MY FRIEND HYDER

Hyder Ali came from a humble background. Education was not a priority in his family. All efforts and contacts of any sort of his father were directed towards finding a secured job for him to ensure a tenable future. Hyder’s father was a cook at the company guest house and a pretty good one. So much so, the British general manager of the company often commandeered his service to entertain special guests. Yes, his father knew the GM; personally.

Our school was a boys’ school run by the company for the benefit of its employees. The official status or positions of the fathers did not matter a bit. The teachers, however, were overtly supportive of Hyder. Sending him to school was a reluctant decision of his father. Hyder started rather late and was a couple of years older than the rest of us. Within a short spell of time, he started excelling in all subjects and competed with the brighter boys for the top spot. Teachers went out of their way to nurture him.

However, Hyder dropped out when we reached the seventh standard; immediately after he was offered a scholarship. The teachers were perplexed. The headmaster personally tried to contact Hyder’s father but the old man refused to see the veteran teacher. A group of boys were delegated to Hyder’s house. They were chased away by the old man. He would not allow them to meet his son.

A few weeks later, while walking to school, we witnessed an amazing spectacle. It was our dear friend in a milk white tunic and trousers and a matching cap riding a brand new bike. When we jostled around him to find out what was going on, he gave us a contemptuous look and announced in unaccustomed English, “Now working” and rode away. The encounter was duly narrated to our class teacher later. The elderly teacher shook his head and sighed. Later, we discovered that Hyder’s father requested the general manager for a job for his son. The all-powerful GM obliged his favourite bawarchi and got his son a job as a ward boy at the company hospital. As he was only 16, his age was inflated in the job application. Anyway, we met him on several occasions till we finished school . He did communicate but the contempt for a bunch of school going kids was too prominent. In course of time, we went our own ways and lost contact with this childhood friend.

Many years later, my wife was admitted at the same hospital to deliver our first child. The nurse-in-charge briefed us about the setup of the maternity ward and summoned the ward boy on duty.  A balding Hyder appeared with a big smile; and froze. His smile disappeared. He mumbled a faint “excuse me”, turned around and walked away. The nurse-in-charge was furious, apologized for this unexpected behavior and assured us that Hyder was in fact very efficient and helpful senior ward boy with many years of experience.  I decided to keep quiet, at least for a while.

A day later, when I was back in the hospital during the visiting hours, my wife confirmed that Hyder-bhai, as he was known, was indeed very cordial and friendly. But for some strange reason, he addressed all other ladies as “madam” but for my wife it was a very respectful and soft “boudi” or bhabhi. I enlightened my wife with his entire life story and requested her to treat him with respect as she would any other friend of mine.

After a week or so, we were ready to leave the hospital with our little baby daughter. As was the custom, a bit of a tip was to be paid to the hospital junior staff, which was usually collected by the r ward boy. Neither I nor my wife was prepared to do this. Instead, we detailed my mother-in-law to handle the delicate task. Hyder came into the room after I left and my mother-in-law thanked him for all the help and offered him an envelope. His eyes became moist and voice choked, as narrated by my wife later. He politely refused to accept the envelope and declared for the first time, “I know your son-in-law personally; and I cannot accept this”. My mother-in-law, as she was briefed, said, “I know, you two are childhood friends. My son-in-law told me all about you and him. You are also like a son to me; this is a gift from a mother or an aunt (maasi). An emotionally drained Hyder accepted the envelope and took my baby daughter in his arms before bidding farewell. However, he made no attempt to meet me.



The Hospital where my daughter was born

As we got into the car, parked just outside the hospital premises, I saw Hyder standing on the long veranda, leaning on the railing, staring at us. I got out of the car and waved at him. He did not wave back; he just turned around and disappeared.

That was the last time I saw him.

Siddhartha Deb

Kuwait; 7 August 2012

The Global India

In 2009, my wife and I were on a short holiday in Switzerland. The day after we arrived, we took a conducted sightseeing tour of Zurich. It was a cool, bright and sunny day. We got into a fancy looking bus with large glass windows. Apart from my wife and I, there were a newly married couple from Hyderabad - both IT professionals, a young couple from NOIDA with two sweet little kids, a group of charmingly jovial  Gujarati families and few other nationals, mostly Japanese.  It was a small bus and half the seats were taken by Indians.

Each seat had an earphone with a choice of buttons on a panel fixed on the back of the seat ahead. Each button showed a flag and a language.  One had the option of listening to the running commentary in the language of one’s choice. The driver introduced us to the function of the buttons. He was a friendly, middle aged guy. He must have noticed that most of his passengers that morning were Indians. After his short speech, he said with a chuckle, “Sorry guys, no ‘Indian’ button”.

The Japanese crowd enjoyed the statement; they would … there was a button for their language. Their leader, with two large cameras hanging from his delicate shoulder, gave us a broad smile. I smiled back and said “Another five years at the most, you will find an Indian button as well”. The young Indian crowd cheered.

My statement was prophetic! And, it did not take five years. Five days later, we were in Lucerne, a city with breath-taking surroundings. We took another conducted tour of the city.  The seats have similar earphones and buttons like the ones we saw in Zurich. Suddenly, my wife reacted with uncharacteristic exuberance,

 “Hey, look”.

“What?” I responded in surprise.

She pointed to a button in front us. Lo and behold, there was indeed a button with our tricolour engraved next to it.  Curious, we pressed the button. The effect was magical. Far away from our shores, in an alien land that had no significant historical ties with India, came a sonorous female voice through the earphone, “Namaskar, Lucerne shahar-me aapka swagat hai”.

