Is this a good time to speak, God?

I just read a very moving letter (see below), purportedly written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the famous writer from Colombia who’s said to be suffering from terminal cancer, in the form of a farewell piece to his friends, talking, as you might’ve guessed, about what all (good things) he would do if he had a little more time to live. Such things not only prove why a writer like him is admired so much, but also bring your own mortality into sharp focus, and set you thinking.

At what point in one's life does one start thinking about God? I don’t mean, of course, the tendency to scream His name out loud when things are not going right or when we are incredulous about others’ shortcomings, but more about that middle-age watershed when we start introspecting, doing good things, being peaceful, helping others, following alternative careers, and putting on that ever-smiling, benign, I’ve-understood-all-there-is-to-about-life-and-so-sad-you-haven’t-yet face.

In the developed world there is some evidence that this age is being pushed further, with stressful (sometimes double) careers, plastic surgery, second (third and fourth) marriages, high divorce rates and eternal single parenthood. On the other hand, stuff like imported mysticism, organic food, power yoga, early retirement and now, a deep recession have created enough conditions to actually advance that age.

In contrast, one can argue that we in the developing (shall we say Eastern) world have always had a strong sense of spirituality in-built into our systems, and have a habit of dialling (and getting through to God) more often. Not to mention the host of souls who’ve made it a profession or a personality-trait early on in life, to espouse His Cause, or live His Lifestyle to the exclusion of everything else.

But what is a good age to start a dialogue with Him for Easterners who have been brought up in a more or less Western milieu? In other words, for those who were bred in a modern rational environment, but refuse to get rid of the Eastern value-system embedded in them? I ask this in all earnestness as one who’s fast approaching the half-century age-mark, but still unable to grasp the seriousness of it all.

Should I stop colouring (whatever’s left of) my hair now? Stop going to the gym, listening to rock and jazz, wearing fitting jeans and T-shirts and look the other way when a PYT passes by? Should I give up my career and instead switch to one where I’m more ‘connected’? And begin reading ‘Godly’ books and posting mystical statuses regularly on my Facebook?

Thing is, every time I look at a friend who’s seemingly ‘transcended’ this world, smile benignly at me and unstatingly urge me in the same direction, I develop cold feet. To be true, there is a sense of awe and inspiration at said person’s special abilities combined with self-derision at not being able to catch up, but mostly, there’s a deep sense of denial of the whole idea.

You may call it a reluctance to give up youth. Or, stupidity and vanity of not accepting the realities of middle age. But the fact is, I don’t think I’m ready yet. Not ready to don saffron, grow my beard long and leave my hair unkept, wear a stupid smile on my face, retire to the hills, start chanting, or even, write a letter to my friends and children prior to an impending exit.

Is it a feeling that my children have not ‘settled’ yet? Or a sense of duty and responsibility that my middle-class mind has not given up so far, that comes in the way? It would be tempting to ascribe it to such things, but I’m convinced it’s not all that.
On the contrary, it’s a feeling that I have not done enough in this life yet, not for others, but for myself. There’s more to do still, hills to be climbed, vales to be conquered, and miles to go before I sleep.

Plus, there’s a strong belief that God is in everything we do, and is not a new, or ultimate phase of our lives. All we really need to do is keep Him in mind while performing all the small, seemingly irrelevant everyday things, like being good to others and being generally moral. That’s all!

Not so long ago, on a particularly fun stretch on a long drive, we (my wife and I) had penned down a list of THINGS-TO-DO-IN-THE-NEXT-10-YEARS. We haven’t discussed that with too many people, and I’m certainly not about to post it up here, but we do occasionally look it up to remind ourselves. Maybe we’ll revisit it more often now. Maybe we’ll start adding to that list, or hopefully, striking off those that’ve been accomplished.

Does that mean God and all saintly things will take a back seat in my life for some more time, then? Maybe that’s the wrong question to ask, for after all I am an Easterner, and qualify with a little bit of God already in me. In any case, I’m clear about one thing: I’m not in a hurry to write a letter like Gabo’s to my friends. Not just yet! For I believe I already do at least a couple of the things mentioned in that letter (see below)!

A FAREWELL LETTER FROM A GENIUS (Reproduced - Circulating on the web)

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, famous writer from Colombia (familiarly known as "Gabo" in his native country) and Nobel prize winner for literature in 1982, retired from public life for reasons of health.

He has a form of cancer which is terminal. He has sent a farewell letter to his friends and it has been circulated around the Internet.

It is recommended reading because it is moving to see how one of the best and most brilliant of writers expresses himself with sorrow and regret:

"If God, for a second, forgot what I have become and granted me a little bit more of life, I would use it to the best of my ability. I wouldn't possibly, say everything that is in my mind, but I would be more thoughtful of all I say. I would give merit to things not for what they are worth, but for what they mean to express...

I would sleep less, I would dream more, because I know that for every minute that we close our eyes, we waste 60 seconds of light.

I would walk while others stop; I would stay awake while others sleep.

If God would give me a little bit more of life, I would dress in a simple manner, I would place myself in front of the sun, leaving not only my body, but my soul naked at its mercy….

To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love….

I would give wings to children, but I would leave it to them to learn how to fly by themselves.

To old people I would say that death doesn't arrive when they grow old, but with forgetfulness. I have learned so much with you all, I have learned that everybody wants to live on top of the mountain, without knowing that true happiness is obtained in the journey taken & the form used to reach the top of the hill.

I have learned that when a newborn baby holds, with its little hand, his father's finger, it has trapped him for the rest of his life.

I have learned that a man has the right and obligation to look down at another man, only when that man needs help to get up from the ground..

Say always what you feel, not what you think. If I knew that today is the last time that I am going to see you asleep, I would hug you with all my strength and I would pray to the Lord to let me be the guardian angel of your soul…

If I knew that these are the last moments to see you, I would say "I love you".

There is always tomorrow, and life gives us another opportunity to do things right, but in case I am wrong, and today is all that is left to me, I would love to tell you how much I love you & that I will never forget you.

Tomorrow is never guaranteed to anyone, young or old. Today could be the last time to see your loved ones, which is why you mustn't wait; do it today, in case tomorrow never arrives. I am sure you will be sorry you wasted the opportunity today to give a smile, a hug, a kiss, and that you were too busy to grant them their last wish.

Keep your loved ones near you; tell them in their ears and to their faces how much you need them and love them. Love them and treat them well; take your time to tell them "I am sorry", "forgive me", "please", "thank you", and all those loving words you know!

Nobody will know you for your secret thought. Ask the Lord for wisdom and strength to express them.

For you, With much love,
Your Friend,
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Un abrazo
02 de julio de 2009
Y son las 15:30

A letter from your son

Dearest Papa,

I don’t remember any particular day called ‘Father’s Day’ when we were little. I doubt if you’d heard of it even years after losing your father at the age of 9. And I’m not surprised that my kids don’t send me mushy texts about how nice I am, not just on this, but any day of the year.

The thing I do remember fondly, was getting and writing letters, when you were in England and we were growing up. Well, to be true I do remember a good deal of other things as well (see below), but I don’t know why, letters written in long-hand remain fresh and readily spring to mind today.

Maybe I’ve said this more than once during our many confrontations, and doubtless you’ve heard this from a whole lot of other people, starting with your own wife, but I don’t agree with how you lived your life.

