eye spy with my lil i

Its not enough for me to be a narcissist calling myself God, and having my name stored in my friends' phonebook God, so I must make you endure the pain of having to go through a few quirky observations I made digging through dinner.

I like the smell of freshly done laundry.  Shoving my face into the pillow, smelling the fragrance of Ariel Springclean.  When mom changes bedsheets in the morning, I have to lie down, wiggle all around making excuses to my bro that am just lying down, before I doze off into la-la land in a matter of seconds.

I love it when Snowy follows me around like the pug from the Hutch advertisement.  It felt giddy when she wobbled and bumped behind me all the way to the ATM machine.  The way she wags her tail off, almost creating lift-off just at the sight of me walking into the large compound in front of our place.  Hate it when she has to lie down outside our door, waiting to play, but probably less than when she has to go down the steps, dejected, tired of the wait.  I love Snowy for everything she is, and the way she's brought happiness into my life.

I feel satiated, having gobbled up the onions and lemons at the table even before the food arrives, much to the annoyance of my friends.  I can't help it.  The thought of food makes me hungry, probably the irony of life, God's way of mocking me and keeping me thin come what may!

I feel proud of the fact that I can shed a tear at the end of a sad book or movie, and not have to gulp down a beer mug to feel all butch again.  The mark of a man, for me, is the ability to embrace his sensitive side and be comfortable about it.

I feel at my annoying best when I pain my friends' happiness to the point where they tell me to either "fuck off" or go for the much easier option of hitting me, hard.  Its these moments of sheer irritation that give me my edge and define who I am.

I smile when Isha comes up with her infamous witticisms to berate me into a small grain of nothingness.  Her ability to pull off statements like "Ass. Is hope." and crack me up! Love you kiddo! Muaah!

I consider my bro to be the funniest bloke ever.  Period.

I do not want to make this post a prolonged thesis of my life.  I do, however, want to let the world know am far from over.  Things have sucked in life.  Things have rocked in life.  I am the maker of my own destiny, and this is who I am now.

I am glad I tried this for the first time.  I hope you know me a little better now.

I think I should shut up now.

Pass me the nuts, would you?

Alcoholics are often looked down upon as vile and demented creatures, forming that ignominious stratum of society we could do without.  The basis of such common hatred is founded in the dislike so cordially cultivated by the "raging non-alcoholics", who consider it beneath their value set to even smell the vapours of a wine bottle for fear of  corrupting the soul and being sentenced to eternal damnation!  Defamed to the point where even social drinking at times is considered taboo, us alcohol friendly lot have been judged time and again, much to our annoyance.  There is simply no reprieve from the condescending eye of the mocktail-sipper bending her head slightly to the side and bobbing it sideways disapproving of every gulp of beer and sip of whisky.


It is time we gave the same people a piece of our mind! It is time we united and spoke up! Any one of us with even the slightest shred of appreciation for the spirits would know how important those little crisp nuts, or fries are to the overall sumptuousness of the drink and the mood.  A nibble here and there, a sip of single malt scotch, a slight shake swirl of the glass, a sip again and a small nibble again.  Imagine the grace of a dimly lit bar, you mounted on a barstool, both elbows on the counter, holding the glass between your palms, moving it from side-to-side, offering the charming girl across the counter an occasional glance.  The guitar strumming in the background, a gentility in the atmosphere setting the mood to enter into a trance. 


Enter, the mocktail-sipper.


They ask for a menu!  The blasphemy, the indignity, the abomination of actually walking up to the bartender and making that rectangle in the air and mouthing the word "menu" without actually troubling your vocal chords!  Fine. Pardonable.  You just do not know your mocktails, not that you have a lot of choices anyway. That is not any of my business.  Go ahead, order what you think makes you look chic enough, but don't forget the small red umbrella and cherry on the side that'll surely shrink the ego of certain parts of you not worth mentioning here. ;-) 


You move to a table, with your drink, far from the madding crowd, to appreciate the live band, if not just to soak in the serenity and slowness around.  The high-on-life hooting brigade follows your happiness around and decides to set up camp right next to you.  The bartender very carefully places the bowl of crisp nuts right next to your drink.  Ah, I missed you salty-little-drops-of-heaven!  Nibble, nibble, crunch, swivel, sip, sip, nibble.  As you turn away, there at the corner of your eye, a shadow approaches, with five hideous pointed shears, painted a bright pink, or a vomit-inducing white, grabbing a fist full of nuts. I slowly turn in their direction, and as if in slow motion watch the little nuggets of bliss get brutally crushed and ground between their teeth, chatting away while grinding them into mulch.  I watch them in utter disgust as they grab another handful, chomping away letting out short burps, doing whatever justice they are capable of to the nuts.


