Somebody changed my news

It would be a faint noise. A small thud followed by a rustle as it slid across.

That was ‘The Statesman’ being thrown by the vendor on to our verandah. I would be the first one to rush towards it, not so much as to read it but to pick it up and rush towards dad as if handing over a trophy. En-route I would indulge in the luxury of smelling the fresh waft of printed paper. Fortified with a cup of tea, Dad would then proceed to settle down in his arm-chair. A hushed, almost respectful, silence would descend in the room. After all, the master of the house was engrossed in a highly intellectual activity that demanded pin-drop silence.

But before one goes into the joys of reading a newspaper a quick thought on the ambience surrounding it.

First of all there was this armchair.

Boy!! What a piece of furniture that was. In many ways it symbolized the laid-back era of the sixties. It flourished long before houses shrunk, gardens vanished and those long verandahs disappeared. Then came the Flats, bringing along with them the concept of “itna-feet-by-utnaa-feet”. Armchairs like dinosaurs were doomed for extinction. And with it part of the luxury of reading also died.

Tea was an essential part of the newspaper. One simply did not go without the other. There was nothing better than a good invigorating “cuppa” along with the newspaper. Of course if you came from South then there was a slight variation. The paper from “The Statesman” became “The Hindu”, the tea was replaced with filter coffee and the cup with a steel tumbler.

Apart from the beverage, cigarette was a necessary evil that followed intellectual pursuits. It probably brought a gravity to the entire proceedings. You could read a few lines and then puff out the smoke and watch it meander across the morning breeze. The pipe was better but was rare. There were numerous theories against it. From being a sin to causing heart attacks cigarette was (and is) at the core of every disease. But heck who cared. The Marlborough man was right. Freedom of Choice came before anything else.

In the Berhampur of the sixties and seventies a newspaper probably symbolized much more than news. It was a window to the outside world. Devki Nandan Pandey and Ramanuj Prasad Singh with their Hindi news at 9 in All India Radio was the other window. Almost everything we read was like gospel. We never doubted its authenticity. “Arre bhai paper mein chap gaya” was phrase that was never contested. Chapa hai toe sahi hai, was the principle.

My own journey from smelling the newsprint to actually reading the newspaper started from the sports page. The pictures of Farookh Engineer, Pataudi or a Solkar diving full length at forward short-leg were duly cut and pasted in a hard-bound register. A few editorial corrections were then carried out. For example when Sardersai scored a double century against West Indies (1971) his name would be scratched and replaced with Arun. It was a childhood fantasy but it gave a kick to read out aloud “Arun Caught Findlay bowled Holder- 212.” Things became better when the “edited” score card read – Sobers caught & bowled Arun 13.

Next on line was probably page two or maybe four. That’s where comic strips, join the dots (and discover a swan, a star or a flower!!) and colour the pictures were to be found. Then of course there was this Junior Statesman where the artistic wizardry of Desmond Doig spun out awe inspiring imagery making us feel like the Harry Potter of the seventies. My memory is dimmed. But you could do this and could do that, colour something here and something there and become part of the Benji club. You could then be a proud owner of a colourful badge that you could pin it on your shirt.

With age one gradually progressed to the front page political news and finally the edit page. Reading a Statesman editorial and be able to discuss this with your friends was a sure shot symbol of having ‘arrived’ intellectually.

Then came Emergency and the electoral defeat of Indira Gandhi. Newspapers and Magzines were churned out in large numbers. There was more colour, more pages and more content. With Asiad in the eighties the era of colour TV began. We saw with wonder as Hum Log and Nukkad unfolded as did The World this Week on DD. But very soon channels multiplied like rats. Serials became saas-bahu tearjerkers and news in a 24 X 7 format became live shows. News, like most things in the new emerging India became a commodity - an item that had to be sold. And therefore an item that had to be packaged and served hot. A new rat race had begun.

Today, in this bazaar I don’t know whom to believe. The dividing line between politics and journalism and between a journalist and a businessman all stand blurred. At risk is not just a nostalgic lifestyle of the sixties and the seventies but the entire credibility of the product itself. Is there an hidden agenda behind the “news” is what worries every reader. Has the fourth estate itself crumbled? Has the watchdog of democracy itself become a Brutus ? Is Wikileaks the saviour? Is this mask ripper another devil in the garb of an angel?

