One of my favorite pieces of Web Zen: “The decent man is no longer one who lives within his own means. Nowadays he is one who lives, thankfully, within others’ means.”

They call it ‘a high standard of living’. I call it excessiveness. Garish, unnecessary, stinking of obnoxious opulence. One man’s luxury is another man’s necessity, but now, when the pockets strings draw tighter, luxuries are suddenly being revisited, and necessities are being redefined. I wonder if there is any limit to which this recursive loop can run before we reach a simplistic, minimalistic, bare-to-the-bone existence. Will be mighty boring, but is an interesting thought experiment.

When it is time to cut the fat, the real shit comes to the fore. I am reminded of the story of the rocks, boulders and bumps under the mighty river. The fishermen wading the waters never knew what lay beneath; when the water was aplenty, the inefficiencies were well hidden. It took the drought to expose what the river-bed was actually made of.

Recession is a good thing; it is an economic war, albeit caused by prolific dumbness of a greedy generation; but a war nevertheless. And like all wars, it will, in a very tiny way, level the playing field. Wars consume economies, destroy savings, and over-write past history. It is a reset button. So is a major recession.

So what does it bring us to? it puts some sense into people with heavy pockets and ultra-light craniums. Earlier, we had luxury goods that come with no functionality but serve as brag-currency (we, of course, still do). Bags with gold zippers, undies for dogs, mineral water from the French Alps, weird tasting fish eggs. And holy moly pops of lolly, golf clubs. In fact, golf itself. Weirder and more counter-intuitive, the better.

Then, arrogance is replaced by prudence. Means, people not buying shit they don’t frigging need. Dumb-as-fuck adults realising credit cards are not magic wands (I mean, how difficult is it to calculate how much one would owe the bank if one bought the house that one absolutely doesn’t need and can’t afford). Oil prices dropping. Car-pooling. Smaller, more fuel effecient cars. Many more examples all over the world.

Don’t get me wrong. A higher standard of living has its advantages. With higher life expectancy. More money spent in technology, education, medical care. More awareness, more entertainment. With all this ‘more’ comes the topped-up, king-sized, jumbo-combo excessiveness that makes me want to slap many with a thick wad of Zimbabwean cash notes.

I think Indians in general and especially people in rural areas should take up consulting assignments on ‘How to cope with the recessionary environments’; with special modules on low cost housing (using mud, hay and cow-dung), eating with almost no cutlery, minimal furniture interior design, vegetarianism, beedi smoking, recycling clothes (there is an entire supply chain that runs from ‘Rani Readymade for baba and baby’ -> little Bunty -> his younger brother Babloo -> the bai’s son Raju -> Raju’s younger brother Kishore -> kitchen table wipe -> garbage bin -> waste scrap for making readymade clothing). Newspaper and dabba-batliwala. Dhaaro-tej karne wala for old knives. Idli upma from yesterday’s leftover breakfast. We have mastered the fine art of living within our means since a long while.

Anyhew. I think it is time to start worrying when George Carlin and Dilbert start sounding too real. And I think that time is now. But both are as funny as fuck, so, what the hell. I will try to laugh along and get off when my stop comes. Until then, we wait for a time when the developed world erodes its wealth slowly and become level with ours, and then get together over a cutting chai at the nukkad and discuss how the heck did we let it go so awry.

Imagine a situation where you are dumbfounded by a very simple question, that too in front of a million people. Something even a kid with basic education could have answered. What does one do in such an embarrassing position? Grin and bear the shame, and try to learn better or get booed by the audience, or get thrown out of a job? And what happens when a nation has many such illiterates who need immediate re-education? Do you raise a nation-wide alarm and focus all energies on re-jigging your education system?

Hell NO. One makes a TV Show out of it. Called ‘Are you smarter than a Fifth Grader?’, where adults with fully developed brains are stumped by questions that 10 year olds have answered even before the question is finished. And then you coolly walk away with 50 grand in your pocket for accepting that you are, in fact, not smarter than a fifth grader.

The first time I saw it was when I was flipping channels and the ‘#1 game show in American TV’ caught my attention. And when I saw a woman wrong guessing which hemisphere North America was in (to be corrected by a 9 year old and win 10 grand or so in the process), I lost it. And it was when she had no shit clue about the question ‘if y=4x and 4x=12 then what is y?’ that I had an epiphany. Now I know why the ‘idiot box’ is called so.

In India, not knowing that piece of ultra-basic Algebra would mean your sweet ass being whooped by parents and teachers alike. And hell, it’s not even education, it’s basic common sense. Then, I notice that we seem to celebrating dumbness a hell lot. Fear Factor, where one eats worms and gulps ostrich eggs; Fist of Zen, where one has to smell burps for 30 seconds and what not; videos of really dumb people (more so Japanese humor) topping the charts in Youtube; a worrying trend I say.

