The Media is Crawling.....!

Modi’s “cheerleaders”

The Fourth Estate has changed beyond recognition and its role as a watchdog has been severely compromised under the present prime minister
 

BY ASHIM CHOUDHURY

I USED to be a Modi fan till the other day. I was among those who felt that the secular “national media”—read English-speaking—was hounding him rather uncharitably over the Gujarat riots. So when the Modi wave was building up in the early summer of 2014, I wondered: “Will they let him survive?” After nine months, I realize my fears were unfounded. The moral high-ground-holding “secular” media has suddenly vansihed. I have scoured the newspapers for their venom and found none. Where have the Modi-haters retreated? Some have had a change of heart after the new dispensation took over from the mild sardar. Some have reinvented themselves, saying they now see a new Modi – Mark-II. Prominent among these is the self-confessed “Congress stooge”, Vinod Mehta.
SURPRISING CALM
To be fair, there has been no major reason for the media to be on a collision course with the BJP government. Outwardly, the media is functioning as unobtrusively as before. In fact, when Prakash Javadekar took over as the I&B minister, he made a statement; he said that the new government did not feel the need for such a ministry. Hidden in this was a subtle message: “We expect the media to regulate itself.”
If you have a trained eye, you will notice the change. The media is no longer cocky, and very little dirt is dug up on the government of the day. The government and the media appear to be at peace with each other. This is disturbing, because the media, by its very nature, is an adversary to the government. It’s a watchdog.
Rajdeep Sardesai recently said that it’s the job of the media to ask hard questions, not to sing paeans. The media heaping praises on the government is as dangerous as the chief justice of the Supreme Court, HL Dattu, saying: “Modi is a good man.” Being a neutral upholder of the judiciary, his statement was a breach of protocol. But did the media go to town with that story? There were just a few superficial stories here; nothing in-depth. That’s what is worrying. The media instead of pillorying the government, appears to be protective.
The unceremonious sacking of two of the country’s seniormost bureaucrats—foreign secretary Sujatha Singh and home secretary Anil Goswami—should have provided enough fodder for the media to react.
So what has really changed? “Nothing,” says Binoo John, a senior journalist with irreverence in his DNA. “Modi has been a dictator even in Gujarat, that’s his style,” he says, adding that all governments try to manage the media and meet with different levels of success. “The BJP uses a carrot and stick strategy,” he observes. Another left-leaning “Modi-baiter”, Paranjoy Guha Thakurta, is more circumspect. “A large section of the media is acting like Modi’s cheerleaders,” he says. Recalling Advani’s famous words after the Emergency, he says: “They have not even been asked to bend, and they are crawling.” But not taking questions from the media is not unique to Modi. He says: “Even Sonia Gandhi did not like being asked tough questions.”
Is the press being manipulated under the new dispensation? Guha Thakurta says: “Yes it is, in a subtle manner.” But he says that the kind of arm-twisting that happened during the Emergency cannot happen now as the media has changed beyond recognition. It’s much bigger now and more diversified. The state no longer enjoys the kind of control it did in the 70s and 80s when there was no social media.
CORPORATE BOSSES
With large sections of the media owned by big businesses, like the “friendly” Ambanis, there is a threat of the media being compromised. Well-known economist and political commentator Mohan Guruswamy does not mince words. “Apart from professional integrity, there are issues implicit in ownership. Take Rajendra Darda (under a cloud due to the Coalgate scam) of Lokmat, for instance. What will his paper report on the coal scam?” he asks. News X was controlled by the influential Niira Radia at one time, before the 2G spectrum scam came out in the open. Matang Sinh, facing charges over the Sharada chit fund case, owns a TV channel in Assam. Tamil Nadu supremos, J Jayalalitha and M Karunanidhi, control most of the electronic and vernacular print media in their state.
Threats to editors are mostly veiled and rarely come out into the public domain, unlike the case of Shirin Dalvi, who had to go into hiding despite apologizing for her “crime” of having used a Charlie Hebdo cartoon on the cover of her Urdu magazine. Governments often cut off revenue supplies that come from its ads. Tehelka is a stark example of how it is slowly being strangulated, with its revenue streams choked. Tehelka has come to a stage where it often cannot pay its staff or contributors. Pradyot Lal, one its editors, says: “Anti-establishment journalism is forever stressed and squeezed. The present dispensation is a hydra-headed phenomenon presided over by a megalomaniac. You cannot expect any real freedom.”
Closing the money tap is just one aspect. But the PM has put the screws on the flow of news as well. Earlier, media persons depended on various news sources and leaks. All they had to do was sniff around and do some talking. But after Modi’s gag order, no one is talking. Neither the ministers, nor the bureaucrats, and not even the moles. Even stalwarts like the articulate and erudite Advani has shut up. The last time he spoke on a national issue was when he said that he found nothing offensive in the film PK. That must have required some courage. And to imagine Advani was once an iron man.
Modi has changed the way the media interacts with the government. He doesn’t even have a media advisor. The man who spoke so much before becoming prime minister and even mimicked “Maun” Mohan for his quiet rectitude, has suddenly fallen silent himself. Apart from the lone interview to CNN’s Fareed Zakaria—so much for apna desh—he has not given a single interview or held a press conference, betraying a deep disdain for the media. His “Mann ki baat” and other addresses to the nation are monologues that go against the grain of democratic dialogue. The media, to borrow someone’s expression, should be imbued with an abiding and healthy cynicism. I’m reminded of a recent headline: “Teesta Setalvad being framed….But where’s the outrage?”
Yes, where’s the media’s self-righteous outrage?

