Yankee Doodle Doo! — A Big Apple Travelogue

Of all the things that my editor is known for, sense of humor is not certainly one of them. So when he called me up and asked me, whether I would like to go to New York, I was a bit taken aback. He was sombre and so was his tenor, giving me little reason to suspect his intentions. “It is for a Juniper event, 3 days to Big Apple,” he added. With nervous excitement, I acquiesced and from that day onwards (till I came back), all I could think of is New York.

It was a roller coaster ride, many ups followed by the downs. As I had decided to stay back for a few more days, 4 more to be precise, there was a lot that needed to be done, right from finding a roof to arranging the moolah.

To cut the long story short, this piece isn’t about my trials and travails in the US, but rather the impressions that have formed on my mind and what I bring back from the continent.

As my plane landed on a chilly January dawn at Newark International Airport, the first thing that came to my mind was the sheer scale of the complex. I could see from the air itself, that the place was mammoth. And once I disembarked, my doubts turned into reality; there were some hundred odd terminals and more. Newark Airport is some 20 odd miles from New York, in the neighboring state of New Jersey. It took some thirty minutes drive to reach my hotel on 50th street, the New York Palace Hotel. Right next door to the hotel was the St. Patrick Cathedral that seemed to be inspired from maestro Antoni Gaudi’s famous Sagrada Familia Church in Barcelona. And so was the famous Rockerfeller Center, some meters away.

Mapping Manhattan
In many ways, walking in between those sky-reaching towers gives you a sense of deja vu . Have we not seen this somewhere is a constant hum that keeps reverberating through the conscious mind and there are valid reasons for it. New York City (I will henceforth use the rather stylish acronym NYC) has been captured on celluloid innumerable times. So when Spiderman is shown slinging his way through the rather narrow streets of Downtown, or how Robert Neville (Will Smith) in I am Legend , finds out in the empty streets of Manhattan that he isn’t actually the last man standing, or even John McClane (Bruce Willis) and a store owner play a bomber’s deadly game as they race around Broadway while trying to stop him. Closer to home, a certain Mr. Karan Johar, has canned NYC almost exclusively in the very few films that he has made (thank heavens). Continue reading

In memoriam: Uncle Pai

“Hello. That is Shashwat Chaturvedi, right?” a sombre relaxed voice on the other end of the telephone quipped. It was 9 in the morning, and after an arduous late-night at work that stretched on till morning, I would have cared less if it was Lord Shiva on the other side. Groggily, I mumbled an affirmative. “Good. I was just updating my telephone diary. You are a journalist, right,” came another question. This time, I replied in the affirmative and also asked for the antecedents of the caller. “Good. This is Anant Pai.” Even though half asleep, I was jolted, wondering to myself whether it was actually a call or my mind was wandering in some hazy dreamland. The silence at my end prompted the soft voice, “Anant Pai, here. Uncle Pai as you might know.” The next few minutes, I was gushing over the phone, speaking dreamily to Uncle Pai. The rest of the day, I just floated around on a cushion of air; after all it is not every day that you get a call from Uncle Pai.

Like that day, when I was shocked and stirred up by his call, an innocuous post on FB stating “RIP Uncle Pai” again shook me up but this time it was shattering. Like millions of other Indian kids, I too had grown up on a staple diet of Amar Chitra Kathas and Tinkles, and for us Uncle Pai, the creator of these magazines, was more like Santa Claus, except that he didn’t look one and secondly, he told stories and not ordinary stories but those that connected us to our forefathers that walked this very land, 50, 100, 200 and 1000s of years back in history. Most of us, still treasure those original ACKs in the hope of sharing it with the next generation. Thus in a way, ACK had become a family heirloom, passed one generation to the next.

