Whose Afraid of the Monsoon Monster.

(9 Aug ’09)

            In my childhood, knee-deep water in the monsoons meant you went home drenched to the skin, uniform heavy and dripping, gumboots squelching, skin wrinkled and pink with the wetness. Schools occasionally were shut because of the weather. Occasionally, without a fuss. There were colds, coughs, measles. But the pharma companies didn’t rule the roost. The media, limited though its reach was, didn’t get hysterical over any of this.

            Ever since Mumbai had a very bad spell 3 years ago, in which many Mumbaikars died, everyone’s behaving like the monsoons are a novel phenomenon to be wondered at and feared each time a cloud pours. This year, right from March, even before the sweltering summer set in, the first emails with warnings were forwarded: be careful of the tsunami. Of course some were backed by facts: on such and such date, between x and y hours, the tide will be high and if it rains, stay indoors, else you will drown. Others scoffed the weather-men. These guys, what do they know, they’re always wrong. Came the special dates and guess what, the tide really was high. Highest in a 100 years said the papers. It was true. From my perch in the office-building, I saw the froth reach upto three storeys high. The Arabian Sea was very angry, it lashed the shores chucking out tons of horrid garbage. The water was black, murky and dirty, filthy, menacing. Rocks, little boulders weighing upto 50 kgs were tossed casually onto parked vehicles, causing serious damage. One had to take those waves seriously.

            Once the tide receded, there were hills of plastic bags, dirt, rubble, decaying and decayed matter lining Mumbai’s shore. Now that was something missing from my childhood memories. The beach beside Hinduja Hospital and the lane alongside it were full of garbage. In fact, all the gullis at angles to the major artery Cadell Road (uh-oh, Veer Savarkar Marg now) were blocked with dirt. The Municipal cleaners worked ceaselessly, filling up truck after truck until, about three hours later, the place was clean again. We cheered them, appreciated them, but the media didn’t write about them. Or show them on tv. They never show any good work done by The Establishment. Positive strokes don’t get ads? Maybe. That part of commerce I don’t understand. All that garbage was thrown into the sea by…. who else… the undisciplined and dirty citizens with the I-don’t-care attitude. The media didn’t show them up for what they are. Never does.Wonder why? Truth hurts, that’s why. Media persons, common-folk reps, wouldn’t want to say that common-folk are dirty people. We all want our rights, sweep the responsibilities under the carpet. Easier to say the BMC didn’t do its job.

Am waiting for someone to start a campaign: 5 lakh common men aught to have parts of their anatomy cut off because they were peeing on neighbouring walls… naaa, no one has the guts, not a single channel will even begin to think about it… forget following up. 

Then, ignoring the ever-present malaria, dengue, hepatitis, typhoid (yawn, do people still die of them? Sadly, YES), we’ve gone gaga over the Swine Flu. 15 people died of it. And how many of TB? Add several zeros to that number. Yet, we aren’t hysterical about TB. What about Ulcerative Colitis? Renal Failure? Any guesses anyone? Don’t bother, it’s enough for you to know that it’s more per town, each, than an entire continent’s death toll by Swine Flu.

I’m waiting for the media to create hysteria over drinking water, to start a campaign that every society, each colony and neighbourhood must harvest monsoon water for its needs. Oh yes, and sort and deal with its garbage, too.

These days, I actually prefer Doordarshan over most of the private channels simply because it gives me some relevant facts about the country. It lets me know that because the monsoons weren’t monstrous this year, I may have to buy water in tankers through the coming year. Some channels give me a feeling that these showers give me a choice between floods and/or drought. Choose your end, they seem to imply. Lots of problems are pointed out, no learned debates follow to provide reasonable and compulsory solutions. Indeed, many people who have lived through decades of monsoons, have actually begun to fear/hate the life-giving rain-clouds.

Pity.

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Call to Activists

(10 Jul 09)

            I’m in favour of the Court’s ruling: homosexuality is not a crime. There’ve been many activists who’ve fought and won this battle, to prove that those with different sexual preferences aren’t criminals. As there are activists who have and still are fighting for the rights of stray dogs (am an animal lover and support most causes that save living things…uh, ok, with ‘roaches I make an exception), murderers, foetuses, even dilapidated buildings. Thanks to them, governments have learnt to toe the line, helpless prostitutes have been rehabilitated, dying arts have been revived.

