a link to Khushawant Singh's article in which he published a parody of mine http://www.hindustantimes.com/News-Feed/KhushwantSingh/This-was-one-miserable-winter/Article1-653540.aspx

Whispering Forties

Whispering Forties

As the tongue longs for taste buds-titillating delicacies, the heart says tut-tut. The insurance agent then puts forth medical policies, gently insinuating that now's the age when a medical check-up every six months is a must - and one never knows what they may throw up! The reminder of age irritates a bit but, as soon as you try to adjust the distance of the brochure to read the fine print, it strikes you that the prospect of wearing reading glasses is not so distant.

The grey had started showing in a few strands a couple of years back and we had got used to being addressed as 'uncle' by pretty young lasses. But, suddenly, colouring hair - the few patches that have remained, that is - seems to be the only option to ward off being similarly addressed by those in their early thirties. Our daily brisk walks (which have replaced strenuous sport) only accentuate the passage of time since we were young. We look askance at young couples who, oblivious to the world, are lost in their sweet-nothings. More than two decades have passed since we ourselves were in the same romantic mood, unaware of the realities of the world and times ahead. In that era without cellphones and internet, we made anonymous calls on the landline just to hear 'her' voice, checked the air in the cycle tubes or petrol in the scooter to keep pace with her, got palpitations while exchanging lecture notes and created unspoken rendezvous of the spots frequented by her. That's when we would have gladly given our lives for that one furtive glance from her.

No, it's not thanks to the 'naughty forties' syndrome that these thoughts recur. Rather, the term itself is a misnomer because naughtiness is an everlasting attribute, but it's only in the forties that it starts getting noticed and earns the disapproval of society. By 40, one is supposed to be too mellowed by life to indulge in romantic musings and hence the frowns.

It's when, instead of attending boisterous gatherings, you seek quiet meetings with like-minded companions. It's only now that poet Wordsworth's lines in Tintern Abbey become starkly clear. They trace so eloquently the growth of an individual focussing on "an appetite; a feeling and a love,/ That had no need of a remoter charm,/ By thought supplied, nor any interest/ Unborrowed from the eye" to a person who matures "hearing oftentimes/ The still, sad music of humanity" that is "of ample power/ To chasten and subdue". Apply those words written in homage to nature to romance instead, and these are times when romance gradually subsides, leaving behind the essence of love.

Nevertheless, the icing on the 40th birthday cake doesn't seem too inviting. After all, the calorie meter starts ticking in the mind immediately. In fact, birthdays are not awaited as eagerly as before. Perhaps that's because they remind us of time left rather than times to come. Then again, our worldview seems to change too. We seem to lose that fearlessness and crass individuality which marked our thoughts and actions. We take decisions not for ourselves alone but give a thought to all related. We start adopting things and practices once considered irritating and restricting - from mundane helmets and seat belts to the sublime heart, home and hearth.

It`s only in geography - the Southern Hemisphere - that we have the "Roaring Forties"; in life, the forties whisper. Life tells us it's time to pause and plan, to take account not only of finances but also of relationships - and that we ought to calculate only when it comes to savouring a cake, not human relationships.

