The Republic is dead, Long live the Republic

Today 26th January is the Republic day of India. In 1950, on this day, India became a republic. The various kingdoms were brought under (not all voluntarily) the 'Republic of India'.

As a child, I looked forward to the holiday and would watch an unabashed display of Indian Military hardware parading along the Vijay Path (victory lane) in New Delhi. There were floats representing different states and some more cultural activities which I cannot remember. I was quite proud of seeing the tanks and the fighter jets (the antique soviet era Mig 21s which the smart engineers reengineered to fly higher, longer and under extreme conditions which it was not designed to fly) and the contradiction never occurred to me then that this was a nation which gifted the concept of Ahimsa (non violence) to the world.

Last night, two news clips completely shattered whatever sense of optimism I feel about India.

1. Mr Hassan Ali Khan, a Pune based businessman transferred 8,000,000,000 US $ away from his wifes account in UBS, Zurich. The Enforcement Directorate issued a notice to him last year. Till now nothing was done. He has also dealt financially with the Saudi arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi. Just google his name and you can read a more detailed account. How can one person have 8 Billion dollars and live in a country with 600 million poor and sleep well? Is he just thick skinned or is he differently programmed than you and I?

2. Yashwant Sonawane, an honest government officer spotted a man taking out kerosene from a tanker truck (kerosene is hugely subsidised in India and leaking it out and selling it in the open market can earn a lot of money). He stopped to inquire and called the supply inspector. In the mean time, four persons came on motorbikes and just burned him. His driver and assistant ran away. He is survived by his wife and two sons.

To read about the 'glorious' tradition of democracy and how it survived somehow and all the rich cultural, intellectual and philosophical traditions sounds like hot air when on one side people steal and on the other they kill men upholding the law. It is a delusional sanctuary where the middle , class Indian loves to live to feel equal to the west, to make life livable in the face of such contradictions and for the few hundred holy men to earn their living.

The train

16th evening at 10.30, i was at Kurla Terminus in Mumbai. I was there last in 2004 and it did not change much. If any, got more crowded and dusty with the new flyover coming up. The whole of Mumbai and Delhi seems to be in a perpetual state of being constructed. Concrete columns, excavators, tonnes of dust in the air, workers working mostly without helmets and other safety equipment, living in shanties without toilets by the road side, women cooking on makeshift stoves on footpaths and children walking around unsupervised...

Back to Kurla. The platform was crowded and you can make out even without the train as to who goes into which class. The thinnest, darkest and most crowded group who arrive quite early would be the third class passengers. They dont have much luggage and are mostly men in flashy clothes with big fake labels. The families with more luggage (definitely having the food to eat for the next 2 or 3 days), mostly VIP not Samsonite or American Tourister would get into the sleeper class. The ones with larger families and look prosperous (gold, silk saree for women and laptop,blackberry for men)would be in the Air Conditioned Coaches. Exceptions are retired officials or parents of software engineers in the US.

I was early enough and tried to put in my 85 ltr backpack and trolley below the seat. The head of the backpack stubbornly stuck out. A 60 rupee metal chain tied my luggage to the seat. My co passengers were a family of three, parents and their 20 year old daughter and a couple with 2 kids (1 year and 3 years). The first question from the first family was if i could move to another coach as they have seat there and they could bring his brother to sit along. I cited my luggage to say no. He said that it is a side berth, which is all the more a reason as it is too short for me. He did not bother to listen to my explanation as i was already classified as a self centered and inflexible product of big cities. The two families started talking as if i didnt exist. They had already identified each others addresses and occupations in 15 mins. I was fine to have a silent journey and to return to my Kafka, but the 2 kids took turns crying. It might not be an exaggeration if i thought that the 3 year old girl is the most stubborn/spoiled brat that i had ever seen. She wanted everything and she couldnt take no for an answer. Her stubbornness was matched only by her father's snores which echoed in the compartment the whole night. My fake coughs or kicking the roof could not break his snores for more than a few seconds. Sleep came at 3am and went at 6 with the wailing child...

Next day, the families spoke, shared food, took turns managing the kids and I sat like an invisible man. They used English to address me (the few times). By evening I was this scary uncle who would punish the kid if it doesnt eat. They even asked me to warn the child as she stopped listening to everyone sitting. I spent more and more time by the door breathing in a mix of fresh air from outside and the stink from the toilets. At one of the stations, there was a cleaning crew which actually cleaned the toilets, emptied the dust bins and wiped the glass windows. They even asked me to sign a satisfaction statement with improvement suggestions(what was going wrong with Indian railways).

