Pressing Interests in Conflict

It’s more than a decade since the debate over whether the Indian government should allow the entry of foreign media interests and foreign investment into the country’s newspaper sector began. In this span, there have been several arguments, mudslinging matches and political interests about the subject that spilled over from — where else — the print media to the telly and the Internet.
Those you oppose the entry claim that foreign media interests into the press sector will not make constitutional sense as neither “freedom of speech and expression” nor “the freedom to practice any profession, or to carry on any occupation, trade or business” is guaranteed to non-citizens by the Constitution of India. And those who support the entry argue that it would only bring in more financial investment, editorial quality and transparency, and does not interfere with India’s constitutional rights?
Not surprisingly, now the internecine fight (yes, it’s now ceasing to become a mere debate) is between the big newspaper groups, who feel threatened by the foreign print media magnates, and the small newspaper groups, who feel threatened by the Indian print media magnates. Capitalists and communists are hand in hand in their fight to either protect their own businesses from foreign invasion or to welcome it.
So you have a Times of India editorial saying: “With a fraction of that stake [26 per cent foreign holding] at his command, a media magnate from abroad can twist the arms of any manager or editor, not least if the magnate’s prime interest is to take the politics of the country in a given direction.” And you have The Hindu’s N Ram saying: “Once allowed in, foreign capital will also launch new newspapers in collaboration with Indian parties, which can be either active or passive partners.”
Again not surprisingly, a large number of the press barons and editors this writer spoke to are in favour of the entry of foreign papers, notwithstanding the ‘threat’ they may face with regard to circulation, advertisements and even journalistic quality.
An unperturbed Santosh Goenka, former executive publisher with the Indian Express group, is one of them. Says he: “I don’t find any threat. We have been having media tie-ups with several foreign journalists for a long time now, and it has only helped us provide more information. Journalists will get more pay, and the quality of news coverage will definitely improve.”
This opinion — that journalists will be the main beneficiaries — was endorsed by most of the media persons who agreed to share their views. But what about ‘press freedom,’ the command Indian papers have over the readers… what will happen to them?
“I don’t understand what is so sacrosanct about Indian publications. Obviously, the only advantage with the entry is that there will be better pay-scales. Whether they will control our media is one thing we have to be very careful about. We have always taken chances; I think here too we should do that, says R Jagannathan, business editor of DNA.
And what about opinion-makers? Wouldn’t the foreign papers get a stranglehold on them? Mani Shankar Aiyer, Congress politician and well-known columnist, says: After 54 years of Independence, India is a sufficiently self-confident country to withstand that. After all, it is not as if opinions are deadly viruses that can e imported from foreign countries.”
Jug Suraiya, senior editor, The Times of India, agrees: “Any journalist worth his/her salt would welcome the move — if I am getting the chance to pit my skills in the international arena, I would be glad. Moreover, the foreign print media is already here. You have got Time, Newsweek and the like readily available. Now, it is just a question of formality.” The Times of India bosses may not agree, though.
But will the foreign papers be objective in reporting about India? Or, contrarily, as outsiders, will their objectivity be greater than that of Indian journalists — some of whom are even believed to be paid off by companies and political parties? “We are allowing in everything from cars to potato chips. So why now the media? We don’t have to be afraid of them — we are better journalists,” says a confident Prabhu Chawla, India Today editor. “The only thing I would insist on is a level-playing field. The government should allow duty-free imports of capital equipment, and compassionate loans for upgradation for Indian publications.”
Another objection, which was a matter of much debate when satellite channels began making inroads into India drawing rooms, is whether Indian culture will take a battering. Will these publications be another tool for ‘colonisation’? This fear, too, seems to be unfounded. Media critic Iqbal Masud, who passed away sometime back, had said: “I have never objected to their entry; cultural colonialism is media crap. I can tell you one thing. Without an international perspective, Indians can never improve. Tell me, who are our best English writers? Salman Rushdie, Vikram Seth, Rohinton Mistry, Vikram Chandra, Shashi Tharoor? All have been educated and worked in and been exposed to a sophisticated world. That’s quality for you. It wouldn’t come sitting inside an abysmal well. Even vernacular writers like Quaratullain Haider excelled after their stint in a foreign milieu.”
Goenka echoes the same sentiment. “In this age, there is a serious quest from out youngsters to acquire the latest trends from all over the world. The entry of satellite television only proves this. If change has to occur, it will. No force can stop it.”
But the sceptics remain unconvinced. Sarosh Bana, deputy editor, Business India, is among them. Says he: “The Indian media is capable of standing on its own feet; we need no outside help. The foreign media is one-sided. The cultural arrogance they proudly flaunt will definitely creep in. Why should we allow something of this sort?”
Sherna Gandhy, a former senior editor with the Times of India, agrees to an extent. “The foreign papers will influence out thinking process. Their views and opinions are in great measure anti-Third World, and unquestionably show a slant when it comes to news concerning us. Regardless of the advantages it is going to provide the profession, the foreign media’s entry will surely help filter down unwanted elements.”
Strongly supporting the 1955 resolution keeping out foreign papers, former editor of Patriot, Sitanshu Das, says: “The media is not merely about producing a commodity; it cannot be considered on the same footing as, say, food processing. It concerns aspects like education, religion and politics of the country. Hence, there should not be any foreign equity participation in the Indian print media. It should be handled by Indians themselves.”
But Aiyer draws a different picture: “I don’t think there is any point denying entry to the foreign print media, especially as we have allowed in their electronic counterparts. (The foreign electronic media had, in the form of radio, entered our homes as far back as in the 1940s). If there were any perils of The International Herald Tribune replacing Dinamani and Dinamalar in my region, of course, I would have been concerned. But that is not the case — it is impossible for them to replace our press. They can only supplement, and strengthen, the Indian media.”
Now, the man from the street says: “Even liberalisation has failed to register any marked improvement in our lives. So, why this debate?”
— Sunil K Poolani

Nafed Hardly Feeds the National Exchequer

There is something rotten in the labyrinthine corridors of the National Agricultural Cooperative Marketing Federation Ltd (Nafed). Well, the stench has been getting exposed in the media for some time now, but certain pertinent questions still remain. Unanswered. Nafed deals with many products. So, where do we start?
Let’s take copra for instance. A study of certain basic facts and figures has prompted one to look into the following aspects: From April 2000, till it stopped procurement six months later, Nafed had procured 1.2 lakh tonne of copra at the minimum support price (MSP) of Rs 3,250 per quintal as against the market price of Rs 2,000.
This, says a Nafed source, is less than 15 per cent of the total production — the rest has been apparently sold off by farmers at the market price. Well, now the question arises: When all the farmers know about the MSP, why are they not selling to Nafed at a much higher price of Rs 3,250?
The sources give a four-part answer:
1) Nafed has limited funds allotted to it — about Rs 500 crore. With these funds, if it has to prop up the market price to the MSP, it should buy the entire quantity in one to two months. But, as it is known now, Nafed does not do this, probably because the market will crash again when the funds dry up.
2) Since the funds are inadequate, the meagre procurement by Nafed is far from adequate to raise the market price to the MSP level.
3) This situation, then, gives ample chance for discretionary procurement, which facilitates chances for fraud by middlemen and some Nafed officials.
4) Nafed officials ensure that they do not procure from the farmers’ cooperatives that are not in ‘league’ and buy only from a handful of very powerful, politically connected middlemen, who buy copra from farmers at the market price of Rs 2,000, and sell it to Nafed at the MSP of Rs 3,250. So far, these middlemen have bought 1.2 lakh tonne of copra at Rs 240 crore and sold it to Nafed at Rs 390 crore.
A clean, cool profit of Rs 150 crore. Simple mathematics — and all at the cost of the national exchequer. ‘‘Evidently, the money from the exchequer, which is supposedly meant to help farmers, is not reaching them. Instead, it goes into wrong hands. Not satisfied with the killing made this year, there is a concerted effort to raise the MSP next year to Rs 3,650, so that the stakes are higher,’’ says a Nafed official.
To add insult to injury, Nafed has been collecting copra in its godowns since April 2000. Unlike grains, copra is prone to fungal attack on storage, besides being attacked by insects. Informed sources in the industry say that unless this copra, bearing a market price of Rs 240 crore, is not quickly liquidated, most of it will have to be thrown into the Arabian Sea.
The option before Nafed, or the government — that is, if they are willing to perform — is to immediately investigate the scam, as big stakes are apparently involved. Also, Nafed must be directed to liquidate the 1.2-lakh tonne of copra, lest it rots.
In the medium term, it is suggested that the government ensure a transparent mechanism of procurement by Nafed, so that any farmer’s cooperative that wants to sell to Nafed can do so and no discretionary powers of rejection should be vested in the federation. It is popular knowledge that the low coconut oil and copra prices have been caused by a rampant adulteration of coconut oil by palmolein and liquid paraffin. ‘‘Respective state governments have been completely ineffective in stopping this menace because of vested interests,’’ say the sources. ‘‘What the government should do now is to impose a 50 per cent duty on coconut oil and copra and encourage higher productivity in coconut farming.’’
The issue is of such magnitude that even Tamil Nadu Chief Minister J Jayalalitha, who herself was embroiled in several corruption cases, had alleged that two state ministers in the previous M Karunanidhi-led DMK ministry and their cohorts had deprived coconut farmers of about Rs 16 crore out the procurement price for copra offered by Nafed. Nafed, she had said, had paid Rs 41.275 crore for the 12,700 tonne of copra procured so far. ‘‘Out of this, middlemen and benamis had reportedly defrauded a sum of Rs 15.875 crore.’’
Several attempts were made to get an official version from Nafed on the above aspects. But Nafed officials, however, wants to remain mum on the whole issue.
And this is about copra... just one commodity that Nafed procures.
— Sunil K Poolani

What is Nafed
Nafed, which functions as the national apex body of cooperative marketing in the country, was set up on October 2, 1958. It is under the administrative control of the Union ministry of agriculture. The organisation’s job is to promote cooperative marketing of agriculture produce for the benefit of farmers. Nafed is also responsible for internal trade covering a wide range of agriculture, horticultural, tribal and allied produce. When directed by the government, it also implements market intervention scheme for horticulture and other crops in order to provide market support to the farmers. Export and import of various agro-products, like fresh fruit and vegetables, oilseeds, spices, foodgrains and pulses, are all streamlined through Nafed.

