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.

Facebook Timeline of a B-schooler

Aravind Adiga in his brilliant second novel 'Last Man in Tower' writes that a dustbin tells the story of a household; its contents emptied every morning reveal the preceding day's activities. Years of technology, internet penetration and self-aggrandizement later, Facebook timeline is the modern day's dustbin.

With the exception of Subramanium Swamy, no one's Facebook TL follows a more predictable pattern than a B-schooler's - that supreme dispenser of gyaan, that inexhaustible reservoir of fundas, or as many a B-school's websites say, perhaps sardonically, 'thought leader of tomorrow'.

98.93
97.36

99.09

A blue-blooded B-schooler's facebook glory begins long before the academic year. Sometime in January, on a cold midnight, as the world sleeps, engineers and TCS-Infy coders awake to life and freedom. The numbers above would appear meaningless to an untrained eye. But to the largely discerning crowd, the message implicit in three numbers is loud and clear, sparking a torrent of congratulatory messages. In between, the B-schooler rues 'VA is a bitch', presents a detailed track record of mock scores, and concludes - 'Fuck Normalization!' 

<Enter B-school's acronym> it is.

Sometime in April-May, the public declaration is made. There'll be creativity as well; clever use of the school's name and symbols.

'Time to live life XL size!'

'Joka calling :)'

And the indigenous ivy-league, hallowed old IIMs do not warrant much deliberation.

'Finally, B'.

Of late, with the proliferation of awards and award shows, a new trend seems to be emerging. Facebook isn't just the new dustbin. Facebook is the new podium to deliver elaborate thank-you speeches. As the coveted call letter reaches the shores of mail inbox after a long and arduous journey in the seas of entrance exams, boisterous GDs and grueling PIs, the occasion calls for a 200 word thank you speech. The almost-there B schooler thanks his parents, friends, faculty at the coaching centre, benign normalization and fate. The religious amongst them also thank God, 'above all'.

First year begins. Education and location tabs of facebook profile are duly updated. The cover pic changes to a DSLR clicked image of red-brick buildings, surrounded by tall trees and lush gardens in early morning glory. Or the front gate with the school's name plastered across.

Early days of all new human endeavors are heady. And early days of first year see a flurry of activity on the B-schooler's TL.

'4 days and just 10 hours of sleep. Hahaha. This is insane!'

'Insomniac already. MBA has well and truly begun.'

The marketing enthusiasts enamored by Philip Kotler's theories and enchanted by popular advertising campaigns liberally share links.

'This is mind-blowing guerilla marketing from Unilever! Totally flanking P&G's frontal attack on its competitive advantage. The FMCG war continues...'

'No words to describe this. The collection of best ads ever...'

Meanwhile the finance guys vociferously dissect everything from happenings in global financial markets to RBI's monetary policy.

'Insightful op-ed in Business Standard. Core Inflation continues to remain within control. Totally beats me why Raghuram Rajan just doesn't go the Keynesian way and reduce interest rates.'

'Hmm. Interesting article this. Recent empirical data from emerging markets busts the long-held view that gold and equity markets move in opposite directions. Do read'

They say in life, two things are inevitable - death and taxes. In an MBA's life, it's four - death, taxes, EMIs and  facebook DP in a suit. An MBA student's suited DP announces his arrival at the altar of management in the glass and steel corporate world (Preferably front-end and middle level, with a dash of strategy). You will transform organizations, move markets, and change the world - provided you put on a suit and tie on starched white shirt. The suited facebook DP is a highlight of the B school stint and surely amongst the landmark facebook pictures like class II group photo, wedding day click, newborn's picture and the greatest of 'em all - selfie in front of a washroom mirror. This suited DP lingers on the TL for weeks together as friends and family and Farmville buddies lap it up, pouring compliments upon compliments, and long lost friends-acquaintances-strangers extend greetings for a successful future. This latter crowd is that section of your fb following which becomes active only on landmark events. The next time they'll like/comment on your fb post, it'll be when you upload a picture from your wedding album. Inevitably, suited DP is one of t he B-schooler's highest grossing posts.

In what are ominous signs of the future, as the MBA student moves ahead in his journey of becoming a 'manager', the facebook posts turn bossy and irritating.

Courtesy: www.reckontalk.com

Cutting-edge research is an absolute must to gather deep insights into contemporary marketing problems of FMCG-FMCD giants operating in India that the B-schooler seeks to address in trim-end projects. And what better platform to conduct a market research spanning across diverse age groups and socioeconomic classes than your facebook timeline? That strong community built from long years in school, coaching classes, engineering colleges and candy crush. Thus the thought leader of  tomorrow broadcasts google forms on the screens of 1167 fb friends, exhorting them to fill in responses.

'Hi, plz fill this google form on Fastrack. It is important for a marketing project i am working on. Won't take more than 2 mins of your time! Promise! Thanks ;)'

And then there are emotional appeals...

