(The tagline of this post goes “What not to do at IIM”)

Yes, folks. It’s been over a year at IIMB;  my temporary *marriage* to PGSEM continuing quite successfully. *Wiping sweat off brow*.

(Encore.)

I can declare that I have not just been initiated to the world of management, but effectively tainted. I have  graduated to the stage where I can dole out valuable tips on:

• How to achieve a zen-like state of calm, when you have
  • 4 term projects (20 pages each) to write, 2 cases (30 pages each) to read, 1 mid-term exam to write for B-school AND
  • 1 proposal (40 slides) to submit, two teams to manage AND 1 cultural event to handle in office AND
  • Several other non-trivial issues to resolve at home (such as your maid doing a disappearing act for a whole week)

all in the span of 1 week (which effectively translates to a max of 10 potential hours that may be used – moral of the story being that no amount of worrying is gonna help you with your f%$#ing backlog)

• Which are the best TV shows that enable you to stay awake till 1.30 PM at night, so that you can simultaneously (attempt to) devote your attention to the cases/reading material/exercises/projects. (God bless the creators of Sex and the City, Friends and all T&L shows). 
• How YouTube is such an incentivizing tool
  • Smart professors who know exactly what your weak points are, have liberal doses of youtube in the classroom sessions, so much so that you are running to attend class at 8 AM on a Saturday, because you get to see all those wonderful videos … *contented sigh*
  • You can devise unique You-Tube rewards to incentivize study hours … say every half hour of study entitles you to 15 minutes of youtube (or for that matter, twitter, google reader, facebook.. you name it ) 
• How you can justify to yourself the phenomenal increase in weight, since it is directly proportional to the amount of MBA jargon that adds weight to your *persona* (take a load of this: “competitive advantage”, ”strategic positioning”, “moving up the value chain”, “sustainable ecosystem”, “cost arbitrage”, “network/multiplier effect”… oh boy oh boy oh boy)
• How time-travel is not a miracle anymore. The moment we 30-somethings step into the IIM campus, we zoom back in time, and are reduced to a babbling set of 16 year olds – yanking our book loads around the campus, furtively eyeing anyone who remotely resembles a prof, bunking classes and hanging around corridors whilst drinking tea and munching on puffs, whispering and passing stuff around in class, sms-ing each other making pointed jokes about… well, our state of stupor… I guess you get the picture .
• How you can become experts at reading a 30 page case in half hour… the secret being that you never read line by line, you see. Train your eyes to pick up only the most striking of words per paragraph, concoct a story inside your brain that *somehow* links all these up, and then elaborately garnish and transfer onto paper. The likelihood of you matching up to what you would have done after an hour and half of intensive study of the case – is 100%. (Cardinal Rule: If you haven’t got it in you, no amount of breaking your brains is going to help!) 
• How back-to-back classes are extremely useful opportunities - NEVER let them pass by. The second lecture is the most opportune time to
  • Decide on your dinner plans [you could actually spend some productive time romanticizing about how you could potentially go for a candle-lit gourmet dinner accompanied by soft music, with your hubby (no matter if the two of you land up munching on idlis in the nearby Darshini, despite all the day-dreaming) - the time is still well spent!]
  • Make your grocery list
  • Doodle on your/your neighbour’s notebook and draw a) pretty girls b) flower art c) ghastly ghosts d) amoeba
  • Write down the list of songs that you *must* download and save in your ipod
  • Let your mind walk free… and conjure up sufficient gossip or humorous (or humorous-gossip) situations that can be subject for the next tea and biscuits break
  • Feel hungry and grimace (or make going-to-die-of-hunger gestures) at your friends sitting nearby - indicating the tipping of a cup with your hands, as they return understanding nods.
  • (hmmm, … there are so many other productive pursuits…maybe I should make this the subject of yet another blog)
• How Finance, Marketing, Operations, Strategy, Entrepreneurship, Organizational Behaviour, People Management, Cost Accounting, Economics and Quantitative Methods sounds interesting, only prior to your doing the MBA. Two years of going over the vast repertoire of these subjects , and you’re most likely to do an about-turn and run at the mere mention.
• How the vast perks of being in an institute like IIMB is that you get to see Entrepreneurial masterminds, Ivy League stars, Political greats  and yes, Aamir Khan

And oh, my list is not yet over, but you sort of get the point. I’m now truly feeling IIM coursing through my veins.