Fortunately, I had the good luck of meeting and interacting with Uncle Pai a couple of times and in each of these meetings, I’d sit in front of him as if confronting some big sage. I would sip from the ever flowing fountain of knowledge; just keep hearing him out, asking him a thing or two and then just paying attention to what he said. When, I was young, I had heard that some rare people were blessed by goddess Saraswati. For me, he was the living embodiment of that goddess. He knew everything under the sun and more importantly, he knew to tell it in a way it stayed with you. For instance, on hearing my name, he told me the real meaning of the term Shashwat, and to drive the point home, he also recited some shlokas to the effect. Or when I spoke about the one Sanskrit shloka that always stayed in my mind, namely the title track of Bharat Ek Khoj, Uncle Pai immediately recited the Nasadiya Sukta (it was from him that I came to know the name) from the Rig Veda, translated it for me and then told me that it was he who had suggested the same to Shyam Benegal (the director of Bharat Ek Khoj) as title track for the serial. Then once the shlokas were done, he would easily sing a Bengali tune, recite Kabir or quote Shakespeare.

There was nothing under the sun that Uncle Pai did not know about; he was a veritable encyclopedia on everything. But the best thing about him, was the manner he could storise everything, turn it into a tale, making it ever so palatable for the young mind. He was a story-teller by par, and he had his mantra. To be a good children’s writer, he used to say, one must know child psychology or what the child loves. One must look from the child’s point of view. Uncle Pai had a simple thumb rule for them, when “children are in a hurry to go to a playground after school, at that time stop them and read your story. If your story holds enough interest for the child and if he doesn’t run away to the playground- you have succeeded in becoming a good writer.” Continue reading

It wasn’t bullets but technology that killed Osama

As 4 helicopters ferrying scores of US Navy Seals landed on the isolated mansion standing just 800 yards from the Pakistan Military Academy on the outskirts of Abbottabad city, the fate of its infamous inhabitant had long been sealed, in fact months in advance. 54 year old Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, the leader of the jihadist organisation Al-Qaeda and America’s enemy number 1, might have died in a hail of bullets, but it was path-breaking technology that ensured that he was dug out and cornered.

Ever since, the audacious 9/11 attacks, US agencies, especially the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and National Security Agency (NSA) have been combing each link on the ground in the web to hunt down Osama. Over the past decade, there were times when they came to know about Osama’s location within a few minutes that he left the place. But the US forces kept at it, diligently sifting through the data and overhearing the airwaves for any detail that might be forthcoming. And that clue did come, finally, some 7 months back.

Back in August 2010, CIA operatives tracked a trusted courier of the world’s most wanted terrorist to a compound in Abbottabad in Pakistan. They were surprised to find such a high figure visiting a non-descript place. The second thing that convinced the operatives that something was seriously wrong, was when they found that the compound had no phone service, internet or even televisions, and the main building had few windows. Almost immediately, the spy satellites hovering above were trained on the mansion, picking up the contours. A digital model of the mansion was created and everyone and everything going in or out was profiled. And the more they peered, the more sure they were that they had their man. Finally, when the Seals landed at the mansion, they knew what they were after. Technology had given them the lead, which their enemy number one lacked. Continue reading

Bozo; the bestest friend I ever had

A red-plumpy tomato would always send Bozo in a mad tizzy. So, besotted was he to the by edible fruit, that he would literally beg, plead and snarl for the same. One of the favorite sports, we had at home was to hold a tomato high up in the air, say some 5-6 feet or so. And yet, the little ball of fluff would repeatedly keep jumping at the same, till he finally sunk his teeth into it. There never was a greater lover of the Spanish-discovered fruit than Bozo was. Ironically, when I had chosen him from a litter of 6, it was for the very opposite reasons.

Back in ’93, when I had first seen him, he was a shy, nervous week-old snow-white Pomeranian pup. Unlike, his brothers and sisters, he was not the excited kinds, and preferred to sit in the shadows away from the gaze. So, while the rest of pups crowded and circled me, he just kept away, as if he was some big-shot intellectual, who disliked such inanities. It was this strange quirk in him, that made me pick him. And so, Bozo became an integral part of the boisterous Chaturvedi clan.

Years, passed and the little fluff grew into a big man. Even though he was a pom, he always seemed like an overgrown rabbit to me, especially due to his big big ears. He was very amiable and very patient. In fact, his patience was severely tested at times, living in a house with four children of varying age, from the eldest me (17 years) to the little brother Shlok (2 years), Bozo would always be cuddled, kissed and thrown around by all of us. In fact, one of the weird things was that he hated to be kissed. He disliked it so much that you had to actually ensnare him into it.

