My Tryst with Classic Literature

“The first ray of light which illuminates the gloom, and converts into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted”

Thus starts ‘The Pickwick Papers’ by Charles Dickens. I have read that sentence (yes, it is only one sentence) at least ten times now and I am still not sure what Mr Dickens is trying to say here. Some parts of it are clear, but the parts somehow do not add up to a coherent message coming through. As far as I can guess (as that is the only option left), he is trying to commend himself on a job well done even though that would primarily fall under the job description of his readers. Blowing your own trumpet? By none other than Charles Dickens! Maybe it is not such a bad quality after all.

However, that is not the subject of this post. The subject is my constant struggle with classic literature, and why I continue to even keep trying. I am an avid reader of fiction, particularly the thriller genre. But ever-so-often, after a couple of totally predictable but nonetheless enjoyable Robert Ludlums or Steve Berrys, I feel guilty. Like I am doing a grave injustice to myself and the world of books by reading these seemingly inconsequential pieces of junk only for entertainment and not using books for the principle reasons that they are meant for – to gain knowledge and an appreciation of the written word. Which is why every time I go book shopping, I always end up with a few fiction books and at least one classic literature which suffer to same fate as the latest one by Mr Dickens (Of course, I stopped reading after the encounter with the first sentence).

And this is not new. I remember having spent a full two months getting through ‘The Fountainhead’ by Ayn Rand. That effort was so monumental that it got a full post dedicated to it in this blog when it was finally completed. And another classic by the same celebrated author, namely, ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’ is now immortal in my memory as ‘the book’ to read when you want to fall asleep fast. Recommended to anyone with insomnia!

And lying unread in a shelf in my room are ‘Great Expectations’ by Dickens again and Homer’s ‘The Iliad’ for appreciation of the written word and ‘Vivekanand and his teachings on the spiritual unity of humankind’ for gaining knowledge. But before that I must complete ‘The Paris Option’ by Robert Ludlum, ‘Stone Cold’ by Steve Baldacci, ‘The Cobra’ by Frederick Forsyth and Sidney Sheldon’s ‘After The Darkness’. The race is on; albeit an unfair one, as the winner has been decided even before it can start. As for those books, they will find better use in my house as pieces of décor that people can see and appreciate and leave it at that. Reading and appreciating just does not seem to be my cup of tea!

It happens only in India – Part II

The second incident in the recent past that left me incredulous at the country that is India.

Scene: An altercation with an auto rickshaw and a traffic policeman on a Sunday afternoon at Priyadarshini signal in Mumbai

I will be the first to admit that my driving needs to mellow down a bit (you can argue on the extent of mellowing required, but at least it’s a start from my side. I am now past the denial stage). In one such incident of rash driving on the aforementioned Sunday afternoon, I was speeding across a flyover behind a garbage truck that smelled like…well, garbage!

In my bid to get past it with minimal exposure to the stench, I attempted a standard ‘switch lane and accelerate’ method of overtaking, only to find the garbage truck attempting the same maneuver at the absolute last second (maybe my policy of not honking incessantly to avoid noise pollution is to blame), forcing me to brake and swerve left and graze another auto rickshaw (filled with 2 adults and 3 children in a vehicle meant for only 3 people) that was on its own race to get to its destination before apocalypse struck.

My first reaction was to check the auto rickshaw to check its status and having satisfactorily established that the driver was skilful enough to maintain balance, allowed survival instinct to take over. Since there seemed to be no damage to the rickshaw or its occupants, I decided to make a run for it in the hope of outrunning the auto, but was thwarted after 200 meters at the aforementioned signal, which allowed the auto to catch up with me and left him with sufficient time to get out and reach my passenger door with the choicest of obscenities waiting to be let loose from his cannon of a mouth.

After an initial moment of panic, I decided my best chance lay in acknowledging my mistake, apologizing profusely and hoping for mercy (as opposed to trying to explain to him that the garbage truck was partially at fault or fighting it out with him while denying any fault whatsoever). And so apologize profusely I did, all the while asking him to keep his language civil (only to let you visualize the scene better, I would guess the occupants of the auto as relocated slum dwellers). His reaction was to threaten to uproot my car door if I did not park at the side from in between a red light surrounded by cars on all sides with no opportunity to turn while letting loose the obscenities which I had been trying to keep to a minimum. Thankfully, the auto driver had the good/bad/at least something sense to call the traffic policeman who promptly sat at my passenger side and heard my side of the story.

