kiruku

I... huff... did... puff... it!!!

2012-01-15T06:43:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, about 5+ years ago, I noticed something for the first time... lots of people were putting a somethingrandom dot blogspot dot com under their signature. And me being the type who reads stuff if there is nothing else to do, I clicked on some of those links. Some I liked, a lot was pretty ordinary, but something inside me told me, "maybe you should try this too..."

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Once upon a time, about 5+ years ago, I noticed something for the first time... lots of people were getting up on a perfectly sleep-worthy Sunday morning with nothing better to do than run from one end of the town (ok, technically middle of the town) to the other end. What got me interested was the goody-bag which at that time contained goodies worth more than the cost of registering for the thing. And me being the type who would never pass up a free lunch, I found this very satisfying. I decided to register from the next year, but something inside me told me "I am never doing this..."

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And so, since you are reading this, you know that I did start a blog. And soon filled it with all sorts of crap. Lots and lots of it. I wrote if I was happy, I wrote if I was sad, I wrote what sounded like good humour to me even if others wrinkled their noses at the inanity of it all, I wrote verse and worse, I wrote if I had something to say, I even wrote because all I wanted to do was say something. I started marking blog birthdays, and made new online friends through this. The writing was erratic in both its frequency and its quality, but I wrote because I loved it.

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I registered for the half marathon for the first time in 2010. The marathon guys had grown smarter and the goody-bag had stuff worth much lesser than the fee. WTF, I thought, I have already overpaid, and I am not going to make this worse by actually running in the event. Cheats, damn it! And so, the bib was handed over to a friend who did the honours. Don't tell the marathon folks though, I hear they don't approve of it. I did not register in 2011, since the arbitrage was lost and I was not going to throw good money after a bunch of revital tablets and random hair gels. I mean, whatever happenned to the cute water bottles man? I registered again in 2012, egged on by friends who showed way more enthu than me. Damn them too.

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Writing is essentially a lonely habit. People may form a like-minded circle online, become part of cliques to scratch each other's backs and plug each other's stupid posts, but you don't get together in groups and decide to write on some topic (at least I don't). For an asocial person like me with few friends, who doesn't meet people unless forced by either the opportunity of having some good food or imbibing some spirits or by the general attractiveness quotient of the members in attendance, writing was a natural hobby. I loved the way I could sit in a corner of my room and pontificate on the random stuff, poking fun at the world at large. I loved it even more when some people (few but more than enough) were as lacking in a social life as me and decided to read and comment on the stuff. The point of this rambling paragraph is to somehow connect the declining frequency of posts here to the fact that now I stay with my parents, and get enough entertainment from pulling my mom's leg on all matters divine.

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Running is a lonely sport. People do form running groups, they get together to motivate one another to go the extra mile, but at the end of it all, it is just you and the road, and maybe some music (which doesn't interest me much). But strangely, it never appealed in spite of me being asocial. That's because I was also extremely lazy. To the point of ordering in lunch and dinner instead of stepping out when I was staying alone. So, on the rare occasion that I did engage in any physical activity, I liked to do it in a large group. But my idea of having a good game meant carrom board and lately, poker (without the money, I am a conservative Tam-Brahm when it comes to gambling). The point of this rambling paragraph is to somehow get the idea across that in spite of running being a sport made for loners like me, I didn't quite get the hang of what joy could there be in putting one foot in front of another for hours on end.

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Life is not to be measured by milestones crossed, it is about the fun you are having that you don't even notice the milestones you whiz past. I have firmly subscribed to this pop-psychology in recent years, and went from a 'I-have-to-get-first-rank' grades obsessed person to 'Sab-kuch-maya-hai' guy. I even wrote a post about the secret of happiness being about the ability to reduce the gap between what you want and what you have, and it being easier to reduce what you want than putting in effort to increase what you have. But some milestones I do like to mark, like birthdays and blog post numbers. And I am glad to announce that THIS IS THE TWO-HUNDRED-FIFTIETH POST in this space. *Bows and waits for applause*

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Running is all about milestones. Their very presence helps you push yourself to jog those extra few steps. And a guy like me, who has a very high opinion of his physical prowess in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, needs milestones to remind him about the gap between reality and wishful thinking. I tried practising for this event, very sincerely sometime in October-November last. The very first few mini-runs resulted in shooting pain through the shins (apparently they are called shin-splints or something) and I happily retired hurt thinking "who wants to run anyways?" I tried to practise in December, but a combination of long working hours, an oddly dipping temperature in Mumbai mornings and my legacy laziness ensured that the snooze button became the most used feature of my phone. And then, I promised myself "I'll get to the start line. Walk through the sealink, enjoy the view, turn around and catch a cab." So much for positive thinking and visualizing about the finish line.

And so it started. I jog, I lose my breath, I slow down and walk. I jog again, runs and repeat. I look for short milestones. At least jog from this advertising board to the next. And so on. And walk. And walk. And walk. First, the fit guys race past me and I happily give them way. Then the attractive girls race past me and I feel mildly voyeuristic. Focus. Focus. Not on the babe dammit, on the next step. Then even old uncles and aunties waddle past me and I give up.

I reach 6 km in the first hour, and I calculate like a typical accountant, 10 minutes per km means I can do this in three and a half hours. Then, miraculously I pick up pace, and do 7.5 km in the next hour. And suddenly I think, hey maybe I can do this within 3 hours. I race past 15 km in 2:15 and that's when Murphy laughs his patented evil laugh and I get cramps. All of a sudden, toes curl up involuntarily and putting a step ahead gives me the shivers. The sun is up, people from the sidelines are shouting out cheers and I am telling myself "Can't give up now. Earlier, it made sense to quit. Not now. Not after 15 km. Walk, crawl if need be, but finish the damn thing."

I get some ice pack from a helpful volunteer and pause to soothe my calf muscles. My legs start to behave like Manmohan's cabinet and refuse to listen to their head. At 18 km, I hardly feel my feet. At 19, no sensation below my knees. And then, I buck down and keep walking. Till the magical board "1 km to go" appears. That gives my legs a new lease of life. I walk faster, and when it says 500 metres to go, I attempt a jog. A slow jog. And before I know it, I have completed something that I didn't think was possible for me. *Bows and waits for applause again*
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And now, next year, aiming for a sub-3 hour show! And reaching 300 blog posts.

Move over, make way, here comes SRK! :D

Of old men and fasts...

2011-12-29T09:31:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season for silliness and your not-so-humble correspondent willy-nilly wakes up from a long hibernation to his favourite form of silly...

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I'll tell you 'bout an old man who loved to fast
He also conjured up visions of a glorious past
if you drink, he'll have you tied up and flogged
and in his village, all the limelight he hogged
I wonder, how long will his movement last

He has adopted a pro-democracy label
but no one in his village can watch cable
his village hasn't had an elected panchayat
coz he runs it like his fiefdom, makes me think that
to appreciate irony, this man is a bit unable

So this peaceful old man with a love for whips
decided to go on another of his many ego trips
to his credit, he stood against the state without fear
but the lack of crowds did not bring him much cheer
sometimes he flops, because on ideas, often he flips

He is backed by the very-fiery Ms. Bedi
who created history by being the first lady
to become an IPS officer and soon a supercop
once she towed a car and made an angry PM hop
till they found some of her travel deals were shady...

We also have a intelligent chap named Kejriwal
who had a fancy document called Jan Lokpal
He wanted to bring to book all the fools
who have made it a habit to break all the rules
but the wise fools knew one thing: "How to stall"

there is a lesson in this for us, dear friends
that the road is never straight, it always bends
you must strike while the iron is red and hot
because damned public memory is always short
it don't matter how you start, but only how it ends!

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PS: The trigger for this post is a statement by our modern Gandhi (or was it one of his team) who remarked that the country is being run by dictators. Coming from a man who flogs people for drinking, forcibly makes all his villagers vegetarians, bans cable TV, and hasn't held panchayat elections, isn't it irony at its delicious best?

A lesson in Economics...

2011-10-10T11:03:00.001-07:00

For the extremely jobless people wondering where your trusted kiruku had vanished, let me assure you (and simultaneously disappoint those who were rejoicing about the silence here) that it was a temporary break caused by one of the following (guess which):

I moved to a new place and have been too lazy to get myself an internet connection;
I have moved in with my parents, and have been busy being pampered with home cooked food and great conversation, and hence have not found time for the blog;
I have been very busy work-wise closing multi-million dollar deals for building the nation’s infrastructure, bringing light to a billion lives;
I have run out of ideas to post on.

Anyways, there has been an idea for a post which has been germinating in my mind for quite some time and it is time I inflicted it on all the three people who still check this space for updates.

*******

It all started one evening when my mom, in one of our usual after-dinner chats on the not-so-usual-non-marriage topic, asked “I want to join a chit scheme at the local jeweler.”

“Oh, what is this cheat scheme?”

“Not cheat scheme, chit scheme! We join a chit system, where we agree to pay, say 5000 rupees, to the local jeweler for 12 months. At the end of every month, there is a draw, and if your name comes up, you don’t have to pay any longer, and you get jewels worth Rs.60000.”

“You mean, if your name comes up in the very first month, you pay only 5000 bucks but get jewels worth Rs.60000?”

“Yes.”

“And if your name doesn’t come for the next 12 months at all?”

“Then, at the end of the year, you get jewels worth Rs.60000. Either ways, you don’t lose money.”

“You lose float…”

“What is float?”

“Never mind. It is the interest you’d have earned if you had put in 5000 bucks every month in the bank. No, that doesn’t make up for the lottery. There has to be some other catch…”

“Why do you have to doubt everybody? This kind of scheme runs in every jeweler’s shop across the country.”

Now, dear readers, take a pause. A brief background of yours truly is required. I am a banker. And we don’t trust anybody. Part of the profession. Plus, we know that there are no free lunches and no risk-free super-normal returns.

“No, how does the jeweler make money?”

“By selling his goods.”

“That is his normal business. How can he afford to give away 55000 worth of jewels just like that? How come he does not run out of money?”

“He does not give away. There are always some or the other people joining the scheme, and so the jeweler does not run out of money.”

“You mean, he takes money from you to pay someone who is already in the scheme? And then takes money from someone else to pay you when your time comes?”

“Something like that…”

“You just described a Ponzi scheme. Or rather, the US Treasury nowadays…”

“What's Ponzi?’

“Not what, who. An old swindler. Never mind. Just tell me, what happens if someone else doesn’t join the chit scheme some day? How will the jeweler pay you?”

“It never happens. People always join the scheme. People in India will always buy gold!”

“True enough. But why would they buy gold from this jeweler? What if some competing jeweler attracts them with some other chit scheme?”

“Every jeweler has his loyal buyers. They usually come back to the same guy once they are happy with his service.”

“Even so, why put in money in a Ponzi scheme? Why not pay the jeweler in one shot when we need to buy gold?”

“We have always bought gold like this. We were not MBAs with fancy pay to buy gold in one shot. And we trust people. Besides, what’s wrong in saving up gradually to buy gold?”

“Ok, why not save up in a Bank RD, where at least we know the money is safe?”

“Because at the jeweler, you might get lucky and have your name come up in the first month!"

“Ok, how does this lucky draw work? Does he invite all the chit scheme investors on a particular day and draw the names from some box like they show in those TV shows?”

“No, he draws in his shop, I don’t know when."

“Wow, you want to put money with an unknown guy, in a Ponzi scheme, where even the lottery is not transparent? Somehow, I am a bit uneasy.”

“Ennavo po! You are always negative. Always doubting people. Forget it, I’ll not join.”

“I didn’t say no. All I am saying is, when you take a leap of faith, don’t do it blind.”

“Forget it. I don’t want to discuss this further!”

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I don’t know whether my mom learnt a lesson in economics. But I learnt a very important lesson in psychology.

It doesn’t matter how many times one says “there is no my money or your money. It is ours, and you can choose to spend the way you want. Just because dad’s retired doesn’t mean you have to check with me for every penny spent…”, if one doesn’t practice it. Even if the venture is not economically sound. Especially if the venture is not economically sound.

Because only if you let people you care about lose money and not worry about it, will they ever feel free enough to take the money you give them and treat it as theirs.

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In closing, a good economics student knows to win any argument. Rationally. But a good psychology student knows which arguments to not get into. Emotionally.

What does money mean to you?

2011-07-31T10:44:00.000-07:00

What does money mean to you?

I have often struggled with this question. As a child, despite my parents' best efforts, I was acutely aware of how this mystical thing wasn't present in as much abundance at our home as at some of the others. I had all that I needed, but not everything that I wanted. And believe me, I wanted a lot. I wanted a new bicycle because the neighbour's kid had one. I wanted a video game, again because the neighbours had one. I wanted a colour TV with cable connection, not the old B&W one in which you could see DD1 (and some grainy images of some other channel provided the wind wasn't blowing too strongly and shaking the antenna). I wanted to go on all the school excursions. And I got most of these too. I still don't know how they managed to do it.

Growing up, one of my dreams was to be a millionaire by 25. Stupid, I know. In spite of having a father who didn't measure himself by how much he made. Or probably because of it. I kept hankering after money. Still do.

And then, I grew up. At least chronologically. Got myself a bunch of useless degrees. And one pretty useful diploma. Which landed me into a decent job. Reached my first million at 27. Two years late, and in rupees, not dollars. And realized that a million is pretty much useless in a world where people talk in crores. Should've accounted for inflation, damn it! I make almost 10 times of what my dad made while he retired. Yet, I never saw him complain about money, while I crib about being underpaid. He traveled two-and-half-hours each way for over 8 years to get to work at his age. I crib about a half an hour commute, and wish I could stay closer to work. Which would require more money. Some people never learn. In spite of having the best teachers at home.

Most parents attempt to teach you through long, boring lectures. And never manage to get the message through. Thankfully, my dad wasn't one of them. He didn't preach, he showed by example. Like resigning from a job when asked to cook the books by the management. Without another job in sight, with a wife and 2 kids to provide for and loans to pay. Like never padding up expense accounts merely because the company is paying. Sometimes, I wish he hadn't been so frustratingly straight-forward in his life. It would have made it much easier for me to come up with fake rental and medical receipts. And save up on taxes. But he taught me that sleep doesn't come easy on a mattress filled with cash.

My dad officially retired today. After many months of me and my mom nagging him to do so. There were no farewell speeches, no exit interviews, not even the symbolic wrist-watch that most companies give as an inadequate thank-you for all the time you devoted to them. But he walked away with the love and respect of his colleagues, people who'd genuinely miss his presence and his advice. If I could walk away with half that respect when my time comes, I'd consider myself very successful.

So, what does money mean to me? It means, at last, I can confidently ask my dad to sit back and relax and enjoy life. And tell him not to worry about money anymore. It means the world to me.

The fine art of dealing with TBMs

2011-07-25T12:33:00.000-07:00

Rock. Me. Hard place. Can wriggle out it. Cut a hand off if need be.

Devil. Me. Deep Sea. Will sell my soul to the former. Can’t swim, you see.

Talkative Mami 1. Me. Inquisitive Mami 2. Oh brother, now that’s something that I have struggled to learn how to survive. If you haven’t figured it out already, this is an essay on that scary species called the TamBrahm Mami (TBMs). Or more precisely, how to deal with them. With interesting tips, from my wealth of experience.

Yes, dear friends, one can survive local trains in Bombay, the occasional bomb blast, the more frequent office canteen 'Chinese cuisine' and the slightly more frequent India’s batting collapse. But to be caught between two TBMs, is to experience the very worst form of torture.

A little background is in order. As a boring, extremely shy guy, I live happily in my bubble of self-inflicted solitude like a monk, imbibing some spirits in the pursuit of 'happiness'. Experience has taught me that when asked to choose between spending time with me and having their perfectly manicured nails pulled out with pliers, most sensible girls (oxymoron?) opt for the latter. And I am quite happy with this arrangement, as I have never liked perfect nails anyways. I mean, for all this hoo-ha, they are just a bunch of dead cells being pushed out by your body. And after all, how boring an existence you must be leading, sans any excitement or suspense, that you don’t even bite your nails off! But we digress. We were to talk about TBMs.

Anyways, the TBMs in question have this miraculous ability to picture every unmarried guy as an ‘eligible bachelor’ who is in dire need of their matchmaking skills. No matter how utterly useless the guy in question is. Some people say, unkindly, that TBMs are jobless ladies with too much time on their hands and hence keep meddling in other people’s lives. Those people have no idea what they are talking about. TBMs are very busy people. But they also care about the losers of the world. And that is why, in the midst of their busy schedules involving keeping track of family problems in TV serials, watching out to check that the neighbour’s daughter is not playing mummy-daddy in the terrace with her boyfriend, shouting at the maid for not mopping the area below the sofa, rustling up a snack for the kids and incidentally, maintaining a set of perfectly manicured nails, they take time out to network with other TBMs with equally busy schedules. After all, the smart kids can get hitched by themselves, but someone has to uplift the downtrodden.

TBMs are very astute people at coaxing out information. Which is why I believe the Mumbai Police should replace their entire intelligence network with TBMs. They don’t use crude methods like torture to ferret out what they want to know. They will sweetly offer you a nice cup of sakkara pongal, and while you are concentrating on the ghee-laden texture of it, they will casually ask you what sound like innocent questions. Even an experienced campaigner like yours truly, with years of experience in handling these tricky situations, has fallen prey to this tactic.

And hence, as one fellow loser to another, let me warn you: THERE ARE NO INNOCENT QUESTIONS! Be suspicious. Be wary wary suspicious!

And since I am in a generous mood, let me throw you another trip. Remember the time when you casually boosted your CV value by making up stories about your leadership skills and fibbed about your CGPA because you wanted that campus job. Or the time you wanted to impress that nice chick and kept harping about how you are a University gold medallist. You don’t want to do that here. TBMs will anyways take your meagre non-achievements and spin them into heroic conquests to pitch you to whoever they want to hitch you with. With such innovative people, some creative liberties are par for the course.

In fact, if ever there was a time to underplay your already bare cupboard of useless talents, this is it. So, if some TBM asks you what you have studied, don’t show off your top-10 b-school degree (or is it a diploma?). Simply say “B.Com.” I can assure you, in a TamBrahm community of over-achieving IIT-ians, there is no better way of ensuring that you remain a Bachelor. Even if it be of stupid Commerce. Don’t say “B.A.” though. We might be losers, but even we can’t stoop to that level!

Similarly, if they ask you your age, don’t preen like a Bollywood actress, and state a number which is about half your real age. You are not a college student. Or Aamir Khan. If anything, add a few years to your chronological age. That’s how old you look anyways. I have it first hand that any number north of thirty is actually quite safe. Of course, having a bald(ing) pate and / or a protruding tummy helps.

Some TBMs may venture further and even ask you your nakshatram (birth-star for the non-Tams, don’t even ask what that means!). Or even your gothram (gotra for the non-Tams. We like our words to end in –ums). These are the sly Shakuntala Devis, the ones who can draw up your horoscope, run it across their database, and shortlist the ones which match, before you can say “Ashvini, Kashyapa Gothram”! And all that, in their mind! Because these Chachi Chaudharys have a brain faster than a super-computer. But usually, this question’s a no-brainer, because, you are not even supposed to remember all that stuff! (What? You do? What are doing here then, go recite your evening sandhyavandhanam!) While they happily exhaust their quota of “1000 lies to arrange a marriage”, you at least have the satisfaction of answering at least one question honestly.

Some of the more adventurous of you may even opt to be a bit more truthful, and drop a few hints about how you relished that mutton biryani at your friend Fatima’s place. Eating chicken can be forgiven, but having friends belonging to that-which-shall-not-be-named religion! Your marriage prospects would be slaughtered faster than that halal goat. Of course, this is only advised for those who have either decided not to get married at all, or have a girlfriend lined up. Those looking to merely delay the inevitable may skip this lesson, since once word gets around on the TBM network about your 'untouchable' status, not even another TBM can get you hitched. And that’s saying a lot!

Are you safe?

2011-07-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

What is it about bomb blasts that make people call up family and friends to check if they are "safe"?

It cannot just be the thought that "something" may have "happenned" to them. I mean, you are walking down the road one fine day, enjoying the drizzle (or if you are like me, cursing the rains), some idiot whose father has too much cash and not enough parenting skills comes zipping in his trendy car and before you (or he) realize, pop! Or you could be sitting at your dining table, smacking your lips in anticipation of that wonderful smelling dinner, and pop! All I am saying is, there are multiple ways of kicking the bucket, and most of the bucket-kicking happens without warning. Or as the news channels report, "dhamake ka purv soochna nahi thi". Yes, next time, they will give 21 day notice. As per Sec 171 of the Companies Act, 1956. Or maybe, we can consult the numerologist who helpfully utters AFTER the blast "the last attack was on 26th, this one is on 13th. They favour multiples of 13. Unlucky number. Next attack will be 39th of the month". Sorry, but no more rants against the media. They are all idiots anyways.

It doesn't even make sense. On an average, 3500 people die on Mumbai's local train tracks every year. In case you are bad at Math, which most of you engineering nerds won't be, is about 10 a day. Give or take a few. Most die from crossing tracks, choosing convenience over safety. Some idiots from travelling on the roof, seeking thrills or maybe escaping crowds. But a few unfortunate ones fall off, or get knocked down by poles too close to the tracks. No one bats an eyelid. Except maybe for the "on duty station hamal and safai karamchari" who are "kripaya" called to the "station master's karyalay" by the loud and mostly incoherent announcer. And maybe the railway policeman, who has one more form to fill and one more case to file. Statistically, I am much more likely to go 'pop' while boarding a train in Mumbai than from some blast placed by brainwashed idiots. But you don't call people every time they board a local train to ask "all safe?", nor do you report to your loved ones "all well", every time you successfully make it alive from Borivali to Churchgate. (Er, you do? In which case, I am not talking to you, you obsessive fool. I am talking to the normal people. Like me. Who call up home once a week. And then wonder what is there to say?)

I guess it has something to do with the 'drama' of a blast. I mean, you don't see it everyday. Not yet at least. Thankfully. No PM or CM comes to visit you if you fall off a train. Thankfully. No Barkha Dutt goes to your crying mom and asks "Aap ko kaise lag raha hai?". Thankfully. Wait. I shall not rant about the media. Repeat. I shall not rant against the media. Repeat. I SHALL NOT RANT AGAINST THE MEDIA. Unending loop with blaring music. As some writer who wrote a memory book whose name I have forgotten wrote, "a slap in the face" is more memorable than, well, something more mundane which I forgot. A bomb blast is a slap in the face. It stings.

I guess, although I hope not, it is also about people's need to reaffirm themselves. "I am safe. My family is safe. My friends too. Thank God. We are lucky. Blessed, even". I can just about tolerate such people. What I cannot stand, are those idiots who come the next day with an anecdote about themselves / their friend / sister / neighbour, who had a close shave with the incident, and 'miraculously' escaped. Inevitably this happens. After every bomb blast in this city, and believe me, I have miraculously survived quite a few, there is at least one smug asshole believing that 'God' saved him. The fact that 10 other people died and hundreds are in the hospital don't seem to bother him. If anything, it serves to accentuate his feeling of being blessed. "Imagine, 10 people died! And I was 5 minutes away from this place. I am going to Siddhivinayak this week to thank the Lord". Much as I try to push the thought away, silly as the atheist in me feels tapping my cheeks religiously with my hands while I think it, I sincerely hope that the next time they bomb, and much as our government may assure us they won't but they will, I sincerely hope they take you out. You are blessed enough to belong to Heaven. Planet Earth is too low a place for someone like you.

The other species I cannot stand are the ones who suddenly wake up from their slumber, get infected with Anna-itis and shout, "The Government should do something. This cannot go on." Er, do what? Come up with something specific. At least think how you will contribute. For now, you sound as silly as our ministers who "strongly condemn" these attacks. Yeah, the terrorists were looking for your approval and are now weeping copiously from being "strongly condemned". And more, they are very afraid after you have said that "this will not be tolerated." Strange, my Hindi teacher in III standard said the same thing, and still the naughty students never kept quiet. At least, she had a cane in her hand. A cane to hit with, not one to lean on while walking.

Ok. End of Rant.

Disclosure: I was one of the idiots who did check up on a few people and ask if they are "safe". Call it stupidity, call it peer pressure, call it being emotional rather than being rational. After all, I am no robot. Only a fan of the movie.
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PS: There was one saving grace. People volunteered to help. Did something. Salute to those who did.

Yet another stupid poem...

2011-07-03T09:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I really wonder why

Instead of simply flying by...

Why do you rush towards me

Are you so blind, can't you see

That if you touch me, you'll die...

Yet you come, on a prayer and a wing

With that lovely tilting tune you sing

But you've surely seen the others

Some of them even your brothers

never exit from my deathly ring...

So, in all this heat, I still shiver

back and forth, for you I quiver

not only 'coz of the winds that blow

that away from you, I move my glow

I don't take life, I am a born giver...

But, my dear, you are my life's only cause

with all my buzz, you still made me pause
And that's why, oh beautiful glowing fire
I choose to make you my funeral pyre
coz in love, there is neither gain, nor loss...
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PS: So many fire and moth poems in the world. Surely, there's room for one more crappy one?

Notes from weeks of house hunting...

2011-07-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

If the building has a french-sounding name, the price will be quoted in euros. In fact, if the building has foreign anything... french windows, italian marble, german bath fittings, american designer... don't even venture near it.

Buildings with other fancy second names are also a strict no-no. Anything with Heights and Towers will have very tall prices. Anything with a planet name will be astronomical. Anything remotely English sounding, like Meadows and Hills will be affordable only for royalty. In fact, here's where the gods are your best friends. A Ganesh or a Shankar or an Omkar is where you should pray to get something.

If you hear the words 'modular kitchen', don't bother asking for the price quote. Actually, same goes for 'wooden flooring'. And 'Club facilities', 'swimming pool', 'garden'.

Your car parking space would be costlier than your car. And sometimes, costlier than a house in your native place. And you have to pay even if you don't have a car. Future planning, you see.

An open terrace is absolutely mesmerising and utterly useless. For someone used to living in cramped spaces, the idea of an open-anything sounds pretty cool, the view would look majestic and you might think the wind would caress your face and make your thinning hair fly. But, in a city which has 4 months of sticky, humid summer, 4 months of pouring rains and 4 months of what can at best be described as less-hot-than-summer, I'd rather have a room which has a ceiling fan at least, if not an AC.

A window sill can be called a balcony. And the broker will claim that since you can sit on it and sip chai when the rains come down, it is indeed a balcony.

If you can stretch your hands fully to the side in the bathroom without touching the walls, or upwards without touching the ceiling, you cannot afford the place. If you can put a double bed and a cupboard in your bedroom and walk straight and not sideways, you cannot afford the place. If the house has a separate dining area, you cannot afford the place.

