Sale: "a dead conscience" for Rs.136

"There he goes again with another one of his sermons" - no need to worry, the word "conscience" need not always be related to me walking in black overalls with the Holy Bible in my hand and preaching to misled souls! ;)

What happened on Friday evening was a continuation of the love between me and the Western Railways. We share a bond now. They issue the fine, I pay it!

Taking the foot over bridge from Bandra(E) to Bandra(W) had been a regular routine for me to gain easy access to Carter Road, Linking Road, Hill Road, Pali Hill and what not! Why would Friday evening be any different? Saves me the trouble of having to plead with a rickshaw driver that its worth the trip to take a complete round around Mahim to get to the western side. Earphones in my ears, fox-trotting to one of my favourite tunes *ok relax 'bout the fox-trot, I do it now, but that ain't the point being discussed here, so focus*. As I walked casually out towards the exit, a tummy bulging, blading, mustachioed man dressed in a black coat and stained white trousers asked me for a ticket. Of course I won't have a ticket, I came from home, just to cross over to the other side!

Now those who know of my travails, a similar situation had shown up its ugly head in Pune as well. That same bad churn arose in my stomach again, and this time I didn't even bother to ask. I asked the bloke "It says 'only bonafide passengers allowed' on a dingy white board just above my head, which nobody wouldn't even care to look at, doesn't it?'. He smiled and took out that dreadful receipt book. There we go again - Rs. 256 again. No matter how much I pleaded with him, he was not ready to listen. He had a point. He asked me where he was wrong. I can't plead on humanitarian grounds now could I, he was taking the clinical technicality high road wasn't he. I needed a haircut. Had to spare myself some money. Couldn't have gone back home and have only a "fine paid" to show for the evening's outing. "Thoda mandvali nahi ho sakta?" is what I blurted out. He smirked. "How much you got?" It felt like negotiating for smack or hashish as he pulled me aside, in a hushed voice asking for Rs. 200. We agreed upon Rs. 120, as I reluctantly handed over the money to him. 200 would have been me having to sit down along with the beggars lines up on the platform to get a rickshaw back home! Did I have a choice? *I know that's a dicey question, refrain from answering it or judging me!*

I was pissed off with my luck. Shouldn't I have been? How many times have been people been fined for the same thing, TWICE?!

Walking down the road for another 2 minutes, it struck me. What in the devil's sweet name did I just do?! At this point I could tangent off into patronising you about scruples, but am going to refrain from doing so, not because am considerate, but more so since its easy to preach in hindsight, the feeling at that moment is what makes you swallow an elephant and probably feel your heart plummet to the deepest abyss of the stomach. I got frantic. I had to get to an ATM machine. Eureka, found one - Axis Bank! Now what I need is change. Voila, a Dairy Milk and 8 Mentos, that would get me Rs. 36 bucks in change for a 50er. I ran back to the station.

It took some searching but I got hold of the bloke. Patted him on the shoulder as he turned around and had a look of surprise on his face wondering what I could want after he so "affectionately" told me before - "beta next time dhyaan rakhna abhi main aapko chhod raha hun for Rs. 120, because I understand your situation", as he pocketed the 120 bucks. Understand my situation - BALLS !! You just ripped me off for Rs. 120!! After the initial moment of awkwardness for him, he let out a puzzled "yes?". Now I must confess, what I was about to do was something I had never done before. Don't worry I did not make him bleed! ;) I opened his palm and put in Rs. 136, and asked him to give me a receipt. Beyond that time, it is best if I give the actual conversation verbatim.

Me: Yeh lo, bakaya136 rupaya.

Him: Arre aapko chhod diya maine, main samajhta hun.

Me: Main bhi samajhta hun, chalo parchi kaato.

Him: Arre bhaisaab kyun apna aur mera nuksaan kar rahe ho, 120 mein apna mandvali ho gaya na!

Me: Mujhe nahi karne ka hai, parchi kaato.

Him: Arre khali khoti dimaag na kharab karo mera, jao yahan se.

Me: Tu parchi kaat, mujhe fine dena hai.

Him: Bade hi ajeeb insaan ho. Mujhe nahi kaatni.

Me: I-card dikha apna, mujhe check karna hai tu valid checker hai.

Him: *haughtily* Yeh le!

At this point I noted down his employee number and name into my cellphone, as he started yelling for his card to be given to him. He threatened me about the police, I asked him to bring it on. He freaked out, signed a receipt for Rs. 256 and shoved it into my hand. Profanities were yelled back n forth but am going to spare you the trouble for want of public forum decorum. While leaving, I handed him an address, for the Anti-Corruption Bureau Bombay, and told him he'd be hearing from them soon! ;)

I walked away.

I know some of you might be shaking your head calling it a dumb act of losing more money. Some might not agree on the way I handled things. Hell even I don't agree I executed things perfectly, let alone describe them properly. But I do know one thing for sure, I know that I smiled at myself in the mirror the next morning rather than lowering my eyebrows for being a hypocrite. It might seem corny, but that feeling of doing what you think is right, no matter what others might think is what brings a smile rather than the sinking feeling of being untrue to who you are.

I slept well that night.

The "why not" in the why

I needed a break from tearing up revised 20-page drafts of the book I supposedly have been working on for the past one month or so. It's a fuzzy feeling inside your tummy when you spend sleepless nights on the weekend punching in keys, putting down memories and ideas that make you smile or chuckle a little, and on a Monday morning when you take advantage of office supplies to take a printout of the first two chapters only to frown upon your efforts as substandard and scrap the whole thing to shreds and dump them into the same dustbin where your friends have put the newspaper shards in which they got idlis for breakfast from the local vendor! To have literary work swimming around in a puddle of half opened packs of idli chutney and chutki wrappers is the end of all that is sacred about writing.