'I have duly filled *each and every* Google form shared. Please return the favour and fill this form on behavior of premium packaged food consumers'

To quote Adiga from Last Man in Tower again, 'Any good society survives on a circulation of favours'.

Charity begins at home, and promotion of college events starts from facebook TL for consumption of friends and family.

<Enter B-school Name>

Presents

In Partnership with

<Enter a free-coupon startup>

The Flagship Marketing Event of

<Enter a random Sanskrit word>

<Enter a permutation and combination of mar/mark/market with sutra/yudh/shastra/vista/smart>

 IS THE MARKETER IN YOU READY FOR THE GREATEST MARKETING CHALLENGE EVER??

 Prizes Worth 500000 to be Won!!

Register Now

A key part of most B-school events are competitions that challenge MBA students to think out of the box and come up with disruptive solutions to real world problems. There are competitions on next-generation digital marketing, and then competitions on creating powerful marketing communications. So many different competitions, one judging criteria - number of 'likes' and 'shares' on a picture, poster or video. 

And again, the hapless B-schooler turns to facebook.

'Hi! Our entry for 'The Next KRK of Marketing', the flagship marketing event of IIM Benaras. Please like and share and help us win!!'

Now, 'liking' this entry is an arduous task that involves wading through multiple links, 'liking' facebook page of the college, facebook page of the event sponsor and facebook page of the college's marketing club in order to arrive at the facebook page of that particular competition where, upon hitting the like button, you'll be redirected, God be merciful, to your friend's entry, for the 'like' that will be eventually counted.

Naturally, people take the easy way out and 'like' the facebook post instead, inviting the friend's ire.

'Guys do not like this post! *Go to the link* and like our entry! Team name: Dark Horses on Fire'

Soon enough, the B-schooler realizes it isn't working, and makes tactical changes in his bid to win the competition and conquer the ever-expanding marketing horizons as its poster stated. It is time to go direct. Where facebook timeline fails, free personal messaging succeeds. Thus, all and sundry 'active' on facebook chat and a thousand Whatsapp groups are pinged with the 'like and share' request.

The two years that an MBA student spends at college is marked by a spate of life-changing and earth-shattering landmark events - like presenting with the project group one last time before moving into second year. This occasion marks the end of an year of making atrocious PPTs stuffed with the most banal of SWOT analyses and BCG matrices - 'inspired' from cringe-worthy slideshare presentations -  that tortured audience members more than a loop Himesh Reshammiya songs on full blast. And thus, the august occasion deserves to be commemorated on facebook with a group pic and caption:

'Last presentation with Group 17, Division W. We came, we presented, we put them to sleep!'

Next up in the list of landmark events is, of course, Summer Internship.The irony is lost on the freshly minted interns as they post 'Started working at' updates on April Fools' Day. The facebook news feed undergoes a metamorphosis into LinkedIn for a couple of days.

'Started working at XYZ as an intern. Game On!'

Working intern? That's an oxymoron, boss.

Second year of B school, as it progresses, sees steep declines in the levels of academic rigor. The rigor translates into binge watching of Game of Thrones episodes and an 18th century racist American soap called 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S'. Facebook in the second year records multiple check ins at popular hang out zones within and on the outskirts of the city.

'Love the Pav Bhaji!' #Foodie #Connoisseur *Checked in at Juhu Beach*

'Not all those who wander are lost' #Travel #Explore *Checked in at Tiger Point, Lonavala*

The juggernaut of Google forms and like and share requests continues unabated for the two years. So does the juggernaut of pictures - pictures that have MBA student written all over them. An indicative list follows:

• Suited up, looking into the distance and speaking nothing in particular to a captive audience in a dimly lit seminar hall
• Suited up, beaming and showing certificates of merit at competitions
• Suited up, beaming and showing degree certificate in a convocation dress
• Suited up, beaming for no discernible reason
• Goa in Christmas week
• Goa after year-end exams and before summer internship
• Goa after summer internship
• Goa after final placements and before convocation
• Goa after convocation
• And of course, like their brethren, selfies on random occasions

Finally, as two years draw to a close, the fresh graduate posts a string of updates to mark Convocation. The posts could vary from a two-three para emotional downpour on making friends, facing challenges, struggling to clear GDs or abstract one-liners borrowed from top ranking search results on Google. Or they could be elaborate thank you speeches delivered from an imaginary podium, like the one delivered on getting an admit. And of course there are the convocation pics that chronicle the journey from getting dressed, getting dressed and putting on the robe, getting dressed and putting on the robe and the hat, receiving the degree certificate, throwing the hat in the air, one with project group, one with fellow members of the cell, one with fellow members of the division, one with BFFs, one with parents, one with a random set of people because frankly there can't be enough convocation pics and the mandatory pic - a mirror selfie.

