One last time, before mounting his horse, the young Alexander ran a check in his mind. Sword-Tick, Horse-Tick, Ambition-Tick, Determination-Tick. Yes! He was ready to take on the world and conquer it!
He put a foot in the stirrup and was about to swing the other leg over, when a plaintive cry froze him, “Alex!”
Father! His father was calling him. He turned.
The sight that greeted his amazed eyes was, indeed that; amazing. The once towering king had become an old, doddering shadow of his tall and proud self, deserted as he was, by his legion of friends, relatives and courtiers. Who ever has said that fruits of adversity are sweet had surely not met this erstwhile king.
“Would you be with me, I have no body left,” asked the parent. Alexander looked at his awaiting horse and hesitated, but just once. Quietly, he then opened the knot of his girdle and released the sword. Next, he patted the eager horse on its back and sent him on his way. The world would have to wait. Duty was calling.
It was imperative that he took his ailing father away from his lost kingdom. Presently their enemies were too many and too strong. Father and son went away, to a huge and faraway city. It engulfed them and hid them in its bosom. They became anonymous, thus they were saved of the jibes and the barbs that cut deeper than the edge of any blade made of the sharpest of steel.
The days were poor, the nights bare. Every night Alex would wake up several times and stand outside the door of his father, to check if he was snoring. He knew that the old man was dying, slowly, not of any disease, but due to the pain of his exile.
He devoted his life towards making his father feel some happiness. In the past the king had had little time for his son. He was too busy being a king. Now they became friends. For hours Alex would sit with the older man, hearing him plan his way back to glory.
Finally they did it. They won it back. The king became KING again! He sat beaming on his old throne. Once again
Finding him alone, Life came and spoke to Alexander.
“You are no longer a young man,” said Life, “look at you, do you think you still have it in you to conquer the world?
Alexander shook his head and smiled, “I know it is over for me,” he agreed.
“Why did you do it?” asked Life, “You could have been Alexander the Great and instead you have become Alexander the grated, an unknown soldier of a king! No body in history would know you!”
“Because, ” replied Alex, ever so softly, “ That is what sons are for.”
Life was unsparing. It persisted with its questions. “What will you do now?”
“Pave the way for my son to take on the world, in case he wants to,” answered Alexander.
“First father, now son?” Life was incredulous , “Now you would spend the rest of your life for your child. Why?”
“Because,” replied Alex, ever so softly, “That is what fathers are for.”
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Anna Beware!
Anna followers, beware! History stands against you. It’s almost impossible to take a movement fuelled, entirely, by well meaning, simple minded, righteous angst, to its logical conclusion, more so if you are fighting against a duly elected democratic government. It is easier to win such battles if you are up against a dictator or a despot.
Democratic governments are huge monoliths with a clear and well defined hierarchical structure and line of command. It’s also a multi headed and many dimensional hydra with a legal mandate to rule. It is a superbly oiled machine run by people who are absolute pros in doing such things.
The reason why your movement stands to fail lies in its very conception
Yours is a loose confederation of idealists, each with his/her vision of what and where
Already many factors are at work against you.
First on the list is the green brigade. It is also called jealousy in common English. It is assisted by two devastating helpers. One is named, ‘Why him?’ and the other is named ‘Why not me?’ Movements such as yours have no answers to these questions. In essence the are dependent on one or two people.
Number two: The limited attention span of people you lead. Please note that that the electronic media and its icons, the ‘celebrities’ were crucial to your agitation being so widely recognized. A lot of people were there, because faces known to them were there. It was the ‘in’ thing to do and be seen and post on twitter and facebook It had a feel good factor about it.
But then it’s also a populace which is weaned on the power of the remote. They are restless in the search of their next fix of ‘high.’ They need to feel constantly ‘on the go’ and euphoric. Inside, this population, is empty and bitter and are always ready to blame some one else for their woes. This was one of the reasons why the flocked out in such great numbers. It was a chance to hit out at someone and curse them. Ah catharsis!
These are not your usual villager followers. These are the Hi flyers. To keep your TRPs high enough and exciting enough for them to keep hooked to your show will be a major challenge. You know better than me, how many movements have died unsung at Jantar Mantar without them.
At number three, are the most harmful agents. They divide. They ask questions which raise doubts in the minds of all and sundry as to the effectiveness and utility of the movement itself. They are extremely ,extremely powerful and have many a button under their fingers. They use every means to divide movements like yours. Soon the followers are disillusioned and disheartened. And their means and resources are unlimited. Already Mr.Sibal and Co. are on it. Beware!