House agents are people who have the power to teleport themselves. So, a '5 minute walk from the station' for them may be a 20 minute drive for you. You have to have sold 20 houses in remote areas before you acquire this special power.

End of Rant.

I promise myself, and you, that this is my last house-hunt related post. We'll go back to being funny. Or at least, trying to be.

Say Something...

2011-06-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write a long and senti post.

But then I realized that sometimes, some things are best left unsaid.

And more importantly, when you say nothing at all, you convey everything.

Some things never change...

2011-06-07T10:40:00.000-07:00

Long, long ago, a young boy refused to go to school. The place scared him. It was filled with strange kids, some who bit him and some who pulled his hair. He felt lonely, surrounded by so many strangers. He told his mom that he hated the place and didn't want to go there.

She explained to him, patiently, that it is actually a nice place. That he will learn new things. And make new friends. And will soon grow to like that place. Like it enough to spend more and more time there. She told him that she would always be around, waiting under the big tree in the playground. And the moment the bell rings, she would come and take him away from there. And so, he would wait, patiently, much after all the other kids had left, all by himself, for the one familiar face to appear by the window. Some days, the face would be late. And he would sit there and think to himself, "I don't want to be here."

His mom tried harder. She explained that there was no choice. Everybody goes to school. Everybody had to. Only then could he become a 'big man', and go to office like his father. And be able to earn money to buy chocolates. He didn't understand what money was, but he liked the idea of getting chocolates any time he wanted.

And so, he tried to like the place. Until one day, he did potty in his pants. All the students laughed at him. The teacher made him stand outside the class. And then, at that very moment, he decided that come what may, he would not go to school anymore.

So, the next morning, when his mom laid out the neatly ironed uniform and the nicely polished black shoes, he refused to wear them. He ran away and hid under the cot. But he was no match for his mom. Moms are always smarter. All she had to do was say "I see a cockroach in there" and he came scurrying out like the creature she had just mentioned does when you spray insecticide in a hole in the floor.

And then he fell back on the only weapon that young kids have. He bawled. And bawled. Loudly enough to alarm the neighbours. But his mom was having none of it. And so he was dragged, kicking and screaming and wriggling in her arms, and was deposited in the classroom.

Over time, he came to like the place. He made friends. He played catch-catch and hide and seek with them. And even learnt to pluck boogers from his nose and happily put them in his mouth. They tasted weird, but it was nice because everyone on his bench was doing it. And he did well in his studies too, which pleased his mom.

Many years went by, and he grew older. And older. But he never grew up. People want him to face his responsibilities, get married and 'settle down'. He has already decided that he hates this 'settling down'. But he knows that he has no option. He knows he can't run away from it forever.

Deep in his heart, he knows he should resign himself to mediocre 'maturity' and only hope that things will go well. And he'll do at least half as well as he did in that other school.

But he is a fighter. While Time keeps dragging him along, he refuses to go quietly. And so, he is being dragged, kicking and screaming and wriggling in its hands, into this school called 'maturity'. One year at a time. And Time is winning, since it has made him cross one more year. Little does Time know that this time, he has made up his mind much more fiercely. And he is no longer afraid of cockroaches and can't be tricked out of his hiding place. And thus, he will not grow up and face his responsibilities.
*********************************************************************

PS1: Little does he know that Time always wins this battle. But he lives again, to fight another day. And another year. He'll live some more, and then merely exist. But till such time, cheers folks. And wish me a not-so-Happy Birthday

2011-06-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

"How could you forget?"

"I didn't forget. I was just... er... too busy."

"Too busy? That just makes it worse. I could have forgiven memory loss. But not apathy!"

"Apathy? Now that's too harsh. You know I care about you!"

"You used to. Nowadays I feel you are ignoring me."

"Oh c'mon. I accept that I haven't been in touch as much as we'd have liked to."

"As much as we'd have liked to? Dude, you have almost ditched me. Is there someone else?"

"There is no one. Although sometimes I wish there was."

"What? You wish? First you forget my birthday, and now you are fantasizing about cheating on me?"

"You'll always be special. But you know what, we do need some space in our relationship."

"Oh, so now you want to shut me out of your life? Might as well pack me off!"

"Trust me, I have thought of that too. Ok, there is no gentle way to put it, so let me be blunt. I am kind of bored of this relationship."

"If anything, you have become boring! All you talk nowadays is about money and houses and all material things."

"Well, I admit that those things are kind of on top of mind, but hey, I do lighten up now and then."

"Yeah, when was the last time you really did that? Remember, we used to have such good times with really sick jokes and lame rhymes. Where has all the magic gone?"

"I doubt if there was any magic to begin with."

"Well, it might have been pretty ordinary, but hey, we did laugh about it. And so many friends laughed with us."

"Yeah. Those were the days... I guess this is what happens once we get older. We forget to laugh."

"You may be getting older. I am not!"

"But you are. I mean, you are 5 years old! And that's like 35 blog years, you dog!"
********************************************************************
PS1: I know celebrating blog birthdays is a bit lame. But then, we are such losers. So smile and wish us.

More on House hunting...

2011-05-22T08:31:00.000-07:00

"You say the station's just a 10 min walk?
Am just amazed at the way you guys talk!
I mean, the distance would be at least 3 miles"
He just stands there, with one of his fake smiles
and says "yes sir, 3 miles but wonly 10 minute walk!"

And the bloody building doesn't have a gate
so, what security do we have here mate?
"Sirji, he says, "I agree the place is a bit dark
but you see these stray dogs, they all bark!
which thief would want to tempt such rabid fate?"

And the approach is so bumpy and rough

It will need those Ceat tyres "born tough"

"Sir, the road contractor has already been paid"

but they have as much chance as I do of getting laid

please don't give me more bullshit, I've had enough!

And now I see why you pronounce it Hole
this is not a hall, it is indeed a tiny pigeon hole
And the thing that you call a 'master bedroom'
One bed + wardrobe and there's no more room
the small size of this place really saddens my soul!

The moment we say area, you enter 'cheat code'
And shamelessly say "sirji, only 40% load"
You had built-up, and now you've super built-up
I see carpet area, not something you've made up
which are as fictitious as the soon-to-be made road!

I am surprised that you call this place a house
Damn it, this thing is not even fit for a mouse
"Sirji, with your laughable middle class budget
you will only get a house sized for a midget
blame it on demand-supply, if you have a grouse!

plus you want to pay in all-cheque and not cash
and you have the temerity to act so damn brash?
you want to buy a house with 80% bank loan
while we have people lining up to pay on their own
in this city, cash is king, and the rest is just trash...

****************************************************
PS1: I know, I am going overboard with this house hunting sob story theme. But then, if your weekends are filled with the same routine, you don't have much else to write about.

PS2: I still prefer the house hunt to the bride hunt though. At least, the house doesn't have the option of saying no, right!

Of Friend's Weddings, Beach Holidays and Other Stuff...

2011-05-11T10:41:00.000-07:00

The story of my trip to Kerala. Or rather, to a single beach in Kerala. Not a travelogue. Not a guide on what to do there, what to see, where to eat, what to buy. I am too lazy to do all that. But not lazy enough to not put down a long post on the trip. If only to remind myself that I need to get out of Bombay more often than I do.

So, here goes...

It all started when a friend, who has grown a few inches purely from the amount of leg-pulling we have done to him, announced that he is getting married. Now, in spite of my personal opinion that getting married is a bit masochistic (I don't mean it in the literal sense of too much pain for some sex... or maybe I do!), 4 of us decided to combine the wedding presence (no presents, blessings only) with a short holiday.

Day I

So, we take a flight to Trivandrum which thankfully took off on time and landed only 1/2 hour late. The extra time was well utilized by yours truly to read the tarot card reading on the in-flight magazine which predicted very accurately that I would be travelling on holiday during the month. I still wonder how they got that one correct! Anyways, it also said that my love life is going to pick up, but then one out of two predictions is not too bad.

We were picked up by Ambi, the go-to man of the resort we were staying at, in an Amby (yeah, yeah, I know I already cracked that non-joke on twitter, but then not all of you follow me on twitter. End of strategic self-promotion). We reached our resort on NelliKunnu beach by 2.00 pm. (The resort, by the way, is right on the beach. Which might give Jairam Ramesh some CRZy nightmares, but for us, it was a dream!)

Of course, we did pick up a dozen bottles of beer and some vodka on the way. After all, you never know how safe the water is in these parts, and one can never be too careful. Best to drink something distilled. An awesome lunch of rice + fish curry, accompanied by some chilled ~~beer~~ fruit punch, induced the kind of stupor that is best enjoyed by placing oneself on the hammock strung between the coconut trees.

The stupor wore off by evening (maybe the fruit punch didn’t have the requisite punch), and though the water wasn’t too inviting (the sea was a bit rough, the waves were huge and the sand was a bit too gravelly), I firmly believe that going to a beach and not getting into the water is an act of sin which should be punishable by drowning. Unless it is a Bombay beach in which case people who do step into the dirty water deserve to drown.

A perfect sunset rounded off a perfect day, but then we are young people and our ‘day’ starts only after sunset. So, we decided to let our hair down (ok, people who are pointing at the near bald head and laughing, shut up!), and finished the day with some vodka and fish curry + rice + fish fry. And kappa, which may sound greek to you, but is just good old tapioca.

Day II

I woke up early (at 6.30 am!) to take a nice little walk on the beach while the others slept off their hangover. After an hour of loitering around, where I was the only guy at the beach at that time (not counting the stray dog that kept following me as if this was the Himalayas and I was Yudhishthira), all I remember is coming back and lying on the hammock at 7.30... only to be woken up by friends for breakfast at 9.30. Went back to the hammock, sat on it, and the damn thing snapped. Maybe the ropes were weak, maybe it was the extra-heavy breakfast, but we are polite and do not laugh at fat people. Especially if the fat people happen to be us. The whole day was spent lazing on the sun-deck, with a old Jeffrey Archer short stories book (Twist in the Tale) which I was reading for the n-th time. The sun shining through the coconut trees, nice breeze, a full stomach, a beer bottle and a good book – this is what heaven should look like, I guess.

Went into the water again in the evening, and got sand in all kinds of places (I mean, my ears) and watched one more ~~nice~~ perfect sunset. The friends wanted to watch ManU-Chelsea so we scouted around for a TV (since our resort didn't have one) and after walking up and down Kovalam beach without any luck, decided to go to the Taj Vivanta’s bar and watched the match in nice comfort.

I have a theory: all my trips have to be blessed by Murphy at least once. But, I’ll spare you (and myself, when I read this some months later) the details of how Air India made us pull whatever little hair we have left out with their “now we fly, now we don’t, now we do” routine on the return journey.

And thus close with how we returned home with sunburn, a hangover, some badly clicked photographs, ½ kg banana chips and some good memories...

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

PS: Some of you, especially the ones who are polite enough to call me a friend, would be bombarded with the above badly clicked photographs in your mail shortly. For the others, I hope the (nearly) thousand words I have written paint a good enough picture. Stop reading and go take a holiday already!

How much space does one require anyway?

2011-05-01T07:59:00.000-07:00

How much space does one require anyway? At the end of it all, we don't even need the 6 foot length, since we are to be turned to ashes anyway, ashes which in turn are dissolved in water.

Why is it that the more well-off we become, the more space we try to create for ourselves? Come to think of it, this phenomenon can be observed in everything people do: houses with larger bedrooms which can house king-size beds and bathrooms where we can stretch our arms fully, larger cars so that we don't sit hip-to-hip, first class section in flights so that we don't have to even share the arm-rest... In fact, the entire quest for material success can be summarized as the endeavour to put more space between us and other people. So much for all that bull-shit about getting 'closer' to each other.

Is this need restricted to physical space? Or do we also, subconsciously, distance ourselves emotionally as we climb the ladder of material success? Do we build forts around our minds to protect our vulnerability from other people? Is that why the richer we get, our full-throated laughter becomes a silent chuckle and a polite smile, loud exclamations of congratulations become muted pats-on-the-back, and we classify everything from music to clothes to people as 'too loud' for our liking? Does the combination of putting more distance between ourselves and toning down our 'volume' ensure that other people do not ever fully know who we are and what we think?

So, what is the purpose of life? Is it to create as much space for ourselves as possible, even at the cost of running around all day and dying out of exhaustion like that man in the Tolstoy tale? What do they mean when they say "live life to the fullest"? How can the same wise men advise us to 'explore our full potential' and 'be content with what you have'? Is happiness then as mythical as 'work-life balance', a term which is good to quote and impossible to practice?

Nothing like a house hunt in Bombay to make one turn philosophical. Maybe if I keep at this long enough, I'll reach a stage where I can renounce everything and head to the Himalayas, thereby rendering the whole house hunting exercise redundant?

Anna and his witch-hunters...

2011-04-09T07:56:00.000-07:00

Long story. Couldn't make it short. :)

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

Once upon a time, in a land not-so-far-away, in a glorious kingdom, there lived a boring, balding, not-so-young man. But this is not his story. Not entirely.

The kingdom was a happy one. It wasn't very prosperous, but the people of the kingdom had enough opportunities and were making progress. They had just won an archery competition contested by 13 other kingdoms, and were feeling top of the world.

And then, the villagers woke up one day to a new phenomenon. An old man was standing on top of a tall building and threatening to jump and kill himself. He shouted that there were witches in the kingdom and he wanted to hunt the whole lot down. And he wanted to do it because he wanted to protect people from the witches.

And the people went wild. The witches had been around for quite some time. In fact, the villagers had fed them whenever they needed some favours and helped them grow. But some of the witches had grown into quite a monster, and now were eating the babies of the villagers. And the people were mad. They demanded blood. Besides, people all across the world always loved a witch-hunt. It gave them a rush, it made them feel like they were fighting evil, and it satisfied their predatory instincts even though they no longer hunted for food.

The boring, balding, not-so-young man, let’s call him Sadak (I know, strange name, let it be), was passing by. And Sadak was piqued by the throng of the crowds screaming support for the old man. Curious, Sadak asked someone in the crowd what was going on.

“The old man’s name is Anna. He wants to fight the witches. For which he wants the king’s permission. And he is threatening to kill himself, if the king doesn’t give him permission.”

“But that’s blackmail...”

“Shut up, you idiot. The old man is a great man. He reminds us of that other old, great man, Bapu, the one who freed this kingdom from the foreign invaders long ago. And Bapu did it without lifting a weapon. Entirely non-violent.”

“Is it?”

“And Anna is sacrificing his life for the kingdom. Not the first time he is doing it. He was in the army too. Fought against our neighbouring enemy forty-five years ago!”

“He fought in the army? And he is non-violent too? How come?”

“C’mon now, don’t ask such stupid questions! He is a great man. He has done so much for the country. Why, in his village, there was this witch called Madira. She used to lure some young men who were intoxicated by her charms. Anna warned them once, twice, thrice, but when they did not listen to him, he gathered his team of supporters and had them exorcised. Flogged in public. He said he knew he was causing pain, but it is like a mother giving a child bitter medicine. Ultimately, good for the child.”

“Oh, how is he different from the turbaned people in the hills we know, the ones we call Balitan, who flog their women in public to keep them chaste. They also claim that it is done for the good of the women.”

“They are animals. Our Anna, he is a peace-loving witch-hunter. And now he has decided to go after the biggest witch, Brashti!”

“Oh, Brashti? The same one who some of you guys run to for favours. I thought only you guys fed her with requests for magic potions to get ahead of other people, and get things done quickly.”

“We might have. But that is not important. Brashti is evil, and she must go.”

“Why can’t the king hunt her?”

“Oh c’mon, we all know the king is useless, merely warming up the throne for Prince Charming. The king was had-picked by the Queen Mother precisely because he is toothless. And we hear, even the Queen Mother is friendly with Brashti. So, she won’t let the king hunt her. And so, Anna has to.”

“But we have courts...”

“Aw, you really are stupid, aren’t you? Courts are slow, justice delayed is justice denied. We want Brashti killed now!”

“And how will Anna do it? What magic does he have that the courts don’t?”

“We don’t know all that. All we know is that Anna is a great man. And he is supported by Yogi Baba, the same magical baba who can cure homosexuality merely by exercise. He is also supported by that famous actor, the one who made a play some years back about killing all ministers who were in the evil clutches of Brashti. And the support of famous business heads. And famous Mahashay award-winners. Who, by the way, will also have the power to select the witch-hunters.”

“Oh, impressive. Very impressive. But why can’t we rely on the ministers we elected rather on someone who was given an award from a foreign land? Are we saying that the foreigners are more intelligent that our people?”

“Sigh... your stupidity has no limits. Our ministers have fallen into the trap of Brashti. The whole lot of them. Only these people can resist her charms.”

“Is it? And how do you support Anna?”

“We display badges and banners in our windows, which other people can see and thus spread the message. We also send letters tied to pigeons, but only the free ones, with the same message. We are also doing relay-jumps. One of us will jump 5 feet, then another will jump another 5 feet. That way, we have expressed solidarity with his effort without actually hurting ourselves too. Clever, isn’t it?”

“But I thought the idea was to get the attention of the king. The king doesn’t read what banners you have hung in your windows. Nor does the Queen Mother read your pigeon-mails.”

“Don’t be stupid. The message will spread. And will reach the King. Somehow. We’ll also light candles. So, are you ready to hang a banner too?”

“I don’t know. I don’t fully trust people who claim to have your support, but will not contest against the Brashti-tinged ministers in a fair contest, with the results to be decided by you.”

“What? You dare to criticize our Anna and his witch-hunters? What have you achieved in life? Do you have a solution?”

“I never knew I had to achieve something to criticize. I mean, you guys don’t know how to shoot an arrow, but you all criticized Mahasingha, our kingdom’s captain, when he choose the long-limbed archer for the final shoot-out instead of the turbaned archer. Besides, just because I don’t have a solution does not mean I cannot criticize a bad one.”

“That’s archery, a game. We all know it. We played it in our childhood. This is different. It is service to people. You need to have done something before you dare to call our Anna any names.”

“I am not calling him names. I respect his opinion. And all I am asking for is that he respect this country’s rules. And not resort to such blackmail.”

“Oh, you are not only stupid, but one of those contrarian types, eh? Always clinging to an opposite view, just to hide your stupidity.”

“Er, if anything, I am the one who’s arguing for following the sacred book called the Constitution. And you guys are the ones going contrary to it. Anyways, not much is going to come out of it. Soon, we’ll find a new witch to hunt.”

“Oh, stupid, contrarian and cynical too? No wonder, you don’t have many friends. Such negativity!”

The boring, balding, not-so-young Sadak just sighed. And returned home. To learn that Anna didn’t have to jump. The king agreed to his witch-hunt.

And the people. They were too busy trying to see if Brashti can give them entry to watch the new archery competition that had started.

I have a dream...

2011-04-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

I have a dream...

I have a dream that one day this city will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all money is created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the mud hills of Ghatkopar, the sons of pure-veg Jains and the sons of daily-fish Kolis will be able to sit down together at the table of housing society dinner.

I have a dream that one day even the suburb of Chembur, a place sweltering with the heat of smoky traffic, sweltering with the heat of chemical factory emissions, will be transformed into an oasis of open spaces and Acres club greenery.

I have a dream that my measly little bank balance will one day live in a city where they will not be judged by their color of black or white, but by the currency of their full-convertibility.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day, down in Colaba, with its vicious elitists, with its building secretary having his lips dripping with the words of marital status and food preferences; one day right there in Colaba, little bachelor boys and bachelor girls will be able to join hands with slimy uncles and suspicious aunties as tenants and landlords.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every basement shall be exalted, every rate per square foot shall be made low, the car parking will be made free, and the super-built up will be made carpet, and the glory of the land shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our homelessness into a beautiful symphony of home ownership. With this faith we will be able to work alone, to live alone, to struggle alone, to go to bed alone, to stand up for bachelorhood alone, knowing that we might be married one day.

And if Mumbai is to be a great city this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Mumbai. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of Mulund. Let freedom ring from the heightening skyscrapers of Panvel!

Let freedom ring from the Rahejas of Colaba!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of Powai!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Mud Mountain of Ghatkopar!

Let freedom ring from Lodha's Fountain of Thane!

And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every building and every tower, from every suburb and every town, we will be able to speed up that day when all of evolution's children, bachelor men and married men, Jains and Gultis, vegetarians and meat-eaters, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old tenant hopeful, "Free at last! free at last! thank SBI teaser rate, we are free at last!"

*****************************************************************
PS1: Apologies to Martin Luther King, Jr. May his soul rest in peace.

PS2: This is what happens when one hunts for real estate in Mumbai. With the twin disadvantages of being a bachelor, and a non-vegetarian.

PS3: I seriously have a dream. Of buying a house in Bombay one day. And I shall make it happen. Not by hook or crook, but going strictly by the book!

Conversations with Mom...

2011-03-18T12:10:00.000-07:00

Warning: Long. Not boring though.

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

"An auspicious thing happenned today at the temple. I inadvertently spilled some kumkumam!"

"Ayyo, that's being clumsy, not auspicious. And I thought spilling vibuthi condemns you to a thousand years in hell. What about kumkumam? Better start chanting Rama-Rama 1008 times!"

"Stop it! I am fed up with your mocking all our sacred rituals. Anyways, don't tell me you don't know that this signifies that a kalyanam (wedding) in the house is round the corner."

"Is it? But isn't Adi too young to get married?" (Note: Adi is my younger brother, in his final year of engg.)

"Ayyo, you and your stupid jokes. You know very well I am not talking about Adi!"

"Who else then? Aren't you a little too old to get married? Besides, what will poor Appa do?"

"One more stupid joke and I am never talking to you again."

"Ok, ok. I know what you are hinting at."

"And?"

"No"

"But you are 28 now, and it is high time we started looking. Vela velaiki ellam nadakanum" (translated to "all things should happen at the appropriate time")

"Life is not a checklist with a schedule, with items to be ticked off one by one at the so-called right time."

"I am not saying it is, all I am saying is, everybody gets married. And the sooner you do it, the better it will be." (Gentle Reasoning)

"I am not everybody. I am not saying I will not get married, but I am not saying I will either. All I am saying is, it is not something I'll do just because I have reached a certain age, or because it is what everybody else does."

"What exactly are you trying to say? Either you want to get married, or you don't."

"For now, I don't"

"And I am telling you, you'll end up a lonely old man and then regret it." (Mild threat)

"Maybe. But it will still have been my decision and I am perfectly willing to live with the consequences. Rather than get married for your sake and ending up blaming you if things don't turn out well."

"But what will people say? Everyday, I have to listen to people saying that I have not fulfilled my duty. People will say I am happy to live off my son's money and hence am not finding him a bride." (Emotional Blackmail)

"People can say what they want. I cannot live my life based on what other people think. When I was struggling, the people did not come and solve my problems. And there is no your money or my money, but let's leave that for another day."

"But we do live in a society, and you are not an island in yourself." (Back to reason)

"I am not, nor do I wish to be. I am happy to interact with the people that you refer to. I just draw the line at making life choices based on what they think."

"Is this what education does to young people. One fancy degree and you think you are above all rules?" (Rebuke)

"Yes. We learn the golden rule: he who has the gold, makes the rules" (I wish I had an equivalent of the chat smiley :P to do over the phone, but the best I could come up with was a "Prrrr" sound).

"It's not your fault. It is written in your horoscope that you will be this kudarkam pesum kundamandi" (ok, folks, hard to translate that... the best I can come up with is nonsense spouting rebel).

"Glad you brought that up. Don't believe in horoscopes either. So, assuming I do decide to get married at some point of time in the future, I am not tolerating any of this horoscope bullshit."

"How else do you expect me to find you a girl?" (Exasperation)

"You mean, you can't find me a bride unless you use a horoscope?"

"Yes"

"Brilliant, that kind of solves my problem. So, if I understand you correctly, what you are saying is that I can say I am willing to get married, but I will not accept any horoscope. Which means, you can't find me a girl, but the fault is now yours and not mine, because I have consented to getting married? Wow, I am liking this."

"Yes. It's all my fault. Anyways, what's your problem with horoscopes?"

"I just don't believe in them. Simple."

"It doesn't matter whether you believe in them or not. They work. And therefore, we'll follow them."

"Well, tribes in Africa might have a ritual of sacrificing a goat to their tribal god to ensure long lives for their husbands. So, irrespective of whether you believe in them or not, why not cut off a goat's head tomorrow in the name of Appa's health?"

"You and your stupid analogies. We follow our customs, they follow theirs."

"And all I am saying is, horoscope matching is your custom, not mine. You got married by referring to a match-planets-in-a-chart, doesn't mean I am going to do it."

"Ok, you don't believe in them. But what if the girl's family wants to match horoscopes. Are we supposed to say no?"

"Precisely. I am not getting married to a girl if her parents decide to choose their son-in-law based purely on the time and place of his birth, which itself might not have been accurately recorded to begin with. Plus, you will discover some girl is of this inauspicious star, or has chevvai dosham (manglik?) etc. I refuse to judge a person based on events that she had no control of."

"Sigh. Forget horoscopes. Will you say yes, if I find a family which doesn't need to match horoscopes."

"Wow, we did not see that coming. I thought you said you cannot find me a girl if horoscopes cannot be shared. Now I need to come up with some new excuse. Give me some time."

"I knew it. You are absolutely incorrigible."

"I want to marry for the right reasons. Because I like someone, and more because she likes me. And likes me for who I am, not for how tall I am, or based on what my skin colour is, or what my eating and drinking habits are or how much I earn. And the way I see it, this arranged marriage process usually has those as the primary filters. Besides your mumbo-jumbo planetary chart, of course. And then, they discover that the tall, fair, pure vegatarian, teetotaler, six-figure-salary-earning mapillai who had all patthu porutham is actually a closet wife-beater! Brilliant I say."

"In that case, you should have found a girl yourself. We would not have stopped you!"

"I should have done a lot of things. Like become a millionaire. Learnt to swim. Developed an ear for music. Watched Rafa defeat Federer at Wimbledon. Taken you on a world tour. The reality is, I haven't done those things and I have learnt to live with it. So, you also please learn to live with the reality that your son is useless when it comes to this particular area. Ok, got to go for dinner now, take care."

"What's for dinner?"

"Same old Jeevan Boarding. Kind of bored of it, but few options here. And you know I am too lazy to cook."

"See, if you get married, you will get a nice dinner at home. No need to go to the same boring mess every day"

"Good night."

Stubborn, isn't she? Unfortunately for her, I inherited the trait. Which is why, we are at stalemate for now. Incidentally, the only kind of mate we agree upon.

Cricket Nostalgia...

2011-03-03T10:27:00.000-08:00

Ram looked up and held up his hand. The bowler stopped midway on his run-up and looked at him with an irritated look. Ram mumbled a terse, unapologetic "Sorry macha", dropped his bat, rubbed his sweaty palms on the sandy "pitch", and grabbed his bat again, with a sand-enriched firmer grip. "Batsman joot" he called out to the umpire.