#Convocated

Are we done, finally?

No.

Adios college! Time now to embark on a new journey. In a new city. In a new job. In a new office. At a new CTC. Under a new boss. At new tax slabs. #ToNewBeginnings

The Beauty of Indian Railways

There isn’t a public place that represents a city more truly than its railway station. The city’s railway station is its metonymic figure in life and blood, brick and mortar. With good reason, the railway station in the city of Jamshedpur is called Tatanagar Junction. A fading board affixed on a pillar at Pipariya station proudly proclaims “Alight here for Panchmarhi”. At 2 AM in the night, passengers in deep slumber – the one possible only in trains with their rocking motion and reassuring rattle – wake up to sounds of men selling sev at Ratlam Junction.

The late evening Kanpur railway station cut a microcosmic picture of the city. Dimly lit, dirty, and congested – its air putrid with intense stench of filth and human waste. The daily travelers awaited their train home, wary from travel on Kanpur’s potholed roads. Families spread their belongings, forming miniature households on the railway platform. The mothers packed and unpacked food, children alternately ran and cried, as the elderly perched on bags muttered advices. A destitute old woman spending her days and nights on a tattered plastic banner beside a food stand swung her arms violently at swarming flies. The railway station appeared as if expressing its sadness with the current state of affairs and its despair about the city’s future.

Running an hour late, the Avadh Express, on a long and arduous 3 day 65 stops journey from Gorakhpur to Bandra Terminus, rolled into Kanpur Central at quarter to midnight. The AC coaches passed by. Lights switched off and curtains drawn across their glass windows. Had it not been for the windows, waiting passengers on the platform could have heard men and women snoring smugly under warm blankets. Then, as if to serve as a reminder of India’s reality, followed the sleeper coaches. Young boys and men stood at the door with empty plastic bottles in their hand, their eyes searching for the nearest water tap. Lights from the platform briefly lit the insides as they rattled by. From Bihar to the city of Bombay, trains do not travel – they migrate. The coaches were full of people and their luggage. Two, or at times three squeezed into a berth meant for one. The ticketless slept on newspapers spread on aisles between seats. In dimly lit coaches, boarding passengers at Kanpur Central fought their way to their berths, shouting at those sleeping on floor to move aside and carefully watching their steps. A misstep could have crushed a man’s foot, a woman’s hand or a child’s face.

I found my side upper berth in S9 occupied by a tall and wiry man fast asleep. His bright orange hair stood out in the dark. He crouched to fit his frame on the short side upper berth and rested his head on his bag.

A man’s bag often betrays the story of his life. This trusted travel partner is a silent witness to his travails, and bears the brunt like his own blood and flesh. The color of fading green, the man’s bag had small square pieces stitched up at different places. Its cloth had worn thin from the years, much like its owner. I tapped him on his shoulder. He woke up, as if expecting a nudge or a tap any moment.

“Bhaiya, mera seat hai”, I showed him my ticket.

He climbed down the berth, put on what once, a long time ago, must have been spotless white sports shoes, pulled his fading green bag and walked away – all with swift, assured movements. Perhaps it was routine. Traveling ticketless, choosing an empty berth and waiting for luck to run out at some point in the night. Never mind the account books of Indian Railways. Never mind the breach of rules and regulations. Why does a man travel? Or a more pertinent question is why do the poor travel in this manner? On dirty aisles between seats, legs going over them all night; beside the doors of toilets reeking with the smell of human waste. The answer perhaps lies in hope – hope of finding work, a better place to live, enough food to eat, and in faint chance of it all falling into place, perhaps a brighter tomorrow for the children. That is why the poor travel, in the hope that a new destination holds the answers to their great miseries. The Indian Railways keeps this hope alive. While most public institutions utterly fail in their responsibilities, Indian Railways does a great service to the poor, by keeping their hopes alive.

I woke up with a start. The train had come to a halt beside a nondescript platform. Early morning sun reached into the coach through its grilled windows. The tall, wiry man was asleep on a patch of newspapers on the floor, crouching to fit his frame in the small vacant space, his head resting on a fading green bag. A few minutes later, the train rumbled to life. I drifted back to sleep.

Bolo Naashta! Naashta! Naashta! Garma Garam Naashta Bolo!

9:15 AM. A loud voice with a peculiar characteristic boomed across the coach. It belonged to a stocky, middle aged man carrying hot samosas and batata vadas in a blue plastic bucket on his head. His voice woke up a passenger sleeping on the opposite upper berth. The passenger stretched and his feet hit him in the face. Unperturbed, he walked ahead, delivering his breakfast time monologue in his peculiar voice. Years of shouting out the contents of a hot basket on his head, day in and day out, had rendered his speech utterly listless and indifferent. He could be nearby, but it seemed his words were coming from a distance – almost as if his throat had become one of those old sound players. A few seats ahead, the usual routine scene played out. One of the passengers inquired –

“Eh Samosa! Idhar aa!”