But what are the real BIG lessons I’ve learnt in this one year (and a quarter that is ongoing…)? Well, that would be these three:

• Chetan Bhagat was right. Cooperate to Dominate or C2D as he puts it, does work. Although I haven’t implemented it exactly as described in the book but today it inspires me like nothing else. Of the few thousand eureka moments I have had during the one-year stint, the most useful one was realizing that learning Macroeconomics and Operations Management on your own is like pulling a Vampire to your neck and asking him to suck blood. It was somewhere during the middle of quarter 2, when I realized that Macroeconomics was just not a subject you could cram in a day before the exam, while two-timing it with a movie. On the day of the mid-term, considering the (excellent) shape we both were in, one of my newfound non-chaddi buddy and me, decided to bunk a lecture hour and study together. That one and half hour duration may have been my most productive study session ever, because suddenly everything… GDP, GNP, Consumption, Fiscal deficits,  Investments fell into their place in a jigsaw puzzle in my mind, and I was beginning to feel like I had almost authored that book. Over time, the sessions became our most potent weapon. There were 4 of us most of the time, and we spent a bunked class or two or a couple of Sunday hours, to have an intensive study-workout. And the result? I graduated from being a 2 something pointer to a 3 something pointer [4.0 being the max btw ] and an interesting sprinkling of A’s in my grade sheet. Now do you believe me when I say C2D works?!
• Professors are precious gifts of humankind (No, I don’t know if any of my profs are reading this right now, and NO, I have not been paid to write this). If you ask me what makes IIMs stand apart, I would say it is the professors. Some of them are this unique combination of excellence, unparalleled dedication and pedigree, and yet totally grounded in their values – honesty, ethics and integrity. A few of our lectures are nothing short of near-theatrical performances that evoke thrills up your spine and leave you mouth-wide-open. No jargon, no bombastic speeches – just pure wisdom and insight. And the humanity aspect at the end of it all is what bowls me over at the end of the day.

I have a story to narrate here: One of my friends was finding it really difficult to manage studies, esp. for one of the conceptual subjects, since she was going through a very rough phase at work. When she got one of her papers evaluated, with the lowest marks she had ever got, and a note to “please call me” from the professor – it was like the worst thing to have ever happened. With considerable amount of trepidation, she called him up, fully expecting to be humiliated. The first thing he said to her is “What happened? Where have I gone wrong? And what can I do for you?”… the voice at the other end a mixture of compassion, sympathy, and deep humane understanding. He said to her - ”The marks that you have got are not a reflection of your capability. I know you, I have seen you and I know you have it in you. These marks are a reflection of the fact that I haven’t been able to reach you through my teachings, and is just an indication that I need to try harder. So don’t for a moment take it as failure on your part. We will work through your problem areas, and see what we need to do …. Together”.

That for me (ladies and gentlemen) was power. The capability of being able to pick someone up from their lowest point and give them a means to reach the top.. something only an educationist-par-excellence can do.

• And the final aspect. When I decided to do my MBA, I thought it would help me understand “business”… I remember reading the economic/profit/business sections of newspapers and wanting to know more – and MBA seemed the best way. But now that I have done a year of it all, I don’t think an MBA teaches only business anymore. The course has turned out to be “life education”. Every day of class, there is atleast one moment I wonder why my eyes and ears weren’t open earlier, for the kind of knowledge that I had just come across. I wistfully think of the countless years I spent not knowing so much … the way human beings thought and behaved, the way people survived in different parts of the world, the environment, the ethos of different countries, social responsibility, inspiring leadership, wars, movements, economic ups and downs. I can only say that I have a long way to go to make up for lost ground, but I’m glad I have started.

