Don of the Night!

Raju Korti
“Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of fire just below the horizon, brushfire or a burning city. Maybe night falls because it’s heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale    

All that is dark is not bleak!
As Nature marches on relentlessly -- taking its own course -- and the fatigued day recedes and relapses into a quiescent night, idyll takes over. Its the time you can hear grass grow and flowers bloom, their heady fragrant blende permeating the ambience. Nocturnal bliss is fortified by the gentle zephyr that regains its lost chastity and Hope revives in the dreamless strut to another dawn.
Somewhere in the midst of this seamless advance, creativity takes over. Living daylights beaten, inventive finesse begins to grapple with meandering thoughts to give them a semblance of substance.
The silence is deafening but also lends itself to profundity for the Evil and Sinless. The line between sinister and benevolence gets shrouded enough to be seductive. For, nights are also made for torture, reflection and savouring solitude. A Dostoyevski comes up with "The darker the night, the brighter the stars." The eyes, closed or open, make the difference. The Bronte-ian reverie lights up with “I love the silent hour of night, for blissful dreams may then arise, revealing to my charmed sight what may not bless my waking eyes.” "If melancholy are the sounds on a winter night", it is the possibility of darkness that makes the day so bright. Nature is a great leveler. Isn't the sky is very much in place during the night as it is during the day?
Down on Earth, insomniacs scramble to make a virtue out of sleeplessness. For those retiring early, the night is a short, passing sojourn for yet another day of bedlam. The battle between Peace and Strife is also a game of hide and seek of a few hours of clockwork. But the periodic sounds of crickets and gnats set to the background music of the Dark make for a more harmonious sonata.
 And your enlightened soul realizes sleep is but a luxury that you cannot afford.
The Longfellow Effect:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
and silently steal away.” 
stands out visible and stark in the blindness around.
Night might be a time of rigor, but it is also one of mercy. Many truths manifest in the Dark so what if the Moon gets coffined by the clouds. The world courts respite in the night. Trees, mountains, fields, and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure. Each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark. Darkness is the ancient womb. Night-time is womb-time. The souls break free and come out to play. The darkness absolves everything; the struggle for identity and impression falls away.
Night is certainly more novel and less profane than day!

PS: Don't exercise too much over this gibberish. The allure of the esoteric can be irresistible at times. 

Manna that happened to music!

Raju Korti
The irony couldn't have come through more resonatingly to someone who swamped the pages of Facebook with an incessant stream of glowing tributes all through the day. While paens were being sung to Hindi cinema's arguably most accomplished classical singer, there were hardly 75 mourners at Manna Dey's funeral in Bengaluru.

