Soap Trash

The Day Began With So Much!

2011-11-22T20:47:00.000-08:00

The day's begun in a rather weird manner. At 7:45 am, just as I was about to leave, Mother noticed the crow has robbed her plant.

"Well Mother you encouraged him." Crows are always male to us. We can never think of a lady crow involved in such a robbery.

"Oh it doesn't matter if he did steal it. I still have a portion of the plant in the kitchen."

Then, at around 9:00 am, the company bus nearly made paste of a two-year old. The bus was running pell mell down a lane that latched itself onto a road to Andheri East. As it ran down this lane, the two-year old appeared from nowhere, the driver realized he had a human life near the bus wheels, and so, we heard a loud bang. The driver had braked just in time.

Of course, that wasn't time enough for the two-year old to realize that its head was still in order. The bus had hit its head and that was all that mattered. And since such hits at that age seem like a national crisis to owners of that age, the two-year old began to wail as if its pacifier had decided to not pacify it at all.

Luckily, the parents were around. And they quite knew that were the bus and the party within to be dragged to the police station, they would be held up in one of India's typical jails for being irresponsible guardians of a crying two-year old. So they did the next best thing: The mother coaxed the two-year old to bury its head into her shoulder and the father waved a hand at us as if to say all's well.

Quite naturally then, the bus driver stopped his sweating and drove on.

Hugh Miss; Hugh Mess

2011-11-02T06:55:00.000-07:00

My left palm supported a portion of my chin. But my face would have none of this show of affection. So, I had to fling my palm down to the table and throw my ear on to my forearm.

A full 10 minutes later, after I had memorized every pore that slept next to a hair strand or two on my arm, I realized I needed to do something better than an epidermic observation.

I was at home, and I had promised myself to not touch my office inbox. I also decided to not be of much help in the house either. Hence, the epidermic observation happened.

But it was time to move on to better things. It was time to surf idly - with no direction whatsoever.
So I began to surf - with no fixed intention to land up with anything at all. I visited Google.com. Then, I switched to its video-search page. And from there, God alone knows how, I landed on YouTube.com.

Well, once there, I think I used Hugh Jackman as my search string. For I remember seeing Wolverine's trailers among the search results. Anyway I clicked on one of those and promptly landed up on a high-definition version of the trailer.

To its side, left side to be specific, Youtube.com had loaded a number of suggestions. And this was one of them!

I was shocked! Of course, I expected stars to do stupid stuff, but this! This is plain silliness in its ripest form! Hugh Jackman looks like an idiot as he forces himself to smile and coaxes his hips to wiggle just in time to the beat of some fluffy slippery jingle.

Poor fellow, I doubt he had time to polish his steps. They are so terrible, our Abhishek Bacchhan does better in comparison! To make matters even worse, I can't quite understand how the advertisers can expect people to digest the fact that the man who played Wolverine and known to have the most severely serious nature onscreen can dance to such faff!

Anyway, who am I to complain. With a pay cheque of a million dollars or more, I am sure the fellow knows what he is doing. He's a star, he has a PR agency to warn and advise him. So I am quite sure he was awake when he signed the contract.

As for me, I am just amused that he is doing all of that for the sake of some silly stupid iced tea!

About Belafonte and Boredom

2011-11-01T10:54:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when you stay at home on one of those days when you have to be at work: You have no agenda, no schedule to adhere to, and you definitely don't have to bother about who's peering into your computer screen.

Even better, you don't even have to take the trouble to make conversation for the heck of it. And you definitely don't have to bother about whether your colleague is talking to you or pretending to do so as she or he makes a detailed map of the Web sites open on your desktop.

Today was one of those days for me. :) Oh but I didn't bunk office! I was down with a cold - the one that attacks me without fail at the beginning of every winter that visits Mumbai. That aside, I had done a lot of 'work' the other day and I thought I needed to treat myself to a day's rest.

So, I sat at home and idled my time. Well, by afternoon, I got fed up of doing that too. It seemed like fun initially - no plan agenda etc etc - but then it settled down into another routine - a routine I follow at home: that of doing nothing.

To break that, I decided to go rummage through YouTube.com.

YoutTube is, as you all know by now, this lovely Web site that everyone wanders to for some stupid reason or the other. It's either a song that drags you there or - most of the time - sheer boredom deposits you on YouTube's homepage.

I admit I was bored. I wasn't interested in reading nor did I want to watch a movie. So, I decided to search completely at random on YouTube.com.

Father was getting ready to go to church at that time. So, quite naturally, I searched for Harry Belafonte's Mama Look a Boo-boo. Harry Belafonte began to sing about how his children don't like him and how they make fun of him. Somewhere between the verses, he also mentioned how his wife tells them to shut up and "go away". Finally, towards the end, poor Mr. Belafonte feels mortified to question the mother. The mother quite coolly says, "The children are playing with you my dear." She also mentions something about them being taught too bloomin' slack, to which he says, "That aint kind of joke to crack." And then the song goes back to the chorus.

It's quite a simple song, actually. It talks about poverty in the Carribean islands perhaps and pokes fun quite shamelessly at the strict disciplinarian of a a father. And somehow it does manage to poke fun at such fathers all around the world. Father hates the song I think: I have never heard him hum it. Which is why I take every opportunity to hum it for him!:)

Visiting Esther: Part 1 - The Journey

2011-10-07T21:14:00.000-07:00

3rd October 2011

After quite a long long while, I can say I did do something worthwhile over the weekend. And all the doing began on Saturday - Saturday morning to be precise.

I had awoken with a headache - the one that insists on being my companion when the weeks are their ends. Usually, I let it hold sway and go back to sleep.

But this morning, I somehow let another plan creep into my head much before the headache walked in. I had decided to visit my aunt who stays in Vasai Road.

"But how will you go?"
"By train."
"By train? But look at the time!"

It was only 8:30.

"Mother," I said, as I wrung my back from my bed, "I doubt she keeps visiting hours you know."
"Oh but what will you take?"
"Take?"
"Yes, you have to take something along. You just can't go like this."
"Like this? But this is not what I'll be wearing you know. It'll be something more decent than this." 'This', by the way, happened to be my shorts and a vest.
"I don't mean that! I mean you have to take something along. You cannot just go empty-handed!"
"Oh I'll take your regards, etc etc. And I am sure you can send them again via the phone as well."
"Don't talk rubbish! You have to take something! Listen: I'll be going to the market sometime next week. I'll get some kajukatlis then. So you can go next weekend."
"All right. So then I'll go visit Daloo. "

"Daloo? Why do you want to go visit Daloo?"
"Because Mother," I began while I walked to the basin, "I had decided to go out today. So, I'll go there if I cannot go that side. "

However, by the time I had begun my breakfast, I wanted to re-consider my decision. After all, Saturdays do come once in a week. And much as I love trains, I cannot start to love the effort that I have to put in to travel in them for an hour and a half - especially on a Saturday! Mira Road - the place where my cousin Daloo resides - is about an hour and a half from Sion. Besides that, I wasn't quite sure how far her place was from Mira Road station either.

I dilly-dallied for a while: I began to watch a movie - Flipped - at around 9:00 while my tea sulked to room temperature. Flipped is a wonderful movie with a very bonhomie feel about it. It's shot in beautiful hues of yellow and sunset orange and has a majestic dash of sepia tint thrown in as well. All this aside, the script is very taut. So though it tells a simple story that has been told a million times before, it did keep me engrossed.

"Look at the time! Look at the time! You'll get late! Tcha! This fellow no? No planning at all! No planning at all!"

It was 9:30.

"But Mother, it's not as if I have told her I'll be coming. I'll just go, say hi hello, and come back."
"And lunch?"
"I'll have it outside."
"What nonsense! If she asks you to stay for lunch, stay."
"But Mother I am not brought up that way."
"And what way exactly were you brought up then?"
"Well, tell me something: What do you say when I tell you to fight back?"
"I don't fight back," Mother said very vehemently, "I am not.. -"
"Yes, exactly what I am saying. "

"Okay okay have it your way. But don't go in the Sun!"

As it turned out, I walked out in the heat of the Sun at 10:30 am. As usual, Pratiksha Nagar, at that point in time, amplified every joule of heat and spread it out over the vicinity the way you spread a liberal pat of butter over a piece of bread. Naturally then, it wasn' quite a cool walk at all. The BEST buses constantly tripped in my way and the taxis and cars decided to do that as well.

In Mumbai, there's not much of a choice when it comes to making your way to a railway station. Either you walk to it and weather all the dirt and rubbish and grime and what not that comes your way. Or, you take a bus or a taxi or an autorickshaw.

Now, the BEST is more of an oven and less of a vehicle and the taxis are not quite sure of being honest with their meters. I anyway hate to hunt for change for the bus ticket. And I cannot quite start to hear the taxidriver's reason to not take you that way because of the traffic jam.

And so, I walked all the way to Guru Tegh Bahadur Nagar station.

To be continued...

Sick to work?

2011-08-04T03:34:00.000-07:00

Getting back to work after a long long bout of sickness is a headache of the worst kind. As it is, the illness leaves you so sapped of your strength and mental vigour, you just assume you have to retire and head for the hills.

But of course you cannot do that. There are bills to pay, rents to bother about, and you know what else. In my case, the what else was getting away from a house locked into one primary school of thought: that sickness entails every member in the family to lecture the sick man or woman about what to, and what not to, do.

"You had a hair bath that day, so you fell sick."
"You ate chocolate, so you fell sick."
"You did not wear slippers, so you got malaria."
"You hardly wore anything that day. That's why you got typhoid."
"You ate meat on Fridays. That is invitation enough for trouble."
...
...
etc, etc.

Going by this sample of statements - that inevitably find themselves in many such lectures - you would be tempted to believe that if you stayed away from hair baths on certain days, avoided chocolate, wore slippers all the time, covered yourself with a quilt the whole day, and avoided meat on Fridays, you would never have to bother about malaria and typhoid.

Well, if it only were that simple, I will not even have required mediclaim! But no, it's supposed to be this simple for the family. And since, I had enough of that for three whole weeks, I just had to drag myself to office than stay put at home.

Now once you are in office, it's quite awkward to sit and expect people to send work to you. So, I went and asked for it, however difficult I found that to be. Then, once I did get a slice of what the people are involved in, I realized I was better off at home with those tablets and capsules and those lectures as well.

And so, by the middle of the day, in the middle of the entire office, I caught myself trying to finish what I myself had asked for and hoping I'll be able to make it for the 6:30 bus home.

It was sheer luck that day then that I was told that nothing on my plate had to go that very day itself. For had it to, I would most definitely have headed to the hills!

Sick, sicker, but not the sickest of them all

2011-08-04T02:40:00.000-07:00

I am writing here after a long long time. I was down with an extravaganza of an illness recently. The doctor diagnosed it as malaria with a borderline case of typhoid. I diagnosed it as a terrible terrible thing to happen to me.

For three weeks, I had nothing but hydrocarbons and synthetic compounds dressed like harmless white and red and brown tablets for company. An assortment of these tablets - up to six or seven in number - made their way into my stomach and God knows where else every one of those 21 days. I could not complain. I wasn't even in a position to complain. All I could do was sleep, get up, take dosages, sleep, get up, feel depressed, and think I need to re-organize my life. In between all this, I would pray wholeheartedly to the Lord above that He not take me just yet, and then I would hope my prayers are heard!

Well, as luck and my constitution would have it, they were.

By the end of Week 3, I was reduced to half my size - or probably three-fourth of what I was. My trousers - once skin tight - now crumpled into little folds as I wore them. And I could see how vehemently my cheek bones insisted on poking their noses out of my cheeks.

Amidst all those observations, I also observed that I had survived. Which, given the frail self that I am, is no mean an achievement to boast about!

Reflections in a Mirror

2011-06-16T20:29:00.000-07:00

Corporate jobs are not my game. Sigh!
Double sigh. Triple that and let's sigh another six times.
Sigh!

A Time for Everything

2011-06-04T08:16:00.000-07:00

There always is a time,
Happier than the one you're in-
Simpler-neater too-and with a glass of sweet lime.

You don't have it filed in a folder
Or buried under a boulder.
The Yellow Pages won't list its number
For it chooses to not disturb its slumber

Till a conversation seems complex,
And a sigh becomes a reflex;
Till the light of today,
Seems blacker than yesterday;
And till your steps decide
to leave all aside.

It's then that you remember a chime,
And climb down each second and minute and hour
Exactly to where you left a time:
Happier than the one you're in-pickled and kept in a jar;
Simpler and neater too-handing you a regret sublime.

On Trains

2011-05-30T04:25:00.000-07:00

I love trains. I love the way they snake in and out of a station and sashay to the next. But I cannot seem to like the crowd in a train. It's just too much to weather for the love of the machinery...

On Work and Yawns

2011-05-30T02:38:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how once you yawn, there's no end to it at all. You yawn and yawn and then you yawn some more!

But if you begin working, you never ever come close to working more and more!

On Tuscan Verve

2011-05-30T02:19:00.000-07:00

Went shopping the other day to Tuscan Verve - off Colaba Causeway. That store once had some fantastic shirts and great trousers. And now? The shirts are terrible, the trousers have disappeared, and they only take cash!

Disappointment warned me not to associate itself with such a loser of a store! And so I have to settle for saying that Tuscan Verve wasn't worth my time...

Route no. 313 on a Sunday

2011-05-30T02:06:00.000-07:00

Travelling on a Sunday is no less of a hassle in Mumbai. The other day, I promised an acquaintance my time on Sunday at Vakola - a few bus stops after Kurla station.

So, on the Sunday we decided upon, I got out at 4:35 pm from my building premises, reached GTB Nagar station at 4:45 pm and landed at Kurla station by say 5:15 pm.

I had to take a bus then. Vakola can be reached only with the help of God and a bus - the No. 313 run religiously by the BEST. It's a double-decker usually and so, you almost always get a seat.

However, much to my dismay, the BEST isn't all that religious on a Sunday.

The line for the bus was serpentine. Which meant that buses were trickling in - instead of pouring in as they do on weekdays. To make matters even worse, there wasn't any BEST inspector to supervise and keep the queue in control. So, it was a free for all the moment the bus turned up.

And the bus that did turn up wasn't - yes you're right - a double-decker. It was a shoe box of a bus that is quite the contraption used these days all in the name of fuel economy. This shoebox has the same wheels as the normal-sized BEST buses with a body reduced to less than half of a single-decker. As a result, it seems as if it'll trip and fall the moment it starts to run.

Fortunately though, that has not yet happened. What has happened is the BEST has been so pleased with its shoeboxes that it has flooded Mumbai with several of them. And one of them happened to ply that day on route no. 313.

Well, so the bus stopped at the bus stand and everyone decided to be part of a swarm of bees that had just one intention: rough its way out onto any vacant seat available.

A full three minutes after this, the shoebox began to move with the bees buzzing non-stop. I had a headache buzzing me for my attention too, but I didn't bother to ask what was the reason. The reason I knew and that is exactly the reason why I will never take the 313 on a Sunday.

Tuesday's Column

2011-05-17T18:55:00.000-07:00

On Uncle Caesar

Mother insisted Caesar uncle is just like his nephew who happens to be her husband. I quietly kept at my breakfast. She went on and on about how since May 2007 he's been telling us about a map of his property and our property. And how he has got it rectified or something to that effect. I have no interest in property - least of all land in the back of the beyond suburb of Vasai. So I let her trundle on as the slices of cheese and bread made their way into my stomach.

On my bag

My bag's pretty heavy - probably the books need some attention - visual and mental attention included. For The Bell Jar jostles with the Heart of Darkness next to which sits Selected Poems of Sylvia Plath. You can imagine the heady mix of suicide my bag may be in. I need to sort its contents and ensure it is as sane as I am, which is not quite anywhere close to normalcy.

On deadlines

Deadlines deadlines deadlines. If I were told to sell them all, I would most gladly have a sale in Carnegie Hall. Sigh! They just don't seem to stop being born. One dies, the other's born, then another cries for attention, and then yet another arrives for some not so tender loving care. If that's not enough, the deadline that died a week ago comes back to life with a change here and a change there to be done!

Notes After the Noon and into the Evening

2011-05-17T18:43:00.000-07:00

2:49 PM 5/16/2011

My right shoulder seems to have tired of supporting my arm. It aches. It's a dull ache - as dull as the sky is this afternoon. I hope it rains. But then I hope it rains when I am in the bus or in the train back home. Mother called asking whether it's raining here. It wasn't. I told her so. She said a cool breeze blew into the hall as she sat there and so, she had to put the fan off. She began to talk about real estate prices - as usual - and I could not say anything. Had I to, I would sound like a cynic who has decided to be his or her bitter best.

I have work to do. I think it's not fascinating. But then what ever is? I am sleepy too. I yawned just now and people around seem to have sprung up in time to take notice of my mouth...

The Bell Jar is something I plan to read. I have a whole list of somethings that I plan to read. I wonder whether I'll ever make it to the end of that list. So far, not even a bullet from it seems to have been accomplished. I feel like a loser as I write that. And simultaneously, I feel am rather honest. I think that makes me an honest loser. I am pretty sure you'll come across several such true losers here...

5:54 PM 5/16/2011

Have a call to attend. It's not as if I don't like to talk and make calls. It's just that these calls seems pointless. Things that can be sorted out by a clear candid e-mail are twisted into a call script that takes fifteen minutes to finish and at times thirty or more minutes to wrap up. I think it's part of the policy: Talk as much as you can to the client in the morning, in the night, in the evening, and whenever you think you want to talk. Just talk. Talk talk talk!

6:09 PM 5/16/2011

The call got cancelled. Top secret information and thoughts follow. And they definitely will not find their way here!

Morning notes

2011-05-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

May 17th 2011, 6:33 am

Waking up is such a chore. Your head wants to sleep and so pretends to be a boulder. Your conscience, on the other hand, wishes to speed up your heartbeat since you know there's a lot of work to finish. So I let myself watch this battle between boulder and conscience for I was in no mood to get to the breakfast table.

For three minutes, boulder sank my body into the bed. It rolled from side to side and wouldn't let my neck support it. In the fourth or fifth minute, conscience flashed a whole set of documents I had to edit and send to the project manager, to the reviewer, to the SME, etc etc. The photographs were pretty graphic: 87 pages of unedited grammar that stank like the trenches of Mahim creek peered at me and my boulder. There were no islands of clean sentences and definitely no paragraphs adrift with freedom from punctuation errors... Red marks dotted the margins and comments flew around each page searching for dustbins of horrific syntactical structures and incoherency of matter...

I left my bed ten minutes later for conscience had won! Breakfast will be done in a while and my steps will trod the bylanes and tracks so familiar to anyone walking with an intention to earn some bread, some butter, and some pieces of paper.

From Chasme Buddoor (1981)

2011-04-04T11:38:00.000-07:00

There's nothing extraordinary about this song. It starts with no pretence to be a classic and never ever stumbles into high jinks. Dipti Naval lip synchs and Yesudas provides the voice of her singing teacher. And since the lesson is being taught in the living room of a middle-class family in the 80s, the scene is very understated and does not ever break into any extravagance.

And yet, despite it being oh so humble in its production values, it makes my hair stand on end every time it plays. Probably, it's the simplicity of its melody - it's easy on the ears and yet is classy. Then of course, it helps to have a minimal orchestral arrangement: You aren't distracted by too many instruments. And it sure does make a world of a difference to have Yesudas sing the duet with Haimanti Shukla. Yes, she isn't a mile near Lata, but she valiantly - and with a soothing touch of melancholy - blends her voice with the mellow, mellifluous melodies sung by Yesudas.

Needless to say then, this duet is balm to a tired ear and soul and leaves you with thoughts of a sunset dipped in soothing tones of orange and gold - tones that make your heart melt to recognize those deep emotions lying asleep within you.

Definitely Not Prince Charles' Mother

2011-03-29T05:36:00.000-07:00

I had a very very long hectic day at work. And since such days never ever allow you to think beyond the bath in the evening, the dinner after that, and the bed at the end of it all, I abandoned all effort to break that routine.

I got home late too that evening. My charming readers know very well how much I love to whine about the traffic that insists on making me stay in a bus that remains at the same place almost for fifteen minutes every ten odd minutes later. Anyway, so I walked in through the door rather late and threw myself in the chair closest to me.

"So you're late?" This was Mother Dearest striding out of the kitchen into the hall.
"Yes Mother."
"How come?"
"Well, the usual traffic."
"I know. This one was complaining about it. She was telling me she spent half an hour..."

If I had to tell her to be quiet, she wouldn't. If I had to tell her to shut up, I would be treated to a long and winding lesson about how I must choose carefully before letting my tongue fly. So, I did the next best thing: I stopped listening and stared at the wall. There was the spider weaving his web rather daintily across the wall and there was the mosquito willingly flying into his parlour. As I began to imagine how grateful the spider must have been for such a ready meal, I heard something that sounded like Elizabeth Taylor.

"What is it that you said just now Mother?"
"What?"
"You said something about Elizabeth Taylor, didn't you?"
"Oh yes, she died."
"She died!"
"Yes, she died today I think."
"Today?"
"Perhaps yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"Either today or yesterday - I am not quite sure."
"Oh I see. And I went back to staring at the wall."

---

Half an hour later, I was still quite taken up by Elizabeth's death. So, I SMSed a few acquaintances:

Did you know Liz Taylor's dead?

Acquaintance 1 replied with: 'What? Googling it now.'

Acquaintance 2 replied with: 'Yeah.' Which was as good as no reply sent at all.

And

Acquaintance 3 probably had enough pressing matters at hand to not bother to reply at all!

---

"She lived a full life."
"Well, that's stating the obvious."
"How did she manage - I have no clue."
"Manage what?"
"The men and the marriages?"
"Oh that! Well, she managed them well. She did manage to divorce them all. None of them divorced her."
"None?"
"Well, one decided to die in a plane crash. Barring him, none did."
"I see. But how she managed, really?"
"It's easy. All she had to do was sign the papers. It's very simple. You can try that too."
"Shut up and eat there!"
"Well, that was just a suggestion. "
"Eat eat!"

I guided my bread to my mouth. Just as I was about to bite into it, Mother began all over again.
"Eight husbands! Eight husbands!"
"Seven Mother seven!"
"Seven?!"
"Yes she married Richard Burton twice."
"Oh yes. That fellow was another nut."
"That I agree to. I remember he was dead drunk when he did Camelot with Julie Andrews."
"Oh he was, was he?"
"Yes yes, Julie herself said so."
"I see."

This time when the pause came, I finished my morsel and looked around for another slice. I tore it apart rather than cutting it in two. I am - most of the time - a dignified fellow, but within the confines of my own home, I throw dignity and knives to the winds. So, with that acquired savagery, I finished my dinner and headed off to sleep.

----

"She had AIDS!"
"What?"
"She had AIDS!"
"Oh please Mother, I am sure there's some misunderstanding."
"See I went to this BBC Web site and there this man comes and says this about her."
"Says what about her?"
"That she had AIDS!"

So I brought up BBC and looked for the man who made that stupid statement.
"Is this the man?"
"Well, I saw no man."
"You mean you saw a video and heard the man saying all that?"
"Yes yes. Can't you hear what I said?"
"Okay okay, let me look then."

And I searched on BBC.com for the video in question once more. A few minutes later, I realized why she said what she did..

The video began by talking about a certain village in Great Britain that Elizabeth and Richard had spent some time in. And then it took the form of the usual obituary that made Elizabeth appear the diva she was. "Her combat with AIDS," the narrator said, "has given hope to millions all over the world or something similar."

A judicious choice of words but not quite the one to leave doubt out of the way. In fact, far from making things clear, it had given a new twist to the death.

"See see? He says her combat with AIDS."
"So?"
"He doesn't say her efforts to spread AIDS awareness or something like that."
Mother was quite right but I was in no mood to find fault with the BBC.
"But Mother," I said, "she didn't have AIDS. I know she didn't. She had a whole buffet of diseases, but definitely not this."
"Then why he's saying-"
"Well Mother just because she lived a full life doesn't mean you just hand her AIDS on a platter you know! How can you even think that?"

Mother of course did not know what to say. And so, I quickly put the lights off and went to bed.

March 27th 2011: Why We Escaped to Don Bosco's

2011-03-27T01:57:00.000-07:00

Time: 12:43 pm

Sunday never gets me anywhere farther than the Church. Today, Mother and I ran off to The Don Bosco's Shrine at Matunga. The reason: The other church that's closer by was scheduled to run a marathon of a service in honour of a bishop who was to come and slap boys and girls into confirmation.

Oh I kid you not. This is what the receiving of the sacrament of Confirmation in the Catholic Church entails. The whole process is a little like this: First, someone announces that batches for confirmation will begin on so and so date and children eligible for the sacrament are supposed to enroll. Usually, you need to be either in the tenth standard or on your way to the eleventh standard to qualify. Of course, this is a stupid way of putting things. In actuality, you need to have received the sacrament of The First Holy Communion to qualify. But that is never announced as part of the qualification. Apparently, it's supposed to be too old world to stick to that stricture never mind the fact that that stricture is what is necessary to be complied with.

Anyway, once the announcements are made, the batched begin - sometime around the second Sunday after the announcements. Textbooks are given, 'teachers' are asked to help students understand and grasp every aspect of what's in the textbook, and finally, students have to appear for a test failing which they won't be slapped by the bishop!

