The White Tiger of Indian Fiction

Recently, a disturbing video surfaced on the internet. In Una town of Gujarat, a man is seen flogging four Dalits, stripped down to the waist and tied to a vehicle, with a thick rod. Bystanders do just that - they stand by and watch, as if it is a spectacle. The four men apparently slaughtered a cow. Someone captures the blatant display of hooliganism on their smartphone. The video reminded me of an incident from Rohinton Mistry's novel A Fine Balance. Two brothers, Dalits, six-seven years of age, wistfully watch boys from upper caste families in school from a distance every day. One day, finding the classroom empty, they wander into the classroom and out of boyhood fascination, pick up chalks and slates - for the first time in their life - and begin making marks and lines. Immersed in their newly discovered adventure, the boys do not realize that the schoolmaster has arrived. Enraged at the boys for 'polluting the instruments of education', the schoolmaster strips them and flogs them with a cane, as children from upper caste families stand around and watch. The schoolmaster, of course, wishes to 'set an example' and is merciless in his beating. The book is set in 1975, this incident somewhere in 1930s. This is 2016 India - an independent, democratic, economic-superpower-in-the-making-India - seven decades later, the story is still the same. 

The beauty of great fiction writing is that it is more real than the real.

George Orwell's brilliantly haunting 1984 is a case in point. Back home,there are essays and articles galore on 1947 Partition - perhaps the single most important event in modern India's history - but none, despite their facts and figures, tell of the horrors of the time like Khushwant Singh's Train to Pakistan. The 1975 Emergency, touted as the 'darkest hour in India's democracy', and another major event in the history of independent India, wasn't just about opposition leaders being jailed, or the media being censored. At the whims and fancies of one man in New Delhi, the Beautification and Mass Sterilization drives of the government ravaged households, destroyed lives. Unlike the Emergency, the human suffering couldn't be revoked. No piece of news can capture the essence of Emergency's repercussions like Mistry's A Fine Balance. Because Fiction captures the stories of ordinary men and women, and how their lives are affected by the larger events and changes happening around them - events that, more often than not, they have no say in.

So who do you turn to, for stories from present day India? The bestselling Indian Fiction today is a smorgasbord of pure, unadulterated crap. The titles featuring in Amazon India's top 10 list are Can Love Happen Twice, I too had a Love Story, Life is What You Make It, Our Impossible Love, It's All in the Planets... Read I too had a Love Story? Why not go and watch some season of FRIENDS one more time?

It appears that the worst of Bollywood is being repackaged in 'contemporary settings' and dished out in paperbacks, so that, in turn, it can give more fodder to Bollywood.  Because no one understands and articulates the present day nuances of India better than Chetan Bhagat, Ravinder Singh, Durjoy Dutta and company. 

It is in troubled, famished times like these that an Aravind Adiga novel appears on the horizon and casts away the darkness. But more on that later. 

Adiga is a man widely known for writing The White Tiger. His debut novel may have won the Man Booker, but it is his lesser known second book - Last Man in Tower - that is an absolute masterclass. 

The White Tiger, an all-time personal favorite, is of course a brilliant piece of literary work set in an India caught in the throes of economic development. The book bristles with anger and dark humor, the satire is unbridled and biting. Consider these gems: 

“Do you know about Hanuman, sir? He was the faithful servant of the god Rama, and we worship him in our temples because he is a shining example of how to serve your masters with absolute fidelity, love, and devotion.
These are the kinds of gods they have foisted on us Mr. Jiabao. Understand, now, how hard it is for a man to win his freedom in India.” 

“We may not have sewage, drinking water, and Olympic gold medals, but we do have democracy.”

“See, the poor dream all their lives of getting enough to eat and looking like the rich. And what do the rich dream of?? Losing weight and looking like the poor.” 

And perhaps the best excerpt from the book, a metaphor that hits the nail on its head:

“Go to Old Delhi,and look at the way they keep chickens there in the market. Hundreds of pale hens and brightly colored roosters, stuffed tightly into wire-mesh cages. They see the organs of their brothers lying around them.They know they are next, yet they cannot rebel. They do not try to get out of the coop. The very same thing is done with humans in this country.” 

Waah. The Rooster Coop as a metaphor for the rut that hundred of millions of Indians are caught in. That's genius right there, in four lines. 

In Adiga's second novel, anger gives way to angst, and from a man's ruthless quest to find his place in the world, it is about a righteous man's quest to preserve his dignity. Therein lies its superiority over The White Tiger. This, and the fact that it is set in the city of Mumbai. 

Last Man in Tower, a book that Adiga dedicates to his fellow travelers in the Santacruz Churchgate 9:02 AM local, is a story of Vishram Society - a building like the people living in it, middle class to its core. Improvement or failure, it is incapable of either extremity - and the events that follow a builder's generous offer of redevelopment. The book is a seminal study in human nature. How the promise of easy money changes the inhabitants of an old, fading building. Each of the characters has a unique story - one of everyday struggles, remorse for missed opportunities, and hopes and aspirations for the future.

