Chinkileaks

Leaks of America's secret cables have swayed the world's media. Less known are these leaks from the Chinese embassy in New Delhi.

Greetings to the Politburo!

Let us start with a good news. Indians call us Chinki-s. And so do they call the inhabitants of the Chinese territory they claim as their "North-East". It seems that they secretly 'know' its ours!

Long back when China was illiterate, we have tamed our huge population, with our Chairman's favorite - bullets. Now that illiteracy in China is extinct, we can do that with our strictly controlled media.
Its a lot different here in India. Although a third of India's population is still illiterate officially, we have a fair hunch that it is more widespread given the cheap gimmicks that Indian politicians perform to get support - a concept they call Democracy. People are controlled mainly by false promises - which form one of the basic foundations of India's Democracy. Media is free from Government's control, but is largely controlled by money to iterate between the zillion scams unfolding everyday. Nothing is followed up till the end. Indians profoundly believe that after all, its the journey that matters, not the destination.

As you will be knowing, the Indian state claims to be non religious - the government's activities are not determined by religion (as opposed to China's irreligious - the Communist party is officially irreligious), there is not a single politician here who has the 'gun mein dum' (yep, sounds like Mandarin, but means courage locally) to claim himself as an atheist - not even the mainstream communists. Religion and religious favoritism form the core of India's politics. And to add to this confusion, there are multiple sections within the prominent religion, sworn foes to one another, always fighting over "Chairman knows what"! In the stead of leaders leading the people, Indians have a bunch of followers fanning their most immature sentiments. Leaders leading them where? Good for us: nowhere! 

There is one metric in which China will love to lose the first spot to India. In the next fifteen years, India will be the most populous country in the world. Some fools here - even those without turbans, think it is a great feat. While we managed to strictly imposed our binding one-child policy, India's two-child policy is non binding. Even their prominent political leaders flaunt ten children. And they will be completing this so called feat with an interesting demographical statistic. The capital and the adjoining north-western states already  well known for their low sex ratio - caused by rampant sex-selective foeticide and infanticide. People in these areas see their newborn children as a means to earn money -  by a proudly held custom called Dowry. The girl's side pays the boy's side a huge sum of unaccounted money for no bloody reason at all! By the way, this custom is termed illegal from the very inception of the Indian state. But like everything bad, it is passe as custom. We are still utterly confused about how such lawlessness can thrive so perfectly.


Back in China, we groom bright children to have good education and end up in the Communist Party's important posts. And so we have Engineers and scientists among our ministers and important state officials. In India, a typical politician would be an illiterate convict who would be a blood relation to someone else already in the government. Your good characteristics do not determine your political destiny. In fact, it may work as a disadvantage. With personalities towering over ideologies, India aptly deserves a monarchy.

In China's communism, government workers have learned (arguably the hard way :) ) to be hard working. Indian people vie for Government posts to get a reprieve from working. The so called right to strike have made our communist namesakes here our unofficial  agents. In the name of seeking worker rights, they have managed to make India utterly unproductive.  State run hospitals, banks, and manufacturing units are known for their profound inefficiency. The rich, powerful and informed keep away from them.

India also provides protection to the so called backward communities, and reserves a certain portions of government jobs for these people. In the India social chemistry, this translates to communities competing with each other for being recognized as backward!

All of India's sporting feats are out of individual brilliance. The role of the State being a big zero. Had they been Chinese we would have groomed  them  to world champions. Almost all funds meant for development of sports, and even international sporting events are looted openly. Something which would have won the looter a firing squad in China.

Let alone Beijing and Shanghai, India's huge cities do not compare even close to our second grade ones. Most cities are heaps of filth, wrapped with bumpy roads, covered with slums, with the unruly traffic signals, bugged with beggar syndicates.

Our dear friends on the Western frontiers are continuously providing constant support to destabilize India. But it seems Indians do not need this spoon feeding, they are already helping themselves.

And last of all, things here are not improving soon - Indians are not interested in changing anything.

Tweet

Being vegan

Why do I eat vegetarian?