A tribute to Julie darling

This is a visual tribute to my demised pup, Julie, by a close friend of mine, Sajeev Madhavan, who is based in Kuwait now and is a talented graphic artist. Sajeev was very fond of her when he spent time as my neighbour in Belapur, Mumbai, India, before he boarded a flight to Kuwait in search of a brighter future. I upload this image in memory of those good old days when all three of us were a happy lot.

Classic smorgasbord

These translations of Bankimchandra’s works into English are a meticulous effort that allows more readers to enjoy the master storyteller at his best

The Bankimchandra Omnibus (volume 1)
Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay
Penguin Books, 2005, pp 535, Rs 495

The life of Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay, one of the most influential Indians during the nineteenth century British colonial rule, is as legendary as the works he meticulously and prolifically penned. Born in Kantalpara, West Bengal, in 1838, he became the first Indian to earn a BA degree. He also served in the Indian Civil Service as deputy magistrate and deputy collector. Chattopadhyay is, nevertheless, known for his path-breaking novel, Anandamath (1882); the verse ‘Vande Mataram’ from the book turned out to be the anthem of the nationalists during the Freedom Movement and today it is the National Song of India. It is another matter though, that there is a school of thought which thinks that Chattopadhyay was a Hindu nationalist rather than a secular freedom fighter.
But nothing will diminish the image of a master storyteller who has left behind a huge and varied array of literature for centuries to savour. And now, thanks to meticulous translators like Radha Chakravarty, Marian Maddern, S N Mukherjee and Sreejata Guha, we can savour the first volume of the Bankimchandra Omnibus, a veritable feat. Space doesn’t permit delving deep into each and every novel (Kapalkundala, The Poison Tree, Indira, Krishnakanta’s Will, Rajani) that has been featured in this volume.
But a brief overview of the stories — Chattopadhyay’s best-known five works in English translation — would suffice. Kapalkundala narrates the story of Nabakumar, a young damsel called Kapalkundala whom he rescues from a tantric intent on human sacrifice and the beautiful Lutfunnisa who is bent on marrying Nabakumar. The narration of the story, set in the Bengal of Emperor Jehangir’s time, is a bit odd in English as it is a verbatim translation of 19th century Bengali (The same may not be true with stories by other translators). The translator’s intent is undisputable — to preserve the originality — but it could have been easier for the contemporary reader if the archival tone had been toned down.

Light-hearted tale
If The Poison Tree, set in Chattopadhyay’s time, narrates the heartrending story of Nagendra, who is torn between his devoted wife Suryamukhi and the bewitching young widow Kundanandini, Indira is a light-hearted tale of playful intrigues. Krishnakanta’s Will is the most powerful and well-translated story in the collection. It is about a tragedy of lust, infidelity, greed and death that revolves around Govindlal, his wife Bhramar, the attractive widow Rohini and a stolen will. And finally an Indian story that is told in first person — Rajani. It is about a blind girl and two men and has strong psychological undercurrents.
As is evident, Chattopadhyay’s novels (his first novel, Rajmohan’s Wife, was written in English) were too modern in that it talked about the then social taboos in lucid detail. Another contribution he made is that he merged the formal, Sanskiritised Bengali with the colloquial idioms of the spoken language to write prose narratives that even a layman could relish. And he is a master of all forms, be it historical romances, the then social conditions or that of nationalistic ethos.
— Sunil K Poolani / Deccan Herald

Beach Boy

Swimming in the Monsoon Sea
Shyam Selvadurai
Penguin India
Pages: 211; Price: Rs 250

This is a tricky novel. No, don’t get me wrong. What I mean is it is so cleverly written that Shyam Selvadurai, the author, has massively struggled to get the language simple. (To those who haven’t heard this before: to write simple English is anything but simple.)
Born in Colombo, Sri Lanka, and moved to Canada at an early age, Selvadurai is one of the best writers in English Serendip, as the picturesque island was known in the Veda period, has produced. The others being, Romesh Gunesekera, Michael Ondaatje and Jean Arasanayagam.
Together they have created what is called the Sri Lankan writing in English an enviable position in world literature. What if most of them are no longer residents of the country they hail from.
Now, Swimming in the Monsoon Sea, the latest and the most vibrant work by Selvadurai so far, narrates an unassuming story of a fourteen-year-old boy named Amrith whose trials and tribulations take the reader to new platitudes. Amrith is an orphan; well, somewhat. He is being raised by the vivacious and no-nonsense Aunty Bundle, the best friend of his deceased mother, and the kind-hearted Uncle Lucky. The couple has two daughters, Selvi and Mala, who provide a taunting presence throughout the book, though they love Amrith like a dear brother.
Despite the love and affection Amrith get from the family and other friends (and he is considered to be a role model “son” among other households) he is a loner, always finding solace in things unnatural. The story then talks about how his father and mother died and how he became a virtual loner, adoption apart. Mystery shrouds the death of his parents, though it is not explained in lucid detail, and there is no need to. The life goes on and lots of characters appear and disappear: Kuveni, the mynah which refuses to talk; the scandalous Lucien Lindamulage, the gay architect; Miss Rani, who is the manager in the office of Uncle Lucky, who shares a mystical relationship with him.
Then comes the Inter-School Shakespearean Competition, a yearly event, which has a major role to play in both the life of Amrit and also the novel. The previous year Amrith had played Juliet and had won the cup for Best Female Portrayal from a boys’ school. And the current year they are playing the last scene from Othello, and the novel, in vivid detail, describes his relentless effort to bag the coveted role of Desdemona, Othello’s wife. He almost lost the role to a boy named Peries.
Life still goes on and then happens — or arrives — an incident which will totally change the profile of the protagonist. One day, Uncle Lucky encounters, while Amrith was along with him, a person on his way to their office, where Amrith goes to learn typing. He is Uncle Mervin, the brother of Amrith’s mother. Uncle Mervin (and his father) was always unkind to his sister and he is now in Sri Lanka (he lives in Canada with his son Niresh; Uncle Mervin is divorced and his wife has married a Christian evangelist-farmer) to sell off an ancestral land in which Amrith too can stake claim as it was a land so dear to his mom. Amrith, in the meantime, learns about the details of his mother’s family life and the cause of her bitter conflict with her brother.
It turns out to be that Niresh, who has accompanied his dad to Sri Lanka, is too keen to meet up with his cousin and forge a bond. Niresh is an impertinent spoilt brat who always insults his father, and Uncle Mervin doesn’t approve at all of his son’s new-found relationship with Amrith. What follows is a hilarious double-act, and both of them start liking each other; the two cousins even almost reach the level of exploring each other sexually. Amrith attains confidence due to his Canada-returned, cigarette-smoking cousin and his world view, too, changes in the course.
With Othello as a perfect backdrop, the narration then reaches a level where Amrith finds himself totally inundated in a disastrous jealousy. One complaint this reviewer has towards the book is that the title is misleading: there is some swimming, but less of monsoon and sea. And the beautiful cover, too, depicts the same.
That apart Selvadurai, whose earlier novels Funny Boy and Cinnamon Gardens had placed him firmly in the literary firmament, has upgraded his points with this lush, languid but pure and simple novel. Three cheers to him.
— Sunil K Poolani / Sahara Time

The Classic Double-Act Retold

The author has the unique ability to celebrate tragedy, not an easy task

The Brooklyn Follies
Paul Auster
Published by Faber and Faber Ltd, 2005
pp 304, $ 10. 99

If Sartre and Camus were once the great existentialist double-act, Paul Auster, in Brooklyn Follies (his magnificent new novel) draws a picture of Nathan and Tom, an uncle and nephew double-act.
To quote Bryan Appleyard, if Sartre and Camus were, “the intellectual heroes of the black-clad, white-faced generation that became, later, the beatniks and hippies,” Nathan and Tom are the archetype of one another: Nathan, a divorced, lung-cancer patient looking for a quiet place like Brooklyn to die; Tom, who wants to get away from life and a once-promising academic career in general. But yes, they are the present-day, Bush-period existentialists (a rare breed to find in the USA today) who are in love with Kafka and seem to know every titbit of the German genius’ life.
Brooklyn Follies is full of unexpected twists and turns that occur in a sleepy little American town. The incidents are quirky, most of the time subtly and dryly hilarious; at certain times the passages may sound slow and uneventful, but suddenly there are these magical-realistic occurrences that hold the reader by her/his jugular vein.
Characters vividly flash through the pages. The bisexual Harry Brightman — ex-convict, ex-con art dealer and the owner of the shop (where Tom works) that deals in antique books — really stands out. So does Lucy, Tom’s impertinent niece who comes into the duo’s life. Lucy, who refuses to speak most of the time, unwelcomingly acts as a catalyst, bridging the men’s past which quite often offers them the possibility of redemption.