Of the many quirks the wonderful guy had, was his strange knack of always picking up the wrong guys. In our neighbourhood, there used to be a couple of giants, a few Alsatians and two towering Afghan Hounds. Bozo, on encountering them, would always challenge them to a big fight. He would continuously bark out at them, probably calling something to their mothers-or-sisters because it used to really infuriate them. Even so, my puny little Hercules wouldn’t stop. I think, he almost forgot that he was pom or probably didn’t care. I am still much thankful to those minders who kept the leash tight. It is because of them that our lives weren’t accidentally shortened.

Bozo, also happened to be the best friend I ever had. For a young man reaching his puberty, he was a blessing. Every night, when I used to take him for those long long walks, I used to talk my heart out to him, of all my crushes, the lost chances, the friends, the enemies, the ambitions, the visions. I would keep on rambling to him. And, he would often peer at me deeply, as if understanding everything. In fact, I am sure, I caught him nodding at times, shaking his head in disbelief at the trivialities. And then at times, he would make those strange mellow grunts, letting me know that it was alright. Reassuring me that “this too shall pass away”.  There was never a hindrance in communicating with him, he understood me, almost like a dear friend, a dear brother. Continue reading

Is Bill Gates a cheat?

For the past years, basking in the after-glow of his philanthropic efforts, one can almost spot a small radiant halo surrounding Bill Gates head. Through his, Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, the software czar has pledged to donate half his assets to charity and is very much living up to that claim. He has already spent billions in research on AIDS, education and had pledged that he will eradicate Malaria globally. Speaking purely in corporate parlance, Bill Gates has been beatified. And his transition from a scheming, wily Billionaire to that of Saint Gates, has been truly remarkable.

But now, there is a big boulder has been hurled at that carefully crafted image by none other than one-time friend, and ex co-founder Paul Allen in his soon to be published memoir, “The Ideaman, a memoir by the co-founder of Microsoft”. Recalling those early days when the company was founded, Allen makes some damning allegations against Gates, who apparently not only cheated him of his ‘fair share’ but also was keen to upstage Allen during his weakest period in life, when he was afflicted by Hodgkin’s disease.

The not-so charitable side

The biggest grouse that Allen still holds against is his former partner at Microsoft is not surprisingly related to the way things shaped up when the company was established back in 1975. Recalling those heady days Allen touches upon his partnership with Gates when they first met at Seattle’s Lakeside School in 1968. Talking about his first impressions, Allen terms Gates as a “gangly, freckle-faced eighth-grader edging his way into the crowd around the Teletype, all arms and legs and nervous energy. He had a scruffy-preppy look: pullover sweater, tan slacks, enormous saddle shoes. His blond hair went all over the place.”

It is obvious that with his skills with the Teletype (the shared computer at their school) much impressed Allen, who further states that, “You could tell three things about Bill Gates pretty quickly. He was really smart. He was really competitive; he wanted to show you how smart he was. And he was really, really persistent. After that first time, he kept coming back. Many times he and I would be the only ones there.”

Over the next few years, destiny would bring the two together and they both went on to create Micro-Soft. But once, the company was established and set, the disconnect occurred. The difference in both their personalities made them drift further and further apart. While Allen was the philosophical, do-no evil sort of technologist, Gates was the demanding maniacal boss, who would be livid at a programmer asking for a day off, after working 81 hours in 4-days. “Some said Bill’s management style was a key ingredient in Microsoft’s early success. But that made no sense to me,” he states. Continue reading

Telepathy for Draupadi, Twitter for us

Eons ago, lured into a game of dice, the Pandavas lost all their wealth and liberty at the hands of the wily Shakuni and the Kaurava Prince Duryodhana. Intoxicated with power, Duryodhana ordered his brother Dushashana to disrobe the Pandava queen Draupadi in full public view, so to forever shame the Pandavas. A distraught Draupadi, on finding no aid from her enslaved husbands or the courtiers, used telepathy to call upon Lord Krishna, who she considered as her brother, to come to her aid. Needless to say, Krishna did, and so the honor of the Pandavas was saved. Luckily for Draupadi, she had direct connect with someone who could help her out in times of distress.

