Ahre, you people don’t know how hard it is to be the new CM of my state. My first task is to pick my cabinet from among my many talented party men and women. To make this more streamlined, and fair, I have devised an application form which can be downloaded from the website cabinetposts.gov. Those of you wishing to join my cabinet are requested to fill in the form, answering all questions, and return it, online, to prove that I am a computer savvy CM. Please be assured I will review every application and choose the best person for the cabinet post.
Real Name: If you have a real name, please tell why you keep it.
False Names: List all the false names under which you have lived for the last 10 years. As this a free country you can have any number of names.
Date of Birth: Above 75 is the ideal age.
Place of birth: It would advisable for you to be born in this state but if not make up a village name and ensure that you have a false birth certificate to prove this.
Education: List all the fake degrees that you have acquired over the years and specify which fake subject interests you the most. This will help me in appointing you in the appropriate post to match your qualifications. For example, if you have a fake degree in computer science then you could be Minister of Telecommunications. This goes for other subjects – finance, agriculture, industry etc.
Employment: If you were employed by a powerful industrialist, a multi-national corporation, or a criminal gang, and have bent babu contacts, this will be of great help in positioning you in my cabinet. I will be able to use your connexions and contacts to further the interests of the state and help uplift the people. You will be expected to introduce your ex-employers to me so I may understand how they work and how I can further their interests, along with yours. If unemployed, do not mention this. Please list all the jobs you never had as this will help me in understanding your ambitions and make a correct choice. If you are under 30 and honestly employed, do not go further. Delete the form.
Criminal Record: List your entire criminal record and also all criminal charges pending against you so as to understand your expertise in such matters. If you have committed murders, kindly provide the names of the murdered and your advice on the matter. If you have committed rape, send me the list of the women at the earliest. If you are still in prison, list your police and prison contacts for character references.
Fake Encounters: List who, when, where, cop collaborators. And how to perform them, legally.
Ambitions: To ensure you will be the right person for the right cabinet post, I need to know your exact ambitions. For instance, do you wish to make one crore, ten crores or one hundred crores a year from your post? However, if you are truly very ambitious and believe that your talents deserve a greater reward for your presence in my cabinet and that your target is between one hundred to one thousand crores a year, I will suggest your name for a central cabinet position. The central cabinet is an equal opportunity to make money employer. However, they may expect you to occasionally attend cabinet meetings and speak in parliament but this is not compulsory. Overseas travel mandatory.
Hobbies: As the work of serving the people is very hard, to relieve the stress it is important you have a hobby. Throwing chappals, flower pots, assaulting the opposition is one of our most popular stress breakers. If you wish for training, please inform the minister of Sports.
Good luck.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Kabul Stories
Checking into my flight to Kabul in Delhi, I chatted with an Afghan gentleman behind me. He asked me: ‘Which hotel are you staying in?’ I told him the name and then he continued: ‘I own a hotel in Kabul too.’ I thought, as my reservation wasn’t firm, I could stay in his hotel instead. He shook his head. ‘You can’t. It was bombed two months ago.’ Ohh! ‘But, it will ready in two weeks if you return.’
My hotel may not suffer the same fate but there’s no guarantee. The approach road has a steel barrier and a gunman #1 who checks my reservation. The road leads up through high blast walls to Gunman #2 also at his barrier. Finally, Gunman #3 does a security check on the car and signals for the steel gate to open before I reach the hotel’s reservation office. Taking a morning stroll after signing the exit register and reading the note that informs me the hotel is not responsible for anything that happens to me, I pass the palatial homes of Wazir Akbar Khan district protected by blast walls and their own gunmen. Some even have two as if they’re status symbols, and the weapons of choice are 9mm machine pistols, though here and there are the familiar AK47s. The roads are so damaged that I have to pick my way past, even as the SUVs (vehicles of choice) wallow towards me. Later, when I enquire who lives in these house, I get an ambiguous answer ‘Commanders’. Commanders? Military, police, drugs, warlords, and some of the poppy palaces even have a gunman perched on their roofs.