So here I am, probably more out of dire need for a change than a motivation to bore you to death with my endless ramblings. The idea of what I am writing about originally cropped into my head as I was running one evening along the Bandra skyway as practice for the upcoming marathon (don't mention the marathon or ask about it - its too painful!!). Looking around we tend to form stereotypes of the kind of people we see fit to do certain things or in general like we so love to put it as, "pull it off". The concept is flawed. The perspective is biased. The consequence is unimaginably so obsolete that we no longer let our horizons expand. We limit ourselves not based on our capabilities but more because its something we are not "cut out for". If I were to list down all such things for even the colony I stay in, let alone the entire world, I'd probably have outlived the number of years Rip Van Winkle slept for. So in turn I'm going to elaborate on a few things I had in my head that were "just-not-me" with a resolve that some day, hopefully, either me or someone very like me is going to shatter and show to the world how nonsensical it has been!

The I-am-too-skinny-to-ride-an-Avenger stereotype - Now I know Western movies and all those god-forsaken biker movies have put it in our heads to appreciate the straw-chewing-corner-of-the-mouth-swearing macho men, and that those are the kinds girls usually oogle after and shout out "OMG I love him" in their oh so annoying shrieks. I have also been informed by certain discreet members of the fairer sex that they would love to hug a hunk riding a Hunk (its a bike for all you ignorant fools!) than have their heart shoot up in their mouth for fear of falling off a bike being ridden by a "slinky"!! SLINKY ?!??!?! What are skinny people thought of as - some sort of invertebrates who just wobble around for want of space ?! Here is what I propose. There will be one day when I ride an Avenger, hell even a Harley Davidson (yes I know my bikes thank you very much !!), and that day who'll be seated won't be a bulked blob of meat, but a nicely trim bloke, thin, drawing the oohs and aahs from those who mock me after reading this post! ;)

The gymming-is-for-fat-people stereotype - If at any moment during the previous post you thought am a lobbyist for the "skeletal warriors", guess again. Thin people are equally dumb. Recommend them a day at the gym, and snap comes the judgement that exercise is for those suffering from obesity. Do there numbskulls not realise that there is a section called "Cardio" which is different from the WEIGHTS section ?! Its rather "cool" to be the guy who can dive under the small gaps of gates and get the tennis ball that the fat boy so idiotically hit into some grumpy lady's tea garden, but its equally shameful when that same guy is the one who had to hide behind a tree for fear of being blown away when torrential winds started blowing on a Bombay afternoon! Grow up.

The you-must-have-puked-at-least-once stereotype - Okay. I know people might judge you on drinking and shake their heads in disapproval. I like alcohol. So get over it! I don't claim to be a professional drunkard. Hell am not even aware of all the delicacies that lie beyond Indian shores, the endless wonders that lay hidden in bottles of a 20 year vintage at least. But I would say that I handle alcohol well. I get tipsy. I get ecstatic. I love to dance when am tipsy. I wobble and move as if my feet are independent of my body. And yes, I have never puked after getting drunk. Standard argument: "You are lying. You can't take in that much alcohol and not puke." For the uninformed dimwits who think drinking too much is the only cause for nausea, its usually not. Mixing types of liquor is what messes your system up. Keep it simple and restrict yourself to one or two types and you're aces. If you're the kind who thinks a lil bit of everything is good paisa wasool, do not expect others to be as idiotically inclined as you!

The you-are-a-square-because-you-went-to-business-school stereotype - Just a few words matey. You and me, on stage, your day, your time, your place. Lets see who can get that CIRCLE of imagination fired up with his square edges! ;)

The .. Ah chuck it. I could write reams on all these stereotypes, but am going to stop here. Not for want of pity on your sore red eyes, but more so because I'd rather have people think it out what stereotypes they have developed and communicated to others, eventually discouraging themselves and others from going beyond what they thought was possible.

When a friend of mine walked up to me and told me "why" I'd prefer riding an Avenger when I'd be better off going around on a Pulsar, I asked him "why not". He smirked. That smirk is what am going to wipe off some day! ;)

WT

When in a new city, there comes a point when you get enticed by the possibility of a friend showing up, even if its for all the wrong reasons. An adrenalin rush sets in, keeping you revved up and perky enough to walk 2 kilometres in the scorching heat to reach Dadar station. Dragging your nose through the foul smell of roadside fish displays, little kids making poo on the sidewalk, and the nauseating smell of cheap quality cooking oil from the dingy restaurants on either side of the road, you reach the steps up to Dadar station. The phone rings and a shrill voice yells out asking what's keeping you for so long. Enter Vibhuti (am defying my principle of not naming people for this post since it is because of this moronic dumbass that this post has come about).

Dadar is renowned for the number of people that opt to use the local even on a Sunday - it feels like a regular working day. Unwanting to stand in queue for the ticket, already drenched in sweat from the long walk, I gave Vibs a call, asking her a simple question - "Did you get the ticketS ?", to which she replied "ya" in her usual blunt Gujju way. Happy not to have spent the next half hour standing in queue with people who are intent on wiping sweat off on your shirt, or sneezing in your face, let alone having one hand over my right butt to keep myself safe from pick-pockets, I went down to platform number 2, expecting the numbnut to be standing there, most probably near a weighing machine, deep in a dilemma whether to finally confront reality about her weight or not.

I walked the entire length of the platform. No sign of a fat midget. I walked the entire length backwards. Still no sight of someone with a finger up their nose. Where could the illiterate bugger be? Gave her a call again, and after a lot of insistence asked her to enquire from anyone standing next to her what platform she was on. Lesson in life: Never expect the other person to be sensible enough to ask what the possible reason for a mix-up could be. Only after asking people myself did I realise that I was on the Central line and she on the western. Walked to her platform and felt like giving her a tight whack at the back of her head - but I guess my "morals" as a guy gave in!

