More on HT's new design

Couple of friends called up to say the new HT design floating on the net is a red herring.
I know.
But HT is going for a redesign and it's going to be soon. Whether it is this or some other design, we'll know in about a month.

Michael Keegan, where art thou?

This is what the new design of HT looks like, says ContentSutra.

Pretty cool, I think.
But will the Mario Garcia-designed paper survive the sub-editor? My guess is if the Design Department cannot hold its own, the paper will be twisted, turned, upturned, bettered, worsened by the subs on KG Marg and Mahim.
HT is one of the best-looking newspapers in India, all thanks to Michael Keegan, and Ashutosh Sapru and his team. Will Garcia change all that?

A little more to the Right, please. Or we blow your brains off

The only place you'll find tolerance these days is in a dictionary.
The world's going flat and everybody is scared. Scared that followers of their faith will be exposed to other cultures and might end up liking them. Scared that youngsters these days do not believe in stereotypes and judge a person for what he or she is -- and not because she or he is a Yusuf, Suresh or a Cindy. Scared that in the pursuit of wealth and fame they will not bother about what this society was built on -- faith and intimidation.
Found a wonderful article written by Johann Hari, which, by the way, appeared in The Statesman and the editors were arrested because it "offended sensibilities of the minority community". Here's the link to the piece.
Back in Delhi, few of us bothered about the left- or the right-wingers. In fact, some of us in the newspapers had decided not to give publicity to the incredulous threats that were held out by the Bajrang Dals, Shiv Senas or the RPIs. But here in Karnataka, things are very different. The Karnataka Rakshana Vedikes, the Hoysala Senes, the Sri Ram Senes have been given a free run and you can't help but take note. If you don't, they beat the shit out of you.
Ultra-nationalism and patriotism is returning, guys. The last time it happened, we saw a World War breaking out. What will it be this time?

Mehngi hui sharaab toh, toddy toddy piya karo

Got my first real taste of Karnataka the other day when we dusted an old bike, tanked up a brand new Bullet and hit the highway at 60 kmph. We were on a mission -- a toddy mission.
All plans of leaving Bangalore by around 6 am had to be abandoned as some of us in the group (mainly, yours truly) are not morning persons and had to drag themselves out of bed.
Some 45 km from Bangalore, the small town of Anekal takes you back in time by about 10 years. By the time we reached Anekal, it was afternoon already -- and we were running behind time.
It was quite an experience to move through fields and come upon a tentshack where the toddy man had kept his stuff in an earthen pot. He dished out the stuff in mugs -- not the ones you get in an upmarket bar, but the ones Indians use in toilets to wash their sorry asses after eating a whole lot of chilli and fried food through the day. The taste was odd -- drinking toddy in the afternoon is not a good idea as it gets fermented. It was a cross between buttermilk and beer, but it tasted okay. Half-a-mug was enough to make me lose sensation in my hands and legs and I was sort of flying all the way down to Pearl Valley.

A couple of beers at Pearl Valley (which, by the way, has a small stream where water drops fall like pearls) and we were all set for a hearty lunch. Saw a lot of monkeys (not just the simian kind, but also some right-wingers who were berating the V-Day culture).
All in all, it was a good day trip and I was riding a bike after a really long time so it was kinda nice (even though my ass gave up and even now I have to check once in a while if it's still on).

Mutalik the Brutalik?

