Sunday, March 29, 2015

Liar, liar, pants on fire. Hanging on a telephone wire.

That I shall leave this world unsung is, truth to tell, a blessing in disguise. Haven’t you noticed how Indian obit writers unabashedly indulge themselves in flights of fancy and plumb the depth of obsequity – apart from vandalizing the English language mercilessly − when it comes to doing their job without fear or favour? (In their midst, not even a single Saadat Hasan Manto, eh?) Their unspoken excuse is that hypocrisy as a tenet of (politically?) correct behaviour is allegedly a part and parcel of Indian “culture”. It stipulates that no evil shall be spoken of the dearly departed never mind even if the truth has to be bent backwards or stood on its head as the situation requires. Little white lies are to be preferred to the beam of white light the poor man or woman may be facing in the hereafter.

Before you point your accusatory finger at me for blithely following their exemplary example in titling this post, let me confess to a weakness for children’s ditties (simple words, uncomplicated rhyming, easy-to-memorize) over the more obfuscatingly worded verses of the idiosyncratic 19th-century poet. Mind you, this worthy was shunned by his envious and contemptuous contemporaries but posthumously hailed by latter-day critics as no less than a mystical visionary of the Romantic Age. I am thinking of the late and latterly lamented William Blake (1757-1827), Esquire, to wit. 

To put the records straight, this impudent versifier must have somehow got privy to the likelihood of his impending canonization in the annals of literature in the not too faraway future. To make sure it would come about, he cunningly decided to take recourse to an imagined version of Peter Roget’s “classed catalogue of words … of much use in literary composition” and launched his much celebrated poem, “The Liar” (1810), with a double-barreled fusillade of synonyms

“Deceiver, dissembler 

Your trousers are alight 

From what pole or gallows 

Shall they dangle in the night?”

Ah, the infinite riches of the English language! A word for every shade of meaning yielding a surfeit of synonyms in most cases. But what we think is its strength could well be harbouring the seeds of its weakness, making it an easy tool of deceit when wielded by deceivers, dissemblers, fibbers, fabulists, perjurers, fabricators, story tellers, tale weavers, poets, dissimulators, falsifiers, con artists, deluders, imposters, false witnesses, fablers, misleaders, equivocators, tricksters, conjurors, quacks, pretenders, swindlers, statisticians and assorted liars of every ilk.

The celebrated American humourist and author, Mark Twain (1835-1910), is credited with this oft-quoted witticism: "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics."  He, however, modestly declined authorship and pointed the finger at Disraeli (1804-1881). That itself turned out to be a posture. An essay on The University of York website on a Department of Mathematics page dealing with the various occurrences of “lies, damned …” avers, though not confidently, that its most likely source was Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke (1843-1911), a Liberal MP of the Victorian era, Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Gladstone's second government and a Privy Council member whose extra-marital affairs ruined his political career. The Dilke wordings differ slightly, though: “fibs, lies, and statistics” in press reportage and “a fib, a lie, and statistics” in a verbal citing. Can you tell the truth from the lie?

Dr Samuel Johnson, the pioneer English lexicographer, once remarked: "Promise, large promise, is the soul of an advertisement." The two swindlers in Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Emperor’s New Clothes” faithfully followed that dictum to spread the word that they wove the finest cloth with colours as delicate as the butterflies’ and the cloth itself as light as gossamer with patterns beautiful and unusually intricate. Moreover, they claimed a magical quality for their cloth: stupid or incompetent people could not see it. The reigning Emperor who was quite a vain fob and nearly everyone else in the kingdom was taken in by the “large promise”, i.e., the enormous lie. Finally, it took a child’s innocence to pierce the veil of the falsehood.

Lying, come to think of it, is more often than not a work-in-progress. Once you have started your career as a liar, you have got to keep at it telling more lies to cover up the original lie. A soap ad on the idiot box, for instance, makes the claim that the product can deal the new strains of virus “ordinary” soaps cannot tackle. To further enhance the credibility of this claim, accreditation by a London organization connected with public health awarded for the brand’s hygiene-education initiative about hand washing is touted as recognition of its improved wide-spectrum anti-virus action against newer strains.

Equally amusing are the truth-bending antics of toothpaste advertisers. Even if you brush your teeth twice a day, I am reasonably certain you gargle away nearly every trace of it from your mouth and teeth afterwards. So, unless the just brushed toothpaste’s foam defies the force of the gargle and resolutely clings to the teeth’s enamel or, better still, impregnates it and thus becomes a part of it, how can anyone in his right mind − and his tongue not firmly tucked in his cheek − claim with a straight face that the toothpaste keeps doing its good work in your mouth for 12 hours?

All this reminds me of Edgar Wallace’s Educated Evans stories about the exploits of a racing tout in the early part of the last century. Evans was apparently a character based on Wallace’s own experience as a tout before he turned a journalist. This irrepressible yarn-spinner laid claims to “inside information straight from the horse’s mouth” about fixed races. Many of these scams were quite bizarre and hard to believe unless you were a born victim.

“The reason for evil in the world is that people are not able to tell their stories,” opined Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961). When denied the attention, do they resort to lies in order to get a hearing? From little white ones to big black ones? The former are harmless diversions. The latter are motivated by intent to deceive.
In a Stephan Pastis’s Pearls Before Swine comic strip episode (Mumbai Mirror, 28 
March 2015), Rat and Goat have the following existential chitchat:

Rat: I have a large brain and it’s been conclusively proven that those with larger brains are smarter than those with smaller brains.

Goat: That’s not true.

Rat: Yes, it is.

Goat: How do you know?

Rat: Because something is true whenever you say it has been conclusively proven.

Goat: That’s not how that works.

Rat: Hey, in an age where no one reads, it’s how that works.

(I don’t know about you but I agree with Rat about the power of “conclusively proven”; I have recently seen it being used in a TV ad of a leading tea brand  claiming to contain herbal ingredients capable of keeping the tea drinker healthy and productive. The only evidence offered in support of the claim is, yes, you got it right: “conclusively proven”.)

By the way, if you did not like the above ending, I have another up my sleeve in the illustrious tradition of the fabulous fibber, Groucho Marx.         

A priest and a rabbi along with a pair of flaming panties (oops, pants) walked into a bar… Still don’t like it? Too bad, bud.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Rape, rape, go away. Little Mina wants to play. (Why rape won’t ever quit India. Or, anywhere else for that matter.)

What is rape? The word derives most likely from the 14th century Middle English rapen out of the Anglo-French raper from the Latin rapere meaning “to seize, carry off by force, plunder”. Culturally viewed, it is an atavistic act harking back to the male chauvinistic, patriarchal, feudalistic past. The Latin word atavus refers to the great-great-great-grandfather or an ancestor. For the victim, rape is existentially disruptive. For the perpetrator, rape is more often than not a crime of opportunity. Ergo, unpredictable and impossible to anticipate and prevent. Equally, it is a crime that requires the existence of a special kind of mindset in the perpetrator who may hail from any caste, class, region and religion, often from among the close acquaintances of the victim. Mind mapping of a potential rapist would reveal, I suspect, the existence of a patriarchal, fedudalistic terrain wherein the power equation is forever set against women. To the rapist, women are vassals in perpetuity. Men are the all-powerful lords and masters entitled to all kinds of privileges as well as access to every conceivable resource including the vassals’ bodies. The by now widely publicized views of many authority figures as well as the rapist in the Nirbhaya case lend credence to this contention. 

