Ready made

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.

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Be Patient

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

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

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

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

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.


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Musical Siblings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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)

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

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

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

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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