Greed in the guise of affordable housing

In case you’ve been reading the papers regularly there was a news item that made it to the front page a week ago highlighting the disproportionately high number of applications received for the recent DDA housing scheme. The newspapers used it as an excuse to lament the lack of affordable housing for the Aam Aadmi (as usual) and to paint the existing Government in a bad light (again as usual).

Since I am notoriously apolitical and frankly couldn’t care less about the Government, I am not going to use precious blog space in singing paeans about the ruling party, I’d just like to highlight the fact that if a study were to be conducted into the nature of the applications you would find the following break up:-

Most of the subscriptions would be in the name of people who already have at least one home and they are either going to sell off the allotment or they are going to rent out the property. In either case they couldn’t be bothered to live in that house any way.

The next majority would be people like brokers etcetera who would sell the allotment at a premium and are probably just deciding which allotments to pick because they are already hand in glove with the DDA officials.

The ones who would be in minority are the ones whom the paper highlights. The Aam Aadmi. These guys would be in such a small minority that if only their applications were to be considered then probably there would be no story for the press. Or the press would have to cook up a story about faulty construction to explain the phenomenon of left over flats.

The bottom line is that sheer greed has inflated the number of applications, not the lack of affordable housing. Ultimately, someone is going to buy the allotments in the open market and that is when the real Aam Aadmi will come to light. Until then, it’s the overbearing and rude Dilliwalla who’s going to rule the roost and the papers can be smug and self satisfied that once again they have been able to bring to public knowledge the apathy of the Government.

Dissecting the so called spirit of Delhi

With the bombs ripping apart parts of Delhi on Saturday life ideally should have come to a standstill. Paralysis spawned by fear should have set in and people with some spine should have done their bit for the wounded and the dead. The rest of the signs were bang in place, the police with their pathetic statements, the Politicos expressing grave concern over the tragedy, tightened security in certain buildings, the media tripping over itself to get the best shot and the best camera angles, hospitals overflowing with blood and gore, in short, every side show that you could expect in the circus.

What was missing palpably was the lack of concern that Dilliwallas showed for their fellow man. Tales of rickshaw drivers charging hefty amounts to take the wounded any where, not even a token mourning period observed by the people, security being as lax as ever in the metro, these were disheartening signs.

For the past three days Radio stations have been spouting nonsensical messages that state that the spirit of Delhi is indefatigable. What spirit? Does this city have any spirit to speak of? What spirit are we really talking about?

If by spirit they mean that Dilliwallas went shopping the very next day or that the shops were open in the very same markets that the blasts took place in or that people were reluctant to play it safe even on the very day that the blasts took place then all I’d like to say is that we had better look for a new definition for the word callous because the definition for that has been relabeled SPIRIT.

There is nothing spirited about going out on the day after a tragic event has taken place and enjoying yourself. It is even more pathetic that on should choose to do so. It simply shows a lack of taste and a lack of care and concern.

The day after the blasts was Sunday and by late evening the roads were packed with cars as usual. It was as if by partying harder Dilliwallas were trying to fool themselves into a sense of security that was as artificial as the pancake on the ladies’ faces.

When Jaipur was rocked by blasts earlier this year, Jaipurites stood up for each other, blood donation camps, supplies, warmth and above all a widespread concern for one’s fellow man dominated the city’s emotional barometer for days. The next day Jaipur wasn’t found partying, it mourned each death with dignity and compassion. Jaipurites showed real spirit – a spirit of that was woven with faith, hope, dignity and compassion.

Delhi’s reaction in comparison is akin to that of the young widow getting hitched within days of her older husband’s death. Dilliwallas have no sense of dignity. Loud, in your face, desperately trying to be something that they are not, they behave in ways that are completely antithetical to the very tenets of humanity.

Spirit is not defined by the way you choose to hide your anxiety; it is defined by the way in which you choose to react to the menace at hand. Jaipur chose to behave with dignity, Delhi with crassness.

Delhi, I implore you, get a heart transplant – put the Dil back in Dilli before you lose your soul.

Of the inexplicable link between Brownies and Bosses

My Boss whom you’ve met earlier and whom you know as Mr. Enigmatic at first glance has nothing to do with Brownies. For the uninitiated Brownies are the accidental invention of a lady who forgot to add a crucial ingredient to a cake that she was baking and the resulting flat bread instead of getting chucked into the bin got a solid drizzling with chocolate sauce and was served in the lady’s best china.

From such humble beginnings the brownie has traveled all the way to Delhi and is now served in a softer, walnut covered avatar at the Café Coffee Day outlets for 30 bucks a plastic wrapped piece. Eaten early in the morning it proves to be the best pick me up and gives yours truly the much needed strength to get through the better part of the day.

The thing is that the little bit of chocolate indulgence has turned into a sort of inverse indicator of Mr. Enigmatic’s moods. The days that the brownie is too sweet, Mr. E turns out to have a bad case of grumpiness in general, when my morning brownie is completely covered with nuts, Mr. E seems to be as calm and unruffled as a lake on a peaceful summer evening and the days when the Brownie is downright disgusting and inedible, Mr. E is at his jovial best.

I sometimes think that god has written my life in such a way that the only way that I can live it is by achieving that predefined balance that he’s set out for me. In this perpetual balancing act things that have absolutely no bearing on each other seem to develop inextricably linked bonds of steel that are seldom broken except by the absence of one or the other variable.

