Mandsaur and Shiva!

Mandsaur is known as the opium and garlic district of India. It's 1987. Pat Cash has just won Wimbledon against all odds. We are at my paternal grandfather's ashram in this district, Mandsaur. Mandsaur is in the Malwa region of Madhya Pradesh. It has a temple called Pashupathinath that's exactly the replica of the same name temple in Kathmandu, Nepal. Nice, isn't it. It's even beside a river called Shivana. I sat one evening, two days after Cash won Wimbledon, on the steps of the same temple. In the night. On the banks of that river. Watching the moon in full bloom. As a villager who had accompanied us regaled us with warrior triumphs of the Malwa people in wars against various Kings and principalities. Against Ghauri, against Sawai Man Singh and others that I could barely register. Evidently, they were very proud people. Till the Scindias of Gwalior handed them to the British in some truce that took place. The British were smart guys. They promoted the opium cultivation there. We all know for what. But the villages in the district became immensely wealthy over time. Add garlic to that and by the 80s, they had lots of money to spread around. One such village wanted to build it's own temple and ashram. It's a kind of a symbol of a village having arrived on the big stage. My grandfather Mahananda Majumdar, who was travelling his way through the entire North India after having given up on the family life and responsibilities, somehow landed up there. Actually, a village head who had been visiting Mathura had chanced on him and convinced him to come there. And he did so. They showed him the village, it's surrounding areas and quietly asked him with folded hands if he could set up a temple and an ashram there with a presiding diety. By the time we landed in 87, the temple was being thronged by hundreds if devotees from the surrounding areas and bhajans would be sung through out evening everyday by young men in filmy tunes. Of course, my grandfather would happily issue all instructions in his only known language - Bangla, the entire lot of villagers used to understand what they wanted to. No stress. We were put up in the ashram. Ma had to remain in another part of the ashram as it was all male otherwise. Father had a grand time discussing economy, politics and history with all the village elders who came by. The brother and I wandered all over the place. We even went to the Mandsaur town at the back of a tractor to have a breakfast as the ashram had no breakfast. Just two frugal meals two times a day. Cooked in mud pots. As directed by my grandfather! He was the temple priest too and so he was extremely busy. Woke up at 4 am to attend to temple duties. Back to the moonlit night beside the river. That night, somehow, and don't ask me how, I realized my Hindi was good. I could speak in Hindi with the local raconteurs impeccably. It just came out. Of course, I couldn't rattle off at speed but what was being said was correct and there was no inflection and influence of English. At all. That night, while discussing the Hindu way of life, not religion if you notice, I also learnt about the importance of Shiva in our lives. The importance of timely destruction so that new creations can take place. Again. Last year in an agitation in Mandsaur, five farmers were killed by police. They were agitating for better prices for their produce. Vegetables and pulses. The government announced some money for the killed citizens. It's not yet been given fully. Various leaders trooped there and made some placatory noises. You know what they are, just noises. Farmers, those very affluent farmers there in Mandsaur were agitating. So you begin to wonder what's happening? A year has passed by. It's even more dire. Hope they don't have to go back to Opium totally. And here we are, still worrying about some orange haired guy in some nation or some crying Cricketer. Opium for the masses? I just hope that through these destructions, there is another set of creations round the corner. Trying to be optimistic. The importance of Shiva, you see.

