मी लहान असताना आज्जी मला छान गोष्टि सांगत असे, आज काल मराठी सिरियल च्या स्टोरी सान्गते.
(When I was small, granny would tell me nice stories. Now a days she tells stories from Marathi soaps.)
Read this blog.
My Friend the Fanatic
3 days ago
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wreck
Congress is an institution wrecker, says Pratab Bhanu Mehta. I love Mehta's writing -- when I understand it. Which is rare. Perhaps Express should employ a re-writer for him.
He writes here: ......weak institutions disable you from being effective mediators in social conflict. Part of what institutions do is providing authoritative mediation of facts. The state faces a crisis of credibility when it is easy to impugn the facts it produces as partisan. Under those conditions, every group feels more entitled to continue believing what they were predisposed to believing, because there is no authority they can trust.
What he means, in English, seems to be: Whenever a section of the society cries about injustice, facts have to be ascertained. Who does that? Institutions like CBI. But do we trust CBI? No, because it is reputedly a ruling party's puppet. Tytler may really be innocent with regard to 1984 Sikh riots, but CBI's credibility is so low, thanks to Congress largely, that nobody believes the clean chit given to him.
And one doesn't understand, in many cases, what were the compulsions. Absolving Quattorchi is understandable, because he was close to Gandhis. But why shield Tytler? He was a non-entity. Why send Pratibha Patil to Rashtrapati Bhavan? There were several other Congress-friendly people with bigger statures. BJP can easily accuse Patil of favouring Congress if the mandate of this election is fractured and it becomes a toss-up between UPA and NDA. Because she commands no respect.
Why Navin Chawla is made Elections boss? BJP has accused him of being Congress-partisan many times. What if BJP were to question fairness of elections conducted under Chawla? We have had criminals getting elected to Parliament, but that's not the lowest point. Lowest point for the democracy will be when losing party will dub the elections unfair.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Traders & Stories
Last week Securities And Exchange Board Of India (SEBI) issued an (interim) order barring four persons from trading in stock market.
SEBI found these four guilty of manipulating share price of Pyramid Saimira Theatre Ltd. One of them is a Public Relations executive. Another fellow is assistant editor with Economic Times. His name is Rajesh Unnikrishnan.
The two gentlemen allegedly helped a third guy -- an investor -- publish a story in the papers which said SEBI had directed Saimira to buy back its own shares. A SEBI letter was e-mailed to business reporters.
SEBI had issued no such letter. It was a forgery. But when the news appeared in papers, company's share prices shot up, says SEBI's investigation report. Before SEBI could clarify that there was no such order, the investor fellow had made a killing by offloading his stock.
An FIR was lodged in December, SEBI's interim investigation report came last week.
It is possible that SEBI is wrong. Unnikrishnan can not be condemned before he is tried.
The question is: how come he isn't fired yet? Is it because Times Of India management believes in innocent-untill-proven-otherwise dictum?
Postscript: Saimira is Times Of India's private treaty partner. In other words, TOI group has a stake in the company.
SEBI found these four guilty of manipulating share price of Pyramid Saimira Theatre Ltd. One of them is a Public Relations executive. Another fellow is assistant editor with Economic Times. His name is Rajesh Unnikrishnan.
The two gentlemen allegedly helped a third guy -- an investor -- publish a story in the papers which said SEBI had directed Saimira to buy back its own shares. A SEBI letter was e-mailed to business reporters.
SEBI had issued no such letter. It was a forgery. But when the news appeared in papers, company's share prices shot up, says SEBI's investigation report. Before SEBI could clarify that there was no such order, the investor fellow had made a killing by offloading his stock.
An FIR was lodged in December, SEBI's interim investigation report came last week.
It is possible that SEBI is wrong. Unnikrishnan can not be condemned before he is tried.
The question is: how come he isn't fired yet? Is it because Times Of India management believes in innocent-untill-proven-otherwise dictum?
Postscript: Saimira is Times Of India's private treaty partner. In other words, TOI group has a stake in the company.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Award
Dr Shriram Lagoo, the Maharashtrian actor, got Sangeet Natak Academy's award in 1972.
He was surprised, he writes in his autobiography Laman (carrier). Academy was a national-level body, and he couldn't imagine that he had acquired enough stature to get the award within two years of starting out as a full-time actor.
Perhaps the Academy wanted to reward young theatre professionals, he thought.
He learnt how the award came to him later.
The head of the Academy's selection committee was Adi Rangacharya, a senior Kannad playwright.
