Saturday 31 December 2011

Lokpal takeaways


After watching the recent ruckus in the Parliament over Lokpal Bill, here are some ready takeaways offered by our netas for footpath guys (courtesy Lalu Yadav) like us.
Parliament is supreme: Go to polling booths every five years, cast your vote if lucky (or they will take care booth-wise) and then just shut up. See no evil, hear no evil and never speak ill of elected members. Not even on the net.
Respect for Parliament: Applicable only for those miserable guys who pay taxes and have to pay bribe to get passport, ration cards; not for the men in red-light topped cars.

Well of the House: A place in Parliament House where members willingly suspend their sanity (for many it is second nature).
Rule of law: It is again meant for those docile citizens and petty criminals like pickpockets and other small flies. For netas they are meant to be bent (from 180 to 360 degrees). Even if caught they can get admitted to some elite hospital or even if jailed they can enjoy AC cells in prisons like Tihar, visit families during weddings, enjoy tea with jailors.
Decorum: What is that? Maybe it is what these aam aadmis follow to cover up for their timidity.
Minority card: A brahmastra used by the netas to shift goalposts or neutralise imminent threats.
Swiss bank account: For common public it is something like air. You can feel but never see.  
Consensus in Parliament: A rare occurrence that happens when legislators' salary needs to be quadrupled or when one of them gets slapped or a shoe gets hurled at them.

Saturday 24 December 2011

Left Out In The Cold



The yearly statistics of death due to cold wave comes as a chilling reminder of how miserable the poor and homeless are in our country. In this context the rosy statistics of rising GDP, of being third largest economy, a rising economic powerhouse, sounds almost like saying that though the patient is sinking, the medicine has helped in improving his complexion!

Sadly in this country life has been, quite literally, dirt cheap. This shows up in every calamity - be it annual floods, cyclone or frequent terror attacks and winter deaths are no exception. And mind you we are a tropical country and we do not have to put up with the kind of harsh winter our peers in Scandinavian or North American countries have to. 

Thanks to Himalayas our snow-bound regions are confined mainly to our northern fringes. But we still manage to have 'cold wave' deaths even in places where there is no snowfall and are quite far away from the Himalayas.

Today a Delhi-based social worker came on TV and said that people were dying not due to cold but due to lack of clothes. It is all the more sad to hear. It means they just don't have the purchasing power to buy proper clothing to withstand cold weather. Moreover, very little is known about what happens to the homeless in towns such as Meerut, Kanpur,  Hoshiarpur or Patna where our TV channels sparingly train their cameras.

Since most of these homeless people are from the fringes of the society - migrant workers, beggars, drug addicts, mentally unstable persons - politicians have little interest in them as many are not even registered voters. Why just blame politicians? A recent column in Hindustan Times revealed how even religious charities in Delhi were shying away from feeding these sections.

Our pink press may rave about some thirty-something scion of Indian Inc figuring in Forbes richest list, but the abysmal levels of country's per capita income almost seems to mock at all these achievements. Going by per capita figures even countries like Algeria or Tunisia look quite enviable compared with us. Maybe we can take cold comfort from the fact that ours is a tad better than Pakistan or Afghanistan!

It is high time our leaders and financial experts stopped thinking in terms of GDP and started using per capita income as a yardstick of progress.  

Monday 19 December 2011

A Moveable Feast

Think of Mumbai and the picture of milling crowds trooping in and out of trains comes to my mind. I guess for this 'maximum city' it has been a constant for at least three to four decades. Moreover with the city eating into adjoining suburbs and villages, the residents are spending a good part of their day (or for that matter their lives) in these trains.

Back in early nineties when I was staying there, these trains were bursting at the seams and then I had thought that it couldn't get any worse. But on a recent visit to the city I was in for a jaw-dropping surprise. Even at 11 pm on a Sunday it was difficult to get beyond the doors of a Virar local at Bandra station. The Western line travel seemed a mission impossible exercise - though mercifully I did find some toehold while travelling at the Central and Harbour lines.