Because I cannot even imagine the vagaries of a slaughter. Non-vegetarianism makes you the reason for a murder. Don't the desperate cries of the unfortunate animal tender your heart? It has to wait for its death - most probably watch its friends and relatives murdered openly before its own eyes. It is not just blood, but motion which makes life so real in animals. Shells and clams feel the same pain as goats and chicken.

Scientifically, plants have life as well. Life is after all just a series of chemical reactions. But do all living beings  have feelings?  Movement seems to make a point - but not always: Mimosa pudica moves - so do Sunflowers. I would say a fear of death does make a valid point about rights for animals. The crave to live - the fight for survival is seen most openly in animals. Well, plants do need an honorable mention - they too fight for water, nutrients, and sunlight - and devoid of them, die. After all you have to jump, shout and say that you don't want to die. Remember, germs (some of whom are taxonomically Animalia) are exceptions - firstly, they don't shout and then we need to kill them to remain alive ourselves - I am not eating them after all.

Eggs don't shout, but are after all living cells - each a possibility of a new animal life. So what if  seeds in fruits are eggs  for plants -  fruits do not have the stench of eggs!

It is strange that my set of teeth has four canines. Evolution too is oblivious of animal rights. Wait, canines come good in eating sugarcane!

Lets make this rule: living beings which shout have rights. Correction, life which moves feels pain. More correctly, life which fear death are to be shunned. Well not all of them. And some others outside this. To  refine the rule still further - I will hand pick living beings which will be on my palate, and I don't have a damn logical explanation for that. Come on, it is for me to decide what I eat!

I am logically starved. I will logically starve.

Tweet

Appendicitis first hand - 3

( ... continued from here )

I am grateful to my dear friend Suvomoy who helped out my wife when I was being operated.  When summoned to witness the surgeon's testimony of his job, he was the one to go.

(My daughter, being already barred from visiting anyone in the hospital - was automatically barred from the hi-profile OT area too. And she will not leave her mom as well. She had already been very concerned that dad did not sleep beside her the night before. )

The grinning surgeon had shown him my "bad appendix" - a pink tubular object about the size of my little finger. My controversially religious friend even saw a faint solemn glow behind his bald head. Well, at least the doctor wanted to show it, how his last minute operation had saved the hero's life. 

My friend  reported the pan-masala smell as well. See? I told you!

An hour after my wife left, the surgeon visited me. He smiled, and said (literally), "it was a bad-bad appendix". He suggested that I should start with what most doctors ask you to have - light kichdi. He went out in about one minute, but came back again in a minute.
"You want a single room ? I'll see to it."


 The room which had a rent of two and a half thousand was relatively clean, with the two beds divided by curtains which could virtually encircle each bed. A sofa for the attendant accompanied each bed. There was a panic panel with a wired remote (yep! you still call that a remote), oxygen supply and more unknown controls.Strangely the package does not include even a toothbrush, or a soap bar - let alone a personal thermometer. (I would like to reiterate that this was one of the  well known brand of hospitals)


I was sharing the room with an old woman with considerable wealth (of money) in her family. Even men of her family used to wear at least half a kilo of gold while visiting her. I guessed that her family must have some political background as well, since most of the people visiting sounded  lacking in the wealth of literacy, let alone knowledge. Rich illiterates are best bet for politicians in this part of India. She had been suffering from Dengue and had moved in about a week back. Quite obviously she was unaware of  any technique (Relativity or otherwise) to curtail her pain  during intramuscular injections. She used throw a slaughter-like S-C-R-E-A-M every time she was injected. It used to be followed by a barrage of obscene words to which the Mallu nurse always giggled. The old lady was accompanied by a chubby, young, fair looking unmarried female attendant, a daughter, who always used to be a little made up, on her lips and eyes.


My roommates always found the stuffy room's A/C to be freezing. I had to shout at the nurse at least thrice during the night to get it cooler. My roommate's attendant used to undo that at the A/C controls in our room when I was asleep.

"In case I feel cold I can use a blanket, but what if I feel stuffy even with my clothes on?" - was my last complaint in Hindi to the confused nurse. The night was uneventful after that.

After getting admitted on Wednesday night, and operated on Thursday morning, I started eating on Friday morning. I was awaken by the boy who delivered breakfast....

