Inspiration- 
One morning Chuang Tzu awoke from his sleep. Coming before his students, he said, "Last night I dreamt that I was a beautiful butterfly fluttering through the fields. Now I awaken. My question is this; how do I know if I am Chuang Tzu, who dreamt himself a butterfly, or if I am a butterfly, now dreaming itself Chuang Tzu?" 
A humble effort in  a similar dilemma...

Meri Aankhon Mein Dekh
Dost Mere,
Dekh Ek Raat,
Jo Dhali Hi Nahi,
Saajishen Sapno Ki,
Naakam Kiye,
Aisi Jaagi Hain Bhor Tak Jaise,
Band Ho Jaati To Phir Khwab Mera,
Toot Jaata Uski Neend Mein Yun,
Jaise Jhatke Se Koi,
Tumko Jaga Deta Hai...

The Monsoon Musing of the RBI Governor. Another one from the Wall Street Journal Blogs.

RBI’s Subbarao Chases the Monsoon

A late monsoon saved former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi an election, quipped journalist Pritish Nandy to author Alexander Frater in his delightful travelogue “Chasing the Monsoon,” in which the author journeyed through India along with the monsoon clouds in the late 1980s.

AFP/Getty Images

Reserve Bank of India Governor, D. Subbarao.

Reserve Bank of India Governor Duvvuri Subbarao probably knows how Mr. Gandhi felt.

In his role as the country’s central banker in chief, Mr. Subbarao is responsible for adjusting interest rates as necessary to stimulate economic growth but subdue inflation. That’s a tough job at the best of times but it’s made a lot easier when there are good monsoon rains, which make agriculture bountiful, suppressing food prices and benefitting the majority of Indians who still depend on the land for a living. When the monsoon is bad, the opposite happens.

Some 60% of farmlands in India are rain-fed. India’s output of summer-sown crops fell in 2009 after the country received its lowest rainfall in 37 years. By December, food prices were up more than 20% from the year before, hurting the economy.

All RBI governors face this problem. But it has a special resonance for Mr. Subbarao, as he discussed with reporters last week during a trip to the southern city of Thiruvananthapuram in Kerala to attend a central bank board meeting.

Mr. Subbarao, who topped his civil service exams in 1972, had his first posting as a sub-collector in the southern state of Andhra Pradesh, which is also his home.

District collector and sub-collectors play an important role when it comes to rains and water. They assess the ground situation to declare whether to declare a drought and they decide when to declare a flood – two events often generated by the monsoon rains, or lack of them.

It was during that time that Mr. Subbarao realized “my emotional well-being, my career prospects depended on rains,” he said at the RBI function.

Nearly four decades later, he remains hostage to the monsoon.

“Now at the end of my career as the Governor of Reserve Bank, I realize that (my) entire performance will depend on rains and not what I do about interest rates,” Mr. Subbarao said. “If there is good monsoon, it is ok. Otherwise the Governor of the Reserve Bank is to be blamed.”

Fortunately, this year the signs are good. The monsoon has further advanced into more parts of the Bay of Bengal, the weather department said in its latest update last week. Rains are expected to reach the southern state of Kerala on May 30, India’s weather bureau chief Ajit Tyagi said Thursday.

ANOTHER BLOG FROM THE WALL STREET JOURNAL AUTHORED BY ME. 

The Reserve Bank of India Files

Nupur Acharya/Dow Jones NewsWires

Reserve Bank of India Governor Duvvuri Subbarao at the bank’s new museum in Pune on Tuesday.

“Can we ever forget about remembering?” said Reserve Bank of India governor Duvvuri Subbarao, quoting Nobel laureate Saul Bellowfor a change as he threw open a museum that documents 75 years of central bank history on Tuesday in the western city of Pune.

The archive’s documents, some of which predate the bank’s founding in 1935, are a treasure trove of stories of spats over bank independence, foreign exchange and in some cases, petty change, at least by today’s standards.

In 1957, Benegal Rama Rau, the fourth and longest serving Reserve Bank of India governor resigned from his post accusing the then Finance Minister T. T. Krishnamachari of interference. It’s quite common for Indian prime ministers to reject such moves from loyal stalwarts, which are often symbolic, but Mr. Rau must have been rather surprised by the response he got.

