A little more truth, now we're talking about truth

Dear Editor,
(Countercurrents.org)

I have just had a book out – a collection of essays based on reportage and travel over the last few years. I wrote it in the hope that through these stories of reporting from the field, other people too could share in my understanding of me, my times and my country.

There has been a great outpouring of goodwill and support from family, friends and colleagues. I have been exhausted and happy, particularly when I see that the average person is actually willing to engage with some of the more serious issues I've put in the essays. But today, I am also forced to worry: What would happen if everything I wrote was disbelieved, or challenged by others who didn't want to agree with me? Additionally, what would happen if a group of people who disliked me or my politics was to try to discredit my reportage by issuing public statements about me?

Earlier this week, I was forwarded an email with what appears to be a statement issued by the Jamia Teacher's Solidarity Association (though I cannot find it on their own website, it does appear on Countercurrents, a website that I have a fair amount of respect for. The piece (dated April 25, 2010) accuses journalist Praveen Swami of being a liar. To my knowledge, this is the first time a pressure group has formed that publicly singles out a journalist on a given beat for such strident criticism, and in absolute isolation from his/her organisation and other journalists who cover the same region/beat. I was concerned, partly because it seemed like an attempt at constructing outrage against one individual, isolating him from his field of work and thereby discrediting even the editorial leadership of the newspaper he works for by indirectly insinuating that the editors don't know what they're doing.

Before I go any further, I would like to declare some basic facts. Mr Swami was bureau chief at a time when I was working for Frontline, and I just have a book out in which he features in the acknowledgments. He was a good boss and very un-boss-like in that he treated me as an intellectual equal (unlike certain other older male journalists whom I shall not name here) and was always up for a good debate, always listening with an open mind to what I had to say. He is still a friend.

However, this is not about loyalty or a defense of friendship. This is about journalistic integrity and the rights of reporters to report the truth as far as they can access it. The correct thing to do, if you suspect a journalist is not quite doing his job, is to write to the editor of the paper. The Hindu is one of those rare papers that has a readers' editor. It is surprising that the teachers' association did not send in their note to the editor there. Or that they did not put it up as a press statement on their own website, addressed to the The Hindu editor. It would have given Mr Swami a fair chance to defend himself. It seems wrong to me to accuse someone without giving them a chance to have their say. You, being an editor who stands for truth - even truth that is not immediately apparent and which is often ignored or willfully suppressed - probably understand this sentiment. Though I must also say that if I had been an editor of a website that carried the aforementioned note by the JTSA, I would have expected the allegations to be a little more rigorously researched and properly phrased, or I might have found myself slapped with a libel suit.

However, I have done your job for you. Like a good journalist, I wrote to Mr Swami asking for a clarification, with specific reference to the examples of the 'lies' the note referenced. He has answered with a point by point rebuttal of the JTSA's allegations (see below). Having read it, it appears that the note you have published betrays a certain terminological inexactitude on the part of the writers, not to mention wide swathes of intellectual laziness (which is strange, considering these are professional intellectuals). But we can always conduct debates with intellectual rigour at another date. For now, I am hoping that you will be fair, and publish Mr Swami’s rebuttal for the sake of editorial integrity.

Regards

Annie Zaidi

April 28, 2010



Dear Annie:

Thank you for your letter. I’m glad that, unlike many people I know, you’ve actually sought my opinion on the allegations that the Jamia Teachers’ Solidarity Association has levelled at me. Some people seem to have been perfectly content to circulate the allegations without any effort at verification. Since the JTSA’s allegations have not been addressed, to the best of my knowledge, to my Editors at The Hindu, I’ve had no opportunity to respond to what I believe are scurrilous allegations. However, I do hope you will not be upset if I take the liberty of circulating my reply to you to a few people who may be interested in what I have to say.

The principal JTSA claim, if my understanding is correct, is that I’ve invented a suspect for the Bangalore and Pune bombings, undermining my own earlier position—as they see it—that Hindutva groups had carried out the attacks.

Separately, the JTSA also makes two, somewhat mutually-contradictory claims: first that I blindly broadcast the views of India’s intelligence services, and secondly, that I make up stories. The first of these two charges is, by its nature, difficult to prove or disprove: after all, if someone has persuaded themselves that I am an agent of India’s intelligence services, my denials are hardly likely to persuade them otherwise.

It seems common-sense to me that the issue is not who I get my information from—which I am professionally bound, as you know, not to disclose—but how accurate that information is. This brings me to the second claim—i.e., that I have invented or misrepresented facts. This allegation is a serious one, but can be tested. Below, I’ve put my responses to their claims in the order in which they appear. Please make up your own mind.


The JTSA claim
My response

While the Pune police commissioned experts to draw sketches of the suspects based on this footage, ATS dismissed this exercise as “anything but useful”, as their source, the CCTV footage, was itself grainy. (Siasat, April 12). Where does Swami stand on this? He wrote in his 19th February piece: “All that investigators have by way of suspects are three men recorded holding brief meetings before the blast by a poor-quality closed-circuit television camera. From the videotape, it is unclear if the men had anything to do with the attack.” Exactly a month later, Swami conveniently develops an amnesia about Abhinav Bharat and even about the poor quality of CCTV footage. What was earlier ‘unclear” and hazy has in one month segued into solid shape: in the form of top Indian Mujahideen (IM) operative Mohammad Zarar Siddi Bawa ie., Yasin Bhatkal….

The JTSA is right: I did indeed write about grainy video footage obtained from a camera installed in a hotel opposite the German Bakery (I’ve dealt with the Abhinav Bharat issue they’ve raised below, to avoid confusing issues). What I didn’t know when I wrote the story was of the existence of footage from the second CCTV camera, installed above the cash counter in the German Bakery. Please note, though, that the existence of this footage was known to journalists other than me long before the Maharashtra Police Anti-Terrorism Squad disclosed its existence. Mid-Day, to cite just one of several examples that can easily be unearthed from the internet, had an account of its existence as early as February 17, 2010.[2] The article made clear that the police had instructed witnesses not to talk about the footage: “Pravin Panth, cashier at the bakery, said, ‘I have seen the footage, but I cannot reveal the inputs. I have been advised to refrain from revealing details to the media as this may harm investigations’.” Please also note that Yasin Bhatkal’s possible role in the bombings was dwelt on at this stage of the investigation by other journalists.[3]

Clearly, Swami’s changing perceptions about the CCTV footage is in accord with the shifting attitude of the ATS itself.

I wish my supposedly-formidable contacts in the intelligence services and elsewhere had told me about the cash-counter footage. That they didn’t should lead to some obvious inferences; the implications are too clear to need fleshing out here. As the JTSA points out, the Maharashtra Police Anti-Terrorism Squad did indeed claim that it had identified Yasin Bhatkal, from footage harvested from the cash-counter camera. This was widely reported in early April, before I wrote.[4] I was, I have to say, sceptical—hence, I worked to access the footage, and see for myself if the man in the tape did indeed resemble Yasin Bhatkal. I was reasonably satisfied by what I found. In any case, if investigators changed their views when new evidence came to light, why is that a problem?

Swami’s articles appear magically, faithfully reflecting the Intelligence reports. After the Batla House ‘encounter’, he launched a tirade against all those who were questioning the police account of the shootout labeling them all ‘Alices in wonderland’. He went so far as to identify ‘precisely’ how Inspector Sharma was shot by claiming that “abdomen wound was inflicted with [Atif] Amin's weapon and the shoulder hit, by Mohammad Sajid”…. And no sir, Swami’s conclusion was not based on post mortem reports of the killed, fire arm examination report or ballistic report but on this innocent fact: “the investigators believe that…”

The National Human Rights Commission studied the same evidence I did—and more which was not available when I wrote. It says: “…swabs which were taken from the right hands of Mohd Atif Ameen and Modh Sajid by the doctors at the time of post mortem in AIIMS were sent in sealed bottles to CFSL for dermal nitrate tests in the laboratory. The same were found to contain gun shot residue. This conclusively establishes that Mohd Atif Ameen and Mohd Sajid had both used fire arms at the time of incident”.[5] Unless it believes that the NHRC is an intelligence agency, the allegation made by the JTSA is untrue.

Swami however felt no need to pen an article when the postmortem reports of Atif and Sajid revealed that they had been shot from close range and that neither of them sustained gunshot wounds in the frontal region of the body—an impossibility in the case of a genuine encounter.

I didn’t. I still don’t. Having studied the available evidence, the NHRC concluded: “In such circumstances, the action taken by the police party in which Mohd. Atif Ameen and Mohd. Sajid received fatal injuries and died is fully protected by law”.[6] Parenthetically, I note that members of the Facebook group I believe the 2008 Batla House encounter was FAKE insist that “not only the JTSA report, but also NHRC (a statutory body of GOI) says that the encounter is fake”.[7] Either these people have not read the NHRC report—or are lying.


When two crude bombs went off outside the M. Chinnaswamy Stadium ahead of the match between Mumbai Indians and Royal Challengers Bangalore on 17th April, the Karnataka Home Minister V.S. Acharya announced that the state Police were investigating the alleged involvement of the cricket betting lobby. He forcefully denied any link with the earlier blasts in the city in 2008.