That was not the case with Ritra Jain, recently. To be fair, Ritra’s case was much different. Impressed by the glitzy looks, she had purchased a sleek BlackBerry device, only for it to conk off almost the next day. After much followups with the retail outlet and the company, a saddened Ritra, as a last resort, opened her Twitter account and punched in her sorrows. All that she wanted do was share views with her friends, get some sympathies and possibly forewarn followers against what she deemed as unsatisfactory service by the company. Much to her surprise, within an hour of her sad tweet, she recieved a call from the BlackBerry firm, asking about her issues with the phone and troubleshooting them. In a day’s time, a BlackBerry representative visited her, took the handset, had it repaired and subsequently returned. Twitter empowered Ritra, much like telepathy did Draupadi.

What surprised Ritra most was the sheer alarcity with which the company responded to her tweet, when all the correspondence to customer care fell on deaf ears. She should not be, because like many other companies, BlackBerry is very active in ORM or Online Reputation Management. Simplistically speaking, it is akin to brand management in cyberspace, ensuring that nothing untoward is spoken, the customers are happy and all is hunky-dory. Continue reading

Rahman Paobhajiwala

Before I deliberate on the genius of Academy Award winner Allah Rakha Rahman, or popularly known as AR Rahman, let me first talk about the quintessential culinary invention of Mumbai streets, the paobhaji or the pavbhaji (if you may like). Evolved and born from the numerous by lanes of Mumbai, this delectable fare is undoubtedly the second most popular food-item, if not the first one (vada pao being a close competition). Every evening thousands of itsy-bitsy carts appear all across the city, a big oval flat-pan in the centre on which the bhaji is made. It is a staple food for most Mumbaikars who prefer it on the go. Cheap and affordable is the biggest factor that works in the favour of paobhaji, generally available under 30 rupees, it is in arguably the most common dinner dish across the city. Even so, there is no disputing how tasty the ubiquitous and humble paobhaji is. Eaten with a few paos and more that are toasted in butter, it fairly fills up the tummy and also tingles the taste buds.

Even so, anyone who makes a good paobhaji will tell you that there is no ‘good’ way of making a paobhaji; this yummy dish is more made by instinct than by design. While the elements that go into the making of paobhaji are more or less the same, yet it is the permutations and combinations between them that distinguish between a common road fare and a classy one. The basic process is to make a spicy paste of tomatoes and onion, add boiled potatoes, cauliflower and boiled peas. And then with an aid of a heavy hand-stamp sort of implement, the whole mixture needs to be crushed, evened out and left to simmer for a few minutes. Finally for garnishing add coriander and a few dollops of butter. The bhaji is served with crispy paos (cooked in butter again) and thinly sliced raw onions and a few cut pieces of lime. This is the basic model, and above that a lot of customisations can be done, for instance adding cheese, putting in dry fruits, incorporating other vegetables or spices in the same.

Yet, as mentioned earlier even though the process is fairly defined, there is not template for making a good paobhaji. The taste and the brilliance of paobhaji is largely dependent on the individual who is cooking it. The best master follow their instincts in terms of aroma, viscosity and the colour of the bhaji. At all times will they be attentive to how the bhaji is turning up and tweak and change gears accordingly, thus, if it’s turning redder, more potatoes will be added, too dry and extra water will be poured. Because of this inherent dependency of the dish on the one who is preparing it, paobhaji has not found favour with the bourgeois connoisseurs of food and largely remains a hoi polloi dish. Thus in spite of being tasty and delicious, paobhaji is not part of any cuisine; in fact it is not considered a dish at all.