“Samosa kaise diya?”

“Bees ka do”

“Garam hai?”

“Garam hai”

“2 de”

Exchanging money, the passenger takes the samosas in a piece of newspaper, with a chilli wedged nearby.

“Eh! Yeh kahaan garam hai? Garam bola tha na!”

The passenger digs his hand into the basket, touching samosas to gauge their temperature.

“Sab ek jaisa hi hai saab”

“Jaa fir waapas le ja. Mera paisa de”

He fishes for the twenty rupees in the pouch made into his stained apron. Returning them to the passenger, he walks ahead, delivering his breakfast monologue in his peculiar voice, to run into another such passenger in the next coach, for another such exchange. Little wonder then that he spoke and walked like a robot. Years of catering to the thankless passengers on moving trains, of carrying oily snacks on the head, in a stained apron had drained him, his voice of human emotion. It was no longer capable of surprise, of joy and even grief. Perhaps there would be anger. Surely, there would be anger.

Courtesy: A day in the life of India (TOI)

Three young men occupied the opposite berths. They were different ages and traveling together. The oldest among them must be in his early twenties. He looked out of the window, at the passing landscape, digging the last bits of Rajshree from his teeth with the overgrown nail on smallest finger of his right hand. His well-oiled hair parted from the middle. The youngest of the three idled on the upper berth and got down only to fill his 1.5L plastic bottle with a Coke cap with water from platform taps. The third guy, dressed in a red t-shirt and dark blue jeans, hunched beside the elder brother, black earphones plugged into his ear. They rarely ate or talked amongst each other, each whiling away the time in his own way. At noon, as the train departed from Kota Junction, a couple, probably in their early forties, occupied the two berths vacated a while ago. The lady, a black shawl wrapped around her, settled beside the window. The man in a checked shirt and black trousers sat beside her with the day’s Dainik Jagran.

Amidst the quintessential hustle-bustle on a long distance train, the quiet and silence in this section of S9 coach was stark and unsettling. Nobody ate anything for lunch. A few hours passed. The man, tired from reading sad affairs of the nation and the world, lied down and drifted into sleep. The lady continued to look out of the window, her eyes unmoving, her gaze fixed. She was looking at the farms and trees and wastelands rolling by without really noticing them. She was deep in thought and reflection. The constantly changing landscape, objects speeding past her eyes gave her the solitude to ruminate. It seems so strange, that of all places in the world, a moving train with its rattle and tattle should provide the seclusion to dive deep into nostalgia and reminisce unlike any other.

“Kahaan jayenge?” the elder brother asked me.

Kahaan jayenge… Often the first question strangers ask each other on a train – the question that is meant to break the ice. This simple question paves the way for long conversations and camaraderie. It could be an impassioned discussion on local politics, a general rant about scams and corruption, or a window into their private lives. It all starts with “kahaan jayenge?”

“Baroda”

“Naukri karte hai?”

“Nahi, ghar hai”

“Accha ek baat bataiye, Baroda…aur Vadodara ek hi shahar hai?”

“Haan ek hi hai… Aur aap?”

“Hum Vapi jaa rahe hai. Navneet factory me duty karte hai… Badi company hai”

In the hierarchy of jobs that low income households cherish for their young boys, the elusive sarkaari naukri takes top spot, followed by duty at a badi company. The word duty, with all its associations to a uniform, a work schedule and perhaps a cap, gives the job a comforting guise of dignity and stability. Naukri connotes unemployment – Naukri nahi mil rahi, Naukri ki talaash hai –while duty connotes a steady income.

“Hmm, badi company hai. Navneet ki kitaabe, copy acchi quality ki aati hai”

Acknowledgement of Navneet’s importance made the elder brother smile. He neatly opened a packet of Rajshree and lowered it in my direction. I politely declined. He emptied the contents in his mouth, and looked out of the window, chewing onto the gutka contentedly. The sky adorned shades of orange as the train speeded towards evening from a harsh summer afternoon. The air turned cooler and more agreeable. On the berths opposite, the man was now awake and sat upright as the lady, so many hours later, continued to stare vacantly outside the window. At long last, she turned and spoke to the man in a low tone –

“Phone karte hai usse. Pata nai bedsheet change kiya bhi hoga ki nahi”

A few moments later, the man replied,

“Kiya hoga. Humne nikalte waqt kaha toh tha”

“Ji… Maine makaan malik ko bhi kaha tha badalne ke liye”

“Dekho makaan malik bhi kitna accha tha. Aaj kal kahaan milte hai aise log”

