Straight Arch in a Squarish Circle

What to Suspect, when you are suspecting – Part 1

2011-11-07T05:06:00.000-08:00

Not that I have started watching too many crime serials. (There are quite a few new ones on air. As it is, DSP Pradyuman will entertain our grand childrens’ family am sure!!). But talking to some people, it dawned on me that “suspecting” is more than intuition. Many a times, it is becomes a habit. I am no one to qualify it as good or bad. To start a thought with a pre-decided output in mind may not be the best way to start a thought provoking intuition.

In this short series, I shall try and point to my points of view of the various ways people do what they do. Finally, I may have a prescription to follow. But hey, I am no shrink. Infact, I shrink into a snail when thinking about my rowdy past and highly possible naughty future and being caught after a successful suspicion stint by someone close to me!!

During our growing up years, I always noticed kids complaining about their parents. They suspect their parents don’t love them enough. Parents suspect otherwise!! Kids complain parents don’t have enough time to spend with them. Parents complain the same. Kids complain they need support from parents when the entire world is against them. Parents have similar pains. God save the wrath of kids if they were sent to a hostel! First few months are a whiplash of tears, cries and curses to God. How could He send poor little kids to such parents’ home where they can’t even take care of a single kid and throw her/him in hostel dungeons? On the other hand, parents suspect their own decision! Keeping the kid in a day scholar at home versus sending to a hostel had its pros and cons. Reasons vary from better education and environment, better all round development, family tradition et all. Infact, some parents go beyond their means to give the kid a better up bringing. And yet, they keep suspecting. One sissy complaint by the kid and parents’ think tank starts shooting - Is the kid safe? Are the other kids from good back grounds? Is school taking care of her/his real needs? Do teachers understand what kids want?

Not that parents who have kids visiting day schools are any safer. Who all is the kid talking to, how is s/he being influenced, why did s/he come late today, I don’t trust this friend of her/his, there is some problem in her/his life? Kids at home suspect their parents are sabotaging their lives. Parents interfere too much in kids’ thoughts, decisions and needs. Dry comments like don’t go out now, come back by 7 pm, why, what and with whom do you talk so much on the phone, who dropped you today; are statements which are not unacceptable to kids. But all these carry genuinely suspicious connotations.

Now, to me, there is an element of surprise and shock.

I am surprised that irrespective of generation, location, culture and all other disinteresting demographics, how similar do kids and parents think? Whether a first world or third world country, whether it is a modern or conservation society, kids born in a marriage or out of wed lock, they all grow up disliking their parents, for some reason or the other.

What shocks me are the parents. They too grew up as kids, disliking their parents, murmuring under their breath and probably know exactly what is the kid thinking or feeling. And yet, they mess up.

I believe, as a kid, you should suspect what you observe. As a parent, suspect your learning ability. How can you go wrong knowing all the way what’s the right way to deal with your kid?

Meaning beyond words

2011-10-30T04:04:00.000-07:00

“mat pooch ke kya haal hai mera tere peeche // tu dekh ke kya rang tera mere aage…..”

“go haath ko jumbish nahi aakhon mae to dam hai // rehne do abhee saagar-o-meena mere aage….”

Do people remember all important events in their lives when they were, say 9-10 yr olds? Yes? No? May be? Who cares? I confess, I don’t! But relating events now after 2 decades, in this case, this is what would have happened.

Landline telephones and TV were still new phenomena. (I mention landline as we had not even heard of mobile phones). If your house did not have a TV, you wished for one. If your parents had bought one, you wished for a color TV. The few who had a color TV, wanted some “family time”. Half of your colony neighbors, including their maids and their semi finished domestic work could be found in your house, infront of your color TV.

The farthest flash back that I can go, the first funny yet gripping, light yet racy and simply irresistible serial that I remember is “Karamchand”. To me, Pankaj Kapoor is a legend. Those are the days when I was introduced to his body of legendary work. Kitty, played by Sushmita Mukherjee was equally remarkable and remembered till date. When news came that Pankaj Kapoor’s new serial will be on air soon, naturally the entire neighborhood was excited. The day the first episode was to be telecast; all were in attendance, lined up sitting in silence at least 10 minutes before the start time. Banjo played, violin played and then….. I was hypnotized. I was stoned. I was speechless, motionless and hopeless for a few scary moments. There came on screen, “Neem ka Ped”. There came Pankaj Kapoor’s name. There came….. I remember zilch. I was speechless as I didn’t know how to react, I was motionless as not only was it a crowded room with hardly any elbow space but also because this was unexpected and hopeless as I had no clue of what did the lines mean?

I guess, till the next 4-5 years of listening to “muh ki baat sunae har koi, dil ke dard ko jaane kaun….” I did not know the exact meaning of this casting song/ghazal, whatever it was, for Neem Ka Ped. May, I didn’t ask anyone, in fear, what if I didn’t like the meaning and hence stopped liking the voice! In fact, looking back now, I remember Pankaj Kapoor, I recollect “Neem ka Ped” only because of the voice which hit my ears. I would diligently watch the casting of episodes and then move onto other priorities in life at that time, making fun of my sister, poking my pet dog et all.

I remember my father mentioning something about it being a “ghazal” and some “Singh” being the singer. Was I interested? Was I supposed to be, at the age of below 10 years? I fear not. I did keep hearing this voice singing, “tumko dekha toh yeh khayaal aaya” and something like “….mera geet amar kar do” more than once. I think it was “Rangoli” and / or “Chitrahaar”. But the feel of “muh ki baat….” stuck on my mind. I don’t know, why? All I knew was, the moment I heard the voice, I felt light.

After a few years, while still in junior classes in residential school, a new second channel from Doordarshan was introduced. It was called “DD Metro”. Apparently, it was for metro cities only. (how we managed to watch it while not being in a metro city, but in a small hamlet off Mussoorie town, is a topic of a new write-up.) Some path breaking programs were aired on this channel, one being “Super-hit Muqabla”, a musical countdown program of top 10 or 20 songs of the week. One night, while the show was on and we were trying to peep for a glimpse of the TV through the crowd, I heard the same voice. I could not believe at first. How can he sing for a movie? The video had two very fresh faces -a smart young chap and a very bright smiled, pretty girl. I focused and heard consciously – “shaam se aankh mae name si hai, aaj phir aapki kami si hai”. It was the same voice and this time round I understood the meaning of the words, without asking anyone, the video helped comprehending. But what surprised me more was, I felt sad and yet, I felt light. He had made me a romantic.

I believe our real journey together began here. Jagjit Singh became my “guiding light” this very moment. I was spell bound by the feeling of “sad lightness” or “light sadness”. I don’t know how to put it, but Jagjit Singh gave me the meaning of “meaning beyond words”. He taught me to listen to what was not being said, read what was not written, understand what did not exist and look beyond what was visible. With Jagjit Singh’s voice travelling through my ears, I always felt light, in all senses. I felt lighter on my feet. I wasn’t flying, but I was floating. I felt lighter in my head. I was not intoxicated, but I felt “happy” even while listening to a sad song in his voice!

I am guessing, few (of the very few who are reading) have started thinking, how did I commit blasphemy and not mention “Mirza Ghalib” in a write up on Jagjit Singh?

Well, I have come to realize that a deadly combo, a heady mix of “desire, passion and access”; creates an “addiction”. And of these three, according to me, “access” makes all the difference. The more you desire for something and the less it becomes accessible to you, you tend to desire it more and become more passionate about it. Then, gradually, the more accessible it becomes, the more you get into habit. The more you get into habit, defines addiction. Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan, Jagmohan Singh and Sampooran Singh Kalra are my bar tenders of my cocktail of life.

Mirza gave birth to my desire to unravel the mysteries between the obviously stated and understated. Sampooran’s (Gulzar) passion to brew life into everything around – from the half burnt cigarette to the unreturned luggage and even the charred wood of yester night’s get together. Jagmohan (Jagjit Singh) became the bridge giving me access to this mesmerizing world of unrealistic pleasures of romance, death, life, lies and truth. If not for him, I am sure, even Mirza and Gulzar would have been as important to me as Stephen Hawking or Amartya Sen.

I remember him not as someone who was talented and a great artist with heavy, baritone, velvet smooth and honey dipped voice. I will remember him as someone who influenced my life without knowing what he was doing to me. He changed the way I think, the way I live.

To his talent and indescribable voice I can only think of my addiction, my heady mix and hum along,

“koi ummeed bar naheeN aatee // koi soorat nazar nahi aatee…”

“maut ka ek din mu'ayyan hai // neend kyon raat bhar nahi aatee?

[ mu'ayyan = definite ]

- ishQ (30th October 2011)

Boom Boom Baanga

2011-10-18T02:13:00.000-07:00

(Our tribute to the most loved teacher in school)

Mr. Prashant Kumar Bagchi.... we love you, Sir!!

He remembered each and every boy who passed out

Didn’t matter if you were a star or went without a shout

In his eyes every boy was the same

He would tell you every incident with the exact name.

A man who lived to love all his boys

For him there were no Brigadier and no Vice Roys

You will remain a student whom he helped grow

His affection for his boys was always a grand show.

If angry, he was a blind warrior,

But when in mood, Boy! no one was merrier.

He could tell you stories - grand and untold,

But his present boys were best, mind you - not the old.

He had no favorites; everyone was his own

Everyone was “bhondu-paattha”, though a difference in his tone

Clear in his heart and straight with his talk

By God, if he is pissed, you are in for a shock.

Don’t look for a horse or a taanga

If behind you with a bat is Baanga

Run for your life and get out of his sight

So what if you are the school captain, kick he might!

We love you Sir, for the man you are

We love you Sir, you are the best by far

We miss you now on visits to the Oak

People like you made a man out of a wild bloke.

Nervous Nineties Nautanki_Part 1

2011-08-22T03:55:00.000-07:00

(Nervous about senior school)

Be it as a day scholar or a boarder, we detest going to school, the first few days. When I was a kid, I remember being happier sprinting out of school than walking in. Ofcourse, with time and as you gain friends, you start getting used to school, if not really like it. You stop over reacting every day morning, atleast. Why only me, everyone would dread waiting for the rickshaw-wala to whistle and call out for Mother to push us out of home towards school. And the rickshaw-wala at that early hour of the morning would so happily reach out and take our school bag, as if he was dropping us to the railway station for a vacation to a hill station!

This takes me to a hill station, a boarding school, a golden prison. You don’t want to go there. Once there you don’t want to leave. What I believe is we used to fear going to day school. Fear of the unknown. We did not know and did not want to know what will school give us today and tomorrow?

At boarding, we could not fear the unknown. We were aware of the obvious. We knew our destiny. We were just nervous from which direction will it arrive? The spread of choices was known too. It could be in the dining hall, dormitory, classroom or play ground. It could be early morning, mid-day after lunch, late evening or late night. It could be a blessing right from Class VII to Class XII. We were never at loss of options.

Still residing in junior school, we had seen some but heard so many tales of terror that the mention of senior school made us sweat even in winters when temperature would get as close to zero degrees. From the cordoned off junior school campus, watching young boys “fagging” on tennis and basketball courts, some of them with red faces and watery eyes after being “dhunned” properly and a few running madly and perhaps blindly to save themselves the painful sessions of “get down and don’t get up till I tell you”. All this was tradition and part of the curriculum. Teachers knew, understood and encouraged such “educational ragging”. (I would vote for it a million times, if asked). Some of it which happened in the dormitory was a “stinky” story. Washing stinking socks, handkerchiefs, under-garments and over-garments, massaging stinking feet and making stinking beds every morning was a ritual. But do I regret it, not a bit. I passed on some stink myself. We knew what waited for us in senior school.

Ofcourse, then there were the “fukko” stories. There was one “Fukko”, one “Toady” and atleast one “Bhont” in each batch. All three characters had high reflexes. The entire batch would have fun on their account atleast once a day. The Fukko would, as a reflex, get over excited and say or do something to entertain the entire class at one go. The Bhont would, as a reflex, not say or not do something which was supposed to be and hence entertain the class/people around. Toady would, well as a reflex, act in the most unpredictable way and yet exhibit the most straight-faced expression as if he is does even exist in the event.

The phrase “a known devil is always better than an unknown one” had its own charm to us. Standing alone or in a group, holding the fence bars and peeping through them, we had a nervous boil in the stomach. It was not butterflies. It were dragon flies, perhaps, because all we could hear and see were fire spewed out from mouths, ears, nostrils et all.

Guess, Chulbul Pandey was an ex-OG. Itne ched kar chuka tha, ke har jagah se aag nikal rahi thi!!

Raksha Ban-dhan

2011-08-15T12:48:00.000-07:00

Since the time I can remember, this day was not just about siblings and their banter. It was about an entire family coming together and celebrating togetherness. Different it may be, but in India, on any given occasion, togetherness is celebrated and a reason is assigned to it. There is a long standing belief, a lyrical story weaved around it, flowers, sweets, lights, vows, chants et all. To me, this was one more.

As per tradition, as the name suggests, the brother would vow to protect and take care of his sister. This was “Raksha”. But then, there were also times, when, simply, the elder would protect junior. Gender didn’t matter. In a lot of ways and many a times, in my case, my sister was my savior. Just by observing her, I learnt a lot. Interestingly, not only did I learn what to do, but also what not to do in life! If asked to rank, one thing I learnt not to do in life from her, I would shout – she taught me, never to under estimate oneself.

Anyhow, back to the nomenclature. To receive proper “Raksha”, i.e. protection, caring and security, one had to “compensate” the other party. In India, compensation has many ways to enter pockets – salary, bribe, gifts et all. This ceremony involved gifts. Indians are very kind souls, by nature. Hence, “gifts in kind” is a preferred mode. The brightest saree, ear-rings, necklace for sisters was the prime and kindest way to show affection. Sisters would shower their kindness by way of new formal shirts, flowery kurtas, colorful tees and sometimes lucky ones would get watches. With time, gifts did not remain kind anymore. They became smarter – smart comments on tees, smart watches and smart phones started ruling.

Hindu mythology has documented that body, soul and money (tann, mann aur dhan) makes or breaks – even the protector. Varying combination of these three aspects in our lives can change our life. Our life can go in either direction, as we want it to. With our tann (body, its strength and uses) we can earn more dhan. With our mann, we can influence our brain (tann) and perform to take balanced decisions. With more dhan coming in, we can care for our tann and keep our mann content. Or, as I said, it could go either way. With a strong tann, we can bully the weaker sections of the society. With more dhan we buy influences in our favor. With our narrow mann, we change the entire thought process of the world.

On this Raksha Bandhan too, a brother came visiting his sister in a big black shining sedan. The entire family celebrated togetherness. Protection vows were taken, expensive gifts were exchanged, sweets shared and laughter spread. On the way out from the housing society where the sister lives, the security guard who would probably be one of the first people to come forward to protect and safe guard the sister, in the unfortunate incident that something happens to her, was abused, physically assaulted and threatened by the brother. The brother, who stays atleast a couple of hours off and who a couple of hours back would have vowed to protect his sister, did not only jeopardize any future attempts by this security guard to shelter his sister. He probably misbehaved with a poor brother who could not visit his sister on this day. The guard was working on Raksha Bandhan to earn some extra money for his family, which may have a sister. His fault, he was trying to perform his duties well – he asked the brother to make an entry in the visitor’s register.

Not sure, if it was the tann, mann or the dhan talking. But security of the security guard was compromised. If he is not safe, is the sister safe? Who vowed, who actioned and who will suffer?

Cheers

Pen Down

2011-06-23T06:34:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while that I penned down my thoughts. Which reminds me of the time when for the first time I got hear of the phrase “pen down”.

I joined boarding school. There were no landline phones for students’ use, the only mail we had heard was male and female and mobile phones were unheard of. The only way to communicate one’s well being to parents was through letters.

Writing letters was still undiscovered by most new joinees. We thought, to help us, most of the letter update was either dictated or actually chalked on the blackboard, starting from “Dear” and ending with “Yours Lovingly”. It was only later that we found out that infact, letters to parents had a format and no one could afford to write one extra bit over and above the prescribed news to publish. For this, every Friday there were two periods dedicated to letter writing. Friday was a good day as it was weekend. Boys and girls had to give the entire week’s news to their parents and make them feel proud.

So, first Friday in school, the teacher starts dictating my news to my parents which was exactly the same news all my batch mates experienced over the first week. I suspect the first letter written to parents in the week of joining may have had one extra line on us have “settled down”. Anyhow, somewhere among “I am hale and hearty” and “by the grace of Almighty” and , “sailing in the same boat”, I drowned in the moment. I had stopped writing and had started day dreaming of being with my parents and telling them what is happening in school rather than writing my experiences. When I regained senses, I could hear “pen down” by the teacher. Since, it seemed I had spent hours fantasizing, I feared the letter is about to end and I put my pen down. I also feared this phrase had to be a part of the letter. I did manage to finish my letter on my own, could not manage to fit in the phrase anywhere though. I folded the letter, inserted it in the envelope and acted as if “I am hale and hearty” and all my batch mates are “sailing in the same boat”. I don’t know why, but the phrase stuck to my mind.

Next Friday, when letter writing period started, all I wanted was not to miss the phrase in my letter. I started with “Dear”, went onto “hale and hearty”, made my parents “sail in the same boat” and took Almighty’s grace too. Then came weather update and Sunday movie exhibit too. My excitement was growing by the minute and with every line. Every full stop made by heart beat stop.

Once my teacher had dictated all my news to my parents to me and I had scribbled all, there was a pause. Probably, my teacher was still unsure if we have “settled down” as there could have been one new student in the class who joined late and was not a part of the first experience in letter writing. That pause was the longest I had held my breath out of water. Finally, she said, “OK, now you may pen down your name”. This is it, I rejuvenated. But I could only hear “pen down” as that is all I wanted to hear. So, I created my sentence. I started with wrote the usual end as formatted, “Rest all is fine” and then gave my spin, “since there is nothing more to add, I pen down here”!!

I still remember the tight slap smacked across my face by the Headmistress who did sample checks of student letters to parents and I was the lucky one. Lucky since if that letter was not caught that evening, I would not be penning down my thoughts but would have pen down here.

Cheers

Thrills

2011-02-15T02:29:00.000-08:00

Thrills

We all love thrills. We may be living and experiencing a very constrained and disciplined life. In no way, it meant we did not have opportunities to experience thrill, especially the cheap ones.

While in junior division, bathing was fun. It was a common exercise. All boys had to kneel down together and get a bath-full in a queue. Interestingly, only a select few were allowed to wear undergarments for bath. No explanations to the criteria. But that was the thrill. Waiting for the day when you are told, “wear something from tomorrow”. Thrill was over. The thrill was in waiting.

When boys got to senior division, everyday was a thrill. Spanking was a surety. Here too, it was a common exercise. No matter who made a mistake, the entire batch would be “washed off the sins of error”. Thrill began with waiting for the prefect announcing after breakfast or lunch, “Class Z, move in”. Once inside the classroom, seniors would walk in and make the class sit with “eyes closed and fingers on your lips”. Boys could hear whispers and talks in the corridor. But there was pin drop silence in the class. The real thrill began in knowing there is a slap coming but not knowing from where and with whom will it begin? We knew someone will try opening his eyes slightly. To check who opens first, someone will open his eyes before the first one! Washing began and thrill was over. The thrill was in waiting.

As I said, life was disciplined. Everything followed the clock. There were very limited options for everything, including of the opposite sex. Hence, it actually helped keeping time. But, interestingly, here too, it was always a common exercise. There was no jealousy, no competition. “She is mine, but you can try your luck too” was the bonhomie feeling. Ofcourse, she became no one’s. And, boys waited for the exact time for girls to come walking out of the bamboo trees on the turn for “combined classes”. They waited for that one sly look, that one wicked smile. They waited for her to give a look. They had preferences. But in fact any one of the girls from the bunch would do, actually. Once the girls had gone, the small discussion which ensued, started with “today, she couldn’t trace me in the crowd” and ended with “bastard, why did you block my view? She looked at me and was about to smile”. The other would just retort, “Be in your boots. She was looking at me and even whispered something to her friend about me. Anyways, lets wait for tomorrow and see at whom does she smile”? We neither got a smile back nor ever got to know what was whispered, last of all, if at all it was about anyone in the boys crowd. But it was thrilling. We waited for tomorrow to come.

Boys waited for an invitation to be sent to girls’ school to come and watch our match. The boys in the sports team were excited. But the boys on the stands were even more excited. The playing XI would not have much time, energy or bandwidth to have a good look at the girls in the stands. The ones in the stands were the ones who had all the fun. But in the playing XI, the one who had even half the chance of scoring a goal infront the crowd which constituted of girls would just blank out. He started imagining which side of the field would he run and celebrate; the way in which he would celebrate and towards which girl will he kiss and raise his finger? The wait for confirmation of invitation, the wait for those beauties to walk up to the stands, the wait for that pass which created that half a chance to blank out. The thrill was in the wait.

One of the biggest waits was when boys waited for “Gorgeous”. Here too, “Gorgeous” was everyone’s quest but no one’s conquest. It was a common exercise. All boys had equal faith and hope to harvest their field of imaginations. Everyone waited for her to come out, walk the entire length of the road and disappear in the sloping horizon. Boys waited for her to take the last turn, sprint across the corridors and catch a second glimpse of her from another angle, with waited breath to not let her know they ran like there was no tomorrow. On most days she won’t smile. The day she did, it was assumed it was for a reason. All boys made it their responsibility to convince self and the rest that she smiled at him and only him. The entire day passed in a second waiting for her to return, walk back the entire length and flash the same smile. The day passed. She passed all boys, without a smile. What she left was a new thrill for tomorrow. For today, the thrill was over. The thrill was in the wait.

The real thrill is when you are on the edge and waiting; for the outcome. Deep inside, the factual outcome that would be, is not what you want. But you still expect the same. The imaginative possibility will never be. Yet, you desire. The chase between reality and desire is the “thrill”. Boys chased such moments, everyday. On the hills, with the chills, we played hide and seek with our own thrills.

(MAY BE continued.... )

Chills

2011-02-15T02:26:00.000-08:00

Chills

I don’t know if all kids get a sense of becoming adults at the age we did. Education certainly helps. More so, when you get educated on the “taboo” topics? Batches before and after, may or may not vouch for it. But after long debates and animated remembrances of good old days and nights over coffee, beer and morning tea the next day, this batch came to some conclusions. No offence, all defense; good education happens only if there is quality fa-cult-y. We salute the “select few” (and their families) for making us curious, matured and horny boys!

Surely, we did have some fa-cult-y figures, starting with the “few boys” not in the “same age group” of the batch they were in. These “big boys” started with becoming the biggest bullies of the batch at the beginning of school. But by the time we left school they became the sweetest and most helpful chaps around. In the entire journey, though, they were a pain mostly. To others, they taught a lot; directly and tacitly. Just by observing these big boys, others learnt so much. It all began from junior division actually; with the way they dressed up, latest fad and style. The way they moved around among teachers, staff and the girls, smooth operators. They were allowed to do “stuff” which normally would have got you “chilly” berates in front of an entire crowd if not the entire school. Even wardens who were not supposed to be in boys’ dormitory made regular visits to ensure these “big boys with big toys” went to sleep at ease, much to the unease of others. The best part, boys feared them, some revered them and tried to emulate them, a very few were hated. Some of them, I believe, are still scorned. But interestingly, boys never got jealous of them. They were simply amazed at what these “big boys” could pull off. On the hills, boys needed guidance. These big boys with their big toys made everything a playground. We thank them and their families to have sent them for us.

We all had infatuations. Boys had their pick. A brush of “chill” down the spine (and other body parts) was by cult figures that were “respected”. Some of these cult figures had figures which were the object of fantasy by one and all at some point during or even after school life. It certainly was a dream that some boys had access to a few of them at odd hours of the day (and night). There were rumors of atleast two of them having given “experiential learning” to their pupils. No confirmations, no denials either. As I (dis)claimed, some dreams may have come true. We also thank immediate families of these respected few for making regular visits and adding fuel to our fantasies. We did get to hear some suggestive sounds during such visits.

While discussing about the past few years, we had a realization. Did we ever regret these big boys being in our batches? Did we actually want to be in a situation where we were locked in the games kit room and caught off guard? Did we really think we could get away with the “extra classes”?

The answer was a chilling, NO.

(to be continued.....)

Hills

2011-02-15T02:23:00.000-08:00

(This is a fantasizing view of reality as it unfolded; a semi-fictional, semi-autobiographical account of past events with hopefully no future implications. This will be a three part series on what could have possibly happened if dreams came true. For some people, some dreams actually did. )

Hills

Why hill stations are favored more for honeymoons, against say, beaches or any other tourist spot? Infact, I don’t see a third option other than these two. But a hill station would win pants down, oops, hands down. Some say it’s got something to do with the temperature. Well, inside the honeymoon suite or outside? Anyways, for kids who were sent to boarding schools on hill stations at a ripe age of eight (many younger than that) a hill station for pleasure was a fantasy in itself. Or was it?

At the beginning, hill station signified a prison. There was only one word to define life up there – discipline. Everything was a routine. Get up at 0530 hrs , breakfast at 0800 hrs, 10 mins breaks in between never ending 45 mins classes, lunch at 1245 hrs, tea time at 1545 hrs, get refreshed by 1830 hrs, finish dinner in 15 mins and lights out at 2000 hrs. Next day get up at 0530 hrs, breakfast by 0800 hrs and so on..… You had to follow the tick of the clock. Life started with an ear smashing, teeth cringing wake up bell ring and ended with a single shout of “lights out”. Life took twists and turns as you kept moving up standards. Gradually, you started getting used to the tick of the clock. Later, it felt weird if things didn’t happen at the designated time. A lot of times it got depressing, irritating and desperate if things didn’t happen at the right time. (more on the depressing and desperate times as it ‘chills’). Anyhow, the early morning wake up bell ring remained constant. Everything during the day was also more or less stagnantly similar. Life brightened, though, after the “lights out” shout. Boys turned nocturnal creatures. In the cold dark night when most of the world would be getting ready to slip into their warm beds, boys would crave for fun and pleasure. Many a times, it would be experimental. Some liked it slow and smooth. Few preferred a quickie. There were the odd ones who slept off mid way. Because of low temperatures at most times of the year, the least preferred was the wet one. It was an addiction, though. Once back in the dormitory, it was lights out, flesh in.

Yes! But before your imagination runs wild and gory, let me clarify. By flesh I only meant massage. Seniors had only two modes of entertainment. The most common and entertaining was the massage. Sportsman or not, if you are a senior you got to get tired. If you are tired, you got to get massage. Most seniors had one boy massaging his whole body. But there were some who had a boy massaging their feet and another on their arms! I don’t think even Rocky Balbao had such a lavish massage after a massive fight night. The “wet” variation was the other entertainment, i.e. washing clothes. Some or the other senior would throw some or the other garment at your face. You had to manage the washing soap, the scrubbing brush and manage not getting caught by the warden. Shirt, trouser, handkerchief and socks were the norm. But, there were some boys in every batch who got the “sacred undies” to wash.

Many of us, juniors, had started believing that these hills, these Rocky Mountains were making us a rock from within and the outside. We didn’t feel anything. The cold certainly did its magic too. As a junior, in the freezing night temperature, while washing clothes, hands in that cold water, we stopped feeling our own fingers. If the warden caught you and kept slapping you, you stood without feeling anything. But God forbid, if clothes are not cleaned properly, the million slaps that were smacked across your face, really made the cheeks senseless. You stopped feeling anything. It was cold out there, no doubt. The weather, attitude of seniors, water from the taps, the winds, everything was cold. The only feeling that kept it warm up on the hills was what most of us mistook as the most pure and innocent feeling in life; knowing very well we desired the unachievable. We knew we were never ever going to conquer what we dreamt. We could never touch. Hence, it remained pure. We never complicated it and it remained innocent.

But it wasn’t the feeling of love. It never could be. What kept it hot and burning; heated arguments over “the look”, burning discussions on “the moves” and hot descriptions of “the encounter”. In the “chills” of the hills, what covered our eyes and minds was the dust of lust.

