When Assurance Serves to Frighten

It is well known that most Indian families buy jewellery in anticipation of their daughter’s wedding. Most jewellery gifting in India is also connected to weddings. It is therefore not surprising that marriages and weddings feature prominently in jewellery advertisements.

It is no secret that parents of the bride are happy and apprehensive at the same time. They are in the middle of making perhaps the single biggest spend of their lives. In most cases the bride and groom are strangers, the families don’t know each other well, and parents are hoping their daughter will ‘adjust’ in her new home. Will the married couple get along? Will their daughter be able to pursue a career? There are many uncertainties. 

Enter Tanishq. The brand has, in the last quarter-century, always reassured parents.  In a situation fraught with risk, at least the jewellery is guaranteed. 

Given this background, the recent Ekatvam advertisement is puzzling. Interfaith marriages in India are Uncertainty on steroids. At best, families grudgingly accept the choice made by their offspring, and make the effort to get along. Often, an uneasy compromise entails the breaking off of relations, sometimes repaired with the passage of time and the birth of a grandchild. In a country where inter-caste or same-gotra marriages are, in many cases, seen as justification for honour killing, a Hindu-Muslim wedding may well be the trigger for wider-spread violence. It isn’t right. It isn’t legal. But this is how it is.

So, knowing India’s obsession with finding a suitable boy for their daughter, why should Tanishq lead parents to imagine their daughter marrying outside the religion?

Talking of a suitable boy, Vikram Seth’s magnum opus makes an important distinction. We are uplifted by the reconciliation of Maan Kapoor and Feroze, of Minister Kapoor and the Nawab. We hope for a similar rapprochement in the India of today. But Lata Mehra’s choice of husband is Haresh Khanna, not Kabir Durrani. Another heroine in another book may have made a different choice. But in a book titled ‘A Suitable Boy’, Seth couldn’t have. It was heartbreaking to read in 1993 and it is heartbreaking to watch in 2020. But that is how it is.

The Ekatvam ad set out to show interfaith harmony.  It actually showed interfaith matrimony. The two shouldn't be conflated. The first is our pride and joy and the hallmark of our culture, yes hopefully even today. But the second has always been a problematic exception, with questions about conversion and name change and societal acceptance. Do interfaith marriages happen in India? Yes. Do many of them thrive? Yes. Are they inspirational? Yes, for many like me. Are they aspirational? No. 

In the larger context, most Indians claim to be inspired by higher ideals. We claim to hope for a day when caste, community, religion or region won’t matter while seeking a matrimonial alliance. But that day isn’t here yet. And it is neither Tanishq’s responsibility, nor remotely within its ability, to march India into that brave new dawn. Tanishq has always been a progressive brand, not an activist one. Rightly so, given the space in which it exists.

An advertisement isn’t just a public service message about Mera Bharat Mahan. While inspiring the audience to higher values, it invites the customer to place herself in the centre of the advertising story and personally experience the emotional payoff. In today’s India, imagining their daughter in the Ekatvam situation is unfortunately a frightening prospect for many parents. With mobs having the run of social media platforms, and perhaps of the high street, a brand with stores having crores worth of inventory in every city becomes a sitting duck with one error of judgment. Tanishq was absolutely right to withdraw the ad, for more reasons than one.

A Happy Guru Dutt is Joy Forever

In this therapeutic piece, I press myself to remember that when Guru Dutt was happy, the screen lit up with joy.  

Guru Dutt in a still from Pyaasa

What does one say of Guru Dutt that hasn't already been said? Of that great prophet of pain, the auteur who foretold his own end in that memorable classic, Kaagaz ke Phool? Of the seeker whose thirst remained unquenched, the one who remained eternally wistful, eternally Pyaasa?  