Honestly, I was pleased but not surprised. Just a few days earlier, we were waiting for a train at the Interlaken rail station right in front of a snack bar. The menu on display had a wide range of snacks like sandwiches, croissants, cakes, cookies, chocolates, soft drinks, tea, coffee etc. Just above the menu board was a prominently displayed handwritten sign that read “Hot samosas available here”.

Indian professional are spreading far and wide led by the young IT professionals. IT professionals, in particular, are conquering the world like Alexander’s army.  Other professionals are not far behind. Earlier, the preferred destination was USA.  These days, young Indian professionals are working at different industries in Europe as well, in Research & Development and Design and Manufacturing. Two factors have made this possible; firstly, a fast growing aging population in Europe and secondly, the availability of appropriate human resources in India.  India’s bulging population thought to be a liability two decades ago turned out to be an asset. The current emergence of Indians everywhere in the world can under no circumstances be termed as the much feared “brain drain” of yore. On the contrary, it is a long term “brain investment”. The penchant of educated Indians settling abroad is on a decline these days. More Indians are returning home after a stint abroad, enriching the nation with foreign currency and more importantly, skill, expertise and technology. I met a young Indian IT professional last year in USA, successful and well settled with all the frills of an “American Dream”. His firm statement that he was planning to return home reflects the current mind set.

Middle East has been a favourite pasture of Indian professionals of all categories since the 50’s. In the early 80’s, when I was still new in this region, I was sent to Bahrain on a project on behalf of my company in Kuwait. I was young and had no friends in Bahrain.  I was in a hurry to get back. One evening, I told my hosts to leave me alone in the office. I wanted to finish the task in hand.  I assured them that I could get a taxi to return to my hotel.  I finished at 9 PM. It was a cold December night and I found one lone taxi at the stand. It was an elderly Arab at the driver’s seat. My Arabic was pathetic. I hesitantly approached the taxi. I made a lot of hand gestures and spattered a few Arabic words I had picked up to tell him that I would like to go to Hotel Diplomat.  The driver was smart, he understood and gestured that it would cost me a couple of dinars. I agreed. He opened the door. As he started the car he said, almost absent-mindedly, “aaj bahut thanda hai bhai sahab, hum heating chalu karta hain, thik hai?”

He spoke fluent Hindi!  In fact, Hindi movies run in packed houses in several Arab countries.

A foreign ministry official was once asked about the total numbers of Indians and people of Indian origin residing abroad. The figure given by him was thirty million, roughly. Obviously he did not have an exact figure.  In response, a journalist quipped, “Plus another half a million in different transit lounges all around the world”. Yes, the number of Indians travelling has also increased significantly. These days they travel with their laptops and blackberries. I once met an old associate at London’s Heathrow absorbed on the screen of his laptop early in the morning. On my query, he replied sheepishly that Bombay Stock Exchange had just opened with a hike and he just booked some profit.

The Ministry of Overseas Indians Affairs has some interesting statistics on its website. According to information available with the ministry, Non-Resident Indians (NRIs) and People of Indian Origin (PIO) are scattered over two hundred countries across the globe, including some obscure countries like Republic of Palau with 14 Indians and Niue with 3. There are 20 in Albania, 50 in Croatia and 10 in Dominican Republic. There are in fact 20 in Cuba and 16 in Nicaragua.  One might wonder what these people do for a living. Unfortunately, the ministry is silent on this aspect. I wonder where these people get their consular services from!

Philippines boasts of about fifty thousand citizens of Indian origin. Their ancestors mostly went from Sind and Punjab.  Sindhis are generally in business and had migrated well before the country was partitioned. Though their original habitat is not in India any more, they still proudly proclaim their Indian identity. When Sushmita Sen was declared Miss Universe in 1994 in Manila, they declared handsome discounts on all merchandise for a whole week!

There was an amazing scenario in April 2010, when prime minster Manmohan Sigh and president Obama met in Washington DC. Singh was being assisted by Jaideep Sarkar, a young dynamic officer of the Indian Foreign Service.  Incidentally, Obama’s principal aid was Anish Goel, supposedly a rising star in US administration. The presence of Indian-Americans in the current US administration is so strong, that Pakistan government has been expressing its apprehension about the “Indian lobby” influencing  US global policy!

There was a strong rumour sometimes back that Bobby Jindal, the governor of Louisiana might offer himself as a presidential or a vice presidential candidate in the future.  Jindal subsequently denied the story albeit a bit mildly. However, members of the Indian Diaspora heading governments far beyond the shores of the country are not a rare sight. S.R Nathan has been the president of Singapore since 1999. Anand Satyanand is the current governor general of New Zealand representing the Queen of England. Ms. Kamala Persad-Bissessar  was elected as the first woman prime minister of Trinidad & Tobago in May 2010. Mahatir Mohammad, the former prime minister of Malaysia is of Indian ancestry; his grandfather migrated from Kerala many years ago. Governments of Mauritius has been dominated by Ramgoolams and Jagnauts for a long time.  Nikki Haley (aka Nimrata Randhawa)  was the Republican nominee in the South Carolina gubernatorial election, 2010 at the time of writing. Ujjal Dev Singh Dosanjh was the prime minister of British Columbia earlier in the past decade.

