Humour – Page 18 – Sunbyanyname

INDIANS LOVE TO HONK – DON’T THEY?

Indians are a horny lot; we just love to honk. It is not uncommon to see a car moving on a deserted road with nary a man or animal or any other moving object in sight; and the driver of the vehicle pressing the horn every now and then. Why? Several reasons are given in this article; but, the main one is that the sound of our own horn restores our confidence in our driving ability. Those who witnessed the last FIFA World Cup were amused to see the South Africans pull out a long instrument with weird sound called the Vuvuzela with which they greeted anything of interest on the field. Well, it is the same with the Indian use of the horn on the road. Honking is a celebration of our freedom.

The number one use of the horn is the proclamation of the desire to move faster. We are convinced that accelerator and horn are to be pressed together. Accelerator makes us go faster without any assistance from others; but, the horn declares to all and sundry that we are in a hurry. So, then, why don’t they hear us and give us way? Simple, because they too are in a hurry and pressing the horn equally blithely. We may be in the midst of a huge traffic jam (caused more often than not because of our curious driving skills); but, we are convinced that somehow the incessant honking would brighten up things.

The second use is to tell all the people around that we can see things more clearly than them. For example, ours may be the farthest vehicle from the traffic lights; but, the nincompoops ahead of us need to know that we saw the lights turning green before them. Similarly, if we see an opening in the slow moving traffic (which is always the case) we must indicate to the ignoramuses that a detour to the pavement would make them and consecquently us reach ahead of the slow-moving lane.

Then there is the frequent honking to drive some sense in the driver whom we suspect is intending to take advantage of us; eg, by slowly edging towards our lane which he perceives is moving faster than his lane. Also, if he too is eyeing a spot in the traffic that gives the person some advantage (maybe a few feet) vis-a-vis others around, we must bring home the misconception to him. Finally, if he is heading towards the only parking place that we had viewed much before him, shouldn’t we claim the spot like the Arizona gold-hunters? It is just a natural instinct – no big deal.

The above are types of specific honking with specific aims, however unattainable these might be. However, there is one general honking, very regular, loud and may sound irritating. It is to tell people around us how important we are and how unworthy they all are. During the days of the rajahs, when the rajahs used to move on elephants, they used to have footmen walking in front blowing conches and horns to signify the king’s arrival. Because of austerity measures and also because of the speed of vehicles, it is not possible to have footmen walking in front of their vehicles announcing their arrival nowadays. Hence, these modern day monarchs have to rely on vehicle horns. What is wrong with that?

Honking is also used to bring home others’ mistakes. For example if the vehicle ahead of us is stopping to let pedestrians cross, we have a choice either to overtake him and wade through the unruly lot; or we can honk and let the vehicle ahead realise the wrong he is about to commit. What is wrong with that? It is just a natural instinct. Also, when our lights are turning red and the across lights are turning green, shouldn’t we honk to indicate to the uncouth lot that we are allowed to cross until a few seconds after the lights have turned red, following the trail of those who are crossing in green lights? Shouldn’t they wait?

Some honking is just to break the monotony of the journey. Have you ever thought of how boring a drive is without honking; everybody minding their business, everybody giving way to everyone, everyone keeping to their lane etc? It would make people go to sleep and make them less alert. Such societies with such niceties are doomed to dullness. Indians are the only brainy people who have realised that some entertainment, fun, challenges, surprises are really required whilst driving to keep you awake. The expression, “There is never a dull moment” was born as soon as they introduced driving in India and a great part of it is to do with the horn.

Lastly, what do you do with things that you have paid good money to buy? If you have bought a TV set, would it serve anyone’s purpose if no one plays it? Similarly, if there is a horn in the vehicle, isn’t it wasteful expenditure not to use it? Can a poor country like India afford such wasteful expenditure?

Please note I have not even recorded such legitimate honking as after winning a match or during processions; or to express joy at finding no cop; or a lorry, bus or cab driver sighting his gaanv wala (country-cousin); or to regain a spot that you previously held in a lane when you moved to the other lane erroneously thinking traffic was moving faster there.

So, next time when you tend to get amused or irritated by Indians compulsively honking, think of all the purposes it is serving, including national interest. Don’t just be judgmental because you don’t know the aims of this glorious obsession we have with the horns. We could be wearing them, you know.

INDIA PAK ODI PREVIEW – JUST A MATCH?

The atmosphere is electric. Work in both the countries has come to a stand-still. You can distinguish ordinary people from those in powerful positions (or so they think) by the latter barely hiding their excitement by saying, “Come on; it is only a game“.Mohali stadium is more full than the last Himachal Roadways bus from Chandigarh to Shimla. The noise levels have defined newer standards in cacophony. People in both countries are glued to the television as if it is their last chance ever to watch a match.

There are still ten minutes for the game to start. In the VVIP stand Pakistan PM Yousuf Raza Gilani, on his cellphone, is urgently discussing something with President Obama. He is whispering so low that no one can hear him. Manmohan Singh is not even making an attempt to overhear because, on his phone, the RAW is providing live text of the conversation.

Gilani: President Sir; forget about any other financial aid to compensate us for our sterling and sacrificing role in your Global War on Terror (Aside, that too is picked by RAW: Global and War are yours and your allies but Terror is totally ours). We want your help in winning this match.

Obama: But why is winning so important to you?

Gilani: Several reasons. The most important is that from the earlier aid you gave us for floods etc, my cabinet colleagues and I have bet nearly a thousand crore on Pakistan winning. Two, the team and us want to go back alive after the match, and…

Obama: Okay, I get the idea. But what can we do?

Gilani: What can you do? How are you asking, what can you do? We have seen for ourselves what you can do, Sir. Davis, an ordinary US embassy technical and administrative staff showed us what you can do. Your display of humanitarian assistance to Libyans has hinted to us what you can do. Sir, we know there is nothing that US cannot do.

Obama: Let me see; should we send some one in disguise to the Indian dressing room?

Gilani: Aha…now you are talking. I leave the method to you, Sir. But please hurry, President Saheb, the match is about to start.

The din is excessive; which is only appropriate for two countries in the world that make maximum noise between themselves. Indeed, when they refuse to make noise (in some circles this noise is called ‘talks‘), others have to intervene to ask them to re-start making noise…..and gas.

Umpires Simon Taufel of Australia and Ian Gould of England walk up to the middle. Both the Captains join them. The cheering has broken the sound-barrier.

At the toss, Afridi has asked for ‘Heads’. He knows there is something typically Pakistani about asking for heads; their history from ancient times is replete with instances when they have demanded heads. Dhoni, like what Indians are always used to, gets the ‘Tails’. The coin is tossed.

Gilani pulls out his cellphone (ever since 26/11, men in authority in Pakistan know the importance of cellphone): President Sir, let me see proof of your being with us. Make us win the toss.

Pakistan wins the toss and elects to bat.

Manmohan to Gilani (as always in the appeasing tone so that they would listen to reason): Great, you have won the toss. Congratulations…

Gilani ignores it as Pakistan does with every attempt to placate them.