Whether it was due to the advancing age or sheer lack of practice, I was woefully lagging behind the nimble-footed Mumbaikars in making a dash at those trains. After three-four unsuccessful attempts, thoughts of taking and auto or bus cross my mind, but I banish them after considering the agonizing traffic snarls. Almost the whole city seems to be dug up for some flyover or the other.

The trains have undergone a makeover from the nineties. Gone are the days of drab maroon and yellow compartments with small windows. The current wide-bodied bogies with larger windows seem less claustrophobic and more colourful. Most of them now have in-train public address system announcing the next station. But amid the saturation crowd one feels little inclined to appreciate all that. Probably it may be of interest only to someone like me on a short visit.

Another redeeming feature is the ticket vending machines and smart card. With them one can bid goodbye to long queues. Back in the 90s I remember sweating it out in those queues, which often used to snake out to the car parks or even adjoining streets and tempers would rise if any particular queue was perceived as 'slow' or if someone tried to sneak in. Really used to wonder as to how those railway clerks coped with such high-voltage pressure while dispensing tickets, especially in eternally-crowded stations like Dadar.  This particular station had (and still retains) the uncanny ability to populate any train that comes its way and at any hour!

My cousin had lent me his smart card and I found it quite easy to use and was a great time saver. However, the only downside was the moment I was done with it, I used to get surrounded by people with cash at hand asking “bhaiya, please get me a ticket also”. The sentiment of altruism does come to mind - but no room for so many.

While trying to meet up with a friend he told me to take the 'skywalk' on the Bandra East. Left me wondering what the Dickens that meant. After alighting at the station I climbed on the overbridge on the East side and it seemed as if the station has developed some huge tentacles. Those longish foot overbridges helped commuters avoid crossing those clogged roads adjacent to stations. Later I discovered many other suburban stations too had it, though it was conspicuously absent at Dadar, where probably it is most required.

The city seems perpetually on the edge, thanks to umpteen terror attacks. It gets almost paranoiac while travelling in trains, the target of some of those attacks. In the stations there are frequent announcements in Marathi, Hindi and English warning the commuters to avoid touching any unfamiliar object and requesting them to alert the police. Within the trains too these announcements keep coming ad nauseum. It all gives one an anything-untoward-can-happen-any-moment feeling. Makes one look gingerly at the motley assortment of bags, suitcases and lunch boxes placed on the luggage shelf of the train and pray to Almighty that no RDX lurks in any of them.

Back in the 90s it was not all that hunky dory either. The city was scarred by post-Babri Masjid demolition communal riots and a deadly 1993 serial blasts. The image of Mumbaikars being obsessed with the dhanda of making money, with little interest in politics got severely dented. Pehle aisa kabhi nahin hua, used to be the constant refrain among long-time residents and newspaper columnists had begun comparing the city with Beirut. Those were perhaps the early days of terror and with hardly any lessons learnt, these bloodbaths keep happening with agonizing regularity.

Monday 12 December 2011

J Dey whodunnit

The investigation into the sensational killing of crime reporter J Dey is throwing up very unusual suspects and bizarre revelations. It all happened on a rainy afternoon in Mumbai about six months back, but even now the picture is hazy and grainy.

After that fateful afternoon, the journalistic community took to streets and as the person killed was a high-profile (though intensely secretive) reporter, the police went into a huddle.

The needle of suspicion first swung towards Additional Commissioner of Police Anil Mahabole. He was alleged to have links with Dawood gang and had filed a defamation case against Dey for a report that put him in poor light. Mahabole too was accused of threatening Dey's colleague Tarakant Dwivedi alias Akela, who was booked under Official Secrets Act for reporting on poor storage of arms in CST armoury. The ACP was questioned and then let off.

Oil mafia link: The next in line was the oil mafia link. In the backdrop of the gruesome burning of deputy collector Yashwant Sonawane in Jalgaon, it was presumed probably Dey was on the verge of exposing something big against the mafia. He had written about them in the past. The diesel mafia kingpin Mohammed Ali was questioned but somehow the trail ran cold. Or at least we did not hear much about it.

