Somewhere in Space

Over the years I have come to terms with the fact that nearly all newspapers exaggerate their circulation figures. Some do it within the limits of credibility and some indulge in wild fantasies.

And the phenomenon gets funnier when it comes to magazines printed at local printers where we get a lot of work done. The total print run for such and such magazine was 3000 we are informed when the publisher is touting about 30 000 as his circulation.

But this blatant lying is fairly common knowledge for those in the business. Many years ago I had an experience with circulation that left me, to use a modern phrase ROFL (Rolling On the Floor Laughing).

There used to be a newspaper called NEWSTIME. A wonderful, literary treat, it was published by the Eenadu Group. I was a regular contributor and was quite happy with the Rs. 200/- cheques that used to arrive promptly by mail, no questions asked. Needless to say I was also a subscriber.

One morning, at about 630 I received a call from my friend’s father who is a wonderful old man and a gifted writer. Vijay, he told me after ascertaining the fact that I had been awake for sufficiently long to be coherent, I have written an article that got published in today’s Newstime. Please, when you are more awake, do pick up a copy and give me your feedback.

Since I was a Newstime subscriber I already had the paper at home and it took me but a few seconds to find his article and just a few minutes later I was back on the phone with him, thanking him for his kind mention of me in his piece.

He was amazed at the speed of my response. And when I confessed that I was a subscriber, he pronounced that from that day on, he would officially say there were at least two subscribers to Newstime. Him and me.

Mind you the official figure being quoted by the Eenadu Group was a few thousands. But in retrospect, after having witnessed the sad closing down of the paper I am inclined to believe that my friend’s father was closer to the truth than he realised.

As for my wife, she thought it was one of my better investments. I invested in the subscription amount which was less than Rs. 100/- per month and I used to get a minimum of six Rs. 200/- cheques every month for my writing. QED.

This morning I saw someone’s post referring to the rude and uncouth behaviour of the security detail attached to some obscure minister. And I was reminded of an incident that proves that the problem is endemic and has a long heritage to boast of.

In 1985 when I was packing up from Chennai and returning to Hyderabad (for the first of many times) I suggested to my sister and brother in law that they came down to Madras, and that we could drive down to Kodaikanal for a relaxing week at the Carlton.

They agreed immediately and so we went for a cosy foursome of a holiday and coochie cooed through the week. The fact that a few months later both my wife and my sister had babies may indicate how romantic our sojourn was.

But like any other magical holiday this one too came to an end and we drove back to Madras where everything lay ready and packed for our departure to Hyderabad.

I was driving as we entered Madras and we were on Nungumbakkam High Road, barely a kilometre away from our home on Sterling Road when a flag bearing Ambassador Car tried to overtake us. The car was being driven rashly and I noticed that it seemed to be filled with Security Detail kind of goons.

I was in Highway mode still and my car was a Fiat that was perfectly tuned so I had no difficulty in speeding up to disallow the Ambassador taking the lead. Within seconds our turn off came and we swung off towards Sterling Road and forgot about the ruffians and their brash handling of the car.

We reached home and freshened up and barely were we discussing where to go for dinner when the door bell rang and I found the Madras Police at my doorstep informing me that I had been accused of eve teasing on Nungumbakkam High Road and my presence was immediately required at the Police Station.

I was aghast and tried to explain to the ACP or CI or whoever that accusing me of eve teasing when both my sister and my wife were in the car was not even bordering on the ridiculous. And I admitted that I was impressed at the speed at which they had managed to trace me.

The cop was sympathetic and told me off the record that he understood perfectly well that I didn’t seem to be the eve teasing sort but his hands were tied since he had received instructions to apprehend me from the higher ups. He was kind enough to let me go with the advice that I better use whatever influence I had to negate the powers that were at work because by then an All Points Bulletin had been issued and my Car Number had been flashed to all the border towns.

What I had to do in the next 12 hours to wriggle out of this conundrum is embarrassing so I shall desist from recounting my harrowing experience. Suffice to say I had to call in a few million favours from friends and family to untangle myself from the web. Finally I was told that all they could manage was a 48 hour window of freedom and that I had better cross the border before then.

So we ran away from Madras like fugitives that we were not and swore never to eve tease the security guards ever again.

From the post that I stumbled across I see that nothing much has changed. And nothing ever will.

Jai Hind.

In 1994, some of the old palaces of the Nizam were opened up and the public was allowed a glimpse of the wonders of the past. Since this was after a few decades of being hidden behind closed doors there was a lot of excitement in the air. Old timers who had seen the palaces in the past regaled us with stories of crockery, cutlery, furniture and architecture that put fairy tales to shame.

One of the palaces to be opened up was the famous Falaknuma Palace.

And I was privileged enough to be chosen to head the video team that documented all the palace insides to show off to people on television etc.

