Behold

True Lies.

2013-09-02T02:02:00.004-07:00

"And the truth shall set you free" read the banner as he looked obscurely through his window, and was the day's paraphernalia. Ryan was cautiously excited as he switched on the news on his swanky television set on which he watched cheap shows. For the first time in years, the newsreader wasn't faking her smile. "It's a crackling morning here in Tallahassee, and the day of the pathological truth-sayer is here. It is that day when we strip ourselves of our masquerading self and shameful lies, our stuttering decency and our ceremonious courtesies . If you're new to this town, let me tell you that today is that day of this decade when everyone is obligated to tell the truth, white or black, outrageous or trivial, written or verbal. So, brace yourselves, ladies and gentleman, in the words of a masked super hero, a storm is coming."

Ryan was relatively new to town; he was skeptical of people acquiescing to this charade. The TV lady continued "I would also like to tell our viewers that I slept with my boss to get this job and I regret it less than he does. He is 2 years older than my father." Now, he was less skeptical, but news is still showbiz after all thought Ryan. And showbiz is one place where they can lie about speaking the truth.

He had a quick shower, and as always, he timed exiting the apartment so he could bump into Ann on the 5th floor. However, if the past was any testimony, they would have a frustrating and socially awkward conversation in the elevator. Ryan though was an eternally optimist. She entered and he waved awkwardly and slowly, muttering a hey under his breath. "Hi Ryan" she whispered. He liked that she used his name. He squinted a look at her from the corner of his eye. In an abrupt aberration, she startlingly turned towards him and said "I know you've been timing yourself to bump into me. For someone with your looks to be dating me, you got to have more money or be incredibly great in bed. From the looks of it, the easier option for you would be making more money, but I don't see you working hard enough." The elevator door and his heart thumped open. He was at MIT, his ego took a beating. She added "I like your friend that drops by Fridays though." He hated his friend too. The day was just getting started.

He walked on the streets shuddering and clasping his hands together, trying to shake his previous misfortune of his mind. He walked towards Walmart when he crossed a beggar miserably holding a sign "Too lazy to work.Need your money to drink". He looked up. The big board read "Walmart-Crushing small businesses since 1964." He entered and strolled around for his routine essentials. Coke. "Drink sugar water because we've marketed it well". He moved on. Diet Coke. "Because running is too main stream." That's me, he thought. 2 litres later, the bacon collectibles were on display surrounded by neon light, with divine cloudy smoke emanating. "Have some pig, be a pig". Added to cart promptly. Ramen noodles read "Save money for beer". He added the 20 pack to his cart. It reminded him of beer. Foster's he thought. "Made in Boston. Nothing Australian about it". Heineken. "Drink it because your life is shitty". Some whiskey too, he thought. "Jack Daniels-Helping ugly people get laid". Added immediately.

He headed towards the counter, and emptied his trolley. He saw a pack of Durex condoms. "Children are evil. Ask your parents". He slipped a few in and got out. The Walmart man wished him a crappy day.

He came out stunned and dismayed. Why wasn't anyone lying ? No deceit, no flattery, no small talk. Criminals were turning themselves in, guys were telling girls they look fat, people were reading the terms and conditions before ticking it. Politicians were promising they'll do nothing for the people and babies were getting called ugly. Discombobulated, and perplexed, he began to consider the possibility that humanity, perhaps including him had lost the ability to lie. That couldn't be possible he thought, but he wanted to be unquestionably sure. Hinged onto this thought, he saw a woman walking by. Her face was positively disgusting, almost hideous, and he was going to tell her she looked sparklingly beautiful.

"Excuse me Miss. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I think you look like a... toilet brush ... one that has been used in a destitute's house whose bathroom doesn't have a flush."

The lights before his eyes went off, as her knee supersoniced to below his belt. He had lost the ability to lie, that was clear, he had also lost a few abilities below his belt.

He called office with an intention to call in sick. He instead ended up telling his boss he hated his job, him and his salary. He was meeting a date in the evening, and he chuckled at himself realizing that she'd wickedly scheduled it on this particular day. He slept through the day, and turned up 5 minutes early at the restaurant. He nervously checked his fly twice as he waited for her. He was checking his phone for updates, when he saw her come towards him. They hadn't seen each other earlier.

