The Incarceration of Truth : CWG

I remember when I had visited Delhi sometime back in January 2009, I was visibly offended by the “MEN AT WORK” boards everywhere. In those times, Delhi was a whirlwind of under construction metros, semi-asphalted roads and a crowded international airport. But when I stepped into the IGI International Terminal 3 on August 1^st roughly 2 months before the start of the XIX Commonwealth Games, I was taken aback by the change. Was this India? The same place, where Immigration staffs speak to German tourists in Benglish with entreaties like “Take out Passport dada”. No, it was the march of a much stronger confident India whose vision is globalization, who aim is to enter the Security Council as a permanent member; an India which has the 2^nd fastest growing economy; an India which is so intimidating in its wealth, natural resources and human capital that developed nations are stopping outsourcing just to be on the safe side. Yes this was truly India shining…Incredible India.

And then the inevitable started. Yes, we all know that Indian politicians are corrupt as hell. They were corrupt, they are corrupt and they will be corrupt. It is what drives their Mercedes while they strut around in 20 INR/metres khadi dresses. But anyways my focus of discussion is not that. I would simply like to point out the headlines that a certain Mr. Suresh Kalmadi made by virtue of his position as the president of IOA and Delhi CWG Organization committee. Yes, we all know of your ridiculous antics and your high priced treadmills are kind of a rip off on the Indian Taxpayers money. But then, what was alarming was how this corruption charges were snowballed into a lot more by the media. A media, which I must remind, loves to make breaking News when Rakhi Sawants pet cat gives birth to a litter. We read about the “appalling” conditions of housing, we read about how poorly constructed the stadium was. What we didn’t read about was how the entire Indian politician scenario was piecing up block by block to maintain India’s face in the highly critical international circle. While India tried hard to maintain the image of a modernized global city with infrastructure and transport comparable to any world city of its stature such as Istanbul, Bangkok, Malaysia or Madrid, our beloved media did all the mud slinging. The incarceration of truth had started.

We received SMS jokes about CWG. People hungry for a few “likes” on their Facebook, put them up as their Status Message as a sort of cheap publicity. Then came the few glimpses of the non media outlook of CWG. TLC started broadcasting the arrangements of CWG. The Canadian field Hockey team put up pictures of the CommonWealth Village which had the looks and figure of any 4 star hotel, Ok it may not be Ritz Carlton but it was comfortable and had all the modern amenities required and then some more. Yet all we read in our beloved media was how there was snakes in one of the rooms and somebody’s bed had collapsed. Yet not one picture was carried which showed the world class food stalls, the beautifully finished living quarters or the glistening TT arena- all custom made for the games. The incarceration of truth was on in full swing.

Yes sir, we are a poor country. We have lots of problems-political, social economical. We defecate openly, plenty of our people live below the poverty lines and our health care infrastructure still requires some polishing. But we are a country of hardworking people. We have thrown off the yokes of colonialism to come to this point that we are now. We are like that 10^th place boy in school to whom the teachers should encourage to perform better by pointing out the mistakes and praising the good work. We shouldn’t be shunned in the everlasting loop of criticism driving a stake through the enthusiasm that is the pulse of this vibrant country.

Unfortunately, our media forgot the praising part. They only made good the razor sharp criticism. They made our head hung in shame at the thought. They made us think every time as we read about some minor fiasco at CWG-“So we are still a country of uneducated incapable of hosting an international event”. The young India was dejected, the old India was pensive.

But today as I saw the CWG opening ceremony being telecast in DD HD(I bet you didn’t even know that this existed), I was elated. No I was beyond elated, I had a feeling of relaxation and euphoria simultaneously. Everything was perfect. The aerodrome didn’t come plunging down; the lights didn’t go off, the performers danced in perfect sync to the tunes of a thousand drummers. Yes certain elements of the opening ceremony were reminiscent of the Beijing Olympics with Keshav the child prodigy on Tabla and the Air Balloon etc.

But the event was quintessentially a microcosm of India. And what is India to the world. Its colors. The green of Chilli, the red of the Gulal, the painted face of the Kuchipudi Dancer, the white of Taj Mahal, the rainbow hue of the peacock. It was all there- drummers from every part of the subcontinent playing their esoteric music, folk dancers dancing in perfect communion to the rhythm of their accompanying flutes. It was essentially a portrayal of India Diversity. And I must say that it was beautiful. Every performer, ranging from Bharatnatyam to Kuchipudi, to the tribal drummers, to the talented A.R.Rahman; performed their art with perfection, grace and elan. Generally such diversity is limited to the Independecne and Republic day floats but today as India took center stage to the stage of the world, we showed the world how even despite the colonial rule and the political problem, we the people of India stand strong, united and proudly watch as our flag flutters high on the bastion of Globalization and Progress.

