Things I care about.

• I care about the cab drivers, the package runners and the office boys of Singapore. It’s them that the recent hike in sales taxes and the rocketing prices of amenities has hit the hardest. While the government promises to take care of these lower-waged workers, it is mostly lip-service and even then the proposed benefits are merely cosmetic. Life was not easy for them, and is just got more difficult. But they take it on the chin, and I’ve found that they are happy to have a go at the authorities, yet their criticism comes across as both hard and surprisingly fair. They try to meet both ends meet, often living hand-to-mouth, working more hours trying to stay above the water. You’d understand if they were grumpy and unwilling, yet the cabbies and the runners and the office boys have remained the most open and friendly people in Singapore, not a thing you can say that easily about most Singaporeans. Singapore is a much real place because of them, and it would be worth its while for the government to realise the harsh realities of their daily lives.

• I care about people who get published. Writing is not easy – well, at least writing meaningful and interesting pieces isn’t – and putting it to the readers’ harsh scrutiny is not for the faint hearted. Real writing, I believe, should be a representation of an author’s personal opinion while offering something new to the readers. At the same time it should be a selfish exploration for the writer himself. The ideal written work should be such a sincere effort that it takes away something from the writer’s being. To be able to produce such a work, to be able to put your personal views out in the public eye, to have the guts to have a part of you open to the possibility of vile criticism, and to have the patience to bide your time through the rejections it takes to get published takes an immense amount of self-confidence and strength. I am envious of the people who manage all this, and become successful at it.

• I care about my UP accented bhaiya Hindi. I have lived outside of India for so long now that the newly arrived desi increasingly asks me ‘How long have you been here ?’ than ‘Where in India are you from ?’. I have never been home-sick, but lately I have felt nostalgic. Nostalgic about the cricket in windy winters and the loo winds in the scorching summers, the earthy monsoons and the springs which never came. Singapore is in a perpetual spring! The efficiency of this place has me craving for the government offices which shut at four and the “Surprise!” power cuts. My only release then becomes my lingo. The desi will have to know I’m from UP. The next time you see me saying “Bhokal !!” you should know I’m staying rooted to my origins.

• I care about the Staani people. I love the raw enthusiasm in their everyday lives. They live in the extremes. Unabated ecstasy to abject dejection with nothing in between. The complete immersion of the Sufi music, the do-or-die attitude of their cricket teams, the exaggerated swagger in their walk, the drawl of their talk – it all appeals to me. It appeals, because we Hendus are guarded, we settle for the half-decent, we live inside boundaries and we are afraid of going over the top lest we offend someone while they – their passion is total. The not-a-care-in-the-world attitude, the non-chalance they carry it makes me yearn more out of my hesitant existence. It also makes me wonder if the partition was really such a good idea!

• I care about the Nineties' Bollywood love-sagas - the QSQTs, the Dils, the Dil Hai ki Maanta Nahis and the Maine Pyaar Kiyas. I care for them because of their simplicity. The protagonist was a poor goof in love with a rich princess, with nothing but hard work and some luck to show for. Throw in a villain who wasn't really that dangerous and their world was a place we could all dream about. It didn't have the continuous violence or the indiscriminate sleaze of the stuff that we see today. The locations were Indian, the transport was a bus, the weaponry comprised of a semi-automatic toy and the bad-guy was usually one of the dads. You see, it wasn't that hard to imagine yourself in these settings and to see your life, in its most idyllic and romantic version, run past you in technicolor - it was simply more dream-able! Agreed, the movies today are more real-life, but then that's the point.
  

• I do not care about people who are uptight, people who believe they’re so right that you can’t argue with them. These people don’t believe in their fallibility. They’ve been lucky in life to have not come across an experience that would have shattered their beliefs. They go on preaching and doing as they wish – without a care to differing view or opinion. They might hear, but they will not listen. An argument with them is futile in the knowledge that it’s going to become an ego issue, that at the end it’s going to have only one outcome – a denial of any opposing, however valid, ideas you might have put forth. Talking to them seems such a waste of an effort. You might as well sit across sipping your drink, smoking a stick, look beyond their right ear and not listen either.

• I also care about left-handedness, about people with good handwriting, the power of 25, the jungles of Bali and the depressing moors of England. I do Not care about incompetent upper management who try to ‘watch’ you and about people who don’t believe a lunch is an excellent thing to do on a date.