The day freedom dies its slow and painful death in India, Pramod Mutalik’s name will be etched in gold on the epitaph. The self-appointed custodian of Hindu culture and the Sri Ram Sene’s national president (his calling card says “Margadarshaka”— the guiding star) has turned Karnataka — Mangalore, in particular — into a Hindutva laboratory and also unleashed a monster that will devour many before it is tamed (if ever).
And Mutalik’s monster has already tasted blood — and it’s loving it. On Friday, a group of radicals attacked a Kerala MLA’s daughter and her Muslim friend who were travelling in a bus together. The radicals had been tipped off allegedly by the bus conductor. Mutalik has denied involvement and he could be telling the truth. He is too busy visiting the corridors of power and ensuring that nobody in Karnataka celebrates Valentine’s Day. No wait, it’s okay if Valentine’s Day celebrations are confined to churches, he says.
And then there is this preposterous threat of getting couples married or made to tie rakhi on the spot, depending on what plea you take when confronted by Mutalik’s goons. The idea of a no-cost, no-frills wedding in these times of economic slowdown may sound like a good one, but frankly, the joke has stretched a bit too far.
What is it that Mutalik doesn’t like about Valentine’s Day?
“It destroys the family structure,” he says, as he sits down in my office for a cup of coffee. “The West has short-term relationships and that is why they need a specific day to celebrate love. We should not follow Western culture. In India, marriages are for a lifetime and love for your partner is a never-ending affair. And it should be shown in your home,” he adds.
In order to understand how Mutalik gets the courage to say such outrageous things and get away with it, one needs to look at the number of outfits clamouring for attention in Karnataka today.
The state bears testimony to the fact that as the world becomes flat, more and more cultures are looking inwards, insecure about their future.
There is the Karnataka Rakshana Vedike, the Hoysala Sene and the Jai Karnataka, which basically fight for Kannada, its borders, culture and the “ill effects” of outside influence.
Then there are the Sangh Pariwar outfits and the Sri Ram Sene, which claim to uphold “Hindu dignity”.
In Mangalore, the Jamiat-i-Islami is forcing Muslim women to cover up — youths go around colleges threatening girls to wear burqa or face the consequences.
Karnataka Forum for Democracy (KFD) fights for Dalits and the minorities. Recently, one of the terrorists arrested for the Surat bombing plot revealed how he had tried to infiltrate KFD.
In such a competitive scenario, the attack on women — the lot that could offer least resistance — was the easiest way to get noticed.
Prasad Attavar, the state vice-president of Sri Ram Sene and the first man to justify the storming of Amnesia (the Mangalore pub), had been leading a crusade of sorts against beef — but the campaign was not going anywhere.
The attack on churches last year against “forced conversions” got them a lot of publicity and now the battle against “pub culture” seems to have completed the circle for the Ram Sene.
“There is a mafia out there which wants to exploit girls and we will not let that happen. Women need to be protected. In our culture, women have to be respected like the Gods,” he continues.
Hang on a minute. Isn’t this the same man whose goons beat the living daylights out of girls at the pub in Mangalore?
“What we did in Mangalore was widely appreciated. The other day, a lady called up Prasad Attavar and thanked him for beating up her daughter.”
Mutalik claims that the lady said she did not know that her daughter frequented pubs and the Sri Ram Sene’s daring act had opened her eyes.
Of course, Sri Ram Sene had not planned it that way. Mutalik and his men had thought that they were taking on helpless girls.
What happened instead was that wards of many VIPs (one of them is said to be close to a central minister) were present at the pub.
None of the victims has come out to lodge a formal complaint for obvious reasons (the man who came to the girls’ rescue has said that he is receiving threatening calls), but a war is already on between the minister and everybody else who matters.
“It’s the sex and drugs mafia that is promoting Valentine’s Day,” he says to bring me back from my thoughts.
Pray, how?
“So many girls and boys gather in colleges to celebrate Valentine’s Day. This is what the sex and drugs mafia want.”
By this time, one of Mutalik’s cronies launches into a tirade against Western culture and values.
The paradox is too glaring to miss — he is the only one dressed in Western wear.
“Earlier, only Western women figured in pornographic movies. Now, you can find videos of girls from Mangalore and many other districts of Karnataka.”
Somebody has been doing his homework. Some time back, a wave of MMSes of young girls strutting their stuff flooded the airwaves. It was a mafia all right, but then all women visiting restaurants and hotels in the coastal town of Mangalore got branded.
The music has died at most Mangalore hotels and the regular clientele can hardly be seen now.
Mutalik was able to bring about this change in a matter of days (many had been trying it for years) because he learnt his craft early. Sangh blood runs in Mutalik’s arteries. He spent his childhood in Hukkeri, a small town in Belgaum district, where his father was a teacher and an active Jan Sangh member.
Mutalik moved to Belgaum to pursue B Com and joined Navnirman Kranti and then the RSS. He idolised Praveen Togadia, the VHP’s International General Secretary. He made a name for himself in the BJP by leading the struggle every Independence Day to hoist the tricolour at the controversial Idgah Maidan in Hubli. But when Mutalik asked for his pound of flesh, the BJP refused to give him a ticket. He then parted ways with the party. Soon, he fell out with Praveen Togadia also over the construction of a Hindu Bhawan in Hubli and floated the Hindu Rashtriya Sena. He even fielded candidates in elections, but with disastrous results — nobody polled more than 300-400 votes.
In 2004, his followers gathered at the Maruti temple in Belgaum where the Sri Ram Sene was born. Mutalik and controversy intertwine like vines.
In September last year, he raised quite a few eyebrows when he announced that he had an army of 700 suicide bombers ready to protect Hindus from Islamic terrorism. That number would be raised to 5,000, he said.
Last month, a gang of hardcore criminals led by Basavraj Jambagi, an associate of Mutalik, was arrested for planning and executing the blast in Hubli court in May 2008. The other members of the gang are also alleged to be Sri Ram Sene activists. They wanted to assassinate certain Karnataka MLAs and police sources say that they killed their associate — deliberately — as part of the dry run.
Mutalik, who for years struggled to be identified as the custodian of Hindu culture, has, with one bold stroke, taken away the Hindutva cause from the BJP. The government in Karnataka may not be as radical as Mutalik, but both Chief Minister B S Yeddyurappa and Home Minister V S Acharya could not help but agree with him over the “detrimental effect” of pub culture.
“So what is it about pub culture that you particularly dislike?”
I ask him as he prepares to leave my office.
“Are you okay with drinking at home?”
“It’s not only about pubs. Alcohol is anathema to our culture. If women drink during pregnancy, their children suffer from birth defects. If they are habitual drinkers, their ability to bear children is affected. Women cannot be allowed to drink.”
Medically, there is nothing to argue about here.
But who gave Mutalik the right to be Brutalik?

