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!

Adieu ..

After hating, cribbing, and cursing the city of Ahmedabad, am feeling nostalgic sitting here in my dorm room, all bags packed, ready to take a train for Delhi in a couple of hours. I still remember the first day here when everything seemed gloomy and dull, and gave an uneasy feeling in the stomach that something bad was going to happen. The first year was miserable, more to regret than to cherish. The only places I frequented were probably the malls and an off-chance movie at one of the multiplexes. Academic pressure was so immense that vacations felt blissful and we would take every opportunity to flee this God forsaken city. With no local points of contact, even an attempt to join AIESEC proved unfruitful. No friends. No relatives. We felt like strangers throughout that period. Everything we wanted to get involved with proved to be a goose chase with no results - ranging from a cellphone recharge shop to a sports club - futility was what we felt.

So why then am I nostalgic? What changed in me, because there is no way this city experienced a sea change? It is easy to develop a dislike and equally difficult to feel a warmth towards something. The past two years have not been the easiest in life, and I have experienced a multitude of ups and downs - personally and professionally. This is the same place where I was overjoyed with my summer placement, and the same where anxiety was on the verge of killing me for final placements. I still have not answered the question though. Why is it so difficult to leave Ahmedabad now? Was it not what I had been waiting for all this while? Was it not me who said I'd be glad to leave my alma mater as soon as possible?

Emotions defy logic. Its probably something I have learnt the hard way. But now, when am about to leave and reflect on all the phases in the past, I cannot help but smile. The get-togethers in Poply's room, where we used to pain his happiness till he finally yelled out for us to get out, the weekend visit to malls, just to window shop and get some decent grub, better than the mess food, the hunt for a swimming pool, which was within budget and clean too - how we drove the auto-rickshaw driver nuts describing the place we wanted him to take us. All these short memories, even though not always funny have become a part of the time we spent here, and funnily enough, I do not remember the painful classroom sessions or the demoralising surprise quizzes, but the little tid-bits of time spent among friends, and strangers, and how coming to Gujarat opened my eyes to how wonderful Indian people and India can be.

Staying up late in the night in second year, playing Quake with Harry and Poply, then running off to do the chicken dance in front of the loser's room, the weird conversations with Chipco where both of us discussed the trivialities of life, poking fun at people's ignorance, and having long discussions on why the chicken crossed the road! :) The occasional booze sessions, where Thylo used to be the one to turn in drunk and then follow up with his melodramatics, or yelling out from the dorm window who was banging whom ! :D Fielding in the gallery of the second floor, with Harry producing his spin wizardry and Poply unwilling to budge hitting the ball with whichever limb possible. :P The pizza parties. The dorm dinners. The hoax. The faccha gyan sessions.

But I will say that probably the last two months of my stay here have changed everything for me. I might not have been in the best of health, or the highest spirits, but I made two amazing friends, and I realised through them how much enjoyable life in Gujarat could be. I pity those Delhiites or Bangaloreans who dismissed Gujarat as a dry state even when it comes to having fun. To be able to go out into the city, or to places like Baroda, is what makes you see what Gujarat feels like. It isn't the case that I was pulled out of a downward spiral, but just that it presented me with an experience where I forgot completely about the negative aspects of where I was, and let myself enjoy the moment and soak in all the fun around. The long talks, chit-chat on old memories, leg pulling sessions, pointless banter and frequent chuckles, Bombay sandwich, all made the day wonderful. :) I won't elaborate too much on this, because I do not want to label these moments of ecstasy and archive them in a folder called "sweet memories" in my head, but rather have them fresh, just lingering at the back of my head, with vague recollections that would keep hitting me on and off, and bring a smile to my face. :)

I kept cribbing these two years on how miserable life had been at the institute, but now that am leaving, the miseries do not stick, but what remains in the conscience is a feeling of belonging to a dorm, an institute, a place, a city, and above all to friends which has become and will always be an integral part of my life. ;)

Around the world in 14 hours ..

