Brown Phantom

How To Live

2011-12-19T10:33:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been wondering a lot about, well, how to live. In the quest to understand life, I‘ve read a lot: philosophy, evolutionary-biology, neuroscience, history, social-sciences, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, gossip columns and porn. So far, I must admit, not much progress has been made.

Cicero said “To philosophize is to learn how to die”. I have a few suggestions for Mr. Cicero, but let's get to the point.

So, how to live? Simply stated, we don’t know, we don’t even know whether it is knowable, and more importantly, whether the question is valid. It is definitely not like “How to whistle” (which is a fairly complex activity I assure you; the Youtube videos aren't much help).

Chances are little that you’ll find an answer in a blog-post. Analytical answers might never come. Just look at us, spending billions and still struggling to spot the tiniest particle. So I turn to readily available wisdom in self-help books:

Live as if today were your last day:
If I were to live as if today were my last day, it most definitely will become one (unless they put me in jail before I am done with my exploits). Let’s, for the sake of argument, assume that my morality stays intact and the expectation of a sure,timed death doesn’t trigger a violent reaction. In short, let's assume that I will be a good person overall.

Let’s take it slowly. Here’s the deal: You got just today. Will you bathe? Think it over. Remember, you got just 24 hours to live.

I won’t.

(Tragically, in the only case when you know for sure that today is your last day, they not only make you have a bath, they shave your head as well.)

However, since I am being a good person on the last day, I would call up Ma and Pa and tell them how much I love them. I finish the rest of day being extra nice and I go to bed expecting not to wake up again. I might call Ma again.

With 99.999% probability, I will wake up the next day. Since the deal remains the same, I won’t bathe and I will call Momma. If this continues for a week, my Mom will understandably take the next flight to Bangalore. Then she’ll find that I haven’t had a bath for seven days!! Like SEVEN whole days !! Need I say more?

So, you see, this philosophy won’t work. One can try and modify the theory to say that “live as if this is your tenth last day”. Most of us will bathe with respectable frequencies after this modification. However, will you pay the month electricity bill? I won’t. I suppose you get the drift.

Pacuvius, a wealthy man who lived a couple of thousand years ago, used to hold a regular burial sacrifice in his own honor, with wine and the usual funeral feasting, and then would have himself carried from the dining-room to his chamber, while eunuchs applauded and sang in Greek to a musical accompaniment: "He has lived his life, he has lived his life".

What is the best use of my time right now?:
A little reflection on this and one realizes that this is like an infinite loop with nothing at all happening inside the loop. One needs to fix sensible intervals between the “right now”s. It can’t be too long either, else significance of “right now” is lost. Let’s say an hour. Now what? This maxim has nothing to say for what is the best possible use. It’s more of a technique rather than a solution.

Also, this technique shares the flaw (although not as acutely) of the previous saying. Who, in his right mind, will say “Right now, the best use of my time is to have a bath”? Answer lies in the question. Someone who is too itchy and stinking, even for himself, will eventually find that a hot bath is the best use of the next few minutes.

Another limitation is that one might get occupied with local maximas and lose sight of the long run fulfillment. The best possible use of the next ball is to hit it for a six, but attempting so every ball won’t win you the match.

Took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference:
Robert Frost wrote the poem in jest. To Frost’s dismay, the irony was lost on almost everyone and the lines ended up being used in motivational ways. Even his closest friend Edward Thomas, an accomplished poet in his own right, and for whom Frost wrote the poem, didn’t, so to speak, get it. Instead, he got inspired and joined the English army in the First World War. Frost wrote this poem in 1915, Thomas got killed in 1916.

More often than not, it’s the traveler that matters. “Taking the road less travelled” can’t be a universal rule anyway as one would expect a uniform distribution of people on all roads if it was as simple as that, unless of course the road is less travelled for a sensible reason. E.g. You won’t make it big just because you choose never to have a bath.

Live life to the fullest:
Like what? Should I install a bath-tub instead of using a shower? This maxim makes me feel like blowing up a big balloon.
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In short, I am not impressed. You know how the whole thing is:

(A very very complex and huge expression) = ?

You ponder a while and then tell yourself “This shit is taking long; let me grab a cup of tea and two cookies”. By the time you are back with your tea, already sore at yourself for having finished the cookies last night, the left hand side of the equation has become furthermore complex.

With life, the rules are not only complex, but fuzzy and evolutionary. As it is, even the strictest of formal systems are doomed to be incomplete. I guess there isn’t much else to do, but to live life to the fullest on this last day of my life and squeeze in a leisurely bath somewhere along the road less travelled.

Demon : Short Story Contest Entry

2011-07-19T19:57:00.001-07:00

Yesterday as the room service lady delivered the laundry to my room, I hesitated, “This bra is not mine”.

“Of course not, sir.” She slammed the door on her way back.

It’s a regular bra; black, 32B. Clara is bigger.

A copy of the laundry receipt has already gone to the company accountant; and she will talk. Clara will throw me out.

Sales Manager, 45, on a business trip, is getting lingerie washed at company’s expense while his faithful wife tends to the household chores and their 15 year old son.

That 15 year old was recently caught watching porn by his mother.

“You must talk to Harry.” Clara repeats.

Yeah right. Harry, read your books and please don’t jerk off!

And who am I to preach? The man who sleeps with a bra by his side. And how many times have my hands caressed the sin? A million.

Such fine shit. Who’s to blame? I didn’t put the fucking thing in my bag. Stupid laundry guys must have messed up.

Well, I better call Clara before the word reaches her. But she won’t believe me.

Maybe I should call Cynthia. Bless her for staying over with us for the month. She will explain it real nice to Clara, face to face.

My phone is ringing. Oh dear! It’s Clara.

“Clara, my angel, I miss you.”

“That’s alright honey, but you must talk to Harry first thing you are back.”

“What did he do now?”

“Cynthia’s bra is missing.”

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It's a 250 word limit contest hosted by Jason Evans. The link to the story is here: http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com/2011/07/entry-85.html

It Really Doesn’t Matter

2011-06-04T07:59:00.000-07:00

If you are the kind who admires confidence and decisiveness, I am afraid I won’t be leaving a great impression on you if you happen to be seating opposite to me after the waiter has handed the menu cards.

It would have been easy if we were seated in a French or an Italian restaurant and I were too shy to mispronounce a dish; I would have chosen the one which is easy to roll off the tongue regardless of how it might taste. Instead, I am shameless enough to say the number against the dish or point finger at it on the card and then nod when the waiter pronounces it properly (I am sure they are trained with only those French /Italian words). Or I can always show it to you and you can order it with grace. So my unwillingness to choose from the menu card is cuisine-agnostic. (I might be flattering myself by calling it unwillingness, as it is most probably perceived as an inability.)

It’s not that I lack the discerning taste altogether. Capsicum is chilly and banana is sweet. Chilly is better than sweet. And I do derive pleasure from the food, especially if it tastes like chocolate (chocolate is not counted in sweet). But I find it hard to calculate which item on the menu will bring me more joy. Sometimes I have a vague idea, but I believe it will be too arrogant on my part to announce based on that, because you will take it as a well thought decision based on clear preferences. It will be an implicit lie. I can’t be cheating someone who is dining with me unless I am bound to benefit a lot from it. I would rather let you choose and go with it, feeling safe in the knowledge that overall there is more satisfaction in the world.

Admittedly, there is a catch here. It might be too taxing on you to pick for two. It’s unfair to assume that it’s easy for you to choose. I don’t want to be a freeloader. As a means to avoid implicitly lying and freeloading, I have decided to take the following route the next time I find myself with a menu card in my hands:

“Honestly, it doesn’t really matter, but I’ll go with X, with toppings of Y, although Z seems to be equally fine. However, if you have a better idea, feel free to pitch in.”

This should not imply I am open to eat a half cooked cat. The variance and quality is bounded by the cuisine and the place of which I am aware by virtue of holding the corresponding menu card.

Ideally (subjective), the menu card should simply have a scale which asks “How hungry are you?” (In future, they can have scanners at the door that judge the hunger-level without relying on perceptions.) They can make the card fancy by starting the levels from “As hungry as a rat” and ending at “So hungry that I can even eat a rat right now”.

There is little confusion in the case of drinks though. It all depends on whether I will be driving afterwards. If no, I go for whisky, else beer it is. If you are a guy and you order vodka or a cocktail, I won’t trust you with my car. So you better not be a guy.

Too many ‘if’s and ‘I’s in this post: another not so impressive trait in a man. But I am relieved to have made my stand crystal clear.

Big Banger with his poems and other art forms

2011-05-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

The Big Banger

An aimless evening stroll. In my head, I am a man on his first day out of prison after serving twenty years of sentence (falsely accused, to add to the drama). Not a very original or deep idea, more of a boyish fantasy. The boy sees a girl. She’s pretending to read a message from her mobile as she approaches the tragically wronged man. Eyes meet and look away, wondering just for a moment.

As she passes by, I can’t help pondering that all the atoms that make up her hair and that constitute my hands, all the atoms of the lace touching her body and of the leather of my belt, of her lips and of my boots, all those atoms which have vibrated when she had said her words or cried her sorrows and all those atoms which I have breathed in and breathed out, all of these damned atoms were once confined within a cubic inch of space in heat where they mingled and frolicked in the mother of all orgy that eventually gave birth to this world with a big bang.

She takes a turn and goes out of sight. I don’t feel the need to pursue her. My mind has pierced her beyond the level of intimacy possible in today’s Universe. I look around for the next conquest. My eyes fall on an auto-driver taking a leak.

__________________________________________________________________

PS: Creative liberty has been taken with regard to the size of Universe at the time of Big Bang

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A Trespasser-Alert To Aliens, Put In Order To Mislead Them About Our Norms And Preferences

Do not shoot a pigeon

It’s banned in this region.

You may kill a duck

No one gives a fuck.

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A Love Song

I got no mistress

That’s causing distress.

Would you be my lily

And I’ll be your silly.

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Gardening

To all those who went “oooh” when I mentioned about my terrace garden, here’s a confession:

I Still Don't Know

2011-03-27T12:09:00.001-07:00

When I died, I wasn’t surprised to be escorted in to the gate that read:

Welcome To

where else

Hell.

Death leaves one with the bitterness that can't be cured. No one recovers from the humiliation. Building heaven for the dead is like building a machine that snatches the eye balls out of a man and gives him tickets to a silent movie in return. The “Where Else” made a lot of sense. Everyone goes to hell; because wherever one goes, there is hell.

But there is order in hell. Hell is divided into many large halls. (You don’t see any fire or demons; the memories of your death are torture enough.) Which hall you go to, depends on the way you died.

A hellboy appeared.

“This way, Sir.”

He looked exactly like me.

“We’ll have to pass through a few of the halls before we reach your deathbed.”

“So, I get a bed, eh?” I was lame when it came to small-talk, even in death.

In the first hall, some beings were standing, some were sitting and some were lying on their beds. Those who were lying on beds cried the loudest.

“Sir, if you sit on your bed, you can never stand again, but you may lie down. And once you lie down, you can neither stand nor sit.”

They all kept repeating how they died in between their sobs. This hall belonged to those who died a natural death of old age.

We entered the next hall. This hall had lesser lethargy but more gloom than the previous one. It belonged to those who fell victims to fatal diseases before they could grow old. I looked for my dog.

“Sir, the animals are immediately recycled back to earth.” Hellboy knew it all.

The third hall belonged to those who were quashed in accidents and natural disasters. The tone of weeping had stronger sense of wrongdoing and uneasiness about it.

“Sir, please brace yourself. We are about to enter the most hostile hall in hell.”

We stepped in to the next hall. Men were bawling violently. They were trying to talk, but midway through the sentences they would turn away and begun wailing and stomping their limbs.

“What kind of deaths did they suffer?” I asked apprehensively.

“Sir, they all died in ridiculous fashions, and for little fault of anyone.”

“Shouldn’t they be in the Accident Hall then?”

“Sir, there is a difference between being run over by a car and being asphyxiated to death beneath a fat whore.”

“You see that man, sir? He died of shock because he mistook his kid’s belt lying on the floor for a snake. And that man died of a bullet fired up in the sky by one of his wedding party reveler. These men are so embarrassed of their ways of death that they can’t speak about it and so the sorrow lingers on and becomes more and more severe.”

In one corner of the hall, I saw a room with its door locked. Hellboy was leading me to it. I could hear horror filled yells from within the room.

“Sir, the man in this room had his balls eaten of by his lover’s dog. The dog had never seen a naked man before. This man has been the most severe case of embarrassment we have had in recent times.”

Hellboy proceeded to open the door of the room. The man inside ran to me and held me tight and opened his mouth to say something, but voice escaped him. He was asked to go to a nearby bed.

“Sir, may I request you to please proceed into this room.”

“What! Did I die such a sorry death?”

Hellboy stayed mum.

“Am I the dog that choked on his balls? But I would have been recycled then!”

Hellboy continued staring at the floor.

“Won’t you please tell me how I died? I don’t seem to remember it.”

“Sir, we don’t tell anyone how they died. They all know it on their own.”

Saying so, he shut the door on me.

The Tailor's Box

2011-03-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

When Abdul took measurements of his customers, he secretly measured their age too. Decades of sewing clothes had taught him how the human body decays with time.

Years ago when the rich landlord had brought red silk for making curtains for his house, Abdul saved enough material to tailor his daughter Abeeda’s wedding dress . He hid the dress in a box which he opened on the day she got married twelve years later. Abdul invited everyone to the wedding, but the rich landlord.

Kasim, the butcher was invited too. Kasim’s daughter Sakina was Abeeda’s friend. Sakeena eloped with Kasim’s assistant and came back home five days later at midnight, bruised and beaten. Kasim took her to his slaughterhouse and lynched her. Her body was never found.

The whole village had eaten Sakina bit by bit the next day, at the price of a cow’s meat. Abdul knew this because he got the bone which matched the size of her hand. He puked, but he kept quiet.

A few months before the whole village ate Sakina, Kasim had come to Abdul to get his trousers loosened. Abdul found a lottery ticket in his pocket and hid it in the same box in which he hid Abeeda’s wedding dress.

After a week when the lottery winners were announced, Kasim’s ticket won a petty sum that wouldn’t buy anything more than a good meal for two. So Abdul took the ticket to Kasim, expecting a good meal as an appreciation for his honesty. Kasim shut the door on him and swore that he will tell the entire village that he is a thief. But Kasim didn’t do that; he just stopped going to Abdul to get his trousers loosened.

Abdul was happy that Abeeda didn’t elope. If she had, he would have given the red silk dress to the rich landlord and hid Abeeda in the same box in which he hid the dress.

But she didn’t elope and she got married and nine month later she gave birth to Suleman.

One day when little Suleman was sitting in the mud, Abeeda asked Abdul, “Papa, will you make a dress for my Suleman’s funeral. And keep it in the box in which you hid my wedding dress”.

“Yes, I will.”

Abeeda looked longingly at her Suleman and asked Abdul in a trembling voice, “Papa, how tall will my son grow?”

“Taller than me.”

Abdul was right. Suleman grew up to three and a half feet, a good two inch taller than his grandfather. And when Suleman died an old man, shrunken by an inch, they took the dress, which Abdul made seventy years ago, out of the box. It fit the dead body perfectly.

The box remains empty since then.

Tooth-Fairies And Soap

2011-03-12T23:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I helped the cause of a budding barber. Although my right ear still hurts, I am satisfied with my readiness for an impromptu “Who has the shortest hair?” contest.

It’s been a long break and I am pleasantly surprised at the number and identities of the people who noticed the absence. I have come to realize that this blog is seen more as a tool for self-exhibition than as a place where I write stuff.

But this self-exhibition is still a fiction (albeit of little commercial value). What I exhibit is of course chosen and/or manipulated. (E.g. More than half of the apologetic scenarios mentioned here never happened. Apologies for that.) Nearly all of us do this selection with a varying degree of awareness and intent.

Does that make me liar? Well, I do lie sometimes in real life, but the lies on this blog are of different nature. I add ornamentation purposely to entertain, and not to cheat. Things that I have on mind while writing are on the lines of “Does this sound funny or intelligent?”, “What if?”, “Is this getting too consistent?” etc. I don’t see this blog as a place where I express my innermost thoughts (blah) or try to connect with people.

However, I maintain that I did have that haircut from a novice barber yesterday.

Meanwhile, my new neighborhood is living up to the expectations mentioned in the previous post. Also, there ain’t gonna be no Deember for me. Fish are too selfish to bother about their owners. I now have a small garden instead, with over a dozen plants bought from a nearby nursery. Tender little weeds have begun sprouting in most of the pots. I don’t have the heart to snatch them out of the soil. They look like a bunch of street puppies wagging their tails amidst the foreign bred dogs.

I watched television for a few weeks (mostly trash). In every episode of “Emotional Atyachar”, after the initial preaching about the vices of infidelity, whenever the cheating partner smooches the enchantress, they blur the area of action and pop comes the advertising banner below: “Spraymint . Be kiss-ready”. I love capitalism.

I must clarify though that despite the last example, I am all for capitalism. More things get created, both good and bad. Creation is, well, interesting. If you mock at it, you better be good. Saying “Tooth-fairies are bullshit” isn’t enough, true though it might be. Saying “The only Tooth-fairy I have known is that beautiful dentist” is better, but still lame. It’s hard to match the idea of “Tooth-fairy”, however ridiculous it may seem.

Things need not be fantastic in a general sense to be marveled at. Take Soap. Soap, like every one of us, is made up of many-many subatomic particles. It can be traced back to Big-Bang. And soaps, as we know them, will cease to exist in not so distant future. The soap I bought after the hair-cut, had it been luckier, could have rubbed the dirty body of a beautiful Tooth-fairy. It still could, if I get luckier. A soap can be eaten too (it’s delicious).

I must stop here. I am hungry. There are too many loose and philosophically contestable statements in this post already.

My New Place

2010-12-18T11:45:00.000-08:00

I am moving into a new house this decade end. It’s a little duplex, an independent two-bedroom house, not far from where I stay currently. At 900 sq feet plot area, it’s rather modest, but those with a propensity to exclaim “so cute” won’t find many reasons to hold the complement back.

There’s just about enough parking place for my little car in the front; then there is a hall, followed by stairs that lead up to a bedroom on the first floor which opens up to the terrace where I shall be spending mornings brushing teeth, and evenings, laying on a bean bag. The stairs are followed by a small kitchen and a room which opens up to a backyard that can accommodate four coffins in a two by two file.

I will finally un-wrap my television and put it in the hall, thereby ending nearly six years of forced abstinence. I am also going to fulfill the ambition of having a pet-fish. The fish-bowl too goes in hall. Somewhere in Bangalore there exists a fish yet to be christened Deember (While chatting with a friend about how different this December is, the “c” was missed and the result was immediately recognized to be an apt name for a squirrel).

Kitchen will have the usual things along with the only matchbox I have ever bought in Bangalore, six years ago. The matchsticks are still crisp, fully capable of burning, and have somehow mastered the art of reproduction inside the box.

The ground floor bedroom (the one with the creepy backyard), will be my supposedly-absurd-thoughts-room. It will have books and my personal laptop, but no internet connection or any timepiece. The room will largely be empty and devoid of any physical clutter.

After immense considerations, the internet connection goes to the first floor bedroom which will be my otherwise-normal-bedroom. (Wi-fi is not an option since the supposedly-absurd-thoughts-room must remain sacred). I didn’t check the attached bathroom of the first floor bedroom because by the time I was taken upstairs on the visit, I knew I was going to take the house, no matter what existed beyond the bathroom door. Besides, it’s too embarrassing to check the bathrooms in a house still inhabited by others. And the one of ground-floor had all things expected of a bathroom.

The current occupant (a colleague) and those in the know, emphasize the benefits of specially arranged security in the locality. At this stage of my life, security is the least of my concerns, but I still mention it when describing the place to friends/acquaintances and they nod their heads approvingly.

I kind of feel guilty towards the current place for being so eager to move out of it. This was my second house in the city. I have become so indifferent and condensing towards this place that I calculated the total rent I paid for the place. It’s nearly three hundred thousand.

All waiters in the area can predict my orders. The car-cleaner, maid and dhobi know me enough to look at me with pity. That’s one thing I got going for me. I am prone to be pitied upon, regardless of how I might be placed in various spheres. It’s an evolutionary trait perhaps.

There are quite a few schools in my current locality. I will miss watching poor kids rushing to school, mugging up on exam days; my daily dose of schadenfreude with a bit of nostalgia thrown in.

As I will move into the new place, I am bound to discover some drawbacks. The rain might be too noisy, there could be big fat rats (or even small ones), some new construction might begin in the area causing noise and dust, and so on and so forth. One negative that I have gauged already is that the neighborhood offers no chance of amusement or adventure.

My first house (in Gurgaon) allowed for hearing to the next-door twenty-something accusing his father of discouraging him at different stages in his life and the examples he used to cite were funny and deserve an entire blog-post.

We were thrown out of our next house from a posh apartment in Gurgaon because boys staying in the room next door used to make porn. We saw neither the porn, nor the actors. They were caught later on and the news was covered on Aaj-tak. Following that, Society Council pushed all the bachelors out.

We shifted to a nearby Society which employed a swimming pool supervisor with erratic timings. Our apartment didn’t offer the view to the pool. If the boys in the neighboring building, which offered the view to the pool, were out smoking in balcony, we used to infer (almost always correctly) that the pool is open.

Later I moved to Bangalore and have been staying on my own since then. My first house in Bangalore had three college going girls on the floor above. One fine day in March years ago, four girls knocked on my door and drenched me. We played Holi. They invited me to come along and I politely refused.

The next house, which is the current one, has pink walls, pink basin, pink tiles and pink toilet-seat. I was summoned to police station once when I had a drink-party with loud music on the terrace. The matter was solved “amicably”. And there are a few pretty faces around this place.

But the future house, on first inspection, offers nothing promising. The current occupant assured me that there is little to worry about and everyone is peaceful and all the houses have families with kids.

I will find solace in my supposedly-absurd-thoughts-room. And in Deember.

Trip Home

2010-11-12T09:55:00.000-08:00

Lull is a funny word. And that’s what this place has been going through for a long while now. I have forgotten how to structure a post to the level this blog has been used to so far. Staccato shall be the norm in whatever drivel that follows.

So I went home for two weeks to celebrate Diwali. Supreme confidence with a false sense of control, in combination with a strong tendency towards judicious procrastination, ensured that I was yet again the last man to check-in thereby having to settler for the middle seat in the last row of the plane. Sandwiched between two adult males, one of whom carried a one and a half year old kid with a strange mythological name, the meaning of which he shall be obliged to explain for the rest of his life to those who enquire, I resigned to two more hours of discomfort to this three decade old body. The father was very careful in the beginning of the journey to keep the baby and himself within the domain he has paid for; by the time the pilot announced the landing, expressing the practiced gratitude, a ritual as unnecessary as the safety instructions, the kid’s shoes were resting on my lap. I pretended to ignore the inconvenience and kept my eyes closed throughout the journey.

On the eve of Diwali, when mom was finishing the pooja, I finally finished reading Lolita for the second time. Scared by the noise of crackers, a street-dog rushed in our house and trembled till well past midnight in the passage. I thought of taking its picture and uploading it on facebook with the title “Dog in Distress” (haa haa). But I was in throes of laziness which was furthered by illness (such a demeaning way to be reminded of mortality).

There was another interesting subject which I didn’t click. Three female models, one with a seductive expression, one in black mini, and the third in a dress typical of mid nineties, adorned a packet of crackers called ‘Priya’s Chakkar”. The cover should be acknowledged as a remarkable piece of diligence if all of those three models were named Priya in real life.

The place where that dog trembled in fear all night once used to be home to a stray cat, which, despite being pitch black, managed to give birth to white little kittens. When I was nine, mom told me to take those kittens to a park about three kilometers from our place. Chores, more often than not, aren’t as easy and straightforward as they sound. Catching and putting those kittens in a bag while their mother was out, gathering food, wasn’t really the hardest challenge as I had perceived before beginning to execute the task. Having done with that triviality with ease, as I walked on the road to the park, I was surrounded by the most ferocious dogs of the kind found only in small towns (dogs in Bangalore have been reported to be shooed away effortlessly by cats on more than one occasion).

The dogs had smelled and heard the little kittens. And their number increased with every turn I took. The knowledge that those dogs aren’t after me, but the kittens, gave me the courage to keep walking. However, after a while the dogs began jumping and growling greedily. Before the situation could turn graver, I opened the gates of a big bunglow , emptied the bag full of kittens, quickly closed the gate and returned back home, leaving the hounds barking on top of their voice in front of the house. To this day my eyes search for white cats whenever I pass by that house. Mother cat meowed around our house for the whole day and then left the place for good.

The journey back to Bangalore found me again on a middle seat of an Air India flight. The muffins they serve on Air-India flight are worth all the risk and nuisance. The gentleman on my left snorted regularly and so made me listen to some good music on the in-flight radio programs. Being forced to sit with seat-belts tied around the waist, while the air-hostess walks and shuts the overhead cabins with great difficulty with her nail-polished tender hands, never fails to make me feel helpless and guilty and yet I find the situation sexy in a way.

So the trip ended and it’s great to be back sleeping on the most comfortable bed in the world.

My Jazz Album

2010-09-16T10:50:00.000-07:00

In a bid to up the cool-quotient I’ve taken to jazz these days. Have come to realize that jazz is an interest that will need a bit more cultivation. Listening to the numbers on “Smooth Jazz” on 91.9 FM, I couldn’t help wondering, sometimes, at the connection between the title and the music, especially when there are no words in the song. Of course when there are words, it’s straightforward and apparently I am yet to go beyond the straightforwardness in jazz.

I acknowledge that I have a lot to learn and understand. However, the possibility of naming such songs whimsically led me to create a jazz album of my own. I’ve tried to keep up with the contemporary themes and hence you’ll sense an inclination towards the matters of heart. Following are the songs with brief introductions:

1. Your Imperfect Teeth: Tune for a lad in love who finds his object of desire to be perfect, almost though.

2. Did You Sneeze On My Hanky : Let’s face it; we breathe in a devious world. No one, I repeat, no one, can be trusted; especially with your handkerchiefs.

3. One And Two And One And Jump : The song lacks universal appeal. It’s an expression against the guys who go to aerobics class near the park I go for my weekly jog. Douche bags.

4. Promise You Won’t Chew My Red Rose Again: A haunting melody of repeated attempts at unrequited love. Set to be a critics' favorite.

5. There Is No Fork Either: Melancholic psychedelic rhythm set to bring nerds closer to jazz and putting fear of God in ill mannered butlers.

6. Petty Coats: A rendition that forces the listener to contemplate the lack of fashion scene in the downtrodden blocks of the society.

7. Don’t You Marry That Monkey, My Baby : A misleading title, granted. This is not a song for the jealous or disowned. Au contraire, it’s about a discerning father trying to put sense in the smitten daughter’s head.

8. Wash Wash Wash : The only song with lyrics in it. It goes “Wash Wash ,Wash Wash Wash,..” in a feeble feminine voice that seems to be fading away, but never does so . Partial inspired by Macbeth, this song is expected to be popular in a niche audience, the over qualified housewives.

9. The Man With Concrete Ambitions : A dedication to the solid men of the society, the men with square heads on squarer shoulders. Let me tell you this: Jazz is all about improvisation. But this tune is tailored to leave no scope for hocus-pocus.

10. Your Almost Always Covered Body Parts: One can sense the perversion with a concern for hygiene and regular toilet habits in the title. The tune is bound to be popular in bands that play in baraats.

11. Ain’t Got No Damn To Give No More: A pinch of blithe and rebel in the beats. Targeted towards teenagers and middle aged men alike. Acid-Jazz at its best.

12. Hazards Of Broken Heart: A sad soft song. Guaranteed to leave a lump in a few throats by the time saxophone kicks in. The tritest of the lot, but done with elegance.

13. Nibbling The Sibling: The piece that pushes the album from the clutches of ordinary to the realms of grandeur. Limits of jazz are flirted in this surrealistic rigmarole of incest, gore and cannibalism.

Things a man endures every morning

2010-08-18T19:57:00.000-07:00

The Restaurant

2010-08-05T10:19:00.000-07:00

I picked up the menu card. The first page said ‘For Gents’. A bit odd, but then, you never know with these upscale restaurants.

“Can I have My Youth Back?”

“A bit late for it, sir. We don’t serve it after 5 PM.”

“How about My Fair Lady?”

“Out of stock, sir. We don’t compromise on quality and all the good ones are taken.”

“Can I have It All?”

“I am afraid, you flipped over to ‘For Ladies’ page, sir.”

“Oh right. Well, I’ll have two of What He Is Having."

“We can’t serve two of that, sir; defeats the purpose.”

“To hell with this menu. Why don’t you being me any salad and we just get over with it.”

“The Food-section is upstairs, sir.”

