Wheels of Fortune

Having tread the more familiar, beaten end of the path last week, ambition drives me to talk glitzy and stratospheric today. My motivation in changing gear from the Bicycle to a Bugatti is not entirely random though. It comes from realization, grudging as much as bizarre, that the Veyron 16.4 Grand Sport that drastically redefined the automobile pricing summit in India, is not merely about libertine luxury but actually a fulfillment of some much humbler prayers!

First things first: it is now three weeks that the Volkswagen (literally, Peoples' Car) family launched the Veyron from its Bugatti stables to add to the options for India's Super-rich. The crown of the nation's most expensive motorcar offering is not quotidian: the Veyron sports a daunting tag, at INR 16Cr onwards a little under 3X its nearest competitor! Yet, my middle-class, nitpicking mind did not miss the claim by its aptly named sole agent, Exclusive Motors, that the gap between Veyron and #2 was much larger. Perhaps they missed the launch of INR 6Cr Merc S-Guard in Feb (for some reason a day after my birthday, if only!); maybe they decided cars not retailed by them did not qualify. Nevertheless the tab is impressive (not to forget an unkind, if pithy, suggestion to rebadge it Veyron 18 next year unless inflation bucks its double digit trend). Equally, for those still stuck to more commoditized mindsets, it is most instructive to note Bugatti's annual sales plan, all of a challenging 60-80 units worldwide, including likely 3-4 Indians globally.

Ignorance and presumed readership interest dictate me to gloss over the car's intricate details (noteworthy stress in launch press releases any how was on components of 'special materials - titanium, magnesium etc' handcrafted at Bugatti's French HQ, perhaps playing to the khadi brigade; or 'Puccini sound system with digital signal processor' variety of abstruse). Certainly, it should be safe to assume the Veyron would be a hedonistic delight, with top-notch safety features and on-tap-performance (unlike me, some drivers are seemingly able to discern every tenth of a second in a 0-100 kmph dash, the car in question clocking a 2.7). Above all, its modest volume target and the excessive hype around price are highly suggestive - what may draw prospective buyers is badge value and exclusivity rather than trivia like its pacy 407 kmph, or worry for the 10% speed compromise with the roof off.

The performance numbers do beg an obvious question: where-on will the Veyron get a chance to perform thus for its privileged owner? Of course, one is not unfamiliar with the analogy of a powerful sound machine providing decidedly superior auditory experience at lower volumes too. The appropriate situation here, however, is of the equipment being mostly forced on mute (disbelievers may try DLF Cyber City early morning, or all evening, to truly appreciate the engine's idle hum). And therein lies Reason #1 to have prayed for the Veyron's ilk: folks who buy this car would be from the ranks of the high-and-mighty, eminently better placed to motivate our civic authorities to build roads instead of potholed dirt tracks (chalo Sohna Road, rather, most of Gurgaon, if you find the depiction pessimistic). Their frustration matters, unlike ours, hence my hope!

Unfortunately the road-building fantasy may come up short against the brutal realities of our obdurate bureaucracy. Regardless, another Veyron attribute makes an even bigger, better case (raison-d-etre if you will) for my fervour. Reason #2 is, simply, its price. One hears (and of late there is little to distract) corruption rajas of contemporary India swindle 1,70,00,00,00,00,00,000 (please check my zeros someone) Rupees improving connectivity; others siphon off the good part of a (relatively modest) few tens of thousand crores when organizing a sporting event, almost killing the goose itself; an ideal housing scheme for Kargil War vets degenerates into a (paltry) some hundred crore scam. It is a struggle to grasp the enormity of these astronomical amounts - arithmetic begs a picture, worth a thousand words (crore actually). For instance, growing up in Middle India, one imagined lakhs via sundry cars; now talk a crore or two and visualize that apartment of our dreams; but, by God, a few hundred crore, and many more? Head-reeling numbers and 'everyday the paper boy brings more'? And how do they make that kind of money? Why want to? What to do with it? Enter Veyron, up the ante for cars, and at least there is the start of improved perspective. Of course, humble India needs more such symbols, if only to help us learn the New Math (of the dubious) and enhance our imagination.