IT’S WEDDING SEASON FOLKS - HT 12-12-10

IT’S WEDDING SEASON FOLKS

God! Another wedding tonight! After returning home from an unnerving day at the office this is my expression when I glance at the heap of invitation cards on my table. When one would love to sit cozily with a mug of tea and newspaper and, talk with the kids about their day at school, one has to haggle with wife on the clothes to wear at the wedding party. “Not that one dear, you have already worn it twice last week”, she says. I don’t understand if I myself don’t remember what clothes I wore to some place, how others can remember them. The almost the same set of people you meet in every party is a testimony to the belief that the world is a small place. And, almost the same menu in each of them only strengthens it. It all begins with a cup of ¾ foam filled coffee or soup (invariably tomato!) which everybody takes with a prayer that the feast begins soon. The clarion sounds with the lightening of the spirit lamps below the dishes and, a clamour starts for the plates and spoons. Even the DJ’s ear-splitting music gets drowned in the clangour. A small war zone gets created at the table where the ‘rotis’ are being baked. As one moves towards the veggies section, one tries to locate something exotic- other than paneer (palak, butter masala and, kadhai), potato in various hues and, daal. Even these ‘routine’ items would have been exciting if they tasted differently in different parties. But the strange thing is that throughout the country they taste the same as if all chefs were one. Through a deftness that gets acquired over a number of parties, everything eatable is piled on one plate. One’s finesse is then tested in his/her success in not letting everything mix with everything while picking up morsels and, simultaneously protecting ones clothes from getting into the neighbouring plate or, vice versa. When the still half-filled plate has been consigned to the bin, one moves towards the dessert section where again one looks for something other than the usual gulabjamun, imarti and halwa. Hot milk in kulhars has been a late addition in this section without giving a thought as to where does this milk come from when there is always a dearth of quality milk all the year round. The attention now shifts to the ‘vyavahar’ table. After ensuring that one’s name and the amount against it has been entered correctly, one moves towards the exit for an encore at the next venue, not forgetting the paan, of course, on the way out.

Beep, beep

Publication: The Times Of India Delhi;
Date: Oct 11, 2011;
Section: Editorial; 

link- http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/edit-page/Beep-beep/articleshow/10306893.cms

Page: 14

Beep, beep

Familiarity breeds contempt, goes the adage. This also holds true about the words connoting contempt. My fear is that epithets once considered the choicest are getting devalued due to their overuse. Profanities can

not be treated lightly. They have their own significance, an ‘estranging’ effect as the formalists in literary criticism would perhaps say. They jar, intensify, condense, turn ordinary language on its head and render the meaning more perceptible.

Ask a policeman its worth and he would sing encomiums. A common man regulates his blood pressure by chanting the swear-mantra when the current goes off, discusses the price of petrol, vegetables, milk, describes the systemic frailties of the country or refers to a politician. The ‘SMS’ industry is raking in the moolah as most of the messages exchanged do not deal with lofty thoughts.

There were times when even the innocuous ‘abe’ in addressing a person was frowned upon by elders. No sooner did he hear the words ‘I swear’ that one of our English teachers would send the boy reeling with a rap across the face, though the poor boy would only be referring to vowing while explaining his conduct. The comic books of yore would denote a character’s venting anger by the universally understood symbols of percentage, spiral, star grid etc (% # * $). The adjectives uttered were left to the reader’s imagination and experience. Cuss words were so sparingly used in society that during the initiation rituals, fresh entrants in engineering and medical colleges had to undergo special training to attain knowledge of the meaning, usage and appropriate pronunciations of these words in chaste vernacular. The seniors were obviously concerned as they knew that the newcomers had been only bookworms until then and had to be initiated in the practical world.

Swear words have had their place in our culture as well. The singing of ‘gari’ – raunchy songs – holds an important place in the wedding ceremonies. The festival of Holi is another example. They perhaps are instances of society’s mechanism of venting against established social mores in favour of the dominant. It might be Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin’s ‘carnivalisation’ at work where there is a momentary disruption of hierarchies of a social structure.

Invectives shock because of their uncommonness. Imagine the jolt if even the most sacrilegious of us hears a respectable elderly man or a lady mouthing foul adjectives. Times, however, are a-changing. Words considered offensive earlier are being ‘automatised’ (in the formalist terminology). Addressing one (who really was not one’s) ‘saala’, not very long ago, could lead to serious repercussions in mutual relation. But now, no more. Now, ‘saala’ is just another word for exclamation, just like another ‘S’ word – ‘shit’. Sentences in the western part of UP and Punjab seem incomplete without a fair sprinkling of the ‘B’ word. Social sites have sanctified the ‘F’ word and it is used with aplomb by teenagers as the elders cringe with embarrassment.

Bollywood has had a vital role to play in taking our vocabulary to new heights. When kids start lisping ‘saala’ and ‘kaminaa’ – grand adjectives to what was once considered the sublime emotion of love, and the art of dance – the words become part of everyday speech. It seems that it won’t be long before Dada Kondke’s puns will be taken as the figurative language of our film industry; after all, the language in some of today’s films is being dubbed as that of realism. As Shelly would have said – if ‘saala’ comes, can ‘D K Bose’ be far behind? My only fear is: How shall we express our disgust when all words for it become part of the routine!

