Chetan Bhagat’s dream for us

All of us have dreams. But how many of us have dreams for our country? India’s Bollywood [script]writer has one. I’ve read all of Chetan Bhagat’s books, simply because I’m in awe at his courage to throw away a lucrative job to follow his heart. Period.

Now I salute him. He’s taken yet another risk of stepping out of his forte – fiction. Has he landed on his feet?

Well, he’s testing the waters himself. His cautiousness is glaringly evident throughout the book. He misses no opportunity to say that he is no expert of what he is speaking and that the ideas and solutions are merely his opinion. “The essays are by no means perfect; they can at times be too simple or idealistic,” he clarifies.

So somewhere within, does he feel the literary world has not accepted him? I remember watching a chat show on one of the channels where he was snubbed by the veteran Tavleen Singh. She said something on these lines… I’ve not read your books. If I remember right, he didn’t reply. I wondered, then, why he was making a mockery of himself in public.

Not anymore.

Chetan Baghat took to writing because, he says, he has a dream for India. Sounds pompous, isn’t it? He didn’t want to be a typical “armchair NRI advisor”, he adds. Now that’s some confidence. He goes on to say that he has so much love from his readers “that other writers cannot even imagine it”. Would you call this arrogance? Well, then here’s the rest…”However, I don’t get literary praise. It’s okay…” he adds. A man with his head on his shoulders; A person who knows where he stands? Definitely!

Similarly, he’s clear about why India is in the ‘mess’ that it is. His essays on politics, society and youth clearly reflect the reasons. He believes only the youth in India can change the country if they change their mindset and elect the right people to lead the nation. Therefore, all his solutions to the various issues plaguing the country involve youth - who want love and money.

He urges the current generation to leave a country that the youth of today will be proud of. “The next generation may say this was a time of turmoil, but let them not say that we sat doing nothing.”

Corruption, education, secularism are his pet topics. To begin with, Indian education system should be revamped. It is “turning out servile, course material slaves,” he believes.

Also that India lacks community values unlike the US. He urges all to do away with caste-based politics and voting, which is the prime cause for all ills in India unlike the US. Send the right people to Parliament, he pleads.

Comparison to America at regular intervals is discomforting. Why emulate only the US? I guess, when a considerable proportion of desis still hold an American trip as the ultimate status symbol, he can be pardoned.

His desperation makes him mince no words as he bravely takes on the rich and famous. He rips apart Kingfisher, the BCCI and the real estate mafia, giving some stark calculations [the investment banker raises its head] and offering valid solutions to help the country prosper and for youth to retain faith in their homeland.

He even nudges human emotions by discussing terror attacks. But a few of his solutions to social ills are trivialized. If Bollywood movies could change over the last three decades, our mindset about serious issues can also change, he opines. I can’t digest this one.

Similarly, his take on Lerds [liberal arts students] versus nerds, and an open letter to Sonia Gandhi does not sit well with the theme of the book. And the two short stories included are way too childish, to say the least.

But that is absolutely forgivable – this is his first non-fiction work.

“What Young India Wants” is an honest book! The mention of his own suicide attempt is ample proof of his intentions. “Don’t fix history, please look at the future,” says it!

So what’s the writer’s ‘Great Indian Dream’? That every citizen should work hard, prosper and succeed through innovation and hard work and once successful, every citizen should give back to the society that made him or her what he or she is.

Let’s stop being typical Indians. Stop being cynical! Read the issues the book raises and his suggestions. You may agree or disagree with him, but as he says, have your own opinion.

Isn’t that the beginning of any change?

Hats off! Chetan Baghat!

[Picture Courtesy: Book cover - www.flipkart.com; Profile: www.chetanbhagat.com]

Wednesday lessons

This morning I was sick…as usual. Nothing physical. Because I was never and will never be a morning person and the fact that I never liked nor can I ever cultivate a liking to cooking, four days of the week gets a weak start.

I am obliged to wake up at 4am to prepare my child’s school snack.

Well, this morning, too, began nastily. As I laboriously stood beautifying the sandwich, I realised it was Wednesday at last. My weekend would begin in a few hours. I instantly felt peppy and sneaked in time for a 5-minute yoga nidra. [This is the only yogic exercise I love doing, because my guru said: “Just 3 minutes of yoga nidra will energise you to be active for eight hours.” There were several other associated facts he explained, but I remember only this]

I was so relaxed that I woke up a good 20 minutes later, which meant, I had only 10 minutes for the morning rituals.

I managed a quick shower by skipping the tea ceremony and rushed out forgetting my wallet.

Then my driver zipped me through to work narrowly missing hitting a taxi as my nose banged the front seat and my bag hurled to sit on the hand break beside him.

"I was speeding to ensure you reach on time," he said.

"How can you do 120kph on this road..."

