During student days, inflation was only a term to be glossed over in morning newspapers. It was another jargon heaped on me just for the sake of what my parents called general awareness. In times of rising prices, my dad, the only earning member, used to cut down on his expenses to send me those extra bucks to ‘factor in’ inflation for a son living “in an alien city”. My account had to show sufficient balance for buying books that explained the exponential curves of inflation and for insulating me against any untoward eventuality. Also, for that expensive north Indian meal in the city of sambhar and dosa, for catching up on the latest Bollywood flick and for the never-to-missed weekend outings. Inflation didn’t matter to me, it was only of academic interest. In fact, it made me a little richer.
Cut to 2008: I am on my own, married to a working woman - as they say a double income no kids (DINKS) family with hardly any liabilities. Dad still earns and seeks no financial support from me for his old age. But now inflation has acquired an intimidating dimension. With the figure zooming to a 13-year record high of 11.05%, inflation is no more a term I can take casually like I did in student days. All my weekend plans and movies are on the backburner. Eating out in upmarket restaurants is a strict no-no. Unannounced detours to a friend’s place has come to a grinding halt. Even the huge season-end discounts at glitzy malls don’t seem to be attractive enough. Holidays to exotic destinations have been inadvertently postponed to next year. Because in the age of unbridled consumerism made worse by the crude shock of rising prices of essential commodities, I find my bank balance struggling to steer clear of the zero mark. What books couldn’t teach me all those years, I have learnt in the past few days from first-hand experience. Every Friday, shunning my customary practice of watching reviews of new movie releases, I switch to afternoon bulletin hoping for good news on the inflation front. These days I follow global oil prices more closely than the Euro Cup. Perhaps the only silver lining in the dark cloud of inflation is that I have acknowledged the conventional wisdom of financial prudence, practiced by my dad and his dad and so on. Now, my father’s advise on savings don’t sound preachy at all.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
When Quota did me in
It was the summer of 1996. It was also the year of loss of innocence in my life. With grand plans of stepping into college life, we were all busy filling up forms for junior college after our CBSE class Xth result. And in that twilight zone, between school and college, we were left bewildered by a column in the form that later I concurred was devised by political expediency and electoral greed. Claiming to champion the cause of social justice, the Bihar government that year had introduced 27% reservation for OBCs in addition to already existing 22.5% quota for SC/ST in the state’s universities and asked teenagers, just out of school, to reveal their caste identity. All of a sudden, childhood friends, untouched by Mandalisation of politics and social engineering in school days, were preparing to deconstruct the new lexicon of caste the column had introduced in their simple lives.
Scores soon became secondary and caste calculations came into play for that coveted seat. Now, secretively all of us wanted to know each other’s castes, a piece of information that held no importance in the school days. But with little experience in decoding the caste matrix, it turned out to be a futile exercise. Surnames were more often that not ambiguous. The Prasads, Singhs, Sharmas, Thakurs always led to open-ended answers. We were soon to find out that the caste dynamics was not as simple as it was explained in the school history textbooks. It was only when the list was declared, the real identities came to light. I was, of course, didn’t figure in the hall of fame.
For some of us, the number of seats and faith in the State had been severely dented. Under the veil of undoing the oppression of ages, the ‘government of the underprivileged’ had done its bit to sow the seeds of caste feelings and disenchantment, denying the ‘privileged’ a level-playing field. Having secured 86% in the boards and looking at the trend of the previous years, I was sure to make it to the best institution in undivided Bihar. But it was not to be. Needless to say I was filled with angst and cursed myself for being born in an upper caste family. At that impressionable age, when I should have been balancing chemical equations, I was tirelessly trying to think of ways to be downwardly mobile. Why didn’t I belong to the OBC category? I had yearned as an impatient teen. Though I finally did reconcile to the harsh reality, I consider it nothing more than a political ploy to consolidate votebank.
Scores soon became secondary and caste calculations came into play for that coveted seat. Now, secretively all of us wanted to know each other’s castes, a piece of information that held no importance in the school days. But with little experience in decoding the caste matrix, it turned out to be a futile exercise. Surnames were more often that not ambiguous. The Prasads, Singhs, Sharmas, Thakurs always led to open-ended answers. We were soon to find out that the caste dynamics was not as simple as it was explained in the school history textbooks. It was only when the list was declared, the real identities came to light. I was, of course, didn’t figure in the hall of fame.