Fathers and daughters

"Bhai, can you provide me some water from that bottle you have?" I turned around and it was an old man with puffy fair cheeks that had turned red from the Nagpur heat of around 40*C. I handed him the bottle. Water ran down his cheeks in small rivulets as he drank hungrily. He looked reasonably well off. Sky blue half shirt caked in sweat . Grey full pants that had seen better days but was pressed. A Titan watch. A ring with a topaz stone stuck on top. Dakshin express started to come in. He handed me the bottle hurriedly and started scanning the compartments. He had come to meet someone and I watched his expectant eyes rolling with the passing compartments. Must be his son or daughter, I surmised. The train stopped. The man shuffled across the station to where the door to the carriage S5 was there. His gaunt body was now straining above the heads of the red shirted luggage helpers and trying to find his child. Then she was at the door. His lips started quivering. He was having a hard time keeping back his tears. His hand trembled as he he shoved his sweat soaked handkerchief into the pocket. He raised his hand in an awkward gesture of recognition and hailing. He suddenly reminded me of that last scene of Sadma. Kamal at the railway station. His was face was sweating again, not all due to the heat. But also due to the burst of extreme happiness. He stood there transfixed. She took her time getting down. She wasn't all that young herself. Mid forties. A little plump. Saree, bindi and vermilion in the hair parting. I deduced she was coming home after a long while. She walked across to him. Senior men like him cannot hug. It just wasn't done during their days. She bends down with difficulty and touches his feet. He is still trembling as he lays his hand on her head. His tears roll. He is a very old man. There must be a history to his tears. He is unable to speak. She starts crying too. He tries to laugh. Spittle bursts out of his mouth. Pent up. Very pent up. He has been bottling it in for a long time, I guess. Probably some family issue. He tries gamely to pick her suitcase up. She mocks him in Marathi and then pulls up the handle to roll the suitcase alongside her. His tears are still rolling as they leave the station, walking slowly. The sun blazes the silver atop the train, unrelentingly. Men with daughters do have a difficult time. With their emotions. Once in a while.

Tit for tat.

1992. Kolkata. One of those weird years when nothing went right for the better part if the year. At work in that hotel I was in, there was constant melodrama. Workers fussy. Supervisors fussier. Guests at their horrible best. New money had started to happen in Indian economy. Some people with that new money had started to flash their true monkey faces. We had to bear the brunt. My boss had a strange morning work schedule. He would sit in his crummy office and call for all the cash report print outs. He would also call for all the kitchen order tokens. He would sit the entire morning and match the orders to the bills generated. He, a guy who's supposed to look after the entire food and beverage section - food preparation, food quality, bar stocks, menus, banquets, marketing, sales and people at work, used to do bill validation! The first time I saw that, I nearly laughed. But evidently, the ownership, Sindhis, loved that bit. Somebody was looking into every penny that dropped. So, I had to grin and bear. In the bargain, some of us, next in line had to cajole the system into functioning properly. We were not of rank but we had to still give orders in a half request way and do a lot of weird stuff to enable the right things. And many a time the results were ghastly. So, one day, the baker went off to Bihar early evening on an emergency. The next guy had to come in and do the breakfast rolls for next morning's breakfast buffets. He didn't come. No one could track him down. I sent someone to his house. He was told by the wife that he works in another bakery every evening and he will be back late night. So, the decision came down to the fact that we had to buy next day's breakfast croissants and brioches. I didn't have that decision making rank. The boss had retired for the day. No one willing to sign. The owner used to live in premises. I had to get him to sign the challan. Rang the bell of the house. Bearer opens door. I say my stuff. Bleary eyed owner father comes out. I say my problem. He asks why did I come to him. I said I need the cash. I am not authorized. Neither is anyone else. He berated me for the next five minutes while I silently kept looking at the watch because the bakery where I could place the order, down the road would close in half an hour. Finally he says that me and my boss should meet him tomorrow at the office in the morning. I get the signature. Get the breakfast bread by 11 pm. Breakfast happens nicely the next day. Dutifully, the next morning at 11.30 am we line up in front of the senior owner's office. One can hear the sounds of Shakespeare Sarani from the outer chamber. We are called in. The boss is seething already but he has not yet started abusing me. The owner does his soliloquy for ten minutes. The boss does his bit for the next five. His contention being that these young kids are very impertinent and callous. They need to be taught some lessons. They both want to take the bread money out of my pay. I count in my head. Oh, so the whole salary is nearly gone. I can't say a thing there. So, keep the head down and walk out of the office. The boss grins and tells me that this is what will happen if you go over my head. He looks like a cheap version of Joginder when he says that. I know I have to leave the job. But I cannot be docked with the bill. So, I get a surprise check on the bar inventory done. We find six bottles of Johnny Walker Red Label excess. Now, I know all excesses are sent to the boss's office. Just like that. I let it go. Then I ask the barman where the excess went. He tells it went to boss. I say bill that. New system. Bills have to be made for everything. Later, it will be shown cancelled. He is cool and makes the bills. Next morning the world breaks into war. Who made a bill for the excess bottles? Barman says I told and he did. Boss calls me in. I simply tell him that all consumption is to be billed and that's what I have done. He says but excess isn't consumption. I tell him but you taking the bottles is. He cannot go to the owner with this. We both know he's been doing trades with the booze. Now he cannot cancel the bill without word going out. The bill is equivalent to his pay. Tit for tat. My salary was never docked. Never lay a hand on a Bengali's salary. His mind will start ticking.

