How Mature is my Society Part III

Urban India never ceases to amaze me. I have said this on two previous occasions on this blog, but I will not tire just yet. My fascination stems from the dichotomies I perceive between how advanced people in India's metropolitan cities today seem in terms of material progress, but how far they lag behind in terms of updating their collective state of morality and their reaction to individual actions.

I met a very interesting person yesterday. She made two very interesting statements. First, that she was open to the idea of having one-night stands with attractive strangers, for mutual pleasure. Second, that if she were to get married someday, she would never grudge her husband for having a one-off sexual escapade with "another woman", so long as he was emotionally committed to her (i.e the wife) . Women who have such thoughts are not non-existent in metropolitan India today, but they constitute one of the most marginalised and misunderstood minorities.

Somehow, I feel that Indian society and the unwritten code of morals that weighs heavy on our collective shoulders is obsessed with women and their sexual behaviour. Any woman who has thoughts as my friend does is described as a whore or a woman of loose character and literally becomes an object in the eyes of Indian men. Men harbouring adulterous thoughts and desire to bed several women are forgiven by the same code of morals. Even highly educated men in great jobs are not spared.

Which brings me to the plight of another friend. She had been in a couple of relationships during her college days. Whether she had partaken of the forbidden fruit of sexual pleasure or not is a matter of speculation and no more (without asking privacy-intrusive questions, that is). Based just on the material that she had dated two guys, a family "carefully selected" by her parents to marry her into not only rejected her hand in marriage, but also broadcast their speculation (and there are no points for guessing what they speculated) to the larger community. The friend in question was transformed from a brilliant, ambitious and extremely eligible lawyer into a common street whore sans morals. And this is a family (the boy's, that is) where everyone was a "gold medallist" in all their academic glory.

The point here is not about questioning the morals of society, but delving into why one cannot embrace a common, consistent school of thought. The market-based capitalist economic model adopted and embraced so passionately by the businessmen, software engineers and management graduates (who, incidentally, are the hottest property on the marriage market) in urban India today necessarily demands the freedom of the individual and a respectful acceptance of the competence of every person to make decisions that suit them best. If investing in risky stocks was a decision a female took and gained success by, she must equally have the right to make a sexual choice. If a man and a woman are judged by their boss on the same criteria, then society must judge them against similar moral benchmarks.

I feel somewhat sorry for my friend who had the "deviant" thoughts on her sexual choices. Being a man, my agreement with her views means little because I apparently have the right to think that way. Will I marry a girl who admits to having had sexual relations with other men in the past, but who will assure me of lifelong commitment in an emotional and temporal sense? My simple answer is yes. But will I be marrying a whore? The simpler answer is no.

How Mature is my Society Part II

Two things make headlines in India - politics and cricket. When the two are combined along with other headline-grabbers in a heady mix of high-profile scandal, corruption, juicy love affairs involving public figures, rigged sports events, fear of imminent political fallout and glitzy, morality-busting late night parties, we get a perfect Indian curry. The controversy surrounding the IPL is stuff which even Jeffrey Archer couldn't dream about and is something which is threatening to turbocharge the Indian media industry out of recession.

What is most fascinating about the whole rigmarole is that the IPL so perfectly captures India today. The economic reality of the IPL was all about tapping the tremendous and virtually limitless potential contained in India's massive urban middle class. Nothing sells in India as well as cricket and Coca-Cola, and Lalit Modi chose to exploit every last drop of blood from the former. He was an entrepreneur and a visionary (although most people would argue that he stole the basic idea from the ICL, let us remind ourselves that several of the most successful commercial ventures in history were not original ideas). He used the BCCI's long arms as a springboard to sell his idea. He pursued his goal with zest and determination. And he achieved staggering results of global proportions - the IPL enjoys unbelievably high TRPs in half a dozen countries, the advertising slots command astronomical prices and still there is no dearth of demand, the ICC has held several debates about carving out a "window" for the IPL in a packed international schedule and most tellingly, the IPL has become (by a rough and highly conservative estimate) the fourth most valuable sports venture in the world. Let us pause for breath and remind ourselves that the IPL is just in its third season and lasts for less than two months every year!

That, in a nutshell, is the economic face of India. We are determined to conquer the world. We stand on the threshold of economic greatness. This is a juggernaut that can conquer everything in its path.

The other reality of the IPL epitomizes who we are as a society and what we cherish as personal or moral values. There are allegations that may never be proved, but the stories are striking. Allegedly, Modi manipulated the rules of the game to suit his best interests. Allegedly, he interfered with the market by rigging auctions and fixing bids. Allegedly, he exposed his crass moral immaturity by unflinchingly branding a lady entrepreneur as a woman of loose character and by exploiting her sex to pronounce moral judgement about her closeness with a political rival. Allegedly, he laid bare his base craving for fair-skinned females by getting foreign models and professional call-girls into drug-filled, testosterone-driven post-match parties. Allegedly, he curried favour with powerful men who belonged to his caste.

