Movie Review – Kesari; good but could be better!

Finally, a review for a current movie!

It was with great hopes I had gone to watch Kesari. This was, after all, the story of one of the most famous last stands in military history. Twenty-one Indian Army men against more than ten thousand Afghans. Even Alamo pales in comparison! 21 Men at Saragarhi, a tiny heliographic transmission station in the Samana Hills on the North-Western Frontier, basically stopped the ambitions of the Afghans to conquer parts of India, till the Germans and Turks again stoked those fires in the First World War. But that is another story….

So how did Anurag Singh handle the story of 21 of the bravest men who ever graced the rolls of the incredibly brave Indian Army?

Good, but it could have been better. Far better.

Historical accuracy is maintained better than most Indian period movies. The uniforms, the Martini-Henry single-shot breech loading rifles, the frame packs, the large turbans and the flowing beards of the Sikh soldiers. The Smith & Wesson revolvers with the British officers, the side-mounted spike bayonets. The basic architecture of the forts, the heliograph signalling sets.

However, some inaccuracies persist. The Vickers or Maxim (it was not visible enough to be identified clearly) machine gun, shown early in the movie, was not really in service in the North-Western Frontier at that time. The famous volley fire of the British Armies (including their Colonial Forces), which decimated Napoleon’s vast columns almost a century back and the Kaiser’s vaunted Grenadiers 18 years later, was not in evidence, the firing being more of the “fire at will” type favoured by Americans (and of course, Hollywood).

No picture of Sikh Soldiers in the British service could be found wearing the chakram on their turbans, so I cannot comment on the historical accuracy of that particular piece of gear.

But….. untrained Afghan qabailies  firing muzzle-loading muskets as fast as the highly-trained British-Indian troops fire Martinis?

That effeminate Afghan sniper using a smooth-bore musket to shoot at impossible distances? Unless it was a Baker or Snider rifle, in which case, the shape is all wrong!

That Afghan sniper seems to be inspired by the Janissaries of the old Ottoman Empire, most of whom were eunuchs, renowned for their bravery as well as savagery, and utilised for, let’s say “other purposes” in times of relative peace.

The Martinis were not really a .303 calibre rifle, although some were produced in that calibre at the very end of the production run, so Martini-Henrys chambered for the British .303 ball cartridge could have been sent to the NW Frontier. So the .303 Ball Cartridge boxes may not be an inaccuracy. The design of the boxes and the stencils are accurate enough.

Every Soldier, for some reason is shown wearing a different type of shoe. Probably the only authentic period military footwear is the pair of shoes that one of the Soldiers is saving for his father. Akshay Kumar’s Havildar Ishar Singh wears canvas shoes (not introduced till the First World War, and even then not a part of combat uniform). Some Soldiers are wearing Punjabi jooties!

The military side, weapons et al, will probably be noticed by some crazy loon like me, but did Sikhs really get married in western jackets in the 1890s?

And then the cliches! Is no history of the British Army in India complete without a racist British Officer? And can no movie with a Sikh hero be made without having a crash course on the entire history of the Sikhs?

Yes, British officers were racist. Racism was a fact of life, as was casteism. Especially post the Mutiny, the British added “untrustworthiness” to the other faults of the Indians. The closeness between white officers and Native NCOs/ORs reduced drastically after 1857. They didn’t realise, poor ignorant Europeans that they were, that the greatest force in India was casteism. You just couldn’t play with a man’s caste!

However, Sikhs and Gurkhas were largely exempt from this odious behaviour, mainly because they had helped the British win the Mutiny. A British officer, especially a mere Lieutenant, being racist to a senior Sikh NCO seems highly surprising! And history (written by the British) states that the British were fully aware of the valour of the Sikhs, so clubbing them with the rest of Indians as “cowards” is even more surprising! The Lieutenant in the movie behaves childishly, pettishly to a senior NCO. Reason enough for the officer to lose his commission! Especially as the Havildar seems to be respected by the senior officers (Colonel Haughton). And was “fucker” even in common use among the officer class in the 1890s? Remember, British Officers were gentlemen first, i.e. they had to be noble-born. Commoners couldn’t easily make officers. Nobility just didn’t use such words!

I must mention here that I could find no record which shows the real Havildar Ishar Singh actually disobeying orders. If a Soldier disobeys orders, he must be punished. That’s the Army for you. Irrespective of his motives, a Soldier acting contrary to general and specific orders is always punished, our civilian sensibilities be damned.

The revertal of Havildar Ishar Singh and his men to the legendary valour of Sikhism, as opposed to the simple “duty” of the Soldier, is purely a ploy to sell the movie. The whole melodrama of wearing a saffron (Kesari) turban, the cursing of the British Raj, the yearning for freedom on the part of Ishar Singh, seem to be further ploys to show the Soldiers as “Indian Patriots” rather than “British Soldiers”.

It is not needed. The incredibly brave men that fought like devils and died like heroes at Saragarhi do not need to be turned into Swadeshi patriots or Sikh religious warriors to enhance their bravery. They fought for their paltan, as most Soldiers fight. They fought for their duty. They fought because it was their job. This is why Soldiers fight. This is why brave men go out, every day, to kill and die. Patriotism is for civilians, for the militia, for freedom fighters (or terrorists, depending upon your political and national position), for brain-washed minions of totalitarian regimes. For real Soldiers, duty is enough.

