Education on a Sunday morning

A Sunday morning. We drive to the fringe of the Asola-Bhati sanctuary, on the Delhi-Haryana border. As we park our cars, a knot of teenage boys pass cheerily by, heading in the same direction as us.

A few minutes later we catch up, and it registers, via the acute sensibility that we Indians have for class and place, that these are not boys from the adjoining Gujjar villages, but from an urban slum.
 "Where're are you heading?", I ask them.
 "To the lake."
"Have you been there before?"
"No, have you?"

When I tell them I have, a flood of questions follow - how deep is it? Can you swim? Can your children swim? Then, as I answer obligingly, the questions get more personal, "What do you do?"
That's a difficult one to answer under the best of circumstances, so I tell them one of the many truths, "I used to teach - English". No, not in a school-school, but in a private center, to teach English to adults.

"And you've retired now?"
"Yes."
"Then how do you manage for money?"
Another boy is slightly embarrassed by his friend's transgression of propriety and interjects, "Oh he must not be having any money problems. He must own his house."
I admit as much, and he says, "We pay rent."
The others chime in, "Yes, we too."

"So where is 'home'?", I ask. It is in the nature of Delhi that their parents come from every state in North India - Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh.

"And your family?" they ask me. I tell them we're essentially Dilli-wallahs, though my parents came from Punjab. They nod. "And that's your son?", they point to my teenager, walking a few paces ahead, with family friends.

"And that girl with him? Which country is she from?"
Of Tamil-Swiss parentage, Mallika's origins would be difficult to pinpoint, so I am not surprised when they say, "She must be from another country."
I nod.
"From Bombay."
"And Bombay is another country?", I ask.
They look at each other, one nods, one shrugs...I let it pass.
"Actually, she's from Bangalore", I tell them. "Anyone know where that is?"
"Yes, I've seen it in the railway station - New Delhi to Bangalore City."
"And do you know where it is?"
Silence.
"Which state?"
Silence.
"Anyone heard of Karnataka?"
"Karnataka." A couple of them repeat the name, but it is clear it has little resonance.
"It is the capital of Karnataka."

We are approaching the lake, an abandoned stone quarry, now filled with rain water. Even though the water level is higher than I've ever seen, its still a good 100 feet below us, and the first viewing is always impressive. The boys hoot and whistle.
 "Wow! It must be deep!"
"Uncle, we won't swim in it! Are you sure you'll swim in it?"
"There must be dinosaurs in the lake."
"Dinosaurs?" I check the boy's face to see whether it is a joke. It isn't.
"Dinosaurs! Do you think dinosaurs still walk the earth?"
Not one of the boys is sure how to answer. I don't want to be harsh, so I say, evenly, "Dinosaurs disappeared from the earth millions of years ago."
They digest this. "And what about pythons?"
"Don't know about pythons, but I don't think this is the terrain for pythons."

Glad for the company, the boys splash around the shallows of the lake, while we do laps of its placid surface.

On the way home they talk of what they will do with the rest of Sunday. "I have lots of homework," one says. "Yes, I must study my Economics", says the other.

I don't dare to ask...

Happy Independence Day, Yokels.

Indira Gate, off-bounds. Rajiv Path, off-bounds.
Happy Independence Day, yokels.

A bunch of cyclists from different parts of the NCR decide to meet at India Gate, to observe Independence Day. As we approach Rajpath on the C hexagon, around 0615, a phalanx of policemen wave us back. I slow down, rather than turn. They get agitated.
"I'm not going to crash your barrier. Just want to know why India Gate is off-bounds. And till when." 
"The Prime Minister is making a speech"
"But that's at Red Fort!"
"Yes, but he's passing this way"
"So it will be open shortly...?"
"No, it will be shut till he returns, about 0830".

Cheers, we pedal off. We had set up a fall-back rendezvous, Khan Market, at 0700. Gives us enough time to sprint to Nehru Park and back. Except, we cant get back. At the Ashok Hotel roundabout, the cops tell us, "No slow-moving traffic beyond this point."

Aargh... We turn back, Shanti Path, Teen Murti Marg. More cops - more waving off. I slow to ask them for the best route - they get agitated. "I'm not going to crash your barrier, guys! Just tell me how to get to Khan market."