Radio ga ga (published as 3rd editorial on Times Of India 6/6/2011)

(Link- https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/edit-page/Radio-ga-ga/articleshow/8740008.cms )

Aha! So that’s why they are called Radio ‘Jockeys’- they race their tongues on the FM turf , like the horse- jockeys do on the race course, as if there is no tomorrow. They seem to be participants in a perpetual ‘Just a Minute’ ( JAM) competition interspersed with songs. Only, that the participants in JAMs get rapped for being erroneous in the language! Some years back they were called announcers. Radio in those days was a constant companion in our study. It filled the room and dispelled loneliness but never obtruded. The languorous, friendly voices of the anchors not only played songs but also informed about the lyricists, composers and, singers. Speaking the names of those requesting for songs was also a part of the ritual. Request for a song could be from places as diverse as the Punjab, Madhya Pradesh, Bihar and, Jammu & Kashmir. In fact, small and obscure places like Jhumaritalaiyan came to be known all over the country through the umpteen requests received from there for playing of the film songs. The non-inclusion of names in these request programmes was one constant complaint in the programme devoted exclusively to the replying to the letters of the radio-listeners. The way the letters were read out, the complainants’ displeasures assuaged, the suggestions accepted and, future plans explained, was a treat to the ears ; and, also to the feelings, as the listeners were impressed upon the fact that they were active participants in the planning of the programmes. Apart from the film-songs, which of course was the staple portion of the programme list, classical non- film music, folk songs, skits etc. were also played.

If the Vividh Bharti gave us entertainment, the Akashvani provided infotainment. A friend confided that they were the programmes on light classical music that taught him the basics of music. ‘Bal Sangh’ on Sundays was one programme that the parents agreed happily to our tuning to. For many, this programme not only gave a training and impetus to public speaking, but also gave the first ever earnings. One could visualize the ‘news’ as it was rendered in the perfect pronunciation of the language. Those ‘beeps’, on the dot at 9.00 PM, exactly at the end of Hindi news and just before the beginning of the English, made us wonder about its significance. The radio news not only embedded the facts of an issue deep in our mind, they also improved our listening skills. Is this skill redundant in today’s world of receding span of attention? These days we only hear, not listen. And, therefore, jabbering can easily be masqueraded as speaking.

I wonder if it is only the audience that is responsible for this state of things. Perhaps the Vividh Bharti and Akashvani have also failed to keep apace with the changing times. If the Vividh Bharti has stopped being creative in producing new entertainment programmes, AIR has been rendered comatose for new listeners because the airwaves it is broadcast on – the short and medium wave- are not found in the new gadgets like the cell phones which double up as transistors of yore.

In spite of the swarm of FM radio channels, Vividh Bharti and Akashvani have their admirers still. Even today, as I lay down to sleep after a tired day, it is the magic of ‘ Chhaya Geet’ that acts as the relaxant and, in the morning ‘Vandanvaar’, same as ever, the stimulant for the day ahead.

An Open Letter to SMCites (Through the Rev. Principal)

This was published in the SMC Magazine
As a josephite, St. Mary’s has always held a special place in my mind. The memory of those primary school days are vivid when we waited for our trolley-mates outside the school spending the time throwing pebbles at bunches of ‘imli’ on the tamarind trees and also of those adolescent years trying all tricks to win a glance from the navy-blue skirted fairies. What lay behind those high walls was always intriguing! “Calm and free…quiet as a Nun” wrote Wordsworth about “the beauteous evening” but the phrases were perhaps as apt to express our feelings for those in the convent-school. Whenever we were naughty, SMC was invoked before us by our teachers as an example of good manners .I’ll be candid to accept that an SMC girl filled us with a complex with her manners, grace and quiet confidence.
The association with the institution (not mere school!) began anew, about a year back, when my wife joined it as a teacher. But my renewed association felt something amiss. The first time I felt it, was, when at a market place, my wife told me that the group of girls that had passed by was her students. I thought it awkward that not one had stopped to wish her. It has not been a solitary episode. Has the ill of indifference of the students towards their teachers has infected even this institution? Are its students only acquiring knowledge and not imbibing culture? Have the students forgotten that the relation of the teacher and the student is not impersonal like that between a businessman and a customer but, lively and filled with warmth of that between a guardian and a ward?
I only hope that the present generation of students realizes the glory of their institution and retains it, so that ,they too can feel proud many- many years hence that they are SMCites as their predecessors of the last more than 100 years can.All the best and a very happy new year.

