion, a sore need in the modern world. As we strive towards greatness, both personal and public, it is important to remember that true greatness lies in being great in little things.

As for me, thanks to Baba, I know that to keep savoring the sweetness of the jam biscuits in my heart, I have to keep sweating the small stuff!

How a cocktail helped the cause of Cinchona, Conquest, and Colonialism.

What is common amongst Juniper berries, Dutch Courage, Anopheles mosquitoes, the Peruvian Andes, and the East India Company which carried out its largely nefarious activities in many parts of the world? The unlikely answer is a summer cocktail: Gin and Tonic!

For a teetotaller like yours truly, the advent of the long, hot Indian summer brings visions of traditional summer coolers like the Aam Panna, Shikanji, Nimbu-Paani, Faloodas, milkshakes, a few ‘Mocktails,’ or syrups and crushes from Mahabaleshwar. For the ones who happily partake of the happy juice, the choice of course is far greater. Long Island Ice Teas, Frozen Sangrias, Mojitos, Martinis, Pina Coladas and if the occasion is truly special, chilled bottles of Bubbly! But some like it simple and it does not get simpler than the G&T, a two ingredient mix of gin and tonic water with a lime wheel thrown in as a flavour enhancer.

Think G&T and a Kiplingesque picture of British Bungalows with cool shady verandas occupied by British Sahibs and Memsahibs pulling languorously on long cold glasses brimming with the good stuff, while indulging in genteel conversation without a care in the world, comes to mind. Nothing could be further from the truth. In all probability, the Brits were feverishly discussing new ways to stave off the ‘ague’ as malaria was known then. For the only remedy(strangely, both preventive and curative) they knew was G&T, an unlikely weapon in the British arsenal (almost as important as the Gatling Gun) which helped them not just conquer but also keep their crown of colonies, of which India was the jewel.

Turn to history books, and we are assailed with tales of a people who showed up on our shores ostensibly as traders, but fell so much in love with the unparalleled wealth they saw, that they chose to stay and make mayhem for two centuries. Armed with superior weapons, whether guns or germs, it did not take them long to conquer all that they laid their eyes on. But holding on to conquered land needed numbers. And these were dwindling thanks to not just the hostile weather, but also a fever with shivers which had been the bane of hot, damp, low lying, mosquito- infested areas since the zenith of the Roman empire. The malady was Malaria. And it refused to discriminate among the conquerors and the conquered, The British were on the lookout for some way, anyway, to prevent or cure this ill, which was a serious spanner in the great work of Empire expansion. Just another ‘White Man’s Burden’!

While Gin was of distinctly Dutch origin (there are references to a spirit flavoured with ‘genever’ or Juniper berries in thirteenth century Flemish manuscripts), the British soldiers battling it out in Europe took to it like ducks to water, frequently indulging freely before going into battle, helping themselves not just to Dutch Gin, but also ‘Dutch Courage.’ It was not long before the ‘Gin Craze’ took over London in the early eighteenth century. It was largely a cheap spirit because no duties were levied on it, unlike those on French Brandy. And thus, it gained popularity with the hoi polloi, disdained by the upper classes of society.

Tonic water was a different story altogether.  While the British were indulging themselves in Europe, on the other side of the world, on the high slopes of the Peruvian Andes, Spanish conquerors discovered a miracle bark which though the proverbial bitter medicine, prevented the ague in natives who gamely chewed it, having decided that bitter was better than dead. The bark in question was the bark of the Cinchona tree, which contains quinine, still used in the treatment of malaria. Peru and the conquering Spaniards would have had a stranglehold on quinine production had it not been for the enterprising Dutch at work again. They managed to smuggle a few seeds to their colonies in Java and lo and behold! There was quinine for all.

Once it was discovered that the powdered bark worked just as well as the fresh one, the Brits took to importing their preventive and curative medicine in large quantities and distributing it to their soldiers en mass, with strict instructions to down bitter medicine if they hoped to either avoid or stay alive after being afflicted by the ague.

The bitter truth bit everyone where it hurt the most: their taste buds, until someone came up with the idea of mixing a concoction of quinine powder, water, and sugar. Though the bitter pill was somewhat sweetened, there definitely was room for improvement. This came in the form of soda water which further reduced the bitterness. Since it performed the task of staving off malaria, it was popularly called ‘Tonic Water.’  An enterprising person called Erasmus Bond is credited with the first commercial production of Tonic Water, with suspicious serendipity in 1858, just when the rule of the East India Company was ousted in favour of the British crown. Schweppes in the meantime had started producing ‘Indian Tonic Water’ and this was brought to Indian shores by British sailors, who also brought their favourite tipple: Gin.

