SWAGGER LIKE SIDDHU

Kailesh Kher bleated "Naam Hai Siddhuuuu, Naam Hai Sidhuuu". Thy name is Siddhu and populist is his mantra.
It is amazing how this lawyer, staying in a one-room shared apartment with his friend in Mysore, turned around the Karnataka budget of over one lakh crores. Unlike other Chief Ministers, i really admire the man. He keeps a beard, wears a simple dhoti, speaks rustic Kannada and ensures the common BPL man is benefited.
And benefits galore. Rice at one rupee a kilo, pension for war widows, girl child education, loans waiver for farmers and flyovers for cities. There was even a package for the ITeS Sector, but i don't remember the details. However, i loved the education part. Compulsory education for all children, even in private schools. Plus, milk in their mid day meals.
As for the shoppers, Siddhu decreased the price of footwear and increased the price of movie tickets. What's more, he his going to pass the burden of the free milk to us. But i don't mind. Lakhs of children will be benefited. Dare i say, his move to conduct IT raids of mutts is a little risky, though justified. Hey, there's even funds for starting Kannada Studies in Germany too. Now we can put our Kannada ebbettu (thumb print instead of sign) and get an M-Class, or better, serve Ragi mudde at cafes' over there.
Our state has seen its ups and downs, and the deep ends. It has never seen the heaven. Hopefully, Siddhu will change it. If we cannot reach for the starts, at least we could have the telescope to see them. Hope is everything.
In the meantime, enjoy your milk, put on some music and swagger like Siddhu.

MADE IN DETROIT-R.I.P

I watched in amazement at the Chevrolet Camaro in Transformers. That black strip on a yellow body made me drool more than Megan Fox and the Aussie chick that came in the last installment. Not to forget, the muscular Humvee and the GM pickup.
And then, i read the news. DETROIT GOES BUST. FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY. It felt really bad.
Remember the episode from MadMen where Chevy calls for the biggest ad agencies, and SC&P, along with GCG (or the agency where Peggy works) merge. Those were truly the golden days for America. The college goer had the muscle car, the family had the wagon and the rich had the Lincoln. You did not have to print "Made in America". You just had to say "Made in Detroit".
All those mega factories which followed Henry Ford's assembly line have fallen silent. They almost did when the Japanese came calling, and Toyota made a Sushi out of the American giants. Customer was king, and the Japanese knew the Art of War, and customer care too.
But, innovation happens when crises strikes. The Americans made their cars slightly fuel efficient, and solved the problem of mileage. How? They invaded oil rich countries. This master stroke brought back the pick up trucks, Jeeps, and anything that could be driven in Red Neck country. They went global and ensured Arnold Schwazzneger (don't bother with the spelling) acted in movies, became a politician, married a Kennedy and bought not one, or two, but seven Hummers.
Detroit's giants shifted base to China to sell the American dream, including divorce rates which came from making love in the car, and sold more to the guys who had wrote the Kamasutra. We already had the Ogilvys' and Y&Rs', only the brands were yet to come. The once great state of Detroit, where at the ring of the bell, the boxes were opened and sandwiches consumed, while workers watched another swanky car roll out of the assembly line, is now witness to hearses, that carry the murder victims as crime rates soar and communities flee.
Perhaps the hearse, also made in Detroit, is an indication of the city's demise. Generations of families which had more oil and grease than blood in their bodies, have now moved on to other cities. The Detroit Auto Show is the only saving grace, ironic considering American Cars are made in China and India, to be bought by them and the rest in Asia.
This is a bad account even Don Draper would not be able to market.