But Yasin Bhatkal seems to have preoccupied Swami’s mind on 19th April for he evokes him again in connection with the stadium blasts (“Stadium Blasts herald new IM offensive”). Citing the ever cooperative ‘investigators’, he says that the ‘similarity in design’ and the manner in which some bombs failed to explode are a sure indicator of the IM hand

Leaving aside the minor irony here—the JTSA’s great faith in an embarrassed BJP politician—there are two facts that need to be recorded. In pursuit of the government’s “betting mafia” story, the Karnataka Police arrested five Uttar Pradesh suspects. Those suspects were cleared of any involvement in the attacks by the Uttar Pradesh Police.[8] Second, I clearly identified that suspicions directed at Mohammad Zarar Siddi Bawa, a.k.a. Yasin Bhatkal, were based on what investigators were telling me. Similarity in bomb design is quite evidently reasonable ground for suspicion—though it is not of course proof. Since I have no independent expertise in bomb forensics, the information was clearly attributed to investigators. Its up to readers whether they want to believe them or not.

Swami here details the biographies of SIMI activists in South India, making the link, ever so cleverly, between SIMI—and yes, IM—and the stadium blasts, without providing any evidence of their actual linkage.

I’m a little uncertain here about precisely what the allegation is here—but think the JTSA has some problem with my suggesting that SIMI and the Indian Mujahideen are linked to terrorism. I’m in good company, I think, in this belief. Javed Anand had a must-read article on the issue some time back.[9] Yoginder Sikand had some good background earlier.[10] If you’re willing to fork out a few bucks for more detail, do read C. Christine Fair on the subject.[11] This is just a tiny part of a mass of literature—not including charge-sheets, trial records and so on—on the subject. You don’t need access to the Intelligence Services to access it—just a few hours in a good library

-

Like so many people driven by blind faith, the JTSA’s members don’t seem willing to be persuaded by fact. Increasingly, the positions of its supporters seem driven by bizarre conspiracy theories. For instance, Omair Anas, one of the leading lights of the “Shut Up Praveen Swami” group[12] (which includes among its members an odd array of Islamists linked to the Jamaat-e-Islami’s student wing as well as members of that flag-bearer of Delhi’s regrettably unsubstantial radical-chic, Sarai), has this post up on his Facebook wall:

Omair Anas Who carried out 9/11 attack? Israel ! Israel! know how http://pakalert.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/israel-did-911-all-the-proof-in-the-world/

Sun at 23:55 · Share

Israel did 9/11, ALL THE PROOF IN THE WORLD!![13]


I have two points to make in conclusion:

First, a number of Islamist groups, as well as some of Maoist supporters, have been engaging in a wilful misrepresentation of my work—misrepresentation that, your letter leads me to believe, may be succeeding simply because the audiences for this campaign do not seem to take the trouble of reading what I have written. For example, a Google Groups thread claims that I have been advocating targeted killing of “insurgent leaders (and cadres)! Understandably, away from the battlefields. Dragged out of homes or on the city streets? A la Mossad!?”[14] Please see for yourself if I actually said anything of the kind. I did indeed point to a successful campaign targeting “the leadership and cadre of Khalistan terrorists”. I trust no sensible person would have objections to the targeting of these murderous criminals. I concluded that “Learning from its own success stories, India needs to fight insurgencies in smarter, leaner ways. Like Andhra Pradesh, States must invest in training facilities that meet their particular needs; expand intelligence capabilities; and use technology effectively. Instead of focussing on simply expanding the size of Central forces, the Union government must understand the need for them to be properly trained and equipped”. [15]

Second, it seems to me a little sad that my critics have chosen to use personal slurs and innuendo, instead of engaging in a debate on facts—a debate I think is important and healthy. It is all the more dismaying when people you would expect to value civil debate engage in these kinds of tactics. I find these tactics despicable. I’m happy to be challenged on points of fact and interpretation. I believe that informed criticism is good for public debate and good journalism. Sadly, I don’t think the JTSA statement has helped either cause.

Warm regards


Praveen


[1] Jamia Teachers’ Solidarity Association, ‘Praveen Swami’s Not So Fabulous Fables’ (CounterCurrents.org: http://www.countercurrents.org/jtsa250410.htm)
[2] Bipin Kumar Singh and Kaumudi Gujjar, ‘Footage gave important leads: cops’ (MidDay: http://www.mid-day.com/news/2010/feb/170210-german-bakery-blast-cctv-footage-vital-clues.htm), February17, 2010.
[3] Johnson TA, ‘Yasin Bhatkal is IM bombmaker, now in Karachi: Probe team’ (The Indian Express: http://www.indianexpress.com/news/yasin-bhatkal-is-im-bombmaker-now-in-karachi-probe-team/582699/), February 22, 2010.
[4] ‘IM leader Yasin Bhatkal mastermind of Pune blasts, claims ATS’, (Daily News and Analysis: http://www.dnaindia.com/mumbai/report_im-leader-yasin-bhatkal-mastermind-of-pune-blasts-claims-ats_1368789), April 8, 2010.
[5] ‘Shri Kamran Siddique Gen.Secretary, Real Cause, New Delhi: 2811/30/8/08-09-FE’ (National Human Rights Commission: New Delhi, July 20, 2009). Online at nhrc.nic.in/Batla.doc. Page 21
[6] Shri Kamran Siddique Gen.Secretary, Real Cause, New Delhi: 2811/30/8/08-09-FE’ (National Human Rights Commission: New Delhi, July 20, 2009). Online at nhrc.nic.in/Batla.doc. Page 25
[7] http://ko-kr.facebook.com/BatlaHouse
[8] Aakash Singh, ‘Suspects arrested for Chinnaswamy blast case are thieves from UP’ (MyNews.in:http://www.mynews.in/News/Suspects_arrested_for_Chinnaswamy_blast_case_are_thieves_from_UP_N49091.html), April 22, 2010
[9] Javed Anand ‘Suspect SIMI? Of course’, (The Indian Express: http://www.indianexpress.com/story-print/349496/), August 16, 2008
[10] Yoginder Sikand, ‘The SIMI story’, (Countercurrents.org: http://www.countercurrents.org/comm-sikand150706.htm), July 15, 2006.
[11] C. Christine Fair, ‘Students Islamic Movement of India and the Indian Mujahideen: An Assessment’, Asian Policy Vol 9 (Washington DC: National Bureau of Asian Research), January 2010.
[12]http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=115282715164932&ref=search&sid=100000903926148.964712540..1
[13]http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1383468305#!/profile.php?id=1383468305&v=wall
[14]http://groups.google.com/group/greenyouth/browse_thread/thread/d9c6220d869a0cc5/f48d96c7a196bad5?lnk=raot&pli=1
[15] Praveen Swami, ‘For a review of counter-insurgency doctrine’, (The Hindu: http://beta.thehindu.com/opinion/lead/article395529.ece), April 13, 2010.

Not quite the blog

So, this is out next week. Look out for it in bookstores. There will be a few readings, discussions, book events in different cities, starting with Delhi on 23rd of April.

The book is a collection of essays based on the sort of work, processes, mind-churning etc that led to this blog, but it is not simply a print version of old posts. It is a closer, deeper, slower look at my own work, and the sort of things I covered.

Do pass the word around. Do buy the book. Do read it and let me know what you think.

Some questions, some stories

I do not yet want to write about the constitutional validity (and I do think it is questionable), morality, or impact of Greenhunt at the moment. I don't know enough, perhaps, and would like to collect my thoughts. Not all journalists - I take this opportunity to assert - scream on television about 'what the people feel' and who ought to be ashamed of what views without having thought through 'which country' 'what is a country' 'which people' and 'where is shame due'?

But I want to - and want other people to - think and talk about democracy in this country. That's where we must start. Not by spouting distant, outraged opinions but by listening to those who are not so distant, those whose stories I have no great reason to disbelieve, those whose circumstances are as fatal, as frightening as dead bodies in uniform.

A 24-year old civil rights' activist went to a Jharkhand prison, with permission from the police, to check on human rights inside. The team found itself taken into custody, not even permitted to call a police inspector general.

Now consider that this is a young person from Delhi. He speaks and writes English. He has access to newspapers and magazines and knows how to find spaces in which his voice will be heard, even if the local aminsitration does him an injustice. At the moment of crisis, he had a cell phone. He had the phone number of other, more senior police officials. When he was being taken into custody, he probably knew that what was happening was illegal and if he hadn't been released the same day, somebody from Delhi might come down and ask questions. Words would be exchanged. Somebody would do SOMETHING!

What happens when a young man is none of that?

What happens if he asks a few questions about how democracy works in his village? What if he wants to fight elections? Perhaps, the answer is below:

'I wanted to fight elections and submitted the forms. I used to complain about the death and destruction due to the SPO, District administration. But once when I reached home around 8-9 pm, there was police waiting for me. They told me that my form had been rejected and I can’t file it again, since the date for filing is past.'
Here's another young man, a 23-year old.
'The panchayat elections in our village were announced to be held on the 31st. But there were no polling booths set up on the 31st, so I asked the zonal officer, what happened to the elections? He said that they were going to be held on the 2nd. When I asked him, why the date was changed, he didn’t give me any information. I requested him that I want to talk to the collector but he refused. I visited police camp and questioned the major whether the election will be held in the panchayat, or in the police camp. He told me that they will be organized in panchayat on the 2nd.
On 2nd, there was no booth in the there, so we took 200 people with us and went to the police camp to vote. But there, they announced that we are naxalites and started firing on us. These people are not fighting the real naxalites, but are fighting against the innocent masses.
Why are the naxalites still there today? Mahendra Karma (Congress Party Member-Founder of Salwa Judum) said that SJ (Salwa Judum) would be over in 6 months. But the naxalites are stronger than ever before. Thanks to SJ. SPOs are not made voluntarily. People are forced to join the camps; they are made to do all the dirty work for the police and the forces. Wash their clothes, cook food for them. Paid a paltry sum of 1500 with a life of misery.'