The amazing adventures continue with No Kaam Sene

Part I : The amazing adventures of Eve Rao and Ever Reddy
Before Eve knew it, her honeymoon was over. Both were quick comers. And didn’t know what to do after the romp.
Married life was a radical change for Eve. It wasn’t just the change from East Coast to West Coast. Not just the Bay of Bengal-Arabian Sea problem. She had been married into a Reddy family transplanted from Cudappah (which is famous for land-grabbing, murders, extortions, so on and so forth) to Mangalore. A family that read only Deccan Herald. And that made Eve Reddy feel icky. She yearned for The New Indian Express, which is published from 14 centres and has a formidable presence in south India.
Days after Eve and Ever returned from their honeymoon in Karwar (beautiful place, an hour from Goa), she could still smell the feni-and-fanta on Ever. And she hated it. Just like the 501 pataka beedi that he was so fond of. She tried to point it out to Ever Reddy but he was never ready to listen.
Sitting in a corner after Ever Reddy had done his thing, Eve caught sight of The New Indian Express. Ever had brought fried fish head for her, and wrapped it in her favourite newspaper, not realizing Eve’s life was to change forever.
Eve started withdrawing into a shell from that day on. The sex was still A-class but the nagging had begun. She used to scold Ever for sitting around paan shops, playing cards and smoking his 501 pataka beedi. Ever was an unskilled labourer and his services could be availed by anyone on payment of Rs 100. Sometimes, he would get a bottle of the local brew as well.
Eve wanted him to get a pucca job and not hang around all day with rowdy elements (that’s the favourite phrase in south India) of the No Kaam Sene. But Ever would have none of it. He liked his saffron-clad buddies. And the going was good, he often told her.
“Look, Oriyas are coming here in their droves. They are taking over all our fishing jobs. They want to work hard. Let them. All we need to do is slap them around for our hafta. We are the nakaam sene (it was the No Kaam Sene, but Ever was never good at pronounciation).”
The No Kaam Sene had been observing for a while that young men and women were coming from “naarth India” to study at Manipal University and were going to pubs and bars.
No Kaam Sene had to contend with “apna haath jagannath” (loosely translated: self service) when these young men and women were free to change partners and were enjoying themselves. There was also another dimension to the hole (okay, whole) problem: No Kaam Sene had been inspired by the BJP and wanted to use Hindutva to get a seat in Parliament or the local legislature. That inter-caste marriages had wrecked the social fabric of Mangalore was an added advantage. They found just the right ingredient to start a fire.
One fine day, members of the No Kaam Sene decided to attack a church (out you beef-eating, pork-chomping, Bible-reading, peace-loving guys, they said) in a very peaceful neighbourhood in Mangalore. That had a domino effect. Soon, churches were being attacked in Bangalore and the No Kaam Sene had finally found a cause.
When Eve got to know of Ever’s role in the attack, she questioned him once. She had had Christian friends in school and knew it was wrong. The second time she pointed it out to him was when Ever went limp in bed.
“See this is because you attacked all those innocent people. God is punishing you.”
Hearing Eve make fun of her masculinity, Ever beat her black and blue. And he quite liked it. No resistance, he thought. Those Oriyas sometimes hit back, he said to himself.
And then it became a regular affair. He was practicing for bigger things in life, Ever told Eve.
Once when he demanded that Eve spread her legs for her, she refused.
“Never, Reddy,” she thought, and after being beaten black and blue, went to sleep. Next morning, before Ever could wake up, she was gone. Forever.
“Who needs a man anyway.” she said, thinking about the article she had read in The New Indian Express, which is published from 14 centres and has a formidable presence in south India. She had read that sperm cells could be produced from a woman’s bone marrow and -- technically -- there was no need for a man for getting pregnant.
In fact, it was this development that had got the No Kaam Sene worried. And that is why they had decided to attack churches (the West – and Christian doctors -- had made the discovery).
Ever was a little distraught after Eve left. Now he became Ever Reddy to attack women.
One fine evening, he and other members of No Kaam Sene assembled outside a pub which had became the rage within about 20 days of its launch. It was called something, but I forget.
Ever’s practice came in handy. He entered the pub, murmured a prayer with his friends and then went on the rampage. He slapped a couple of girls around. Unluckily for him, at least two of them turned out to be daughters of VIPs, one of them the ward of a friend of Women and Child Development Minister Renuka Chowdhury’s. Soon, national media was condemning the attack on women in Mangalore. Ever was picked up for questioning and sent to judicial custody. No Kaam Sene suddenly had a lot of work to do – torch buses, damage trucks, attack pubs.
Ever had suddenly become a national hero (or villain, depends on which way you look at it).

Tomorrow: The rise and rise of Ever and No Kaam Sene

The amazing adventures of Eve Rao and Ever Reddy

Eve Rao had a simple life. Growing up in Kadambadi, some 90 km from Chennai, paddy fields, the sun-kissed land and the frothing sea were her constant companion. Eve was growing into a beautiful young lady, just like the land she tilled – tender, fertile and ripe for harvesting. By day, Eve would dream about her knight in shining armour, striding through the paddy fields (which had windmills, by the way), making a mess of the harvest and sweeping her off her feet. Her long, coconut oil-smeared hair would flow with the breeze as the horse and her knight (who turned out to be a lanky, mundu-wearing, paan-chewing, drinking-himself-silly dark chap) galloped into the fields. By night, she would dream about getting wet in the paddy fields with her amorous lover, making love, and a lot of noise, under the stars.
Her heart missed a beat one fine Wednesday morning when her father announced that he had fixed a match for her. Eve started thinking about a man with broad shoulders and a broader outlook. Eve was no big fan of Tamil movies (which was kind of strange) but she did often fantasise about singing and dancing around trees and changing her outfit with each changing stanza.
At this point, it is necessary to describe Eve a little better to ensure continuity of this story. The dimple-on-her-chin-devil-within girl loved reading. Her favourite newspaper was The New Indian Express, which, by the way, is published from 14 centres in India and has a formidable reach in South India. She did not particularly like the Deccan Chronicle, riddled as it was with poor grammar. ToI had not yet come to Tamil Nadu even though it had grand plans (she called it cock-teasing, God knows why). The Hindu was seriously good -- it never failed to put her to sleep and was much better than counting sheep anyway. She loved Mills and Boon, just like young women of her age. Joseph Heller was her favourite, even though nothing happened to her after reading Something Happened.
As Eve put one her face powder (it is an obsession with most Tamilians), pouted her lips and checked whether the lipstick was quite alright, the boy (nay, man) arrived. He was ushered in, served buttermilk and murukku and Eve’s father tried to make him feel comfortable.
And then Eve was summoned. Her heart was beating faster than a coconut peeler having a go at the nut (which is incredulous). Entering the room, Eve tried to catch a glance at her knight (he was dark, seriously!).
You can understand the moment only if you have seen a coconut peeler at work. It was like that last blow on the tender skin when the water spurts out (if you didn’t get the analogy: premature ejaculation).
“Reddy,” he said.
“Ever Reddy,” he added.
Was he a fan of Ian Fleming? We will never know.
Eve went weak in the knees. That husky voice. Those broad shoulders (and a broader outlook too, hopefully). That 6 foot frame.
Rajinikanth, Clark Gable, Cary Grant, James Dean, Suriya thought Eve.
Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, thought Ever Reddy (it was his name, not his surname that made Reddy that way).
It was love at first sight, the mundu notwithstanding.
The date was fixed. August 15, 2005. Eve wanted to break free (and her hymen, of course). Ever Reddy was ever ready to oblige.
Just 35 moons had to pass.