Humor being dumb, slapstick and brainless is one thing. But brainlessness being considered normal, and even worth creating mass entertainment out of, is plain artlessness (in both senses of the word).

After I shut down the tele, I put on the radio for some musical and not-so-dumb entertainment. And there I was ambushed by another show called ‘Anything also can’. Let me explain. That’s Singlish for ‘anything goes’, or ‘everything is correct’. So in this show, all one needs to do is call up, give some random, totally unconnected answer, and win a prize.

And the kicker, that took away my faith in whatever was left in human intelligence, is that one lady called, and couldn’t answer a question on the show for 2 whole minutes. A show where she could’ve just said ‘I’m uber-dumb’ and still won the prize. But nope.

I expect too much from people, I’m told. Sigh.

(2 votes, average: 4.5 out of 5)

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5th January 2008. I’m still sleepy, groggy and quite irritable at 6 frickin’ o’clock in the morning. But what to do. Four hundred sing dollars can buy me a ticket only in good old Air India, and they can put me only on a 7.45 AM flight to Singapore. After canceling the flight that I originally booked, that is.

Did I tell you that BOTH my flights, to Bombay and back, were canceled? Not canceled as in, “Sir, we are so sorry, but due to uncontrollable circumstances, we had to cancel your flight. We apologize for this inconvenience and we shall make it up to you in whichever way possible. Can we give you options so that you can pick one that is most convenient for you?”. Canceled as in, “Both your flights have been canceled. You leave on 18th. I can’t tell you when I can offer you a return flight. Maybe you want to think about catching a bus, or swimming back or something”. I pay for a direct flight to Bombay, which is canceled. Then I take a flight that has a connecting flight at Delhi, and all Bombay passengers miss the connecting flight at Delhi because the Singapore-Delhi flight is late. Quite a fairy-tale trip, I must say, with sugar, cream and cherry on top.

Anyways. Back to the groggy Saturday morning at the Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport. After having driven for nine straight hours the previous day (Andheri, Chembur, Ghatkopar. You get the picture), I have a running nose and some bad perspective. All I want is a comfortable seat where I can stretch my legs, make a humble request to the air-hostess to disturb me for no reason on earth (or in the sky) and doze off. I wait in the queue for an hour, get to the check-in counter and happily hand over my ticket while the lady at the counter happily issues me the boarding pass.

And then she says, “Sir, are you aware that this flight will leave at 4.30 PM?”

You know those situations where you are so mind-numbed that you can’t decide whether to shout out aloud, to swear every obscenity you ever learnt, or to kill someone. Well, this wasn’t one of those situations. I very vividly wanted to do all three.

If I was aware that the flight would leave at 4.30 PM, would I be standing there at 6 AM like a jackass with my luggage and a teary-eyed mom outside? They did not have my Bombay number so they couldn’t inform me earlier, but this question about my prior awareness of the situation was, well, lets say, fishing for ‘compliments’.

Then I am told I would be paid taxi fare or hotel charges. I take the taxi fare, spend half an hour to get a pre-paid taxi and head home. And near Powai while I’m thinking, “Fuck all this. I’ll go home and get some rest”, the taxi breaks down.

Then I take a rick, go home, sleep, have lunch, come back to Airport (which is a mere 24 Kilometers away from home), and finally board the plane.

Now for the best part.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. This is your Captain Speaking. Welcome aboard flight yada yada yada.

We apologize for the delay. It was due to uncontrollable circumstances that our incoming flight was late. It is beyond our control, and beyond my control as an individual, you see. And let me bring your attention to the flight crew. They are here to help you in every way possible. But see, it is just a crew of 4 for about 180 passengers. That makes it about…hmm..err.. 45 passengers to a crew member.

To give you an idea, it’s like having 45 guests at your residency whom you have to tend to and entertain for four to five hours. It is not an easy task, you know. So please be considerate while asking for help and placing your requests. Thank you for your cooperation, and I shall keep you updated on our flight details after takeoff…”

Thankfully I was bound to the seat by the seatbelt, else would’ve fallen off and did the proverbial ‘rolling on the floor with laughter’. The announcement is not verbatim as I don’t recall the entire two minute monologue, but I make this up not!

So much for flight cancellations and quirky flight captains.

(4 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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The Ambujam Mami Network. AKA The Gupta Aunty Network above the Vindhyas. AKA Four (not six, mind you) degrees of separation.

Different names, same purpose. A network that can put any alumni database to shame. You mafia fellas with your Omertas, you Opus Dei and your age old fraternities: here is something that is so secret, no one knows how it develops; something so deadly that your movements can be tracked/monitored/reported on a city level basis no matter which country you are in; something so effective that a single Tambram chap can find himself being introduced to someone he suddenly finds is going to be his future better half even before he can say “blitzkrieg”.

