Paanch Matlab Chota Coke aur Inclusive Growth!

Nobody noticed him when he shuffled upto the counter and ordered his regular drink. Looking uneasily around him, the man tried to search for familiar faces in the crowded, poorly lit bar. He found many. Saroja (the buxom maid) saw him looking at her and quickly turned her face away. Shankar (the carpenter) was slumped across the bar counter. Srinu (the mason) was sitting at one of the far tables looking absently at his now empty bottle of arrack. Another motley group of labourers from a nearbly construction site were talking loudly among themselves. It was a regular bawdy, boisterous night at ‘Golden Peacock Bar’. The stench of liquor hung heavily in the air.

Ramaswamy sniffed the air with relish.

Golden Peacock, one of the most prominent landmarks in South Bhimavaram, was his second home. Town 2 (as South Bhimavaram is more popularly known among the locals) is a mandal in the West Godavari District in the state of Andhra Pradesh and is the district with the highest per capita income in the state. Statistics aside, the town, like most others in India, has a large segment of the population living below the poverty line. The town is a quiet one though. People keep to themselves. Ramaswamy looked around the room once again at his colleagues. Tonight, as all other nights, would remain a blur in their collective memory. Tomorrow, as all other days, would see all of them behaving like long lost friends. Endless bonhomie and back slapping before the rigours of the day began. They worked together at the construction site of the new Pepsi Bottling Plant.

Flicking away a startled-looking grasshopper from the mouth of the bottle, Ramaswamy took a large swig. He rubbed his throat gingerly as the arrack flowed down his gullet. He smacked his lips and looked fondly at the bottle. The taste was somewhere ‘between rum and whiskey’. It suited him well. By the time he took the last swig, he felt fatigue drain away completely from his body. It was as if a faith healer had run her hands all over his body. When Srinu (the mason) stumbled his way out of the bar, his last memory of that night was that smile. Ramswamy’s lips were curved into a placid smile. It lit up his face. Not unlike the young crescent moon outside that lit up the night sky.

* * * * * * * * *

The sour taste of the arrack lingered in his mouth. Ramaswamy walked with a limp. As he shifted weighted from one foot to the other, the clink of the bottles under his shirt reminded him strongly of his home. His daughters would be waiting for him. He checked, for the second time that night, if the bottles were safe. He had wanted three bottles but the Site Manager had given him only two. The third, he suspected, had been filched by the very buxom Saroja who had been making sheep eyes at the Site Manager for the entire week. Ramaswamy did not like this drink but his daughters loved it. It was unfortunate though, thought Ramaswamy, that the Pepsi turned warm by the time he reached home. None of his three daughter’s minded that though. Ramaswamy had only once purchased Pepsi by himself for his daughters.

That was in the summer of 2003. At Rs 5 a bottle, he could afford it. Six years on, he now got these bottles as perks. As he trudged along the narrow alley leading to his shack, he could not help but think that some things in this world were definitely out of his reach. Would he really be able to own them in his lifetime? Was it right for him to aspire for them? The 46 year old mason sighed and leaned heavily against a lamppost. He had been working for the last 25 years. How much had he saved? Not too much. But, not too less either. A shade under a couple of lakhs, maybe. That’s not too bad, he told himself. He summed up his material possessions. A cracked up colour television. A pocket transistor. A moped (he called it a luna and used it only when he took his wife, Balamani, to the temple). That’s not too bad a list either, he thought. Fishing inside the pockets of his trouser, he bought out a newspaper clipping that was frayed at the edges. He examined it closely once again, as he had done for the past several months. With trembling fingers, Ramaswamy traced the outline of the tiny car shown in the clipping. His heart skipped a beat when he looked at the price tag. A new world was still possible. That night, Ramaswamy looked up at the young crescent moon for a long time.


On Jul 17, 2009, Ratan Tata handed over the keys of the first Tata Nano, the world’s cheapest car, to Ashok Raghunath Vichare of Mumbai who paid just INR 100,000 for the car.

© All rights reserved with Avinash Menon

Once upon a time in Andher Nagari ....

I debated long, dear reader, on what the first few words of this story should be. And then I knew. Though this is not a fairy tale, I still will begin it like one.

