Like a Boss

Factually, we spend more number of waking hours in office than at home.Our comfort and convenience at workplace is therefore, very important. If I ask you what is the biggest factor for making an office good or bad for you- you may say facilities,colleagues or even the work.But for me the one factor which makes life hell or heaven at workplace is, compatibility with the Boss. If you dislike your spouse, you can stay away from home longer, you can "unfriend" your social media friends and even stop meeting relatives...but bosses are unavoidable creatures. They are there whether you like it or not. They come in many colours and sizes, are found in both genders and can have many varieties and variations. Some love to preach, others are DIY bosses, some are invisible at workplace and others love to hang around in office on weekends and holidays as well.

We all have heard about good bosses (yes they exist!), bad bosses, bosses  who made you quit a job, bosses who make you perform  better than your expectations, bosses you have crush on and bosses you won’t mind pushing from the rooftop .And then, even before you realise it, you too turn into a boss for many. I am always intrigued by the influence and impact of this creature called boss on our life and career.

As I joined government service from the highest induction level of Civil Services, I become a boss of roughly 100 people the day I stepped in my first office. Looking back, I must have been a funny sight for all those people. Ignorant, inexperienced and too keen to change the world, I must have entertained the office veterans immensely.  Slowly some of them opened up, they started smiling at my follies, took time to teach me the tricks of work and helped me become what I am today. Many of my former subordinates with time turn into friends and they still  keep in touch over phone, email , social media etc.  It was only now that I realised that as a boss how I was judged back then.  One of the best farewell gifts I got on my recent transfer from Delhi was when an almost silent subordinate came to my room and gave me a card saying: “You are a terrific boss”. I was stunned. A thought that whether he misspelt ''terrible'' with ''terrific'' also crossed my mind .I tried remembering hard my interactions with him but found nothing much of note.  Another one, a serious matter-of-fact guy, suddenly opened up to me after I shifted to Mumbai. While working with me, we talked only about work and work related stuff and now that I am no longer his boss, I realised that  he had a human side as well. We can now talk about books, music, food, life, families and even work. It is funny how work relationships bind you and mould your interaction. I must have been a fearsome boss to these guys that only after my presence from the work  scene was removed with certainty  that they started to talk.

Looking from the other side, I was fortunate to have mostly good bosses. Correction: Good yet eccentric bosses. Bosses who talked too fast to understand a word, bosses who talk so softly that you could barely hear and bosses who would not talk at all. To my credit, I picked some or the other trait from each one of them... I mimic all of them. Once my then-current boss asked me if I ever mimic him. I told him that since I mimic all important people in my life, he should take it as an insult if I don’t. Much like my relation with my subordinates, my relations with my bosses also changed color with time. One turned into advisor, someone else a good friend and well, some remain just good subjects to mimic before friends   . 

Since the government service is the only world I have seen, I fail to comprehend the situation at workplace where your boss is perhaps in some other continent and you get to interact with him/ her only over phone/ internet. I also do not realise the situation where you do not work in a hierarchy and have practically “no-boss”. If you ask me, however irritating be the bosses, it’s good to have them around. Even the bosses who think at the speed of light and those who behave like babies. They provide much required entertainment and order in the workplace. And at times, you do learn a lot even from the worst of the lot.

 In Kolkata, back when I had newly joined, I had a boss who used to roll his cigarettes in his chamber and his standard response to any file put up to him was: “Won’t you like to see it again carefully?” And once you assure him that you have already seen the file, he will set out in a task to find fault with what you have seen, or rather find what you have missed. He would then, gleefully point out what you have missed in a footnote on page 713 or how a document is not tagged correctly in file.  I probably selected maximum nicknames (some pretty nasty ones) for him. But it was his this irritating habit that made me careful for life in scrutinising the files .

Yet another boss was a born teacher. He will write all kind of nonsensical queries of file and when I will, in all sincerity, go to him explaining  the facts , he would patiently listen with a poker face and then say “ I know that ! I was just checking that you do too” and burst into his amusing signature laughter. Never realised it then, but it was because of these two bosses that I learnt the maximum tricks of the trade. This second boss, used to call me “the argumentative Indian”, for my habit of arguing with him on  every brainy idea he had . But the fact that he let me argue and put across my not-so-brainy counter arguments, made him my all time favourite boss.

 So after a boss who would test my knowledge on every issue, I landed up with a boss, who right from the beginning “knew that I know nothing”.A quintessential bureaucrat and therefore an ‘’I”-specialist, this one made me listen to his great feats in life for hours together. He showed me how in every way personal or professional I was a failure, while he at my level was God’s gift to the workplace and well...the world in general. Working with him greatly enhanced my capacity to tolerate nonsense, it also taught me the reason why Peter (who exactly was he!) coined his Peter Principle. Anger and frustration were his two staple emotions. He wanted to be looked as a benevolent monarch but behaved like an angry bird with most of us . Do whatever you like, put in as much effort as you please but all you receive is a little spittle when he was screaming down your face and  yes, a few insults to wipe your face with. Thankfully, in civil service you have a definite date of retirement ...so finally, this know- all,flaming fury boss superannuated.Then for a short duration, I got a boss who disliked face to face talking. On the very first day he asked me to create intra-office chat Ids and to be online for him to pass on instructions. If only he had stayed for long, my typing speed would have benefited a lot. He also had an annoying habit of crunching data on every damn thing. You make a casual remark about something you read in morning newspaper and voila, next you are collecting data on the subject from all national authorities and research bodies .

After a while, I happen to have a boss who spoke, looked like and behaved like Jesus Christ. Believe me when I say that I have never seen a more charismatic, charming and detached from work person. There were moments when my keen capricornian self disliked his cool behaviour , especially in the moments of acute work crises , but looking back, it was pure bliss to have someone, who had a smile on face even when the worst crisis  hit us in office  and who could be a gracious host to most hostile guests. The best part about this one was his cool demeanour. Nothing, just nothing, could make his attention go away from things that matter viz.  A good cup of coffee, a crisp cookie, clean environment, polite speaking and impeccable manners....Work?   Incidental, may be, but well that was never in the list. No shrieking bosses , no jittery subordinates  and no competing peers could make him lose his peace of mind. He probably was the most self actualised person I have seen.  With his impeccable taste, amazing wit, charm and style, this boss taught me to be human even when all around you are losing cool over mundane work issues.