How different is it from what we are? I am not referring to our business dealings alone here. How many parents will settle for nothing less than "fair and slim" wives for their sons? How many people would not use their near and distant relatives to get accelerated response from government bodies, right from getting a passport out of turn to getting a house plan approved to ensuring uninterrupted electricity supply for their immediate neighbourhood? How many of us think twice before offering a bribe to anyone and everyone in the hierarchy, whether post office clerk or High Court judge, to get "our" work done? We are still a strongly patriarchal and disgustingly male chauvinist society, as is evident in every stage of a woman's life.

And then there's the king of all hypocrisies - religion: we use the name of God to justify every otherwise-unacceptable deed or thought. I am waiting for someone to claim that their act of wrongdoing in the IPL was motivated by religious beliefs, or for Modi to convert to Buddhism.

The Party Animal

I once had a long argument with R about what a party is. Everyone seems to have an opinion on parties. "Oh, I love partying". "Man, I attend the coolest parties in town". "Dude, I'm booked on Friday night - there's this party happening with karaoke". Personally, I don't see what the hoopla is all about.

I begin with the worst form of party - the office party. It's supposedly your employer's way of showing that it cares for your work-life balance. Somehow, everyone is presumed to enjoy eating at flashy restaurants, and everyone is presumed to be a hard-drinking party animal. Usually, the boss and the long-serving employees get piss drunk, scream out loud along with the blaring Bollywood music, shake their (substantial) tummies around the table and crack horrible jokes. Then the old-timers gossip the same gossip they gossiped about three years ago. The newbies are scared - what will they reveal to their boss, who will force them to get drunk, how do they react if their boss asks them for a dance. Then there are the ones who hate the whole thing; they will sit quietly at the end of the table and eat finger food all evening. A few critical points to note - attendance is compulsory, especially if you are a newbie; jokes that attack your personal life (especially relationships and sex) are the best and safest jokes; strictly no honest opinions about work and your boss must be expressed.

Then there are the random parties. There's a crowd of a dozen people headbanging away to obscenely loud rock music. Everyone knows a maximum of one other person in that group. Everyone is to be addressed as "dude". Your standing in the eyes of the others is determined by how many parties you have attended in the past week. You find that one other guy who wants a beer as badly as you do and you stick to him throughout the evening, both of you shoulder-barging your way through the crowded floor to the bar. The hot chick in the strapless dress is the target for every man, single or attached, but she is more committed to her drink than anything else. Food is ordered by anyone and everyone, and plates of random stuff are passed around to everyone. Few words are spoken, and sentences always begin with "Err... What did you say your name was, dude?" The exception, of course, is the hot chick - everyone knows her name, her dad's job, her brand of perfume and the date of her next period.

Next in line are the private parties. This usually follows a random party, if you have made the cutoff of 17 parties in the past one week. The guy whispers into your ear or sends you a text message with the invitation. The venue has no furniture - just bean bags and mattresses on the floor. The booze is only beer, vodka and, if you are exceptionally lucky, whisky. Food is pizza or junk ordered from the take-out round the corner. A basketball game runs on mute on the TV - note that cricket and football are for the masses, only the uber-cool American games are allowed. One gang of people is in the balcony, and the air there smells strange. That's pot luck for you. The hot chick is slightly more amenable to a conversation. Just when you think you are approaching jackpot, the hunk in the Benetton pullover whisks her away to one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind them. By the time anyone realises, everyone is drunk and it's 5 AM.

The best is reserved for the last. These are the parties which you go to with your best friends from college, especially those who live in a different city. Everyone knows everyone's best and worst habits. Everyone knows exactly which girls or guys they dated and why the breakup happened. There are nearly no secrets. The objective is to make noise, and plenty of it. The venue is a comfortable middle-class pub where the music is classic rock and not too loud. Discussing work is completely forbidden. Discussing the "good old days" is a necessity. Singing along to the songs is appreciated, but asking an unwilling person for a dance is not. Jokes are outright silly, or dependent on wordplay. Everyone gets drunk, but remains cheerful and an integral part of the party. You leave the party wondering when you will have such a good time again.

What was the point of all that? I guess it just puts things in perspective. Firstly, no booze, no party. Example, your neighbour kid's third birthday celebration. Secondly, it would have been a much better idea to sink into your couch at home and catch the Saturday evening game. No matter what kind of party. Third, college days are the best. Cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap booze, cheap jokes, priceless fun.

Hello! Do you understand me?

Today began like any other Sunday. The eyes opened at half past nine, but still felt droopy. I dragged myself down for breakfast and turned on the telly. As is my habit, I went to the sports channels first, and saw a ten year old girl attempting to spell "ostentatious" (Yes, that's anoher Indian show copied from a successful American TV series). The aptness of the word for the situation apart, it got me thinking. What is the purpose of having words in the dictionary which only a miniscule fraction of even native English speakers know the existence of?