Indian team takes up positions. Mohammad Hafeez and Kamran Akmal walk to the crease. There is pin-drop silence even on the TV except for one B Dutt who has perfected the art of saying the obvious: “The match is about to begin. History is about to be written….may Pakis….I mean, the best team win”.

Her comments go totally unnoticed as people have learnt long ago not to pay her attention.

Zaheer Khan goes on top of his run – up. Prayers take on renewed vigour. Every ball counts. He bowls and it is hit for a four. There is uproar from the Pakistani fans. Gilani is on his feet.

The going is good with both the openers fluently hitting the bowlers all over the field. So happy is the going that Gilani has no need to make any calls.

Bhajji is brought in early and he too is hammered all over the place.

An aide reports to Chidambaram that some Pakistani fans quietly left the field and are headed towards Srinagar. Chidambaram asks the Security to keep a watch on them. Army Chief calls to say there is large scale infilteration from across the border. Manmohan tells him to keep a watch on the situation since there is an important World Cup match in progress.

“But, Sir”, persists the Army Chief, “It is just a match whereas the situation here is turning grave”.

PM, “I know it is just a match; but, we have to give the impression everything is normal. The whole world is watching us. Ring me up after four-five hours”.

Meanwhile there has been a change of bowling. And Yuvraj, as expected, has struck. Gilani is about to reach for the cellphone but Younis puts the train back on track.

Later, the wickets keep falling at regular intervals but the batsmen in an act of supreme defiance – the one that they ususally assume when playing against India – take the score to 267 in 50 overs, ably helped by a swashbuckling innings of 52 runs by Shahid Afridi.

It is not a very big score but under the conditions everyone agrees that it is a fighting score.
B Dutt also agrees.

After the break, Sehwag and Sachin take the field. Akmal before taking up his position behind the wickets says something to Sehwag. Most of it is inaudible but Sehwag hears the word “ma” clearly. This inspires Sehwag to send the first two deliveries of Shoaib Akhtar to the boundary. Shoaib goes across and tells Akmal to refrain from the “ma” word and….. switch to other relatives.

Sachin goes early on a no ball by Umar Gul. All Indians are crestfallen.
Air Force Chief rings up the PM, “Sir I have bad news.”
PM: “I know…Sachin just got out…”
Air Force Chief, “Sir, actually one of our planes on routine mission was hit by a missile from across the border…..”
PM: “You manage the situation. What are you Air Force Chief for? Here there is do or die”
Air Force Chief: “Sir, it is just a match..”
PM: “Don’t I know it? Now let me concentrate please…”

Despite all the tamasha, the match goes on. Fortunes swing, sometimes this side, sometimes that side.

And then….

It is the last over. India requires 5 to win…

Tension is everywhere. “Why does an India – Pakistan match resemble a cliff-hanger?”, everyone asks. Everyone knows the answer. Bookies laugh all the way to the …..well, not the bank since they can never put these kind of winnings in a bank….maybe, laugh all the way to…well, you know the answer; why do you require me to tell it?

The first ball of Abdul Razzaq, takes the wicket of Yousuf Pathan who had made a quick 43 in 27 balls.
There is hushed silence.
Will India lose again?

In various parts of India, B Dutt reports, as many as 6 people have died of heart-attack.

It is just a game….they had said.

Bhajji is the next batsman in. Akmal tells him, “Teri ma…” etc.
Bhajji is quite used to it and just before Razzak bowls his next delivery, he tells Akmal a ripe one.
Akmal misses to catch the snick by Bhajji in the confusion and Bhajji and Ashwin take two runs.

Four balls to go and three to be scored.

Camera shows a girl in the stand closing her eyes and praying to Allah to make India win.

Gilani does the same but asks for Pakistan to win. Allah too is confused. He tells his assistant, “You had told me it is just a match“.

Can they do it? Or won’t they?

Bhajji takes one run on the next ball against all odds and now the match is nearly in India’s favour with three balls to go.

Gilani reaches for the phone: “President Sir; the Indians are about to cross the threshold”.

Obama assumes he is talking about nuclear threshold. His worst fears are coming true.

There is an urgent call to Manmohan even as Razzak is walking up to the top of his bowling run-up: “Listen Singh; call off the ruddy match. We don’t want mayhem on our hands”.

Manmohan: “But, Mr President, it is just a match…..”

LIARS ROLL OF (DIS)HONOUR

In the world, Darwin and others would have us believe (and there is evidence to be found everywhere), there is survival of the fittest. Liars must be very fit indeed because their tribe or breed appears to be flourishing. Like cockroaches (who can get out of the fridge and go straight onto the cooking gas stove) liars too appear to be everywhere; surviving and thriving.

There is, like a reality show on the television, great tussle to win the top spot. Two of the breed vying for the Numero Uno position are the politicians and the lawyers. Opinions are divided who gets to win; both lie through their teeth, both have thick skins, both have short memories, and both do it with others’ money. But, the fact that many lawyers strive to become politicians puts the latter in winning position. Lawyers can only befool some of the people some of the times; but, politicians can befool all the people all the times. They are in a league by themselves. On another score too the politicians win; which is that lawyers do have to study and acquire a bit of knowledge to become lawyers, whereas, you can start lying your way to becoming a politician without any qualification. Ignorance of the politicians is a bliss; but, if the general public can be perpetually kept ignorant, it is even greater bliss for them.

I think there is no doubt about the third spot: the babus in government offices who tell you that your file has received the highest attention and your case, hence, is about to be decided. These worthy gentlemen and ladies are the most versatile excuse makers. One cartoon showed someone walking into a government office and asking a babu, “No one seems to take any responsibility here. Why doesn’t anyone feel accountable?” The reply given was, “Don’t ask me; ask someone who should know.”

The fourth spot in our compilation of list of liars should go to the film stars. They are masters (as also mistresses) of the game. From big lies about how much they liked the acting prowess of, say, fellow actresses, to small lies about current boy or girl friend, they bring more élan to their lies than to their acting. Their lies often are at the verge of bitchiness; you can’t make out one from the other. They even manage to lie and convince us that that they love the Indian armed forces hiding the fact that movies about the armed forces earn them the big moolah.

The fifth on the list must surely be women literally taking years to answer a simple query related to their age. Some of them confront you with their interpretation that instead of lying they are merely consistent for the last ten years or so by maintaining the same age. These are the only species who goad their gadgets too to lie; for example, their weighing machines and the mirror on the wall.

At the sixth rung are, without too much ado, husbands coming home late. “Darling, in all this sweltering heat, I was getting dehydrated and they rushed me to the nearest clinic (bar). They have a long drawn out treatment (you bet!). Today, they have just given me the first part of the course but, in my own interest, I have to take the full course for the next one year (after which I can surely come up with some other plausible excuse) to get out of this terrible congenital (my father too was good at making excuses!) problem.” Don’t believe me? Well, how can you forget about the man who went to the bar and kept ordering double-martinis. His excuse: his wife had sent him to buy olives!