And this is my biggest crib against the movie. The historical inaccuracies can be excused. Tying a telescope to a Martini to convert it into a Dragunov can be kept aside. Showing Akshay as a superhero can be excused (the real Havildar Ishar Singh died equally, if not more, heroically, guarding the gate to the inner fort after pushing the remnants of his force inside). Even if the director made the Soldiers use AK-47s, it could be ignored.

But not the perversion of Soldierly purity of purpose to civilian jingoism and trumpet-blasting.

As far as highlighting a forgotten battle goes, the movie is a good attempt. We, the people of India, are woefully misinformed regarding the valour of our Soldiers fighting in the Royal Indian Army. Not only Saragarhi, but a thousand battlefields from Lucknow to Libya, from Myitkyina (pronounced Michina) to Monte Cassino, has been hallowed by the blood of Indian soldiers fighting for the Empire. A large part of this willful neglect is due to seeing these brave-hearts as “traitors” because they fought for the British Raj. What we civilians fail to realize is that patriotism, as we understand it, does not exist naturally, without an accompanying propaganda machine. The trumpets and songs and speeches are a basic necessity for the existence of jingoistic patriotism, and of course, the sounds of bullets hitting flesh and screams of the wounded do not make for a great advertisement for the life martial!

The intolerable ennui of Military life (ask anyone who has been on sentry duty), coupled with the risk of sudden death, then the nightmares that come after (ever heard of PSTD?) makes it a very, very tough life. What makes a man, especially a not-very-educated private soldier (sepoy or jawan) live this life, happily, is an Army which takes care of them, officers who inspire them, and comrades who the can rely on. Which is why highly disciplined and trained Armies composed of volunteers have a lower rate of desertion, cowardice, and panic than under-trained conscript Armies. The design of the flag, the constitution of the country, the colour of the political ideology, does not matter to the man in the trenches!

For centuries, our rulers (brown and white) had been using poor villagers as cannon-fodder. With the exception of the great Shivaji, and later to some extent of Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan, no Indian ruler treated the “troops” as anything but cannon-fodder.

But the British – some of them at least – realised the value of treating their men well. Not out of any sympathy, but because throughout their history they always fought in battles where they were outnumbered (Crecy, Agincourt, Balaclava), and the last, the humblest bowman or pikeman or infantryman was valuable as a fighter. This lowliest private or man-at-arms had to be inspired, to be ready and willing to fight. Which is why Shakespeare has Henry V call every man who fought with him at Agincourt as his “brother”.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother

Clive himself, Eyre Coote, Wellesley (later Lord Wellington), Nicolson, down to Slim, actually, genuinely, fought their own establishments to improve the life of the men (both British and Indian) under them. And that is what leads to loyalty. Great leadership also leads to great loyalty. All the above – from Shivaji to Slim (including Henry V) – provided great leadership. Leadership which leads. From the front. Leadership which is not based on flowery speeches, but on genuine concern for the men, each of the men as an individual human, not as a statistic. Leadership based on personal bravery.

We civilians have an easy way out to prove our loyalty (to whatever). Play the music loud. Patriotic music, party slogans, politically tinged songs. Wave the flag. Scream.

The Soldier has to get in there and feel the pain. He does not have the luxury of screaming. In the movie, Lance Naik Chanda Singh, shot in the shoulder, keeps firing his rifle. Imagine the pain. The shock of the recoil smashing against an already-shattered shoulder. And those old black-powder Martinis were brutal in the recoil!

No, Havildar Ishar Singh and his brave men do not need to prove they are Indians. They were incredibly brave. Braver than you or I can ever be. The last man standing, Sepoy Gurmukh Singh, the nineteen-year-old heliograph operator, actually killed more than 20 Afghans while on fire himself. A nineteen-year-old kid. On fire. Fighting and killing. I can only weep for the 21, and shout along with a burning, dying boy…..

Bole so Nihal, Sat Sri Akal!

Thank you, bravehearts, for saving me from Taliban rule!

 

Note:

The list of the 21 Immortals, as per wikipedia, is as below:

1. Havildar Ishar Singh (regimental number 165)
2. Naik Lal Singh (332)
3. Lance Naik Chanda Singh (546)
4. Sepoy Sundar Singh (1321)
5. Sepoy Ram Singh (287)
6. Sepoy Uttar Singh (492)
7. Sepoy Sahib Singh (182)
8. Sepoy Hira Singh (359)
9. Sepoy Daya Singh (687)
10. Sepoy Jivan Singh (760)
11. Sepoy Bhola Singh (791)
12. Sepoy Narayan Singh (834)
13. Sepoy Gurmukh Singh (814)
14. Sepoy Jivan Singh (871)
15. Sepoy Gurmukh Singh (1733)
16. Sepoy Ram Singh (163)
17. Sepoy Bhagwan Singh (1257)
18. Sepoy Bhagwan Singh (1265)
19. Sepoy Buta Singh (1556)
20. Sepoy Jivan Singh (1651)
21. Sepoy Nand Singh (1221)

The inscription on the memorial, commissioned by the British Raj:

The Government of India have caused this tablet to be erected to the memory of the twenty one non-commissioned officers and men of the 36 Sikh Regiment of the Bengal Infantry whose names are engraved below as a perpetual record of the heroism shown by these gallant soldiers who died at their posts in the defense of the fort of Saragarhi, on the 12 September 1897, fighting against overwhelming numbers, thus proving their loyalty and devotion to their sovereign The Queen Empress of India and gloriously maintaining the reputation of the Sikhs for unflinching courage on the field of battle.

