The Pecking order

On this Republic day, amidst all the flowery and routine mobile messages, I received a very thought provoking sms from an ex-colleague. It said:

“The best index to a person’s character is

(a) how he treats people who can’t do him any good, and

(b) how he treats people who can’t fight back.”

I do not know what made Narayanan sir sent this on the Republic Day but the sms made me think about the character of people around me….and also about my own behaviour to others. Meanwhile, in my last weekly telephonic discussion with my 94 year old grandfather, I asked him what is new and happening in my hometown. He informed me that Lucknow’s street royale- Hazratganj is getting a facelift and that he is not so happy about it. He reasoned that in front of his eyes things have changed so much for the worse that he feels very cynical about any change. As an example, he told me that he worked for 10 years in pre independence India and 29 years in independent India. Once, when India was still under the “foreign” rule of racist Brits, he reached in front of the lift in the State Secretariat to go to the topmost floor. Before he could reach, the lift had already started with two British officers inside the lift. One of them, on seeing him, asked the liftman to take the lift down and asked him to step in. Today outside the same lift, they have a notice in big font- “FOR CHIEF MINISTER’S USE ONLY”. Before I could react to this story he gave me another one. Once in connection with his work he went to a district office where a truckful of foodgrain was being unloaded by 5-6 labourers when it suddenly started raining. The collector, a British man, who was supervising the work standing in the veranda, immediately took off his shirt and started carrying sacks of grains on his back. My grandfather told me that even he and two of his colleagues were standing with the DM but they never thought of doing the same, till he started doing it. He asked me if I can think of any collector today doing the same. He very painfully commented, had it been so, food grains would not be rotting in FCI godowns. I wanted to say a lot to him in defence of my times and my contemporary world - but I could not. I do understand that things are no longer that simple but I fail to see why we should let them be so.
No, I do not mean to generalize anything by re-telling these stories here, but the more I see officialdom around me, the more I realize the presence of an extremely feudal, discriminatory and almost racist mindset. A senior colleague once jokingly told me that Seniority is the biggest caste system in bureaucracy, but  I can tell you about many more forms of discrimination...happily accepted in our 'modern' times. The new formed caste systems in our minds come from power quotients, financial status, at times from cultural and social biases as well. In our public dealings, irrespective of our position, we have a mental hierarchy of people. Well dressed, well off, English speaking people…even if they are rude, receive much better treatment even from the cabbies, shopkeepers etc. On the contrary a weak old simple pensioner has very little chance of getting a fair hearing in a public office. Sad but true, we are no longer the people who respected simplicity in a person. Of course, we have very high sounding laws to protect equality of every human being, but in our social milieu we are getting more and more racist and worse, we blame one another for starting the wrong trend.

Interestingly, even those who complain about others’ snobbish and snooty behavior, do not fail to return the same to those below them in social, financial hierarchy. Just as an example, in most modern houses, even if the maid is virtually bringing your child up, cooking and cleaning the house , she remains, a step lower. She won’t eat with the family and in many cases would not even eat the same food. Even in workplaces, those who work for you, by some unwritten rule, do not deserve a kind treatment. I have even heard a theory that, if one is too kind to one’s peon or driver, they get pampered. Many, in the position of power have a similar high and mighty attitude towards their clients. Especially so in the government and in professional services. What an irony that Public service officers look down upon those they are supposed to “serve”.
 The discrimination starts from home. I stopped going to the residents meeting of my colony after I found that I was the only one who found no issues in children  from the servant quarters’ playing with children of other residents (the high and mighty officers)  . I was zapped by the reasoning given for this. It was an almost unanimous demand that children living in outhouses should not be given entry to the sporting facility and garden etc, meant for officers and their families. Some even had issues with other residents (subordinate officers) using these facilities (And we talk about end of untouchability !!!). Very generously someone suggested that the families living in the out houses should be given a separate area to sit out rather than coming to the same garden which we use.