(to be continued....)

Same change

2011-01-03T03:39:00.000-08:00

We all want change. But we don’t want to change. Is there a difference between the two?

When I was young, I wanted to grow up as quickly as possible. By the time I grew to an impressionable age, I wanted my childhood days back and yet be of this impressionable age. I wanted a new life but the same self. So, I was looking at more independence, more money, and more luxuries but in the same free, easy going, care a damn for anyone attitude. Oh, I almost forgot; I certainly needed the same set of friends! So, I wanted change but did not want to change. It’s the same change, every time.

To make things interesting (read confusing), by the time I started to understand the difference between work and job, flew in another term which people called career. Till that point in time, I was very sure it meant something in which Dad took lunch to office. Some enlightened souls did try to highlight the core. I did get their point, somehow. Work was what was told to me and job was what offered to me. Career was what I chose. I chose to work less and earn more. So, I wanted change but did not want to change. It’s the same change, every time.

The day I got my first “job” offer, I was euphoric. From that day, I wanted to be regarded differently. I was not a kid. I was not a student and I was unemployed no more. I was earning my own bread. The day I got my first salary, I was elated to no extent. But, by the end of the first week of receiving that salary, I was jolted by reality. I had blown away all my hard(ly) worked, well earned monies in seven days flat!! I was back to my student, unemployed days. I was requesting new set of people for money. My old loans stood strong and debtors sitting tight expecting their return as I was unemployed no more! How cruel can the world be? This was my first salary. I had my own desires to fulfill. Not much had changed. Or had it? Well, I wanted change but did not want to change. It’s the same change, every time.

When I got married, hmmm….. Well, let’s pick another topic. Not to miss, I wanted change, but I did not want to change. It’s the same change, every time.

With time, one gains knowledge. Use of this knowledge gives wisdom. With wisdom you expect basic common sense to blossom and prevail over the next flight of time. In all this time, what I learnt was the more you earn, the more you spend. This is because, the more you earn, the more you want. You want more because you have more to spend. When you spend more, you are left with less. When you are left with less, you want to earn more. When you earn more, you spend more. It’s the same change, every time.

How big a car does one person need to commute from point A to point B? Do you take more space to sit in a bigger car? Can you see the color of your own car sitting inside? Does it really matter if the car is read, blue or maroon? I really don’t know. But then, it does matter, I guess. People pay extra to get their preferred color. Some people pay heaven’s price to have a special number plate. Will I someday, be able to afford a number plate as expensive as the whole vehicle? And even if I did, will I actually pay for it? May be, not. May be, that’s why I may never be able to afford the number plate. I cannot work more to earn more to not see what I have paid for.

It’s the same change, every time.

cheers

K

******************

Divine Conversations II

2009-10-04T23:38:00.000-07:00

“Ooh, aah, hey, hold me tight on the left… oye, you on the right, lift me higher or else you will drop me”!! Man, Mahisasur was easy killing. Balancing yourself atop these tens of men is so tough! To make things worse, all my kids are on the platform with me. Do I take care of myself, my husband, my kids, my weapons, my make up, my saree …? I sure deserve to be a goddess! Thank You for declaring me one.

“Ma, are you okay”, whispered Ganesha. I can hardly breathe down here. I can hardly speak either. They have stuffed my mouth with so much of sondesh & mishtee, I can hardly move my stuck lips. Hope Lakshmi Didi & Saraswati Didi are fine. Am sure Karthik Dada has flown away in his pretty peacock. Can someone please find my rat? Thank You.

“Stop complaining Ganesha”, snapped Lakshmi. You are the heaviest of the lot. The world has moved on to dieting & yoga & gymming. Why don’t you start thinking about reducing a bit, will help all of us. Every year, we are made to go through this ordeal and you are not much of help with your belly, roving nose & buck teeth. With all the money & wealth I bestow onto people, I for myself, cannot do any bit of spa treatment. Can anyone please look at having Pujo indoors in an AC hall next year, please? Thank You.

“Didi, they broke my strings”, choked Saraswati. I had ordered the latest version of lithium wires this year. But these hooligans have no respect for music or its beholder. Aren’t we supposed to be celebrities too? Then, why don’t we get some security cover? I mean what justice is this? People have fun on our account for 10 days & on the 10th day they just dump us like nobodies! Mind it, Ma. I am telling you right away, I am not coming next year. Thank You for treating us like this.

“Calm down, calm down, pretty peacock”, shouted Karthik exasperatedly. Hey, you guys, can you please calm down & keep your voices low. You are frightening my peacock! He is not used to crowds, allergic to sweets & is a high maintenance fly. He needs space to spread his feathers, clay to land his petite feet & pearls to match his colors. On top of it, he is a low mileage guy, flies only 20 meters at a stretch. Yet, I come here every year, bring my beauty along & try having fun. Could you please keep it down? Thank You.

Hey, fellows, came a voice from down below. You all are worried about your own problems. Atleast you are standing on your feet and please note that you are standing on my chest!! Can you please spare me a few light moments by stepping aside? Also, I don’t know if it’s possible but can someone give me a hand & scratch my back, please? I think Ganesha’s rat is somewhere there. Thank You, said Shiva.

“Oops, what was that? What did I step on”? shrieked Ma, suddenly. “That was I, Ma, Nag”. Was tired lying there around Baba’s neck so thought, will stroll a bit before they throw us all in the dirty waters. Hearing all of you, can I also say something? Not many know except Baba that I suffer from hydrophobia!! But, Thank You for letting me speak.

“Hydrophobia, my foot.” Not just my foot, my shoulders are paining more than the arms of the dhaaki players who continued playing day & night. They would not stop a bit. I mean, sure, kudos to them, but for a moment think of me, man. I have been standing here in this most awkward posture, stretching on my left knee, with the lion kneading ferociously with his claws on my right knee, I have to be turned towards Ma, time and again trying to dodge the Trishul, while holding this heavy sickle. You guys should rest a while, let the dhaaki relax & give me some moments to stretch too!! But no, dhaaki won’t stop playing; crowds won’t stop coming and no peace for me, ofcourse. Thank you for finally taking us away & dropping us in the water. I will get some much needed stretching space, fresh air to breathe & not so fresh water to wash off sweat. Thank you.

****************************

Divine Conversations I

2009-10-04T23:35:00.000-07:00

“Holy Mother! What is that noise at this hour of the night?”

“It’s not night, its early morning. It’s not noise either. That’s a Welcome Song. The mortals are singing in the praise of the Mother you just remembered, Ma Durga, & welcoming us.”

“Ok, thank you for the welcome, yet another year. And please, do not get any happier. They are welcoming only the one they are praising. Not you & me. And a welcome will be more welcomed if you are not woken up suddenly in the middle of the night, huh, ok, ok, early morning, in such darkness from your deep slumber without a warning!” I mean, there are lions, snakes, rats, owls & god knows what all kinds of animals roaming, isn’t it?

“Don’t worry. God knows. And She will make sure you rest in peace, Mahi.”

Yeah, thanks Lux. By the way, that reminds me, which soap do you use?”

“Soap!! Sorry, Mahisasur. In these 10 days, there is no chance on earth that we siblings get a chance to get fresh. No bath, no freshening up, no costume changes, no make up. Just, nothing. We are at the mercy of the hands of the artisan community. We resemble their imagination. Ofcourse, one of the biggest (mis)happenings of the year on earth, may become the theme of the year to certainly fuel their creativity. We have no choice though, before, during or after things are finalized. We have to stand still, keep smiling & keep blessing all kinds of souls bowing down infront of us. Rich, poor, evil, cruel, manipulative, Good Samaritan, smart, stupid. We have to listen to all kind of prayers.”

“Really, Lakshmi? So don’t the wicked ones worship the Evil Lords?”

“Ha, fat chance. Creatures like you are made Lords & brought only as a symbol to display the difference between good & evil, right & wrong. But then, we can only show them a path. To follow or not, is the choice of mortals.” Even or odd, there is only God.

“Now, I get you. Even though in our statuette we are given super biceps, six pack abs & a magnetic personality, we never win. I mean, even the lion gets sweets at the end of it all. No one feeds me!”

“Don’t feel so bad, mate.” But they do dedicate a session of Puja & mantras for you too.”

“Tell me one thing, Laks. You are the goddess of wealth & prosperity, right? So, do you get requests only to make money & garner more & more wealth?”

“Mostly, yes. But then there are people who also request to reduce money & loss of wealth.”

“No kidding, really?”

“Let me complete, my friend.” They pray this for the other person!!

“While on my way this time, I overheard Narad saying that earth is facing its worst financial crisis ever. Has it got something to do with you, Lakshmi?

“I don’t think so. The Puja that I am going to pose for this year, had a budget of Rs. 10 Lacs. This year they have planned for Rs. 30 Lacs. Last year, they had booking for 14 stalls. It has doubled this year. Last year, the President of the Puja drove a Santro. I saw him driving into the pandal in a new Honda City this year.

I clearly don’t see any crisis. Financial, being the least of them, if at all.

**********************************

Lo(o)neliness

2009-09-14T05:12:00.000-07:00

It’s always a fantastic feeling to revisit places you have been before, experienced and lived. Your old city, old house, old school, old college. But fun is also when you visit a place which is not the same place, but everything, or atleast most of the characteristics remain the same. The correlations that conjure up in the mind make contemplation interesting.

I happened to be invited for a small talk at a B-School. I accepted for three reasons. First, it gives an opportunity to go back to campus, interact with the current set of youth who constantly alert you of changing, well, fashion I should say. Second, there is always a chance to bring back some good memories as tokens, such as a silver plaque or a bronze plate which can be sold in times of distress. Third and most important, it’s one of the few times in your lives that more than two people actually hear you, if not listen, do not interrupt incessantly and even nod in affirmation sometimes! I love that sight.

Anyhow, I made sure I wore one of the best shirts, certainly the best tie and a fitting trouser. I also ensured I don’t forget my handkerchief as I am famous for treating my clothes made out of living organisms and feed them all curries & dry stuff that I taste. Although, I did polish my shoes, but it really did not matter as it was raining heavily and the run from my car to the auditorium porch took away all shine & glory. I was welcomed rather graciously, irrespective of my wet shirt, dirty shoes & dripping spectacles and immediately ushered in and before being I could request was shown the way to the washroom. I was impressed and guessed the placement season nearing, I was a rather good catch. I was told later, there are security dogs on campus of the Great Dane & German Shepherd breeds that are trained to smell dripping rain water mixed with sweat to trace trespassers.

Before the program began formally, all dignitaries were moved into a room, I feared, to assess who all could be made to sit on the dias and who were to be seated below. I was right. I was requested to sit in the first row of seats below. I agreed quickly as showing my wet self to an auditorium full of students, who had been probably pleaded, begged & threatened to fill seats, was not a bright idea. They would boo me away even before am formally introduced, I thought. By the time my turn came, there was a tea break, a lunch break, a long thank you session to all pioneers, academicians, sponsors and organizing committee. To top it all, four speakers had already spoken their mind, body & soul. When I reached the microphone I realized, most of the audience was sleeping! Miraculously, the video projector conked off! I was reminded of the popular dialogue penned by Mayur Puri, made famous by SRK in OSO, “blah blah….. puri kaaynat tumhe usse milaane mae…. blah blah”. By the time it was reinstated, I got an opportunity to make myself heard. I started, “I know we all are sleepy. I don’t blame you. My predecessors on the dais have always been front benchers. I can empathize with the ones dropping from your chairs. Now, that I am here, let me take you to the first place we go when we get up, the loo”. Lets take a loo break…. That got a few standing, and the ones dropping back to their back-rests of the chair. I knew I had got their attention.

It only helped that my slides were named bucket, bucket handle, tap, water & a fresh bath. I spoke a little over 10 minutes on “Career Growth”. I sensed, initially, I was not making much sense correlating loo with the careers of students. But as the slides unfolded, I could see shoulders shrugging up, heads raising and the whispers getting silent. Finally, I guess, I had started making sense.

I figured out, I was not the only one loo’nely in the crowd!

cheers

Straight

2009-07-07T07:07:00.000-07:00

Stars, moons & planets, together all are called a galaxy. But they all revolve in their own different orbits. Grand parents with fours sons, their four wives, who have two children each who are also married with children together, are called a joint family. There are different layers to each fold of existence. Even literal statements are constructed by so many ingredients; language, grammar, tone and a personal connotation and because it has so many variants it is bound to have multi-dimensions. It cannot be one-dimensional. Moreover, every individual has her own belief, values and perceptions to decode a particular statement. Hence, it may sometimes become a little confusing to comprehend one statement in a mutually exclusive way.

Some say, people over complicate things. But then, some people actually simplify things very conveniently, branding issues in two distinctive baskets. For example, good and bad, right and wrong, natural and unnatural …For them life is very simple. But, life is not black and white.

The biggest debate taking place these days is happening on a very feeble understanding. In essence, a relationship is an association between two human beings. Now, there are two subjects here. One is the association and the other is human being. Now, when we prefix it with a term “same sex” why does the definition need to change? It still remains an association between two human beings.

The section has been named or numbered to denote something special. The no. 3 denotes the three different orientations; female-male, female-female & male-male. The two 7s ensure same sex is highlighted & covered well. But from where I see it, there are too many loopholes in the basic understanding of the concept. First, most of the debate that I hear & read is on the lines of the “act of sex” between people of the same sex. Declaring the “act of sex” between two people of the same sex as “unnatural” is another judgment. To top it, comparing it with ‘act of sex” with animals, super thought….!!

One, not all relationships are based on sex. Second, “act of sex” is a very natural act, irrespective of the “human beings” involved. (I will not comment on animals). For a moment, hypothetically, even if we consider that all relationships are based on sex, it may not be for pro-creation, which is the ultimate truth and outcome as per the super pundits of human life cycle. So, the particular act can be enacted by two individuals as per their wish to fulfill their “desire to explore other’s physical compatibility and satisfy one’s own physical requirement”. Period. If “act of sex” is such a huge issue of debate, why not create a separate section for such an important and imminent issue? Why keep it all in a state of confusion and mayhem?

What is one’s orientation is one’s own right and decision. Why not let it be? Why do we have to single them out and brand them as “different”?

Or else, ban all left handed people as majority people are right handed! Can we?

Being biased is one thing. Having a prejudice is also acceptable. But matters which are subjective and personal in nature have to be just that, personal.

If we think straight, we will see clearly that life is not as “straight” as it seems.

cheers

Rate of Interest

2009-06-22T05:09:00.000-07:00

Something which got me thinking is the concept of rate of interest. Once I started thinking more and more about it, what kept intriguing me and finally became a lot clearer is the fact that majority of the things, if not all, has interest attached to it. Especially, where there is a decision to be taken, interest rates play an even more important role. And on the contrary, the higher the interest rate, the better!

When you reach an impressionable age, you believe you are ready and can impress anyone you want to; you want to date on every date of the month in the calendar. You curse, that February has fewer days than other months, and you lost one day without a date. Anyhow, most of the time when you are dating, interest levels oscillate between simple attraction to even simpler things as lust. The girl has a cute smile, which means her lips are awesome. She has a distinctive style, simply meaning she has one of the greatest pair of jugs around. Am sure girls also lust for macho bearded kisses and cute butts. (I possessed both, by the way, at one point in time!!)

One of the biggest decisions in life is who to get married to? Both parties should be interested in each other, there has to be an increasing rate of that interest which finally should reach a point of no return where the interest goes beyond the principal….

Once married, the next biggest decision is buying a house. Now here is what actually got me interested in the title concept. Dodging all the tempting items of deciding on the dream home (flat versus duplex, 2BR or 3BR, balcony with sliding doors, French windows in the bedroom et all…) I will come straight the point of no return. Once we decided on the house, we needed money. We had saved up some money, we needed the rest as loan. There was a handsome amount to be loaned from a bank. We did the basic research and most certainly, nationalized banks offered fairly lower interest rates on home loans as compared to private banks. So, we decided to go for ourselves and submit an application for home loan in such banks.

Scene 1: A Bank, walking distance from our existing rented hide out. The branch opens at 1000 hours. We walk in exactly at 1000 hours of a bright Friday morning. Fortunately, the bank guy I enquired about who looks after home loans, was he himself! What a lucky start, I thought. However, he interrupted my thought before I could smile stating his system had developed some technical snag and would take sometime rectifying. I didn’t mind as it was a good beginning. As my wife and I waited, the security guard walked upto us and started enquiring about our purpose of the visit. Once we finished, he responded in a friendly but alert tone, that just yesterday a young couple had walked in another branch of theirs and looted the bank empty and injuring people too. I was impressed. The bank employee starts working on time, the security guard is alert. Man, all government run, aided or controlled institutions are improving, was confirmed. After a while, he called me. I seated myself infront of him and opened the conversation. “Sir, I need home loan”. He smiled and asked me my demographic details. Once I was finished, he started. He started and never seem to finish. He criticized our decision of having salary accounts in different banks and coming to a different bank for loan. He blasted us on not having a savings’ account in A Bank. He did not like it that we did not have a guarantor. He was very unhappy that we visited him!! Fortunately, his phone rang and he spent a good 15 minutes talking to the guy on the other side of the phone negotiating his car purchase and the freebies the guy could offer. We got a breather. He cut the phone and wanted to start all over again. We said thank you. In all this, we totally forgot to ask him the current rate of interest on the loan! His rate of interest in us was minimal, anyways.

Scene 2: A little pissed, we thought, never mind. This is just one of the banks. The others would be certainly better. So, we walked into Bank of I. The guy was really courteous and almost apologetically directed us that home loans are disbursed only from their Main Branch. We said to ourselves, see, they all are not the same. There are good people on earth who are interested in your interest. But they are not eligible!!

Scene 3: The moment we walked into P en Bank, we got the air that this is one bank which has really benchmarked itself to the private banks. They had the latest request slip machines, numerous ATMs, numerous tellers, smartly dressed security guards and smiling employees greeting their customers. While walking down to the basement where the home loan section was, we started getting a good feeling. An aged but smart lady greeted us. After the initial mutual enquiries, the lady showed some real interest in us. She said, “Where are you taking this property? We said Expressway. She quickly responded, “Fine, but I will have to confirm if these builders are in the approved list in our Bank. We were about to relax when she went on, “Since it’s on the expressway, why don’t you look for a branch near by”? When we said, it’s an expressway, there are no banks on the high way, she retorted, “Ok, so what is your permanent address”? On knowing that, she insisted we request for a loan from that neighborhood instead! It was confirmed, her rate of interest in our query was at the lowest. So, we did not bother her asking the home loan rate of interest also.

We knew, rate of interest depends on many things; kind of loan – auto, personal or home, principal amount, tenure etc. But the real interest has to go much beyond. Be it, home or personal loan, people have to be genuinely interested – professionally in their job and personally in your concern. Atleast, professionally and try and look at the benefit of the organisation, be a good ambassador to its brand.

We finally ended up calling the same bank guy whom we were avoiding, as he was selling loan at a higher interest rate but then he was high on interest levels too. No running around for us, he came home, collected all documents required and assured us of no further hassles. His words were - Our pain is his pain, henceforth…. Ofcourse, he was lying. Ofcourse, the interest that we will pay will be much higher than the pain that he will go through for us.

But for a moment, you would not mind paying that little extra for his interest and the rate at which he made those comments.

Technorati Code

2009-06-08T05:43:00.000-07:00

Technorati Profile

Divine Confusion

2009-05-28T05:57:00.000-07:00

Just as I was about to invite some friends over drinks & dinner, one of them said, “sorry yaar, I don’t drink on Thursdays”. Another reacted, “abe yaar, I don’t drink on Saturdays”. Another said, “my wife is on fasts on Tuesdays & Fridays”. Now the only two days left in the week were Monday & Wednesday. Now, Monday is not the best days for a get together after a long weekend & a longer looking working Monday. So, the only day left was Wednesday. There was no drinking this week too. Huh.

Why & how do we do this? Fasts on Monday is for Lord Shiva, Tuesday for Hanuman, Wednesday for Ganesha, Thursday for Sai Baba, Friday for Lakshmi, Saturday for Shani Dev & Sunday for Lord Ravi or Sun God… and many more Gods have to fight it out among themselves for a slot in these seven days. Am sure some God must have filed a petition on increasing the no. of days in a week to adjust for fasts on their account.

While growing up, the moment fast-food was mentioned, mouth watered thinking of variety of Chinese food; chow-chow, chow-mein & Manchurians of the world. Now there is a range of edibles qualified as “fast-food”!! How can salt-less dal, onion-less vegetable & boiled potato with banana & milk equate to my chilli-chicken? I protest! People fasting have to decide on what to eat, on which days to eat & how to eat and people like me are questioning the concept of “fast-food”.

Aren’t the Gods confused too? I mean, on different days one may be praying to different Gods seeking their blessings. Now hypothetically, there are ten people who start their prayers by 7 in the morning on Monday to Lord Shiva. Lord Shiva has Ganga Ma to manage on his head, the Naag to control on his neck & attend his Dance classes too! By the time Lord Shiva can attend to all worshippers, Tuesday arrives & they have rung the temple bell of Hanuman. Hanuman is an active God & has thousands of trees to hop & millions of miles to fly to attend to prayers. By the time Hanuman addresses their query, worshippers have moved to Sai Baba. Baba being a soft hearted, soft spoken & highly attentive person would certainly take time to revert to each & every mortal being. People don’t understand their plight & since their prayers are unheard move onto some other immortal source expecting some help.

All the above being immortal & supposedly Gods, cannot show their go backs to their devotees. They have to attend to all prayers. But how? By the time they move their attention to me, I have shifted my focus from “Om Nama Shivaaya” to “Hanuman Chaalisa”. By the time Chaalisa has its effect on Hanuman, Ganesha Mantra confuses the air in heavens. Just when Ganesha heard my voice & raised his hand to bless me, I have showed by back to him & started chanting the “Gayatri Mantra”!

We expect Gods to take us out of our miseries. Who will take the Poor Gods out of their dilemma? Whom to bless & how to bless? The moment Ganesha would try to smile on one of his devotees, Shiva would threaten to open his third eye & devastate the equilibrium because Monday is the first working day of the week, so he has the first right to bless. But Hanuman is on Tuesday & stands in between Shiva’s Monday & Ganesha’s Wednesday. Sai Baba, being silent & peace loving, would wait his turn on Thursday. But Lakshmi can’t wait as she missed last Friday’s shower blessing as she was attending to recession. No one dare come on the wrong side of Shani Dev. I think the safest is Ravi as it’s a holiday even up on the heavens. But then, there is no holiday for him as he has to burn all day. So, when does he take out time for mortals?

Go slow on fasts. Go slower on the chants. Go slowest on deciding your God of the Day. Give a thought to those up there, looking down at a billion prayers & playing “akkad, bakkad, bambae, bo….”

Bong Series (III) - The Bong Ultimatum

2009-05-08T01:26:00.001-07:00

K in his short life has traveled a fair bit. His parents are in Lucknow; he studied in Mussoorie, moved to Kolkata for graduation, then to Trichy for his Management & has stayed longer stints in Delhi, Chennai, Bangalore & Hyderabad and Goa & shorter stays in Coorg, Kodaikanal & ofcourse Kolkata because of work. He tells me stories from everywhere, some usual & some unusual. But ofcourse, the most fascinating ones are from of bongs across these places or elsewhere.

Bengalis love to trabhel (I said, no ‘bhi’ in our bhocabulary). Infact, they love to travel in large groups. Family outings are always social outings with an intention to have some fun & a lot of rum. In a hill station, even a blind man can tell the arrival of a gang of Dadas & Boudis with their Laltu, Jhontu, Jhilmil & Laddoo, Batuk Mama & Lulu Mami not far behind. Whatever the weather, Boudis, Mamis & Kakimas will have their ears covered with colorful scarfs & Montu, Jhontu, Jhilmil & Laddoo will be made to wear monkey caps. What our Dadas, Mamas & Kakus wear is picture perfect too; a sleeveless sweater over a bright Kurta over loose trousers ending with sandals in their feet.

Back home, at the corner of the colony road called ‘rock’, the pure pleasure of ‘adda’ & stories of their travels & escapades would continue over countless cups of tea. Most would gather around Bapi Da & hear him detailing the exact height of the mountain, exact depth of the valley, exact temperature of the cold water from the tap with the exact expression on his face. It is mesmerizing. Later when Roxy Boudi would pass the club, some young lads would tease her asking if it was so cold, how was Bapi Da helping her keep warm? She would reply with a smile and, to their dismay, displace the pieces of the carom on the carom board which these boys were playing under a hanging bulb. Disturbing the game was annoying, but her naughty smile & the sway in her walk cools them off for a while.

Bengali Ma, living & bringing up her kids in Kolkata, is the best. The way she takes care of her kids, K says, he has not seen or heard anywhere else in the world, err, actually India, as K has never lived out of India. Just like any other mother, Ma would get up before her kids, wake them with a cuddle, get them dressed, prepare breakfast, make them eat, actually make them hog – early morning rice, dal, fish & milk. She would pack some snacks for tiffin too. There are water bottles for students of Class XII too. School bags get heavier with every passing class. On top of it, a kid has the tiffin box, water bottle & spectacles to balance on the nose. Ma has found a way. She does all the above herself. She picks the school bag, the tiffin box & the water bottle & carries it along with the kid till the school gate! Pity, she is not allowed inside.

If one has to visit Kolkata, it should never be in & around Durga Pujo. The city becomes mayhem. The creativity is unparallel, though, with the ever innovative Pujo pandals. The crowd & traffic jams beat your life out. There is love in the air everywhere. The girls are in their best, flowing open long hair, saree clad & innocently flirting with all boys in their new t-shirts, with jeans & sandals. There are new Kurtas flaunted too. The only problem is one cannot make out who is the maid of honor & who is the maid of the house. K tells me stories of his friends falling for the maid more than once in a single day!

Bengalis just cannot seem to have enough of food. Breakfast is over by 1000 hours, comprising of rice, dal, fish curry & curd. By 1300 hours it is lunch time & is the same & in equal amounts. Between 1700-1800 hours, they are hungry again & need a snack which comprises of egg or chicken or fish roll, phuchkas & Mughlai paranthas. Dinner is the heaviest meal with rice, dal, vegetable, fish curry, curd & sweet dish. Sweet dish reminds me of K telling me how there are sweet dish eating competitions at weddings in Kolkata where people hold records of eating over 50 shondeshs & 70 rosogullas all at one go, after the usual feasting on delicacies at the wedding!

All above was nonsense by a bong at heart….

Bong Series (II) - The Bong Supremacy

2009-05-08T01:24:00.000-07:00

While most of K’s batchmates were pulled to a more happening part of the country, Kolkata pulled K ‘heabily’ towards her. K joined college in Kolkata & got to know how a ‘heaby’ life can be lived lightly. Can you get up as early as 0500 hours & still be late to office, everyday?

Nata Da gets up early to buy fresh catch of maach, everyday. He is carrying his newspaper with him so as to catch on news while the regular fish-guy lists the day’s fresh catch, argues on the rate, weighs, cleans, cuts the fish into pieces which is never to the satisfaction of our Bhodrolok & then gives him tips on how to cook this particular fish, everyday. Not one to keep quiet on the curt comment of the fish-guy on Central Government’s latest ruling over the Excise Bill, Nata Da gives him & the on-lookers a crash course on Excise Tax, subsidies & the lacunae in the Government’s policies. There is a slight resistance by a passerby on Nata Da’s outlook on China’s stance on World Bank’s subsidy cut but Nata Da who is multi-tasking all this while; selecting the fish, arguing on today’s rates, reading news, retorts sharply on China & EU’s non consensus & gets back to directing the fish-guy to cut the fish a little squarer today. On his way back, Nata Da sees a bunch of boys playing football. He cannot resist himself from shouting for not attending school & on top of it still not kicking the ball he showed yesterday. So, he keeps his bagful of purchase, lifts his dhoti & does a rewind of how to stop the ball, pass it with finesse & then shoot it with the outer part of the toe, keeping the other knee bent & the other foot directed towards the player to whom the ball should go. Just then he realises his newspaper is getting wet due to water from the fish pack. He curses the boys again, rushes & picks his bag & starts walking in a haste.

