Plumbing Yet Deeper

It was with more than a slight spring in the step and twinkle in the eye that we scooted up the ladder to the little bird soon to soar in the sky. A half-hearted greeting at the door made for no pause in our upbeat mood and it was a benign eye that inspected our transport's relatively modest confines. Indeed, a token Club Class row (we were in the next) elicited but a friendly chuckle from W as we belted up. My throat was being a tad rebellious though and cabin crew intervention had to be requested. A stewardess appeared soon enough in response to the call button, promptly noting the request for a glass of warm water. Almost on cue, the pilot initiated runway formalities and, moments later, we were airborne.

Debating whether to attend to the companion paperback or grab a shuteye, my reminder for that glass of water to the in-flight hospitality team commencing snack service, was affable, to say the least. Be that as it may, the glass remained elusive as we devoted ourselves to contents of the breakfast tray. My demurral of surprise to W at not being asked for choice of cuisine was but a murmur (my partiality to meat not being a shared inclination in any case). Yet, despite her vote for things vegetarian, she could not suppress a crinkling of the nose at the quality of food on offer. She did educate me though as to why my lofty morning-omelette ambitions were thwarted, pointing to piece of misdirected evangelism from the airline's promoter-chairman in a tacky seat-pocket brochure. Seemingly, Mr Goenka was doing his zealous duty to spread satvik vibes in airspace by denying minor gastronomic pleasures to us lesser mortals.

Vexing as this presumption of choice may be, but my poise was severely tested by the sustained refusal for that fugitive glass of water to materialize. At this tug of the bell, the first crew-member made a repeat appearance, only to inform me on this occasion that no provision for warm water existed in flight (perhaps some satvik postulate was violated), turning nonchalantly away before one could ask as to why the last two requests had met assent promising future fulfillment. Bias for sustained civility forbore me from pursuing matters, though it was beyond my fuddled mind to fathom what was perverse about such beverage being in service. Indeed, likely things could get worse, given all that had transpired since the morning.

It did not take long for that piece of rhetoric to meet its answer. The indifferent fare on offer needed a strong garnishing in any case. The airline's choice of dessert dressing was dead mosquitoes, two in number, as revealed by a cursory inspection of what W had in front of her. Perhaps a mosquito or two was par for the course in screens for vegetarian staple per Mr Goenka's specifications. The cabin crew next summoned did certainly indicate that the proceedings were of routine nature: her blasé shrug of disinterest had an aura of finality, utterly dismissing any hint of corrective action.

A soul far braver may have persisted, not me. The airline had spared no effort in staging these intricate manouevers and consecutive nadirs in service benchmarks (Chhoo Lo Aasman, ha): an eminently reasonable explanation for the ticket price tag. Thus grounded, we slept. No more happened: much could have. Or perhaps they ran out of ideas. Or budget.

Plumbing Depths

This one goes back a few weeks. The first-born of a new generation in our family was planning to tie the knot, and the Missus decided (uncharacteristically late; perhaps my eminently avoidable influence) that we ought to make the trip to Ranchi to add to the congregation assembled in Jharkhand's capital city for the occasion. Post the usual motions that accompany such marital confusion-making (sorry, decision-making), the argument was settled in the customary fashion (after all W is for Winning) and the vanquished assigned the menial task of booking flight tickets. Skipping any remonstrations vis-a-vis our misconceived munificence, well deserved as they may be, let me get to the chase.

My favourite fare search engine revealed the penury of choices in connectivity between the national capital and the pride of Soren-land (this predates the ignominy of Tamar where Guruji achieved a near impossible first: loss for a sitting Chief Minister of an Indian state in a by-election to sanctify governing rights). The alternatives were limited to three, of which our much-maligned national carrier and the reincarnation of no frills-pioneer Air Deccan, were known offenders on service and timeliness counts. In fact, the third option with its early morning departure fitted us to a t; arriving JIT for the inviting festivities of a Big Fat Indian Wedding. Mention must be made too of this transport provider's alluring tagline: a promise to touch sky-high (standards of excellence, presumably)! Hence, setting aside any Shylockian considerations, a new personal high in domestic one-way transport purchase damages was scaled in a few clicks.