The ball came crashing into his toes and while he tried to put his bat down in time, the only thing that saved him from being called out was that they had no LBW rule. They had enough arguments over run-outs so both teams had decided not to get into the even more contentious LBW territory. "This bowler is good, and I am lucky to survive that", Ram muttered to himself. Although the said bowler wouldn't pass ICC's 15-degree bent arm rule or whatever leeway they currently allow since his action consisted of running in, taking a small leap more for effect than for purpose, landed on both feet and then chucking the ball while bending forward. But he was taller than Ram, taller than most boys and had a nasty reputation of using his fists to talk. And so, no one around suggested that he was chucking and not "bowling". And Ram pushed such thoughts aside as he concentrated on somehow keeping the next ball from crashing into his stumps.

It was critical not to get out. It was a 'bet match', and each side had ten rupees at stake. It was a ten-member a side team, so Ram's contribution was a whole solid rupee. A significant step-up from the 50 paise per head matches they had played so far. But then, to be fair, the cost of the rubber ball had been increased recently from 5 rupees to 7 rupees, and few in that group apart from Ram could actually divide 7 by 10 properly. And even if they could, how do we collect 70 paise from each, thought Ram.

Ram wasn't much of a player, not even in terms of the limited skills required on that particular playground. Sometimes, he thought the only reason they included him in the team was because he owned one of the two bats that the team used. A bat which was his reward for having come first in class. And when the bat, after 4 years of selfless service, decided to get a bit angry and developed a tendency to ‘fly off the handle’, they just crucified it with a nail on either side and magically resurrected it. After all, it was a "lucky bat", the same one that Saravanan had used to score fifty runs in that famous match last year when they had won the 5-rupee a side bet match and used the winnings to buy ‘kuchi ice’ for the whole team. He still remembered the delicious taste of that mango-flavoured cone of solidified water.

Coming back to Ram's cricket skills, or the lack of them, he bowled some "off-spin" (at least in his mind, it was off-spin) and was more often than not taken off after a ‘baby over’ because of the irritating tendency of the opposition batsmen to come down the pitch and hoist the ball over his head without allowing the ball to actually turn and do its magic. And while he dropped a lot of catches, no one could doubt his enthusiasm while fielding. In the other critical aspect of cricket, he could put a stout defensive bat and steal an occasional single, but hitting boundaries was not his forte and he had never hit a six. Not even in the game they had played with the shorter boundary since some other team was playing at the other end of the "ground".

The "ground" was a rectangular plot of open land, surrounded by houses whose walls formed a natural boundary. It was sandy and uneven, but the boys had managed to find a bald flat spot which became the pitch. And Ram, being the shortest in the group, was designated to measure the pitch, which he did by taking some normal strides, and then smaller and smaller strides, somehow managing to fit 22 "yards" in the space.

“I should have taken longer strides, at least he would be hurling the ball from much farther away”, Ram thought to himself as one more ball whizzed past his ear. “good balling, good balling, 1 ball, 2 runs”, the wicketkeeper’s words whizzed past his other ear. “Balling illa bowling, idhu kuda theriyadhu, cricket velayada vandhutaan”, Ram’s inner grammar geek was awakened. “92 marks in quarterly exam in English, while this idiot probably failed”. Ram had this annoying tendency to remember arcane stuff, and was particularly accurate when it came to the marks he scored.

His team had been doing well, first restricting the opposite team to 50 runs off 12 overs, and then racing to 30 off 5 overs. And then, the inevitable collapse happenned. And before he knew it, Ram was facing the pressure. Last wicket, the chump at the other end being worse than Ram when it came to batting, tough as it might be to believe.

“1 ball, 2 runs. 1 BALL, 2 RUNS. Somehow connect, run a single and at least tie the game”, he kept muttering to himself. He was a man of modest expectations, after all.

The bowler came thundering in. And ripped another fast one. Ram closed his eyes and swung. And connected. If it were the movies, the ball would have sailed over the boundary rope (or more correctly, the wall of the acid-tongued lady’s house in this case), and the heroine would be running across the field to kiss the hero. But this was no movie, and there wasn’t any heroine around (won’t be too, for another 15 years and counting...), and so the ball rolled meekly across, not far from one of the better fielders of the opposition.

Ram hollered “TWO”, set off at full speed, all the while imagining that the stray dog of his street was behind him, finished one, turned around and halfway down the pitch realized that the fielder was already lining up his throw. Two of the biggest steps he had ever taken in his life, and one full length dive with bat stretched across, later, and he was... IN! The wicketkeeper still appealed, and after 2 minutes of heated arguments in lieu of the absent TV umpire, in which several ladies of the families of all parties were referenced in a not-so-respectful manner, it was agreed that Ram was indeed not out.

The ten rupees was happily collected by Ram's captain, and off they went to the ice-kaaran. I don’t know if you guys know what I am talking about, but they used to sell these ice ‘sticks’ in bright red, orange and pink colours, packaged in a polythene thingy. It was simply called “ice” in our hometown.

And as he sat there, with blood trickling down one of his elbows, bat tucked under his arm, sounds of “super run da machi” and pats on his back, and that “ice” slowly turning his tongue into a shocking shade of orange, Ram was the happiest sucker around.

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PS: The World Cup always brings with it the nostalgia of my very unsuccessful attempts at swinging the willow. And I have never figured why I so much love watching this game that I can't play well.

One more V-day whine...

2011-02-13T07:37:00.000-08:00

There is a tradition in this blog (or you may call it 'corrupting western influence') of whining on V-day.
I started it in 2008 as a fun thing.
And then cribbed more in 2009.
And in 2010.

And I continue this glorious tradition, risking life and limb in this day of militant senas threatening us against the very mention of the V-word.

So, here goes...

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I am getting fatter, and a bit too old,

And unlike the proverb, old’s not gold!

The one other thing driving me to despair

is that small patch of rapidly thinning hair,

And oh, I am still searching for a hand to hold...

I am told, gals don’t care how you look

more about whether you know to cook...

I can make a mean sambhar with... beetroot!

and my friend once taught me ‘Salad-e-fruit’

But hey, I can sure read up on a recipe book.

Am also told they don’t care how much you make

as long as you have bread, and let them eat cake.

All they look for is someone with whom to share

their problems, someone who shows he does care

But, hey, empathy’s something I can never truly fake!

They also tell me, “you will eventually find

that gal of yours with an independent mind”

All the while it may seem very, very tough

But you just have to look for her hard enough!

Sigh! it doesn't help that I am partially blind...

And while it is easy to say “Never say die”

What can I do if I am naturally a bit too shy

I can think of funny (ok, not-so-funny) lines

But when I meet some potential valentines

I can’t even get myself to say a feeble “Hi”

So lately I have turned a bit too cynical

I think my girlfriend is a creature as mythical

as the entity some folks call ‘the Almighty God’

And before some sainik picks up an iron rod

Chill pal, there is no need to get physical!

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PS: I can't even come up with a decent PS nowadays. Loser!

The State of the Republic...

2011-01-26T09:18:00.000-08:00

An Additional Collector is burnt alive in broad daylight. The State CM announces that "firm action" will be taken.

Indian fishermen are killed by the Sri Lankan Navy. The PM says "India is unhappy", and our foreign minister, or was it the diplomat, "lodges a strong protest" with Sri Lanka. A lady politician, with one eye firmly on the upcoming assembly polls in the state, calls the PM "ineffective".

A party, known for its opportunistic stirring of passions, wants to hoist the national flag in a state. The ruling party, known for its opportunistic weak knees, prevents it from doing so. Both seem uninterested in solving any issue, and more interested in calling each other names.

A corrupt minister miraculously turns around an ailing ministry. And gets invited to business schools for the amazing success story. A rabble rousing lady replaces him, and while one can blame her for many other issues, she is least likely to be caught taking money and has a clean reputation so far. And she promptly runs the ministry back into losses.

A girl is kept as 'bonded labour' for 7000 rupees. For the last 5 years. And she is just 17.

And these are just today's headlines. I am not even going back to 2G, Commonwealth, Adarsh, Swiss banks and etc.,

We have an impotent government. An opposition which allows the government to survive in spite of that. A judiciary which is increasingly being seen as corrupt. A media which is more interested in 'breaking news' than in keeping the other three estates on their toes. And we have ourselves. Yes, we the people, who are more interested in forwarding a 'Onion, Petrol and Beer at the same price' sms, more interested in speculating whether we will win the World Cup, people who click on 'Like' when someone reports 'Pandit Bhimsen Joshi passes away', people who'll fight our battles on rediff comment pages.

And some of these people wish me a 'Happy' Republic Day. I just hope they do have something to be happy about.

Funny Matrimonial Ads!!!

2011-01-02T10:00:00.000-08:00

This is from my twitter timeline, cross-posted here since I had nothing better to do... also because I want to be able to look back at what I wrote and feel silly about it later... and looking up blog archives is far easier than looking up tweet archives...

So, presenting, What I find funny about matrimonial ads...

"I am a fun-loving person".
Er, you mean that others hate fun?

"Looking for a person with clean habits."
You mean, you are looking for a nun with a good laundry service?
(People who don't get the pun, please go here)

"Well educated."
Er, the only education that you can get out of a dug up hole filled with water is swimming lessons. (Again, people who don't get the pun, please go here)

"Traditional, yet modern."
Can I say "Vegetarian, but eats chicken" or even "Religious, yet atheist"?

"God-fearing."
Why would you fear a being who is purported to be a source of limitless mercy, who can pardon everything?

"Respects elders."
For what? Having spent more time than you on this planet? For always saying "Our times were better"?

"Trained Bharatanatyam dancer."
Ok, you know 36 different ways of shaking your head "No" everytime I am in the mood?

"6.5 lpa, working with MNC."
You mean, if you ever resign your job, I should be able to divorce you?

More when I come across them...
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PS: I just happened to chance upon such gems while pulling my sister's leg since she is on the look-out. To all you babes out there, I am still single ;)

The more things change...

2011-01-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

Usual disclaimer: Slightly long post. Personal. And boring.

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Ten years is a long time. The world changes a lot in that time. People change. I did too.

In 2000, I was a gawky teenager, just about coming to terms with the fact that maybe Bombay is not such a bad place after all, and that I would be stuck in this place for a long time. But I wanted to run away from this place if I could afford to. Mettupalayam was becoming just a fond memory.
In 2010, I am no longer gawky (at least in my mind), no longer a teenager (except in my mind), and now Bombay is my favourite place. I guess I will be around here for a long time, but I still want to run away from this place because I cannot afford to live here. And Mettupalayam has become just a fond fantasy.

In 2000, money was scarce, but the needs were far fewer. 27 rupees was all it took to get a monthly railway pass from home to college, student concession included. 50 bucks a week was the allowance, and 40 of that was saved. I skipped movies, I skipped outings, and was this nerd who sat in the library all the time. The guy who the girls called Gandhi and was only remembered four times a year, on the eve of every exam, for his notes to be photocopied. I did not have much fun, and I always thought that was because there wasn't enough money.
In 2010, money is no longer scarce, but the needs have multiplied. I avoid the trains as much as I can, and cannot dream of saving 80% of my income anymore. I still skip movies, I still skip outings, and am this nerd who sits in office all the time. And while I do have other worthy notes, with Gandhiji's toothless smile, photocopying them is a criminal offence, and hence, the girls no longer have to undergo the trouble of being nice to me four times a year. I still don't have much fun, but I know very well that money can't buy fun.

In 2000, I was the 'role model' in the family, and in college. Yes, the same guy who was pointed out in gatherings and referred to in conversations which went "see, how chamathu he is! Why can't you study like him?" Chicken was dirty food, alcohol was yuck and God was the all powerful and omnipresent being whose help was sought for everything in life. I felt happy, not knowing that my cousins, and my friends, secretly hated me for being that asshole who always did his homework and never bunked classes. Sigh, you can never please everyone.
In 2010, parents keep their kids away from me if they can, since I am prone to advising them to have as much fun in their college life as possible, and not be the asshole that I was. Chicken is still dirty food (since I much prefer the prawns), alcohol still makes me puke (only sometimes) and god is just a figment of human imagination. I think those kids love me now, but the parents secretly hate me for having been chamathu when required and now acting to the contrary, leaving them in a hard place when it comes to scolding their kids. Sigh, you can never please everyone.

In 2000, the internet was something one did not usually bother with, email was disdained upon since it did not convey the warmth of a handwritten letter, and chat meant an hour catching up with friends at the tapri over a cutting chai. The only experience of the internet was from those sessions spent in shady cybercafes, surreptitiously sneaking at scantily clad models. Ok, sometimes, not even scantily clad.
In 2010, I cannot imagine life without the internet. The warmth of the handwritten letter has been replaced by the warmth of the overheated laptop. Chat sessions over Gtalk with multiple people, finding out what's happenning in people's lives on facebook, and knowing what people had for breakfast on twitter seems normal now. And yes, I still scour the net for the scantily clad models sometimes.

In 2000, the world was a wonderful place teeming with possibilities. When one could dream of being a millionaire by 25. When one could open a business magazine and picture oneself in a nice suit, being interviewed. When one had no idea how one would do it, but the sea facing bungalow in Malabar Hill wasn't ruled out completely. I had no clue about a lot of things, but the outlook was optimistic.
In 2010, the world is a challenging place, teeming with hurdles. When one becomes a millionaire and discovers that it is not a big deal after all, and one should have at least dreamed higher. When one opens a business magazine and thinks "I would never want to be that jargon spouting idiot when I am 40". When one has a fair idea of what it takes to own a sea facing Malabar Hill bungalow, and has ruled it out completely. I think I have figured out quite a few things, and that has made the outlook cynical.

In 2000, I was a loser.
In 2010, I am still a loser.

The more things change...

Baby Songs

2010-12-17T10:24:00.000-08:00

If you are crappy and you know it, wipe your ass
If you are crappy and you know it, wipe your ass
If you are crappy and you know it
And you really shouldn't show it
If you are crappy and you know it, wipe your ass!

Wet your nappy and you know it, raise a stink
Wet your nappy and you know it, raise a stink
Wet your nappy and you know it
And you really should just throw it
Wet your nappy and you know it, raise a stink!

If you pee-pee and you know it, piss some more

If you pee-pee and you know it, piss some more

If you pee-pee and you know it

And you really want to shove it

If you pee-pee and you know it, piss some more!

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PS1: Inspired by an episode of two and a half men, where Charlie sings some jingle to make a kid piss.

PS2: If I ever have kids, I will sing this to them...

Punch Drunk!

2010-12-12T00:28:00.000-08:00

If you drink a lot of port wine, and then promptly puke (yeah, yuck!), would it be called deportment?

And if your friend offers you more port wine after this incident, can it be said that he's reporting you?

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You may begin, but I also need tonic.

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The slush you are drinking is a cheap commodity. The one I have is an elite brandy.

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Once, I was so drunk I didn't know whiskey to open my house with.

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If you see a joker too many, maybe you are overdoing the rummy part.

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Whenever you think you have offended someone, it might be a good idea to tell them "Please beer with me"

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I love to eat rice, but I can't drink its wine for God's sake!

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Once I saw a girl merely nodding to the barman and he brought her apple wine. Turned out, he knew what was in cider mind.

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Once I went to a fancy dress party where I think I saw the green fairy, but turned out she was absinthe.

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PS 1: Inspired partly by this lady's post on random word play. And partly by the wonderful booze session with my friends yesterday night.

PS 2: Some years ago, I was a chamathu, god-fearing, pure vegetarian, teetotaler Iyer payyan. Who only hit on, you guessed it, fruit punch.

Of Home Visits, Closet Outings, Bigoted Priests and other random stuff

2010-11-18T10:11:00.000-08:00

And, almost 10 days after returning from a very nice, very fulfilling (stomach-wise) home visit, I decide to pen it down... extremely long, mostly random, definitely boring, largely personal, but then, the whole purpose of this blog is to look back at all this 5 years down the line and chuckle at how silly I was...

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This was a trip filled with nostalgia... the first wave of nostalgia hit as soon as I landed and saw a cut-out of Kalaignar, Varuga Varuga nu varaverthufying me to the land of the Ulaga Tamizh Manadu! The second wave of nostalgia hit when I got into the bus to Bhavani, and listened to random songs like "Sendhura poovae..." and "Devadhai pol oru penn ingu vandhadhu thambi, unnai nambi." And 33 bucks and 100 km later, I was home!

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Within half an hour of reaching home, my brother had downloaded all the games that I had taken from here on a pen-drive (for the record, NFS, Cricket 2007, and most important, MK4!!!) and we settled down to a good old Mortal Kombat session. And I won! Haven't lost my touch! Btw, we have a computer at home now. With internet connection. Progress. Prosperity. Or as my mom puts it after watching our MK4 sessions, paithiyakarathanam!

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I spend a weekend attending a friend's wedding. Third wave of nostalgia. Meeting school friends after almost a decade. Memories of sitting in the same bench together for 12 years come rushing back. Sigh, why did I not keep in touch? The old bugbear, laziness. Must make amends.

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The first round of 'meeting relatives' begins. And the usual question tumbles out: "When are you getting married?" The funny thing is, they are convinced that I actually want to get married, but I am too shy to tell my parents and hence, they tell my mom "Avan apadi thaan aparam aparam nu solluvan. Nee paaka thodangu." More than anything, they are worried I'll find a girl from 'some other caste'. I wish. 12 years in Bombay, and I have come up with zilch. Or actually, three whiny V-day poems. Sometimes, I think my relatives think too much of my capabilities while the gals in Bombay unfortunately don't. They really need to switch their opinions on the subject of SRK's general attractiveness, if you ask me.

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The whole week at home is spent in a simple routine: Wake up, have breakfast, read the Hindu, try to solve the crossword, give up, read books, pull Mom's leg, bear with her pulling mine with the dreaded "marriage" question, lunch, siesta, read some more, MK4 session with bro, eat dinner, sleep. Aah, if there is Paradise on Earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!

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Actually, have to elaborate a bit on the "pull Mom's leg". I finally came 'out of the closet'. No, not that I am gay. That might still have been accepted probably. But I am something worse. A non-believer. Blasphemy!
To her credit, she did accept it with more calm than I gave her credit for. But I can see it makes her queasy. I told her I take the occasional drink and she was ok. I told her I dig the occasional chick (the feathered variety on the plate, not the tight jeans and high heels ones), and she was ok. But this religion thing makes her fret. I ask: "Payyan kuduchu kuttichevuru aanalum paravallai, aana pora pokula govinda govinda sollite ponum nu oru aasaiya?"
She smiles. And says "One day, you will believe." One day...

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She also tells me that the kovil gurukal told her that it is written in my jadagam that I'll be this kudarkam pesum kundamandi. I am more concerned as to why the gurukal has been looking at my jadagam. And get into one more discussion of if and when I get married, I will not allow horoscopes to be looked at. I will be starry-eyed, but only about the girl. Not about whether her fifth house has Guru or Shukran. Or whatever they see in that!

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And after 5 days of such kundamandi talks, Diwali arrives. And I happily gorge on the sweets, the omapodi, the muthusari, and as a reward for all this er... divine food, I submit to visit the temple. The temple is actually a nice one, being on the banks of Cauvery. Plus, it has this legend, which is nice to read about till you actually come to the end of it (not in the online version, but it is inscribed in the temple). Which is that, after a British Collector is saved by the Goddess, he wanted to thank Her, but the wise men decided that he is an "alien" after all, and can't be allowed inside the temple. So, they make three holes in the wall from which he can have darshan, and the holes are still there. The temple priest proudly points it out. I am disgusted. Your God(dess) didn't discriminate when she went to save the guy, but you act holier-than-thou by not allowing him inside, and now, you are proud of that legend? Sigh!

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The temple visit has 2-3 more incidents. First, I bump into this really caste-obsessed priest who, admittedly in good fun and because he knows my parents well enough to joke with them, playfully tells them "Why don't you shift to the agraharam? Why do you want to stay in the midst of all the shudras?" I don't know if my shock showed on my face, but he did lay off that topic soon enough.

Only to get on my case. "Eppo Kalyanam?". I smile. I have learnt that while some of them are really matchmakers, most of them ask it as a matter of polite courtesy. And that smiling and saying "All in good time, by God's grace" usually shuts them up. I don't mind calling upon God to get out of such squirmy situations.

And then, we meet another gurukal. Who asks me my 'nakshatram'. Which, like Karna in the Mahabharata facing Arjuna, I forget at the nick of time. Damn. (But, you should note that I do remember my mythology). A brief lecture on how one should remember one's birth-star. So, before this gets any more embarrassing for me, and more for my mom since she is known around the temple as a very devout lady, I quietly slip away and sit on the steps leading to the river. And admire her in full flow. If there is anything remotely divine about that place, it is the majestic flow of the river. But that is just me.

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And then we go to Bangalore (ok, Bengaluru) to meet cousins. Awesome time. Made even more awesome since this time it was my sister, poor lady that she is, that was facing the 'Eppo Kalyanam?' heat.
And like the usual sadist that I am, I joined in. Took an issue of SruthiVani, which is this really Mallu mag which happens to have half the pages dedicated to matrimonials, to shortlist eligible mapillais for her. Probably only of Tambrahms or something. Which reminds me, if you are a single, Tambrahm guy, between 28-30 years of age and living in and around Bengaluru, get in touch. Engineers preferred. :)

One look at that SruthiVani thingy and I can definitely say I'm not getting married. Not unless they really invoke the '1000 lies allowed' clause. All the potential brides want tall, handsome grooms. (although I still don't know what's wrong with the short and pudgy ones?). With clean habits (does the fact that I sometimes drink my vodka neat count?). And God-fearing (maybe, just maybe, I can print Dog-fearing, and they'll think it is a printing mistake. While I'd have told the truth. The same way Yudishtira said the truth to Drona about Ashwathama. See, I do remember my mythology! Maybe that'll count for something!).

Need to write a post on why I am extremely uncomfortable with the concept of 'arranged marriage', but then, I have said it before and I'll say it again, it is the socialist solution for guys at the bottom of the desirable pyramid like me, who'd otherwise remain single (happily?) in a ruthless capitalist-style 'date, propose, marry' society...

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And that concludes the home visit report. Boring? Don't say you weren't pre-warned!

A Question of Trust - Part IV

2010-11-15T09:16:00.000-08:00

Read Part One, Two and Three here.
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Trust is a strange thing - all it takes is a small weed of doubt to be planted in the mind for it to overpower the banyan of trust built over years with tender care. And the capacity of the human mind to seek out information which supports its preconceived hypothesis, and reject anything that does not conform to the conclusion already arrived at, would indeed be amusing, if it were not so predictably tragic...

As he wrote these lines, he reflected on the effect a single line, casually tossed in a conversation, had had on Lakshmi Ammal’s psyche. Mere words, spoken by a person sitting miles away, had caused her to question a committment first sealed by sacred fire and then sanctified by decades of togetherness.

... But the key redeeming feature of the human mind is its capacity to forgive. And willingly, if reluctantly, forget. And thus, a father is able to forgive his daughter after years of ostracizing her. A wife is able to overcome her suspicions, the very ones her mind was convinced about based on what her own eyes and ears had fed her. And a husband is able to forgive his wife for doubting him, able to be empathetic enough to view the situation from her point of view and understand how his sudden affection to a strange girl must have seemed like.

It had all worked out as planned. The old couple’s bond was stronger than ever, having recently survived the agnipariksha, and the father was closer to his daughter than if he would ever have been had he not banished her from his house. Distance does make the heart grow fonder. Yes, everything had worked out as planned. Except...

She had left him. The moment she came to know that she had been used as an unwitting guinea pig in a tasteless experiment, she had quietly but decisively ended their relationship. She had been shocked to know that it was he who had pulled strings to get her onto the project. It was he who had encouraged her to spew hatred against an old man, one she did not know could be her future father-in-law. She shook with disgust thinking that if she hadn’t called Krishna Iyer a father figure, her boyfriend would have been only too happy to test if she ended up having an affair with his own father. Just to test another of his pet theories that deep love was usually forged out of people finding fault with one another. He was unable to convince her that he trusted her enough to believe that would never happen. She had called him a sick bastard for using his own girlfriend as a ‘subject’ in the social experiment he had conducted on his parents. And Kalpathy Krishnaswamy Shankar Iyer, reflected on the irony of his girlfriend telling him she is leaving him because she’ll never be able to trust him, just as he had successfully concluded what he called the ‘trust experiment’ and proved that a few minor weeds cannot shake the deep rooted tree of trust. He thought he had accounted for all the pawns, but one of the pawns had unexpectedly reached the other end and had become the Queen.

While one might analyze the fallibility of the human mind to fool itself into seeking out information to confirm its pre-conceived notions, while at the same time wonder at its ability to instantly ignore and forget all evidence which goes contrary to its set belief, these are but minor cognitive errors. One might avoid them if one is aware of their possibility, and the way they distort the mind’s decisions. The larger, and usually unavoidable, error is one where the mind believes itself to be infallible, considers itself unique in the sense that what affects other ‘lesser’ minds would not affect a ‘superior’ one like itself, rejects the very possibility of failure, a situation which some learned people refer to as ‘hubris’.

Because, after all, if you couldn’t trust your own mind, who would you trust?

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PS1: And that brings an end to another long, I-wish-I-won't-be-tempted-to-start-another-series, story.

Ps2: Congrats Sampath, for having correctly guessed the relationship between Shankar and Krishna Iyer, 2 chapters back.

A Question of Trust - Part III

2010-11-14T06:53:00.000-08:00

Read Part One and Two here.
***********************

Lakshmi Ammal had laughed off her son's careless remark, saying "I have been with him for 28 years now. If he had to stray, he'd have done so long ago." But the changes she saw in her husband's routine disturbed her. It was as if a clock that had been running reliably for a quarter century suddenly begins to chime at odd hours, and run awry. And if that is the only clock in one's world, how does one reset it to the 'correct time'?

She had ignored the early signs. Like when he had changed his opinion on 'that Bengali lady' to "she's not as bad as I thought". Or when he returned a bit late from office, saying he had gone to drop her off to her place. She had kept her thoughts to herself even when his lunch box came back untouched, while the servant remarked that he had seen his master taking the girl out for lunch to a hotel.

But the proverbial 'last straw' happenned when Krishna Iyer started jogging in the morning. With Ms. Sengupta. And Lakshmi Ammal had to silently bear the shame of the whispered "Paavum di maami, kalangkarthala inga paal vaanga nikkara. Anga enna da na naai maadiri naaka thonga potundu andha ponnu pinnadi odararu ivaathu mama", when she went to buy the milk at 5 a.m. ("Poor maami, she has to stand in the line for milk early morning. While her husband runs after that girl like a dog with his tongue out").

