I’m a Liberal and I’m Angry With You, India

Iam a liberal and I am alarmed at your choices, India. I cannot recognise you anymore. You have ushered in the dark days of democracy. Why did you vote for Modi?

A vote for Narendra Modi is a vote for hate. A vote for Modi is a vote for a Hindu Rashtra. A vote for Modi is a vote for a regressive and backward India.

A vote for the Trinamool is not a vote for a dictatorial Mamata Banerjee. A vote for the Congress is not a vote for a riot-accused Kamal Nath. A vote for the Samajwadi Party is not a vote for dynasty. A vote for the BSP is not a vote for a corrupt Mayawati. But every single vote for BJP, regardless of the candidate or the rationale behind the vote, is a vote for Pragya Thakur.

The poor in the village might have voted for the BJP because he probably got access to electricity, water, or toilets. The urban youth might have voted for BJP in the hope that he might get a job. Maybe those living in Naxal-affected Chhattisgarh voted for the BJP because their lives are slightly more secure now. But no, elections are about black and white binaries and I will decide that binary for the entire country.

If I didn’t have water to drink and food to eat, would I care if we bombed some terrorists in Pakistan? Of course not. But what do poor people know? Modi spoke about Balakot strikes in a speech, so they voted for him. I am educated and intelligent, so I would never do that, but let me insult the intelligence and wisdom of the masses by claiming they are naive and gullible.

One in two people has voted for the BJP, and each of the 22.6 odd-crore people are wrong. They are evil, poisonous to the core, and bigoted. The majority, comprising people from vastly different economic levels, social backgrounds, religions, castes, languages and cultures, who have somehow gotten together in this fabulous exercise to give us a decisive mandate that points in one direction; they are all wrong. All the infinite wisdom in the world resides in me and only I know what the world should be like.

And today, I am angry with you, India.

The mandate you have given is not one that I like, so I have lost my faith in the system and country itself. I may have lost touch with millions of you, but that is your fault, not mine. So I will label all of you, whom I have never met or know nothing about, as fascists, minority haters, and hate-mongers.

Why did you have to vote for Modi, India?

In a country where over 200 million people live in absolute poverty, I kept warning you that the biggest thing under threat was this abstract “idea of India” that I still can’t explain or define. On the other hand, Modi kept promising electricity, toilets, and security, so you voted for him. Why don’t you, the poor farmer in Madhya Pradesh, have the exact same concerns, as I, a keyboard warrior from Mumbai? Sometimes, you are so heartless, selfish, and narrow-minded, India. And I am livid today.

What was wrong with the Opposition? Maybe they didn’t have any shared ideology except “anyone but Modi”. Maybe they all kept fighting among themselves and kept crossing each other all the time. Maybe they didn’t have a leader that you could look up to. Maybe you couldn’t visualise what that khichdi government would look like if you didn’t vote for Modi. So what?

The subjective and abstract “idea of India” that I have in my head, which means different things for different people, was at stake, and you have disappointed. Your vote has taken the country backward today, into the dark ages. Of course, I am the sole authority that decides which vote takes India forward and vice-versa. What were you thinking?

I hope you feel extremely guilty about what you have done. I may label you ignorant, illiterate, and a terror sympathiser, but remember that I need you by my side in the next election. But today, I am angry with you India.

Yes, I am a liberal but I have no tolerance for this mandate.

“Talk English, Walk English”: Will We Ever Stop Considering the Language a Benchmark of Success?

My mother and father both studied in Gujarati-medium schools, but made it their life’s mission to enroll me in a private English-medium school. The end product of that is a Gujarati who can neither read nor write in his mother tongue, and is labelled “angrez ki aulaad” every time he has to read a signboard in the language of his forefathers.