AR Rahman’s music is quite akin to paobhaji and here is why. Listen to any Rahman number on a good headphone and the answer will hit you on the face like a Mohammed Ali knocker. Rahman’s music is composed of various elements, mostly done by a percussionist like Siva Mani or someone. At the very base their will be a constant bland track, say like a hum made by a train when it moves through desolate lands. Next, there will numerous sounds added over it, the bagpiper, the ghungroos, the drums, the pipes, etc. Being a techie, Rahman also used various effects like certain instruments playing on the left, while certain on the right. He also uses the maximum number of tracks in his music, a single track for each of his elements. He also does a unique transition of sound from left ear to right or the other way round. Like a master paobhaji chef, he keeps adding different bits here and there to make the music more nippy and jazzy. The songs composed by him are much sonorous, but it is most likely because of the permutations and combinations of the various elements ingrained within. In a way, his songs are more gimmicky than melody. Continue reading

Dalrymple’s Nine Lives

There is no denying the fact that Scotsman William Dalrymple is a fantastic writer. He has the inane ability to weave magic carpets and then take you along on a journey through time, be it 100 years or even a 1000. In his work, his hard work and research is reflected in the kind of details he brings forth. ‘The devil is in the details’ and Dalrymple is the indeed the devil that exults in minutiae. Over the past quarter of a century in his adopted homeland, he has worked hard not only to understand what India was, is or could be, but also has come to appreciate what it is not and does not wish to be. Through all his books, one thing is crystal clear; he loves this country truly, with all its intricacies and oddities. In fact, I have a feeling that he loves this land ‘because’ of these oddities, the fact that India does not fall into a model, a land of stark contrasts, a land where time is a just a measure, where faith and belief can literally move mountains. Dalrymple celebrates these contrasts in all his books, and 9 lives happens to be the biggest celebration thus far.

In the three earlier books that I have read, namely, City of Djins, Last Mughal and White Mughals, Dalrymple has kept himself limited to history and historical settings. Sifting through the tomes in the National Archives, he had found little pearls of information and then crafted brilliant necklaces oftales from them. He has been fairly successful in recreating the past, like a painter does. So, in the Last Mughal, we are able to understand the nuances in the court of Bahadur Shah Jafar and how he was caught up in the wave of 1857 mutiny. Or in the city of Djins, he explores Delhi like an archaeologist, uncovering layer after layer of previous cultures that lived and thrived. 9 lives is markedly different from all his previous works. It lies in a mix-match genre, part travelogue, part biographies, part historical, part non-fiction, part fiction, etc. The work does not confirm itself to a single genre, and that is its greatest strength and also the greatest weakness.

Much like the title goes, 9 lives is basically biographical sketches of 9 individuals, who are in no ways connected to each other (except for the last two). The common thread that is shared in all is that they are in pursuit of the divine through their actions or vocation and when they are not, they have full faith in the power of supplication like Rani, as one of the characters did. So, we have a sketch of a Jain Swetambar nun in Karnataka, a prostitute in the same state, a theyyam dancer in Kerala, folk-lore singer from Rajasthan, a Sufi in Pakistan, a Buddhist monk in Himachal, a Brahmin idol maker in Tamil Nadu and a tantric lady and a baul singer from Bengal. The tales of these rather esoteric individuals is what makes up 9 lives. Intermixed with all the tales, is a lot of historical and contextual perspective, so, in case of the Jain nun, one gets to know the beliefs and customs of the religion, or in case of the theyyam dancer, we are privy to the caste conflict that has been around for centuries. In Lal Paree’s story, the conflict between the two forms of Islam, the liberal and the didactic comes to fore or in the idol maker; it is the old 700 year culture trying to survive itself in the face of challenges from the computer and the Internet. Thus, each story is a khichdi of a certain time, place, or culture pegged on a central figure, who takes it forward. Dalrymple truly immerses his own self in each of these tales, so there is very little “me” here, namely, author’s bias or perspective. And yet, these stories are not without there subtle lessons or lamentations, about the way things are going or have gone. Continue reading

How I got my stolen Cellphone back?

It couldn’t have been more than 5 mins since I left the autorickshaw, when I realised my cellphone was missing. After rummaging through my belongings, I couldn’t find my hapless Micromax Q7 — hapless because it was in a pretty bad state thanks to lil’ Idhant. Since, I had left home in a tearing hurry, I couldn’t recall well whether I had carried my cell along (and thereby forgotten it in the rickshaw) or I had just forgotten to carry it at all. On calling upon my number, it just kept buzzing, so I called up wife next to check if the phone was lying around at home. On getting a negative reply, I yet again persisted in ringing up my number and my worst fears were confirmed when after a few rings more, the cell went dead. I didn’t need an Oracle to tell me that the phrase “out of coverage area”, clearly implied that someone had heard the rings and decided to silence the puny instrument for good. And the needle of suspicion pointed to the autorickshaw driver, who was the last person who had seen my cell.

