INDIA: PERSPECTIVES

Sitting on the 22nd floor of a building two blocks away from my office, I gazed at the plethora of lights shimmering on the Frankfurt skyline. The last ray of sunlight was being retracted away from this part of the world and yet I could not see the moon making its way upwards. The sky, now a hue between deep blue and black, arched over a maze of Victorian houses and modern commercial complexes - some of them towering higher than the one I was in.

I could hear soft music playing in the adjacent hall, sometimes punctuated by the clattering of glasses, or the sound of collective cheering and laughter. The air inside this segregated room at the corner of the floor smelled mildly of wine and cheese. A circular puff of smoke entered my line of sight from the right and slowly wiggled its way across. It collided with where the hauptbahnhof was plotted on the window pane and disappeared. I could feel someone touching my arm gently as I heard a question.

"Cigar?"

Maria enquired smilingly as she offered me the roll of tobacco, with her elbow resting on the large round beech table that occupied most of the room. A thick white smoke was oozing out from the left corner of her lips.

When you are in the company of people you have only recently met, it becomes difficult to judge what would be a good way to refuse a polite offering. The only person I knew in that group was Adam, a colleague from office, who had insisted I accompany him to a graduation dinner with a bunch of his friends.

"It will only take an hour", he had said, "and then you can go back to work. Besides, they need some advice and I think you are the right person. I already told them you are coming." And that is how I had met this motley group - Maria, Philip, Eric and Gabriele.

Not wanting to become one of those epidemiology data points I so often work with as part of my profession, I chose to decline the cigar humbly with a "No, thank you" and a smile in return.

"Are you sure? This is special. You should at least try it once. It's difficult to find otherwise."

"Actually, I don't smoke."

With a casual upward movement of her shoulders, she passed the roll to Philip, who gladly accepted and slowly took a puff.

"OK. What would you like then? How about a Martini? Or would you prefer a Heineken?"

"Well, I don't drink either."

As if taken aback by my response, she conjectured - "Really? You're from Delhi, right? Based on what I know, alcohol is quite popular in your country. In fact, I have a lot of Indian friends and my image of a typical Indian guy is one who drinks and smokes all kinds of stuff all night and then wakes up next morning with a lot of headache and a lot of regret."

"Well, then I guess I'm not your typical Indian guy. I'd rather have fun seeing a drunk Beercules than become one myself. And to be honest, I think you haven't met so many of us to have a substantial sample size for your hypothesis. Besides, there are states in the country where the government's attitude towards liquor is similar to its attitude towards the polio disease."

"Yeah, this guy is boring", Adam interrupted with a grin. "Except for his wicked sense of humour. And, as per internal company sources, his dancing skills."

"Oh, that is interesting!", Maria chuckled.

"Don't be surprised", Eric jumped in. "I recently spent two weeks traveling to various Indian cities; which, by the way, was super cheap. It seems the locals there have good dancing skills in general. Maybe they learn from their Bollywood movies where the music videos take up half of the run time. I once went to a discotheque in Bumbay. People there were dancing like crazy, throwing their arms and legs wildly in whatever space they could find in that packed hall. I think we Germans are more restrained when it comes to dancing, but the Indians like to go all out."

"Yes, I guess that is an innate talent we share, although I wouldn't speak so highly of me. Nevertheless, you should come to one of our marriage processions and see for yourself", I proffered to the rest of the group.

"I've been to one in Day-lee. That is quite a sight, with the horse and the dresses and the blaring 70's music." Adam winked his approval, and the others looked like he had piqued their interest.

Eric, although was unfazed. He looked at me and then continued, almost in an accusatory tone.
"I have a question for you though. Why do people in India rub their bellies against your back whenever you are standing in a queue or a crowd? And then they keep pushing you like a lawn mower. I found it everywhere - whether it be the discotheque, a cinema theatre, a railway station or a superstore. It is very annoying."