MILITARY REPUBLIC OF INDIA

Egypt. The people rose in protest against a tyrant. As usual, the police beat, shot and killed the protesters. Before more people got hurt, the Egyptian Army stepped in and Mubarak was kicked out. It repeated the act to remove Morsi, bowing to popular sentiments. The Tahrir square has been witness to this historic event.
Back home, we have seen the Army rescue victims of natural and man-made calamities. Be it a child stuck in  a borewell, or pilgrims who expected God's mercy. Not to forget their job of trying to push back terrorists, within and outside the country; not to forget the role it plays when fanatics stir up communal violence and pit one man against his brother. The Army is called in to hold the pieces together and keep the peace.
One thing the Army hasn't done yet is take over the Government.
Yes, an attempt was made by Mangal Pandey, when the white man was ruling us and pork fat was used in guns. Today, a white woman, surrounded by hogs, is ruling us. And the Army, sadly, is killing itself. The suicide rate among the Armed Forces is high. Juniors shooting their senior officers over leave sanction is becoming a recurring event. Even for the ones not contemplating suicide, it is a tough task. We have battle tanks that blow up from the inside, MiGs that crash while taking off and choppers that drop from the sky like dead birds.We may have the highest casualties in peace time, than war.
Be it trucks, guns or plain rations, the government of the day always does an "Italian Job" of things. The magnitude of corruption increases as the defense budget sky rockets. Yet, terrorist acts continue and are more brazen than the previous one. Remember the Mumbai attacks?
It might sound as sacrilege, but sometimes to protect democracy, you need to appoint tyrants. Romans did it, Germans did it, Americans still do it; it's time we did it. We have waited more than 50 years, and we should not wait another 50 to realize it is not working out.
Our Army are not exactly tyrants. Yes, freedom of the Press is something that should be kept alive, unlike our neighbor Burma. But the armed forces have a good track record of solving problems pragmatically, be it court cases, providing relief or making judicious use of limited resources. They can be the right solution to our problem. All we need is to give them the call.

OM SHANTI OM CIRCUS

"Pandit? Ready!"
"Aarti? Ready!"
"Devotee's wallet visible? Roger that"
"Let's start. Om Hocusey-Pocusey Namaha!"

These days, i frequently visit temples. It's not because i've not bagged a job yet; the reason is "scientific study". A study of devotee, devoted and the antics of everyone in between.
The God doesn't change throughout the year. Yet, on specific days, He or She assumes more significance. People, who haggle over morning milk, stand patiently to get a glimpse of the Lord. Strangely, the Q is co-ed. Men are supposed to stand on the right, the ladies they stare on the left, and far behind, obscured from view, their wives. Even if one bends over the railing, the rest scream and shout. Pushing and jostling ensues. Angry looks and not-so-holy words are exchanged. Once the screen is removed and the radiant God is revealed in all his tax-payer paid jewelry and glory, hands are folded and self-slapping occurs from one chin to the other. This a showstopper that Prada, Gucci and Louis Vuitton have been trying for ages, and are still at it.
There's a mad rush to get the hands on the aarti. Heads are knocked out, pulled, crushed, beaten and in some cases, wigs stolen or worse, falls on the aarti plate as dakshina! The bald pandit is all to happy to take it as a token of appreciation. As for the theerta, their's many a slip between the cusp and the lip. The ones in the front are pushed, so they inhale the liquid. The ones in the back are given a face wash, enough to quench Tamil Nadu's thirst for water.
Some families try to outdo their relatives and neighbors by throwing in notes as Dakshina, inspite of clear instructions to put them in the hundi. The temple is all too glad at this. However, the pandit does frown when for all his efforts, only coins are donated. He looks at you with such disgust, that you immediately throw in another 10 bucks to ensure he puts in a good word for you with God. Infact, temples collect so many coins that they give the Reserve Bank a run for their own money! In these times, where tendering exact change is more important that electing a competent Prime Minister, temples collect hefty commission in exchanging notes for coins.
One of my favorite moments is when you are supposed to utter your and your family's name, the stars under which they were born, the whole deal for the archane; the pundit repeats them with peppering of "swaha". Sometimes he underestimates the strength in numbers of joint families. Twenty or forty, from mamas' in Bellary to mamis' in Vijayvada. Further embarrassment occurs when he's perplexed by the names. Vijay Anrogyabhasysundaram Jamilpetti, or there's a Vanita Nagendra Saravannaamma Mugilpete. And he thought mastering the schlokas (holy verses) was tough!
The mad scramble for prasadam is a sight to be seen. For once, the autodriver pushes the Audi owner, the cricket lover beats the sop opera lady. If the menu is ladoo and sweet pongal (Indian delicacies), the scramble is faster that F-16s and F-22s. The devotees eat it contently, and dump the plates and cups wholeheartedly within the temple premises. And a loud burp signals the Heaven that it was well received. It is immediately followed by a cigarette or a spit. To err is human, to forgive divine. In that case, the guy who ran away with our sandals and shoes is not guilty. He had plenty of time to shop, choose his size and brand. And walked a mile in another man's shoes before realizing it was the perfect fit.
The little boys can even sneak away with a pee, given the size of the temple's compound. And children are the forms of God, and the Devil, depending on what pocket money they earn. They run around the temple, pulling the dhotis' and baring the inner secret, that even priests are "Just Jockeying". This is as real as it gets for them to play Temple Run.
The father's dare not spank the child, lest the other pretty ladies think low of them, never mind the wife is horrified. Why, he even offers to pick up the son, place him on his shoulders to get a balcony view of the God. But, he just steals a peek on the opposite row's deep necklines. Like father, like son. With lax rules for dress etiquette at temples, more men are drawn in their Bermudas and T-shirts. Their gaze is stronger than Shiva's third eye and the women seem to don't mind it. Marriages might be made in heaven, but temples, some with huge parks, seem to have become dating grounds.
The next day; the same God, the same temple and the same pandit. The next day. But the only devotees seem to be the pigeon, the monkey and the fly. It's as if the Gods have lost their Midas touch. Sayonara God and hello daily life, until the next event on the religious calender.
Exhausted for the week? Free time to kill? Still a Bachelor or an attractive damsel? The Om Shanti Om Circus has rolled into town. Showing at at temple near you.