This set of core “tenets” is not documented but informally passed on from generation to generation. So strong is their stranglehold on Indians that even some of the womenfolk willingly and readily assist their “betters” in enforcing them. This is abundantly evident by their inclusion in the perpetrators’ line-up in dowry and honour killings. Even village elders, gotra (clan)-inspired khap panchayats and similar formal or informal tribal networks willingly join such woman-hating initiatives. One is often led to wonder if the paternalistic underpinnings of most religions like Vedantism/Hinduism, Islam, Judaism and Christianity do not make them the ideal breeding grounds for the rapist as well as the terrorist mindsets.

In the sexually vitiated Indian context, the subtext of dowry reads like this in the warped male mind: I’m taking “the burden” off your hands. So, pay up whatever I ask for and shut up. Of the resistance to widow remarriage: I have no use for “used goods”. (Objectification of women is routinely implicit in all misogynous behaviour and thinking. Even in the “civilized” Occident, only wives are swapped, never husbands, remember?) Of “provocative” dressing and behaviour by women: Take me. I am available.

Have you noticed the oft-recurring visual tableaux in most dances performed by couples? The male dancer supports his female partner with his arm wrapped around her waist, his face looming over hers and she is arching backward as far as she can as if to keep as much distance between the two as possible. Male superiority/male dominance is written all over this image – just as it is in the iconic RK Films logo − even when the choreography is orchestrated by a woman. By so doing, is she (the female dancer): (a) accepting her inferior status in the relationship or (b) repelling the male’s advances (a crypto-rape scenario)?

Then, there is the all-time classic, time-honoured “Krishna Leela” defence and/or ratiocination, based on a myth deeply embedded in the Indian consciousness, which nobody seems to question or object to. Krishna, the legendary lover with reportedly 16108 wives (none of them won by relentless ragging, though), well-known for his playful and innocent antics as a child of hiding the clothes of bathing gopis, teasing them to distraction and taking advantage of their affection to rob them of butter, is heralded as the beacon of how a young man should woo a young woman of his fancy, i.e., the one who currently triggers an upsurge of testosterone in him. The “boys will be boys” justification is used with impunity, time and again, to condone disrespectful treatment of women by “manly” men. In the fifties and sixties, there was a spate of Hindi movies featuring Dev Anand, Shammi Kapoor, Shashi Kapoor and even Joy Mukerjee – the poor girl’s Shammi Kapoor − emulating this “Krishna” school of how to woo a girl and not compromise your machismo. This sort of depiction of the male-female equation continues to exist in one form or another in movies and on the idiot box even now.

Much as I would like to take an optimistic view of the situation, no way out of this well-entrenched psycho-socio-cultural impasse seems to exist in my opinion. Legal and/or extra-legal (e.g., lynching and, on the milder side, protests march, candle light processions, advertising to persuade the would-be rapist to shed his sinful ways) solutions cannot achieve the desired result. The only way to do it is to change for the better the existing attitude and belief super structure of India. And that, as the dashing, debonair Don would have so eloquently put it, is not only difficult but impossible (= “mushkil hi nahin, namumkin hai”).

Friday, March 20, 2015

Mr Godin says No. (Is God in?)

Some days, it’s best to stay in bed. Friday, 20 March (not 13, mind you, but the unpropitious New Moon Day nonetheless) was one of them. In the morning, the horrendously expensive family fish tank sprung a leak and had to be put to pasture. Not taking a hint from the admonitory turn of events, I ventured to send an email to Seth Godin asking for his help to get my novel, The Last Gandhi Movie, published. It went out smack at 3 p.m. and read as follows:

Sub: The Last Gandhi Movie: Have I invented the Nuvel?

Dear Mr Godin:

Addressing you as “Dear Seth”, I presume, would perhaps be a tad impertinent. The story I’m about to tell is far from, though. 

At the end of the 20th century, I bought a book on impulse. How to Mutate and Take Over the World (Ballantine, 1996) by a pair of pseudonymous authors was subtitled “An Exploded Post Novel”. An Amazon reader review (05-01-2002) describes it as “… a mix of email between the two authors, interspersed with email to their publisher, news stories, book reviews (yes, reviews for a book in the book they review, and very poor ones too!), and interviews. We are left no knowledge of what is real, fake or somewhere in between.”

Around that time, I also wrote a novel, The Last Gandhi Movie, but did not work hard to market it except making a rather interesting website (The Last Known Address of MK Gandhi, Esquire). Unfortunately, the company that made it closed down and I have only a CD of the website with partial contents. It is also still there on the Wayback Machine, in bits and pieces but not really enough of it. By the way, The Last Gandhi Movie shares two devices of storytelling with How to Mutate and Take Over the World: [1] book reviews and [2] author interview by a hostile critic.

In November 2014, I decided to revive The Last Gandhi Movie. It had suddenly dawned on me that it would work better as a novel if there were a counterpoint added to the main text. There are three narrative strands in the now marginally revised main text: (1) Gandhi, (2) movies and (3) the life and exploits of the nameless narrator. I wrote The Last Gandhi Movie with the digitally inclined reader in mind: very short attention span, familiarity with and fondness for clipped email/sms/twitter style of writing, impatience with over-sentimental plotting. The counterpoint I added to the earlier text in November-December 2014 is a literary innovation of sorts (“RetroNotes”). Some may dismiss the RetroNotes as the writer’s “after-thoughts” and/or his attempt to pre-empt the critics. Others may see their role in adding valuable clues of historical, socio-cultural and psychological context to the story telling. At times, the RetroNotes act as the proverbial Devil’s Advocate adding a dash of contrarian pungency to the narrative. At others, they work as an alienation device. By accident, I may have “invented the Nuvel”.

But why am I eschewing the regular publishing route? Mainly because I see more and more publishers abandoning literary fiction for bestsellers and have closed minds to experimental fiction especially. Maybe, I could go with Kickstarter. But my guess is: it works best only for a celebrity writer.  

To give The Last Gandhi Movie a viral shot in the arm and also to test reader reaction, I am planning to upload it to This website has 18,581,427 academically inclined members and attracts over 15.7 million unique visitors a month according to the ‘About’ page. Among them, quite a few are interested in Gandhian and related studies. This may even help me to find a publisher.

The only time you cited Gandhi was in Tribes: We Need You to Lead Us: “There's no record of Martin Luther King, Jr. or Gandhi whining about credit. Credit isn't the point. Change is.” 

The Last Gandhi Movie is about changing the way novels are supposed to be written. Perhaps, as a best-selling author, speaker and agent of change, you may vouchsafe to help publish a path-breaking literary innovation. I am aware that you do not do any coaching, investing or consulting. So why should you make an exception in my case? Having sensed your entrepreneurial zeal and curiosity about anything new from your writings, I think just maybe you’ll do it. If not, at least pitch in a few suggestions on how to go about it.

I’ve not attached the text of my “magnum opus” to this email. I would do so only after you give me the permission to send it.