I often wonder if the current quest for globalization that the country has adopted is at all necessary. Because, slowly and subtly, the rest of the world is getting Indianised. No wonder the most popular British food now is Chicken Tikka Masala and it is official.

Jai Hind.

Kuwait - 16 May 2010.

An Oilman's Story

Exploration for oil is a dirty business. The locations where people set up the rigs and equipment to explore deep down in the heart of mother earth would be an environmentalist’s nightmare. In spite of stringent standards imposed by the authorities around the globe, one would find stinky effluent pits, roar of half of dozen generators and dirty smelly chemicals being pumped in and out of the well bore.

I was in total shock when I started my career in the oil exploration business more than four decades ago. Most of the days, I returned home in dirty oily clothes raising suspicion in the mind of my family members regarding the type of job I did. They never expected a young man with an engineering degree to go to work in tattered khakis, heavy leather boots, helmets and return home with oil and grease stains all over. 

A few springs later, I fell in love with my job and I am still deeply in love. It was exciting to be in charge of a complex operation in a distant forest, away from the civilized world. Life in the camps was fascinating though one would occasionally crave for a break.  Time and career growth had since pushed me gradually away from the hot spot but I still love to get into my coveralls once in a while and spend some time at the oil rigs with the “boys”. 

One of the fringe benefits of the job has always been close interaction with people from all over the world. Even before I left the country in the early 80’s, I had the privilege of meeting people from USA, UK, France, Japan, Nigeria or even Egypt. Once I had lunch with a die-hard Texan in a camp in Arunachal Pradesh. It lasted for about forty minutes. We had a long chat and I did not understand a word he said. I responded by guessing his hand gestures. It was my first encounter with a Texan and his first trip out of USA. But he thanked me at the end of the lunch for a lively conversation. Thankfully, his assignment was complete and he boarded a helicopter on the way to the airport to get back home immediately thereafter. 

There was an interesting episode on board a drill ship off shore Orissa in 1981. It was the first offshore exploration venture of my company. I was representing the company on the drill ship. The ship belonged to an American organization. It had a multi-national crew. A German supply boat was also contracted by our company from Singapore to provide the necessary support we needed from the shore. However, the arrival of the German boat was delayed due to rough weather. In order to carry on with the operation, our company hired a  fishing trawler from the local market as an interim measure. The trawler was manned by a Tamil speaking crew who spoke no other languages. One fine afternoon, the captain of the drill ship, an incorrigible Englishman, frantically asked me to come over to his cabin. The fishing trawler had a problem and it was trying to communicate with the drill ship. The captain regretted his inability to understand the “Indian” spoken by the trawler crew. I tried a bit of Hindi, a little English but could not break the language barrier. The captain was dismayed to learn that I did not speak “Indian” either. It was an emergency situation and there was no time to explain the complexity of a multi-lingual India. I took the shortest recourse. I made an announcement on the public address system to find if anyone on board spoke Tamil. The outcome was a big surprise; a Malaysian of Chinese origin came to our rescue. He had worked in a rubber plantation in Malaysia some years ago as a supervisor and had Tamil labours working for him. He spoke Tamil fluently. Communication was established. 

The story took a twist a few days later, when a radio signal came in from the German supply boat. The boat was in the high sea and developed a mechanical trouble. The German captain and his engineer, first and second mates were all in the engine room trying to repair the fault. The radio room was being manned by a manual labour who did not speak English. The English captain on our drill ship was tearing his hair. He was convinced that this time we were in a total mess because the manual labour at the radio was from Bangladesh. This was my time to smile. “Hey wait a minute”, I said, “Let me take a shot”. “How?”, the captain was perplexed, “Do you speak Bangladeshi?”. I sure did. I blurted out in the microphone in a language I spoke all my life. There was a moment’s silence followed by an excited response from the other side. The guy on the German boat was thrilled to hear his mother tongue from a distant drill ship. He even asked me which “zillah” I belonged to. 

Many years later, I met the English captain at a pub in London and he was still trying to figure out why I had failed to communicate with a fellow Indian but had no problem with a foreigner. He was in high spirit when he raised the issue and I decided not to explain! 

I spent the last thirty years of my life in Kuwait. It has been fascinating. Switching to an oil company in the middle east, where the annual production figure was forty or fifty times more than that of my company back in India was an Alice-in-the-Wonderland like experience. Luckily, I was not alone; there was a sizable number of colleagues from India, who switched over with me in the 80’s. We blended well in the new environment. It was indeed a multi-national set up.  When we landed here, the oil exploration business was literally run by the Americans and the British at the professional level. Slowly, there was a turn around. Indians professionals started arriving in the early 80’s and earned a reputation which was unparallel. However, it continues to be a multi-national set up with a prominent presence of Indian nationals. In fact, Indians are the largest expatriate community in Kuwait today. 

By the way, I have a much better understanding of the Texan language these days! 

The most memorable and also the most devastating experience in Kuwait till date was the environmental disaster triggered by the retreating army of Saddam Hussain’s Iraq in 1991. They set fire to over seven hundred producing oil-wells. It was an inferno unprecedented in human history. The estimated loss was in the order of six million barrels of oil per day in addition to the hideous pollution it created all over the gulf region. 

All we could see in those traumatic days were belching flame and black smoke coming out of each well in sight, extending up to the distant horizon. The spiralling cloud of black smoke shrouded the mid-day sun creating an eerie feeling of “darkness at noon”. It has been eighteen years since the fiasco and the nightmarish memory is still fresh in my psyche. 