The seventh spot surely must go to the members upper middle class filling up income tax returns. These are, by the way, the rare breed that tells lies in writing. If all or even some of their lies are to be believed, the IT Department should be actually giving them money so that they can survive!

At the eighth notch should be the weather men. I am putting them so low in hierarchy because I actually feel for them. Weather and Women both start with the letter W and can be unpredictable for men. Hence, these are the only gentlemen caught without umbrellas in driving rain after predicting ‘clear and sunny skies’. They are also in so pitiable a situation that no one believes their truths, let alone their lies.

At the ninth spot are our media personnel. Their style of telling lies is to tell half truths or to ignore any news that does not fit with the findings of the analysis they are presenting. They are often honoured for their efforts at such lies as investigative journalism.

The tenth spot is consistently maintained by the statistics department of the planning commission. These worthy men and women juggle figures that affect lives of the people, eg, people Below Poverty Lines (BPL). I have put them so low in hierarchy because left to themselves they cannot do much damage; but, in collusion with politicians at the Number One spot, much harm can be done and is being done.

Why have I left out Investigators or those in fact-finding commissions? Surely they must be fairly high in the hierarchy. Once again, the reason is that I have made (dis)honour roll of what I feel are independent liars or those who have free-will to do so. Inquirers and Investigators are merely paid authors writing their stories at the dictates of the politicians in power.

You think it is bad? Have a rethink because in a neighbouring country easily the first ten spots are occupied by the government itself starting from the academic qualification of its (un)worthy members to habitual lies about not having sufficient proof about their country’s involvement in terror attacks in India. They even lied about a certain Kasab and other terrorists not being from their country even when all evidence stared them in the face. Lying comes so easily to them that when they say, “We won’t take things lying down” they actually mean quite different from what is ordinarily understood.

So, readers, mine is just an Indian national list. Internationally our neighbouring country is so far ahead in the art of lying that we are mere rookies, all of us.

Should the readers have their own lists or rolls please share with us in the ‘Comments’ below.

IF YOU DRIVE IN INDIA – PART II

This article has my tweets on the thread #ifudriveinindia (Part I was published in Jul 10). Comedy and humour apart, more people die of road accidents in India than in any other country in the world. It is because of our peculiar driving habits. One of the old Hindi movies had this song: “Zindagi ik safar hai suhana, yahan kal kya ho kisne jana?” (Life is a pleasant journey; but, no one knows what will happen tomorrow). Well, whilst driving in India you have no idea of what will happen the next moment. Read on; these tweets may be of some use to foreigners desirous of driving in India or even Indians not yet totally initiated.

If you drive in India:

You would learn the virtues of patience as you go along; it is not important to reach anywhere!
You would become a very spritual person at the end of your journey!
And the road sign gives you a number to call for assistance it would always be engaged.
And carry a map for directions it is false security since many roads and their names would have changed since publication.
On a long journey you would need to know different languages to read road signs in different states.
You should be prepared for the entire traffic to be diverted, even on a highway, for a VIP to cross.
And stop to ask directions don’t go by the person’s words; look at his gestures; try to match them together.
Remember that brake, accelerator, indicator lights, clutch etc are not as important as the horn.
And are thinking of enjoying your journey, you have not been reading my tweets!
You should have a volley of choicest abuses ready to hurl at the other driver who rams into you and starts doing the same.
You should be prepared for vehicles overtaking you from both sides on a single or double lane highway!
And find that the main road or highway has suddenly landed into a river or canal, just enjoy the scenery and……pray!
You have to compete with such traffic as vehicles, carts, animals, people, processions, statues and hoardings on all roads.
Do not be taken aback by seeing about 300 people riding in a 45 seater bus; many will be on the roof top.
And get the impression that drivers all around you are trying to kill you, it is not a hallucination; they are if you are not careful.
And are totally hassled, there is nothing new because all around you there are totally hassled drivers.
Remember that Indians don’t respect road medians and don’t mind risking lives by coming on the wrong side to save 1/2 litre fuel.
Be prepared for perpetual work going on the roads.
Remember we got our freedom on 15 Aug 1947 and we haven’t stopped celebrating this freedom on roads to do anything and everything!
And have to overtake a roadways bus you can only do so when the driver is not looking your way.
You have to drive very carefully all the time as danger lurks where you would least expect it.
And there is only one other vehicle with you on the highway you should never take your eyes of it; else it would surprise you.
You must realise that roads are environmentally friendly and kept close to original state of being rivulet, field, ditch or forest.
And reach home without dents on car, personal injury, and bruised ego, you have performed a miracle.
Remember that upon overtaking you a vehicle will immediately be turning left; it just couldn’t wait to do it after you cross.
You will realise you have very little chance of keeping yourself from becoming mad.
You will realise that there is ALWAYS work going on the roads especially on your lane or your side of the road.
Remember that you will feel safest in a road-roller even if you don’t go anywhere far; in any case in India you should not go too far.
Remember that on Indian roads it is the survival of the fittest, nay, biggest: truck has right of way over car, car over scooter and so on.
The commonest expression that you will hear is, “Yeh sadak tere baap ki hai kya?” (does this road belong to your father?)
And give dirty look to a driver who has done something wrong you are in for trouble. In India everybody is someone big especially in politics.
And park your car in a parking place and go to restaurant or movie; it is as safe as a virgin girl in a colony of rapists.
And get out of crowded city and heave sigh of relief you will realise that your relief is short lived. In India two is a crowd.
And stop to let pedestrians cross, everyone around you will honk to show their displeasure at you for delaying them.
You should remember that hardly anybody cares about lanes; people drive with the lane marking line between the two tyres.
And start going through a One Way Street; it does not mean traffic will not come at you from opposite direction.

IN THE WAR ZONE

No, this is not a review of the play by this name of my favourite playwright Eugene O’Neil. This has got much limited scope: the War Zone called Sector 20, Kharghar in Navi Mumbai. If you had similar war zones in your own neighbourhood during Diwali, I can only add a disclaimer, as is found before movies and books: ‘The resemblance is purely coincidental’.

Everyone’s been warning us that the Maoists are eyeing urban landscape for expanding their war against the state and its citizens. Little did we know that this war would come to us from unexpected quarters: revellers trying to celebrate a certain Ram having returned home safely. My take is that he was lucky he was exiled to the forests; if he was to be exiled to Sector 20, Kharghar, returning safe would have been a tougher challenge.

Initially, during the day, it started with sporadic firing of small arms but enough to make our dog Roger cringe and look for shelter. But soon the calibre of the weapons used increased in inverse proportion to the calibre of the users. By night, unguided missiles, heavy artillery, rockets and grenades had been brought out. The scenes of blood curdling warfare with unintelligible screams of “get them”, “bachne na paaye” (don’t let them get away), “aaj nahin chhodenge” (tonight we shall not leave them) filled the air. Soon, no place was safe for the enemy.

In a distant place called Guantanamo, American investigators used to disorient their prisoners by constant loud noises; so that finally the terrorists would own up their guilt or collusion. But, the kind of torture, Sector 20, Kharghar, subjected its inhabitants to would have put any Guantanamo to shame.