Why the BJP blew it up in Delhi...

Blame it on Obama!

February 20, 2015

Arrogance often has a fall. And how! The drubbing received by the BJP in the Delhi polls shows that it can ignore the common man only at its own peril

By Ashim Choudhury

It was Obama who did the BJP in! Okay, that was a jumla (a figure of speech meaning it was a joke). Had the US president not come, Prime Minister Narendra Modi would not have changed his clothes five times a day. He would not have worn the pin-striped suit with his name written all over. That suit became his undoing. It got talked about ad nauseam for all the wrong reasons. He was mocked on social media for his das-lakh-ka-suit. Many thought it ill-fitted the prime minister of a country, where hundreds die each winter for lack of protective clothing, to wear a suit that cost so much. And the poor, mockingly voted him out. “But this was a small state election, not Modi’s test,” BJP men lamely say. But, of course, it was Modi’s test! From the word go, they put Modi’s face to the campaign. It was brand Modi on sale. It was a bad idea to start with, and against the BJP’s stated policy. Remember how they riled at the Congress for not having a “PM face” to their campaign?
The people of Delhi were left wondering if the PM would also double up as the chief minister. There were murmurs saying whoever became CM was irrelevant, the remote, anyway, would be with the PM. It was only towards the end, when the BJP belatedly realized that there was no buzz around the PM, that they quickly imported “Crane Bedi”. People soon found out she was a “faking crane”, and BJP’s trump card turned into a joker. On Facebook, people were having a laughing fest. Some of that middle-class laughter trickled down to the streets. Bedi’s utterances didn’t help much. The BJP’s rank-and-file in Delhi was sniggering at her. They felt betrayed, humiliated and demotivated. And she behaved like she was already CM. Soon, there was a gag order on Bedi. Putting a finger on your lips, particularly during election time, is not a bright idea.
COSTLY SILENCE
Modi’s own silence on a string of sensitive issues, whether it was love jihad or ghar wapasi or four children for Hindu mothers, was deafening. Suddenly, in a city like Delhi, churches were burning or being vandalized. When pressed, cronies like Arun Jaitley said the prime minister of the country did not need to comment on every minor issue. True, the events were minor, but the issue was larger. And, that message was brought home by, guess who? Obama! After all that backslapping and bonhomie—the namak haram, as a FB post endearingly put it, gave Modi a parting jab in the rib. “India will succeed so long as it is not splintered along the lines of religious faith…,” he said at a town hall meeting in Delhi, with polls just a few days away. After his return, the White House issued a clarification that the remark was being misconstrued. That consolation was soon snatched away when Obama reiterated at a solemn National Prayer meeting that had Gandhi been alive, he would have been “shocked”. The real shocker was the Delhi poll results. A FB comment by a Muslim girl summed up the minority mood. She wrote: “Ghutan kuch kam si mehsoos hui aaj subah humein (I felt a bit less stifled this morning).”
By the time it was time to vote in Delhi, Modi’s image had taken a severe beating. He came to be seen as a charlatan, high on promises and slow on delivery. The Swachh Bharat campaign he launched on Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday was a masterstroke that had won over even the cynics. But that goodwill was frittered away. The streets and by-lanes of Delhi (like in the rest of the country), where ordinary people lived, saw little improvement. All he needed to do was to pull up the municipal officers and workers. After all, Delhi has a huge army of workers, mostly absent, on its payrolls. So where was the action on Swachh Bharat? It became a farce. BJP netas were jostling, clicking pictures of themselves with the broom. A great opportunity was lost.
