Life on the edge

Just close your eyes, spin around, go hit the wall, and then take a sharp turn and stop at the edge of the hill. Do not listen to any other voice, follow your instinct, and trust yourself. The trail is narrowing, you are going faster than you should and farther, beyond your limits. The world seems to be falling apart; everything is changing very rapidly, mysteriously. There seems to be a sputtering of colours….Your mind is running at a high speed, filled with unequalled happiness.

You have reached the edge finally, and you do not want to fall off, you want to rest there and look at the world. The entire continuum becomes a little hazy and things do not look the same anymore, but do not give up, peer deep into those and slowly you get the true picture. Oh yes, it’s no longer the same world, the person next to you looks different, your job looks mediocre, the entire dynamics of relationships look a tad different. Do not get confused; what you have gained is perspective. This is the advantage of living on the edge.

There are of course some people who are just born with it. They belong to the mountains and in due course become as vast and adventurous. They can hear sounds and see creatures that normal people do not. Their simple solitary pursuits such as shepherding, gliding turn them more powerful and sharp. They can always spot that monk-like tourist or the criminal mind behind a gentle demeanour.

Nevertheless, the act of going to the edge is not that simple. It is like being in a vortex and falling deep and deep into bottomless pit of darkness. In a larger sense, we will fall, lose all control, yet let our higher sense prevail. In the process, we might get scared, get hurt, lose our confidence. This is when we should stop there at the darker side. And I can guarantee, it will be a mind-blowing sensation, ecstasy, and in case we can hold on any longer, we can even meet ‘god’.

Meghna Maiti

Delhi rape case: Rapists

Delhi's Devil

And they have done it again.

Once every forty minutes

Those subhuman brutes do it.

A kind of heinous crime, our bodies

Bruised, deformed as mangled soldiers,

Our intestines

Forced out lay coiled, gangrenous

Like injured snakes, battered

Spewing venom.

Cast off its defenceless veneer.

Oh ye, the world, let’s kill

The rapists with the sharpest sting.

The violent ‘retribution’, ‘outrage of

Modesty’, ‘gory bloodshed’ must

Disappear once and for all.

Soon, soon we should cherish

Freedom that is not for sale;

Peace un-negotiated.

We women may well be fair skin and

Dense hair, we are also the mind,

The heart, the soul that is dearer than life.

Women are Brahma, Durga.

The gurgling springs and dark woods;

The embodiment of all that is auspicious.

Yet the brutes dragged us to the streets,

They mutilated us with their fangs,

And drank our blood for centuries.

The justice of the policemen, the comments

Of the ministers are never very pure and true,

We did not know what to do.

We have tolerated far too long,

The shriek melts to a mum, the air stills

The heart signals the coming of a tempest.

 There are black holes in our minds,

And scare in our hearts, it is time yes

Oh all rapists, to castrate the whole lot of u.

Meghna Maiti

ENDS

Pure Love

Pure than the purer form of life;

Calm than the most ethereal being;

Wide than the entire span of human life;

Your love has emboldened me;

It has changed my entire worldview;

If today you go away, I will be left with

An eternity of longing and nothingness.

Meghna Maiti

Autumn

I am not given to undue inspiration. Yet when the air is thick with mist and mellow fruitfulness and the sun is mild with its silvery spread, my city, Kolkata becomes vibrant with sound of the trumpets, smoke of the incense sticks and religious fervour. Somewhere an entire city loses itself into all that and autumn comes alive to me. Yes, it seems to me autumn has its meaning in Kolkata. For a fact, I know this is incorrect, but nevertheless in my mind, the season is there in me lying in my bed in Kolkata, reading durga puja special magazines and then there are apparel shop owners haggling with the customers, and there is me in Kolkata again, in one of our numerous ‘adda’ sessions.

Autumn used to bring with it a lot more than this. It used to be about clear blue sky, potted flowers such as dahlia, zinnia; long walks in the afternoon, futile philosophising, barred clouds blooming the soft-dying day, song of hedge-crickets, lazy chilly evenings with friends. It was also about hot steaming biryanis, succulent mutton curry and fancy fried fish. It was sort of characterised with a feeling of numbness that seeped into pretty much everything that gave a brief respite from our anxious existences. It would fill our days with a sense of calm and humility, a sense of ‘divinity’, a feeling that there is a power higher than us.

Then there is the cultural aspect of the city that is almost infectious. It kind of presents an alternative, deeper way of life to the people bogged down by uncertainties of everyday life. The staged plays, bengali songs, dance takes one deep into the core of the city’s being and uplifts the spirit. Its lends a character to the poor international city. And it seems the city is not in urgent need of any charity.

The thing that I began to learn from autumn in Kolkata is the utmost need for celebration in life. I learnt the important of seeking happiness at subliminal level to enjoy the true essence of our short lives.

ENDS

Daydreaming....

Daydreaming.....

Let today’s light scatter into myriad images;
A sputtering of colours, beings, nature;
All canvassed into an ever-widening cobweb;
Culling out yet another world through mind’s eye;
Oh yes, here’s my Freud, my spark of creation;
That comes and comes and slowly swallows me.