The conversation after parking went something like this:

Traffic Policeman (TP): License hai

Me: Haan, hai

TP: Usko mat dena license, aur gaadi se mat nikalna, warna who marega

Me: (do I look crazy, of course I am not getting out) Theek hai

TP (Leaning towards me): Aapne daaru pee hain?

Me: Kya? Nahin…mint kha raha hoon, saamne padi hai, aap bhi le sakte hain

After this, the auto driver and his occupant proceeded to explain the whole situation to the policeman where I was made to sound like a monster whom the auto escaped from only because of the Schumakeresque driving skills of the auto driver. (Visualize me still apologizing all this while wholeheartedly agreeing to whatever they said.)

TP: Aapka license dikhao

Me: (Reluctantly handing it to the TP) Yeh raha.

TP: Uska jo bhi nuksan hua hai bhar do, aur jao

Me: (Happy at my strategy working) Kitna damage hua hain?

Auto Driver (AD): Yeh dekho (pointing to a flap around the side that had come loose)

Me: Yeh to ek nail maarne se theek ho jaayega. Kitna lagega uska

AD: Paach Sau rupiye de do

Me (incredulous): Kya?? (Realizing thankfully I had only one Rs 100 note in my wallet and hence opening it to him) Yeh dekho wallet. Isme jo milta hain le lo

AD: Chodo jaanedo. Aage se dheere chalana

Me: Thank you

And that, I thought would be the end of that. And walked over happily to the TP asking him for my license back

TP: Aap pe charge lagake license jamaa karna padega. Rs 600 fine bharke le jaana

Me: (Oh god, he also needs to be dealt with, wallet strategy back on) Mere paas itne paise nahin. Aap hi dekh lijiye. Aur usne toh jaane diya. Phir kaunsa charge?

TP: Aisa nahin hota hain. Charge toh lagega. Aap kya karte hain?

Me: Asian Paints mein kaam karta hoon

TP: Kya kaam karte hain?

Me: (He will definitely not understand Marketing Support Manager, let me be simpler) Shop mein jaake paint bechta hoon.

TP: Aap mere liye kya kar sakte hain?

Me(That was pretty direct!): Wallet aap dekh chuke hain. Aap batao kya karoon?

TP: Paint mein kya kar sakte hain?

Me: (Incredulous once again, in fact never stopped being incredulous) Itni badi company hai. Main kuch nahi kar satka. Aapko shop bata sakta hoon jahan thoda sasta paint mil jaayega

TP: Kitna sasta?

Me: 160 ki jagah pe 150 mein dega woh aapko

TP (After doing a cost benefit analysis in his head and coming to a decision): Rakho (thrusting his book at me filled with currency notes)

Me: (giving my contribution to one of the most unique uses of a notebook ever) Thank you.

Once again, I am sure it happens only in India, or maybe only in Mumbai!

It happens only in India – Part I

Over the past month, I have been fortunate to observe a couple of incidents, which I truly believe can only happen in India. Let me elaborate

Scene: A road trip from Mumbai to Ahmednagar (100 kms ahead of Pune)

My first road trip ever to the interiors of Maharashtra. And an amazing trip it was! The first Ripley’s believe it or not moment was the realization that the entire route from Mumbai to Ahmednagar (about 250 kms) is a smooth highway with barely any potholes/craters/non road type things along the route. Of course, such a privilege is not without its costs. And so you have about 6 toll booths to cross along the route with tolls varying from Rs 15(to cross some village which boasts of a highway) to Rs 150 (to enter the Mumbai-Pune expressway), including one toll booth that charged a toll of Rs 37. I think that booth must be run by a mathematician with a fetish for prime numbers!