Coming back to the point. 

Sometime in late December, lists on the books to watch out for in 2016, mentioned a certain Selection Day by Aravind Adiga, and this marked a visible end to the five year break post Last Man in Tower. Last week it arrived at the doorstep - a hard cover edition.

While The White Tiger dealt in anger, and Last Man in Tower in angst, the overriding theme of Selection Day is fear. The underlying story though is again of aspirations, except this time, the aspirations are forced on the protagonists - two brothers batting day in and day out to get out of the Rooster Coop. The book is set in the world of cricket in Mumbai. Mohan Kumar, their domineering father, is obsessed with cricket and has a secret contract with the cricket god, their local deity, that his two sons will be the two best batsmen in the world. And so, he moves his family from their village in the western ghats to a slum in Dahisar, and subjects them to a punishing training schedule from their youngest days.

Cricket in Mumbai has a rich and storied legacy, and Adiga's book beautifully captures the delights of the game in the Maximum City. An old man, who might have played cricket for Mumbai but no one was sure when, speaking at the start of Harris Shield exhorts the young boys - 

'Gharana'

'We call it the Mumbai Gharana. A school of music. A school of music of cricket. You know the names. Ajit Wadekar, who led us to our first series win in England in 1971; Farokh Engineer and Vinoo Mankad; Eknath Solkar, the finest close-in fielder this country has seen; the two gems of Indian batsmanship, Sachin and Sunny; and the two Dilips, Vengsarkar and Sardesai. All of them were local boys like you; they learnt to play at the Oval and Azad Maidan. Like you, they took the trains and buses; like you they played in the Kanga League in the rain and in the Gymkhana in the heat. Now what are the characteristics of this Mumbai school of music expressed in the form of cricket? All-round defensive and attacking stroke play; a strong back foot; the skill to survive the moving ball and turning ball alike. When he stands at the wicket, a young batsman must bring to his technique all the toughness of our city. He must bat selfishly. Must humiliate the other side, particularly if it is Delhi. He must hoard runs for himself. But he must also bat selflessly. Sacrifice himself when the team needs it. Scoring a century or double century isn't enough: it has to be the right century or double century. It takes more than just success to join the hundred-and-fifty-year-old gharana of Bombay batsmanship. So, boys: Play hard. But play within the rules. And may the spirit of Vijay Manjrekar and Vijay Merchant shine upon you...'


At the centre of cricket is my favorite character from the book. Tommy Sir, originally Narayanrao Sadashivrao Kulkarni, is built from the old world values of principles and righteousness. Naturally, he fails to 'succeed' in the modern world. A passionate lover of the game but one who refuses to acknowledge that cricket still smells good in India, he could have run a profitable coaching academy for rich and fat mummy's boys, but instead he spent his days in the sun, at Oval Maidan, Azad Maidan, Shivaji Park, Bombay Gymkhana or any place where boys in whites gathered, in his quest to discover the next Sachin Tendulkar in the maidans of Mumbai and crack the mystery of mysteries - what makes a great batsman great? He writes a weekly column on Mumbai cricket called Some Boys Rise, Some Boys Fail. 'Sport alone isn't enough today. People want sport and a story'

Tommy Sir has the history of Mumbai cricket in his head, and he recounts the legendary anecdotes to spur the boys from time to time: the 1968-69 Ranji final between Mumbai and Bengal, where Mumbai needed to bat and take a vital lead with tailenders to follow. Solkar, overnight on six, lost his father. In the morning, he performed the last rites of his father, took a train to Brabourne and scored the match winning runs for Mumbai.

Adiga's writing on the cricket games is vivid As he describes the games, you feel like you are at the maidan and you hear the sweet sound of the bat hitting the cricket ball. In a stunningly poignant moment, two boys batting for their school in Harris Shield bat and bat and break the city record for the highest partnership. And as the partnership continues, one of them walks down the middle and says to the other - 'only one of us can be Tendulkar, the other has to be Kambli'

If you love cricket, this is one book you just can't miss. 

And there's the quintessential Adiga satire.

'As I often ask my wife, Asha: what are Indians? To which I give the answer: Indians, my dear, are basically a sentimental race with high cholesterol levels. Now that its hunger for social realist melodrama is no longer satisfied by the Hindi cinema, the Indian public is turning to cricket'

'Nothing is illegal in India. Because, technically, everything is illegal in India... See how it works?'