Do I have your permission?

Meanwhile, many thanks for reading the email. I know fully well I cannot rule out the worst-case scenario. You may say No, thank you. Well, Sir, I am ready to take it on my 78 year-old chin. And, grin.

Warm regards,


Deepak Mankar

At 3:54 p.m., Mr Godin wrote back:

[T]hank you Deepak, for the thoughtful note and for the work you do
I’m afraid that I can’t possibly do your work justice. I’m totally swamped.

Good luck with all of it, sir.


I read the reply about half an hour later and expressed my gratitude at 4:31 p.m. thus:

Thanks, Mr Godin. You are prompt and forthright. I appreciate it. Thanks again and regards,

Deepak Mankar

There the matter rests. As I was saying earlier, some days it’s best to stay in bed.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Two Lives in a memory warp. Being the story of the Mankar couple who lived and died at 233 Khetwadi Main Road as remembered by their son.

Is there such a thing as the “perfect memoir”? Search me. That nothing of that ilk has probably ever been extant dawned on me only when I started thinking about writing one about my parents, Aai (c. 1897 - 1962) and Baba (c. 1880 - 1965). Unfortunately, much too late in my life did I come to realize that their lives were worth being scrutinized with curiosity and recorded with love and understanding by their son.

Reader warned. Doing it has been far from simple, though. Their past before my birth had been more or less a closed book to me. I had never tried to steal even a glimpse of it. So I had to make do with half-remembered hearsay and third-party “testimony” heard or overheard on various occasions and filed away for future use, as it were. Being human makes my memory as fallible and untrustworthy as the next person’s. Also, all along, I have been accustomed to view life through the prism of accumulated prejudices and assumptions acquired over the decades. Much as I may try to shed them, I can never be sure they aren’t there at a given moment. So what you will read here is the story of Mr Waman Keshavji Mankar, Esq., and his lawfully wedded spouse, Laxmibai (née Manak Ajinkya), the original Mankar couple of 233 Khetwadi Main Road – as far as I could assemble the mosaic of lost time though undoubtedly not without flaws. Readers will also have to pardon me for sounding embittered and deeply resentful when I refer to some of the people featuring in the tale and their vile deeds. That is how I feel about what happened. Hypocrisy and I never had even a nodding acquaintance. That’s a fact plain and simple − neither hubris nor a boast. 

Name decodified. Before we go any further, I have a theory about the origin of our family name although I cannot lay a claim to the expertise of an etymologist or a polyglot. The “Man” (or the phonetic “Maan”) part of the word “Mankar”, I dare say, might have come from the Marathi word “Maan” (= status, privilege, right) used in a community-centric context. The surname “Mankar” might have thus alluded to a clan who had status in the community and enjoyed certain privileges owing to it. W.E. Gladstone Solomon, art historian, though, had a slightly different take on the surname mentioned in his study, The Charm of Indian Art; “Mankar”, he averred, signified “the noble one”. Fair enough.

Sad but true. There were at least three occasions when I saw and/or heard my father crying. The first one was sometime in 1944 or 1945 when I was 8 or 9 years old lying in bed in the dead of night and trying not to hear his stifled sobs. The incidence is described at The trigger was my sister’s avowal to marry a Muslim colleague apparently and her consequent and sudden disappearance from 233 Khetwadi Main Road one Saturday afternoon. (Later, her elder daughter revealed that her mother had in fact been spurned by her alleged boy friend.) The second time I saw Baba sobbing was when he came home after work one sad evening in 1962 and learned that Aai, his by-then estranged wife, had succumbed to her lingering ailment (leukemia) in the Bombay Hospital. The third occasion in 1965 – a short while before his death − was described to me by Ujwal. Baba, as was his wont, was entertaining his elder grandson. Ashu was perched precariously on the edge of the dining table and laughing his head off at his grandfather’s antics as he enacted a funny tale. While thus occupied, he fell off and crashed to the floor. He was a bit stunned but otherwise quite okay while Baba had by then freaked out and was sobbing uncontrollably. It took all of Ujwal’s persuasive skill to calm him down and convince him that all was well. He had great rapport with Ashu and Abhi, then toddlers, as well as their mother. He used to rock his grandsons on his haunches and sing to them ditties of his own making, much to their unmitigated delight. He was also responsible, after Aai’s death, for freeing Ujwal from her self-imposed dress code of wearing only sarees in deference to Aai’s wishes. He told her to wear what she felt comfortable in while working and in daily living.

Equanimity personified. My reason to start this memoir with the sad memories was to highlight the fact that Baba’s everyday essential mental state (sthayi bhava) was one of equanimity. He must have come to this mental plateau over time, I gather, dealing with the many problems life kept hurling at him. In my childhood, I don’t remember Baba ever raising his voice at any of us. Even his infrequent reprimands and admonitions for my childish transgressions were administered in a gentle, slightly pained tone of voice. This is perhaps why he was unable to discipline his wayward daughter well in time. At times, a raised voice gets better results than a raised palm. He chose to raise neither.

Details, details, details. When he breathed his last in 1965, a little after I had joined Clarion-McCann, Baba was 85 by his own reckoning, give or take. So, it is my conjecture that he must have been born circa 1880. That’s 7 years before Victoria Terminus (now Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus) was built and 17 years before the first automobile reached the Indian shores (barely three years after its invention in the US of A). I don’t know anything about Baba’s father except his name (Keshavji). Keshav is one of Lord Vishnu’s names, occurring at the 23rd and 648th rank in Vishnu Sahastranama (the thousand names of Vishnu recited in his praise), by the way. The Mankar family, hearsay informed me, lived in Navi Wadi, a then predominantly Pathare Prabhu precinct in South Bombay, in near-indigent circumstances. Navi Wadi is also where the Mankar Family deity, Maheshwari, resides.

The way the Prabhus dressed, worked, thought and lived. In Chapter 6 of Madame Helena Patrovna Blavatsky's From the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan (1879-80), she wrote about how the then current generation of the Pathare Prabhus was living "by their pens", which is to say "occupying all the small Government posts in the Bombay Presidency, and so being dangerous rivals of the Bengali Babus since the time of British rule. In Bombay, the Patan clerks reach the considerable figure of five thousand. Their complexion is darker than the complexion of Konkan Brahmans, but they are handsomer and brighter." In Mary Fainsod Katzenstein’s Ethnicity and Equality (Cornell University Press, New York, 1979, p.44), she cites Edwardes’ especial reference in The Gazetteer of Bombay (Vol. I, p.168) to the fact that “although up to about 1870, the dress of the Prabhus was considered model attire, the once wealthy Prabhu families soon began to desert their large Bombay residences for more simple, economical flats”. She also points out that in those days the Pathare Prabhus occupied “key administrative and clerical positions in Bombay under the British”.

