When a Blind Man Cries - An Ode to Nivedita

Deep Purple’s “When a Blind Man Cries” is arguably one of the saddest rock ballads ever penned and sung. But honestly, I was never a great fan of Purple and only started paying serious attention to the song after hearing a cover version by the German never-grew-old rockers Axel Rudi Pell. They did justice to the song in a way Ian Gillan and the rest of Purple could never dream—  powerful, yet plaintive heavy metal vocals, with canyon-deep guitar riffs emerging from the core of the heart only to rip it apart, while tears stream down from empty eyes. 

Listening to this song invariably reminds me of a college senior and good friend, “Raja,” an ethnic Nepali who lived in a small room behind a pharmacy owned by his uncle, not far from my home. Short, stocky, thuggish but effulgent, we shared a love for books and rock music—though he leaned more towards metal. I started appreciating Iron Maiden thanks to him, while he tripped on Floyd's Wish you were here, which he copied from me. When a Blind Man Cries was his favourite ballad, and he could go on and on discussing the lyrics, the sadness, the pain. Though he never acknowledged it, the song was a metaphor for his secret, one-sided tragic love for Nivedita. His classmate and someone he never gathered the courage to say “Hi",  fearing what all tough guys dread the most—rejection. 

I always saw Nivedita as demure, petite and a reserved girl. She also possessed an almost ethereal beauty and femininity—porcelain skin, natural auburn hair, with a decidedly European nose and cheekbones. But what was truly disarming about her was her utter simplicity and complete lack of airs or pretence. She came from a very middle-middle-class family, had studied in a vernacular school, and always spoke in Assamese. Her voice was normal, almost flat, without a girlish timbre or any of the exaggerated, drawn-out tones of most of the convent-educated girls—all those hiiiii, byeee, waaaow, ooauch… Interestingly, while everyone acknowledged her beauty, she was not on anyone’s radar. I never saw anyone courting her, or her out on a date. Well, except for Raja, but his inaction just made him a ghost that yearns.

And there was me — but she was considerably senior. We never interacted; there wasn't much scope for finding intellectual compatibility or common ground, and most likely there was none. So I chose to admire from a cinematic distance, watching the vision of a real-life Miranda — not one lost in the Picnic on Hanging Rock, but in the bustle of life, of the then-still-small town of Guwahati.

She was also the girl for whom I jumped out of my seat on a bus and offered it to her when I noticed her standing beside me. “Sit down, a girl like you shouldn’t stand,” I uttered with a gracious, flirty swagger that surprised even me. It also the only time I spoke to her. By then, I was used to any of my actions—no matter how kind or well-meaning—being met with a scowl from women. I was surprised when her face lit up with a smile, and she even said, “thanks.”  She kept stealing glances, bemused, realising that the college’s undisputed, Don Quixote, was both her admirer and a gentleman.  She looked happy, but honestly so was I… still am. A transient, yet lasting moment, suspended in time — with a sweetness most dates would struggle to reach, let alone match. It was also the last time I saw her—giving me one last side glance from the bus window as it sped away. 

Years later, I bumped into Raja, who had since shifted to Nepal. We shared a smoke, caught up on our lives, and discovered that both of us were still single had so far achieved absolutely nothing. At one point, I couldn’t resist asking him about her. He went silent for a moment and then said he had once seen her getting off a rickshaw, a few years after college, with two kids—one in her arms, the other in tow—clutching a very heavy vegetable bag, as she struggled on her way home. She looked haggard and tired, despite still being so young.

She was such a frail and beautiful girl,” he said, and after a pause added, “life is unfair.” I nodded in silent agreement. I knew that his own unrequited romance, was the last thing on his mind  - it was a lament for someone he adored, but never knew, yet wished the very best in life. He looked away, quickly brushing aside a tear; I pretended not to notice.

It’s not always the blind man who cries. 

I gave him a quick hug, started my trusty Marmalade and rode off.

Life is a Lemon, I want my Money Back!!

  

 Meat Loaf's iconic Bat Out of Hell Album cover.

If I had anything to brag about in my youth, it was that I was the first guy in town to own the entire Pink Floyd collection. A remarkable achievement, considering most of their albums weren’t even released in India at the time, and my parents barely gave me any pocket money—definitely not enough to buy a cassette tape. So I call them gifts from the Gods of Psychedelic Rock.