It took over a billion dollars and a global effort spreading over almost nine months to extinguish the fires. But that is another story for another day.

 

Kuwait - 1 October 2009 

What's In A Name?

What’s in a name?

Plenty…. Shakespeare and the rose notwithstanding!

A suave and sophisticated lady, a good friend, a dedicated Mumbaikar was in Kolkata recently to meet her relatives. The last time, she was in the city was over thirty years ago when she was a new bride. We, the die-hard Kolkatans kept our fingers crossed lest she finds our dear city abhorrent. After all, Mumbai was the glam-city, the commercial capital of the country!

The fear was uncalled for. She had a wonderful time in Kolkata. She did some shopping; bought kurtas from Sharbari Datta for her American son-in-law, a few baluchoris for herself and her daughter. No other city in the world would offer her this fanciful merchandise. And, she loved the food here. She tasted a bit of “Oh Calcutta”, “Flame Grill”, “Nola” and enjoyed a sumptuous dinner hosted by her cousin at the Kolkata Club. The last place sounded a bit unfamiliar!

“Kolkata Club?”

“Well,” she clarified, “it is a very old club for the city’s elite bang opposite Rabindra Sadan”.

She was surprised we never heard about it.

Well, not quite, we did hear about it. But the place was Calcutta Club.

“Really?”- She was a bit surprised now, “Hasn’t Calcutta been rechristened?”

“Yes, true but not the club!”

Interesting point indeed! The city did change its name, true. But, does every entity prefixed with Calcutta need to change as well?

 Can you have a restaurant called “Oh Kolkata”? Nahh.. It does not sound right!  

What about the other institutions of the city? What about the University of Calcutta, I wondered. The state authorities must have changed the name. But no, the university still retains its old name; at least that is the impression one gets at their website. It is a fairly user-friendly website I must say, decorated in light blue, very soothing to the eyes. It proudly proclaims “University of Calcutta”. There is no sign of Kolkata anywhere.

Calcutta Electric Supply Corporation or CESC, an organization we have all known for ages have stuck to their identity and did not convert to KESC. Calcutta Tramways Corporation or CTC could have changed itself over to KTC but they did not; in spite of being a state owned company. It would be a shame if it did; CTC has a very cute logo, - a “T” with two outstretched arms sheltering two cute little  “C”s that look so vulnerable. KTC would have destroyed the balance and symmetry of the logo.

However, Calcutta Police did change itself to Kolkata Police. All their vehicles are marked with the Bengali letters “kaw” and “pu” with a vertical arrow between the letters. The arrow, from a distance, looks like the phonetic “aa” sound rendering “kaw-pu” as “kaapu” which is interpreted by some cynics as an abbreviation of the word “kaapurush” or coward! This aberration was pointed out to me by a Deputy Commissioner of Kolkata Police, now retired.

There are several others, who have not changed their names.  Calcutta High Court, Calcutta Youth Choir, Calcutta Kennel Club, Royal Calcutta Golf Club have all retained their identity.

So did Calcutta Club.

Thank God for small mercies.

Kuwait - 5 January 2009

PRINCE ANWAR SHAH

Many years ago, when I was a school kid, I accompanied my father to an unfamiliar area beyond the Dhakuria railway crossing; the over bridge did not exist those days.  He was trying to locate a friend’s house. I noticed that a number of road and street names in the area are prefixed with the word “Prince”. The main thoroughfare that our taxi drove through was Prince Anwar Shah Road. There were several other branches as well with royal titles like Prince Ghulam Muhammad Shah Road, Prince Ghulam Hussain Shah Road, Prince Bakhtiar Shah Road, etc.

Who are all these princes? I wondered aloud.

They are the descendants of Tipu Sultan, said my father.

I did not have a clear idea who this Sultan was but I decided to keep quiet lest it exposed my abhorrence to history lessons.  Much later in life, I learnt a little about the Tiger of Mysore and the tragic end he met with while defending his kingdom, honour and independence. The British had a policy of sending the members of a vanquished royal family to exile beyond the realm of their erstwhile power base.  For some strange reason, Kolkata was the favourite dumping ground for the royals.  The last Nawab of Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah was also humiliated to an exiled life in Kolkata.

Tipu Sultan supposedly had sixteen sons and eight daughters. The fate of the daughters is rather unknown but certain websites on the internet including Wikipedia list the names of all the sixteen sons.  

Hussain Shah, a descendant of Tipu Sultan was recently interviewed by the Deccan Herald (27 July 2010) to reveal some of the mystery associated with the family. According to him, Prince Anwar Shah was a grandson of Tipu Sultan. After the death of the legendary hero, his sons and their families consisting of three hundred members were sent to Kolkata.  They were given official pensions as well as land to settle down. In course of time, the exiled family, still reasonably wealthy, acquired real estates in the prosperous and fast growing city of Kolkata. Hussain Shah leads a comfortable middle class life these days with an established business to run. His two sons are also well settled. However, other members of the family are not that fortunate.   The news report was silent about the princes whose names are linked to other streets and lanes in the neighbourhood.

However, Hussain Shah’s claim is contested by an internet source, which says that the road was named after His Highness Sir Ghulam Mohammad Anwar Shah, the fourteenth son of Tipu Sultan, who was eventually recognized by the British as the official head of the family and successor to his father. He was also knighted two years before he died in 1872. 

