Why India Works- An Article by Shekar kapur

I found this article a good read. Its by Shekar Kapur, the reknowned director.

India is blessed with such abundance of talent, but they lack opportunities and support.

Why India Works – written by internationally acclaimed film director Shekhar Kapoor.

A greater ‘hole in the wall’ you cannot imagine. A small fading sign on the top saying “Cellphoon reapars” barely visible through the street vendors crowding the Juhu Market in Mumbai. On my way to buy a new Blackberry, my innate sense of adventure made me stop my car and investigate. A shop not more than 6 feet by 6 feet. Grimy and uncleaned.

‘Can you fix a Blackberry ?”
‘Of course, show me”
“How old are you” ‘Sixteen’ !

Bullshit. He was no more than 10. Not handing my precious blackberry to a 10 year old in unwashed and torn T shirt and pyjamas!
At least if I buy a new one, they would extract the data for me. Something I have been wanting to do for a year now.

‘What’s wrong with it?”
‘Well, the roller track ball does not respond. It’s kind of stuck and I cannot operate it”

He grabs it from my hand and looks at it.

“You should wash your hands. Many customers have same problem. Roller ball get greasy and dirty, then no working’

Look who was telling me to wash my hands. He probably has not bathed for 10 days, I leaned out to snatch my blackberry back.

” You come back in one hour and I fix it’.

I am not leaving all my precious data in this unwashed kid’s hands for an hour. No way.

“Who will fix it?”
‘Big brother.’
‘How big is ‘big brother?’
‘Big .. Umm ..thirty.’

Then suddenly big brother walks in. He is no more than 19.

‘What problem?’ he says grabbing the phone from my greasy hand into his greasier hand. Obviously not trained in etiquette by an upmarket retail store manager.

‘Normal Blackberry problem. I replace with original part now.’

19 year old ‘big brother’ rummages through a dubious drawer full of junk and fishes out a spare roller ball packed in cheap cellophane wrapper. Original part? I doubt it. But by now I am in the lap of the real India and there is no escape as he fishes out a couple of screw-drivers and sets about opening my Blackberry.

“How long will this take?”
“Six minutes.”

This I have to see.

After spending the whole morning trying to find a Blackberry service centre and getting vague answers about sending the phone in for an assessment that might take a week, I settle down next to his grubby cramped work space.

At least I am going to be able to watch all my stored data vanish into virtual space.

People crowd around to see what’s happening. I am not breathing easy anyway.

I tell myself this is an adventure and literally have to stop myself grabbing my precious Blackberry back and making a quick escape.

But in exactly six minutes this kid handed my Blackberry back. He had changed the part and cleaned and serviced the whole phone. Taken it apart, and put it together.

As I turned the phone on there was a horrific 2 minutes where the phone would not come on. I looked at him with such hostility that he stepped back.

‘You have more than thousand phone numbers?”
‘Yes’.
‘Backed up?’
‘No.’
‘Must back up. I do it for you. Never open phone before backing up.’
‘You tell me that now?’

But then the phone came on and my data was still there! Everyone watching laughed and clapped.
This was becoming a show – a six minute show!

I asked him how much?

’500 rupees.’ He ventured uncertainly. People around watched in glee expecting a negotiation. That’s $10 dollars as against the Rs 30,000=$ 600 I was about to spend on a new Blackberry or a couple of weeks without my phone. I looked suitably shocked at his ‘high price’ but calmly paid him. Much to the disappointment of the expectant crowd.

‘Do you have an I-Phone? Even the new ’4D one?
‘No, why?”
‘I break the code for you and load any ‘app’ or ‘film’ you want.
I give you 10 films on your memory stick on this one, and change every week for small fee.’

I went home having discovered the true entrepreneurship that lies at what we call the ‘bottom of the pyramid’. Some may call it piracy, which of course it is, but what can you say about two uneducated and untrained brothers aged 10 and 19 that set up a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and can fix any technology that the greatest technologists in the world can throw at them. I smiled at the future of our country.
If only we could learn to harness this potential.

‘Please wash your hands before use’ were his last words to me. Now I am feeling seriously unclean

>The girl who grew up

>

I was on my way to work today morning, walking along the winding little lane peppered with tiny little houses that connects my house to the main road. I take that same road every morning, and everyday, I see a lot of activity along that route. Women waving out to hubands, men leaving for work on their big n small gaddis, little girls with neatly plaited hair setting out for school, dogs, chickens, an eerie little wayside temple with a black-stone idol, small stores (a quintessentially Indian phenomena), etc.

Today morning, while I was walking, I saw one little girl, with a blue colour dupatta on her head, tied into a neat long plait. She must’ve been about 5-6 years old.

Pretty much the same age, that I used to do such stuff. You wouldn’t believe if I said it now, but as a kid, I loved dressing up and doing girly stuff. I was 6 when I cried to dad to buy me my first churidar. And the doting dad that he is, got me one. I still remember it, it was green in colour with polka dots and i wore it like it was the ONLY dress I had!! I would show off pretty much at every occasion coz while everyone of my age wore skirts and frocks I would look big n mature in a churidar!

I also used to have chocolate boxes filled with my accessories- earrings, chains, bangles, hairclips and what not. Every dress had matching accessories. There was a gold chappal that I really took a fancy to, bought from fashion street in Bombay, where I spent most of my summers, all those years ago. I used to believe that it went with any dress that I wore. It was hideous, when I look back at the photos now! But that was an age where I felt that anything bright and shiny was beautiful.

Sunday afternoons, when everyone were having their routine siesta, I used to get to work. I would take out these boxes, meticulously put on the make-up (and trust me, I was pretty good at it. I knew what all had to be applied where, and in what amount), then I would take out my favourite green dupatta with the gold sequins at the edges, pin it up safely on to my hair, and plait it. That dupatta was like a friend, I always had it with me. Boredom was never an option for me, as long as I had my dupatta and make-up boxes and ‘other accessories’, as my dad used to call it. …

I miss that girl…somewhere along the way, adolescence took its toll, and scorn for that little girl set in. I abandoned all those accessories that were part of my girlhood, and opted to go for what was in style. I stopped wearing bangles and bindis and big earrings. My chaddi buddies still ask me, why I stopped wearing all that… Infact I changed so much that as time passed I became more and more the tomboy types.. It took a nice gentleman and a couple of great friends to remind me about my childhood hobbies and the pretty little gal I loved to be.

When I saw that girl today, all those memories just rushed back, and the first thing I did was call up dad and tell him. Because he had put up with all that the most, and nobody would understand it better. And you know, he has not thrown away a single one of those things that I cherished- right from the boxes of ‘fancy items’(just like supermarkets give me a high today, fancy stores used to be my fascination then), ribbons, hair-bands, clips, beads, to the bag of clothes that I’d stitched for my Barbie dolls( I was an aspiring fashion designer at one time)- everything is intact. He never asked me whether he can throw them away or not- he just continues to preserve them for me. For what reason, I know not.

This post is dedicated to my dad, for never making fun of that little girl or forcing her to grow up sooner than she ought to have.

Sometimes I wish I never grew up…