“And what section is this?”

“Silly Desires”

“But why do you list the items as dishes?”

“Sir, it’s a clever signifier for wishes.”

“I wish I had never come here.”

“Sir, before you leave, here is something for you. It’s the most recommended dessert from our menu.”

“What is it called?”

“Sir, Be Careful What You Wish For”

The Usual

2010-08-03T19:34:00.000-07:00

So this guy walks into this pub. With swagger and all.

Looks around. Three chicks drinking. None good enough for him.

Goes straight to the bar.

“The usual.” He says checking his watch. It’s 4:58 PM.

Bartender gives him the glass with a nod of bitter familiarity.

He empties the glass in a single gulp and walks out. No payment needed.

Checks the watch again. Has the smile of a conquerer.

5PM is always the right time to have your fifth glass of water.

Unborn

2010-07-22T19:11:00.000-07:00

Before she died, she had one last look at the sky. She has been sleeping since then, only to keep waking in another dream.

Now she found herself on an island with no trees and three crystals. The crystals were the shiniest she had ever seen.

“Do you like them?” said a voice which came from nowhere.

The sparkles told her that she wasn’t in a dream. Nothing so pure can be untrue.

“They were sons of the same mother.” the voice continued.

“Sorry??” she mumbled, uncertainly.

“I’ll explain. What was Newton’s greatest accomplishment?”

“Calculus? Laws of motion?”

The voice smirked.

“No, child. Newton became ‘The Theory of Relativity’.”

“So, the dead turn into theories or crystals?”

“Yes, they do, into ideas, into events, into all things that are beyond the realms of meek, the living beings. Mona Lisa, the Ninth Symphony, Zero; each one of them came into existence after centuries of suffering of the dead. ”

“What about the beginning, when there was no one to die?”

“No creation is free of the guilt of destruction.”

“Then who died for Big Bang? Was it God?”

“A force more potent.”

“What was it?”

“Loneliness.”

Even the waves paused for a moment.

“Nothing else explodes with such magnificence.”

And then the voice disappeared. And the crystals melted into tears and were stolen by the momentary breeze before the sand could swallow them, leaving her alone on the island of melancholy, till the day she turns herself into lyrics, yet unsung.

(My entry to the contest here . 250 words-limit and the story must be based on the image above. The contest is still open July 28.)

All Apologies

2010-06-27T03:23:00.001-07:00

I did this guest post here at Preeti's blog last week.

And then Atrisa has tagged me with honest scrap here. Thank you Atrisa :P.

The post fits in well (since it's of confessional nature) with the tag. So here goes :

All Apologies:

1. Apologies Led Zeppelin, for using one of your songs in a game of Antakshari. Couldn’t help it, the opposite team had stooped to using regional songs. It was “Stairway to Heaven”. “The” se gaana tha.

2. Apologies Rats. I persuaded a friend of mine to study biology. He has dissected hundreds of your lot since then. Honestly, I didn’t foresee that at all. My soul is as pure as yours.

3. Apologies nations playing in World cup football, for one of my countrymen did this. On similar lines, if you are a proud Mallu, you better be prepared with explanations for this .

4. Apologies that person who studied Electronics for four years simply because your elder brother was a vague acquaintance of mine. Long back, your elder brother asked me whether you should opt for Electronics or Computers and I convinced him for Electronics just to see whether I could do that. I hope you are doing some kickass solid state physics work at Princeton. Fat chance though.

5. Apologies Berlin sky, for I have peed in open, right beneath your stars and inspired three others to do the same. While we are at it, apologies Miami sky too.

6. Apologies the interview candidate whom I rejected a few years ago. You sneezed on my hands and didn’t apologize. There is yet to be a study which reveals a correlation between bad manners and ability to crack complex algorithms. I suspect it to be positive, but clearly I got carried away with that fine gesture of yours.

7. Apologies Megan Fox, but I can’t marry you.

8. Apologies all those who were beaten up or appeared stark naked in my dreams. Although I seek redemption in the fact that more often than not, the victim has been me, myself. Megan dear, you belong to one of the two mentioned categories. Excluded from this apology is a fellow who was the only one to be murdered. Thrice.

9. Apologies person X, for, well, whatever.

Hello World

2010-06-20T11:40:00.000-07:00

This poor thing has been starving for months. And so, here’s an update on what I was up to during this time. Not that I expect/wish/accept that anyone would care; it’s just that something must be written for the blog to be not declared dead and there’s nothing worthwhile brewing in my mind for the time being. So here’s the list of things I did in chronological order during this period of absence:

Turning Thirty: Yes, pity me, but kindly keep the feelings to yourselves. No sympathies in comments, please. I know age is just a number, but that number right now is greater than 29, is twice that of 15 and it’s sad to think that I have an experience greater that of ten kindergarten kids combined. Henceforth, I fervently support replacing decimal system with hexadecimal; a respite for two more years. (If you didn’t get this, congratulations.)
Visited Germany: Well, I mention the trip because it was fun and I was drunk for five consecutive nights and everyone in my neighborhood in Dewas knows that I have been to Germany. I must confess (with Desi pride), that I peed right below the stars in a Berlin street (it was 4 AM). Also, an empirical rule is that at any point of time, someone in Berlin is jogging.
Visited Dewas and other nearby furnaces: A cousin got married in Jalgaon on the hottest day in memories of all those who were present at the wedding. Folks over there, in their infinite wisdom, have marriages at noon in the month of May. And so it happened that I danced on “Mangtaa hain to aa jaa rasiya” at 1 in the noon when the temperature was 49 degree Celsius. Later that day, we learnt that a groom in another wedding died due to heat while he was still sitting on the horse. That became the topic of discussion in the region for next two days and we all were really proud of our groom. Here's a shot of mango trees in our farm. The mangoes, although not fully ripe, were delicious.
A Qualified Mathematician: Given what mathematics has done for me, it would have been a disgrace to die without a degree in the subject. I am now B.Sc. in Mathematics and Economics from London School of Economics. Please excuse me for reiterating: I am now B.Sc. in Mathematics and Economics from London School of Economics. With that, I am a bachelor three times over and none of the ways has been easy.

A lot more insignificant and/or secretive (nothing scandalous, sadly) events transpired during this period of absence, but let’s stop this self-indulgent show now. The number of 'I's in this post makes me shudder with shame.

Facebook Agony Aunt

2010-04-05T12:06:00.000-07:00

Pokers
Q. I am being poked and tickled a lot. Yesterday, a classmate I haven’t met for seven years pinched me. How do I react?
A. It would have helped if you had mentioned your gender. Having said that, such gestures are common online displays of affection and are not considered violating any norms in the book of facebook etiquettes. Go ahead old bean; throw a sheep at the one who pinched you.

Bitch Diaries
Q. My name is Rita and I am a final year B.com student. Lately my classmate Rosy had been posting all the ugly pictures of me and she never forgets to tag me in all of them. Am I being too suspicious? Please help.
A. No Sweety, you aren’t being too suspicious at all. Don’t we know how bitchy girl friends can be towards each other? I bet all your requests to remove those snaps have been shrugged away jokingly. You must not revert to posting groggy pictures of her lest both of you would end up scaring away all the suitors.
Effective communication, as always, is the key. Try and take snaps of her oversized clothes (preferably inner-wear) with size in focus. Initially allow access only to her and tag her. Next day you will find only pretty pictures of yours in her albums. In turn you must knit a scarf for her.

Mama moments
Q. I have a 2 month old kid. Is it the right time to create a facebook account for him? What pages should I join from his account? What is the optimum number of fan-pages that will have a positive long term impact on his personality? What kind of pictures can I upload through his account?
A. First of all, congratulations on your motherhood. Well done. Rest assured that all your worries regarding your kid’s FB account are ill-founded. He is going to chuck off all the internet accounts that you would have created for him before he turns twelve. And whatever fan pages you join now, he is sure to avoid each one of them. Refrain from posting nude baby pictures of him; you are only increasing the chances of dealing with a rebel teenager.

The Optimistic Testosterone
Q. A girl in my friend-list has been sending me mugs of beer on facebook. I think she wants to have sex with me. Any tips?
A. A friend of mine once asked the time from a random guy in office. Three months later, she ended up resigning and the Romeo is still unmarried.

Postmodern pets
Q. Is it ok to have an account for my cat?
A. It is perfectly legal to have FB account for your pets. There haven’t been any surveys yet that measure the effectiveness of FB on general well being of an animal. Be careful not to throw a barrel of monkeys at your pet; though you can have a bubble bath with it on a regular basis.

The spy who tagged me
Q. How can I see all the activities of a friend that she has done since June 2007? I had to click on “more” 86 times to read all her activities.
A. Facebook has nothing against voyeurs like you. They show only one page at a time to avoid loading the entire data in one go. Moreover, if you are not able to draw helpful inferences about your prey in 4-5 pages, then you are anyway doomed to fail in your endeavor.

Status Spoilers
Q. I sweat my head all day to come up with clever status messages. Many times I steal them from unknown twitter handles. However, no sooner do I update my status, a dumb-wit replies and takes away all the charm. Take this for example: “From the Club, where Diamonds are held dearer than Hearts, Spade away o Joker; such Blank souls are not on your cards.” He replied “Playing too much cards, eh?”
A. Honey, first stop trying so hard. But I do understand your dilemma. You don’t want to block him, lest you lose one guaranteed commenter. You should simply smile in reply to his comments while giving elaborate answers to other commenter. Sometime, ignore him totally. Be careful not to snub him completely. Your ultimate goal should be to make him simply “like” your status and not utter a word on your wall.

Office Hours
Q. My boss and colleagues have added.
A. Be glad for the opportunity presented to you to impress them. Use status messages suggested here.

We, the Deluded
Q. I don’t like Facebook. Please advice.
A. Unfortunately, Facebook hasn’t yet come with a functionality to dislike. You can do unlike to an already liked post. However, unlike the usual usage of the work unlike, which means that two or more things are not like each other, the FB unlike simply implies that whatever was liked earlier isn’t liked anymore; no questions asked.

--*--

You may empty your Facebook woes here and the agony aunt will try her best to soothe you.

The Trip to Chilka Lake

2010-03-21T06:14:00.000-07:00

Couple of weeks ago I went to my friend Chitto’s wedding in Bhubaneswar. Yes, another man down. Back in Kharagpur, his room number was C-209, mine was C-206. Also attending the wedding were Satwik C-207 and Piyush C-208.

The day after reception, Piyush, Satwik and I drove to Chilka Lake, about 100 Km from Bhubaneswar. Chilka Lake is the second largest lagoon in the world and a globally renowned sanctuary for migratory birds. It is also home to a rich mix of rare species of aquatic life, not to forget the dolphins. Now, none of us are nature lovers per se; we were doing it for the “been there, done that” factor and take back pictures of exotic birds to show off.

The night before the trip, we planned to reach Chilka OTDC (Orissa Tourism) office by 1PM; the next day we were there at 3 PM (don’t ask). At the counter, they told us that we are late and don’t have enough time to go to the place where dolphins are sighted. There was a standard trip of 1.5 hours available which takes to a small island which has a temple but not any colorful birds to speak of. We paid extra money to hire a boat for 3 hours so that we can travel to another island a little farther where some of the Caspian Sea birds migrate.

As we started the journey, a group of sea-gulls started following us. They were white and not that big, but no one debated once I suggested that they must be from Siberia. We hadn’t taken all the trouble only to see good old local birds. Here’s a video of them. I would continue to deny that they are regular Indian birds.

All this while we were guzzling beer and the evening-sun was shining beautifully on the water surface. Below are a some photos. Click on them to enlarge.

Just when we were getting into a dreamy mood, the boat-owner told us that we don’t have enough time left to go the island which was promised to us at the counter, instead he can take us to another place called Cheerihaagu. We didn’t have any option in the middle of water. Satwik told me that Cheerihaagu means bird shit. That place has whitish rocks which look as if birds have covered them with their shit; so much for the exotic experience.

On our way to Cheerihaagu, we sighted a few birds which we all agreed amongst ourselves, must have migrated from Mongolia even though they too were not colorful.

As we continued moving, the photo of the day was clicked:

It evokes so many stories. A lonely being on a lonely island; a somber evening hue; the bird which belongs to the wind, standing on a piece of land amidst an endless sea of water. A further dimension was added once we learnt that this bird is sitting on Cheerihaagu.

On our way back, a fly came and sat on my hand. It was green, blue and black. At last a colorful flying being was sighted and it didn’t matter that it was very much Indian. I honored it by taking a video. At the end of the video you hear the first line of this lovely song in a desi drunk accent.

And so the trip ended. There I was, in one of the most surreal places on the planet, on the verge of a uniquely romantic experience with promises of a million colors and shades, and all I am left with now is memories of bird shit and a house-fly. Déjà vu and Déjà vu, and Déjà vu again.

Facebook Status Messages If Your Boss Is In Your Friend List

2010-03-10T09:00:00.000-08:00

You can’t escape having colleagues and bosses in your Facebook friend-list. Why not make the most of it. Have status messages which show how much you value your work and your boss, how devoted you are to them and how much you deserve that salary raise. Below is a sample list:

1. Out in the woods, all alone by myself, no food to eat, no water to drink. All I can think of is, "Wish my boss were here!"

2. I have seen heaven. It's my office.

3. Monday. Lovely :).

4. Free trip to Miami can wait. Work beckons.

5. Filing Divorce. Ground: Spouse asking me to put her first instead of my manager.

6. It’s time for that weekly coffee break.

7. My three favorite animals: Ant, Dog and Worker-bee.

8. No Electricity. Ran out of money to pay the bill, again. I hope that raise comes my way soon.

9. My boss strongest.

10. If it were my boss in place of Adolf Hitler, the Second World War wouldn't have happened.

11. During my marriage vows. I say" I’ll give you all the happiness in this world, but I expect just one thing from you. Respect for my manager".

12. I’ll like to dedicate this song to my boss: "Everything I do, I do it for you".

The list was compiled with the help of one of my colleague Rekha, a real quick wit. Please join and add your quips here in this FB group. I will be regularly updating it.
Be gentle folks; I am a boss too :).

A Tree, A Lizard, And A Dementia

2010-03-06T23:57:00.000-08:00

This is not a “proper” post, in a sense that it is being done just for the sake of discipline. Am working on something interesting (hopefully) which is taking time. However, I would hate to break the “at least one post per week” rule. Can’t let the weekend go dry.

Be careful what you wish for: Three mornings ago, I saw a lizard in my bedroom as soon as I woke up. It was a big fat one. There have always been a few cobwebs near the ceiling, but they pretty much keep to themselves. But the lizard was a new intruder. Plus it had the ability to move. And you don’t want to see a big fat lizard first thing in the morning unless you are a lizard of opposite sex (with due respect to homosexuals and to those with weird fetishes).

I did what the helpless do. I cursed it. I pointed my finger at it and kept staring it, wishing it death. (You can get away with almost anything if you stay alone). After a while I got up and went to office.

When I returned at night, I saw my bed covered with red ants. They were feeding on the corpse.

--**--

Heisenberg’s psychology principle: In my previous office, many a times if I was late, I had to park my car outside near a park (haa haa). In general, you’ll expect that most cars will be parked in areas which are shaded by the trees. But most of the employees left only after 7PM which meant that the cars had sufficient time to cool down. So they sought areas which were NOT under a tree to avoid having bird-poop on their beloved possessions.

One such area was my favorite spot; it was closest to office. Over two years ago, I saw a tree being planted near that spot. It seemed harmless then, the little one. I continued parking there for the next one and a half years, which is when I got shifted to another office.

Last week, I happened to go to that previous office and mechanically parked my car at the same old spot. As you might have guessed, it was found covered with bird-poop when I returned. There the tree stood; the big boy; still not fully grown, but big enough to attract birds on its shoulders.

What surprised me was that it must have been growing for the one and half years when I used to park there and I simply didn’t see it all that while. Strange, how sometimes the more one observes, the less one notices.

--**--

That’s it. Those two were the only out of ordinary events in my life last week.
Wait. Well there was this minor detour which had me having a beer, an ice-cream and a chocolate pastry, simultaneously. The pastry was named “Dementia”.

The Oversight

2010-02-28T07:57:00.000-08:00

“The Consultant”, read the board. An arrow mark on the board pointed to the first floor.

One might mistake it to be an arrogant declaration of unchallenged supremacy. Yes, the consultant was arrogant and supreme in his own ways, but the reason for putting no other text on the board was to remain as general as possible while attracting clients.

His office had a bed and a chair. Clients were always made to sit on bed. That suited his methods. He believed in attacking the roots of the problems without worrying about the details. Clients were barely allowed to finish telling their troubles. He would talk of fundamentals and show remarkable understanding of time and space and all things wrapped in between.

Crucial to his work, there were notes stuck on the wall. They read:

“This is not your problem. This is not your problem. This is not YOUR problem. Truth be told, this is not even a problem.”

“Lament not. Have a massage if indulge you must.”

“By the time you finish reading this sentence, four humans would have died. Go on, read it again. Eight more will be dead by then.” **PS Footnote at the end**

“Measure yourself not with what you can do; pleasure yourself with what you can get away with.”

“Who cares?” There were four notes with this caption.

He had a large sheet titled “On this day…”, which typically looked like:

Year 2040984 BC- The first ape to walk straight fell off the tree. Humanity set back by a thousand years.
Year 1330 BC- Tutankhamen did not like his oranges.
Year 1941 AD- Some president signed some bill to attack some country.
Current Year- Mr. Client has a problem.
Year 4918 AD- Planet Earth splits into two.
Tick the odd one from the list above.

His business thrived. Folks from all walks of life found solace in his office. Many revisited. A few competitors tried to copy his model, but none of them had the combination of the conviction and nonchalance. It stemmed from what he called “The Japanese-Man Wisdom”.

Some said the wisdom was better than Zen; it filtered out only the grief and let the fun be with you. It was the ultimate tool he used if nothing else worked. It went like this:

Client1: I bought five shirts in a sale for the price of two.
Consultant: Congratulations.
Client1: I didn’t notice that all of them have a hen painted at the back.
Consultant: So, what’s the problem?
Client1: My colleagues make fun of me.
Consultant: It shouldn’t matter. Do you remember what your colleague wore a year ago?
Client1: But what about the present?

Now that the temporal shift technique hadn’t helped much, it was time for using the Japanese-Man wisdom.

Consultant: Look at it from the third person’s perspective.
Client1: He too will ridicule me.
Consultant: I am not done yet. Look at it from a fourth person’s perspective; from the fifth; from the sixth. Are you with me?
Client1: I suppose.
Consultant: Let’s keep going. From the seventh; go beyond your neighborhood; cross the borders; look at it from the man-in-Japan’s perspective.
Client1: He can’t even see my shirt.
Consultant: That, my friend, is the point. When in trouble, you must look at yourself from the Japanese man’s perspective and everything will be alright.
Client1: Profound. Thank you. Here’s your fee.

Let’s take a look at how another client was satisfied.

Client59: Do I invest in commercial real estate or keep my money in stocks?
Consultant: Doesn’t matter.
Client59: Would you care to explain?
Consultant: Look at it from the third person’s perspective… Look at it from the man-in-Japan’s perspective.
Client59: Brilliant. I would rather blow it all away in Vegas. Thank you. Here’s your fee.

And so it went. Until one day, when Client666 dropped in.

Client666: I think I am in love.
Consultant: Good for you.
Client666: I haven’t met her yet in person. But we talk everyday.
Consultant: What’s the problem?
Client666: Should I propose to her?
Consultant: Doesn’t matter. Look at it from the third person’s perspective…from seventh...Go beyond…Cross borders…Are you now looking at it from the man-in-Japan’s perspective.
Client666: I am. I am.
(Client 666 sounded awestruck. Consultant waited for the Japanese-Man Wisdom to deliver again; always has been his rock.)
Consultant: So???
Client666: I don’t think Mr. Tomiro Nakagawa is going to like that his wife is being proposed to.

That was the death of the consultant’s conviction. Client667 never happened.

____________________________________________________________________

** Footnote**
1.8 humans die every second on an average.
Average reading speed is 300 words per minute.
The sentence had 13 words.
Number of deaths have been rounded off to the closest integer.

Riders On The Storm

2010-02-26T03:06:00.000-08:00

I had a shocker today morning while driving. As soon as the radio was turned on, these were the words that fell on my ears:

Into this house we're born
Into this world we're thrown

91.9 FM playing Doors at 9.30 in the morning! And that too Riders on the Storm! The best ever.

“There has to be an explanation”, I told myself. “Must be a mix up. A new crew perhaps?” Riders on the storm is not, I repeat, not a candidate to be played on any radio station in the morning and this is a Bangalore station for Jim’s sake.

Turned out that they had roped in a lady author for an interview and the song was played on her request. She lost all my respect though as soon as she dedicated it to her son who will be “riding the board exam soon”, to quote her.

Anyway, it was a heady feel to drive as the song played. I feared that they will truncate the second part as they usually do when there are not much lyrics. They didn’t.

There's a killer on the road
His brain is squirmin' like a toad.

It got me stoned, completely. Stared hard at a rowdy looking school kid outside. I hope he got scared. There is only so much one can do when inside a car.

Four Whatevers And A Song

2010-02-13T11:59:00.000-08:00

Saying Hi To The Dead

Get yourself a plain sheet of paper and a pen.
Find an ant if the dead was a nice fellow. Else get a tiny spider.
Contact me if you can’t find a spider.
Write “Hi” followed by the dead one’s name on the sheet. Block letters preferred.
Cripple the creature and let it roam on the sheet for a while.
Burn the sheet. The blighter must not escape the fire.

A Day On Planet Earth

Sun rises
Cock-A-Doodle-Doo.
Stuff happens.
Sun sets.
Corollary: Don’t take a cock along with you while flying west.

Entropy And The Exception

The fan has stopped responding to the switch.
The tap is leaking drops.
The car is taking more time to start.
I am nearing death.

Boredom

So this well informed woodcutter throws his wooden axe into the pond and hopes for God to appear with the offers. Last week, he threw it in the shallow area and ended up getting wet at the end of the day. He showed more commitment today.

God, as usual, doesn’t have anything useful to do except, of course, to watch the rerun of Ashes 2005. The wood-cutter’s bawl interrupts the commentary.

Voila. God appears. Customary greetings follow and the cause of grief is communicated to God. God decides to check whether humans have evolved using the same old "three- axe" test.

“Is this your axe?” God brings the golden one.
“I wouldn’t be a wood-cutter my Lord”.
“You know the story, don’t you?”
“Which story my Lord?” Wood-cutter followed the universal rule. Never admit.
“Oh well. We’ll talk about it later. Is this your axe?” The bored God adds a twist.
“I haven’t lost any deodorant, Sir.”
“Alright! Is this the one?” God brings forth the iron axe.
“Yes, my lord. Very kind of you, my lord. Can I have my axe my Lord?”
“First let me tell you the story.” God continued, “Hundreds of years ago a wood-cutter was in a similar situation, responded similarly and in turn received three axes. The next morning, two of them cut his arms and the golden one beheaded him.”
“Why cut his arms if he was to be beheaded anyway?”
“That’s not the point. Point is that you must spread this story amongst all the moronic wood-cutters who keep throwing their axes in water. In turn, you get the golden axe.”
“Won’t it behead me?”
“Don’t worry about that. Too many have already died on this blog and I am done spilling blood for the day. I’ll go catch the rerun now. Just enough time left for the last session.”
“Thank you, my Lord”.
“Take this deodorant too. You need it.”

A Song

Found this on BBC Introducing Program

Six Whatevers

2010-02-04T22:34:00.000-08:00

Tete-a-tete
“Nice wig.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Mine is special. All hair in it belongs to my clients.”
“Same here”
“I know all the barbers here. Where’s your shop?”
“The post-mortem office.”

Playing God
Climb atop the tallest structure around.
Look down at the world.
Let a minute go by. Keep staring.
Spit.

The lonely drive and the billboards
Four women in a saree ad
3,2,4,1. No wait. 3,4,2,1.

Sleep
The tortoise had the win. But the hare got to dream.

Work
Come undone.
Enjoy your stay.

The Under-performer
Before marriage, potentially half the world is your wife.

Mother

2010-02-02T09:50:00.001-08:00

Mother, do you think they'll like this song?
Mother, do you think they'll try to break my balls?
Mother, should I build the wall?

Five Whatevers

2010-01-30T22:05:00.000-08:00

1. Object

Thou shalt not steal. Else, you are a thief. And the object, Stolen.

2. Work

Rose, “I shall have the glory”.
Thorn, “I too, will be in the story”.
Leaf, “Damn fucking photosynthesis #$&@#”.

3. Geometry

Everyone’s self centered, it’s the radius that matters.

4. Playing God

Pick up a stone.
Bring it to your forehead.
Breathe on it.
Give it a name.
Hurl it in a random direction.
Run.

5. Reality of the moment

My back hurts.

Three silly, but very short stories

2010-01-27T10:45:00.000-08:00

1. Droplet
"I would prefer a blackhole to a sponge", said the suicidal droplet. A river devoured it.

2. Shoes
Twins. Both one-legged. One had the left leg, the other didn't have it. Bought a pair of shoes. They split the bill.

3. Grapes
"The grapes are sour" said the fox. A squirrel climbed up the tree and ate them all.

Eight Seconds

2010-01-13T10:02:00.001-08:00

“Not much of a hobby mate.” Johnny whispered loudly through the bushes.

“Ummm?” said Pete distantly. His eyes fixed on the sky, as always.
Always.

“Bird watching. Not for our kind.” Johnny stepped back; now better hidden.

“Look, how she glides! Such grace! She would back-flip one day. I know.” Pete didn’t budge as the predator approached him. “It’s a kite.”

“And you are a rat; a fat one at that.” Johnny found his humor as the claws flew past Pete, leaving him untouched, unfazed.

Pete was indeed fat. He never had to run.
No one knew how old he was. They said he lost his death with his tail.

At times he would be on the farm road and trucks would pass over him, depriving him of the sky above for a moment or two.
The limping cat didn’t bother him anymore. Once, she stepped on burning wood while chasing him.
Some rats got their tails castrated. The kite tore them apart nonetheless. But not him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A day dawned. The kite picked him up and soared high. Pete looked down at the world below. No feelings. No thoughts. No glory.

Eight seconds later the kite dropped him. Too heavy for the claws, probably.

And then:
A truck turned menacingly.
A hungry cat limped ahead.
A kite did a back-flip.
A rat closed his eyes forever.
But the eyes closed before the kite flipped back.

The tombstone read:

HERE LIES A RAT WHO HAD NO TAIL

NO FEATHERS EITHER

PS : This is my entry to the contest held by Jason Evans here.

So kid, what do you want to be when you grow up ?

2009-12-08T18:53:00.000-08:00

Her Diary

2009-11-27T11:03:00.000-08:00

Everyday life for a female is never easy in a conservative society. Being a werewolf doesn’t help.

Waking up naked beneath the park benches, even if only twice a month, belongs firmly to the class of experiences better not had. Digging out the box of clothes and dressing up while lying down on the ground can’t be excluded from that category either.

It all began six months ago. On the first such full-moon night, I was lucky to have slept with door bolted. Rinku was too keen to get a second opinion on his guitar skills and mom-dad were out of town. In the morning, my bed-sheet and nightgown was shredded to threads, the door was scratched (a SRK poster hides the nail-marks now) and the room smelt of poop, which lay on the carpet. I cleaned all that up before parents returned.

“Didi, this is not fair. I played the guitar only until 11 and you howled throughout the night. But I’ll throw away the guitar if you teach me how to howl like a wolf as good as you did last night. It sounded so real, though you overdid it.” Rinku complained later.

Since then, on every full-moon night, I go to the park with a box (to keep my clothes), a couple of horse-tranquilizers, and no make-up. At around 11.30 PM, I get undressed beneath a park bench, put my clothes in the box and bury it in the ground before taking two shots of the tranquillizers. The tranquillizers keep the wolf-me drowsy and inactive; or so I think, because I can usually recollect only hazy memories of the night once I wake up in human form again.

Despite all the careful planning, at least one murder can be attributed to me; it was committed when in human form. Four months ago, when I woke up in the park, I found that the wolf-me had torn apart all my clothes during the night. There was no way I was coming out from below the bench, stark naked. Luckily for me, an early jogger came and sat on the bench. I pulled her leg and when she looked down, I hit her head with a stone with a force of magnitude that was more than necessary. I quickly changed into her clothes and jogged my way back home. There were reports later “Woman killed in park. Her torn clothes found nearby.”

Thereafter I bury the clothes in the box before having the shots to keep them out of harm’s way. Also, have changed the park after that incident.

Apart from such hazards, too many lies have to be told to keep this affair concealed. Firstly, I have to tell my friend Sheena to give me a missed call on certain nights so that I can tell my parents that office has called me for the night shift. Sheena has been told that I need her help to sneak out for my fictitious boyfriend Raj. So as not to let her observe any pattern, I ask her to call on normal nights too sometimes.

