A Spot-Fixer Always Knows Where His Towel Is

Unless you’ve been living under a rock in some remote medieval outpost like, say, Kolkata, you’re aware of the latest blow inflicted upon the noble character of the IPL by Rajasthan Royals bowler and part-time item number, Sreesanth. He was arrested by the Delhi police earlier this week for his role in an international spot-fixing scandal, which is unprecedented because we’ve never, ever heard of Mallus taking orders from people in Dubai.

On a serious note though, I couldn’t believe the news when I first heard it. It’s shameful that Sreesanth would be in touch with bookies through BBM. Seriously, BBM? What next – topping your i’s with hearts and licking One Direction posters? The news was also met by anguish from Sreesanth fans across the world. Or as he likes to call them, Mom and Dad. It was a bit scary to watch Sreesanth being taken away by the Delhi police. Then again, he’ll be fine, because he’s used to being whacked by North Indian men.

(I’m just glad that the Delhi Police hasn’t issued a statement saying that spot-fixing wasn’t Sreesanth’s fault, and that it was the fault of the money for being out late at night in the wallets of strangers, and none of this would’ve happened had it stayed at home locked in a Godrej cupboard like good Indian cash.)

Two more Royals bowlers were arrested with Sreesanth, namely Ajit Chandila and Ankeet Chavan, who reportedly went for 40 lakhs. Sreesanth allegedly received 60 lakhs, thus confirming once and for all that the IPL is a hotbed of mind-altering substances, because it takes a special kind of mouth-breather to throw away his career for what is essentially the ability to buy six tiles worth of real estate in a Bhayander leper colony. The last time the Rajasthan royals were associated with something this stupid, it was called sati.

Also, as a bookie, how desperate do you have to be to pay Sreesanth to bowl badly? It’s like paying pigeons to poop on your car. But happen it did, and the circus that followed was hugely interesting. First came the response from that fount of virtue, the BCCI, with Messrs Pawar and Srinivasan basically saying that corruption is the worst thing to hit the sport, second only to police investigations. Then came the denials from Sreesanth’s family members, with his brother-in-law claiming that the entire plan had been hatched to sabotage his upcoming marriage plans. You know what really upsets marriage plans? Being told that you’re marrying Sreesanth.

But apparently, he does fancy himself as quite the ladies man. Reports suggest that investigators lured him to a plush Bombay pub with the promise of “some female company”. How optimistic. I mean if Sreesanth had been around instead of Adam, Eve would’ve suddenly gotten a headache and said that “we should just be friends because I’m really looking to focus on my snake-charming career right now”.

The Delhi police then described the signalling system used by the players to help bookies identify the fixed overs. For example, a towel tucked into Sreesanth’s pants meant that he was ready to throw an over, and a smile meant that he’d probably rubbed the same towel all over Harbhajan’s lunch. There are other signals that give spot-fixers away, such as wearing a specific wristband, doing the Nagin dance step with an abdomen guard on your head, being Pakistani etc.

This could only have happened in the gold-plated world of the IPL. You’d never see something like this in, say, Indian football. That expose would be weird:

Cop: Yes, we’ve uncovered a massive fixing syndicate in the Indian Football League. Players are being paid a whopping eighteen rupees to mess up free kicks, and if they manage to flub a penalty, bookies reward them by allowing them to sleep on the railway platform least soaked in urine.

I’m sure this latest scandal will put cricket fans off the game, seeing as how we stopped watching after the Azharuddin expose. Having said that, there are still hard-working men left in the game – men who come in day after day, and do the job they were born to do. They’re called bookies.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 19th May 2013. Cross-posted from here.)

The Unofficial Guide To Slapping Summer In The Face

It’s that time of the year when you’re bombarded with headlines like “23 Ways To Beat The Heat!”, “Sweat: It’s Like Drool, But From Your Armpits!”, and “It’s Totally Okay To Sell Your Kids For a Box Of Mangoes!” In keeping with that theme, I present the only real solution to summer, i.e. leave. Head to the hills and come back only after the dawn of nuclear winter.

I did that two weeks ago, and it was great because now I get to be one of those annoying people who won’t shut up about their vacation. If you’re planning a trip to the hills, you might want to consider Shimla, Nainital and Manali, which offer great views of parents trying to keep kids from rushing into ravines, along with honeymooning brides showing off their forearm bangle armour kit.