Here’s what Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar wrote in Annihilation of Caste with a Reply to Mahatma Gandhi (Navayana, 2014, p.252) about the Pathare Prabhu's abandoning their custom of widows remarrying (i.e., moving from a progressive to a regressive stance): "At one time the Pathare Prabhus had widow remarriage as a custom of their caste. This custom of widow remarriage was later on looked upon as a mark of social inferiority by some members of the caste, especially because it was contrary to the custom prevalent among the Brahmins. With the object of raising status of their community some Pathare Prabhus sought to stop this practice of widow remarriage that was prevalent in their caste. The community was divided into two camps, one for and the other against the innovation. The Peshwas took the side of those in favour of widow remarriage and thus virtually prohibited the Pathare Prabhus from following the ways of the Brahmins."

The one somewhat eccentric trait of the Pathare Prabhus mentioned by W E Gladstone Solomon (p.49), the composing and singing of epithalamiums during the marriage ceremony, is something I can personally vouch for. Written in flowery and hagiographic Marathi, I have heard them over the decades at several weddings, even fairly recent ones, sung to the tune of the mangalashtakas (mantras solemnizing the nuptials).

Among the many talented Pathare Prabhus of those days was Bhujangrao Mankar who was thought of as Sir Isaac Pitman’s Indian reincarnation in his role as the “father” of Marathi and Gujarati shorthand. By the way, the writer of one of the earlier Marathi sangeet natak (musical play), Naladamayanti (1879), was a Pathare Prabhu, Sokar Bapuji Trilokekar (1835-1908). Also, the second lead pair in the popular musical stage hit, Sangeet Sanshaya Kallol (= a pandemonium of suspicion), premiered c.1916, was named Phalgunrao and Kritika Trilokekar, apparently a Pathare Prabhu couple.  
Baba’s struggles continued. Baba managed to somehow complete his higher education probably with help from well-wishers and scholarships. He passed both his Master of Arts as well as Bachelor of Laws examinations. Then, true to his predilection as a deep-dyed Pathare Prabhu, he entered into the service of the Government of Bombay Presidency as a Public Prosecutor. He retired from his post of Presidency Magistrate, Girgaum Police Court, situated very close to 233 Khetwadi Main Road, sometime in 1936. (Later, in the 1950s, he once again worked for the Government as the Coroner of Bombay.)

Married to Manak. Along the way, at the age of 37 or so, he married Aai, then 20, probably in 1917. They had their first offspring in 1918, Malini, a daughter. The last of their progeny was me born eighteen years later. In between, there was a son who did not survive. Had he managed to do so, chances are I would not be around to tell you this tale. (According to what Ujwal was told by her mother, Aai wanted her obstetrician friend to terminate her last pregnancy but was dissuaded from taking the drastic step.)

Self-evolved. Aai belonged to the Ajinkya family residing on the ground floor of the house opposite the Roxy Cinema where I was born. My four distinct childhood memories about this spacious ground-floor flat are: (1) a wooden swing the exact replica of the one we had in our 233 Khetwadi Main Road residence; (2) a living room practically bereft of books; (3) a Bombay Gas connection for cooking fuel (coal gas that used to be manufactured till the late seventies/early eighties in a Parel plant) in the kitchen just like the one Ujwal’s parents had; and (4) a faint odour of residual decay wafting around the back of the house. You can read whatever little I know about Aai’s family here: Aai’s elder brother brought her up. I remember him as a fair and handsome man with well-maintained salt-and-pepper mustaches. He seemed to live well after having retired from the French Bank at the end of a long and lucrative career. I remember him giving Aai a gold guinea coin one bhai dooj. I used to visit him mostly in Aai’s company but on a couple of occasions even Baba’s. (I don’t remember Baba ever calling on Aai’s other brother who lived with his family at Gamdevi.) Aai had, I heard her tell, matriculated from the Kamalabai Girls’ School in Nowroji Street where Ujwal’s mother was her classmate. Aai was small-built. One of my earliest infantile memories of her is being patted and cooed to sleep while I furiously sucked at my lower lip and kneaded a black wart situated at a respectful distance to the left of her belly button. I can vouch for the fact that, throughout my childhood, I watched her cultivating of her own volition an interest in reading light literary fiction in Marathi as well as in watching quality plays. She used to subscribe to three leading monthlies published in Marathi: Kirloskar, Stree and Manohar and avidly read them cover to cover. I also remember accompanying her in April 1943 or 1944 to a ten-night open-air festival of Marathi plays. It took place on the sea-facing ground parallel to the BBCI (now Western) Railway tracks between the Grand Medical College and Islam Gymkhanas on Marine Drive – a once-in-a-lifetime event staged by the Marathi Sahitya Sangh with a view to revive the Marathi theatre. Aai also used to take me to Marathi plays staged in nearby theatres. You wouldn’t be wrong in concluding that she was a patron of the arts, albeit on a very modest scale. Maybe, it was due to her culturally-charged Pathare Prabhu genes, who knows? I must confess, however, that she played a big role in nurturing my love for reading and the fine arts in general by setting an example. I used to be a major contributor to a hand-written (hasta likhit) magazine in Marathi produced by the sixth and seventh grade students in my first school. Her daughter did not share her passion for the arts and literature unfortunately. Her reading was confined to the popular English glossies she borrowed from a circulating library with a home delivery service. Besides this, she was an ardent Hindi movie addict regularly watching the banal romantic fare on offer without fail at the various neighbourhood cinema halls and buying the musical discs. She also had a formidable collection of Hindi movie program bills and song books that used to be sold in the movie halls of the time – worth a fortune in the memorabilia market today by the way. Unfortunately, it got lost owing to neglect and lack of foresight. 

The Mankars do well for themselves. Aai’s maiden name “Manak” (or “Manik”) is the Marathi word for ruby, a much-coveted precious stone coloured pink to blood-red. (Ujwal’s mother, Aai’s close friend and confidante, kept addressing her by that name even in later life.) After marriage she was, according to the custom re-christened “Laxmi” after the Hindu Goddess of Prosperity and Wealth. She seemed to live up to her new name as she entered Baba’s life. He prospered in Government service and made enough money and more to support his cousins and nephews and nieces, all part of his extended family. Also, following his Pathare Prabhu predilection once again, he built a house for his family in Prabhu Nagar, Khar, a Western suburb just beyond Bandra served by the BBCI (now Western) Railways, where a lot of Pathare Prabhus were already shifting. My guess is that he must have done it with his own savings because I doubt if bank loans for housing were then offered as freely and avidly as at present. All this must have added to his stature both in his professional and personal life. As usual, life had to add an ironical twist in the story. Baba was named after Waman, the fifth reincarnation of Lord Vishnu, a diminutive hero with a generous heart who vanquished King Bali, the ruler of the three worlds. and In fact, he stood tall at 5’-8” or so. No doubt, the commonality between him and his fabled namesake was only in deeds. 

