Heat.

Having moved well into the more mature side of the 20s, it comes as no surprise that every Tommy uncle, Dick cousin and Harry aunty has just one item on their agenda - get this boy married!  Every phone call or casual visit transforms into either of three things - One, a prolonged lecture on how your younger brother is also in line to get married, Two, a spat of expletives coaxing you to "get real" and accept arranged marriage as a viable option, Three, and the most annoying, a pity-talk of how you're balding and the proposition of you being a fresh IIM-A grad is fast fading away.  The worst part is, you build immunity over a period of time, become hard-pressed to revolt against marriage as an institution in its own right, even if till this point of time you cherished the idea of a long term commitment to one person.   What becomes of you, is subjective.  Am going to present here, before you, a facet of such a subliminal metamorphosis.

I pride myself, probably a little too narcissistically at times, of not objectifying women.  To be honest, I might have gone "Ay Carumba" or "Habba Habba" when a smoking hot chick walks past by, but that was more out of knee-jerk-why-did-god-give-us-so-much-testosterone-involuntary-appreciation than out of a perversion to drool at anything with smooth legs or skin showing! But herein lies the catch.  When your aunt walks up to you, every single time, shoving the SAME OLD monotone-thought down you, "what kind of girl do you want beta?", you just can't help it, but wonder about the answer to that question.  Ironically, the more you think about it, the more murky the image gets, and the more you begin to idealise.  And trust me, simply closing your eyes won't reveal her face to you - its a load of bullcrap!

Such indecision drives you to the brink of embarrassment when, aboard the train, you accidentally bump into a "nice" girl - I frankly have no clue what "nice" means, but its my choice to be as vague as possible here for want of better description.  You might have the most harmless of intentions, you might be one of the last few survivors of the chivalry clan, yet in that momentary lapse, you become a dog in heat, and you simply stare, blankly, not even judging, or analysing the girl, but just trying to fit her in on the "what kind of girl do you want beta" scale.  And you simply forget how obviously, in-your-face you appear at that time, coming across as the very vilification of perverseness you detest in all middle-aged men!  The girl looks back, not with the usual smile you used to get, but with a scorching detesting stare, a slap across the face that wakes you up and brings you back to reality.  Appreciation is just not what it used to be anymore. *sigh*

Unlike before, you listen in on girls making small talk.  You feel this weird eagerness to get to know the female psyche better.  The more you get involved, the more confusing it gets.  Rationality and reason take a plunge out the window.  I don't remember being this way when I fell in love a long time back - this shit is scary!  No wonder guys get scared at the very proposition of marriage.  Experts have it all wrong.  It never was the impossibility of being with just one woman all your life, but the inevitability of how peer pressure and marriage would change the way you perceive the opposite sex that drove us men to abandon so many at the altar!

On the flipside, there is always the silver lining of such an arrangement that is thrust upon you, of dreaming big and believing there is just that outside chance of having Sonam Kapoor by your side in some sort of parallel universe.  Heat - the imagination it lends you! :)

A Bandra kinda guy

6:00 a.m. Barking overheard.
6:02 a.m. You put your head tween your pillow and mattress.  The barking endures.
6:05 a.m. Move over to the left side.  Dig your face into the pillow hard!
6:10 a.m. Curl up inside the covers pretending the barking has stopped.
6:28 a.m. The plan to ignore succeeds and peace prevails.
6:29 a.m. Realisation strikes.  A monster has been let loose.  Scratching sounds at the front door.
6:31 a.m. The whelp yelps.
6:35 a.m. Dreary, rubbing your eyes, you open the first door, look out and with a half wave of the hand go "Bad dawg!"
6:40 a.m. After 5 minutes of trying to convince the dawg it isn't play time yet (as if the idgit would have ever gotten a word of what you just said!), you just give up.
6:46 a.m. You throw on a jacket.  Its pouring outside.  Shorts on, cool breeze blowing, just too lazy to put on track pants, you get out.  Curses! You forgot to take the keys with you.  Locked, till the other lazy bums wake up after 2 hours!
6:50 a.m. After slapping the pooch for around 2 minutes and preaching to her how behaving and discipline is good for her, you knuckle brush her on the head and tug on her collar.
6:53 a.m. Drat! Who the hell forgets to put on socks when going for a jog?! Ah fuck it!

