The scam right under our nose!

Recently my Instagram feed has been hit by a wave of posts, all of them from my 21 to 24-year-old friends who are buying superbikes and luxury cars. Once the shock and awe washed away, I sat down to dig deeper into the source of this opulence. How were guys this young able to buy vehicles that remain a distant dream even for experienced salaried employees? I soon learnt that they all work for a multi-level marketing (MLM) company called Team Ocean. Eyebrows raised! Multi-level marketing companies are notorious for being fronts for Ponzi schemes and scams. They can be so powerful and so deeply entrenched so as to bring a whole country to standstill. Albania saw a slew of pyramid schemes (another name for MLMs) starting from the early 1990s ultimately leading to unrests in 1997. The entire economy was crippled by this menace. While Ocean doesn’t pose as big a threat, the implications on the lives of the people involved has to be considered.

A pyramid scheme has a simple operating structure. There is a company at the centre of the whole fiasco. This company lures people to invest money in the scheme, with the promise of giving a share whenever new recruits join. In a more elaborate way, company A lures customer X into investing in the scheme, with the promise that whenever new customers join, X shall get a share. So, when new customers, Y, Z, V, etc join, X gets a share of the new payment. Pretty sweet deal for X isn’t it? It’s an even sweeter deal for the company directors who head a system that is essentially self-serving. Since it is in X’s interest that new people join the scheme, he himself will work tirelessly to bring the likes of Y, Z and V into the fold. The problem arises as you move lower down the pyramid. Earth has a finite number of people on it. More importantly, the number of people interested in this business are even less. So, as you reach the lower rungs of this pyramid, there are no new recruits to sustain the system. This is an even bigger problem, because the lower rungs have more people than the higher ones, like a typical pyramid. Soon the people in the lower rung realise that they are not being given the returns they were promised. Normally, these people will then start demanding their investment back at which point the directors flee the country and the kingpins go to jail. Phew!

Are my friends’ part of the higher rungs where money making is possible? Seems so. But this system is essentially the same as robbing someone with the promise that he can rob someone else to get even more money back. The Bombay High court in a hearing against QNet, an international MLM company, said that, “It is a chain where a person is fooled and then he is trained to fool others to earn money” So why does it continue to exist despite such blatant disregard for laws and logic? The fact is these MLMs keep the customers happy and have cult-like relationships. The bonds that they create within the team are supposedly very strong, which ensures that there are no questions asked. Another strategy they use, is what I will call the ‘victim card’. The people who are part of MLMs rant on about how society thought they would fail, and how they questioned them when they started the business. But the fact that they have bought a luxury car within months has proven the naysayers wrong. It also makes them the personification of determination and desire. To the readers who might be dubbing these kids as dumb, they have been reeled in by a rather lucrative deal. Couple of people I know, have motorcycles that nobody else in the whole state of Kerala have. And which job lets you buy an 80-lakh luxury car within a year of joining? So, we have to be understanding of the ‘carrots’ that were offered to these people.

The other important fact regarding MLMs are the marketing strategies. They spent crores on marketing, bringing in stars like Shah Rukh Khan and Anil Kapoor to talk about aspirations, dreams and a better lifestyle. And this better lifestyle is key, because that is the glue that holds this castle of illusion together. Everyone who joins this business yearn for a better lifestyle without having to work much for it. The Instagram handle of Team Ocean regularly churns out pictures of their young guns, driving BMWs and Audis at tender ages. And also, of their director chilling in infinity pools in Bangkok and Singapore. The emphasis is not on work, or the business as such…the focus is squarely on the life that awaits you. Recently, the police had even served notices to Shah Rukh, Boman Irani, Jackie Shroff and others for endorsing QNet. They are not complicit in this scam however. They are only guilty of endorsing a product they had no clue about, nothing new for celebrities who endorse fairness creams and ‘chick-magnetic’ deodorants.

The functioning of these MLMs is heavily dependent on the ability of existing customers to lure others in. And they can sometimes be very convincing! Several people I talked to have the same story to tell. The recruiters utilise the personal rapport that they already have with someone to lure them into the scheme. They openly flaunt expensive watches and vehicles to seduce the new comers. The process is nothing sort of an indoctrination where you are told multiple times that money is coming your way, you just have to accept it. They are so confident of returns that they even ask new comers to borrow money and invest in the scheme. One friend I talked to was asked to transfer money immediately so he can be higher up in the pyramid! This probably suggests that the logic of the scheme is not lost on the existing subscribers. The indoctrination is also made out to be a kind of DIY system. My friend was asked about the world’s leading watch brand. Apparently, Ocean sells this brand of watch. In exchange for the money that you put in, you are given products like washing machines as a guarantee if you lose money. This is complete hogwash and is only aimed at giving the impression of hedging. Most often, once the money starts rolling in, people don’t bother with getting the products. I myself had such an encounter a few months back. I found a friend of mine at my door asking for a lofty amount of cash so that he can invest in the scheme. Luckily, I did not budge. Thus, the recruitment model for these MLMs are built with a lot of thought, and with a lot of personal nuances intertwined in them. More importantly, they make a conscious effort to distance themselves from QNet, they might even diss QNet a bit. The reason is that QNet’s name has been tarnished by multiple cases, and their website is also banned in India. QNet does not have traction in India anymore. But Team Ocean seems like a whole different animal.