The technological excellence of the raids left us gaping. Like Iraq war, first the targets were softened by continuous aerial bombardment. Tracers were used to illuminate the targets and then it was tchak tchak tchak boom boom boom blast. The enemy could not be seen but must have been running for life. Flushing out operations were the hardest; boom, boom, tchak, bang, wroom.

Just as we thought there was a let up,the door to door fighting resumed with renewed zeal. Sounds of determined explosions continued the whole night. We were in our homes like people cowering in nuclear bunkers, expecting the worst.

At one stage, I ventured out like an intrepid war – journalist and tapped a combatant as young as 14 years old who was about to light up the fuse of serial bombs of a few hundred kilo-tons and asked him, “Beta yeh aap Ramji ke liye kar rahe ho?” (son, are you doing it for Lord Ram?) His reply was muffed in the blast of the explosions but I could understand the essential part of it: He was doing it for fellow combatant Ujjawal, who had taken a break to replenish ammunition from the nearest store.

Another one told me that life depended upon subjecting the enemy to continuous firepower; something similar to Basanti in Sholay: “Ab nacho; jab tak tere paer challenge, tere aashiq ki saans chalegi” (Now dance; as long as your feet run, so will the breath of life of your lover).

To give credit to these warriors, their devotion to duty was so complete that they continued relentlessly the whole night. Basanti would have given up long ago.

In the morning we were gratified to get the news

that Sector 20 Kharghar had emerged the winner in urban guerrilla warfare. It had to face extremely tough competition but the young men of our neighbourhood had fought determinedly and without respite. We are going to honour them in a felicitation ceremony as soon as we have collected a billion old sandals and chappals, one each for the tchak tchak boom boom.

I saw a young warrior returning home at wee hours of the morning, rockets and missiles popping out from his back-pack, grime and grease on his face, and satisfaction of a job well-done. His only complaint was that victorious though he and his gang were, there was shame in returning home with unused ammunition. I assured him that life had not ended for him (even though it nearly ended for us) and that there would be a next time.

I went for a walk at the other end of the Central Park and found a few familiar mongrels. These gathered near a trash mound there and looked pretty inactive and morose. I told them that they did not have to come this far since Sector 20, Kharghar had adequate number of garbage dumps to welcome them. Their reply made me think highly of our young men’s commitment to their cause, “All very well for you to say so. Everyone in Sector 20 Kharghar is very cooperative in throwing garbage everywhere so that we can enjoy. But, last night we were out-manoeuvred by really heavy firing. On one hand you welcome us like proper Indians with trash everywhere. On the other hand, you slam the daylights and even nightlights out of us by war cries, explosions and blasts. You can continue to stay there because you have no choice; but, we will not return until peace prevails.”

Peace prevails? Lord Ram, you have returned after fourteen years of exile and we welcome you. But, tell us when will peace return to Sector 20, Kharghar?

THE GREAT INDIAN TRAIN JOURNEY

The opening ceremony of the recently concluded Commonwealth Games 2010 at New Delhi showcased Indian culture really well. One of the most fascinating items was the ‘Great Indian Train Journey’. Let’s face it; if you are an Indian, trains are as much part of your life as, say, gods, Bollywood films, potholed roads, and cricket. Whether you try to cross a railway crossing by tilting your scooter under the barrier or hang precariously on to the handle bars in the locals, you are never beyond the overpowering influence of Indian Railways.

Indian Railways fill you with all emotions known to man. As you stand in the queue at the reservation counter, from the night before, so that you are amongst the first lucky ones to get ‘Confirmed Reservation’ when the counter opens at 8 AM, you go through a set of emotions ranging from suspense, extreme tolerance, abiding faith in God, frustration, anger, acceptance, and finally untold joy when the clerk informs you that two of your family have confirmed seats and the other two are wait-listed one and two, which you know is as good as confirmed since within the next 60 days there would be many cancellations. It was, you tell yourself, well worth it, to stand in the queue overnight so that your overnight journey in the train would be comfortable.

Even though you have a confirmed reservation, no one can describe the elation of finding your name on the reservation chart on the platform just before boarding the train. Eager passengers look up to these charts in a manner similar to looking for your roll number in the matriculation exam results. Compartment, in both cases, is welcome, and is better than failure. Meanwhile wait-listed and RAC (Reservation Against Cancellation) passengers try to seek the TTEs (Travelling Ticket Examiners); but, like all public servants, these men make themselves scarce and busy elsewhere until you have sorted out most of the confusion yourself. After that the TTE starts the great Indian trick called ‘adjustment’. This is almost like magic: he looks at his chart, looks at you, shakes his head to indicate no berths available, you reach for your wallet to pay for his sincere efforts to somehow find a berth, he looks at you a little more kindly, looks back at his chart, and lo and behold, like a conjurer, pulls out a vacant berth that had earlier totally escaped his attention. You have song on your lips when you return to the family patiently waiting for you in the space between the western style and Indian style toilets.

Now, if only you can find a place for your one trunk, two suitcases, two baskets and one cardboard box containing Bikaneri namkeen, pau bhaji, sweets, parathas, achar, onions, aloo ghobi subzi and two each packets of cheewada and chikki. The people already on the berths near you have filled in every possible crevice under and around the seats and there appears to be no place for your baggage. But, thanks once again to the great Indian trick, all your baggage gets ‘adjusted’ somehow, some of it hanging from hooks provided for clothes, whilst smaller packets are neatly tucked under the pillow.

It is incredible to think after what you have gone through that the journey has not yet commenced. And how do you know the journey is about to start? Well, not merely by the Guard’s whistle and waving of the green flag; but, also by the fact that an equal number of people (farewell parties) have to get out and make place for those on platform who are actually the passengers. An old Punjabi anecdote describes this confusion of mass movement: On the platform a sardar is waving at his friends in a departing train and laughing uncontrollably. When reminded that parting is a sad occasion he replies, “Do you see those people waving back from the train? They are the ones who came here to see me off.”

In the ‘General’ compartment bigger confusion prevails; it is meant for 68 passengers and generally the number is exceeded by a few hundred. In the slowly moving train some are seen half hanging out since they decided to take the plunge at the last-minute and launch themselves on unsuspecting passengers inside who had taken hours to find their seats. They know as the train catches speed they cannot be thrown out and somehow have to be adjusted in the compartment.

Within about an hour, like dust, all confusion settles down. The conversation ranges from the coolie’s attempt to hoodwink people, to the poor decision on Dhoni’s part to have sent Bhajji as a pinch-hitter. Those who did not want to budge an inch to make place for co-passengers are now in animated conversation with them and insisting that they have a bite of the stuffed paratha that their only daughter packed for them. “What does your daughter do?” asks the man appreciatively taking a bite of the stuffed paratha. One thing leads to another and a betrothal is very much on the cards.

From the next compartment when you hear utterances that resemble Chinese, that is, “Cho Chweet“, these are actually meant for the young infant on the next berth. Earlier, the neighbouring passengers were fed up with his incessant wailing, but now that he has been rocked to sleep with the moving train he looks so sweet.