The lady didn’t respond to this. She turned her gaze back to outside the window, as distant landscape obscured from view in the fading evening light. A catering services boy carrying biscuits, cakes, wafers and chocolates moved around cheerfully, loudly exhorting passengers to buy some. He moved quickly and cleverly paused to rearrange the contents of his basket near the section with kids to entice their attention and nudge this attention into stubbornness. A passenger picked up a Britannia cake packet. Its expiry date was next month. She refused to buy a packet due for expiry so soon. But the catering boy persisted – weaving vague stories and theories like a salesman keen to close a deal. He took ‘personal guarantee’ of the cake’s quality, explaining how companies always undermined the life of their goods. It doesn’t work out that way in India, he quipped. As the haggle continued, a now-familiar listless voice filled the air, as if leaking from an old loudspeaker in the distance –

“Khaana! Khaana! Khaana. Sabzi roti ka garam khana boliye!”

The difference between two men doing the same work couldn’t have been starker – one morose and mechanical, the other ebullient and enthusiastic. One wary and hardened from the years gone by, the other filled with hope and optimism for the future. That is the thing about youth; one thinks one can change the world.

“Kanpur kaahe gaye the?” the elder brother resumed conversation. He had noted me boarding at Kanpur Central.

“Interview”

His eyes widened. He leaned forward and asked “Naukri?”

“Nahi… Padhaai”

“Accha…” He slouched back into the seat.

“Hum soche ki hum yahaan Lucknowve se Gujarat aaye hai… koi Gujarat se U.P. kaahe jayega 
naukri ke liye”

There are articles and statistics galore highlighting the poor economic growth and rampant unemployment in the Hindi heartland of India. But the momentary disbelief on his face, upon hearing someone going to U.P. for a job interview, captured gravity of the situation like no written word can.

The lady turned her gaze away from the window to speak to her husband –

“9 ghante ho gaye…”

“Hmm, 9 ghante ho gaye. Kal subah ek poora din ho jayega. Isi tarah din aur mahine beet 
jayenge…”

Silence ensued. She looked out of the window. It had turned pitch dark by now. One could barely see the outline of trees and hillocks passing by, beyond the lights from the train. The elder brother reached for his bag beneath the seat and took out a rectangular box with a shiny sticker on its head. Bold letters in dark green majestic font read “Lucknow Bakery”. He opened the box and offered –

“Lijiye bhaiya. Lucknow ke mashoor”

“Thank you” I took one biscuit and ate.

“Hum jab bhi Lucknow aate hai, do teen box zaroor le kar laut te hai Gujarat. Chote ko kaafi pasand hai” He looked at the upper berth.

“Kitni baar jaana hota hai Lucknow?”

He sighed and looked out into the dark as he spoke –

“Saal me do teen baar. Jab bhi ghar me kaam aata hai, chale aate hai. Baaki samay wahin Gujarat me. Factory waale room diye hai just factory ke bagal me. Wohin par khaana, peena, sona”

“Lucknow me hi naukri lene ki koshish nahi ki?”

“Lucknowve me kahaan bhaiya. Naukri milegi bhi toh paisa nai milega. Aur Lucknow, Kanpuri ke aage kuch nai hai… Yahaan Gujarat me paisa theek milta hai. Parivaar ke 6-7 ladke yahin kaam karte hai. Iss baar Chote ko bhi lekar chal rahe hai. Bade saahab bole hai Chote ki duty lagwaa denge”

Forced migration and its perils – that explained the youngest brother, Chote, spending the day alone on the upper berth, not talking to anyone, not gazing out of the window or listening to songs. He even refused to eat Lucknow Bakery biscuits. He was making the journey from home to an unfamiliar place, filled with strangers and an alien language. He was making the journey from friends to fellow workers, from freedom to ‘duty’, from cricket in the gully to stacks of white blank paper in a factory.

The lady spoke again –

“Khaana khaya hoga ki nahi?”

“Nahi khaya hoga toh kha lega…kyun itni fikar karti ho”

“Pehli baar ghar se alag, apne aap rahega. Pata nai kaise…” Her voice cracked.

The man sighed.

“Reh lega… Bacche sikh jaate hai. Buwajaan ka ladka Feroze bhi toh reh raha hai ek saal se”

He continued –

“Kal se class shuru ho jayegi. Fir padhai me hi samay beet jayega uska. Ghar ki yaad nahi aayegi”

He spoke as much to himself as to his wife, consoling his own uncertainties and fears he chose not to give words. It all became clear now. They had boarded at Kota. They had come to drop their son for his studies at the hub of IIT JEE and AIEEE preparations. Every year, thousands of students migrated to Kota to realize the ultimate dream – IIT – the passport to unbridled success and prosperity, the bragging rights for life.

