Shiv Cable Sena

Yes, my network in Mumbai is from one of the small cable operators affiliated to the Sena. We have subscribed to a plan that allows us unlimited usage, pretty much the same plan that I have in Singapore, but with some differences.

I pay about S$70 (Re.1820) for my plan in Singapore, my father pays about Re.193 for his plan, almost ten times cheaper! How does this come about? Bandwidth throttling, how else? My father gets speeds of about 20-30 kbps, which is lesser than even a dial-up, while I manage to get around 800-1000kbps, forty times faster!

Presuming that an internet connection with the speed and stability that my internet connection gives me costs Re.2500 in India, I could be making Re.5000 a month from just one internet connection, including deductions from the depreciation cost of the hardware, which is, incidentally recovered from the consumer in terms of installation charges.

Thinking further, if I purchase three 6 Mbps pipes, I could serve 400 connections with the same speed and reliability, and pull in a profit of at least Re.35K a month, close to what most MBAs get paid in India! This, after the cost of hiring some university students to maintain the network and a receptionist!

Such a lucrative business plan, isn't it? It does sound too good to be true. It is. Most of these small operators are members of this union called the Shiv Cable Sena, the cable operators arm of the [multi-armed] Shiv Sena, a idealist political party in Mumbai. While I can offer no evidence to support my claims, I would speculate that unionisation of this kind comes with it's territorial pissings and nepotistic tendencies. By this kind, I mean a union formed on the political clout of a party, whose idealism overflows the political scenario into the socio-cultural scene, and where nepotism causes frequent rifts in the party, decreasing the political sailability [sic] of the party.

So, the million dollar (literally) question is, 'Is one of your relatives a Shiv Sena shakha pramukh (divisional head)?'

Iqbal

At noon yesterday, the Mac comes to my house and says, 'Man, I have to go to VJTI today, you wanna come?' Since I wasn't doing anything, I said, 'Sure!' and after lunch, we left.

After a fag at Mulund station, we got tickets. There was a decrepit old man with a Vaishnava mark on his forehead, wearing a saffron turban, begging. He was squatting on his haunches, his mud-spattered dhoti covering his feet, clutching his staff with one hand, and shaking a steel tumbler that possibly had only one or two coins in it, for it tinkled like a bell rather than rustling like a bag of beans. One distinguishing thing about the old man was that he wore Buddy Holly glasses and those made him look like he'd make a good village elder in some small far away village in the dustbowl of India. But here, in Mumbai, he was just another beggar on the bridge. I gave him a two rupee coin and made my way towards the platform, as he murmured some customary blessing to my back.

Since Mac and I were travelling second class, we could not get into the Video Coach, which is the first class gents compartment that has an almost unobstructed view of the ladies compartment. It used to be a big deal when we travelled to college in my Ruparel days, but now that seemed juvenile. I had been watching Q tv and seeing Zakir Naik fool already foolish people, so we talked about theology for a while. However, the Mac slipped into something much more interesting, The psychology of the Marathi mind, about which we talked from Ghatkopar to Matunga.

We got off at Matunga and I lit up; we talked whether getting a larger place in Navi Mumbai was indeed better than having a nice quiet smaller place in the Dadar Matunga area, you pass some really nicely shaded houses on the way to VJTI from Matunga. Once we reached VJTI, we realised that the office in question that was going to give him the result had been relocated to the Gymkhana and that we would have to go there. I decided to go to the canteen instead and help myself to a cup of tea.

The kids in the canteen seemed really juvenile, and I was fighting the urge to 'orient' them. Suddenly the Mac appeared there with his mark sheet and ordered a tea for himself. We were deciding whether or not to watch a movie, he strongly in favour of watching No Entry at nearby Sion and me totally against it. Finally we decided to watch Iqbal at Gossip, Bandra where the movie was going to be running in an hours time. We decided to take a cab just in case, and the Mac was feeling generous, so he offered to pay for it. We got off at Matunga station and crossed the Z bridge. This brough back memories of Ruparel; pretty strongly too, for I felt this rush when I looked at the flight of stairs that went down to Ruparel.