"Go on to Shanti path. Then to the Ashok Hotel roundabout, down to Tughlaq Road"

"But we was just turned back from there..."

"Then we can't help."

"OK, guess we'll head home then."

We turn around. Then I stop and ask one of them, a grey-haired inspector my age, "Tell me, don't you think its rather sad that, on Independence Day, Indians can't go to India Gate to mark the occasion? What point Independence?"

He sees the point, shrugs. Then, But, Sir, you know during British times, Indians weren't allowed in Lutyen's Delhi?"

Is that official indoctrination, or just plain ignorance?

Happy Independence Day.

Image Management

As an agnostic, I can't subscribe to the belief that "God made us in his image".

Advertising, unlike God, is an obvious reality, and one of its more frequently deployed tools is to purvey images of people and life-styles that are currently in vogue, into which the product in question neatly fits. These days, for example, luxury housing goes with golf courses; Swiss watches go with German cars, and Italian dinners must be prefaced by Scottish single malts. If any of them is missing, you are a loser, and need to crank up the power on the treadmill of your life.

Freedom comes from rejecting all of the cookie-cutter moulds that the world asks us to pour ourselves into. Joy comes from finding what we truly relish, and rejecting all the second-hand prescriptions to make us feel good about ourselves.

It takes a fair amount of courage and self esteem to break away from the pack, and create a life that is genuine, meaning one that is a response to one's search within oneself for what brings meaning - in work, play, friends, and consumption habits.

Remember, though, that this is - or needs to be - a dynamic process. Too often, we create an image of ourselves, adjust ourselves to it, and it to our being, and settle into it. This, too, is a trap.

Our souls evolve, the world changes, the stimuli thrown at us are ever new. Often, we don't see them as being new, so we respond in familiar, comforting patterns. This is a shame - I believe we have the ability to constantly change, and there is great joy and liberation to be found in this continuous growth.

To find this growth, we must reject all images of ourselves - those purveyed to us, those our families seek to burden us with, and most of all, those we cast for ourselves.

Too much fuss over shit-all

Where Vasant Vihar  ends, the rocky outcrops of the Aravalis are home to a cluster of jhuggis, an area known by its topography, as a pahadi. Bored with the metalled roads of New Delhi, I turned my cycle onto a dry path of bleached ochre, making way for the odd motor-cycle heading to work, towards the tarmac of the city.

Through the keekar, the thorny acacia, I skirted the settlement, then a wider arc to stay away from the stagnant black water, the installation of plastic refuse and the wandering pigs. Near a clump of bushes, the path forked, and I hesitated. A 10-year old boy, with the most beautiful honeyed eyes asked me where I was going. "Just wandering", I said.

 "Hmm - if you take that road; it's a long ways before you exit."

"And this one?", I asked.

"It leads to the jhuggies."

"I think I'll take the longer track then. You're sure it doesn't trail off?"

"Of course. Have a nice ride." His liquid smile was echoed by his friend, a somewhat more reserved lad who had stood quietly by.

I pedalled on, shifting into the lowest gear, as the track narrowed and headed up. A minute later, a grown man emerged from another clump of keekar, empty Bisleri bottle in hand. Amused, yet sympathetic, he pointed at my front tire, to which a thorny twig had attached itself. "I think you had better turn around. You won't be getting very far with that!"

"True!", I grimaced. I dismounted, pulled out the thorn, and watched the tyre collapse. I turned back, towards the two boys.

The same honeyed eyes, the same liquid smile - "What happened?"

"Puncture - keekar."

"So, are you heading back?"

"I guess.

"Ah well. Have a nice day!"

"Thanks." I said. His friend stood by, still quiet; my little friend still squatting, his posture exactly the same as when I found him, his dark little pecker a few inches from the ground. Around him, rags and plastic, stones and thorns littered the underbrush. They both waved, and went back to being together, one squatting, one not.

Why do we make so much fuss about shitting in private?

Who wants loos in every home?

Not my chauffeur, for example.

