Somewhere in Space

The last few weeks I have been listening to a Radio Campaign where the narrator is in tears. He wants to give up on dance or rather he wants to do the ‘Tandav’ somewhere. And he is in tears. All because Royal Stag will not be seen in the market after a week. So long, farewell and all that.

The last few months we have been facing an artificial shortage of Old Monk Rum. For a while, some quarters were available, but now even they are rare. Many of us who were weaned on what we called ‘Mother’s Milk’ have been cribbing and crying. Lamenting that while our friends in Andhra get their ‘Buddah’ we Telanganites have to learn to live with the absence of Old Monk. XXX.

This is an unfair state of affairs. One that we regret. Mostly because we seem to have bought these troubles on to ourselves. But suicide?

I now hear that there are a lot of people planning suicide because Royal Stag is being taken off the market. Or because Old Monk is being denied to them.

While I do understand the sentiment, I think we are contemplating extreme measures. Even as I speak, it has come to light that Royal Stag is just going in for a cosmetic change. And the whole ‘Oh My God – they’re taking it off the market’ campaign was just a childish ‘scampaign’.

Old Monk Rum is doing very well, thank you. And it is not available because of problems between the authorities and the manufacturers.

A little concerted effort from consumers and loyalists should see the issue being resolved.

Anyway what is all this nonsense about suicide?

If what you drink is not available, change your brand. Or change yourself. Worse comes to worst, give up drinking. But suicide? Naaaah. That’s a mug’s game.

And for duck’s sake, grow up. Step up the value chain. Royal Stag!!! That’s so middle class anyway.

And Old Monk?

Yes. That is indeed a problem. While I am trying to influence the Government to rethink their stance on this ‘teertham’, I am also sending subtle messages to my friends coming from Andhra or Bangalore to carry back some of the good stuff.

 

Cheers!!!

I suppose I’ll forgive you if you think that I have been exposed to a renewed brand presence. I suppose you’ll think that I am possibly a prime target for furniture. And impressed with a brand that is older than I am.

Because yes. Bantia is a brand I’ll never forget. Not because I’ve experienced their product. And not even because Lion Bantia is a good friend of an uncle of mine.

So what is the secret of Bantia’s success. At least as far as I am concerned.

The story goes back a few years. And goes to Secunderabad Club. To the swimming pool at the Club.

I was in the pool. Swimming. Yes, I have been known to do that. Though I must admit a certain past tense dimension to my claim. Anyway, I was in the pool. And as expected when in the pool, I did not have my spectacles on.

But who needs them in water anyway?

And that’s when I realized that I was being stared at. And not just by one person. Many pairs of eyes were boring down on me. I could feel it. Quite clearly.

Now, please understand that there is an Universal Law that applies in Swimming Pools around the world. One type of body invites you to stare. Another compels you to look away. I have always been more in sync with the latter rule. So the feeling of being stared at was new.

And uncomfortable.

Things became worse when I saw a couple of blurred figures approaching me. One was in the pool, and walking towards me in the shallows. Two were approaching me from the sides of the pool.

I’ve obviously done something wrong, I thought. Were my trunks still on? Had someone peed in the pool, and was I the suspect? Had the kids been upto some mischief? Questions like this popped up in my mind. But then I decided that I must be looking like a comic character with blurbs all around.

So I stood my ground. And waited.

The three people converged on me. One of them was in the lead.

They came up to me and started smiling. Then they exchanged knowing looks. Then I saw that they were all egging each other to make the first move on me.

I was intrigued.  Even confused. Then shocked…

The man in the lead, came up to me and said…Excuse me Sir…You are Harshad Mehta na?

Harshad Mehta. The Bombay Stock Exchange Scamster. The man who’d made a few crores. And they wanted to know if I was him.

No. No. I objected.

Don’t be embarrassed Sir, we’ll not tell anyone. We just want a photograph with you.

Arre Baba, I am not Harshad Mehta, I insisted. And then introduced myself.

They didn’t even listen. They were keen on introducing themselves.

I am Bantia, said the leader. And we are all big fans.

Sir, please. I am Vijay Marur. Not Harshad Mehta.

But they wouldn’t listen. In fact members of their family had congregated on the sides of the pool. And they were all giggling in anticipation.

What saved me was the fact that I remembered that my sister’s father in law, Mr. A. Ranga Rao, an erstwhile Lion District Governor had a friend called Lion Bantia. I asked the gentleman if he was a Lion. And when he said yes, I traced my connection to Ranga Rao Uncle.

With great difficulty and even greater reluctance the whole gang finally believed that I was not Harshad Mehta. Though I saw them all taking sneak looks as they walked away shamefacedly.

I don’t know if they remember the incident, but Bantia is a name I’ll never forget.