The subsequent official successors were as follows: -

1.    Prince Ahmad Halim-us-Zaman, fourth son of Sir Ghulam Muhammad Anwar Shah.

2.    Prince Muhammad Farrukh Shah, fourth son of Prince Ahmad Halim-us-Zaman.

3.    Prince Muhammad Bakhtiar Shah, grandnephew of Sir Ghulam Mohammad Anwar Shah.

4.    Prince Muhammad Ghulam Shah, son of Prince Muhammad Farrukh Shah

5.    Prince Ghulam Hussein Shah, son of Prince Muhammad Ghulam Shah

6.    Prince Hyder Ali, son of Prince Ghulam Hussein Shah.

7.    Prince Asif Ali, son of Prince Hyder Ali.

The last named is the current official head of the family.

Some years ago, Karnataka government wanted to trace out some of the descendants of Tipu Sultan and rehabilitate them in their ancestral land. However, most of the family members declined to leave their current home and hearth in spite of their impoverished life style. For generations, Kolkata has been their home and their ancestral land was completely alien to them.  However, according to media reports, Prince Asif Ali Shah, the official head of the family, agreed to be rehabilitated. Karnataka government provided him with a house, paid for his children’s education and conferred upon him a symbolic status of royalty.

 As mentioned before, the early ancestors of the family had acquired large chunk of real estate at the southern part of the city. It has been on record that the reputed golfing hunts of the city’s rich and elite, the Royal Calcutta Golf Club and Tolly Club are located on the exiled family’s property.  The multi-crore property, incidentally, is run by a trust. According to the trustee, his job was to maintain the mosques named after the Tiger of Mysore and not to dole out charity to the hapless family members. As a result, none of the descendants benefits from the enormous wealth left behind by their noble ancestors.  Today many of the descendants are rickshaw pullers and daily labours in Kolkata, totally ignored by a trust established to provide for their welfare.

Dean Nelson, the South Asian editor of The Telegraph (UK) reported on 31 July 2009 that real estates maintained by the trust are worth “hundreds of millions of pounds”.

Today, Prince Anwar Shah Road is a swanky stretch of thoroughfare proudly proclaiming the presence of the city’s most fashionable shopping mall and residential addresses.  However, the prince’s descendants continue to languish in abject poverty.

Kuwait - 28 October 2010

Manna Dey – The Last of the Legends

During my university days, the music loving crowd was divided mainly in three distinct camps - Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar and Mukesh. Their passion was so intense that they despised the icons of the other camps. Verbal duals were a daily affair often leading to the verge of a spiteful fracas. Mercifully, good sense prevailed at the end and no unpleasant situations arose. Personally, I found this rivalry illogical and trivial. They were all great artistes and probably had an excellent rapport with each other. However, my neutrality was ridiculed and soon I became the target of all the three camps. In order to shield myself, I decided to open a fourth front. I declared one fine Sunday at the lunch table that my favourite was Manna Dey. To my utter surprise, I found nods of approval even from the hardliners of the camps and my musical taste was highly appreciated. Manna Dey had no rival.

Incidentally, Rafi, Kishore and Mukesh were patronized by the three leading heroes of the time; - Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand and Raj Kapoor respectively.  Their voices were supposedly compatible with those of the singers. Manna Dey, a name mentioned often along with the big three had a unique voice that did not quite match the voices of the romantic heroes. In spite of this, he had recorded over three thousand songs for Hindi movies. There was a story that once in the absence of Mukesh he was asked to record a song temporarily to facilitate the shooting of an important scene with Raj Kapoor. It was agreed that his voice will later be replaced with that of Mukesh. But Manna Dey’s rendition was so good that Mukesh declined to oblige. Raj Kapoor, who had a great ear for music, agreed.

During an interview on his 90^th birthday, Manna Dey was asked to identify the best singer of his time. Without any hesitation, he named Mohammad Rafi and added that there would never be another like him. Interestingly, many years earlier, Mohammad Rafi was asked whether he listened to any songs of his contemporaries and Rafi saab, with a shy smile that characterized his personality, named Manna Dey. Manna Dey treasured this statement more than the awards, which according to him were “inconsequential forms of recognition”. In fact, when he received his first ever Filmfare Award for the song “Ye bhai zara dekhe chalo …” from Mera Naam Joker, he expressed his frustration for being ignored for some of his earlier and more deserving numbers like “Puchho na kaise maine rayen bitai” or “Kaun aya mere manke dwar” or “Kasme wade payar wafa”.

Manna Dey had a strong classical background. He was the undisputed choice of any music director whenever a raga based song was conceived.

His love for his wife has been a fairy tale.  He married Sulochona Kumaran from Kerala in the fifties. He revealed during one of his recent interviews that he always phoned his wife before stepping on the stage for a live performance. I actually watched them on TV holding hands as he was responding to questions during an interview. The man was shattered when Sulochana died of cancer in January 2012.

Today, 24^th October 2013, he has been united once again with his loving wife. God bless them both.

Kolkata – 24 October 2014

 

 

WIMBLEDON 2013

I have never been a sportsman. But, I love to watch sports; not all but a few selected ones like cricket, soccer and tennis. I was glued to the television when Wimbledon 2013 was in full swing. I try to watch the games rather dispassionately. I have no favourites since Boris Becker retired in the late nineties. I watch the contests in a relaxed frame of mind, without any exuberance or heartbreak.  I just enjoy the game. However, while watching an encounter, I unconsciously get enticed by a particular player due to either his attitude or personality. Usually, this person is the underdog and I end up supporting him. This year, Juan Martin del Potro of Argentina put up such a brave fight against Novak Djocovik, in the semi-finals, that I was rather upset when the former lost. Of course, del Potro was not really an underdog having won a grand slam before (US Open 2009) but he was never considered a favourite to win Wimbledon in 2013.