Another niggling problem is the increase in expenses on waxing. On normal nights, whenever I look at the moon, my body-hair grows at a faster rate. I have to keep visiting different beauty parlors to avoid suspicions. Don’t advise me “Permanent Hair Removal”; therapy. A skinned wolf would never make for a good sight.

Before I whine further about more troubles, you might be curious as to what caused this werewolf phenomenon. I say, ask who first. He (may be she) calls himself Dr. Why. I got to know about him only last month on the day of Rakshabandhan.

While having lunch on that day, Rinku began recounting a strange correspondence that started many months ago. He received a post from a certain Dr. Why. It contained two tablets wrapped in a five rupee currency note. On the note, it was written “Eat these”. Rinku threw the tablets away, but kept the note. A few days later, he received a letter asking him to return the five rupees since he hasn’t eaten them. Horrified at Dr. Why’s knowledge, he posted a five rupee note back to the address where the letter came from.

Two weeks later, another post came, with two tablets, but in a ten rupee note. This time Rinku flushed the tablets at midnight. Once again a letter followed, some days later, demanding the ten rupees back. Rinku obliged.

This continued with fifty, hundred and then a five hundred rupee note. Rinku never ate those tablets and kept returning the money. But every man has a price. Teenage boys have even lower. Rinku gave in when Dr. Why sent him the tablets in a thousand rupee note. He dropped a tablet in my tea (that was the only day in my life when he has brought me tea from kitchen).

No letter came for weeks after that. But four days after I had my first transformation in the park, Rinku received another thousand rupee note on which was written “This is even better”. Rinku never understood that Dr. Why must have seen his sister naked in animal and in human form. On the day of Rakshabandhan, when I tied him Rakhi, he gave me a thousand rupee note and the explanation of where it came from. Mom just slapped him on his head. “Naughty boy”, is all he got. Rinku says he doesn’t remember where the other tablet is.

I went to the address where the letter came from. No one was to be found.

I keep my ear open for any footsteps that might follow me on full-moon nights. Haven’t had any luck till now; but the day I find Dr. Why, he would be torn apart.

Meanwhile, the immediate concern is Karwa-chauth. Mom wants me to fast the entire day, which I can manage. But the looking at moon on a full-moon night might result in shortening of the life of the wives on terrace. I am yet to find a solution for this one.
____________________________________________________________________________________

To be continued: (The intent is defintely there)

PS: This blog has been nominated in the “Best Personal Blog” category for 2008 by Indibloggies. Kindly vote for me (How shameless have I become!) here. You would find Brown Phantom in category 16, the last on the page. Thank you all :).

Cheerleaders in T20 : An analysis of poll results

2009-10-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

Following are the results of a poll conducted on RCB blog :

If I were Pratibha Patil, I would invite the WCWHB party to form the government. The single “Other” {Nirdaliya) is all they need to woo to reach the critical halfway mark. In fact, even the second biggest opposition party with 32% votes wouldn’t mind giving outside support to WCWHB, a party that is keen to follow traditions but is brave enough to entertain experiments.

So strong is the winning party’s philosophy that the ideologically opposite and right-wingish NCAA (No Cheerleaders at all) party members are being speculated as lunatics. More about this loser party, later.

Let’s have a look at the demographic distribution of supporters of these parties. As is the norm in media, I would ignore the Nirdaliya.

1. WCWHB: Hope shines out from the party’s name. Remember Obama’s campaign. Those who voted for WCWHB, saw a colorful future. The fusion promised the taste of old and a sight of new, a beautiful amalgamation of different cultures . A few nerds too joined these guys just out of curiosity. They mistook the rhetorical beginning “Why can’t we” literally.

2. ILWMG (let’s have foreign cheerleaders): Some might accuse this party of patronizing anything foreign. The nasty ones can even smell racism (I love WHITE Mischief Gals). Truth is that this party liked what it has seen so far (understandably) and hence is resisting the change.

3. IP(We should have Indian cheerleaders): One might recall “Videshi Hatao, Swadeshi Apnao” days. The party should now look at the benefits of globalization that this country is reaping. Whenever Ross Taylor hits the ball for a six, we would love to see Indian cheerleaders dancing with dandiya sticks, but wouldn’t it be nice to have the foreign ones with pom-poms to compliment them. By the way, dandiya sticks would be so cool with some steps.

4. NCAA: Sadist would be a stronger word for the party. One out of the four is a not-so-considerate-wife. The second one doesn’t have a Tv and follows cricket on cricinfo. Third one is a religious fundamentalist with misplaced interests. Fourth one is Kallis himself, the one whose sister Janine dances for the opposition. As a cheerleader in the IPL 2008, Janine started dancing at the fall of a RCB wicket only to discover it was brother Jacques trudging back to the pavilion. "I don't mind really," said Kallis. "Except, she really did seem to be doing her job very well when I was out. She didn't have to look so pleased!"

I am so glad that the party I voted for won. It helps recover from the blues mentioned in previous post after the CL got over.

Conclusion: Cheerleaders, as a rule, are all good.

Coming Back To Life

2009-10-24T01:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve been rediscovering myself for the last few days after the stay with RCB in Windsor Manor got over. Following facts have made themselves clear:

1. No magical powers are working for me in the background. When I return from the office, I find that the bed is still not made, the towel is still where I left it and the mirror in bathroom still has traces of splattered water.
2. When I am hungry, I need to do a little more than picking up a phone beside the bed. The terrible truth, that something as basic as food isn’t free these days, is yet to sink in fully.
3. While creating the rules that govern the universe, God was sloppy enough to allow temperatures to vary outside the range of 22-24 degree Celsius.
4. On stepping out of my house I am more likely to meet a cow than bump into Rahul Dravid.

Co-incidentally, my Mom too discovered that her “Sarvaguna-sampanna, Ram-avatar” son isn’t quite a teetotaler:

Grappling with so many changes hasn’t gone down well with my brain. I was going to write a story which begins with an introduction of a seventy year old Afghan whose wife disappeared forty years ago. But the structure and flow isn’t coming naturally in the writing. I wanted the story to raise your hair with horror. The title would have been “Raven”.

As the story would have moved further backwards in time, you would have learnt that Noor Mohammed (henceforth referred to as NM) lived near railway tracks when he was a kid. Being a lonely child, his favorite time pass used to watch vultures and eagles eat away the bodies of cattle that came in the way of trains. Through a series of events, the story would have shown the possessive character of NM. In the end, the reader would have been left to connect the dots, which when done correctly would have pointed that NM grew into a cannibal and ate his wife for infidelity.

In an attempt to add to the shock value, I would have revealed that the story is loosely based on my childhood experiences of watching scavengers doing the same thing to the unfortunate buffaloes and goats. Our house isn’t far away from the railway tracks. I was seven when we were the first family to move in that area, which now doesn’t have any open spaces left.

Although I haven’t demonstrated any inclination towards cannibalism, the smell of rotten flesh, whenever encountered, brings back fond memories of a silent childhood. Those vultures looked so huge that I used to hold my little brother’s hands fearing that one of them might snatch him and fly away.

Relying on a meticulously planned inactive weekend to restore normalcy.

Breaking the Jinx

2009-10-11T02:42:00.000-07:00

Image : Dale Steyn & me chatting with the fans during the RCB vs Cape Cobra Match

Friends, Royal Challengers must win in tomorrow's match to go the League stage.
It would be an exciting match to watch.

I am blogging about the stay with the team here. You can also get a sneak-peak into their routine during the tournament on the chief photographer's page. You may also log into the RCB site during the match to chat with one of the RCB players.

All the Indian T20 teams have been loosing till now. Wish for the RCB victory to break the jinx :).

The Chief Blogger of Royal Challengers Bangalore

2009-10-03T09:48:00.000-07:00

Yes Guys. Click here for the announcement.

Met Anil Kumble. Got the "Letter of Appointment" in a press conference with cameras clicking all around. Those were my fifteen minutes of fame. Photos and name are published in some newspapers. I saw them in Deccan Chronicls, DNA & Deccan Herald. A friend tells me that he has seen it on TV9 & Times Now too.

I would be travelling with the RCB team from 8th October and keep the RCB fan-blog rolling till the Champions League ends on23 October.

This now dislodges my last boastful achievement of getting calls from the IIMs and not going for the interviews :). Yes, the humility has gone into hiding for a while :).

Below are some of the posts I wrote for the contests in last two days. The first one, which played a major role in winning it for me, was written on day one. The other 6 were written on the same day. It wasn't easy churning them out.

I would like to know your feedbacks on whether you would like to read such posts on cricket. It would be great to hear from not-so-die-hard fans of cricket whether they enjoyed reading it. I kept them in mind a lot while composing them. Come on guys, give the first post a shot and then see whether you can read through the others :).

1. The Agony and a parrot
2. The effects a shoe-sale can have over T20.
3. If I were a Ball ( Another way of describing the playing styles of RCB squad)
4. The Flying Fans
5. A Gem of a Game
6. Nature over nurture
7. A possible path for RCB to win the Champions League

Many thanks to my blog friends for voting and references which were pivotal to get me through to this level. Apologies for not responding as I have been too busy with the contest.

This is also my 50th post. Would elaborate further on it soon :).

In Top 9 For Chief Blogger RCB

2009-09-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

Just saw the results here. and I am shortlisted in top 9 for the post of chief bloggers.

Extremely relieved and happy right now.

I must thank you all for the support, votes and references.

Have to rush to work. Would come back and update with details. The highlight is that I am gonna meet Anil Kumble this Saturday.

Thank you again friends :).

Please Vote For Me

2009-09-22T08:34:00.000-07:00

I need your votes for the 'Chief Blogger' Contest for Royal Challengers Bangalore. The 'Chief Blogger' gets to travel with the team and blog about the team during the forthcoming Champions League. Based on the quality of application, number of votes and references, 9 Bloggers would be shortlisted out of which one would be selected after interviews and other tasks.

You may help me by voting (Click here) . Feel free to add a refernece too which should highlight my writing and strategizing/analyzing skills. Come on people, lie a bit for a fellow human being.

I don't really have words to thank Preeti, who is helping me get more votes here.
Below is copied the 'About me' section of my application :

I have done B.Tech from IIT Kharagpur and am currently employed as a Team Leader in a software firm.

Cricket has molded my way of thinking. You would find me giving analogies with cricketing situations to explain almost any problem, even at workplace. I am the kind of person who is always playing shots with whatever he has in his hands, be it a pen, broom or a snake.
Until the 1991 world cup, my parents used to be concerned whether I would ever be able to wake up and see the Sun rise. Their fears were laid to rest when their sleeps were disturbed regularly at 3AM with cheers of fours and sixes.

The only worthwhile thing my left hand can do is to bowl leg-spin with Tennis-ball. It’s been observed that my happiness-index is ten percent higher whenever there is a cricket series in progress. Besides gorging on the display of skills, I enjoy munching on the statistics, graphs and analysis that follow a cricket match.

My blog http://brownphantom.blogspot.com has more than 70 registered users. The content is comprised of short stories, observations and analysis.

Rest of the applcation can be read here at the same place where you can (should) vote for me.

Tina

2009-09-18T23:03:00.000-07:00

Damn the vulnerabilities of daily existence. Just when I was going to coin the term Pseudo-Swines for those who were cashing in on the flu-mania to stay away from office for trivial reasons like running-noses/headaches/body-aches, I was hit with a viral fever, harsh enough to warrant a sick leave. Laziness crept in thereafter and I rediscovered the joys of sleeping for over ten hours a day. It took me two days to get rid of the virus, but the fungus of laziness stayed on for three weeks. Hence the prolonged absence and probable rustiness in the current write up.

Having justified the procrastination, let's talk about the fictitious time when a young NRI girl named Tina was traveling alone for the first time in a second class train compartment in India. I was going to pin her age at 20, but am in a generous mood; you may choose the age, but kindly keep her young. I'll go a step further and let you choose her attire as long as it is not on the lines of a bikini or hot pants. Please dress her appropriately enough for an Indian train journey. No more interactive participations for the readers in the story.

Tina was traveling from Calcutta to Delhi. She chose this train journey as a way to get in touch with her roots. Her intention was to see the forests, the villages, the simple and unassuming people, the real India as she perceived after reading many travelogues. In doing so, she ignored the warnings of dacoits on the route that the train took. There had been three such incidents in last couple of months.

A few hours into the journey, she wasn't sure about the strength of her choice. She had somehow managed to squeeze into her place by the window. A man sat next to her. His wife and six year old son sat opposite to her. The other seats didn't have permanent occupants. Until then, she had underestimated the abilities of six year olds to embarrass the fellow passengers. The son kept staring at her. She forced herself to ask his name. Bittu looked away. The parents didn't encourage him to respond either.

She wished for some conversation between the husband and wife. But the wife looked resentful. For a change, she took a trip to the loo. Looking at the graffiti inside the lavatory, she was thankful for her illiteracy in reading the languages that accompanied the sketches. When she returned to her place, she found that the husband and wife had swapped their places. The man wasn’t very pleased, but wife seemed contended that her man is away from the stranglehold of another female. The wife now talked eloquently about how mean and miser the husband’s relatives were and recounted stories of being shortchanged on every occasion. “I got her daughter a set of ghaghra-choli and my Bittu didn’t even get a full pant”. Bittu immediately wore a look of victim in his half-pant as he put his hand on the uncovered knees. Tina now knew the kid’s name.

Having given up hope of any fruitful social interactions, she tuned to the moving world outside the window. “Wouldn’t it be great to see the glory of the land which nurtured a billion lives, which gave the world so many Gods and wise men, which had a history beyond the time?” Three excreting human buttocks caught her sight. The owners of the organs were having a chat; perhaps discussing the weather, just like she did with her friends as they sipped coffee in Starbucks.

It was with relief that she noticed the family preparing to get down at the next station. Her anticipation for a better company, however, couldn’t have been more ill founded. In place of the otherwise harmless looking husband-wife and mildly irritating Bittu, now sat two shady looking middle aged men. I go back on my words which prohibited any further participation from the readers and allow you to choose the number of hair in their mustaches.

In contrast to her observations on Indians in general, she found both the men to be too animated while talking. Tina picked up the word “Pistol” during their conversation. Were they the dacoits she was warned against? The only comforting factor in such situation was a hint of eyeliner in the otherwise hardened masculine faces. She kicked herself, metaphorically of course, for not heeding to the warnings. The fantasies of deep forests and simple beautiful people were now replaced with thoughts of getting robbed at the very best.

Things took a more sinister turn when one of the men opened his bag. She spotted blood stained clothes and a shiny long dagger. Tina gasped in horror which was noticed by both the men. The man quickly zipped the bag. The men exchanged the looks and their lips curled; Tina could tell that both of them read each other’s mind.

“Let’s finish it off”, one of them said.
“Patience.” said the other.
“Do you think they suspect?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“True, doesn’t matter.” They laughed devilishly.

Tina’s heart was pounding by now. She feared that a reaction in the form of a scream or trying to run away would only hasten the inevitable. She just sat there, waiting for things to happen. Certain adventures are not worth taking. Right now she could have been served a sandwich by an air-hostess. She would have ordered an orange juice to go with it. The pilot would have been announcing the landing shortly.

Cursing her romanticism, she peeped outside. A small town was approaching.
“An excellent opportunity to slip out, if I survive till the station.” Hope hadn’t given up on her.

As soon as the station approached she stood up to go to the door. Both the men left their seats too.
“Have I seen more than I was supposed to when the man opened the bag? Are they going to 'take care' of me for doing that?”
She jumped out of the slowing train and walked as fast as she could. She turned back and saw both the men following her. She ran frantically outside the station and into the streets of this unknown town. Three bystanders simultaneously expressed the opinion that she ran faster than P.T Usha. None of them had seen a deer running when chased by tigers.

She sprinted until she could run no more. She stopped, panting for breath. The two men were nowhere in sight. She turned her head towards a long boundary wall. And there they both were. But, in a poster. “Are these two wanted men?” She couldn’t read what was written in Hindi below the poster. Then she spotted another poster. “What are they doing dressed like ancient warriors with swords in hands? And why are there wounded men lying around them?” She got hold of a little boy and asked him to read what was written below the posters.

“Twin Girls. Uttejak nazare, dekh mere pyaare. Shankar Cinema Hall.”, said the seven year old who looked a lot like Bittu.

“Not that one. The one above that.”

“Bharat Nautanki Group. Roj 2 show. Lal Maidan ke pass.”

Many realizations dawned upon her. She took a rickshaw back to the railway-station. Next train wasn’t until the next day. Buses were on strike. The taxi-wallahs of Madanpur had never been propositioned with an offer to drive till Delhi. Tina’s only option was to take the most expensive hotel in the town for a day.

Once in the hotel room, she took a bath and reflected on the happenings of the day. A little later, she found herself picking up the phone and asking the receptionist “How to reach Lal Maidan from here?”

Men In The Mirror

2009-08-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

Everyday as I drive to office, I dread that one minute, the time to be spent in the lift. The lift in my office has reflecting surfaces on all four sides and on top.

Usually I am never alone in the lift. It’s a joy being the only person in that lift. You can look at yourself from all angles. Make faces. Plus there is that comfort of your own space. But such days are rare.

You keep waiting for lift to come down to the parking floor and by that time there are at least 5-6 fellow travelers who wait with you. You greet the ones whom you know. The doors of the lift open and everyone gets in. Nothing new about it. The process is similar almost everywhere.

But, we have reflecting walls in the lifts. Normal human beings, who greeted each other, now are in a very uncomfortable state. You can’t look anywhere. Six people entered the lift, but they find themselves surrounded by thirty virtual ones in various dimensions. Not only that, those thirty reflect each other and multiply exponentially. If you look straight, you would always find yourself staring at one of those many men/women. Quickly you turn your eyes and there it is, the same person from different angle. If the group that entered, has a mix of genders, things become even more embarrassing. Once, one of my reflections caught eyes of another’s reflection and both of them blushed and said “hi” to each other.

So, as a coping mechanism, a person tries to look at the digital display which shows the floor number the lift is currently on. But if you just see only that person in a video, he would look like an extremely nervous person, too anxious to get to his floor and only half trusting the lift to take him there.

Hence, follows the great guilt show. Everyone stares at the floor. Shameful, heads hung low, looking at their buttons/mobile/shoes/paunch. Once again, if you see this video, you would know that each one of them is sorry; sorry for their past deeds and sorry for bringing in so many intruders in that weird combination of real and virtual spaces. They feel, they shouldn’t have been there.

And whenever the lift door opens, it’s a feeling of liberation. Like a curse is broken. Even if it’s not your floor, you can still look outside the lift or look at those who enter and exit on the pretext of making space to stand. Then you notice the same phenomenon with the new entrants. They look all around for a fraction of second, get scared, and then look at the digital display and then finally join the guilt parade.

One day I entered quite defiantly in the lift resolving that I would not allow the circumstance to make a fool of me. So I stood upright that day. And as I looked at all those heads, I had to bit my lips real hard to stop myself from laughing. It was funny. And I asked myself :Why the guilt ?

Since then, I’ve learnt to hold my own and not be shameful for reasons beyond control. Repetition has taken the humor out of the situation. Instead, a spiritual feeling transcends every time I see all of us, and our reflections which seem to be having a life of their own. The way every one behaves, trying to be non-intrusive, thereby expecting the same from others, it leaves you feeling that deep down inside we are all one. Thoughts and experiences are different, but Mother Nature has nurtured us all on the same principles of evolution: mental, physical and emotional. We are all just another manifestation of the unique miracle called life.

I am sure,with time, a new perspective would replace this one and I would update this post when that happens :).

Brought To You Bai

2009-08-16T08:13:00.000-07:00

My maid is on leave this week.

Her absence is becoming noticeable day by day. Apart from executing her designated duties, she also acts as a worst-case-alarm for me every morning. That’s why she is not allowed to come on weekends.

She must be over 60. The previous resident of the house was a friend of mine and she told me that the bai (maid) can’t see properly but is very honest and her Hindi is strong enough to carry on commonly occurring work related conversations (e.g. Kapda kal karna). She called her Amma and so do I, with no urge of being original in matters which have been taking care of themselves with harmony.

But there was a period when this harmony was threatened. Let me begin with telling the morning routine on days when I am not inspired enough to wake up before 7, thereby allowing Amma to be my worst-case-alarm at 8. Usually 4 out of 5 days, she gets to discharge this additional duty. I never wake up between 7 and 8. (Never knew that this post would become so rich in numbers).

On such uninspired days, Amma rings up the bell and then she tries to peep through the translucent window-glass. I open the door and then go flat once again on the bed savoring my last 20 minutes on the bed guiltlessly (You can’t get ready for office with a maid roaming around in your house). It’s understood that she must broom and sweep, wash utensils if there are any, and then ask whether clothes should be washed today or tomorrow. I take that decision whimsically, with my eyes closed.

Four years ago, when my mom visited Bangalore for a week, she made me buy 6 big and small plates,6 spoons,6 katoris (bowls),6 glasses,5 jars, a pressure cooker, 2 frying pans, a mixer-grinder, a chakla-belan and all that is needed for a family of four to cook and eat. I even have a sandwich-toaster. The salt, spices, sugar and other such things brought four years ago survive till this day.

All that Amma gets to wash are 2 glasses, 2 spoons, a bowl and sometimes a tapela (bigger bowl) in which I store milk. That’s because I eat corn-flakes for breakfast. Once in a while, maggi is cooked which contributes a plate and one more tapela for washing. All other utensils just lay there, untouched. Or so I thought about a year ago.

It all began that night when I was slightly hungry and stepped into the kitchen to have a snack. There were just two chocolate biscuits, one less that expected. Though friends drop in sometimes, I attributed the missing biscuit to a slip in memory. Then a spoon went missing. I grew suspicious. I counted the katories. Only four. I felt bad for my mom.

I could still be not so sure that Amma was the culprit. After all, her honesty was sworn by the previous resident. May be I lost some utensils during shifting from the previous place. But the seed of doubt was planted. This played havoc with my guiltless sleep of 20 minutes during Amma’s stay. I paid surprise visits to the kitchen when she would be working. On lazier days, I would just slap the floor with hands, while still on bed, to create an illusion that I was coming.

The day of reckoning came. I remember that it was a Monday. Three empty cans of beer were sitting pretty on the kitchen stand. Amma rang the bell and then entered the kitchen. I heard her clearing the cans and putting them in polythene with other bottles and containers. She used to do that once or twice in a month : taking away empty containers of food, beer, cold drinks, honey etc.

Then she began cleaning the floor and came into the room in which I sleep. I had a slight hangover and weakness, and so I thought of having some water and honey. So I got up and went to the kitchen. There I saw all the cans and containers stuffed into a large black polythene. I looked for the bottle of honey. I couldn’t find it. I remembered that there wasn’t more than 2-3 spoonfuls of honey left in it and so Amma might have mistakenly put that bottle with other empty containers. But I was quite keen on honey and so I opened up the polythene.

A discovery, or solving of a puzzle that has been troubling you for days, usually brings joy and fulfillment to the heart. But my heart sank when I saw a glass and a spoon carefully hidden in the containers. Amma was still in another room. I was enraged, though not much. I quickly got over the shock and having absorbed the passion in it, I began thinking about solving the problem at hand.

“Should I confront her right now? Maybe I should put the glass and spoon back in the polythene and catch her red-handed when she is leaving with it. But what should I say?”

I lacked the courage to accuse someone (even if rightly) who is over 60 and on top of that, a woman. There was just too much shame involved from both sides in it. So I began manipulating myself.

“What good would come of humiliating and then firing her? The only reason to keep her employed despite sloppy work was that she had received high marks on honesty. If she steals, then why won’t her replacement do so? My 20 minutes of guiltless sleep is doomed. But what do I do now with this glass and spoon?”

Then, with a stroke of genius, I kept the glass and the spoon right beside the polythene, tied the polythene back and went back to my bed. After a minute, Amma entered the kitchen. My heart was beating fast. She continued with her work and then left with the polythene. I got up, went into the kitchen, and saw the two tokens of love from my mom still lying where I left them.

It’s been a year now since that incident. Nothing has gone missing after that. Not even the biscuits. Amma has stopped taking stuff in polythene. I have to throw the mountain of containers after every three months or so. But I get to blissfully sleep for those 20 minutes.

Not a word spoken, but a soul reformed.

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Afterthoughts:

You need to step into the other’s shoes to understand the reasons why Amma was perceived to be honest. She never stole money. For her, a hundred rupee note is a rarer thing than utensils and she thought that it wouldn’t matter to me if a couple of spoons and katoris went missing. Reverse was the truth. I wouldn’t notice if someone removed a hundred rupee note from my wallet. For Amma, utensils are daily things she deals with in abundance. But I still remember the day mom bought those 6 glasses and spoon from CMH road. The equations didn’t favor Amma.

I shouldn’t be perceived as too soft-hearted towards maids in general. In fact, while staying with four of my friends in Gurgaon, I was the one designated to scold and , at times, fire the house-helps. Hard-talk was my department.

My other responsibility was to get rid of cockroaches in the house. There were too many and they came back every week. I would go into the kitchen with HIT, and then shoot in all the corners. I felt like a ranger. The weak roaches were dead on the spot while the stronger ones would get out of their den and run hither-thither. Then Piyush and me would run with slippers in our hands and nail each one of them down. It was an excellent outlet to the hunter instincts suppressed for centuries within a man’s heart. Oh, the raw joys mankind has given up for this timid civilized life.

Ghanshyams vs Fairbrothers, and Bala goes to Singapore

2009-08-09T11:03:00.000-07:00

The Ghanshyams are at it again.Dark fat bastards. The barbarians hit each other harder and harder. Each blow brings a cry with pain and their shrieks are loud enough to rattle the windows.

They scared away poor little Fairbrothers. They always do.

Fairbrothers.White nimble darlings. Gently they move with heavenly grace. Always well behaved and quiet.

Right now, it is the grimy Ghanshyams who occupy the stage. But God, in his infinite wisdom, has ensured that they won’t survive for long. If they are lucky, they move away unharmed, with painful lethargy.

However, the movement only delays the inevitable for the doomed brethren. For, it is their fate to kill each other, to degenerate each other into the tiniest of pieces till the last drop of their blood spills over the ground beneath.

And when the massacre happens, the occasion is celebrated. Peacocks dance. Thirsty trees begin greening. The farmer Ramsakha from Bhusakhedi thanks God for the rain. The violent death of dark clouds nourishes life on earth.

Later, accompanied with cool wind, return the white clouds that were chased away by Ghanshyams. Then, even Ramsakha from Bhusakhedi, standing in his green fields, admires the Fairbrothers playing in the blue sky. For him, the only virtue in Ghanshyams is their immediate destruction, right in front of his eyes.

I call it God's own apartheid.

Added later: Many told me that this piece was confusing. So, to clarify, Ghanshyams are Dark Clouds while Fairbrothers are white.

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That’s it. I’ve deleted the remaining drafts now and would make a fresh start from next post.

By the time I publish this post, my brother (nicknamed Bala) would be on his way to Singapore for his new job. I don’t have a family connection now with Mumbai anymore which saddens me. He has been there since last eight years.

Anyone who needs Gold Gym membership in Bandra at dirt cheap price, please leave a comment. You get to pump iron and run alongside Salman, Bipasha, Neha Dhupia and many models and actors.

Bala would be sending his Television to me. No matter how far I run away from the idiot box, it follows me with even greater fervor. Three years ago when I shifted to my new place, the owner was a friend and left the Television back. I dumped it at another friend’s place. A bigger irony was to follow. I got a job where they write software for set-top boxes and I have Televisions (fantastic digital ones) all around me in office. I can have Tata-sky or Airtel digital Tv connection for free as per the company policy. I must withstand the temptation if the blog has to survive, if my Yoga has to continue and a few more good ifs, because the presence of TV around me works like dementors. I loose all senses and numbly zap thorugh the channels for hours. I prefer youtube. That way I watch only that which is worthy of searching and waiting for the streaming through broadband at Indian speed.

Bala had posted his requirements for a residential stay in Singapore on various rental sites. His inbox is getting invitation to share apartments from females too and each such mail is duly forwarded to all his friends in Mumbai.All of a sudden each one of his friends has gone high on morals and culture; they are voicing concerns that Bala should not forget the Bhartiya Sanskriti.

Understandably, my parents are not in a jolly mood today. But the point is that for all practical purposes he has shifted closer to them. Earlier, he used to go by an overnight train to Dewas which took 13 hours. Now he would reach home in 7 hours since all of his travel would be via plane.