D Company: The darling of the ISI was the next to come under scanner. Three members of his right hand man Chotta Shakeel are arrested by police. We had this bizarre spectacle of Shakeel calling up newspaper offices and TV stations saying he did not kill Dey! And his gang does not believe in killing 'innocent' persons.

In fact he even reveals that a Mumbai police officer has sought his help to detect the culprits. Probably like Lalu Yadav and the dabbawalas of Mumbai, he too should take up lecturing IIM students on topics such as media management and image building - the underworld way. Or maybe if the IIMs are not keen he can approach those who dare to think beyond IIMs!

Chotta Rajan: Ultimately the spotlight fell on the other elusive but 'patriotic' don. After nearly a fortnight of wild goose chase the Mumbai police finally claimed it has 'cracked' the case and it was indeed Rajan who had ordered the hit on Dey.

Seven alleged shooters belonging to the gang were arrested from different part of the country. It seems these guys had no idea whom they were knocking down and came to know only through subsequent TV coverage.

But the question was who gave him the 'supari'? There were no easy answers as the long arm of law proved woefully short in this case. However, after further investigation police came to the conclusion that Rajan himself had ordered killing of Dey and even 'regrets' doing so.
Jigna Vora: By this time the story had become cold and started languishing in inside pages of newspapers and rare mention in TV. Around early November the story was getting resuscitated by innuendos of a scribe having incited the don against Dey.

But when the police revealed that it was Jigna Vora, Deputy Chief Reporter at Asian Age, the media community was stunned. It is indeed bizarre to think that a professional rivalry would end up with cold-blooded murder. Her contradictory statements to police seem to be pushing her further into deep waters. After Radia tapes this happens to be a new low for the fourth estate.

Intriguing Dey: It is indeed intriguing to know about the kind of privacy Dey used to maintain in his office. Many of his colleagues came to know of his wife's identity or the location of his house after his murder.

On one hand he is seen as an upright crime reporter exposing people in high places; there are also reports of his closeness to Chotta Rajan gang. The proximity of crime reporters in Mumbai to the mafia adds a new disturbing dimension to the gangland power politics. The underworld's link with politicians and police is already a well documented fact.

As the investigations progress it remains to be see as to how much of these evidences will stand the litmus test of judicial scrutiny.

Saturday 26 November 2011

Slapgate kolaveri

So finally the Maratha strongman too joined the long list of our netas getting slapped or booted in public. The TV footage of Sharad Pawar getting slapped seems to have created a sharp divide with the political class and intellectuals on one side and the hoi polloi on the other. The political class, quite understandably, was saying it was an attack on democracy, a Taliban act, and the intellectual class seemed to be seconding it.
The problem with politicos is that they remember about lofty ideals such as democracy, liberty, value of life only when one of their kind gets the rap. Look at the rare camaraderie shown by Parliamentarians in supporting Pawar! It was a sheer act of self preservation.
At heart they are hard core feudal-oligarchic in their dealings. Quite recently a TRS MLA had slapped an official at Andhra Bhavan, wonder why no legislative body bother to condemn it? Harvinder Singh was sent to Tihar; the MLA must be continuing with his king size life. As an aside I feel the VIP inmates in Tihar may now be spending sleepless nights with Harvinder Singh on the prowl! 2G accused A Raja, who never  bothered to even apply for a bail may now have started thinking in those directions.
Cut to November 14. Rahul Gandhi while addressing a rally in the dusty hamlet of Phulpur in Uttar Pradesh, is greeted with black flags by some protesters. Congress leaders, including two Central ministers, rush to the spot and beat up the protestors. Wonder where was the consciousness about democracy? Another footage of inimitable Digvijay Singh kicking a protestor is still fresh in mind. The stunts by Lalu Yadav's brothers-in-law on Rajdhani Express may be a fading memory, but worth recalling in this context.

