I’ve been thinking about what Gandhiji would do about our Public Distribution System (PDS). At the heart of this programme is the idea that the poor must not starve: They must have a bit of food security, despite market prices or black-marketeers. It is an idea Gandhiji would approve of. Most of us would find it very hard to dispute the rectitude of this idea.

But the PDS has never worked as well as it should. Recently, finance minister Pranab Mukherjee even said, “Improper PDS is the biggest weakness of the country.” He said this while talking to students at Mohanlal Sukhadia University in Udaipur. It must have rung painfully true, given that this was south Rajasthan, which has reported several hunger deaths in recent years...

As it is, the last Global Hunger Index report (2011) has ranked us 67 (among 88 nations) when it comes to food security. We have 
actually dropped a rank since 2008, when we were ranked 66. Our overall situation is judged ‘alarming’.

Researchers have also developed an India State Hunger Index, which calculates hunger and malnutrition within India. They looked at 17 states, and claim to have covered 95% of the population. Some states, expectedly, did better. Punjab, for instance, was the best performer – its food security situation is merely ‘serious’. Madhya Pradesh was ‘extremely alarming’, 
with people suffering greater hunger here than in Ethiopia or Sudan. Gandhiji would not have approved.

It is also true, of course, that India is a food-surplus nation. Or so it claimed to be, in our school textbooks. But this ‘surplus’ exists because too many of us — some estimates suggest 836 million Indians survive on less than Rs20 per day — either have no land to grow food, or don’t have jobs that pay enough to buy food.

If we are not to turn into a failed state, we have to prevent mass hunger. The PDS is a firm step in that direction. But what ails the PDS?

One answer is ‘poor offtake’, which means our distribution system isn’t distributing far and wide enough. Another is ‘leakages’. This doesn’t refer to rats biting through sackcloth. It refers to non-hungry people stealing grain meant for hungry Indians.

The way to tackle theft is to police it. But the PDS is a complex system. There are too many stages of transportation and storage and sale. No matter how alert administration officials are, or how honest, it is hard to plug a million leaks unless a food inspector physically stands around, guarding each sack of grain. We know that isn’t a tenable solution.

Read full piece here

Kum se kum akela chana bhaad mein gaya to sahi

Shyamal Chaudhary, a 65-year-old farmer was running around, trying to get the block office to sanction an irrigation project in his village. Finally, he got sick of the runaround and gave up.

Except, he didn’t really give up. He just got up and did it himself. Alone. It took 14 years, but he did it. His own farming income went up, of course, and he could fish in the pond too. Since things were hard for everyone in the village, Chaudhary shared his pond with the community. Things have been better, since.

There are many lone grams in this country. There was Kamleshwari Singh, a farmer from Bihar, who spent seven years digging. People laughed at him; some called him ‘talaabi baba’. Perhaps they thought he had gone mad. But he went on digging, and when he was done, he had created a large pond.

There’s Rajinder Singh, now described as India’s ‘water man’, who initially dug alone in ‘dark’ thirsty Alwar, trying to find water.

There was Dashrath Manjhi, another Bihari who created a road over hilly tracts with his own hands, and no help. Manjhi was lucky enough to be honoured during his lifetime and cremated with state honours when he died.

Another recent report mentioned Suresh Khanapurkar and Amrish Patel, who worked together to resolve the water crisis in several villages of Shirpur taluka, Dhule district. They did this although Khanapurkar is described as an RSS supporter, and Patel, a Congressman.

Why am I suddenly thinking of these people? Well, we have several infrastructure and hygiene problems where we live. There have been improvements over the years, but there’s no end to such problems because maintenance is a lifetime responsibility.

Much of the ‘open’ or leisure spaces promised by the builder was swallowed up or sold off. Garbage piles up on the roads. Rats breed merrily. Drains aren’t covered. Every monsoon brings the risk of floods.

My mother, by way of community service, had been slaving away at beautifying the area behind our building. Many people told her not to bother. Some mocked her. Some warned her that all her hard work would be destroyed in a few weeks. Even I snapped at her, asking why she worked so hard when the rest of the community was merrily choking up our gutters with plastic waste.

She carried on — sweeping, cementing walls, digging, colouring pots, buying flowering plants, white-washing. On mothers’ day, she got a few women together and ceremonially offered a clean corner of beauty to the community.

Another suburban friend told me about his building’s resident ‘akela chana’ — a young woman who got sick of the filth and starting sweeping the common area outside. After two months, a few other women — women only, it seems - were shamed into helping her. Somehow, the building got clean and so far, it has stayed clean.

So, I’m wondering if the oven of our problems can be busted if we just did what needs getting done. We could at least stop mocking the ‘akela chana’ who is trying.

Read here

It's not about the kaam, but the daam

I wonder if you travel by cycle-rickshaw. I wonder because recently, some friends mentioned that they suffer too much guilt on account of the fellow pulling the rickshaw.

I rarely feel guilty, except when I see three full-bodied adults pulled by an elderly man who looks like his lungs could do with a year in a sanatorium. But after a few years in Mumbai, I saw rickshaws as some of my friends (Mumbai-bred, or NRIs) do - an artefact in the museum of oppression.


I examined my feelings towards hand-pulled rickshaws in Kolkata and thought that I couldn’t bring myself to ride one. So, although I continued to hire cycle-rickshaws, I told myself that perhaps I’m blind to the oppression dangling from the handlebars. Perhaps I owed my lack of guilt to middle class antecedents. Most of my childhood memories are from Lucknow where cycle-rickshaws were the only affordable mode of transport... 

Then I visited the UK, where taxis were an indulgence I couldn’t afford. Besides, I wanted to walk around London. But I was wearing high heels that day, and so I ended up barefoot and ready to weep from exhaustion. And lo! What do I see?

A clutch of cycle-rickshaws wafting about. These bright rickshaws were clearly a tourist attraction and confined to a touristy part of town. I didn’t think I could afford them, but a puller - a six-foot-plus, beefy blonde - approached me.

I mentioned my destination; he whipped out a map; he quoted five pounds; I hopped on. Along the way, I asked questions - who he was, whether he made enough, did he eat well? He was a Polish immigrant. Yes, he made enough to eat well and sleep safe.

Suddenly, the penny dropped and the rickshaw guilt slid off my back. Once again, I saw the cycle-rickshaw as it was — a much-needed service, a healthy alternative to motor vehicles, a joyride.

But what we call the humble, besieged ricksha in Lucknow becomes a pedicab or ‘eco chariot’ in London. What I paid in London would cover a coffee and croissant in a nice sit-down cafe. Or it would buy a couple of sandwiches, muffins, and maybe some milk at the supermarket. For the same distance, a Lucknow puller gets paid Rs 15, not enough to buy one paratha at a dhaba.

Read full piece here

Suffering, and happy

Surveys can be very confusing, of course. Last year (2011), the Gallup poll found that only 11% Indians were ‘thriving’, Pakistan was apparently doing better, at 20%. This, even though food insecurity is higher and confidence in the government much lower in Pakistan.