The AMN has been recognized as a potent force over many such startling revelations. For example, it almost single-handedly put the marriage-broker / tarakar / panditji community out of business (before the concept of kundali was marketed as being critical and ergo, the astrology mumbo-jumbo made quintessential). The connections are instant, the relationships forged at broadband speed and before you know it, jadagams are flying around.

To illustrate the gravity of the issue I present two sample conversations of the network building process. Compare, contrast and concur.

At an alumni meet, in some snazzy banquet hall, in some snazzy country:

“Hey, hello there. My name’s Harish. Batch of 2007. And I see… (reading name tag) you are… Rohan. Nice to meet ya, Rohan.”

“Hey, nice to meet you too. I’m from the batch of 1999. So how’s Lucknow nowadays?”

“Aah same old. Hostels 14 being built since ages now. But the second lib has come up pretty fast, just behind Manthan.”

“Hostel 14?!! Second Lib?! Manthan?! We had 4 rooms and a toilet. And a promise of a library. I have no clue what you talking about.”

“Umm.. err.. ok. So, how’s work?”

And if its a marketing maniac in an FMCG (for example, yours truly) and an i-Banker in the conversation, the situation above will soon lead to glazed eyes, uncoordinated nodding and expedited consumption of vodka shots.

But then, the AMN is not handicapped by year of passing, relatability or even industry. You just have to belong.

At Srinivasa Perumal temple, any country:

“Oh, namaskaram mami. So nice to meet you. So, enda ooru (which town do you hail from?)”

“Naangal Tanjavur. Neengal? (We are from Tanjore. How about you?)”

“Naangal Tiruvarur pakkatla XYZ kukgramam.” (translation doesn’t matter. The move is already made by now.)

“Ooohhh! How nice to meet our people. Do you know Lalita who lived in the second street next to the temple?”

“She’s my second cousin from my father’s side! How do you know her?”

“Her brother is my co-brother’s brother-in-law. You know, the one who’s called Ambi?”

“Oh, Srini daane! Of course we know them very well. So you have any children?”

“Yes, one son. He just graduated, and is working in Singapore.”

And within five minutes, the conversation has “arranged marriage” written all over it. Notice the subtle endearments, pre-existing relationships and stalker-level detailing of information. And mind you, ladies and gentlemen, I make this up not. I have seen this happen in every single marriage / sashtiaptapoorti / sadabishekam / anniversary function that I have attended. The AMN network goes by this tenet: Everyone knows everyone, or will know within 5 minutes of meeting each other.

While you are reeling under mind-twister relationships (father’s uncle’s second cousin’s daughter) the AMN is already mingling like long lost beer-buddies. And before you know it, there’s an eligible, homely sweet girl living in a street next to you, whom your mom has already met in a Tiruppugazh recital.

The AMN spans cities, nations, even generations. You are never too far, you are never too furtive. They will know, and they will hunt you down.

Beware. Run if you can. While I go visit tamilmatrimony.com and find out if someone’s already posted my profile there.

[I have to credit Pravin for the birth of the term AMN.]

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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First day of work (of the first job ever!) I land in the new office, clothes crisply ironed, nails clipped, shoes polished to a shine. Smartly dressed (albeit my light paunch spoiling the picture, but anyways) and attired with an attitude. I get introduced to my boss (Asian-American, Brand Manager), my superboss (Kiwi, Associate Marketing Director) and am already pretty impressed with the smart people around. Then I go on to meet the uber-efficient admin in-charge of the office, the ever-helpful JiaJia (Singaporean).

And this is when all the fun begins.

Me: Hello JiaJia. Nice to meet you. Please show me around the office, and help me set up my desk.
JJ: Hello Harrissh. Let me get your name right, I have to mail back India about your arrival. So you are Harrissh Nawa.. Nawana.. Nawaya… Nawayaa..Nawayananana…Norain…
Me: (Panicking) Just call me Harish, JiaJia. That’s like Harry, you know, with a ’sh’ at the end.
JJ: Aah. Ok OK.

One should hear the Chinese speak in Singapore. This variant of English is called ‘Singlish’ (just the way we have a Bambaiya English). JJ is one of the well-spoken Singaporeans I have met. But usually what gives it away is ‘Yaaeeesss la! caaan’.  Anything remotely related to yes is ‘can’ and anything else is ‘cannot’. Pretty logical, and pretty binary, I must say. Also representative of the simple minded straight-forwardness of most people.

The ‘caaaan’ beats most hindustani classical singers in raag and tal. I am reminded of Russel Peters and ‘Theitee four feeftee’ when i went to Chinatown. This is a fun place, I have to give it that. Small but fun. Just like the people :)

Will write about the coolest Singaporean I met, later.

(2 votes, average: 3.5 out of 5)

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