Obviously this is hardly to pull the VW car down (and is too far removed to be a case of sour grapes)! Equally frankly, my congratulations to any actual buyer is half-muted; appreciation of its technological marvels or epicurean appeal has been dulled by a generally eroded conviction in the balance of good and bad karma in the world. Yet, as caprice scales new heights and honesty gets scarce to the point of endangerment, some core beliefs need reassertion. Skeptic yes, shades of grey perhaps, but one ought not succumb to the ogre: no comfortably-numb suicide. Selfishly and for posterity, the choice is to stay angry, lest we get stuck in a Wheel of Misfortune!

The Cycle Diaries: Bihar 2010

My apology to Che-lovers for the title, but the pull of the wheel has been strong in this space these last few days, and it sounded like a good time to talk 'cycle politics' in my beloved home state! For the politically disinclined or oracularly averse (you would be hard put to find self-respecting Biharis willing to go by either description) the crucial eastern state is mid-way through polls to elect a new Vidhan Sabha. Truth to tell, in the fractious cauldron of Bihar's polity where caste often looms larger than life, the election appears a close call. (At the very least, it may not be the cakewalk for the ruling NDA that the Media would have us believe). The battle is, equally, critical to fortunes of at least two regional satraps with thinly-veiled national ambitions. For the country's largest party too, a toehold in Bihar is crucial to its longer term consolidation plans.

Naturally, with such high stakes, it is a no-holds barred fight, with participants of all ilks looking for and playing up the minutest of issues. One idea that has thus taken centrestage is the Mukhyamantri Balika Cycle Yojana. The scheme is simple enough: it entitles girls who pass Class VIII in government schools to state support in form of a free bicycle, or INR 2000 to buy one. (It should come as no surprise that though the Nitish Kumar government has extended the scheme to boys, it is only the promise of female empowerment implicit in its original version that has caught everyone's fancy in one of India's most backward states.)

On his part, Nitish has not shirked from riding the bicycle into the grime of electoral debate. He has extolled its virtues, from obvious aspects like education enabling gender equality to deft positioning as a lesson in striking balance. The latter in particular is a veritable coup d'maitre: in a single turn of the pedal, it transforms the potentially conflict-creating shades of any force of female assertion arising from the scheme, and adds character of blend and acceptability. The logic is pithy, indeed vital in the extant male dominated quasi-feudal milieu, but clearly there is bigger game afoot.

In the larger picture, Nitish knows that the issue of governance played more than its part in pitchforking the NDA to power in 2005 (and reinforced in 2009) when his predecessor's much-vaunted contempt for vikas as a demotic issue came up electoral turtle. (Go back in history and one could make an equally good case via Rajiv's freshman promise and appeal to change in the massive post-Indira assassination mandate.) In short, development may not be an absolutist winning ticket but it can be a great consolidator in electoral sweepstakes. The wily politician in the Bihar CM reckons he needs every card on the table to retain the edge in its complex electoral arithmetic. (The same come-all desperation also motivates his covert appeasement of neo JD-U converts and the occasional bahubali, moves that are termed capitulation by pro-vikas votaries in the intelligentsia.)

At the same time, the pragmatic Nitish recognizes he is no Narendra Modi, missing the BJP strongman's masterly leveraging of the governance plank, and indeed his enviable track record. Even Modi's biggest detractors (and Bihar's CM does occasionally assume that garb) cannot turn from the single-minded determination that Chhote Sardar brings to Gujarat's development agenda, or his patience-is-not-a-virtue attitude to execution. Unfortunately Bihar under NDA rule has mostly struggled to shrug off the negative growth RJD legacy and actually partially benefitted from its shrunk-denominator effect. In a nutshell, it is no one's case to argue that no good has come about in Bihar post 2005, but its pace has been painfully slow and corruption has continued to sadly fester. The incumbent CM therefore has little choice but to root for the symbolism in the bicycle scheme.

The compulsions for Nitish's main challenger are of course entirely different. Shri Laloo Yadav is looking for a way out of political Recycle Bin, hoping that the cycle of change makes people vote RJD's lantern back to power. The path is hardly rosy and the 70+ one-time kingmaker has struggled to brew a concoction to renew his spell, apart from hope in Rambilas Paswan's vote-transfer ability. After initial flirtations with the development plank by pointing to his record as Railway Minister (a claim made hollow thanks to Didi's revelations) he reportedly tried one-upmanship too - promising Class IX students motorcycles if victorious (so much simpler to match 1-kg rice with 2, alas!) but thankfully did not persist. It is, after all, one thing to turn animal fodder into millions, and quite another to conjure up finances for a mere-paas-motorcycle scheme (petrol bhi hai?). And then there is the minor happenstance of students not being of driving age, a fact that Nitish was quick to drive home, calling his bete noire's schemes as "always meant to land you jail"!