After exchanging our regular round of profanities and making nasty faces at each other, we waited for the next train to Churchgate. Scorching heat, and Churchgate, you ask ? Well our little nincompoop here decided that she wanted to meet up at around 11 which eventually translated to us being out in the sun at NOON !! Wonder how long it would be before I can forgive her for all the dumbness that oozed that day out of that fried head of hers! We boarded the local, luckily got seats, and were catching up on the past few months, when unlike a regular day, the TT showed up. Had to be irregular didn't it - I didn't have to stand in queue, we got seats at Dadar - how can a journey be so smooth? Ronak (the wiser sister) had called, and while the ignorant fool was chatting away on the phone, I asked her for the tickets. She gave me a quizzical look as I took it from her and gave it to the TT for verification, sat back and relaxed. Moment of truth - as he peered down from behind his specs, he gave me a look and told me it was FOR JUST ONE PERSON !! :( Need I continue the rest of the story ?

My mouth dropped down to the ground - I could have taken a ticket, I did not even intend on frauding on a local ticket that costs just 6 bucks !! And here I was, the centre of attention as the bloke who defaulted on a sum that won't even get me a decent orange bar from the roadside ice-cream vendor! :( 260 bucks is what I ended up paying because of this fool who could not help laughing on the phone relating the story to her sister, as I took out 3 big ones out of my wallet.

Am not going to give certain people the pleasure of describing exactly the look on my face or the moment any further - its punishment for dabbling and getting your kicks out of my misery! But yes, I would conclude with two points of consideration:

1. How can you NOT hear the "s" at the end of "tickets" ? Am I supposed to hiss it out like a snake to enunciate and make it crystal clear ?! ;)
   
2. How inconsiderate and miserly can you be to get just ONE ticket for yourself and not care about your friend, if the difference you would have to pay is just a meagre 2 bucks ?!

Vibhuti, STOP LAUGHING you prick !! ;(

Common courtesy

It is rather funny how after having risen through struggling times, where our sense of self-respect and principles defined us, we throw caution to the wind and end up forgetting our basic selves. It might seem rather trivial for us, after having achieved so much, to extend a hand to someone who has fallen into a ditch, or to help a blind man cross the road. Yet in the slightest of moments we can completely forgo all we learnt along the way and act all business-like. Its not something to brood on, or to crib about in our everyday lives. Am sure we all have our own set of things to have qualms about.

Today, as my dad's contact delivered an important package to me at my office, making a special effort to make it before 7:30 in the night, I was happy. I thanked him, shook his hand, and bid adieu with a smile. It was only after I had turned to walk back to my desk, that a familiar voice asked the person - "Aap kuchh lenge - paani, chai ya thanda?". It should not matter so much I thought then. And kept walking. But every step away from the awkward situation made me realise that if the caretaker, who is responsible for getting all the paperwork and photocopying done can have the courtesy to understand that the bloke had come in the humidity and heat, and would love to have a breather, why could not I? Have we chucked all such consideration into oblivion ?

I had a squirm in my tummy, and a hollow feeling inside. Thus I wrote.

1:40 ki afternoon local

The prelude I got to Bombay included adjectives like "hot", "humid", "dingy", "crowded" and "local trains". Exactly! The same thing struck me as to how a "local train" served as an adjective to a city. I do understand that local trains are renowned for being crowded and all, but then again I have always opined that people crib more than they ought to. There was a little skepticism as I set foot in Bombay with all the "knowledge" on how Mumbaikars hated Delhiites to the core. I would not say it has been smooth sailing since day one, nor would I complain that it has been a rout from the first moment itself. I've had my ups and downs in this city, and one of them is the first time I boarded a local.

Having given the licensing exam to become a trader, and downed 4 chapatis out of sheer excitement of having passed, a friend of mine and I decided to try out the Bombay local for the first time rather than spend 200 bucks on the ride back home. The irony of being a management graduate is that more often than not you tend to overthink things, in this case we concluded after 20 minutes of deliberation that the local train would be relatively empty. What we forgot to accommodate for was the fact that from Churchgate EVERYONE would want to head out into the city, so it won't really be empty around lunch time! Like meek rabbits we stood in a corner, laptop bags hanging down one shoulder and the other hand smartly inserted into our pockets. We tried using "Excuse me" to ask for the platform ticket, but apparently "boss" gets more attention in Bombay than the Anglo version of "excuse moi" ;)

Having located the ticket counter, I got in queue waiting for my chance. I won't deny there was an adrenalin rush as I was about to purchase my first local ticket. "2 for Bandra - fast local" was my call. The ticket attendant looked drably at my smiling face, asked for Rs. 14 and shoved the ticket out the small hole. The smile intact, I blurted out "I asked for two tickets". He simply turned his chair slowly and through his already drooping glasses at the edge of his nose pointed out "ticket to padh lo uncle"!! From :) I went to :|. So much for the warm welcome to the first local experience. We ambled across the station to platform 6 where the local for Andheri was supposed to come in 4 minutes precisely.

The meek mice posture had still not deserted us, standing in a corner, hoping for some divine intervention to point out we were doing the right thing in standing there. I conjured up some courage, and approached the engine driver of the train on platform 5 to ask him which train would be leaving for Bandra at the earliest. For the uninitiated who are still wondering why we had to draw up strength to question about the trains, apparently it is blasphemy in Bombay to not know the trains inside out! The bloke pointed out everything making it crystal clear even for a dumbass to catch a train to Bandra, but when one of the other passengers butted into the conversation we three were having, all hell broke loose and he pulverised the other guy's ego into nothingness. We just quietly slid away and chose a spot on platform 6 with hardly anyone around.

Being a guy sometimes leads to your downfall, as we chose to stand next to a group of smartly dressed girls, not to flirt but just to make sure we'd rather be next to perfume-clad beauties than sweating pigs :P The train drew to a halt and the entire crowd started rushing forward, shoving us, pushing us into the train. Before we could realise it, we were already inside and surrounded by women - ALL OF THEM ! Now on a different day I would have felt God-like, but today I felt something sink inside as I gathered from the scornful look of the women near us that we had accidentally boarded the "women's bogey" :| If it were ever possible to have red show on beige skin, it would have shone brightly that day on my cheeks! We jumped off, and out of sheer embarrassment decided to take the next train home.