Earlier, I had climbed on my hotel roof to view the city. High above is a watchful eye, a tethered balloon with a 24x7 camera. Strangely, apart from a few sparrows in the hotel garden, there’s not another species of birds in the sky, not even the ubiquitous crow or a kite, not a parrot or a pigeon. Over the years, every tree was cut down and the birds fled to more habitable locations. I did finds birds Fa Karushi market in old Kabul. The fighting doves and finches are in elaborate cages and quite costly.
Kabul nestles in a valley, surrounded by anaemic green hills and I think that Kabulis have never seen the endless horizon that surrounds other cities. It must limit their imagination of the world, enclosed in this private space. The hills, like Sheer Darwaza to the south, also have the ruins of fortress walls along their spines but, despite the natural defences, a thousand invaders have over run this city and country. Hills also divide the city into sections, with narrow passes through which the city flows to connect up with its other parts. Behind my back, a hill rises steeply and, crowning it, as proof of Imperial Idiocy, is an Olympic-size swimming pool with many diving boards but not a drop of water. The Russians built and abandoned their folly, as they did the country in 1989. Old Kabul, the original city, rises on either side of the Kabul River. From my vantage point Kabul looks an easy city to navigate as my first meetings are to the south, in and around Kabul University. But, I discover, this is also the grid lock city of the world. We average 45 minutes to cover a kilometre and, sitting in these jams, I hope we won’t stop opposite a police station or alongside a military convoy. Those are favourite Talib targets. However, we do have a cultural connexion with Afghans – they are as bad drivers as Indians are. The blocked, high security roads passing the US and Indian embassies, NATO and ISAF compounds cause the grid locks. They are impassable and the traffic is diverted onto jammed roads, most of them badly damaged with deep pot holes.
Without a doubt, the Afghans are the most courteous, the most hospitable, gentle people I’ve come across. They enjoy conversation with their glass cups of green tea and biscuits, served whether you want it or not. But, their conversations also needs to be carefully interpreted as often it’s what they are not saying which is more important than what they do say. Professor Abdul Waste, a tall, thick-set man, clean shaven, hesitates a long moment on my Taliban question. We’re in his spacious office on Kabul U campus and there are three others in the room. He lived in Kabul during their regime and with President Karzai opening a channel to the Talib, they could be back in the city like a bad dream. He says finally, ‘They forced us to grow beards and we had to pray regularly…but it was a very safe country under them. There was no crime, no murders and we could leave our doors open.’ I point out they had a very bad human rights records. ‘People tell many stories about the Talib. Under them we were safe.’ I believe he won’t be too critical of the Talib, hedging his bets that if/when they return there will a record of his comment somewhere. Maybe reported by one in the room. Others also tell me how safe it was under the Talib, the way some Indians nostalgically remember how everything worked smoothly during Indira Gandhi’s emergency rule. Fear is a good disciplinarian and makes people duck and weave in their thinking and speaking.
The Talib are not alone in the field of continuous wars. The mujahedeen are also prowling and some of the men I meet claim to be mujahedeen, and proclaim the Afghans would be better under their rule as the Talib are Pakistani, and not true Afghans. ‘The Talib are also Arabs and Uzbeks,’ I’m told and definitely Pakistanis. How far does Karzai’s government rule extend outside of Kabul? Omar Khan (name changed) works for the Ministry of Finance and his village is in south east Afghanistan. ‘The government has no power in my area. We can go to them to solve our problems but they do nothing. So the Talib solve the problem and everyone in the area obeys the Talibs. Yes, we’re Talibs because we cannot say anything else. They’ll kill us if we do.’ On the morning BBC news (yes satellite channels when once they only had Radio Shari under the Taliban) I heard that five American soldiers were killed that day. Omar shrugged indifferently. ‘Americans are killed every day.’ In this harsh, dusty land of mountains and defiles I do wonder what those boys from the 21st century make of this 15th century country. Omar adds. ‘It’s not always the Talib. There are mujahedeen killing too.’ Like the many other young men I spoke to their driving ambition was to leave the country and live legally (not with a smuggler’s help) in Canada, Australia, the US, anywhere safe.