Once upon a time, though not very long ago, there was, in South Asia a small province named Andher Nagari. Like all kingdoms, Andher Nagari also had a ruler - a man named Choupat Raja, who was chosen by the poorer natives of Andher Nagari to rule them after he promised them free electricity in return. Little did they realise that what Choupat Raja meant by free electricity was 'enough electricity to light a single bulb'.

The Raja had also hinted that he would support the cause for reorganisation of Andher Nagari. The natives of Telgni Nagar, one of the three key provinces that made up Andher Nagari, were overjoyed and pledged their support to him. They could see their dream of an independant kingdom for themselves finally taking shape. 'Long live Chupat Raja', they screamed. The kids of the natives of Telgni Nagar hopped from one leg to another and screamed 'Choupat Raja ki Jai ho!'. The happiest of them all was their cheiftan, a natural rabble rouser named Chomu Raja, who, swathed in effiminate looking pink mufflers had continually delivered fiery hate speeches (peppered with the choicest of abuses) against anyone opposing his idea of an independent Telgni Nagar.

That was five years ago. Alas, even today, an independent Telgni Nagar remains an unrealised dream. Chomu Raja still delivers angry tirades puntuating each sentence with his favourite expletive - Bad-Cow (Thats my best translation of this popular Andher Nagari expletive). The target of his harangue is erstwhile friend, Choupat Raja.

'That Bad-Cow has let us down'

'Any self respecting native of Telgni Nagar will not support that Bad-Cow again'

The Bad-Cow, in case you havent yet figured it out, is the hapless Choupat Raja, present ruler of Andher Nagari.Despite the rhetoric against him, the Raja did not respond to the pink brigade. He had far more weighty matters on his mind. He had promises to keep but had run out of his miles. With his tenure fast coming to an end, how did he stack up against the promises he had made to the natives?

If he couldn't convince them he must try and confuse them. The numbers came thick and fast.

'I've increased food grain production from 13.5 million tonnes, five years ago, to 19.7 million tonnes last year', he thundered.

'I've brought 1.5 million acres of land under cultivation and will add 1.7 million acres by the third month of next year'.

'I gave you loans at chaar anna interest'

The natives heard in shocked silence. It couldnt be possible, they thought. If what Choupat Raja said was true then why did 2859 farmers from Andher Nagari commit suicide in the last five years?

The natives spoke in hushed whispers now.

Choupat Raja had promised that he would protect them. They recalled how he had told them, 'Chathur Raja is only interested in the welfare of the townies. You don't exist for him'.

Isn't that why they collectively decided to replace Chathur Raja, their erstwhile ruler, with the promising Choupat?

Pangs of guilt tugged their heartstrings as they recalled Chathur Raja's reign. Hadn't he set up Rythu Bazaars for them so that they could cut out the middlemen and sell their harvest directly to the townies? Hadn't he inspired them to work as a community with the Janmabhoomi programme? Had he not been able to reduce their dependence on the babus with his e-seva initiative? There was a palpable energy in Andher Nagari during his reign. Maybe it was because, for once, they had a ruler who worked 18 hours a day. His energy was infectious. They remembered fondly his passion for technology. They did not understand it then. They still did not understand technology. But they understood that whatever it was. Chathur Raja was passionate about it. The natives nodded quitely to themselves. His reign was not without its flaws. But isn't it true that even a diamond gets measured by its flaws?

Its time once again for the natives of Andher Nagari to choose a new ruler.

All fairy tales have a happy ending. I am not so sure about this one though.


On May 11, 2004, Chandrababu Naidu stepped down as the Chief Minister of Andhra Pradesh after his party, the TDP, was trounced in the state elections. He was the longest serving Chief Minsiter of the state until then. The TRS, lead by K Chandrasekhar Rao, made an impactful debut, bagging 26 out of the 42 seats it contested from Telengana. The Congress and its allies bagged 226 seats in the 294 member assembly reducing the TDP tally to an abysmal 49. The stock market crashed by 230 points, its worst loss in four years, after the tech savvy chief minister's defeat. I viewed the election result as a Victory for Democracy but a Defeat for Development.

© All rights reserved with Avinash Menon. No form of this may be reproduced without prior permission from the author.

Of Timers, Morning Blues and Laughs....

I glanced at my watch and immediately quickened my pace. 15 minutes. I punched imaginary buttons mentally. Thats 900 seconds to go. Damn! Why do these coaching institutes give you a feeling that there is timer-bomb ticking away somewhere.