For instance, why the hell did you have to be so, so different? Why did you decide to become an actor when it was hardly classified as a valid profession? Why did you have to join the National School of Drama and shine on the Delhi stage when others were writing their college exams? Why did you make it a point to be in every radio play on AIR, or for that matter, Doordarshan, when they decided to start broadcasting? Why did you have to follow your star and choose to specialize in Child Drama overseas, leaving your family behind, when other dads were busy with their humdrum jobs, setting up homes for their flock?

Why did you not think twice before breaking away from your family, even if that meant taking on odd jobs to support your family? Why did you insist on marrying early on in life and then shaping your wife into a confident lady who could take on life’s many twists even when you weren’t around? Why did you continue thinking about everyone else—your mother, brothers, cousins—when you should’ve only been thinking about your wife and sons?

Why did you send your children to the best educational institutions when you could ill-afford the expenses? Why couldn’t you’ve been like other dads, telling your sons what to do, instead of letting them figure out what they wanted to do, every step of the way? Why couldn’t you have acted more like an authority figure and less of a friend when I asked you about my choice of career? Why the hell couldn’t you’ve stayed on a bit to enjoy the creature comforts you knew your boys would eventually lay out for you? Most of all, why didn’t you give your grandchildren the chance to experience what they rightfully deserved—your warmth and love?

Yet, as I look back on my life with you, a myriad memories flash before my eyes—small things, but stuff life is made up of. And on this day, I thank God that I was born to a maverick, someone who was way, way ahead of his times. I remember, for instance:
1. Nestling in your arms as a kid, soaking in the smell of your after-shave, knowing smugly that I would be able to wear it too, one day.
2. The way you would put on your socks and shoes before venturing out, marveling at how perfectly the heels fell into place, and how quickly you tied those laces.
3. How you took me to Khan Market after my tonsils operation, to feed me unlimited ice-cream in a fancy restaurant.
4. Sipping a bit of beer from your glass, falling for the argument that a bit of beer is good for the body, and not knowing that taste would stay with me for life.
5. When you took me by the hand, walking out of the hospital you were admitted to, without telling anyone, to go and perform in Habib Tanvir’s play, not wanting a small detail like your asthma come in the way of the show.
6. Rationing out cigarettes to you every day, one after every meal, knowing that they would kill you eventually, but realizing deep inside that, what the hell, enjoyment came in measured puffs anyway.
7. Your striking good looks and how you’d tease Mama about how many women would lust after you when you were young.
8. Modeling my hair-style after yours, brushed straight back, without a parting.
9. The last wave of your hand, burdened by my grand-dad’s heavy overcoat as you left us at the airport on your first trip abroad, and crying on looking at your chappals, when we reached home.
10. Relishing every word that you’d hurriedly write to us on those rice-paper sheets, after we’d removed the stamps with the Queen’s mug from the envelopes for our collection.
11. Trying to cram anecdotes and affections into every bit of the aerogrammes we’d reply on, not leaving even the margins or the fold-overs.
12. Waiting for the phone to ring every time on our birthdays, armed with a list of what we needed from England, in this instance, a ‘Get Ready’ LP by Rare Earth.
13. Watching you from the visitor’s gallery at the airport when you returned, every bit my hero in a smart jacket and sunglasses.
14. Accompanying you and Mama to the temple after you’d won a legal case, not suspecting that the avowed atheist had a traditional heart after all.
15. Dropping you at the airport proudly when you were off to location, shooting ‘Shivaji’ with Parikshit Sahni, or ‘Hum Paanch’ with a then very young and raw Anil Kapoor.
16. Arguing with you why an MBA and a career in the private sector made more sense than one with the Civil Services.
17. Trying on your tasteful collection of shirts, ties and suits, when it was time for me to start working in an MNC.
18. How you travelled 500+ km on a Maharashtra Roadways bus to the deep interiors of the state where I was undergoing ‘Management training’ while with Brooke Bond, just to tell me that I had cleared the Civil Services Prelims, only to be told that I had made my choice.
19. How I made you and Mama travel with me all the way from Bombay to Ajmer to marry the girl I’d chosen, having to consent without your even talking to her parents.
20. Predicting the media explosion and how it would alter the world we live in, at least a decade before it started happening.
21. Picking up Saattvic from school in Juhu, after he’d injured himself, knowing that it would take too long for me to come back from Worli.
22. You rushing to Delhi on your brother’s passing away, never to return yourself.
23. Seeing you in Moolchand Hospital, your usual cheery self, like so many times in hospital before, never suspecting that your time was up.
24. Watching you take the last few breaths bravely, helplessly standing by, waiting for a miracle to happen.
25. Carrying you to the Electric Crematorium and watching as you disappeared inside, feeling quite like the first time at Delhi airport.
26. Standing next to the bubbling Bhagirathi at Badrinath, holding Mama, my wife and brother, praying for you, probably the last time as a family.
27. Storing your specs, smoking pipe, wallet and inhaler in your room just as you’d left them, for years afterward.
28. Occasionally glancing up from my bed to your picture, knowing that you’re watching over me, always.

I sense you’re not quite happy at the way your boys’ve turned out—after all, we didn’t quite take up the choices you’d wanted us to, without really making it clear. But don’t worry, you’ll get your chance at another confrontation. Good thing is, you won’t have to wait too long before we meet again. But let me assure you, when we do, despite the outcome of that confrontation, I’ll sit back and gladly let you bring up my kids, for I know you’d do a darned good job of it—certainly better than I could ever manage.

Looking forward to seeing you, again…

P.S. Post my writing this letter, I've been wished Happy Father's Day by each of my boys today (though of course, these days they use mobile phones not letters), making me think that their upbringing hasn't been too bad either. This means we'll have real notes exchange when we meet! So, prepare!!

Miss you, Mama!

They’re wrong when they say a man's body is two-thirds water. I'd say it's composed almost entirely, of his mother. You might say an old man's feeling uncharacteristically emotional on Mother's Day, but I could prove to you that a Mom is easily the most powerful person in a man's life (and I mean not just the Indian man's life, as some feminists are fond of ranting), and quite certainly the most lasting influence.

At the scientific level this is an easy enough concept - everyone agrees that a child 'learns' mostly during the first 15 yrs of his existence and that is generally the phase where the mother's influence is greatest, so QED. On the other hand, if you’re the filmy-type, all you need to do is point to the iconic ‘Mere paas Maa hai’ to assert a mother’s all-important role in a son’s life. If you're more Shakespearean in your outlook, you might be inclined to attribute this primacy to the famous Electra Complex. And of course, if you belong to a rare matriarchical or matrilineal community, this will again be pretty obvious, as you’d have sadly learnt by now that you will never inherit your mother's property unless you're female.

But no: as you'd have guessed, my point is a little more universal, and covers all types of men and women, everywhere. A mother, is indeed, the person who quite literally shapes a child, thus determining, to a very large extent, the course of his/her future life. Of course, the father, peers and the spouse all play a significant role, but never quite like that of the mother. As a 49 year old, I therefore have no compunction in admitting that, blood IS thicker than water. And on Mother’s Day, not only do I feel an all-encompassing surge of love for my late mother, but strangely, also a latent tinge of jealousy against my wife – who I realise, has had a stronger role to play in the lives of my sons!

So what do I salute my mother for, in making me what I am? Not the big things, you’ll notice, but the small ones, which as we all know from experience, are the ones that really count, when push comes to shove.

Brush your teeth, make your bed and keep your cupboard tidy
Things that most mothers teach most children, but only a few really learn, especially boys. She was ever so orderly about everything: her personal effects, sheets, curtains, kitchen: everything thing at home. To this day, I remember how she’d catalogued and kept her collection of cassettes and videocassettes—it would put any library to shame. The big point: if a person can’t be tidy and orderly in his living, his mind will always be cluttered.