Come the anointed day and we rose at day-break, a chore that typically guarantees to dampen the spirit among us weak-fleshed. But, as foretold, the prospects of a delightful family reunion and concomitant abundance of good cheer (and food) beckoned. Meru deposited us uneventfully at the airport and we found ourselves at the relatively nondescript check-in counter in no time. Service was quick, although, as the resident critic noted with a mild chuckle, one could discern the incongruity in the ground-staff's commercial finery, namely the colour palette and, yet more so, grooming (or absence thereof). Regardless, in a state of partial sleep deprivation, one was more than relieved for a quick scoot through Security. Indeed, such was the jubilation at the extra moments of rest thus afforded, that a repeat appearance of the check-in staff at the terminal exit door was met with benign appreciation, forgetting momentarily that costs cut thus had not found their way to the fare calculator.

Such economic considerations were promptly thrown out the window a few minutes later: after all, one can withstand only so many jolts when expecting a quick dash to the aircraft, and presented a cross-country drag race ride instead. Seconds turned to interminable minutes, and minutes to many aching more, as our joy-ride lasted the entire length of the runway, across the breadth of the domestic terminal, and then halfway again through the runway at the opposite end. Not just once during the twists and turns in the morning chill, there being no air-con (more cost saving perhaps?) on the rickety bus, did one get the feeling we had taken a road trip and not a flight to Ranchi.

All good things come to an end one supposes though, and a few years later we found ourselves in terra incognita, a secret nook of the certainly-not-so-large-as-to-be-uncharted Delhi airport. Two dusty aircraft in hues of aluminum silver and occasional blue greeted us but, in a mocking wave of destiny, we were told we could not begin boarding, or disembark the rickety safari ride, for ostensible 'security' reasons. The lorryload of co-passengers soon gave ample voice to their frustrations though, and we managed to convince the driver to open the door. Acceding to our entreaties, he relented for its use but only as an inlet for fresh air and not a passage to the aircraft. Blessed be these small mercies.

Moving with the script, after a wait of another few minutes, a Sumo driven at quasi-breakneck speed made its appearance, revealing what seemed to be the ground staff. Notable of them was their supervisor: quite the Italian job: hair gelled back, day four stubble and toothpick dangling from mouth corner completing the Cobra Crime-is-a-Disease-I-am-the-Cure look. His malevolent glare dissipated in a jiffy our desires to alight the diesel contraption we had rode in, yet failed to work its magic on the rest of his platoon who soldiered somnolently to remove stoppers under the aircraft wheels and assorted other motions to ready the plane. Yet more time gone and not a sign for us to start to board, the aircraft door to open, or, for that matter, of the cabin crew. In all, a veritable mockery of my hitherto flying experience.

It was at this juncture that an entirely new set of actors decided to enter the plot - the erstwhile Sumo's twin, at equally breakneck speed, and a few more passengers ferried therein - but sorry, no cabin crew yet. My Out-of-Africa parody was complete when Cobra announced (if that be the appropriate verb to describe those unwilling oral motions accompanied by rapid flicks of tooth-pick from one end of mouth to the other, producing unintelligible sounds wholly unaccompanied by any hint of apology) that there was a 'technical snag' and they would have to check for an alternate airplane.

By this time, frankly, one was at a stage where mere acknowledgment of existence of a back-up aircraft in this hillbilly service was like a manna from heaven; and my cuppa joy was definitely overflowing, having sighted too the elusive reclusive cabin staff at a distance. God was certainly in his element and all right with the Wodehousian world, as the replacement carriage was serendipitously discovered to be the one parked next door, saving one the blushes of another jungle safari. In any case, we were all confessedly beyond a state to speculate on the existence of a third bird in the fleet!

Flesh and spirit were more than willing, hence, as one gave the W a nudge and bounded up the few steps to the cabin - with thoughts a whirl of relief amidst sleeplessness and fatigue. In the blur too was hope, if one dare says it, for we were about to Chhoo Lo Aasman...

[To be continued!]