For some of us, the number of seats and faith in the State had been severely dented. Under the veil of undoing the oppression of ages, the ‘government of the underprivileged’ had done its bit to sow the seeds of caste feelings and disenchantment, denying the ‘privileged’ a level-playing field. Having secured 86% in the boards and looking at the trend of the previous years, I was sure to make it to the best institution in undivided Bihar. But it was not to be. Needless to say I was filled with angst and cursed myself for being born in an upper caste family. At that impressionable age, when I should have been balancing chemical equations, I was tirelessly trying to think of ways to be downwardly mobile. Why didn’t I belong to the OBC category? I had yearned as an impatient teen. Though I finally did reconcile to the harsh reality, I consider it nothing more than a political ploy to consolidate votebank.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Home Sweet Home
Finally, the courage to home in on a home dream is taking wings. Still a long way from hitting 30, I can at least nurture the hope of buying a flat, turning head on the conventional wisdom of investing your life-long savings in that abode which you call home. My dad built a house, after years of toil fighting the behemoth called government from within, on meager salaries and ironically an exalted position. He built on FDs, those post office savings and the recurring account. And all the life-long saving was parked in the non-glitzy and red tape ridden nationalized banks. Those were not the days of swanky banks, ‘well-behaved’ call center bank executives and when you still had to wait for hours to withdraw your own money. He counted his money – some for my and my brother’s education, a little for the unavoidable household expenses and none for what our generation parks for extravagances like holidays and branded attire. And after years of financial management and prudence, there it was, a mansion. He achieved this feat at a comparatively young 51, sacrificing his desires. Cut to 21st century. In the times of liberalization, privatization and consequently unbridled consumerism, here I am, his son, dreaming of a flat in a Delhi suburb, with small savings but high expectations. A poor journalist, considering the high-flying salaries in corporate India, is scouting for a place in the metro without any outside boundaries and where real estate rates are soaring like the fortune of our most venal politicians. For a 2 BHK, which has almost become the most chattered dialect in the realty sector, they demand an obscene and intimidating amount. But there they are to help me, the banks, the housing finance firms, bubbling with liquidity, urging me to become a part of the inevitable loan culture. They promise me a house for which I won’t have to wait for 15 years. They propel me into conceptualizing a house without any substantial savings. They are powering the great Indian middle class youth's dream of a owning a home in their 20s and 30s. Now, we don't have to turn 51 for that breathing space.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A phoren tour in India
Wandering aimlessly on the narrow stretches of the land we so love to link up to a distant Portugal, I was enjoying the tranquil charm of those winding roads. Until I felt the hunger for a virgin sultry beach, untouched by the Goa-bound crazy crowd. And here in the land of men and women, browned by the harsh sun and toil of years, surprisingly a white man showed me the way to solitude. Yes, in the land of sun, sand and beach and much more, a foreigner played the proverbial guide to me and we landed at Mirojim beach, dotted by white skin and serenity. Thanks to that shirtless man on that sleek bike.
That is one part of India where a foreigner is the best man to tell you which places to visit, which road to take, where to stay, from where to buy the cheap booze and where to unwind. I was taken aback by the ease with which they roamed the length and breadth of a territory that was not theirs.
Daredevil act, I thought, when I first saw a foreigner riding a scooter to that secluded beach on that evening when the sun was fading away fast. But then I saw a few more, and then a group heading the same way. And on the way they were everywhere, in the thatched houses, on the balconies of the newly-constructed pucca houses with modern amenities, on the half-broken railings, in the roadside cheap bars. It was a small world packaged in that small pocket of India, like an island inhabited by small nationalities, all for fun and for their share of peace with nature’s most undiluted form. Mingling with the local populace, they bring dollars and euros for the hospitality they are greeted with. Indeed it was the heady mix of the local and the global, without even the shrillest voices of protest.
That is one part of India where a foreigner is the best man to tell you which places to visit, which road to take, where to stay, from where to buy the cheap booze and where to unwind. I was taken aback by the ease with which they roamed the length and breadth of a territory that was not theirs.
Daredevil act, I thought, when I first saw a foreigner riding a scooter to that secluded beach on that evening when the sun was fading away fast. But then I saw a few more, and then a group heading the same way. And on the way they were everywhere, in the thatched houses, on the balconies of the newly-constructed pucca houses with modern amenities, on the half-broken railings, in the roadside cheap bars. It was a small world packaged in that small pocket of India, like an island inhabited by small nationalities, all for fun and for their share of peace with nature’s most undiluted form. Mingling with the local populace, they bring dollars and euros for the hospitality they are greeted with. Indeed it was the heady mix of the local and the global, without even the shrillest voices of protest.
Friday, January 11, 2008
That Sphinxian riddle solved
A friend after all. All the way from the land of Pharaohs and Sphinx. The long cribbing sessions about friends deserting her in the middle of a storm finally came to an end, on a happy note at that. From the scorching deserts of Arabia to the pleasant January night in Delhi, the storm swept her away, letting her swirl in the memories of her schooldays. I too let myself drift in her nostaligia, enjoying every word sopken. Nothing like meeting a schoolmate and reliving those days when we were still innocent, not hardened by the challenges of life. Profession for once was not on her mind, the vaulting ambition to excel had taken a backseat as she talked about the more mundane but precious things in life. Felt good for her and saw her happy in many days. I thank Sanjan and beer for doing the trick. The days of innocence were back in full glory and undiluted.