Such a song and dance, really! All they need to ensure is that students learn to read the Bible well and understand the scripture. But no, it's the textbook that has to be understood. So what's in the textbook then? Well, what's in it is the 'Church authorities' understanding and interpretation of the scripture. That aside, only scripture that think necessary is included. It's as if they have done a content analysis of the Bible and segregated it into several learning courses each of which have to be taken at just the right time - the time too decided by them.

Once they are through with the test and all of that, it's time to rehearse for the Confirmation ceremony. The ceremony itself is an extended version of the Sunday mass. So, the ceremony will have two readings and superficial introductions to those readings as well. Next, the bishop, looking more like those bishops who got Thomas Moore murdered, will mount the pulpit and be expected to give a sermon about the joys of the sacrament of confirmation. However, more often than not, bishops do not tow that line of thought. They instead end up begging for vocations!

"Oh the Catholic Church needs men!" I remember one bishop saying during one such Confirmation ceremony, "The population of priests is dwindling!" Well, no one gasped. On the contrary, people yawned all the more. But this bishop did not quite take the hint.

"First, it was a matter of pride," he trundled on,"There was competition as to how many children will serve the Lord! And now, everyone wants to marry! No one wants to even send at least one child to the seminary. Even if a child expresses interest, parents don't even bother to nurture it further!" And so on and so forth, he sallied on.

Luckily, the choir happened to be sitting close to the altar. And one of the choristers had a brainwave: He dropped a book in so meaningfully a fashion that the bishop stopped halfway through his sentence - fingers in mid-air - and turned to see what was the matter.

Well, nothing was the matter, but if 12 odd men and women giggling away at a fallen book can be considered a serious matter of insult and reproof, then it certainly was. For the bishop wound up the sermon a minute later and we went on to other sleepy parts of the mass.

Of course, bishops don't rehearse the sermon with the church that calls them. Were that to be the case, sermons would have been edited out of the ceremony completely. The slapping ceremony is what is rehearsed. Well, what they do cannot be called slapping as such. I went on saying slapping slapping all this time only to keep you reading this. :). However there is a little truth in that: Earlier, in the '70s perhaps, bishops would lightly slap as they confirmed the candidate at the ceremony. But now I think they just touch the cheek ever so lightly - perhaps to avoid scandals of any sort.

So then, a day before, the 'teachers' in charge of the students line them up, a 'teacher' pretends to be the bishop, and the entire ritual is rehearsed.

Then there is the choir that decides to put on a spectacle. Not that they admit to it, it's just one of those things that are taken for granted: If the bishop is to come, we must have a spectacle. And so, they rehearse painstakingly as well.

You can well imagine what will happen on the day the ceremony is to take place. Everyone turns up in their Christmas best! The choir turns up in bling of the noisiest sort so there isn't a necessity for strobe lights. The children - teenagers sorry - sashay in in the latest pair of jeans and shirts. And the parents and the rest of the congregation decide to treat the whole ceremony the way they would a wedding. As a result, even if the ceremony takes place in May, you'll be able to count at least ten perspiring suits near the altar.

Needless to say, the entire Broadway production - as it now seems to be - takes minutes to be on its way and at least and hour and a half to come to its rather tiresome climax. And so, since neither of us wanted to sit through a re-run that we have ran through several times before, we ran off to Don Bosco's.

Well, it's a blessing indeed that we have an option. I wonder what I would have done had Don Bosco's to be nowhere close.

Oh well, I would have gone to St. Michael's Church Mahim! You see living close to more than one church is - at times - a definite virtue!:)

The Review: Hall Pass

2011-03-12T03:57:00.000-08:00

The Premise: Two American couples live a boring married life. So the husbands check out other women and the wives laugh it off and let it pass.

However, remember it's America: Anything and everything can happen to anyone and everyone is expected to not raise an eyebrow. So, in keeping with this age old tradition, one fine summer day, the wives decide to get fed up of their husbands' behaviour and give them a hall pass - a week off from their marriage. What ensues is not exactly classy, not entirely B-grade, and definitely not in the league of rom-coms dished out by Garry Marshall and Nore Ephron.

Watch it for:

Owen Wilson's understated acting. The man has improved and you see the earnestness to prove that he deserves a lot more than slimy excuses of comedies.

The girls - Christina Applegate and Jenna Fischer - actresses I have never known for anything worthwhile. They're very real here in whatever they have to fake and are believable too.

The dialogue - It somehow hits the right notes almost all the time. Corny lines are nowhere in sight.

The script - It never forces an invention on you. It's all well-paced and never sloppy enough to chop ahead to a bizarre sequence.

Remember not to:

Think of it as a statement on marriage. It's not - nor does it even pretend to be.

Bother wondering why two scenes involving unmentionables turned up on the screen! It's a Farrelly Brothers movie and that's enough of an excuse for acrid humour even when there's no need for it at all.

So do I or don't I?

Well, if ribald humour wrapped in just the right soothing tones of paper does manage to let you look past the offense the accompanying muck causes you, then yes, go watch the movie.

If the muck bothers you more, there's always Tangled to go to.

In the Name of the Lord - Part 2

2011-03-07T11:55:00.000-08:00

Before you begin, read this.

2nd January 2011

My initial reaction was to grumble and sermonize. But you see, that would all be wasted. The sermon will have been heard noiselessly. But the one I will have had to listen to the next day would have been longer than the usual two-minute rambling about respect, prim and proper behaviour, and moral values. So, I did the next best thing: I swallowed the sermon and took charge of the travails. I hailed a rickshaw and told the driver exactly where we wanted him to take us. The driver seemed rather stupid to solve a simple Mathematical equation, but he knew where Executive Enclave - the hotel the communion party was to be hosted in - was. So, I pardoned his stupid look, got into the rickshaw after Her Majesty and His Royal Highness, and sealed my trap yet again.

Executive Enclave sits atop Pali Hill and positions itself on one of those roads that run right next to the LIC building - that also sits on Pali Hill. The name sounds exotic - Pali Hill that is - but make no mistake about the fact that it's an absolute antithesis to the hyped exotica. The market waylays half the road and consequently, you have every sort of garbage lining the lanes. And then of course, there is the ever-growing swarm of vehicles down and up that road: courtesy the residents of that area. All along that road lie high-rises or high-rises in construction that attract people with huge pockets and large money chests. And since this tribe is rather clueless about what to do with all the change in the pockets and the chests, they end up pouring them down these residences. Even after that, some stuff is still left. These leftovers find their way into car showrooms - annually or, at times, quarterly.

And so, Pali Hill is choc-a-bloc with the latest from the automobile industry - never mind the fact that half the earlier latest has not even been used beyond repair.

To make matters even better for chaos to reign here, plush restaurants have decided to spring up around the aforementioned high-rises. So, anybody who is somebody has to take a rickshaw at some point in time from Bandra or Khar or somewhere closer and make it to Barbecue Nation or Candies or Gostana or God knows what else. As a result, rickshaws have staked their claim to whatever is left of the road and so, there's never any decent amount of space to walk about.

Amidst this chaos, our rickshaw wound its way up and towards the entrance of Executive Enclave. My anger had subsided by now and was showing no signs of a relapse. Father Dearest and Mother Dearest were on their best behaviour too and with this disguise, we stepped into the lobby.

... To be continued

Give Us This Day, and the One After Too!

2011-03-07T10:56:00.000-08:00

7th March 2011

The day began - just as its sister began 24 hours earlier - and decided to present me with traffic jams. This wasn't quite new to me: Several such presents are stacked in my memory. And since the only way to get to office is by accepting this gift and opening it up so that it disperses around, I sighed and tore open the wrapping.

The jam spread all around Kurla depot at 9:05 am in the morning and caught the tyres of my bus as well. So, the bus driver did not even bother to change gears. We were demonstrated the use of the first gear right up to Saki Naka. At that Naka, no square metre of the road allowed the driver to continue and so, the demonstration came to a rather grating grinding end.

We sat and sighed and made all sorts of noises but the bus refused to even consider what we were going through. Only after a full ten minutes, during which it puffed like a fire dragon, did it decide to let go of its flair for smoky opera and trundled down to Marol Pipeline.

The journey back home didn't have less of this squash either. As it is, for the first time, in the history of my working at Andheri East, did I let go of my office bus to meet a friend working nearby. And then, when we do sit down to coffee, he tells me: "Oh! You know what? I just have 20 minutes! So let's make this a quick one!"

Now I have heard people mouth a lot many meaningless frothy lines. For example:

"I have so much work to do!" this when no one around even pretends to believe that!
"I think I am gonna die now." - this when they know fully well they won't.
"I am dead." - this when even the undertaker will refuse to bury them.
"I don't care!" - this when even a smirk is enough to rattle them.
"I have been slogging!" - this when even the line itself knows this isn't quite true!

So it came as no surprise when this fellow said that we were to make this meet a quick one!

And a quick one it was. We sat, stared at the coffee, stared at the ceiling, mouthed exactly what the other wanted to hear, and by 7:00 pm, I was out on the road. And the state of the traffic was as if the exodus from The Ten Commandments was being updated for the 31st century!

I wonder how many of you have seen The Ten Commandments. It's quite an epic yet simple saga about how Moses led the Israelites away from slavery and directed them into a land flowing with milk and honey. Of course, all that happened sometime in BC and camels and horses were all that could be seen in the caravan that made its way from Egypt to Israel. Even so, I daresay those beasts caused any sort of bottlenecks anywhere. Why! They all sauntered away quite coolly from one shore into the parted Red Sea, stepped onto dry land on the opposite shore, and through it all Moses did not even require the Mumbai traffic police to maintain law and order! Nor had any of those Israelites to learn traffic rules and appear for driving exams!

But then - remember - all that happened way back in time. Were the trip to be made now, Hollywood would only have to station a helicopter atop the Kurla-Andheri road and their exodus footage would be like none other! For there there're the beasts - the roaring trucks, the filthy vans, the mammoth buses; there're the people - sighing, losing faith in the system, praying when the world will come to an end; and there're are - of course - people like me who question the need to take that God-damned route at all when all one has to do is shift to another city instead!

Apparently, it's easier questioned than done. City shifts involve a whole lot of headaches: You spend to shift, you spend to set up home, you spend on transport, you spend on illegal gas cylinders, and you spend on tickets - air tickets - when you get homesick! Obviously, I am not the one to spend so much, and so, with that thought as my comfort pill, I got into a taxi and sighed and lost faith in the system.

In the Name of The Lord

2011-03-02T11:17:00.000-08:00

02nd January 2011

We attended a communion party yesterday. Everyone whom I had avoided all throughout the year landed up for this event and I had no choice but to sit, stand, smile, say: "Hi! Hello! How are you?" and exclaim: "Oh! I haven't seen you for ages!"

We were invited for lunch so we first headed off to Don Bosco's for the 10 'o' clock mass. Thereafter, being the family we are, we got into an argument about how to travel to Bandra from Matunga.

"Cross the road Mother, we have to cross the road".

"There are no buses from here?"

"No, all of them go towards VT."

"You're sure?"

And sure as hell, I was irritated.

"Mother, this road lies in the direction of VT and that road," I said, pointing out to the lane across, "goes towards Bandra."

"How do you know?"

"Well I know."

"Let's ask someone," she said - this after we had crossed the road - and Daddy and she caught a group of old men. Well, senior citizens to be polite, but they did look like old men. Their scalps had a lot of skin to show. And the hair that decided to cover the rest of their scalps had turned white - perhaps out of the fright their owners' thinking gave them.

Anyway, there they were standing in their shorts that Sunday morning trying to look as if they had gained some of their youth and there was Father Dearest asking them about how to travel to Bandra.

Now I have nothing against such men. It's just that - more often than not - they seem to have decided that their way is the only way to anywhere. And the manner in which they say it it leaves you bereft of the idea that there can be another way there as well. These young old men did just that.

"Oh Bandra!" exclaimed one fellow as if Nirvana had struck him that very moment with one of its guitars, "you will have to cross the road and take one of those buses that side that goes to Tilak Bridge".

"And this side? This side?," persisted Father.

"This side they all go to Sion."

"They all go to Sion," Mother repeated.

"As if I don't know," I snapped.

"Then what are you saying you'll get a bus to Bandra from here?"

"Obviously Mother! You have to change at Sion for none of them go directly to Bandra!"

Yet she wouldn't listen and she began round two of her travel-to-Bandra investigation.

I made a face - a really bad one - and walked off to the bus stop closeby.

A minute later, Mother walked up to me. "See we are not sure whether you travelled from here which is why we are asking around."

"Well Mother," I barked, "I am telling you I know and yet you will not listen! So now, since you and Daddy know so much, you two had might as well lead me there. Even if I know how to get there, I won't open my mouth."

And so, we got into Bus no. 213.

"Daddy is booking the ticket."

"So? Why tell me?" And I bloated my face and decided to utter not a word even though I had quite an urge to deliver a sermon on why they just had to listen to me.

Well the bus ran off towards King's Circle and began to approach Sion. And though I could see Sion circle and knew we'd reach there in a minute, neither Father nor Mother made an attempt to get up. A second later, Father announced from the front - he was sitting in front - that "I have booked tickets to Santacruz depot! It's the last stop. Let's travel comfortably you know. So we'll get down at Santacruz depot and take a rickshaw to Bandra!"

Well, I was livid with rage and I had vowed to not talk at all. But not even my vow stopped me from giggling at this attempt at travelling in comfort!

But my vow, did, however, stop me from saying anything at all. So, we travelled and travelled and travelled for a full hour looking at Kalina, Kalina University, St. Anthony's Church Vakola, and at all the other harassed, hassled streets that passed by as if we were in Mumbai for the first time.

Sometime in between, when Vakola made way for the road to Santacruz station, Father decided he had better give up. He turned to me and said, "From the station no? We'll take a rickshaw. You'll tell him no how to get there?"

Well, he just had to say that an hour ago and we would not have gone right around Mumbai in the first place.

.... To be continued

To Write or Not to Write

2011-02-23T20:52:00.000-08:00

The thing is I think I have a whole lot to write about - work, colleagues, friends, enemies, families, etc, etc. The only problem is the willingness to write it all. If I write about:

work, perhaps the organization will dust off the rust on their legal weapons and bring them to me merely as a token gesture of what they will do should I write anything untoward.

colleagues, but then you see I have to work with them. I may not like some of their sentences and I definitely do not like to smile and nod my head to everything they say. But I have to work with them. So, I cannot expect myself to work in the most normal of circumstances were I to vomit here what I think about at least one of them!

friends, I must have a friend whom I can call one. Given the lazy despicable condescending supercilious unmentionable as I am termed, I daresay I have a repertoire of acquaintances, forget friends!

enemies, but I think I don't want to waste my breath and thoughts on such riff raff. After all, as a close acquaintance put it one bright summer day, you need to care that much to begin to hate a person. And frankly, I don't care even a fraction to start to antagonize myself into a hurricane of hate and sneer.

families, I will have to start a new blog! My own family occupies nearly half the posts here. My extended family found itself being woven in a few other posts. And the families I have gotten to know in these 32 years I have spent in Mumbai are this close to forcing me to write about their dysfunctions. However, I am an ordinary man. I believe one must hold one's tongue or say "I don't want to say anything." rather than say it all!

Haha! Don't laugh! I really am serious. Were it not to be for families, I would not have had half the entertainment I have managed to laugh at. They are amazing sets of study for social behavior. Outside their sanctum called home, they take it on themselves to prove Shakespeare right: All the world's the stage to them. So they smile, be ever so perfect, walk about as if they are all united together and pretty much follow the rules laid down by Rajshri productions for a happy family.

However, once the arc lights are off and they are safely home, Wes Craven takes over and so the entire enterprise morphs into a horror show. Closer home, it would seem as if the bosses at Rajshri productions went drinking and decided to direct a horror family drama. For no one is what they seem to be. And everyone seems to spring a shock as if manners et al were burnt into a bloody curry...

Such is Life

2010-11-25T10:40:00.001-08:00

People seem to have lost all sense of orderliness these days. Well, let’s rephrase and edit that to: Many people in Mumbai seem to not have been educated in the art of queuing up at a bus stand!

The other day, I was standing at this bus stand outside Kurla station. As it is, at any point in time, the station seems all set to grumble at how disorganized and shabby it has made itself. To add to that, this particular bus stand forever keeps everyone busy with complaints about buses running late, dirty railings, and terrible crowds. So, it should come as no surprise that – amidst all this din – two champs decided to jump right in the middle of the line and then leap to the front. All this while passengers were trying to understand that the bus that had just arrived would be going only to Saki Naka and not to Andheri station.

Of course, everyone took their own sweet time to grasp that. And while they did, these champs got their expressions to melt into that of pure innocence as they stood there right in front of me and the queue fully aware of the fact that no one would notice and even if they did, no one would argue and spoil their morning…

Well every dog has his day. I just hope those fellows are not given more days than one!

Technorati Tags: people,Mumbai,crowds,Kurla,332,Andheri,travelling,BEST,Saki Naka

November 17th 2010

2010-11-17T20:51:00.000-08:00

I am by no angle a believer in all religions. Yet, when it comes to holidays, I am determined to believe them all and apply for leave to help the cause of each faith. So, it should come as no surprise that I was at home yesterday 'celebrating' Bakri Id!

Haha! Well, it was a celebration of sorts. I woke up a full hour later. I watched an episode of Home Improvement. And then, I sat and laughed at the rather amusing final episode of the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. After all, it's a truth universally acknowledged - in the circles I roam in - that there can be nothing funnier and hilarious than watching Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Catherine De Bourgh fight for their respective perspectives of honour, family, and happiness!

Later, I ran off to Strand - near Fountain and bought:

Waiting for Godot
The Alchemist

As if that wasn't enough, I hopped a street or two and landed - with every intention to splurge - at the Proline store that's right next ton Reid & Taylor, also at Fountain.

Needless to say, I spent as if I am all set to run off to Canada the next day. I bought t-shirts, shirts, a sweat shirt, and didn't bother to look at the receipt.

It's only in the evening when I was at home and trying out my new 'collection' that I realized one of the t-shirts had two tiny tears around a very noticeable area.

"You should have checked."

Actually, I tried just three of the eight I grabbed from that store. But telling Mother this is like offering your neck willingly to the guillotine: So I decided against it. I hit upon a rather lovely idea: I lied.

"I did check," I lied. "This was the only one I didn't."
"Oh I hope you have the receipt."
"Of course, I do."

"And the labels?"
"Yes. And I showed her a whole set of them."

"All these?"
"No just these" - and I separated the ones associated with the t-shirt from the lot.

"How can you be sure?"
"Because, Mother, I bought it - that's why."

"Oh but you're sure this is the one?" she asked as she lifted a label that belonged to another t-shirt.
"Not that one Mother, this one this one!" And I held up the right one.

"Oh but you never know for sure."
"Yes, but I do."

"Well, I'm keeping ALL the labels! Take them all with you. You can never be sure!"
"You mean you can never be sure."
"Yes yes. I have a terrible experience before."
"But I haven't Mother. I know for a-"

"No harm in taking them, is there?"
"Well no but-"
"Then take them all." And with an air of finality, she dumped them all into a bag.

Well, I have lived quite a checkered life - things did change rather slowly in between, but change they did. However, one thing that has never changed is Mother's finality in every conversation. It has stood there - high above every other pedestal of confabulation and never ever yielded to pressure.

And since - now - I am too old for the drama, I just let her pedestal be and quietly go pay my obeisance to the one stand on!

November 28th 2010

2010-11-17T20:10:00.000-08:00

And so I begin November 18th 2010. Traffic was generous today. I wasn't delayed for more than three seconds at any signal between Kurla and Marol Pipeline. Probably, it's fed up of my whining and complaining. Well, there's a saying: Ask and it shall be given. And I think I did do that in a roundabout way!

Acheland By Night

2010-11-16T10:02:00.000-08:00

My head's in better shape now. Yesternight, it was all set to split into several iron rods and hammer the life out of me. In fact, I have a feeling it might have already run a prototype of that around 3 in the night. For what else can explain the excruciating pain that made me think about repenting for my sins as if it were my last day in Mumbai - India, in particular and the world in general? Oh the agony I went through was something I had never experienced before.

I couldn't even shift my head on my pillow. Were I to do that, my neck would ache and a thick log of pain would hammer at the sides of my head. Somewhere around 4, I thought I had better take a Crocin - it makes sense to fight and die than just, you know, die. Well, sometime later, I woke up again, this time wondering whether I did indeed take that Crocin I was thinking about earlier.

You see I couldn't quite remember. Snapshots of the act passed through my memory - I remembered peering out of the window, I remember the beam from the headlights of a car grazing the window panes, I recollected throwing the foil on the dustbin, but I wasn't quite sure of the last memory.

However, I was quite sure I did look out of the window. I had a heavy swing in my step that made me walk as if I were inebriated. And as I was steadying myself - I remembered - I saw those cars in the compound.
So, yes, I did take that Crocin. My eyes were droopy again and I thought it best to let them roll off to sleep.
And thus, the night passed - in pain, delirium, and unusual agony...

The Darkness Come Alive

2010-11-15T20:23:00.000-08:00

The days pass oblivious of the spirit that suffers. Well, the spirit doesn't care about their lack of affection and cares not even to make an attempt to change that equation either.

It's an impasse - the nights are silent on the matter. They don't want to interfere and stop the rain that the eyes have to bear.

The drudgery is deader than the pan in which fry the potatoes. The sizzle at least hints at a lease of life therein amidst the oil that crackles in the heat. Here, in the midst of all the work, din, and the travel, the spirit is dead. And feels nothing about the wear and tear.

I was walking across the shores - the shores I cross so often - when this same spirit hobbled along to my side. Its hair was a mass of cobweb and its face stricken with the conscience of sin. The robe it wore to cover the absurdity of its existence was in shreds. And yet, not once did it get carried away by the breeze that came to meet it from the sea.

We walked in silence. That was what we both wanted: Silence. We left prints in the sand that were washed into the tide. We saw the line - far off and yet somehow close - that wobbled into a haze as it engulfed the sea and sky. We let the trees make some music with notes unknown.

But nowhere near - and in none of these - did we find what we had set out for...

About Telephones, Talk, and Time

2010-11-06T08:51:00.000-07:00

I have no idea how people can talk for hours on the phone. I have never managed to plough beyond say 20 minutes - that too with great difficulty. I hem and haw and very subtly imply that I must bring the conversation to a close. But well, people choose to simply not remember what subtlety is. Instead, they plough on and on about how:

Terrible travelling in Mumbai is.
Tired they get everyday.
Difficult it is to live life in Mumbai.
We haven't met in ages and it's high time we do so.
Impossible that is given the erratic work hours we put in.

And then of course, a few remembrances are thrown in. We - the person at the other end of the line and I - remember:

The time we were working and that really noisome colleague who never ever asked to get along with us.
The time someone pulled a fast one on the project manager.
How we invented excuses to not attend A's wedding - all because she invited us via e-mail!
The big showdown between C and D and how D then dated E.

Finally, to wrap up, we insist that we will keep in touch, ask our helloes to be sent over to each other's families, and then either I or the one at the other end of the line have to hurry into a meeting or have to go catch a train or bus. Thus ends a conversation that is sure to repeat its performance a few days later.

Now all this just takes 20 minutes and that too is stretching the time limit a little too much to accommodate my desire for drama.

And yet there are people around me who wax eloquent on a call for more than an hour. Well, I think I ought to take lessons from them.

I breathe and so do they. So, if they can talk for an hour, so can I!

Notes on Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness

2010-11-06T08:26:00.000-07:00

Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness

Very sordid bleak read. It has all the elements of a mind on the verge of a phenomenal change - a change that will take its owner into a dark land of immense grief and languidness. At least that's the impression Conrad leaves you with after Page 23 of the novella. The narrative never ever speeds up. Its pace is that of a story teller who seems to have been so affected by the background of the tale he is spinning, he doesn't want to get to the point that wrecked havoc on him. So he slackens the pace at which he talks about the incidents as if he truly dreads arriving at even the remotest hint of what slammed him into a possible depression.

His descriptions seem to be a product of an imagination fed on lonely desolate islands and a feeling of aloofness from society. It's rather strange since Conrad travelled the world and was a sailor.

In more ways than one, he drives home the fact that the land was arid and so, massacred the senses of the foreigners who landed there. Apparently, in the land he talks about, even the most gentle people threw open their doors to a fanciful spectacular fit of violence....

Grime and Bland Travels Ltd

2010-11-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

1st November 2010

I still travel to Andheri to earn my bread and butter. But this time, I trot to Kurla, take the 332, and then let the 332 throw me off at Leela Business Park.

Kurla is this nondescript station lying - and lamenting - along the Central line. It has no personality and never ever attempted to wear anything fancy either. It's no surprise then that it wears a tattered apron as a road just outside Platform no. 1. And that road takes you through several rags that act as lanes that go all about the place as if they were salespeople peddling dirt in the winters and muck in the monsoons.

One of these rags happens to take you to the bus depot and a shred of that rag leads you to the bus stand for the 332. The stand wears the nature of the city it stands in - it's crowded, not at all luxurious, makes you sweat in five minutes, and lets the Sun irritate you.

Well, so much for the stand. As for the bus route it stands for, the less said the better. A few years ago, the BEST did run double deckers on this route. Not that that eased traffic, it's just that you could somehow manage to find a seat within 10 minutes of you standing in line.

And then the BEST decided that it had - not even the Lord knows why - made a grievous error and pulled out all the double deckers plying to and fro on this route.