He approached her, slowly, but not too slowly. "Hey. You must be Liz." She nodded her head and he continued. "You look good, but not that good that you're too good for me. I can fancy you but I'm also relieved you're not very pretty. Also I'm superficial."

"Hello Ryan. No, You're way too ordinary looking for me. I am disappointed and bored already. But I don't earn much and I also have low standards so it evens out and I'm probably not too good for you." she retorted. "Shall we go inside?" They had a seat and got the menus.

He looked at the right hand sections disdainfully. "I did not realize it was so expensive. Please order the red wine and a cheap burger. You probably will just pretend like you want to pay when the cheque arrives but I'll be the one shelling out." "Yes, I'll do that. But I see that you're both ugly and poor. I think this will be our last date." she said sharply and certainly.

"I have a good sense of humour and come of well socially." said he, as if he had a made a comeback. "Ok. I can go out one more time if you make me laugh more than 7 times." she said cautiously and calculatingly. "I can make you laugh 20. I'm also very smart, and will probably be rich in a couple of years." he said, throwing his trump card.

"How rich?" she asked curiously, and the bored dull expression on her face was all but history. "Million dollars rich." he said confidently and aptly. She lifted her eyebrows and her back. "I notice you're showing more cleavage now. I will take it as a sign that you're impressed." he said. She agreed meekly. "Yes. The balance of power has shifted. You have the upper hand. I just decided that I will sleep with you after 3 dates, not too long that you lose interest, and not too short that you think I'm promiscuous and licentious."

"I've been told I don't do very well in bed" he admitted. She negotiated."After the fifth date then." "I'm not looking for a long term relationship" he said. She recalculated. "After the sixth date then. I'm hoping you'll continue our arrangement till the sixth date by when you'd realize that I'm spontaneous, yet careful; fast, yet steady; cheerful, yet poignant. You'd have fallen for me, and having seen me laugh at your jokes, you'd like me more. By this time, you would have changed your mind about your commitment."

He paused for a while, as he ran his fingers over his chin and neck. She was making sense to him. "Yes. Your assumptions are valid. We'll end up dating for a couple of years, by when we'll not like each other so much that we get married, but not dislike each other so much that we break up." They were in unison now. She said "Right. Six more months later and you'll realize that doing the dating scene all over again is going to be painful, and you'll propose to me with a massive diamond ring from your new found wealth, and I'll elatedly say yes."

She continued "We'll have kids, and ten years later, I'll lose my looks and you'll cheat on me, and we'll have a bitter marriage, but we'll stay together because of the kids. When the first one turns 18, the marriage will be suffocating and we'll call it quits."

"We won't have an amicable divorce settlement, and it will cause us a great deal of trauma. We'll only meet at our children's weddings and graduations, and we'll die lonely, desperate, and void of all meaning." There was an awkward long silence, perpetuated by the lack of music at the setting. The food hadn't arrived. The wine bottle was almost over. "Let's skip over the pain of dating and marriage, I'll pay the bill, you come up to my apartment, we'll have an awkward first amorous encounter, and we never see each other again." he stated.

Clearly she was losing, she thought. "And what do I get in return?"

"The cheeseburger".

She gulped the cheeseburger like there was no tomorrow.

Of administration, analogy and anna

2011-09-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

Even the bitterest of skeptics and cynics would have to concede that our country runs a full-fledged democracy and that people do have quite a say in what’s going on. Even if we are screwing up the country, at least we will have the satisfaction of doing it in our own royal way. There are a lot of people ranting that we are miserable because we have funny outdated laws and say we should model our laws on more successful countries. It would be fare to say that it may not always work out. For instance, Hong Kong permits a woman to kill an adulterous husband; only if she does so with her bare hands. Switzerland law says that it is illegal to flush a toilet after 10 p.m or recite poetry while skiing down a mountain. And in relevant ironic sense, South Korea has a law which says that a policeman taking a bribe should report it to his higher authorities. This and a lot more has led me to believe that other countries are no angels themselves. Some of them are doing better, but it’s alright, we are not doing too bad ourselves. Which is why, it lead me to wonder how the recent headline grabber Anna Hazare would have fared had he fought for his cause elsewhere.