Just when Nata Da about to take the last turn to his house, he sees two known gentlemen talking animatedly on the ‘rock’. The moment it is clarified that Mr. Basu’s shoes are from London, there is that known expression of disbelief, anger & revolt on our Bhadrolok’s face. The next 30 minutes whizz past discussing the wardrobe of Mr. Basu, the untidy dhoti crease of Mr. Mitra & how even the lady who comes to clean their homes is better dressed than Ms. Banerjee who has been wearing the same saree since a fortnight. A sweet voice of a Bhadromohila from the balcony of a buidling breaks the debate. First, the person who supposedly stopped our Bharolok is cursed, then the other friend & finally the Bhadrolok is slapped words like the fish scales of an “ilish maach”. Nata Da had left home at 0600 hours & its 0900 hours now. While our Bhadrolok is getting ready for office, he remembers the sports section of the newspaper was left unfinished. He has his breakfast in a hurry constituting of rice, dal, a cooked vegetable, his much relished fish curry & finally curd rice. He is listening to his Bhadromohila’s dry, dumb & daily comments of non-sensical discussions right outside the house and that too even before starting his day. She is amazed what does Nata Da do all day in office? Bhadrolok smiles, not at her reactions. He has finished the sports section. He does not mind Bhadromohila not giving him his share of sweetdish in breakfast today but packing it for lunch.

Its 1100 hours. Nata Da knows he is late. But he also knows, he can be attacked by anyone & anywhere. Even the rickshawpuller knows the name of Costa Rica’s Finance Secretary, the bus ticket collector follows sports like a seal follows fish, the lift man in his office building is a Post Graduate in Political Science & smells of sections & clauses of the Indian Constitution. He has know why Leander Paes cannot speak bengali, reason for rising inflation in Cuba & Madhya Pradesh’s tourism budget. Passion redefines supremacy. Supremacy is not just about making impossible things possible. Its also about making possible things impossible.

K tore his shoe & walked into a shoe shop. Wandering around, suddenly he saw a man picking up a shoe & then telling his wife, “wow, this shoe is heaby light”!!

Bong Series (I) - The Bong Identity

2009-05-08T01:23:00.000-07:00

The true identity of a true bong is that he does not hab the alphabet ‘bhi’ in his bhocabulary.

The rain Gods in an yet another unsuccessful attempt to save earth from the miseries of ‘bhodroloks’ & ‘bhodromohilas’, instructed the clouds to dump so much rain water on Kolkata that K, I hear, had his first visitor after three days he was born. The roads were flooded, houses had knee deep waters inside, there was no electricity and ofcourse, all K knew was to cry, either of hunger or feeling hot & humid. I pity his mother who had to face the brunt of the whole community from the Gods. The visitor, infact, could not enter the building and came in chest deep waters to deliver food from the window of the hospital ward.

Anyhow, K never got to grow up among bongs. He was (un)lucky that his father was based and working in Luck(y)now. Soon as he was growing up, he was sent to a residential school in the hills of Mas(t)soori. On the very first day, for lunch he was made to sit beside a bong girl. They were served mangoes, neatly cut in small pieces, after the main meal. The moment the girl sprayed sugar and salt together on her mango, she was heavily ridiculed by all and sundry on the lunch table for her communal idiosyncrasy she demonstrated and K too got branded as one, ban-gaali. Bangaali remains a ‘gaali’ for all bongs who join. Nonetheless, taste of sugar and salt together on mango isn’t that bad.

As time passed, K was simultaneously getting familiar with the surroundings of residential school and his new found identity, bangaali. Most bongs were from the eastern part of the country but the state was called West Bengal. All bongs looked studious and most of them wore spectacles but none of them actually were in the top three rankers in their respective classes. (Exceptions always prove the rule, so there might have been someone, am sure. K never told me about them). Most of them were laborious though, hence, many became favorites of teachers. K was not from West Bengal in east, K did not wear spectacles and on day three K was slapped by a teacher whose word spread as “K’s Welcome Slap”. K was a gone case. He was probably among the few bongs in the history of the school who was slapped on the third day, was made to kneel down in the second month of joining and became an “out-standing” student from the class by the fifth month. The only other guy I remember who became K’s competition and actually overtook him from his community was Sam, (Sadhan Mridha). He remains incorrigible. I salute you, mate. (Just for the record, K & Sam became flat mates while in college in Kolkata. Those stories, some time later…)

Once quizzing, K doesn’t know the difference between CPI, CPI(M) and CPM, he doesn’t love fish, prefers chapathi over rice & while eating rice prefers a spoon than eating with his hands, doesn’t understand Bengali literature, can listen to Rabindra Sangeet for maximum 10 minutes with 2 minute breaks in between & prefers wearing Kurta as a night suit than an evening gown to a party.

K’s some other symptoms though indicate something “fishy”. He sings okay & used to play decent football. K was certainly a romantic at heart who could fall in love every hour, with every girl he met and then let her go because if she doesn’t come back, she was never yours! So, K was born philosophical too. He believes after Satyajit Ray the only other Indian who deserves an Oscar is Mithun Chakraborty, supports Saurav Ganguly blindly & thinks Bappi Lahiri is the most under-rated Music Director of all times. He is also capable of competing in the “Park your Bum at one place Contest” & win the laziest creature on earth award, under any given situation.

Bongs can live without drinking water all their life. That’s because “haam log jaul khata hai”….

Poll Apart

2009-04-08T21:40:00.000-07:00

I know what Democracy means. I also know what Democracy does. I think I am democratic by thought too. But do I practice it? Am not too sure of that though. I have read, Democracy is of the people, by the people & for the people. So, I can safely assume, here in this sentence, I am included in “people”. Right? Good. Which would mean it is I who has the right to run democracy, it is chosen by me & it is for the benefit & well being of me. Is that right? I am correct, second time too…. wow! Am on a hat trick!! But have I exercised my rights? Clean bowled!!! After two huge hits, I fall apart (Cricket the next most popular issue in India right now!). Being born in the largest democracy of the world, gives one rights & liberties to exercise & enjoy. However, all rights come with responsibilities attached. I have very conveniently chosen selective rights & avoided most of the responsibilities of a natural citizen of the country.

It’s been 31 years of my natural citizenship, I have never voted. Not that I never wanted to. I never bothered to. We have been discussing Politics since a young age. Especially so, may be because my father was in a Central Government job & we all knew this much Geometry that any change in the Centre of the Circle would certainly change the status of the Circle. It is the Government which is responsible to run the country. But it never hit us that it is our responsibility to vote & elect it. We are ready to criticize the running Government, ready to bring it down. But we are not ready to vote & elect a (supposedly) better Government to replace it. I don’t know how many of my friends have voted yet. And even if they have, how many actually wanted to. And even if they wanted to, have they actually voted for the person/party/coalition it wanted to? That’s strange too. Considering, discussing Politics from a young age, being aware of the systems & civic obligations, we have never discussed if we ourselves have ever voted in (or out, whichever way you look at it) a change in our lives? Looking at the “Youth India Drive” with a new quote everyday, e.g. “Someone who cannot walk, is running our country”, “Someone who is not physically fit is fit enough to run a country” etc, has made me think.

Why & how come WE, the people, become so creative & innovative suddenly just before elections? What do we do, for the in-between 4 ½ years when the so called out of shape, unfit & ailing “chosen ones” are limping around? How do we so clearly see every hair on the body, every move of the muscle & every twitch of the eye of these very people who were brought in as change to bring in a change at this moment?

Well, some would say, I don’t have a right to criticize when I don’t even vote. But then, freedom of speech is a fundamental right of every natural citizen of India, right? I believe, Politics is about understanding the intent behind creating & running of a sovereign, purpose of a written constitution, the need for public administration & the logic of civic governance. Once we have understood the real meaning of it, then electing someone who represents your idea of Politics, would help evolve a better election system with the best person/party/coalition trying to bring in the change we desire. Ofcourse polling is important.

Politics is not just about elections. Or may be, my thinking is polls apart.

Good Morning

2009-04-07T12:13:00.001-07:00

Prejudices rule the world. The moment you hear of “The United States of America”, all we imagine is dollars in millions, super sexy cars, a chic home & a swanky lifestyle. Then, reality bites. One session of recession and millions of dollars being dolled out to save the companies who sold the super car, to keep the chic home & live in a style which suddenly turns from swanky to swampy.

This has nothing to do with my being married to a Tamilian. And no, my wife does not want to relocate to the US either. But, think South India and you imagine Idli, Dosa & Vada-Sambhar, only, right? Well, wrong. I have lived down south for 4 years. That’s a long time for ignorance to turn to frustration, frustration into depression which leads to hate. Am sure, a lot of people took this route. Or else, why such a prejudice? I loved most of my stay days there, and not just the food. People define culture. I loved the people there. For all I know, I may be one of the lucky few who found good south Indians to interact with at every occasion during the entire 4-year stint there. Who knows? Anyhow, I have come to believe that South Indians, especially, Tamilians are the most straight forward, a little rustic & yet well mannered, simple thinking & simple living people. They are very unlike most north Indians, especially Delhites who love to show off. Infact, I am inclined to state they don’t know how to show off! Most of my class mates in B-School were from business families. Parents of few would drive in to meet their kids in Mercedes cars. Some of them own rice/flour mills, some run more than a dozen petrol pumps on national highways & some have flourishing textile and/or spare parts factories. And you could not make a difference. I still don’t know why do most people there don’t tuck in their shirts, love wearing slippers to work, change into lungis in the next given opportunity & love curd rice so much!

And then, there is this one batch mate whose father has a transport company running more than 30 trucks (give or take a few, I don’t remember the exact number now). At first glance, this guy was the true picture of a typical south Indian dude you could imagine. He had a purple colored bike, had more than one purple colored jeans, worn matching with green or yellow shirts mostly. He had a short but stout figure & certainly believed he was Cupid’s gift to both sexes. Most batch mates did not like him initially. Many, I guess would still avoid him. He loved himself. From day one, he was sure, he was not in B-School for a job. He had bigger plans. He wanted to be an entrepreneur. Our initial interactions with him were only because only north Indians on campus smoked & his room mate happened to be one. During the course of time spent alongside, we became good friends. How much of good friends? Well, can’t really measure the intensity. Infact, after I left Chennai we have met only once in the last 6 years & spoken thrice.

The fourth time he called me in the last week of March this year, saying he is visiting Delhi over business. We wanted to meet, but he had a flight to catch the same evening & wanted a favor. He said someone will deliver some money in cash to me which I was supposed to deposit in his bank account! I said, “ok, but how much is the amount? ” He said, “ten lacs”. I think the phone fell off my palm because there was a long silence & when I recollected my thoughts & perhaps the phone, I heard him saying he is carrying twenty five lacs in cash with him!! I had not seen one lac in cash together in my life & the next day someone was delivering ten lacs!! What happened with the money comes sometime later.

My submission, he too could have lived with the typical north Indian prejudice and never handover his hard earned, hard cash of such a magnitude to a north Indian, living in Delhi with whom he has not spoken in years. He chose his instinct & friendship. His company creates blended coffee, by the brand name, Good Morning. Let us all wake up!!

I - Speak

2009-02-21T00:02:00.000-08:00

Some people who know me, and ofcourse some who don’t know me, may think that I am being a typical bong by supporting another. I don’t mind. Because, I have always believed, I don’t mind, because I don’t have a mind! Anyhow, I had almost decided to write a Bong Series (Coming Soon - The Bong Identity, The Bong Supremacy & The Bong Ultimatum). How can Bongs be covered in one single page!!

I always finish my write up in one single page, about 700 words. I know, I know, I have started boasting too much. I just cant’ help it. I am getting rave reviews from the 2 ½ fans who religiously read my blog and comment. Why the ½? Coz, two of them have names, one is an anonymous commentor!!

Mr. Somnath Chatterjee roared as Speaker during the Parliament’s Question Hour to all MPs present “…this session is suspended sine die. You are wasting public money. You don’t deserve to be here. I am sure voters will realize & wish you loose in the next elections…...” I may have said more than what Mr. Chatterjee said exactly. But, I never said “ad verbatim” either! But the intent is very clear. I am not proclaiming what he did or said as right or wrong. He spoke like a true passionate Bengali.

In the lives of all of us, there comes that few times when someone takes over the reins of our control. Control on our speech, on our body, our reflexes, probably the whole of us. We tend to just forget everything around us, who we are representing, the position we hold, how people want us to behave. In those moments the most unweighed, unprejudiced, pure & raw emotions, which most of the times are distasteful to others & could be harmful to “I” come out in the open. But “I” tolerated many a times, bore the brunt of acting diplomatic, suffered too much for being the way she is not. Thresholds are barred and “I” cannot take it anymore. That is when “I” takes over us. For those few moments, we just become, “I”.

Ofcourse, Mr. Chatterjee did not mean any real harm or curse in reality any of the MPs present or absent during the session (there is never 100% attendance at Parliament). He knows & we all know, what he wished will never come true either. Public money will be wasted time & again. Question Hour will remain a question mark in Parliament. Most of the dumb asses present & absent will be re-elected courtesy our dumm-o-cracy. But the real Somnath probably could not take it anymore. He had been watching the parliamentary circus for days and months. As a speaker, he was helpless. How long can someone try making jumping monkeys climb down & sit at one place? Wish as one may against it, there will always remain a clear difference between literate & educated people. The ones who can barely read & write, do so barely, existing all their lives. Ones who understand what they read & write what they think is right cannot barely exist. They need to live life. That is when these sudden crazy moments of truth come along to ensure one is breathing & living life on “I” terms.

Just can’ help but compare Mr. Chatterjee to a character of my school days! Have you ever heard of a cricket coach chasing the best batsman of the team with a bat raised in his hands, between a match, only because he lifted the ball in the air in the gap to take two runs. He was instructed to play on the ground & take singles! Have you ever heard about a teacher who, leave alone a slap, actually kicked the School Captain infront of the entire school! He was one man who could not withstand any misdemeanor infront of him. Once caught, one had to not just bear a tight slap, but some real chaste & passionate Bengali curses from this true passionate Bengali. He had trysts with his “I” more often that Mr. Chatterjee for sure.

Mr. Pankaj Kumar Bagchi. Banga as we still fondly call him, hope is still the same firebrand as we remember him. He is our very own Royal ‘Banga’ Tiger!

Kiss & Make Up

2009-02-03T00:33:00.001-08:00

I really don’t know how many people would be interested to read any further the moment I mention my inspiration to write this piece. But then once you go past the initial shock, I am hoping it would make some sense to many. Couple of days back I was switching channels and I stopped at an interview session of one of the actors who am sure is no competition to any of the top stars of our film industry and yet according to me is envied more than hated. I believe people are jealous of him more than actually disliking him. And it is not for his acting talent but to make most of his films “a must watch” just because of the trailers of the film. I still cherish the mornings when we used fight for the radio to hear trailers of latest movies followed by half rendition of the most promising song from the movie. I believe that’s how the man who made play back singing of ‘sex-symbol’ status – Kedarnath Bhattacharya or Kumar Sanu as we know him became a sex symbol. More about him later.

If you are still reading, hold your breath. Now props the name that needs introduction no more the moment the name is spelt. He is Emran Hashmi. Why is he infamous, everyone knows. Why I think he is felt jealous of, is for the same reason. On top of it, the number of hits songs; some amazingly romantic, some soothing & some foot tapping scores, filmed on him makes a unique combination to match. At first instant, I cannot recollect any one having such a fan following, with as many hits & ofcourse, as many lip locks as he has. Suddenly, another face comes onto my screen. A face, who has been lovingly acclaimed for almost all films that he has done. Ironically, one movie where he is disowned by the movie goers, reviewers & makers who royally “Mughlai-fry” him has Emran’s most (in)famous onscreen lip smacker as his co-star. This man has been associated with the so-called parallel cinema since he first acted in “The English August”. A great book, I hear; an amazing movie, I swear. (Do I rhyme?)

To me, Rahul Bose is the intellectual man’s Emran Hashmi. Most guys, I mean, men who are straight, would want to get into the ‘act’ as many times as Emran or Rahul would have. But it’s the Emrans who are typecast as the ones with ‘fire under the belly’ whereas; Rahuls are the ones with “fire in their belly’. I don’t remember a movie in which Rahul Bose has not locked lips with his heroine. Softly or wildly, is not the question. He has done what Emran has. But it’s poor Emran who is being burnt in the fire and Rahul is the man of desire. (Did I rhyme again?) No hero does what he does on his own accord. It’s the Director. Infact, it’s what the script demands! Isn’t it? Now, I don’t know if they change the script after a hero signs? Or a hero signs after reading a script & knowing all the nitty-gritty details of it. However, there remains some common thread between the two. Someone must be giving them tips, about the lips. (Oops, am I writing prose or poetry? I rhyme again!!)

Thinking back of occasions when two people with the same performance, one being applauded & the other sidelined by being criticized as that’s what were expected of her/him and that’s all s/he can do!! Could I think of any? I could not stop counting how many times would have I been on either sides of the coin. Be it as a kid in school, in college, at home or at work, with friends or relatives or the so called judges of the situation. I mean there have been times when my siblings have been spanked for doing the same thing for which I have got away with just a little scolding. I have been suspended to bunk class & someone has been just let off with a wink. When I was caught red handed by my father smoking during college days, I was almost disowned. One of my friends had his pocket money increased for his new habit!!

We all believe we control our lives. Some things may be under our control. Some things are never under our control. And yet some which you think are under your control but are actually just perceptions, in the minds of others & self. The best we can do is trying and manage them. Infact, Perception Management is what we do, most of our lives. As kids with our parents and as parents with our kids. As an employee with our employer and as a Boss with our subordinates. As an actor, like a star & vice versa.

I don’t know if Emran wanted such a perception. Or for that matter, if Rahul has created his image. But both of them are sure enjoying what they do… kiss & make up for their roles.

The Mystery Trip

2009-01-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

Till date, no one has given me a sound logic as to why the second Saturday of every month be a holiday in school? Not that it hurt us in any way. Well, to some it sure did. With the second Saturday coming, Class VI had a bad Friday night. Most of them would be washing shirts & trousers of seniors. After all it would be the much waited Mussoorie Trip. Class VII & VIII would be CKs (care keepers) in the dormitory so that the masseurs & washers would not get caught by the warden. When asked why not a Sunday trip, the reason was on second Sundays our school girls used to have an outing to town. As if on second Saturdays all girls on earth became deaf, dumb & blind. Why Mussoorie trips on second Saturdays was not the single mystery on this trip. There remain some more.

Class VI would wonder why is it that this particular senior would ask us to wash, dry & then early morning run to the dhobi to get his shirt & trouser ironed on every trip? If one knows second Saturday is coming, why wear the same shirt for three consecutive days, dirty it like a coalmine worker & then make us scrub it like a fisherman’s drab? As per rule, every student needs to have “eight white shirts” & “four grey trousers” which is supposedly physically counted by every House Master. Mr. Bhatt certainly did it for each & every boy in his House. And still, this would happen before every second Saturday, year after year with every batch.

Class V, VII & VIII would have atleast one teacher who would be their escort for the whole trip. His job was to constantly overlook movements of all these boys in town. He would roll-call the first time on reaching Mussoorie, once just before the matinee show at the movie halls (Picture Palace & Vasu) & finally after the movie was over before pushing everyone towards school. But there were boys missing on these roll-calls who would F@#K off to Dehradun only because the movie they wanted to watch was not showing in Mussoorie? Did teachers know of all movements? This would happen every second Saturday, year after year with every batch.

In Class VI when we started visiting town on our own, the bus ticket from Jharipani to Mussoorie was Rs.3.50 each way. Any one of the chosen cuisines - South Indian, North Indian, Mughlai, or the Chinese lavish lunch at any of our favorite cheap joints would cost on an average Rs.15. The most waited & wanted movie ticket would cost Rs.4.50 if taken in the front 10 rows & Rs.6.50 if taken in the last 10 rows. So, the maximum you could spend on a trip was Rs.28.50. Our princely pocket money handed to us by our House Masters on the morning of the second Saturday, just minutes before rushing to the Bus Stop was Rs.30. To save that extra buck for one extra round of video game, boys would walk the 9 kms from Jharipani to Mussoorie. The walk has its own stories. Some other day, though. Am sure, with every passing year, during those years too costs of most of the things would rise. While passing out from school in Class XII, the then Class VI, VII & VIII would still get the princely pocket money of Rs.30 & seen running to the Bus Stop & take the road, reach Mussoorie before the bus, saving the buck & making stories on the way. This would happen every second Saturday, year after year with every batch.

There were times, when some boys did not have even Rs.30 in their kitty with the House Master to make that visit to town. House Masters were kind enough to give credit to boys who would ask for it. They would mark the money credited with red ink to avoid any confusion while explaining the account to respective parents. But there were also boys who would forego the trip. Reasons ranged from F@#king off to Mussoorie on Sunday to see their girls to reasons best known to them. No one asked them, why. No one even asked what they did back at school. But the moment boys from town were back, the boys in school would be the more important ones. They were the ones who would have to listen to each happening lived by each boy that day; right from - the sensational free bus ride by fooling the ticket conductor this time, the new video game at the game parlor, the way that girl looked at me at the card shop, the super-duper masala dosa etc kinds of stories. Batches changed. The stories remained the same. Walking through the corridor on the second Saturday evening, this would happen year after year with every batch.

Every second Saturday was a new trip. Yet, everything was the same. Why? Well, I told you. It was a mystery trip.

Cheers

Fast Forward

2008-12-14T06:33:00.000-08:00

In school, far away from our families, the only means of news reaching each other was through letters. Infact, in junior school, every Friday, the last two periods was officially the “letter writing” time. We would write religiously & the letter was devotedly same. We started with “My dear Mummy & Daddy” and ended with “Yours Lovingly”…. In between there were four paragraphs, the first declaring that “I am hale & hearty” and I pray to the Almighty of all near & dear ones “sailing in the same boat”. The second paragraph was for general happening of the week at school, the third & the shortest paragraph for the “Sunday movie” and the fourth giving the details of the weather. Oh, since we had “nothing more to pen down” we closed the letter sealed it with a kiss! This was a ritual every Friday till class V. As time passed by, letters became shorter, frequency became longer & very naturally the content kept changing from letter to the frequency of it. To ensure letter writing remained a religious activity, every house had a Letter Writing In-charge whose job was to collect letters every Friday from every class, count it to the number of students in the class, report shortage to the House Master & handover the letters to the Head Masters’ Office Bearer to post the letters.

No one complained. because it was as much fun writing those letters as not writing & bribing the Letter Writing In-charge which made the House Master run behind you & finally writing a letter himself that “your ward has been penalized for not writing to you”. The penalty was no pocket money for the Saturday Tuck Man. What was funny that time was that there were guys who went through various magazines to make “pen-pals” & regularly exchange letters, but would avoid writing letters to their parents. It seems even more surprising that we would spend more than four to five months without hearing the voices of our parents & siblings sitting & waiting at home for us to come on vacation. There was a year in between when students refused to go on vacation stating it was very hot in summers “down in the plains”!! How selfish could we get? Or was it simply bliss of being in heaven? May be both….

Times changed, we went to college. Parents started giving us extra pocket money so that we could go to the nearest STD Booth & call them regularly. The same routine ensued. Initially we would call them religiously twice a week, one working day and every Saturday night or Sunday morning. This slowly became once-a-week call, which progressively became once a fortnight. However, the “extra” pocket money never stopped.

Mobile phones changed the way we started communicating. There were parents who could not afford two mobiles. They bought one and gave it to their bright young child. To save money & inconvenience to the child, they would call and beg her/him to pick the call whenever they did so. Guess, times change, people don’t. Initially, we picked calls regularly. Then we would pick and cut short the conversation stating some excuse. At times, we have not even picked calls from our parents saying we are in no mood to talk to anyone! Some would type in an SMS saying, “am busy, will give a missed call later”. But we never forget forwarding SMSes to each other, sometimes useful, mostly a non-sense sentimental message or some joke & sometimes just a smiley!! Forwarding an SMS means you are remembering that person in that short moment & “keeping in touch” in a way. Communication has surely become fast. But it’s getting based on forwards, more often…

I want to rewind to the times when we would play at leisure and not live life on fast forward mode….

Cheers

Two to Tango

2008-10-18T11:57:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long time that I got time, chance or an inspiration to write something. Or rather, I could not get all three in sync. If there was time, there was nothing to write on. If I got chance to write, it was not the right time. There had been some incidents which did have its little impact but then, there was no time.

Well, today I have time, there is a chance to sit and think too. And there are couple of inspiring thoughts too. One of them is usual, one is a risky proposition and there is one which certainly can wait for some more time to mature. So, I shall choose to write something on me.

I always thought I was a regular guy with a normal life. Not that I have realized I am a maniac and lead an abnormal living. I am a sane being with common verve. But what I have started realizing lately is the existence of more than one person inside me. It’s getting more and more obvious to me everyday. I fear if others have realized it.

Just like everyone else, I like being in attention but I love my solitude. I don’t like being asked to do things but I want to be supported. I believe people spending overtime at work actually are less productive and I myself end up spending more than needed hours at work. People ask me if marriage has changed life. I know it has, but I reply otherwise.

I agree there are situations when one does things which s/he may not totally agree to. Sometimes circumstances make it tough for people to follow their convictions. On many occasions I too have been burdened by times when I had to operate on others’ will. I would want to believe that most of the times that I felt I was not this person were when I was forced into being someone else. May be most of the times were such too. I cannot say if it never dawned on me or may be I was avoiding it. But I have started to wake up to the fact that during those times it is not me. We are at that stage of our lives when out of 24 hours, more than half of the day is spent at work. Hence, most of the incidents when I fight with myself are in office. And it may not be because of my Boss always. The reason may have been a colleague, a subordinate or even a visitor. I would have to confess though that there have been not so professional times of internal conflict also.

I am sure this is not what is called split personality. But there are moments when there are more than one thought in my mind. Many of my thoughts are different from my actions. Some of my actions are what I would not think of ever and then, there are some which are only a part of my odd fantasy.

But now, sitting, thinking and writing this column, I am again made to think by someone inside me. Is the other person really not me? In two different situations, I may react differently. But in the same situation, can I have two different reactions? I want to say yes, but I am thinking no.

To an open mind, asking a closed ended question. Does it always takw two to tango?

Dance with Me

2008-09-05T12:29:00.000-07:00

I still don’t know why was it called Fancy Fair? Infact, unlike city schools we never even had a fancy dress competition. Following the British rules and regulations, students were not allowed to even keep civilian clothes in their custody. For every formal occasion we were supposed to wear our cleanest, smartest and the same old maroon school uniform! The British while leaving the country had passed on this school to be run by Indian Railways. What a coincidence! Our school color was maroon. No prizes for guessing, we were famous by the name “rail ka dibba” school. Well, back to the Fair.

It sure was the day of the fairer sex. Everyone knew you could not do much with the way you looked. Everyone had to wear a white shirt, grey trousers, maroon school tie, a maroon blazer and black leather shoes. But it had to have something fancy, to get its name, right? So, some boys had fanciful double breasted blazers. I don’t remember any girl wearing one of those. Girls too had almost the same combination of colors to experiment, with white shirts, navy blue tunics, maroon school tie and maroon blazers with black leather shoes. Now that I recollect, I think most girls used to keep it low profile by wearing a navy blue pair of socks while the more bold babes used to match their navy blue tunics with white socks.

Was there anything more innovative? Oh, there were few bolder than the rest. There was atleast one Rahul Roy hair style flaunting “chap” in each batch and one Pooja Bhatt hair style flaunting mushroom cut “dame”. Yeah, yeah, these style icons used to date, sometimes changing partners in quick succession. My guess would be because deodorants not being very popular back then. I did see some boys using hanky perfumes as deodorants though.