While positions will be taken to suit one’s own convenience, I note with sadness that my own little world is dead and gone. I don’t mind the demise of the armchair or the absence of the leisurely pace of the sixties. It is the death of credibility and the death of my own innocence that pains me most.

Somebody changed my news did I say?

Sorry, somebody just killed it.

TO THE LAST BULLET: BOOK REVIEW

Aaple saheb gele….

In plain English it meant, ‘our boss has gone’. But actually the cook who was informing a senior police officer, with whom Ashok Kamte had his last dinner meant, ‘our boss is no more’.

9.45pm 26/11/2008: “Are you watching the TV?” asked Ashok Kamte, ACP East Mumbai to his wife Vinita Kamte, who resides in Pune with their children. “Switch it on once you reach home. Some kind of gang war seems to have gripped Mumbai.”

The family watched events unfold on TV.

Rahul, their elder son, asked “Mamma, Dadda looks after East Mumbai (Chembur/Ghatkopar/Mulund)….” Clearly the son was hoping against hope that since the events were not happening in his dad’s area he would not be summoned.

A little while later Arjun, the younger of their two sons, said, “Mamma, see Karkare uncle.”

Reality TV was unfolding events live and Arjun had just spotted Mr. Hemant Karkare, Head of Anti-terrorist Squad (ATS) donning (by now the in-famous) bullet proof jacket.

10.43pm 26/11/2008: Mrs. Kamte rings up her husband once again only to get confirmation of her worst fears. Ashok Kamte says, “Mr. Hasan Gafoor (Police Commissioner) has asked me to head South Mumbai…”

11.15pm 26/11/2008: The anxious wife calls once again. This time Ashok says, “I am on my way to Hotel Trident.”

Arjun says with anxiety, “Mamma please call up Dadda and tell him to wear his bullet proof jacket.”

11.27pm 26/11/2008: Vinita Kamte calls up again. This time her husband said, “I am on the spot and in the middle of an operation, so don’t call me.”

Arjun the younger son goes upstairs to catch some sleep.

1.30 am 27/11/2008: Vinita and Rahul hug each other and begin crying.

Scrolling at the bottom of their TV screen was a one liner, “Ashok Kamte Saheed”

The main gate clanks. The dogs begin to bark. Neighbors begin streaming in. Relatives start rushing in. Phone lines get busy. This is India. No grief is private grief.

Instead of collapsing in shock and sorrow Mrs. Vinita Kamte takes charge. It is from precisely this point on one starts seeing the steel in Vinita Kamte’s personality. Since her father in-law had suffered a heart attack she first alerts her family doctor. She finds out the hospital where Kamte is admitted. She heads for Mumbai and gives one last instruction to the family. No one should say anything to Arjun, “Only I will break the news after I get back.”

This is virtually how the gripping story of “To the last Bullet” by Vinita Kamte with Vinita Deshmukh and published by Ameya Prakashan unfolds.

But if you thought this was the tragedy then you are wrong. The wife’s quest to find out what exactly happened is a bigger tragedy. The search for what were the circumstances that led to the death of her husband assumes epic proportions.

Tragedy becomes a calamity as wife and family helplessly see truth being suppressed.

There are questions, questions and questions. Till date she does not understand as to why her husband was diverted from Trident to Cama Hospital. She does not know as to why re-inforcements never arrived. She does not know as to why she had to take the RTI route even to get her husband’s post-mortem report. She does not know as to why it is being made out that three of the best officers (Ashok Kamte, Nitin Karkare & Vijay Salaskar) in Mumbai police are being portrayed as people who did not understand the gravity of situation. She still does not understand as to why it is being said that such people got killed instantly and went down without a fight and without a strategy to combat the terrorists.

Clearly not all is well with the system. For then how can you explain that the bullet proof jacket that Mr. Karkare wore that night has now disappeared?

Although this is not the subject matter of this book yet I feel really-really sad for encounter specialist Vijay Salaskar. He was there at the spot taking on the terrorists but yet he did not have his AK-47. In pages 48, 49 there is a reference in passing that says and I quote, “Mr. Salaskar was adept at the use of AK-47 but the weapon had been withdrawn from him.” Now if your officer cannot have an AK-47 for whatever reason (valid or invalid is a different issue) why should he then be on the front line of the anti-terrorist operation?

