It's time to change

My colleague, an Indian-origin Brit, finds it hard to believe that India is Asia's third-largest economy.

"They say we will be overtaking Japan this year," I blurt out in a show of patriotic fervour.

"But why can't we see it out there?" he asks, pointing to the office windows offering a bird’s-eye view of Connaught Place.

I know what he means. It’s not the nattily dressed investment bankers or the endless stream of cars that snake in and out of the city’s business district that he sees. It’s the dozen piss-laden pillars that gave Barakhamba Road its name, the beggars and lepers at Hanuman Mandir a few blocks away and grimy heroin addicts who skulk in the subways.

India is an enigma that way -- a poster boy both for poverty porn and economic success.

While there’s no stopping India from becoming a global superpower in the coming decades, it can’t just brush away its problems under a plush carpet. It’s time to change all that.

I wish I could borrow Harry Potter’s wand and place everyone under an Imperius Curse, forcing them to do my bidding.

Dear President, you will not take your son-in-law and grandchildren to foreign lands at the government's  expense. Send them a nice postcard from Seychelles instead.

Dear Prime Minister, you will not be meek and say yes to everything a mother’s love demands. Sometimes it is necessary to lose the battle in order to win a war but too many defeats can overshadow a solitary victory.

Dear Minister, you will not use your position to allot real estate or telecom licences to people you like. Offer them tea and Marie biscuits and bid them goodbye with a smile.

Dear MLA, sleep if you must but you will not watch pornographic clips to pass time in boring state assembly sessions. Play noughts and crosses instead.

Dear Army chief, it’s nice to have just one date of birth. Makes keeping track of Birthday Calendars on Facebook so much easier. As for army scandals, this is a good time to start work on a tell-all book.

Dear Government servant, you will try your best not to be bribed. We need a hundred Anna Hazares to weed out corruption, so we’ll just have to do all we can with the Hazare we have for now. And you know what? Going to jail is over-rated.

Dear Municipal worker, I know the pay isn't all that great but who knows, if you polish those floors till they shine, you might just get promoted. And you wouldn't want your peers in America to think they are the best.

Dear Mumbai Police, I know Ajmal Kasab relishes his chicken, but is that reason enough to shift six cooks to the prison? He’s not really a suitable judge for TV’s Masterchef.

Dear Corporates, you will forget petty rivalries and take Incredible India to the next level. It’s a win-win for you too -- eventually. You can share the spoils of war later.

Dear Maoists, time to send that Italian tourist back home. The ministry of tourism needs good word-of-mouth publicity. Have you forgotten atithi devo bhava (the guest is God) already?

Dear Journalist, give us some good news; we’ve had too much of the other kind lately. We want more philanthropic IITians, Olympic medals and Nobel prizes.

Dear Driver, what’s with all that rage? I know it’s hot but you could always enjoy a cold drink. OK so the other guy put a dent in your Honda Civic, he didn’t do it deliberately. Certainly no reason to stab him. Remember -- to err is human; to forgive, divine.

Dear Pedestrian, you will not go jaywalking in city streets. And of course, do not decorate pavements and walls with red paan stains. You wouldn't want such a colour scheme in your house, would you?

Dear Conman, you will not tell people you lost your wallet and need to urgently buy train tickets for your pregnant wife and sick father. I believed you once; now do you want me to lose my faith in humankind?

Dear Autowallah, you will not fleece foreign tourists. Take an extra rupee or two from us Indians but don’t give them such a bad time. We need all the dollars we can get.

Dear Eve-teaser, you will not harass women. It’s an oft-quoted argument but you do respect you own mother and sisters, don’t you?

Dear Father, so what if Dear Mother gave birth to a girl? You shouldn’t punish her; it’s your chromosomes that decided the sex of the baby. Also, haven’t you seen enough TV serials to figure out that girls take more care of their parents in old age.

Dear Cricketer, do you really need all that money? Forget the benefits of spot-fixing and enjoy the game instead.

Dear Viewer, watch and cheer for hockey, boxing and badminton. Time to get us back some long-forgotten Olympics laurels.

Dear Common Man, I know you are worried about inflation and inadequate salaries. But do you really need to smoke that bidi, tear open that gutka pouch and drown your sorrows in alcohol?

Dear Housewife, you will not throw trash in the street. You wouldn’t like that to happen in your living room, would you? See if you can volunteer to keep your surrounding areas clean.