In a work place, there are always jokes and sayings about bosses. One significant part of such work-wisdom deals with women bosses. They are supposed to be jittery, eccentric, crazy and workaholic.  Till very recently, I had never had a direct woman boss. But I had seen my own bosses fretting about their lady bosses and cursing their luck. I moved to Mumbai and found myself with a woman boss. Contrary to what people say (like to believe) about women bosses, this one is perhaps my most competent boss so far. Dedicated to work, detached to the power hang-ups of being the big boss(unlike male bosses), no insecurities of calling on holidays ... she is  perhaps  the most approachable and  understanding person I know among work colleagues  . The people who say women turn tyrant and idiotic, lose balance and temper when given charge of high posts should see her. A delight to work with, a pleasure to talk to, one feels blessed to find a boss like her. In fact at times I think that what am I missing ...I mean you are suppose to dislike you boss..right? So where is that key trait for me to dislike? So far all I see is admirable and inspiring.  But wait ....it’s just been about  100 days in this office. Give me a year and I shall find one eccentricity, one comic angle or god willing, a vice as well.

While writing this post, I cannot help thinking that many of my present, ex subordinates would also have a caricature of me and my eccentricities. I can only imagine how many jokes and saying would be doing round about me and my work style . But then that is an occupational hazard of being a boss. You have to be half mad and half eccentric to  be a unforgettable boss. The legendary bosses are either the craziest ones or the most inspirational ones. No one likes to remember a boring boss. So if an essential purpose of being a boss is to provide some moments of entertainment and spice in the office lunch room chats, the boss should be suitably mad and eccentric. I know, I qualify with distinction.

NOTE: For all the colleagues reading this post, please ignore this as a work of fiction and pretend you don’t know who I am talking about. Do not recommend this post to any other colleague / ex-boss of mine. Please remember I might have much more to write about....the best ( and spiciest) may be yet to come  .  

Unwritten Rules for the Written Word

“Writers more interested in literature than the truth ensure that they never come out with either thing — one reason that the word literature today sounds so fake, as if you were to insist on saying cuisine every time you meant food. Food, as in sustenance, is more like what we have in mind.” 
                                                                              ― The editors n+1

A question has often crossed my mind that why these days we have so many Indians switching to writing in English and why there are so few books good books in Hindi and other Indian languages. My mother who is an avid reader of Hindi books often finds it difficult to find anything interesting in newly published books. Even when some new titles appear in library/ bookshops, they are difficult to read . Mostly due to their atrocious language which is a strange mix of English  words mixed with Hindi and often the slang of the two languages. The grammar is deliberately wrong and the themes are often repetitive. Even internet blogs are more lively and readable than the published books sometimes .

Today in a chance meeting with one Editor in Charge of Contemporary Indian Literature at India’s apex society of letters, I found answers to most of my doubts. My expectations from the person occupying such a respected post was of someone who’d love books and words making up those books. Someone who would be open to all expressions and styles and most of all someone who’d be learned enough to be open, unbiased and objective. What I found gave me ample proof of why even the most passionate Hindi lovers are today reading very few Hindi books. It also made to thank God that I am not a writer/ poet aspiring to be published or reviewed by these hollowed men.

I had always heard stories of writers who were rejected repeatedly by the publishers only to become world famous later on. One also hears of artists who were rated hopeless by critics  just before they shoot to fame and stardom.   Today I witnessed to my horror how a critic forces his own myopic view on a budding poet. Sitting in his cosy office , surrounded by the publications of his revered organisation, he vaguely looked at the crisp new  book and then shot a glance back to the newly published poet .  He read the biodata of the poet, determined within  seconds that she is in an outsider in the world of literature.( i.e.  not a full time writer cum academician  but  a successful professional  ) . He nodded his head disapprovingly and then the poet was told in harshest possible words that her choice of words, title of the book, themes of the poems and even the design of the cover is “incorrect”. The reason given was shocking – Today’s public does not want such words/ titles anymore. These were “in” some 40 years back. Who would read such (correct and pure) language anymore? These themes are also old. They do not sell anymore.

 Interesting part was that the learned man formed this opinion in just 4 minutes of looking at the book and without even reading one of the poems. When the poet protested that was this not suppose to be her expression....her words ....her language. She was told  that she has no chance of being established here if she thinks like this. Everything from the theme to the style should be carefully chosen based on the trend these days. He then arrogantly told the poor girl that she must read the journals and publications of his organisation to realise what kind of stuff is in demand these days and then try writing like that.  I was feeling bad for the poor writer till I found, to my horror , that the esteemed editor cum critic was criticising Tagore’s Geetanjali  as well on the same grounds saying that it won’t stand in today’s market . I was taken aback because this was not a profit minded publisher speaking but a critic associated with the society which is meant to “Promote and protect literature of Indian Languages”. Leave alone any encouragement to go different, there was a clear message- my way or highway.

When I asked this gentleman about writing for one’s own satisfaction ( Swantah Sukhaya)  without consideration of “market demand”; he almost got angry. “What a naive question? Who does that anyway? If anyone wants they can keep writing sitting quietly but our publications would never review such works. We have some standard to keep. People have expectations from us and we cannot publish about something which is not graded high on these established  benchmarks”.  So that is the new mantra- books as a consumer good. To be manufactured as per the demands of the customers . 

 Curious by his response, I decided to peep in the bookshop of this organisation, to browse through the latest trends in literature. I am now very certain to say that no Bacchchan or Ajneya , no Jaishakar Prasad or Sumitra Nandan Pant can today find place in these hallowed galleries of literature . They are now an exclusive domain of people who do not understand pure language, do not risk to go original in style or themes and worst of all, who are in the   ‘exclusive literature circuit’. The unwritten banner screams “Outsiders are not welcome” loud and clear. The experimentation with language is acceptable only if it is ‘approved kind of experimentation’ by the high priests of literature, all other variations are   ‘wrong’.  Good for these classic poets and writers that they become famous before such patrons of literature occupied these positions and framed their rules of good literature.