.. or at least it felt that way. On a lazy Wednesday afternoon, a time I'd rather be spending lazing around in the bed, has been taken over by the scorching heat which is forcing me to stay off the boiling mattress. Might as well complete the second half of the train journey lest I forget for want of an ageing memory which is not getting any sharper with passing time.

From the last post you must have realised that train journeys usually come about as unwanted reminders of how irritating some people might get, but what is about to ensue now is what drove me to keep this post as second. If I hit you with this one first, the Gujju family chronicles would have lost their place. Now am no playwright, but as a convenience to the author, I will try to quote as much as possible and provide a list of the main characters at the start. Feel free to reference the list whenever you're lost in the post.

O.G.P. - played by "oh ji prahji" *balle balle*

J.M.D. - played by "jai mata di", the *shiv shiv shiv shiv* auntyji

J.S. - played by "Jai Saurashtra", the continuously beetle-tobacco chewing maniac

Hum - played by the U.P. couple, who could not refer to themselves as "main" (me)

I know a compartment in the train usually has 8 berths, but trust me with the Gujju family hogging 2, and the above 5 (3+2), we just had one big unhappy party! The scene opens with O-ji-prahji seating himself next to me, and running his fingers through his moustache and beard, like a dacoit happy with his prize catch after looting a helpless village. The fingers go left and right, round and round, up and down, before he finally gives up, having annoyed everyone around with the final hook of the finger dishing out a yucky dumpling from out of his nose. I look the other way, hoping to imagine him away and having a beautiful maiden seated next to me. Alas, the burp that explodes from his mouth dashes all such hopes!

While OGP has been busy with his displays of indecency, the couple seated in front of me have managed to drag out everyone's luggage from under the berths to make sure their trolley bag was "accessible". The husband tries desperately to use his scrawny frame to manage a heave so that JS' bag can be shoved into the fray of suitcases as well. He fails. Now weirdly enough, this bloke is a sly fox, and instead of asking for help, he tries to get a workaround and starts eyeing in my direction. The eyes meet, his moves down, to my feet, trying desperately to catch a glimpse if any space is available. Oh no you're not! I cross my feet, the soles facing his eager eyes. The territory has been marked. The jungle instinct is raring. The hyena dare not harbour into the lion's den. The bloke realises the ferocity in my eyes and backs off.

JS could not be less bothered about his stuff, which is why I wondered if the UP bloke was being sensible in sticking it out for his luggage. As if the continuous rattle from JS' phone playing old forgotten Hindi songs which would make a few friends of mine VERY happy given the games they play, he gets a phone call. The ringtone is not set to default Nokia. What plays is a mix of a whelp yelling after being hit, and a donkey making orgasmic sounds. It as become a funny habit amongst people to let the ringtone play. Ok, we get it, you have music playing. He stares, bobs the head a little to the right, a little to the left, makes a face, squints his eyes as if staring at the number from a far off place, twitches his moustache, and clicks, "hello" - finally!

The telephonic conversation that goes on from here, makes time stand still, and all hope vanish, for JS could not have murdered words as much as he did during those 5 minutes of talking. He wanted a cake which had "Muckkey Moooooooz" on it, and the "philabhar" was to be "pn .. apppppl". The reason given for the cake's shape was that the boy who wanted it was a "phan" of the "kooomik shomik mein aate hain na - chitra witra". After 4-5 repititions of the same words, with futility, JS agreed on texting him the name of the cake, the flavour and the name of the boy. You would think the ordeal ends here, wouldn't you ? Having explored all possible ways he could have messed up the procedure to order a cake, this same bloke gets a phone call after an hour with the person on the other side yelling "It is not his birthday, its Manoj's birthday!!" The following words cannot be mentioned due to censor board guidelines, but they took the effect of the bloke forgetting which of his sons' birthday it was. The humanity !

