RIP Sir Vidia...

Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul was of course a wordsmith par excellence, and by many accounts a difficult man; indeed, he was frequently certified as impossible by the experts whose business it is to know these things. But he also had a hidden streak of kindness, something I discovered one winter evening long ago.

In the early 2000's, I was at a cocktail party celebrating the launch of someone's new book, at a tony hotel in Connaught Place. You know how these things are – the litterati glitterati swooshing in and out, air-kissing the VVIPs and ignoring the rest of us inconsequentials. I was only there as a friend of the author, and had no plans to stay for long.

My friend Tarun came in with the Naipauls, Sir Vidia and Nadira, and very kindly introduced me to them both, mentioning that I worked for the Indian Railways. But of course, no sooner had we said hello than the host for the evening swept them away to meet the more important movers and shakers.

Half an hour later, I'd just gotten a refill from the bar and was standing quietly in a corner of the room, minding my own business and feeling a little out of place among all the writers, editors, journalists, and what-have-yous, when I turned to see Sir Vidia next to me. I can still see him clearly – he was wearing a tweed jacket that didn't match his trousers, a scarf looped around his neck, and his trademark fedora. And a look of disdain.

I don't mind telling you I was terrified; one had heard so many stories of the man's biting tongue. And unlike the many terribly erudite authors and columnists who surrounded us, I was only an humble civil servant – well, mostly civil in those days, if not much of a servant. I was certainly not the best person to have a literary conversation with this giant.

"So you work for the railways, do you?" he sniffed at me. "How very interesting."

"Well yes, I –” I stuttered.

"I've always been fascinated by the trains. In fact, I've always wanted to ask someone about laying railway track."

My heart sank. Second only to literary conversations on my list of things to avoid is dry technical discussion about railway infrastructure.

“Is it very expensive to put down track?” he asked.

“Well yes,” said I. “At current prices, it works out to about ten million rupees per kilometre.”

He waved his hands at me, indicating track coming from two different directions. “So when they start laying track from two separate ends, what do they do if they don’t meet in the middle?” And he cracked up, I kid you not. The great man just slapped his knee and roared with laughter.

That began a wonderful conversation about the challenges of large infrastructure in poor countries, inefficiencies, and corruption, and we chatted for several minutes before he got called away. I realised only much later that he was being extraordinarily kind to someone he’d realised was a little uncomfortable that evening.

Or he was just bored with the rest of that lot. Or he was gathering material for a new book. Or whatever.

Either way, you gave me something to remember, Sir Vidia; I hope wherever you are now, you’ve figured out what they do when the tracks don’t meet in the middle.

Requiescat in pace…

The Andamans' Own Fawlty Towers

Remember Fawlty Towers, that wonderful BBC send up of a put upon hotel owner and his staff? Well, I had my own Fawlty Towers moments recently, during a stay at the Megapode Nest Hotel in Port Blair, en route to Havelock Island in the Andamans for some R&R.  Sadly, they weren't half as funny as the serial!

The flights to Port Blair are such, that if leaving from Delhi, you arrive only around noon; by the time you collect your bags and get out of the airport, you've missed the last ferry to the islands, so an overnight stay in Port Blair is inevitable.  In itself, this is not a bad thing, because the city is interesting and has much to offer – unfortunately, we made the mistake of choosing to spend the night at Megapode...

Sited at the top of a hill overlooking the sea, 3-star hotel has some of the best views available; what it doesn't have is service of any kind.  Run by government, it is staffed by employees who – knowing that they have permanent, pensionable jobs – couldn't care less about their customers.

The experience began at the check in desk, where a seriously sour-faced woman thumped a register under my nose and pointed to it to indicate that I should sign in.  Formalities complete, we walked over to the restaurant, hoping to get a beer and some lunch.  We found ourselves the only customers in the entire place, and yet the man at the counter had to be called over to provide menus after we'd been waiting at a table for more than five minutes – he was too busy reading his newspaper!  "No beer in the restaurant sir," said he with a smirk, "If you want beer, you have to go to the bar".  Oh, and after we'd spent some time looking at the menu and deciding what to order, he very kindly informed us that lunch was a buffet.

Deciding to order room service (in the hope of being able to get both the beer and the food at the same time and in the same place), we went back to our rooms.  Only to be told when we called, that the kitchen was now closed – this, at five minutes past two in the afternoon, and less than 5 minutes after we'd left the restaurant!  Wtf??

Ok, so let's order some snacks from the bar, thought we – surely they can bring some food over with the beers?  Yes sir, said the bartender finally, reluctantly delivering some hastily warmed up kababs and a couple of beers after much persuasion.  Sadly, he omitted to mention the fact that he was closing up in 15 minutes, so when we thirstily wanted a refill, there was none to be had.  Sigh!

But the icing on the cake came the next morning – booked to catch a 9 am ferry, we were only too happy to leave at the hotel's ungodly check out time of 7.30 am.  Only to discover that breakfast – paid for and included in the very high tariff – would not be available before 7.30 am.  Excuse me?  Guests should check out at 7.30 am, but they can't get any breakfast before that hour?  Why include it then in the general scheme of things at all??