In any case, it seems to me that many of us have been lying about our misery. Because, according to another survey conducted by Ipsos Global, Indians are the second-happiest people in the world. Which means that either most Indians surveyed were from the ‘thriving’ class, or else, far too many of us enjoy our suffering.

So much struggling and suffering isn’t hard to believe since we fare badly on most indices of wellbeing. According to the Legatum Prosperity Index, for instance, India was ranked 91 (among 110 nations), because of our low per capita GDP, and the lack of social support.

If you want to know why we lack social support, look at our tax reports. A parliamentary committee, headed by Yashwant Sinha, found that just 4,06,000 taxpayers earn more than Rs20 lakh per annum (in 2010-11). That’s just over 1% of India’s total taxpayer base.

In our national wealth narrative, 88.98% are crammed into the 0-5 lakh income bracket, which means most of us don’t have much that can be taxed. But 1.25% of us sprawl across the 20 lakh+ bracket, and they contribute 63 percent to the personal tax collected. These figures apply to individuals, of course, and not to businesses, but they tell us how suffering (or happiness) works.

Another newspaper has an income-bracket calculator up on its website. You feed in your income, and it tells you where you are on India’s financial ladder. Say, you earn Rs 12,000 a month and are the only earning member in your family. You’d still be among the top 8.45%.

But the question is, what does Rs 12,000 mean? What it means in a village, I cannot say, but in a metropolitan city like Mumbai, it means being dangerously close to poor. It may not translate into going to bed hungry. But it does mean long, exhausting commutes in overcrowded buses and trains. It means not having access to fresh fruit. It means being slightly overweight and malnourished at the same time, since you cannot afford to eat the good stuff.

Read full piece here

What surprised me was the newspapers’ howling. Then, I realised that most journalists — especially editors — ride in cars or taxis or autos. In this, they were no different from industrialists and senior bureaucrats. I remember being told by a senior politician how, at a meeting, everyone was moaning about how buses now actually went faster than the ministers’ cars. The senior politician hid his amusement in his moustache. Just a few days ago, his peon had been talking about how chuffed he was about the BRT.

Four years later, I assumed things had settled down. But apparently not. Someone filed a petition and the Delhi High Court (the judges use cars, of course) has asked the Central Road Research Institute to conduct a study on how the BRT might work if it was ‘normal’. This, although a survey shows that 40% car owners accept that the BRT reduces traffic snarls. Another survey shows that up to 85% of respondents are willing to use buses if the network improves.

What the CRRI will say is anybody’s guess, but I believe that true feasibility studies can only be conducted by people who actually use public transport. I feel that everyone who writes about BRTs should be forced to commute in buses or cycles for a year.

For too long, transport and urban planning policies have been framed by those who ride in cars. More and more flyovers are built. Existing roads are eaten up by cars parked on either side. Spaces earmarked for gardens or homes are converted into parking lots. But there’s no additional taxing of families who saddle the city with two, three and four cars. We talk of ‘world-class cities’, but in cities like Vienna, Munich, Rome, and even New York, certain areas are car-free.

If Mumbai had no-car zones, we’d be a better-looking, healthier city. But oh, our fear of sunshine! So, here we are, building a city where nobody can walk, or cycle, safely, and where we drive to gyms so we may walk on a stationary treadmill. And we pop pills to make up for the lack of K and D vitamins that the sun could give us for free.

Remember the moaning about skywalks? People were saying it was a waste of money, because who uses skywalks?
Well, I do. 

Read full piece here

Part of the problem is that the author gravitates towards spaces of leisure—house parties, nightlife, music, TV, concerts, restaurants, shopping malls. He also says that leisure has been democratised. “Boys and girls drink together in well-lit, happy spaces.” I’d like to know how many young Indians can afford to be in these democratic spaces.

Nearly 28 percent of India lives in its cities and the figure is likely to go up to 40 percent by 2030. Urban areas contribute two-thirds of the national Gross Domestic Product. Reports from the Centre for Monitoring Indian Economy indicate that the average quarterly (urban) household income stands at 45,000, which translates into 15,000 per month to cover house rent, food, clothes, medicine, tuition, electricity, transport. At that income level, based on the cost of living in Mumbai and Delhi, the only entertainment one can hope for is TV, and perhaps an Internet connection. Even buying a bottle of wine and hopping into a taxi to visit a friend is a strain.

Surveys suggest that households earning more than 1 million per annum comprise only around five percent of urban households but that they contribute to one-third of the total urban consumer expenditure. From such households come youngsters who can pay monthly house rents of 25,000 or more, and who can buy Carlsberg beer, or Tuborg if they prefer. True, we now have that choice. But Mehrotra tells us very little about the majority that cannot afford, and perhaps doesn’t want, a can of Carlsberg. He tells us that people who work at restaurants like McDonalds like their jobs. But he doesn’t tell us where they might go when they want a drink or how they commute, nor does he seem bothered by these questions.

If Mehrotra were to dissect this notion of democratic leisure, he’d find that it’s a cruel joke. In most cities, green spaces that young people might have enjoyed at no cost are shrinking. Several public parks are locked up after sunset, to keep out ‘undesirable elements’. There are very few clean public toilets. Mumbai has the Carter Road promenade, with benches, but food and drink is forbidden. Except the beach, there’s nowhere to go. Try drinking alcohol on the beach and you’re liable to get arrested. Dance bars have been banned in Mumbai, although dance shows are permitted in five star hotels. There are discotheques but cover charges are high and the drinks expensive. So, whose leisure has been democratised?

One interesting development over the past decade has been the spurt in the number of coffee houses (in a primarily tea-drinking nation!). Chains like Café Coffee Day have at least 1,200 outlets; Barista has more than 200; international brands like Costa Coffee have arrived; Starbucks is making a late entry. There are a few dozen independent cafes. Most of these serve a cuppa priced between 60 and 120. Business is booming because middle-class Indians are hungry for spaces where they can meet safely.

Students, lovers on dates, young professionals—they have nowhere else to go. The cooperatives running Indian Coffee House are struggling, fading out. Those who cannot afford the 60 cappuccino have to drink tea at roadside stalls, where they cannot sit down to talk. Where do the cooks and drivers and autorickshaw wallahs take their leisure?

In ‘Servants of India’, Mehrotra’s writing is empathetic. He describes a mall visit during which he spots a family accompanied by servants out shopping. The employers disappear into a Mexican restaurant and leave the two servants outside, holding the bags and the baby. He mentions Delhi’s high crime rates, the several instances of the help robbing and killing employers, but also of the latter torturing the workers. He writes, “The servant is not someone who provides a service at a cost. He is someone who is less than human… when I put myself in Ramu’s shoes, I can see myself reaching for the iron rod, the hammer, the kitchen knife.”

But then, I’m annoyed at this throwaway line: “In Delhi, most can afford round-the-clock help.” It only reiterates my impression that Mehrotra is essentially writing about the upper class.