All the best! I sincerely hope you succeed.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Bumbi Days!
When ever I meet my cousins, these days, whether electronically or physically, the conversation invariably veers to our ‘Bumbi’ days, sooner or later, and more so if they are a few drinks down. The truth however is, that be it guys or dolls, all of them are hopelessly nostalgic about those days.
They post sepia tinged ‘Bumbi’ pictures on face book and get a lot of ‘wows’ from our kin, now spread all over the world. They love to take, an almost vicarious pleasure, as they recount, with a child like delight, countless stories about those days; much to the utter mystification of their kids and spouses. These relations came much after the ‘Bumbi’ days were over, so they wonder, with justification, “What the hell is this Bumbi?”
Any body who knows Punjabi language would tell you that a ‘Bumbi’ is a Punjabi name for a tube well. You would find one in every farm in rural Punjab, gushing out a thick stream of pristine, crystal clear, silvery water from its gaping mouth.
Our Bumbi was different!
Yes, it too was a tube well and yes, it too was located in a huge agricultural farm, but that is where the similarity ends.
Back in the 1970’s it was a heaven, a paradise on earth.
First, it gave its huge stream of fresh water not to the fields but into a good sized swimming pool, that was our very own! But it was even more than that. Much more.
Back then, it meant a place where more than a score cousins, uncles and aunts spent their summer holidays, together without any of the petty, selfish, jealousies that plague us today. They traveled from all over India to be there. Every year, they preferred Amritsar to any hill station or any other holiday destination.
From Nagpur , Delhi, Bombay (yes not Mumbai) Moradabad, Kanpur . As each group unboarded from their train, the buzz was always, “Man! I am going to the Bumbi tomorrow morning. And every day after, for the next month and a half!”
‘Bumbi’ was Joy with a capital J. Pure and unadulterated. It was unlimited fun without the aid of a single gizmo of today, be it a television or a mobile or an iPad or what ever. It was youth as youth should be, without a care in the world.
The school bags along with their burdens were thrust aside, forever, after the usual inquires “How did you fare?” “Well I flunked Marathi even after the exam paper was leaked to me!” “Shucks! Same here yaar, with me, for Math!” and that was the end of such boring conversations for the next six weeks or so at least.
During the early day time, Bumbi was the ultimate all males only club. Outsiders were also welcome to come and enjoy their mornings there. The family’s ladies were allowed only in the afternoons after the outsiders had left the place and the gates were closed.
For the boys, Bumbi meant getting up early in the morning and drinking piping, hot milk, from the udders of our own cows, duly supervised by a strict aunt who ensured that every one finished his tall, steel glass. A future doctor to bew, would however, usually hoodwink her, and surreptitiously pour his share into the glass of any cousin who was not looking.
The dirty dozen or so would then stuff themselves into an Ambassador and off they
would go, yelling and jostling and happy, all of them in one car , piled on top of each other. Talk about public transport!
Bumbi meant an effeminate ‘Gawala’ (Cowhand) and his grossly overweight wife who were care takers of the place. The kids would love to tease him and whoop in delight as he chased them.
Bumbi meant applying a lot of mustard oil to your bodies and wrestling in the mud ‘Akhara.’ It also meant Channi, a rather dimwitted sardar, who worked on his immensely muscular body all day, but never a minute on his brains. The rowdy crowd loved to rag him as he showed them his ‘body.’
Bumbi meant a “Dilruba Dilli Wali’ a male cousin, so fair of skin, that a mere touch would leave angry red marks on it. It also meant being treated to a cabaret dance by another cousin, full adorned in flowing skirts. I dare say he got more cat calls and wolf whistles then any ‘Munni’ or ‘Sheela.’
Bumbi meant bathing all day in that lovely pool of cool water, shaded by huge trees. It meant planning to dunk the girls in it when they were allowed to join us and hear them shriek in fear. It meant laughter unlimited. It also meant an infinite number of mangoes and pakoras and rich Amritsari food in pure desi ghee, when the aunts too joined us. I am sure no one had heard of diabetes, BP and obesity back then.
It meant raiding the cupboard of our grand dad and finishing off all his eatables in one go, only to find it fully replenished the next days and never ever being ticked off for it. It meant being given hundred rupee notes to spend at the local cinemas and eateries almost everyday. It meant being told at a cinema booking window, that they could not sell two dozen tickets to a single buyer as he would ‘black’ them. It meant that the ticket vendor was shown all the two dozen lined up in their best finery, eagerly awaiting the show to start.
