Superstar India Read online

  Mildly, of course. Didn't want the foreigners at the next table to witness our little drama. It's one thing seeing it for ourselves, why allow foriegners a window into how ‘unsophisticated’ and ‘totally clueless’ we are when it comes to turkey, ham and X'mas pud? Right? But would it be the same in reverse? Imagine a French restaurant trying to ‘do a Diwali’, in Paris, just to add some exotic flavour to Gallic cuisine. Imagine a snooty foodie being served a malai-kulfi with caviar, or something equally absurd? Would clued-in Europeans at adjoining tables feel as apologetic, assuming their neighbours were Indians? Hell, no!

  This was one X'mas I would never forget for more than just the missing cranberry sauce. It was an X'mas that perfectly encapsulated the mood of the country… my own mood… and perhaps, the mood of the watching world, too… it was all there on our table-for-two, decorated with a tiny X'mas tree made in China, as we sipped French wine and single malt bottled in Scotland, ate strips (not slices) of turkey bred in America, with Russians and Japanese at adjoining tables, listening to a trio from Mizoram, singing Latino numbers, with the crooner wearing a Spanish bolero, as Kashmiri shawl-sellers came out of their stores to join in the merriment, and a turbaned jyotish from Varanasi read the palm of a visibly distressed Englishwoman in a corner of the lobby.

  While going back to our suite that night (‘It is our best… Amitabh Bachchan has stayed in it… so has Abhishek’), I thought of Raj Kapoor. Why Raj Kapoor? Well… more accurately, I thought of a song he'd made famous way back in the’ 50s… ‘Mera joota hai Japani… yeh patloon Englishtani, sar pe lal topi Russi, phir bhi dil hai Hindustani…’ And I thought of a catchy Channel V tagline that declared jauntily, ‘We're like that only.’ Perhaps it's true, our bhel-puri identity does make us unique. Twenty years ago, this very endearing attribute would've made us cringe—today, we're confident enough to convert it into our USP. Well… so, we like to believe.

  There is still an edge of defensiveness when ‘outsiders’ attack this attribute and mock our desi traits. As was demonstrated by the nation-wide hysteria unleashed by an actress's ‘trauma’ while shooting the British version of a reality show called Big Brother, when Shilpa Shetty was subjected to racial slurs and her housemates made fun of her ‘Indian accent’. Instead of shedding tears, Shilpa should've spoken to them mimicking their cockney lilt. When it comes to our dil (the one Raj Kapoor glorified so generously), we are still over-sensitive.

  As I am, I acknowledge. Especially while travelling internationally. If an immigration officer is less than cordial, my instant feeling is ‘Oh… that's because of my Indian passport.’ Maybe the officer had had a fight with a spouse… suffered a bad hair day? Why did I take it so personally? Ditto for on-board service when most Indian passengers convince themselves that those big-built blonde stewardesses are being snide and vicious, simply because they detest the thought of ‘serving’ us darkies. Worse… they hate clearing up after ‘dirty Indians’, since they ‘know’ we aren't properly ‘toilet-trained’

  But, given the staggering number of Indian tourists jetting around the world these days, most international airlines are frantically recruiting our folks to cater to our special meals and other requirements. Hopefully, that should take care of the problem of racism in the years to come…

  Just as my heart went out to those waiters in Agra, as they naively went about ‘pleasing’ that motley group of foreigners staring disbelievingly at the peculiar X'mas dinner and shaking their heads, I feel for aliens in our country eager to belong.

  It took less than twenty-four hours for the situation to reverse, when we found ourselves on the Shatabdi train taking us from Agra to Delhi. The compartment was full of foreign tourists, since the Shatabdi is the most sensible way of travelling between the two cities. Remember, our three great World-Heritage-Sites destination does not have a commercial airport!

  A few charter flights get there, but that's it! You want to see the Taj? Take a train. Or drive. Unbelievable, but true. The excuse offered is that we don't have the numbers! What? India's biggest symbol doesn't attract numbers? Can that possibly be true? Or is it that the numbers stay away because the numbers know the town is a dump?