My day-dream was broken when the Mac realised that he had no idea where this Gossip theatre was. We asked a couple of cabbies, but they had no clue. Then the Mac had a hunch that it would be somewhere near Hill Street, so we hailed another cab and off we were, with half an hour left for the movie to begin. We cabbed it to Hill Street, wherever that is, by which time the Mac had phoned his friends and found out that Gossip was one of the G theatres that included, Gemini and Gaeity.

I have suddenly realised tat I am a bad narrator, or maybe I am good, but I tend to be too damn verbose at times, so I am going to take a break now. Tough luck. Email me if you really really really want to know what happens next. :-)

Lost Lost

Well, so everyone knows I am lazy, which is an understatement.
Baja has evolved some new theory that we are fence-sitters, which would make me indecisve, but the more I think of it, being lazy, late, gluttonous and fabulously egotistic are quite important and extreme decisions that one would make after giving it a very long thought.

Nevertheless, I watched the first 14 episodes of Lost with increasing interest. The more I think about it, the more I think that TV has some aversion to ample-breasted women. Since when did skinny women become eye candy for the general population? Is anaemia suddenly cool? I mean, when I was growing up, you would see the stick thin ramp models and look at them in respectful awe, but wasn't the hourglass figured woman supposed to be The woman? How long was I out?

The Dude's in Hong Kong, headed for Shenzen (however you spell it) by now, I suppose. I hope his flu hasn't worsened. There's nothing worse than having to travel when you are sick, least of all, to China. I just hope he doesn't bring down the Chinese folks down with whatever he's carrying, because if you think the bird flu was bad, you've hardly seen anything yet. Ask Reddy for the symptoms of the Dude flu, and he'll tell you in vivid detail. I've had the fortune of watching the Dude flu take over a man's body and mind for two days, and I really felt bad for the Dude.


Dude, if you're reading this, your comp's fucked. Remember it royally refused to boot and gave a blank screen when you moved into my place? Same shit's happening again. I booted it sans the LCD, but it rejects pings, so I don't know if you've raised that shitty Windows firewall or your comp's fucked royally.


I tried watching Naruto from Bill's CDs; that tyke is getting to me as well now, or it's just the frustration of being unable to watch Lost, I don't know. Basically the evening's ruined. I guess I'll go and teach Gandabhai Popatlal some new tricks. Considering Gandabhai is a she, I guess she should be a Gandaben. I've encountered a couple of Gandabhais in my time in Mumbai, but never a Gandaben, though. I really don't want to name her Kayla. I am thinking of naming the cat Margarette, or maybe Cigarette, while I'm at it.

Fresh blood will be drawn this Friday night at NTU. If you're vampirical, Indian and have had anything to do with NTU, join Reddy and me as we descend upon our hallowed alma mater to strike terror into the weak hearts of the striplings from India. I'm feeling Orochimaru-ish right now.

Are governments NPOs? (NKF inspired)

The NKF issue has mushroomed into something larger than I originally thought it would. When I learnt today that NKF featured high in the pecking order on Technorati, I decided to scribe something and attract some traffic to my blog.

I have never donated a paisa to charity. I've helped random people who looked like they needed a meal more badly than I needed an ice-cream in sultry Mumbai summers, but I've never, so to speak, ever made a cash donation to any organisation that had taken it upon itself to do public good with public money. That is what governments are for, I believe.

Flogging dead horses might get you into trouble with the SPCA, but having done my bit for the animals by taking in a mangy kitten and feeding it, I may just venture to be so audacious. The Durai chap got lambasted by the junta for having a juicy wage, flying first class and having expensive faucets (which tabloid reporter unearthed this, I wonder), and inspite of NKFs support, the entire board resigned. I believe the org has lost some of its prestige in the public eye, with reports of people cancelling their monthly donations in the papers.

But I wonder, if civil servants and ministers are paid handsome wages to encourage them to be fully dedicated and honest in the discharge of their duties to the junta, why not charitable foundation top cats? The belief that generous monetary recompense for law and order officials, civil servants and ministers goes a long way in ensuring a high quality of public service stands vindicated in the example of more than one country in the world. While it's romantic to expect the public servant to be this kind of self-sacrificing do-gooder that works tirelessly for a pittance for the public good, such an implementation lacks merit, and nowhere is a better example of it found than in India.