Rangacharya decided that award for acting should go to a Marathi actor that year. He was thinking of Datta Bhat. Bhat was much senior to Lagoo.
But when the commitee's meeting started, Rangacharya couldn't remember Bhat's name. Instead, he blurted out Lagoo's name.
And the award went to Dr Shriram Lagoo.
He was surprised, he writes in his autobiography Laman (carrier). Academy was a national-level body, and he couldn't imagine that he had acquired enough stature to get the award within two years of starting out as a full-time actor.
Perhaps the Academy wanted to reward young theatre professionals, he thought.
He learnt how the award came to him later.
The head of the Academy's selection committee was Adi Rangacharya, a senior Kannad playwright.
Rangacharya decided that award for acting should go to a Marathi actor that year. He was thinking of Datta Bhat. Bhat was much senior to Lagoo.
But when the commitee's meeting started, Rangacharya couldn't remember Bhat's name. Instead, he blurted out Lagoo's name.
And the award went to Dr Shriram Lagoo.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Democracy 40 %
40.66 per cent voters cast ballot in Pune, my hometown, yesterday.
(I too voted.)
Our 90-year-old neighbour returned from the polling station without voting. His booth was on the first floor. He didn't mind climbing the staircase, but it had no railing.
Where were the 59.44 per cent?
No, it wasn't hot. Not by summer standards.
We deserve our Pappu Yadavs, Kalanis and Sorens, really.
(I too voted.)
Our 90-year-old neighbour returned from the polling station without voting. His booth was on the first floor. He didn't mind climbing the staircase, but it had no railing.
Where were the 59.44 per cent?
No, it wasn't hot. Not by summer standards.
We deserve our Pappu Yadavs, Kalanis and Sorens, really.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Malegaon
This is a fellow journalist's account of 24 hours spent in Malegaon. He's lazy, so I wrote it out.
This town is at least twenty years behind the times. When you turn off the highway, you hit a road with its asphalt worn away. It's not a small town, mind you. Over six lakh people live in Malegaon, and it's a textile production centre. There are some 2.5 lakh powerlooms in the town.
Last September there was a blast. (Carried out by a Hindu outfit. Six died.) I met a shopkeeper who had a lucky escape. The bicycle on which bomb was planted was parked two-three feet away from mattress on which he sits. (Shopkeepers there don't stand at counter, they are perched on a mattresses.) Seconds before the blast, he had bent behind his writing desk, looking for something. Sharpnels only grazed his head.
Six months on, the portion of wall behind him still bears the ravaged look. You can make out, from the size of each pockmark, whether a nail had hit that particular spot, or a ball bearing, or a shard of glass. I asked the old man why he didn't repair the damaged portion. It didn't matter, he said.
Two-thirds of the population is Muslim. There is a clear boundary between Muslim and Hindu areas: a bridge over the river. The shopkeeper said riots happen routinely. After every riot, Hindus living in Muslim-dominate areas moved out. Gradually, a total partition came about.
Muslims are made up of two classes. The powerloom workers came from other parts of Maharashtra or the south India. They're called Dakkhanis -- deccan-ites. The other class is that of powerloom owners, who came from north India.
I met president of powerloom owners' association. The whole textile business in Malegaon is based on `rolling capital', he said. What's rolling capital? Cloth producer doesn't pay the raw material supplier. When he sells the cloth, he asks buyer to pay the raw material supplyer directly. But he gets a commission -- his profit.
There is no backward or forward integration. In other words, the town only produces cloth. Powerloom owners don't go into yarn-making, or cotton-growing. Similarly, they haven't thought of venturing into garment-production. One reason could be the lack of capital. It's shocking, but most do not have bank accounts. To earn interest is un-Islamic. Powerloom owners in Ichalkaranjee have launched their own apparel brands. Nothing like that here.
I met the Imam of Jama masjid. I started off in Marathi. He said he didn't know Marathi. It made me a little angry: Malegaon is a Maharashtra hinterland, not a border town. This fellow has lived here all his life, but he doesn't speak Marathi.
He is well-educated. But most children still go to Madarasas, he said. There are two government-run Urdu medium schools. There's not a single college.
I didn't see any cultural and recreational places, barring cinema theatres. (Malegaon produces ultra-low budget films.)
I went to see the local MLA. I was waiting in his drawing room. The door to the inner rooms was curtained. A hand emerged from behind the curtain. It was a lady's hand, bearing a glass of water for me. She didn't come out, into drawing room. She banged her wrist on the doorframe to attract our attention. One of the MLA's lackeys took the glass and brought it to me.