 

Farewell, Bucie; and Welcome, Griz!

Last year, in October, I finally decided that Bucephalus II, affectionately known as Bucie, a.k.a. Tata Manza Aura+ Safire 90 Grey Noir registration number MH 43 A 1850, a.k.a. my faithful ride for eight-and-a-half years, was past its retirement age.

The first time I rode Bucie on a relatively less-trafficked road (he wasn’t named then), I felt his power, his speed, his nimbleness, and I had to name him. The obvious choice being a famous steed of yore. And since Bajaj had taken the first name I thought of, Chetak, for a licence-permit era fifth-rate scooter (a grievous insult to a great horse, I opine), I had to name my new ride after Bucephalus, the great war horse of Alexander the Great, which he tamed when he (old Alex) was 16, and which died in the Battle of Hydaspes (that famous one against the hyper-egoistic Porus). Ergo, Bucephalus II, affectionately called Bucie.

The whole family (L to R): Reshmi, my Aunt, Ronnie, Jojo, my Mom, me, Bucie. Ignore the other car, I don’t want to be reminded that I ever owned a Maruti PoS.

And what a time it was. Eight-and-a-half years of being one of the fastest on the road. Of leaving behind far more expensive vehicles wallowing in the wind of our passing. Of taking speed bumps at speeds which would have made the Honda Citys (pronounced with a strong Bengali accent) leave their arse behind on the road.

At the wheel of Bucie, en route to Bhandardara

That time when I looked down at the speedometer on the way to Mumbai from Mahabaleshwar, and noticed it hovering above 160 kmph! And Bucie was just 4 months old then.

That time when a BEST bus was stopped, FBI style, the uniformed sarkari at the wheel given a lesson in Hindi Unprintables 101, and left standing there, for the unforgiveable crime of not letting Bucie and me cut across lanes.

Ronnie and Bucie, when younger

That BMW Z4 sports coupe, seen as a diminishing speck in the ORVM. Taking the Amboli Ghats (which even seasoned cars and drivers are scared of) at night, en route to Goa. Driving Mumbai-Bangalore with two old buddies in an eight-year-old Bucie, without a hitch (he rode on a leaky tyre half the time). The immense reliability. The sense of having someone who’ll never, ever let you down.

Bucie after the last long drive, Mumbai to Bangalore. With Prasan and Rahul.

 

At the end, it wasn’t the potholes or the bumps which finished Bucie, it was a tiny crack in the windshield, unnoticed while I was in Bangalore for months, and the Mumbai rains, of which Bucie is not the first victim, certainly not the last. Truly, in this case for the want of a nail, a kingdom was lost.

Bucie, the photographer’s friend.

 

Enter Griz. Griz is a Mahindra TUV 300 T10 MHawk 100 Lava Red , license number KA 01 MS 5021. Griz is of course, short for Grizzly Bear. Because he growls like one when he’s about to charge.

Decked up for his new family

Griz changes surnames. Mahindra to Dasgupta.

And when Griz charges, the infamous yellow-plate wallahs of Bangalore are known to give way. Private vehicle drivers are seen gesticulating wildly and heard yelling obscenities in H1B accents when Griz roars past them with a couple of inches to spare. Griz even manages to bully BMTC drivers sometimes.

Of course, since purchase of a two-wheeler in India comes with a free immortality ticket, those pesky mosquitoes will not scare even if a real T-Rex were behind them, the silly buggers!

Griz is a great car (or truck, rather), but it doesn’t have the kick of ol’ Bucie. That’s the big difference between a petrol engine and a diesel engine. But on the other hand, Griz doesn’t seem to feel the Bangalore roads. No, delete that. It should have been “Griz doesn’t feel the non-existence of roads in Bangalore”. It rolls, yes, but again, the “Axis powers” (the Germans, Japanese, and Italians) would scrape their arse off in the kind of terrain Griz takes with a roar of sheer happiness.

And on the sparse stretches where we do have roads and not much traffic in this city, Griz has to be seen to be believed. That big a beast can actually weave through traffic like a much smaller and nimbler sports coupe!

Yeah, Griz isn’t as fast as ol’ Bucie. But he has a decent turn of speed when he wants to (I mean, when I want him to). And that’s almost always.

A fast horse exchanged for a slightly slower, but bigger grizzly bear. Not a bad exchange, I think!

Looking forward to taking Griz to Goa over the Good Friday weekend. Watch this space!!

Griz outside a restaurant in Mysore. Stained with travel, muddy, but raring to go. Exactly what a person, a dog, or a car should be like!

Griz & Reshmi, near the Vrindavan Gardens

 

P. S.: Apologies for those who may have looked for a review. Please go to http://www.team-bhp.com for excellent reviews of both the superb vehicles.