“On a previous occasion I asked you not to resign. I did not think that any need for such a resignation had arisen but since you feel now that it is absolutely impossible for you to continue in office, I don’t know what further advice I can give you. If you so wish you can submit your formal resignation to the finance minister,” a testy-sounding Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, the first leader of independent India, wrote back.

Occasional tension between the finance minister and the RBI governor is almost guaranteed given the respective roles of each office — one a political role to boost growth and manage the nation’s finances, the other a financial role aimed at subduing inflation. These disputes rarely if ever break out in the open, as above.

The most recent chatter of seriously different points of view was in 2007 when Finance Minister P. Chidambaram was said to be opposed to then-Gov. Yaga Venugopal Reddy’s desire to sharply raise interest rates in 2007. In that case too, the finance ministry might have come out ahead. The day he retired in September 2008 Mr. Reddy said he would have preferred a tighter monetary policy during his tenure.

“Nobody can have his or her way in public policy or family life,” he said, when asked about differences with Mr. Chidambaram, now home minister. (Mr. Chidambaram could not immediately be reached for comment.)

Nupur Acharya/Dow Jones NewsWires

Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru wrote a letter in 1948 expressing concern about the economy.

Some of the correspondence may have shaped what has now become bank routine. In 1948, Mr. Nehru wrote to the first Indian bank governor, Chintaman Deshmukh, asking for a brief note on the deteriorating economic situation of the country. These days, the prime minister doesn’t have to ask. The central bank does a regular economic assessment just ahead of its quarterly monetary policy statements, and also sends a weekly report to the prime minister’s office.

Reserve Bank employees have occasionally been less than helpful. The archives contain a letter that Indira Gandhi, daughter of then Prime Minister Nehru and later at the helm of the nation herself, wrote in 1961 to the bank governor requesting foreign exchange of 600 pounds (about 8,000 rupees in those days) to pay for her son Rajiv Gandhi to attend Cambridge University, where he met the young Italian woman who became his wife, Sonia Gandhi, now the chief of the ruling Congress Party.

Those were the days were foreign exchange was scarce and there were strict limits on the amount Indians could take out. Today reserves bulge close to $300 billion and the bank now allows Indians to take out up to $200,000 of foreign exchange a year.

In response, someone, presumably a central bank clerk, shelved the request after jotting on it, “No action on our part looks necessary. May be filed.”

The archives were compiled in 1981 and total 23,000 files and 18,000 registers, which are still in the process of being microfilmed, Ashok Kapoor, the bank’s chief archivist, told India Real Time.

Post-script: Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, himself a bank governor from 1982-1985, was the subject of a board meeting to settle his pay the year of his appointment. It was suggested his salary be fixed at 4,500 rupees per month with a total additional allowance of 1,575 rupees. If he wanted to use his official car for a personal purpose, he was to pay the bank 100 rupees per month if the car was below 16 horsepower and 150 rupees if it was above. We hope both Mr. Singh and Mr. Subbarao aren’t being nickel-and-dimed quite as much these days.

Hi sharing my recent post written with a colleague on the Wall Street Journal India Real Time Blog. 

What is the neutral rate? 
This has dominated monetary policy talk in India, with economists arguing that as the central bank withdraws its monetary stimulus, it needs to move to back to a neutral rate as soon as possible. 
The central bank Tuesday raised rates for both its key repo and reverse repo rates by a modest 25 basis points. 
Gov. Duvvuri Subbarao said Wednesday (when he wasn’t quoting Deng Xiaoping) that he asked his in-house economists what the neutral rate means. 
Theoretical economics says the neutral rate is one consistent with an economy’s potential output and low and stable inflation — a sweet spot for the economy. Gov. Subbarao said it’s not an “observable construct.” It is a textbook concept, he added, more applicable to mature economies and not to one like India, which has big growth potential and room for productivity and efficiency improvements. 
Deputy Gov. Subir Gokarn, who handles monetary policy, had a more spiritual take. “It’s like Nirvana,” he said. “You don’t know what it is, but you’ll know when you get there.” Prior to taking over his current charge, Deputy Gov. Gokarn was the chief economist at Standard & Poor’s for Asia Pacific. His current job has made him more circumspect in making forecasts and projections. 
“Having been in that game for so many years, I can tell you with certainty that being on the outside and being able to visualize things without the pressure of having to make a decision is very different from being in a situation where we have to make a decision,” he said. Thus he has his own take on the criticism of being “behind the curve” in raising interest rates. For him, the curve doesn’t exist. 
“I think is important to recognize that when you say behind the curve, from an outside perspective the curve looks like a nice thin line,” Deputy Gov. Gokarn said. “So there is an exact predictability precision to it. From the inside the curve looks like a wide band.”