We have had some RJD leaders attempt murder-by-whispers too, with talk of how bicycles were being used to finance eloping couples, inter-caste marriages and what-not. Such slander campaigns sit light though, and most Biharis are too politically adept to miss the attempt to wash over Lalooji's misgovernance credentials (he once publicly castigated his trusted lieutenant, Raghuvansh P Singh, for mentioning development during an election rally, calling it an avoidable digression from the fight against communal forces!). Hence, his core support base more or less intact (though there is some talk of post-Babri Muslim angst changing this at a local seat level), Lalooji has been left to ponder where the additional numbers will come from. One can never write him off too soon, but it has till now sounded like a far cry from the days of samose-mein-aloo.

In a few days from now, we will get to know how it stacks up. Yet, irrespective of party inclination, a political lesson cannot be missed and is a harbinger of hope for the Bihari in me. Holding its own amidst the high stakes and tightly strung social equations, the humble bicycle, campaign rally exhibit extraordinaire, epitomizes the inevitable drive of economic progress and inclusive agenda. Or as a much wiser man once put it, one cannot fool all the people all of the time!

In Driving Seat!

My credentials as a backseat driver are rather suspect, to say the least. Hence it is not easy for me to put to paper experiences of a driving kind, but a Zen moment this Tue morning, amidst Cyber City rush hour traffic, did cause me a pause - hence this. (To make a full confession, one must add that it helped that this was also a week when Delhi formalized its intent to - finally - bid adieu to its dreaded Blue Line bus fleet.)

Now for the last few years, my chosen set of wheels has been a truck (actually two, both poor man's SUVs to boot). Naturally, if for no other reason, this has put paid to any ambitions of one-red-light-to-the-next Formula 1 speed thrills that most Delhiites consider their bounden duty to practice. In fact, enough of them (any number exceeding zero is too many, in my book) take the killer-instinct facet of their nature too literally for anyone of sane counsel to desist from indulging in pyrotechnics behind the wheel - unless desiring publicity as the day's victim is some horror tale of road rage. In such trigger-happy times, one is therefore left with not much choice but give the next horn-prone pup right of way, and enjoy the wafts of dhakchik-dhakchik music they leave in their wake. (Back in College, it was a source of much wonder for me as to how so much noise pollution was managed, till someone clarified that specialized - and naturally expensive - equipment was duly installed to create the jhankaar beat!) A show must be made, after all. And it must go on.

Cut to 2007. With a good chunk of my motoring in Gurgaon, with roads that rivalled Laloo's Bihar for non-existence, one learnt new lessons in forbearance. The strip availbale to drive was narrow, the traffic unending, and the desire to be first in office all consuming. With such evolved mindset in the fellow driver, there was little to do but enjoy oodles of me-time stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. (This of course rendered the no-handphone law quite redundant - they may be little distraction in a sea of red that a million feet on the brake pedal and no street lights produce!) Yet, to go back to the question of road rage, two competing species were found in abundance - the Call Center cabbie, overworked, underpaid and an embodiment of a what-me-wait credo; and the local agriculture-culture afficionado, sometimes on a tractor, often on an LCV, for whom a 4 lane road meant 2 opposing lanes on either side of the median. Ouch.

In such a setting of bad-road-worse-traffic, and caught amidst a Darwinian struggle for survival between might-is-right tractor and no-waiting-no-stopping Qualis; it would be rank dishonesty to claim that my patience levels, though infinite, were never tested! Faced with an assault of the senses, it would be a body much worse conductor of heat and or electricity than most folks of my acquaintance, including me, that would not occasionally boil over. And so, unfortunately, we succumbed. Thankfully we survived too. Yet, my lasting memory of any such skirmish was no sense of victory in getting the better of it, but clenched teeth, muttered breath, foul mood, and more.