A day before the historic men’s final, I was quite neutral. Let the better guy won; I thought. But, when I saw the hype, the hope and dream of an entire nation on the shoulder of a 26 year old Scotsman, I changed my mind. These Brits have been organising the grandest of the grand slams so efficiently that it was a shame that the trophy eluded them for 77 years. I consciously decided to back Andy Murray.

The rest is history. My heart almost stopped when in the final game, three championship points were saved by the never-say-die Serbian, Novak Djocovik.  When the game ended the centre court exploded, so did Britain. I heaved a sigh of relief. So, it was Andy Murray, a British champion, 77 years after Fred Perry lifted the trophy in 1936.

Now, who was this Fred Perry? I was not even born when he won his last Wimbledon in 1936. Subsequent research revealed some exciting facts.

Frederick John “Fred” Perry won eight grand slams in his career before he turned professional. This was well before the open era when the major tournaments were meant for amateurs only.  He won three consecutive Wimbledon in 1934, 1935 and 1936; US Open in 1933, 1934 and 1936; Australian Open in 1934 and French Open in 1935. In addition, he also won two men’s doubles and three mixed doubles grand slams. He was the first player in history to have won all the four grand slams. Impressive, right? Well, we are not done yet. He was also a world table tennis champion during the early stage of his tennis career.

Unfortunately, in the class conscious British society of yore, he was ostracized for turning professional. He was never really treated well by the tennis fraternity due to his working class background. Finally, he left the country and settled in the United States. In 1938, just two years after he lifted the Wimbledon Championship trophy as a British, he became a US citizen. It was only in 1985, 11 years before his death, the British tennis establishment recognized his contribution and unveiled his statue at Wimbledon.

Among the first to congratulate Andy Murray after his historic win was Fred Perry’s daughter who lives in Florida these days. She is Penny Perry Evert. Yes, Evert! Sounds familiar? Yes, she is married to Chris Evert’s elder brother.

Small world, isn’t it?

New Jersey

11 July 2012

BIRYANI

The exotic aroma of biryani emanating from a newly opened restaurant rekindled a craving lying dormant in me for years. My yearning for this delicacy dates back to a time when my father led me, my mother and my kid sister to an obscure restaurant in Central Calcutta more than half a century ago. Though I do not remember the place, the exotic experience remains fresh in my memory even today.

Over the passing years, I discovered there are many varieties. The connoisseurs and culinary experts have been on perpetual disagreement on the supremacy of one genre over the other.  But then, who cares? I like them all. But I definitely despise the fakes, often a mishmash of conventionally cooked meat or chicken pieces served on a plateful of yellow rice. This is sheer sacrilege and there should be a stern law against this malpractice. Biryani is not cooked, it is “created” with tender love and care.

The origin of this exotic art is unknown and often disputed.  Currently, it is known the world over as an Indian (or South Asian) delicacy. But is it? Some believe that the word Biryani is derived from the Persian word “Birian” which means fry-and-cook.  In all probability the Mughals were the ones to introduce this gastronomic delight in this part of the world.

At home and abroad, there has been a healthy rivalry between the Hyderabadi and the Lucknowi (Awadhi) varieties. The former obviously was patronized by the Nizams and the latter by the Nawabs of Awadh. Nizam’s kitchen boasted of forty-nine different varieties.  There are several Awadhi varieties as well. One of them is Dum Pukht Sabzi Biryani and it has an interesting story. Nawab Asaf –Ud-Daula of Awadh was taking a stroll in the afternoon interacting with his people. Incidentally, there was a construction site on the way, with hundreds of labours toiling. In one corner, there was a large vessel containing meat, rice and vegetables simmering in very slow fire. It was the afternoon meal for the workers. The Nawab was mesmerized by the aroma and summoned the royal chef.  The chef, a culinary expert, came over, collected the recipe and fine tuned it. The rest is history. There are no Nawabs these days but the art lives in the non-descript eateries of Lucknow’s chowk area.

There is a Calcutta variety as well, which unfortunately is not very popular outside Bengal. The legacy goes back to the last Nawab of Awadh, the ill-fated Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, who was exiled to my beloved city.  The Nawab’s favourite food soon caught up with the local residents. However, being poor, many could not afford the required quantity of meat and settled for potatoes.  Nowadays, the potato is an indispensable part of ‘Kalkatta Biryani’, nestling like a golden egg in a bed of fine aromatic rice and soft melting pieces of mutton. Arsalan restaurant in Park Circus, Kolkata is famous for the Calcutta variety. It is a favourite haunt of ours during our yearly holidays.

 

 

Unfortunately, I had never been to Hyderabad and cannot authoritatively comment on the genuine Hyderabadi variety.  There are several restaurants outside Hyderabad claiming to serve the original stuff but their quality and authenticity have always been disputed by my die-hard Hyderabadi friends. The trick of the trade, I believe, is the skill to induce the aroma of the spices without actually mixing them with the final product.  It is light and healthy. It is claimed that authentic Hyderabadi Biryani can be eaten with bare hands and there would be no trace of grease on the fingers.