 Thankfully we are in an age where information seeps through the walls topped by barbed wire and it wafts across the electrified borders...thankfully it also goes beyond the domains of such Mullahs and Pundits of  literature. No wonder that many  young writers either move towards English as language of expression  , opt for more  entry barrier free mediums like internet publishing  or give up the hope of being read by people who’d have admired their words.

Officially Anti Social

In one of my school textbooks many years ago, I came across the bold declaration: “Man is a social animal.” I have since carried strong objections to this seemingly innocent five-word sentence.

First, why “animal”? Could we not have gone with something a bit more... flattering? Second, what about women? Why are we left out of this zoological generalization? And third—and most important—I categorically disagree with this sweeping statement. Not all men (or women, or anyone else on the spectrum) are inherently social. I, for one, am a proud, card-carrying member of the “Anti-Socials Anonymous.” Social gatherings make me feel like a misplaced comma in a perfectly punctuated paragraph.

And I do not understand why this very simple fact is so hard for others to get. Perhaps we should blame the school system for brainwashing us into believing that humans must enjoy mingling. That all of us must laugh heartily in groups, attend brunches with joy, and make sparkling small talk as if our lives depend on it. News flash: some of us would rather read a tax manual than go to a tea party.

I’ve already confessed on this blog how weddings make me feel like I’ve walked into a parallel universe. But allow me to extend my rant to office events. I dread those “innocent” little invitations in my office email—those lunch and dinner get-togethers that come cloaked in politeness but smell suspiciously like social pressure. Let me tell you: the least understood and most unfairly judged group in any organization is the introverts who dislike socializing. We don’t make trouble, we don't gossip, we just want to be left alone. Yet, paradoxically, we’re seen as threats. Why? Because we don’t want to discuss our boss’s dog over badly catered food?

In smaller postings, life was blissfully quiet. Socializing with colleagues was limited to brief nods and strategically timed tea breaks. But then I moved to Delhi—and suddenly entered a world where everything is a networking opportunity. Here, socializing is not just encouraged, it’s practically an obligation. Official lunches, dinners, tea meets, Diwali Milan, Holi get-togethers, New Year high teas—you name it, Delhi’s babudom celebrates it. And heaven forbid you miss any of them.

To make things worse, they notice if you’re absent. Apparently, attending such events is part of being a “team player.” So now, I find myself having to manufacture excuses—mysterious illnesses, sudden house guests, imaginary urgent meetings—just to skip an evening of awkward small talk and soggy samosas. How many times can one claim their spouse has "just tested mildly positive"? Even my excuses have started sounding antisocial.

And then, about a month ago, things escalated.

The Big Boss, clearly perturbed by falling attendance at socials, made an announcement in a meeting. He didn’t name names, but he did look pointedly in my direction while issuing a mild fatwa against "childish" no-shows. According to him, we antisocial types are simply lazy. We fail to appreciate the bonding opportunities that come with forced mingling. The implication was clear: social gatherings are now part of Key Performance Indicators.

How do I explain to people that I don’t want to share meals and small talk with colleagues and bosses? That I feel like a fraud in these settings, trying hard to smile while my soul shrivels slowly in the background music? That I genuinely have no interest in knowing whether Mr. Sharma’s new hobby is collecting bonsai or whether Madam Boss prefers Pinot Grigio over Merlot?

Honestly, I try to listen. I really do. But after the third anecdote about someone’s “glorious posting in 1997,” my brain just files everything under blah. And don’t even get me started on the music—so loud it could resuscitate the dead, but definitely not conversations.

Still, there’s some amusement to be found. As an unwilling but observant attendee, I’ve managed to classify the usual characters who populate these sarkari soirees. Behold, the five recurring themes of every official social event:

1. The Wardrobe Warriors

They treat every event as Lakmé Fashion Week minus the cameras. Women flaunt their finest sarees, pearls, and handbags; their compliments fly faster than buffet spoons. Recently, some men have joined this glittering tribe, proudly rocking purple scarves and pastel pink sweaters. Equality in accessorizing, finally!

2. The ‘I’-Specialists (aka The Ophthalmologists)

These are the ones with “I am amazing” written across their foreheads in invisible ink. At work, at play, in war, and in love—they are always the hero. They dominate conversations with tales of legendary office feats, aesthetic adventures, and how the Cabinet Secretary once nodded appreciatively at their PowerPoint. You’re expected to listen reverently, and maybe take notes.

3. The Foodies & Boozies

This group knows what they came for: free food and subsidized drinks. They grin dutifully at the bosses, perform the necessary rounds, then disappear into a corner with plate and glass in hand. Except for their initial gossiping warm-up, they’re actually a focused and harmless lot—until the drinks start talking.

4. The Network Ninjas

They are on a Mission—with a capital M. Their sole aim: to be seen, heard, and remembered. Loud greetings, excessive laughter, forced cheer—they play semi-host, invite people to dance, and might even volunteer to clear tables. Subtlety is not their strong suit, but watching them in action is the only perk of such events.

5. The Loners (a.k.a. Us)

This rare and endangered group prefers corners, quiet, and phones. We often look confused or distracted, peering into our glasses like they hold existential truths. We’re the first to arrive (for lack of excuses) and first to leave (for sanity). Sometimes, we call home midway just to fake a rescue operation.

                                        

Just yesterday, still dazed from my birthday-and-New-Year double whammy, I accidentally on purpose missed two official socials. I didn’t even bother with an excuse. But of course, today I got an earful. I know more reprimands are coming, which means I’ll have to be extra visible at the next gathering to compensate—grinning like a Cheshire cat while counting every soul-crushing minute.

So until the world learns to accept that “not all animals are social,” I see no escape. It's going to be more dull evenings, hollow pleasantries, unappetizing hors d'oeuvres, and conversations that make you question your life choices.

Pathetic, isn’t it?

And just to clarify—if you spot someone standing alone near the lemonade, staring into their plate like it holds the meaning of life—please do not come and say hi. If we wanted company, we’d be out there socialising, wearing sequins and enthusiasm. We are not lonely. We are just biding our time till we can quietly slink out, go home, and finally breathe in peace.

Now, if you’ll excuse me—I need to invent a mildly convincing excuse for the next party.

