Silver Jubilee of Loss of Freedom: A Survival Story

 

 

"Men marry women with the hope they will never change. Women marry men with the hope they will change. Invariably, they are both disappointed." – Albert Einstein 

Today marks our 25th wedding anniversary. A Silver Jubilee. They say speech is silver, but silence is golden. In my house, speech is hers, and silence is my coping mechanism for survival.

An anniversary is just the day a year ago you were way less annoyed by each other. They say marriages are made in heaven. But, then again, so are thunder, lightning, tornadoes and hail. We have somehow survived a quarter of a century under the same roof without killing each other. That alone deserves a medal, a presidential pardon, or at the very least, a dinner where the prices on the menu have no more than three digits.

Exactly 25 years ago, I married Ambika, my best friend. The great thing about marriage is finding that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. By the way, do you know what I did before I got married? Anything I wanted to.

We met during our CA studies and within a few months she convinced me that almost everything I was doing was wrong. I should have taken the hint. Instead, I proposed. Over the years, I have been wrong in four continents, 12 countries and still counting.

Looking back, it is incredibly obvious that her judgment was severely impaired in her younger years. Love may be blind, but marriage is a real eye-opener. To this day, I have no scientific explanation for how she has tolerated my existence for 9,131 days (yes, every day of survival matters). That is 219,144 hours of her questioning her life choices and me watching a lot of Test cricket.

Marriage is when a man and woman become as one, but the trouble starts when they try to decide which one. I want to publicly thank my wife for letting me believe that I am the one in charge, while she efficiently runs the entire show from behind the scenes like a seasoned puppet master. I don’t go the way life takes me, I go the way my wife takes me, normally to shopping malls or tourist destinations.

Ambika has been my greatest strength for the last 25 years. Through every high, every low, and every major crisis, she has been by my side offering unwavering support. I keep a picture of her in my wallet. Whenever I am faced with troubles, stress, or trauma, I stop, take out my wallet, and look at her photo. Instantly, all my other problems completely disappear. I look at her face and remind myself: “What could possibly be worse than this?” It brings a strange, peaceful perspective to any crisis.

Of course, every successful marriage requires compromise. I compromise by doing the chores she asks me to do, and she compromises by re-doing them properly right after me. She makes the marriage work. I make the jokes. However, she still sneers at my (poor) jokes even after 25 years. It is about time she accepted her fate, lowered her standards, and started laughing at my (dad) jokes. Just last month, I told my wife that a husband is like a fine wine; he gets better with age. The next day, she locked me in the cellar.

I am especially grateful to Ambika for the supreme act of mercy when she pardoned my life after I completely forgot her birthday two consecutive years in a row. I was lucky to avoid the death penalty and get downgraded to life without parole in the guest bedroom. But I am glad that the statute of limitations on that has expired and I can afford to forget it again.

The truth is that I have reached a stage in life where I can’t even sleep without being nagged at constantly during the day. When she is away and there is nobody to criticize my actions, I actually get separation anxiety. Her nagging has become my white noise. Without it, the silence is terrifying. I actually had to download an app that just plays the sound of a woman nagging just so I could fall asleep.

Though Ambika always complains that I forget everything, I can’t remember forgetting anything. On anniversaries the wise husband may forget the past, but he had better never forget the present. I told her that my presence is her ultimate present, but judging by the look on her face, I figured I may need to buy something. So, I bought her a premium vacuum cleaner. I figured after 25 years of cleaning up my act I should finally give her some professional assistance. Ha ha ha.. just kidding. I am not a fool to spend so much money on a gift. I just bought her the mug in the photo.

Do you want to know how I survived 25 years of married life? First, I listen to my heart. Then, I listen to my brain. Then, I do what my wife tells me to do. When people ask me the secret to my marriage, I tell them that marriage is all about give and take. You had better give it to her, or she will take it anyway. After all these years, I have figured out that there are only two things necessary to keep a wife happy. One is to let her think she is having her own way, and the other is to actually let her have it.

Meanwhile, have you noticed that men constantly twist the wedding ring on their finger? Basically, he is trying to figure out the combination to the cuffs. After 25 years, I finally figured out my combination: “Yes, Dear.” But jokes aside, if I had the chance to do it all over again, I would still choose her, preferably before she has a chance to change her mind.

Marriage is like a phone call in the night: first the ring, and then you wake up. - Evelyn Hendrickson

I have been awake for 25 years. What about you?

P.S. Ambika is the luckiest person in the world. She is the only wife who has had two blogs written on her wedding anniversary. In 2008, I had written the blog I don't forget anniversaries. 

Meme is mightier than the sword

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win" - Mahatma Gandhi

It was so heartening to witness the Insta-nt generation’s victory of demo-crazy. Having been fascinated by how Mahatma Gandhi fought the British through non-violence, I am delighted to have witnessed an abbreviated, Instagrammable version of it in my lifetime. By a bunch of youngsters who apparently had nothing better to do (because their exam papers were leaked) armed with smartphones, memes, reels, sarcastic placards, satire, dark humour, and pop-culture references.

