The AAP in KHAAP: 57-3 and Now

Till a few months ago, I was an ardent supporter of AAP. At least the concept of AAP. I even became a 10 rupee member and looked forward to some assignments for the party matching my core competence and skills. Perhaps I was looking at Yogendra Yadav more and less at the Sisodas of the world. To me AAP was slowly taking over the space vacated by the Left with which I had always associated myself. The Left was clearly a disappointment, having messed up their position by greed and obstinacy.

The moment the euphoria of the 57 seat mandate died down, the armchair middle class self-styled political analyst in me moved up to the cautious pessimism mode. This could mean trouble, as managing a mandate required top class management skills which none of them had. The proven managers had been swept off by the Modi Wave. Somehow, I did not think the Sisodias and the Bhartis would allow Meera Sanyal and Gopalkrishnas a hand in the affairs of the party.

I wasn’t off the mark. Within a month or so, the makeshift house of cards started falling apart. Two key people, considered to be the major brains and even more, the intellectual faces of the party went public with their grievances. Instead of managing the crisis, Arvind Kejriwal, backed by his hand picked yes men, decided to brutally expel them. Once the mask fell off,there was no looking back.

This blog is not a narrative of what the Delhi Government has achieved or otherwise in the last 7 months. It is the shameless attitude that we need to look into.

The party is full of contradictions. One of his ministers is in jail,another is about to join him. They talk of removing corruption, but back Tomar. Except the first day bonanza of Bijli Paani, nothing has happened. They talk of woman security, but have a hero in Somnath Bharati whose own wife has brought charges of violence against him. The same Bharati talks like a MCP.

It is not that anyone expects that a new party will turn around and implement all their electoral promises within a year. But surely there could have been a better way of filling up the vacancy of Lokpal in the party after the last one was unceremoniously removed. And this is the party that had made the Lokpal issue a major agenda!

Surely there could have been a better way of not replicating the much abused self propulsion practised by all political parties. Of creating an individual bigger than the party. Soon Kejriwal will be within the touching distance of a Mayawati, the Gandhis and his bete noir, Modi. In fact, the way he was plastering the city, specially the public toilets and now with his voice on TVCs, he is winning hands down.

If AAP could have their way, very soon they may pass a Bill renaming Delhi as Kejripuram.

They can. After all they have a brute majority in the Assembly. The point is that even if you had the remaining 3 seats, they still have to work within the Constitution. You just cannot frame a new set of rules by repeating that you have a 57 seat mandate. And Delhi has Special Constitutional clauses and any Government running Delhi has to work within the frameworks. Running a gun battle with the Lt Governor and taking on the Delhi Police and using them as an excuse for non-implementation of pre-poll promises will only add to his losing credibility. In fact, his lost credibility.

AAPs scripted battle against Narendra Modi is not helping them either. Nor are the charges against their Kumar Vishwas. The party seems to be suffering from a false sense of persecution mania.

One day they beg for donations, the next day they announce a 512 crore media budget. Instead of talking about their plans and achievements, the TV ads simply try to take on the system. Change it by all means, but simply abusing the system will not help.

In the party or outside, you cannot take on Kejriwal. His hired goons will take you on. You will be branded a “bhakt” or a “10 Janpathi”.

He is always right. He has no sense of governance. He is enjoying the power. He sees himself as a Modi. Better, a Stalin.

The Left parties have a lot to teach us. During the Left regime they had drawn a line between the organisation and the government. Even Jyoti Babu was answerable to the Left Front Chairman, be it Pramod Dasgupta or Anil Biswas. As long as the Left maintained the gap, they showed results.

AAP, sadly, has become a KHAP.

Change the System. Now.

We are all taking about Revolution. We are talking about bringing in a change in the system. And everything that is being discussed is within the existing system.

Call for an immediate session of the Parliament. Police Reforms. Judiciary Reforms. More judges. Fast track rape cases.

I have no faith in the current democratic system. And the political parties. The politician-political-all kinds of mafia nexus will never allow the changes. They all have vested interests and the interest of the people are not in their list.

The response of the political class, specially those in power have been appalling. The much hyped youth icon Rahul baba did not have the courage to come and show his support for the youths of the country. He failed to show courage. Nor did the other youth leaders of any political party.

The “adult” political class did all to protect themselves from the people. They just forgot that they are representatives of the people. Sheila Dikshit made an attempt but was booed out. The Hon’ble (?) Home Minister abused his chair by talking out of context. (“Should I go and meet Maoists/BJP/ Communists/Adivasis?” Yes, Mr Shinde, you will. That’s your job). The Prime Minister, true to his reputation, has/had nothing to say. (He did read out a written speech and asked if it was OK and made a statement.  He went to receive the body of the girl well past midnight with Sonia Gandhi, but that I suspect was vote bank politics). Sonia Gandhi cried in expressing grief for the girl’s death. Said she was a mother too. Her sarkar fired water cannons at her children at India Gate. Surprisingly Ambica Soni, Kapil Sibal, Salman Khurshid and Chidambaram spoke little (actually nothing, seemed they were told to lay off lest they make matters worse with their well rehearsed comments/smirk which makes you feel that we are the biggest idiots on earth). Most Congress leaders stayed away from TV debates (may be they were not invited, which was a good idea else we would have to listen to Manish Tewari talking in monotones) and representatives of other political parties who came and when accosted that politicians have failed the people, said that we should not paint them in the same brush. The BJP, who too lack political will, kept taking digs at the Congress. That is the only agenda they have. Mayawati did say something. Mulayam, “parkati” Yadav, Laloo did not deliver platitudes. May be they find the challenge too hot to handle.