We pull into Delhi Cantt. railway station, and JMD makes her entry. She's accompanied by her son, who's walking with a stick, limping. The son tells behenji to hurry up, and she starts panicking rocking from side to side in a STANDING TRAIN !! The train has stopped for only 10 minutes, and the suitcase needs to be slid in, hugs given, kiss on the forehead and 4 rounds of goodbyes yet to be done with. The son looks at his watch tenaciously, sweating a little apparently from all the running to make the aunty catch the train. Now in this reunion, or rather farewell, our great OGP has to butt in. He stands up, half his shirt tucked into his jeans, and the other half dangling. An embroidered jeans with a yellow dragon running from the back pocket to the lower end of the right calf. Right in between the mom and son, he grabs the son by the shoulder and starts shoving in a polite manner. The reason given by our wise sage is, "If you do not get off now, you won't ever be able to let go! Let go of the feelings and never look back!" We all are in shock - what in Gawd's oh so sweet name is this crazy dumbass talking about?! He continues to press him backwards, the mother, in the typical "Mother India" melodrama is dragged, trailing OGP. All of us just sit there, agape, at the hilarity of what is happening.

The bloke gets off and as sardarji brings aunty back to her seat, she starts sobbing, to which he gives her a lecture, the details of which I cannot reproduce, because I shut my senses off for the utter nonsense that was playing in front of us - there is only so much that my conscious brain could take! By the time I regained consciousness, everyone had snuggled into their blankets, and food had arrived. Dinner, was a "pleasure" with the grand Gujju family, but as always, I guess Punjabis make sure they have the lasting effect of being the most obnoxious. OGP wants chicken. The train ain't got enough chicken. He should have mentioned it when asked before. OGP picks up a fight. In his usual Big Brotherly fashion he takes the attendant aside, slips in a 10er and asks for "arrangements" to be made. A 10er ?! Are you kidding me ?! The attendant is infuriated, tells him the money isn't necessary, and gets him his goddamn chicken. Now am no newbie, but I am a 100% sure that the cover on top of that chicken was moved, and nothing other than spit could have formed the garnish on that piece of meat! He chomps, as happy as a pig can be. He burps. The attendant is called upon again, and this time the complaint is "chicken khane mein mazaa nahi aaya, veggie khane lao". The bloke never returned, and we had to listen to OGP harp on rudeness and unprofessional behaviour for another half hour!

The aunty meanwhile, had decided to call up her son and tell him how there were flesh eaters in her compartment - yes, she was actually whining on the phone that she was stuck with non-vegetarians. For heaven's sake lady get a grip on your numb skull ! She sits up, crosses her legs, which have already started smelling of goo. The stench fills the compartment, each of us looking at the other's face, contemplating who shall be the one to break the news to aunty that she is a stink bomb right now. In the end, I guess, curiosity gets the better of OGP, and he breaks the news to aunty. Normally you'd expect the person to blush and lower their feet slowly, feeling slightly ashamed, which would cause qualms in your tummy, thinking you might have been a little rude and intolerant. But no, aunty has a surprise for us, she simply denies its her feet that appear to have been dabbling in pigeon poop. And she starts happily chomping again, loudly talking on the phone. You expect an old lady to be courteous in the least, even if she's lost sanity, but this one's a hoot. She goes on to tell her son on the phone, the guy sitting opposite to her, JS, is munching on beetle nut and disgusts her to the core. She even mentions that because of him, she has been reading the Hanuman Chalisa to drive away his filth! The UP couple is mentioned as a pick right out of the saas-bahu serials, and the audacity of her ridiculousness came to its peak when she gave them just another year together, after which according to her, either the husband will go deaf listening to the high-pitched voice, or the wife will leave him for his resistible, nope not irresistible, but RESISTIBLE looks! Well you're not expecting me to disclose what she mentioned about me are you ?! If you are, am sorry buddy, but that ain't happening !