Home, office, street - there is no end of discriminations. At times I wonder why the children do not ask parents uncomfortable questions after learning the story of Gandhi being thrown out of railway compartment in South Africa . I read somewhere that in the idea of swaraj a very prominent sentiment was to learn the best of British System and merge it with the concept of “Ramraj”. Unfortunately, in both systems, in the words of George Orwell, “ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL, BUT SOME ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS".

No wonder a poet wrote about the world around him:

घरों पे नाम थे, नामों के साथ ओहदे थे

बहुत तलाश किया कोई आदमी ना मिला

Those Stranger than Fiction Moments

“Salander assessed the situation and saw that it was anything but under control. Her brain was working at high speed . Click, click, click. She still held the crowbar in her hand but she knew that it was a feeble weapon against a man who could not feel pain. She was locked inside an area of about a thousand square meters with a murderous robot from hell.”

My heart skipped multiple beats at once but then the car braked and I realized , I was in my car and , unfortunately, about to enter the office building . Life is tough if you are reading a crime thriller and happen to have never ending work at office. 24 hours seem too less for a day. For next 10 hours my eyes followed the usual office sights, my brain mechanically responded to others but my mind was with Lizbeth Salander- facing a life threat in a remote place. That brings me to the question, I intend to ask here.

Have you ever seen a murder? Or a suicide? A really bad accident, an attack or may be a narrow escape from death …an armed revolution, a terrorist attack or a  war? Come to think of it ,how often we go through such dramatic moments . Not very frequent ..isn’t it? But we love to read about them, love to watch them on TV/cinema screens .It is a sort of simulated kind of pleasure. A sensation of things going terribly bad combined with the relief that its only fiction . Probably that is why we love watching horror movies too. Of course we knew there are no evil spirits or Hannibal the Cannibal at loose, while watching the movies at night - but the sleep was disturbed anyways . Have you ever thought how you’d have reacted if such incidents actually happen to you. I was thinking about it since last few days for no particular reason .

We all have some stories that remain glued in one corner of our mind for ages. Stories that haunt us in contemplative moments, stories that come back to us unexpectedly ….stories for which we yearn for a different ending (or may be not). There is a good genre of fiction which weaves stories with completely unexpected endings. I can think of reading O’Henry and Roald Dahl. They wrote stories that make me jump with the sudden turn of events . Sometimes a subtle unveiling of facts turning the happenings upside down and at others , a tale coming to a dramatic climax just to turn back in the last sentence . I do not generally read racy thrillers or pulp fiction so I am not really use to increasing heartbeat with the turning of pages. But recently, I made an exception . I was reading millennium trilogy by Steig Larson . I would confess that I read these books mainly because I was fascinated by a very unusual heroine –Lisbeth Salander , a hacker with tattooed body and almost anti social attitude . Surprisingly, the books made me realize (once again) the need for drama in life . If not real, at least virtual.

Hitchcock once said that –“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” To paraphrase : Life is drama with a bad editing and unwritten climax . Of course we love it that way. Mostly, we rue the fact that the ending is not for us to decide , but we love it nonetheless. A life without a dash of conflict and colour will not be a complete one. Indians specially love the drama in life. Look at our takes on very minor issues of day to day life- drivers yelling in traffic jams, women bargaining with vegetable sellers , children throwing tantrums, colleagues gossiping with full concentration, housewives watching tearjerkers and politicians giving speeches. Its not hard to find drama in real life . But that seems to be insufficient for us. We search for heavier doses of it in fiction and gossip.

