The Cheapest Hobby Ever!

It’s the simple pleasures of life that keep us from going crazy.

The other day a dear friend quizzed me, “What is it about clouds that is so special? They have been around all the time.” That is just the point. For many people, and perhaps for most, clouds are like the air we breathe, seen but not seen, heard but not heard. To the common man, caught in the vicious trap of life’s mundane trials and tribulations, clouds are just a part of the visual mosaic. When was the last time you laid on your back and looked above at the mighty heavens to stare at the light-as-air clouds gently swift away at their own pace? Still thinking? There, I’ve got you stumped!

I’m a nature-lover. I’ve always believed clouds and cloudscapes are the greatest free of cost drama on earth. It costs not a penny to look up and feast your eyes on the vista of vanilla scoops scamper about miles and miles away. It’s a test of patience, for if your pass with flying colours, they magically reveal their beauty before your eyes. They are never boring, despite the persistence of the same gray cloud-cover. Nature composes endless symphonies and theatrical productions of the celestial skies. The skies are simply beautiful to behold. There is, perhaps, no other way to say it. Sheer beauty! The combination of form, position, gradations of light and shadow, and even colour in the late evening dusky peach and early morning fiery orange and golden hues is a feast to the eye, and enlightens the inner incandescence within that causes one to breathe a muffled, “Ah, the artist extraordinaire at work!”

The weather forecasters suggest that particular clouds arise from causative factors. These factors have an impact on tomorrow’s weather. In the past, masters of sailing vessels became skilled observers of the sky and could read the billboard notice with astonishing precision. That honed expertise resides with only a few people today. However it is an elephantine challenge to develop the skill, and an enormous feeling of contentment that comes forth when a personally made forecast holds true.

Nature helps us in seeing the obvious. Creating a habit of observing the sky when you first get up in the morning and before you retire to bed, and many times in between, gives one a sense of connectedness with nature. When in trouble, look up and you’ll find your answers. This is imperative in a progressively more high tech society. We need to bear in mind that our roots are in nature, and we overlook this fact to our own damage.

Planet Earth is unique because of the presence of water substance, and the fact that the 93,000,000 miles distance from the sun allows water to exist in all three of its states (gaseous, liquid, and solid). In chorus!

Cloud watching is an antidote to Boredom. There are people suffering from psychiatric and psychological disorders. The seek refuge in consultations with the shrinks who drill a hole their pockets! I’m not a doctor but I can prescribe an effective antidote — that is not an expensive prescription drug — is the habit of systematic cloud observing. Nature’s psychiatrist-free of cost!

Clouds are really a magic show of the sky. Water substance is continually appearing and disappearing. Where does a cloud come from and where does it go? Try and find out!

As Famous writer John Lubbock once said, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

Chandigarh’s Pseduo-Intellect Syndrome

To quote celebrity columnist and socialite Shobhaa De’, “If there’s anything worse than a bloody bore, it’s an intellectual whore!”

I happened to attend a rock n’ roll adaptation of Shakespeare’s classic Rom-Com ‘Twelfth Night’ at the Chandigarh Golf Club recently. The who’s who of town was in attendance. It reminded me of Shobhaa De’s neologism –‘Intellectual Whores’. It’s a rare species, fossil-like, with a confused DNA, clad in colourful kurtas and Chanderi Saris, they hang around at the northern sector consulate dinners or musical soirees at the Golf Club. They’ve aced the art of crashing these parties and events, with such perfection and ease. That probably makes them permanent fixtures on guest lists that never get updated. I’ve figured out the only reason these folks turn up at such events is for free booze and the lavish spreads. Some have even become experts at guessing the alcohol up for grabs from venue to venue. They curl up their noses at the boring house parties hosted by the Sarkaari Babus who continue to serve the good ol’ butter chicken and Blender’s Pride. They flock to Consulate Soirees or Bankers’ events at local 5-stars for the superior scotch and cocktail sausages. Their USP is to hang-around, drop a few names here and there, pose for the shutter bugs and paparazzi and go scourging around for whatever’s on offer. No matter what.