We waited for another 12 minutes before the slow local showed up again. We hopped on. It got crowded within a matter of seconds and before either of us knew it, we were hanging desperately onto the over-hanging supports with our laptop bags over our heads. It is a pain to be 5 feet 8 inches in a local at times, especially when a 5.10 footer stands right next to you with his armpits all sweaty, dangling to the same overhead support as yours. Had I not been suffering from bronchitis and a blocked nose, all the nose-hair would have burnt and ashen down to a fine dust that day. I got elbowed, knuckled, kicked and punched in the tummy before I could get off at Bandra station. Wrestling moves probably could trace their origins to the Bombay local.

Hurt and bruised we walked for another mile before reaching the office and dozing off to sleep in our chairs after a blistering day of surviving the Bombay local! :P

What's up ?

Or you may take your pick from the million other alternatives

sup?
whazza?
what plans?
how are?
whats the POA?
kaisa raha?
aur suna?
what's new?

The list is endless. What is up - hmm, gotta think about that - its noon while am writing, so the Sun for one thing is up, and there are another million things I can define as being up, but am not going to bore you with those wisecracks.

You can expect such questions to be the order of a mail, a casual chat or a phone call when you have been away for too long. When the other person has no clue on what is going on in your life, and eventually really has to know what is up ! I would not mind replying to such a genuine query about my whereabouts and preoccupations - come on, give the person a break, he cannot possibly imagine what I have been "up to" ;)

However, consider the case of a lazy few, those who find it a very convenient way of minimising effort and finding out what's up in someone's life. Fine, you tell them what has been up one time. Cut to two days later, you sign in and are greeted with a "hi .. ssup?" - Reflex action - you sign out! I do not know how many people share my thoughts on this, frankly I couldn't care less :) But the truth remains, if you keep asking the same arbitrary ambiguous generic question every single time, there is no grandpa on the other side of the phone or computer waiting to tell you a story on what has been happening. And after a point the laziness gets so irritating that you just simply have to cave in and say "just the usual" :P I love this reply - kind of makes the other person go "okaaaaay .. now that was not expected" ;)

Honestly, in today's time, people try to stay involved and friends with a casual attitude that all I need to do is mark my attendance and ask the other person what is up - the interpersonal factor of asking them specific questions about what they have been up to has lost its value. Its become like distributing swill in prison - everybody is given some, but why bother being happy bout it - it was made with the least effort and a "couldn't care less attitude" ;) This does not imply that the person asking you the question is cold or indifferent - it just shows that certain people need to realise that it takes more than just a casual drop-in into someone's life to keep a friendship going :)

Its become difficult in today's world for people to make time for each other - family, relatives, friends. Standard excuse. But a lame one too. It takes a mere 5 minutes to shoot off a mail asking people about their health, any new hobbies they picked up on, to build on the last conversation. It takes 2 minutes to message someone and ask them how they have been and if they went any further with the application they were making. To show you care takes more than just a general enquiry of "what's up" ;)

If nothing more, it just brings a smile to someone's face who receives such a gesture. ;)

Oldies shmoldies

A miniature clinic, probably older than its oldest patient, cemented, with the paint coming off in layers, showing how year after year a fresh coat comes on near Diwali and comes off like snake skin around Holi. From morning 7 till noon, this place is bustling with people - coming in, going out, going round and round. Its like getting in queue for ration, early in the morning, because you know what they say "the early bird catches the worm", though in this case if you have the worm, you probably would not be the happiest person around! ;)

As soon as you enter a C.G.H.S. dispensary, the smell of medicine and lurking scent of inoculations and blood tests smacks you right in the face. Your mind automatically switches gears and tells you, know matter what, you are sick - even if its just a bloody sneeze! Don't be so quick to judge these government employed doctors though. Experience tells me that those private shmucks out there are equally incompetent - no offense to the medical profession! ;) I remember the visits I used to make either with mom, dad or my bro, when just getting into the building and waiting for my turn to see the doctor used to be no less a nightmare than the boogie man himself. Don't remember why, but the feeling still gives me goosebumps, could probably have been the indifference I saw in their eyes when the referred me for an inoculation :( I know, I was being a baby, but come on, I was one too!

The feeling of my tummy squirming and knotting up inside is long gone, and the qualms of having a needle poked into my arm are long gone, yet entering that dull facade still invokes nostalgia. The same wrinkled oldies, the troubled moms, the naughty brats - nothing has changed over the past 20 years. What has changed though, is that now I can tell a lot from the kind of people who turn up, and it is this wisdom that I intend to share with you now ;)

The most interesting of the lot are the ladies, the variety, the nags, the stereotypes, all so vivid!

The don't-sit-within-20-cms-of-me-or-else kind - Picture a middle aged lady, slightly plump, greasy oiled hair, tied into a single abundant choti, dark red lipstick slapped on to the lips, golden earrings, and kolhapuri chappals to go with the yellow or brown she's wearing. These kind of behenjis prefer to have their space on the seating bench, with 20 cms. on either side, probably making up for the ego dent they suffered in the unsuccessful haggling with the vegetable vendor just before leaving for the dispensary. Stay away from them is all I say. They can burn your soul with a single stare.