And much of what Mehrotra tells us about servants, we already know. By ‘we’ I mean the English-speaking, book-buying middle class in India. We read the papers. We observe what the author observes because we hire domestic help ourselves, or intimately know others who do. He spells out the connections between extreme disparities of lifestyle, physical isolation, and a servant’s attempt to strike back using a moral code borrowed from employers. But he doesn’t give us details. Not a single worker is interviewed at any length, so we don’t have a clear sense of the extent of their bondage, desperation or greed.

At best, the essay serves as a primer for non-resident Indians or international readers who are not familiar with the way live-in servants are treated in upper-class urban households.

Social commentary in The Butterfly Generation is a tossed salad of stock phrases: ‘socialist era’, ‘global capitalism’, ‘liberal’, ‘feudal’... I’m soon longing for a metaphorical flyswatter each time the word ‘socialism’ appears.

We were always a mixed economy—and in a limited way still are—and that knowledge is critical to an understanding of the '90s kids. A mixed economy meant that we thought of the government not only as an administrative and legal force, but also as a provider of secure jobs across a wide swathe of sectors. You didn’t have to be a bureaucrat or a politician or a soldier to get pensions and cheap medical care. You could be a lawyer, a doctor, an engineer, a teacher, a mechanic, a furnace-stoker, a baggage handler, a banker. People took pride in working for state-owned enterprises like Bharat Heavy Electricals or Air India. Even now, despite our ranting against the ‘system’, few young people would dismiss a government job in an institution that’s likely to stay solvent.

You were told that if you were a ‘private’ party, you needed to find ways of ‘getting work done’. This meant a sinuous chain of ‘contacts’ with senior officials, or bribery. At least some of our mistrust of profit and private capital has come from there, not from socialist ideals.

In fact, although our Constitution tells us we aspire towards socialism, we were never taught to respect socialist ideals. I don’t remember being taught that natural resources belong equally to everybody, or that private property was a bad thing. I wasn’t even taught that every citizen had a right to food, sanitation, housing and education. It wasn’t in our books. It wasn’t in the air around us.

Perhaps that would explain why so many in our generation—particularly urban citizens—are up in arms against government schemes that offer food, health and education—especially those directed at rural citizens, such as the National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme or the midday meal scheme. It would also explain our early disconnect from the battle for resources. We wanted non-stop electricity and water, but we expected the government to help us get it, even if it meant the destruction of fellow citizens’ homes and livelihoods.

Because we are used to the government being able to step in and control things in every sector, we continue to expect that it will, although much infrastructure is now created and controlled by non-state corporations. For instance, when Jet Airways let go of some of its workers, they wanted the state to help save their jobs. When taxi and auto drivers demand higher fares, the middle-class commuter expects the state to rein them in.

Mehrotra seems not to have taken cognisance of the psychology of the mixed economy as distinct from socialist, or capitalist, or feudal.

Meanwhile, I have a speechless, blank Post-It on page 98 against this statement: “Class barriers, too, have been broken down in these showrooms of global capitalism. The bank manager’s son works side by side with a new migrant to the city, and they both start with a clean slate… centuries of prejudice are instantly wiped out.”

On caste prejudice, the author is disarmingly naïve. He seems not to know that traditionally, cooks belonged to upper castes, so working in a restaurant is not a come-down. He should have interviewed people who clean the toilets.

Extracted from my review of The Butterfly Generation for the Caravan

Flesh, bone and the body of caste

The story about Dalits in Karnataka pouring cow-dung over their bodies to protest against the encroachment of their land by upper castes. Or the story about Dalit panchayat presidents not being able to sit on a chair in the panchayat office, and not having access to records even though they know of ongoing financial irregularities. Or, indeed, about the four members of a Dalit family, including two children, who were hacked to pieces in Rajasthan.

Or you might have to take an interest in Bihar, and the wars between Dalits, certain backward castes, and the Bhumihars, who were fighting tooth and nail to retain their social and economic hegemony. Take an interest in 1996, Bathani Tola, when 21 Dalits were massacred, including babies, but all 23 accused who had been convicted by a lower court, were acquitted by the Patna High Court recently. Think of how the Dalits of Bihar feel after waiting 16 years for justice.

These are all items I’ve read about in the mainstream press. But what newspaper or television headlines don’t always say is where that negative incident — violent or not — comes from. It comes from a society where random acts of oppression and discrimination go unpunished. It comes from the flesh and bone of the body of caste.

That, sadly, is the body in which most Indians remain trapped. Go look at some videos made by community members at the Video Volunteers website. In one, you see school-kids being segregated at meal-time. In another, you see a young Gujarati talking of having to go to the next town for a haircut because he isn’t allowed to enter local barber-shops. A tap is washed by a little girl because a Dalit woman has just used it. A Sikh father talks of how his son and pregnant daughter-in-law were killed because it was an inter-caste wedding. A farm worker is left handicapped after being attacked with a sickle for drinking water from a pot.

This series of video clips, less than a minute each, is part of a campaign called Article 17. You can view them here.

Perhaps you’ve had your fill of bad news. But if you don’t look, you deny yourself a full portrait of India. And you fail to understand that the consequences of Dalit assertion are usually the same in every context. A stabbing could be about beef. It could also be about a pot of water.

Read full piece here.

Trauma and payback

Once, a good citizen fell down the stairs of his home. His back was hurt and he was rushed to a hospital. Then the medical insurance company rejected his claim on the grounds that the said hospital was not covered by the policy.

If I was that citizen, I’d probably have accepted that decision quietly. Private corporations, corporate insurance, private hospitals — each one with its own rules and financial arrangements. How could I argue when I’ve bought a policy, after having read the fine print?

Still, I worry that when it comes to the crunch, I won’t remember which hospital I must rush to. Or others might take me to the wrong hospital. And what would be the grand idea of buying insurance, then? In an emergency, the last thing on your mind is which hospital has a tie-up with which insurance company.

That worthy citizen who fell down the stairs in Chandigarh, however, decided to press the point. And a consumer forum ruled in his favour, saying that insurance companies cannot reject claims based on which hospital you’re treated at. The forum apparently quoted the Puranas: “It is the duty of human life to protect the body by all efforts and a person will do so by the quickest means available.”

Which is a natural truth, and also just basic common sense. It would be marvelous if our systems allowed us the use of common sense once in a while. For instance, it is common sense that a father would know his daughter’s face better than the cops who are supposed to locate her. And if the poor man has taken the trouble to go to the courts, it stands to reason that he wouldn’t reject her after she was found.

Yet, this bizarre claim was made. The daughter of a daily wage worker, Sonu Parshad, had gone missing in April 2008. Two years later, the Amritsar police tried to foist another teenaged girl upon the father. They told the court that the ‘body structure’ of the girl had changed. The court had to run DNA tests before the father could establish that it wasn’t his daughter.

Read full piece here

I was trying not to choke on my coffee. As if bad roads, corrupt officials, indecent hospitals and unaffordable housing weren’t enough, one more cross for the “common man” to bear — no more shopping for gold! And what are weddings in this country but a celebration of gold?