Lakshmi Ammal was not one for direct confrontation. Her mother had taught her better. She had seen her sister being sent back to her abusive husband, just so that the 'family honour' be preserved. But the message had to be conveyed to her husband, and it was up to her to find the way. And thus Krishna Iyer knew something was just not right the moment he entered his house that evening. The house was dark, and the puja room lamp was unlit. "Ennadi, sami velakku ethalaya?" (Why haven't you lit the puja lamp?"). "Veetula velakku etharthuku thaan neenga puthusa orithi pathundu irukkele, avala vandhu etha sollungo" ("You have been seeing a new girl, ask her to come and light it").

“What nonsense are you talking? Who put such ridiculous ideas into your head?”

“Why? They don’t light lamps in Bengal?”

**********

Had Lakshmi Ammal been aware of a certain incident at Krishna Iyer’s office, the one that triggered the changes in his routine, she’d have regretted voicing such doubts. But her absence at the venue at the said time, plus the fact that she had never questioned her husband ever, exonerated her current behaviour in his eyes. And reinforced a lesson that he had only recently learnt, that open communication is the only weapon to clear barriers in relationships.

(Meta-digression: While this writer hates flashbacks in general, and has no pretensions regarding his ability to narrate a story in multiple timelines, it becomes necessary for us to rewind to the said incident to take this story forward. Back to the story).

It had been another long, acrimonious day at the office, when Ms. Sengupta had presented her interim findings to the client management, and her bosses who had flown in for the same, and had been at the receiving end of what is politely referred to as ‘constructive criticism’ from her boss regarding her ability to ‘deliver on the client’s requirements by proactively working to eliminate any apprehensions that the client’s team might have and to achieve their buy-in for the project’. Krishna Iyer had just smirked silently, knowing fully well that when the next presentation happens at the end of the month, nothing would have been achieved on the ‘eliminate misapprehensions and achieve buy-in’ part, as long as he had something to do with it.

And while he packed up to leave office at 5.30 as usual, he saw the girl sitting with her ‘fancy’ laptop, with a determined look on her face. And when he came back the next day morning, she was still there, only this time, the determined look was replaced by sleepy eyes as her head rested on a stack of files. “You think those files make for a good pillow?”, he commented sarcastically. And then it happenned.

It was as if a dam had broke, as the flood of tears gushed forth. She had yelled at him first, pointing out how she knew he hated her, and that he wanted this project to fail only to humiliate her. Then she had broken down, telling him in between tears, how she felt all alone in this strange city, how she missed her family and her friends, and how she had looked up to him as a father figure, only to be spurned and humiliated time and again. Krishna Iyer had never been comfortable with tears. All his life, he had been content to leave his wife to tend to the kids, busying himself with ‘the Hindu’ whenever the babies cried. He did not hate kids, he just preferred that they neither be heard nor be seen. And now, here was this fully grown girl, sobbing in front of him.

But either some hidden paternal instinct, or the fact that he secretly missed his own daughter so much, caused him to warm up to this alien girl, in spite of her funny smelling food and her short hair. And impulsively he decided to be a father to her, to fulfil a role which he knew he should have performed for his own daughter.

He missed his daughter. All she had asked for, was the permission to marry someone she loved. Her words came back to him, “Appa, I want to marry someone who loves me for the person I am. Not someone who is looking for labels like Hindu-Brahmin, well-schooled, knows cooking, can sing and dance. And I want to marry a person whom I know, for what he is, not a collection of fancy foreign degrees and a six-figure pay packet.” And at that time, he had wondered what a fool of a girl she was, to refuse a religious minded NRI mapillai (groom) with a green card, one who had not picked up any ‘dirty’ habits in spite of living in the States. He had explained to her how he had been happily married for so long in spite of saying ‘yes’ to her mother after one meeting and 2 minutes of conversation, a meeting he remembered more for the tasty bhajji than anything else. The daughter had said something to the tune of how it would take a selfless woman like her mother to put up with someone like him, and she was sure a lesser woman would have walked out on him. And that comment had led to more arguments, a lot of shouting and ended with him banging the door on her face with the words “From this moment on, you are dead to me...”

And now, he repented those words. And while he decided to help out this Bengali girl by accompanying her on her morning jogs to ward off eve-teasers, and take her out on the occasional lunch, over the days he slowly swallowed his pride and decided to re-unite with his daughter too. He knew his wife maintained contact with the daughter while continuing to maintain a veil of secrecy from him, and he decided to surprise her by buying gifts for his daughter and asking her to invite them over.

And he entered his house joyfully, with gifts in his hands, and a happy message for his wife, only to find the house dark and the puja room lamp unlit...

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

PS1: I know, I know, long time no update. But a home visit for Diwali and coming back to a deal that needed some late night fire-fighting at office are valid excuses in my book.

PS 2: And this story goes on and on, like a mega serial. No excuses for that, except the fact that a more skilled writer, or editor, could have cured that.

PS3: Need to do a home visit post too. Let' see. Need to decide if I should do it in the middle of this story, or bring it up later.

A Question of Trust - Part II

2010-10-24T08:10:00.000-07:00

Read Part I first. Not that it is going to help you make any sense of this, but still...
****************************************************************

“Hello, Mr. Krishnaswamy, I’m Suchitra Sengupta. I look forward to working with you and your team”, she smiled and held out her hand. Krishna Iyer mumbled a hello, limply grazed her fingers in what he thought was a handshake and turned away towards the CFO’s cabin. It had been bad enough being told that the company was engaging a consulting firm to help modernize their accounting process to be compatible with IFRS guidelines. But to take orders from a 25-yeard old, a woman at that!

“Simply not tolerable! Totally out of question saar! At least they should send some senior person saar. What does this kid know about business to advise us?” KV Krishna Iyer pleaded with his boss.

“Iyer saar. You know it is not my decision. MD payyan US la MBA pannitu vandhurkan. Ippo private equity kondu vara porangalaam. Nammakku atha pathi oru ezhavum puriyadhu. Periya edathu decision, no question saar”, the CFO sounded equally helpless. (““Iyer saar. You know it is not my decision. The MD’s son has returned with a US MBA. Now he wants to attract private equity. We hardly know what rotten shit that is. High level decision, no question saar.”)

“But at least some senior person saar...” KVK still held some hope.

“For the record Iyer saar, she is a graduate from IIM. With a CA and a CFA.”

“Enna saar periya IIM MBA kimbeeyay. Naan antha kalathu B.Com Honours! Gold Medallist! I was drawing up ledgers before she was even born!”

“Iyer saar, I have explained the management stand. You will co-operate with her. And I don’t want any complaints from their side. Or from you.”

KVK stormed back to his cabin, muttering under his breath. Only to see the pretty face of Ms. Sengupta waiting for him. He forced himself to smile. “Tea, coffeee?”

“No thank you. Mr. Krishnaswamy, could you please take me through your processes here. I want to create a process map, and an organizational chart. Would also need to understand your internal audit system. And which software do you use for your accounts? And Mr. Krishnaswamy, please don’t mind, is there any easier way to address you?”

“What do you mean by process map? Or organizational chart? There is no internal audit, I sign off on everything below 50 lakh, for everything else, the CFO does. And no software. Those boys there, they do the accounting entry in the journals. I check the totals daily. Don’t even need a calculator! And oh, you can call me Iyer Sir.”

Suchitra bit her lip. This assignment was going to be tougher than she had imagined. She had dreamt of making high powered corporate strategy presentations to CEOs of Fortune 500 companies when she signed up for this job. Not sitting in a dingy office in Coimbatore with manual accounting, dealing with a difficult client who clearly hated her. But there was a reason she had taken up this particular assignment and she intended to complete it.

She had gotten off to a bad start with ‘Iyer Sir’. And things progressively went downhill after that.

She hated the archaic procedures and the dusty filing system. He hated computers because he couldn’t understand them.

And the mutual dislike extended from the professional domain to the personal. She hated the fact that this man held such bigoted views. He hated her for her modernity.

“I hate the slurping sounds made by a grown man licking his fingers while he ate curd rice!” she said, in her daily calls to her boyfriend, Shankar. Carrying on a relationship with someone halfway across the world was not easy. But she loved him. Loved him enough to not give up.

“I hate the smell of that fish in her tiffin box. Ennavo macher jhol aam. Enna ezhavo!”, KVK muttered to his wife at dinner, about how he had had to first change his table at lunch, and then when he could not bear it any longer, change his time-table! She was surprised to hear him talk about something from work. Something he had never done in, you guessed it, the last 25 years.

“I hate the way he dresses, in cheap polyester trousers and those bush-shirts which are never tucked in. And in such atrocious colours! I hate his oiled hair too”, Suchitra whined on another call.

“Azhaga lakshanama oru salwar kameez potukalam. Idhu ennada na pasangal aatama suit potundu varadhu! Mudiya vera otta nariki vechundu. Bob cut aam. Kandraavi Kandraavi!” (“She could wear a salmar kameez like a decent girl. But this one chooses to wear a suit like a boy! And has cut her hair so short! Says it is a bob cut. Utter nonsense!”), KVK rambled on, surprising Lakshmi Ammal even more. She had never seen her husband this agitated.

In fact, it made her worried enough to mention it in her call to her son in the US. A call he dutifully made every night, even though his father rarely spoke to him, and he had to get all his news from his mom.

“I don’t know what has come over your father. He is obsessed with finding fault with that new girl in his office!”

“Obsessed with her faults or obsessed with her? Kezhatuku indha vaisula kadhal kidhal ayidutho?” (“Has the old man fallen in love, at this age?”), the son asked, half in jest.

That question set in motion a mini-storm in the life of KV Krishna Iyer and Lakshmi Ammal, a married life that had been peaceful forever...

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

PS: The usual disclaimer. I am picking names of characters at random, going with whatever sounds right to me. All characters are imaginary!

A Question of Trust

2010-10-21T10:34:00.000-07:00

His fingers started tapping the floor, the rhythm measured and regular. He didn't need to look at the clock to see that his wife was 2 minutes late in bringing him his breakfast. For Kalpathy Venkatasubramaniam Krishnaswamy Iyer (KV Krishna Iyer) was, if anything, a man of routine. And he sat erect, with legs crossed, in padmasana pose, the rhythm of his fingers slowly picked up speed. He didn't like to be late. He hated it more if other people made him late. Especially, if it was his wife of 28 years, Lakshmi Ammal.

KV Krishna Iyer had followed the same routine for the past 25 years. Wake up at 5 am sharp, brush, have water stored overnight in copper sombu, a bathroom routine of 'morning work', shave and bath that lasted precisely 45 minutes, sandhyvandhanam at 6, followed by suryanamaskaram, morning poojai that involved individually removing the dried flower from each of the 24 divine photos kept in the poojai-arai and replacing them with fresh flowers which the flower guy would have delivered in the morning, reading the Hindu (first page, editorial, obituaries, sports page, strictly in that order) while sipping coffee from 7 to 8 am, breakfast at 8 am, leave for work at 8.30.

The plate of steaming idlis arrived. Finally. As Lakshmi Ammal bent to serve him chutney, she winced. The years had not been kind to her back. But she knew, even before she began her well-rehearsed plea, that her loving husband would sooner let her collapse on the floor than agree to sit on the dining table for his meals. He viewed these 'modern fancies' with an emotion that bordered between callous indifference on the rare good days and vicious lecture-spewing hate on most others.

It was the same hate of modern fancies that led him to cycle his way to work, steadfastly refuse his son's offer to buy him a car. 'Work' was a day filled with journals, ledgers, petty cash balances and bank reconciliations. Or at least supposed to be. In truth, it was a day filled with two really pitiful juniors listening to the famed orator KV Krishna Iyer holding forth on one of his many pet topics - society (the glory of the caste system, the wistful reminiscence of the British Raj era, the intellectually bankrupt western influence, the evils of tobacco and alcohol), governance (the blase corruption in Indian bureaucracy), international politics (Pakistan - a nation of crooks!), economics (the US dollar is a worthless piece of paper, made valuable by the stupid Chinese...), local politics (the DMK is nothing but a bunch of godless thugs who want to finish off all Brahmins), diet (vegetarian food is the healthiest! no question about it!), films (Rajinikanth? bah, a non-actor made famous by the deranged fans! Sivaji Ganesan was the only one qualified to be an actor), sports (that Sachin Tendulkar seems to be a good chap, but Rahul Dravid is the best)...

Let it not be assumed that KV Krishna Iyer was a man who whiled away his time in office shirking work and doing chit-chat. In truth, he was too talented to be kept occupied for more than 2 hours a day by the accounting work for Rajalakshmi Industries International, which truly was involved in a global business. Of importing palm oil from Malaysia.

And his routine in office was also a set one, unchanged in the past 25 years. Coffee at 11 am, which he would drink by pouring exactly one-third of it into the second glass, twirl it thrice, sip, twirl, sip, pour, twirl, sip.
Lunch would be from the dabba with piping hot food brought by the servant precisely at 1.00, which will always have 4 containers, one sambhar rice, one rasam rice, one curd rice and one vegetable dish. The combination of vegetables in the sambhar and for the side dish for each day of the week had been drilled into his wife over the years, and he would know before opening his tiffin that the meal for the day would be vendakai sambhar and beans kari. He had a coffee again at 4, this time with 2 Marie biscuits. At 5.30, he would pack up and leave.

Just outside his office, he would stop to buy salted kadalai (groundnuts). "Innum rendu podu... enga kaalathla ettu anna ku evalo periya potalam varum!" (Put two more... In our days, we used to get this big a packet!). The vendor knew this dialogue by heart, having heard the same line for the past 3 years when inflation forced him to use a smaller magazine's paper for wrapping the kadalai.

The evening routine consisted of a quick pradakshinam of the temple on the way back, evening sandhya, dinner at 8 while pretending to listen to his wife narrate neighbourly gossip, a leisurely walk (stroll, actually) for half an hour, and he was off to bed by 9.00.

KV Krishna Iyer found great comfort in his routine. It kept his mind off the fact that his son had not visited them for 3 years now, citing leave problems and some US visa issues. Or that his daughter has not spoken to him ever since he refused her permission to marry her college crush, and she chose to walk out. Little did he know that his routine was about to be given a jolt...
*******************************************

PS: Yes, in spite of the Ramaiah and Julie.T fiasco, I refuse to learn my lesson and again start a story, with only a vague plot line in my mind of how to take it forward. This one will also be in episodes, but hopefully will not drag on forever.

PS1: Yes, all characters are fictional, so if some Kalpathy Venkatasubramaniam Krishnaswamy Iyer actually exists, or if any of you see yourself reflected in him, no sir, I am not talking about you. Or you. Or you, for that matter.

Tamil Fans protest against word 'Rajnigandha'

2010-10-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

The Vengayam
Our Ordinary Correspondent
**********************

Thousands of enraged Tamil fans are protesting in front of the Hindi Prachar Sabha, against the word "Rajnigandha", demanding it to be renamed into something that is not demeaning to the name of Superstar Rajinikanth.

"Rajnigandha sounds very similar to Thalaivar's name... plus our Indhi teacher taught us that gandha means dirty! These North Indians keep referring to Rajini saar as black, bald and ugly, but now they have gone too far with this flower's name. Bloody phools. We want that word removed from every Indhi dictionary!", said Annamalai, proudly waving his badge "Vice President - Rajini Fan Club, Mettunasuvampalayam" in our reporter's face, while two of his cows mooed in the background.

On being told of the subtle differences between ganda and gandha, another fan, Muthu bellowed "Da, dha, tha... all look the same to us. When Thalaivar wants to convey sandosam, he says santhosam, which clearly shows that they are all the same! And you write kanth, or gandh, it looks the same in Tamil! Try it in Google transliterate if you want!", thereby scattering 'pearls' of knowledge about the Tamil script and google products in the same line.

Meanwhile, another protester was seen demanding that the Amol Palekar movie of the same name be banned from releasing. When told that the movie was released in 1974, he said "So what? You think we won't ask to ban the movie just because it is old? First that Amol Palekar steals our Rajini Saar's Thillu Mullu and calls it Gol Maal. And now, he releases this offensive movie to demean our Thalaivar." He refused to entertain any argument that Gol Maal had in fact released before Thillu Mullu, pointing out that Gol Maal 3 is yet to release!

Protesters were also seen outside the Singanallur office of a mouth-freshener company, demanding that the company change the name of its pan masala. "Thalaivar's name cannot be used for some stupid pan masala. Who do you think he is? Sania Mirza?", said one more 'tall' fan, while simultaneously spitting out some chewed up Manickchand gutka juice.

Meanwhile, the man in question, the Superstar, sat unperturbed in his home. With Raghavendra calm. He was seen composing an email forward from his id gmail@rajinikanth.com. The subject read: Rajnikanth Facts.
*************************************
PS1: Yes, totally running out of ideas. Totally.

Nine colours of Navratri

2010-10-10T10:15:00.000-07:00

On the first day, they decide to go green
"Wow, you look nice" they pout and preen
What in God's name! I shake my sad head
In that colour, I wouldn't be caught dead!!
But the gals do make for a pretty scene :)

On the second day, they wear grey
as they march to the temple to pray
Now, that's a colour that I don't mind
In my wardrobe, it's one that I can find
So, on this I have only nice things to say...

On the third day, they opt for pink
"now that's a girlie colour", I think
but horror of horrors, I own one of that
if you say "that's gay", I'll kick your butt
It's a chick magnet, like Barney's wink...

On the fourth day, they put on white
I like it, especially if it is skin tight ;)
It's supposed to be pure like a lily
or something like that, equally silly
say, like ghosts on a new moon night!

On the fifth day, they choose to go red
it's sexy, it says "O baby, come to bed"
Of course, some tend to overdo that part
and end up looking like a cheap ass tart
making us mad as bulls, horny and bent head...

On the sixth day, they come up with blue
reminds me of camlin ink and some glue
ok, I made that up, just to make it rhyme
god promise, I won't do it a second time
but seriously, what word rhymes with blue?

On the seventh day, they don some yellow
bright, sunny, smiling, like a happy fellow
my mind goes back to that cartoon... Tweety
yes, the bird that spoke like girls: cho-chweety...
and oh, the obligatory Mallu phone joke: Hyellow

On the eighth day, they pick the colour violet
and the boss told the secy: "please file it"
ok, now I am coming up with random shit
coz I am reaching the end of my limited wit
but what the hell, my mind flies and I'm the pilot!

And we reach the ninth day colour: peacock
they say "birds of a feather, together they flock"
but, but, it is not a colour, it is a frikkin bird
but women can identify that colour, so I heard
like magenta, lavendar, or that Ramar-pachai frock!

***********************************************************
PS1: Inspired by a mailer that was sent by some lady to all ladies in the company about "what colours to wear for Navratri", dutifully forwarded to me by a colleague who believes in equal opportunity, and thus decided that the men should also support the "uniform" movement.

PS 2: I. want. Sundal. :(

The AC loses its cool!

2010-09-24T23:46:00.000-07:00

Smoke billowed out of the Air-Conditioner (hereinafter known as "The AC") as it vented its anger. It had definitely lost its cool. "Enough is enough. I shall not endure any more of this non-sense!"

"Chill dude, pick a beer, and tell me what happenned?", said the fridge.

"Have you noticed? I end up getting blamed for everything from evil arrogance to apathy to ignorance!", the AC fumed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, people end up dragging my name into all sorts of arguments...

When they want to accuse someone of ignorance, they say things like 'What would you know, sitting here in the city in air-conditioned comfort? Go to the villages to see the real India', while being perfectly ignorant of the fact that I am present in many rural homes!

Same goes for apathy. They'll utter contemptuously, 'Millions of farmers sweat it out in the sun to produce food so that you can sit here in your air-conditioned restaurant and enjoy it. Think about them the next time you waste food'.

And so on..."

"Hmm, I still don't get it", the tube-light said, showing a flicker of doubt.

"I mean, why don't they say 'What would you know, sitting here in your machine-washed clothes, visit the Dhobi ghat to know the real India' or 'Millions of farmers wade through muddy water while you drink your UV-purified water' or some such tripe?", the cooler joined in, blowing off some steam.

"Well, it's high time someone else got called names. I am tired of being blamed for idiocy for so long!", the TV beamed, happy to have found out that some other box was even more of a dirty word now.

"I agree. It's good to know that I am not the only thing that causes people to get hot under the collar", said the steam iron, warming up to the topic at hand.

"You see, it's about generating a positive spin. I do half as good a job as the AC, and no one has ever blamed me for anything", the fan whirred, "except maybe when people hang themselves."

"If I may I chip in...", started the computer, like the silent person who unsuccessfully tries to get a point across in a noisy GD before being cut off...

"Whirrrr, Whirrr, Whirrr" went the mixer, making no sense, but shredding everything in the process.

"I got it! I got it!", the tube-light started, though nobody was sure what point had been made at all.
****************************************************************

PS1: I know. Lame post. But when you take inspiration from lifeless objects in your room, the jokes can neither be consumed nor be durable.

PS2: Not highlighting the puns in italics, since the engineers who read my blog are assumed to have become smarter over the years.

Oh God! Not again!

2010-09-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

"What's with the silly grin?"

"Nothing"

"Oh c'mon, out with it. I know something's cooking."

"Why so curious? I told you, it's nothing. Just enjoying the sights and sounds of my creation. How wonderful the sun looks, how beautifully the birds chirp"

"I am surprised. Most days, you are so grumpy"

"So would you be, if you are woken up with a loud suprabatham day after day after day. I can't even hit the snooze button to turn them off! And barely am I awake, and they dump a potful of water on my head!"

"What you don't like to wake up to the suprabatham? It's such a nice song..."

"I'd much prefer that new song. The one that goes Swaminathana Thoongaadhe Va Wake-ah Wake-ah Eh Eh... Swaminathana Eh Eh Wake-ah Wake-ah Eh Eh..."

"What?"

"You know, the one that had that nice lady shaking her truthful hips... what's her name... aan, Shake-ira!"

"Oh, the Goddess Shakira! God, you have such a Mallu accent!!!"

"Yeah, Why do you think they call it 'God's own country'?"

"Yeah, makes sense. Anyways, I was asking, how come so cheerful today?"

"Well, you know how it is. Usually I am fed up of my job. Day in and day out, I process applications from so many people. Find me a job, make me rich, cure my illness, help me marry, I want a baby... Who do they think I am? Chamatkari Baba Bengali?"

"But I thought that was your raison d'etre... solving the world's problems. I mean, with great power comes great responsibility and all"

"You say that stupid Spiderman dialogue one more time and I'll bloody spin a web and stick your sorry ass up on it!"

"Ok, ok, chill. All I was saying is, you are God, it's your duty to solve the world's problems..."

"Isn't it enough to see that I made a beautiful garden without having to believe that I'll bury wish-fulfilling fairies at the bottom of it too?"

"Eh?"

"What I was saying was, isn't it enough that I created the damn world? You know how difficult it is to come up with all this in six days? You can't even write a project appraisal note in that time! And just when I thought that I can take off for a vacation after all this hard work, you ungrateful people want me to stick around solving your silly problems?"

"Hmm... so, you were smiling because now you get to go on a break?"

"No, but every once in a while, in the middle of all the tiring Kashmir conundrum and the misery of millions starving while food rots in the government warehouses, I get called to do this delightful task!"

"Which is?"

"Help Priyanka find a suitable match! Now, this is work that is fulfilling. The kind of work that is the Holy Grail of every HR person who ever designed a KRA form. See, a smart, sexy, successful, single lady wants my help, MY help, to find her a guy!"

"Wow, is that alliteration or hyperbole?"

"Aww, I am talking of Priyanka Chopra! And all you can think of is figures of speech?"

"Figures which leave you speechless. Figures of speech. #sameguy"

"I should have figured that out! Damn, make that omniscient minus one."

"It's ok. So, PC wants you to fix a match?"

"Oh, don't call it match fixing. That's what those cricketers do. All I'll do is find a guy to bowl this maiden over."

"Aargh, bowl a maiden over has to be the most overused cricket pun. Being a God, you could've come up with something better!"

"It's ok. Puns are the lowest form of wit."

"You don't mean..."

"I mean!"

"Ok, you mean! Oh, I keep forgetting the original topic. But, surely, you won't lower your almighty self to become a marriage broker?!?"

"Ah, it's what I have been doing for ages. When people don't want to match horoscopes, they put flowers at my feet to help them decide. One white, one red, and pick one and so on..."

"Why don't they simply toss a coin?"

"They could, and mathematically, they'll probably end up with the same result. But you have to admit, tossing a coin is no way as dramatic as finding two different coloured flowers, placing them at a deity's feet, finding a toddler who's given the task of picking the flower, taking a deep breath and hoping that the flower you want gets picked!"

"Yeah, I agree. So, why do you think picking a guy for PC would be an enjoyable job?"

"You see, the poor girl has such simple criteria. All she wants is a sincere, honest, guy who'll love her unconditionally. And yes, he should be funny. Why, with a bit of work on the funny part, a loser like you could fit the bill!"
**************************************************************

PS1: Yes, I know. Been away a long time. Work. And stuff. And running out of ideas.

PS2: The Waka Waka adaptation is not entirely original. But then, the one who came up with it doesn't blog. Not to my knowledge. Consider yourself acknowledged.

Ramaiah and Julie. T (Act V)

2010-08-09T12:45:00.000-07:00

Act V: The Conclusion

Father Dorai chalked out a careful plan. He knew a friend in Madras who could provide a safe harbour for the fleeing couple. He advised Ramaiah to go underground for a year, till things cooled down. Of course, both men were aware that things might never cool down and Ramaiah could end up never setting foot in the village again. But the young man was ready for everything, love having blinded him to the practical difficulties of scraping out a livelihood in Madras with no employable skills. It was arranged that Father Dorai would convey the plan to Julie through her friend.

Jacob paced his room restlessly, angry at himself for not having chased the intruder the previous night. He had a hunch that his sister way lying to him, but all his threats hadn't elicited the truth. He headed to the local toddy shop, badly craving some sarakku (country liquor) to soothe his frayed nerves. He had already downed a bottle when Mayandi walked in. Mayandi, still smarting from the slap from his last confrontation, jumped at the chance to needle his drunk rival. He proclaimed to his friends, "Ooru kulla ore thiruttu bhayam vandhuruchu da... Periya edathu veetula nethu oru thirudan poonthutaanam... thangachi manasa thiruditaan nu sollaranga" ("Fear of theft has crept in this village. They say a thief entered the big people's house yesterday. And stole the sister's heart..."). The combination of his frustration, his drunken state, the derisive tone of Mayandi's "periya edathu veedu" and the allegation on his sister's honour, combined to drive Jacob into a murderous rage. He pounced on Mayandi and drove a broken bottle into his stomach.