One can cite umpteen such examples of their sheer contempt for democracy and common public. They have no moral right to lecture the aam aadmi about showing Christ-like forbearance for the sake of democracy, while they trample it on a daily or even hourly basis.
By the way how did Pawar's own party react? By burning tyres, stoning buses and putting commuters to inconvenience in many of the towns in Maharashtra. His daughter Supriya Sule put on a martyr's air and said it was the worst time in her life. To which a guy had tweeted "If one slap is your worst time, think of farmer families!". Her father as agriculture minister had done little to arrest the calamity of farmers committing suicides out of crop failure and debt trap.
The TV channels, which had gone on the defensive after Katju affair, were firing all cylinders with the footage of a Sikh man landing a slap and later even brandishing his kirpan. Harvinder Singh may have delivered one slap, but these guys by repeating the footage for the whole day in graphic details, delivered many slaps. They almost seemed to be making up for the forced coyness they had shown during Aishwarya Rai's childbirth. Poor Rahul Dravid! Bad enough that he has to live perpetually under Sachin Tendulkar's shadow, but his 13,000-run milestone too got eclipsed by the Pawar hoopla.
The slapgate had also put the twitter scape in a tizzy. Though the likes of Rajdeep Sardesai, Barkha Dutt had said it was unfortunate etc there were some really hilarious tweets from the not so famous men on the street. Sample the following:

  • A toast to Harvinder Singh for slapping Sharad Pawar. Pleasure to watch, re-watch :)
  • On hearing that Sharad Pawar got slapped for food inflation, the petroleum minister must have quickly ordered a full-face helmet.
  • Sharad Pawar to Harvinder Singh: Why this Kolaveri da ???
  • Blogger satirist greatbong says: For a second, I thought it was Harbajan Singh who, true to form, has gone and slapped Pawar for being dropped from the side.
  • When Harvinder Singh met the ICC president Sharad Pawar he suddenly remembered the ICC World Cup 2011 theme song 'de ghuma ke'.
Well one may argue this is not real India as the twitterati are considered tech savvy elite guys. But believe me the anger at lower rungs of our society is far more strident. Their remarks would be akin to what Anna Hazare first blurted out "bas ek hi maraa", before the Gandhian in him took over.
Shajil Kumar

Tuesday 15 November 2011

Ten Commandments for TV channels

Justice Markandey Katju has stirred the media out of its glossy Page 3 comfort zone. Stung by his incendiary remarks, the Broadcast Editor's Association had come up with a set of 10 Commandments to be followed while covering the Aishwarya Rai's child birth. As I had read it first in a blog my first impression was that it was some sort of a spoof on TV jounalists. It is another matter that these days some of the real news events upstage spoofs in terms of hilarity quotient.
Coming back to the 10 Commandments, even a cursory reading would make one realise that the broadcast editors were indirectly admitting that whatever Katju had said in his interview was correct.
Conditions such as "no pre-coverage of the event; story of birth of baby to run only after, and on the basis of, official announcement; story not to run on breaking news band" actually seems like a desperate attempt to nullify the numerous sins of celebrity fixation it had committed in the past.
Another set of conditions - no camera or OB (outdoor broadcasting) vans at hospital or any location related to the story; go for photo-op or press conference if invited; not carry any MMS or photo of the child - shows the extent to which the visual media had gone over-the-top while covering similar events in the past. To me it seemed like Sunday school lessons being dished out to teenagers in a juvenile prison.
Probably the broadcast editors were badly smarting under Katju's invective on astrology coverage while framing the following rules: no astrology show to be done on this issue; no 11.11.11 astrology show to be done. Astrologers like Sunita Menon or Bejan Daruwala will wonder as to what went went wrong with their own stars!
The last commandment, of course, takes the cake: "unauthorised entry into hospital not permitted." When Big B was in hospital a TV reporter had barged into his room in nurse’s clothes! And now broadcast editors do not want a repeat of history.
I just hope the Bollywood's first family has a quiet outing at the Breach Candy hospital. But, will they be happy with TV hounds at bay, I have my doubts.
On the other hand I too have a niggling feeling that it would be very difficult for itchy TV cameramen and hysterical reporters to docilely wait for official confirmations. 