Dunkirk – Belated Movie Review

It is left to crazy people to write movie reviews after the movie has probably been forgotten. But what the heck! As long as I can write, I will!

Well, Dunkirk. As a WW2 geek, I was expecting more. A lot more.

The movie opens with a few impossibly clean British soldiers with nice “blowin’ in the wind” haircuts walking down a deserted town, only to be near victims of “friendly fire” by the French.

The first point I look for in a war movie, or any movie with even a single Military character in it, is the haircut. Most troops of most armies in WW2, had a haircut called “Army Cut” (“buzz cut” for the Americans). They still have a similar cut (except the mohawks and similar styles popularised in the US Army during Vietnam). Soldiers do not, repeat, do not have long, styled hair! Unless the Soldier is an SF operative under cover.

And after 3 months of fighting, retreating, dodging tanks, Stukas, Me109s, the uniforms are as clean as if the soldiers in the movie are on parade! And these guys are supposed to be front-line troops, right? Not rear echelon pen-pushers!

A French soldier strips a British body of its uniform, and puts his uniform on the body. Nicely, easily, The dead guy’s uniform doesn’t have holes or blood on it. The body is intact. The poor guy just died of a heart attack, not from gunfire, ya see!

Clean, white beaches. Just a few bodies lying here and there. No sign of the anti-aircraft batteries, of the continuously bombing Stukas and Heinkels. Only two air raids shown, or was it three? History tells us that people were dying on that beach. Long-range German artillery was shelling those men waiting for rescue. The sand was running red. And they made it look like a nice family vacay type of beach!

Only one “little ship” coming to the rescue, through an empty sea. Suddenly on reaching Dunkirk beach, the little ship magically multiplies itself by a few hundred!

Only two or three RAF planes in the sky. One German bomber. Is this a war or a border conflict between two impoverished countries?

And then, you cannot make a movie in the second decade of the twenty-first century without showing white people, and especially the rulers of the largest empire in history, as racist. Even if there is no context. So, the British sergeant refuses to let French troops get on to British ships. And the motley bunch of soldiers hiding in the stranded boat rounds on the French guy disguised in British uniform and almost shoot him. Except that the Jerries get on the act and use the boat for target practice! Which doesn’t prevent the poor scared French kid from drowning.

You can’t show the “other side” as evil, if you have to survive in politically-correct Hollywood. Ergo, the RAF pilot with the nerve gone. The one who shoves the kid down the stairs. Probably the only death in the movie which makes you cry. So, the only tragic incident in the movie is caused by “one of us”; a pilot who has crashed and has lost his nerve!

Probably the same political correctness causes the other peccadilloes. Kids will be watching this movie, so we cannot show blood, cannot show human bodies blown up by streams of machine gun bullets.

Yeah, I know, I know, it is one of those “isolated incidents” kind of movie. The kinds which say that they take you close to the human aspects, highlighting a few people among the mass typically shown in a documentary.

And what the movie delivers is also isolated. Isolated flashes of pathos. Isolated scenes of terror, isolated incidents of bravery, isolated pictures of the horror of war. Nothing put together, nothing which makes me feel. A waste of talent!

The aim of a war movie is simple. It is either to show up the horror of war (Platoon, Born on the Fourth of July, Apocalypse Now), or to showcase the heroism of the men in Uniform, or to showcase the heroism of the men in “our uniform” (propaganda movies, The Bridge over the River Kwai, Saving Private Ryan, many other American and all Indian war movies). This movie doesn’t fall into any of the above brackets. Is this the dawn of a fourth kind of war movie? Only time will tell.

I am normally known to laugh hysterically in tragic-ending romantic movies, e.g. when Romeo and Juliet (by whatever name the film-maker calls them) die at the end like the pair of cowardly fools they are.

However, A Bridge too Far, The Longest Day, Saving Private Ryan, The Bridge over the River Kwai, Haqeeqat……these movies make me blubber like a small baby. Remember the last scene of Saving Private Ryan, the field of white crosses in the war cemetery, each cross for one man who died so that Nazism could be defeated? I have tears in my eyes as I type this line.

Dunkirk left me dry-eyed throughout.

Some more details on EDC

I did mention in my last post A brief primer on EDC, that I’ll give details of what I carry and why I carry what I carry.

But, I thought I will insert another post in between, which should help you plan your EDC around what “you” are. And also to give me time to take pictures of my EDC setup.

Basically, the size of an EDC, and the items you can carry depends, on where you live, the job that you do, your sense of style, and even your age and gender!

A military person, with all the pockets in the uniform, can carry a lot. The combat fatigues (BDUs to Yanks) and the packs, chest rigs, belt pouches, etc. are designed around an EDC (or battle load), and the Soldier is trained to carry the “EDC” over long distances. Having said that, a lot of a Soldier’s EDC is planned for him. You can’t suddenly decide to carry 0.45 ammunition, when you are issued an AK-74 and a Glock!

If you look at photographers, they wear jackets with about a hundred pockets, and they are forever searching through all 100, for some item they finally find in the 99th! With all due respect to photographers, they need the jacket and those pockets for their professional work.

