Behind Enemy Lines......

The press convention room was abuzz with a lot of unusual chatter and activity. Media personnel were being shown into the sixty seater hall after being put through rigorous frisking and security checks. The camera men were busy mounting their microphones on the orator’s podium. Occasionally there would be hushed snares and glares among the men as they vied for the spots that would command the most space on the international telecast of the event that was to air to the view of the entire world in just a few minutes.

Young journalists, many of whom who had never been to the historic parliamentary press room where just taken aback by the sheer majesty and architectural grandeur of the hall; even as they themselves were somewhat nervous about the happenings that was to follow. Besides them, experienced veterans sat with an air of petty confidence and calmness but they too would be lying if they claimed they weren’t anxious. And why wouldn’t they be. It was, after all, the biggest political sand storm that had kicked up after the 2004 beheadings of three Indian soldiers belonging to the border security force that manned the volatile Indo-Pak border. Though Pakistan had explicitly denied the hand of their armed forces in that brutal tragedy; it was nevertheless an open secret and every third grade dimwit in India knew the truth. The opposition had pounced upon the opportunity and every minister in both Houses of the Parliament left no stone unturned in declaring the government impotent and incapable of defending the nation. The government though, for their part had claimed that they were doing everything they could possibly do through diplomatic channels and that it was not in the nature of international protocol to take up arms and act in haste over such incidents without tangible proof. The media went berserk over all these developments and the fire that ensued lasted for over a month.

Now, after almost a decade, a controversy similar in nature but more grotesque in pattern had emerged. But the tide and in which they emerged were different. The opposition was the government and the then government had been reduced to a miniscule minority in the House. The new ruling order was seen as more authoritative and stronger than the older one and it was expected that this time, India’s response would be threatening. But the situation itself was delicate and not as simple as three servicemen being killed in combat. It involved a topic which no country on the face of the earth was comfortable talking about, though it was something which every country did and had to do for their own defence and survival; to maintain internal security and peaceful integrity of their international borders and to some extent play political hopscotch. The topic was espionage.

The sounds in the press hall were silenced immediately as the Prime Minister’s official media spokesperson Nirupama Roy entered the hall and went straight to the podium. She climbed the dice coolly like she had done countless number of times in the past, dragging her long embellished sari beneath her feet. After adjusting the microphone she began addressing the assembled journalists.

“Good morning everyone. I will keep this short. As you all are aware, this press conference was called by the Honourable Prime Minister in view of the alleged infiltration remarks by Pakistan in which it was claimed that the Pakistani Army had captured a secret agent working for the Government of India in an undisclosed location along the Pakistani side of the LOC. As scheduled, the PM will present his statement shortly. And he will not take any questions so I would request you to refrain from asking him any. Thank You.”, saying this, Roy cleared the podium and left the hall as fast she had appeared.

The ‘no questions’ clause let out a collective sigh of despair among the assembled media wolves who had spent their whole adult life jumping up and down at the opportunity of asking questions. Nevertheless, they would still try to incense him with blazing one liners and hope to make him feel compelled to answer atleast some of them. The issue was contentious and had ignited heated debates on international spy networking and insurgency. It nevertheless was expected by the general masses that the government would come out in full support of the captured agent and try to extradite him and get him back to his country and honour him with the highest gallantry medals. But this was just public, layman fancy – imbecile, foolish and driven by passion over brains. It didn’t work that way in the real world. There was no scope for patriotic sentiments or public opinions. The only thing that worked was diplomacy and every foreign relations expert in India knew what the PM’s response would be. So there were no surprises why the reporters felt deprived or even marginalized at not being allowed to question him on such a politically significant affair.

The doors opened and the bulky frame of Yudhishtir Sinha, the fourteenth Prime Minister of India stepped in holding a manila envelope in his hand. Giving his usual courtesy smile, he moved on to the podium clustered with innumerable microphones belonging to different news corporations. After having settled the envelope which contained the statement on the desk, Sinha took one long look at the assembly. His eyes swept through each and every reporter in the room, identifying some, being intimidated by some, and recording some new faces to his memory.