The tale this Tuesday, though, is not of victory. Though running a wee bit late to work, and just the final turn in to the office building, my focus was tested by two gentlemen who, though not out of nowhere, decided to forsake the median they were perched on, and jump right in the my straight line path. The traffic having just cleared up, my newbie enthusiasm for an automatic was finding expression, when one had to resort to testing that other novelle feature - the ABS. The steed responded well enough, bringing me up well short of the duo - who were any case a study in indifference. Perhaps it was appreciation of the advancement in automobile technology (we do love instant responses, don't we!) or satisfaction at my holding my own against the vagaries of time (my split second reaction), but the three of us (yes, thats me included) each broke into a smile. To make matters more profound, and at my gesture bidding them to pass (one has to do a Cyber City cross-country to fully appreciate this) they responded by waving me on instead.

And so where there may have been righteous indignation or early morning vocal chord exercise (on either side), but certainly all round frustration, we had smiles, thank you! (Looking back, one is thankful too for the pre-brake speed that precluded any of my following traffic getting too close for comfort!) A good start to the day, we say. Or, in effulgent Diwali spirt, hope for more :)

The Game of The Name

Its official now. In a widely reported 'confidential' note, Cabinet Secretary KM Chandrashekhar has mandated against indiscriminate use of Indira and Rajiv Gandhi’s names for government initiatives to "prevent proliferation of such association." The directive has not come a moment too soon. By one count, over 450 schemes have been blessed with these prefixes since 1991 alone, a fact that had drew frequent critique from Opposition benches. It was also the subject of a petition to the Election Commission last year, suggesting the practice violative of the Model Code of Conduct. That the Government has finally chosen to "to be sparing and selective" is, therefore, at best a case of late-than-never!

Apart from displaying a singular lack of imagination, this publicity overkill was bound to be counter-productive. It is one thing to name the most prominent road in every town in the country after the venerable Mahatma, post anointing him Father of the Nation. It is another to affix Nehru-Indira-Rajiv (not in that order) to every government program impinging all walks of life. As the journalist father of the EC petition pointed out, from child bearing, rearing, education, employment and marriage; schemes concerning the citizenry's entire life-cycle found coverage! Of course, the patronage extended to national challenges too: food, drinking water, shelter, electricity, destitution, handicap - you name it and you had it, pardon the pun. Various state governments as well as central ministries seemed in a mindless race, falling over one another to appropriate these prize prefixes, presumably to find favour with Congress's First Family. It is only natural that some of these schemes exist only in 'name': National Water Mission, Fellowship Scheme, Gramin LPG Vitrak Yojana, Creche Scheme, Scheme for Empowerment of Adolescent Girls (Rajiv, all); Old Age Pension, Matritva Sahyog Yojna (ditto Indira), to 'name' but a few.

Faced with this assault of the ubiquitous, the aam aadmi, purported mascot of our ruling dispensation, could only respond with characteristic nonchalance. Unfortunately this resignation meant even actions bordering on the ridiculous went unprotested. For instance, the powers-that-be were obviously unimpressed with the globally recognized Brand IIM. What else explains the desire to add 'Rajiv Gandhi' to the moniker for the Indian Institute of Management's fledgling Shillong edition. At least the hue and cry over the MoST's use of Sonia Gandhi’s visage on NH signboards had the good lady herself ask its able minister to desist. (In any case, in the Congress scheme of things, few would have dared suggest removal, for fear of inviting questions on 'loyalty' all partymen wear on their sleeves!)

Perhaps one could explain actions of a developmental nature needing such heavy handed government guidance. Note however that even an activity like sports was hardly untouched. Tournaments of note carrying Gandhi-Nehru nomenclature ranged from cricket and football, through beachball and kabaddi, down to the Kerala Boat Race! In a nation short on sporting achievement (an odd CWG notwithstanding) one wonders if this was not a frittered opportunity to build examples from within the pantheon. In this backdrop, apparent concerns over potential "devaluation of the national leaders" is eminently laughable officialspeak.

Think larger picture and this name-rename obsession remains a quaint Indian construct. Having once had "San 1942 August Kranti Marg" as my mailing address (read it aloud if you don't find it funny; popular parlance any case had it as Hardinge Road), my acquaintance with this wasteful pastime is old. (We moved to MacDonnell Road a k a Madhav Shrihari Aney Marg next!) In fact, contemporary India has been stage for many puerile efforts over the years. Witness agitations to cleanse Bombay, Madras and Calcutta of their colonial past (more Ban-galore's are in store for sure!); or facelift for Odisha or Uttarakhand; plus thousands of roads, lanes and bylanes that have had name surgery, it is easy to understand why the Great Unwashed rarely care. Almost without exception, these cosmetic changes are shrugged off with the indulgent disdain Indians typically reserve for the political ilk and their shenanigans. At any rate, even if some such interventions have been accepted, they have done little to enhance the respective denizen's self worth, nor quality of life.

