I want to move.

I am a selfish bitch.
Someone got raped on Friday. Someone like me. A young career woman on the way home after an evening with friends. And all I can think about is I have done the same. Tons of times. I did it last Friday. I didn't take a cab home, I rode on the ladies compartment of the Delhi metro. Apparently separating the sexes is the only way to keep women safe now. That is, till the next case. Maybe next time it will be the Metro. Maybe that's the next way my freedom will get curtailed.

I want to move to a different country. Where women in public spheres are not seen as aberrations or threats. Where religion is not a polarising force. Where national leaders don't express the need for a 'holy book' for the country. Where people from the majority community don't peddle crap like 'We have taken enough'. Where donor agencies are not welcomed with open arms to make the country more 'business-friendly', especially when their ulterior motives are known. Where young educated women don't have to give up their dreams and careers to have happy family lives. Where different points of view have the space to be heard without being branded sickular or sanghi. Where people question and debate, don't believe and accept. Where the family elders don't bemoan cultural pollution when the young embrace their rights to choice.  Where people forget who or what the 'other' is.

In Which I Explain The Blog Name (and get new room-mates)

Some people, whose mailboxes I may or may not have flooded with links to my blog, have enquired why my blog is called what it is.

If you took it literally, you wouldn’t be off the mark. Fish is always preferred. To everything. (Except maybe chicken.)

However, “Fish Preferred” is also the name of a book by Wodehouse. His other titles include “Aunt’s aren’t Gentlemen”, the “Code of the Woosters”, and “Uncle Fred in the Springtime”.  As the titles suggest, Wodehouse wrote heavily about family-batty cousins, battier aunts, and even battier uncles (besides prize pumpkins and award-winning pigs). Since I have an enviable collection of these (batty relatives that is, not pumpkins and pigs), I decided their misadventures would make for fantastic writing fodder. Of course, it didn’t pan out that way. Half of the posts on the blog have me cribbing, a fourth have me gush about movies/t.v. shows/ authors. In two years of blogging, only two posts featured relatives-one cousin and one aunt.

 Part of it has to do with the fact that I cannot be physically dragged into a family re-union/ function anymore. So I just don’t meet them that often. The rest of it has to do with me finding a relative I can bring myself to like. Who I wouldn’t have found unless the rest of the brood-actually only Malini di-had not existed.

I wasn’t feeling so charitable towards her that day though, when that call came. It was about 1 o’clock on a wintry Saturday-only late morning for me. I had been snuggling inside the quilt, reading, and the phone had been lying in the living room. I tumbled out of the bed, and failing to locate my slippers, had to run barefoot on the cold floor, towards the ringing mobile. It was only to be expected then, that my “Hello” to Malini di didn’t sound too enthused.

She asked me how my life and I were. I replied I was great. She decided I was joking and laughed a nice, polite laugh.

“I am in the city. Do you want to meet up? Get a bite?” she asked.

I hesitated a little, before replying-weighing the benefits of free food against the costs of stepping out in Delhi on a winter evening. Plus would the food even be free? I did have a job now, however little it paid…If we met in a nice, up-market restaurant, would I be expected to foot the bill? But she is older…surely protocol dictates that she pay…

“Or maybe we could come over to your place? I’d rather not be out in this cold”, she said before my inner voice could allow my real voice to answer.

“Sure”, I replied. Then wondered what level of familial censure a “no” would have caused.

Meanwhile she fixed the time. Then tried to make small talk but I stopped her mid-sentence to remind her that we were meeting later anyway. I was depending on talk of the weather, the fog, the traffic, and the upcoming Delhi elections to take us through the better part of the evening.

*              *              *

I looked down from the balcony when I heard an auto honk below. I could see the top of Malini di’s head, as she struggled to pull something out of the auto. It turned out to be a rather large suitcase. My inner voice shrieked in horror. Malini di seemed to hear that for she immediately looked up. I waved half-heartedly, and she gave me her famous dimpled smile. I saw that she had gotten fringes now, which seemed like an age-inappropriate choice. I decided to let her know that, if she threatened to stay with me. She looked towards the auto once again from which a bag was half-protruding out. My heart skipped a beat, as I realised someone inside the auto was holding it out.