Do not mistake me.  I am a sharer.  No qualms about people lifting food off my plate to get a quick taste.  But nuts, that's a different story.  Its something we alcohol-lovers cherish, something we are entitled to, and to watch a judgmental prick literally CHEW it all to waste is just heart-breaking.  


So the next time you ask the guy next to you, "Pass me the nuts, would you?", remember, there just might be one who having had enough would just say, "No."


PS: The worst part is am friends with the mocktail-sippers! ;-P

The Bean Bag Conspiracy

Spewed all over the city, cropping up on walls with a different number every time, the same message - Bean Bag 2462 8943 or some other random number. We used to be boggled every time we drove past one, why would bean bags be advertised?  Its not like graffiti ever became the "hip" thing in India! All we have managed over the years is "dekho yahan gadha moot raha hai" or similar variations of the same message. To imagine that the same messengers would paint "Beanbag" was by far a long shot - you seriously have to be kidding telling me that they could even comprehend the word 'Beanbag' - even a 5th grader from a municipality school would be unaware of the existence of such a concept, let alone the vocabulary. Anyway, that is a moot point now.  


Still unaware, the mystery of the Beanbag eluded us. Building up theories didn't help much either, by way of guessing we just gave curiosity wings. We grew fidgety. Guesses were ventured, three guys from few of the good B-schools in India had to opine - ranging from "viral marketing" to "recall value", the bullshit never stopped flowing. Any remotely sane explanation was discarded for want of a brilliant reason that would make us hold the entire concept in awe and appreciate the creativity behind it. To have our hopes dashed with a mundane revelation was unconceivable. So we persisted, plying away to seek the elusive.


Mischief struck one day. We decided to make the call, but which number do we call? When do we call? What do we say? It was easy to reach a unanimous vote on making that call, but how do we make smalltalk, not calling it anything else for want of limited vocab. Nobody volunteered their phones, neither of us wanted to talk either. The idea just appeared so shady, a widespread public advertisement done in amateur paintwork - what was the catch? We pulled straws. I was saved. Number dialed, we waited while the ring reverberated across the entire room, pin drop silence, loudspeaker on.  


Voice (female): Hello.
Nervous frenzy (male): Err .. hu hu .. hullo ..
Voice (cracking up a little): How may I help you?
Nervous frenzy (a sweat breaking lose): Umm .. I .. no we .. want a beanbag .. kitna hoga?
Voice (firm as ever): Oh, well that depends sir, what exactly are you looking for?
Sigh of relief (realising it is a beanbag co.): Something soft and sturdy I guess - what sizes do you have?
Voice (elated at the proposition of a confirmed customer): Well sir we have everything for your needs.  Soft and sturdy - which make sir?
Confused: Err .. umm .. what is the best one you have? What is the rate? I want the ones which are like really soft - in which you can like just sink in ..
Voice (reassuring): Haan haan sir, the best we have right now .. sir aapko kab tak chahiye?
Confident: Kab tak? *whispers heard in the background* Arre aaj hi de do!
Voice (proposing, quizzically): Oh.  Sir today only Philippines is available.  If you wait, we can get you a Russian tomorrow.
Proud: Why ok! We will wait till tomorrow then!
Voice (very businesslike now): Sir, may I get your address and phone number? Do you want the package to reach your place or would you make the pick-up yourself?  
The cool dude: Oh no no, YOU deliver it to me, customer is God you see! *winks to his friends for pulling that line off*
Voice (sealing the deal): Ok sir, do you want the services for one night or a longer period of time?
Unsure: Err .. longer .. is it rental basis kya? I want it for longer - resale value kitna hoga? *the typical miser in him to the fore*
Voice (laughing): Haha sir, resale nahi hota sir, but if you keep us busy for longer, we can surely make a discount, just for you *in a weirdly voluptuous tone*
Shaken Up: Thik hai, to lets make it for one night and if I like it, I will use it everyday, when should I pay? Can I pay with card?
Voice (laughing again): Sir, if you like calling us "it", we do not have a problem, but when she turns up, we hope you would be more polite.  Well sir, our "its" don't really carry a card reader, rokhda hi dena padega.
Almost-pees-his-pants: W .. W .. Wh .. Wha .. What *throat runs dry* - who "she" .. what is this number for? Beanbags?
Voice (cackling now): Yes sir, we all are beanbags - you can use us whatever way you want.  We will make you feel li--------------- *disconnected tone*