Their colourful lives
Tom couldn’t have asked for a better partner; Nathan is a facilitator in several respects. Thanks to Nathan, Tom can talk to his dream women, Nancy Mazzucchelli, a mother of two and a jewellry-maker. Then there is Nathan’s infatuation with Marina Gonzalez, a waitress, to whom he presents a necklace, which eventually turns out to be a bone of contention between her husband and Nathan.
Both Nathan and Tom have a disturbing past and a wrecked family, whichever way you take it. If Nathan is a divorcee and has a daughter who hates to talk to him, Tom has a wayward, bohemian sister who is a former porn actress and who enigmatically disappears often, only to reappear in different avatars.
Nathan finds solace in writing a humble book, The Book of Human Folly (though the title is, to his own admission, pompous), in which he is planning to set down, in the simplest, clearest language possible, an account of every blunder, every pratfall, every embarrassment, every idiocy, every foible, and every inane act he had committed during his long and chequered career as a man. Brooklyn Follies is that book.
The end is predictable, though, but what matters are the dramatic and colourful events that unfold in between the covers.
Auster has this cute ability to celebrate tragedy; it is not an easy task. He has mastered the skill now in this novel after he experimented it in his earlier books like The Book of Illusions and Oracle Night.
A racy read, this book is highly recommended to all Auster aficionados and new readers alike.
— Sunil K Poolani / Deccan Herald

Can the English language survive after Bush?

"The vast majority of our imports come from outside the country. "
— George W. Bush
"If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure."
— George W. Bush
"One word sums up probably the responsibility of any Governor, and that one w! ord is ' to be prepared '. "
— George W. Bush
"I have made good judgments in the past. I have made good judgments in the future. "
— George W. Bush
"The future will be better tomorrow. "
— George W. Bush
" We're going to have the best educated American people in the world."
— George W. Bush
" I stand by all the misstatements that I've made. "
— George W. Bush
"We have a firm commitment to NATO, we are a part of NATO. We have a firm commitment to Europe We are a part of Europe.
— George W. Bush
" Public speaking is very easy."
— George W. Bush"
A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls."
— George W. Bush
"We are ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur. "
— George W. Bush
"For NASA, space is still a high priority."
— George W. Bush
"Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children. "
— George W. Bush
"It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it."
— George W. Bush
"It's time for the human race to enter the solar system."
— George W. Bush

God help America...

Azul is Macando

The Girl
Sonia Faleiro
Penguin / Viking
Pages: 124; Price: Rs 250

This slim book comes as a whiff of fresh air in these times of the rotting smell originating from a whole lot of junk which is apparently called “Indian writing in English published by Indian publishers”. Sonia Faleiro, a journalist with the venerable Tehelka magazine and a debutante author, has done a remarkable job by penning The Girl, an outstanding lyricism set in a fabulous, magically-realistic place like Azul village in Goa.
Now, while saying that the story develops and ripens in a place like Goa, do not get this notion that it is all about “picture-postcard Goa”. Far from it. It is about the angst, agony and disillusionment, the death, the bareness of the sultry land, the feni, the pork, the plain wastefulness and lethargy of a sleepy terrain, the cemeteries…
Faleiro’s is a very powerful work in that poetry and life merge with subtle felicity and is one of the best works that have come out in India in recent times; what makes this effort worthwhile is that the author is quite young to achieve this feat. It is quite Marquezian in its plotting, narration and style. Savouring this book and many a time you will be reminded of One Hundred Years of Solitude — it is a sheer pleasure, thank you. Azul is Macando.
The novel starts with a promising note: a funeral. A girl is buried on a depressing December evening, and the place is a drowsy hamlet in north Goa. Look at this imagery: “The air was thick with rose petals. Sweet, fleshy skins, red, yellow, pink, orange, waltzed with the wind before falling gently to earth. Her grave was a bed of roses... The fragrance of red rose and pink rose and fresh rose and dead rose.” You cannot get it better.
So, this girl is dead, but there are these two guys who knew her quite well and loved her, too. And they are curious like a cat, to know and to discover what went wrong and why she died. A spy job. What best way other than referring to her diary? So they devour it. The go through the pages she had penned in her sanity or lack of it and they discover — and share with her, though she is dead — “the loneliness and abandonment, of memories branded so deep that they return to haunt the soul, and of hope so powerful that it negates reality and opens the doors to a future that is never to be.” And at the end is the discovery of love and betrayal.
The character that attracts you most in the whole book is the twenty-six-year old Simon. And, yes, his mother too. Simon runs this derelict shop (that contains “orange juice well past its expiry date” and “postcards commemorating the hundred-and-twenty-fifth anniversary of the reconstruction of St Jude’s ten years ago”) and his sole customer was this girl who died. Later he reconstructs it (so wittily described) with the help of two quirky comrades and his mother takes charge. A joyful read.
Faleiro has done fantastic job and one hopes she will continue to do it. Bravo. Well, if it doesn’t sound PRish, a suggestion: do buy this book.
— Sunil K Poolani

Happy hunting, Mr Governor!

To George Bush Jr.
Would-be Emperor
Former Clown Prince
Currently US President

Dear George 'WMD' Bush,

It is with both great happiness and grave apprehension that we the people of India await your arrival in our country. Happiness because in the few hours you will be engaged in shaking hands with our country's leaders your fingers will be — at least for a little while — away from the nuclear doomsday button. Happiness also in the hope that the grease you put on the palms of your political underlings here will make the many triggers all of you control that much more slippery.
There is a lot of apprehension too as your visit could become the latest source of pollution in our ancient land already poisoned over the years by your country's various multinationals- from Union Carbide of Bhopal gas notoriety to Monsanto of GM seeds infamy.
Your own crimes against humanity in Iraq, Afghanistan and Guantanamo are of course far worse than that of these corporations and if the Ganges were not already as contaminated as it is unfortunately today — we would have happily recommended a long dip in its holy waters.
We know you have friends — or shall we call them loyal subjects- in very high places in our country. Shri Manmohan Singh, misleadingly called 'Prime Minister of India' when he is really a CEO of your subsidiary company — will be there constantly at your beck and call. But then for this former civil savant turned international servant- whose soul and spine were stolen many moons ago by the IMF, World Bank and other dark forces you represent — it seems to make little difference what master he serves.
You will also find the Congress that rules India even more pliant than the US Congress you control back home. Having buried Gandhi and Nehru in both body and spirit long, long ago this political party that once fought the British Empire has become the Trojan horse of American Imperialism in India.
There are others too from our country that will welcome you — captains of industry, merchants, bureaucrats and sections of the Indian media- who already think of themselves as junior partners in your vile Empire. The truth is they are as much in awe of the weapons of war you so wantonly wield as they are mesmerized by the petty commercial carrots you dangle before their eyes.
But make no mistake 'Mr Wannabe President of the World' — India is far more than the name of your pet cat on the lawns of the White House. And though our leaders lovingly wag their tails at you it is not a domesticated dog either.
Instead it is a full-blooded country of over a billion people who have seen through many tyrants of your type several times over in their long history. We packed off the British Raj just over half a century ago and have no intentions of letting its American offspring sit on our heads instead.
And we are not alone in our struggle against Imperialism on this globe either.
From Vietnam to Venezuela and Iraq to Indonesia we have had and continue to have deep ties with people everywhere from around the world who have stood up in defence of their national dignity, sovereignty and the right to conduct their affairs in whatever manner they see fit. We have long historical memories too of the US establishment's atrocities and massacres around the globe Hiroshima, Haiti, Greece, Guatemala. Cambodia, Chile — the sacrifices of countless brave citizens will not go in vain.
Your regime's latest attempts to bully or bribe the Indian government to join your machinations against Iran will also go nowhere because the people of this country will forever resist your immoral attempts to capture the assets of weaker nations by force. By tempting the foolish Indian government with a dubious nuclear pact you have attempted to divide and rule the developing world but we can see through your imperial politics and have the means to unravel it too. Your concern for the `national interest' of India in striking a nuclear deal is going to make our country powerful to the point of extinction.
Mr 'Emperor', not only you do not have any clothes on, you are trying to pull some non-existent textile over our eyes too! So Mr 'Emperor' when you soon land in India remember — irrespective of what your weather 'experts' tell you- the temperature on the ground will be several degrees hotter than anybody can predict. True, this will be partly due to the general rise in global temperatures your regime has so wantonly contributed to plus the hot air you have such a talent for — but much of the heat will really be due to the burning anger aroused by your presence in our midst.
Believe us we promise a very warm welcome to you and all in your entourage and hope to make your trip as memorable as possible. This collection of films on the crimes of your country's various regimes we are showing the Indian public around the country is just the first of many salvoes we are firing.
It is still not too late to turn your jets back to Washington where Uncle Dick 'Shotgun' Cheney eagerly awaits your presence on a long and exciting safari somewhere. Happy hunting and watch your back.
Yours very, very warmly
Films for Peace Team

Discussing the Rape of News

Frog Books arranged a seminar at Wilson College, Mumbai, for its journalism students. The theme of the seminar was, "Should Papers Sell Editorial Space". Seen (from left) are: Sunil K Poolani, publisher and managing editor of Frog Books and the editor of The Rape of News, which tackled the issue; Kalpana Sharma, deputy editor, The Hindu; V Gangadhar, well-known media critic and senior journalist; Dilip D'Souza, columnist and activist; and Amirta Shah, cossulting editor of The Indian Express.