The have-pity-on-me-am-just-a-sweet-old-witch kind - I know, I know, you're probably shaking your heads and judging me, but if you witness the kinds of tricks these slightly bent, frail, crooked, musty gray or shiny white haired Medusas pull off, you'd lose faith in humanity. They have mastered the art of frolicking around on your sentimental nerve and getting their way, breaking queues with tantrums, pleas for the sake of their being our granny's age. You realise their tricks, you know they'll come for you, you know you're going to end up in a soup, but you still put up a brave front standing right at the doctor's entrance waiting for number "28" to be called, but out of nowhere comes this puny shady figure, frisking past you entering into the chamber without permission and seating herself comfortably in a corner, nibbling away like a meek mouse. You enter the room as soon as number 27 gets up, and at that very moment, its like the old legs have had a shot of steroids and the joints have been freshly oiled, the shadow glides over to the patient's chair, with the greeting "namaste dactar saaab ghutno mein bada dard hota hai" (hello doctor, my knees hurt a lot) - are you KIDDING me ?! Didn't you just look at her TELEPORT ?! You just gnaw and grind your teeth together, resolving not to let it happen again. A week later, the same old story. When the scrawny old figure leaves, and you're about to enter, she passes on a smile, that makes you go "awwww" and you tend to pacify yourself saying, its okay, probably just this one time you'll let it pass, but the irony is, NEVER over the past 20 years, has the same old hag crossed my line TWICE !! NEVER !!

The I-am-a-working-woman-so-I-can-hit-you kind - Being a Central Government initiative, some of the female patients coming in are also government employees. Knowing Indian bureaucracy, it is evident that any woman working her way into the ranks knows her shit and cannot be taken lightly. These are the ones with a bob cut, smartly dressed, with hardly any makeup on, a fancy purse, an ever-ringing cellphone and definitely spectacled. There is no way in hell, that a lady working for the government does not have a pair of reading glasses through which she cannot peer and cut through your soul recognising the fear within that you know she could hit you. This variety is probably the only one that can take the previous ones head on. They have no obligation to be decent in speech, or considerate of old age, for them its business. If you break the queue, you're in for it. But here's the catch. If you happen to be the one denying any queue cuts, she will be the first to pounce on you, denouncing your generation as consisting of inconsiderate little rascals, probably blaming your upbringing for the lack of respect you happen to be "showing" to elders. Best defence, look the other way and start humming, and pray you do not have to visit again for a few days, so that your image fades away.

The constant-confusion-chronologically-lost kind - These poor oldies are possibly the ones I really want to help out. They keeping walking up to the entrance asking what number just entered, and usually their queries come 5-6 times while the same number is getting consultation. People silence them, make them go back to their seats and wait for their turn, signaling to each other how old age makes them cuckoo. I really feel sorry for these folks, for it isn't their fault that old age got the better of them.

The gimme-all-there-is kind - If there were ever hiring on for old age dacoits and pilferers, this category would stand the best chance in the current recession, even ahead of sturdy blokes. They know how to work their way around bureaucracy. Years of experience has taught them that a pat on the doctor's back, an appeal to their emotions with a damp sulking tone, or an enquiry into their son's or parents' health would win them a standard package of 2 analgesic ointments and a bottle of cough syrup - its like alcohol for them. Compliments of Dr. Manmohan Singh, this package is on the house! :P For maids, for grandsons, for bajuwale Ramesh babu, or for the sweeper, all supplies head out from here.

Despite what all goes on inside, and however frustrating it might get at times, I have always left the place smiling, either because of the absolutely pointless duel between two of the gangs, or a successful consultation, or the fact that I steered clear of any inoculation, these people form a part of a group that makes you feel associated with a place you hardly frequent - its like visiting grumpy grandparents at an old people's home after a couple of weeks, and spending some quality time with them! ;)

Happiness (more or less)

Whenever you bring up the topic of happiness, more often than not, people tend to picture an overwhelmingly content Buddha, smiling. We tend to shake off the relevance of this talk saying we'd prefer to experience both the ups and downs of life. To be too happy can get nauseatingly infectious. We argue that in striving for happiness all the time, we tend to miss out on life's more subtle moments and in turn end up chasing our own tails in a futile attempt to achieve nirvana. Ergo, the pursuit of happiness is not for me.

Wrong!

Let me start off with a rather grim example, a person who hangs himself, commits suicide is looking to put an end to suffering. Doesn't justify his actions, but it brings to light the motive of wanting a cessation to an ordeal, achieving partial if not complete contentment. The method is flawed but the ends are not. At this point you must be caught up wondering what exactly is happiness ? Some say it is accepting the past, living your present and ensuring a bright future. Another school of thought goes on to describe it as purely enjoying the freshness of the moment and not worrying about what the future holds for us. When these contrasting views collide, we often dismiss the clash as futile, since none of the involved are willing to change. Had happiness been a secondary issue in life, it would have made perfect sense to act indifferent to the duel. But in whatever we do there transgresses a willingness to be happy, then why is such a primary emotion not crystal clear in our heads?! Is it dismissible as just another ensuing debate?

Probably the fact that we do not know "happiness" is why we are running away from it, constantly. Confusions, also contribute to our ambiguity. The biggest one for us as emotional denizens of Earth is the confusion between happiness and pleasure. Pleasure is contextual, transient, and ephemeral. It is like a chocolate cake. The first serving just melts in your mouth, the oohs and the aahs complimenting the blissful pleasure the tongue tingles with. The second one plays a little and rides high on the tide of complete surrender to pleasure, but shove a third piece down someone's throat and the same cake gets all the calories, fat, heavy chocolate, written all over it, disgusting you with equal fervour. The bakery smell that lifts you up, now has started you off on a hunt for a bag to breathe into lest you puke for overdose on sweetness. This is pleasure - fleeting and short-lived. What then is happiness? It is one of the most vague and loosely used words in the English language. But that still doesn't answer the question.

Happiness, is a state of well being. A deep sense of serenity and fulfillment. An underlying emotion that encompasses all human sentiment. Is that possible? Can we have a common sentiment that relates to all ? Consider this. The bedrock of the ocean - stable, constant. The surface might have a rising tide, with surfers enjoying or work up a storm, devastating all that comes in its path. What goes on above does not change the sanctity or the truth of the bedrock, just as happiness establishes and manifests itself through all human sentiment. But is this analogy sufficient for us to relate joy and fulfillment to completely antagonising emotions as sorrow and anger? It depends on what we realise as the level at which happiness exists. On a lighter note, can we not rejoice in someone else's suffering ? :) This question demands a full-fledged discussion, which is why am leaving it open.