I remember a panel from the comic "Obelix & Co". The highly educated and talented young economist Caius Preposterus tells the rustic menhir delivery man Obelix "If you can't increase the efficiency of your productivity infrastructure, the market will fall" and receives a glazed-eyed response "UH?" That, in short, is a quick lesson on bad communication. A couple of my friends are absolute masters of the English language, but they find it hard not to use a ten-letter word in every sentence they speak. It's something which I have never understood. It's all fine to wax eloquent and use four words when one would have sufficed, but is it really efficient? Does it achieve the purpose of writing or speaking in the first place?

As a lawyer, I must be the last person on Earth to be taking such objections to such grandiose vocabulary, for my brethren hold the unenviable reputation of always attempting to confuse the rest of the populace through the use of two-hundred word sentences. However, I find no percentage in it. If I can't convince a client to cough up my fees in plain English, I don't see how a note that reads, "This is to hereby notify you that a sum of Rupees Four Lakhs only has remained unpaid as a result of your conscious, deliberate, calculated, premeditated, predesigned, predeceased, purposeful, willful and express acts and omissions which are set out in the Schedule hereunder, and your failure to make good all payments outstanding whatsoever and accruing in whatsoever manner without limitation shall give me no option but to exercise any and all means at my disposal, including but not limited to legal action, to move for the recovery of the aforesaid outstanding payments from you, your legal heirs, permitted assigns, successors, agents and representatives" will do the trick. (PS: That reminds me. There is a word out of place in there somewhere. A chocolate for every person that points it out to me.)

Our modern corporate world is no better. I received an email recently: "Dear Anirudh, It will be a pleasure to touch base with you in Bangalore, as I will be telecommuting next week. It is so nice to see someone stepping up to the plate at such short notice. I had been out of the loop on developments, but now we can strategize how we can move forward. We need to build synergies and create value items. My plate is empty, so fill me in on any new ideas which you may have. Regards, xxx" I don't know the origins of any of the phrases above, but everyone in the corporate world needs to have an instinctive habit of spewing any old nonsense in order to sound right. Anyone who says, "Let's meet for a coffee and chat when I am in Bangalore" is either unsophisticated or is trying to curry favours with you.

The gist is I like to keep it simple. The erudite in us demands that we use ostentatious (there's that word again) language, but the real requisite is to be lucid. Curses! The habit's catching. I had better end this before I turn magniloquent.

The Thrill of the Chase

She glanced at her watch for the seventh time in five minutes. As if history lectures weren't boring enough as they were, this professor wanted to conduct "extra" classes on Saturday afternoons to catch up with the syllabus. Extra classes were where your parents thought you were while you dried your eyes on Rohan's shoulder while watching Shah Rukh Khan and Karan Johar spin the latest tale of woe and love. They were not meant to happen, you know. TRRING! The harbinger of freedom rang loud and long, heralding an evening with Rohan.


She grabbed her bag and ran out of the building. He would have gladly picked her up from college, but she did not trust her classmates to keep mum about him. Instead, she walked for a fair distance and stood in the calming shade of the large Gulmohar. She glanced at her watch again; it was 3.30. Where was he? Why wasn't he here yet? Does he remember they were to meet today? She couldn't call him because she had spent the last of her prepaid currency arguing with him the night before. 3.45. She was getting desperate. It was not like him to be late for a date. Had she told him off too harshly? Had he taken her angry words seriously? Will he never love her the same way again? She couldn't even call him to apologise.


4.00. She was nearly in tears. OH! What was that? A flash of red and green streaked past her eyes. When the streak settled she saw the most beautiful bouquet of red roses in front of her. She heard his voice from behind her, "Surprise!" This moment of sudden joy followed half an hour of frustration and anxiety, and it was too much for her. A lone droplet traced a joyous path over her cheek into the side of her mouth. Her arms moved as though on remote control and wrapped themselves around his neck. "Thank you so much!! I was so anxious!" He merely smiled and led her by her hand into his car.


She was late getting home. Her father gave her a look which said, "I don't know you". Her mother asked her a hundred questions. Why are you so late? Why did you have to wait for the direct bus only? Why is your history teacher such a sadist (a point which she gladly agreed with her mom, though)? Don't you know that good girls are back home before dark? She was hungry. But her father stepped in. "No food for you tonight. Somehow, I don't think you like history all that much." Mother looked aghast. How could her daughter sleep without dinner? The atmosphere was thick with tension. Father knew, but didn't say it out aloud.


She quietly went up to her room and picked up a book to read. She had spent her evening watching a movie and then they had driven to the hilltop to watch the sun go down. She quickly closed the book she was reading. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she slept with a smile on her face. Her sacrifice was not in vain. The thrill of the chase was worth it.