Interestingly, its often the tragic tales that stick to mind most unknowingly . I remembered a story that haunts me for years. It was a short story by Tagore where an eccentric old man wanted to hide his wealth for his long lost grandson and decided to bury a child with the money, to guard it as yaksha . He found an orphan on street and decided to sacrifice him for this work. In the end this orphan turned out to be his own grandson . I cannot imagine the plight of that old man. I can’t help thinking “what if…”. Then I thought of a Prakash Jha movie titled Parinati. Something similar to Tagore’s story – here an innkeeper and his wife were convinced by a merchant to give away their son . They did it so that the son will get education, they can’t afford , but could not help missing him badly. The merchant had promised to send the son back after he is settled in life. The couple started mugging and killing the travelers staying in the inn so that one day they can pass on wealth to their long lost son. One day a charming young man comes from the city and they kill him too. Only to realize that it was their son who wanted to surprise them. The story never died in my mind. I have no explanation why. I have not witnessed such drama in my life, neither do I really yearn for it, but I wonder how people survive such incidents. A crime committed on you may be still easy to forget than the guilt of doing something terribly wrong. Losing a loved one accidentally or by your own mistake must be horrible to live with. Yes, it is great fun to watch murders and mysteries in the movies but I am very sure it would be devastating to live through any such real life drama . One of my university professor lost his son, daughter , son in law and nephew in a car accident. It happened just a day after the daughter’s marriage when the brother was driving the newlyweds to their new home. I shudder to think of the family that lived this tragedy ever since .

It is funny that when I am trying to recall the stranger than fiction moments of life, I cannot think of anything happy. Is it because we take our blessing for granted and fail to see the magic in it ? Why is it that life’s drama is most visible in fights and deaths…in struggle and defeats and not the other way round . Many of us will remember the TV  images of twin towers burning or the attack in Mumbai but would not remember the face of an Olympic winner .  

Why should drama be always tragic- the Greeks believed in the power of tragedies in a major way. The Asian theatre traditions- be it Sanskrit plays or the Japanese Noh plays disagreed. In Indian classical plays – essentially woven in a background of love and mistaken identities, the stories always ended happily. The good triumphed over the evil . So why do our mind carries tragedies for longer than it should. Why can’t in life too we can choose the genre of the drama around us . I have no answer to that question. But if it comes to choose- I know my choice would definitely be a Rom Com for life around me .

Dhobi Ghat : Towards a Stain free world

I am sure if there was a Padma Shri or Oscar for washing clothes, my family would have had two. The two most important men of my life- my father and my husband , enjoyed this seemingly routine activity to no end. I must confess that though I do consider washing clothes , a very hygienic and important activity of life, I could never bring myself to share their love for it. While other families fight over the remote control of TV , in my house fights are on the use of washing machine . Hubby thinks , I can never match his expertise and his skills in washing clothes carefully. I accede to this claim. Both of us coming from the middle class families with the passion for Do-it –yourself , always saw our parents investing time in washing and ironing clothes . Of course , the quintessential Dhobi was just a call away for emergencies.

There is definitely a lot of fun in washing clothes- till of course you are forced to do it frequently . Talking about the art in it, I guess there is much more than what meets the eye. While in the good old days , detergent was the only chemical to be tested on fabrics- we always had home remedies to keep the stains away. My mother would say – use lime or vinegar . Her mother would add soak the dark colours in salt waters first . My father even had standards on hanging the clothes to dry. My sister has evolved her whims for bleaching and starching . Clearly, it runs in the family. And to my luck, I found an equal washing-clothes-enthusiast as my husband .

Earlier , Sundays and holidays were great laundry days . Washing bucketful of clothes – sorting them,  soaking them in detergent , special treatmenst for cuffs and collars , hanging some in shades, others in sun and a lot many other rituals were routine for every family around us .  The lines of clothes hanging in each courtyard  were signs of a sunday well spent . There was something very puritan, very innocent about those laundry days . Of course, those were the days of hand washing and no-driers. Things have changed since then, besides the range of specialized detergents and stain removers , we also have fabric conditioners and whiterners . I wonder how do people in some develop country live without drying their clothes in sun . I am told in many places there are laws against it .They definitely miss out that fresh, crisp touch of freshly washed and dried clothes. Aha , what a feel it is .