Dear Beggar, you will not be part of the begging mafia. I know being illiterate and unemployed wasn't really your long-term career goal but please help us help you earn an honest living.

Dear Bollywood, make us more soppy films like “Hum Aapke Hain Koun”, where nobody is evil and everything is usually hunky-dory. Cheer us up so that we can forget our real-life troubles.

Dear Shaktimaan, if you existed, I wouldn’t need to write this blog in the first place. It’s time to change and you are the man for it. So please just fly down here and do your thing.

[Contest entry for Time to Change]

The day I lost my fear of road trips

"Let's drive down to Ahmedabad," said my brother, the driving enthusiast in the family.

"Shut up! We’re not going on a day-long road trip."

"I'm going whether you like it or not."

And that’s how I ended up accompanying him on the 915-km drive from New Delhi to the city in Gujarat where we were born and where my cousins still reside. My brother, the easy-going brat in the family, usually gets his way and I, the more responsible one, was coaxed by mom into keeping an eye on him.

I took little delight in my position as navigator for my brother’s Getz. I am not a fan of cars, road trips or watching Discovery Turbo -- things that my brother would die for. So all I basically did was stare at the speedometer and scold him when we went over 120 kmph -- which was too often for my liking.

Despite an early start, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. We made it to Jaipur in just about two hours, aided in part by a stubborn Mercedes driver who overtook our car and provoked my sibling into a high-speed highway chase punctuated at regular intervals with my high-decibel cries to “slow down right now or else I’m calling mom”.

We dropped off a friend on the outskirts of Jaipur and moved towards Ajmer, passing through a dozen toll-booths while I kept tabs on an ever-dwindling supply of rupee coins. I made no pretence of my non-existent navigational skills, leaving it to my brother’s uncanny sense of direction to find the right way. He’s a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out the right direction; a Sherlock Holmes at the steering wheel.

That said, we did stray from the path once or twice (thanks to missing highway signboards and strange villagers who prompted us to keep going despite the fact we were travelling on weed-infested tracks that disappeared in the distance).

But only once did we truly lose our way, on the last leg of our journey from Udaipur to Ahmedabad. A wrong turn set us back a couple of hours and we were trapped in traffic behind a long line of trucks that seemed to crawl at a top speed of 100 centimetres per hour. It must have been faster than that but the wait was interminably long.

“Easier just to walk,” I remember saying as pedestrians ambled past, unmoved by the sight of our giant traffic centipede snaking through the desert state. I changed the song on the car stereo, drowning out my brother’s angry mutterings. That was my only privilege -- choice of car music and I made full use of it through the 17-hour journey.

We stopped only four times -- to stretch our legs and relax at a suitable dhaba, the ones with the non-stinky loos. And there were plenty on them on the route, though not dotting the highway like they do on the road to Chandigarh.

And what of the view? Miles and miles of sunny sunflower fields, interspersed with hillocks and bullocks. Veiled Rajasthani women in multi-hued embroidered frilly skirts and turbaned men mostly attired in white. I can’t believe it -- I’m actually enjoying this trip. If only I had bothered to bring a camera -- my humble BlackBerry is woefully inadequate.

We reached Ahmedabad at nightfall, ready to collapse into our beds. But it’s been fun and I’m actually looking forward to our return trip.

"You wait till I can afford the Mahindra XUV500," said my brother. "Then I won't ever be home on weekends."

"Mom!" I call out and then stop to shield my face as an incoming pillow bounces off my hands.

(Entry for the Mahindra XUV500 contest)

Of Merkel, beer showers and Amsterdam

A waiter accidentally spilled five glasses of beer down Angela Merkel’s back last week. I empathise with the German Chancellor because I know exactly what she went through.

Flashback to June 2005. Amsterdam was hosting the International Indian Film Academy (IIFA) awards and as a rookie reporter, I had done precious little in terms of exclusive celebrity interviews.

Bollywood stars were closeted in their hotel rooms or were at rehearsals for the big day; only a few known faces were hurrying through city streets -- and they were not interested in speaking to me.

Disheartened, I joined a group of Indian journalists going for a drink that evening. We walked past cobbled streets to an alfresco eatery near the red-light district of De Wallen. Since it was chilly outside, we occupied the only table inside the coffee shop. I ordered chocomel (don’t ask; being a teetotaller even in Sin City baffles most people). I was the only one to opt for chocolate-flavoured milk; the others wanted beers.