The poll promise of bringing back black money met the same fate. It was one of their main political planks. Months later, Amit Shah, the “tainted” BJP chief, who many saw as the party’s winning mascot, said sheepishly that putting Rs 15 lakh into every account was just a jumla. The jhadu (broom), the poll symbol of the AAP, too became a jumla in the hands of the people, sweeping away the BJP’s rising fortunes. It’s unthinkable that just nine months ago, Modi’s BJP, riding the crest of an ant-corruption wave, had won all seven parliamentary seats in Delhi. What is it that so alienated the people? Arrogance.
COMPLETE IMAGE TURNAROUND
At that election, with his grand oratory, Modi assiduously crafted his image as a humble tea-seller capturing the hearts of ordinary Indians. But in the nine months, despite improving the economic outlook, or India’s image as a great investment destination, Modi consistently gave the perception that he was corporate India’s man up there, not the humble chaiwala. They saw him mollycoddling the Adanis and the Ambanis. They were there at the high table, during his grand swearing-in, during the banquet with Obama. Not inviting Kejriwal, a former chief minister, to the Republic day parade not only showed him as mean, it also betrayed his aversion for the aam aadmi. The rest, as they say, is history.
The analogy of the rabbit-tortoise race is not out of place either. Smug in the victory of the Lok Sabha polls, the BJP was happily napping when the AAP had already oiled its poll machinery, geared up by its young spirited volunteers. Moreover people wanted an alternative to the usual set of politicians who they see as rogues. AAP, with its young idealistic workers, and the Anna movement behind them, was an alternative at hand. That Kejriwal had abdicated a year back did not help. There was a ring of sincerity to his unconditional apology in meeting after meeting. It worked. People forgave him. But the BJP, in panic by now, began its one-point agenda of mudslinging. Bhagoda, bandar, baazaru, manhoos, were some of the words they used to describe him. The final straw was when half of Modi’s cabinet, led by the vitriolic Seetharaman attacked AAP for its Rs 2-crore “hawala” money, when day-after-day they were running front-page ad campaigns that cost a bomb. That one boomeranged.
Two days before people actually went to the polling booths, a smug Arun Jaitley said: “People have two choices before them, development and anarchy.” Clearly, they voted for anarchy. And now they want the anarchy of the policeman and other extortionists on the streets to end.
Kejriwal has a tough job ahead. He has to fulfill his promise of free water and cheap electricity, at least to the poor. And the BJP will do well to cooperate with the AAP instead of trying to scuttle him. Already, people are saying that BJP-ruled Haryana will not give water, as promised. Such disruptive and vengeful politics will only erode the credibility of the BJP with the poor. Let’s not forget, a majority of Indians are poor. The vote is the only weapon of mass destruction they carry, as Delhi has just shown. Another lesson, the sensex is not the best indicator to gauge the mood of the people.

Proud Moment...!

The affable Defence Minister of India Manohar Parrikar poses with a copy of The Sergeant's Son. Hoping, he also reads it and gets an insight into the lives of ordinary soldiers and their families.
 

My tribute R.K Laxman, creator of the orginal aam admi ...!