It is these toll booths that are the subject of my observations (I have a feeling this sentence is not grammatically correct, but am going to stick to it regardless). At every toll booth, there is one speed breaker at the entrance of the booth, one toll booth where you pay the toll in return for a piece of paper, one speed breaker at the exit of the booth and….wait for it…..ONE PERSON STANDING BESIDE THE EXIT SPEED BREAKER. For the first three booths, I wondered what the job description of that person could possibly be, only to be answered at the booth with the prime number toll. As it happened, it took me quite a while to rummage through the wallet and come with exact Rs 37 that the operator demanded as he had run out of change (how could he not!). While handing it over to him, a 2 rupee coin must have slipped out, unnoticed by both me and the operator, post which I proceeded to move out without waiting for the needless ceremony of receipt transfer. As I reached the exit bump, the operator realized that he had received only Rs 35 and gave out a solitary shout “Ruko”. On cue, the man beside the exit breaker, without a moment’s hesitation, JUMPED IN FRONT OF THE CAR, presumably to ascertain that I could not leave without having completed the transaction.

I could not help but wonder at what possible job description the toll company would be providing while hiring people for the post. A few possibilities that come to mind

1. Wanted – Car stoppers at toll exit. Must not be afraid to die or get injured during the course of work. No medal expectations for sacrifice

2. Have no life? Can’t see any future for yourself? We have a job for you. Be a toll booth exit supervisor

3. What do you think is the value of your life? If the answer is Rs 37 or less, contact us for the last job of your life

I definitely would like to meet the person who came up with this brilliant idea of utilizing the excess manpower in rural India. Truly a genius!!

The beginning

The start of anything new in life is one of the most cherished experiences of life. There is so much to look forward to, so much you want to do and all at once. It takes all your effort and determination just to ensure that the pace is not breathtakingly and unmaintainably fast, but a steady, long lasting one. You want to spend all your time engrossed only in that, and everything else seems like a waste of time. But alas, life does not work that way and maybe thankfully so. You drag yourself through the mundane tasks of the day just so you can get back to your newest addiction even though you were never really away from it. It was on your mind all the time. You can see traces of it in the errors that creep into your daily tasks, the visible slowdown in efficiency, the increase in tolerance levels for undesirable elements around you, as if nothing they do can possibly offset the positive feelings in your head. I could go on and on..but I am sure you get the drift. That’s the magical power of a beginning, the beginning of something beautiful, something exciting, possibly full of adventure and definitely an enriching part of your life that will stay with you forever, no matter the direction it takes post this phase.

The Dilemma

Its now almost a month since my new blog and its first entry. A month of thinking about topics to write about, thinking through the basic outline for each of those topics, and then ditching the thought of writing in favour of a game of Warcraft!! The topics that have floated in and out of my head include

1] an exploration of why average amount of clothes on a woman is significantly lesser than that on a man, especially on TV, inspired by the swimsuit round in the Miss Universe contest. Seriously, if there were a swimsuit round in a Mr World contest, I am sure its TRP would drop to zero. While people will say it’s a confirmation of male domination in todays society, I don’t understand why the women agree to it in the first place! However, I digress. This post is not on that. I hope I come back to it sometime later

2] the difference between a vacation and business travel, even if and actually especially, if the place happens to be an exotic location. This time I shall not digress, and in all probability, this post will never see the light of the day

This post is about a dilemma that occupies a lot of my time and it concerns an individuals privacy. Not his right to privacy, but about the appropriateness of revealing personal details, especially given the abundance of available media to indulge in such pursuits. Please note, this is not a rant on how good or bad it is to be doing that, but an exploration into why people might want to do such a thing, and more importantly, where do you draw the line.

For instance, and most of the examples in this post will be my life, as I think this post will eventually, if not already, meander into a public exploration of my feelings on the subject, which I think already concludes the debate before even beginning it, in a way. So once again, for instance, having written this blog entry, should I go ahead and announce to the world that I have put up a new entry on my blog, and then having done that, eagerly wait for people to read and comment on it, and feel happy or sad based on the number and tone of the comments? I know of a few million people who do that, which in itself gives the act a basic credibility in terms of mass support.

Or maybe, I could just quietly let the people I know and care about know that there is a new piece written by me which again, they should read and comment on and…..(the rest is same as in previous paragraph). That is exactly what I had done with the previous post, and I find myself feeling bad about using my relationship with people as a social obligation to read it just because they are related to me (I blame Sheldon Cooper of ‘Big Bang Theory’ for the tone of this statement)

Or I could just put it up and be happy that it is up. That, I think, kind of defeats the basic premise of a blog. If I wanted to do that, I could as well write something and keep it in a folder on my computer and the purpose would be served.