I was staying at a hotel. In the evening, there was a knock on the door. It was police. They questioned me for full ten minutes, despite I telling them that I was a journalist from a reputed paper. I asked them if they question all the new guests in the hotel. Not all, they said, only a few. Why did they zero in on me? Obviously because of my typical Marathi Brahmin surname.
This was the aftermath of September blast.
They left. Minutes later, another knock. As I opened the door, a zombie-like figure loomed up. It scared the hell out of me. Yes? I asked. The man, straight out of one of those Ramsay horror films, mumbled something. What do you want, I asked. Massage? he said. I said no and shut the door.
This town is at least twenty years behind the times. When you turn off the highway, you hit a road with its asphalt worn away. It's not a small town, mind you. Over six lakh people live in Malegaon, and it's a textile production centre. There are some 2.5 lakh powerlooms in the town.
Last September there was a blast. (Carried out by a Hindu outfit. Six died.) I met a shopkeeper who had a lucky escape. The bicycle on which bomb was planted was parked two-three feet away from mattress on which he sits. (Shopkeepers there don't stand at counter, they are perched on a mattresses.) Seconds before the blast, he had bent behind his writing desk, looking for something. Sharpnels only grazed his head.
Six months on, the portion of wall behind him still bears the ravaged look. You can make out, from the size of each pockmark, whether a nail had hit that particular spot, or a ball bearing, or a shard of glass. I asked the old man why he didn't repair the damaged portion. It didn't matter, he said.
Two-thirds of the population is Muslim. There is a clear boundary between Muslim and Hindu areas: a bridge over the river. The shopkeeper said riots happen routinely. After every riot, Hindus living in Muslim-dominate areas moved out. Gradually, a total partition came about.
Muslims are made up of two classes. The powerloom workers came from other parts of Maharashtra or the south India. They're called Dakkhanis -- deccan-ites. The other class is that of powerloom owners, who came from north India.
I met president of powerloom owners' association. The whole textile business in Malegaon is based on `rolling capital', he said. What's rolling capital? Cloth producer doesn't pay the raw material supplier. When he sells the cloth, he asks buyer to pay the raw material supplyer directly. But he gets a commission -- his profit.
There is no backward or forward integration. In other words, the town only produces cloth. Powerloom owners don't go into yarn-making, or cotton-growing. Similarly, they haven't thought of venturing into garment-production. One reason could be the lack of capital. It's shocking, but most do not have bank accounts. To earn interest is un-Islamic. Powerloom owners in Ichalkaranjee have launched their own apparel brands. Nothing like that here.
I met the Imam of Jama masjid. I started off in Marathi. He said he didn't know Marathi. It made me a little angry: Malegaon is a Maharashtra hinterland, not a border town. This fellow has lived here all his life, but he doesn't speak Marathi.
He is well-educated. But most children still go to Madarasas, he said. There are two government-run Urdu medium schools. There's not a single college.
I didn't see any cultural and recreational places, barring cinema theatres. (Malegaon produces ultra-low budget films.)
I went to see the local MLA. I was waiting in his drawing room. The door to the inner rooms was curtained. A hand emerged from behind the curtain. It was a lady's hand, bearing a glass of water for me. She didn't come out, into drawing room. She banged her wrist on the doorframe to attract our attention. One of the MLA's lackeys took the glass and brought it to me.
I was staying at a hotel. In the evening, there was a knock on the door. It was police. They questioned me for full ten minutes, despite I telling them that I was a journalist from a reputed paper. I asked them if they question all the new guests in the hotel. Not all, they said, only a few. Why did they zero in on me? Obviously because of my typical Marathi Brahmin surname.
This was the aftermath of September blast.
They left. Minutes later, another knock. As I opened the door, a zombie-like figure loomed up. It scared the hell out of me. Yes? I asked. The man, straight out of one of those Ramsay horror films, mumbled something. What do you want, I asked. Massage? he said. I said no and shut the door.
Total Ideological Fungibility
Shekhar Gupta in today' Indian Express:
Now we come to our final set of certainties. First, whichever coalition comes to power, Ramadoss, Paswan, Kumaraswamy (junior Gowda) and Ajit Singh will be in its cabinet.
These fortunate men represent the phenomenon of total ideological fungibility, as they will share power with any of the three possible combinations.
They will also pretty much have their pick of what can only be described as ATM ministries. Each of these will have just a few seats, but total political mobility.