Ramaiah rushed to the bar on hearing of his friend's death. And rushed out faster swearing revenge on Jacob. Rage blinded him to the consequences of his action, its effect on his family, to Julie love, everything. He scoured the village for Jacob, aruval on his back, a singular motive driving him. And before Mayandi's body had gone cold, Jacob's right hand had been separated from him. His head was spared as Ramaiah wanted to deny Jacob the ease of a quick, painless death.

The consequences were quick. For a force normally associated with lethargy, the police moved swiftly and Ramaiah was jailed. But Madasamy Mudaliar was a man of means. He had a youth confessing it was he who had cut off Jacob's hand within no time. The young man was one of many who had grown up on the crumbs of the Mudaliar household, and would have cut off his own hand had the Mudaliar wished it. And Ramaiah walked free, a bit reluctantly, because he preferred the police station to facing his father's wrath.

The senior Mudaliar announced a panchayat meeting for the next day, determined to protect his name as a fair leader, even if it meant punishing his own son. "Twenty lashes should teach him a lesson" he thought. The panchayat was the law as far as the village was concerned, the way it had been for a century, and the police and the government were modern nuisances that were grudgingly handled, with some money and some name dropping. The cops for their part, being largely drawn from the same village, wisely kept their noses out.

Julie, unaware of the harm that her lover had caused her brother, slipped out of her house silently at midnight as instructed by Father Dorai through her friend. She couldn't bear the thought of causing so much pain to her parents, so she had written a letter on going away with Ramaiah, partly in the hope that her father's love for her might induce a change of heart and lead him to accept her someday. She had no idea that the letter would prove her undoing. Ramaiah had managed to give the security cordon imposed his father the slip, and was waiting for her at the railway station.

As the train started moving, the lovers looked back at their village teary-eyed, aware that they might never be welcome here again. Julie rested her head on his shoulder, and started dreaming of a life in Madras, free from her terrifying brother. Neither of them noticed that the station guard had seen them, nor were they aware that he was placing a call to the Mudaliar as the train was leaving the station...
****************

Ramaiah stood with his head bowed, hands folded, in front of the panchayat, dazed at the turn of events. One moment, he had been looking into Julie's eyes, envisioning a happy future, and the next thing he remembered was a blunt blow to the back of his head. His ears rang with the frentic cries of Julie, and a hazy vision of her being dragged away was the last thing he remembered before everything went black...

He had no idea where Julie was, save a strong suspicion that she was locked away at her father's house. He awaited his fate, as the panchayat deliberated the punishment for his transgression. While the panchayat members murmured among themselves, the crowd waited in suspense. He looked up at his father, the nattamai (head of panchayat), his eyes pleading...
*****************

Madasamy Mudaliar stepped into his house in silence. The sight of his son's limp body hanging from a tree returned to him. At the panchayat, he had been the impartial leader, proclaiming that the criminal be hung publicly, as an example to the youth of the village never to tread against the century old traditions of the village. As he contemplated that even the funeral rites had been denied to his son as part of the judgement, the body being thrown into the river, the father in him broke down. He went to bed sobbing, never to wake up again...

Julie's body was found hanging in her room. A suicide note was in place. Not even the most naive policeman believed it was a suicide, but the cops, as a matter of principle, did not interfere with family 'honour' in this part of the country...

Father Dorai sat on the train never to return, silently cursing himself for his hare-brained idea of encouraging the lovers to flee. He had foolishly hoped that tensions would cool down in some time, the marriage would unite the two warring families and peace would return to the village.

He knew that in spite of the 'example' being set, the story would repeat itself, as young lads would invariably be attracted towards forbidden love like moths to a fire...
*************************************************************************

Epilogue:

'One more honour killing' screamed the headlines.

News anchors shouted hoarse about the return to the dark ages and the arm-chair intellectuals decried the medieval thinking of the villagers.

A stray politician voiced his support to the panchayat, one eye firmly on his votebank.

The office-goers got a new topic to discuss about at their water coolers, and a few of them were found defending the village panchayat. "The guy had no education, no livelihood, no means of supporting her..." - as if education and a good job were a pre-requisite for falling in love. "These good-for-nothing boys, they watch movies and get influenced... I am not supporting the killing, but how can they desert the family honour..." and so on...

And a blogger got inspired to revisit Shakespeare to note nothing has changed, 400 years since the Bard wrote the story...

Ramaiah and Julie. T - A Tag

2010-08-05T12:31:00.000-07:00

I promised I would end the story this week, and I intend sticking to it. Though I guess most of you (yes, you, you and you) have lost interest and given up on this saying "ah, one more blogger leaving a story incomplete! what's new?"

But, this gives me an opportunity to nudge a few idle bloggers awake... So, I create this tag: Finish the story, in one episode, and leave the link to your blog here :)

I thought of tagging a few people, but realized that most of the blogs on my blogroll have been lying idle for so long, that making the list would be tedious. So feel free to take up the tag, if you feel your blog could do with some updating.

Ramaiah and Julie. T (Act IV)

2010-07-31T12:21:00.000-07:00

Act IV: A Confession

Ramaiah gingerly felt the broken glass piece on top of the wall of the huge Arputharaj bungalow, careful not to cut himself. He didn’t worry about the pain, but the Rajapalayam dogs that were tied to a corner of the yard would become agitated if they smelt blood. As it is, a stranger’s entry, however stealthily made, wouldn’t go unnoticed by the hounds. But he decided to take his chances. He couldn’t spend yet another sleepless night thinking of her...

He slowly crept across the lawn and climbed the gulmohar. A few carefully placed tenners to the milkman earlier in the day had elicited the precise location of Julie’s bedroom window. As he gingerly made his way across the branch that leaned into the first floor balcony, he was painfully aware that one false step meant not just a broken leg from the fall, but probably his life if Jacob found out who had crept into the house. Or worse, a public humiliation, following which his own father would kill him.

He was so focused on not toppling over that he didn’t notice the bright eyes watching his progress with child-like anticipation. Julie knew she should be screaming the place awake, but something stopped her. Maybe, because she had lived such a sheltered life since all the local boys were afraid of her brother, this secret meeting gave her an adrenaline rush. She found it difficult to believe she was attracted to this ruffian after just two meetings. After all, she was planning to go to Chennai for higher education, while the loafer balancing himself atop the tree had dropped out of school after failing to clear the eighth standard in three attempts. But she didn’t pause to question her motives or think about the consequences, she just stood there with a innocent yet naughty smile.

When Ramaiah caught sight of her, his heart missed a beat. All his carefully rehearsed filmi dialogue deserted him, and he mumbled something incoherently. But as they say, love doesn’t require too many words to be spoken, and a smile and a hand being gently held was enough to convince both of them that they had no future without each other. Julie told him to meet her at the church the next day, and said they could talk to Father Dorai to marry them soon. She was confident that only Father Dorai could convince her dad to agree.

The events would probably have turned out if Ramaiah hadn’t dropped his slipper, or if one of the dogs hadn’t started madly barking at the slight sound, or if Jacob hadn’t missed his daily peg that night and had chanced to be walking across the lawn. But that is how events turned out, and Jacob caught sight of a man hurriedly climbing down the tree, leaping over the wall and running away. He couldn’t recognize who it was or he would definitely have given chase. But he did the next best thing, and bounded up to Julie’s room to find out who the intruder was. While he loved his sister more than anything in this world, it translated into a strange form of violent protectiveness, and even two stinging slaps couldn’t get her to change her version of “probably some thief trying his luck”. Jacob strongly suspected otherwise, but even he couldn’t have guessed that the ‘thief’ had stolen his sister’s heart.

The next morning, Father Dorai was surprised, both to see his usual attendee missing as well as the unusual attendee standing outside the church. Julie had not been permitted to go to church by her brother, while Ramaiah paced impatiently outside the church, desperate to have a word with the priest. Father Dorai was a considerate man, but equally conscientious, and he took his time completing his sermon and prayers before admitting Ramaiah into his private study at the back of the church.

Father Dorai patiently heard his new confessor, all the while stroking his beard thoughtfully. The young man was unlettered but intelligent, appeared rough but was earnest, and Father Dorai could imagine what made Julie fall for this guy. His mind was working out the complications this might lead to, the violence it might trigger, but if Father Dorai had a fault, it was that he firmly believed that he should offer a solution to all who knock at his door. He said he would think of something, and advised Ramaiah to not confront Jacob till then. Little did he know that his advice would be ignored before the sun set on that day.

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

PS: For those who are still interested in knowing how it ends (or whether it will end), yes, I am committed to finishing this by the end of the week. Whatever the work pressure.

Ramaiah and Julie. T (Act III)

2010-07-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

Act-III: A Confrontation

Rev. Francis Dorai did not skip a single beat as the motorcycles roared into the churchyard, and except an imperceptibly quick glance at the three intruders shuffling into the last row, he showed no reaction. Rev. Dorai, ‘Father’ to most of the villagers, was adept at dealing with irritants far larger than three youths barging in. Divine coincidence, he thought with a wry smile, as he was reading “thattungal, kadavugal thirakkapadum” (“knock, and the doors shall be opened”) to his congregation just as the three walked in.

Father Dorai recognized all three youths, and while he continued with his sermon, his mind was furiously trying to come up with some reason for their appearance here. He knew Madasamy Mudaliar well, and could claim to be the only Christian who could walk into the Mudaliar household and come out with all his limbs intact, and thus had a strong feeling that Ramaiah and his friends weren’t here to listen to “Kelungal, kudukapadum” (“ask, and thou shalt receive”).

Father Dorai was well respected all through the village, in spite of, or rather because of, his colourful past. He still retained the athletic build from his younger days as a champion kabaddi player and boxer, but God knows he had abused his body in his youth. Regular rounds of alcohol and the occasional ganja, till one day he had lay drunk at the toddy shop while his mother died of a heart attack in their hut, gasping to see her only son. He buried his past along with his mother, took up doing odd jobs for the church and eventually, a kind priest counselled him to dedicate his life to Jesus and the community. Whether he thought this was a way to repent, or saw a chance to probably save other misguided youth through example, we would never know, but he jumped at the chance. And three decades later, he was still preaching the word of God, as he saw it. His was a sane voice which had calmed tensions while the neighbouring villages burned during the last communal riots.

Father Dorai followed Ramaiah’s line of sight, and this time, he paused mid-sentence. There was no doubt which girl he was intently staring at, and Father Dorai immediately realized the consequences of her brother Jacob finding out the presence of the three youths. He made a motion of clearing his throat, coughed a bit, and announced, “Sorry my friends. My throat seems to be giving me some problems. So, can we continue the sermon later and proceed to the choir?”

“Ulagathil ulla arputhangal, ellam padaithathu Avan thaane” (“all things great and wonderful, the good God made them all...”), the choir began. Twenty voices were going full blast, but Ramaiah heard only one. A hundred people sat in between, and Ramaiah saw only one. Julie was blissfully unaware of the pair of eyes intently staring at her. And so was Ramaiah. Father Dorai slowly made his way to the last row, motioned to him to walk with him outside, and asked him “what brings you here, my son?”, fully knowing he wouldn’t get a honest answer.

“Father, I came to listen to the choir. You know, the songs are very nice”

“My son, I used played kabaddi with your father. Ask him, and he’ll tell you no raider could fool me. I may be old, but please don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Father...”

“Forget her, my son. You know the history. No good will come out of this.”

“Father, I am willing to die for her”

“The problem, my boy, is that twenty others will die for no fault of theirs”

“In that case, Father, I’ll kill myself. I cannot live without her”

“I suspect you have been watching too many movies. Go home, think about your family, think about your father...

“What the hell are you doing here, bastards?” Jacob’s voice boomed from the church entrance.

Father Dorai turned and fixed him with an admonishing glance “Jacob, I will not tolerate such language in my church!”

“You please stay out of this Father. I’ll deal with these high caste bastards. Won’t allow us near their temple, and have the temerity to walk into our church! And you, you forgot the thrashing I gave you last time? You do have some gall walking in like this!” Jacob thundered, and a landed a hard slap across Mayandi’s face.

Ramaiah rushed forward, and with a practiced upper right, had Jacob reeling to the floor. Jacob immediately flashed a knife, which was promptly knocked out by a kick from Bangarappa. Ramaiah drew his aruval (sickle) from his back in rage, completely tuning out Father Dorai’s scream ”Stop it you fool”, when he caught sight of Julie, fear in her eyes, clutching her friend’s hand tightly, silently pleading. He threw away his weapon, turned and jumped on his bike.

As he rode away, he cast a quick glance back, and was rewarded with the sight of beautiful moist eyes, filled with gratitude, and he hoped, love.
**************
(to be continued)

PS1: Yes, yes, I know. I have been extremely slow in taking this story forward. Two reasons. Work, for one. Two, I had no idea how long this will take when I started. I did not have the complete story mapped out in my mind. So, please bear with me while I squeeze out some free time and try to wrap this up. As quickly as my bosses will allow me to.

PS2: Note to self: think twice before attempting ambitious stories. Stick to PJs and puns and all will be well.

Ramaiah and Julie. T (Act II)

2010-06-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

Read Act-I here.
*******************************
Act-II: A Revelation.

Ramaiah slowly sipped the extra sweet tea at the local tea kadai, seated across Bangarappa and Mayandi. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the girl out of his mind. “Macha, ava yaaru, endha ooru, yethuvume teriyadhu, enga poi thedarathu?”, Bangarappa reasoned, taking a long drag on his bidi before offering it to Ramaiah. (“We don’t know who she is, where she lives... how do we search for her?”). Ramaiah sighed wistfully, realizing that in a village where people hid their daughters in their homes till they got them married off, chances of sighting the girl of his dreams again were pretty slim. For in spite of the villagers’ best efforts, he and his gang knew the names, ages, and approximate vital stats of most of the local girls, and he was sure she wasn’t from his community. Every local girl her age would visit the local Vinayagar kovil, and there wasn’t a girl in the village whose thanni kodam hadn’t been toppled over by the gang before the elephant idol got any abhishekam. There had to be a way. Somehow. Anyhow.

There are certain inexplicable instances when Life seems to hand you a little gift out of nowhere. Some call it divine intervention, some, little coincidences. Nobody knows for sure. As Ramaiah polished off the last molaga bhajji on the table and was about to crumple the paper, something caught his eye. “You are born a sinner. Let Jesus lead you to salvation”, it proclaimed, beneath the photo of the local preacher who everybody knew only as Father. But what had held his attention was not the headline or the Father’s mug, but a picture captioned “Join our choir group.” Or rather, a particularly cheerful face leading that choir. A face that he had fallen in love with in a single glance. A face that had haunted his dreams and rendered him sleepless for the past week.

“Enna maapi, Shakila padama?”, Bangarappa asked, seeing his friend gazing intently at the piece of paper. (“What bro, photo of Shakila?”). Ramaiah didn’t respond. His usually sharp mind had gone a bit numb, reconciling to the fact that the object of his affection was, gasp, a Christian! Maybe, he can talk to his father and convince him. It would be difficult, extremely so, but then, wasn’t he his father’s favourite son?

Mayandi snatched the paper from him, glanced at it, and at once, his hands started shaking as he screamed, “Dei, venaam da. Idhu yaaru theriyuma?” (“Hey, forget it. Do you know who she is?”).

Ramaiah shrugged.

“Julie...”

“Nice name...”

“Julie Thomas Arputharaj”

Silence. Stunned silence. Ramaiah’s world had turned dark. Very dark.

All thoughts of convincing his father evaporated in a flash. No, he would be thrown out of the house, cut up in two pieces. Madasamy Mudaliar valued his family honour too much to allow such a blasphemy. His head reeled.

“It... It can’t be...”

“It is. I know her brother, Jacob. Semma rowdy. He knocked out two of my teeth just for looking at her in the street once.”

“Oh, but you told me you fell down a ditch and broke it?”

“What else could I have done? As it is, your families are at loggerheads. If I had told the truth, there would have been another round of unnecessary fighting. I’ll have my revenge when my time comes, I don’t want families to go to war for me.”

“I’ll tell you what, all these Christian girls look alike. Let’s go check out whether she is the same girl”, Bangarappa broke in at last. He hated to see his friends so downcast.

“What do you mean, go check out? Are you out of your mind? If they come to know who we are, they’ll bury us in the cemetery next to the church!” Mayandi spoke in a strange voice, mixed with fear and excitement.

“I’ll go. You two stay here. I don’t want you guys to be in any danger because of me” offered Ramaiah.

“Twenty years of friendship and you think we’d let you go alone?”

And the three friends hopped on to their motorcycles and sped towards the church.
*****************************************
(to be continued)

Ramaiah and Julie. T

2010-06-26T23:50:00.000-07:00

Prologue:
In which I pretend to be Mani Ratnam. And adapt a well known story, and tweak it as I want! Now to get Aishwarya to act on this script!!! Though I’d prefer Asin :)

Act-I:

Ramaiah tucked in his stomach, conscious that dozens of admiring eyes were fixed on his bare torso as his sweat glistened in the sun amidst all the dust. As a strapping young lad with rippling muscles and from being the son of one of the richer families of the village, he was used to being the centre of attention. But his eyes sought only one face, only one pair of bright eyes amongst the crowd. Ah, there she was, Rasathi, laughing merrily with her friends, oblivious to his searching looks. Ramaiah gave a sly smile as he caught her eye, before he was violently thrown up in the air, a sharp pain shooting through his ribs. “Never take your eyes off the bull”, his father Madasamy Mudaliar’s sharp advice rang in his ears as he fell on his back amidst loud shouts of concern. The annual jalli-kattu was delivering more than the usual thrills and the villagers couldn’t get enough of it, the government’s ban on the bull fighting be damned. After all, this was a place where centuries of tradition held more weight than modern inconveniences like the law of the land.

Ramaiah staggered to his feet, taking deep breaths to reorient himself. He fought the urge to turn to Rasathi, to see if she had a look of concern, to give her a reassuring look if need be, forcing himself to concentrate instead on the pair of horns that was angrily trying to tear him apart. His friends, Bangarappa and Mayandi, had kept the bull distracted while he was down, but he could see that they were tiring too. He let out a piercing roar and deftly side stepped as the horns and hooves missed him by inches. In a flash, he had grabbed one of the horns while the bull swung its head madly, trying to shake off both the maddening effect of the strange concoction mixed in its morning feed and the foolish lad clinging to its horn.

His hands ached, the red mud stinging the bleeding cuts on his palms. But he hung on. He hadn’t given up when Rasathi, more stubborn than this bull ever can hope to be, had firmly declined his advances claiming she wanted to remain a spinster and dedicate her life to the local temple. “Who do you think you are, Avvaiyar?”, he had raged, alternately pleading and shouting, to no avail. He strengthened his grip on the bull, hoping his heroics would impress her, little knowing that bull fighting men stood little chance against rakshasha fighting gods.

A violent struggle ensued and he scarcely knew how, but he had mounted the bull and clung on to its neck while more villagers came in and finally calmed it down. While he was being feted by his friends who were now carrying him on their shoulders, his eyes searched the crowd again. And fell on a face so beautiful that he had forgotten all about Rasathi even before he was carried on to the stage for a brief felicitation by the panchayat members.

The face in question, belonged to a girl clad in a simple black dhavani and standing far away from the crowd with her friends. For Julie Thomas, the lovely daughter of Thomas Arputharaj, was well aware of the deep seated casteist prejudices in the village which wouldn’t allow her to take part in the festivities. The sole reason why her forefathers, too far back to remember now, had jumped at the chance to be ‘converted’. While the missionaries went back satisfied for having saved some souls, the oppressed folks had been too focused on keeping themselves alive to worry about such higher aspirations. Of course, they had prospered steadily over the decades, and Thomas Arputharaj was now one of the wealthier men in the village, but they knew they weren’t welcome at the village well or inside the temple. But Ramaiah wasn’t aware of who she was when he had decided who he was going to share his life with after that one brief glance.

What he was only well too aware of was the century-old rivalry between his family, the Mudaliars, and the Arputharaj family. The Arputharaj folks had been servants for generations in the Mudaliar household, long before they had even acquired a surname. Abused and tortured, treated as untouchables, but needed for the dirty tasks of cleaning up the household, which the upper castes considered too beneath their 'pure' selfs. Somewhere, a hundred years ago, someone had revolted, emboldened by the missionaries promising them a live of dignity, a life where the god was a shepherd who didn’t discriminate among his flock. From being never allowed inside a temple to being put up in the front row of a church was a dream. And the Mudaliar household, fuelled partially by the loss of underpaid servants, and partially by the jealousy at how the lowly servants had prospered to become their equals, economically if not socially, had nurtured a rivalry that had involved 14 murders on either side at last count.

***********************************
(to be continued)

Memories...

2010-06-22T11:20:00.000-07:00

I was happy, with not a worldly care

Until you merrily walked into my life...

Your lively eyes returned my undying stare

And suddenly possibilities seemed pretty rife

I never got that thing called mush

Until I had this inexplicable crush!

And I still just can’t explain how

It grew into this strange feeling called love...

My heart SCREAMED, but you wouldn’t hear

And I couldn’t speak out of some hidden fear

I’m pretty sure you knew perfectly how I felt

But there were differences that just wouldn’t melt

I pleaded with you “please let’s give it a try”

But your stubbornness just made me cry :'(

You almost turned me into a love-struck teen

Sadly wondering “what might have been...”

My reasonable head keeps up a losing fight

with the heart that says “I may still get you”

But I just remind myself, every day and night

That I really ought to start... to forget you...

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

Rains, Fucking Rains!

2010-06-15T09:48:00.000-07:00

High waves on the sea :)

Flooded roads :(

Refreshing smell of the earth :)

Blocked nose thanks to a seasonal cold :(

Streets that look like they had a washing down :)

Muddy slush on my shoes :(

Piping hot bhutta, chai, pakora :)

The inevitable stomach upset :(

Cool, drowsy mornings :)

Having to get out of bed for office :(

Babes with the just-out-of-shower wet-hair look :)

My wet hair standing like a porcupine's back :(

****************************************
For every silver lining reason that people seem to come up with for loving the rains, I believe I have a dark cloudy counter argument for HATING them!

Mark this day...

2010-06-07T10:08:00.000-07:00

Mark this day as the day I decided to let go of my infamous juvenile 'jokes' that appear funny only to one person (ME!) and turn to more serious topics...

Mark this day as the day I decided to stop living a ruinous, unhealthy lifestyle of booze and meat and pot-bellied glory and start dieting and exercising...

Mark this day as the day I decided to go from being messy and dirty to being neat and organized...

Mark this day as the day I decided to stop wasting my time on stupid TV shows and chick flicks and start reading intellectually stimulating stuff...

Mark this day as the day I decided to grow up...

Mark this day as the day... er, wait!

Let's wait for a few more years for such historic things to happen...

For now, please put your hands to your foreheads (hard!) and wail "Oh no... he survives yet another year! If there exists a God, surely this demon wouldn't have been foisted on the earth in the first place!"

But such is Life... and mine started this very day twenty seven years ago...

kiruku को हो गया साल चार!!!

2010-05-31T10:28:00.000-07:00

सुनो सुनो मेरे यार
बताऊंगा नहीं मैं बार बार
इसलिए कान खोलके सुन लो बराबर
जो मैं लाया हूँ इतनी अच्छी खुश खबर
kiruku को हो गया साल चार!!!

नहीं चाहिए हमें बंगला या car
बस भेजो अपना डेर सारा प्यार
और अगर घर आओगे मेरे भाई
तो मिलेगा एक cup गरम चाय
kiruku को हो गया साल चार!!!

जो इसे बुरा बोलेगा उसे गोली मार
और उसे पहनाओ चप्पल का हार
अपुन का funda है एक दम साफ़
हम नहीं भूलते ना ही करते माफ़
kiruku को हो गया साल चार!!!

नाम है SRK लेकिन नहीं हूँ filmstar
सच बोलूँ तो हूँ आज कल बेकार
पर चाहे जितना भी आ जाए काम
मैं लिखूंगा हर weekend को शाम
kiruku का होगा और साल चार!!!

तो दोस्तों गाओ, "तुम जियो हज़ारों साल...
और तुम पटाओ dhinchak maal
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday Kiruku!
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PS1: Woo Hoo! I can rhyme in Hindi too!

PS2: And I now know how to use transliterate in Blogger!

PS3: And I still write crap :D

The Loser...

2010-05-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

He sat there like a statue. Absolutely motionless, with his elbows on the table and chin resting on his palms. Burrowed in deep thought. Staring at the 64 squares in front of him. Calculating whatever little he could.

He dared not look up. The last time he did, he was lost in her big, brown eyes and lovely hair. And the really cute way in which her fingers kept rearranging a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. All his calculations had gone for a toss. Thank goodness, he had lost only a pawn. He was still a piece up.

Focus. Focus. You can't lose. Not to this one. Not after being a piece up.

A few silent minutes passed by. He moved his knight to the sixth rank. Now, the centre was in control. "Always control the centre", he remembered his Periappa's words.

A tentative pawn was pushed. "Draw pannikalama?", a sweet voice cooed. And a slender hand was extended. Let's end this stupid game and be friends, it seemed to say. He was tempted to give up half a point just to hold that hand once.

But he shook his head. And continued to stare at the stupid board. And put his bishop on the long diagonal.

And sat back in shock. The queen made an unexpected, valiant move forward. He felt something brush against his knee. At first, he thought his mind was playing some trick on him. But no, it was definitely a foot. It was gone, but he was shaken. The queen was getting too close for comfort. He doubled his rooks.

The queen retreated. Her attack foiled before it even started.

He wiped his brow. He was sweating profusely.

And then he saw it. Out of nowhere. A rook sacrifice leading to mate in four. The question was, "will she take the bait?". He continued staring at the board, oblivious to the fact that his clock was ticking, moving slowly towards the red flag. He wanted to be dead sure. After a few calculations, he made his move.

He dared to look up now, so cocksure was he of his calculations. He saw her big eyes bulge wider in surprise. And in one smooth motion, the hand moved, took the rook, banged the clock and was now twirling the rook triumphantly between its fingers. He could see a hint of a smile on her face. After being a piece down for a major part of the game, she seemed happy to get back on par.

"Absolute novice. Good, I didn't lose to her. Would have been difficult to forgive myself", he thought to himself.

Four moves later, her king was staring at a rook on the back rank, imprisoned by the very pawns that had formed a protective castle around him so far.

He extended his hand with the fake "well played, better luck next time" that all players there did. She ignored his hand, pinned him with a split-second sharp glance, turned and walked away. "Poetry in motion", was all he could think as he forged a girlie signature on the score sheet to take it to the arbiter as proof of his victory.

"How could you take that rook? Are you blind, you stupid girl?", he heard a sharp voice as he was about to turn a corner towards the drinking water filter outside the playing hall. He stopped, and even though he hated to eavesdrop, he listened on. "Makku, makku, ippidi velayadradhuka unna ivlo kaasu kuduthu coaching ku anupchen?", the sharp voice continued. ("Fool, I paid so much money to send you for coaching and you play like this?")