I would urge all the readers to visit the website of Ocean after reading this article. Other than some generic pictures of non-Indians whose purpose is beyond me, you can find the products they sell. The company whose employees zoom around in luxury cars, sells turmeric powder, chilli powder and other spices, under a category called ‘masala’. They also sell clothes, most of which were under thousand rupees, and all of which I found on other websites. Ocean also sells sarees called ‘Priyanka Saree’, which are basically multiple colours of the same saree, all of which have been shown to be worn by Priyanka Chopra. These are available on many other websites for the same cost, but surprisingly, they have zero customer reviews. So that’s how Ocean makes money for its subscribers. By selling spices and cheap sarees!

Mission abort!

Let me just say at the outset, that what the politicians in U.S are doing is administrative overreach. A decision that should ideally be left to the couple or the individual who is affected by it, has been hijacked by the state. And this is a systemic problem, stemming from a gaping disconnect between the people and their representatives. This disconnect is the sole reason why the common people of Britain were asked to choose 'yes' or 'no' to a complex question with inter-national ramifications, while US politicians decided to make a simple life altering personal decision for you. Brexit should have been left to politicians, and abortion should have been left to individuals. Every case of abortion is different from the other. The circumstances leading up to it and the mental preparedness of the people involved are so different that a blanket decision is simply not possible. The politicians who claim they are pro-life are simply hiding behind a mask of misogyny. It's difficult to accept that Trump and his hardcore Republican followers care more for unborn babies and foetuses, than living breathing people who try to buy into the American dream.

This does not however mean that the pro-life agenda is wrong. In fact, in its unadulterated form, the idea is commendable. Giving value to an unborn life is important, as it does not have any advocates for itself. God has given no voice to unborn life-forms, maybe under the assumption that their parents would value its life over anything else. But what if there is a payoff? What if the unborn's life comes at the cost of the mother's life? Should we just let it happen, saying that it's fate? By that logic, every disease should remain untreated. While it's nice to say that even unborn babies should have the right to live, we don't actually mean it. Human beings have rarely thought beyond their immediate family, and that's how we are programmed genetically. At the end of an earthquake, you don't look for your neighbours...you look for your family. That's not being selfish, it's just being a normal human being. So while I can understand where the pro-life argument is coming from, I don't understand why it would only apply to abortions, and not to other things, like clinical testing on animals, or animal slaughter, or even racism. The biggest hypocrisy in this entire fiasco, is the fact that conservative racists in America who function with the prejudice that white lives are more important than black lives, suddenly feel that an unborn baby has an equal right to live.

Then there is of course the idea of choice. A woman's choice to not have a child, or a couple's choice to abort a child. Here the line becomes a bit grey. While pregnancies arising out of rape or incest are excludible due to obvious reasons, what about sex selective abortions? If my lifestyle choices can be a reason to abort a child, then why not my preference of the child's gender? The reason for sex selective abortion usually goes beyond the foetus and is part of a larger social problem of exclusion and preferential treatment. In most South Asian countries, this would virtually topple the sex ratio to a point of no return. Abortions for lifestyle reasons are indeed sad, but have to be respected. Every human life is sacred, and the solution to an untimely pregnancy should ideally be contraception and not abortion. But once a decision is taken, it must be respected as a personal one. The society is allowed to have an opinion on it, but not a part in the decision-making. That should remain with the concerned people. The politicians in the U.S have not thought about the consequences of their decision. An issue like this must be discussed and debated, but never decided. There is no right or wrong here, but only personal agency and liberty.

Would I abort an untimely pregnancy I might have with my partner? Maybe not. But it's easy for me to say that when I'm not the one giving by body on loan for ten months. Abortions are an extremely personal matter. There are morals involved, relatives with opinions involved....emotions that run high at times. But ultimately it's a decision that affects only the people who are responsible for the pregnancy. So maybe for a change, let's not make decisions for other people. Maybe this time, let them make their own choice, and keep your righteous or unrighteous opinion to yourself!

Why NOTA is the biggest loser in every election!

