Does the economic wellbeing of a nation afford its grassroot level functionaries enough discretion? Well,I feel so.
In a recent American contest, the “indiscretion” as attributed to Mahatma Gandhi and Indian gods and goddesses (remember the “You Tube dance” and “Maxim bout” ! ) may have been in bad taste, but the amount of discretion that society gives to its grassroots -level functionaries is something that won our hearts during our sojourn in that country this summer.
We were then in Denver, the capital of Colorado. We set out to go for a city tour when at the ticket counter of a historical monument, we were asked to present our identification documents. We had forgotten to carry our passports and what I could flaunt to the woman on the counter was my I-card.
She recognised my photo and quipped, “An officer!” “Indian Police Service”, I said with pride. With a matching glint of appreciation, she said, “Welcome, sir, and bring the lady also in.” We did not have to buy tickets; instead the tour was all gratis with a guide in tow.
At an unaffordable town inhabited by rich and fashionable people, Aspen, also famous for being one of the world’s top destinations for skiing, the question as to whether a “Group of five concession” should be given to us or not arose again. We were four adults besides our one-year-old grand-daughter, Anaysa. She being the fifth member, we claimed the group concession. The woman on the cash counter, having a good look at Anaysa, wrapped in a pink snow-suit then, smiled and happily conceded the desired concession.
While going in a city bus to King Sooper, a grocery store, the driver of the bus played what turned out to be an innocuous prank on us. He was a Muslim from Mumbai, and his complexion being pinkish-white, we could not make out his Indian connection. I offered three one-dollar bills for being fed to the ticket machine when he said I needed to put “Thirty dollars, sir”.
I was shocked, for that was a fare demanded 10 times more than the actual. I held my hand back when he smiled again speaking in Hindustani, “Hota hai bhaijaan, yahan bason main bhi chalna padta hai!” And he allowed us a free return ride on our way back. Next day again we took the same route when on our return journey on the same tickets, the new driver said we needed to buy fresh ones. When we told him about the previous day’s journey undertaken on the same route, for the same duration and between the same stations, he allowed us his discretion.
At Glenwood Springs we reached Adventure Park through the cable cars at five in the evening. The charges being quite high, we were advised to preferably come the next day, for just an hour was left when the park would close. We wanted to visit the park, time being very short with us, notwithstanding. “Alright, in that case you can visit the park on the same tickets tomorrow as well in case you are able to find some time” offered the man on the counter.
Here again at Star Bucks, ordering Chai Latte for four “to go”, we enquired as to where could we find milk for the baby, since at quite a few places visited that evening we could not arrange milk for Anaysa. Lo and behold! The stewardess filled a take-away container with two glassfuls of milk and said, “You don’t need to go anywhere else. And don’t need to pay either!”
This Article has been published in The Tribune dated June 25,2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
DID U DO IT.....?
Nosey Parker was snooping around as usual with his beak buried deep in the garbage when to his utter exhilaration he heard the cries in the sky, “Did ye du et — Did ye du et did did?” Nosey Parker looked up to shoot; I mean record in his camera, the exclusive bytes.
The Jungle Babbler, known for his intrusive, naughty and yarn-spinning habits, tweeted at the journo, winked at him and beckoned as if to give the official version. Taken aback, as if someone else had also picked up his exclusive scoop, the journo questioned the impish bird if he also heard the shrieks of, “Did you do it!”
The Babbler knew the anxiety of Nosey Parker and in furtherance of his innate endeavour to tease him he whispered something in the ears of the stringer. “Can you arrange an interview with her? Oh please don’t say no!” “Well, it happens almost daily. It’s not something unusual with her. It’s not at all which makes news, I mean the man-biting-the-dog sort of?” the Babbler tried to rubbish the reporting idea.
Nosey Parker insisted, “No dear, what after all was there in Gudiya, Farzana and Anara episodes? Still we had to drag these poor things out of their homes and present the “real picture” before the people in larger public interest, particularly when every journalist, howsoever incredible, had been doing it”.
“Oh yes, there you are. You followed the stories since everyone was (over) doing it. Well, there ees a point in that.” The Babbler muffled the “over” part and stressed the “is”. Again the tweet of “Did ye du et duet — did did” rented the open skies. Nosey Parker became restless when the Jungle Babbler grimaced turning his eyes away from the curious reporter.
The Babbler asked Nosey Parker to watch and record from a distance when he would be interviewing the victim of “Did you do it?” “Behenji, will you tell our audience how do you feel after going through the ordeal of ‘Did you do it’ since you have been tweeting for quite some time seeking to know the culprit?” The victim squeaked at him scornfully, “D,did ye du et?” “No, no behenji, I am a journalist. I don’t do myself. I simply fling the others’ doing in public-ehm-ehm, bird interest only!” The Babbler again sneered with his tongue firmly in his beak.