For some reason, I like the third option better. And that is exactly what I am going to do with this post. That way, I don’t expect people to read and comment on it, and everytime someone does, it feels good. But if no one does, it still does not feel bad.

However, inspite of all my efforts, I have still digressed, as this post was supposed to be about privacy in general and not just one example. So I shall stop here for now as this is too long already and continue with more examples in subsequent posts. Next up…Facebook!

A true stereotype

It was a season of firsts. It’s easy to see how that might happen as this was completely unchartered territory for him. His first ever business trip abroad, his first business trip in fact. The first time he would catch a connecting flight on an international trip. In keeping with this barrage, it was also his first time at the Incheon airport in Seoul and the first time he was in a place where everything seemed gibberish as it was in Korean!

Even with all these events unfolding at the same time, there was a calmness about him which seemed unnatural. The confidence was not stemming from the knowledge of what needed to be done once he alighted from the awfully long Korean Air flight, but from the belief that the airport would be developed enough to tell him what to do once he got there. Where this belief came from, especially given his situation, is one of the many mysteries of life.

This confidence, and the fact that he had five hours to go until the next flight, was primarily responsible for why he did not feel the need to ask anyone for help, nor seek out a familiar face, which would include anyone remotely Indian, as most people are wont to do in such a situation.

The confidence paid off, as the airport was expectedly very straightforward in its flow and clear in its instructions. The cynic in him gave a sigh as it made the inevitable comparison to airports in India, the optimist spoke about the New Delhi and Mumbai airports which were definitely comparable to the one he was in.

He got to the international transfers section easily enough and awaited his turn at the queue, with music plugged in and a book in his hand and eyes on the people around him, expecting to do justice to all three at the same time. That was where he found he caught his first glimpse of the person and began a Holmesian examination of his person, even though he had no way of verifying his conclusions.

“Definitely Indian, no great deduction there; surely Gujarati, its written all over his face. In fact so Gujarati, that he must be from some village in Gujarat. Probably planning to be an illegal immigrant in whichever country he is going to.” He gave himself a small whack on the head for making assumptions about Gujarat village folk and continued with the line of thought, once the conscience had its share of voice, however ineffective.

“I am sure he also has a distinctive Gujarati accent. I am almost tempted to go talk to him just to verify that. And definitely his first visit anywhere out of Gujarat.” Another whack immediately followed suit. He might have continued along that line of thought had it not been for the pretty face with long legs that caught his attention.

“Excuse me, is this the queue for transfers?” rang a voice in his ear through the music. He turned around to find the Indian Gujarati boy staring at him, a question mark on his face. He did seem to have chosen the only other Indian in the queue to put this question to.

A number of thoughts went through his mind. “Should I give back a curt reply showing him my superiority because he chose to ask me instead of the other way around?” Whack!

“Should I first question him about his history to verify my judgements about him?” Whack! This one was uncalled for.

“Should I tell him I know nothing just to show other people around that I am not with him? That might increase my chances of striking a conversation with a hot girl!” Whack! Whack!

The repeated whacks of his conscience finally won, and after what would have seemed to the guy like an eternity, he answered in his characteristic slow drawl, “yeah”

“yahan pe passport dikhana padta hai?”

“Agar poochenge toh dikha dena, warna nahi. Mostly dikhana padega”

“Ok, thanks”

After that brief interaction, all was forgotten as more strange faces, long legs and unheard accents took his attention and he passed smoothly through the baggage screening and onward to the duty free zone.

After the first half hour, every airport seems the same. And the duty free section to a person not interested in shopping does not hold a lot of promise after an initial burst of excitement. And he had three hours to pass in there. Finally, after walking back and forth for an hour, he decided to go to his gate and park himself till the flight is announced, hoping that he would not get too bored. A little was expected, but too much of boredom can make people do crazy things.

He reached the gate and found the same face sitting in one of the seats, seemingly asleep.

“Surely he will start talking if I sit near him”, the voice in his mind said.