Since my childhood was spent in Calcutta of yore, my first introduction to books was the National Library there. I used to take a double decker bus from near my house and go to the library regularly from the age of five or six. And I used to make these trips alone.

When we moved to Hyderabad I was just short of eleven. And my first year was spent in and around Abids. My school was St. George’s Grammar School. My dad’s office was in a lane parallel to Emerald Galli. Ilyas book shop was on one side and central book publishers on the other. There was Taj Mahal Hotel. Vanguard Apparel’s. FD Khan. Kwality. 3 Aces. Lighthouse Cinema. Dayal’s. Bulchand. Kathiawar Stores. Saremasons. A medical shop run by the Uberoi Brothers. Finlay’s.

And there was A A Hussain.

Chocolates, sweets and trips to Havmor were treats. But visits to AA Hussain were bonuses of the ultimate kind. Dad would sanction a comic or two. A Mad Magazine perhaps. But I would spend hours looking at the books. The novels. The coffee table books. The reference books. While the rest of the family bought yards of fabric.

And I would say, “let me make some money and I’ll come back for more”. I went on to HPS Begumpet and moved to Banjara Hills. And the Abids side of my life became an occasional trip. Then I left Hyderabad for college. And then work.

It was in Chennai and Bombay that I first made enough money to be able to afford visits to Book shops. AH Wheeler started my campaign. Then in Bombay I discovered Strand by the day and Nalanda by night.

Somewhere in between, I was posted to a Hyderabad branch of an agency for three months and I did buy some advertising black books from AA Hussain. But I remembered my promise to come back when I had more money.

Ironically, the bookshops at airports, Bombay and Bangalore mainly, made more money from me than any other. I was travelling almost twice a week. And I was reading two or three novels per trip. More than three fourths of my library of several thousand novels have their front inner leaf detailing my trips and when I bought the book.

So AA Hussain kind of faded in my horizon. I would quite often remember my pact with the book shop which indeed had been the first of my favourite spots, but time and place conspired. And AAH remained a fond memory.

And now I hear they are closing down. Yet another curtain falls on the quaint old Hyderabad. Inevitable I suppose, with the Amazons and Kindles opening branches in every house. And the reading habit itself being relegated to history.

But I’ll always cherish the memory of an avuncular book shop owner, a bookshop where many of my dreams originated and a place where I first discovered that the smell of books could be an addiction.

I guess you had to go AA Hussain. I’m just sorry that I could not come back to you for more.

What? Where? When? Perhaps even Who?

These are the questions I willy-nilly answer when I write about food. What did I eat? Where was it served? Was there a special occasion? And who was the cook?

And oh yes. Would I recommend it, go back perhaps for a second time…

Today however I rave about some very simple food. Served not at a Michelin Star or a Food Guide Award kind of a place, not at a restaurant of repute, but...

It’s just…another day in Paradise. And the cooking is as close to divine as the Gods will allow.

In this Ashram where in the serving of food, people find solace. In this Ashram, at the feet of this eclectic Sufi (Fakir, he calls himself) who just loves to feed. In this Ashram where the chants of prayer taste exquisite and the flavor of food is the incense of the Gods.

It was Ugadi. And Babaji himself was at the helm in the kitchen. Ammaji was the quintessential right hand with a focus on the paneer. The rest of the team did as told by the Supremo.

When we entered, a friend extended a pre-plated meal in welcome. And that is the wonderful think about the Ashram. Everyone gets a chance to serve (I am being excused because of my unsteady step and old age perhaps, but that’s a whole different story).

Three little plastic cups. Filled with three curries. A plastic spoon. One Paratha. Not exactly a food stylist’s idea of an attractive pre-plate. But I kid you not. I’ve rarely seen sights so appetising.

The three curries. Paneer. Mutter. And aaloo.

The paneer was virgin soft. Un-fried, it melted on arrival. Leaving behind the swirl of flavours with the gentle gravy. The paratha, layered and gheed, flirted with the palate in a game of soft and crisp nuances.

The mutter. Oh the mutter. I was expecting at least a bite. At least the hint of crunch. But no. The curry had been cooked into submission. The mutter (peas) were subjugated into near swallowability. The bite was more for the paratha. But the taste was undoubtedly muttery.

My favourite dish however was the Aaloor Dum. Suddenly I felt a head rush. And I had the strong feeling that my mother was around. Looking lovingly as I dug in. This is a simple Bengali dish, not to be confused with the Dum Aaloo Kashmiri and its sweeter variations. And the key to this dish is the boil. And the cooking.

How well timed the boiled potatoes are. And just how much have they absorbed of the cooking.

This indeed was a meal. Somehow we struggled through some rice and dalcha. Gluttoned on an ice cream from a favourite brand. And then took a few minutes to allow our senses to settle down before we could take leave.

