INDIRA LAISRAM

Two million people at the National Mall in Washington alone. The world watched too as Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States. So did I. I rudely cut roomie's soap operas and switched to CNN to witness history being created. Some day I may live to tell the tale of how Barack, the much touted Afro-American President of the United States, stumbled with his swearing-in oath. I was a bit disappointed as I watched the man who had run the most successful of election campaigns, the man who Americans were pinning their hopes on, take his oath. Clearly, he was under too much of a pressure to be the best. So before Chief Justice John Roberts could complete the first sentence, there was Obama abruptly breaking out into his first names... " I Barack Hussein Obama.." and then waited for the judge to complete the sentence.. The next line was even taxing. He stopped short after two words... " That I will excute ..." and then Justice Roberts cont

So fudging accounts is cooking the book. These corporate scams one after another -- Bernard Madoff and now Mr Ramalingam Raju -- are doing good to my vocabs, I thought, when I saw this expression all over the papers and news reports. How do these corporate big wigs manage to siphon off billions of dollars/rupees? And then manage to keep the fact hidden for years till one fine day when they decide they've had enough of luxury, blow the lid and say, "Sorry I cooked the book". The financial world is an exciting world, somebody once told me. Recession, corporate cons, job losses, bankruptcy, bailouts... I feel we are touching new nadirs. At work, outside, conversations veer round cost cutting, lay offs and whether the annual increments are happening. I am sick of talking about recession. It's like following the US election results: McCain, Sarah Pallin or Obama? We need a mental therapy. My advice to all is: go do your shopping as much as you can, that ways the money wil

Ram Bahadur. He has become my messiah of sorts. On dark winter foggy nights, when I step out from the warm confines of my office into the uncertainties of Delhi's roads, there he is recognising my face and offering to drop me home minus all the extra charges. "Netaji Nagar?" He asked me the first time. I was a bit startled by the question. Stalker? Rapist? Thief? Only the negative thoughts came to mind. "Yes, but how do you know?" I asked. "I dropped you a month back," he replied. "Oh, so how much?" "The same, Rs 55," he replied. Truth is, I don't remember paying that little an amount. Most autowallahs charge anything over Rs 60 to get me home. Night is the time when they make a killing and inflate the charges. So much so, that you hop into any auto thinking this could be the last bargain of the night. And Ram Bahadur is exceptional. Today was my fourth ride in his auto. I found him in his favourite haunt, the tea shop down t