Did you ever notice how much this mundane looking activity catches the eye of artists in every age. There are almost equal number of photographs and oil paintings of people washing clothes at streams and ghats of India as there are of women bathing . While one can guess the interest of the artists in the latter , the former beats my imagination. But there must be something or why the heck we have almost half the TV ads on detergents and the other half on shampoos . I ,being a vintage ad collector, can tell this with authority that this has been always like that . If you don’t believe my saying so, come on, do a small test yourself . Try to remember you favorite taglines from your childhood print/TV ads . Nine out of ten, you are either remembering Lalitaji telling the wisdom in buying surf or you are saying “ उसकी साड़ी मेरी साड़ी से सफ़ेद कैसे?( super Rin क़ी चमकार  )” . Or may be you are thinking of the little girl in poster asking a pedestrian- “सुनो सुनो ओ बाबूजी कहाँ चले , कपडे क्योँ हैं मैले धुले ?” or is it “ Nirma- promising you “दूध सी धुलाई ” . Now try to think of some recent ads – there is still a high probability that you are thinking of some or the other washing powder/ detergent cake / washing machine ad . Not only this, washing clothes has also been looked at very philosophically, very symbolically.

Given the amount of learning this activity involves , we all have our washing mis-adventures . Even my better half, who claims to be such an authority on the subject , finally conceded that long back in his “learning” days , he spoiled his most expensive set of pants after soaking them overnight . Talking of that, I can’t resist telling the most amusing washing mis-adventure I know. This is from my batchmate who apparently never got a chance to wash his own clothes thanks to his dotting mummy. Now , in the cold days of shimla , his only resource for this work was our dear dhobi. This dhobi once disappeared for many days together . Rest of us continued or started doing our own laundry and were not that affected by dhobi’s disappearance . Someone ( my guess- his lady-love) also advised him to do his laundry himself. Bit unsure about how to do it, our dear novice washerman selected the wash room in one corner of the hostel which no one used . In a bucket he soaked 5-6 clothes for “just 30 minutes” after which he planned to wash them . As you can guess he forgot. And he forgot it for days . It was only after 3-4 days when someone passing from that washroom sniffed a rotten smell and called the cleaners thinking it must be a dead rat , that his soaked clothes were discovered. Of course, the clothes were gone by that time . While all of us teased him to no end, consoling him my roommate told him that she had once soaked her mom’s expensive silk saree in normal detergent and got a tight slap thanks to it. I too have some sob stories of getting my sarees spoiled by dhobis of different places but by and large, it has not been very bad for me. Of course, my husband will never let me forget how I mixed his new jaipuri kurta ( a bright yellow one) with while clothes in washing machine and you can guess the result.

So I do not doubt the skill and expertise of all the dhobis around me. I look upto them with so much respect and admiration .I am aware that in India washing your husband’s shirt is considered a very symbolic gesture of both love and drudgery ( depending upon who you are – a traditionalist or a feminist !) . I am also acutely aware that behind every working couple , there is a huge pile of laundry waiting to be done . I do not get to do that anyways . I read in an article that once Cherie Blair was asked by a journalist that Who wears pants in her house ? She coolly replied –“ Of course it is Tony (Blair) , and he is the one who washes and irons them too .” Believe me , I can empathize .

Enchanting Chants

One quiet morning, quite without warning, I caught myself humming an old Vedic chant. It wasn’t planned. I hadn’t participated in a havan in months, nor had I been near a space that called for ritual or recitation. By all accounts, I am not a religious person. And yet, the sound came—unbidden, insistent, familiar.

Curious, I found myself drawn to the comfort of memory. I typed “Arya Samaj havan” into YouTube and played one of the videos on my computer. As the mantras filled the room—those familiar syllables, once part of my childhood's daily fabric—I felt a strange, deep calm settle inside me. The whole day, my mind kept replaying those chants like a background score to life. Not loud, not dramatic—just there, like a steady heartbeat.

I was born into an Arya Samaj family, where a havan marked every occasion—birthdays, anniversaries, festivals, even quiet Sundays. By the time I was six or seven, I knew all the mantras by heart, even if I didn’t know their meaning then. Later, I would learn the translations, but honestly, it was always the sound that captivated me. Especially the way my father recited them—his voice loud, rhythmic, reassuring. In moments of fear or chaos, it’s that voice that returns to me first.