Do it yourself, even if you haven’t learnt how
A million things you might think mothers reserve for their daughters, I got to learn from my mum - how to thread a needle, make a round roti, sweep the floor, bargain with vegetable-vendors, pack woolies with naphthalene-balls, wash my undies - all came in very handy when I had to set up home. And I had to do that multiple times as a bachelor, as well as a married person, in different cities.
The big point: Dirty your hands even with things you think you’re not meant to do—you never know when they come in useful.

Be bold to venture where no one’s been before
As a person displaced by Partition, Swaran (my mother, meaning 'gold') went through major trauma as she grew up and her family found feet in Delhi. Maybe that was how the explorer/fighter in her came to the fore, making her do things you wouldn’t associate with a woman of her time: excelling in sports, taking up a job, falling in love with and getting married to someone her family did not approve of, manage a home for a long period when her husband was away overseas, joining him and setting up home in England, learning how to drive post 50: the list is endless.
The big point: go where others haven’t been before, and you’re sure to find the treasure—even if it’s in the journey!

Have faith and the good times shall come
The ability to be patient and wait for the tide to turn, is something most boys must learn but many can’t seem to manage. I’ve seen my mother manage home with virtually nothing in her purse, but an unwavering faith in her husband’s and her ability to survive. If I’ve learnt how to dig in and believe in oneself, even when the chips are down, it’s very largely thanks to Mama.
The big point: What goes up, must come down, and vice-versa. The sooner you understand it and stand aside, the easier it will be for you to catch it at the right time!

Others before yourself
That mothers sacrifice for their husbands, children and home is common legend. But to see your mother give up everything for you is really inspiring. If you’ve seen your mother give you everything you’ve ever wanted, even at great personal discomfort and pain, how would you not learn to give of yourself!
The big point: Do unto others as you would others unto you and you’ll find that it works!

Roadrunning (or, Bombay to Delhi in 22 hours)

“It’s not possible.” “You’ll fall asleep.” “Your responses slow down as you grow older.” “And, there’s no one to share the wheel either.” These, and other such diatribes were hurled my way when I suggested we drive Bombay to Delhi, non-stop. To me it seemed the most natural of progressions, but to my wife and sons, this was akin to another insane last-ditch effort that ageing men take to, to look and feel younger.
For once, I put my foot way down, all the way to the floor-board. And announced that this was indeed what I was going to do, and if my wife preferred, she could fly instead.
And so here I was, settled in the driver’s seat (with my wife in the sleeping one), peering out into the darkness, as I turned on the ignition, early morning on 28th May 2009, feeling much like Alexander must have when he set off from Persia, or Columbus as he set sail, many, many years before me.

Bombay 4.16 am
As we whizz past dogs barking randomly, slum-dwellers blissfully sleeping on road dividers and the odd cars straggling home after a late night on the city roads, I reflect on my past life, which I’m quite certain, was that of a trucker. For there’s something about experiencing places through driving—a flavour I insist you can’t get by any other means of transport. At this hour, Bombay is so peaceful, and thankfully navigable. It takes less than half an hour for us to clear the distance between Versova and Dahisar, and to be in the midst of the Western Ghats, purring on quickly yet firmly, in line with our resolve.

Toll booth short of Manor 5.10 am
A longish queue awaits us at this early hour as we strike the first of the million toll-booths that have now become characteristic of road travel on Indian highways. As we try and weave our way past sleepy, monstrous lorries, I see four whores on the other side of the road. Placed strategically just after the toll barrier, and close to an inviting pile of concrete pipes big enough to setup home in, they’re sure to catch the fancy of weary truckers headed into town. For the truckers, this is surely the last bit of heaven before hitting the big bad city, and for the sex-workers, welcome last earnings before they head back to their hovels and infants. I shake my wife awake and even as we nudge forward to pay obeisance at the booth, we see a couple disappear into one of those huge pipes.

Talassery near Mah-Guj border 5.55 am
A drive through the Ghats in twilight remains one of the rare wonders I have seen, in this world. The ancient trees, the eroding hills and the fragile ecosystem barely stirring to life seem to remind you that soon, if mankind’s not careful, such sights will disappear, probably giving way to more soot and grime-washed monolithic skyskrapers with narrow slum-lined roads and urban dismay that we just came out of, barely an hour away.
The first golden rays as the sun emerges to our right also reminds me of the bare elements we truckers so take for granted by now: earth, wind, water and the sun! I’m reminded of the setting sun reflected in the lake as we’d driven into Udaipur on the drive to Bombay a couple of days ago, and a thousand other instances when we’ve stopped on a high mountain road just to witness a sunrise or a sunset, or at the gushing of a waterfall deep below and the rainbow it creates, and marveled at how each time, we’ve been really touched by these awesome sights! If you can’t believe how these can move you as you traverse the countryside outside of the cities, you ain’t seen nothing yet: and I’d urge you to take a really, really long drive.

BP station short of Navsari 6.40 am
Our objective behind starting so early is to make good time especially through the busy industrialized belt of Gujarat that one must pass through when on NH8, one leg of the Golden Quadrilateral. Having already crossed Atul and Vapi, we must stop for a leak and chai just before we enter what’s the most tedious part of this journey: the 225 odd km from Navsari, through Surat and Bharuch to Baroda. This stretch is made tough not only by the busy traffic, but also by the still ongoing four/six-laning work on the highway. As we stop by at a BP Petrol Pump which has toilet and restaurant facilities, we brace ourselves: it once took us as much as 5 hours to cross a 150-km bit on this stretch!
Surprisingly, the restaurant is already stirring to life and has tea and ‘nashta’ to offer: I make a note of how franchisees can make a difference to business, by contrasting this to the behaviour at the Udaipur Circuit House on the way up, where we were told it would not be possible to get anything other than bed-tea before 6.30-7.00am! Not just this alacrity: I believe Petrol Pumps have the potential to massively alter the dreary conditions of long-distance driving—and it’s only slowly that petroleum companies are waking up to their potential to be the oases of the highways. And in this endeavour, I seriously believe the franchise model is much better than the COCO (Co-Owned-Co-Operated) one, a point that I shall return to later.

Baroda 9.25 am
My wife insists that on the way up, she’d counted 7 flyovers (generally by-passes) under construction on the stretch between Surat and Bharuch, which slowed down the heavy traffic to a crawl. To our pleasant surprise , we negotiate all of them (and the 2 more which she’d obviously forgot to count or remember), quite breezily. Quite obviously our early start has given us sufficient headway and we zip past as the industrial chimneys are wheezing to life, in their daily habit of spewing chemicals and pollutants to choke an unsuspecting population that proudly welcomes ‘development and progress’ in Gujarat.
Ironically, we pass a mini-truck carrying cows (which of course are packed like sardines, and in a standing position, are dumbly trying to make sense of how travel has changed for them in these industrialised times) and amusedly I remark how this new image of ‘Cattle on wheels’ could well replace the older ‘Cattle on Road’ one as India finds its rightful place in the global economy.
That Gujarat is clearly on a faster path towards development is patently visible on this stretch: the innumerable factories with workers unmindfully crossing the road on their way to work, criss-crossing trucks, mini-trucks and 3wheelers ferrying goods and raw materials, hundreds of ‘Hotels’ (which by the way is just an euphemism for dhaba or restaurant at best) dotting the highway, and the unmistakeable chemical smell in the air are all vibrant indicators of Narendra Modi’s success. If I had some time, I note, I would’ve been easily able to shoot a documentary for his pre-election use!
To my pleasant surprise, we by-pass Baroda a good half-an hour of my estimated time, and ease onto the 90 km ‘Expressway’ between Baroda and Ahmedabad, which is proudly proclaimed as one leg of the ‘National Expressway or NE1’ on billboards (to the best of my knowledge there is no such project, so this seems more of Modi-ish chest-thumping to me). Whatever the case, this stretch is pure pleasure to drive on and you cover the distance in a mere 40-45 minutes: helped by the high toll that keeps many truckers and buses away, and a well-maintained straight, six-lane track that reminds you of the autobahns of Germany.