Having interviewed the “victim”, Nosey Parker rushed and pridefully presented the story to the Editor. Lo and behold, everything got washed out — video, audio and everything. The disgusted Editor gave good amount of birdshit to Nosey Parker who rushed back to look up the Jungle Babbler.
He overheard the naughty Babbler talking to the forgetful Lap Wing: “I knew that you as habit would forget the place of your laying eggs and then scream around as if someone had stolen them squeaking ‘Did you do it’, but this Nosey Parker fellow thought he had picked up the best of scoops.”
Having known this now, Nosey Parker asked them as if cheated, “But what happened to my recording?” Replied the Jungle Babbler, “Don’t you know we have beepers and jammers planted under our wings to ward off the recording done by the likes of you in larger bird interests.” They laughed to their guts content while Nosey Parker again buried his beak in the garbage.
This article was published in The Tribune on Oct 21, 2005.
The Jungle Babbler, known for his intrusive, naughty and yarn-spinning habits, tweeted at the journo, winked at him and beckoned as if to give the official version. Taken aback, as if someone else had also picked up his exclusive scoop, the journo questioned the impish bird if he also heard the shrieks of, “Did you do it!”
The Babbler knew the anxiety of Nosey Parker and in furtherance of his innate endeavour to tease him he whispered something in the ears of the stringer. “Can you arrange an interview with her? Oh please don’t say no!” “Well, it happens almost daily. It’s not something unusual with her. It’s not at all which makes news, I mean the man-biting-the-dog sort of?” the Babbler tried to rubbish the reporting idea.
Nosey Parker insisted, “No dear, what after all was there in Gudiya, Farzana and Anara episodes? Still we had to drag these poor things out of their homes and present the “real picture” before the people in larger public interest, particularly when every journalist, howsoever incredible, had been doing it”.
“Oh yes, there you are. You followed the stories since everyone was (over) doing it. Well, there ees a point in that.” The Babbler muffled the “over” part and stressed the “is”. Again the tweet of “Did ye du et duet — did did” rented the open skies. Nosey Parker became restless when the Jungle Babbler grimaced turning his eyes away from the curious reporter.
The Babbler asked Nosey Parker to watch and record from a distance when he would be interviewing the victim of “Did you do it?” “Behenji, will you tell our audience how do you feel after going through the ordeal of ‘Did you do it’ since you have been tweeting for quite some time seeking to know the culprit?” The victim squeaked at him scornfully, “D,did ye du et?” “No, no behenji, I am a journalist. I don’t do myself. I simply fling the others’ doing in public-ehm-ehm, bird interest only!” The Babbler again sneered with his tongue firmly in his beak.
Having interviewed the “victim”, Nosey Parker rushed and pridefully presented the story to the Editor. Lo and behold, everything got washed out — video, audio and everything. The disgusted Editor gave good amount of birdshit to Nosey Parker who rushed back to look up the Jungle Babbler.
He overheard the naughty Babbler talking to the forgetful Lap Wing: “I knew that you as habit would forget the place of your laying eggs and then scream around as if someone had stolen them squeaking ‘Did you do it’, but this Nosey Parker fellow thought he had picked up the best of scoops.”
Having known this now, Nosey Parker asked them as if cheated, “But what happened to my recording?” Replied the Jungle Babbler, “Don’t you know we have beepers and jammers planted under our wings to ward off the recording done by the likes of you in larger bird interests.” They laughed to their guts content while Nosey Parker again buried his beak in the garbage.
This article was published in The Tribune on Oct 21, 2005.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
New Orleans Before The Catarina Hit
It's for no ordinary reason that New Orleans is among the most visited places on earth. It has a history. A mystifying geography. And a culture that forces you into identifying with strong human emotions of pain and pleasure, jubilation and desperation, ecstasy and wonder.
The magical charm of its voodoos, ghosts, and haunted houses coupled with the social whirls of Mardi Gras, the highest pitch and frenzy of tarantella, its spirit permeating the city throughout the year, adds spice to life.
Excited at an offer of a free trip to New Orleans we were waiting for our coach to arrive at the Holiday Inn at Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana. Our escort, John Zins was educating us on the inevitable city, in the warm sunshine rendered almost useless because the chilly breeze made us cling on to our jackets wrapping them a little more tightly around our bodies.
The highway to New Orleans floated through swamps and marshland that turned into vast lakes at places. We made our 90-mile-long journey over long bridges. The longest stretching 24 miles over Lake Pontchartrain. Early March had denuded all the tropical trees of their foliage.
New Orleans is about 200 miles off the Mississippi mouth in the Gulf of Mexico. The river with its mud-banks flows 10-15 feet above sea level. The city stands on a levee and they dig 70 feet deep foundations to erect high-rise buildings here because of a high water table. The first skyscrapers, built in the city in 1795-1811, were three-stories tall.