The Train Of Love..Maybe- A Short Story

He turned around one last time to check if any of his office colleagues were out hanging at the pan kiosk. Finding none, he buttoned up his jacket and started walking towards the railway station in long strides. Meandering through the rows of pavement hawkers urging him to buy cameras, goggles or porn movies, he walked with a bounce amused and satisfied with himself. The boss was out and he managed half a day of leave by successfully convincing the deputy that he had a splitting headache. The industrious second-in-command had briefly looked up from the computer terminal and finding a face exuding small town sincerity, gave a sympathetic nod. It was not usual of him to play truant but the day was too cheerful to be spent behind a cubicle under the humming air-conditioner doing number crunching. In fact, the constant blow of cool air did numb his mind and for the last few days he had the urge to go out, hang his head in the sun and de-freeze the excel worksheets and project reports. Mumbai was experiencing an unusually cool winter this year. There was a nip in the air and a lazy sun overhead brought a philosophical detachment to anything distantly related to work. Around him, the city, which he only saw rushing to work early and dragging back home at night, looked totally transformed. Different sounds, different faces and an entirely different pace of life. As he reached the Terminus a stuffy stench of phenyl and wet towel entered his nostrils, a different stench indeed. The somber looking Mumbai local stood quitely resting under the rays of sun filtering through the tinted glass of the high-ceilinged heritage structure. It was minutes before it will come to life and roll on the rails to a relaxed journey to the suburbs. He walked up to the first class compartment, swung himself on the pole and landed on the train footboard. He then lazily shuffled himself to the window and spread out with a loud thump. Looking around, he found a goatee sporting college student armed with an I-pod, a couple of Gujju bhais engrossed in newspapers and an old gent wearing the whitest-of-white kurta pyjama. He leaned his head on the window and fixed his gaze on the time indicator, rolling his eyes waiting for the train to move. The indicator stuck the right time and as if something turned in its gut, the iron monster woke up to life and let out two shrill whistles. And in that interlude of whistles a swish of punk swayed into the compartment. The first thing he noticed about her were her shoes, which clip-clopped as she balanced herself on the footboard as the train rolled ahead. She then slowly walked up to a seat opposite him but a further away and quitely sat near the window. His eyes followed her little steps to the seat and then began moving further up slipping over her flawless white slender legs to meet a bunch of pink floral patterns on her skirt on her knees. In her hand she held a pink phone with earphones attached. As his eyes trailed the winding wire from her hand, through her bosom and up, he was met by a set of brown and dreamy eyes. The eyes looked through him and beyond. Totally disinterested in the occupants of the Mumbai local. As she kept her right elbow on the window edge and placed her chin on her open palm looking at the world rushing by, he knew it was a beautiful day and the path ahead held many interesting curves. The train meanwhile was happily rocking on the rails and with each rhythmic jerk he stole glances at her. She too was aware of the attention but was unyielding. What if this is really like in the movies?He would walk up to her and just generally strike a conversation on music or the phone model and they would get talking...Marine Line Station....he jumps frames. Walking on the Queen's Necklace promenade, her long fingers intertwined with his. She bends forward to look at him with eyes gleaming with the heat of a stolen kiss on the taxi and he pulled her close, her waist just fitting into the curve of his left hand. Grant Road Station. The goatee dude gets off here shaking his head like a rocker, one of the Gujju bhais folds up today's news and closes his eyes to catch some sleep while the other continues to work hard on the Sudoku. The whitest of white uncle had meanwhile starting falling over himself drifting into a snooze. The pink flower meanwhile is shuffling keys on her cellphone. She then closes her eyes and rests her back to the seat while crossing one leg over the other. Can she hear his thoughts? Lying on the floor with his face on her stomach, he nuzzles into her navel, making her giggle with tickle. He pins her down and digs his face into her heaving bosom breathing deeply her sweet scent. His hands starts moving on her slender legs as desire swells up but she in an instant pulls him by the hair. "No please....you know i have to be at home," Careless to her pleading, he starts nibbling on her neck till she falls back on the pillows living on small gasps between his bites. BOOM! An avalanche of noise shatters his foreplay as a random group of 15-year-olds make an entry into the compartment trampling his tender thoughts. He notices an inch-long frown go up on her forehead and disappear in an instant. She takes in the changed world in 7 seconds and shifts her gaze back to the rushing world outside. Where was he? One of the boys with long hair and a wise-guy smirk pulls his friend and whisperes something in his ear to which both of them rejoice in a loud laughter. The whisperer than stood up looking at the ceiling fans and sat across her while humming a un-musical tune. She pulls herself and moves closer to the window, her eyes fixed outside. The other lad meanwhile has reached the footboard and is leaning precariously outside the train trying to catch a glimpse of her at the window. He feels sick in the stomach. In two leaps he reached the train gate, pulls the acrobat by his shirt and lands a tight slap across his teenage face. A sudden silence fills up the compartment and he could see the Gujju bhais, the old uncle all awake and mouth agape. A ringing in the ears remain. The train too has stopped. The group of boys slowly deboard, while he continues to stand on the gate till the last one gets off. The one hit meanwhile is looking at him with fiery moist eyes and as the train revs up to go, with all his might, shouts - "Teri kya lagti hai behnchod?" (What does she mean to you sister-fucker?). He almost leaps out of the train with a matching expletive on his lips but gravity will just not let him go. He sees him fade away as the train leaves the station. He turns around to find the portrait in pink fiddling on the phone. She again casually gave a flip to her hair and continued to look outside the window as if she descended just now...totally unaware of the scuffle that took place 4-feet away from her. He stands there a few seconds longer and then walks up to his seat thinking - "Lagti kya hai? Kuch nahi behnchod?" (What does she mean to me? Nothing sister-fucker?). A smile goes up on his face and he folds up his arms, leans his head on the window, closes his eyes to slip into the arms of the rocking bogey cuddling him in his train of thoughts. And if the pink girl would have looked at him after a while. She would have seen her saviour, fast asleep...Smiling!

