Political Courtesies Bloom in Murky Waters of Probe

Sometimes more is said between the lines than in the entire prose, especially if the speaker is a man of few word. A lot is left to be deciphered and speculations ride high. In past few days a new vigour is seen in our former Prime Minister, addressing gatherings, giving interviews and even dropping in for a ‘courtesy call’ with his successor and bête noir Narendra Modi. Our soft spoken economist former premier Manmohan Singh is leaving no stone unturned to deflect the scam spotlight shining on him. Gone are the days of silence. He now is leaving no opportunity to clearly emphasise that neither he nor his kith and kin benefitted from any loot of the coffer under his regime. However, what he is not saying, and that is where reading between the lines becomes necessary, is that no loot of coffers happened under his nose. Is this non denial an admission of guilt, in a convoluted sort of way?

Indian politics has a penchant for storms in tea cup – remember the Tea Party Mrs. Gandhi hosted years ago where Amar Singh had gate crashed and foundations of UPA were laid? Well, now that former and current PM sat down for a “Chai pe Charcha”, the ‘nation wants to know’ whether they discussed the aromas and flavours of tea or the right mix of tea and milk for the perfect brew. Why, Mr. Manmohan Singh decided to swap his Marie Biscuit for deep fried ‘farsaan’ knowing full well that the media glare and unending dissection of the meeting is likely to give him indigestion. 

He claims to have been invited by Mr. Modi and sends out a prompt Press Release. While PMO has only smiled in response. If it was just a courtesy call, it came a couple of days too late. It would have looked a tad more courteous if Mr. Singh called on Mr. Modi to congratulate him on his anniversary in office. But the riddle got another twist when throughout the day both the Modi and his predecessor were locked in a war of words – Singh accusing present government of failing in economic delivery while Modi taking a jibe at “un-constitutional authority” which ruled during UPA. After such a shouting match if both the adversaries wet their throats together, eyebrows are sure to rise!

But then, the game of pleasantries and ‘political courtesy’ is not limited to Delhi alone. Look east and the firebrand Didi is packing bags to travel along with the PM to Bangladesh. Mamata Banerjee is a known Modi baiter and has made her hatred for the man of Godhra fame more than clear at every occasion. But in came CBI probing Sardha scam and political courtesies started tumbling out of closets. Just a few weeks back Didi was seen knocking on Modi’s door, again for a cup of tea, the meeting coming close on heels of another of his party MP getting a love letter from CBI. Now, CBI has started probing the party funds and seeking answers from the party officers (we all know where the fingers are pointed), and time for niceties have dawned again. Remember how Ms. Banerjee had embarrassed UPA when despite being a coalition partner she had refused to accompany Manmohan Singh to Dhaka for the signing of Teesta Accord.  This time round, if signals are to be interpreted well, she will not only be smiling though the land boundary agreement with Bangladesh, which her party supported, but may also lend her signature to the Teesta Accord.

Of course the official statements will never reveal the real reason behind such a deluge of political courtesies from all quarters, and we would be left to read between the lines. The puzzle however will remain unsolved till a bee on the wall spills the beans and finally discloses if a protection deal of sorts did get inked behind smiling handshakes. For now, it seems that the political courtesies are set to bloom in various quarters as CBI gets busy in pulling open the closets of various hues. Let’s wait and watch and keep reading between the lines.

"The Good Muslim" by Tahmima Aman Uncovers the Boundaries of Freedom

T

he first passage of the book gripped me. The words were deep, picturesque; flow was smooth and yet they conveyed the anguish without any undue force – “The petals of mustard flowers, dried to dust, tickle his nose and remind him of the scent of meat, which he has not tasted in several months. Underfoot the grasses spit and cry; overhead the heavy-lidded eye of a midwinter sun.”Tahmima Anam’s “The Good Muslim” is more than a good read, it’s a journey through the pathways of a country that waged a war to set itself free and became prisoner to its own people, blinded by a faith. The book is not a denouncement of any religion or of Islam in particular. Far from it. It talks of faith and its price, it talks of what you gain in surrender and what others loose!