Gandhi didn’t defeat power by matching its power. Gen Z simply upgraded the philosophy.
Gandhi had the spinning wheel. Gen Z has Canva.
Gandhi had slogans. Gen Z has Instagram.
Gandhi gave speeches. Gen Z made memes.
Gandhi fasted. Gen Z fasted and took selfies about it.
And while Gandhi walked to Dandi, Gen Z gathered at Jantar Mantar. Less distance, less blisters. Very efficient. A social media user summed it up: “Instagram open karte hi Jantar Mantar pahunch jaata hun.”

Thank you, Abhijeet Dipke, Saurav Das and Ashutosh Ranka. And thank you, CJI Surya Kant, who in my opinion, is the co-founder of the Cockroach Janta Party. Nobody launches a movement faster than a judge with a bad metaphor and a live mic. On May 15, the CJI's remark equating unemployed youngsters to cockroaches went viral. While he later clarified that he was misquoted, that was like sending “that's not what I meant” in a WhatsApp group after everyone has already screenshotted your message. (It is a different matter altogether how CJI can call anybody 'cockroaches' during a formal court hearing, but that is for another day.)

Within days, the insult had been reclaimed. The cockroach became a symbol of resilience: impossible to ignore, difficult to kill, and somehow capable of surviving almost anything, including Delhi summer and  Delhi air.

On May 16, Dipke posted on X: “What if all cockroaches came together?” Well, they did. And the CJP was born. When CJP was launched, its eligibility criteria sounded like the perfect Indian startup pitch: unemployed, lazy, chronically online, professionally frustrated, skilled at venting, and, most importantly, possessing a smartphone with sufficient battery. No fundable product required (ahem, ahem - my pet peeve with founders). The seed capital was pure spite.

The traditional political party needs an ideology to rally around. CJP needed Wi-Fi. The traditional political party has a youth wing. CJP has all the youth. And the memes. And CJP turned Jantar Mantar into something between a political rally, a stand-up comedy and a content-creation festival, with occasional lathi charges and tear gas attacks.

There were serious demands. There were serious grievances. And then there were the placards that were better than the speeches:
“Make in India, not leak in India”
“Chowkidar ko bolo, malik aaya hai”
“Even my pads doesn’t leak this much”
“Bade bade deshon me chote chote bachon ko nahi marte”

Spiderman, Superman, Batman, Marvel, Melodi, Subway Surfers, movie references, viral Instagram trends, and practically anything that had survived the internet for more than 24 hours, found its way onto protest posters.

And perhaps that is what makes humour such a lethal weapon. Because once power becomes a meme, it becomes difficult to maintain the aura of invincibility. Governments know how to handle anger, slogans, and fiery speeches. But humour? That's awkward. Everyone loves a good joke. Even the people the joke is about.

The rulers can arrest a protester. They can remove a banner. They can block a road. They can switch off the internet. But how do you counter a 17-year-old whose meme gets five million views and your own family has also liked it? Good luck issuing a press release against that.

The sheer volume of memes generated by CJP could probably fill a large public library. Maybe somebody should open ‘The Cockroach Meme Library’. The librarian would be an Instagram algorithm. The membership criteria would be:

• Have Instagram
• Have a sense of humour
• Know to make memes and shorts
• And most importantly, have a spine (and that disqualifies most all other generations)

This doesn’t mean Gen Z is unserious. They simply refuse to behave seriously while talking about serious stuff. Laughing at the fire doesn't mean you didn't notice the building.

CJP began as a meme. Then Sonam Wangchuk arrived. The man who has spent years working on education, sustainability, and Ladakh’s development, gave the movement moral authority and a human face. From freezing water into ice stupas in Ladakh to freezing government responses through a hunger strike.

The triple-engine government machinery deployed its usual toolkit: dismiss, discredit, question motives, threaten, bully and, when necessary, used force. Unfortunately, there was one problem. Cockroaches are notoriously difficult to eliminate. If you try to squash one, there are another fifty watching from behind the fridge, and in this case with mobile phones in hand making reels.

There is something deliciously ironic about CJI calling youth cockroaches, since cockroaches can survive extreme conditions, including living for days without a head, going a month without food, holding their breath for forty minutes, or surviving radiation. Basically, nature designed them for Indian politics.

The movement eventually became large enough to force a major political response, culminating in Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan's resignation on July 25. Turns out cockroaches don't just survive the apocalypse. Sometimes they cause a minor cabinet reshuffle too. You couldn't write this stuff. Actually, you could. But then nobody would believe you.

There is, however, one slightly depressing part of this entire episode. Only a tiny lot of celebrities and influencers threw their weight behind the movement. Democracy is not a spectator sport. You cannot sit in the living room, watch young people get beaten up, forward three WhatsApp messages about democracy and then congratulate yourself for having participated. It is like liking a gym selfie and calling it exercise. At some point, you have to show up.