"5 minutes Ok. But today you came out 7minutes late."

Lesson learnt: Never get more than 5 minutes late.

It was silence after that. Until, my mobile beeped and I heard my man. "Why did you give my number to your colleague.”

It took me a while to figure out which colleague as I was still nursing my nose.

"The one in Chennai," he reminded me.

"Oh! Yeah, Ahh, she wanted to speak to me. Am I crazy to give yours."

"Ok now call her. She says it’s urgent. Am forwarding her number."

But I waited to figure out why she called him, when I sent her MY mobile number. Meanwhile, I reached office and checked the email.

The first mail in the queue was from my better-half. He had already done the investigations and had re-routed the mail I sent to my Chennai colleague to my inbox. [The only default number in my system is HIS]

The lesson learnt: Never share passwords.

Office hours went without any hassle. With Apple launching its new iPhone, there is no dearth of articles and related talk.

One of my colleagues caught me offguard while we walked to the pantry. “Hey, Nisha you’ve got a smartphone!

 “Yes.”

“Which model?”

“Samsung,” I replied.

“Yeah! But which one is it?”

“You’ll take black tea or green,” I asked and exclaimed in the same breath, “who are these guys dirtying the pantry.”

And the conversation thankfully veered off to less smarter topics.

The first thing I did when I returned to my seat was to dial the ‘culprit’. “Don’t ever give me your old phones. Is that clear,” I hissed into the receiver.

“Now who asked you its features,” asked the husband.

“What features… the bloody model.”

Lesson learnt: Stick to Nokia

Returned home at noon ushering in my weekend.

At 2.30pm, I waited at the door for my daughter to return from school. Lunch ready in the microwave.

By 2.40pm, I got anxious. Waited. At 2.50pm I picked up the phone to call the bus driver. After I dialled the number it flashed my relaxed head that she had extra class. Would return only at 4.30pm. 

I was shattered. Guilt knew no bounds. I couldn’t stop the tears either. Alone I sat and brooded. I had forgotten to give my child her lunch box.

Lesson learnt: Let my youngster have some cash on her. 

I don't hate my friends, though

Friends are like lighthouses…a quote that appeared on my Facebook page got me thinking.

I first checked it up. Indeed, there does exist a quote by Tom Baker. It goes thus… “Friends are like lighthouses, with the sources of light coming from their hearts.”

Here I review the lighthouses in my life.

I have a couple of souls – indeed lighthouses - who do wonders to my wellbeing. Spending just a few minutes with them, even if it is over the phone, gets me kicking and rearing to surge. Their light, indeed, transcends and lifts me. God Bless them!

I have a few other dimhouses whom I spent hours on end and remain unmoved and untriggered. I grope hard to find anything substantial in our talks that I could use to justify the time spent.

Yet there are a couple of darkhouses who sap my energy within seconds of our interaction. They leave me mentally and emotionally exhausted. I don’t make an effort to even analyse the conversations.  

But I am friends with all the above types. It doesn’t matter to me how well their hearts are lit or how much of light their toes emit. They are friends alright.

There is one other category, I identified recently. Torch-bearers. Since they focussed on my passion, I involved them without much ado. And…

Here’s what happened…

The first person - I considered a dear friend for almost four years. We spoke at length regularly. Even shared a few secrets. But when my book happened she ‘knew better’. How I should have done it, how I should go forward, whom I should speak to henceforth… she even prophesied my career if I were to ignore her instructions. Soon suggestions and advices turned into orders and commands that quickly became abusive. I was forced to walk off. 

The second person - Befriended me while I was promoting my book. A man of words, he impressed me with his knowledge, an illustrious career graph, revolutionary social thoughts and constructive criticism of my work. He tirelessly encouraged me to pen more with inspiring anecdotes, while he etched out plans to broaden my reach. However, by the end of the third month into our friendship, his calls became uncomfortably frequent. Never mind. I said, he’s well read. Then, his comments turned suggestive. I pulled the plug.

The third person - A senior who has known me for the last five years. We shared thoughts on poetry. Every conversation we’ve had, he promised me to do all he could to see my writings get noticed. Even as I had been alerted that he is a misogynist, I chose to give our friendship a chance for two reasons: Seniority. He's a seasoned journalist [I will continue to respect him as a professional who knows his job]. Two: His promise of guiding me in my endeavour. Even after my book was published, he did answer my calls. But the moment we got past exchanging pleasantries, he got busy and asked me to call another time. Date and time at his convenience. I repeated the act a dozen times. I have deleted his contacts. 

So returning to the quote, ‘friends are like lighthouses…” Please shed your own light!

PS: I hate none of the above though, as they've taught me some lessons. I'll spell them out later.

Working moms who are a crass apart

By merely looking at students of a particular school, can you judge that school's performance?

Well, some parents do.

