A Sufi with YouTube on his mind

November 18, 2009 at 8:59 am (Uncategorized)
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Farid Sabri (left) with his father Saeed. Photo courtesy: Banyan Tree.

Farid Sabri (47), one-third of the Jaipur-based qawwali troupe that includes his father Saeed (73) and brother Amin (45), has never heard of YouTube. But describe it to him and he’s all excited.

He has a hundred questions. What exactly does it do? Can you upload only audio? Do you have to pay to be on it?

Artistes across the world are still debating whether the video-sharing website is good for them, but for him there is no dilemma. “There’s no question that YouTube can dissolve boundaries and help people like me get the exposure they need.”

Tell Farid some singers believe crowds will no longer frequent their concerts because they can see their songs for free online, and he brushes it off. “Hearing a song and seeing it performed live are two different things,” he says. “If you see a video on YouTube and are impressed, you’ll make it a point to be at the singer’s concert.”

Farid is an unlikely convert to YouTube. He comes from a long line of Sufi qawwals — his is the seventh generation — and he’ll perform along with Saeed and Amin at Ruhaniyat, India’s largest Sufi and mystic music festival, on November 22 at Horniman Circle.

Qawwali, a highly traditional musical form that largely shuns non-acoustic arrangements, is not something you’d associate with video-sharing or online music distribution. But Farid is willing to try anything to make qawwali more popular.

Farid says his ancestors moved from Mathura and became part of Jaipur’s gunijan khana (artist pool) at the request of the durbar. They and their descendants performed at state functions and later across the country. The present generation of Sabris have taken their art international, performing in countries like Australia and the US.

“The reason qawwali needs more of a push than, say, pop,” says Farid, “is because it requires at least a little understanding of Urdu, Farsi, Arabic and poetry in general. Not everybody has this understanding, which is why qawwali does not have as large a fan base.”

The other factor, he says, is television. It is usually the first point of exposure for youngsters, but it rarely plays traditional music.

There’s an easy solution, says Farid. “If music channels could give classical music just a little air time, it could provide the spark that it needs.” It’s important, he says, to give a platform to “music that touches the heart” along with that which makes your feet tap.

It’s not as if Farid hasn’t flirted with popular music. He’s sung for films like Henna and Pardes, but he says he’d never shift to Mumbai. “Money would be the only reason and that’s not enough of a motivation for me. I’d rather be among friends and my family in Jaipur,” he says.

What draws him time and again to Mumbai, he says, is a stronger motive — devotion. “I visit the city from time to time to sing at its shrines. I’ve performed at Haji Ali as well as at the Mahim dargah. This is purely devotional and a tribute to our faith and ancestors,” says Farid.

This story first appeared in the Hindustan Times, Mumbai, on November 18, 2009.

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A Konkan state of mind

October 12, 2009 at 8:17 am (Uncategorized)
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Prabha Bandhankar (left) and her daughter Meena at their home in Pen. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Prabha Bandhankar (left) and her daughter Meena at their home in Pen. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Prabha Bandhankar’s (46) mood is as black as the angry clouds hovering over Pen. The retreating monsoon is preparing for one last assault on the town 80 km south of Mumbai, famous for its Ganesh idol-makers. Her husband Lakshman (54) is one of them.

The walls of her home are lined with shelves full of idols waiting to be painted, while from the ceiling hang unfinished idols of goddesses. Nobody in her family ever votes. “We don’t see why we should,” she says.

The hard rain that submerged Mumbai on July 26, 2005, destroyed 300 idols and several precious moulds in the Bandhankar household. Prabha says they were all insured but the insurance company refused to cover the Rs 2 lakh loss. “Politicians assured us of help, but did nothing,” she says. Ultimately, it was the consumer court that came to their rescue.

Prabha’s younger daughter, Veena (20), is mentally challenged. She used to go to a special school, but doesn’t any more. A few years ago, she saw her teacher beating a boy with a wire. The teacher warned her against telling anybody, but Veena couldn’t hold it in and informed her parents.

Terrified about the repercussions, Veena started getting fits and, when the trustees showed no empathy, her parents decided to take her out of the school.