In another part of the bogie there is heated discussion going over a cards game with a man-of-the-street predicting with authority, “Yeh sarkar nahin chalegi” (This government won’t last) and another one irritated with his pontification, “Per Chopra ji, aap patta to pehle fainko; sarkar ko maaro goli” (But, Chopra ji, first throw your card; shoot the government later”.

Then there are these women who are returning from Brindavan and are full of Krishna’s charisma (quite a tongue-twister that). They break out into what they feel is melodious hymn about Krishna, Radha and gopiyan. An old man next to them congratulates himself that he had the sixth-sense or a sense of higher number to have brought his portable tape recorder for just such an eventuality. So he plugs in his ears with the headphones and is partially oblivious of the hymns.

The great Indian train journey, in many ways, is a true reflection of how Indians make peace with their circumstances. So, when they get up next morning and the chai-wallah tells them that the train is running some eight hours late, the general consensus is that it could have been worse.

Finally when the train screeches to a halt at the destination this peace is broken and nobody wants to wait for even thirty seconds to allow passengers ahead of them to get out. It is push, scream, fret, and get-out with all your baggage in flaming hurry as if the bogie is on fire.As you get on the platform with all your belongings and family members, the one thought foremost in your mind is that the great Indian train journey never ends.

Life goes on…

NONE OF US ARE PERFECT, BUT…..

I was the Signal Communication Officer (SCO) of the newly commissioned ship Ganga, named after the holiest of the Indian rivers. SCO’s job is the most thankless job on board a ship; at least it was during those days. Many officers of the ship felt that they could have done wonders in their particular fields of specialization (such as Anti-submarine Warfare, Gunnery, Engineering, Helicopter operations and Missiles) if only the signal had reached them in time. I was soon to learn that signals on a ship are never so important unless – like monthly periods of a maiden girl – they are missed.

It is, therefore, the earnest desire of every SCO to pray that the ship would get all signals well in time. All SCOs’ anthem is the Railway Signalman’s song that goes like this:

It’s not my job to run the train,
The whistle I can’t blow;
It’s not my job to say how far,
The train’s allowed to go.

It’s not my job to let off steam,
Nor even to clang the bell;
But let the damn thing run off the track,
And see who catches hell.

We were going off for two days sailing when just before sailing a signal was received from Dunagiri, a Leander class frigate commanded by the Navy’s most upcoming officer of his rank at that time, Commander Vinay Singh. His ship had completed a refit and he had invited my Commanding Officer together with important dignitaries from the Command Headquarters including C-in-C, Fleet including the Fleet Commander, Dockyard including the Admiral Superintendent, and various other dignitaries from ships and organisations for a dinner party on board at 1930 hours (7:30 PM) on Saturday. We were scheduled to return to harbour at about 2100 hours (9 PM) a day before that, that is, on Friday.

My Captain knew it was an important party not just because Commander Vinay Singh was bright and everyone was already predicting that his thoroughly professional attitude would one day see him rising to become the Chief of the Naval Staff; everyone knew that the party was going to be very well attended and was an occasion to be seen by the C-in-C, ASD and the Fleet Commander.

Everything was okay for us since we were to return the day before the party, enabling my CO to attend the party on Saturday. There was only one problem. The RPC (Request Pleasure of your Company) signal invited my CO for Saturday but the date given was that of Friday. It was obvious that the Communication department of Dunagiri had goofed it up. My CO wanted me to check up and confirm the date just before we sailed. He said if it was going to be on Friday he would like to return a few hours early so that he could attend the party. My course mate Lieutenant Commander Lalit Kapur was the Executive Officer (XO) (second in command) on Dunagiri. I sent one of my sailors to check up from the Communication department of Dunagiri; however, to be on the safe side, I also hopped across to meet Lalit and re-confirm the date. Both, the Communication department of Dunagiri as well as the XO assured me that the party was on Saturday. I came back on board Ganga, told this to my CO and we sailed off.

On Friday we returned at the appointed hour of 2100 hours and proceeded to take up a berth just two or three berths away from Dunagiri. As we made our approach to come alongside we noticed there was a party on in full swing on Dunagiri, complete with party lights, naval band etc. My heart sank. I knew that even while we made our approach to the berth my CO would want to eat me up or convert me into a space shuttle and send me into outer space. Rage was building up in him even whilst he feigned calm in giving the conning orders for the ship. As soon as we were alongside he fulminated. Most of what he told me (or rather screamed) cannot be printed here. However, the softer version was to do with how the bloody communicators cannot be trusted with anything and could easily f— up the simplest of things.

I too was furious. Why couldn’t Lalit tell me about the correct date? I can understand both ships communication departments botching it up. But, why did Lalit had to do this to me?

So, whilst my CO was moping in his cabin I went to Dunagiri to call Lalit out of the party and ask him for an explanation. I reached their quarterdeck and sent the quartermaster to call out Lalit from the party. Lalit came and I proceeded to dress him down for the botch up. He just kept smiling; his smile getting bigger with every invective that I was throwing at him.

Finally, he said, “Well, Ravi, the party is still tomorrow. This is our CO’s idea of a dress rehearsal so that nothing would go wrong tomorrow”.

I returned on board to tell this to my CO. His laughter could be heard at the other end of dockyard.

CHEMICAL COMPARISON

Call me acidic?

Well, you yourself are a base.

And bases you know,

Are alkaline,

That is:

Sour taste, though soapy touch.

Also, my love,

Each acid has a conjugate base,

And each base has a conjugate acid;

So, why are we over reacting?

ADS AND MOSQUITOES

At first glance there appears to be nothing common between the two; but, look closely and you will find various similarities. To start with both keep you from enjoying the scenery or whatever else you are watching, for example, the TV. Then, both have this quality that if you zap one there are many more to reckon with. Yet another similarity is that in a city like Mumbai both are everywhere; there is no way you can ignore them.Mumbai authorities are convinced that the essential reason you are out driving is because you are fed up of ads on the TV and are ready for the real thing, that is, the hoardings. So, if you want to go anywhere, say, the airport, you would find huge ads where you expect the road signs to be. On your way North, after you cross Mahim, there are two small boards guiding you to turn left towards the airport and a pair of helpful cops who assist you in getting rid of the extra money you should not have been carrying anyway. They are placed there because they know people would take the wrong turn in the absence of signs.

In any other developed city of the world, billboards are just a few and certainly not there spoiling the view. But, in Mumbai…well, in a way, hoardings prevent you from the direct view of people doing what they ought to have been doing indoors. If Japan is the land of the Rising Sun, Mumbai is no different; at many many places it is the land of the rising bums after they have finished doing their job.

Why only Mumbai? You can drive anywhere in India and you can see we have ruined the view of most picturesque sites, lush green fields, and hills by erecting huge hoardings.

Ads on the TV? Anyone who has watched a movie on any of our movie channels will tell you that we have ten minutes ads after every ten minutes. Essentially these make no difference to your understanding of the plot. In most Hindi movies you know the ending even before the movie starts and you are there only to watch the rain-dance. However, most of your patience wears out when there are ads just before the long awaited ending.

