An Arranged ‘Girl-Seeing’

To pass the marriage juncture unhurt could be a dream for many youngsters.

For quite some time now, I have been facing constant threats to my free existence as a single man from a group of marriage brokers in my locality. They have taken formidable positions around me along an ambush line.

Generally, marriage brokers are a special breed that, once clung onto your life, would not let you escape their sticky tentacles until you are ‘pinned to a spot’. They will closely watch each stage of your life, more than your parents do. In their business diary, they will set aside a full page for each unmarried girl and boy in their ‘jurisdiction’.

Ever since I hit the age required to qualify as a prospective bridegroom, these brokers began using a myriad of tactics to get closer to me. At each function I attended, be it an event as celebratory as a marriage or a ceremony as melancholic as a funeral, I found them trying to strike a camaraderie with me in different ways. Some would invite me to sit with them for a coffee. Some would simply bow to me with a spectacular smile. A few of them were quite old and when they bowed, their fragile backs were severely strained, making their smiles look a little effortful as if they were constipated.

At my home, the situation was no different. My parents had already started stepping up pressure on me to bring them a daughter-in-law. Last month, when I was enjoying one of my short vacations in Kerala, my parents received a sudden revelation that it is high time that their son found a life partner.

On a Sunday morning, with no prior notice, they asked me to go to see a girl. I was told that someone would be coming to accompany me to the girl's house.

Sharply at 10 AM, a middle aged man appeared at our front door with a big smile. In a black pant and white cotton shirt, he resembled someone of a noble birth. But, in some corner of my mind, I felt that I had met him somewhere before.

Suddenly, I was able to recall that he was Siddique, the guy who brokered a property deal for my friend last year. I felt a little awkward. Is girl a property?

My parents and Siddique insisted that we go to the girl’s house in car, as was the practice in our area. But my love for two-wheelers had already become an absolute addiction. I pulled out the old Hero Honda bike from under the firewood shed attached to my house. This machine, full of dust and rust, was left there by my cousin when he went abroad. With a piece of shabby cloth, I carefully carved out a little space on its dusty seating upholstery, enough for two buttocks - mine and Siddique's.

The first two kicks triggered no ignition but a cloud of dust and a couple of sneezes from Siddique. In the third attempt, the engine came to life. Hero Honda doesn't entertain more futile kicks.

We set off.

Sitting on the pillion, Siddique started talking about all the marriageable girls in the locality. He keeps a business diary containing their details like age, educational qualifications, the amount of money their fathers are willing to spend as dowry etc. He keeps another diary for boys. Siddique reminded me of the late Manukka, who was a tomb-digger in our village.

Manukka is said to have had kept a diary in which the names of all the old people in the village was written. Based on their age and the criticality of their old-age illness, he would make a priority list for tombs. Whenever he paid a visit to his bedridden compatriots, their frail bodies trembled with fear as, due to the gravity of their time, they saw death in Manukka. Nevertheless, he continued his profession till his death at the age of 66.

"Can we stop near the Water Tank at Chamal for a while? It is on the way. I want to see a plot there." Siddique's suggestion knocked me out of my thoughts. He seemed to have a plan to do some property business as well that day. So, we had to see the plot first and then the girl. A decision about both would be taken afterwards.

We reached the girl's house at 11.45 am. From the moment that house appeared in my sight from about 1 KM away, a sort of awkwardness began to thump my heart heavily. I and a girl are going to consciously look at each other (in the eyes, maybe) and judge each other based on our appearance, a few spontaneous words we may speak and the silence that might fall in between our conversation.

The 'interview' did not take much time. She sat almost silent through the session, except for her ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ answers irrespective of the nature of my questions, making it imperative upon me that I speak nonstop nonsense for about 15 minutes. After finishing the interview in style, I got up to leave the room.

"Wait a minute," her sweet voice came from behind. I curiously turned my head to face her, my eyebrows curled up like two big question marks.