Story time. Dinner done. Awkward moments settled. It was time all differences be forgotten and we reconvene as one big happy family. OGP had this uncanny knack of becoming grampa all of a sudden, only difference being, instead of the horror stories I was expecting, all he gave were unrealistic accounts of his travels. Apparently, he threw a guy off the train for causing trouble with the catering and creating much fuss about it - ironical ! ;) Well he says the train was stalled for 45 minutes, I wonder how that must have happened, considering the chain was never pulled and the bloke was pushed off a moving train. I guess the most annoying aspect of my journey came when asked what my business in Ahmedabad was. Despite desperate attempts at trying to remember names, I just could not and in the eventuality of losing face, I had to mention my university. It invited far reaching interest, much to my dissatisfaction, while I answered nonsense queries, and entertained foolish requests. One of the moms there wanted me to give her son a call and counsel him on choosing an MBA over Medicine, including tips on how to crack the CAT, and then also wanted me to mail him a consolidated list of the pros and cons for each II* (word has been omitted for obvious reasons :) ) and also against the leading B-schools in the US! She must have been nuts to think I was going to do any of that.

We slept. We woke up. From 8 in the morning till 10:12 when the train pulled into Ahmedabad junction, aunty had recited to me a million and 5 times that both her sons were in the Army, one was shot in Maniour, the other was posted as a captain in Kashmir, and he quit, was now working with Idea, at a very good post, and Idea is an MNC, and recession hit only small firms, and that I should reassure her that her son won't lose his job - who am I, the friggin' MD of Idea Cellular ?! Sheesh ! We pulled to a halt and I ran for it, ran for my life!

Disclaimer: This post has been written over broken periods so ignore any discontinuities, weird ramblings, because I do not have the strength to proofread anymore !

The electrifying concert

UK - April - U2. I'll be rotting in Delhi, probably browsing through VH1 looking for glimpses of the live coverage.

USA - July - Coldplay. I'll be rotting in Delhi, probably burning the midnight oil to get some money for the Stock Exchange.

India - Kardinall Offishall.

No, it isn't a mistake that I haven't mentioned anything about the concert in India, coz most of the "hip-hoppers" coming here are a turn-off. Who in their right mind would name themselves, Kardinall Offishall (Cardinal Official) ?! So here is the updated version of the last concert:

India - Kardinall Offishall - when? - like I care!. I'll be happy such buffoons stick to Bangalore.

My The Big Fat Greek Gujarati Family

Now I know what you might be thinking, how corny. Its not. I can't help it if the Rajdhani from New Delhi enroute Ahmedabad in Gujarat is riddled with Gujju families, and one of the most hip'n'happening ones happens to be in my compartment. Its been a long time since I did a train journey, perhaps why I was feeling nauseous at even the idea of a 14-hour ride alone, with no company. Recession has struck, my friend, spending twice the amount on a 2 hour flight just is not that inviting anymore.

I could go from the best possible way to build up the humour, but that would mean double the work for me and since am already writing this whole thing up, just got off a 14 hour train ride and have to take another 3 hour bus ride a few hours from now, I'm going to do this the simple way - chronologically. So get your popcorn and remain glued as this 14 hour saga unveils.

New Delhi Railway Station sure has received a facelift ahead of the Commonwealth Games, but what might seem pleasing to a Delhiite's eyes after looking at a dingy old station for 25 years, might appear as a nightmare for a Korean couple getting off the Guwahati Rajdhani! A dog scampers onto the railtracks to scare away a rabbit-sized rat, who is gleefully nibbling away at a potli - a wonderful display of human craftsmanship set forth by the Indians in which garbage, enough to explode out of two bags, is compactly packed into one, tied tightly and slung across the tracks to strategically land right in the middle, not to endanger any approaching trains. With this woeful scene one can live with, but when you have a bloke drag his child up to the nearby tea-stall, pull down his shorts, and yell at him to pee, it just makes you want to snatch your heart out, and stomp it with your own feet. When will Mera Bharat Mahaan learn ?!