- Meghna Maiti

Winter

Winter

We know its winter when sting-chill of cold air freezes our hand; a calming blanches of silence presses upon the cityscape; hanging smog creates a white hiatus. The happiest time of the year that lasts a little too long, the days that extends just a little too short a little too quickly- and then seem to stay there indefinitely. The winter of young souls, of freshness, love, youth, romance. The faded shades of leaves rustling in the mild wintry breeze take on the pallor of the season.  The houses remain tucked away behind a protective layer of Gulmohar, Mango and Eucalyptus. This time of the year is covered with colourful vibrancy of youthful music and the sound of guitar strings by the bonfire.

My first memories of winter are woven with various shades of red, blue, yellow colours in the streets of Kolkata. It’s my hometown in the eastern side of the country where winter is pretty cold. All shiny, colourful sweaters, pullovers, jackets and blankets are brought out of the closet.  It’s the onset of the season when vegetable sellers lay a beautiful spread of fresh and exotic vegetables. The time is usually December, January when people go out for long drives in the night along the well-lit, decorated lanes of Park Street. The nights signal the hour to spend quality time with old lovers, the time when all quarrels have to be put to rest. The afternoons are meant to be enjoyed by the caresses of the mild sun. Kolkata's winter taught me the language of heart and expressions of dreams.

Now many years later, in Mumbai, winter is a tad different. Here the drag of winter collapses under the weight of life. The beauty of the serene Arabian sea, cool natural air-conditioning breeze cannot compete with the charms of its raging life-force. It seems at once romantic and short-lived. The mystical winter days here seem more real, concrete and weighty as if it's here to give more stamina to push ourselves even harder to our tangible goals. It’s a fleeting season here, rooted in reality.

Meghna Maiti

Twilight in Mumbai

Every day, I usually take a short break and walk down Kalaghoda road in Mumbai, to take in the essence of twilight. At around six thirty in the evening, when the office space looks melancholic with a bright orange glow, I step out to lose myself in another world. This is a moment when bits of smouldering earth intertwine with mild breeze, and I feel tangled in an ethereal magic.

Everything is burnt orange and red and black, clay-tinged and warm. There’s a mystery disguised as menace, a lull in spite of storm, and the sky gives off a phantom light that makes the tangible look cinematic. The black leaves of the huge trees begin to sway as the bats start hovering above. A number of street-lamps dot the landscape. The place that is so familiar looks celestial, all of a sudden. The chirping of insects mutes the far-out concrete jungle and sharpens the red sky. 

The breeze sometimes chills my spine, even in the dry, unrelenting heat. The entire place stands by itself like a divine cry with decades of longing in it. Of all the cities that I have lived in, none has truly represented the splendour of the sunset as Mumbai. The western part of our country is stifling with its crammed existence and materialism, but with the Arabian Sea and the bits and parts of south Mumbai and Bandra, this part of the country still holds its charms.

Mumbai is a land of glitz and glamour, but it’s not just about business, stock markets or Bollywood. One could argue, geology plays an important part too. Where else do a break from an intensely exhausting workplace such as stock market, can take you to rocks, sea and seagulls as well as the beautiful sunset with changing hues, that is so enchanting and surreal, which could be literally compared with an orange. And we instantly know the people and places here could be the same as everywhere, that there are long shots and bumpy rides, but there’s something always there listening in the distance.

Meghna Maiti

The World after iPhone

September 12, 2012- Mumbai, Churchgate- 10 am: Overcast sky, slight drizzle, high tides in the Arabian Sea. The area is jam-packed with beggars, office goers, businessmen, students, pimps and prostitutes- all careering through at breakneck speed to prepare for another day of money, deals, drug, sex, food. Amidst the chaos and traffic, a young executive of a noted company looks visibly distressed in his fancy car. He flips out his fancy iPhone and holds it up- his face shines with radiance. Incidentally, a young woman trips along the pavement gazing at her iPhone’s updates from friends as John Lennon fills her ears- Imagine all the people living life in peace. You may say, I am a dreamer…….

What if Lennon wakes up and slips into the country of his youth on September 12? He will witness a sort of adrenaline-fuelled journey in American history, when the invitees nip away wind and intermittent rain in San Francisco to see the era’s hottest design invention- 4G-enabled iPhone 5. Stuck in a flurry of ideas and sensations, the iconic singer will feel the eerie presence of Steve Jobs, Apple CEO Tim Cook and rock musician Dave Growl. He too will wait expectantly with the audience. Meanwhile, the newly launched iPhone 5 will take on the aura of timeless femininity with its sleek, delicate, soft features, that not only reflects Apple legacy but also creates a digital human culture embedded in life, construction that seem to be half urban, half religious, and quality of both expert workmanship and knowledge that is secret, sacred and mythic rather than practical and functional.

Much like Lennon, Jobs was a libertarian, seized with burning vision, who however believed the fate of the world depend on the effort of an "individual" who builds or propagates machinery of freedom that makes the world safe for capitalism. Jobs unveiled the first iPhone to the public in January 9, 2007 in San Francisco. The two initial models saw record sales, with hundreds of customers lined up outside the stores nationwide. The passionate reaction to the launch of the iPhone resulted in sections of the media christening it the ‘Jesus phone.’ While Apple is the most popular selling smart phone in the US, Samsung is the global leader in sales. Apple reported its best quarterly earnings ever in January 2012, with 53 per cent of its revenue coming from the sale of 37 million iPhones, at an average selling price of nearly $660. In February 2012, Comscore reported that 12.4 per cent of US mobile subscribers use an iPhone.