 “Media persons” (no longer reporters, cameramen, or subs) love to present their points of view and ask them lots of questions on prime time. We have activists to agitate against the establishment, no matter if the latter is actually doing a good job in some cases. We have activists who will agitate without agenda. Some who will argue about gender and other forms of discrimination endlessly, in their privileged homes. All said and done, without such change-makers, we wouldn’t, couldn’t have remained like our poor neighbours, but hey, even in Pakistan, now, dissenting voices are getting louder against the gagging rule of the Taliban. Activists have certain genes, I think, that prod them to oppose the Big and Mighty in favour of the small and meek. We’ve seen in Goa how teamwork has helped activists save the State from ruthless politicians.

            So, I wonder, what stops activists from actively disciplining the aam aadmi? Why doesn’t a single activists show his/her clout in teaching our citizens their responsibility? How come there isn’t a single NGO that works to educate the average paan-chewer from spitting/urinating/throwing garbage wherever they please? How come no NGO protests against temples/chapels/shrines blocking roads? How come no NGO monitors queues at counters and bus-stops? Or helps the cops catch offenders of traffic rules? Why can’t we have people who protest the tweaking of flowers/twigs/leaves from carefully tended plants (here, the Majority community, or Hindus, are the major culprits, grabbing anything floral, free, for pujas)?

Every activist believes in anti-government. How about pro-everything-that’s-civilized?

            At a hospital in Mumbai (and this could well be Goa or any other part of India) two days ago, evening time, pouring like hell, there was a crowd of people, mostly women, who took shelter under the porch. Fair enough. Then, because their legs tired, they squatted: right in the drive, right in the middle of the ambulance-drive-way. The staff tried to reason with them. No luck. Surely there must be a law that gives patients/medical facilities right of way. But who’ll enforce it? The cops? Would they risk chasing away ‘helpless ghungtaaed women? The tv channels would appear in a trice.

            At the laser-and-fireworks show celebrating the inauguration of the Worli-Bandra sea link, college-goers trod all over the cordoned area, stamping to death sapling tufts of grass that were meant to catch root in the monsoons. The solitary, illiterate watchman-cum-gardener did tell them and pointed out to the damage they were causing. So? He was ignored. I couldn’t think of a single activist/NGO that was involved in crowd control.

            I’ve said this often, but will repeat: NGOs and activists need to rethink what’s right and wrong. No volunteers get knee-deep in garbage to help clean out the muck after a flood or an earthquake. Clearing out the decaying and putrifying matter is left to the government.  Oh, there are those who rush to trouble-spots to teach ‘victims’ breathing exercises and or have special prayer-sessions to help them overcome their trauma. But come bullets/molesters, and back they run to the same government that they curse, for protection. Take mass inoculations, sewage treatment plants, or agriculture… if any of these are to be successful, it’s a good idea to support the government (and yes, fight corruption to make sure the plans succeed), for our own benefit.

            Two friends popped in a few days ago. Nitin runs an NGO of his own to help industries run with modern technology that helps rather than kills the environment. He isn’t against anything, just pro-earth. Dr. Chacko works in poverty-stricken, backward areas of Orissa, Bihar, and other parts of India. They aren’t labelled activists. They don’t appear on tv. They don’t wear khadi or flaunt jholas. They don’t visit courts or newspaper offices. They see the seedy part of the government; they don’t spew curses. We need them. And more like them.

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The Six Day Week.

(14 Jun 09)

          There’s something about living in the fast lane that sharpens one’s faculties, that’s addictive, that brings out one’s best. Mechanical? I don’t think so.

I’m a working woman, not a career one. I can’t become the CE of an institution, but I do get a salary to pay for bread and rent. My first proper ‘job’, age 38, Goa, in a five-star hotel was a part time one. True, I had to work Sundays and public holidays, but it didn’t matter and many of my waking hours were spent at home, on housework, reading, writing, doing bank-work, paying bills. Somehow, although the routine was tightly packed, the pace wasn’t considered fast. Perhaps because life around me was slow and steady. The word hectic came into my vocabulary only when I moved out.

          In Mumbai, in the beginning, although my job was full-time, I still had six days off a month, what joy!! Four Sundays and two Saturdays. I could do all of the above and yet have time to day-dream and go for programs: dance, music, theatre, all of that. Still didn’t seem fast though everyone around me was speeding.

          Then came the Recession. The Company decided to use the ruse to do away with the Saturdays or Additional Offs as they were called. We all have to work six days a week now. I live within walking distance, so commuting takes negligible time; but consider some others: they must leave their homes by 5 am if they have the morning shift, after filling water, making the tiffin, perhaps even washing the clothes. Either they get dropped, or they take an auto, or they walk to the station. The train they must ride is packed to the brim, and they must mind bag and footwear whilst they get crushed and elbowed. Crumpled and sweaty, they trudge or take a cab to office from the station. There is no leeway for tiredness at work. By the end of the shift, if the next person hasn’t come in, it’s OverTime. Else, it’s the backward race in reverse. Sprint to the train, get squashed till the destination, buy the vegetables whilst briskly striding homewards so that one has something to cook for the night meal. There’s no time to read the newspaper, tv overrules everything. Waxing limbs, doing eyebrows, dying hair are Public Holiday chores. Anyone who feels life in America is fast aught to come to Mumbai. An average Mumbaikar works more hours per day, per week, too.