'Revenge is the capitalism of the poor: conserve the original wound, defer immediate gratification, fatten the first insult with new insults, invest and reinvest spite, and keep waiting for the perfect moment to strike back'

And a comment on Indian literature:

'What we Indians want in literature, at least the kind written in English, is not literature at all, but flattery. We want to see ourselves depicted as soulful, sensitive, profound, valorous, wounded, tolerant and funny beings. All that Jhumpa Lahiri stuff. But the truth is, we are absolutely nothing of that kind. What are we, then? We are animals of the jungle, who will eat our neighbor's children in five minutes, and our own in ten. Keep this in mind before you do any business in the country'
 
The beauty of great fiction writing is that it is more real than the real. 

Step aside, Bhagat and company. The white tiger of Indian fiction is here.

 

The Art of Traveling Ticketless

Train journeys, in a way, are a lot like monsoon rains. Sitting cozy in your home, with a cup of tea, rains are a treat to the senses. But out there, on the street, rains are puddles and muck, traffic jams and wet socks. So it is with train journeys - with a reserved ticket, the journey is one to cherish; sipping tea at different stations, reading a new book, listening to life stories of fellow passengers, sleeping and reminiscing about times gone by. But in absence of a reservation, left at the mercy of fate, even a three hour excursion could be a nightmare - unless, unless, you know the tricks of the trade, unless you learn your lessons from the likes of Masterji...


Indian Railways is so ubiquitous, so closely intertwined with our day to day existence that we often miss the bigger picture. The veritable lifeline of India transports people for as little as 29 paise per kilometer and is an enormous network of over 12000 trains crisscrossing the vast and diverse topography of the country every day. If India were a human body, Indian Railways would be the complex network of veins and arteries mobilizing lifeblood to and from the vital corners of the anatomy, keeping the body alive and thriving; and of this anatomy, a critical organ is Bihar. Little wonder they call it the Hindi Heartland.

Now for trains traveling to and through Bihar, the demand perennially exceeds supply, and by a huge margin. This deficit translates into scores of people boarding those long distance trains without a berth reserved against their name. The result is an exercise that is terrifying and thrilling in equal measure, fraught with uncertainties, and yet holding the promise of hope, an exercise that demands shrewd application of the mind, careful craft of language, an ability to empathize and judge, foresee the future and comprehend the present, devise the strategy and adapt the tactics - an exercise so subtle, and so essentially human - it is almost a form of art, the art of traveling ticket-less. And like all worthy forms of art, the art of traveling ticket-less requires dogged practice and hours of practical experience to master, and given a chance, most would prefer not to be its student.


In Rohinton Mistry's epic novel A Fine Balance, Vasantrao Valmik, a lawyer turned proofreader turned morcha producer turned lawyer again (thus completing the proverbial circle) waxes eloquent about hope. 'There is always hope', he says, 'hope enough to balance out the despair'. On the railway platform, a ray of hope to restore the fine balance shines in the form of the ticket examiner on duty, who with his discretionary powers to hand out unoccupied berths attracts a buzzing swarm of despairing passengers around him, jostling with one another for his attention and his kindness. Left among the cacophonous coterie of tea vendors and book sellers, coolies and sweepers, beggars and the usual melee of passengers, the TTE's attempts to allocate berths with a semblance of order turn out to be futile - discarded like the flotsam of plastic bottles and rotting eatables on the tracks. 

Standing in a queue, patiently awaiting our turn - these qualities elude us Indians. We love the beauty of settling matters through pushing and shoving, jostling and shouting; we are firm believers in the magical powers of middlemen, the sweet influence of money, the strength of contacts at important places. Not at the roadside chaat shops though. Here, we are at our civilized best, silently observing the ambidextrous chaat waala digging into the different ingredients spread in a semicircle around him, mixing and tossing the contents, drowning them in green and red chutneys as the sights and smells tantalize our palates, stoke our appetite. We patiently wait for that great benefactor of womankind, the chaat waala, to serve our food. No threats are issued, no bribes offered; just polite requests - dahi thoda extra daalna bhaiya; Jain sev puri me teekha zyada rahega na...


If there is a sight to behold on Indian roads, it is this. The otherwise cantankerous Indians, ready to detonate at the slightest provocation, honking away on roads and sulking away through queues, conducting their affairs with so much poise and equanimity at the road side chaat shop. And though, the railway platform is a veritable bhel puri of human civilization, it is no chaat shop governed by an imperious chaat waala. And so, the bid to reserve a berth turns into a mini free-for-all.

'Arey saahab! Dadaji ko Tata Memorial le jaa rahe hai dikhaane ke liye. Ek seat bas dilva dijiye saahab'

'Namaste sir! Panditji mobile kiye honge aapko, humare acche dost hai. Itarsi tak ka intazaam ho jaayega toh badhiya rahega'. 

'Sir do Muzaffarpur. Urgent hai sir'


The TTE, pulled and prodded from all sides, checks the sheaf of dot matrix printed papers in his hand, scrutinizing the neat records in red and blue ink made by his predecessors to search for any permutation and combination of an empty berth that fits with the passenger's travel plans. More often than not, it doesn't, and the TTE grimly announces the unavailability to the wary group surrounding him.