Chandigarh is a city of green hedges and grey beards, dubbed by its critiques, so to say. Sadly, it’s been affected by the pseudo-socialite syndrome. Chandigarh’s ‘Intellectual Whores’ fall into a different category all together. They prey on the Sarkaari Babus. They love them the most for obvious reasons. They love to name-drop and throw in on potent issues plaguing the character of the city and administration matters to exhibit their existence of a conscience.

Armchair activism gains a few extra brownie points if he/she can swiftly manage something fuzzy about a meeting with the ‘Top Boss’. If there’s an artsy/Bollywood connection somewhere, that’s still better. All this ‘Oohs! & Aaahs!” and “haw-haw!” talk is heavily interjected with heavyweight Lutyens’ connections. You know Planning Commission (Errr… Niti Aayog), Muffler Man, and a few other lame-ducks here and there.

In-between fit the quintessential Indian Memsahibs. Not all, but quite a few. Net-working being the name of the social game, it is vital to talk cryptic known to the inner-circle and then exchange subtle looks with those who ‘get it’. For those damsels who don’t, social punishment is on the cards! The naive wives, turning modern, are trying hard to fit in with a tall glass spiked up with orange juice or a goblet of red wine, are a breed apart. This lot tries hard to converse in English but manages only a smattering of it. They spout dated clichés on who’s kid married whom.

It’s a bleeding pity that the real Chandigarh-ians, Sardars from old feudal families with crisply tied turbans and their equally sophisticated wives, retired defence personnel, Professors from the university, veteran journalists, bureaucrats of yesteryears and other people with finesse, class, oomph and intellect, are a diminishing species. The city is being takes over by the ‘Intellectual Whores’. What do we do?

Jettison them, of course!

 

 

A welcome guest

I have a very special guest who visits me all the way from Varanasi every year. Although he’s 4 times my age, an octogenarian, but, I consider him as a dear friend. In fact, he’s been visiting my family for almost 4 decades now. A Buddhist monk, he retired as the head priest of the sacred Bodh Gaya Temple, in Gaya.  My maternal grandparents met him 4 decades ago, and he’s been in touch with us ever since! He used to write letters to my mother when she was studying in boarding school in the hills. Uncanny as it may sound, he’s been writing letters to me for almost a decade now.

He’s a philosopher in the guise of a friend. He always greets me with a booming, “Sat Sri Akal!” . Immaculately dressed in a saffron tunic, his aura is composed, he sits in meditative tranquil and his facial expressions are unruffled. To merely observe him meditate takes me to an utter state of bliss. What’s most special about him is that he never preaches his religion or indulges in lengthy commentaries on Buddhism. Even at 80, he’s a learner. He likes to discuss fiction novels, period cinema, comparative religion and contemporary issues. A conversationalist extraordinaire, he converses in clipped English and only speaks when the others have had their say. A Masters in philosophy and a former professor at the prestigious Benaras Hindu University, he chose to give up his teaching career which he considered as too “mainstream”. He chose to become a monk.

He wakes up at the crack of dawn and pushes off for his morning walks, which he calls his ‘rendezvous with nature’. He says, “Nature makes you aware of the obvious”.  He even likes to play with my dogs and take them out for morning walks. He ensures that everyone is present at the dining table for all meals. He mutters a silent prayer before each meal and never speaks or drinks water during the course of a meal. Being a monk he never serves himself but waits for us to serve him.

Afternoons are spent in indulgent conversations about his travels across the globe. You mention a country and he’s been there. To learn about the myriad cultures, food habits and traditions of those countries is like seeing the world through his eyes. His talks on the philosophy of everyday life are pregnant with meaning. He shared a very interesting story with me and my sister when he visited us recently. Here it goes: “Once upon a time, cherubs organised a grand buffet and invited the demons over for lunch. The spread was extravagant. The demons drooled. The only condition the cherubs imposed on the demons was that they could only consume the food without using their own hands. This left the demons in a fix. They tried and tried to no avail. The cherubs smiled. The cherubs then offered the food amongst themselves feeding the persons with their hands sitting next to them.” The story had many morals, there’s a solution to every problem, sharing is caring etcetera.