Tomorrow: Eve and Ever’s honeymoon.

The truth about Satyam is out there

I was in Delhi on the morning of Whacky Wednesday, reading horror stories about a young woman who had been violated by a group of boys in Noida. The lady in question, a 24-year-old MBA student of an upmarket B-School, was returning from an upmarket shopping mall with a friend of hers when the boys, returning after a cricket match, cornered the duo at a secluded place. The boys forced them to another secluded place outside their village and forced themselves upon her. The girl was courageous enough to report the matter to the Noida police and the culprits were arrested soon after.
Nothing shocks me anymore about Delhi and its suburbs but this incident was way too terrible. The village elders justified the boys’ crime saying city slickers have spoilt their culture. How dare this man have one woman in his car, they asked, when boys in their village go to schools where there is one girl for around 15 boys.
What’s the big deal, they asked.
Just as I was shaking my head in disbelief, TV started flashing news of the biggest fraud of our times. (Note to self: Really?) Satyam’s Ramalingu Raju had been lying through his teeth about the financial health of his company. Just as Warren Buffett, the legendary investor, thinks silver is the final frontier, our erstwhile tycoon thought land was the best bet and was accumulating vast tracts of it – over 6,000 acres, to be precise. This, apparently, led to his fall from grace.
What’s the big deal, I asked.
Agreed that he committed a breach of trust and conspired to cheat people. Many of our PSUs went sick more or less in the same fashion.
But whom exactly did Raju cheat?
The investor? The man who looked at the balance sheets of the company and invested his hard-earned wealth and then some to benefit from India’s IT story? Probably not. Because most investors in India are gamblers anyway, making money out of intra-day trade or by profiting from a company’s growth but exiting at the first sign of trouble. And in any case, some are still buying the Satyam stock after it hit Rs 6.90 on Friday coming down from its peak of Rs 542 in May last year.
The Indian janta? The people who used to crow about how home-grown companies such as Infosys, Wipro, TCS and Satyam are taking on the world? Probably not. Because public memory is short and most won’t skip their breakfast just because one Raju managed to fool all the people all the time (well, almost).
The media? Those beacons of light who religiously report that a substantial number of the richest in the world are Indians? The people (yours truly included) who got fooled into going gaga over Satyam winning awards for corporate governance? (Of all the things, imagine!) Probably not. Because they’ll have their revenge anyway.
My guess is that the only people Raju really cheated are his employees. Those 53,000 people (note to self: update the figure after the real audit) who toiled day and night for him. Those 53,000 people who thought their lives were made and bought cars and homes on huge loans looking at their 8-figure salaries. Those 53,000 people who were the darling of all marketers then but no bank wants to touch now.
The young woman in Noida will probably never get over her trauma and will forever be scared of young men, especially when she sees a crowd.
The employees of Satyam will probably never get over the shock of daylight robbery and will forever be scared of balance sheets, especially when they look for the next job.
And the investor, the Indian janta or the media? Oh, never mind them. They will find many more Rajus and Satyams to slap around in the days to come.

Singapore's sixth sense

“Please sit to be waited”.
The writing was on the menu. What else did you expect? “Please wait to be seated”?
Actually, that is exactly what I expected and the sudden turn of words caught my attention. I looked around to see what it was.
The Insanity Restaurant.
Ah! That felt like home. It was by the riverside (or rather canalside) in Clark Quay, a throbbing drinking/eating joint where the music never stops and the beer flows like water.
On an earlier trip to Singapore, I had noticed a syringe in the public loo at Clark Quay and was determined to find more interesting things. In Singapore, drub peddling is punishable by death. Everything else is punishable by a debilitating fine. Pressing the emergency button in a train without an emergency attracts a fine of $5000 (Singapore). That’s roughly Rs 1.6 lakh. I guess that’s why there's no nuisance in Singapore. There is an amazing amount of freedom that the government allows provided people behave. You could buy a six-pack of beer from 7/11 (which is open 24 hours in Singapore. Somehow defeats the 7 am-11 pm concept the stores are named after) and park yourself on the retaining wall of the river (oops, canal). As long as you don’t bother anybody, nobody bothers you.
So there I was. Trying to find things more interesting than syringes in Clark Quay while music was blaring from all sorts of pubs/restaurants. (There’s one called The Clinic. Wheelchairs double up as chairs. Operating tables serve as, well, tables.) It so happened that an Indian fellow talking loudly on his cell (as most Indians do) was walking ahead of me. There was this girl standing in a corner, dressed very casually. The moment she saw this loud Indian, her arms arched back and she was trying to tie her hair into a bun. Well, that wasn’t her primary intention but I don’t want to be too graphic. She asked the loud Indian something, he refused and she looked sullen. She turned to me and, I must admit, I turned red. She was a fairly attractive girl who looked more Indian than a Singaporean. She asked me if there was something she could do for me.
“I’m looking for a taxi,” I said.
Her eyes brightened.
“I’m going home,” I said. Actually, it sounded more like “Mama, I’m coming home” to me but I guess she got the point. She quickly turned and started talking to another man who was headed that way.
I hurried back towards the Insanity Restaurant. Just as I turned a corner, there was a heavily made-up girl.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi! How are you?” I asked.
“Where would like to go tonight?”
The girl was pretty blunt, I must admit. But it sounded too much like Bill Gates’ “where would you like to go today?”
“Home?” I asked of her, sheepishly.
She didn’t even bother to respond.
I had my two pints of beer and while I was heading towards the taxi stand, I saw both the girls standing together, still looking for customers.
Today, I realize why Singapore is much ahead of us. Those guys knew then (in August) that a major downturn was coming (no pun intended!).