Country on Celebrity “Fast” track

It was with great interest that I read my hubby’s post about two much known fasts from Indian History. Fasting for protest- it is a curious subject. It has both funny and tragic sides to it. Yes, fasts are the “in” thing these days. But come to think of it – when were they out of fashion anyways? As it happens, we only notice the celebrity fasts while there may be many other more real fasts on protest happening around us, which go unnoticed. Let me recount- you fought with your spouse and the dinner went untouched that day. Next day, there is a high probability that the demands of the aggrieved side would be acceded to. . The teenagers too very often use the fast-way to get their demands from pocket money to piercing and from that “awesome” new dress to the latest gadget their best friend has purchased . Not only that, now a days the teenagers of both sexes are almost always fasting to remain in shape. Then we have workaholics like I know one Miss R, who would willingly skip a meal or two to complete the work at hand. That the work at hand can be postponed in favour of a lunch break would never occur to such selfless souls. They after all, consider even the most routine work as a step towards world peace and nation building.

Incidentally, I also have an aunt who wears her vegetarianism on her sleeve. I mean, even I am a very proud vegetarian, but this aunt would happily skip a meal in a party claiming to be on “fast” if she has slightest of doubts that the food may have been contaminated by non vegetarian food. I respect the sentiment and cannot count how many of her friends and colleagues have turned their party food “100% veg” to ensure that she doesn’t go empty stomach. So here it is. We as a nation believe in getting our way by threatening to go on fast. We do it with our spouses, with our parents and even our friends. It is , therefore, very understandable why Gandhi, Jatin Das, Jaiprakash Narain or very recently Anna Hazare thought of it as a political tool of protest .

But as I said earlier, only the celebrity fasts are noticed. A very well known Indian trait is that we love melodrama – not only in our politics and society, films and family life but also in our religion and work. Sans that we do not care who is eating and who is not. In most cases we do not even bother for the issue a protestor is trying to raise. We just follow the drama part. It was therefore, not hard to believe why one of the most heart wrenching fast was so easily forgotten by us. On 2 November 2010, Ms. Irom Sharmila Chanu, a Manipuri girl, completed ten years of hunger strike demanding the repeal of the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 (AFSPA). That is a story of a human life wasted.

Last time I heard she was lying in a Government Hospital and was being force fed by nose. A torturous procedure, which keeps her alive for last many years . I understand that most of her vital organs have been wasted by this decade long hunger strike and it seems that our country has decided to let her go on her protest without even considering her demands. I won’t be surprised if most of the people who joined Anna Hazare or Baba Ramdev have not even heard of Sharmila. I can’t recall when any of our politicians tried to contact her. They are probably too busy in receiving the charlatan Babas on airports and bugging each other’s rooms. No filmstars visit her, no young professionals or activist groups try to listen what she is trying to say through her protest. In and out of jails for the past 11 years, Manipur's 'Iron Lady' Sharmila has a tube running down her nose as the government alternately force feeds her and incarcerates her for attempting to take her own life through her hunger strike. We have very conveniently decided to forget her as a Government liability - uncomfortable, but manageable nuisance. I do not judge whether one protest is greater than the other but can say with some confidence that in most cases people who support or oppose such protests have nothing much to do with the issues in question. They join sides on considerations like political parties, region, religion, vote bank, hero worship and publicity. In the long run that is the tragic side of these “fasts”. We remember the personalities, garland them, give them awards but forget the issues.

On second thoughts, there is one more side of celebrity fasts. I mean other than the funny and the tragic sides. It adds a new flavour to our daily entertainment....er...news. I won’t be exaggerating, if I say that this Fast-track at least bring back viewers to TV, gives magazine stories to write about, geeks to form support forums online and ordinary men and women to gossip about . No wonder, everybody loves a celebrity fast!

Hospitality Government Style

Few years back on this blog , I wrote a post about the Dak Bungalows. The post till date remains one of my most popular posts and received tremendous response. Many wrote to me through emails and many commented on it online. Best of all, Dr. Alan Shaw, from whose war memoir “Marching on to Laffan's Plain” I had quoted in the post , contacted me and we became friends ever since. About a month back, my dear Friend Dr. Shaw (94) died peacefully in Norfolk UK, after a long life lived to the full. In last four years through his gracious e-mails and letters , Dr. Shaw enlightened me about many things about India, the wars, and of the world 50 years before. Today when I sit to write another post of the same subject, I think of Dr. Shaw and his times and most humbly dedicate this post to my friend who reached out to me across the seas and overwhelmed me by his generosity.

Once again I got a taste of hospitality in the Government style . In my recent trip to Gujarat , I stayed in some of the well maintained circuit houses and felt terribly nostalgic about my childhood memories of Dak Bunglows. However since then, many things have changed. Government servants can now afford to stay at hotels and are also permitted to do so as per rules. Most find it very convenient and prefer them over Government maintained guest houses . Many departments have “outsourced” the guest houses by arrangements with private guest houses/hotels. The new guest houses in general lack the stately air of the old Dak bunglows. They are many times much more modern and facilities equipped and are preferred over the old austere guest houses and circuit houses. Unfortunately in many states now these old guest houses are not being maintained well. In Gujarat however, things have not changed much .

On the whole things have not changed much- as I already said in my previous post, time stops at these Dak Bunglows. But here and there, one does notice a change in courtesies of attendants, the taste (or the lack of it) in the furnishing of the rooms and the ignorance of the keepers about the historical importance of these places. Across the country, these circuit houses are located in some of the best locations and usually have an incomparable view from the rooms. But the “new” Villa circuit house of Porbandar surprised me with the lovely location is has. The rooms almost open on the beach. You come out of the rooms and you have Arabian Sea in its full glory ready to meet you on the steps. Watching a sunset from there was a treat for my senses. No wonder, these used to be the erstwhile ruler’s Guest rooms and are at a stone’s throw distance from the maharana’s palace ( now lying grossly neglected) . In fact in Saurashtra like many other parts of the country, these government Guest houses (specially circuit houses) are former properties of ex-royals. In some cases even their palaces. In Junagarh e..g. the circuit house still has its silver cutlery for special occasions and the wood carved furniture of old nawab .