And it’s a different kind of contentment, let me tell you. It’s not just the satisfaction of a full enough stomach. Not the ecstasy of the loving flavors. Nor the deliverance or the moksha kind of feeling blessed.

It’s a contentment that reminds you emphatically, that when love becomes the main ingredient in your cooking, what you serve is not food for sustenance. But food for the soul.

And when sprinkled with the blessings of the Baba and the Saints with him, food suddenly becomes a prayer, and the gentle smile that bids you farewell is the epitome of your prayers answered.

Om Namo Narayana.

 

 

They come into power by hook or crook. Okay, mainly by crook. And once they are in power, they hold on to their seats like Quickfix or Fevicol, whichever you think is more effective.

While in power they refine every corrupt practice into a fine art. And learn the meticulous science of making a lot of noise but achieving nothing.

Their fraternity is a cohesive and closely guarded one. And whatever differences they may have between themselves, they are always united when it comes to voting themselves some favours or perks.

Like an increase in pay. Or a subsidised lunch. Travel. Even life long benefits like Security. Pension.

They are the Peoples’ Persons. But they are actually ‘only a few people’s persons’. Common Good is an uncommon trait. And self service is the only thing they learnt from the Udipi.

The only thorn in their flesh is the bureaucrat. Typically the IAS Officer who technically reports to them as Political Master, but often finds an objection or two to the short cuts they try to take.

And that is because most of them are uneducated. I can’t say illiterate because some of them even know how to sign their name. But they are uneducated about things other than life. For instance rules, regulations, laws, systems, procedures, etiquette and what have you.

And look at the irony. Keeping them in power is the single most significant waste of budgeted expenditure that the Government is doomed to incur. Every time. Ever since Independence. And every time the country or the state or the district indulges in that farcical experiment called Democratic Elections.

They spit stains onto the wall as easily as they paint the sidewalk. They bully with the help of their light fixtures and sirens. They embarrass us with their boorish and crude behavior. Oh they are actually insufferable.

But they are the price we are paying for democracy.

Does that mean we cannot do anything to improve the situation? Improve them?

Let’s moot the idea of a National Institute of Political Training. Let there be entrance exams held every year on a national level. The successful candidates should go through a course that can be loosely termed as 3+2. Three years to graduate. Two to master.

And on successful completion of their course they become members of the IPS.

The Indian Political Service.

Trained in the South Block. Exposed to the parliaments of the world. Expert Fund Transferers. The whole package.

And Elections. Only IPS officials are allowed to stand for elections.

I think this can raise the standards of our system and thereby our whole country. What do you think?

I have a 14 year old nephew who’s extremely talented. And he’s a whiz with gizmos. Give him a computer, he’ll master it in a few half hours. Give him a musical instrument, and he’ll have you singing along in no time. Give him a camera and he’s ready to shoot in minutes. And damn, he does manage some stunning pictures and videos.

A few years ago he’d have been labeled a prodigy. Today however he is just called Normal.

Literally at every street corner we find talented young kids who have amazing skills. And it warms my heart whenever I see them. What troubles me and pains me however is when these very talents are extrapolated into skills they have no idea about.

Corporate Films is one of them.

Suddenly people have begun to believe that a collection of some nice photographs and perhaps some slick videos constitute a corporate film.

Oh wait!!! Did you say there has to be a voice over for the film? Hell, that’s not a problem. Getting one of their Call Centre Friends to read out the Corporate Brochure seems to be the answer.

Theme, did you say? It’s a Corporate Film didn’t you know. A few shots of the office, a few shots of the products, a few testimonials from clients and an interview of the boss are sufficient. What theme do you need?

I don’t blame the kids. They’re just doing what this generation has learnt better than anything else. Cashing in.

Cashing in on technology I guess, is acceptable. The cameras have become better, more versatile, more accessible. Even accessories are just a Flipkart away.

But what else they are cashing in on is dangerous. And that is ignorance.

Ignorance of the client. Entrepreneurs who have no corporate background or exposure. Sultans of this new era where ideas rule. And icons often wear shorts and drink beer behind a table that’s in front of a window that overlooks a Golf Course.

Which is why you have corporate films that look like Wedding Films or Marriage Videos with a new set of actors. Lovely pictures, great music et al. And like the wedding videos they are enjoyed only by the people who are in them.

But…

Since when did Corporate Films begin to be films that management enjoyed more than the market, the audience, the employees…

I can see many eyebrows being raised and hardcore professional managers with IIT and IIM written into their socks objecting. And their objections can easily be put into a Power Point Presentation.

Because that’s all they know. That’s all they’re comfortable with. And they look for films that are nothing but animated power point presentations.