Long live the Common Man

• Obituary

He was India’s best-known cartoonist, though his creation was more popular than he was. With his deft lines and witty humor, this prolific genius touched many lives day after day, year after year
By Ashim Choudhury

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It was July 1990. Calcutta was agog. RK Laxman was coming to town for his exhibition, “City Life”, chronicling the life and times of the city through his sketches. I was with the air force then, but nurturing dreams of making it as a writer and a cartoonist. And before me, at the exhibition, mobbed by admiring fans was the legend himself. I instantly made up my mind to interview him. He wasn’t very obliging, as I neither had a prior appointment nor was I on the staff of The Statesman or even the fledgling Telegraph. But, not one to be put off by insolence, I pursued him doggedly, forcing him or, more often, his wife to answer my questions. “City Life” was a roaring success as his sketches had transformed Calcutta’s garbage dumps, potholes, and traffic jams – all those mundane, frustrating aspects – into hilarious images.
Since he did not live in the city, I was prompted to ask how he managed to draw those vivid sketches. “He has a photographic mind,” Kamala, his wife offered. “He has a remarkable ability to remember places pictorially.” The sketches were products of an earlier visit to the city as he remembered it. It was this pictorial aspect of his cartoons that made them so appealing. Very often, they did not say a word, and yet the reader got the message with a gentle nudge on his funny bone. Laxman’s humor was rarely acerbic, tickling rather than poking the ribs. Between the common man and the establishment, he clearly sided with the underdog. “Is the cartoonist a natural enemy of the establishment?” I had asked. He fumbled for words finally saying: “Not exactly…but a cartoonist naturally goes against the grain.”
FAMILY MAN
Laxman’s cockiness, which came from knowing that he was the best, was mistaken by many for vanity and arrogance. It wasn’t so. The man who many thought was aloof (he had a soundproof room to himself at The Times of India office in Mumbai) was actually the family’s “handy man” as his wife put it. He loved unwinding, doing the odd job at home, repairing a leaking tap, replacing a broken windowpane or adjusting the TV antennae. When he was around at home, the plumber or the mechanic had no business there. At home he did no cartooning, except the odd freelance work. Remember Gattu, the Asian Paint boy? His daily cartoons were the result of a strict regime from 9 am to 5 pm in the office, where the first half of the day went in reading various newspaper stories and headlines. In the second half, he crystallized his thoughts and put them to paper with the deft strokes of his brush. Even editors did not always have the temerity to knock or enter his room when he was working.
Though in the nineties cartoons had still not been banished from the front pages, I had asked him what he thought of “cartooning as a dying art”. His face betrayed anger at the impertinence of the question. Put to the doyen of Indian cartooning, it did sound irreverent. But soon the livid expression melted into a smile that revealed his buckteeth. And he guffawed: “…not as long as I’m alive”. But to young people, like me, he did not recommend cartooning as a profession. “Don’t!” he had said. It was Kamala who explained: “He thinks it’s a thankless job.” Raising a laugh was no laughing matter; I had tried it briefly too. How Laxman managed to regale people with his deft lines and witty humor day after day, year after year, will remain an enigma. True, towards the end of his career he had begun to lose that punch. But then, the sheer volume of his work was monumental. There are no parallels to his prolific genius.
Rarely has a man’s creation been more popular than the man himself, in this case, the Common Man – the ageing bespectacled man in his checked jacket. “Why does he look so helpless…Why doesn’t your Common Man get angry?” I had asked. For a moment, the master of punning looked helpless searching for a retort, then his expression turned angry and he blurted: “…With the Chautalas and Devi Lals around, what can he do?” (Those days, the National Front government was gripped by a crisis when Chautala was re-elected the chief minister of Haryana). He was clear; he blamed politicians for the sad plight of the common man. Then, calling back through the throng of autograph seekers he said: “You can quote me on that.” There was something impish and child-like about Laxman. Deep down, he strongly empathized with the common man. It was this empathy that had millions of readers looking at his cartoons the first thing before moving on to the day’s headlines.
A COMMON LIFE
Laxman’s inspiration was David Low, the famous British cartoonist. “He was the only cartoonist I was exposed to in my early childhood,” Laxman admitted. Low later visited him in Bombay. There were many, kings, queens and heads of states who sought him out.
But this nation’s conscience-keeper once learnt the hard way the perils of being a common man. His car had broken down on Marine Drive in Mumbai on his way back from office. For over an hour, he stood on the road with his thumbs up, pleading for a ride. Not a single car stopped. It was little consolation that the next day, all the newspapers in the city carried this story on their
front pages.
It is ironical that this celebrated cartoonist was at one time denied entry into the JJ School of Art for not having the “right” talent. That denial hurt him deeply. To young aspiring artists his advice was: “Don’t go to any art school; it kills your creativity.” He also encouraged them not to copy but develop their own style.
With his passing away an epoch has ended. The man who worked with The Times of India since 1948 for over five decades, leaves behind a humungous body of work that should be treated as a national heritage. The best tribute to this genius would be to bring back cartoons to our front pages. Rasipuram Krishnaswami Laxman is dead, long live the Common Man!
Ashim Choudhury is the author of “The Sergeant’s Son”