The problem is all political parties can’t give up the privileges they enjoy. And they can’t fail the people who pay them money. That is the truth. The Police have to toe the politician’s line. The judiciary too is not above suspicion. Some judges are even vocal about their “brother” judges. They are scared of the people. They can’t protect the people but have done everything to protect themselves from the anger and angst. They are cowards!

What I am suggesting is an out of the box thinking. Can we suspend the Parliament for a specified time and get a National government on a care taker basis to take over and run the show? A similar Caretaker Government in Bangladesh has been very successful. They come in for a limited period and clean up the system.

I am suggesting that Justice Verma head this Government and we have people like Dr N Ram, Prabhat Pattanaik, Narayan Murthy, S K Misra, Joyeeta Ghosh, Amita Patel, B B Lyngdoh, KPS Gill, Dipankar Mukherjee, Prof Sukanta Chaudhuri, people who have scored in their respective fields. Professionals. People who are not a part of the political system. People who are not bothered about the beacon in their cars. Claen. No charges of corruption. Who do not have to toe the 10 Janpath line and not owe their future to Rahul Gandhi, eg: Digvijay Sngh. People who do not have to use words like “our Great Leader” ( Karunandhi/ Mamata).

People will say that the Constitution does not allow such a system. Does it allow what has been happening? Time to make changes.

As long as “We The People” remains the first line of the Constitution, we can make all changes, as long as it is betterment of the “We The People”.

Where is my India?

Where is my India?

There is a sense of rage. A sense of numb grief.

Amanat, as she was called, has died. The powers that are have started issuing statements. They too are sad, so they say. The city of Delhi is being turned in to a fortress. TV Channels are discussing how long it will take the special aircraft to fly to Singapore, turn around time and where will the plane land when it returns to India.

There will be a Condolence Meeting at 11 AM at Jantar Mantar. More meetings are scheduled. Delhi Police have slapped murder charges on the gang of rapists. Right now the Home Minister is trying to justify why she was sent to Singapore and that it was not a political decision. He says the harshest of punishment will be doled out. He is right now at a remote village in Sholapur and we will have to wait till he returns. He is making false promises. No body believes him.

They will do nothing. They are praying that the protest passes off peacefully. The President has also condoled. He should be sad that his son is mentally dented and needs some painting. Soon Mulayam Singh will also speak, so will Laloo. Kakoli Ghosh Dastidar will get full support of her political mistress (master).

There is total outrage all over the country. Everyone is blaming the police and the politicians. The nation has come together, I mean the people. The politicians too have come together to save themselves. They do not share the anguish of the people. They will never throw out a Kakoli Ghosh Dastidar or a Abhijit Mukherjee or a Botsa or a Nirupam. And yet they expect us to believe in what they are saying. There will be nothing done to reinstate Dayamanti Sen.

What has happened is symptomatic of what is happening in the country. There is no rule of the law. The political class are busy cutting their own deals.  They are just not bothered about the well being of the people. The Congress Party is focused on getting Rahul Baba upgraded, BJP playing Modi card.

This blog is not to talk about the obvious. It is time to maintain peace and not let the protest get hijacked by political class. We have to come together and protect ourselves from goons who may be let loose to disrupt the protest and condolence meetings.

Let Amanat’s death not go in vain. Let us turn and work towards something positive for the protection of the people.  Let us force the issues for a cleaner country. Let us not put this behind us. We can not allow the rulers to have a free hand. Let us not get taken away by their false sense of grief, their well-manicured lip service.

Let’s force the rulers to accept a time bound agenda. No committees, please. The system has to change.

We cannot ever forget Amanat.  This is the saddest day in the history of this country.

Rape of the System

If Gangnam is a Korean contribution, Gang rape is an Indian patent.

Every day, women in this country are raped. Most of them by a gang, even three-year old children are not spared. The rapists are often fathers, close relatives, neighbours and rape gangs. The rape takes place anywhere, even in moving vehicles!

Normally, there is some outcry, the politicians make usual promises, the incident is used as a filler by some channels, members of NCW come to the studio and express grief and things die down, Arnab Goswami moves on to something else that only he thinks his viewers want to know, till the next rape is reported. Again some more of the standard uhh…ahhhh…and the story gets killed. The TV channels decide to screw us instead by calling Manish Tewari and Ravi Shankar Prasad, who seem to deliver their lines meticulously like professional stage actors. Generally, meaningless gibberish.

Just that there is a rape-a-day situation in this country, specially in North India. Just as much as Khap killings are. Woman are blamed for wearing provocative dresses, drinking, smoking, talking on cell phones, in fact doing everything that invites or induces men to apparently get horny. There are reports of rapes inside police stations. (As I write, a three year old girl has been raped in a play school, as reported by NDTV).

This is our “Tryst with Destiny”. Not the much-hyped speech by Jawaharlal Nehru. And the world does not have to sleep. The rapists rise for their act 24 x 7.

This time around, a heinous act of gang rape has galvanized the people to come together. There are huge protests in Delhi and elsewhere, almost taking the form of the one that took place at Tahirir Square.

For once Ms Dikshit has shown some sensitivity. She has admitted that she does not have the guts to face the rape victim. This is in total contrast to her counter part in Bengal where Mamata Banerjee declares all rape victims to be wives of CPM activists and that all rapes are stage managed. She has no sensitivity, except being an efficient rabble rouser, a pawn in the hands of big political parties, who trade business with her to stay on in power (you can call it Coalition Dharma for all I care).