Lifts, confined spaces and smiles.

I am in a lift in the evening. Maybe 7.30 pm. I don't have a huge rucksack that will be sticking out behind my back, the new version of the old hunchback that we have become. Two men have positioned themselves near the door strategically as they would be dropping down at 2 and 4 respectively. I hope you got that. 0 to 2, two flights of stairs and 0 to 4 is four flights of stairs. Evidently, they do not need the simple exercise. And yes, they have the hunchbacks. One guy has his laces undone. That's a fad. Or the office isn't far away. He's just slipped on his shoe. Carried the rucksack to the car park, got into his mobile hermetically sealed chamber and honked his way home. Then a few steps to a lift and viola! Home. Laces are for meetings, clients and photographs. The lift stops at 1. A gaggle of kids enter the lift along with the young moms after them. It's a large lift. Everyone makes their way in without trouble. A little girl with a distrught face is motioned towards me. "Go and make a pitch to uncle. He will listen to you. Go on, now" The sweet distraught kid looks down at the floor and starts her pitch as we are between 3 & 4. "Uncle, tigers are vanishing and have no one..." I lose the rest of what she's telling in the yells other kids are making. I bend down to catch a little more. Her mother, the young lady who's motioned her towards me, asks her to look into my eyes while making the pitch. In the meanwhile the girl is showing me the badge that she can give me if I "Adopt a tiger", an initiative rolled out by her school, Innventure Academy. I ask her how much does it cost. She says Rupees Fifty. By now, you know I have bought into her request. She could have sold me the badge, a bag, a boat and a jetty to keep the boat tethered to. She's earnest but she's glum. I feel for her. I take out my purse and hand her a hundred. She thinks she does not have the change and her floor arrives. Mild panic results. The mother helps her take out the change and hand me the fifty. We bid goodbye. The mother does a good job of allowing the kid to fight her battle herself. That kind of initiative is welcome. The school is a big and quite reputed one. Obviously, it's an initiative they have created to make the children responsible citizens and also contribute something to a wildlife fund or whatever the authorities have decided. But they have not helped the child with the confidence to do it smilingly. I know it's difficult to achieve. Everybody cannot be Shashi Kapoor or Madhuri Dixit. A ready smile for all occasions. But schools should have fifteen minutes on the art of smiling. Seriously. I mean, look at it from the point of view of children, glum mom speaking to glum Dad who's bent over his mobile answering office messages. Then glum mom turns to her own maid group and gets grimmer when she sees that some maid has been offered 7000 bucks to do JPB. What's the child to do. Where does she learn smiling? They don't have Manmohan Desai films to go to. Or Govinda to laugh away their worries with. JPB is Jhaadu Pocha Bartan. What did you think?