Show me the Money, Honey

Yesterday I shot a man. Almost. Well, this is not about a man/woman thing. For, if the person behind that nationalised bank counter was a woman, I’d shoot her, too.
The day began like this. 7 am sharp. I had called the car rental to report at my doorstep as I had to take my father for his cataract operation. This was his eye number two. A couple of years back, it was his eye number one. Last week, my mother had her cataract operation by the same phaco method or whatever this latest laser surgery is called. It was her eye no 2 – right or left it really does not matter. By the way, my husband takes the car to work and holds it to ransom from 9 am to seven pm and he has made it very categorical that we cannot afford a driver unless I drive it myself. Fair enough! Only I have been told that I am not cut out to drive a car (though I have taken lessons) for I am terribly absent minded. I do have secret vices – of dreaming of certain handsome Hollywood actors ruffling my tresses when I cross a street. But to get back to the eye. The surgery took only about 15 minutes. I settled the bills, while my seventy-five-old-father basked in the attention of the young nurses. Very soon after, with the eye he could see, he saw his wallet in my hand and gently took it back as though I was going right into a shopping mall with it. As per plans, I settled him down in his own comfortable bed and under my mother’s care for now she has both eye number one and eye number two clear and working well. Then the fun started. I had the car to myself for about half an hour so I planned to squeeze in some bank work. Namely, depositing a couple of cheques and paying my daughter’s fees for which it was the very last day. Roughly ten minutes at both. I filled in the chalan book and gave it to the man across the counter. The clock was ticking away. “What do you want me to do with it?” he asked. Well, I could not possible tell him, Eat It! Not yet, for rubbing off the bank employees the wrong way, has its own repercussion and years of practice have made things perfect. We are tested in sarkari offices so I requested, and then pleaded with him to take it this time, for I was in a bit of a hurry as the other bank in which I paid my daughter’s fees, would soon close. It was not only a little way off but it was worse in such matters. Besides, the car was doing a five hour duty and fifteen minutes extra would mean extra rupees, more so as my retired dad was paying for it. “Why don’t you give the cheques to the man who sits upstairs?” the bank man was telling me. It’s not that he could not take it. He would not take it. Climbing those steps would take another few minutes. The clock ticked away. I recalled my daughter’s fee bank which had once refused to take in the fees even though there were a couple of minutes left and only when my husband who was with me, had told him that he had just left a very sick mother at the hospital, that he had relented.I started to panic. The man across this nationalized really was not busy. Oh I just remembered – he was enjoying a hot cup of tea and perhaps Fifty Fifty biscuits. Maybe I was tired or hungry or both. For which he was not responsible I know. But at that very moment, I flipped out my gun. Do not ask me the make. Homegrown cannon balls that were not bad enough to make a sailor blush but close enough, rained on him.. I fired at him verbally and blindly non-stop. Something had snapped within me. I do not remember what I had said. Maybe those among you who are reading this and are very organized, will train their guns on me. I am a stickler for time too. I knew later when I would blabber it to my family over supper, they would calmly enquire – is there any shop or bank left in the north 24-parganas district where you have not fought with someone? I see youngsters around me, on buses, who refuse to budge even a little to make space for the elderly. We see cars refusing to make way. Any extra query at any information desk, draws those angry looks. Why are we impatient and angry all the time. Why do we feel put upon? How can any job leave you with doing this much and no more? What has happened to a CIVIL SOCIETY ? Maybe everything is still not lost. For the same bank brought another employee, close on my heels, when I stamped out (the earth must have shook – another spousely loving remark). ”Calm down madam, calm down, ” the gentleman pleaded. “Give me your cheques and have a good day!” Or whatever was left of it! — Manjira Majumdar

When Niel Armstrong Met Chandran Chettan

Malayalee makes impossible, possible!
When Niel Armstrong first landed on Moon, he met a Malayalee, Chandran Chettan, who had settled there with his chaayakkada, or teashop, for a long time.

Not Just about Dancing

Mumbai, 9 January 2006: Rucha Humnabadkar today launched her debut, heartrending novel, Dance of the Fireflies, published by Frog Books, at Oxford Bookstore here. The session was presided over by acclaimed filmmaker Nagesh Kukunoor and leading Bollywood actor Perizad Zorabian, who also read out from the book.
“As a journalist, I have had several experiences with India’s street children and their relentless pursuit of dreams has been my inspiration. In fact, the protagonist of my novel is a young street child who survives the big city. The book zeroes in on keeping a dream alive in the face of adversity and brings to life the indomitable spirit of human endurance, hope and desire,” says Humnabadkar.
SYNOPSIS: Dance of the Fireflies is a heartrending novel set in India. In a quest to fulfil his dream, Chotu, a seven-year-old boy, leaves his remote village in South India for a life in the city. His pursuit takes him through a labyrinth of bittersweet experiences. Struck by hunger, and plagued by emotional and sexual abuse at the hands of Aslam, a man who takes advantage of his vulnerability, Chotu questions his decision to leave his village. He finds reprieve in his friendship with Tasneem, a young girl who loses her family when the tsunami waves devastate her village on the coast of Chennai. Their paths intertwine as each explores life and realises their destiny. Through their experiences we ascertain the implications of living a repressed life.
How do you forge friendships when trust becomes a fragile sentiment? How do you deal with the loss of family? Lastly, how do you keep a dream alive in the face of adversity? The novel is evocative of the noteworthy moments in most people’s lives.
AUTHOR BACKGROUND:
Humnabadkar, 27, born and raised in India, has written and directed three English-language plays and worked closely with acclaimed filmmaker Nagesh Kukunoor on his early films. She earned a master's degree from Carnegie Mellon University in the US, and currently works for eBay in northern California.
ABOUT FROG BOOKS:
Frog Books (http://www.frogbooks.net/), started in 2003, is the fastest-growing independent book publishing company in India today. It has so far published more than 40 titles which include fiction, non-fiction, cinema, children’s literature, poetry, social issues, journalism, business, graphic novels, travel writing. The authors published range from countries like New Zealand and Spain to Germany and the US, and comprise a wide spectrum of people from different classes, communities, experiences, genders and ages.

Patna Wrong Route

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Patna Roughcut
Siddharth Chowdhury
Picador India
Pages: 187; Price: Rs 250
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What you are going to read below is not a review. Just some thoughts while I survived the book.
The production: The total word count of the book is less than 30,000 but it has been stretched out such a way that it comes to 187 pages. The advantage? You can price it at Rs 250.
The publisher: It looks like Picador India was founded to promote Bihari writers or/and books on Bihar. So the “Also available’ list in the end entertains you about the books they have published so far. Pankaj Mishra has published three. Raj Kamal Jha, two. Tabish Khair, one. And, now, one on Patna. Thrash the guy who said Lalu Land is getting neglected.
The writer: A Bengali, Chowdhury was born in Patna, presumably in a Bengali neighbourhood, and that’s the problem. He finds everything about Patna and Biharis funny, tongue firmly in cheek of course. Now he lives in New Delhi and works in publishing, but can’t resist chuckling even today when he thinks of his place of birth.
The book: The blurb educates us that this is “an elegy to the intimate neighbourhood and a poem of protest.” Far from it. Why? Sample this line: “Patna, though more sinned against than sinning, is simply a place with no literary traditions and whatever few writers, poets, novelists that have emerged are not because of it but in spite of it.” Where’s Lalu’s stick?
Then, again, the blurb tells us: “It is a story of love, idealism and sexual awakening.” Ahem. There is only platonic love, absolutely no idealism and about sex, savour this: “Rudrada’s younger sister, who once upon a time Chokon claimed he had seen sucking Rudrada’s cock…” It sucks. Even the Bad Sex in Fiction Award guys won’t touch this with a bargepole.
The style (or the lack of it): What to say about a book which starts with this line “Dreams are like cut-glass carafes”? The writing is absolutely gimmicky, though it follows a staccato style, a la The God of Small Things. In Arundhati Roy’s case it worked. Chowdhury fails — miserably. The whole book reeks of Bengali “superiority” and Bihari “inferiority” and this is unfair, even if it is true.
It is not worth talking about the story, as there is no story. It is, at its best, a collection of short stories, and the only connecting thread is that some characters reappear. The writer can get away by titling the book ‘Roughcut’ but that’s no excuse for producing a shoddy work. To be fair, in some places the writer comes up with promising lines, but they do not contribute to making the book even a passable one. So you cannot call this as Chowdhury’s “first novel”; it is his “first attempt to write a novel.” The only advantage is that you won’t take much time to read it.
— Sunil K Poolani

Publishing in 2006

Circa 2005 could have been a damp-squib year, or a mundane buffer, between 2004 and 2006 for many a sector. Save for publishing. The year was not an earth-shattering one for this industry, but it has provided enough ammunition that the following year(s) will witness explosions one after the other and the whole text could well be rewritten — for better or worse.