It is, therefore, incumbent on us to actively protest such name games beyond the issue of wastefully "associating names of national leaders". As a nation with superpower ambitions, taxpayer money and political interest are better served in actual pursuit of schemes like NREGA (pronounced Na-Re-Ga in the heartland) than its rechristening 4 years after launch, apparently in tribute to his dedication to Gram Swaraj, after Mahatma Gandhi. Else we will end up with MREGA :)

For Bettor or Worse

One more scandal. In Cricket. And with origins in our north-westerly neighbor. Before you yawn and throw the newspaper away, cursing them for rehashing old copy, pause a moment. Media baiting apart, recycling strategy does not sell newspapers, at least on a sustainable basis - and mine certainly wears its readership high on its sleeve. If this be the truth, there must be more to it, including a reason why Cricket has kept company with controversy with striking regularity of late.

My brush with the purported gentlemanliness of cricket came from pages of the same newspaper, years ago. The mid-80's, newly launched HT Patna edition headlined "It's Not Cricket" for some fiasco on the ground - the kind that’s hardly likely to cause you to blink in our more cynically evolved times! A question to the Pater elicited an etymological explanation in the game's history and tradition-rich lore. Not sure if it significantly altered my on-field behaviour (or lack of notable achievement), but much before Atticus Finch, it was an excellent introduction to that intangible called sportsman spirit.

Those wistful memories, though, are not the only reason to grieve the morass of modern Cricket. Mind you, the actual charges the tainted trio from Pakistan (and Akmal D’Artagnan) stand in the dock for, are neither unique nor original. More than a few of India's own, including our Hon'ble MP from Moradabd (though his erstwhile tarnished reputation has lately been alight with some other flame!) have shamed cricket and left even its diehard fans wondering whether on-field exploits are driven by sporting acumen or Mammonic influence. One can go so far as to argue that this skepticism; and an exposure overdose have led to Cricket's (relatively) flagging following - and gradual rise of other sports.

In any event, no nation has made such inseparable acquaintance with controversy as Pakistan. Go back but a few years and Pak cricket has been newsworthy more for unsavoury dealings and repeated individual misconduct than genuine cricketing reasons. If unconvinced, try and picture generation's-best-bat Inzamam (thus spake Imran; move over Lara, Sachin!), Peter Pan cowboy Afridi, sex-n-speed (pun intended) posterchild Shoaib Akhtar, twice-named Yousuf (more pun intended) and check if images of occasional glory are not tainted interminably with talent-wasting notoriety. Indeed Pakistani cricketers come and go (often for multiple voluntary and forced retirements!) but despite several efforts to clean their Augean stables, the muck refuses to wash off.

Perhaps all the internecine bickering and dubious (on- and off-field) debacles in Pak cricket could be brushed off as symptomatic of the rot in that country. The world has, after all, been comfortably numbed to bad news from Pakistan. Mourning the absence of sporting events in its geography is not easy given what transpired when Lankan Tigers last dared to venture there. Yet, history teaches us that existence of exclusion begets politics of hate. An economically challenged, educationally backward and socially fragmented state is fertile ground for the unleashing the worst within us. If no other, then this is good reason to shed a tear for Muhammad Amir. Not from the country's oligopolistic elite against whose doorstep lies the blame for most of the mess that is Pakistan, and whose fiefdom the nation's cricket has traditionally been; Amir would not have had it easy. His was a long, heroic journey from the Swat valley, now not famous for panoramic beauty but notorious for the war against Taliban; to matchwinning brilliance at Lord's. For a nation short on inspiration, at least of the right variety, such fairytale stuff was pertinent, to say the least. With those no-balls, alas, the spell is broken!

At another level, we must ponder if too much is invested in the game in the sub-continent: the ridiculous shenanigans before, during and after IPL ought to have triggered such thoughts anyhow. As case in point, consider the pointless brouhaha over another no-ball and symphony of sympathy for Sehwag (he too woke up to it overnight!). For sure lament the decline in the spirit of the game in such incidents but let us equally appreciate the larger context of its commercialization where, indeed, we have played a leading role. And certainly give those ill-founded, frenzied waves of jingoism a miss - it is, after all, just a game :)

PS: My vote too, for legalizing betting. Like the War against Tobacco teaches us, one plays them best when allowed out of the closet. Viva Transparency!