From there on what ensues is pure bliss.  Taking Snowy out for a jog on a rainy Sunday morning, playing ball with her, throwing two sticks in different directions and watching her get confused, roll over beckoning you to tickle her on the tummy.  After 2 hours of dancing and playing around with one of the brattiest pooches on the planet, its time to get her ready for a well deserved nap below the staircase on her soft rug.  Once nestled in all comfy and sleepy-eyed, you tip-toe back upstairs, and after ringing the bell for almost 8-10 times, you just go crash on the bed again.

10:30 a.m. You wake up with a start! Realisation strikes again - its SUNDAY for heaven's sake, give yourself a break.  Ah well, now that you're up might as well make something of it.
10:35 a.m. Fiddling around in the kitchen, making faces at the unwashed pots and pans from last night, you decide Sunday ho ya Monday roz khao ande.
10:36 a.m. The fridge is what would have even an elephant put up notice for room sharing, yet all you see inside is an expired carton of milk and some rotting veggies from a week ago for sure if not a month!
10:40 a.m. You're back out in the rain, this time with an umbrella and oshos on.  Scrambling across the muddy path, a poly-pack of milk for Snowy, 5 eggs and bread make their way into your breakfast menu finally.
10:55 a.m. Too lazy to wash the dishes and then wait for brekky to be cooked properly, crack goes the first egg into a tumbler,  and the second, damn spilled the third, the fourth in and the last one into the container as well.  Give it a good shake, hold your nose and *gulp*. Its gone! Bread. Hmm. No butter, no cheese. Zilch. Ah well, God intended man to eat everything raw and unprocessed, so you gnaw at two slices gorging down gulps of water to get the pieces down your throat.

Reading the day's paper, feet on top of the window sill, rays of sunshine trickling in from the side, sifting through the photo mag, finishing off the next few pages of a book that you've been on for more than a month now, sipping on the carton of juice you forgot outside on the porch last night, time passes by.  The tummy begins to rumble, a pretty good argument to wake the others up and head out for lunch.

Lunch done, time to play with Snowy and Danny again through the next hour or so as they finish off the Pedigree served by the aunty downstairs.  As Danny decides she's become too old to play and cozies into a warm corner, Snowy goes sniffing for hidden treasure and you retire to your bed to watch some TV and probably drift off for an afternoon siesta.

I could go on and describe an entertaining evening out with friends either by the seaside at Carter Road, or sipping on cutting chai at Prithvi, followed with a trip to south Bombay for a sumptuous dinner and beer followed by a night out at Marine Drive and Worli Seaface singing, but that is not the point of this post.  What follows now, is.

Cut to Santa Cruz (E) a.k.a. Kalina - our new abode

I hate this place.

It would suffice to stop at just that, but sitting here in my room, on a Sunday evening sulking, it is probably befitting that I vent out a little.

Sure I now have a room I can call my own, unlike before when we used to sleep on mattresses spread out in the hall.  But if a roach crawling on your bed two nights in a row becomes reason for your roomie to shift base to the swing upstairs, it is not much consolation that you are now the king of a roach infested room!

Sure we have a swing upstairs.  But what is the point if people just love "dying" on it and leaving it a filthy mess having slept and waddled on it as if they were making love to it!

Sure we have an "upstairs" and a "downstairs" in the house.  But what is the point if because of those stairs you spent the first month nursing bruised and swollen knees since they have been made with the intent of surviving a nuclear attack in an underground bunker!

Sure we have airconditioning in EVERY room.  But were you not the one who hates ACs?

Sure we have a TV now that shows ALL the primary colours.  But was it not more fun banging that junk box back in Bandra and doing hajjar natak to get the cable going properly?

Sure we traded up in terms of per head rent we now pay.  But did we not trade DOWN in going away from Bandra?