It meant crying at the railway platforms as each group went back, promising to come back next year. It meant awaiting all year for the summer holidays to bring them back. Do you still wonder, what the hell is “Bumbi ?”
They post sepia tinged ‘Bumbi’ pictures on face book and get a lot of ‘wows’ from our kin, now spread all over the world. They love to take, an almost vicarious pleasure, as they recount, with a child like delight, countless stories about those days; much to the utter mystification of their kids and spouses. These relations came much after the ‘Bumbi’ days were over, so they wonder, with justification, “What the hell is this Bumbi?”
Any body who knows Punjabi language would tell you that a ‘Bumbi’ is a Punjabi name for a tube well. You would find one in every farm in rural Punjab, gushing out a thick stream of pristine, crystal clear, silvery water from its gaping mouth.
Our Bumbi was different!
Yes, it too was a tube well and yes, it too was located in a huge agricultural farm, but that is where the similarity ends.
Back in the 1970’s it was a heaven, a paradise on earth.
First, it gave its huge stream of fresh water not to the fields but into a good sized swimming pool, that was our very own! But it was even more than that. Much more.
Back then, it meant a place where more than a score cousins, uncles and aunts spent their summer holidays, together without any of the petty, selfish, jealousies that plague us today. They traveled from all over India to be there. Every year, they preferred Amritsar to any hill station or any other holiday destination.
From Nagpur , Delhi, Bombay (yes not Mumbai) Moradabad, Kanpur . As each group unboarded from their train, the buzz was always, “Man! I am going to the Bumbi tomorrow morning. And every day after, for the next month and a half!”
‘Bumbi’ was Joy with a capital J. Pure and unadulterated. It was unlimited fun without the aid of a single gizmo of today, be it a television or a mobile or an iPad or what ever. It was youth as youth should be, without a care in the world.
The school bags along with their burdens were thrust aside, forever, after the usual inquires “How did you fare?” “Well I flunked Marathi even after the exam paper was leaked to me!” “Shucks! Same here yaar, with me, for Math!” and that was the end of such boring conversations for the next six weeks or so at least.
During the early day time, Bumbi was the ultimate all males only club. Outsiders were also welcome to come and enjoy their mornings there. The family’s ladies were allowed only in the afternoons after the outsiders had left the place and the gates were closed.
For the boys, Bumbi meant getting up early in the morning and drinking piping, hot milk, from the udders of our own cows, duly supervised by a strict aunt who ensured that every one finished his tall, steel glass. A future doctor to bew, would however, usually hoodwink her, and surreptitiously pour his share into the glass of any cousin who was not looking.
The dirty dozen or so would then stuff themselves into an Ambassador and off they
would go, yelling and jostling and happy, all of them in one car , piled on top of each other. Talk about public transport!
Bumbi meant an effeminate ‘Gawala’ (Cowhand) and his grossly overweight wife who were care takers of the place. The kids would love to tease him and whoop in delight as he chased them.
Bumbi meant applying a lot of mustard oil to your bodies and wrestling in the mud ‘Akhara.’ It also meant Channi, a rather dimwitted sardar, who worked on his immensely muscular body all day, but never a minute on his brains. The rowdy crowd loved to rag him as he showed them his ‘body.’
Bumbi meant a “Dilruba Dilli Wali’ a male cousin, so fair of skin, that a mere touch would leave angry red marks on it. It also meant being treated to a cabaret dance by another cousin, full adorned in flowing skirts. I dare say he got more cat calls and wolf whistles then any ‘Munni’ or ‘Sheela.’
Bumbi meant bathing all day in that lovely pool of cool water, shaded by huge trees. It meant planning to dunk the girls in it when they were allowed to join us and hear them shriek in fear. It meant laughter unlimited. It also meant an infinite number of mangoes and pakoras and rich Amritsari food in pure desi ghee, when the aunts too joined us. I am sure no one had heard of diabetes, BP and obesity back then.
It meant raiding the cupboard of our grand dad and finishing off all his eatables in one go, only to find it fully replenished the next days and never ever being ticked off for it. It meant being given hundred rupee notes to spend at the local cinemas and eateries almost everyday. It meant being told at a cinema booking window, that they could not sell two dozen tickets to a single buyer as he would ‘black’ them. It meant that the ticket vendor was shown all the two dozen lined up in their best finery, eagerly awaiting the show to start.