Damp Squib

Months ago, the draft of a new Direct Taxes Code for India had drawn much public acclaim, including in these pages. This was not without reason. For starters, the existing system was visibly knocking the doors of obsolescence. Hence, any review intended to simplify its archaic tenets (thereby reducing repeated recourse to judicial interpretation) was hugely welcome. Next, a forward-looking document shorn of its predecessor's dotage could enable the taxman to better engage and deploy tools of New Age technologies. This promised a sea change in efficiency and effectiveness of Direct Taxes administration (on counts like evasion detection, internal security etc) making it a progressive legislation worthy of our budding economic superpower billing. Last and not least, the very idea of promoting larger debate prior to finalization bespoke intellectual honesty and inclusiveness rare in our policymaking experience. A thumbs-up for this wiki approach was much in line.

However, implicit in all these arguments (in fact providing them overall credence) was the gamechanging nature of actual changes proposed to the tax framework. If it were to fall prey to back-room intrigue and lobbying, as the more cynical amongst us foretold, it would be a real pity in face of path-breaking promise. Even as these fears lurked, the Revised Discussion paper one heard of a few months back, too sounded headed in a compromise-riddled direction. And sadly that is exactly what has finally come home to roost in the proposal formally introduced in the Parliament this week.

So how has the cheer of the finest's toast for Pranab da slipped to old wine-new bottle despair? Not merely for selfish reasons, my first disappointment remains the largely superficial personal taxation changes. In fact, the reams of newsprint dedicated to laud the 'extra income' (INR 24K at the upper end) through marginally tweaked tax slabs makes one wonder when our mainstream media will mature beyond homilies and cliché. (To avoid sounding like a stuck record, one must steer clear of media-bashing: though richly deserved, there is zero surprise in our Fourth Estate's centrist and arguably pro-Congress slant.) In any event, basic math of inflation on the ostensibly cast-in-stone slab values itself beats hollow the DTC's pithy positioning as windfall for the taxpayer!

Going beyond this, one must rue the potential in a truly simplified tax framework. With 6.5% of tax incidence sacrificed at the politically expedient altar of Exemptions, the Government had a clear shot at reducing cost and complexity. Moreover, removal of potentially distortionary criteria would have improved investment decision-making for aam aadmi and HNI alike. Equally, a move to EET could have meant a boost for long term Savings (PF withdrawal is an example) but has been belied. Perhaps most importantly though, the survival of Exemption regime has reduced the leeway to lower rates and punt on increased adherence, ultimately limiting the ability to fund the Government's ambitious developmental agenda.

The saving grace has been the refusal to tinker with Capital Gains Tax that would have created an artificial portfolio churn opportunity (en masse profitbooking in March, followed by resumed long in April, a cost minus any economic value add) that has been avoided. (In lighter vein, the DTC is also the government's first assertion of having achieved its gender equality goals. So the deduction differential allowed for woman taxpayers stands withdrawn, unless if merely saved for a subsequent budget to reinstate)!

Of the pieces of fine print, the other notable revision in the Bill vs its draft is the compromise on corporate taxation. A strong argument exists as to how the Government thus frittered a chance to overhaul capital allocation in our economy. The erstwhile proposal to predicate MAT on gross assets vs book profits represented a fundamental change in the much-misused play around lowering tax liability via investment led depreciation benefits. From usage as tool to 'manage' tax, investments could have come into their own and be evaluated for true CBA. Big Business lobby however (including relatively genuine voices from its capital intensive variety) has ensured we are left with Photoshop type interventions in form of lowered tax rates via elimination of cess, surcharge etc. If, as successive FMs had given us to understand, these were temporary inclusions in our tax regime, it hardly needed a large-scale DTC exercise to get rid of them. Again, there is no surety that some other flavour that suits the incumbent political mood will not 'force' the government of the day to resurrect these ostensibly stopgap devices.

All told, this residual pot of half measures still sets the Taxman back 1% of their INR 5.8 lakh Cr annual kitty, without any redeeming expectation of increased adherence. A solitary hope remains - with the suspense and end Feb Budget jitters gone, we could leverage the long term Tax structure come 2012. If only the redoubtable Mr Mukherjee had been inspired by the spectacular doomsday caper of the same name, the changes would be a bit more appreciable...