But those weren’t the only sacred sounds etched into memory. I went to a missionary school, and if there’s one thing such schools do, it’s leave you with a lifetime supply of hymns. Some of those melodies—especially Ave Maria, whether sung in the quiet hush of our school chapel or in the soaring voice of Pavarotti—have the power to still my racing thoughts. I’ve never felt the need to look up the meaning. The rhythm is enough. The voices rising and falling in harmony—some with deep belief, others (like mine) mechanical, half-hearted perhaps, but all equally affected. There is a strange alchemy in communal song, where faith is almost contagious.

These sounds—of Sanskrit and Latin, of prayer and poetry—form a bridge to a gentler time. A time when life felt protected, when grown-ups had answers, and I only had to listen. Somewhere in that soundscape, the Hanuman Chalisa also found its way into my life. I can’t quite remember who taught it to me—perhaps a household help, perhaps an elder. But I internalized one thing: if ever there was fear, danger, or uncertainty, I should recite it. And so I did—when I traveled alone for the first time, when exam results loomed ominously, when I went to collect my father’s medical tests. I don’t believe it changed outcomes. But I do believe it changed me. It steadied me, made me feel less alone. That, I think, is the secret power of a chant.

And truly, it need not be religious. A chant can be any string of words—mantra, poem, affirmation—that anchors you, that grounds you in a moment, that whispers to your soul: you’ve got this. Almost every tradition on Earth has understood this magic. Vedic mantras. Buddhist chants. Gregorian hymns. Baha'i prayers. African tribal calls. Psalms sung in churches. Sanskrit shlokas murmured before dawn. They echo across the centuries, stitched into rituals of birth, death, marriage, war—and peace.

Even today, the loudest voices in a stadium belong not to athletes, but to fans chanting in unison, beating drums of hope and tribal loyalty. Protesters on streets find rhythm in slogans, turning resistance into a chorus. Soldiers chant before battle. New-age gurus offer affirmations. Punk bands roar verses that border on mantra, and their crowds chant them back like scripture. And somewhere, in a small classroom or under a banyan tree, a child repeats lines of poetry over and over, unknowingly entering this ancient rhythm of remembering.

Even labor has its music. Remember the “Haiyya ho” of workers lifting together? The hun huna of palanquin bearers? Rhythm helps. Sound strengthens. It's primal and poetic. Even birds respond to certain calls; even the wind seems to dance when a lullaby is sung with love.

I come from a culture where knowledge passed from generation to generation through the spoken word. Where everything worth knowing had a meter, a cadence, a beat. Healing chants, teaching chants, mourning chants. The West, too, recognizes this. What began as sacred incantation finds new form as sonic therapy. Sacred or secular, ancient or new—the chant persists.

I once asked my French teacher why she began her day listening to the Chaupaiya from the Ramcharitmanas. “It takes me to another world,” she said. “A world of bliss and glory.” She didn’t understand every word, but she didn’t need to. The music of faith, the poetry of belief, the power of sound—it took her where she longed to go.

And maybe that’s the truth of it. Maybe chants don’t need translation. Maybe they only need a heart that listens.

Enchanting, indeed.

Nostalgia, Cynicism and the Republic Day

I read somewhere that Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson: you find the present tense, but the past perfect! We all find the past perfect – at least that is how we like to filter our memories. We idealize past even more when we grapple with the uncertainty of the future. Therefore, it was not unusual that when I sat down to write about the Republic Day, the first images that came to my mind are of my childhood . The school function, distribution of ladoos and later on the craze of watching Republic Day parade on TV. I always found the sound of our national anthem playing and people (including the President) watching the national flag with pride very emotional. I still choke at times when the band plays “Jai jai jai, jai he…!” . Then I thought of the last Republic Day. Living in a government colony makes it easy for us government servants to attend a flag hoisting function. In my campus, it is done with a lot of pomp and show as it is an international institute where we have to showcase our national functions in front of foreigners. I found to my utter shock that many of my contemporaries were not so sure about the wordings of the national anthem. One even suggested jokingly if we can sing the A.R.Rahman version of “Jai ho!” Thanks to the schools, the children took the lead in singing. I came back with a bad taste in mouth.