Enemy within. Unfortunately though not unexpectedly, there lurked among Baba’s near and dear relatives – the very ones he had sheltered munificently − a bunch of wily demons akin to the rakshasas from his namesake’s universe. A maternal uncle and his family laid a squatter’s claim to his Khar bunglow because he had allowed them to reside there. The sentimental fool that he was, Baba chose to let go of the property quietly instead of proving ownership in a court of law. (Come to think of it, although law was his profession, I had heard him on several occasions advising people to shun the courts and the lawyers.) He, however, broke off all ties with that branch of his family except for a distant cousin of his (Sunder Nayak, nicknamed Kanikaka) who worked for the Hongkong & Shanghai Banking Corporation (now HSBC) and who, along with his wife (known to me only as “Kaku” = aunty), was devoted to both Aai and Baba. In fact, so close was the couple to my parents that the weddings of two of their three daughters took place at 233 Khetwadi Main Road. What’s more, when my cousin Suresh, the son of Kanikaka and Kaku, chose to marry a non-Prabhu girl, my parents sided with his parents who were staunchly against the marriage in spite of the fact that they were very fond of and close to their nephew (he called Baba "bhaukaka" which literally means "bother uncle" and Aai, "Kakibai") and broad-minded enough to realize that the days of scrupulously staying within the caste boundaries were numbered at least in the urban areas.  

The wards’ fate. In Aai and Baba’s charge and under their care, besides their own daughter, were two of Baba’s nieces, Nalini and Sarojani, who respectfully addressed them with the honorifics ‘Kakibai’ and ‘Kakaji’. Both of them, as far as my recollection goes, were treated by my parents as daughters of the family on a par with the real daughter – although the latter saw the situation in a different light and took every opportunity to display her displeasure. Of the two wards, Nalini was the more gifted academically. She completed her graduation from the Elphinstone College along with her cousin who too excelled in academics. Unfortunately, Nalini was married off in 1939 or thereabouts to a Rationing Office employee – much below her intellectual stature − and ended up as a forlorn housewife. Even after sixty years of a futile existence, her mind had lost none of its original sharpness, though. In a get-together in the mid-nineties at Ashu’s in-laws, we were astonished to hear her conversing fluently in French with a youngster from France who happened to be one of the invitees. Nalini, I think, was also a trained dilruba player though I don’t remember ever hearing her playing it. Her less talented and plain-looking sibling, Sarojani, took lessons in singing and sewing but did not seem to have got anywhere in either field. She was married to a decent enough though far from successful man at the same time as her sister.

Down with the Khetwadi Mankars. Hindsight tells me that the real tragedy of Nalini was that she was married off willy-nilly into a large joint family headed by a matriarch with five sons living on the Antop Hill, Wadala. Nalini’s husband was the youngest of the brood. The wife of the second eldest son, a moderately successful lawyer by profession, was the eldest daughter of Aai’s elder brother residing opposite the Roxy Cinema (please see above). (The Elder Ajinkya’s progeny comprised one son and two daughters.) This worthy – the great pretender that she was – professed profound love and affection for Aai in her presence while secretly envying her good fortune and good life and, more particularly, the success of her husband and, in consequence, despising her and the Mankar family in the bargain and being always on the lookout for a chance to “fix” the accursed lot. She was not alone in this pursuit. Her own husband, her sister (much better educated than her but her match, stride for stride, as far as skullduggery went) and the latter’s solicitor husband – a doppelganger of Justice Strauss from Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events saga in terms of his deeds and thoughts − as well as Aai’s own younger sister and the wife and the elder son of Aai’s second brother (actually third, I think – the second one, an Indian Army physician, having migrated to England during World War I) were all a part of the secret down-with-the-Khetwadi-Mankars clique. The scenario happened to be no less sudsy than the convoluted soaps currently doing the rounds in assorted Indian languages on the idiot box.

Self-deluded. My poor, innocent, trusting Aai played into the hands of the villains without fail on several occasions, the only exception being her firm and unshakable resolve to have Ujwal as her daughter-in-law. In Nalini’s case, she deluded herself into believing that her niece would protect her own ward in the virtual snake pit she was being shoved into – relying on her blind faith in people on her own maternal side (= maaher in Marathi; mahike in Hindi). As the saying goes, there’s no delusion more lethal than self-delusion. My mother must have realized later on that she had made a grave mistake in Nalini’s case. Yet, she repeated it toward the end of her life. The elder son of her third brother had been caught red-handed in the commission of graft at the Airport in the late fifties. Again deluding herself into believing in his innocence when his propensity to take bribe was more or less an open secret – the big bunglow he had built in West Bandra was cited by many as a pointer to his not-so-clean hands – she insisted that Baba should “save” him through his many “connections”. He, being the way he was, flatly refused. One thing led to another and they drifted apart, stopped talking to each other. This wall of silence remained in place right till her death in 1962. The down-with-the-Khetwadi-Mankars clique had drawn blood twice over!

Two weddings, a nagging worry and a misadventure. But that was far away in the future. Coming back to the aftermath of the weddings of the two wards of Aai and Baba, they were relieved to have done their duty in loco parentis, i.e., as foster parents, by arranging what they considered as a suitable match for each of the duo in (I guess) 1941 when I had just turned five and we were then living on the first floor of 233 Khetwadi Main Road. The lavish weddings were held in the spacious hall on the ground floor of Vanita Vishram School next door to 233 Khetwadi Main Road and the reception in the garden behind it. The school, by the way, is still very much there doing its job although there are no more weddings held on the premises, as far as I can tell.

Meanwhile, frenzied, near frenetic efforts were afoot to find a suitable boy for the daughter of the house. After all, she was not growing any younger with each passing day. Alas, all to no avail. She had by then taken up a job in the newly opened Rationing Office situated in the Jinnah Hall next to the Grant Road Bridge within walking distance of 233 Khetwadi Main Road. This is where she found her “true love” in the Hindi film style and I have already described at the beginning of this piece what happened then. To keep herself occupied after her misadventure, Malini had learned Hindi and Urdu and started doing honorary social service by tutoring women in a women’s organization in the vicinity. It was only in 1949 that a match was finally arranged for the Princess. Prince Charming happened to be no other than a Lower Division Clerk in the Income Tax Department who happened to reside quite close by. A harmless enough person who fancied himself as an artist; he used to make miniature statuettes out of clay and paint them quite beautifully. He was also an amateur inventor in his own right. I remember being impressed with his system of closing the front door from the outside with the use of nothing but a piece of strong string. (To get the door to open later, though, you had to ring the doorbell.) Malini had fared maybe a notch better in the marriage stakes than Nalini, the more talented cousin she despised and whose husband was not as gifted.

Pooja, priests and a guru. Were Aai and Baba seeking their respective paths to salvation in their own way? Aai had always been a god-fearing person given to daily prayer, weekly pooja by the family priest on Mondays, fasting during the month of Shravan, special offerings to Lord Shiva such as maharudra with eleven Brahmins presiding if so advised by the family priest or her astrologer, a visit to a dozen Rama temples on the Ramnavmi day and so forth. After her daughter’s “narrow escape from a fate worse than death” (as she put it), she had acquired a guru residing in a quaint sea-facing flat on the road along the coast leading up to the Banganga and then on to the Malabar Hills garden. And who do you think had led this guileless woman up this particular garden path? No surprises there. It was someone from the fix-The-Mankars clique: her younger sister-in-law whom she adored as a notable member of her maternal family.