Those blue burquas floating on women are not that common, except in the old city. Kabuli women dress fashionably in Shalwars, high heel shoes and hijabs lightly covering half their heads, more as symbols to their culture. They wear lipstick and eye shadow and paint their nails. Under the Talib if a woman painted her nails, a finger was chopped off!! And everywhere I saw school girls in their black trousers and jackets, with the white hijabs, loaded down with books. They are the fortunate ones as girls schools are only in Kabul. Or the unfortunate too, as should the Talib return their schools will be closed, and they will be confined to their homes.
‘The men had it much harder than us,’ Hanifa (name changed) a career woman says when I mentioned the compulsory burqua for women. She too lived in Kabul during the Talib rule. ‘It took some getting used to wearing the burqua but men had to grow beards, pray five times and go to the mosque. They were beaten if they didn’t.’ Other women I spoke to echo her defence – a hard life for the male. Najibia Ayubi, manager of programming of the Khillid group of radio stations, says, ‘It was a very depressing time for us all. We had to keep our mouths shut and survive the best we could. So many women were forced to leave their jobs as teachers, office workers, and professors and stay at home. If they didn’t have any men in the family they ended up begging in the streets. But the Talib allowed the women doctors to continue working.’ She laughs. ‘Their women needed medical help too.’
The city is undergoing a building boom – independent bungalows, high rise flats, massive wedding halls and shopping malls. And kilometers of new roads laid. Construction companies, financed by American aid and poppy money, are booming. A cynical Afghan told me, ‘To put up a building for the Americans costs around four lakh Afghanis (Re1= 1 Afg) but they charge the Americans four lakh dollars. That’s how they make their money.’
But Kabul is encircled by heart breaking poverty, bad as ours, as Afghanis escape their villages looking for work in the city. Children scavenge in the rubbish and push the carts through dense traffic. I never saw these children smile and nowhere did I see them playing, as do Indian children with gully cricket, marbles or other games.
‘What will happen when the US withdraws its troops?’ I asked everyone I met.
‘Civil war,’ they replied and didn’t want to think any further on their fragile future.
My hotel may not suffer the same fate but there’s no guarantee. The approach road has a steel barrier and a gunman #1 who checks my reservation. The road leads up through high blast walls to Gunman #2 also at his barrier. Finally, Gunman #3 does a security check on the car and signals for the steel gate to open before I reach the hotel’s reservation office. Taking a morning stroll after signing the exit register and reading the note that informs me the hotel is not responsible for anything that happens to me, I pass the palatial homes of Wazir Akbar Khan district protected by blast walls and their own gunmen. Some even have two as if they’re status symbols, and the weapons of choice are 9mm machine pistols, though here and there are the familiar AK47s. The roads are so damaged that I have to pick my way past, even as the SUVs (vehicles of choice) wallow towards me. Later, when I enquire who lives in these house, I get an ambiguous answer ‘Commanders’. Commanders? Military, police, drugs, warlords, and some of the poppy palaces even have a gunman perched on their roofs.
Earlier, I had climbed on my hotel roof to view the city. High above is a watchful eye, a tethered balloon with a 24x7 camera. Strangely, apart from a few sparrows in the hotel garden, there’s not another species of birds in the sky, not even the ubiquitous crow or a kite, not a parrot or a pigeon. Over the years, every tree was cut down and the birds fled to more habitable locations. I did finds birds Fa Karushi market in old Kabul. The fighting doves and finches are in elaborate cages and quite costly.
Kabul nestles in a valley, surrounded by anaemic green hills and I think that Kabulis have never seen the endless horizon that surrounds other cities. It must limit their imagination of the world, enclosed in this private space. The hills, like Sheer Darwaza to the south, also have the ruins of fortress walls along their spines but, despite the natural defences, a thousand invaders have over run this city and country. Hills also divide the city into sections, with narrow passes through which the city flows to connect up with its other parts. Behind my back, a hill rises steeply and, crowning it, as proof of Imperial Idiocy, is an Olympic-size swimming pool with many diving boards but not a drop of water. The Russians built and abandoned their folly, as they did the country in 1989. Old Kabul, the original city, rises on either side of the Kabul River. From my vantage point Kabul looks an easy city to navigate as my first meetings are to the south, in and around Kabul University. But, I discover, this is also the grid lock city of the world. We average 45 minutes to cover a kilometre and, sitting in these jams, I hope we won’t stop opposite a police station or alongside a military convoy. Those are favourite Talib targets. However, we do have a cultural connexion with Afghans – they are as bad drivers as Indians are. The blocked, high security roads passing the US and Indian embassies, NATO and ISAF compounds cause the grid locks. They are impassable and the traffic is diverted onto jammed roads, most of them badly damaged with deep pot holes.