Stop Herr Sperm
Use condom and nip the future Mao, Hitler and Osama in the bud, says a German ad. Chinese are officially furious, saying it insults the great leader. Those who survived cultural revolution would unofficially disagree. Don't know about the reaction of Osama's mates and fans. I liked the ad, it's funny.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Text Democracy
Indian election is the biggest reality drama that is unfolding currently; on television and on the streets. Why not choose the winner through SMSes?
Read Sakshi Didwania's Reuters blog. Most commentators back the idea. Pratap Bhanu Mehta demurs: he says that voting mechanism must be accessible to everybody and half the voter population doesn't have cell phones.
But the poor in India always vote. No harm if those who have cell phones could text their votes. Instead of staying at home, or at workplace, and wasting the franchise.
Devising a system whereby fair voting could happen through text messaging will be a challenge.
(Capturing cell-phones would be easier than capturing polling booths.) But we produce bright IT engineers, they can do it. The idea must be taken seriously. If 80-85 per cent of India votes --usually it's 50-55 per cent -- there would be a revolution.
Read Sakshi Didwania's Reuters blog. Most commentators back the idea. Pratap Bhanu Mehta demurs: he says that voting mechanism must be accessible to everybody and half the voter population doesn't have cell phones.
But the poor in India always vote. No harm if those who have cell phones could text their votes. Instead of staying at home, or at workplace, and wasting the franchise.
Devising a system whereby fair voting could happen through text messaging will be a challenge.
(Capturing cell-phones would be easier than capturing polling booths.) But we produce bright IT engineers, they can do it. The idea must be taken seriously. If 80-85 per cent of India votes --usually it's 50-55 per cent -- there would be a revolution.
Breaking News:
“In what is believed to be the first reported incident of its kind, a man got on a bus yesterday. ‘It was easy,’ he said. ‘I just lifted one leg up and then the other and I was on’.”
Reported Daily Post of Fiji. I hope the junta there doesn't have sense of satire.
Reported Daily Post of Fiji. I hope the junta there doesn't have sense of satire.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Delhi Voters
Amit Varma's latest post is titled What Tytler And Sajjankumar Tell Us About Congress.
He argues that Congress has come off badly; though eventually it forced both Tytler and Sajjankumar to withdraw from the election. If the party believed they were innocent, it should have stood by them, notwithstanding Jarnail Singh's shoe. If it believed they weren't, then why they were given tickets in the first place?
I felt that Varma's post should have been titled What Tytler And Sajjankumar Tell Us About Delhi Voters.
Tytler and Sajjankumar haven't been convicted yet for their alleged complicity in 1984 riots. But for the past 25 years, they have become the face of the lynch mobs which killed over 3000 Sikhs in Delhi -- and went unpunished. Why did then Congress offer them tickets?
It did because they are/ were -- winnable. Every seat is crucial in today's Lok Sabha. Tytler and Kumar do not have much political clout outside Delhi. They don't have godfathers within Congress (to my knowledge). But they seemed like most probable to win from their respective constituencies. Hence the tickets.
And may I add: the same Delhi voters rejected Dr Singh last time. From south Delhi, which is as upmarket as it gets. Manmohan Singh, an upright man, with economic turn-around of 1990s to his credit, didn't sell there.
What does it tell us about Delhi voters?
He argues that Congress has come off badly; though eventually it forced both Tytler and Sajjankumar to withdraw from the election. If the party believed they were innocent, it should have stood by them, notwithstanding Jarnail Singh's shoe. If it believed they weren't, then why they were given tickets in the first place?
I felt that Varma's post should have been titled What Tytler And Sajjankumar Tell Us About Delhi Voters.
Tytler and Sajjankumar haven't been convicted yet for their alleged complicity in 1984 riots. But for the past 25 years, they have become the face of the lynch mobs which killed over 3000 Sikhs in Delhi -- and went unpunished. Why did then Congress offer them tickets?
It did because they are/ were -- winnable. Every seat is crucial in today's Lok Sabha. Tytler and Kumar do not have much political clout outside Delhi. They don't have godfathers within Congress (to my knowledge). But they seemed like most probable to win from their respective constituencies. Hence the tickets.
And may I add: the same Delhi voters rejected Dr Singh last time. From south Delhi, which is as upmarket as it gets. Manmohan Singh, an upright man, with economic turn-around of 1990s to his credit, didn't sell there.
What does it tell us about Delhi voters?
