Delhi Diary

Messrs Homebody

Breaking a habit is something I recommend. For nearly a decade-and-a-half, I have fled Delhi in the last week of December for warmer, sometimes exotic, climes. Outlook takes a week off, during which time the office is painted, cockroaches killed and loos carefully cleaned. Thanks to the week off, I’ve managed to see Egypt, South Africa, Bali, Myanmar, Vietnam.... This year, I decided to stay put despite the scary fog and the freezing temperatures. I was not sure I was making the right decision spending Christmas and new year at Nizamuddin East.

Staying put, happily, turned out to be a delight. Waking up late, reading the papers leisurely, no shaving, a glass of beer before lunch with Editor at my side were pleasures I had forgotten. Sometimes, I would go across to Khan Market to check out how my book is selling, visit Bahrisons and talk to Anuj Bahri, sign a few copies and curse Walter Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs for generally getting a better display than Lucknow Boy. I did not need to follow TV debates blow-by-blow, neither did Arnab Goswami or Rajdeep Sardesai or Karan Thapar feel any urgent need for my unoriginal views on their programmes. It was bliss!

The afternoon siesta became an integral part of my new routine, with the joy of a post-lunch nap something of a late discovery. In the evening, I would indulge in my 20-minute walk, which included feeding Daisy, Bhola and several other strays we have adopted. Two small whiskies (alas, not Blue Label) before dinner rounded off the day quite nicely.

Some readers might believe I lead a glamorous social life of Page 3 parties. Here is the truth. On December 31, my wife cooked me a special treat, ande ki bhujiya, we opened a bottle of Sula wine and as the midnight hour approached, I was comfortably tucked in bed. And would have continued that way had not a friend called at 11.59 pm to say happy new year. After that exchange of greeting, I wished my wife and Editor (in that order) and went back to sleep.

Bill of Blights

Our intrepid MPs never cease to amaze me. I can understand their reluctance to pass the dreaded Lokpal bill, and I can also understand their enthusiasm to justify why they opposed the legislation. What I cannot understand is the horror they pretend to profess when told that no one (outside politics) believes them. Even a kindergarten kid would have seen through the pantomime of don’t-blame-me-my-party-wanted-the-bill so clumsily staged and performed at prime time. It did not require rocket science to recognise it was all play-acting.

Indian netas have time and again been reminded of the common sense and shrewdness of the aam aadmi. In 2004, the voter saw through the fraud of India Shining and more recently in Tamil Nadu the citizens happily took the freebies offered by the DMK—and then kicked them out. For Congress to introduce a 50 per cent quota in a nine-member Lokpal panel was truly ridiculous. Incidentally, 50 per cent would mean four-and-a-half candidates would need to belong to minorities, SC, ST etc. Thus, we would need to cut one member physically into two equal parts to achieve the right quota proportion! No doubt, Parliament possesses lots of wise, honest and sensible MPs. Yet they all believe they can fool all the people all the time. When, as the song goes, will they ever learn?

Where Truth Lies

Here is an old joke coming out of communist East Berlin in the ’60s. An East German worker gets a job in Siberia. Aware of how all mail will be read by the censors, he tells his friends, “Let’s establish a code: if a letter you get from me is written in ordinary blue ink, it is true; if it is written in red ink it is false.” After a month, his friends receive the first letter in blue ink, “Everything is wonderful here: stores are full, food is abundant, apartments are large and properly heated, movie theatres show films from the West, there are many beautiful girls ready for an affair—the only thing unavailable is red ink.”

Done with the ‘Do’

Am I getting old or am I just out of touch? I asked some of my more gregarious friends what they were doing on the much-celebrated new year’s night. I found their replies refreshingly honest and slightly surprising. They said they felt no pressure to “do” anything. (A year ago, if anyone admitted to not having more than one invitation for the festive night, it suggested the person was a pariah.) I found, however, that my younger friends had no hesitation in confessing they were staying at home. Being an investigative journalist, I decided to probe the mystery. And here is my breaking news: the new year’s eve party is fast becoming an endangered species.