Pyaasa- The Crucifixion of the Artist

Books and papers have been written on  the famous mise-en-scene  symbolising a society that crucifies its artists before deifying and worshipping them (Pyaasa), the crumbling of a decadent feudal structure seen through the ruins of a splendid haveli and a broken marriage (Sahab Bibi aur Ghulam), and that remarkable moment in cinema when two souls unite in a beam of pure sunlight, even as their physical selves walk away from each other (Kaagaz ke Phool).

Sahab Bibi aur Ghulam - A Story of Ruins

His ability to capture despair, longing, rejection, disillusionment and desolation through light and shadow, through song and brooding silence, through stillness and sublime movement is legendary. His camera, never a voyeur, moved closer into his characters’ faces than ever before, looking into their very soul. 

The Beam of Light in Kaagaz ke Phool

When Guru Dutt was sad, he could make the world go dim and dismal. Each repeated viewing of  Pyaasa or Kaagaz ke Phool casts sombre clouds and dark shadows.  In this therapeutic piece, I press myself to remember that when Guru Dutt was happy, the screen lit up with joy.  

With Geeta Bali in Baaz

Baaz released in the year that Guru Dutt married the singer Geeta Roy. He has never looked better than he did in this film, playing a rakish prince held captive on a pirate ship. In a brief exchange,  Guru Dutt, the captive prince, tells a pestering Portuguese woman to jump into the sea. “It will free us both,” he deadpans. Don’t miss the twinkle in his eye. This movie also has a qawwali – Jo dil ki baat hoti hai – see how Guru Dutt does very little by way of mannerism, but the rhythm is obviously inside him. Considering that this was his first starring role, his control over expression belies claims of his being a limited actor. Despite its shortcomings, Baaz is an underrated entertainer.

With Shyama in Aar Paar

In Aar-Paar, the sun-sun-sun-sun zalima song is one of the peppiest duets ever - the easy dancing, the catchy rhythm, and two people clearly having fun. While in Aar-Paar Guru Dutt had not yet found his signature imprint so evident in his later classics, this song is an early sign of great things to come.

With Madhubala in Mr and Mrs '55

In another close-up scene in Mr and Mrs ’55, the beautiful but batty heiress asks him his name. “Preetam,” he says. “Pree...” she blushes, and stops. “A strange name,” she says shyly. “Repeat it a few times, you will like it,” he offers helpfully. Not just Madhubala, all Guru Dutt bhakts fell in love with this delightful mix of innocence and cunning.

With Waheeda Rehman in Chaudhvin ka Chand

In Chaudhvin ka Chand, to provoke his new bride into lifting her veil and showing him her face, he claims to be one-eyed, pock-marked and buck-toothed. His subsequent wooing of his bride with the  ever-famous love ballad set benchmarks in romance on celluloid  that remain unsurpassed.

As Bhootnath in Sahab Bibi aur Ghulam

Another favourite is from Sahib Bibi aur Ghulam, not least because this light-hearted scene was shot at a time in his life when darkness had started to envelope him. In this scene he makes Jaba jealous of Chhoti Bahu (partly deliberately, partly with naïvety), turning the tables on her (normally she is the one bossing him). All the while he is eating heartily, biting into a sharp green chilli when she’s cross, and enjoying a laddoo in the end, when he’s had his sweet revenge and annoyed her thoroughly.

That there is a lot of the real Guru Dutt in his cinema is well-established. The demons lurking in his mind finally claimed him, much too soon. The raw power of the pain he managed to evoke in his viewers can be hard to deal with. Remembering the few times when he smiled helps us heal a little, with a few happy memories to bear the heartbreak. 

Those Were the Days my Friend

Once upon a time, I was a link in a human chain that gherao’d parliament. “Mandal report wapas lo,” I screamed at the top of my voice as we marched from our fancy South Delhi college to the Temple of Indian Democracy, neatly organized in rows of three, clad in carefully coordinated black and white protest dress code. Twenty-five years ago I knew little of what it meant to be dalit or backward, but that didn’t matter. In college, you joined the dram-soc, you joined Spic-Macay, you joined a debating society and you joined a protest. Thank God for Mandal for helping me check that vital component of extra-curricular activity off my list.