While the name of the bright spark who first thought of mixing the two has been lost to the mists of time, it was a match made in heaven. And viola! a new cocktail was born. It was a win-win. It was alcohol, it tasted great, it either prevented or cured a deadly disease and was something the doctor ordered. What could be better? Although recent studies have shown that the blood levels of quinine generated by downing the G&T are not sufficient to prevent malaria, it was probably the frequency with which it was downed which did the trick. And Plasmodium, (the genus of protozoan which causes malaria) having never been subjected to such alcoholic treatment was still too hung over to put up a strong resistance.

The British, for once, had crafted a sweet ending to a tale of woe (which was quite unlike them). The Crown conquered and colonized and Gin &Tonic made sure that bitter was always better with some added alcohol. Perhaps Winston Churchill had the last word on the subject when he famously declared “The gin and tonic has saved more Englishmen’s lives and minds, than all the doctors in the Empire.”

With Goa beginning production of artisanal gin, the G&T has come full circle. So, the next time you are accused of overindulgence (if you indulge in the first place), whether you belong to the healthcare fraternity or not, you have a suitable riposte up your sleeve, “The Gin and Tonic is not just a drink; it is a drug!”

“The wedding was great but the snacks were the real star of the show”

‘Come September’ might have been the music theme for the eponymous romantic comedy, but it has apparently gained fame in the northern reaches of the country as the ‘doosri wali dhun’ played routinely during baraats causing many a baraati to rock until hapless passersby are convinced that the person rocking and thus inadvertently blocking the route to their legitimate business is off his rocker in the first place. It is how we welcome the wedding season.

In this large and lovable country of ours, ‘Come November’ is a better theme because it is the start of the silly season which lasts well into June, when you are dragged nilly-willy into everyone’s itch to hitch. If Lord Vishnu can rouse himself from cosmic slumber on Prabhodini Ekadashi to marry Vrinda in what is celebrated as the Tulsi Vivah, how can puny humans not emulate Him? Taking a cue from the Gods, they rush to pledge themselves to their (not necessarily) better halves. Add a celebration prone people to the mix and you get glitz, glamour, gigatons of gold, good cheer, and gazillions of guests.

Any life-changing event needs witnesses. ‘The bigger the better’ has been a common theme since days of yore, accompanied by several rituals. If this is only too evident in births and deaths, can event as seminal as marriage be left behind? It of course deserves its own chapter in the book of life. And nowhere is this more evident than in the Big Fat Indian Wedding, with its ever-increasing BMI, which has either not heard or does not care about the global obesity and Syndrome X epidemic. The sizes of Indian weddings tend to follow the lines of those of American food portions: large, huge, and enormous. Even the most private of weddings easily boasts a crowd of a hundred and fifty or more. With the great Indian family boasting ties which not just bind but also gag, to not invite your aunt’s sister-in-law’s third cousin four times removed is an unpardonable crime. Playing the ‘better safe than sorry’ card, wedding venues burst at the seams with so many people milling around, that gate-crashers appear far more genuine than legitimate guests, as evidenced in the movie ‘Three Idiots.’

To be a part of this three-ring circus can be fun for the gregarious kinds, but if you happen to be the shrinking wall-flower kind (my favorite), then such weddings represent a Chakravyuh which will put the one designed by Dronacharya in the Mahabharat in the amateur class. Battling your way through this melee dressed in heavy armor (read your finery), accosted at every step by pesky long-lost relatives who pop up with the battle cry “Remember Me?,” adroitly fielding nosy queries about your job, money and family while trying to summon a smile when enlightened about how Chinki, Pappu (not RaGa, he has smartly avoided weddings for fifty years) and Sonu are doing much better than you can be extremely taxing for the uninitiated.