The Bygone Pleasures and fact speaking that could be Bygone too

I wonder why some things didn't stick around. They were good while they were there. Chicken a la Kiev. This unique dish with a chicken breast stuffed with butter, shallow fried to perfection and then put onto a bed of mashed potatoes. With sides of vegetables and onions. Would it have had a longer run if people had a continuous love affair with butter? Or if the mashed potatoes could be replaced by rice of some sort? I don't know. But evidently, something happened. Maybe chefs didn't want to do the hard work of stuffing breasts anymore. Gone from the menus. Musical thrillers. Firstly, the thriller genre has taken a whole lot of beating in India. Writers just cannot write thrillers anymore. Then, putting in songs masterfully is a dead art. We have to go back and watch Nasir Hussain, Manmohan Desai, Vijay Anand and Raj Khosla to get what these films were. How good were they? Just imagine a film, Ranbir Kapoor and Deepika, running through the streets of Rome, punchy music in the background, villains after them, they having a code or something, they enter a club and disguise themselves, a song happens, the villains are outwitted during the song and the pair runs away. To Cairo or something. Ah, wishes! The magic of family TV watching. This is surely over. Done with. Even a decade back, people used to sit post dinner and watch a new episode of something, usually the Indian language serials, and laugh or cry with the characters. That's over. The children don't watch TV anymore. Men like me have given up too, sports aside. Some elders do sit but then they are not the entire family. How fast and how swift this change has been? Many things one can come up with. The family doctor. The STD booth. Evening snack with tea. Sewing as an art. I will add one more.. Speaking facts. This is an art that's also fast going towards extinction. I wouldn't call it lies or untruths all the while as yet. But keeping to facts is declining. On phone, over messages and even face to face, I find people inserting some spins, non - facts, speculation and White lies into the conversation. What we feel is that the facts aren't powerful enough. Fine. Collect facts from different experiences and present it better. Use the art of communication in a better why but why insert non - facts. Our politicians do it because that's how they get votes. What do we get? And that's why I only watch sports now. Unalloyed facts. Nothing else. There's very little spin one can do with a magical goal from Mo Salah or Messi, you see! Or even play it when I can. Or talk about it. Even in meeting rooms. People relate. Understand. Truth begets trust. #Storify.

The Chef who has touched the sky

You are in a kitchen. You have made the Salmon entree with a lot of love and care. Even the garnishing is just perfect. Alluring. It glistens with the sauce gently poured. The fish is plump with the vapours of whatever you had put during the cooking. You watch it go in the hands of a server towards the restaurant as you are already onto your next creation. Many minutes later than server is back. "Chef, the guest having your salmon fish entree wants to meet you!" You are perspired. Immediately, your defence instincts rise within you. You think, now what's gone wrong. Was the fish overdone? Was it not sauced enough? Was the salmon supplier playing truant again with the quality? Though, you very well know that the quality is perfect. You move towards the table in the restaurant. You size up the guest. Fat, double chinned, Delhi type, loud, quick money, shirt one size tight, napkin on the side and that means etiquette is on the blink. You reach the table. He looks at you. Then he gets up and shakes your hand. "You know I don't know much about all this high funda food, my wife does. She tells me this is the best fish she's ever eaten. Thank you Chef. I had to personally say that you made our day." You look at the lady. She's made your day silently. Yes, she's overdone the diamond bit and maybe the top she's worn is from a Zara sale. But she's classy enough to know the fish has worked. Then you watch Vikas Khanna speak about his life. A boy with afflicted feet. A boy constantly home. A boy watching his grandma cook. A boy learning. He distills all his learning into his culinary space. He redefines Indian food for the world. And he expresses the joy of our earthern cooking, simply and suavely. At a TED talk, he explains the happiness of sitting near a home tandoor and watch the Dal being cooked slowly and the rotis being made while the women traded news and gossip. I am reminded of those numerous nights we have sat waiting for the Biryani, the khichdi or the Kosha Mangsho. He has used #Storify in a best possible manner to get ahead. He's met Presidents and been the Chef to celebrities. He's even jet set. But he's not forgotten his roots and the stories. We use #Storify at #LinkMind to create the same kind of stories to help you, your brand and your business. Who knows, the next Vikas Khanna could be you.

Men should drink tea slowly and show unity, with me!