Armed with a polished surface and tolerances measured in microns, Apple seeks to position itself on a plane far higher than the drove of expensive luxury phones. What is indispensable is the sense of comfort it exudes when one holds it in his hand and operates with his thumb- almost like a seer who ferries people to the world where humanity is the only religion. The diviner detects on a hunch, when to create a radical device so the world accepts. He imparts it with unique features such as improved version of Siri to help it empathise with people.

A JP Morgan report suggests the release of iPhone 5 could potentially add between one-fourth and half per cent point to fourth quarter annualized GDP growth. However, economist Paul Krugman did not seem to buy the forecast and said that immediate gains would come from the way the new phone would get people to junk their old phones and replace them.

Finesse and subtlety define Apple aesthetic. iPhone 5 is 20 per cent lighter and 18 per cent thinner than iPhone 4S. It is just 7.6 millimeters thin and has white earpods. The device is encased in glass and aluminium and comes in two colours- black and white, with a silver black. The new iPhone 5 is priced at $199 for 16 GB, $299 for 32 GB, $399 for 64 GB (US).

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

ENDS

Of media & reviews

Of media & reviews

The reaction to a supposedly breaking story in a small newspaper can loosen up “men in tights”.  In an age of mainstream media, where a business newspaper is only valued by its liaisons with top corporates, a big story break in a boutique newspaper can gobble up such monsters, if only for a while. Suddenly, one might hear voices in a lone head and see intense visions.

A snobbish editor from an upstart media house might suddenly yield the low ground to “congratulate” the reporter involved with the story. He may even feign ignorance of the existence of the newspaper and recount how he only heard the news in a conference in the morning when others were talking about it. While another big media-house attributes the news by a national newspaper to a local one and refuses to acknowledge its presence. In this case, the solitary hero is foreign to an era in which it is understood that the world is increasingly interconnected now and big brands are slowly losing their exclusivities.

The reaction is often comical when some senior reporter from the industry comments:  “How could this newspaper fire up the stock?” (The story had moved up stock of a certain company). Such reactions reveal the disillusionment of the savvy journalists. It also points us to a certain sense of disconnect with the reality or an escapist mindset to avoid all complexities of modern media.

The recent trend in the media world is the dispersion of the center- it's natural because the news channels and newspapers no longer offer perspectives, because Indian society itself no longer presents an illusion of unity. Many  TV channels which have been anointed as stars with the maximum TRP (television rating point) or viewership’ turn out to be glorified corporate mouthpieces.

And these two realms of media and viewers become dispersed and discentered because people have stopped believing. Often, the result of such brutal reactions is yearning for a time when news was born out of idealism, a time when fewer questions were asked, fewer assumptions were made.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

Paris in its true spirit

Occasionally when my mind is feeling seized, droning and whirring like a broken beehive, I take a trip down the memory lane to the enigmatic, dark attic in Paris of my friend Chantal. When one thinks of Paris, one would not want to remain confined in a dark, cold, threadbare room on the roof- with its unpolished wooden walls, the worn hardwood floors and its quirky owner.

Chantal, whom I had known since her first trip to India years ago, is a psychic by profession and she cures all with troubled hearts and souls. Her makeshift place is kind of a safe zone where weird people from all over the world can come for a night, indulge in a free-wheeling party with some writers and musicians of France, and look forward to- a sense of cultural superiority on the one hand, on the other hand- some healing exercises for the soul, patient ears and drink for the soul.

The music is often heart wrenching, divine, intimate while costumes are supposed to be based on a theme- phantom, prostitute and so on. The idea is to be completely uninhibited, timeless, and open, bohemian as if nothing else matters. Slowly, people with deep level of anxiety pull themselves from the dark corners and join in the drunken revelry.

The food served is usually generous and palatable- cheese with cookies, soup, meat fondue with champagne and wine. The old cinematic clichés of virtuosos spontaneously collaborating in the thick of history and neon cigarette smoke, artistically advancing the genre, applies to Chantal’s parties.

At around midnight, people get all busy in a kind of orgy and dance and speak out their insecurities aloud. Suddenly one might find whispers of advices, several voices like radio waves in different frequencies. It is then one needs to shut all noise and listen to her own voice within.

The windows are opened in the morning and people slowly move out to walk down the Saint De Port road. All these memories are timeless, beyond the realm of modern world, out in the ether.

ENDS

Meghna Maiti

Art for art's sake

It is unfortunate how English readers in India increasingly value articles on blatant materialism than simple, earthy things. There is painful bitterness in the entire process, yet, it is fair even to the publication and the writer who regards writing as a business and responds to the demands of the market. It is this emphasis on the importance of money, and the very idea that even the best of the designers and art can be purchased, which is indeed debilitating and demoralising.

The striking juxtaposition of barbarism and civilisation in recent times is quite evident. While on the one hand, we see mind-blowing advancement in science, technology, and lifestyle; on the other hand, we see this degeneration of mind, inability to appreciate the natural and finer things of life. The bull market is almost unbearable, turning life into a mortgage payment, with a price tag on almost everything, including ‘art’. Newspapers and magazines merely try to cater to the popular interests and secure the widest possible readership. For most writers, art is about people who have led a life of greed and opulence. This state of things is traceable to the lack of education, in all senses of the word.

Before things could improve, there could be a period of what many people will call ‘capitalist anarchy’. Bizarre though it may seem, people might then realise that education and emancipation would make them truly human.

Most English newspapers, even the ones who claim to have their own voices, now follow the most commercial route and consider it an indispensable tool for instilling loyalty. The path to success is suppression of individualism and collective good. Newspaper prices are kept low to pull in more people. 