Snif, snif, he heard a familiar voice choke back tears. And before he could react, father and daughter walked around the corner, and he saw those big eyes, with long moist eyelashes, narrow at him with a hateful glare again. A split second later, they turned pitiful as more sharp words rained on.

And that day in 1996, at an obscure under-15 district chess tournament in Periyanaickenpalayam, he realized how sometimes, winning can still make you feel like an absolute loser.

Every beginning is the end of something else...

2010-05-08T05:26:00.000-07:00

She sat back with a loud sigh. Of relief. And more importantly, admiration. The house looked good. Magnificent, one might say. Of course, one shouldn't flatter oneself too much.

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

He sat back with a loud sigh. Of exhaustion. And more importantly, relief. The house looked er... ok. Not inhospitable, one might say. Of course, one shouldn't demean one's effort too much.

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

Heaven knows she had worked hard for this. From finding the right location. To running round and round in circles. And dodging multiple obstacles through it all. Completing this house had taken a lot out of her. Drained her out, so to say. But the hours and hours of effort was worth it. No doubt about it. When you really enjoy what you do, time does fly fast!

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

Hell, he knew he hadn't worked too hard for this. All it took was finding the right location. And some running around in circles. Ok, some dodging of obstacles now and then. But, completing this house had taken a lot out of him. Drained him out, so to say. And the half an hour of effort was hardly worth it. No doubt about it. When you really hate what you do, every minute seems like an hour!

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

And now she was done. She could sit back and relax. And dream of a wonderful life. A good partner. Lots of kids. Energetic little ones, she could already visualize them running around. Ah, the house was the first step, but the toughest. That accomplished, the rest would simply fall in place.

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

And he was not yet done. He couldn't sit back and relax. Boy, life is crappy. Even when you are alone. Even without any pesky kids. Hyperenergetic little imps, he could already visualize them messing around. Ah, the house was the first step, and the easiest. And even that incomplete, the rest would take forever.

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

OH MY GOD!!! She couldn't believe it!!! Not now!!! But it was too late. Her house lay in ruins, in front of her eyes. What had once been a piece of art now lay in shatters. And in the midst of all the dust and rubble around her, she breathed her last...

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

OH MY GOD!!! He couldn't believe it!!! Not ever!!! But it was too late. His house lay spic and span, in front of his eyes. What had once been in shatters now looked like...ok, not exactly a piece of art, but still... And without all the dust and rubble around him, he inhaled deeply...

... and picked up his phone, "Amma, I finally dusted the house... yeah, even I can't believe I did it... even cleared all the cobwebs"...

Cities are people too...

2010-05-02T08:38:00.000-07:00

This is one idea that has been brewing in my head for quite some time, and since it links nicely with my previous post, I thought I might as well get on with this...

My first impression of Indian cities, as I see them...

Bombay is definitely a lady. And a quite mature one. But still, one who hasn't lost her sensuality. Quite multi-faceted, she can charm you just like that. And boy, is she rich? Problem is, she knows it, and bigger problem is, she can make you feel it. As and when she chooses to. You can spend a lifetime with her and still feel she has something new to offer. And since I have spent all my adult life in Bombay, I am a little biased towards her. Ok, more than a little.

Delhi is a father figure. Knows he lords over others, knows he has power, and shows he can wield it whenever he wants to. He has extreme moods, now blowing hot and now blowing cold. His face is lined with marks, each a monument hinting at a rich history. But, he retains some vanity of his looks, which leads to him to get image makeovers every now and then, which makes part of his face look far younger than the rest. Somewhat like a grey haired man with a black beard.

Gurgaon, is Delhi's brash young son. All muscle, pumping iron to look good, gelled slick hair and tight tees. An intellectual jyana shoonyam, bereft of any culture, facing deep insecurity problems, but thinking he can take over from Daddy anytime. I have no hope he'll grow up into anything worthwhile.

Calcutta is the uncle everyone seems to have. Had a glorious past, before being upstaged by younger upstarts. Now spends his time sitting back and reminiscing about lost culture, and whining about the modern world. Has a misplaced sense of superiority, especially about all things intellectual, cultural and culinary. And is deeply passionate about sports, though he can't play them half as well as he thinks. Secretly, hates all kinds of physical activity, being unusually lazy. And doesn't mind being called lazy. Essentially, a good person to get to know and talk to, but make sure you know when to scoot off before he begins one of his tirades on... oh, well, any topic under the sun.

Chennai is a girl in her twenties. One who was brought up very conservatively, but who is now beginning to explore the world. And is increasingly testing the limits laid down by her upbringing. Thus, she practices her Bharatanatyam by day and her salsa at the disco by night. Supremely talented, highly intelligent but with extremely low self-confidence. Can't take an iota of criticism without feeling unduly hurt. And oh, speaks a language which no one can understand. Except herself. Which makes it all the more special, apparently.

Bangalore is the younger sister of Chennai. A teenager who suddenly has been pushed into the limelight, as if she won a reality show or something. Probably why she abandoned her long tresses and went bald. And who has physically grown up so fast that her dresses from yesterday no longer seem to fit. And while she secretly enjoys the attention that she gets, especially from the boys, she pretends to get all sensitive about culture and morality.

************************************************
PS1: Disclaimer: I haven't lived in any of these cities, except Bombay. So, these are essentially impressions gained from meeting people who have lived there, and fleeting glances from those 1-2 day visits. So, people who are residents of these cities may feel free to vehemently disagree. In fact, I'd be surprised if they don't.

PS2: I'd love to spend time to get to know these cities better, and would too, hopefully. Except Gurgaon. That's one place I can't stand.

Love. At what price?

2010-04-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

“Maybe I should just break up with her”

“WTF are you saying? After all these years, how can you even think of...”

“I know. I know. It is difficult, almost blasphemous. And it pains me to even think of it.”

“Then?”

“Given a choice, I’ll like to be with her all my life. Till death do us part and all that. But the fact is, she is acting too pricey”

“What do you mean, pricey?”

“I don’t know, man. When we started out, I never felt the pinch. Even though I came from a small town and thought she would be too posh and high society for me, I never felt it. Or rather, she never made me feel that way. Frankly, I was surprised at how easily she accepted me.”

“Yeah, she has this tendency to make people comfortable pretty quickly”

“Besides, I was surprised at how quickly I accepted her. I forgot my old crush within a matter of months!”

“Yeah, I know about M. Pretty, but a bit laid back. I personally felt she was not your type. You were a bit too ambitious for her.”

“Yeah, but I still think some of my best days were spent in her lap. But then, we all grow out of our first love, don’t we?”

“Well, some don’t. And some are lucky to find everlasting love at the first attempt”

“Hmm, I thought I could find that with this one, after the failed first attempt. But, 12 years on, and I find myself in a quandary. I still love her, but I can’t afford to keep up with her demands.”

“What do you mean? Keep up with her demands? What the hell happenned?”

“Well, what can I say? As I was saying, in the good old days, I never felt that she was this demanding. I might have struggled a bit, but every bit of the way, I felt she was a part of my struggle. She was an inspiration, one who helped me forget my worries and helped me focus on to where I was headed.”

“And then?”

“And this is the strange part. When I was struggling and poor, I felt she was beside me, encouraging me, providing me all I wanted without demand. And now, I am much better off, and starting to dream of a lovely future with her, and she has to go and get all posh and pricey?”

“Has she given up all her goodness and changed for the worse all of a sudden? Has she really become posh and elitist? Or have you?”

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

PS1: “She” refers to Bombay. The city I grew to love, in spite of initially thinking I never would.

PS2: Inspired by the ever spiraling real estate prices. 80+ lakhs for an under construction 2BHK in goddamn Kanjurmarg?!? Who are we kidding?

PS3: I have said this before and I say this again. You may object to the objectification of women. But please don’t object to my womenification of objects. Or places.

Women are bitches!

2010-04-26T12:32:00.000-07:00

Women are bitches. Wait, why insult the bitches?

No, seriously. Can’t a guy walk down a road without being stared at, brushed upon or worse...

Just the other day, I am walking down the road, minding my own business. And first, I hear a low whistle. Then another. And before I realize, I am being followed by three absolutely loafer-type gals. It was late in the evening, and the only people around were more women. But I am a brave guy, so I turned around, took off my flat-heeled leather shoe (the only pair I have, btw) and was about to thwack one of the loafers. But thankfully, a crowd of more decently dressed women intervened and told those loafers off. Of course, some of those women stepped in only to impress me with their ‘lady-in-shining-armour’ routine, but then, what can you expect from these bitches?

I mean, c’mon, I realize I am good looking. Well-dressed of course. Smelling of success (and Set Wet Zatak!). But is that any excuse for random chicks to hit on me? Hell, don’t you have fathers and brothers at home?

And it is not just me. Ask any guy. Even the ugly ones. Yes, the same ones wearing those absolutely non-revealing loose fitting clothes to hide their paunch. And listen to their tales of woe. In fact, if I were to start a ‘full silence project’, and ask for clothes that men were wearing when they were hit upon by strange women, I am sure I would come up with a varied collection: not just speedos and bermudas and striped underwear and pink lungis with flower patterns, but even jeans (with no holes!) and formal trousers. Don’t give that excuse about the men asking for it simply by the clothes they wear! I can understand a pink flowery lungi being labelled ‘sexy’, but formal black trousers going from waist to toe! That too, with a white full-sleeved shirt!

I wish I could click a pic of every horny chick that has misbehaved in my presence and put it up on a website. If they are not staring in the general region of my crotch, they are trying to brush against my bum. Precisely why I avoid crowds as best as I can. But, being in Mumbai, how can one avoid local trains? And the darned ladies, even though they have a whole compartment to themselves, have to barge into the general compartment and abuse us? We need cops to protect us, I tell you.

And it is not just the uneducated juliets on the road. Why, even my girlfriend seems to be more focussed on getting me into bed rather than spend time talking about our future, our shared dreams, the house we will build... is sex all that you have in mind? So that you can boast about scoring with me to your gal pals while shopping for footwear?

And if one thought the parents would be more understanding, one is grossly mistaken. Why, the other day, my parents received a marriage proposal. And the girl’s mother demands that I should have a decent sized house of my own and a mid-size car before he can even consider marriage? This, from a post graduate professional working for an MNC? I told her, cattle and IPL players may be traded, not decent hard-working guys like me.

I am fed up with this female dominated world! I am organizing an underwear burning protest tomorrow. Care to join?

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

PS1: Contrary to the first incredulous question that pops up in your mind, no, I was not hit upon by women. But you already know that even blind women somehow sidestep me when I walk in front of them!

PS2: Inspired from a idea given by a newfound internet friend; and an old incident during monsoon last year when I tested chivalry by offering to sit at the corner seat of the shared auto since it was pouring, only to refused by the lady (aunty?) since she didn't want to sit between two men. I realized that women would rather get wet than sit between two guys. Though how brushing one side of your butt with a stranger is any lesser of a shame than two sides still beats me, I began to look at the other species with a lot more sympathy from then on. Which means, take this as a tongue-in-cheek article and don't flame me for being insensitive :)

PS3: The 'full silence project', for those who didn't get it, is a take on something called blanknoise. A concept which I disagree with, but kind of understand why it is there.

Accountancy in Rhyme!

2010-04-24T23:51:00.000-07:00

Remember that time you seemed like a half-wit
when you scratched your head, and had a look
at your last month's savings account pass-book
You said "wtf is with this debit and this credit,
I had an accountancy book & I wish I had read it"

It is at such moments of confusion and fear
that you sigh in relief, "ah, SRK is here"
He'll teach me "the 3 rules, written in gold,
probably by a guy who is now very very old"
And all I have to give him, is a pitcher of beer!

I say, "now then, you have surely watched p0rn?"

while munching away at salted, buttered, pop-corn...

But, if you ain't familiar with the "system of double entry"

get some nice videos from the famed 'free speech' country

yes, the same place in which Bruce Springsteen was born

So, we come to the first golden rule of accounting
which, like LKG children, we'll now chant and sing
"debit what comes in, credit what goes out"
yes, it's that simple, that's what it's all about
don't you agree that it's a really really easy thing?

so, can we now move to rule number two
this one's personal, it asks about the 'who'
It goes "debit the receiver & credit the giver"
It don't matter whether it's a kidney or a liver
ignore what is given, look at who it's given to...

we learn rule number three in just a second
it's about what you earn and what you spend
It says: "debit all expenses, credit all gains"
now, put these 3 rules firmly into your brains
and let's grab that beer and announce: "The End."

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PS1: More hectic days. More crappy rhyme.

PS2: I really need to get out of this rhyme rut and write something funny. All my puns have deserted me :(

Rhymenomics

2010-04-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

Today, we shall learn Economics
Through the medium of limericks!!!
You see, I just read Dubner and Levitt
And that’s when this silly, crazy idea hit
And I came up with this deadly mix...

So, let us get started with Rule no. 1
It’s easy, it goes “In the really long run...
... everyone, the whole lot of us, are dead!”
Now, was Keynes really serious as they said,
Or was he just cracking a marathon pun?

From Keynes, we move to Rule no. 2
It simply asks “What would you really do
if I were to offer you endless cups of hot tea?”
You’ll experience Diminishing Marginal Utility
And oh, sometimes rush to the nearest loo!

And then we have Rule no. three
“In this world, those lunches ain’t free”
For a Wage, Labourers work really hard
And the Entrepreneur gets Profit as reward
i.e. monkey want fruit, monkey climb tree!

Some say Eco is such a big bore
And they never learn up to Rule no. 4
But when you hear the term Budget Deficit
Don’t just scream, “OMG, we’re in deep shit!”
It’s just “Govt’s earning less, spending more...”

And now you are ready for Rule no. 5
Do you know how industries thrive?
They do so in the hope of a rise in price
While the Govt pretends to hear your cries
The music goes on and businesses jive!

And finally, we end with Rule no. 6
When someone tells you they do exotics
And talks of contracts for call and put option
You tell them straight what I really think, son
“Eggs ain’t hatched, and they count chicks!”
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PS1: Whenever I have a bad day, or rather like now, a couple of bad days, I come up with silly rhyme. Cheers me up :)

PS2: At the rate at which Murphy is haunting me, I might be writing limericks all year long!

The Double!!!

2010-03-13T03:20:00.000-08:00

About 3 weeks back, a guy, short by nature, but tall by stature, achieved a significant milestone. He had achieved a lot in his career, and this was one more feather in his already rather fluffy cap.

Pic Credit: Economic Times.

Now, another guy, short by nature, and er, by stature too, gets on top of a significant milestone.

Pic Credit: Shilpi

As you can see, this guy is also very happy to have conquered this milestone.

And he celebrates in his own way, since he has no bat in hand, and he couldn't wave around a laptop.

Pic Credit: It's complicated. I had the pic on my laptop, but does the rights of the pic belong the person who brought the camera in the trip, the person who clicked the pic or the guy who is featured in the pic?

As usual, when such a milestone is achieved, lots of eminent people comment on the achievement...

"It is not very easy to consistently come up with such bad writing. It is very easy to improve, based on past experience, feedback and constant practice. But to maintain the same low quality, or better, get worse than when you started out, believe me, that takes some serious talent."
- said a prominent author, whose stated intent is to be India's 'best loved' one. Though some jealous people hate him, and pass sarcastic comments on twitter, only to get blocked. Heh, serves you right, you uncool people!

"He writes about shit! I makes movies where people jump into them! Believe me, you can handle anything, but handling shit, that is something. And doing it more than once, God, that is awesome."
- said a prominent film-maker, who made a film on slum kids, and catapulted a very-average looking lady into Hollywood super-league. I always wonder whether this guy invented that law about pressure and volume of gas. His movies are full of it.

"You know the thing that I like about his writing is that he is not clichéd. It is crisp as a Tendulkar cover drive, that races to the boundary like a tracer bullet. Plus, he doesn't state the obvious. That's what I tell all upcoming commentators, avoid clichés and don't state the obvious. I think it applies to writers too"
- a commentator who I thought looked and sounded smart when he started but now you know...

"The best thing about him is he is so versatile. He can write about shit, he can write bad rhyme, he can write senti stories that actually make you laugh, he can write serious things that people get too bored of, he makes up those unbelievably bad puns and PJs. Let me tell you, from my experience as an actor, it is not so easy to be versatile. To play different characters like an Indian emperor, a college student, a hockey coach, and not look and sound the same, it takes real talent to be versatile."
- A famous actor who somehow manages to praise himself while he praises others, and who I share my initials with. And oh, he has no ego. I do.

"And he has been at it for so long. People who started after him have already hung up their boots and play sparingly at select T20 tournaments. But he is dedicated to his craft. I can tell from experience, that being a flash-in-the-pan is no big deal, but excelling at your craft long after people have written you off, that is something special"
- said a long standing actor from Bollywood, head leaning to one side, whose name I'll only translate as Lord Happy.

"It's not what you can write that matters, it's what you can right that matters, ah. Don't talk, kanna, act."
- a famous superstar from Tamil Nadu, whom I still hero-worship like mad.

"Bastard, when will you ever write something that you can read five years from now?"
- a friend, who does manage to write something touching which I hope to still make fun of five years from now.

" :) "
- another friend, who as you may realize, doesn't speak much. Except to his wife.

So, I thank all my parents, my family, all my English teachers, all my friends, the pets I never had, for encouraging me to achieve this milestone. I assure you I'll not rest on my laurels (because I'm too hardy? getit?) and will keep marching towards newer milestones.

Kthxbai!
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PS1: In case you are wondering what the fuss is all about, it's because it is my 200th post! Yayy and all that :D

PS2: Ordinary people scale peaks and go past milestones. Being ever the contrarian, I scale milestones and go past peaks. Climbing them peaks is too much effort. Especially when you have to walk.

You guys think you can get away with anything...

2010-03-11T09:09:00.000-08:00

Warning: Long story. With some pics, but still too long.

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

Imagine you are ill for a week. Very ill.

And you take a week more to recover from the after-effects like body ache, sudden headache etc. You are the end of the week, and looking forward to a 3-day weekend thanks to Holi. (Ok, in case I forgot to tell you, the story is set in the last 2 weeks).

Your boss informs you there is a trip to Himachal. Official. All expenses paid. By the client. Not a pleasure-trip, but an official visit to a hydro power plant under construction. But there would be nice scenery all around. And you can take some time off and visit some nice places. And oh, not only all-expenses paid, all logistics taken care of. Like air travel, accommodation, food, local travel in nice Scorpio. You just have to go there, pretend to know stuff, secretly ask our engineering consultant some gyaan, and then, over a nice dinner, ask some questions which sounds plausibly intelligent. Like, "why is your project behind schedule?". Questions for which the client has no answers. So, they say, "Why don't you have some more kheer?"

What do you do when he asks, "How's your health? Can you make it?"

You don't even blink. Or think. You just utter, "Of course. I have more or less recovered. And 3-day weekend coming up. I'll take full rest and be fit."

Then, in the excitement of your trip, you go shopping around for sweater, thermals, heck, even a bank-robber type monkey cap. All set. Medicines packed. Vicks Inhaler bought and forgotten at home.

Ok, we shift to first person. Because I took the trip. Not 'you'.

Day 1: Flight from Mum to Del at 6.05 am. And my Meru cab driver wakes me up at 3.45 am asking for directions to my place. In the excitement, I wake up anyways. Flight from Del to Shimla at around 10.30. Lands on a small airstrip which probably ends in a sheer drop since it is on top of a cliff. Baggage claim is no conveyor belt, but a bench where they haul your luggage and you go and pick it up. Reach the hotel by 7.30 after passing through roads where snow lay on the side! And I piss and duly 'write' my initials to announce my arrival to the hill gods. (ok, no more gross details! It'll be a clean story).

Day 2: All confidential. Let's just say I was given a lecture on "potential energy" and "kinetic energy" (the bike?) by our enthu engineer. No use. Total bouncer. But the other parts he explained, show and tell style, yeah I got them. Am not that dumb! But it rained at site, I froze and shivered in spite of my thermals, and it got all misty, and I got all misty-eyed. Since I am not a photography expert, no camera, only the one in the kala jamun that my office had thrust on me.
But the pics turned out ok. At least for me.

I loved it so much I just kept clicking...

And oh, we had started at 8.30 am and we came back by 7.30 pm. Back breaking on those unpaved stone roads, I tell you!

Day 3: Again, first half starts at 8.00 am, visit to site, see work progress, ask questions. And this day was sunny. Not a drop of rain.

And there was Satluj flowing all through the way...

Calmly, without a care in the world...

And I tried to capture a sunset. And failed.

Post sunset, we were still driving. To Kalka. (Not Kalki. Kalka!). Which we reach by 10 pm. From where we take a train to Delhi at midnight. Boring itinerary details, but I want to emphasize the amount of time spent on the road. Including the omlate and chai and pee breaks.

Ok, enough pics, back to my sob story.

Day 4 and 5: Spent at friends' place in Delhi (one of those 3 a.m. ones... or at least I hope so!). Slept and slept one whole day, only to gossip a lot in the evening, roamed a bit the next day, did a mad rush between the domestic and the international because of a confusion in the ticket (it was an incoming AI flight from Tokyo; it is a long story; maybe some other time...). All done, reached home, saw it was flooded because the overhead tank in the house had overflowed, but just swept away the water instead of mopping it properly, put fan on full blast and slept off. No stamina for paper boats.

Day 6: Back to office. Reported how a nice learning experience it was. Got back to work and drudgery. In the evening, three full days after the site visit, I get a feverish feeling. By night, I am also coughing. Badly.

And now, we come to the part of the story where we explain the title...

I go to the doc. Tell her about the fever and the cold. And, and, slowly, about the Himachal trip. Only to get a 15 minute lecture: "You people take your health for granted. And when you fall sick, you just land up here. If you had consulted me, I'd have strongly advised you not to go on the trip. Why would anyone take such a physically stressful trip just one week after an illness? You guys think you can get away with anything..."

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PS: The fever continues. So does the cold. But if anyone is planning an all expenses paid trip to some exotic location in office and I get invited because I worked on the deal, what do you think I'll do? ;)

Notes from a week of illness

2010-02-26T21:19:00.000-08:00

Warning: Slightly gross. Only slightly.

You know you are a bachelor staying alone when (aka "Notes from a week of illness"):

* You go to the doctor feeling feverish, she asks whether you can get admitted for 2 days, and the first thought that crosses your mind is "Do I have two pairs of washed undies at home?"

* Of course, the second thought that crosses your mind is "I should call my parents"

* You don't get admitted, ask the doc for some pills instead, come back home and see that you did not have two pairs of washed undies, pat yourself on the back for the amazing foresight in not getting admitted, also rap yourself on the knuckles for the lack of foresight in having clean undies, and proceed to dump a ton of clothes for the maid to wash.

* You start to worry about food. Ordering doesn't make sense because the food would be oily and spicy, the one place which makes palatable non-oily non-spicy food doesn't deliver (even when told it is a matter of life-and-death), and you are too weak to make any of your own.

* You order idlis, find they are rock solid, grumble you can make better idlis, but are too lazy to bring out that idli plate that your mom lovingly bought for you, even when you get readymade atta.

* You buy satthu mavu kanji powder mix, manage to make some puke-inducing kanji, and start trying different combos with it to make it taste a bit different - so you mix it with Real Orange juice, Amul Kool, Curd, Buttermilk; you still end up being bored of that kanji.

* You finally get fed up of all this, buy half a dozen bananas and 2-3 packets of Maggi and voila, one day's meal is taken care of.

* You start getting bored of staring at the ceiling; you can't watch TV because your eyes start to burn, you can't play games on the comp because your eyes start to burn, you can't read books because your eyes start to burn; You curse yourself for not learning to appreciate music in your life.

* You start to wonder whether getting married might not be such a terrible thing, especially if someone else can make that stupid kanji for you.

If it's February, it must be...

2010-02-12T07:53:00.000-08:00

If it's February, it must be... you guessed it, one more whiny rhyme on my spectacular lack of success on the mushy front...

I know it's not Feb 14 yet, but wise guys celebrate (or whine about) the V-day 2 days in advance so that we are done by the time the Senas come up with their lame-ass protests...

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Don’t mind people, but here we go again!!!

And no, am not talking about my weight gain

I am whining about something far, far worse

It seems I suffer from this inexplicable curse

Which makes all my sad cribbing go in vain...

Some of you may find this more than a bit shady

That I have been bitching since, what, 2008 A.D.?

You start to wonder, what’s taking him so long

And whisper, “Maybe there is something wrong”

Worry not, I’ll put your fears to rest, my dear lady...

Now, I may often sound like a naughty one

But my mom’ll exclaim “He’s a chamathu son”

So, you see, I’m not really that much of a rebel

It’s just that you got to get to know me well

And then I promise, we’ll have loads of fun!

So I am on a quest to find the mythical “true love”

Let me frankly admit, I seriously have no idea how

You see when it comes to that thing called romance

I’m the guy they look at and snigger, “Not a chance”

He wouldn’t know love if it hit him like a cow!

Mom says “you had your chance, but that was #epic fail”

Losers like you should be thrown in a singles-only jail!

Know what’s lately making me a lot more deranged?

My mom’s started making plans for an “arranged”

And, on my love life’s coffin, she’s hit the final nail...

So tall or short, thin or fat, dark or fair

I can tell you, seriously, I don’t bloody care!

All I’m asking for, is an independent mind

That’s what’s proving impossible to find

Is it just me, or are those really rare?

So, to conclude, IS THERE ANYONE OUT THERE?

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PS:

I know this is not propah poetry,

what with no metre,

but hey, I am no peter,

I make it sound like rap,

or more likely crap,

to me if it rhymes,

it is enough to commit poetical crimes!

Why am I a financier - Part II

2010-02-04T10:21:00.000-08:00

There are days when I really wonder whether I am in the right job. Days like these...

Am currently reading a not-so-long legal document. Hardly 60-odd pages. I am not that much of a speed reader, but I do average about a page-a-minute if it is a Chetan Bhagat kinda novel. But this document has taken me two whole days and a lot of hair pulling.

I don't know if I am in breach of any confidentiality provisions, but the clause I am quoting is generic enough to hopefully not land me in trouble.

Here's the original clause:

"Notices or other communication given or made under this Agreement shall be in writing and delivered or sent to the relevant Party at its address"

The revised version reads:

"Notices, demands or other communication required or permitted to be given or made under this Agreement shall be in writing and delivered personally or by registered post or by courier service or by legible telefax addressed to the intended recipient at its address"

Now I start thinking what other possible way of delivering a Notice (note the capitalized 'N' in Notice... it means it is not just any notice, it is the defined Notice!).

Then I start thinking of carrier pigeons...

Which leads me to "Kabutar Ja Ja Ja"...

Which in turn leads me to dream of Bhagyashree and drool...

And her "Himalayan Blunder"...

