Jan 14, 2011

Rajdhani Express

Indian Railways has come of age. The Rajdhani trains have got a good facelift: the train in which I was travelling, for instance, has been sold to the National Stock Exchange. Gone are the dirty orange and butter yellow (or dirty white?) striped coaches. Everything is draped in NSE colors - from the coach exterior to panels above the seats, to the common area. Even the window panes are not spared - though it is done quite nicely I would say, you may see through them from inside. I might have missed any NSE details in the toilet, though for different reasons altogether. Not that the flux of money bothers me, it is actually good sign. Had it touched more than just the coaches, I would have been happier.

But in India some things do not change after all - mostly the overall train riding experience. The experience is broadly categorized as "bad". Although many things have changed over the years, Modern forms of bad experience have taken over more archaic ones.

Let’s start with the worst of the lot: toilets. The infrastructure has definitely improved, since you can no longer see the tracks through that dirty hole. Flushing too has become push-button. But the cleanliness of the people using it hasn't changed at all. In the morning, I had to hike 2 coaches to find a usable toilet. And that too after being barked at by an occupant who had 'locked' it using the same latch that opens from outside. I don't think this basic design flaw is listed anywhere as unsolvable.

And now over to fellow travellers. Not that I hate customized ring tones, but repeated howling of "jai ganesh jai ganesh ...." at the top volume at midnight was not exactly a heavenly experience.  Especially when you are trying hard to sleep under the dirty and probably lice filled blanket, protected by a thin supposedly newly washed sheet. The religious agony aunty, who has taken a theeka of resolving everyone's family issues, worked till late night. She always talked like they used to make trunk calls in old films.

Talking of films: gone are the days where the past time was just a portable cassette player playing the recent chart busters. The coupe next to ours was occupied by a young couple who has been watching Hindi movies, one after another, after another … ad inf, on their notebook computer. The volumes were moderate but I kept marveling at their exclusive thoroughness and attention to detail: from the cheap jokes to the lengthy dhinchak songs. Some jokes and even songs got repeated at the lady's request. The new world modern looking Bengali couple seemed to be a connoisseur of 90s popular Hindi movies as I recognized from one of the songs. They had not even started their dinner when the guys came to clean the plates. Man, I would have become eligible to write a review of The Inception had I put in so much effort.

And to add to this was something disturbing you cannot even blame. An infant of a few months kept me at the edge of my sleep, all night. The mother tried her best but without avail. Not all were bothered by this however. Surely not my good old Keralite friend who snorted off all night and was up at six sharp, he boasted later.

Smoking is banned on trains for more than decade now - although with zero compliance from the passengers. People do it at will, in the toilets. I used to encounter a faint smell of tobacco smoke every 15 minutes.  Also illegal is opening doors on a moving superfast train. A desperate young hero repeatedly sought attention of a high school girl by standing firm on the wide opened door, when the Rajdhani was cruising at may be 80 km per hour.  In India people, in most cases, just love to break the law. And in other cases, as we all know, they have to break it. Either way. Why not love what you are doing after all!

I later encountered the door guy, hale and happy, but thought he might be doing the door stunt for a reason. He had a sphere of body odor around him: anyone falling inside is liable to lose consciousness. Fortunately I encountered just the Event Horizon.

I am pretty sure the Railways (yes, my tax money) pays a lot more to the contractor than what shows. The cheaply paid train staff provides you service of the same value they earn. This varied from relatively minor mischiefs like not giving you a newspaper if you do not ask for it, to minor mistakes like not checking is the flask contents are still hot, to utter felonies like presenting a non-vegetarian meal to a vegetarian. The poor guy would have sold back the remaining newspapers back to a vendor, or kabari. Or he was just being lazy with the flask. Or he was suffering the genuine mistake of another staff member in the veg-non-veg goof up. They also perform a customary 'begging for tips' exercise once your ride is about to get over.


Our Rajdhani was heavily delayed by widespread dense fog over Northern India. And of course by the delay in the incoming train. The outsourced train staff did not have allowance for provisions, the Rajdhani stops for a few minutes at any intermediate station, and no vendors are allowed on the Rajdhani. And all that simply meant that passengers had to skip a meal. There were no options left.

A perfect finish.


NB: Although truth is the main course here, some sauces and spices are fictional.



Dec 20, 2010

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.

Dec 1, 2010

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.

Nov 7, 2010

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!

Nov 1, 2010

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 ... )