“Or maybe we could come over to your place?”

We, she had said.

It suddenly dawned upon me that Malini di had gotten married since the last time we had met. Some painter-Dhrittimaan Chatterjee or Mukherjee or something. Or was it Ray? I saw a curly head of hair get out of the auto now.

                                                                                *             *              *

The curly head of hair was attached to a rather thin, wiry body. That of my new brother-in-law, who sat squatting on the mattress in my living room, dipping a glucose biscuit into the tumbler of tea I had offered him. I could see the biscuit crumbs merrily fall on his tiny French beard on to his green oversized kurta, which he had worn over a pair of faded jeans. The curly hair fell over his eyes which he kept flicking away periodically. The unmistakeable signs of aatel, I noted with some satisfaction. 

Malini di sat beside him, sipping from her glass. Periodically, she would adjust herself, and then look around the room, a pained look crossing her face, every time she did. It could be the newspapers strewn about the floor, my disbelief in the idea of chairs, or the bitter taste of the tea that was causing her, her consternation.

 “So mashi said you don’t have a roommate”, Malini di said, once she realised that I had registered her facial expression.

“Yeah, my roommate left, because she thought there were bed-bugs in the house”, I lied.

 Then I started painting her a picture of the terror the bugs had unleashed, but my brother-in-law interrupted to say that he wanted to use the bathroom. I indicated to him the one inside my room, and then resumed my gory narrative. She almost let out an audible sigh of relief when he returned, and gathered the tea tumblers to take them to the kitchen.

I heard her turn on the tap in the kitchen. She had begun washing the tea utensils. If I hadn’t known that it was a ruse to avoid conversation with me, I would have been touched.

Meanwhile, the brother-in-law had positioned himself on the mattress again and was smiling vacantly at me. I smiled back.

Then he outstretched his hand, at a 90 degrees angle from his body, and grunted noisily, while waving the hand. I leapt in surprise. He laughed at my shock.

“It’s an elephant, no?” he asked stupidly. Then repeated the action to show me that he was acting like an elephant. Apparently, this was regular behaviour from him, because Malini di kept up the utensil washing. Either that, or she was still studiously avoiding contact with me. And her weirdo husband.

“Yes, very nice,” I finally said, deciding he wouldn’t hurt me if I patronised him.

He laughed, then pointed at the luggage.

“That is the elephant, in this very nice room.”

I shook my head, believing that to be a neutral action, to which no meaning could be attached.

“So can we stay? We need a place for about three weeks. I have an exhibition here. We were going to stay with friends but that did not work out”.

I started mumbling. I was beginning to like him.

“We can take the spare room with the bug infestation”, he smiled. A pleasant smile.

“And you can say no. Even if this ambush seems to suggest otherwise”.

I couldn’t say no.

It’s been 11 months since the first meeting. My first meeting with my current room-mates.

What I Learnt in the Month Gone By

The answer to the burning question of what I like better- mountains or the sea.

Bhutan-Relaxing after a morning walk

Maldives-Sneaking out for a mid afternoon break

Mountains FYI. Hands down.

A young person's love life is everybody's business.
I got asked by a thirty something globetrotting professional woman whether I wasn't getting too old for marriage. And whether my parents were not introducing me to suitable bachelors.

It's probably not love if a muffin can help get over heartbreak.

I don't hate dogs. Not a lot.

I shocked myself by going 'Awwww what a cute doggie' at a random stray in Bhutan. Also, fun fact: there are no dogs in the Maldives. Not one. (Maybe not such a fun fact for dogs).

I enjoy teaching.

Or having a captive audience, at any rate.

Adam-teasing is a thing.

A shop girl would break into a Hindi film song every time a male colleague would visit. One of those times, the song was 'Husn hai suhana, paas mere aana' (yes that forgotten gem from Coolie No. 1).

Unnecessary beautification is not just something CWG obsessed Indian administrators do.

Ghastly ornamentation in Bhutan

Still better than this:

Ghastly ornamentation in Delhi

Young lovers the world over desecrate public property.

See, just the names change

Indians are world famous for circumventing queues and bending rules. And being unapologetic about it. Even in the emergency ward of a government hospital named after a former Indian Prime Minister.