 College – that purposeful time in your life. You think the world is going to be a Wonderful Place, and you are the one that is going to make it so. And you are going to do it by winning college debates, because, really, it is so straightforward, can’t you see? Your heart beats for the underdog, and you fight their fight because after all, if you don’t, who will? For the first time, you learn to form your ideas, and articulate them, and of course they have to be against the establishment because otherwise what’s original? And you learn to get a group of people to agree with you and you now have a Voice. And then you get a megaphone. And then you yell.

 For decades, it has been thus with college life. And then we grow up, and live our lives, and our experience teaches (sadly, only a few of) us that winning debates can’t change the world, because it is not so straightforward, after all, and that there are more than two sides to the debate, and that every one of them is right in their own way. But each one of us has to make that discovery individually, because that is the Way of this World. If we came with a built-in chip of all the experience of all the others gone before us, this world would only have Buddha clones left!

 There is a minor difference between Then and Now, however. What was earlier dismissed as stupidity, ignorance or misguided enthusiasm is now called sedition. Of course we have all said Unforgivable Things and done Unforgivable Acts at some point, disgusting enough for our parents to turn us out of the house and for teachers to throw us out of college but Then, they had two weapons – Wisdom and Patience. Wisdom to know that we would soon know better, and Patience, to wait in case that Soon didn’t come soon enough. Now, the weapons have changed. There is Outrage. Like a jungle fire it is quick to erupt and fast to spread, and scorching in its intensity. And there is Retribution. Swift, harsh and crushing.

 Somebody add a Fundamental Right to our Constitution. Call it the Right to Make Mistakes. Well, ok, not criminal mistakes, but the trial-and-error process of learning to start-up your brains and getting them to function, of learning with difficulty the difference between dissent and destruction. The Prime Minister says that we must encourage quick failures and allow early exits to entrepreneurs. Sir, give these JNU guys an Exit, please. They may be idiots in my book, but so was I, in someone else’s book, twenty-five years ago, yelling outside the Parliament.

The City of the Belem Cakes

No one does cities the way Europeans do.  They really get cities.  They get the whole thing about setting, vistas, squares. They get architecture, urban aesthetic, design. And they get that interface between spaces and people, that intersection of the private and the collective. Above all they get that wholly nebulous concept of vibe, character, culture, spirit, cuisine. Not for the Europeans the monotonous, efficient homogeneity of American cities, the chaotic squalor of South Asia or the soulless glass and steel behemoths of the East. Europe gets charm.

Lisbon, Europe’s westernmost capital, has Charm written all over it. As Ana, our hostess shows us around the apartment in Baixa we are renting from her, she warns us the fado restaurants have all become very touristy. “Eet eez s’pozed tu be very melon-cholic, you see,” she tells us, “De song ’as tu come from de ’art. But dees days, umm, with de tourists, you know,” she rolls her eyes. After some more details about shopping in Chiado and walking through the Alfama district with its Moorish heritage, her eyes light up. “You ’ave to try the Belem cakes,” she says and gulps as her mouth has suddenly watered, “Dey are delightful.”

The Tagus river meets the Atlantic ocean in Lisbon, giving it the most spectacular harbor of all European capitals and a historic port that has seen several voyages of discovery for the progress of mankind.  Vasco Da Gama is popularly remembered, and commemorated in important bridges and monuments. The city itself has a laid-back, relaxed feel that reminds you more than once of Goa, with its languorous sea air and beautiful churches that inspire joy, not awe.  The historical ups and downs that the city has seen are matched fully by geography, spread as it is over several hills with steep climbs and sharp drops, with trams winding through lanes that are sometimes no more than ten feet wide.

You will be forgiven, however, for believing that destiny sent you to Lisbon so you could eat the Belem cakes.