Long barges floating on the Mississippi packed with merchandise stand testimony to the city’s trading past. Plantations on either bank of the river were once managed like huge commercial fiefdoms owned by rich landlords who traded in indigo, cotton-ginning, tobacco, rice and employed slaves in their hundreds. The cemeteries in the city are built above the ground where the dead are buried in stacks not inside, but above the earth. Legend has it that a farmer while dying beseeched his children not to bury him underground since he had spent all his life in misery, in the marsh, mud and muck. And that he was going, he wanted some respite from the waters in his death. Since then, folklore has it, the cemeteries have always been built above the ground. New Orleans has a mystifying and awe-inspiring interest in its voodoo and haunted houses. The place has historically been associated with disease and epidemics, which the early settlers from France and Spain suffered along with the Acadians or the Cajuns – the locals. Once upon a time the city was dominated by French architecture, which later gave way to Spanish; the latter rulers ensured a systematic approach to preserving architectural impressions in keeping with the city’s history.
We first stopped at the zoo on the banks of the Mississippi, a simulated swamp with fountains and carvings as cuspy as soft tendrils. A colony of flamingos were a major attraction. An 8-feet high statue of the sitting Buddha took us by surprise in the middle of the park.
Crossing a railway track through the lush green terrain, we reached the banks of Mississippi from where we were to join a cruise to the French quarters, sailing through the Crescent Crown in a Horseshoe route. Piercing cold breeze brought black and threatening clouds from nowhere and soon it started raining. Picnickers rushed to a shelter, their beer cans literally blown off their hands by the wind. Umbrellas turned inside out and challenged their users in a chase of sorts completely drenching them in the piercing rain. Families out on a holiday packed their children and pets into waiting cars and caravans, even as half-a-dozen among us, braved the weather, clutching a pillar for support.
This article was published in The Economic Times on 27th March, 2003.
The magical charm of its voodoos, ghosts, and haunted houses coupled with the social whirls of Mardi Gras, the highest pitch and frenzy of tarantella, its spirit permeating the city throughout the year, adds spice to life.
Excited at an offer of a free trip to New Orleans we were waiting for our coach to arrive at the Holiday Inn at Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana. Our escort, John Zins was educating us on the inevitable city, in the warm sunshine rendered almost useless because the chilly breeze made us cling on to our jackets wrapping them a little more tightly around our bodies.
The highway to New Orleans floated through swamps and marshland that turned into vast lakes at places. We made our 90-mile-long journey over long bridges. The longest stretching 24 miles over Lake Pontchartrain. Early March had denuded all the tropical trees of their foliage.
New Orleans is about 200 miles off the Mississippi mouth in the Gulf of Mexico. The river with its mud-banks flows 10-15 feet above sea level. The city stands on a levee and they dig 70 feet deep foundations to erect high-rise buildings here because of a high water table. The first skyscrapers, built in the city in 1795-1811, were three-stories tall.
Long barges floating on the Mississippi packed with merchandise stand testimony to the city’s trading past. Plantations on either bank of the river were once managed like huge commercial fiefdoms owned by rich landlords who traded in indigo, cotton-ginning, tobacco, rice and employed slaves in their hundreds. The cemeteries in the city are built above the ground where the dead are buried in stacks not inside, but above the earth. Legend has it that a farmer while dying beseeched his children not to bury him underground since he had spent all his life in misery, in the marsh, mud and muck. And that he was going, he wanted some respite from the waters in his death. Since then, folklore has it, the cemeteries have always been built above the ground. New Orleans has a mystifying and awe-inspiring interest in its voodoo and haunted houses. The place has historically been associated with disease and epidemics, which the early settlers from France and Spain suffered along with the Acadians or the Cajuns – the locals. Once upon a time the city was dominated by French architecture, which later gave way to Spanish; the latter rulers ensured a systematic approach to preserving architectural impressions in keeping with the city’s history.
We first stopped at the zoo on the banks of the Mississippi, a simulated swamp with fountains and carvings as cuspy as soft tendrils. A colony of flamingos were a major attraction. An 8-feet high statue of the sitting Buddha took us by surprise in the middle of the park.
Crossing a railway track through the lush green terrain, we reached the banks of Mississippi from where we were to join a cruise to the French quarters, sailing through the Crescent Crown in a Horseshoe route. Piercing cold breeze brought black and threatening clouds from nowhere and soon it started raining. Picnickers rushed to a shelter, their beer cans literally blown off their hands by the wind. Umbrellas turned inside out and challenged their users in a chase of sorts completely drenching them in the piercing rain. Families out on a holiday packed their children and pets into waiting cars and caravans, even as half-a-dozen among us, braved the weather, clutching a pillar for support.
This article was published in The Economic Times on 27th March, 2003.
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