First things first. Publishers the world over got a bolt from the blue when Google Print decided to scan every book they could lay their hands upon and create an online repository. Which means, one can practically read any book published in Tamil to Creole — all at one keystroke — without paying a single paisa. Readers rejoice. They do not have to hunt for a particular book in dusty shelves. Publishers wail. For obvious reasons.

Does this amount to copyright violation? Authors’ Guild and other industry bodies think so and have sued Google. As it is definitions of copyright is an absolute muddle because it lapses 50 years after the author’s demise. So more and more publishers will print and publish Tagore or Orwell without paying any royalty to the original publisher or the authors’ legal heirs. Nobody seems to have a clear-cut idea over what actually is a ‘copyright’. Reproducing 500 or so words of a work for review or promotional purposes does not breach any copyright violation, but that may not be the case of a 100-word poem.

While admitting that the future of this fractured industry seems detrimental in 2006, one cannot rule out the fact that people are really getting hooked on to buying (who cares whether they really read) books. The reasons may vary (status symbol; to give an intellectual air), but crass publishers will have the last laugh.

Now, coming to the Indian publishing scene, the big, brash and bunkum ones will rule the roost. Consequently, many Chetan Bhagats will outsell an Amit Chaudhuri (he is planning a book on Kolkata and a novel on music in 2006) and Indira Goswami (a novel, a short story collection and her autobiography sequel). Ditto motivational or self-help books, whatever they mean.

From the international scene the books that will hit the Indian market (and in all probability, become a hit) will be Jan Morris’s Hav, a rare treat, and Carlos Fuentes’ The Eagle’s Throne, a fictional expose of Mexican politicians in 2020.

Another trend that will make the industry more competitive will be the setting up shops of international publishers, tapping, what they think, is a highly potential market. Prominent among them are Random House, Taylor & Francis, Disney Publishing Worldwide and Thomson. Readers are bound to benefit as the quality of the text and production will improve since competition will set in.

There wouldn’t be a marked difference in terms of the reading public’s appreciation of what is euphemistically known as “Indian writing in English published by Indian publishers”. The sure way to success will of course be, “first publish abroad (and get a fat advance and a box item news as a bonus) and then make waves in India”. Sad, but it is true that only a few independent publishers will be able to face the internecine and meticulous war led by big publishing tycoons. Thus, every middle-level publishing house is on the perennial lookout for the next Bhagat, Anurag Mathur, Shobha De or a Khushwant Singh. Well, spice it up by adding a Paulo Coelho or two from foreign land.

Mediocrity will be the catchword this year. You cannot blame the publishers as most of the English-reading public in India’s urban centres are that: mediocre. The publishers are making hay while the sun is shining. And as this yuppie generation’s aspirations have grown voluminously, they swear by and die for ‘inspirational’ books, which will remain a multimillion-rupee industry this year, next year and so many years to come, till such time better sense prevails. Till such time the space for good writing in English will remain cramped.

Books do not sell on its merit alone; it’s a product today, and it will remain thus tomorrow. Good reviews in influential publications no longer ensure good sales; word-of-mouth publicity and ludicrous plugged-or-paid interviews alone work. Or ask the PR companies that make a killing out of this new bunch of cretins who will never get published in the magazines published by the colleges they might have studied in.

One solace for the run-of-the-mill publishers would be the ensured success of cookery, fashion, cinema and children’s books. Since the advent of designer bookstores, these genres will remain the favourites for a long time to come.

Talking about bookstores, India will witness a massive penetration of fancy bookstores. Crossword and Oxford Book Store will open more and more brightly-lit bookstalls in every nook and cranny of the metros and several coffee shops like Barista and Café Coffee Day will find extra space for books — what if they are titled Who Moved My Cheese or One Night @ the Call Centre.

Two emerging trends in the Indian market will be the proliferation of books in regional languages and fiction giving way to non-fiction in English language. Penguin has already realised the immense potential in regional language fiction and more are expected to follow suit. Coelho, after Gabriel Garcia Marquez, has already found a huge market in a language like Malayalam and it is a matter of time that Rohinton Mistry and Amitav Ghosh will become household names — breaking regional barriers. The dividing line between fiction and non-fiction has almost become blurred, so you can expect more Vikram Seth-type literary non-fiction hogging the limelight.

Indian publishing, whatever its pitfalls and challenges are, will remain a force to reckon with and India will continue to remain the third-largest publisher of books in English language. If it has to withstand the not-so-salubrious climate, they have to invest more in quality and the publishing houses should realise that mediocrity alone will not stand the test of time. People mature as they think as they read.

(The writer, Sunil K Poolani, is the publisher and managing editor of Frog Books, a Mumbai-based publishing house that promotes fiction and young talent, not necessarily in that order. He can be contacted at poolani@gmail.com)

— Sunday DNA, January 1, 2006

Yehoshua Opens his Heart

Milan, Italy. January 1998. Abraham B Yehoshua was surprised to learn that the person staying next door was none other than Salman Rushdie, who carries a price on his head, courtesy orthodox Iranian Muslims.
"He didn't look like a Booker of the Bookers award-winning litterateur, but resembled a Mafiosi flanked by gun-wielding commandoes, who were, however, protecting him from Khomeini's fatwa. Notwithstanding the security, I could talk to him for quite a while. And despite his appearance I was please to learn that he had mellowed down a lot — Rushdie is not that arrogant man we have so far seen on the screen and in the books and articles he had penned," observed Yehoshua.
Yehoshua was on a short trip to India. "According to you, who is the best Indo-Anglican writer?" he asked me as we travelled together through the labyrinthine roads of Mumbai. Rushdie, who else, I told him.
"But, what about [Vikram] Seth, do you consider him a good writer?" Not by any means, I replied. "Is it so?" he cried out. In fact, I told him, the world bears the misconception that India's best writers are those who write in English. There are more talented writers than Rushdie or R K Narayan in Indian regional languages, who unfortunately do not get noticed as there are, save for one A K Ramanujan (who, alas, is no longer alive), no efficient translators like Linda Asher, Gregory Rabassa, Edith Grossman or William Weaver — the translators who made Umberto Eco, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Milan Kundera household names worldwide.
Yehoshua understood this. For, he is fortunate to have been widely translated into English, French, Italian, Japanese and Arabic by skilled translators. And he is the most celebrated literary figure in Israel (read in Hebrew writing) after Shmuel Yosef Agnon who shared the 1966 Nobel Prize for literature with the German-born Nelly Sachs.
Yehoshua's Indian connection, or perhaps his decision to visit India recently, is as mysterious and fascinating as he thinks India is. He has altogether written 12 books, and his eleventh book, Open Heart, was set in India. Before you ask, 'What's so great about that? Several authors, including E M Forster, John Masters, M M Kye and Dominique Lapierre, have used the subcontinent for their plot,' please realise that Yehoshua had not visited India before he wrote the book.
Still 1,00,000 copies of Open Heart were sold in Israel alone, a country with a population of 4.5 million — where the number of books published per person is among the highest in the world.
So how did he achieve it? "I read a lot about your beautiful country in literature, newspapers, travelogues, tourist brochures, history books... and of course I used my fertile imagination. Also, when I completed the first chapter, I showed it to my son, an army man who once spent two months in India. After reading the manuscript my son said, 'Dad, there is no need to waste money on an air ticket to India.' And I completed the book."
And what is the book about? A medical student, Robin, is assigned to travel to India with a hospital administrator and his wife. Robin's duty is to treat the administrator's daughter who is ill in India. After their Indian sojourn, the foursome returns to Israel. And then is revealed a shocking affair. Robin is in love with the administrator's wife!
The novel vividly portrays India's beauty and filth, its charm and inefficiency. There are minute geographical details of Varanasi and the pathetic condition of hospitals in India. Since most sequences are set in Varanasi, Yehoshua visited the temple city before he came to Mumbai. But he was in for a shock. "I discovered that some of the descriptions [in Open Heart] did not match with the life I witnessed in Varanasi. Lakhs of copies of the novel have already been sold and now I can't change anything," he said. Then he added with a grin: "Probably I can change Varanasi according to my novel."
Open Heart sold like hotcakes in the US. Yehoshua said that is where his biggest market is. "That is because my novels are a combination of American — or you can call it capitalistic — Western realism and eastern mysticism. Of course, lakhs of expatriate Jews in America are my greatest readers," he said.
Israel has two official languages: Hebrew, the language spoken by Jews who form 88 per cent of the population, and Arabic, spoken mainly by Arabs. Thus Hebrew played a prominent role in nation-making. "And, you know what, several Arabs, too, have started using the language with the same flair as us." Yehoshua, who has been teaching English literature at Haifa University for the last 34 years, said his Arab students know Hebrew better than Jewish students do.
Israel has produced many a good writer. There are the internationally reputed Shaul Tchernichovsky and Chaim Nachman Bialik. Most writers work within the traditions of their ethnic groups while others have successfully blended different styles from different sources to create a uniquely Israeli tradition. Literature in Israel, said Yehoshua, not only reflects the country's immigrant diversity but also draws upon Jewish history and religion and addresses the social and political problems of modern Israel.
"There are many impressive writers in our country. Most importantly, feminist writing has gathered pace for the simple reason that now the female population in our country is 65 per cent, whereas in my childhood women were a mere 10 per cent of our population. Another welcome change is that the present-day writers are slowly drifting away from their favourite theme — war — and have started writing about other issues," he proudly said.
The probable Nobel laureate is of the opinion that change is inevitable in any nation. "But one shouldn't forget the past. I admit that Israel imitates the West and its forms of governance. But one thing I like about India is that despite all the political turmoil, your country has been able to sustain a democratic form of government. This is absolutely praiseworthy. Israel has to follow in India's footsteps as that's the only way we can ensure peace in our region, especially at a time when religious minorities like Oriental Jews and Israeli Arabs, who were silent all these years, have raised their voice now."
Throughout our journey in the car, Yehoshua was admiring the beauty of the Mumbai coastline. "See, who will say that India is a third world country? The city matches any other world capital for its neatness and efficiency. It's better than our Tel Aviv. Am I right?" I told him his observation was not fully correct and asked him to visit certain Mumbai boroughs which are filthier than any African city.
He retorted: "I admit every city has two faces: one of prosperity and one of poverty. Even New York is not free from filth. But, my Indian friend, India is progressing, in case you haven't noticed that. Though I couldn't travel much I saw signs of changes in New Delhi, Agra, Varanasi, and now I see them in Mumbai."
Swiftly he changed the subject to racial ethnicity, which he thinks is a global problem. "A Sudanese student [in Mumbai] was telling me that Africa's ethnic problems are much worse than those of Israel. 'You are right,' I told him. Look at Algeria. The country stands as a cruel testimony of racial and religious violence. Though unjustifiable, one can understand if Aryans killed Nazis in Europe, or Jews and Arabs are fighting in West Asia, or even your Hindu fundamentalists are targeting the Muslim minority. But in Algeria, Muslim fanatics are killing their own brothers and sisters. It's a totally maddening world, I should tell you," Yehoshua sighed.
In this turbulent age the role of literature is immense, I told him. So he continued: "It can teach masses to live in peace, to love each other, and to progress… Literature is the essence of human culture and development, and if effectively used, it can change the nature of the world for good."
We were nearing the Taj Hotel. Quick personal queries. I told him about my life and work in Mumbai. He said he is happy in Haifa, a beautiful seaside city at the northern tip of Israel. He is married and has three children — two sons and a daughter. "All my children are in the army. So was I. In case you are not aware, in Israel, working in the army for a specific period is compulsory. Later you can choose your own course of activity."
We reached the Taj. Swift handshakes. When will he visit India next? "An Italian filmmaker has bought the rights of Open Heart. It will be picturised in India, and I will be invited to witness the shooting. See you then," were his parting words as he rushed to his room to change. He had to catch a flight to Tel Aviv that evening.
— Sunil K Poolani