Anyways, just like any school annual fete, enthusiastic teachers and the simple, stupid but studious kind of students used to make teams to run stalls. Every student used to get about Rs. 100/- worth coupons to spend in the whole day. Some boys used to sneak in currency and buy coupons from others though. There would be about 30 stalls with variety of offerings. Food stalls were the most popular because this was the only day when you could eat as much junk food as you can be sold by the same teacher who would have handed you “one tight slap” across your face yesterday. It was followed by sporting stalls especially the Russian Roulette. The least favored were the toy selling stalls with kids from Junior School spending most of their coupons there again and again. Toys were of the worst quality with one toy being bought atleast thrice to see it through the day.

It’s hilarious getting reminded. Hot Dogs were the hottest selling item despite it being sold by a Junior School teacher who was dreaded even by Class XII students. She was the only teacher who would hit a girl as hard as she would hit a boy and hit a boy as hard as she would hit a fourth class staff. Russian Roulette was run by a Boys School teacher whom very few in their entire 12 years of life in School had seen smiling. I passed out 12 years back. He still resides there. Latest news coming in still says he barely smiles.

How I can I forget the “Juke Box”? This was our Dance Floor. You got few minutes to dance with girls on the songs of your choice. This was one of the very few avenues to interact with girls. We used to hear steamy stories of what used to happen inside this stall. Best part was, it was covered from all sides. Hence, whatever happened inside were stories turned into epics being passed on from batch to batch. The first time I went in, I was becoming part of history. I remember the looks on others faces when I walked out. The ones who had never been inside the Juke Box had exclamation marks. The ones, who were there before, had a question mark. The former still believing the epic, the latter as if asking did we do anything what the epic says? I was in a dilemma. I did not know whether keep smiling because I had been in such close proximity with the “dame” or to curse myself blue and black. She had said, “dance…, the music blasted and I started dancing, unmindful of her presence.

She completed the sentence standing alone.

Janamash-tummy

2008-08-24T02:17:00.000-07:00

Preparations would start as early as a month prior to the day. Cultural programs to be performed were selected first, with performers for the cultural programs chosen next. Rehearsals would begin finally with costumes being decided, characters switching acts to suit the occasion. During one of those auditions only I discovered that I could sing too! This was in Junior School where everything was conducted under the able guidance of teachers. More on it, later. In Senior School, it was different.

One thing common in both schools though, was many students keeping a full day fast for Lord Krishna. Children who used to fast would get boiled potatoes and milk for breakfast and lunch. Well, am sure all the girls did it for the Lord. I cannot say the same about the boys. Certainly, not the few around me. And, these few include me. In Junior School, it was the Dinner. Breaking fast at dinner which was a grand and lavish affair for the ones who used to fast, tasted like the best menu of the world.

In Senior School, there were no cultural programs to be rehearsed for, no costumes to be decided and no hoop-la around the day. It was just another holiday for boys to chuck studies for the day and just play, jump around and relax. Boys used to fast, dinner becoming just an incentive, though. I don’t even think we ever thought of Lord Krishna. The main reason was the princely pocket money of Rs. 10/- for the day which the select few who fasted would get to buy fruits! And, did we buy fruits? Krishna knows, we did not; atleast not for our own consumption. In the junior most class, Class VI, part of that money went to serve fruits to seniors. We could kill or die for ‘Aam Paapad’ and ‘Chatpati’, a moong dal snack. But one boy could not afford to buy both. So, it was dutching of whatever was left in our hands to buy both items and share among hungry boys. But as we were growing, our appetite was growing too. We now had some more money to buy our Aam Paapad and Chatpati. We were hungry no more. But then after these snacks, we used to feel thirsty. How to quench our thirst?

Our stomachs were full, but an empty mind is a devil’s workshop. After some thought, we had a plan ready. We announced a one day football tournament for the junior section (Class VI, VII and VIII). Entry fee was Rs. 20/- per team. To increase entries, we said, one class could field upto three teams. Matches would be back to back and of 30 minutes duration. The winner would get a trophy, a memento each for the six players and the two teams reaching the finals would be treated to… yes, Aam Paapad, Chatpati and Pepsi (quenching thirsts, more of the organizers than the team as all matches were back to back and only water was served to players). At the last moment, the master mind, Master PK Singh introduced another interesting rule. No substitutes were allowed ensuring the number of mementos to be distributed being fixed, fixed number of bottles of Pepsi being ordered and minimum organizing skills involved. All classes fielded three teams each. The tournament was a huge hit. The best part was both teams in the finals being from our batch.

Needless to say, no trophy was handed over, no mementos were distributed. There sure was a Grand Treat. We were hungry no more. We were thirsty no more. It was a perfect Janamash-tummy full day.

Vicious Circle

2008-08-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

Michael Phelps consumes 12000 calories of food a day, which means, he eats more than atleast 12000 Indians in a day. Naturally, he has the strength of 12000 Indians and can win such absurd number of medals and set world records and then himself break them! I wonder why does he win so easily? I think with those 12000 calories a day, he must be farting better under water to give him that extra buoyancy to float, swim and surge ahead of his fellow competitors!

On a serious plunge, ofcourse, it’s an achievement. We have started winning medals at Olympics. It only shows the determination, grit and the mindset changing in Indians. We have started believing we can win. But what upsets me again is the limits we set for ourselves, still. We have now started saying, “a bronze is what is assured”. Why? Why cant we think that we can win and assure a Gold & Silver? Only when we start thinking and then begin saying it loud and clear, is when we will finally start believing in it. But then, we believed in KPS Gill. I really don’t know if one man can single handedly screw a national game? I am sure there were other reasons. But if a single man can be attributed to control and save a whole state from burning out, he sure can manage bigger stick tricks. Am sure he did his best on both fronts.

We have always believed in belief though. Our belief system is stronger than belief itself. We believe in existence of God. Actually, Gods. I hear India has more than a crore Gods to believe in. Not a surprise. With more than 100 crores minds, there is always different mind sets and separate beliefs. At one age, we believe everything anyone says. A little later, we don’t believe our parents but our friends, we don’t believe our teachers but the rogue rickshaw puller. Infact don’t believe as much in our own self as on a stranger and the various colored stones he promises will change our world. Belief is such a relief.

Life is a vicious circle. One does not have an answer to if the chicken came first or the egg, count starts from zero or one. You never know if you have to start believing you can win only then you can win or only when one starts winning, one starts believing s/he will always win?

My guess is everything comes from habit. When something becomes a habit, belief follows. If no kid is told s/he is a hindu or a muslim, taken to a temple or mosque every Monday or Friday, s/he will never get to know the difference. Only when something is repeated endlessly to ensure it becomes a habit, it becomes belief. Once it becomes a habit, one starts defending it. The ones who do not follow it brand it as a good habit or a bad one. Smoking becomes a bad habit, drinking milk is a good one.

When the only jobs in India were offered by PSUs and a handful of private companies, it was always a six days a week working. No one complained. Sunday was the only holiday. It was cherished and enjoyed by one and all, working or the unemployed. With MNCs coming in, they brought their value and belief systems. We started changing habits. We wanted Saturdays off too. We needed more relaxation and de-stressing. Why? Do you think you work harder than your mother or father worked in their working days? I don’t believe so. But our parents do believe so. The circle is complete.

cheers

I am a (p)roudy Indian

2008-08-17T00:25:00.000-07:00

I have not seen much of the world. Like many, whatever I gather is from the limited exposure I get by meeting people, listening to strangers speaking among themselves, observing situations around and reading a bit of newspapers and magazines. And I realize, there is not much of a difference between an uneducated but street smart stranger and the worldly wise evangelizing Indian. None of them have done anything much for the country. The former, is in the country and votes for money. The latter has become a citizen of a so called more civilized, modern and developed country and comments on the functioning of our government for which he never voted. I did not vote for this Government. I never voted for the earlier ones either. Why, is another day’s writing….

In my friend circle, we had been talking about it for quite sometime now. Why in a country with 100 plus crores population, we have yet not bagged even one individual gold medal? There are some good defenses but no clear winning logic. Yes, we were (are we still) a third world country, a nation with an amazingly low economy and growth rate and a country with close to zilch infrastructure when it comes to development. Come to think of it, our Government’s focus was never even Education, leave alone Sports! But with Anubhav Bindra’s feat, I could not but sit and think of the so many heated arguments we used to have among friends. It is India’s 61st Independence Day and the year also goes down in India’s history as the first individual Gold Medal year. He brought a cheer to one and all. But what have all of us done for this one boy and his country? I cannot think of anything.

One of my friends’ has not even cared to vote. Beggars are a parasite to the society. Never give them even one rupee. But since my friend is giving up smoking and doing it slowly he throws away half his cigarette which costs five bucks per stick! Oh don’t tell anyone, one of my friends evades paying taxes only because it’s getting so expensive to live. There is no alternative. Another of my friend is interested in social service though. She has even opened a small office in a lavish neighborhood. She meets rich people and convinces them to donate. It is such a daunting task. No wonder she has goes off abroad to unwind, atleast twice in a year. About me, huh, well, Singh is King. And I am the King Maker. I do not think twice before spitting on the roads. It does not matter whose watching, when I am under pressure, I pee. Keeping the roads, stations and public areas clean is the administration’s job. My job is to dirty them so that their job is safe. When am in high spirits, I play music in my car which has a music system installed sway hundred ships to shore. I am not bothered that my neighbor may be having an entrance exam the next day or there was a death this very day itself in the locality. There is a low beam in headlights too? When my dad has bought even the road for me, why should I not use the headlight in full beam? Why did he buy a big car which cannot even blind the driver of the bloody small car coming from ahead? Next time, I will kill him if he crosses my way. What is the possibility an aspiring Anubhav Bindra being in that car? One in a hundred crores. So, why bother?

I will not talk of another poor country like ours, Jamaica, which has possibly won more Gold Medals than us. Till now, Michael Phelps of US of A has won 14 individual Gold Medals in 2 Olympics, i.e. 8 years. He sure will get more. India has won 9 Gold Medals of which just one is an Individual Gold Medal in 108 years.

Anubhav Bindra has made us proud and I am the (p)roudy Indian.

cheers

Vodka & (vir)gin

2008-08-12T12:43:00.000-07:00

Vodka & (vir)gin

I was meeting my school boys after a long gap in time. Walking in, just one look at the faces, changed in many ways, but still the same genuine and warm welcoming smile and the bear hugs, brought back the smell of wet moss and oak trees leaves. Back in hostel just off Mussoorie, we were amidst Oak groves, hence, the name Oak Grove School. It was a British school passed onto the Indian Railways once India got independence.

Not to mention, it was an all boys’ sit out. It started with the clinking of glasses and ended with ‘one (more) for the road’. And all talks were of school days. The two most outstanding and long discussed topics though were, well, no kisses for guessing. The name has them - pegs and legs. What stressed me to write are the two extremes. About how we never even thought of booze ever while in school. Never did we think, talk or discuss of trying out booze. Not even once. And about how we always used to talk of sex. All the time.

Sitting there, I was wondering how the discussion kept swaggering between these two extremes but sides had changed. Boys were discussing how often one of them would go out on drinking sprees in groups and return with a new set of acquaintances whom he would have befriended in one of the pubs while pub hopping, how one would doze off in the loo of a pub all sloshed and others equally sloshed would forget him and zoom off home! There were unabashed confessions being made. Pendulum touched the other extreme now…

There are Don Juan De-Marcos in every batch, eternal lovers who can’t keep their eyes off budding flowers, and on whom Cupid pours all his love showers, blindly. He never has any shortage of love games. Players of the opposite sex come running to him like opposition rugby players charge the player with the ball. There were stories of their sexcapades doing the rounds of corridors and class rooms. How a senior was seduced by a junior girl, a junior boy impressed a senior girl, how a girl got even with another girl by enticing his so called boy friend and how boys won bets of kissing a girl within three meetings. We were discussing all this and how was our current our sex life, or was it alive at all? To the utter dismay and shock of most, the ones predominantly thought as future macho men and current dudes were the ones still looking to be laid. The laid back and easy going guys were getting it easily. I am sure there were guys who had mastered the art of either faking it really well or making it like the sticky snail in the shell.

Sex was being discussed lesser and lesser as time passed by in our lives and during that evening too. Being men, most of us were surely having an animated discussion and debate on sex-episodes but then there were some who were passive contributors. Not that they did not like the topic. They loved it. Either their vodka shots were short or their virgin days (and nights) were longer than the others. I am not telling you who was on which side.

One thing was certain and clear though. We all were still virgin to the thought of sex. Like normal men, after those light talks and heavy booze we were as horny as ever. I must have pressed my car horn even for an ant trying to cross the road before me.

cheers

Growing (B)old

2008-08-09T00:23:00.000-07:00

Growing (B)old

Never in my life have I ever thought what I would do, once I am old. I certainly am growing old. But with age, one tends to get more and more confident of things. Right? I mean, shouldn’t that be the case? You see more, experience more, learn more and hence start reacting better with each passing day. During a conversation with one of my newer acquaintances, the individual time and again kept referring to age being a barrier to most of the things in life. Going out, enjoying life, experiencing new things, giving up old things, getting that new hair cut, high time to start taking risks. What started me to think was the next statement after the word risk, “Guess I should get married”.

Have people started thinking marriage as a risk? Or was it always this way and just that they have now started accepting the fact that it is? I believe, the point where you have to decide whom to get married to is the risk. Everyone fears pointing her/his finger towards that one individual with whom your life would be spent. I could visualize the old movie scene, where the judge says, “to be hanged till death”. Then the pen signs the dotted lines and the nib is broken, once for all. Is that how most people think?

What crap am I writing anyways? I was about to write something else. Or is it? Was it marriage or was it about getting old? I think both. You get married by a certain age and start taking life as if it’s changed. You are asked to start thinking differently (read responsibly). And why, because now, you are not one but living as a family. You are responsible for more than one life. One has to think twice before even thinking anything, ten times before doing anything and hundred times before saying anything. But a life partner should be someone who can extrapolate the joys of life, someone who gives you a new orbit of existence. And not start restricting your thoughts, words and living. You have to start doing new things, which may not necessarily mean giving up some old ones.

Ladies are asked to give up their jobs after marriage. Men are asked to stop visiting friends as often. Smoker men are asked to quit, non-drinking ladies have to start drinking. I don’t understand, what is the harm in maintaining status quo? Sometimes, one has to do things to make the “other” happy. But doesn’t that “other” has to also understand that this gesture is to be reciprocated. If you expect something which the basic human need which can be provided by another human being, that same need is expected by the first human being too.

I believe, we all at some point do think of the times when we hurt someone knowingly or unknowingly. We do realize some action, some words; some act of ours has turned that other person sour. Most of us, ignore that moment. Not because we are insensitive but because we want to avoid the reality that we hurt that person. We do not want to accept the fact that we have made someone go, suddenly silent. During those silent times, you look for that one thing that could have triggered the start of the end. Sometimes, it is not the last word you said before the conversation trailed off to silence. Infact, it was the silence that you kept when a reaction was expected from you that is the cause of the silence now.

I am getting old. I am trying to get bold. Bold enough to react when needed. Say what is expected of me and expect what is said to me. I am old enough, getting bold enough to start accepting my mistakes and others. Bold enough to be forgiven and forgive.

Cheers

Learn to Learn

2008-07-05T21:53:00.000-07:00

Learning

Last two months have been hectic, tiring to say the least. First it was the joining of a new top person (read CEO) at the business, followed by exit of my immediate Boss. Being a small team, once he was on his way out most of the work which had been performed by us in the last 12 months had to be explained to the new set of people.

New people have new, seemingly better and eager to ‘change-the-world’ ideas. Nothing which is in practice is good enough. Not that we were doing a fabulous job of whatever we were doing. But then, everything was functional and well understood by the current set of people. I agree there were areas to improve on. We were learning.

I started in a company where I was the first Management Trainee (MT) ever taken in a support function. I was a fresher with no previous exposure to any work place of any kind. But, I had a great pack of colleagues. Not one person in the company ever treated me as a Trainee. They expected me to have a solution to situations at all times. Coming from a reputed B-school, atleast in that part of the country (did I say World Famous in India??!!??) has its toll.

Thankfully, my Boss was a person who had been in the company for as many years as the age of the company. He knew exactly what to do with me. On the very first day he had told me, no one knew what to do with me. No one had thought on my utility, if any. I would not have any scheduled Trainee Program nor a Mentor as in other ‘matured’ organisations. Management was hiring MTs because many so called ‘good-to-great’ organisations do so and we want to be a great company one day. Not realizing, between good and great, there may be some more evolutionary steps. Also, one first needs to become a ‘good’ organisation to start treading the path as flash-lighted by some publicly acclaimed thought leader. He told me, I have to learn. And to start learning, I need to know what the best way to do so is? Different people learn differently. He told me, may be he cannot help me learn anything. But, atleast he can try making me realize how do I learn?

And what he taught me shall remain with me all my life. He would point out the moment when not to react than react at the wrong moment, understand the difference between urgent, important and what people may need in life and what they want from life. He had told me, there are things people can do without. But just because someone else has it, we want it too. Not realizing that if they don’t have that, the other person does not have what we have. And if we have to possess that, we will have to give up what we already possess.

It is important to learn. But what is more important is to learn to learn. May be, my Boss was not a jargon throwing, hi-flying, slick and suave, smooth-talker. Guess, what he meant was that I need to have a learning attitude. He may not have taught me much on the professional front. Or may be, he did try teaching me some professional stuff too. But what I learnt from him was more subtle yet stronger. He taught me how to learn. Thank you, Mr. Nair, Prabha Boss to all his learners.

*********

Ready made

2008-03-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

Ready made

I know someone who got married at the age of 22. When I heard that, for a moment I almost started laughing. And suddenly, I was impressed. The most common discussion we used to have among friends while growing up was, what is the right age to get married and finally, when to start a family? The number of people I have had this discussion with and the number of times I have had this discussion, 22 yrs was no way close to the age we ever finally agreed upon.

I keep thinking when is the right age to start, well, anything. When should children start going to school? When should one start tuitions? When is a boy/girl ready to start body building, dating etc. When does one decide to get married or start a family? Someone who is settled financially, has a supportive family, no or minimum personal liabilities and ready to take on more responsibilities. In effect, s/he is ready to move onto the next level of existence, the higher orbit of living, the next stage of maturity. Does one get married the day/month/year one gets into a job? Or wait for a reasonable bank balance, a fair amount of soul searching for the soul mate, a considerable research on prospective partners? Does all this depend on a certain age? May be or may be not.

Since the time I have started working, the most common phrase hear is, “we are not ready for this.” Companies are wary of many “new” ideas. Well, not exactly new, per say. Many of them are being practiced by big companies. I call them, “best practices”. Any practice when repeated over numerous time intervals becomes a habit. Proper documentation supporting this habit makes it a process. A process is a document with a valid scope, consistent inputs, logical flow, quantitative and measurable outputs. When these measurable outputs over time are linked to business imperatives assisting to increase productivity, generate revenues or cut costs, in the long run is called a “best practice”. Nothing is achieved in a jiffy. Neither 90% marks in exams, 6-pack abs or creation of an MNC.

Why are people apprehensive of following best practices? When is an organisation ready for the next challenge? When a start-up, an organisation will have the ‘ignition’ issues. Management gurus call it the gestation period I think, so be it. Six months to a year, they have the teething problems. A year to a couple of years down the line, they have to do the balancing act between a start up and a rapidly growing company. Next comes a new set of issues of becoming a successful brand and hence people and promoters leaving the organisation leveraging on the new found success. So, when does an organisation start following best practices? One year of starting, two to three years of running and settling a business or right from the word go? Does it depend on the age of the company? May be or may be not. By the way, I don’t support the term “Indian MNC”. All Indian companies are “lala companies”.

There is nothing ready made. Everything is made ready. Even a so called ready made trouser needs alteration. Customization of processes may be necessary. What is important is ‘intent’ and ‘value add’. Best practice organisations have an ‘intent’ to institutionalize processes with business metrics which ‘add value’ to the organisation. Long run is the key here.

One mother and nine months make a baby. Nine mothers and one month do not make anything.

***********

Be Patient

2008-03-16T07:49:00.000-07:00

Just this Thursday, I was informed by my parents that a very young cousin of mine was being operated in AIIMS for some eye problem. It was known that the kid was born with deficiencies and needed special care right from the start for his low vision in both eyes. Otherwise, he was a very intelligent kid and highly energetic. Despite his vision being low, he still manages to run faster than kids his age, passes all his subjects with high grades and is known for his practical pranks, age no bar.

Knowing him since his birth, I thought I should pay him a visit post his surgery. I reached AIIMS and called my uncle to know their ward number. He said they are at the ENT department for some check up and clearance. I was impressed. Just after a day of surgery, the patient was being checked and cleared for discharge. I asked the enquiry desk and got to the ENT floor. What I saw and got to know there was unheard by me till date.

The kid patient had not been operated on Friday as there were no pre-surgery clearances attained by various necessary departments as mandated before an eye surgery. They had spent 5 days already in the private ward of the hospital talking to all possible eye specialists, doctors and nurses. No one had once mentioned the process to follow. How on earth would I know if there is water in Mars? Only a Martian can tell me that, right? Did I tell you that the private ward for which they were paying 1500 bucks per day had a TV which was not functioning, leaking bathroom taps and an Air Conditioner plug which gave out sparks sometimes?

If that was not enough, at 0800 hours in the morning the ward boy who was to take them from the private ward to the ENT department actually took and made them sit in the Neuro-surgery department. When in doubt and asked by the parents of the kid, some official of the hospital reassured them that this is the right place as the ENT and Neurology department have shifted to this New Building, where they were waiting. Till 1100 hours with no sign of the Doctor, they enquired again. Their papers were taken and kept by an Attendant. When the Doctor finally arrived, they were told the real news and that they would have to come back to the Old Building and visit the ENT specialist. By this time I reached the hospital and was with them. This was not all. The ENT specialist recommended nasal and Chest X-Ray, based on which she would give a clearance or otherwise. When asked where the X-Ray department is, she told us the way but she was not sure if it would be open as it was a Saturday. Rightly so, the X-Ray department closes by 1100 hours on Saturdays. The kid who had woken up at 0600 hours for clearance checkups had not had breakfast as advised by nurses. It was well past 1300 hours and we had got clearance from even one department. We went back to the ward and made him finish his lunch. We had to go out for X-Ray and wait for an hour for the report.

It was 5 days that the patient had come for an eye operation. Leave alone the eye, when we came back and showed the X-Ray report to the ENT specialist there was a new recommendation been made. The kid needed a nose surgery as his nasal glands had expanded and may pose a problem in the near future.

It was 1800 hrs. All departments were closing. The only department that we could finish during the day had given us news of a new surgery which am sure would entail a new set of pre-surgery clearances to be taken, new buildings to sit and wait at, some more X-Rays to be taken and may be news of another possible surgery.

I may be over reacting as this was someone known to me. No hospital can ever become a tourist spot. No one likes visiting the place either. But I suggest all to visit a hospital. Especially, a Government hospital makes a wonderful setting. It is worth mentioning that many private hospitals are not far from becoming perfect examples for aspiring proprietors of hospitals. Just walking across one of the corridors will give you an idea how not to run a hospital. Ofcourse, the population, the amazingly ill facilitated, mismanaged and disdainful medical facility of our country is such that I really think MHA (Masters in Hospital Administration) as a professional degree and aspirants of this course should become really serious about it. Proprietors and our Government, no matter which party forms it, will gain much from this set of academia and professionals in a big way. The patient community will certainly be benefited on a large scale.

As to parents of the kid, all I can say is, he is our patient, let’s be patient.

My Fish Philosophy

2008-02-17T01:28:00.000-08:00

We all want to make it big in life. And only big names give you bigger opportunities. So, target is to get into a better engineering college or a higher ranked management school to get that big opportunity. Big names do not visit small campuses. The notion is you don’t get a good job in a small company. There is certainly difference between job and work. You may have a job but may not be working. You may be working but you cannot call it a job. What they do at big brand companies is totally different, more valuable and ofcourse better paying. What one does there is a good job. What others do is just work. Right?

What big brands do certainly would be valuable and that’s why they have become bigger and a more valued company. Being much bigger and more prosperous, they certainly can pay well. But is what they do different? The sales guy sells, the marketer creates that USP, the finance guy ensures working capital; the HR official tries to keep people engaged. I guess in all companies that’s what all these people do in their respective domains. Isn’t it? But then, everyone wants to be the best. Every company wants to be No. 1. So whose pressure is bigger? No. 2 racing to become No. 1? Or No. 1 trying to maintain his position at the top? Their pressures being different, I presume their strategies are different. Strategies being different, shouldn’t they do different things? May be, Mr. Shiv Khera is right. Winners don’t do different things. They do things differently.

I started working as I was not from a big named or high ranking campus. To put records straight, I loved my work. I still do. Infact, sometimes, I am tempted to call it a good job. But how I wish I could say that. Or, in other words, wish I could lie a little better.

Anyways, having seen some of the seemingly big brands closely, working in small subsidiaries of some and interacted actively with others, I have come to a safe conclusion for the moment that they certainly do something different. They make sure it’s either different people doing the same job or the same people doing different jobs. So, a sales professional after a while would get into marketing, finance professional would start his HR stint soon and a finance professional would be asked to run a business. When job rotations like these happen, it is planned well. However, if it is the first set of rules - different people called in to do the same job it has to be well planned. Heads have to roll. Cabins have to be vacated and name plates have to change. There are indirect remarks, slow accusations, false disagreements, direct confrontations which finally end in quick exits and even quicker replacements. It is not an easy sight. In both situations, for the company, big or small, it is an important thing to do. When it is important, someone important will be impacted.

Growing up, I used to reckon, how important is being important? During one of those days I had read somewhere, “it is nice to be important, but it is important to be nice”. I doubt, somewhere in the effort of being nice, I missed becoming as competitive as it was required to be. And till today, I keep asking the same question to people. What is important, being a small fish in a big pond or a big fish in a small pond?

I have the same buying confusion, to buy an aquarium with variety of fishes or a gold fish in a small round vase?

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Testing Times

2008-01-19T23:33:00.001-08:00

One dayers or test matches, which is the more enjoyable version? This question has been doing the rounds for along time in a lot of discussions. More recently, with the introduction of 20-20 version, the smallest version yet, has been preferred by many. They have their logic clear. They say it is less time consuming, more power packed performances, more exciting and thrilling to watch and ofcourse, more money generating. Granted. But, where is the game in a 20-20 match? A basic cricketing sense is needed, but a “wham-bam-thank you-ma’am” attitude is what’s required. A test match is where the game is in its full grandeur. Captains strategize, bowlers introduce tactics, batsmen are in their elegant best and teams play with flamboyance of gentlemen. There is panache, power and purity. It’s akin to making love. In the other version, there is no foreplay, just the three letter word… SIX or OUT. Who does not love having some quick fun? But the choices you make define you. Speedy dates makes one a much talked about personality in her/his own circle of influence for a while. But a long standing relationship creates respect, makes you an example.

I love test cricket. In all sincerity, not many, including the undersigned was hopeful of a test win when India traveled to play against the Aussies in Australia. Still one of the best batting line ups on paper, a decent bowling line up and a couple of renowned fielders, India had a good mix. But probably not good enough to beat a team which had 14 straight test wins and were eyeing to break the 16 in a row test wins set by their own countrymen! Moreover, with Australia playing 13 players against our mere 11, it was never a fair game. I thank them who decided umpires should stop wearing their white coats. Doesn’t go well with the colors of the game.

But what a win! Finally, after 5 years a team was able to beat the world beaters and that too in their own courtyard. India has done the unthinkable. And what a test match it was. Every minute was a thriller, every ball not to be missed and every appeal exciting. It was pure magic. Cricket, at its best. When a cricket match yields a result a day before its supposed to finish, you are assured it was gold class cricket played. Both sides have to be congratulated. There is only one winner though.