... I was again woken up by the same guy when he was cleaning up ... I got some help to get up and finished my B/F soon. I was eating after 36 hours. IV fluids had kept me going till now. Strangely my mouth felt quite  clean despite not brushing 2 mornings.


I tried to be on my feet when my wife and daughter visited me. It was easier than I thought. Things had started to get a lot better. My daughter, in the meanwhile, had already exaggerated her mom's story about her dad's illness to one in which  the doctor had extracted a worm from my belly because I was being naughty. It was already on the lips of the teachers and ayahs in her school. And of late this same story had helped her mom to feed her real fast.

But my checkered uniform was smelling badly - I'd not bathed in 2 days. But doctor asked me not to wetten my wounds. When asked whether they provide a wipe, the hospital staff were non committal. It seemed that it was part of the package but usually not administered as they ask the patient to take a bath. Pulling down all the curtains around my bed, I got a good wet wipe by one housekeeping staff. The Sati-Savitri nurses kept out of the show. I got a new clean uniform as well.

A disconnection of my intravenous diet for all these activities was not without a cost. Reconnection was extremely painful. A clot usually forms inside the vein when the incision is not in use. And the merciless nurse used to perform a sudden magical wobble  with the tube which used to break the clot so painfully.


The TV in our room was  a private property of Miss (.. lets call her ...) Plumpy and her mom. Low on sedatives, I was getting woken up very often by the high volumes of the soap I hated the most. Complaining about the high volume met a solid answer from Plumpy: "I will have to mute it if the volumes were lower!"
Well, I presume my sleeping is more important than your God-damned soap, Plumpy. But I did not want to get into another confrontation as the gold laden goondaas were soon to arrive.

My recovery was impressive. By Friday afternoon, barely a day after being operated, I was walking around. My wife being without any support, I'd planned to request the doc to let me free. The surgeon used to make a compulsory trip to the insurance desk before coming to visit me, in lieu of studying the progress of the bill towards its target. I learnt from my wife that they were still about ten thousand away. As expected, he wasn't happy with my progress when I told him I was ready to go. He pressed my surgical wounds extra hard, till I winced.
"See? You are not yet ready to go!", he smiled.
Given a chance I would have punched his face and could have pinched somewhere in his belly to say the same words to make him wince.

Meanwhile, I was taking in food, but all of it was mysteriously disappearing. I secretly feared that there has been some mistake in tying the intestinal puncture. Perhaps food (or whatever was left out!) was slipping out of a hole into the abdominal cavity. At last, on Friday night my secret fears got flushed out.

I was pre-determined not to wince this time. On Saturday, the doctor relented. He promised a release in the evening.

There were no more surprises. Except one. The final bill was a little above Fifty six thousand. How they managed to achieve it is still not clear - the list provided to us was too long to be hand verified. The only discrepancy I could notice in the quick sweep were a set of visit fees for the doctor who had seen me in the OPD and referred me to the surgeon. I had actually not seen him after I got admitted. There's ought to be more - but we were already fed up.

The customary maddening delays from the health insurance company followed. We called them at least ten times to confirm faxes getting sent and received. In the end I would have to pay about two thousand for expenses of items not covered by insurance.

Plumpy's mother too got released on the same day. Quite obviously, they did not need any insurance cover, and were paying all of it themselves - bundles of cash came out of a briefcase.

I met the surgeon again at the insurance desk. He had dropped in to set the target for a new patient. He caught sight of me and asked me to see him in a week's time. Like always, he was visibly happy.

I am happy to be home. In the maze of fast track health, obstinate illiteracy, raw money, pachas tola-s, unhealthy nexus, insurance targets, pan masala, and Sati Savitri-s, I felt foolish. Sometimes I even doubt if it was an appendicitis at all!

Tweet

Appendicitis first hand - 2

(... Continued from here )

The next  morning I was woken by a fellow who seemed like a barber. He wore gloves as well as a mask and sounded repeated promises of safety while he discharged his duties. Yes, he just shaves around, from bed-to-bed and his work might alter your gait in a week. Not exactly a dream job!

The pre-operative room was better equipped. The surgeon visited with the same beaming face. I felt a mild paan-masala smell arrive with him. And soon the anesthetist followed.  I walked into  the OT after 15 minutes. It seemed like my wife was showing hers thumbs from behind a glass door down the corridor. It was chilling cold there. Once on the bed - they handed over a pipe gushing warm air into my blanket to comfort me from the chill. They injected something, and I do not remember even 30 more seconds. 