Laidback life in Laccadives

Read this amzing piece in the Daily Telegraph about travel in Lakshadweep, earlier known as Laccadives. The clutch of islands are located of the coast of Kerala, India and have been left untouched by commercialisation (which is just a wee bit sad). The capital Kavaratti is out of bounds for foreigners (I didn't know that!). Read it here and drop me a line at ravijos@gmail.com. I will tell you of a place which is not of bounds for foreigners, is pretty close to the mainland and is yet way out there. Enjoy the piece on Laccadives called Islands of innocence

Mahabalipuram rocks!

If you manage to turn a blind eye to the busloads of fussing Indian tourists, the occasional lecher who thinks earth girls are easy -- and those from the West doubly so – and the scores of salesmen trying to gyp you and even offering their services as an escort, Mahabalipuram is a nice place to be in for a day or two.
I rate it as one of my favourite short-haul destinations (but way below the ones I liked when I was in Delhi). Not just because it is close to Chennai (just about 55 km) and the drive is beautiful (the Bay of Bengal on your right hand side and palm groves on your left) or because it is a haven for the foreign tourist (from backpackers to the well-heeled). But because it stands testimony to what man can achieve.
History is engraved into the rocks in Mahabalipuram. In fact the whole town looks like it has emerged out of stone.
And what beautiful structures they are. Be it Krishna's Butter Ball (picture below) which gives you the creeps if you stand under it (it looks like the ‘ball’ can slip any time) or the Shore Temple which is one of the seven (or was it nine?) temples built in this ancient town. You can still get a glimpse of the ones submerged in the sea but you have to be a daredevil to do that. Here's how:

Hire a fisherman's catamaran for about Rs 500 ($13, roughly) to take you into the sea. If you are a foreigner, be prepared to be asked for something like Rs 2,000 ($50, approx). Don't forget to ask him for life jackets and a rope. About one nautical mile into the sea you will see bubbles coming out of the water. At first I thought it was a whale or something (that was my first time in the sea, you see) but the fishermen were wiser. This is the place the temples were built and now the sea has engulfed them.
And from that spot, you see the Shore Temple, the lighthouse behind it and a faint glimpse of all the other structures carved out of rock. The structures are monolithic, mind you, which makes you wonder about our predecessors’s skills even more.
Coming back to the overcharging foreigners are subjected to, there is this Five Rathas temple in Mahabalipuram (see pictures of the complex belolw).

The entry to this temple for Indians is Rs 10 (25 pence, roughly). But for foreigners it is Rs 250 ($6, approx). No additional facilities are provided to the foreigner though which I find not only strange but also unfair. I am an Indian but I am ashamed of this mentality of our government.
The other problem I have with the government is the way it maintains our heritage. There are no signboards to tell you the history of the place, there are very few toilets around… the list could go on forever.
But once you visit the temples in Mahabalipuram all those rants just fade away. All the monolithic structures here are about 5 minutes walk (at best) from each other. You could even hire a bullock cart to go from spot to the other and relive the village way of life.
It should not take you more than a couple of hours to see all the structures, even after extracting information about them from the local guides. So then what do you do in Mahabalipuram?
This is what you can do.
There is the sea so you could lie on the beach all day, if you don’t mind a bunch of fishermen or tourists staring at you. Or you could get into the shacks on the beach and try some fresh seafood and wash it down with a mug of beer. (Most hotels/restaurants in Mahabalipuram only stock beer. If you are looking for a shot of vodka or a glass of wine, head to GRT Temple Bay or Fortune Beach Resort.)
Or you could sit in Nautilus Café or Moonraker and watch the world go by in slow motion. These cafes are not too far from the beach (about 400 metres, say) and many like them also have hammocks where you could just let your hair down, catch a book and let the beer flow.
Or you could book yourself a room in Ideal Beach Resort, some 5 km from Mahabalipuram. The resort is beautifully done, has a private beach, has all the facilities like Internet, Ayurveda massage etc. You can even rent bicycles here to take a leisurely ride into Mahabalipuram and explore it at your own pace.
Or you could try out the kinkier stuff. If you’ve ever been to India you will realize there is no dearth of such activities in places frequented by foreign tourists.
Or you could do what I do in Mahabalipuram. After strolling on the beach all day, I head to GRT Temple Bay and have their buffet. It’s a lovely hotel with a private beach, a café right by the sea, a great swimming pool and fantastic service. After dinner, I zoom back to Chennai and think about the day well spent.
Try it sometime. Take it from me, you won’t be disappointed.

Next week's post: Weekend in Pondicherry

Why you should drink only wine

The wine lobby is pushing its products hard. They tell us that wine fights cancer, stems ageing, keeps your teeth white etc etc. Sample some of the stories:

Researchers have found that resveratrol, a compound present in the skin of red grapes used to make wine, curbs the effects of ageing. The natural compound is already known to having anti-cancer as well as anti-inflammatory properties. Read the full story here


A new research conducted by scientists at the University of Virginia Health System has revealed that a compound found in Red wine called resveratrol starves cancer cells by inhibiting the action of a key protein that feeds them.
Read the full story here
Researchers have revealed that components found in red wine can help in preventing and treating inflammatory periodontal diseases.
Recent studies have also shown that red wine, and particularly grape seeds, possesses anti-inflammatory and anti-tumor activities and prevent heart disease. Mechanisms by which these phenolic compounds exert their protective effects include their anti-oxidant properties. Read the full story here

All that is very nice. The only question I have is: Won’t you get the same benefits if you eat grapes.
But then, getting wasted is soooo heavenly.