Veena needs a school and medical treatment, but neither seem even a distant possibility where the Bandhankars live.

Says Meena (24), Prabha’s older daughter, “Sometimes I wonder why we need politicians. After all, we manage everything on our own… We just don’t care any more.”

*** 

Seated at the galla in his hotel at Wadkal, 5 kilometres down the road, its 35-year-old owner is at his profane best when talking about politicians. “Those #@*^& are only interested in lining their pockets,” he says. “I am an educated man — I hold a Master of Science degree — but I have never voted in my life. I am my own sarkar,” he says, refusing to be named.

“I recently applied for a home loan. My papers were in order but the bank officer kept stalling, angling for a bribe,” the hotelier says. “I asked him upfront whether he considers himself in the same class as a politician. That shamed him into passing my loan in two days.”

He says it’s time to take a stand. “We have a saying in Marathi that everybody wants a Shivaji-like revolutionary, but not in their own families,” he says. “We all want a revolution, but don’t want to be the revolutionaries. I won’t vote – that’s my revolution.”

*** 

As I drove 400 km south of Mumbai along winding mountain roads, it seemed as if a giant paintbrush had painted the world green. When I looked down into the valleys, I realised I had never seen more shades of the colour.

In Oni, a village on the edge of Ratnagiri district, a crowd gathered around a spanking new Tata Nano. The village folk said they had only heard of it before.

An exasperated Arvind Sakhalkar (53) got into the driver’s seat, saying: “People gather wherever I take it.”

Sakhalkar, a Pune-based former bank employee, was in the village to inspect a three-acre plot he had bought. On it, he is building a retirement home and will start an agro tourism property.

“I have seen illiterate villagers make trip after trip to the electricity board office, begging for a connection. Among them are widows and the desperately poor. When the connection never materialises, they simply break down,” said Sakhalkar.

I don’t know whether it’s an image that haunts him. But it’s one many will carry into the polling booth with them on October 13.

*** 

Tailpiece

Signs on the Mumbai-Goa highway:

  • Jaagte raho, kal ho na ho
  • Safety on the road is safe tea at home
  • This is a highway, not a die way
  • Control your nerves on curves (indeed!)
  • Raste pe nahi jaati kisi ki jaan, mera Bharat mahaan

This blog emerged from a report I did for the Hindustan Times’ pre-election series in September 2009.

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Ground reality

October 9, 2009 at 8:40 am (Uncategorized)
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Yogesh Chandak at the grocery store his family owns. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Yogesh Chandak at the grocery store his family owns. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Yogesh Chandak (33) can’t stop grinning. Sitting on large boxes of grain, surrounded by bars of soap in his family’s grocery shop, the real estate developer in Igatpuri animatedly explains how land prices have touched the sky in the town 133 kilometres north-east of Mumbai.

“An acre would cost Rs 8 lakh earlier. Now, you can’t buy an acre for less than Rs 40 lakh,” he says wide-eyed. “Some plots that touch the Mumbai-Nashik highway cost Rs 1 crore per acre!”

It’s the highway, which is being widened at a cost of Rs 752 crore, that has sparked off the real-estate feeding frenzy.

Recalls Chandak, “In 2004, we sold land to an investor for Rs 3 lakh an acre. When we wanted it back a couple of years later, we had to fork out Rs 17 lakh an acre.” But it was worth it, he laughs. Top-rung schools and industries are expected in the area and land values can only rise.

The highway, by making landowners rich and stimulating development, has had another, more profound effect. It’s changed the way people think about their vote.

Igatpuri, a town of 40,000 to 50,000 people, has an 80 per cent literacy rate but used to vote along traditional caste patterns, says Chandak, a former Shiv Sena corporator. “Now, all people want is development,” he smiles.

This election, says Chandak, Igatpuri’s priorities are clear: good schools and a decent hospital.

The unspoken message is clear: If politicians can’t deliver, they can expect to be voted out the next time around.

This blog emerged from a report I did for the Hindustan Times’ pre-election series in September 2009.

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It’s the economy, stupid!