The lady concurred –

“Aakhir uske future ke liye yahi theek hai”

She opened a bottle of water and drank a little. The man called his son. He had finished dinner and changed the bed sheet, about to sleep to be up in time for the 7 AM Physics class next morning.
The rattle of moving train became more pronounced in the silence of night. Cold wind gushed in from the open windows. A space of six train berths, and three different stories – one, of flight from home to earn a living for the family thousand miles away, the other, of separation from lone son in hope of a better education, and yet another a journey in search of newer pastures. And yet the three disparate stories shared a common theme – hope, hope for a better future.Therein lies the beauty of Indian Railways. Each train is a microcosm of quintessential Indian society.

The unforgettable voice, peculiar in its complete lack of emotion, like sound leaking from an old loudspeaker could be heard from the distance.

“Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana. Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana”

The Mech. Department, FTE. In Words.

Dandia Bazaar, Vadodara. 

Opposite the Navalakhi ground, facing a few flourishing Xerox and Sandwich shops, lies a massive garbage dump. Plastic waste, rotten fruits and vegetables accumulate and spill over on the road, much to the delight of stray dogs and street-urchins. Adjacent to the garbage dump, sprawls majestically, the massive campus of the Faculty of Technology and Engineering, The Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda. South of the campus is the department that churns out men who, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to assert, are the prime movers of India, and indeed the World as we know it. 

The Mechanical Engineering Department. 

Yes, there are other departments on the campus: Electrical, Textile, Civil, Chemical, Computer Science, so and so forth. They are but peripheral. 

They exist. The Mechanical Department lives.      

Two huge wooden gates painted in white stand at the entrance. Their enormity, their wheel-shaped handles and their design make all entrants feel like a Maratha warrior riding past on a horse. It is a fitting entrance for a department that houses glorious boilers, vintage diesel engines, long wind tunnels and a non-functioning replica of a turboprop. The administrative office houses an eclectic mix of people. A true-blue padiki connoisseur with ironed clothes  and copiously oiled Godrej black hair, an old lady stationed at a lone chair at the back, her old expressionless eyes transfixed straight ahead, overseeing the happenings in the office through a pair of 1960s spectacles, and a peon whose demeanor betrays the tremendous efforts it takes for a man to stay awake. The padiki connoisseur runs the show, chewing onto gutka in his mouth, and detests all queries that cannot be resolved with a nod or a shake of the head. For that means, he'll have to spit out the juice blissfully swishing around in his dental setup. 
 
Efficient information sharing is the life blood of all successful institutions, and few do it better than the Mechanical Engineering department. Towards the left, one finds a notice board displaying data - in color paint - on sound pollution in decibels caused by different means. Towards the right, hangs a notice for CNG Rickshaw drivers. Quite the information that shall empower the Mechanical Engineers of tomorrow to tackle what farsighted MBA Finance students call the Volatile Complex Uncertain and Ambiguous (VUCA) world. 

The Main Campus (Courtesy ftemsu-placements.org)

Further on the way are the workshops. Workshops are to the Mechanical Department what jewelery is to a bride on her wedding day. First one to the right is my favorite "Turning Shop". It has about 5 operational lathe machines out of 15 odd installed over a wide area. The Turning Shop has large drums meant for winding steel scrap, a product of turning mild steel jobs on lathe machines. However, what goes in along with the steel scrap is red-colored paan jets spat out by the lab assistant with a frequency that could put a lathe's rotating flywheel to shame. This noble activity renders the steel scrap thrown in the drum orange in color thus making for a visual treat unlike any other. In one desolate corner of the shop is a room for the workshop in-charge who prefers to consume his share of tobacco by smoking beedis in his wooden cabin. This cabin is a small area devoid of any ventilation, essentially making it a chimney closed at the top. Conservative estimates state spending 3 minutes in this cabin is equivalent to smoking a couple of 501 beedis. 

Carpentry, Smithy, Welding and Fabrication. The hallowed places where freshers hack and polish wooden pieces into plus-shaped assemblies, heat and hammer cylindrical metal pieces into hexagonal objects and cut a U on biscuit thick steel jobs. The workshops instill a life-long respect for the skills in men they'll go on to supervise and lead. In today's day and age of 'engineering colleges' set up in few floors of a building, the Mech Department's extensive workshops are of great significance, standing tall as guardians of grassroots learning. And in desperate times of college fests and project submissions, the workshops turn into veritable divine shrines, where everyone goes for solutions to their myriad problems.  

Further ahead on the way, at the centre of the department stands a Ganesha temple under a blue-colored dome structure. The temple is surrounded by tall lights powered by solar panels. Towards the left is our neighborhood. One finds unfamiliar students sitting on an array of parked vehicles. Boys playing cricket with girls, sharing lunch packs with one another. Overall a very amiable environment with lots of noise and banter. This is the Textile Department.

Not the gate to Mech Dept, but indicative! (Courtesy ftemsu-placements.org)

Towards the right, the 'core area' of the department begins. Tarnished brick buildings of the shape of buttress threads carrying long fink roof trusses run parallel to each other on either sides of the road. At the fag end of this road, to the left lies the room used least. A small wooden board bolted on its door reads 'Ladies Toilet'.