The list is endless, so is my frustration with having to come over at night and realise its less of a home every day, and more of a pit-stop to get back to the dreary routine of office day in and day out!  Every weekend the sole objective becomes to get out of this rotting hell, which has been hollowing you from the inside, sucking out every drop of happiness.  Lethargy characterises this place.  Its like walking into zombieland after 8 in the night.  The neighbours, if they see you, they cringe, as if we're renowned extortionists and murderers, if not disgusting lepers.  You realise you hate a place too much when "not being able to dry your clothes out in the sun" becomes reason for you to get annoyed even more.

I miss Bandra.  I miss Snowy and Danny.  I miss that life.

The human circus

I have come to realise something, of course about myself, so have no clue if it'll interest you in the least or not but thats beside the point.  I am passionate about writing and photography, probably why I want to be a war correspondent someday (all of us are allowed to pamper our dreams and think of the impossible).  Herein lies the irony - while I photograph people horribly, am most inspired to be my usual self while writing about people.  Well, since writing is the order of the day right now, here's a toast to all the interesting creatures ambling across the hallway at the departure gate.

The chic-chick - I am a guy, a chick has to be the first living thing I will notice, so spare me the judgmental shake of the head.  Book in hand, with a bookmark almost midway, clearly thoughtfully placed there to give the impression she has been poring over the rather gripping issues of the novel for quite some time now and is totally entranced by the author's style and delivery.  Sporadic mobile checks in case the phone magically went into silent mode and she missed a call or a message, even more irregular is the frequency with which she opens the book at the bookmarked page and completely unbelievable the way she flips a page in the time by which it is humanly possible to be have read only 2 sentences!  I don't blame her in any way for putting up a front, don't we all.  Am not a saint myself with earphones in my ears pretending to be listening to some heavy metal when what's really playing is Gravity by John Mayer. ;)

The wannabe-chic-chick - These variety come in a close second to the above category, much like the cheap Nike knock-offs you can easily get hold of at the Customs Good shops.   There are a few elementary mistakes these amateurs make in trying to be a part of the "elite gang".  Firstly, unlike the chic girls, who make sure their book seems ribbed at the edge and used, these girls carry around a brand new book without bothering to give it a look of ownership, a dead giveaway to even the most ignorant of observers.  Second, they buy themselves coffee at the Lipton outlet - blasphemy, as a chic-chick you are allowed to only be sipping at coffee that has a brand clearly showing on the outside of the cup and the least you can settle for is CCD, no offence to the brand intended.  The list goes on but one significant piece of information they miss out on is the shoes - chic-chicks don't need to flaunt good shoes - its all about comfort.  They know guys look at only the face and well elsewhere, so might as well be comfy with the feet and give them their well-deserved rest.  The wannabes fail to understand that and want to present themselves as the complete package in the process losing out as they look more clumsy than raunchy trying to stabilise themselves on the heels.

The banungi-main-Miss-India - I do not know where the innocence we used to associate with childhood went, but it just feels like my generation missed out on what the new gen-X or gen-Y whatever they call themselves, now considers as "hip'n'happening".  I have right opposite me a young girl of not more than 12 years of age wearing what would be deemed as censorable by Ms. Asha Parekh if she ever got into moral policing of the society.  It is an age of Westernisation, agreed.  We have gone beyond our reservations against women's liberties, agreed.  But there is that very fine line between liberation and outright disobedience.  Grace and shyness is what makes our women and girls ever so fragile and effervescent in their essence.  Am not an orthodox believer in women's suppression, but I am one of those who still thinks that the sexiest garment ever to adorn the female form remains the saree.  I am one of those who believes that 12 is too young an age to let your daughter flaunt almost half her belly to on-looking middle-aged men, more interested in that exposed skin than the innocence that sprinkles around as she playfully plays throwball with her younger brother.  There is a time when she would want to glamourise and accessorise, but this is not the age.  Hell 12 is not even allowable age to enter the beauty pageant.  People must have some sense of cognisance to have placed that rule into effect! ;)