I can say with no uncertain shame that I have greased the palms of a few public servants to expedite certain matters that do not require divulgence, I tend to agree that in the long run, it does the junta on the whole more harm than good. So a fat cheque at the end of the month is a good prescription for corruption, I conclude.

While I know enough about the NKF issue to not pronounce judgement on any of the parties involved, it seems ridiculous to me that people that justify the fat salaries of civil servants should be thrown at the knowledge of such practices happening in non-governmental non-profit organisations as well.

After all, a government is supposed to be a non-profit organisation too, no? Well, not exactly, but from the perspective of the citizens that vote a government into power, it should. A government should derive profit from its dealings with other governments that result in profits made by businesses operating under the auspices of the government, but I am uncertain as to whether a government would or should aspire to make profit from the public which it is elected to serve. In my opinion, it should not, because if a government is of/for/by the people, then making proft from the people would create an institution that actually generates wealth from nothing, no?

Bottomline being, just as a proficient government run by highly paid officials shouldn't bother the junta, so shouldn't proficient charitable organisations run by highly paid executives.

Waiting

The Saturday sun pierced through the minty clouds. Dattu put a hand to his eyes as he looked skyward. The bulls were eating weeds and wild grass; gone were the August days when Dattu would give them a good rub during their bath and juicy hay thereafter. These were days of the Indian summer, one of the worst ever to have hit the region of Ranzur. It wasn't like this always. Not in the distant past at least. Dattu remembered his grandfather singing songs of the giant green snake; the mountain range that ran almost parallel to the sea. If you trekked to the peaks, you could feel the swirl as the hot arid placid air of the plains met the cool playful breeze that carried the rain clouds over the range and watered the plains.

Now, the mountains were barren. The small blackbirds that lived in them, unique to the region, were long extinct. The western plains bore most of the brunt of the industrialisation of the black Maratha countryside. A lonely banyan stood at the top of one of the peaks. It was called the peak with the tree. You could see the lights of Pune if you climbed the peak at night. Of course, none of the city people who came to Ranzur did that; the climb was too dangerous to be done at night, not to mention that leopards used to stroll the drier slope of the mountains to nab any goats that had strayed from their flock and lost their way. But during the day, the scorching heat of the sun made it too much for the big cat to venture out of the jungles at the foothills on the other side of the mountains.

The shriek of a crow flying overhead broke Dattu's reveire. He heaved a sigh of exhaustion; the afternoon sun had sapped him of energy. He was longing for his wife, Manjari to come to the fields like she did everyday.

But she did not come, like she used to everyday. He knew something was amiss. For a farmer, the afternoon meal is the most important of the day, and he knew that Manjari knew this. For the seven months after their marriage and for 3 months before, when they were courting, so to speak, she would devotedly bring him his meal of onions, zhunka, and the delicious bajra bread that she made so well.

He wasn't angry, just irritated; he knew that there'd be a pretty important reason for her even to be late, leave alone not turning up at all. He waited for a while more, the sun was on the descendant from the zenith now. He realised that it would be foolishness to continue without a square meal in his stomach, he'd heard of many a farmer collapse in the sweltering heat. He unyoked his bullocks and started on his way home.

Longing

Manjiri lay in her bed, distraught with worry. The sun was about to disappear behind the mountains, the sky had turned a deep violet and the birds were flying home. The evening meal was ready, she had made a different vegetable dish than she had for the noon meal. It was palak, Dattu's favourite. He had grumbled about eating the same food everyday, like a prisoner. She had felt bad, like she had somehow failed in her duty as his wife. She knew it wasn't her fault, and she knew that he did too.