PS: Looks like channels like CNN-IBN were unusually quiet in announcing the arrival of Baby B and seemed to have obeyed the commandments. 

Sunday 16 October 2011

Unspooling of Memories

This viral post on Facebook unspooled my vague memories of seeing a cassette tape recorder for the first time. It was at one of our neighbour's house back in early 70s. Mind you this was the high noon of licence-permit raj in India, when even a radio required licence and one had to queue at post offices to pay the fee.
 

It was a Japanese-made National Panasonic (it was known so back then) portable cassette tape recorder – a horizontal contraption with piano like keys with the 'record' key blue in colour and rest of them in white. Back then it was a prized possession, akin to i-Phone these days. Strict 'be Indian, buy Indian' customs laws ensured a halo of remoteness to these 'phoren' offerings. Those found in the Indian shop shelves were unreliable desi  offerings like Weston or equally dubious fakes of Japanese and German brands, which smooth talking salesmen tried to palm off to gullible customers. 
 

The era of unwieldy record players was winding down to a close and handy portable cassette recorders were making inroads to the world of music lovers. The fastidious care that records and the record players' needle demanded hastened its journey to oblivion. The jokes surrounding the needle getting stuck and song lines getting repeated were numerous. Moreover records could not be 'erased' with newer chartbusters and hence proved quite pricey.
 

An added plus over the record players was the capacity of tape recorders to record one's voice. Though I must confess that, after much coaxing by others, I dared to do it only once!
 

As for cassettes, customs laws played spoilsport yet again and good brands like Sony, Hitachi etc were beyond aam aadmi's reach and he had to rest content with questionable offerings.
 

The result was that quite often these cassettes used to get stuck with the tape getting entangled in the playback head. It had to be removed with extra care and had to be spooled back into the cassette using a pencil.
 

The advent of Gulf boom created a great leap of aspiration for hi-tech Japanese electronic goods among middle class in India and Dubai turned out to be a procurement hub, thanks to its relaxed customs laws.
The 'two-in-one' stereo cassette player became the ultimate instrument for musical nirvana among the middle class. The greater the output of the set the more admired it was, something akin to bike enthusiasts' obsession with 'cc'. In many of the drawing room family photographs taken in that era, the stereo cassette player used to be an unwitting presence.
 

However the customs laws ensured that those trying to bring in these goods had a harrowing time on landing in Indian shores. It also encouraged smuggling and spawned a grey market for these goods. The situation eased up only after the Indian economy got liberalised and global brands like Sony, Samsung started setting up plants in the country.
 

The coming of VCRs and the proliferation of TV stations in India did dent the demand for stereo cassette players and they soon got relegated to background. The idiot box became the new cynosure of middle class vanity and they lapped up TV serials and filmy offerings like 'chitrahaar' with gusto.
 

The ultimate death knell to cassette players came with the advent of CD players. The boxy, spooly offering soon became un-cool compared with a sleek teacup coaster sized discs. The superior quality of sound and greater longevity were added features.
 

But for me, the pull of the cassette is so strong that even now during conversations I often mistakenly utter 'cassette', while I actually mean a CD.

Wednesday 12 October 2011

Arab Sheikhs Can Learn a Lot From Our Netas

The turmoil in West Asia may be giving sleepless nights to Arab sheikhs, emirs and military rulers of those regions. The fear of losing power to forces of democracy and being called to explain for their centuries-old debauchery is real. 

But if they care to have a look at the body politic of world’s largest democracy, they would realize that much of their perceived losses (my apology to 2G scam) are either short term or totally unfounded.