The second half of the book deals with the early life and times of ACP Ashok Kamte. It throws light on his zest for life, his love for sports, his passion for music and food and above all his dedication and commitment to his family. His stints in Bhandara, where he took on the Naxalites and Solapur where he took on the local mafia are very well documented. The fear he drove in the hearts of the mafia earned him the wholesome praise and love from the people of Solapur. They even put up a hoarding, “Solapur ka Don Kaun? Ashok Kamte aur kaun?”

The book also throws light on the work of Ashok Kamte’s paternal grandfather, Narayanrao Marutirao Kamte, the first post-independence Inspector General of Police (IG), Bombay State. Late Mr. Ashok Kamte’s father was also a colonel in the Indian Army. Clearly wearing the uniform was a family tradition.

I feel that the readers would have been happier to know more about the steel will and determination with which Mrs. Vinita Kamte, her children and other family members came to terms with their personal loss and grief. That is precisely why the chapter, “A New Day, A New Dream” was really touching.

It very briefly talks about how Rahul, their elder son, expresses the desire to study in Kodaikanal International School. The Principal and the staff welcome Rahul with open arms as this is the very school from where Late Mr. Ashok Kamte did his XII before moving on to St. Xaviers, Mumbai and St. Stephens Delhi. A paragraph towards the end of this chapter is also very reassuring and shows just how strong the Kamte family is.

I reproduce it verbatim:

Once I was I was lazing in bed in the afternoon. Arjun kissed me and said, “I also want to go to Kodaikanal International School, but then who will look after you? You will feel lonely?

In an effort to reassure him, I smiled and told him, “No, why should I feel lonely? I will find things to do and will be happy to see you both well settled in the same school. I can always come and spend a few weeks with both of you.”

I know that soon he would also pursue his dreams in that picturesque landscape which gave their Dadda the formidable foundation in life.

The name Ashok itself means ‘beyond grief’. All of us are trying to go beyond grief to find our bearings.

To the Last Bullet is a gripping book and a must read. One really hopes that Mrs. Vinita Kamte continues her crusade and takes on the system in the hope that events like these do not deter the bright officers but goes on to motivate them to take on the terrorists fearlessly in the future.

Apla saheb gele. It is the sad truth. But as long as there are women like Mrs. Vinita Kamte in this country there would be many- many more sons of India who would be willing to defend this great country from evil eyes and intentions.

BACK TO BERHAMPUR: FOR THOSE WHO CHERISH MEMORIES

After thirty six years, last fortnight I drove down memory lane to BAM - my first trip to this town after 1973.

Twenty years after my dad retired, twenty years of fighting a court case, twenty years after living on 50% of the pension that he ought to have got, my octogenarian dad had been informed that his service book had disappeared. No apologies, no regrets, no remorse just a matter-of-fact information conveyed with a casualness that only Indian bureaucracy is capable of, “Atey borso heyee gola kono kariba file-potro hoji gala.” After one year of following up the duplicate service book had been reconstructed and now my dad had been summoned to sign it in twenty places.

Just as we reached Khalikote college the tyres laid across the road were being lit up amidst shouts of zindabaads and murdabaads. The principal’s office had been ransacked, the administrative offices had been closed down and the main gate was crowded as one of the hunger strikers had fainted. The principal hid somewhere to avoid the wrath of the rampaging students. The babus followed suit. We could do nothing else but wait for the passions to cool down. What to do, in India patience is not an optional luxury it is a basic necessity.

That’s when I pushed open the half-closed gates of St. Vincent’s Convent School and peeped in.

The first problem when you revisit the past is always the issue of scale. In 1960's I was probably three foot three and everything about the school in my minds eye was huge. The class-rooms, the open spaces, the trees, the nursery class everything now looked much smaller.

I was soaking in the view when this garrulous lady began asking me as to what I was looking for.

“Nothing, just looking around” I said.

“Then you must be an old student” she
said.

“ Yes”, I said. “Old. Very old indeed. Do you know Sister Rosalie? ”

“No. She had gone before I joined.”

“You must meet the principal madam,” she insisted and proceeded to guide me her office leaving me with no choice. Instinctively I asked, “Sushanti, are you Dharma’s daughter?”

Her face lit up. “How do you know?”, she asked.

"Just a guess" I said.