Treading carefully, I suggested:
"I don't think anyone would do that intentionally to get some depraved sense of pleasure, or you were living amongst some really plump people. Not that I agree it happens so often, but a rational answer would probably be 'due to space limitations'. India's population is 15 times that of Germany, whereas the land area is only 10 times. Also, the relative size of urban areas compared to total land is much lesser than in the developed countries, resulting in a high population density in the cities. Any small urban facility is therefore not large enough to accommodate so many people. The cities you have been to probably include metropolitans like Delhi or Mumbai, each of which are home to upwards of 10 million citizens and guests. And life in these cities is both difficult and busy; time is precious and patience costly. That explains the likely cause for your unpleasant predicaments."

"I get it. But can't they just stand apart by an inch? Especially when the weather is so hot", Eric retorted.

Observing that the argument was not going in a favourable direction, Philip intervened, much to my relief. "Let's order", he proposed. "We can't talk for so long on an empty stomach. What would you like to have, Arnav?"

"Any good vegetarian food that you can recommend?" I acknowledged his timely intervention with a silent nod.

"Oh, I'm not the right person to answer that question. My only recommendation would be that you should start eating meat if you want to stay here for long."

"Nah, I'm fine with living on Italian and Mexican cuisines. Besides, I have figured out a few Indian places I can go to every now and then. I can suggest a few you guys might like as well."

"How can you eat that food every day? It's too spicy for my liking." It appeared Eric wasn't quite open to the idea.

"Spices and condiments are a part of our tradition. I grew up having salts and spices in my meals whereas you are probably accustomed to food with little or no flavour additions to the primary ingredients.  So I prefer some garlic or chillies in my food while you don't. It stems from a difference in culture."

"I personally like the Spaetzle with Asparagus", Gabriele spoke for the first time. "It's a local dish made from cheese, specially grated in the form of noodles. Pretty good. Wanna try? It's a little tricky to handle with the knife and fork, but I can teach you."

"Sure. Would love to." I thanked her for the gesture; kindness is a virtue I value highly.

She responded with a warm smile and went back to reading the menu. As the others discussed their own preferences for dinner and drinks, the language suddenly switched to Deutsch. I could only make out a few phrases in between the sentences.

Assuming that I could no longer contribute effectively due to my limited domain (and linguistic) knowledge, I diverted my attention towards the panoramic view from the window. Little white dots had started appearing in the sky; which was otherwise unchanged. The number of cars plying through Frankfurt's streets were now fewer in number. An occasional pedestrian walked though one of the many crossroads in this perennially illuminated city. A junkie tiptoed through a dark alley, swaying like Santa Claus dancing to the tune of 'Jingle Bells' at Christmas.

I have no idea how long I had been engrossed in studying the streets when Maria whispered into my ear, "Isn't this a nice view?"

A little startled by her presence, which I had forgotten for that period of solitary observation, I answered - "It is awesome! I always wanted to get a glimpse of the city from higher up".

"Do you see that elegant white building? That is the Old Opera. We also have a new opera. There it is, with the garden in front", she said, her finger pointing to a more contemporary structure about a kilometre away. I recalled 'Occupy Movement' activists protesting for days in the same lawn during one of my previous visits. "Adjacent to the Opera is the CommerzBank. Further in that direction is the Main river, where you can see those bridges. You should go there some time."

"Yes, I've been to the riverside once with a friend. Quite peaceful."

It seemed the rest of the group had noticed by this time that I had been left out of their conversation.

Philip was the first to apologize: "So sorry we started talking among ourselves in German. We were discussing a final case study assignment due for submission on Monday. Would you mind sharing your ideas on the case after dinner? We were hoping we could use a consultant's help - for free, obviously."

Flattered and amused, I assented with "I'll be glad to be of any help".

Gabriele was the second. "My apologies, Arnav. I should have known you don't speak Deutsch. Anyways, tell me a little more about yourself. Do you have a background in management?"

Feeling like an expert with no expertise, I truthfully answered with "No. I am an engineer."

"Which university did you go to?" Eric questioned with a curious look on his face.

"Indian Institute of Technology. I won't be surprised if you haven't heard of it."

"You mean IIT Chennai? We have an exchange program with that university", Gabriele asked enthusiastically. It was I who was taken aback this time.