I will typically not cover profession-related EDCs in this blog. I don’t think a Soldier needs advice to carry enough ammo, or a photographer his spare lenses, or a carpenter his jack plane.

What I will cover is stuff everyone might need, whether they are photographers or carpenters. And as for military people, I will be very grateful for their advice and suggestions on how to improve my EDC!

If your job, your surroundings, your age (or your perception of it), your physique (ditto), allows you to wear the civilian equivalent of combat fatigues, aka cargo pants, good for you! If your belt is sturdy enough, you just might be able to fit even the kitchen sink in there! The stereotyped software people are extremely lucky in that sense!

If you are an investment banker, a Wall Street broker, a top-of-the-line lawyer, or a billionaire businessperson, or are otherwise required to wear a suit everyday, your suit pockets can fit a lot of items. Just be careful not to load the jacket to a point when it starts to hang down from your shoulders, or bulges in the middle. And yes,  the two lower front pockets in a jacket are for show. Never, repeat never, keep anything in them. The inner pockets are where stuff goes. And please spend a minuscule part of your massive net worth in getting the jackets tailored like Bond, James Bond. His Walther PPK and 3-4 magazines don’t show up as tell-tale bulges, do they? You can try Saville Row, London, for decent suits. Or the nearest Raymond outlet.

For the vast majority of white-collar workers, we have just the breast pocket of a shirt, and the three or four pockets of a pair of trousers or jeans. So how do we carry that goddamn kitchen sink???

No problemo, amigos! Carry a bag. Yeah, a “purse” like the ladies do. Only, it is called a “murse”!!!

Seriously, don’t carry a murse. I hate the term. Extremely sexist, if you ask me! But, I carry a small shoulder bag many a time. It’s the design which counts. If it looks like a messenger bag or a camera bag, it’s a man’s bag, not a murse! Denim, canvas, patina’ed leather. NO DESIGNER LOGOS!

The bag you carry to office can also fit in your EDC comfortably, but you don’t go to a mall or the zoo, carrying a laptop bag on your shoulders, do you?

So, you keep your EDC in a smaller bag inside your office bag (or briefcase, or backpack, or whatever). When you go to the mall, slip that small bag inside your murse……Oops! I mean, camera bag.

What you can carry depends also on your surroundings. For Crocodile Dundee, a 10-inch Bowie “knoife” is standard. But unless you live and work in the Australian Outback or similar environs, you can’t get away with carrying a huge piece of hardware on your belt.

Of course, never try to get even a half-inch knife through airport security!

I seem to hear the ladies in the background. “What about us?”, they say. “We don’t even have pockets in most of our dresses”. No worries, Madames et Mademoiselles! In my opinion, ladies are genetically hardwired to carry an EDC. They do have a right to carry a purse, without people making up snide nicknames for the bag! And I have yet to meet a lady who didn’t have everything, sometimes including the kitchen sink, inside the impossibly tiny bag. I wouldn’t advice carrying your dog in a purse, though. Even a Chihuahua might feel claustrophobic!

That’s it for now, folks. Please have patience for the list of my EDC items, I am quite new to product photography, actually!

A brief primer on EDC

I am sure many people would have heard, read, or otherwise noticed the term EDC. It seems everyone and his fifth cousin has an EDC. There are websites devoted to it. Pages upon pages on Pinterest are devoted to it. Heck, people even go on Twitter with EDC!

But, you ask, what in Hades is an EDC, and how do I get onto the bandwagon? (I am making a huge assumption here – that you, dear reader, actually want to get on. If you don’t my apologies, and you can stop right here).

Answer: EDC, is, simply Every Day Carry. And you don’t need to get onto the bandwagon, you already are on it! And so are your spouse, your kids, your parents, your grandparents, and so on. In fact, our grandparents were probably more into EDC than our “connected generation”, just that they didn’t have sexy terms for it.

Are you a student? Do you carry with you, everyday, to school, books, writing / drawing instruments, calculator, lunchbox, water bottle? Then that is your Every Day Carry.

Are you a working professional? Do you carry with you, everyday, in that ragged black backpack which your laptop came in, a laptop, charger, sundry files / papers, pens, etc.? Then that is your Every Day Carry.

Are you a senior citizen? Do you carry a walking stick? Do you have your heart attack pills in your pocket / bag? Do you wear a medical band? Then that is your Every Day Carry.

Your cellphone, charger, laptop, notebook, wallet, credit cards, cash, driving license, company ID, business cards, pens, spare glasses, everything which leaves home with you, whenever you go out, is your EDC.

The difference between EDC enthusiasts and others arises in the fact that enthusiasts plan their EDC. They look not only at the regular happenings which they have learnt to live with & tolerate, but also irregular happenings which can impact their lives, a bolt from the blue, as it were.

I’ll give an example here. I used to drive for about 24-25 km for work. I would keep a cursory eye on the petrol gauge, and prepare to get a fill once it looked too low for comfort. Plus I needed some 200-250 bucks every day for food, cigarettes, and sundry other comfort stuff. The petrol I usually paid for using my debit card. Now, imagine a scenario, where I carry only the 250 I need daily, am running dangerously low on fuel, and due to some reason or the other, my favourite bank’s network is having issues (that bolt from the blue!). I’ll be extremely lucky to get home without having to shove the 1.5 tonnes of automobile half the way (and using a hearse for my next ride)! So, my EDC should include at least a 1000 for emergencies, tucked away separately from my spending money.