A long while ago, I wrote a blog on why people should vote. My argument then was simple: democracy doesn't work if citizens treat elections as an occasional inconvenience. They need to participate. The same principle applies to protest.

Voting says “I want a say in who governs me.” Protesting says “I don't agree with what you are doing.” Neither requires you to hate the country. Neither requires you to belong to a political party. And neither requires you to agree with everything others say. Democracy is not the art of agreeing with everybody. It is the freedom to disagree without being crushed for doing so.

Perhaps this is what democracy looks like today. It looks like thousands of young people standing in Jantar Mantar holding cardboard signs. It looks like a rubber duck facing a water cannon. It looks like a British protester making a Rick Astley joke about Brexit. That doesn't make democracy weaker. It actually makes it stronger.

I am not sure what CJP will become next. Perhaps it will disappear now that its immediate objective has been achieved. Perhaps it will evolve into something larger. Perhaps the cockroaches will go back to Instagram, reels, and their doomscrolling. Perhaps some will enter politics, though that would be the worst possible outcome. Because then we may have to deal with politicians who understand memes. God help us then. Maybe his Instagram notification will alert him.

But after all this, if you still think the youth are irrelevant, unemployed, lazy, chronically online and easily inconvenienced, I have one small suggestion. Don't call them cockroaches. Because they might just come together. And then you have a Cockroach Janta Party to deal with. And apparently, they know how to win issues without being political or contesting an election.

I wonder what will happen when Gen Alpha enters the political scene with AI! Till then, vastaguna huiyee..

Long live demo-crazy. Long live the Insta-nt generation. Long live the cockroaches.

PS : That’s my daughter filming from the background when 'Spider-Man: No Way Home' entered the CJP protest at Freedom Park, Bangalore.

Pati, Patni Aur Woh

Bigamy is having one wife too many. Monogamy is the same. - Oscar Wilde

This is a story of a pati (n. husband, in Hindi), a patni (n. wife, in Hindi) and woh (pron. he/she, here in reference to Patni Computers, the company I led the acquisition of) or pati patni aur woh.

As with most of my other posts, this will be better appreciated by married ‘men’, because it oozes of pain, suffering, and the occasional delusion of happiness. Though to be politically correct, let us just say it would be better understood by married people in general (btw who coined this phrase ‘politically correct’? There is nothing ‘correct’ about ‘politics’!).

I have been married (yes, needlessly!) for about eleven years now. Thank you thank you, for your sym-pathies with this pati. We have been successful so far because we are ‘happily incompatible’. I realized early on that in marriage I can either be happy or right, and I chose to be happy.

It would be a gross understatement if I said marriage changed my life. Before marriage, my hobbies were reading books and playing sports. Now they include shopping, eating out, and meeting social commitments I don’t remember agreeing to. But interestingly marriage did help my career, as I started spending more time at work. And those thinking that I did it to stay away from home are reading too much between the lines (though not wrong)!

Then calamity struck twice. A year ago, I acquired another patni. And this time around too I missed getting a trophy wife! I felt like the person who lost everything in Gujarat earthquake and set up a new ecosystem in Velankanni and the got hit by Tsunami. As they say, marriage is like the army – everyone complains, but you would be surprised how many re-enlist. I was getting used to the (so inappropriately called and imaginary) ‘marital bliss’ when marriage hit me again. Hard. Without notice. Though to be fair, disasters never send a calendar invite. But people who have seen me can understand that there is only so much that my fragile body can take.

It is said that bigamy is when a man tries to serve two masters. Earlier, I had to consider the whims and fancies of one, now I have to consider whims and fancies of two. Double the drama and double the damage. I was not even able to provide time and attention to one patni (intentionally, you might say, but I will publically refute) and now imagine the stress on me with two.

One would cry for attention exactly when the other does. Needless to say, both would also ignore me at the same time. Nowadays I spend three days a week with the new patni and the rest with old patni. It also does not help matters that they are in two different cities – new one in Mumbai and old one in Bangalore.

Normally when you’re with one woman, you don’t talk to her about your other women (atleast I don’t). It’s too much information and it doesn’t help your cause. It’s basic survival instinct. Unfortunately, in my case both the patnis know about each other and fight over each other. I feel like Truffaldino in The Servant of Two Masters, except I don’t even get a script or applause. As if it is not enough trouble, the penalty for bigamy is having two mothers-in-law. Despite that, I try to convince each patni that she is the only trouble, sorry pebble, on my beach.

Lately, I have started to envy A Raja and Suresh Kalmadi for the peaceful time they are spending in Tiharjail. What solitude they must be enjoying. No arguments, no “you never listen,” no weekend plans. Just cricket, Olympics, and peace. I am sure they might not have applied for bail despite having just one patni. Maybe I should quickly try to get into a scam and get arrested.

No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will be devoted to one and despise the other. Matthew 6:24

PS : This blog was written back in January 2012 but somehow never got published.