For the rulers who are terminally narcissistic (I am sure for most emirs and sheikhs it is their second nature) a trip to Lucknow would be very reassuring. There the omnipresent statues of our elected (and that too with thumping majority) ‘behenji’ would make them realize that democracy after all is not that harsh on narcissists and megalomaniacs.

Those enamoured with power but too lazy or intimidated to take up responsibilities, a visit to our first family - the Gandhis - would be quite enlightening. They can see for themselves how power without accountability works. If anything goes right the family takes the credit and if anything goes wrong – well then there are fall guys dime a dozen.

As for learning how dynastic or family rule works in a democracy they would be spoilt for choices. The phenomenon has been so rampant and decentralized that every party, every state and every panchayat could provide them with very insightful lessons about the various facets of this phenomenon. 

Those who fear that erstwhile monarchs cannot stand a chance in electoral politics, a visit to the Scindia family in Gwalior would be an eye-opener. They would realize that way to democracy from monarchy is but a seamless small step.

In case they lose power and loath to dirty their feet in rough and tumble of politics they can take lessons from Nira Radia about a more quieter but enterprising and equally lucrative pursuit like lobbying.

If these monarchs think that democracy means an end to their wild criminal ways, then , a visit to our Parliament and meeting some of the ‘lawmakers’ with criminal records would put them at ease. They would realize that chances of prosecution in a democracy is as elusive as finding polar bear in Saudi Arabia! 

The bottom line is that if they play their cards well and persevere they would be surprised to know that even in democracies they need not take sanyas from their kingsize lives.

Rise and Fall of Contessa

Hi, remember me? These days you would see me mostly in the scrap yards or 'rusting' in peace in some god forsaken places. But I wish to tell everyone, especially the Smartphone generation, that I had seen much better days in the past.

I hit the road sometime around 1982 when my older cousin Amby (Ambassador) had already ruled the Indian roads for three decades. My sleek looks and plush interiors came as a whiff of fresh air among the Indian public, grown tired of  ‘bowler hat’ Amby, cramped Premier and Standard.

For the Indian consumer this was some sort of a great leap forward in terms of  aspiration. Over  the preceding three decades he just had Amby, Premier and Standard to choose from and the car makers literally took him for a ride by introducing new 'models' with changes that were at best cosmetic - most notably the front grille.

The only noteworthy competitor back then was Standard 2000 modeled on Rover SD1 but that was for a short while as it ran into some licensing issues with Rover and faded away by 1987. On the other hand I soon grew more muscle, powered by an 1.8 L Isuzu engine, and acquired a suffix 'Classic' to my name.

The eighties was a smooth ride for me and I soon became some sort of a status symbol. The political and bureaucratic class courted me over my jaded cousin Amby and the nouveau riche, spawned by the liberalising Indian economy, coveted me to show off that they have 'arrived'.

I had become an undisputed king in the 1000 plus cc segment (there were no A, B segments back then) and the diesel version in 1990 only strengthened my grip. 

Meanwhile, Maruti-Suzuki was busy eliminating competition in the small car segment with its Maruti 800. I still vaguely remember the catch line in print ads about me back then 'A limousine that refused to join the rat race' (or words to that effect).  A dig at the Maruti's diminutive offering.

I hit the first speed bump when Maruti 1000 came along in 1990, however since it was overpriced and underpowered, my makers hardly saw it as a concern. But the wily Maruti refused to give up and in 1994 came up with a more powerful and upgraded Esteem and sales graph of my petrol version took a gentle dip.

But even this failed to wake up my engineers and soon we paid dearly as GM, Ford, Fiat, Tata and Hyundai came calling with more contemporary and sleeker models. My arch rival Maruti Esteem soon became the big daddy of the mid size segment, thanks to its first mover advantage and extensive service network.

I got phased out in 2002 owing to stiff competition and my cousin Amby too suffered badly due to it.

However it is heartening to know that I still have a handful of admirers who see me as the first Indian muscle car - reminiscent of the American muscle cars of 1960s and '70s. 