Without a doubt, the Afghans are the most courteous, the most hospitable, gentle people I’ve come across. They enjoy conversation with their glass cups of green tea and biscuits, served whether you want it or not. But, their conversations also needs to be carefully interpreted as often it’s what they are not saying which is more important than what they do say. Professor Abdul Waste, a tall, thick-set man, clean shaven, hesitates a long moment on my Taliban question. We’re in his spacious office on Kabul U campus and there are three others in the room. He lived in Kabul during their regime and with President Karzai opening a channel to the Talib, they could be back in the city like a bad dream. He says finally, ‘They forced us to grow beards and we had to pray regularly…but it was a very safe country under them. There was no crime, no murders and we could leave our doors open.’ I point out they had a very bad human rights records. ‘People tell many stories about the Talib. Under them we were safe.’ I believe he won’t be too critical of the Talib, hedging his bets that if/when they return there will a record of his comment somewhere. Maybe reported by one in the room. Others also tell me how safe it was under the Talib, the way some Indians nostalgically remember how everything worked smoothly during Indira Gandhi’s emergency rule. Fear is a good disciplinarian and makes people duck and weave in their thinking and speaking.
The Talib are not alone in the field of continuous wars. The mujahedeen are also prowling and some of the men I meet claim to be mujahedeen, and proclaim the Afghans would be better under their rule as the Talib are Pakistani, and not true Afghans. ‘The Talib are also Arabs and Uzbeks,’ I’m told and definitely Pakistanis. How far does Karzai’s government rule extend outside of Kabul? Omar Khan (name changed) works for the Ministry of Finance and his village is in south east Afghanistan. ‘The government has no power in my area. We can go to them to solve our problems but they do nothing. So the Talib solve the problem and everyone in the area obeys the Talibs. Yes, we’re Talibs because we cannot say anything else. They’ll kill us if we do.’ On the morning BBC news (yes satellite channels when once they only had Radio Shari under the Taliban) I heard that five American soldiers were killed that day. Omar shrugged indifferently. ‘Americans are killed every day.’ In this harsh, dusty land of mountains and defiles I do wonder what those boys from the 21st century make of this 15th century country. Omar adds. ‘It’s not always the Talib. There are mujahedeen killing too.’ Like the many other young men I spoke to their driving ambition was to leave the country and live legally (not with a smuggler’s help) in Canada, Australia, the US, anywhere safe.
Those blue burquas floating on women are not that common, except in the old city. Kabuli women dress fashionably in Shalwars, high heel shoes and hijabs lightly covering half their heads, more as symbols to their culture. They wear lipstick and eye shadow and paint their nails. Under the Talib if a woman painted her nails, a finger was chopped off!! And everywhere I saw school girls in their black trousers and jackets, with the white hijabs, loaded down with books. They are the fortunate ones as girls schools are only in Kabul. Or the unfortunate too, as should the Talib return their schools will be closed, and they will be confined to their homes.
‘The men had it much harder than us,’ Hanifa (name changed) a career woman says when I mentioned the compulsory burqua for women. She too lived in Kabul during the Talib rule. ‘It took some getting used to wearing the burqua but men had to grow beards, pray five times and go to the mosque. They were beaten if they didn’t.’ Other women I spoke to echo her defence – a hard life for the male. Najibia Ayubi, manager of programming of the Khillid group of radio stations, says, ‘It was a very depressing time for us all. We had to keep our mouths shut and survive the best we could. So many women were forced to leave their jobs as teachers, office workers, and professors and stay at home. If they didn’t have any men in the family they ended up begging in the streets. But the Talib allowed the women doctors to continue working.’ She laughs. ‘Their women needed medical help too.’