Needless to say, but say I must, the single deckers cannot weather the ever-increasing workforce using this route. The lines now extend right to the end of the depot and the Sun and the rain have a marvellous time spoiling your mood and clothes.

But well, since I know single deckers and Kurla are to be my - er - acquaintances for a while, I will just sigh, roll my eyes, throw my hands up, and try to read Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness on my way!

The Great Indian Packing Adventure

2010-11-01T17:54:00.000-07:00

25th October 2010

I have yet to understand why women make such an elaborate fuss about packing while men pack without much ado!

I am to visit Bangalore tomorrow. And so, I have to fill a few bags with things I will use there. Of course, I am no travelling circus and so, cannot travel with my entire wardrobe. I am - also - not a mobile library and so, cannot carry all the books I have to. Which is why, I rummaged through my belongings and picked:

Three sets of clothes
Four lightweight books
A notebook

And, of course,

The flight tickets and the necessary identification. Apparently, these days you have to prove that you are indeed what you make yourself out to be!

Well, all this took me merely 10 minutes to decide upon.

Around the time I took to finalizing my things, Mother Dearest decided to pack a few things as well. Sister Dearest wants a long list of 'few things' to be sent. And the safe places they have been kept in are known only to the Home Ministry. Mother - needless to say - never lets that ministry out of sight nor let it go out of her control. And so she took the list under her care. She re-did the list a few days ago, got it cross-checked with Sister Dearest via Skype, and added a 'few extra things' the day she finalized it all. So the day she was to pack, I thought she'd finish ahead of me.

Well, it turned out to be just the opposite.

There I was at 10:30 am with my bundle of clothes and books waiting to be allocated a bag and there she was with every thing on her list all about the place.

"Mother," I said, "Isn't it high time you just throw everything into the bag?"
"Oh yes yes, I am searching her (Sister Dearest's) cupboard. And it's such a mess."
"So I am sure you're cleaning it up now."
"I cannot leave a mess that way."
"Mother, I am sure that's not on the list."
"Look," she said, determined to silence my innocent logic, "If you like to keep things just the way they are doesn't mean I am about to follow you. And anyway I am not coming in your way."

"But you are, Mother!" I said, exasperated, "We have been trying to finish packing since 9 in the morning."
"So?"
"So instead of just dumping things in the bag, here you are cleaning up a mess that isn't to be packed either."
"Dump things?! I don't dump things!"
"Well why don't you just learn to dump things then? It's so much simpler and faster you know."
"Yes yes, I know. One look at your cupboard is enough to convince me how useful that trait is!"
"Now Mother what you are doing is known as changing the topic."
"I'm not."

"Yes you are. What has my cupboard got to do with dumping?"
"I don't like to dump."
"But why? It's so much faster than keeping things one by one. If I were you, I would have finished all of this by now. Yet here you are still packing!"
"Don't you dare to teach me, okay?" reminded Mother Dearest, "I'll do just as I please just as you do whatever you want to."

And so, in the face of such a water-tight deal, I had to acquaint myself with the art of shutting up and rummaging through my drawer for the charger I had forgotten about.

----

An hour later, Mother had - frankly - done quite a commendable job: I was to carry two bags and she had segregated their contents just the way a woman does - with precision and order. As she went about fine-tuning what I thought was done already and what she thought needed to be wrapped up well, she decided to serve me dosages of the horrors of flying.

"You know Amitabh Bachchan?" she asked.
"No I don't."
"Well," she continued least bothered about my answer, "He flew to London the other day."
"And?"
"And the airline lost his baggage."
"Really?"
"Yes! He was stranded there for two hours! So much trouble no?"
"Yes; and given the fact that I am to fly for the first time, you have no idea how thrilled I am to hear that!"

"Oh don't be ridiculous."
"But of course Mother; here I am flying for the first time and there you are telling me tales from the flying crypt! Next you'll tell me not to poke my head out of the window just in case Dracula drops by for lunch!"
"For your kind information, I know the windows have glass panes that don't open. And it was just his baggage that got lost."
"Dracula's?"
"Bachchan's! Why will I talk of Dracula?! You're hopeless!"
"Well Mother you realize that's exactly what you're making me think about flying?"
"Well," she said laughing, "I was just telling you. It's not going to happen to you."
"Then why tell me?"

"Well, I'm just telling you so that you be careful."
"With my baggage in the cargo Mother, there's no way I can do anything about it unless-"
"Unless what?"
"Unless I ask to be dumped with my cargo."
"You ARE being ridiculous you know."
"Well, that way I guarantee that I and my baggage travel together and onto the baggage-claim counter!"
"You've finished packing, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"So let me pack in peace then. Go do something else!"

The arrow flies by day and rests at night

2010-10-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

I'm so sleepy. I can see what I have to, but I am beginning to think it's all a dream. Which speaks volumes of the type of dreams my mind is into. For here I am seeing the PC screen and on the point of thinking that to be a dream.

One doesn't think of screens in a dream. Usually, it's always money or an exotic location where you have your legs up on the best table on the beach and you care not what time it is.

Oh but I do care - at least right now as I realized it's all true and happening for real.

I think I must be off to bed now. It's 11:39 pm anyway. It's Mumbai I stay in for sure and yet now, at 11:39 pm and a few seconds, I can hear just the fan and its blades hurrying after each other and throwing a blast of breeze down my neck.

Yes, it's time to sleep. And I hope to sleep splendidly.

Sleep is in the Yawn and so changes the Yarn

2010-10-24T11:05:00.000-07:00

I am tired of the episodic format. I haven't even reached the 200 mark as yet and already a groan makes me sigh whenever I write the number of the post.

So, I am now to do away with the serialized format and just write whatever decides to drop into my head. Goodness what a task that will be. But I think I'll tackle it the way I tackled the stupidity of the episodes.:)

Episode 145: Sane is the Insanity of Mind

2010-10-24T10:59:00.000-07:00

The other day, I began to worry whether I had lost my sense of well being: I hadn’t been reaching office on time, I never quite felt a need to be interested in finishing a task, and I most definitely wanted a lot of money at the end of each month.

The salary did bring in money but it isn’t – as every other man and woman will inform you – a lot of money. And it always has taxes cut out of it, provident fund snipped out of it, and a number of other irritating factors slashing the amount you actually see in your bank account.

So, as I said, I always felt I needed money and yet I could not make it on time to work. Not that I sweated profusely in the night worrying about my behaviour, but it did seem to be a cause of concern. After all, I was never known to walk in at 11! But the last week had seen me flout my own rules that I had laid for myself and yawn my way to my desk at 11:30.

Naturally then, I began to wonder whether I had lost my senses or was it time to marry and maintain a wife to nag me to work on time?

Well, I was simply wondering and bothering.

An hour after I began to let my thoughts fret and fume about my behaviour, I realized that I am not the only one who has such bouts of illogical temporarily abnormal conduct. There are thousands and thousands of people who at some point in time have let themselves just flow with the irrational tide of thought in their heads and then regretted and rectified it all in the nick of time.

I have no specific examples to mention about such cases. But often, I have noticed colleagues, acquaintances, and even relatives go – as the English say – off the deep end. They tend to not talk the way they always do, aren’t exactly communicative, and destroy all notions of they being approachable.

And then all of a sudden – as if some one hit the reset button – they throw this rather hideous suit of character and go back to the selves they were before.

Of course, I will not want to drop names for the benefit of all. But yes, I have observed this.

So, I think I am rather sane when I say I am allowed to go berserk at times.

The problem is: I need company doing so. So, the next time I do go off the deep end, I’ll allow myself to believe that each continent has someone following me the time I do go berserk.

After all, it isn’t expensive and painful to think of a pretence, is it?

Episode 144: The Metro Games

2010-10-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

I was at the breakfast table whiling away my time with the bread and cheese. The tea had grown cold owing to my lack of attention and I wasn’t in a mood to rectify that flaw. Actually, I was in two minds: I was wondering whether I should – you know – gulp the tea down and get rid of the cold gaze that came my way as I looked down into the bowl. I was also wondering whether doing so will wittle down my time at the table.

It was – as you may have concluded – quite a tough train of thought to manoeuvre. And I had not the courage to drum up another. It takes effort and these days, I try to not let effort involve itself with me. So, I did what came naturally to me: I stared out of the window. A full minute after I had begun to enjoy this rather placid staid and useless chore, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Oh hi! You’re at home today?"

Well, if I wasn’t at home, not even my ghost will have had answered a call placed to my landline number. But I refrained from snapping back. That too takes effort.
Instead, I smilled and said, "Oh yes I am – finally!"
"So how fare your walks in Andheri?"
"Well, the less said the better."
"I know! That place has become such a headache."
"I know. With all those things being constructed there, it’s a real headache."
"And there doesn’t seem to be a respite."
"I doubt there ever will be. Going by the way things are, I doubt that."
"Andheri is no longer a place to work."
"Oh it was never a place to work. First, it was the roads. Then came the flyovers-"
"-and now it’s the Metro."
"Oh yes indeed, the Metro. That’s another element in the recipe for disaster."
"Haha."

"Well, seriously, first when there wasn’t the space to walk and drive, they decided to widen the roads. That they said will solve the problem. Two years later, as traffic exploded and people tripled in number, they jerked their knees and out came plans for the flyovers. Well, nothing changed as you know. Andheri East still suffers from traffic jams and now those jams are on the flyovers as well. And now they think of building the Metro over those flyovers."
"Haha!"
"Well, God alone knows what they are upto. I for one think the Metro is a colossal waste of everything. And it will only add to the traffic jams. Take Chakala junction for example. The trains are to run at an interval of three to four minutes? So, during peak hours, you can expect a flood of human beings descending down Chakala station and onto Chakala junction every five minutes. The result is something I don’t want to imagine!"
"Well, in the West, they did realize the stupidity of such knee-jerk reaction to problems and now don’t simply build. On the contrary, they encourage people to use alternative modes of transport such as the bicycle."

"Oh yes, I know there are cycling lanes there. Here, well, the less said the better."
"Haha. They made a mess of the CWG too."
"Oh that! That was so embarrassing. You see India mustn’t think of hosting such events. They do have the capability but don’t have any idea how to make use of it. It was such a spectacular waste of time. I just refused to follow those games."
"And now they want to host the Olympics!"
"Well, if they do that, I will personally attend to arrangements for a signature campaign against it!"
"Haha! Oh shoot I have to run. I have piano class now; Bach this time."
"Well, don’t forget the air on the strings!"
"No no, ha ha! Bye bye!"

And I went back to staring out of the window.

Episode 143: Stupidly Insipid

2010-10-19T05:24:00.000-07:00

I have not read Rohinton Mistry's Such a Long Journey (SALJ). But that should not stop me from saying that it's needlessly dropped from the BA syllabus. After all, the ones who did ask for it to be dropped haven't read it either.

Perhaps, now, we can all ask to be included in the education committees of Mumbai University. We have all - you see - not read anything of what it prescribes. All we have done is heard about them.

So, since the University vice-chancellor thinks listening to 20-year olds is the best way to decide what's to be and what's not to be taught in SYBA, I think we must quite logically tell him to include Playboy in the portion now. We haven't read that, we have heard a lot about it, and what's more! Everyone who is 20 and above WANTS to know more about it. And finally, to see to it that he does abide, we must all take turns to twist his arm about and throw a lot of saffron in his face!

It's deplorable, really. I thought the Shiv Sena wasn't to wash its hands on, and with, anything English. But its goes right ahead and does much worse.

I think it's high time I- a Maharashtrian - get a job in Pune or Bangalore.

Episode 142: The Andheri Diary

2010-10-19T05:11:00.000-07:00

I have complained umpteen times about Andheri. And yet I never seem to lose interest in doing so all over again. Andheri - Andheri East in particular - is no place for humanity to thrive. It revels in smoke from the several Honda Citys, Maruti Swifts, and grovelling BEST buses. It wears a bland expression all throughout the stretch it calls its own: The buildings forever look shabby or have suffered a wardrobe malfunction. If not that, then their bodies have yet to be put together by the builder who isn't ashamed of leaving his creation bare and incomplete.

Then of course, there's the spectacular mess called the Metro. At times, it seems it will forever be in the throes of construction. They - Reliance - keep saying they are ahead of the schedule, etc, etc. But you never are convinced as you pass incomplete pillars and yawning gaps in the road that await some sort of concrete food. Reliance is in no hurry - it's very obvious. The road that suffers on account of the metro forever is narrowed and narrows down even further every Friday. One Friday, they closed it down and so, all the buses and their bus drivers grovelled, blessed the air with the choicest of Greek and Latin that guarantee a monk a fatal heart attack, and then swerved around to head back to the road they came from.

Legend has it that they aim to bridge the line from Andheri West to Andheri East without stopping rail traffic on the Western line - the line they have to cross. It's very ambitious and very spectacular. And equally spectacular is the sneer and grin on everyone's faces as they hear that and look at the mess standing around Andheri station. That mess needs no philosopher to tell you of the ensuing delays and hassles that are to follow when Reliance attempts to build history. Not that I have anything against it, but well, if you know you cannot aim to own the Moon, why float an IPO in its name!

Episode 141: The Heart of the Matter

2010-09-03T22:06:00.000-07:00

The day was pretty unusual: I hadn't missed my bus, hadn't reached late, and hadn't a terrible workload to deal with either. So, to balance this rather swell set of happenings, I called up Veronica.

Veronica is this woman who will never forget anything - not even a slight you made three or four years ago. I remember the first time I met her, I had decided I was not to pretend to avoid her for I had no interest in pretending at all. I just wanted to avoid her. She was pretty - even back then - and she realized she had this uncanny knack of getting any man to do anything for her. Well, not all men succumbed to her eyelashes, but many - who mattered - did. Naturally then, Veronica had a field day at work getting everyone to do just as she wanted them to: She got the new employees - all men of course - to bring her coffee, batted her eyelashes to get a raise, and almost always ensured her desk was where every reckless young man made his way to.

A small group of wise women knew they had to stay away from her and that's exactly what they did: They would smile at her, say hi hello, and acknowledge her. But beyond that, there was never a word of conversation.

However, the rest of the female populace in the office took a strong exception to this sexy volcano. Some made their disgust very evident with their eyes. Some used their tongues, and some - the highly advanced cunning vixens (as she termed them) - befriended her and then tried to stab her in the back. But stabbing Veronica in the back is akin to punching a boxer in his abdomen: You know you'll have a heavy price to pay and just have to count your days until the price is made known to you. Veronica did that to all of them - with a million-dollar smile to boot, and managed to emerge unscathed out of the entire catfight.

I observed all of this and it was rather amusing to see how she flicked her hair and got the manager to follow her to her desk. I noticed how she ticked off the 'vixens' and it was hilarious to see her pack them off with a piece of her mind served with a lot of sugar to help them cope with its bitter crust. And amidst all this observation and noticing, I began to like her style.

Well, we began talking - we didn't date though - and by the time I resigned, we were thick friends. So that day - three years after we got to know each other - as I sat amused by the sheer correctness of the events of the day, I knew I had to call her to usurp it all and thus, balance the equation.

I dialled her number and a lazy voice .
"Well what is it?"
"Oh I just called to say hi hello," I said.
"Really now? I am sure you are lying. There's always something when you call."
"Oh believe me - there's nothing at all. How have you been?"
She hemmed and hawwed and "Oh I have been okay," she said as if that was the only line available to her at the moment.
"Okay? You can never be only okay."
"Why? What makes you say that?"
"Well, between the two of us, you are the celebrity."

That was enough for her to sprinkle her delightful laugh into her receiver.

"Oh you are always the flatterer! You're so good at it."
"Oh come on! Who's the one flying off to Israel? You. Who's the one spending time in Goa? You."
"The trip to Israel was part of the holy land trip."
"Well whatever it is, at least you go on trips. I don't even get to do that."
"And whose fault is it? You never want to disrupt your routine."
"Well-"
"Yes yes, I know! You're regimented and all that. You just don't have a life, do you?"

That was sad but true. And I had to agree with a: "Ya ya, say what you want to."

"Haha! So what's new with you?"
"Well nothing. I was just so bored. So I thought I'd call."
"Well, look - let's meet up."
"Okay sure! What time and where?"
"Oh the usual."
"All right. See you then."

---

I was, as usually is the case when I have to meet Veronica, sitting at The CCD in Bandra. And as usual, she walked in half an hour late. There was no point taking her to task. By then, Veronica was synonymous with late arrivals: It was taken for granted - just like a theorem that no one wants to prove wrong.

"So," I said, as I brushed aside my observation of she proving the theorem right again, "how have you been?"
"Well, let's order."
"Okay."

We ordered and then she shut up. This was an indication that:

A storm had broken out not too long ago.
The storm concerned one of her love interests.
And that the storm had been bravely weathered - either the love interest was dumped or the lover interest dumped her seconds before she was to dump him.

I took a deep breath for I knew she was about to launch into her narrative, but no narrative came out of her mouth for a minute. Instead, she just sat there looked at the sea, then looked at me, removed her goggles, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and tapped impatiently on the table. Finally, as this behaviour began to baffle me, she barked: "You haven't asked me yet. How can you be so mean? You ALWAYS ask, don't you?"

"Oh that!" I said as I remembered she always loved to be asked, "Well, what happened?"
And as I asked that, she simmered down and sat like a schoolgirl and "People no?" she said, with irritation all over her lips, "They can be really irritating!"
"Irritating? Why why?"
"They don't even come and tell."
"Yes, but that depends on what do you want them to tell."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if you want to know about, say, their sex lives, I doubt they'll walk upto you and describe what they did last night."
"Oh shut up! You know I am not talking about that!"
"Well, that was just a guess. I am always wrong."
"Oh it's about Sabina."
"Sabina? Who's Sabina now?"
"Sabina man! You don't know Sabina?"
"No."
"She's the one who sat next to you, remember? The Lady Sugar?"
"Oh that Sabina!"

Sabina was this really really fair lass who coated all she had to say with "Dear!", "Darling!", and other such similar terms. I remember Veronica had a tiff with her, but I couldn't quite recollect the specifics of that quarrel.

"Oh okay! That Sabina! Yes, I remember her."
"She's seeing Shawn!"
"Shawn!?"
"Yes, and that too all behind my back!"
"You don't expect them to make love in front of your back, do you?"
"Will you not crack jokes, please? I am so much in pain here and you are laughing!"

"Well, what can I do?"
"At least say something I'd like to hear?"
"Oh okay: So sad my dear! I feel so sorry for you - but wait a second! Didn't you and Shawn break up ages ago?!"
"That's not exactly what I wanted to hear. But, yes we did."
"So? Why are you bothered about it?"
"Because no one came and told me."
"Haha! Veronica! What do you think you are? I doubt even the Queen wants to know that they are dating! And you are all whiney that they didn't tell you?"
"Well, at least one of them should have come and told me! Both kept denying despite I hinting as much."
"Oh! That is sad. Wonder why they kept it such a big secret?"
"Well, they know what a big mouthpiece you are!"
"Excuse me! I am not a mouthpiece! Sabina is."
"Well, let's say you are a degree less a mouthpiece than she is!"
"Tch! You are incorrugated."
"Incorrigible you mean?"
"Yes yes! That only!"

"But I don't understand what's troubling you? That they are dating? Or you did not know?"
"Well, the latter."

I rolled my eyes.

"Does it matter?" I said as I sipped my mango smoothie, "You don't need to know everything you know."
"Oh it does! The whole office knew!"
"So what if the whole office knew? Did they deny you a raise just because you didn't know?"
"Oh," she said, a little amused as if that had never struck her, "if you put it like that, I doubt it's that bad, is it?"

"Well, fact of the matter is that it isn't anything at all."
"Oh yes, but at least he should have told me no?"
"Well, what do you expect from someone who was not told he has been dumped until he finds a certain someone SMSing lovey-dovey nothings to another someone?"
"Fine! You made your point."
"Haha, let's have the brownie then!"
"But of course! I'd never let anything come between me and the brownie."

And that's exactly how it was: We dug into the brownie and she completely forgot that -15 minutes ago - she was in agony over a piece of news, which was of no spectacular consequence whatsoever.

Episode 140: The Review: The Name of The Rose

2010-08-14T05:27:00.000-07:00

The title reeks of romance and had I not to see the erstwhile James Bond listed as part of the cast, I will have skipped it in its entirety. However, The Name of The Rose doesn't live up to what its title implies and not even once pretends to be a lovey-dovey production. On the contrary, it has a whole bag of thrills in its script - with a tolerable assortment of gore - and it takes care to empty the contents of that bag at a pace that's just right for your senses.

Sean Connery stars as the monk who investigates some really nasty murders that occur when a debate between the Vatican clergy and the Franciscan monks is about to begin. Based on a novel of the same name by Umberto Eco, the film ventures into the same territory that the not-so-recent The Da Vinci Code frolicked in: The Catholic religion and the attempt to conceal the truth.

In this case, the bone of scandal is a certain book - Book Two of Aristotle's The Poetics - that is the crux of the matter. The book in question theorizes how to teach comedy and apparently, doesn't quite mind using Biblical characters in a rather brusque manner to make its point.

Naturally then, the wise old denizens decide that this is no instrument for the layman and bury it amidst several similar books in a forbidden library in a forbidden tower.

Needless to say but say I must, forbidden fruit always invites attention. One of the monks - a Greek translator - comes across this book and then the bodies start piling up in the hallways and kitchens of the monastery.

The year was 1986 when this 1327 AD thriller was shot. So you cannot complain about production values. The soundtrack, on the other hand, is marvellous: It fuses chants into a sweeping haunting score and sends a thin ice-cold thread of a shiver down your spine.

Director Jean-Jacques Annaud shoots this just as it has to be: as a period piece with the requisite amount of Gothic suspense. The pace is just right and never goes too slow (to enhance the eerie aura) or too fast (to ram down an overdose of chill thrills).

Of the cast:

Connery acts with clockwork precision. He dons the role with remarkable ease as if he were destined to portray William of Baskerville.
Christian Slater - as Connery's sidekick - may have had much to do but he ends up making it all look as if he were given just a one-line briefing: Keep your mouth open and appear bewildered.
Feodor Chaliapin, Jr. etches the feelings of an oldschool monk for a stern religious life with a vigour that's remarkable for his age. Watch him argue, persist in and hover around his point as Connery tries to make him realize that a little laughter does not a Satan call. It's a little surprising no one cast him again in some other Hollywoodian adventure.

Talking of all things supernatural, the film never makes it its duty to emphasize the mystical elements in the plot. Instead, it pretends to be an observer of the proceedings and dutifully records every moment without the slightest exaggeration.

The camerawork is adequate and lets you see what you have to at angles that are by now the standard for such thrillers. The lighting isn't all that gloomy either: At least it ensures the scenes are bright enough. And that applies for the dialogues as well: Connery infuses his lines with just the right spark that you find in a nonconformist monk. And the rest of the cast don't get carried away into needless melodramatic enunciations either.

With its running time a little more than two hours, The Name of The Rose wraps up its saga elegantly and does not involve bombastic sermons about what's right or wrong in the end. Instead, it decides to end quietly just when it knows there's no more to what it has to say.

Watch this one if you like your thrillers to not preach on Mount Sinai but be mixed with religious orders and shaken with a concoction of ancient legends and a subtle dash of class.

Episode 139: The Law-Abiding Citizen

2010-08-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

I walked out of the company premises and decided - as usual - to walk to the station. Andheri is no place that believes in serving its inhabitants or the employees who work there. Instead, it thinks it has done us all a service by allowing us to walk about and use its space.

So, it cares nothing about transport, about the traffic jams, and least of all about bridges. Anyway, I brushed aside its snub and kept walking. I had a friend to meet this Friday and I was not in a mood to allow anything to come in the way.

I walked past Tunga Paradise, then Tunga International, and sprinted towards Chakala Junction. Since Chakala more or less seems to be very keen on collapsing and dying any moment, I always make it a point to say a prayer for it at the Holy Family Church, located at the junction itself. Of course, I pray for myself too. After all, there's no point complaining about Mumbai to a Divine Authority and not putting a word or three about the state of your own affairs. Well, that's exactly what I did when I reached Chakala Junction.

Three minutes later, I dealt with the signal that followed. And another 10 minutes later, I was at the station. This friend of mine was to meet me at Fame Adlabs, Andheri - West. So obviously I had to cross over and the station stood in my way.

Now, I was very tired. I was very very tired. You know how it is after you finish work on a Friday evening. Your legs insist on going home, your hands insist on catching the train or bus home, but you still want to sit and gossip with a friend or two. So well, I had the same intention and this dirty not-so-little station would just not move and make things easy.

So I realized I had to take one of the bridges. Andheri station has - I think - three bridges. One at the Virar-end of the platforms(Bridge 1), one in the middle (Bridge 2), and another at the Churchgate-end (Bridge 3). The first two always have a TC around. The last one, the railway authorities think is used by decent people and so, no TC wanders there. I decided to take that bridge.

I climbed the stairs, got onto the bridge, got down from the stairs at the west end and lo and behold! A TC was what my eyes caught. I had inadvertently taken Bridge 2. And there was no going back. So I decided to battle it out.

TCs usually catch you on the basis of your gaze. If your eyes look through them, they'll never apprehend you. And so, I looked straight through him. That was - to put it mildly - a big mistake! The TC looked right through me, raised a hand and asked for my ticket.