          “But,” say the NRIs, “You have maids.”

          B---S---, I say. That doesn’t reduce the speed of life any. And, oh yes, the maids are working women, too, with a high speed lifestyle of their own. It mayn’t be glamorous, but it’s fast alright.

          Those working in the travel industry possibly lead the fastest lives, specially if they’re crossing time zones. They’re the other end of the speed spectrum, the first end being those who crawl through zindagi. Just as leading a slow life doesn’t mean it’s a fulfilled, creative, happy one, living a racy, hectic lifestyle doesn’t mean it’s a mechanical, unhappy one. An optimum pace, tilting towards the faster side, certainly gets the adrenalin and other chemicals flowing through the body, allowing the person to give his/her best to whatever is the task at hand, yet leaving scope for hobbies, interests, laughter, zest. A well- planned city provides opportunity to its citizens to do all of that. Mumbai, bless the Brits, no credit to any local, non-colonial government, has it all.

          Goa, thanks to the Portuguese legacy, is blessed with good roads, levels of literacy, and fairly high levels of culture (ie interest in sports, music, art, literature). Recently, a friend told me she likes the ‘slow’ life in Goa. Was it supposed to please me? I gave it thought. I believe many people I know, Goans and bhailen settled there, live fairly speedy lives to the fullest. I think we should stop taking pride in “Goa’s a laid back state”. It’s not. People commute from their villages to faraway offices, people work late hours, six day weeks, and many of them work and write or work and paint or work and party…  The big advantage Goa has is that the marathoners, the sprinters and the spectators, all have their space, non-trespassing into the others’ territory.

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Accreditation

(30 May 09)

          We all know that a 5 star hotel’s better than a 3 star which is better than no star at all. Who decides how many stars to give? Experts, specialists, and that wonderfully vague word, consultants. Already in the pipeline are ‘stars’ being given to hospitals, laboratories, schools, colleges, even newspapers, maybe. Perhaps housewives/parents will be spared being ‘rated’.

Accreditation. It’s the latest hysteria in management circles; another term, I believe, for ‘stars’.

Wikipedia says: The accreditation process ensures that they (could be hospitals, schools, beauty-parlours) are competent, behave ethically, and employ suitable quality assurance. One example of accreditation is the accreditation of testing laboratories (where we send our sputum, urine, blood and stool samples). Certification specialists are permitted to issue official certificates of compliance with established standards: physical, chemical, forensic, quality and security standards.

Another example is Educational accreditation. Here, the services and operations of an educational institution or program are evaluated by an external body to determine if applicable standards are met. If they are, accredited status is granted by the agency. I guess it also means they (both the agency and the institution) can charge higher prices. In most countries in the world, the function of educational accreditation is conducted by a government organization, eg. ministry of education. In the US, the quality assurance process is independent of government and performed by private membership associations. We in India are following that route whether or not we need it, and unless monitored, it may well become a racket.  All of it costs money; believe it or not, now there are NGOs, non-profit-makers, who are jumping into the fray.

Yes, systems should be in place and they should be kept track of by an objective person or organization. But becoming over-structured isn’t a good idea either. More time, effort and resources get spent in documentation of what’s done than what’s actually done. When the government does it, we call it red tape.

Management gurus don’t believe in stuff that can’t be quantified. Hence ‘customer satisfaction’ has to be measured. But a passenger who’s uncomfortable in his seat, or a patient who wants another nurse, or a student who’s being victimized by a teacher, will not take comfort in data analyses or trends charts.

If this measurable stuff is so good, and the management gurus swear by it, how come so few of them have their own businesses? How come they’re teaching others what to do? Ill-educated bizzinechmen from Modi’s land are more successful. A case of those who can, do, those who can’t, teach.

A recent exercise of ‘quality’ stuff in my office has prompted this article. We’ve spent more time in paperwork/computerwork than on our primary tasks. Paper has been wasted (not spent) by the kilos just to rectify a date or a spelling error. When the inspectors/auditors come, there put your best face/foot/data forward. We’ve tracked trivia: when did the customer enter, what time did he fill up the form, what was the duration of his standing in the queue, what was the period of wait for the bathroom, did he go left first or to the right, and this was studied by management trainees (free labour!!) for over four months before they entered the numbers (occupied valuable space, used computers and stationery), crunched them, wrote reports and then analysed those at ‘presentations’.