But Corporate Films are much more than that. Their Macro Level approach seldom has room for Micro Level detailing. They are tone setters, not do-it-yourself manuals. They lay the foundation for a relationship between the presenter and his audience. But they are not the bricks that build, nor the roof that protects.

Some top managers are wonderful presenters. They become a curtain raiser by themselves. They dictate the tone and pace of their presentation.

If you are one of them, consider yourself blessed. And you can ignore all that I am saying.

If you’re not, for heaven’s sake get a professional on board. Someone who understands the importance of communication and its relevance. Someone who can use the easier available skills and craft messages that have impact.

And yes, learn to differentiate between a wedding photographer, an events photographer, a passport photographer and a corporate communicator. And let the wedding film makers live happily ever after…by themselves.

 

I don’t know about you, but I have a large number of connections on my LinkedIn account, most of whom I have never met in my life. And most of whom I never shall.

Why are they connections? Because I believe LinkedIn is a fraternity where we shake hands first and then get to know each other. And this is achieved by looking at profiles, following activities and so on.

Of course on my list are also people who I have worked for and even people who worked with me. Now in their case I can understand when they ask to be endorsed for a particular skillset or endorse me for something they have personally experienced vis-à-vis my profession or passion.

But the other guys. Those who barely qualify to be called acquaintances. I am surprised when they endorse me for skills. And shocked when they ask me to endorse them. Or is it LinkedIn that does the asking.

Now this is a riddle that has been troubling me for a long while. And I didn’t quite know how to put it. I mean, is this an exception to etiquette that LinkedIn allows, indeed encourages?

Anyway today I decided to voice my concern. And because I am incorrigible and quite the cheeky fellow, I decided to make my complaint a creative one.

Now I am asking you, for just a few minutes to imagine that LinkedIn is a different kind of forum. It is a platform where man meets woman. Much like a Matrimonial Site. Imagine…just for a few minutes.

And imagine that it is part of the fraternity customs to endorse each other for skills. Any skills. Cooking. Bringing up children. Teaching. And sex…yes, SEX.

So you have men and women sending out requests for endorsements. How good was I in bed? On a scale of 1 to 10. how would you rate me? What is it that I am likely to do after sex? a) Smoke b) Sleep c) Ask for an encore or d) Go to the fridge for a midnight snack…

Something like that.

Okay, this may be acceptable, even if not strictly necessary, between people who have actually had a relationship. But imagine endorsements between strangers. Or even acquaintances.

I mean, we have never met. We barely know one another. And I ask you how good you think I am or worse, tell you how good you are.

Preposterous don’t you think? I do. And so please excuse me for not endorsing most of you for talents that I do not know you have. And for being amused when I am endorsed for skills that you think I have. Even if you haven’t the foggiest about me and my skills.

And if you want to endorse me for Rudeness or Ignorance of current values, I’ll understand.

If ever you thought English was a single language, forget it!!!

English is a word used to describe many languages. It is not the language spoken by the ‘English’men. Not just. It is also the language spoken by the Americans (all varieties of them). It is definitely the language spoken by the Indians (Red, North, South, whatever).

This, by the way is true of almost all other languages as well. There is Telugu for instance, and there are Telugu, Telugu and Telugu.

Come to think of it, languages, all languages…evolve. They change with time. They change with geography. And they change quite fashionably.

Think of the English you learnt in school. And compare it to the English your children are learning. Their rules are quite different from ours, right?

And that is true of near sexagenarians like me. And it is true of my young adult children who think their nieces speak atrocious English. The nieces of course think we speak an archaic language.

It’s very easy to belittle or deride someone who doesn’t speak ‘your’ kind of language whether it is English or Hindi or Telugu. But it is wrong.

The version of English for instance that you speak, may be something you learnt in a different place, a different society, a different time and for a different need. As a result I should not find fault with you for not understanding the subtleties of PG Wodehouse. And you should not find it strange that my SMSes do not normally use abbreviations.

In this context two brands have taught lessons the world should never forget. One is Nikon. And the other is MS Word.

Did you know for instance  that while Nikon bodies have undergone amazing changes over the years, any or all the lenses of older manufacture have always been made compatible to the new cameras.

Similarly MS Word. Each new version of Word is capable of reading the older formats and in fact offers to save in the latest format and offers it to you as a matter of choice. There’s never any compulsion to ‘upgrade’ or ‘migrate’.

I wish English (and all the other languages) was taught with a basic principle. A basic requirement of backward compatibility. Speak how you want, but understand me without difficulty. If you know what I mean.

So your English may be Ver_09 and mine may be Ver_03 but we understand each other perfectly well. And unlike softwares that can only write in their current avataar, our language writing skills should be cross-platform, cross-generational and cross-country.

So if you do not ken, don’t ask me to sod off