The city is undergoing a building boom – independent bungalows, high rise flats, massive wedding halls and shopping malls. And kilometers of new roads laid. Construction companies, financed by American aid and poppy money, are booming. A cynical Afghan told me, ‘To put up a building for the Americans costs around four lakh Afghanis (Re1= 1 Afg) but they charge the Americans four lakh dollars. That’s how they make their money.’
But Kabul is encircled by heart breaking poverty, bad as ours, as Afghanis escape their villages looking for work in the city. Children scavenge in the rubbish and push the carts through dense traffic. I never saw these children smile and nowhere did I see them playing, as do Indian children with gully cricket, marbles or other games.
‘What will happen when the US withdraws its troops?’ I asked everyone I met.
‘Civil war,’ they replied and didn’t want to think any further on their fragile future.
Shakespeare for Indians
Recently, in Melbourne I watched a wonderful production of Richard III. It was set in a corporate environment, complete with laptops and messages on cell phone. It was a gripping production, filled with venom humour and, of course, lots of blood and betrayal. It opens with Richard’s soliloquy: ‘This is the winter of our discontent…’ And ends with ‘My kingdom for a horse…’
As I have said before, there is something everlasting about Shakespeare. He wouldn’t at all be out of place in India today. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; and we must take the current when it serves, Or Lose our Ventures’. (Julius Caesar). I’m sure our politicians must remember these lines as they push out their boats into the sea of absolute power.
I can well imagine what’s happening in Sonia-ji’s residence at this very moment. She’s turning to her chamchas and saying: ‘Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me’. (Anthony & Cleopatra).
And while she prepares, we see her party man himself in the wings, Mr P.C ‘ whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world’. (Cymbeline). And surely, Sonia-ji must admit about her man, the PM: ‘An ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own.’ (As You Like it).
I thought old Will had a kind word for Mayawati too : ‘There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass’. (King Lear). And I guess we can apply that to all the politicians who swore undying allegiance to one party on the 7 o’clock news and switched sides by the 8 o’clock news swearing with equal fervour for the opposition. I suppose he would say of our political leaders: ‘Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile: Filth savour but themselves.’ (KL).
Unfortunately, our politicians can’t boast: ‘A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.’ If this were the oath of loyalty to be taken by our politicians, I fear they’d all have to impale themselves on their party flags or drown in their money chests. Of course they wouldn’t dream of uttering such dangerous words. On second thoughts they would, as words mean little to them.
Most of them would be able to say with full truthfulness: ‘And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil’, (Richard III).
On leaving his office as Minister of State in the Foreign Office and brooding over his resignation letter, pen in hand, our Shashi Tharoor must have thought to himself: ‘Is this is a dagger (or twitter) which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a twitter of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat oppressed brain?’ (Macbeth).
While those of us one billion-odd who watch from the sidelines can only say: ‘All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances…’ and the speech finally ends: ‘ Last scene of all, that ends this strange history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.'’(As You like it).
As I have said before, there is something everlasting about Shakespeare. He wouldn’t at all be out of place in India today. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; and we must take the current when it serves, Or Lose our Ventures’. (Julius Caesar). I’m sure our politicians must remember these lines as they push out their boats into the sea of absolute power.
I can well imagine what’s happening in Sonia-ji’s residence at this very moment. She’s turning to her chamchas and saying: ‘Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me’. (Anthony & Cleopatra).
And while she prepares, we see her party man himself in the wings, Mr P.C ‘ whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world’. (Cymbeline). And surely, Sonia-ji must admit about her man, the PM: ‘An ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own.’ (As You Like it).
I thought old Will had a kind word for Mayawati too : ‘There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass’. (King Lear). And I guess we can apply that to all the politicians who swore undying allegiance to one party on the 7 o’clock news and switched sides by the 8 o’clock news swearing with equal fervour for the opposition. I suppose he would say of our political leaders: ‘Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile: Filth savour but themselves.’ (KL).