October 7, 2009 at 8:12 am (Uncategorized)
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Narbadesh Upadhyay at Manas Lifestyle, Igatpuri. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Narbadesh Upadhyay at Manas Lifestyle, Igatpuri. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Narbadesh Upadhyay (41) squints at the highway marker that says Mumbai lies precisely 133 kilometres to the west.

The Mumbai-Nashik highway, also known as National Highway 3, is being widened. Work began in 2007 and the Rs 752 crore being spent on it is expected to generate trade and jobs once it is complete.

But Upadhyay says that is already happening. In the last year, says the front office manager of Manas Lifestyle resort at Igatpuri, business has grown by 10 per cent because of the faster access from Mumbai that the highway provides.

About 200 guests walk in on weekdays and 400 on weekends. Most of them make a beeline for the new coffee shop that the resort opened to cater to them. “We’ve also opened a bar-cum-restaurant and a buffet outlet,” says a proud Upadhyay.

It helps, he points out, that the seven- to eight-hour traffic jams that regularly plagued the highway are distant memories.

Most importantly, it’s created 10 more jobs at Manas. Many of those jobs have gone to Adivasi villagers, who had few means of sustenance earlier.

Chandrakant Jadhav, an Adivasi who works at Manas Lifestyle. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Chandrakant Jadhav, an Adivasi who works at Manas Lifestyle. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Chandrakant Jadhav (45), a bellboy, is one such Adivasi. A resident of Chichal village, he walks 30 km every day to work and back. But, he says, that’s a better life than the one he had earlier. “My village has 1,000 residents. Like most of them, I was unemployed, doing odd jobs whenever they were available. The most I made was Rs 2,500 a month. Now, I have a guaranteed salary of Rs 3,500,” says Jadhav.

That means his sons, he says with the glint of pride in his eyes, now go to college.

Several other Adivasis have found employment with Manas, but neither Upadhyay nor Jadhav give credit to politicians. “They come and go,” shrugs Jadhav. Adds Upadhyay, “Local politicians didn’t build this road [it’s a union government project], so why should we vote for them?”

Skepticism, it seems, can thrive amid hope.

This blog emerged from a report I did for the Hindustan Times’ pre-election series in September 2009.

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From highway star to struggler

October 5, 2009 at 8:44 am (Uncategorized)
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Ashish Halgekar (left), whose family owns the Shivaji Service Station petrol pump at Satara. On the right is the manager, Ashok Kulkarni. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Ashish Halgekar (left), whose family owns the Shivaji Service Station petrol pump at Satara. On the right is the manager, Ashok Kulkarni. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Three feet. It can be covered in a step. Yet, it changed forever the fortunes of Shivraj Service Station at Satara, 270 km south of Mumbai.

The fuel pump, on the Pune-Bangalore highway, won a trophy for achieving the highest growth in diesel sales in 1998-99 in western Maharashtra, selling 14 lakh litres a month for Indian Oil.

But, when the highway was widened and relaid, the road agency raised its height by three feet at the spot where the pump is located. That forced truckers and cars to take a small detour to get to the pump.

Eventually, they stopped coming and sales fell by half. Today, the pump has only local customers for the most part.

Ashok Kulkarni, the manager, says, the irony heavy in his voice: “You’d be hard put to find a better location for a fuel pump. But the raising of the road affected many businesses. A fuel pump 12 km down the road shut down, so did many dhabas.”

Kulkarni, who’s worked at the pump for 20 years, says none of the employees have got a raise in the last four years, though the owners made sure no jobs were lost.

“What’s the use of thinking about the elections,” he shrugs. “We have no hope from the government.”

This blog emerged from a report I did for the Hindustan Times’ pre-election series in September 2009.

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A smile as wide as the highway

October 2, 2009 at 9:11 am (Uncategorized)
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Deepak Chitwade, who sells garlands at Taswade toll naka, 325 km south of Mumbai. Photo by Anhsuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Deepak Chitwade, who sells garlands at Taswade toll naka, 325 km south of Mumbai. Photo by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

For some, survival is all-consuming. An election is merely a marker that whooshes past on the highway of life – sighted one instant, forgotten the next. Deepak Chitwade’s is the story of millions. Illiteracy, poverty, struggle are words far removed from our reality, but they describe the grim, crushing life that people like Chitwade lead. Yet, I have never seen a smile wider than his.