Unlike Hotel California, we were fortunately able to check out AND leave (much to my relief), after paying vast quantities of money for what was essentially little more than a bed and bath.  The entire experience was reminiscent of stories people used to tell about Aeroflot in its USSR days – "Vill you haf tea or coffee sir?"
"Coffee, I think"
"We haf no coffee.  You vill haf tea!"

Unfortunately, the Megapode Hotel, which could have been so much more, is just another argument for government staying away from non-essential services like making bread or running tourist resorts.  For an economy as heavily dependent on tourism as the Andamans, it beggars belief that this expensive hotel can continue to run in this fashion.  Except for the view, it had absolutely NOTHING with which to redeem itself.  And yet, it will continue to function in this lackadaisical and inefficient fashion, only so that it can be used occasionally by holidaying bureaucrats.  At the taxpayers' expense, of course.

PS – The Port Blair airport, one discovered on the way out, has a VIP Lounge and a Conference Room, no doubt for all the self-important politicos and bureaucrats passing through to holiday in the islands.  But no restaurant for paying customers.  What can I say?

The Nanny State

I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but there is currently a PIL under consideration of the Supreme Court, filed by one Kamlesh Vaswani, that seeks to modify internet laws so that merely viewing porn becomes a non-bailable offence.  Now my understanding of the law is a little shaky, but I do seem to recall that a non-bailable offence is one that usually carries with it a sentence of imprisonment of seven years or more.  Is watching porn really in the same category?  Does that, for instance, constitute a more heinous crime than that of the bus driver who recently crushed a young cardiologist and his little daughter in Gurgaon and was out on bail within two hours of the accident?

The petitioner’s argument is that easy access to pornographic material is encouraging violence and crimes against women.  Seems a bit like that old argument about women being raped because they wear “provocative clothes”, an argument that never explains why a 6-month old baby, a 93 year old great grandmother, or a habit-wearing nun are also victims of indiscriminate lust.

I’m no great fan of pornography myself, but somehow I find this intrusion of the State into what should ideally be the private concern of an individual, a little troublesome.  Sure, you should probably have some laws about distribution and sale of such material – especially to minors – but to lock someone up without bail for merely watching it seems a trifle harsh; besides, what one does in the privacy of his bedroom should remain his business.  Oh wait, Sec 377 already deals with that – the State took away your right to do what you want in your bedroom if it’s “against the order of nature”.

We already have restrictions on what we can watch in cinema halls and on TV; in the latter case, in addition to the Censor Board, there are people screening all shows to make sure that not one single inappropriate word gets through, no matter if the context changes its meaning, or if the programme becomes incomprehensible.  Thus on TV, using the word “ass” for a foolish person inevitably and inexorably leads to it being bleeped out, and the subtitle replaced with something innocuous.  Because innocent folk might mistake the word for something you sit on, instead of something you sometimes sit on.  (Though why "crap" is a more acceptable word for subtitles than "shit" is beyond me!)

Each time you take a flight, you are reminded that taking pictures of the airport is prohibited.  Ditto if you plan to take pictures of dams, bridges, buildings, vehicles, or indeed, anything that may be deemed to be a security risk, even though detailed scale plans of every single one of them are probably available on the internet.

The Election Commission reminds you to vote at 18, but the Excise Department believes you can’t drink till you’re 25.  And if you are unfortunate enough to fall in love, there are laws to penalise you if you decide to hold hands with – or worse, kiss – your significant other in public.

This inclination of the nanny State to monitor and supervise every aspect of citizen’s lives permeates all our interactions with it.  In a branch of the Central Bank of India (a public sector bank) recently, I read with some bemusement a sign saying “Use of mobile cellular telephone is not permitted in the Bank premises.  By Order”.  Why?  What does that do?  Prevent the GLBs[1] in the branch from catching up on their much needed siesta??

If you ask me, this attitude of the State probably comes from the great and glorious Indian tradition of poking our noses into things that don’t concern us.  Ever travelled by train?  No matter how much you try to hide behind a book or your earphones, inevitably the Aunty ji on the next berth will want to know all about you, where you work, how much you earn, etc, etc.  The State just takes all this to a new and much higher level.

What surprises me is the complete lack of response to these daily intrusions from those who claim to be concerned with liberty, freedom and justice.  Indeed some of the recently galvanised mango people want to go further and ban everything that may seem even mildly agreeable.  And those who seceded from the country to protest nuclear tests don’t seem to want to stand up for those whose testes may be at stake here.

This PIL goes far beyond mere pornography; the broader question is one of freedom of expression, and the rights of adult citizens to make choices.  Dealing with a similar challenge, the US Supreme Court had held in 1968 (Ginsberg vs New York) that while the State could constitutionally prevent children from accessing sexually explicit material, it couldn’t do so for adults, reiterating its views in an earlier case (Butler vs Michigan, 1957) that the government couldn’t “reduce the adult population...to reading what is only fit for children”.  In India, freedom of expression has been constitutionally curtailed for reasons of “decency and public morality”; yet I would argue that those considerations, while valid in 1950, need a review in 2014.