We all burst out laughing, rolling on the floor, holding our tummies. The only guy still shit scared is the one with the phone in his hands. Gasping for air, we ask him it was an adventure, what the f**k is he so worked up about?!  


Crapped-his-pants-for-sure: Yaar, I gave my actual home address and landline number - ab wahan call aaya to?


We died laughing!

An ode to nice guys

One of my friends sent me this link today morning, and I had to put the post I was writing on hold to quote this one. This is why there is hope, even for me! ;)

http://www.stwing.upenn.edu/~jenf/writing/rant04.html

This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.

The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

By the power of Castle Grayskull was it?

He-Man probably gained more popularity the more on-screen appearances he made in his woolly yellow underwear and unmistakably uber-cool sword. I personally feel the more I blog, my misadventures project me as an unruly nut. As long as people get a good laugh out of it, doesn't really bother me I guess. Ah well, so what if I do not inherit the kingdom of Eternia, a ferocious tiger like Battlecat, am happy with my moments of "fame".

Taking off from where I left last time, which honestly I have a vague idea of, there is something inherently wrong with the way God intended men to be. Somehow or the other situations, and awkward ones at that, heave their ugly face up, only to leave us red and blushing or biting our tongue! It is already hard enough to suffer through the adversities of actually having to pick out something reasonable to wear for a traditional dance, to have the "how" to wear it shoved in your face. The sense of accomplishment on having picked out the kurta was so overwhelming, that in my over-zealousness I said "Yo!" to a chudidaar to go with it. Am a man of t-shirts and jeans. I'll go for the occasional kurta or shirt, but ideally something as simple as a t-shirt I can pull over my head with minimal effort makes me happiest. Oh well, I thought to myself, might as well just put in that extra effort.

Now the thing about a chudidaar is that its got rings around the ankles, and I always assumed, having looked at a lot of women's feet for fear of eye contact lest they start pointing fingers, that those came sort of "built in to" the entire pyjama framework. Do no patronise me at this point, because I swear I WILL hit you! So there I stood, in the bathroom, kurta on, pyjama on, and two elongated flippers dangling at my feet. Yes you read that right, I had no clue what to do with that tubular extra foot of cloth at my feet - do I use scissors? Would tying it up be an option? Or am I wearing it wrongly and probably a pyjama is not supposed to be as "low-waist" as a pair of jeans. No matter how much I struggled, that extra foot of cloth just would not disappear.

I resembled a merman to cut a long story short.

Succumbing to the futility of it all, I simply walked out with a blank look across my face, looked up to my friend and went - "What do I do with this flippy thingy or whatever?" There is no need for me to explain in detail how the reaction went, as it is very apparent how people usually react to my "innocent inquisitions" :|

On the bright side I know how to wear a chudidaar now, but that does not compare to having almost half a city know the "merman story". *sigh*

This is not a funny post

A pompous arrogant prick is what I was projected as when I refused to come over for Garba. At the time I took offence to such allegations, for no man in his right mind would want to have himself shake some booty and be the subject of public humiliation! It is a commonly accepted fact that when it comes to flexibility, women far outrun men, especially when it comes to dancing. Give a woman a man who knows his salsa and rumba, not to forget the tango and she'll probably get a short-lived orgasm at the mere mention of it. Pardon my crudeness at this stage, but I really believe the imagery does justice to the connotation ;)

Well enough discussed about the beauty versus beast on the subject of elegance. Two years at Ahmedabad and not once had I been part of the Garba. In my defense, Ahmedabad isn't particularly renowned for the celebration of Mata Ambe in the most fascinating and enticing way, but still, the experience of a collective dance to the tunes of pure Gujarati melodies should have been reason enough. Anyways, moving further from repentance, my brief stint at Mumbai was enough to get that little elf juggling in my head egging me on to go to Baroda to be part of United Ways that, justifiably so, is one of the best places to do the Garba.