The guide books list them as a top attraction. The commentary on the hop-on-hop-off service informs you that ten thousand of them sell every day from a single counter in Belem, and that of the secret recipe, the only known ingredients are sugar and cinnamon.  Pastel da nata, pasteis da nata or custard tarts are the other names by which they show up in every confectionery and bakery window across the city. The price is uniform – 1.1 euro each. Recommendations are uniform too – eat hot, eat dusted with cinnamon, and eat the best in Belem.

So finally we are in Belem. The Torres de Belem, the shoe-shaped old tower, we are told was used in the olden days to shoot down suspicious ships trying to enter the city harbor. “Should we go eat the Belem cakes first?” We wonder, before looking at the watch and realizing it has been only forty minutes since breakfast. The Monument of Discoveries that celebrates the numerous voyages the Portuguese explorers undertook, is important for me because I remember a cute Neetu Singh posing in front of it in the song from The Great Gambler -  Main tumko kya khoon ? Diwana. From the terrace of this monument we have a spectacular view of the city – unfortunately though, all we can see are the long lines of people that have queued up in front of 84, Rua de Belem, to buy the cakes. We cross the street and go to the Jeronimos Monastry but find that we can’t hold out any more – the famous Belem cake shop is right next door. The monastery has to be absolutely the jewel in the crown of Lisbon, built as it was to celebrate the discovery of the sea route to India. No disrespect to history, but the cakes get us first.

So we take our place in the aforementioned long queue to enter the shop. There are two lines – one to buy the cakes at the counter, and the other to sit inside so the cakes can be served hot at the table. A note pasted outside the shop informs us that the price of sitting inside and eating the cake is exactly the same as that of buying it at the counter. And there is a helpful addition to that note – there are more than 400 seats inside!

Inside, past the crowded counter, one blue-tiled room leads to another, then to several others, each filled to capacity with tourists and locals.  The arrows keep pointing us forward until we finally reach a great hall with at least a 100 tables, I guess, where we are quickly shown to a table.  The friendly waiter takes our order for the cakes and coffee and doesn’t take much time to return with the goodies as we sit quivering in anticipation.

The fresh-out-of-the-oven Belem cake is in front of us, and the first bite doesn’t disappoint. The crunchy, flaky and perfectly salted pastry has a warm and light custard core that is not too sweet and not too creamy. There is no smell of egg nor any lumpiness – in other words, it tingles all my senses in very good ways, not one note out of place. The cinnamon dusting lends a wholesome familiarity to the taste that you can’t place, but feel very comfortable with. This Belem cake you have eaten before – maybe in your past life, and this reunion is fulfilling.

Maybe it is destiny.

Irish Cream

“Hawarya?” Says Liam Fahey, the famous marketing guru from Babsons College in Boston. Almost as famous as his books on marketing are his thick Irish accent and deadpan Irish humour. “A week in Oireland? Dat’s aboot roy ta go arownd,” he opines. And then proceeds to mark for me on the map of Ireland, the places I should go to, the driving route, night stay options, restaurants to eat in and sights to see. He even refers to us a distant relative in Dungarvan who runs a bed-and-gourmet-breakfast.

Thus armed with local knowledge we land in Dublin on a bright and sunny day and in no time are zipping along to Dungarvan in Waterford county. Yes, the same one of the famous Waterford crystal – and shops here are full of some delectable stemware.  Brian Wickham, the aforementioned relative receives us warmly at Cairbre House and brings us to our room – it is actually a suite – with views of the Colligan River and a lovely garden. We happily review our pictures of the Rock of Cashel that we visited en route, before stepping out for a walking tour of the Dungarvan harbor.

The promised gourmet breakfast lives up to expectation. The quality of potatoes in Ireland is outstanding, and I must confess I ordered them at every opportunity. Every restaurant or bar we ate in throughout our stay in Ireland had several vegetarian options, clearly marked, yes even the ones on the harbor in coastal fishing towns such as Kinsale and Dingle that we subsequently visit.