As if the guy could hear his inner voice, he woke up and smiled him, in a ‘come, sit beside me’ sort of way.

“Oh what the hell, let’s have this conversation. Can’t be more boring than sitting alone, can it”, the voice again.

“Hi, I am .“

“Hi, I am Sidhdharth.” “I am sure he told me his name but I know I am not going to be remember it so why bother listening,” he thought to himself

“Aap bhi Fiji jaa rahe ho?”

“Haan. Aur aap”, he asked, wondering why he had to ask such a redundant question.

“Main bhi. Saat din ke liye jaa raha hoon”

“I definitely had not asked that. What is it with people giving out unnecessary information to strangers who clearly don’t care about it. But then, I guess, that is how u make conversation. And that is why I am so bad at it. I am definitely not telling him anything about myself. Let me just keep asking more about him”, ran his internal monologue.

“Aap akele jaa rahe ho,” he asked, in keeping with the decision his mind had made.

“Haan, ghumne jaa raha hoon”

“Wow…trip to Fiji all alone for a vacation. That serves me right for judging a person by their looks. I don’t know anyone who can afford a week long vacation in Fiji, however rich they may be. He must definitely have a super rich dad. But then, the clothes and hair style are so loud they are practically screaming. Surely such a person will have a more subtle sense of styling. I would definitely not put him as the type of person who would go on a vacation to Fiji all alone. Let me confirm this”

“Such mein akele jaa rahe ho? Koi friend ya rishtedaar hai kya Fiji mein?”

“Nahi…aise hi vacation ke liye jaa raha hoon. Fir Malayssia bhi jaaonga”

“Damn, I am in the wrong profession”, the monologue continued.

“Aap kya karte ho?”

“Photographer hoon.”

The inner voice started screaming now. The only image it could conjure up of a photographer was that of Akshay Kumar in Garam Masala with pretty faces and long legs all around him and this person definitely did not look like that. He just could not accept it.

“Photographer, matlab fashion photography ya nature?”

“Main saadi mein photo shooting karta hoon.”

Victory at last, proclaimed the inner voice. Atleast in part. How he was on a vacation to Fiji was still unfathomable to him. Time to stop the conversation though.

“Oh! Great. Aap mujhe flight announce hone pe utha denge?” Nice touch, he thought to himself.

“Ok”

He then closed his eyes and tried to pretend to sleep. After fifteen minutes of closed eyes and playing his favorite game of forcing his brain to blank out and think about nothing, he opened his eyes and was delighted to see that only fifteen minutes remained until boarding and not so delighted to see the guy still sitting by his side.

“Main aapko sach bataoon?”

He prayed to God that they are placed miles apart in the aircraft.

“Kya?”

“Main saadi karne jaa raha hoon. Photo dekhoge ladki ka? Yeh dekho!”

“Wow..that surely was unexpected. And why is he telling me this? And why in God’s name is he showing me the photograph of the girl? What am I supposed to say? Woah..the girl is hot! Lucky him” His mind was immediately flooded with images of the two in bed and he cursed himself for the perverted line of thinking.

“Wow…she sure is beautiful. Aap isse shaadi karoge?” he asked just to confirm that it was true.

“Haan, mere uncle ki wahan dukaan hai. Usne photo bhej ke poocha saadi karoge, maine haan keh diya. Thursday ko hai saadi”

“Toh aap akele kaise? Family nahi aayegi shaadi mein?” he asked, the brain faintly registering that boarding had been announced.

“Possible nahi hain. Passport nahi mummy daddy ka paas. Aur unko wapas aane mein problem ho jaati mere bina”

“Mere bina kyon? Aap wapas nahi aane wale?”

“Nahi. Wahin uncle ke saath dukaan mein settle ho jaaonga. Bas yeh log mujhe chaar mahine ka visa dede. Phir koi tension nahin”

“Par aap jaante hain yeh illegal hain,” he asked, the incredulousness still apparent.

“Haan, lekin chalta hain. Uncle ne kahaa hai koi problem nahi hogi, kisiko batana mat lekin”

“Wow..All the best” he managed to stutter, inwardly feeling very happy about himself as they both rose to board the flight.

Sherlock Holmes would have been proud of him, he kept thinking all the way from the seat to the gate!!