The question is how effective will be the uprising? As protests happen, police (Manish Tewari can train some cops perhaps on how to bull shit in a monotone) fire water cannons and resort to laathi charge, there are reports of more rapes across the country!!

The political class does not have a leg to stand on. They are the ones who have raped the system. They have protected rapists, murderers, extortionists and virtually allowed the law to become dysfunctional. (Mayawati charges were all cleared before the FDI voting…ha, ha!!) The present Government in the centre has been proven the most corrupt ever. Yesterday, Mr Shinde was reported briefing the Prime Minister (who is dumb any way) on the protests, the Home Secretary (isn’t he the same one who didn’t know anything about Anna’s arrest and had passed the buck to the state government??) was making standard appeals (“…can’t allow people to enter the North Block.” No never, what will happen if your office is taken over) and finally, foot in the arse Salman Khurshid, who speaks out of turn because he thinks he is the English speaking intellectual in the party has said we should not take to the streets!! Wah, Mr Khurshid, what are we supposed to do? Believe you? Believe the political system? At least Ms Dikshit has been honest enough, but what have you all done? According to Mr Shinde you all will try and change laws concerning rapes. You all are impotent. The people don’t think you can do a thing. Ah, Soniaji has told the Government to take stern measures. Go, Mr Khurshid, listen to mamma. Else she will get her son to dole out some punishment to you. Like make you hold your ears and stand in the corner. And oh, where is the brilliant youth icon of the nation? Taking a break after being licked by Modi?

The political class is the reason for this mess in the country. It is not just the rape of a woman, the political class have gang raped the country. Its moral values. Its fabric. Just because you want power, the power to make pots and pots of money.

You all the raped the system. You all will pay for it.

(Yes, Mr Sibal. You can smile and get your cops to censor this blog. Just don’t open your mouth and try and give some dumb explanation about how cops misinterpret the law).

“…Na Jaane Woh Kaunsa Desh, Jahan Tum Chaley Gaye…”

This is turning out to be the season of deaths. Deaths of people whom we wanted to live. Shammi Kapoor, the Nawab, Steve Jobs and now Jagjit Singh.

As the news flashed on my mobile this morning, my mind went back to a concert which I had attended with my wife, Shila, at Siri Fort Auditorium. To a packed hall he sang for hours, including his very famous numbers. There was just one song which haunted me for days. The one in which he remembered his son. The lyrics, the score, his rendition.

I never had an opportunity to hear Jagjit Singh again, nor did I ever hear the song. It just lingered in my memory. I must have been touched. This morning as I learnt of his death, it all came back to me. Just that this time No Chhitthi, No Sandesh could reach the man we so dearly loved.

What made Jagjit Singh the King of Ghazals? I think he is perhaps just the one singular reason why Ghazals as a music genre is so popular today in the Indian subcontinent. An everyday music, just like film songs. And the endearing voice of Jagjit Singh carried the Ghazals from the confines of aristocracy to the drawing rooms, the buses, to even Shambhu the pan wallah. He had done the very same thing that Pankaj Mullick had done scores of years ago with Rabindra Sangeet. We have Mehdi Hassan, Munni Begum, Anup Jalota, all stars in the subcontinent, but somewhere Jagjit Singh was the shining star. He was actually one of us, sang in a language that we all understood, helping the appreciation gaining wider acceptance.

Almost 25 years ago I had the privilege of meeting Jagjit Singh in a different role. He had come to score the music for an ad film for Bata, which was being directed by Jyoti Thakur. It was for Bata canvas shoes and meant for the theatres, requiring a  pan Indian rural touch. I was thrilled to see him score the music on harmonium, explain it to the hands and finally to Suresh Wadkar who was the lead singer. When he heard I was from the agency ASP, he told me that when he had first come to Mumbai his first jingle was for a brand that ASP handled. He had no airs, no frills and mingled with us as an ordinary mortal.

That quality perhaps immortalised him. A man whose death has got Radio Stations and social network sites working over time. A nation is in grief.

We have all lost someone who was one of us.

The Tiger’s Tale

Just a few hours ago ‘The Tiger’ passed away. With him went a major part of our childhood,  the man who was the role model for many in my generation.

Pataudi was just not a cricketing hero. He was super human. He was charisma. He was enigma. His cricketing feats were not for the record books. The man in our heart was bigger than life size.

Even before he burst in to the cricketing scene, we had heard of his road accident. That he had a stone eye (the Tiger’s eye as many said). And we were all waiting for him in front of the Murphy Radio way back in 1961 when he came to the crease at Feroze Shah Kotla against the English team (was it Ted Dexter’s team?). To us he was the man Indian cricket was waiting for. I then 10 years old, was certainly waiting for him. I remember cheering every ball that he played and went numb when he got out at 13. My friends told me that 13 was an unlucky number so it was alright to get out at 13! It had nothing to do with his batting, more of which will follow later. It was a great consolation, and for the first time I learnt about the story of 13.

Living in what was then a small town called Indore, we had our fill of cricket. CK Naydu, Mushtaq Ali, C S Nayudu, Chandu Sarwate, the Holkar’s team in Ranji Trophy all made us live the game. Pataudi was more than all that. He was the grandson of Begum of Bhopal, that his father was also the captain of the Indian team, a Nawab, Oxford, Sussex….he was the hero.