"Ticket?"
"Yes, ticket please."
"I have coupons but I haven't punched them."
"Show me."
I showed him.
"You realize they are not valid then, do you?"
"Yes, but I was about to punch them."
"Please come this way," he said and I followed him.

I wasn't ashamed. Nor was I even that bothered to argue. However, I must admit that when I got to the TC's office, for a split second, my legs wanted to run away. But I didn't. Instead, I took a good look at its occupants that evening.

To my left, sat a bevy of beauties - all dressed as if they are about to attend a Page 3 party. To my right, sat this heavy stony TC who evidently took no interest in his job. He had a receipt book with him and I daresay he loved reading its contents.

The beauties were in no mood to pay anything at all. The lady TC who was handling them yelled and raved and ranted, but that did nothing to their eye linings nor their mascara. On the contrary, they yelled back and made it quite clear that they were not to be taken for a ride, never mind the fact that they were the ones in the wrong.

While I observed how stubborn all those ladies were, the TC who caught me referred me to the TC-in-charge.

"So you have not punched your coupons," he said after he had heard it all from my apprehender.
"Well, I wanted to. But that place was so crowded."
"You came from Andheri East to Andheri West to punch coupons?"
"Well, I just got down from the bus and took the bridge. And there's so much of a crowd that side. I could not punch it there."
"So you came this side to punch it? Well you could have punched it there itself."
"But there was no place there."
"A bus arrives every two minutes there. Do you expect me to believe that everyone gets down and runs over to Andheri West to book tickets?"
"Well, I don't know about them. I am talking about myself."
"Of course of course. But why didn't you punch them there rather than climbing the bridge and coming all the way here where it's equally crowded?"

I had half my mind on twisting his tongue with a pincer. The other half wanted me to slap him left, right, and centre, and punch him in his misters. But well, I am a law-abiding citizen - who just cannot try the other side of the law without being caught: So I played the tape all over again.
"Oh," I said, "there was so much of a crowd there. I could not."
"Well, you will have to pay for this then."
"Well," I said, "That's sad for I always book a ticket. And it's not like I am running away from you right now."

"No no," he said, his tone very apologetic yet firm all the same, "but you see unfortunately, we are checking today."
It was a lost battle and I was getting late. So I pretended to be the one who's wronged and asked: "How much is it?"
"254. Oh but you are going where now?"
"Dadar," I lied as my tongue wanted to use the choicest Greek and Latin I knew!
"Oh then I can add the fare for that in the fine receipt itself."
"No," I said, "thank you."
"Okay. Do you have four rupees change?"
"No!" I barked, "I don't."
"Okay. So sorry but it cannot be helped!"
"Yes yes I barked yet again, I know. You guys will never help."

He didn't snap back and left the office. In the meantime, the TC who caught me began to make a receipt and I thought it best to spew whatever I had in my head right on him. So, as he asked me for my signature, I made a sour face and tried to look as much as a villain as I could. Which is not much, but then I tried. And to add the definitive touch, I raised my voice.
"Where do I sign?" I roared.
"Here!"
"Okay!"

I signed and he tore the receipt and gave it to me.
In turn, I took it and slapped it on the table. "Keep it with you," I sneered, "Such an asshole you are!"
And I walked out of the station to catch the 235 to Fame Adlabs.

Episode 138: Hitch and Hike with Some Spite

2010-07-21T03:02:00.000-07:00

Travelling in Mumbai has become chaotic. Well, it always was chaotic. The only difference now is that it's chaotic at any point in time! Sometime during the 90s, I remember, Sundays were the days to travel in peace. The trains were empty and so were the buses. Rickshaws made not a fuss and taxis willingly went everywhere.

Now, in the 2000s, Sundays always see a maintenance block either on the Central or Western line. If not that, the trains are forever crowded. They are crowded in the afternoon, packed to capacity in the evening, and show no signs of vomiting the crowds out even in the night.

Buses are not that much of a pleasure to board either. Rickshaws and taxis no longer make you eager to travel in them as well. And worst of all, the roads haven't gotten any wider. Yes, the BMC does dig all the time and tars and cements every lane and highway twisting round apartment blocks and bazaars. And yes, they do it all in the name of progress and enhancement and whatever terminology they learnt over the weekend. But no, there's no enhancement much less progress and a whole lot of technology is just wasted away.

I wonder whether things will be any different when the Metro starts to operate. As it is, the mess that its construction has strewn all along the Versova-Andheri(Chakala)-Ghatkopar route makes Andheri look worse than hell during peak hours. Traffic takes its own sweet time to side-step all this mess as it winds away from Andheri station towards Chakala and MIDC and back.

Now imagine what will happen when, say, a swarm of 2000 or more people descend down the steps of Chakala Metro station onto the road! Since the authorities thought it very clever to build the metro atop the busiest road in Mumbai, it sure will come as no surprise if Chakala junction comes to a halt every time a metro local hurries past that station.

Well, sometime soon, Andheri is all set to collapse under the weight of its business and traffic and ditches. After all, how long can a patch of land silently let more than a million brain-dead people stomp all over it? Nirvana may strike any day.

Episoder 137: The Stranger

2010-07-16T03:33:00.000-07:00

I want it all - every note and every sound:
I feel I must it possess.
I desire it all - every move and every pound:
I'm ardent about it - I confess.

Yet as the rains make way for thunder;
As the Sun runs from the Moon;
I question it all and wonder:
Is it true - is it a little too soon?

For I have been through it all,
And survived sans a doctor.
I swam through the flood,
And a swamp and arose stronger.

Even so as the flame waltzes on the candle
And the breeze makes love to the curtain,
Desire and distrust each wear a sandal,
And live happily ever after in me for certain.

Episode 136: The Silver Wall

2010-07-16T01:58:00.000-07:00

I looked into a mirror,
That hung upon my wall.
It looked back at me,
And said nothing at all.

I noticed it had words that floated here and there-
A feeling here,
An emotion there,
And some angst everywhere.

I touched it with my finger,
And it pointed back at me.
I placed my face to it so near,
And it stared right back at me.

I saw a sigh, several falls;
And a myriad colours rise
And swirl into the halls
In which it kept the wise.

I saw it all, but there came no noise-
Not a sound, nor a note.
Fear I all things dumb and grim,
And so promptly the mirror I broke.

Episode 135: Downtown

2010-06-30T02:14:00.000-07:00

When was I happy last?
I don't know - let me see.
Was it in that room in the past,
That peeped into the marriage hall by the tree?

Perhaps I was happy then;
I would get home from work,
And just sit in that pen-
It never felt like clockwork.

The walls did sweat,
And wore the same suit for 32 years.
The tailor refused to stitch a new set,
But made holes to siphon off tears.

Water visited us for three hours,
And then decided to leave in two.
But then-just as a relationship sours-
Her minutes dwindled down to thirty-two.

We had an attic that climbed the wall.
We sent her guests-rags, tins, and bags.
And she served dust and entertained them all

The panes flew out one day.
The mosaics ran away.
The antenna was yanked off.
And the TV shut down for days.

A throat was caught.
Tears were shed.
And the bitter and sweet fought.
Slaps were brought,
And cheeks with it fed-
A recipe I was taught.

But it seems we were happy there;
We have no idea why.
Perhaps it was simpler there than elsewhere,
To breathe and watch the birds fly by.

Episode 134: The Review - Apocalypse Now: Redux

2010-06-19T20:54:00.000-07:00

The movie opens with some painful scenes. An army captain laments about how his life is not what he wanted it to be. He sits there in his room naked, drinks, smokes, cuts himself, has almost lost his mind, and doesn't quite know what to do next. Tragedy in uniform never was this well captured.

As for the movie, tragedy in film-making was never this well accomplished. While the first half battles beautifully and successfully for your attention, the second half makes its duty to make you run away. This I hardly expected from Francis Ford Coppola.

With a running time of 202 minutes, Apocalypse Now: Redux is all about the Vietnam war and the wretched cruel havoc that sliced through every American soldier who happened to be part of the operation. While it details the slow but sure degradation of the senses of these soldiers, it weaves together the tale of a Special Forces guy tasked with a mission to assassinate another Special Forces guy who -fed up with all the bloodshed-has turned insane and wages a war of his own deep in the jungles of Cambodia.

I have no complaints about the first half. It's splendid and no matter how many superlatives you use, you just cannot do justice to its description. The visuals are stunning. There's never a moment the cameraman lost his control on his art. The battle scenes are dipped in sunsets reeking of gold that swerve all over the screen and make it a delight to watch. The beauty of the shores and backwaters of the Philippines is passed off as Vietnam and the action scenes swirl in majestic hues of green and ocean blue. The battle scenes themselves are black comedy personified: The commanding officer (Robert Duvall) bothers more about his surfing than the danger his men face. And he decides to play Wagner in the midst of the noise that missiles and machine guns orchestrate.

Coppola scripts and captures a truly fearful ambience as the search unit makes it way down or up the river and the thrills are thrown in with just the right pace. But once the thrills are done with and the monologue starts off, inevitably, the film drags itself to the bottom of the river and mumbles to itself.

This is the veritable second half in which begins the deterioration.

The whole enterprise thereafter seems to have been shot on whims and fancies that ultimately decided to head nowhere. Even as the search party does reach its destination, you can sense the director doesn't quite know how to tie up his portmanteau and say goodbye.

So he dilly dallies. He throws in decapitated bodies, severed heads, mumbo-jumbo about the Vietnam war - all passed off as excuses why the rogue became a rogue after all. There was no need for an explanation, really. The agonies the army went through were established earlier on in the movie. So Marlon Brando repeating it all while the cameraman adds touches of arty cinema is quite irritating to watch.

I think Coppola got carried away - and it's easy for the artistic to fall for that - and ultimately was so in love with whatever he shot, he did not want to do away with anything. Either that or he shot the movie when he was high. In fact, I think Brando was on weed himself.

He's horrible as the alleged insane rogue. Apparently, he had put on weight and so, he's forever in the shadows. So you see none of the physical enigma that he is famous for. Worse is the fact that he doesn't look mean and doesn't even scare you - his love for decapitated bodies and severed heads notwithstanding. Brando is deadpan - almost like wood.

The aura that Coppola draws around Brando's character giggles and vanishes in thin air as Brando himself makes it to the screen. There's no command, no hint of power, scarcely a mean look, and he looks quite uninterested in making an effort to do his job. Let's say he chose to be a lump of meat embroidered with acres of fat and thought his name will shoot down all criticism of his act.

Harrison Ford is wasted in a two-minute role that could have been easily edited out. Why he allowed himself into this venture I have no clue. Perhaps the star cast attracted him into the venture, or maybe it was the money. Whatever it was, the role he landed needed skills that could have come with any Dick, Tom, or Harrylina!

A young Laurence Fishburne makes quite an impression as a 17-year old sailor and Martin Sheen's expressions make you feel the angst and depression his character toys with every second of the movie.

The soundtrack is in synch with the scenes and The Doors have been used extensively in the finale. However, the end comes as if it's served as a complimentary side dish to placate your annoyance with the entire course. And so you end up appreciating neither the music nor the scenes woven around it for you just want to finish your meal before you fall asleep.

All said and done, the movie brings out the tragedy of Vietnam with a flair necessary for such a saga. All the frustration is well filmed and the idiocy of the generals in charge makes for some nice black comedy. If only Coppola had to stick to subtlety as he did in the first half and not let himself get dragged into a rather Bollywoodish explosion of drama, Apocalypse now: Redux would not have limped in dreadful slow motion to the finishing line.

Episode 133: Finding Apollo

2010-06-16T02:41:00.000-07:00

The light's gone out;
Some say it's only for a while,
Till it walks back in,
Before we run a mile.

It's just a phase is what they say;
The linesman had earlier that fixed.
But it's in a daze is what its neighbours say-
To that reactions are mixed.

I left them all and looked for his soul;
In the drawer by my shelf-
Its body rough, its tip black,
with disrespect for itself.

I took one of his souls
-he has one for every whim-
And struck it on a path forlorn,
And there he was - alive but dim.

I perched him on his pedestal,
And his gaze flooded my room.
His robe was a sparkling petal,
That came not from any loom.

I had a lot to him to say.
But he wasn't in a mood to talk.
He sat still and shooed the dark away,
And its movements he did stalk.

So I drew the curtain,
and locked the doors,
Just to make certain:
This little light of mine stays indoors-
The world's no place for a bright lost urchin.

Episode 132: Bear No Fruit

2010-06-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

A four-letter word came my way,
With a disgusting little sway.

Her eyes were meant to go astray,
And write me a price to pay.

She swished her hand dipped in all things happy,
And filled the air with a fragrance sappy.

She sat there in my own chair,
And proceeded to tear my hair.

"I am blind," she said;
"Believe me I'm a mermaid.

I am the alpha of feeling,
And the omega of desiring.

I am everything,
I am that 'pid with many a wing."

"Yes, an idiot I am", I said,"No doubt about that.
But not that stupid to be led To believe all that.

You may be all of this and more.
But I am not blind-not anymore."

So the four-letter word with the disgusting little sway,
Made a face, wrapped up her wares
And died as she lost her way.

Episode 131: Measure Meagre, Measure Light

2010-06-09T23:08:00.000-07:00

Nothing have I to give:
My treasures look so paltry.
Feeling does not me forgive,
And love's a ruthless sentry.

Nothing in me is in plenty:
Godowns of it have I full;
Of baskets from the pantry,
With no delights to pull.

I lug this weight so light,
Throughout my sombre journey-
As light as air and not so bright
A case that needs an attorney.

Where have my belongings gone?
To whom do I belong?
The owned and owner are now alone.
Their address divorced their song.

Episode 130: The Lonely Storm

2010-06-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

I walk upon an ocean vast;
I think it knows no land.
I walk on waters so blue,
I can see no other feeling.

My gaze on my way is cast.
Fear holds my hand;
To me it's always true,
And stalks my travelling.

I walk as if life draws me on,
But I know it wants to leave.
I walk as if I have to trot on,
Or Sleep its magic will weave.

So I drift-
I might drown in all the thunder.
And I sift
Through questions thrown asunder.

Why this! Why me! Why this abyss!
One life I have and oh! What is this?!
I know not peace of mind, forget the bloody bliss!

Episode 129: 31 Crossington Square

2010-06-02T01:40:00.000-07:00

I stood and stood
By the side of the road
Till the traffic did erode.

I crossed and lo and behold!
Another lane to stroll.
So there I stood and stood
By the side of the roll.

The cars tumbled in,
The buses rumbed out;
I took my breath in,
And wished I had blacked out.

The clouds kept to themselves.
The breeze adjusted its veil.
My life sat on those shelves.
And chose to cover its tale.

Episode 128: Off to St. Unknown

2010-06-01T23:52:00.000-07:00

A fever grips my mind;
And so it's rather sick.
An aspirin I won't mind;
For I have to tick.

The trick doesn't work;
The spirit wants to fly.
The job I want to shirk;
The feeling needs to cry.

Tickets I can book.
Bags I can pack.
Wheretogo I haven't been to.
And I wonder if I'll come back.

Episode 127: The Wit Confesses

2010-06-01T23:15:00.000-07:00

The poet loves modesty;
The poet's such a shame.
The poet's such a travesty;
The poet's so lame.

The heart he won't listen to;
The thought he won't count.
The Word he won't turn to;
The throne he won't dismount.

I wonder why should I bother.
Should I even care?
To tell the poet himself to gather,
And lost himself declare...

Episode 126: Who was She?

2010-05-31T00:17:00.000-07:00

The weekend was as bland as it wanted to be. I decided to go shopping and then - given the lurid heat that slapped my face through the windows - I decided against it. I wanted to go bicycling to Don Bosco's, Matunga, and then head off towards Five Gardens just for the heck of it. But no, the heat just thwarted all plans for that escapade.

I ended up watching this horror movie - well, not a horror movie, more of a suspense thriller actually. It's known far and wide in the hinterland of India and in the suburbs of Mumbai as Woh Kaun Thi?

It begins well and if you haven't a clue about what it is, it sends a tingling feeling of an easy scare down your spine. Sadhana has this rather mischievous smile on as she carries herself along with her white saree and blouse into Manoj Kumar's car on a rainy stormy night. Well, it could not have been a sunny day or you would have not thought her a ghost, would you?

Anyway, Sadhana takes him to a cemetery, shows him her 32 horses, and disappears amidst a mist generated quite tackily by the production unit. But well, those were the days people pardoned it all as long as you frightened them really well. And Woh Kaun Thi? does manage to do just that.

Helen is needlessly thrown into the proceedings as Manoj Kumar's love interest. No, she doesn't get to seduce nor does she get to expose. And quite expectedly, they get rid of her 20 minutes down the line. Manoj now has to marry, he consents to his mother's choice of a bride, marries without taking a look at the girl, lifts her veil, and lo and behold! He realizes he has married the ghost!

I think it's silly of him to not have even seen the girl. Every husband-to-be does want to see the bride-to-be - that was the norm even back then. So I wonder why Manoj Kumar was so stupid. That aside, inspite of he being a doctor, his belief in supernatural phenomena was akin to that of an ignorant Nirupa Roy! I doubt doctors were this way even back then. But well, Manoj Kumar chose to be an exception. And that's why the movie stretched to a royal two hours and 22 minutes!

The songs are pretty good and, as usual, are added needlessly. However, Naina Barse is the best of them all and does have a job to do in the movie. Lata makes it a benchmark for haunting ditties and Sadhana puts her heart and soul into bringing its haunting feeling on screen.

So, is the movie good, bad, what? Well, it's good vintage stuff. No bad acting, people sing with emotion, and the ghostly ambience is well spun.

But do remember: This was released during the black-and-white era. Pardon the effects, pardon the fact that you may even guess the storyline, pardon the fact that at times a rainy night is shown to be as bright as day, pardon the fact that no one wants to explain why the wipers of the car do not work when Sadhana sits in the car, pardon a few other things as well, and you'll love how Sadhana tries to scare the pants and sanity off Manoj Kumar.

Episode 125: This Saucer Doesn't Catch The Spill

2010-05-24T03:27:00.000-07:00

You did not have to be a psychotic student of rocket science to deduce that Kites was all set to bomb. In fact, it bombed the day its posters released. Oh really, I mean that! Take a look at them: You see Hritik Roshan walking in the desert like a thakela* aadmi**, you see Barbara - well, not in the mori*** - but against the sky looking nowhere in particular. And yes, you see one big dazzling spot of light behind Hritik and that's supposed to be the thirsty Mexican Sun.

That description sounds boring no? But then that's what the production is: Spectacularly boring. To make matters even clearer, the trailers turned up - complete with Barbara semi-naked in the Mexican desert, trying hard to cover her naked ignorance of facial expressions and Hritik Roshan showing off an accent and - of course - his dancing skills. Evidently, that fellow just can not believe his luck that he is born Indian. He's been peddling himself off as some Greek guy from the Mediterranean region with so much aggression, I have a hard time believing his luck is so damn rotten.

Anyway, the trailers came and went and all they did was cause men to slip on the drool that flowed out of their mouths; courtesy Moriji. The action scenes looked so blah, Bond's martini must have hardly been shaken, forget stirred. But even then no one in the production team bothered to sit up and do some damage control.

"Well," they said to themselves, "We have the Roshans, we have the naked babe, we have so much money, we have two versions of the movie - one for the dumb and one for the dumber - it's a recipe that will make millions!"

Sigh! Indians! Reliance! And their stupid ways of making movies! They never never learn. I'll be surprised if Kites even recovers production costs. The manner in which they have splashed money and prints all over USA, it's as if someone in the US branch of marketing knows what a colossal mess this is and is trying hard to get some, if not all, in that country to watch this Indo-Mexican cockatoo of a tail.

As for India, the verdict is in. Yes, Hritik can dance - no denying that. Yes, Barbara Mori is Playboy material - no denying that either. And yes, Anurag Basu has used all the tricks in his book to make a sadela**** thakela 18th century plot look appealing. But no, we have seen it all (Yawn!), seen better (Yawn Yawn!), and yes! We aren't that dumb to not fall asleep!

*thakela = sad, tired (Hindi)
**aadmi = man (Hindi)
***mori = bathroom (Marathi)
****sadela = rotten (Hindi)

Episode 124: And We Talk of The Divide

2010-04-25T04:01:00.000-07:00

"Somehow you know these people here? They don't seem to have it."
"Here where?"
"Tch, here here! This place - S--- where we are now!"
"I see. And what do they don't have now?"
"I don't know."
"Then how do you know they don't have it?"
"Oh you're being difficult."
"Well, seriously what do they don't have?"
"Well you know when we were in U--, those people there - they had this class!"
"I see! Class!"

"Yes, you know there was this thing in them - I don't see that in these people here."
"Whew! What thing now?"
"Can't you understand?"
"No."
"Well! That thing - you know! That culture in them."
"You mean to say they have no sense of style?"
"Oh yes exactly - Tribals! All of them!"
"Tribals?!"

"Yes, those savages you come across in Rwanda? Those kind of tribals."
"You sure do have an opinion about them."
"Well, see. I can't help that! Have you notice them when they come to Church? They are dead by the time they are seated in the pews."
"I know!"
"And there at U--, they were just the opposite. They had life in them. There was this exuberance and enthusiasm about them."
"Well, I think it has something to do with they being from South Mumbai."
"Really? And I thought I and only I subscribe to that idea."
"Well, I think I am beginning to believe that myself."
"Haha! Really now?"
"Oh yes, apparently, someone did mention in a newspaper article how people from South Mumbai are more cultured than the ones in the suburbs."

"Do you even hear yourself? You sound like me."
"Well, I have heard you so often, I had better start it off myself before you do."
"Haha! Very funny!"
"Then what? It's the same tape that you keep playing."
"Well, never mind. You are so useless - you'll never notice the thing."
"What thing?!"
"Oh never mind! I should have known. You are not from South Mumbai either!"

Episode 123: We're still Talking

2010-04-23T08:57:00.000-07:00

http://bbcbroadcasts.blogspot.com/2010/04/spite.html

Episode 122: Talk to Me

2010-04-23T08:56:00.000-07:00

http://bbcbroadcasts.blogspot.com/2010/04/usual.html

Episode 121: The SEEPZ-Andheri-Bandra-Sion Travelogue

2010-04-22T12:04:00.000-07:00

Sigh! Travelling is getting increasingly difficult.

For some time, I tried the train-bus route: I would walk to the station - Andheri station that is - then take the train to Bandra, walk down to Bandra bus station, and catch a bus to Sion. For a few days, this routine went well and I was more or less settling in to the point of knowing by face the people who travelled by this route.

However - needless to say - Lalita Pawar-like incidents struck and took my happiness away. Trains began to get scandalously late; at times, they decided to play hide-and-seek with us on the platform. There we would be waiting for the train on Platform no. 4, and bang opposite to us at Platform No. 2, the train would arrive and almost giggle at the slip it gave us all.

If the trains were on time, the buses decided to make up for that: They ended up whiling their time away in traffic outside Bandra bus station and then at a signal a few metres away from Bandra bus station. If they zipped past these two slow-down zones, then the Kala Nagar signal almost always slapped them with a heavy waiting-time fine. That signal takes ages to change colours. Oh you don't believe? You think I am exaggerating because I was sweating in the bus with no fan around? Well, get into a 505 at 7:30 pm from Bandra and come to Sion and then say what you have to. Chances are you'll take back all what you have said.

Anyway, coming back to what I was saying, that signal takes time to understand the concept of quick work. Once the lights on the signal post did realize they had to work, these buses would try to run and then give up; courtesy: the hundred and three or more rickshaws and cars in front of them. I, in turn, would then give up hoping to reach home early and so, would begin my search for another route to Sion.

My search led me to consider taking the bus all the way to Sion from Andheri. But sitting in a bus from start to finish is as thrilling as, say, reading the Fifth Five-Year Plan and the reason it did not take off!

So I hit upon an idea: I broke my journey into two parts: I began to take the 39 from SEEPZ to Kala Nagar and then the 348 or the 448 from Kala Nagar to Sion. Of course, the journey split when I boarded the 39 for the first time. I had no clue where it was heading except that it was to roam somewhere near Doordarshan - Worli. That gave me the impression that it would wander somewhere close to Sion. I asked the conductor and he gave me a look that would have got my degree certificate to disassociate itself with me. Once he was done with making me feel ignorant, he went on to impart an education: "This bus? This goes to Bandra and then Dadar."

"Oh," I said, treading cautiously, lest I provoke another look from him, "Bandra where?"
"Highway." And without pausing to check whether I had indeed 'graduated', he walked away.

I felt like a fool. After all, saying: "Highway" is as good as telling me the bus will stop on the Moon. And the worse part is I did not want to ask any of the passengers at all. Well, you know how men are. They rarely - if at all - ask for directions. At least, I asked the conductor and that was all the asking I was prepared to do that evening. By then, I had decided to get off this bus on the 'highway' and catch another to Sion.

So I sat at the window and took a keen interest in all the stops along the way till I realized the bus was on the highway! The highway was this road that crosses past the one that leads into Vakola from Santacruz railway station. As the bus ran and I let my eyes run along, I noticed the same old Kala Nagar signal and promptly got up and got down. From there, then, I took the 348. The next day, I repeated my adventure but this time I took the 448 from Kala Nagar.