The same young man went on to say:

'In 2005, maybe there were 50% naxalites in my village. Now there are 90% naxalites.In our villages, it is not the naxals who destroy the school buildings, it is the villagers. All school buildings are used for housing CRPF, SPOs etc. The villagers are sick and weary of having these forces in the village and their presence only means regular beatings for the villagers, looting of the village produce etc. That is why they destroy the school building when they get a chance.You might think that I too am a Naxal. But then why would I be in front of you, testifying. I am doing this because I want education in my village. I also want development. But the NMDC in Bailadila is not development. The people who have lost land to Bailadila mines have still not found jobs there.If you want a company, place it where people agree to it. It is possible that a company might also construct a school and a hospital etc. But we don’t want a company on our lands. We want to do our farming.'

The above are testimonies from an Independent People's Tribunal on Land Acquisition, Resource Grab and Operation Green Hunt, which was set up to create a dialogue that includes the people whose lives, lands and resources are at stake.

You might dismiss the tribunal and its organisers. I am acutely conscious of the fact that most people do. So I will not ask you to agree with the findings of the tribunal, or its recommendations. Or at least, not unless you can reach those conclusions yourselves. For now, all I want is to ask a question - if you do not believe the voices above, ask yourself why. Allow yourself to wonder if it could be because you prefer not to, because of who you are, where you live, because you'd rather not have your world ripped apart by violence, or its constant threat. And ask yourself if you don't prefer that such violence be visited upon someone else, who lives somewhere else.

Here's a small extract from some of the testimonies that were put before the tribunal:

'The collector’s office sent out a notice that the leasing of land to Jindal was authorized. However, the collector’s office is not supposed to have that authority.... Sudha read an affidavit of the prospective licenses applied for by MSP. Each item is supposed to be followed to a host of procedures about the details of these licenses. But, on further examination, none of the companies followed any of the post-lease procedures. She read out an actual license application by Jindal Co, which left several necessary sections blank especially sections pertaining to the consent required for the acquisition of the land (from both the occupier and the owner)...She further added Jindal Co. said they would compensate for the land acquisition by paying 10% more than agricultural revenue that would otherwise accrue from the land, as well as the rent. But so far they have not paid anything at all. Former occupants of this land have been taken on as contractual workers by this company. The labor force of this company is policed by the CRPF.'

And if you want to understand some more, listen to Lingam, who does not even care to speak anonymously now.

'My name is Lingaram, from Sameli, Dantewada. I am a driver and my family has a car, in which I can ferry people. We have some land on which we farm. I am not very literate.I was watching TV at home, around September last year. Five motorcycles came, with 10 people, who were holding AK 47s. They took me to Kokunda. They asked me questions such as “where did you get the bike from? How do you go about in style?” My family is fairly comfortably off, but they accused me of being a Naxalite. They tortured me and wanted me to become an Special Police Officer (SPO).... They took me for the court hearing and kept me in a fancy hotel—but before the judge, I said that although I have come here of my own will, I now wish to return to my family and village. So they had to let me go.But on the way back, while I was being accompanied by my family and villagers in cars, the security forces stopped us again, and arrested me again and were trying to force me to go back to the police station. However, I managed to flee, but my brother was taken by them instead. A few days later, they again came for me. And have been threatening my father too.I have been hiding since. The police are still looking for me.... There is news that some mineral has been discovered in the hills close to our village. And I think that is the real reason that the police is there, not because of the Naxals.Question (Jury): Is Gram Panchayat functioning in your village?We have a Gram Panchayat but it has no meaning. It is full of Marwaris and non-tribals. If we write and send them something, they bury it and make sure that it doesn’t reach any of the authorities. We have no education, no health, nothing. Calling us naxals is simply an excuse to terrorize us.We have a village school upto 5th class. The teachers come for only one day in a month, and collect a full month’s pay. We want real education. The only time the politicians come is during the elections. No one comes to our areas except the police force. We complained about the teachers—but to no avail. We are told that till Maoists are there, we can’t get any relief. When we tell the Maoists we want education, they tell us that they aren’t here for us, adivasis, but for class war.Question (Jury): Any development Question (Jury): Any development on National Rural Employment Guarantee Programme? There is no NREGA in our region. We were organized under an organization to collect forest produce, but were told that we are naxals. How is it that the Marwaris can come and steal our forest produce and make high profits, but when we adivasis try to collect it, we are called naxals.Question (Audience): Do you want development in your area?We get enough from our land to feed us. What is development? NMDC has operated in our area for 52 years but only caused destruction. Naxals don’t help us, but they don’t hurt us either. If having a company nearby could give us development, then considering that Bailadila (NMDC mines) is 20 km from us and has been there before the naxals, then we should have had a lot of development. What is the reason that we still have no education and no hospital? Not one hospital in 52 years! When our adivasis go to bailadila for treatment, they humiliate us and don’t admit us to their hospitals.'

You can read the rest here, here and here.

A free speech hub

This place is for journalists, writers, or anyone who believes in saying it like it is. Or like it isn't. In my view, the only speech worth having is free. Your views... you could take them here.

More wierd, sad, perplexing searches

So this piece says that men are more or less obsessed with sex. And while we can argue about the research that backs the claim and surveyors' assumptions etc, I have to say that judging from the kind of searches that lead to my blog, it does seem as if internet users are strongly motivated by sex.

This is a sort of annual ritual for the blog. I have done lists before of the weird, the comic and the ugly googling that led readers here. Below, you will see some newer, crazier, sadder searches, and some that are just perplexing. Such as 'face impression using thumb'; and 'annie zaidi actress'? Who? Why?

I have to confess that I am dumbfounded by the sheer number of irrelevant, sexually motivated searches that lead to this blog. There are those who will wonder why I list them (No, it is not to attract more irrelevant searches or to increase traffic). I do this because internet searches are a testament of what we are, and this list is a miniature portrait of our secret desires, fears, curiosities. What people cannot ask other people, they will google.

[Alert: Squeamish people or those with delicate sensibilities or those who have children in their immediate vicinity had better stop right here.]

rubbing aunties ass in crowded places
want to see putlibai the full movie
Bubli blue
seducing bhabi in crowded bus
how much money was spent on popcorn in 2009
hazaron khwaishein aisi rape scene
crime and passion 2005
indian sex stories travel bus molested
thumb impression lajpat nagar delhi
pennis of man in women mouth wearing a saree
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sania mirza nude upper images
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indian girl grope stories
annie zaidi actress
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System of Rice Intensification 2009
mexico prostitution+images
history of not having a parent while growing up?
shit+sex
shildren stories: exemplifying
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women and shit
salma sultan
highly educated girls true stories in office
Im young,i have sex and its amazing,let me tell u about my first time every detail.
bubli bubli
asian girls Sophina
my father come my bedroom in night to fuck
grope "feel up" + women
audio hindi sex story
Mumbai Bar girls showing cleavage
shit
text stories of aunty
sneha undressed
cry aunty fuck sex story in chennai
masculine men vs girly men
ladki par vashikaran
aunties sex pics -trailers -videos -video -movies
DRIVERS FOR NOTEBOOK PC HP HSTNN-C29C
women enjoy groped bus
Husbands Speaking About the Breasts of Wife
hindi story of female masturbation
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jaipur sexy aunties
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rajasthani ladies transperent saree sexy photos
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it is illegal for cops steal from the disabiled
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shy skinny girls baring the flesh
WORST INDIAN SEXY GIRL FUCKED IMAGES
raipur city red light area
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"my high heels are killing"
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girls forced to undress in initiation ceremonies videos
sitesa for shirtless television actors

Important

There are times when you begin to wonder about what it means to do what you do, even if you are deeply involved with your work. Report, write poetry, dance, cook, make films - when will it really start to matter?

One of the times I can remember thinking - actually starting to use my mind and heart and conscience - about where I was headed was in college. P. Sainath had come in for a guest lecture and began talking even as he rolled up his sleeves (quite literally) and began to unburden the class of its collective ignorance about India.

The more I listened to him, the more I questioned my world, the vapid predictability of my ambitions, and the sweet lies we allow ourselves under the guise of media.

Knowledge is a powerful thing. And the point of media is to disseminate knowledge. 'Mass media' is to reach out to the masses. Through newspapers, television, films, radio - this is what we do. Help people gain the tools that they can use to chart their lives. But why do we sign up for mass media? Why do millions of youngsters feel driven towards media courses? Why are people lobbying to get media included even at the pre-graduate levels of study as a specialisation?

I am reasonably certain that they are not driven to do what Sainath does. Or what a small handful of others do whenever they find a media vehicle that allows them a voice. Or those who get up and do something that seems important even if they cannot find a media vehicle that will let them reach out to the masses. One such venture is Nero's Guests, made by Deepa Bhatia, who works as an editor for mainstream Hindi films.

The film is well-made, of course. But it is more than just a good documentary. The word that springs to my mind is 'important'. It is more important than any recent film which purports to be propped up on the rockbed of social conscience. It tells a powerful story of inequality and strange truths that pass for justice and freedom in our country. Through Sainath's work, the film tells us about ourselves.