For some odd reasons, I found it hard to believe that the seemingly honest bloke, who I had chatted up while 45 mins journey, would transform into an unscrupulous knave, who wouldn’t flinch from bumming a cellphone. The driver was a North Indian, or what is often called as a ‘Bhaiyya’. He was also an educated man, medium built, dressed up neatly, presenting a picture of sobriety. But, the facts on hand said otherwise. My cell had rung a few times, before it was strangulated into silence. And going by the past experiences, especially of my father, who had lost a couple many in these rickshaws, the evidence pointed to just one thing: the arseole had decided to make merry with my phone.

After muttering a few many oaths under the breath, I resigned myself to the new reality. Have to buy a new cell, need to get a duplicate SIM, etc. Yet, nothing could compensate the loss of data, namely, all the contacts on the cell and yes, the pics and videos of Idhant. It was this loss that hurt the most, and like many other people who have lost their cell, it dawned upon me that it is not the hardware that you rue, but all the soft memories inside.

Fortunately, I had backed quite a few of the pics on phone, so except for the loss of my contacts, I could live another day. Also, the fact was Micromax was a low-cost stop gap for me, till an Android Qwerty hit the market (which Motorola Charm did, just a few days earlier), hence in some weird ways I was not all that sad. Hence, over the next few days, I did indeed get the phone I desired, my old number, and life was back to normal, except for the simple fact, whenever people called up on my cell, they expected a warmer greeting like, ‘Hi Abhijeet’, or ‘Bolo Jatinder’, but since I did not have any numbers, my voice was hesitant and cold.

Also, I came to realise that it was my son who missed the phone much. He loved playing songs on it and dancing to them, since, Micromax didn’t cost the moon, I was pretty lax on him handling it (not the case with the new cell). Hence, the little guy missed his music player much more than I missed my phone. But things changed suddenly as my wife started getting strange smses at 6 in the morning. Continue reading

The Interview

Back in 2004, I was in a bad state. After chucking the job at Financial Express, I was desperately searching for an opening. While, I was employed with an e-learning company, but it didn’t excite me much, since I wished to be in journalism. Being the first in my family to venture into the fourth estate, I was finding it hard to get a break in the mainstream media, since there was no god father to back me up and also since all of my previous stints had ended on an acrimonious note, I did not have good references either. What goes around, comes around, and I was just about realising that.

Sometime during that period, I chanced across an opening at Rediff.com. It was (and still is) one of the premier portals in India. Also, the fact that I was much addicted to it, the prospect of getting a job there excited me all the more.  There used to be an HR head, Inderjit, who spoke to me over the phone and subsequently had me interviewed by the editors there. The interview with the editors, I think, went off fabulously well. The gentlemen were pretty cool, in fact, one of them even sported a pony-tail (considering that my editor at a previous stint coerced me to snip my off, it was a big thing). We discussed many things under the sun, right from philosophy to sports and I think I had bagged the job, when they got down to the basics about the notice period and salary slips. It all ended on a high-note, so even when they stated that they will get back to me later, I was much at ease.

After a few days, I received a mail from Inderjeet, he desired a few clarifications and posed a few queries and asked me to respond to them over the mail itself. It was sort of a final interview over email. Since, I was pretty confident that I had the editors impressed, I took the test a bit lightly and answered the questions in one-go, candidly.

Post the interview, all that I got from Inderjeet’s end was static. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, and finally, I buried the last shred of hope that I carried with me. I WILL NOT BE GETTING A JOB AT REDIFF. The message was loud and clear. On introspection, I think I goofed up in the final stage. Or probably the vacancy got filled up or just disappeared.

