Raincoat

In December 2004, my British friend Lisa came to Bombay to visit me. Lisa and I are friends for more than thirty years. She is a lesbian and I am very straight. That makes it an enviable platonic friendship. On that trip, Lisa had come with a girl older than her. Don’t know if they were mere friends or more, but it was none of my business.

Bombay is not a touristy place. Once the two British girls saw the Gateway of India, the Gothic architecture in South Bombay built by their own ancestors, and refused to visit the Elephanta Island, because of the Tsunami which had happened that week, not much remained to be seen. From the day of arrival, they had expressed interest in Bollywood. I had to disappoint them by saying there is no such place as Bollywood. Hollywood exists, but not Bollywood. The best thing that can be done is to watch a Bollywood movie.

Bollywood movies are fairy tales for adults. Protagonists must be good looking, the leading lady Miss Universe if possible. Villains must look and act nasty. Every fifteen minutes or so, the storyline freezes, and everyone starts dancing. The leads (called the hero and the heroine) take carefully choreographed bollywood steps, and behind them are hundreds of dancers creating the Indian corps de ballet. The dances are extremely colorful, rhythms invigorating, sets appealing and tunes catchy. The seven or eight songs in the film may have nothing to do with the plot, but they offer a welcome relief to those who wish to buy popcorns, visit restrooms or answer missed calls. In effect, every Bollywood film is a musical. I thought Lisa and her friend would enjoy that part much. Also I won’t need to translate anything when the songs are on.

I checked with my Indian friends. They recommended Dhoom, a blockbuster film of that year. It was a nonstop action thriller, with seven or eight songs. An ideal film for foreigners wishing to get a taste of Bollywood. Dhoom had the famous Dhoom machale number, which I was obliged to listen to every morning at my gym.

In 2004, we couldn’t yet book movie tickets on internet. I checked the Dhoom timings in the newspaper. Lisa, her friend and I took a taxi to a nearby multi-screen cinema. We waited patiently in the queue for tickets, anxiously looking at the watch. I like to watch the ads before the movies.

“Three tickets for Dhoom, please.” I said at the counter.

“Dhoom? That’s house-full.” The man, whose head was the only visible part, said. I thought he frowned to suggest people just can’t walk in ten minutes before Dhoom and expect to get tickets.

“Look, I have my friends from abroad here. They wish to see a Bollywood movie. If Dhoom is not possible… do you have tickets… for…. Hulchul?” That was another recommendation from friends. This one had Kareena Kapoor, and six songs.

“No tickets for Hulchul either.” The man said. By now the queue behind us was getting restless. Indians respect foreigners, but only up to a certain point. The ticket seller gave me the names of the remaining films.

“I have tickets for Raincoat. Raincoat has Aishwarya Rai.”

Raincoat was a good English title. Maybe the film has lots of English dialogue, I thought. And Aishwarya Rai was a Miss World. I briefly told Lisa what the options were, and bought tickets for Raincoat.

By the time we reached our seats, we had missed the ads and trailers. Suddenly Raincoat, the feature of the day, started. The film begins with Ajay Devgan, the lead actor, coming to Calcutta from a smaller town. He has lost his job. He meets the woman (Aishwarya Rai) he was engaged to many years ago. She is now married. For the first ten minutes, maybe twenty, the two protagonists are in a depressing-looking room, just talking to each other. Films connected to Bengal are generally depressing. This one had no music, no songs. The two protagonists were speaking in chaste Hindi. Of course, no subtitles.

In the darkness, I turned to Lisa and whispered, “I am so sorry. The title Raincoat was misleading. They are talking in pure Hindi. And no songs, no dances. It seems unlikely there will be any. Please tell me when you wish to leave, and we will leave. Sorry.”

I waited for five minutes. I had lost interest in the film. As soon as Lisa gave a signal, we would all leave. Lisa was still focused on the screen. I kept taking my eyes off the screen and looking at her for a sign.

“We can leave when you wish.” I said once again.

“No, no. It’s fine. I think we will guess the storyline. In any case, I can just keep watching her endlessly.”

Well, if Lisa is happy looking at Aishwarya for two hours, why should I hurry? Or worry? Gradually, I got over my guilt, and began to get involved in the movie.

At interval, three of us came out.

“Once again, so sorry for bringing you to this film. I want you to know this film is exactly what Bollywood films are not. If I wanted you to understand how Bollywood films are not made, I would have selected this film. It must be a torture for you to sit through the hour without understanding a word. I can give you….”

“On the contrary…” Lisa said. “We understood the whole story. The visual medium doesn’t need words. And these are good actors. We are enjoying the film, don’t worry.”

Wow, I thought. I had always admired Lisa’s intelligence. To appreciate a film without knowing a word in that language was remarkable.

“She is a prostitute.” Lisa began. “And he is a drug-dealer. Both are unhappy about their professions. That unhappiness has brought them together. They are discussing how both of them can escape with each other’s help….”