The first three days were sheer bliss: I reached home by 8:15 - the route via Bandra bus station would get me home by 9:00. And just as I thought I had found thee route after all, the 39 started to throw tantrums. The other day, I missed it by a minute and the next bus came a full half an hour later. Yesterday, the 39 I usually take rolled into SEEPZ depot a royal 15 minutes late and left half an hour later. And today, I missed the usual 39 and the next bus rambled in a deplorable 45 minutes later.

Consequently, I reach Kala Nagar by 8:30 these days. And the erratic 348s and 448s see to it I am close to Sion only at around 9:00 - 9:15! At that point in Indian Standard Time, I have no strength to do anything at all. I can't even finish a page of Jane Eyre that I got hold of recently and I don't have the patience to sit through a movie.

At 9:15, I can think of only one thing: Sleep. And that's what I do: I bathe, gulp down dinner, and I crash into bed - all because the BEST and WR refuse to do their job well.

Sigh! Travelling! Can it get more difficult than it already has?!

Episode 120: About Easter, The Skipped List, and The Feast to Be

2010-04-04T09:42:00.000-07:00

Easter has come and by the time I finish this post, dine, and fall asleep, it will have gone. Quite a bright Easter it was this time. The season of Lent culminates well with this joyous feast and - for the first time after all these years - I do have nice things to say about it and do feel it was worth honouring the entire ritual.

Well, I had decided to not watch movies this time all throughout Lent and well, I don't think I missed much. Avataar isn't worth my time - if you discount the special effects and the 3D glasses, it's the usual white-man-saves-people-he-came-to-enslave story. I wasn't inclined to allow myself to be impressed when it did release nor am I even keen on taking a look at it now.

It's Complicated turned out to be a damp squib. Forgive the cliche - I don't know what else to call it. Perhaps, it invites itself to be described with such cliches. Its premise was interesting and of course, Meryl Streep knows when and how to turn a bland role into one that has a decent amount of sophistication. However, even she could not have realized what a - er - cliched movie this will turn out to be. It's as if the cook trumped up this royal recipe with just the right ingredients and then lost interest while standing at the kitchen sink.

As for Bollywood, well, to borrow a line from the Book of Books, what good can come from that land? Haha! I am sorry, I am being very flippant and carefree as I pass that remark, but Bollywood never fails to disappoint.
My Name is Khan would have done well to not release at all. That movie - to put it ever so lightly - took mockery of the intellect and ridicule of common sense to a new level. Never ever in the history of cinema has it been depicted - with such royal razzmatazz - how an ordinary man with absolutely no superpowers can go where the US army cannot. Never has it been woven so deftly into a limp script that a nation's army wasn't there for it when it has to be and never ever has even a drunkard of a director managed to sell a script full of an army of loopholes to a studio as reputed as Fox! What's more! They'll sell and then justify it with the most stupidest reasons ever. And to top it all, they'll announce it's a stupendous success - in Turkey and Berlin and Pakistan!

I am not to let such successes swerve my opinion and so Bollywood Inc. never lands up in my list of things to catch up on.

What I am to catch up on is the following list:

An Education
The Hurt Locker
Handel's Messiah
Just So Stories
The Planets Suite by Holst

And once this is done with, the next list will be up for the reckoning.:)

Episode 119: The Clothing Spell

2010-04-03T02:56:00.000-07:00

There wasn't anything out of the ordinary lined up for Good Friday. As usual, I had the service to attend at 5:30 pm and that - ladies and gentlemen - was the only highlight of that Friday. Now, it was the season of Lent and one has to behave and all that, but I don't quite understand from where I was attacked by this sudden spell of dressing up well for the service.

Usually, I just dump (and I know what I'm saying) anything dark, dismal, and dull on myself and walk off for the service. But this time, around three hours prior to 5:30, I began to sift through my wardrobe. I first decided to wear the dark blue satin shirt with the dark blue navy corduroys. the combination turned out to be so spectacularly engaging, everyone - me including - began to wonder whether the Lord would approve of this for a funeral-esque ceremony.

Now I would not want to displease the Lord! Heaven forbid! I have already a serpentine hitlist of people I have displeased here on Earth itself. And inviting a Celestial Being to that list would only complicate matters further. I switched to the white shirt. This was at 4:15.

The white shirt looked pale enough as if it had been in mourning. But it forgot to dust away the grease I had brushed into the other day at the bus stand. So, that went into the dirty-clothes basket. Time: 4:30.

"Will you hurry? The service's at 5:30."
"I know I know, but what can I do? I haven't a rag to wear."
"Well, you should have done all this clothes rehearsal the day before."
"Like you all did?"
"Well, yes, we did. See? We are almost ready." And that was quite true.

"That's not quite helping me!" I said truthfully, "What do I wear? What do I wear?"
"Wear that t-shirt there," suggested Mother helpfully.
"But that has red over it!"
"Where?"
"There there!" And I pointed it out to her.
"Oh that!," she said dismissively, "those are just a few stripes!"
"Few stripes?! Mother, they are red stripes!"
"So?"
"So? So what so?!No one wears red for such a service!"
"Oh who's to see?" she snapped, "And who's to check?"

My ears couldn't believe she actually said that.

"We never wear red for such a service!"
"Just wear it and come on now! Hurry!"

Evidently the Magna Carta for Good Friday had to be forgotten or else, we all would have been late.
And so that t-shirt got itself dumped on me.

Episode 118: Old Sins

2010-04-03T00:55:00.000-07:00

Old sins! Old sins! They just never leave you to forget them soon enough. You will forget them eventually, but the transitioning phase during which you want to leave them and they wonder why you are trying to forget them is rather a trying one. You incessantly do all you can to shun them and they remind you in ways ever so harsh (in your opinion) of the man or woman you once were. Well, the shadows that they cast are long and dismal - at times insulting too - but you really cannot blame them for all of that. You brought those sins into being and to disown them - as if they were offspring you never wanted - is painful for them as much as it is irritating to you.

Why am I saying all this? Well, it's pretty obvious why. And I am not about to make it even more obvious by sketching flashbacks here. Those are personal properties I want to disown and forget... Eventually, I'll forget about them, someone else will claim them, and I will not sue for encroachment. For in due course of time, the encroachers will learn why I left those lands and walked off to another...

Episode 117: The Heat

2010-03-28T09:07:00.000-07:00

"One thing I told you do. One thing!"

The man did not know where to look for all were looking straight at him. And such attention at a station named Andheri at 7:30 in the evening is more than enough to cut a man down to size.

This man though was already cut down to several sizes even before the woman brought him to our notice that evening as we waited patiently for the trains to behave and arrive on time.

I had been walking down the stairs that run away from the bridge spanning all the platforms and I had noticed them right from the time I set foot on the bridge itself. She walked as if she wanted to make a point with her footsteps and he was not quite sure what it was all about.

"I don't want to hear anything!," I heard her saying - and I was nearly 10 feet away on the bridge as they sprinted down the stairs, "I don't want to hear anything at all." Of course, she was angry and didn't want to. But everyone around - me including - was all set to hear more.

Now people in Mumbai - and perhaps in other parts of the world too - do pretend to be in a hurry to catch the train or the bus and behave as if nothing else matters to them. However, as a matter of fact, I do think it's just what it is: a pretence. For the moment this couple landed on the platform and Ms. Fireworks began her blasts again, nearly all the ladies - standing where the ladies compartment was to halt - stopped their conversation and the men around did the same.

The train was late but no one - on this side of the platform at least - bothered to look annoyed and make the usual noises. Instead, they just gawked as the man stood there and let his ladylove (?) throw him into different shades of red with her words.

"What you called?"
"I did."
"You did not! One thing I told you to do! One thing!" and she resumed looking at the Vasai local stationed a metre or so away as if her yelling was the most natural thing in the world.
The fellow too began to look around desperately for a nook from where no one would stare back at him and decided to fix his gaze on the blackened tubelights right above his head.

But no sooner had he done so than she began all over again.
"Can't do anything! Useless!"
"What?" - and this was a teeny tiny whisper of a protest - "What did I do?"
"What you didn't do is more like it."
"So what didn't I do?"

And true to her essence of being a woman, she just stared down the question. Women are always like that. You ask them about the thing they are angry about and they'll never ever mention it upfront. They'll just frown, be silent about the thing, but never will they spell it out completely. And so, men are forced to play detectives and try their best to fish out the thing of their woes.

It's as if women always wish for a little mystery around themselves no matter how surprisingly simple, or at times stupid, the 'thing' maybe. And this woman was no exception. She didn't mention the thing though it was so obvious she would be able to breathe if she just let it out and get over and done with it. But no, she refused to drop clues about what it was. She did, however, make him realize that whatever it was, it was the wrong thing to do.

I smiled. It was very amusing. Yes yes I know what you are about to say ("How can you?!" "How mean!" "Do you have any shame?"... blah blah blah), but it was oh so funny: People anticipating what's to happen next as if it were a 3D soap opera and the couple blissfully aware of it all and yet perfectly alright with the idea of pretending as if the platform is theirs for the quarrelling.

Surprisingly though, a while into this episode - say after 15-20 minutes -, I lost interest in its proceedings. No no, it wasn't because of what I thought you would say after reading this. Probably, I lost interest because I felt they did need some sincere privacy. It's their fight after all and entertainment at the cost of angst and animosity to another is fun - true - but it does have a tendency to boomerang on you. And of course, Western Railway also decided to send the train in at that moment.

So, as the train announced itself, everyone left them alone, the woman left the fellow to board the train, and the fellow did the same too - still clueless as to where it all led to...

Episode 116: The Channel

2010-03-21T10:39:00.000-07:00

Lots of time? Don't know what to do?
Okay, here's my Youtube channel then: http://www.youtube.com/romansymphony.

Feel free to:

Post comments - I need a lot of them.

Rate the videos - I need that too.

And finally,

Spread the word around - Go tell it on the mountain or just distract your friend/enemy/colleague. I need this more than anything else! :)

Episode 115: The Visit

2010-03-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

We attended the 7:00 pm service at St. Joseph's Church, Umerkhadi the other day. The Church looks just the same. And the parishioners seem the same too. Well, we shifted away from there a year ago. So I did expect people to look a little different if not royally weird. But lo and behold! They all disappointed me. As I saw them enter the Church and sit on pews unofficially demarcated as 'their place', I realized I could actually recognize them all - same hair, same smile, same wave of the hand, same nod, and at times, same ignoring act!

Well, it's nice - and at times, it really is - to know that people have remained the same. But when they begin to behave in the same annoying manner that you remember of them, then it turns out that it's not all that nice after all.

Luckily, no one reminded us of how annoying they were - all because there was no need to. They were happy to see us all and we, to see them. It's funny you know - when we were there - and I lived 30 years there - I never felt I'd miss them ever. Yet, that day, I realized I had missed them. They had missed us too and so, they asked after us.

"When will y'all come back?"
"How have you all been?"
"Where have y'all gone to stay?"
"What man! You forgot all about us!"
...
...
...
...and so on and so forth the questions poured in, the smiles came by, and we engaged in lengthy conversations about how this one is, how that one was, who died, who's gone, and who's going to.

In the midst of all this, my catechism-class children came up to me.

"Sir! After such a long time."
"Yes," I said," A long time! I am no longer here."
"Oh!"
"So in what standard are you all?"
"Seventh standard Sir!" was the answer in unison.
"Oh! And who takes your class then?"
"Margo*!"
"Margo?"
"Arrey Sir! That Margo from Laundrywalla* building."
"Oh that Margo!"
Margo is this demure, silent girl who - sad to say - though a teacher has no class control at all. This is not to say she does a bad job, it's just that she's too meek to whip a class of mischievous children into a disciplined silence.

"Ah so Margo!" I exclaimed and smiled, "You all harass her?"
"But of course Sir!," they laughed, "We do."
I sighed. I knew that; I was just wondering whether they had changed! And apparently, they had not. They were the same - mischievous and yet beautiful in their own way. I smiled. I was glad to see them. I felt I had known them for years even though I had not known what they were upto this past year. In fact, I had forgotten some of their names and I was careful not to let them know that. Children - after all - always feel special and have to be treated so. Remembering their names is one big way you can delight them and they feel terribly let down if you stop halfway through your conversation with them and admit you have forgotten what you have to call them by.

Oh I was saved of that situation. They wanted to talk and I let them. And when I was expected to say something, I addressed it to all of them thereby saving the headache and the awkwardness of mentioning a name or two.

I felt silly and terrible about it and yet, at the same time, I was glad I met them. I know I am repeating myself, but that only shows I indeed was happy talking to them all over again.

Well, I couldn't spend much time there though. We had to go dine and then head home. So, I said buhbye, advised them to have fun till the 9th standard and then study well in the 10th, and then, with a heart light and joyous, I along with Mother, Father, and Sister Dearest walked away...

* Name changed to protect identity

Episode 114: The Trench of The Suburbs

2010-02-15T01:15:00.000-08:00

A 20-minute train ride from Bandra (known as the Queen of the Suburbs) sits Andheri, the Trench of the Suburbs. Andheri doesn't seem bothered that the title is actually a royal disgrace given the fact that it's home to thousands of companies that draw thousands of employees from all over Mumbai to work.

Andheri seems oblivious of that as if that isn't its concern at all. It just sits silently as private and semi-Government organizations send workers to dig its roads and leave them in a state of sheer disgusting mess for days.

Take the MetroOne project for example. Reliance began to build it with great gusto. They first narrowed the roads so that though work was in progress they did let the traffic flow in both directions while they dug right in the middle. Then they realized they don't have enough space to dig! So, they did the next best thing: They promptly made the road one-way from Andheri station to Chakala junction and invited all - this writer included - to vent their ire at them no end. For this one-way dictates that Bus No. 415 - that goes from the station to SEEPZ - go right around the station, amble down the expressway and then come to Chakala junction to take the road to SEEPZ. Earlier, the 415 ran straight from the station to Chakala and took 30 minutes to wind its way through all the traffic before sighing and stopping at SEEPZ.

Now, it takes a royal hour or more! The return journey is even worse. Walking to the station from MIDC - which, in the direction of the station, is three stops from SEEPZ - takes you at least half an hour. The bus takes an hour! Of course all this in the name of better transport facilities once the metro begins to function. Well, let's hope it does begin to function in this era itself and not wait for a slew of litigations that it sits to fight against before sending the first train down the line!

Episode 113: Live Notes

2010-02-15T00:46:00.000-08:00

Done with lunch and I'm back to work. Have a backlog I do. And I am planning to clear it all...

Watched The Gift all over again yesterday. Cate Blanchett is marvellous as the clairvoyant who quite innocently finds herself in the midst of a murder that brings the whole town to court. Perfection was written in every move and emotion of her performance. Never was there a slip. She deserves much more than what she has on her plate right now...

Episode 112: A Few Questions

2010-02-10T22:35:00.000-08:00

Why is it that Shahrukh Khan - after acting so stubborn and headstrong and refusing to apologize - jets off to Dubai for the premiere? Isn't he supposed to remain here and see what happens on Friday? After all, all said and done, he started it. He should attend the finale too, no?

Was it even necessary for him to talk like that? Yes, India is a free country blah blah blah. But oughtn't we to make judicious usage of our freedom? Or is it that he made that statement only because he was free to talk whatever he wanted?

India is always like Nirupa Roy - understanding, calling for talks, asking for peace, etc etc. The ban on those cricketers was one of the few times it did show it can be Bindu too. Is it wrong to threaten so meekly once in a while?

Given the fact that even the US of A was paranoid during the cold war with Russia and investigated virtually every lead that smelt Russian, how can you expect India to just warm its legs by the fire and let Pakistan play here without so much as a hint of disgust at that country's behaviour?

Given the fact that even the US of A alongwith a few other countries boycotted the 1980 Moscow Olympics to indicate its disgust about the Soviet Union's attack on Afghanistan, how can one expect sports to not be politicized?

Amidst all of this, why is it that the MNS is keeping its mouth shut? Usually, by now, there's a whole newspaper full of what and how and where they want justice done etc etc.

How come the Shiv Sena can get away with so much arson even in the 21st century? And that too in Mumbai? Granted they had a stronghold sometime back, but now? They have lost it all to the Congress and others. So why is it that Mumbai fears the losers then?

Why is everyone mum about the fact that Balasaheb Thackeray is - after all - from Madhya Pradesh? Yes, he may have fought for Maharashtra etc etc, but so did others from outside Maharashtra too. So how does he become the son of the soil?

Asking someone (a rather reckless irresponsible someone) to apologize and resorting to violence to ensure that he does doesn't make the one asking the apology any less reckless or irresponsible. Does anyone see that they are actually a mafia in the making?

Who ever has given the Shiv Sena the right to think it to be the authority on what has to be and what has not to be said in Mumbai? Once upon a time, someone from their own party was insisting that all in Mumbai be educated in Marathi schools. Never mind the fact that their own children sat in convent schools.

Episode 111: The Side Forgotten

2010-02-08T22:50:00.000-08:00

Into an expanse of white -
Sheer white dulled by the lack of light,
I ventured to allow my step to tread.

The expanse then morphed into a spiral with barely a path to tread.
I went in nevertheless and walked.
Silence walked
With me and I walked
With anxiety.

Knowing not what will rise from the ball of black right ahead,
I walked. I turned to my right
and observed the chequered walls that had pins of black.
So minute that anxiety saw it all
So vivid that I noticed them all.

We walked on.
The robe of white fluttered in a breeze
That it noticed.
To me, there was no sign of breath in here
For I thought no breathing was ever practiced.

Lines - dark and blurred came forth;
Embracing the walls lest they spiral down.
Lines - with life and some turmoil;
Somewhere in my mind swung down.

Spewing out memories,
Of a time gone by.
Painting a portrait,
of visions afraid to come by.
Singing a song,
that sounded like a cry.

And then the expanse was an expanse no more.
For deep within
Were those years I wanted to see no more.

Episode 110: The Ramble

2010-02-08T01:12:00.000-08:00

The Sun melted the mist and the darkness of the night into a serene glow that spread all over the sky. The lawns breathed in the cool fragrance that this marvel had wrought. And the butterflies flew with a merry rhythm in their wings.

I walked to the shore - that expanse of white clear sand - and impressed it with my footprints. I walked and walked to the tune of a line of thought that knew just when to leave me in peace and not let me dwell on things in the past that might blur my vision.

I looked out onto the sea. It had just risen to take in the morning. The waves crashed on the crests of the ones before them for they were eager to run their course and come laze on the shore in the Sun that had swept away the dark of the night that was thunderous in its nature.

I walked on and sat on a bench of white stone. My hair tried to leave me and run away with the breeze that nudged me to give it some company. It fluttered around my ankles and played with my eyelashes as the doves from the glades nearby rose to greet the Sun.Quiet and composed the doves were - dressed in spotless white and rising higher every moment.

The breeze sighed and ruffled my sleeves, but I sat and watched the flock sweep into the sky. As if in a trance, they flew to a symphony of sorts and twirled my thoughts into the clouds that had dropped by.

The breeze left me then for it knew where my eyes were. And so, I sat there alone, with just my thoughts on a day that rose to match my steps...

Episode 109: Being Together

2010-02-02T21:55:00.000-08:00

It's best that we go together:
You take the children,
I'll be there sooner or later.

It's best that we go together:
I'll be at the bar,
And you'll be with the teetotaller.

We are - of course - together:
You are in the kitchen,
and I am on the phone forever.

We are there together:
For a wedding;
For a funeral;
Looking at someone or the other.

We are together - yes very much together:
We have the children to nurture,
We have the taxes to bother'.

And yet,
We don't look at each other.
We don't talk into the night.
We don't understand each other.
We don't - well, you get the picture.

Sigh!
We are together indeed;
Not perhaps in deed,
But out of dire need.

Episode 108: Pouring Forth a Rhyme

2010-02-02T21:18:00.000-08:00

Into a mist of no special meaning,
Dives the man with no intention.
On his intuition he is leaning,
To comply with convention...

Episode 107: Salads from St. Emotionelle Feelington Avenue

2010-01-16T09:08:00.000-08:00

Date: Sometime in January 2010
Time: Around 1:00 pm
Venue: Subway, MIDC, Andheri (East)

The view isn't breathtaking. Well, I mean it doesn't take my breath away. I though do take my breath in...

Across the street stands a line of pastel-coloured buses - splashed with hues of blue, pink, and brown on a dead strip of yellow; and adorned with lines of orange asleep even before they managed to land on the bus...

Surprisingly - and I say surprisingly for this is an industrial estate - the splashes of green are much more frequent than you can imagine. If you just leave the distraction of the food on your plate aside and peer through the netted glass panes, you will realize that certain patches of the road are lined with glades. I know it's surprising - again that word - that I never noticed. Why! There's a Christmas tree opposite me - of course outside the window that is...

And then there's the traffic - and strangely, I find it rather colourful. Probably, it's because I am here in an air-conditioned eatery and not out there in the blistering Sun! people drift in, it's 1:11 pm and I have asked my stomach to be content with what it holds now...

I am listless. Depressed, maybe - probably not depressed, but listless for sure. I while away time as if I have bought it for my entertainment. And worse! I feel no guilt about it at all. In fact, I feel safe and secure doing that. And the other day, when I realized this, I did not even react! There I was sitting idle, fully aware that I am idle, and yet, I did nothing about it. I just sat there and kept sitting till I got a little too fed up of the entire exercise...

Exercise! Is it what it is? Or is it my utter resplendent disinterest in what comes my way?

God knows, really! And perhaps I do, too.

Episode 106: A Mind Not So Ordinary

2010-01-12T02:29:00.000-08:00

I am tired and spent. Life has whipped me enough and I took the whip from its hands and threw it away. I have this feeling that I am holding back something - something rather intrinsic to my existence. However, beyond the fact that I do know that I am keeping something to myself, I cannot decipher what that something is...

My neck hurts. Probably, it's the travel, probably the manner in which I exercise - the erratic manner in which I count my repetitions is indeed irritating; I must learn to count well...

I am afraid of things happening in quick succession. I worry if I do not follow a schedule and I most willingly start to panic in times of great difficulty. The other day I sat and kept sitting at the computer till 7:30 am and then realized I had a quarter to eight bus to catch. So, I rushed through my socks, shoes, trousers, and walked quickly to the bus stop and made it on time...

I am lying! Good God! Why ever did I lie about the 7:30 am incident? Truth be told, I hardly panic. The feeling is more a thrill than a pang of worry! So I relished the thrill of bordering on being late to work as I kept sitting at the computer till about 7:45 am IST. I did not want to let go of the thrill and yet I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I must make it to work on all accounts. So, I dressed and then put my shoes on and walked with a relaxed gait to the bus stop. I did not - as I said earlier - sprint to the bus stop. I walked quite slowly.

I really don't understand what made me lie in the second last paragraph. Was it the need to appear the way I am supposed to? Was it because I am habituated to writing about I being in this cute hurry of sorts that is very endearing to all? See? I don't know nor do I understand why I deliberately lied about that account.

I am not sure whether I am lying now as well. What's the world anyway? Just a mass of lies that one faction sees as the gospel truth and the other knows to be a faked reality. Some day, someone might walk up to me, twist my head away from my neck and place it in some jar made of alabaster. Probably the jar might be full of perfume and therein will my head drown - with an intoxicated sense of smell. A smell it couldn't make out when it stayed on my neck and allowed the man or woman to twist it away from my being.

What's life anyway? People walking by, rushing to catch the 7:19 Vasai Road in the morning and then rushing back to the stations to catch the train back! In between these two acts, they have worked, laughed, cried, got jealous, schemed, gossiped, ruined a reputation or two, and have gloated about the ingenuity with which they have done so as well.

Life... It's all about doing something to obtain something that will keep you going back to doing something so that the stock of something you obtain doesn't dwindle away. It hurts my eyes as I begin to see it all fly past me with a fury ingrained in its speed. It's as if that fury were created to spur life on and over boulders of boredom, acres and acres of disinterest, miles of burnt out people who lost the battle with this furiously fast fury, oceans of sadness that just dig deep into the bed that they rest on so as to make way for more to come occupy the waters, and expanses of skies bereft of any colour whatsoever....

It just runs past all this, flies past all of it, swerves around ruthless bends of compromising morals, and jumps over hurdles meant to be dealt with a conscience.

I never seen it stopping anywhere for anyone though its very existence depends on those it has let fall or swept into its path.

I doubt it will ever stop and let the tired winds hovering around it howl to a standstill. I wonder whether it will ever open its eyes and look into the darkness that it has lost track of. I wonder whether it does understand why it has to stop in the first place.

For I remember sitting with it in school.
And I do recollect - very well - that it never made an effort to learn about the period.

Episode 105: Not Quite Musical at All

2010-01-07T18:12:00.000-08:00

All it took was a careless smile. I just had to smile and thus, invite noise to my lunch hour at Subway.

I took a Chicken Tikka salad alongwith me to the dining room on the first floor. I have done this before too and I finished the climbing up the stairs and pretending I am not bothered about the others in the room with clockwork precision. My only mistake today was that I sat six cms away from a gang of three - all in their early twenties and true to their age, eager to be the centre of attention.

Well, I sat and began to segregate the chicken pieces from the ocean of vegetables that Subway insists on throwing them in. The tomato slices willingly shifted aside as the fork nudged them but the cabbage - or was that celery, I am not quite sure and never will be - refused to budge without some extra prodding by the spoon.

In the meantime, the gang of three had begun to talk after initially falling silent on my arrival. No, they weren't ecstatic about the food in front of them and admiring it in awe. They were - of course - scrutinizing everyone around - me including. Analysis and observations done, they decided to criticize the music being played. I'm a Barbie Girl was being played much to my dislike and apparently, much to theirs as well.