Contemplating now, I believe times have changed. Time is at a premium. We don’t have the patience to invest time and energy on even things we love. So, if we have a one-day match why watch a 5-day test? If we have 20-20 version, which starts and ends in half a day, why go for a full day match? Why just cricket, even for relationships, we have speed dating as a way of life now. Try out twenty people for 2 minutes and decide who is a catch and who is out of the boundary. Only here, it’s the reverse. The one caught stays and the one lifted out is, well, out. Strange are the rules, stranger are the players! Game on.

So, what does one like, a test match, a one dayer or a 20-20? Can we have a shorter version from 20-20? Who knows? May be. It sure is testing times for the thinkers of the game. How to make the game even more interesting, even more gripping and even more profitable? Guess, the question should be, what does one want?

Why do we call it a one-night stand, where all we may get is a lay?

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A Gentleman’s Life

2007-12-27T09:40:00.000-08:00

It had been more than a month “Om Shanti Om” had been in the theatres. I don’t miss many movies, I must admit. But somehow, I have been jinxed with SRK movies. I am yet to sit and watch “Deewaana”, start to end, at one go. I have seen it in bits and parts, atleast 15 times! But people had given good reviews about OSO. Well, most words were for Deepika Padukone. Infact, I read a very correlative article in one of the top dailies on the Sunday editorial page about her, by a pretty senior writer! Well, that’s beside the point.

I strolled to my near by theatre where it was running. Being a Sunday and walking distance to me, I was but naturally not in my best attire. To be frank, I was close to my worst. But then what the heck, I thought. The ticket guy would not see anything other than my face, the security guard would be too busy moving his hands all over me as being a multiplex, there were too many people to body check and by the time I enter the hall, it would be dark. So, how does it matter what I wear? Even though I walked to the multiplex, I was early. I took my ticket and waited in the lounge. I started observing people. There were people of all kinds. Nothing striking in most of them, until my eyes stopped at a couple. If there was an on the spot Best Dressed Couple Competition in the multiplex, they would have won it pants down, or is it hands down? The best part being the couple would be in their late sixties, if not more. The lady in creamish colored saree with soft green border, matching shawl and an amazingly glowing face was looking stunning. She reminded me of my junior school headmistress. The gentleman in a three piece suit, matching tie and with both hands in his trouser pocket was standing like a fully loaded Knight. Looking at him I was reminded of my father. Actually, some of his words.

From Gregory Peck to “Dus Kahaniyaan”, my father has come a long way. And not just watching, but having positive opinions on these extremes. I have always loved the way my father dressed. I have never bought a tie in my life. The very few which I have are from his collection (or gifts to me). From being a man who would wear a tie even in the peak summers of June, monsoons of August and ofcourse the winters of December with a three piece suit, he has now reconciled to wearing them only on social events and outings. It sure helps that he manages to attend one social event atleast once a week, if not more.

Till some years back, I used to wonder why would retired people, now living a relaxed and an easy moving life, be attired in their best on most occasions, even on Sundays. One day I asked my father about this dressing mania people have. Those days he was still working and was wearing his suits and ties with natural zeal. He smiled and replied, “It’s not the attire, it’s the attitude. There are people who can buy the most costly suits and priciest of ties. Just ask for a handkerchief from a well dressed man. Eight out of ten will hesitate. They are either not carrying one or even if they are, it’s not worth sharing. Also, you can never judge a person by his attire, but for better perceptions, always look at shoes”. He had said, “Small things which you don’t keep notice of, are noticed by people who know the difference between a well dressed person and a well groomed man”. I make sure of these two things atleast, always.

According to me, OSO was a movie worth becoming a flop. Two things which probably saved it were small things, the two dimples dazzling on Deepika’s both cheeks. But that’s beside the point. On the way out, I saw the same man wiping his face with his handkerchief and I smiled to myself while sliding my hand into my jeans to reach for my kerchief. Then, I noticed his shoes. My worst was better than most bests around. Thank You, Baba for these small things in life.

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Prayer

2007-12-10T22:33:00.000-08:00

I always possessed more than I ever needed. My parents had provided me with all that I asked and what they thought I should have. I had a fountain pen before I could write with a pencil, shoes before I could tie my laces and a muffler before winters arrived. Not to forget to mention they sent my elder sister and me to a residential school in Mussoorie. We had the best upbringing we could ever imagine.

While in school we could walk as far as we could, but had to return by the time the big iron bell stopped resonating, its echoes among the hills. We were not allowed into the girl’s school but knew everything that happened there, told to us by teachers themselves. We knew our house master had our money but we were afraid to ask for it, fully knowing it is our money. We were brought up in a very lenient yet disciplined, restrained yet open, casual yet constrained environment. We lived a very, very sheltered life up on the hills. And as is said about the people on hills, we really were a very straight thinking, simple hearted and content beings. One fine day, we graduated from school.

Or should I say we joined another school? Here, time was our teacher, struggle our best friend, dreams our play time and every situation a new subject to learn. Back in school, the Principal was never to be seen. Infact, he was not supposed to be seen, called or asked for. The mere mention of his name caused chaos. Children ran to their class rooms, teachers ran to their mess and the other staff converted to robots doing things in the best mechanical way possible. He was terror personified. The Principal visited school only in extreme cases, something celebrating or reproachful. God save us if it was the latter. Here in the new school too, we still had to get to see our new Principal. From the serene surroundings of the green mountains we were thrown into the big bad burly world. We had no clue who was running the show. Who was the Principal?

In the new school there was nothing in common with my old school. There was no leniency, no openness, nothing casual. Everything followed a regime, each move was restrained and every thought was constrained. Or was it? I thought to myself there must be something in common between these two schools of thought. As time passed by teaching, struggle helping out most times as a friend and circumstances bringing out new craters of wisdom, things got clearer and better.

I can clearly see the commonality between the two schools. Rather, should I say the glaring difference, the reason of existence of such schools? My old school always taught me to be grateful to others, appreciate a fellow being’s feelings, sympathize with emotions and respect all religions. My new school has taught me live for self, sympathy is for the weak and there is only one religion. We live, pray and die for just one thing.

Hence, I say, there are no atheists in this world. We all believe in God. Money is God.

**** End ****

Musical Siblings

2007-11-14T23:12:00.000-08:00

Since childhood, we had heard people humming around at home. Ma was a decent hummer. She would get these Rabindra Sangeet hiccups from time to time. Baba (Dad) was a surprise. His talent to be able to sing came to the fore a little later. Or may be we could comprehend his singing much later as he would mostly emulate Elvis on one extreme and Talat Mehmood at the other. We did not know if he was trying to scare the crows and cows from the garden or singing. Anyways, you must have guessed by now that we were genetically musical.

But my first brush with active music and a real participant was through my sister. I was discovered as a potential singer only because of her. I dedicate my singing star status to her. She had joined residential school a year before me and had become a really popular singer. When I joined in 1987, one fine day, I was playing Badminton when the racquet gutting gave way. Some boys went about looking for a replacement racquet. I walked towards the indoor badminton court where students from Senior School used to come to play Badminton. To my surprise, today, there was no Badminton match there but a group of children sitting around a few musical instruments. I got interested and went closer. Suddenly, Mrs. Tyagi came in from behind and held me by the shoulder. She announced, “Look who is here? Jayanti’s brother!!” As if that was not enough to embarrass me, Mrs. Sharma called me right in between the crowd and said, since your sister sings so well, am sure you too sing well. So, C’mon lets hear something from you.” I felt like the roof of the indoor court blasting to space and a white flashing light coming down and sucking me into the skies. But nothing like that happened. Instead, there was complete silence in the hall with the kids looking at me with wide open anticipating eyes and the two music teachers smiling and waiting. I did sing.

Once I finished there was pin drop silence, followed by a loud round of applause and an instant offer by Mrs. Sharma to sing the lead song in the forthcoming Janamashtami celebrations. From the next day, we started rehearsing for the cultural program. When my sister got to know about this, she was ecstatic. She did not state that I was singing a song on Janamashtami. She kept telling everyone that her brother too can sing!!

During rehearsals there would be just about ten people among whom we would practise. I knew the whole school would be there on the final day. On the D-day, however, more than 200 people giving a blank stare made me sick in the stomach. My throat went dry and my fingers went numb. What saved me was the song, though. Being a devotional song, once the harmonium gave me the starting key, I closed my eyes and pretended am feeling devotional. I was praying no doubt. But reasons were different.

If I remember correctly, my first public song which gave me instant stardom was, “Papa kehte hain, bada naam karega”. I am sure, like all Dads, Baba too used to think the same. He gave up soon though. But it was my sister and her singing prowess that gave me the opportunity to sing for a crowd and keep singing. My sister is a super singer. Infact, she graduated in Classical Music. Although, she has been the Big Bully sister to me, I simply adore her. I have seen very few people with the kind of single-minded focus and dedication towards anything one aspires for. And ofcourse, I love her singing. Oh, actually, I love her.

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Visiting Localites

2007-10-23T05:38:00.001-07:00

Everyone loves Durga Puja. Being a Bengali helps loving it more. One can comprehend small and big activities being performed in and around the Puja pandal. Being a Bengali and visiting your home makes one love Pujas like a mad possessive lover. You are a localite and yet a visitor. So, people don’t expect you to work and yet you get all the benefits of a volunteer!! Parents being old time members of the Bengali community, it is always Double Decker fun. Added advantage flows in if one of the parents became an office bearer for the current year. You can enter any area of the pandal. You don’t have to stand in a queue for ‘Bhog’. There is constant supply of refreshments. You show off the ‘volunteer’ badge to all at sundry. I am the deadly combination of all the above.

Not to miss the Double Decker trip this year, I begged, pleaded and threatened my Boss to grant me leave for Durga Puja. My boss being a hard task master, made me do all the three pretty hard. The first step was ofcourse requesting for leave about three months before Puja. When it was time to book tickets, I reminded him yet again and informed that am going ahead with booking tickets. There was no response. Silence is consent I presumed; I went ahead with my travel plans. About a month before my departure, my Boss called me in and told me I cannot go as there are pending issues and also a tentative but very important meeting and discussion during the Puja week. I knew this was his way of saying NO. It was here that I started pleading. And I begged till he actually said NO in as many words. That was the turning point. The Bengali in me rose. I played my trump card. I told him in cold blood, I would resign. He did not respond. I knew this time, silent was consent.

I reached Lucknow well before the four most important days of Puja. Infact, when I got to the venue, the pandal was not even erect! Senior citizens nodded in appreciation, people known to me complimented me on my commitment to make it for Puja every year. And there were some non-sense people who did pass some comment on me helping them around the preparations. I ignored them with a smile. How can someone who works from 0600 hrs in the morning till 2300 hrs in the night with a couple of hrs of break get to enjoy Puja? What is the need for new clothes if one has to wear the same old ragged clothes and slog all day? Anyhow, without burning any more hearts let me get to the fun part!!

Sitting at vigil all day flaunting our volunteer’s badge, but helping people who genuinely need it. That is the motto of our group. And who needs genuine help? That is simple. Pretty people! I mean, if someone with a low cut blouse, a swaying pallu and pencil heels on; add to that the glossy make up and flowing open hair to manage, you sure need help when in a crowd. Right? That’s exactly where “visiting localites” make an entry. We make them at ease, show them the way around, keep them in good humor and on occasions, save them from eagle eyes, sudden shoulders and lightening fingers. We can read the mind of the mischief monger. We know exactly what his next move would be and quickly get into rescue mode. Without either party getting uneasy, we ensure ‘everything’ is under our ‘control’. Do I sound like one of those hooligans? May be they are “visiting localites” too? Just that they are a more adventurous lot and venture out to other pandals. We may not be contributing much. But we sure try and maintain status quo. We may be the lazy, lousy and non productive members. But we do add some value.

As some great saint said, “If you can make even one human being smile, your life’s worth living.” We chose self.

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Coach for Life

2007-08-13T23:33:00.000-07:00

We had stepped into the bad world of Senior School where Class VI was the junior most class. We lived every moment of ours in virtual fear of offending some senior, knowingly or unknowingly, and the whole batch getting to bear the brunt as a lesson. It sure worked. We did make mistakes, but never ever repeated them. One thing was engrained in us. We had to be good at atleast one thing. Academics were excluded from that list. The list included extra curricular activities only. One needed to be in either of the sport teams, debate, declamation and dramatics or had to be an athlete to be able to garner points during Annual Athletic Meets, inter house and inter school. Topping the chart was a team member of a respective hockey team - class, house and school. A big struggle was to get into a hockey team, a bigger survival battle to remain in the team. The biggest fight ofcourse was to be in the playing eleven. There was no mercy for average play.

I remember picking up the hockey stick for the first time in my life. The would-be players were short-listed rather easily. One needed to score a goal from the top of the D with the goal keeper trying to save it and then needed to stop a super speedy ball coming your way, hit by a player. The ones who were able to do both were called in and the others, brushed aside. We were asked to report at 0500 hours next morning for our first practise session. Now, did that feel good? Everyone started dreaming of wearing the school color, warming up, running around and playing hockey for the school. The thought changed the way we walked after that day. We had become special. The challenge started only now. (Boys were divided into four categories depending on height and weight and a multiplying factor. We were in the lightest category, ofcourse.)

Mr. B N Khanna (he was nick named Shera, because of his temper) was announced as our coach. Mr. Khanna was never a popular teacher. He was not a celebrated coach either. He was a stylish man, though. He was known more for being the only teacher on campus who smoked, boozed and lived life like a tiger. Hence, his nick name. He had a real short temper too. But he was an irresistible personality. Boys used to wait for his history classes where he would enact the Moghul onslaught with the sound of the sword coming out of its scabbard, blood splashing and elephants and horses roaring all at one go. He was a live wire when describing ancient and medieval history. Modern history was not his forte.

True to his image, the moment we arrived on the field, sharp at 0500 hours, his first sentence was, “I will make life miserable for you.” He sure did. The first one week, we did not even touch the hockey stick. Everyday was a fixed regime of running 10 lapses around the field as warm up. It was followed by standing exercises, followed by sit ups and other exercises, finally rounding up with another 5 lapses of the hockey field. The last 10-15 minutes were theoretical sessions about rules, regulations and general information about the game. We used to wonder, whether what people say about him is true. If he really knows how to play hockey!

One day, after an hour and half of rigorous physical exercises when we were physically tired of the exercises and mentally getting tired of not playing hockey, Mr. Khanna asked the team to line up on the 25 yard line with our sticks. He asked everyone to keep the ball on the line and carry it on the line from one width of the field to the other. This was simple, we thought. Of the 15, none of us managed to keep the ball on the line the whole width. That’s when he smiled for the first time. With the sly smile of his face, he commented, “If you cannot do the simplest thing of carrying the ball in a straight line, how do you think will you play hockey?” We had no answer. But I guess, he realized we were not enjoying the sessions. He arranged for a friendly match with another amateur team. We were out of our breaths by half time, finally losing miserably and worst of all became a laughing stock for all. He had retorted, “If you can stick on the field for 70 minutes without the ball; with the ball on your stick, you can do anything.”

He may be smoking hard and boozing regularly. There were days, when some of us were late by a minute or so for our 0500 hours practise session. He was the first person waiting for us to arrive, everyday. We would get tired straining on physical exercises. He completed all exercises along with us and would be raring to go. After a while, though, we were running out of patience with no sight of playing hockey. Just then, he started the basic dribbling sessions. From that day, everyday there was something new added onto our training schedule. But the one and a half hour physical drill was a constant. Before our first official match representing our school, Mr. Khanna made us play against the next senior category team in school. Although, we lost the game, Mr. Khanna was visibly pleased. From the first game itself in the tournament we knew we were a better team. Although, we lost the first game, we had made no changes in the playing eleven through the 70 mins and still had fresh feet. Through the tournament we gained in confidence, in points and popularity. No one in school had expected us to reach the finals. We did. The whole School walked up the venue to watch us play. In the finals, we played the same team who beat us in the first game. We disappointed everyone, most of all, ourselves. What we gained were, fit mind and fresh feet.

What Mr. Khanna taught us during those training sessions remains with us still. The importance of being fit; playing as per a plan and presence of a super star never ensures a win. Respect the value of the other to ensure your win. In a team, all are equally important, even the reserves. And although, he never explicitly stated it, I think he wanted us to learn more about life. Be healthy to think healthy, always have a back up plan and every individual has her/his bit to contribute. On her/his given day, anyone can become a super star.

I think that’s how super stars are made. There is a Shera behind each of them.

This piece is inspired by Chak De India, the movie. This is a dedication to Mr. B N Khanna, our hockey coach, who taught us a lot about life. Because, he knew, hockey was our life.

(One thing is for sure, we need to change our national game. It cannot be hockey. Not because we are no good at it anymore. We were, we are and we always will be a team feared by one and all. I feel, as a nation, we don’t care about hockey. We have stopped taking hockey as a game, forget as a national game. In one of the youth channels, a live question-answer round on the street brought out our ignorance. Out of ten people interviewed, seven did not know what our national game is!)

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Hilly Roads

2007-08-06T04:15:00.000-07:00

It was a warm day. I knew I was excited. But I did not know why?I always wanted to go there. I dreamt of being there, although, I did not know I was dreaming. I always thought I can see future!I was finally going to see where I had been before. Do they call it déjà vu?But how did I come to know of the place? Well, that’s where the story begins. In full Bollywood style, I begin with a flash back…I had stories from my paternal folks about the place. All green during summers, all white during winters and all colors in between. Now, that was fascinating to me. At that age, you tend to love everything your Dad says and hate everything what you don’t understand. And I did know that its really hot in Lucknow in summers and winter is the best time of the year. And the thought of having cool breeze around in June and watching snowflakes in winters was an amazing idea. Who would not want to? I know I did.It was 1986 and my elder sister had already taken admission there. Wow! And she sang praises too. I had to be there. I was destined to be. Although, later in my life I did come to realise that my parents, especially my Mom, did not want to send me there. Anyhow, I took the admission test.Did I tell you about the admission test? Naah, not that I passed it in the first attempt. It was because of that test that my Dad slapped me for the first and the last time in my life!! Yeah, he is a nice guy and does not believe in the carrot and the stick narration. But, he was fabulous at keeping kids terrorized. But that day he lost his cool. And what a place it was. The AC-2 compartment of the Punjab Mail, which we boarded from Lucknow to Calcutta (I still call it Calcutta and would call it the same till I die). One tight shot, pin drop silence and the rest of the journey was a dream again! If I remember correctly, I slept through the next 24 hours till we reached Howrah station.Moving ahead, I took the test in a school in Santragachi, a suburb of Howrah district. I could see hoards of aspirants like me who had come. Watching them with their parents gave me a super kick. Some of them would be with me in a few months. I wanted to befriend all. The test got over and results were announced. I was happier than usual. I knew I did well and would be called for an interview. But I was feeling good that the slap on my face and the two-minute silence maintained by the people in the train did not go waste.Interview went off well. I answered all of their questions except one. I did not know the meaning of the word ‘recognise’. How could I? I had never heard of it. At seven, you are not supposed to? Or are you? Anyways, I could not ‘recognise’ the people sitting by my sides! I was asked one final question. Do you recognise the people by your sides and can you tell us who out of them is an alumni of the school? Or something like that…. But I could not hear anything after the word ‘recognise’. I was zapped. Dumb. Silent. My ears became warm. Eyes became watery and my palm started sweating.Ofcourse, I don’t remember if all this happened. But till today, before saying, “I am sorry” or “sorry, I don’t know”, this is the sequence. So, am sure this is what happened.

Permanent Change

2007-08-06T04:06:00.000-07:00

The only thing permanent is change. I don’t know who said that. But am sure when he thought of that, he was married!!! Nothing remains the same.Even hairstyles change. Or whatever is left on the head! (I have come down to a crew cut!!)Ok, starting with our story…. We were destined to meet. And here goes another famous quote – marriages are made in heaven… to lead us to hell! (Am I being too sarcastic???)Anyways, moving forward… I am a Bengali, born and brought up in Lucknow. She is a Tamilian Brahmin born and brought up in Delhi. I went to Calcutta for college. She finished college in Delhi. And then both of us applied to Bharathidasan Institute of Management, Tiruchirappali, an institute and a place unheard to many. There was no lightening, no firecrackers and no whirlwinds when we met. Infact, during our two years in Trichy, we would have never thought about anything so serious of ruining each other’s lives!But I guess, lightening struck later! Almost about seven months after we went our own ways, to different cities, that destiny brought us together again and this time we could not resist the temptation of trying out ourselves. And can you believe it, from that day, we held onto our decision for another two and a half years to finally tie the knot and be pronounced husband and wife….On 12th June 2006, we got married in Delhi. I, on behalf of both the families thank all people who came to attend the function. Especially, all BIM folks – Raj, Ramya and Anu along with their hubbies, RVP, Kishore and Priyam. Unfortunately, Kishku and my roommie Hari had to leave the evening before the wedding because of their personal and professional reasons. Mukund, Raj’s brother also was in attendance and participated actively by serving the guests!Thank you all.We had a reception in Lucknow on 16th June 2006. We had a good turn out there too. I thank all people who were in attendance there.And then we left for Bali on 19th June mid night. Bali is an amazing place. We were lucky we went there during the off-season. It was peaceful, with pleasant weather and very welcoming Bali hospitality. Thanks to www.makemytrip.com!We are back to Delhi now. We will now really start sharing our lives, literally. No all ladies night outs, no beer sessions and pathetic hang over mornings, no flirting around (is it???)….. Life will never be the same again…. Life is changing, slowly but surely! We can’t pin point and say this has changed or that is different. But the feeling is new, and just as they say..…We are loving it!

Breaking News III

2007-08-03T05:02:00.000-07:00

In the last episode, you saw how the Mallick family avoided a barrage of goons, traveling with them on flight. It was a miracle that they were not on the receiving end of the merciless comments of their “smart” co-passengers. What will happen to Mallicks’ Goa holiday? Will the rains ruin their trip? Will the hooligans on the flight come back to haunt the Mallicks’? Will Mallicks’ have a fight during the trip making it a lousy break? Dekhte hain, HUM LOG!

We had booked our accommodation online. So, we had no clue how does the resort stand? We had only seen a couple of snaps on the website. The customer care person on the phone had reassured us it is a great place. We reached and then realized the meaning of the word “Country”. Our booking was made in a resort called Flushing Meadows “Country” Resort. Being the educated lot, we assumed Goa being a beach get away, there is nothing but beaches there. The Customer Care person, when asked on phone, the Customer Care had suggested the beach is 10-15 minute walk. However, the name clearly suggested it is a Country Resort. We did not realize the same, till we reached the place. It was in between wilds! A true Country Resort, nothing but rich greenery all around. No sign of any beach or water! Frustrated and cursing ourselves, taking a walk in the resort premises we found a water body, the resort swimming pool!! The nearest beach was 3 kms away. To top it all, it started raining. No way, we could go to the beach. Once we had calmed down a little, putting our minds together, we decided we needed to get drunk to forget what had happened and ignore what was around. To soothe matters a little, we had been provided complimentary bottles of beer and wine, two each. We finished all of them in an hour’s time. We surely felt better after that.

The next two days went off well as we had arranged for site seeing. Luckily, there was minimum rains and whatever did shower, was more of a refresher than a hindrance. The bus ride was fun too, with weird characters as our fellow passengers. We had a combination of Malayali family which could not stop eating, a maharashtrian couple with a sweet baby girl who never spoke, not even to each other. There was a sweet old and retired sardar couple, a Delhi-based family with young, beautiful and to make matters confusing, twin daughters and a group of six college boys who had a field day ogling at the two pretty things all through the day. We met some more ‘interesting’ personalities on the first day evening while on the ferry ride on the Zuari river. The MC on the ferry made kids dance in a group, couples dance with each other, singles dance for someone they wanted to impress. There was a lady dressed in one of the flashiest dresses you can find on earth, with equally smashing sun glasses and a highly charged husband. The husband was already tipsy, ordered some more booze on the ferry and enjoyed watching his wife dance with young boys. I cannot forget a newly wed couple who probably had a quarrel last night or during the day and were not speaking a word to each other, but sitting right next to each other and keeping an eye on each other. The lady would not smile a bit and the young man could not look either towards any other girl or at the bar! It was funny and irritating for a moment. Why would anyone want to ruin their honeymoon like this? Forget honeymoon, why would people spoil a trip to Goa like this? Anyways, holding my wife’s hands and the cool sea breeze was intoxicating enough. Who needed booze! But it was funny too, looking at people and collecting pieces to write this piece!!

On the flight back to Delhi, we were seated behind another newly wed couple back from their honeymoon. They made a perfect honeymoon couple, not able to keep hands off each other and murmuring sweet nothings into each other’s ears non-stop for the entire 2 hours. Looking at them I was finally reassured, all is well which ends well.

Break(ing) News II

2007-07-09T23:56:00.000-07:00

Deciding to go on a holiday is comparatively an easy decision. Once the holiday is decided, bull dozers of other decisions come on to you. Where to go, when to go, how to go, where to stay, what all to do other than just site seeing etc…. Thankfully, we had already made up our minds, we would visit a water body place and hence short listing was easy. Economics made a lot of sense in finally turning to Goa. Destination decided, we have to reach there. Next action item was the travel and accommodation. Air travel was the only solution as train would consume a lot of time. Being net savvy, we sure tried our hands on a combined travel and accommodation package deal on the web. But we soon found, we may actually save some money if we booked air tickets and the hotel/resort separately. Goa, here we come! But the story begins much before we reach Goa.

Many people I have met curse Air Deccan like crazy. Complaints range from free seating issue to running late on most occasions, the staff not being courteous and long queues at the check in counters. I don’t know if it’s only me in the world but out of ten times, six times I would have traveled by Air Deccan. Whenever I have traveled on Air Deccan it has always departed on time and landed on time and the staff, both ground staff and air hostesses have been really good to me! Long queues are something which is both an infrastructural and psychological issue. No airport in India is equipped to handle the air traffic it handles. In addition, all Airlines mention very clearly on tickets that passengers should reach the airport atleast two hours before the scheduled departure. How many of us actually do? And if there is a longer queue in Air Deccan than Jet Airways, be happy! It should reassure you that have made the right choice of flying a more popular airline! (Whether the kind of people who travel by Air Deccan should be allowed to enter an air craft is something which we shall discuss later). Free seating is a non-issue. The price at which they make you travel, one should not be complaining the way they do. But then, may be that’s why the kind of people is questionable. (I thank Dr. Vijay Mallaya for his acquisition of Air Deccan).

Anyhow, once onboard, the fun began. By the grace of Almighty, the quality of air hostesses in Air Deccan has certainly improved. The reaction of my co-passengers will give you valuable insights. Once we had finished running the full aisle and grabbing seats together, we came across three gentlemen traveling together and sitting on three window seats behind each other. Of course, to talk they needed to stand and talk. The air-hostess came over and asked them sit and fasten their seat belts. They did and then the smartest of the three made his move. He called for assistance by pressing the button above the seats. When the air-hostess arrived, he asked her very innocently, how does one unlock the seat belt; he does not know as he is traveling by air for the first time! A first timer knows how to call for assistance by looking at the buttons, but does not know how to lock and unlock the seat belt!! When the hostesses started taking rounds selling snacks, one of the passengers actually asked if they can serve only fruits (for free ofcourse) as he said he does not have change. But the best one was again from the smartest passenger on board. He bought some snack and while the hostess was handing over the edibles, he said to her, “you have a great smile; please smile. I hope that’s free”.

The air travel was fun. Two hours passed as a finger snap. How we spent the days in Goa comes in the last part of my trilogy of breaking news.

Break(ing) News

2007-07-04T00:31:00.000-07:00

Don’t expect a ‘sansani’ or a ‘haadsa’ here. The news I have, is of a break. A short break my wife and I took from the maddening world of city, citizens and cyber. With its distances known, a typical day in Delhi would mean leaving by 0800 hours for work and returning only past 2000 hours, atleast 10 hours in Office and another 2 hours on the road. Another 2 hours zoom off recounting the day gone with family around the dinner table. Lights go off as we crash on the bed to begin another day of slogging. In effect, we live like a dog and sleep like a log.