Lisa went on and on. Giving me minute details of the storyline. I didn’t interrupt her. My initial thought was to give the English girls the gist of the story, until interval. Since I had not seen the film before, I had no idea what would happen in the second half. But if I could tell Lisa the story till interval, that would make her life easier. When Lisa told me the story, I changed my mind.

The English girls had invented a story. Just by watching what was happening on the screen. They could continue in the same vein till the end of the film.

I said nothing. Of course, she was not a prostitute, neither was he a drug-dealer. Lisa’s was a western perspective on the images she had seen. Her entire storyline, though interesting, had absolutely nothing to do with the real storyline. But who was I to disrupt her creativity? Would the real story be as enjoyable for them as the fiction in their mind?

We re-entered the auditorium to watch the movie. On that day, Lisa and I watched the same movie with two different storylines.

Ravi

Lord Ram vs. Emperor Babur

On Saturday, 9 November 2019, India’s Supreme Court gave its final verdict on the Ayodhya dispute. Faithful Hindus considered a piece of land in Ayodhya to be the birthplace of Lord Ram. Unfortunately, Babri mosque (named after the Mughal emperor Babur, an invader from today’s Uzbekistan) stood precisely at that spot. Court cases between Hindus and Muslims claiming ownership have been going on for the past 70 years. In 1992, dozens of overenthusiastic Hindus took matters and hammers in their own hands, and demolished the Babri mosque.

On Saturday, the Supreme Court awarded the land to Hindus based on archeological evidence; for good measure confirmed the act of demolishing the mosque was criminal; and offered to Muslims five acres of prominent land somewhere in Ayodhya as a consolation prize. The case offers several interesting, even amusing, points.

Deity as a plaintiff

India is a religious country. No wonder the Indian law allows God to be a plaintiff (or defendant) in a court case. In the Ayodhya case, the child version of Lord Ram (Ram Lalla or infant Ram) was the plaintiff. The Supreme Court of India may be supreme, but surely it can’t be more supreme than God Himself. Lord Ram won the case. He showed the courage and endurance to be a party to the case. (Babur was merely represented by a Sunny Waqf Board). The infant Ram probably turned into an elderly Ram during the court process. After fighting successfully a protracted judicial battle, He will now get a lovely, magnificent temple.

History and mythology

I was once naively arguing with a faithful Hindu about the Ayodhya dispute. Babur is a historical figure, I said, while Lord Ram is a mythological figure.

“Not true”, that man said. “Lord Ram is as historical, as factual, as Emperor Babur. Babur was born more than 500 years ago (in 1483). Lord Ram was born in Ayodhya on 10 Jan 5114 BC, more than 7000 years ago. Just because Ram was born centuries before Babur, does He become a myth, a fiction, and Babur a fact? How do you know that Babur existed? That Jesus Christ existed? Because you trust the history books that talk about Babur or Jesus. Similarly, I trust Ramayana which is the authentic biography of Lord Ram.”

The reverse journey

How far can you go back in history? To understand the time machine that the Supreme Court used, I must mention certain dates.  

Babri Masjid was built 491 years ago, closer to Babur’s death. What was in that place before? This was the question the Supreme Court was asked to decide. To decide it scientifically, all relevant literature in the past 500 years, and before, was scrutinized to find references to the Babri Masjid or Ram temple. The literature included Baburnama, Babur’s memoirs (1589), Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas (1574) and Abul Fazl ibn Mubarak’s Ain-i-Akbari (1598).

The most important witness in the case was the Archeological Society of India (ASI). In 2003, its experts conducted an in-depth excavation resulting in 1360 discoveries. It was fortunate that a decade before that the mosque was demolished by Hindu mobs. Without that, such excavations would have been impossible.

You break it, you own it

The wittiest comment related to the verdict compared the case to a gift retail shop. In a gift shop while browsing, if you drop a gift and damage it; it becomes part of your bill. This is called the American Pottery Barn rule: You break it, you own it.

What would have been the Supreme Court’s verdict if Babri Masjid was not destroyed? Would it still gift the land to the Hindus, asking them to build a temple there by demolishing the mosque? Probably not. No civilized court would, by a written order, authorize destruction of a 500-year ancient mosque.

Is this, then, a route to replace more mosques with temples? Mobs first go and demolish a mosque. The Archeological Society of India recruits hundreds of experts, excavates, finds ancient evidence, and then the court gifts the place to Hindus. After all, before 700 AD, Islam itself didn’t exist. Thirteen centuries ago, every piece of land where a mosque stands today must have had something Hindu there before.

For the holy Hindus with hammers, I am afraid, this strategy will not work. On 18 September 1991, the Indian government issued an act freezing the status of all places of worship in India: a mosque remains a mosque, a church a church and a temple a temple. Irrespective of what was in their place in the past. Section 5 of the act made a single exception: The act would not apply to Ram Janmbhumi-Babri Masjid. This exception allowed the Supreme Court to convert a Masjid land into a temple.