Another example. In the July 2005 floods in Mumbai, many people died simply because they couldn’t see the manhole in front of them. Power was out, and very few people carried a flashlight. There were people who, living in the rain-drenched city that is Mumbai, were not carrying umbrellas and were holding laptops and handbags over their heads.

I will give insights into my EDC, and the planning process behind it, in a separate post.

Just remember, EDC is part of “being prepared”, and should have as much attention as your life insurance, vehicle insurance, and the fire extinguishers you keep at home and in the car (and if you son’t, please do).

When ads are more than just ads….

Since the last few days, the idiot box has been slightly less idiotic. Well, it can’t help it, not with the Olympics on!

And the Olympics tempted even an old cynic like me to switch on the box, and as usual, to flip channels when the Uzbeks and Bosnians were facing off in qualifying matches of handball.

So, I couldn’t help but notice a few adverts which can be said to promote CSR, or Corporate Social Responsibility. CSR, in itself, is a vague concept which essentially says that corporates should do some good with all the money they fleece from the gullible public (a.k.a. consumers).

What follows below is my (typically crazy) thoughts on three such ads, with a fourth (dis)honourable mention.

Firstly, an ad which clearly states that it is a CSR initiative, the Hero Motors ad. It is beautifully done. There is no Hero Motors logo visible anywhere (in fact the only logo I could discern in my non-HD dabba is a Dell logo on the guy’s backpack in the last shot). The bikes and scooters are all Hero Motors products, but the logos and model names have been skilfully airbrushed out. The shots show all family members – a father, a mother, kids, spouse, even a cute Golden Retriever.

It is the inclusion of the puppy that makes the ad worthwhile for me! There could have been a guy waiting for his wife also included, but then, who am I to make politically correct comments?

Overall, a good ad, except that one wishes it wouldn’t run at the precise moment when we are about to see the playback of India’s hockey goal! Hero & Star, please, please let us watch the playbacks! The music / jingle / whatever is also quite catching, but too many repetitions, even on FM radio, might make the message banal and boring. I actually heard the advert four consecutive times on the FM while driving last evening!

And I just hope all the certifiably-insane two-wheeler users on the roads see this ad, and more importantly, change their behaviour!

The second one is the KFC advert(s), showing a “normal” guy and his “differently-abled” friend enjoying a big bucket of fried chicken. There is no moral science lesson at the end, but it shows quite nicely how a person lucky enough to have all his facilities intact can be great friends with someone who doesn’t.

There is no condescension to the deaf-and-dumb guy, no feeling of pity or sympathy. He is shown to be as normal as any of us. A very good advert from KFC! I would suggest showcasing other differences also – race, religion, etc. Maybe a cross-dresser? Or would that be too blatant for our censors?

Unfortunately, I don’t have a differently-abled friend, but I would surely enjoy a bucket of fried chicken with any friends, except that I won’t let you have the last piece!

Thirdly, the Bajaj Electricals advert. Going by the sudden tsunami of adverts, even upto sponsorship of Olympic programming, it seems Bajaj has some change at the top, maybe a new marketing head!

The advert shows a family preparing breakfast and buying clothes for the mother, who is rejoining a job after some 9 years of looking after her kids. It might be a good ad for others, but my first point against it, is the feeling of “sacrifice” of the mother. It is this reason that I have included this ad in the list. My take is that you do not “sacrifice” for your kids. If someone is about to shoot my family, and I jump in the way and get killed, that is not sacrifice. If a cop, or a third person does the same, that is sacrifice. If I spend the money which I had saved for a holiday, on my mother’s heart operation, it is not sacrifice. If I do it for my friend’s mother, or (better still) a total stranger, then it can be honoured with the word “sacrifice”!

The other point is that there is too much product placement. Granted, Bajaj makes every type of electrical appliance under the sun, but did they need to show every last one of them  in one ad? And the cartoon-ish characters superglued to the appliances are not really funny. It might have been better to have the appliances themselves animated with mouths and all, somewhat like the teacups and teapots in Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast”.

And now for the (dis)honourable mention. Who else but our yoga guru, Baba Ramdev? An extremely cheap shot at patriotism. A jingoistic diatribe against MNCs, most of whom would have paid more in taxes in India than Ramdev even earned with his tax-free yoga classes. And at a time when the government, rightfully so, is going all-out to attract foreign investment. And then the appeal to charity!! I honestly haven’t heard about any charity done by the Baba and his cohorts. If someone does know something, I would like to see the accounts.

And, if I had to really boycott MNCs and go for honest, decent, charitable, Indian organisations, I need look no further than our age-old Tata and Godrej! They at least don’t force their employees to be officially vegetarian!!

This is one ad which should be summarily banned, but the Baba has mysterious powers which allow him to be the only company in India to launch products without FSSAI approval! I am expecting something horrible to happen to me, just for this post!

Comments are welcome. I don’t really have a “be nice” policy, but I answer every bit of bad language with worse.