  As the train rolled out of the station, I settled into my reclining chair and found a convenient plug point next to my seat to charge my mobile phone. I'd beaten an American woman and her desi-trying-to-be-phirang boyfriend to it. They needed to plug in their laptop. I gloated childishly and ignored their glares. Across the aisle, a black guy dozed on the shoulders of an oriental female companion. Everybody seemed Taj-ed out. Within minutes of the train gathering speed, an army of neatly-dressed waiters in clean uniforms invaded the compartment and offered piping hot tomato soup with crisp breadsticks and mini-packets of butter.

  I pounced on it, as did my husband—tomato soup for the soul, on a bitterly cold winter evening… perfect. Second helpings were announced by the cheerful fellows, before they brought trays laden with lip-smacking chicken curry-rice. There was military precision to the entire operation. Suddenly, the sleepy, exhausted foreigners were wide awake and attacking the food! I turned to my husband and said, ‘See? Look at our hospitality… what do you get on those fancy trains in Europe? A lousy ham-and-cheese sandwich… and you have to pay for it! What does any domestic airline in the US serve even on long-distance flights? Ditch-water coffee and limp cookies—if that.’ I asked for an extra portion of raita, and got it promptly. I deliberately made a ceremony of licking my lips and declaring audibly how fantastic the meal was. So, when cups of ice cream arrived, I was ready to cheer loudly and urge others to do the same.

  I know this must sound ridiculous, but India needs its cheerleaders, even if that involves a kiddish demo of national pride on a train that serves delicious chicken curry. If we can get that right… what stops us from extending the chicken-curry example to other areas?

  By the time we got to our over-the-top suite at an opulent hotel in Delhi, it was close to midnight. As we walked in and surveyed the plush detailing of the place, my heart soared yet again. I ‘became’ a fussy foreigner: My first trip to ‘Indi-errrr’. I didn't know what to expect. Since I was ignorant and prejudiced, I'd also carried a lot of baggage with me—mental baggage. My Lonely Planet had provided some info, but I had to check it out for myself. Wow! This place wasn't half-bad. In fact, it was rather splendid! Almost like a good hotel back home… hmmm—look at that… real silk upholstery… and feather-touch panels to draw the curtains. I bounced around on the bed… yes, a good night's sleep was guaranteed.

  Now for the bathroom survey. Oops! A large window next to the enormous tub… large and see-through! What about privacy? Let's ask the butler. He shows up and demonstrates the lowering of a screen. But it's still see-through. The butler smiles and bows. Maybe the natives feel differently about privacy issues. Maybe Indians conduct their ablutions in public view… like those pictures of naked holy men taking a dip in some holy river. Weird!

  I snapped back into my original self. It was weird. Maybe, I said to myself, this design element was picked by a foreign consultant for foreigners. Because nobody I knew in India would sit on a potty in full view of whosoever was in the adjoining bedroom. Other than that eccentricity, it was a perfect space—not oppressively Indian or exotic, and yet unmistakably Asian in its sensibilities. Clever! And so good to be able to communicate in English to every single staffer, starting with the strapping Sikh gentleman opening car doors in the foyer.

  English or Hindi. Today, it's near impossible to encounter an English-speaking waiter/waitress in Britain, Europe or America. They are generally new recruits from the former Soviet Union—good-looking, definitely, but speaking in thick, incomprehensible accents. They probably work doubly hard and earn half the wages, but it's mighty difficult to order a simple meal or even get an ironing board without acting it out. I remember my recent frustration when, even after an elaborate pantomime, what arrived twenty minutes later was a kettle. The Russian-speaking room service attendant
who resembled Kournikova hadn't understood a word I'd said.

  Our hotels score big-time, even if our tariffs have gone through the roof. First-timers to Mumbai complain constantly about the killer rates charged by five-star hotels here. But once they've experienced our legendary service and food, they stop cribbing and start recommending India visits to skeptical colleagues back home.

  ‘Can't you get rid of those beggars…? Why can't the government do something?’ The minute a foreigner dares to step out of the sanitized, protected environment of a five-star hotel and into the mean streets of Mumbai he/ she becomes fair game—a soft target. Beggars, pimps and assorted touts pounce on the person, who gets physically pulled in ten different directions. Maimed kids, lepers, drunks, drug addicts, peddlers… take your pick.