Friday 23 September 2011

Getting Off The Block

Shajil Kumar
Phew! the blank sheet (of paper, or MS Word file) in front of me looks quite intimidating. The business of writing - whether a blog post, an article or even a personal letter, is indeed agonizing. I guess it is the same for all and sundry - including some well-known writers.
While using pen and paper it means the rough draft ends up as quite an inky scrawl with 'strike offs' and rewrites. Many a precious paper ends up in the waste bin and adds to the misery of an already dwindling tree cover.
In a way we should be (grudgingly) thanking the current smartphone-i-Pad generation for totally giving up on letter writing. Their fathers and grandfathers had consumed copious amounts of paper in the form of inland letters and envelopes - even their telegrams looked quite lengthy compared with present day smiley-loaded SMSes.
Coming back to writing, the use of computers may make one feel less guilty about the environment - provided one is willing to overlook the power consumed and the burgeoning e-wastes. Though the MS Word draft may look less messy than paper, the story is still the same. Of all the keys used while writing on computer, I guess 'backspace' is probably the most frequently used one followed by 'delete'.
The markings on the above two keys are more likely to fade off much faster than others due to frequent use. Almost every sentence seems too dumb and needs to be erased fully or partially.
Another issue is that after two or three paras one seems to run out of steam. Words just fail to come and often one wonders whether the pursuit is worth it. At this juncture it is very tempting to either quit or procrastinate. It calls for dogged pursuit to continue.
It becomes all the more difficult if you steer clear of quoting famous writers. Quotes often act as a convenient peg to hang one's ideas. Or if you chose to write on something that is not a burning topic of TV talk shows or coffee table discussions.
If after keying (or penning) down something one revisits it after few days and feels "hey not bad, did I write this?", then I feel it was worth the effort.

A Brief History of a Pothole


I am the offspring of an illicit relationship between contractor and unscrupulous official, with bad workman acting as the midwife. At the beginning I was tiny in size. Maybe the size of a human fist. Was accumulating dust and sometimes an occasional pebble.

Since I was located near to the edge of the road my growth prospects were bright. The tyres of huge trailers, that carried heavy loads during night time, blessed me copiously and elbowed away whatever resistance I encountered in increasing my presence.

Soon I grew into a full-fledged cavernous pothole and often drew envious glances from my siblings and cousins located near the middle of the road. They were on a measly diet of occasional blessings from two-wheeler and car tyres and hence their growth was pretty stunted.

Drivers of two and four wheelers started showing respect by steering away from me. Woe betide a drunk driver who descended his two wheeler on to me - the consequences were more than sobering. I don't wish to brag, but I must put it on record that I have contributed towards raising the turnover of vehicle service stations, hospital (especially orthopaedic clinics) and even quacks.

A couple of months later I encountered my first monsoon. My copious belly stored lots of water and trucks and other heavy vehicles passing over me sprayed off muddy water on unsuspecting and absent-minded passers-by. Monsoons really rained fun, my filled-to-the-brim appearance used to deceive motorists (mainly two-wheelers). They used to underestimate my depth - often with disastrous consequences.

Concerned citizens later planted a small branch of a tree on me to warn motorists.

But alas, all good times come with expiry dates. One day after the monsoons got over, I woke up to see the same contractor and the workman surveying my depth and also of my cousins and siblings.

Suspicious, I made discreet enquiries among my fellow potholes and came to know that about a kilometre away a new bus terminus has come up and some VIP is coming to inaugurate it. And the authorities did not want him to take a bone rattling ride to the venue.

The workman returned later and started choking me with stones and the bitter tasting tar. After a point of time I fainted due to suffocation.

Next day I regained a little consciousness and heard a distant rumble of heavy metals. As the rumble drew nearer I could not comprehend as to what was happening, but felt that this never-heard-before sound spelled doom. The metallic wheels of the road roller caused excruciating pain as I breathed my last.

PS: A couple of months later the next generation of potholes started blooming. After all the wily contractor and the official have to take care of their rozi roti.

Also Read: Bangalore Beat