The waitresses were dressed in Bavarian-inspired outfits. I watched as one of them, a pretty blonde with her hair in plaits, moved towards us balancing a huge pitcher of beer. Perhaps it was her ankle-length skirt, or maybe the treacherous carpet, but the next thing I knew -- I was drenched in beer.

I remember glancing at her face. The waitress was frantic. There was a flurry of hands, cloth towels and apologies. I was helped out of my dripping jacket as my stunned companions watched -- and then giggled.

I don’t remember much after that and was too embarrassed to care. I think we got a round of beers and a glass of chocomel on the house. My leather jacket had the worst of the encounter though. It reeked of alcohol for days, and fellow passengers on the flight home gave me weird looks.

As for Merkel, she handled it much better than I did. She regained her composure after the beer bath and went on stage as scheduled. It’s not something she’ll easily forget though. It’s the same for me. The sights and sounds of the Amsterdam trip may have faded into the background but my beer shower memory remains. Cheers to that.

(Contest entry for http://www.expedia.co.in )

Parents to get top marks for voting in UP

Students at a Lucknow college will earn extra credit if they can get their mom and dad to vote in the Uttar Pradesh state elections this month.

Getting those 10 extra marks is no easy task. A girl student at Christ Church college said she would have to work hard to push her “lazy” mother to go out on polling day but it would be worth it.

School officials insist this is no bribe, only an incentive to ensure students learn the value of their vote. At a parent-teacher conference immediately after the election, the ink-stained fingers of voting parents will show which students have succeeded in the task. For more, click here

Falak saga latest in India’s battle for its missing girls

A two-year-old girl battling for life in a New Delhi hospital has put the media spotlight on a sordid tale of child abuse and prostitution in the world’s biggest democracy.

Three weeks ago, a toddler with severe injuries was brought to the hospital by a teenager claiming to be her mother. The child, later named Falak (sky) by nurses, was in critical condition, with human bite marks on her body. More here

Revisiting God's own country

Am back in New Delhi after a two-week vacation in Kerala, having welcomed 2012 in God's own country. It was a good trip -- despite my BlackBerry going on the blink.

Visions of machete-wielding mustachioed men targeting us in Tamil Nadu gave Mom sleepless nights so we ditched plans to take a taxi from Coimbatore, opting for an uncomfortable train trip to Thrissur instead.

There was no real danger the Mullaperiyar dispute would spark riots (apart from the stray stone-pelting incidents reported on TV) and ironically, the only reference to the whole dam controversy was in the Christmas cribs I spotted in at least two Kerala churches. Baby Jesus would surely have been surprised to see this huge structure (pic above) just metres away from his tiny manger in Bethlehem.

Wedding bells were in the air (for one of my cousins), one of the reasons my family was in Kerala after six years. Not that I could do much sightseeing, we were mostly meeting relatives -- breakfast with Uncle X, lunch with Cousin Y, dinner with Grand-aunt Z, with a couple of 15-minute brunches and coffee thrown in for the not-so-related acquaintances. Which means you shouldn't really ask me how much I weigh -- am still carrying some holiday weight (as Friends character Ross Gellar would say).

A highlight of the trip was waking up in Anthikad (the native place of noted Malayalam film director Sathyan Anthikad) to find an elephant grazing in the backyard. Arjunan had been hired for the local Saint Sebastian feast. I'm not usually fond of pachyderms but this majestic creature was a pleasure to behold -- the amiable elephant kept us entertained. Happy New Year.

What is it with men and their maids?

Think "Maid in Manhattan" and what usually came to mind was a fairytale Hollywood romance between Manhattan hotel maid Jennifer Lopez and aspiring Senator Ralph Fiennes.

Not any more. The arrest of Dominique Strauss-Kahn for attempted rape at a luxury Manhattan hotel has robbed the phrase of all its charm.

Although lawyers for the head of the International Monetary Fund have denied the charges, there’s no denying Strauss-Kahn is the latest celebrity to get into trouble over their maids.

In March, Bollywood star Shiney Ahuja was convicted of raping his maid in a case that shocked the world's largest film industry.

This week, former California Governor and actor Arnold Schwarzenegger acknowledged fathering a child more than a decade ago with a member of his household staff.