Sister Sudha, the principal is a kind lady. She enlightened me about the “new” management – the Mangalore based Little Flower of Bethany that took over in 1979. How it is more professional. How education runs in their genes. How they have expanded. How they have become bigger and better. How students get over 90%.

“Is there any teacher of my generation?” I asked her.

She thought for a while and said, “Anima who used to teach Oriya retired a few years back”.

“Why did the nursery class change its character?” I asked. “And what happened to the piano.” She knew nothing of the piano. The nursery hall is now used for Yoga she said. “It is very essential for overall health and mental agility of the students” There is a computer lab too, she added and I noted a pride in her voice.

I went around the school and noted the disappearance of the See-Saw, Jungle-jim, Statue of St. Vincent. The entire playground has been cemented. A new double storey wing has come up.

I went towards Dr. Firoz Ali’s residence. A three storey building now stands there. There is nothing imperial about it other than the name “Imperial College.”

Giri road too had changed beyond recognition. We spent some time in Hill Patna also where dad met his colleague.

It was really nice going back in time and reliving the moments of our golden era. Berhampur still retains many of the elements of the sixties and early seventies.

Some day I hope to return for a longer trip. After all memories are priceless and as the ad-line goes- for every thing else there is MasterCard.

Hello zindagi…….. I am cancer

Doctors are probably trained to break the news slowly. Don’t be specific. Don’t draw hasty conclusions. Drop hints. Raise the concern levels. Let the news sink in. Slowly. Gradually. Incrementally.

“It’s a patch.”
“A well defined spot.”
“A small lump.”
“Further investigations will be required to check for malignant neoplasm.”
“Of course it could be benign. Be positive.”
“Possibilities are there. We want to eliminate them one by one”.

Gradually the vocabulary expands. New words drift into your lexicon. Anorexia. Cognitive dys-function. Neutropena. Hormonal disturbances. Peripheral neuropathy. And then finally you come close to the dreaded word…….carcinoma….. cancer.

“We will have to refer it to an oncologist.”

“Don’t panic, they will just put you through a histological examination of a tissue biopsy.”

When you reach there two days (one lakh seventy two thousand eight hundred seconds to be precise) after the sample had been taken they ask the attendant to bring the “case” papers and shuffle through the reports ever so slowly. When doctors consult each other in whispers with a look devoid of any emotion you actually can hear your own heart pounding and the world spinning out of control.

Panic grips you. Oh! My God, my mother is going to die. She has that dreaded disease. She has cancer. Welcome to the 13% club.

That’s when a thousand centipedes crawl on your spine. Your stomach knots up. Your throat turns dry. Your feet and palms go cold. There is a blur. The voice of the doctor seems to be coming from outer space. Very faintly you hear your own voice imploring for a second check. But deep down you know all these days they were not actually groping in the dark. Then comes the final act of clutching on to the proverbial straw by a sinking man. You blurt out, “What stage is it?”

Grow up. Stop believing in those fairy tales. It’s time for a reality check.

For about 21 days I drove my mom from Delhi Cantonment to Rajiv Gandhi Cancer Institute in Rohini. That was as close to hell as one can get to without dying. Before that, my elder brother and then my wife had, in turns, taken care of the operation and the subsequent recovery- a recovery that makes you good enough to go through the ordeal of radiotherapy.

For my wife it was like going through an action replay, a case of Oh! No….. Not again. A few years earlier she had lost her mother after five agonizing and painful years of senseless battle with cancer. Imagine the news of your mom’s cancer filtering out when you yourself are in the middle of a pregnancy. She finally succumbed to uterus cancer spreading towards the ovaries before jumping across to the liver and then finally hopping on to the intestines.

What do you do, or say, or think when your mother grapples with the truth of cancer? What do you say when she lies huddled up in the back seat as you negotiate the early morning Delhi traffic. What do you say when you look at emancipated figures drained of all energy waiting in the queue for a radiotherapy shot or worse getting ready for chemo?

Nothing works. Absolutely nothing. Neither optimism. Nor realism. Neither hope nor despair. All dissolve into a meaningless nothingness. And don’t try to cheer up things. Sense of humour just never works in such situations.

Those were the days of long silences…..of unexpressed feelings….. of unshed tears……of unspoken fears……. Days when you felt so depressed, so angry, so helpless and so irrational that you even lost faith in God.