He visited Dewas last week. He went to the VT Railway station directly from his office and removed his shirt to wear a black T-shirt in the taxi itself. Then he rolled up his yellow cargo pants. He was going to remove the black leather shoes in train itself before going for sleep. At the gates of the railway station, security police stopped him and started checking his luggage. He was surprised and looked around for a clue. Then he caught sight of a mirror. His outfit and luggage looked exactly like none other than that of Kasab. To make matter worse, he was carrying passport and other papers for visa preparations. You can only sympathize with the growing suspicion in police-wallas. Bala was a regular at the aforementioned gym and has good body with biceps and all. He answered all their questions patiently, explained them that the metallic rectangle is an I-Pod and let them hear Eminem through it; they even asked him to explain about the book he carried: “Three Men in a Boat”.

You feel the distance more when the time-zones are very much separated. Then it feels as if you are in a different universe. While in US, I always found it difficult to communicate with my parents. There were very few eligible slabs for calling home, mostly at least one party would be sleeping or in office. But Singapore is just 2.5 hours ahead, which in fact gives a perfect offset given the lifestyle of my parents and Bala. Parents sleep at 10.30 while Bala doesn’t even think of going to bed before 12. At 8 o’clock when my mom would ask, “Khana kha liya?”, I would still be saying “Itne jaldi kaun khata hain” while Bala just had to truthfully answer “Haan”. But the best thing about Singapore is that it is so easy to pronounce.

The Alchemistress

2009-08-01T08:12:00.000-07:00

Stella was on the hospital bed. Her left leg plastered. This had to be the worst day she has had in years. She slipped over the stairs as she was leaving the school after checking out the result for a test which was very important for her. Her mind wandered to the scene in canteen two weeks before the accident:
_____________________________________________________________

“Not that trash again”, said Allan dismissively. Steve nodded in his support.

“Cynical fools ! I've experienced it before. Twice. The world did conspire against all odds to give me what I desired from the heart.” Stella was adamant in her reverence of Coelho.

“You fall too easily for selective statistics. For every successful person in favor of whom the world conspired, there are hundreds more who, too, were wishing from their hearts. But no one interviews all the failed ones.” Allan always caught the finer points.

“Maybe their desires weren’t strong enough. And abilities must justify the aspirations too”. Stella tried to spin the argument.

“That’s doublespeak. What’s left for the world to conspire if the need for ability is acknowledged?” Allan said impatiently.

“Cool it down guys. We have the test for the exchange program with the Paris school coming up in a week. Stella, you are dying to be there. But Allan is clearly the favorite to ace the test.” Steve intervened.

“That’s right. I want it so badly that I am sure luck shall take me to Paris. Allan you would be rotting here while I’ll be sipping the wines there”, Stella replied over-excitedly.

“I was planning to miss the test anyways. Got my band here. Paris is for the old hags anyway.” Allan said .

“NO ! I’ve been working my ass off for the test only to outdo you and others. Tell me what would make you sit for the test with all its seriousness” Stella spoke challengingly to Allan.

“Hmm..I love my band. We were planning for a few jigs during the summers. Hard to beat that. Let me think” Allan paused and then said as offhandedly as he could “If you promise to give me a lap-dance in case I top, maybe I would give my all for the test.”

“Done” Stella said resolutely.

“What!!! Are you nuts? No trip to Paris and becoming a Lap-dancer for the one who robbed you off the trip. That’s what you face if you lose. Screw Coelho.” Steve tried to put some sense into Stella.

“I have worked hard and I want the trip more badly than anyone else. Even more than a pervert’s desire for a free lap-dance. That’s all I know.” Stella looked possessed.

“I’ve already begin to appreciate Coelho. The deal is on.” Allan said slyly.
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A knock on the door shook Stella out of those memories. Allan and Steve entered the hospital room, both grim faced.

“Hey Stella. Everything OK ?” said Steve sheepishly. Allan had his eyes on the floor.

“Thanks for coming guys. I’m good. They’ll discharge me tomorrow.” Stella did put up a brave face.

“Great !” Allan mustered enough courage.

“Yeah. And good luck for the trip to Paris”, Stella couldn’t hide the envy in her voice.

“I don’t think I’ll go. And that deal is off too.”Allan blurted out quickly.

“Thanks Allan. You’re such a sweetheart. I finished third. So the guy who stood second gets to go there.” Stella says.

“Yeah, that would be George. We have a party this saturday night in the school backyard. I got hold of a fake ID to buy the booze. You would be able to make it?” Steve changes the topic.

“Three weeks before the plaster is off. But do toast a drink for me, will you?” Stella says smiling. Her eyes twinkle.

Allan & Steve left after a while.

The Saturday night party was a riot by midnight. And that was when the students heard the siren. It was only the third time in five years that the high-school party with booze was busted. Cops took the students into custody for the night and let them go in the morning.

School authorities however were not that forgiving. Punishments followed. George was caught too. His Paris tour was cancelled which meant Stella goes to Paris. Allan and Steve agreed that the world really conspired to make Stella’s dream come true.

Stella returned to school after a few days. That day, just before leaving the school she caught hold of Allan in the empty corridor.

“I got to confess this to you. That night, I called the cops.” Stella said that in a single breathe.

“You are a super-bitch. Aren’t you!” Allan couldn’t hide the shock in his voice.

Stella stood silent, ashamed.

“That’s ok girl. You actually did a favor to me. I was having a hard time to explain the abandoning of trip to everyone. And look, you did get what your heart desired.” Allan continued with a chuckle.

“Really? So you are not cross with me?” Stella was so relieved.

“Of course not! I never wanted the trip anyway. You know what my heart desired” Allan let his eyes roam as he said this.

“And that desire shall be fulfilled. Who am I to falsify Coelho?” Stella pushed Allan into the abandoned classroom. Het top was off before Allan’s bottom touched the chair. The dance was without any music, but Allan didn’t mind this conspiracy of the world at all.
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PS : I am cleaning up a few old drafts. Please bear with some average posts as mentioned in the previous post. I got to get a clean slate before fresh ones start coming.

Rage Against The Tags

2009-07-25T10:49:00.000-07:00

I have been busy doing nothing for the entire week. As a result, the blog suffered blatant neglect. Time to make amends. First, a few important acknowledgements:

1. Thank you Preeti for the card here. Preeti is a lovely lady and a gifted author with a fantastic blog and book. I am overwhelmed with the praise she has bestowed in her post and in comments.

2. Thanks Jason for the wonderful contest. My entry squeezed into the Forties club. Quite relieved to be there since I was afraid of loosing too many points over a few technical flaws, especially due to the discontinuity in the flow of the write-up. I was pretty pleased with the idea though; plus the fact that my last name begins with D, pushed the entry into the club.

3. A big thanks to Choco , Nicky & Ekta for the tags, award and wonderful words of appreciations on your blogs. Readers, please do check out their super-cool blogs (click on their names for the links). They are a treasure to have as fellow-bloggers.

However, I am not a huge fan of “Tags” when it comes to me doing them. I must justify. Reasons follow.

This (and most of the blogs I read) is a personal blog with some novice fiction thrown in once in a while. Regular readers have already been awarded with the information that I have stayed in Dewas, Kharagpur, Gurgaon and Bangalore, and hence I refuse to explicitly answer “Four places you have lived?”.

Point is that I am not willing to let anyone have the voyeuristic pleasure at my expense so easily. Not that I am a secretive person. A keen observer of the blog wouldn’t fail to notice that I have already exposed my navel and nipples on more than one occasion. You gonna have to read the blog for knowing more facts about me like the sadistic tendencies towards insects in general.

One of the tags carry the question “Nice stomach or arms?”. Well, well, well. I don’t deny having a preference (marginal though), but wouldn’t you agree that I try real hard to be subtle in my writings? Besides, isn’t there a strong co-relation between the two anatomical features? I guess, one has to morph a photo of a beautiful person twice, once with ugly arms, once with a paunch, and then present it to the world to get an honest answer. [One isn’t an economist unless one says “Ceteris paribus” in every argument.]

I am never in favor of generalizations without scrutiny. Feminists, please don’t take me to the court for claiming this: “Tagging is a girly concept”. Look at the topics : favorite colors, number of children you aspire to have, burnt by love, last text message you received, last furry thing you touched, first thought when you looked at the mirror. Yes, such questions are theoretically applicable to males too, but I advise secretly taping male conversations to investigate their inclinations towards such matters.

Some questions are totally gender dependent and needn’t be there at all. Like “Would you kiss a stranger?” is mostly answered by females in negative. Some just say “depends”. All males would be slightly more eloquent here and say “depends on the gender”.

If tags were a male phenomenon, then first thing to disappear would be “Four things about you”. Four is a big number when it comes to talking about ourselves. See what Dphat had to resort to when asked about “Four places you would rather be”. Two is the most we can handle. Easy to tell two favorite sports, drinks (Beer & Whisky), cars, ..., you get the drift. Also, you would have to replace the choices like “Eyes or Lips” with relevant ones like “Bust or Bum”.

I rest my case against (me doing) tags now.

Forthcoming weeks shall see more activity on this blog. Increased quantity would lead to a temporary slump in quality of the posts from 10 paise per dozen to 5 paise per dozen, but that drop is essential to practice and reach to the level of 15 paise per dozen. This is what I like about writing: The more you write, the more ideas you get.

I was going to end the post on that positive note, but as these last words are being typed, the fan above, for the first time in three years of its existence, is making strange noises. Spooky night on a third floor in Bangalore.

Truth in Wine

2009-07-15T18:55:00.000-07:00

A life’s work continues to conjure questions well past the funeral. Take Arthur’s case. His son was convinced that trash-can is the rightful place for his late father’s poetry while his wife didn’t see any harm in keeping the papers till the winter; the pile was large enough to keep the fire-grate burning for two nights.

Up in the sky, his afterlife trial began.

“My Lord, Arthur wrote too many lies. Take his poem ‘Post-Big-Bang Symphony’:

Eve had to eat the apple really soon
Adam was keen to sleep with the moon

Liar is a sinner. He belongs to Hell.”

“Romanticism needn’t be a sin. He was a kind fellow. Didn’t even pluck a flower after he turned ten. Let him be in Heaven please.”

Romantic souls were always hard to place. God adjourned the court for a break.

Post-break, God announced, “I’ve put Arthur’s words in that locker”.

The locker was labeled ‘Truth In Wine’ and carried five glasses of red wine atop it.

“To open, drink the glasses in a magical sequence. Else the wine gets refilled”.

No one, who managed to read his words, judged them lies.

Statistics reveal a 65% rise in romantic population in heaven after the T.I.W. constitutional amendment was established.

Back on earth, Arthur’s poetry was rescued before getting burnt. His grandson smuggled the stack to his school. That year, second-graders had paper boats whenever it rained, or as Arthur would have put it, whenever Juliet shed tears in heaven.
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PS : This is my entry to the Clarity Of Night Short-story contest(click here). 250-words limit was a challenge.

Behavioural Inefficiencies

2009-07-10T11:49:00.000-07:00

1. Here’s a puzzle with straightforward answer but many come up with incorrect solutions in real life: Imagine yourself seating on a chair (not extremely comfortable but decently so) in a closed air-conditioned room for an hour doing almost nothing. There are around a hundred more normal looking human beings in a similar situation in the same room and the room doesn’t have enough space for all of you to stand and roam around in it. Also, let’s say there are about a hundred bags (corresponding to each human) stacked up in the racks above. Now there’s an announcement that the doors of the room shall be opened in five minutes from now. What would you do? :

A. Remain seated for the doors to open.
B. Stand up, squeeze yourself into the little standing-space with others, pick up your heavy bag, and keep hitting yourself and others with elbows and bags.

Most of those who travel by plane between Bangalore and Mumbai choose option B immediately after the plane lands. Those who sit at the window-seats, stand with bent backs and hit their heads against the rack above. Sad part is that they don’t reach the airport any sooner than those who choose option “A”. The bus that takes the passengers to airport doesn’t differentiate based on caste/gender/common-sense-level.

Don’t let the opportunity slip by, to make eye-contact with those who stand, next time you are on board. They would be embarassed at their troublesome situation, but their ego won’t allow them to sit back.

2. If you have a friend who constantly complains of honking on road while he drives, before you sympathize, please check which lane is his favorite. Driving safely is a virtue. But driving at 40km/hr in the rightmost lane is a crime in a country like India where the square-feet road per head is agonizingly low. Sit with your friend while he drives and if he is of the safe-but-drives-in-right-lane kind, point out the five-cricket-pitches of distance between his and the next car ahead. That is the amount of national real estate he wastes every times he takes his vehicle on the road. And if a white Santro takes over from the left side, honking incessantly as if to punish your friend, say “Hi” to the driver and I shall wave my hands too.

Take your friend to a park where an entire bench is rendered useless because a couple is sitting at its corner, indulging in activities that better be carried out somewhere else. Such abuse of public property should not be tolerated and hence your friend should drive in the left lane.

3. This third point is probably taking intolerance too far. I am a sucker for Andhra-food and eat a lot of rice despite not being from east or south India. However, most of my last ten years have been spent in these very parts of India. This means I have spent a lot of time looking at people eating rice, mostly with hands. Here’s a tip for them to increase their efficiency.

Do not try to wipe your plate clean to the last grain of rice if you are going to take the next helping in the same plate. Do it only in your last serving. Once you notice that the rice in your plate needs replenishment, go and help yourself with more before your run your hands to every corner of the dish. If you are hell-bent on not letting a single grain go waste, let me assure you that the amount of rice you eat remains the same even if you clear the last grain of rice only in your last serving. So no food gets wasted and you do the hard work only once and not thrice (if you took 3 servings).

Another related observation, applicable to whole of India and the world population in general, is the way non-vegetarian food with bones is consumed. Contrary to the economic principle of diminishing marginal returns, the last bits of flesh stuck to the bones are pursued with extreme effort and greed. One sees a lot of teeth and forks involved once the piece of chicken is 99% consumed. To the naked eye, the difference would have gone unnoticed, had someone removed the two grams of crumbs before serving the piece.

But I guess eating up the last bits has its joys. The “diminishing marginal returns” principle doesn’t apply in this case, much like the way one values the last days of a long holiday much more than the initial ones.

Short Story Contest and An Indecent Ending

2009-06-25T11:55:00.000-07:00

Here’s an entirely useless piece of information for more than 6 billion humans and the entire Ostrich species. I am going home this weekend for a week. Yes, the economy would be spurred a little. But in the larger scheme of things, Milky-way shall continue approaching the Andromeda galaxy at the speed of 130 Km/s, leaving Bangalore Metro Corporation with just five more billion years to finish the work on CMH road.

Meanwhile, you guys still have time to read and write stories in the upcoming contest here. The contest opens on July 8th. You are supposed to write a story in 250 words inspired by the picture of a glass filled with red wine. Co-incidentally one of my posts (click here), written three months back, comes quite close to being an entry with minor editing. However, going by the level of stories in Jason’s contests, I would have to come up with something better.

His previous contest had a picture of escalator with a pair of legs riding it. My entry "Life is Beautiful” (click here) obviously didn’t win a place and I can see so many glaring gaps in it now. It did manage to be in Forties club which includes all the entries that scored more than 40 out of 45. The best part about the contest is the high quality of entries and super-kind comments you get there.

I would love to see fellow bloggers’ entries there. It is a rewarding experience. Get your creative juices flowing (rather unimaginative phrase, I know ).

If you are still here, join me in wishing my Vinnie a Happy B’day. She turns five today and is all mine now with the last installment being paid on first of this month. Here’s a humble picture of hers, two years ago. As is evident, the owner has never been a very colorful personality.

Below is the current-me after having gulped fifteen portions of dead chicken, goat and a fish. There’s a bottle of beer by the pool side. If one ignores the lingering finger and has noticed the thin half-naked me, one shouldn't have any doubts that my mom, as usual, is not going to like what she sees when I reach home.I've always been thin due to a high metabolic rate. Eight meals a day is the forecasted routine for the next week, without any consideration for the quest for a six-pack. Contrary to what one might infer about me from the content of this blog, I am a huge SRK fan. And if he can do it after forty, I am not going to die without a six-pack snap to show to my grandchildren. Like it or not, that snap shall be on display here too once I succeed. There are as many as nine bets running over it since the time Om Shanti Om was released.

Please report abuse in the comments section.

Good Old Days

2009-06-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

After every seven years, you are a new biological person. Defining the boundaries of a new generation is a difficult question and doesn’t have any objective criterions. As against the present times, a man released after 30 years in jail in 550 AD wouldn’t have had to deal with the strangeness of cellphones, cable-TV, high rises and short skirts.

In Indian context, I would say that those born after 1987 are the current generation. They don’t know that Door-Darshan was simply called TV, those driving Maruti-800 were considered rich, they probably have never heard about Cibaca Sangeet Mala and the SurTaaz Bigul, and they didn’t witness the emergence of Sachin Tendulkar. By the time they were five, the waves of globalization had begun engulfing the country.

You hear a lot of “Kids these days are so smart” chat these days just because they know a lot and can play with gadgets. They absorb a lot of filth shown on TV. Life used to be simpler in those days when we just had Ramayana and Vikram-Baital for our fantasies.

My younger brother (Bala) and I used to have Yudhha with bow and arrows. It was a pattern with every game that I played to win while he played for fun. However, one particular day he was extra ferocious and caught me by surprise with his Brahmastra baan. The moment I died, he walked two steps towards the wall and shouted “Pushpa Varsha”. Three kids were waiting with flowers on terrace and threw them on him chanting “Dhanya ho Bala! Bala ki Jay ho!” Watch this video to gain the perspective.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UC987YJCqvY&feature=related

Inspired by the Olympics of 1988, we used to have a fight-hour everyday after the school which included boxing, karate, kushti etc with strict rules like no pinching, hair-pulling, ijjat se khelna (pulling down shorts) and no going to momma crying after getting beaten. The last rule used to be broken sometimes or to shut him up I had to carry my brother on my shoulders (Vikram-Baital style) while he used my ears to navigate left and right turns. To begin pillow fight, we used to pretend as if we are laborers carrying heavy sacks (pillows) on the back and looking up at a fictitious aero-plane in the sky. Then we would collide and shout at each other “Abe saamne dekh ke nahi chal sakta” and then in rage, attack each other with our sacks.

Whenever there was any chat of naughty toddlers at home, my mom would start “Humara chotaa bahut badmaash tha…” When I confronted her once for any tales of my childhood adventures, the only claim to fame was “Isko to jahaan chodd do, 2 ghante baad wahin baitha milta tha”.

And then there were trips to villages, where we ran around in fields in 45 degree Sun, sat on bullock carts, bought 5 paisa burf-ka-gola and saw death been taken lightly. There was no need to divide players while playing cricket. Caste did it for us. It used to be Patils vs us. I was in a pretty good form in one such match and when I played a shot high in the air on leg side, the Patils shouted “Sursyaaa, Catch Ghe” who was supposed to be fielding there. Suresh becomes Sursyaaa in Marathi. However, Sursyaa was shitting outside the boundary at that time. For 70% India, the whole world is a toilet. I am probably the only batsman in cricket history whose catch has been dropped because the fielder was squatting to answer nature’s call. I wish I could show that video to bowlers when they angrily scream for catches that even a fifteen footer couldn’t have taken at the boundary.

Given a choice though, I would like to be born in present times. The only disadvantage I see is that there is a lot of borrowed wisdom nowadays due to easy accessibility to knowledge. It is a painful experience to read about a 14 year old blogger impressed by Ayn Rand’s philosophy since she was eleven. I am not against 14 year olds blogging and reading books. In fact, not very proud of myself that I read my first book at 19. But they must be shielded from stupid ideas until they acquire the abilities to judge them.

Taking things to be cool because they are western and different happens a lot these days. In Kharagpur, I once entered into the room of a friend who was shouting “We Don’t Need No Education” with Pink Floyd. That was the age when many of us spent days with drug, masturbation and rock n’ roll. Ok, replace drug with alcohol.

My reaction to that guy was “Saale nakli. Din me 25 ghunta padh padh ke IIT clear kiya hain. Abhi Stanford me Ph.D. ke liye apply kiya hain. Sun-na hain to sun ye gaana. Lekin feeling ke saath chillane ka natak mat kar.” I mean seriously. I don’t get the head-banging people over here do in rock concerts while listening to a number on Vietnam War when they can’t even locate it on the Map, let alone know reasons behind the lyrics. And they yell with rage “Daddy what you leave behind for me..”. Bhai , bharat ek parivarik type ka desh hain. We have mostly loving families here who want to leave behind as much as possible for their kids. The only single parents you would find in India would be Preity Zinta in “Kya Kehna” or Sushmita Sen in adopted reality. Teenagers here stay with their parents and the only ones who are independent and start earning by the age of sixteen, usually don’t have access to such songs.

Recently I read a blog of a teenager who was 17 and worried about getting older. She already has doubts that she would die a lonely dame. Let me recite a recent incident for her. Bala and I would be going home next week. We’ve been playing cricket on our terrace since the time it was built. Bala told me that when he informed Mom of our plans to come, she said this to the maid “Baai, chat (Terrace) achche se saaf kar dena. Bahche aa rahen hain. Cricket khelenge.” Of course, if my mom would have had her way, it would have been our kids for whom the terrace shall be cleaned.

PS: Preeti has tagged me here with the title of the post.

Bloody Indians in Vegas

2009-06-14T12:33:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in the previous post, here’s another twisted tale of telephony.

First, the disclaimer: Unlike other incidents on this blog, this one is not autobiographical. It happened with three guys whose identity shan’t be revealed. Being trustworthy has many benefits in the long run.

Three twenty some-things, born and brought up in India, gathered in Las Vegas. Let’s name the three characters as LK (Logical Kamina), CB (Confused Bhola) and DA (Devil’s Advocate).

LK stays in India and was on a three-week business trip to California. LK and CB had studied together in a reputed institute of India while DA and CB were doing their MS degree together in a reputed institute of USA. CB was the common friend and it was he who planned the two-day trip to Vegas in honor of LK’s short visit.

Apart from having good-natured fun, adventure and gambling in the sin-city, the idea (as must be expected given the group’s demographical attributes and the geography they were in) was to do something “sexy” (a refinement of their terminology; they called it chamdigiri).

LK is a pompous fellow and had already announced to the world that he was going to Vegas. Everyone in his circle naturally assumed that he would at least visit a strip-bar and so it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. It would have been foolish, according to LK, to take the blame and still not commit the crime. You have to hand him some points there. But let’s also keep in mind for the rest of the post that LK has been brought up quite well in a very traditional family.

CB, like most of the engineering student, was still a virgin and not very proud of the fact; however he was a good boy with a good heart. He has a wavering mind and can get carried away in his weak moments.

I don’t know much about DA apart from his role in this episode and hence the name. He was single mindedly focused on getting laid in Vegas and that was the reason he was on the trip, despite not being a close friend of LK.

Let’s jump straight to their hotel room when they were about to plan that something “sexy”. Of course, they have been discussing and researching it since days, but now was the time to act.

“We have three options: 1. Go to a nightclub, patao drunken girls, do some grinding and may be more. 2. Get a Lap-Dance in a Strip Club 3. Call a hooker.” LK summarized the problem efficiently.

“Let’s do 1 first and then we’ll do the third” DA was in the mood to live life to the fullest. The reason for him not including the second point was the budget constraint put on the "sexy" task before the trip began.

“I can’t do point number one. 24 saal me ek desi to pati nahi, ek raat me gori kahan se pategi” CB was brutally honest here.

“I agree with CB. Mujh se bhi nahi hoga point one.” LK had no delusions either.

“Ok, then let’s call the hooker. No point wasting time.” DA didn’t like the structured approach taken for the purpose.

“Naa. Raani nahi yaar. We’ll just take a Lap-dance and that’s it. Full-fledged thoda jyada ho jayega” the traditionally brought up LK voiced his reluctance.
(“Raani” is an intentional typo here. Call me a hypocrite if you will, but to me, expletives and swear-words in Hindi sound much more horrible than in English.)

“Who is going to know? What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” DA tried to persuade using conventional wisdom. He was distraught at the stand being taken.

“I agree with LK. Having paid-sex doesn’t feel right. Lap-dance is a good compromise” CB continued with the analytical tone.

“Majority wins. I am going to bathe and then we’ll all go to the “Rebecca’s Palace” across the street for the Lap-dance.” LK was relieved at CB’s support, and closed the discussion.

As LK finished his bath and walked into the room, he saw the pale face of CB and a nervous smile on DA.

“He called the hooker. Teeno ke liye ek hee mangaayi hain” CB was quick to offload the guilt. Clearly DA had attacked the still-a-virgin weak point of CB and got him to agree in LK’s absence.

“Abe, why did you agree!! Aur TEEN ke liye EK. Imagine how we would do it. Taking turns into the room ?? How filthy can you get!!” LK was extremely annoyed.

“Per-head one was getting out of budget constraint.” said CB.

“I don’t care. I am not participating. I am going alone to Rebecca’s. You two do what you want to.” LK made his point clear.

Within minutes, CB was back on LK’s side. DA couldn’t afford the cost alone. So they decided to call it off. So as to not bruise DA’s ego further, it was decided that CB would have to call up the agency and cancel the service.

“Do it quick. She would ask for money if she gets here” LK was strict on CB.

“Kya bolke manaa karun?” CB posed a valid question; not many have any answers to it. For an inexperienced bunch in a foreign territory, it was all the more difficult.

“You just call and say whatever comes to your mind at that time” LK, the wisest amongst the three, said.

CB rang up the number and came up with this gem “Hello! Actually our parents are also coming here. Please don’t come.”

LK and DA were in tears within seconds. Only a true son of soil, from the land where once Shravana was born, could have come up with that excuse.

CB didn’t lose his virginity that night, but all three had great fun at Rebecca’s. More importantly, they have ensured sound sleep without any worries for Indian ladies whose worse half would be traveling to Vegas. By now the word must have traveled through the escort services there and all the Indians must have been blacklisted.

The Twisted Telephonic Tales

2009-06-11T12:02:00.000-07:00

Rain Gods, all over the world, have developed quirky little sadistic tendencies in response to the Global warming. But those in Bangalore seem to have lost the touch this year. Right up to 2008, it used to rain heavily exactly between 6 and 9 in the evening. Those who have suffered know how cruel that timing is. This year however, it rains when the city sleeps (siesta time included) or after 9 at the worst. I am not very pleased with the situation though. Life has taught me to be wary if someone naughty starts behaving like an angel.

Anyway, here’s an entirely hypothetical question. Would you pick up your expensive mobile phone from a shit-pot (clean and western style, to make matters clearer), back in 2002, when recession was still very much there and incoming-calls were still not free? If yes, would you tell that to the world?

In my 3 year old mobile, the received calls’ duration is 320 hours while the dialed calls’ duration is 405 Hours. That ratio used to be 1:2 once upon a time; now it highlights the behavioral shift. Also, I am not very proud of the nearly 45 minutes/day blabber that these statistics indicate; though there are a few excusable reasons. There have been quite a few interesting minutes in those 725 hours. For example, two weeks ago, I received a call:

“Hello” I said, following the usual protocol. The number displayed on the mobile screen was unknown. There was a pause and the call was disconnected. It was midnight. My mobile beeped again a couple of minutes later with the same number and I picked up the call without speaking a word.

“Hello Priya !!” a nasal voice from the other side. He was probably drunk too. I disconnected with a succinct “Wrong number”. Phone beeped again.

“Hello, who are you?” we both said together and then he repeated it without the “Hello” and then I did the same.

They taught me at the school that the one who calls must first introduce oneself; I agree with the principle. I also find myself putting chewing-gum wrappers or any other paper in my pocket if there is no dust-bin around. However, the worst suffering is inflicted by the habit of turning up on time. Damn those manners, but now they are wired into me.

Coming back to our caller, let’s call him Ranjha, since I still don’t know his name. He told me to give the phone to Priya. I gathered that he was expecting her to pick up the phone when he called. I didn’t tell him that there is no Priya here; just me and my..errr..thoughts. He kept calling and I kept disconnecting after a few seconds, allowing him to scream “Priya” everytime. Apparently she must have been sleeping with me.

Later on I got bored of him and put the mobile in silent mode. There were 28 missed calls by the morning. I was pleased with my enviable status and saved his number as, guess what, Ranjha.
Ranjha called me again next night while I was surfing around and the last night’s pattern followed. I was now in no mood to clear the misunderstanding. On the third night I was ready for him and when he called, I let him listen to the “Bheegey Hont Tere” on my laptop. Man, how he swore.

Next he called me during the day time. When I picked up the phone, he realized, probably for the first time, that the phone number might actually belong to me or maybe I keep Priya’s phone always with me. That should have given him some respite and he should have logically concluded that it’s not wise to infer Priya to be with me during the nights if I pick up the phone always. I can’t say for sure whether love is blind, but Ranjha is definitely dumb.

Ranjha started flooding my mobile with SMS’s now. The plan was to irritate me by flooding the Inbox and force me to call and talk to him. Little did he know that my flat-mates used to call me “Baba” not for nothing. Scratch your nails on the table and I shall smile. Serve me the food of your canteen and I shall gorge. Turn off the fan and I won’t mind. Ranjha must have wasted at least Rs100 that day even with the best of the postpaid plans.