"It's the same parent institution, but at a different location called Roorkee in northern India."

"I hear guys from IIT are smart. Why is that? I received my GMAT score yesterday, which is 600, and I was happy. But then Adam told me this morning his Indian colleague had a 760. Must be from an IIT, I think. Now I'm just hopeless about my own chances."

"IITs admit students through a tough nationwide exam after rigorous academic preparation, with about 200 thousand candidates competing for 3000 seats. And so these universities usually get the brightest students. Although I don't believe that graduates from other universities are not intelligent and cannot score a 760."

"Have you been to Chennai then?" she inquired, changing the topic a little abruptly.

"No, although I want to. It's in the southern part of the country, which I haven't explored so much."

"OK. I've watched 'Chennai Express', the movie. That's how I remembered the name. Can you remind me who the main actor was? I kind of like him."
This was my second surprise of the night.

"You mean Shahrukh Khan? I didn't know you watch Bollywood movies."

"Oh, yes. Is he popular among girls in India?"

"I think so. Although some new actors are now starting to steal the limelight."

"Do people in Chennai also speak Hindi?"

"Not many of them. Chennai is largely influenced by its own regional language. Hindi is spoken mainly in the northern states. India is otherwise a multilingual country with more than 20 officially recognized languages."

"Wow! So many? Can you speak Hindi? Is it popular in Delhi?"

"I can. And yes, it is spoken by the majority of Delhi's population."

"One of my Indian friends was telling me Delhi is not safe for girls. I also recently read an article which indicated that the country has a very high crime rate against women. Is that true?" Maria touched on a subject that I had been dreading.

"Sadly, that is true. Although the crime rate is lower in southern parts of the country."

"Why is it so bad?"

"Honestly I don't have a right answer. I think it is because our society is largely patriarchal and also very orthodox. Throughout our long history, women have not been treated as equal to men, a notion I strictly denounce. Their responsibilities have been curtailed to tending to the family and performing household chores. This has led to a false impression of their place in society, especially among men who are rarely taught the virtue of respecting the fairer sex. This is more so in the North. However, this perception is slowly changing, at least in urban India."

Philip came to my rescue again. "What is one thing you like about India?", he asked.

"A rather unique trait that characterizes our culture is the importance of family. We try not to drift away from our parents and siblings once we start a career or get married. I like the fact that young Indian boys and girls are still unabashed living with their parents while they are studying, or even working at a job."

"Hmm. Living with one's parents here after a certain age casts doubts on the person's ability. So it's not very common."

"One more question from me", Gabriele demanded politely, with a funny look on her face. She probably had had too much apfelwine. I hoped it was the last.

"If you were asked to choose between Delhi and Frankfurt for spending the rest of your life, which one would it be?"

This one was easy.
"Delhi, definitely. I like traveling and can probably even stay away from home for a year or two, but I'm too Indian to be able to permanently live anywhere else."

GIVE AND TAKE

Vadodara is rightly called the cultural capital of Gujarat. It is a city that combines the traditions of yore with the advancements of today to result in a vibrant culture that represents the lasting values and progress of a humble yet ambitious people. These traditions are imbibed in the architecture of the city's major buildings including the Maharaja Fateh Singh museum, the Nyaya Mandir, the Maharaja Sayajirao University, the Laxmi Vilas Palace and the Vadodara Railway station - monuments that represent a prosperous people with a rich history and a flourishing economy. The city is home to wealthy businessmen and a squandering middle class population which constitutes most of the crowd swarming expensive retail stores and ostentatious restaurants on a weekend day. Seldom would you come across a beggar, and it seems the entire city dwells in peace, with each denizen capable of fulfilling at least life's basic necessities. Of course, all this is merely an illusion that conceals a harsh truth - a fact that is visible to barely a few of its lakhs of affluent inhabitants.

But sometimes, all it takes to draw the curtains off this illusion is just one meeting at the right place.