‘Schools and teachers are responsible for low self-esteem in kids’

Ashim Choudhury

2015-01-17 , Issue 3 Volume 12

Illustration: Mayanglambam Dinesh

I feel peeved every time a proud parent announces on Facebook, “My son/daughter scored 98 percent, thanks for your blessings.” Hell! If I had blessings, wouldn’t I shower them on my own children? Unlike my proud Facebook friends, my own children are not “bright”. Since early childhood, they have been struggling with their exams. Now, in Class VI, their exams appear like an insurmountable peak. I am as overwhelmed as they are by their Himalayan textbooks and homework. It’s not completely their fault. The twins were preterm babies, born in the seventh month. I have tried to drill that important piece of information into their teachers’ heads, but in vain. Every time we are summoned for PTMs (parent-teacher meetings), my wife goes weak in the knees.
“Your child is not keeping abreast of the class,” the teachers solemnly tell us. They are incredulous when I reply, “It’s fine, I’m not preparing them for any rat race.” After one such PTM, we had to sign an undertaking that said, “We will do our best to improve the child’s performance.” All this has been very taxing for us. But I feel bad for the children. The school and teachers, unwittingly, are responsible for children’s low self-esteem. At home, the kids are bubbling with life and have a great time with their friends. They feel like equals. In school, they are quiet and withdrawn. I am no psychoanalyst, but it appears that the school atmosphere depresses the children. Their confidence ebbs the moment they reach school.
There are times when I despair and vent my anger at them. I have even thought of myself as an unlucky parent. Why? Just because my darlings are not good at studies, does it mean they will not grow up to be responsible citizens and lead happy lives? Judging them by their marks, I am doing exactly what the teachers in school have been guilty of: killing their confidence. Lately, I have asked the teachers to concentrate on their strengths. It has boosted their confidence. The best part, the children have suddenly started looking forward to school.
A new teacher has also worked wonders for them. Unlike other teachers who constantly put the children down, Gayathri Parthasarathi pats them on the back for little tasks completed. She has befriended the kids and they admire her.
That brings me back to the basic issue. We should encourage children, pat them on the back once in a while. It works wonders. Looking back at my own childhood, I too recall being diffident. Maths made me lose confidence. But, when I consistently got good marks at essay writing, I always thought it was by fluke. Even my classmates thought so. One day, giving away corrected essay copies, the teacher announced, “Ashim Choudhury, six marks!” And she added in a caustic tone, “Where did you copy that essay from?” I was speechless. “No ma’am,” I stammered, “I… I didn’t copy!” She still gave me a dirty look. I was upset for a long time until a voice inside me said, ‘Buddy, you write well. That’s why the teacher thinks you have copied the essay!’ It was the first left-handed compliment I had received for my writing skills. I began to believe in myself.
Left to the teachers alone, perhaps, I would never have become a journalist or a writer (though still struggling to make a name). So, if you have children who are ‘below average’, please do not let their school or teachers put them down. Look for their strengths instead. Children need to enjoy their lives. A Facebook message doing the rounds comes to mind: I was dying to finish school and enter college… then dying to finish college and start working… then dying to marry and have children… then dying for them to grow up… then dying to retire… And now when I’m dying… I suddenly realise I never lived! At least, let the children live!