It meant crying at the railway platforms as each group went back, promising to come back next year. It meant awaiting all year for the summer holidays to bring them back. Do you still wonder, what the hell is “Bumbi ?”
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Father and Son
One last time, before mounting his horse, the young Alexander ran a check in his mind. Sword-Tick, Horse-Tick, Ambition-Tick, Determination-Tick. Yes! He was ready to take on the world and conquer it!
He put a foot in the stirrup and was about to swing the other leg over, when a plaintive cry froze him, “Alex!”
Father! His father was calling him. He turned.
The sight that greeted his amazed eyes was, indeed that; amazing. The once towering king had become an old, doddering shadow of his tall and proud self, deserted as he was, by his legion of friends, relatives and courtiers. Who ever has said that fruits of adversity are sweet had surely not met this erstwhile king.
“Would you be with me, I have no body left,” asked the parent. Alexander looked at his awaiting horse and hesitated, but just once. Quietly, he then opened the knot of his girdle and released the sword. Next, he patted the eager horse on its back and sent him on his way. The world would have to wait. Duty was calling.
It was imperative that he took his ailing father away from his lost kingdom. Presently their enemies were too many and too strong. Father and son went away, to a huge and faraway city. It engulfed them and hid them in its bosom. They became anonymous, thus they were saved of the jibes and the barbs that cut deeper than the edge of any blade made of the sharpest of steel.
The days were poor, the nights bare. Every night Alex would wake up several times and stand outside the door of his father, to check if he was snoring. He knew that the old man was dying, slowly, not of any disease, but due to the pain of his exile.
He devoted his life towards making his father feel some happiness. In the past the king had had little time for his son. He was too busy being a king. Now they became friends. For hours Alex would sit with the older man, hearing him plan his way back to glory.
Finally they did it. They won it back. The king became KING again! He sat beaming on his old throne. Once again
Finding him alone, Life came and spoke to Alexander.
“You are no longer a young man,” said Life, “look at you, do you think you still have it in you to conquer the world?
Alexander shook his head and smiled, “I know it is over for me,” he agreed.
“Why did you do it?” asked Life, “You could have been Alexander the Great and instead you have become Alexander the grated, an unknown soldier of a king! No body in history would know you!”
“Because, ” replied Alex, ever so softly, “ That is what sons are for.”
Life was unsparing. It persisted with its questions. “What will you do now?”
“Pave the way for my son to take on the world, in case he wants to,” answered Alexander.
“First father, now son?” Life was incredulous , “Now you would spend the rest of your life for your child. Why?”
“Because,” replied Alex, ever so softly, “That is what fathers are for.”
He put a foot in the stirrup and was about to swing the other leg over, when a plaintive cry froze him, “Alex!”
Father! His father was calling him. He turned.
The sight that greeted his amazed eyes was, indeed that; amazing. The once towering king had become an old, doddering shadow of his tall and proud self, deserted as he was, by his legion of friends, relatives and courtiers. Who ever has said that fruits of adversity are sweet had surely not met this erstwhile king.
“Would you be with me, I have no body left,” asked the parent. Alexander looked at his awaiting horse and hesitated, but just once. Quietly, he then opened the knot of his girdle and released the sword. Next, he patted the eager horse on its back and sent him on his way. The world would have to wait. Duty was calling.
It was imperative that he took his ailing father away from his lost kingdom. Presently their enemies were too many and too strong. Father and son went away, to a huge and faraway city. It engulfed them and hid them in its bosom. They became anonymous, thus they were saved of the jibes and the barbs that cut deeper than the edge of any blade made of the sharpest of steel.
The days were poor, the nights bare. Every night Alex would wake up several times and stand outside the door of his father, to check if he was snoring. He knew that the old man was dying, slowly, not of any disease, but due to the pain of his exile.
He devoted his life towards making his father feel some happiness. In the past the king had had little time for his son. He was too busy being a king. Now they became friends. For hours Alex would sit with the older man, hearing him plan his way back to glory.
Finally they did it. They won it back. The king became KING again! He sat beaming on his old throne. Once again
Finding him alone, Life came and spoke to Alexander.
“You are no longer a young man,” said Life, “look at you, do you think you still have it in you to conquer the world?
Alexander shook his head and smiled, “I know it is over for me,” he agreed.