Of course, it must be the common man who is suffering. Who else will suffer, if not us? Bhabhi-ji wasn’t the only one with fears of running out of gold. A shopkeeper expressed similar views: “Even the general public is suffering, as they have to buy gold for marriages ahead in the families.” A teacher felt that it was terrible that jewellers might pass on the burden of taxes to customers. She said, “The government should think on the lines of Indian households where gold is the biggest necessity and the taxing it further can put them on the backfoot.” (sic)

Suddenly, it didn’t seem funny, after all. I’ve done my share of ‘vox pop’ (voice of the people) stories as a cub reporter, so I know how it works. You accost a few unsuspecting souls on the streets; you ask for an opinion on the newest problem on the news block; you take a photograph. Most people will oblige. Perhaps, because they rarely get to express an opinion about anything, not in the mainstream press anyway. Perhaps, because it is nice to see your photo in the morning papers, saying something about something that matters.

Yet, I am a little bit thrown by these opinions. Do people really think that gold jewellery matters all that much? And are we really so blinkered that we believe that people who buy gold for every wedding in the family constitute the ‘common man’ for whom the government must frame policies? That making gold jewellery cheaper should actually be a state priority?

If the government’s taxation policy could force people to stop buying that much gold, and stop expecting so much of jewellery at weddings, then perhaps the state is doing something right for a change.

Read full piece here.

No simpering over samosas

There have been far too many novels that simper over samosas—the desire to find, or fight, one’s roots. This novel seems to sneeze into the fine cinnamon dust of nostalgia. Its protagonist is the opposite of anything rooted. Karam is a man who not only wants to hack away at his roots, he dismisses the very possibility.

I’d  been complaining recently that it’s been a long time since I read just a phat yarn—a well-written story that has both truth and fiction on its side, with half a pinch of glamour. Well, I asked and I received.

Roopa Farooki’s The Flying Man brings us a strong narrative voice with a rich emotional timbre. It tracks the story of Maqil Karam, a good-looking charmer born in Pakistan but resident nowhere and everywhere.

As soon as he clears his school exams, he goes west for a higher education. Most things come easy—languages, politics, card games, women. He is talented and vain, but even his vanity cannot persuade him to do anything that doesn’t come easy. Commitment to something, or somebody, doesn’t come to him at all. He’s constantly evading tax and the traps of familial responsibility. He is, like he tells the mirror, a shallow man. “I don’t like causes. I like cocktails and cash and casinos and cars. I like pretty French girls in pretty French clothes.”

But France has no hold on him any more than a girl does. He moves countries as easily as he changes names. He marries one woman in Cairo, abandons her, drifts about, then goes back home after his father’s death. He sets up a literary club, meets the beautiful Indian expat Samira Rai, marries her, meets with great family disapproval, and moves again. The next few years are a whirlwind of casinos, grifting and love. But, there are children. Children he wants, and doesn’t love. Children that Samira doesn’t want, and then loves.

To say more would give away too much, but suffice it to say that the adventures and ironic self-awareness of Maqil Karam make the novel a joyful experience.

Besides, for once, it is a relief not having to deal with conventional diasporic angst. There have been far too many novels that simper oversamosas—the desire to find, or fight, one’s roots. This novel seems to sneeze into the fine cinnamon dust of nostalgia. Its protagonist is the opposite of anything rooted. Karam is a man who not only wants to hack away at his roots, he dismisses the very possibility. He is elegantly selfish, shiftless and rootless.

This offers us a refreshing immigrant experience. I have often wondered why diasporic stories never dwelt with this simple truth that some people want to get the hell out and stay out. After all, compelling economic reasons make people leave their countries, but there’s not much that compels them to stay away. This novel is the portrait of a man who doesn’t send his children soaking in culture from back ‘home’, nor tries to rebuild a home abroad. Instead, ‘he carries everything he needs in his jacket pocket… His small suitcase is always packed’.

Such a protagonist is hard to like, but Farooki’s writing endows him with as much charm as he needs to get by. The narrative itself is reasonably fast-paced, but it doesn’t skip on languorous descriptions of people, place or emotion. Farooki is liberal with her similes, which sometimes come clubbed in threes: Maqil thinks of Samira like ‘a recovering alcoholic inhaling the dregs of wine left in a stranger’s glass at a bar, a sensation as grubby as nostalgia, as delightful as eavesdropping’; and at the casino, the crowd will be stunned by ‘his insouciance, his audacity, his disease’. But by and large, the descriptions enhance reading pleasure rather than take away from it.

The novel also offer funny asides, such as the time when Maqil contemplates names: ‘There should be a club for people saddled with thoughtless names such as these, for the Richie Richards, Bob Roberts, Gerry Geralds to console one another… His mind starts ticking over with examples of funnier names that he might weave into conversation… Who’s that man with the shovel digging her grave? That’s Doug Nicely. Who’s the gravedigger who forgot his shovel? Douglas Nicely.’

If I have a quibble, it is a minor one. Farooki switches between a first person and a third person voice for no apparent reason. But in general, the narrative pushes towards an inexorable, and sometimes unpalatable, tug-of-war between freedom and responsibility. One can revel in Karam’s escapades, mourn his failures, empathise with his wives and kids, and still be left wondering whether or not he got away with it, after all.

[First published here]

On posing for photographs & projecting writerly sexiness

There was nothing sexy about me. I didn’t know what it meant to be sexy. But at 17, I began to write. And when I looked up from my books, I realised that some girls were sexy. Slender and clear-skinned, they knew how to hold a stranger’s gaze as if they were appraising the response, waiting to be amused. They wore jeans that clung in the right way. I wanted to look like them. And I also wanted to write.

At 18, I won a college-level prize for poetry and was invited to co-edit the college mag. I began to believe I had some talent. I won more prizes—poetry, stories, essays, drama. Everyone else told me I had talent. I still wasn’t sexy.

I worked hard to knock off the kilos. At 20, my body was toned almost to perfection (though I wouldn’t believe it then). Recently, in the context of sexiness, a friend and writer, Prateebha Tuladhar mentioned a photograph of me taken in the college hostel.

I looked at that self across this gulf—a girl in a short woollen blouse, a pair of jeans two sizes too large, rubber Hawai chappals. Slender, clear-skinned, big-eyed. Her flat stomach is exposed and her fingers push back her long hair. This is how actresses strike ‘sexy’ poses for the camera and that’s the only kind of sexy she knows.

... Now that word and image constantly make war on our nerves, surely, writers need to grab potential readers by the eyeballs. And if a bare shoulder or thigh can do the trick, why not? This seemed to be the premise of Karan Mahajan’s essay in Tehelka last year. I was in it, posing as a sexy writer. Or a writer who is not afraid to be sexy for the sake of a new book, The Bad Boy’s Guide to the Good Indian Girl.

The red chiffon sari was borrowed from my mother. The black blouse was meant for her, but the tailor got mixed up and sewed it in my size instead. I had been trying hard to look ‘natural’. I look at the photo now and wonder—was I really not afraid?

When I agreed to be photographed, I was doing it for a lark. I wasn’t thinking of the ramifications of writers becoming cultural non-entities. There was a vague assumption that my getting noticed would translate into my work getting noticed.