"You didn't tell your name". In a fraction of a second, all the muscles that I held tight till then with a lot of effort got pathetically deflated.

"Oh...sorry... it is Saheer." I unsuccessfully tried to camouflage a reddening embarrassment with a pale display of teeth, and hurried to the exit door in a relief that none else noticed my goof-up.

As I half opened the door leading to the sit-out, yet another sweet blow landed on my ears: "You didn't ask my name either". Standing on the threshold, watched by her uncles, father and Siddique, I had no choice but to holler, "Sorry...what is your name".

I didn’t have the patience to hear what she said her name was. I saw her uncles and father looking face to face in utter bewilderment. “What were you both doing inside without even asking things as basic as each other’s names?” their confused eyes seemed to ask.

The proposal was dropped for some reasons. Who knows what there is in a name.

All want to steal, given the chance!

At 12.30 pm on Wednesday, all employees at Virtual Rendezvous heard an announcement: "There is a people rally outside in support of Anna Hazare's anti-corruption movement. Those who are interested can participate."

As this was a chance to do a team outing, all guys and girls got up from their seats and ran out. This kind of a protest rally was a new experience to many of the gen next minds, and they derived great fun from it. Even after the rally, a few geeks were seen throwing their fist in the air and shouting slogans while returning to their office. But a security guard inside the gate couldn’t bear the noise as this was against the code of conduct to be followed inside the office premises. He charged to the crowd and spat some fiery non-vegetarian dialogues. The geeks swallowed their tongues, put their fists in their jeans pockets and hid themselves among their girl colleagues. A guerrilla tactic they learned from Baba Ramdev. The spirited demonstrators then proceeded to the office as a melancholic funeral procession.

While any act by the Corporate India to purge the country of corruption is most welcome, the activities of a section of corporates in the current Anna episode could be viewed as a desperate attempt to exorcise the corruption demon they let loose in the country by resorting to bribery for anything and everything.

For years, we have seen business men trying their level best to grease palms of finance ministers on the eve of each budget session to tip the balance of the year’s budget in their favour. We have also seen Shahid Balwas heavily bribing ministers and officials allegedly to get illegal telecom spectrum. The common man is not that innocent either. Just like a telecom magnate bribing a minister to get spectrum illegally, a common man would bribe a village officer to get a manipulated income certificate. It looks like everyone wants to steal, given the chance.

There is a flip side to the spectrum issue. The Government might have lost a presumptive amount of Rs. 1.75 lakh crore in the 2G spectrum allocation, but the poor Indian tax payers are now making calls at 1 paise per second - the cheapest rate in the world. This is due to the availability of spectrum at cheap rates and an increased competition in the market.

A transparent and fair spectrum allocation would have filled the exchequer. But in today’s India, are we confident enough to believe that a rich exchequer would not have been looted? Not to speak of the big holes the expensive spectrum would have created in the end customers’ pockets. Wait to frown, this cynicism is a by-product of the above said culture of corruption.

Now the ever increasing greed of politicians and bureaucrats are leaving the corporates in a very sticky situation. And some of them, as many of us, are waiting for a panacea to come out of the ongoing Anna movement.

After all, Anna is becoming India itself. Anything done in support of him is justified. Even a dog holding the national flag of India in its mouth!

All want to steal, given the chance!

At 12.30 pm on Wednesday, all the corporate slaves heard an announcement: "There is a people rally outside in support of Anna Hazare's anti-corruption movement. Those who are interested can participate."

As this was a chance to do a team outing, all slave guys and girls ran out. This kind of a protest rally was a new experience to many of the gen next minds, and they derived great fun from it. A few geeks were seen throwing their fist in the air and shouting slogan even after the rally, while returning to the office. But a security guard inside the gate couldn’t bear the noise as this was against the code of conduct to be followed inside the office premises. He charged to the crowd and spat some fiery non-vegetarian dialogues. The geeks swallowed their tongues, put their fists in their jeans pockets and hid themselves among their girl colleagues. A guerrilla tactic they learned from Baba Ramdev. The spirited demonstrators then proceeded to the office as a melancholic funeral procession, to take the next order from their master.