Leave 'Em Kids Alone!

An article, tucked away in the inside pages of the newspaper two Sundays ago, rekindled some of my fondest childhood memories. It bespoke an impending rewrite of ten bestsellers from the 'Famous Five' series originally authored by the iconic Enid Blyton. Yet, news of the tweak, planned to better their appeal to contemporary pre-teen palate, left me somewhat disquieted.

To talk joys first, my acquaintance with the four kids and their canine retainer (hence the Five) arose in rather happy circumstances. An infrequent happenstance of academic achievement had my father gift me one of their novels as reward (likely expecting an encore!) from the neighborhood bookstore. The Five were thick with me in barely a few pages. For the uninitiated, three of them were siblings: the eldest, Julian, a cocky early introduction to 'first among equals'; the spirited and fun-loving Dick; and archetypal kid sister Anne. Accompanied by their feisty cousin George (never Georgina), their ageless tales of adventure made them much more than adolescent characters on elegant typeface. And Timothy or Tim, but mostly Timmy, their mongrel pet of supernatural gifts and yet higher loyalty, was the dog's dog. If more were needed, he was added motivation for many a young boy to yearn for Man's Best Friend about the house. (No doubt an almost equal number of mothers held the ruthless opposite view, and we know how most such debates conclude!)

In any event, Ms Blyton’s words and (albeit in smaller fashion) my animated imagination conspired to lend myriad hues to the sketched images. Convenient neighbourhood landmarks and sights from memory were cheekily appended, Rushdiesque, to suffuse them with vividly pulsating life. The Five were my friends next-door, yet magically faraway, in a subliminal construct that only childhood innocence and suitably stimulatory literature can produce. My love affair with the written word commenced with them (and a flock of the prolific Enid’s finest); kept alive thereafter by assorted characters from Fiction and more.

Imagine then, to have editorial scissors run amok this merry company! With the singularly insipid beacon of market research to light the way, a team is attempting to "sensitively and carefully" reconstruct the original. Primary onus, one is given to understand, is to correct an ostensibly antediluvian slang. Unfortunately, such a stance sits well with spin-doctors, not purveyors of young adult literature – but it is perhaps symbolic of our analysis-paralysis times.

To begin with, the charge that today’s young are shying from Five's idiom, while not incredible, sounds frankly tenuous. For it to stick, one must believe that the set of 21 penned over a like number of years ending 1963; amazingly alive and kicking for many of us through the mid-80’s; has managed to age significantly over the succeeding two decades. Equally, it surprises me enormously that a generation at least a thousand times brighter than ours at their equivalent age, needs editorial crutches to understand Blyton’s oeuvre. One can dismiss mine as a jaundiced eye, but such misconceived research may be better illustration of testing biased hypotheses than allegedly passé language or deficiency of acumen.

Of course, true to spin-doctor form, the author's name has been invoked in justification of the exercise. We are reminded how a "passionate" advocate of child literacy as Blyton would appreciate the need for her immortal characters to mouth appropriate "conversation" style dialogue. She was, in any case, famously disinterested in the views of critics over 12!

One wonders where such surgery would end, however. Would one, for instance, make George try less hard to be a boy in case not setting the politically correct example to today's youth? Or perhaps have in Anne not the occasionally tear-prone timid young lady that she was, for fear of hurting Women's Lib? One ought to cleanse the precocious Ju of his 'girls will be girls; boys, boys' elder brother complex. The inappropriately named Dick must need drastic repositioning, surely. Persisting, we could turn our attention to plots and paraphernalia: highlight dangers of presenting camping out as fun; review gypsies’ portrayal lest they take umbrage; check for animal rights violations in Timmy's caricature; evaluate Uncle Quentin’s absent-mindedness as endangering the scientific community; and more!

Incidentally, there would remain a profusion of Blyton waiting to be tackled. Secret Seven, Barney, Mallory Towers, St Clare's - we could be at this for some time (thus keeping certain unnamed cash registers ringing)! Perhaps the indefatigable Blyton preordained the dangers she was flirting with - she had not one but two sets of Five adolescents solving mysteries around England. Now if only she had not let the other group be led by the redoubtable Fatty...

PS: The last named, Frederick Algernon Trotteville, has already been blessed with a trim noveau visage last year... Who blames Kareena Kapoor for Size Zero fixation?