The Pros of HitchHiking

A rather wise colleague of mine, told of my virginal attempt at a blog, prophesied that the key question over time would be of sustenance. Frankly, my initial response was to summarily nix such doubt-mongering. A history of liberally dissembling opinion in conversation gave me confidence; abusing the constitutionally guaranteed Freedom of Expression being a habit. If some immodesty be allowed, my defence would also include a certain felicity with Words, notably in written form. Last but not least, innocence of intent could be an argument too: Echohum’s conception being as much inside-out as to seek other voices.

In short, one felt more than equal to the task of expanding blogspace. However, a few months on, the scorecard is meagre, including a couple of drafts lying abandoned, forgotten in the multitude of chores that define post quarter-life-crisis existence. It appears it is already time to reflect on where Echohum stands, the little path treaded, and where it may be headed.

An admission, at the outset: the effort of putting pen to paper (figuratively speaking) and click-of-button publication has been intensely gratifying. Although a blog barely three posts old may be early days to summarize thus, but there is something delicately uplifting in the movement of words from cerebral-and-fleeting to physical-and-enduring domain. The nature of this blogging exercise is semi-cathartic, almost humbling, on two counts: the Message and the Medium.

To talk in order, content née Message is foremost (measuring it only by reception may not be entirely accurate). There are intensely individual and hence highly variable reasons for which assorted bloggers likes yours truly reach for the keyboard. What emerges post (pun intended) is obviously disparate. Again, the rate at which more gets created would put even those warren-dwelling champions of the multiplication game, to shame. So what explains this urge, the furor loquendi?

Simply put, irrespective of raison, there is something uplifting in the Dasvidaniya moments when one decides 'if" or ‘what’ to write. Experience of the last few months tells me that mere process of this choice, even when not resulting in an actual post, broadens one's perspective on three counts. First, the quest for a topic leads to more extensive reflection on the days' happenstances. Next, there is an increased propensity to action since a broader canvas of experiences makes for more post-worthy possibilities. Third, the day-end rumination ups the revitalizing quotient of the day's highs (say, sun-sand-surf in Ile Maurice); while turning languid the lows (case: an abysmal tryst with MDLR Airlines)! So ye tentative traveler, a recourse to blogging may just enthuse you to spend your way out of the economic downturn at assorted desirable destinations!

Aside such macroeconomic considerations, we have the compulsive convenience of the Medium itself. While the ordeal-by-fire ‘iron foundry’ school of success may interest traditionalists, the blogger's way is seamless push-button publishing. That one lands transmission-ready for a million (ahem) eyeballs, minus motivation-sapping rejections via sundry unnamed editors, is likely a bigger imagination breakthrough than Printing Press's assault on forestry. Thus, barely a century from Edison-perspiration, you have a shot at Warholian fifteen seconds on Google, to list with Britney Spears, CERN's nuclear physics postulates, deluge of spam, and the latest slice of erotica. Eulogy or odium may follow (or, likely, apathetic neglect), but you are ‘out there’.

Blogging, therefore, is a fair epitome of today's age: if you have a thought, you have a medium. So, as the Obama inauguration focuses the world on Word: in China a debate on omission (Communism); the rest of the world on Justice Roberts’s placement (faithfully), here’s my contribution. Do you read?

Rock On!

A lazy July afternoon two years ago, in reconnoitering the Net to plan a trip to Shanghai, came the news that a certain Roger K Barrett was no more. "For those who knew him, and certainly some of us spent many an evening reveling in the joys of the company of Syd and his kinsmen..." was how one mourned his pioneering genius, in the poignant knowledge that the Madcap Laughs, but now in a different abode.

Nonetheless, hope lingered for the faithful: that the Floydian bell had not tolled its last yet. Indeed, it grew by virtue of a momentous reunion during Live 8 a few months ago. Mind you, any new note to add to the treasure trove that unfurled with Piper at the Gates of Dawn two score years ago, would be up against sky-high expectations. Their success had been staggering; time since last foray unbearably long.