While any act by Indian business magnates to purge the country of corruption is most welcome, the activities of a section of corporates in the current Anna episode could be viewed as a desperate attempt to exorcise the corruption demon they let loose in the country by resorting to bribery for anything and everything.

For years, we have seen business men trying their level best to grease palms of finance ministers on the eve of each budget session to tip the balance of the year’s budget in their favour. We have also seen Shahid Balwas heavily bribing ministers and officials allegedly to get illegal telecom spectrum. The common man is not that innocent either. Just like a telecom magnate bribing a minister to get spectrum illegally, a common man would bribe a village officer to get a manipulated income certificate. It looks like everyone wants to steal, given the chance.

There is a flip side to the spectrum issue. The Government might have lost a presumptive amount of Rs. 1.75 lakh crore in the 2G spectrum allocation, but the poor Indian tax payers are now making calls at 1 paise per second - the cheapest rate in the world. This is due to the cheaper availability of spectrum and an increased competition in the market.

A transparent and fair spectrum allocation would have filled the exchequer. But in today’s India, are we confident enough to believe that a rich exchequer would not have been looted? Not to speak of the big holes the expensive spectrum would have created in the end customers’ pockets. Wait to frown, this cynicism is a by-product of the above said culture of corruption.

Now the ever increasing greed of politicians and bureaucrats are leaving the corporates in a very sticky situation. And some of them, as many of us, are waiting for a panacea to come out of the ongoing Anna movement.

After all, Anna is becoming India itself. Anything done in support of him is justified. Even a dog holding India’s flag in its mouth!

Where buses fly...

The Thamarassery ghat in the Indian state of Kerala has long been a great tourist attraction. Off late, the wooden valley down the hill along the ghat road is also proving to be a magnetic attraction for vehicles passing through the area. Buses and bikes are said to be showing an intense temptation to break the barricades and jump off the cliff while they reach here.

Last week, three of my Bangalore friends - Raghu, Vimali and Eureka – went to Kerala to attend a marriage function. The Karnataka state bus they boarded was to go through Waynad district of the state, touching the Thamarassery ghat, and they were excited to experience the natural beauty of this part of the God’s own country.

It was past midnight when they reached this beautiful place and, like all other passengers, they were almost asleep. Suddenly, at around 3 am, the bus abruptly halted, or so it seemed. And Raghu, half asleep in the front seat, was thrown out of his seat and banged against the front door. Cursing the driver for disturbing his sleep by applying such a sudden brake, he tried to crawl back to the seat. But to his dismay, he found it very difficult, if not impossible, to get back to the seat which was just near him. The more he tried to approach the seat, the more it retreated back, as in fear. Raghu shook his head to make sure it was not a dream. When he looked at the fellow passengers sitting in the back seats, they seemed to be in a balcony of a cinema theatre. He also noticed that the front wheel of the bus was turning despite the vehicle standing still.

Slowly things became clear to him. He realized that the bus was in a perpendicular position, its face stooped down in a jungle and ass hooked up on the edge of the road. And that his seat was not retreating but he was skidding backwards.

An intense fear and helplessness gripped him. He suddenly jumped out of the bus through an open window and stopped with his boot the still rotating front wheel, which had lost its touch with the earth. He called out for the other two friends in the back seat and was relieved to see that they were safe. The bus had not gone much deeper because of some trees. Had it not been for those trees, it would have been a free fall for the bus till Adivaram, a small town located in the extreme bottom of the hill, saving the bus driver a 13-kilometer horrible maneuvering through that badly maintained mountain pass.