A cancer hospital teaches you lessons that the Harvards and the Oxfords of this world can never teach you. Life itself would not have taught you but for a specific calamity. At the Rajiv Gandhi Cancer Institute in June 2005, I went through a crash 21 day diploma course on life and death.

Cancer does not have any favorites. It afflicts people of all classes across all age groups. There were old men in their seventies. They were simply wishing that their ordeal comes to an end soon. It was not defeatism. Just acceptance. And with it came calmness and a serenity which only death can give.

There was a couple in their early thirties. The husband had throat cancer. They would always come and sit side-by-side holding on to each others hands. They hardly spoke. What was his beautiful wife clutching at? Her husband’s hands? Life? Death? Pain for sure….. God could you fast forward life a bit. Pleaseeee… I want to know what’s in store for them. Tell me God if there is a twist to the tale. Tell me everything gonna be Ok….. But God has his own ways.

There was a kid just about nine years old. Her mother told me that he had lymphocytic leukemia. With defiance in her eyes she added, “It’s not the acute types you know.” The hope in her eyes as she refused to use the word cancer is the strength which can only come from a mother’s irrational heart.

Then there were a handful of kids in their early teens too- just to dampen the situation further.

Like my mother they all waited in their queues armed with a ploythene pouches that had sheaves of paper with their death sentences written in ineligible handwriting, a few CT scans and a bottle of water. Their blank expressions refused to mirror their innermost thoughts, almost as if the wire that connected their hearts to their faces had been permanently cut off.

It was difficult to fathom what went on in their minds. Why me? Why my nine year old son? Why not them? Why not their children? Why not their mothers? Is it fair? Is there God? And just what the hell is medical science up too? What have they been doing all these F@#$%!* years. Can’t they find cure to one bloody disease?

I looked at my mother. Of late I had even avoided making eye contact. She had the uncanny ability of reading them, especially if they hid fear or sorrow. All my bravado, power of positive thinking and management gibberish would lie exposed in a millionth of a second. Almost as if she has read my mind she said, “We are so lucky. I am now 65 but look around. Look at those kids. Look at that young couple…..”

One day she reveals her true inner strength. To a question from another lady in the queue as to what she was suffering from, my mom said, “Kuch naheen. Maine zindagi mein galat kaam karna toe dooor kissee kay bare mein galat bhee naheen socha toe mujhe cancer kaise ho sakta hai? Actually my children panic easily and it is they who have got me into this mess. Zabardasti operation kavaya aur ab radiotherapy bhugat rahee hoon. I am doing this for the happiness of my children.”

I decide to go out for some fresh air. The name of my nine year old ‘favourite’ is being called out for his session. His mother is cajoling him to go but he is TV gazing. Virender Sehwag’s blistering shots are on display and the news channel is saying as to how in the forthcoming tournament he is the player to watch out.

My nine year old hero smiles. Medication had ensured that his teeth or what had remained of them have gone black and eroded. His bald head was probably evidence of him having gone through a course of chemotherapy. His skinny frame stood witness to the hammering that modern science had inflicted upon him at an early age.

But nothing had crushed his spirits or his optimism. His eyes were still bright and cheerful, evidence of the fact that he had still not given up. There was hope in them. Genuine hope. Genuine valour. Genuine guts. He was defying fate, he was defying destiny, he was defying God himself.

Cancer continues teaching lessons on life and death to many more. But whenever my heart sinks. Whenever I feel down. Whenever I feel that life is not being fair to me. I think of that black toothed, bald headed, skinny nine year old child. His smile had made a statement that billions of words can never.

Move over Mona Lisa, I have seen a smile better than yours.

What’s in a name? A lot if its Jhumri Talaiya

Places like people have names. And some of them have an aura, a magic and a history that attracts you towards them. The rhythm and the phonetics of some of these names made you fall in love with such places even though you knew nothing about them. I remember growing up as a kid in the sixties being enamoured by exotic and quaint names like Dehradun, Chamba, Landsdowne, Mackleski Gunj, Dehri-on-Sone, Stratford-upon-Avon, Adis Ababa, Timbuktoo, Honalulu…

The list is long actually, but none can take the place of two words that rhyme so beautifully when juxtaposed next to each other- Jhumri Talaiya. The small town in today’s state of Jharkhand has been immortalised by Vividh Bharti and Radio Ceylon. Rather, it would be more correct to say that the music loving people immortalized their towns’ name in our national consciousness during the sixties and seventies.