Unfortunately, our politicians can’t boast: ‘A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.’ If this were the oath of loyalty to be taken by our politicians, I fear they’d all have to impale themselves on their party flags or drown in their money chests. Of course they wouldn’t dream of uttering such dangerous words. On second thoughts they would, as words mean little to them.
Most of them would be able to say with full truthfulness: ‘And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil’, (Richard III).
On leaving his office as Minister of State in the Foreign Office and brooding over his resignation letter, pen in hand, our Shashi Tharoor must have thought to himself: ‘Is this is a dagger (or twitter) which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a twitter of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat oppressed brain?’ (Macbeth).
While those of us one billion-odd who watch from the sidelines can only say: ‘All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances…’ and the speech finally ends: ‘ Last scene of all, that ends this strange history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.'’(As You like it).
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
DRIVING IN THE INDIAN JUNGLE
Mastering the laws of the Indian Jungle.
I picked up my friend, Mark, from the airport the other day. He had never visited India before and he was so keen to explore this incredible country.
‘I want to rent a car and drive,’ he said immediately. ‘That’s what I always do when I visit a new country. Which side do you drive on?’
‘Whichever side you like.’
‘In the UK and Australia you drive on the left, Europe and America the right. So which side in India?’
‘Both sides, right side and left side’ I repeated. ‘It depends on your mood. Now, look ahead. What do you see?’
‘A short traffic jam.’
‘No problem.’ I swung into the right lane. Oncoming traffic swerved away and allowed me a free passage. Mark cringed and looked back, a dozen cars were following me. ‘If there is a vacant lane, it’s your right to fill it up. You see what I’ve done – I’ve over taken four cars waiting stupidly in the left lane. Buses and trucks drive in the centre of the road, so you can’t over take. This is a free country and we have the freedom to drive the way we want to.’
I swung back into the left lane when the right lane blocked my passage. Ahead of us were traffic lights, the world familiar red, orange and green. As it was turning red, I drove right through.
‘Don’t you stop for lights?’
‘You kidding. If you stop for a light the cars behind you will crash into you. Just keep going. They don’t expect you to stop or slow down for any reason, including hitting a pedestrian or a cow. And never ever stop at a zebra crossing for a pedestrian. You’re condemning him or her to death as cars, buses and motor bikes on either side of you will just keep going.’
‘But where do pedestrians walk?’ He was looking out at very narrow strips of raised broken ledges on either side of the road. ‘I don’t see any pavements or sidewalks. In my country, they are given a lot of space.’
‘Not in India, as they waste valuable road space. See, in India, our politicians might make big speeches on the common man to get his votes but they don’t believe he has any right to a pavement. All the road space is reserved for us middle class in our big shiny new cars and I’d say 90 per cent of the owners have never even seen the inside of a polling booth.’
Reluctantly I stopped for a traffic light behind a car in the right side of the left lane. ‘Now you see that car in front. When the lights change he will turn left. And that bus on the far left of our lane is going to turn right. So while the two drivers disentangle themselves, the lights will change and we will still be sitting here. One of the great joys of driving here is to psychically try to figure out what the driver in front is going to do.’
I saw how nervous he was as a two wheeler missed us by inches. ‘Two wheelers are free to do whatever they want. It’s in the Indian constitution that they can jump lights, swerve into incoming traffic, squeeze in between two cars and if there is enough space when you stop at a traffic light they have the right to inch past you sideways so they’re a foot ahead of you.’
‘I notice you don’t have any rear view mirrors,’ he said quietly. ‘What about the traffic behind? In Europe you can be fined if you…’
‘The first lesson you learn is pay attention only to the front of your car. Never ever look in the rear view mirror, as you’ll have a nervous breakdown and turn to stone.’
I picked up my friend, Mark, from the airport the other day. He had never visited India before and he was so keen to explore this incredible country.
‘I want to rent a car and drive,’ he said immediately. ‘That’s what I always do when I visit a new country. Which side do you drive on?’
‘Whichever side you like.’
‘In the UK and Australia you drive on the left, Europe and America the right. So which side in India?’
‘Both sides, right side and left side’ I repeated. ‘It depends on your mood. Now, look ahead. What do you see?’