India just conducted the biggest electoral process in the history of mankind, and so let's take a moment to laud ourselves for spending over 7 billion dollars to elect people like Pragya Thakur, Karti Chidambaram and A. Raja. These lawmakers don't in any way discredit the idea of democracy, or its importance in a modern world. They simply draw attention to the lack of viable options in the world's largest democracy. Now one could argue that people who voted for Pragya Thakur, were indeed voting for Modi, and that she was a mere intermediary. But these intermediaries are the pillars of Indian democracy. Irrespective of the power wielded by the man sitting in the PM's chair, the 'intermediaries' put him there. Just look at what's happening in West Bengal and Madhya Pradesh, and you'll understand the value of 'intermediaries'. The alternative to Pragya in Bhopal was Digvijay Singh, a man so hated apparently, that even pro-Godse statements from his opponent couldn't help him! It was Mr Singh's 'exemplary' governance that had ushered in 15 years of BJP rule in the state, and the Congress decided that he was the man for the job. The victory of tainted leaders like Karti Chidambaram, A. Raja and Kanimozhi are examples of why our electoral system needs a revamp, and not a notional one!

In 2014, NOTA, or None of the above, polled around 1.08% of the vote share in India. In 2019, it remained more or less same at 1.04%. But beyond their numerical presence, what does NOTA hope to achieve in Indian politics? How are the people who vote for NOTA any different from the people who don't bother to vote? Non-voters are essentially disenchanted by the whole system and the wide umbrella of parties contesting the elections; or in some cases- lazy! But NOTA voters are active participants who want to contribute to politics and nation building. They are voting for 'none of the above' candidates, which is an expression of their anger at the candidates put forth by the political parties. It cannot be interpreted as distaste for politics in general, or parties in particular. So what can a guy do when a worthless bigot like Pragya, or a greedy leech like Karti is declared as the candidate for the party you want to see at the Centre? Maybe angle for a change in candidate? This is exactly what NOTA should be empowered to do. If NOTA polls more votes than all other candidates, all parties must be forced to put forward new candidates. This would justify the idea of NOTA in our electoral process, and would help it serve a bigger function than shaming mainstream parties. Shame is not something our leaders are worried about. Look at Rahul who is having a hard time, not just in winning elections, but even in resigning from his position. You think Rahul Gandhi is privileged? The guy doesn't even have the agency to leave his family business!

As long as NOTA remains a showpiece for flashy election coverage, its purpose remains unfulfilled. The Supreme Court of India is equally culpable in letting this stupidity continue. In a reply to a PIL asking for what I have stated above, the Court said that it was 'unworkable' and gave a sermon about how elections are a serious and expensive affair. It's an argument that belies its own logic. Since elections are a serious affair, let's go on with a candidate whom the people have clearly rejected? And since elections are expensive, let's go ahead with a candidate who has already scammed us out of hundreds of crores?

Every politician harps on about how the electorate is almighty. They butter up the electorate and dangle their sugary lollipops once every five years. But what about in constituencies where the electorate has vehemently rejected mainstream parties? The people remain important as long as their verdict is consistent with the leaders' political goals. But NOTA is not a rejection of political ideals, or representative democracy. It should be considered as the electorate's demand for a change in stance, or a change in personnel. In fact, NOTA can be encouraging for parties, as it's not an outright rejection. Imagine sitting down for an exam and keying in NOTA, only to see a more popular, yet wrong answer get marked green! That's what India is doing!

A tournament no one watched!

“An India-New Zealand T20 screening would probably have attracted a bigger crowd”, said one of my friends as we entered the SDAT stadium in Nungambakkam where the finals of the Chennai Open was being held. Coloured empty seats stared at us as we walked around the court to the covered part of the stands. It would be a safe conclusion to say that the free tickets had not incentivized the cricket hardened Chennaites. The fact that India were engaged in a thrilling chase with the New Zealand cricket team in a series decider probably did not help. Nor the fact that two local boys had crashed out in the semis; one of them despite being top seeded. The stadium itself seemed to be in good condition, except for the visible disuse for over god knows how long. There was a thick layer of dust over the seats on either side of the court. With proper maintenance and regular matches, the stadium would probably look much better. Despite the unimpressive backstory, this WAS an ATP Challenger event. At the end of the day’s play, rankings would change and there was a modest cash prize to be taken home.