I took a deep breath and decided to sprint the remaining distance to the bus station. My friends have often told me that I look like a clown while running. They said, 'When you run we get the feeling that your pants are going to fall off any moment'.

It never did make sense to me. They were plain jealous. I had thought so then.

But today, I felt there was a grain of truth in their observations; because, the two feet something toddler, a little devil who terrorised the entire neighbourhood, who usually made faces at me as a form of greeting, smiled like a cherubic angel. But I wasn't in a particularly forgiving mood. Especially not today. So, as I turned the corner, I bared my teeth and growled savagely at him. As I looked over my shoulders, I saw the angel toddle furiously towards his mamma. I don't know, dear reader, if you have noticed this before but there is an element of mystery while you are turning a corner.

Crash! For one brief second, I saw bright stars in broad daylight. I had collided against .... Wow!
She flashed a smile that could clear the weather. 'Are you hurt?' she asked sweetly. Thats brave, I thought, she was asking me if I was well after I had knocked her off her bicycle. 'Am fine ... Thanks', I managed weakly. Pangs of guilt tugged at my heart strings as I watched her extricate herself from underneath her bicylcle. I picked myself up slowly and resumed my running.

I then passed an old gentleman who smiled serenely and said,'You must be running late. I can see that'. I was about to retort with something clever when I recalled a wise man's saying : Politeness is the art of choosing from among your various thoughts. I wished him a 'Good Morning'. 'Hurry Up!', he urged.

I responded by lengthening my strides. A quick glance at my wrist watch showed me that the timer-bomb had only 600 seconds more. My feet now pounded the asphalt. As I powered ahead, I heard someone shout out my name. I ignored the voice. A moment later, a biker pulled up alongside me, and smiling mischieviously, told me ' You can have mine'. I noticed that he was pointing at his belt.

'Thanks', I said wearily before jumping into the bus. The conductor examined my pass mechanically. 'Running late again', he boomed as he handed back the pass. Everybody in the bus now turned to look at me. Strange, I could swear that a couple of women averted their eyes hurriedly as soon as they saw me. Now what could have made them do that? The conductor patted my shoulder and told me, 'The traffic is thin today. You will make it to your institute on time'. He spoke with the authority of the Fuhrer. Hope spread its wings in my heart once again. The rest of the passengers nodded their heads and gave me encouraging smiles. But a nice girl in the seat ahead of me turned around suddenly and looked daggers at me. Now what could have made her do that, I wondered. The bus screeched to a halt. I flew off the bus and aimed myself towards the institute's gate. The wind rushed through my hair as the institute's gate came into view. Home Stretch!

When I was ten yards away from the gate, I signalled furiously to the watch-man to open the gate. I did not intend to stop until I reached my class-room. The watch-man was either blind or plain impertinent. He did not open the gate but instead held his lathi in front of the gate. I screeched to a halt. 'You cannot go in today', he informed me curtly. 'But I am well on time', I told him brightly, pointing at my wrist-watch. He looked at me in a strange manner. There was a question in his eyes.

And, it was then, dear reader, that I felt it. I sensed the temperature around me drop at an alarming rate. 'Odd! Very odd!', I thought absently. An icy draught of air clamped itself around my legs. I shuddered involuntarily. The chilling reality struck me with extreme force. The world swam before my eyes. I looked down hopefully. My pants were missing!

First published in print media on Oct 18, 2000. Written by Avinash Menon.

Notes from the Sly Fan Club...

I had been at the wheel of my buick for nearly an hour now. Waiting. The low hum of the engine as it idled did not assault my senses as much as Toni Braxton crooning her ’Unbreak my heart’ number did. ‘On this cold winter night, this song is for all the broken hearts in the world’. That is what the Radio Jockey had solemnly announced before playing the track. Abruptly, I turned off the radio. The clock on the dashboard flashed 03:10. I glanced swiftly at the window of her second floor apartment once again. The television was now switched on in the apartment. I could hear the voices clearly. Especially his. A sense of weariness engulfed me as I slumped back in my car seat. I now knew that I had lost her forever. Thirty years after I first met her.