Which sets me off thinking about how marriage, in general, can be a Himalayan blunder, irrespective of whether your spouse is named after said hills...

Which in turn reminds me that one of my friends is getting married...

And therefore I should try to get a day off and attend it if possible...

And I will get to take a day off only if I finish my work fast...

Which brings me back to the document that I was attempting to read through in the first place...

Only for another such clause and its revision to set me off thinking another chain of random thoughts...

I am not done. Or rather, I am done for.
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PS: Earlier posts on legalese: here and here

Vadhyars perform Shashtiabdapoorthi for Indian Republic

2010-01-24T07:59:00.000-08:00

The Vengayam

By our Ordinary Correspondent

Unconfirmed reports from an unpronounceable village in Palakkad indicate that a group of Vedic priests performed Shashtiabdapoorthi for the Indian Republic. Speaking on the condition of anonymity, Nayayana Sastrigal, the chief priest explained, "Shasti means Sishty. Yesh, the same number that comes after Pipty-nayan. Apdam means year. No, not the ones you touch when you do thoppikaranam, but the calendar one. Poorthi means completion. Turning 60 is an event of great Vedic significance."

"Swa-ha", chorused the side vadhyars who had assembled behind Narayana Sastrigal, unaware that he was not chanting mantras, but giving an interview.

When queried about why they celebrated the event 2 whole days before the actual anniversary, the chief priest smirked, "According to our panchakam, today is the nakshtram for the event."

"Bharata varshe, shukla pakshe", the side vadhyars chorused again, at the mention of the word panchakam, before they were shushed with a glare from N. Sastrigal.

The event gained publicity when Shashi Tharoor sent an illegible as ever tweet, "Hrd dey prfrmd a puja for India. Puja strts wid wht sounds lyk my name!", which was immediately pounced upon by the national media and splashed across the front pages with the word "Shashi Tharoor in another twitter controversy!"

A Congress spokesperson said, "I hear they even performed abhishek on a copy of the Constitution! We will not accept such watering down of the Constitution. Only Indira-ji has the right to do that! And maybe, Sonia-ji and Rahul-ji! And oh, Shashi, this is your last warning! One more wisecrack and we'll dunk you in water"

Acclaimed Hindu statesman Saajan Red said,"The Indian (Hindu) civilization is millions of years old. The Shashtiabdapoorthi should have been performed in 3200 B.C.", thus displaying his brilliant grasp of Indian history and Vedic mathematics.

It is rumoured that the vadhyars even sent a bill for dakshinai to the PMO. The PMO spokesperson refused to confirm this, but said "This is ridiculous. How can a bunch of priests perform a whatsitsname for the country and send us the bill? And that too, in triplicate!"

"Every year they do the same thing. March past, atrocious floats, security blockade on roads and President's speech. Give us credit for trying something different! And wait till we perform Sadabhishekam in 2030!" N Sastrigal had the final word!

Why am I a financier?

2010-01-18T09:38:00.000-08:00

There are three kinds of people in this world. One, the people who know what their passion is, follow it with all their heart, and end up being mostly happy and occasionally successful. Two, the people who put away their passion, in pursuit of more practical options, and end up being mostly successful and frequently unhappy. And three, the people who have no clue what they like, accept whatever life throws at them, and end up convincing themselves that they are happy about their mediocrity.

I used to think I was in the second group, but nowadays feel I am in the third. This bit of senti thinking is triggered by a never ending week of work, where I have given up three holidays, spending long hours at office generating bullshit which I hope is 'analysis', and which is surprisingly accepted as such. Analysis, not bullshit.

Why did I take up finance? While I may have given all the right sounding answers in interviews (there has to be some reason I got hired!), the plain truth is "for lack of a better option". Ticking Finance on the b-school admission form seemed an obvious choice after a degree (and more!) in commerce.

When I look back, I see how I took a life-changing decision with a very simplistic decision making tool: the process of elimination.

I couldn't have done Operations (or Ops, as they call it). I had never seen a factory or shopfloor in my life. Machines were alien to me (ok, I knew the zipper, but then I hadn't seen the Hirani movie then!). Being closeted with a roomful of engineers wasn't very appealing. And most importantly, there were few girls in Ops. They apparently took Total Quality Control in the opposite sense. Sex stigma was their one-in-a-million mantra.Or rather, 3.4 as they would claim, but that's just more than a pi. Which, I hear, is never ending. Only after a point. Ok, my point is that there was too much Greek (and Japanese!) in this subject and not enough Latinas.

I couldn't have done Information Management (or IM). I had no Comp. Sci. background, no software industry experience. The Computer skills section of my resume read: "MS-Office". Going down that road would have meant a life of Patni (the tam word). Or rather a life without a Patni (the hindi one now!). Coding meant drawing lines. Debugging was too gross. I mean, who wants to be a pesticide all his life? Especially when you can be the pest ever in something else.

I toyed with the idea of Marketing. After all, every tom's harry dick thinks he can do marketing. Except I couldn't sell to save my life. No, seriously. You could put a gun to my head and say "My way or the Amway" and all that'll happen is I'll end up dead. With a hole in my head. And a bagful of useless products. I realized I would suck at this when my prof said "A brand is a brand is a brand!" I mean, if you have to repeat things for people, I am not the guy for it. Like I said before. The moment they started talking about a cash cow turning into a dog, I began to see stars. And question marks. Floating around my eyes. Plus, having successfully escaped a boring small town and tackling culture shock in Bombay, the last thing I wanted to do was a shout-out for Whisper in Muzaffarpur. I decided to Stayfree of that shit. But much as I mock them, I really admire the smooth talkers who can put fake shit in a sachet and call it sham-poo.

So, that left Finance. And the promise of a jet-setting life, big fat bonuses, and wheeling and dealing. Who was to realize one would end up enjoying dragging cells in MS-Excel for 'growth' models, writing meaningless sentences like "The market is volatile" (which means it can go up, or down, but we have no clue) and haggling with lawyers over whether to use "and" or "and/or" at the end of a paragraph?

But then, such is Life...

It's a dog's life.

2010-01-06T08:57:00.000-08:00

Warning: Absolutely pointless story, completely unconnected with what I want to convey.

***********************************************************************
They met at the park. Like they did every evening. They happily wagged their tails at each other, since the park was mutually agreed as 'common ground'. No territorial fights here. Every one of them could raise his/her leg and leave his/her mark wherever he/she wanted.

There were all kinds of them. Big, nasty looking ones, the kind that made kids cry and adults step aside to let them pass. Tiny, furry ones that made all the girls go "soooo cuuuuute". And the ones who were so utterly unremarkable that they were barely noticed and often shooed away. He was in the third category. And acutely aware of his ordinariness.

They were all walked by their owners. Or at least the owners thought so. He liked his owner. The big guy was never harsh on him. He had heard horror stories of owners mis-treating (or is it ill-treating?) their pets. While he may not have got those delicious looking bone-shaped treats or the pampering in a specially cushioned kennel, he was reasonably well taken care of. Meals at the right time, clean water, a walk in the park now and then with the owner trailing behind. His owner was confident enough to even let him run ahead freely from time to time, letting go of the rope around his neck. After all, he was obedient, sitting when told to, and rolling over when ordered to.

And it was in one of those walks that he saw it. A beautiful looking chain around his friend's neck, shimmering like it was made of gold. And he looked at his own and saw it was one of those boring old leather ones, frayed at its ends. And he thought to himself, "How wonderful it would be to have one of that!" Hell, even the snooty bitches that walked in the park with their noses held up in the air would be impressed. After all, bitches and bling went paw in paw.

As if reading his mind, his other much older friend trotting alongside barked, "stop dreaming, you idiot! No matter how shiny it looks, remember, at the end of the day, it is a leash. One that keeps you bound to your place."

"But, but... even you and I are on a leash. And while we are destined to be tied up, we might as well be tied to a fancy chain," he argued. His friend paused, drew in his breath deep and said in a calm, low growl, "All I can say is, it is much easier to break away from your tattered leash, if you have to someday. And the sooner you realize that, the better off you will be."

But he was young and reckless and this talk of breaking away seemed all old-fashioned. "Poor thing, he has grown so disgruntled in life that he cannot even relish the good things in life", he thought to himself.

And then one day, the unrealizable dream came true. Because, his owner, apparently in a bout of 'I-am-no-cheapskate' thinking, got him one of those fancy chains. Shimmering black metal, all new and shiny, cold to the touch.

His happiness knew no bounds. Not for long though. Because unlike his happiness, his neck soon came to know only the bound chain. And by extension (or rather the lack of one), he could no longer show off his leaps. Or his bounds (not even the one around his neck).

Ok, enough of puns on bounds. Else, everyone is bound to bash me up. End of stupid story.
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PS1: This post is triggered by my employer giving me this. The bloody thing's pouch costs almost as much as my earlier phone.

PS2: No, I am not showing off. That I will, once I figure out how to operate the damn thing, especially its 'so sensitive it's gotta be a girl' touchpad. But the day I learn to do fancy stuff, especially how to put the irritating signature line 'Sent from my wireless handheld Blackberry" at the end of every mail, that will be the day man conquered technology!

Spammer sues 3 idiots producers for ripping off his joke

2010-01-01T22:34:00.000-08:00

The Vengayam,
January 2, 2010

While 3 Idiots has gone on to create box office records, the makers of the film have been rocked with a 'idiotic' controversy.

A person, known only by his internet pseudonym 'Joe Spammer', has accused the makers of blatantly plagiarizing his joke on the 'NASA pen, Soviet pencil'. Speaking exclusively to the Vengayam's special correspondent, Mr.Spammer claimed he was the first person to have made up this myth and forwarded it to his friends.

"I was verbally assured by the producers that they would give me a still credit at the beginning of the film. However, when I took my mom to see the movie, she couldn't find my name in the credits. She cried a lot and as every maa ka ladla knows, no grown man can take his mom's tears lightly," Mr. Spammer thundered. "We even waited for the rolling credits at the end of the film, even while people were stepping all over our toes on their way out. We did not move even when the cleaning boys swept up all the over-priced popcorn over our feet. And the usher was shining his stupid flashlight at our faces. And we get this! Not even a rolling credit!!!"

When asked for his comments, Aamir Khan said, "I met Spammer a month before the movie. I told him I have not read the joke since I don't check my own mails. He said it is alright, since he believed that the joke used in the movie was only loosely based on his joke. I don't know why he is reacting this way now. We should drag him to court for initiating this stupid mail forward in the first place."

Meanwhile, in Noida, Mr. Chopra, the head of the ironically named Copyright Holder Of Plagiarism and Ripoff Activities (CHOPRA) Productions, caused a controversy when he allegedly asked a reporter to shut up at a press conference. When a journalist asked him for his reactions to Mr.Spammer's allegations, he thundered, "Have you read his mail forward? I have read his joke, so just shut up." He also alleged that Mr. Spammer was just looking for publicity since people had stopped clicking on his mail forwards and were instead favouring some Nigerians.

Reacting to comments that he is allegedly doing a publicity stunt, a visibly upset Mr. Spammer said, "I am not looking for publicity, millions have read my joke in their e-mail already. Countless self-improvement book authors have picked up on it. I am already famous, but think of the poor anonymous New Zealand ad copy writer whose joke they filched." Mr.Spammer also achieved the never performed before task for linking to a you-tube video while speaking.

Unconfirmed reports suggest that Mr.Spammer has been approached by Natraj Pencils for an endorsement campaign. However, Mr.Spammer said he was not interested in winning races, and would happily join Kaballah and dedicate his life to Madonna.
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PS1: You should've read Chetan's post to understand the theme and especially the last para.

PS2: If by some mysterious internet link back, Mr. Bhagat reads this, please note that this is meant to be harmless humour, even though if it may not be funny. No offence intended.

PS3: Since I do not believe in plagiarism (unless I am buying pirated CDs of godawful films), let me list out the credits... this post is inspired by Son of Bosey style of writing. I wish I could write half as well though. And this awesome site where I picked most of the links for this post.

PS4: The pencil joke is really a myth. Says here.

Idiotic! Triple Idiotic!!!

2009-12-29T10:38:00.000-08:00

Long time readers of the blog know that we usually don't do movie reviews. For reasons elaborated earlier.

Of course, we have been tempted to break our own rules, as and when we found them convenient. Like here. and here. What use is a rule, if it can't be broken, eh? Especially, when the movie encourages us to play by a different set of rules...

So, here we go... of course, with the mandatory *SPOILER ALERT* warnings, though we suspect that everyone has already watched this movie and is singing its praises on twitter and facebook...

So, here we go...

They show a guy feigning a medical condition to get off a plane. Another guy running out without his pants on (Aside: what's with the pant-dropping fetish throughout the movie anyways?). Apparently, because they are soooo excited at the prospect of meeting their long lost friend. We keep quiet at the sheer impracticality of it all, accepting humbly that we have come to watch a light comedy, and we shouldn't be nit-picking on logic anyways.

A glimpse of a favourite Hirani stereotype is introduced. The muggu-geek who HAS to have a South Indian name. While Swami of the "what is the procedure to change your room?" fame was funny the first time around, this repetition begins to grate on your nerves. Aren't there other muggu communities to pick on? But, leaving regional chauvinism aside (not to speak of personal pride: I have had enough people pulling my leg calling me Swami post Munnabhai... now they might start calling me Chatur... or worse, Silencer!), a huge kudos to Omi Vaidya who played this role, to still make it watchable. To me, he was the best actor on show (with Aamir running a close second). And for him alone, we keep quiet again.

Suddenly, the 'comedy' switches to some nauseating visuals of paunchy men in their underwear. Apparently, it is necessary for the movie to be realistic to show pot-bellied men since collegians are not the fittest of people around. It is ok to have 40-plus guys playing collegians though. Since we are big hypocrites ourselves (like we promise not to do movie reviews and proceed to do just that), we keep quiet.

There is a stereotype principal with his cuckoo-talk of ruthless competition. Which he proceeds to demonstrate by breaking an egg! (I half expected some Peta beauties to land up there all naked!). Somehow, for reasons I find hard to explain, I absolutely adored the 'Dean' of Munnabhai and really hated this 'Virus' character. Since we can't say why, we keep quiet. And laugh like the Dean did.

And then we go to the supposedly funny gags. Filched from internet mail forwards of all places. Yeah, I have never heard of the 'why didn't they use pencils in space?' before. Or the 'do you know who I am?' no?-so-I-smartly-thrust-exam-paper-into-the-bunch one. Or the 'squeeze toothpaste back into the tube' line. Or even the burkha-clad ladies posing for a pic. This from a guy who gave us the amazing Circuit. Sob. Sob. We are too nostalgic on Munnabhai and Circuit to say anything here.

Suddenly, we go into the sermonizing mode. About the rote-driven education system, about pressure induced student suicides, about price-tag 'watch'ing pseudo dudes, about making your dreams 'click' and not getting 'engineered' by parental pressure, about the importance of making fun of paralytic fathers and poor moms. Oops, scratch the last one. That was apparently meant to be a gag and not a sermon. And we decided, may be we should speak up a bit.

But wait, this was apparently supposed to follow Chetan dude's novel. So, throw in the romance with the princi's daughter, the breaking into his house to talk to his daughter, the daughter giving the keys to his office, the question paper stealing, the jumping from the window and hospitalization etc etc. Since they did not show the sex scene with the princi's daughter, which Chetan had dutifully outlined, we started to howl in protest.

And then all hell broke loose. A pregnancy over webcam (to showcase Airtel broadband?), a irritatingly inane slogan which even induced newly stillborn babies to kick out (in disgust?), a totally Bollywood-ish shaadi-se-bhagaake-jaana scene (what? no guys in jeeps following the runaway bride? note to Kamal: when you remake this in Tamil with Prakash Raj as the girl's dad, please ensure that some guys with handlebar moustaches give the car a good Kollywood chase...) and we were already pulling my hair apart. We decided to strongly diss the movie after the 'Aal is well' pregnancy.

Surprise, Surprise, Aamir Rancho is unpronounceable-name wala scientist. Whoa, that's a kahani mein twist that I never saw it coming. Abbas-Mustan would be proud of you, Hirani Sir. And thus, we end...

Oh no, wait... the movie isn't over till the geek drops his pants. And till, Kareena does the one thing for which she was really cast in this movie... Smoooooooooooch...

As Shakespeare once said, "Aal is well that end's well"
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PS1: I did like some bits. Like the chamatkar-balatkar speech. And the breath-taking shots of Ladakh.

PS2: My super boss loved this movie. So, officially, I give it 5 out of 5.

The Secret of Happiness...

2009-12-24T23:15:00.000-08:00

"Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year!"

*Chuckle chuckle*

"Huh, who's that?"

"Some call me God, dear boy"

"Yeah right. And I am the sexiest man alive."

"You do think highly of your sarcasm, don't you, my son? Pity it's not all that good though..."

"ok, ok, no more sar-caustic comments from me. But seriously, who are you?"

"I told you. I am God"

"Hey, didn't we just agree on a 'no-sarcasm' pact?"

"You may choose not to believe. I don't have to prove myself anyway."

"Ok, whoever you are. What's with the chuckling?"

"Oh that! 'Coz of the Happy New Year greeting"

"Why? What's wrong with wishing someone a Happy New Year? What else do you do? Wish 'em a Miserable New Year?"

"So much for the no-sarcasm pact. Anyways, I was just chuckling at the marvelous stupidity of you humans to always wish for a happier future. In spite of knowing that you might end up being as miserable tomorrow as you have ever been."

"Hey, that's called Hope! That thing that is supposed to keep us going in the face of all the hurdles that you throw at us!"

"Hell, I know what it is called. I'm not called Omniscient for no reason. I'm just chuckling at your foolishness. Where has your hope led you anyway? You were born a loser. You are still one and chances are, you might remain one forever."

"Hey, I have a gold medal in academics. And I was awarded the 'Best Student' in my undergrad college!"

"Precisely what makes you a loser, in my opinion..."

"Er... can we also have a no-inconvenient-truths pact?"

"You can have any number of pacts. They'll be as useful as Kyoto was to the world's climate."

"Also, a no-stating-the-obvious pact. After all, we are not Arun Lal."

"Don't ever do that again! Compare me to Arun Lal!!! I'll ensure you rot in hell for eternity!"

"Ok, my bad. Coming back to the topic. If I can't be hopeful of a better future, I won't work towards one anyways. And if I don't work towards one, I'll end up with a bleak future! So, aren't you like, trying to trap me in a self-fulfilling vicious circle?"

"Tip for the day: Re-read the awesome discourse I gave to Arjuna on the battlefield. You ought to do your work regardless of the result. Not just in the hope that it'll lead to a better future."

"Er... I am a banker. I don't do work if I don't see a possibility of a big, fat bonus at the end of the year. If you want selfless workers, go talk to some teachers."

"You see, that's the problem with you guys. You are overtly greedy. You don't work because you love what you are doing. You work for more money, or rather for the 'more money = better life" hope. To me, that's like living on perennial dope."

"Your lecture is more than my little brain can cope. See, I can rhyme too!"

"Shut up and pay attention. I am telling you the secret of happiness!"

"Which is? To live life bereft of all hope? Sounds like a really ecstatic life to me..."

"No, you effing idiot. The secret of happiness is to be ambitious and contented at the same time."

"Whoa! Now you are sounding like one of those inane positive thinking books. The secret to winning is to never quit, but also to know when to walk away from a losing deal. The secret of success is to be yourself and not pretend to be something you are not, but to also emulate role models and imbibe their qualities. Be assertive, not aggressive. Help other people, but know when to say 'No'. Stick to your principles, but have an open mind. And my personal favourite: the secret to a happy relationship is to screw your girlfriend but not impregnate her!"

"Whoa, that was some rant. But I stick by what I am saying."

"Ok, let me process it a bit slowly. The... secret... of... happiness... is... to... be... ambitious... and... contented... at... the... same... time. Still doesn't make sense."

"Ok, let me give an analogy. Imagine you are walking along the road. It's a nice, tree-lined path. You are enjoying the scenic beauty all around. You are... contented. But that doesn't mean you just stop at the same place. You'll get bored soon. So, you walk, at your own pace, because you choose to walk. Not to keep up with your fellow pedestrians. And keep walking. You might end up at an even more scenic place. Or you might end up near an overflowing dustbin. It doesn't matter. The walk is what is important. And that's the 'ambitious' part, your choice to walk... of course, you should have the ability to look at the dustbin and still feel contented..."

"Ok, that just ended up confusing me even more than I was..."

"That was the idea, my son..."

*poof*

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PS1: New Year Resolution for this year is to 'be happy'.

PS2: On a totally different note, long periods of inactivity on the blog can be partly blamed on being timed out at work, it can't be denied that sometimes I feel I have run out of ideas. And that's why I am caught writing stupid posts on philosophy. And of course, on past crushes.who bowled me over. And if you ask me whether spending too much time on cricinfo has anything to do with it, I'd be stumped for an answer. Dismissed.

2009-12-20T07:26:00.000-08:00

"What are we all working for?", he asked, "At the end of it all, what are you working for? A bigger house, a bigger car, a more comfortable life? Where does it all end?"

It was 8.15 pm. End of a tiring day of to and fro with the client, checking things off on a long list of 'things we don't agree upon as yet'. And yet, somehow ending up with a list longer than we started with. Such is the nature of due diligence, we tell ourselves. And then, their Group CFO enters. The man who seems to be able to, with a mere nod of his head, tick off items that we had argued over for hours.

And just when I was getting ready to leave for a dinner meeting with friends for which I was already late by an hour, he starts this lecture!!! One part of me thinks "easy for you to say, sir. You have the bigger house and the bigger car already. And the comfortable life too. And hence, you start thinking of the 'purpose of life' etc. To a guy struggling at the early part of his career, all this is only so much gas."

And I hurry off once the meeting gets over.

Except the thought stays with me. And nags me. Late into the night, when I should ideally be dreaming about Asin, all I seem to be thinking about is: "What are we all working for?"

This is not the first time. Such thoughts occur occasionally, only to be waved off by more pressing engagements. But lately, they have been occurring more frequently than I prefer. Signs of growing old I guess.

My mind refuses to sleep.

Why do people live as if they have a checklist to tick off? Degree, then fancy MBA, nice cushy job, the first car, the first house, marriage, bigger car, kid, bigger house, second kid, promotion at work, saving for the kids' education, their marriage... and before you realize it, your life has passed you by.

But at the end of the day, Maslow was right. That is the MBA part of me, always ready with a matrix or a pyramid to hang my thoughts on.

Image credit: wikipedia.

My thoughts continue to wander. To my first OB teacher, who had a nice way of explaining this pyramid. I don't know if it was original, but I still remember the story.

It went thus... (suitably exaggerated by me, of course)

Imagine you are at a bus stop, late for an appointment. An important appointment. One you cannot afford to be late for. All you need at that time is for a bus to come. No matter how crowded. Simple Basic Need.

Once the bus arrives, and you have clambered onto the last step on the foot-board, hanging by your fingertips with one leg dangling in the air, you start to think "what's the point of going there if I don't reach in one piece?" And you start to push your way in, desperately trying to avoid falling off. Safety Need.

Now you are finally in. You are no longer worried about getting hit by the truck who swerves a bit too close for comfort. And you see a friend of yours standing at the other end of the bus. She is attractive, and you have been wanting to talk to her for quite some time. You slowly start to make your way towards her. Social Need.

And inching forward through the crowd, you start to look at yourself. Adjust your shirt a bit. Tuck it in a bit more properly. Maybe even smooth out your hair. After all, you want to look nice when she sees you. Maybe you take out that fancy phone you have. A little bit of showing off is not harmful after all. Self-Esteem Need.

And then, finally you are standing next to your girl. Making small talk. And wonder of wonders, 2 people get up and you grab those seats. There you are, sitting next to a lovely girl, breeze blowing in from the window making her sweet smelling hair fly wavily, and you look behind and wonder "What are those people hanging out of the door for? Can't they wait for the next bus?" Self-Actualization.

End of story. Back to the subject we were on...

My mind wonders... "Why do I have to go through those steps? Checking them off one by one. Why can't I simply be happy hanging out of the bus? After all, I am going to reach my destination that way too."

And then the naughty part of me chips in, "It'd be nice to have a girl hanging alongside though. I can even crack the "we hung out together" PJ when I meet friends..."

And thus, like every single time I try this, what began as a serious introspection ends in silly, naughty, PJ-inducing thoughts...
*****************************************

PS1: On a slightly serious note, I hope to myself that I won't put up a pic of me posing next to my new car, or write "Moving into my new home!!! :D" on miscellaneous social networking sites... Nothing against the people who do it, but just that I don't want to...

PS2: On second thoughts, if I do buy a Merc or a Malabar Hill bungalow, I might...

The Sixteen Sutras...

2009-11-21T09:42:00.000-08:00

It was a normal, boring day. I was sitting in the cramped ICWA library, struggling with my Saxena-Vashisht and VS Datey. My exams were around the corner. I had this unexplainable pride in my ability to concentrate on the sub-sections and case laws of the most arcane tax laws and quote them in my exam papers. That I don’t even remember the basic definition of excise duty today is indicative of how ‘useful’ those sessions were. But I digress.

That day, my Arjuna-like concentration was disturbed. It was not my fault. Any guy would have been distracted. She was that beautiful. She caught me staring at her. Or at least I thought she did. I quickly looked away. Back to Mr. Datey’s explanation on applicability of excise duty. CENVAT and MODVAT to be done after this. “Concentrate, concentrate, you need to crack this” I told myself. Or rather, the inner voice angel did.

And then, despite myself, I looked up again. Into big black beautiful eyes. Sitting across the table. “Of all the 3 seats available, she had to sit here?” the angel asked. “Maybe, this is your lucky day!” suggested the devil (in case you hadn’t read this, I have these conflicting voices going on in my head, most of the time, but especially in situations like this). “Concentrate, concentrate!” the angel repeated.

“Excise levy cannot be imposed on imported goods or goods manufactured in Nepal. This is also true if goods are imported in SKD or CKD condition and they are only assembled in India, as no new product emerges - Walchand Nagar Industries v. CCE - 1995 (79) ELT 485 (CEGAT - 3 member bench order)”, my eyes were merely glossing over the words, nothing registering in my mind.

“You should at least say hi. Make small talk. What’s a few minutes when you have hours of studying this crap to do?” the devil was a convincing salesman. “Yeah, ask her if she has read CENVAT rules” the angel was no less convincing when it came to reading up on Excise duty. “Duh, CENVAT rules! Can’t you think of anything better?” the devil sniggered.

I needed to stop this cacophony of voices inside. I got up, went to the water filter, wiped the film of dust off the inner side of the tumbler, and slowly filled it up. All the while, my eyes never left her. “Pervert!” the angel barked. Glug, glug, glug, refill, glug, glug, glug. “Ok, we say hi, if she responds, we take it forward, else we go back to the book”, the devil made a pact. Apparently, he is an experienced hand at that.