Ireland has had a difficult history, this most people know. The hardships made a lot of Irish emigrate, with the result that almost 20% of the American population may be of Irish descent. President Kennedy, actors Harrison Ford and Gene Kelly, the intrepid explorer Neil Armstrong, industrialist Henry Ford and Margaret Mitchell, author of the famous epic Gone with the Wind all had Irish ancestry in common. More than twenty American presidents claim Irish ancestry to some degree! Here in Ireland, though, the Irish people are modest and self-effacing (boasting is extremely bad form, even when you are drunk). Talking of drunk, the Irish apparently drink more, on average, than any other nationality in Europe. Consequently, depression rates are high, and the financial meltdown of 2008 hasn’t helped. Ireland’s banking system collapsed and the country officially entered recession, the first European country to do so. The empty shell of the now-disgraced Anglo-Irish bank building stands on the banks of the river Liffey in Dublin, not far from the harp-shaped bridge, a stark reminder of the crisis.

Despite their troubles, the Irish are the friendliest of all peoples in Europe. They welcome you into their famous pubs, yes even with a seven-year old child in tow unless it is late in the evening. There is plenty of food and music and all kinds of drinks to drink, if you want to look at something other than Guinness. People will lean across and talk to you and join you at your table and order for you. If that happens, remember to place a return order for them, before their drink runs out. That’s the only decent way to drink in a friendly Irish pub, where when you first walk in you could be forgiven for thinking there is large private party going on, till you mingle and figure out it is just a lot of strangers pubbing together.

One item on my bucket list is checked off this trip – staying in an Irish castle. The one we find is in scenic Connemara – the Ballynahinch castle that was once owned by the famous cricketer Ranji, the Maharaja Jam Sahib of Nawanagar. They have rooms dedicated to his memory and several pictures of him on the walls, but the real charmer is the walk around the estate along the stream, and you could even go trout fishing to the very spot that was Ranji’s favourite, if you ask nicely, of course.

The Irish are very proud of their literary tradition. The Irish language is a rich, thriving one and like most European countries that value their language as the essence of their culture, Ireland gives pride of place to the Irish Gaelic tongue. All tourist sites have descriptions in both Irish and English, so do the tourist brochures. On highways too, all names, information and instructions are signposted in both languages.  This rich linguistic heritage shows in strength in English writing as well – who hasn’t heard of James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, Oscar Wilde, W B Yeats and Jonathan Swift?

Trinity College in Dublin has a stunning library – a long room of wooden arches where your jaw will drop when you enter. Very well-informed and entertaining students offer a guided tour of this historic university. The university also displays the ancient Book of Kells – a fabulously illustrated book of Gospels – that is more than 1200 years old. Not far from Trinity College is the City Hall, worth a visit, and further afoot, the very impressive St Patrick’s cathedral.

St Patrick brought the Catholic faith to Ireland, picking up a three-leaved sprig of the Shamrock to explain the Holy Trinity. Since then the Shamrock has been the national symbol of Ireland and St Patrick its patron saint, and no matter where in the world the Irish or their descendants may be, on March 17^th they will have a rollicking time feasting, parading and making merry for it is St Patrick ’s Day.

The scenic, natural beauty of Ireland has much to visit and admire, and travel guides have plenty of recommendations – a cruise to the spectacular Cliffs of Moher, a day trip through the Gap of Dunloe, a drive around the Ring of Kerry – and all of them are definitely worth the effort. What stays with me, though, is the view from my room at the Lake Hotel in Killarney - a small castle overlooking the Muckross lake, a moody sky and a colour of green that you’ve only seen on the Irish flag. 

Arigato Japan

The Yamanote Line. Murakami. Sushi. Ginza. Fujiyama. The Japanese Garden. The Geisha. Kabuki Theatre. Miso soup. Kimono. The Shinkansen bullet train. Mitsubishi. Toyota. The Kamikaze warriors. Harakiri. Sumo wrestling. The Sony Walkman. And now – the Nobita of my daughter’s favourite cartoon series! The Japan of popular imagination is a world of legend, a tale of fantastic proportions, a story of nationalism, hard work and courage. In the first impression, however, two things stand out:  how stylishly well-dressed everyone is. And, how clean everything is.