And NBA star Kobe Bryant was charged with sexual assaulting a hotel concierge in 2003, though the charges were later dropped.

What is it about celebrities that they take such risks at the cost of their family and careers? Are the famous more likely to cheat because they are powerful and hope to get away with it? Share your views.

7 in world's 100 richest. What about India's 'hidden' billionaires?

The number of Indians in the annual Forbes rich list came as no surprise. But stud farm owner Hasan Ali Khan wasn't among the seven Indians in the Top 100.

Khan, who insists he earns a modest living as a scrap metal merchant, is accused of illegally stashing billions of dollars in overseas accounts.

Media reports suggest the Pune-based businessman will have to cough up 620 billion rupees in tax evasion penalties. That's over $1.3 billion -- and may be just a fraction of Khan's net worth.

A fortune of $9 billion is good enough for a place in this year's Forbes Top 100 list. Does that mean India is home to more such 'hidden' billionaires?

Somebody save Delhi's Airport Express

And you better do it quick. The Airport Metro guys aren't too happy with the way things are going for the New Delhi Airport Express. Two weeks after its launch, just about 6,000 people have been hopping on board every day.

No great shakes if you consider the other Metro train network -- yup, the slower one which is always crammed with people -- ferries some 1,500,000 commuters daily.

When the Airport Express opened, I was one of the few who made a beeline for the Dwarka Sector 21 station to fully experience its snazziness.

It was Day 2 and so I didn't get a Metro souvenir, a garland or even a petal. Those were gifts reserved for the lucky souls who used the airport Metro on the first day. I did get plenty of stares though, being the only commuter in sight -- the rest were all Metro employees.

After I bought a token for Shivaji Stadium (inaugural fare 80 rupees), I walked to the security line where a burly guard stood next to the X-ray baggage scanner. When the guard asked a fellow employee to switch it on, I guessed there hadn't been too many commuters before I walked in.

I turned a corner and used the stairs to descend to the platform level below and was relieved to find a fellow commuter waiting below. Yup, it isn't really fun to walk on a deserted platform and ride a ghost train, is it? More commuters walked in while I waited.

The Metro Express runs every 20 minutes and soon enough, the glass doors opened and I had stepped inside the train for my debut journey on the Airport Express. As I whizzed past the dark tunnels, my eyes took in the shining screens with station info, the spacious luggage racks and the blue-hued cushioned seats. Not to forget the liveried Airport Express stewards who could answer all passenger queries. Surely a boon for foreign tourists, some of whom were on the train, trying to find the quickest possible route to Ramakrishna Ashram.

A lot more people got in at the Airport station. I noticed the train halted there for a couple of minutes -- possibly for the benefit of passengers with heavy luggage.

Shortly afterwards, the train moved to the elevated section of the line. From inside the Metro, you realise why this part of India's capital is so beautiful, especially with the spacious roads and the lush greenery of Delhi Cantonment.

Don't miss the imposing Manekshaw Centre which looms on the left. A station later (Dhaula Kuan, which is still under construction), the Metro hurtles into Delhi's Ridge area and then descends underground once more. Next stop Shivaji Stadium where I get off astounded -- I had covered the distance in less than 20 minutes. As the Metro sped off towards the New Delhi railway station, its final destination, I explored the station complex -- a shining steel structure which seemed festooned with escalators and elevators.

Given the staff strength, commuters would find it difficult to conjure up enough paan stains and spit to sully the complex. And I sure hope they won't, because destroying something as world-class as this would be unpardonable.

Will I take the Airport Metro again? Yes, but not too frequently. The Dwarka Sector-21 station is a bit out of the way for me -- they will have to start more feeder buses within Dwarka before they win me over. Also, from Shivaji Stadium, it takes me another 15 minutes to walk to my office on Barakhamba Road. But on the whole, the Airport Express is a boon for frequent fliers and train passengers, and of course a joyride to be enjoyed by lovers of Delhi.

More info on Airport Express fares, stations here

Related posts from Toe Knee's blog

An ode to the Delhi Metro
Reflections from the Delhi Metro
Surviving Delhi's Bus Rapid Transit Corridor Part I
Surviving Delhi's Bus Rapid Transit Corridor Part II
Surviving Delhi's Bus Rapid Transit Corridor Part III