It’s a pity that this special guest visits me only for a few days and then moves on to his next pit-stop. I admire his tenacity and agility to travel the length and breadth on this country even at the ripe age of eighty. It’s always a pleasure to have him over and to bid farewell is hard.

 

 

My Winged Friends

If spring is here, can my winged friends be far behind? There was animated tweeting and much flickering of delicate wings one fine morning while I was sitting in my front portico reading the day’s newspaper. Bored with the staid budget highlights, my eyes darted at the blossoming passion flower creeper and saw an energetic Myna jumping from one petite stem to another, fluttering about the veil in desperate attempts to call out to his mate in the Tibetan rose bush nearby. Well, Ms. Myna seemed quite cheerful there, ensconced as she was in the baby pink splendour of the arbour, and couldn’t care less to respond.

But, poor Mr Myna seemed to be begging for her kind attention. It was almost as if he was pleading “Oh heavens! Just come and see, please, just once”. After many attempts, unsuccessful albeit, to woo her, he became resigned to her straightforward “no” and thereafter, the pair flew away.

I sat there, in trance, taking in this little affair, and I remembered that this was now the third time it had happened. Twice before, a pair of Myna’s had fluttered about and I had watched the exact same sequence being enacted. Each time I had secretly hoped Ms. Myna would see eye to eye and give me the delight of having them as my guests in my veranda. “Ah!” I questioned myself, “Third time lucky?”Alas!  It was not to be.

And so, I sunk my face back into the mumbo-jumbo of Mr.Jaitely’s vision document. I was jolted out of my reverie by some more twittering and chirruping. This time it was definitely louder and sounded like more than one bird was around. Picture my glee at seeing four little furry creatures basking in the glory of the nectar from the Sweet-Pea blossoms. For such minuscule winged creatures, their accompanying calls were suspiciously thunderous!

It was such a joyful prospect, this cheery feathered group getting pleasure from itself and revelling in nature’s timeless bounty. It felt almost as though the birds had paid me a visit particularly to cheer me up. While the Sweet-Pea blossoms lasted on the vine – and there were huge clusters this season – I had several visits from the little birds. They came mostly in duos and trios, animatedly heralding their arrival and expressing their sheer joy at the abundant nectar.

The Sweet-Pea blossoms have disappeared now, but the next time there are clusters of these gorgeous pink, mauve and white blossoms with their rich n’ sweet scent, I am convinced I will have these charming visitors again.

I often wonder with increasing urbanisation, the gardens and trees are fast disappearing and with very little foliage around most apartment-houses, it is a marvel that we still see any birds at close quarters. I am privileged to have a very pretty garden, thanks to Ma and Pa’s hard work and dedication towards gardening. Their endeavour to keep flowering plants and plants makes me feel happy. It is to encourage my winged friends too.

Maybe, the next season Ms Myna will also be persuaded to stay? Well, that is a prospect that I look forward to!

Confessions of a raconteur

I was surfing the net when I stumbled upon a recent New York Times report that analysed a scientific survey that was conducted among university graduates that established that writing about oneself and then self-editing it leads to an optimistic change in human behaviour. It went on to elaborate that it made one more contented, improved one’s communiqué and interestingly may even result in augmenting longevity. Amazing, isn’t it? Not because I lack self-belief in my capabilities or skill-set. The report fascinated me because I too write mostly about myself and folks who matter to me and then edit it myself. Okay! I agree sometimes my editor complains my articles are way too long and I suck at snipping them off. Cut to chase, while I’m not sure if it has made me more cheerful and healthy (?), I can see that it has certainly caused changes in the behavioural patterns of my readers.