The game itself, was one of dichotomy. The Frenchman, Corentin Moutet and his opponent, Andrew Harris from Australia were chalk and cheese. Even before the match started, the difference in physique was obvious. At around 5 foot 7, Moutet was considerably smaller than Harris who stood at 6 feet. But the first few points quite clearly showed the disparity between the two players. Moutet was agile. He waded across the court with ease and grace. He returned with hawkish precision, and sometimes slowed down the pace with well-placed backhand slices. One player was significantly better than the other. And almost everyone in the stadium realized that within the first 15 minutes. Harris relied on power to send the balls deep into Moutet’s side. But the instinctive baseliner seemed more than happy running behind the baseline and sending back thundering forehands. The Aussie indeed had a beautiful backhand. The single hander looked pristine, but rarely hit the mark. And the low slices from the other end simply did not find its way back. Moutet also did not hesitate to make moves towards the net, which almost always fetched him a point. He finally broke Harris and made it 4-3. After a consolidating service game, Moutet broke again to take the first set 6-3. It might not qualify as a complete battering, but only one man changed his sweaty t-shirt at the end of the first set. And it was not the man who probably skis in the French Alps.

The second set was an even more dominant affair. A confident Moutet raced away to a 4-0 lead, and the audience now turned firmly in favour of the Australian. Shouts of ‘c’mon Harris’ could be heard from different quarters. But his temperament came under severe scrutiny as he let out a volley of screams after a couple of unforced errors. At one point, he threw his racquet onto the ground. Clearly, Harris could feel the game slipping away from him.  But then came the most engaging passage of play in the match. Spurred on by the crowd, Harris made a commendable comeback. He held serve at 4-0 and broke back to make it 4-2. With two back to back games, Harris seemed to have arrested the momentum that Moutet had been gathering. But the Frenchman’s superior technique once again came to the fore as he placed balls deep into Harris’ court. The elegant backhand still lacked efficiency as many of his returns went wide or hit the net. Moutet held his serve to make it 5-2. Harris almost lost the second set 6-2 as he faced a break point in the 8^th game. But he held his nerve to stay in the match.

At 5-3, Moutet had the championship within his grasps. Harris managed to save one match point in the 9^th game, but it just delayed the inevitable. Harris’ slice return fell tamely at the bottom of the net, and the ordeal was over. On his part Moutet was quite measured in his celebration. The two men met at the net and shook hands. Harris probably could have made a better match out of this, but tennis is often dictated by the stars, and they were categorically in the Frenchman’s favour.

The young men were draped in traditional silk dhotis during the award ceremony, and the presence of India’s legend Vijay Amritraj added some flair to the proceedings. Mr Amrtitraj made sure that all of his 007 swagger was on display. Harris, the former doubles champion at junior Wimbledon and junior Roland Garros talked about how injury has plagued his career, while the champion himself was as tacit as a European diplomat. While the Chennai Open did end without any glitches or controversies, there are a few things that demand attention. The tournament wasn’t marketed well enough, and it would be a safe bet to assume that many Chennaites weren’t even aware of the Challenger happening in their backyard. Systematic neglect of sports other cricket is a major reason why Indians are unable to enjoy them. Despite the availability of a state-of-the-art stadium that can seat upwards of 5500 people, the competition saw no popular support.

The Taste of Life in Marakkanam

In 1930, a frail freedom seeker from Gujarat decided to walk all the way to the coastal town of Dandi. His colonial masters dismissed his plan as unpopular. But they never realised the symbolism behind the march. Salt was not just another condiment in the larder. It was opulence on the tongue of common men, it was a symbol of freedom in a commoditized world. And as the days stretched to weeks, the British were left unprepared for the chaos that followed. Salt had managed to galvanise Indians across the board. Religious differences, and regional prejudices gave way to the yearning for freely available salt. The infamous salt tax had shown the world that something as simple and common as salt, can do what tall leaders and economic reverses never could- mobilise the masses. Almost a century later, the feeling has not changed. Salt is still the most common ingredient in our diet. The importance of salt is even embedded in common culture and literature. Readers might define this article as ‘salt less’ if they feel it lacks certain desirable attributes. Thus salt has become a lot more than just another thing to mix in with our food.

Kids have textbooks that make generic statements of how salt comes from the seawater. This is a gross oversimplification of the long and strenuous process that ends with packaged salt on our tables. Only men and women who work in the salt pans, under the pelting sun can tell you how the abundance of the sea gives way to crystals of white salt. One such salt pan can be seen alongside the beautiful East coast road which runs along the Bay of Bengal from Chennai. Marakkanam is a typical rural enclave in Tamil Nadu, around 30 kilometres away from Pondicherry.

 The first thing that attracts a visitor is the visibly old Bhoomieshwer temple, built around 1000 years ago by the Cholas. With creepers hugging on to its short dome, and rays of sunlight bursting through the ancient architecture; the temple gives out a very soothing vibe. Around half a kilometre from the temple, we found the salt pans. A vast stretch of literally nothingness. Just mud and sand, demarcated into shallow plots. Some of them were brimming with water, some were dry to the point of an uneasiness in our throat. On the other end of the pan, we could see the sea, unwilling to flow inland and loitering at the edge. The strong sea breeze was largely successful in countering the almost visible heat!