 

A Bangladeshi friend of mine introduced me to home-cooked Kachchi Biryani.  This is cooked with the rice and marinated meat placed in layers in the vessel with the lead tightly sealed. This is a challenging process as it requires meticulous attention to time and temperature to attain perfection. The trick is just a wee bit of overcooking to ensure a divinely delightful gastronomic experience.  This is supposed to be one of the Hyderabadi varieties originally. It has a sister version aptly named Pakki Biryani, where the meat is pre-cooked.

I personally believe that mutton Biryani is the real stuff. The ones cooked with chicken, beef, prawn or vegetables are at the most pilaffs or pulaos. Some puritans agree with me. Unfortunately, there are some who do not.

Bon Appétit.

7 August 2011

CHINA VS INDIA

 

Some times back, I had an opportunity to meet a delegation from a Middle Eastern oil company looking for alternative sources for the supply of steel tubular products. Their target destinations were manufacturers in China and India. Their traditional suppliers from Japan, USA and East European countries have been unable to meet their requirement within the required time schedule.

The delegation was returning home when I met them. They were impressed by the range of products and the quality control mechanism of the manufacturers in both the countries. The prices were very competitive and the delivery schedule was very attractive as far as their project targets were concerned. They were all set to invite tenders from steel manufacturers from the two countries.

However, they made some observations which they were a bit reluctant to discuss initially. Later, they opened up and started talking.

They were immensely impressed by the development of infrastructure in China; wide and shining highways, gleaming high-rises, swanky shopping malls, recreation centres of global standard, uninterrupted power supply etc. They drove at 80 KPH through Beijing downtown. In comparison, the situation in India was dismal. They were caught in traffic jam on their way to the hotel from the airport at Mumbai. They experienced power cut in another town. City streets were choc-a-block with cars, trucks and people. There was dust and noise everywhere. “India needs to work on infrastructure”, was their comment. The image they had drawn in their mind after all the stories of economic boom, was shattered.

Interestingly, in spite of the unfavourable observation, their preference for doing business was tilted towards India. The reason was communication. The Indians were excellent communicators. Questions regarding the business details were answered clearly and promptly. The language of communication was, of course English.

On the contrary, the Chinese depended on an interpreter during the meetings and presentations. The interpreter apparently was put on the job after a brief crash course in spoken English. He learned the grammar but not the diction. Words spoken in a heavy Chinese accent were almost unintelligible. A few did have a better diction but they had no knowledge of the business. Therefore, any question put up by the delegation was translated to the professionals whose responses in turn were translated back. Apart from the time wasted in this process, vital information was literally lost in translation.

 

The Chinese seem to have woken up to this shortcoming. They have introduced English, spoken and written at elementary schools. And they mean business and in one generation this inadequacy will be wiped out and the edge that India has at the moment will disappear.

 

But one generation is a long time; enough to develop the basic infrastructure like roads, power and civic amenities in India to focus global attention to India as the major player. There is no shortage of funds as several IPO’s have demonstrated time and again.

 

With a little effort, we can improve our infrastructure before China polishes her English.

 

8October 2012

US PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE 2012

It was 4^th September 2012, Thursday morning at 4 am, Kuwait time. I jumped out of bed, rushed in front of the TV and switched it on. US presidential debate started already and Mitt Romney was explaining his vision of an America in the future. He was very confident and performed much better than I expected. In fact, the president was lacklustre. The incumbents are normally defensive and tend to cover the faulty tracks they left behind. Obama’s job was tough in a bleak economic scenario. He did not have much to flaunt from his first term except the revival of the auto industry at Detroit and his much maligned and controversial healthcare programme. He directed his message to the vast middle class Americans luring them to safety net of more government spending and tax reliefs. Mitt Romney was a winner at the end with his vision of creating more jobs and generating more revenue.

One would wonder what an Indian like me, based in Kuwait has to do with US presidential election. The people of USA will elect a man to take care of their interest, not mine. Ironically, the rest of the world also has a stake in US presidential election. An average American voter probably is not conscious of the global impact of their choice. While electing their commander-in chief, they also elect a leader who has the power and capability of influencing the destiny of people from distant nations.

I would like Obama to have a second term. He is trying to pull America back home from the remote corners of the globe. Mitt Romney seems to have other ideas. He intends to raise the budget allocation for the military. Does he have plans for a more intense global role? I have a feeling that he does. Republicans of all hue have been critical of Obama’s version of the current Middle Eastern policy of neutrality. They want more US involvement. Mitt Romney, on earlier occasions, rejected the policy of granting Iran any more concession on the suspension of its clandestine nuclear programme. If elected, he might pick up a leaf from George W Bush foreign policy manual and launch a campaign against Iran. As a resident of Kuwait, I would hate to see another war in my neighbourhood.

As an Indian national, I do not endorse Obama’s plans to stop exporting jobs abroad. The outsourcing of US jobs has benefitted India immensely. I shall, however, treat this as a minor issue because for any business to be profitable, the economic factor translating to obtaining best value for money is something beyond the control of any administration. USA which boasts of being a free county, and rightfully so, will not and cannot control their entrepreneurs’ way of doing business. Hence, his declaration of stopping job export is at best an election rhetoric.

One would wonder whether this much hyped debates make an impact on the voting pattern. The event started in 1960 when a youthful John F Kennedy faced Richard Nixon. The former’s good looks and sophisticated grooming carried the day for him. Overnight, Kennedy’s rating zoomed at the cost of Nixon’s. I think in no other country, the contenders come face to face before an election.