Sketch courtesy my DNA colleague Bhagwan Das

Life strung cruelest of ironies for Manna Da all through his almost five-decade career, but the gentleman to a fault that he was, he always remained grounded and had the grace to place even some of his less illustrious contemporaries notches above himself.
Composer Jaidev once said that when Manna sang in a classical strain, no other singer could come anywhere close to him and that probably also meant the almighty Mohammed Rafi who more often than not managed to steal a march over the former many times.
Comparisons are odious, yet they happen -- wittingly or unwittingly. Both Manna and Rafi could match each other note for note and competition always invariably brought the best out of the two legends. It is just that though classically more tuned than Rafi, Manna couldn't make himself as flexible as Rafi did in terms of word throw, mood creation and fitting the protagonist's persona.
Yet clash when they did -- vocally of course -- it would be a veritable feast for the Kansens. Take for instance Meri Surat Teri Aankhen (1963) when Dada Burman got Manna Da to evocate an intense tear-jerker like "Poocho na kaise maine rain bitayee" and summoned Rafi's vocals in "Tere bin soone nain hamaare" on the same blind Ashok Kumar. And when you knew how finicky Dada Burman could be about his choice of singers, all you could do was to bask in those melodies without getting into a harangue on who sang better or which song made a deeper impact. In all fairness to Manna Da, he did edge past Rafi.
The supreme irony here is for all his strong classical repertoire, Manna Da could never create any equations. Mukesh was the considered voice of Chaplinsque tramp Raj Kapoor, Talat Mehmood the voice of Tragedy King Dilip Kumar and with the advent of Baiju Baawra in 1952, Rafi the universal donor. Hemant Kumar filled in the blanks.
If Manna Da managed to get a sneak preview of the RK camp, it was more by default than design. Remember, Raj Kapoor wouldn't settle for anyone else except Mukesh in those days. However, both Talat Mehmood and Mukesh -- given their handsome looks -- were bitten by the acting bug. So when Mukesh agreed to do Mashooqa in 1953, RK seethed for reasons that could be well understood from his point of view. That was when Shankar of Shankar-Jaikishen chipped in and reasoned out with Raj Kapoor that Manna Da could be an ideal foil. To the latter's credit, he grabbed the opportunity with all his vocal versatility and made his presence felt in the RK camp via Aawaara, Chori Chori, Shri 420, Parvarish.
Just as when one would have thought Manna Da had become an integral part of the RK apparatus, came in another irony. Having recorded "Zindagi khaab hai" with Salil Da for the Karlovy Vary winner Jaagte Raho, Manna Da had the mortification of seeing the more vibrant Mukesh version on Raj Kapoor's lips. The RK-Mukesh equation was rewritten.
Paradoxes kept punctuating Manna Da's musical sojourn. Shankar (Jaikishen), who wore a different identity when they performed outside the RK banner, plumped for Rafi's vocals like most other composers of that time. And mind you, between the two, Shankar was more steeped in classical music and logically therefore should have rooted for Manna Da. But then Rafi threw up different vistas for different heroes with a range and versatility that Hindi cinema had hitherto not seen and probably will never see. Asked why he preferred Rafi over Manna Da, this is what Shankar said without mincing words:
"There was no easing out of Manna. It was just that Rafi had greater clarity of expression, better enunciation, better diction. Language was never a bar to Rafi's sense of expression, whereas with Manna there could be at times be problems in this direction. Why, to this day, certain top singers in our midst have this problem with language and diction which affect their clarity of expression. Rafi's soz no singer could match. His voice had aatma", it was "Bhagwan ki den. There will not be another singer like Rafi."
The wheels of irony turned a full circle when Manna Da, in a freewheeling chat heaped praises on the same SJ years later saying they were the only composers who thought his voice was hero material unlike many composers of that time who used him fleetingly on the lead actors and more on comedians and character actors. Although that did rankle him, he never made a public issue out of it and kept acknowledging gracefully that he could never beat Rafi except when they pitched their kites against each other in the skies of Mumbai's suburban Bandra. Ironically, in the recording room Manna Da manfully took on Pt Bhimsen Joshi in Ketki Gulab Juhi champak ban phoole in Basant Bahar and Rafi in Tu hai mera prem devta (Kalpana).
The same SJ who put Rafi on the higher pedestal, could do precious little but to put him and Manna Da on an even keel when they were saddled with a theme as musically encouraging as Basant Bahar. Manna Da's one "Bhay bhanjana vandana sun hamaari" had the potential to confront Rafi's two bhajans "Badi der bhayi kab loge khabar mori Ram" and "Duniya na bhaaye mohe ab to bula le". What's more, he overtook the famed Rafi oeuvre to sing the romantic "Nain mile chain kahaan" for the poker-faced hero Bharat Bhushan.
Never the one to rest on his laurels or blow his trumpet, Manna Da always acknowledged Rafi's superiority. I will quote him verbatim: "He was an academy. A university on his own. He was self-taught and his voice always had that something extra that made even trained classical singers not to take him lightly in the recording room. You never knew when he would steal a march over you."
This lavish praise also was tinged with an irony when you knew that Rafi said he was always overawed at the way Manna Da could raise his vocals to the highest level without compromising on the sanctity of the "sur". Perhaps both understood each other well. Right from the time when as an impressionable youngster raring to go, Manna Da saw with chagrin the song his uncle KC Dey had composed went to Rafi from right under his nose. The same Manna Da who had the humility and candour to accept -- in his own words -- that Rafi did a much better job than what he could have done.
In the quick sands of film industry, where equations are made and destroyed at the altar of commercial and vested interests, Manna Da carried no baggage. And that was his strength. While most people lauded Rafi's 180-degree scale that could take on a comedian or a hero, few realized that Manna Da too did that with similar distinction. Manna Da was, simply put, a class apart. 
A thoroughly simple man at heart, Manna Da let his classically sublime vocals do all the talking, never once getting into the rat race. Not that he did not have his share of refrains, but he held them to himself. Even in death.
The time you feel lonely is the time you need to be by yourself. Manna Da exemplified that irony. That someone who could negotiate the trickiest of classical notes with the kind of practiced ease that he did, it was another of those ironies of his life that he had to sing "Sur na saje kya gaoon main..."