In a sense, this seems to be the only way out. Capitalism is king and pretty much everything is branded. Call it buying and selling of aspirations. Call it free market economy. Whatever it is, there is very little representation of the ‘classic Indian life’.

Meghna Maiti

Wild Spirit

Oh do not touch the wildness; you will not get her;

Her wild, wild spirit hangs low over the seashore,

Like an unstring puppet braving the element;

Flying in face of humanity, baffling the earth,

She is weaker than life, stronger than death.

Sensuous ducts for seduction; lust, lust, lust

Scents of steam and mildew; ancient than world,

Wraps her formless self and makes you flush

The earth rocks and rocks; she rises slowly;

Like a snaky smoke, beyond you and all.

Sins Sins; her sins would absolve in Jesus;

Seven demons to match wits with Mary Magdalene,

She feels a miracle that sets her free,

Finds boundless ocean in the eyes of her beloved;

And within some moments annihilate years.

She is all by herself a wild lion; her gold beaten skin;
Glowing, growling, and hunting, snarl and snarl,
Feasting on the body of her prey from sub-Saharan Africa
Like Shango hurling bolts of lightning at his followers,
Blood, blood, makes her purer and enlightened. 

Shine, shine; her star flickers on and off, on and off;
Its incandescence dazzles the sky and the earth,
The glints of hot meteors fly, and she smiles, loves;
By whatever those sparks mean to her and all,
They bless her with a royal crown and a palanquin. 

Meghna Maiti

Walking In The Rain

Meghna Maiti

Mumbai

Rain, Rain, Rain.

Just look at you, walking in at this odd hour into this dreary land and breathing life into it like a lighthouse on pitch-dark seashore, twirling the side of your skirt pensively as the water drops freckle your cheeks with sweet diamond of moisture - for what?

For a bit of philanthropy, perhaps? Or romance with those hapless souls depressed by the continuous dryness. And it is not without any reason. Look- nature whips Indian economy back and forth more than bankers do. If the kharif crop is depleted, the consequences will be an inflationary Diwali and bleak winter. Fast moving consumer goods companies glide along those glistening streets to glory. What more, monsoon affects replenishment of ground water and generation of hydel power too.

Your mysterious nature even leaves the Met department confused. And how are they supposed to know that you are coming? It is not as if they have a Lord Indra there with his magic stick to forecast the weather. Therefore, we avoid the news and let the element of mystery deepen. Like saints. It is late, we are out of cereals and sugar, and our clothes are itchy. We have to act stingy and postpone our purchases of our favourite cars, television and cars until prices drop.

So silly our impatience now seems, stuck as we are in the unreality of Indian gloom and doom. Now that we have seen you for a couple of days - with your jet-black hair still damp from the shower, with your deep and seductive eyes, with your scents of marsh and upland, and most of all, with your infectious sense of calmness and serenity, seems to be the beginning of a long-drawn affair. Listening to you fall, long after the sun goes down and long after night, until the morning hours, is a deep and most enchanting experience.

However, are you here to stay? Are you growing spiritual, what with the expectations of coming to the foothills of Himalayas, the north and northeast over the next few days?  Will you starve your admirers in some other parts such as Maharashtra, Karnataka? We are sure you will not let drought, your competitor ruin the chances of millions of men.

Yet it seems, we have caught you on a day when you have decided to make a fresh start. To make a fresh start, try to come more often, come more vigorously to plant new seeds in the hearts of your boyfriends, pick out new drinks for them, buy them expensive gifts, settle their finances and pay for their bills. Moreover, do not forget to dump them when your days here are over.

Sensitivity like you is rare to find. We can even see the most intrepid of souls clearing the roads on a rainy day. And those who did not brave you have no idea what they are missing.

We really feel we all love you.

ENDS

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

IC colony

If  life so desires, I may even lay down my entire future along the streets of IC colony. Those undulating ways meandering through the island city of Mumbai are as wide as many a market square. Their dignity remains intact even after constant assault by the height of pretentious luxury and dubious taste from all around. 

My house ‘Kinny’s Corner’ situated on ‘Holy Cross’ road looks out to a big statue of a ‘cross’ under a green moorish patch. A number of bakeries, eateries, liquor and meat shops dot the landscape, which takes a sharp turn around the great flinty, staid church for the catholic crowd where Jesus keeps their sanity. Up the road lay a boulevard leading to ‘Karuna’ hospital with quaint, arcane houses on one side, remote gypsy fruit-sellers on the pavement, on another side a hillock full of wild foliage peer down into a dry moat, down the sheer wet walls.

The faint, agreeable smell of freshly baked bread, sea-fish, coal-dust waft through the area, and all around you can see those laid-back, despondent faces, which give me fair amount of pleasure: unmarked faces like the innkeepers of sea-shacks, with distant look in their eyes, living their modest dreams.

It all started sometime back when the lease of my earlier house expired: the drawers emptied, furniture packed, the removal van waiting like a hearse in the lane took me to a less expensive area. Then there set reluctantly on my personal map the cross, part rosy church, part hideous real estate agents- where raw emotions intermingled.