‘A short traffic jam.’
‘No problem.’ I swung into the right lane. Oncoming traffic swerved away and allowed me a free passage. Mark cringed and looked back, a dozen cars were following me. ‘If there is a vacant lane, it’s your right to fill it up. You see what I’ve done – I’ve over taken four cars waiting stupidly in the left lane. Buses and trucks drive in the centre of the road, so you can’t over take. This is a free country and we have the freedom to drive the way we want to.’
I swung back into the left lane when the right lane blocked my passage. Ahead of us were traffic lights, the world familiar red, orange and green. As it was turning red, I drove right through.
‘Don’t you stop for lights?’
‘You kidding. If you stop for a light the cars behind you will crash into you. Just keep going. They don’t expect you to stop or slow down for any reason, including hitting a pedestrian or a cow. And never ever stop at a zebra crossing for a pedestrian. You’re condemning him or her to death as cars, buses and motor bikes on either side of you will just keep going.’
‘But where do pedestrians walk?’ He was looking out at very narrow strips of raised broken ledges on either side of the road. ‘I don’t see any pavements or sidewalks. In my country, they are given a lot of space.’
‘Not in India, as they waste valuable road space. See, in India, our politicians might make big speeches on the common man to get his votes but they don’t believe he has any right to a pavement. All the road space is reserved for us middle class in our big shiny new cars and I’d say 90 per cent of the owners have never even seen the inside of a polling booth.’
Reluctantly I stopped for a traffic light behind a car in the right side of the left lane. ‘Now you see that car in front. When the lights change he will turn left. And that bus on the far left of our lane is going to turn right. So while the two drivers disentangle themselves, the lights will change and we will still be sitting here. One of the great joys of driving here is to psychically try to figure out what the driver in front is going to do.’
I saw how nervous he was as a two wheeler missed us by inches. ‘Two wheelers are free to do whatever they want. It’s in the Indian constitution that they can jump lights, swerve into incoming traffic, squeeze in between two cars and if there is enough space when you stop at a traffic light they have the right to inch past you sideways so they’re a foot ahead of you.’
‘I notice you don’t have any rear view mirrors,’ he said quietly. ‘What about the traffic behind? In Europe you can be fined if you…’
‘The first lesson you learn is pay attention only to the front of your car. Never ever look in the rear view mirror, as you’ll have a nervous breakdown and turn to stone.’
Sunday, February 14, 2010
sex clinic experiences
Recently, I found myself living next door to Tiger Woods in the world famous F------D sex clinic, in Arizona. We were undergoing treatment for our addiction. He had a suite; I had a room, as I couldn’t afford those kinds of prices. On the other side of me was the England football captain, John Terry. We met only when we were allowed out of our luxurious quarters for our daily treatments. Tiger and Terry would hang out together in the hall, exchanging notes and cell phone numbers. As I had no notes or phone numbers worth their great talents, they excluded me from these intimate moments. As I had yet to start treatment for my addiction, I thought I should find out what happened in their therapy.
They were wary of this newcomer as they didn’t recognize me from the thousands of my photographs. Admittedly, their faces were seen in newspapers, magazines, online and on television. Mine were all in the family album.
‘So, guys, tell me what happens in therapy? Does the doctor show you a photograph of a beautiful girl and when you react to her you get zapped with a few heavy volts?’
‘What do you think we look like?’ Tiger growled. ‘We’re not mice or Pavlov dogs. I’m a tiger.’
‘Yah mate,’ Terry snapped. ‘Photographs may do things for you but does zip for guys like us. We get to see the real stuff, y’know, live, beautiful women to test our self-control. Nude too. And if we pass the test I get a pint of Fosters as a reward.’
‘What happens if, y’know, you don’t pass the test and make a grab for her?’ I riposted. ‘You get zapped or strapped down? Do they, y’know’ attach electrodes to your brain and delete nude women from the memory banks?’
‘You read too many comic books,’ Tiger said. ‘I dunno about Terry but everyone knows I’m a control freak so I have pretty good control when they show me these women. I think about a long putt on the 18th hole…’ His eyes went a bit dreamy and he chewed his finger nails.