Poverty was a way of life, and gram, onions and flour was the daily fare. She was content, though. She had a tiger for a husband, handsome, strong, respected; a man who loved her like no other man, who sat with her watching the stars, holding her hand, painting the dream of a better life on the spotted sky. She liked his smile in the starry night. He was a shy man, a man who seldom let his face express himself, a man with a tight-lipped smile for joy, and a slightly raised right eyebrow for consternation, a man of action. In the pallid light of the starlit night, though, his face bore an unabashed joy that expressed itself in a warm genial smile, as he spoke of a time to come, when they would have a big house, with a courtyard and servants, with a tractor to till the fields; when his bullocks would be prized breeds that would be the pride of the village and his children would go to law college in the big city whose lights one could see from the one tree hill.

She was thinking about that smile when chuk-chuking of a gecko on the wall and the sound of footsteps outside the door brought her back to the present.

Advani resigns.

And whom does he give the resignation to?
Sanjay Joshi, the RSS pointman in the BJP.
Is the RSS finally taking over?
I hope it is.

The exorcism

Technical achievement of the day :- Got ejabberd running with pyMSNt. ptthbb@microsoft.com

Gastronomic indulgence :- Back to the roots, foodcourt Indian food. The only thing better than good food is good food cheap. Those who swear by A. Rama Nayak's say AYE!

Zenism exercise :- Sat opposite the Hagen Dazs next to the Marriott and had a discussion with Takanmach and Dotoear and talked about the difference in the ornithological survey practices of the Mumbai Ornithological Society as opposed to the others in India. They were both visibly embarrassed as a result.

Shyamchi Aai is the most tragic movie ever. To think that it was an autobiographical work by Sane Guruji rends my heart. Not in the way you think though.

The pattern

I just realised something today. Possibly the bloggers meet I attended thanks to a friend may have been quite instrumental in bringing about this realisation, but to give credit where it's due, an unsung hero has to felicitated anonymously. I'd first like to thank him, without whom I'd have continued in a repetitive trance of doing the same things again and again.

Allow me to digress. They say, a picture speaks a thousand words. But that may not be always true. Maybe a thousand words spoken in a rant or in the utterings of a rambling man. A few incisive words spoken in a right manner at a right time can have an effect on a man that could change his entire life. Well, it may not change my perspective on life entirely in this case, but I would be daft to underestimate the importance of this realisation.

To continue with the digression, I like the movie Fight Club; I've watched it numerous times. However, it is only today, thanks to a few words that I've realised that I've been living life exactly like Edward Norton was. I've become a yuppie, a victim to the establishment that I have rebelled against in my university days, something that I had vowed and strived not to become once I graduated.

My life over the past two years has been a cycle that has repeated itself over and over, over a period of 730 days, changing only in content, but not in character. It has been like a chipping machine that cuts wood chips in the same size and shape, with just the type of wood changing. I feel dehumanised, an automaton, a brainless consumer that does the same things again and again out of force of habit, things that he doesn't need to do, things that aren't really enriching his life, things that aren't really necessary to make him happy. In the words of George Carlin, "I need to stop buying shit I don't need". Rather I need to stop buying into the bullshit perpetrated as entertainment, refreshment and lifestyle; watching insipid movies on weekends because it's a ritual to do so, munching popcorn and sipping coke from fancy glasses merchandising the equally insipid characters; eating the same food at the same restaurants out of force of habit, even though the prices there are ridiculous and the taste average. I have repressed the memories of heights of gastronomic nirvana attained in the Udupi hotels in Matunga, replacing them with the bland repetitive tastes of various food joints dotting Orchard Road, Clarke Quay and Serangoon Road.

I have settled for something substandard, I have settled for something that wasn't me to begin with. I have betrayed myself as I was at my finest hour, settling for something that is clearly inferior, just because I did not wish to be a renegade, because I did not wish to stand out and be discriminated against. Because I was afraid of leading the revolution.

Shame! shame!

I don't know if tomorrow will be different. I don't know if there will be a revolution. I don't know if I will break from this mould that's trying to cast me into someone that I know I am not. But I know all this, which is what matters. At least, as the last vestiges of my own self are crushed by the machinery working fulltime to turn me into a stooge that loyally empties his pockets to run the machine that is working to destroy his individuality, I will know what hit me. I will not go into the darkness oblivious of what snuffed out the light. At least, now I know there's a ghost in the machine.