This may be only the second novel by Tahmima but her voice is confident, thoughts mature and narrative strong. Her pen has a strange but intoxicating mix of torment and calm. There is freshness in the prose as well a subtle lyricism. However there are incidents in the plot that portray confusion. The characters are sometimes made to behave in a certain manner to fit a thought process, not their own. This is a jarring note, but then this can also be a perspective of the reader. Maya, the protagonist, grows on the reader as a character and one starts moving with her along the prose. At a point, you get so engrossed in this fearless yet vulnerable woman, that you start looking at her predicaments as yours. And, of course this is because Tahmima has etched Maya so strongly in the readers mind.

Bangladesh as a new nation, struggling to wipe off the signs of a bloody war and trying to move on, is a character in itself in the book. The country caught between the “revolutionaries” and “reactionaries” is struggling to keep aloft the ideals it fought for, and failing miserably, for the people who fought the gruesome war for nine long nine months, scarred with a genocide and thousands of rapes, wanted to move on too quickly. “At first she thought of sitting there…. For someone to come and explain to her why Paltan Maidan had been turned into an amusement park”- speaks of an entitlement of the people who bore the birthing pain for the new-born nation. And then this entitlement turns to anguish – “it was where, for a moment, they had won. Now their histories will be papered over with peanuts and the smell of candyfloss.”

Another more powerful portrayal in the novel is of “beerangona”, (the war heroines), as Sk. Mujib called them. The ladies who fought a different war, fought on their flesh by hungry soldiers. These ladies were part of the collateral damage who could not wipe off “the shame” of rape and lust they were victim of. Ironically, while the father of the nation had opened his heart for them, asking people to welcome them back to their homes as decorated soldiers of war, he decreed, but not the seeds that they carried. The abortions and the desperate attempt of the much maligned women to build their homes, finds a touching portrayal by Tahmima.

There are some twists and turns that sound stretched at times, but then these are minor glitches. Tahmima succeeds in building a narrative that grips you and makes you chew on some thoughts long after you have closed the book. Like, “why child, why you have to be so intolerant? ... Don’t be so frightened of it…. It is only religion.” But you ask, is it simply that, a religion?

Refugee - A short story

With an uncertain smile, she knocked once again on the closed door. Nothing. No sign that there was anyone in there! What was she to do? Khadija had walked almost an hour to reach here. The sun was too harsh to venture out and walk back all the way. Madam had asked her to come back here again in the morning. So she did. Maybe she was late. Maybe Madam had left already. She thought of knocking once more but then decided against it. Resigned, she sat down at the front porch. Let’s wait here for some time. Where else could she go? She is yet to find work. People speak strange languages here, in this city. She cannot understand much. But Madam spoke her language. What a relief it was! Oh how she wish Madam could offer her permanent work, but she already had a maid. She, therefore, was offered a weekly job of cleaning and arranging book cases and wardrobes. She had accepted that with gratitude.

Only yesterday Khadija had cleaned the big wardrobe and arranged sarees, suits and pants that Madam wore. She had planned to clean the book cases today, and Madam had agreed. But she was not there; maybe she had got it wrong. Maybe Madam expected her to be back only next week. Whatever it is, she was here and there was nothing for her to do but to return as the house seemed locked. Taking a deep sigh, she pulled the handkerchief in which she had folded a few rupees and a few coins. As she spread out her meager savings, she could not help but admire the white embroidery on the red square piece of cloth, a big white rose, leaves fanning out and a name lovingly inscribed – Tamanna. Her daughter. All of nine years of age and already adept at the fine art of embroidery! Her heart did a small somersault as she remembered the innocent face of her young girl. She was far away now, in the care of her paternal grandmother. She had promised to send enough money to keep her away from working in bidi factory. It was already half a month and she had not managed to save up even the minimum amount due to the money lender back in her village from whom she borrowed a princely sum of 10,000 taka to come to Hindustan. Many of her friends had done so in past and are now well off. Not only have they paid off the money lender, but have also built pucca houses and have farm land of their own.

It was this magical transformation from penury to life of plenty that made her cross the wide paddy field on foot and then board a precariously tilting overcrowded boat at night to cross Padma. Before day break Khadija had reached a check-post where the agent had made arrangements for them to quietly enter Hindustan. With at least fifty other women and men from her’s and surrounding villages she had set foot in a different country, which deceptively looked just as her own, with same green pastures and low muddy huts, thatched with palm leaves, bleached to almost white in harsh sun.