View from the porbandar circuit house

This sprawling dak bunglow is a very typical compound and the sitting and dining area reminds you of the days gone by. In Dwarka by contrast, it was a plain and simple fare at circuit house. No grandeur of oil paintings or stuffed tigers in the common room. The garden was also bare . The one characteristic which marks all such places was however intact- the well informed attendant, who knew everything about the places to see, the best shop for buying things and best eatery to try. Aha, there is something in that age-old wisdom !

While staying in these places, I once again thought of other interesting guest houses I have stayed. There was a very well managed international guest house at Pantnagar University where the chef Daniel served most exotic desserts. Then there was one in Uttarakhand where I actually thought I saw a ghost. Another very bright and happy guest house at Kothi (HP) where we stayed several times on our ways to various treks . However, the weirdest place I remember staying was one in Darjeeling. I went there for some work and was forced to leave the taxi mid way. My staying arrangements were done in a guest house of Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. But before I could locate the place it started raining. By the time I reached the place it was already dark and I was totally drenched. Whatever I could make out of the place at that time,it seems small but comfortable and welcoming. In the night however, I noticed some strange sounds –growls, screeches and grunts. Anyhow, I discounted these as my imagination and managed to sleep . It was only in the morning that I realized that the guest house was inside the Zoo. To top it all the animals in Darjeeling zoo are not caged but just restricted by slightly high walls. My heart skipped few beats. I could not understand why my people chose that place for me, till the morning I was about to leave and I opened the window of my room. After few days of overcast the sky was clear for the first time and I had the most majestic look of Kachanjungha in front of me . I just wowed the sight and gaped at snow-clad mountains with awe.

Junagarh Circuit house -the sitting (Baithak)

Another very peculiar memory of these circuit houses is the names of the rooms . In many places of course rooms are known only by numbers, in some older ones you may find rooms named after rivers , famous personalities of the region or even the trees in the campus. I remember staying in a guest houses where rooms were named after eminent leaders who stayed in them once upon a time.

Modern hotels may be much more comfortable but they cannot replace the charm of these old places. I do realize that they have become just a thing of past but then, we do go for heritage hotels too. These places are living testimony of the good old days of government on tour and may be still have some rational to be maintained with care and concern. I wonder how many in the government circles would agree ?

Days of King Krishna – and Remains of those days !

Unlike the West, in Indian thought time moves in cycles. Nothing goes forever- it goes, it re-emerges, re-constructs itself and then gets re-destroyed. While for the western world- we are born, we live, we die; in India we die only to be reborn. It’s not only humans but even cities, temples, trades, beliefs are reborn after they grow old to be used safely in a particular time . At some level it’s a very comforting thought and though like every other Indian I believed in it subconsciously, it was only last week that I saw one such re-birth of a city , at Krishna’s Dwarka .India conceives of four great epochs or ‘world ages’ of varying but enormous lengths: The Krita Yuga, the Treta Yuga, the Dvarpara Yuga and the Kali Yuga. At the end of each yuga a cataclysm, known as pralaya, engulfs the globe in fire or flood. Then from the ruins of the former age, like the Phoenix emerging from the ashes, the new age begins. According to Vishnu Purana - Dwaraka was submerged by the sea right after the death of Lord Krishna.

“On the same day that Krishna departed from the earth the powerful dark-bodied Kali Age descended. The oceans rose and submerged the whole of Dwaraka."

Like many other metaphors of our scriptures, I believed this one too at only metaphoric level . But as I entered Dwarka city in Saurashtra, my beliefs got shaken. I am no longer sure that this was only a myth and not a poetic description of a historical event. Honestly, I never thought of Krishna as a historical figure. In fact even in our scriptures(e.g. Mahabharata) he is human and God at the same time – a description that makes one doubt his being real. In any case, Sri Krishna is a towering personality in Indian thought and it is difficult to separate the human aspect of his life from the divine in Krishna concept. He is a grand mystery and everyone has tried to understand him in his own way, according to his spiritual light or vision, devotion or human-ness of his life .Whether one thinks of him as an object of love or hate, one attains him. Yudhishthira attained him through friendship and Narada by devotion. Krishna is the embodiment of intellectual and spiritual glory. No other single idea has so much influenced the course of India's religion, philosophy, art and literature as the life and personality of Krishna. I have seen many people around me getting fascinated by Krishna in many different ( and contrasting) ways. But once in Dwarka I actually realized the truth in the words of Annie Besant that "He (Krishna) is so fundamentally the God, who is human in everything, who bends in human sympathy over the cradle of the babe, who sympathizes with the play of the youth, who is the friend of the lover, the blesser of the bridegroom and the bride, who smiles on the young mother when her first born lies in her arms, everywhere the God of love and human happiness; what wonder that his winsome grace has fascinated the hearts of men."

Similarly multifaceted is the city he supposedly found for his capital. One look at Dwarka- and all your doubts about its ancientness vanish in thin air. The only other city that gives me that kind of confidence is Varanasi. Called by whatever name, built by whoever, there is no doubt that this place was an ancient place of worship. It is said that after the Mahabharata, Krishna along with his yadava clan came here in search of a new Kingdom for himself. He decided to built a new city here and named the new city Dvaravati. A rather appropriate name- as the city is almost the first door of entry to the subcontinent from the Arabian Sea. The city finds mention in many classical texts. The one that comes to my mind is Sisupalavadha, by poet Magha where in sarga2; he describes the city of Dwaraka as-

"The yellow glitter of the golden fort of the city in the sea throwing yellow light all round looked as if the flames of vadavagni came out tearing asunder the sea."

In 1960s, the first archaeological excavations at Dwaraka were done by the Deccan College, Pune which revealed artefacts many centuries old. The second round of excavations in 1979 under S.R. Rao's direction found a distinct pottery which could be more than 3,000 years old. Based on the results of these excavations, the search for the sunken city in the Arabian Sea began in 1981. Scientists and archaeologists have continually worked on the site for 20 years. But the city is a manifestation of faith over science. Most people flocking the city are not in search of the archeological remain but the signs of King Krishna – which a devotees eyes cannot miss.