  They descend in droves, overwhelming and intimidating even the most seasoned traveller. Imagine if we recoil from that encounter ourselves, how must it be for strangers? Now that we know that beggars come under the organized sector, and work systematically for other beggars who control territories, how long can people feel sorry?

  I know a couple of German acquaintances, who were so shell-shocked when they tried going for a walk along Mumbai's famed Marine Drive, just a few metres from their fabulous hotel, that they turned around and ran back, shaking with fright. They told me later that they threw up on reaching their room, stripped off the ‘polluted’ clothes, packed them roughly into plastic bags and discarded the lot. They instantly changed their travel itinerary and took the next flight home, vowing never to return. I'm sure there have been countless such instances.

  At one level, I can empathize, even as I find myself getting angry. It is unfair—unfair to tourists, unfair to stay-at-homes. Often, I roll down the windowpane of my car and try to reason with the pests thumping aggressively on the window. I could be jolted from deep sleep by the insistent knocking, or merely annoyed at being disturbed while reading or making a call. Nothing works. I could as well be talking to a wall. The expression in their eyes is cold and ruthless (‘Take that, you rich bitch!’), or impassive and dull (‘Just give me a buck and shut the fuck up…’). Either way, who's the loser? Me! ‘Us’. People in cars. People with good clothes… money… the seth log, who don't care, don't bother, about the gareeb… selfish, heartless people. True, in a way. It's a question of whose perspective you see it from.

  ‘Don't feel sorry for these buggers… in the old days, they'd beg from a distance. Now, they bang on the car. Tomorrow, they'll feel bolder… maybe they'll throw a rock… drag you out and strip off your jewellery,’ warned a friend. Maybe.

  There is the flip-side. Often, the tiny tots selling flowers or books at traffic signals barely come up to the window. A small hand is raised, clutching gajras of fragrant jasmine, or a bunch of paper Indian flags. Soon, a grubby face follows… the kid is on tip-toe and staring at a shiny object on the car seat… perhaps a glistening mobile phone or an iPod. Sometimes, the fascination is reserved for the watch on the wrist, or pretty bangles. There's no attempt to sell or beg.

  It's naked voyeurism, as the child stares unblinkingly and then melts away as the light changes to green. It is heart-breaking and poignant. Sometimes, you see teenage mothers, children themselves, with infants strapped to their chests in improvised slings made out of old sarees. The matted hair, hollow eyes and twig-like bodies suggest disease and malnutrition—perhaps, full-blown AIDS. The infant with a bloated belly is barely alive. There is no hope for either mother or child.

  They stand like pathetic reminders of our national shame, under gigantic billboards proclaiming proudly, ‘India Poised’. ‘2008 is India's Moment’. Poised for what? The moment celebrating which aspect of ourselves? The sexy Sensex? The booming economy? Our IT triumphs?

  You watch the intrepid kids darting between whizzing limos, deftly avoiding motorcyclists and autorickshaws, a monster BEST bus… often they're singing the latest Bollywood hit ‘Krazy Kiya Re…’ and shaking their hips to the rhythm. Where does that enviable spirit come from? How come I don't smile, sing or dance as much? How come I'm the one with the ferocious frown, the snarl, the snappy attitude, the harsh voice, the hard look? After all, I'm also the one with the latest phone, laptop and car?

  Where does that enviable spirit come from? How come I don't, smile, sing or dance as much?

  It's raining outside… I'm dry inside my midnight-blue Mercedes, listening to Buddhist chants to calm my frayed nerves. The driver, Shambhu, is a good family man who keeps his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. Just the way I've trained him.

  I'm dressed in a gorgeous saree. I'm meeting close friends at a trendy Japanese restaurant, my watch is a Cartier… by any standards, I'm privileged… well off… comfortable… successful. And yet, it's those wet kids, shivering under the relentless Mumbai monsoon, clad in rags, with no certainty of the next meal, who are laughing. Maybe, they are laughing at me?

  Children know the truth. Why question miracles?

  I guess I knew the truth as a child, myself. I was in my mother's womb when India became free. I was born exactly one year and nineteen days before we became a republic. I feel very privileged when I think of that—I was born in Free India. My parents’ fourth and last child. I am as old as my country, give or take a few months. And, on many levels, I feel not only that I have seen a dramatic change taking place in sixty years, but that in some sweet, strange and simple way, I am the change. I am India.