Never take things for granted (a cool video)

Terrible, terrible tragedies

First the cyclone in Myanmar. Then the massive quake in China. And now the blasts in Jaipur.
Looking for pictures to print in the paper is becoming an increasingly tough task these days. I've seen a lot of deaths -- both in person and through the tragedies we journalists have to cover.
But the past few days have been unbearable. To give you an idea of what we look at day in and day out and try to bring the most telling, the most moving picture:

This woman's knees gave way the moment she identified her child's body.


Parents grieve over graves of children who died when a shool building collapsed after the quake. These people had been forced to adopt the one-child policy. Now they have nothing to live for.


And just to give you a sense of how powerful the China quake was:

This boulder, nay a hillock, came crashing down because of the quake.


And then there are images from Myanmar. I selected one of a woman who gave birth two days after the cyclone struck. Don't have the picture now, but essentially her story was this: She can't lactate because there is no food. And the baby is being fed contaminated water from a drain as there is nothing else there.
And the fucking junta is not letting in aid. Of course the fucking world wants to send in aid and take fucking control, that's why the junta is so fucking scared. But what the hell. Is this what children are supposed to eat. Is this how they are supposed to live?


The only saving grace is that we still have people like them who work for others' welfare till they drop:

Let the Games begin, with a coup

At a concert in Shanghai on March 4 this year, Icelandic singer Bjork ended her performance by shouting “Tibet! Tibet!” People attending the concert felt very uneasy when the shouts came after the singer’s passionate performance of her song “Declare independence”. They did not boo, but left the Shanghai International Gymnastic Center hurriedly.
Bjork had effectively set the tone for the protests that were to follow during the Olympic torch relay.
Spirited efforts were made by Tibetan protesters and their supporters all over the world to attract attention to the China’s 58-year rule over the formerly independent region.
But nothing proved more devastating for China as an incident a few days back.
A factory in China’s Guangdong province, which neighbours Hong Kong, was found to be producing flags for the Tibetan government-in-exile. The order has been placed abroad, possibly by Tibetan protesters. Thousands of flags had been made and packed off to Hong Kong, where the red, blue and yellow mast with two lions is not banned.
The factory was raided on April 20 after some workers found the flag familiar. They looked up television footage of the protests and checked on the Internet and their worst fears came true – they had been helping their arch-enemies in their protests around the world and in Hong Kong where the torch arrived on Wednesday.
For the Tibetan who considers the Dalai Lama to be his true leader, this meant a coup d’ etat of sorts.
For the staunch Chinese, it was a slap on the face with only one saving grace – that the Chinese government’s propaganda and crackdown had ensured that the average Joe does not even know what the Tibetan flag looks like.
For the intelligent journalist, it was a Page One story.
Francis Ford Copolla’s Kundun, Heinrich Harrer’s Seven Years in Tibet, and Bjork’s support for Tibet at the Shanghai concert pushed support for the region several notches higher. But the average Delhiite is already sold on the cause – most decision-makers in the corridors of power today were fed on a staple diet of chhang (rice beer), momos and dirt-cheap apparel in Majnu Ka Tila, the Tibetan homeland in Delhi.
So it was no surprise that the Tibetans had their hopes pinned high on Delhi, which has the highest number of Tibetans – and supporters of their cause – outside of Tibet. The Indian government allowed them to take out a parallel torch relay, something no other government did or could do. But the protesters were hopeful of a stronger, more symbolic protest.
Word on the street was that they had roped in at least one of the participants of the torch relay to run with the flame in hand and a “Free Tibet” banner on his chest. But the elaborate security arrangements and the truncated run ensured that no such thing happened.

A hair-raising experience

Going for a haircut is one of my favourite pastimes in Chennai. The salon owner promptly switches on the AC and the TV playing a Tamil movie – or better still -- Sun TV-type sexy siren songs – as I slouch into the chair and let him have a go at my mane.
Despite the general calm I experience sitting on that chair, I have, at least thrice, noticed that my instructions to the hair-dresser go unnoticed, unheeded. I like to wear my hair really short – especially the sides and the back -- and I tell him that before I slouch into the chair and he switches on the AC and the TV playing the sexy siren songs. But everytime I come out of the salon looking like a baboon.
He keeps the hair long from the sides and back, crops it short from the top and leaves a tuft of hair that curls up like Dev Anand’s.
So this time I wanted to make sure that I got a haircut the way I wanted it – so I mustered up enough courage to tell him how to do it. (As an aside, you have to be really careful not to anger your barber… you know the kind of ‘mistakes’ they can make)
So I started off in English.
“Short from the sides and back, short from top so that I don’t need to use a comb.”
“Wokay”. Just like he says everytime I tell him that.
“No. Listen. Do you know Hindi?”
I knew I had pissed him off. H stared at me for exactly three seconds.
“Maloom. Maloom. Bolo.” (I know, I know. Speak up) and then he exhaled, just like someone does when too much adrenaline wells up in your body. And that happens just before you hit out.
So I repeated the instructions in Hindi.
“Wokay.”
And he started off.
Within five minutes he was done.
And I was again looking like a baboon. My hair long from the sides and back, short from top and a tuft curling up like Dev Anand’s.
“Wokay?” he asked as he showed me a mirror.
“No short from the sides and back. Short from the top like I told you so.” I said all that in Hindi.
He started off again. Finished in five minutes. I was still looking a baboon. And you know the rest about how my hair looked.
“Short from the back and sides,” I said.
No wokay this time. He sighed and called his partner. They mumbled something to each other and my barber then nodded his head.
I can bet my life it was something nasty that they discussed because my barber took out his razor.
“Not with a razor, I don’t want it that short.”
So the two partners conferred some more and my barber took out what we call a “zero machine”. It’s used to give you a haircut like Aamir Khan’s these days.
“No. With a scissor.”
If this scene were playing out in the The Godfather, this was the time my barber would have pulled out a string and garroted me – just like Peter Clemenza did to Carlo Rizzi in the movie.
Thankfully, I was in a salon in Chennai with no Sicilian connections whatsoever. I doubt very much if my barber has seen The Godfather, however film-crazy this state is.
So I walked out content that I had stood my ground despite the threats and got the haircut just like the way I had wanted it.
Back home I found that my barber had had the last laugh. He cut one of my sideburns short despite express instructions not to touch them.
Well, every barber has his day.