'Sir, ek...bas ek ticket kara dijiye sir'

'Ab kya batayein, LTT tak poori pack hai gaadi'

This morning though, different scenes played out at platform number 3 of Anand Vihar Terminus, as the North East express readied itself for its 45 hour journey to Guwahati. A visibly old TTE, wearing a fading black overcoat that betrayed his long years in the Railways, smiled and nodded at the passengers requesting for a reservation. Frowning from over his glasses at numbers a bit too tiny for his old eyes, he made notes in a small, rectangular book.

'Kahaan jaayenge, bata rahe the?'

 'Ji, Buxar, Saahab'

'Ah, Buxar...Hmm'. Tucking the small, rectangular book under his armpit, the TTE reached for another fraying little book in his pocket, and moved the glasses over his nose to adjust to the new font. 'Buxar Na?’ he studied a matrix matching distances to costs.

'Ji saahab, bas 12-13 ghante ka safar hai', the passenger smiled at the people encircling the TTE. Anxious for their turn, they didn't acknowledge his rhetoric and looked on.

'Buxar ka hoga, 210 rupya. Do ticket ka 420'

'Ji sir, dhanyawaad sir', the passenger collected his change and folded hands one more time, a final note of gratitude and turned to collect his trunk. Seconds later, as the waiting folk threw their general tickets into the old TTE's face, he returned.

'Par saahab, aapne berth number toh likha nahi'

'Berth number sabko andar aa ke denge. Abhi jaa kar baith jaaye', the TTE declared, loudly enough to ward off similar queries from those waiting to receive his benevolence.

The struggle resumed after the brief, undesired pause. 'Sir, Guwahati ke liye 3'. 'Saahab, saahab! Siliguri ke liye 4 ticket'

Irked, the TTE took a few steps back, narrowly missing a mongrel lying on the platform. Terrified, it limped away to safety.

'Arre bhai, sabko ticket milega. Kaahe pareshaan ho rahe hai', the TTE trembled from the effort of bringing order to the burgeoning lot of passengers around him.

The usual drill of copying ticket numbers, matching the destination to costs from the fare book while the ticket book rests under his armpit, patting and stroking the wad of notes in his shirt pocket, these familiar movements calmed him down, and he returned to his smiling, nodding, welcoming self.


We were among the last few to receive the parchi from him. It all seemed a bit strange. The TTE hadn't scribbled berth numbers on anyone's receipts, promising to assign once he had a precise inventory of vacant berths on the moving train. How did he then issue all those receipts, if he didn't know the exact number? In the immediate, anxious need to become recipients of those white receipts, reason took a back seat. Nonetheless, with six reserved seats and receipts for two, we occupied the 1-8 section of S4 coach, confidently shoving our luggage under seats and blanketing the upper berths with bag-packs, and occupying the two available charging slots with our phones. As we went about laying siege to the area, two young boys of about 16-17 and a middle-aged man dressed in a red checked shirt with black trousers and chappals looked on. In a train traveling to and through Bihar, especially one where an old TTE hands out slips like coaching class pamphlets at a traffic signal, everyone is suspect for boarding the sleeper class without reservation, and rightfully so. The trick then is to never let the others doubt that you too are on board without a reservation. The trick is to behave as if you own the space. Acquiring the mobile charging points, staking claim to all available luggage area, outraging about torn seat covers and dirty floors, muttering the age-old cliché while shaking your head, 'saala sleeper ko general dibba bana diya hai!' - all constitute a credible performance. You are sulking, surely you must have a reservation?


The two boys, carrying shoulder bags with 'Leveis' and 'Adibas' stickers on them, climbed to the upper berths and perched on the corners, each resting his legs on the opposite berth. Their height and frame allowed them to sit in the little space without any major inconvenience - arguably a sweet spot for the ticket-less, the area is of little importance to the ticket holders for most of the day time. The middle-aged man, Masterji, meanwhile settled at the corner of the side lower berth, his feet out towards the aisle, arms folded across the chest, passively looking out of the window on the opposite side. Ah, the quintessential let-me-sit-here-I-am-not-causing-you-any-inconvenience style. So our Masterji here is a seasoned campaigner, a well-traveled man. Not the well-traveled as defined these modern days. He didn't hold important architectural monuments by their tips, nor did he scribble his name in sand at beaches. But he knew his way about trains.

 Masterji diverted his attention from the window to our neighbors, a joint Bengali family, the female members of which had begun preparations for bhel puri, or jhaal muri as they'd call it, on an unprecedented scale. The men, now in vests with their shirts hung away on the hook just below the chain, emptied kilos upon kilos of puffed rice onto a white cloth held at both ends by two women. Someone chopped onions and green chillies, someone else busied themselves in hunting down little black pebbles lounging in the puffed rice.