... Slight pats to my cheek awakened me. The anesthetist. My eyelids were heavy, and my body heavier. "Oh its done!". I tried vomiting twice, in vain. The jerk pained my lower abdomen. There was nothing inside my stomach to chuck out. In my jagged train of consciousness I could remember: a series of vain vomiting attempts, a series of consolations from the nurse (... another one - but Mallu and incorrect Hindi being common ... ) , some cool fluid injected down my IV incision in my hand, a beeping sound that seemed to track my heart beat - (or was it someone else's?), a couple of men dragging my roller bed, a sudden change of ambient temperature, stretcher being dragged to a lift , two more vain vomiting attempts, a puzzled and shocked old woman in the lift,  a transfer to a bed holding me inside the bed sheet from both ends, a man reading jokes about "Ziddi" Jaats, one of those painful Hindi soaps playing its signature tune loud on TV, and me shouting at a nurse - I needed a cooler, quieter room - a single room ....

..... My wife and daughter visited me shortly by my bed side. My wife recounted how in the guard at the gate described a strange rule according to which my 2  year old could not be taken in to the hospital to visit anyone. Mohar being alone, that meant she had to leave my daughter waiting outside for her. A mild chide had helped - I hear ....

.... I hate the word intramuscular. They  riddled my butts with painful painkillers, and made sure I had problem sleeping on any side, or my back. And I already had 3 punctures on my tummy. To make me sleep they added  a topping of a sleep inducing one. I discovered that Relativity helps, I used to hard pinch some part of my arm, to balance off the pain of puncture.With continuous fluids and injected to sleep, pressing a remote at midnight would bring the nurse in, but to take me to the bathroom to relieve myself will need the Sati-Savitri to call housekeeping - another 5 min of wait. 

The night was long but I could feel myself lighter every time.

( ... continued to here ... )

Tweet

Appendicitis first hand - 1

This supposedly vestigial worm-like organ sometimes goes crazy. And even kills if not snapped in time.

It started like a pain from an air pocket just below my liver. My fat bad liver - spoilt by my compulsive culinary excesses. It has a long illustrious history, which has even forced me to implement periodic corrective incremental alterations of my metabolic output. Only to go back again to relative peace and let it fatten. And so I ignored it - for two days, till it pricked hard.

On visiting a doctor at a branded Hospital, he smelt the rat. He was obviously quite excited - a referral will get him a minor bonus at the least. He stooped down on the examination bed, pricked and pinched my belly, and questioned me like a convict - on when the pain started - since, it was very important to the diagnosis. On finding that it was just a couple of days old, and had the "rebound" tenderness, his eyes shone.

We had a hasty ultrasonography, where the professional commented on the a certain dimension of the organ being within the upper limits of allowance, but was quite convinced that it had gone bad. And when I revealed that I was covered by a corporate health insurance policy from my multinational employer, my doctor had hit his jackpot.
"Acute Appendicitis and that means immediate surgery! We'll get it operated today."

It was already late evening - that means tonight! I called home immediately. We had come back from Calcutta that very morning. I had fortunately recruited a new driver that same day, but a maid was not there yet. My wife without any help, I wanted to gather my things and come back. I really wanted to come back - to the same hospital, and get admitted.

But will you ever spare a blank cheque as a bookmark to your child's comic book, even for a few hours?

They almost pounced on me - got me admitted with almost no paperwork, without an advance and by the time my wife had arrived, I was already dressed in their patient uniform. They did not have a bed for me yet - and even their emergency ward was filled with in-patients. My place was a waiting bench at the emergency ward - where they got my temperature, pressure and even the intravenous incision done on my hand. (Of course, lying down.) It would take me an hour more waiting on that bench till I got my bed in the Emergency ward.

While being health insured with a corporate policy is nice, you still feel like knowing the money being swindled in your name. And so I sent my wife to have a peek at the insurance desk. She came back with a delightful story.