(I always imagine them using the bangle armour to fend off sword attacks like Amitabh Bachchan in Shahenshah, with each blow sending up a shower of sparks. Yes, I’m single. What gave it away?)

Most young people go off in different directions though, which is what I did, and landed up in Kasol in Himachal Pradesh. The closest airport used to be an hour away, at a place called Bhuntar, as in, “Wow, she’s got amazing bhuntars!” But since Kingfisher was the only airline flying to Bhuntar, operations had to be suspended once the company shut shop last year, after having spent all its money on Sid Mallya’s hair gel.

So now, the closest airport is at Chandigarh, an eight hour drive from Kasol. Of course, I use the term ‘drive’ loosely, because the HP government’s brief to the construction companies was, “Our roads should cause backbones to disintegrate into a fine powder, which we can then smoke.” The roads are flanked by a lush green drop to the death on one side, while the other is reserved for truckers hurtling down the wrong way, probably in a rush to get back home to their sweethearts at the nearest roadside brothel.

But that’s a small price to pay for waking up to one of nature’s best photoshop jobs. Lazy rivers gurgle along, emboldened by the absence of people crapping into them, and snow-capped mountains rise up against the summer in what geologists describe as a “middle-finger formation”.

It’s interesting to watch city people turn into a raving, wide-eyed gaggle once they hit villages. The smallest things set us off. For example, it’s impossible for us to have a meal without making low moaning noises about the extremely mind-bending amazeballs freshness of local vegetables. And that’s because the bar has been set pretty low. I mean all a tomato has to do to make us weep with joy is to not look it just went four rounds with Mike Tyson. You could feed us goat fodder in the hills, and it’d still be tastier than the local greens fermenting in a patch of sewage water in the nether regions of Kurla station.

Kasol offers one of those rare, Parliament-like vacations where you can just sit back and do nothing. At most, you can check out some of the nearby villages, like Malana, which is famous for producing the world’s finest whatever it is that RGV has been smoking for the past decade. An hour-long drive takes you up to almost 10,000 feet, to within two kilometres of the village, after which an uphill hike reminds you that you have the lung capacity of an asthmatic corpse.

Malanis claim to be descendants of Alexander’s soldiers, and hence consider themselves racially superior to all outsiders. Yeah, that makes perfect sense. You’re better than everyone because once upon a time, some soldiers got bored of spooning each other. Also, if an army reaches Malana, it’s not really going to go very far ahead:

Commander: Men! We must march on, and conquer every land that lies ahead. Onwards, to glory!  *puff* Or dude, let’s just like, chill and like, play some Floyd maaaan *puffpuffpuff* Hey, is that my concubine or yours?

(Fun fact: Malana rules prohibit villagers from touching outsiders, which, on the snob scale, ranks somewhere between ’18th century pundit’ and ‘Colaba lady trying to pronounce Kandivli’.)

On the flipside, when your vacation ends, you’ll spend the next few weeks like a junkie in raging withdrawal, shuffling about, taking furtive hits off every AC unit you can find. Your friends might even need to stage an intervention. Ask them to bring fresh tomatoes.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 12th May 2013. Cross-posted from here.)

Ask Not What Your Country Can Ban For You…

Earlier this week, Goa banned drinking on its beaches, which sounds about as blasphemous as banning siestas in Goa. The rule applies to alcohol bought and/or consumed outside of a shack, which is bad news for people who bring their own alcohol to the beach, such as college kids surviving on Kingfisher salary-level budgets, and gentlemen clusters insistent on scoring with the ladies, despite possessing the charm of rabies.

Now I’d like to be able to bum around on the beach with a beer or six, look out at the sea and think deep thoughts about Spongebob Squarepants. But I get the logic behind the move. It’s about hygiene. The government is sick of the stuff that people leave behind on beaches, like broken bottles, cans, syringes, deceased Russians etc.

Many years ago, Goa was discovered by Vasco Da Gama, who had just finished his TY exams and wanted to spend his vacation vomiting outside Tito’s. Much later, the hippies came in and brought with them the one thing that raises the market value of any Indian tourist destination: white skin. Things were still good, until Saif Ali Khan sat on a cushion and the hordes descended upon the Dil Chahta Hai fort. (Originally called ‘Chapora’, which is Portuguese for “Picsss from mah Trip!!!!11!”)