Masterji smiled. 'Never a dearth of new things to see on a train', he remarked, discreetly. The train departed twenty minutes after its scheduled time. 'This train has a most consistent track record of being late' Masterji explained, 'they should change its name from North East express - everyone ignores it'. The sarcasm was lost on the two boys, but like us, they were impressed with Masterji's knowledge.

'What time does the train arrive at Katihar, sir?’ one of the boys asked.

'Oh, the two of you are going to Katihar, is it? The train is supposed to reach Katihar at 04:00 AM. But since a lot of these people', his right hand taking in the coach in its sweep, 'are traveling to Katihar, the train tries to ensure you all get a good night's sleep. It is unlikely we reach Katihar before 6:30 7 tomorrow'. There might not be the smallest of spaces to sit, but it felt good to know the train cared so much for their well-being. The boys nodded enthusiastically.


Delivering his words of wisdom, Masterji looked at everyone with a half-smile, making sure everyone is part of his audience. Over the next one hour, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with the ticket holders, he alternated between playing an active participant and passive spectator to our conversation, laughing at the little jokes, belting out rhetoric - 'it is like that only, what can we do? Governments come and go, but Railways will always be riddled with these problems'. Successful ticket-less travels are built on the foundation of easy camaraderie with the neighbors, Masterji understood this well enough.


An hour later, the train had just crossed Ghaziabad, when a harried looking husband and wife dropped their luggage of six bags, paused to catch their breath and inquired - 'is this the S4 coach?’ Masterji nodded. 'Oh, thank God' - the wife crashed on the side berth and the husband got to the tall task of fixing their six bags.


We Indians consider it blasphemous to travel without excess luggage, more so in trains because it is free, and of what purpose is all the floor space if not to stock our bags and trunks and sacks? 'Traveling light' is a concept as foreign to us as Sonia Gandhi to Subramaniam Swamy. Some time ago, I happened to travel to a tourist destination wildly popular with Gujjus on an agency-managed tour. One of the families in the group carried around a tall bag loaded with a smorgasbord of Gujju snacks and namkeen. Even on the last day of the tour, the lady would bury her hands in the bag and come out with a yet unopened packet of chakris or puris and coax those around her. 'Arre take a little, no. See how it tastes. Nothing doing, little little everyone must take'. Someone exclaimed 'Ben! So much food you are carrying!’ True, it was simply outrageous, to travel with an entire bag full of snacks on a tour where breakfast AND lunch AND dinner were arranged for by the agency.


'Arre, this is nothing. For our train from A'bad, I packed full bottles of chaas and tumblers of dahi and moong daal and boiled chana and chopped tomatoes and salted potatoes. Not onions, though, they raise a stink. What to do? These pantry car people make egg dishes in the same kitchen. We disposed all the poly-bags and bottles at the station...'

To this day, I shudder to think of the quantities they would carry along for a 'no-meals' tour plan.

Presently though, abrupt arrival of the rightful occupants of side berths completely altered the narrative – our bluff was called out – we meekly renounced the place and populated our reserved seats. An expression of disappointment, at having wasted an hour’s worth of efforts wooing the wrong targets, lingered on Masterji’s face. The game had changed, and changed for the worse. As any experienced Railways traveler will tell you, breaking into a group of young boys, finding a little space to sit through the day and half a berth for the night, is perhaps the easiest – join the game of cards and teach them a new trick or two, discuss cricket and use cricketing analogies in the conversation – and you are more or less set for a reasonably comfortable ticketless journey. But to occupy and defend your unreserved territory in the company of a married couple, now that calls for the craft of a veteran. Masterji thought he would be bowling to Umesh Yadav, but back in the pavilion, Virat Kohli said ‘fuck the night-watchman’ and stepped out to the crease. He soon wiped away the creases on his forehead, and smiled gregariously at his new neighbors. ‘These rascals, they don’t even label the coaches properly. So much trouble it causes to common people like us’.


The husband nodded, too exhausted from the toil of carrying the bags around through clogged coaches to speak. The wife though promptly summoned the energy to outrage from her vast captive reserves – ‘Tell me about it! So much trouble they have caused us. We walked almost a damn kilometer! And with so much luggage…’ – she spread her arms wide, indicating the bags above and below.    


‘Yes sister, very bad thing to happen’ – muttered Masterji with empathy. He had just bowled a maiden first over to Virat Kohli, with a couple of deliveries whistling dangerously past his off stump, having broken ice with the lady. In matters as delicate as these, it is the woman’s word that is final and binding.