Mahajan, Mahajan and Mahajan
Loksatta today carries excerpts from Pravin Mahajan's upcoming book.
He says: Pramod Mahajan was promiscuous. His girlfriends accompanied him on foreign tours. His wife was contemplating divorce. He didn't care much for RSS. "Sangh is like Ganpati -- to be fussed over just for nine days of the festival", he once said. He found Advani's speeches boring.
Excerpts offer no proofs.
The brother number two, Prakash, held a press conference in the afternoon. He rubbished all this.
Somebody asked: Why did Pravin kill Pramod?
Prakash said instantly: "He was blackmailing Pramod. When Pramod stopped helping him, this (murder) happened."
Then he realised he shouldn't have said blackmail. It implied that Pramod had things to hide.
"Not character-blackmail," he said.
A reporter came to help. "Was it emotional blackmail?"
"Yes. Emotional blackmail," said Prakash.
I am sure he didn't mean emotional blackmail.
(Pravin, in his appeal petition in the Bombay High Court (yet to be heard) says: I went to Pramod's residence because I wanted to ask him why Vivek Moitra (Pramod's secretary) was blackmailing him.)
He says: Pramod Mahajan was promiscuous. His girlfriends accompanied him on foreign tours. His wife was contemplating divorce. He didn't care much for RSS. "Sangh is like Ganpati -- to be fussed over just for nine days of the festival", he once said. He found Advani's speeches boring.
Excerpts offer no proofs.
The brother number two, Prakash, held a press conference in the afternoon. He rubbished all this.
Somebody asked: Why did Pravin kill Pramod?
Prakash said instantly: "He was blackmailing Pramod. When Pramod stopped helping him, this (murder) happened."
Then he realised he shouldn't have said blackmail. It implied that Pramod had things to hide.
"Not character-blackmail," he said.
A reporter came to help. "Was it emotional blackmail?"
"Yes. Emotional blackmail," said Prakash.
I am sure he didn't mean emotional blackmail.
(Pravin, in his appeal petition in the Bombay High Court (yet to be heard) says: I went to Pramod's residence because I wanted to ask him why Vivek Moitra (Pramod's secretary) was blackmailing him.)
Friday, April 10, 2009
Candidate
Today I met Ramsingh Shiras. His profession is boot-polish-ing. He is standing for the Lok Sabha.
We met at Kalyan station. I had got his cell number from another boot-polishwalla at the station.
Shiras was wearing a white safari suit. He was short, strongly built, dark, with grinning eyes.
"Would you have something chilled?"
I said no. He then sent another man to bring me water bottle. (The same man had given me Shiras's cell number when I arrived.)
He said we could talk at a hotel. I said platform bench would be alright. Far end of platform had few people, and little noise.
We spoke about his candidature. I asked him how much assets he had declared. Rs Six lakh- worth, he said. His was a joint family.
"Plus some gold. Actually I don't have much gold. But I thought, why underplay?"
When I was through, he took me to the platform where my return train would arrive. Twice he offered me lunch, but I had eaten.
He glanced down at my shoes -- Woodland -- and said, "You don't need polishing."
When my train came, he got in, and plonked down the half-finished water bottle on a window seat, to reserve it for me. (That wasn't necessary, there was no rush.) Then we said good-bye.
We met at Kalyan station. I had got his cell number from another boot-polishwalla at the station.
Shiras was wearing a white safari suit. He was short, strongly built, dark, with grinning eyes.
"Would you have something chilled?"
I said no. He then sent another man to bring me water bottle. (The same man had given me Shiras's cell number when I arrived.)
He said we could talk at a hotel. I said platform bench would be alright. Far end of platform had few people, and little noise.
We spoke about his candidature. I asked him how much assets he had declared. Rs Six lakh- worth, he said. His was a joint family.
"Plus some gold. Actually I don't have much gold. But I thought, why underplay?"
When I was through, he took me to the platform where my return train would arrive. Twice he offered me lunch, but I had eaten.
He glanced down at my shoes -- Woodland -- and said, "You don't need polishing."
When my train came, he got in, and plonked down the half-finished water bottle on a window seat, to reserve it for me. (That wasn't necessary, there was no rush.) Then we said good-bye.
Guns
There is no alternative to democracy. That said, democracy sure is a strange beast.
A gunman killed 13 people in Binghamton, United States, last week. He had lost his job, and was depressed. Thousands of such people could be found the world over, thanks to recession. But in how many countries it's so easy to buy a gun?