After taking a long, deep breath, he opened the envelope and pulled out the four page statement drafted by his expert team comprising of speech writers and eminent political advisors. Even though Sinha knew everything written on the statement by heart, he ignored the text at the last moment and began speaking extempore.

“As the Prime Minister of India, and as its numero uno representative, I hereby categorically deny all the allegations of espionage labelled by the Ministry of External Affairs, Pakistan as completely unfounded and baseless. The individual in question, Mr. Jasif Jamshed, has not been found to be part of any military or paramilitary regiment or troop under the command of the President of India. At the most he is an Indian citizen who has erringly wandered off into Pakistani territory. I assure the country that all possible means would be undertaken to get the concerned individual back to India safe and sound. Thank You”. Sinha stepped away from the podium and briskly walked towards the exit door even as he could hear those journalists hammering him with nasty questions like a group of hyenas attacking an infant deer.

Yudhishtir Sinha walked straight to the Parliamentary exit and out into the huge lawn where his official vehicle the BMW X5 – fortified, armoured and solidly bulletproof – waited for him flanked by guardsman belonging to India’s elite Special Protection Group, the force responsible for protecting PMs, former PMs and the President of India and their immediate families. The SPG was instituted after the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi by LTTE militants of Sri Lanka. Experts felt the need to have a dedicated protection force for the Prime Minister analogous to the American Secret Service. The selected individuals were cherry picked from various sources like the Armed Forces, the Police and sometimes even the Navy and the Air Force. Traditionally, the SPG is headed by an officer belonging to the Indian Police Service or the National Security Guards. As Sinha moved towards his SUV, he was flanked by two of these guards on the either side, alert and holding their MP5 submachine guns in a combat ready position, and they trailed him till he had entered the vehicle and closed those huge armor plated doors.

Once inside, Sinha picked up his secure handset rigged with speed dials to his most important official contacts. Not being a man too fond of technology, he began dialling a number out of his memory. A number he had called atleast fifty times in the past few days. After a few rings, Jai Rajeevan, a 1977 batch IPS officer and the present chief of R&AW, the Research and Analysis Wing, answered the phone.

“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”, the voice was bold and intimidating and the words spoken with a tone of awareness.

“The press conference is over Jai. Go ahead with the operation and call me back with the news that you have acquired Agent Jamshed back”, Sinha hung up the receiver back where it belonged and rested his head back on the seat. 

That was all that was needed to be said. He had just ordered an operation to rescue the same Indian citizen who had ‘erringly wandered off into Pakistani territory’; though he knew that was a statement far from the truth and that agent Jamshed had gone there as part of an infiltration attempt; as part of the many counter insurgency operations that are carried out by R&AW against Pakistan and ISI. And Jamshed was a son of the soil. Disowning him was never a choice. His service to the country can never  be repaid; but by bringing him back from the fangs of torture from under those ISI bastards, the country would have shown its own small gratitude towards him.     

Welcome to D'HELL'I!!!!..

So me and my friends end up in Delhi for our post graduation in biological sciences. Now Delhi is a place not famous for its serenity and peacefulness. It is a place famous for its horrendous crimes against women, for the number of people that die each year of the merciless winter, and for being the epicentre of the most prolific race of blood sucking maggots the country could produce; the political elite!. So naturally, before I set off from Mumbai, I had people from Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Mumbai, USA and Uganda telling me to be careful and not fall prey to the huge array of popular vices this place offers.  For the part of me and my friends, I can confidently say we share similar sentiments. We had been to the city once before to appear for the exams, our first time, and the experience was nothing close to exemplary. Infact, a Delhi Corporation Bus conductor tried to fool us by accepting money and not giving a ticket! Hell I lived in Mumbai for two decades and never remotely had such an experience!

So if the University of Mumbai wasn’t as half as bad as they say it is, it would have probably tipped the scales and I would have chosen to abandon this wretched capital of India. But unfortunately it is and so Delhi is a necessity. Add to that the fact that I am nurturing Civil Services dreams, and Delhi becomes entirely unavoidable. 