Passengers milled around the coaches, searching for vacant berths that were not to be found. There were no traces of the old TTE either. The whole reservation slip thing was a scam. No one turned to examine the tickets. There were far too many people in the sleeper coaches to discharge such formalities. Those without the reservation slip crouched in the doorways, cramming near the lavatory on newspapers and plastic sheets. Soon enough, as someone battling and trundling through the crowds reached the WC and opened its door, an immensely foul stench of human waste wafted through the coach. The crowds at the door grew and the men in vests from our neighboring Bengali family, with half-smoked cigarettes now tucked behind their ears, yelled at them for blocking their righteous route to relief, and shouted threats of calling the Railway Police. The poor folk at the door stared back blankly, one of them continued to eat from her oily Rail Aahar box. The train, meanwhile, lost its sense of time on its way through eastern UP, now running behind schedule by a few hours.


Oblivious to the happenings, Masterji continued to build camaraderie with the couple brick by steady brick, engaging them in the time honored passenger platitudes.

‘Where are you heading to?’

‘Oh, Siliguri? Such a lovely place. Long ago, our family spent Pujo holidays in Darjeeling and we spent some time in Siliguri. People were so nice, and the city, clean and green. Wonder if it is the same now. Like people, places change with time…’


A key element of Masterji’s game, with the benefit of hindsight, appears to be his ability to strike a balance between coming across as overbearing and intrusive through too much conversation and on the other hand, keeping mum and appearing rude and insensitive. In between bits and pieces here and there, he silently looked out of the opposite window to let the couple converse between themselves – appearing aloof, and yet listening intently, deducing, calculating, understanding his subjects, understanding their nature. The importance of this can’t be overstated – it would guide his further plan of action.

Carrying sweets for the second cousin’s old in-laws in Kalimpong as well? Great. Thoughtful bunch, this couple. Good for me.

 While the couple prepared for lunch, Masterji left them to eat in peace and climbed the upper berth for an hour long nap, careful not to rest his head or legs on their bag. An assured way to get thrown away, using a fellow passenger’s luggage as a pillow. But letting it be and crouching in the even more limited space of a side upper berth, now that betrays sensitivity, it helps earn brownie points with your benefactors.


His experience of trains must have sharpened Masterji’s clairvoyance, for he precisely anticipated when the wife would like to retire for an afternoon siesta. He got down before being told to and paid a visit to the WC. By the time he returned, the wife was asleep on the upper berth. Masterji took his place at the corner of the berth, this time with his feet folded on the seat and facing the husband. Now there being no risk of boring the woman, and thereby inviting her ire, with talk of cricket and politics, Masterji asked for the husband’s forecast on the upcoming elections in West Bengal and Assam. He nodded and repeated the husband’s words as the latter finished a sentence, as if the husband had spoken something profound. He also countered him here and there, at the harmless places, so as to not come across as a sycophantic listener. In fact, the little objections delighted the husband all the more, for he could defend and justify his points.


‘No, but you see, anti-incumbency works when there are two or more equal opponents. Who’s there in Bengal? The Left? Those jokers have sold what has remained of their souls to Rahul Gandhi. See, Didi controls the goondas in Bengal, and those who control the goondas control the electorate’.  

‘Those who control the goondas control the electorate. So true, bhai. So very true’ But I know the word on the streets of Guwahati. BJP it will be in Assam’.

Unbeknownst to the husband, immersed in shelling out his long suppressed insights and observations to such a fine listener, Masterji stretched out his legs in front of him, as a legitimate occupant of the space would. As time passed, the lunch and the heat and the contentment of enlightening a fellow human being made the husband sleepy. He stretched out his legs in the wedge between Masterji and the wall. It took a while for the husband’s sleep to overcome constrained discomfort of his legs, Masterji though dozed off right after lying down.



The boys continued to dangle from little corners at the edge of middle and upper berths, changing posture every now and then to figure out the one most comfortable. They looked down on Masterji snoring away on the husband's berth in part amazement, part admiration and mostly envy. Afternoon rattle-tattled towards evening and the train left Uttar Pradesh behind at Mughal Sarai junction, for a long journey through Bihar that will go well past sunrise tomorrow morning. The couple now sat facing each other, and Masterji at his customary corner. The gloom of the evening seemed to have taken a toll on the couple's conversation, rendering it grim and unsmiling. They didn't offer tea to Masterji. Nor did they share from the Sundarta Sarees polybag that comprised their evening snack. The prospect of night emulating afternoon's fortune appeared to be increasingly bleak. He couldn't move from his place now of course. There was too little left till bed time to build new bonds. And anyway, tired and wary of the congested mess that the train had become, most passengers were now shooing away requests to 'adjust'. 

Politics had made Masterji's afternoon. Cricket presented him the opportunity to rescue the night.


After ignoring the existence of our group since morning, Masterji once again began to take interest in our attempts to follow the crucial India Australia encounter of ICC World T20. The network, as train moved through Bihar, being too weak to stream live video, we settled on following live updates on the Cricbuzz app. One of us announced any important update for the benefit of those who obviously couldn't read the small text on a mobile screen. Ignored by the couple, Masterji absorbed himself in the goings on of the game, commenting and sharing his thoughts like a pundit - nodding at the boys to include them in conversation. From their areal vantage points, they concurred and interjected every now and then. 