I retraced my steps in memory's labyrinthine lane. Things were perfectly fine between the lady and me. We did the usual things that every young couple did. Dating. Long drives. Movies. The future with all the infinite promises never looked rosier. But, have not the wise men always said ‘the good times don’t last forever’? I winced involuntarily as I recalled how things turned thorny between us when Sly entered her life.

The one moment, which I now define, as ‘the beginning of the end’ remains frozen in my memory. It replayed itself now. It was the winter of 1976. We were at the movies. I noticed my companion, the only love of my life, looking closely at me and then looking over my shoulder at someone behind me. She did this more than once and I felt that each time she looked beyond me her gaze lingered longer on whoever it was she was looking at. I turned around sharply to confront my adversary. That was when I saw Sly first at close quarters. He wore a icy smile but wore no shirt. To me, Sly looked like one of those guys who thinks hitting the gym is as essential an activity as breathing is to you and me.

Biceps like those ? Impossible!

I ignored him.

A couple of hours later when the lady and I were leaving the theatre, she turned around and asked me sharply ‘Why cannot you be more like him?’

‘Like whom?’, I asked weakly.

‘Like him’, she retorted, pointing at an image of Sly.

That was the moment, dear reader, that I was referring to earlier. The beginning of the end. For the next couple of years I saw him everywhere. I saw him on giant hoardings. I saw him on the telly. Heard him on the radio. I saw him endorsing products on gigantic billboards. The guy was omnipresent’. Like God. In those dark hour’s years ago, I often asked myself: Could I have been hallucinating then?

Thirty years hence, I was asking myself again: Am I hallucinating now? The question was a pointless one because, I could hear him now on the telly in the lady’s apartment.

Tonight, I was woken up in the middle of the night by a frantic call from the lady. I hadnt heard from her for fifteen years now. We had drifted apart two years after Sly entered her life. Strangely, both of us were still single. Was that about to change tonight?

‘I need to see you right now’. Her voice sounded strained. ‘At Bird’s’.

Bird’s was the café where we had first met. A new world was still possible, I thought, she hadnt forgotten our favourite venue.

‘Okay. I will see you in fifteen minutes’. I noticed that my hands were shaking when I put the receiver down.

I reached the venue within ten minutes. While we exchanged awkward and hurried greetings, I noticed that she looked extraordinarily calm. Had she already reached a decision?

Her face was devoid of any emotion when she delivered her verdict.

‘Since you cannot be like Sly, I don’t think we can be together’.

Her words hit me like a sledge-hammer. It was a knock-out punch that would have made her idol proud. I did not say anything. I could not say anything. Just sat there, stunned, as the ground disappeared from beneath my feet. Paralyzed, I watched her as she got up, pirouetted on her heels and walked out of the restaurant. The greatest love-story since Romeo met Juliet had come to a heart-wrenching finish!

A couple of minutes after she left, I got into my Buick and drove over to her apartment and that is where, dear reader, we met when I began narrating you this story.

Why did I drive back to the apartment of the girl who had just dumped me?

I don’t know. Maybe it was because I wanted to see if she would switch on the telly and watch the movie that she has been watching every week for the last thirty years.

As the movie sound track filtered through the windows of my buick, I knew it was him again.

I may then have dozed off because the next thing I remember is a sharp knock on the window and seeing a bright-eyed cop with a very polite smile standing outside my car.

‘Looks like you need some help, mate. Is there anything I could do for you?’, he asked cheerfully.

I rolled down the window, and smiling sheepishly, told him. ‘Officer, I would give you anything .... anything in this world, if you could change that fateful day in December 1976 when ‘Rocky’ was released in theatres worldwide’

(This feature is my tribute to Sylvester Stallone for giving 'Rocky' to the world. A little known fact about Rocky is that the Story and Screenplay for the movie was written by Stallone himself. MGM liked the script, but felt only a seasoned actor should be cast in the lead role. Robert Redford and Burt Reynolds were some of the high-profile names that did the rounds intitially. Convinced that only he could breathe life into his creation - a little known boxer who gets his million dollar shot at fame, Stallone pushed MGM to cast him in the lead role. Rocky, released on Dec 3, 1976, beat 'All the President's Men', 'Bound for Glory', 'Network' and 'Taxi Driver' to win the Academy Award for the Best Picture)

© All rights reserved with Avinash Menon. No form of this may be reproduced without prior permission of the author.