My wife and I were planning on taking a holiday for sometime now. Granting leave is equivalent to grant of a second life by the Almighty! Hence, we were dependent on our respective Almighty ones in office. Finally, Gods signed on the dotted lines and we got a second life! The last break we had taken was on the mountains, so this time we decided to visit the sea. We got Lakshwadweep, Andamans and Goa as options. Kerala was an option initially but then we ruled it out for some reason I don’t remember. After some online searching and bits and pieces of information from people, we decided on going to Goa. June being an off season it would be less crowded and also comparatively cheaper. So, Goa, here we come!

What a welcome we received at Goa! From a high temperature of 35 degrees and upwards in Delhi, we landed in 24 degrees of Goan climate. It was cloudy and there had been slight drizzles minutes before we touched the ground. There was humidity in the air but the cool breeze made it amazing. The one and half hour drive from the airport to our resort was equally mesmerizing. We crossed the greenery, the blue ocean and the clear waters of Mandovi and Zuari rivers to reach our resort in Anjuna. The first two days went by in a jiffy with the site seeing tour planned along with the holiday package. What helped was the wonderful weather and the pleasant tourist numbers at all places. It never seemed a crowd, although there was quite a handful taking a break. Evenings were the best, at the beach shacks, sipping Breezer along with sea breeze. The next two days were spaced out and we hired a bike to roam around Goa like hippies. There were rain showers in between but it made it even more romantic and ideal to accelerate and keeping cruising.

We were a part of a lot of funny anecdotes too. Surely, will write about them in the coming days. To give you a taste of things to come, there were co-passengers whose comments embarrassed the air hostesses and us equally, the resort amenities and the tour guides who never failed to misguide us!

It was a trip which refreshed our senses and replenished our system. We are back with refueled energies to face the big bad world.

I will be back, same place, same link, with the same zeal but with a new story and a new twist. Till then this is your same old friend, signing off with his breaking news and breaking his back on the office chair.

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Life in a Retro (Part II)

2007-06-12T04:16:00.000-07:00

I know what you did last summer!

Did I mention anywhere that we completed one full year of marital hiss, oopsies, Marital BLISS? Yes. Infact, today (12th June) is the day when the Pandit added ghee in the fire, people smeared all kinds of paste mixtures on our faces and my wife and I took turns leading each other around fire and promised in our hearts not to leave the other alone ever. In short, all hell broke loose.

Why did we not have an inkling of doubt from these small indicators, that life will be hot and burning like fire, we would become different faces once married and we will have no one to lead us to happiness!! Huh, does everyone go through this feeling?

It feels just like yesterday that we met for the first time. We spent three years meandering and wandering around looking for love of our lives. We shared all we were living and all we aspired for. We always wanted the other to be happy and have a great life. Never realizing, the one we are sharing these moments, should be the ideal person with whom the aspirations can come true! Thankfully, we finally managed to convince ourselves that there is no one better than self to make the other happy. So, we obliged each other.

Once we decided to ruin our lives for sure, the next set of people to set on fire was our parents. Coming from different castes, it would be a mighty task to convince them. But when luck is not on your side, nothing can go wrong. They agreed readily! There was no resistance!!! No filmy dialogues, no ugly ego hassles, no caste allegations, nothing at all. Huh, such a boring start to our would-be-exciting life together. We must be dreaming, we thought. Life can never be so smooth. Sure, it was not. Once the parties agreed, it took us 2 more years to finally get married. These 700 and some more days from the day our parents said ‘yes’ to ‘yours truly’ finally ‘kissing the bride’, were special. I can never forget them. We opened joint accounts for future purchases for our dream home. We queried for home loans. We started saving for our first car. We enquired about special honeymoon packages. All activities and decisions became ‘our’ decisions rather than ‘my’ decisions. We did everything in perfect harmony. We started doing so much together that we almost forgot to fight until the final topic of when do we get married came up? Finalizing the D-day took eternity. We had to keep shifting the wedding date for some reason or the other. Reasons were galore, what followed was singular, world war! All dreams came shattering down, all savings and deposits stopped, honeymoon neither had honey and moon went behind war clouds. The cold war would last for a couple of days strengthening our thoughts a little more and transforming our cherished dream into a new color of aspiration.

As 12th June was being finalized, a new debate erupted. Why June, why summers and why not pre/postpone a little to suit all. But then, having shifted and moved the dates 500 times in the last 500 days, nobody wanted to take a chance. By now people had actually started fearing if at all we will get married! But as they say, nothing fails like prayers. So, all prayers from either sides got nullified and we exchanged garlands this day last summer. Since that day last year till today, I have been wondering the times we spent together. And I must say it has been horrifying. Infact, it has been dreadful. I fear many moments as described by many friends, citing situations, when things get rocky and shaky post marriage. I was even prepared with a few alternatives mentally to try out if one of the so many ‘common situations’ as blubbered by my dear friends happened to us, post wedding. Frighteningly, none of them happened to us yet! And I live in awful suspense everyday. I still await some shocking and revealing truths of life after marriage. And the only person to blame for all this mental tension and ubiquitous pressure is my wife. I just cannot believe anyone changing someone’s life like this! Thank you dear for making my life a living hell. Hell, where I boil and fry in the fire of passion, I twist and twirl in your true love and only you lead me to perfect happiness.

So, now you know what I did last summer. I apologize, what we did last summer.

A healthy marriage

2007-06-07T00:27:00.000-07:00

From limited interactions with friends and acquaintances, I have come to believe that most men shirk getting married not just to avoid responsibility but also obesity. Personally too I have seen so many of them suddenly bloating like a pig within 2 months of their respective wedding dates. I agree, the first couple of months after a wedding is very hectic. It takes a toll on the health of most couples. Most couples most certainly fall ill. They should be totally down and out. On the contrary, most gain weight!! And why not. A couple has three paternal aunts and two uncles of the groom and two maternal aunts and three uncles of the bride to visit for dinner or lunch. There are two more aunts who are cousins by relations but are closer than the real ones. Then, there are relatives to be visited from the bride’s side. On week ends there are the neighbors with whom the groom’s family has been staying for more than a decade. Needless to say all these meals are very delicious, very rich and highly fattening. If families are non-vegetarians, the couples become dead meat themselves after some invitations! Some say the worst is the desserts course of these meals. I agree. One has to have all on her/his plate and then some more which is served and finally some more thrust on them as blessing from elders. If there are no invitations to go to, there are invitations sent to call relatives and friends home to relish delicacies made by the new bride in the house! One good thing ofcourse is that couples get to know each other’s likings and disliking just watching each other eat.

But during all these uneventful yet ritual socializing, the bride and groom actually don’t get to spend much time together. The newly wedded couples want to do so much for each other. Once all these compulsory invitations have been attended, the couples now get to actually live with each other. Till then they were only staying in the same house. The couple has got fed up of the mention of a lunch or dinner invitation. By now men have started getting irritated of the whole thing. People had been thrusting item after item down their throats. To make matters worse with the reducing number of invitations, the mushy bullying of the new wife starts on the breakfast table. The only meal they can eat at peace is breakfast. Not because it is light but because it has minimum number of items on the table. And only now the wife can start bestowing her stocked up love. Not her fault at all. But hen neither is the husband’s, I say. There is a limit to everything. Most of the trousers, old, bought and gifted don’t fit on the waist anymore. He has poked a new hole in the belt. A kurta is the best attire nowadays. Huh, something which was worn only by men past their prime most thought! And on top of that, instead of understanding, this wife of mine is making life even more miserable by shoving some more of that ghee laden parantha with the super oily paneer curry. Things like these may be running across some “now conscious” healthy-in-the-mind men. I hope am going right.

I got married this time last year (June 2006). I live in the same city as my in-laws. There are a decent number of relatives from my wife’s side in the city too. I did have my share of invitations. Being Bengalis we are strict non-vegetarians. So, are these the reasons why am writing this piece? Hmmm, well yes and no. Yes, because I could have been among the so many couples cribbing about the post marriage binge sessions. No, because although I had most of the ingredients of a (un)healthy beginning to our wedding, I was rescued. I married into a Tamilian Brahmin family. All invitations were strictly vegetarian, light and very delicious. It certainly helped that I had developed a taste for most south Indian dishes during my 4 yrs stint down south. When all outings were over, even the unending love, affection and mushiness which my wife would shower on me during breakfast and dinner were restricted to a vegetarian diet. It helped me to keep fit, look fit and feel fit. I remain a non-vegetarian with most week ends with my wife and friends being strict non-vegetarian binging. A little alcohol surely helps cleaning the biological system too!! (Wink)

In all sanity I can say that I had a very healthy beginning to my married life, remain healthy all through this past one year and continue having a very healthy married life. And sure, it includes the meals we eat.

Life in a Retro (Part I)

2007-06-04T23:43:00.000-07:00

As far as I can remember, I always wanted to join the Armed Forces. Growing up in a residential school in Mussoorie only kept fuelling my aspiration. On every trip to town every second Saturday of the month, watching the Gentlemen Cadets from Indian Military Academy (IMA), Dehradun made the decision stronger and determined. I have never liked green as a color, courtesy our neighboring country. Hence, most shades of green never got my attention. The olive green Army Uniform was one shade I could never take off my mind.

The Combined Defense Services (CDS) which I took in my final year of Graduation gave me a chance to get to IMA. I knew there were many avenues to apply and join the Forces. What was not known until I went for my Service Selection Board (SSB) was the meaning of dreaming to wear the Army Uniform. It dawned on me only when I started interacting with other aspiring candidates. I was rejected in my first attempt by an earlier SSB. I was attending my second SSB. There were boys who were attending their eleventh!! Yes, eleventh. One can apply for NDA atleast once and sometimes twice after Class XII and atleast twice through CDS. Some lucky few with birthdays below the eligible dates, can apply thrice. Then there is an entry for NCC ‘C’ Certificate holders, an entry for Engineering Graduates, a University entry scheme and a Short Service Commission entry. There were boys who had applied for most of these, if not all, and the highest count was indeed, eleventh attempt. It was inspiring to be among them and sometimes felt embarrassing too. Inspiring, as even after being rejected ten times, these boys keep coming back, just for the love of the Uniform. Embarrassing, because if one was rejected ten times, how can he even pronounce it! I could never do that. But it felt great to be among them.

It has been a long time since then. But the days spent at SSB stay clear in my memories. The first day being received at the station and taken to the SSB Campus in an Army Bus was a high in itself. We were issued a Chest Number to wear which would be our identity for the number of hours / days we would be at the SSB Campus as the first day itself, out of 96 boys only 46 stayed back. After a battery of written tests and group discussions, a short list was announced and more than half were rejected. Poor souls could not even open the luggage they had brought, prepared for the whole SSB stint. The real fun time was at the barracks. More than 100 boys in the barracks, as there were parallel batches of candidates attending SSB, reminded me of my hostel days. Only that I knew no one in this crowd. But that was the first night. All inhibitions were gone by the next morning. On the first day, a Colonel in his Welcome Address gave instructions on the format of selection process, the schedules and general information. His one sentence still remains ringing in my mind. He said, “The gates would close at 2130 hours. 2129 hours is early, 2130 is on time and 2131 hours is late”. It gave me goose pimples then. We used to visit the city market in the evening. But no one ever came in late. Some words never fade. May be, those words had become a daily ritual for him. For us, it was religion.

Our day started at 0430 hours with a Malayali voice shouting ‘Chaaya le lo’ for ‘chai’, serving tea early morning at the barracks where all candidates were put up. Rushing to the loo, freshening up and being at the breakfast table by 0730 hours was the priority as everyone felt there were eyes keeping a watch on us for discipline and time keeping. The written test grill and then the physical drill took up the rest of the first half of the day. Once back at the barracks, boys became boys. There were non-veg jokes being shared at the peak of voices, some boys played antakshari, others played cards. Cigarette smoke was all over. Among all this, some managed their siesta too! The barrack revelry continued till late in the evening.

After 4 days of rigorous intelligence tests, high emotional stability exercises and tough physical endurance drills, the D-day arrived. All 46 candidates in my group were made to sit in a hall and a general motivational speech was rendered by a senior Rank Officer. I don’t think anyone even listened to what he said. All eyes and brains were on the piece of paper in his hand which had the Chest Numbers of people whose names would be called out after this never ending talk. The ordeal was not over though. The names which would be called out would be undergoing 3 days of medical check up and examination by the SSB Medical Board. I had heard people discovered there was some medical problem in their bodies for the first time from the Medical Board examination. To a lay man, some of those medical issues would sound ridiculous and a non-issue. When you have to entrust a Nation’s security in the hands of a soldier, he has to be the best and the fittest, mentally and physically. The parameters of ‘a fit body and mind’ were very different in the Armed Forces. The ones who would be short-listed would be given a fresh set of Green Cross Chest to wear to identify them as Medical candidates.

The senior Ranking Officer finally finished his talk. There was pin drop silence in the hall. I could hear heart beats. I was not sure if they were mine or a chorus of all 46 hearts. The Officer said, the result is not very encouraging. “The number of people who have been short-listed is low as compared to what was expected” is what he said. All hearts skipped a beat and sank, simultaneously. The hall did not have an air-conditioner. But I suddenly felt cold for a moment.

I had called back home when I was short-listed the first day after the initial written tests and group discussions. My mother told me 7 is a lucky number for me. So, did my Chest Number being 34 help me on the first day? I don’t know. After 6 days at this SSB, among all these competitors, I surely needed the number 7 to help me. I did not believe in numerology. I still have my doubts. But on the 7th day at the SSB, the number 7 could not fail me. I also found myself praying, probably for the first time, consciously. I needed the numerological powers to help me, the Gods in Heaven to bless me and The Devil to grant me that one last wish to hear my Chest Number, even in return of my soul.

Only 5 boys were short-listed of the 46 in the group. I don’t know if 2 more names, making it 7 in total would have assured my confidence in numerology. But I thanked the Gods and The Devil. Chest Number 34 was announced.

There is a reason behind all decisions. There is a decision behind all reasoning. I had reasons. I had a decision to make. I did make one. Do I regret it now? No.

Or may be, I do. Or else, I would not be writing this column.

(Why am I not in the Armed Forces? Well, that’s a brand new story. Let me assure all readers, though, I am mentally and physically fit. No issues with my body and mind).

Life in a Metro

2007-05-28T23:49:00.000-07:00

I have been living most of my earnest life in a Metro. Infact, except Bombay (now Mumbai) I have lived in all three erstwhile Metro cities of India. I spent four years in Calcutta (now Kolkata), worked for two years in Madras (now Chennai) and have spent the last two years in Delhi. Although, two and four, in years, may be limited periods, one certainty was loud and clear. There was more to a Metro City than just promiscuous relations. In all these cities and else where I have stayed, I have come to know of teachers’ wives in physical relations with their husband’s students, friends sleeping with their best friend’s wives, girls sleeping with their ex lovers even after being married. Most of these were arranged marriages. I know of love marriages with the same interim scripts.

When you give a name to a substance, its essence should be felt. No one can deny the fact that monsoons and local trains and are the essence of Mumbai. But then making it rain after every alternate day and shifting scenes from bus stops to local trains, does it show the life of Mumbai? Having confessed of not having stayed in Mumbai ever, I may be wrong. But am sure, not all relations are strained in the city. Somehow, during the movie and after it was over this was what kept hitting me. And how come every couple is connected to the other in some or the other way? Why cannot one character be unaffected by another’s action or reaction in a hindi movie? May be in a three hour movie everything cannot be shown? Isn’t three hours enough? Haven’t we had some mind blowing movies of half that duration?

May be, if the movie was named Relations in a Metro or “Rishtae on Rastae” or something like that as most of the movie was on the roads of Mumbai, I would be a satisfied watcher. It is a well edited movie, though. Whatever shown was entertaining. But, walking out of the movie hall, the only connection which I could feel with the movie, was the music. All songs are well written, ‘rocking’ compositions and amazingly placed in situations in the movie. It’s a refreshing change to watch the real performers on screen along side the actors.

Temptations are in every walk of life. Be it the new car which your neighbor bought, new house your boss purchased or the new girl friend your already married colleague acquired. Everyone wants something new. Everyone wants change. Variety is the spice of life, goes well as a saying. But how many other famous quotes have we taken as seriously as this one? I am not blaming just men. If men get into an illegitimate relation, 95% of the times it is with a woman. Variety is what makes life spicy. Control makes life worth calling it, life.

Option to Choose

2007-05-09T01:43:00.000-07:00

In all circumstances in life, we have only two choices. We decide either of the two. And life changes. I tried looking for a situation where we may have one choice or more than two choices. Analyzing a little more, all cases trimmed to be, two boxes, saying tick one of them! Life becomes what we choose it to be.

My “two choices only” theory struck me when I was caught by a traffic policeman for over speeding. I was well over 50 kms per hour when suddenly I realized I need to slow down as too many vehicles are crowding together ahead. At the speed I was driving, by the time I actually slowed down, and came near to the spot where other vehicles were, I came to the maximum speed limit actually allowed. No doubt, I screeched to a halt and was greeted by smiling traffic personnel. Now, I had only one choice, apologize. Or did I? I actually had another. I asked him what’s happening here? Very naturally, he replied, “we are trying to nab offenders”. I smiled back and said, “oh, that’s nice”, and kept a straight face. He then, very politely asked for my driving license. I took it out in a snap and handed it to him. He took the card, and started writing something in his note pad he was carrying. With a quizzing look I asked him, “What are you doing with my license?” It was then that he told me, I was over speeding and he is making a challan! Now, I had just one choice? Or did I? I could either argue and pay up eventually or pay up quietly. I asked him how much is the penalty? He gave me an amount which luckily I was carrying. I did not utter a word. He tore the challan, and requested me to sign it. I signed, paid him the amount and then asked him, “what is the speed limit?” He said, “Sir, it is 40 kms per hour”. I could just reply that I thought it was 50 kms per hour. He responded that I was much over my ‘thought’ speed limit too. He kept smiling during the whole conversation and in fact, all this while, he addressed me as Sir, in each and every sentence. I drove off the barricade slowly, murmuring I don’t remember what.

I was driving to Office early morning. My drive is a one hour drive if there is normal traffic on road, which on most days isn’t. I actually take atleast 75 minutes to 90 minutes on most days. I leave home well on time so that I don’t need to drive rash and high. This day too was no exception. However, early morning, driving to office, being stopped and asked to pay up, I should have been mighty irritated and cursing everyone around; the traffic rules, the traffic policeman, the people who made these traffic rules, the government (the only entity which is accused, abused and maligned for everything happening with our lives). And I had almost started doing just that. At that moment, my theory was born. I started thinking; I was at fault and was penalized for it. I always knew there is a speed limit (the actual figure was a mirage). And at that speed I knew I was over speeding. Once caught, I could have in no way avoided this situation. I had to pay the penalty. But I had two choices. Either I ruined my day by starting it in a pissed mood. Or, I realize my fault; accept it and forget it. The thought soothed me a little. I was feeling better.

I started generalizing my theory now. In academics, in marriage, in career, in writing, it applied everywhere! I did argue a bit with myself that I can choose to write in English or Hindi or any other language that am proficient at. But then, it struck me, the decision is to write or not. Once I decide to write, languages become options and not choices. The same was for marriage too. I decide to get married. God forbid, if something goes wrong in the relationship, it is not because of the other partner, it is because I decided to get married. The other person is one of the many options I had to get married to. My decision is the reason for all good (or bad) happenings in my life and never someone else. May be, that is the difference between options and choices.

We create options, but we make choices.

Chennai Connection

2007-02-13T04:31:00.000-08:00

It’s called “walking down memory lane”. For me it was almost literally true. Chennai does not have too many wide roads, now that I compare them to Delhi roads. Hence, would call most of them as lanes. (No offence to any Chennaite. I love Chennai myself and would love to settle there if situation demands).

Getting back to Chennai after a gap of almost two years had an amazing feel to it. Although, I landed almost at mid night, courtesy on of the low-cost, no-freebie airlines, the city hugged me instantly. The biggest surprise was, the moment I got into the cab, I was talking to the cab driver in the same broken but understandable Tamil I used when I left Chennai, early April 2005. What an irony, I married a Tamilian but still I had not spoken Tamil since I left Chennai. But once inside the cab, it was as if I was out for a day or two on an official trip and getting back to the Bachelor’s Den (where I stayed with friends in Chennai before I moved to Delhi and finally got married). The other astonishing fact was I remembered each and every turn to take to get to my destination even in the dark night. I was pleasantly surprised but the driver was upset. He must have thought he will take a littler longer and confusing route and then ask for extra money for roaming unnecessarily for such a stupid address in the night! My instincts didn’t let that happen. He was visually miffed while in I was getting down. I was so happy by now that I tipped him some extra bucks on my own even though it was a pre-paid cab. He gave that special smile which the cab driver gave who I tipped when I was leaving Chennai the last time. I knew there was some connection.

Our real intention of visiting Chennai was attending two morning weddings of my B-school batch mates and their evening receptions falling on the same day. Also, since for a couple of months, my wife and I have to stay in two different cities, meeting each other was at a premium. This was an occasion which was satisfying all needs. The weddings and reception events were attended and enjoyed by one and all. Meeting old friends gave instant gratification and brought back campus time delights as discussion topics. A funny photo session followed. Since, there was a gap of about 6 hours between the weddings and the evening reception; someone suggested all of us go for a movie. Lots of movie names came up which ranged from English to Hindi. I suggested we go for a Tamil movie which was lapped up by all. Tamilians would love that and non-Tamilians (read as North Indians) would no get another opportunity to watch one any sooner. And what a movie it was 3-hours of 100%, non-stop and fantastic fun for non-Tamilians. I was told during the interval and finally when we were walking out of the hall that the movie is trash! Who cared, as long as we all enjoyed together. We clapped, whistled, danced and shouted till our voices were hoarse right through the movie. I was one of the people who was over excited. I knew there was some connection.

We attended the reception in the evening. Now, down south, receptions start at about 1830-1900 hours and dinner is over by 2130. Which meant we finished dinner and were left with nothing much to do by 2200 hours. We had the whole night to us even after attending two weddings, two receptions, a thrilling movie show and atleast 3 hours of driving through the Chennai traffic on full working day! Isn’t that an amazing feat? So, we decided to celebrate the same the best way possible, boozing till dawn! This connection was well known to all.

The next day, once we were back to our senses, all the people in the house decided to take a trip to Mahabalipuram, a small beach town about 55 kms from Chennai. Actually, the discussion started with visiting Pondicherry but then it made no sense for all the sensible people discussing this to go and again loose our senses so far away if we had an equally better option closer to Chennai. We started after lunch and were there in about an hour and half. Since, we did not get an accommodation booking before we left for Mahabalipuram; we looked around for a decent hotel and in between visited a top-of-cliff cave and a temple too. Finally, we went to the beach and spent a good hour sitting and taking in the fresh and salty sea air before checking into a hotel for the night. We were physically tired, but mentally ready to start a rave party. So, after a while of talking some non-sense, we decided to become non-sense! We commenced another sitting with the “gin(ie) in the bottle”.

Just as most people visiting a beach town would discuss, we started our evening deciding to see the sun rise on the beach the next morning. We fixed on a time to wake up, put alarms and as a ritual kept the “final decision” aside. Our topics for the evening ranged from being friends discussing our married and single lives, to B-school batch mates comparing our salaries and perks, to brand ambassadors of our respective organizations glorifying the current initiatives. In all these conversations, one thing was common. All seemed to speak sense most of the time. I realized, we had surely matured with age. Needless to say, the sun rose at the right time. We switched off our alarms at the right time too. But we did not, or to correct myself, we could not wake up to watch the sun rise from behind the waves. The sun would rise everyday. We would not get a chance to catch up on each others’ lives soon enough. We had slept barely a couple of hours before sun rise. Hence, all gave sunrise a miss without much guilt. We visited the beach after breakfast though. We spent a good amount of time. We did want to loiter on the beach a little more before rain killed plans. We ran back to the hotel, got ourselves a fresh start to the day and checked out. On our way from Chennai to Mahabalipuram we had crossed a lake where wanted to do boating. On our way back to Chennai we satisfied ourselves. It was fun.

Once we were back to the city, watching the people with serious faces and worrying looks running around on the streets brought the feeling of getting back to work the next day. Till that moment, we had forgotten Office, colleagues, work. There was no mention of tension. This connection too was well known to all.

During all these chaotic ceremonies, events and travelling, I stole some special moments with my lovely wife. We had an amazing time “together alone” and together in a group. Infact, some of the best times we had before and after our marriage.

But one thing was certain. There was something mysteriously familiar yet unknown which kept me thinking if and whenever I was alone. There was definitely a connection between the city and me. Only when I was back that the facts unfolded. Chennai was where I started my first job, initiated my second love story, received my third promotion in one year and learnt my fourth and most important language, Tamil. It was following a sequence. This city was an indispensable part of my life.

The Chennai connection now had a clear network. All signal bars were up and personal.

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Fly High

2007-02-02T03:12:00.000-08:00

Am not a frequent flier with any particular airlines. Infact am not a frequent flier at all. Once in two months, sometimes three, is my frequency. But whenever I do, its fun. With these no-freebie-low cost airlines coming in, prices have dropped and people don’t think twice before booking a ticket. But then there are some who tend to have an air around them and even on flight, when all are in air, they want to maintain that air! Hence, they fly only certain airlines and proudly flaunt their frequent-flying, privilege passenger cards on airports, many even before entering the airport and some long after they have checked out of the airport.

My last visit to the airport was pretty interesting. I had a flight of events flying all around. I took a cab whose driver was a regular driver, dropping people to the airport. The moment he took the second gear, his monologue on people going to the airport began. His recitation ranged from the way people talk on mobile while on his cab, as if they are going to catch the flight to Greece and not Gandhinagar, the way they keep checking their baggage zips as if they are walking through a crowd and not sitting alone inside a cab to the way his passengers keep looking at the watch knowing well that the distance will not shorten any which way they look at it. His final statement was a winner. He said, “I too have a passport, so what’s the big deal in flying”? I almost laughed on his face, through the rear mirror ofcourse, but controlled.

At the entrance, courtesy the online booking and ‘print your ticket’ option, a passenger was quarrelling with the security guard who was not letting him enter as the guard could not read the print out! I was allowed in, even though I too was on a ‘print this page’ ticket, but my page was more legible than the other guy. I could not find that poor soul inside the airport even after sitting for 20 minutes, so I really don’t know if his print out kept him out!

The best part is always the flight. Since, its winter time, fog is an inevitability in my part of the country. I was surprised that none of the passengers actually raised his/her voice over the 20 minutes delay in the take off. I guessed, most of them were pretty tired. Oh, I am sorry, I did not tell you I was taking the last flight of the day. So, most of the people on board were half asleep. I assume most of the air-hosts and hostesses too. There were no freebies to be distributed, but then there was no hospitality shown towards passengers finding it difficult to find their seats. They stood with a stale smile, so (un)welcoming at almost mid night. Now, here comes the clincher again. The moment the prettiest among the ugliest group of air hostesses I ever flew with, finished the ritual safety instructions, I heard clapping from the rear side of the plane. Most of us turned back to see who it is. A gentleman with loosened tie and a light blazer on was standing in the aisle and clapping. He paused momentarily, and finally said with a wavering voice, “very good performance, very good. Amazing”. (Pretty much Boman Irani style in Khosla ka Ghosla). I think there was no one on the plane who did not roll in laughter. Except the gentleman, ofcourse. He stood for a minute or so, confused why people are laughing?

Only later we came to know, we were only flying high. The gentleman was ‘high’ on the flight.
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(In)Competence

2007-02-02T03:11:00.000-08:00

Excess of anything is bad. Be it food, travel, work out or appreciation. I almost gave up my job because I was doing, well, excessive of nothing and receiving excess of appreciation. Looks contrasting? Read on…

There was a time when I was out of work. I mean, not exactly. I had a job but no work. Sounds like heaven, right? I mean what’s better than a paid holiday! So, I shall not self loathe and shall put it as, I was low on the responsibility sheet in Office. There were a fixed number of tasks I had to perform to earn my daily wage. I needed ways to keep myself occupied in Office. (Generally, in Offices, one needs to look busy more often than actually being busy). For people walking across my workstation I would have to look busy and for myself I needed to actually keep myself occupied.