“Why did you do it?” asked Life, “You could have been Alexander the Great and instead you have become Alexander the grated, an unknown soldier of a king! No body in history would know you!”
“Because, ” replied Alex, ever so softly, “ That is what sons are for.”
Life was unsparing. It persisted with its questions. “What will you do now?”
“Pave the way for my son to take on the world, in case he wants to,” answered Alexander.
“First father, now son?” Life was incredulous , “Now you would spend the rest of your life for your child. Why?”
“Because,” replied Alex, ever so softly, “That is what fathers are for.”
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Golden Boot
The Golden Boot
Are we a nation of penny wise and (a trillion) pound-foolish people? We might well be. I mean look at the brouhaha raised on the issue of the salary hike to the MPs. The media in all its forms; print, electronic and net have cried themselves hoarse over it. It has taken an almost perverse delight in ridiculing the selfish politicos for wanting more, when the nation was already spending so much on their upkeep, security and other paraphernalia. Most of their intelligent followers have nodded their head in agreement.
Can we be more head in the sand than this?
Pay them more, much more, much, much, much… more! More than the top honchos in the corporate world. Why not? Till we make this a reality, politics would remain the last refuge of scoundrels, and/or of the scions to mammoth political and industrial inheritances, give or take an ex megastar or two. As things stand there is no way an honest person can make a living out of politics. And every one needs to make a living!
The young, the able, the upright, the incorruptible, the best of the best, and above all the thinkers and innovators, from lesser well off families, would not even look at it as a real career option
And make no mistake about it, we NEED them much more than they need us.
The rest of the world entices them with open arms and unlimited bank balances. They can go anywhere and be leaders in their chosen fields. We NEED them to be our political leaders, more than we need them to be engineers, doctors or MBAs.
We are wasting all that talent in making jingles and selling soap, while the lowest of the low ,rip us off with impunity! Think about it.
For it is the politician, and only the politician, who can create the ways and means of a system, in which we would all prosper, whatever our capabilities. A nation can only rise to the level to which its political mentors would let it.
A mere fifty crimson Gandhis a month is a pittance, whatever the attached perks. How about a Crore and half a year for an MP! Before you mock me, give a look at India’s annual budget and its annual expenditure, look at its GDP, look at the amount of loot in the name of hosting the ‘Games.’ What is a hundred crore more every month? A corrupt Chief Minister or Union Cabinet minister can stash away more than that every now and then.
Believe you me, it is the best way of getting rid of the present day scum that has risen to the top of us.
Maybe, just maybe, we may then slow down the restless feet of a few young ones on thier way to the USA or Europe. Maybe they would chuck their Armanis and agree to wear khadi. With that they may bring to our parliament, the vision, the drive, the hard work and the thinking required to show the ways of overcoming our problems. Maybe then thier number would grow, till one day, the whole or at least most of the parliament is filled with people such as them.
Having said all that, I agree that it is sheer avarice and sheerer stupidity that forces the Hon’ble Lallus and Mulayams to ask for pay hikes. What is a half a lakh of Rupees to them. A trifle! It’s like a schoolteacher who is chosen to take Ratan Tata’s place at Tata Sons; he still carries on giving his evening tuitions on the side, to make that extra pocket money!
But they have shown us the way to ultimately kick them, and their ilk, out of our system. Pay them more, much, much, much…more! Because if they see sense they would reduce their salaries and close the door to a messiah forever!
Are we a nation of penny wise and (a trillion) pound-foolish people? We might well be. I mean look at the brouhaha raised on the issue of the salary hike to the MPs. The media in all its forms; print, electronic and net have cried themselves hoarse over it. It has taken an almost perverse delight in ridiculing the selfish politicos for wanting more, when the nation was already spending so much on their upkeep, security and other paraphernalia. Most of their intelligent followers have nodded their head in agreement.
Can we be more head in the sand than this?
Pay them more, much more, much, much, much… more! More than the top honchos in the corporate world. Why not? Till we make this a reality, politics would remain the last refuge of scoundrels, and/or of the scions to mammoth political and industrial inheritances, give or take an ex megastar or two. As things stand there is no way an honest person can make a living out of politics. And every one needs to make a living!
The young, the able, the upright, the incorruptible, the best of the best, and above all the thinkers and innovators, from lesser well off families, would not even look at it as a real career option
And make no mistake about it, we NEED them much more than they need us.