You want to watch a cricket match? Well, these days they are able to put in up to seven ads between two overs. In the IPL matches they even give each team Strategic Time-out so that they can squeeze in another thirty ads. Listening to songs on music channels is another experience in catching up with the latest brands being sold. Just in case you are one of the rare watchers actually interested in a match or a song, it frustrates you to observe that whenever the ads are displayed the volume automatically goes up.

I guess there is one aspect in which the similarity between ads and mosquitoes ends and that is that – if you have seen ads on the TV about it – any number of sprays and coils are available in the market to keep the mosquitoes out; but, there is none to keep the ads out. Your ‘choice’ has already been made like those people in the villages of Bihar who find their votes have already been cast when they reach the polling booth after walking tens of miles.

IF YOU DRIVE IN INDIA – PART I

This article has my tweets on the thread #ifudriveinindia. Comedy and humour apart, more people die of road accidents in India than in any other country in the world. It is because of our peculiar driving habits. One of the old Hindi movies had this song: “Zindagi ik safar hai suhana, yahan kal kya ho kisne jana?” (Life is a pleasant journey; but, no one knows what will happen tomorrow). Well, whilst driving in India you have no idea of what will happen the next moment. Read on; these tweets may be of some use to foreigners desirous of driving in India or even Indians not yet totally initiated.

If you drive in India:

You should remember that Indians neither keep to the left nor to the right but keep to wherever they feel they have least resistance.

Remember that honking is not just for emergency; it signifies, e.g., that car behind you is in hurry whilst you stop for the red light.

And the vehicle ahead gives right or left indicator, it doesn’t mean he wants to turn left or right. He may be just testing the situation.

You can only survive by being as consistently chaotic as the others; everyone expects you to do wrong!

Remember that at traffic lights the vehicle at the end of the lane will try to be the first to cross the lights.

Please get a piercing toned horn fitted; you would require it more than any other instrument, e.g., brake, indicators, and wipers.

Remember a stopped vehicle on roadside is dangerous; it would suddenly start and come in the way when you are about to cross.

You can be a menace to others around you by following traffic rules since no one else does!

You should always inform your next-of- kin because chances of survival are the same as being in the way of stampede by mad bulls.

And a traffic cop stops you, be prepared to shell out a few hundred bucks because all traffic cops in India demand bribe.

In the cities, remember that at traffic lights and toll plazas all vehicles would be jumping lanes to be ahead of the next vehicle.

You should know that people are always crossing the roads including highways and traffic doesn’t have exclusive right of the way.

And stop at a red traffic light, you should know that not everyone would stop. In the absence of a cop many would just go.

You should know that a person, cow, auto-rickshaw, dog, push cart, beggar, vendor etc can come in front of your car any time.

Road maps are of little use because names of roads and streets often change in honour of political leaders.

Remember that a vehicle being overtaken will start overtaking another just at that moment and you will be embarrassed or land up in dangerous state.

Remember that if sometimes you actually find road signs these may not tell you the right direction.

Remember that authorities feel that hoardings are more important than road signs.

And have to go anywhere be prepared to ask hundreds for directions since Indians don’t believe in road signs.

And meet with an accident, pray that you land up in hospital with minor injuries before the other party can break your bones.

You will never be the same person at the end of your journey.

ROGER OUT

No, this is not the end of radio communications; Roger is the name of our Labrador retriever. Like any retriever he is happiest when he is out. He is all of eleven now and is tamed a bit; but, when he was small, keeping him indoors was a major task. He would take off in a direction we would least expect him to and all of us would run after him enacting the wild goose chase. He always came first in those races but we were the firsts to tire ourselves out. Minutes later when we would return, huffing and puffing, with soiled clothes, bruised hands, arms and legs, he would hover around excitedly to savour the effect of his latest jaunt.

When he was very small, during one of such feral runs, he fell into a pond next to the lawn. I saw him and thought he was struggling to keep himself afloat. So, with my clothes on (there was no time to remove) I jumped into the pond and rescued him. I dried hi m with a towel, all the time muttering sympathies and reassuring that all was going to be well now that I had done the chivalrous thing. However, no sooner had I finished drying that he made a dash for the pond again and there he was happily swimming with an accusing look on his face for having spoiled a good thing that he had accidently discovered.

His love for the water always kept us on our toes and always wet. We took him to a beach; Roger did not like it that we were taking time to settle down and get into swimming dress. So, no sooner had we taken off the leash, that he became part of the marine life, as far away from our reach as possible. Most people on the beach were left wondering why our family loved to be in the sea… with all clothes on.

When out for a walk Roger is convinced that there are hidden treasures to be found under the most inaccessible rocks, thorniest bushes, and most inhospitable swamps. One has to be on total alert when walking near grass or water. Like advice given to drivers on Indian roads, you take your attention away for a split second and you will be surprised to see the mess you will find yourself in. At the end of it there is no way you can get angry with him because he has perfected the innocent-ididnotdoanything-look. More often than not he expects to be patted and fussed over for his sincere efforts.

Many a times Roger has put me in embarrassing positions. He would walk at his normal brisk pace and then slow down immediately behind a lady walking alone. The lady would give furtive and accusing glances because it would very much appear like stalking. My muttering of, “Good boy, Roger, lets walk faster” would be seen by the lady as a ploy to blame my reprehensible act on a poor innocent dog. The more it would take to get him to cross the more would be my mortification. And the moment we’d cross, and I thank God for having avoided a scene, Roger would stall like a car with a flat tyre. I try to become invisible on such occasions but it does not help.

Roger is the darling of all the children and I do not know what they see in him.
“Uncle can we touch him?” a girl would ask.
“Yes, but why do you ask?” is my normal response.
“Because he looks so ferocious”
“Ah, then why do you want to touch him?”
“Because he looks so cute, too”
So, that’s Roger for you, a true Geminian’s dog.
Roger, out.

MUMBAI RAINS

Now that the monsoons are here in Mumbai again, I keep thinking that there is no other season or weather that can fill one with as deep and different emotions as the rains. There is a little something in these for everyone.

Hindi movies have always used Saawan or rains for varied purposes. The most common is the longing that the village belle feels for her lover who has gone to pardes (out station) and has not returned even when the romantic season is here. Taste this: “Saawan ke jhule pade hain, tum chale aayo (Swings are out on the trees during rains; come to me, my love”; or “Saawan ke din aaye, beeti yaadein laye..(Rainy days arrived again; bringing with them lost memories”.

As far as titillation is concerned, there is nothing like rain to wet the saree of the heroine and give alluring glimpses of her sumptuous assets. The sensuousness of a Bollywood actress is often measured against the scale of her revealing herself whilst doing the rain dance. The heroine sings that her heart is going “dhak dhak” but actually that is the effect of the song and the dance on the audience.