Marx, Radical Humanism, Bhakti. While all this was happening, my father had taken to reading, along with his client briefs and legal reference volumes (he had several shelves full of these tomes stacked in his makeshift home office under a shed on the front terrace of the third-floor flat – where we had shifted by then − at 233 Khetwadi Main Road because his criminal law practice was thriving, thank you), MN Roy’s books about radical humanism, books about communist thought and leaders and biographies of the saints in the bhakti tradition in Marathi (Tukaram, Namdeo, Muktabai, Chokha Mela, Janabai and the like). He had also started to chant aloud Kabir’s doha, Tukaram’s abhang and Ramdas’s Manache Shloka in his leisure time. By the time India became free, he had become a near ardent fan of Nehru tracking his idol’s doings faithfully through The Times of India reportage every morning. (Did his reading leftist literature have anything to do with it? By the way, I have a sneaking suspicion that, when his idol shuffled off his mortal coil on 27 May 1964, Baba shed a tear privately.) By contrast, I saw Aai mildly excited during the Samyukta Maharashtra movement. By the time, it ended with the formation of the new state in 1960, her health had started failing and her interest had all but tapered off. Aai and Baba’s first grandchild, Shubhada, was born in 1950, by the way, the second following ten years later.

Real affliction, “false” physician. During most part of his active life as a government servant and as a successful lawyer, Baba had been a victim of a strange malady for which no doctor found either the right name or an effective treatment. From time to time, he would wake up in the morning with a rash of hives all over his upper torso and arms and a shooting pain mainly in his arms which made him cry out and confined him to bed for a couple of days. The cretin of a family physician under whose care he had put himself during the forties and the early part of the fifties (that simpering abomination called himself either Dharadhar or Dhurandhar – he too was a Pathare Prabhu, an unwelcome appendage hailing from Baba’s early life in Navi Wadi, alas! − and lurked in a first floor flat in the building on the corner of Burroughs Lane off Girgaum Road, if memory serves) christened the condition “urticaria” and ordered his patient first to eschew eggs, flesh and fish in his daily diet and then to get all his teeth pulled out. Nothing worked. As he aged, however, the condition and the joke of a doctor gradually waned out of his life. For as long as I knew him, Baba had also suffered from hernia for which he used a support belt made by N Powell & Company (Opera House).

Honour? What honour? As the forties gave way to the fifties, my father was offered out of the blue the post of Coroner of Bombay. Without giving a thought to the likelihood that it would be an avoidable disruption in his fledgling but thriving career as a widely sought-out criminal lawyer, he accepted with alacrity what he thought of as an “honour”. (Those were the days when honour scored over everything else in most people’s calculations.) Honour it certainly was along with a puny honorarium which made a serious dent in Baba’s already unsound and untenable finances. There was another unexpected setback, too. In a no-holds-barred judgment on one of the cases he had to administer, the new but politically inept Coroner of Bombay passed strictures on the admission procedure of accident victims then prevalent in Sir Harkisondas Narottamdas Hospital. The Hospital had by then acquired the ownership of 233 Khetwadi Main Road which more or less abutted their own campus. Baba’s strictures so incensed the Trustees of the Hospital that they vowed to “fix the ghati Coroner once and for all”. Their very first offensive was to shift the hospital’s morgue to the store room at the rear on the ground floor of 233 Khetwadi Main Road. This meant that many a funeral procession guest-featuring loudly wailing and chest-pounding hired mourners originated from the front gate of our building.

Kashmir works its magic. I passed my Secondary School Certificate examination in 1952 and enrolled in the Sydenham College for the Bachelor of Commerce course. After appearing for the Intermediate examination in April 1954, I went on a packaged tour of Jammu and Kashmir. There were only two tourists on this tour apart from me: Ujwal and Saroj or “Tamma”, Kanikaka’s youngest daughter and my cousin.  The tour would have been cancelled for lack of sufficient paying customers but for Kanikaka’s intervention with the tour conductor who happened to be his close friend. So the tour happened and so did the closeness between Ujwal and me.

Not IAS, FMC. In 1956, I completed my B. Com. Course and enrolled for a Masters degree in Public Economics by research in the RA Podar College in Matunga. Baba wanted me to join the Indian Administrative Services. So, I sat for the test twice passing the written component both times but flunking the interview. However, I managed to pass in 1959 the Masters with an excellent report from my examiners for my voluminous 654-page research tome and joined the Forward Markets Commission, Government of India. In the meantime, Aai had decided that Ujwal was the wife for her son – in the face of serious and voluble opposition from her own daughter and the down-with-the-Khetwadi-Mankars clique. She talked to Baba and he was more than willing. So, in 1959, on Jesus Christ’s birthday, wedding rituals and reception were held at the Laxmi Narayan Temple off Hughes Road.

Down in the dumps. After the uncalled-for interruption in my father’s successful career as a criminal lawyer during his stint as Coroner of Bombay, his practice never recovered to its previous level. (I got a personal glimpse in Baba’s courtroom skills when he defended me in a traffic offence matter. It came about in this fashion. In either 1953 or 1954, having just got my driving license, I was just about a fledgling, somewhat hesitant driver. One morning, I was driving Baba to the High Court at Flora Fountain before going to college. Baba was sitting next to me and our chauffeur was in the back seat. Driving along New Queen’s Road, now Parmanand Marg, just as the family Renault reached the Churchgate junction and was about to take the then free left turn to go to Flora Fountain, there was much shouting heard from the front seat of an unmarked Police vehicle coming from Marine Drive and going our way. The alarm was apparently raised by a top Police functionary – probably the Commissioner or Assistant Commission, I never found out which – who made me pull the Renault to the left of the road and took down all my particulars and confiscated my driving license. Our explanation fell on deaf ears because he was thoroughly convinced that there was no free left turn and that I had broken the law. He threatened to sue me and did carry out the threat. When the case came for hearing, Baba really demolished the officer who was put on the witness stand. The poor fellow was aware of the existence of the free left turn and admitted as much to the Judge who passed strictures about wasting the Court’s valuable time. So, it was actually a walkover. And, it put paid to my life as a notorious law breaker – and also to the free left turn at Churchgate!)

Baba’s finances were in the doldrums by the time I had started earning a measly salary not at all sizeable enough to bridge the yawning chasm that had opened up in the family fortune. Baba used to also do all along a lot of pro bono work − at times even when it was not called for, strictly speaking. He had made a lot of bad investments along the way including a major one in a rundown property in a supposedly residential compound in Vile Parle with a bunglow illegally used as first as a manufactory of and later as a warehouse for medicinal products, a one-storey tenement and three temporary structures. He had thought of it as a source of steady monthly income in his old age. It turned out to be a quite a headache and a drain on his already meagre resources. As a Trustee of Pathare Prabhu Charities, he spent quite a bit of his time and, at several occasions, even money on thankless honorary pursuits. (Perhaps, he saw it in terms of “giving back to the society”. His valuable contribution was never sufficiently appreciated by his community, though.) A chain smoker during most of his middle age, he had quit cigarettes around the same time he turned vegetarian. Every Sunday, though, a group of seven or eight of his bezique-playing friends gathered in the terrace flat at 233 Khetwadi Main Road. Moreover, once a month, another group – contract bridge players this time – assembled at the same address and was lavishly entertained by the generous host. Baba was always mindful of the comfort and well-being of his family. The 233 Khetwadi Main Road Mankars lived well. We had a car even before I was born. (A maroon-and-black Wolseley Wasp it was till around 1948, then making way for a red Renault that served the family till the early sixties.) Also, we must have been among the first few families in the Khetwadi precinct to own a pressure cooker, a top-of-the-line wireless set and a refrigerator as early as the beginning of the 1950s. Baba also gladly and willingly bought toys and books for me whenever I “wrote him a note” when he left for work. The family (more often than not for the extended family) summered in Matheran and Mahabaleshwar as a rule till almost the mid-fifties. Once, probably in 1941, the Mankars went as far south as Madras in the company of some members of the down-with-the-Mankars goon squad. (In retrospect, I guess the Mankars were aping the goras who used to summer regularly at Simla, Darjeeling, Srinagar and “snooty Ooty”. I distinctly remember travelling with several trunks and canvas bedrolls or “beddings” which one doesn’t see any more on railways platforms or in the brake vans.) Even these minor (and sometimes not so minor) but regular expenses, his thoughtless handouts to all and sundry whiners and supplicants and money spent on the maintenance of the aging family car and the chauffeur played havoc with the Mankar Family’s cash cache. Things came to such a head that when my mother was hospitalized for leukemia more than once in 1961-62, Baba had no other option to tide over the financial crisis except to sell some of the family jewelry.