At the Taswade toll naka, 325 km south of Mumbai, Deepak Chitwade (42) says the Pune-Bangalore highway is what puts food on his table.

He scurries from truck to truck as they slow down at the toll booth, urging drivers to buy the garlands of bright yellow marigolds that he’s hawking.

He lets on that he is illiterate and used to be a tutaari (traditional Maharashtrian trumpet) player in a wedding band. That wasn’t steady income and he had no other skill to exploit. With two children to raise, he needed to think of something else fast.

“Now I sell Rs 5 garlands to truck drivers, making a profit of Rs 2 per garland,” he says.

Chitwade says his father was a drunkard, which meant his then young shoulders never carried a school bag. Instead, he bore the burden of running a home.

Chitwade says his illiteracy doesn’t allow him to make an informed choice during the Maharashtra elections that will be held on October 13. “I get so confused when I’m at the polling booth, I just press the first button I see,” he laughs.

 This blog emerged from a report I did for the Hindustan Times’ pre-election series in September 2009.

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The changing face of the highway

September 30, 2009 at 9:15 am (Uncategorized)

A highway can mean different things to different people. I found that the story changed every few kilometres on the Pune-Bangalore highway. The road that runs south through Maharashtra, cutting through sugarcane country and emerging urban centres like Kohapur, has touched lives in different ways and affected electoral priorities.

Lakshman Pandhare, deputy sarpanch of Garade village, says water supplies are desperately short. Photo by Anshuman Poyrekar for Hindustan Times.

Lakshman Pandhare, deputy sarpanch of Garade village, says water supplies are desperately short. Photo by Anshuman Poyrekar for Hindustan Times.

Lakshman Pandhare (60), deputy sarpanch of Garade village, 220 km south of Mumbai, squints to see through the darkness that has engulfed the gram panchayat (village council) office at 11 in the morning. Power cuts, he explains, often last up to 16 hours a day.

The highway, says Pandhare, has changed the way they sell their crops.  It would take villagers all day to get to the Pune market earlier. “Now, we can leave early in the morning and return by 10 am,” he says.

This, points out Vidyadhar Ambedkar, manager of the Union Bank of India’s Garade branch, has resulted in a 30-40 per cent rise in savings. Checking the data on a flashing computer screen, he says deposits have risen from Rs 4 crore three years ago to Rs 5.30 crore today.

But, points out Pandhare, there are larger issues that overshadow the highway’s benefits for Garade’s 5,000 residents.

Inadequate rainfall has left their fields parched. “We have water only for 15 days. We desperately need a few small dams in this region. Highways can bring markets and hospitals closer, but the government should think about the basics first,” says Pandhare.

Looking across his 0.75-acre field, Balwant Ghare (48) is agitated. Ten tons of onions are lying in the open, unsold because he’s not getting the price he needs to cover his costs. “All I’m getting is Rs 90 per 10 kg. My cost price is Rs 100; I should get at least Rs 125 for agriculture to have any meaning,” he says.

What makes him angrier is the “politicisation of onion prices”. “It doesn’t matter that all prices — from sugar to dal — have risen. It’s only when onion prices rise that governments get jittery,” he thunders. “Why should we not be allowed to sell onions in other states where we may get better prices?”

Rajendra Shewat, panchayat member of Bhuinj village, at the Wai Panchayat Samiti office. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

Rajendra Shewat, panchayat member of Bhuinj village, at the Wai Panchayat Samiti office. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

In Wai, 300 km from Mumbai, none of this is an issue. There are dams aplenty for the sugarcane crop. It has to be – sugarcane cooperatives are too politically powerful to not be looked after.

Rajendra Shewat (41), panchayat member of Bhuinj village, says villagers are only angry that the government didn’t consult them before widening the highway.

Sitting in the dark, damp Wai Panchayat Samiti office — no electricity here either — he says no pedestrian bridges or subways were built. Now, Bhuinj’s 3,600 students flirt with death every day while trying to get to their school across the road.