The mirror of an injured stray dog

My workplace was about 42 km from my home, most of it on a highway. That day, I was sick, had taken off at 1330 hrs.

I was driving fast, wanted to get into a warm blanket and have some relief for the fever and cough and body pains assailing me. I was driving almost as hard as I do in full health, forcing myself to concentrate on the road.

And then it happened. A huge container truck, which I was planning to overtake on the left, suddenly braked and swerved to the left. Blasting my horn, left foot ready to switch from the accelerator to the brake, both hands on the wheel, I zipped past the truck, almost riding the verge of the road.

As I passed the truck, mentally cursing the driver for being all sorts of a fool and then some, I saw just why it had swerved.

It was a dog.

A brown-and-white dog.

An injured brown-and-white dog, probably hit by a vehicle.

It was lying close to the divider, and there were two or three men looking after it, while one of them waved away oncoming traffic.

I drove on.

Let me repeat that.

I drove on.

I. DROVE. ON.

It was after I had driven on for another 12 or 15 km, that the enormity of what I had done struck me.

I, a self-proclaimed dog lover, had simply left behind a hurt dog, a dog which was bleeding, on the road. At a time, when my presence could probably mean life or death to the dog. I had a car, enough space in the back seat for a dog and a person, space for another person in the front seat. And I am a fast driver.

Still, I didn’t stop.

I stopped those 12 or 15 km later. Feeling sick. At myself. Stopped the car, bought a cigarette, smoked in spite of the cough.

And then the excuses came flooding in, like they always do. I was sick, wasn’t I? There were people looking after the dog, weren’t there? I have never hit a dog, have I?

This was more than a month back, but even today, I see the dog in my mind.

A poor street dog, whose only crime was crossing a highway at the wrong moment.

I can still see the way it was looking at the men trying to help. With the same big, brown, trusting eyes all dogs seem to have. There were splotches of blood on the road. Funny how these things are recorded in a split-second of time, isn’t it?

But that injured brown-and-white stray dog showed me a mirror to my soul, and left me feeling hypocritical. Is my love for dogs, loudly proclaimed from the rooftops, as false as the middle-class hatred for corruption, proclaimed, but never enforced in practice?

I am still not convinced at myself. I look into the mirror, and see a man who is an embodiment of what he himself has denunciated as evil. I still cannot comb my hair or shave without cursing myself.

Those fellows looking after the dog. Ordinary truck drivers or dhaba workers, they were nobler in spirit than me, who has a number of alphabets after his name!

I might have done even more evil in my life. I don’t remember. Or maybe the recipients of the evil might have had it coming to them. But this evil of omission, of failing to help a poor little dog in need, will always rankle, whenever I look into myself.

Little brown-and-white dog, I hope and have prayed fervently that you have recovered and are once again ruling the streets. And I am thankful to you for being a mirror into my own soul, to identify the cancer within and try to root it out.

God bless you, little brown-and-white dog! And God bless all those people who help those like you without shouting about it.

Metamorphoses, or, Transfomations

It has been a long, long time since I last entered anything on this blog. A lot of changes have taken place in my life……

First, I got downsized from my job. Something which always used to happen to other people. Lesson learnt. Corporates, you’re gonna get it! And another lesson, anyone in  position to take your life or your job, always knows more than you. He (or she) knows the back of your goddamn hand more than you do! Never try to prove anything to these kind of guys, especially if they are over-promoted bean counters.

A month of unemployment, resulting in almost completing two large knives, and a small one. Worked with a new material for knife handles – plywood! Pretty decent results!

Spent a long weekend relaxing on the beach at Uran. Great place! The meals were a little pricey, though!

Went and visited Jojo. Everytime I think of him, I regret being loyal to sundry money-grabbing corporates, but not to the greatest loyalist of all!

And then I got a job. This is a startup in B2B e-commerce.

The lack of systems were a complete shock! So is the lack of a safety net. I have worked, physically, more than ever in my life over the last couple of weeks, and I am yet to start on my real job!

Sometimes I regret taking up this assignment, but with possible starvation staring you in the face (or at least repossession of your home), you have to jump into whatever you get!

I thank God for a wonderful and supporting spouse, a great kid, and a world which, overall, has been kind to me! And for a lot of very good friends I have somehow managed to retain over the years.

Now I can quote MacArthur, or The Terminator, and say to this series of notes, “I am back!”.

Keep your eyes open…..

…. and your ears too.

Why? Because anything might happen and you’ll miss it.

Like the lady who, busy checking her mail/WhatsApp/whatever on her cellphone, walked  into my parked car at a mall parking lot. Yeah, she banged straight into the stationary car (I was just walking away after locking the car). Then she glared at me like it was my fault for parking the car in a designated parking space!!

Similarly, many other people have been saved from sudden demise while crossing the road with headphones on or engrossed in their Facebook feeds, simply because I am a halfway decent driver and my car has ABS.

But, what if the object you miss out on is not a relatively benign (or at least not actively harmful) thing like a parked car, or a chap driving a good car with ABS?

What if it’s a mugger, a chain snatcher, a rapist, a psycho serial killer?

Oh yeah, I forgot! Those things don’t happen to you, they always happen to people on the telly, right?