They say a man doesn’t understand the value of sight until he loses it. And in similar fashion, I failed to understand the value of my home city Mumbai until I left it. I was someone who addressed Mumbai as ‘garbage city’ and ‘shit box’ the whole two decades of my life. But now when I am in a city which is hell on earth (use that term literally during summer), I dearly and heavily miss my city. And when I say I miss my city, I mean I miss everything that’s in and around it. My parents, my brother, my friends, my teachers, my cat, my house, my buildinmeg, the BEST, the autowaalas (oh how I yearn for rickshaws that ply on meters!), the Metro, the vada paavs, the bhajjias, the pothole infested streets, the floods and the list goes on and on! 

Now sitting in my room in Jamia Nagar, I think of Delhi as a completely alien place to me! Even the hindi they speak is with a slight Haryanvi slang. The men here are aggressive and hot headed and the women aren’t half as pretty. Ganesh Chaturti is probably the biggest festival in Mumbai. Here, no one cares about Ganeshji! Even the schools and government offices remain open on the day. Diwali is just a one day affair and people laugh at you cynically when you ask them about Diwali vacations. The academic sessions run a month late; so when your mid term ends around October in Mumbai, it sums up around December in Delhi. So you have your Christmas-New Year holidays and mid term holidays combined into one. I bet Mumbai students won’t like that!

Talking about food is a sacrilege. Mumbai is an open kitchen where you can enjoy cuisines from all over the country whether it be Gujarati, South Indian or Punjabi. In Delhi there are no Gujaratis. Atleast I haven’t seen any yet! So talk about their food is an utter waste of time. But you do have those schemers selling pseudo Dhoklas and pseudo Khandvis as though they are futuristic rarities imported from Mars, charging you fifteen rupees per piece (what horseshit!). South Indians are not as endangered as the Gujaratis here but their food is in a serious threat of disavowement. Idlis and Dosas are served in select ‘South Indian’ restaurants. Though the idlis are fine, it’s the sambhar and the chatni that will want you thinking of abandoning food for the rest of your lives. 

Being a south Indian, fish is a necessary part of my diet. Whilst in Mumbai I had fish every alternate day. But you can’t find fish in Delhi and thats because you can’t find the sea within a 1000 miles of this place! So if you want fresh marine food, you have to either go to the Bay of Bengal or to Gujarat; both of which are too far away. But you do get freshwater fish at a place called CR Market which I am reliably informed is the only market of its kind in here.

Now when you walk along any street in Mumbai, chances are that you will bump into a roadside vada paav stall or a dosa vaala or a farsan store every hundred metres. The peaceful corner where you can have that cheap and spicy daily snack of yours. In Delhi, you don’t find any roadside stalls. Even if you do, they have no freaking clue about a vada paav nor do they sell bhajjias. Some have samosas that look like two dimensional triangles and taste like molten rubber. And when you know you are paying ten rupees for this greasy piece of crap, it makes the already torturous process of shoving it down your throat all the more painful. You then have the famous McDonalds joints at select places where they charge you extra for every packet of ketchup and laugh when you ask them for coke floats. And KFCs are almost unheard of here! So that means even Westerners have a tough lunch here!

That was all the talk about food. Now lets talk about the pains of finding a house to stay in. People here still live in the old world mindset of religious differences! My friend could not find a room in the area I lived because he is a Hindu and the place is predominantly Muslim! So we try to find a room in an area with a Hindu majority and guess what? They won’t allow me because I am a Muslim! Now seriously, I am appalled. I thought this Hindu-Muslim bullshit was a matter of yesterday and subjects in stupid Bollywood films. But here in the capital of this great country we call India, we have such factors still playing an integral part in determining how these people live!

We have known or heard about the coal mafia, the mining mafia and even the sand mafia. Putting all these old school maifias to shame, in Delhi we have the water mafia! In simple terms, people in Delhi ‘buy’ the water needed for their daily household activities, especially drinking, from water vendors who turn up every morning with big plastic drums and equally big funnels. When I asked around a bit, the answers I got were shocking. No one knows where these people come from but they believe the water they bring is purified and free of contaminants.  And the standalone reason why people rely on these water retailers is because the water provided my MCD (Municipal Corporation of Delhi) is so full of shit that even a dead man would contract hepatitis. Its so bad that I don’t even make wudu for my prayers using that water! I would however like to say that only the area that I stay in has this issue and its not synonymous for the whole of Delhi.