The writing bug bit me quite early in my life – when I was as young as six or seven. Celebrated novelist and columnist Khushwant Singh said that the first work of any author is predominantly autobiographical. I believe it is easy to write about the characters one is most familiar with –family, friends, mentors, idols and acquaintances- and then build a story around it.
While some of my readers- are most excited to read about their references in print others unabashedly solicit it, but I never oblige! Some good-souls call me up or drop in an SMS or email while others’ evident abhorrence to acknowledge is stimulating, nonetheless. My old teachers whom I often take a dig at are enraged to see their names and boisterous antics involved. Some allege that the poetic licence has been abused while some deeply appreciate the cosmopolitan points of view. For me, bricks, bats and rainbows- all are welcome.
By the time I started writing, it was my father, a civil servant and an eminent Sikh historian, in his own right, who encouraged me the most. My maternal grandmother, a fine writer herself, read all my writings and indulged me with pleasing, rosy reviews when even I knew my writings were nothing short of trash. She promised she would finance all my publishing ventures and fancy book launches when I grew up. That was that. But my pragmatic mother – insisted that my blank verses and amateur haikus were only a “passing phase” and she’d rather see me do something more constructive than waste paper and ink. My sister has always enthusiastically encouraged me. Thank god for the social media, I have been able to build a wide and far network of like-minded readers whom I consider ‘friends’, cutting across age groups, classes, professions and even nationalities who follow my writings loyally. I feel extra blessed when they endorse my writings to their friends and relatives after they have read it.

I reckon my hobby has kept me contented, jolly, confident and I may live long, too! But, I cannot promise the same for my dear readers. Hey! Do I see you clench your fists? Relax! It’s over.

 

The state of Punjab’s economy- a fiscal mess- is there a way out?

It’s not business as usual for the state of Punjab. What was once the most prosperous state of India, now finds itself in the midst of an impending fiscal crisis. The alarm bells are ringing with the state’s debt crossing Rs 1 lakh cr. Punjab’s economic survey 2014-15  has laid threadbare that in the last fiscal there was additional Rs 35,000 cr debt on the farmers. The state economy has hit trough with agricultural growth rate hanging around zero for the past two years. Politicians and bureaucrats, who protect themselves behind the veil of statistics, now find themselves in a catch-22 situation. Numbers reveal that the growth rate has turned negative in the previous year to a minimal -0.05%. The figure for the economic year 2012-13 was 0.21%.

Abysmally poor industrial growth rate contradicts the state government’s assertions of making Punjab an envious industrial state. The growth rate for the industrial sector 2013-14 has been 2.55%. This growth rate in the industrial sector has been near to the ground since 2009-10 when it was only 8.77%. Temporarily, however, a marginal enhancement in the contribution of industrial sector in augmenting the state’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP) is something to cheer about.

Once upon a time, Punjab was synonymous with the description of the “land of milk and honey”. For the past decade, agriculture and allied sectors have been offered a step-motherly treatment. The result if not perilous, is definitely appalling. Among the other parameters, the primary sector, including the mainstream agriculture and livestock, saw a sharp decline in growth rate of 0.14% compared to 1.81% the previous year. The secondary sector of manufacturing, power and construction witnessed only a minor increase to 2.75% from 2.38% the previous year. The key sectors of manufacturing and electricity, namely, gas and water supply have witnessed a decline in growth from 3.08% to 2.95% and 3.14 to 2.81%, respectively.

The services sector, together with trade, hotels, transport, banking, real estate and public administration, too showed a turn down in growth of 7.95% from 11.82% last year.

The report reveals that expansion and development in agriculture is slowing down as cropping intensity and irrigation potential have reached a saturation point. Leading economists like Dr. Upinder Sawhney feel that the state administration and its economic think-thank have not learnt any lessons as even the current package lacks any out of the ordinary proposal to help diversify and sustain agricultural growth.

The farmers and citizens of Punjab are eagerly waiting to witness the revitalization of the economy and restoration of the state to the number one position. But, this will remain an elusive dream unless and until the promises on which elections are fought are translated into tangible actions. Punjab ought to be transformed into an attractive destination for both domestic and foreign investment in the manufacturing and services sectors and its agricultural deceleration must be halted. This dream can alter to realism if ample public investment is made in green field and brown field projects. The bureaucracy must rise to the occasion and deliver.