MAKE HAY WHEN TSUNAMI STRIKES

It is amazing to see how the army laid down across a bridge, and helped the pilgrims cross over on their backs, when the number of planks wasn't enough. It is humbling to see a group of Sikhs going into ground zero to cremate the dead. They are the sunshine after a storm passes.
And then there are those who made hay in the absence of an actual sunshine. News reports are filled with these shocking stories. A guy tried to make away with a whopping 85 lakh, washed away as part of the five crore kept at the bank. The rest of the money, is either in the silt or in the pockets of the locals, some who have become unexpected millionaires on finding nature's loot.
Food packets, some from our own Mysore city, were and are being sold at 100-200 bucks. Air dropped, these find their way into some locals, who sell them to bewildered pilgrims. This in addition to parothas costing 200 bucks a piece and fried rice for even more. Even basic water was not spared.
On one side, you have the cab drivers who drove through the land slide and right beside the ferociously flowing Mandakani, to ensure their passengers reached safely. They are shamed by their colleagues who are reportedly charging 10,000 rupees for a ride which would cost 500, for relatives who are in search of their loved ones.
This reminds me of Hurricane Katrina. Just when the rescued thought they were safe in the SuperDome, crime broke out. Women were raped and possessions looted. Survivors were turned back by police with shotguns, as the rescue shelters could not accommodate more people. Ambulances were parked on the highway for days, just because the administration did not give them a green signal.
It took three days for Rahul Gandhi to "flag off" a convoy of trucks carrying relief material, once he had got over jet-lag from his Spanish vacation. Not to mention his convoy of SUVs to the site, which further blocked the only roads which were viable for emergency transport.
People get the government they deserve. The initial looting was done by people, who took advantage of helplessness and despair of survivors. The political vultures will come next, siphoning off funds from the relief package.
Yes, some organisations did distribute free food. The Armed forces are carrying out their largest rescue operation, even tragically losing their own men in one of the sorties. Individual stories of survival, bravery and brotherhood will emerge. It's the like the scene from The Dark Knight, where both civilians and convicts refuse to blow up each other's ferries.
But, these few vested interests, who displayed "extraordinary greed" in the midst of an mammoth disaster, i just want to say this: Life comes a full circle.