He still calls me sometimes and gets ignored mostly. Once in a while, I experiment if I am in the mood. Till now he has heard the spoon hit against various plates and bowls in my attempts to create music, the flush of the toilet and my futile whistling attempts.

I am not planning to let go of this toy soon, but let me announce the way they do it on Radio “If Priya is reading this blog and her number ends with something similar to 26267, she must contact me to claim a jealous, confused and by now definitely broken-hearted idiot.” Till she contacts me, I would take your requests and suggestions to torture him further. Suggestions like “get a life” would be courteously ignored.

Of course, his misery comes to an end if he introduces himself politely instead of demanding to know who I am and the same has been conveyed to him. But he refuses to learn those basic manners. He should have studied in my school.

Coming up two more tales of the phone in the next post:
1. The one who knew why you called.
2. Bloody Indians in Vegas.

Let me finish with a small incident while I used to stay in Gurgaon. My phone rang and the voice at the other end said “Hello Prashaaanttt” in a typical Delhi accent. I was expecting an invitation-for-Diwali-dinner call from my friend’s mother that day and I eagerly replied with an obedient “Namaste Aunty”. She clarified that she was calling from a bank and so I apologized, as sincerely as I could, while friends around me laughed aloud. She wanted me to have a personal loan from her bank, but by then she had lost the conviction in her voice.

The Profound Lie

2009-06-04T07:15:00.000-07:00

A solitary word spoken for the entire day and that too was a lie. Optimizations, in daily life, have been stretched too far I guess. Probably, I need to review my social life as well. Allow me to explain this profound lie.

At the Darshini hotel nearby, they have the same yellow colored six Rupees coupon for Tea and coffee. You are supposed to buy the coupon at cash counter and then present it to those who serve the food or drink. I drink coffee but say ‘Tea” at the cash counter while getting the coupon. Saves a few lip movements, less trouble to vocal cords and gives a timid thrill as an added benefit. Then, of course I take the coupon from the owner at the counter, then go to the waiter and point my finger at the coffee machine. It adds novelty to the waiter’s life as well.

I am tempted to go further and claim that I just say “T”. Beat that. That “T” is like a Black Hole. So much mass (with a destructive connotation) concentrated at a point and then nothing nearby.
Is it possible to speak lesser in an entire day and still maintain the property of falsehood? You must say something, gesture won’t count. You may request someone to ask you the question “Who rules the world, yet is wise and modest enough to keep it a secret?” or “Who slept with Cleopatra last night and got paid for it?” Then you might say “I”. That would be a lie, not much meat in there to debate over it. But there are quite a few potential problems with this approach.

You need to find someone who would just ask you the question and then leave you alone for the rest of the day. Clever ones can circumvent that by pre-recording the question. Care must be taken to have it pre-recorded by someone else because there is a room for the philosophical objection that word count for the day in your account is increasing even if your past self has spoken them. If we allow this objection to stand, then most of the film-stars and singers must have to forgo the cherished dream. Plus there must be someone else whom you are lying to. Deceiving thyself needs no words and is a widely followed practice.

The indisputable argument against the above mentioned pair of question-answer would be that “I” involves more effort and duration than “T” and we must find other alternatives. “E” looks to be a good choice since it involves the least syllables and other resources. I am considering only the English language here.

So assuming that you did manage to find someone who would help you fulfill this ambition by co-operating to circumvent the issues mentioned previously, we are still left to find questions that evoke an answer “E” which, of course, should be wrong. Here’s an example.

Fill in the blank: “When I was 14 and saw a loose one coming on my leg, all I had in mind was s_x”. You say “e” and break my “T” record, lying with the least (non-zero) effort on vocal cords, thereby projecting me as a pervert blinded by hormones instead of the cricket crazy teenager I was.

However, mathematical purists, with working knowledge in Linear Algebra, can argue that the lie with the “Tea” is not as absolute as I am making it out to be. Tea is neither opposite, nor orthogonal to coffee (they both have milk in common). Economists would nod their heads as most of them have fed on Tea-Coffee as a classic example of substitutes while studying the elementary utility theory.

As I pressed “enter” after the previous sentence, MS word put me on a new page. That crap took up one whole page. I am forced to reflect at this moment on my blogging habits. Some of the posts have been based on true incidents or some stupid analysis. At the other end are the stories which involve time-travel, naked woman bleeding, animals and inanimate things talking. Once a bee did the whole narration and she was dead three days ago, so a bee-ghost too managed a representation. There is absolutely no middle path and I would try to bridge that gap in my next story. It would work under realistic constraints. However, the next post would be again based on real life incidents: “The Twisted Telephonic Tales”.

Meanwhile, let me share this absolutely gorgeous song I came across on a BBC radio program in which they showcase some upcoming bands which are still far away from stardom, if at all they would reach there. The song is “Hellhole Rat Race” by the “Girls” band. The lyrics are deceivingly simple with a groovy flavor. It’s got a distinctively psychedelic touch to it, which is why it is being put here. Give it a go, have some patience with it and this visit to the blog might not be as futile as you might have been ruing two paragraphs ago. There is no video content, so streaming should be faster.

VAT 69

2009-05-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

Centuries ago, strange events occured in abundance simply because there was no one to report them. They laid the foundations for many anomalies we observe today.

So when a wise sage informed Rameshwar and Revati that extraordinary things would happen in their family once they give birth to a pair of twins, Revati believed him and resolved to name them Karan -Arjun. She had fed on Mahabharata stories since she was five and was a big fan of these two sons of Kunti. However, the twins were born under very ordinary placement of planets in their horoscope, which foretold no special qualities in them. A disappointed Revati named them Nakul and Sahadev.

But the wise sage wasn’t wrong about the extraordinary part. Immediately after the twins were born, dreams of twenty-first century started haunting Rameshwar in his sleep every Saturday night. In his dreams, he would always be in Betty’s room invisible to the inmates of her room. Betty was a regular American girl and a cheerleader. Rameshwar would watch her TV when no one was around, else he would simply be the invisible voyeur until his dream broke to the cries of their pet cock.

Rameshwar kept his dreams to himself but he did claim of having visions of the future. He figured out that in times to come, Indians would be ruled by foreign invaders since they would be busy dividing themselves into castes and regions. He taught the English Language to Nakul and Sahadev, hoping that his descendants would be in a strong position to get clerical jobs when times come. To his dissatisfaction, Sahadev was growing up into a cynical sadist while Nakul was becoming a romantic wannabe.

I shall burden you with just one more character: he, who must not be named so soon in the story. He lived near Rameshwar’s house and was a compulsive peeping-tom. Although a thoroughly straight guy, he enjoyed watching Rameshwar bathe every Sunday morning. Rameshwar had guarded his secret well, but like all other mortals, he needed an outlet. In his nearly open bathroom, he would practice the way Betty’s boyfriends would impress her, he repeated their dialogues. And even though Rameshwar had a good grasp of Sa-Re-Ga-Ma and the ragas and a great deal of respect for the Shastriya Sangeet, he couldn’t help humming PussyCat Dolls numbers when alone, presumably of course, in his bathroom. The peeping-tom memorized most of the acts, even though he couldn’t understand the words.

Years later, Rameshwar confided in the wise sage and on his advice went on a pilgrimage to Himalayas. Nature has its way of balancing.Immediately after he left the village, Betty evaporated from her cheerleading act for her college football team (which led to a minor injuries to the girl she was going to catch) and got transmitted in Rameshwar’s village, centuries behind.

Understandably, she was quite confused in the beginning but figured out that she is in India. What she failed to notice was that she had also time-traveled since everything around looked exactly the same the way they show India to be on TV: poor people living in huts, excreting in open fields and no signs of development, scientific or otherwise. She tried communicating with some but couldn’t overcome the language barrier. No one understood the signs of a telephone or a plane; but they all agreed amongst themselves that she looked stunning in the tiny red skirt.
Wandering along in such sorry state, she saw the twins, Nakul and Sahadev coming her way. All Indians looked the same to her, but these two were simply indistinguishable. They too were checking out this beautiful white creature.

“Piss off, you jerks”, Betty stil hadn't got used to being stared at.

“EXCUSE ME…” Sahadev talked in English for the first time outside his family.The twins were pleasantly surprised to know that their Dad wasn’t fooling around with them for all these years. English really was a language spoken by humans. Betty figured that these two must be working in one of those call-centers and was relieved to no end.

“Hey Guys,where can I get a phone and a bus or anything to get to the airport. I am stuck here since days” Betty got to the point without much fuss.

“I am sorry ma’am. Never heard about these things. Why don’t you come and stay with us?” Nakul cooed. He saw this whole episode as providence’s way of gifting him this lovely bird.

“Are you nuts? Stay here in this shit? No phones!! No electricity!!Haven’t you guys ever done anything worth speaking of?”

“We Indians invented Zero.” Nakul came back.

“I am sure you did. How could you not? Just take a look around”, Betty said. Beneath the red top, she had a heart capable of sarcasm. Nakul let his eyes wander and noticed that there indeed was quite a bit of whole lot of nothing around them. He got her point.

“We invented Yoga too” Nakul wasn’t going to give up so easily.

“Oh! Would you please teach me that before I leave? I need to get in shape” Betty moved her hands around the fatty parts of her body.

“Yoga is supposed to awaken the Kundalini. Is that how Yoga is sold in your part of the world: A butt shrinking exercise?” Sahadev was not too keen about her. Betty let her hands hang on her sides.

“Is there no way I can go back home?” Betty showed first sign of sadness.

“Throw a penguin in the desert” Sahadev replied with conviction.

“How is that going to help?” Betty regretted asking that, that very moment.

“In the same way that the sacrifice of two buffaloes last year finally led to good rainfall” Nakul tried to explain. Betty had a blank look on her face.

“You see, the logic is simple. God is kind and powerful, but he remains busy as hell while trying to serve billions of prayers. So he prioritizes based on the severity of the requests. When the villagers prayed for water, they still had wells to drink from and food to eat, although not in abundance. God had more important things to do meanwhile. What does a child do if mother doesn't listen ? He cries. The villagers cries however wasn't audible to God because they were not heart wrenching enough.

So the villagers cut the head of the two buffaloes and in their dying moments the buffaloes yelled out to God in an agony only dying ones can. God left creating new species which could survive on mud and rushed to the buffaloes which by that time were dead.

'Who on earth did this?' was the next logical thought in his mind and the answer was we, the villagers. Having captured his attention, we were already standing there with hands folded and being the good-natured almighty, he gave us the rain and took the buffaloes to heaven. Some said the rain smelled of Buffaloes’ pee but you got to take it anyway.” Sahadev finished his theory with a convoluted nose.

“Can’t she simply sacrifice a goat instead of finding a Penguin and the desert?” Nakul wanted an easy life for Betty.

“In case there are many Gods, the God in charge of displaced beings would be the first to rush for the Penguin and there our Betty’s plea will directly get serviced without much bureaucracy” Sahadev always had solid reasons to back his words.

Betty wasn’t even listening by this time. Someone doing a hip-hop dance caught her attention. It was he, who shall be named shortly. She walked towards him ignoring the twins.

‘I got real big brains, but yaa lookin at maa...” sang he with a pelvic thrust. Years of peeping at Rameshwar was finally paying off as Betty started grooving with him. He followed that with a few more moves that Betty’s boyfriends used to impress her. She was bowled over by his charm and chose to stay with him forever.

There was never much verbal communication between them. Their bodies talked to each other passionately. She taught him different ways of making love. The sexual positions he learnt from her were too many in variety and number than what he had observed while peeping around in the village. He finally decided to write a book on those artistic positions. She used to call him Vat; it was difficult for her to pronounce his full name, Vatsyayana.

The Bribe

2009-05-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

Just when I am supposed to study Econometrics and Statistical Inference, the urge to blog overwhelms me. Escapism is a widely prevalent vice. During exam-time in Kharagpur, we wing-mates had a tendency to elaborately plan a trip for the vacations to follow. Everyone knew that there won't be any trip, but no-one acknowledged it as long as the planning kept our minds off the exams. To make the planning more credible, we would get down to the minutest logistical details like where would we stay and of course covered the basic necessities like how much whisky and cigarettes to pack. One such fictitious trip to the nearby Digha beach was postponed because one guy pointed out that there would be a high tide; so we instead planned for Darjeeling.

However, we did manage to have an extremely successful trip to Gangtok after the final year exams. In a similar spirit, I did go for a jog one particular morning in the eighth semester; unfortunately no one saw that and now I myself doubt whether that was a dream, an illusion created in subconscious as a response to unfulfilled yearnings.

Another forgettable thing about those days was my contribution to the final year project. It's rare to have two or more people working on the same project, but since the project assigned to me was a sponsored one and relatively difficult (Speech Controlled Toy Car), my project guide assigned it to two of us. The toy-car was really cool: red with jazzy stickers and big enough for a four year old to sit and drive it.

We were supposed to develop a speech-recognition software that could decode the basic verbal instructions and then interface the hardware to control the navigation of car. That is all I can tell about the project. Most of it was done by my partner. The partner was also kind enough to give me some slides to show in the final review and told the review committee that I contributed in a few modules. My only contribution was cleaning the rat-poo inside the car after we returned from a month long winter break. Kabhi kabhi kapda bhi maar deta tha car pe. I sacrificed one of my old T-shirt for the purpose. Though I did feel sorry for letting down my professor and sent him "Happy Teacher's Day" mail after passing out.

My stay in KGP isn't all about failures and disappointments though. I was a regarded as a master in manipulating data extremely fast such that it doesn't look manipulated. Friends used to drop by in case they failed to get their experiments done on time. One more high point was that I and my Bridge-partner Piyush managed a Bronze medal in the year we learnt how to play the game. What must be considered here is that Kharagpur is a Bong's den and I really can’t tell you how well versed Bengalis are in doing things that involve sitting for hours.

There were quite a few wildly funny incidents which involved ragging, nudity (male) and intoxications; let's take up a cleaner one below.

Our wing of 12 guys had a open door policy; anyone would walk-in for a sutta( cigarette) and find people playing cards at almost any hour of the day. Piyush and I were aspiring Instrumentation Engineers in our third year and firm believers in cycle-pooling.

One fine evening a sincere branch-mate walked into a smoke filled room and tells us that next day there is a class-test on MicroProcessors. He also informed that last year the professor had given 20 questions from the GATE exam and hence deduced that he should be studying the GATE paper. We inferred that it would be an objective type question paper and hence deduced that we should create a cheat-sheet. We wrote 1-20 on a sheet of paper and idea was to keep exchanging that sheet in exam hall with correct answers written on it. Satisfied with our preparation, we meandered into the world of Kings and Queens, and Hearts and Diamonds.

Next day Piyush and I wore shirts which had front pockets. Two guys wearing formal shirts riding double-seat on a cycle is a rare seen in KGP, we were men with a plan and least bothered about the general expectations in accordance with non-existent fashion trends of the campus .I kept the neatly folded sheet in my pocket. Piyush entered the classroom first and sat behind a bright chap and then I managed to sit behind Piyush. Luckily another studious fellow named Bornik sat behind me. We were all set.

Professor distributed the question papers. I knew answers to 2 out of 20, Piyush knew none. Everything was going as expected. I passed the sheet to Piyush with my 2 answers and then he returned it back without any value addition. I hurriedly pushed the sheet back into my pocket. We were sweating and nervous.

Then I saw Bornik’s left palm slightly open behind me. Even though he wasn’t in the loop, I decided to slip the cheat-sheet to him and rely on his presence of mind to comprehend its purpose. When the prof was about to turn, I got hold of the paper in my pocket and squeezed it into his hand, keeping my eyes all the time on the prof’s movements. Heartbeat-rate trebled. Bornik was apparently shocked by the action. The following conversation ensued:

“Ye kya hain?” (What’s this?)

“Khol ke dekh. Sab samajh jayega.” (Open it and you’ll understand)

“Aisa kyon kar rahan hain? Iski kya jarurat hain ?”(Why are you doing this? What’s the need of it?)

“Abe saale, discussion ka time nahi hain. Khol ke dekhaa ?” (Not a time for discussions; did u open it?)

“Mein aise hee bol deta hun. Mujhe nahi chaiye ye. Wapis le le.” (I’ll be telling you verbally. I don’t want this.Take it back).

“Abe likh ke de Ghochu. Kuch nahi hoga. Durr mat.” (Write it down #&@&#. Don’t worry)

Of course there were gaps in the above conversation, the words were not clear and we spoke whenever the professor turned. After a few such frantic and confusing verbal exchanges, he simply started dictating and we could manage 4-5 answers amongst us.

Then the bell rang and prof collected the answers. I leaned forward to Piyush and we exchanged that once-again-fucked look. I told Piyush that Bornik didn’t have the courage to exchange the cheat-sheet; he kept the sheet with himself and hence I couldn’t pass it along.
Meanwhile, Bornik stood up and took two steps to my desk.
He thumped his palm loudly on my desk.
When he lifted his palm, I saw a ten rupee note there.
He walked off in anger.
I was baffled for a second. Then it dawned.
I checked my front pocket. In it, lay the sheet which was supposed to sail us through.

PS : Bornik, to this day, thinks that I tried to bribe him for helping me in the test. He would never talk to me for the unintentional humiliation caused.

Careful With That Axe, Eugene

2009-05-02T05:10:00.000-07:00

Carla, the cat, was having a bad tail day and to top that, no one had noticed how well her new green nail polish went with her eyes. Being an Animal-Resource Executive in Nandan-Associates hasn’t been an enviable job over the years, especially with a Manager as obnoxious as Eugene, the fox, and an aging whimsical owner, Shamsher Singh, the lion. Reflections on her miserable life were interrupted by the phone ring. It was Eugene.

“Sweetheart, could you please bring the list of Employees to my room? It’s time for you to make those three-meow calls.” There was wickedness in Eugene’s voice.

Three-meow-call is a practice followed in Nandan-Associates at Shamsher Singh’s behest. Anyone about to be fired gets the call from Carla in which she asks the employee to visit the boss and then she meows thrice before ending the call. Why so? Well, Shamsher’s step-mother was a cat and she used to meow thrice each time before thrashing him when he was a naughty boy. So, this was his way to revenge the world.

“Here’s the list, Sir”. Carla enters Eugene’s room without knocking.

Eugene stops picking his nose and smiles, “Carlaaa, please have a …Oh you’re already sitting. You see Carla, all of my friends are busy laying-off their juniors. I don’t get to tell any stories over the game of golf. Besides, this is recession and we must be doing something terribly wrong if we don’t feel the need to cut down.”

“Eugene, is it really necessary?”, Carla says casually tapping on the table with her nails.

“I must axe somebody before this weekend; do you have any idea how it feels to be left out? Daniel, from Champak-Sons, fired four rats and a hen last week. What about that dog Moti we hired last month for managing the Asia-pacific account? I can’t stand his smiling face.”

“He is doing a splendid job. Shamsher looks very pleased with him”

“I noticed that too and that’s another reason I want him out of this place. You know how tough Shamsher is while interviewing. But his interview with Shamsher lasted just 10 minutes and he came out without a scratch on his body. I guess maybe because they both are Indians. But you can find something on him. Does he surf net during office time ? Any personal calls from the office phone?”

“Nope. He is clean as a dove. Always on time and is friendly”

“I see. Carla you need to do me a favor, dear. You know what I mean...” Eugene says in an overly suggestive tone.

“Eugene, I get it. You don’t have to be so animated. But remember last time you asked me to seduce Jack. He is now ..” Carla was interrupted here.

“Don’t remind me of that parasite again. He belongs to that disgraceful jackal race.”

“He is now my husband; how many times I have to remind you.” snarled Carla.

“And that is why he is still in this office. I’ll handle this myself. Call Moti right now.” He pushes the phone to her. She dials the number.

“Moti, Eugene would like to see you. Meow, Meow, Meow” Carla feels like an idiot yet again.

Moti enters the room in a very cheerful mood. He knows nothing about the three-meow theory. He is holding a red colored card in his hand.

Effervescently smiling he says, “Hi Eugene, What a coincidence. I was about to come to your room anyway. I am getting married next month. This is my wedding card. And Carla, that nail-polish goes really well with your eyes”.

Carla is speechless. She looks towards Eugene with accusing eyes and rushes out of the room. Moti senses the unease in the air.

“Many Congratulations! Moti.” Eugene is stumped too. This wasn’t going to be as much fun as he had imagined. He doesn’t even glance at the card and puts it close to the phone.

“Eugene, I know you would come. I am having the time of my life”

“I am afrai ,Moti. I won’t be able to make it. Listen, I need to discuss something very important with you. I hope you understand that this is nothing personal. The whole economy is doing pretty badly and we need to downsize. We are cutting down the Asia-pacific accounts and you are an unfortunate victim of this global phenomenon. Today is your last day at Nandan.”

“Hang on Eugene. You must be kidding. Asia-pacific accounts are doing much better than Europe and America. You are joking right, because you saw the wedding card so you are just being funny, right.” Moti is smiling once again. There is an air of invincibility about him.

“Moti, Your marriage is your personal problem. I don’t indulge in bullshit. You may leave now with your belongings” Eugene is visibly irritated.

“I am pretty sure Shamsher Sir doesn’t know about this decision” a confident reply from Moti. He is finding it hard to stop smiling.

“Are you his pet? Shamsher is an old imbecile. Don’t challenge my decision. I never liked dogs anyway in this firm. If I had my way I would have put ‘Dogs not allowed’ outside the gate. Get lost now, will you.”

Moti bursts out laughing. He leaves the office and is laughing his ass off over a phone-call. Eugene can’t stand this any more. He dials the security and then slams the phone back. He sees that stupid wedding card and is about to throw it in the dustbin when something familiar on the card catches his eyes.

Moti (Son of Colonel Sheru Daga )
Weds
Mohini (Daughter of Mr. Shamsher Singh)

The date was the first of next month and the venue was Nandan-Associates’s huge sprawling garden.

Eugene is out of his senses when Ganpat the hippo, knocks on his door.
“You called security, Sir” says the guard who hailed from Shamsher Singh’s village.

Eugene’s face is colorless by now.
“Get me an Orange juice, please” says Eugene meekly.

The hippo stands confused and just then the phone rings on Eugene’s desk. Eugene does not move. The phone rings once again. Ganpat walks over to the desk this time and hands the receiver to Eugene. “Your phone, Sir”

“Hello Eugene.” It’s Carla at the other end. She savors a pause. Eugene stays mum.
“Shamsher would like to see you in his office, Eugene. Meow, Meow, Meow.”

Valid Excuses For A Pseudo-Break

2009-04-16T08:42:00.000-07:00

I would be relatively inactive in blogosphere for the next fifty days. Various reasons are listed down later in the post. Have been fairly disciplined with the rule "at least one post per ten days" , exceptions being a couple of vacations when I was not in Bangalore. The reason for the rule was the observation that most of the blogs that are now dormant were marred with irregularity. Increasing gaps between the posts presaged the imminent death.

Many bloggers face a trade-off between quality and quantity, especially when pressed for time. So do I for the next 7 weeks. "Quality or Quantity?" is the question. I am going to use the management mantra of "Power of And" ; would screw both of them. There would be infrequent filler-posts that which would take less than half an hour to compile as opposed to the usual 2-3 hours and I would tag the posts as Fillers. I am totally non-committal about that though as of now. The bigger loss, however, would be the reduction in communication with fellow bloggers, which is even more critical for blogs that are as young as this. But then, there are reasons for going slow, which are :

1. LSE Exams: I've confessed my love for mathematics in quite a few posts. Economics is another very interesting subject and I would strongly recommend to have at least basic understanding of economics if you are interested to develop a better understanding of the world around you. Economics is not all about money, we have "Finance" for the purpose. Economics (moreover microeconomics) is about choices, how and why we make them. The principle of "diminishing marginal returns" made me trade the ninth hour of my sleep for Yoga everyday. We all know that Yoga/exercise is good for health. However, after reading economics, it sounds foolish not to do so, considering the marginal returns vs marginal costs analysis for one hour of Yoga vs ninth hour of sleep.

I am studying this very interesting course since last three years and have my exams in late May and early June. Blogging has ensured that this year my subjects at LSE haven't received the desired devotion until now and now is the time to compensate for that.

2. IPL: Being a logical Indian male in late twenties, I am supposed to be crazy about cricket and I am predictable here.

The plan is to use the laptop as little as possible for the next few weeks and I know that if at all I log-on to the net on pretext of blogging, all I would do is follow live matches on net. Can't stop myself from predicting a few outcomes though. Last year's winners Rajasthan Royals would not make it to semis this year; neither will Kolkata Knight Riders. I see two new entrants to semis this year: Mumbai & Bangalore. Chennai should make it too. I rank Delhi, Chandigarh & Hyderabad in that very order as probables for the fourth berth in semis.

3. Work Load: Two of my projects are expected to be launched in coming months. That should explain, I reckon. Besides, I've also committed two posts per month to my other blog here and posts there need more time due to the professional nature of the blog.

4. Expected rise in frequency of social gatherings: Almost all of my current friend circle was born between March to May. That includes all the males in our family too: Dad, Bro & me. Usually, none of the males being discussed here have any specail feelings about their B'days and a typical "Happy B'day" phone call goes like this:

The phone rings. B'day boy picks up the phone," Haan bhai. Bol do tum bhi "
Friend : "Kya kar sakte hain yaar. Angrejo ki dee hui bimari hain. Le lo happy b'day"
B'day boy, "Saalon ne mobile bhi banaa diya hain. Dhung se neend bhi nahi ho paayi hain aaj." Friend, "Sahi baat. Kitne thuk jayenge aaj ?"
B'day boy," Dekhte hain yaar, chocolate me tarka sake office ke logo ko to sasta rahega mamla. Tum log bhi thoosne ke mood me ho kya? "
Friend, "Yaar khilaoge to kha lenge, but aaj nahi; weekend pe set karo." B'day boy, "Haan, aaj wise bhi emotionaly drain ho jaate hain free me smile kar kar ke."
Friend, "Chalo thik hain fir. Bataa dena jo bhi ho."
B'day boy, "hmmm."
The call is disconnected.

Life, in this part of the universe, has mostly been simple.

So Far Away

2009-04-06T12:08:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Joanna lays naked on the beach, sipping her Pina-colada from the crystal glass. Sky is blue and the water green. Waves come and go, and theirs’ is the only sound to be heard; cool breeze blows silently.

“Ain’t this lovely, Sammy?” Joanna chirps as she takes the last sip. She lets the empty glass roll over by her side.

“Sure is, honey” comes the voice from between her toes. Sam continues to pedicure her.

“I wonder how far away I am from my natural self, the pure untouched soul, once born with only the basic instincts. I so wish I would know” her drunken words dream aloud.

“Ouch..SAMMYY!!!!”, she squeaked as Sammy pulled her toes, not gently at all. He pauses to think for a moment.

“You’re hurting me, Ouch …Ouch!! Stop it you monster, will you!! ” are Joanna’s angry pleas as Sam twists her feet.

Sam waits for less than a second this time and then he pricks the pedicure knife in her long pink toe.

“EEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH” Joanna screams, louder than an animal, at the top of her voice as Sam leaps forward to shut her mouth.

“SHHHHHhhh” Sam looks in her eyes and slowly slides his hand away from her mouth.

Joanna watches dumbstruck as tears roll down on her sunscreen covered cheeks. Her toe is bleeding.

Sam picks up the crystal glass and let Joanna’s blood drip into it, drop by drop. Bleeding stops after a while, sobbing too.

Sam shows her the quarter filled glass. Red looks good in crystal.

“This far away”

Joanna smiles and pulls the towel on.

We The People

2009-04-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

Scenario 1 : Two kids with their Mom
Mom : Sonu, Monu ! Come let's go to the Tagore Academy. There's an exhibition on Chola dynasty sculptures.
Sonu : Would there be any puppet show ?
Monu : Mom, why can't we go play football instead.
Kids sulk and then escape to the playground.

Mom learns that she was being foolish. Next day,
Mom: Sonu, Monu ! Let's go to the circus.
Sonu, Monu : Yay !!!!!!!!!
The kids start jumping around.
____________________________________________________________________
Scenario 2 : A group of engineering students in the boys' hostel
Ramesh : Hey Guys ! I've a cool idea. Let's start watching "Bidaai" every day.
Shyam : Brilliant !!
Mohan : And we would watch "Balika Vadhu" after every dinner ??
Shyam & Mohan mail a morphed photo of Ramesh in Ghagra-choli to everyone in the hostel.