I think it should be watched and not because it needs a pat on the back from approving, socially aware citizens. The film doesn't need us. We need the film. And we don't need the film to apologize for us, to make us feel that we're somehow more responsible because we showed up to watch a 'different' film. We need it to recover a small part of ourselves that used to be honest and believed in justice.

Battles, battles

The war against just-shut-up-and-get-a-degree attitudes.

Two days after Aman Kachroo’s death I wrote that it won’t be the last case of ragging death. Sadly, I was not proved wrong. Aman’s father had vowed he’ll not let another ragging death take place. He now says he feels defeated. Since then the death cases reported include those of Ankita Vegda in Ahemdabad, Sneha Dani in Mumbai, Chintumoni Bordoloi in Guwahati, Dheeraj Kumar in Amritsar, Anirban Dutta in Durgapur, Poonam Mishra in Lucknow, Satyendra Singh in Jamshedpur, Greeshma Shanker in Trivandrum, Ayan Adak in Kolkata, Prashant Chitalkar in Pune, Sridhar in Puducherry, Gaurav Sadanand Raut in Nashik, Premlatha in Kancheepuram and a few days ago, Satwinder Kumar in Mumbai.'

The column points out that 'Despite very little publicity of the (anti-ragging) helpline by the ministry, it got 1.6 lakh calls in just eight months, till February. While that is some indication of the prevalence of ragging, it is worrying that of this huge number only 350 complaints were registered and of those 350, only 18 educational institutions chose to respond'.

When will we learn to respond in time?

The war against shoot-off-your-mouthery by sulky politicos

Men will whistle in parliament because there are women around?

So, you know, perhaps they will. And not just young men. After all, men do whistle in a lot of other places when forced to set eyes upon women. But what are you trying to say?

That parliament is special? That you alone should have be privilege of working in an environment where men do not whistle?

Or are you trying to say that men are provoked to whistle only when they are confronted by 33% women. That a piffling 9% isn't enough to make the elected rep's heart sing?

Or are you saying that whistling interferes with law-making?

We have had thrashing, walk-outs, screaming and slanging, chair-throwing. I think Indian democracy and women parliamentarians can cope with whistling, if whistling happens. Thank you, Mulayam ji, for your concern. Now sit down and catch your breath... yes, that's a good boy. And save your breath, now on, for whistling in parliament. I would dearly love to see what Mayawati would do to you afterwards.

The war for trust.

Apparently, people just don't trust the media any more. Not the majority, anyway. Trust in newspapers is down from 61% to 40%.

And to think there was a time when people said 'it is written' (likha hai... humne khud padha hai) as a euphemism for incontrovertible truth. Now, they cannot even trust what they see any more. TV news is trusted even less, at 36%.

The war to get your priorities right

Read this. It is from the front page of The Times of India.

'Yet another event in Delhi had a nasty brush with its bureaucracy and red tape on Wednesday when the autumn/winter edition of the Wills Lifestyle India Fashion Week, arguably the country’s biggest fashion event, had to cancel all shows on the first day. The reason: the Delhi Fire Service Department refused to give it permission and Delhi Police, in turn, withheld the no-objection certificate.'

Read it again, carefully - 'nasty brush' 'red tape'. The tone of the entire piece is judgmental and negative. As if the fact that the firemen insisted on the fashion world taking preventive measures was such a yawn. Clearly, some designers thought so. One has been quoted saying : ‘‘What’s this? The government needs to make some sort of special effort when it comes to events of this magnitude. We have foreign buyers standing outside in the sun. What will they think about the Indian fashion industry?'

I suppose it is alright for designers to think that way. I just have a problem with the tone adopted by the writers (or editors) of the piece. It is an editorial tone that seems to be saying: 'Permission-wormission, certificates... all that nonsense, so much bureacucracy in this place yaa, I mean, we're all dressed up now, and trying to do our thing and these guys don't even see how much trouble they're causing, why don't they just give us the damn piece of paper and get out of our way?'

Curiously, the Mirror also carried a fire department story on the same day. Five people died in a fire in Kolkata.

I wonder how much and how bitterly the same people would have complained if, god forbid, a fire had broken out at one of these 'events of this magnitude'. It would, of course, have been the fault of the fire department who did not insist upon enforcing security norms, and the police, who gave a no-objection certificate without even bothering to check ground realities.

Dreams of positive grief

I have time these days. A little more time than I have allowed myself over the last year or so. Time to think about myself, life, patterns, hopes, futility, art, purpose.

I am not sure whether this much time is good for any writer. Particularly a professional one who is not really given to philosophy. But I have been attempting to collaborate with another writer/filmmaker and, as was inevitable, talk veered to 'positivity'. Leaving people with positive images. Positive overtones. Positive pitches. Positive 'vibes'. Putting a positive spin on things.

And I found myself getting annoyed. I make no secret of my own leaning towards darknesses and ambiguities. In fact, I often find myself disappointed with plays or films or books because they tie up so neatly. The hero jumps in and saves the day in the nick of time. The heroine finds true love. The children get their puppy. The puppy gets to learn salsa, and gets to make out with a tigress. Whatever.

There is nothing so annoying in art as absolutes. And the only absolute I can stomach is the absolute of grey. Which is not to say that I cannot, or do not, write happy endings. I do. But an overbearing emphasis on happiness can be as soul-destroying as relentless grief.

One recent show that particularly made me think about feelings and vibes and endings in art was the play Dreams of Taleem.

I should mention straightaway that my Marathi is almost nil and the script is a combination of English, Hindi and Marathi. Now, 'Taleem' in Marathi is slightly different from 'Taleem' in Hindi-Urdu, where it means education. And I went in expecting a show about, well, I don't know, kids wanting a real education, or some child protagonist fighting to stay in school. It turned out to be about theatre. About acceptance and rejection. About anonymity and pasts and secrets. About children and old age and tolerance.

It was about many different things and despite the fact that there were whole chunks I did not understand the meaning of, it was alright. Because I did actually understand. And what was amazing was that I was laughing without any idea of what the joke was about. And then I would turn to my friends and they would be laughing hard too. I would ask them what the joke was and they would say, there was no joke. But there was nothing you could do but laugh. It was just the moment. And to tell the truth, it was actually a slightly scary and slightly sad moment.

This is an incredible thing to have in a play. I don't think I have seen anything like that in theatre in Bombay over the last two years. To be able to weave grief, absurdity, fear and laughter so simply, and so naturally that the words themselves aren't very imporant - that was some really accomplished writing.

On the other hand, there was the matter of the end. And the play itself dwells upon it. How are things going to end? Is a sad end the only possible end in a sad, complicated situation? That is a question asked by one of the characters in the play, one who is determined not to let sadness and despair and intolerance win a second round. Whether it wins or not, I will leave you to find out. Dreams of Taleem is playing at Prithvi theatre this week. I recommend it unreservedly.

But for me, the question remains: why do we feel the need to rebel against sadness in our stories? So often I hear people saying that they like humour. They want to read humour. They like gags on sitcoms, even poor ones. They like funny films. They want even the everyday tragedies of our society to come topped with the safety valve of comedy. They want all our black pots of misery to be coated with a non-stick hoax of joy.

Why do we forget that people have always had as much of an appetite for tragedy as they have for comedy? Even in ancient Greece there was tragedy and comedy, both. But tragedy was just tragedy. Another facet of life. Grief was another state of being, a part of you that the artist was calling forth, demanding a connection. It wasn't 'negative'.

Could it be that we get so much visual and textual exposure to bad news and bitterness that we cannot deal with it any longer? Especially if we have to pay for it. Especially when our expectations of art are so driven by our expectations of ambience and entertainment and comfort. Or has it been different in any other pre-mass media age?

I sort of get it because I too watch those movies, those sitcoms, read the funny books, watch crazy youtube videos. I understand. But there is a corner of my mind that rejects too much of a sugar pill. I am discomfited by our relentless quashing of truth.

On the other hand: what truth? The truth as it exists? Or the truth as we would like it to exist? When it comes to a fabrication of the mind - films, books, plays - who can say which of these truths is more significant? In a piece about the movie Avatar, Zizek has said, 'If we subtract fantasy from reality, then reality itself loses its consistency and disintegrates. To choose between "either accepting reality or choosing fantasy" is wrong: if we really want to change or escape our social reality, the first thing to do is change our fantasies that make us fit this reality.'

If we are going to change our truths, perhaps the first step is to change art.

Our stories, then our lives? I don't know. I know that the best work I can do will have to be the work I want to do, regardless of who wants to read it, or buy it. But I am not yet certain about whether or not this is self-indulgent. All I know is that the most powerful art I have read or seen is the kind that does not turn away from pain, one which does not deliberately employ humour as a weapon of defense for its protagonists, one that isn't afraid of infecting audiences with its stinging tail of grief.

Green posturing, reductionist science, sex-changing frogs and big waste bucks

Doing green stuff is a lot harder than posing for cameras. I wish someone would tell some of our celebrities, particularly actors and models, that instead of wasting precious newsprint (which is not an environment friendly thing to do) by going yak-yak about how important it is to care for the environment, watch out for climate change etc, it might help if they actually DID something. Stop taking so many flights, for one. Think of ways to make photo and film shoots environment friendly. Recycle. Don't drink from plastic bottles or cups. Don't insist on air-conditioning.