All the hoopla about 'Ghar ka Khana' is justified.

You can have all the fish maru, grilled tuna with salsa, Kerala style fish curry, Bengali restaurant style fish curry in the world. But your mom's homemade curry that spills from one end of the plate to another is still the best.(Now if only the moong ki daal and the daily bhindi could be avoided).

I am more Bengali than I get credit for.

It's not just about the food. I have rarely heard a Bengali say, 'Valentine's day is an import from the decadent West'. It's more common to hear them say that we have Saraswati Puja for that anyway.

A Uniform Civil Code is not a necessary (and certainly not a sufficient) condition for women's empowerment. The senior management of the Central Bank in Islamic Maldives is all-women.

There's a pleasure in the world called Kit Kat ice cream.

There can be no reasonable justification for this being denied to an average person in post-reform India.

They are not paying me for this, I swear

Just ruminating

I wrote a poem when I was eight that got published in a a really dull children's magazine (no, not Champak). It was about a cat that chased rats and sat on  a mat. That's how far my poetic instincts ever went. May be excepting something insincere about world peace/ poverty/ despair I wrote in middle school. And my benchmark to judge poetry was simple-I liked them as long as they rhymed.

But then recently, late one night, when I was moping alone about how I was too old to be this clueless about life, I stumbled upon these lines:

"These paperboats of mine are meant to dance upon the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination."

And this simple line written by a white haired gentleman many years ago, uplifted the mood of a person born four generations later.
I know I have these vague ambitions of making a difference in people's lives. But can anything I do (as an average economist, consultant or government servant) match the kind of a impact a poet can have?

Forget Tagore.

Think of how happy the average Bollywood lyricist can make you.

Feeling daunted by work or life?

"Mitti ke parato ko nanhe se ankur bhi cheerein....
Suraj ki kirano ko roke yeh salakhen hai kahaan; sapno pe pehren de, yeh aankhen hai kahaan"

Or the more prosaic,
"Tension vension kya lena maathe pe bal hote hai
Beparvah muskano se hi masle hal hote hai"

In love?
"Lena dena nahi duniya se bas ab tujhse kaam hai
Teri ankhiyon ke shahar mein yaara sab intezam hai
Khushiyon ka tukra mile ya mila dukh khurchane
Tere mere kharche main sab ka ek daam hai"

Stunned by nature's beauty?
"Aasman ke chhat pe hain apni duniya
Khilkhilati jismein hai apni khushiya
Chaand ki chalni liye
Taare chunte hai hum
Jadui hai yeh jahaan
Hai nahi koi gham."

Of course this is not to deny that the same sentiment could be described by
"Yeh blue hai pani pani pani pani
Aur din bhi saaanny sannny saanny".

Budget 2014-15: A stronger case of cooperative federalism?

Honestly, this does not deserve a separate post-at best a comment on the Firstpost page where this article was published. But if you are a regular visitor on the website (does it say something about me that I am?), you would know how the regular commenters there are...how do I say it politely...moronic.

Anyway, the facts stated in the article are accurate enough. That is, as Jagannathan notes, there has been a  "...massive transfer of fiscal implementation power to states in just one year. In P Chidambaram’s last fiscal year (2013-14), states got Rs 1,19,039 crore out of the Rs 4,75,532 crore plan outlays; this year (2014-15), they get a huge Rs 3,38,408 crore from the total plan kitty of Rs 5,75,000 crore."

Essentially, there are two ways in which states can receive funds- Centrally sponsored schemes (CSS) and Central Assistance to State and UT plans. CSS schemes come with certain strings attached. Namely, states have to make proportionate expenditure contribution to the scheme if they are to access CSS funds. On the other hand, Central Assistance comes in two forms-Normal Assistance and Additional Assistance. Additional assistance funds are scheme-based. However, Normal Central Assistance are not tied to any specific schemes. Transfers to states depend on the Gadgil-Mukherjee formula which uses criteria like population, per capita income, fiscal discipline and special problems of the state to determine how funds are to be transferred. Once received, states can work with these funds in the manner that suits the state, on schemes that are tailored to the states’ specific needs.