No fast lanes in Chennai

“Why Chennai?”
“Are you alright?”
“I can get you a job here in Delhi if you want.”
These were the typical responses I got when I told my friends I was shifting to Chennai from Delhi. Later when they realized I was serious about moving to the South, the responses were something like this:
“Let me know if you need help down there.”
“Any day you want to come back, just give me a call.”
My dear friend Pallav was okay with the decision after the usual “WHY?” He had studied and started his career in Chennai so he knew a bit about the place. He told me that the city was nice. “It is a metropolis without the trappings of a metro.”
I couldn’t fathom how right he was till I landed in Chennai.
Coming from a place which is forever on the move, Chennai was a bit of a shocker. I go to my local grocer every day to buy bread, eggs etc. The grocer is about 200m away and it takes me about half-a-minute to get there (yes, environmentalists. I am your greatest enemy. I drive even for a distance of 200 m). But it takes me about 40 minutes to get a loaf of bread and half-a-dozen eggs. Why? Because the shopkeeper talks on the phone for 10 minutes before moving his butt. Then even as he is picking out the eggs, his friend – the shopkeeper next door – says something to him and they start talking (BTW: In Chennai, even when two people are joking, to an outsider it sounds like they are about to come to blows.)
This is a great city.
At department stores – even big chains like Reliance – you have to wait in queue for about 20 minutes before you are served. And it’s not because there’s a huge crowd. Because the guy or girl supposed to be manning the counter decides to take a chat break. And then, even the manager can’t get her back to the counter.
Nearly every day, I drive behind an auto going at a speed of 15 kmph. When I somehow manage to overtake from the wrong side, I find there is a long trail of vehicles following a couple of cyclists who are talking and not giving anyone the way. The road ahead of them would be completely empty. And people behind the cyclists wouldn’t care either.
I thought money talks everywhere. It can’t utter a word in Chennai, it seems. I often ask my watchman to go to the market for me. I offer him money. But he just refuses. I ask a lot of my Men Friday to do something extra for me in return for a generous tip. They don’t bother.
This is a strange city.
But there's one upshot to it. I'm now thinking of buying a cycle or a scooty for a lazy ride around town. When I can take it easy -- even take the cycle to office. How many of us in Delhi or Bombay can think of doing that.

My years in Pakistan

A lot of people keep asking me about my experience in Pakistan – I spent nearly 4 years in Islamabad. So I decided to write about it here, even though the Pakistan I lived in was very different from the one we read about in the papers now. But anyway…

The first time I went to Pakistan was in March 1992. I took a train from Delhi till Amritsar and then a taxi till the Attari border. You have to cross the border on foot – but only foreigners or diplomats can do that. The average Indian or Pakistani tourist has to either take the train (Samjhauta) or get on a flight. It was a beautiful day – the sky was overcast and as people in Delhi know March is a beautiful month in that part of the country. If you drive down from Amritsar to Islamabad you do so on the GT Road (Grand Trunk Road, which Sher Shah Suri traveled on). The drive from Amritsar to Attari is through lush green fields – Guru Nank Dev University, one of the premier universities in India is the last major landmark on the way.
We crossed the border around 11 am and like I said, the sky was overcast. The border post is under huge trees and there is greenery all around. That day was also the first time in my life I saw No Man’s Land and the barbed wire fence along the border.
At Wagah (that’s the name of the Pakistani border post) we got into an old 70s Toyota automatic. At that time the Maruti revolution was sweeping India and the taxis here used to be battered Ambassadors that had seen a lot of action when militancy was at its peak in Punjab.
It’s a 50-minute drive from Wagah to Lahore and I spent the time trying to soak in as much as I could about Pakistan. There was a weekly market on the way. Vegetables were stacked neatly on racks but right in front were animal innards. I wondered how customers would buy their veggies when intestines were lying all over the place where they were supposed to stand. It was disgusting to say the least – Paskistanis eat a lot of red meat so I guess even the stink of rotting meat would be okay for them but I found it downright revolting.
The journey from Wagah to Lahore was uneventful. At Lahore, we got into an AC video coach and surprise, surprise! The bus was a Mercedes and they played Hindi movies throughout our journey from Lahore to Islamabad – some 300 km and 7 hours away.