Confessions of a raconteur

I was surfing the net when I stumbled upon a recent New York Times report that analysed a scientific survey that was conducted among university graduates that established that writing about oneself and then self-editing it leads to an optimistic change in human behaviour. It went on to elaborate that it made one more contented, improved one’s communiqué and interestingly may even result in augmenting longevity. Amazing, isn’t it? Not because I lack self-belief in my capabilities or skill-set. The report fascinated me because I too write mostly about myself and folks who matter to me and then edit it myself. Okay! I agree sometimes my editor complains my articles are way too long and I suck at snipping them off. Cut to chase, while I’m not sure if it has made me more cheerful and healthy (?), I can see that it has certainly caused changes in the behavioural patterns of my readers.
The writing bug bit me quite early in my life – when I was as young as six or seven. Celebrated novelist and columnist Khushwant Singh said that the first work of any author is predominantly autobiographical. I believe it is easy to write about the characters one is most familiar with –family, friends, mentors, idols and acquaintances- and then build a story around it.
While some of my readers- are most excited to read about their references in print others unabashedly solicit it, but I never oblige! Some good-souls call me up or drop in an SMS or email while others’ evident abhorrence to acknowledge is stimulating, nonetheless. My old teachers whom I often take a dig at are enraged to see their names and boisterous antics involved. Some allege that the poetic licence has been abused while some deeply appreciate the cosmopolitan points of view. For me, bricks, bats and rainbows- all are welcome.
By the time I started writing, it was my father, a civil servant and an eminent Sikh historian, in his own right, who encouraged me the most. My maternal grandmother, a fine writer herself, read all my writings and indulged me with pleasing, rosy reviews when even I knew my writings were nothing short of trash. She promised she would finance all my publishing ventures and fancy book launches when I grew up. That was that. But my pragmatic mother – insisted that my blank verses and amateur haikus were only a “passing phase” and she’d rather see me do something more constructive than waste paper and ink. My sister has always enthusiastically encouraged me. Thank god for the social media, I have been able to build a wide and far network of like-minded readers whom I consider ‘friends’, cutting across age groups, classes, professions and even nationalities who follow my writings loyally. I feel extra blessed when they endorse my writings to their friends and relatives after they have read it.

I reckon my hobby has kept me contented, jolly, confident and I may live long, too! But, I cannot promise the same for my dear readers. Hey! Do I see you clench your fists? Relax! It’s over.

Of pomp & show, glitz & glamour….

Punjabis like weddings. Big ones: with all the pomp and show! In these occasions there are third and fourth degree, almost unconnected relatives and friends of friends of friends. From Chandigarh standards, you are made aware that you are not doing that well in life if more than half your town is not present at your wedding. My parents, unpretentious socialites, happened to attend one such big fat Punjabi wedding last week. They came home appalled and sickened at the ostentatious display of wealth. Mother concluded, ‘Money can’t buy simplicity & class’ !

It’s a bleeding pity that hosting a ‘big bash’ has become a prestige issue for the ‘neo-rich’ in town. What’s worse? When the so- called ‘neo-rich’ try hard and portray themselves as royalty or as if were hailing from old Sikh feudal ancestral backgrounds, no less. When in reality, the story is something else. The bride wears high-end designer dresses coupled with ‘brand new’ bespoke jewellery that is made to look ‘antique’ and ‘old’. She is decked up like a hideous Christmas tree, replete with solitaire diamonds and emeralds.