I avoid being cynical about the world around me. So much so, I often ignore the pessimistic facts and sights. But it is difficult to think about the state of affairs in our republic without a tinge of sadness when I find Binayak Sen facing life imprisonment and CBI failing to file a charge sheet in three months after CWG scam. We indeed live in an incredible country. Contradictions that make one shiver with fear. Divisions that defy any logic, cruelity that surpasses mythical devils and the political milieu, which defines all the ills of society. For some inspiration, I go back to the voice of one frail man who took our country out of similar (if not worse) hopelessness about a century back. Gandhi once wrote about Seven social sins: politics without principles, wealth without work, pleasure without conscience, knowledge without character, commerce without morality, science without humanity, and worship without meaning. Interestingly we have all the seven present before us – We feel them every day, deal with them every day but do not fight back to come out of them . Mostly, I too think that it is beyond one individual to fight back these ills. Where is that small body of people with unquenchable faith in its mission to alter the course of history, which Gandhi talked about? But if I believe in Gandhi, who talked about the only one tormentor- the quiet voice of his own conscience, I think I know the solution as well.

Think about it. Why do we deserve fair play and life without exploitation? Do we give that back to those around us. People who break the rules to have their way, bribe to get undue advantage, beat their wives and do not do their own duties faithfully- why do we think we should get honest government, fair treatment, no bullying and correct dues. How many times people ask me to put in a word, to twist the rules so that they can get their child admitted to a school, get that license bit early or get the income tax penalty waived off. We have almost come to believe that it is fair. Haven’t we? Many of us even justify this posing as helpness victims of a corrupt state ...but if you look around there is a difficult but honest way always there...well almost always. It's just that our faith is following the honest way is so badly shaken that we do not even want to give it a try. I cannot count on how many occasions I fought with an urge to break a traffic rule, to show my Identity card and get a special treatment, to unduly bend a system for my vanity, my greed and sometimes for even less…to just show off . When I think of it, I do not know how to blame the government, the politics, the businessmen and everybody for doing the same – just at a different level. Look around ...we need not even try hard , we have become a country of crooks so obiviously ...so apaprently . We gladly accept that we break rules, we short circuit systems, we bribe the policeman who cought us speeding and then we talk big about other people's similar dishonesty. I do not say that the world will treat you fine if you follow the right path ....but then, if charity starts at home...so does honesty and fairplay.When I ask myself, if I have been fair to those who are powerless before me....my answer is not an undounted YES. Who am I then to pick up stone on others?

So what do I intend to do this Republic Day? The options are:

1. Feel disgusted at the list of celebrities getting the Padma Award , and getting caught in one scam or the other soon afterwards

2. Getting soaked in nostalgia of the good old days . Days which I will cynically conclude are gone forever.

3. Being cynic that nothing will ever change and making excuses of helplessness to go unfair myself

4. To be what I should be, a moral, ethical , fair human being . One who does her duties honestly, who calls for positive change in the system by following the rules, by being true and fair herself first .

The frail voice of my conscience tells me that the correct answer is 4. So, why to think harder- Lock kiya Jay?

Death of Originality and the CPF

 CPF- that is Cut( or copy) paste and forward. I am sure you know about this . I am also sure that like me you use it almost every day . Calling it a miracle would be an understatement. Whoever first thought of this feature of word processing was a big plagiarist …or may be he/she was just lazy . It’s a big convenience and a great tool to edit . But today it has turn into a livelihood provider for many, ice breaker for others and even popularity tool for some . Tell me how many forwarding mails/ sms you get everyday ? Have you ever found yourself connecting to a friend but without anything in particular to say…just send a couple of forward-mails . Do you want to impress someone- just do a wiki and some googling on anything under the sun and write a brilliant piece on it. Do you have to submit a paper by tomorrow morning and you are suffering from a creative block? Never mind , there are millions others who have uploaded readymade solutions for you to CPF. It does sound magical . But how many times we face what can be called a cut-paste faux pas . I am sure we all know some of those too .