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(Published in Tehelka Magazine, Volume 12 Issue 3, Dated 17 January 2015)

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Was at a recent exhibition in Delhi..

A father-son’s passion for art

Ashim Choudhury

November 27, 2014

Print & Email

The recent exhibition of paintings and photographs by the father-son duo of Aloke Lal and his son Maanas was a curious experience. It was heart-warming to see how the artist father and photographer son complemented each other. When I said I was a landscape painter the father insisted I see the paintings first, “His photos are mostly landscapes, you’ll appreciate them.” It was young Maanas Lal who showed me around the gallery first. The first stop was a panoramic view of the Munnar lake and the sloping tea gardens. The black and white picture was indeed awe inspiring. To my comment that the photograph was more like a painting Maanas remarked, “There couldn’t be a better compliment.” There were quite a few such landscapes in Maanas’s repertoire, photographs that looked like paintings.
One that stood out was another BW painting of the sea front in Mumbai, a string of electric poles in the fading Arabian sea. Yet another majestic picture, also BW, was of a mountainscape from Chakrata in Uttarakhand the home state of the two. There were many such remarkable pictures. Some of the pictures were in colour, capturing light and shade with such elegance the word “classic” escapes your lips unintentionally. Another colour picture that this writer mistook for a painting was that of falling snow against a façade with windows. When told it looked like a painting, Maanas was pleased with the compliment. Another picture that calls for mention was a clock tower in Prague. The golden hue to the picture, taken around midnight, was amazing. “I had to expose the lens for as long as 15 seconds!” Maanas explained.

Maanas, a software engineer by profession who once worked for Infosys, says photography is his passion and that he intends to branch out into painting like his father. In fact when his father Aloke showed me his paintings it was Maanas who added those bits of information about the texture and grain of the canvas. When there were questions of price the father always turned to his son, “Manas, how much is this?” The son had most of the answers ready. But if you thought that the son was pursuing a future in photography and painting, you are wrong, the young man is currently preparing for a career in civil services. “Given a choice, I would love to be a photographer any day but…. It’s not easy making a niche for one self,” he trails off. If this talented photographer is lost to babudom it will be a sad day.
For father Aloke too painting is not a full time vocation though he has been painting since his childhood and has held exhibitions before. A former IPS, he took to painting with greater vigour after his retirement in 2012. Currently an Advisor to the governor of Uttarakhand, Aloke’s paintings, mostly acrylic on canvas, betray a deep concern for nature and our vanishing greenery. In more than one painting the theme is urbanization and the resultant loss of nature. “Environment,” he says, “is one of my favourite themes. My paintings bring out the devastation humanity is creating for itself.”

One his paintings also powerfully depict the devastation caused by the recent floods in Kedarnath and Uttarakhand. While Lord Ganesh occurs frequently in his work the colour orange is also used with flourish. One such large painting in orange, that of a cycle resting against a large wall, was the centre of attraction for many. Aloke is intrigued by the attention this particular painting has drawn saying, “The centre of attraction in the piece is actually the window.” Somehow, the tiny black cycle stands out against the massive orange wall. Though he works on various mediums acrylic remains Aloke’s favourite. And how would he describe himself, a modernist, a cubist? “I’m not a trained painter,” he says self-deprecatingly. “I do whatever appeals to me, it could be landscapes, portraits…anything”.
Looking at one of his etching, study of a horse’s head, I remark, “Hussain!” And pat, he leads me to a collage-like painting of little Hussain-like figures of horses and humans. “I did this soon after Hussain died; this is my tribute to one of India’s greatest artists,” he says. Aloke’s four large charcoal and pencil portraits of Mahatma Gandhi are his tribute to the father of the nation. The four moods of Gandhiji somehow dominated the exhibition walls. Aloke’s Gandhi, imprints of the original, are also keeping his cash registers ringing. Two of his “signature” Gandhis have already made it to the Raj Bhavans in Lucknow and Jaipur and another one is destined for their hometown in Dehradun, Uttarakhand. Gandhi has ignited a passion for portraits and Aloke may well give more attention to sketching portraits.
Ashim Choudhury is the author of The Sergeant’s Son

Check the prices ....