As much as I hate accusing my breed, the truth is more women do it. And I couldn't help but grade such mothers. And for working moms, this is the time when back-to-school issues replace office gossips.

Their pet peeves become an obsessive engagement to outdo their counterparts in proving they are the best moms.

If they polish, sharpen and fire their know-it-the-best salvos at competing counterparts, then the unsuspecting ones are simply ridden over.

The unwritten code of conduct among working mothers goes thus...

The mom who whines the most is considered the best.

1. If your sighings begin only from your kid's morning pee then you are not 'good enough'.

2. Those who speak of the daunting and herculean task of tucking them in bed the previous night are 'okay'.

3. If you skip work on the first day of school to accompany your pre-teen to class, then you are 'better'.

4. Only those who juggle boss's emails with project research and picture print-outs are 'multi-taskers'.

5. The more you voice your worry about what to pack in lunch boxes and request for yummy snacks for your lil ones, the more you are 'sincerely responsible'.

After whining on the above, mothers get to serious business of educating the children. And that's when teachers are blamed for not doing enough to train young minds. And if they do, then they are blamed for dumping most work on parents who return home tired after slogging it out to pay tuition fees.

6. When it comes to extra attention for some kids... those who hire private tutors home and pay per class are giving the best to their kids as against sending children to teachers who charge monthly fee who teaches a group after school hours.

7. Similarly, those who drive their kids to extra-curricular activities to centres in Downtown are providing the best rather than those who send kids to budget institutions operating out of populated locales.

Once studies and extra-curricular activities are taken care of, then comes entertainment...

8. Moms who book tickets for movies and fun parks during office hours are considered 'on-the-job' moms.

9. And those who bitch about their husbands not pitching in with homework and parent-teachers meetings gain sympathy. They are 'role models' for the rest of the ilk.

Alas! even after this long dissection, I'm left clueless about the skills of mothers who judge a school's performance by students' uniform.

PS: Watch this space, my research continues.

 

 

Need a smiley to express condolence

Shobha De's observation about the demise of Bollywood's grand old man [even funerals are turned into events these days] is, sadly, true.

The turnout at HK Hangal's funeral was dismal. Also traffic flowed smoothly and media lacked frenzy as show-stoppers chose to stay away.

My family, too, had a funeral in India, the same day. Not to mention it was neither an event nor an affair. Just a family mourning together for a matriarch who breathed her last.

As a grandchild, I thought it was my duty to inform folks of my generation as well as a few selected friends who are scattered around the world.

Even as my act of posting the info was strictly without expectations, I could not resist but ponder over one message from one of my friends. The words got the better of me. "I don't know your grandmother. But my condolences."

The very act of the person replying thus reflected the futility of the exercise. Showed how meaningless the words were. Crude and pathetic!

You condole with the affected, not the deceased!

Such ignorant mortals better stick to emoticons! The ones with shades on would be apt so as to hide the true emotions.

Condolences and wishes need to be heartfelt. But when lol!s are used to imply anything from wisecracks to inventions and parentheses-cum-colon combinations convey a myriad emotions, little wonder knowledge of appropriate words are wanting.

The word, I guess, was coined to help people tackle the awkward position they inevitably find themselves in. Majority stammers and fumbles and search for words and gestures when faced with someone who has lost loved ones. "I'm sorry to hear..." is the most commonly used line. Condolence is its crisper cousin.

There are others who call upon the affected. While the effort they take is appreciated, some end up gossiping loudly enough to shed their mourning mask. It's simple logic: If you choose to take time out to pay your so-called respects to the departed soul then hold on for those few minutes and play that damn role modestly. Else, stay away and tweet or post a message.

The veteran Bollywood actor's death was also accompanied by a wave of tweets and messages that inundated the social media networks. But how many fingertips tapped obligation will always remain hidden because of the 'Me Too' syndrome. As media study Twitter traffic to gauge the significance of any untoward incident, movers and shakers ensure they make their presence felt.

But what about the ordinary class who seek to make their presence at someone's death but cannot do it right? A smiley will definitely rescue them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My tryst with painters

Into the world of colours I was heralded today. That's the reason why I'm writing this
at 11.30pm - way past my bed-time.

After meeting two painters -  my dear friend Archana and Sheena (whom I got
introduced to only a couple of hours earlier and have added on to my friends' list) my
inner palette is blushing in different hues.

I realised how little I knew of a divine art form. Today I learnt painting jargon (got
many more to comprehend) and understood that one need not start by copying
pictures to paint; that brushes are not the only tool used (how naive of me); why oil
on canvas is considered superior, among several other colourful facts?

The shades of ignorance in me began cloaking itself the moment I strolled into Blu's
(Archana's) venue... A whiff of serenity settled in. A calmness that tested my beliefs.
One that challenged the spirit.