Well, I got some attention. But I doubt the photo persuaded anyone to buy the book. It might even have put off some readers. After all, even I remind myself sometimes not to judge books by the female author’s clothes. Women writers are victim to the idea that the public will read a book if a film of sexiness clings to the author’s body. But the opposite is true. A film of sexiness clings to the author’s name once the public begins to buy her/his books. Sexy photos are just a way of catching a reader’s eye on a crowded bookshelf. But nowadays, everyone looks nice in photos, and sexiness is coming out of our collective ears. So what did it matter?

In any case, I was reassured by the fact that others were doing similar photos. I hadn’t realised that the male writers would be in denim and leather jackets, and that would pass as ‘sexy’.

Read the full piece here.

Oh Ramon! Ramon!

Some years ago, I’d been shoveled up on stage to discuss women’s literature and romance. The head of Mills&Boon, India, was also on the panel and the proceedings descended rather quickly into hilarity. A feminist editor-publisher read out an extract from a Mills&Boon book, wherein the protagonist of the novel was in bed and, despite not wanting to, was moaning out loud: ‘Oh Ramon! Take me! Take me!’

When the laughter died down, I made a public confession, which is necessary to repeat before I go on with this review. My last encounter with Mills&Boon was in 2000. It ended with me flinging the book across the room.

When I first began to read Mills&Boon novels (I call them ‘Millsies’), I thought they were just silly, harmless fun (discounting the sad loss of tree-lives). College friends would underline ‘relevant’ bits and read them out loud to share either information or the laughs. But after four or five of them, I stopped reading Millies.

At home, if I was caught reading one, I was embarrassed; not because of the ‘relevant’ bits as much as the literary contempt in which these books were held in my family. The heroines were weak-kneed wimps – always wanting to be controlled, always needing a rescue, always being proved wrong, never able to say ‘no’. The heroes were always in control and, although they were never poor, they had workmen’s muscular bodies. The love scenes were mostly predictable: rarely was the woman ever in control. I grew sick of the stereotype and then I began to resent it.

I am now an unapologetic feminist, a much less tolerant reader, and somehow, I am holding a copy of Aastha Atray’s His Monsoon Bride.

It would be unfair to criticize a book for being what it is – an unabashed Millsie. If readers are looking for stories where women are beside themselves with lust, and are lucky enough to meet a sexy men who incidentally turn out to be loyal and rich and honest and… well, then, that’s what they get.

What we get here are protagonists Mehtab Rathod and Amrita Piramal, who belong to the swish set in Mumbai. He is a gorgeous, super-rich, playboy type with ‘society’ ambitions. She is a poor little rich girl – motherless, virginal, not size zero, a reporter who wants to write about real (read: poor) people.

His Monsoon Bride has a distinct local flavour. Marriages being brokered or arranged is par for the course in India. But in classic Millsie format, this romance breaks no caste, language or even class barriers. Rathod may have been an undernourished kid but he looks like a prince, and he lives like one. She looks like an Indian princess – all curves and chiffon sarees – and needs to be kept like one.

But daddy faces financial ruin. Ever daddy’s dutiful daughter, Amrita bails him out by agreeing to marry the hunky Rathod. We know how this will unfold, but that’s fine. We pick up a factory-made product for its conformity to the template, not because it shattered the mould in which it was cast. We don’t pick up a Millsie to look for insights into the meaning of life. We pick it up because we want a dip into shallow, sensual waters, with zero risk to the self.

So, suffice it to say that the first kiss arrives in the first chapter, more or less as Harlequin mandates. As the blurb suggests, this is a marriage of convenience, so the wedding is fixed within the first three chapters.

But the real test of a romance is its middle. Mr and Mrs Rathod must first misunderstand and then understand each other. We already know that much. So what complex route will they traverse towards love?

‘His Monsoon Bride’ falters in this respect. There are at least two plot contradictions within the first few chapters. Besides, the same bits of information – such as Amrita’s relationship with her family, her apprehensions about size non-zero, Mehtab’s desire to forget his poverty-bitten past – are repeated, so that little room is left for a full picture of these characters. Mehtab is supposed to be rude, but he doesn’t come across as rude. He seems civil, if not charming, at almost every encounter. Amrita is supposed to be confused, but about what? Her sense of betrayal isn’t allowed space to grow into a real obstacle, and there isn’t enough time spent on the ‘only for public appearances’ aspect of their marriage.

Another problem is that the supporting cast of characters is too sweet. Father, nanny, housekeeper, boss – nobody helps to twist and turn the story. An ex-boyfriend poses a small challenge but he is quickly squashed. Subsequently, the plot banks too heavily on mis-communicated feelings. This makes it reminiscent of a ‘family drama’ from 1980s Bollywood. Or perhaps the current crop of TV serials, especially considering the fact that the story takes a giant leap of about nearly two decades.

That’s another problem. Writing a Millsie, it is a cardinal sin to look beyond. You put the heroine’s heart into the capable, large hands of the hero, and then you break the pen. It goes against the grain of a reader to think about the children these lovers will have, or whether they are still in love when they retire. The future must be a golden blob of fuzzy feelings. That’s what a Millsie allows us – an impossibly bright picture without any scary details of age, kids, health, politics. The book should have ended at page 148, but it lingers on and launches into a whole new romance, which wasn’t needed.

In her author’s note, Atray says she wanted to write a love story about how people don’t fall for each other’s exterior, but for a heart of gold. She has also worked in her own experiences as a reporter (a prize-winning one!), and some very real angst about size zero bodies. But reality doesn’t do a Millsie much good. Perhaps Atray should have chosen a different publisher for a broader (yes!) age- and size-defying love story. The Harlequin factory churns out old hat; there’s no scope for variation on its lust-hard-and-you-will-lusted-for-and-then-you’ll-be-happy theme.

In this factory, an independent woman’s shape, her innocence, her rebellious streak is only useful to the degree that it turns on a man. And I couldn’t understand why any self-respecting woman buys from this factory. But while reading His Monsoon Bride, I discovered why.

I was reading the book on the local trains and wondered what other passengers thought. Did they worry about my self-respect? I looked around. Scarred faces. Women who aren’t ‘curvy’, just thin or fat. They go home to arguments. They are numb from having fallen in love. They will never meet a man like Mehtab Rathod. They don’t believe in such men, or such luck. But over 179 pages, they might allow themselves the mirage of a world where a lonely woman lusts after a near-perfect man, and he loves her for who she is, and their clothes are nice, and the sex is perfect, and their health is perfect, and they are not finally betrayed by a perverse destiny. Who can grudge anyone such a mirage?

In a real democracy

A democracy is a system whereby all citizens have a vote, and a majority vote decides who will make decisions for the rest of us for a given number of years. By definition and in form, that is all it promises. Our constitution, however, offers us more than just a system of governance. It offers us rights and freedoms.

This makes for complex situations. Say, I want to play music at midnight but this interferes with the neighbours’ right to sleep peacefully.