Jab tak hai samose mein aloo...

Holding forth!

Raju Korti
Politicians are generally a pedigreed breed. They have an innate talent to carve out a win-win situation for themselves no matter what. No one can be a better mascot for this dictum than the country's court jester Lalu Prasad Yadav; now serving a five-year sentence in jail for lightening the burden of the state coffers by Rs 37 crore in what has come to be known as the Fodder Scam.
To profile and chronicle Lalu's legendary antics of 36 years on the political and personal canvas can be as challenging as it can get but the immediate provocation here is the man who has traditionally treated Bihar as his personal fiefdom, will now teach the inmates of the jail "Political Science and Management". Knowing Lalu's understanding of the two subjects, you can safely assume that a Lalu inside the jail is as much a menace as he is out of it.
According to Jail Superintendent Virendra Kumar, "Due to his age, health and political status, we can not make him do hard work. I will request him to teach the jailed criminals. It would be nice if he teaches Political Science and Management."
A simplistic view would be Lalu being qualified for the job. With a degree in Political Science and having delivered lectures in management at the Harvard Business School and the IIM, Ahmedabad during his stint as the Union railway minister, Lalu sure fits the bill. It also begs the question what kind of politics and management is he going to teach: The one in the text books or the one that he has practiced all through his caste-based, manipulative career in the predominantly poor cowland.
Around 3,000 inmates, both convicted and under-trials, are lodged in the jail of which around 200 are preparing for intermediate examinations, 100 for graduation and 50 for post-graduation. If you recall what a hit he was when he delivered those speeches, you also have the dreadful prospect of looking at around 400 potential Lalus on the political horizon. In this "lofty" exercise of disbursing political wisdom, Lalu will also be paid Rs 25 per day! It speaks volumes of the political acumen of a man who after being pulled down as the chief minister ruled the state with a "surrogate" -- his wife Rabri Devi.
There is home-brewn story about Lalu's inventiveness and craft but it sits pretty on the shoulders of the man. Once an expert Japanese delegation told Lalu that given the opportunity they would turn Bihar into Japan in five years. At this the irrepressible Lalu -- one hand struggling to put his dhoti in place and the other fiddling with the flock of hair popping out of his ears -- is reputed to have replied with a disarming smile "You give me Japan and I will turn it into Bihar in one week."
Having cornered him during the 2005 general elections for a few fleeting minutes in Mumbai, I found out that behind his laconic humour lay an extremely shrewd politician who first harnessed the patently casteYadavs and after the Bhagalpur violence, the Muslims of the state. He conceded to me that one prime reason he was pitchforked into national politics in 1977 was because of the constant bickering in the Janata Dal government and its subsequent fall. The fragmentation following the flop Janata government show served as a catalyst for Lalu who went from strength to strength. His penchant for the theatrics and rustic humour -- rightly or wrongly -- endeared him to the masses. A stupid section of the Media helped his cause by portraying him as some kind of a clown and further contributing to his popularity levels. This rise and rise was punctuated by cleverly orchestrated personal and political capers that became parts of folklore. The Lalu charisma thrived on political rigmaroles of casteism, communalism, nepotism and rank opportunism.
In all that glorification, few read between the lines. For instance, as railway minister, he banned plastic cups and introduced earthen cups to "generate more employment in rural areas." His late night visits to Patna railway station for surprise inspections were interpreted as the work of a conscientious leader. The Media wrote reams of praise for the Rs 250 billion "turn-around" by loss-making Indian Railways when other PSUs were being bled white by those in power.. His work in Railway Ministry was introduced as a case study by the IIM. But this was a case of silver lining with clouds. It was alleged that the turn-around was a "cosmetic exercise" managed through fudging of accounts. There were also allegations that he misused his position as the railway minister to help his kin get land.
After the heady climb, nemesis caught up with him in keeping with the Murphy's Law. Although done in by the Rs 37 crore fodder scam, he also had the audacity to order a probe into it. Forced to resign, Lalu left but not before handing over the state's reins to his uninitiated wife Rabri. The entire sequence of events thereafter could have given any bestseller a run for its money.
Lalu, however, continued to operate like a sovereign and got away with a tomfoolery that might have attracted worst criticism but the Media played ball. Recall how he and Ram Vilas Paswan used a Osama bin Laden look-alike while campaigning during the 2005 elections to woo Muslim voters. The state ruled by him and his wife became a family and feudal concern. Little wonder, it looked down the barrel on every social and economic parameter. With no law -- and therefore no order -- kidnappings became a cottage industry and private armies that ran parallel administration mushroomed.
Looked against this backdrop of intrigue and maneuverings, you can surmise how the Lalu coaching classes will work in the jail. The Lalu mutation could be a challenge even genetic scientists may not be able to cope with.
You can take a leader out of a Lalu but not a Lalu out of a leader! For, Lalus are born, not made.
 