Two others in town made the same claim. One was blatantly lying—he had a few and just knew the rest of the album names. He later died of an overdose. The other copied my collection and then claimed, to all, he was the first. He became a rock band vocalist, who organized a Pink Floyd tribute concert "The Wall" in the city - pocketed all the proceeds, not paying other artists and contractors, and fled to Mumbai, where he is now some kind of music director.

Anyway, I soon dropped the boast—not a single girl was impressed, and most had no clue who they were, while most people invariably followed up with, “So... do you do drugs ? Smoke Pot ?” Over time, I found blindly claiming to love everything "Floydian" came off as a bit pretentious. Besides, I actually preferred listening to Manfred Mann’s Earth Band.

Take the lyrics from Solar Fire, for example:

“See the morning dancer crossing the sky
Turning gold to amber, travelling by
He must know the answer, he must know why
Looking for an answer—look to the sky.”

A hypnotic psychedelic mantra, echoing a primordial prayer to the sun—questioning the ephemeral and mostly meaningless human existence. Looking for an answer—look to the sky.

Somewhat unintentionally, I even started looking like Manfred Mann: long hair, sideburns, round glasses, bell-bottoms salvaged from musty chests and suitcases of friends and relatives, worn by uncles in the ’70s. Music blared from my tiny stereo throughout my waking hours, and different songs got tagged to specific episodes, moods, and thoughts.

Late nights were spent fiddling the dial of an old Philips tube Shortwave radio under the guise of studying. A memorable catch was tuning into Radio Zimbabwe playing Manu Dibango’s Soul Makossa — maku mama-say, mama makossa...at 2 AM.

My cassette and later CD(downloaded MP3s not store bought albums) collection grew copious over time—many of them rarities. As a result, I always had a string of amateur and professional musicians making a beeline to my place, even though I never learned to bang a table in rhythm.

Then came satellite TV, beaming MTV. The neo-hippy look made a comeback, thanks to bands like R.E.M., peace symbols, flowery shirts and all, and suddenly a bunch of kids started resembling me, forcing me to start dressing “normal” again. It wasn't Almost Cut my Hair any more - I did cut my hair.

And yet, the habit of mapping life’s chapters to music stuck. Ironically, most of those songs were written or sung before I was born or while I was still in nappies. In late-80s, early-90s Assam, I was a deliberate cultural misfit—a 70s counterculture comet, lost on a jagged path, 10,000 miles off course and 20 years too late.

Love life during youth—or rather, heartbreak—was always defined by Whitesnake’s:

“Here I go again on my own
Going down the only road I’ve ever known…”

But honestly, that was for peer consumption and unjaded teenage bravado.

I spent years pining for a college classmate, imagining her to be J.J. Cale’s "Sensitive Kind". My heartstrings wailed along with Santana’s guitar, and sank into slow despair to the Rasta beat of "I Don’t Wanna Wait in Vain,"  realising that she never felt the same.

In darker moments of solitude, I wiped away silent tears listening to Joan Baez’s Ballad Book (the Child ballads), or even earlier rarities like River in the Pines or Man of Constant Sorrow  —their emotional weight rivalled only by Frank Patterson’s mournful Danny Boy or Cedric Smith’s dramatic rendition of Carrighfergus, hallowed by Loreena McKennitt’s etheric soprano in the background.

There was even a brief Chris De Burgh phase, but it ended as quickly as it started when the Lady in Black (that's what she wore on our first date), left me for a Colonel twice her age. Listening to Missing You after that felt like mockery, but it wasn't The last time I cried. 

Adult heartaches—usually involving considerably younger muses—made Patrick Kavanagh’s Raglan Road the recurring anthem of my love life. Immortalised by The Dubliners, Van Morrison, and even Mark Knopfler:

“On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue…”

Eventually, coming to the conclusion that, indeed - Love is just a four-letter word. 

Ever the political radical in thought, if not in action, I found a kindred spirit in Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms with:

Through these fields of destruction
Baptisms of fire
I've witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged higher

A journey that culminated with The Partisan—adapted from Anna Marly's legendary French anti-fascist ballad La Complainte du Partisan — on Joan Baez’s anti–Vietnam War protest album Come from the Shadows. The Leonard Cohen version could never give the same goosebumps.

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing
Through the graves the wind is blowing
Freedom soon will come
Then we'll come from the shadows

Songs that ended up as part of revolutionary compilations for some friends who claimed ties to the militancy that scarred the state in the ’90s - or that's what they said.

