The Flower Girl

13

I see her often in the evenings, at a crossroad of South Mumbai. All of fourteen years perhaps, sprightly and smiling, cheerful and chubby-cheeked. She is usually accompanied by two brats, her younger siblings, who look straight out of a comic book, their naughtiness palpable through dry-skinned cheeks, practiced sales spiel and ruffled hair. The trio usually compete with each other to sell flowers in the fleeting sales window that they have before the go-ahead green lights come on. But they have their own rules of the game; even when they display their best marketing skills, it is not that the winner takes it all. They are happy that at least someone succeeded; they are family. Once she said to me, pointing towards the shorter fellow, as I offered her fifty rupees for a carnation bunch, "Buy it from him, he has had a rough day today". But the young....

The Young Congressman

17

It was late spring, and the first symptoms of the oncoming summer was apparent; one could instinctively feel the seasonal shift. In the corridors of India's political quarters, however, no major alterations, not even subtle adjustments were expected. The election dates had been formally announced, and the NDA was preparing their victory speech, as a collective chorus screamed, India is shining. 10, Janpath by contrast wore a deserted look, almost serenely oblivious of the massive iterations happening around it. There was the occasional curious onlooker who gazed momentarily longer at it's single-tiered protected quarters; cars whizzed past as if in a great hurry, even the summer swallow was being distinctively selective. It was hard to believe that it's haloed occupants belonged to India's most high-profile family, with deep historical roots. This was their litmus test; the grand old party's very survival was now being seriously questioned. But the unexpected....

'Exit' Polls And Basic Instinct

7

5 pm sharp. It was quite dramatic actually. The very moment the momentous ( that's the safest cliché to employ) elections 2009 came to a moderately-participated end, TV channels were ready to give us their pent-up, secretly kept, officially asphyxiated exit poll or post-poll surveys. Across channels, the drama ensued, with every show anchor on a ballistic binge, participating guests looking suitably grave and portending analytical expressions, and graphic images screaming new arithmetical formulations. It was heavy-duty brain haemorrhage. I am keen to know how the TRPs of English and Hindi news channels will compare with the never-ending IPL based on yesterday's teaser trailer to the biggie spectacle of Saturday. As a former banker who has seen his erstwhile several colleagues ( investment bankers and portfolio analysts top this dubious category) make a classic fool of themselves over the last year, I have developed a cold cynicism to mathematical....

The R Factor

12

It is four days since Congress General Secretary Rahul Gandhi held his press conference in New Delhi. 96 odd hours later, there is an unusual buzz, frenetic activity, and incessant dissertation of Rahul's various pronouncements. There is an understandable sense of palpitating fluster in the BJP. Regional parties are tongue-tied at Gandhi's sincere unanticipated open-mindedness on potential allies. Typically media analysts believe it is only pure strategic posturing deliberately planned to create fissures in enemy camps. The process of assessment continues. The resulting rise in political decibels is all because Rahul Gandhi spoke impromptu, letting his intrinsic honesty manifest itself. It is actually as simple as that. It is something the Indian media, high on overdose of mindless mind-reading just cannot decipher. No standard banalities from Gandhi; no typical statements laced in usual political correctness. On the contrary, Rahul Gandhi reflected candor and commitment; he was not afraid of....

30/04: Mercury Rising in Mumbai

15

At a small gathering of well-heeled sort in a South Mumbai club, Milind Deora , sitting Congress MP South Mumbai stood answering questions from the supposedly well-aware if not necessarily sufficiently-enlightened audience from his high profile constituency. At one point, Deora posed a query back , " Do you know who is your local MLA? Or your corporator?" Out of a gathering of a hundred odd people casually carrying Blackberry's, 3 half-bent hands went up feebly as if affected by a tennis elbow. Of those valiant limbs, two were just indulging in idle speculation and as for the other, he was the lone swallow of the summer party. In a great number of ways that minor interface manifested Mumbai's chronic political ignorance. Or indifference. Or both. On April 30th, as Mumbai voted, and camera crews whizzed around expecting a bone crushing multitude thronging polling booths, a certain reality dawned.....