A good democracy is one that allows us the right to make others uncomfortable, as long as we are not physically damaging them or their property. Which means that if I believe that you are immoral or indecent for wanting to strip down to your birthday suit as a form of protest, that’s okay. I can think and say what I believe. But if I assault you in response, that is not okay.

Therefore, in a real democracy, a small group of 13 activists can march about carrying placards, asking that cities be safe for women. The Delhi police should not prevent them from walking about with placards saying “Keep men at home after 8”. They certainly should not rough up the men who join such a march.

We all owe each other certain basic currencies of citizenship. I do owe it to my fellow-citizens to not murder them, or prevent them from earning an honest living. But I do not owe anyone the convenience of reaching to work swiftly, on smooth, protest-free roads, especially if your work and your air-conditioned offices demand the sacrifice of my children’s health.

Therefore, a real democracy does not send in 6,000 armed policemen to deal with a bunch of unarmed villagers who do not want a nuclear energy plant in their backyard. The villagers of Kudankulam (in Tamil Nadu) do not owe it to the rest of us to put up with radiation risks. Sure, the government and other promoters of nuclear energy can scream about how their fears are unfounded. They can promise jobs as compensation. But to send in policemen or paramilitary to deal with a non-violent protest, or arrest protesters for sedition is unconstitutional. And in a real democracy, it would be illegal.

Read full piece here.

Update: There's a open letter from an activist who is on a hunger fast against the nuclear power plant in Kudankulam/Koodankulam. He says there have been instances of the police trying to force fishermen to go fishing to keep up appearances of normalcy, and cutting off  food and other supplies to the protesters. Here's an extract from his letter: 

"The governments here are taking up a new weapon now and that is our alleged links with Naxalites (Maoists). They are fabricating evidences and concocting conversations to establish that we have connections with Naxal youth and trying to portray us as a violent group. The whole world knows that we have been struggling for the past eight months in a nonviolent manner with absolutely no violence or terror. They will fail as they have in the “foreign hand” and “foreign money” accusations. The governments are desperately trying to provoke our people to prove their theory that “ordinary citizens” of our country do not have a mind of their own; they cannot think for themselves; they cannot stand up for their rights and entitlements in a nonviolent noncooperation campaign; and most importantly, these fishermen, Nadars, Dalits, Muslims, women and children are all dispensable for the growth of the Chennai-based and Delhi-based multi-billionaires."

Time-time ki baat hai

Sometimes, I lie awake at night wondering what I might do if I was just walking along somewhere —maybe on a deserted road running parallel to a railway track, and I stumbled and fell and when I picked myself up, I saw that I had nearly rolled into an old mass grave.

It could happen. All sorts of things happen. For instance, I once heard of a salesman in the UK who put himself up for sale on ebay. I also read of a Bengali village where people sell kidneys — their own, and their wives’ kidneys too, as if it was a joint bank account.

A lot of bad things happen. I read something about a mother giving birth outside a public hospital in Madhya Pradesh, with a pig trying to drag off the newborn. And about a Dalit groom who needed police protection before he could ride a mare to his wedding. A Moroccan teenager killed herself after being forced to marry her rapist. Such terrible things happen and most happen ‘din dahaade’. In broad daylight.

I lie awake at night, sometimes, wondering if the protagonists of these true stories lie awake at night worrying about what they might do to prevent bad things from happening.

What could the villagers sell when there’s nothing left to sell? What do the young people think, knowing that a market that doesn’t want anything from them — not even the strength of healthy bodies. Just their vital organs, so that the lives of others might be prolonged? Do they think that if they just stay home all day, or at least, don’t venture out after dark, their kidneys will be safe?

Did the mother worry about dogs and cats in addition to marauding pigs in case she happened to deliver the baby at night on a public footpath? What could she do to prevent giving birth at night on a public footpath?

And the girl who had acid tossed at her ‘din dahade’ in a public place — does she lie awake wondering if things might have been better if she had picked a different time of day to venture out? And that young woman who was sexually assaulted by a gang of men in Gurgaon? Would 8 pm have been safer? What about 7 pm? What about never?

Read full piece here

Here a slap, there a slap, everywhere a slap-slap

I got off lightly. I mostly suffered communal slaps. When I say ‘communal’, I mean it was a community experience. The whole class would be lined up and the principal would deliver a slap on each cheek, one after the other. Thwack! Thwack! Next, thwack!

Eventually, my mother cited CBSE rules and put a stop to thwacking once she took charge of the school. But by then, a whole generation had grown accustomed to violence, brushing it off as part of a normal schooling. So I, for one, wasn’t surprised at the National Commission for Protection of Child Rights (NCPCR) survey, which shows 75% of students are caned and 69% slapped. An older study by Saath Charitable Trust also found that in most schools surveyed, teachers carried a stick, or kept one in plain view.

I’ve been shocked, though, at the severity of punishments as reported in newspapers. A history teacher makes three little girls hold fire. A 3rd standard girl beaten for not shutting her eyes. A principal beating up a 10th grade student for scribbling farewell messages on friends’ uniforms. Student losing his eyesight after being beaten for forgetting a book!

This isn’t discipline. It’s torture. Perhaps I’m doubly horrified now that I can see: most adults hit kids because they get away with it. Little wonder then that more vulnerable kids (6-12 years old) are punished more often. An older survey by the Educational Research Centre also showed that 50% of fathers believe corporal punishment is okay (as do 30% mothers). They also found 700-1,000 ‘severe cases’ reported, but less than 1% of the guilty teachers were punished. Which isn’t surprising given that parents hit children too and are reluctant to file cases.

Often, a child must die or be maimed before someone takes action. The La Martiniere School for Boys banned corporal punishment only after a student committed suicide. In Tamil Nadu, it took the suicide of a 16-year-old boy. The Delhi government was reluctant even after a petition was filed by the parents of a 12-year-old who lost 20% vision.

Severe cases might be accidents in the sense that the teacher didn’t mean to kill the student. But then, a drunk car driver doesn’t set out to kill either. So parents and teachers need to take equal responsibility for not protecting children. It is sad that the state should have to intervene legally, but since matters have come to that, it is best to spread the word that corporal punishment is already illegal in India.

The Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act, 2009, clearly says that “No child shall be subjected to physical punishment or mental harassment.” It allows for disciplinary action against teachers. All states and union territories have not banned corporal punishment yet but they will have to, once the state adopts the NCPCR guidelines.

Read full piece here.

Review: The Other Country: Dispatches from the Moffusil

The Other Country is a collation of Mrinal Pande’s recent columns for newspapers like the Mint, Telegraph and The Hindu. What makes the enterprise worthwhile is Pande’s insights into the forces that push, pull or distort the world’s largest democracy, and a fearless liberalism that isn’t trying to squash itself into pat little moulds of right or left. 

She seems impatient with easy assumptions about India’s forward march, and she doesn’t pull her punches, whether she’s criticizing literature festivals (she likens conferences like Translating Bharat to ‘priest-giri’) or activists who try to beatify brothels by glossing over the brutalization of little girls.

Her sharp tongue is in evidence too and the critique is often peppered with delightful phrases such as ‘the milk of human kindness was never more tax deductible!’(My personal favourite is the (Mallika) ‘Sherawatting’ of the women’s rights movement.)