A LITTLE BIT ABOUT ISLAMABAD
I used to live close to Faisal Masjid, built by King Faisal of Saudi Arabia, in Islamabad. The mosque is beautiful. The floor is so squeaky clean that you can see your face in it. There's a replica of the holy Mecca and Medina there. Nearly everybody who is anybody in Pakistan owns a bungalow near Faisal Masjid.
Then there is the Jinnah Super market -- the most upmarket in Islamabad. You can pick up the most exquisite -- and the most expensive -- watches, jewellery, apparel, shoes from here. This market turns into a major hangout at night after the shops shut down and is a hit with youngsters.
Super Market -- which houses the famous bookstore, Mr Books -- is about 5 km down the road from Jinnah Super. Mr Books is famous for two reasons -- it has the best collection of books in Islamabad and it was from this shop that Omar Sheikh, now on death row for his role in Daniel Pearl's killing, picked up a couple of books before he transformed into a "liberal" Muslim to lure Pearl into his trap (this is what Henri Levy says in his book, Who killed Daniel Pearl).
Then there is Aab Para, another marketplace, albeit a little downmarket. You can find Chinese good in hordes here. A little down Aab Para, there is a weekly market called Jumma market. As the name suggests, it comes up on Fridays on an open ground a little ahead of Aab Para. You can find pickles, carpets, spices, dry fruits, clothes -- both used and new, poultry, vegetables etc. from here. People generally go to this market to stock up for the week.
The Covered Market (called so because it is housed in a covered enclosure) has a lot of good things to offer too. It mostly has smuggled goods and whatever came from Afghanistan in those days.
All these markets fell in the order given above from my home to the Senate.
The biggest market was called Blue Area. It was a straight stretch for about 5 km or so. White goods and electronics items was the speciality of this market. It was also the commerical hub of Islamabad.
I am talking about nearly 14 years back, so things might have changed. If anyone of you has the latest update, please let me know.

WHAT THE PAKISTAN CONNECTION DID FOR ME
I was still in school when I first went to Islamabad. When I returned to Delhi, all my classmates -- kids I had known since Nursery -- had a different attitude towards me. Some became too polite, others hostile. One of my friends asked me whether I was a Muslim. I was taken aback -- did my name not sound Hindu enough, I asked.
"Then probably you are a Pakistani Hindu," he said.
I decided to leave it at that.
For the next months or so, I pretended that I was a Pakistani and used to abuse everyone in class, calling them Indians. Some got really angry but no one really protested -- they were probably scared of a "Pakistani" (a lot of you will probably stop reading this blog forever now, but let me get this straight. I was in High School then and you do silly things in High School, don't you?)
But what was more interesting was the kind of reaction I used to get from people in Pakistan ezpecially when there was a India-Pakistan cricket match.

(I have to stop again now. Please check this blog tomorrow)

Too hilarious for a title

I went to the Whirlpool showroom after I had been cheated by Next Shop -- a multi-brand electronic goods shop. Next had sent me a used and much abused washing machine and refrigerator. So I spoke to Whirlpool and they asked me to get in touch one Mr Muthukumar, who was in-charge of Chennai operations.
I spoke to Mr Muthukumar's subordinate one evening and next morning I reached the showroom.
There were a couple of salesmen at the showroom, but not Mr Muthukumar's subordinate.
I asked one of the salesmen for Mr Muthukumar. He did not speak English, so the other one came to my aid.
"I am here to meet Mr Muthukumar," I said.
"Mr Muthukumar not here," the salesman said.
"What about Mr Maniam (the subordinate)?"
"Out of station. Can we help."
"Yes. I am looking for a fridge and washing machine."
"Yes. Please look."
After inquiring about the price and generally whiling away my time, I asked for Mr Muthukumar again.
"Muthukumar not here, saar."
"Well, where is he."
"Up."
"WHAT?"
"Yes saar. Dead. Expired. No more."
I was shocked. I had spoken to his subordinate on his cellphone just 16 hours back. How tragic, I thought.
"When did it happen?"
"Six months back saar." The salesman had put on a solemn face.
"What? But I spoke to him last night."
Silence.
After 30 seconds. "Then he must be alive saar."
Then turning to the other salesman: "Who is Muthukumar?"

Chennai and the North-South divide

The first few days in Chennai very chaotic, to say the least. I could not understand what people here said, be it the autowallah or the humble employee in office. The first time I flagged down an auto and askedhim if he would go to Ambattur (an industrial estate in Chennai where my office is located) he just nodded his head sideways. I thought he didn’t want to so I walked away. He called out.
“What happened saar.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to go.”
“No saar.”
“Okay, I’ll look for another auto.”
“No saar. I’ll go”
“OK. I thought you said no.”
“Yes saar.”
“So, will you take me there or not?”
He made an obscene gesture with his hand, which I guessed meant, “just sit in the freaking auto”.
And off we went.
A couple of days later, I reached office for the morning meeting. Finding nobody there I asked my boss’s secy if the meeting was on.
“You are coming for the meeting?”
Which meant that the meeting was on and I hadn’t missed it.
“Yes,” I said.
“Sorry, it’s not happening.”
“But you just said…” I realized that the present continuous tense would prove to be a continuous torture for me.
And another day. I walk into a conversation about booze. A nice bloke is telling the others: “We are looking for a liquor shop, no.”
That was interesting. Keep talking man.
“But we are not finding any place…”
Oh, it was something that happened in the past. In English, we would say something like: “We were looking for a liquor shop but did not find any…”
But then this is Chennai.

In Chennai, they can’t be fair
Autowallahs are complete louts. But in Chennai, the word lout takes on a completely different meaning. The moment the guy realizes you are from up north, he’ll start asking for Rs 10 extra for every turn of the wheel.
Like the other day when I went house-hunting in Anna Nagar, a posh colony closest to my office. I told the auto guy I had to go the Reliance Fresh outlet in Anna Nagar. The house I was to see was a few steps ahead. He asked for Rs 40 for a distance of 4 km from where I flagged him down, but I agreed. When he reached the Reliance Fresh outlet, I asked him to go a bit further down the road – just 20 paces, to be precise. Pat, he asked for Rs 50 when I got down.
“Rs 10 extra saar. You say Reliance Fresh. I am coming forward.”
“Then go backward. You have fleeced me enough already. I will not pay you a single penny more.”
He made that obsene gesture and drove off.
Later in office, a colleague who had seen similar gestures, asked a local man what it meant. The gesture was a combination of what you do when hitching a ride and when you want to tell somebody to jerk off. The Local Man told us that it meant what we thought it did – jerk off. But then he clarified. If somebody does it once, it means “What?”
But when they repeat the gesture several times?
It means “What the fuck,” the Local Man said.