It does get my goat when I see the morning newspaper filled with bullcrap coming from actors and actresses and supermodels and businesspeople who are constantly taking helicoptor rides, for god's sake! And not because it is an emrgency, or even because there is no other way of getting to a certain place. Some of them do this every single day if they happen to be shooting at some distance from the city. I feel like shaking them and telling them that if you cannot deal with staying put on location for a few days, then for all our sakes, please, please do not sign up for such projects. Or, at least, shut up about the environment.

I, for one, refuse to go to the movie hall and fork over my hardearned money to enable their unsustainable lifestyles. You want to take helicopter rides, do that. Not on my money, and not with my goodwill.

Okay, now that the rant is out of the way, some interesting links.

I hadn't thought of genetic engineering in terms of 'reductionist science' but this piece made me think, and also clarified what exactly Bt Brinjal is trying to do and how it might be different from regular, non-Bt brinjal.

Genetic engineering is based on reductionist biology, the idea that living systems are machines, and you can change parts of the machine without impacting the organism. Reductionism was chosen as the preferred paradigm for economic and political control of the diversity in nature and society.... Real scientists know that mechanistic science of genetic reductionism is inaccurate and flawed. Deeper research has led to the emergent field of epigenetics. Epigenetic mechanisms can edit the read out of a gene so as to create over 30,000 different variations of proteins for the same gene blueprint. Epigenetic describes how gene activity and cellular expression are regulated by information from the environment, not by the internal matter of DNA.The limitation at a higher systems level is even more serious. Bt brinjal is being offered as a pest control solution. A gene for producing a toxin is being put into the plant, along with antibiotic resistance markers and viral promoters. This is like using an earth-mover to make a hole in the wall of your house for hanging up a painting. (emphasis mine)

Read the rest here.
And speaking of toxins and what goes into your body, here's some news about a chemical called Atrazine, a herbicide used by farmers in the US. 16 US cities are now suing Syngenta, the manufacturer of the herbicide, asking the corporation to pay for cleaning the water supply.

The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency has not banned the product yet, but has launched an investigation into possible health impact.

The Huffington Post article goes on to say that 'Atrazine has long been a controversial product. The European Union in 2004 banned its use, saying there was not enough information to prove its safety. The EPA recently announced that it would be re-evaluating the herbicide's ability to cause cancer and birth defects, as well as its potential to disrupt the hormone and reproductive systems of humans and amphibians.
Last week, a study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Science reported that male frogs exposed to levels of atrazine below federal limits could become functional females, with the ability to mate and lay eggs.
Citizens in all sixteen of the cities named in the lawsuit get their drinking water from sources next to or surrounded by agricultural fields where farmers use atrazine. Some of these cities sell their water in bulk to other nearby towns.'

Not nice. Citizens have had to spend millions of dollars (according to their lawyer) to put in place filters that can get the toxic stuff out of the water. And I am glad the corporation is being asked to pay up now.

And here's something on recycling in India. Mostly good news, but it does make me rethink my own stand about workers who handle potentially toxic stuff without any protection, in India, when nobody in Europe or the US would have agreed to do so. Made me think of Alang and the ghost ships.

'Remarkably, according to Of Poverty and Plastic, a book by economist Kaveri Gill, 60-80% of the plastic in Mundka is successfully recycled—far above the recycling rates in Europe and China. (Yet) Mundka exists in a tenuous state of truce with the law. It is, strictly speaking, illegal.'

Rest of the piece here.

Tnext time I drop a plastic cup into the dustbin in some office or shopping mall, I will probably be thinking of turnovers of Rs 40 lakh.

Two pieces worth reading if you are interested in understanding farm subsidies in India and the not quite charitable business of microfinance.

This year alone, the budget gifts over Rs. 500,000 crore in write-offs, direct and indirect, to the Big Boys. That's Rs. 57 crore every single hour on average — almost a crore a minute. Beating last year's Rs. 30 crore an hour by more than 70 per cent... Maybe the pro-farmer claim was merely a typo or proofing error. They just dropped the word “corporate” before “farmer.” Reinstate that and all is true. This is a budget crafted for, and perhaps by, the corporate farmer and agribusiness.

From the same piece:

Several of the loans disbursed as “agricultural credit” are in excess of Rs. 10 crore and even Rs. 25 crore. And even as loans of this size steadily grew in number between 2000 and 2006, agricultural loans of less than Rs. 25,000 fell by more than half in the same period.

The rest here. And what an interesting word: 'Kleptocrats'.

From a piece on microfinance: An extensive ET research across India shows that although the sector continues to be in denial mode, worried regulators, lenders and the borrowers themselves are distancing themselves from the Gold Rush and evaluating future options. RBI deputy governor Usha Thorat agrees that there is aggressive pushing of loans to groups without ascertaining the repayment capacity of the ultimate borrowers...

25% of borrowers in Kolar had more than five loans, while three loans was the average for all borrowers. Take Karnataka, and the penetration of microfinance loans among poor households stands at 263%. In Andhra, the number is a staggering 823%... To be fair, MFIs didn’t invent the credit needs of Indian households. Money enters the village economy only after the harvest, and the rural population has always borrowed to meet expenditure requirements. But what is new is the MFIs’ insistence on weekly repayments. It is not easy to sustain weekly repayments in agricultural areas where money supply itself rises and falls with the agricultural cycle.

The whole piece here.

Hum to aise hain bhaiyya

A piece published in Tehelka as 'The Bhaiyya, the Bandit and the Bak-bak artist'.

When the family first began to entertain itself with the notion of obscene amounts of ghee, red meat, zardozi et al, at my expense, the question arose: what kind of man? I wasn’t sure what kind of man I wanted, but I was sure I didn’t want a ‘bhaiyya’. Which is to say, I didn’t want a typical UP-ite. Which necessitates that awkward question: what is a ‘typical UPite’?

Most Indians carry around a sprinkling of prejudice in their DNA, particularly when it comes to other communities or regions. Geographical and linguistic affiliations are so strong that most of us find ourselves tucked into little pockets of imagination. Call it stereotype. Call it community culture. Call it what you will, but we cannot help identifying each other based on clothes, accents, moustaches and different grade of jollity. But what is one to make of the UPite? What does he look like? How is he to be picked out in a crowd?

Up comes traipsing (well, sauntering, considering it is UPites we are talking about) the first identity marker. But it is more a non-identity marker. You cannot pick out an Uttar Pradesh man in a crowd. He is virtually faceless. He has no lavish mop of curls, no twirly beard parted down the middle. He does not like to be seen in a lungi, if he owns a pair of trousers. And he does not set much store by turbans.

When I was growing up, there were three broad categories into which I cast the UP man: 1. White chikan kurta-clad sons of former zamindars who continue to rear pigeons and fly kites as a full-time occupation and sometimes carry guns (almost like a liability); 2. Lean, inscrutable rickshaw-pullers/stone-breakers/gardeners; 3. The westernised, English-speaking intellectual.

There was a time when, if a Hindi filmmaker wanted to create the character of a provincial intellectual, he would place the character in Allahabad, the city once known as the Oxford of the east. By the time I grew up, UP had cast off any intellectual pretensions it had, and settled firmly into a mould defined by politics, caste and religion.

If I zoom in closer into my mental picture, I can see a fuzzy image cobbled together from scraps like sherwanis and black band-galas, Urdu couplets, paan, dawdling at street corners, gentility, tall tales, long memories, and tongues that instantly betrayed their origin. But almost as soon as I begin to discuss stereotypes surrounding the UP man, alarm bells go off. I'm reminded of soft-bellied Bhojpuri-speakers from Azamgarh who ended up in poetic graves. And of English-speaking goons from Aligarh who routinely force you off reserved seats during train journeys. Or Urdu couplet-spouting men with dangerous mafia links.

The UP-wala is a slippery creature. He does not like being lumped within brackets. Yet, he doesn’t make any concerted efforts at knocking down the brackets encircling his tidy existence. He is the quintessential migrant who remembers to send money back home, which keeps the land watered and sown, so he can return home and help bring in the harvest. The typical UPite is bound to land like he bound to nothing else. For this, he will fight – with guns, with whatever little hegemony he can scrabble at, with endless court cases.

Resident UPites insist that they are pan-Indian: ‘the Hindustani man’. That they have little in common with each other except accidental geography. But they readily admit to one binding feature. As Avinash Pandey Samar, a research scholar at JNU, puts it, “The first and foremost characteristic is the huge sense of relief all UPites feel about not being Biharis.” It injures the UPite’s sense of self to find himself lumped with the Biharis by non-UPites, particularly the Sainiks and MNS-ites in Maharashtra. But to the rest of the nation, UP, Bihar, and parts of Madhya Pradesh, Delhi and Haryana, is all one big blob that goes by the name of ‘Bhaiyya’ – the guy who abandons the mofussil mitti, trundling into metros without even the assurance of a bed to dream in.

Like millions of other Mumbaikars, Mahesh Chowdhary, a sales and marketing professional, subscribes to this stereotype. “There are three kinds of UPites,” he says. “The lower class, one that leaves whenever there’s trouble at home. They leave with zero back-up and work in conditions you cannot imagine. Marathi people have a saying that means ‘I will break but I will not bend’. The UPite will bend. One of my clients owns a zari workshop. The men who work there come from UP. They are crammed into a room, ten feet by ten, twenty-five men to a room.” Chowdhary deals with the middle class and a few upper class entrepreneurs from UP. “UPites have a decent business mind but one successful man will bring in ten others from his backyard. There is a lot of cronyism, and that sometimes manifests in the form of gangs.”