The pacifist in me, meanwhile, clung to Pete Seeger’s Where Have All the Flowers Gone—though I always preferred Joan Baez’s haunting German version, Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind. Given that neither of us actually knew the language (as Joan herself once admitted in a TV interview), I felt my choice was completely legit.

 However, if there’s one song that sums up my life—The Real McCoy—it’s Life is a Lemon and I Want My Money Back by Meat Loaf. Most of the MTV generation would know him due to the widely popular and equally meaningless 90s rock opera hit, "I will do anything for love, but I won't do that", whatever That implied. Gen Z probably discovered him only because he died a few years back.

I was already batshit crazy for his 77 debut Bat Out of Hell, complete with its insane album cover art - since school. (Yes… I have it on vinyl, too.) For a person who could never memorise a single poem, I knew the complete words of "Bat out of Hell," and the scandalous "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" - both the male and female parts. Which made my claims of being dyslexic and having ADD highly suspect, to say the least. 

Life is a Lemon was originally released as a single and later added to the more popular—but, let’s face it, significantly inferior—Bat Out of Hell II.

Why does it resonate with me? Because really, what could sum up life—or more specifically, my life—better than this:

“It's all or nothing, and nothing's all I ever get
Every time I turn it on, I burn it up and burn it out
It's always something—there's always something going wrong
That's the only guarantee, that's what this is all about
It's a never-ending attack
Everything's a lie and that's a fact
Life is a lemon
And I want my money back.”

 Parting Note: I finally made time to figure out who or what is Coldplay. Well, bollocks. Not only did I find their music insipid to the point of revulsion, but if forced to attend their concert, I’d probably end up hugging someone else’s wife too - out of sheer boredom—preferably someone younger and prettier. Give me a Fourplay concert anyday...

Russi Topi and other Delusions

Ushanka-The Iconic Russian Hat a.k.a. The Russi Topi

Out of the blue, I was contacted by a Russian chap I had once met at a conference. No prior message, no email—just a straight video call from his car. No apology, no excuses, or preamble. He claimed it was common practice for them, and immediately looped in a colleague. Since nothing about Russia—or Russians—surprises me any more, especially when it comes to their business culture, or the apparent lack of it, I didn’t react. From unscheduled calls to blunt emails and bullying tactics used during meetings, it's all part of doing "Bizness wiz Mazeer Russha." It was evening, I was free, so I let it slide.

He had called for the unlikeliest reason— not one I could have ever guessed—they wanted to discuss the scope of sourcing construction workers from India. They first grumbled about how hard it was to get labour import quotas, pitched it as a “great opportunity” for me, even gave me a peep of Lubyanka—former KGB, now FSB headquarters—from the car window. He then went on a tangent cursing the “pederasts” who removed  Zhelezny (Iron) Felix, (the statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky,  the Soviet revolutionary of Polish origin, who led the precursors of the KGB, now FSB which stood in Lubyanka square till it was removed in 1991), and even bragged about once being hosted by some former Raja in India.  A half-hour, of mostly irrelevant, headache-worthy dialogue that was more a capsule of Soviet nostalgia, Russki swagger, and Putin-era imperial delusions and less about business. Thankfully, he didn't have a Z tattoo on him—or maybe he did. 

I told them, that I shall revert.

Sure enough, according to various reports, Russia now wants 1 million (low-wage, obedient, and compliant ) Indian workers to fill its market gap. Post-Soviet Russia has had a recurring problem finding blue-collar workers, so far filled by legal and illegal job migrants from predominantly Central Asian, Muslim ex-Soviet republics—mostly Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. 

Usually referred to as "Gastarbeiters" (German for guest workers), and equally by a bunch of slurs like Churka & Oleni.  The ILO reports that there about 3,00,000 immigrant workers in Russia, though gauging by the local sentiment and alarm against them, one would think the figure was 10 times higher. Their wages were low, living conditions ranging from bad to atrocious, and virtually non-existent rights. Plagued by all-round extortion, bribery and racial profiling, all backed by institutionalised, systemic, and culturally entrenched racism.  Equally preyed upon by mafia goons from their own diaspora—extorted for protection money or coerced into drug running. 

Still, they came, as economic conditions back home were dire, and the political situation no better. Different clans ran the bureaucracy, with a dictator-for-life and his family at the helm of what could only be described as a dystopian post-communist Khalifat. Countries like Tajikistan also suffered from a decade of civil war all through the 90s, between the old guard and Islamic radicals. 