The good ol’ wedding invites paired with Moti churr ke Ladoos sourced from your childhood halwai have given way to tailor-made invites that resemble shoeboxes! Bizarre flower arrangements with expensive flowers ranging from orchids to lilies have replaced the magnificent yellow and saffron marigold braids, elaborate tenting, expensive liquor, high-end orchestras, out of the ordinary food menu, paparazzi et all! The pre-wedding nuptials which were, hitherto, celebrated with madness and gaiety in drawing rooms, terraces and backyards with close relatives, friends and lovable AuntyJis has sadly transformed into a musical concert, no less. The traditional Punjabi boliyans & folk songs have all vanished, giving way to second rate Punjabi disco music. The bagpipers or police brass bands accompanying the Baraat are missing. I feel sorry for the brides & bridegrooms to be, as they yield the floor, the day of their lives, to strangers. The high-society Punjabis are hypocrites. They are overheard in hushed whispers criticising the arrangements right at the venue, comparing it with the last ‘it’ wedding that happened around town! Ladies are draped in fineries, laden with jewellery, wearing designer wayfarers, sip spiked-up juices or cokes, but only manage a smattering of heavily accented Punjabi-English. The content of their conversations mustn’t be told else the average public intellectual will die a lonely death.

All the show off, glitz and glamour involved in the Big Fat Indian Wedding is really shallow. The extravagance is not worth it because the marriage or the ‘holy tie’ is a sacred union of two souls and not surrender to the society. Several crores are spent on weddings and the reason often cited is that it is once in lifetime moment which should exactly be the reason why we should abstain from exhausting a major part of our savings acquired through a lifetime of hard work so easily for just this one day. After all, did Mahatma Gandhi not teach us that “Simple Living and High Thinking” should be the way of life?

The enchantress in crimson (Hindustan Times), Jun 20 2015, Page12)

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The enchantress in crimson
Chitvan Singh Dhillon filmbuff100@gmail.com

The writer is a freelance contributor
Hindustan Times
Jun 20 2015

The sandy warm winds of June herald her arrival. She struts down the boulevards of Chandigarh with oomph and vivacity posing for the shutterbugs —paparazzi no less! Bang! She enters the city and livens up the muted atmosphere, cutting through the staid…read more…

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Confessions of a shutterbug!

Despite having a jam-packed schedule, I make it a point to take time out to pursue my passion for photography. I reckon photography is not just another hobby, for me it’s a way of life. It’s not just how you hold you camera and click away, it’s the way you see life and things around you. Everything in life is about perspective and life revolves around the way you perceive your fellow human beings, their emotions, nature and its musings and everything in between.

As the month of June beckons, ruby-red roohafza , a dark room with the delicate khus-khus scent emanating from the quintessential cooler-Ah! well lazy days are for asking! But, step-out and see how Chandigarh is ablaze with a burst of yellow blossoms of the Laburnum tree. The streets are painted in hues of blood-red crimson and glowing amber from the flowering Gulmohar trees. They raise their dishevelled heads amidst varied shades of the evergreen trees that flank our boulevards. The blazing warmth of summer fails to cut through the magnificence of the magnolia resplendent in its satiny sheen.

I decide to abandon the lassitude and go for a photo-walk around town. Chandigarh harbours many botanical wonders, that lend fragrances to the evening breeze and sprinkle tiny white blossoms on the pave walks in summer and many of these grow wild rising like phoenixes from the good earth.
Neem trees emerge out of ignored saplings along the sidewalks or along the alleys of the Capitol Complex. The Peepul pushes its shimmering heart shaped leaves and slender green stems out of forgotten patches of the Sukhna Lake. The white Bakul blossoms, the lilac Jarcranda its all its splendour and the pungent scent of the Chamrod rends the air, but surely the most ubiquitous of Chandigarh’s flowering trees is the Laburnum, which makes its present felt towards the fag end of May, as its leafy green tops suddenly turn a lurid shade of bright yellow. My camera is happy snapping away the various treasures Chandigarh has to offer.

Photographing these wondrous trees and flowers brings me in high spirits. It makes me forget all my worries and tensions harboured at work as I transcend into a Zen state of mind. These trees, I realise, are the guardians of my conscience, with whom I’ve shared a friendly banter and many a secrets. The blossoming trees teach me life lessons, to never give up hope, for there’s always light at end of the tunnel. After a long, trepid winter comes the mighty summer and along with it the flowers and fruit. The teach me how to smile and laugh in the face of adversity and difficulties that life has to offer.

I come home and impress my folks and artsy friends with my photographs’. For them they maybe just images or a form of art, for me they are much more than just snaps.