On the days when the Brownie is unavailable, Mr. E becomes my best friend and on the days that Mr. E is absent? Well, that hasn’t happened yet, when it does I’ll tell you too. But for now, I have an appointment with a cottage cheese and tomato sandwich that’s waiting for me in the bottom left hand drawer.

Bon appetit!

Rudeness – the essential ingredient without which Dilliwallas wouldn’t be Dilliwallas

I’ve been suffering from pangs of homesickness and the urge to break into tears quite a lot recently. Since my gender doesn’t allow for PMS and Menopause, it’s definitely not physiological.(And yes men cry too.) So what gives? I’ll tell you what, Rudeness, especially in that just below the surface, thinly veiled variety that Dilliwallas have raised to the level of an art form.

Take some sarcasm, add a very small pinch of wit, finely dice in a hint of contempt, stir some snobbery for flavor and garnish with the utmost amount of hauteur that you can manage and there you have the famous Dilliwalla brand of rudeness that is guaranteed to make any non Dilliwalla feel miserable.

It’s everywhere – at the gym, the restaurant, the office, the metro – any way you turn and come smack up against it. It’s enough to make anyone cynical for life. That horrible way that Dilliwallas have of putting you just a couple of pegs lower than they are and then talking down to you across an unbreachable chasm of neo social class hierarchy is truly unbearable.

For someone like me who was taught that everyone is worthy of respect, this kind of treatment makes one want to take a vow of silence so that I’d never have to put up with that unbearable rudeness again.

I’d always believed in the maxim that you should do unto others as would have them do unto you, and I’ve always tried to follow it even when I’ve known that I’m being short changed but this horrific rudeness is simply not done. It is enough to set me thinking that maybe its time that I changed my behavior patterns and started giving it back as good as I get.

The only problem in this entire scenario is that when I wanted to be rude to people I simply could not allow myself to do it. I did not allow myself that moment of perverse satisfaction because if behave in that utterly vile and loathsome way then I am no better than the Dilliwallas.

I had been told that people in Delhi are defined by their coolness. That’s not rue. Dilliwallas are defined solely by their innate rudeness and I’m truly glad that I’m not a Dilliwalla. I’m a small townie and I’m proud to be one. Amen!

JALEs - Joined at the left earers

It’s amazing how much a person can observe simply by virtue of having to stand perfectly still for exactly half an hour every day. I’m one of those relatively lucky mortals who get to take the Metro to work every day without having to face the horrors of a bus ride. Being in a state of suspended animation on the ride inevitably makes anything virtually impossible – reading, lounging or even texting for that matter.

The only activity for someone like me is people watching – an activity that is infinitely satisfying allowing for a daily dose of personality analysis sessions. Is the lady in blue chatting with her boyfriend? Is the guy in the pink shirt gay? Does that cute girl have a boyfriend? What are the husband and wife arguing about?

So you see the charade of so many characters of the world’s stage play out their roles for your benefit carries with it some kind of voyeuristic pleasure that is not beaten even by the newest offering on Colors- the one where a bunch of weird people are put into a house and then hidden cameras follow their orchestrated antics.

Within that little microcosm of humanity certain patterns of human behavior emerge that are seldom seen anywhere or can be seen everywhere. The two opposite poles of behavior patterns come together every morning and I enjoy the show.

An example of the omnipresent human behavior pattern is the banding together of girls for some kind of protection from numbers. However what kind of protection the banding together offers is anyone’s guess because the metro is jam packed and with tight jeans and tops even on the most misshapen of figures being de rigeur probably the eves don’t even realize that the uncleji rubbing past is having his moment of voyeuristic pleasure of a different kind.

Another thing is couples holding hands. The metro with its lack of space offers the most plausible excuse for all kinds of couples to hold hands with the dominant partner holding on to the handrail for support. Some even go to the extent of spooning their partners with the dominant one hanging on for dear life from the guard rail with both hands.

Then there’s the class of people who are LOUD. They shout at the top of their voices on their cell phones and don’t give half a flying fuck for any one else. So you’re treated to a long, unadulterated and rather racy account of just about anything under the sun which is pretty much everything.

But the thing that gets my goat and at times makes me laugh is the joined at the left ear syndrome. Being a joined at the left earer comes from the practice of using just one set of ear phones to listen to the music device held in the hand with each of the people sharing the device plugging it into their left ear only ( a fact established through days of observation.) The device could be an Ipod, a Discman, cell phone, whatever. The earphones are shared between two people who often have questionable aural hygiene. How they mange to avoid ear infections is a mystery to me.

The worst part is when they begin talking in addition to indulging their collective passions for music which makes it even more annoying because then they too begin to talk at a higher pitch adding to the cacophony of the metro. The sound of the recorded voice announcing the next station is often drowned out and with so many music players blaring out their music collectively it’s like being in a disco only you can just sway rather unrythmically to the movement of the train. I think that maybe the JALEs are people who are disco addicts. Otherwise they would either shut their music device or their mouths and in the process save tons of energy that is otherwise wasted.

Rajiv chowk is a huge relief. It acts like some kind of urban purgatory where every single weirdo gets off and only the serious office goers are left. Even then you have the perverts who use every opportunity to rub up against the body of their choice on their way in / out.
At the end of the day although there are enough irritants the most irritating remains the ones who are joined at the left ear.