Happiness can only be a state of being, not a fleeting emotion. How can we succeed at being happy then? We look outside. We try to gather everything that would make us happy. That very thinking spells doom and signs our efforts off to failure because if we miss out on one thing, the feeling of accomplishment and contentment evaporates. We look outward to garner happiness and keep ourselves satisfied with life, and forget to build from within. We make our happiness contingent upon external successes, like having an apartment on the 100th floor of a beautiful New York skyscraper, but if happiness does not come from within, all we are going to be looking for even in that multi-million dollar apartment is a single window to jump out from.

The question now is, is it possible to change ? Can we change our state of being? We pacify our conscience saying it is too late to change, that the formative years of our lives are now behind us. Wrong again. It is out cognitive ability, the capacity to reason with our conscience that makes us apt to change. Emotions are volatile, and this is the way to proceed. To attain a sense of inner freedom, and refrain from emotions that deter happiness. It is through this mind training that we attain true self-awareness and satisfaction. The path to happiness starts from within and pervades our true state of consciousness, and it is never too late to start afresh.

PS: I still have not faced my quarter life crisis so do not consider this to be one :)

Q&A

Often the mind is mesmerised and obsessed with searching for answers, to silence the turmoil in our heads. In a transient world, where emotions, careers, personalities have become fluid, changing more frequently than the brand of soap we try, it has become human nature to be at a constant vigil, questioning our motives, goals in life. We repeatedly keep asking ourselves -

• Is this where I see myself working for the next few years?
• Is this the person I see myself dating for the next couple of weeks?
• Should I try and be more receptive to people or play "hard to get"?
• Did I make the right career choice?
• Should I get married? Am I ready for it?
• Should I commit?

No longer is the question of which coloured dress you want to wear to a party merely linked to that evening itself - it has engulfed in it a plethora of other considerations - of social standing, of glamour, of revelation, of seduction, and a million other considerations. Am digressing. From the topic I mean, not from sanity :)

The clarity in our head we yearn for, to get answers to the numerous questions bobbing back and forth in our conscience, is hard to get. We have adopted yoga, meditation, philosophy, and a million other ways to find out what the "answer" is. Such has been the obsession with seeking to "realise" who we are, and what we are meant to do, that we have gone to the extent of detaching ourselves from whatever makes us commit to something final, that makes something in our lives stable and stops the flow of anxiety. It frustrates us. It infuriates us to know that nothing can be done about it. We keep thinking, if we commit now, will we be missing out on something better?

We all have taken decisions in the past - some regretful, some that make us bloat up with pride. Yet we persist, we keep questioning, "what if" I had taken the other path? Well you cannot go back and change that decision. I know most of us might argue that an inability to change the past does not inhibit any inquiry into it. But this is where I want to bring into light a new perspective. Something I probably have realised over the past few days, since a lot has changed in life.

Life is not about .. wait hold on .. prepare for it .. embrace this moment of enlightenment folks ..

Life is not about getting answers, its about asking the right questions.

Sounds simple. Had I not said it and someone like Aristotle or Homer (NOT Simpson) had in their finesse mentioned this line it would have probably gone down in history as one of the greatest revelations! But honestly, it makes sense once you realise what it means to be asking the right questions. We often ask ourselves, "what if", yet we tend to forget and lose sight of "what now". It is difficult to go back in time, trust me I have tried and failed miserably, but what we can accomplish is to understand how to mould our future into something we wanted but could not have. This is one of the most rudimentary examples, there are several higher echelons of thinking behind this simple concept.

Nobody can teach you what the right questions for your life are. Everyone is unique in the answers they seek, and thus, each of us has his or her own enlightenment to discover in the form of the questions we pose. Do not expect an epiphany, a moment of divine intervention that shall reveal all, and suddenly the universe would converge into a single source of energy within you - that simply won't happen. Waiting for a miracle to happen is wonderful, but to centre your entire life expecting one is pure foolishness. Man is the measure - not to be sexist. We are who we are, and we make ourselves who we become purely through our efforts and the way we work around situations.

It is time we realised what we seek, and questioned our questions, rather then fret over not being able to find the answer to our lives. Life is full of coincidences, just make sure you never let one pass without gathering the message of life it brings to you. Fate is what "chance" brings to you, and destiny is what YOU make of that "chance"! :)

Angreji

I tried resisting. I really did. Even went to the extent of counting backwards from 100 whenever it happened. Looked the other way as much as I could. Told my brain to stop registering. Told my conscience to shut up and stop coaxing me to be honest to my sarcasm. But all in vain. My fingers have been itching, my eyes twitching, just to get one, okay, two, no some, alright almost all of the "wonderful" experiences on to paper. If you have not guessed till now, it was yet another day out in the marketplace of this beloved city of New Delhi. Lets not get our hopes too high expecting some rabble rousing tale, its just a couple of anecdotes I thought would be worth sharing.

After having Converse's brand drawn through the mud, and my shoes' ego dented on the last outing, I had decided to slip on a pair of Nike sandals and give the shoes a breather. I figured if am going to be branded in this show-off town, might as well quieten people with a brand they recognise - Nike - nah, am just kidding, I just want to wear them out so that I can get myself new ones ! A boy's prerogative you see. We, by societal norms, are not allowed to have multiple pairs, since an extra pair of anything would raise such boohawkie that you'd either get the single-brow-fish-eye look or a slight shake of the head sideways showing apparent disappointment. Anyways, getting back to the topic, so ambling around the market, with my guitar swung around my back, I am trying to figure out how exactly mom convinced me to go out with her in the scorching heat! We walk into CTC plaza - it made me wonder even strongly, WHY exactly did I nod and agree to come ?! Now, in Delhi, CTC plaza has some the most exquisite designs in ethnic Indian wear or something of the sort, so obviously you'd have women and girls from almost all walks of life pouring in. And trust me on this, but guitars and sarees just DO NOT MIX - I felt misplaced - a guitar on my back, and browsing through the latest trends in the female apparel industry ! MAY GOD HELP ME !