I thought it was the ambience until I stood close to the canvases. From atop tall stands stood nature's untouched beauty and pink skies to the sluggish marshes, love peonies and the mysterious yellow river. There was even a flying horse. Each one spoke to me. In each one I saw a world unto itself.

That's when the bearded man bared his soul. Something in him tugged at me. And Blu
explained how he took life. That was coffee powder on canvas! Wow! If I was jolted
wild on learning coffee could be a medium, too, then I was awed at the minute details
my artist friend captured. I noticed a tiny little button on his shirt which I felt secured
inside his deep feelings of hurt, the reasons for his dishevelled crop of hair and
unkempt beard. From the contours of his jaws I heard him scream a thousand silent
words. I wondered what he ached to share...

Two-and-a-half hours later as I walked out of the venue, I couldn't help but look at
him once again - this time from a distance. And lo! my coffee man appeared to smile
at me.

I stand humbled beneath the magical canopy that painters create!

From there I went to meet Sheena whose portraits jumped with life. If Sheikh Zayed
exuded royalty, then the simple act of a mother applying henna on her grown-up
daughter's hair oozed maternal love. And the two kids whose naughtiness and
innocence sparkled through their eyes made me ask her questions to the techniques
she adopts.

It was in stark contrast to that of Blu's. And it had to be so, I soon realised because
Blu is a self-confessed non-conformist, and Sheena abides by guidelines. But the
difference ended there. For the simple reason that their arena encourages only free
spirits.

Only those who garner courage to tear themselves off from the mundane hooks, and
desperately wander in ether yearning to conceive concepts that they passionately nurture to full term until they relieve themselves on canvases, can be called painters.

Only they are artists!

PS: Archana's exhibition is on at Raddison Blu, Yas Island, Abu Dhabi, for another week. Don't miss an enriching experience.

The morning I was challenged

Date: August 1, 2012

Time: 8.00am

Location: Workplace

Scene: Morning greetings

Characters: The B and Me

B: How are you Nisha?

Me: I'm good B

B: Others should be saying that about you.

Me: How can others say? And how should it matter what others say.

B: That's an arrogant statement, Nisha!

B walked away and I continued with my editing.

But...the rest of that day I pondered on what made him assume I'm "arrogant".

Old habits die hard, I concluded. And that holds true to both of us or anyone on the surface of this 
planet.

Let me clarify my stand first.

People around me were used to me sulking, cribbing and complaining about pretty much anything during work hours (home front I’ll write about another time).

My replies to 'How are you' were always an 'OK', ‘Not Bad’, Pulling Along', and if I muttered “Fine” it was always akin to a yawn 'Faaine'!

So how could I blame the person - who is disciplined in asking me this question every single day before he sets about his scheduled tasks and is accustomed to hearing only lethargic, unenthusiastic and pessimistic replies - for reacting thus?

He was probably jolted awake upon hearing a crisp “Good” from a ‘donkey’ (Check out my earlier blog)

The next day at 8 am in the morning, I waited for B’s usual round. He ignored me. I wasn’t surprised. For two reasons – One: That’s his way of telling ‘offenders’ he is displeased with them. Two: One’s wellbeing does prick others.

The next two days happened to be my weekend.

The following morning, I was again asked. But this time the query was structured differently. Umm…the bruise had definitely not healed.

“Nishaaa, are you good today?”

“Great B,” I replied. 

“Are you sure?”, B asked.

I simply smiled.

Three days were sufficient for me to ruminate on my mentors’ words and cement my decision. Wanna change yourself for the better? Wanna have that enviable glow on your countenance? Wanna empower yourself and achieve your dreams? The first step is to feel good about yourself. No matter how sick you are; how ugly you look; or how behind on any coveted ladder you may be…the first step is to be grateful for being alive. And begin saying good things about yourself. What better way that replying you are fantastic and great when asked “How are you?’

Once you repeatedly say you are good, you inevitably begin feeling it, and then it becomes easier to approve of yourself and start loving the self. Once you start loving yourself, it is only natural you will begin working on your flaws and weaknesses and then your dreams will no longer remain that. They become your aims and soon a reality.

So friends, I was challenged on my first step. I remember reading my favourite writer’s words - when you decide to change it is only natural for people close to you to pull you down because they fear to leave their comfort zone. Fret not. Carry on. Those prepared to accompany you will come along. Others can always join you in their own time and space.

Haven’t we heard statements such as “Oh! after he got that promotion, he doesn’t like our company anymore.” “After his business took off (add anything you want here) he started ignoring us.  Or “After her European tour, she thinks we are low class”. Or like I was told, “You wrote one book and you think you know it all. Don’t get cocky!”

Those who are determined to empower themselves will soon find nothing in common with naggers and negators. Period. They’ll move on and find new friends on their way – those who exude the same vibes, understand them and share their dreams.