Now every little elf has an evil twin, and unfortunately for me, evil reigns supreme at times. I blame my uncanny wit for it. Trust me, humility is not my thing anymore! ;) So while the cute little elf inside was gleefully juggling around, the vile sibling started brewing up a cloud of uncertainty and indecision, an air of shame that corrupted the very excitement of being part of something so enjoyable. Now it would be easy to preach to me that at moments like this, I should introspect and believe in myself and the spirit of the Garba which is to enjoy. Too difficult. But yes, I do realise, there is a stronger power at work here, the power of friends taunting your happiness away. I have two such annoying imbeciles who think it fit to get a whip out and lash me with it whenever the opportunity arises. It is their unrelenting sense of obligation to make me do something which would be good for me that probably has made me enjoy a lot of stuff in the past as well :)

So there I was, in Baroda, a cancelled flight and weird altercation with Shakti Kapoor later, in my kurta pyjama, waiting to leave for the Garba grounds. I must say, in retrospect, I wasn't scared, or anxious, just taken in with an overwhelming sense of awe when I saw all my friends, old and new, dressed up remarkably beautifully! Makes you appreciate Indian beauty all the more. Oh come on ladies, am complimenting you, there is no need to go "hawwww" 'bout it! ;) Colourful is not the word I am looking for, it was more than that, brilliant probably. How they all came up with so much variations in the colour combinations, the dressing styles, with a basic concept of a chaniya-choli was mind-boggling. Trinkets, necklaces, bangles, payals, jhumars - it all just made the effect so, grand.

I was in a plain olive green kurta pyjama, just for the record.

We moved to the grounds. I never fantasised about counting stars while I was a little kid, but that day I was so amazed by the number of people around, that counting them all just seemed so inviting. I would love to count each and every one of them, and as the number grew it would make me all the more exhilarated to know am one among ALL of them! I know by this time you're just too tired of waiting for the part where I take the wrong steps and I either fall down or run someone over with my robotic antics. To be honest, I would have loved for someone else to describe that part for me *ahem ahem cough cough - take the hint!* so am going to give it a window of say, my stay in Delhi to come up with a description of my "performance" as it were, after which I shall myself have to come up with what I thought of it :)

And oh yes, this post is far from over here, lets not forget I did the Garba for 2 days - that has got to count for something! ;) Until we meet next.

Adios.

Be born, everyday.

In a world of pointless advertising, there are a select few that pluck a very resonant chord in you casually some day. The spoon goes slower to the mouth. The endless chatter on the phone is put on hold just to listen to it. The fight between two kids on who's monster truck is better suddenly stops. The paranoia on burning stuff on the burner vanishes for a few seconds for the ever-busy housewife. Time simply stops, and only the ad plays.

A similar one showed up a couple of weeks ago. I was doing none of the above. Was bored actually. Sitting around with the Economic Times in hand pretending to be too interested in the business world had taken its toll. Aamir Khan in a knight's make-up drew my attention. Yes you guessed it, Titan - be born everyday.

Kabhi kisi anjaan station par utar kar dekho

Kabhi kisi gumnaam sheher ka ticket katao

Doosron ki galtiyon se kya seekhna .. make your own mistakes yaar

Never resemble your passport photo for more than three months

Har subah shock your reflection

Explore

Bachpan mein to kya kuchh nahi banna chahte the

Why not today?

Be born, everyday.

Need I say more? :)

Raat ke dhai baje [in Hindi]

Raat ke dhai baje koi packing kare,
Kapdon ka bazaar laga, sab charpai par pade ..

Dukhi dukhe dukhe se, mare pade hain hum,
Aankhein doobi doobi se, sona sona chahe hum,
Dayan ne kaisi durgat ki hai, pehli baar galti ki hai,
Aji aakhri baar galti ki hai,
Arey pehli baar galti ki hai, aakhri baar galti ki hai,
Khoon ki aakhri boond tak le li, kameeni kaisi harqat ki hai,
Aji pehli baar galti ki hai, aakhri baar galti ki hai ..