There’s no getting away from that stereotype – gangster, goon, hired gun. There was always the bandit from Etawah lurking in the background. There was Rampur, famous for its switchblade knives, and the nascent crude revolver industry, caricatured recently in Ishqiya (a film set in Gorakhpur) where a young boy says, “In my village, we learn to load a gun before we learn to wash our behinds”.

Men such as Abu Salem, Dawood Ibrahim, Mukhtar Ansari, Babloo Shrivastav have only bolstered this image of the UPite as an aggressive, violent type. My own grandfather had laughingly told me that in the place we come from, only two things are famous – imarti (a fried sweet) and goondagardi.

Almost everyone I know has a scary UP story to tell: family feuds in Ghazipur, Lucknow University campus murders, child murders in Nithari. Parvez Imam, a mental health professional turned filmmaker tells me of the time he met a cabbie from western UP who coolly confided that he’d killed a man. “He seemed quite proud of the fact,” says Imam, a gentle, poetry-loving soul who grew up in Aligarh and is now one half of the band, 'Dr Chef'.

Imam believes that machismo is common to all patriarchal cultures, including most parts of UP, but that it has an almost militant quality in parts of west UP, although the Purabiya (eastern UPite) is no saint. After all, my grandfather was talking of goondagardi in the east, in districts like Azamgarh, Mau, Ghazipur. Dozens of people hired as contract killers in Mumbai and Delhi seem to have arrived from these dusty, fertile badlands. The usual arguments about lack of development and unemployment are made - that UPites have too much time on their hands, and so they waffle. That they resent the emptiness, therefore they begin to stray.

But why do they have so much time on their hands? Riding on the back of the jobless desperado, yet another UPite waddles in – the slow, lazy man who is uninterested in doing any real work and yet, he is hungry for power. I have to confess that I have never seen a UPite running for anything, barring his life (or an election). The rolling gait of a bearded professor; the straight-backed stroll of a pensive student; the lithe lolling of a field hand: yes. A mad dash? No.

On the other hand, why rush? What’s to be gained by scrambling? “The UPite’s slowness,” says Parvez Imam, “comes from having a different approach to time. The language itself, particularly in Awadh and eastern UP, is long drawn-out, languid. Whether it is the poor rickshaw-puller or the nawab, they all share this quality. The impression that they are slow buggers or dodos is a colonial legacy. The British brought with them an industrialised mindset, an emphasis on speed - the notion that time equals money. In UP, it didn’t and it still doesn’t.”

Lack of discipline is another common complaint. Ask any college professor or university dean in UP. Lawlessness is but a by-product. However, from the UPite point of view, violence has little to do with criminal tendencies or even ambition. It is something history and society has thrust upon you. I believe I still have an uncle or two riding around the ancestral farms with a gun. They say there’s no other way to survive up there. Have land, get gun, keep land. Don’t have land, well, get gun anyway. Because other people have 'em.

Nevertheless the UPite thinks of himself as a gentle person, by and large. The teenager who gets into a gang-war like situation on campus is probably recuperating by quoting Faiz to a pretty classmate. The grim, silent chauffer who barely seems to listen to instructions probably spends hours hunting for romantic couplets that invoke full moon nights and oceans of longing, which he might be SMSing to the cook.

According to Ashok Chakradhar, a poet and the vice-president of the Kendriya Hindi Sansthaan, UPites are some of the mildest guys around. “We might be reactionary, but not aggressive. In fact, the poet Dhoomil has said, ‘Bhaasha ke maamle mein behad bhades ho/iss kadar kaayar ho ke Uttar Pradesh ho.’ We are somewhat cowardly.”

Corroboration comes, swift and wounding, from the feminine quarter. An army officer’s daughter, Tanvi Saxena, who heads corporate communications for an IT firm, says that UPite men like to think of themselves as ‘dudes’, but only until push comes to shove. “Male cousins in UP will object if you wear jeans outdoors. By contrast, the Punjabi man will just get into a fight to protect you if necessary. Not UPites.”

It doesn’t help that UPite men have a reputation for ogling. And stalking. And claiming ‘girlfriends’ on the basis on who has stalked a girl most consistently. It is common for a man to refer to a woman as ‘my girl’ strictly on the basis that he has stared at her every day on the bus, or that he knows her address, her siblings’ names and the extent of her father’s influence with the local police and administration. The UPite man does not see longing as distinct from wooing. What he wants, he thinks he deserves.

“Interestingly, ogling cuts across class and caste. It is a great leveler,” says Samar. “Ogling in UP is a major community activity. The ogler does not ogle alone. He always elbows a close friend when he spots the object of his desire, saying ‘vo neeli wali mast hai yaar’ (the one in blue is something else).”

In the midst of this happy, communal ogling, the UP man also weaves a little romance. If a lady’s book happens to be placed atop his, it is enough to make him turn a mental cartwheel. He is likely to approach a girl’s heart with a book of poems but he is more likely to lend it than to gift it. Call it frugality, a fiscal preference or just plain cheapness, but many UP women agree that their men don’t exactly wear their wallets on their hearts. Not for them the hundred red roses, the designer shoes, the antique vase. Rich men are far more likely to build themselves a house and put the wife’s name on the name-plate, than they are inclined to take her out to a seven-star pub.

Tanvi has no qualms calling UPwalas ‘tuchha’ (petty). “UP doesn’t have lavish getaways, lavish family eating and drinking places. This is partly because the culture doesn’t allow it and partly because the men don’t want to spend so much. They want to hang out with others who will pay for them instead. Or else, they carry just enough money to cover their own share.”

She concedes that whatever else a UP man might be, he is rarely dull. If there is one thing the UPite man revels in, does well, loves above his material comforts, it is talk. ‘Bak’ is the highest form of entertainment. Talk is culture. Talk is social currency. Many a good UPite who will traverse long distances for no more incentive than the opportunity for a nightlong blather-fest. There is little grace or romance associated with a brooding, silent man. The ones who get attention are the talkers, the storytellers, the poets, the robbers of other people’s couplets. Even hardboiled Mumbaikars like Chowdhary agree that there is never a dull moment when a UPite is around. “Their talk is full of masala,” he says. “A roomful of people will be kept amused for hours on end.”

However, it is wise to remember that talk is often only just so much talk. The braggart UPite is a consistent stereotype. He boasts about political and bureaucratic connections, about how much land he or his ancestors owned, or how many hundreds of crores such-n-such business is worth.

But wait. When it came to the money bit, I was stumped. UPites? Surely, the UPite does not discuss money! He refers to it delicately, if he must, as ‘intezaam’. As a facility. All the UPite men I know tend to talk about money with a squirmy sort of disdain, as if one were talking about the morning ablutions.

I decided to check with the writer and Delhi University professor Alok Rai, who had left Allahabad as a young man. When I posed the question, there was a brief silence over the phone line. "Let me guess," said Rai. “You people must be Shias from Lucknow.”

I gasped, “How did you guess?”

The UPite, it appears, is a phenomenon split – as the state itself may be in the foreseeable future – into east, west and centre. Purab, Pachhim, and the glory that was Awadh, centred in Lucknow. Most Indians of the post-independence era know the Awadhi aristocrat as cast and frozen in the mould of films like Chaudvi Ka Chand. On either side of this frozen image lies... well, whatever is not Awadh.

“The Purabiya has historically looked down upon the Pachhain (western UPite) as a boor, rich but uncouth, while the Pachhain thinks of the Purabiya as uncivilized and poor,” says Alok Rai. The ones in the middle, of course, do not think much of either. Much of this pride stems from Lucknow’s fabled ‘tehzeeb’. Just like the average Bombay-ite does not see himself as merely Maratha, the average Lakhnawi thinks of himself as poetic, refined, special. Unlike the country bumpkins to the east and the domineering Jats and Rohilla Pathans of the west, which got its fair share of swordplay and looting since it lay en route to the seat of power: Delhi.

The UPite’s obsession with politics brooks no denying. This could be because the state accounts for the most members of parliament or because it has produced the most prime ministers (a fact tomtommed by several UPites as if it was a personal achievement). Whatever the reason, each dip in the power scale is tracked. Each election is watched closely. Powerful people are discussed with a rare passion and their acquaintance is assiduously cultivated. I have not been able to figure out why. Perhaps, because there are so very many people with so little power that each man is obsessed with the idea of it, the gaining of it. Perhaps, because each man does not count, and each vote does.

Cities, changes, anger,

Something has been changing and yet, what has?

I write this in the context of my involvement with Blank Noise and my experience of having lived in two different cities with diametrically opposite reputations where women's safety is concerned. Delhi was known as the big, bad wolf. Bombay was known as the best deal possible. Over the last decade, through visits, through media and through the lived experience, I've had a chance to compare and contrast how safe one is and - sadly enough - how mythical and transient the notion of safety for women is.

In the last year or so, after I moved back to Bombay, I found myself swinging between two extremes. Or rather, I found myself trapped inside a triangular box of behaviour patterns in public spaces. I was either super-confident and barely thinking about myself as a woman in a public space. Or I was worried, super-conscious of the fact that I was a woman and unbearably aware of how I was dressed. Or I was just plain angry.