I can never forget the image of my father beaming with pride after my application to the prestigious Holy Cross Convent School in Mira Road was accepted, in the mid ’90s. Even in that era, when an English education would seem routine to most of my peers, I was the first in our family to go to an English-medium school and everyone was excited. They couldn’t wait to hear all the fancy English words, phrases, and sentences I would be speaking at home soon – my parents might have been more excited when I said “A for Apple” than they were when I said my first words.

My English education was the equivalent of a showpiece held up for display for guests. Each time a relative visited from Gujarat, I was asked to say something, anything in English. Over time, bored with this routine, I wouldn’t even bother narrating a poem; I’d merely mutter a few random words and they’d all applaud, like some sasta Shakespeare of the Rajgor parivaar.

Not much has changed since. I am showered with more attention than many of my cousins at family dos, not because I’m more successful or intelligent but only because I am fluent in English. A couple of years ago, I asked my mom what the fuss was about, and why they insisted that I go to an English-medium school. “Jo taqleef hume hui, wo tumhe nahi honi chahiye,” was her reply. To my ears, it sounded straight out of an old Bollywood film.

But my parents’ obsession with English started in the ’80s. A chartered accountant and a B Com graduate, my dad and mum faced obstacles in their careers – promotions were delayed, job opportunities missed – only because they couldn’t communicate in the language of the workplace. They’d made their decision about sending me to an English-medium school long before I came around.  

Two years ago, Irrfan Khan and Saba Qamar starred as a beleaguered couple that goes to great lengths to admit their daughter in a good school, in the sleeper hit dramedy Hindi Medium. One dialogue from the film has stayed with me: “Angrezi sirf zubaan nahi, class hai class.” English is not merely a language – it is a separate class.

My parents understood that 20 years ago. They knew it was a necessity. Even today, when my father talks to the house help or driver about his children, he asks, “Bachchon ko ‘English-medium’ mein padha rahe ho na?” They’re all aware that the language is a rung on the ladder of upward social mobility.

My mother struggles with English but when a salesperson at the mall, a waiter at a fine-dine restaurant, or an insurance agent on call initiates a conversation, she feels compelled to reply in English, fearing that she will be judged if she didn’t. My father is embarrassed to ask about the plot of an English movie even when he can’t follow the dialogue. After all, how can an educated person admit that he can’t understand the language?

I know of highly qualified friends who travelled from the interiors of Gujarat and Rajasthan but have failed to crack interviews at MNCs, not because they lack the technical skillset but because they don’t have command over a language. I have worked in companies where the client is comfortable in regional language, the employees are locals, yet we put on a farce and speak in English.  

As a society, we have come to define English as a measure of intelligence than merely a language of communication. We make fun of people who mispronounce an English word but find it extremely cute when foreigners screw up when attempting to speak Hindi. Indian and Pakistani cricketers are constantly mocked for goofing up English in the post-match presentation, even though it has nothing to do with on-field performance. Even Prime Minister Modi’s Gujju-English accented “May be phorce be with you” is a topic of constant ridicule.  

English is a globally accepted language and the knowledge of an additional language will always be an added bonus. However, it can’t be at the cost of everything else. A Quartz report on how “India’s obsession with English is depriving many children of a real education” points to a research collated by the UNESCO. “Children who begin their education in their mother tongue make a better start, and continue to perform better, than those for whom school starts with a new language,” the research says.

“The obsession with English determinedly ignores what is impossible to ignore: A majority of Indian children leave school without the basics of old-fashioned reading, writing and arithmetic, in any language. This cannot be fixed by teaching them English or in English with, among other things, teachers who themselves are unskilled in the language,” the report says.

Yet we continue to obsess over English, so much so that it has now become a tool to discriminate against our own selves. In a country as vibrant and diverse as ours, why should people lose job prospects or be looked down upon, if they can’t speak one particular language? We are now in a race to join the “English class of people”. But we probably need to stop and take a breath: It’s not all about English Vinglish.