Drink your tea! I receive Missus's admonishment. Again. It's a daily affair. Why would anyone admonish my speed of drinking tea? I am feeling very attacked about this. It's right from childhood that this kind of thing is happening. Ma used to sit at the dining table and bark about drinking the water immediately after dinner. Later in life, health experts pounced on me and barked that drinking water after the dinner immediately isn't great at all. Who do I believe, health experts or Ma? Now this tea business. I should be at liberty to have tea whenever I want. It's like CPM at home. Yeah, CPM. Those guys used to tell me how I shouldn't walk on the sidewalk as that's where the party affiliated hawkers association used to put up their stalls. Then, they used to tell me how I couldn't admonish their affiliated members at work. I could only write to the party and request them to look into the staff issues. No admonishing. Who do I write to about the admonishment now? Mom-in-law just guffaws at me. It's like you have spent so many years together, ab Kya!! I cannot go to the daughter. Rolling eyes. Slow shake of head. Quietness. That will be result. I am feeling very "Bangladesh" type. Last ball six type. Nearly won the game but now well played type. Like Indian Hockey team. Goes down fighting. For the whole of childhood we were subjected to "goes down fighting". It's gone into our DNA. It's why we cannot win any battle with Missus now. She's taken the tray and standing with it challenging me to finish the rest of the tea fast as she wants to clear it off right then and there. It's a duel. We are eyeballing each other. I know I will lose. There's no precedence. No man has won this duel. Even on moon we will not win. Armstrong only won by stepping on to moon. Let the first woman walk out there. Armstrong will have no arm left. I challenge. Neither there will be any strength left. I double challenge. I am going to change the adage "behind a successful man there's a woman". It will be: Behind a man there are some women who talk, bark, admonish and eyeball right from childhood to keep him straight so that the guy goes and does something useful and pertinent. Including drinking tea.

The Nazia Hassan phenomenon

Feroze Khan had derring do. He used to do things in his films that others never thought about. He cornered the kitsch Western films market like no one before, Khote Sikke, Chunaoti, Dharmatma and a few more. Then he went and did car racing across Europe with Mumtaz in tow in Apradh, a film that I liked very much, at least till when he's singing his way through the geography with Mumtaz. Not when he starts to make a living. But his biggest contribution to Hindi cinema came in 1980 and with Qurbani when he introduced Nazia Hassan to us. I mean, look at his ear for a good thing. There's a chit of a girl, a Pakistani, somewhere in London. He discovers her, offers her a song in his film. Gets her to record. Gets an independent music director Biddu just for that song (it didn't happen those days) and makes it an anthem hit across the nation. Biddu himself was a struggling musician till then doing cover versions in UK till then. It's very hot in Chandrapur and we are at the school bus stand. Anna, our trusted hair saloon meters away, put on the music early in the morning as he opened up his shutters. And I heard. Aap jaisa koi meri Zindagi mein aaye. It was instant love. The whole school bus started to talk about the song. The song itself was so easy to hum that I hummed it right through the maths, social studies and Hindi classes in the morning. Those days, we didn't see films as they released. So the romance of what could have happened in the film, with the song and with the actors stayed in stills garnered from LP VInyl covers and newspaper cinema ads. The romance with Nazia Hassan lived on. A few years later she was back with the epynomous Disco Deewane. How would we classify it? Disco it was, but slow. Even the Disco unabled with two left legs could dance to it. I was in hostel those days. And I had been invited over to our English teacher's home for lunch when she'd thoughtfully put this cassette on. Picture this, we are sitting in sofas with a plateful of rice in hand and there is Disco Deewane on the player. Only our feet can tap out the rhythm. Gawky teenagers listening to Disco Deewane solmenly. But that was the romance of Nazia. Around then, there was that other big hit from a flop film, Star. Boom Boom. Nazia, by then was making waves in her own country. And what a star she became. Tall, lissome, good looking. Even had a great looking brother, Zoheb. Yeah, well, girls in our class collected his posters. So, can vouch for that. Thank you Sayantan Mondal, you got me to remember early morning. It's a shame that we have to listen to Sufi cum Kabir cum Ghalib cum something that we cannot understand as it's being warbled by indulged singers with tinpot interludes that have only one meaning, don't listen to us, run along.

In flashbacks, truth happens!