She knew that coming to Hindustan was illegal and that she could be caught by police and put in jail. She had heard terrifying tales of such captures from many in her village. But she could not understand why? She had not come here to steal or to harm anyone. She had come here to work and save enough many to go back and take care of her two sons and a daughter, the nine year old Tamanna. Strange rules big men made, she thought amused! Sitting at the porch, thinking about the events of past couple of weeks that she was in Hindustan, she realized these people may speak different languages, but was so similar in the way they lived!

Initially she was made to walk for hours in a herd of men and women, carrying meager belongings and the scent of their homeland, Khulna, a nondescript district in Bangladesh. After hours of walking through paddy fields, soft undulating streams and then dingy, dark lanes of a muffasil town, they were boarded on a train. It took them three days on the overcrowded, stuffy and at times suffocating coupe to reach this big city, they called Bangalore. Once they landed here, they were lead in a bus that took almost two hours in the wee hours of morning and offloaded them in a shabby looking neighborhood. Here she met hundreds of her folks, men and women who came from Khulna to make a fortune!

The first week she shared the hutment with six other ladies from her district. Since she could not contribute financially, she was to cook, clean, fill water and wash clothes for all of the inhabitants of the small hut. But soon even her labor was falling short and Khadija was forced to borrow money from the lender to contribute her share of rice to the group. She then approached a lady who promised to get her work in exchange of one month’s salary.

She was taken to huge buildings that reached the sky, almost! A few houses that she went to looked enormous, like palaces! She was awestruck. She had never seen such glory back in her village, or even in the sadar town! In the bright light and posh surroundings, she felt grouch and inadequate. Yet, she managed a confident smile in hope of landing some work. Luck was not with her. All these palatial householders spoke a language she could not comprehend at all. So, she was without wok even after enlisting help of the lady who got everyone a job.

It was just by chance that she met Madam. She had been refused in yet another home and was walking back towards the ghetto when she heard Madam speaking to someone over phone, struggling with two huge bags. She had rushed to her and elated to hear bangla had all but cried in relief. She offered to carry the heavy bags, and still angling the phone on her shoulder, Madam had allowed her to pick up the bags. She walked beside Madam as she entered a small lane lined with white similar looking two story houses. In the quiet of the afternoon the locality with its pristine white houses and bright patches of green gardens, looked peacefully sedate! Hope had risen in her and she was sure to find employment with the lady animatedly speaking on the phone!

That was three days ago. Though she had a weekly job now, she was still too far away from regular employment. And that worried her. She had hoped Madam will keep her as a maid or refer to someone, but that too was not happening. With a deep sigh she got up to leave but just at that moment the maid who worked there appeared. “What are you doing here?” she asked in hindi. Though she could understand what was asked, she could not reply coherently in that language. She only said , “Madam?”

“Office”, was the syllable thrown at her. She could sense a disgust in the other maid. Why? What had she done? Maybe, she perceived her to be a threat to her cozy job! She tried to communicate that she would want to wait for the lady of the house to return but was strongly put down. Now the maid was asking her to leave while she turned the key in the lock. Why? Why can she enter the house when Madam was not there and she was asked to go back. Wasn't she a maid too? She thought herself to be at par with the other maid and followed her inside. There was an angry exchange and soon the other maid was shouting at top of her lungs. This alerted the neighbors who gathered there. Khadija could not understand what was being exchanged, the language was completely beyond her. But by the gestures of the other maid she could make out she was being accused of something. The ruckus went on and finally there were Policemen. Khadija was too scared to say anything. She was being pulled and pushed and shoved. She found herself drowning in a dark abyss.

She was in a lock up when she came to her senses. Looking at the gloomy surroundings and finding herself in a jail of sorts, she started crying. A policewoman approached her and ordered her to keep quiet. She was then unceremoniously hauled and pushed out of the cell. The agent who had brought her from her village was there and was speaking to the Policeman sitting in the chair. He was showing some papers, one that had her picture. She was both relieved and worried.

In a few minutes she was asked to leave with the agent. As she followed him outside, he scolded her for being a nuisance. She was tired and dejected, she begged him to send her back to her village. “Are you mad? How can I send you back?”