As Indians, we’re always quick to point out that our biggest problem is other Indians. No, not you fine people. Not unless your idea of swimwear is Dollar underwear, stamped with holes to strategically highlight the part that awards a standing ovation to the hugely titillating sights around, like a sliver of bare shoulder reflected in sunglasses from halfway across the beach.

Over the years, Goa has developed a self-correcting mechanism to keep out certain kinds of tourists. It’s called racism. For example, if your group consists only of brown guys, Curlie’s will try really hard to keep you away from the best tables in the house (i.e. the ones that offer a great view of the sea, along with the old guy in a thong next to it). This, despite the fact that you’d spend way more money than the Israeli guys who last took a shower before they joined the army, and now survive solely on the small animals trapped in their dreadlocks.

India’s never been kind to tipplers, with our place on the morality scale hovering somewhere between ‘Baby Puncher’ and ‘Serial BBM Forwarder’. But some form of control isn’t entirely a bad thing, simply because we aren’t ready for public drunkenness. Take, for example, stadiums. Wankhede would be terrifying if the spectators were drunk, especially if they were Shahrukh Khan. Also, the North Stand has managed to negate the alcohol ban by being completely nuts. This is what it usually sounds like:

Fan 1: PAKISTAN HAI HAI! WANKHEDE MEIN AAYA BHOOT -

Fan 2: MUSHARRAF KI – hang on… This is Namibia vs. Burkina Faso.

Fan 1: *stabs with handpump*

In other clampdown news, there is a PIL floating around that seeks to make the viewing of pornography a non-bailable offence. The PIL seeks a ban on porn, and while this is far from becoming reality, you have to applaud the logic that seeks to put adults enjoying legal erotica in the privacy of their own homes, in the same prison as rapists. It’s really sad to see the State tamper with the sacred bond between a man and his computer.

The PIL contends that porn leads to a rise in violent sexual crimes, which is like saying that Terminator caused people to turn into cyborg assassins. Nobody thinks that real-life is like a porno. If it were, this PIL issue could have been resolved by a cheerleader who gets lost and lands up at the petitioner’s house, and they figure out a mutually beneficial arrangement involving tacky synth beats and vigorous religious invocations.

They say that this PIL aims to protect youngsters from the horrors of porn, especially the part where they cut to the guy’s face. I don’t think the youngsters are listening though. They’re too busy getting kicked out of Tito’s.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 28th April 2013.)

If You’re Fit And You Know It, Wiggle Your Pecs

Like most people, I can honestly say that fitness has always been my number one priority, unless I have to deal with more pressing concerns during the day, such as my job, my sleep, a new book, a new TV show, a new movie, a new bar, an old bar, discovering a cure for stupidity, or scratching my left armpit while imagining what I’d do if I were Edward Scissorhands (Step 1: Stop scratching.) Because, y’know, if it weren’t for these distractions, I’d totally have sixteen-pack abs and a chest so massive, builders would be scrambling to build malls on it.

But after a while, you get tired of the excuses and decide it’s time to get back to not being a water buffalo. This happens a few times a year, which is when I join, or rather, rejoin the gym. These places have changed over the years. Earlier, they offered features like ‘heavy stuff to lift’, ‘heavier stuff to lift’ and ‘an enclosed space flavoured with the essence of sweat and failure’.

Things are a bit more upmarket now, with the average gym trying to sell you sauna packages, spa treatments, massage services, aromatherapy, nutrition counselling (“If it tastes good, spit it out and whip yourself”) and new-age meditation sessions where they get Deepak Chopra to breathe heavily around your neck. But on the bright side, you lose weight the minute you join, because the staff takes away both your kidneys as payment.

My gym usually has more personal trainers than customers, and they’re always nice and friendly, probably because they know they can destroy me with a handshake. Not everyone goes in for the personal trainer option though, which is a shame, because it’s great for people who’ve forgotten how to count to 15 and need to be reminded by either Yogesh, Mahesh, Ganesh, or for variety, Irfan. (It’s interesting how certain names lend themselves to certain professions. I’d have a hard time trusting a trainer called, say, Rituparno, and if my neurosurgeon was called Santosh, he probably wouldn’t even let me into the operation theatre because “stags not allowed”.)

