Calculus at Cambridge

It would be fair to say that Cambridge and Math make strange bed-mates. Grand old buildings, intricate architecture, narrow cobbled paths, small street side cafe's, a beautiful river and aristocratic gardens harboring 'private lawns' hardly seem a setting to me which inspire the world's finest mathematicians.

If anything, it should inspire them (yes, even the couple of 14 year old math whiz) to appreciate life and surroundings in their true glory. Alas, they choose to slog it out for hours behind racks of unopened books and dimly lit corners to multiple libraries.

I would appreciate the surroundings too, if only the faculty of economics did not worship calculus so much. So seems like I am going to join them after all. So much for the hyperbole.

Wanderlust (A traveler's memoir) Part 1

The unending undulating landscape


15th April 2010,
"It always feels good to talk to people. I like doing that," says Gopal Sharma. He is one of the shopkeepers outside the temple built in honor of 'Ramdev' (not the quasi guru, a celebrated deity). This is at Ramdeora, a tiny albeit a bustling one street hamlet surrounded amidst the sandy dunes of Rajasthan.

I am not supposed to be here i.e. 12 kms away from Pokhran. I am not even supposed to be in Pokhran which itself is 110 kms from Jaisalmer where my bags are dumped. Yet the call of a place which shot to fame as a center of India's nuclear tests and the mystic desert landscape is far too strong. Thus, here I am, after making the journey first by a bus with a rather unpleasant horn consisting of choicest Bollywood 'hits' (sample: Dhoom, Kajra re) blown rather liberally and for no apparent reason by the driver. Then by sharing the good ol' Mahindra jeep so ubiquitous in these parts meant for ferrying 11 humans at the maximum yet stuffed with 20 of us at my last count. For the past 45 minutes, I have struck up a conversation with this shopkeeper selling memorabilia to the devotees to remember their revered deity, discussing topics as varied from effects of the nuclear explosion on the village, to its exact location, to my origins and then to the the story behind this revered temple among many others.
He was kind enough to offer me tea and here I was sharing tea with a person, hundreds of kms away from Bombay, 120 kms away from the city I was supposed to be in, with a rank stranger in a nondescript town, exchanging stories. These were the kind of experiences I was seeking when I set out all alone to discover the desert landscape in the searing summer heat.

The past 2 days in Jaisalmer have been a fabulous experience. Striking up conversation with a fellow traveler, an American backpacker in the train, touring because her assignment of teaching English in Thailand was cut short due to widespread political strife there who seemed to love India but added in the same breath how 'weird' she found Indian men. Meeting this 'illiterate' person who put me to shame with his knowledge about the city, its history, geology and fossils to learning Telegu from a friendly Hydrabadi, Balu (who pronounced his name as Bauloo), have been some of the other memorable encounters. It has indeed been different from my erstwhile adventures as a 'tourist.'

Jaisalmer, standing on the fringes of the Great Indian Thar desert, rising above the landscape with its golden stoned buildings, with intricately sculpted designs and beautifully detailed and rich carvings, spectacular jharokhas and jaalis in temples like Lodurva, Amar Sagar and in its varied Havelis like the extremely gorgeous Patwon ki Haveli and the Nathumal Haveli, has been a perfect mirage. A mirage because in spite of its outstanding beauty and uniqueness in being the only city with people still settled inside the fort, the civic administration is in jeopardy.
Water is a persistent problem, civic planning resembling most Indian cities is absent and the entire economy is totally dependent on tourism. It needs diversification as it might be reaching its saturation point.
Still, nothing takes away from the rustic beauty of the city. The small cobbled paths inside the fort lined up with houses, handicrafts shops and restaurants selling genuine 'ItaliYan' cuisine. The Golden City, as it is known has a fort atop a hill, la Mehrangarh in Jodhpur albeit on a smaller scale but imposing and spectacular nonetheless. The yellow fort has ensconced within its imposing folds, a world adapted to suit the the foreigners frequenting this sleepy town. Internet cafes, restaurants with western cuisines (with an Indian twist, sample 'Chenese'), ports for digital cameras, travel offices, all point out to the pertinence of tourism to the survival of the local economy. In spite of the grandeur around me, the memorable moments have been the quieter times, spent by myself, alone. Having dinner from a jain Dhaba on a quiet deserted street at night with cows gazing, rather bored (i suspect due to the unappetizing tepid Jain food), talking to my ever smiling rest house caretaker, Ganga Ram. Struggling with a room, which does not lock nor latch properly, observing rural inhabitants in the full glory of their quaint lifestyle, dressed colorfully in turbans and ornaments, travelling in a jeep with 20 people with one leg outside the back door, observing large swathes of yellow sands with scrubs, noticing the sun set with all its bedazzling finery surrounded by the sand dunes reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun.