“why? Why can’t you send me back? So many of my village folks have gone back, why can’t I?” she asked agitated.

“Ok give me 10,000 taka and I will send you back.”he said with a cynical smile.

“You know that is not possible. Where will I get that much money?” She was terrified.

“Don’t think of going back then. Find some work, earn and then when you can pay for it, think of returning.” He smiled slyly handing her a card with her picture. “Here take this. This is your voter ID card. Carry this to that office hoisting Indian flag and you will be paid.”

She took the card and walked a few paces to a shabby looking tin roofed room hoisting the Indian tricolor. Outside there was a que of people holding similar cards. When she finally reached inside someone took her card, made some notes in a register and gave her Rs. 500 and a sack of rice. She was elated. Outside, she asked a woman carrying similar bag of rice, “what is this magical card?”

“it’s the voter ID card, don’t you know?” the other woman said.

“Vote card? What for?” Khadija continued further surprised.

“what for? Well, I don’t know that but it sure gives us rice and money at times and when you show it to Police, they do not bother you”, said the other woman conspiratorially.

“will this get me work?” asked Khadija.

“No dear, everyone here has this card. And not everyone gets work. So, that is up to your luck,” smiled the other woman as she walked away.

Khadija was left staring at the card in her hand. She then slowly pulled out the small red handkerchief embroidered by her daughter and safely tucked away the Rs. 500 note and the voter card. It must be something precious she thought, if it got her rice and money. She will give it to her daughter when she returned. With this thought, and a relieved smile, she started walking back to the ghetto where dimly lit hut awaited her.

Defending the Indefensible….

Jarnail Singh, an otherwise quiet, controlled, mature and respectable journalist gave India its very own Shoe-gate Controversy today. The slow motion replays of a white sports shoe missing a white robed (literally and metaphorically) Mr. Chidambaram by mere inches also brought about replays of some more pictures in my mind… those of 1984, my first introduction to a new vocabulary – curfew, tear gas, lathicharge, shoot at sight, flag march, riot, Hindu and Sikh!

To put it simply, the shoe hurled today seemed more an act of frustration and suppressed anxiety than an actual revolt. The shoe needs a closer look as it represents a turban and beard – the signs a community was almost forced to relinquish for want of safety. And the shoe was asking the Home Minister, Mr. Chidambram, respected for his spotless record and balanced political views, how can you sit here and defend the indefensible!

No, I am not defending the indefensible either. What Jarnail did was wrong, utterly wrong, not acceptable at all, but understandable. The incident in question `is not about what is seen today, the outburst, but about corpses in the closet that are not quite dead, but buried. And, since in the mortuary of democracy, all political parties irrespective of colour, creed or ideology (??) have reserved closets it is one level playing field for all- no one quite claim an advantage or disadvantage here.

What happened today as I see is just a way of showing disagreement with something that happened long ago, and continues to live… something that the party in whose premises the incident happened, wants us to forget and forgive. No, its not about Congress alone. If Congress would want us to forget 1984 and its breeding of LTTE thereafter, BJP would want us to forget Babri demolition and Godhra… the Left would want us to forget their bloodied battles as Naxals in 1970s… the Shiv Sena their wrath against non Maharahtrians… AGP its terror in Assam… the list is long, too long in fact to put here.

We were getting distracted, so coming back to the point in discussion, the incident today is expression of anguish against the efforts to bury a past that has a strong imprint on today and probably will have impact on future as well. Things that political parties want us to forget are not so easily forgotten, neither should they be. No, I am not agreeing with Jarnail’s act of depression or desperation, nor am I showing solidarity. He absolutely had no business doing what he did, not as a journalist at least. Objectivity and uncoloured reporting is the foundation of journalism (in theory, at least) and I am a staunch believer in it. Jarnail, as a journalist did bring shame to the fraternity by venting his anguish the way he did. But then are there ways really for a journalist to be able to raise questions that go beyond TRPs and circulation figures?? A debatable issue that we may take up at a different date and time!