We climbed downstairs, into the suit-piece section. While mom discussed the latest arrivals with the attendant, my mind wandered, blank, with probably a monkey playing cymbals inside and doing a backward flip every five seconds. I had decided to shut down completely but then a voice rang - shrill as siren for the 7 o'clock morning factory call. A newly wed maiden - so apparent from the million bangles endorsing her hand, all bright red, and a blotch for a bindi on the forehead, was discussing the colours of a clothpiece with her mother-in-law. She goes, "mommy ji .. iska colour chudiyon se match nai hoga .. chaliye na .. koi aur colour dekhte hain .. nai to kahi aur hi chalte hain .. yahan to colour hi nai hai woh wala" - am not going to translate it, since I do not have any foreign readers. I have just one simple question for that really good looking newly wed bride - what cost more - the bangles or a friggin' expensive suit? Answer that question and you'll understand the colour of which item should dictate the purchase of which. Now I know there are a couple of girls reading this right now and judging me on my ignorance, but come on - how can you be so picky and choosy for a minimum Rs. 1000 purchase based on what you got for around 50 bucks ?!

We moved on, and a lot of other stuff happened, but am going to resist talking about it. Its hard. But it needs to be done. Must resist. Fight back. Too hard. Argh ! But I would like to share a little secret with you - on how to approach shopkeepers in Delhi. As Indians, we probably value the language of the Queen more than our mother tongue, which is why when we walk into, lets say a Vodafone store, what gets uttered is "Hi! I'd like some information on a new SIM caaaaaad" - yes, the "card" becomes the American accent caaaaaad, instead of "Namaste! Thodi information chahiye thi SIM ke baare mein" ! The reason is simple - you talk in Hindi, you automatically get labelled a gawaar, and the moment you blurt out even a single sentence in English, no matter how badly strung together with a disgrace to the name of conjunctions and prepositions, you get put up on a pedestal, and the motto of "customer is God" and aspiration of customer service kicks in. Our slavery never left us ;)

I bet you're sitting there smiling either at how wrongly you think I have gauged the situation, or going, "Yeah, that has happened with me too". But, beware, there is a catch. While an air of sophistication is presumed around you, because of the English, it may just backfire at times. I walked into a Nikon service center looking for a replacement for the protective covering of my D80's LCD display. After a 10-minute effort to explain, the attendant understood, and took out another D80, slid the cover off its LCD screen and placed it in front of me with a smirk. Smart, I said. When I asked him how much it would cost, a simple 350 came out of his mouth, and the retort to my calling it expensive was, "camera bhi to mehnga hai" - since when did a square inch of plastic come for 350 bucks ?! I gave him a piece of my mind in Hindi. He immediately dropped down to 250, realising am not the kind who just walk out of their AC cars, stereo on full blast, unfortunately listening to Backstreet Boys (still !!!!), and am one of the regular blokes who knows English but can measure him up with his Hindi as well! :)

Am not bragging, but yes, today I learnt a valuable lesson. Go around, and present yourself as per the person you're dealing with. Sometimes it pays to be a dehati even when you walk into a posh showroom, and at times being a stiff-nosed Englishman is a big payoff when going to a grocer's.

Beware of the bumbag

People of Delhi are often frowned upon as being rude and outrightly unfriendly. No arguments. They are also renowned for the rather superficial display of money, power and looks. No arguments there either. However, what others do not know about the Delhiites is that they have honed themselves in the art of bus travel - ranging from grabbing a seat to getting off where they want. There are several aspects of bus travel I could write about, because a single half-hour bus journey in Delhi would show you all that can happen to a new visitor or a seasoned veteran. If there is a quizzical look on your face wondering what could possibly be so intriguing about a bus ride, just consider it just short, if not equal to the drama that surrounds local train travel in Bombay! :)

There are usually three categories of people lined up at the bus-stop - one, who would prefer to wait it out at the bus stop, sweating, dabbing their foreheads with their neatly ironed handkerchiefs, careful not to wipe off the Fair and Lovely or Fair and Handsome their cheeks, till a bus with hardly any passengers standing and assuring a seat drives by, second, those who cannot wait it out in the scorching heat and rampant pollution and just cling on to whatever space presents itself on the floorboard of an overflowing bus, and lastly, we have the alert ones, those who keep calculating risks involved, taking into account how much sweating could compensate for the availability of a seat. Now I know you might think right now that the last sort need to get a life, and that they bother too much about something so trivial. But rest assured my friend it is these category of people who survive the jungle out there, that is the Indian public transport.

As soon as you get on to the bus, the mind registers the change in temperature, and the other things later, but the eyes, trained to search and target any open spaces is at its reflexive best. Homeostasis kicks in after the subliminal conscience ( I had to flaunt the word - XII grade Biology still runs strong in my veins :) ) After locating yourself optimally, giving your feet enough freedom to shift weight from one to the other, your nose strategically placed to steer clear of any bystander shoving his armpit your way while clinging to the overhead bar, a clear view of the road outside making sure you know where to get off, since the concept of bus stops is virtually obsolete in this city now, and lastly have either cheek in the way of whatever little breeze that might find its way into the otherwise stocked and muffled bus.