Dwarkadheesh temple is a landmark structure in the middle of the city. Parts of this temple belong of 12th century Ad and rest of it was built in 16th Century. Much like the dual-faceted personality of Krishna, the two main entrances of the temple are appropriately called "Moksha Dwara" (Door to Salvation) and "Swarga Dwara" (Gate to Heaven).Now the maintemple is surrounded by several other temples and shrines built subsequently by devotees .

But more than the main temple, I loved the temple of queen Rukmani which stands on the way to Bet- Dwaka. Intricately carved and grossly neglected, this old monument is has a strong presence and Character much like the queen to which it is dedicated. She claims the limelight in this region much before you enter Dwarka. In fact it is very curious that in this region, Radha , the childhood companion of SriKrishna is not present at all .Rukmani, the Patrani , takes her place instead .

On the way to dwarka in a little obscure village called Madhopur lies the place where Krishna supposedly married Rukmani. The temple standing there was pretty ordinary, till I laid my eyes on the old original temple, which was submerged in sea and re-surfaced in 1850s . The virgin beach of madhopur with a huge shiv-ling lies just below the temple. I was still mulling over the co-existence of Shiv and Krishna as reigning deities of this region when the evening prayers started in the temple. To my utter surprise , I found the recorded voice of classical maestro Pt.Jasraj doing the aarti in that small unknown village. India, as they say , contine to surprise you at every step!

Bet Dwarka- supposedly the place where King Krishna resided with his family, is a beautiful island. But the temple there is marred too much by commercialization, lines of small shops that even the lovely boatride to and fro could not make me like the place.

Even around Dwraka, there are numerous places establishing the humanness of Krishna. One such location was the Bhalka Teerth – the place where Krishna was killed by a Bheel . The place is few yards away from Somnath . On the banks of river Hiranya and marked by lines of coconut trees the place is picturesque and gives you the feel of divinity. It’s the only temple I know where Krishna is depicted in a lying position . The best part about myths and legends is the minuteness of the stories. Since Krishna left his earthly incarnation here , it was only fair to expect Sheshnaag who accompanied him on earth as Balram( his elder brother) to join him . So they also have a temple from where Balram went to pataal lok .

I did not like the Somnath temple- the big Government built, highly secured temple of India. But the location was exquisite. The remains of old temple lying behind the new one adds a sense of time to the whole complex. But the best was the pillar informing that from that point to the South Pole, the lightway is unbarred by any landmass. The pillar, which is said to exist since time immemorial left me stunned. Is this why they selected this location for the temple? Is this why despite numerous attacks, the temple was re-built again and again? Just outside the temple is another smaller temple built by Queen Ahilyabai Holkar. It is said that the ancient Shivling of somnath is in this temple.

I am not a religious person, so the temples and their myths, however fascinating did not affect me so much to ignore the fact that we are not keeping our heritage the way we should. We seem to be too engrossed in the immediate issues and gains that we ignore the historical and cultural aspects of this legacy. The encroachments and small shops fill the temple sites. The ASI, as usual has no control to preserve the ancient sites . The traces of scientific search of the old city are not to be seen anywhere and the business of the day goes on as usual.

I look back at the gushing waves of Arabian sea and console myself that well, it is just another side of the eternal cycle. After all, nothing goes forever.

Apno Amdavad

Ahmedabad is one city I was always curious about. Somehow, I always had very good vibes about the city. If you ask me to count reasons, there are many. Most of the top ones are ‘snakes’ (i.e. snacks) of course- available everywhere and consumed frequently – Khamman, Dhokla, Khandvi, Dabeli, Vada Pao, panipuri,  Bhel to name a few. To top them all , the city is truly the Ice cream capital of the country- Vadilal, Havmore, Dinshaw , Natural and not to miss AMUL . That itself raises it several notches in my opinion .

Then it is  a  vegetarian’s paradise….a foodie city , a city with culture, cuisine and  most importantly the pride.  Yes, the last one is important because in last few days I have come to realize that I cannot tolerate cynics  and in most parts of my country, cynicism is the prevalent disease. “kuch nahin ho sakta!!” is something I hate to hear. It was therefore, so heartening to find a place where people speak about present and future also with pride , hope and optimism. Where despite notoriety of communal politics- politics by and large is based on development initiatives . Where despite corruption, things move and get done .

There is something in the city that moves people. Make them react about it.  Sir Thomas Roe  described Ahmedabad as a "goodly city as large as London” and Emperor Jehangir sneered that Ahmedabad was actually Gardabad (The City of Dust). But one must also remember that the 17th century Muslim historian Muhammad Qasim Firishta said that it was on the whole, the handsomest city in  the Hindoostan.  According to legend, the main reason behind Ahmedabad coming into existence 600 years ago is a love story involving Ahmad Shah, the city's founder. Teja, the gorgeous daughter of Asha Bhil who became queen of Ahmad Shah, wanted to remain close to her parents' home, and thus soon after marrying her, the sultan again came to Ahmedabad to be with his beloved . Camping on the banks of Sabarmati, he was surprised to see some rabbits which were being chased by his hounds, turned around in defence and confronting their attackers. Sultan's spiritual advisor explained that it was the character of the land that it inspired courage to timid rabbits and advised the Sultan that the site would be auspicious for his new capital. And this is how   the Sultan, who had been looking for a place to build his new capital, decided to locate it in what was then a forested area close to the river bank . He called it Ahmedabad. The incident is popularly described in a one liner: "Jab kutte pe sassa aaya, tab Badshah ne shaher basaya". When the hare chased the dog, the emperor built the city.  The city however remembers its beloved old man much more than that empress . Gandhi is a trademark in the city and its newly designed cousin Gandhi-nagar . The city, however  seems to be in a dilemma to  decide what to do with this trademark. While in the heart of it- every Guajarati is a very simple, God fearing  person  – but in real  materialistic world the community has walked far ahead. The dichotomy is very visible in their humble appearance and yet massive wealth , their love for roadside snacks and their swanky malls, their entrepreneurship and their faith in God – their ability to go ahead and their ability to cheat in taxes  . Very understandably, the city dreams to be the next Manhattten  or Shanghai.