He continued to be. While we were devastated with India’s performance in the West Indies in 1962 (sorry no running commentary, and thank God, no Vizzy!) we were happy that our hero has been made the captain. There was nothing to talk about the Indian team. All that mattered was personal glory.

Venkatraghavan’s 7 wickets here, Ramaknat Desai’s opening attack there, Polly Umrigar, Chandu Borde, but no real Indian team. In 1966 we started taking the team seriously. Jaisima, Engineer, Russi Surti…Chandrasekhar, Venkatraghavan, Prassanna, Bedi – we were going somewhere as a team. We had no real pace attack which West Indies had (we had Sadananad Mohol and Subrata Guha), and during the tour of England, I think at Edgebaston, Pataudi had opened the ritualistic bowling attack with Budhi Kunderan and soon the spinners took over.  However, The ‘Noob’ was emerging as the man who could put it together. He was our only hope, the only hope of Indian cricket. Anything can happen, but we have Pataudi. Our first victory overseas in New Zealand in 1968. India had played. Pataudi had proved us right. He had delivered our faith.

Cricket started becoming our religion and Pataudi was our God. The whole of Calcutta went overboard when he married Sharmila. Ananda Bazar had a front page titled “Sharmila ekhon Ayesha” and we read every word of the story over and over again. He was now one of us!

Standard politics from BCCI and he soon returned to the field. As he told Pras when he dropped by in their hotel room after one disastrous tour, “I am coming back” (One More Over), he returned. This time with a fresh team. He had picked up one Viswanath and a whole set of new faces. Indian cricket had come of age.

Surprisingly, Pataudi became  a bigger hero for us when he retired from cricket. It was his style, his class. He rose in being our role model outside the cricket field. When he became the editor of Sportsworld, we often saw him in Calcutta, having dinner at Sky Room. He became larger than life with his honest comments on the state of affairs. He was the gentleman we all sought to be. I remember, whenever we discussed the brand positioning of Gold Flake in the eightees, the character on whom the brand developed by the agency was Pataudi. He grew with age and we all wanted to look like him, talk like him, handle interviews the way he did. It was class spilling over. It was his panache. It was Pataudi.

The Tiger is dead but his roar will continue to live for generations. It is said that in a country of blinds, the one eyed man is the king. He was the king. The king of cricket.

Long live the King.

Buro da!

Sanat Lahiri, perhaps the greatest PR personality this country has produced, had four sons. He also mentored me during my Clarion days, since my father and he were colleagues at Levers. Sanat jethu, as I called him had four sons. Surajit, Monojit, Indrajit and Ronojit. I knew all four of them but separately, not as the Lahiri brothers.

Ronojit, aka Babu and I were in school together, he was a year junior to me.

Indrajit, aka Funny was a friend of one of my uncles who was just two years older than me and we often hung around together. He had a wonderful way of saying Bye: “I shall leave you presently to see you lately.”

Monojit, aka Buchuda married Ratna di and since Ratna di’s elder sister, Aparna Sen and I were in a theatre group together, I got to know Buchuda from this circuit.

Surajit, aka Buro, or Buro da to many of us had a stint in the army and later worked in the Marketing disciplne of various organizations, including ITC, Jagatjit and Bennet Colman. He went on to be the first Principal of Times School of Marketing and after retiring, set up Delhi School of Communication.

I first met Buroda when as a trainee at Clarion in 1976 I was sent on an errand to carry an artwork to him who then worked at ITC with instructions that I was to just show it to him and not open my mouth. He left ITC soon after and then I lost him. All I learnt from my bosses whom he knew very well were about numerous marriages ( he had married four times) and that he had settled in Delhi.

After I moved to Delhi in 1994, I was invited by Delhi Management Association to deliver a lecture on Life Style advertising in one of their tea meetings. I used to handle DIGJAM and OCM suiting brands and had earlier handled Bata brands for over 10 years and Dr Sai Ramachandran who was then on the board of the agency I worked for and was also the President of DMA thought it would be appropriate that I take the session.

At the venue, which I remember was at the SCOPE auditorium, I was pleasantly surprised to find Mr Lahiri who was to preside over the talk session. I quickly introduced myself and told him that I was one of the “Chokra Boys” ( a colonial term for trainees) at Clarion and had met him once and that his father had taken good care of me right up to the time he died. We had a chat on old Calcutta days and I think I must have made a good presentation for he immediately offered me to take a few classes at Times School which he had just started. I was elated and promised to get back to him.

I did and he scheduled a class for me one Saturday.

“What do I have to teach?” I had asked him over the phone

“Don’t try to teach”, he warned me

“Then?”

“Just chat. Chat out your experience. Talk to the kids as friends. Don’t get frivolous but talk real matter. The difference is how you present it. Teaching is such a bore!”he advised.

Till today, I have followed his advise. It makes a world of difference.

When I reached TSM at the old Times building at Daryaganj Buro da gave me a big hug (he was a man with a big frame with hair flowing down his head and a sharp nose, he not only exuded his pedigree but appeared like a philosopher). He escorted me to the class, introduced me and sat down in one of the seats meant for students.

“Please will you go away. You are making me nervous,” I pleaded.

“On the contrary, I want to learn from you. I perhaps know the subject but may be you can add a few points which will give me a better perspective”, he replied.