The plots themselves were much like quicksand. One could easily slip an entire foot into it. The hardened and dry paths crisscrossing the plots are a much better bet. But there wasn’t any salt in the whole area. As beautiful as salt pans are, it’s the salt that lends them their aesthetics. A salt pan without salt is just a huge swathe of barren land. An enquiry however revealed that January and February are the months of initiation. The bulk of the salt production happens in and around June and July, when the high tide brings the sea water into the salt pans. The Marakkanam salt pans are the third largest in the state and is sold in many surrounding areas, including Chennai. In the first months of the year, Marakkanam doesn’t look equipped to satisfy the needs of a village, yet alone a metropolis like Chennai. A few dozen workers can be seen repairing what looks like medieval pumps. Long pipes stick out of the ground and dump groundwater onto the pans. Once the plots are filled to the brim, the pumps are turned off, and then the sun gets to work. So yes, in the so-called off season, most of the salt that Marakkanam produces comes from underground water than sea water. But this is not as lucrative as making salt from the sea water, as explained to us by one of the workers, Selvam.

“For one, we have to operate the motors, and that too for long periods every day. Diesel isn’t getting any cheaper, and these old pumps eat up a lot of fuel.”

“Further, the sea water has a lot more salt content and gives us more output from every plot.”

Thus the first few months are mainly toil, without any reward. This seasonal fluctuation has apparently pushed many people away from the profession, like Selvam’s son. But many flock to the pans once the sea level rises and the money starts coming. But there should be no misconceptions about the returns from the pans. Most of the workers are hired labour who have no connection with the land or the future of their produce. Apparently the salt pans are owned by individuals who have leased them out to landlords who in turn work the plots with the hired labour. It’s a well-oiled machinery which seems to be working well for at least some people.

“The male workers get 400 rupees a day for their work, while the female workers get exactly the half. We work 2 and a half hours in the morning and the same after lunch”, says Selvam as he asks us to wait while he gets his tools. Selvam’s tools are pretty simple, but the process requires great care. He steps right into one of the slippery plots which seemed ripe for salt harvesting. Most of the water had evaporated from the plot. What was left was stone sized salt crystals loosely scattered in the water that remained. As Selvam stepped into the pond, his footprints were invisible. 

He tiptoed around like a matador and used his long rake to sweep the salt crystals onto the hardened bank. Incidentally, when we walked into the pond, the prints we left behind started sucking in the water and the salt. The more nimble we tried to be, the matters just got worse. “It requires a lot of experience and care”, said Selvam as he danced around the plot, as if rubbing ‘salt’ into our wounds! Once he had raked all the salt to the side, he used his feet to push it onto the bank.

This would have to be done in all the salt ponds, and there were plenty of them! “This is a dying a profession now. The new generation is simply not interested in all this hard work” Selvam’s disappointment is quite evident on his face. “Right now, a 120kg sack is sold for 150 rupees”, says Selvam. “So there isn’t enough money for the youth to be interested in it” With this he moved onto the next pond, bare feet, the rake towing alongside him. Selvam knows just one thing in the world, to harvest salt. He does not have the luxury to complain about fatigue, nor the time to take care of his dry feet.

The salt that is harvested from Marikkanam is marketed by a local mandi, called the MVTC salt mandi. They have a shoddy little office cum warehouse where sacks of salt are stored and later transported. They also have a couple of lorries which take the salt to places as far as Kadappa and Tirupati. The officers at the mandi claim that they buy the salt from the producers and sell it at merely 7 to 8 rupees extra. The mandi sells a sack of 110kg at 180-190 rupees, which is considerably more than the selling price quoted by Selvam. Whether this is ignorance on the part of the workers, or a case of gross exploitation is indeed a puzzling question. “The salt business is not doing that well. The prices fluctuate a lot and the new GST system has really complicated our functioning”, said an officer of the Mandi.

Salt is present in almost everything we eat. It is this unavoidable quality of salt that has made it a part of not just our diet, but also our society and polity. Salt as a food item has largely remained sacred and people and corporates have treated it with much reverence. But the story behind the flavor of our food is quite dull. Workers are leaving salt pans in search for better jobs. The job has become seasonal with only a few veterans still turning up diligently. Considering the magnitude of its consumption, 400 rupees a day for salt harvesting seems like a meagre pay. Further, the blatant and shameless difference in the wages of men and women makes you question how salt became the vehicle of social change almost a century back. One of the major problems is the complete lack of government regulation. For once, India could actually do with some extra bureaucracy! Government regulation would probably go a long way in securing stable and equal wages, and also eliminate the money siphoned off by middlemen.