This 1st January I woke up with a sms from an old friend B . A very poetic message wishing me a happy new year , I was marveling the words till I reach the end where I found “….from X” . I was puzzled for a second…who is this X . Right then I got another message from my friend B …who again wished me a happy new year and very coolly added “ this time from his side” . Apparently he just forwarded a nice message without editing the last part. My sister did something even worse. She had her signature as her name which gets added at the end of each message . So on one festival , all my aunts and uncles, grandfather and relatives received message – a real good one “from XYZ “ followed by my sister’s name. The faux pas created a mini scandal in the family for a day as everybody wondered who is this XYZ with whom she is wishing everybody . But then, these are just very innocent goof ups . Worth a laugh of course, but nothing serious.

Let me tell you a recent example where the magical CPF( cut paste and forward ) gave me a rare laugh during an otherwise serious workday . I was looking into an expensive report given by an international consultant for a project. This was one of those colourful looking documents which everyone admires (mostly for its graphs and printing ) but no one reads. But as an auditor, it was my job to read the bulky report, I somehow continued reading it beyond the preface. Suddenly it appeared that things were not adding up. The report seems logical but in between there were unrelated words. The report was about hygiene and food. So while it had Delhi featuring in several places , it was talking of organizations which are nowhere here in India. There was mention of City and borough government and also of Dal makhani . I gave it another careful reading and I found the key. It was a classic CPF from a foreign report. Not only that , the author replaced the key words e.g. name of organization with the Indian counterpart through find- replace ( another magic mantra of word processing ) . The result was hilarious. But as it happens in government, no one ever read that document and everybody was happy. When I narrated this story to a colleague, he was not surprised. He told me that her brother cleared most of her strategy papers, dissertations and presentations through CPF. My dear brother in law exclaims that in his field (software and banking) it happens all the time . Oh yes, I should have known better.

Internet resources have made plagiarism really easy. While in earlier days we used to write down our favorite quotes and poems to remember them at the right moment , today we do a search and in a click we have opinions, thoughts, reactions and even appeals ready for us. The more ethical ones change a word or two and if possible use liberally from more than one source . The real masters copy it as it is and make it their own.

For those of you who thought despite everything else around us changing, we bureaucrats are still the same, here is some news . In Mussoorie academy we had some very prestigious essay competitions . One of these was sponsored by Indian Army . In the year when I was doing the foundation course, the evaluation committee found it difficult to select the shortlisted entry as many of the entries were very similar. Thanks to internet resources and the magical CPF , many of us came up with “very similar” thoughts . Training courses are another example of changing times. On how many occasions I found myself looking at an old presentation being repeated by multiple speakers with their name. We even had one speaker who stole the jokes and cartoons as well from the presentation available on internet and passed it off as his own experience . In support of his obivious CPF , one such speaker once quoted john Milton who said “ Copy from one, it's plagiarism; copy from two, it's research.”

There is an old saying that whatever you throw at the world it comes back to you. Believe it or not, this is aptly applicable on the CPF as well. I have received back my own forwards a couple of times and on files I often find my own notes copied and presented with a different formatting and font. People have very differing views on this . Some consider it unethical others take it in their stride. One even told me that it is just quotation without inverted commas . He argued that this is in a way, a praise of your draft – a compliment that you expressed it so well that there was nothing to do more. Someone recently gave me a very interesting phrase for it. He said it is not plagiarism , it is creative re-producing . I was impressed for a second and then a doubt occurred in my mind whether this phrase is orginal or well…taken from somewhere .

Season’s Eatings!