Udaipur 3.40 pm
Continuing with our good streak and having come roughly halfway, we ease out of Gujarat into Rajasthan at the Ratanpur border in the afternoon, just after 1 pm. By now, the traffic has thinned (it’s a sweltering 45 degrees outside), and the green vegetation that we encountered right upto Himmatnagar gives way to the sparse bushery of the approaching desert-state.
We’ve been frugal with our food intake so far: just eggs, sandwitches and water consumed in bits since the morning and a shared dosa at our last stop just before Ahmedabad. This is because a. we want to feel light and alert, and b. I have this unexplained desire to have ‘dal-baati’, something we know will be available only when we cross into the princely district of Udaipur.
The drive through the hills before you touch Udaipur is awesome: rugged, cut rock-face, undulating hills and the illusion of water on the road (caused as we know from our physics lessons, by refraction of light on really hot days). Before the days of the Golden Quadrilateral, this used to be tricky terrain: narrow winding road with trucks often blocking the right lane, in their struggle to negotiate the climbs with their heavy loads. And the rare petrol-pump that you so nervously looked out for, if you were short of fuel. Things are easier now: there are many more petrol-stations (fuel is cheaper in Rajasthan than in Gujarat and I guess land is cheaper!), but you still come across a couple of upturned lorries each time you negotiate this picturesque 100-km odd-stretch.
We manage to locate a tiny dhaba that’s frequented only by truckers, offering daal-bati. In that oppressive heat, we sit on charpoys and consume hot, red, watery daal with freshly baked baatis doused with generous helpings of pure-ghee and chilly-achar, and understand how desert-folk beat the heat with their colourful food.
We finally by-pass Udaipur a little behind schedule, but are hopeful that the drive to Chitorgarh (via NH 76 which branches off from NH8 at Udaipur, to meet NH79 there before continuing onwards to Kishangarh on the Quadrilateral) will be a relatively easy one, as there’s hardly any traffic.
As you bypass the spectacular town of Chitorgarh that’s carved on a hillside, and made famous by Maharana Pratap and Chetak, you’re reminded of the alternate route to Mumbai, which passes through Indore, Bhusawal and Nasik, had you not opted for the one passing through Gujarat. Apparently the roads there are still being upgraded, so it’s not a wise decision to take that option at all.

Kishangarh 7.10 pm
The long and straight NH79 from Chitor to Kishangarh, passing by the textile town of Bhilwara and the garrison town of Nasirabad is rather green (as it passes through the eastern part of Rajasthan, leaving the drier, but to me more charming, hilly regions of Jaisamand, Beawar and Ajmer to the West) and an easy drive: traffic is sparse and the sun is now setting, bathing the undulating countryside in a deep orange.
We normally stop at our favourite ‘Chuni Halwai’ at Nasirabad, to pick up large, pizza-sized ‘kachoras’. These completely unhealthy (deep fried with oodles of spices and dal/pyaaz filling) but sinfully delicious numbers are a big hit both in Delhi and Bombay. Today, we intend to save the 45 mts of detour that this causes, and in any case, kachoras and kachoris are freshly prepared only in the mornings.
We stop instead, at another BP ‘Ghar’ petrol-pump, looking for ‘lassi’ before we hit the busier parts approaching Jaipur on our last leg. The ‘Ghar’ seems to be a bright idea gone wrong (as usual) in its implementation. One can understand the laudable idea of having a clean and cheerful stopover offering wholesome food at reasonable rates (thalis @ Rs 50 odd, if I remember), clean toilets and layover facilities even for truck-drivers. But what one can’t fathom is how the poor franchisee who must’ve been forced to put in substantial investment and adopt this model, could even hope to break even with this huge facility – designed for upwards of 50 covers at any given time, including an AC room that requires no less than 6-tonnes of air-conditioning equipment, running for a handful of customers that can be hoped-for on this route. If on the other hand, this was COCO, then it’s obviously a big drain on the company: the place had more staff than customers, and was serving a glass of nimboo-soda (which we had to settle for as there was no lassi) for just Rs 15 in an AC environment! We’ve seen a similar situation in such ‘Ghars’ before in Bikaner on a trip a few months ago: maybe someone from Bharat Petroleum should drive past some of their Ghars and see how to salvage the situation.
Which brings me to another point about our infrastructure development: the toll-roads. If you’re a trucker like me and has navigated the country before we knew how to spell t-o-l-l-t-a-x, you no doubt feel blessed to have world-class roads in India (and when I say that, I mean it, having driven all over Europe a number of times). But consider this: you must spend upwards of Rs 500 on a one-way trip on this sector. Now while that may not be a large sum for your pocket or when compared to toll-taxes overseas, you must remember that this cost approximates that of a II-Class train ticket! Does that mean that the million Nanos that will soon be unleashed on our roads will feel the pinch when accessing toll-roads? Probably not, but personally I hope they hurry up with installing RFID mechanisms in cars, that would make stopping at toll-booths and tendering exact change redundant!

Jaipur bypass 9.05 pm
As we turn-off at Kishangarh and rejoin the 6-lane NH8 that comes from Ajmer, we grit our teeth for the difficult stretch ahead. It’s dark again and the headlamps have been switched on. But that’s hardly the cause of our discomfort.
Truckers are often credited with good road-sense: in any discussion of road behaviour people often laud their discipline: how they adhere to the left-of-road, and move aside politely when you intend to pass them. On the other hand, it’s city-dwellers who zig-zag on highways in their fancy cars, creating unnecessary road-hazards.
Fact of the matter is that truckers do not follow road-ethics primarily because they know nothing about road-ethics. Not surprising, if you consider that most truckers are illiterate, self-taught drivers who believe that roughly 100% of highway-space is reserved for their trucks. They believe, quite simply, that their objective is to get from point a to b during the day at the speed they can afford, and if there’s a vehicle to their left, they have to overtake and move forward. Niceties like how long that is likely to take given their heavy loads is irrelevant, as is the minor detail of who or what is following them at what speed. In any case, perched as they are in their cabins they can hardly see or hear anyone behind them.
In this scenario, you can get infuriatingly angry when you intend to make good speed on modern highways. You’ll often encounter trucks moving at slow speeds like 40kmph, in the right, overtaking lane. Even if they drive in the left one, they have a sudden propensity to veer right just ahead of you, slowing you down till they pass the tractor ahead. Or, as is perhaps peculiar to certain stretches like the 6-lane 120 km one between Jaipur and Ajmer and the 4-lane one ahead to Delhi, you’ll find truckers hogging all the lanes merrily, leaving no headroom for faster traffic.
Too tired to curse, we make peace with the fact that this is going to be our lot for the next 350 odd km, and begin, much to our dislike, zigzagging across lanes to get ahead. The pent-up tiredness, that’s been holding up for 1100 km and 17 hrs now begins to surface. The darkness, and the interplay of lights and the drone of lorries begin to lull us into a rhythmic dullness, and the only thing that keeps us driving is will-power, and the occasional drink of cold-water (courtesy our ice-box, which accompanies us on long trips in summers).