Nafrat mein jalte hue, uski zabaan tezaabi lage,
Jaan chhodti hi nai, koi to use beemari lage,
Nafrat mein jalte hue, uski zabaan tezaabi lage,
Zabaan tezaabi lage, nafrat mein jalte hue,
Hoo chipke chipke baal hain, badboo wale gande,
Chupde chupde baalon mein junon ke ande,
Tanhai mein fursat di hai,
Arey pehli baar galti ki hai,
Aakhri baar galti ki hai ..

Raat aisa haal hua, jaisa hota to nahi,
Jagaa kar rakha mujhe, main bhi sota to nahi,
Ek suitcase band karne mein saari raat guzaari hai,
Gande kapdon ki gathri, sar par le li tune kaisi pareshani di hai,
Arey pehli baar galti ki hai, aakhri baar galti ki hai ..

Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?

The first time I logged on to the Prithvi theatre website, I was in for a shock having missed out on "Waiting for Godot" by a day! It was one play I had been waiting for ages, with a star cast comprising Naseeruddin Shah, Ranvir Shourie and Benjamin Gilani. It might sound melodramatic if I relate how heartbroken I was but the truth is that it pinched a lot to have missed for laziness to check the site. While browsing through the other plays on, one caught my eye instantly, "Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf" - whoever writes such a play ?!

I read on. Scratch my chin.

Now since none of my readers have been to Prithvi, here's a fact. Plays staged on Tuesdays and Wednesday are usually for Rs. 80 while the others require you to shell out your weekly allowance of 200 bucks! So even though the story seemed interesting, the prospect of it being on a Wednesday seemed somewhat dicey. Would it be worth the time I'd give to it? I was desperate for quality entertainment.

The day I left for the show, probably the only glitch was not going alone. I should have gone to watch it on my own. Well that isn't the focus of this post. So lets leave it at that. We reached Prithvi, entered the theatre, phone in hand as I kept arguing with my colleagues on their incompetence and my boss for holding me accountable for nincompoops! Once all issues got settled, we cozied into the side aisle seats, as three fat bums squeezed their way into the corner pushing us further into the corner. Built like an amphitheatre, closed of course, with a huge floorspace for the actors, Prithvi's ambiance on the inside makes you fall in dramatics all over again. It is something to be experienced, not described.

Enter Aman Uppal (George), wearing a suit, with a sweater vest inside and shabby greying hair. Honestly, his opening was very weak, words muffled, back facing the audience, didn't make that strong entry that we have come to expect of stage actors. Tahira Nath (Martha) follows him on stage, dressed in shimmering black, drunk, hair flayed all over, crystal clear voice, enunciating every profanity she uttered, reverberating the entire theatre with her shrieks and outcries for "George, fix me a fucking drink!". The opening melancholy of the situation between the couple draws you in from the first instance, those relaxed into the cushioned seats pull forward resting their elbows on their knees, and chin resting on the palm of their hands.

The psyche, the tension and ambiguity of their relationship fills the room with an eerie silence, everyone hushed, not a whisper except for the occasional murmur. If the complexities hadn't boggled the audience enough, the entry of the young couple of Ali Fazal (Nick) dressed in a smart brown jacket and corduroy trousers, and Mrunmayee Lagoo (Honey) in a tight dress added fervour to the scene. Contrast the explicit mockery between Martha and George to the newly-wed excitement of Nick and Honey. As events take an ugly turn and the plot deviates into an out of control drinking brawl between Martha and George where he beats her up, and a near on-stage blow job given by Martha to Nick, the complications and inherent multi-dimensionality to any relationship comes to the fore. Martha and George find refuge in each other's hatred to keep the relationship going while Nick and Honey see clearly through the mirage of their relationship and come to the fore with their suppressed aggression.

A breath-taking performance that keeps you at the edge of your seats for a continuous two hours. Gripping deliveries. Hair-raising performance. Bewildering monologues. Everything about the play oozed a sense of being involved in something you never experienced in life or ever thought of. Prithvi's become a regular haunting place for me, not just for theatre but also the kadak cutting chai on offer. A must visit to anyone coming to Bombay ! :)

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