The arranged-marriage couple - Being at the turn of my life when am being pushed into the whirlpool of arranged marriages more and more vehemently by my mom and dad, I probably seek out couples I can judge and measure for myself the feasibility of getting into such a predicament.  The husband, sitting cross-legged, usually the left over the right, newspaper in hand, flipped over to the business page, no longer is sports the mainstay of the paper, deeply engrossed at a weird angle as if with invisible specs on the tip of his nose.  The wife, sitting in a slouched position, usually to his right, and preferably at the corner seat or an empty seat between her and the next passenger, bored out of her wits, looking at her nails if from a city or mostly at her feet if from a smaller town.  Hardly any words are exchanged between the two, except for when the wife tries to make a vain attempt at small talk quoting a mildly objectionable remark from one of the relatives they had visited over the weekend or a common friend who was getting involved with something dicey.  The husband lets go of the paper only when the final boarding call comes through, leaving the wife to lead the way and trailing behind close to her almost stepping on her flat sandals, over-protective as if every guy with spiked up hair and a laptop listening to music and typing away frantically is a stalker out there to molest his wife!

Final boarding call for the Jet Airways flight to Mumbai .. the rest will come once am in Mumbai .. taking notes till then! ;)

At the hawai-adda

Its been quite some time since I last opened my laptop at an airport.  Its a happy-stance that I haven't felt the need to do so the last few times, more probably due to the last minute arrivals at the airport and having my name blared out on the public address system as a final call for boarding the flight.  This does not necessarily imply that I have set up shop with my laptop at airports in particularly convenient circumstances.  One can never forget the horrors of the 8 hour delay at Istanbul airport on my way to Venice, or the missed flight to Milan and the 5 hours spent at the freezing and rather dubious train station shivering, cursing.  This time though, I must say am very relaxed, earphones popped in, some of my favourite tunes playing, still 2 hours left for the flight depart, the airport virtually empty.  Only one complaint though, since I have been spoilt over the past few days, the air-conditioning isn't working here!

You might wonder at the sense of leaving for the airport almost 2.5 hours before departure.  Some of people who are close to me opine that I am a control freak, well agreed, but seriously even I am not paranoid enough to leave so early on what is barely a 20-minute drive.  It started at 11:14 a.m. when I got a call from Mr. Satish at the front desk (ACTUAL names have been used because I want the people referred here to know what impression they left on me, though the chance of anyone ever acknowledging the existence of this blog is remotely 0.1%).

Satish: Hullo Mr. Gupta this is Satish from the front desk.
Mr. Gupta: Well hullo Satish, good morning, how are you? (Okay fine I wasn't this polite, its just not in me to be that way, but you get the drift!)
Satish: Sir would you be checking out today?
Mr. Gupta: Yeah.
Satish: Okay sir.
Mr. Gupta: Ok, anything else or can I hang up?
Satish: Yes sir.
Mr. Gupta: Well .. umm .. fire away anytime you're ready.  (I swear I DID smile 'coz I was amused, and wasn't being cynical for a change)
Satish: Sir you had asked for a complimentary drop to the airport.  When do you want it?
Mr. Gupta: Why yes I did, I guess around 12:30 should be fine as my flight leaves at 2:30.

*Break.  I need to explain myself here.  It is not paranoia to reach the airport asap, but me being considerate of the fact that checkout is to be done around noon, which is why I asked for a drop at 12:30 and not late*

Satish: That is okay sir we understand, but your checkout is before 12, so please leave the room by then, your cab will be here at 12.
Mr. Gupta: *dumbstruck*
Satish: Ok thank you sir.
Mr. Gupta: *still dumbstruck wondering if he was just told to literally "LEAVE" the room by 12*

