Favourite commencement speeches part 1

This one here, was during a high-school graduation. One of the low-key,super-effective and very funny ones!

This speech by J.K Rowling is a close second. Love her accent!

Sheryl Sandberg’s address at HBS is superb too. Her rocketship analogy was terrific!

And finally, the ever famous “Stay hungry, stay foolish”

The other parts will follow as I find more that I love!

Everything that is wrong with India today

This post on my reader feed by famous film-maker Pritish Nandy brilliantly summarizes what is wrong with India today. His original article can be found here. #InspirationalWriting!

Well, to begin with, you can’t smoke here, neither a fag nor a joint. Cigarettes are banned most places. Joints, everywhere, barring prison where you can buy them openly. Now you can’t drink as well. Not unless you are 18 with a licence. You can’t go a bar and watch pretty girls dance. That’s banned too, even if they dance the Kathakali. The more exciting dancing girls have long gone. Their kothas have shut down. Sahir’s sorrowful poems have died with them. Bling shops have hijacked the red light district.

Eating out late is not permissible. Last orders are at 11. Even with a licence you can’t drink after 1. Lady Gaga can’t come because concerts shut down at 10 even if you take 342 days to get all 137 permits required. If you marry at 17 you get rapped for rape. If you neck by the sea. Dhoble’s goon squad will beat you with hockey sticks for immoral conduct. (Cops can however pick up college girls on Marine Drive and rape them in the chowky at will.)

Our CMs with a long dhobi list of scams can whoosh into the Taj with a cavalcade. You and I must wait in queue till our chaddis are checked. Wherever we go, our chaddis are checked because every hotel, restaurant, mall and Government office suspects we carry bombs between our testicles. Bombs? Moustache trimming scissors and pickles are banned on flights. As for gun licences, no one’s allowed one ever since Mallika’s duh brother tried to teach Mahesh Bhatt’s son how to fire one and missed his hapless neighbour. The cops won’t help you either, even if your life is threatened. So you sit at home, waiting for some idiot to come and kill you because they can’t find anything worth stealing in your flat.

And why can’t they find anything worth stealing? Because after paying so many taxes, no one has any money left to steal. Never look closely at your bill in a 5 star restaurant. You may get a cardiac arrest seeing the taxes and duties slapped on. And, when you recover, you will get another one seeing the hospital bill. If you enter Mumbai by road, you have to pay octroi on all that you bring in, even if it’s your own. If you are a Muslim, you won’t get a flat to stay in. If you eat meat, Malabar Hill won’t have you. If you are a Hindu, Byculla won’t. And if you are young and unmarried, no one will. If you have a pet, it gets worse.

Muslims have got Satanic Verses banned. Hindus have banned Husain. So no gallery dares to show the art of the city’s greatest son. You can’t show sculptures with genitals, not even Michaelangelo’s David, though you can see any number of genitals on the streets where people openly pee. You can’t watch The Dirty Picture on 9 pm TV. That’s outlawed though it won Vidya the National Award and every kid has loved it. You are lucky Donald Duck ain’t banned because comics and cartoons in text books are banned. My Savita Bhabhi is too. So are, sneakily, many websites.

You can’t call friends home because after they’ve gone, guys from the local police will come and demand a bribe. You can’t keep 3 whisky bottles at home or carry Rs 20,001 in cash even if your mother’s sick and may need sudden hospitalisation. No hospitals take you in without cash, or allow you out even as a corpse. You can’t fly into Mumbai with an iPad. The Customs demand duty even if it’s your own. If you carry in personal stuff worth Rs 26,000, which is $400 today (and could well be $100 tomorrow) you must pay duty and penalty. They have announced that the punishment will soon be stiffer. Maybe they will hang you for it.

There are no open air street cafes. No dance bars. No nightlife. Even Voodoo’s shut down. A few asphixiated trees gasp for breath. There are no sparrows left. You can’t see stars at night. All we see are vast crowds of people rushing nowhere. Footpaths have vanished. So has free speech and live music. The State eavesdrops on your sex chats, be it on phone, chat, BBM or social networking sites. Try courier pigeons.

Welcome to Mumbai. I simply love it.