Ramesh learns that he was being foolish. Next Day,
Ramesh : IPL season starts tomorrow.
Shyam : I love those words.
Mohan pretends playing a cover drive with his hands. Shyam catches the non-existent ball.
____________________________________________________________________
Scenario 3 : Election time in India
Politician : I promise roads, electricity and water to your village.
Voter1 : Yeah right !!
Voter2 : If not for those fifty rupees, I wouldn't be listening to these boring bluffs a hundredth time.
Crowd looks disinterested and not many claps and slogans are heard.

The politicians learn that they are being foolish. Next day,
Politician 1 : The community X is a threat. Look what they've been doing here....
Voter1 & Voter2 : He is so right !! Those b***rds need a lesson.
Deafening claps & slogan-shouting.

Politician 2 : The community Y has been suppressing you. I'll empower you .
Voter3 & Voter4 : He is our saviour. Those pigs would never be nice to us.
Deafening claps & slogan-shouting.

Politician 3: That businessman would take away your land. What's the use of jobs and progress.
Voter5 & Voter6 : God bless her. Let's chase that devil and his factory out of here.
Deafening claps & slogan-shouting.

A Word Game

2009-03-31T09:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve got almost three hours left, as these very words are typed, before I default on the grand promise made to myself of writing at least one post per ten days. So let me hurry up and write about a word-game I used to play quite often, long ago.

It’s about getting from one word to a totally unrelated word using synonyms.
All you need for the game is a tool (a Software or a Website) that gives you the synonyms of a word, e.g. Word-web, Dictionary.com. So here are the steps to play the game:

1. Think of any two apparently disconnected words like “Deep” and “Formula”.
2. Find Synonyms of the first word using the tool.
3. From the list of Synonyms, select a word that, you think, could take you closer to the second word.
4. Find Synonyms of the selected word in step 3.
5. If the second word (here “Light”) is not in the list obtained in step 4, then go to step 3. Else, celebrate.

So for the Deep-Formula example, the sequence using Word-web could be:
Deep-Mysterious-Occult-Eclipse-Dominate-Rule-Formula

Of course, there is more than one solution in many cases. The most fun part is trying to get to the opposites through the chain of synonyms. Let’s kill the life:
Life-Spirit-Intent-Captive-Imprisoned-Confined-Bounded-Choked-Died

Try and get to “Clear” from “Close” in minimum number of steps. Why don’t you put a challenging pair in the comments with the number of steps you took to reach the solution.

Not all pairs would have solutions; but that happens mostly if you choose a very restrictive first word, like “Calculator”. Otherwise, you almost always get to any other word through the synonyms. Now, what does that tell us about language and symbols and the way we communicate?

Let me know if you find the game genuinely interesting and whether you’ve seen something similar anywhere else. If it’s worth it, then I might create a Software (may be a Facebook application) that would help play the game. It would come up with suitable pairs which definitely have solutions and then show the user/player the route he is taking to get to the destination word. Taking a step further, the software can generate pairs at various difficulty levels based on the number of steps and choices required to solve the problem.

This also reminds me of the silly game of rhyming words, if I may call it so, that almost all of us would have played. Back in Kharagpur, me and one particular friend nicknamed Sanki, seldom had a conversation without the poetic touch. He would knock on my door and ask “Do you have a pen?”; the reply would be “Only if square of Pi is less than ten.” Yes, we were that bad. It did get emotionally draining to be always alert and continue doing so month after month. We earned many enemies in due course, some well-wishers turned agnostic too.

Putting stupid memories aside, let me request you to throw a few challenging pairs and then we can compare our solutions.

And am I glad to beat the deadline by a mighty margin of two hours :).

Handshakes, Dating And Succumbing

2009-03-21T02:41:00.000-07:00

Observing last few posts, I felt that the blog is getting too analytical and didactic. So the second part of the previous post has been postponed to next week without advance notice to whomsoever it may concern. “To whomsoever it may concern” has such an arrogantly apathetic and yet a pleading disclaimer-like tone to it that I wouldn’t have believed it to be one of the standard ways of formal addressing in written form, had I not been taught to use it in school. “Sincerely Yours” is another funny usage in application-letters and one learns due to it, at a tender age, that it’s okay to lie. Not many things can be undone; let’s move on and justify the title in three snippets:

1. The Firm Handshake: My previous company lost two of its clients I had been involved with. The first company I worked for doesn’t exist anymore and I hear that there is a huge crater now in the plot where the office building once stood tall. Contrast that with the current employer; I take two interviews daily during the worst slowdown since the great depression.

I should be a contended man, but for the self-help books and guides that teach you how to leave a good first impression. “Shake the interviewer’s hand with a firm grip” they say. “It shows confidence” they go on. I am particularly proud of my gentle, soft and slender hands that many girls would willingly exchange with theirs, if you remove the hair. It irks me no end when a palm, sometimes sweaty with nervousness, squeezes my hand tight enough to suck life out of it, when I meet the candidate. I feel like yelling at him (female candidates usually don’t offer their hand on their own and I don’t make the first move either) “THIS doesn’t work anymore. The other candidates know the secret too.”

As the Efficient Market Hypothesis tells us, once the wisdom is known to everyone, you cannot exploit it to your advantage. Nowadays, I rather appreciate someone who is confident enough to shake hands lightly; it’s better to rely on one’s instincts to judge the fellow.

2. Dating Punjabi Browns: This was googled by someone in Senegal to reach my blog. So that someone, most probably a lady, finally figured out that all “Browns” are not the same, especially when it comes to sensitive affairs like Dating. Maybe she had a terrible experience with a Gujju-Brown earlier who probably didn’t pay for the Dinner; maybe she had eight Browns as her neighbors sharing the apartment next door. Our Punjabi Munda might have got her interested and then she might have had doubts about his turban, the mark of a Punjabi-Brown, and would have been researching the implications that the turban has in romantic life.

This is an opportune time to explain “Brown Phantom”, the blog name. I was never fond of the comic-hero “Phantom”. Initially I planned to be anonymous and hence the word “Phantom”. And “Brown” was chosen as an acknowledgement of the above mentioned notions since I knew that despite being anonymous, the brown-ness would be clearly evident in my writing.

That lady spent a few seconds on this blog; long enough to figure out after looking at the profile picture that this Brown isn’t a Punjabi.

3. Succumbing: Months ago when the liquor-shopkeeper mentioned here robbed me of money and pride, I resolved to never deal with him again. Time heals. Weeks later, I was out to buy some Fosters from other shop, which is twice the distance away and one has to cross this cheater’s shop to reach it. The cheater had plenty of customers and he was frantically serving them. The lazy manipulator got into act “What’s the use of avoiding him? I am just ONE customer. What difference is that making to his business? Why walk extra yards for a false ego? Why give so much importance to one-self?”

The spineless pragmatic cut his route short. Beer did the trick for the night. The next morning as I walked past the shop again, guilt-ridden and self-loathing thoughts, which were conveniently ignored the night before, returned with a vengeance. Not being a man of principles is probably good for survival and longer life. God, can I have some strength back in my character please?

Recent observations suggest though that I am in for a long life. While in Goa, I was haggling for swimming trunks in a shop. He said 200; I told “150 is the best I could offer or I leave” and began to walk out of the shop. Outside Goa (and West-Bengal), you expect to here the last price from the owner when you are about to leave the shop. I didn’t know that such moves don’t work in Goa. We left the shop and as we moved towards the beach, the quoted price got higher and higher. We turned and went back to the same shop and bought the trunk for 200. “The other shops have only cotton trunks. We are in a hurry. Please give that one for 200.” were the sheepish words.

This reminds me that I was supposed to write a chain of posts on Goa as promised here. Of course, that hadn’t happened. I haven’t retuned “after a very short break”. But then, what else can one expect from someone who has been a wuss lately.

Demographics and Sports : Part 1

2009-03-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

1. Why Indian Cricket team is likely to remain amongst the top three for decades?

2. Why England has won relatively low number of championships in most of the sports despite being probably the most sport loving nation?

3. Why most of the trophies/medals for India are going to come from individual games and sports? We might never see the golden days of Hockey again and we have little chance of success in sports like Football/Basketball.

This article is divided into two. The first part looks at the relation between demography and sports with cricket as an example. Second part explains the curious case of England, other sports in India, Olympic medals tally & Football rankings.

Here are some arguments which aim to partially explain some of the facts and speculations mentioned above. A nation’s success in a sport is a function of various parameters:

Success(sport) = f( Population, Per Capita Income, Level of interest in the sport, Average health, Culture, Random factors)

With the above formula most of the sports’ rankings in past and present can be justified. These are the fundamental factors. Some claim that Football in India isn’t a success because not enough money is spent on the game and cricket hogs most of the limelight. This is a naïve answer. It’s like saying that rain occurs because of the clouds; an unsatisfactory explanation with no attempt at understanding the dynamics of nature and weather cycles.

Let’s talk cricket first.
New Zealand : They just lost the One-day series 3-1 to India. That country’s population (4.2 million) is nearly half of that of Bangalore. For each New-Zealander, India has 200 heads. If one goes by population alone, then chances of prodigies like Sachin being born here are huge compared to NZ. Each player in Indian team is a 99.99999 percentile while in NZ team, he is 99.9995 percentile. India should have been mauling them in most of the games if one goes by population alone.

So what brings NZ at a competing distance to India ? I think the most important factors are active outdoor life and naturally better health (look at their average height). Their per capita income ($26,610) is more than 10 times that of India, which means a lot better infrastructure and financial support for the game and players. Yes, nowadays any Indian cricket players earn much more than a NZ player; however that happens only at the topmost level. There are a comparatively higher percentage of drop-outs at the club level in India due to financial insecurity.

Australia: There are five Australians for each New-Zealander and each Australian earns twice as much. The level of interest in cricket is higher in Australia as compared to New-Zealand where Rugby is the primary sport. Nearly 23.5 % Australians over the age of 15 regularly participate in organized sporting activities. One in four. How many of your acquaintances over 15 are regular with sports ?

Australia has probably the most efficient and competitive cricket system right from the school level; if a person is good, chances are very high that he won't miss the chance to play at the right level. However, India is now catching up due to growing economy and money being poured into the system. On the other hand, population is something that Australia would never catch up on. So, Indian team is expected to progress at a faster rate.

West Indies: WI cricket was a roaring success once upon a time. Tall, dark and ferocious players. Since last couple of decades, money has been drying out of WI cricket and at the same time Basketball is getting more and more popular due to American influence. Tall, well built players choose that game at school levels and we don’t get to see those intimidating players in cricket any more.

Pakistan: Back in 80’s and early 90’s , it was a common sight to see Pakistan team defeating India. They were just one fifth in population and per-capita-income was nearly the same. One can attribute some of it to “Random Factors” in the equation above. However, we must also not ignore that Pakistanis are ahead of Indians in terms of health and physique due to natural conditions surrounding their habitats. Who’s your favorite Bollywood actor? Chances are that he would be a Khan or someone with Punjabi blood in his family ( Hrithik Roshan, Akshay Kumar, Abhishek Bachchan, Ranbir kapur). Living in mountainous and cold region has its advantages.

Besides, it is only now that Indians have become aggressive; we didn’t have it in our culture back then. When Sachin as a teenager was hitting sixes in Peshawar, Abdul Qadir walked up to him and said “ Bachchon ko kyon maar rahe ho, humein maar ke dikhao”. Imagine Venkatpathy Raju doing the same to Shahid Afridi. One more controvertial factor, many claim, for India’s poor record against Pakistan in those days, was biased umpiring in Sharjah-Cup which we never won for years. Sachin, later in that match, hit Qadir in an over for 6,0,4,6,6,6. India still lost.

Sri Lanka: This team has risen only after the mid-nineties. However, they are seldom in top three in the rankings, which is expected given their corresponding values in the equation. I attribute the 1996 world cup win to ‘Random Factors”. “Random Factors” must not be taken as sheer luck, but more as short-lived reasons. The rise of Kaluwitharana and Jayasuriya at the top of the order was something world was not prepared for. Greats like Muralitharan are born and they can skew the expectations. However, if he or someone of Jayasuriya’s caliber was to be born in Bermuda, that team wouldn’t have won the world-cup because other parameters of the equation (mainly level and history of interest) are still very weak there.

Rest of the analysis follows in part 2. One important reason for splitting the post into two is to be able to justify any anomalies or questions that some of the readers might point out in this part.

Meanwhile, would you be kind enough to check out my other blog which is a live-story in progress of the start-up Easysquarefeet.

How not to get duped at the petrol pump

2009-03-08T07:52:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the month again when Vinnie needs her food. I usually get the tank full at the petrol pumps for three reasons. This avoids extra trips to the pump and it is good for the engine since it results in reduction of the amount of time the level of petrol remains low in the tank. The third reason is to avoid the prospect of a confrontational situation which is explained below.

During initial days in Bangalore, I noticed that my spending on petrol has gone up quite a bit even though the distances covered daily were less than those in Gurgaon. I attributed that to nearly 15% difference in petrol prices and slow moving traffic here. However, with time, it came to notice that there were fluctuations in mileage in Bangalore itself; thousand rupees petrol sometimes lasted 15 days while other times it got over within 10 days.

It must be mentioned here that I am not someone who keeps a notebook on expenses per month and then sits and analyzes them. It’s just that I have a fondness for numbers. I remember quite a few of them and catch any inconsistencies easily. That had led to the blasphemous allegation that I am an extremely caring person just because I never forgot anyone’s B’day. Now I deliberately don’t wish people even if I remember their all sorts of anniversaries. Enough of me, let’s move to the point now.

Since petrol-pumps were the only variables in this situation, it was natural to suspect them. However, even for the same petrol pump, there were considerable variations sometimes. It was turning out to be an intriguing problem. So this one particular time, I decided to be more observant and asked the guy to fill petrol worth Rs.500 instead of the usual Rs.1000. Here is what happened:

I parked my car and got out of it in order to observe the meter closely.

“500”, I said. It’s fun to communicate with as few words as possible.

“Zero Sir”, he pointed to the meter.

“Sir, Cardaa or cashaa?”, another guy approached me. Happens always; get your payment done while the tank is getting filled. Parallel processing; no rocket science here.

I gave him the credit card without uttering a word, which, later I realized, also meant that my attention was diverted.

“Sir! Over. 200.” the first guy pointed to the meter.

“But I asked for 500; you never listen properly. Last time too you did the same thing”, I replied irritatingly.

“Sorry Sir, see zero again”. He went on to fill 300.

Satisfied, I signed the credit card receipt and started the car. Surprisingly enough, the petrol indicator hadn’t moved to half of what it used to move for 1000. “Must be a calibration error”, the forgotten and ignored Instrumentation Engineer in me tried to soothe the rest of me and succeeded for a while.

However, as soon as the car moved, I had the Eureka moment. In the first half of the filling, the full 200 never goes in; there is a button or a trick which when used, directly jumps to that mark. Asking for a credit card, or car wash/paint are tactics to divert the attention. The lost 200 was a smaller part of 1000, but this time when asked for 500, the difference was clearly noticeable.

I got down the car and confronted that guy. Initially he insisted that he heard 200 first. My line was "how come you always hear 200 instead of 500"; not a very persuasive one; all rhetoric and no evidence. There was a deadlock in arguments and it seemed useless to fight with the group. Threats of never visiting their pump didn’t earn any respect either.

Logic came to rescue once again. The car was definitely having some petrol (though not much) before they poured any into the tank. The tank, when empty, used to get filled in around 1700 when you convert currency to liters. The capacity of the petrol tank cannot be disputed. So, if he had already filled in 500 worth of petrol, then he must not be able to fill in worth 1200 more. I asked those guys to go for a full tank and if the amount crosses 1200, then I wouldn’t be paying a single penny. Of course, they didn’t have any comeback for this; that’s the best thing about maths, number of people on the wrong side don’t count.

I had been tricked in such manner more than once at other locations too. When checked with friends, nearly all of them recalled getting duped similarly quite often. Easy money.

So now I always say “full tank”; it cannot be mistaken for 200 or 100. Coming back from Goa I had a thousand rupee note, which I had to dispense off. On my next visit to the pump, I raised 10 fingers and said “Thousand, and don’t play that 200-waala trick with me”. A few extra words, but they were necessary.

Radiosyncrasies

2009-02-27T22:56:00.000-08:00

One of the many reasons why car-pooling won’t quite work for me is that I am too whimsical with the radio while driving. I don’t have TV as part of my family since that thing enslaves me. An hour spent in two parts listening to the radio while commuting between office and home is my only source of passive entertainment.

Radio-Indigo, FM 91.9: Amongst all the channels in Bangalore, this one suits me the finest. I love the daily stock market update when RJ Meghna calls up their stock market expert. My heart goes out for her. She usually starts with a witty line depending on that day’s events, like “Mr. Ahuja, Are the stock markets going to make us millionaire too?” when Slumdog won Oscars.

A pretty flat toned reply comes from the other end and then he straightaway gets on with the updates “The markets are seen up/down due to global cues. * ABC is at X. * BCA seems to be doing well due to the new regulations. * CBA is coming up with new product. * Inflation numbers are at low at Y%. * …” .

Now replace all the * with Meghna’s disinterested “OK” and “Umhmm”. Mostly there are 4 OKs and 5 Umhmms, in no specific order, which makes for a good guessing game. That man could as well have been telling the scores of a Test match between Baroda and Railways. You can almost feel the relief in her voice when she hurriedly thanks him in the end, “Alright Mr. Ahuja, THANK YOU VERY MUCH”. Many times she has to ask a question related to one of his updates and at the same time concerning the financially illiterate common man; in this case she would say, “So finally we can eat vegetables now, hee hee .”

Radio One, FM 94.3: This is the only channel which continuously plays Hindi music, but it’s too mass-oriented and marred with very long breaks. I can recite all the ads including the ones in Kannada without understanding a word. In the evening there’s this request show in which the lady RJ repeats “How sweet/cute” to all the callers. Imagine listening to a tired software engineer telling “I am returning from my office” and then the response “So sweet”, especially when you too are returning from the office after a hectic day. I admit though that I couldn't have done any better than her in long term.

The greatest insult to your intelligence is done when they air celebrity interviews which are obviously already recorded and of course not taken by their RJs. They try to build up the excitement hours before the interview, then they actually let us hear Katrina’s phone ring and in between the pauses that Katrina takes while talking, they provide fillers like “Yes, Katrina, we all do that.”

However, the most annoying part is when they play a song with Punjabi touch like “Uncha Lamba Kadd” . When the song is about to begin, the RJ Prithvi, in his josh, blurts out something on the lines of “Oye Sonniye, Haai Kudiye ,Mar jaavan..” in a horrible imitation of northie accent. My Gurgaon born Vinnie shudders at those sounds; her childhood memories are so timidly molested.

All India Radio (AIR) Channels: Let’s start with the irritating bits first in continuation with the cribbing I’ve done so far. Most of private radio channels have pretty catchy brand music/song. They have their tag lines too like “Radio Mirchi, It’s HOT”, “FM 94.30, the Station For The Fatafat Generation” or "Radio Indigo, The Color Of Music" and you can clearly sense the hard work gone into creating these and ensuring that everything together present a coherent image to the listeners. Here’s what our Sarkaari channel FM Rainbow has to offer: A girl sings, just like a kindergarten kid would, “FM Rainbow Aaha , FM Rainbow Aaha”, twice, with no background music to speak of.

Then there are these poll/request kind of programs. The private channels come up with questions like “What would you do if the man you've been dating for two years tells you that he actually wears a wig?” or something contextual like “How safe do you feel the next day whenever there is a Bomb Hoax in Bangalore?”. You can see that they TRY.

Sometimes back this is what I heard on one of the national channels, in a fake American accent, and even shallower deep voice “I have a very interesting question today for you. What you would ask for if a Jinnie, you know the Aladdin Jinnie, grants you three wishes. Please sms to xyz number. Now listen to the song Mahi-Ve”. Then they went on to play Mind-blowing Mahia. That song too got interrupted all of a sudden. There’s simply no attempt towards creativity and there are just too many mistakes to ignore.

Meanwhile someone in fact replied to the above question. I was surprised to hear that. So now our RJ goes “We have a very funny reply from number ending with 666. His first wish is a hundred Armani Suits. What would you do with these many suits? Haa haa. His second wish is a Ferrari car. And his third wish is a big house”. You wonder whether the sender was sarcastic enough to send the apt reply to the ordinary question. Our dear RJ found it very funny though.

However, the programs on Vivid-bharti are very genuine. Their target audiences are small towns and villages, the three fourth of India. The requests come to them in form of hand written letters and the language is totally earthy and unpretentious.

Personal favorites are “Fauji Bhaiyon ke liye”, a program where mostly the requests from soldiers are entertained and “Sakhi-Saheli”, a program for housewives in the afternoon, where they discuss domestic issues and homely tips like how to prepare pickles, what are the benefits of sending girls to the school, how to handle family finance and save money, how they celebrate Holi. You realize that these things are not as simple as they sound and such programs are very much needed for the entertainment and information they provide. The best thing is that everything is so real.

When I hear “Jhumka Gira re” is requested by Billu, Tinku, Jamuna, Suman from Nagda, Nafeez, Tinu, Babu from Betiya.., I slip into nostalgia. As a child I had a peculiar insomniac condition of not being able to sleep in the afternoon (which is now getting compensated for). While my mom and younger brother used to sleep, I would be listening to the radio waiting for a request from Dewas. The other times I would just play cards by myself or would kill the passers by with my gun as the radio played. Of course this was before we had a TV.

I Think Therefore I am

2009-02-21T09:25:00.000-08:00

Don't know why, but I find myself in an academic mood today. Please pardon me for these feeble attempts at explaining things that are too profound for a novice to declare command over. Nevertheless, it can be seen as an interesting challenge to be able to put the terms in a layman's language.

Cogito, ergo sum (I think, therefore I am) .This is a logical statement. It's not your regular wisecrack or an inspirational saying like "I believe, so I will. ", but a conclusion arrived at with much deliberation and analysis. The great philosopher Descartes spent years in seclusion, clearing up his mind of previously acquired wisdom, to come up with his Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason, and Seeking Truth in the Sciences.

The mindless adoption of the statement in puns and quips on TV and in everyday life goes to show how knowledge/things are taken for granted once they are created and ready to use. A classical example is "Zero". It took millenniums and civilizations, before "Zero" was "invented" and now we find it hard to even imagine that "Zero" was something which needed to be "invented”. To us, it now appears to be such a trivial concept that we put it in the syllabus for kindergartens. Please do read this link to appreciate the sweat gone into creating "Zero".

Returning to the topic of the day, why does "I think" conclude that "I am”? Why didn't he make a statement like "I breathe, therefore I am"? To get the answers, one must first know what the need for the statement was.

One of my friends is partially color-blind. The day we discovered his "condition", we were arguing over the color of a flag on a temple about half a km away; he claimed it was green while to me it was orange. Thankfully enough, a couple of other guys joined us and we won 3-1. Later on, that friend had a check-up done and the "condition" was diagnosed.

Still, the whole episode left me wondering, what if someone identifies a color as green, but the shade he perceives is what looks orange to me; and vice versa. The problem with my friend was that he saw both of them as one color which he called green. However, it seemed perfectly plausible that some other person perceives the color-spectrum in a different way like the way we do when we wear colored goggles; what if someone would have put a colored goggle on me right from the time I was born. I wouldn't have been diagnoised with color-blindness since I would have still distinguisehd between all the colors; just that the perception would have been different. Is there one "true" perception?

Descartes noticed many such inconsistencies around him. Then there were questions like what if reality as it appears to us is a dream too. Am I just a part of someone else's dream or imagination? Or things and people around me are nothing but creation of my mind.

So he decided to build a system based on reasoning alone and devised a few rules to help him do that. One of the most important rules is known as "Cartesian Doubt", which, in his own translated words, is to "reject as absolutely false everything concerning which I could imagine the least doubt to exist.” This explains why he cannot start with "I breathe, therefore I am". To make this statement, one must first define what is breathing. That would involve defining nose, air, lungs, life etc. Not an ideal way to begin. He doubted everything he perceived and nose was definitely amongst them.

Once again he beautifully explains: “considering that all the thoughts we have when awake can come to us also when we sleep without any of them being true, I resolved to feign that everything which had ever entered my mind was no more truth than the illusion of my dreams. But I observed that, while I was thus resolved to feign that everything was false, I who thought must of necessity be somewhat; and remarking this truth--I think, therefore I am--was so firm and so assured that all the most extravagant suppositions of the skeptics were unable to shake it, I judged that I could unhesitatingly accept it as the first principle of the philosophy I was seeking."

So there. That's why it is "I think" and not "I breathe" or "I sleep". Thinking is the first and only activity that is self-evident,verifiable and not needing a definition.

One must be careful here; the above reasoning does not allow me to conclude that Priyanka Chopra exists because she thinks. For me, she is an external being, a perception and hence may be part of an illusion. A lot more reasoning and arguments than the one involved in reaching this first principle is required to even start considering Priyanka Chopra's existence. However, when and if she is thinking, then she too can be sure of her existence only. I am afraid that even after establishing further principles, I won't be existing for her.

Another point to be noted here is that the reasoning involved to reach the statement, or the first principle as it is called, just means that "I" that is proven to be existing here is something that is thinking and not necessarily the "Prashant Dhanke" as I know him to be; in fact that existing, thinking thing is not even established to be a human being. Many more principles need to be established and reasoned before such complex statements can be discussed.

In Praise Of Routine And In Glory Of Life

2009-02-08T05:04:00.000-08:00

The skin is getting its colour back. The blood is pure red now; gallons of alcohol have drained off. Sometimes though, the eyes yearn for the watery horizon. The waves bring a million messages from the end of the world. The meanings and interpretations they represent are overwhelming. I can't wait to write about my conversations with them. But not now.

Now is the time to get out of the Goa hangover and get on with daily life, the reality, the one that sustains, the one that allows for such dreamy patches and so resolutely absorbs randomness. If it wasn't for the half an hour of Yoga and other health practices that each day of my routine life follows, I wouldn't have been able to ride the mighty horses eight days in a row with less than four hours of sleep and more than the same number of beers.

The efficiency and strengths of a disciplined life are enormous. I almost surprised myself last Monday by reporting to office half an hour earlier than usual, full of verve and all prim and proper in my formals ,very much unlike the half naked drunken wanderer in Goa just a day ago. I dig formals to death at workplace .On Fridays, it's easy to spot me in the office even if you don't know me; I would be the only man in the entire office with polished black shoes. I pay my bills at least two weeks in advance, the reason I was able to stay unexpectedly longer towards the end of the month without worrying about defaults. My car never runs out of fuel, there is always some money in my wallet, I always carry a spare pair of spects and almost always have a backup plan for even the silliest things I intend to do e.g. getting a haircut.

I shall not bore you further with all the optimizations done for making daily life easier and hence thoughts richer; some of them are heart wrenching. Let me just give an example and move on : while booking the air-tickets I always select the window seat numbered F rather than A, so that I could lean on my right hand for sleeping. Someone told me that my face looks less uglier from left side; so this helps too.

However, point is that an organised day-to-day life allows one to enjoy vacations and other deviations in better ways; but due to thinking and talking about Goa the entire last week, I am not able to get back into that rhythm of the routine. My body, mind and soul thrive on those patterns. That is the reason why I have decided to give a very short break to talking and blogging about the Goa trip and it's experiences and concentrate on other aspects for a while.

Still, I miss the lonely walks late in the nights. One can't go for a walk at two past midnight in Bangalore. I used to do that some times during my undergrad days at IIT Kharagpur. Yesterday I came across the video at this link, which left me with wonderful memories of those days. Yes, I agree that it doesn't do justice to the video of "Where the hell is Matt", but that's not the purpose anyway; just watch it for nostalgia.

The song played during the video is “Praan” by Gary Schyman, and the lyrics are from the poem "The Stream of Life" by Rabindranath Tagore. Below is the translation. One can so relate to the feelings when one stands watching the endless sea under the dark starry sky, and then the waves come, one after the other, and then the most youthful of them reaches out and slowly envelops the feet, bringing one out of numbness; heavenly is the touch of life, coming straight from the source and the infinity . Here goes the poem :

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
in numberless blades of grass
and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth
and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

A few Snaps of the trip in Goa

2009-02-02T19:15:00.000-08:00

Here are a few snaps. I am waiting for more from friends who may be kind enough to mail them at prashantdhanke@gmail.com if at all they are reading this blog.

More would be added at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=59252&l=2befd&id=719977617

Goa Trip : Introduction

2009-02-01T05:58:00.000-08:00

So how was the trip ?

Words one expects to hear are : "Awesome", "Fantastic"," Disaster" ...
I am going to use similar words in a chain of posts devoted to Goa, but if there has to be an answer in as little word as possible, then I needn't utter a single word. The trip was planned for 4 days, but I ended up staying for 8 days. Action has, once again, roared louder than words.

I would be writing quite a few posts on the trip; this post is just to give an overview. The trip can be divided into two parts. The first 4 days (the planned ones) when Chitto was there with me and the last 4, when I stayed back and wandered around alone.