Behror 11.30 pm
As we pull into Behror, the midway point on the Jaipur-Delhi leg, our mind is numb and limbs aching. We search for an ice-cream, and after a bit of search, manage to find a shopkeeper that’s rolling in his ice-cream cooler at the end of a long-day of work. A lick or two is refreshing, as is a quick round of stretches to get feeling back into those tired muscles, and we hit the road again, hopeful that we’ll cover the balance 90-odd km home in no time at all.

Daruhera 12. 20 am
Perhaps the biggest thing the highway teaches you is not to take anything for granted. Of course nature has a way of reminding you of your relative insignificance before its vastness: we’ve felt humbled on the Leh-Kargil road just looking down at the Zanskar deep down below, been on the edge when driving through snow-covered forest roads in Naldehra that seemed interminable in the middle of the night, or even stopped in the middle of our tracks as the road suddenly disappeared (when the road in the Parvati valley was washed away by flash floods). But more than anything, you learn that when on the road, anything can happen, putting paid to the best of plans. We’ve been in situations when a landslide blocked our way to a hill-station at the eleventh hour, delaying us by over four hours, or having to face an unexpected snowfall just as we reached a hill-station, prompting us to turn right back to avoid getting stuck here.
And that’s just what happens tonight. For just after midnight, we encounter a rare and inexplicable traffic jam of all places, before Daruhera. We try and get off the road, squeezing between the lorries and the bushes, to inch forward, but it seems to stretch for miles. At times like this you’re reminded of the subtle but real hierarchy on highways. Make no mistake: size matters on the road, and if you wish to co-exist, better recognize and honour this reality. Curse the truckers all you like, but remember that the slightest touch by those iron and steel monsters even at slow speeds, even when you’re completely in the right will ruin not just your car but also your trip. And in a jam, it’s wisest to stick to the rules and keep to your side of the road even if it pushes you somewhat back in time.
Engines get switched off, drivers jump off their vehicles and start pacing up and down. Not knowing when we dozed off, we get rudely awakened by a Haryanvi who thumps our car wanting to know if we intend to move or stay the night!

Gurgaon 2.02 am
Finally. Finally, we roll into Gurgaon. 2 hours behind schedule, tired, numbed and dulled, but all in one piece, and in an unscratched car. As I trudge the staircase up to my bedroom with great difficulty, I ponder whether to call my sons and tell them we’re home safe. After all, they’d been in touch with us all through the trip, eagerly wanting to know where we’d reached, when—keeping an eye on the old man, as it were.
Unfortunately, it’s too late to call Gautmik in Bombay—having been following our progress till 11.30 pm, he’ll be fast asleep now, as he has work tomorrow. Which is why we press the speed-dial for Saattvic in England instead, to break the good news to him. Only to be greeted by (you guessed it) “Er, aren’t you a bit old to be trying stunts like this, dad?”

Do Gaz Zameen

I’ve just spent what probably qualifies as one of the most painful weeks of my life. Correction, make that one of the most painful weeks in all our lives—my younger son, wife and mine. Only the elder one escaped, just because he’s safely ensconced on foreign shores.

You might think it had to do with the heat in Bombay, which was unusually high for this time of year—over 40 degrees Celcius as March turned to April—and the attendant humidity. That contributed, of course, but only a wee bit. It could’ve been the old hand-me-down car that my son uses there, extremely good-humouredly for his age, I have to admit, with its wheezing air-conditioner and other sundry ailments. Some, like my wife, might even believe it was the lack of my usual gym routine, leading not only to the loss of precious inches from my biceps and pectorals, but also to the depressive buildup of endorphins that failed to get released and affected my head instead.

Quite the contrary. I believe there were two main culprits for this horrible ordeal: one was space, or rather, the lack of it, and the other, an obnoxious beast that impersonates, and sometimes gets mistaken for, a two-legged homo-sapien, called ‘broker’. Both came together poetically, if you wish, in the search for ‘Do Gaz Zameen’ in that overcrowded city.

Having been considerably distressed over the last year and a half by G’s decision not to move into his college hostel but choose, instead, to stay with my brother in the suburbs, the wife and I decided to make a long trip and settle the matter, once and for all. We reasoned he needed his space, as did his cousins, whom he shared the room with. Besides, being on his own would make him tougher and ‘readier’ for the big bad world. No brainer so far, but the big debate was about WHERE exactly this space should be located. The big idea behind our excursion was to either break him or be broken: to convince him to pick hostel/PG dig in town, a decision that seemed as logical to my mind as day after night, or be convinced to fix him a flat in Versova, which of course was G’s conviction, and one that induced in me violent fits the likes of which common people are sure to confuse with epilepsy.

No guesses on which point-of-view won. As always, we soon figured it was better to give in to G’s logic: that he traveled early in the mornings and therefore did NOT spend 3 hours commuting like his dad believed, flats in town were much too expensive, square foot to square foot, and of course what was the point of traveling in the REVERSE direction to meet his friends every evening, who mostly lived in Versova?

Acceptance of such an idea may seem like a big leap of faith, but it’s nothing compared to its EXECUTION, for as we all know, that’s where the devil usually lives. House hunting is hardly the most likeable of propositions, least of all in the summer heat in an old car. Three adults with divergent views riding in it certainly couldn’t have made it better. But that was only the start.

The first thing that strikes you about house hunting is the shortage of decent supply. You excitedly pore over classifieds, confidently scan through websites and talk to friends and to friends of friends, but the result is close to zilch—for classifieds and websites are dominated by ads by estate agents, and friends conveniently forget about all those LOVELY flats they used to promise you. The ones that you do end up being ‘shown’ are almost always the bottom of the junkpile, dumped there as orphans never really cultivated as their own, and abandoned by their owners just to satisfy their greed for rentals. Funnily the rates quoted for those sad places are unjustifiably astronomic, putting to shame all the current hoohah of recession.

In any case, there are hardly any that remotely resemble your HOME: neither the one you left nor the one you’re about to setup. And that’s exactly what we experienced: 4-5 days of relentless searching threw up just a couple of passable flats—a pathetic hit rate of 2 in 20! In the process though, we got free insights into the dark rental real estate market, and unwittingly, not only sighted, but also had occasion to observe at close quarters aforesaid animal called ‘broker’. See below for invaluable insights.

Of course, the two flats got shortlisted. Not because they were nice in themselves, but one because it was near Infinity Mall (imagine the joys of walking down to the choicest restaurants, a bookshop and a multiplex) and the other because of its sea-view (a feature that appealed less to the kid and more to his mother, understandably). And of course, we didn’t get our first choice: the landlord suddenly chickened and decided to sell his flat outright rather than rent it out (recession, recession!). Which left us with the only decent option we had, namely the sea-view flat.

What followed was a couple of excruciatingly painful days of games and negotiations with the worst-of-breed brokers, self-styled caretaker who, shall we say, had the landlord (a simple North-Eastern flight supervisor with Air India) under his thick and sweaty thumb, before we signed the deal. So no matter how much we tried to reason about the terms, we kept coming up against a wall. Suffice it to say that were it not for the kid’s urgent requirement, I’d have pushed out the lout from the 13th floor, even if it meant spoiling the sea-view temporarily. Did we come away any the wiser after that encounter? Well, there were a few learnings (see below, for yourself).