Almost every song in Vividh Baharati’s Aap ki farmaish programme that was aired during that era had people from this town sending in their requests. But way back in the sixties there were many who even doubted that a town with the name Jhumri talaiya existed. The cynics said that it was a fictional town created just to keep the songs going. Gradually people realized that this small town in the then state of Bihar actually existed and was famous for its mining activities.

Apart from Mica which is mined in Jhumri Talaiya there is also a dam here under the Damodar Valley Corporation (DVC). It is because of this dam that the place has a beautiful lake- talaiya. This explains half of the history behind the origin of this name. The first half- Jhumri is ascribed to a particular type of broomstick that is made in this area. A-broom–town-next-to-a-lake!! Even the English literal translation sounds beautiful isn’t it?

Apart from people with a fanatic love for Hindi film songs, mica, brooms and lakes this place is also well known for its Sainik School. The surroundings are lush green and beautiful and during the monsoons it really was a sight for sore eyes.

My visit to Jhumri Taliya, after being in love with her for almost four decades, was a short one but somehow I felt that the people who I came across were not aware of the (sound) waves this town had created in the sixties and seventies. As a tribute to this town I picked up couple of CD’s of songs from the seventies. The songs, the nostalgia, the monsoon, the ambience and the long drive back was really memorable. It was truly a childhood dream come true.

Sorry Shakespeare but there is a lot in a name especially if its Jhumri Talaiya.

Mumbai ki baarish aur ek cutting chai

This year she was more like your girl friend- late on a date. The unpredictability only added to the romance and when she arrived she overflowed with fun, frolic and emotions that just cannot be described. The flood-gates of joy and nostalgia simply opened up.

Of course there were those numerous hassles that come along with every girl friend I suppose. Parel, Andheri and Milan subways along with Hind Mata chowk promptly go under water. Schools close down. Central and Harbour line trains take hours to normalize. Bumper to bumper car drives become the norm.

But hey!! Who cares? Paush la padto and its time to rejoice with bhajiya, pakode, vadaa-pav and of course bheegte-bhagte Mumbai ki road side tapri mein doston ke saath ek cutting chai.
Chroniclers of history say that it was two thousand seven hundred thirty seven years before Christ was born that a few leaves of Camellia Sinennsis, found in abundance at the intersection of latitude 29 degrees North and 98 degrees East longitude, fell into a pot of boiling water. The legendary Chinese Emperor Shennong noticed the colour of water changing to brown and took the risk of drinking it.

Long before Neil Armstrong took his small step on the moon, Emperor Shennong took a small sip of this concoction. The rest, as they say, is history. One small sip by the Emperor led to a giant gulp by mankind and the world was never the same again.

Since then tea has traveled far and wide. It is said that King Charles II was coaxed into tasting this brew by his wife Catherine Braganza who had brought it along with her from Portugal (And they say dowry is an Indian concept!!). His Highness smacked his lips in appreciation and lo behold rest of Britain followed suit!! I have a sneaking suspicion that Britain conquered India not because it was then a land of milk and honey but because it was the land of milk, honey and tea- and not necessarily in the same order.

So obsessed are the British about their tea that it is said even in the middle of a war their troops stop shooting from the trenches. Once, seeing the sudden lull in the proceedings, the German soldiers shouted, “What’s the matter with you guys?” Pat came the reply, “It’s tea time folks, the war can wait.”

If you think tea was only for the taste buds just see what the Americans did. When they decided that they had enough of the British and their brand of Imperialism they declared their intent of independence by having a ‘Boston tea party”. The fishes in the Boston harbor sure had a whale of a time in a sea full of tea leaves! Aha.. the taste of liberty.

In India tea is part and parcel of our social ethos. You get up in the morning you need a cuppa tea. With breakfast you need another. Reach office- have one. Meeting starts have one more. Meeting prolongs have another round. Someone drops into your cabin have some more. You pop into someone’s cabin and there is an encore. Finally you reach home and say, “Ek cup ghar ki chai ho jaye.” Tea is in fact a convenient excuse for everything. And this is where India differs with the rest of the world. It forms the contextual background for arranged marriages, political alliances, boss bashing, spicy gossips or plain and simple adda baazi. There is a coffee chain in India that claims, “A lot can happen over coffee.” A good ad line. But tell you what let the copy-writer visit a road side tapri and he will realize that everything can happen over a cutting chai!!