Experiences have been varied, numerous and profound. I am discovering my home state and probably myself as this trip continues. As of now, I need to figure out a way to get back. Time for another adventure...

India and Russia- Ties that still bind

It would take sheer ingenuity on part of a person to venture into finding similarities between the cities of Raipur and Moscow. What could possibly link these two disparate lands? Boasting of different languages, different demography and geography, relative importance in political circles of the country, they are possibly as different as chalk and cheese. However, the past month, they have been witness to two farcical trials, where verdicts delivered by kangaroo courts held to hostage the very ideals of freedom which the nations of India and Russia claim to practice and promote.



The first case being refereed to is the one of Binayak Sen who was charged with sedition against the Indian State under the draconian Public Security Act by the Raipur district court and sentenced to a life term. The other is the conviction of Mikhail Khodorkovsky in Moscow on charges of fresh embezzlement and fraud, in spite of his conviction on similar charges in 2003. Despite stark differences in their personal characters, Binayak Sen was a respected human rights activist whereas Mikhail Khodorkovsky was a billionaire oligarch having major stakes in Russian Economy (legal and illegal), today they stand on the cusp of being coroneted as symbols of victimization for human rights activists in both the countries.

The trials show a systematic subversion of doctrine of justice by the state in collusion with the judiciary. It raises serious questions about the nature of freedom these two rapidly growing nations postulate and guarantee their citizens. Not many consider Russia a serious democracy. Mr. Vladimir Putin has been the cornerstone of Russian politics since the turn of the millennium and shows no sign of giving up his grip on power. After the USSR crumbled, there was hope of a democratic change. However, Russia has been reduced to a land of extreme corruption where cohorts of those in power, patronized by the wealthy oligarchs call the shots. In such a scenario, many human rights activists claim that Mr. Khodorkovsky real crime was to have posed a threat to Vladimir Putin, by acting as an independent property-owner rather than a servile manager of Russia's natural resources, and by funding opposition parties and using his influence to lobby against Mr. Putin's aim of building an oil-fuelled authoritarian regime. Thus in spite of many Russians reviling him for his behavior during the turbulent decade of 1990’s, today, ironically he stands defeated by the same system he once perpetuated. Mr. Binayak Sen on the other hand was pediatrician and a highly respected human rights activist who served as the Vice President of People’s Union for Civil Liberties (PUCL). He was charged on the filmiest of circumstantial evidence as being a courier for a Maoist leader Narayan Sanyal and after a Kafkaesque trial, he has been pronounced guilty. This travesty of justices, say human rights activists, has been motivated by Dr. Sen’s constant stand against Salwa Judum, the state sponsored civil militia meant to fight the naxals (seen as largely responsible for grave human rights abuses across the tribal areas) and his constant support to the adivasis and opposition to the military approach used by the Indian Government to tackle the ‘problem’ of Naxalism. Last heard, both Mr. Khodorkovsky and Dr. Sen were filing an appeal to higher courts.

Recent trip by the President of United States of America would have made many believe in the future of ‘Indo-US friendship,’ and similarities between the ‘glorious democracies’ of these two nations. However such politically motivated convictions, a cabal of oligarchs and funded politicians calling the shots (Nira Radia tapes prove that in ample measure), chronic corruption marked by inequalities of wealth, scant respect for human rights are all indicators of the fact that India might just have a lot more in common with political systems prevalent in Russia than it ever imagined.

Aaram: A proletariat connoisseurs haven

The imposing grandeur of the BMC building gives Aaram that perfect setting.



R: You want a cigarette?
S: Yeah, I'll get the chai. Dude what do u want?
rM: well, I'm starving. will grab a bite with the tea i guess.

Sitting with the tea glass ensconced in one hand, bag balanced precariously on the lap to avoid the dirt and the vada pao in the other hand. Smoke drifts around me from both sides as S,R puff away. Cars whiz past, the people as always seem to be in a hurry.

S(To R): Are you sure, you wanna take a break after your third year in college?
R: Most definitely. 2 years minimum.
rM: (sipping his tea) work in villages and travel?
R: Yeah.
S: International relations either in JNU or some other good college. All the good international schools requite 12+4 so can't even apply. What do you wanna do?

rM: Do masters in economics, which field i still do not know but somehow get an internship with the World Bank. Try and get placed in Africa and work there, you know.