The guys at the insurance desk revealed their target: 50K. They were bickering over the how to reach there. One of them was clueless on what more to add to the expected expenses since he was wayward away from it. Others hinted on additional consultation fees, OT consumables, costlier beds, longer retention and even an HIV test. I fear they would have had a staged cardiac arrest on the cards, in case the bar had been even higher.

The gleaming surgeon soon visited me. Seeing that the reins are secure he quickly deferred his colleague's decision to operate me during the night. "Let's wait for all the reports to come in as well - no need to hurry".
"Good - but I could have got admitted tomorrow - I swear I would have come back here!", I thought. That would have saved a day of room rent.

It was a bad portion of my large intestine, and the doctor wanted it empty as well, without giving it a chance to be refilled. No food - just intravenous glucose. And I would repeatedly beckon one of the Mallu (colloquial for Keral-ite) nurses (who always spoke inconspicuous Hindi) to disconnect my IV so that I could relieve myself of excess fluids.

(continued to here ...)

Tweet

Do not Call

We all know that laws in India are farce, and meant to be there for the sake of it, not to be followed. Compliance is a bare naught and you just need money to buy your immunity from law.

The great visionary lawmakers managed to create the farce placeholder rules for just every damn thing. Say for instance, the majority of the text messages you receive on your phone (unless you are hotly in love), or the majority of the calls you receive on your phone are technically illegal allowance. All these ask for money - in some way or the other.

One fine morning ... 

"Hello Sir, this is Imran from Jumpstart Consultants" 

      "And?"

"Sir do you recall we met about six months back at Spice mall, where I discussed with you a really great ULIP?"

      Oh ya I do recall that trauma. But I recall I'd prayed you not to try contacting me again. I said: "But last time you failed to sell it. Why again?"

Laughs. "Sir, we at Jumpstart would like to maintain a good relationship with our former clients. And have come up with an unique plan to ..."

      ... loot me ... 

"... manage all our clients' assets. Sir we already have all details about your previous policy, and would provide you free consultancy on this, like when to exit, which one to buy, which riders to pick ..."

      ... and how to swindle all my money ...

"... what are the risks involved - all these from our experts"

      "But why are you doing this?"

"Because we would like to maintain a great relationship with our clients" 

       "Look dude! I am not taking it what you do it as a past time, like social service, and moreover, I am yet to be your client - I dont recall you ever selling anything to me"

"Your  ULIP was procured  through us. I told you sir!" 

        The backend processing unit of the Insurance company or the agent must have sold out my policy number. Last time I met this guy he showed me an absurd set of terms where you get an absurd cover for everything upto a terrorist strike on an aeroplane. Everything  was still fine, till the guy wanted to provide a proof for this unbelievable statement the next day. He forwarded a mail containing a loose discussion of these terms among the senior staff of his organization. And I asked him not to call again. This time too I will say:"Could you please not call me again?" 

"Sir, give us an opportunity to serve you"

        I hang up.

One of my biggest mistakes ever was to do some research about personal loans. And even after three years, I get a call on a fresh Monday morning, like this:

"Sir, do you need a personal loan?"

"No, by the way ... who asked you to call ... (she hangs up) ... me?

Battered so many times, at last, I decided to hit back.

Another day:

"Sir, our bank is giving you a personal loan?"

            "Kitna kilo chahiye?"

"What? Sir?"

           "...  Mutton abhi mil jayega. Pork aur beef thoda delay hoga. Abhi kaata hai. Fleecing chal raha hai."

"What the ...?" (hangs up)

Wrong numbers also carry a similar junk payload - I am usually gentle to these guys - with one exception, a call which followed a pushy crank call:

"Hello? Mohit?"

I swore silently and answered: "Yes?"

"... abhi tak samaan nahi pahucha yaar"

       "Aare mere ko bachao !!"

"kya!? Kahaan how tum?"

 With a trembling voice I said:  "main Islamabad mein!"

"... kya ... ?? kayse ?"

        "Mujhe Taliban ne utha liya ... "

Somehow the guy did not even think this can be prank:

"Kya bol rahe ho?"

         "1 karor maang rahe hain"

"Rupaye!!?? Ransom?"

         "aare nahin! rupaye nahin!"

"fir?"

         "Rasgulle!"

"kya bol rahe ho?"