Vir Singh comes from a village in Punjab's Hoshiarpur district, and has been working with my family for over two decades now. Now in his mid-40s, he lives in a room attached to our house, a 'servant's quarter' in Delhi parlance, but his wife and 3 children live in the village, in a pucca house he has built on the family homestead. 3 brothers have individual homes on the plot of land, which I estimate is some 700-800 sq. yards in area. By his description, the courtyard around which the houses are arrayed is about 200 sq. yds. His own house has 2 large rooms, and a massive verandah that runs the length of the house - 90 feet long, and 12 feet deep. He put in a 'lintel' roof in 2001, and remembers every detail of its laying - how many tons of steel, how many bags of cement, how much he paid the contractor, and the number of liters of country liquor he served to the labourers who mixed and poured the cement. The exact dimensions of the concrete slab - 1130 sq ft.

Just to put that in perspective, that's almost the same area as a 3 bed-room flat in Delhi's Vasant Kunj, and a lot larger than the average Rs. 3 crore flat in Mumbai. But this substantial home has neither loo nor bathroom.

"How come?", I asked him. "Oh, I keep thinking I will build it", he said, "but there've been too many weddings this last year." Of nephews and nieces, of cousins and their children. He counts off 10 weddings to which he has contributed money in the last year or so. "They'll give me back the money when I get my elder daughter married next year." Clearly, that loo is not going to get built in a hurry. It's just too low on his list of priorities. The house came first, the buffaloes next, then cycles for the kids.

Over the next 10 years, his 2 daughters will need to be married, and he has a list of requirements that is startling in its detail, exactitude and costing - Rs. 32,000 for the beds, Rs. 31,000 for 1 'tola' of gold jewellery, Rs. 13,000 worth of winter bedding, 51 guests for dinner.....Rs. 3 lakhs in all. Then his 13-year old son will need to go to college. "He's very good at studies."

Social activists, who want to set the agenda for public spending on private lives, bemoan the fact that India has more mobile phones that loos. If they - or the government - had its way, India would have not had mobile phones; when they were launched, the government felt that mobile phones would cater to the need of the affluent. It was entrepreneurs who sensed how basic the need to talk is, and catered to it.

My conversation with Vir Singh underlined the fact that he couldn't care a s*** about a private loo.

To the extent this is reflective of others without a privy, those loos will not be built. And if public money is used to build them, they will be used to store fodder, or firewood.

Bribes are always paid in arms deals

The military-corruption complex

Amitabha Pande; former secretary to the Government of India

I have been quietly amused by the pother over the AgustaWestland helicopter scam, as though bribes were paid because the government exercised its choice in favour of that company and someone "tweaked" the requirements to limit the choice. This shows a lack of understanding of corruption in defence. This case (like others before it) will follow a predictable course: investigators will earn junkets to Rome, honest reputations will be damaged, major procurement will halt and procedures made even more tortuous and centralised. Meanwhile, rent-seeking, like water, will seek new outlets.

How we squander each opportunity for systemic reform by opting for the short-term excitement of hunting the corrupt! We so easily overlook two cardinal factors. First, in our defence procurements, most bribes are paid not for choosing X over Y but for simply proceeding with the procurement process and crossing the hurdles placed. The choice of vendor is generally made on reasonably strong professional grounds and merit is almost never sacrificed, because it is well established that whoever is selected will pay. Second, in a system where responsibility for a decision is so widely dispersed, the big fish invariably escape and small fish are caught for all the wrong reasons.

In this case, there appear to be two red herrings. First, that money was paid for tweaking the requirements and much is being made of who tweaked the requirements, and when. This does not sound right. Money is normally paid for restricting competition and tailoring specifications to favour a particular vendor, not for expanding it and allowing more vendors to compete. While being given a chance to compete may command a price, it does not guarantee eventual success, particularly when AgustaWestland's competitors may have had an edge in terms of capacity to pay bribes.

The second red herring is to draw attention to the role played by Air Marshal Tyagi and his relatives. Quite apart from the fairly convincing denial offered by Julie Tyagi and the former air chief, this was not an air force related procurement, where the air chief would have had a prominent role. This was a civilian requirement and the air force played, at best, the role of technical advisor to facilitate the SPG in meeting its requirements. In any procurement process, the determining role in laying down specifications (GSQRs) or in tailoring processes to benefit favourites is that of the buyer, not of those giving technical advice. Why should any payment be made to someone whose role was so peripheral?