How Smartphones Killed the Art of Sitting at the Window Seat and Doing Nothing

Itravel by public transport in Mumbai every day. If it’s a decent day, I manage to enter the bus without breaking a bone. If it’s a good day, there’s place to stand in the train without me being forced to smell the breath of another man and guess what he’s had for breakfast. If it’s a lucky day, I get to rest my skinny arse on a seat, and when all the stars align and I hit the jackpot, I get a window seat.

Today was one such day, and the joint winner of the jackpot was a father-son duo who had landed the window seat opposite mine. The dad and I hurriedly scrambled for the seat like our lives depended on it, but once we settled in, we did what everyone does these days – lowered our heads and stared at our phone screens. Our ride lasted an hour and neither of us cared to peek outside, even once. I was hooked on to The Umbrella Academy on Netflix; the father was simply scrolling through his phone, and the kid was playing Ludo Star on his dad’s second phone. I looked around and realised everyone was doing the exact same thing – everyone was lost to their cellphones.

Technology has been a giant slayer of many things wonderful and one of them is the joy of sitting by the window seat.

As a child, I remember that most of the thrill of travelling by public transport, whether it was the train or a bus, long-distance trip or a short ride across town, revolved around the drama of the window seat. The moment my cousins and I boarded a bus or a train, we scanned it for an empty window seat, and made a dash for it – if the four of us found four different windows, it was like Christmas come early.

It wasn’t just a kiddie thing; I’ve seen adults break into a brawl over the coveted seat. These were simpler times, when a handkerchief would be used to call dibs, and arguments would break over whether what was ethical when it came to claiming the seat. Does hurling your purse on to the seat count? What if you smuggled a kid through the window? There were no rules to this game. Passengers that didn’t get the window would keep waiting for the occupiers to get up, so they could slide in and feel the wind in their hair. And children like me used their cuteness to their advantage. An innocent, “Uncle, uncle mujhe window seat do naa, please” mostly did the trick.

As a kid, I played my cards well. I’d often move through the crowd in a packed train – mostly the Churchgate-bound local, when dad took me to the movies at Eros – and stood right in front of the window. And if I got lucky, a kind passenger would either vacate his seat for me or pick me up and make me sit on his lap. It might not have been the most comfortable journey, but the window seat was worth it. I can close my eyes and still feel the breeze on my face. And the view and the smells are unmatched. We did not cross green fields and high mountains, but the aroma from the Parle biscuit factory as you crossed Vile Parle, a tiny glimpse of Bandra’s faraway marvels, and the hustle bustle of the chawls as the train sped past Lower Parel, were more engrossing than any Netflix show. The pièce de résistance of this joy ride was of course the view of the sea as your train approached Marine Lines. Every head turned to get a little glimpse of the blue. But today the only blue that we seem to be drawn to is the light from our smartphones.

Back then, the window seat was the envy of all travellers, more sought after by passengers than a seat in Parliament by our greedy politicians. And then came the mobile phone. The lure of the window seat waned along with any interactions that we had with our fellow commuters.

Much like every public place in cities the world over, our buses and trains are now filled with people with their necks craned at a screen. The college student is binging on web shows, the middle-aged man is watching HDRips of Bollywood films, the old woman is reading the Hanuman Chalisa on her phone and the rest are too occupied with Candy Crush to care.

I’m not different from the crowd; looking out for a whole minute without reaching for the next new notification is a challenge. Each time the phone wins because the need to feel “connected” all the time is infinite.

Who cares about that little patch of blue at Marine Lines when you scroll through the pictures of your friend’s Maldivian honeymoon on Instagram? What can be so engrossing on a Mumbai road that it diverts your attention from the Twitter fight over Pakistani artists?

When we watch movies where humans turn into machines, it almost always begins with the protagonist’s hands turning metallic and their speech robotic. But in the real world, change begins with tiny and unnoticeable compromises, like a slow erosion of our faculties of fascination, curiosity, imagination, and wonder.