There was a civilized time which I remember from my distant childhood in which weddings were genteel events which you attended with your hand tucked safely in an elder’s, when you were expected to arrive for the Mahurat, shower the newlyweds with rice grains, blessings and a discrete envelope containing cash, partake of the ice-cream thrust at you by the waiter ( don’t even think of hanging around in hope of seconds) and beat a dignified retreat within the space of an hour. If you happened to be a relative or a particularly close friend, you were invited to join the banquet which was a classy sit-down affair with a few standard ‘wedding’ items on the menu. Immediate family like older, married siblings, uncles, aunts, and first cousins, next door neighbors and a few out-of-towners doubled as wedding planners, beauticians, decorators and if need be impromptu caterers and attended the pre-wedding ceremonies which mostly comprised of ritual poojas and havans, attended to by a well-endowed family priest in a dhoti and a large upvastram barely covering his girth as well as the main event. A small pandal to feed the extra mouths and a few strings of lights formed the decorations and distinguished the ‘wedding house’ from the others on the street. So far, so simple.

Now that times have changed, weddings like everything else have been ‘upgraded’ into bigger (though not necessarily better) versions of themselves. Wedding planners have replaced the aunties in charge, multiple cuisines with live counters and chefs tossing roomali rotis in the air have replaced the few homely food items and queues snaking for miles at the buffet and at the reception line have replaced the formal sit-down affairs. The venues are transformed from the street to the starred hotels. The less said about the themed decorations the better. The invitations have morphed from single page comprehensives to multiple page novels detailing everything from when, where, and how the happy couple met to what they expect from YOU on their several pre-wedding and wedding day functions. A clothing theme, an entertainment theme, food theme, song-and-dance theme. All you can do is heave a sigh of relief that you are not expected to tag along to contribute to the cost of the honeymoon theme! Most weddings these days stretch themselves for a minimum of four days with a Haldi ceremony, a Ladies Sangeet (what do the gents do I wonder?), a cocktail night, a reception and so on and so forth. The actual wedding ceremony is often lost in transit, what with flexible and multiple Mahurats!

Just how much of an effort the guests put into attending said weddings was borne home to me when the spouse had to attend a destination wedding in a golden beach state. Now, getting the spouse to dress in new clothes for any occasion is a Herculean task, but to co-ordinate all the clothes required for this three-day bonanza entailed several shopping trips on the part of yours truly looking for a pajama here, sandals there, and a yellow Modi jacket elsewhere for the haldi ceremony.  The list for the must have items for this wedding far surpassed those for his own (to me, unfortunately). Anyway, to cut a long story short, said items were procured, the spouse duly dispatched and I was looking forward to a couple of days of peace. No such luck. The wedding now having taken on the aura of Casper the (un)friendly ghost haunted me in the form of the spouse messaging a hundred times a day asking which pair of trousers went with which shirt, which jacket with which tie, which socks with which shoes and when was the yellow theme till all I could see was yellow spots before my eyes.

I generally try to slide out of the bigger wedding dos for the simple fact that most of them require me to wear a sari, which is not my strong suite. After four or five failed attempts, I finally manage the feat with several safety pins and prayers that both the pleats and the pallu should behave themselves and not cause unnecessary embarrassment by coming undone in a large hall packed with several elderly relatives. High heels, a handbag and a large buffet plate add to my woes as I teeter about trying to make small talk with several people who recognize me but whose faces and names don’t match in my middle-aged memory. While I feel a leap of delight on receiving a wedding invitation, it is laced at the fringes with a nameless dread at all the shenanigans involved.

As I discreetly rub my aching ankles after attending one of these necessary evils, I cannot help but remember the words of wisdom imparted to me by my uncle,  “After all these shindigs, no Indian in their right mind will do it twice. That is the real reason for the low divorce rate in India.” I tend to agree. Whether or not you believe the ‘Ek dooje ke vaaste’ theme of matches being made in heaven ala the movie ‘Dil to Pagal hai’, the themed weddings of the new generation are definitely the stuff of ‘Mad(e) in Heaven’!

“Never argue with someone who believes their own lies”

Long ago, I dreamt of studying in Cambridge. Given its venerable age, it ranked right up there with the rest of the best universities in the world. I wanted nothing more than to don long gowns and tiptoe down hallowed halls, discussing the essence of life and death and how to save all life forms inhabiting the good earth, while colonizing (read illegally occupying) a couple of other planets or their moons at least should humankind ever run out of space to spread themselves. I wanted to hobnob with the brilliantly illustrious, who would initially guide me and whom I would guide after the passage of a respectable amount of time.

Of course, life had different ideas. Forget Cambridge, I did not even make it as far as Colaba. Years passed and I had all but forgotten about it. Until recently. After my disastrous run in with the muffler and nearly being coopted into the joining Juggernaut, I had decided to lie low for a while, and take things easy. And that is precisely what I was doing. Minding my own business. Until blaring speeches and glaring headlines proclaimed the fall of an old bastion to the charms of venerable, middle-aged youth. Cambridge (or its management school, at least) had been conquered by an intelligent, impressive, inclusive, insightful, intuitive, and inspiring Indian! Reading all the adjectives used to describe him made me slightly irascible, but that is another story.