Besides the place, a great deal of the department's character comes from the strength of its people. The staff in general and lab assistants in particular are a fascinating bunch of people. One of them with build of a bouncer doubles up as security during Vadodara Marathon events. With mouths stuffed to the brim with Rajshri, the lab assistants maraud across the department, hurling the choicest of expletives in Gujarati at each other. Even in good, friendly moments, they refer to each other as thokiya and keep reminding one another of the beedi or cha the other guy owes. Nonetheless, their ingenious ability to come up with practical solutions to problems is stuff of legend. Ever so often, students would walk up to any one of them. A non-functioning rope pulley mechanism, a shaft that doesn't fit well into its hole, or a car with faulty braking system. Chewing onto gutka, the lab assistant carefully listens to every problem, nodding and thinking hard. Deep in thought, he spits out the contents of his mouth with a violent force, as if disgusted with the fact that textbooks failed to teach us to solve such simple problems. And he would go on to explain the solution, practical and detailed to the extent of the exact shop in old city that 'll help out with the material or workmanship.

They do not hold a degree in mechanical engineering, but the degree of their hold on mechanical engineering in true sense of the word is superlative. In a department with disproportionate male population, they are the men.

Finally, a narrative on the department would be incomplete without a mention of the teachers. Perhaps it comes from studying and practicing the subject for long years, but the Mechanical Engineering department houses a motley bunch of teachers, practical in their outlook and relaxed in approach. An Engineering Drawing professor travels to the college on a cycle and crafts isometric models from chart paper to explain the terrifying subject to terrified freshers. A Thermal Engineering professor draws parallels between mechanical engineering and Navaratri in his class, claiming, and with good reason, that both after all revolved around the worship of energy (E). A young teacher, in his first lecture, ridicules all numerical questions as impractical for it isn't possible to measure quantities as determined on a calculator. In their free time, they congregate at a spot called 'bakda' and discuss, in loud voices, issues of national significance.


Nestled within the campus, the mechanical engineering department is a world unto itself. A world one occupies for four years, only to become its lifelong admirer.

3 Key Reasons Why Gujaratis are a Nuisance

Deeply disturbed by the incessant sharing and relentless re-sharing of  posts like "10 Reasons Why Gujjus are the Best People on Earth!", I bring to you, as I must, the counter points.

Dear Gujaratis, enough of your self-aggrandizing and megalomania on the internet.

1. Travel Nuisance:

Gujaratis, specially on holidays, travel in herds. Sadly, Indian Railways and IRCTC do not exist for exclusive use of Gujjus, and there's a cap on number of tickets you can book in one go. Result is berths scattered across coaches. But what to do? No matter how many we are, we HAVE to travel together, according to Article 37, Para 2 (b) of the Constitution of India.

God help you if you are traveling alone on a line that remotely touches a popular holiday destination. Large, large groups of Gujjus will storm into your trains, and once they are done arranging their 18 tonnes of luggage ( 70% food, 30% utilities is the thumb rule), they will maraud from coach to coach, looking for those who are "single" - Gujju for traveling alone - and coax you for your berth because you know "Ame badha group ma che" and there are "laddies and nana chokra" and the classic "saathe jamvama takleef padse". You change your berth, often twice or thrice, and still find yourself in company of Gujjus.

It's late night, and you want to sleep. But you can't because Gujju ladies around are talking (loudly of course) about all the snacks they prepared and packed for this trip, the difficulties they faced while making them, arguments and counter arguments on the correct recipes, in between lambasting children to stop running around and finish their food.

Wait, your ordeal isn't over.

Not yet.

Some uncle in the group has his b'day tomorrow. The clock strikes twelve. You are in the clutches of sleep.

A voice booms nearby "Ae halo, utho! Dilip bhai no budday celebrate karvano he!"

And then there are celebrations, complete with the cake, the singing (happy budday to you followed by tum jiyo hajaro saal), and the clapping.

At midnight. In a moving train.

By the time your journey comes to an end, the coach smells like a restaurant's unventilated kitchen, its air heavy with the smell of thepla, dhokla, pickles, three types of fruit and on bad days, a half eaten cake.

Somewhere in the air , there's also the smoke of your AC ticket money burnt to ashes, and your rage.

2. Eating Out Nuisance:

Gujaratis are vegetarian*

*Terms and Conditions are generally different permutations and combinations of the below:

a) No onions

b) No garlic

c) No onions AND garlic ("delicious" snacks are exempt)

d) No onions and garlic and potatoes and beetroot and everything that grows under the soil (except in samosa, sometimes)

 e) Restaurant should be 100% pure veg.

f) Veg plus Non Veg eateries won't do because *wide eyes, horror* they might be using the same spoons and vessels to cook both. SO WHAT THEY ARE WASHED. ANIMAL FLESH IS IMMUNE TO WATER AND SOAP YOU EMBODIMENT OF BLASPHEMY. McDonald's though is exempt, mostly.