I have written before about rampant harassment in this city under the guise of massive crowds that are in a constant rush to get somewhere. I have written about helplessness and bottled-up anger often being misdirected, and the worry that one may be over-reacting: after all, the push, the shove, the brushing against could be an accident. How do you prove that it isn't? And yet, the more I travel by trains, the more I walk on crowded streets, the more convinced I am that a lot of the touching is not accidental. Often, I have been caught in a huge crush of people who are trying to go up a narrow stairway, while another crush of people is trying to come down the same stairway. Ninety percent of the time, if I am surrounded by women, I notice that I am not being touched or pushed around.

The sad thing is, that ninety percent of the time, I have begun to manipulate my ascent on the stairways and down platforms so that I am surrounded by women on all sides.

I find this deeply saddening because, in the first flush of confidence after being in Blank Noise interventions, having understood the problem of street sexual harassment as well as street social dynamics better than I used to, I had begun to believe that there was no need to sequester or segregate myself.

It is true that I am no longer feeling as vulnerable as I used to feel. I have learnt to stare back, and to use the simple act of looking as a deterrant, a weapon of self-defense. I have learnt to enter spaces where there are very few women, or none who can afford not to be there, and to walk in with a straight back, a challenge written on my face. But on the other hand, I find that I still have to use this weapon a lot of the time. If I begin to relax - for instance, read a book in a public space, within moments I find that strangers are starting to walk past a little too easily, a little too close. If I were to close my book and look directly at them, the men automatically step back a little or put a few more inches between themselves and me. I feel like I am in a constant state of battle, unable to drop a physically defensive stance.

Of course, this is not true of all public spaces. But it is true that I cannot allow myself to feel safe in this city. Where I live used to feel pretty safe. This is a distant suburb that has gotten heavily populated only over the last decade. I had never had a problem finding transport and had never really been harassed or stalked in my neighbourhood. But recently, late one night, the driver of the auto I was in suddenly slowed down. I asked why and he said someone was flagging him down. Two men on a bike caught up with the auto rickshaw. I told the driver not to stop. The men bent their heads and peered into the auto, staring at me, as they vroomed past.

I found myself wishing that they would fall and have an accident. And was promptly appalled at the violence inside my head.

But increasingly, I find myself bubbling over with a powerful kind of rage. I have - and I am deeply ashamed at this - picked up stones from the street and hurled them at a bunch of boys. It was the day before Holi. I was sick and tired of having things thrown at me, hurtful things like water balloons and chunks of ice. The next time I felt water on my shoulderblades, I whirled around, grabbed the nearest stone I could find and threw it back in the direction the balloon had come from. I bent to pick up some more stones. Two or three seconds later I realised the boys were kids - perhaps between the ages of ten and fourteen. I was sorry, of course. I still am. But one part of my mind was unforgiving. It was saying: 'Fine! So let them learn young'.

Tonight I was talking to a friend, a girl who was so nervous about being at the station in a knee-length dress (with black stockings on underneath) that she called a male friend and asked him to stay on the phone with her until she boarded a train, ladies compartment, of course. I began telling her that I wanted to commute with a long, fat lathi. I would walk out of the house with the lathi held in both hands, horizontal, so that nobody came too close, and on railways bridges, I would keep whirling the lathi like a professional fighter. The image of me as a lathial-ninja was funny and we both had a good laugh about it. But I find myself lapsing into such aggressive feelings that if, one of these days, I am touched on purpose and I catch hold of the guy, god help him.

In Delhi, oddly enough, I never felt this much rage. I don't know why. Perhaps, because the harassment was of a more persistent verbal kind. Perhaps, because I rarely took buses. Perhaps, because whistling or staring or being 'proposed' is annoying but is not such an immediate physical violation like unwanted touching. Perhaps, it is just that in Bombay, all frustrations feed into each other - the violation combined with a lack of physical space and privacy, which mingles with a sickness that comes from incessant crowds and actual filth and garbage and pollution.

On the other hand, I had accepted a circumscribed lifestyle in Delhi. At least, partially. I had accepted the fact that I would not go out late at night unless somebody was going to drop me home. I had to ask friends or even reluctant friends of friends to drive an extra fifteen minutes for my sake. I refused to accept party invitations unless I was certain I could ask this of someone. I rarely spent any time alone except at cafes or bookstores, or whilst shopping, or traveling. I wore western clothes but carried a wrap or jacket if it was a strappy dress.

In Bombay, I don't have the option of being alone, but if there were empty and quiet spaces, I think I would be more open to being there. Or maybe not. After all, I begin to get nervous walking about in Fort or Parel or Nariman Point or Versova or Khar after ten at night. And it is equally true that I have been out in Delhi at midnight and felt perfectly safe, surrounded by friends, women friends, all of us dressed up and in high heels.

The other frustrating thing is the overcrowding. I have been traveling mostly in the first class compartment for Ladies because I cannot find the energy and strength to fight my way into the chaos of the general dabba. After 11pm, the second class ladies' compartment which is adjacent to the first class (24 hour ladies) is converted to a general one. The men come trundling in. Even if there is some room in the general converted compartment, all the ladies insist on trooping into the first class. This is a daily affair and I have made my peace with it. I don't even like this business of second class and first class dabbas and it makes me queasy even bringing up this issue of who belongs in which class, much less fight with some poor harassed woman at midnight, three sleepy little kids in tow, asking her to get off and go travel with the men, or to walk further down the platform to the second class (24 hours) ladies.

What I find sad is the utter ghettoisation of men and women with regard to each other. Most women would rather risk being caught ticketless or be fined for traveling in the first class than get into a train compartment with a lot of men traveling in it. And if I find myself the only woman passenger in the first class ladies dabba, I take the trouble of running to the end of the platform to get into the second class ladies compartment. In fact, I have witnessed fights in the ladies compartments where one lady accuses another of not having a first class pass (based on her dress and appearance, of course, on which another post, another day) and the other lady promptly replies: 'Well, thank god for the second class women's presence or else all your first class women would have been robbed or raped'. What kind of culture is this? How is this a safe city, then? How much safer than other cities?

As soon as the Delhi metro web gets wider and stronger, as soon as the late night trains begin to run a little later, Delhi will end up becoming a safer city. Women's safety has so much to do with infrastructure and so little to do with 'culture'.

How safe women feel is finally just a question of numbers. I notice that, in Bombay, if a woman is traveling alone in a train, she is always looking about in a nervous way. The moment another woman enters the compartment, she breathes a deep sigh of relief and smiles in welcome at the new passenger. If two or three more women board the train, all of them feel safe. If one woman is wearing a short skirt, she appears to look around, unsure of herself. If she spots another woman wearing jeans or a sleeveless top, she feels confident.

The train doesn't change. The city doesn't change. The time doesn't change. The clothes don't change. But the women's experience of the city, the train, the time, their clothes changes - through the simple fact of them being out there in greater numbers, in all their diversity of dress and make up and profession.

one take on love

Here is a piece I did for Valentine's Day and here is where it appeared.

We no longer understand. Those of us who were nourished on a carb-rich diet of the Bronte sisters and Yash Chopra, along with vital supplements like Tagore, Gulzar and Bob Dylan that were steadily poured into our blood. We understand the brave new world of new age romance no more than our grandmothers understood email.

Yet, we use the same language: love, longing, loss, despair. Young people meet each other, are attracted, call each other ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ – or the new politically correct thing: ‘partner’. They commit. They have kids. And one supposes that there must be love in the frame. No reason to disbelieve their ‘I love you’s even though we live in a world where Valentine’s Day has become a bit of a joke with half the world protesting the crass commercialism which has reduced it to greeting cards and online offers to ship bouquets of roses; and the other half intent on buying the cards, the balloons, the diamond pendant (which is supposed to make sure that love lasts forever), and the super-soft Rs 299 teddy bear holding a red velvet heart. On several campuses, it has become ‘sad’ for a young person to be seen without a love prop. Those who do not receive roses buy them and pretend they were gifts. Those who have nobody to buy cards for, buy them anyway, and pretend to be on their way to meet a mythic beloved. Very Calvin-n-Hobbes, except it isn’t comic.

But let me not delve into the Hallmarks-isation of love. What of love itself? How do young people romance each other, minus the props? Ask a teenager and he looks at you suspiciously. “What do you mean ‘how’? Like, I mean, like everybody else. I guess.”

Everybody else would include women like me who grew up dreaming of strapping young men with the mind of a Yeats, the body of a farm hand, the temperament of a Heathcliff, and a propensity to stand under windows, singing about the moon paling beside one’s own face. We, who dared not actually do anything more than dedicate a song at the school fete, or created an acrostic in his name, hoping he would have the sense to crack the code. We, who talked long hours into the night on the phone and could not wait until it was time to step out of the house so one could meet the beloved and talk some more over coffee. Endless cups of coffee, long walks, frequent glances. We, who suffered heartbreak alone, without breathing a word even to a best friend. We didn’t die of heartbreak, of course, unlike heroines in nineteenth century novels. But we weren’t afraid of impossible longings. Nor did we feel panic at the prospect of our teens slipping by without having a ‘partner’ .