However, the writer is being disingenuous when he says that,

"The one-cap-fits-all approach of the UPA years, dictated by dynastic and centralising feudal considerations, is now being whittled down by a former state chief minister who is now prime minister."

In fact, the almost three-fold jump seen in Central Assistance to State and UT plans (and a corresponding decline in allocations under CSS as reflected by the Gross Budgetary Support to States) under Jaitley's 2014-15 budget, mirrors the allocations made by Chidambaram's interim budget of 2014-15. He, of the party "dictated by dynastic and centralising feudal considerations". To be fair, the budget document itself does not claim to reversing any trend of "de-federalising a federalising trend that had begun earlier in the last decade". Rather, it maintains that it is continuing with the restructuring of CSS, as suggested by the B K Chaturvedi committee report.

Just goes to show that media coverage needs to be taken with a heavy dosage of salt.

Moving house

                                                

I looked determinedly at the pile of rubbish lodged into the loft. Used high-school textbooks, old broken toys stuffed into polythene bags of unseemly colours, a torn worn out Spiderman school bag, all stored away by Renee to preserve the memories of her childhood. This sentimentality seemed unnecessary to me, especially since I, as the eldest among four siblings had been used to passing my things forward to the younger ones. Often it was a prized object, a doll or a favourite illustrated book, handled carefully to be of use to the subsequent owner. When the youngest had outgrown it, my mother would pass those on to relatives with younger children or to the domestic help. With a large family, space was at a premium. Though Renee, as the only child had more of that to her disposal, a government flat in South Delhi did not afford any more room than a bursting-to-the seams bungalow in North Calcutta.  And now, that we were moving to an even tinier flat to the suburbs, after my husband’s retirement from work, I had put my foot down and insisted that we rid ourselves of all things we did not need. Renee grudgingly agreed when I told her over the phone. I could have had my way even if she did not-she was away studying in Mumbai.

It was taking longer than I had hoped. While I was mechanically taking things out, dusting them and passing them out to my husband for him to sort into boxes, even the slightest scrap of paper seemed to evoke a string of reminiscences from him. The book that Renee had won for being a class topper at the annual day in school, the answer sheet for the first geometry test she had flunked, a ‘magazine’ she had made as one of her holiday projects. And when he discovered an art book at the bottom of the first pile, I found myself, squatting on the floor beside him, and looking through her childish drawings.

The men seemed to have square bodies, the women unnaturally long hair, and a rainbow marked the background for most of the pictures. She was six I think, when her class teacher suggested that we encourage her towards art, because she seemed to have a certain flair for it. Ever the dutiful parents, we hunted for one until we concluded that the good art teachers were either too expensive, or lived too far off for us to take Renee to, every week. Then Ghoshal Da, my husband’s senior colleague and neighbour suggested that we let Abhijeet, his twenty-year old son, be Renee’s mentor. I was not averse to the idea. Apart from the convenience of the set up, Babu (Abhijeet’s nickname) also had the credentials. He was a student at the Delhi College of Art-enough credentials for an aspiring artist anyway. Plus Renee, not the most agreeable of children, seemed to like him.

Every Sunday, she would wait eagerly for her Babu Dada to arrive and sit beside her, while she first drew a line, than laboriously erased it, then drew again and repeated the procedure with the eraser, progressively dirtying the page. It was only when working with crayons, that she showed any sign of the flair her teacher had noticed. Babu taught her to stay within the lines, use colour and shades, and she learnt fast. My husband was happy because the only ‘fee’ Babu charged was Sunday’s breakfast, and I did not really mind cooking. For one, Babu relished whatever he ate, and was generous with his compliments. Sometimes, if his mother were not home, he would come for lunch after college, and show us his drawings. And even though I was his ‘kakima’, I got along better with him than with his parents. I enjoyed our conversations, for he was aware and well read and could talk about politics as intelligently as he could about cricket. His idealism was contagious, and I remember how he persuaded me to go vote in that year’s general elections (his first), when my husband said he would not because all politicians were corrupt anyway.