The verdict

The five Supreme Court judges who delivered the unanimous verdict have made the full text of the verdict available in www, in a clever manner. The main text runs into 1045 pages, has no executive summary, and the index has no page numbers. Every conscientious analyst and commentator is expected to read the 1045 pages to digest the excellent verdict. Sorry, but I refuse to do so. I am glad Lord Ram won the case. His winning offers peace a better chance. His winning or losing makes absolutely no change in my life, or in the lives of most Indians. Who is economically affected by this verdict? Mainly, the lawyers on both sides who carried on the attack and the defence for decades. Perhaps, employees of the Archaeological society- for them nothing further to excavate in that place. Possibly, politicians who needed it for election manifesto. Everyone else is indifferent to the court cases going on since 1950.

Muslims are offered five acres of prominent land in Ayodhya as compensation. Almost double the size of the original landholding. Another gorgeous mosque, perhaps a replica of the Babri mosque, can be built there. Muslims anyway have Mecca and Medina. Surely, they can sacrifice a single mosque for Hindus. (One that was demolished anyway). I won’t be surprised if this was the logic the Supreme Court of India used in arriving at its unanimous decision.

Ravi

The Big Mac Affair

Employees who have a direct or indirect reporting relationship to each other are prohibited from dating or having a sexual relationship: McDonald’s employee policy

On 1 Nov 2019, McDonalds fired its President and Chief executive Steve Easterbrook, 52, for his consensual relationship with an employee. Easterbrook was competent, innovative, on his watch McDonald’s share price had more than doubled. His salary was nearly 16 million USD per annum. If he was romantically involved with a colleague, was that not his private business? If the relationship was consensual, how could an employer interfere with it? If two consenting adults fall in love, is it not strange that in a country like America, companies call it an offence and sack the offending employee? McDonald’s is not an exception. More than 75% companies now ban office romances, particularly if one of the two dating employees is a boss of another – either directly or in the chain of command.

Office romances

In the multinational company where I worked, dating and relationships were a norm. In Russia and Poland, where I worked for more than a decade, most employees were young, in their twenties. Because following the collapse of communism, the reformed countries were young themselves. Russia had a lovely kissing culture that prompted men and women to start their working day by kissing one another. Russian custom requires a man to kiss a woman three times, and that custom was followed more rigorously than any company policies. This was a tobacco company. We spent days in the offices and nights at the clubs. The company looked like a club for the young people, and cigarettes were only an excuse that allowed those young people to meet one another. I can give a long list, but won’t, of the relationships – some of them converted into marriages. Certainly this company had no anti-dating policy, times were different.

The awkward relationships

Doesn’t mean all relationships were equal or innocent.

A British boss, head of a country, had started dating his secretary. He was married and she was divorced. In a couple of months, he promoted her and doubled her salary. In absence of a policy, the only reaction from the Board was raising of eyebrows.

A German director didn’t hide his relationship with his secretary either. This low-intelligence woman became a de facto director. Access to the German director was possible only through her. The subordinates, some of them fairly senior executives themselves, required to discuss critical matters with this moronic woman, seek her consent for certain actions. This was visible and tolerated, god only knows why.

A template case not only in this company, but several others, was that of a married boss starting an affair with a younger subordinate. The unmarried girl enjoyed the perquisites of the relationship in form of promotions, paychecks, gifts at the same time expecting her boss to divorce his wife so that the two can start a new family. It never happened. The girl remained unmarried and left the company or the boss so late in life; it became difficult for her to find a replacement.

Such relationships mixing business with pleasure corrupt the office atmosphere, and are demotivating for the colleagues.

#MeToo

We are now in the 21^st century, a century not at all innocent. Maybe the earlier century was not innocent either, but women silently suffered abuse and harassment. A company such as McDonald’s employs young girls 16 onwards. There are regular reports of McDonald’semployees complaining of sexual harassment on the job. Their accusations include groping, indecent exposure, propositions for sex and lewd comments by supervisors against workers.

It is not easy for women to complain against sexual advances or harassment when the complaints can result in further harassment, stopping their promotions, giving them a bad appraisal or even loss of a job.

Not only the accused men, but also the employer can be sued for harassment or improper relationships. Companies such as McDonald’s take the safe way out and ban them to minimize any liability that may arise. The boss may be individually liable for misconduct, but the company defends itself by saying the company policy tried to prevent such misconduct.

How consensual is consent?  

We remember well the case of Bill Clinton. Clinton was 50 and the young intern in the White House was 23. He expected the young girl to offer not only written services which her job required but oral services as well. How easy is it for a 23-year old girl to say no to the President of the United States?

McDonald’s fired President Easterbrook is 52 years old. The identity of the girl he was in relationship with is not revealed. Without knowing anything about her, I would still bet she is much younger than Easterbrook. This is the Clinton-Lewinsky template, where the powerful man lures a young girl into bed. The greater the age difference, the greater the suspicion of it being the abuse of power. Usually the interest is merely biological; it’s an offence to call it love or romance.