IN A FIT

Reality dawns at the most unexpected times and is followed by a variety of emotions - realization, regret and resolution. To me, it dawned in a 2X2 pigeonhole, brightly-lit with mirrors all around. I was there alone like in a transit camp before the judgment - to heaven or hell. The breathing was uneven and it was impossible to hold on to the truth very long...it slipped out of my hands and collected around my ankles. This too won't fit!!! Reality Strikes.

I felt a bout of claustrophobia. The waistline gave a sigh of relief and expanded generously as I wondered how and when did it all happen. But the ordeal was not over. I had to step out of the changing room to announce to the world that this too won't fit to which the dandy standing outside will give a sheepish smile and suggest that I buy shirts instead of trying out trousers as if going around wearing only shirts is in vogue.

For many months now I think most of the mall owners have become racist against us - the amply built ones. Ever thought, why the largest of the size is always at the bottom of the rack and you have to almost touch your toes to fish out just five odd options in trousers?

Some of them announce in advance, we don't have your size. Plain curt.

I remember a friend of mine trying out denims at a fancy store in his neighbourhood and suggested size 36 waist to which the cool dude bent his neck sized him up and said like a savant - "unkel 36 to nahi aayega," (uncle size 36 won't fit you).

Rewind to my school days when you had to buy your school uniform from designated shops. Around May-June, you would find the back-to-school crowd thronging these stores which did not have air-conditioning those days.

It was a common sight to find a lanky shop attendant sweating profusely, trying to pull up the shorts over the oversize bums of a chubby lad while his XXXL parents hopefully looked on. "Bhaiya yeh bhi fit nahi hoga?" (Brother, this too won't fit) the concerned mother would say to which Mr Reed would reply , "Woh kya hai na madam, baba jara healthy hai," (It is like that madam that the kid is a wee bit healthy). Underline underline- Healthy. Not fat. But today at the most swankiest of stores - the counting ends at 38. I guess the last best option is to go to expecting mothers' store and ask for a pregnant fit or simply buy shoes. Shoes don't discriminate.