This return to the gym was extra special, because I underwent something called a BFA, aka Brutal Fat Analysis, which is where they make you stand on a machine and then point and laugh at you for an hour. Think of it this way: a weighing scale telling you that you’re fat is kinda like a tweet – short and succinct. The BFA machine does the same thing, but gives you the War and Peace version, minus the dragons. (OK fine, so I haven’t read the book, but I’m sure it would’ve been better with dragons.)

Trying to stay in shape is also a community activity, given that most people you know are also working out. This means that most people you know will also give you advice on fitness, which tends to be along the lines of “Don’t eat carbs after sunset, except on dates that are Pythagorean triplets, and even then, make sure to pair it with a high-protein dish such as the still-beating heart of a cheetah that you ripped out with your bare hands. Also, blahblahblah green tea.”

The best part is that you don’t even have to be fit to give advice. I get cocky and judgemental after about two days of exercise. The other day, I found myself saying, “Dude, you really shouldn’t eat that vada-pav. It’s full of calories, plus the oil they use is filthy. Why don’t you just order a nice grilled fish salad or something?” which is kind of an obnoxious thing to say to a homeless guy.

It’s going to be challenging, but I’m sure that if I keep at it, I will eventually get the body that I want, with just the right amount of fat and muscle. That’s also the thought that kept Hannibal Lecter going. That, and green tea.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 21st Apr 2013. Cross-posted from here.)

No Suburb For Old Men

“If I could buy a nice house anywhere in Bombay, I’d pick Bandra Bandstand,” I often tell myself, before collapsing in a pile of tears, because I’d only be able to afford it if I were reincarnated as Laxmi. It’s sad because after having lived in Bandra for the past year and a half, I know that it’s easily the most fun part of the city, especially if you’re young (defined as “The age when Lilavati Hospital is just a landmark for all the bars nearby, and not the destination itself.”)

I’m not being snobbish here. I grew up in New Bombay, so I can’t look down on other suburbs, unless we’re talking about Nallasopara, which is such an honest, self-aware name. It pretty much says ‘gutter’. I wish other suburbs were honest too. For example, Powai should just own up and call itself ‘Leopards and Call Centres’, while Dadar should be ‘Local Resentment Shakha’.

Eons ago, town used to be quite hip and happening (this was when it was ok to use the phrase “hip and happening”) but has since lost out to the Bandra-Santacruz belt, so much so that the youngest person in Colaba now is Alyque Padamsee.

I don’t know why youngsters would flock to the Bandra-Santacruz belt, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that this area has the highest bar density in the city. That’s right. A recent RTI query revealed that there were eleven bars per square kilometre in the area, which makes it a total of 359 bars. And that’s just in Salman’s liver.

It’s not just humans; this place is so first-world, it regularly throws parties for dogs. These are specially designed events where people pay good money to play with their own dogs. It’s weird because the dogs I know are perfectly happy licking nuts, sniffing butts and humping legs. (Or as they call it in Andheri, audition.)

But there’s more to these suburbs than alcohol, especially on dry days. For example, Bandra gets decked up for all the major festivals, like Christmas, Diwali and Happy Birthday Baba Siddiqui – Here, Have Five Million Hoardings. I like the Carter Road area too, because it proves that in order to be truly world class, a locality must have 23649 cupcake and yoghurt shops right next to each other. I don’t even know who’s eating all those desserts, because most women there look like they survive on a diet of skimmed air. Their presence draws giant wads of hair-gel masquerading as teenagers, whose preferred mode of courtship is to drive by real slow in a woofer with an engine attached to it, until the bass notes achieve the desired effect of blasting the women into the sea.

Later, the cops chase you away, because HOW DARE YOU FAFF AT A PUBLIC SEAFACE THAT WAS DESIGNED FOR THE SPECIFIC PURPOSE OF FAFFING? I’ve tried reasoning with them. It’s not very effective:

Me: Why can’t we sit around for a little bit more?

Cop: For your own safety. It’s late.

Me: How is it unsafe when you’re stationed here to protect us?

Cop: …

Me: Well?

Cop: Aye chal hero, licen dikha!