Postage Stamps: A Nostalgic Trip

My grandfather was on his deathbed. I was anxiously waiting for his death so that I could steal his collection of stamps, which he never allowed me to touch when he was alive. He had, by then, amassed an impressive collection of postage stamps; he used to work with the Brits and had travelled all over the world — from Great Britain to France to Iran to most provinces in the pre-Partitioned India. And he specialised in collecting rare and old stamps, which made his (and now mine) collection a rare and expensive one. I continue the tradition.
Conjure up those images of waiting for the postman peddling his way towards your house to deliver those mails and you eagerly waiting to tear off those stamps so that you can add them on to your fledging, brusque album. Well, one really doubts whether these days’ kids do that, as most would be busy surfing the net or opening the virtual mails which invade your lives without stamps.
Over the years I had the rare privilege to not just collect postage stamps but to also mingle with people and clubs which specialise in philately. And these years have given the strength to assess the real value and authenticity of rare specimens. And along with it you get lots of nuggets from likeminded people. Well, to start with here is an information which is not rare to find, but not many people still do not know. Which was the world’s first postage stamp and when was it issued? May 6, 1840, saw the introduction of the Penny Post, the so-called ‘Penny Black’ with the head of Queen Victoria. Queen Victoria’s head remained on the stamps for the next 60 years, in which 100 more stamps appeared.
Trivia like the above one is a staple diet for any philately connoisseur. Philately, like any other hobby, can be an obsession. And the journey of stamp collectors was not an easy one. Short after the issue of the first stamps the first collectors of stamps came to the fore. First, most people laughed at these collectors, but soon they became more and more. The first collectors collected stamps of the whole world because there were not so much issues at the beginning. These stamps were stored in the most different ways — there were collectors who collected their stamps on a string or affixed their stamps on wallpaper. This was not a good way of collecting stamps, so the first stamp books appeared. The stamps were glued with paste into the books. This was also not a good treatment for the stamps, which finally could be handled with more care with the invention of the hinge in 1889. If there are stamp collectors, what stops them from starting a union? The first association for stamp collectors was founded in 1856 in the US: The Omnibusclub.
In India, of course the postage stamps were introduced for British convenience of communication. Apart from the British India stamps, several other princely states like Travancore and Jaipur introduced their own stamps, which are a veritable collectors’ item today. Some of my priceless collections include Travancore Anchal (postal service) stamps and that of Mysore under Tipu Sultan and Hyder Ali.
Nostalgia is what drives this passion. One is seriously surprised that the same passion is missing among today’s youth. The reasons are aplenty and you don’t need to probe much to find them out. But, if anyone is planning to pursue this beautiful hobby, here are some advises for free. Treat your stamps like newborn babies, and like your own babies. There are lots of ways to procure stamps. But the preferred two routes are either you get it when somebody sends you a physical mail or you could buy them from professional sellers. In Mumbai walk down the DN Road from VT Station to Flora Fountain, and you could meet at least a dozen of them. Some of the shops there sell other paraphernalia like albums, forceps and books on philately, which give an overall perspective to appreciate your new-found obsession. Once you have a substantial collection you can organise it thematically: country, flora, fauna, people, new, old, rare…
Every stamp has a bulky history to narrate. No, it is not just about the way they traversed to reach you, but aspects like the country of origin, the subject of the postage stamp, the reason it was issued, the price, the style, the design, all these make the stamp a very important aspect of history. And by saving them you are saving a tradition, a history, a culture.
I believe my grandfather would be proud of me — up there.
— Sunil K Poolani / DNA

Ramayana — The US Version

A young second generation Indian in the US was asked by his mother to explain the significance of "Diwali" to his younger brother, this is how he went about it... "So, like this dude had, like, a big cool kingdom and people liked him. But, like, his step-mom, or something, was kind of a bitch, and she forced her husband to, like, send this cool-dude, he was Ram, to some national forest or something... Since he was going, for like, something like more than 10 years or so.. he decided to get his wife and his bro along... you know... so that they could all chill out together. But Dude, the forest was reeeeal scary shit... really man... they had monkeys and devils and shit like that. But this dude, Ram, kicked ass with darts and bows and arrows... so it was fine. But then some bad gangsta boys, some jerk called Ravan, picks up his babe (Sita) and lures her away to his hood. And boy, was our man, and also his bro, Laxman, pissed... And you don't piss this son-of-a-gun cuz, he just kicks ass and like... all the gods were with him... So anyways, you don't mess with gods. So, Ram, and his bro get an army of monkeys... Dude, don't ask me how they trained the damn monkeys... just go along with me, ok...
So, Ram, Lax and their monkeys whip this gangsta's ass in his own hood. Anyways, by this time, their time's up in the forest... and anyways... it gets kinda boring, you know... no TV or malls or shit like that. So,they decided to hitch a ride back home... and when the people realize that our dude, his bro and the wife are back home... they thought, well, you know, at least they deserve something nice... and they didn't have any bars or clubs in those days... so they couldn't take them out for a drink, so they, like, decided to smoke and shit... and since they also had some lamps, they lit the lamps also... so it was pretty cooool... you know with all those fireworks... Really, they even had some local band play along with the fireworks... and you know, what, dude, that was the very first, no kidding..., that was the very first music-synchronized fireworks... you know, like the 4th of July stuff, but just, more cooler and stuff, you know. And, so dude, that was how, like, this festival started."
(Forwarded by my colleague, Pranali Patil)