R: Its going to be so cool after 5 years, to see where each of us have gone in our lives and whether have we achieved what we have wanted to achieve. Imagine meeting each other after 5 years flying from different parts of the world.

S: Yes, i wanna achieve something in life you know. Like progress. I see so many people who after college are still leading the same kind of life and haven't moved a step up at all.

rM: That's rather true actually. (To R) We might meet at Aaram after 5 years flying from different parts of the world or catch a local from Bhayender and meet here because we might not be able to afford some place else. After all what do we have as an option to fall back on unlike lets say the engineers

R: We have a wider stream and more broad scope of thinking.

S: But still they have a safety net. We don't make it we have just withered away our lives then.

rM: DO you feel scared about your future too? All the dreams and aspirations not getting fulfilled?

S: It has me shit scared dude. Keep thinking of it all the time.

R gets on the phone with 'DQ' and N drops in for a smoke and chai as well. The conversation moves to Copenhagen Climate Summit, the risk of an alarmist agenda, risk to millions of poor across the globe, laughing at north korea to making fun of inane Bollywood potboilers giving praise where due (read Hazaron Khwaishein Aisi, Gulal).

All along 4 guys are sitting on the steps of Capitol cinema, a bygone 'lieu de réunion' of lovers of B grade sleazy Hindi movies, now its paan stained doors and perpetually shut grills signifying an era lost in sands of time . The place is surrounded by a few potted plants full of cigarette butts, a small paan shop which would have sold these butts in their original premium Marlboro casing. Next to it, is an obscure shop. A stout man wearing a tattered Blue uniform with a haircap and no gloves serves the humble offerings in this dilapidated shack. Nothing conspicuous about this place and it would be normal to miss it for the trendier Big Mac a stone throw away from this shack except for this small detail. This is "Aaram", established in 1939, it has been a source of gastronomic pleasure for generations of hungry Bombayites looking for a mouth watering, filling meal, easy on their generally thin pockets which has been under attack from perennially rising prices and general 'administrative expenses' which needs to rendered in a city like Bombay to sustain.

Today with a vada pao priced at 8 rs and a small glass of chai priced at 6 rs, many would consider it to be an expensive proposition. Even then, with relatively high prices, competition from Big brothers and clowns from across the Atlantic and not to mention the clean and corporatized Vada pao chains like 'Jumbo King' promising hygienic snack to people drinking e coli infested BMC water, breathing in filthy air with dangerously high levels of poisonous gases, it still has its takers.And if looks are anything to go by, the popularity surely doesn't seem to be taking a hit.
Maybe it has got to do with the fact that in face of all the cleanliness and corporatization of a humble snack, it has still maintained its fare as mouth smacking delicious as ever. That soft filling of steaming hot potato dumpling, just that touch of onions to garnish the snack and of course the red chili powder to fire your throat and make your eyes water is a combination which any foodie or a simpleton would find hard to resist. It is a pure delight which satiates the very soul of that gastronomic urge impelling you to dig into something delicious which would send your taste buds to ecstasy and at the same time wouldn't pinch your conscience for your profligate spending habits.

This brings me to the all important constituent of the 'Aaram expereince'. Prey, if you have not sipped on to this heavenly liquid at Aaram, really what have you been doing at Xavier's? To sip on to this dark brown hot sweet liquid with a rather strong 'tadka' of elaichi is to get elevated in a zone of bliss. A zone in which its hard to fathom whether your taste buds are regaling in joy of that moment of bliss or urging you to go on and sip more of it in an uncontrollable desire to experience the feeling of being united mind, body and soul with that feeling of extreme satisfaction which comes but rarely in the harried life of a man.

The act of unity though is not replete without the conversations to be had at those steps. The chili of the vada pao burns your throat. Hot tea over that gives it a tingling sensation as you watch people and life whiz by. Cars honking, BEST ferrying disgruntled and people lost in their thoughts across, bystanders smoking, or checking out the newspapers at the stall opposite on the pavement, others whizzing past busy on their phones, beggars accost us occasionally, at other times we are left all by ourselves.
The place offers anonymity, an anonymity that has lead to some of the best discussions being held there be it on politics, to the existing social structures, the education which often leads to derision of our principal(much to my happiness), new resolves being made in life, fears being spoken of, soft corners for people being discussed, analyzed and then dissected, random jokes being cracked on each other which by no means conform to standards of decency and would be considered pretty blasphemous in other public places. Quite literally everything has been discussed under the sun in the safe confines of anonymity, unperturbed by the clock ticking by under the imposing magnificence of the BMC headquarters flanked by the grand Gothic architecture of VT building. This sight is a marvel to behold and can make any man surrender to the feeling of living that very moment of existentialism, which is how life is meant to be lived.