Over the years, they obtained work permits—real and fake (both paid for, of course). Many acquired Russian citizenship, brought over families, multiplied, took over enclaves, and are no longer willing to work for the same wages and conditions. Many moved up the economic ladder, in due course themselves becoming labour contractors, entrepreneurs and business owners.

Throughout this influx, formed several friction points as some of these guest workers weren’t exactly model citizens, with frequent involvement in theft,  gang violence, and a disturbing number of crimes against women—Russian women.

Although Russia has a sizeable, but extremely Russified, ethnic Muslim population, it was only after the influx of these immigrants that Islam became more visibly present. Roads blocked for prayers during festivals, goats and sheep being sacrificed in public. Overall small incidents, but which created a public backlash in a society only known for its tolerance for totalitarian regimes. The breaking point came with the terrorist attack in the Crocus City hall in Moscow last year, perpetrated by Islamists from Tajikistan. And even though the Russian government immediately blamed Ukrainian handlers via the Kremlin's army of TV propagandists - hardly anyone bought that story. 

In response, an already deeply racist and xenophobic society, along with its rabble-rousing Duma, started baying for blood. Their thoroughly corrupt immigration services who were earlier milking the immigrant workers, started flexing muscles, joined by OMON, Russia's brutal riot police, to start a crackdown on "illegals" and tightening border control. 

Over the years, things have slowly improved in the immigrant's home countries. So predictably, the flow of new migrant workers from Central Asia also started drying up.

Russia had earlier also imported workers from Vietnam and still uses North Korean labour in its forest industry and gas pipeline laying in their Far East. The plausible excuse being that they are disciplined and diligent, while the locals vanish for a week-long vodka binge the moment they get paid. The North Korean workers arrive under tight government-to-government contracts, leaving the Russian side at the whims of a mercurial dictatorship. The Vietnamese experiment too had its pitfalls. Some couldn’t adapt to the Russian climate. Others quickly formed a violent mafia engaged in everything from drugs and prostitution to slave labour, proving to be more trouble than they were worth.

Contrary to popular belief, not all village and small-town Russian men are out fighting in Ukraine for obscenely high salaries, or their wives gleefully awaiting coffins and a hefty government compensation. Most are doing low-paid provincial jobs, when not getting drunk, unwilling to relocate to major cities and adopt a high-pressure work and lifestyle. Besides, no Russian will agree to take home half his official wage or bunk up with 20 people in a room without toilets. More importantly, the job givers too are not interested in hiring them, irrespective of what they say on TV or in meetings.

As to the big question, for which no one had a real answer, from where to get the next wave of cheap workers?

 So now, Russia’s gaze has fallen on an unlikely country—India. A regular supplier of labour to the Gulf, and now a target of the misguided belief that Indians are mild, complacent, and obedient low-wage workers. A myth similar to one believed by many Russian women—that Indian men make ideal, obedient, and faithful husbands.

Coming back to the Russians who had called me—after hearing them out on the first call, I told them clearly that I had no experience in headhunting or manpower supply. But since they had called me, I extended them the courtesy of making a few calls to friends in the construction business. I also checked with a few manpower agents to understand the going rate for workers to get a rough overview of the market. What I heard wasn’t encouraging—and I told them so during our next interaction.

I also punctured a few of their assumptions. First, Indian workers’ domestic wages are only slightly lower than those in Russia—so why would anyone bother going there? Second, there are no ready "workers brigades” with passports and emigration permits waiting to fly out at a week’s notice. Even seasoned manpower suppliers need 4–6 weeks to get a group ready. Third—how do you plan to communicate with them? Sign language? Hiring interpreters will hardly get the work done, considering the amount of trade jargon used in various sectors. Besides, anytime I hear a Russian speak in Hindi, I beg them to switch back to Russian. 

Same with  most Desis  talking in Russian, irrespective of the years he or she slogged out at the Russian Cultural Centre classes.

Lastly, with all your bank sanctions, how exactly do you intend to pay them? Please don’t get ideas about using your government's huge stockpile of Indian Rupees—a new disbursal mechanism would have to be developed with the Indian government, and to the best of my knowledge, none exists so far.

They never called back. No follow-up. No thank-you.

To sum it up, if a proper framework for monitering, employment, work permits, payment channel and checks are put in place, with a guarantee that they wont be sent to the war front — it may work out after all, though I remain sceptically disposed.  Indians have proved to be an incredibly resilient people, managing to survive and adapt everywhere. Though tiny, there is a successful Indian diaspora in Russia—even a Russian Duma MP of Bihari origin. However, even imagining a million dark-skinned, culturally alien Indians gainfully employed there, without running into a host of issues and cultural friction, is an entirely different matter.  