I spent four days in the Falaknuma Palace and I can quite confidently state that there can hardly be a corner of the place I did not explore or shoot for posterity. Magical times indeed.

An old retainer Sardar Saheb was assigned to us and he was a treasure house of stories since he had served in the palace for a few decades and apparently even today is attached to the refurbished palace.

Since it made sense for us to be fed in the palace, the Nizam’s cooks used to cook us some delicacies everyday. And one day when the Minister decided to join us for lunch the finest was brought out, gold rimmed et al. We ate, my crew and I at the fabled 100 seater dining room off plates which were reputed to cost the earth. Like I said, magical times indeed.

With the amount of ornate bedrooms and glitzy bathrooms we were shown I thought I didn’t have to worry about where I could go for a pee. And go, I had to at some stage or the other. The crew was walking out of the palace into the open grounds and letting loose but I thought I should maintain some dignity and poise befitting my position as Chief.

So I asked Sardar Saheb whether it was okay to use the bathrooms in the palace when I needed to. He looked aghast and vehemently denied me permission. Do you want to pee or take a dump, he asked me in chaste Urdu. When I relied that all I needed to do was pee, he led me to the front balcony and corridor. I followed blindly.

Those of you familiar with the palace will know that as you climb the entrance steps you come across this huge, long corridor/balcony at the ends of which are quaint rooms. Sardar Saheb led me to one of these rooms explaining that this was his humble abode.

I thought that was extremely hospitable. I mean taking me to his quarters for the use of facilities. Wow! That was Hyderabadi indeed.

But when he opened the door I realised that it was his bedroom and nothing more. There was no attached toilet or anything remotely resembling it. Seeing the puzzled look on my face Sardar Saheb smiled and pointed to the huge window. Let loose Master, the city awaits your blessings, he announced.

I looked out of the window and saw that the room was on a cliff and the window actually overlooked the city. I understood what he meant and when he stepped out in the name of discretion I stood at the window, unzipped and yes, let loose. Flowing down the cliff in wild abandon.

It was quite an exhilarating feeling. And one I have never experienced ever again. The feeling of pissing away at the world was so strong, it was almost invigorating.

So now when I meet these wannabes who want to tell the world that they were recently invited to the Falaknuma Palace for dinner, I feel like a dog who’s cocked his ears and is wagging his tail knowing full well that he has indeed marked his territory.

When we used to come from Madras for our vacations during our college years, (in the early and late 70s) we naturally looked at Hyderabad as a place where we could be pampered by the parents and as a party place where many of us classmates from school got together and celebrated life.

While chips and coke and maybe a bottle of Old Monk rum were bare essentials, one of the key ingredients of the parties was naturally a group of girls. As many as we could convince to party with us. Most of the girls were willing as long as we respected their parents’ deadlines but understandably they could not attend all the parties for the fear that their parents branded them wastrels etc. So we invited girls by rotation.

This group today, that group tomorrow. In fact we had a couple of girls we labelled as spare parts. They would be invited only when the ratios of boys to girls were getting alarmingly skewed.

One girl among the gang was unique. She was studying at Women’s College, Kothi and used to live in the hostel attached to that venerable institution. Getting her to come out meant we had to resort to strange stories and untruths. Strange calls were made ostensibly from her ailing aunt, her dying uncle, her visiting from the USA cousin and so on. But whatever we did, her cut off time was 9 pm.

And most of the time we respected that deadline and arranged parties accordingly.

But one day the mood at the party was swinging and no one wanted to leave, nor let her go. So the party went on till the early hours and this girl stayed on.

Only when the first rays of dawn hit her face did she realise that she was in for trouble. Expulsion from the hostel and rustication from college was imminent. The girl broke down and the party came crashing down with her spirit.

For some strange reason her tears touched a chord in my heart and I decided that something dramatic was called for. I had to swing into the rescue.

Having just passed out of Hyderabad Public School khaki shirts were never in short supply. So I rushed home, grabbed a khaki and borrowed my father’s car. I returned to the party venue and told the girl to get into the car.

She was still sobbing but I brooked no nonsense and literally bundled her into the vehicle. I made her sit in the back seat, still sobbing. And I, in my khaki uniform took the wheel.

I drove to Kothi, into the Residency (Women’s College) and drove straight to the warden (or whoever was in charge those days). I walked in, confident and told the lady that my young mistress was distraught at the loss of her uncle and had been in no position to return to hostel the previous night. Her father and mother had now instructed me to hand her over to the authorities and were in any case waiting for a call confirming that all was well.

The combined effect of the driver look and my acting prowess did the trick. The lady fell for the story hook, line and sinker. She gently walked up to the car and led my ‘ward’ to her hostel and signalled that I could go, and that everything would be taken care of.