Result is, eating options for Gujaratis are severely limited in places outside in Gujarat and in a multi-cultural group. So while you are out to eat with your bunch of friends and order a round of drinks with chilly chicken to go, the gujarati across the table stares nervously, and you tell the waiter - "ek pepsi aur french fries add kar do"

"Err..French fries ki jagah peanut masala kar do..pyaaz mat daalna".

"French Fries me aaloo..."

Thus, every dinner outing involving Gujjus, considerable time is spent fretting over the place to go and food to eat. What if the eatery cooks veg and non-veg meals in the same kitchen? What if there are no no onion-no garlic dishes? What if people at adjacent table order chicken..or god forbid, fish?

We Gujjus are the odd ones out, a minority for which special provisions are to be made.And comments on B school forums and caste-centered op-eds will tell you, no majority likes to make special provisions for the minority.

3. Festival Nuisance:

Makar Sankranti is the first festival every new calendar year. While people across the country mark the beginning of harvest season, bathe in holy rivers, visit their near and dear ones, visit temples to perform religious ceremonies, Gujjus are slightly more traditional and understated in their celebrations of Uttarayana.

As sun rises on 14th of January, a Gujarati rises to his terrace, armed with a bunch of kites and bulky spool of string, tiny shreds of glass in it glinting in  morning sun. Soon enough, the latest item song played at full blast rends the air. The entire city is on its terraces, water tanks, balconies - engaged in fierce kite battles, shrill war cries of lapppppeeeetttt and hooting and whistling and bollywood music all around. Drowned somewhere in all the din and bustle is a desperate flutter of terrified birds.

The sun sets and it is too dark to fly kites. But, WE ARE GUJARATIS AND THIS IS GUJARAT AND THE PARTY IS STILL ON! So we light chinese balloons and dispatch  them from the top of our terraces. So what if they might cause fire somewhere and result in huge losses? They make for great facebook pictures!

And how do we cap a day of excellent kite flying and bird slaughter? Fire crackers, of course! Gujaratis are too rich to buy fire crackers just for Diwali, and the chinese-lantern-lighting-potential-facebook-profile-pic-clicking ritual is followed by a round of lighting all fire-crackers from bombs to rockets right up there in the terraces. The force of explosion shakes buildings and rockets might fly off course to injure someone... but - tu jalsa kar ne yaar!


Navaratri (Rest of India) - a festival to worship nine forms of Goddess Shakti
Navaratri (Gujarat) - Worship? LOL. Chalo garba ramva! Also, dandiya!

Who has the time and the energy and importantly, the money to celebrate a festival nine days at a stretch? Right, Gujjus. A Gujarati's preparation for Navaratri can only be rivaled by a Bihari's preparation for UPSC exams. Such are the stakes. Gujaratis pay their obeisances to the Goddess of Shakti by dancing around in circles, for hours together, to songs that go - yaad piya ki aane lagi, haay bheegi bheegi raaton mein...played at loud, loud volumes.

Make no mistake, Navaratri in Gujarat is a visual treat but an acoustic pain.

Following nine nights of revelry, Gujjus celebrate Dusshera - the historic victory of Lord Rama over king Ravana, a victory of good over evil, of truth over falsehood - by gorging  on fafda-jalebi. What is the relevance of fafda-jalebi to Lord Rama's victory? Did Lord Rama and his Vaanar Sena have fafda-jalebi for breakfast in Lanka the day they finally decimated Raavan? Or is it a Supreme Court directive?  Never mind. In Gujarat, Jai Shri Ram is Jai Shri *burps* Ram.

Gujjus burst crackers on Uttarayan evening. So you can imagine the level of celebrations on Diwali. The peculiar thing about Diwali in Gujarat is, it isn't a one day or two day affair. It lasts for an entire week. The entire place comes to a virtual standstill.

Why?

"DON'T YOU DARE ASK WHY. WE ARE GUJARATIS AND THIS IS GUJARAT. WE ARE THE KINGS OF BUSINESS. WE ARE THE CREATORS OF WEALTH. WE ADD MORE TO THE GDP IN ONE YEAR THAN YOU DO IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. SO WE CAN TAKE A WEEK OFF FOR A ONE DAY FESTIVAL, OKAY?

Also, END THIS POST ALREADY! WE ARE FASTEST GROWING STATE ON EARTH. WE ARE DEVELOPMENT. WE ARE 24*7 ELECTRICITY. WE ARE ROADS. WE ARE CUTE. WE LOVE FOOD. WE ARE MATHS WIZARDS.

NARENDRA MODI IS A GUJARATI!"- Gujjus