Miracles were par for the course, however. Like the day when practising a new song for Wish You Were Here, before the evening party for Dave Gilmour's wedding, a fully shaved overweight man, looking aged beyond his years, had wandered in unrecognized in the studio. Amongst friends after a five year hiatus and amidst the strains of Shine On You Crazy Diamond (ostensibly dedicated to him) Syd had asked for a guitar, to find none, and walked away from them forever.

With the tragic demise of Rick Wright this week, alas, that hope is gone. There would be no more from the band that redefined music with experimentative sound, evocative lyric, and phantasmagoric rock opera constructs. Debates as to the order of greatness among the prodigal Barrett, meditative Waters or mellow Gilmour usually led me back to my first etched-in-rock principle. Serendipitously discovered during my baby steps in College, it went: there was Floyd, and then you had Music (or, more pithily, Floyd is God)!

Indeed, for a musical journey so rich in idiom, varied in vein, and haunting in memory, attempting an epitaph is surely ill-advised. Suffice it for me to exit today, then, with two tickets for Rock On in hand, by reaching into the divine anthology for a composition sans pareil, from the aforementioned 1975 album, and leave you to savour some of its nine-part gem:

Remember when you were young; you shone like the sun…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
You were caught on the cross fire of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze…
Come on you target for faraway laughter, come on you stranger,
You legend, you martyr, and shine!

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze…
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter,
You piper, you prisoner, and shine!

Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Pile on many more layers and I'll be joining you there…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
And we'll bask in the shadow of yesterday's triumph,
And sail on the steel breeze…
Come on you boy child, you winner and loser,
Come on you miner for truth and delusion, and shine!

Whose Trust Is It Anyway

It has been four weeks off the air. One doubts if they offer much to history books though. A strangely muted run-up to the Olympics and quintessential theatrics of a US presidential race have jostled for mindspace. Elsewhere, a roller-coaster of oil prices and gloomy predictions for world economy have been in headlines. The latter, in any case, has now passed beyond the realm of speculation to ostrich-like acceptance of fact. All told, despite intent, Echohum has been stuck at its modest debut in the last weekend of June.

Existence was humdrum at an individual level too. Attempts to break the monotony via Weekend Getaways from Delhi went nowhere. Sports was armchair variety only; and all despair. Sample this: a new tenant at Wimbledon Centre Court, another vote for Spanish conquistadorial instinct in Europe 2008 and two forgetful outings for Kimi (retirement in Canada; frittered pole at Magny Cours). Team India's last hurdle capitulation via simultaneous loss of batting form and proverbial Dhoni luck, meant that the cup of woes brimmeth over.

Possibly the closest to brush with history in the interlude, thus, was the in-the-end-not-so-close arithmetic exercise AKA 'Vote of Trust'. I would have found the cocktail heady, given typical affinity towards things political, and prurient interest in intrigue in high places. Yet, it mostly left bad taste (and little potential for drawing-room gossip); and apprehension as to who and how governs We, the People.

Reasons for such cynicism are aplenty. Start with the actual proceedings in the Parliament. The debate (if one can call it that) around whether Shri Somnath Chatterjee should pivot to the symbol adorning his electoral ballot; or ostensible propriety in putting constitutional kursi first; was a chapter in the decline and fall of probity in public life. Indeed, one almost believed this solitary vote represented a national crisis. Multiple TV channels ran helter-skelter for a soundbyte on whence-Speaker, with opinion-makers of all ilk offering platitudes on the subject. Of course, as is wont in such cases, the bitterness persists as these words are being written, with a promise of more to come.

Frankly, apart from these 'concerns' on the Chair, one does not know what else to note from the discussions leading up to the vote. Inane opening remarks by the PM, zero-surprise rebuttal from the Leader of Opposition and a series of speakers whose earth-shattering postulates were given a total miss by the two newspapers and three news channels in my sample, save for three exceptions.

Two of these were scions of prominent political families. Both tried to cloak party affiliations running through their veins with an 'apolitical' hope-in-youth type appeal. Mainstream media sources cited above made suitable clucking noises, harking back to glory-hallelujah Rajiv Gandhi days, in talking of this duo. Nary a care for the mismatch between intention and delivery in respect of Mr Clean (post the cited mid-80s Bombay Congress plenary remarks). Hope springs eternal, perhaps?