*ing wifey in a lead role!

Only an apologetic smile to sport after being "beaten".

Raju Korti
Regardless of whether it shows on my CV or not, the one faculty that I have always been at pains to let all and sundry know is my interminable and unflagging pursuit for anything that is cerebral. How much of those efforts consummate to fruition is, of course, quite another story. At the far end of the spectrum is my better half whose interests and quests come with a very short shelf life. To my friends, it is a quirk of nature that two diverse personalities with diametrically opposite interests survive and cohabit under the same roof for years with a commitment that appears woefully out of place.
So even as Your's Truly is trying to explore and make sense of the esoteric of Nature on National Geographic or Discovery Science, the spouse is gleefully hooked onto the sinister machinations of the frothy Saas-Bahu soaps or onto the lurid gossip doing the rounds of tinsel town. Yet, in our case it is twain East and West meeting just because they find the same address.
Take for instance fan magazines. They never held any charm for me and I am charitable towards them only to the extent of flicking idly through their pages. But the minister at home prevailed upon my vulnerable sensitivities to subscribe to a few.
In my wife’s eyes, I am an insensate soul who can only sport a stony face or at best a contrived smile when it comes to watching the present-day celebrity faces. Nothing shakes her steadfast opinion that I am out of tune and sync with times. She isn’t far from the truth.
My admirations are reserved for the mature veterans – a blood-shot-eyed Devdas-ish Dilip Kumar, a Chaplinsque now-he-cries-now-he-smiles Raj Kapoor and the urbane and stylish Dev Anand. I remain smitten by the impish charm of Madhubala, the cherubic allure of Nutan and more often than not go into a harangue on the acting prowess of Waheeda Rehman and Meena Kumari.
Far removed from these "antiquated priorities" of mine, my wife is more into the robust Khans, Roshans and Kapoors. Her metaphor: Johnny Walker is history, Johny Lever is contemporary. Raj Kapoor is a relic of the past and Ranbir Kapoor a token of the present. In other words, the stage is always set for a long collision course.
Once an argument is triggered -- which is almost at the drop of a hat -- it usually rages on until she wins it mostly because of her strident decibels. The saving grace (!) is the four walls of the house are the only ones to be privy to these spats. When it comes to watching films on the telly, she grabs the remote with a swiftness Jonty Rhodes would marvel while I manage to beat her at this game like Bangladesh manages to beat India in cricket.
A blast from the past: At the sight of Hrithik she went weak in the knees while Shah Rukh made her swoon like an infatuated teeny bopper. Her eyes almost popped out at Madhuri Dikshit's "500-watt smile" and Sridevi's "sensuous gyrations". But then as I said these were all passing fads.
So Anil Kapoor was in and out of her mind in no time while Akshay Kumar was just a passing phase – by her standards of course. Salman was beginning to make inroads when his indiscretion in Rajasthan made him fall from grace. Shah Rukh enjoyed the longest innings before Mr Rippling Muscles Hrithik made short work of him. Poor Hrithik lost his exalted status to Ranbir Kapoor who thankfully doesn't know who might be breathing down his neck!
Back to the present: She always has a specious justification for her rapidly changing pre-eminent statuses -- that she lives with the times. It is her oblique way of telling me that I am stuck in the same old, rusted groove.
Every so often the argument takes on the hue of Old versus New and all my feeble rejoinders are conveniently dismissed as misplaced cynicism. It is in vain that I try to reason out my case on Style versus Substance. We don't think we can ever reach the finer points of film appreciation as I get knocked out in the round robin league itself.
Wisdom coming from long experience, I have wised up to her idiosyncrasies. The subscriptions to the glossies may have brought the noise levels down but I can also sense an argument when there is one. When you are dealing with a starry Knight, you can only get check-mated.
Check out the picture accompanying this piece and you will get the photo. 