Now transport in Delhi; although legions and legions away from Mumbai; is the only silver lining. Delhi is a radial city and so a bifurcating rail network like the Mumbai locals is not a solution. The answer was discovered ten years ago when the first metro train rolled out. For all my criticisms of this place, I must give in to the fact that Delhi has an elaborate and complex network of metro services which is cheap, well connected and fully air conditioned; something which is direly desired both during summer and winter. You can reach almost any place of commercial, academic, political and historic significance using the metro. Compared to this, the newly running Mumbai metro may look like a nipple sucking baby but its just a matter of a decade and a half at the most; and then the Delhites would lose that one echelon of superiority they had over the Mumbaikars. 

The bus service is good but not great. You have buses to reach any place in the city but its just that. The buses here don’t traverse every nook and corner of the city like the BEST buses; which has an impressive fleet of well-coordinated bus routes that can almost drop you at your doorstep! The rickshaws as usual don’t use their meters. They charge you by your looks. If you are naïve enough to let him know you are not from Delhi, he will burn a hole the size of a watermelon in your wallet. Thats the reason when Indians from different parts of the country visit Mumbai, they are most surprised seeing these meters actually being put to use. One thing I found peculiar in Delhi is the cycle rickshaw whose engines are men themselves. The socialist in me didn’t allow me to travel in these vehicles. To me these were yesteryear atrocities that should have been abolished long ago with the caste system. But as time passed and when the other rickshaw proved expensive, I hesitantly started using them. And now I travel by them everyday. Oh how young minds get corrupted in this vicious place!  

Then there are those battery operated trailers which ferry you at a much cheaper price. These are not strictly classified as vehicles and are driven around by young boys in their early teens. They have no licences, no permits, no road traffic regulations or anything remotely connecting them to the established transport laws. They left the auto rickshaws red faced because they paid much more for their licences and permits and their fuel charges and then carried less passengers at a higher price. Naturally people preferred the electric trailers. This went on until one fine day a bus smashed one of these vehicles into orange pulp and the driver, a twelve year old boy died on the spot. The Delhi High Court then ordered all the trailers to be taken off roads until they secure a proper registration and are driven by licenced adults. Now, in clear disregard for a High Court dictat, these trailers have appeared back miraculously, driven by the same young children who at their age are supposed to be attending elementary school with the other kids. Atleast in Mumbai people take contempt of court seriously!  

But the most shocking, eye-ball popping fact remains that in Delhi, getting hold of a gas cylinder is as easy as buying eggs! If you have a few hundred rupees to invest, you can buy your own gas cylinder. When comparing it to the fact that in Mumbai, you need to have a gas account and the government hammers you with cylinder limits each year after which they revoke your subsidy, this seems such a convenience! Use LPG as much as you like, whenever you like and however you like. And when you run out of gas, no worries. Just go to your nearest ‘gas-refilling’ shop and get your cylinder filled with fresh gas at ninety rupees per kilogram! But the sinister part is when you realise the immense scope of misuse this can bring upon the society. If one day some, deranged wackjob, frustrated with his life and the happiness of others, just decides to blow up an entire block, just for the heck of it; well; he can! And no one can check him!

So like the experimental scientist who draws conclusions after studying his observations, I too feel obliged to do so. The whole purpose of this blog wasn’t hate mongering. It was an oriental observation through the eyes of someone who is a completely new resident to the culture, social structure and anthropologic fabric of this city. Maybe the things I feel undesirable about this place would be the most alluring to the natives here. And maybe what I find good here (not much of that!) maybe the most hated here!  But as days pass by, I hope my heart comes to like this place. Though growing to like it as much as I like Mumbai is a big, big ask; I think I can do away with some of the grudges in a couple of months. Having said that I am apprehensive of the day some of my new batch-mates, some of whom are ardent Delhites, would read this. To them I would like to say that maybe now when your reading this, I have already turned into a big Delhi lover! A true Delhiphile! And if I have not, please forgive me because nothing tops Mumbai! The city of dreams! The city that never dies!