Being Internet-savvy and the prolific number of networking sites online, it should not have been a problem. But then, too colorful a webpage on my computer would attract visitors to my corner. Also, ours being a technologically advanced company, most of the sites which would have been (un)productive to me were blocked. (Hence, no messengers too). After whiling away many days on one of the networking sites, I grew bored of it. I needed something more inspirational. Something, which could hold my attention span, which was reducing, just as days were getting shorter as winters approached.

I believe, my right-brain was always more active than my left-brain. I loved music, art, creating and telling stories. I used to write sometimes too. I had good imagery. So, I decided to start jotting down what came to my mind in a more articulate manner. With the first few of my writings, I was actually impressed by myself. I received positive responses from my initial readers too. People said I have ‘the talent’. Starting with simple happenings from my past, with a twist of humor, I graduated to writing fiction. And I was certainly getting better. But my strength was short writings. However, with a little more patronage, applause and (un)wanted suggestions, there came a time when I actually started imagining writing a book. I mean, if a fresh pass out from IIT can get his novel published and become a best seller, why can’t I? But how much ever I tried I could not go beyond a page on any topic. It was not as if I had no imagery left. But I was restricted by words. And I still had a short attention span, I guess.

The longest documents I had ever written in my life (except exam papers, which needed to be filled) were the one and a half pages weekly letters to my parents when in hostel. I did not detest writing letters. I hated writing. I had a miserable handwriting, goes without saying. In my last year in school, the first computer was installed. Arrow(s) and the space bar were the only keys we could operate. We only knew to play games on a computer. To keep the burner alive in the kitchen you got to use your fingers in more ways than one. I can now boast of being able to use almost the whole suite of MS Office, the maximum being the MS Word. After a lot of trials and mental tribulations, I was convinced of my strengths. (or was it my weaknesses?)

Everyone reaches his or her level of incompetence, one day. Make the journey as slow as possible. May be some day I do write a novel. I shall take it slow for now.

Make life a marathon, not a race. You never win, anyways.
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Early Birds

2007-02-02T03:09:00.000-08:00

The moment I told my friends my wife will be out of town by virtue of her profession, there were some real mixed reactions. Some commented, “Lucky guy!! Now you can do whatever you want.” Some said, “Amazing. It is so relieving, getting some space.” There were some counter to these, mostly from relatives, like “So, who will cook for you now?” “How will you manage your laundry?” Frankly, I was confused. I did not know how to react? I mean, ofcourse, I was depressed that even before a year of our wedding, there came a small, but substantial time period when we would not be together. Knowing my wife for 5 years before finally getting married, she was a habit to me by now. Bu there was a secretive joy too. I don’t know why.

Also, she was the one who was the early riser in the house. The maid comes at 0630 hours sharp and I would probably go and open the door only to slump back under the quilt, once a month. I would pull my quilt, push my wife and kick the mattress to do that. Now, she not being there, I would have to pull all my strength, push away the quilt and kick myself to get out of bed and open the door for the princess!

The first day was not so bad. Or that’s what I thought. We had to get up by 0430 hours for my wife to get ready and for me to drop her to the airport. I came back, made some tea for myself and waited, as it was almost time for the maid to arrive. After a long time I was up by this time. I was missing my wife too. What would I do without her for the number of days she isn’t around? I started recounting activities and routine jobs around the house, which we did together that appeared special now. The ‘Miss You’ list of things started getting bigger and longer. There is a Motel across the street. As I walked out to the balcony I saw the room service boys running around, the cleaners almost done with the outside cleaning of the premises, the cabbies cleaning their cabs. And it was still dark. I was wondering, my day had not begun yet, theirs was half way through. I was drowsy; they were as active as athletes. Thinking of athletes, my mind started asking; who will win the race to my home, the maid or the newspaper boy? Well, ofcourse, it was the maid. She rang the bell thinking we are fast asleep and kept ringing so that we wake up. The bell noise was deafening. On most mornings, I don’t even hear this noise! I ran to open the door. While entering, the look on her face confirmed the fact that she was not only surprised to see me awake but with a cup of tea in my hand. I told her that my wife would not be there for some days. Before I could even think, she herself suggested that she will come a little late from tomorrow. I was impressed by her intelligence for a moment. Then it daunted on me, she was actually ridiculing me. She was hinting that I could not get up early and open the door for her! The boys out there in the Motel had not finished pulling my esteem that this lady had lofted my character out of the balcony. I did not know how to react? I could not reply in positive, as I did not agree to her. I could not respond in negative, as what she said was after watching me for so many months. She was right in all ways possible. I did miss my wife. But this item was not on the ‘Miss You’ list!

Our forefathers were real experienced and evolved beings. One of them said, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes one healthy, wealthy and wise”. I became wise that morning, for sure. The other two, we shall tackle in another story.

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Pillars of Life

2007-01-16T00:10:00.000-08:00

With New Year, comes the New Year resolution time. Everyone from the Page 3 party mongers to the clerk in the government office makes one. Some say they will start doing something. Some promise to stop doing something. Intentions are sincere and profound. Chubby people want to reduce. Skinny people want to gain weight. Lonely people wish to make (more) friends. The (more) social ones aspire to be more diplomatic. The shy ones boast of becoming extroverts. The out spoken make a silent wish not to embarrass themselves more than the other as often as last year.

All start sincerely too. But somewhere down couple of months (sometimes even weeks) the magic perishes. Life is back to normal. Habits die hard. Good or bad, is a very subjective issue. All is well if done in quantum.

Many men swear to quit smoking. I salute Saif Ali Khan that he did. Few men want to give up drinking. I salute the ones who actually do. Couple of my ‘rowdy’ friends (as described by my parents and wife) announced to the world at large that they would give up smoking or drinking this coming New Year. One of the audacious friends’ threatened to give up both! I was mighty impressed by their declarations. Only those proclamations were short lived. Time period of my awe to their resolution was shorter. The very next day, my friend who had declared he would not smoke from 1st January ’07 got news that his cousin was coming from the US of A. He quietly ordered him to get a carton each of Hawaiian cigars and Marlboro sticks! Once the word was out, he said they are to gift people on New Years’. That was a good one. The pal, who swore not to booze anymore in 2007, drank so much in his office New Year party that he could not find his residence that night. He slept in his car all night. His statement the next day was, “since I shall not drink any more; I wanted to finish my quota”. This was a better excuse. But what really brought the true resolution to a halt was the one who had the courage to state that he shall never kiss a cigarette bud and gulp alcohol. This pal stopped smoking totally. He did not even drink in the New Year party. He started chewing pan masala saying he needs a ‘soft’ alternative to give up smoking and also to distract him from picking up a cigarette. Within a fortnight of New Years’, he is consuming 10 sachets of masala everyday! Needless to say, not boozing doesn’t matter. Guess, he has a new resolution already in mind.

I smoke. I drink too. It never crossed my mind to quit either. My father caught me red handed smoking when in College. He reprimanded badly and broadcasted that if am caught the next time, he shall disown me. I never got caught. The same day he took a step further and declared the day I wanted to start drinking, it should be with him and bought by my earnings. Ofcourse, he had doubts that I have already tasted blood. But this was a good way to give me a matured thinking. We sat the evening I received my first pay cheque. I did not want to get disowned. I was not sure about my job. But I was sure about my father’s words. In no way I was better than anyone of the above. Although, I never made larger than life statements and then had my foot in my mouth. But I did have a streak of hits and misses. Hence, I decided to build my life on a structured framework.

The four pillars of my life are my wife, Gold Flake, United Breweries and the strongest, my father’s words.

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India Pois(on)ed

2007-01-09T04:23:00.000-08:00

We all woke up to a brand New Year. We had wished all our near, dear and fear (bosses, in-laws, wives etc) ones a very blossoming and prosperous New Year the evening/night before. As far as I can remember, this New Years was my best one. My wife and I drove off to Nainital. She had a long awaited, much deserving and very badly needed break from office, domestic chores and TV aka the lazy ‘yours truly’. A TV freak as I am, I was glued to the TV on New Year’s night. Many like me, after watching Mallika Sherawat do, what she does best, live on news channels, am sure, started hoping the current year is ending on a super ‘step’ and the New Year will usher in ‘dancing’ like her. I was simply amazed looking at the guys standing right below the stage who were pinned to their places, posturing like Netaji - right hand index finger pointing to the future. Only it was their mobile cameras recording every step Mallika made, capturing the passing year in the form of oomph.

The first day of the New Year, an amazing morning with a brand new feeling suddenly halted on a blank. CAS was operational. All my favorite channels (except ofcourse FTV, which is FTA) passed away with the passing year. I only had the news channels and the Aasthas and Sanskars of the world for my satsang! The first couple of days did not hurt, though. Infact, they were a boon in disguise. Big Boss was not bothering me. I was among the lucky people who were spared watching India loose amazingly to South Africa. As I mentioned, I had FTV to my rescue. I still had a travel channel, which took me to atleast 10 places in 24 hours, sitting in my room. There was a music channel, which actually aired the latest bollywood songs much before the established music channels. To keep me amused, there were these special programs on news channels, which tried to create ‘sansani’ and ‘tehelka’. They were equally adept at making me laugh, as The Laughter Challenge although still funny is getting predictable. I was still having fun.

As the number of channels had reduced to almost a single digit, my wife was ecstatic that I was actually entering the kitchen to give her a helping hand in cooking, without her shouting at me and snatching the remote to switch off the TV. In these two days without a set top box, I had actually learnt to cook dal, a simple capsicum vegetable and even make chapattis!! (OK, chapattis was only visual learning). But CAS had actually prepared me decently enough to eat well and sleep well when my dear wife was not around in town. For this, I should certainly thank the Information and Broadcasting Ministry.

But 48 hours later, it became really painful. It actually got torturous. Any button I press, any channel I view, I could only see the face of Mr. Surinder Koli and his Mr. Moninder Singh Pandher. It turned ugly, then cruel and finally down right disgusting. They were murderers, then became serial killers and finally turned man-eaters! If not the monsters, there were scenes of killings in Assam, lathi-charge in West Bengal.

I was left wondering, what’s new this New Year? There was no respite from the demons of society, the evil actions of humans around and atrocities coming to us much faster than ever before, thanks to the ‘sabse tez’ news channels, showing everything almost live.

They say, India Poised, Your Time is Now. To me it looks like, India Pois(on)ed, Your time is Over.

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Let Go

2007-01-05T02:18:00.000-08:00

A strange thing happened with me. I realized at that instant, there was no correlation. But it did strike me. While watching news channels and then reading the newspapers with Shane Warne’s statements on his retiring from Cricket, I was reminded of my dormitory “Warden” in school. Old guy was past his prime. He knew that. But he would just not accept. In an attempt to hold his losing grip on boys, he made more efforts than usual. Hockey, our passion during school, he was always on the wrong side of the boys. It was just a matter of time when boys would swing their stick. One fine day, rather late evening, they swung.

Boys had been tolerating him and his tantrums for a long time. But then, he had spent his entire life as a Warden. He was aged and did have his share of charm. He was part of our growing years. However, boys were waiting for the last nail to the coffin. “Warden” as we used to call him, struck it himself. He hit a senior class boy infront of some juniors. In school, we used to fear only two things. Seniors, and their eyes. If a senior passed by without looking at you, you were blessed. We would be praying down our breaths till the time he actually crosses us and went atleast 10 steps before we uttered the first word. Ofcourse, that was an ‘adjective’ suiting him. Still, it was terror. Just imagine, in that environment, if a senior is slapped infront of a junior. Terror unleashed. Unfortunate juniors in the vicinity where first taken under the ‘black and blue’ clouds. I am sure most of us remember the rains from those clouds. I do. That whole day was like walking in a dark street with hammers and swords at each step. For no fault of yours, you were slapped, punched and kicked. The tension was mounting. There had to be a vent. The vent opened only on “Warden’s” chest.

Elaborate planning went in making sure how “Warden” will start walking down the stairs where Vaseline would be applied in full measure. He should not have one inch to step and not slip. While he is falling from the steps, some boys will run wrap the falling body into blankets and cover him totally. He should not identify anyone. He would be picked up, will be thrashed non-stop on his way to the bathroom. Once inside he will be thrashed even more and finally will be left under the cold-water tap. Did I mention it was the month of February? I apologize; I think I also missed mentioning my school is in Mussoorie.

The plan was executed flawlessly. No action could be taken against any boy. It was ensured that no sharp tool was used. Only full bodied blows making sure there are no marks on his body. He could not identify and name even one boy. The senior he had slapped in defense of his falling glory, had been ‘hospitalized’ a day earlier for severe stomach ache. You could not raise a finger.

He did continue as our Warden for sometime after that incident. Not for long though. During his last few days, he had calmed down. But he was hurt, more psychological than physical. You could feel his pain in his eyes. His voice had broken and his fingers trembled when giving directions.

You need to let go at the appropriate time. You need to realize, what is yours today, was someone else’s yesterday and will be someone else’s tomorrow. Nothing in this world is for keeps. This appropriate time does not depend on age. Ian Thorpe and Shane Warne only confirm the inevitable.

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Sitting Pretty

2007-01-05T02:14:00.003-08:00

Not that I was one is the reason that am writing this. But over the years, most of the people I have met have been one. It’s only now that I realize that if most of the people I have met were really back benchers, who was sitting on the front benches(seats)? There can be only two situations. Either there is something about the backbenchers that at the sub conscious level they connect sooner and better than others and hence form a norm group long after they have left the aisles of schools and colleges. Or there is something about them that makes everyone aspire to be one and hence whenever there is talk of old times, all declare themselves to be from the alleys of the dark.

With backbenchers, the psychology is the same. The interests are the same, mischief. The discussions are the same, the next misadventure. The aspirations are the same, to beat the other in the next mischief mongering, sneaking into class coming late, eve-teasing comment etc. Is the same psychology working with the front bench occupiers? I guess so. The reasons are also pretty much the same. The interests are the same, books. The discussions are the same, the upcoming exam. The aspirations are the same, to beat the other in the next test, exam, appraisal etc. So, I guess, they do form a norm group of their own. There exists a force keeping the two groups away. And it’s much more than just different interests, discussions or aspirations. But then, how is it that most of the people you meet are from the ‘notorious’ norm group? Why do they want to be identified as the ‘infamous’ ones rather than the ‘good’ ones? There has to be some real solid reason.

I believe, the ones who are remembered over time are the ones who make a mark. Not just on the desks where they sat and compassed their names, but on people. They create a name on people who stay back in school/college long after they are gone. It is the bearer outside the principal’s office, the gardener, the bellboy, the matrons and wardens and ofcourse the teachers. Except the teachers, the other people would have never even heard the name of the person who stood first every year. Even if they did know the name, they never could put a face to the name. But the backbencher always had a name and a face to it. He was omnipresent; in the garden, outside the principal’s office, at the playground, on the roof, everywhere. These people keep the names alive by carrying stories over batches and years, of their mischief resulting into a ‘whacking’ session for the whole batch, their acts of annoying the Maths teacher so much that s/he almost fell from the first floor running out of the classroom, their (mis)adventures into the girl’s hostel, getting caught half hanging on the toilet pipe etc. The batches coming later got to hear of all the backbenchers did. They did not have a face to the name. But they knew the name and searched it on one of the desks, walls or books. The frontbenchers never had a face to their names and never managed a name for themselves either. This is why people always take a ‘frontspeak’ to call themselves ‘backbenchers’. This is what most people crave for.

There can be only a set number of front seats and back seats. It is impossible not to come across even one person who was not on the front seat. In reality, I have come across some of them. There certainly is something about them, which is repelling. I can’t pin point what. But I believe, the front parkers take life a little too seriously. They want to create an air of superiority around them. They desire and finally become ‘the one’. Not realizing, its not others, but they themselves who become ‘untouchables’. They never gather many friends.

Having said that, I do have very good friends who were frontbenchers, are doing amazingly well in life and still are my good friends. Not only I, they too have made all efforts to keep the relationship alive although, their social circle, lifestyle and thought process is different from me. But taking a percentage, I can safely say only 1% of the frontbenchers I knew, are in touch with anybody I am in touch with of my class in school or college.

I am sure they are sitting pretty, wherever they are. But it never was a pretty sight watching them, then. It is an ugly sight still.

**************

Lateral Thinking

2006-12-22T02:43:00.000-08:00

You have your back against the wall, very few alternatives, an invalid support system, and still you keep fighting. Finally, you come out victorious. That’s the symbol of a winner. You are one of the few who can perform under pressure.

You get a vague target to achieve, very few resources at hand, even a more ridiculous timeline to achieve the target. That’s the time you start thinking ‘out of the box’. In management parlance, it’s called ‘lateral thinking’. You become an unconscious fan of Pepsi. You are eating, sleeping, breathing, watching (thinking ofcourse) and working on how to achieve the one objective you have been handed over? Yet again, Management has put their faith on you. You are proud of yourself. You need to come up to the expectations of all, yet again. More importantly, you have to yet again prove to yourself that you are the best.

Thinking laterally, I imagine you being a chain smoker. People have accused you of being an alcoholic on most weekends. To meet this deadline, there is a new adjective, workaholic, attached to your sub titles. Most of the people in your life – in office, among relatives and all so-called friends that you have give you the most soothing ideas - to relax a bit and take it easy, sometimes. They reassure you that you are the best and you will, as always, do the best for the company and yourself. But deep in their hearts, all of them despise you. All pray you fail. They just wonder how do you manage, what you do? You don’t like some people either. You have made it obvious to some too. To some you are sarcastic, to a few you are ignorant and to some you have to put up a smile every time you cross ways. This is so, as most of them are either senior in professional hierarchy or elders in personal relationships. To ensure these people don’t affect you negatively, more often than not, you keep a fair distance. Their actions are predictable and hence negotiable. There are some people who don’t like you and they make this feeling very clear to you. These are the most harmless set of people. They know that you know that they don’t like you. Hence, the negative impact, if any, is minimum. The worst lot is the lot who doesn’t like you and have not come out in the open ever. They make sure that your back is always on the burner. Professionally, they get a sadistic pleasure in watching you come earlier than the peon who opens the lock of the office entrance and work your bum off in office much later than everyone has left. On the personal front, they are the ones giving you free advise on marital issues which was solved by your maid in her life in a week. But they ensure to stretch it to such limits that you end up becoming a chain smoker, an alcoholic and now, a workaholic. You don’t want to go home and re-start the war.

You start living under pressure always. You don’t know why but if there is no fire in the house, it’s not worth living there. In office, there is no work if there is no crisis. Your only workshop you feel which added value to you is the Disaster Management workshop. Surprisingly, you start liking the wall on your back. You don’t want a support system. You are aggressive and a creative fighter. You are eating, sleeping, breathing, watching and ofcourse thinking on how to achieve what you want to achieve? Early morning, you are in the toilet and Voila!!! An amazing idea strikes you. You know this is the clincher. Most of the best ideas come in the toilet.

Thinking laterally, most of the best ideas come when you are shitting in your pants.

*******************

On our present

2006-12-22T02:41:00.000-08:00

As humans we love making comparisons. I agree, in a way it does help. Comparison during healthy competition makes the fight worth it. But more often than not, we take it too seriously. It becomes much more than comparison. Competition does not remain healthy too.

I will ‘restrict’ myself comparing what I have grown up watching.

Till the age of 5-6 years, I don’t remember much to talk about. As 7-10 year olds, we would compare our height growing, apparently, almost every week. Between the years 11 to 15, we compared bikes and our hand writing. By the time we were 16, we had reached puberty. A lot of changes had taken place physically, mentally and psychologically. We had a lot of things to compare, ours and some ‘visual’. We compared our growing moustaches although it was like the grass on a cricket pitch. We were comparing baggy trousers to V cuts and we were comparing height, weight and lengths (read sizes) of lot “stuff”, some our own, some of the ‘restricted’ species. During the last years in school and first years of college, we had nothing but our ‘conquests’ as the only topic of our conversation, almost everyday. For people like me, a conquest ranged from a glance by a girl to a “hi, hello, how are you”? conversation. For some it ranged from a glance and ended only with heaving breathing and panting. Those who had similar encounters had hi-fives. Most of us would come out consoling each other that the guy was bluffing. Nothing serious was happening in life. There was nothing serious to compare.

Then came a time when we had to start thinking about life, seriously. We were on the verge of completing college and we still had no idea what did we want to do in life? We started comparing ourselves to people who had got through some engineering, medical or atleast some professional course. Most of my group was oblivious to what lay ahead, pretty clueless on deciding a career and utterly confused. We stood nowhere infront of our peers. This was the time we started comparing our past. Parents suddenly became the best people on earth. We commented on their selfless duty of taking care of each of our needs, substantial or whimsical, with a smile on their face. School years were the best. The place we hated the most, suddenly was haven. The place where teachers were demons and books like leaches, became the utopian sphere of life. There was no thought of future or past during school days, just plain entertainment and fresh living, every day.

Once we decided what to do in life, we started working towards our future. But then again, we compared our future with other peoples’ future. We saw where others had reached. We saw the fruits that others were reaping. We also wanted to have the same. We compared our income to theirs, their lifestyle to ours. We vehemently discussed and criticized everything happening, against us. The biggest problem laid there itself. We never compared our efforts to theirs. We never compared their determination to ours. We never saw the present coming and going right infront of our eyes and become our past.

We never compared their present to ours. We only compared the past and the future.

That’s what we do most of the time, always compare the past. What we had was the best. We then, jump to the future. What we could have is the ultimate. We never pay any attention to what we have in hand. We never appreciate or realize the importance of our present.

Films do affect us. The dialogue that affected me was - one foot in the past, one foot in future. That’s why we are pissing ‘on our present’.

*************

Maid in India

2006-12-22T02:39:00.000-08:00

One of the most important people influencing our lives is our domestic maid. If she does not come at the time she should, the whole day goes haywire. We do not wake up on time, do not get our bed tea, have to wash last night’s dirty utensils and invariably get late to office. If one has a maid who comes twice in a day and misses coming for the day, right from the morning tea to the Herculean task of washing and drying our linen and in some cases ironing them comes onto us.

How can she not come? How can she take us for granted? We got to get up early, get ready, negotiate the traffic on way the hour-long drive to office, sit infront of the computer the whole day with just one tea break, miss our lunch sometimes sitting in an useless meeting and drink liters of tea/coffee during those meetings. We have to cut across the same traffic for more than an hour on the way back. She cant’ expect us to come back after a tired day’s sitting work and then start rubbing detergent to the cup in which we drank tea! This is intolerable. This is so unprofessional!! If the day she is not in attendance happens to be a weekend, home turns into hell. Most of us get only two days in the week when we can relax a bit and do a little of our ‘own thing’. If she does not arrive on any of these two days, we turn totally helpless. We don’t know where the washing powder is kept. We have not clue where the clothes hanging clips are kept. We have to find all these and more. The washing scrubber goes missing. Sugar is over so no tea. It’s the worst day in a long time. Sounds similar?

Just imagine a maid’s life. If she has to ring your bell at 0630 hours every morning, she has to wake atleast by 0430. She has to work around her house, cleaning and clearing her garbage of yesterday. She has to cook for her family, as she would be back home only late afternoon. She has to work on her personal hygiene because we make faces when she shows even an iota of dirt on her already mud and sweat stained saree. We have a grace time of atleast 15 minutes to enter office. But if she is late by even 15 minutes we smack sarcastic comments on her for the whole week. She will finish your home and then work in atleast five more houses before thinking of her lunch. Not many of us ever offer her tea. Even when we do, we pour tea in the broken cup, which we were thinking to keep our washing detergent. Some gracious people I know actually offer their maids slice of bread and/or chapatti with her tea. Only the slice will be a toast kept for two days in the fridge. The chapatti also will invariably be atleast a day old. She is delighted if she is offered a snack. She is not bothered if the snack is stale or she will have to work with an empty stomach, anyways. We all envy friends who have a 5-day working week. Those of us, who have a 5-day working week, cherish our weekends and exploit in all ways possible. The maid is expected to come 7 days a week, 365 days a year. One day of unanticipated absence and she is touted as a ‘lazy, work evasion’ personality.

I don’t refute there are some maids who are foul mouthed and explicitly rowdy. But, you have an option to change the maid. The maid, soft spoken or a defiant one does not. She has to still wake up earlier than you, clean your muck, remain famished for half a day and still cannot fall sick, attend family rituals or expect a grace time to come in the morning.

All this because of her tag, “Maid in India”

************

Profitable Loss

2006-12-15T03:39:00.000-08:00

Most of India follows cricket fervently. There are a few, ofcourse, who are fanatics. But most countrymen (and women) truly love cricket. And that is why whenever Team India does not perform well; there is a general gloom across. You walk the streets and there will be a group of retired people comparing Sehwag with Polly Umrigar and hailing the latter’s patience to the former. There will be a batch of auto rickshaw drivers, commenting on Dhoni’s locks (of hair) and lost key to his form. A group of nothings’ will actually show how Sachin should have got out on his front foot and tackled the ball on the rise. Everyone has a point of view. Everyone is an expert. I don’t blame erstwhile cricketers who would have actually played barely 10 tests and a mere 25 international one-day matches, commenting on TV. If a nobody on the streets of India can criticize Sachin, atleast he reached the National Team and played alongside Sachin. (I still despise the ladies on cricket shows, though). I was supposed to write on something else. But I have filled most of the space on cricket. That’s the power of cricket in India.

I was watching TV last night and then saw the newspapers today morning. I saw the pomp and show and the heavy celebrations on India getting their 10th Gold Medal at the 15th Asian Games at Doha, Qatar. What amazed me was not that we stand 5th in overall Medal totals, or that we got fewer Gold Medals than countries smaller than our National Capital Region. I have forgiven our athletes. They just don’t have what it takes to make it big in athletics. We should be awarded the “Fair Play Award” every time. We play to participate. Winning is never our Agenda. But what took me by utter shock were the comments of athletes about the National Athletic Association and their respective Sport Associations? Be it Shooting, Weight Lifting or the simmering differences between the Doubles Tennis players of the country, who at one point were ranked No. 1 in the world? It was sheer disgust that set on me. A country of 100 crores population, fourth largest economy in the world, $ 3.11 trillion GDP (I still don’t know how many zeroes are there in a trillion) and a blind faith on anything that represents the tricolor, how can we fair so badly?

I believe, there is a flaw in our intent. As a nation, we don’t want to be the best. We are happy, content and with a highly selfish mentality kind of people. Why only sports? Why do most IIT and IIM graduates leave for US? Why do biologists and scientists go for “further studies” to Europe? Someone told me there are three kinds of people. One, who will ensure no loss to self, the other may or may not suffer. Second, who will ensure no loss for self, if not a profit, and ensure loss for the other. The third and the best/worst lot is the one who will ensure a bigger loss to the other even in exchange of a lesser loss to self. I could not fathom the difference of three then. Now I do. Our so-called nation loving, innovative thinking and highly focused bureaucratic big wigs are of the third kind. What they don’t realize is that what they consider as “less” personal loss is “national loss”. For them it is a “profitable loss”. They profit, others loose. But at what cost? We don’t loose money, time or efforts alone. We loose faith, patience and mental peace. We loose our dignity.

I don’t think its only we Indians who compare these Medal Tallies and curse people responsible, directly or indirectly. Other countries compare these Tallies and gain confidence event after event, year after year, time and again.

Out intent strengthens theirs.

Lucky Side Up

2006-12-14T20:28:00.000-08:00

Lucky side up

For eons people have discussed, debated and questioned the correlation between luck and effort. Most believe, no matter how much you work, (I will not use the term ‘hard work’ as I believe the ones who work the hardest on earth are donkeys) the ‘final touch’ is always given by the slice of luck one has in life.