Primitive and dangerous

Raju Korti
As a thumb rule, prudence and probity are the last virtues any right thinking citizen will dare associate with the political outfits of this country. Any faint glimmer of hope, therefore, extinguishes when politics of expediency and vote bank swamp a state that prides itself on its literacy and Marxist values.
In God's own country of Kerala, the Oomen Chandy-led UDFGovernment --which enjoys an unequivocal support of the Congress -- found itself in hot waters following an issue that assumes sensitivity only because of the community involved.
The trigger for the tumult was a concerted decision of nine frontline Muslim organizations who in their communal wisdom decided to knock the Supreme Court doors for reducing the marriageable age of Muslim girls from the present mandatory 18. As could only be expected the organizations did not provide any plausible rationale for this motivated step.

To early for marriage

The first reaction of most political parties across the spectrum was to rally in a rare show of solidarity and vociferously oppose this absurd and sadistic move. However, one suspects, this conscience-stricken show was more for the benefit of a perceptive and discerning electorate and given the chance the masks could drop depending on the way the political pendulum swung. The animated debate and free-for-all that followed left few surprised about what ran beneath the exterior.
The Chief Minister calculatedly chose to sit on the fence before he committed himself into giving a stock statement that Law would take its own course. The surprise was CPI (M) took sometime to gather its wits and when it did, it laid the blame squarely on Indian Union Muslim League (IUML) dubbing it as the Villain of the Piece. The bigger surprise was the posturing of the Leader of the Opposition V S Achuthanandan a man never known to mince words. "It is best not to mention the culture of the IUML which would prefer the marriageable age of Muslim girls to be 14 and not even 16."
A cornered Congress the self-proclaimed Messiahs of the Muslims in the country, decided to make a virtue out this odd conjunction. While falling in line in a pathetic display of its lust for power, it condemned the decision of the organizations and felt that it wasn't a good augury for the community when it was trying hard to come into the mainstream.
With every political party adopting a holier-than-thou attitude, the IUML, the second biggest ally of the government, directed all its top leaders to exercise utmost caution because it would be tough to wriggle out from a tight position. Realising the way winds were blowing, some IUML leaders beat a tactical retreat and washed their hands of the matter.
One doesn't have to be a political pundit to understand this unusual show of unity. Last month the media played up the case of a 17-year-old Muslim girl from Kozhikode who was divorced within 17 days of marriage by her husband -- a UAE national. In all the righteous noises, the larger issue seemed to take a backseat. No one thought about the implications behind such a move rife with political, religious and sexual overtones. More obviously no party wanted to get on the wrong side of a community that has traditionally served as their catalyst and conduit to power.
Perplexing was the inexplicable silence of the most clamorous of women's organisations. Obviously they did not want to join the issue given the argument that this was an internal matter of that community. Is a girl equipped to handle the physical and mental rigours of a marriage at 14 or 16? Should that be allowed to please a male-centric community which seeks to extract its political pound of flesh on its minority status? The ramifications are far too many to be debated here for matters of brevity but certainly not beyond comprehension.
The organizations in question did go into a shell after the widespread protests, but the issue one believes, won't be swept under the carpet so easily. It has ominous portents for a country that never stops to harp on its secular credentials. That is if there are any.
It is an irony that a Yusuf Malala is born in Pakistan!