What is the solution?

Let us assume Steve Easterbrook was genuinely in love with the girl. What were his options? Since he was the President and the CEO of McDonald’s, every female employee in the company was subordinate to him. He had no defence of somebody working in another department.

Since Easterbrook was earning a salary of 16 million USD, it is safe to assume the girl’s package was much lower. Before taking her to bed, Easterbrook should have suggested she left McDonald’s. She needed to weigh what was more important for her: Easterbrook or McDonald’s. If she were to leave McDonald’s, the issue would be solved. If she were to leave Easterbrook, she was probably not worth his love.

He could have disclosed his love to the HR department and asked for their advice. The HR department reported to him. In all probability, they would suggest the same thing: either the girl should leave the company, or Easterbrook should leave the girl.

Easterbrook earlier had a relationship with one Denise Paleothodoros, a PR employee of Golin, advisor to McDonald’s. When Easterbrook became McDonald’s’ president, she informed her company of the relationship. The McDonald’s account was taken off her to avoid any conflict of interest. This is a decent way to conduct affairs.

The other solution to the problem could be marriage. If love was so serious so as to result in a marriage, McDonald’s could have perhaps forgiven Easterbrook. Marriage can’t be misconduct. And marriage usually puts an end to all romance in a relationship.

Ravi

राम गोखलेची गोष्ट

मधे एकदा मामाच्या घरी गप्पा मारताना अमेरिकेतल्या भारतीयांचा विषय निघाला. आमचे अनेक मित्र, अनेक नातेवाईक कधीचे अमेरिकावासी झालेले आहेत. माझ्या आईचा चुलतभाऊ मला वाटतं १९७५च्या सुमारास गेला असेल. तेव्हापासून जो अखंड प्रवाह सुरु झाला आहे तो आजपर्यंत. ही चर्चा चालू असताना मला एकदम राम गोखलेची आठवण झाली. ‘आमच्या वर्गातला एक मुलगा तर १९७० साली गेला होता.’ मी मामाला म्हणालो.

राम पहिली ते तिसरी माझा चांगला मित्र होता. घारे डोळे, पिंगट केस, गोरा वर्ण ह्यामुळे तो युरोपियन वाटायचा. चौथीचं वर्षं नुकतंच सुरु झालं होतं. एक दिवशी सकाळी प्रार्थना झाल्याबरोबर वर्गशिक्षक वर्गाबाहेर गेले. तिथे कुणाशी बोलत असावेत. मग आत येऊन त्यांनी एक घोषणा केली: “एक बातमी आहे, ज्याची आहे तोच तुम्हाला सांगील. ये रे आत.”

असं म्हटल्यावर राम गोखले आत आला. बोलताना त्याची मान जरा उजवीकडे कललेली असायची. ती त्याची सवय होती. तशी मान कलवून तो म्हणाला: “मी कायमचा अमेरिकेला चाललोय. आज तुमच्या सगळ्यांचा निरोप घ्यायला आलो होतो.”

एवढंच.

ती दोन वाक्यं बोलून तो वर्गाबाहेर गेला. आमच्यासाठी वर्गातला कुणीतरी अमेरिकेला जातोय म्हणजे काय आणि कायमचा जातोय म्हणजे काय हे गूढ होतं. ते गूढ मनातल्या मनात दाबून आम्ही अभ्यासाला लागलो.

तो जून १९७०चा महिना होता. म्हणजे त्या घटनेला जवळपास पन्नास वर्षं झाली. त्या दिवशी राम वर्गातून गेला ते त्याचं शेवटचं दर्शन. त्यानंतर कधी त्याचं नावही निघालं नाही. मामाच्या घरून परत येताना मी विचार करायला लागलो. काय झालं असेल रामचं? अमेरिकेला जाऊन त्याने काय केलं असेल? घरी येईपर्यंत माझं कुतूहल बळावलं, शिगेला पोचलं.

मी वर्गातल्या दोन-तीन जणांना फोन केले. आठवतोय तुम्हाला राम गोखले? चौथीच्या सुरुवातीला अमेरिकेला गेलेला मुलगा?

छे बुवा. हे नावही आठवत नाहीये आणि असा कुणी मुलगा आपल्या वर्गात होता हेही माहित नाहीये. बऱ्याच जणांकडून हे ऐकल्यावर मला एकदा वाटलं राम गोखले हा माझा भ्रम होता की काय? माझ्या कल्पनाशक्तीने निर्माण केलेली व्यक्तिरेखा होती की काय?

मी इंटरनेटमध्ये त्याचा शोध करायचं ठरवलं. पण शोध काय म्हणून करणार? त्याच्या नावाशिवाय आणि तो पन्नास वर्षांपूर्वी अमेरिकेला गेलाय ह्याखेरीज माझ्याकडे काहीच माहिती नव्हती. आणि राम गोखले ह्या नावाच्या शेकडो व्यक्ती असतील. शोध कसा करायचा? अश्या वेळी मी शेरलॉक होम्सची टोपी धारण करून विचार करायला लागतो.