“There are no signs warning motorists of turns either. As a result, there are major accidents every day,” says Shewat. “Chhe baje ke baad motorcycle chalaana matlab maut ko saath le ke chalna hai.” (Riding the bike after 6 pm is like having death as your pillion.)

The quick ride — you can get to Kolhapur from Mumbai in six hours — means many highway businesses, like dhabas, have shut down. “People just don’t need to stop anymore,” sighs Pramod Shinde (42), Panchayat Samiti head. “The two things going for the government,” he says, “are the loan waiver for farmers and the savings on transport that the highway allows.”

This blog emerged from a report I did for the Hindustan Times’ pre-election series in September 2009.

A stretch of the Pune-Bangalore highway near Wai. Photograph by Anhsuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

A stretch of the Pune-Bangalore highway near Wai. Photograph by Anshuman Poyrekar for the Hindustan Times.

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Viaduct to Wales

September 28, 2009 at 8:36 am (Uncategorized)

 

Yatin Jambhale, of Jambhulwadi, is the first graduate in his village. He will leave next month for Wales, where he will do his MBA. Photo by Anshuman Poyrekar for Hindustan Times’ Maha Yatra series.

Yatin Jambhale, of Jambhulwadi, is the first graduate in his village. He will leave next month for Wales, where he will do his MBA. Photo by Anshuman Poyrekar for Hindustan Times’ Maha Yatra series.

 

Three road trips, eight days, 2,600 kilometres.

Hidden in those statistics lie a hundred stories and an experience that changed the way I look at small-town and rural india.

These were pre-state-election reporting tours that I undertook for the Hindustan Times, Mumbai. I hope, through a series of blogs, to tell some of the stories that were crowded out of the newspaper or only found a mention.

This is the first of those.

At Jambhulwadi, 200 km south of Mumbai on the Pune-Bangalore highway, Yatin Jambhale (23) looks up at a viaduct towering 100 feet above his one-storey home.

He is the first graduate in the 250-home hamlet that was named after his family, which grows wheat on 10 acres of farmland.

A small patch has been rented out to a construction company, which mixes concrete on it for projects in Pune and pays the Jambhales Rs 30,000 per month only because the site is so close to the highway.

That’s also what prompted Idea, Aircel, Airtel and Vodafone to rent out a few acres from the Jambhales for cellphone towers. That gets them another Rs 19,000 per month.

The family has gone from being dependent on its farm to being financially secure.

As his family mills about on the porch, Jambhale, sporting a branded T-shirt and track pants, says he now plans to do his MBA. A bank, encouraged by the money the land is generating, has loaned him Rs 6 lakh.

Where will he study?

“Wales,” he says nonchalantly, ignoring the surprised look on my face. “I’ll specialise in human resources.”

Will the opportunity the Pune-Bangalore highway, relaid and widened in late 2008, offered affect his vote during the Maharashtra elections that will be held on October 13? Jambhale says it won’t. “With every generational change, such development is inevitable,” he shrugs, astride his new Yamaha FZ16. “Nobody did us any favours. The road was needed, it had to happen.”

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Same old story

July 31, 2009 at 4:30 pm (Yeh hai Mumbai meri jaan)
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It doesn’t matter if you can afford the house. It doesn’t matter what kind of a person you are. If you’re a Muslim, there are several people who don’t want you living next door.

This was highlighted once again when actor Emraan Hashmi was blocked from buying a flat in an upscale Bandra building allegedly because he is Muslim.

And it’s not just about people refusing to sell houses to Muslims. Many won’t buy Muslim-owned property either.

My family owns land in Panvel and about a decade ago we decided to sell it. We placed an ad in a newspaper and got several inquiries from potential buyers. One of them called my father and showed great interest. But, as soon as he heard we’re Muslims, he slammed down the phone.

This was around the time my father had applied for a credit card from a multinational bank. In time, a rejection with ‘Muslim self-employed’ scrawled across the envelope arrived.