It’s the little things that end up serving as markers for ‘home’ in my head, like the restaurant guy who doesn’t need my full address to deliver food at 3.00 a.m., the 50 bucks-a-peg place that shall go unnamed because it needs to, or oddly enough, the ladyboys lined up along Linking Road, whose work hours are often the same as mine. (Of course, they have a way more enthusiastic fan following.)

There’s also an East section to all these suburbs, in the same way that there’s another side to Harvey Dent’s face. I’d tell you more but duty calls. Bar no. 360 has just opened up. It’s very easy to find. It’s right next to the Baba Siddiqui hoarding.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 7th April 2013. Cross-posted from here.)

Big Brother Likes To Peep Into Your Big Tent

Google hosted the Big Tent Summit in New Delhi this week, bringing together under one roof politicians, thinkers, speakers and item numbers, all of whom were Shashi Tharoor. The subjects discussed included freedom of speech on the net and the planned expansion of broadband services in India so as to make the web accessible to everyone from yuppies to monks to the lost pygmy tribes currently living in Kapil Sibal’s eyebrows. Meanwhile, Facebook also continued to be relevant and cutting-edge by changing its layout once again. Not to be left behind, Orkut promised that it was new and improved, with upto 37% fewer paedophiles than before.

One of the more interesting discussions revolved around the use of social media by politicians, and how important it was, given that only a tiny minority of voters are online, with the rest being pre-occupied with mundane things like not dying. Shashi Tharoor and Omar Abdullah were part of this discussion because they’re very active on Twitter and engage directly with citizens, receiving fruitful communication such as, “ZOMG CHO CUTE!”, “MARRY ME!” and “AYE GHAR PE JAA, RAPIDEX KI AULAAD!”

But the star attraction had to be the tech-savvy Narendra Modi.  He’s one of the most popular Indian politicians online, with about 1.3 million Twitter followers, most of whom describe themselves as ‘Proud Indian, dipped in Indian, fried in Indian, served with proud Indian mash, no beef thankyouverymuch’. He was the only Chief Minister invited to deliver an address. Makes sense. You couldn’t have, say, Mamata Banerjee, on this platform. The only time she uses the net is when she googles ‘MILF’, i.e. Maoists I’d Like to Find.

Google’s executive chairman, Eric Schmidt, also spoke at the event, but before that, he’d had a very interesting meeting with President Pranab Mukherjee, whose accent he described as “Bengali dubstep”. Schmidt was optimistic about the increasing number of internet users in India, and the potential they represent. Then again, these are the same people who put Poonam Pandey in the ‘Top Three Googled People’ in India last year.

(Poonam Pandey is such a great marketer. She makes all these tantalising promises, gets people excited, and then just leaves them hanging. She’s like the UPA with STDs.)

But yes, Indians do google the weirdest things. For example, some of the search terms that have led people to my blog are – and I’m not making any of these up – “www.sexinlocaltrain.com”, so now you know about the existence of a Virar fetish, and “Nutcracker Reema Lagoo”, which sounds like the world’s most terrifying sex position.

I’m all for freedom on the internet, seeing as how I write, perform and am really fond of all my limbs and other appendages, and would miss them if they were cut off. Unfortunately, this is a concept lost on hardcore fans of, let’s say, Teams Amar, Akbar, Anthony and Amarjeet. (We also have Team Ardheshir, but it may cease to exist by the time you finish reading this sentence.)

In virtual India, Team Amar seems to be the angriest of the lot, because hey, it’s perfectly logical to feel threatened for being the most powerful majority in the world’s largest democracy. But what do I know? I’m just a “sickular” agent of the paid media who was conceived as part of the ruling party’s secret scheme to one day topple Team Amar using an army of comedians. Then again, if you believe in flying anthropoids, you’ll believe anything.

(This is where Team Amar would chide me for not being bold enough to make Team Akbar jokes. Not true. I just think it’s heartless to pick on people who’ve already suffered so much by missing out on bacon and beer.)

So given such concerns, it was great to see the issue of internet freedom being addressed at the Big Tent by, um, Kapil Sibal, who said that the government would never, ever do anything to jeopardise it, mummy promise. This was followed by a flurry of questions from the audience, mostly about who his dealer was. The only way this could’ve been topped was if Hannibal Lecter had given a speech on the virtues of a Jain diet.