To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. I had always imagined Cambridge to be the serene and halcyon haunt of the great and the good. Surely conquering such a hallowed place would take exceptional ability? Yes, my friendly conqueror did have one such exceptional ability. He could always be called upon to provide comic relief. All that it had taken to conquer Cambridge was a clown! And one with marked Chinese leanings at that. And of course, the less said about his confusing statements, guaranteed to confound the cleverest, the better!

After an exceptionally somber and busy week dealing with patients in the throes of some dreaded ailment or other, I decided to have a good laugh and set about downloading his speeches with gusto. If I was looking for something along the lines of ‘vision which is global, but China has it’ or ‘a machine which churns out gold if fed with potatoes,’ I was not so much in for a surprise as a nasty shock. The man, while on the run (sorry, I meant walk) had with his suave well-bearded look, also acquired a new clarity of thought and was giving clarion calls for help. Now on whose behalf said calls exactly were for, remained a serious matter of contention. Some claimed they were on behalf of the motherland. Others just as vehemently claimed that they were for the invasion of the motherland. The conqueror was using confusion to claim all for himself.

Repeat a lie often enough, they say and it can be mistaken to be the truth. And thus the ‘Democracy in Danger’ refrain, which went on and on, like a broken record. When the simplest of minds can understand that you get either heads or tails on tossing a coin, one failed to understand how he believed himself when he was allowed not just permission, but also protection while on the run, sorry walk. And how in the wide world was he allowed to fly the nest when he was supposedly put behind bars not once, but several times thanks to his self-righteous and obdurate stance against the fascist regime now holding the common population in its snake- like hypnotic stare? If the mind of the common man boggles, that of the Cambridge dons must have reeled into the realms of insanity.

If it was a word-perfect actor playing to the galleries on a world stage, to a script which would have even given Shakespeare a run for his money, our conqueror was certainly worth the full houses and headlines proclaiming his ‘coming of age’ at last! Closer home, a much younger, saffron-clad monk went about his daily tasks with a sad shake of his venerable head, knowing that he could never win this battle of the elixir of youth. Another person who had joined the regret band was the father of all things Indian. MKG. I am sure MKG was by now regretting his shared surname what with his Dandi March being blatantly compared to the great joining juggernaut. At least one can safely say that the British who saw MKG on his march did not mean to simply stand and stare and did cause some grievous bodily harm to his followers if not MKG himself. But it is totally believable that the few terrorists in Kashmir who saw the clown were either busy ROFLing or were too scared to approach him by the thought of being infected by some new form of virus thanks to his Chinese connections not to mention the copious amount of beard! Perhaps we had discovered a simple new peaceful missile to solve militancy in Kashmir once and for all!

Again, the worst was saved for the last. There were repeated mentions of all the ‘institutions, constitution and pillars’ which supported the largest democracy in the world were being constantly bombarded. You wanted real bombardment? Then forget Ukraine. India was THE place to visit.  And this is how a blatant invitation was issued to several Western powers to ‘ensure’ that democracy was restored. It was the new post-colonial school of thought. Conquer in order to free! The ‘Learning to Listen’ lecture which was the key to Cambridge had sinister undertones of ‘Sustaining Slavery in the Subcontinent.’

It has many times been seen that people prefer to don masks to hide the unsavory. And our conquering clown is no exception. Under the mask of a simpleton lies an extremely devious mind which will stop at nothing in an undisguised bid for power. A scion of a freedom fighter family making unapologetic appeals to foreign powers is the height of hypocrisy and the depth of depravity. For a would-be ruler, to be so unsure about the trust of the people whom he seeks to rule means that something is fishy and it is so much more than a basket of fish.

If, in a democracy, it is people who truly rule, it is time to unmask all the masqueraders and to vote for what lies beneath. It is time to read not just the writing on the wall, but in between the lines as well. It is time to see through the freebies and know that there is nothing like a free lunch and when the time comes, the price extracted will far outstrip not just the cost of lunch but that of an entire lifetime of full-board. It is time to no longer jest, but be just in choosing who we vote to power.

And to prove to the world that clowns may well conquer Cambridge but not the common man!