Another neighbour in the colony that Renee and I both loved was Meeta. She was married to Ranjan, a young engineer from IIT, Kharagpur- and a poster boy for affirmative action.  The perfect example of how a poor boy could ensure a better life for his parents and future generations with the help of more opportunities. Meeta herself was from the same town, but not as educated as her husband. She was frail when I first saw her as a newly-wed, and three years in the city, albeit with much better means than before marriage, did very little to help. Kharagpur may be more than a sleepy little town now but even the Delhi of the nineties, before the Metro and before the malls, with its traffic, pollution and people, intimidated her. I empathised with her, because even though I was from a metropolis, I too had battled unfamiliarity with the language and the culture, when I had first arrived. I knew Meeta looked up to me and I enjoyed showing her around. I familiarised her with the shops, with the Hindi names of the vegetables, and the markets where fish could be bought. Renee loved Meeta’s cooking. The mutton and the prawns she made were brilliant no doubt, but even her rajma, a hitherto alien ingredient for her, eclipsed mine. And every time she made something new, or something she knew Renee liked, a bowl of it would unerringly sit on our dining table.

Meeta and her husband, the Ghoshals and we, were the only Bengali families in the colony. Naturally, since she knew very few people in Delhi, and certainly much fewer Bengalis, I introduced Meeta to Mrs.Ghoshal. The latter was cordial enough but presumably with her job and domestic chores, found no time to reciprocate the visit. Babu saw Meeta sometimes at my home and showed her some of his paintings. She liked most of them, especially the landscapes, but the two of them did not really get along as well I had thought they would, which surprised me since she was only a little older than he was. Admittedly, their interaction was limited, and their backgrounds disparate, so I resisted any further attempts to get them and their families better acquainted.

Babu was still a favourite with Renee though, and their art lessons continued through the year, until one day when Mrs. Ghoshal called to ask if I could accommodate Babu for lunch. Normally that would not be a problem at all, but I had made only pulses that day, something I could hardly serve to a guest, even if it was Babu. My own daughter had been making dissatisfied noises at the menu. Meeta was at my side when I attended the call and she immediately offered to get me some of the fish curry she had made. I protested half-heartedly, but she waved those off, happy to see Renee jumping around, celebrating the favourable turn of events. After dutifully dropping the bowl of the deep brown coloured curry off, she left, just as Babu came in, giving him a quick smile. I went inside the kitchen to heat the food, hearing Renee excitedly tell Babu how good the curry looked. I could not agree more but when I took up the bowl to serve him the fish, he sheltered his plate with his hand and said he did not want any of it.

“What will you have then? I have only made daal! I thought you liked fish!” I exclaimed.

“I do”, he replied, “but I don’t want anything she has cooked”.

For a second I looked at him in disbelief, then regained enough composure to rustle up an omelette.

The following Sunday, in the most uncharacteristic manner, Renee refused to come in front of Babu. My husband was embarrassed. Babu was after all his senior’s son. He tried to scold Renee into complying, but she started sobbing into his arms. He held her and melted immediately, assuring her that she didn’t have to take art classes any longer.

“But why don’t you want to colour any more with Babu dada?” he asked Renee later, when she had regained her calm.

“He doesn’t like Meeta aunty”, she replied simply.

As I smiled at those drawings fourteen years later, my husband looked at me sideways and suggested that we could save some of Renee’s old things.

“At least those that nobody else would have any use for”, he hastened to add. I agreed.

Back to (D) School

The e-rick driver is in a good mood. He sings 'Suhana safar hai yeh mausam haseen', while facing the risk of a heat stroke.

I down two glasses of iced tea within the first thirty minutes. I come back later for a third, but the ice cubes are over. I settle for masala coke instead.

I make my job sound way cooler than it is  to people I don't like (Guess who). I am more honest with my friends.

I feel happier seeing Rawat bhaiya (who ignores me) than any of the professors at D school.

I spend inordinate amounts of time talking to professors I didn't even like in D school. But let's face it-there were very few profs I did like.

For the second time in my life, I follow every word of a speech. For the first time, someone is giving me advice I really need.

They serve vegetarian shaadi wala food. I die a little. The shaadi wala desert (ice cream with hot gulaab jamuns) saves the day.

I salivate at the description of food served at a friend's wedding. I am shocked I have a friend who has had a wedding.

I introduce a friend to my colleagues. I feel weird having colleagues.