Bush and Chimp: Made for each other

Graduate in a Day

Course: Bachelor of Arts (Economics)
Duration: 24 hours
Fee: Rs 2,000

First Term: “Tell me,” says a former school chum (let’s call him Prakash), “if you need an education certificate — BA, BSc, BE, MA, MSc, MBBS — from Bombay, Poona, Calicut, Delhi universities… you name it, I’ll get it for you. Or for your friends. Since you are a friend, I’ll take minimal commission.”
Prakash, who deals in smuggled electronic goods in uptown Bombay, explains how he met a person (called Thomas) at Byculla in south-central Bombay, who is in the certificate business. Prakash has apparently struck a deal with Thomas, by which Prakash can charge his ‘clients’ as much as he wants, as long as Thomas gets his fixed rates.
“Sorry,” I tell Prakash, “I don’t think I need a degree certificate. I have a bona fide one from Calicut University and it serves me fine, thank you. As for my friends, sorry again, I can’t help you as I have reputation to protect.”
Second Term: But soon enough, my journalistic senses are atingle. “If you can show me how this racket is run, I can probably pay you, and, of course, your identity will be protected,” I tell him.
Prakash is smarter than I expected. “I know,” he says, looking at me slyly, “you want to write a report. Then I suggest you get a certificate made in your own name, which will definitely strengthen your report.”
“Brilliant,” I say, “then get me a degree certificate from Bombay University in Economics in the year 1991. And, yes, charge me the least you can.”
Prakash says he will charge me only Rs 2,000 from me though his current rates are Rs 3,000 and above for bachelor’s and master’s degree certificates, which are supposed to be “straight from the campus.”
Third Term: The next day we meet at Byculla. “I will take you to the place provided you don’t mention that you are a journalist,” Prakash warns. I nod. He takes me through some labyrinthine lanes and we enter a dilapidated building, climb three floors, and Prakash knocks at a door. A 40-plus Thomas greets us and takes us into his parlour.
The parlour is a certificate-aspirant’s delight. An open rack is crammed with certificates for different degrees and courses, supposedly from various Indian universities. A table is cluttered with rubber and imprint stamps, bottles of various shades of ink, a wide range of fountain pens, and other paraphernalia.
I liked Thomas’ sophisticated way of functioning: apart from the predictable telephone, fax and the answering machines, there are a PC, a TV and other electronic gadgets required for giving an authentic touch to the products manufactured here.
I was delighted when I saw the parlour walls, which were decorated with samples of various certificates Thomas can deliver, and the chronological lists of chancellors of almost all important universities. Against the chancellors’ names are the period they served and their specimen signatures.
Fourth Term: Thomas demands: “Your requirement?” Prakash gives the details. Thomas asks: “Obviously, you will want a first-class degree, eh?” He is quite amused when I say I would prefer a second class. “You seem to be smart and informed. So, no employer will raise an eyebrow when he peruses a first-class BA Economics degree made in your name.” I convince him a second class will be more than enough.
Thomas’ next query: “Fake of original? Prakash might have told you, fake will cost you around Rs 1,000 and original, Rs 2,000. This doesn’t include the commission you pay Prakash.”
What’s the difference — between the ‘fake and the ‘original’? “Fake is something we print at one of our presses in Thane. The original is a certificate on genuine bonded university paper with an imprint stamp — directly from the campus. Only the writing will be by us, as also the signature of the chancellor.”
Thomas also tells me that ‘original’ certificates are available only from Bombay, Poona, Calicut, Gandhiji, and Kerala universities. Why? “We have our men there, not in other places.”
But how can I ascertain that the one I am going to obtain is ‘original’ and not a ‘fake’? Thomas is obviously annoyed. Throwing a glance at Prakash, he says: “Ask Prakash, I have never cheated (sic) anyone in my life. I have been in the industry for more than seven years, and none of my clients has complained about my goods. As for your certificate, my contact in Bombay University is none other than my brother-in-law, whose name, obviously, I cannot mention. Take it or leave it.”
Fifth Term: I plan to take it. An intercom buzzes. Seconds later a lean man with thick glasses enters. “Give him the details — accurate, because I can’t waste any ‘certificates’; they cost money,” Thomas says. I oblige. In a spidery, slant hand, the bespectacled man writes my name, the college I ‘studied’ in (Thomas suggested the Maharashtra College of Arts and Commerce, as the “risks there are less”), the day, month and year I was ‘awarded’ the degree, the subject, and, finally, the chancellor’s signature, for which he refers to Thomas’ list.
Thomas appreciatively looks at the ‘graphic artist’ and confides to me: “He is the best in the market. He does his work much better than the ones in any university. You know, Rs 600 of the Rs 2,000 you pay me goes to him.”
In a matter of minutes, the certificate is ready. Thomas hands it to me to appreciate. I look at it in awe, like a fresh graduate. It looks better than the real thing my cousin, who had actually passed out in 1991 from Bombay University, had. The printing and writing are difficult to differentiate, the then chancellor’s signature impeccable, and the imprint perfect.
Sixth Term: “If you need a mark-sheet, it will cost you another Rs 1,000. But since you’re a friend of Prakash, I can tell you that to procure a job in the Middle East or in any private sector firm in India, this certificate is quite enough. Though chances of discovery are minimal, it is advisable to avoid the government sector,” cautions Thomas.
Thomas also says that if ever I try for a job abroad, for which educational certificates have to be attested from Mantralaya, the state government headquarters in Bombay, he can get it done in a day. How? “We have excellent contacts there. But since they are attesting a fake certificate, you may have to pay Rs 2,000 more.”
I say I’ll contact him in a few days and leave with Prakash. Back on the street, I feel honoured. I am a double graduate now.
— Sunil K Poolani

Write well or die

C P Surendran is 40 and doesn’t like the country he lives in a bit. For a writer, he says, there is no future in India. “Money, fame, satisfaction, everything is in the West….”
Most of his friends and readers think this bearded and bespectacled Keralite is a rebel. “It’s wrong,” CP (his friends and colleagues call him that) wants to clarify. “I believe in compassion.” He doesn’t want to be termed a rebel, but the words he speaks betray his own belief that he is compassionate.
CP taught in a college in Kerala before he took a train to the then city of Bombay in the late 1980s to become a freelance journalist. He did pretty well, thank you. Almost every English newspaper and magazine in this city of swarming millions has carried his articles or columns.
I went to meet CP, just like that, in 1992. He was sitting behind a heap of books, magazines, and useless press communiqués, at his office in the Old Lady of Boribunder. The Bal Thackarey-worsened communal riots hadn’t started then. And CP had just started writing poems.
After his first wife, Usha Zackarias, walked out of his life, CP became terribly lonely. Then he embarked on a junket to Kashmir along with several journalists. “The trip,” CP reminisces, “changed my life. I was minus a companion. I needed companionship very badly. I touched ice there. I came back to Bombay. Then I told myself, ‘Mr C P, now you should start writing poems’.”
For CP, the Kashmir trip became the impetus, or inspiration, to become a poet.
CP was looking for a companionship. Did he succeed? “Of course, not.” The search continued for almost six years. Then, I met Manjula Narayan, who was a colleague of mine at Bombay Times, and I got married to her, and I have two sons now.
“Where did we stop…? Yes, I started writing poetry. I took a month’s leave from The Illustrated Weekly of India, and went home and slept. I used to wake up in the middle of the day, and type out my poems, all of which had a basic theme: Usha’s love towards me, my love towards her, how she betrayed me and walked away from my life, my loneliness, my disillusionment.”
CP wrote 39 poems, and didn’t know what to do with them. So he went and met Dom Moraes, who has then advising David Davidar, Penguin India’s publisher then. “Dom liked my poems and told me that he will ask Davidar to publish them under the title Gemini-II along with verses penned by Jaitirth Rao, a banker.” (Gemini-I was a collection of poems by Jeet Thayil and Vijay Nambisan). “In fact, Rao’s poems play a very insignificant part in the book,” CP says, while mixing rum with water at the Bombay Press Club.
CP’s poems received critical acclaim. I liked his words immensely and the feelings they created. I identified myself in those poems; maybe because I’m from the same district he hails from, and I too live in Bombay as an intruder, eking out a living as a journalist, most days travelling my last trains and knocking at my own door only to realise that there is no one inside. Some of his later works were published in the now-defunct Biblio, a literary quarterly edited by Dileep Padgaonkar. CP reworked all these poems, and lots more. Penguin India, who had decided not to publish any poetry four years ago realising verse doesn’t sell in India, lifted the ban and came out with CP’s book, titled Posthumous Poems.
Posthumous poems? “Yes, that’s the title. And for your information, I’m still alive. The present collection in an effort of two and half years, and it is proof that anyone, even you, can write poetry. The only virtues you require are luck and strength to get a shape to the words you write. With the kind of history we have and the kind of things happening around us, I am surprised there are few poets in India. But things are changing; poetry will outrun and outsell fiction. The future is in poetry.”
CP is now a senior assistant editor with The Times of India, Mumbai. He handles a supplement and writes column, called ‘Brief Grief’, with a droopy-eyed picture of his. The best thing about the column, which sometimes I don’t like, and which I read first thing when I wake up in the afternoon, is that it reads more like poetry than a commentary piece. And CP surprises me with: “In my latest book [Canaries on the Moon, published by Yeti Books, Kozhikode] I have used some of the passages from some of my columns, verbatim, as poems in my collection.” The anthology, dedicated to — what else — Bombay, is different from his earlier one because it muses a lot.
Sample some more his gems:
“The bad thing about Indian writing is we are used to Girilal Jain kind of writing: political correctness, seeking redress. It’s nothing but a pain in the ass and it has to change.”
“Write well or die. If you can’t write well, go commit suicide. But keep your sanity while you write or die.”
CP appreciates that there is more money in writing English these days. And if books are published abroad, one can earn crores of rupees, and worldwide recognition comes free. “Yes, I want lots of money. So I will write more [CP is writing a novel now] and I want to leave this lousy country and live aboard, in England or in America, and lead a decent life. There is no life in India; it is dead, all regional languages are dead, the future is only in English. I’m not going to teach my son Malayalam, but I don’t want him to write poetry. I’ll kick him if he tries to do that.”
CP is six drinks down, and he can’t make up his mind. He wants to leave India, but doesn’t want to. He wants to leave India because there is no future here. But he thinks India has a future only if English becomes the national language. But India is senile. But, when he was in England, he was punched by the natives just because he was an Indian. But he wants to go and live in England….All this is CP’s poetry — his life and words. And the drinks, and the job he does, too are his verse. And he doesn’t believe in following norms while writing poetry. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t know how to use them. But he has a good constituency of readers who read whatever he writes, even when he wrote only Zzzzzzzzzz… Zzzzzzzzzz.. Zzzzzzzz…, which was supposedly a profile on H D Deve Gowda.
— Sunil K Poolani / The Sunday Observer