Yes, Aaram and its surrounding confines is a humble abode indeed. But none other place comes to my mind when i think of a place which i will truly remember as i leave the security of four walls of this college. This would be a place which reflected our angst against the injustices which in all our glory of youth we wanted to fight. These walls would be privy to the deepest secrets of our heart which we bared. This place would be the one which mirrored our aspirations to achieve something. Above all this would be place which years down the line we would remember as the one where many a laughs were shared over vada pao and chai with an air of smoke perpetually hanging around. For all of us Aaram has ceased to be just a shop, to quote a line used in Xavier's, "its a way of life". A true proletariat connoisseurs haven which has left an impregnable mark in our lives for a long long time to come.
In respect of this institution, i bow, in gratitude...





Hot afternoons transcend into magical evenings with life in motion. A view of VT from Aaram.

That kind act

A turbo charged day was finally coming to its sane end. After a rather well organized second day of YAF which included great performances, a good turnout and even better food it was time to go back to the comfortable interiors of my home and crash on the couch.

Remembering all the mad amount of scurrying around to placate frayed nerves, soothing jangling tempers, wars over food (a quintessential hallmark of the group), i had a smile on my face. A smile of satisfaction, a job well done and amends made especially after a disappointing first day. As i strutted back with a swagger and a smile with carnival of rust providing sweet solace to my tired soul, i spotted him.

An man, aged 50's sitting on the pavement behind the pile of papers of all languages, catering to all types of classes, which he hoped to sell. His henna dyed beard, missing canines, balding grey white hairline concealed by a circular Mohammedan cap and a dirty kurta of a fading colour, all conveyed that life had been harsh on him. No doubt his haggard face did point out to the fact that he was aged much beyond his years.

It was a saturday and the new TOI crest issue was on stands. Having recently acquired a rather discerning interest, i do like to read this special edition regularly. My hand reached for my wallet as i approached him and searched in the corner pockets to eek out the six rupees needed to buy the newspaper. As luck would have it, there was absolutely no small change in the wallet. Grimacing i told him about my inability to buy the newspaper and apologized. He just asked me 'kya hua beta? Crest chahiye, arre le lo, 6 ruapi ki hi toh baat hai.' (What happened son? Want Crest? Just take it, it just a question of six rupees) and like that he simply handed over the paper to me.
I tried to tell him and convince him that ill come and give him the money on monday and would he be here but it was so obvious that he didn't expect any of it and he was absolutely not hoping for anything in return for having done that.

It surprised me to no end to see a man, who hadn't sold so many of newspapers at 9 in the night and was going to suffer heavy losses anyway on his meagre source of income instead of being frustrated and cranky would voluntarily hand over a newspaper to a decked up boy carrying gadgets in his hand with headphones plucked in his ears leading a quintessentially what might be referred to as a good life. It almost made me cringe that level to which people including people very close to me distrust this particular community, ostracize them for a behavior of few black sheep, generalize their habits and blame half the problems of the country on them. If this wasn't bad enough the government had perpetuated a policy of exclusion against them, systematically eroding their representation in the mainstream while a many right wingers spew venom on them. This was the community which recently one of the CM aspirant of saffron party which he incidentally heads in Maharashtra told to go back to Pakistan if they couldn't song vande mataram accusing them of being traitors and anti- nationals.

THe man on the street didn't look at my religion, he didn't even care to which class i belonged to. All he saw was that i needed a newspaper and didn't have the requisite change so he just handed it over to me. Small action, great thought. In that moment of pure gesture, he showed so much what can be done to ease the pain of exclusion. A small act of kindness, a simple healing touch unmindful of 'barriers' which more often than not exist solely in our minds, a basic semblance of trust, maybe all that is needed to erase deep dark memories entrenched across the history and the future of the nation.

With my thoughts about my own life reaffirmed, the path i hope to take, the choices i wish to make, i carried on after uttering a grateful thank you, half embarrassed trying to figure out the right way to respond to such a humbling gesture. Till then it had been a satisfying day, after that it became a truly profound day, a day which actually inspired hope and trust and a smile to warm one's heart. And yes...i will meet him and repay all that is due...to how many people, thats something i need to figure out...