MANUFACTURED FOR MARRIAGE

I'm thankful for being born in a household where women are allowed to follow their dreams. This inspired me to take the offbeat path in life.
However, any trekker worth his salt and backpack will tell you that the next surprise is always round the corner. My cousin, practically younger than me but theoretically older, is getting married.
It's a love marriage, as we, the younger generation, are allowed to choose our seven year partners (the seven -year marriage jinx, after which it hits the rock and we are back to our parents house). I do hope our marriages last long. But, here's my question: How come it's assumed that girls are manufactured for marriage?
Yes, this question is repeated in a lot of households across India, why even across the world. Pretty sure it is the same in your home too. My sister, an IT professional, returns home late at night. She has decided to build her career and lives her life by her terms; almost. When i asked her which car is she going to buy, pat came the reply, "I'm saving enough for the marriage venue".
Who decided that the girl and her family should pay for the venue? And how come these days, its always a 5-star hotel, with 2-star food and half-star waiting staff? Not to mention the Gold rush, which is almost destroying the middle class in India.
Marriages are made in heaven. Unfortunately, even our aunts and relatives come with the package. They reinforce false expectations and beliefs. They are the first to complain about the a flower petal missing in the bouquet, the halwa being too sweet and the gold glittering less. I've seen that they are the first to scoot and slam the door when marriages turn sour and their help is needed. They show up again when a boy is born and to check out the ornaments when a girl is put in the cradle.
This year, we welcomed another baby girl to the family, pushing the total number of "manufactured for marriage" candidates to seven. That in itself is a sad thought. I'm not against marriage. I'm just against the idea that it is a must to establish identity and be accepted.
As i write this, my sister gets complemented on a successful project. "You have a bright future ahead of you", says her boss.
A midst the pestering calls for alliances, ads for Elite matrimony, 24 carat gold and pure Mysore Silk, nothing can be farther than the truth.

THE DEAD BANDICOOT

Lavasa, Brigade or your neighborhood jopadpatti; on some mornings, after you have ensured that Mr. Sharma has left for office and Mrs. Sharma is at her sexy best, a common sight greets us all. No, its not the security forgetting to zip his pants. It's a dead bandicoot.

The kids cringe at it, the Jains feel sorry for it and the Brahmins are back to washing their eyes and chanting the holy Lord's name, and cursing the apartment's management. "This is not acceptable", is the common phrase that is belted out. The neighborhood kids see it as the perfect opportunity to place it on the ever grouchy & angry Mr.Anthony Pillai's front door and ring the bell. This is Grey's Anatomy of a different kind.

The mystery bunch has already secured the crime scene. This inefficient and namesake CSI has already drawn a list of possible suspects. Was it killed by Ms. Julia's cat? Did it commit suicide on eating Mrs. Lucia's bitter gourd cake? Or did it become over confident after watching Man of Steel? Conspiracy theories arise. 

No one bothers to pick it up, except 3 year old Alex Pandyan Gowda (a by-product of inter caste marriage). His mother immediately shrieks out, freaks out and gives him a scrub bath, till his skin peels off.

A conference of crows gathers  immediately. The Congress side wants the tastiest bits, the BJP side wants the tender pieces; a fight breaks out, till the regional party leader, a Bull Dog, decides enough is enough and lifts his leg,and sprinkles his own flavor on it. Everybody takes a flight, including the 80-year Vanitamma, who just had finished a breakfast of smashed bananas. This unpalatable sight washes it out, along with her medicines, braces and pacemaker. (RIP granny).

The maintenance guy, an ardent fan of Shree Ganesh, refuses to touch it. "Evil shall befall us for this crime", he proclaims. It sends shivers down the housewives group. They cannot afford to have their mothers'-in-law visit them. Finally, the garbage collector picks it up, for a fee of 500/- rupees. One man's belief is another's business my friend.

Everything is back to normal. That night, at the end of a very tiring day, half spent in his Audi Q7, Mr Deshpande jumps into the pool and shows off his Nicobar islands-like-potbelly. He practices his man-boob strokes and runs his chubby hand over his laser treated hair, only to find a fat, fleshy and hairy thing stuck on his hand.

One loud ear-piercing Dolby surround-sound sream later, the saga continues......