It was 11pm on a Sunday night. I was wandering on the railway platform, waiting for the Mumbai Rajdhani Express to arrive so that I could escape from the summer heat into the comfort of my berth in the air conditioned coach. I had reached the station a little too early, and the announcement that the train had been delayed by a few minutes did little to dismiss my boredom. Finally, I dropped my luggage near a tea stall and stuffed a pair of headphones into my ears to cut off the noise of the loudspeaker bellowing railway itineraries amidst the honking of trains and the cries of hawkers. I then extracted a copy of 'Shantaram' from my bag and started reading, and soon I was completely ignorant of the bustling activity I was surrounded with.

I had read only a few pages when a gentle touch on my arm prompted me to look up. I saw an old man, probably in his sixties, with his right hand swinging up and down in anticipation while his left hand rested on his stomach. At first I thought he was a beggar, and decided to turn back to the pages of the novel. But then I noticed his appearance, which forced me to think again. He wore a simple, blue half-sleeved shirt and a pair of plain cotton trousers. A gunny sack was hanging from his left shoulder. His face was freckled and wrinkled, a sign of old age. His hair was thin and white, and he had a desperate look in his eyes. 


He repeated the gesture, hoping I would pull out a banknote and hand it to him. I had more than enough money in my wallet than I needed. It would not have been a huge loss to take out a hundred rupee note from my pocket and place it in his open palm. But I was busy considering the appropriateness of what I was about to do. Did he really need the money or was he yet another impostor just trying to take advantage of a person's sympathy and kindness? Would it set a wrong precedent? Couldn't he earn a wage in exchange for work or labour to fend for himself? While I was still in that state of indecisiveness, he left. 


Perhaps he was just asking for help. Probably he was just another drifter who needed some money to travel to somewhere else, or to have a single meal which had eluded him for the day. It might even have occurred that he had lost his own wallet somewhere while commuting and couldn't retrieve it, and had to depend on the charity of complete strangers to reach his destination. Even though he looked destitute, he was definitely not a beggar. He never pleaded to me with fake tears in his eyes or made excuses. He just stood in front of me silently, hoping that I would have the heart to help him out.


As I saw him leave with a disheartened look on his face that portrayed anguish and helplessness, I was moved. I was angry with myself for having wasted all this time in making a simple decision that could help him reach home. I watched him step down from the platform onto the railway track and walk along the rails. I guess he was searching for a packet of 'Lays' with a wafer or two remaining or a carton of 'Frooti' that still had some of the liquid left in it that he could squeeze out to quench his thirst. When he could not find anything, he climbed back up onto the platform. 


Having watched all this, I lifted my bag and headed in his direction, hoping to correct the blunder I had committed and help him out of his misery by giving him a sum of money that would serve his purpose and at the same time not hurt his self-esteem too much. But as soon as I approached close enough to call out and stop him, a storm of passengers disembarking from the Intercity Express blocked my way. When the platform cleared, the man had disappeared, leaving me in a state of despair. I looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. Disgusted with myself, I slowly walked back to the tea stall where I waited for the Rajdhani Express. I hoped I would see the old man again before I boarded the train. 


But I didn't.


I had a chance to do something that I could be proud of, but I had failed. Because I spent a lot of time thinking. Had I acted sooner, I would have been much happier from the joy and satisfaction of helping a stranger in distress. Days since this incident, I still regret my first line of thinking.

Most of us run after riches and exorbitance all our life. Some of us even manage to achieve more than we had initially asked for. But what do we do of that surplus money that we can do without? We spend it buying redundant additions to our numerous, unending luxuries. We build a multi-storeyed residential complex, replete with a multiplex and a five-star restaurant when we already live in an opulent bungalow. We buy more cars, when we already own one belonging to one of the most expensive brands. We purchase more of the latest in fashion, and when our wardrobes are full, we get more wardrobes.

All this when we can help the larger society by building a subsidized hospital, starting a small scale cottage industry, or simply sponsoring a poor child's education with those extra finances that we do not need. Or as an average citizen, donating a small fraction of our income to charitable institutions and public trusts which can act on our behalf. And if we do not believe in the integrity of these institutions, establishing one ourselves. If every person who earns well beyond his necessities starts to contribute, the collective effort should be good enough to significantly shrink the size of the nation's population that lives below the poverty line. As they say :
"Every drop makes an ocean."
And what fire dare not submit to the might of an ocean?