Chatted up with a couple of young guys sharing the 'door view'. They were both MBAs. One was a sales guy with an auto manufacturer and the other one a finance guy who does project appraisals. They were quite pessimistic about Business Ethics. 'Make your killing when you can, let the NGOs sort things out' seems to be the general attitude. All the more reason for me to research this topic.

After 34 long hours, the train chugged into Coimbatore station. The family left with the children. I digged around for my socks in the left overs of biscuit wraps, water bottles and whatever else they left behind.

Mumbai meri jaan

Literally means Mumbai, my life. Speaking to Avik over hot ginger tea made by Kamlesh (his fantastic cook from Bihar), he casually mentioned that Mr K would be joining us for breakfast. Mr K was a typical businessman who was particular about what he wore (Mont Blanc belt, Hugo Boss watch). We spoke about work culture and how it is to work with Germans. I felt a new found confidence which can be characterised generally among Indian businessmen, where instead of just aping foreign work models, they see the need to find a compromise on both sides to work together. 'This is how we are and if you want to do business with us, then we find a way to work together, not that we will change ourselves to suit you'. We saw a long queue of people on the street. They were presumably waiting for getting government supplied items like Kerosene and rice. I asked Avik where these street dwellers sleep. "Dont ask questions like a Foreigner" Avik replied.

On 14th evening, we were brainstorming over a name for a new Tea brand which Mr K's brother is launching soon targeting restaurants along the highway (Dhabas)frequented by truck drivers. I am a nobody in this project, but felt included and we came up with some interesting names. By evening, we went to 'High Street', a mall which was a textile mill before(one of the many now defunct ones in Mumbai). We crossed a crazy street with no pedestrian crossing and in seconds were inside a swanky building(after a quick search and x-ray scan of our wallets). I could be in Hamburg or Frankfurt in terms of sheer opulence, choice of brands and prices. On the roof were overpriced restaurants and people were waiting to go in ! There were pens to be sold for thousands of euros and toilets with polished granite and marble. We ate Chinese. There was a small cloth roll which grew when the waiter poured some solution on it! It was a face wipe cloth. Exotic candles lit the table and the menu sported a wide choice of Belgian beer. Avik paid what it would have cost us in any European metropolis. We came down to the chaos on the street.

Touchdown

14 Jan 2011, what i write mistakenly as the 13th in the immigration form at arrival at Chatrapati Shivaji International airport, Mumbai. I see a zigzagging line of a few hundred people - a mix of migrant laborers, well off expats, young students and tourists. I look at the boards marking out queues for Indians, Foreigners, women with young children, diplomats and so on. I ask my German friends to stay in the foreigners line and i stood in the indian line, only to see that both lines converged and they were 30 people ahead of me! At my turn at the counter, I wish the man 'Good Morning' which he doesnt acknowledge to hear. Anyways, was happy to leave the queue and then on negotiating with the taxi service, realise that I have to polish my negotiating skills.

It was still dark and I could see welders working on this superstructure of the upcoming Mumbai International Airport. The taxi weaved through the early morning traffic of garbage trucks and buses and dropped me at the Tata Memorial Hospital, a couple of hundred metres from my friends home. As i pulled out my rucksack, my trolley bag and my camera case holding my 6000€ Photo equipment and looked at the street wondering how i can move things without getting dirty, i stared into the eyes of the old man just waking up on the footpath, barely covered with a torn sheet. I look away to see something more 'comfortingly exotic', there was a looong line of thin, dark, dirty, sick looking people who had waited out the night to get the free treatment for poor at the hospital. I pulled my trolley and weaved my way, holding my breath looking through the crowd. I gingerly asked a tea stall guy the direction, but he answered me indifferently. Avik greeted me with his usual warmth and smile. I stepped into his office/house, with macbook pros, imacs and high-tech office chairs feeling the presence of the people I left behind on the street, barely 10 meters out of these four walls.

As his house maid took my bags and I walked into my spacious, well appointed room, i kept telling myself, this is Mumbai and I should accept things the way they are. I stepped into the hot shower to wash away the dust and the freshly registered images of deprivation.