The rest of the world entices them with open arms and unlimited bank balances. They can go anywhere and be leaders in their chosen fields. We NEED them to be our political leaders, more than we need them to be engineers, doctors or MBAs.
We are wasting all that talent in making jingles and selling soap, while the lowest of the low ,rip us off with impunity! Think about it.
For it is the politician, and only the politician, who can create the ways and means of a system, in which we would all prosper, whatever our capabilities. A nation can only rise to the level to which its political mentors would let it.
A mere fifty crimson Gandhis a month is a pittance, whatever the attached perks. How about a Crore and half a year for an MP! Before you mock me, give a look at India’s annual budget and its annual expenditure, look at its GDP, look at the amount of loot in the name of hosting the ‘Games.’ What is a hundred crore more every month? A corrupt Chief Minister or Union Cabinet minister can stash away more than that every now and then.
Believe you me, it is the best way of getting rid of the present day scum that has risen to the top of us.
Maybe, just maybe, we may then slow down the restless feet of a few young ones on thier way to the USA or Europe. Maybe they would chuck their Armanis and agree to wear khadi. With that they may bring to our parliament, the vision, the drive, the hard work and the thinking required to show the ways of overcoming our problems. Maybe then thier number would grow, till one day, the whole or at least most of the parliament is filled with people such as them.
Having said all that, I agree that it is sheer avarice and sheerer stupidity that forces the Hon’ble Lallus and Mulayams to ask for pay hikes. What is a half a lakh of Rupees to them. A trifle! It’s like a schoolteacher who is chosen to take Ratan Tata’s place at Tata Sons; he still carries on giving his evening tuitions on the side, to make that extra pocket money!
But they have shown us the way to ultimately kick them, and their ilk, out of our system. Pay them more, much, much, much…more! Because if they see sense they would reduce their salaries and close the door to a messiah forever!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Someone Else's Wife!
One of most delectable and exciting loves is to love somebody else’s wife, as long as one is careful not to fall in love! If you let that happen, ecstasy turns to sheer torment. The tables turn quite emphatically. Now it is you who is being cuckolded and not the husband. It is your woman who is sleeping with some one else and not vice versa.
Otherwise the union, when and if it does happen, is unbeatable in the high it gives, maybe because it is forbidden, absolutely and explicitly. Essentially, the tryst has to be hidden, furtive, and quick; to be forgotten as soon as enjoyed.
This heady mixture of agony and ecstasy is also known to anybody who attains the right to hold power’s hand in a democracy.
He cannot wed her; she is betrothed to the voter. Rather he is expected to serve her like an ascetic servant, that too temporarily. The cruel lady has a propensity to change lovers and/or servants sooner than later. If you fall in love with her, you would soon have to bear the torture of seeing her in someone else’s arms.
Power is utterly self willed, unfaithful, promiscuous and in nobody’s power.
She is the ultimate seductress. She flirts outrageously and unashamedly with all her suitors, leading them on with her promises. She allures, teases, tantalizes, titillates, suggests and, arouses. She drives them to distraction. But when and if, one is voted to lie on her bed; she suddenly turns coy. If pleased, she would even disrobe herself for you, but to make love to her would be like loving somebody else’s wife.
It is forbidden, absolutely and explicitly.
But then politics, whether in a democracy or otherwise, is the art of camouflaging your personal ambition behind the façade of public good. The public gets to own , possess, and question, what is revealed to it, and that is barely the tip, of what is actually available in the mammoth hidden iceberg.
Being a politician of any standing, is like being a member of a closed, multi layered club. The outer most layer would comprise of people who proudly call themselves ‘workers.’ Then each inner layer loosely consists of councilors, legislators, MPs, ministers, chief ministers, party presidents. Each inner layer gets progressively smaller and tighter and more difficult to penetrate. However some times, some of these layers, do overlap.
Your ability to break into an inner circle depends on which circle your God father or mother belongs to. You will amount to nothing in politics till you have a powerful sugar dad, mom or lover, who really, really, really likes you. If they merely like you it won’t work. Because politicians ‘like’ anyone who can be useful to them.
I cannot tell you what makes them like you, because if I knew that I would have been busy being a minister somewhere, instead of typing this, but I can tell you that it would never depend on the ‘working’ you do for the party. Each of our ‘national’ or ‘regional’ parties comprises of thousands of faithful workers who spend a life time shouting its slogans, distributing its handbills and swelling its public meetings and who never get anything but the tinniest tidbit of the immense cake available. That too is thrown at them begrudgingly, much as you would throw a biscuit to a whining pet.