*Some time passes by*

Mr. Gupta: (12:02 p.m. at the front desk, handing over keys) Here you go, I'll be checking out now.
Satish:   Did you drink from the bar?
Mr. Gupta: What bar?
Satish: In your room.
Mr. Gupta: You gave me an empty fridge *you dumbfuck - that wasn't said out loud*
Satish: Hmm
Mr. Gupta: Hmm? What's that supposed to mean?
Satish: Nothing sir.  Did you take anything from the mini-bar - something to eat if not drink?
Mr. Gupta: Ok, I had nothing taken in or out of whatever secret corner the mini-bar was in.  The secret passageway was not revealed to me nor was the entry password.  *fine I did not say the secret passage line - you don't have to be SO particular as a reader - just enjoy the friggin' post!*
Satish: This is a feedback form sir, we hope you were happy with our service and will visit again
Mr. Gupta: Well on the whole I was pretty happy, especially the room.  But explain something to me if you can.  How many rooms do you have?
Satish: Well sir around 25 on each floor, so umm 100 and more.
Mr. Gupta: Okay, and of these how many are occupied?
Satish: Around 23.
Mr. Gupta: And how many checking out today?
Satish: I guess 4 or 5.
Mr. Gupta: So tell me my dear fellow, what are the chances of 81 different customers, all wanting separate rooms coming in at the same time and flooding your desk? While you're at it, also calculate the chances of someone wanting room number 403, which neither faces the Central mall, nor is it in one of the comfy nooks and crannies of the hotel.  When you're done with the calculations, key in the amount of time required to clean up a room after checkout.  To this, add the  amount of electricity you save if the guest is out of the room for around half an hour.  Now add the probabilities and multiply it to the two cost I just told you.  That is the amount you saved by asking me to leave at 12 sharp and not a minute later.  Now from this "saved costs", deduct the following one by one:

1. The tip I would have left the guy who carried my luggage downstairs
2. The tip I would have left the guy who served me well at the cafeteria all three days I asked for special food while I was ill.
3. The generous donation I would have made to the fishbowl you have here labeled "Staff benefit"
4. The room rent for 5 days I would have stayed here the next time am coming down in June.
5. The above tips all over again.
6. The donation one more time.

Now repeat these calculations multiple times over the next few months as we would be making corporate trips to Indore on a continued basis.  What does the figure come out to? *short pause* Arre, you stopped calculating! 

Satish: Sirrr ..

Mr. Gupta: My dear friend, irrespective of what the hotel guidelines say, always remember that you are in the service industry.  Serve with a smile and keep in mind that you can forego the little nuances, if it means giving your customer a memorable experience and exceptional service.  Watch Rocketsingh if you haven't already. *I think I should become brand ambassador for that movie the amount I have quoted it over this trip*

Satish: Extremely sorry for the inconvenience sir, but .. 

Mr. Gupta: Never mind laddy, keep it in mind next time .. (LADDY?!?! I know, I was thinking the same too, what did I take him for, an 8 year-old boy and me a 50 year-old hag, and am not Scottish for heaven's sake!! And yes I now agree that the Rocketsingh reference was way too corny even for my style!)

Just to be clear on my stance, I ended up giving the tips and though the donation to the fishbowl wasn't generous, I made it nevertheless.  The generosity was more to scare him than to actually go through with.

Now at the airport, I wonder if I was too hard on the bloke.  Ah bugger, I hate afterthoughts and introspection.  Its way better to just draw a blank and forget.  Egad, didn't realise the crowd's grown since I started writing.  Okay call for security check .. will continue after a short break ..

J'adore Indore

Everyday, well almost, there seems to be an update of pictures and albums being shared by my friends from their trips to Goa, Bangkok, KL, or even home.  The thing about photographs is you love browsing through them, even more than reading your favourite book.  Its got something to do with our undying love for laziness and lack of exercising our brain!  Every album I sift through, smiling, surprised and more often than not completely awestruck and mesmerised has one thing in common - people.  It might seem rather mopey of me to complain every once in a while about having to go about alone every place I wander off to.  Such is the irony of it all, I ended up alone on a business trip as well.

To be honest, I was not exactly on cloud nine when I got Indore in the lottery system we used at office to assign cities.  I try not to be prejudiced against cities, but Indore just did not have a very welcoming ring to it.  Sure it could possibly translate into an important business hub for us, but the prospect of going to a newly industrialised town of a state already lagging behind in development did not seem to do the trick.  Planning to make the trip as short as possible, so that I could be part of the Mumbai madness again, I laid down a jam-packed itinerary for the next two days.  Our business event well, much to the amusement of many.  Rocketsingh stole the show, but that's a story for some other time.  As luck would have it, the positive response generated meant I had to prolong my stay for at least 4 more days, because of the weekend in between.  