The conductor makes, or rather squeezes his way through the unwilling-to-budge-just-to-annoy-the-others-and-not-lose-their-sense-of-personal-space people, asking the new additions to the stockpile of bodies for tickets. Buying a ticket is a power struggle between the conductor and the passenger to see who can get through the exchange with the upper hand - if the passenger wants a Rs. 3 ticket, and gets a question in return "kahan jaoge?" (where do you want to go?), then he has to salvage his pride by either denying to answer completely or coming up with a smartass comment on it being none of the conductor's business. But unfortunately, the meek shall not inherit the Earth and most of us end up feebly stating the final destination of our journey that day. This is what happens with a simpleton - a no-nonsense simple bloke not wanting to rev up a quarrel.

Cut to a seasoned veteran - he knows the beast approaches, with his claws open, ready to sell you a ticket of a higher denomination than is actually required. But this bloke now, unlike a deer, is a sly fox, and he readies himself for the onslaught. Offence is the best defence. So here's what you do. Make a snotty face. You read it right the first time, make a snotty face even if the wind is in your face, you have a comfortable seat, the person sitting next to you is a hot dark-haired chick giving you the vibes. Tell yourself, you are unhappy because of the conductor. Tell your conscience that it is because of him that you are traveling in a bus rather than an AC car. Make yourself believe that the bloke in the khakhi dress with a bumbag around his waist is probably the worst thing that happened to Indian democracy. Once you're full of disgust and hatred, blow up your nostrils outward, squint the eyes closer together, making a three-lined bulge on your forehead. As soon as the bumbag is near your face, take the three bucks in your hand and shove them right in front of his face. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT make eye contact! The beast is nothing short of a minuscule Medusa, some of them can read the trick and call your bluff.

Usually the beast would not have the audacity to question your travel plan after such a brilliant show of "piss off you pain in the bum". However, if he happens to do so, now is your time to shine, and woo that beautiful dame hopefully sitting right next to you. Do not make the mistake of naming any bus stop - that would save your skin, but not get you your two minutes of glory. Instead, explore either of two options - the rowdy one where you simply state "tere ghar jaa raha hun" (am going to your place), which might backfire in case the conductor is stronger, or the sophisticated one where you cross-question him asking for his license number and demanding explanations as to why people are traveling on the floorboard despite it being against the law, cursing him for not stopping the bus at the designated places, and to finally get the crowd's attention and support, play on either "the women are also being harassed on your bus" or "this is a public service yet you ply as if it is something that was part of your family fortune". Delhiites love being part of a "collective fight", probably making up for the absence of a phrase like "the spirit of Mumbai". All you need to do henceforth is sit up straight, smile and soak in all the glory. You are the hero of the hour, and this battle belongs to you. But beware the war is still on, and embrace yourself for the ride back home in the evening. *Imagine the theme music from a horror show*

The walk

We face crossroads at several points in life and everytime we encounter one, it seems to be the determinate one, the one that would shape our future, and it gets utmost care and nurture therefore. Some people experience emotional junctures, while other get stuck in career-oriented dilemmas, but most often our lives are defined by a mix of a multitude of decisions we need to make or are forced to take in life. Coming to complete an MBA was one of the more complicated ones where a lot of factors did their dance auditions and a few were questionably selected to play in the final musical of "walk of the solemn few".

A painful but enjoyable, miserable yet memorable two years came to an end on the day of convocation, when we all formally graduated with a degree in management. It is true that an overwhelming feeling fills your heart when you are about to leave a place, you gave two years of your life to, but that feeling, surprisingly had not yet sunk in. Even at the robing trials, all we could do is poke fun at the usual victims, pull each others robes and make them take goofy snaps as if performing in some all-women festival. One was even made to dangle the scarf overhead and pose as an old lady, in all probability a mock-up of Mr. Whistler's old mom! The photography session that followed was equally absurd with half of us scratching because of the black robes in the scorching heat and the other half shouting each other's names to let the professors know who is responsible for all the ruckus on the steps above! We were running short on time and it didn't seem to bother even the control freaks, who used to get fidgety if everything was not done according to plan - wonder why they imagine a universal scheme of things - does it not destroy the element of SURPRIIIIIIISE ! for them ?! Anyways, that's beyond the point.

Once all the dorm snaps, the group snaps, the beard-holders snaps, the funky hairstyle blokes (ahem), the weirdly robed blokes snaps had been taken and all of us had ambled at our leisurely walk-in-the-park pace to the assembly area, we drew up in 3 columns and uncountable rows. I have never been a part of a convocation march, missed it while I was in High School, and could not attend my undergraduate one either, so there was a little voice in me going "O boy o boy o boy - we're gonna be marching past like army personnel - woohoo !!". But once the huge mass started moving, it became apparent, it was no sophisticated march, but a drub lingering twinkle toe walk that was paced after the oldies up front who were way past their prime days of walking and apparently had not ventured much out of their air-conditioned Honda Civics and institute sponsored housing! As we dragged ourselves, with students breaking the formation, chit-chatting on the way, we finally reached the turn into the plaza where the actual ceremony was to commence. Now I would be lying if I told you there was even a single person who did not feel what I felt as soon as we made that turn. We were greeted with a series of flashes - camera clicks from parents, press and God knows who, it was like the entire world had gathered in the humble lawns to get a glimpse of us! We all walked, in pure amazement - is this what it feels like to be part of a legacy? Is this what it feels like to be revered by all and sundry? Am I the one who is being held in awe by that uncle with a tearful eye, or that mother with a meek smile ?!

I had no idea before that moment what I had been a part of for two years now! I had absolutely no clue what it meant to people outside that I was at a place that is deemed outstanding throughout India. But that 2 minutes march from the plaza to our seats, we were Gods, it was like even the forces in heaven bowed down in honour to our prowess. The air stood still, we could hear every click, every sigh of relief, every heart beat that yearned out from a parent's heart longing for the success of their daughters and sons. We all were smiling, like veterans returned from war, like soldiers who had fulfilled their duties and made the nation proud. We might have not done all that, and probably the march past was a shabby one, but that feeling of belongingness, sure was nothing short of the army-like feeling I had expected :)

We were unquestionable, we were providential, we were the only supermen that existed in that moment!