God has painted Goa a million times more colorful. Life and people are very different and even more interesting. And then there is the Sea: blue,benevolent, vast and playful. Of course, it is the troop of beaches that run the economy, but you've got to visit the place to see how charmingly humble the Sea is when it allows the land and its inhabitants to shine through.

I feel that right now I am too tired to do justice to the romance of the place, so let me quickly write down an unordered and incomprehensive list of things I would be talking about in weeks to come :

1. Experiences in the mighty Sea.

2. Beaches and the shacks.

3. Bike rides and water sports.

4. Excellent food and the drinks. (I didn't have a single meal sans alcohol for over 8 days).

5. The drunken walks on the streets and sea-shore late(very) at night. Sometimes I pictured myself as a lost soul, the other times as a warrior, or someone leaving Las Vegas, or...

6. Stay at the resort. Each hotel staff is a story in himself. Very friendly and interesting bunch.

7. People I met. This is going to be my favorite part.
There was this lunatic Russian; two Spanish ladies carrying their own paragliding kit ( pretty heavy); a Polish Kid on a beach who took a liking to me; people I met at the Titto's (the most over-rated place in Goa) and on the streets; another naughty kid Louise at the resort; the musicians who would come and play at the bar in the evenings; and then there were these three lovely ladies from UK , each prettier than the other, who soon became the life of the resort. The hotel staff named them "Pariyan", I prefer "Butterflies"; more colorful and yet so real.

8. Culture, tourists, haggling and miscellaneous.

Despite the excesses of the last week, my body( which is bronze now) isn't tired at all; but my brain is. Once I get in the groove, the detailed posts on each topics should be much more exciting and would do justice to the one heck of a trip I had.

Right now, all I need is some sleep; from one dream to another.

God's Own Child

2009-01-17T21:57:00.000-08:00

There were impatient knocks on my door this morning. I stopped Eminem swearing loudly on my Laptop, opened the door and found the delivery boy from Gas Agency carrying a ripe red Cylinder with a unbroken seal on it.

"Sir, Where do I put it ?"

I was speechless. This was nothing less than divine intervention, a prayer anwered before it was made. Last time I ordered for the cylinder, it was 2006. I still had some Gas left in that Cylinder, but have been thinking since last few weekends of ordering the next one soon; have heard people complaining how long it takes to get the Gas after the booking and that had me concerned about occasional noodles and Tea, my midnight oil. I don't cook by choice, but not being able to do so, due to constraints, restricts my independence.

I am not into sleep-walking/talking but suspected that maybe unconsciously I might have called the agency since such thoughts have been bothering me; so I said :

"Did I order it?"

"Should I take it back?" Delivery boy was being helpful and understanding here.

"Ummm...OK..put it inside." the girl agreed reluctantly.

While replacing he told me that the previous one still seems to have a Rs.50 worth Gas left. Before this Angel came into my life,I had been worrying that I might have to drive to the Gas agency for the new order since my account might have expired (last time it wasn't easy). So I was prepared to waste petrol as well as my time which, put together or apart, are worth way more than 50. Clearly this was a much better deal.

Besides, saying no to the God's messenger brings bad luck.

I further tried to take full advantage of this opportunity and gave him two slightly torn Rs.100 notes along with others. Some smart fellow offloaded them to me months back and since then I've been struggling hard to find a bigger fool, but found no buyers. Correctly judging that this guy wouldn't give a damn about those notes since his job is just to transport assets, I offered and he accepted. That's how shallow we both were in that moment.

So... Thank you Lord and forgive me for my sins.

"Ascension" Short Fiction Contest

2009-01-14T02:59:00.000-08:00

There's this cool short fiction contest going on here. You'll find some fantastic works there. None of the stories are more than 250 words; short flings you wouldn't mind indulging in.

Yes, there's an entry from BrownPhantom too here. He is the new kid on the block and it's his first attempt at writing. And it shows. I think the underlying idea is decent, but the composition is crude and technically weak when you compare them with some excellent contributions there. Still, have a look at it; you would have read a trashy post on this blog anyway.

It was an interesting experience with unique challenge of keeping within the word limit. I first wrote the piece and then counted the words to be 400. So I had to eliminate a few points and chop some of the sentences which sort of left me with the same feeling that girls have when they are smitten with that expensive dress near the window but settle for the one kept back in third row that lies within their budget.

I realized that I should have always kept the word-limit in mind and paced the piece accordingly. What happened was that I invited the whole group for a ride but the driver later on brought a smaller taxi; unwilling to deny any of them a place I requested each one of them to adjust which led to every one's discomfort and two of them left fuming.

All said and done, I enjoyed the experience and am already waiting for the next one. Also, couldn't stop reading the other stories. It's a great display of varying perspectives that human mind conjures from a same source. It is surreal. Thank to Jason Evans who is the creator of the blog and the contest.

Stupid Tit-Bits

2009-01-07T10:31:00.000-08:00

1. Phantom Fetish
Long ago, when there used to be not more than a single hit per day on this blog, I would check each visitor’s location and referring URL on Sitemeter. So, one fine day there was a visitor all the way from Denmark. Pleasantly surprised to have a guest from a developed country on the blog, I went on to check the referring URL. He (I strongly believe it is not “She”) had come through Google search results for “Phantom + Vagina”.

I was filled with guilt for wasting his time. The culprit is this link along with the Blog title. The only solace for me is that he stayed on this blog for a good 40 minutes which is as good a tribute as this blog could've expected from someone seeking his fantasies. It’s quite hard to hold attention of a man who knows what he wants, especially when you offer, well, nothing. Awfully enough, this post’s title ensures that he might reach here once again if he tries to search for other anatomical parts of his Phantom princess. By the way, it’s unfair to assume that he was seeking porn; the search results show other possibilities.

2. Go Goa Go
Looks like Mr. TripToGoa would be hitting a century soon. Flights are booked, rooms reserved and mood is upbeat. Life’s tough since I have pretty high standards to meet. The last beach I sipped my whisky on was in a place called Miami . Previous to that, I was on the beaches of Texas and Florida during Spring-Break WooHooooo. Those feeling jealous need not worry a hell lot: I’m not gonna post any snaps here; might just describe a few incidents here and there which you may assume to be empty boasts. Did I tell you that I was a palmist during the spring break and a painter by profession in Miami?

3. Oral Affairs
To a man having a bad day, we say in Hindi: “Kiski shakal dekhee thee subah subah?” which loosely translates to “Whose face did you see first thing in the morning?” Cockroach it was for me today. Comfortable perched on the toothbrush. The sight broke my heart for three reasons.

Reason number one has to do with my principle to kill one when I see one. I am kind to ants but cruel to cockroaches. A slow drowning death with the smell of pesticide must have been its last memories.

The second reason was the realization that for every crime that is caught, there have been five committed that aren’t. The third one was that in real life in my bathroom, the 'Copenhagen Interpretation' amounts to nothing, which, in turn meant that I cannot just ignore what has been observed and hence go down to buy a new toothbrush and consequently climb up the four floors when the deed is done.

Now that we are discussing toothbrushes, here’s a handy tip to keep in mind while buying one. Choose the weirdest looking toothbrush at the shop; more so if you plan to visit your relatives for days. I bought a dark purple one with yellow lines on it. In case you wondered about who the potential buyers are for those distastefully colored toothpastes , the answer is : Wise men who have been there, suffered that.

I had planned on writing three more stupid bits, but telephonic interruptions have delayed the endeavor. It’s time to sleep now. Tomorrow morning I am gonna put that filthy six incher in my mouth. The act would continue for a few minutes leaving my mouth filled with froth which I must spit and not swallow. Let me check if there’s a Little Johnny joke on the same lines. Readers, please send me a link if you find one.

I am ashamed of the perverted undertone of this entire post.

The year that wasn't

2008-12-29T09:17:00.000-08:00

This has been a dull year for me. Not a great way to start a post but I do find myself questioning “Did I simply sidestep and let the driver of the bus (rather train) pass by without noticing me?”. I didn’t even yell back at the driver; just sat there chewing paan.

That this has been the most uneventful year of my life is an uneasy fact which can’t be denied. I look for answers. Mathematics provides some of them, rest I explain with the help of cricket.

In general (not always), we characterize situations in personal life to be significant when they happen for the first time or have an high intensity of experience. So first day at the college is a day we all remember but at the same time no parent would not cherish the birth of the second child.

Life is such that the probability of anything happening for the first time reduces with age. When exactly do you expect the first shower of monsoon to drench you: June or September? The first word is uttered in months, first step taken in a year, first crush happens before you’ve seen a decade and so on and, as the usage goes, so forth. I don’t expect to have my first pimple or the first job on the wrong side of twenties. Yes, there are things like the first white hair which will take its own sweet time, but that’s what the point is: number of such events reduces with the age. At the cost of sounding sissy, I must admit that the only first thing I see happening to me in near future isss …welllll..."samajh me nahi aata kaise kahun"…MARRIAGE (which, for information's sake, and for the delight of lovely ladies reading this blog, I must mention, is not yet fixed).

What happens, sir, to the intensity, you might ask. It reduces logarithmically. Your tenth year is 10% of your entire lifetime you have lived till then while your 30th is 3.33%. dY/dX=1/X implies Y=log(X). So a bonus or a promotion now doesn’t thrill me as much as it used to about three years ago. I am pretty calm now whenever my Vinnie nudges a fellow passenger. She’s got bruises all over her anyway. Of course there are certain things like wine and wisdom that get better with age, but that’s an ongoing process and not accountable. Saying that I grew wiser this year is like taking comfort in “You are unique”. Nothing different from others here and hence the intensity is lost.

The above two observations do provide a logical justification for the current state of affairs; some introspection is still in order. I wasn’t a lazy bum for the entire year and did lead a cheerfully optimistic and active life; didn’t stop trying either. To say that this was a year of consolidation and strengthening wouldn’t be miles away from the truth. Talking cricket here, I must say that the batsman didn’t score a duck or a century, but did manage a whole lot of runs and improved his technique. So if the “events” are scoring 0 or a 100, the statistics wouldn’t show any ticks in those columns but the averages and strike rates are a pleasing spectacle.

Let’s take some of my team’s batsmen one by one in this 2008 innings. Mr. Health was the man in form and scored a flourishing 88; he had never looked in such fine touch. Regular practice and disciplined approach, he claims, is the key to his success. There was a promising debut by Mr. Blog with his 45. Some of his shots showed solid technique and promise of a stable future; we’ll have to wait and watch how far he goes.

After scoring back to back centuries in last two innings, Mr. Finance returned with a measly 14. The bodyline bouncers from Lehman Brothers got him retired hurt and specialist say that it might take more than a year for him to recover.

Mr. Relationships worked pretty hard to get back in form and scored a gritty 40. There were some poor shot selections, but overall you got to admire the skill, courage and patience he was showing on the bouncy tracks which he is not very accustomed to bat on. Unfortunately he feels that he was a victim of a bad run-out decision by the umpire; in the hindsight he shouldn’t have attempted the risky single. Ususally , the batsman gets the benefit of doubt, but such has seldom been the case with Mr. Relationships.

However, Mr. TripToGoa was the unluckiest of them all; he didn’t even get the strike due to bad light. However he is destined to play up the order (read January) in the next innings (read 2009).Mr. Job did well with a handy 76. He makes batting look so easy and comfortable. Not the one to shy away from playing the risky reverse sweeps, he has been a soothing delight to watch. Mr. Rubbishknowledge steadily accumulated 69.

Similar contributions have ensured that the innings total is around 424 (even though there isn’t a single century) which is not bad by any standard when you look at the pitch. The batsmen have learnt their lessons and are improving further. I take solace in the fact that the team never looked getting out below 200 and steady progress was the theme of the day. Gaining the advantage of this innings, they can play an attacking game further; I anticipate firecrackers in 2009. Someone told me long ago, there’s calm before the storm.

PS: My friend Pravu has suggested an engaging topic after reading this post. Why don't you guys submit the runs scored by your batsmen in 2008: Mr. Health, Job, Relationships and you may add further. Check out the comments to get an idea :).

Dilli Ka Thug : Part 2

2008-12-19T09:59:00.000-08:00

Here goes the analysis of the first incidence in the Tricks-of-Trades series.

I turned. It was him.

Statistics:
When I look back, I think he had me even before I left my cab. Trying to talk to me in Marathi sealed the deal because you don’t hear that language a lot in Gurgaon while walking on its streets. In my office there was just one Maharashtrian, most of the outsiders were Bengali, Tamil & Telugu. What I failed to see was that he was targeting a “niche” market. He just needs one catch in maybe two-three nights since that catch can be milked handsomely. No point asking 5-10 rupees to fifty people.
It should be easy to picture Casanova paying all his attention to a single lady in the ballroom; the pretty damsel is flattered imagining herself to be the object of his attention. Casanova would much rather take her to bed with him that night than trying to get a peck on his cheeks from half the women in the room.
I suited the thug’s target profile very well. He wouldn’t waste his time on middle-aged men. Approaching women at night isn’t a very good idea. He would try his hand on younger folks like me. A lot of office cabs used to stop there. He would approach outsiders (I clearly didn’t look like a Jat or a Sardaar) and then try his luck with the language .The subject who is unaware of the well-thought sampling process is prone to fall for it if he speaks the same language. 20-25 me ek to fit ho hee jaayega.

Repeatability:
We must consider both the dimensions: Space and Time here. He cannot operate at the same place regularly. He has to have breaks and shifts. That day when I saw him again, he had to leave the place immediately when I demanded my money and threatened to call the police. Of course he feigned ignorance and I didn’t have a case strong enough to be proved or to be proud of. There was an old Indian playing similar trick with me in Manhattan when a colleague interrupted in between and repeated the thug's story. That colleague was a victim of the “Old Dr. Patel from California” whose luggage was lost by the airlines and money stolen. Dr. Patel immediately retreated.
Also, not all locations suit his operations. The place should be public, inside or very near to a market in the neighborhoods where young migrants stay.

Risks and Returns:
There is no doubt that for most of the thugs, this activity is just one of the side businesses. Some of them could be in fact be day-workers. There is a lot of competition too. As the comments to part1 suggest, many of them try similar stories. The entry-barrier, as they say in economics, isn’t too high. What this means is that they had to negotiate and divide the areas amongst themselves and maybe share the proceeds too in some cases. Still without doubt, the supply market for them is huge and growing.
Another outflow of income might be going to the Police in his operating zone. A Thulla knows one when he sees one. So the thug has to hedge his risks by bribing. Anyway, it is hard to prove the charge even if you catch him. Another major factor which leads to reduction in his risk is shame/embarrassment of the victim. Even the colleague in Manhattan just threatened Dr. Patel with a call to police; all three of us knew he won’t be doing that.
This phenomenon is somewhat parallel to what happens when a girl is teased by a bunch of sadak-chaaps. She doesn’t raise an alarm and might even thinks that it is somehow her fault; maybe the lipstick is too dark or the jeans too tight. She is ashamed to draw further attention. {Come to think of it, I have been saved of many vices simply due to inabilities. I can’t whistle loudly enough to make a girl turn. Not really sure whether a wink would have the desired effect when it comes from the eyes behind the spects. I didn’t take to smoking because when friends tried to teach me, I would consistently wet the cigarette; this irritated them to no end which resulted in a lot of cussing. I, being a self-respecting man at that age, gave up. } Let’s not digress any further.

Preventive/Corrective actions:
Each man being has his moments when given the circumstances he can be taken advantage of. Not very different is the case for a woman too. So what do we do apart from being alert and asking more questions?
Such thugs take advantage of the kindness in people. So do we stop being compassionate and close the door to the ones who really might be in need. There is a well known term in economics for such situations: “Asymmetric Information”. The solution here is to help people through trustworthy and efficient channels. Also you must realize that you are not God and don’t have the capability of lifting the whole world out of its misery.
Let me say a few good things about myself since it’s my blog. I sponsor a child’s education here. I told them not to tell me about my student, since then I would be doing this only for say a girl named Seeta rather than a girl named XYZ. This is being slightly mean and selfish on my part, but as Prashant Dhanke once said: Everyone is self-centered; it’s the radius that matters :). I redeem all my credit-card points to CRY. Now I can say “NO” with a little less guilt.

Dilli Ka Thug : Part 1

2008-12-08T09:31:00.000-08:00

This is the first anecdote in the series “Tricks of trades” introduced in an earlier post. Part 1 describes the incident while Part 2 would be analyzing it.

On a cold winter night in Gurgaon around five years ago, my office cab stopped near the apartment I stayed in with friends. The driver passed me the register to put an entry for the trip. All this while, my eyes were fixated on a poor family sitting below the street lamp : two men, two women and five children out of which two were in their mothers’ laps; the children were crying and didn’t have any winter clothes to cover their body with. The family didn’t look like beggars though; they appeared to be villagers. I signed the register and got down the cab; the wind was quite chilly that December and I felt guilty wrapped in my oversized leather jacket which, friends now tell me, used to make me look like a goat in sheep’s wool.

As I walked towards the apartment, the elder amongst the two men (must have been around 35) asked me in broken Hindi whether I understand Marathi to which I replied in affirmative. He thanked Devi for that and then told me in Marathi that they were from a village in Nasik and that they were visiting a Devi’s temple when someone fooled them in train and took all their suitcases & money. A young one in his mother’s lap started yelling harder to which the man responded by shouting at his wife to keep the baby quite. I asked him whether they’ve had any food and learnt that the kind-hearted shopkeeper on the other side of the road gave them a packet of bread which, I suspected, must have been stale. Police just took their report, but didn’t help any further.

By this time I was feeling really sad for them and wondered with anger about the wicked ways of the world. These simpletons had come to visit a temple (the only form of tourism known to most of the Indian villagers) and someone was wily enough to put these men with women and little children in such a sorry state. On further enquiry, he told me that there’s a train tomorrow morning and he would forever be indebted to me if I could lend him 500 Rupees for the tickets. He had a lump in his throat as he said this, his eyes were watery and hands joined together. I put a hand on his shoulder to give him some comfort and nodded in agreement.

We both then walked towards the ATM. I was feeling quite proud of myself and magnanimous by now. I thought that I have lost count of how many thousands are there in my bank account, and what a great deal of difference just one of them would make to this bloke’s life. What good a man’s life is if it couldn’t help the ones in need: my conscience gladly told my mind to which a compassionate heart agreed heartily. I gave him 1000 Rupees to cover the tickets and buy some warm clothes and food for them. The man said that he doesn’t regret missing on the visit to temple as he met his God in me. I dismissed this foolish flattery with great disdain.

While on our way back from ATM to the place where his family was waiting, he noted down my address to which he would send the Money Order after reaching his village even before he drinks a drop of water. He was glad to meet a Marathi-manoos is such distress. I sort of scolded him for thinking that only a Marathi man would help him; I would have helped him even if he wasn’t Marathi (I really was getting too filmy by now). He asked the children to touch my feet when we reached there but I jumped back and then bid adieu to the family wishing them luck and instructing to not to trust anyone so easily now in the train.

"Abe badaa late ho gaya ! Kahaan fuss gaya tha saale. Aadhe ghante se wait kar rahen hain. Chal dinner karte hain fatafat. " one of my friends greeted me as I eneterd the flat.

"Kuch nahi yaar! Wo gaadi waala pahle Sector 7 le gayaa tha ; ladki thi saath me to uska last drop nahi ho sakta tha" I said in a resigned voice.

Some lewd comments followed about how that girl must have molested me throughout the trip; they blamed the winter for her high libido.

We sat down to have the dinner. Two of my friends started the routine bickering about the food which I interrupted with a lecture on how so many people die of hunger and that we should be grateful for having this food and a comfortable life.

"Mujhe lagta hain ek nahi 2-2 ladkiyan thi iske saath" was a very well received response.

Weeks past by and no Money order came. I was hurt. When I decided to give that guy the money, I didn’t have any intentions of getting it back. “He shouldn’t have promised to return the money while we were walking back from the ATM. I had never asked for it. Anyways, good that I helped the families reach home. Neki kar, dariya me daal” were my thoughts. I didn’t tell about the episode to anyone.

About six months later on a humid evening when I was taking a walk around my apartment, I heard a voice a few feet away: “Aapko Marathi samajhti hain kya saab?”

The Happening

2008-11-30T10:22:00.000-08:00

Wednesday evening. Around 9 PM. I called up Chitto to discuss about the Goa-trip that we three (third one being Pravu) had planned for the first weekend of December. Tickets were booked, researches were in progress to have some serious kick-ass fun and my intent for the call was to finalize the place of stay. Having exchanged the pleasantries ( both of us greet each other with a “Hello Sir!” for reasons unknown), we decided to get Pravu too in the conference.. He stays in Gurgaon but was in Kharagpur at that time.

Just when we finalized on a Hotel on Calangute beach, Chitto asked us whether we heard the sounds of bullets in the background. Chitto stays in Colaba and informed us that there’s a gang war going on in Colaba at various place and he has switched off all the lights and bolted the doors & windows. I googled “Colaba” for any such news, but there wasn’t any update till then. I jokingly told him to show some enterprise, become a citizen journalist and take some snaps of the gangsters. He then heard the booming sound of a bomb or a grenade perhaps.

We decided to hang up some time later and I immediately called up my brother who stays in Wadala which is a few Kilometers away from Colaba. He is a party animal and visits places in Colaba quite often. He was at a friend’s place in Dadar at that time and was aware of the “situation” in Colaba. He assured me that he will leave only after the gang war is over. By this time rediff had a headline about shootouts in Colaba; details were missing.

A couple of hours later I checked the news again and by this time it was clear that Mumbai was under an terrorist attack at various places and around ten people have died. Once again I called up brother. He was still with his friend Munish in Dadar. Three of Munish’s friends were missing and not reachable. They were supposed to be in Colaba at that time. Brother told me that he will leave only in the morning now. He had called up our parents & informed them. This is something that we both always do; we both never get calls from home in times of crisis and it is we who inform them that there is a crisis and we are safe.. Last time there were blasts in Bangalore, I was the one to inform my father that there are blasts and that I am far away from the area where blasts took place which was a lie ; the affected areas were at walking distances.

Thursday morning I logged on to the net as soon as I was up. The death count was 100 and the attack was rightly termed as unprecedented in terms of impact and manner in which it was being carried out. All the news headlines were in bold and there was absolutely no coverage for any other news which included state elections. A picture of burning Taj was shown along with the count for dead, hostages and injured. Experiences of narrow escape and horror abounded.

I went to office and then called up Chitto once again. He told me that the Nariman Point house where a Jewish family is taken hostage is just two streets away from his place. There are trucks of army and firemen around his place. He didn’t have any option but to stay locked inside the house. Once again I called my brother. Two of Munish’s friends who were missing last night were shot dead in Leopold Cafe. The bullets went right through their heads. One of them was two years junior to me at IIT Kharagpur and was about to get married in December. The other was from Indore.

The idea of a rocking trip to Goa seemed too perverse at that time and I discussed the same with Chitto. We decided to call it off, but gave ourselves a couple of days before we put a death nail into it and inform Pravu. My brother was going to Dewas the next day and he too cancelled the tickets now. The carnage was still on and the end was nowhere in sight. Contradictory news and rumors abounded. Taj and Oberoi were reported to be free a couple of times only to be followed by with news about raging fire and even more bullets and grenades.

My brother works for Yes-bank and Friday afternoon I got a call from him that Yes-Bank chairman Ashok Kapur was found dead in Oberoi. Saturday morning I went out for a walk and saw some reporters at the Frank Anthony school which is quite close to my place; one can hear “We shall overcome someday” when they sing in the assembly. The reporters were here because the NSG Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan, who died bravely combating the terrorists, studied at this school.

By Saturday afternoon, the trauma had officially ended. This was the first time things were happening to people connected to me. Thinking about my feelings about all this seems guilt filled indulgence to me. How does it matter if everything would be forgotten in a few days? Many of us are expressing rage, offering solutions, analyzing the situation, writing articles, commenting on the news sites. Will it be the same short lived patriotism, rage and sadness? Would the voices once again die down without any actions? One-minute-silences would follow, dead would be forgotten and then life will go on, waiting for another day when once again these maniacal devils would come to play with their bullets and bombs and bathe with our blood.

For this one time I wish there is a One minute where entire Mumbai erupts with people shouting at top of their voices. Let there be screams and cries, let there be shrieks, let the city roar. Let the twenty million souls voice there anguish and anger together; the sound would be loud enough to tremble Delhi and Karachi. This time Mumbai shouldn’t be praised for its ‘resilience’, but for its strength and the will to not to forget what was done to it and to not let this happen again. How we all wish that. But would those wishes remain a dream and would we once again allow the reality to become a nightmare.

Tricks of trades: Introduction

2008-11-16T06:31:00.000-08:00

Friday night. Music was exploding inside Vinnie as she zipped through the traffic at dangerous speeds to bring me back to home from work. All bills are paid ahead of time, car has been serviced and insured last week , groceries are well stocked, hair are short enough; in short, the weekend ahead had nothing better to do other than watch me switching between the bed and the bean bag . As the song goes, I had no deeds to do, no promises to keep. I really was feeling groovy, a drink was in order.

I parked the car and walked towards the “Happy Wine Shop” nearby to get a quarter of whisky. I had a 500 note along with a few 10’s. Something within me told me that the shop-keeper might try to cheat: he’ll pretend that I gave him a 100 rupee note instead of 500. So I memorized the number on the 500 note as an alibi. The romantic in me imagined that it would be pretty neat when I’ll grandly challenge him to check the 500 notes in his stack for the number I memorized and once vindicated, fellow customers would clap for me with admiration.

The thing costs 130; I gave the 500 note, he asked me for a change of 30 which I gave him and naturally expected 4 hundred rupee notes in return. He began packing the small box and gave it to me in a bag. I took it and then walked back without taking the 4 hundreds. I forgot!! Forgot to ask for the change, forgot the whole 500 vs 100 analysis done just minutes ago. I still remember the number on the 500 note, but when it mattered I forgot the reason why I memorized it. The next morning when I looked into my wallet, I realized my mistake. Going back to the shop was futile; still went there. Someone who sells liquor can’ be expected to be so honest; God knows how many men he has to bribe and how many weird characters he has to deal with in a day’s work.

The shop-keeper tried his luck and he succeeded against a fully prepared customer. He must be doing this many a times; sometimes he would win, the other times he’ll sheepishly return the change feigning oversight. Not much risk involved there. That’s one of the many safe long term strategies that people use quite often. Then there are other tricks too, some brilliant some naive, successful to varying extents.

Most of the professions allow the cunning ones opportunities to cheat/trick/take unfair advantages. A few of them might not even be illegitimate; rules & law can get you only so far. I recall being taken for a ride by the folks at petrol-pump, house-maid, shop-keepers, bank, land-lord, restaurants, cab-drivers, sales-persons, two professional con-men and some more. My story would be an antithesis of the movie “Catch me if you can”. I see a lot of smart ones around me fallen to similar stuff at the hands of apparently less educated and intelligent ones. The reason I think it is possible for a worker at petrol-pump to cheat an IITian with a degree in Economics from LSE is that he has a method. I have caught him when the same trick was being played the third time and when I shared this with my friends, most of them admitted being duped similarly and now are thankful for pointing it out.

I’ll be starting a series “Tricks of Trades” devoted to these incidents. Would take up examples from the list mentioned above and try to analyze the strategies that the subjects involved use. All these posts shall be under the label “Tricks of Trades”. The analysis would be around the forces that help these subjects take the advantage. I’ll try to see what is the economics involved, what kind of statistics favor the modus operandi and what are the psychological factors that are used. Also would think on the lines of risks involved, repeatability, longevity and long term pay-offs of the strategies from the trickster’s point of view.

I’ll follow it up with the way I felt and reacted after realizing the truth of the situation and what could be done to prevent/detect/minimize losses in such cases. Even the best prepared would loose sometimes. As the example above shows, I had already sensed what was to come, taken the precaution and yet when the time came my mind chose to reflect on other things in life and the preparations went in vain. The excuse given in such cases is that we are only human after all.

What Happens In Dewas Stays In Dewas

2008-11-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

After six long years, I celebrated Diwali with family in my home town Dewas (fondly called Las Dewas by expatriates).

“Aa gaya wapis ? Kya kiya Diwali par?” chirped Mukta, a very dear friend now, enthusiastically back in 2002 when I returned to Gurgaon after Diwali celebrations.
“Aisa kuch nahi kiya jo baaki log nahi karte” was the succinct response in a nonchalant and naturally cold tone.

I’ll answer her question this year with a little more description. Most of the mornings I had to keep a three year old entertained so that his mother could help my Mom prepare sweets. Another daily occupation was to wait in Verandah for a cow to come along and then inform Mom; she would feed her last night’s leftovers.