Nine yards of resolve. When Ujwal resumed her college education at the Sophia immediately after her wedding, she scrupulously followed the dress code for a newly married woman according to her mother-in-law’s wishes. Her astonished and much amused classmates teased her for attending college in a nine-yard saree and ornaments. Peer pressure was no match for her exemplary resolve, though. She also patiently learned to cook Pathare Prabhu cuisine in the special Mankar style. She wasn’t doing it to earn brownie points, by the way. It was in her nature to behave in this fashion especially with people who gave her love and respect as whole-heartedly as Aai and Baba did. So deeply attached had she become to her mother-in-law that she looked after her almost single-handedly throughout her last lingering illness waiting on her hand and foot and attending to all her needs from bathing to feeding with an eagle eye and an alert mind.

The fault lines begin to show. All throughout, Aai and Baba had been a devoted couple, as far as my memory and “inside information” go. I remember them rising to each other’s defence if a third part questioned either’s intentions, motives or actions. If I said a cross word to Aai in his presence, Baba would chide me gently in a pained tone of voice. Isn’t there a saying “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad”? Something similar happened to Aai at the fag end of her life. She insisted that Baba should use his contacts to “shield” her maternal nephew from the dire consequences of the serious misdemeanor he had committed in his place of work. (Please see above.) As a leverage device, she chose the weapon of silence. In other words, she stopped talking to Baba until he was forced to oblige. Unfortunately, he chose to retaliate in like manner. The Cold War was on. It ended with Aai’s death in the Bombay Hospital when only Ujwal was with her and no one else from the close family.

During her last illness, Aai’s own daughter had pleaded her inability to care for her ailing mother or at least help in the process saying she had just delivered her second daughter who took all her time. But this did not prevent her from hounding and harassing Ujwal immediately after Aai’s death when she and her henchwomen, prominent among whom were some members of the anti-Mankar clique, kept visiting her in the afternoons on the pretext of supervising her progress during pregnancy. 

Once, when Ujwal was alone at home in the afternoon with Baba and I out on work and Ujwal’s trusted maid out on an errand, she demanded her share of the family jewels from Ujwal. Ujwal quietly gave her the keys of the cupboard that her father-in-law had recently handed over to her and watched as she plundered at random some of the gold ornaments and silver stuff. The daughter of the house even had the audacity to snatch away the Clyde bicycle that had been gifted to her brother by one of Baba’s friend cum client, a certain Mr Kazarani. Ujwal did not burden her father-in-law with the latest news because she did not want to hurt him. 

The last merry lap with two grandsons. Baba survived Aai by a little under 3 years. In that short spell, he enjoyed what Aai had hoped for but missed by a whisker as it were: playing with the grandsons, singing ditties to them and spoiling them silly. He also made a Last Will and Codicil dividing his property according to his wishes. That it was challenged in the court of law after his death was inevitable. By whom and at whose instigation are open secrets. The irony of it all was that when the bunglow in Khar Baba had built with the sweat of his brow was snatched from him by his own kith and kin, he did not see it fit to file a law suit. As soon as he had left this world, his own kith and kin made sure history repeated itself.

Does every life story come with a built-in moral? I don’t think I can answer the question. Did I learn anything from the lives of my parents? Well, maybe all I relearned was the cliché that bad things keep happening to good people. It’s, I suppose, all a manifestation of what Buddha called samsara: the human condition full of grief (dukkha) and strife, frustration and pain, the result of “attachment, craving and the refusal to accept impermanence”. Life happens in a circular continuum, I guess. It reassures us that even this shall pass. Reality shows on the idiot box and the assorted villains peopling them are not a patch on reality shows and villains in real life, I dare say. At first glance, every life looks like a lost cause. After a bit of thought, one begins to feel not quite so cocksure.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

UFO Sightings. (UFO as in Unexpected Foreign Object.)

Jeffrey Bernard is not everyone’s cup of tea. Or, more appropriately in his case, peg of Smirnoff. I was pointed to him by an erstwhile “friend of the family” who urged me to buy a copy of Low Life which, in case you didn’t know, is a collection of Bernard’s weekly columns in The Spectator, circa the late eighties. After I had done enjoying my mint-condition copy of Low Life and gushing high praise for Bernard all over the place, the aforesaid FOTF proceeded to “borrow” it promising prompt return thereof. I kept asking him for it and he kept unleashing a torrent of excuses to hold me at bay. Not only that. He kept borrowing more books from me – a notable one being Laura Hillenbrand’s breathtakingly brilliant Seabiscuit An American Legend and also borrowed my contacts to break into advertising. Funny business, advertising. It willingly welcomes frauds and fakes and liars of every ilk and description, even generously endowing them with success. But unmasking faux friends is not the object of this post. Friends, Indians and countrymen, we are here to bury old musty, smelly, contemptible memories and praise Bernard fulsomely. All of which brings us to the “objects” hanging up there in the headline of this post. Poor Jeffrey was in the habit of discovering on the morning after unexpected foreign objects on his person. A paper clip in his pubic hair. The remains of last night’s Chinese takeaway in the pocket of his blazer. And, so on and so forth till the fat lady sings or the cows come home. You get the general idea? He also was a fanatic about overspending as well as adept at getting into trouble with the Internal Revenue and VAT people − and that too during Mrs Thatcher’s regime. What’s more, he excelled at backing the wrong horses ignoring his inner voice and marrying the (only for him) wrong women. Also, he kept popping in and out of hospitals whenever his body could stand the daily abuse no more and rebelled violently. All through his troubles, though, he kept on plodding somehow to the winning post (if you can call it that) dodging the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (to borrow an apt but all too frequently quoted turn of phrase from The Prince of Denmark’s Nunnery Scene (Hamlet, Act III, Scene I) and laughing his head off maniacally all the way to the Pay Out window. Graham Greene once confessed that he had “never once been bored by Jeffrey Bernard. If that is not high praise, then there’s John Osborne dubbing him “the Tony Hancock of journalism”. For the life of me, I didn’t know Tony Hancock from Adam until I googled the bloke. Then I found out that he was a popular British comedian on radio and TV in the fifties and sixties. He was the guy who said: “I don’t want any publicity − you get too many begging letters. If they’re anything like the ones I send out, I don’t want to know!” That sounds very Groucho-like. Meanwhile, excuse my ignorance. A man can’t be an encyclopedia but now he can pretend to be one if he has a laptop and an Internet connection or a smart phone. Bernard knew quite a bit about quite a few things, though. How he found the time and energy to stay so well-informed after making his presence felt at Coach and Horses, the renowned public house in Soho, twice a day, occasional appearances at assorted race courses in Britain and elsewhere, sponsored work-related jaunts abroad and partying several times a week in addition to writing his weekly column for The Spectator I shall never know. Apart from his self-deprecating sense of humour – a typically British character trait even more archetypal than the stiff upper lip of the British Raj, I reckon – whatever he wrote, often (I suspect) in a vodka-induced daze, seemed to flow out of his electric typewriter so utterly spontaneously, so effortlessly that I am envious every time I read him. And, I seldom am that otherwise, mind you. Moreover, once good ol’ Bernard turns berserkly bellicose as, for instance, when he is incensed at one of his pet hates like “a nut called Andrea Dworkin”, he is in his elements. Nothing short of total demolition would work for him. Meanwhile, having lost all hope of owning a freshly minted copy of Low Life, I was slowly sinking into a mire of depression until good ol’ Dadabhai Naoroji Road (formerly Hornby Road) came to my rescue with bugles blowing and both guns blazing. One enchanted afternoon in the late nineties, a copy of the sequel, More Low Life, in “good” condition lying half-hidden in a pile in front of a pavement book vendor caught my eye. From then till now, I must have read and re-read it at least half a dozen times. And, I have been doubly cautious about whom I lend it to, even whom I boast about owing it to. You never know whom to trust anymore. Meanwhile, the erstwhile FOTF has managed to extract a sizeable bounty in kind out of Honourable Number Two Son (whom Charlie Chan would have described as “expensively educated offspring”) before breaking off all links with the Mankars. Well, well, c’est la vie! No kidding even with kids around.