 The work was never ending and the stress level was high. It had been like that for more than a month. But this particular day was exceptionaly bad.  It was one of those workdays when everybody form your boss to colleagues and from subordinates to family members is after your happiness. I looked out of the window. The December is almost through. Fading afternoon sun hardly had any warmth but still it was a very tempting time to resist going out. In the moment of anxiety, fear or even desperation- my thoughts often go back to my good food memories. The Good Food memories of Winters necessarily includes cakes and bakes. Recently a school friend very aptly described December and January as very “Cakey times”. So I left the file I was pretending to look at and walked out of the building. I hardly had any idea of the place I wanted to explore. I had searched out an address in Paharganj but knew nothing what I can expect there. German Bakery! The very name brings to my mind delicious cakes,breads and doughnuts. I have no idea why they are called German Bakery, I don’t even know why they are scattered all over Himalayas and some other selected towns of India. Yes there was one at Kaza as well. One in Manali I remember and also a small one at Tabo . And why German -Are Germans supposed to be great bakers anyways? Or it has got something to do with German Hippies of 70s, who could not stay away from their cakes and bakes even as they continued their search for Nirvana.

But I couldn’t care less. I needed a distraction from work and what could be better than a bustling market with narrow lanes, traffic snarls, colourful display of things and all familiar sights of an old city. My driver and peon were certain that I am off for some shady place when I told them where I am going. I have been to Paharganj many times before- but this part of Paharganj was new to me. The firang part- I mean. This part caters only to foreign tourists. Mostly backpackers. All eateries claim to be “the original German Bakery” and there were at least half a dozen World Peace Cafes. They all offer a menu difficult to find in other city bakeries. No cream filled black forest and pineapple cake (with red cherry on top). Here the offerings were more to suit the taste of our foreign guests - less of cream and more of cake. The cinnamon rolls and croissants, the pies and the doughnuts looked tempting. Of course these were not for me- there were no eggless varieties available…but they looked very different and very yummy. When I finally reached the German Bakery I was looking for it was disappointing. The ambience was just ordinary - hardly what I would imagine at a place so famous. I mean it was not even a bakery – it was just a small time tea shop with some baked stuff inside the glass case. Some shops selling knickknacks for tourists were also part of the same room. But then I looked closely – the stuff was different . There were exotic cakes- Walnut, Apple-honey, Cinnamon, and of course chocolate . All without the usual generous scoops of cream. I bought several types for my friends and my husband and walked out . While coming back from this odd bakery – I thought of other bakeries I have loved .

For me Birthday cake was always very special and with three birthdays in the family in January – our supply of cakes was continuous for that month. I could never hide my excitement when my birthday was round the corner. My dad- pampering his youngest , always brought multiple cakes for the day . Being the glutton I always was, I never said no.   It was so funny that the owner of Lucknow’s Burma Bakery which supplied my birthday cakes from my 9th birthday onwards also remembered my and my sister’s birthday .

Bakeries are very happy smelling places. I read somewhere that smell of baking soothes nerves and makes one feel relaxed. I totally believe in that as I recall my baking memories. My trials with baking have been mildly successful. I tried all kinds- scones, cakes, pies, breads and even cookies. It was great fun to learn new baking tricks with friends . But my success in baking are almost equal to my failures. The good part is –I never left trying . As my sister- my captive taster once commented jestfully - “ You keep on trying …we will get either cookies or paperweights . Both are useful. ”

It is unfortunate that now bakeries have lost their individuality. In Calcutta the three bakery chains have identical stuff in all outlets. Very uninspiring if you ask me. Even the middle range bakeries in Delhi have similar stuff. They are not even open to try new items. Some do customize of course, but most have limited items to offer- they do not even change the icing for your choice. I remember in my growing up days I used to specify the icing on my birthday cakes. One year I wanted a wafer house and on another multiple coloured jam layers. It was always made with perfection.

Some old colonial towns ahve great traditions of bakeries. I have seen lovely small bakeries in Shimla, Mussoorie and Pune. Mumbai also have some very special ones . Another place which comes to my mind is Kochi- the place where Jewish bakeries are still thriving with pride . Calcutta too had Nahoums' . The famous new market bakery - which hardly had anything for a no- egg cake lover like me. Even though I never tasted their famous rich plum cake on Christmas - I can see that even a mention of it  brings  a delightful shine in my hubby's eyes .

With the January approaching us in another four days, and with it both my birthday and the New year  – I think of my yummy memories and smell the familiar “cakey” smell in the air. Happy days are here again!!