And I’m looking forward to a year and a half of this enormously exciting journey. It has been great .

Adios Amigos!

Miles to go before I sleep...

Spirit of Triumph

Once in a while, people make a deep impression within you, even if you do not know them personally.

Nisha is one such person. I don’t know her, and I doubt if I will ever, but I nevertheless dedicate this post to her.

Very rarely have I come across such scenes of violence before – it was the first time I actually saw someone being beaten up in real life – in front of my eyes. All this while, it has been the action scenes on movie screens, and strangely, it was this very real encounter that I found unreal – almost like I was watching a play being enacted.

Yesterday, hubby and myself were standing in front of the Kallada office in Madivala. We were about to leave after depositing a parcel to be sent to my hometown, when my hubby motioned for me to stay put and wait. I noticed he and others in the office were staring at something happening outside a bar, about 10 metres away from it.

When I looked towards the direction of interest, I could see a guy’s head and shoulder bobbing up and down from a hole in the ground – it was like he was dancing…stomping rather, within the hole. People tried to pull him – but he would go down again. I wondered if he had gotten stuck in it and they were trying to rescue him. But somehow the theory didn’t fit the scene.

At one moment, he came out of the hole fully, kicking sand and mud all around him… but then jumped back in and this time I understood the situation clearly – it hit me the instant I saw the violent expression on his face.

There was another person in that hole. He was being hit… battered obviously.

As I grappled with the newfound realization, a part of me observed people, standing passively around the hole – a crowd in the making – calmly looking at the scene without making even an attempt to intervene. In the Kallada office, someone cracked a joke and there was a half-giggle.

Soon, a sand-covered scrawny figure emerged out of the hole – a man had finally succeeded in holding the monster back till the boy could be dragged out. Something sunk in the pit of my stomach – he was about 16 years, thin as a reed, blood dripping from his mouth, and his clothes were torn. He couldn’t walk anymore; and he was trying to explain but his words sounded like weak screams to me. The bully rammed onto him again, slapping and hitting him in full view, knowing fully well that he wasn’t going to be hit back.

It was like a tape that kept getting rewinded and playing the same scene over and over again - the boy trying to talk through the bloody mouth while he was being dragged on the ground, and the bully throwing himself onto him, stamping him a few times, while someone else made weak attempts to restrain the animal.

And we all stood. Mute spectators. Not even a finger going up in protest.

The crowd was now about 50 member strong. And buses were slowing down just so that people on the journey could watch too.

Out of the blue, there was a female voice – and when I peered in earnest to locate the source of it – I saw a woman in a white kurta and jeans – her back to me.

She was yelling, fast and furious, at the man who was kicking, and the other men who were dragging the boy – and in a few quick strides had reached close to the where they were.

In Hindi she thundered – “what the hell do you think you are doing? You cannot assault anyone in public – who gave you the authority to do that!”, waving her fingers at the group. Even though her back was to me, I could sense a cloud of anger that cloaked her.

I watched (in shock) as the monster glared at her with bloody eyes almost as if he would eat her. But she was obviously not going to be intimidated… she not only stood her ground, but moved in closer… encroaching onto his space. He came forth too, and for a moment, it was apparent to me that she might be in danger, but suddenly he backed off. Her abuses were probably a deterrent even though the other guys countered: “Madam, stay out of this. This is none of your business. These guys are drunk…”.

A passing realization of utter ridiculousness emerged in my mind. Here was a girl, defending a boy who was being battered, while all the men around him made no attempt to rescue him. And these very men instead turn against her trying to humiliate her for questioning the atrocity.