अमेरिकेला गेल्यानंतर रामने नावाचं स्पेलिंग नक्कीच बदललं असणार. कारण इंग्लिशमध्ये Ram चा अर्थ बोकड असा होतो. मी Raam Gokhale टाईप करून शोध सुरु केला. अहो आश्चर्यम्. पहिल्याच फटक्यात रामचा बायोडेटा आणि फोटो सापडला. रामने गणित, तत्वज्ञान आणि एक्च्युअरीच्या पदव्या संपादन केल्या होत्या, तत्वज्ञानावर अनेक पुस्तकं लिहिली होती, Am I still me नावाची आत्मचरित्रात्मक कादंबरी प्रकाशित केली होती. ११ सप्टेंबर २००१ला तो वर्ल्ड ट्रेड सेंटरच्या ३१व्या मजल्यावर काम करत होता, आणि कष्टाने आणि नशिबाने वाचला होता. अडतीस वर्षं अमेरिकेत राहून आता पुण्याला परतला होता, गरीब आणि गरजू मुलांना गणित आणि इंग्लिश फुकट शिकवण्यासाठी. मोठी सुरस जीवनकथा होती ही. माझ्या स्मरणशक्तीत होता त्याहून फोटोतला राम अर्थातच वयाने मोठा होता. तत्त्वज्ञाला साजेसं टक्कल कपाळाकडे पडायला लागलं होतं. मात्र डोळे तेच घारे, आणि मान कललेली उजव्या बाजूला.

बायोडेटात पुण्याचा पत्ता आणि घरचा फोन नंबर होता. लगेच मी तो फोन लावला. पन्नास वर्षांनी माणसाला शोधणं एवढं सोपं असतं?

फोन अस्तित्वात नव्हता असं एका गोड आवाजाने सांगितलं. परत परत लावून तो एकच मेसेज ऐकू येत होता. मग मी इंटरनेटमध्ये पुण्याची फोन डिरेक्टरी शोधली. इथे तुम्ही पत्ता टाकून फोन मिळवू शकता, किंवा फोन नंबर टाकून पत्ता. तिथे कळलं की रामचा इंटरनेटमध्ये सापडलेला फोन काढून टाकण्यात आला होता.

मग मी त्याच्या सोसायटीत (कुमार क्षितीज, साखर नगर, पुणे) आणखी कुणी गोखले राहतात का हे डिरेक्टरीत शोधायला सुरुवात केली. कदाचित रामचे कुणी नातेवाईक त्याच सोसायटीत राहत असतील. तसेही पुण्याच्या कुठल्याही मोठ्या सोसायटीत एखादे गोखले असायला हरकत नाही. प्रयत्नांती मला कुमार क्षितीजमधले आणखी एक गोखले सापडले. हा फोन कुणीतरी उचलला. तरुण स्त्रीचा आवाज होता.

मी माझं नाव सांगितलं. “मी राम गोखलेंना शोधतोय.” मी म्हणालो.

“राम गोखले माझ्या सासऱ्यांचं नाव.”

मी मनातल्या मनात गणितं केली. म्हणजे रामने बऱ्याच लवकर लग्न केलं, पहिला मुलगा झाला, आणि आता मुलाचं लग्नही झालं, झपाट्याने काम करणारा दिसतोय राम.  

“सासरे? आहेत का घरी?” मी विचारलं.

“ते... ते दीड वर्षांपूर्वी वारले.”

मी फोनवर बोलताना बाजूच्या कॉम्प्यूटर स्क्रीनवर रामचा मोठेपणीचा फोटो होता. मी त्या फोटोकडे खिन्नपणे पाहिलं.

“कशाने गेला.... गेले... तुमचे सासरे...?” मी विचारलं. (हार्ट? कॅन्सर? की काही अप्रचलित?)

“तसे शेवटी आजारी असायचे. वयाचा परिणाम. गेले तेव्हा ८३ वर्षांचे होते.”

मी निधनाचा खुलासा ऐकून खुश झालो. पण ते दाखवू न देता म्हणालो, “मी ज्याला शोधतोय तो राम गोखले ५७ वर्षांचा आहे. आपण अर्थातच वेगवेगळ्या व्यक्तींबद्दल बोलतो आहोत. तुम्हाला ५७ वर्षांचा राम गोखले माहिती आहे का?”

“नाही.” ती बाई म्हणाली. “पण कदाचित माझ्या सासूबाईंना माहित असेल. पण त्या आंघोळीला गेल्या आहेत.”