Coming back to 1984 and Chidambaram’s very technical defence of the indefensible, the pictures that start playing in front of me are those of fire and eyes stinging with tears… of stench of burnt clothes and charred bodies… of the magnificent white of the façade of the biggest Gurudwara in the city turned black and the ever busy lanes and by-lanes of the congested central market of Kolkata, bare of their usual chaos, drenched in an unceremonious quite where the boots of young Gorkha and dark South Indian men in olive green uniform with real guns in hand… for a 9 year old it was a spectacle more mesmerizing than the Indrajal comics and adventures of Superman or Spiderman! Here it was, a whole new thriller unfolding in front of my eyes, only this time the characters were cartoons of a different degree!

I do not have the complete recollection of events as they happened, but there are some images, some fragments of conversations that continue to haunt me till date. One is the tears rolling our cheeks without the occasional slap from mom for not finishing homework… and the reason being attributed to “tear gas”, something the police used to make people cry if they do not behave! Another image that flashes through is the flames that were almost touching the skies… burning the front façade of “our” gurudwara, the place that all of us (yes all of us who were Hindus) went to daily, we kids for the Prasad of halwa, the elders for asking favours of a God, who they now claimed was not theirs… I also recall the image of two Sardarjis telwale (as they supplied kerosene in the locality) being kept hidden in one of the bigger rooms in our building (resembling more to a Mumbai chawl) as the madness raged outside. But one of the most tragic images that I remember is that of those two Sardarjis crying, their knees bent, hands folded… someone had jokingly suggested shaving off their beard and hair. An insensitive joke, representative of the mood of the people at that time, insensitive being the operative word.

Later once the “live” telecast of Mrs. Gandhi’s funeral was over, I remember some pictures that flashed on our black and white TV- death and destruction – numbers – death toll reported as cricket match score! I remember my father, an otherwise quiet and somewhat lily-livered man claiming with pride they killed so many Hindus and in response “we” killed so many Sikhs! “We”… who was this we, I wonder.

As I grew up and saw more riots this “we” became more understandable. This we became the closest allegiance at the time of conflict between two castes, creed or religion. This “we” was not India, but India divided in many parts, each claiming ownership of an island floating on blood and corpses.

I have similar recollection of 1992, demolition of Babri masjid. It was our one of the first encounters with cable TV… the images of mob breaking down dome of a historic structure battling with faiths of two conflicting religious fanatics. I also remember openly circulated video cassettes of “true incident” floating around capturing speeches of some top leaders of Saffron hue and the red fluid freely flowing everywhere that had debates raging whether it began to those defending Babar or Ram.

In the wake of these images, when the slow motion picture of that white shoe flowing past Honourable Home Minster only makes me question – can one rationalize the irrational and defend the indefensible?

My Tryst with "best-sellers" !

Every time I walk into a book store (and I do so often), I am greeted with a shelf full of neatly stacked books of the best-sellers category, mostly "how-to's.." and some preaching, sometimes some novels whose writers are either too well known or not known at all. Confused, I walk ahead and find attractively placed stack of new arrivals - and lo! here too the same "best-sellers" are sprawled all over. Confused further, I move ahead looking for books arranged in terms of genre. The ones I hate to touch are "how-tos's..." God knows you come across so many unsolicited advices every moment that spending money to get them seems foolhardy. Anyway, but there are those (and a sizable number at that) who actually spend to buy these! Anyway, to each his poison! So where was I? Oh yes, my tryst with bestsellers. So when I look at books by genre, there too there is a special segment for the elite, the so called best sellers! Finally there seems no respite from these limelight hogging titles, the back covers of those smeared with remarks from mutual admiration society and inner jackets splashing the photograph of the best-selling author, smiling in anticipation of hero-worship!

I have tried to understand the mechanism of bestseller-hood, but by all means my humble attempts at extracting this mighty phenomenon have been far from getting me closer to unraveling the mystery. Some books are bestsellers even before they hit the stands; some remain so years after their publication and some attain a cult status owing to their celebrity pedigree. In my experience though, these so called hot selling "items" merely adorn your bookshelf, kept there with reverence and sometimes with exhibitionist intentions, but almost never cuddled with love for the written word.