He would not leave so I decided to ignore him. I followed his advise and when the class got over and I was packing my notes and video tapes I was taken by total surprises as the entire class got up on their feet and started clapping. For a second I thought they were perhaps mocking at me but I soon realized, I was being given standing ovation. It was spontaneous and I did not know how to react. When the applause got over, some of the students came and shook my hand saying this was their best class ever. I looked at Buroda over their shoulder and there he was standing tall, giving me a mischevious smile.

“You done it, boy,” he gave me a big slap on my back when we returned to his office.

“ I just followed your advise,” I think I was in tears

That was my real association with Buro da which was to last for years. I kept on being invited as a Visiting Faculty at TSM and getting invitation from DMA to speak at their marketing sessions. Buro da was the head of DMA’s marketing management committee and I remember in one of the sessions which was attended to capacity I again got a standing ovation. After the ovation got over he requested the audience to pen down what they thought of my presentation and every one scribbled some words of appreciation on a note paper which was collected and Buro da ceremoniously presented them to me. I think I wept in public but he had me covered with the bear hug. (I had pasted the notes on a sheet and preserved it for a few years but subsequently lost it).

In the mid ninetees the DMA would hold a two day annual seminar on marketing and advertising which was addressed by all luminaries in the profession and Dr Sai and Buro da were the Programme Directors. The seminars were normally held at Le Meridian and was attended by professionals, academics, students. Buro da suggested that I be brought in as an under study so that I could handle such seminars in future to which Dr Sai readily agreed and both of them started grooming me on how to handle such assignments. It was great fun with Buro da quipping funny ones to me in Bengali. A few years later, DMA invited me to be the Programme Director of similar events and everything that Buro da and Dr Sai had taught me came handy.

Somewhere in the mid ninetees Buro da called me over and discussed a new plan that he said was tormenting him. He wanted to start a new institution which would be different from the run of the mill B Schools and wanted to pick my brains. It sounded very exciting and told him that I would help out in any way he wanted.

“What are we, Sujit?” he asked, and immediately went to provide the answer. “We are all repertoire of knowledge. Our job is to make the next generation knowledgable, provide them with intellectual stimulus, provide them with social values, a sense of cultural history. Only then we can justify our role as teachers.”

The Delhi School of Communication was flagged off with classes being held initially at Fr Agnel’s School at Gautam Nagar. I was made the Head of the Academic Council and remained so for the first few years. It was Buro da’s dream and he was living it. I was assigned to take classes ever week and so we met up regularly and talked about old times, Kolkata days, his ideas and invariably we ended up by promising each other to start work on a book on Brands, which would be jointly authored by us. It never happened.

At Buro da’s son Toto’s wedding reception at DSOI, he served champagne and all his ex wives and current wife, Roma di were naturally present. One of went and suggested to him that he should organize some tags so that we would know the Number of the ex wives, in chronological order. He had a big smile and offered to have them paraded on the stage. I rarely saw him getting irritated, or angry. I knew there were times he was upset with some one but he was a great manager and while he expressed his unhappiness, he harboured no ill will. I remember I had a fight with the School per se on some issues and sent him my resignation as Head of the Academic Council but in the same letter also told him that this decision in no way would affect our personal relationship. I was unhappy and sad in writing the letter to him but I was sure, Buro da would continue to play the elder brother.

I did not get to meet him for a few years till one day, I got  call from him saying that he would like to have lunch with me on the New Year’s Day. I was very happy and asked him the venue.

“Come and see our new premises, you will be equally proud. It is our own.”

Delhi School of Communication had shifted to their own premise at Neb Sarai, almost next to IGNOU. They had reworked on the building that existed and on the terrace there was a canteen. He proudly showed me around and after lunch, he took me to his room. And what an office he had for himself. It was huge with books, music…just the one I would have loved for myself. We sat and he made me listed to some Rabindra Sangeet on the music system. I was really very happy for him. He was inspirational!

It was post his shifting to Neb Sarai that Buro da and I got closer at the personal level. In fact we started becoming emotionally dependant on each other. The day Sarbajeet da died I did not know whom to share the grief with and then I remembered Buro da. I called him and had a long chat with him. He had known Sarbajeet da even before the advertising days and any ways, Sarbajeet da was very close to Buro da’s father. When ever Buro da had any personal problem, and he was in distress with some personal issues, he would call me up and talk to me about it. When his youngest brother Babu died he as absolutely heartbroken.

“He was like my son, Sujit. I actually brought him up,” he told me in between the howls.

I fely very sorry too. After all Babu was just a year junior to me in school and we used to meet up in Delhi when Buro da had got him over from Kolkata to help him out in the school affairs.

I think he never really recovered after that. Word had floated that he had cancer and he was under treatment. Common friend Bimal Chaddha, who was also a fellow Rotarian told me that the matter was serious. I regularly called up Roma di to find out how he was keeping. I did not want to see him in such a stage. May be I was being a coward. In between Romadi did ask me attend a session in which new students were being inducted. This was the first time that Buro da was not present. I already started feeling a sense of loss. Some days later I got a call from Toto saying that he was in a hospital near my office and I decided to go and see him.

“It may the last chance,” Toto told me.

I went over and as I entered the Nursing Home, I picked up all the courage to face him. He saw me and tried to bring back the famous smile of his. I too kept a smile on my face. I told him how happy I was with the new batch whom I had just met, how the school was doing so well…there was no point in asking him how he was keeping.  I spent about 20 minutes with him, then touched his hands and toild him that I will be back soon. I came out of the cabin with the realization that my last meeting with him had just got over. I kept up the smile till I sat in the car and broke down.

A week later Baban and I were about to have dinner when I got a call from Roma di. I knew this was it.