'Yes, the new Pandya guy is up and running'

'No, but as long as we have Dhoni, we have hope'

Intermittently, our Bengali friend next door, in a blue vest worn as if to show his support for Team India, arrived to inquire after the game. He was like one of those many cricket fans who never bother themselves with ball by ball scores and events, who gloss over the finer details and are only interested in the bigger picture. The only thing that mattered is the match follow the trail they desired.



In Mohali, India's chase coughed and sneezed with an early fall of wickets and a mounting required run rate. It had come down to Virat Kohli and MS Dhoni to produce yet another match winning partnership. Darkness descended over the train as most retired for an early slumber. In our dimly lit corner, the lag in Cricbuzz updates generously added to the building tension. Nothing more painful than a cliffhanger of a game, an India Australia decider at that, left at the whims and fancies of patchy mobile internet, unfolding mercilessly slowly. The mood in our far off stand vacillated between gloom and hope. Even our blue vested Bengali friend had now taken a seat in front of the mobile, smoking away his anxiety. Eventually, the mood turned into euphoria as a Cricbuzz update announced the match winning four over long on by, who else,  but MS Dhoni. Everyone roared and shook hands. 

'Mark my words. One day, Virat Kohli will surpass Sachin Tendulkar', Masterji paused to look at the husband in the eye 'for he also has leadership qualities of Saurav Ganguly'. 

The husband's face lit up. He beamed and nodded.

What a masterstroke, to invoke Ganguly and win over a cricket loving Bong. 

Relieved that we will be playing the semis, all of us prepared for bed. The crowd seemed to have swelled as the train continued on its delayed journey through Bihar. Some crouched near the toilet doors, others spread themselves in aisles, often without the luxury of newspapers and plastic sheets. In black darkness of the night, human bodies lying still, like discarded logs of wood, in total apathy to the mess, cut a macabre picture. The boys renounced upper berths that the fortuitous cricket match had accorded them and returned to the corners. A long night awaited before sunrise ferried the train to Katihar, to their home. 

Loud snores from down below pulled the chain on their train of thought.

It was Masterji.   

Songs on the Road

What is the mark of a good driver? How do you gauge the skill of a driver you are meeting for the first time? Well, for starters, you could ask him how long he has been driving. And he will give you an answer you wish to hear - saat aanth saal ho gaye saab. Of course, your face will betray the disbelief. Such a young looking man and seven eight years behind the wheel already? And he will continue with the explanation - 15 saal ke the tab se hi gaadi chala rahe hai. At this point, you may snigger at how everything goes in India, bribe the RTO guys or fake your date of birth in the age proof. When it comes to gaming the system, there is never a dearth of options, you'd say sagely, to show that you too are familiar with the ways of the world.

What other signs could you look for? Oh yes, the driver's age, the grey in his hair, search for the creases and wrinkles on his face. But it would be foolish to rely on this metric. After all, the driver could have begun driving quite late in his life, in all probability a few weeks ago and you'd never know. It is a profession with hardly any entry barriers, is driving. Somewhere a factory closes down, and surely there are a few to take to driving to earn their livelihood. 

What else, state of the car? Probably, a well-worn car speaks of the many hours spent on the road. But again, this parameter is far from reliable. In all likelihood, the driver could have rented this car or bought it second-hand, or he may just be driving one of his seth's old vehicles. 

So coming back, how do you know that you are in safe, experienced hands?

Well yes, the facility with which the driver opens the front door, leans out of the car while speeding at 60 km/hr, spits out a mouthful of paan gutka and returns to the wheel closing the door behind him - the sheer elegance of this seemingly complex set of movements corroborates his skill on the road. An experienced driver performs this task like an artist, unhurried and easy - never once losing control of the vehicle while emptying his mouth of its staple contents. However, thankfully, there is an answer to the above question that is far more credible and comprehensive.

The answer lies in the songs.

Any driver worth his salt travels with a long, many hours long, playlist of songs. Not the Yo Yo Honey Singh crap they blast in expensive nightclubs and lavish weddings. Or the latest Bollywood garbage playing out on radio channels. But songs of eternal love, of great longing, songs of painful separation, of soul-shattering betrayal. Songs sung by the man who rules the hearts of those who spend a lifetime on the road - songs sung by Kumar Sanu. Sanu Sahab's voice is the fuel that propels the driver. Sanu Sahab's voice is a balmy afternoon of a cold, wintry day; a savior against the tyranny of potholed roads, the impossible traffic, the pungent diesel fumes, and the often untoward passengers.

Navigating the same old roads, same old twists and turns, gliding past the same old milestones, the music player goes:

pardesi mere yaara...laut ke aana, mujhe yaad rakhna kahin bhool na jaana...