Not only in corporate parlance, any space in life, it is a conical diagram. The best of the lot form the peak, the law of averages rules the mediocre and there are vast majority of dwellers at the bottom. Pick any example. Take a country’s government; led by few, followed by many and voted my millions. Take an economy; there are very few billion-dollar valuation companies, many million-turnover companies and a swarm of aspiring outfits. In a company, a hand few of individuals run the company, many of them manage the company and loads of them work for the company. Talk to the top management and they have their version of how they made it to the top. They have sound knowledge of their domain, expert and practical exposure, innovative thinking and aggression. They also add a flavor of ‘luck’ by saying, “and ofcourse, I was at the right time at the right place”. The second rung people are more upbeat on luck. They all agree to have made their way up through maximum input-maximum output mentality, optimism, a very good Boss and a lot of luck on their side. The base of the cone with the maximum population cries hoarse on being the most talented, most used (read misused), exploited and the unluckiest of all the three slabs.

Certainly, am not at the peak. I don’t feel am the unluckiest, either. So, I guess, I would fit in the middle bracket. I did not want to pursue Maths after the compulsory classes. I got enough marks to call it good, not good enough for my school to offer me the subject (I was lucky). I took up biosciences. By the time I completed a year, I was confident I would never become a Doctor. I graduated with Commerce in college. In a herd mentality, I enrolled in Chartered Accountants’ course. Ofcourse, I knew the percentage of people who pass the CA Exam every year. What the heck? There is no harm in trying. There are no marks for trying, either! I failed miserably. During my preparation for Management Schools I was gaining confidence. Maths was not that bad. Especially, at this level too if people want fundamentals to be clear, I did feel at some point I should have worked on the subject a little more in my elementary days. Anyhow, the high point of my life came when I cleared the written test for the most reputed and esteem B-School in India. But only the peak of the cone gets in there. I wasn’t there yet. I did not go further than GD and interviews. But I made it to a decent B-School in the next rung of institutes. (I was lucky again). With my aptitude and psyche, I would have never come out of the so-called ‘esteemed’ B-School. I would have never made it through the first year, leave alone walking out with a 7-figure salary job. My institute was the perfect fit (matching-matching!!). I participated in all sports and cultural activities, had outings every week, got assignments that were done in a ‘group’, learnt more from conversation than big, fat books. But the two most important things which I got from my institute were my future wife and sleep for atleast 7 hours a day. I eventually bagged a decent job from the institute, though. I am working in an MNC now. I am happily married to a Tamilian who does not understand a word of my mother tongue, Bengali. (I am lucky here too!! I can crib about her infront of her without her getting inkling of my conversation with like-minded people). But now I realize, its neither effort or luck that makes you a happy person.

You are lucky if you see the luck side up!

Cheers!!

Nothing else matters

2006-12-05T05:44:00.000-08:00

“Love your work and you will never work a day in your life”. Sounds amazing. Now, taste this – “get what you love or love what you get”. Sounds logical. My question is, is love for sale? The day you start getting paid for something you love, love is sold that very moment. The moment there is a possibility of a transaction in a subject matter, love doesn’t exist. It’s called business.

Having a conversation with one of my friends, he gave a very stunning example. That of a Gigolo (I hope I got the spelling right!!). It’s a known fact that men want to have ‘good time’, always and anytime. Believe it or not, 91% men have a deep desire to work as a Gigolo. The other 9% are gays. And this 9% serve about 36% of the 91%, of men, for whom the grass is ‘pink’ on both sides. Men, just imagine yourself as a Gigolo. It will be the best time of your life, initially, I am sure. You will have a ‘good time’ and get paid for it too!! But after a point in time, will you love ‘doing’ what you do? From ‘ being in demand’ you will be ‘demanded’ to do, because you are paid. Will you love it, still?

I am not sure how many would say, I love my job. Most of us do our jobs and do it really well but only because it pays. (How well do we perform and how well does it pay is really subjective). Ofcourse, there are a lucky few who love doing what they do, or do what they love. Concern is, expectations. Not only does expectations of the one paying you matters more, your own expectations from yourself change. Ask the software engineer who codes for 15 hours in a day, drives for an hour and plays the drums/guitars for 3 hours with his Garage Rock Band. Ask the lady who manages four stores across the city, runs home to watch her child drink the evening milk and then rush to her dance class.

Where there is love, it shows. The biggest differentiator being, you don’t expect anything in return. Be it your mother or father, your ‘beloved’, your son, your company or even your job. You romance with ‘experience’. The soul takes charge of the moment. You are guided by emotions running in your veins. The moment you start thinking about your parents as people who gave birth to you, hence, people who are responsible for you all life, love is dead. The moment parents expect children to take care of them in return of them being responsible for children growing up to be successful people, love never was. If love ever existed, parents and children will not need to think so. The feeling for each other will make them do what is the ‘need’ and not the ‘want’.

I love writing, but suddenly if tomorrow, my Boss calls me and says, “your job is to write”, will I love it anymore? I don’t know. My worry is not with writing. It’s the choices that we have. Rather, the choices that we make. What is the extreme of being in a National Team and wanting to sit on the sidelines? I love the Sony Erickson advertisement, wherein, a professional football player listening to music on his phone says, “I love being a substitute”!! Now, that’s what I call love.

You cannot force anyone to love. But you are free to love. As Mettalica sang, “nothing else matters”.

Kanishka

5th Dec 2006

Exceptions prove the rule?

2006-12-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

Most of the people I know, hence, I assume, most of the people I don’t know, don’t like getting out of their beds on winter mornings (I don’t have statistical figures, but I believe it is a fair assumption). I feel more awake and energetic getting out of bed on a chilly winter morning. During summers, the AC/cooler blow just doesn't throw enough enthusiasm or the ‘intent’ at me. The moment I remove the blanket or/and quilt (depending on the temperature), the cold air around the bed freezes the moment. It does not let the sloppy (or is it sleepy??) mind wander back to the unfinished dream. The two parts of the body to wake up first are, the nose and toe. The palm cools next and by the time I can grab the pull over and pull it over, I am almost ready for Office, raring to go and start blogging! (Anyone from my office reading??)

A little embarrassing, but I don’t like mangoes. Now, who on earth doesn’t like mangoes? Well, yours truly. Likewise, most people I know love warm ‘kheer’. I detest any warm sweet dish. Not even ‘gaajar ka halwa’. I love the ‘kheer’, which is kept in the refrigerator over night. The ‘gaajar ka halwa’ can be cooled down and served to me.

Another very funny and ofcourse ‘exceptional’ instinct about me is about shoes. Historically, it is a well-known fact that your shoes say a lot about you, the real you. From ages, people have perceived one’s wealth, character and personality from their shoes. Hence, people spend hundreds, some thousands and the lucky few people from and named ‘Paris’ may actually spend millions on shoes! Now, you walk on rut, kick mud and step on God knows what all. For God’s sake, shoes are something you wear on your feet. Why treat it like you want to keep it on your head as a crown? I, somehow, could never treat shoes other than something on my feet and hence to kick and be kicked around. I have never crossed three digit figures when buying shoes. And that’s because nowadays, you can’t even have slippers in two digits. I have a I do cherish my first white cadet shoes (we used to call them ‘keds’), though. That infact was priced in two digits. Things really have got pricey!

Am I one of the few forming the "exceptions" bracket? (atleast, in the above mentioned aspects). I believe so. So, just as the Americans say most of their sentences with two negatives, “baby, is there nothin’ in life with no exceptions”? I certainly believe, exceptions prove the rule. This is so, because the very fact that exceptions exist proves there exists a rule.

To prove a theorem, one needs to make a set of assumptions. That’s the rule, right? Any exceptions to this one? Did I prove myself wrong?

Am still thinking….

Realization

2006-11-26T22:41:00.000-08:00

I loved her. I still do. In all certainty she was my first love. It isn’t that she lost her beauty or that her involvement with me deteoriated. She still looked charming. She could still surprise many with her maneuvers. But then I moved on.

I still remember the day she stepped into our home for the first time. Although, her name sounded masculine at first instance, she sure was a stunner. She was our ‘Chetak’ (from the stable of humara Bajaj). When I started writing, I was confused, whether to call our scooter a he or a she? Many things pointed at her being a handsome dude. The first, ofcourse, her stallion name. Then there was the kind of amazing number of riders who could ride, pillion and stand on it for the ‘ride’. I have never seen a family of five (sometimes six), on a scooter other than on a Chetak. But the most important differentiator was ‘the ride’ itself. It was the smooth yet dizzy feeling when riding her, which you get on your first date. The one-kick start was the nonchalant obedience of a young girl and the unconventional colors (in the early 80s’ – sea green and violet) in which it was available that made me decide to call it ‘my lady’.

Her first day at home was a day of mixed feelings. We were happy and sad. More happy than sad though. We had to give away our lean ‘Vijay’ Super to bring home this buxom babe. He served us for a long time. Vijay (Dinanath Chauhan, ha!!) had turned old and weary. To be truthful, orange was not an attractive color. But my father loved the color and ofcourse, Vijay. We did not mind either as long as we got our ice creams. But I guess, it was time to part with the orange old mate and get home this week’s writing piece.

It was love at first sight. Comparing her now, well, she had the broadness of a Latino brunette matched with the elegance of English lass from a Swedish finishing school. I simply could not take my eyes off her. I ran and stood on her front leg-stand and turned her mighty handle from left to right acting as if I am riding her, taking her to top speed and talking to the winds. I even pressed the horn button faking to clear the unseen traffic in front of me. Whenever our family of four took to the streets on her, I would be standing in front on the leg-stand put my hands on the handle and emulate my father fancifully as he rode her confidently.

The day I took her out for the first time, true to her name, she was behaving like a mare, but an untamed and wild one. It was a ride to remain fresh on my mind forever. According to me, I was riding just as my father does. After all, I practiced standing in front of him. But she was not running as she usually did. On the way, at the peak of her speed, she went out of control. We fell. I was worried about her more than myself. I brought her to her stands and looked all around her to check if she was okay. It was a big blow on the wall so I had to make sure she could run. I kicked her. Voila, she started! I was relieved but realized at that moment that I could not see through one eye. There was a jutting pain above my left eye and I was falling off my feet. Falling, we had slid together and just when I was about to get away, her mighty handle had hit me on the forehead and opened a 5-inch cut above my left eye.

I was still a boy. Only men rode a Chetak. Many people may disagree with me. Some may feel their ego being hurt. But who can deny ‘she’ sure took you for a ride? Still you love her.

Fame A to Z

2006-11-26T22:00:00.000-08:00

I believe I am talented. Infact, my talent lies in criticizing and commenting on other ‘talented’ people. Don’t I sound like one of the reality show judges?

From where I see it, most of the reality shows on TV channels are basically ‘talent shows’ in disguise. Some of them clearly say it. Some of them paint a picture of ‘nurturing’ talent and then making them ‘ready for the world’. Be it singing, dancing, performing artists - which include both singing and dancing (most of the times simultaneously), acting….the list is endless. And I am sure there hundreds of people who can do all the above, most of the times simultaneously! In one of the many reality shows I have been following, a singer who was scored out by the judges’ panel and then voted out by TV spectators actually came back by virtue of some rule planted by the concept creators and finally made it to the top three! In one of the reality couples’ dance competition show I saw the lady opting out of the competition as her husband was hospitalized and then dancing on a song, crying! That’s sure needs talent. In a bizarre ‘real’ incident, in one of the reality shows one of the contestants fell to the floor, almost unconscious, over a coffee cup fiasco! That’s close to genius, actually!!

But I really love these reality shows on TV. They not only encourage aspirations, they truly inspire. I mean, you see the contestants singing and you say to yourself, “God, if they can make it, I will breeze past everyone”. The feeling inside is the same in dance contests too, although you may not know the difference between Tango and Twist. As the show takes it journey from day one to the last five, you see the contestants performing and your self confidence grows leaps and bounds and you actually visualize yourself on stage marching ahead and matching steps with the hottest celebrities - who are available on that day. Most of them are (erstwhile) celebrities who are out of jobs and have nothing but the reality show as the high point of their current career status. But who cares. There was a day, when they were rock stars. Now, they only want to believe in one quote, history repeats itself. In effect, there is hardly any difference between the contestants and their celebrities. One set of people want to become stars. The other set wants to become stars, once again.

As far as the contestants are concerned, they practice hard on their weaknesses. People who are good at singing and dancing, practice acting (read crying). People, who are good at crying, practice crying to the best camera angle. And people, who have mastered the art of singing, dancing and crying from all angles, become judges. The impact is amazing. There is showbiz, drama, comedy, action, tragedy and finally a climax. On the final day there is a grand ceremony with the winner taking loads of applauds, loads of money and loads of future assignments.

On the same TV channel, starts yet another reality show which promises to bring the most talented citizen and make her/him a star and you find yet another reason to admire yourself endlessly. That’s how I end my day, everyday. My ten seconds to fame, infront of the mirror, admiring my ‘talented’ self.

I respect talent. But the only problem with talent is everyone believes s/he is talented. The biggest difference, perhaps, between talent and genius is that talent can be emulated. But genius is unbelievable. India may have another Rahul but there will be no other Sachin. Neither in cricket, or in music.

Statistically proud

2006-11-23T02:14:00.000-08:00

My parents are proud of me. Well, all parents are proud of children who make it well in life. But, I think, deep down my parents are a little surprised at what I have achieved so far in life. It’s not as if they never envisaged any future or their aspirations with me were any less than any average parent duo. Okay, talking statistically, comparing children in the family in my generation, my success in life till now was what was surprising to them. Statistically, less than 20% of us are Masters academically. Less than 30% of us are working (full-time). I don’t know how many have a bank balance in 6 figures (mine is a joint account which I count!!). But am sure by the rates I have mentioned, the percentage would be in single digits. Less than 40% are married and leading a ‘happily’ married life. And I contribute to all these percentages! Now, that’s really something. Actually, looking at it now, I too feel proud of myself. Most of my friends and acquaintances though, are evidently surprised at my current achievement levels. It shows in the way they interact with me or react to any conversation involving me or has my mention. Friends with whom I have spent the most times, who, in the worldly term can be called ‘best friends’, don’t really ask much about my professional life. I would want to believe that’s because they do not think beyond the relationship we share. Our friendship will not be affected even if tomorrow I loose my job or one of us replaces Bill Gates as the richest man (Ugh uhhh…well, on second thoughts, it may change just a bit. He will adopt me!!)

Most of us still have the same set of ‘best friends’. Atleast I do. We love to talk. We talk incessantly. My parents and now even my wife are surprised at how much we talk! Infact, my wife has a regular complaint that I don’t talk to her as much as I talk to my ‘best friends’ when we meet. I don’t remember even one instance, which was a planned outing among us. We have never gone for movies, shopping or even dinner! We just meet up over snack and, we talk. Among ‘best friends’ though, we have never shared our monetary progress. Well, we may have mentioned some figures off the cuff. But that never was the point of contention. Unlike most of the dialogues that I have with my other so-called friends, where the third question is “so what’s your salary?” The first two being, how are you and where are you these days? There was a time when one of us was yet to find employment; one was ‘in’ love and ‘out’ of his senses. There was one who was still figuring out what to do with his life. In sum, all were frustrated and depressed. When we met, we did not have much to rejoice. Thankfully, we were yet to taste the ultimate medicine to all misery – ‘gam ka saathi rum’ (just in case I become a world-renowned writer, this phrase translates to “ there is only one friend when sad, drink rum like mad”. That’s to rhyme it). You must be wondering where is the statistics here? To summarize, out of 50 physical and over 200 online people that I call friends, only three make it to the ‘best friend’ frame of shame (the count includes my wife and why ‘shame’ comes in the following sentence). Of these three, neither smokes or drinks, while I am a chain smoker and a compulsive boozer. But what takes the cake is that out of every ten outings with my pals, either of my best friends has paid on eight of those occasions (this includes my wife again). But that’s not why they are my best friends. If they have stuck to me, am sure I have something ‘statistically different’ to be proud of.

I believe only my parents, my wife and my best friends can make me feel the way I am. And I feel proud. I proved it statistically.

I Love...

2006-11-22T20:46:00.000-08:00

The two things I love the most in life are TV and biwi (including mine)!! Okay, no kidding. Of course I meant my wife. And that’s because she lets me watch TV in peace. C’mon, now don’t start thinking that’s the only reason I love my wife. There are enough and more reasons.

But my write-up is on my watching TV. I shall try hard not to deviate from the topic.

Clearly my focus is not on the history of television. But a little bit of ‘googling’ and I was amazed at my finding. As I said, I love watching TV but I could never think beyond the TV screen. Whatever appeared on the screen mesmerized and took me to a world of fantasy and ‘virtual contentment’. My wife has named my chair as the ‘tortoise’s parking lot’. But for the information of who ever makes it to reading my (master)piece, it is believed that the person who got the idea of an electronic television for the first time in his brain was merely 14 yrs when he did so!! His name is Philo Taylor Farnsworth, born August 19, 1906, in Indian Springs, Utah. Infact, he had a working device by the time he was 21!! Although, all his life he had to keep fighting over the patent rights over his invention, he was a genius.

Arc lights back to the ‘parking lot’. I shall refrain from using any animal species, as I too am afraid of Maneka Gandhi. If big movie production houses and celebrated movie directors can be issued legal notices for shooting with horses and dogs, I shall be making a heinous crime of comparing myself to a harmless, the slowest and the most laziest of beings on earth. I am not Ian Thorpe who can afford to ‘hang his trunks’ (I was tempted to use undies) at 24 and still see life sailing like his fabulous swimming strokes. I can’t fight law suits at this point in life.

What makes anyone hooked to TV? I mean, your eye vision is affected, you tend to gain weight couching, you waste more than half of your time in front of TVs switching channels, hence, very few things register as ‘learning’ from watching TV. I am sure, in one of the most unknown universities of US, one of the weirdest academic or research scholars of European origin is undertaking a study in the developing countries of Asia on many more vices of watching TV. So, what exactly makes one sit for hours watching TV? If I ask myself why do I love TV, what would I answer? Well, I love sports, so I watch the sports channel; I want to keep myself updated about happenings of the world so I watch the news channels. Oh, just like everyone, deep down inside I want to become a superstar and so I watch the reality shows.

Does an earthquake in Indonesia shake my office chair? Does Sachin pay me a royalty out of the prize money for the 100th man of the match award he won three years ago that he received whose highlights I saw for the first time, yesterday? And not only do I get duped by watching the ‘arranged’ reality shows, but I also spend money by sending SMSs to make someone else the superstar!

But I still love watching TV. That is why I love my wife, the most. She loves me watching TV. She knows she has married the most static, inert, idiotic and laziest creature on earth and still she loves me. (She hates TV)

22nd Nov 2006

known facts, unknown reasons

2006-11-21T01:00:00.000-08:00

Parents and ‘friends’ are two sets of people we cannot compare. Infact, we always believed, they cannot be compared at all. One set of people was our nemesis of sorts, holding us from doing each and everything we liked. Be it eating chocolates, wearing red socks, eating with our hands, the time we took to bathe (depending whether you were a boy or a girl) and so much so, how we sleep! We were old enough to reach school on our own with friends, but they would insist dropping us and picking us up. How immature of them, right? When we were younger, the only good thing we could see about our parents was, how much ever they cribbed, they finally gave up and did whatever we asked for. They ironed our already ironed clothes, bought us (un)necessary items whenever we asked, coming home past mid night was allowed for a 11 o’clock deadline. Of course, keeping awake all night when we were ill or at times when we were out of the house for a late night party was their duty. They were our parents after all! So, all that sentimental stuff does not count.

And, the other set of magical, like-minded and intelligent people who understood you so well. These two sets of people never shared anything in common. Hence, we never shared anything either. When we were happy we never shared our happiness with parents. We just took money from them and spent it on the other set. And when we were sad, no one other than a ‘friend’ could have understood you better! How can a father or a mother tell you how to handle failure in an entrance exam? How will they be able to explain how to handle heartbreak? What do they know about love? I mean, c’mon, they will never be able to tell us the difference between a degree and a diploma. But our ‘best friends’ can. So what, that they were our age and have seen only as much as you have on the planet. They knew everything in the world. In short, they were our world.

We have moved out of our hometowns and cities and working in bigger cities. Most of us are getting paid more than what our parent’s last salary was when they retired!! Many of our parents would not have dared to ask how much do we earn, till date. They are fully content with their efforts of making us what we are today. Each parent is proud of each one of us. In return, we are taking care of our parents too. Are we? Well, we are sending them some money every month for their general upkeep. We call them once or twice, sometimes thrice a week and ask about their wellbeing. Oh and yes, we do make a visit every six months during festive season. We share some real good moments with them. This is the time we (can) actually take care of them. But sadly, we still are in the trap of the ‘monetary pleasures of life give maximum happiness’ syndrome.

But have we ever asked them about the frown on their face every time they trying standing on their feet from a chair, the satisfaction they get watching the growing sapling they planted in the lawn, the pain they feel when they feed your pet late because you guys are visiting. The same pet that you grew up with but you kicked hard because it came too close to your kid. The frown on their face is not the pain on the knee, but looking for a hand to hold them stand. The satisfaction watching the sapling grow is the same they saw you growing. The pain feeding the pet is because when you left home for greener pastures, this animal became their son / daughter.

Sometimes, you are unknown to reasons of known facts.

Dressed to Kill

2006-11-17T01:46:00.000-08:00

There is deadline to meet, only 24 hours in a day and just you to save you. A presentation next Friday will define your destiny. Either you become the most sought after strategist, the most popular person in the company or remain in the aisles of anonymity till your next big chance, if ever.

Historically, the call of a cock announced daybreak. In modern times advertisers have made the calling cock as the mascot for a long list of dairy products and breakfast meals. The cock is a national symbol of France and is used as an (unofficial) national mascot for many sports teams. So much so that a rooster was chosen to be the mascot of the 1998 FIFA World Cup!! And yet, it is the most sought after, the most popular non-vegetarian meal on earth.

The presentation day arrives. The final day for the ‘ultimate’ sales pitch of your life. You have bought a new pair of shoes and a bright new tie for the occasion. You know your weaknesses. Hence, you cut short on your personal back ground. You know your competition and you are ready with all ammuniton. Your data is precise, the numbers are accurate and your confidence at its peak. You have never made such a presentation in your life, but its your natural instinct to take up challenges.

A cockfight is a contest held in a ring called a cockpit between two gamecocks. The roosters are specially bred and trained for increased stamina and strength. The comb and wattle is cut off of a young gamecock because if left intact, it would be a disadvantage during a match. They possess an inherent aggression toward all males of the same species, and do not have to be trained to fight. It is a natural instinct and they will fight to the death with no training.

The owner of the winning cock is hosting a grand dinner tonight. A special turkey dish is planned for the ‘guests’. The winner of last week’s cockfight is the top of the mind recall for the host. He is the one who will be the fortunate one to ‘visit’ the kitchen, get decorated and displayed on the dinner table, well dressed.

Days pass with no revert from the client. And then the mobile flashes the name you were waiting to see for a week. You fix your tie knot for the invisible ‘guest’, greet him with the chirp of the morning bird (cocks announce daybreak, remember!!). He has called you to his office. You retrun from the ‘visit’. There is dead silence in the room. People gather around you, their reactions following your facial reactions.

The cock is killed and dressed. You are dressed and killed. Both lie upside down for the feast.

What and How

2006-11-15T03:12:00.000-08:00

We all know what to do. And we do the best we can. Or that’s what we would love to believe. Till we come to know how to do what we have to do!

Before joining any school, toddlers are sent to spend some time with kids of their age along with teachers (I would like to call them facilitators) to start ‘learning’. And I am sure; there are some real registrations on their minds of things ‘taught’. But what is the real intention? According to me, it is, to condition them to start attending one single place which will be called a school for the next 15 yrs of their lives, everyday from morning till late afternoon and attend sessions where they are given instructions to perform certain activities in a given fashion because someone institutionalized them centuries ago. I do not refute the fact that most of the theories still hold good. And the ones that were questionable were questioned and re-defined.

What happens in top B-schools and technical institutions? Who teach there? Why do these institutions advertise so heavily on their list of pioneers, innovators, gurus and creators of certain theory, model or framework as their course faculty, guest faculty and nowadays a new term, “permanent guest faculty”? Now, that’s marketing, beautifully coining a term, bringing together two mutually exclusive words, permanent and guest! There is a reason behind this super activity. People, who have created something exceptional, are the ones who have possibly failed a hundred times before the final successful outcome. This has made them aware of the hundred different ways of ‘what’ not to do! Finally, they come up with ‘how’ to do it the right way. There may be a hundreds things to do. But there is just one way to do the right thing. That is the difference.

Preachers tell you to do ‘ideal’ things, tasks that will get you close to the Almighty. If they know everything to get close to Him, what are they doing on Earth? In simple terms, they can tell you ‘what’ to do? But never ‘how’ to achieve the same.

In India, most children are asked to work hard on their Maths. Because, you have a life only if you are an engineer. And that’s why (x+y)2 = x2 + y2 + 2ab. But why is it so? Why engineering, why Maths and over and above all why me? Why me because, am I competent enough to get past the Maths days? Will I be able to get through the engineering entrance exams and then eventually complete the course? Even if I complete the course, will I be able to get a job and continue in it? As children, have we ever asked so many whys’? And as parents, teachers and so called counselors, have we ever tried making children understand the answers to these whys’?

No. We have only focused on what needs to be done. Never the why….

Finally, another why…. why are classroom instructors called teachers and fitness/health/PT/Gym instructors called instructors? Are instructors ‘taught’ to become instructors, or are they ‘instructed’ to become one? And are teachers ‘taught’ to become teachers or are they ‘instructed’?

Now, that’s another debate. (Starting point of my next write-up)

Comments/Criticisms are invited at kanishk.mallick@gmail.com

Winter of Life....

2006-11-13T02:32:00.000-08:00

There was a nip in the air. Days were getting shorter and evenings darker. People said this year winters would be the coldest. As I ran out of the house in the evening to gather with my friends in the park to play, Aunt Anita stopped me at the stairway and handed me a pullover, stating, “wear this, don’t take it off even if you are sweating and come back early”. I shrugged but could do nothing but obey.

Sitting 20 years hence, during one of the winters, it felt warm. Not just the pullover, the feeling with which she cared for me. She was not expected to take extra care of me. Or was she? Looking back, I guess, it was an expectation. And how does such an expectation come into being? She wasn’t my mother. But being a woman of the household, she was equally responsible for all children. I suppose the same accountability was for my mother towards all other children in the house. And reflecting back now, I realize all the expectations were met. Infact, jealousy and envy came to our hearts more at home than else where when at times mothers would affectionately caress and feed cousins more than us. Isn’t it? That was the beauty of a joint family. You were under 24-hours surveillance.

Ugly it seemed for us when we were kids, but don’t we want the same for our kids now? With both the parents working, decisions are aplenty. Are we ready for parenthood? How to plan for parenthood? Which is the best time to have kids? Whose in-laws should be called to take care of the expecting mother? With whom will the expecting mother stay before, during and after pregnancy? Which doctor to visit? Which nursing home? Once the child is delivered, the decisions get more complex and intense. Should the lady continue working? How soon should the mother get back to Office if the couple decides that the lady should continue working? Deciding on a full/part time governess for the kid? Which in-law should be requested step in to take care of the kid? Who will come early for the kid? How to schedule the week? And many more am sure. (Please bear in mind, I am yet to become a parent, hence having not crossed the bridge, am unaware of the depth of the water). This is the beauty of a nuclear family.

You decide all you want to do in life, absolutely everything. No parental pressure, no bugging relatives, no unwanted suggestions from the experienced ones and no liability whatsoever.

This is the winter of life. And deep down inside we all are waiting for that one voice to stop us from going out in the cold alone and unshielded.

Think about it.

(The author wishes to reassure all readers that his nuclear family is not adding on to the headcount of the family in the near future. The above write-up is inspired by one of the TV programs he was watching sometime back).

Comments/Criticisms are invited at kanishk.mallick@gmail.com