Terry studied me, up and down. ‘You sure don’t look like a jock to me. I mean you’re kinda old, not too fit and what’s your sport mate? Marbles? I didn’t know women went crazy over that game.’
‘I’m a writer…’
‘Writer!!!’ They both fell over laughing. ‘Which woman would throw herself at a writer?’
‘Hey,’ I defended myself. ‘When I walk down the street hundreds of women throw themselves at me. Okay, 99 miss and I may be hit by the 100th. But writers were up there once with you guys. Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Proust, Sartre had women thrown themselves at them. They fought them off with their fountain pens, typewriters and pencils.’
Tiger being the only one who had read a book, said. ‘Those guys are dead and gone. Times change. Now a days the chicks throw themselves at jocks. The more money you make, the more famous you get, the more they fall on you like confetti at a wedding.’
‘More under you, Tiger,’ Terry laughed. ‘Hey, then we get blamed. What did we do? Tiger plays golf, I football. We’re minding our own business when …wham.. a thousand chicks hit on you. We’re only human, y’know. Why are we blamed? No one says anything when Warren Beatty sleeps with 12,000 women or when Mick Jagger makes out with 9,000.’
‘It’s all their fault,’ Tiger says mournfully. ‘Back in those days the women wouldn’t admit they screwed around with famous jocks.’ He glanced at me. ‘Or writers. I mean they kept it quiet for their diaries. Now, they sell their stories to the National Enquirer for a million bucks. There’s no integrity left in the world.’
They were wary of this newcomer as they didn’t recognize me from the thousands of my photographs. Admittedly, their faces were seen in newspapers, magazines, online and on television. Mine were all in the family album.
‘So, guys, tell me what happens in therapy? Does the doctor show you a photograph of a beautiful girl and when you react to her you get zapped with a few heavy volts?’
‘What do you think we look like?’ Tiger growled. ‘We’re not mice or Pavlov dogs. I’m a tiger.’
‘Yah mate,’ Terry snapped. ‘Photographs may do things for you but does zip for guys like us. We get to see the real stuff, y’know, live, beautiful women to test our self-control. Nude too. And if we pass the test I get a pint of Fosters as a reward.’
‘What happens if, y’know, you don’t pass the test and make a grab for her?’ I riposted. ‘You get zapped or strapped down? Do they, y’know’ attach electrodes to your brain and delete nude women from the memory banks?’
‘You read too many comic books,’ Tiger said. ‘I dunno about Terry but everyone knows I’m a control freak so I have pretty good control when they show me these women. I think about a long putt on the 18th hole…’ His eyes went a bit dreamy and he chewed his finger nails.
Terry studied me, up and down. ‘You sure don’t look like a jock to me. I mean you’re kinda old, not too fit and what’s your sport mate? Marbles? I didn’t know women went crazy over that game.’
‘I’m a writer…’
‘Writer!!!’ They both fell over laughing. ‘Which woman would throw herself at a writer?’
‘Hey,’ I defended myself. ‘When I walk down the street hundreds of women throw themselves at me. Okay, 99 miss and I may be hit by the 100th. But writers were up there once with you guys. Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Proust, Sartre had women thrown themselves at them. They fought them off with their fountain pens, typewriters and pencils.’
Tiger being the only one who had read a book, said. ‘Those guys are dead and gone. Times change. Now a days the chicks throw themselves at jocks. The more money you make, the more famous you get, the more they fall on you like confetti at a wedding.’
‘More under you, Tiger,’ Terry laughed. ‘Hey, then we get blamed. What did we do? Tiger plays golf, I football. We’re minding our own business when …wham.. a thousand chicks hit on you. We’re only human, y’know. Why are we blamed? No one says anything when Warren Beatty sleeps with 12,000 women or when Mick Jagger makes out with 9,000.’
‘It’s all their fault,’ Tiger says mournfully. ‘Back in those days the women wouldn’t admit they screwed around with famous jocks.’ He glanced at me. ‘Or writers. I mean they kept it quiet for their diaries. Now, they sell their stories to the National Enquirer for a million bucks. There’s no integrity left in the world.’
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