Monkey Business

Once upon a time there were two big cats. Sworn enemies, they fought over the domination of different areas of the jungle. With his discerning eye and a nuanced pen, the monkey revealed the real character of the cats. Going by the script, he talked about the unobserved cruelties and exploitation of the animals by voicing their concern. In the days that passed, the animals looked up to the monkey for channeling their angst. As a result, several endemic monkey species flourished and multiplied.

Realizing the simian power, some cats began to nurture personal monkeys. Feeding morsels and purring secretly, the cats began to monkey around. Soon, the monkeys began to bell the cats. There were no established rules of owning a monkey. Amid all the back scratching and surrogate monkey ownership, the aging print monkey was losing out to the more invasive and aggressive electronic monkey. To be fair, the pen wielding monkey used to tell stories of injustice but not with the same sense panache as the electronic monkey. The electronic breed was able to sell any issue that had the potential to sell - sleaze, murder, corruption. As a result, the electronic cousins created an atmosphere where the demand for discontent ensured that the simians thrived, even if the cats were bruised occasionally.


Every evening around dinner time, an emboldened electronic monkey would sit on a tree branch and make a monkey out of the cats. He would pick one stray comment coming from the cat brigade, usually the most controversial to raise the adrenalin level of the jungle. Every second tree had one mischievous monkey telling a sensational story 24/7. If the cats from the neighboring jungle threatened, the monkey troops would raise shrill decibels, creating a war like situation. Around midnight, the entire jungle was abuzz with ‘Who Said What’ instead of ‘Who Did What’.

 Initially, the animals were complicit, for sensationalism is a shared pleasure. But when the monkeys refused to look in the mirror, the jungle began to see through the charade. Some mischievous ones would invite kooky characters, perch them on high branches and allow them to polarize the jungle by talking about competitive copulation. Not the ones to apologize for their mistakes, some electronic monkey’s fell in love with their own voice. “Look at me," they would screech."I’m the best.”

Meanwhile, a new breed of digital monkeys arrived from the jungles in the far west. While some chirped like birds, others provided free information with their impromptu antics. Feeling the heat, the aging print troops tried to use the digital creatures to their advantage.Some smart cats also tamed the digital brigade to consolidate their following. Given that the Primate Council was dominated by the simians and big cats, a largely unsupervised monkey troops were now interpreting situations in such a manner where the symbolic trumped the substantial.  

So who controlled the simians? Well, no one. Except that the impetuous digital brigade kept the erring troops on their toes. In an attempt to preserve the simian freedom and yet hold a mirror, the  digital apes acted as watch-monkeys. 

What happened to the cats you ask? Well, the cats have nine lives goes the feline dictum. They don’t come to an end unless the end comes to them. The cat fights continued. The latest round was to be fought over the central jungle area between a powerful cat and a new anarchist cat. And the monkeys were busy monkeying around.

Pants Up,Shades Down

Italian Cops

In what is seen as a bad influence of Singham and Dabangg, the Uttar Pradesh Police decided to ban policemen from wearing low-waist trousers and tight-fitting uniforms saying that the cops were becoming, well - too filmy. The directive also ordered women cops to wear shirt and pants instead of a salwar kameez or a saree. So if you are a woman, a tiny part of you would be delighted. After all, it is not often that a word like ‘ban’ is used for the men folk. Dont judge me, but a wicked part of me wants to ask the classic telly question, “How do you feel about this ban?”
Calling it a ‘panchayati farmaan’ one police officer allegedly said, “The police chief has no right to decide how to wear a uniform.” Aww. What is it that they say about the shoe being on the other foot? 

Perhaps, the directive has something to do with two constables in Agra who were suspended after a dressing down for dressing up in Dabangg style shades. I am no one to comment on sacred uniform directives, but how does one differentiate between a well-fitting uniform and a tight-fitting uniform? What is ‘tight-fitting’ for a retired officer from the era of ‘Hathiyaar daal do, police ne tumhe chaaro taraf se gher liya hai’ might be ‘well-fitting’ for a young recruit who has grown up wearing lowriders?

Which, of course, doesn’t mean that cops should dress provocatively, or behave like movie stars because a cop exposing a cleavage of another variety and dancing on the street is not a welcome thought. So who decides where the trousers need to sit? As long as a cop can cut to the chase without exposing his jockey collection, a ban on ‘low-riders’ sounds a bit harsh. Unless there is some connection between pulling up the pants and lifting the minds? 