Some days back, I chanced across the mail exchange, in which the interview was conducted. And somehow, even though I blamed my naivety for spoiling the chance, I did not feel the same about it now. The answers were honest and any one would have gauged that. I do not think that they were a reason now. Probably Inderjeet found someone better at a cheaper salary. Continue reading

Chilean Miracles: From the slopes of Andes to the mine in San Jose

Just as Florencio Avalos walked out of the Fenix, a rescue cage that brought him up some 700 metres below the earth from the San José copper-gold mine in Chile, his eagerly waiting son hugged him hard. Not only Avalos and his family, but also the Chilean population and Courtesy: AP Photo/Government of Chile, Hugo Infantethe world at large heaved a big sigh of relief. Avalos  marked the end of a 69 day wait that started when there was a collapse in the mine in which they were working in, entrapping 33 men 2300 feet below the Earth.

Entrapped in a 50 square meter shelter, the miners lived through the ordeal and worked as a cohesive group. In fact for the first 17 days, they had no contact with the outside world, and no one knew whether there were any survivors at all. Yet, under the aegis of senior and experienced miner, the rest did not lose hope and started to ration the limited food they had on hand.

On August 22, when the miners stuck a note written in a red marker to a probe, the world came to know about the survivors. And subsequently, the heaven and earth were moved, quite literally, to rescue these miners. Mining accidents are quite common in Chile, but the gods were kind on these miners and the story ended on a good note. In a strange quirk of fate, the gods were kind once more in the past, some 38 odd years ago. In fact in some strange ways, the story of the Copiapó mine rescue has an unique parallels with an event that took place 38 years back. Popularly known as the Miracle in the Andes, the accident occurred in 1972, in the the world’s longest continental mountain range, the Andes.

Back then, a win turboprop Fairchild FH-227D flying under the Uruguayan Air Force insignia, crashed in the the Andes. The plane was ferrying Old Christians Club rugby union team from Montevideo, Uruguay, to play a match in Santiago, Chile. There were 45 people on-board including players, crew and their families. After a frantic search over the arduous terrain of Andes, the search was abandoned and the passengers given up for dead. But unbeknowst to them, the plane had crash-landed and while 12 of the 45 passengers died instantly, the rest survived. But the condition of the living was worser than that of the died. Continue reading

Encounter with the Pee-lice

It was late evening and the little shrub shrugged disenchantedly under the warm shower, much like a kid does when rudely woken up for school. After being drenched incessantly by the Westerlies, the last thing that it desired was warm water to disturb the repose. And yet, for all my concern and respect, I had little recourse but to let nature have its way — out of me. So, after dutifully ‘watering the plants’ or rather a solitary shrub on a dark sidewalk, I felt much relieved and refreshed to continue my onward journey home.

But barely, had I zipped up, a hoarse cry disturbed my nirvana. On turning around, I found out that the person hollering out was none other than a Mumbai cop, and by the way he was looking, he seemed to be a sub-inspector (had a gun holster and no Pandu cap) and yes he seemed much irate and on the verge of fuming.

Hey kay kele” he said much loudly, even though a few quick paces had brought him much closer to me than before. On seeing my bewildered look, he quickly shifted from Marathi to Hindi (to help me or chastise me). The subsequent conversation ran something like this:

Mad cop (MC): Tum idhar su su kyun kia?
Bewildered me (BM): Saab, jor se aaya tha
MC: Aur koi jagah naheen dikha
BM: Saab kidhar karta poora to road hain
MC: To kya idhar karne ka, police ka gaadi naheen dekha kya

At that point, I did remember seeing the police vehicle — the kind that was bought to fight off the Kasab-types, a heavy built Scorpio with COMBAT etched boldly — parked on the side. But then since, there seemed to be no women in there, and considering that men are often considerate on such sensitive issues, I decided to let nature have its way. I tried explaining it as deferentially as possible.

BM: Saab, dekha tha, magar bahut zor se aaya tha, aur aage sab ladies wagarah khadha tha. To out of respect idhar kia
MC: Tumko police ka respect naheen hain?

The question seemed more like an accusation, and even though the answer was fairly obvious, I continued lying through my teeth.

BM: Saab, bahut respect hain, but aap samjho na

By this time, he was in angst not only that I had peed, but also the fact that since I wasn’t conversant in Marathi, it was obvious that I was an outsider or rather a migrant. Now, now, a migrant dirtying Mumbai, no self-respecting cop can bear. So, almost sounding like Gabbar from Sholay, he pronounced. Continue reading