But I can give you a hint. Politicians are inordinately in love with themselves. When you see any one donning the white kurta pajama in designer khadi, also see an extremely vain and lustful person. How much you can feed that vanity and lust would be directly related to the amount of likeness they have for you.
Little wonder that you find a Tharoor, a Ramesh, a Jayaparada or a Jaitely, not to mention a certain Amar Singh juxtaposed at the very top without having to break a single pair of slippers in the streets. I am not even mentioning the biological children or the official wives here. They are sacrosanct.
Those in the inner circle take care of their own. And once you are a member of that circle you take care not to tell the public anything of what is available in that heaven. Instead you quickly learn to mouth platitudes. You sleep in the hut of a poor mother, before you go back to the lap of your seven star luxury, you hire a high flying PR firm to tell the public how utterly hardworking and frugal you are. And how worried you are because China and Pakistan are hostile to us. Etc,etc.You do not tell them the amazing amount of millions that they spend on something as mundane as your security.
Because you are not allowed to openly enjoy the fruits of being a politician.
That is forbidden absolutely and explicitly.
Otherwise the union, when and if it does happen, is unbeatable in the high it gives, maybe because it is forbidden, absolutely and explicitly. Essentially, the tryst has to be hidden, furtive, and quick; to be forgotten as soon as enjoyed.
This heady mixture of agony and ecstasy is also known to anybody who attains the right to hold power’s hand in a democracy.
He cannot wed her; she is betrothed to the voter. Rather he is expected to serve her like an ascetic servant, that too temporarily. The cruel lady has a propensity to change lovers and/or servants sooner than later. If you fall in love with her, you would soon have to bear the torture of seeing her in someone else’s arms.
Power is utterly self willed, unfaithful, promiscuous and in nobody’s power.
She is the ultimate seductress. She flirts outrageously and unashamedly with all her suitors, leading them on with her promises. She allures, teases, tantalizes, titillates, suggests and, arouses. She drives them to distraction. But when and if, one is voted to lie on her bed; she suddenly turns coy. If pleased, she would even disrobe herself for you, but to make love to her would be like loving somebody else’s wife.
It is forbidden, absolutely and explicitly.
But then politics, whether in a democracy or otherwise, is the art of camouflaging your personal ambition behind the façade of public good. The public gets to own , possess, and question, what is revealed to it, and that is barely the tip, of what is actually available in the mammoth hidden iceberg.
Being a politician of any standing, is like being a member of a closed, multi layered club. The outer most layer would comprise of people who proudly call themselves ‘workers.’ Then each inner layer loosely consists of councilors, legislators, MPs, ministers, chief ministers, party presidents. Each inner layer gets progressively smaller and tighter and more difficult to penetrate. However some times, some of these layers, do overlap.
Your ability to break into an inner circle depends on which circle your God father or mother belongs to. You will amount to nothing in politics till you have a powerful sugar dad, mom or lover, who really, really, really likes you. If they merely like you it won’t work. Because politicians ‘like’ anyone who can be useful to them.
I cannot tell you what makes them like you, because if I knew that I would have been busy being a minister somewhere, instead of typing this, but I can tell you that it would never depend on the ‘working’ you do for the party. Each of our ‘national’ or ‘regional’ parties comprises of thousands of faithful workers who spend a life time shouting its slogans, distributing its handbills and swelling its public meetings and who never get anything but the tinniest tidbit of the immense cake available. That too is thrown at them begrudgingly, much as you would throw a biscuit to a whining pet.
But I can give you a hint. Politicians are inordinately in love with themselves. When you see any one donning the white kurta pajama in designer khadi, also see an extremely vain and lustful person. How much you can feed that vanity and lust would be directly related to the amount of likeness they have for you.
Little wonder that you find a Tharoor, a Ramesh, a Jayaparada or a Jaitely, not to mention a certain Amar Singh juxtaposed at the very top without having to break a single pair of slippers in the streets. I am not even mentioning the biological children or the official wives here. They are sacrosanct.
Those in the inner circle take care of their own. And once you are a member of that circle you take care not to tell the public anything of what is available in that heaven. Instead you quickly learn to mouth platitudes. You sleep in the hut of a poor mother, before you go back to the lap of your seven star luxury, you hire a high flying PR firm to tell the public how utterly hardworking and frugal you are. And how worried you are because China and Pakistan are hostile to us. Etc,etc.You do not tell them the amazing amount of millions that they spend on something as mundane as your security.