Slowly, other impressions start to add up. The unfailing politeness, courtesy and concern for others – no one talks on the phone in the metro, for example. Then, not a single person – not one Japanese that I see – is fat. I have to admit I didn’t go to a sumo wrestling match, though!  Then again – all – yes, all - women carry Louis Vuitton. You also notice how small private spaces are. Hotel rooms in Tokyo – whether in the Marriot, a global chain, or in ANA, named after Japan’s famous airline – are all smaller, on average, than those in any other city in the world. You notice too, how seamlessly the traditional integrates with the modern. Unlike Rome, Tokyo does not wear its ruins like a badge. Indeed, Tokyo’s centuries-old palaces and temples are living, breathing spaces, as much a part of modern Tokyo as the dizzying heights of skyscrapers. And then, over time, the strongest impression begins to form – the tremendous energy of the city, its electric vibe, a sea of humanity poised on the cutting edge of design, pulsating, throbbing and pushing the boundaries.  Indeed, Japan understands “civilization” like no other country in the world, not even Germany. Order, and orderliness, and efficiency and thoughtfulness – the fundamental traits required for mass human cohabitation – come closer to perfection in Japan than anywhere else in the world.

We arrive in Tokyo on a balmy April morning, at the peak of cherry blossom.  The husband is here on a mission – to acquire some Nikon lenses for his camera that, apparently, are hard to come by or are exorbitantly priced elsewhere. He gives the famed Akihabara – that mecca of gizmo-shoppers - a miss, and also the famous outlets in Shinjuku and Ginza. He finds instead, a camera shop in a narrow lane (think of Katra Neel or Katra Nawab in Chandni Chowk) in a non-touristy area of Tokyo. In that shop he spends half a day browsing, testing, clicking, discussing in broken but perfectly clear English, and finally leaves with his bag of goodies clutched close to his chest and a wide grin plastered on his face. That evening we celebrate (because he is in a good mood), by eating in a restaurant high up in the Mori Tower in Roppongi, that famous district of the swinging nightlife, from where the view of the Tokyo night is to die for.

Many Japanese restaurants display their dishes in showcases – so you not just read the menu before entering, you also window-shop your dinner. The ingredients are the freshest and chopsticks are always disposable – anything else would probably not be acceptable to the Japanese sense of hygiene. There is a long list of dos and don’ts if you want to comply with table manners – for example never cross your chopsticks and don’t stick them vertically into rice – both have something to do with death and funerals.

Our travels in Japan have taken us to other places too – Kyoto and Nagoya, for instance, two cities very different from each other in spirit and character. Kyoto is the ancient, traditional city of palaces and temples. Nagoya too has a palace, but is more famous as the Toyota city. Work brings me to Nagoya. While there, every morning when I get into the metro train to go to the office, a white-gloved man pushes – literally pushes – everyone inside the coach, so that he can make room for more people. All passengers are polite at all times, and there is hardly any sense of violation of personal space even though three people are pressing into you. How do they do it?

Kyoto seems more relaxed, more laidback, and as many of us discovered during our Prime Minister’s recent visit there, more traditional. I would strongly recommend, however, a visit to the city of Nara, a UNESCO world heritage site, to see a really traditional Japanese city. Nara has an imperial palace, several Buddhist and Shinto temples, a museum, gardens and even a forest and a visit there would mean a day-well-spent. The husband brought back owl-statues as souvenirs from there.

I realized a childhood dream in Japan – that of travelling in the bullet train. Once the initial excitement of zipping down in the fabled Shinkansen settles down, you begin to notice other things – how every train that arrives on the platform stops at the exact same spot – down to an inch, how the ticket checker lady bows to the entire coach before moving on the next, and of course the famous mountain Fujiyama, of which we get splendid views from the train. A train ride from Tokyo to Osaka or Nagoya is a great way to see the sacred volcano if your time in Japan is short.