book review- A Passage Across Europe by Partha Sarthi Sen Sharma

(published in HT Lucknow 23-3-11)

Partha Sarthi Sen Sharma’s – A Passage Across Europe’(published by Sahitya Bhandar, Allahabad- Year 2010) is no ‘Lonely Planet’ prototype. It does not tell the reader where, when and, how to visit the tourist spots on Europe; it records the experiences and feelings of the writer when he chanced to visit the continent. This subjectivity imparts the literariness to the 160 page book which, in a flowing prose, expresses the writer’s sense of excitement, wonderment and at times disappointment on seeing things he had till then read, heard or, seen only in pictures. He himself tells this in the ‘ Explanation’, that the book is not a product of writings during his stay in Europe but “record(ed) them later, as the intervening months made my thoughts and views clearer and sharper”- a` la Wordsworthian ‘emotions recollected in tranquility’ .
The narrative abounds in poetic prose- “the castle of Ljubljana…appears like a benevolent patriarch, sitting atop the hill, looking after and blessing the lives of the citizens below”; “it all appeared too beautiful to bear”; “views not only of the city but also the views into the city”; “the river banks are overflowing with green weeping willows, drooping on to even greener river below”- (all from chapter 1). But then, such a language is natural to express the “soaking in the atmosphere…a feel of the things” rather than the ‘things’ themselves. This is not to say that the book lacks in describing ‘things’ either. The description, however, is accompanied by the author’s views and digressions that go on to only enrich the narrative. A remembrance of Amrita Shergill on seeing paintings in Hungary, the comments on the colonial past of India ( pg 134) or, the shabby way in which we preserve the places and things associated with our litterateurs(pg 154), are some of the instances. In fact the narrative is rooted in the Indian connection throughout. We learn, for instance, that unlike in India where most of our cities grew on either of the banks of a river, the European cities are sprawled on both sides of rivers with a number of bridges connecting them. Many of these bridges being tourist hot-spots. The noise and crowd at the Budapest station seems similar to any Indian Railway Station.
The writer doesn’t find everything hunky dory in Europe – his wife’s wallet gets pilfered in Italy; he finds the traffic in Rome ‘chaotic’, the Dam at Amsterdam dirty and, the Royal Palace there unkempt. But he refers such incidents jocularly. He for instance, in referring to the Italian waiters, says- “Italian waiters are, as a matter of rule, cheeky to the extent of appearing to be discourteous …but I can’t blame them for discrimination. They are supremely and uniformly irreverent towards everybody and anybody”. Regarding the Trevi Fountain he writes- “…it is so crowded that one feels that one has seen more human heads than the fountain itself”.
The writer, we learn, loves to explore the surroundings on foot and thus gets to see many places which are not in a routine tourist’s itinerary. He sees, observes, describes the sights and, explains the context (historical, scientific- as in the description of the Pantheon, political etc.) in the most simple manner. We also get to know various tid-bits- the ‘French fries’ were invented in Belgium; England, Britain, UK are not one and the same and, so is the case with Netherlands and Holland; Louis XIV built a hotel for invalid soldiers; the gypsies and Slavs also suffered along with the Jews at the hands of the Nazis; so on and so forth.
There are a few spelling mistakes which could have been avoided by a better proof-reading. I, as a reader, would also have liked to know more about the daily lives of the westerners, the lives in the poor quarters (if any) and, details of the local food, clothing and festivities. The readers would also have been richer had the writer been to any of the Scandinavian countries – particularly regarding their reputation in being corruption and pollution free- or perhaps not , because the writer has kept himself away from commenting on the contemporary political, economic and administrative issues related to the countries he travelled. It is a good read for all who love traveling and literature.

Skand Shukla.