“Dada, your dada has gone!”

“ I hope it was peaceful,” I asked.

“He wont suffer any more,” she told me.

I told her I will come over to her house the next day and so early next morning I set off with Baban to Palam Vihar where Buro da had built a house. He was lying amidst all his students, many of whom were crying. I gave Roma di a big hug as she wept unconsolably.  I was crying too.

His funeral was largely attended. Students, Academics, DMA, friends. He was loved by all. I had lost a brother, a guide, a mentor, a friend. Very few had done so much for me, without asking for any return favour.

With his death, a part of my old Calcutta association also died.  An emptiness which could never be filled again.

Remembering Rajni

I first met Rajni on a cold December morning at her office at Bhogals. I had just joined Edge Communications and one of the agenda was to turn it in to a full service agency. We were looking for someone to partner us for a PR wing and friend Ajay Kumar who was my colleague suggested that we meet Rajni.

Rajni Raghavan. She had just come out of a divorce and Ajay was a friend of her ex husband, Dilip Cherian and so knew Rajni well.

Her office was in the basement of a typical Bhogal building, what with cows and bulls outside the house. She ran a design outfit, having passed out from NID some years ago. She had worked with the Business Press group, Sunday Mail and Times of India as a magazine designer and now operated on her own with a team of four people. Her major client was The British Council, for whom she designed and printed a magazine.

The first meeting was very official. I introduced myself and we talked business. Yes, she would be interested, she had reasonable contacts in the Media. We decided to keep in touch and met up later. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a long, wonderful relationship which would go well beyond work.

We continued to meet basically to iron out the details of an alliance between her company and our agency which I proposed to submit to the husband-wife Board of the agency. On one such meeting she came over to our office at Connuaght Place and suggested that  we go have lunch after the meeting was over. There used to be a lovely Arabic joint next to Regal Cinema who served a lovely buffet with Pita Bread and Mousuka and we decided to try it out. In selecting the dishes, I realized she knew a lot about food, making suggestions on what to choose and the accompaniment. It was a leisurly Saturday lunch and she told me that it was ironic that she was back discussing a project in CP itself as she had started her career with Business Press next to where we were lunching. She went back to old times, how she did the design work, how she shifted her jobs. All the while I was careful not to bring in Dilip since I knew Dilip for quite some time ( at that point of time I did not know he was married to Rajni) and it would have been not so correct to discuss him. However, when I told Rajni the story of a friend who was staying with a lady fighting for her divorce and how the lady had suffered the marriage, and how the landlady gave her shelter like a mother, that she opened up and talked to me about her experiences.

In a divorce situation, every party has their side of the story and the end of a marriage is always bitter for one party or the other. I never discuss such stories in public. It is like washing some one else’s dirty linen in the middle of the main colony road. Yes, Rajni was bitter, more so since Dilip had decided to get married soon and she was still single. I tried to reason out with her that we cant fault Dilip on that score and we, friends, are around to ease out the pain.

Soon, I became the shoulder to cry on. She would call me when ever she was in a state of depression, at times she would be angry, at times sad. We met for breakfast at Sagar at Def Col, for lunch at the  Kerala restaurant at The Kanishka, or at Woodlands at The Lodhi. She insisted on hosting the meals. I did not know her house. All she had told me that she and Dilip used to stay in Nizamuddin and she was to go back to that house once it was vacated. By Dilip I presume. At that point of time she was staying in South Ex Part I. I did not ask how much she was paying for the rent. Anyways she seemed to be a big spender.

The working breakfast and lunches soon turned to Sunday morning shopping at Nanz, Archana. She would come in the morning to my mezzanine room at Def Col, I would treat her to breakfast. One day I was making Akuri when she dropped in. By mistake , I dolloped lot more butter than required and to my misery, she walked up to see what I was cooking. I knew she would throw a fit seeing the butter floating in the pan so some how tried to hide it like a school kid hides a pornography book. I got caught and got an earful.

“And how can you hide floating butter by standing next to the stove, trying to cover it with your fat arse? Idiot, melting butter has a disctinct smell!”

Being the single child of my parents, I think I always had a hidden desire to have a sibling. Some one with whom you could play, fight, trust, share. Some one for whom you could stand up even if you were doing the wrong thing.

Suddenly I found Rajni!

Following breakfast we would spend hours at the Super market, come back for coffee, go through the bill, paid off each other and once in a while go for a glass of beer.

One Sunday we decided to go for a Sale by Penguins at the British Council. On way back she asked me over for lunch at her place. While we sipped Feni she told me that the apartment actually belonged to a man with whom she living in. He was not in town and was travelling. I am to meet him once he was back.

“A Bong like you”, she declared.

“There seems to be too many Bongs in your life”

“Yes, and Dilip was originally from Kolkata. And yup, (she loved to “yup” with hardly any gap between y and p), I have a huge Bong gang.”

The Live In was a married guy who had promised to marry Rajni once his divorce came in. It is just a matter of time.

Some how, I had my doubts.

“Can I get to meet him?”

“Yes, will organize a dinner when he is around”

Months passed. I lived alone in Delhi. My family lived in Kolkata. I became Rajni’s official escort to the various parties to which she was invited. The chauffeur. Often I used to feel like a gate crasher. In many of the parties, some high profile, I just did not know anybody. They did not know me. I was a “friend” of Rajni. Her live in travelled almost every day, so people just saw more of her with me. I bet ideas were floating. Thankfully, this was before Page 3 was born.