I am an avid traveler, and its rather blasphemous for me to get goosebumps on the prospect of having to stay in a city on the premise of being "possibly bored".  Yet here I am, a mug of coffee by the side, music playing, typing this post on a Sunday afternoon.   Its cool inside, with the AC blaring and the scent of fresh lemon all around, compared to the scorching dry summer of Indore at 45 degrees on the Celsius scale.  Not surprised anymore as to what I am doing inside at this hour are you? :)  Due to lack of companionship on such trips, I often find solace in my writing and photography, more as a way of talking to myself than to you, dear Reader.  It makes for brilliant conversation.  You might bob your heads sideways at such a remark, please spare yourselves the trouble, its not meant to sound bleak.  I must confess, however, I committed a mistake for this trip.  I chose to not pick up my mammoth camera, a decision I have been regretting ever since Friday evening came.  

A bout of tummy trouble from Friday evening's dinner that carried over to Saturday morning did not particularly cheer me up.  I sulked most of Saturday morning, wondering how I'd be able to get through the painful two days of holiday without considering suicide for want of game.  Chats with a couple of friends back in office, telephone conversations lasting 10 minutes were short-lived engagements.  The prospective dinner date also didn't seem enticing anymore.  I just lay in bed blankly switching between TV channels cursing everything I came across from mind-numbing soaps to ridiculously-misrepresented news.  Logging in and out of my Gmail account didn't help much, except add to the annoyance of a few who were not particularly happy seeing "Kshitij is online" notifications pop-up on their screens every 10 seconds!  It was time, I had to budge from this situation and make something of the predicament I found myself stuck in.

Picked my satchel, changed into shorts, put my sneakers on, wet my hair, left my key at the reception and wandered out into the simmering heat.  It was 7 in the evening, and it still felt like the sun was overhead trying to suck every last drop of water from inside of us with a straw.  I hailed a rickshaw and asked him to take me to the Sarafa market.  If nothing else, always go for the famous food joints in a new city, is something I have learnt from experience, you never get disappointed.  After a lengthy bargain of the graduated payment scale depending on where the rickshaw driver would drop me off at the market I finally got moving.  Now the unique feature of Indore traffic is that irrespective of the number of wheels on your vehicle, your average speed hovers around 20 kmph, not because of traffic jams, but as an understanding people here have established by choice.  

So after a rather lengthy and tiring rickshaw ride, I was finally standing at Rajwada, which equated to 30 bucks as per the agreement with the driver.  He zoomed off as a traffic policeman came charging towards him yelling to move away from the building's entrance.  Like any other tourist, my first instinct was to look up at an angle of 45 degrees to the ground to get a feel of the surroundings.  Another fun fact about Indore - buildings here suffer from stunted growth, hardly any grows beyond 3 storeys, so for a bloke of height 5 feet 7 inches, 45 degrees was quite a stretch, and all I ended up seeing was towering lamp posts and haywire wiring.  It wasn't difficult to spot the entrance to one of the most busy streets of Indore at night time, so I ambled slowly towards the noise and brightly illuminated street.

As I approached the first few shops, I was greeted with shouts of "side ho be andhe", "hat hat hat abbe hattttt" and the Mumbaiyya "smooch sound" as bicycles and motorbikes squeezed by in a lane which was far too narrow for even three people to walk side-by-side.  I was amazed and completely dazzled by the brilliant colours on display in this little street - the yellows of poha, the light browns of gulab jamuns, the whites of rabri, the reds of chutneys, all adding to an aroma that would tingle your senses!  Fun fact #3 about Indore - NEVER look away from the street you're walking on, you will be hit!  Apart from the usual two lane traffic, people here have a habit of forming a single file "geisterfahrer" (German for "ghost driver") either side of the usual traffic and trampling pedestrians is their favourite sport.  After being rammed into by two bicycles, I reached Vijay Chaat House and opened up the small paper chit on which I had scribbled down what to have and preferably where.  "Khopra pattice" it read against Vijay Chaat House.  I have a penchant for trying out new cuisine, but unfortunately my tummy has an affinity for trouble, so I had to first check what exactly was I getting into.  