Thus, the first ever Kerala trip of these three people turned out to be a nightmare. Instead of them attending the marriage, some doctors in the Calicut medical college attended to them – Raghu had some minor injuries. This is not a single incident in this ghat. At times, this mountain pass bears witness to some minor accidents. A badly maintained road is the bane of this area. During the monsoon season, it rains here heavily and water, overflown from the drainage channels, flows through the road, warranting a special attention from the officers of the Public Work Department. But who cares when there is no money in protecting common man’s life?

The road is not the lone culprit. Careless and sleepy drivers cause accidents too. In this case, the driver must have been asleep. Sometimes back, it was due to sheer carelessness that a friend of mine jumped off the cliff here with his bike. He was showing his two friends around as they came for sight-seeing in this high range. My friend was leading the way, occasionally looking at the rear view mirror to make sure the other two bikes following him have not lost their way.

In a fatal moment, he forgot that he was looking in the mirror and was duped to be thinking that the wide and long road he sees in the mirror was the road ahead. He gave the full throttle and the bike broke the fence along the road to fly off to the rocky terrain down the hill. However, he was so lucky that there was a single tree standing on the flying route and he perched on one of its branches, even as the bike crashed on a rock, half a kilometre down from the road.

He went to coma, but some good doctors did not allow him to proceed to ‘full stop’.

I feel that due to some divine intervention, not many lives are lost in accidents reported from this area. In the aforesaid bus accident also, there were only some minor injuries. However, there is always a looming threat of death lurking across this mountain pass.

Now I am confused as to whether I should add to this blog a sentence like ‘It is high time the authorities took the necessary steps for the reformation of this road.’ But there is no point in getting into a reproaching mode as there is no point in shouting into deaf ears. Let the Indian bureaucratic juggernaut run on as it did so far. Because, some bureaucrats are the backbone of Indian democracy and its political system. I think it is this bureaucratic system that inspires many to be a politician in India. Who wants to be a politician if there is no nepotism, corruption, red-tapism and scopes for scams in the system?

Let’s take to streets and shake buckets for the welfare of these bureaucrats and politicians. Let them have as much as they want. Let them drink to the lees till they drank up all the resources and essence of this country and leave it as a desert. That is the inevitable fate this country, along with its political system, is going to meet up with.

Anyways, I think I should take Raghu and team for a safe trip to Kerala next time when they are free.

If you don’t know Hindi, you are a beggar in Delhi

During my studies, I had spent a significant part of my time dreaming of getting a job opening in New Delhi. There were many reasons that lured me to the national capital including the city’s towering political importance, unlimited media opportunities, and a high status bestowed by society upon a person working or studying in that city, irrespective of whether he or she is worth it or not.

Now, three years after my studies came to a full stop, I got a chance to visit my dream city in June. And that visit has forced me to change my perception about the city, though for personal reasons.

It was an official trip along with two of my colleagues – Abhinav Sahai and Akanksha Prasad.

Though I rarely travel by train, I always loved long journeys with friends, for it can temporarily cut me off from the rest of the world - work targets, KRAs, meetings, appointments and all other catastrophes.

We enjoyed like anything. The world seemed to be non-existent at that night. We spent time playing cards till almost 4am. As we hit the territories of each state, we were notified by welcome SMSs on our mobiles, but there were no goodbyes when we passed those states.

As we were heading closer to Delhi, the atmosphere was getting hotter and hotter. The moment I stepped out of the train, I realized a bigger challenge which was going to haunt me as long as I would stay in Delhi - the language. If somebody heard me speaking Hindi, they would sue me for humiliating the whole nation.

Coupled with that, was 42 degree Celsius temperature level, which had already started working inside my throat. I was like a thirsty cock, my Adam's apple swiftly moving up and down.

I ran to a roadside vendor, who was selling lime juice. Believe me, he did not seem to understand when I asked for lime juice in English. I realized that if things go this way, my stay in Delhi could be worse. After brainstorming for a few minutes, that Neembu pani ad flashed across my head, and I spelt out, ‘Neembu Ka Pani Chahiye’.