In a land far far away

Most people I introduce my birthplace to pass it off as Jaipur, the more famous city that sounds like it but is nowhere near, aesthetically, geographically or culturally. I was born in Jabalpur, a nondescript little town in Madhya Pradesh located almost perfectly in the center of our country and on the tropic of cancer. I’m always proud of that, having a geographic talisman, that represents nothing but the one place where the sun is overhead on the 21st of June. There, I gave a little old-fashioned geographic gyaan. It is a little place swamped with government factories, army cantonments and its ticket to fame is the famous waterfall dhuandhaar or the marble rocks where Narmada gushes over pristine white marble . But dont panic!This post is not written on behalf of M.P tourism (which has a kickass jingle of its own anyway).
I was born in a little village just outside Jabalpur called Madan Mahal. Actually it is one stop prior to Jabalpur station if you go by train. Apparently the best hospital then was in that place far away from where our house was. Of course, today neither the hospital nor the doctor exists. (The doctor had some licensing issues and her degree was revoked! God! I hate to imagine if she was a quack!). So that tragedy apart, we lived in Khamaria, a small village on the outskirts of the little town. Our estate was luxurious, huge villas constructed by the British complete with elaborate portico’s, long driveways big garages and outhouses,red-tile roofs and giant corridors with wooden floors and fireplaces, enormous gardens, parks and tons of trees. It was a cosmopolitan closed little society, where everyone knew everyone else, where one could ride bikes without the fear of any traffic, where huge empty spaces with little grass were in abundance for kite-flying and little shepherds with their flock of sheep used to invade the estates during the hot summer afternoons. Tales of panthers and cheetahs spotted near tiny little creeks just outside the estate used to prevent us from venturing towards the factory which was mostly in a jungle. We had a little triangular park with lush grass and rabbits and deer and even a toy-train, a musical fountain and a dinosaur with glowing eyes. The little Westland bazaar used to come alive every tuesday and I used to accompany my mom and our domestic help as they filled their bags with fresh organic vegetables and fruits. Something that we pay insane amounts for here. Beautiful gulmohar and eucalyptus trees lined the roads which turned flaming orange in the fall. It was a beautiful place to grow up in then and it was my home.
My mornings were all about going to Moni dairy and picking the cow I wanted milked and getting free ice-cream samples of the newest flavors ;bathing in cold water in summers and scooting off to school on Vishuprasad’s bike and watching the buffaloes wallow in the mud as his cycle rolled down the steep hill into Chandan colony and to my school St.Gabriels. My afternoons were playing hopscotch with my baby-sitter and eating her delicious daal-chawal or waking up Blackie from his afternoon siesta. There were no 1000 channels or flat-screen tv’s. I dont even remember paying any attention to the television unless it was Sunday morning 10 am when we watched Ramayan or Sri Krishna in rapt attention. My idea of fun was running around the garden, sitting on guava trees or mango trees and avoiding the monkeys. I used to accompany my dad to Digambar stores, a tiny little grocery shop and then watching in awe as the mithaiwala in sonali sweets made samosas by the dozen in an instant. Eating hot jalebis and cutlets, reading all signboards in shudh Hindi. I knew not a word in tamil. Club dinners and diwali melas where I used to eat Chhole Bhature and ride on giant wheels and hang out with my sister’s friends. Teej season was one of hearty shrikhand-puris and sooji halwas in every aunty’s house. I used to pluck fresh vegetables from mom’s vegetable patch or play with newborn chicks and goats. Wild hibiscus and genda(marigold) lined our gardens. Spent days watch the langurs take over entire gardens and destroy them and named two-red faced ones Morgan and Torgan. Evenings were for pittu or just some crazy bike-riding. Not Diablo 3’s or Wii’s. The trip to the one bookshop in Sadar Bazaar was filled with extreme delight and hour-long rickshaw rides to chungi or the rickety tempos that took you to “the city” were highly anticipated. It was so magical and innocent. It was not a city, there were no supermarkets, no cell phones, no computers, just us in a small little town with so many friends. Summer vacations to Madras were like going to another country in a train that took 42 hours. Still, nothing felt like going home to Jabalpur.
I realize how different my life is today. Of course, you need to keep up with the times and move with the flow of technology. Everything there has changed as well ( as I realized much to my chagrin in 2005). But my memories remain fresh and clear, almost like a fairy-tale.Except that it was real and in a land far-far away.