Insight 1: Dirty water finds its own level.
A point already alluded to previously: flats on rentals are the poorest of the poor, without any hope of redemption—badly planned, inadequately ventilated, horrendously furnished and situated in dubious buildings with unclean surroundings. Do not expect them to be well-maintained, and do not expect a view other than that of similarly dubious buildings or at best, an open public drain. Also, do not expect brokers to behave like decent humans for their faculties have not evolved beyond the dog-eat-dog mentality. Lastly, don’t let them set foot inside your car, as they ‘show’ you the Promised Land, unless you want your seats to stink for the rest of their lives, and your blood to boil until none’s left.

Insight 2: Let the buyer beware.
Principle borrowed from basic commerce, which as you guessed, is as far as brokers’ horizons extend. You will not get what you see—the flats you like will be gone before you call in excitedly to say ‘I Do’, rates quoted will be revised, brokerage will be negotiated, in short, there will always be some nasty jack-in-the-box waiting to sock you between the ears. Do not assume anything, pore over the fine print in agreements, stuff yourself with enough proteins and brace yourself for the worst.

Insight 3: Almighty Owners, Beggar Tenants.
An inequity implied mostly subtly but sometimes not so subtly, throughout the process. Brokers treat owners like Gods, even when they don’t get paid by owners but by the tenants. And even when the flat-owners are sad, uncouth or uneducated, or should I say particularly when they are so. You don’t get to meet or speak to them as brokers play gate-keepers: whether it’s to protect the owners’ interests or the brokers’ is unclear. Either way you are always at the receiving end. Therefore, watch out for clauses and agreements that are completely loaded in favour of the landlords (Leave and License is one such format that’s unfairly tilted towards their interests, and is peculiar to Bombay)

Insight 4: Mafiosos with ‘Offer-you-can’t-refuse’.
A la Godfather, all brokers have you believe that they have the perfect answer to your needs. In actuality of course, this is poppycock. They haven’t the slightest idea or care about what the customer wants, but are interested in palming off the worst possible shit as flats to unsuspecting simpletons. It’s a straight case of peddle the mushrooms, rotten and all, before they perish. Why you can’t refuse their offer has more to do with their hustling practices: you better say yes to everything they say, or else..! Not wanting to wake up with a dead horse in your bed, you have no choice but to pay them whatever brokerage they insist on, and that too, year after year, for they MAKE you sign just an 11-month agreement (to use one of their own’s phraseology, they too have offices and wives to pay for).

Insight 5: Family always triumphs.
The only silver lining in the cloud! This is not just a reiteration of traditional Christian values, but also expediency necessitated by the fact that it’s best to fight injustice with numbers. So, whether you like it or not, you beasts will encounter the patience and mighty mind of the family that stays together! Which in the ultimate analysis, is all that remains in a tenant’s armory, so one is advised to use it and use it well. And the stronger the family, the better the ‘Do Gaz Zameen’ you are likely to secure in this megalomaniacal metropolis.

Detritus on the beach

The first time I came across the word, I was so impressed by it I confess I not only rushed to look it up in the dictionary, but also kept repeating it to myself. I figured it was the sound of the word that I really liked—it not only had a certain superior mouthfeel to it, but also a definite Greek-tragedy finality about it when uttered: duh-tree-tus! One could almost visualize a cowering, bewildered chap surrounded by an ominous Chorus of men in white robes throwing the word at him repeatedly: Detritus! Detritus!

You may say what the hell, it’s just a fancy word for debris, so why all the drama? And I will have to counter by admitting that it comes closest to describing my current state of affairs. Not just the word, of course, but also the complete vision, Greek Chorus included.

And by implication, this state of affairs naturally reflects on my state of mind in these bleak how-dare-you-feel-happy times. Which by the way is a trifle safer than it reflecting on my state of heart, for it means that there are still some days to go before the end of life as we know it, and more rubbish to be seen yet.

So why am I feeling like this? After all, I exercise regularly: my BP is under control, my waist is a healthy 33 inches, I can climb the 2 flights of stairs up to my bedroom with comparative ease, and I haven’t been divorced yet. Not just that, if one were to total the number of milliseconds stolen to glance in the mirror at the gym, which must easily approximate to significant narcissism by any slide rule, it would seem that there’s nothing lacking in the physical department, really.

Could it have anything to do with work, or as is the global case these days, lack of it? Has recession finally washed up on Indian shores? Partly yes, I would have to admit, considering the number of manhours one now spends on Facebook and online games, but mostly as we all know this has become more of a fashionable scapegoat, so there must be more to it than the professional slump theory.

Which of course, brings me to the, er, emotional candidates for this wallowing-in-filth feeling. You might hypothesize it’s to do with the sons being far away. Or, with the wife being too close, now that we share not only the same bed, but also the same cabin at office. Or, both. Nah! Seriously, the boys have been away for more than a year and a half now, and every passing day is actually a countdown for the empty nest to flower yet again even though temporarily. As for the wife, what can one say, if you’ve lived with her for 24 years, it surely couldn’t be a recent cause for discomfort. And what the hell once you’ve gotten used to her snoring, or her habit of not replacing caps on bottles or leaving strands of combed-off hair regularly in my clean car, what could be worse?

No, it’s certainly not all of these. At one level, it seems to me it’s to do with the weather: an impending sense of gloom as the horrible summer nears—a metaphor, perhaps for the approaching 50-year age mark and everything that one fears about old-age. At another, and deeper level however, I think it’s to do with realizing the existentialist truth that one is really no more precious than the coconut and flowers that are immersed in the sea with one’s ashes—at least they get washed ashore time and again, whereas we humans get lost to humanity forever, once we’re gone. Whatever you may have believed in, stood for, or fought for, is all going to be forgotten. Whatever wealth you may have achieved, collected, or amassed is all going to count for nothing. Day after day, it’s just the tide of time that will come and go, come and go. What will remain of most mortals is just the detritus of their memories.

What’s that you said? Good deeds, noble things don’t die and will be washed ashore? Surely, you must be joking. Remember one Mahatma Gandhi? What do we remember of even him? His spectacles and other memorabilia that’s been the flavour of the month? Or the fashionable ‘Gandhigiri’ that Munnabhai needed to remind us of? Come on, don’t delude yourself – lesser mortals like us will just go and be forgotten except by those closest to us – and that too because of a sense of loss, not greatness.

So, what the f, if one has to go, let’s at least go dramatically, in the best Greek tragedy tradition. Detritus! Detritus! And if that’s not enough, let’s borrow from another master, Detritus we all are and to Detritus we must all go—Detritus to Detritus! Amen!!

P.S. This was a glorious last-minute, floor-level picture taken by Gautmik just before sunset at Versova beach, Bombay. And just before his project submission next day, on ‘Profane Bombay’.

Another angle to the Slumdog phenomenon

Enough has been said and written (and probably continues to be said and written) about whether it unfairly ‘sells’ Indian slum-life; whether it’s Oscar-material, etc, but here’s another aspect to the raging debate.

This particularly concerns you if you’re a parent of a young child around 7-8 yrs. It struck me as odd when I discovered over the weekend that 2 of my friends had actually walked out of the film, midway. Why? Because they’d taken their little kids along (one a boy, and the other, a girl, in said age-group, to separate theatres, so it was 2 independent instances) and they thought the going was becoming too ‘graphic’ (not my choice of word, but theirs) for their little ones to be exposed to.