Within the Kallada office, an elderly voice yelled… “Nisha. Stop! Come back. Oh my god, what is she doing”. A concerned father went forth, and there was a spot of heated argument as he pulled her back from the center of attention. As she returned to the Kallada office, protesting in Malayalam, I finally got a good look at her. She was a bigger woman than I was – taller and obviously stronger, but at that moment, she looked bigger than most people in that place. To me atleast.

Her towering presence was an advantage, but more so, her gumption.

The scene changed quickly after that – suddenly, the bully looked not so sure anymore. And the other men who were dragging the boy away slowly faded into the background. A few minutes later, I spotted policemen – jaded and with the least bit of interest, pull up the offender.

The crowd dispersed, even though some people still stood to watch. Curious eyes observed Nisha as she stood on the steps, her fury was still pouring out of her, as she argued with her dad and mother – “I am not wrong. How can people just stand and watch abuse in front of their eyes, and not do anything about them. Aren’t these men ashamed to call themselves “men”?”. Another male entity, tried to hush her… they all spoke against her courage, telling her that she could have gotten hurt; she didn’t know what kind of people they were.

Despite their worry and embarrassment , I felt a kind of cheer within me. All the faces around us, especially male, suddenly either had a tinge of guilt or  self-righteousness.

She had probably made us all think for a few moments – wonder where our own voices had gone. 

I for one, thought much beyond that encounter. I thought as I smiled at her while we left the office; as I got into the car, and we drove down to Total in Madivala, she was all I could think of. Her sheer strength.

How was a woman like her made? Why didn’t she worry about the embarrassment, or the shame, and why wasn’t she afraid of getting hurt? How did she get to be so strong and where did that courage come from?

All I can say is: Go, Nisha! Atta, girl. I don’t know if you changed the way people think or even if you will be able to hold onto that strength of character without letting society stomp all over it till there is not a flicker left. But I do know one thing.

You are a hell of a spirited person to reckon with . *Thumbs Up*.

The Last Mango

The car zoomed up the gate and stopped abruptly. It was almost synchronously followed by the front door opening, and a group of exuberant faces emerged – sporting big grins – they were there at the gate in no time.

I gingerly stepped out of the passenger seat of the white ambassador car, my face having that typical embarrassed look – it was always an odd feeling for me, meeting them all after 2 years… I never knew what to say at first.

My grandmother, in her trademark white sari and blouse ran to hug me. My face was for a few moments showered with kisses, and the embarrassed look gave way to a wide-toothed grin – if there was one thing that was constant in this world, that was my grandmother.

Her penchant for disfiguring faces with her kisses would never change .

Extricating myself from the bear hug, I proceeded to acknowledge my aunt, and my cousin – they were tugging at our bags while giving us those lovely smiles that always warmed my heart. My grandma wouldn’t leave it at that though. Excitedly, her wrinkled hands clasped my tiny one and led me inside the gate, with a purpose. I looked sideways at my mother, but she was too caught up in the exchange of pleasantries to notice.

Soon, we both were at the foot of the mango tree (at my age, I wouldn’t recognize it so however). She pointed to a lone green mango, hanging at a reasonable height and said

“See that? I’ve left it for you to pluck. I haven’t let anyone else pluck it saying that it was meant only for my darling”.

The profoundness of her statement made me look at her in wonder. I had never plucked anything from any tree before and this was like a God-given opportunity (one never got to be near too many trees when growing up in Saudi Arabia, you see).

The woman of 65 obviously knew the mind of a child of 10, well.

I reached out, and my grandma bent the branch towards me. My fingers grasped the green mango, and before I knew it, it came off the branch. I proffered it with pride at my grandma – she said “Shall I make a pickle out of it then?”, her affection laden voice matched by a face with a smile that I can only call heavenly. I nodded in happiness.

My cousin came to hold my hand and whispered in my ear “She wouldn’t let me pluck it for so many days! All of the rest was gone a week ago, but she asked to leave just this one till you came!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[Many, many years later…]

“Let her pluck a few!” That was my mother, today morning.