M.K. Gandhi-the old man who claimed that his life is his lesson- continues to be the biggest hero in this city . I , however , visited his  sabarmati ashram in most unsuitable company. Cynical bureaucrats and Rusted engineers could hardly appreciate the simplicity and beauty of the place . They posed and clicked pictures , collected brochure and walked away saying that the place was “ nothing much” . For them the place was not even a mediocre picnic place . For me it was an oasis of peace amidst the bustling city . A place where time is frozen since Bapu left it . Except for the river front- which was very ill kept, I loved the serenity of the place . The house where he lived for years was so bare, so austere that it is difficult not to be moved by it . Unfortunately he continues to be judged by his politics. And not always very kindly.

            While roaming around the campus of IIM- the ace business school of the country , I think of Gandhi, of Ahmedshah and also the Scientist founder of this place- Vikram Sarabhai. Space Research to snacks- Ahmedabad is indeed a city of multiple colours.  

Confessions of a Cricket Challenged Indian

Today is my day of feeling out of place. The season has started sometime back and now there is no escaping. The planetary position is adverse for me for some time to come. It’s a day when rest of my country would be going crazy with excitement about the India-Pakistan Cricket match and I would be somehow ensuring not making a stupid or insensitive comment. Being Indian and not knowing about Cricket is sacrilege. Everyone in my family from my sisters to aunts and from my husband to grand uncle is like a good Indian, interested in cricket. My father was in fact captain of his university team and a very enthusiastic cricket player. Unfortunately I am a Cricket-challenged person. I have watched parts of matches now and then (generally when forced to) but I fail to get into “the cricket mood” unlike my fellow countrymen and women. Even before the world cup started, I had a sinking feeling in my heart. Things are going towards worse since then. Cricketers are suddenly everywhere- selling cars, colas and houses, making guest appearances in the TV shows, and even the newspaper is full of them and their lives. Starlets feel grateful for rumoured affairs with them and politicians brag their connections. The journos are offering deeper and deeper insights about the game and the players and here I am thinking, “Jeez…the madness starts once again”. Even in the midst of finalizing a very crucial report, one of my seniors would have a computer window opened on Cricinfo.com and would, rather guiltily, take a peek on score every five minutes. People in office started falling ill on match days and leave applications started pouring. The FM radio had nothing but cricket to talk about. I felt like an outsider in my own country.

Cricket is definitely much more than a game in India. It is a bond, a passion, a sudden rush of adrenaline and in its purest form an emotion.Someone once quipped that what holds India together is parliamentary democracy, Bollywood and Cricket- not necesarily in that order.  In India cricket has an accepted protocol. Even a stranger can strike a conversation asking about score. Listening to radio cricket commentary, watching of a match in front of a TV showroom and now web-TV in office is very understandable ….more so when India plays with Pakistan. Believe it or not, even in trains /public buses they tune to cricket commentary on match days. However important is the meeting, it is important to update everyone about the latest in the ongoing match. In brief the entire country waits with baited breath for the match. The cricket fans come in several colours-

The Passionate- they associate cricket with patriotism, cannot think of cheering Pakistan even if they play very good cricket. Capable of breaking TV sets (and someone’s neck), slamming doors and abandoning food when India loses a match, they firmly believe that cricket is like worship- or even more, it’s like your first love- pure and unconditional.

The Cynics: they always predict that India will lose hoping in the heart or their heart that it won’t. With every falling wicket, they sigh and give I-Told-You-So expression and if India wins a match, predict that it was just by luck next one they will surely lose. They believe that every match is fixed and yet for reason unknown watch the match till last ball.

The Rationals: they quote a lot of statistics to predict who is in better form and which team will win…and when the opposite happens can produce even more statistics to support the result

The Superstitious: well, cricket can make even the most rational fans superstitious. A radio channel is running a competition on your favorite TOTAKA (charm) to make India win. People dress up in a particular colour, sit in a particular pose and eat some particular food to make the team victorious. People cancel meetings, trips, offer bribes to gods and perform havan. In effect, the winning and losing is a product of the combined strength of our charms vs the rival charms. The funniest such fan I knew was my friend Manish, who was an ardent cricket fan but would not watch any crucial India matches on TV as he “knew” India, will lose if he watches the match. I wonder if the Indian Cricket Team knows what sacrifices are committed for their victory from a rickshaw puller to a business tycoon (Come to think of it has a very socialist message!).

The Know-alls: they always know who is going to win, which is going to perform how and are never surprised. Usually their favorite team wins or has a noble reason to lose. It’s always a fault of the other team if things do not go as they “knew”. By the way, they know the best cricket anecdotes and jokes.

The Hero worshippers: with a fair representation of fair sex, this category has people who do not look for the game but for the men- or more specifically few men/a man in the game. They cheer only for the hero/ dream lovers and cry when the hero performs badly. Their rooms are usually decorated with this particular cricketer’s posters and they have some crazy trivia ready for whoever cares to listen about their favorite star (his favorite drink, soup, city, his unhappy life, his appearance, clothes etc etc). They buy everything from Cola to instant noodles as per the supposed preference of their star cricketer and participate in Orkut and Facebook fan forums with great enthusiasm.

But then while you can divide almost everybody in Indian population in the above categories, there are some miniscule citizens of this country who do not fall in any. Loosely we can call them the Disinterested. For them cricket days are hard days , they almost feel ashamed of not knowing/not taking interest in this noble game and at times wonder if that makes them bad Indians. Some by peer pressure try to look interested, others like me stay out of any cricket conversation to hide their cricket ignorance. They question why cricketers should tell them which product to buy and which brand to wear; they sneer at people glued to TV sets and sometimes even dare to change channels when a match is going on.

Dear reader, I confess that I belong to this last category. The category of the damned – as my cricket crazy hubby would put. He would not have minded my being a vampire as much as he regrets my being a cricket challenged Indian. Over the years, while my father, my sisters and now my husband is eating and breathing cricket- I just try to leave them with their game of glorious uncertainties and look at the cricket crazy world around me with a very knowing philosopher’s gaze. Well, let me confess when the entire country is at halt, there is nothing much to do anyways.

Life’s little eccentricities

“A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.”