I called up the bank and even went to its office. On learning that I was a journalist, its executives said they outsourced their background checks to other agencies and refused to accept any blame. An executive called and apologised to my father and offered to issue a card immediately. A team from the bank landed up at the office of the newspaper I then worked for and expressed regret.

I always thought that money — if nothing else — would break down barriers. After all, property dealers and credit card companies stood to earn great amounts. But I was stunned that they’d rather let that money go than do business with us.

As for the rejections by potential landlords and flat sellers, I’ve had my share of them too.

In October 2005, my wife, then two-year-old daughter and I shifted back from Pune and were hunting for a home.

We decided to look at houses in Vile Parle and Santa Cruz first because they seemed affordable. We may as well have not tried.

Brokers would hear our names and give us the “frankly speaking, you’d be better off elsewhere” line.

Some brokers took us dutifully to housing societies. Usually, the flat owners would be polite and give us a tour of the house. But many of them, as soon as they heard our names, took the broker aside and whispered something in his ear. The expression on those flat-owners’ faces was enough to tell us the deal wouldn’t go through.

One of them even told my wife flatly: “We won’t give you our house because you are Muslim.”

Most other times, as our broker gave us a knowing look, they’d smile sheepishly and say: “We’d love to strike a deal but, sadly, building residents object to non-vegetarians.” The ‘non-vegetarians not allowed’ line, we were told later, is the one most commonly used to keep Muslims out.

We gave up after a while.

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Teaching the teachers

May 27, 2009 at 9:09 am (Stray thoughts)
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I had an unusual request last week — to lecture a group of about 40 secondary school teachers who were undergoing a government course at the Directorate of Technical Education in South Mumbai.

A number of professionals from different fields had spoken to them, and I was asked to speak on mass media.

I was more than apprehensive. It’s one thing lecturing teenagers, but teachers are a different ball game altogether. Their thoughts are more evolved — teenagers’ opinions are still evolving and they subconsciously know that, which makes them a lot more open to what you’re saying. (Before that remark sets off a storm of protest, let me qualify that — I don’t mean teenagers don’t think hard about things that should matter to them; it’s just that at a younger age your thoughts are more flexible.)

There was another complication. Like my last talk to a group of students and parents, the teachers by and large were not comfortable with English. They came from across Marathi, Hindi, Urdu and some English schools.

So, when I walked into the classroom last Monday (May 25, 2009), I was on tenterhooks. I became even more nervous when the entire group stood up and wished me good morning — yes, just like their students would greet them!

I spoke for about five minutes in broken Hindi and asked them if they had any questions. They had been waiting for the chance.

Most of them were very curious about how we arrived at our news decisions. Many of them admonished me — actually, journalists in general — for publishing “indecent” photographs in the feature sections. “Our students are corrupted by this,” complained one teacher. “Do you apply any standards of morality when you plan such sections,” asked another.

My response was what it has always been down the years: “How many of you’ll have ever bothered to walk into a newspaper office and voice your displeasure? Or written to the editors? A newspaper can be highly interactive, provided you take the trouble of talking to it. It’s pretty obvious, but most readers actually don’t bother.”

There was another point I made: Your opinion is not necessarily the same as everybody else’s.

Also, let’s not forget, a newspaper is an easily-supervised medium. You can simply deny your children or students access to the sections you find offensive. It’s a lot tougher to do that with the internet (parental-supervision software is as vulnerable as child-proof bottle caps).

The teachers seemed pretty satisfied with that answer and moved on to how they could guide their students on careers in the media. Apparently, a lot of students ask them this and they wanted to know everything there was to know — from the qualifications required and the starting salaries to the best mass media institutes in the country.

Many of them were furiously jotting down notes and the very strong vibe I got was that they cared deeply about their students.

The teachers came from places as far away as Raigad district. Alibaug, which is its headquarters, is over 100 km from Mumbai by road. And they had been making this journey every day for several days just so that they could be better teachers in the end.

It was humbling. I know I could never make such a commitment myself.

This July, I start teaching mass media again — at the Mumbai Educational Trust in Bandra. I know that just because I speak English better I will not make a better teacher than the ones I encountered that day. Those guys are a tough act to match.

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