Truth in Black and White

Raju Korti

Dark and Beautiful: Nina Davuluri

In the run up to the pivotal issue here is an apocryphal story that I read in my childhood. In his supreme wisdom and fairness (!) God had "blessed" every human being with a fair skin. On an impulse, one day he decided to find out for himself who worshipped Him truly. In a large cooking pot that had boiling oil in it, he asked each one to jump in it if they sincerely loved him. Those who loved him did so without thinking of the consequences and turned dark because of the boiling oil. The others weren't true in their love for Him and dithered. So they remained fair. Actually, God hadn't intended anyone to die in that test. It was his way of finding out who genuinely loved him.
The story with all its loftiness, it occurred to me much later, was meant to appease and comfort dark people like me who nursed a green-eyed monster against the fair-skinned. The conviction that my ebony skin was a distinct disadvantage only grew with age and contrary to the concocted story, I never lost an opportunity to crib to God about the unfair deal that He had meted out to me. All those well meant and grand lectures about inner beauty being the real beauty did nothing to shake my deep-rooted diffidence.
A few movies and Mills and Boon tripe later, my sensibilities were overtaken and how! I suddenly realized that the hero had to be invariably always tall, dark and handsome and make the "fair sex" swoon if you ignore the male chauvinism that came through. The unimpeachable evidence came when an extremely fair and good looking young thing took fancy to me in my college days not because of my dark skin but inspite of it. The credit of course went to all those painstakingly earned good grades and I felt like a snake who had shed its superficial skin and was suddenly proud of its reptilian cool. The brooding, tentative and wilted Me gave way to a spunky new man with a matching body language. By fluke or by design I happened to bump into people -- mostly women -- who told me that their fancies rather lay with dark men. For the first time, I felt no trepidation walking into a photo studio.
I was also aware that the dark tribe was euphemistically called dusky or wheat-complexioned though it beat me how such a poor consolation tactic worked. It began to sink in when the Time magazine did an in-depth story "Black Power", citing how the Dark were standing up to be counted and adding feathers to the American cap. My metamorphosis was complete at that point. The dark race was like a rubber ball. The harder it dashed to the ground, the higher it rose.
The wheel of wisdom turned a full circle, I seriously suspected that there was little weight, let alone any justification in the racial prejudice. If that were so, the South Africans wouldn't have courted  Mandela as President after reducing a good part of his life to a rubble in the confines of a gaol. For that matter, nor would have supermodels like Heidi Klum chosen to marry a black hunk like Seal. Lest you get wrong signals, it is not my case here to pontificate on individual choices but to dispel misgivings on the hype that surrounds the colour of the skin.
Nina Davuluri, the first woman of Indian extraction to win America's national crown further altered the complexion of this social discourse. Far from being a front-runner for the Miss America crown with no preliminary wins or early scholarships, the chocolate coloured 24-year-old hogged little attention from the make-or-mar Media in the run up to the pageant's dying hours.
The knee-jerk reactions deluging the social networking sites to her unexpected but resounding victory showed that racism is the lowest, most crudely primitive form of collectivism. It is the notion of ascribing moral, social or political significance to a man's genetic lineage -- the notion that an individual's intellect and character are produced and transmitted by his internal body chemistry.
It is another story that the feisty girl was unfazed by the racial slurs hurled at her and returned the favour in kind by riposting that she was an American first and foremost.
Behind all that racial bias is a raging, jaundiced fret. And that brings to me to the cooked up story I related to you at the outset. Racism isn't born. It is taught.