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PERSONAL HISTORIES

‘There are Munnabhais waiting for the kill everywhere’

Ashim Choudhury, 56, is the author of The Sergeant’s Son

Ashim Choudhury

2014-11-15 , Issue 46 Volume 11

Print & Email

Illustration: Mayanglambam Dinesh

How often do you check the price before ordering food? Not often, particularly when you are travelling on a holiday and stop by at a modest-looking place. But I’ve learned the hard way that checking prices before ordering is better than feeling cheated later, with a bad taste in the mouth.

To me, the ambience matters more than the food. I like the fast-disappearing old-world dhabas along the highways, the ones that had charpoys laid out. But some of them can be deceptively simple. Behind those humble counters can be men ready to rip you off.
So, while on a highway trip with a friend, I stopped by at one such dhaba. “What’s for breakfast?” I asked and the dhaba boy reeled out a string of culinary names. Cutting him short, I asked how much a breakfast costs. “50,” he said and I, duly impressed with the low price, ordered two breakfasts. The platter was impressive. It had two subjis, four puris, curd, pickle and even a gulab jamun. As we ate, my friend remarked, “Are you sure this costs only Rs 50?”
The same thought was on my mind as well, yet we went on to order two teas. And this time, I didn’t ask the price. How much would it be, maximum Rs 5? In those days, tea at a wayside shop cost just Rs 3.
After the heavy repast, we stretched ourselves on the charpoy, took in the sky and asked, “How much?” The boy disappeared, brought another thali with saunf, misri, toothpick and the bill. One look at the amount and my temper went up the hill. The breakfast had cost us 390! The thali was for Rs 170 and the humble chai was for Rs 25! “What’s this?” we exclaimed, “You said Rs 50 for a breakfast, didn’t you?” That, the boy clarified, was the cost of an ordinary thali. He had given us a special thali. “We didn’t ask for a special thali?” I protested. And the chai, we were told, was also “special”.
I was ready for a fight even though the stocky sardar behind the counter looked rather formidable. “Paaji, what’s this? Is this how you loot people?” I remarked. The man, engrossed in cooking, pretended not to hear me. He was adamant that he would take Rs 390 and not a paisa less. That’s when my friend decided to roll up his sleeves and take matters in his own hands. He slapped Rs 200 on the table with a threat, “Take it if you want to, else *******.” The swearing worked and we left in a huff, hurling more abuses at the sardar.
There was another occasion when I was taken for a ride. I had taken my family, including my in-laws, on a drive to Lansdowne in our new car. Failing to find a hotel accommodation in the tiny market town, we ended up in a tiny, scenic village called Jehrikhal. Here, the only hotel had no rooms to spare. Looking for an alternative, we chanced upon an idler called Munna. A resourceful sort, he promised to organise a home stay for us. I was overjoyed at the prospect of living in a home instead of a hotel. They were cheaper and better. Soon we were taken to a simple house overlooking a valley of pine forests. It was a wonderful stay and our hosts were ever so attentive to our requests for tea, coffee and food. Munna was our grocer, cook, guide and Man Friday, and made our stay a memorable one.
But, on our way out, I nearly had a heart attack on seeing the bill he gave us. Every time we had brought up the subject of money, he had waved his hand saying, “Arrey, yeh to ghar ki baat hai (Don’t worry, it’s all in the family).” But the price he charged us was fit for a palace! So, the next time around, don’t be coy about asking how much a cup of tea costs. There are Munnabhais waiting for the kill.

(Published in Tehelka Magazine, Volume 11 Issue 46, Dated 15 November 2014)

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Tags: Ashim Choudhury, Personal Histories, Volume 11 Issue 46

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