सासूबाई बऱ्याच वेळ आंघोळ करत होत्या. तिसऱ्यांदा फोन केला तेव्हा फोनवर आल्या. त्यांनाही कुणी ५७ वर्षांचा राम गोखले माहिती नव्हता. मग मी त्यांना पार्श्वभूमी सांगितली. हा मुलगा माझा वर्गमित्र होता, पन्नास वर्षांपूर्वी अमेरिकेला गेला, आणि इंटरनेटमध्ये डी-१०२ कुमार क्षितीज हा त्याचा पत्ता आहे, मी म्हणालो.

“अच्छा. आता कळलं. आम्ही दहाव्या मजल्यावरचे गोखले, ते दुसऱ्या मजल्यावरचे गोखले. पण त्यांनी अनेक वर्षांपूर्वी घर सोडलं. औरंगाबादला गेले. तुम्ही म्हणताय तो उषाताईंचा मुलगा असणार. अनेक वर्षं ते सगळे अमेरिकेत होते.”

“त्यांचा औरंगाबादचा पत्ता? फोन? तुमच्याकडे....”

“तुम्ही उद्या फोन करा. माझ्याकडे उषाताईंचा मोबाईल नंबर आहे कुठेतरी. शोधून देते तुम्हाला.”

काही दिवसांत नंबर मिळाला, पण उषाताई गोखले बहुधा आंतरराष्ट्रीय रोमिंग न घेता परदेशी गेल्या असाव्यात. त्यांचा नंबर शेवटी एका महिन्यानंतर लागला.

“मी रामला... तुमच्या मुलाला शोधतोय.” मी त्यांना सगळं सविस्तर सांगितलं. राम पुण्यातच आहे हे त्यांच्याकडून कळलं. कृपा करून त्याला ह्या फोनबद्दल काही सांगू नका. मला त्याला धक्का देऊ दे, मी विनंती केली.

*****

फोन रामनेच उचलला.

“राम, आपली ओळख नाही अशा शब्दांनी मी सुरुवात करणार होतो.” मी म्हणालो.  “मात्र ते अगदी खरं नाहीये. आपण मित्र होतो – पन्नास वर्षांपूर्वी.”

त्यानंतर आम्ही अर्धा तास बोललो. एकमेकांच्या न भेटलेल्या काळातल्या आयुष्याचा आढावा घेतला. पहिली संधी मिळताच पुण्याला किंवा मुंबईला भेटायचं ठरवलं.

*****

राम गोखले खराच होता, माझा भ्रम नव्हता.

रवी

What does your child want to become?

My teenage daughter is now in Grade 11. Friends have begun asking me what she plans to do after school. I reply that I would like her to do what she likes. In my time, if your academic intelligence was well established, you were given three or four choices: an Engineer, doctor, Chartered Accountant or architect. During our school days, without knowing much about any of them, we picked one of them, and as a consequence spent our remaining life first studying and then practicing it. In my case, I had realized I didn’t wish to become an engineer or an architect, I found machines incredibly boring. Medicine was rejected; I looked away at the sight of blood. By process of elimination I qualified as a Chartered Accountant.

Only years later, I realized the world was too big to be squeezed into a handful of professions. In this week’s diary, I will tell two stories that illustrate this.

*****

Dada Rege was the founder of my school. He didn’t have a PhD or DLitt after his name, but he was a passionate educator. Though the school grew to have a couple of thousand children, he knew most of them. Once a teacher complained to him about a 12-year old boy. This boy, the teacher said, sits at the back and keeps scribbling in the notebook.

“That boy, “Dada Rege told the teacher, “is a mathematics wizard. He knows Maths better than you or me. Let him keep scribbling, please don’t distract him.”

That boy is now a renowned mathematician in the USA, a professor at the Rochester University, an expert in the number theory.

Of course, not all children in our school were as bright as the math wizard. Once a mother, a very worried looking mother, came to meet Dada Rege. Her son hated all school subjects. There was a tamarind tree in the school’s courtyard. This boy would, at a whim, leave the classroom, climb the tree and sit at its top. Sulking. As a sign of protest. Teachers grew tired of complaining.

“What should I do to improve his grades? Should I send him to a coaching class?” Asked the worried mother.

“Listen, that’s not going to help.” Said Dada. “If he so passionately hates studying, no amount of schooling or coaching is going to change him. Please do me one favour. Observe what he likes. There must be something he enjoys. Anything… not necessarily to do with the school. Take your time, and please let me know.”

In a month’s time, the mother came back. “It’s nothing to do with academics. My son loves water. In the monsoons, he is happy to roam around without an umbrella. Since he was one or two years old, he liked splashing water.”

“Good, good.” Said dada. “Now you focus on that, focus on what he loves. Forget his school grades. We won’t be able to do much about it. But let him learn swimming. Let him do in life what he enjoys.”

*****

This conversation took place more than fifty years ago. Dada Rege passed away long ago. Now his grandson is my neighbour. In fact, I heard this story from the grandson. That boy, the boy who was a duffer in school, came to meet him recently. He lives in Australia. The boy who loved water now heads an international team of scuba drivers in charge of special assignments. Assignments such as debris’ search of a missing plane require his expertise. He recalled the conversation between his mother and the school founder.