Self-defence could be a justification for possessing arms. But a sniper rifle -- which can pierce an armour a mile away -- can be bought in certain parts of United States (Source: NYT). What do you need a sniper rifle for? To shoot robber-looking moving objects a mile away?
"Binghamton is yet another reminder of America's terrible gun problem", NYT says. But thinking Americans seem to be helpless. American constitution permits citizens to possess arms. Gun-sellers are a powerful lobby. It can sway presidential election. So a license to gun (down) anybody anytime has become a price for the American democracy.
In India, guns are hard to get, legally. But those who can wield them effectively, and escape the arms of law, can contest elections. National political parties will field them, if they are winnable. I may not like a certain Shahabuddin of Sewan. But in Sewan he (alone) is winnable, and lo! he is my lawmaker.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Workshop On Shoe-throwing
I'm going to hold a summer workshop to train folks in the art of Shoe-throwing. How did I stumble upon the idea? Well, for one, the recession. Lots of people are losing their jobs. The column-wriers (who preserve their jobs by writing on how to face loss of job) advise you to `learn something new'. Art of shoe-throwing is the newest thing that you can learn.
Also, it grieves me to see that lots of shoes are being thrown, for the right causes, and they miss their targets. That guy in Iraq missed Bush. Only today a fellow threw one at Chiddu. It merrily flew two metres off Chiddu's side. The Home Minister didn't even flinch. Bomb blasts (there was one in Guwahati this morning) fail to make him flinch. What's a shoe!
So it's high time people trained. Hence the workshop. Chiddu has promised to inaugurate it. (From behind a glass curtain.) Bush Junior will address the conference -- through video conferencing. At the end, participants would take part in a shoe-throwing competition. Channels are interested in airing it. Let's see how things work out.
P.S. - I am thinking of inviting Justice Pasayat to referee the competition. Remember him?
Also, it grieves me to see that lots of shoes are being thrown, for the right causes, and they miss their targets. That guy in Iraq missed Bush. Only today a fellow threw one at Chiddu. It merrily flew two metres off Chiddu's side. The Home Minister didn't even flinch. Bomb blasts (there was one in Guwahati this morning) fail to make him flinch. What's a shoe!
So it's high time people trained. Hence the workshop. Chiddu has promised to inaugurate it. (From behind a glass curtain.) Bush Junior will address the conference -- through video conferencing. At the end, participants would take part in a shoe-throwing competition. Channels are interested in airing it. Let's see how things work out.
P.S. - I am thinking of inviting Justice Pasayat to referee the competition. Remember him?
P.S. 2 - This blog supports Jarnail Singh, as also the brave Iraqi scribe who threw his size tenner at Bush.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Coaching In Bihar
Mint's April 3 issue carries Pallavi Singh's write-up on proliferation of IIT coaching institutes in Patna. It gives some hope to know that teenagers there aspire to IITs and not to the kidnapping industry.
But Bihar, it seems, is still Bihar. Towards the end, Singh writes:
Kumar, whose Super 30 (a coaching institute) now holds a near-iconic status and has featured in international media regularly, has survived two fatal attacks in the last five years. He blames it on bitter professional rivalry. Today, most prominent coaching centres in the city have hired private security guards, though few admit that deepening rivalry is now posing grave dangers.
In Kumar’s case, this perhaps means living life dangerously. He has a posse of security guards provided by the state police to accompany him each time he steps out of home.
That criminals are fearless in Bihar is no news. Even doctors and chartered accounts get extortion calls there. But coaching class operators hiring goons? This isn't just criminalisation of society. By criminalisation we mean entry of criminals into legitimate professions. Here legitimate professionals are acquiring criminal instincts.
But Bihar, it seems, is still Bihar. Towards the end, Singh writes:
Kumar, whose Super 30 (a coaching institute) now holds a near-iconic status and has featured in international media regularly, has survived two fatal attacks in the last five years. He blames it on bitter professional rivalry. Today, most prominent coaching centres in the city have hired private security guards, though few admit that deepening rivalry is now posing grave dangers.
In Kumar’s case, this perhaps means living life dangerously. He has a posse of security guards provided by the state police to accompany him each time he steps out of home.
That criminals are fearless in Bihar is no news. Even doctors and chartered accounts get extortion calls there. But coaching class operators hiring goons? This isn't just criminalisation of society. By criminalisation we mean entry of criminals into legitimate professions. Here legitimate professionals are acquiring criminal instincts.
Friday, April 3, 2009
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