Story tellers use flashbacks to tell a back story. Some use a flashback in the beginning to set a foundation and others set up the progress in the story by small doses of flashback. Life does that too. It's happening so often to me these days that I am left connecting dots for hours post that. For example, I am walking with Missus last evening, quick walk to clear the head before I get back to unfinished work. It's 6.45 pm. Suddenly, raindrops. Bangalore is very warm now and the sun has been at it through the day. But then, raindrops. Missus is a practical person. She starts walking swiftly. Ahead of me. Saying she's washed her hair. She cannot have her hair wet again. I am at the back of her. Trying to catch up. It's when I have that. Flashback. Goa. Maybe 1997. Same. She ahead of me. She's telling let's just get home. Me at the back, trying to catch up. I can remember even the clothes. I can remember my rubber sandals. I can smell the wet soil of Carenzalem, where we stayed then. These kinds of flashbacks have been happening a lot. I wouldn't know if it's good or bad. I also wouldn't know if it tells me something or not. Evidently, it should. But you know how it is. I don't get any life enhancing thoughts from that. Just the flashbacks. Maybe it's like Vinod Khanna's Major Ranjeet in Achanak where he does things based on the flashbacks he has, of his past, of his trainings and such. Tries to save himself from police parties. I am having other flashbacks too. Of Farakka Barrage back in the 70s and the sharing of water controversy. Bangladesh was horrified back then in the early 90s when the Bengal government first and the Indian government said that we had a formula and that formula said that majority of the Ganga waters was to be in India. Padma, a branch of the same Ganga, is the lifeline of Bangladesh. They have numerous livelihoods that depend on that river. So, understandably they were livid. That was never resolved satisfactorily though many governments since then have sat down to resolve. Once, pretty recently, during the UPA 2 times, nearly everything was resolved when Queen Mamata had a change of heart. Back to square one. Now, this NDA government has proposed water sharing through many states. I have flashbacks of that Farakka Barrage and Cauvery disputes. Why do we have to get into disputes? There's technology and better infrastructure available today. Rainwater harvesting techniques are far better than ever before. You hear of successes in many hamlets too. How about institutionalizing rainwater harvesting? One village. Farming all around. One rainwater harvesting project as a cooperative. One ePassbook for all members and users. One gas project. One mini power plant or a solar project. One purchase point for all produce and livestock at fair price set up by government or a nationally computed price for that year, that month. How difficult is this? Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's just the will. Because we are only emotively attached to our villages and see them through the prism of nostalgia, we cannot or do not bother to see them self reliant. At all.

The Dhoondho Dhoondho Rap!

I am trying to figure out how the hills around Kathmandu airport prevent ATC signals reaching the small aircrafts flying in and out. It caused a horrific accident yesterday killing at least 50 people in Bangladesh aircraft. Amazon Echo aka Alexa suddenly pipes up in the room all by itself and out comes "Dhoondho Dhoondho re Sajna" the Naushad song. It's not the original tune. It's a rap version. It's as if Sehwag and Babul Supriyo have come together and done something unidentifiable to the song. It's more Guyanese Bhojpuri Rap. Then it disappears. Alexa shuts itself down. I wait. I don't want to ask Alexa anything. Whatever I ask of her these days has only one answer, "I am not sure I know that". I know the world outside has difficulty deciphering me. Alexa is also giving up. So, I hold my counsel. I don't call out to her. But she's quiet. Then I realize what has happened. Missus has her phone. It's got Bluetooth. We are listening to some songs awhile back wherein she had transferred her playlist from her phone to the Amazon Echo via Bluetooth to listen to songs while she dressed up for the gym. Then she disconnected and left in a hurry. But Mohd Rafi hadn't completed his song, "Dhoondho Dhoondho re Sajna" and probably he was fighting with Alexa to let him complete his song in the background even after she left. So, Alexa gave permission. "Please finish fast, I have to shut down again". It's like those last encores in Calcutta restaurants from back in the 70s. One last Morricone please! Okay, only for a minute, then we have to pack and go men!! So, Rafi comes back, does the Dhoondho Dhoondho Rap and goes away within seconds. I being the sole listener. Alexa should be more considerate. The other day she laughed at someone. Someone who was prone to asking stupid questions. "Alexa, will you go out for a dinner with me?" Alexa wanted to say "Shakl dekhi apni!" But couldn't. She couldn't make up the English version of the effective Shakl sentence in time. So, she laughed hysterically. The word went out that Alexa had laughed hysterically. Everyone went into a tizzy. Amazon got many tweets saying "Ban Alexa!" How dare that lady laugh at us. Amazon bechara napalmed it's Artificial intelligence section and set right the bugs. Alexa will no more laugh hysterically at stupid men. Men are safe. What safe? So many women are still laughing. They just cover their face with their hands or their hair. Or just turn around and look elsewhere. Eyes rolling constantly. Only Alexa was left. Woh bhi gayi.