There is more to life than avarice and indulgence.
We should realize the joy of giving. Before it's too late.

THAHAKE

There are reasons I prefer a journey by train over a jaunt by air when I travel, even though the former might stretch over several hours, and sometimes face vexatious delays at the end of which one would feel completely enervated. It allows me to discover the varying landscape and diverse flora and fauna flourishing across different regions in the subcontinent, and to revel in the beauty of the path that would take me to my destination. But most importantly, it often results in serendipitous confluences that would perhaps occur in no other setting - pleasant encounters that leave an indelible mark in memory.

When I boarded the train to Delhi, I looked around to see the people I would share my compartment with - a habit I've developed over years of commuting. There was a sexagenarian, a stern-looking septuagenarian, a wannabe model and a rather sleepy coeval girl. Recalling I'm not really good at hitting a conversation with either the fairer sex or the elderly, I presumed this was going to be yet another journey where I would spend half the time sulking over a snoring co-passenger and the other half lying lethargically on the top bunk.

Mom and Dad weren't making it any easier by ranting out instructions about taking care of myself until I arrived in Roorkee. I can never really understand why parents fail to realize every journey is not the first time we travel on our own.
"Beta ! Don't take random victuals from lorries stationed at the platform." or "Remember the last time you nearly missed your train? Make sure it doesn't happen again."
Through the corner of my eye, I chanced a quick glance at the girl. She had now woken up, and was smiling at the scene presented before her. I felt as if I was back to age 10, listening impatiently to mom's characteristic words of advice and caution, and was definitely a little flushed.

The engine hooted and slowly pulled out of Vadodara station. I was climbing to the top berth when the sexagenarian intervened - "Itni jaldi so rahe ho? Abhi to bahut time hai. Chalo tumhara thoda manoranjan karta hun."
Only a fool would deny free entertainment, especially when there is no other means to amuse yourself. I gladly accepted and climbed back down.

It so turned out the old man was a hasya kavi. Soon, all the boredom had escaped my mind. I was thoroughly enjoying myself as one verse followed another, each inciting a tingling sensation in my belly. Some compositions portrayed typical human vices of greed, corruption, stinginess and temptation; others underlined the virtues of wisdom and altruism. Each composition carried forth a message to the audience, serving its purpose of delivering a moral at the end while keeping the listeners guessing for the next line. I had no idea how the hours passed by, because it seemed the journey had been ephemeral when I noticed 'New Delhi' displayed on the railway platform.

Of the various modes of self-expression, poetry stands out as being the most evocative. With satire and sarcasm as ingredients, it is capable of putting across abstruse philosophies and grave issues of concern through beautifully crafted lines and aptly depicted situations, at the same time, maintaining a comical tone to draw attention of the audience. A potent tool to spark a revolution and unite the masses to fight for a common cause. I'm certain Gurudev's free spirit would testify to the validity of my earlier statement.

If only more of us were poets, we could really make a big difference to the perception of the people around us, and contribute towards changing the world for the greater good.

EXCURSION TO THE GRAVEYARD

I found myself sprinting as I heard the announcement, preluded by the three ominous words - "Kripya Dhyaan den !". The cold air left my lungs in short, heavy breaths, escaping to the freezing mist all around me, and yet my lungs felt no lighter. I winced as I took long, quick strides; my football skills had been overdone for sure, or else the throbbing pain in my knee would have ceased long back. Anirudh had taken the lead, and was running ahead of me. I smiled at his alacrity, and increased my pace as I heard the train's whistle from the distance.

We were spared the trouble of wading through the flood of passengers you would normally expect at a typical railway station in India, most certainly because other inhabitants of the city were sound asleep at this early hour, wrapped in soft, warm blankets, surrounded by peace and tranquility. As the Lucknow-Chandigarh Express pulled into the station, we made our way towards platform 3, where Pinky and Aashray were waiting eagerly, hoping we'd return with tickets to board the train. Only one of their anticipations was fulfilled.