I must say that I was a little more than dumbfounded on this reaction. First I’m told the movie has an ‘Adult’ certificate, so what the hell were the parents thinking of before taking their kids to such a movie? I know, I know – no one bothers about an A certificate anymore. That’s fine, but then the risk is yours I suppose—it’s a bit like thinking of a quick answer when your kid catches you watching a porn film—you’ve got to be smart enough to figure out a way of explaining to the child.

Second, almost since then, I’ve been thinking whether they were justified in removing themselves from the scene so as not to expose their kids to such material. More so, I’ve been wondering if I might’ve had a similar reaction if I was in their place.

Though I must admit I’ve long forgotten what it’s like to have kids that young, I refuse to believe that I would’ve acted similarly. Here’s why.

To start with, what was offensive? The dirt and filth of a Mumbai slum? The abusive language? The violence? Now, though we might want to shield our slums from the rest of the world for pride and image reasons, can we really turn a blind eye to their existence back home? Anyone who ignores slums and the people living there is just deluding himself—we all know that they are a definite by-product of urbanization and migration that happen in any developing country. And because we’ve all heard real stories of prostitutes from red-light areas sending their children to schools and scooter-rickshaw-walas’ sons topping Board examinations, we equally understand that ‘rags-to-riches’ is a very plausible paradigm. In an era where we encourage our children to become more aware of the community and treat have-nots compassionately, are we going to cover their eyes when a street beggar walks upto the car window to ask for a couple of rupees? Or are we going to ask them to look the other way when they see very young children of construction-workers playing with pebbles and mud in their makeshift shanties? Hopefully not.

Abusive language? Which of our children has not heard the choicest of expletives in the public schools they attend, or often at home, from siblings and ourselves? Do they not watch violence being glorified in every second Hollywood or Bollywood movie as it is?

What then, could a more reasonable response be? In my case, I would’ve probably had a dialoge with my kids back home, after they’ve watched such ‘disturbing’ scenes in a movie. Then told them that apart from a bit of overdramatisation that is necessary in films, all that’s real. Maybe I would've even taken them to such a slum and made them experience it for real, because as we all know that is the only the real way to teach them. Surely that would've impressed upon them the fact they’ve been lucky to’ve been born here rather than there.

In any case, we all know deep inside, whether we admit it or not, that even very young children are capable of understanding and assimilating a lot more than adults like to believe. And here, we’re talking 7-8 year olds!

Of course, every parent has a right to bring up his child the way he wants, or knows best. But let’s face it, we all know that that children who face what we call ‘hardships’ actually perform much better in later life, irrespective of their formal ‘education’. And later in life, we often regret not putting our kids through the grind enough (‘Oh, how I wish you’d been to hostel—it would’ve made a man out of you!’).

So maybe, this is just one way that we can help our children get real, even though it costs them a temporary nightmare or so?

Wipe, or wash?

It’s infuriating. And funny and sad, at the same time.

You’d imagine 5-star hotels, like the one I was in a couple of days ago, would be a little sensitive. But this particular one in Kolkata couldn’t care less about your ass (or mine, or anyone else’s for that matter). However, because I’m a little more caring, I won’t name the hotel, but since I have a sore bum, will provide discreet clues (like it’s in downtown Kolkata, close to Chowringhee and is situated on a street by the same name as the hotel) so that you can figure out for yourself.

They probably still live in the British Raj. Or, are so proud of their heritage that they fail to look around them. For even if they were to look into shanties and slums that abound in the City of Joy, much less peek into the fabulous bungalows of the Bhadralok in Ballygunge, they’d realize their folly. But no, a hotel chain their calibre won’t stoop that low, of course. Never matter if you feel sore or become a germs-carrier.

Their top brass won’t use their graying grey cells either. Or listen to plain logic that a child could offer them. Because they fear they will no longer be included in the Leading Hotels of The World. Who knows they may even lose respect in the developed world. Worse, they might even lose occupancy. Yet, they’re OK with that stuff remaining stuck in those remote crevices of yours all day long (and sometimes, God forbid, even through the night!)

Maybe I should’ve called the General Manager. Or, better still, written to their flamboyant owners, on the rolls of paper they so generously provide in each room! Unfortunately past experience tells me this would have had little effect; and least of all, on my backside.

Or, maybe I should console myself that this is the price of progress. After all, the hotel is only emulating best practices followed in the developed West! Even though they might seem a bit unclean to my underdeveloped, er developing, mind!!

How else does one come to terms with the fact that you will not be able to wash your bum after defecating? Just because the top-class hotel in a leading Indian city will not provide running water next to the potty, even in a fancy suite? Frankly, being 100% Indian, I find it so appalling that it cannot dawn upon fellow Indians that it’s not just foreigners who stay in hotels in India. Or that if they were to look up statistics, they would easily see that a majority of cultures actually wash and do not wipe. Maybe they should organize a conference about this matter and host it in their hotel, so that all concerned can experience the debate first hand. Unfortunately, till the time the asses learn that it is much more hygienic to wash with water rather than wipe with tissue paper, we will have to live with rashes on ours!

Fact is, I’ve been so disturbed by this sad but basic fault in somebody’s thinking that I’ve even forgotten what I’d gone to the hotel (or the city) for, in the first place. Nor have I been able to enjoy the good food that’s so lovingly laid out in the restaurant, for fear of putting pressure in the wrong places!

P.S. The picture, in case you're dying to know, is what you see from said hotel's backside.

How misleading can labels be? - a brush with Scientology

We all know that labels can be misleading. In fact, we’ve known that for quite sometime—ever since advertising began, one might say. Which is why when a label says ‘guaranteed to grow hair in 10 days’ we don’t really trust the bottle that says it, do we? Yet, we fall for it, nine out of ten cases. Why? And this is exclusively my belief—you don’t have to agree—it’s because inside each one of us believes in the innate goodness of man—and we therefore like to believe the claim—even though it’s clear to our rational head that there’s no hope in hell, of hair growing on a balding pate, no matter how much goodness or magic you squeeze into that little bottle.

Often—and this is where advertising fails us—the intrinsic product lets us down equally badly. Something that we learnt, much to our dismay, one more time, on our recent trip to Germany.

So here we were, walking out of a stunning old cathedral (‘kirch’ in Germany—which I suspect is some Nazi mutilation of ‘church’) in Hamburg, muttering how beautiful the stained glass work was and how they managed to make the churches sooooo tall in those days, etc, etc, and just as we crossed the street, blinking our eyes to get accustomed to the sudden light, what did we see? Another church across the road!

Had the sign on it not read ‘The Church of Scientology’, we would’ve politely given it a miss—after all how many churches can you see in a day! But wait a minute, this was different—wasn’t Scientology the buzzword we wanted to know more about—the apparent non-religious way of living made so famous by Tom Cruise and scores of other celebrities? Should we or shouldn’t we approach the apparent contradiction across the street, we wondered? Did we really want to waste our precious sightseeing hours on something we could always find out more about on the Internet? Especially since we were so hungry? Fifteen minutes, we finally reasoned, could do us, our stomachs, or our schedule no great harm, and so, like the chicken, we crossed the street.

As we walked into the ‘Church’, we couldn’t help but be drawn to what seemed like a mini-exhibition of books. All by the same author. But, more about that later.

‘Can I help you’, came a sweet voice from behind the pile of books, and we looked up to see a young lady at what seemed like the ‘Reception’, smiling at us. Very, un-‘Church’ like I remember telling myself, as we approached her and told her, in as casual a tone that we could muster, ‘Er, we wanted to um, know a little more about Scientology’.