That is when the girl, our friend came up with the masterstroke I shall never forget. She stopped sobbing, she stopped walking. She turned around and gestured for me to come close to her. And when I did, she tipped me two rupees. This sealed the whole transaction.

The girl went on to the hostel and graduated as time went by. My khaki shirts became too small for me as I discovered the new girth of adolescence. And I qualified to write in my resume, that my first job was that of a driver.

Protest is a birth right. I totally agree. And having understood the Telangana imbroglio I truly empathise with those who feel cheated. And I have done everything in my strength to support the cause.

After all, I AM a Hyderabadi by upbringing. And my wife is from Nalgonda. My children don’t even know what the other two parts of AP look like, except what they have seen in Konaseema Dance Sequences and Rayalaseema Faction Feuds.

So I echo the sentiments of Jai Telangana. Let there be no doubt about that.

But where I take umbrage and differ from the so called leaders of the Telangana Movement is in the method they have adopted to spark off madness.

The movement has degenerated to one of utterly disruptive protests. It has fostered violence and skulduggery all in the name of a noble cause. And it is being masterminded by people who have no ideals, no values, no real concern for the issue they have championed or seem to be championing. It is at the heart of it a race to see who can milk the issue driest and to whose advantage.

If one man has formed a party and built a palace with donations and has his family being ferried around in Audis and Bentleys, the senior members of the ruling party are posturing for all that they are worth hoping that in the new state, they will be recognised and rewarded.

Will the lot of the common man of Telangana improve after separate statehood is granted. I don’t think so. Will the so called leaders benefit. They already have.

Does the movement have anyone of the stature of Potti Sreeramulu? No. At most they have children of the erstwhile leaders of the cause who were shamelessly bought off over the years, and all these kids want is a chance at the jackpot.

So we have dramas being enacted. Biryani being cooked on the road. Bandhs being called for. Resignation dramas being enacted. All yielding a net result which is in the vicinity of zero.

If the kind of activities this bunch has indulged in is any indication, the management of Telangana State will first fall into the hands of cheap crooks and roadside daadaas. Only after the systematic draining of resources will any real management team be allowed to fall into place. And by then it maybe too little, too late.

My question is simple. Everyone seems to be reading the same writing on the wall. Everyone is in agreement about the quality (or lack of) manpower at the helm of the agitation. Everything from existing business to future prospects have suffered. But life goes on regardless.

Who is going to take the matter seriously and stop this nonsense of pushing idols into the hussain sagar? Who is going to say with confidence that Telangana deserves better, and have the gonads to prove that THEY have it.

I hope this realisation dawns soon. Jai Ho. Jai Telangana.

Over the years a phrase has made its presence felt in my life in various forms and adaptations. If ‘what the hell’ was an expression of everything from awe to anger when I was young and scared of being boxed in the ears if I used a more serious profanity ‘what the bloody hell’ was a graduation of sorts.

So when I saw a daring phrase like ‘what the f@#k’ being reduced to an abbreviation, all I could ask was WTF.

I felt that the expressive potential of phrases beginning with ‘what the’ were being trivialised and in the process were losing their bite.

I knew I was the last one qualified to complain. After all I had argued with my father many years ago that Bastard was actually a term of endearment. But still I felt a kind of a loss when I saw the slow but definite marginalisation of the universal cuss phrase.

And then when the internet exploded with jokes about how after Monday and Tuesday even the week says WTF I thought things had fallen as low as they possibly could. But FM (no not the Finance Minster) taught me that there was a low point that was lower than low.

One of the RJs (Congrats to him BTW) came up with the phrase ‘What the Pulihora’.

And the phrase went on to become a super duper hit. Prompting me to say ‘What the Pulihora’. Prompting my kids to start with a smirk and a sneer but end it with a smile.

Pulihora is Tamarind Rice. A dish made often for festivals and celebrations. How it became a word that politely substituted for the offensive F word is beyond my imagination and understanding. But popular it did become. And became part of normal parlance.

So Sharukh thinks he can take on the Big B. What the Pulihora. So they want a separate Telangana State. What the Pulihora. So BCCI thinks they can bully ICC. What the Pulihora. The usage multiplied and the phrase discovered a life of its own.

I realised that the attraction the phrase now held stemmed from the fact that no longer did we need to couch our words and sentences with asterisks and at the rate of symbols. The P word was safe and extremely polite. Not even my grandmother could object to it. So the kids started running around chanting ‘What the Pulihora’ without any fear of being pulled up. So the students knew that they couldn’t be punished for uttering the word.

Amazing. Amazing how an expression of utmost anger has been reduced to an item on the menu. I now sit waiting for my old aunts or my aged mother in law to look at something mildly objectionable and saying under their breath ‘What the Pulihora’. And blushing, just in case some of us had overheard them.