Everything said and done, it’ll be interesting to see what happens when internet penetration in India, currently at 12%, rises up to current American levels, i.e. 80%. It’ll be great for everyone, except maybe Reema Lagoo.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 24th Mar, 2013. Cross-posted from here.)

Once You Go Black, You Can Go Back

One of my favourite moments from the news this week was the sight of white smoke finally emanating from the Sistine Chapel, thus signifying the arrival of the Samsung Galaxy S4. (Or as Apple calls it, the Pritam Phone)

But what really caught my attention were the reports about India’s top private sector banks, i.e. ICICI, HDFC and Axis, going the extra mile to keep customers happy by laundering their money for them. Or as their marketing teams call it, ‘Personalised Swiss Standard Systematic Scalable Cross-Platform Financial Camouflage Assistance Synergy Paradigm Shift PPT Let’s Touch Base Jhol’. The expose was carried out by an online magazine called Cobrapost, famous for other exposes such as ‘Gung-Ho: The Most Inbred Redneck G.I Joe’ and ‘Baroness Topless Pictures Leaked!’

(Hey Cobrapost, if you’re a news magazine that pulls off serious stings, why would you want your name to sound like Nagraj fan-mail? And that’s not all. This expose was titled, I kid you not, ‘Operation Red Spider’, because ‘Operation Fuschia Locust’ was already taken. I can’t wait for their report on terrorism, titled ‘Operation Dulhan Ki Vidai Ka Waqt Ho Gaya Hai’)

The expose features hidden cam footage of bank officials talking to undercover reporters, and reveals the shocking lengths to which banks will go to give the common man the same rights as politicians. Now I’m no expert in money laundering, seeing as how I wasn’t born Gujju, but it does seem complicated. The videos, filmed at branches in Delhi, Noida, Faridabad, Kolkata, Hyderabad and Bangalore, sound pretty much like this:

Reporter: I’ve got sackfuls of black money.

Bank Official: OK, let’s KKK that shit. For starters, we can get you a second PAN card.

Reporter: Will that be enough?

Bank Official: What the hell, we’ll get you 5 PAN cards. One each for you, your boss, his wife, their dhobi and dog.

Reporter: And then?

Bank Official: For extra safety, we send Leonardo DiCaprio and his team into the dreams of the I-T guys to convince them that your money is white.

Reporter: Sounds good.

Bank Official: And for mega-safety, we will legally change your name to Pawar.

Reporter: Wait, what?

Bank Official: We also have an in-house sardar to slap you at random.

Reporter: …

Bank Official: And then we shoot a farmer.

Jokes aside, I happen to bank with one of the accused organisations, so I’m saddened by the news, because I’m not rich enough to afford black money. That’s probably why, when I met bank officials earlier this week to discuss finances, all they offered me were legit investment options. I knew these were effective because the brochures featured Lokhandwala dudes dressed up like rich people, doing rich people things, like posing with golf clubs while wearing suits, looking into the distance while wearing suits, sniffing the air while wearing suits, skinny-dipping while wearing suits, spitting at people from Kurla etc.

Also, every product offered a free insurance cover, which is important because as any insurance ad will tell you, “YOU WILL DIE A GRUESOME DEATH BY THE END OF THIS SENTENCE! NOW GIVE US MONEY!” That’s pretty much their message. I’m sure the people behind these ads have a hard time switching off at home:

Girl: Daddy, tell me a bedtime story.

Insurance Guy: Once upon a time, there were three little piggies, who died after being struck by an errant cruise missile carrying the Ebola virus, because life is fickle like that, and if only they’d bought our Elite Super Saver Diamond Scheme, they would’ve gotten 918% returns guaranteed, along with tax benefits and a massage under section 42D, plus a lifetime supply of spam phone calls from all our affiliates, including the tapri guy outside.

The banks in question will now be probed by the RBI, and there have been calls for suspension of licenses, which would be a shame. I don’t want to have to go bank at some State Bank of Gaonpur, with a density of two branches per solar system. You know the ones I’m talking about. Those decaying government holes, where the relationship manager, the branch manager, the cashier, the fossilised watchman with the .303, the flies buzzing around the dead dog outside, are all just one person. And he’s on leave. Or as Cobrapost calls it, ‘Operation Lavender Platypus Vacation’.

(Note: This is my HT column dated 17th March 2013.)