*****

This second story is about my classmate Sanjay and his daughter.

Across Shivaji Park, our local park, is a small lane leading to the beach. A pony moved up and down in that lane carrying children on her back. Sanjay’s five year old daughter took a ride. Sanjay took out his wallet to pay the ponyowner.

“How much?” He asked.

“No, nothing, sahib” said the man.

“But my daughter was riding your pony.”

“Look, I allow her to ride whenever there is no other customer. So I don’t want to charge her. But I can tell you one thing. Your daughter is what, five… right? I’ve never seen a five-year old who can control a horse by herself. True it’s a pony, but when your daughter is riding, I don’t need to give her any support.”

Sanjay heard this and within a few months registered his daughter for horse-riding at the Bombay racecourse club.

*****

When Sanjay’s daughter, Sanjay and I sat in a coffee-house she was 12 or 13 years old. Already a proficient horse-rider, she was competing in the relevant age categories. (A few years later, she would start taking part in European equestrian championships. The family would move to Bangalore, a city with the best hippodrome and horse riding facilities in India. But all this had not happened yet when I talked to Sanjay’s teenage daughter).

As a matter of formality, I asked her what she planned to become when she grew older. As expected, she said, horse riding was her love. She planned to become a full-time jockey.

“But,” she added, “Jockeys can professionally work until 30, maybe 35. I would like to pursue another career at the same time.

I want to become a horses’ dentist.”

She said India had only three qualified horses’ dentists. All three were in high demand. The visit fee for a horse’s dentist was Rs 25,000 (about USD 400). Once she ceased to be a jockey, she would be dealing with horses’ mouths for living.  

I congratulated her on the clarity of her thoughts. I offered my best wishes.

*****

Horse’s dentist. Before that meeting I didn’t know such a profession existed. And that it was lucrative to be one.

The world is full of such esoteric professions. If you love something exceedingly, like this girl loves horse riding, you will discover careers most people know nothing about. Rather than getting trapped into the quadrant of doctor-engineer-CA-architect, it is important the child pursues what she likes. Some unknown career will be waiting for her at the other end.

Ravi

Diplomatic Hit and Run

On Tues. 27 August, Anne Sacoolas, 42, a mother of three, drove out of her residence in Croughton, Northamptonshire, UK. She drove a beautiful luxury SVU Volvo XC90. As to where she was headed is not known, because a subsequent event prevented her from reaching her destination.

Soon after her Volvo gathered speed, she noticed a motorcycle coming in her direction. Strangely, it was riding on the wrong side of the road. In a civilized nation that UK is, road discipline is high, drivers are polite. Surely, the speeding bike rider must move to the other side of the road to avoid colliding with her Volvo. This chain of thoughts occurred in a few microseconds.

At that time, she didn’t know the name of the bike rider. He was a 19-year old English boy, Harry Dunn. As he came out of a curve, he noticed the big car, for some reason driving on the wrong side of the road. This was his side. The car should move to the other side, making way for him to continue without breaking. This was the last ever thought the boy had. The super sturdy Volvo killed him instantly.

Diplomatic shield  

It later transpired Anna Sacoolas was a wife of an American CIA operative. Their family had moved to the UK only three weeks before that. They lived at a US military base. After the fatal accident, from the same base, in a private plane, the family was flown back to the USA. Americans claimed Anna Sacoolas had diplomatic immunity, which meant she couldn’t be charged or prosecuted in the UK. Everyone was sorry for the tragic death of the English boy, but USA couldn’t send the Volvo driver back to the UK to face justice. USA rarely (read never) waives diplomatic immunity.

Why are diplomats immune?

Diplomatic immunity is an ancient concept. In Ramayana, the Indian epic, Seeta is kidnapped by the Sri Lankan king, Ravana. Lord Rama, Seeta’s husband, sends his emissary, Hanuman, the supermonkey to Ravana. Ravana wishes to kill him, but his advisors restrain him. Hanuman is a diplomatic guest, he must go back unharmed.

Diplomatic privilege, not immunity, benefited me when I was a student in Moscow. The Soviet postal system was notoriously slow. The State could open and read any letter, and did so fairly often. Indian embassy in Moscow had allowed us, the Indian citizens living in Moscow, to send and receive letters through the embassy’s ‘diplomatic bag’. This bag would travel both ways between Moscow and Delhi. Throughout my stay in Russia, none of my letters was ever intercepted.

Embassies, consulates and certain other premises enjoy the legal fiction of being a foreign territory. That is the reason Julian Assange could hide himself for years in central London, enjoying the diplomatic protection offered by the Ecuadorian embassy.

Such global understanding is essential when the standards of justice are different in the sending and the receiving country. An American or a European diplomat wouldn’t like to be tried in a court of Saudi Arabia or North Korea. UK and USA may appear to have similar standards, but don’t. USA has a death sentence, UK doesn’t.