Savour two of his poems:

Renunciation
First light on the kitchen table
Breakfast for one. Beer and wine.
Feline eyes kiss fallen tart.
Lunch's a conceit of three. My cat,
Your snapshot and me. Secret rum
In mint tea. Invalidation of the sea.
Last light comes to sup. Dinner's a feat
In Rectitude. Water and Whisky.
Campaign of shadows. No despair.
A sliver of music around the ankles
In a dream's corridor.
Endless retreat of inaccessible feet.

Prospect
While you were sleeping
A dog yawned in the sun
And in the distance,
A train, blindfolded by a tunnel,
Window by window
Regained vision.
I thought of all the things
That could happen
When we are looking away,
The universe we miss in a blink.

Second-hand? Yes. Second-best? No

They may be second-hand, but definitely not second-best. We’re talking books here. Mumbai’s obsession with old and rare books is now at its peak. There are at least two dozen bookshops — and no, we’re not including raddiwallas — in the metropolis that deal exclusively in such books. Leading the pack is the legendary New and Second-Hand Bookstall (NSB), near Metro Cinema.
Established in the early 20th century, NSB continues to be the favourite haunt of every resident and visiting literary aficionado. And the bookshop is virtually a literary minefield, where a customer is expected to hunt for the books he seeks on his own. The staffers are rarely of any help since few of them know about the treasures the shop contains.
Walter Z Sodenberg, a German national who lives and writes in Cambridge, was in Mumbai recently. He talks of NSB: “I have come across the most amazing collection of books [at NSB], and the prices are unbelievably reasonable. For instance, I’ve managed to lay my hands on the first prints of H G Wells’ works, which I don’t think I could find anywhere else in the world. Here I found not only reprints, but also first editions, for just Rs 125 each. That’s just US $3.50. It’s amazing.”
On a recent visit to the city, Olivier Todd, celebrated French writer and Albert Camus’ official biographer, said: “In Bombay (oops! I can never pronounce the new name), I could find a great variety of books, including French classics, which I bought for a very reasonable price. I might have had to shell out an astronomical sum if I had to purchase these from Milan or Paris — that is if they are available there at all.”
And the tribe of Sodenbergs and Todds is on the rise. In a survey conducted by some students of St Xavier’s College recently, the demand for second-hand and rare books went up by 30 per cent in just last year. Most people who were interviewed for the students’ project said they bought these books more as collectors’ items, rather than just to read them.
Sample some of the gems that have changed hands, courtesy these bookshops:
1) Complete bound issues of National Geographic and Playboy magazines from the date of their inception — Rs 50 for a 12-volume set
2) The first prints of James Joyce’s unabridged and uncensored Ulysses — Rs 50 each
3) An early 19th century biography of Chhatrapati Shivaji by an unknown Marathi author — Rs 200
4) An original copy of Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch — a mere Rs 5.
Incredibly cheap, one would say, but these books find their way into the international markets, including major auction houses in London, the city of book-lovers, where sometimes a single title could fetch the occasional buyer-seller a fortune. And the books that find their way outside are not just rare books published in India (in languages as varied as Pali, Sanskrit, Mythili and Chentamil), but books published from practically every nook and cranny of the world.
Curiously, the shops buy these books at dirt-cheap prices or, as in several cases, the books fall into their laps free of cost. Says Meher Mistry, 71, an avid book collector who has spent a considerable chunk of his earnings to build up a library of rare books, magazines and other memorabilia: “[Most of these books] really belonged to several old mansions in south and central Mumbai, which have been demolished over the years. Books, unlike other art and artefacts, are literally thrown out as garbage. And a major collection of my books are this garbage.” The worth of Mistry’s collection is pegged at more than Rs 1 crore, though he is unwilling to sell even a single title.
Apart from the bookshops, the biggest delight of second-hand book buffs is the roads in and around Flora Fountain. In a stretch of about two kilometres — on which educated, Shakespeare-quoting street vendors have hawked books for the past 20-30 years — around 200,000 books are up for grabs. Every day. About 80 per cent of them are used books. All types are available here: fiction, non-fiction, technical, non-technical, you name it, you grab it.
The Mumbai book market has generated so much interest that the Internet is full of praise. One enchanted traveller once wrote on a site: “Any self-respecting Bombaywallah would have bought at least one book from [the vendors around Flora Fountain] at least once. I should mention, however, that the favourite haunt of book maniacs would be the thousands(!) of street vendors or stalls well littered all around Mumbai.”
“It is at these book stores that one can get the best bargains or choices and the joy of finding a rare book that one has been searching, for a throwaway price — not to mention the atmosphere in which one can chat with other hunters while browsing through the books,” says Suma Josson, author and filmmaker.
Now, it is not just individual collectors who are throwing their hat into the ring. Big corporate houses and hotels are also stacking up old and rare books — of course, in good condition, and preferably gold-rimmed — in their showcases. The money at stake here is definitely higher.
Predictably, several of these collectors’ items are found in bad condition — due, in the main, to poor handling (even in bookstores) and weather conditions — so, they require professional retouching, which itself is a business on the rise, but that is another story, and will save for another day.
— Sunil K Poolani

Cycling in salubrious dales to make history

The eddying mountain breeze and the dizzying heights did not dither their enthusiasm and courage. In fact they were the accentuated factors in the salubrious terrains they were cycling — yes, cycling, not traipsing. But victory never comes on a platter. You have to puff, huff and struggle to achieve it — and make history, too, in the bargain.
We are talking about the recently-held mountain bike racing, a first in India and only the third one of its kind in the whole universe. The Hercules MTB Himachal championship was a mountain cycling adventure and an endurance race where 23 amateur and professional Indian and international riders employed all their verve, zest and skills over the mind-blowing landscape of the Himalayan backcountry of Himachal Pradesh. They bounced, grunted and pedalled through 480 kms of wilderness trails.
This was a perfect test of physical endurance and mental determination for mountain cycling enthusiasts. It should be. For, mountain biking experts Cara Coolbaugh from the US and Cass Gilbert from the UK spent over three months designing the track — and they are difficult taskmasters.
The starting point of the eight-day event was the Historic Peterhoff Grounds in Shimla and the end point on the first day was the Sports Authority of India training centre in Shilaroo. The route then followed the famous apple orchards of Kotgarh — crossed the mighty Sutlej at Dutt Nagar and camped alongside the river at Bayal.
The third to the eighth day took the riders to the picturesque villages in the interior parts of Shimla, Mandi and Kullu districts of the essential Himalayan backcountry. The event passed through the venue of the celebrations of the famous Kullu Dusshera on the last day. The event rode trails, single tracks, dirt roads, and rivulets of the Hill State spanning these three districts. After the final stage, times were calculated to determine the champion.
Riders, including three women, were from the US, Belgium, Hungary, South Africa, Denmark, Singapore, the UK, and India. Norbert Szenthihlosi from Hungary won the championship title after beating the 22 other spirited challengers. The runner-up was Franc Nel from South Africa, followed by Per Nilesen from Denmark.
Says Mohit Sood, the president of the Himalayan Adventure Sports and Tourism Promotion Association, which conceptualised and organised the event: “We are working towards promoting Himachal as the best adventure tourism destination in the world and through this event we want to present to the world the potential of the Himalayas and how it can be nurtured by way of promoting the ecologically and environmentally friendly sport of mountain biking which has tremendous potential to grow in this part of the Himalayas.”
In fact, the championship was organised as a wilderness mountain bike race, where participants slept in tent villages that were set up prior to their arrival and broken down immediately after the start each morning. During these eight days, enthusiasts endured the climate and physical challenges of the Himachal Himalayas. Stages included breakfast, a pre-designated lunch area, beverages along the route, dinner and an awards ceremony each night where the winners were awarded Leader Jerseys.
Ashok Thakur, the tourism secretary of Himachal Pradesh, was confident that the event will surely boost cycle tourism in the country. “And I am sure this event will set new trends in cycling and spark off many more such challenging and exciting events for biking.”
And glimpsing this spectacular extravaganza which gave an idea of the beautiful, punishing but enjoyable trail one tends to believe so.
— Sunil K Poolani

Punjab

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