In a parliamentary democracy like ours in India, the chief executive (Prime Minister) is elected by the members of parliament after the election. There is no definite candidate before an election rendering a similar debate completely irrelevant.

4 September 2012

COMMUNICATION - A REVOLUTION

I was a university student in the sixties. My family was based in a smallish industrial town in Assam. Banaras Hindu University was my alma mater. The train journey took three nights with a couple route changes on the way. I never travelled alone. There were always a few friends to keep me company. We ate at every station till we ran out of money, sang at our heart’s content and also indulged in mild mischiefs. It was fun.

Our parents came to the station to see us off extracting promises of writing a letter every week. We did oblige; to the extent possible. Having reached the campus on the fourth day, it would be a day of rest before picking up the pen to scribble a few lines; mostly stating how difficult it was to squeeze out the time to write a letter in such a busy schedule. Once posted, we would jump on our bikes to watch the latest movie in town. The letter took another week to reach home. In short, there was no contact with the family for ten to twelve days! And, the letter that our parents received contained news that was at least a week old. There was no question of talking to them on phone. Telephones were a rare commodity those days. Applicants waited for decades to get a faulty connection that remained “dead” most of the time. 

The Old Unfaithful

Many years later, in the early nineties to be precise, I had to communicate the news of a death in the family to close relatives scattered all over the county and beyond. By then, we were the proud owner of a black outdated telephone installed by MTNL in our house in Kolkata, which did not make any noise or sound of any sort. All the other telephone in the neighbourhood were dead too due to a chronic ailment known as “cable fault”. I had to hop into a taxi to travel all the way to the Telephone office at Dalhousie Square, stand in a queue to make a phone call, return to the back of the queue to make the second one and then the third etc. I was physically and emotionally drained out at the end of the gruelling exercise.

Slowly and gradually the situation started to change from the mid-nineties. After a lot of political hiccups, the government allowed mobile phone companies to set up business in India. The impact was stunning. In 15 years’ time, the industry went through a phenomenal growth. According to latest information, there are over 900 million telephone connections in the country. India now is recognised as having the fastest growing communication network in the world.

Running simultaneously, the internet technology also grew fast and steady. However, the impact remained confined to urban India only. Mobile phone connection reached the remote villages due to low tariff and mushrooming of transmission towers but the internet remained inaccessible to many. However, the privileged ones are audio-visually connected to their friends and family all around the world.

It is really amazing for someone of my generation to have experienced the revolution that communication has gone through. It would have been crazy to think twenty years ago that someday in future I would be able to call a friend of mine in California while walking out of a movie theatre in Kolkata.

The Contemporary Gizmos

This is a dream. However, there is indeed an adverse fallout.

As mentioned earlier, our parents had no clue of our whereabouts for almost two weeks. But these days, the parents tend to keep their young children on a communication leash. It must be pretty frustrating for the young generation to be just a-phone-call-away, particularly when they are taking a break in a cafeteria or a movie theatre or even trying to catch up on sleep. There are parents who expect their children to send text messages at least twice every day and an email almost daily. The kids of this generation lost their logistic freedom.

However, I cannot even visualise what the young lots of today will experience in the future in the field of communication. It will be a revolution that will be beyond our wildest imagination.

Alas, we will not be around to cherish it.

18 September 2012

 

BLESS THE LADIES

Last Friday, Shreya and Shamik took us to a Malaysian restaurant for dinner. One of the main attractions was an appetizer called Roti-Telur, which is very similar to our moghlai paratha and is served with a small bowl of chicken stew. It was delicious and quite filling. I have a picture enclosed but that is another story.

The place was full when we reached. We had to wait in queue for ten minutes before being ushered in to a table for four. Sattam had a concert somewhere in Jersey City and could not join us.

As we were being seated, I noticed two attractive Indian ladies in western attires seated at the table just next to us, engrossed in intense conversation. They were probably in their early fifties. Their plates were almost empty. There was an ice bucket on their table with two bottles of wine sticking out. One of the ladies filled an empty glass in front of her and took a long swig. In the meantime, the waitress brought the menu cards for us. Inspired by the ladies at the next table, I suggested to order some wine as well to go with our meal and discovered, to my dismay, that the place had no liquor license. However, the diners could bring their own drinks and the restaurant will be too pleased to provide ice, soda, glasses and associated paraphernalia. The waitress was very helpful. She suggested there was a wine store just across the corner and we could just walk out and get our drink.

Something unexpected happened at this very moment.

One of the ladies raised her hand and said, “Excuse me”. When we turned she made an amazing proposal. They finished their dinner and were getting ready to leave. The tables being very close they could not help but hear our discussion. They were extremely sorry as they did not intend to get into our private conversation, but they had a couple of unfinished bottles of wine and they would be very pleased if we agreed to accept them. We protested vehemently but they insisted; and very politely. The waitress smiled and told us that it was a very common practice there. Many diners left behind their unfinished drinks for the next customer. When I suggested that they could take the bottles back with them they looked crestfallen and said rather sheepishly that they could not take the bottles home.

Well, to cut a long story short, we accepted the bottles and thanked them profusely and they insisted once again that it was their pleasure and left. Both the bottles were half full.

Shamik looked at the labels and nodded approvingly. They were good quality Californian wines, one red and one white. Shreya had a lemonade like her mother. Shamik and I did full justice to the kind gesture of two attractive ladies.

I am thrilled to think if strangers could be so considerate, how generous my friends would be!

God be praised.

9 May 2013