Discovering the joys of Uncool

Today, as i sat sandwiched between an adorable girl no more than 5 and one of the cutest toddlers I have been lucky enough to lay my eyes on, listening to Takahiro Arai, a disciple of Indian Classical Music legend, Pt. Shivkumar Sharma, playing Santoor, I couldn't help but wonder.

This thought faced me because I knew i was wrong at a certain point of time in history and that too completely wrong and way off the mark. Raised up in a privileged culture of a good life, it was but natural for me as well to seek solace in throaty vocals of Billie Joe Armstrong, connect my sorrows with 'soul stirring' lyrics of Linkin Park, which often did serve as my chicken soup and things outside the realm of India which proved as much to myself as to others the decency of my pro western education, the 'world awareness' of my peers and in general my alignment with things in vogue. A direct spinoff of this order of thinking among many people of my age group and social order is relegation of Indian Music as being plain dreary (Bollywood, especially Rehman and currently Kailash Kher are a notable exception). Out of personal experience, i can confidently assume that this notion is unfounded, generalized, deliberately playing on the stereotypes in order to suit the cult of being in vogue (Appreciating things Indian often isn't) and thus is as such completely unfounded. This premonition thus can said be on the basis of half baked and often no knowledge at all.

As a member of Indian Music Group, i have been slowly introduced to classical music. Truth to be told I hadn't taken a liking to it as a fish to water yet its complexities and multifaceted daunting challenges in terms of different octaves and sonority of voice and pitch which needs to be traversed by an artist, did impress me.
What was unexpected was though was the sight of being able to see a Japanese person play the Santoor, the bastion of Pt. Shivkumar Sharma, with astounding ease and brilliant skills. For the first time in my life the sweet rhythms of music came alive, each chord, each note being being the sycophant of the master in total control, it almost exulted me in the state of a musical trance. Remembering the sniggers of people when the co- exec members were requesting them to attend this particular concert, I couldn't help but feel extreme sympathy for that misguided arrogance surmounted by an air of superiority for having missed truly a rare delight. It also made me see myself in the mirror and realize my own follies, the vanity and the foolishness of this pro western parochial attitude.

Must the love for one be accompanied by distaste for the another? Given that everyone wouldn't have an ear for Indian CLassical Music as opposed to Western Music and vice versa but must this attitude of supremacy based on unfounded notions persist? A harmonious synthesis of culture is the answer and probably as how Indo-Western collaborations in the musical arena make waves, a person embedded in cultures both traditional as well as modern, having a healthy respect for both and a keen sense to try something with an open mind beofore jumping the gun would be a progressive person.
By the stroke of luck and dawn of some amount of common sense, i believe i have begun to traverse this long path...probably so should many others.

The Red Revolution

A cursory glance would suffice. There is no public place which is quite immune to its effects. It has slowly penetrated right down to the basic soul of the nation, touching and coloring places, things, objects with its gelatinous red effects.
The Naxals may be fighting for a red revolution in India since those romantically turbulent era of the 60's but truth to be told, India has been gripped by the red revolution since time immemorial. It enjoys mass popular support by the burgeoning population of the nation, so much so that it has almost added an Indian chutzpah to even those symbols of magnificence of our colonial masters. This red revolution being referred to here is the ubiquitous Indian practice of rechristening the 'bland' places with red stains of paan, that holy mother of all Indian gastronomic inventions which has transformed the stomachs of Indians and face of India in more ways than one.
The corners of lifts, shady portions of buildings, white colored 'Stick no Bills' papers, corners of roads, electric poles, brand new german manufactured SIEMENS coaches of local trains promising an unheralded era of comfort travel and the authors shirt among a million other things and places have born brunt of this generous act of Indian art. It has reached levels that a pot bellied middle aged man with a thick mustache chewing has proven enough a sight to inspire dread of the aftermaths of this oral exercise among the innocent hearts of living and due to the ferocity of the brunt, probably the non living as well. It is not unheard of in parts of town for people to get nightmares about the act since its inception which includes contractions of facial muscles and distortions of perfectly ugly round faces in order to give the accumulated liquid inside enough velocity to come out in the form of a barrage hurtling towards its chosen target with impunity and getting splashed all over it, leaving the hallmark of the great Indian art by this artist all over it until it is re chosen as an intended target and the same treatment is meted out to it all over again.
With the civic bodies bereft of any sort of ideas to come up with more publicly engaging forms of street art to effectively cover a blank space and to add that spice to things mundane, the practice looks all set to continue and thus becoming a part of the Indian folklore. Cheers to a colorful India!!