Then there is chai, there is light chai, there is kadak chai, there is adrak wali chai, there is adrak-elaichi wali chai, there is masala chai, there is Irani chai, doodh wali chai, there is cutting chai, there is two by four chai with friends… the list is long and endless. However, it is the khadi chai that takes the cake. Taken mostly in rural belt it means you first put in so much sugar in your glass that your spoon actually stands on it without support!!

The most enchanting cup of tea I had was in the outskirts of Mangalore. It is known as KT chai. You first pour some milk in your glass. The tea is then poured delicately above it. The tea concoction is made in such a specification that it actually forms a layer on top of it!! With the help of a spoon you then have to mix both of them to get your desired glass of tea. Wonderful isn’t it?

Even as I write the rains in Mumbai have become a bit heavy. But as long as one has friends to accompany you to the road side tapri round the corner for a cutting chai who cares?

Rain Gods open your heart…. I am ready.

Hi Honey

It was a typical lazy Sunday afternoon in Mumbai. Kids were busy playing games and chatting. I was catching up with cricket on TV. Wife was cursing the delayed monsoons while doing this and that. I was weighing important strategic moves. Should I go for the chilled beer straight away? Or should I first help her in the kitchen, promise a late night film and then casually open the fridge?

That’s when the door bell rang.

The guy was selling what he claimed was pure honey. “How can we believe it’s pure?” I heard my wife enquiring skeptically.

“We will take it out in front of your own eyes madam,” was his reply.

Good marketing skills, I thought. Previously someone had tried selling a product by addressing her as aunty. He was promptly shooed away.

It turned out that Administration department had given a contract to local guys to burn out the numerous bee-hives that had sprouted under the roof-top of our building. The honey was then being tapped in front of everyone ensuring quality. The entire building was then advised to shut their windows and 'operation honey' began. A few hours later we had pure honey delivered at our front door.

'It’s yummy’, the kids said. Far from feeling good I felt bad. Thousands and thousands of bees had literally been smoked out. Their houses were raged and put on fire. Within a few minutes they were now homeless in Mumbai. Bitterness crept in.

Life was never meant to be fair but this was really-really-REALLY unfair. The facts that I pulled out made me feel even sadder. It’s one thing to say, ‘hard work’ its quite another thing to break it down further and see what constitutes their hard work. Just sample this:

· Bees from the same hive visit about 225,000 flowers per day.
· One single bee usually visits between 50-1000 flowers a day, but can visit up to several thousand.
· Queens will lay almost 2000 eggs a day at a rate of 5 or 6 a minute. Between 175,000-200,000 eggs are laid per year.
· Just a single hive contains approximately 40-45,000 bees!
· During honey production periods, a bee's life span is about 6 weeks.
· Honeybees visit about 2 million flowers to make one pound of honey.
· A bee travels an average of 1600 round trips in order to produce one ounce of honey;
· To produce 2 pounds of honey, bees travel a distance equal to 4 times around the earth.

Then the bees too are divided into two groups. The field workers and the home workers. The field workers suck in the nectar from the flowers and do a mouth to mouth transfer of the nectar on to the home workers. The nectar which has up to 80% moisture/water is then dried out through a complex procedure and converted to honey. It requires hours and hours and hours and hours of hard work and plenty of patience.

After all this hard work what do the bees get in return? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!! Not only is their honey stolen but their house (actually the word hive disturbs the conscience the least) is also melted and used to make lipsticks and candles.

Now do you realsie why the kiss is chooo sweet and candle light dinners with your honey so romantic?

But are the bees alone in this tragedy? Does it not happen to people most of time around us. Haven’t we too felt like a bee a hundred times over during our professional career? Does the guy who works the hardest gets the raise or the promotion?Clearly, doing hard work is not enough. In life one must also know the trick of protecting ones hard work from evil eyes of co-workers and competitors. Many a times it is others who project the work you have done and get the reward that was due to you.

There is an air of defeatism in the teaching of Gita when it says, “Karm kiye jaa, phal ki ichha mat kar..’ This philosophy is OK as long as someone else does not take a piggy back ride on your hard work and claim success. Preventing others from taking advantage of your own hard work should also be part of ones strategy.

Compared to the sweet honey, I somehow felt that the bitter beer tasted better that Sunday afternoon.

What say honey?