I raised my eyebrows at my dad in mock superiority and smirked. He smirked back, “Let them be for some more time. We can eat them ripe, that would be better”.

“She’s here only for 2 more days. You’ve had enough ripe mangoes in your life. My poor daughter… she’s so far away, who’s giving her any?”, motherly concern dripped from her voice like honey.

I grinned and looked at my dad, and winked. Here I was, a 29 year old, bordering on 30, woman, and my mother still spoke of me like I was a 5 year old . Gosh, mothers are just so wonderful.

(We were ambling around the garden in front of my house, the three of us. As I skipped around the grass, my dad stooped often to pick up stray leaves and my mum was critically examining the flowers on her treasured creations. It was just one of our together-times, I guess.)

Seven green mangoes were hanging from the small-sized mango tree … pretty amazing bunch, I reflected, especially on such a small tree. I reached out for one.

This time, I mentally made a statement – directed at the tree – it was just a request – “I’m taking one, pls. don’t mind”. (I had read somewhere that one must ask a tree for permission before plucking its fruit – apparently, trees feel pained when their fruit is yanked off rudely – but give off willingly even with just a dash of politeness ).

As it had many many years ago, it came off as soon as I gave a gentle pull.

A memory flashed past my mind – the rustle of the white cotton sari, and the wrinkled hands, gleeful eyes with the crow’s feet marks outlining them. Kindness, love of a unique kind.

My eyes then focussed on the two people next to me, as I watched them  – chattering incessantly about seemingly inconsequential things; enveloped in their own world – a world where I was just so important.

Such treasures were hard to come by. For a few seconds, gratitude poured within me.

19 years had passed. But the past and the present were merging. There was only one moment. And only one emotion. Love.

(c) Rajesh Vee

It was 5.30 P.M and the sun was beginning to set. I could feel the anticipation rising…my anxious eyes searching to connect with the other pair, that belonged in a face that evoked so much love in my heart.

She was washing her feet and hands passively; if she sensed my urgency there was definitely no indication of it. After much diligence in making sure her anklets were rid of any specks of dirt, she motioned for me to do the same. I hurriedly went into the bathroom, splashing water over my feet and quickly rubbing my hands in the steady stream of the tap.

I rushed back to the living room to find her she was deftly oiling a wick. In a few moments, a lamp was lit, and the Gods were smiling through the yellow flame. She folded her hands and stood in silence, deep in prayer; I didn’t want to be a spoilsport so I stood in obedience, next to her, with my eyes closed. I heard the anklets walk past and looked at her, taking the lamp in her hands, reciting “deepam” and going out of the house to the thulasi thara, liting the lamp there too. Folding my hands, and taking a few resigned breaths, I stood leaning at the door frame.

She turned to look at me, with a twinkle in her eyes, and said, “so shall we go?” Furiously nodding, I walked towards her. She said “Ask mummy first. If she doesn’t agree, that’ll be a problem”. 

“I asked her already! She was okay about it”.

“Ask her again. I don’t want to get into trouble!”

*Grunt*…. “Mummmmyyyyyyy” …

I hopped behind her on the narrow pathways leading to the house behind ours. I could hear her in front of me asking “Chechi, shall we pick the leaves?” – and then consent being given after a few friendly exchanges . We were soon at the thick bushes, plucking tiny dark green leaves one by one, putting them into a cover. Soon, we had what we thought was a substantial amount.

Back home, she placed the cover containing the leaves next to the grinder. It must have been 6.30 because the power went off. I let out a wail; waiting for more time was unthinkable. She grinned, went inside a room and came out holding a lamp. The lamp was placed beside the grinder, and as I watched her shadow on the wall as it loomed large, she stood, splashing water on the surface of the stone and proceeding to mash the leaves into fine green paste. I sat on the ledge, swinging my legs, engrossed in our (seemingly philosophical) chatter.