Is driving on the wrong side of a road a crime?

Donald Trump offered mitigation saying Americans can be confused when driving in the UK. Trump himself has driven on the wrong side. (Though didn’t kill anyone).

I have extensively driven in Right-hand-traffic (RHT) countries (Russia, Poland), and Left-Hand-Traffic (LHT) countries (India and UK). No matter which country, you as a driver, must always be closer to the middle of the road, not to the curb. (Except in Myanmar, where traffic is like in the USA, but cars are like in the UK). Turns and roundabouts can be a nightmare. On an empty road, one can get really confused. I know at least two British gentlemen who took a clockwise turn at the roundabouts in Warsaw, one of them causing an accident. When you go from RHT to LHT, a driver needs to be extra cautious when driving. That’s the rule of Defence driving. You will be extra careful while crossing the road, why not when driving?

In Anne Sacoolas’s case, she had come to the UK only three weeks ago. It is possible she was not made aware traffic in the UK is on the other side. Or her instinct had taken over. It’s also possible her car was left-hand-drive, and not English. Whatever the reason, a 19-year old boy is dead. A victim suggests a perpetrator.

Wrong legal advice

The threat of having to go to jail is an overpowering one. When your car on the wrong side of the road has killed someone, you have no idea how the judges would interpret that act. In the UK, dangerous drivers under the influence of alcohol or drugs can be imprisoned for up to 14 years. Reckless, inconsiderate driving can attract up to five years. In this case, Anne Sacoolas’ act was not intentional. Her being in the UK for three weeks was indeed a mitigating factor. Unlikely she would have gone to jail. But who wants to take that chance?

Paradoxically, by fleeing the country and going into hiding, the diplomat’s wife has incriminated herself. Her fleeing, seeking immunity and silence are deliberate. Lawyers work on technicalities, try to defend the indefensible. In cases like O.J. Simpson’s, they occasionally succeed. (If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit). But the punishment of the conscience is equally severe. It can ruin a life without going to jail.

Crime and Punishment

In Dostoevsky’s best-known novel, Crime and Punishment, a young student Raskolnikov ends up killing two old women for ideological reasons. In this 600-page book, the murders happen in the first fifty pages or so. Porfiry Petrovich, the detective investigating the murder, meets Raskolnikov, discusses a variety of issues, but never charges him.

“Who do you think has murdered the two women?” Raskolnikov asks him.

“Of course, you,” says the detective.

“Why don’t you arrest me then?” Says the shocked Raskolnikov.

“Why should I do that?” Says Porfiry. “It means wasting police and state resources, trying to collect evidence… lawyers and their fees on both sides. And at the end of it, for want of enough evidence, you may be set free. Instead, I will rely on your conscience. You will one day turn yourself in. For an intellectual like you, the punishment of the conscience is intolerable.”

Though Raskolnikov dismisses that notion as absurd, by the end of the book, he voluntarily surrenders himself to the police and confesses. I don’t know about the level of conscience of Anne Sacoolas. But she must act as per her conscience, rather than legal advice.

Justice, retribution and closure

At the time of writing this article, the parents of the dead boy plan to go to the USA, and persuade the US government to send the culprit back to the UK. She must undergo the UK judicial process, and suffer whatever verdict the judges deliver. Why are they intent on going through such a painful and expensive fight? Their son is already dead. No matter how heavy the punishment is for Anne Sacoolas, their son will not come back to life.

It seems that retribution is an integral part of justice. We all know the expression, life for life, tooth for tooth, and eye for eye. Though the parents don’t expect the lady driver to be hanged, a court adjudicating the entire mishap will offer them a sense of justice. It will offer them closure. In the USA, relatives of victims often attend the execution of the murderer. It gives them a sense of release. Similarly, Osama Bin Laden’s killing offered closure to the families of the nearly 3000 victims of the 9/11 attacks.

What should Anne Sacoolas do now?

She should come out in the open. Forget immunity, forget the lawyers. It is so easy in the age of twitter to speak directly to anyone. She should apologise for the death, admit she had panicked. Apologise for fleeing, and hiding. She should offer to meet the parents of the killed boy, and express sincere remorse. Take immunity out of the equation, and offer to return to the UK. The trial is likely to be brief, and since this was an accident rather than a deliberate act, she will likely be released with a reprimand and possibly a few months of community service in America at worst. She is a mother of three, and judges will make sure her children don’t get punished along with her. The diplomat’s family should also offer to compensate the Dunn family. For their expenses and more. In criminal cases, this is called ‘blood money’, money paid to avoid the vengeance of the injured family. Although no deliberate crime was committed, such set of actions will offer the victim’s family justice and closure. If Anne Sacoolas is lucky, the English parents may forgive her and allow her to not return to the UK. For that to happen, she must show courage, and let her conscience and not the lawyers dictate her actions.

Ravi