So Marikkanam in January and February is an underwhelming sight. There are no beds of crystals or towering heaps of salt. But what you will find are a few dozen people hard at work. People who work to make our food delicious. So the next time you feel the impeccable taste of salt on your tongue, maybe spare a thought for people like Selvam who make it possible.

The Last Burmese?

The train slowed down as the Chennai beach station came into sight. The morning rush was evident, as passengers clasped around poles and railings in an effort to hold on. As the train finally came to a halt, the madness began. People jumped onto the platform with little regard for safety. The bridges connecting the platforms seemed pointless as people rushed across active rail lines. Students, going to schools, men and women rushing to work, and even vendors trying to push their merchandise; the Beach station was as busy as always.

Step out through the exit, and the iconic Burma Bazaar comes into sight! It was in 1969, that the Tamil Nadu government built this market for the Burmese community who had settled there. Thousands of Burmese families had migrated to Chennai in the mid-1960s. The market gradually became the focal point of their livelihood and their culture. It has evolved over the years and has created its own niche. Lined parallel to the road, there are around 200 shops which sell imported merchandise like mobile phones and perfumes. The shopkeepers continuously beckon you into their shops as you walk through the narrow pavement. People can be seen packing CDs, repairing gadgets, and making last minute preparations before the rush hour.

I strained my ears to catch nuggets of a language which my ears would shrug off. Tamil, and Hindi were easily recognizable; but nothing that stood out as foreign. For a market, almost exclusively run by the Burmese community, this seemed strange.

Right opposite the centre of the bazaar, is the Tamil Burmese workers’ union. A couple of desks, arranged with aesthetic disdain, piles of folders, screaming for attention, and the soothing voice of S P Balasubramaniam welcomed visitors. A lone man ensured that the office wasn’t desolated. He was staring intently at the tiny remote, possibly fiddling with the idea of changing the channel. My arrival spurred him to action.

Syed Mohammed has been working in the Union office, since his retirement from government service. “Everyone here is of Burmese descent. But you cannot find anyone who had actually migrated in the 60s”.  “I have spent around 10 years in Burma though…”, he continued with a mischievous smile. With this, he turned down the TV’s volume; a subtle invitation to talk more.

An internal conflict was evident on his face. He was contemplating the idea of talking to me without a nod from the secretary. “I was born in 1950, right here in Chennai. Then at the age of 4, my family went back to Burma. We returned in 1964.”, he said.

Suddenly, Syed jumps out of his chair and takes out a ruffled backpack and begins rummaging inside it. He took out what looked like a very old piece of parchment. It was his passport. And sure enough, there was a picture of teenaged Syed, with a glint in his eye, and the same quirky smile. Time has not been kind to Syed, but he is content with life in Chennai. “Now we are all Tamilians”, declares Syed. Like all other instances of cross-border migration, the third and fourth generation gradually assimilates to the extent of forgetting their roots.

“Most of us live in colonies across Chennai. Some have moved out of the colonies, but most prefer to live together. I live in Netaji Nagar, which is one of the bigger colonies.” With this, Syed stretched his legs and gave a half-hearted yawn. It was time for lunch, and he was not about to miss it for me.

Time and distance are slowly breaking the emotional connection that the Burmese Tamilians had with their ancestral land.

Netaji Nagar is a short bus ride from Burma Bazaar. The state government had granted the Burmese migrants land across the city to build exclusively Burmese settlements. Netaji Nagar has a similar story and has now fledged out beyond the original area. It looks like any typical Tamil neighborhood. There is nothing about the appearance of the area that even remotely suggests that it houses Burmese migrants. The narrow and crisscrossing streets were lined with houses stacked wall to wall. The familiar sight of ‘rangolis’ outside the house affirmed what Syed had told me about cultural homogenization.

 Netaji Nagar has a predominantly Muslim population with the Burma Tamil Muslim Jumma Masjid, being the de facto centre for all activities.

The Masjid is located at the heart of Netaji Nagar and is a very busy place. Community leaders were huddled together inside the Masjid. The school across the street had dispersed for the day, and parents were eagerly waiting outside with their scooters already purring. A quick enquiry at the Masjid revealed that Abu Hanifa was the man to talk to.

The Mosque runs a school which most of the Burmese Tamil
children attend. 

A kind gentleman offered me a ride to his house. As we sped through the uneven street, I noticed an atho noodle shop. Atho noodle is a Burmese delicacy and has been a great ambassador for Burmese food across the world. The dish is made by Burmese Tamils, but is an Indianized mutation that is a lot spicier.

The atho noodles is often had with plantain soup which customers pour
from a boiling cauldron. 