Because you are not allowed to openly enjoy the fruits of being a politician.
That is forbidden absolutely and explicitly.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Work is Worship!
Tailor, soldier, sailor, beggar man, thief, carpenter or a mere writer or a doctor or painter, what ever you are, ultimately what would matter is, your work. And how good you are at it. Nothing else.
Mind you, I said, WORK, and not money. Monetary accruements are mere appendages to one’s work. Essential, coveted even, but ultimately immaterial. I mean after you have made your hundredth crore, brought a house, a car, clothes, an IPL team, what? Money stops mattering after a while . Work never does. It makes you matter.
Your work gives you an indelible identity. You may have thousands of crorers in a bank account, but if you are not working any longer, you are a forgotten story, however if you are the best plumber in the city, your mobile never stops ringing.
After almost a life time spent in putting people and relationships, above my work , this is what I realise. Any relationship, any, no matter how deep, intense or pure or by any other adjective described, is destined to die on you. Finally.
Some simply peter out, others have other things to do. The excuses are many and multifold. But ultimately the result is the same. You are alone. Human beings have a way of moving on. If life does not take them away, death does the honours. You can’t depend on them.
Work never deserts you. It is a true ally and an all weather friend. What ever may be your business, be true to it. Focus on it, total. It would reciprocate, always.
But the moment you two time on it, it kicks you, hard. It is like riding a tiger, or running in front of a moving train. You have to keep doing it. All the time. Every day.
My grand pa had it right. He rose from a life of near poverty to be a rich man in all senses of the word. A palatial house, a sprawling farm, complete with a swimming pool, a great summer retreat in the hills, you name it, and he had it, by the time I grew up.
None of it was gifted to him. He inherited no property. He built himself everything out of his work. What’s more he enjoyed every bit of his prosperity and was ever willing to share it with his kin and friends. Truly a complete man.
As a teenager, I once asked him the secret of his success.
“Son,” he said, “you would not understand it as yet, but you would, when the time comes. When you grow up, you would fall in love with a woman, you may even marry her,” he had said with his eyes twinkling, continuing, “ you would find immense pleasure when you sleep with her, but when you find greater pleasure in your work, you would succeed. That is how intensely you must covet success in your work.”
I have never met a wiser man than you, grand pa. You given us a benchmark and a litmus test at the same time.
Mind you, I said, WORK, and not money. Monetary accruements are mere appendages to one’s work. Essential, coveted even, but ultimately immaterial. I mean after you have made your hundredth crore, brought a house, a car, clothes, an IPL team, what? Money stops mattering after a while . Work never does. It makes you matter.
Your work gives you an indelible identity. You may have thousands of crorers in a bank account, but if you are not working any longer, you are a forgotten story, however if you are the best plumber in the city, your mobile never stops ringing.
After almost a life time spent in putting people and relationships, above my work , this is what I realise. Any relationship, any, no matter how deep, intense or pure or by any other adjective described, is destined to die on you. Finally.
Some simply peter out, others have other things to do. The excuses are many and multifold. But ultimately the result is the same. You are alone. Human beings have a way of moving on. If life does not take them away, death does the honours. You can’t depend on them.
Work never deserts you. It is a true ally and an all weather friend. What ever may be your business, be true to it. Focus on it, total. It would reciprocate, always.
But the moment you two time on it, it kicks you, hard. It is like riding a tiger, or running in front of a moving train. You have to keep doing it. All the time. Every day.
My grand pa had it right. He rose from a life of near poverty to be a rich man in all senses of the word. A palatial house, a sprawling farm, complete with a swimming pool, a great summer retreat in the hills, you name it, and he had it, by the time I grew up.
None of it was gifted to him. He inherited no property. He built himself everything out of his work. What’s more he enjoyed every bit of his prosperity and was ever willing to share it with his kin and friends. Truly a complete man.
As a teenager, I once asked him the secret of his success.
“Son,” he said, “you would not understand it as yet, but you would, when the time comes. When you grow up, you would fall in love with a woman, you may even marry her,” he had said with his eyes twinkling, continuing, “ you would find immense pleasure when you sleep with her, but when you find greater pleasure in your work, you would succeed. That is how intensely you must covet success in your work.”
I have never met a wiser man than you, grand pa. You given us a benchmark and a litmus test at the same time.
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