Drops of rainwater falling over a pond and causing small ripples are an enchanting sight. And if one is to watch these whilst listening to the crickets and the plonk plonk of the drops, one would be filled with an overwhelming desire to be out walking in the drizzle. A boat in the lake in soft drizzle is another picturesque sight.

In a city like Mumbai or for that matter any Indian city facing perpetual water shortages, rains signify the abundance of this scarce commodity. Many people just walk in the rain to have a bath they had promised themselves long back. Many leave buckets and pans in the open to fill these up as never before.

Rainy season is a favourite for unplanned holidays or breaks from work. It is because Mumbai’s transportation system comes to a halt with anything but light rains. Schools and colleges are closed and offices are forced to let off their staff either early or for the days when it rains heavily. Walking on the roads is the most dangerous exercise one can indulge in. As you gingerly find your way on the flooded roads and you only manage to find your foot in the pothole you have luck on your side; you manage to return home with minor injuries. However, if your foot finds an open manhole (such manholes are often left open by the municipality to add to the adventure of being in Mumbai) you are instantly one with God.

Rains are also a good excuse for not doing anything or for postponing things. After you have chosen your furniture at the neighbourly shop and paid the advance and you await delivery, the rains break out. You are left high and dry, nay, low and wet. “Let the rains get over”, your friendly shopkeeper informs you, “and I will make sure your sofa set is delivered promptly”.

Rains in Mumbai also result in essential cleanliness of our squalid surroundings or at least some of the muck is hidden in the waters. The perpetual dust settles down. Since we have this compelling urge to litter, rains instantly carry our wrong-doings away from us. Since a large number of Mumbaiites are used to urinating, spitting and defecating in public places, rains promptly absolve us of the guilt of our irresponsible conduct. In this way we can continue to blame the authorities for not making our areas hygienic and mosquito free whilst assuring ourselves unrestricted use of the freedom we won so dearly.

All other seasons you face on your own but there is great togetherness in the rains. Don’t believe me? Well, try being the only person who carries an umbrella when it starts pouring and see how many people will engage you in close conversation under your umbrella. You suffer together waiting for the BEST (named so that you won’t call them WORST) buses to arrive, shifting from one end of the bus stop to the other as the rain changes direction with the breeze. A kind of kinship is cemented that you had never dreamt of. In one of the Mumbai ads, a man instantly marries his son off to a girl whose father was kind enough to provide him shelter in pouring rain.

And then there is family-togetherness. Rains are the best season for the lady of the house to be making and serving maalpuras, pakodas and other fried stuff whilst the rest of the family watches TV in knee deep water. No guests are expected during this weather and you can have all the goodies to yourself. Conversely, you can avoid going to grouchy friends by the handy excuse of rains, “ All of us were ready to come and be with you for the bhajan-kirtan (hymn singing) and then it started raining”.

Rains are thanked profusely by our local milkman; in other weathers he has to depend upon the unreliable municipal water to make his fifty litres into eighty, but, during rains he does not have to do much to increase his earnings. Many Mumbai families stash the raddi (old newspapers and magazines) during other seasons and sell these during the monsoons when they absorb moisture and their weight increases.

Rains are loved by the Mumbai media ever starved to break news. During other seasons there is nothing much to report. But, during rains the media can forever indulge in such populist topics as trashing authorities for being insensitive to people’s basic needs.

Our dog Roger loves the Mumbai rains. The duration of his walks increases and he just loves to wade through pools formed on the walkway. If he could write he would write to the Mayor thanking him for having such pools everywhere. The Mumbai media would hate him for doggedly taking on their watch-dog role.

With all this, there is nothing like Mumbai rains. If you have stood under the shelter of a tree with a paper cone holding singdana (roasted peanuts) or bhutta (corn roasted on coal), you are bound to break into song, “Ai dil hai mushkil jeena yahan; Yeh hai Bombay, yeh hai Bombay meri jaan (O’ my heart, it is so difficult to live here; it is Bombay, my love)”.

ONE GOOD ADVICE DESERVES ANOTHER

How we admire the wisdom of those who come to us for advice. Indeed, some people are convinced that rendering advice is a fundamental right at par with such other rights as Right to Speech, Right to Religion, and Right to Property. Whatever be a person’s condition, these advisors are convinced that he or she would benefit from their (unsolicited) advice. Should the concerned person then do the unthinkable of not taking the advice, it is invariably followed by an ‘I-told-you-at-that-time-but…’ attitude.

I don’t know what the pecking order amongst the gratuitous advisors is but the real experts in this field are the ones who render medical advice. These professionals are armed with advice ranging from simple cough and cold remedies to cure of something as serious as cancerous growths. First of all, don’t get me wrong; these are the people who really feel for you and wish you well. Their hearts bleed to see you lying on the hospital bed. Their concern for you is so much that they would do anything within their means to make you better. Their mood is somber when they subject you to careful visual examination after depositing roses and the customary ‘Get Well’ card at your bedside table. And then comes the verdict, “You look good. You don’t look ill at all. But these days who can tell? My aunty also had the same problem a few years back. Everyone kept saying how she was improving. I was the only one who told her to get an MRI test done since I had read on the Internet that sometimes the malignancy doesn’t show in blood tests or X-rays. If only she had listened to my advice. But, you don’t have to worry. I am sure everything would work out right in your case. One can’t keep getting MRIs done just because someone tells you to. Bat on, Ravi, and don’t you worry about Lyn at all. We shall look after her.”

So after cheering you up when these good Samaritans leave, getting an MRI done becomes so much of a priority with you that you wonder if you should be spending the night without getting one done. You remain awake the whole night, tossing in the bed from side to side. In the morning when the doctor tells you that they have decided to discharge you as the tests have found nothing wrong, the ominous warning about ‘malignancy not showing in blood tests or X-rays’ makes you miserable. So if you are not able to convince the doctor of the need to get (an urgent) MRI done, you somehow elicit from him as to from where you can get one done privately on your own.

There are experts on every conceivable topic that you can think of. They can give you advice on how to invest your money, where to go for dinner, vacations and shopping, the best suited careers for your children, and, how to run the cricket team, navy and the country. If only Dravid had listened to them and brought in Agarkar at the crucial moment, the results of the match would have been different! Surely, Vajpayee must have been blind to overlook their advice on US of A. “And mind you”, they would tell you with great authority, “Manmohan appears to be committing the same mistake.”

How devoid of colour life would be if we did not have these people offering us advice. But, have you ever noticed that the guys who give you good advice are never around when their advice fails? At the very moment when you want to have a word with them regarding the hare brained idea they talked you into they are probably busy finding another gullible man and advising him. In any case, even if they were around they would probably tell you that you did not follow their advice in the manner they had envisaged. Alas.

A man once drove his second-hand car to the dealer and said, “Can you please tell me, once again, about the virtues of this car that you sold me. Sometimes, I get very dejected, you know.”

The hard-core advisors, however, take all post-advice criticism in their stride. An insurance apprentice once complained to his senior that he had followed the latter’s advice regarding persistent approach in door to door selling of life insurance and that he was badly insulted. The veteran looked the rookie in the eye and said, “Son, I have been in this business for forty-five years now. I had doors slammed in my face. I was abused, slapped and hit. But, insulted? Never.”