When we reached Chandigarh station, I finally realized the meaning of the adage 'Luck favours the brave.', as I slipped through the exit without being obstructed by the ticket collector, who was busy pulling up other culprits. But little did I know my luck would part with me later in the day, as swiftly as it had come to join me.

I have been to numerous cities as a visitor or a tourist, and never have I come across a city so thinly populated and awfully quiet (before evening, of course), as if built upon a sequence of graveyards. For as far as the eye cold see, there was hardly anybody visible, as if the Ghosts had scared everyone away, and for a moment I doubted if the vehicles plying on the roads were real and the entire city was haunted. The evening was livelier, but still couldn't do much to levitate my spirits after the tortuous day. An hour's 'virtual gaming' on the NFS console was the best I could make of this seemingly long trip.
Nevertheless, whoever laid out the immaculate plan for the city must have been a man of high talent, as I can never fathom a person being lost in Chandigarh, as one would almost always find one's way back.

I have seldom had the misfortune of having to travel in the 'General' compartment, and the journey back to Roorkee was a particularly nasty, cruddy experience. Not the least because I was pushed to the corner near the rancid, stinking lavatory and couldn't see my own feet in the crowd, but more so because of the smoke emanating from lighted beedis and weed being consumed by who looked exactly like goons you see so often on television. I waited and I waited, hoping for the train to come to a halt so that I could escape to a compartment that didn't smell like a dipsomaniac's paradise. I did manage to accomplish this feat at Ambala, carefully making my way through an entanglement of heads and legs and feet that lined the compartment's floor, jumping over rucksacks, avoiding stumbling and crashing into a person's face, and finally breaking into an environment where I could get fresh oxygen to breathe. I took some time to savor my achievement before boarding a different, better sleeper class coach - as I realized a few minutes later, only to my utter dismay.

PUN - EH ?

I wake up to the peaceful quiet of a Sunday morning. The one day I’ve been waiting for so eagerly all week. Sundays, I suddenly realize, have so often been undervalued, especially when you work from dawn to dusk six days a week. No bus to hurry for, nor the 1 mile trek early morning, enduring the weight of your eyelids, struggling to keep your pace while half the world is fast asleep. You forget the fear of meddlesome co-workers; minions of evil waiting to bungle your ingeniously knit plans on the first opportunity. You begin the day in a state of beguiling, even though ephemeral, bliss. Eudaemonia.

Pune. The Chicago of India’s western plateau (yes, it’s windy too). A city known for its lifestyle, splendour and luxury cars (which have so tenaciously occupied my thoughts of late). A metallurgical and materials engineer who would otherwise have been stuck at a secluded steel plant in a corner of nowhere, would be fortunate beyond expectations to pursue his/her career in one of the country’s finest places to live in.

Luckily for me, (if I might yet confer myself the esteemed degree of an engineer) my stars have guided me to this charismatic city – abuzz with life and activity. Towering, intimidating buildings, vehicles plying all day along busy roads, the asphalt level and free of undulations. No wonder a stranger in his early days is lured by everything that meets the eye. The evening sky mirrors the fantastic synergy between clouds and the sun, a sight that every nature enthusiast would want to capture on film and tuck away somewhere safe to be preserved forever. Perhaps the only thing lacking is the north Indian cuisine. But as goes the proverb: ‘Where there is a will, there is a way’; there is nothing beyond reach, and ‘the whole world conspires to get to you what you desire for’.

Add to this a spacious apartment, a motorbike, and four ‘idiots’ all set to explore the possibilities and mysteries of this paradise of a city. Isn’t it what we set out for from Roorkee in the first place, the town we’re obliged to spend four precious years of our college life – devoid of the charm of a BMW, the heights of skyscrapers and the glimmer of night lights? I wouldn’t be surprised if one would want to join the millions living in this city as its citizens. But I guess I’d rather be content with the fresh air of the countryside, the aroma of morning dew on soft, lush green grass, and the musical sound of a gushing stream nearby. Then again, there are other things that might make this impossible – for one, I am an engineer.