There are three tracks of corruption in defence procurement. The first* is demand estimation, demand vetting, demand projection and inter se priority determination; the second* is technical, from framing the GSQRs to preparing the engineering specifications, technical trials, user trials and techno-commercial evaluations before the procurement process commences. Both are the jealously guarded turf of the services and brook no interference from outsiders. Neither the processes nor the practices are audited or subjected to independent professional scrutiny. However, this case being an SPG requirement, these tracks are irrelevant.

The focus should be on the third* track, the actual procurement, where the onus shifts to the ministry. In all transactions, there is an established hierarchy of rent collectors along the approval chain. This approval cycle is so complicated and lengthy that the opportunity for each functionary to collect his share of the booty along the chain is maximised. At no stage does anyone need to circumvent the procedure, because following the procedure itself provides the opportunity. Up to a certain stage, all that is needed is to keep the process moving forward, for the rent gets automatically paid at each stage of the transaction. These relatively small payments are meant to keep the ball in play.The beneficiaries are generally junior- and middle-rung babus, the network of personal staff attached to officers dealing with procurements, sometimes the officers themselves, service representatives at the middle level who participate in the PNC (Price Negotiation Committee) meetings, etc. The main commodity on sale is information.

Things start getting hotter as the negotiations move towards a conclusion. This is when the main political-level decision-maker needs to get closer to insider information through his trusted person, as he needs to know in advance who the likely winner will be. This is the time to summon the probable winner or his agent, the chief deal-broker, the political fixer and legal and financial facilitators and work out the final details of the pay-offs, sharing arrangements and routing. There is a flurry of official briefing meetings so that the decision-maker(s) can keep ahead of the vendors in the information game. At this stage, all the vendors have to open something like a letter of credit so that whenever the final decision is taken, the payments are automatically credited to the designated accounts.Occasionally, last-minute theatrics occur because of a falling out among the agents and the principal deal-brokers and fixers. If one of the major deal-brokers is antagonised, he can ensure (through selective media leaks or a sudden review of priorities) that the deal is either scuttled or pushed back sufficiently to enable him to regain control. However, such instances are rare and normally it is in everyone's interest to cross the final hurdle.

Corruption is deeply embedded in the architecture of defence transactions and anything short of a complete transformation of structures, systems and processes will not make any difference. There is no deal in which middlemen do not play a role and hefty commissions are not paid. Investigators needlessly focus on why a particular vendor was chosen or on procedural infirmities in the hope of catching the wrongdoer. Corrupt deals will always be procedure-perfect: ironically, if there are procedural flaws it is likely to be a rare, clean transaction. The focus should shift to looking at the money trails, who paid whom and when, the specific role of big-time deal-fixers and their political connections. Yet, in all the major investigations so far, the role of these brokers has never been properly investigated.

This is why the focus on nailing the corrupt ends up paralysing the honest and ensures that the corrupt find more ingenious ways of making money. Only systemic reform can change things. Naturally, that has few takers. Who would like to shut off such an important source of revenue?

The writer is a former secretary to the government and handled army procurement in the 1990s

Covering reality

A major deal come unstuck in China, and the FT raises important  questions about the big names involved:
The bank at the center of the deal is CDB Bank, which the FT calls a policy bank, meaning that it drives policy agendas. It is run by Chen Yuan, a princeling, in the nomenclature used for sons of powerful Communist party leaders.

Ping An, the company from which HSBC was trying to exit, is believed to have 2 bn dollars worth of investment by the family of Premier Wen Jiabao.

Clearly, HSBC got caught in the internal squabbles of the party!

That apart, what stuck me is that such shenanigans clearly lie at the bottom of the twists and turns in, say, the Sahara imbroglio, and its involvement in the funding of UP political leaders. Yet, not one paper has even hinted at these..

http://www.ft.com/intl/cms/s/0/4287c68e-5a57-11e2-bc93-00144feab49a.html#axzz2HRdfr6YX


Shows how weak our press is.

This also shows up in its lack of coverage of the HSBC laundering issue. But more of that later...