But we too have adapted and evolved. New age romance is no longer about borrowing books or quoting romantic couplets. One signs up instead on a Google group that focuses on love poems and dips into the treasure once in a while, and emails a poem to the person one is interested in.
We write SMS poems. We sometimes send text messages saying nothing more than ‘Hi’ or ‘Just’. Just to say hello. Just to say I’m thinking of you. Just to say you’re in my heart. And once we hit ‘send’, we wait, phones clutched to our chests, wondering what sort of reply will be sent back.
If we were born a generation ago, we’d have hit the writing desk and dashed off a five-page letter. Or sent off a single pressed flower in an envelope by registered post.

If we used to make dates at art galleries; we now make dates to go to the mall and listen to new records together at a music store. Or to play a round of Counter-strike. Different medium, but the message remains the same.

Or does it?

I asked a friend and fellow-writer, Manisha Lakhe, who promptly dissed present-day romance as ‘a commercial break in a TV show’. “Romance is dysfunctional today,” she says. “Maybe because people don’t read books. They watch TV so the attention span is low.”

Is love is now a much fast-food phenomenon now: a fly-by-night operation rather than a lifetime of work? After all, a generation that is seduced by advertising lines such as ‘Why wait?’ is not likely to be seduced by the idea of longing and patience. Nobody waits for love to be consummated beyond a few dates – maybe a few weeks, maybe months, certainly not years.
Yet, a corner of my own heart refuses to believe that teenagers nowadays are that much different. The generation that was brought up on online gaming and doesn’t know how to use a pager probably uses the same basic tools to romance – words, making eyes, cafes.

Or perhaps, the change runs deeper, linked to the ways in which Indian culture itself has changed. Love in the 2000s, some people say, is more like pornography, less like erotica. And capping everything is the pornography of money. Lakhe confesses she was horrified when she met a young girl who was accepting gifts of diamonds from not just her dad, but from the boys she knew. “She did not understand why I was horrified. Her attitude was: ‘They like me; now let them work for it’. In my time, only 'bad' girls were like this. I’m not exactly the Grease generation, but still, there was some sort of honour.”

Notions of honour in love have also changed. To show someone you love them, you buy them things; take them out to fancy places. And when they have agreed to be your lover, you focus your energies on finding a nook to neck in – coffee shops or clubs or water-fronts. Nobody bats an eye. And if you break up, you go to the same places with a new person, and still, nobody bats an eye. It is now kosher to be in love with A today, B, tomorrow, C yesterday.

Ten years ago, even in the metros, this wouldn’t have passed for romance. You wouldn’t have described a dalliance as ‘being in love’. Now, of course, we don’t talk of love if we can help it. We say we love a movie, a film star, a Parsi dish, an outfit. But we describe all romantic, quasi-romantic, or a barely sexual association as the prosaic fact of being ‘in a relationship’. Love is now a matter of a status update.

Besides, thanks to Facebook, one doesn’t need to confront the person you want to dump. No need for final goodbyes or having to witness tears. A male friend who doesn’t want to be named admits that he has broken up with somebody on the phone – “distance not being a factor, she trying to avoid me” – but it has never gotten to the point of simply changing one’s Facebook status from ‘In a relationship’ to ‘single’.

It is now possible to track one’s friends’ love lives on social networking sites. I have seen friends go from ‘single’ to ‘in a relationship’ to ‘married’ and from ‘in a relationship with X’ to ‘in a relationship’ and finally, back to ‘single’, along with that awfully jagged tear in that tiny pink heart.

Perhaps, that is all it is – a public signboard on which you can now announce your happiness, and your heartbreaks. Love comes, and goes. And perhaps, we have finally learnt to deal with it without making too much of a fuss about it.

That sure is a lot of crores

This is a Rs 14,296-crore (Rs 142.96 billion) scam and the Gujarat government has no right to 'donate' public wealth to a private player in this dubious manner," Gohil said.

Elaborating on the issue he said that with a meager investment of Rs 381 crore (Rs 3.81 billion), the hitherto unknown Swan Energy will walk away with Rs 14,296 crore. "Starting from Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi to top officials of Gujarat State Petroleum Corporation, energy department and chief minister's office are involved," Gohil claimed.

Ooooh!

The full story here.

Had been in a taxi recently and ended up feeling quite literally as if I'd been taken for a ride.

The taxi driver told me he'd agree on a fixed rate if I preferred but I insisted that he use the meter. I had not come southwards, to town, for weeks and remembered that the base rate had gone up from Rs 13, but wasn't sure what it was now. The taxi meter showed a base rate of Rs 16.50, and then went whizzing up and up from there on.

I, of course, had no way of being able to contest that the meter had been tampered with, so at the end of the journey, I took a deep breath and paid what he asked for. THEN, he asked for an extra Rs 60 for luggage. All I had one one black bag. The pre-paid taxi stalls at the railways usually charge Rs 5-10 per bag. So I argued. However, I had made the mistake of giving him a thousand rupee note already. The taxi driver just pocketed it, and refused to give me back the correct change.

I found myself seething. I threatened I would call the cops. He just stood there, smug, and said, 'Go ahead then'.

So I took down his taxi number. Then, it struck me that the taxi may not be his, and I would only get the real owner into trouble. So I asked to see his license. He either didn't have one or would not show me one. All he showed me was a traffic police document, a fine receipt, which had a name but no identifying photo. I took it down anyway.

I tried called 100 but the line was busy for a long time. So I let it go for the moment. But I went online the next day and I googled the Mumbai RTO and went to the website. Came up with a complaint form, filled it in the details of the incident.

Then I went into town again this weekend and realised that the base rate for taxis is only Rs 14, not 16.50. It made me madder still. I was considering dropping into the RTO office, even if it cost me more money to go there and back than I have lost through being cheated. But I just wanted something to be done to that lying, cheating bully of a cabbie.

But just last night, I received an acknowledgement of the online complaint from the traffic cops. I don't know what this means - whether it will translate into action or not, whether the right person will be punished in the right way, or not. But I have to confess I am feeling pleased. It feels good to just have been heard by someone who is in authority, who is in a position to do something about wrongdoing. And then, I began to think about how much conflict could be avoided if only the police could accomplish this minimum - to listen, and to acknowledge.

I know that resolving stuff takes time. I know the cops don't have that much time. There are accidents and traffic management and speeding vehicles and drunk drivers and godknowswhatelse to contend with. And I know not much can be done, considering it is the taxi driver's word against mine. But even if that driver just gets hauled up, gets told off, as long as he knows that he cannot get away with cheating people so easily, I will be satisfied.

But I have also been thinking about the things that are told to us about cops - inefficiency, complaints, corruption and so on.

How many of us even bother to complain about something? I very nearly didn't, because everyone else seems to be shrugging it off and saying 'kuch nahin hoga'. My brother was the only one who urged me to at least try calling the RTO. And I am so glad I did. Because it has been established, finally, that - Kuch karoge nahin to kaise hoga?

What can the traffic cops do to stop cheating by taxi drivers if we don't tell them? They cannot be expected to randomly start harassing someone on suspicion. Even if they do catch someone doing something wrong, the passenger has to file a formal complaint, if they are to do things the right way. Sure, some cops accept bribes from people who violate traffic rules as well as those against whom some complaint has been filed. But it is not like nobody is trying to do anything about it.

I have been getting text messages from the Anti-Corruption Bureau, saying that if a Central government employee asks for a bribe, call on so and so number. How many of us make those calls? How many of us are even willing to call 100 or go online and get some information about which might be the right department to go to if you want to file a complaint?

The problem, of course, is that we are all people in a hurry and would prefer that the cops just slap around the guy who's been bothering us, rather than us taking the trouble to sit down and compose our thoughts and sign an official document. Essentially, we want the cops to act as bullies on our behalf. And once they start doing that, there's no end to it. Whether it is beating up a man who is harassing a woman, or forcing poor people out of their homes to make way for a new big-bucks project, or encounter deaths. It is mostly an extension and escalation of the same principle. It essentially stems from our unwillingness to do our own share of work to keep society clean.

The trouble begins, for us, when we find that we aren't the only ones with such expectations of the policing process. Other communities, other demographics, other wants. There is an eternal conflict of interests in society and the cops are supposed to be on everyone's side. It is not an easy place to be and I wish we'd remember to remember that more often.

Mandir banega?

'The only chance I see of a temple being built here (Ayodhya) is when Rahul Gandhi becomes prime minister.” I was perplexed by his expectations of the young Gandhi. “Think about it.” he said solemnly, “The locks were opened when the Congress was in power; the idols were installed when the Congress was in power; the Babri Masjid was demolished when the Congress was in power. Maybe we will have the temple when the Congress is in power.'

Rahul Gandhi, are you listening? Are you worried? Are you amused?

Separetely, the above comment is from a piece on Indian Muslims, post Ayodhya, and it appeared in Caravan magazine recently. While the piece is interesting, I can't help feeling just a little frustrated by the maleness of it. Women are almost completely absent from the picture.

This is something I come up against time and again. Muslim women are almost the most visible image whenever someone chooses to write about Islam and the contemporary political problems surrounding it. Photos of faces with just the eyes showing. Or photos of smiling little girls trying to study. Or ordinary young women walking past in burqas. A lot of the issues that dominate this big question - the question of Muslims, often a minority, in present-day democracies - are also about women. The veil. Family laws. Education and political leadership. Mobility and independence.

But when it comes to the actual political-racial debate in the media, nobody seems to be talking to women. Is this because Muslim women simply do not exist as community leaders? Can they only hope to be Muslim women leaders, no more? And if this indeed is the case, isn't it time someone brought that fact into the conversation?