After the ridiculous display of our "patriotism", the train moved forward, finally inching its way out of the junction. Not two minutes into the journey, I realised what I was in for. The lady, a bulky woman of around 55 with greying hair, a heavy voice, and an annoyingly long pony tail went plomp right next to me. Well no, had it been the "plomp" of someone easing their butt onto the seat, I would have said *plomp*, but unfortunately, this was more the gaseous release of unwanted intestinal residue, in short she farted. Now they say its the SBDs which are the most unbearable - Silent But Deadly. I think the lady was oblivious to that fact and decided to become an exception to the fact. It stank so much that the nose hair would curl up and never reveal themselves in broad daylight for fear of having to bear that torture again. Now, usual human reflex demands that the nose be clamped between the thumb and index fingers of either hand with utmost immediacy, but common human courtesy commands you to just smile the smell off and not make the other person feel bad. Am too courteous for my own good ! The lady was, however, unwilling to acknowledge, and bent over, exposing me to the main firing line of the bazooka! I was sweating. This memory, if ever formed, would not leave me for life ! I think there was more in store for me which is why God spared me and left me to live another day.

Now I understand, and am completely at peace with a large family traveling by train, packing their luncheon, creating a lot of noise, because I identify with their excitement, to be able to go around frolicking with familiar faces over an entire stretch of three compartments, that has to have some value. But the tipping point comes when, just because you're thin, you get pushed into a corner, well not literally, but because there is an entire dining table of food laid down beside you. Looking directly at someone else's food is bad manners, they taught me. I had to look the other way, my conscience is feeding on some sort of muscle building protein I suspect. 15 minutes. 25 minutes. I look down again and 43 minutes have passed, my neck starts to ache. Am swearing. Am frustrated. Am in half a mind to throw a tantrum and scare them all away. I don't. Instead I simply turn and give the kid one of the coldest stares ever. Its easy to pick on kids, they get scared easy. So did this one. He ran off to his mom, hugged her tight and took refuge in her palloo. Try not to smile. Try not to smile. You can do it. There you go. Ah shoot, there comes the smile, of great success, and achievement in scurrying off a little kid. Alas, it gets misinterpreted as a playful prank I was playing on the kid, and within a split second he's back right next to me, wiping his soiled hands on the berth, licking them, his nose drooling with goo!

I'll skip the next few ordeals I had to go through for the sake of humanity. We now cut directly to dinner time. Well now Rajdhani offers dinner, included in the ticket fare. So like an honorary Indian, every service has to be availed. In a move by the government to improve food quality, the pathetic excuse for a soup had been scratched off the menu, much to the disgust of the Gujju family apparently. There was much hue and cry for not getting a bowl, or rather tumbler full of swill which was probably first tasted by guinea pigs to check for fatal diseases and then sent through sewage processing. It makes sense to have bread-sticks with soup, but if the main attraction of that combo has been taken off, there ain't much point to the side-kick making a guest appearance is there? So in their plates land two NutriChoice biscuits - a range that has revolutionalised the biscuit industry in India, since for the first time ever, biscuits feel like they're meant for humans and not just dogs. But alas, what do we do? The whole family calls the poor caterer, gives him a good lashing, followed with demeaning words, and the child squishes the pack of biscuits under his feet! I am awestruck! How ridiculously apathetic and insane can you be?!

Main course arrives and having ordered vegetarian food, the Gujju family sits together, this time thankfully the other berth owners have occupied the seat next to me. They call for an extra load of 25 paranthas, which is obviously ruled out by the guy serving since the basic order for others needs to be satisfied first. The bloke, receding hairline, curly hair, an unbuttoned shirt, white chest hair showing, a faint hint of a moustache, and tracks, which I believe could have only be soiled the way they were by wrestling a pig in mud, stands up and shoves the serving guy. We all get up in shock in anticipation of a fight. The caterer gets scared, scolds the guy serving and sends him off. The family gets its 25 paranthas.

Come sleeping time, I am disgusted at the people, and agitated at not being able to get back at them. I know it was none of my business, but still the kid in me wants to seek revenge. Now what am about to disclose better remain between you and me, and not go out in the open lest that family find out. I had the middle berth. My bottle of water was full, and my mouth was dry. All I will say is, if you fill your mouth up tight with water and let it out through a narrow opening by pouting your lips, the stream travels far and wide, and can easily land up on someone's face sleeping somewhere down below, without them realising if the roof is leaking or is it God pee'ing! ;)

I spared the Gujju family after that, reason being, ah well that story shall come in the next post! Stay tuned!