Data can be fudged, auditors needn’t be meticulous…most importantly, most of the things done are pretty much common-sense stuff. During a six-sigma study I was part of, we actually proved with the help of numbers that people talking on mobile phones disturbed those sitting beside them!! And we spent so much money. Sometimes I wonder whether so many MBAs or their equivalents are doing all this only to justify their existence. Honestly. Wonder number two is that in these cost-cutting days, we have companies still wanting to ‘invest’ in such programs.

Maybe I’m just getting old and feeling ‘left behind’ for not agreeing with this. Twenty years down the line it’ll be the norm, and some youngster will say s/he told me so!! Que sera, sera. 

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The Channel V Rock Concert.

(11 May ‘09)

            We got an invitation to attend the Concert for Change (Be the Change You Want to See) at the big Andheri Sports Complex, and I said yes-yes-yes, because at our/my age you/we don’t get to attend such events, forget invites, and Kailash Kher was going to sing. I like music, but never know who has sung/written/invented/created a song. In Kailash Kher’s case, I was six feet away from him when he sang at a private dinner. What was I doing there? Yea, am still wondering. All four feet of him burst into full volume on the first note. The curly, shoulder length locks were tossed this side and that. And the room echoed with clear tone, super singing. There was no orchestra, just a keyboard accompanist and I thought this concert was a bigger version of that scene. How naïve could I have been.

            When we reached at five, the sun was still up and the program had begun. The large stage with the fancy red, purple and silver lights, the large screen at the back and the small one at the side had come alive. The crowd wasn’t more than two hundred, which meant ‘but a handful’ considering this was a stadium. Our VIP enclosure had less than 50 persons, mostly parents of participants, I guessed. We had to stand. I took my place where I could lean against something, expecting that ‘the crowd’ was yet to arrive. I needn’t have bothered. By sundown, it had ‘swelled’ to triple that number, not much again, considering the size of the venue and the advertisements.

            The competition was between weirdly dressed men (and a woman) making shrieking sounds. I kept reminding myself that I must have an open mind to modern music, that when I went to Malawli (the Indian version of Woodstock) decades ago, my parents thought the same of the guitar-wielding, pony-tailed, bell-bottomed ‘hippies’ and their music. But no, shrieks are shrieks in any era. These were wordless ones. The noises that came from the mike had no words. I concentrated really hard, so I know that.

             The compere, VJ Juhi, through whom we’d been invited, was good enough for me to watch. My eternal favourite, Lolla Kutty, made my evening. Her shiny blue sari, her glasses, her flower-bedecked hair and her wonderful Malloo accent kept me happy for a while. I learnt that her real name was Anu Menon. That was the only thing I learnt that evening.

            By 8, I was hungry in spite of the fact that, after coming home an hour earlier than usual from work, I’d had a proper dinner of missal-pao and lassi before leaving for the concert. Why do I keep calling it concert? Cacophony meet would be more like it.

            We went to sit on the deserted stands. It felt breezy, detached, and comfortable. The single soft-drink stall below us attracted the young crowd constantly. The comperes kept reminding us of how we must ‘be the change we want to see’, about exercising our rights, the RTI act, voting, etc. Not a word about our responsibilities, about not littering the area with plastic bottles, discarded Channel V pamphlets, wrappings, spitting, and more. Certainly not a word about noise pollution.

            Bhappi Lahiri, in his gold chains and glittering coat, his enormous bulk and voice to match, held our attention somewhat. It was past 9:30 when Kailash Kher came on-stage. I wanted to hear Allah ke Bandhe. He disappointed me. He was in the mood to promote his album-to-be and sang songs I hadn’t heard and now don’t want to, ever. Disappointed. 10 was mikes-out time and the show was over.

Did I not enjoy it at all? I carried home one exciting memory: that of a tall cameraman toting his heavy tool like an AK-47, squinting on 2 sq inches of screen to check where his lens was aimed, concentrating on the artists’ ears, elbows, necks, nostrils…followed by a short, plump flunky whose job was to jog behind him, making sure he didn’t trip on the wires or fall over the edge of the stage. Their moves were quick, fascinating. Equally smooth and graceful was the big crane, again part of the visual team, that swung fast and ever so gracefully over the crowd, making the couple of hundred arms and heads appear like there were 1000s as the newspaper headlines said the next day.

Yes, it was a novel evening, though I wonder whether I would go to such an event again. Free, maybe; with priced tickets, never. 

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