A small shop with no place to sit and people regularly ordering stuff, knowing the rates, handing over change, what were my chances of squeezing past them and asking patiently, what exactly the khopra pattice was and how much was it worth.  I took out a 10er, waved it at one of the guys and ordered one.  A sumptuous blend of mashed potato and finely ground coconut fried into a small ping-pong ball, the pattice simply melted in my mouth, with an after-taste of tangy chutney.  I had worked up an appetite by now as I went in for another round.  Bidding adieu to the considerate guy handing over the food to me having realised I was an outsider, I moved forward to check off the next item on the list - Joshi restaurant.  A restaurant, here?  As it turns out, not a restaurant but an upgrade of the usual mobile junk food vendor, "Joshi dahi-wada dhaba" had been in business for several generations.  What makes such specialty places a delight to visit is the warm welcome you receive and the eagerness to display their art with food.  So while I ordered a "bhutte ka khees" - a concoction of powdered corn and grated coconut lined with minced tomatoes and onion, sprinkled with a tangy spice and coriander leaves - Joshi ji tossed up a plate of dahi wada for me.  When I say tossed one up, I mean he literally tossed it up in the air.  Jugglery, apparently, is a genetic trait in the family.  Onlookers stood in awe, locals most of them, as they watched him swerve the plate full of curd in the air and sprinkle one spice or the other as it landed right in the palm of his hand before being spun into the air one more time.  For these locals this sight was a part of their daily routine, yet every time they'd stop by, the amazement in their eyes would be afresh.  Gobbling down the delicacies I listened intently as he narrated stories of his childhood, legends of his forefathers, how they had served in royal courts and been renowned for their talent in cookery. The enthusiasm in his stories and preparation was infectious.  People who knew the stories by heart, joined in, as they kept prompting him to tell me the one where his grandfather cooked for the Viceroy, the one where they cooked a meal for 500 people in a matter of 2 hours, the one with his great-grandfather coming up with a cure for fever by accident stumbling upon a recipe he was trying out.  Okay, some of his stories were just too fantastic to be true, but where is the harm in giving an elated man who loves his job a clap of appreciation even if he glorifies it just a little!  I was almost full, burped out, and took Joshi ji's leave, promising to come back again before leaving for Mumbai.  I ended up having fruit rabri and matka kulfi on my way back, before getting on to a rickshaw lest I burst my tummy out of gluttony.  The ride back to the hotel was equally slow as the one from it.

Entered my room, changed into my night clothes, and cozily nestled into my bed, put my specs on and sat up half way with a book in hand, picking up from where I had left it the day I left for Indore.  On page 95 I slid the bookmark in, smiled at the fun I had in the evening thinking being alone here isn't all that bad after all and slid off into deep slumber with VH1 playing on the TV and the dim light on the other side of the bed still on.

The Ostrich Effect

God gifted us a mind of our own.  It is truly marvellous how we can bend reality to our will by a simple thought.  If “understanding” is the most valuable asset we associate with our cognitive abilities, “denial” is by far the strongest.  In Calvin’s fantastic adventures, a magician’s illusions and a schizophrenic’s imagination we find elements of “escapism”, yet none personifies the true essence of absolute ignorance we lead our lives in.  It’ll-probably-disappear-if-I-look-the-other-way underlines our existence, the way of life that has made it easy for us to forego so much.   I won’t preach, for that we have church.  I won’t plead; it’s what Greenpeace and the like do best.  I won’t mock either; your mirror’s doing a pretty good job towards that end.  I will, however, relate to you a string of unrelated events that possibly triggered off this post, or at least had something to do with the motivation to write after such a long time.

A-rupee-a-day-keeps-the-guilty-conscience-at-bay Two trains of thought have prevailed ever since begging for alms became a way of life for the destitute.  While some argue that giving alms to the poor only demeans their existence further and encourages others to follow suit, others pacify their sense of duty to society by dropping in a few coins.  The louder the clang in the rather empty bowl, the more you contribute to your account of “good deeds” with God feeling content of having helped out someone with an amount you might have squandered off on an irrelevant piece of gum.   Applause.  Honestly, I laud anyone who can pacify their conscience thinking they have improved someone’s life by dropping in some change for want of either getting rid of them at the traffic signal or giving in to their million pleas. 