          "Tumhari baap ki shaadi hai na?"

"what are you saying Mohit?"

The guy was a tough nut - I continued:

          ".. actually your father flew in like the Superman to save me"

(guy hangs up...)

  

There were extensively publicized reports when the Do not Call (DNC) list implementation was announced by the Telecom Department. But I never came across any improvement to this menace. Try http://www.donotdisturb.in/ to register with various organizations.

Tweet

Oh Calcutta!

One of my friends once asked, "Is it true that there is a Bandh in Calcutta if the tram fares go up by 10 paise?"
This is what remains of the character of the soul City of the Bengali people. And this is not all propaganda.


From what was once "the Second City of the British Empire", it has descended to a overcrowded unplanned chaos, strewn with shanties and black sludge canals, hawker encroached roads and sidewalks, shabby public vehicles, bumpy roads, ill-panned shaky humps (locally called "fly-overs"), effectively, a provincial capital of insignificant political, economic and even (ever diminishing) cultural importance.

And inhabited by mostly old and middle aged Bengalis whose children work elsewhere. Thanks to a political climate which breeds everything that I mentioned, and in addition works hard to repel the honest and hard working, the enterprising and intelligent. The stinginess has got imbibed into the culture because the City has turned into a old age home. People think twice before spending their hard saved money, in a place without ventures, opportunities and hope. Almost all business houses have left the turbulence. Post Offices dealing with deposits and monthly interest based income schemes have turned the most popular means of income.

A place where people have stopped dreaming, and having ambitions, this is a common sight: young people sitting at street corners doing nothing other than eve teasing and playing cards, day long. Some of the more enterprising believe in landing a job as the most important aim of their lives. Forget about working, they enjoy the gherao and Bandh culture. Who would like to work if it were perfectly legible to earn, whatever meagre, without working. People, in a way savor a Friday Bandh, if not a Monday one. There are no shortage of issues and there are no shortage of people to enforce the calls. Newcomers desperate to impress their political bosses ambush even ambulances and fire tenders.

There is not a single hospital of repute. And those which are there are heaps of filth, layers of protocols and infested with crooks. And of course the doctors readily see patients, but in his private chamber. At the hospital, the most brilliant suggestion would be "Referred to Vellore". Means in plain language, "please take him away, or we will not be responsible!".

Religion flows in a controlled stream. Godmen, squint or otherwise, are a little more popular, in daily terms, than Gods. It is true that fanaticism is less apparent in Bengalis than elsewhere in India. However, the religiosity is more intense than it should have been: the pragmatic young have mostly left. Religion comes with its own bonus of ills, which thanks to the steady decline in the intellectual caliber, is catching up. People are surely learning more charming stuff.

Tagore flows. Not in their hearts, but to the gutter of experimentation and misappropriation. Tagore is a lone hope, and with little of the talented intellectual left in these gutters, Bengalis love clinging to his beard. The way to demonestrate this is by arranging shoddy and makeshift evenings of Rabindra, Nazrul, Sukanta and what-not geeti. I always thought sharing Tagore with anyone else is sheer felony. Cheapness of His people caught up with Him after all.

Educational institutions and the Education system have been destroyed, with medical precision. Syllabi of the state boards have stagnated in the '60s while Dilli boards (by the way, even Bihar board) has moved on. I marvelled why they never taught us the vacuum diodes at IIT, which had a heavy boring chapter in the HS syllabus.

A Bengali, who prides his language, culture, and cuisine, Calcutta often visits my heart. I was not born there, neither brought up, nor lived there long enough. But I could realize the central stream of my Bengali being passing through the City. Bengalis cannot be without the City. My bias to look as the darker side of things may be due to the fact that I did not give the sloth enough time to set in. The insiders have no idea how far things have moved on, elsewhere. Wake up Calcutta! We yearn to see Bengalis known in Delhi as bhadroloks, and not maids or drivers or rickshaw pullers.

The ruling communists have always whined about bias from the Centre. And the immature opposition have always blamed the communists, turning off any lights that caught their eye. If there is a political conspiracy for the plight of this great City, it must have been framed by each of those shoddy, shortsighted, hopeless and unscrupulous representatives that the people have elected at every election, communist or otherwise.

Tweet