HCI, London - my tryst with Babudom

A necessary interruption to daily existence is the requirement of certain bureaucratic intervention in essential matters like birth, death, tax, travel, among others and I too found myself compelled to visit the great Indian Babudom; despite being far away from India. I had to visit the High Commission of India, London.
India House is a beautiful building in the fashionable West End of London and I reached there, innocently unaware of the experience that awaited me. Since there was no visible entrance , and making the right presumption that the awe inspiring front entrance was not for the likes of me, I looked around and my suspicions of a general preference for Backdoor Entry being the normal route to all entries, from temple to the medical school, were proved right when I spotted a little side door. As I tried to ascertain that I was not rushing into anybody’s basement flat, a voice beckoned me from behind ‘Hello-madam-hello’ transporting me immediately to the familiarity of the great Indian Chowkidaars who are the gatekeepers to not just the Indian Officialdom, but our fate and fortune at the hands the members of this esteemed tribe. I was transported to the world where the rules of existence were different. A world , where you were treated with respect or disdain in equal measure, directly proportional to the proximity that you can demonstrate to the tribal chiefs, otherwise the biggies of babudom.
Having re-acquainted myself with this world once again, right in the heart of London, I was initially a bit numb by a sense of deja-vu, till the authorative voice of the doorman asked me to cross a wooden frame, supposedly a security check. I was reminiscing the several wooden frames that I have crossed back home, proving that I was no security threat and often wondered the effectiveness of passing by uninterested pan chewing female guards, cruelly clad in khaki trousers displaying the abundance of flat in all the wrong areas, in case any bombs crossed the barrier. Just as I was unconsciously falling prey to such misgivings, I tripped in the threads of a carpet and launched myself into a great big hall.
The centerstage of all activities.
There were big wooden paneled boxes that were last seen in Hollywood movies of the 30s but instead of some cigar chewing sheriffs behind the counters, there was nobody in those cubicles of power – the individual little fiefdoms of those lower down the babu hierarchy. It was an extended lunch time. One of the many waiting in the halls decided to inform having guessed from my looks that I was still getting accustomed to the whole experience of being in India, but still not yet there. The walls of the halls had a series of posters with glimpses of India, if you can separate the dust from the Technicolor images which I recognized immediately from the re-prints I have seen everywhere where the Babu decorator was allowed to leave his trademark – from the walls of the Airports, to the Rajdhanis to the Tourism board offices. Anticipating a long wait, I gingerly made way to some multicolored plastic chairs that were lined thoughtfully for the sake of all visitors, but just as someone got up from her seat, the person on the other end nearly fell off in a see-saw effect. Balance. Like everything in life, we in India, have a strong sense of balance, be it reality shows vs the K serials or the mere plastic chairs which were welded together in sets of 3 and would remain steady only through balanced distribution of weight it supported.
We were given numbers, as in Macdonald’s, but there were no electronic displays of token numbers and so there was a crowd in front of the paneled window where we had to await our turn, which finally arrived for me. As I made my way and was awaiting the completion of necessary procedures, I noticed something not commonly in London, if you discount the graffitis. Scribbles. Those that proclaimed ‘Jitu was here, 08/08/07’, ‘Sitha I love you’, ‘Raj + Lina’,etc. Something that I have seen everywhere and often wondered if it was an intrinsic act programmed in all Indians, the urge to leave our mark on time, albeit in reverse-literally sense. The urge to demonstrate our love for someone or just state simply that so-and-so was there. Is it the same urge that drives Mayawati to order statues of her in all nooks and corner of Uttar Pradesh (for now and rest of India, if ever such a day came) ? Is it the same urge that makes any politician worth his name lay down the foundation stone of buildings that never come up, but the stones remain as mute bearers of the names of those who had the power to lay them in marble ? Maybe.
As I was wondering all these, I was presented with yet another integral object of the Babudom – the files. Yes. Proper environment friendly, recyclable paper files with little bits of strings that hold the papers together. Something that is not easily seen in this part of the world,but which is an object that holds the key to all things in Babudom. How often had I heard tales of the rates of bribe that is needed to make the file move from one desk to another ? How often I have marveled at the power behind these seemingly innocent pieces of paper wherein lies great powers that determine the case history of every incident that was reported in Babudom ? I was glad that such files were still in existence and that they made their way across the seven seas to the banks of the Thames.
But as soon as my work was done, the lady serving me gave me a broad smile and I thanked her. Not just being overwhelmed by the experience of being in India, but not yet there, but also for the genuine way in which we greet each other back home. Unlike the crisp, uniformed and unfeeling way in which you are asked ‘Hi, how are you’ by the person serving you in any bank or any other place in the West, we Indians smile genuinely and greet each other from the bottom of our heart. Swept away with such warmth, I walked away from the HCI, London bidding a bye to the surprised safari-suit clad doorman, back to the hustle bustle of an ordinary London life.

News Garam

I often wonder what goes behind the scenes of compiling news items which appear to assault us from all sides in these days of information revolution. Who decides what is newsworthy and what’s the readership to whom the news is to be catered for ? A general scan of the electronic and print media gives an idea of the wide spectrum of such news items in these days when there is a compelling need to snatch the attention from the mouse pointers of the surfers who peek into the internet in between ‘breaks’ at work or such other pursuits.
Like many others, as I was surfing, some random news items that caught my attention one of which is ‘Pamela spends a million on her undies. Undeniably, the combination of all the words in this simple sentence , Pamela – million – undies, is enough for the brain to send a lightning signal to click the link and read more. Why ? Simply for curiosity’s sake; the same curiosity that killed the cat. Was the subject in question ever renowned for her modest appearance that warranted such investment. If she wore as little as Sonia Gandhi speaks, then where were all the money spent ? Is it a case of Emperor’s new clothes and she paid for exposing the Eve in her ?I remained as baffled as ever, but like many things in life, I just moved on; till I stumbled into the next that left me more confused than ever – ‘Shoes that transform into sandals’ . After the bizarre Crocs, which look like a plastic blob being shot by a country gun ‘Made in Chambal’ am I supposed to wear this hideously mutated footwear that can be unzipped and worn in a way more suitable to a scene from Harry Potter ? The footwear are a German invention and suspecting a general affliction of innovativeness in the German air, I should probably point out this ingenious design to Amma and other lady politicians who cover up such fears capes more suited to those inclined to renounce the world and opt for the confines of a monastery. Unlike the others, this can probably be a news item that can find many more interested takers in the form of some bosom budies of ladies in power.
Some news items focus on useful bits of information which I can use for tactical advantage in any verbal duel that may arise between me and members of those from Mars – Ten things that make blokes cry. I can’t agree more with Item 4; its as genuine as the example cited. But interesting..hmm…nothing for the wife that moves these guys to tears. Point to be noted.
I can probably go on and on, but there enough newsbytes there to make one an accumulator of some odd bits of information that I may end up never using in my life, but still, I waver, ponder and read them just the same.
I remember those days of yore when the newspaper swished into our mornings to be relished with a cup of tea with news items that were as dry as Sushma Swaraj’s sense of humour but yet we would all clamour to be the first one to read it – mostly the TV programmes and Phantom comic strips. The news items would be random – five point programmes, inauguration of a railway gate, and such others; mostly centering around the politicians who were the flavour of the day. But yet, nostalgia compels me to view it with a kaleidoscopic image of a more innocent age – an age when I recall my Dad exclaiming out aloud that Kishore Da is no more. On his birthday today, I like many of his fans, am grateful that he came into our lives and filled it with melodious memories and he lives on through his evergreen songs.