Freedom of expression and speech should be free from arbitrary restrictions imposed by an increasingly intolerant State.  We have already witnessed the banning and/or withdrawal-and-pulping of books.  Today the matter concerns pornography; tomorrow it could be prohibition, and maybe if no one raises a voice, one day, your freedom to choose your elected representatives.  Remember old Pastor Niemoller?

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out.  Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out.  Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out.  Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me.  And there was no one left to speak for me 

Think about it.

Postscript - This post was written nearly a year ago, but rereading it in the context of current events, it seems even more relevant.  The furore over the documentary film made by a British film maker about the December 16th gang rape and the subsequent decision of the government to ban it is yet another nail in the coffin of free speech in this country; while various babas rant on about Hindu women needing to have x number of children and no action is ever considered against them, a film that explores the widespread social reaction that took place in the wake of a horrific and brutal rape is deemed by the nanny State to be too inflammatory to be shown to our "sensitive" public.

That public is so sensitive by the way, that the new Chairman of the Censor Board (in itself an affront to a civilised society) felt that the burdens of his office made it incumbent on him to release a long list of words that could henceforth not be used in any film.  Including Bombay.

And in news just in – Fifty Shades of Grey will not be releasing in India after all; Nanny can't take the risk of Indians being influenced by the film into becoming sadomasochists.  Or even lesbians for that matter, which is why the Censor Board insisted on removal of that word from the recently released Dum Laga Ke Haisha!

Meanwhile, possessing or eating beef in Maharashtra has become a criminal offence, carrying a 5 year jail sentence.  Other States such as Jharkhand have indicated their intent to follow suit.  One man's poison has been successfully prevented from being another man's meat.

Do I really need to go on?

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[1] Grotty Little Babus.  See previous post, Election Fever, 25^th March 2014.

Election Fever

It’ a funny thing, and I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about it, but sometimes I think our poor leaders are more to be pitied than censured.  All those speeches and full page ads in the newspapers talking about the wonderful work their Ministry has done and how they’ve changed administration and the common man’s life?  All the news conferences and TV discussions outlining their achievements, and the new things they’ve introduced?  They actually believe all this stuff.

Try to see it from their point of view – they’ve spent hours dreaming up ways to spend the taxpayer’s money, hours with the Secretary of the Department and all their officials, hours discussing various schemes and policies, tweaking them, approving them.  And these Secretaries and such like are all good guys, right?  When they say “Yes Minister”, surely it means that things are going to get done?  After all, they’re not like the grotty little babus (GLB) in the bijli-pani and Sales Tax departments that the mango people have to deal with; no sir, these are sophisticated, English-speaking (remember the Secretary who wasn’t?  PC sure showed him his place!), well educated, good guys, you know?

So it is actually quite inconceivable for our netas to imagine that once they’ve cleared the files and announced the schemes, there should be anything left to do.  The rest, they assume, shall follow.  As of course, do their happy-to-oblige, eager-to-please officials once they’ve passed on the files to their subordinates.

The problem is that these darn schemes need to be implemented by the GLBs.  Uh oh, you might say at this point, I can see where this is going now.  And you would be right; the big problem for us mango types is that all the grand schemes actually need to be interpreted and implemented by the GLBs!

So here’s the thing.  Ever since I moved to Gurgaon from Delh three years ago, I’ve been trying to enrol myself as a voter.  No dice.  Each time, my application has been rejected because I can’t supply a proof of residence in the form specified.  I live in a rented apartment – so the power, water, phone bills are not in my name.  I can’t get a passport, because I can’t provide the self-same proof of residence.  My UID card has my permanent address on it, so that’s no good either.

This time round, the netas and the good guys announced that they wanted to encourage more people to vote.  And since Gurgaon has a large floating population, they announced that rent agreements would serve as an equally valid proof of residence.  What a very forward thinking policy; you can imagine how ecstatic it made me.  I promptly trotted off to do my public duty and enrol in the voter list.

Filled form in hand, I arrived at the Secretariat, full of civic enthusiasm and zeal.  “Yeh faaram yahan nahin jama hoga, bhaiya”, said the paan-chewing, ancient GLB at the voter registration desk.  “Le jaao isse yahan se!”  Only after much entreaty did he relent enough to casually toss out the details of the correct recipient.

Unfazed, I drove halfway across town to where the GLB had directed me, only to find that the receiving GLB had shut shop for the day and left for a “meeting in the Secretariat”.  Come back tomorrow, the other GLBs advised helpfully.  Omitting of course, to mention that tomorrow was the last date for submission of the forms.

The next day, the concerned GLB was actually there, and very helpful in accepting my form.  Except that... “Kaushik sahib, this rent agreement won’t really do; I need some other proof of residence.  Maybe your passport?  Or water or electricity bill?” she said.

Aaarrgghh!  See what I mean?  No amount of pleading would make her agree that there was any provision for accepting rent agreements as proof of residence; she was implacable.  Seething, I went back home again to collect copies of mobile phone bills and bank statements, which she accepted graciously.

Guess what?  My application was rejected again, for want of proof of residence.  Which means I won’t be voting in this election.  Or in the next I guess.  Although considering the choices available, perhaps I would just have used the NOTA option; but that’s another story...!