But aside from wit and startling observations, there are also heart-wrenching moments, such as Pande complaint that, “we women, bearers of life and death, are becoming like court jesters. We tell the horrible truth, everyone smiles in polite agreement, but it has no impact.”

This book raises important questions about language and power. But Pande’s best feature is her ability to draw out a string and weave half a dozen notions into a single loop. She hops from a lack of skilled workers to women’s juggling of responsibilities, to mangoes, to self-esteem and the President.

Importantly, she points at the joints in the twisted body of the nation to show how one set of problems feeds off, and bleeds into, another set. For instance, when she talks of the child marriage problem in Rajasthan, she touches upon not just tradition and patriarchy but also extreme poverty, whereby weddings and funeral feasts are sometimes a combined event.

Pande illuminates the links between linguistic racism, urban feminism and unethical media. There are introductions to women like Prabha devi, the only woman barber in her village, and Lad Kanwar, who explains why maternal mortality doesn’t hit the headlines the way farmer suicides do. There are all-too-brief forays into economic home truths, via tamancha (small desi firearm) manufacture in UP, a priest shortage in Maharashtra, Agra’s ailing ambulances, and Mineral Water Baba.

These are engaging and ironic and leave the reader hungering for more. Along with the diversions into Pande’s own memories of her family, her home state, or her attempts to prove an economic or feminist point, they make for good, insightful material. One wishes the book had more of these, and in a more fluid format.

The book would have held its ground if only Pande’s writing could be taken out of restrictive column-length jackets. The columns were written with an assumed familiarity with the current contexts on the part of the reader (as indeed, there would have been for a newspaper reader). It also subjects each piece to the unnecessary pressure of cramming in too much information, and constructing clear beginnings, middles and ends. 

All this book needed was to be treated like a book in its own right.

[A truncated version of this review appeared here.]

Aaj ka rangarang karyakram - filmi mahila kirdaar

A young journalist recently asked me some questions for an article about women characters in Bollywood films. I spent several hours going over lists of movies I've watched over the last decade, and thought it might be interesting to share whatever I came up with.

Interesting women characters who pushed the boundaries:

Geeta (Chitrangada Singh) in Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi.

She made choices, paid the price for those choices, had a sense of social and emotional integrity, but she didn't give up on herself, or her country, or indeed, on love.

Paro (Mahie Gill) in Dev D.

What a fabulous new Paro! She's a full-blooded north-Indian woman. She tends to take impulsive decisions. But when she sees Dev for who he is, she is self-protective enough not to turn into a sucker for emotional punishment.

Shruti (Anushka Sharma) in Band Baaja Baaraat.

A confident girl who knows her mind. She bends the rules, but she also uses tradition to her advantage. She's practical, self-respecting, and when things go wrong, she pulls herself together rather than moan about the past.

Sona (Konkona) in Luck By Chance.

She's ambitious, painfully honest - about her work, her industry, her future. She gets rejected at work and in love. She picks herself up. And she does not accept her (eventually) much more successful lover, because she values her happiness, and understands where it can/cannot come from.

All the women in Honeymoon Travels Pvt Ltd.

Each one is spunky in her own way. All of them are determined to take a stab at joy. All have clearly defined personalities. None of them takes much bullshit from the husband.

Alvira and Laila (Preity Zinta and Lara Dutta) in Jhoom Barabar Jhoom.

Fun girls, both. One is a feisty upper class girl. And how she loves a yarn! She's willing to take a risk or two. The other is a chilled-out sex worker. She does not have a golden heart, does not complain of victimization. And she gets a happy end!

[I did think of Tabu in Maqbool, but the film was released several years ago. Besides, it is an adaptation of Macbeth, where Lady Macbeth is a central figure. Shakespeare gave her generous doses of conflict, ambition, guilt, and some great lines. So I don't know if I should credit Bollywood with her character.]

More regressive characters (or films) from recent years: 

A few I can recall immediately are:

Priyanka Chopra's character in Drona.

She's supposed to be the hero's bodyguard. But of course, the hero must save her later. Bleargh!

Kareena Kapoor's character in Kambakkht Ishk.

Badly conceived, overall. She comes across as immature, incompetent (as a medic), arrogant and supercilious (as a 'supermodel'), a man-hater, a relationship-destroyer, a friend-controller, and finally, mistrustful of her own sexuality. Fail, fail, fail!

Kareena Kapoor's character in Kurbaan.

Clearly, lady professors don't use their brains very much. And they're no good at self-preservation. Hapless creatures who need vengeful boyfriends of dead girls to rescue them. And their lives are supposed to be less valuable than their wombs, but nobody seems to be challenging that notion. Ugh!

Aishwarya Rai's character in Action Replayy.

She starts off being feisty. Then she must be cut down to size. She must fall for a rather unattractive juvenile guy, just because he learns to dress better. She has no clue what she really wants, it seems. And her feelings can be turned around to suits the male protagonists.

Besides, divorce is portrayed as some great calamity that must be prevented at all costs. People sticking together, despite their inherent incompatibility, is advocated. Triple fail!

All the women characters in No Problem (or any Anees Bazmee film).

One of them (Kangana Ranaut) thinks she is the most beautiful woman on earth and does not have any other thoughts in her beautiful head. The other (Neetu Chandra) is a gangster's moll and doesn't have a personality of her own, except a robotic kind of hot-ness. She is useful only when she can quickly switch loyalties, when one of the heroes begins to flirt with her.

A third (Sushmita Sen) is just outright crazy. Wants to kill her husband because he is not a clever, brave cop like her daddy. Although, on second thoughts, her character's kind of fun. It was amusing, seeing her character chase hubby all over with a knife or a gun, and the whole family running for cover. Progressive? Regressive? You decide.

Most striking change in how women are imagined on-screen today (And should we be celebrating the change, or have new burdens emerged?)

The one change I have noticed in Hindi films over the last decade is that we finally have women characters who seem less anxious about sex. (Or about virginity). But that's only true of a small fraction of Hindi films.

My main concern is that there are fewer films with women in key roles (compared to what I've seen of films from the 1950s and 60s). I have been looking at lists of 'best' (most successful) films of the last decade. Very few have women as strong central protagonists. They often exist as caricatures, or as ghostly shadows. Or objects of desire. This is true of even 'small' films, the critically acclaimed ones.

The result is that female actors end up not exploring their full range. Their principal job is looking slender and wearing not very much, and getting fake boobs as soon as they can afford them. I find it hard to name brilliant actresses, even as 'character actors'. Not because they don't exist but because we don't get to witness their potential brilliance. 

I think a big part of the problem is that there aren't enough women producers, directors or scriptwriters. Or distributors. On that front, we've made no significant progress since the 1950s (yes, there were a few women producers back in those days).

I don't know much about the film business, but I am deeply disappointed that the growth in middle class women's education and income levels has not translated into a louder clamour for better women-driven films.

One of life’s minor joys is finding someone to admire.