Everything that I want to become seems to be here, for better or for worse. My destiny might have been written somewhere along those roads, houses or even in the hedgerows. IC colony may shape the first level of consciousness, which would eventually become the basis of all kinds of connections with beings. This could even be the scene of happiness, misery, real love, first heartbreak, the attempt to write, through the unconscious sources of action, through folly or wisdom. It could well be all of these, who knows………

ENDS

Meghna Maiti

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

God of all things

MEGHNA MAITI

Mumbai

We still have not figured out whether the outcomes of life are essentially random or whether there is God. Yet, our lives embedded in the vast, complex nebula seem transient, almost hallucinatory. Their sparkly brightness is carried up and down in the vast emptiness as they morph under the influence of powerful outflows and intense radiation from the stars and star clusters around them. As a human race, we have adapted an identity that is generously enigmatic. The sheer evolution of humankind, including the recent discovery of Higgs particle to solve the puzzles of the universe would probably have even God clucking in disapproval. As the bleary-eyed physicists drink champagne and celebrate the key to understanding the cosmos and the elusive realities, the existence of God could well be on the line bordering science with religion.

Lost in the hullabaloo of the neo-atheists in modern life, the existence of God has taken complex almost romantic proportions. Sitting cosily at home with our family and friends, when we had finished our drinks, slowly getting high on the news on ‘god’s particle’ on television and we suddenly realise: something happening somewhere else is, at the moment, far more important than something happening here. More we perhaps get at the inner distractions, dispersals, symbolic disconnections, and networks of underlying disparate and decentering associations, the better we get at figuring out God’s existence in the current states of subjectivity and the conflicts they spark.

Physicists are especially excited with the idea that ‘Higgslike’ particle’ could point the way to new, deeper ideas, beyond the Standard Model of physics, about the nature of reality. Yet, such force of nature blurring the sense of reality and abstract, could give a concrete form to God. And the conflict starts therein as majority of the people are conditioned to believe in omniscience, invisible minds and immaterial souls. In that case, their religious sensibilities are often shaped around their blanket rejection of modernism and turning their backs on the life of their times and declaring that the world had gone to hell. Though their tastes are narrow, their devotion is real and fruitfulness is proven by their serenity.

“While it is true that scientific results are entirely independent from religious or moral considerations, those individuals to whom we owe the great creative achievements of science were all of them imbued with the truly religious conviction that this universe of ours is something perfect and susceptible to the rational striving for knowledge.”  This quote by Albert Einstein perhaps sums up the timeless interdependence of religion and science.

Higgs Boson may be a manifestation of cosmic molasses that permeates space and imbues elementary particles with mass. Without Higgs, there might not be atoms or life. Yet no matter how much science explains, it seems, the real void that God fills is an emptiness of our spirit, a sort of yearning for the intangible. Moreover, God has to exist, irrespective of discoveries to satisfy that lust for the divine.

 

What say, God?

 

ENDS

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

Go Goa

Monday reminded me of the time I started off as a reporter for a financial daily. Those were the days; I was trying to make myself tougher. The time was harsh and treacherous, the perfect surface for my 22-year-old self to sling my backpack, getting briefly lost before I faced the icy inclines of a workspace. I rode in the back seat of my friend’s Avenger bike as it crept across lush green, rutted surface en route the Konkan region to Goa. We rode, away from the present, where a dark world slipped past, life concentrating only on the 20 yards of road glowing ahead of us.

We drove around certain Goan creek to unwind. Sunlight fell through tall coconut plantations and mangroves and lay in puddles along the logging roads that wound past the Western Ghats packed with perennial waterfalls where butterflies tried to flee from us. It had been raining, incessantly, so the wild flowers, and the grass and the pine needles regained their colour, fresh and green as daisies, crackling beneath my shoes when the road we followed petered out into nothing and I stepped off the bike. In this heavenly stillness, it seemed you could hear every totem within a square acre rustling through the shrubs, and when the breeze rose into a cold wind, the area became a giant whisper.

We dumped our baggage in a hotel around north Goa and my friend said, “Let’s go, explore,” holding his bike keys. We both dressed as soldiers, armed with our umbrellas and raincoats. We started again, working our way down to south Goa through the lush green forest, through a cypress thicket. We chanced upon a lonely, white woman sipping some exotic drink in Mango Tree Café and we stopped by and gave her company for sometime.

Night had come on and our visions blurred with the mild drizzle, grayly darkening our way as somewhere an owl hooted, its noise barely noticeable over the chorus of other insects. I was not any tougher when I came back, but, I finally found my voice.

Meghna Maiti

Manmohan Singh: State-sponsored lethargy

MEGHNA MAITI

Mumbai

Now we know what it takes Manmohan Singh, the unusually cautious and phlegmatic technocrat, to leap into action and show some emotion: Keynesian ‘animal spirit’ in the country’s economy. When Pranab Mukherjee cracked a shot into Raisina Hill’s goal in the few minutes of so called “presidential poll game” on Wednesday, Manmohan waking up from his deep slumber raised his hands over his head and cheered like a jubilant supporter. Sporting the same black bandhgala and blue turban Singh swapped high-fives with the power team comprising planning commission deputy chairman Montek Singh Ahluwalia, PMAEC chairman C Rangarajan, chief economic advisor Kaushik Basu, and top finance ministry officials. The opponent team fans that had earlier jeered and hissed when Manmohan appeared on the field were reduced to silence.