Here are some of the books I read recently, sharing with world wide web my experience of trying to cuddle a bestseller! However, I have a confession to make, most of these books I borrowed from a library, undecided whether to invest both money and time, or just the time :)

Devil in Pinstripes

by Subramanian, Ravi

I read it, as much as I could. The plot as described on the back cover was interesting hence you go on to the cash counter to actually pick up the book by paying a price, run back home to start on the tale of a harried banker with your evening coffee, and after a few pages and a few sips of your favorite coffee, you suddenly feel a bad taste in your mouth. Hell! What's wrong with my coffee, you think. Put the book down and sip again. Now it is better. Yes, you guessed it right. It’s the aftertaste of the languid prose you read with shallow detailing and unimaginative characters that jig-jag in past and present almost at will... a taste that you can far from relish!

I am told it’s a best-seller. I would say it’s an opportunistic cashing on a prevailing trend. I would not mind that, after all writers write what they see, experience and understand. The write up, as the best I can categorize it, would be well suited to those monthly magazines that have some short stories stashed away with gossip, home grooming tips and a host of how-to's. But for a novel, I think a bit more of writing technique and eye for detail is required. It’s a soap opera kind of writing. That, for book lovers like me would rather avoid.

Lessons in Forgetting

by Nair, Anita

This is well written but somewhere down the line it gets predictable, clichéd and lacking in courage. Anita Nair has an eye for detail and her characters are well defined but their plight and persona seem to be unidirectional. It seems each and every character is build and assigned a story to align with a common thread, somewhat as a force fit. There is melancholy and pain of broken families that touches you, but something doesn’t work too well. All in all a good read but not a memorable one.

The 3 (Three) Mistakes of My Life

by Chetan Bhagat

Just picked it up out of curiosity to find out why is Bhagat a craze! Plot is interesting, writing is simple... so far so good, but something seems to be missing... can't put my finger to it though!

I went on despite not able to find that missing connect with the book, but again could not go beyond halfway mark. Same issue here, shallowness, opinions half baked, readers are not made to think or revel. It goes on as a narrative, predictable at times and superfluous at others. Here ends my attempt to discover the magic element that makes a "best seller". If this is what a best-seller is made of, I am better off with the nondescript ones that sank without a trace on the mighty listings but stay cuddled on the bedside tables of those who chanced upon them... (P.S.: My bed stand is full of such non best seller gems that I savor, relish and at times gorge on :)

Suits: A Woman on Wall Street

by Nina Godiwalla

Back cover synopsis sounded interesting... but a disappointment... a unidirectional sob story.... halfway into the book you start wondering when this depressing monologue will end!"

One Amazing Thing

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Long time back I had read Mistress of Spices by the same author and what had me hooked was the way she paints the picture with words. This one too has an interesting storyline, diverse characters and a simple plot. Good, relaxed reading! But somehow it gets lost towards the end.... read for yourself and decide.

Of Dubious TRPs and Celeb Justice!!

Public undessing of deeply private lives has become a rule today. Switch channels and there are these self proclaimed messaiahs doling out "justice" in a jiffy! People bing ripped apart, their lives blared in multicolored layers, their emotions bought and sold and we are expected to gulp all this down as these are supposed to be in response to huge public demand - and how do we say that, why, we have this one stop solution called TRP!
I have been trying to understand this whole phenomena of TRP for a while now but to be honest, its a difficult nut to crack. Some households in some corner, supposedly representing different levels of viewership are being monitored and their choice imposed on the large majority. I have very basic questions. Understandably, the rating agncies will not reveal the details on where their monitoring system resides but are they being evaluated, how often do they shift and expand, coz public taste is not a static thing. Secondly, are they open to third party audit? How do we believe their summary is correct, accurate and unbiased? How come pople like me, and I am sure there is a large chunk of audience who is avese to vouyersism, don't count. Are we represented? Another major issue is given India's demogaphic and diversity is the sample size exhaustive enough?

Now the biggest qustion, who is supposed to monitor the monitors? Are these agencies answerable, is their data open to scrutiny. This whole business of mass appeal has been on for long enough, has there been any review? By default raunchy, sultry, downright deploable content is being passed on as popular choice, isn't the approach itself pervesive in nature?