  When I say that to my children, they look at me in a way that suggests they think I'm nuts. How would they know or understand? They've taken virtually everything I had to earn for granted. Including India's prosperity. They don't connect with poverty… it's an alien concept that has never touched their pampered existence. While I was never ‘poor’, I certainly experienced deprivation. I did not starve like so many million people of my generation. But I was acutely aware that I'd have to work hard—very hard—for my perks. And when I did get something special from my parents, I valued it, cherished it… as I do everything I have to this date. Nothing was taken for granted—from the occasional pink pastry in my lunch box in school… to the frilly pink frock on my second birthday. I can still taste the buttery icing… and feel the stiffness of the taffeta frills scraping against the tender skin of my knees. These are memories I hold precious because I know what they signified in our uncomplicated lives. I know they involved a few sacrifices, I know my father thought of both indulgences as being far too extravagant. Perhaps my older siblings felt the same since their birthdays were never celebrated on this scale. Our family of six, living in ‘government quarters’, could not afford such ‘useless luxuries’ (my father's words for anything that went beyond ‘basics’—food, education, shelter, clothes). But even in that era change was afoot. My father's move from a district court in Satara to North Block in New Delhi was the single most crucial factor in our family's path to progress. Everything changed, the moment our train pulled into New Delhi station and we made our first home in what was called ‘Man Nagar’ in those days.

  I was an impatient, restless child, always seeking that extra something—and getting it. Quite like India, negotiating for better terms for all the monumental loans needed to get the country up and running. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was my father's hero (far more than Mahatma Gandhi), and retained that elevated status, till my father passed away a few months short of his 100th birthday. My father, G.H. Rajadhyaksha, had witnessed more history in the making than most human beings do. He'd monitored each milestone, with a keenness that was characteristic of his razor-sharp mind, till the very end. We often spoke about the India he grew up in as a schoolboy, but that India didn't interest him half as much as today's India. He preferred discussing how IT had transformed our lives, and was a great admirer of Dr Abdul Kalam, whom he frequently quoted. Attempts to get him into a nostalgic frame of mind were never successful, for he was so plugged into the present and dreaming of a glorious future—yes, even in his nineties. Perhaps it is this upbeat attitude towards
India that has shaped my own mindset.

  I was an impatient, restless child, always seeking that extra something—and getting it. Quite like India

  I often stand by the railing of the balcony in our apartment in south Mumbai, watching the sun go down into the Arabian Sea. I invariably touch my forehead and say a small prayer when it finally disappears modestly in a pale pink haze. I never think of this magical moment as the end of a day, it's more a promise of another one to dawn a few hours later. Sometimes, I think of myself as I was during adolescence, living not too far from the area we now call home. I love what I see around me! I love the options and opportunities that beckon and I love the thought that if nothing goes wrong, I'll be around to see our country rising like the sun, in all its majesty… seeing another Golden Era, this one even better and more glorious than the one of Emperor Ashoka's time, when the Gupta dynasty ruled over vast swathes of the country and India resembled a lush garden in full bloom. Such a flowering is not beyond us even today, provided we don't blow it.

  *

  ‘It's all happening here,’ a dazzlingly beautiful Italian woman said to me, as we sipped tea together. Her husband, an aggressive investment banker from The City, was in Mumbai on a recce. The lovely lady was doing her own thing— apartment-hunting, checking out the shopping, looking around to judge that most ephemeral of attributes—quality of life. ‘I love the buzz in your city,’ she said, adding, ‘Delhi is too box-like and controlled… but I feel free in Mumbai.’ I glowed at the compliment, and took it very personally. In the past, I might've gone a bit overboard praising the metropolis and drawing her attention to its many hidden qualities and virtues. But not anymore. Mumbai, I realized instinctively, didn't need any hardsell. And neither did India. It was there—like the sea is there—take it or leave it. Most people are grabbing it—with both hands. Why? What has changed? Mumbai still stinks. It is filthy. It is crude and aggressive. It is loud and violent. The roads are awful, the distances daunting. And yet… Mumbai makes your heart race… you find yourself walking just that much faster here… you push yourself that much harder. And then you ask yourself, ‘Why?’ No logical answer.