They would have their moment of celebration -- a goal by Manmohan (as finance minister) in the few days that tied the game and prompted an announcer to declare, “The economy is revived from its inexorable slide into another abyss!” But the Indian celebration did not last long. One year after India scored in the year 2008, Wall Street and euro crisis booted home a thunderous volley, and sometime later, high fiscal deficit and still higher inflation scored with a similarly fearsome shot. Economy of India (if you may, please) -- supposedly the third largest in the world in terms of purchasing power parity -- scoring negative, was on its way out of the global tournament.

The score might not have been respectable but, in truth, the game was just as one-sided as it could be, with Sonia Gandhi and Pranab dominating from beginning to end. At half time, the emphatic announcer of the Indian team said the highlight of Manmohan’s stint as the erstwhile finance minister has been the very first kick of the game. “In India, one is supposed to be motivated by nobler and refined pursuits. Speaking loud is vulgar, even sordid in evolved societies,” the game announcer commented about Manmohan sarcastically. When in the second half, the opponent scored another goal against Manmohan, the announcer promptly said, “There’s no shame in losing to a wonderful team. Let the country go to dogs! Our refined, intellectual leader can go home with his head held high.”

The Indian team knows all about humiliations at the hands of other nations, and of course, they are not above drawing on the historic ones as well as the more recent. Nevertheless, where from our iconic leader Manmohan draws his reserves of strength? Born on September 26, 1932 in Gah, Punjab, British India, into a Sikh khatri family, his family migrated to Amritsar, India after partition. Terming him as the best example of integrity, Khushwant Singh stated, "When people talk of integrity, I say the best example is the man who occupies the country's highest office. He won the Wright's Prize for distinguished performance in 1955 and 1957. He was also one of the few recipients of the Wrenbury scholarship. In 1962, Manmohan completed his studies from the University of Oxford."  

It is not likely that the ‘animal spirit’ in the game will revive soon. And Team Manmohan, based on his performance at least, looks to have a good chance of creating another quiet, sensational journey in the economic arena.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

ENDS

Stuck In Island City

Trapped in Mumbai’s flamboyance and endless verbal torrents of thousands of humans, I often feel like a disgruntled loner in a colony of chattering, gluttonous, complaining zebras stuck amid shades of light and shadow. We all are so far from our souls that existence is irrelevant.

If crossing the Arabian Sea is an exercise in insignificance, thinking about financial markets since early morning is in equal parts chaotic and a colossal mind game. The sea is inconceivably enormous, but, it is also infinitesimal. I, the lone inhabitant of my body and life, am inescapably large to myself, but also, ridiculously, and inconceivably small. In Mumbai, my sense of scale oscillates wildly. 


The voyage feels more like a function of time than space. There is the clamour of the people, the noise of railway engines, the churned-up fan of wake, the roll of the swell and forward motion becomes almost impossible. I am always at the centre of the disc, beneath the apex of the dome. A never-ending reel of upbeat synthetic music reverberates as temperature, wind speed, barometric pressure, swell height, along with a map of the ocean, position us as a dot at the end of a green line stretching back to the ocean.

When I am along the journey, and the guru makes his announcement that I am very, very far from my hometown Kolkata; tossing and turning in a vortex. I watch a swarm of bees heading north, their wings popping up and down with a businesslike clip, the only signs of life I’d seen all day except for a pigeon cheeping its confusion under one of the lifeboats.

I too seem to have become one of those ‘modernists’ not willing to bloom in attractive ways. In addition, I accept I am a confused person in a tacky getup. It has the odd effect of making me feel, at first, as if the months away had never happened. Living in Mumbai, is not very different from floating in one place. As if, there is nothing to do at the bottom of the gateway, but hop on to a cab and get on with it.

Meghna Maiti

Bold economist

“Government ‘help’ to business is just as disastrous as government persecution. The only way a government can be of service to national prosperity is by keeping its hands off.” — Ayn Rand 

Instances of radicalism wherein people insist on thinking for themselves and reject party-mindedness are rare to come by. Perhaps that is the way with Duvvuri Subbarao, as he steadfastly debunked government’s theory leaving interest rates and cash reserve requirements unchanged citing inflationary pressures despite economic growth slumping to a near decade low.

The Reserve Bank of India (RBI), which is as hushed inside as an Egyptian sphinx, is a place for establishment reserve. The office occupied by Subbarao, a soft-spoken, affable, sixty-two-year-old economist, has high ceilings, several wood-panelled shelves of economic textbooks, overlooking the Mumbai harbour. Its echoing hallways are lined with sombre pictures of past governors.

At IIT Kharagpur, where Subbarao was the recipient of director’s gold medal, he was known for his ‘way with numbers’ and ‘mastery of macro-economic issues’. Armed with tag of an ‘IAS’ topper, he is known as a gentle and accessible officer who has everything except the trappings of a bureaucrat. With a World Bank stint as a background and almost daily parleys with outgoing RBI governor YV Reddy in his role as finance secretary as current experience, he has played a hands-on role in carrying out the government’s agenda on inclusive growth.

Since his appointment as the 22nd governor of RBI on September 5, 2008, he has faithfully followed the policies of free-market conservative Alan Greenspan, and adheres to the central bank’s formal mandates: controlling inflation and inclusive growth. However, since the financial crisis struck the country in 2008, he has hiked interest rates over 13 times since March 2010; cut CRR by 125 bps in two stages since January, infusing about Rs 80,000 crore into the banking system. Though these measures are yet to have any major impact on the economy, in the eyes of many supporters and opponents, they represent a watershed in Indian economic history. Subbarao, who seemed to have been selected for his predictability as for his economic expertise, is now engaged in the boldest use of RBI’s authority since its inception.