The paste was transferred to a shallow steel vessel, that was placed on the dining room table. A few minutes later, the room was engulfed in light and I rushed to pull a chair and seat myself next to the table. She emerged with a triangular cone in her hands, made out of coarse cloth. I spooned the paste into it… we tied the ends of the cone so that it wouldn’t be squished out from the wrong end.

We took turns, peering with deep concentration at our hands as we tried to etch out complicated designs. Or atleast I did. She was always satisfied with the simplest thing she could make – a big blob in the center, and then the tips of her fingers covered  with the paste. And if there was still more, dots all around the circle in the center. After about fifteen minutes of concentration, I had an exuberant smile on my face. The glob in the center of the hand was shaped like those mango designs that you found in saris those days. And the dots were not random but emerging out in a pattern onto my wrist.

She was excited for a moment and then wistful. “Oh! that is lovely! I wish I had done something sensible instead of this!”

I proudly held up my palm for exhibition, my smile indicating an achievement much more significant that merely a decipherable pattern of mehendi on my hands. I said to her, “Doesn’t matter. Will make it for you tomorrow. I love your pattern of dots too!”. She must have been satisfied with my reply, because she proceeded to stow away the cone.

Dinner was funny. Our left hands were stuck out carefully, many inches away from us, and we attempted to gobble our food quickly, taking care not to move our left hands too much. Soon, It was time to sleep. She said “we’d better sleep with it, otherwise the color won’t be that red tomorrow”. I looked at her in doubt.

After a fraction of a second, mulling on that statement of profound importance, I went over to my mother. “Mummy, can I sleep without washing the mylanji off my hands?” (mylanji being the malayalam word for mehendi). The nod came after a frown, and then a resigned sigh.

The next day morning, I woke as a deep and quaint smell wafted into my nostrils. My sleepy eyes opened to see a red blur in front of me… I heard an eager whisper ”Go, get up and wash your hand! I want to see how red the color is!”

In a blink, I was up. I looked at her hand eagerly – the deep brown-red getting a stamp of approval in my mind as soon as I saw it clearly. I ran to the bathroom and held my hand under a tap, picking at the fragments of dried mehendi rapidly to uncover the rich color underneath.

The smile of satisfaction was unbeatable

P.S. Many years later, one night, 9.00 P.M. it was. I was crouched on the bed, poring over something in detail, the concentration in my mind visible on my forehead. It was her hand outstretched in front of me, and the mehendi cone was in my hand this time. I had stuck to my promise, as I had done so many times before… my design was being etched out on her hand. The next day was to be the day she got married.

Its a perfectly good holiday today. October 2nd, Gandhi Jayanthi. Free from work pressures (of course never free from study pressures), I find myself in a good mood and my mind is mulling around in gay abandon .

And it is times like these that one is inspired to go the whole hog and pour forth into a blog post. My regular blogging has become a serious concern for me since it is just not that – “regular” that is. I surreptitiously think whether it is the advent of micro-blogging in the form of twitter that has dampened the need to extol my thoughts in a page or two.

I mean, why would I do this, when constrained by the need of expression in precisely 140 characters, I can churn out spicy little statements that leave one wanting for more. (Atleast that is what I hope it does to people who read my tweets ;) – hehe… AW, come on. A little bit of ego-massage isn’t all that bad!!).

But I cannot abandon my glorious little blog, nope. If twitter is a place where my momentary thoughts find online expression, this blog is the place where I can sculpt my own views to perfection. In the process, opening up to a world of creative inhabitants, who’ve succeeded in defining an alternate thought-universe: bloggerland.

Before this turns out into an anniversary post – which is something I’ve never written btw, simply because I’m very bad at remembering anniversaries or birthdays of all kinds! – let me go on to something more relevant to today’s spirit.

I am watching Sir Ben Kingsley as Gandhi on TV. It is impossible not to be moved by this film each time one watches it. You forget Sir Ben is an actor as you watch him bring Gandhi alive. So many nuances breathed into the character of a man, many of us in today’s generation know only from history books.