For Dad, I was the expert driver. Dad has been driving for decades, but still can’t reverse a car confidently. So I drove him through the town and waited outside while he entered his client’s places to distribute Gifts & sweets. Played a hard fought Test-series with Bro that spanned over five days. Met a couple of close school friends after very long time. We all have grown old now.

Dewas now has a cool multiplex to boast of. The ticket costs sixty rupees and they come to your seats to take the order for popcorn and soft drinks which, I am proud to say, are priced nearly as much as in Bangalore. Bro & I went with a couple of neighbourhood friends to watch “Golmaal Returns”. The seat next to Bro was damaged; whoever tried sitting on it fell on the floor. There were three such victims and watching them go down was way more hilarious than the movie. All attentions were diverted to that seat whenever a potential Bakra came to sit there; once my eyes were fixed on the screen when the stranger seating beside me nudged “Ek aur aa riyaa hain”. No one warned the poor fellow and once again everyone burst out laughing when he crashed.

Unwillingly burst a lot of crackers and ate thousands of sweets. Midway through all these excesses, I developed an irritating cough in my chest which made breathing difficult during the nights. I’ve managed to stay away from medication since last seven years with some luck, strong determination and persistent laziness. Expressed the desire to extend the run to ten years when brother suggested visiting a doctor. Bro reasoned “ Yaar wo record to Bangalore ka hain. What happens in Dewas, stays in Dewas.” Persuasive argument, but so many Sloths have survived a lifetime without a visit to the Vet. Good old treatment comprising of less food, lots of water and 12 hours of sound sleep for two days came to rescue once again. The glorious run continues.

One of the most enjoyable parts of the day is to read the local Hindi newspaper with morning tea. Fashion movie’s review read: “Is film me tamaam models nashe ki latiyad ho jaati hain aur apna jeevan bistar aur ramp par bitaa deti hain”. Even better was a Diwali-special booklet which had an article informing the reader with ten points about places where the Goddess Laxmi stays and the places she shuns. “Jo poora nanga ho kar nahaata hain uske ghar Laxmiji nahi rahti”. I know that Santa Clause doesn’t visit you if you are naughty throughout the year, but have my doubts over this “Thou shalt not bathe naked” maxim. Haven't done a survey on this one , but my guess is that most of the readers should be spending their life in penury. Also, please be informed that having sex at sunrise or sunset adversely affects your financial prospects.

Overall the trip to my little town was great and apparently aisa bahut kuch kiya jo baaki log nahi karte .

Don’t cry over spilt milk

2008-10-12T12:48:00.000-07:00

Four babies are being born every second. Scientists at ISRO are toiling hard for nation’s first mission to moon this month. Rules are being rewritten in the finance world which is in a turmoil never witnessed since ‘The Great Depression’. Minissha Lamba is dropping her ‘Kidnap’ itsy-bitsy for ‘Maxim’.

Meanwhile, far-far away from all this excitement, on a lovely Sunday morning, yours truly is busy preparing morning cereal in a kitchen where little has changed since last two years. I take the milk-filled-till-the-brim bowl in living room and try to settle myself in the bean bag. Please don’t try this at your home. Milk spills on my T-shirt the moment my body has comfortable settled. I would have perhaps given a squeak if there had been an audience. But now I silently suffer. I decide to finish whatever is left in the bowl first before getting up to change the wet apparel.

Seconds later, the milk makes it presence felt on the skin on my stomach. ‘Milk is good for skin’ is what I cheer myself up with. Cleopatra bhi gadhe ke doodh se nahaati thi. I read this trivia long back in a ‘Ripley’s Believe it or not’ book gifted to me on the ninth birthday. I was disappointed to see it when I tore open the gift-wrap; was expecting a board-game. But that book did a lot of good to the kid who lived in an age where Doordarshan was his only eye to see the world.

I cringe at the memories of watching ‘Sangeet ka akheel Bhartiya Karyakarm’ and ‘Krishi Darshan’. ‘He-man’ was the epitome of entertainment. Sometimes I here people reminisce those days with fondness; nostalgia is all fine and dandy but I have a sound objection to the claims that Doordarshan-days were much better. Seriously!!! Just how dumb-sighted someone has to be to ignore the choices and improvement in quality of present times in favor of mind-numbingly boring and unimaginative pieces of crap served back then. Kids these days are way too cool . TV has a very important role in this evolution. And to all those who yap about degradation in morals and values, all I’ll say is that we were ignorant, not innocent.

Anyway, back in present tense, while the skin on my stomach is getting the care that Cleopatra was used to, the door bell rings. I ignore it. It works quite a few times. But the possessor of the hand on the bell is adamant. I know this must be one of the aunties who employ the same maid. The "chann-chann" sound of bangles confirms the fact.

“Who’s there?” I shout from within the bean bag with clear hint of irritation.
“Mrs. X. Did the bai come today?” yells Mrs X.
“No. I’ll send her to your place if she comes.” I say in a leave-me-alone tone.
“Ok. Pakka send her. I’ve to take my mother to ……” describes Mrs. X in a single breath.
A resigned “Yes” is what I manage. Mrs X. leaves after cribbing about the maid the maid to her heart's content.

I am not an antisocial lunatic who stays buried away from the big bad world outside. But this ‘Aaj bai nahi aai’ talk pisses me off to no end. Simply stated, I don’t share the same fascination for the topic. Again, not claiming to be a man of sophisticated taste, I admit to watching reruns of Big-Boss on You-tube and discuss the game-plan with like-minded people. But bai-talk is just not my cup of tea. Have told the aunties so many times that I don’t care if the maid doesn’t come, please don’t bother me. Even scolded one of the persistent aunties to not to knock on my door every other day. Strategies also include opening the door wearing just a towel. But, as the great king Singh sings in Singh is King “ Taan Lo Dus Banduke, Koyale Fir Bhi Kooke”, to no avail . Once she called me in the office while I was giving a presentation and even though I just said ‘Yes/No/OK’ during the conversation, the audience gave me a sympathetic look assuming me to be under some serious personal distress.

Well, such is life. Need to change my T-shirt now and move on. You know what they say:

Shadows of the mind

2008-10-09T03:16:00.000-07:00

Since last quarter of an hour I’ve been wondering about the value of right hand. When no amount of money succeeded in luring me into parting with it, I turned to other body parts. So if on a cold dark night, I am captured by a seasoned sadist and he offers the choice to either part with right hand or with both the legs (third option being to die) , I’ll let go of my right hand. But if the choice is between left leg and right eye on one hand while right hand on the other, I’ll let him toss a coin.

Thinking about other currencies apart from body parts, I think a three year jail term in my youth with the guarantee of no sodomy comes close too in exchange for the right hand. Here you can play with the balance by varying the duration in prison.

The way mind makes choices is still not understood, probably can’t be “understood” and explained at all in near future. Homo-sapiens are intelligent, but not naturally “logical”. Take for instance the trades I mentioned above. You people might choose different values of the same currencies (body parts/ years in prison) for the right hand, but I assume most of us, who are reasonably happy with life and have certain hopes about the future, wouldn’t want to part ways with their right hand for money. However, now a new exchange offer is introduced: Take 100 billion dollars (let's call it A) for three years in prison (say B). I am tempted. But then I also put the value of suffering of loosing the right hand (say C) to be the same as that of three years in jail. No matter how illogical it sounds, we human beings are perfectly capable of bartering A for B, B for C , but not A for C . They call it Intransitivity .

Similarly, whom would I rather kiss: the puppy next door or Abhishek Bachchan. Hygiene advises against touching that puppy but I know my choice here.

There are certain decisions which though look illogical at first glance, need not be so when observed with some of acknowledgement of psychology. We must be prepared to accept psychological principles as axioms though. Examples abound in the seemingly logical field of economics. You would agree that if a rich emperor offers you a bet of Rs.10 with a fair coin (Heads: you win/ Tails: you loose), you might choose to play the game depending on your mood. The expected value of the bet is 0 (-10*0.5 + 10*0.5). However if you know that the coin is biased in favor of Heads (60% probability of tails), your mood shall take the back seat (unless you’ve just kissed Abhishek) and you’ll be glad to oblige the emperor’s highness. Expected value of the bet is 2 (-10*0.4 + 10*0.6).

Let’s make this interesting now. The coin in consideration is the same biased one, but you have to bet all your life’s past, present & future earnings. Here’s a chance to double your income with a 60% chance. But there’s a huge 40% chance of ruining your life’s earnings. Besides, I won’t benefit with two cars as much as I‘ll suffer after loosing my dear car Vinnie, no matter how cross she is with me. We put more value on what we already have and then diminishing marginal return (you’ll always enjoy the first bite of chocolate more than the third bite of your fourth.) along with risk aversion combine together to lead most of us to decide against taking the bet , even though the expected value out of that bet is positive .

Digressing, only slightly, let me talk about these hoardings put by DNA newspaper on Bangalore roads. They put good looking chicks on each hoarding and then post a question to all Bangloreans with two choices. I saw this one first:
What’s in Bangalore’s DNA?
A. Live-in
B. Marriage.

I’ve got little to talk about the question but a lot to say about “Why the question” but let’s not digress further. The other day I was breezing along in my Vinnie, when she hit a traffic signal. A tempo ahead was partially blocking another DNA hoarding. Only the following parts of the two options were visible to me apart from the thin babe in tight clothes:
What’s in Bangalore’s DNA?
____ uck the Issue.
____ake a stand.

The scrabbling neurons in my brain, cheered by the perverted ones, quickly came up with the letter F; single alphabet got me points for two words. The tempo moved and the real text was revealed:
What’s in Bangalore’s DNA?
A. Duck the Issue.
B. Take a stand.

Both the options pale before the combination “Fuck the issue and fake a stand”. Tell me if that’s not in your DNA.

Infinity and beyond

2008-10-07T08:20:00.000-07:00

Another rain-filled lazy afternoon on the bean-bag in good old Bangalore. A little while later I am gonna have some coffee at the nearby Darshini-shop. Not too far away are situated Café- coffee-day & Barista, side by side, brothers in arms, partners in crime.

One wonders, how often the ways of capitalism take whimsical turns. Please don’t get me wrong, I am dead against socialism and its cousins. But then, for instance, take the wicked grandmother of the previously mentioned siblings: Infinitea, the Tea-shop on Cunningham road. They serve you tea for hundred rupees and you need to specifically request them to bring some milk. Grandma is kind enough to give some cookies too, just for 50 bucks.

Tea has always been an extremely basic beverage in Indian context, it's right next to water if you ask me. How many times we all must have heard “Bhaiya, kuch chaai-paani loge.” or something like “Arre unke yahan jaaon to koi chaai ke liye bhi nahi pooochta hain.” It’s the birth- right of every visitor to expect Tea and moral responsibility of every host to offer it.

I recall an incident when we went to my paternal village. How I detest that depiction of villages in Bollywood movies where there is hariyaali chaaro taraf and everyone is so jolly content, always smiling and without worries in clean clothes. Equally irksome is the Hollywood depiction, where every other man is a snake charmer and all women roam around half naked.

Anyway, so while we stayed there, we visited a house in the neighborhood. We were sitting outside when I heard the lady of the house whispering to her 5 year old son to go and bring some milk from his uncle’s house. He was ushered out from the back door. Sometimes later, the boy came hurrying through the front door and screamed this not in English “Mom, there wasn’t any milk at uncle’s place so I got it from Sham’s house”.
The lady was red with embarrassment now. My mom wondered aloud how fast the kid has grown and enquired whether he goes to school. He would go from the next year. We got a very sweet tea, the fifth of the day since we were on a visiting spree.

When a friend of yours shows this shirt he bought at Rs. 800, you end up saying “Wow, this colour looks good on you” or “Mast, sasta maal mil gayaa yaar”, depending on your sex. Generally though, one always checks whether the input (say X) is justified by the output (say Y) or not. For Indian sensibilities, Tea is a very basic thing, a very small number in terms of price or value. At Infinitea, the input X >100 (a large enough number) while the output Y is Tea. For further reading, would you be so kind as to recall elementary calculus without too many qualms. If you are still with me, let me reassert that the ratio X/Y tends to infinity when numerator in getting disproportionately large while denominator diminishes to a small value. Hence, there couldn’t have been a more apt name than Infinitea for this place. These morons are yelling out at top of their voice ,unwittingly of-course, that we loot you more than anyone else can. Beat us and you’ve gone beyond infinity. The search for that elusive concept ends there.

It's getting darker now and for me to enjoy the coffee ,the sky should be at least grey if not blue. I'll post this once I've had my coffee. Spell-check wagerah karna baaki hain .

It's been two days since I typed the sentence above. To justify the delay, lemme add a video . I like the typcial Indian tea shop shown in it among other things.

Pride and Prejudice

2008-10-02T03:35:00.000-07:00

I just booked the air-tickets to my place for Diwali. A dozen kilo has been deducted from my credit card. I’ve traveled the same distance in less than thousand not very long ago. Those were the days. I remember my first flight.

Preparations: I was initiated into the flying club with a free flight from Delhi to Bangalore for an interview. Just a week before my flight, my flat-mate Mitra had flew down for his first time for the same company’s interview. Mitra started telling me the questions asked for the interview when I had to intervene: “ Wo sab to theek hain yaar, plane me ijjat bachane ki tips de”. Now, Mitra is a smart punter and we finish each other’s sentences quite often. Turned out that he too had taken “Ijjat-bachao” lessons and then added his personal experience and understanding of my personality to give a detailed step wise guide.

Check-In: I reached airport with time to spare. Unnecessarily put my hand baggage under scanner before taking the boarding pass. Check-in hadn’t started yet. Turned right, entered a room and took a seat which had a good view of TV showing schedules and check-in times. I was chewing gum to look cool. Fifty minutes on the same seat later, beginning of my flight’s check-in was announced. I cursed myself for having stared at that TV for so long.

Boarding: Mitra is a natural when it comes to getting late, so he missed out telling me that I shouldn’t be among the first ones to enter the bus which takes you to the plane. In those days, the boarding pass didn’t mention seat numbers and so everyone used to run in frenzy towards the plane as soon as the bus halted. Intelligent ones purposefully used to enter the bus late so that they could stand near the door; trading 10 minutes of discomfort in bus for a window seat in plane was a wise strategy.
Resigned to my fate of getting a middle seat, I nervously started climbing up the stairs. Air hostesses were greeting each passenger at the entrance. I braced myself. When my turn to be greeted came, the hostesses were still busy coochy-cooing to a chubby kid just before me. I got ignored. Nothing personal here, but it hurt. If you don’t get acknowledged while you are passing through that one square meter area, you are not going to get that smiling “Welcome Sir”. I quickly buried my face in the boarding pass to pretend as if I wouldn’t have noticed the “Welcome Sir” anyway.

Seating: Wading my way through the chaos, I saw a middle seat vacant between a woman and a rich looking young girl. Nowadays, whenever I occupy a seat I always hope, rather pray, that a good looking female come and seat beside me. Only once a female sat beside me, with a two year old kid who is a strong contender for putting his name in Guinness book for yelling at the highest decibels.
At that time I didn’t have the guts to seat near the babe, especially when it was the first flight and I was very much prone to do something stupid. I sat between a suited snob and a simpleton in late twenties who couldn’t speak English. Let’s call him Gopal. He had occupied the window-seat and was fiddling with the seat-belt when I settled myself between the two:

Gopal : Namaste Sir !Ye belt kaise lagaate hain ?
Me : Arre lagaon, lagaon ! Koshish karo.

I quickly picked up a magazine and wore a don’t-mess-with-me look. I should have asked this question to Mitra. Gopal didn’t have any airs about himself and clearly looked at the whole thing as a means to get to Bangalore somehow.

Gopal : Sir, aap nahi lagaoge ?
Me : Haan , Jaldi kya hain. Lagaa lenge.

Thankfully they announced to pay attention. I followed the instructions and somehow managed to tie the belt. Gopal succeeded too. Then they showed how to use oxygen-mask.

Gopal : Sir , kya saans lene me taklif hoti hain upar jaakar ?
I replied calmly that nothing of this sorts happen, it’s a useless routine. The Snob on my right looked at me and smiled at Gopal’s ignorance. I smirked back too.

Taking off: The plane started speeding up on the runway and the moment it took off I congratulated myself for being in air. Gopal turned to me with a delightful face “ Aa gaye hawaa me”. I hmmmed and realized that he was all set to take the charm away. When I was kid, I aspired to become a pilot; that was the only time I had a concrete professional ambition in my life. Here I was, flying for the first time hiding my ignorance from the world, and right beside me was this person putting my feelings and fears into words with raw expressions.

Food: The food trolley came; Deccan used to sell food on board. Mitra had told me “Noodles lenaa; paise ke hisaab se pet bharne ke liye ekdum optimum hain”. It was the same air-hostess who had ignored me. I was nervous once again when she approached our row. First she asked the people seating on other side of the passage; then the Snob who refused to have anything. I asked about the available options and after patiently listening, ordered for noodles. When she asked Gopal, he turned to me and gave me a hundred rupee note.

Gopal: Sir, aapne jo order kiya hain wo mere liye bhi kar do.
Me : Arre tum noodles khaate ho ?
Gopal : Haan sir, jo aap khaoge , mein bhi wahin kha lunga .
Me: Ye wo hain, Chinese type , kaante se khaane waale .
Gopal : Arre nahi Sahab. Kechuli (earthworm) nahi kha sakta.
Me: Tum Sandwich kha lo.
Gopal: Thik hain saab.

Tea: Sometime later, they came with Tea/coffee/cold-drinks on offer. Mitra had advised against taking any of them. But Gopal was in the mood to live life to the fullest. Again came a fifty rupees note to me.

Gopal : Sir, mere liye chai-namkeen order kar do.
Me : Bhai, utar ke pee lenaa. Ye log 30 rupaye ki chaai denge, airport par 5 ki mil jayegi is se achchi. ( I was slighlty irritated by now.)
Gopal : Thik hain .

Sanitary Needs: A little while later.
Gopal : Sir, ye toilet kahaan hain; peeshaab aa rahin hain.
I too was in the same state but was dreading reopening and closing the seat belt. If Gopal had to go then I would have had to do that anyway. I resisted.
Me : Abhi 15 minute me land kar jayegi flight. Badhiya araam se airport par kar lenaa.
Gopal was infuriated.
Gopal : Nahi saab, aapne yahin bol kar chaai bhi nahi peene dee. Ab to mein jaunga hee.
He looked resolute. I let him go and then followed his footsteps a couple of minutes later.

Landing:
Landing was announced and Gopal requested me to guide him out of the plane to the exit of the airport. I generously agreed. When it landed I felt like I was sitting on a tractor; Gopal put that into words too. Halfway through the walk towards exit I saw that the same air-hostess was bidding farewell to each passenger; I immediately asked Gopal to walk right in front of me so that I don’t loose sight of him. Gopal was definitely not the candidate who could keep her engaged long enough to give me a miss.
My heart beat rose as we approached towards the plane’s exit. I was determined. Made eye contact with the hostess. Gopal had his head down when his turn came and looked grateful to be ignored. She looked at me and said “Good night :) . Thank you Sir.” I gave her a regular smiling nod. A much needed conquest and a huge relief, else it would have turned into a phobia every time I passed through that corridor.

I exited with head held high and showed Gopal the way to auto-stand. We shook hands. He said thanks and I asked him not to mention it. My friend Milton came to pick me up. We rode through the streets which were soon going to become all too familiar to me. Next day was going to be very important for reasons that are more than one.

My Sweet Family

2008-09-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Refrigerator: Hi, my name is Calvin. This chap bought me three years ago. I have seen few things in life: Apples, milk, coke, beer and whisky (why whisky??). My freezer has never been used. This guy doesn't know whether and how to defrost me. Though my top is over utilized. He keeps nail-cutter, car-keys, expired pizza-hut coupons, coins, chewing gums and a lot of trash there. Spiders love my back side.

Washing machine: Hi, I am Whirly. I am in comma since last 2 years 10 months. The lazy bum doesn't use me any more. My work has been outsourced to a maid; reason being sighted was management overhead. He further harasses me by daily putting the clothes to be washed on me.

Laptop: Mr. Louis Dell here. My memory has been corrupted with porn, pirated movies and music. I seldom visit good sites; mostly browse through tabloids and junk sites dedicated to filmy-gossips, relationships ("10 ways to tell your boyfriend is bisexual" type) and explicit videos. First look at this geeky-looking dude and I had high hopes of running high-end algorithms on me churning out zillions of bits. Haven't executed even a single excel macro on me. The most respectable job I've done is preparing a word-document (the idiot's resume). I've never been entertained with a 3-D game; never gone beyond "Hearts" & "Solitaire".

Bed: He hasn't given me any name but I fancy myself being called Trash-bag. Anything in his house that is not at its allotted place is on me. 90% of his stuff fall into this category ; they are all in search of the promised land. Of course, the mattress is not on me. Poor her, she lies on the floor.

Chair: No name for me too. I service his feet more than his butt. I've been used to change tube-light and shove all the utensils given by his mother in a rack above where no one sees them. Mostly I am used to block the door from shutting when he needs breeze to flow through the house.

Car: My name is Vinnie (cause my number is V9920). I've been injured a lot in past; no medical care has been offered. He doesn't care whether I am serviced, whether the air pressure is enough, blah blah blah. All he does on time is insuring me; I believe he is waiting for me to die and claim the money. I haven’t seen any place outside the cities he stays in.

Zakmhi Shayar ke Sher

2008-09-28T08:57:00.000-07:00

1. Gaane the , taraane the,
Sunane ke liye kai afsaane the,
Magar wo zamana aur tha,
Un dino hum zaraa diwaane the

2. Haqeequt ne ye kis bazaar me laa khadaa kiya hain
Ki saare jhoot khood hee par khirch kar rahen hain

3. Labzon ki baadh to is dil me bhi hain Galib
Durr bus yahin hain ki saath me Jazbaat bhi na bah jaaye

4. Upar waale se hee lekar aayi hongi aap taalim
Ye zamana nahi banaa sakta kisi ko itna zaalim

Zindagi ne zakhm dena zaari rakha to aage aur bhi original maal pesh hota rahega.

For Chameli, whenever I may find her

2008-09-28T08:53:00.000-07:00

Terror is what I was craving for last night. It had been quite a long time since I woke up in the night fear-struck with a nightmare. I live alone . The unconscious mind sometimes create too vicious scenes to be ever imagined by even an immensely fertile brain. I didn't have the guts to peer outside the blanket last time. I was sweating; feeling thirsty . Took a good fifteen minutes for senses to return.

There are nightmares which leave you feeling good once you wake up relieved that "it was just a dream"; then there are others which leave a hole deep inside, leaving you aghast at the "possibilities". It's not about ghosts or accidents or even death. Sometimes it could be just a face that follows you across the streets. No blood,no scars,no tears; but that horrific "something" on that face which I don't have any clue about.

Anyway , so hoping for that mad rush of blood and those goosebumps , I recollected some "real stuff' while I was trying to sleep. I had the most blissful dream of my life instead.

She was sleeping. All I wanted was to touch her. Took an eternity to move my hands close to that lovely face. First I just blew her hair. Comtemplated whether this is enough for now. Two centuries later my fingers carassed those silky cheeks. Overwhelmed , with watery eyes ,I watched that beautiful innocence lay there dreaming . Her eyelids moved, then slowly they opened ; two black moons in white nights had my reflection in them. Red lips smiled. A billion emotions surged ; even the unconscious mind buckled.

I was awake now, my heart pounding and eyes moist.Don't know whether I shall see that face again; its beauty is all mine till then.

How we learnt 'English" over the last few decades.

2008-09-18T11:55:00.001-07:00

Year 1958 . Well, first the basics .

Movie : Dilli ka Thug

C.A.T. Cat, Cat Maane Billi, R.A.T. Rat, Rat Maane Choohaa

Matlab iska kaho tum kya huaa.

M.A.D. Mad, Mad Maane Paagal, B.O.Y. Boy, Boy Maane Ladkaa

N.O.S.E. Nose, Nose Maane Naak, C.R.O.W. Crow, Crow Maane Kauvaa

G.O.A.T. Goat, Goat Maane Bakri, L.I.O.N. Lion, Lion Maane Sher

_______________________________________________

Year 1971 . You must learn to tell your name sonny boy.

Movie : Amar Akbar Anthony

My Name Is Anthony Gonsalves, Main Duniya Mein Akela Hoon

_______________________________________________

Year 1981. By this time we were good enough for simple sentences.

Movie : Ek duje ke liye

I Don't Know What You Say ,I Don't Know Don't Know What You Say

But I Want To Dance And Play , I Want To Play The Game Of Love

_______________________________________________

Year 1994. Learnt to speak bigger words and copy others.

Movie : Criminal .

Song: Tu mile, dil khile.

Darling, every breath you take ,Every move you make, I will be there with you

What would I do without you?I want to love you forever and ever and ever

_______________________________________________

Year 2007. Confident enough to create our own brand of English.

Movie : Cash 2007.

Song : Naughty Naughty .

Sainya sainya Sehari , Lagen hai mohe sexy.

Love the way u touching me.

_______________________________________________

Year 2008. Going Strong.

Movie: Race

Zara Zara Touch Me Touch Me Touch Me Ah

Zara ZaraKiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me Ah

Zara ZaraHold Me Hold Me Hold Me Ah Zara ZaraOooo ooo ooo

I love the way you touchin me, feeling meBoy im gonna be rebelling,

Boy my little secrets gonna let you know That when you put your arms around me,

I love the way you surround me Oh boy I m gonna loose control

Vagina Monologue

2008-09-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

Younger Bro bought an expensive mobile against my pragmatic advice. As is often the case, big brother was right. The mobile would sometime allow only one way communication; that too intermiitently during the same call.

So on the day when this problem surfaced, conversation followed this route :
Bro : Sunaai aa rahan hain terko?? Mujhe nahi aa rahaan but tu bolte rahan.
Me: Ok, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ..
Bro : Haan aa gaya. ( Then we continued our talk until next intermission happened ).

As the frequency of these interruptions rose, the "filler" sentences evolved from just being enumeration (1,2,3..). Following are some of them :

1. Ek gaav me 2 machuaare rahte the; wo dono Gay the. Fir diploma karne ke liye...
2. Tuwinkal Tuwinkal Littul eeStaar, Haau I vhonder vhaat u aar..
3. Aaj Khali ka dangal hoga vishwa-vijeta Undertaker se. Khali jo ki 7 feet...
4. John , Suprabhat. Machlee pakadne ke liye kitna achcha din hain...(Discovery in Hindi).
5. You got real big brains but I'm looking atchyaa...

This became a part of daily routine. One day Bro had a bad day and to further irritate him , I lied "Awaaz nahi aa rahin". Frustated, he produced the gem :
Bro : Abe Yaar !!! Ab fir shuru karna hogaa Vagina Monologue.

Bee and the Beast

2008-06-04T08:17:00.000-07:00

I saw brightness shimmering through the window glasses of his house on that rainy night. Then he opened one of the windows to smell the wet soil; the fragrance rushed inside & luminescence squeezed outside. I flew inside towards the tube-light, my wings feeling the strong waves of music being played in that room.

White rays soaked my whole body and the rhythm of "Loosen up my buttons" had me swooning .Dancing, I fluttered my wings to fly across the room & started singing along with "Pussy-Cat-Dolls". That's when I attracted his attention;he looked with irritation and accusation at me. I had spent my lifetime being looked upon like that by humans. I chose to ignore him . Enjoying the moment I increased the pitch of my voice & even teased him once by diving very close to his ears.He got up and left the room. That beautiful world was all mine .

He returned with a blue cylindrical container in his hand. I saw a hint of guilt and cruelty in his purposeful eyes. I turned my back on him to fly towards the glorious source of whiteness. I heard a swishing sound and the next moment a thousand needles were piercing my body. My head spun,wings faltered . The devil was smiling. He was moving his thin hands again to point that cylinder towards me; I gathered all my strength to fly away , the window was closed.

With a sleight of his hand , he showered me once again with the toxic liquid from that cylinder. This blow was even harder, I hid behind the curtains but my cries didn't stop; my wings weren't steady and brushed across the fabric to make a sound large enough for him to locate me. The snake in his hand hissed again and spit the venom; with each blow my movements were getting sluggish and it was getting easier for him to bathe me with that acid.

I couldn't hold on any more and fell on the cold floor. One of my wing got stuck in the curtains . He looked down on me. I begged him to crush me to death. Assured that I can't fly any more, he left me there writhing in pain destined for a slow painful death. He was now playing "Don't leave me now" by Pink Floyd and watched my last moments intently with stony lifeless eyes.

Two days have passed since I died and he still hasn't moved me from my death bed. My body has blackened further, my wings have turned brown . One of my wings is still stuck in the curtains. The poison on my body has ensured that even the ants are not touching me. But all that doesn't matter anymore; I am a free soul now. Just a few questions regarding my murderer remain : Why hasn't he moved my body yet? Why did he play "Don't leave me now " ? Is he mourning my death?