When I pulled out a 10er and handed it over to the boy sweeping the train along with the half finished 5-star in my hand, I invited a lot of stares, judgemental ones.  A middle-aged woman snorted in disapproval clearly showing where her allegiance lay amongst the two schools, while another young professional smirked dismissing the act as a pretence of “Godliness in man”, a school girl stood awestruck at the proposition of someone just casually handing over a piece of chocolate to a stranger.  Amongst them stood a stooping old man, clinging on to the side rail tightly to keep from falling over, wrinkled and beaten down by the April heat.  He simply nodded and smiled, raising his imaginary hat in appreciation.  I smiled back.  That was the best after-taste of a 5-star I ever had.

Does-he-qualify-to-take-this-seat I might be tooting an old horn here, but spare me for being repetitive.   First class, local train to Borivali, fairly empty, a middle-aged man fights his way through the seamless crowd on the platform to crawl in.  He takes a shoddy piece of cloth that was surely intended to be a kerchief, gives it swish with the left, and dabs his face, trying to wipe the sweat off.  Damp already, the rag is hardly of any use except for transferring the beads of sweat into a thin film.  The droopy eyes examine the entire coach, squinting, blinking in quiet desperation.  Clutching on to a dark blue pouch with papers sticking out he holds fast to the side rail trying hard not to tip over as the fast local whistles past Santa Cruz station on towards Andheri.  He is not frail, just tired: beaten.  All four corners of the seats, from round the corners of their eyes look up, trying to judge in their own way if the stranger is “old enough to qualify” as someone you ought to get up and give your seat to.  Here’s what probably goes on inside in their heads:

1. Colour of hair – black with streaks of grey – CHECK
2. Type of clothes – plain shirt with tailored trousers – CHECK
3. Shoes – Unpolished wicker shoes cracking at more than 2 places – CHECK
4. Ability to hold on without falling – managing, but doubtful - CHECK
5. Amount of luggage – just a small pouch – REJECTED

The moment one of the criteria qualifies for a “rejected” it becomes reason enough for them to simply sigh, give a little shake of the head, and continue picking their noses leaving the stranger standing there, waiting to get off at Malad.

A-straight-face-is-best-served-with-a-blank-stare-into-nothingness Most people I come across, unfortunately, are masters of pulling off a straight face in wake of an awkward moment where they are most likely to come out with two donkey ears.  Consider an auto-rickshaw driver who knowingly took the longer route to reach some place and I caught him in the act and pointed it out to him, all he’d do is stoop a little, look into the rear view mirror, measure up the level of annoyance I have with him, realise it ain’t much and there’s nothing much I can do about it and simply look away after staring at me for 10 seconds.  As if that is going to pacify me! 

I order a dish with chicken that is supposed to come out sliced and marinated in a sumptuous sauce garnished with herbs.  What arrives is a concoction of diced prawn floating in an oily gravy and a side helping of bread.  It took me 10 seconds to simply get beyond the initial lack of comprehension of how that could be even remotely close to what I wanted.  When my eyes meet the waiter’s, and he realises the goof-up, the smile goes, the sparkle turns into a stare as he looks deeper into my eyes with that trademark straight face.  What is he expecting –play dumb and hope that I’d start feeling uneasy and stick with the dish and not create a ruckus at the restaurant or to magically make me FORGET what I ordered?   The audacity!

In every walk of life, it has struck me, something catches your attention which tweaks an aspect of the way you live life.  I know not if these events did the trick for me, but for all I care, they were enough for me to get back to writing.  Disconnected though it may seem, it is what I intended it to be.  We love sticking our heads into the sand and hope or rather imagine that what we do is never really observed, that if we ignore strongly and long enough it just won’t matter anymore and magically disappear.  We just might have taken “aal izz well” a little too seriously! ;-)

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.