Subbarao cannot be likened with Ben Bernanke, chairman of US Federal Reserve. In pure economic terms, these are the classical stances — one dovish, the other hawkish — being taken by Bernanke and Subbarao. Nevertheless, some economists agree that the similarities are uncanny and staggering. Both respect minority opinion and give people the feeling that they have been heard even when they are outvoted. Also, both share the conviction that, in an emergency, pragmatism trumps ideology. We see that in the way they realise that their respective institutions do not have the necessary resources of democratic legitimacy and it is important that government steps in and take control of the situation.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

Rain

This evening smelled strangely similar to my adolescent days, just when the cavernous cloud swooped down from nowhere to dance across the Kalaghoda road and then vanish just as freakishly, as if its sole mission had been to romance with the curves and the bends of the art hub of Mumbai. The sky glowed a greyish black. Air pressure felt low and I knew something definitely was headed this way.

I could see the damsel snuggling up to her biker Romeo as the first burst of rain pounded its windshield. Cold rain pelted on the corrugated roof of the music store ‘Rhythm House”. The soaked cat laid swelling on the pavement beside the drain. Water ran freely through man holes on the tarred road, the symphony of navigating water through a dozen channels merged with a sound of men urinating onto the corners.

Behind the surreal tiffany, the buildings looked abandoned, something melancholic about their streaked windows. The limping beggar squinted against the grime and dangled his muddy bare feet from the cemented staircase across the museum. An old man waded through water and leaned against the lamp-post with a cup of tea, all eager to settle the dust of his life when the rain trickled in. An avalanche of rain blurred the orange glow of the lamppost. Was this the hour of sunset or sunrise, good-bye or just the beginning? Impossible to say. Rain is a noisy but a harmless nuisance- a squealer but innocuous. We take comfort in it, often love it and we like to be consumed in its many shades.

The rain is a lethal combination of acid, dust and sometimes breathes of strained relationships. It builds its waterfront homes, the somewhat dreamy, beloved abode that speaks of love and passions. It drives you north upwind and along the river hidden from the view of half-dozen two-storey plumes. Then suddenly on a whim, on days with stiff north-westerly wind, it collapses the house and disappears.

Meghna Maiti

We the people

"Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold. 
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."  - WB Yeats, The Second Coming

It cannot get more surreal than this. With alarm growing in democratic circles over presidential election, our politicians have lost all sense of probity. These are just one of those days when you want to throw up your hands and marvel at the bizarre mindlessness.

Quite in an Orwellian fashion, the politicians in their confined space resemble zoo animals from a distance — Mamata Banerjee a fierce middle white boar, Sonia Gandhi a small white fat porker, Pranab Mukherjee a maddened squealer. Each one displays a definite set of behaviours: while Banerjee plants herself strategically a few inches away from the Congress, and clamps down her hands on the party; Pranab Mukherjee calmly seeks support from the UPA. The hullabaloo in political circles continues throughout the day, and during the long night one of the few that rise above the muffled drone is that of Mamata didi, who says to the UPA government, “APJ Abdul Kalam is the first choice for the next president of India. And he will win the election!” Sporadically, a sharp cackle emanates from the Congress, where partymen notice the slight gap between Yadav and Banerjee and intends to fill it with a wider chasm.

The drama for the race to Raisina Hill only intensifies with Sonia slumping at her desk, yawning painfully as the party cannot accept didi’s diktat and it must have its own man, Mukherjee as president. Living with Samajwadi Party seems unlikely for Congress, which sees Mulayam as a demanding ally.

Since everything in the election depends on unanimous consent, the main business of the place is a continuous negotiation between the two unsentimental ladies — Mamata who shows no love and Sonia who exhibits no remorse. The game of chicken could soon be joined in by smaller regional parties such as BJD, AIADMK with Trinamool to play rope-a-dope, ally with BJP and fend off amendments.

Armoured with aides, prodded by hourly jolts from electronic media, racing from the hearing room to the sumptuous lunch to the power hour at the airport, politicians no longer have the time to listen to each other — least of all, the people of the nation. We, lesser mortals, just gamble with our votes, with no clue whatsoever about the right candidate. The politicians are aware of civil society and the rules: yet they backstab one another over dinner, and then drink cocktails and exchange ideas on Saturday nights. Sadly, in the process, we too become a part of this tomfoolery, crying out to win credibility with the world.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

Heady Entrepreneur

profile: newsmaker 

We believe in destroying what we have created,” Kishore Biyani once famously said. India’s retail czar likes to identify himself both as a ‘creator’ and ‘destroyer’ of business, when he believes his GenNext played passive ‘preservers’ of family fortunes. Grant it to Biyani that such exotic nomenclatures give him the licence to indulge in huge open-ended experiments with chances of big-time failure, without being shamed by the prospect of public ridicule. But then, you have to give it to his gut instinct that led him to embrace the hitherto uncharted territory of mass merchandising to emerge as India’s biggest retailer in just about two decades. From his experiments with the hypermarket format and supply-chain management to food retail, dramatically undercutting competitors, Biyani has ridden the roller-coaster through the past 20 years, culminating in this week’s stake sale in flagship Pantaloon Retail to Aditya Birla Nuvo.