Wednesday, September 03, 2014

What’s in a name? A lot, it looks like.

I read The Wrap for entertainment news, Hollywood movies and TV stuff. Read and forget – that’s my usual routine. But this Wrap rap did catch my eye instantly. There, we had Sharon Waxman, a former New York Times columnist, waxing eloquently and flinging a provocative challenge at The New York Times: “Hey, New York Times ‘Vows’ Section: Who Cares If ‘The Bride is Keeping Her Name'?”  (For a moment, it made me think of the good ol’ “Hark, who goes there?” routine.) Her bone of contention is the venerable newspaper making it a point to mention without fail in its Vows coverage that all the brides were keeping their respective maiden surnames.

At the height of the Feminist Movement, brides wore their maiden surnames as a badge of honour, you’ll recall. Later on, it became a matter of unstated routine, also a matter of convenience. Women started marrying later and later in life. By then they had kind of got accustomed to their original moniker. Also, career reasons as well as the long legal rigmarole involved in acquiring a new name may prompt the refusal to disturb the status quo.

Waxman’s target, though, seems to be the paper she worked for earlier. She points a finger at their boast about being the first to report same-sex nuptials. She would have preferred if her former employer had included significant details such as a Caucasian woman marrying an Afro-American or human interest tidbits such as the bride having lost 50 pounds of weight on her way to the church podium. And, so forth.

This is 2014. And, in the US of A, this issue is still being discussed. Will wonders never cease to pop up?

Friday, August 29, 2014

The Evil That Men Do. (We Indians are like that only.)

True tale. No names.

This story about masculine hegemony is from the seventies. It was told to me a while back by an erstwhile colleague from one of the ad agencies I worked for in those days. He happens to be a friend I am in off-and-on touch with even today. He was one of the two witnesses to the event.

Q: Why am I telling it now?

A: Because I came across it recently.

Q: Who does it concern?

A: One of my late (in every sense of the word) bosses for whom I used to have and still have tremendous respect as an advertising professional. He was highly regarded in the Indian and international Management Studies circles as well, by the way.

Q: Can I vouch for the veracity of the “story”?

A: I can vouch for the credibility of the source. Also, in the light of what I had heard on the workplace grapevine at that time but discarded as idle gossip, probability dons the sinister cloak of possibility. Moreover another friend with whom I have lost touch used to be a frequent head office visitor to the Bombay office around the time the event presumably took place and used to lodge at the boss’s apartment situated in a tony locality of the city. He too had dropped hints in passing about the dysfunctional family life with the head of the family always at loggerheads with his wife but a doting father to his daughter who was schooling at an upper-crust day school.

Q: So what is supposed to have happened, for Pete’s sake?

A:  The boss used to travel a lot on work and also his teaching engagements. One evening, the car picked him up at the airport and on its way back home took the Tulsi Pipe Road (now Senapati Bapat Marg) route. This road runs parallel to the Western Railway tracks. This was much before the three flyovers were built. All along the road were makeshift hutments out of some of which hooch was sold and flesh trade was plied. In other word, it was hardly the road on which to stroll leisurely after sunset. As the Big Man’s car was speeding along the not too brightly lit road, there suddenly flared up an altercation between the boss and the missus who had gone to receive him at the airport. Things took such an ugly turn after a while that the boss asked the chauffeur to stop the car and ordered the missus to step out. She had no alternative but to obey. No sooner had she stepped out of the car than the boss asked the chauffeur to start the car and head home. As to how and when she managed to reach home, my informant had no clue.

Q: So what’s the point of the tattletale-ing excursion?

A: If you’re expecting an outburst dripping with angst about clay-footed idols, perish the thought pronto. The only probable moral of the story to my way of thinking right here and now is expressed eloquently by Shakespeare’s famous words (Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene ii, Line 190):

“O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down…”

Though averse to joining in community breast-beating and dirge-chanting, I shall make an exception in the present case and include myself – purely for old time’s sake − in this group mourning the fall from grace of a well-heeled, highly educated, cultured (or, gentrified?) Indian gentleman holding a top well-paying job in a leading ad agency and residing in one of the poshest pockets of Bombay (now Mumbai) because he behaved exactly like a denizen of the shanties abutting the Tulsi Pipe Road once his male ego and authority were challenged in the presence of witnesses. When the shanty dweller drove his wife out of their hovel, she was still allowed to remain in a familiar neighbourhood and could probably find a temporary refuge with a friendly neighbour until things cooled down. The boss’s missus was abandoned in an unknown, totally alien and most likely dangerous territory to fend for herself – a situation straight out of a Hollywood noir of the early fifties (Barbara Stanwyck and Richard Widmark, remember?). Good grief, Charlie Brown! Can we not tell the Red Baron to fly his Sopwith Camel real low and mow down such scum from the face of the earth?

False middle-class values. Don’t we all cling to them even after half suspecting how very hollow they are just because they seem congruent with the current benchmarks of belief and behaviour? They make us pose like judges even in matters where we have no jurisdiction, so to speak. 

So, ladies and gentlemen, who will step up to fling the first stone?