A banter for investment!

Raju Korti
For someone who is perennially short of money and keeps digging deep in his pockets to fish out greens in the fond hope of finding a few, I am amused no ends when I get inundated by unsolicited calls asking me if I have any investment plans to make.
On an average I receive at least three to four calls every day from investment firms, insurance companies and sundry banks asking to know if I wanted to invest my hard(ly)-earned money in their grandiose schemes that send me into a tizzy thinking of the lakhs I would have made upon their maturity.
Of course, initially the calls would infuriate when a man or a woman at the other end would be condescendingly polite and address me formally by first name or the surname with an honourable "Sir" as a prefix. Far from being pleased with this needless Knighthood, I would dismiss them brusquely and grope for my poor vocabulary of expletives after hanging up on them.
They all spoke with a familiarity that made me wonder if I was their long-lost friend. Their cultivated accents, put-on earnestness and pushy manners bounced off me. All that persuasive marketing would be reduced to a defensive bluster once I confronted them with an uncomfortable "From where did you get or who gave you my number?" The call that began on a benign note a Bishop would have envied, would end abruptly and me gloating over the discomfiture of the voice at the other end.
The callers, however, invariably succeeded in making me take a stock of my ever dwindling finances. A quick look at my bank balance would show that I had just about enough to scrape me through with an occasional and modest indulgence. In other words, I didn't have a hope in hell of investing if you also knew that I didn't have a job that could pay me a decent, regular income. I understood what it meant to lead a hand-to-mouth existence especially when the hand was weak enough to feed a big mouth -- literally, of course. The question of returns did not arise when there was no investment in the first place.
I have absolutely no clue what made these companies call me up -- unless they were dialling people randomly -- since (hopefully) they had no means to know about my financial health. It began to dawn upon me that it was precisely for this reason that these pesky calls started sounding more appealing to my cash-starved senses. Two reasons over-rode my feeling of anger and desperation. One, the vicarious pleasure of being thought of as a potential investor when I was anything but that and two, the more frivolous element of having some lighter moments at the expense of a searching and insistent caller.
There were times when callers sounded clairvoyant with their tempting bait: "Sir do you need a personal loan?" and I had to fend hard to save my fledgling sanity to seek one given that the calls sounded godsend at the time.  
Later, when any such call came, I would summon all my intrepidity acquired from years of experience in the Media and tell them that "I did have some investment plans and that I would get back to them soon." The decorous "Thank You" that followed told me that neither of us had fooled each other. On other occasions, I would engage the callers in academic questions that took the conversation actually to nowhere. At the end of it, anywhichways, I remained as un-invested as before and with no hope of being any better in future.
Perhaps my best was a few years back when I collected lots of credit cards that were on free offer. The curious, strange looks that people around threw at me when I opened my card-heavy wallet to shell out coins to pay for a cutting chai, brought cheers to me. I wondered how many had caught on to the fact that here was a man who had no credit at all and was incapable of attracting any either. For that matter, if anyone could have even imagined that most of those credit cards had run out of their expiry dates. I wallowed in the feeling that I could make the mare go without any substantial savings.
Money isn't everything in life and yet, money talks. And how!.
"He that cannot pay, let him pray" goes a saying. I cannot pay but I do pray that one day I shall go laughing all the way to the bank while investments bring in handsome returns.
Are the pesky callers listening?