The third spotlit character was this incorrigible Hindi heartland comic. Die-hard supporters (thankfully much shrunk now in numbers in his erstwhile fiefdom) would have us believe he is Lord Krishna reincarnate. Restraint is needed here, the post being long enough already, with much due; but suffice it to say that his caricaturing, like forementioned dynastic hopes, was completely puerile if mildly entertaining.

Of the spectacle of currency notes being held aloft, much has been said (and captured for posterity by news TV). Yet, one could not help but wonder if this was akin to a show-and-tell, an acknowledgment of our polity's passage in horse-trading sense from insinuation to omnipotence-omnipresence. It was almost Freudian to watch money being waved on screen over the heads of Hon members as if the nation needed to be reminded of the lure of lucre. Like l' affaire Somnath, this one continues to play on.

Who's Left, pardon the pun? Skipping the rest of shenanigans (Sonia ji, Mayawati ji, Amar Singh ji et al), let us talk of M/s Karat and Co. This branch of the democratic family stands out for the remarkable insularity of their world-view. They doggedly pursue the 'high moral ground' despite a pitiable track record when in power. Your average Leftist is not illiterate, yet can be brazenly illogical and (notwithstanding current cracks in citadel) the entire flock toes the same line, Gulag or no Gulag, and a Nandigram to you if you disagree!

A quick peek in history is instructive to analyze Karat-speak. During Quit India and after Independence, the Party batted for the British, going so far as to label our Freedom-at-Midnight 'fake'. Then, their stance on the 1962 War sounded suspiciously similar to comrades north of the MacMohan Line. Now, after a near-full term of power-sans-accountability, Shri Karat decides to pull the plug. Not, mind, for rising prices, economic reform or like issues aligned to their avowed shibboleths, but a Nuclear Deal. Other than perfunctory noises of the pact being anti-Muslim, our Marx-Lenin types did not even attempt reasons for their opposition. It remains equally unclear as to what they gained (or will, come election time) politically.

One wonders if there's more to this anachronistic anti Americanism, given the extent of nuclear power adoption by China (set to overtake France as #1 in civilian energy use). Any argument of retaining military testing option too ought to come more naturally to the BJP and certainly not the Commies, with their vociferous opposition to Pokharan II or consequent nuclear armament. Perhaps some day Com Karat can enlighten us (it is beyond imagination to expect anything faintly logical from Com Yechury). Until then, it is an idle mind or thick skin that would try decipher method in the Left's madness.

All in all, a month's hiatus is best summarized by a Tuesday tale: a 'victory' that may be Pyrrhic; a 'vote' of no note; and 'confidence' alas...

About A Name

A journey of a thousand li begins with a single step. For a blog, one must perforce start with a title. Having flirted for long with the idea of writing one, it surprised me yesterday that this seemingly minor detail had missed my attention. Afternoon soon turned to evening in musing saddi Dilli's traffic volumes on an otherwise uneventful day. The mind kept going back to questions of a nomenclatural kind though, even as the decision for dinner was made in favour of Khan Market next-door over Select Citywalk. Regardless, the condiments on offer failed to stir any divine ideas. Nor was the resident critic in one of her more indulgent moods.

So I slept over it.

And it came to me early Sun morning (confessedly an uncharacteristic action for the hour in my case). The math, as they say, is clear: there are really only two original numbers, zero and one. If you went from zero to one, and then again more than once, you would have many. Equally, there is no other way to get to many than to start with one. Hence, One is Me.

'Many', on the other hand, may well invite charges ranging from mere egotism to ominous megalomania! My defence is simple: the reference is not to any precocious assumptions of following (not that such be unwelcome) but to the multiple touch-points that is Life. Amidst its myriad hues and shapes, inspiring ideas and individuals, and inimitably diverse emotions and expressions, we find life in atoms and Atlases (that dance in a marvelous interdependence for existence) and beyond.

Let it, therefore, be my stated intent to open this multitude of experiences; and humbly seek to add to them through reactions, suggestions or comments. From One to Many, back some; and then some more!