"Oh this fellow has all eighties tracks only," I heard one of them mumbling.

It was then that I quite carelessly smiled to myself at this remark.

In retrospect, I think I should have sat stonefaced and peered into my salad. For the moment I smiled, they took it as a cue to raise their volumes enough to let me hear every syllable of their conversation.

"Oh isn't that from the nineties. Haha!"

"Yes, it is!" - this was the girl from the group, sounding all set to lead the conversation wherever she went - "It's terrible!"

I silently agreed with her, but the pitch at which she voiced her disdain was more than a mile away from agreeing with my ears.

"Ya," said one of the boys, "I wonder how people can listen to all this."

"I know!" intoned the other, loud enough for all to wake up and take notice

"You must listen to Backstreet Boys." suggested the girl.

"Backstreet Boys?" repeated one of the boys.

"Yes. They will never fade out." Evidently the girl was living a decade or two away from 2010.

"But who listens to them?"

"I do," the girl said, authority clanging in every word, "Some of my favourite music includes the Backstreet Boys and they'll always be in the news."

To that, the boys had nothing to say for they did not want a riot. So, they moved onto criticizing other musical ventures.

"You remember Brazil?"

"Yes yes!"

"That was a must at all weddings back then."

"Yes that and Saturday Night. They were a must."

"I know!"

"Then came Enrique Iglesias and his Hero."

"Oh who can forget Bailamos!"

"Yes yes!" they all nodded in unison, "Who can?"

So far so clichéd, but what followed shocked me enough to turn to stone.

"Oh!" said the guy who looked a little like a rockstar, "If you haven't heard hard rock, you don't know what you're missing."

I sensed a pause, evidently made to procure support for his statement from the other guy sitting opposite. He however dug into his sandwich. The support came - quite strangely - from the girl.

"Yes, I know! I love it all. I don't see what people find in those old Hindi songs. Rock is so much better!"

"Really now-"

"Oh the ones the actresses sang looking very sincere and serious," she continued, "I mean who needs so much of sur (melody) and taal (rhythm)?"

I had - as I said - turned to stone. I had heard people deriding songs of yore, but not because they were absolutely melodious. This girl - truly - was a rare piece of ectoplasm.

"Oh but I love old songs," countered the rockstar, "I have this whole collection of Kishore-"

"Oh Kishore is different," she cut in as her sandwich spread into a mess, "He is okay. I am talking of those songs that people listen to in the evening and fall asleep. Why don't they just fall asleep silently than put on all that noise?"

Well, the flippant manner in which all of that got out of her mouth made the boys laugh. But I am quite sure they were laughing at her than at what she had just let fly.

As for me, I dug some more into salad and wished I had not paid attention to them at all. They continued with all the talk about music, banged into different hard rock bands (Iron Maiden, Metallica, etc etc) and somehow hurtled themselves into the BBC show - Coupling.

"Oh you must watch Coupling," - this was the girl again - "amazing and funny."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's about couples. I have watched it rather regularly. You must."

"Well, I know another show that also features couples though they do explore the sex angle."

"Oh if that's the case, then you must watch Coupling. It's all about sex."

"No! No! That's not what I am trying to say!"

"Then?"

"Well, you see it's this show that's about the story of these couples and how they live their lives. Of course, they do show the sex, but they are quick scenes. It's definitely NOT all about sex you know. Don't get me wrong."
And as usual, like the boys of their age, they began to laugh.

The girl - for a split second - was silent, then smiled and yanked out her authorative manner yet again as: "Yes, definitely, I get your point,"she said with absolute control on her nerves, "Ya I know what you mean."

The laughter subsided into some silence and then I heard her proclaim that she always made a mess of sandwiches. To this, the boys demonstrated how chivalrous they were and kept saying that that particular sandwich was always like that.

"I know! This is the second time!"

"Well, it always is, which is why I never order."

"Haha!"

And a second later, the rockstar got up to go.

"Oh you're getting up to go?"

"Yes, what else is there to do now?"

"Yes right. Let's."

And so saying, they cleared the place of their plates and their noise and left.

I wish they could clear the rumble in my head as well.

Episode 104: But

2010-01-05T02:52:00.000-08:00

Sunday burst in with its usual bout of energy beneath the initial laziness to its routine. At 6:00 am, it made me lazy enough to contemplate attending the evening service. But as the minutes and hours unravelled a breezy sunny day from the darkness of that hour, I decided to throw my contemplation into the bin.

I got up, shaved, made the right noises about breakfast, attended Mass, sprinted back home, drank my glass of Complan (Yes, I am still a school boy!), then ran to Sion circle, finished my driving lessons, and finally, strolled home.

You may be breathless by now, and needless to say, at the end of that sequence of events, I was nearly so, too.

And as I threw myself into a chair that sat in the hall, my breath left me altogether.

"What are you watching?"
"What do you think it is?"

"I see Dimple Kapadia and I think that song is from Lekin."
"Right you are," said Sister Dearest, "That is what I am watching."
"Please no! Not that movie. It's so boring."
"Oh shut up! As if you know!"
"Of course I do. Dimple wafting around as if she's on drugs and Vinod Khanna not quite sure whether he's drugged himself."
"Really, can you be a little kind Gary? It's not quite that you know."

I scratched my head thinking about that and then said: "Oh yes, it's Lata Mangeshkar's production! So it has to have a number of songs!"
"Oh get lost will you?"
"What now?"
"You want to watch or no?" That sounded like an ultimatum that really was rather sincere.
"Yes," I said.
"Then watch quietly."

And so I watched. I watched Dimple Kapadia sleepwalking around pretending she's a ghost. I watched Vinod Khanna half-bored that he signed up for the film and half-eager to take his shirt off and warn us all about the effect of ghee-soaked parathas. And - surprise, surprise! - I watched the late Amjad Khan turn in a rather refreshing restrained performance for the first time.

"As if you did not know he was in the movie."
"No! I didn't."
"And you're a fan of Hindi movies it seems."
"Was," I said, correcting her, "Was. Now no longer."
"Yes right. Did I download Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna or did you?"
"That was just curiosity."
"Shh! Watch now!"

So we went to back to the movie again. Two - Yaara Silli Silli and Surmay Shaam - out of the dozen melodies were great stuff to hear. The rest needed a classical ear and that - try as much as I might - I cannot grow. So I did the next bext thing: I began to pick faults yet again.

"Look at him walking towards the house. If only they could snip all the walking these people do, this movie would have been several hours shorter."
"Anything else?"
"Haha! Oh they are so slow! Can't they just stop the singing and get to the point? The poor girl (Dimple Kapadia) is stuck in an era gone by and has to cross the sands of time. Can't they just get on with that?"

But no, that did not happen. Instead, Hridyanath Mangeshkar inserted several ragas and I don't know what else that - frankly - put you to sleep. Now I can understand the need for music in a movie, especially in a Bollywood movie. They lighten up, or at times set, the mood. But here, in this ghost story, all of it - save two - served as spectacular sleeping pills and dragged down the pace of the narrative. To make matters even worse, the script - after allowing so much of time for the singing - very irritatingly decided not to explain certain aspects of the plot. As a result, rather than being serenely spooked, you are seriously hooked to the idea of hoping the horror vanishes off the screen.

I began to think about that and nearly left that line of thought for a book when Sister Dearest brought me back to it.

"Oh it's so slow!" she whined, as she watched part 8 of the 15 parts of the movie uploaded on Youtube.com.
"I told you!"
"Really so so slow!"
"What do you expect?"
"Really just because Lata produced it doesn't mean she had to sing so much!"
"That too in a ghost story! What was she thinking?"
"Evidently, all her spirits have great sur and taal! Haha!"
"Either that or she's hinting she will never ever stop singing!"

It was then we realized we were talking about one of our all-time favourites! Needless to say, we went into an apologetic mode almost at once.

"Really we mustn't be saying all this. Surely there is some art here."
"Yeah, and we must have been blind not to hear it."
"See it you mean?"
"I am sorry, what was that? I didn't hear you."
"Oh shut up."
"Haha!" I said, giving up to my self ultimately, "oh but if you don't like a thing doesn't mean you need excuses for it to not be liked. See? I didn't like it anyway."
"Not even Yaara Silli Silli?"
"Who said that? I just don't want to wander all over Rajasthan singing that!"
"You're incorrigible, really!"
"If she can be with all her singing, so can I."
"You are incorrigible!"

I smiled. I decided to give her the benefit of doubt and took up some F. Scott Fitzgerald.

----

Epilogue

I was in the bathroom. The water splashed all over my feet and I did not mind that one jot. But what I did mind was an incessant mumbling that approached the bathroom door second by second.

"Yes what is it now? I'm having my bath!"
"Oh I found out how he got in."
"Who got in?"
"Vinod Khanna!"
"And where did he get in?"
"In the prison!"
"In the prison?"
"Yes, you remember she took him with her after singing Yaara Silli Silli inside the haveli? And then after she disappeared, he found himself locked in?"
"Who's she?"
"Dimple Kapadia man!"
"Oh yes!"
"Well same strategy! She did the same when she took him inside the prison."

It took me 20 seconds to connect the dots between the two scenes. And then I realized the dot on which should have rested the final connection didn't actually exist!

"Glory!," I yelled as I wrestled with the scenes in my head and the water in the bath, "Did you see her take him inside the prison?"
"No."
"Then how can you say it's the same strategy?"
"Because there is no other explanation!"
"A bad script leaves no explanation."
"Right! You love it the Hindi movie way - explain it all!"
"Well, it was Lata presenting blah blah. It has to be that way!"
"Anyway, I am satisfied I have an explanation."
"You have the wrong explanation!"
"Really, then what's the right explanation?"

"The movie had holes in the script."
"That is an excuse for not having an explanation."
"Exactly."
"What I told you was the reason why he was found locked in the prison."
"For which the script has no explanation."
"Oh just get lost! Finish your bath!"

And the mumbling that had risen to a crescendo swept away into the hall.

Episode 103: The Cat From Stardust Says

2009-12-22T04:09:00.000-08:00

Kareena Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan are marrying! Going by the reams of paper already dissecting this piece of news, I won't be surprised if the Times of India runs a nationwide contest to guess the exact time the nikaah is to take place!

But before they do, let's dive into both Saif and Kareena's lives.

Saif played it safe with a marriage and children with Amrita Singh for quite a while. And then lo and behold! He ran off to some distant land to shoot and shot himself in the heart with a bomb of an arrow called Rosa Catalano. The bomb went off and its consequences were difficult to conceal from the media: Saif and Amrita divorced, Miss Catalano ate up space on page 3 of every newspaper and Saif more or less looked like a man mesmerized by a curvaceous Italian spell.

Naturally, like all curvy delicate things from Italy, the spell broke and Saif realized what he had done! As for Rosa, she went from a demure lass to being Miss Fiery Mouth and so burnt all that she could have had.

As a result, Miss Catalano is now nowhere in sight. The sightings that did involve her were so miniscule in their importance that had it not been for a certain small tabloid, she would have not been noticed at all.

Anyway, in the meantime, Kareena finished with her love-shove for Shahid Kapur. Of course we all know it was because of his authorative shove that she left him. Women hate being pulled around like the bogies of the Orient Express. They prefer being part of an equal push-pull mechanism. But Shahid, being the boy he was then, did not comprehend that. So, he went on telling her to do this, not to do the other, to slim down, etc, etc. And in the bargain, she slimmed down her association with him and then cut off ties with him completely.

And one fine day Saif and Kareena meet, sigh, etc, etc, and fall in love. So far so good. They look great together and they do dress like the couple we all want them to be. But, I am not too sure whether Saif is a safe choice - he too seems quite the Mr. Dominating that Kareena left Shahid for. And I doubt Kareena herself is as demure as Saif wants her to be. Her firebrand image is legendary and she pulls out all the stops bad and worst when it comes to making herself clear.

Whew! We have a battle in the making. But before that, let's see whether the bells will indeed be ringing.:)

Episode 102: The Driver is a Rash on The Road

2009-12-20T21:19:00.000-08:00

Day Three saw me trying my best to contain a hideous resentment entwined with a tinge of excitement. I resented the instructor for he has just made me sit and yawn on Day Two. And I was excited for I knew for sure that I will be called upon to abuse the car controls the way novices do when they decide to strangle their fear for the machine and tackle it.

So, by 8:00, as the train struggled along the curve that allowed King's Circle station to perch precariously off its sides, I had resolved to shake my anxiety off at the station itself. And by 8:10, as I traipsed down the stairs, onto the footpath and into the bus, I had asked myself to just not let my nervousness get the better of me.

I got down at Sion circle and walked past the shops that splashed hues of yellow, orange, and white that had the hurry and scurry of establishments winding down for the day. I walked past the ATM - the only one on my way from the bus stop to the driving school. And just as I turned into the compound that walled in the driving school, my excitement invited trepidation to give it company. Needless to say, I began to pant with panic. And more so, since the instructor this time wasn't the same fellow.

"So let's go?" he asked as he gestured towards the car .
"Yes yes," I blurted out and I sprinted to the Hyundai Santro.
I got in and put the seatbelt on and looked at him for directions.
"Handbrake down," is what he ordered. And I began to look for that control. I looked to my right, then to my left, and then thinking it might be somewhere between the brake and clutch, dug between those two controls as well.
"No no!" he sighed, "It's just next to you." And he showed me where.

"Well, now, get the gear into neutral." I tried to, but the damn gear stick grunted and refused to settle in the neutral position.
"What are you doing Garyji?" my instructor asked patiently but not without a tinge of anxiety.
"Changing the gear."
"But how can you if you haven't pressed the clutch?"
"Oh! Like that!" I exclaimed as if I had just solved an Agatha Christie mystery.
"Haan, you must press the clutch and then do that."

So I pressed the clutch, caught hold of the gear stick and wrestled with it yet again.
"Not like that, not like that Garyji!"
"Okay, okay!" I said, my voice determined to show how panicky I was, "show me show me."
"Like this like this," he said, as he hand-held me through the procedure.
"Oh like that haan! I am so confused," I said, my legs already shaking as they usually do when I don't quite know what to say.

"Now start the engine." That luckily did not take an era.
"And now release the clutch ever so slowly so that the car lungs forward."
To my utter surprise, I got that in one go.
"Very good," he blurted out, very much surprised himself. "Now accelerate just a little."
And I did that too without a flaw.
"See? It is easy," he said as he put himself at ease.
"I know," I said quite untruthfully, "I know."

And off we went. I steered like a drunkard and consequently, the car sashayed on the road as if it were auditioning for Amitabh's role in Sharabi.
"Steering control Garyji! Steering control!" My instructor cried after twenty seconds of rash driving.
"Yes yes, I am trying."
"Okay come on, let's show you." And he caught one side of the steering wheel.
"Do not hold it so tight." So I relaxed my grip.
"Do not go straight onto the center of the road." So I steered to the left.
"But not so much to the left. Come to the right." And I went to the extreme right.
"Uff!" my instructor sighed, "No no! Not that far to the right Garyji! You see we keep to the left, but we never must think we own the road!"
Inspite of my nervous self, I giggled at that.
"And please," he continued as he continued to save the car from massive destruction and bullying buses, "Relax! Breathe! Don't drive as if your life is at ransom!"

So I relaxed and I managed to get some control on the car. Of course, I harassed the accelerator no end. That's the easiest control to exploit the first day you drive. A little push and you have speed. A little more and you are all set to be a rash on the road!

"No accelerator! No accelerator please!" So I got my feet off it. "Initially," my instructor explained as we turned into a lane that led to the main road, "We will drive at a low speed. You will first learn to control the car. After that, we will drive at higher speeds."
"Okay, that sounds great!" And in my excitement, my leg leapt onto the accelerator yet again.
"No accelerator! No accelerator please Garyji!"
"Oh sorry sorry!" We were now on the main road itself. It's the one that comes ambling down from King's Circle and forever is choked with traffic. This day though, the cars and buses were hardly forming the traffic jam they were so famous for.

We ambled on then along the main road at a speed that made me cringe. Even people walking around were overtaking us.
"Can I accelerate just once? Please?" I asked, impatiently, "The road seems so empty, no?"
My instructor smiled. Perhaps he knew how mad for speed I was that day. And so he relented. "Okay, fine," he said making an elaborate gesture of resignation. "Else, you'll say: I did not teach you to accelerate!"
"Haha."

I sped right down and towards Sion circle and I took my foot off the control. We came to a halt and I steered towards the footpath.
"Slowly, slowly, and don't hold it that tight." came the instruction yet again.
This time, the car did not swerve as if in stupor. We stopped where we had to.

"Great!" I said, "thank you." I was out of the car and walking away.
"No problem Garyji. See you tomorrow then same time."
"Yes yes." And so saying, I jaywalked down the street and got home.

Day Four will be here in sometime.:)

Episode 101: Lunching on Confessions

2009-12-20T08:58:00.000-08:00

Date: 11th December 2009
Time: Around 1:00 pm
Venue: Subway, MIDC, Andheri (East)
Participants: Mr. Dreamer and Miss. Therela Tionship
Topic: Confessions and an observed date

Rahul? Initially, he's easy to get alongwith and probably a breeze to understand as well. But - as it happens with all after three or four days of knowing a person - the incomprehension arrives with all its grandeur. Or is it granduer? - well anyway, I thought he was giving off vibes of wanting a relationship ...

By the way, I seem to be one of the three spectators witnessing a rather slow but happening date at Subway. The girl is keen on arresting the boy's sexual attentions, but he seems bored already. I think he wants to leave. She hinted at this by asking whether he wants to, but boys being boys will continue to pretend they are okay with such a boring presentation of seduction... Oh I am wrong - they are headed for the door. Perhaps, he is definitely fed up of her so-called charms.

Anyway, as I was saying, Rahul gave off vibes of wanting a relationship. But lo and behold, last night's conversation washed all of that down the drain. We began talking of the birthday party that's slated for this coming Sunday. I asked whether he'd be attending and I get a flat "No!" that was not even thought about before it was thrown into the mouthpiece of his phone! But being the experienced conversationalist that I am, I asked why.
"Well, I don't want people around."
"But why?"
"I want to get off the scene."

The moment I heard that at 11:25 pm in the night as I sat in the hall enveloped in a slick darkness, I heard bells of a ship leaving the harbour. Evidently, I was programmed, for my own comfort, to just ditch and not pry. So, I hemmed and hawwed through the conversation and let it slip that I too wasn't keen on the scene at all because I had broken off.
"Oh," he said.
"Yes," I said as I sailed on,"I put my heart and soul in it and was ashamed I could not sustain a so-called relationship. And so, I stopped meeting people. I could not think straight, was thinking only of sex, and it's useless to meet people when you are going about with such a mindset."
"Well it happens."
"Yes it does," I continued," But that has made me wary. I will not go down that road that easily now."
"Oh I see."
And the conversation spluttered and added the mandatory static phrases to this exchange of sentences before it decided to drift to other mundane matters.

Truth be told, I had begun to have a few feelings for him, but had stopped myself from letting them explode into a full-fledged need that asks for a little more than what it subsists no right now...
It felt nice to be pampered with this kind of attention and I let it sit side by side with me. I think that is what the problem is: I just let it sit. I did nothing about it. And 22-year olds always want to 'do something', anything...

I wasn't about to do anything though. I have burnt my fingers, toes, lips, and hands enough. I am not about to let that happen again...

After all, I have a right to live without mishaps, haven't I?

*The italicized content courtesy: Ms. Therela. In one of her hazy stupors, she permitted its usage.

Episode 100: Oh I am Old!

2009-12-16T04:51:00.000-08:00

I am 100 posts old. Of course, the 100th post doesn't matter for in it, I am about to recap what I have already written.

I wrote about heartbreaks of the mystical kind. They flitted past me - I won't disclose whether through me or through others - during these years I spent chronicling the deeds and feelings that affected me. I can see them at times in the vision of my mind, sitting placidly on a glowing branch in some enchanted forest. They seem half asleep and rocking to and fro with the sweet bliss of the thought that whatever they had to do they did and they did it well.

I also wrote about my family. In fact, I more often than not write about my family here. Mother has always been the star actress of the ensemble. Sister Dearest dutifully plays the supporting role to the hilt: She does provide comic relief in the times I have nothing but a stream of tears to think about. And she very cleverly and astutely brings to my notice the fine points that I miss in my wallowing for self pity. To them, I raise a toast. Oh but both will disapprove of me raising a toast laden with butter. So, here's to you both - Mother and Sister - I raise a glass of wine. May you always fill me with words to write about and the common sense that I so often seem to lack.

Father I restricted to being a guest here. He walked in in some write-ups, sat around, read the newspaper, and in general let us all have our way with what is to be said in my posts. Of course, he did let us know he is the man about the house and town - at times in a very irritating, mafia-like manner, but of late, he has decided he has had enough of that role. I think he wants me to take it up now. I am thinking about it. But I have to tweak the script for such a major character switch: Being Father doesn't come easy. So here's a toast to the man - yes, he won't mind a buttered toast - who saw me through my adolescence, my madness, my obstinate behaviour, and did provide me with the education I needed to write the way I do these days.

That said, let me not forget my relatives! They have been the veritable raw material for a lot of the spectacular drama here. They died, married, brought forth children, christened their children, and made thee grand mistake of inviting me to all their functions. As a result, their functions landed up here - complete with my descriptions that I doubt they all will approve of. Keep inviting me, I'll say! For what good is it for a man to gain the whole world and lose his relatives!

Oh but don't go! There's more. I know I am missing out someone. Oh actually, I am missing out a whole bunch of them.

Ah yes, my two girl friends - E and T. Much as I am tempted to combine their initials and write them off as aliens just so that I can joke, I will definitely not do so.

E and T I know I don't know since when. Probably, it's been four or five years. Probably, more. It seems an eternity. I got to know T first and then she put me on to E. And a few months, later, GET were a gang of sorts. We gossiped, bitched - yes bitched, let your mouth hang wide open!-, analyzed and wrote off people, spared no one from the best worst snipes, slapped people without using our hands, and in general, just knew we were and will always be together. I drifted in and out of the GET gang and so did T, but E has always always been there and seen to it that the gang did have at least two of its three members to keep it going.

To E and T then! Cheers! It's been a wonderful time though I may have disappeared at times. And thank you for calling and keeping me talking during my stay in Hades! To you two, I owe a part of my sanity.

The other part of my sanity I owe to A. A walked into my life not too long ago and quickly, ever so quickly, managed to make me laugh even in cliff-hanger-like situations. She has been practical and made me see practicality in whatever I have asked her about. To her then goes a buttered toast and the glass of wine from Tote's cellar.:)

And last, but never ever the least, thank you my dear readers. You have read - probably one, probably two, probably all of it. You have commented, criticized, and ticked me off. And you have smiled, approved, and patted me on the back as well. Thank you! Thank you so much. I like writing for you as much as I hope you like to read it all.

To you all then, I bow in deep reverence and gratitude.

For what good is it for a man to perform, but not have an audience!

Episode 99: All about Lunch

2009-12-13T01:12:00.000-08:00

Date: 10th December 2009
Time: Around 1:00 pm
Venue: Subway, MIDC, Andheri (East)

Lousy day but nothing uncommon.. That seems to be becoming my specialty: Garfield - he with the days boring and common. Haha! What a stupid joke! I should be sued for attacking you like this...

Subway sandwiches - Amit is responsible for this addiction. I wasn't this extravagant before. But then I think I am being a little stupid.: Had I to think it extravagant, I would not continue with it. Yet here I am, munching a chicken ham sandwich and feeling so uncomfortable for virtually no reason at all. Probably, it's because I have this tiresome helpless habit of trying to impress all and sundry around me. It's so ridiculous, really: Impressing others I mean - serves no purpose at all. They move onto other impressions and you remain stuck, wondering whether you did impress them at all...

People at eateries decidedly seem to have a habit of letting secrets about their lives drop all around their tables. Why am I saying this? Because here I am, at Subway, sitting alone and here are people not around me - quite close to me; but not exactly close enough to be termed my neighbours - but a few tables away and each table has a whole encyclopaedia to spill.

Two tables to my left: Two girls gossiping. Things discussed: the affairs their roommates have gotten into, eccentricities, dates ruined, dates that were successes, salaries, who's a bitch and who isn't, smart moves made by office colleagues, etc etc - and to think the girl most vocal of the two appears not even half as capable to be a viper.

Two tables right behind me: They are silent! Evidently they have gotten wind I am spying! Oh sorry! Wrong I am. Actually, they're really hungry. I hear them now. Earlier, down at the counter, they were finding out where the other was working and now - up here at the table - they both confess they hate their jobs.

"Don't feel like going to work." is what I hear. Well, if they only knew what I was thinking, probably, they would want to re-consider what they just said.

They trundle on in muffled tones, but then the topics that come up demand that they get a bit expressive. And so they raise the volume a little. The woman apparently stays or did stay in a slum - the cement-concrete types - and she seemed quite placid - at least she sounded that way - when she said so. She was miffed by the fact that though hers was the first lot to be slammed into a slum re-development project, things weren't going the way they should have. The man, of course, knew this was his cue to offer words of sympathy and he most obediently followed protocol and did just that. I didn't pay attention thereafter.

I, you see, have begun to pick my teeth like a shameless fellow. Does it surprise me? Yes it does. I don't usually pick my teeth in places I am this uncomfortable abandoning my stuck-up nature. And I do this!