Awestruck at my own Hindi, I watched him prepare lime juice, my chest expanding three more inches with pride. It was for the first time in my life that I spoke an actionable sentence in Hindi.

For all my love for the language, Hindi remained Greek to me even from my schooling days. In one way I was better in Hindi compared to some of my school classmates, who, whenever I suggested a combined study of the language, backed off in fear, saying that its letters looked to them like ‘hanging bats’.

However, I can read Hindi, though a bit slowly, at times letter by letter.

The big danger in reading a language letter by letter is that, you don’t know what you are reading until you have finished it. Sitting in a city bus, I was reading all hoardings and advertising boards planted along the roadside, most of them shop names and merchandise lists – English words written in Hindi script. At a brainless moment, I read something on a board, “Co...tto...n...br...” Oops! I realized those words only after I clearly spelt them out aloud. That was a ladies wear shop. I managed to sneak a look-around in the bus to see if anybody heard me. The guy sitting near me was stifling a laughter. I went not just crimson but the whole VIBGYOR.

Our accommodation was arranged in the company guest house located in Vasant Kunj area. The air-conditioned rooms in the house were the only respites from the scorching hot day. However, as my colleagues had some appointments with their friends and relatives in Delhi, I decided to venture out alone for sightseeing in the city, despite many warned me of a possible collapse from dehydration due to the hot climate.

I did not pay heed to the warning because of two reasons. Firstly, I was not sure if would visit this place again in my life, and secondly, I may not get a second chance to collapse in Delhi.

Though I had no particular destination in mind as my main purpose was to while away the time, somehow I reached Chandni Chowk and visited Red Fort, Juma Masjid, Raj Ghat, etc by taking telephonic clues from my friends back in Kerala, and speaking to people I met on the road in Delhi.

When I reached Red Fort, the time was around 1pm, with the sun burning just above my head. The ground where people queued up to enter the fort was felt, under my feet, like a frying pan. I thanked god that I didn’t use coconut oil while taking bath in that morning. Had I applied oil on my head, I would by then have metamorphosed into a delicious food item – And you may call it Saheer Fry or something.

Tired, I drank neembu ka pani, cup by cup, from wherever I found a juice shop. When I started back to the guest house, the day was drawing to a close. Streetlights had started slowly supplanting the sunlight. The quaint roads of Chandni Chowk suddenly turned out to be busy thoroughfares with full of activities. Hitting the road in that twilight were shoppers, globetrotters, wanderers, lovers, beggars and perhaps sex workers.

The youth in the city looked highly fashionable, brightly colorful, and expressively defiant. They dressed (or not dressed) whichever way they pleased.

Suddenly a chirpy crowd caught my attention. They looked like a group of college girls, but sure, they were highly fashionable by the way they dressed. If you ask whether these girls have worn any dress at all. The answer would range from ‘Yes’, ‘Not Really’ to ‘No’, depending upon the way you look at them.

I thought these girls might be the characters in the article I read the night before. The article was about the fate of some girls in Delhi who are deeply in love with the new found freedom in the city but, at the same time, have not yet escaped the moral policing enforced upon them by people back their home. Many of such girls were reportedly hailing from some backward villages in the neighboring states like Haryana, UP, Rajasthan, etc. So, it looked to me, these chirpy girls epitomize a large number of freedom-loving Indian women who wanted to live the way they pleased and love the ones they chose.

The stories of mushrooming Khap Panchayats in the North have to be read in the background of this context.

Let’s leave politics there. I was really hungry by then. I started pacing the road up and down in search of a hotel. I kept on asking people for a hotel, but due to my timing, everybody thought I was looking for accommodation, and directed me accordingly.

So it was imperative upon me that I communicate my need to eat, in Hindi.