I do not undestand who gave the authority to C grade celebs to dispnse "justice" like a coffee vending machine? Who decides which family is thrashed and debased in the name of reality show? You have loyalty tests being peformed on live TV, you have superstitious and dubious techniques being justified in the name of reliving your past, blind dates being arranged... what next? Escort Service? Pole Dancing lessons? Kam sutra live and exclusive?

I have truly found justification for the term idiot box. But then why should those sitting in front of it need to behave like idiots and take all insults lying down? Does our voice count? And, if not, why? It is high time the myth of TRP is broken and som sensible measuring metrics brought in. Any votes for it????

Bang Bang Bangalore, Mr Obama?

This morning I heard in one of the news channels that the latest census in US reveals every seventh person in their country is poor. There was not much detail given in the news story except that White House is worried. This coupled with the noises Mr Obama is making about outsourcing taking away American livelihood, and more recently, chiding students to be enamoured to take on ChIndia challenge, point to one core issue – there is a rising paranoia in the developed economies, especially America.

America, supposedly reached a pinnacle in economic terms - way ahead of population heavy India and China and, of course remained unchallenged for long. It was like the story of rabbit and tortoise; in this case rabbit and tortoises. As the tortoises come closer to finishing line, the rabbit is getting restless and instead of focusing on using its conserved energy for better use, it is busy raising alarm and creating an atmosphere of undue concern. The world has changed, and naturally the world order would change too, sooner or later.

Rhetoric against India or contempt for Bangalore is not going to solve the issues Mr Obama is juggling with. If his country is facing poverty, obviously a novel phenomenon for a hitherto rich economy, the reasons are to found within not without. Making entry for Indian technocrats expensive will not ease these burdens at all. World is a small place today and geographical boundaries do not matter much beyond political hegemony. Indians have not snatched American bread, they have merely ensured they have more rotis on their plate. Outsourcing is a business tool, devised to save not only money but also to free better talent from less crucial task and employing them for greater good of organizations. Indian IT companies have risen from being mere body shops to value partners, helping outsourcing organizations in doing better business and bringing forth worthwhile innovations. Its much more than tax holidays and operating profits.

If outsourcing of call center jobs is deepening creases on Mr Obama’s forehead, the fact that Americans consume almost everything made outside America should keep him awake at night, but does it? From food to medicine, from clothes to machines – Made in America is becoming extinct in its own soil. Now, isn’t manufacturing a bigger source of employment than poor call centers and technology captives? It’s a simple funda, business runs on a straight logic- if cost of production is high, its better to source it from some other place. And what has made cost of production of simple stuff sky rocket in America, surely its not something Banglore can be held responsible for!

Today America outsources to India, India does the same to Bangladesh and Srilanka among others. Its inevitable. Historically speaking has not the whole civilization expanded itself on the basis of exchange with people across continents, and how did this exchange happen? Was not trade a major connector, the biggest propeller in making new discoveries, finding newer, shorter routes, ever expanding the list of merchandise – economic interests it were that built political empire. The developed world developed on this plank and built much more than economic stability. Today when those who were exploited by economically superior nations are trying to put their act together, some people are getting alarmed, but why??

Much as Mr Obama is becoming paranoid of ChIndia rising, Indian IT sector is sweating unnecessarily too on, if I may call it, hostile posturing of White House on outsourcing. It is no more only about throwing menial jobs at us on discounted rates. From NASA to Ivy league B-schools, from healthcare to security, from war against terror to technology, there is a little bit of India, in everything America does. It is no more about dictating terms, its about partnership. Today Microsofts and Yahoos of the world are not looking at a cheap Indian workforce- for they are no more cheap, for one- but for mission critical support, and of course how can we forget the huge market potential. It works both ways Mr Obama, we not only help you churn out better products at competitive price, we also consume a huge amount of produce that keeps your companies making bigger profits.

Its time we looked at things in proper perspective. Bangalore and Beijing are not challenging Buffalo, they are merely themselves a better choice for business by fulfilling the requirements of industries. Drawing smaller lines to keep my line once traced is no more a better option to cling to the throne (if there was one ever). It is time the once traced lines are given a second look and evaluated afresh in the light of the new emerging lines.

Don’t loose sleep over Bangalore Mr. Obama, find the bug in your bed,  it surely is homegrown – completely Made in America!