How I wish I had put a rupee in my piggy bank for every bit of advice that was rendered to me and I had the good sense to ignore. I would have been a very rich and/or famous man by now. But I, the sucker that I was, followed the advice, for example, to buy shares with my hard-earned savings just prior to the market crash caused by the activities of a certain gentleman called Harshad Mehta. Earlier they had advised me that the safest investment was real estate and I bought a plot of land in Punjab’s most upcoming city. To borrow a phrase from a retired Admiral – the ink was not yet dry on the sale deed – when another gentleman called Beant Singh decided to kill the Prime Minister. Suddenly Punjab was in turmoil and my golden investment was not even worth the paper it was written on. In the recent past I stood as a prosecutor in the closeted atmosphere of a courts-martial room, day after day, whereat everyone (there are generally only twelve people in a CM Room) looked at me accusingly except the stenographers (who had their backs to me and hence were not looking at me one way or the other) and I remembered the advice given to me some thirty-five years back: “Join the navy see the world; join the navy meet the girls.”

So, to cut a long story short, here is my advice to all you ladies and gentlemen:

• Don’t let anyone build up to his or her advice. You are in for a jolt. If you follow it you are jinxed and if you don’t it would keep rankling in your mind. This is particularly true of the forwarded e-mails asking you to forward these for good luck or else.

• Since I notice that despite my advice you are still reading this article, my next advice is that ask the person giving you advice if he has ever followed his own advice.

• If you are really bold, counter a person’s advice with one of your own. For example when they tell you that Methi soaked in water is the best cure for gastric problems, tell them, “My aunty tried that for a number of years but what cured her finally was Karela juice with raw garlic.”

• Remember that experts and professionals really don’t need advice. When a person asked a famous sculptor advice on how to carve an elephant out of a rock, he was told, “Take a large piece of rock and chisel away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.” Life is as simple as that.

BREAKING NEWS – INDIAN STYLE

A midshipman was being trained by a Captain on the art of breaking news. A telegram was received for one of the sailors that his father had expired. “Let me see you use your imagination”, the Captain told the snotty, “and break the news to the sailor in the most indirect fashion”. The midshipman went straight to the ship’s broadcast and announced, “Do you hear there? Do you hear there? This is the Midshipman of the Watch speaking. Seaman Kuldip Singh, your father has expired. I say that again: Seaman Kuldip Singh, your father has expired.”

This was really the most insensitive approach and the Captain immediately berated the Midshipman, who promised to do better next time. Another opportunity came his way within a week when a telegram was received about Radio Operator Manickam’s mother having passed away. This time the midshipman wasn’t going to make the same mistake. He had the complete Communications Division standing in a line on the quarterdeck. He addressed them about the importance of having parents. And then he told them, “All those whose mothers are alive, take a step forward.” Noticing Manickam he said, “Don’t be too sure, Manickam”!

Truly, there is a great art in breaking news, good or bad. However, the way our news channels are breaking news these days it is evident that news too has become a commodity to sell. Most of the breaking news items leave us wondering whose lives are being affected with that particular news, or if it is really news. Breaking news item should have an element of unexpected or at least out of the ordinary. Surely, if the whole world already knows about it or was expecting it, it can’t be breaking news. Let us consider the news worthiness of the following actual and imagined breaking news items:

• Such and such enquiry report constituted by the government finds no evidence of malpractice/corruption/conspiracy.
• Indian Hockey team returns from such and such championship without winning a medal.
• The American President is ready to solve the West Asia problem.
• Pak says they had no hand in the recent massacres in Kashmir; or, a captured Jihadi in Srinagar reveals he was trained in POK.
• The pollution levels of Indian cities reach dangerous limits.
• Minister says he will prove his innocence in “people’s court”.

Indeed, the everyday ritual of breaking news on news channels reminds you of other phrases starting with ‘breaking’ such as ‘breaking wind’, ‘breaking into song or dance’. An American was attending a dinner hosted by an English lady. Over the dinner table when she loudly broke wind, a gentleman on her right got up and said, “I am sorry, please excuse me.” The American was nonplussed until the etiquette (of not embarrassing the lady) was explained to him. So after an encore by the lady, the American did not wait for the gentlemen to the left or the right, but shot up from the seat and said, “This one is on me”!

We too would like to tell the news channels how horribly out of place their breaking news items are. The flaming hurry to somehow beat the other channels whilst breaking news would put even the American dinner – guest to shame.

“WE ARE TRYING OUR LEVEL BEST”

“We are trying our level best”; what a lovely expression it is. The first thing noticeable about it is that it is typically Indian, almost at par with such great Indian innovations as “Law would take its own course”, and “We are servants of the people who have elected us”. The use of this expression fills us with hope, satisfaction and joy. Someone, somewhere is thinking of us and – you guessed it – trying his level best to get us out of the situation we are in. For example, we may be stranded on the road for nearly two days, with flood waters menacingly swirling around us, but as soon as we hear this reaction from the authorities, we do a jig in sheer joy. “Aha”, we scream, “now things would improve. We could have been worse off if they hadn’t been trying their level best.” Here are a few other equally amusing uses of this expression:

Doctor to Relatives of Patient: Please don’t lose heart just because his heart, kidneys, liver and pulse have failed. I am trying my level best to make him win the next Olympics Marathon.

Husband to Wife: Disregard my seeming disdain for the last three hours. I am trying my level best to understand your point of view.

Son to Father: I knew you would get carried away by my current level of marks, which universally resemble eggs. Don’t you realise that I am trying my level best to improve?

Taxi Driver to Passenger on the Road to Airport: It has been only ten hours since we left Navy Nagar and already we have reached Worli. As you can see, I am trying my level best to reach the airport at the fastest.

Indian Politician to General Public: I accept the fact that 63 years after independence, half our countrymen are living below the poverty line; that we don’t have drinking water, electricity, houses, food and schools. However, don’t ever forget the redeeming fact that we in the APNA (All Promises No Action) Party are trying our level best.

Agriculture Scientist: In the last seventeen years of our experiment, this piece of land may not have produced a single grain of rice. But, since I am trying my level best, we shall soon have bumper crops.

Indian Hockey Team: None of you should be disheartened that we were first from the bottom in the last tournament. But, can’t you see we are trying our level best and next time, if the umpiring, playing conditions and cheering improves, we may just win the gold.

PWD (NH): It may be that the current state of roads resembles the craters on the Moon but is there any doubt in your mind that we in the PWD are trying our level best?

Lawyer to Client: You are being very cynical about the Indian judicial system simply because your case has taken twenty-six years to settle. You never appreciate my trying my level best to obtain the verdict in your favour at the earliest.

Accounts Officer to Widow of Employee: Madam, everyone is full sympathy for you for the loss of your husband. We are trying our level best to complete the pension formalities. As soon as the file is obtained from the secretariat……

How nice the world would become if people won’t try their level best? How nice would it be if things are made to work in India, that is, Bharat?

Category: Humour