If that’s the benchmark, then we’re not just civilized—we’re practically saints in lab coats. We don’t just tolerate eccentricities; we give them Wi-Fi, offer them tea, and occasionally nominate them for housing society committees. We discuss them, celebrate them, poke fun at them, and most importantly, never show them the door. At worst, we assign them nicknames. At best, we write essays about them (like this one).

This epiphany struck me one evening while I was reading a P.G. Wodehouse novel—which, as we all know, is less a book and more a mildly intoxicated stroll through the English countryside of human quirks. Wodehouse characters are a parade of endearing lunacy: one steals pigs (as one does), another pretends to be a psychiatrist (presumably for the free therapy), and my personal favourite—someone who paints moustaches on statues because, well, “they look more distinguished that way.” And you know what? They never feel absurd. They feel like that one uncle we all have who insists on adding raisins to everything—including biryani.

And this isn’t just a Wodehouse-exclusive phenomenon. If you’ve watched Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain (or if you're too cool, just "Amélie"), you’ll recall that everyone in that Parisian pocket of whimsy has their own signature tick. One collects torn-up photos from photobooths, another is convinced he’s terminally ill unless proven otherwise, someone else loathes the phrase “fruits of thy womb” with religious zeal, and there's even a bubble-wrap enthusiast conducting amateur espionage. Oh, and let’s not forget the emotionally-invested cat who eavesdrops on bedtime stories—clearly the most sophisticated in the bunch.

So no, eccentricity isn’t madness—it’s art. It’s identity. It's possibly a coping mechanism in disguise wearing a feather boa. In fact, I’d argue it’s not even all that "eccentric" anymore. It’s just... Tuesday.

Geniuses and aristocrats are often called eccentric, mostly because they just don’t care what the rest of us think—and perhaps because they can afford not to. But make no mistake, eccentricity is no elitist privilege. It cuts across ages, income brackets, and genders like a butter knife through slightly melted cheesecake.

I’ve been generously blessed with an entire ecosystem of eccentric souls around me. So much so, that I sometimes wonder—do I attract them? Am I the eccentric magnet? Either way, thank heavens for them. They’re the spice rack of my life, and without them, things would taste rather bland.I keep telling them: everyone’s given a little spark of madness—don't let it go out. These obsessive hobbies, these strange little fixations, they’re not just quirks. They’re lifelines. They make people more human, more lovable… and often, excellent dinner-table material.

Take, for instance, my ex-colleague. His life revolved around three things: dogs, desserts, and Indian classical music. It never occurred to him that those interests had nothing to do with each other, or anything else, really. At parties, he’d alternate between singing sad patriotic songs and discussing pudding recipes—unless he was mid-conversation with his dogs (who, frankly, seemed more responsive than some people I know).

Then there was a friend who compulsively bought books—and then compulsively didn’t read them. My mother rearranges the fridge racks like it’s a competitive sport. My secretary beams his brightest smile precisely when being scolded. A colleague cannot start a sentence without saying, “No, no—yes, yes… okay, okay.” And a female colleague has turned losing her belongings in my room into a kind of full-time hobby.

My husband knew someone in college who simply couldn’t respond to a question unless he first repeated it. You ask, “What’s your name?” He’d say, “What’s my name? Oh yes—Ramesh.” It was like having a live echo.

But my favorite category of eccentrics? Professors. Glorious, irreplaceable professors. One would bargain on everything—rickshaw fares, socks, even brinjals—always "on principle." He usually ended up paying more than the asking price, but hey, principles are priceless.

Once, a very senior bureaucrat told us that most people in the service are “I-specialists”—they can’t stop talking about themselves. Everyone laughed. Then he spent 45 minutes explaining, “But I am not like that. I always... I never... I think… I feel…” The irony was so dense, it needed a fork and knife.

And Kolkata! That beautiful, eccentric city. There I met an accountant who was also a practicing tantric. Another had a PhD in Latin so he could read Paradise Lost in the original (because why not?). One boss rolled his own cigarettes to save money, and another genuinely believed he was a reincarnated German soldier from WWII.

But the award for most creative use of time goes to my ex-boss, who edited my drafts by changing certain words with their synonyms. Every. Single. Time. After five or six rounds of this, the final version usually had my original word restored. The boss would then look at it with the satisfaction of a man who just invented the wheel. Again.

In the Mussoorie academy, we had a professor who began every economics lecture with: “Suppose this guy has 100 Pepsi bottles...” Another one’s favorite adjective was “atrocious.” Everything was atrocious—food, policies, sometimes even the weather.And then there's a senior in my husband’s office who often begins with, “I don’t like to blow my own trumpet” followed immediately by “I’m an artist by nature.” This is usually followed by a story that clearly suggests he’s been playing both trumpet and harmonium in full volume.

Of course, I’m no saint either. I’m told I have my own “quirks.” My cousin once called me a “bathing freak” because I used to bathe four to five times a day in summer. My husband claims I’m a control freak, and my mother insists I go into a cleaning frenzy whenever I see too much clutter. So yes, the keyword here is “freak.” But if society still accepts me with my hygiene hobbies and bin-clearing tendencies, then I think it’s safe to say we are a civilized society.

On the matter of genetics, I agree with Queen Elizabeth: “In my family, as in all the best families, there are eccentricities.” Ours has its share of impetuous youngsters, delightfully senile elders, and, of course, the ever-popular family disagreements.

My granduncle, age ninety-two, gives appointments to everyone. The maid. The milkman. The postman. Me. He has a weekly phone call with me that must end with a Santa-Banta joke. It’s non-negotiable.My aunts passionately watch weepy soap operas, discuss them with the gravity of war strategy, and then dismiss them as "silly nonsense"—until the next episode.The younger generation, I’m happy to report, is holding the family banner high. My elder sister visits malls only to reject everything. She gives every store a fair chance—then walks out, judging their collections with royal disdain.

My brother-in-law hates curd but loves dahi vada. He can’t stand mangoes but downs mango drinks like nectar. And his elder brother—my dear husband—swears that potatoes cut in round shapes taste entirely different from fries. (He’s yet to convince the potatoes.)Sometimes these habits irritate me. But if everyone behaved the same, what a monochrome mess life would be.

Because in the end, if you spend all your time trying to be like everybody else, you lose your chance of discovering something delightfully different—like a perfectly sane person who prefers their statues with moustaches.