My eyes had turned red out of tiredness, and hair yellow with dust. I was in a Kurta, which was a bit too big for my body size - a lost look altogether!

Seeing an old man standing on the footpath, I went to him and asked if there was any hotel nearby. He looked perplexed. I thought he might have got only the word ‘hotel’ and I have to quickly add in Hindi that it is for food, and not accommodation. So I said, “Khane-ke-liye bhayya.”

His eyes went from my head down to feet, a scornful grimace on his face. Without replying to my query, he turned back in a strange aversion and walked away swiftly.

The message was clear to me, though he didn’t say it aloud: “Go work and find your meals. Begging does not suit your age.”

A late realization fell on my head. That the old man did not hear the word ‘hotel’ properly, but heard the sentence followed: “Khane-ke-liye bhayya.”

She hit me hard, and now I am a rascal

The city of Bangalore has got a lot of attractions for youngsters. The traffic, fashion, dogs, malls, and above all, a plethora of opportunities to start a professional career. From the day one I landed a job in this IT hub, I had been nursing a small dream – I think I am still not capable of dreaming big.

My first office was in the third floor of a building on old airport road. As a fresher, I immediately found out that getting a job is not everything, but getting on with one is. I had got an easy chair, but on the contrary, the job was quite challenging and didn’t give me much time to recline on the chair. However, during stressful evenings, I used squeeze in a minute or two to move my window-curtain aside and look down to the road that goes along my building.

The whole Bangalore would be on the road at that time. Cars, buses, bikes, bicycles, and so on. The scene of a thousand headlights rending the darkness of night has always been a turn on for me. Sometimes, the long haul of vehicles looked like an extraordinarily large train with each boggy having two headlights. I would enjoy that stress buster scene with my evening quota of a cup of frothing tea.

To contribute one more headlight to the road was my small dream – yes, I wanted to buy a bike and join this traffic procession.

I tabled the proposal at home to own a bike. I was not very hopeful because mom and dad were already at loggerheads with me over my lack of enthusiasm to try for a job in Kerala and settle down there. Occasional news reports about explosions, fires, accidents and other untoward sporadic occurrences in Bangalore always had them stepping up pressure on me to relocate. But I am yet to bulge.

Naturally, the proposal got rejected. Mom and dad put up three reasons for the rejection. First: There will be a hell lot of speeding vehicle on Bangalore roads and if I met with an accident, nobody would be there to take care of me. Second: Handling a heavy bike will cause further loss of my weight. It is a matter of concern because I am already underweight at 55 kg despite boasting of a height of 5.8 feet. Third: They don’t consider me to be any good at riding.

Despite this early setback, I worked out a strategy and told mom that vehicles in Bangalore would move very slowly, just as vehicles move in Eid-ul-Milad procession that she sees each year. But still she didn’t want me to get out of the ‘window-seat-comfort’ of BMTC buses.

My next challenge was to tackle the weight loss fears. I convinced her that I would get 5 minutes rest at each signal after every 10 minutes of riding. But she wanted to know the number of such signals between my room and office. I said 6. And she was happy to calculate that I will get one hour ‘on-road rest’ every day, up and down. I need not convince dad. Mom will do that.

By the time the proposal was accepted, I had joined a new company. Earlier, in the ‘window-seat-comfort’, I used to jealously watch bikers on the road. For me they were the most free people in the world as they can stop at any juice corner at any time, have refreshment drinks and move on. If I ever get out of the bus for a drink, my ticket price would go straight to Marathahally – my stop.

During the initial days of my biking, I used to extremely enjoy the city ride. There would be lots of brand new cars, bikes, beautiful girls with their flowery scooties whirring along side. The road looked like a heaven, even under the burning sun.