The root cause is that there are almost no cultural, political, or economic bridges between the two countries today—and not much mutual respect either. Except for the Nehru - Indira Gandhi era of Indu-Russi Bhai-Bhai sloganeering, the only other Russian thing truly widely known to Indians was the Russi Topi (Russian Hat). The iconic Ushanka—indispensable in their climate and immortalised in Mera Joota Hai Japani. The song, along with the film Mera Naam Joker, were arguably the closest India and Russia  connected in popular culture.

In Indian parlance, though, Topi often stands for illusion, while topi pehnana—to place a hat on someone—is shorthand for hoodwinking. So far, all Indo-Russian business proposals ever made to me, from either side, whether by accident or intent, always ends up a Topi : Illusions that melted away like a crust of snow in the first sunlight. As did this latest proposal.

Let's also not forget the recent scandal when Indians, lured with job offers in Russia, ended up on the Ukrainian frontline. 

Now that's a classic case of Russi Topi if you ask me.

Down Diya Brigade

 

Source: https://cartoonrob.com/tag/booing/ 

 In my class section in high school, there was a group of boys who weren’t particularly good at anything—neither academics, sports, music, looks, nor even cracking a decent joke. But they were united by one common act:

Booing anyone and everyone in the class who, in their view, dared to step out of line. 

With my outspokenness, sometimes unusual, and often outlandish questions and ideas, I quickly became a regular target. Was there any malice or serious bullying involved? Not really, it was just their way of maintaining a social hierarchy built on colourless mediocrity. I christened them the "Down Diya Brigade"— Down Diya in Assamese-English slang meant to pull someone down.

Years passed. Most of them faded into lower to middle-rung bureaucracy. One drank himself to death in his early forties. Never the type to keep in touch with “fellow inmates”—I mean, classmates, I stayed connected with only a few.
Then one day, someone posted my picture in a class Facebook group. One of the Brigade’s top cheerleaders couldn’t resist, came out of the woodwork and commented something to the effect of me being “fat as a pig, ready for slaughter.”

The retribution was swift. Not as scorched-earth as I initially wanted to (I left out the brutal part about his own appearance and those of his family members - some things are just not said, no matter what) but the message got through. Of course, to the silent spectators in the group, I was as always “angry and overreacting!” 

Fast-forward to the present. A friend from my old stadium days calls me, saying there's a party interested in bidding for a 15-20 Cr government tender. They have the money, and political proximity to the relevant minister—but lack technical qualifications or a track record. Could I connect them with a legitimate partner? Naturally, he gets a cut.

As so happens, I do have a client who fits the bill, but who conveyed that they would only move ahead if I led the project. So, we hold a first meeting with his party, followed by a second one with my client. In both, my “friend” kept highlighting our long-standing friendship, my deep knowledge of boats and rivers. But each time, he ended his pitch by laughing and calling me a complete crackpot.

Was he trying to be funny? Playing the same old social dominance game? Or just too thick to realize that calling the key person in a potential 20 Cr project, a nutcase, is not very confidence inspiring for all involved. But then again, it’s typical behaviour in this part of the world, especially here in Assam. 

They want your work, your knowledge, your contacts: All preferably for free, or in exchange for vague promises.

Nonetheless, they will still begin the conversation by shaming your body and end it by questioning your sanity.

I kept my morose evaluation of his behaviour to myself, with the thought: "What else to expect from Moose?" Yes, the same, from Archie comics, as that's what some of us called him behind his back, though he preferred being compared to Arnold - muscleman, terminator and ex-governor.

 

The  Maa Kali Dal, my codename for Moose's party, came with several polite demands - from details of my client's past work orders, to my writing concept notes, providing technical specs for a new tender, and making river inspections. Basically everything they could think of, except discussing my terms of engagement and professional fees. 

Now, I don't know whether it was due to my being introduced as a crackpot, or not being available for free service, they too soon disappeared, not to be heard of again.

Saying "C'est la Vie" doesn't apply in these situations.
It's either something totally outlandish, idiotic or just characteristically Oxomiya!!

Here, anyone who is either talented, hardworking, artistic, honest, purpose-driven, original, visionary or just plain fearless is denigrated with one word - "Pagol".

The meaning, you guessed it..,