Rajni seemed to be a woman about town. From Rahul Bajaj to Parliamenterians, every one knew her. I too made it a point to boast to my group that I had met so and so “last night”.

One evening I got a frantic call from her.

“Come to Claridges, fast. I am at Pickwicks.”

I rushed. There she was sitting with an aggressive look with a well known pot bellied politico. Minute she saw me she jumped out and held my arm and pushed me out of the eatery.

“What do they think? Just because I am divorced I am available for a free screw?” she shouted.

“ Do you know this guy well?”

Well, she knew every one who socialized.

“Why did you accept his invitation for tea?”

“Arrey, he just called to discuss some work with me.”

Rajni was naïve. Very. Over the years I found she fell in to these traps and then threw a fit. Once a guy kept flying her down to the Middle East where he was opening a chain of Appam Stew type of eatery and Rajni accepted the assignment, flew a few times to Dubai and then found the man had other designs.

“Why cant you see through people?” I often asked

I never got a satisfactory reply. She was very innocent

I finally got to see the man in her life.

“I have some Bongs over for dinner. Come and get to know them.”

Rajni was a very good cook. She and my best friend Chitra had once opened an eatery in Hauz Khas along with another lady and the deal was that everyone rustled up a menu which they carried from home. You could select from what ever they offered. Great concept, but obviously it did not run. I believe some one or the other dropped out every day! Women are not crazy, just that these two whom I knew were.

The “business” deal kept on being discussed over lunches and dinners, and once in a while we went to Wengers, picked up the goodies sat on the metal frames that boredered the pavement, trying to dangle our feet like children,  (just that they were too long), kept biting at the patties and kebabs. Yes, pastries too.

“Stop cheating. You are diabetic,” she would quip once in a while.

I got her to meet my Owner over lunch at Karim’s at Nizamuddin. A deal was struck. My agency owner wanted a larger percentage, I wanted some since I was handling the new business, extending my Job Profile. My owner was a Parsee bania, he would not let go, but Rajni declared that she would give me a part of her profits.

The next few months we went on meet all kinds of people, some were Rajni’s old contacts. Most of them were bum rides. Frankly, many of them just wanted to ask Rajni out, but she insisted that I come along. The prospects would get cheesed off with my presence. Nothing moved. One meeting with a PSU top brass was ridiculous. They wanted to retain us to get their files in the Ministry moving! They thought this was a part of PR.

Once I was making a trip to Kolkata and we decided that Rajni would also come along and meet some of my old contacts. It was a bum trip again, but we had great lunches at Mocambo  where she fainted seeing the Kolkata prices.

“ Just seventy five rupees for an exoitic chicken dish?” she exclaimed. “This is not fair. You better treat me to many such meals!”

One evening my family and Rajni had dinner at a speciality Bengali eatery. She loved all of Begun bhajas, shukto and mashurir dal. And mangsho, maach.

The day she was leaving she wanted me to escort her to Kalighat.

“Since when have you become so holy?”

“No, no, I want to buy the red bangles that married Bengali women wear.”

I looked quizzically at her.

“Oh, his divorce is almost through. He is going to gift me the loha (an iron bangle, again a very Bengali exclusive, worn by married women) so I want to buy the Pola,” she explained.

She was happy as a child after her purchase. Like you feel after securing a business deal. I knew there was trouble brewing in her life again.

Yes, the man walked out saying that he wanted to go and teach abroad. He went nowhere, got a plush job and settled down in Mumbai. I had to just widen my shoulders.

Very soon Rajni got back her apartment at Nizamuddin and we were back to parties but this time at her place. No more driving Miss Daisy. I made friends with a whole lot of very nice people, all of whom were very fond of Rajni. Strangely, they were equally fond of Dilip.

At the end of one such party I must have said something which had irked her and she walked out of her house in a huff, using the pretext that she was going see off the guests. I stayed back hoping to make amends when she returned. There was another guy who too had stayed back. While we waited for Rajni, he introduced himself.

“You probably know my elder sister,” he mentioned. “She was in an advertising course with you”.

“Ah, Ha! Yes, yes! Where is she now?”

She had married since I last met her and her husband, a sahib, was in one of the old Russian countries. Sumit turned out to be seven years my junior in school and as we waited, we talked about old times.

Rajni returned in a peaceful state of mind, gave me a big hug, and we made up. For what I still don’t know.

My mother had once come and stayed a few days with me at the Def Col room. She was outraged at her son staying in one room above the garage which trebled up as the Living Room, Bed Room and the kitchen. The other room was the bath room. I quite loved the space. It came with an AC, furniture and a telephone. My mother would of course, have none of it. She wanted me to move out to a proper apartment, even a barsati.

On a Sunday I found such a place at AnandLok. Just what I wanted. A huge terrace with a large room, an ante room and a loo. The best part were the owners, an old couple, the old man was no other than B S Keshavan, the father of Libraries in India, the man who had set up the National Library. Their one son, Mukul, had just published his first book. I had to pay up the usual booking amount the next day but I did not have the money. My mother said she would send it but that would take a few days time to reach. I requested Rajni and it was promptly organized, and it came with a dhurrie as  part of the house warming.

I stayed for a little over a year at Anand Lok and almost every second Saturday we used to have a get together of friends over drinks and kababs, while we talked about anything and everything between CCR and Cricket. Rajni was a regular at these dos, this time Sumit was escorting her. One evening she came over alone and asked me for a favour. Her parents were in town staying with her and she wanted me to broach the Sumit story to them. Rajni and Sumit had decided to get married.