The maverick entrepreneur probably realised that great empires can be built with passion, but cannot be preserved with uncalculated risks, nor by expanding too fast to drive mind-boggling valuations. The move to sell stake in Pantaloon will partially ease his debt burden, as once the deal is complete, the group’s debt will be pruned by Rs 1,600 crore, or roughly 20 per cent of the current outstanding. For far too long, many have been mesmerised by Biyani's rapid ascent to the peak rather than the soundness of his business strategies, to draw parallels with Wal-Mart’s Sam Walton. So what if much of his posturing was a result of acquired arrogance and well-crafted media manipulation over the years?

And then one day, the dreamer was hit by reality. Biyani, who had invested way ahead of the cash flows from his network, found himself trapped on a debt treadmill. His empire was saddled with an outstanding of around Rs 5,800 crore on a consolidated basis, and obviously, the company found it difficult to service high interest-bearing loans, with interest costs alone eating up 90 per cent of its profit before tax of Rs 270 crore during the December 2011 quarter. The stock market pummeled him and his net worth tumbled. Biyani had little choice other than to give away Pantaloons, his most profitable format.

Armed with a degree in commerce and five years after joining the family business of textiles, Biyani launched the first branded ready-made trouser, Pantaloons, in Kolkata. He marketed the trousers through The Pantaloon Shoppe. By the time, Pantaloon Fashions, the company he had formed, went public in 1992, Biyani had set up 60 exclusive stores. Looking at ever-expanding opportunities in the retail space, Biyani decided took to direct retailing in 1994, and launched a new division of the company, called Pantaloon Direct Retailing. In its first year, this division generated business of over Rs 18 crore.

Within a short span, the group expanded into verticals such as apparel, furniture, electronic items, restaurants, food and insurance. Biyani spoke about his vision of making the Future Group a $20 billion enterprise by 2020. He internally restructured his group's operations; drove technology to bring efficiency in the backend; hired top leaders from multinationals such as Unilever and PepsiCo, while deciding to focus on four key businesses — food and grocery, home, apparel and electronics. Two of his companies, Future Capital Holdings and Future Ventures, went public. The unassuming and shy entrepreneur of yesteryears, Biyani gained in stature and recognition over time. His clairvoyant, shrewd yet rustic demeanour won him public adulation. Yet as he climbed up the ladder, his newfound aggression and success turned him heady and indifferent to the external forces that shaped him.

Will Biyani revert his focus to retail by divesting his non-core assets, such as Future Capital Holdings and Future Generali, to pay off his remaining debt? Only time will tell. Who knows Biyani’s future may well be the story of the proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

  

Spotlight on kitsch

On its 14th year, Mumbai’s Kala Ghoda art festival goes ‘Let there be light’, but offers the unusual mix of art, glamour and glitz

Why is the fair so dimly lit?” bem-oans a dazed visitor, shivering on an unusually chilly Mumbai evening. “There’s light behind you,” sniggers his girlfriend, as he gawks at the levitating Buddha that represents the theme ‘Let there be light’ in Kala Ghoda art festival this year.

Mumbai’s biggest art festival, organised by Kala Ghoda Association, draws an eclectic crowd that mingles in the open space, and lingers in galleries where world cinema and short documentaries flicker across the screens. The fair is as much about about glamour, glitz as cutting edge alternative art — more like a multi-media, multi-locational experience, meandering through the fabric of the island city.

“We have seen around 8 to 10 lakh visitors so far. Considering the low-cost budget of the entire event, we are enthralled with the responses,” said Pallavi Sahney Sharma, chief executive of Kala Ghoda Association. The festival in its 14th year now, offers kitschy fun for the art enthusiasts.

The venue itself, tucked in an enclave bounded by Mumbai’s dockyard, Fountain and Oval Maidan, near the cacophonous Colaba Causeway in an affluent South Mumbai business district, neatly embodies the contrasts of modern India. It draws designer cotton-saree draped industrialists browsing through the ‘madhubani’ painting stalls to street urchins gaping at the art installations on the street. While most Indian galleries focus on commercial prospects of art, Kala Ghoda fair maintains an alternative, artist-led ethos.

The festival has drawn art performers from almost all states of the country and international destinations such as Germany, USA, China, Austria and Pakistan, informed Sharma. “The festival this year is bigger than previous years in terms of the number of art performances, though there are lesser stalls this year. While we have 400 events spanning nine days, we have seen maximum crowd in visual art and street performances such as puppetry,” said Sharma. The crowds particularly throng the chirpy, colourful folk song and dance shows from Rajasthan and Manipur, among others.

The event had international acts such as Guangdong Art Troupe and Pakistani music band Raga Boys. A dash of hiphop, salsa and Bollywood moves lightened up the high-brow air.

Some quintessential concepts such as Mumbai’s cutting chai and tapri (small tea stalls) have been transformed into art work by students of Mumbai city-based Rachna College. The students have built a 14-feet tall pyramid with 4,000 chai glasses symbolic of the three aspects — tapri, cutting-chai and Mumbai.

Though the fair’s supposed to be strictly non-commercial, it is mildly funny to overhear hushed conversations about a business deal, new job opportunity or even invitation to a party. The objectives are met, boundaries are taken forward.

Also, it is interesting to watch the numerous stalls and NGOs dotting the streets, rake in moolah for their overpriced artistic wares. Lasting less than 10 days a year, this high-wattage art fair has nevertheless infused the burgeoning contemporary-art scene in Mumbai with an unmistakable swagger. The festival is on till Feb 12.

Meghna Maiti