Next Stop – Olympic Games….

Germany, a Remembrance !!

The kid came to Munich on a rainy day, with a lot of hopes, dreams and palpitations. The first time out of my house, from the shelter of my parents, onto a land 7500kms away from his native place. A warm smiling face greeted me at the station and in that next 45 minutes journey from airport (flughafen) to my apartment in Olympiazentrum gave me my first crash course in Germany. Then, when my pickup left me at my dorm, i looked around at the empty room and my packed suitcase and realized that I had to unpack, cook , clean all for myself. The growing up began in that small 5 minutes.

As the days progressed, Munich became more like my home and less like an alien. Yearned for home, its comforts, the food , the ambience, the general sense of security...but at the same time was relishing this new found source of freedom. Could run down anytime to the market, open a bottle of beer or cook some delicious Currywurst all at the same time.

It was the 17th of July, the night we had an hellacious experience on the cold menacing streets of Paris, and someone said, “man cant wait to get back home !” and I remarked, “Yeah Munich is way better than this....”. That short casual slip of remark, and it dawned on me that instant that somewhere Munich has crept into my veins as my niche, my cubbyhole, no longer a strange white cold city filled with white people but something much more substantial, something which provided solace and comfort at the heart of the bitter unfriendly streets of Paris.

And then slowly, the circle grew. Made friends with my fellow dorm members, cooked Indo-German food, which sometimes tasted weird, but nevertheless everyone gulped down with a lot of gusto. Then gradually, the microcosmic view of the Indian family in Olydorf seemed to be the part of a bigger picture- one where we all functioned as one unit to preserve the dredges of the Indian culture that everyone had left 7500 kms behind but earned to bring back through curries, bollywood stores, pulaos and public screening of Rajneeti on the tiny screen of a laptop.

The process of the so called growing up was not revolutionary but totally evolutionary. Little facts that clothes don’t wash themselves or fridges that don’t refill themselves or food that don’t cook themselves came with some delay – some hesitation when staring at piles of unwashed clothes or looking at the raw rice. But unconsciously they gradually found a way into my persona.

The euro trips were a lotta fun. Saw an amazing amount of diverse beauties – modernized cities, picturesque countryside, houses with picket white fences, architectures of the Bohemian kind, the mysterious smile of Monalisa, the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the overwhelming beauty of the Swiss alps, the sinful streets of Amsterdam, the choco-smell of Brussels, the power lined streets of Berlin. My thoughts were matured, the dimensions of my thinking grew new bounds and most importantly the fervour of new discovery acted like the fuel to ease the stress of hectic journeys. Every moment of those trips, right from learning to use the DB Automats correctly to running through the crowded platforms to catch a connecting trains, or long hours of sleeping on night metros just so we can rest our weary feet was a moment of discovery, small steps in the long journey of appreciating the beauty of the world that we live in.

Not all is obviously right with this. Sometimes we are checked unnecessarily by the Polizei and our passports are scanned with forgery detectors just because we are “dark” or the fact that most places, the interaction among dorm mates are very very minimum. But withal, I realized that no where in the world we can reach Utopia. Back in India, even corrupt police officers try to hackle our identities for material gains and even members of the same joint family bitch about the others for petty rivalry. No it’s not about the small cracks, but learning to live with them that makes all the difference.

Tonight as I gradually make my preparations for my departure from this city onto my home in Kolkata, I look out of my window and see the cloudcast skies and the mild drizzle. That part is same. Everything else is not. The two unfamiliar buildings that I had seen on my first day back are now my home; the huge stretch of greenery is the Olympiapark. Nothing about this place is alien but an extension of my home. Home where you ask ? The dusty streets of Howrah, the tranquil lanes of Kasba....I cannot pinpoint to any single place but I would just say this HOME....a place in our lifelong journey where at the end of the day we seek refuge to wash off the tiredness and grime of the bygone day and rest for the next one. The universality of this idea will probably stretch to anywhere and everywhere the next few important years of our life will take us, in a whirlwind of MS, MBA or Jobs. But eve in all this, i will look back upon these 60 days as a time which shaped a very specific but inexplicable part of my persona from a nameless entity to something with a concrete shape structure and behaviour and for that I say, “Danke Deutschland !”

The child is grown. The dream is gone -- Floyd