Abu Hanif is a respected community leader who is never shy of sharing his stories. He was waiting in his room when I went in. Clad in a dhoti and vest, he was finishing up lunch as I drew a chair.

“I came to Chennai in 1969, aboard the SS Saud ship on 26th December. We spent around one week out in the sea before reaching Chennai on the first.”, said Abu. “The ship journey was gruesome.”, he continues. “There were around 1500 of us. The food was horrible.” For a moment you could see the horror flash across his face as he traveled down what was surely a traumatic memory.

“But life has been good after coming here. We started an attar store in Burma Bazaar which is still run by the family. Life was difficult in Burma. The unrest and the spiraling economy had made coming to India a natural choice.” At this point, Abu gestures his wife to bring him his passport, along with a new line of attar which they were going to sell soon. Abu’s wife had a perennial smile on her face. She disappeared into one of the adjoining rooms and came back with her husband’s passport and a few boxes of attar. The 18 year old Abu Hanif looked impressive, with longer hair and a faint moustache.

 “I have a lot of relatives back in Rangoon.”, Abu Hanif declares. He then takes out his phone and skims through pictures of his kin from Burma. His face betrayed the giddiness that he was suppressing. Abu still calls his cousins and nephews in Burma and mostly talks in Burmese. “I can talk well in Burmese.”, he says. “But the language has undergone a lot of changes back in Burma, but we have no clue about those changes. Only a handful of us who were teenagers when we came to India can still speak Burmese.”

Abu called up his friend Mohammed Ismail, whose Burmese can apparently shame even the pundits. Ismail came to Chennai in 1970 and has lived here ever since. Lean, and soft spoken, Ismail is a man with no match in Chennai. “I lived in a Buddhist monastery for around 5 years, back in Mandalay. We used to beg for food and eat only when the sun was directly over our head.”, says Ismail and immediately breaks into a Buddhist proverb about happiness. The multitude of identities that Ismail carries around with him is truly inspiring. He is a Muslim Burmese Tamilian, who is well versed in the Buddhist way of life. In an era of receding cultural heterogeneity, Ismail is truly an exception.

Abu and Ismail then engage in a conversation about their relatives back home. The relationship is built on a very stable foundation, and the emotional attachment is quite evident. Abu’s wife slowly walks in with a bright orange sling bag. “This bag was sent to us by my cousins back in Burma.”, Abu informs me with a wide smile.

 After a steaming cup of cardamom tea, Abu and Ismail take me out for a quick tour.

The whole community looks up to both Abu and Ismail with almost spiritual reverence. Most passersby salute them and enquire about their health. The first place that we went to was a kitchen that made a traditional Burmese delicacy called Paycho, which is essentially fried atho noodles. A father-daughter duo were busy frying noodles in circular shapes. The father talks to Ismail and Abu in Burmese, as I and his daughter share the same blank expression! While a quick look might suggest that this community has lost their cultural genome, strands of Burmese culture lives on in each of these Paychos.

Our next stop was at a madrassa run by a man called Aftab. The madrassa is home to around 20 orphans of Burmese descent. Interestingly enough, none of the kids can speak Tamil or Burmese. But they are quite fluent in Hindi. The kids were sitting on the floor in their white kurtas and caps, with the Quran in front of them. The sound of the recital reverberated across the dimly lit room. The role of religion in holding this community together is evident. These children will one day become the flag bearers of a community that they know little about.  “One of the first things we did after coming here, was build this mosque.”, says Abu. “We used to save rupee by rupee, and the whole community pitched in. Slowly, but steadily, the Tamil Burma Muslim Masjid became a reality.” The call for namaaz suddenly boomed in the distance, as if a re-affirmation of the heavenly blessings the community counts every day.

“What started out as a community of a few hundred helpless migrants, has now become a powerful and self-sufficient community of responsible citizens.”, says Abu with a sense of pride. Ismail gives an acknowledging grin. As the sun started showing signs of tiredness, we headed back to Abu’s house. Over some surprisingly sweet coconut water, Abu talked about the dynamics of the Burmese Tamils. “Unlike in other parts of India, there are no religious problems in the community. Hindus and Muslims live like brothers. When we first came to Chennai, Hindus and Muslims used to eat from the same plate. Even today we partake in their festivals, and they come over during Ramzan. We are a community first, and our religion is secondary!” Even after half a decade of relocation and generational gaps, the famed Burmese traits of tolerance and secularism have not disappeared.