Well, it comes with experience or perhaps I was tired enough by then to not bother what people would or would not have said. It happens at times. I finish with a deed I never ever thought I could be capable of. And then I realize I did indeed have the guts to do that all along. It's just that people stood in my way. And of course, my apprehension about what would they think of me were I to commit that deed. The mind of a man never had it this simply laid out to pinpoint blame on factors that kept him from a deed he longed for.

Not that I want to pick my teeth you know. It's just that I feel it's time I just loosen up a bit...

Anyway time to go back to work or else - well - you know what will happen!

Episode 98: Some More Nonsense

2009-12-09T02:11:00.000-08:00

09th December 2009

Just another ordinary day decided to dawn on me. Actually, it's so familiar - this day and its happenings - it feels as if Someone has copy pasted one of the previous days for today to save the trouble of thinking of what to put into a new day.

Does that make sense? Hmm. I am looking at that sentence and it seems rather long. But, well, I am so lazy today, I don't even want to re-think what has just got out of my finger tips...

I ran into Shobhaa De's blog today. Well, I did not run into it. Truth be told, I was so fed up a while ago, I actually took the trouble of googling Ms. De - I mean I searched for her via Google.com. And there it was - that woman's blog. Well, since I had taken this much effort, it doesn't look nice to just close the browser without accessing the search result, no?

So, I landed on her blog. The woman knows to make everything spicy - even the times when she has nothing to write, she makes it a point to throw in the masala at least. As a result, what you read is so red hot, you just have to stop or else, it'll burn your literary senses.

Take for example, one of her posts where she talks about Mumbai post 26/11. Being the Queen of the so-called socialite elitist class, she decided to go berserk and compare Mumbai with Rani Mukherjee. Mumbai is going downhill, she wrote (using not exactly the same words), just like Raniji. And then she went on to compare how Mumbai's condition was deteriorating just like the flops that Rani had wallowed into. Well, to say it was stupid to even begin to write something like this is an understatement. It was more like committing crime knowingly. The whole post seemed to be an exercise in testing her reader's ability to distinguish swill from whatever little niceties she could throw in. Sad to say - but say I must - practically all gave her a tongue-lash. So, obviously, she did get the flak she asked for.

But the lady is undeterred. As you run from one post to the other, you notice, her desire to be known as the Socialite Queen raises its bar and yells from the rooftops. So, as a result, there are paragraphs of how she is enjoying her stay in Australia and how she has been spending time in some fancy destination and how she thinks this life that she lives is so so blissful.

Amidst it all, she tries occasionally to raise the I-am-an-asal-Maharashtrian card. In one post, she says she made friends at the airport (Mumbai airport that is) with an airport authority after they realized they both were from Satara. Really, the way she mentioned that, it was as if the prophets were planning such an event in the Neanderthal era and she managed to bring it about!

And of course, there is the customary eulogy to friends that matter - to her of course, celebrities that matter, and the usual wannabe events that we are supposed to envy.

Which brings me to an interesting observation: Granted, Ms. De is up above the sky so high - residing in South Mumbai, tinkling glasses with the ones that we are supposed to consider as elite, etc, etc. but then why has she still to sound so wannabe? If you are up there, you need to stop sounding as if you are climbing the ladder.

But that somehow Ms. De has royally forgotten. Perhaps, she still thinks she is hiking her way up. If so, then well, she ought to take a different route for right now, it seems as if she is running around in circles.

Episode 97: The News About Nonsense

2009-12-07T22:30:00.000-08:00

Depend on news channels to trump up a controversy and they will never let you down. Yesterday evening, as I sat in the motor-training school and awaited my turn to learn, I happened to watch this new segment on Star News about how Aamir Khan seems quite hell bent on stirring up a controversy with his acerbic jibes at, and comments about, Shahrukh Khan.

First of all, that they called it a news segment was rather surprising. To make matters even worse, I noticed they had tried hard to make it look like a controversy and in the bargain had come up with something rather silly and idiotic.

The segment opened by showing Aamir Khan mimicking Shahrukh Khan's trademark stutter and the anchor immediately concluded this was a slight to King Khan. Further, she went on to add - in the most irritating manner - that this wasn't the first time Aamir had acted this nasty. He had also aped Shahrukh's act in several movies.

As proof of this aping, they split the screen and showed two scenes - one fromRang De Basanti and the another from Deewana - that they claimed were similar. The scene from Rang De Basanti showed Aamir Khan leaping into the air with a gang of students. And the one from Deewana has Shahrukh doing more or less the same thing alongwith a gang of motorcyclists - only this was shot from a different angle.
Next, they showed a rain dance song starring Kajol and Shahrukh from Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi and a split second later, flashed similar shots of a rain dance from 3 Idiots that stars Aamir Khan and Kareena Kapoor.

All this, said the anchor, was absolute proof of the fact that Aamir takes potshots at Shahrukh and loves to do so.

Sitting there in the motor-training school, impatiently swatting mosquitoes on my thigh, that sounded like the best worst deduction ever to have graced television.

Dozens of actors have leapt into the air and practically all of them have sung and danced in the rain. Of course, all this leaping and prancing about looks more or less the same because - frankly - there's no scope for improvisation.

So saying that one actor is aping the other - all because of a few similar scenes is akin to saying people are aping each other when they breathe!

Really, I was surprised she was even allowed to stand there and belt out this drivel. I expected her to be cut short with a commercial, but no, she went on and on about it and I realized that that was what Star News wants us to call news.

I had rather read the newspaper instead. I can jump about the page if I don't like an article and throw the newspaper with all my might into the bin if it disgusts me. Yes, I can jump channels on the idiot box, but I cannot throw the box into the bin!

Episode 96: The Driver Battles Day Two

2009-12-06T07:17:00.000-08:00

On Day One, I asked for a slot.

"So you can come at 5:00 pm?"
"No, I work."
"Oh!"
"So, can you give me the 7:00 to 7:30 slot in the morning? Either that or the 8:30 to 9:00 slot in the evening."
"So early! 7:00 to 7:30!"
"Well look, I have to be on a bus to Andheri by 8:00. I cannot help that."
"Oh but-"
"Well, then how about 8:30 to 9:00 in the evening?"
The fellow hemmed and hawwed and let his palms pace the length and breadth of the table. Two full exasperating minutes later, he agreed.

I did my best to keep nothing in my way to make it by 8:30 pm to Sion. But the buses at Andheri knew nothing of my plan and so, idled away in traffic that has become synonymous with the MIDC area. So, by the time my bus elbowed itself through its brethren and finished its journey, the clock had quite decidedly struck 7:30 pm. I ran up the stairs, then down the stairs, and sprinted on the platform to the point where coach no. 11 of a 12-coach local train usually halts. Fortunately, all fell in place and I was at Sion circle by 8:00 pm.

Since this was Day Two, I expected to start the engine and do the rounds. Instead, what followed was a lame duck lesson in the car that only had me starting the engine and staring at the controls!

Well, I was a little letdown by the grandiosity of the lesson! If that was all there was to teach me that day, why take half an hour for all of it? But you know how these training schools are. They term themselves to be schools but are actually money-making machines in disguise. As a result, since all they want is to make money, they rarely - if ever - know what it takes to teach. Oh but look at me! I am complaining. Well, yes I am. I felt a little silly you know that day. Starting an engine and staring at the controls hardly amounts to a lesson that is supposed to stretch for half an hour.

Anyway, since it was 9:00 in the night and I had no intention of howling my disgust into the instructor's ears, I just signed my attendance card and ran off home.

Day Three was much much better. But more about that later.

Episode 95: A Driver is Born

2009-12-02T04:07:00.000-08:00

I drove around for the first time in my whole life! And it's not figuratively meant. I mean it literally. Three days prepared me for that and oh lala! It now seems as simple as drawing a car for the second standard drawing exam.

I did mention in one of my posts - probably in the previous one - that I intend to buy a car. Of course, I cannot buy a car and just let it sit you know. That's as good as buying a white elephant and then wonder what to do with it. So, naturally then, since I have to do something with the car and that something - in my case - just has to be driving, I enrolled for driving lessons.

Day One saw me sit through a tiresome boring but rather informative lecture on:

The oils I need to check almost daily (The engine oil and the brake oil)
The water that needs to be in there under the bonnet (The radiator water and the battery water)
The oil I need to check every alternate month (The gear oil)
The six deeds to be done before I begin to drive (Close the door, lock the door, put the seat belt on, check whether the gear's in neutral, adjust my seat, and say my prayers!)
The signs and signals I ought to follow (If you see red, stop; if you see green, just get lost. No Parking, etc etc)
The reason why I must use the clutch BEFORE I change the gear (So that my car lives to see the end of my days and not vice versa!)
The reason why I drive in first gear initially and then rampage through the rest (So that I don't drive like a bucking broncho when in a teeny tiny lane)
The necessity of adjusting the mirror BEFORE I drive (So that I get hang of the bullying BEST bus in about a second)
The rules I ought to follow (Give way to ambulances, etc etc.)
The rules I can break (For example, on roads in silence zones around schools, you can get your honk to chirp at school children, but don't ever sound the trumpet.)

Oh yes, an hour into this lecture, I was nearly asleep, but I did manage to retain much of it. The class comprised students of all ages in all shapes and sizes. Among them was one royally irritating munda from Dalli. This guy thought he was doing us all a favour by gracing the occasion. He just wouldn't lighten up and was way too wound up to even laugh at a joke cracked during the tedious lecture. All he bothered about was his hair (that wasn't at all any competition for Dimple Kapadia) and his terrible pout (which I think was not even a mile near to Amitabh's frown!).

There was a housewife too - taking down notes like a good student and asking questions when she didn't get a concept clear. Of course, I felt a little awkward that I hadn't thought of carrying a book along. At least I could have dawdled and come up with masterpieces to rival Madhuri Dixit's old old loverboy. But no, I didn't think of it. I - you see - ran there right after the 9:15 Sunday service got over. So there wasn't any time to sit and deliberate about the paraphernalia to be taken along. The housewife on the other hand must have done her thinking the day before and gotten ready the previous night itself. Housewives are - more or less - like that. They plan even when there is no need to. It serves them well though. At least it served this housewife well: She appeared sincere and made me wish for a notebook.

Anyway, to continue, by 12:30, we wrapped up. We had begun at 10:15 or so. So, it was indeed quite close to the Sermon on the Mount in terms of its duration. But luckily, I survived and what's more! I now know I can break rules by some deft cunning and a clever sleight of hand!

Coming Up: The Episode on Day Two.

Episode 94: Temper Temper Burning Bright

2009-11-29T18:23:00.000-08:00

I am losing my temper - in fits of the most unusual kind. Usually, my temper is very much in place - sits daintily till the object of its disgust is out of view and then explodes in a few mutterings under my breath. But these days, it has decided to throw its Victorian or Elizabethean behavior in the bin and show the world how fully developed it is.

We finalized the lease for a new apartment today and Sister and I split the bill. The bill - in this case - comprised the deposit, the brokerage, and a month's rent. Big fat bill I know! And so after I said how much I had spent on this and that and after she pointed out that it was in fact she who had spent on that and the other, I agreed to go along with her to the circle and withdraw money for my share of the bill.

Sion circle is a brisk walk away from Pratiksha Nagar - the place where we rent out the apartment we are still in. We walked in the mid-afternoon Sun and it was no great pleasure. I had worn my glares and yet, was winking my way through the lanes we turned in. I was also mighty irritated that the heat was this unbearable at that point in November. Sister - of course, being the pillar of fortitude and resilience that she is - took this all in her side as she marshalled me up and down the path to the circle.

Well, we reached there and I went off to withdraw money from the HDFC ATM. But the ATM was being 'loaded'.
"Loaded?"
"Oh yes that's what he (the security guard) says."
"Oh he means they are putting in money. How long will it take?"
"He says it will take half an hour."
"So then stand here," was what she suggested.
The Sun was at its best by now, climbing up my back and around my neck and making its presence felt.
"No," I said, "I'll remove from Kotak Mahindra."
"You can?"
"Of course, I'll just have to pay 20 extra."
"Oh that's okay for you. You are anyway a carwallah." This was an allusion to the fact that I was twirling around with the idea of buying a car. All - Mother included - pretended to not listen when I told them what I had in mind. And that was as good as telling me that they thought the idea stupid. Anyway, stupid or not, I think I will go ahead with it. And I did tell them so. Well, knowing how stubborn I am, no one has tried to talk me out of it as yet, but the jabs do come intermittently. This carwallah label was one of them.

"Haha," I laughed as I brushed that aside and crossed the road to Kotak's ATM, "Yes indeed I am." The ATM was empty and so I went in. This ATM used both the touchscreen and the keypad as input devices. And since I was used to the plain old keypads in ICICI and HDFC ATMs, I did not quite know how to use it at all.

"Oh see you have to type your PIN and touch there."
"Where?"
"Arrey there! There man! Idiot! Can't you see? It says Touch here."
"Oh! "
"Hehe," snickered Sister, "Ever used touchscreens awhat?"
"Oh I use only HDFC ATMs," I said standoffishly as I blundered my way through the transaction. And just as I was about to be successful with it, the security guard of the ATM materialized near my Sister.
"Remove your glares." He ordered.
"What?"
"Remove your glares."
"Yes yes," I said irritatedly.
Oh he's right, advised Sister, you must
"And why?" The notes were now waiting impatiently to be collected.
"Because it's a rule."
"What rule!" I said hotly, "There's no such rule."
"Just because you don't know about the rule doesn't mean it isn't a rule."
"Yeah right."
"What?" snapped Sister, "It's a rule and he's right."
"Okay okay!" I snapped back and removing my glares, glared at the guard and gave him a meet-me-outside-I'll-mince-you look.

You must know by now I was livid at the security guard for whatever he did tell me. As it is, the ATM was not exactly friendly and to make matters worse, here comes a rule to obey!

Needless to say, I lost it. "Ass he is," I said, as I plunged the money somewhere on my person.
"What? "
'Real ass he is!"
"Don't give bad words okay! He's just doing his job!"
"Oh he is an ass! A real asshole."
"Do be rational!"

I knew she was right. Sister can never be wrong about such things. But once I am angry, irrespective of whether I am right or wrong, what I do just has to be the only thing right in the universe at that point in time. It was no different at that point in time in the ATM either.

I somehow believed I was correct in my anger and just did not want to accept I was wrong.

"Oh come on! I know no such rule," I said. I was now walking towards the door.
"Really you can be so thickheaded."

"Oh what thickheaded! These guys should know what an asshole they have employed." And turning to one of the surveillance cameras, I pointed to the guard and mouthed the words: "This man is an asshole!"

I am beginning to laugh now at the way I did all that. But back then, I was so charged up, it was as if I was about to lead the mutiny over the bounty. I made such a horrid face at the camera and actually stuck my tongue out.

"What's wrong with you?" Sister asked, shocked and exasperated.
"Telling them about the employees they have on board."
"You are so useless" And she walked out of the ATM. I followed and half way through, as we were about to cross the road, I began to wonder whether something was missing.

"Oh yes, I know what's missing. Some sense."
"No, I think it's my spectacle case."
"I don't have your case."
"Oh check it might be in your bag."
"No it isn't."
"You have the money, no?"
"It's in your pocket. You get so angry, don't even know what you're doing."
"Well, it was his fault," I began like a stubborn schoolboy, "He shouldn't have asked me to remove my glares."
"Yeah right!"
"Oh I have forgotten them in the ATM."
"Haha," sneered Sister, "Go get them now. This is what happens when you act too smart."
"Oh you get them!" I barked, "I don't like the fellow. He's an asshole."

Well, I must admit I had lost my sense of reason and was totally hinged to the idea of being right come what may. I think my Sister saw that so she just sighed and brought back the case from the ATM - after of course, smiling and being very polite to the guard who had yet to realized I had abused him to his face.

"What gets into you, really?" We were walking back to Pratiksha Nagar.
"What what gets into me?"
"You know what I'm saying. You behave so stupidly at times."
"But that is no reason for him to tell me to remove my glares. I have been inside ICICI and HDFC ATMs too. No one told me to do that."
"That's because they didn't see you entering with them on, Sister sighed, This fellow was just doing his job."

And she was right. I think what got into me was this dictatorial urge to just imagine I was right irrespective of what the truth was. And it was a damning surge that was so electrifying in its intention that it fried my reasoning all throughout the time it stayed in me. Really, I know I have a temper, but this was something that spinned out of control and what's more! I wanted to justify it. To top that, once I realized I cannot from any angle see any sense in it, I began to get irritated with myself and with every question being asked.

Well, this my temper must have been on a vacation for too long. And just like a schoolboy all set to attack his books after a hiatus, it did just the very same thing.

I think I need to send the schoolboy on a vacation again. Or probably, it's time to throw him out of school.

Episode 93: Reporting Live!

2009-11-26T22:34:00.000-08:00

Whew! Just finished the weekly report. It's quite a feat to accomplish. Tasks that take no more than a day have to be elaborated in such a manner, you'll be all in awe of me that I finished them in a day itself.

Well, reports always tend to be like that. They strike me as facetious, but I can do nothing about them not having a face to face the truth. They are supposed to have such a face and the features of that face are dictated by the powers that be. So, I just let it be.

Episode 92: Office commentary

2009-11-26T21:25:00.000-08:00

Another day at work. Wants to sound very important, but hey, the day doesn't know whom it's kidding.
It's a Friday and so, people expect it to be Saturday sooner than later - at least that's the impression I get from their slow-motion behaviour. No one wants to get into long-drawn meetings and virtually no one wants to sit and explain a concept that might take an hour for me to understand.

Fridays should be optional workdays. Saying this in times of recession is as good as signing my death warrant. But then, what the heck! Someone has to say it and I know everyone here and everyone sitting and standing there - next to you my dear reader - wants to say the same thing.

My colleague with whom I share my cabin hasn't turned up for two whole weeks. God alone knows where he has disappeared to. I won't be surprised if he's in bed - nursing a swollen arm. He does work hard indeed.

Oh let me get back to work now. Have to finish weekly reports and two drafts of chapters to be added to the help file I am working on. See you soon.

Episode 91: A Coup of Sorts

2009-11-26T01:39:00.000-08:00

Things have come to a pretty pass. Our romance is growing flat... Or so I thought was what they were trying to imply from their actions.
She would come in late, he would come in early. Not once - after the big fight - did they talk in the canteen again. And not once did I ever see them going home together again.

So the other day as I walked into my cubicle, I was rather surprised to see her in early. What's more! She dangled a wedding invitation from her right hand and was smiling as if she had foreseen that the invitation would be in her right hand at this hour. Of course that did not surprise me for she was anyway planning to marry soon.

I switched my computer on and began to work and a few minutes later, as I turned to flip through my files, my gaze ran into her hands that were an inch away from my desk. She was standing there and I could think of nothing to say. So I asked,"Getting married?"

"Haha! How did you guess?"
"Not everyone walks in with invites printed at David and Company you know."
"Oh! Very clever."
"So, congratulations."
"Yes, yes thank you."
"When is the wedding?"

She mentioned a date.

"Oh that's like a month away."
"I know! I am excited and so is he."
"He?"
"Yes, we are marrying."
"But I-"
"But what now?" The tone was almost defiant.
"Oh nothing nothing," I said in haste as I tried in vain to pull my words back, "so congratulations!"
"Oh thank you. Do come!"
"Yes yes."
"We both want you to come."
"How sweet!"
These office couples! Really! Can live without them, can live with them, but can never understand them!

Episode 90: Take it or Leave it

2009-11-26T00:33:00.000-08:00

According to an Indo Asian New Service report that saw itself prominently displayed on Yahoo.com, Mumbai did not come to a standstill today, the 26th of November 2009, the day that marks a year's anniversary of the terrorist attacks in South Mumbai and the subsequent questions it raised about Mumbai's security. Instead, the report says, everything was just as usual. The trains were overcrowded and so were the buses. The traffic slowed down at the usual places and it was quite evident people meant to get to work.

I am really fed up of such reports. They make it sound as if Mumbai is programmed to work irrespective of any massacre that comes it way. Fact of the matter is Mumbaiites have no other option.

Consider the train blasts. After they blew open compartments of local trains on the Western line, the very next day, the ones that were not ripped apart went about their business carrying people like sardines packed in a can. Why? Why did people not abandon this mode of transport? It's simple, really. It's because it's the only choice they have. They have to get to work come what may and so, they cannot stop for a bomb blast that sent several hundreds up to Heaven or down to Hell.

Now consider the fact that millions come here to work. Ask them and they'll say they are here to earn more: That - almost unanimously - is the only intention they have in mind when they set foot in Mumbai. Many of them do not have a bank balance to fall back on. Worst is the fact that some take loans and arrive here. Others are on a perpetual loan-taking spree: home loans, car loans, personal loans, etc etc. So, with all this worrying them no end, and with the way things are these days - with the recession of course to add to the melee - it shouldn't surprise you that Mumbaiites will not sit back and enter into a deep reverie of what went by.

Let's face it: At the end of the day, one has a burden to bear and deal with. And none here in this city will want that burden to expand. It's this very thought that drives the city to just let its gears keep working irrespective of the explosive rough patches that come its way.

So, rather than saying that this is a strong signal about the fact that Mumbai is undeterred, it's better to say that Mumbai - though bleeding at its guts, unsettled, and weeping for the people that have fallen victims in heinous acts of terrorism - cannot for the life of it stop breathing for even a second. For if it does, it stands to lose a lot that has been placed on line to make this city what it is and what it will be.

Episode 89: Lunch and A Few Stray Words

2009-11-20T02:10:00.001-08:00

I happen to be the only one in the department I work in to not carry a lunch box. So, I did - with all humility and subservience - try the canteen. A few weeks later, the food decided to be a little bland, but I let that pass. Another week or so later, I began to lose my appetite. And so, in the week that followed, I thought it best that I end my affair with the canteen and hunt outside.

The MIDC-SEEPZ area - as you most Mumbaiites know - is rather dismal when it comes to restaurants. There's Sudha Vihar close to the SEEPZ bus depot and it's as bland in its decors as is a wall of cement that's never painted. The food is passable, but God save you from the attitude of the waiters therein. I remember once when I had decided to have Masala Dosa, the waiter barely even looked at me as he took my order and did not even bother to acknowledge that I had indeed ordered. So I thought perhaps he may have not heard me and so, felt I must repeat myself.

"Oh you've told me alright," he snapped as he shoved his pencil behind his ear,"It'll take time." And he strutted off to the door where he began to scratch his ear.

Thereafter, I began to strut to other restaurants. I tried Tunga that's just a lane away from the company. I ate their Kashmiri Pulao and their Mysore Masala Dosa and then got pretty fed up of it all. It was then that I ran off to Sun City Residency, situated somewhere down the lane that houses the offices of TCS and Novell.

Sun City has this economic thali that comprises rice, two chapatis, two vegetable concoctions, a handful of cucumber and carrot slices, raita, and a soup - all this for just Rs. 65.

Initially, I was rather elated. I traipsed down the lane faithfully and had my fill. And soon, my satisfaction had its fill too and left me to make way for boredom to set in.

So, to dispel that, I alternated between Sun City and Tunga. Sudha-Vihar I never bothered to consider again.

It was during these alternating trips to Tunga and the Sun that I realized people let their tongues hang loose and wag them with a spirited sense of abandon as they eat whatever they have to.

They'll talk about the companies that ditched them and the companies they ditched, they'll rant about the generation that has let them down, and they'll boast about the connections that got them the position they hold right now. Of course, it's lunch time and you do expect people to talk. But I think you expect them to talk in a tone and at a volume meant to be taken in only by the ones at their table.

But no, that's not the case. Strangely, the officegoers - or let's say many officegoers in MIDC - revel in announcing and debating the story of their lives to all sitting to eat with them at the hotel.

Take for instance this man who just did not know how to stop talking about L and T. "You know,"he said,"those buggers called me and told me what the position was all about."

His colleague nodded.

"So then,"he said as he looked around to make sure people were within earshot distance,"I said okay - and this is L and T (At this point he was so loud, even the crow sitting on the fence of the hotel turned to look at him.) I am talking about haan."

"So then what happened?"

"Oh they said this is the profile. I told them I wasn't recruited for that and you know that very well. I fired the woman."

"Oh?"

"Oh yes haha! I sunaoed her."

"You did?"

"Yes and then she said she'll look into the matter."

"Then?"

"Then what she began to act smart with me."

I doubt whether this fellow gave her any other option, but then it certainly is none of my business.

"She called me,"he continued, as if he was being interviewed by Barbara Walters, "and told me I just had to say yes to work on that project."

"So then?"

"Then what? I resigned from there and joined Syntel."

And that ladies and gentlemen was said with so much triumph, it was as if the world has wished that to happen since Kingdom come and he, the Messiah, had made it happen!

After the raucous laughter that usually follows such disclosures, the party decided that they must pay their attention to the food in front of them and so, they sat quiet and let me have my lunch in peace thereafter.

Another time as I waited for my order to wind its way from the kitchen to my table, I leaned back and into a rather amusing conversation.

"Oh did you see that program on the TV?"

"I did not."

"Oh it was amazing. Seventy percent of the blah blah.." and he mentioned a few statistical facts.

"I see, but what does it help?"

I sensed a pause for no one from the group of four spoke. A few seconds later, one of them recovered and asked,"What makes you say so?"