We have all heard of Italian kitchens and German appliances – but an interesting discovery I made on one of my work-trips to Japan was that Japanese kitchens are the most advanced and better-designed than anywhere else in the world. In Shinjuku, there are streets lined with “Kitchen OEMs” – in India we call them suppliers of modular kitchens. There are floors upon floors of built-up kitchen displays. The shelf fittings, cabinet design and attention to detail are in a different league altogether.

Likewise for Japanese toilets. The humble potty has been exalted to an engineering marvel. The seat itself has a built-in warmer so your behind isn’t discomfited on cold winter mornings when you first park yourself. There are multiple jet options that can be set at variable temperatures. A Japanese toilet with a warm seat and warm water is a luxury that, at the expense of sounding gross, I must admit beats many others!

The Curious Case of Shoma Chowdhry

The details of the Tehelka sexual harassment case have been the public domain too long and have been repeated too often to bear repetition.  While mostly it appears to be an open-and-shut case of molestation at the workplace, there is one very curious aspect in the case: reading all the media reports, one would almost think of Shoma as a perpetrator in this shameful episode, as much as Tejpal himself.  Isn’t that surprising?

Consider what Shoma has said or done.

a)      She overrode any explanations Tejpal tried to offer, and forced him to issue a direct and specific apology in writing. Tejpal’s email is the single most crucial piece of evidence, an admission of guilt that validates the accusation. Shoma actually nailed Tejpal, in fact more vitally than the injured girl’s horrific description. How many sexual harassment case investigations have begun with this sort of acceptance on record?

 

 

 

b)       She got him to remove himself from his position of authority. Despite all the fun made in the media of the word “recuse,” about this recusal being nothing more than a paid holiday or sabbatical, what Shoma achieved was procedurally vital. As an accused in a molestation case, Tejpal’s position as the head of the institution was untenable. This is even more remarkable, considering that the ownership details tumbling out clearly establish that Tejpal is Tehelka.

 

 

 

c)      One of Shoma’s justifications for overruling Tejpal’s version, she says, is that even if the encounter was consensual, given their unequal status in the publication’s hierarchy, the junior colleague and the rest of the organization’s sense of betrayal is justified. This shows a very clear and nuanced understanding of issues surrounding inappropriate relationships at the workplace.

 

 

 

d)      Shoma has been dragged over hot coals for not having lodged a police complaint right away. She says it is the victim’s prerogative. As yet it is not clear why the victim or her family and friends have not lodged a police complaint (the current investigation commenced on the basis of Goa administration taking suo moto cognizance). The legal obligations of the employer – whether you need to go to the police after an internal inquiry or before, whether you respect the victim’s choice of privacy – are all matters still being discussed in the media. What is absolutely clear, though, is that there was no attempt to hide this or brush this under the carpet. An email to all employees, worded in a way that respected the privacy of the aggrieved, yet laid the responsibility at the door of the perpetrator, can’t be projected as a “hush up.”

 

 

 

e)      It also appears, prima facie, that the victim said to Shoma that she wasn’t seeking vengeance and wanted quiet time to heal. This, apparently, was said before Shoma sent out the mail regarding Tejpal stepping down. As soon as she did that, media seems to have got wind of it. It is not clear that the girl communicated her sense of dissatisfaction and disappointment to Shoma before letting the media know of the same. Shoma did set up the investigation when she heard the girl wanted more.

 

It is no one’s case that Shoma couldn’t have handled this better, managerially. She has herself readily accepted an error in tonality, a lack of context that did not give the full picture either to employees or to the media, as well as a less-than-firm grip of events as they snow-balled beyond her control. But why question her intent? Why is the media deliberately showing her to be against the victim, on the side of Tejpal? The editorial slant is puzzling, to say the least.

 

Does this have anything to do with professional rivalry getting way too personal?