‘What exactly would you like to know?’ her eyes twinkled.
‘Well, what really is it, and how it’s different from other, er, religions,’ we countered.
The smile widened, and I bet I saw a hint of ‘Aha’ in those eyes as she hesitated and then said, ‘If you give me a minute, I’ll have somebody answer your questions. Please wait here,’ and she walked off, to reappear exactly half a minute later with a gentleman, who wore a similar smile, but didn’t quite strike me as a priest or an evangelist, I have to say.

‘How much time do you have,’ he asked, his eyes crinkling.
‘Er, 10-15 minutes,’ we offered, in terribly Indian standard terms, quite impressed by this seeming professionalism.
‘In which case, we have a short film that I recommend you watch,’ the gentleman said, in his best German English, ‘which should hopefully answer all your questions, and if not, then I’ll be available right here,’ saying which, he ushered us into a mini theatre, signaling the projectionist to start the movie.

We sank into the plush chairs thankfully, little realizing how tired sightseeing had made us. At the same time, I must admit, a myriad images crossed my mind—big bang destruction (or was it construction) of the Universe, logical science fighting with dogmatic religion in ancient Greece, wise men in flowing robes with snowy white beards, pointing heavenwards even as they held heavy stone tablets, and I don’t know why, but Tom Cruise smiling benignly from a pulpit, holding on to Katie Holmes.

Fact is, we had little idea about Scientology, other than its star-status. Was it a religion with science at its base? Was it steeped in logic? Was it modern jargon about the same values that all other religions preached? It was with quite a bit of trepidation that the wife and I turned to the screen.

And then, it happened. The label, I mean: the misleading label story. For there are no words to describe the rubbish that unfolded on the screen, for the next 25 minutes.

In true 1960s style American rhetoric, the ‘Film’ exhorted you to follow the path shown by L Ron Hubbard. About half of the film (or so it seemed) was about the man himself: He, who had studied mankind and its problems so that you may be free from those (problems), he who’d devoted his life and riches to the service of others, He, who’d founded Scientology. He, who’d shown thousands the way to live. He, who’d incidentally made (masterminded is a better word, perhaps) this wonderful film! Shocked, we saw the other half of the film trying to substantiate (laboriously, I thought) that Scientology had in fact, been accepted as a religion in the USA. And finally, in true Christian tones, exhorted the viewer to not follow the teachings of L Ron Hubbard at his own peril!

25 minutes of footage about what we thought was a religion based upon science—or something even remotely resembling the scientific temperament—and not a single phrase explaining it—this is what it is, this is what we believe in, such and such are its principles, etc. Nothing at all, that our left-brain steeped in analytical education was crying out for—not a clue, in fact. Just egomaniacal, cultish devotion to Hubbard.

Shattered and dazed, we staggered out of the mini-theatre and were immediately joined by the young German ‘evangelist’. Ever-smiling, he ushered us to a table next to the mini-exhibition of books that we’d encountered upon our entry. A trifle impateiently, I asked him to explain what exactly Scientology was, as the film hadn’t helped. As expected, he proceeded to beat around the bush, referring repeatedly to Hubbard’s books—in fact repeatedly picking up copies and leafing through them to show us that there existed a large body of literature about it. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite satisfy us, and disgustedly, I asked him to describe, in one sentence what Scientology was. I even offered him a blank piece of paper and asked him to put it down any other way he could.

I must conclude that the interaction was nothing different from any you’d expect to have with any bigoted priest, pujari or maulvi—tautological, evasive and mildly threatening, all at the same time.

We walked out of the ‘Church of Scientology’ thoroughly disillusioned about both the product and the label, and cursing that we’d not only wasted our precious sightseeing time, but had also grown hungrier than before, headed for the nearest café to assuage a different kind of hunger.

P.S. I deliberately did not wiki scientology and L Ron Hubbard until AFTER writing this entry. What I read afterwards, though (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L._Ron_Hubbard), sadly, only reaffirms my suspicions about the ‘religion’ of Scientology and its shady, controversial founder. Which of course, raises the vital question: Are Tom Cruise and John Travolta stupid? You’re welcome to arrive at your own answer, of course, but it might help to see http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0624051hubbard1.html.

P.P.S. The picture in the beginning, of course has nothing to do with Scientology. It's the tunnel under Elbe in Hamburg, built many years ago to enable vendors from across the river to reach the Fish Market to sell their perishable produce. In many ways, a symbolic antithesis of Scientology, which creates tunnel vision of a different kind.

Mid-Life Crisis: An external take

Mid-life crisis happens. So we’re told. Suddenly, at a particular period in your forties, things begin to change: you begin to wonder if you’re in the right job (even profession), covet the neighbour’s wife (or any young thing that travels on two shapely legs), have too many tasks (and desires) unfulfilled, or inexplicably develop an urge to leave everything and move town. Apart from loss of hair and memory, addition of inches and kilos, and a myriad other tell-tale signs, that you’re so often reminded of, rather unpalatably by books, the media and your sons.

Most of mid-life blues, it seems are attributable to you: things happening inside you—hormonal changes, male-baldness syndrome, or plain going dotty. Understandably then, it is suggested that YOU must learn to handle it, cope with it, live it, et al. But it seems to me that not enough has been written about how mid-life crises might be a function of things happening OUTSIDE you, not INSIDE. About how other people, circumstances and events inexorably connive to push you into this unenviable life-stage.

Take work. You’ve laboured a better part of your pre-mid-life at building an organization, a business. Now, without warning, it acquires a life and pace of its own. Other people seem to run it without exactly needing you (thanks very much but why don’t you take that much needed holiday, boss?). Not entirely by design, you realize you’re redundant. Now, I ask, is that really your own doing?

Or, take home. You’ve built a house, assiduously planning and architecting the different needs and whims of each of your children: a music-room here, an amphitheatre there. You’ve bought cars—one for each person, built wealth wisely, not just for your enjoyment but also future generations’. And then, out of the blue, it dawns on you all that’s of no great use, for the kids have grown up and must leave home to seek their own fortunes in distant lands. Is that also attributable to you?

Take your wife. You introduced her to the big city—helped her setup and run her business, taught her the abc of balance sheets, nuances of negotiating, motivational, or even, driving skills. Only to realize that she’s lately become her own person, and wants more from life than just looking after home and hubby.

Or take friends or cousins. You’ve been nice, helpful and considerate all your life. You’ve lent your precious notes, told lies at home, smoked and boozed at grave personal cost and what happens? At this point, all of them are busy—too busy—with their own priorities to think about their buddies.

Not convinced yet that YOUR mid-life crisis is not entirely of YOUR making? Step out into the street and you have a biker screech to a dangerous halt inches away, only to holler, ‘Careful, uncle!’ Or ask for a cardigan in a department store only to face an incredulous look, ‘Er, whassat, granpa?’

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced: mid-life is not a crisis of your own making at all—it’s imposed upon you by externalities, mostly out of your control. And, why hasn’t this aspect been researched or written about? I suspect it’s because most marketers think this is hardly the most fashionable segment (45-60 year-olds) to investigate. Now what can you say to that attitude? Poor youngsters—little do they realize that this is already the hottest and most lucrative segment in the US, and looking at how we’re going, Indians will soon be, too!

Meanwhile, a word of advice to all fellow ‘greyers’: stop thinking your mid-life is YOUR problem: there’s enough evidence out there pointing to everyone else; in fact the whole damn world! So settle down comfortably into it and relax, there’s enough to worry about otherwise: what you’re going to wear on your neice’s birthday party, for instance!