"Well, rather than watch all of that, I am better off sitting with a book or a newspaper in my balcony. I am fed up of the stupid rubbish they pass off as TV."

It took a while to register but register it did. A minute passed by, no one dipped into any topic, and then all of a sudden, someone switched to the weather.

I smiled to myself and began to dig into my order. The grand old man - he did look old - had silenced them all. However later, as I got up to go, I realized why they all had allowed that silence. The old man had walked off to the basin and it was then that his colleague spoke.

"Oh the ass! Had he not to be my manager, I would have given him a thousand reasons why his balcony tolerates him anyway!"

"I know," said another colleague,"Woe betide the ground that lets him keep his chair."

"And woe betide us who have to his drivel bear!"

Some tidings for woe indeed!

Episode 88: Travelling thoughts

2009-11-19T17:26:00.000-08:00

The bus journey was boring. I tried to read James Herriot's Every Living Thing, but closed the book - shut the book I mean - after I ran out of attention on Page 14. I looked out of the window then and took in Kalina or the road that looks at you as you look at it while the bus decides to spin along that route. It's surprising that so many trees line that route. The one from the Bandra Telephone Exchange to Kalina Campus. Okay, not exactly from Bandra Telephone Exchange - but from the point where the bus turns in to get to the road that leads to Kalina Campus. Thereon, after Kalina Campus leaves you and the bus, you come across Kalina village. It's a quaint old village. My choirmaster still has his bungalow here. And everytime I pass the village, it makes me want to look at it over and over again.

The houses are so close yet know to keep their distance from each other. And the lanes add to their effort of maintaining that distance. Quaint - oh I am using the word over and over again - and peaceful for some strange reason, the gullies wind into the space between two rows of bungalows and lead onto open spaces inside - further in, sorry; inside will be wrong to use
here. The people don't seem to be in a hurry there. At least, at 8:35 when my bus passes that village, no one seems to be bothered that along that road a slew of vehicles are fighting time and hell bent on making it to Andheri and beyond by 9 just so that officegoers within these vehicles land up at their desks or in canteens by 9:30.

Really, no one had a look of haste wiping their features into a contorted mass of worry. They all ambled around and looked down or up and never was there a change of pace. Probably, that's because I sat in the bus and caught only a momentary glance of them in the lane. Probably, it's because I merely wanted to see faces that were not worried - that can happen you know when people - I for example - look for a calm face when they themselves are in anxiety.

A stupid thing is anxiety. Just reduces you to a mass of nerves. And for the life of me, I do not quite understand it. It comes when you are fraught with worry. Why doesn't it time itself to arrive with happiness? I guess because it doesn't like happiness. They don't seem to agree.

Oh but let's get back to the bus journey. And to that village - Kalina village. It - I feel - smirks at the developed areas around it. You will rarely find blocks of apartments there. I don't understand how and why no builder rammed into this piece of land and began to erect those dull bland monuments of man's necessity. Perhaps, that's because the village itself denounced the builders and shove them away. The power of a village - you know - cannot be underestimated.

Well, the bus left it and turned to its left to consider a winding road that sidled along the Army Camp there. Oh it's splendid - it's a massive sweep of land covered with trees and greenery and it sits right in the middle of the city. It's refreshing and I always crane my head to it as the bus passes the Camp. The walls that seal it off limits are whitewashed and the men who guard it seem - again - in no hurry to gun anyone down. You see neither the army nor the village nearby seems to be in need of some haste. The only ones who need it are in my bus. All set to tackle a new day, a new file of nonsense, and a new set of weirdos who really have no clue what their orders mean or how they are to be executed.

Ah! Life! It revels in sitting silently and observing you go through it with disgust or awe. You never hear it speak to you, do you? Whatever it has to convey is in its actions and situations that it plies you with. Life! One wants it - I want it. And some don't - I don't too, at times. But one cannot leave life. Just as one cannot leave a job for the sake of it. Not at least in these times of recession. One struggles, holds one's head in the palm of the hand and says: "If only one had to make a choice better than this, I would not be travelling to misery and ennui every day of the week." The irony is when we did choose, we thought it to be the best decision that came across our thoughtful minds. It's funny how the choice itself spoils its reputation as we work with it and ultimately goads us into loathing it.

But life is something far far more complex than a job. It has the undercurrents of emotions deeply rooted in the psyche of a mind that has gone haywire and recovered just in time to appear normal. It breathes in the vestiges of the fulfilled desires that man created for himself and knows not what to do with them next once they are fulfilled. Given this labyrinth that it derives its existence from, do you ever think it will be simple to decipher why it at times is cruel to the very being that it owes its existence to?

I don't know. I hardly even understand myself at times. And to make sense of what this mass of pure mysterious aura is, I think I might take a lifetime.

Episode 87: The MCHI Exhibition

2009-10-09T23:32:00.000-07:00

Most of us - I'm sure - have friends of all sorts. And yes, we love them all irrespective of the idiotic ways in which they behave at times. And I am also sure there's one set of friends whom you sometimes wish wasn't around. This set is the one that's forever laughing, just cannot pretend to be sad, and can never be serious about anything at all. Oh these friends are a treat for sure - that I don't deny. But - you know - there are moments when that particular set gets so irritating, you wish they all just get lost. Or worse! You wish you can throw them into a bout of depression.

Well, if that's what's on your mind, take my advice and send them to the Maharashtra Chamber of Housing Industry (MCHI) property exhibition. Chances are you'll have to admit them all to the nearest psychiatric hospital after that exhibition is done with them!

I went there a few mornings ago and Oh my God! I wish I hadn't. It's a horrible place to start searching for property in the first place. And secondly, it's superb at making you feel like a mongrel.

These days I reside at Sion - Pratiksha Nagar to be precise. And the nearest station to that is GTB Nagar (Sion Koliwada for the ones who insist on degrading it). So, I took the train from GTB to Kurla, then caught Bus no. 310, and got down at Citibank - the stop opposite to which stood the MMRDA grounds that let the exhibition unfurl.

So far so good. The organizers had just the right yellow splashed on all their posters with a rooster crowing to Mumbai (in the posters of course) to wake up for now is the right time to buy! Nothing bad about it but on closer inspection, I noticed that their notion of buying great property was some Godforsaken housing project planted in Virar - the station that's known quite famously to be the back of the beyond of the Western line.

This was on the outside. And I should have taken that as a precursor of what was inside. But no, I just refused to let that register. Instead, I walked in and promptly began to register. The girl at the desk was so bland in her answers, even water would have tasted better. I asked her for a pen and she motioned towards a string that tied a pen to the desk. I then asked her whether I need to give my address for I was doling out my number anyway. And she says in a tone deader than a frying pan: "Yes address necessary." And then she shut up as if the program in her had finished its execution.

I did not quite know what to make of it, so I smiled and walked in. The stalls were all spacious - never mind that they were there to sell flats that comparatively looked like pigeonholes. All of them were tastefully done up so that you could not even tell whether the recession has hit them. The salespeople were in suits and the tables were all glass and wood. It's just that I knew I was in an exhibition. Were I to blindfold myself and walk in, I would have easily mistaken it to be the lounge of a posh upscale restaurant in downtown Mumbai. So much for the ambience.

Well, I walked into one of the stalls to make sure they were indeed selling apartments. Right enough they were - at prices I never knew existed.

"How much for this one?'
"Oh it's around 6,100 psft."
"Okay and how much's the total area?"
"1,123."
"So this is somewhere-"
"-around 71 lakhs!"
"I see." I said, not wanting to see any of it anymore. So I asked: Do you have a 1 BHK?
"No sir, we have no plans!"

Well, that is so stupid of them! At Rs. 6100, 1 BHKs would be something people would buy!
"But no Sir, we have no plans." is what I heard them saying all over again.

As if that wasn't enough, they also managed to throw in truckloads of attitude. This happened at the Lodha stall. I began by inquiring about a project at Bhandup. And the salesgirls thought here is a man with lots of money. After that, one of them launched into a litany of the most stupid details about the project. Really, why should I know where the club house is gonna be or where the gymnasium has decided to build itself. All I want is a bloody house!
So when I realized she wasn't about to shut up about how elegant the whole construction was, I cut in and asked her for the price. Needless to say as she spoke, it blew my life away but I managed to let my legs hold fort.
"Oh 65 lakhs eh? Alright alright!" I heard myself saying, "And that's for a 2 BHK?"
"Oh no sir," she cooed, "it's for a 2 and half BHK."
"Right right! Oh how about 1 BHKs? Do you have any?"
"Yes Sir but those are at Thane. You can check there." And she pointed the counter to me.

I followed her pointer and towards that counter. Needless to say, it was crowded. At Rs. 33 lakhs, this was the cheapest offering Lodha had. I then took a look at the site address and I sighed. All those flats were sitting off some Godforsaken road in Thane. And I know no one ever wants to go down that road at all. However, the agency they had hired to make posters knew their job well.
Nowhere had they information about how tedious a road that is to travel. And not even one of them mentioned the fact that Thane is actually not even Mumbai!

Well I caught hold of the nearest salesfellow and inspite of the fact that I could read it straight off the poster I asked: "How much is this?"
"33," he said.
"Okay and when will it be ready?"
He mentioned a date.
"Okay, can you write down the price and the total area on some brochure and give it to me?"

Well now that apparently was not his job or so he gave me to believe. He did not refuse, but pointed out a certain fellow dressed in a sleek black suit who would do that for me. This fellow happened to be talking to a couple who were in all earnestness asking him quite a lot about a project he had raved and ranted about. Perhaps he was dedicated to his job, or perhaps he was trained to do what he did for he took no notice of me even though I stood a foot away. So the salesfellow who pointed him out did a little whispering in his ears. The moment he heard Thane and 1 BHK, he looked at me as if I had risen from the dustbin and had no right to be there. Of course, he quickly left that look aside to don a smile as he said: "Oh alright sir, I'll be with you in five minutes."
Okay and I waited. The couple resumed their questions and he returned to his act of ignoring me. A full five minutes impatiently passed my way and the fellow had yet to begin to acknowledge me again. At the start of the sixth minute, he turned to me and said: "Sir, please have a seat. I'll be right with you."

So I sat down. Well, once you sit down at such exhibitions, it becomes a little difficult to not allow yourself to be caught with an irritating feeling that you are being deliberately given the snub. I tried then to distract myself from that idea by looking around. I looked at the sofas (all white - straight from the Koffee with Karan show), the people (some dressed with a perpetual pout, some with a perpetual shock), and then realized I was close to being irritated all over again. So, I looked at the fellow in the black suit once more. There he was looking at me too, but with no apologetic look at all. Instead, he seemed quite perplexed that I was still there. I kept looking at him nevertheless, but he just sailed on in his talks with that couple. Evidently, they were Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags and he wasn't interested in the change I was to offer for a flat God-knows-where in Thane. So decided to get up and do. The moment I did that his look changed to that which spreads on a man's face when things have gone according to plan. I have a 180-degree vision, so from the corner of my eye, I could see his gaze follow me quite happily out of the stall till I could see that bloody fellow no more.

If I am to teach a lesson about class distinction on the basis of income, I am sure to slip this somewhere in my discourse.

I wandered around then - not knowing what to do next. Inquiring around in other stalls was of no use. It was the same old story: If you showed interest in anything priced between 80 to a crore, the entire desk would fawn over you. But the moment you switch to asking about budget flats, they would recoil and turn into ice maidens. Well, for the inquiries I made, tolerating their behaviour was a nasty price to pay!

Which, incidentally, brings me to the prices. They were the best set of ridiculous rates to have ever been stated in the history of the real estate. A 2 BHK in Kanjurmarg was priced at Rs. 8, 600 psft while a 2 BHK in Bhandup asked for around Rs. 6,100 psft. Now everyone - at least all the people staying along the Central line - know what a gaon Kanjurmarg is. There's life only for the first few roads that lead away from its station (Which by the way looks haunted). Beyond that it's dead. The West has a mall and a movie hall and that's about it. The rest of the stretch yawns with boredom. As for the East, it only has residences that give way to shanties lining both sides of the road. There's no pub, no cafe, nothing. So the logistics and reasoning that the realtor used to arrive at Rs. 8600 psft for the apartment in that area escapes me.

As for Bhandup, well, the less said the better. It takes an hour to reach there from VT, has hills dotted quite colourfully with slums for panaromic views, and has a station that reminds you of those nondescript stops along a Godforsaken railway line where - forget an Express - not even a goods train will bother to go to. Yet, some realtor decided quite happily to sell his wares at Rs. 6,100 psft and more!

Oh and at Vikhroli, Godrej decides to peg the price of its apartments at the same price at which flats in Sion are available! So, you pay Rs. 70 to 80 lakhs for a 1 BHK built by Ackruti at Sion and you pay just the same amount for a slightly bigger 2 BHK constructed by Godrej at Vikhroli! The reason? "Oh it's a Godrej!" I was told, "How can you even think of anything lesser than that?!"

Effectively then, you pay the same exorbitant amount irrespective of where you are - be it Sion or Vikhroli or Mulund or Bhandup - or so they have decided to drill into my head.

Luckily, I am educated you know. I read Pride and Prejudice and occasionally open books written by Sidney Sheldon. So yes, I do think and that's why I thought it much better to just not accept the drilling at all.

Well but there were moments when I felt rather humiliated. Infact, at one point during my jaunt, I nearly began to cry. See, I understand it's merely a property exhibition and I have nothing to lose. But the very thought that inspite of earning so much and living all my life in Mumbai, I cannot afford any of these places was rather humiliating.

There's a reason why I have been in Mumbai all my life. The reason is I love the city despite the thousand and more flaws I can pick in its administration, transport, infrastructure, etc, etc. I was born here. I got an education here. And here's where I first learnt to let myself be enthralled by the magic of the movies.

Mumbai's also the city in which I began to love music. I began to listen to music at home and home was Mumbai. And gradually, it became the love I was never to let go off. Somewhere down the line, as I associated a song with my ups and downs, my highs and lows, this city always was the backdrop for it all - be it the disastrous engineering results in New Mumbai, the showdown with a certain boss at Nerul, the gossip sessions at Costa Coffee - Juhu, the heartaches at Carter Road - it's been there watching, tolerating my tantrums, and just letting me be.

For that I love the city. And since I love it so much, I was rather hurt that it could not afford to make some space for me.

"Oh ho will you just stop now!"
I was on the phone with Sister Dearest.
"But why? Am I not entitled even a square feet of space here?"
"You are standing on one."
"You know what I mean."
"Very much."
'Then why don't you side with me?"
"And what side are you on?"
"Stop that!"
"Okay okay peace peace!"
"Seriously man! These rates! They look like death threats."
"Seriously who told you to go there in the first place?"
"Well I thought-"
"Oh yes indeed - you know what? You think too much! Now just come home. That place is no place for you."
"Oh really! At 8,600 psf, I wonder even if ET will want to step in here!"
"Haha. So come home then. Bother!"

So I threw all of those brochures in the gutter, jumped into Bus no. 310, landed home, and slept my constructed headache away.

Episode 86: The Compliment of the Season

2009-09-29T23:49:00.000-07:00

"You know the fisherfolk in the bazaar are very friendly."

Up there in the sky, the Sun had decided to turn up in its steamiest best and down here we were all bearing the brunt of its attire. We sat along on the benches that shot out of the wall of Mount Mary's Basilica, Bandra. It was 9:40 in the morning and the crowds had begun to thin and burgeon every other minute. We were waiting - albeit rather impatiently - for Father Dearest who was involved with the proceedings of the 9:15 Mass. And since the wait and the people milling around us were irritating us no end, we began to talk.

Sister Dearest spoke of food and Mother Dearest, as usual, chose the marketplace to fish for topics. That's her favourite - after the inflation of course. If she isn't complaining about the rising prices, she is busy explaining how these days a small piece of fish or a kilo of chicken is worth such a lot of money.

But this particular day, she left all that aside and instead brought up the nature of the fisherfolk she buys pomfrets, prawns, and what not from. We had nothing much to do other than wait for Father and listen. So we let Mother continue with her tale of humanity from the fishmonger's section.

"They are sweet you know," I heard her saying, as I kept one eye on the people climbing up the Rosary steps and the other on Father.

"Really?"
"Yes that day I had gone to the bazaar and there was this fisherwoman I always buy fish from..."
"Hmm..."
"So she said..." and Mother said something. However, all of what she said fell into oblivion.
My ears had stopped listening. I had let my gaze wander down the bamboo barricades dressed up in white and blue cloth and for a moment, something arrested my attention.

Now for the life of me, I don't remember what that was, but what I do remember is that when I brought my ears and attention back to Mother and Sister, they both were giggling.
So I also began giggling.
"What happened?" I asked in a manner as casual as possible.
"Were you even listening?"
"Yes I was. I heard Mother praising the fisherfolk."
"Yes that was it."
"Then what are you laughing at?"
"See? You were not paying attention!"
"I was!"
"Then why were we laughing? - tell me."
"Some joke obviously. About the fish or something."
"You're horrible! And then you say WE don't listen to you."
"Fine," I said exasperated, "I wasn't listening. What was it?"
"Mother," Sister began, "was saying that that day she went to the bazaar and passed this fisherwoman's stall."
"And?"
"And I," Mother said, "was in no mood to buy fish. But those bombils (Bombay ducks) looked really fresh. They were shining you know."
"Really?"
"Yes, and she also was telling me: 'Ghe ga, taazi haan.' (Take no! They are fresh.) And I said: 'Tujhya sarkhe!' (Yes, like you!) So she started smiling and giggling. And her friends sitting nearby started to laugh as well."

"Haha! So Mother," I said, after I had heard it all, "you called her a fish!"
"What?!"
"Yes, effectively," I explained, "you actually complimented her for looking like a fish?"
"Oh don't talk rubbish."
"But of course Mother. That bombil might have been covered with blood - with its mouth all ugly and all. And you said it looks like her! You actually told her how ugly she was!"

And then Mount Vesuvius erupted.

"What rubbish! Really!"
"Goodness gracious!"
"This fellow-" began Sister and left it for us to guess what she wanted to say.
"Really! His mind is so perverted!"
"What?" I asked, pretending to be innocent amidst my laughter, "It looks like that, doesn't it?"
"Shut up there!" said Sister quickly, "You talk all rubbish! All rubbish!"
"What?-"
"Oh shut up!" insisted Mother.
"Not one word!" commanded Sister.
"Really!"
"You need to go do your confession!"
"Yes! Better go do your confession."
"Extra only! Has to think out of the way!"
"Talking to you is so useless! And you're laughing? So shameless, really!"
"If I don't laugh," I said, laughing, "what am I supposed to do? Mother called her a bombil! Haha!"
"Shut up there! You're such a bag of nonsense!"

And finally, as we got up to go (for Father was through with the Mass), Mother wrapped up the explosion with a classic shake of her head and the line that says so much more than what she wants it to: "Wonder who you're friends are!"

Episode 85: What is This?!

2009-09-28T00:58:00.000-07:00

There was a time Mother hated Michael Jackson. I remember the day we were watching one of his music videos (or was it a stage performance?) and in walked Mother with her hand on her hip.

“What’s this?” She asked as she pointed at him pointing his vitals at us. “What’s this?”

“Well Mother,” I said, smiling, “this is Michael Jackson.”

“Shee! This fellow! Doesn’t know how to dress up at all.”

“Well Mother, it’s show business you know. They’ve got to dress up that way.”

“That doesn’t mean they show how vulgar they can be!”

I burst out laughing at that observation and she shook her head and stormed off into the kitchen.

Thereafter, as and when she encountered his face in the newspaper or an article about him, her reaction was more or less the same: She would frown, shake her head and ask rhetorically: “What’s this world come to?!

Well the world and Mother then saw things worse than Jackson’s dance moves and she slowly lost track of him and his work.

It was only a couple of years ago that she got in touch with him once again. I happened to be working at that time. And I also did myself and the family a favour: I bought a computer and paid for an Internet connection as well. Well, with the Internet came the habit of listening to stuff online. And one fine day, that stuff happened to be Heal the World.

As you may or may not know, it’s a pretty song. A child quite innocently muses about the world and its future and a little later, a slow mellifluous guitar melts into Jackson’s thin delicate voice that is laced with honey and tenderness. I let it play for a while as a cool breeze swept in from the windows and rustled my hair. I was so taken by the song that I hadn’t noticed Mother Dearest standing at my door – again with her hand on her hip.

“Alright fine,” I said as I yanked myself out of my bed, “I’ll lower the volume.” I said.

“On no no! That’s not what I came here for!”

I was surprised. “Then then?”

“Who’s this singer?”

“Well guess guess.”

“Why do you think I am asking you then?”

“Okay it’s your favourite Michael Jackson.”

For a minute, she did not know how to react. The hand went down from the hip to her sides and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, when she knew she had to say something, “Oh really! ” is what she managed.

“Yes, Mother, it’s the same fellow you never approved of!”

“What rubbish! I never said I never approved of him.”

“No, but whatever you did say more or less left nothing unsaid you know.”

“Oh my God! He sings so well,” She said, evidently ignoring me, “Why ever has he to be so outrageous!”

“Well that,” I sighed, “is something we have to live with.”

“Really he has such a lovely voice. Play that song again. Come on.”

So, I played it once more. And another dozen times as well.

Thereafter, Mother began to take a lenient view of the man. Gone were the acerbic admonitions of his ways and his lifestyle. “Oh he is misguided,”she began to explain as if I needed that clarification, “if he only were to understand what he is doing, he would not do all of that!”

Well Jackson clearly decided not to understand. From plastic surgeries to scandalous happenstances to being crowned the King of an African tribe to marrying twice to living on pills, he was quite sure of the loud noise he wanted as his lifestyle.

In the end, that very lifestyle swallowed him and his finances. He realized what had happened to him and knew he needed the fame and the money back. So, he went berserk and rehearsed for hours on end for his comeback concert that was to be held in London. Apparently, he did smile and wave at the dancers – that came naturally to him – and he was spot on with his impromptu sessions as well.

Anyway, minutes after that exuberant vitality pleasantly shocked his dance troupe, he died and shocked us all! Of course, the news took some time to drift across the Arabian Sea and land at my door. But the moment it did, Mother began to surf the Internet.

“And what exactly are you searching for Mother?”

“Oh there are no details about his burial service.”

“And you are planning to fly down there to attend?”

“Don’t be ridiculous dear!” And she returned to her searches. She searched on Monday.

She would not know about the burial service till the ensuing Wednesday.

Needless to say, but say I must, she was more in regret about his life than even perhaps he himself was. She urged me to keep playing Heal the World nearly a dozen times all over again. And since I have no complaint against that song, I played it.

Well, I was rather amused at Mother’s about turn through the years. And now that he was dead, she was quite close to proclaiming him rather innocent as well. It’s just that his scandals stood quite boldly and irritatingly in her way and she could do nothing about them. Or else, she would have gladly pretended to believe that they never happened at all.

I did mention this whole change of heart to her and she wiped her hands on her apron and gave me what I knew I would hear: “Oh he is dead and gone now. And he had a nice voice too. It’s a pity he did not follow what he did sing (Heal the World) or else he would have healed himself too!”

Episode 84: The Search

2009-05-30T23:57:00.000-07:00

I checked my diary;
And looked through many a note.
I went through my conversations;
And heard it all note for note.

I walked down the stairs;
And looked around.
I gazed at the skies;
And heard a subtle dismal pound.

I climbed into a bus;
And decided to get off somewhere.
I searched the eyes that searched me;
For a thought told me it might be somewhere.

I got down on a lane green and lush,
That sidled up to a meadow lonely and graceful.
The waters there sparkled and rustled,
As they sang of a saga old and wistful.

I awoke all of a sudden.
And I did hear the song.
Its words were lonely and Godforsaken-
Words I hadn't heard for long.

I wrote them down-
Every sad letter and bored note.
I wrote them with thoughts upside down-
Every line on which I did dote.

I liked the song,
As I saw the night drift to a smiling morn.
And I realized as the stars went home,
I hadn't what I did have when I was born.

Episode 83: The Murder at 666, Hedonist Avenue

2009-05-26T21:36:00.000-07:00

Murdering someone in particular is a quick fix to satisfication. You scheme. Then you take the sharpest wicked knife from the kitchen, jazz it up with some gems, and then let it dive into the throat of the person who wronged you.

To add a touch of panache, swish it around his or her head so that you can savour a look of fright - a fright that they never thought of when they ruthlessly slashed your life in two.

While you swish and savour the look to the tune of a Western Classical symphony - say the Turkish Rondo composed by Mozart - jab the knife down the throat and get it to dance its way to the chest.

In a span of a majestic minute, a sparkling fountain of blood - reminiscent of the mystical red of the rubies - rises up as the person looks on, in a royal state of shock mixed with magnificent pain and a longing that you complete the deed as soon as possible.

Well now, it depends on how horrid the person was to you. If he or she were a mass of brutality, chances are you will let the knife linger and wedge its way down to the spine so that at least when death arrives, some feeling is born in that body.

You may also want to play the smooth operator and snuff their soul out in one swish of the blade the way they wrecked your happiness and in turn your life with one whiplash of a sentence.

Either way, you know you will go to prison and meet a man or a woman more experienced in this art than you are. And given the fact that that is not your intention, you will reign in the thought of murder and not go onto murder at all.

But, in the world that lives up there in your head - the world in which all your deeds seem just and plausible - the crime has been committed and the criminal has attained nirvana.