Those who think we are pioneers when it comes to banning  dresses, will be happy to know that the state of Louisiana in the USA made an attempt to ban low-rise jeans in 2004, but the bill was rejected in the House. Back home, Bollywood takes the cake when it comes to stereotyping baton bacons. A smartly dressed cop is, more often than not, an honest angry hero fighting the system (Vinod Khanna in Amar Akbar Anthony, Amitabh Bachchan in Zanzeer, Manoj Vajpayee in Shool or Ajay Devgun in Gangajal), and a cop with an ample waistline is a bumbling buffoon (Tiku Talsania in Andaaz Apna Apna, Jhonny Lever in Hello Brother, Shammi Kapoor in Love Story). It doesn’t come as a surprise because the moment we board a filmy flight, reality’s baggage is the first to go missing.

Image: Google Images (linkservice.com)

Or C

Ridiculed by the politicians (polishing behenji’s sandals) and pilloried for taking bribes, it is not difficult to understand why young policemen hanker after the Dabangg image. While the rest of the forces carry an aura of confidence and compassion, our policemen need an image makeover. Some of it is perhaps possible through the long pending police reforms and not so much from the directives on where the trousers should rest. I don’t know how or when this will happen, but what I know is that thappad se dar nahi lagta saheb, ban se lagta hai. 

Also on Huffington Post.

By Another Name

Elections come marinated with hope. And promises. Sometimes, rather irrationally, they also come with a renaming spree. During a discussion in Parliament on the National Capital of Delhi Laws (Special Provisions) Second (Amendment) Bill, Venkiah Naidu, our urban development minister said, “Sometimes I feel, instead of Delhi, it should have been either Indraprastha or Hastinapur. Some such historical name should have been more appropriate for this city.” We do not know if this idea is a consequence of the voter obsession phase prior to Delhi elections or a part of some arcane agenda, but what we know is that renaming cities is unlikely to yield positive political dividends. Who else but Mayawati can tell, albeit privately, that cosmetic changes do little to sway the voters. Regardless, our leaders continue to look at cities through an electoral prism. Moreover playing politics with culture and heritage is a dangerous game. And yet, it seems to be a favorite game being played around.

If Shanghai is a girl, and London a man puffing his pipe, Delhi is a feisty woman who goes to work despite being harassed, leered, molested or attacked with acid. A symbol of pluralistic society, she needs safety and avenues for growth to fulfill her global aspirations. Cosmetic changes without any rhyme or reason mean nothing for a city that by any other name shall continue to appear culturally resplendent and contemporary at the same time.

According to a book, ‘Ancient Delhi’, the earliest reference of ‘Dhillika’ as a location comes from a 12th century inscription from Bijolia, Rajasthan. In Prithviraj Raso, ‘Dhilli’ is associated with a Rajput king and an iron pillar in Mehrauli. This 12th century legend suggests that modern Delhi was named after the loose base of this pillar. There are other unverified legends relating to rulers of Delhi and its surrounding regions. Given that different cities of Delhi were raised by different rulers, Delhi could well have been called Tughlaquabad Ferozabad, Dinpanah, Shahjahanabad, or Georgabad by the British after King George V. And yet, Delhi remained Delhi - a pulsating conglomeration, ready to embrace everyone.

We moved from Bombay to Mumbai, from Madras to Chennai, from Puna to Pune or from Calcutta to Kolkatta, but all the while the problems facing our cities remain the same. At a time when Delhi cries for women’s safety with a rape every four hours and a molestation every two hours, at a time when Delhi is grappling with a transport mess, polluted air, migrant issues and affordable housing, among other things - a name change should have been the last thing on the mind of our urban development minister. Agreed, as of now, a name change is merely a suggestion, but once a cabinet minister has planted a seed, the fringe elements could ensure that the seed is watered enough to sprout saffron shoots. It is likely that after renaming festivals and cities, the renaming of other prominent landmarks will follow.

Since we are moving towards absurdity at such an amazing speed, I won’t be surprised if Delhi is called Hastinapur during the BJP rule, Indirapur or Nehrunagar during the Congress rule and Chhatrapati Shahuji Nagar during the BSP rule. And if the Yadav troika comes to power, they can happily call the capital city - Yadavpur or Yadavprashtha. 
In spirit, Delhi by any other name will remain Delhi. I have no political axe to grind but the question that begs to be asked is: Is this what Delhi needs right now, a name change?