I walked back. Breathe in. Deep. Deeper. Ok, here we go.

I open my mouth. Nothing. Not the first time it has happenned. Won’t be the last time too. The tongue freezes. The brain decides to go along. Damn. Never mind, get back to the book.

And while taking that 'one last glance', I noticed something that hadn’t caught my eye till then (not surprising, considering that there was tough competition around as far as catching the eye went). A book with a bright reddish-pink cover, with “Vedic Mathematics” written in bold on it. “Ooh, a figure with a thing for figures!” the devil could hardly contain himself. “Hmm, sounds interesting. Check it out at the Fountain book sellers” said the angel. “Vedic Mathematics? What for? To calculate how many cow dung cakes to put in the homams that you don’t do?” the devil retorted, with his usual display of bad sarcasm.

But, check it out I did. Bought it too. For a hundred precious bucks. All the money I had in my pocket. Skipped lunch, went home and devoured the book instead.

Went back to the library every day of the week. She was nowhere to be seen. At least I was making good progress with Mr. Datey. However queer that sounds.

And then she turned up one day. The book was still in her hands. “This is your best chance. Make some remark about the book. Much better than those CENVAT rules anyday” the devil pushed.

“Hi, er, interesting book that, nahi?” I was surprised that I managed to say something coherent.

“This? I don’t know. My brother was preparing for CAT. He said he wanted it, so I picked it up for him. Personally, I hate Maths”, she said.

“Hate this stupid costing as well. I am here, only because my father forced me to take up this course. Said I am wasting my time doing only B.Com and loafing around. I am going to flunk this exam just to get back at him!” she continued.

Before I could say something appropriately sympathetic, a guy in a flashy tee with a picture of a fist-and-one-strategic-finger-raised appeared... “hey babes, wanna go for some coffee?”

And off they went, hand in hand, looking very much in love.

Sigh. Breathe in. Deep. Deeper.

And back to Mr. Datey.

And, to surprising fourth standard kids in family get-togethers with my ability to say “74 square? Hmm... 5476” in less than a minute. I stopped doing that only when even they started give me the “eww, the geek” look.

Bad Pun Alert!

2009-11-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

*******************
Example of a good pun:

"The ‘fakhta Marathi’ directive could end up doing just that..."

from one of my favourite columnists...

*******************
Example of a bad pun:

Q: Why does the Gujju get all orgasmic when Sachin's at the crease?
A: Coz of the master batting...

*******************
PS1: Apologies to any Gujju bhai/ben who might feel like taking offence... please don't crash the stock market in anger.

PS2: Extremely busy days at work... but there's always time for a bad pun

In all humility...

2009-11-14T05:08:00.000-08:00

What is it about us that we, as a society, give inordinate pride of place to the virtue of modesty?

Why is it that we teach our kids to be humble, and not go to town tom-tomming their achievements?

Would we have admired and applauded Sachin the "master-blaster" if he had acted like say, Sreesanth, on the field? Ceteris paribus, if the only thing Sachin did not have was his trademark modesty, his ability to be superhuman but not appear as one, would we still have oohed and aahed at his copybook straight drives and punched off-drives? Or would we have gone "oh, what does he think of himself?" and dusted him off in our perpetual search for a more modest hero? In short, would we have been as proud of him if he had been overtly proud of himself?

Is it a coincidence that some of our most-beloved heroes, from Mahatma Gandhi to Narayanamurthy to Sachin Tendulkar, have been seen to be very modest in spite of achieving all that they did? Or is it, that we as a society, love to remember and highlight the success of people who don't proclaim it themselves? In the process, probably, glossing over some equally talented people who happen to score a little lower on the modesty-meter?

Is it because of our own insecurities? That we feel bad because we cannot achieve as much, and if someone says so in our face, we would feel worse. And hence, we all gravitate towards those who do a lot, but don't speak about it as much, just so that we no-hopes may feel a bit better.

Is it because of our need for hope? If our heroes appear to us as super human, may be we would just shake our head at our own inadequacies and admire them. But if they have super human abilities but appear humble, appear like "one of us", we all get to renew our hope and think "hey, maybe I can do something too. After all, he has done so much and he looks like one of us..."

To put it more crudely, is it because we want to feel like better people than we are that we demand our heroes to act like lesser people than they actually are?

Don't get me wrong, I am not saying humility is a bad thing. If I have kids someday, I'd teach them the same too. But sometimes, I cannot help wondering if it is a tad overrated. This "aww-look-he-is-so-great-yet-so-modest" fetish that we all seem to have.

I can't help but wonder, if in our collective subconscious, we reject people who may have oodles of talent, but somehow come packaged with oodles of self-pride as well.

I can't help but wonder, if there has been actually another kid as talented as Sachin, but who got the short shrift since he went about proclaiming at age 15 that he will be the greatest batsman of his times... and some selector decided to "put the boy in his place" by making sure he never got the chance to do something...

I can't help but wonder, if as a society, are guilty of placing so much emphasis on modesty that we are blinded to everything else... or even whether we should even feel guilty about it at all...

after all, what is a hero that doesn't give us hope...

**************************************************************
Disclaimer: I am an out and out Sachin fan... for a long time in my life, I used to select my friends on the basis of whether they liked Sachin or not... while I am not as vehement as before, I still find it difficult to get along with people who question Sachin's abilities, temperament, committment etc., So the above post need not be interpreted as questioning Sachin's virtues...

PS1: I wanted to write a 'dedication post' for his twenty years of international cricket, but found that whatever I wanted to say has already been said, and much better at that, by many people. So all I can say is, thanks for all the wonderful memories...

Remember, Remember, the fifth of November...

2009-11-05T10:24:00.000-08:00

How long will we stick to the Brit version, cute bald actresses notwithstanding...

So we came up with some suited to our own country...
******************************************

Congress version:

remember, remember, the last of october

when our Great Iron Lady was shot

The surds wanted a state and went to war

but our lady gave them Operation Bluestar

so now we put ads to ensure it is not forgot...

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

BJP version:

remember, remember, the sixth of december

when our Loh Purush got on a rath

he wanted a mandir for Shri Ram

and so we declared it our only kaam

and on a mosque, we inflicted our wrath...

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

AIADMK version:

remember, remember, the 24th of december
when our puratchi thalaivar's kidney failed
we went crazy, burning, rioting and looting
the police couldn't control us with their shooting
and finally, Puratchi Thalaivi Amma was hailed

************************************************
I would love to come up with more, but I have some serious work deadlines to adhere to... so no time to spare :(

Priceless

2009-10-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

You know those stupid face-book quizzes that everybody seems to be clicking on these days? I never do them. Because the one or two I did in the initial "I-am-so-excited-to-be-on-facebook" stage gave out patently false results. As expected. One even suggested that I'll die from a shoot-out in a gang war. Yeah right!

I have usually been skeptical of such links. The ones which says "You are 51% female" even when your blog url does not read "http://ardhnareeswara.blogspot.com", or the ones which say "This blog can be understood by a school dropout" etc etc...

So, imagine my surprise when I finally found a link through some totally random browsing that finally gave a true result!

Reminds me of the quote made by my friend: "If you set out to do nothing, and end up doing nothing, haven't you achieved 100% of what you wanted?"
************************************************************
PS1: When there is nothing happenning in one's life that is blog-worthy, can a post about the worth(lessness) of one's blog be used as a filler?

PS2: From 3 day weekends a month back to working Saturdays now... how the leisurely have fallen :(

PS3: Any investment banker out there who can tweak the terminal growth rate and the WACC to give a respectable value to this space? Like a certain power company, I promise to write 28,000 mega posts by 2015.

Exam Fever...

2009-10-25T11:45:00.001-07:00

Sunday 10.00 a.m.

“Aiyyo, I have an exam tomorrow!”

“So?”

“I don’t remember anything. I am sure to fail!”

“Oh c’mon! It can’t be that difficult!”

“You don’t understand! Ennaku mandayylaye yera maatengarathu!” (“I just can’t get this into my head!”)

“It’s ok. Show me your notebook, I’ll help you.”

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

Sunday 12.00 noon

“Aiyyo, it’s all so confusing! Why did I join this stupid course? I am not going to use any of this ever in my life!”

“Not everything you learn has to be used in your life. Besides, this is going to be useful, you just don’t realize it.”

“Poda! I don’t want to write this exam. I don’t want to pass this course. I just hope everybody will leave me alone.”

“Stop putting nadigar thilagam style drama! Why are you getting so worked up over such a silly exam?”

“Precisely my point! It is a silly exam! And I will end up failing in that too!”

“Listen, your performance in this exam does not in anyway reflect the kind of person you are. You are the best, irrespective of whether you pass this stupid test or not.”

“Kadavule, pazhani aandava, enna indha kodumai lerenthu kaapaathu appa!” (“Oh God! Lord of Palani, please save me from all this misery!”)

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

Monday 9.30 a.m.

“Did anybody see my pen? Where is my pen?”

“It’ll be where you put it after writing your notes last night!”

“I can’t seem to find it. Don’t just stand around passing wise comments, help me search for it!”

“Inniki exam nu theriyum illa? Nethikke pena ellam eduthu vechurkalam illa?” (“You knew today’s your exam. You should have kept everything ready yesterday itself!”)

“Aiyyo, onakku vellayaata irukka? Unna, vandhu pesikiren! Ippo, just help me find it!”

(“All this is a joke to you? I’ll get back at you once I get back.”) [Sorry, couldn’t resist the translation pj]

“Ok, ok...”

“Hiyya! Kedachuduthu! Poitu varen.” (“Aha, got it! Ok, I’m leaving”)

“All the best. Bhayapadaama paathu ketu ezhudungo, Amma.” (“All the best. Don’t get nervous, and write carefully, Mom.”)

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

PS1: When I suggested to my mom to enroll in a computer course, I never imagined that it would lead to so much drama in the family!

PS2: I never thought I’d use “my Amma” and “cute” in the same sentence. But this episode was just that! Too cute! And yeah, role reversal is much fun!

PS3: The "exam la paathu ketu ezhudhu" is literally the most misleading advice one can give to youngsters. And yet, I have seen (and heard!) most relatives using this. Of course, yours truly was really honest in exams!!!

PS4: Back from the home trip which included the mandatory social visits to ageing relatives. Why don't they ever realize that “when are you settling down?” is the most unsettling question one can ask a 26 year old?

Lakshmi, Goddess of Wealth...

2009-10-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

Unlike me, my mom is not someone who is obsessed with money. She even violates the founding principles of economics which starts with "human wants are unlimited". She always seems content with whatever she has, and shuns most comforts that I crave for.

May be it has got something to do with growing up in a large, not so well off family. Where one learnt to put off costly luxuries since there wasn't enough to fulfill the necessities.

I am amazed at how detached she can be when it comes to material comforts. And yet...

"Keep the house clean, or Lakshmi will run away."

Not "it is so messy", or "you'll fall sick with all the dust", but "Lakshmi will run away".

"Light a lamp at sunset, to welcome Lakshmi."

Not "to keep darkness away", not "to help us see better", but "to welcome Lakshmi".

"Keep the front door open at dusk, or Lakshmi will go away."

So what if the only things that come in are blood sucking mosquitoes. And a small rat at times.

She also has a velakku shlokam routine while lighting the lamp, which starts with "Velakke thiru velakke..." something something, and the single stand-out line I remember in that goes "pasu maadu thaarum amma, potti neraiya bhushanangal thaarum amma..." I remember chuckling at that and asking her if she really wanted a cow and a boxful of treasure, only to be shushed at with a rebuke, "Don't make fun of Lakshmi. She'll desert you."

And it is not just my mom. I have seen it across Tambrahm households. Most of them express an inexplicable distaste for hankering after money and material comforts, preferring (pretending?) to be interested in spiritual pursuits.

And yet, the obsession with wealth (or at least its Goddess!) is to be seen to be believed. Half the time, the curses will be "Moodevi!" (the other half being shaniyan!), and half the threats for not following some ritual will go "Daridram pidikkum" (Poverty (or misery?) will haunt you!). Why not "paithiyum pidikkum" (given that I am more afraid of going mad than going bankrupt!), or even "jaladosham pidikkum" (since I sneeze all the time as it is!)? One can only speculate that losing your wealth was considered infinitely more scary than losing your marbles!

In private, they sneer at the business class. And yet, go to work for them, remaining loyal workers for life. Risk-taking is an anathema, the stock market is a gambling den, and the constant message every child gets is "study well, find a nice job and settle down." "And invest your money in post office monthly income schemes," they might as well add.

Money is not a tool to be used for purchasing comforts in life. Money is a whimsical goddess who'll desert you if you don't adhere to certain arcane diktats.

So, I grew up hearing both "Don't run after money!" and "Worship the Goddess of Wealth and don't incur her wrath!"

And the tragedy is that since she is my mom, I know she hasn't taken a hypocrites oath and genuinely believes in those two opposing value systems!

on that note, Happy Lakshmi Puja! and Happy Deepavali too!

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

PS: Going home for a week! Let's rephrase that: "GOING HOME FOR A WEEK!" :D :D :D Limited access to the net, and a good time to check whether I am truly addicted to this blog!

Of working weekends, loan signings, unplanned trips and more...

2009-10-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

This is going to be a personal post (and extremely long). If you came here expecting PJs, and are not in the least interested in knowing what an exciting social life I lead, please brace yourself for some disappointment.

Since we wrote that epic limerick in anticipation of a long weekend, Murphy decided to show up and remind us of the old line, "If you want God to laugh, tell him your plans". So what if we don't actually believe in God. Or tell really godawesome PJs that would make even an imaginary God forget to laugh. May we remind you that we refer to ourselves in the plural whenever we are happy. Also, when we try to imitate Bihari Hindi. Hum bas ee bolna chahat hai tau ki hum bahut kush hai. I know I got it wrong, but whatever!

So, the long weekend was spent in office. Struggling with a huge loan document. With a cold pizza to ensure that we don't drop dead due to starvation. But we just attended our first multi-million dollar loan documentation, and boy, are we boasting about that ever since?

Anyways, once we were done and dusted with the official work, and all the lawyers were happy, we asked boss for a day off to make a trip to Kutta (South Coorg) with our friends from Bangalore (Bengaluru?) over the next long weekend. Yes, thanks to the same holiday given to us because of the great man's birthday. The same person whose smiling photograph on green coloured crisp paper makes girls go weak in the knees. We love him so much we keep multiple pics of the man in our wallet. No girl has gone down on one knee for us yet, but then girls are not so lame. But we are still hopeful...

We are lucky to have some really enthu friends who arranged for a vehicle and acco and off we went. To a beautiful unplanned holiday that got us thinking why aren't we taking more such trips?

Now, we were in half the mind to do a travelogue kinda post, with nice pics and detailed write-ups on what to do and where to go and other boring useful stuff. But, we figured that there are nice forums which do that anyways. So, we just put together a collection of random pics. If only to remind us that we need to take off on impulse trips more often.

Apparently, the drive from Bengaluru to this place is nice and scenic. Of course, we wouldn't know anything about that. Because, we subscribe to the policy of sleeping through the journey so that we can remain awake once we reach the place. The fact that we can snugly fit into the backseat of the Qualis is but a minor incentive.

Yes. We have a tendency to sleep in any moving vehicle. Cars. Buses. Trains. Planes. Even when riding pillion on a motorcycle, as our friend never stops reminding us.

Of course, we did wake up when our friends spotted spotted deer. And we came up with a PJ: "Why are there so many deer?"... "B'coz deer are horny!". Our friends who were trying to convince us to stay awake were now regretting their decision. "Thoongara singatha thatti ezhupeeta" as Thalaivar used to say. And we would be polite enough not to repeat the "Spotted deer is not a verb" PJ that we used in this post.

Of course, things got slightly more exciting when we spotted our favourite animal.

We really love elephants. Behenji notwithstanding, we think they are too cool. They can be majestic, they can be cute, they can be frightening, and best of all, they have big pot bellies. Just like us.

Unfortunately, that was about the only wild life we spotted. Though we had heard that the Nagarahole forest range has lots of wild animals. Like tigers (well, no Gujju family this time, but still the striped one stubbornly refused to show up. Makes us wonder whether we were the ones who scared the tiger away at Corbett). Like bisons (the only bison that was there was beneath my shirt. Or was it Poompuhar? We are too decent to publicly state our brand preference!). Like wild boars (ok, no smart ass comment this time. Even we are fed up now!)

But what we did find, at the place we stayed, were spiders. Hundreds of them. We went crazy clicking them. So much so, our friends started calling us Spiderfan. (Main 'ma' ko 'fa' bolta hoon was the only kaminey-type PJ we could come up with...)

Take a minute to appreciate the world's best web designer. Next time you do ottarai at home, remember that you are destroying such beautiful creations. That's why we don't clean our house. And people think we are just being lazy.

Of course, we also spotted a lonely cow somewhere. And thankfully, no dumb Farmville players around to claim points for it!

And that concludes our pseudo-travelpost.

We are approaching the festival of loud noises, which usually makes us go all senti. Let's hope we come up with something more funny this time.

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

PS: We were desperate to put up a one-liner on Obama's Nobel Prize. Like how "any US President who doesn't declare war and kill English is eligible for the Peace prize". But this dude beat us to it. And put it better.

Ps2: Most pics clicked by friends. Who are welcome to claim copyright if they want. The spider pics clicked by me! You are free to use them, unless you make money off them. In which case, pliss to share!

DDLJ in limericks!!!

2009-09-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

Yet another extremely silly post. The prospect of another 3-day weekend, coupled with some lighter workload in office, could be the possible reason behind such continued inanity.

So, sit back, give your brains some much needed rest, and enjoy... DDLJ in limericks!!!

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

We open with a shot of the strict father,

his grim set face indicating some bother,

And even as he feeds yet another dove,

you know he's gonna oppose beti's love,

that's something even a novice can gather!

We cut to Kajol chasing a moving train,

you think all her running will be in vain,

at the last minute, SRK gives her a hand,

a scene so magical, you search for the wand,

but why couldn't he simply pull the damn chain?

Look, there's Kajol in a sexy cocktail dress,

oh my god, my eyes pop, this one's backless!

and as they cruise across breathtaking Europe

in some corner of my mind, flickers a small hope

maybe this movie won't be such a boring mess!

But no, SRK hams on with his irritating "Senorita"

while Kajol acts as if she's the next Ramayan ki Sita!

Well, she does dance after having too much to drink

but even then all that my bored mind could think

was that sin theta by cos theta equals tan theta!

Next we see the hero baring his romantic heart

claiming to have been struck by a Cupid's dart

but the lady claims that she is her father's pet

and hence she'll marry a man she's never met

and on this tearful (snif) note, they both part...

"Bye bye dear, remember, don't you lose hope"

while the problem seems more than we can cope...

"C'mon now, gimme a cute smile, don't look so sad,

I'll come to India and convince your mom 'n dad"

But no, we won't take the easy way and elope...

Thus, we cut to Punjab, the land of fields so green,

Mehendi, songs, dance, the typical wedding scene,

All seems lost, till the hero arrives on the farm,

and wins over everybody, with his famous charm,

even the cobra of the dad is now dancing to his been!

But to win his girl, our hero puts up a fist-fight,

as if to show this lover boy also has some might,

ah, what relief, they show (finally!) "The End"!

I stagger out, "Howz the movie?" asks the friend,

I quip "Kajol in a towel, quite an exquisite sight!"

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

PS: Acknowledgements:

1. The cable guy for showing some songs of DDLJ over the weekend, thus triggering my nostalgic hatred of this movie that everyone else seems to love.

2. The evil gang of autowallahs, who refused to go where I wanted, for some reason best known to them, forcing me to walk some 40 minutes. Leading to my mind running riot.

3. An old crush, in whose memory, I had written this long back...

"When life throws up challenges that you can't cope,

remember one simple thing, there's always hope!

C'mon now, smile a little, don't look so sad,

I'll find a way to convince your mom and dad

else, my darling, why don't we just elope?

Just tweaked what would have turned into an inane senti personal post into this :)

4. Friends, who shall remain unnamed unless they want to reveal themselves, who happenned to bring up 'hope' in a conversation, leading me to dig out this long-forgotten tripe. You shall share part of the blame for this stupid post.

Career Choices...

2009-09-18T08:19:00.000-07:00

We are so happy with the prospect of a three-day weekend that we couldn't help coming up with a totally random, totally silly post. And since three day weekends leave us feeling like royalty, we can't help referring to ourselves as 'we'.

Anyways, here goes...

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Q. What did Vijender Singh's mom say when he donned gloves for a career choice?

A. Arre yeh kya pagalpan hai! I'll have to knock out this nonsensical idea!

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Q. What did Abhinav Bindra's mom say when he refused to give up a rifle for a career choice?

A. Shoot, that sonofagun is really focussed!

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Q. What did Jeev Milkha's mom say when he insisted on picking up a golf club for a career choice?

A. I guess I have no choice but to putt up with it!

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Q. What did Vishy Anand's mom say when he politely asked if he can pick up a chessboard for a career choice?

A. I don't know, I'll have to check, mate.

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Q. What did Sachin Tendulkar's mom say when he picked up a cricket bat for a career choice?

A. Let's see, we'll have to bounce that idea with your dad and hope he doesn't smash it.

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Q. What did Saina Nehwal's mom say when she wanted to smash a shuttle for a career choice?

A. Well, I'm only afraid your dad might create a big racquet.

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Q. What did Leander Paes' mom say when he decided to make tennis his career choice?

A. Well, I was hoping you'd become a divorce lawyer, but I guess it is destined that you'll just go to court and break up with your best partner.

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Q. What did Narain Karthikeyan's mom say when he revved up behind a set of wheels for a career choice?

A. Go ahead son, I'll not stand in your way.

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Q. What did an average-no-name-Indian's mom say when he contemplated commerce for a career choice?

A. Aieee Saala, you have to do engineering.

And the boy meekly said "Jee Maa".

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PS: Couldn't resist that last dig at the engineers. As usual.

Extoll mystery spiel... or Sell mystery exploit...

2009-09-13T08:22:00.000-07:00

Imaginary convesation among bankers...

Banker 1 (B1): Hi buddy, long time no see, so what's your bonus?

Banker 2 (B2): Not all that great! Didn't even touch six figures!

B1: What are you saying? After all, you guys slog so hard for the damn cash!

Banker 3 (B3): Yeah, and that too at a bank accused of being land scam hogs!

B2: Your bank ain't all that great either! It is accused of being an analyst monger!

B1: Yeah, and I heard your traders moan strangely every time they lose money. And all they do is rant about money and gals.

B3: Hey, our bank got no measly grant from the government. After all, unlike your bank, we did not have an abhorrent man at the helms.

B1 (looking at his Blackberry): Anyways, got to go. Loads of work pending.

B2 & B3: Bye!

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PS1: Inspired by this news. Never knew having a name which is an anagram of the place you work for makes you CEO material.

PS2: For those who are still scratching their heads, the italicized words in each sentence anagram to a bank's name. Some repeat the same bank.

Ps3: Er... the title is also an anagram. 3 words. Result of my usual goofing at the anagram solver.

Trip to Chennai

2009-09-12T10:21:00.000-07:00

Warning: Long pointless post. Like most ones in this space.

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Since the last post, things have improved. Thankfully, Ms.Asthma wanted just a one-night stand this time around.

The week started off well. I was to catch a train to Chennai on Sep 3, and I reached VT (ok, Raj, Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus!) without any issues. In spite of the fact that it was Ganapathy (or, Ganpati as Mumbai makkal say) Visarjan. And no, I wasn't running away from the threat that I may be mistakenly drowned by drunk revellers. Though my friends like to hint at it, not too subtly.

One of my good friends (and for a very long time, the only reader of this blog who did not call himself SRK) was getting married.

And though it has been ages since I wrote this post, I wanted to see if I was still nostalgic about sleeper class. I walk in, and it looks like a ghost compartment. Yes, 72 seats, and not a single person other than me (and the voices in my head). I was slowly getting the joke that my father had made when I mentioned that I was taking the Madras (ok, MK, Chennai) Mail. "The train that stops every time a buffalo wanders within 5 metres of the tracks to let it pass.", were his exact words.

Anyways, I had a very interesting read to give me company. A 150 page report full of descriptions of once-through boiler specifications, cooling water chemical dosing pre-treatment and other engineering stuff that I attempt in vain to understand. And after failing spectacularly, start writing posts cursing the damn engineers. You see, unlike mere mortals who carry a boring novel, we nation building champions of infrastructure lug along mega power project project reports. Small sacrifices for lighting up the country.

I drowsed off by the time I was in the second para of the executive summary of the report. I wake up to the sounds of chai garam and bread aamlayte. Smell of vada pav and bhajia.The stink of the loo (I was in seat 72!). People. And more people. Three guys sitting in what was supposed to be my seat. And telling me they'll get off at next station, tension nako. Aah, good bye empty train, welcome nostalgia.

And while I struggled through civil works and mechanical design, the stations hurtled past. And I drowsed off again. Yes, the train takes a day and two nights to do the Mumbai-Chennai distance.

This time, I was woken up by the tap tap tap of a police lathi on my berth. And before I could yell "you can't arrest me for killing that cockroach on my berth", he drawled "Chennai Central" and moved on to the next berth. Phew. Why hadn't my alarm gone off? I looked at my watch. Damn Indian Railways, how can Madras Mail arrive 1/2 hour before time. My dad might say there were no buffaloes near the track.

Having been forewarned about the greedy auto rickshaw guys of Chennai who think meter is such a peter concept, I just hopped along to Park Station and caught a local train. To St. Thomas Mount. Why does Chennai have such peter names for stations? Leave the Elphinstones and Currey Roads to Bombay and have more stations with names like Pazhavanthangal. Uphold Tamizh tradition I say.

Blame it on the effect of having stayed in Bombay for 11 years now, that I expected Nanganallur to have naked chicks. OMG, I am making lame indhi payyan jokes. Shudder.

Couldn't do too much sight seeing in Chennai. Short two day visit, punctuated with visit to uncle's place, visit to cousin's place where the 1 year old niece absolutely refused to come anywhere near me (in spite of chocolate bribes), and I spent most of the time at the wedding hall.

Which brings me to the only point of this post? Where have all the pretty girls gone? I was given coffee by a azhukku veshti payyan, there were no cute faces at the entrance sprinkling rose water, all the malli-poos were on the head of old maamis... damn, even the girl who sang Mukunda Mukunda was not an Asin lookalike, but a tiny eight year old!

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PS1: The pretty girls may be missing, but the food continues to be divine. Thank God (and the caterer) for that! If I had to choose between a good girl and a good payasam, I'll go for the latter. Unless the good girl can make good payasam...

PS2: And the friend, in spite of agreeing with my Mehendi post, had two big red circles on his hands. Traitor!