“ Why me? I don’t even know your parents,” I tried wriggling out. “Ask your elder sister or your brother in law,” I suggested

“ Well, you know Sumit’s family from your Kolkata days. And never mind, I want you to speak to them,” she ordered.

I did. Over a few drinks and dinner. It was finalized. There will be two receptions. One in Kolkata, one in Delhi.

I saw to it that I went to Kolkata for the wedding. Attended a scrumptious dinner at posh The Saturday Club with my family. Met up with old friends and came back to Delhi for a lunch party at the terrace of their new house in Panchsheel Park. Chidambaram also attended, the only time I saw him wearing a pair of jeans! (Not that I see him live every other day, but on TV!)

Late in 1996, my mother died. Rajni did her best to comfort me, inviting me over to her place every now and then. She seemed happy and secure.

One morning I got a call from her.

“Get ready to be the God Father!” she was all excited.

(Excerpts from forthcoming book Never Say Goodbye!)

The Romance of CP

 

 

Between the mid seventees and late eightees I used to visit Delhi at least once a month and need less to say, almost compulsively walked the corridors of Cannuaght Place. Who Lord Cannuaght was immaterial, why the place was named after him was even more immaterial but it represented all that was Delhi. Kolkata had New Market, Mumbai had Crawford Market but CP was unique in its own way. It was not a “market”, a shopping and commercial  centre rolled in to one perhaps, sliced  in to three concentric circles whose pillars remained to be the architectural icons of Delhi.

I once opted to work for an ad agency just because it was located at CP,  opposite  Rivoli, above Uttam Saree shop. A lot of my friends thought my reason for choosing the location (and the job) was to go see the sleazy films they showed at Rivoli in the ninetees! But I wanted to breathe and live the spirit of Delhi, almost feel like Lutyens and every afternoon during lunch break or at times after office, I would go and take a leisurely stroll across the various blocks. You could go and guzzle a bottle of chilled milk, even flavoured, at Keventor’s or stuff yourself with veg dishes made with “shudh” ghee at English Dairy. The Keventor’s  still draws the crowd but English Dairy have decided to upgrade themselves and the ethos has gone away. So have the price range. In the evenings Rajni and I would walk down to Wenger’s, spend some time sniffing the shop, take a long time to choose the pastries and then come out and like kids, sit on the iron railings, trying to swing our legs and slowly bite in to the chosen pieces of heaven. We would then hold hands and walk around, find everything around us funny, laugh and giggle and return to our childhood. A kathi roll at Nizams, an ice cream cone at Nirula’s, and at times, a magnificient buffet next to Regal where they served Middle Eastern khana.  Ever since Rajni passed away, that part of my association with CP also died.

Since then a lot of changes have happened to CP. Rodeo continues to provide the real “Western” ambience and ethos, United Coffee House continues to provide the perfect setting for an evening tea with sandwiches and yet, serve robust Punjabi khana for dinner, Madras Coffee House is still a favourite for a Cold Coffee and Dosas, we now have our own version of NY Central in Rajiv Chowk Metro station, right at the heart of CP. The Commonwealth Games are round the corner and the entire CP arcade is being given a major face lift. I know that right now it is a mess but the way some of the blocks have been done up and since that is how the whole place will look like in a few month’s time, the new look CP will have gone back to the grand retro look, the window panes, the arches…

What is so special about CP? It is a Delhi property for generations. You don’t have to come to shop or eat at CP, you just hang around. A lot of old timers still visit the place to soak in the old world charm. A middle aged lady still buys her saress from Kalpana, something she had been doing since she got her first pay cheque, for two generations Greenways have been many family’s choice for shaadi shopping (and that includes Sonia Gandhi shopping here for Priyanka’s wedding). A gentleman in his mid sixtees still vists Wenger’s every Sunday with his children and grand children just to “keep in touch with the best days of my life.” It is a heritage that is constantly been nurtured, both in mind and spirit.

And yet, for generations, CP has been the biggest hang out place for youngsters. Just walking around in groups, in pairs, alone. There will be more Malls coming up, fancy enough to compete with the best in the world but there will be nothing to beat CP. It is not the brick and mortars. It is not the glass panes. It is not the architecture. It is the history of a city that lives inevery brick of the complex. In every lane of the Outer, Middle and Inner Circles.

Built in 1931 and designed by Russell and Nicholls, CP was named after the Duke of Connaught. Among other things named after Duke of Connaught is a GWR locomotive and a Maltese Band!! He was the Godfather at the Christening of Queen Elizabeth II. Almost 80 years later it continues to be the most popular icon of modern Delhi and we are all looking forward to the final look of the place after all the renovations are complete.

There is just one place just off CP that has just refused to change with the times and perhaps better off doing so. The Indian Coffee House in Mohan Singh Place. No other eatery has maintained the age old look at this one. The huge terrace, so inviting during Delhi winters for a cup of hot coffee and a plate of pakoras, for which you pay almost nothing by today’s standards continues to be a great attraction. A plate of Mutton Cutlets with a sandwich and a glass of cold coffee helps you to cut a business deal with grace and ease. It almost looks like the permanent office address of some people who park themselves for hours negotiating business and in fact once I saw a person, perhaps a journalist who runs a small paper, stick address labels on the envelopes and get the mailing process organized for his subscribers over a few of sandwiches.

It is really an old world charm. That something for which you can not trade for anything.

(Published earlier in Delhi Diary)