The phone makes us feel guilty for “doing nothing”. It does not even spare us a moment to stop and stare out of the window. And for that we must be worried.

Makar Sankranti: Gujarati Mardi Gras Minus the Swag

My father is a self-proclaimed “active person” who loves playing “games” and “sport”, which, for him, include (illegally) plucking cherries from the neighbour’s farm, jumping over gutters, playing with bottle caps, throwing kids into the river so they figure out how to swim, and playing with marbles in the dusty veranda. In his own words, it was a very “different time” back then. Of course, this was the ’60s and the only fitness apps they believed in back then, were glasses of milk and plates of fruits.

In his lifetime, my father has witnessed the erosion and eventual extinction of things that were #lit during his childhood. And like many people of his generation, it has made him a wee bit bitter. This is evident when he occasionally bursts into rants about the “mindless” video game and mobile phone culture that has shaped my childhood.  

But there’s one day in the year that makes my father forget all the ranting, and gets his eyes lit up like Harry Potter’s after he spots the Golden Snitch.  

Yes, it’s the day of Makar Sankranti, the Gujju equivalent of Mardi Gras minus the swag. Makar Sankranti aka Uttarayan is as important for us Gujjus as undhiyu, dandiya, stock markets, and Narendra Modi. We simply can’t stop fangirling over these things (sorry, Rahul baba). This is also the day my otherwise mellow father brings out his competitive best — and his arch nemesis is Bunty ke papa, Apollo Creed to my father’s Rocky Balboa.

But before the competition is family bonding. There’s an age-old Gujarat adage that goes, “A family that flies kites together, stays together.” So we all get together and scream, “Kai po che” like our life depends on it while we pass around til chikki as if they were weed cookies and down Rooh Afza like tequila shots.

My dad is nervously excited ahead of Sankranti. He is the only guy I know who looks forward to January, the most depressing month of the year. It’s like my father has two personalities, one reserved for the rest of the year and one for January, when he goes from Bruce Wayne to full-on Batman, patang and phirki in tow.  

Dad, who avoids shopping like Rahul Gandhi avoids election season, the man who won’t go to the market to buy bread, gets his hands on the finest-quality manja, sourced from the markets of Surat. The manja is made by men with razor-sharp wit and it is so fine that it could cut your soul. It will certainly shred Bunty ke papa’s kite.

Once the kites and manja are in possession, dad decides to delegate. While he’s planning his moves for the D-day, my cousin and I tie the kannies (knots) to the kites, the job of sidekicks, not the superhero. He doesn’t want to waste precious time doing manual labour while the opponents are ripping out one kite after another during the practice games. But dad’s a pro, net practice is for noobs.

On the day of Sankranti, he’s up early, dressed to the nines in his superhero suit of starched white kurta-pyjama. He’s pacing around the house, restless, waiting for us lazy folks to get out of bed. “You young people should go up on the terrace and have fun, these are your days to enjoy,” he tells us. What he doesn’t tell us though, is that he is jonesing for a round with Bunty ke papa, who is also probably pacing around his living room.

As he makes his way to the arena, the building terrace, expert commentary is first delivered on the wind conditions and what it’ll be like throughout the day. (The met department better take note, this is where the real weather expert’s at.) After an in-depth analysis, it’s time to get down to business: One kid holds the phirki, the other one helps with the kite getting elevation.

It is in these moments, when I see my father at his childlike best. Screaming “Kai po che” with such fervour that it would put Sunny Deol in Border to shame. He sends up his kite and fights for it as aggressively as an investment banker trying to close a deal. The competition is serious AF, but I am most amused: I find my non-confrontational father’s change in personality hilarious, especially if he is losing a kite fight. And nothing angers him more than losing to Bunty ke papa.

Last year, Dad didn’t have a great run. This year, he’s all geared up for the clash as the challenger. But no matter what happens today, my scoreboard will always read the same: Dad 1, Bunty ke Papa: 0