Ismail had left us at some point during our walk, and so I offered my gratitude and bade goodbye to Abu and his wife. A quick observation would suggest that the Burmese Tamils are a community whose cultural connection to their homeland is being attrited by a strong and overarching Tamil culture. The current generation cannot understand their ancestral language, their cuisine has been tweaked and now leans towards the Indian palate, and there is nothing about the way they dress or look, which would be suggestive of their Burmese ancestry. But culture is not just about material attributes like food and attire. The culture of a community is best represented by their way of life, their temperament, and the strength of their relationships. In this regard, the Burmese culture is very much alive in Chennai. The youngsters cannot speak Burmese, but they know what it means to be a Burmese. Their secular and tolerant attitude is part of their Burmese heritage. Every time a Burmese Tamil bites into some atho noodles, he is acknowledging his ancestral roots. In this sense, culture can never be taught or instilled. It is inherited. It germinates into habits and chores that may seem corollary, but are actually the desperate thrusts of a long forgotten way of life trying to resurface.

The last generation of Burmese Indians are not living in Chennai. While Abu and Ismail may one day stop sharing their stories, their experiences will never fade away, their contribution to the community will never be forgotten, and through them, a part of Burma will always be alive in Chennai!

An over-rated Sanju!

When the trailer for this movie came out, everyone was going gaga over Ranbir and his uncanny resemblance to Sanjay Dutt, and the sad part about this movie is that the resemblance is probably the best part about this film. From his drug abuse to his jail term, Baba has been shown to be a good guy, who the media has slandered and defamed. While the film is successful in laying out the actual facts of Sanjay Dutt's case, it creates a false sense of acceptance about something as serious as the Arms Act. While brandishing Baba as a terrorist was truly an error beyond reprieve, the film tends to focus more on Sanjay as a product of unfortunate circumstances. Rajkumar Hirani has successfully created a movie that showcases Sanjay Dutt as a misunderstood man, who was castrated for an apparently benign reason. While most biopics end up being hagiographies that portray the subject with godly semblance, Sanju takes it to the next level. The story about the duplicitous drug peddler is no way an excuse for Sanjay's drug addiction. His apparent fear about his house being mobbed does not justify hoarding guns in his backyard. And most importantly, discrediting the media for one's bacchanalian attitude is a worn out cliche. The movie could have portrayed Sanjay as a bad guy, whose affinity to drugs and alcohol had ruined the lives of those around him. Instead, the movie tries to justify Sanjay's addiction and in a failed attempt, tries to pass it off as a phase in his life. The despicable way in which the movie showcases the number of times Sanjay has bedded a woman is unfit for contemporary cinema. While having multiple sexual encounters is perfectly normal, the sleazy and dismissive manner in which the portion has been shot is indeed disappointing. While Hirani has tried to make it appear like a gladiator's kill count, the moral balance is tipped towards chauvinism.

One of the greatest things about this movie though is a character called Kamli, who the makers claim is a combination of many of Sanjay's friends. The undying loyalty and love that Kamli carries for Sanjay is truly a reminder of what true friendship is and what a true friend's duties are. But even this seemingly infallible character is shown to be misjudging Sanjay and wrongly accusing him of compliance in the Bombay blasts. This in essence, encapsulates the film's whole problem; it portrays Sanjay as perfect guy who was screwed up by unfair circumstances. But the filmmaker fails to inform the audience, that its the ability to remain steadfast in the face of distasteful experiences, that determines our true mettle. One truly endearing aspect of the film was the character of Sunil Dutt, portrayed with utmost conviction by Paresh Rawal. It would be right to say that Raval has captured the stable-minded, and charismatic persona of the much loved Dutt Sahab. The bond between Sanjay and his dad is truly moving, and provides a good handbook on parenting by proving that love can truly help rid us of our afflictions. The pictures of a desperate Sanjay hitchhiking and begging his way to New York is a vivid representation of what drugs can do to someone. His journey from being a junkie to essentially a non-junkie doesn't invoke a sense of optimism or appreciation which is usually associated with recovering addicts. Maybe it has something to do with him being born with a silver spoon and yet throwing away what could have been a good career.

Sanju is probably the epitome of film making and good acting. Everybody who enters the frame leaves an everlasting impression and does a magnificent job in convincing us about the helplessness of their character. As a biopic, Sanju fails to create an impression. While its true that people continued to hold him accountable for compliance in the Bombay blasts, the rest of the film fails to portray Sanjay as the true bad boy that he was. Hirani blames everything from his tentative age to his mother's demise for Sanjay's woes and never once tries to blame Sanjay for his bad choices. The part were he sleeps with his best friend's girl friend is also trivialised to an unbelievable extent. While the former would be a deal breaker in most friendships, Sanjay and Kamli brush it aside as something anodyne. Sanju was a great opportunity for Hirani to essentially create a handbook on how to steer away from trouble. Instead we get 3 hours of brilliant actors, backed by excellent film making trying to convince us that Sanju Baba was a misunderstood man, who was screwed up by life! The irony being that life screws everyone without distinction!