Dilli Abhi Door Hai!!! - Not A Delhi Diary

Some of my best vacations have been the ones on work and out of office. Away from the physical reach of the editor, I start dreaming of unknown adventures. Even if it is just a visit to the next town. I just love the drama of reaching a destination.

Last week was one such experience.

Imagine sleeping in three different beds on three nights, not counting the forty winks on the plane and drooling all over the co-passenger's shoulder in the car in two trips of 8 hrs each.

The journey began in Mumbai on Jan 29 after I reached home at 1 am (that's the least time the clock can show you). A tired day was behind, a drunk present was evident and a three-day intensive tour was ahead. What was between the present and the future were about four hours and an unpacked suitcase. I present here the diary of one of the nights on the trip.

Jan 30, 2009, Saturday 8.30pm

After a two-hour flight and eight hours on the road I landed in a small town. There were five of us, I, the lone reporter from Mumbai, and four public relations executives. We were here to cover a high profile function at a village two hours away from the town featuring a top cabinet minister and a public sector company chief.

Our lodgings for the night were to be in a hotel with a heritage name and rooms fit to match the ruins. Only they were already occupied...by thirsty mosquitoes - the biggest of their species - circling like choppers around us - the prey for the night.

After turning our rooms into smoke chambers with mosquito coils, we headed to a close by banquet hall to find more of my species circling around warm beer bottles and whiskey without ice. They were mostly chiefs from the city bureaus who had separately travelled for the event.

After gulping down a large whiskey with warm water, I had my stomach in knots. The crowd however looked immensely satisfied with the warm spirit. I took aside my PR friend, who was as restless as me to get drunk, and said it was important for us to make whatever is left of the night. It was nearly 11 but we decided to try our luck.

Both of us didn't know the local area or the dialect but daru is as universal a word like water or mother. So the conversation to ask directions goes like this,

My friend hollers from the car window to a group of localities

- Daru, daru? (liquor) ,

- Band (Closed),

- He gestures kahan milega?(where)

- Black (you can get it in black - our term for paying more for our enjoyment),

- Kahan? (where),

- Hotel.

So with the knowledge of the world, we reach an almost shut seedy hotel, get in, buy a bottle of our trusted advisor - Old Monk and zip off.

The heritage rooms have a deathly silence. Bodies of asphyxiated mosquitoes are lying around. We begin our session. The first peg goes easy, the knots open up, the shoes are off and we have curled up on the bed. The conversation is intense. Careers, bosses, office bitches and the stupid company which has brought us here. By the second peg, the smoky atmosphere of the room has acquired a divine aura. We begin talking about "experiences" at religious places.

By then our teetotaler friend has already decided to retire to the other room, visibly uneasy with where the god forbidden people were headed - hell for sure.

In the third and the fourth peg - we are united in our misery, together against the world full of deceit and craftiness which drags us down professionally, we are the epitome of excellence and very very articulate.

It is the last peg - the Patiala.

It is 2.30 am, the dawn is near, the tubelight is dim, our eyes are shining. And then the big question emerges - Where do you see yourself in the next five years? My PR friend lifts up the glass to announce - "I would retire and I have a plan" . My other friend propped up on pillows says - "I want to have a published work in the next five years." Another one all wrapped up in a shawl says -"I want a house and a car but I know it will not happen." All of us pounce upon her with perfect clarity of thought on how you have to dream to do it and think positive and you could attract your success with your own thoughts. She settles down on a big house and a BMW.

My soon-to-retire friend suddenly thinks about a Rs 3 crore watch that he would surely buy.

I'm drunk but not sleepy, just tired. I have nothing to say I cannot look beyond the next day. I try hard to decide on the next five-year-plan...someone offers me a half drunk patiala, I gulp it down...still no clarity. The journey is not over yet. I have two more days of travelling and maybe some more journeys to reach the destination. Dilli Abhi Door Hai!!!