However, after my short honey-moon with the bike, I began to find handling that heavy machine (it is relative) with my thin structure to be a horrendous task. Adding insult to injury was some revving guys who at times kiss my bike’s ass from behind. When I turn back, with a heavy helmet on my head, to focus the hitter, he would salute me with a big ‘sorry.’ I would not initiate a quarrel as that would cause a traffic snarl and probably attract a fine. Within two weeks, I became used to such ‘hits from behind’.

April 16th of 2010 was the day I would like to forget the most in my life. I was going to attend a company training at a hotel on Brigade Road. As I couldn’t find the hotel, I stopped at a shop to ask the shop guy about the hotel. Luckily, at the very moment, he was guiding an auto, which was taking two journalists to the same training program to this hotel.

So the easy option for me was to closely follow that auto so that I can reach the hotel without any confusion. I followed them very closely because I didn’t want to lose the way in that heavy morning traffic again. But when the auto guy suddenly applied the brakes at a hump, I had to react in a jiffy to avoid a hit. My disc brake was so sudden that a beautiful girl on a bright red scooty lost her drum-control and hit me violently from behind, the hardest hit I have ever had in Bangalore, hurling me and my bike on to the auto.

When I looked back, recovering from the fall, I saw her too shocked even to say sorry. The traffic moved on for about 5 more metres, before it came to a halt at the next signal, and the auto driver came out charging to me. He started calling even my ancestral fathers. At this point I wanted to prove my innocence.

Pointing to the back, I started to say, “Bhayya, this girl......”. But she was not there as she was yet to recover from the shock of her own hit and was stuck at the accident spot, still unaware that traffic had started moving. The auto guy was fuming up like a Yamaha RX 100 engine, glaring at me. I even forgot to breathe as I thought he was going to hit me. “Bhayya, one girl just....”.

Without allowing me to finish my sentence, he said, “Rascals like you won’t ever see other vehicles when there is a girl riding along side. Who the hell did give you the license to ride?” Smelling a news, two journalists in the auto craned their heads out from both sides. In a few seconds a hundred heads started peeping out from their vehicles around us.

I just wished I had died on the spot sitting on my bike.

So naive was the world about Copenhagen

After giving lots of hope and squandering millions of dollars, the climate change summit in Copenhagen drew to a close without even taking off. Leaders from 192 countries brainstormed for over ten days just to reach a forced consensus to declare an amorphous solution, as a majority of them were forced to accept an Obama brokered agreement on the final day.

The final (?) agreement aims to reduce carbon emissions to limit the increase in global temperatures to 2 degree C, but lacks any specification pinning down commitments necessary to reach that aim, let alone a legally binding agreement. Copenhagen, though, left a possibility of further discussions along the lines of reaching a binding agreement in the future.

Actually the world must have been naive to have thought that their leaders boarded planes to Denmark to hammer out a solution focusing on equal and proportionate distribution of the emission target among countries.

Why should a developed country think that it should suffer more to save the world from global warming? In the same way, why should a developing country should think that it should share the responsibility for the damage caused to the environment mostly by developed countries? This is not about being cynical, but being helpless when it comes to loosening of bootlaces in the midst of a neck to neck global competition.

Competition is something that global regulatory bodies see as necessary to bring about democracy in the market place. This is to make sure that consumers get maximum benefit out of each and every penny they spend. Telecom providers are vying to give out free calls and SMSs to subscribers, breeding a ‘free’ culture in the society.

Four years back, when I went to buy a mobile SIM card which cost 500 rupees, I had to go through certain cumbersome procedures. But last week, a marketing professional from a service providing firm spent a local call to see if I wanted a free SIM. So the current state of affairs has many customers wanting products at a nominal cost. This situation warrants mass production of goods and services to achieve profitability, bringing in a situation where factories all over the world would endlessly spit smoke to the sky.

So do we really need to wait for leaders to act? We, as consumers, can reduce emissions by resorting to a slew of measures like putting computers, electric bulbs, vehicle engines and other machines off while not in use. If the whole world were to do that, only that can take care of the increase in temperatures to a significant extent.