And Sanu Sahab's emotional rendition strikes a poignant chord with the driver, transports him back in time to the memories of his youth, his home in a village by the river and of the beloved - the pardesi - who never returned. He may never have had a lover and a tragic love story. But that is beside the point. The beauty of Sanu Sahab's voice is it craftily blurs the difference between reality and make believe.

Then President of India acknowledging Sanu Sahab's timeless contribution with a Padma Shri
Courtesy: Deccan Chronicle

As the vehicle speeds forward,  Sanu Sahab is swift to take us further back in time, from the bitter times of separation to the happy, cheerful days of infatuation and courtship.

Wooing the girl:

O laal dupatte waali tera naam toh bata, O kaale kurte waali tera naam toh bata...tera naam toh bata, tera naam toh bataa!

The days filled with youthful uncertainties:

Pehli pehli baar mohabbat ki hai...Pehli pehli baar mohabbat ki hai, kuch na samajh me aaye me kya karu. Pehli pehli baar shararat ki hai, kuch na samajh me aaye me kya karu...

And those sleepless nights:

O meri neendein churaane wale tera, shukriya! O mera chayn churaane wale tera, shukriya! Dard nahi tha jab seene ka, khaak mazaa tha jeene ka... O saari raat jagaane wale tera, shukriya...

Then arrives the monsoon:

Barsaat ke din aaye, mulaqaat ke din aaye... hum soch me the jinke, us raat ke din aaye...

Down to the wedding days:

Tere ghar aaya, main aaya tujhko lene...Dil ke badle me dil ka nazaraana dene...meri har dhadkan kya bole hai sun sun sun sun...

And more often than not, you happen to miss the bus. So the invaluable exhortation from Sanu Sahab:

Kisi se tum pyaar karo, toh fir izhaar karo... kahin na fir der na ho jaaye, kahin na fir der na ho jaaye...

Though, like life, the playlist invariably veers towards songs of pain and anguish. 

Jiye toh jiye kaise, haaye, bin aapke... Lagta nahi kahin dil, bin aapke...

Or the one that resonates too strongly and hits right below the belt:

Tu pyaar hai kisi aur ka, tujhe chahta koi aur hai... Tu pasand hai kisi aur ki, tujhe maangta koi aur hai... Tu nazar me hai kisi aur ki, tujhe dekhta koi aur hai...


A man listening to Kumar Sanu's songs on the road sees his life's story flash before his eyes. There is scarcely any hope, any despair, any emotion and any experience that his vast body of work fails to encompass. Sanu Sahab is that trusted friend, the humraahi who unfailingly accompanies thousands of men on their solitary journeys.

So the next time you are traveling, and are unsure of your driver's skills, turn up the system's volume; if it is Sanu Sahab's vocal cords serenading you from the speakers, sit back for a memorable time - you are in the hands of a seasoned campaigner - and hum along the quintessential road song:

  

Raah me unse...mulaqat ho gayi... Raah me unse... mulaqat ho gayi... Jis se darte the, wohi baat ho gayi!

 

The Free Basics that Matter

This isn't one of the many posts arguing for or against Free Basics from Facebook. There is, in fact, a threat far, far bigger than Facebook violating Net Neutrality and all that jazz. And that, is Facebook turning into a mass archive of wedding albums and honeymoon itineraries.

This post is a not so exhaustive list of the Free Basics that every Indian feels entitled to:

Courtesy: The Guardian

1. Masala Puri - no questions asked
   
2. Singh - chana at bars
   
3. Space for 13 tonnes of luggage in trains
   
4. Take home towel and personal care kits from hotel rooms
   
5. Extra supaari at Paan shops
   
6. Take away saunf in tissue papers at restaurants
   
7. On demand, extra pyaaz with Punjabi food
   
8. Water, electricity, WiFi, daily entertainment and long, long radio and TV ads in areas (mis) governed by Arvind Kejriwal
   
9. Unrestricted access to public roads for religious and/or wedding processions
   
10. One half of the road to park our SUVs while we have a grilled sandwich and special chai in this popular roadside joint
    
11. Dhanya - mirch top-up from vegetable vendors
    
12. Blazer, tie and lapel pin upon admission in B schools
    
13. Discounts/cashbacks on *any* service availed online or via a mobile app
    
14. Also bargains on *anything* availed from poor roadside vendors while a 160 Rs. Vada Pav at PVR is, of course, cool
    
15. Spit, pee and throw garbage anywhere, anytime - because we pay taxes

And finally, the most important of all - one that beats even Masala Puri by a huge margin:

    16. Unconditional right to cause inconvenience to others so long as it suits us

Large multi national corporations, tech giants, the Indian industry and government entities may collude all they like - breach fair competition principles, create monopolistic markets and piss off all sorts of activists. So long as the sacrosanctness of these 'free basics' is upheld, we'll be fine.

Do you have suggestions that could be added to this list? Please feel free to write to TRAI.