Well, they normally don’t happen, statistically. But they can. And you need to be careful and avoid (or at least try to avoid) such occurrences. Whether it’s walking into a parked car, or being gang-raped and murdered, or being at the receiving end of some crazy terrorist’s anger at the world,  I would prefer that these do not happen to anyone.

Let’s see how you can try to avoid such unpleasant occurrences from ending your life, messing it up, or at best, leaving you with a slight tingling sensation where your knee hits that parked car.

The most important point is to be aware. Get that earphone out of your ears. There are other health hazards, including total deafness, which might result from continuous use of earphones, but we are not concerned with that right now. Music blasting into your ears prevents you from hearing the desperate honking of that speeding truck coming towards you, too late to brake effectively. It is also likely to put you in the “zone”, where your mind is so engrossed in the music that it ignores other stimuli, like that speeding truck, or the chap coming at you with an AK47 in his hands.

Try not to get into cellphone conversations while on the road, whether driving, riding, or walking. At the very least, it has the potential to be extremely embarrassing. An unfortunate lady came to my notice one day, while she was telephonically  breaking up (or at least yelling at) her husband/boyfriend, while walking on the road. Imagine yelling, “you cheating b*****d, you ***hole, I don’t want to see you again”, while walking down a quite heavily-trafficked road, with everyone looking at you. And you are oblivious, because you are on headphones, and you have realized that your partner is cheating!

And don’t, just don’t, look at your mail, Whatsapp, Facebook, whatever, while moving. Your attention is distracted in multiple ways. All of which have the potential of endangering your life. A simple trip over a carpet, in your own home, which you didn’t see, can lead to a broken neck, just for example.

So what should you do?

Number one, be alert. Keep a lookout on every person within your sight-lines. Keep turning your eyes, and even your head, from side to side. I don’t suggest you behave like a wind-vane on steroids, but just keep a slow side-to-side motion of your eyes, and an even slower one of your head. Look behind every minute or so.

For those who drive, or ride, you would be familiar with periodically scanning your RVMs (rear-view mirrors) every now and then. Do the same while walking. The difference here would be that since humans didn’t evolve with built-in RVMs, you would need to turn your head.

Number two, show that you are alert. Make eye contact. Keep your expression neutral. Many males would misunderstand a lady smiling at them. Similar males would also misunderstand a man smiling or frowning at them. Don’t stare at anyone for too long. Staring has led to many misunderstandings, fights and even fatalities.

Just show that you are aware of the surroundings, and most criminals will stay away. Criminals are on the lookout for easy prey. They would prefer not to fight.

Of course, this does not apply to accidents, but the first point, being alert, will help you judge a situation and take corrective action (e.g. jump out of the way of an out-of-control vehicle).

Number three, use your better judgement. By which I mean, if there’s a place or time (or a combination of both) you are not comfortable with, stay away. All cities have areas which decent people want to avoid. And that’s for a reason. It may sound racist, casteist, sexist, elitist, or something equally bad, but being politically correct is not as important as being alive. Of course, if you think it is, then this blog ain’t one for you!

There’s a saying that most trouble comes from the “3 stupid rule“:

Going to stupid places

With stupid people

And doing stupid things

Like, going to a rave party with drug addicts and taking cocaine.

If I come across as a fuddy-duddy, it’s maybe because I am 43 and still alive, out of prison, and sane.

Many young people are rebellious. If your parents tell you not to go somewhere, you will go there. Take it from me, most of the time, your parents are speaking from experience and for your benefit. (this does not apply if your parents are the honour-killing types, or the typical Bollywood father-of-the-girl-and-hates-her-boyfriend).

Number four, learn to say no. It’s anyway a good habit to have, helping to keep your spouse or your boss off your back. But what I want to insist on is to say no…..to another drink, to an illegal (in India, at least) gamble on cards, to a sniff of cocaine (or whatever).

Say no to everything you aren’t comfortable with, from working on weekends, to being the only lady in an all-male trip to a nightclub. Of course, you should say it in a way that doesn’t get you sacked, but in the other case, you’d better be very firm and no-nonsense about it.

By this time, I am sure I’ve got the ladies all willing to massacre me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not aligned to the ISIS or the Taliban. I am not advocating that ladies stay at home and keep themselves covered at all times. You can do whatever you want as long as you are comfortable with it. Going to a nightclub with your gang of girls? Sure! Walking down a shady street at midnight with your partner? Better not. Unless your partner (or you) is/are called Clark Kent.

And what about your fundamental right to do whatever you want to? Or the fact that your going to <insert name of unsalubrious location> is actually not an excuse to get drunk/stoned or have a quick fling, but a protest against the social inequities?

Well, there are blogs and sites where your craziness is catered to. Just not this one!

I want to tell you how to avoid getting hurt.

Accept that there are people who will willingly hurt you. Accept that there are aberrant humans who like a life of crime. Accept that most of these will not listen to reason. Accept that when you need it, help will not be available. Accept that the police have no obligation to be your personal bodyguards (legally, in India, the police are meant to ensure law and order, taking care of citizens in trouble is just one part of that). Accept that at the end, you and only you, are responsible for your life and safety.

Keep your eyes and ears open.

Stay safe, stay healthy!