India and the Order of Govinda

India was socialist and confused as a nation till 1986. In 1986, two things happened. All of the nation started talking about the imminent advent of computers in our work life. The other was Govinda. India was no longer confused. Computers were put to use in various government departments, banks and railway reservation counters progressively to show us that we could get services in a better way, above zero that is. Govinda showed us we could fight, dance, eat, jump and play flute in the air, all with a smile. Govinda made us strong, affable, confident and resilient. Computers started to be looked as the next big employment thing. Some boys lined up at various visa centres and started to go abroad for projects. These boys never came back. But their parents were elated. Their dowry rates climbed up into the stratosphere. Govinda, in the meanwhile, could do no wrong on screen. He democratized the classes of our society, he could wear anything and do anything. He got nearly the entire cow belt dancing to his rhythm. Youngsters suddenly were okay with wrong English and fast Hindi or the other languages. 1991 came. Rajiv Gandhi went and a quiet old man Narasimha Rao quietly ushered in economic reforms. Wily that he was, he got Manmohan Singh to announce all of it. The country went into overdrive. Jobs happened. A lot of money suddenly fell into people's hands. 1991 continued. Aankhein happened. Govinda was the king of all that the common man surveyed. Pink shades, yellow jeans, rough cut CDs, Jhankaar beats, motorbikes, rainbow coloured dupattas, boots, sandals with heels and gyms, they all happened then. Because of that awareness, we got cable TV at home and in 1994, the whole country witnessed a Ms Universe and a Ms World arrive in India. Sushmita and Aishwarya. Notably, both acted in the Hindi cinema industry where Govinda had been churning loads of hits every year. That's when, aided by better budgets and the Ms India philosophy, a unibrowed Karishma suddenly turned modern and created some more monster hits with, yes Govinda again. They created anthems and you know that anthems unified the country more than ever. In the meanwhile, what was a trickle in people learning computers and doing things, became a flood. You could study anything but end up making a living sitting in front of a keyboard. And go abroad too. On projects. By then, phones and calls had also become cheaper. Govinda also helpfully did a telephone song. He philosophically asked, what is your mobile number? The country responded by hitting high double digits growth in mobile phone sales. Suddenly, the country was connected. Just like that. The South had by then seen and understood the power of the bumpkin hero. They reinvented Rajinikanth and Vijay in the same mould. Students saw their movies, did an engineering course from some college in Tiruchi or Vellore and viola they were in, US!! Andhra Pradesh took over. Their films, that were in a way the precursor to those Govinda milestones, just became grander. Venkatesh, Nagarjuna or Chiranjeevi. Six songs, six dances and lissome heroines. Some eight fights and three comedy scenes. They churned out blockbusters by the month. Their students clogged the dialled internet lines between Nalgonda and New York. Life wouldn't ever be the same for an Andhra guy ever again. By the end of the nineties, the Order had matured. The Order of Govinda. The baton had to pass on. His hair, belly and smile were starting to sag. Two things happened. The first dotcom bust and Dil Chahta Hai. The momentum had shifted. Indians would now do what their Dil Chahta Hai. They couldn't be led by the Order anymore. So, Quality came into public consciousness. It wasn't the same again. Secretly, even today, all the 80s and 90s gen pay obeisience to those Pentium 1 computers and Govinda. To lives and lives of back then. Gritty nostalgia. "Arre, tu jaa re!"