Watching this movie as a child, I remember feeling reverence and spiritedness, knowing that Gandhi was an Indian and that he had scripted the freedom struggle for our country – I remember my chest swelling with pride even though I really never understood what it meant for a human being to sacrifise as much as he had done.

Seeing the movie today, I feel a different kind of reverence. Gandhian ideologies may seem impossible to follow for many (atleast till Munnabhai brought this into the masses with Gandhigiri ) and even amusing. But I realize today that it is not a matter of showing your other cheek when someone slaps one. Those are only symbols. 

What it really is, is about courage. About sticking to one’s ideologies and challenging a force so strong that even the strongest may run for cover or hesitate. How easy is it for one man to speak out and demonstrate persistence towards a vision in the face of tremendous resistance? How easily we all resort to mob mentality and cower away from charting out a path different from the crowd? Have you ever stood up to exploitation? To injustice of any kind – at home, in the office or in the society? Have you swallowed humiliation believing that you were powerless? Watch Gandhi. And understand the symbolism of standing up for yourself. And for people you know.

The film shows, albeit in glimpses, a man whose mission left him little time for familial duties. A wife who had to go along his chosen path, and accept his beliefs, more out of duty than identifying herself with it too. But there is a scene in the movie, where on her deathbed, he tenderly holds her hand till she dies. When the doctor confirms her death, he says nothing, but imperceptibly shakes in tightly controlled emotion, a tear dropping out of his eye - and we need nothing more to understand the gravity of the loss. 

Nothing can undermine the value of a partner in life, even though we’re always quick to take them for granted and demand forever that they conform to our beliefs. To lose a partner is to lose a part of your soul.

Then there was compassion. Only a man of intense compassion could appeal for a nation of people, identifying himself in each one of them. Isn’t it just so difficult to find compassion anymore these days? Ruthlessness seems to be a more revered trait. *Sad smile*.

Running behind mindless pursuits has left many people an empty shell. (Are you one of them?)

The last aspect of what struck me as I watched Gandhi today, was that he was an incredibly lovable man with a keen sense of humour. Humour that enabled him to take himself lightly and not get caught in his own magnetism, his effect on people or his successes. Humour that kept him grounded even when adversities could have broken his spirit.

If he had lived till today, I am sure he would have found his caricatures and funny ads on him, very amusing . I think the people who opine that such caricatures undermine his value, should start taking themselves a little less seriously too . The value of a human being is not expressed through monuments and roads built in his name, or statues or putting him in a glass cage where people can look at him with reverence. Value is in insight. Knowing that Gandhi lives as a symbol – not just of non-violence or of freedom struggle – and not just to be thought of once in a year. Maybe this is where I concur with the makers of Munnabhai: Gandhi stood for a lot of concepts that are valid forever – courage, love, moral values, compassion and humour.

The film ends on a somber note. In the background of the partition, you see Gandhi’s indomitable spirit broken to see the people of his land fighting in the name of religion and killing one another. Yet there are moments that tell you that even if people believe he failed as a political leader, as a human being and not just a visionary, he surpassed everyone else.

There is a scene where Om Puri, comes to him while Gandhi is on a hunger strike (a bid to end the violence). Om Puri throws a roti at him and tells him to eat – saying that he (Puri) will go to hell anyways, but does not want to do it being responsible for the death of Gandhi also. Gandhi replies that going to hell is decided by God. Then Om Puri breaks down and says that he killed a muslim baby, striking his head against a wall, because Muslims had killed his son – and he weeps, from his loss and from the guilt of doing exactly that which caused him the loss. Gandhi (despite being weak from his fast) pats him on the head and brings him close to his chest.

I felt the scene was a testimony of how non-judgemental Gandhi was; and how his love for his nation and people was pure and forgiving.

Do we need a holiday to remember this man?