Not many heroes are left to us, thanks to the mainstream press ignoring instances of quiet, sustained courage, and our own cynicism. I’m sometimes annoyed at ‘positive’ news that translates into interviews with students who have managed high scores, or interviews with successful businessmen or creative professionals. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but there’s a difference between success and heroism.

We rarely hear about those who take a stand — unless they end up being jailed or tortured or killed for it. And then we begin to wonder if there is anybody at all who takes a stand, and whether it is worth it. And if nobody does, why should we?

So I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Shyam Benegal and Gul Panag had withdrawn from the jury of a filmmaking competition organised by Vedanta... Corporations are powerful media forces. They control advertising in print and TV and, increasingly, movies. Filmmakers, actors and other creative professionals have a lot to lose when they criticise the people who sign the cheques. But when they do take the risk, they show us what they’re made of.

What, after all, does courage or morality mean? Waving to crowds at cricket matches or even doing a charity show is not especially brave, or moral. Besides, it’s been years and years since a Hindi film professional took a public stand that would actually cost them something (with the exception of Ranbir Kapoor and Bipasha Basu who do not endorse skin-whitening/lightening/brightening creams, soaps etc).

Read full piece here

She wanted money for a shroud for her dead husband. I glanced across the road. Indeed, somebody lay on the pavement. I didn’t know if he was dead, but I didn’t know if he wasn’t dead. So I gave her some money. She moved on. I wondered how much a shroud costs. Then the traffic lights changed.

A few days later, she was back. Her husband lay dead, she said. I glanced left (yes, a man lay motionless on the pavement), and smiled at her. “I know. I helped pay for his shroud, remember?”

A month later, she came up again. This time, I burst out laughing. I didn’t need to say anything. She hurried away.

Then I stopped seeing her. Maybe the scam ran dry at this traffic signal. Or maybe somebody complained to the cops. Maybe they put her in the beggar’s home.

Then I began to think of an elderly couple who had accosted me in Delhi, about five years ago. They were dressed like Rajasthani farmers and said they were looking for their son. He went to Delhi and disappeared. They didn’t have enough money for bus tickets to go home. My first thought was: “Scam.” My second thought was: “If this was a movie, you’d be the heartless metro-bred ‘extra’ who walks past the hero’s desperate mom.” 

I gave them the money. I never saw them again.

Last week, on a skywalk, I heard someone say: “Didi… vada-pav…” 

To my right, there was a young couple. A travel bag between them. Two toddlers asleep, bent over the bag. My first thought was: “They don’t look like beggars… farmer-migrants?”

I walked on, then looked over my shoulder. The couple was sitting down, as if it took all their courage and dignity to ask for food, as if they needed to recoup before asking again.There was a vada-pav stall nearby. I bought four and ran back. Another woman was also rushing back, bringing some food. None of us could meet each other’s eyes.

I never saw the family again. Perhaps they found somewhere to go. Relatives, jobs? Or perhaps they were hauled off by the cops.

I remember reading a news report a few months ago about how a ‘poorly dressed’ woman who was put in the beggar’s home. She had a skin disorder that was being treated inMumbai, and was on her way back to Nagpur. But she was hauled off by cops who thought she was a beggar.

Because, according to our laws, beggars can be put away. We cannot ensure a nation in which there are no beggars. So we lock them out of sight. We can’t force them to work. Many beggars are ill, or disabled, or addicted, or homeless. I doubt we can find them minimum-wage jobs or decent hospitals. And yes, they need protection — from thugs, from traffickers — but must we take their freedom?

The non-beggar lady who was sent to the beggar’s home in Chembur told the newspaper that she was kept in a room with 75 other ‘beggars’. She was asked to strip and bathed communally by having “a mug of water splashed on each of us”.

I think now of that elderly Rajasthani couple, the young family on the skywalk. Perhaps they were professional beggars. Perhaps they scammed me. Do they deserve to be locked up in a room with 75 people? Is this our idea of a dignified ‘Home’ for the desperately poor?

Read full piece here

And then she dozed off

A couple of months ago, I undertook an arduous but very interesting train journey. It happened like this: I was booked on a night train between Lucknow and Delhi, but the vicious winter fog had been playing its dirty tricks. My train was delayed by four hours, then six, and then seven. Trains were getting cancelled every hour and I was panicking since I was committed to an event in Delhi, the same evening.

So I bought a new ticket and boarded the trusty old Gomti, a daily up-down express that only offers seating (no sleeper coaches). The engine was huffing gently as a girl pulled me into her coach. She said I must throw myself at the mercy of the TTE. I must wave my ‘AC ticket’, sadly unused, in his face. I must beg for the Ladies quota. Only when all attempts to get a ‘pukka’ seat failed must I shift to the ‘general’ coach. Meanwhile, I could have a few minutes of peace in this near-empty coach.

The train left Lucknow station. No sign of the TTE. At Kanpur, more people got on. Still no TTE. Conversations swirled around me like the thick mists of a December dawn. Most of the passengers were young men and they were talking about a police sub-inspector examination, which they intended to appear for that day.

A couple told me I was sitting on their reserved seat, and I vacated at once. On and on the train rolled. I stood an hour, two hours. A large contingent of young men boarded the train. They were headed to the centre for this police exam, and judging from their conversation, they were ticket-less.

Firozabad, Aligarh. More students, more families. By now, the coach was so packed that it was impossible for people to get in or step out. One family managed to put the kids on board, but failed to board themselves. The (emergency) chain was pulled.

There was no longer any hope of the TTE coming by. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t enter the coach, much less go around checking tickets. If he tried, he risked a mini-riot. From childhood journeys in western UP and parts of Bihar, I knew that many young men do not quite believe in train reservations, especially during daylight hours. If they want to sit, they sit. Hang your reservations. 

If you complain, you are politely threatened. Students travelling in large groups might quickly turn into gangs. People get thrown off the train; people get killed for fighting over seats. Most of us accept that it is better to be uncomfortable than dead, or even endlessly frustrated. So we sigh and ‘adjust’.

But one Sikh family was fighting for their reserved seats on board the Gomti. They pleaded, bullied, shoved. The fierce matriarch somehow wrenched seats for her husband and young son. She herself loomed over the young men who'd captured her seat.

The men seemed amused. They told her they were sitting for the police exam, as if that was a valid excuse. They said it was the government’s fault for setting up a center so far from Lucknow, or Barabanki. They said they could not vacate the seat because that would mean that they would have to stand, and there was no longer any room for anyone to stand. So they would just have to remain seated.

When the matriarch continued to scold, the men finally said, “Aunty, come sit on our lap.”

At my feet squatted two men and three toddlers; two pregnant women had managed to find seats. I realised that I was the only passenger who — ticketed or not — had actually vacated a seat. Everyone else had remained firmly seated. If a reservation-wala came along, they just squirmed until six inches of free space was created. Then they said, “Come, sit.” If you couldn't sit, well, tough! Somebody else would.

The matriarch’s scolding voice was silent now. I turned to look and found that she had dozed off. She was finally seated. In the bony lap of an aspiring sub-inspector of police.

A slightly shorter version of this appeared here.