If it happened in Pakistan, fasting wouldn’t be as melodramatic an anti-establishment gesture, mostly because the establishment itself is fasting in the month of August. In the case of Pakistan, ironically the establishment itself seems to be anti-establishment. It would probably take Anna days to figure out which side he’s on and which side he’s protesting against.
If it happened in the Netherlands, a lot of people would gather in its capital, Amsterdam to voice out against the government. Some time into the protest and every one would realize that the parliament is actually located in Hague. A tour of the city and Anna would figure how hard it is to change the law, especially when it doesn’t exist.
If it happened in America, corporations would be the first to notice that a large mass of people have aggregated upon a common area, and the advertisers would be the first to arrive to convince people to spend money they don't have on stuff that they don't need. McDonald's would have a stall at every corner, even if it was a circular ground. In a matter of time, the fashion people would arrive and have Anna sticking his underwear out his low-waists and twitter would start referring to him as that 'dude who lost 8 kilos in 12 days'. Before you know it, the fasting ground has become a carnival and the papers would have managed to get a snap of a drunk-out-of-his-mind Anna in a Latex suit enjoying a 69 position with a dubious looking woman. Of course in the mean time, America would have waged war against Libya in a bid to eradicate corruption.
If it happened in Libya, American soldiers would carpet bomb over Anna’s rally, as part of their ongoing corruption eradication process.
If it happened in Somalia, the government and the people together would be fasting against the pirates. Well, in their case, it would hold true that if you don’t have food to eat; the smartest thing to do is fast.
If it happened in China, the newspapers would report the following day, that peaceful negotiations had occurred between Anna and the government, and that corruption was eradicated from the face of China. Nobody would notice that the lions in the zoo behind the parliament are expressing discontent because their meal is 74 years stale.
If it happened in France, where people strike because their neighbour’s wife has put on a few kilos, Anna would start a fast, and someone else would start a fast against Anna’s fast. Anna would be forced to fast against this fast, and strike three. He’s out!
If it happened in Italy, it might work well for Anna, because he’s not particularly known to be a good speaker. This works for him because Italians communicate like mutes using hand gestures. In any case, the ‘Prime Meenisthera, is busya having the sexa with the meessthressa’.
If it happened in Zimbabwe, Anna would be promised that black money worth a billion dollars would be brought back. They of course, would mean Zimbabwean dollars.
If it happened in Lebanon, the government would immediately resign and Anna would be declared the of head the country. The people who resigned would then take it up upon them to continue Anna’s protest. Anna would then have to resign.And so on..
If it happens in Russia, the government would wait for winter to set in, and Anna, learning from Germany’s bad history in the region would have to go back home on his own accord.
If it happens in Iraq, Anna’s fast would soon trigger a civil war. But erudite scholars would be the first one to confess that a civil war is an improvement over existing conditions.

We on the other hand, have taken the luxury to convince ourselves that putting the politician behind bars will solve all our problems. It would be well advised to remember that although democracy is a government of the people, by the people and for the people, Oscar Wilde put it well by saying it may also be a bludgeoning of the people, by the people and for the people.

All about Humour

2011-08-17T21:57:00.000-07:00

To analyze what is funny about a cat's repeated failed attempts to eat a loveable wily mouse is tantamount to finding out what cyanide tastes like; both end up killing the purpose. That the classic cat and mouse would probably invoke laughs among a 6 year old gunman in Somalia and the 70 year old obese American he holds under the gun alike is a testament to its broad quality of humour. Humour has probably existed across all times, more so during times that were bleak and grim, than when they were hale and hearty. It therefore seems plausible that the torrid times of bubonic plague stemmed an array of the now popular 'doctor' jokes. That contrary to maxims, laughter wasn't the best medicine is a different story. The times of yore have also managed to deliver some solid mass jokes, published widely under names like the Bible, Gita and the Koran.

Come modern times, and nothing yet is funnier than humour. At least, by definition. It certainly is more personal these days, and returning an insult by someone you detest with a kickass comeback will certainly give you greater pleasure than hammering his head multiple times against an unbreakable wall. Comebacks, although spontaneous, actually mask long hours of practice spent in abusing insults at friends in friendly gesture. Witty insults is a skill, and when delivered with a genteel yet caustic disposition will be met with cries of both, "Nice one' and 'You son of a bitch', both of which are to be treated as complements to a comeback well handed out. Unfortunately, comebacks flash to most people only a good forty five minutes after the insult.

Then there’s college humour, a time when one learns to make and take humour more than the course at hand. Humour in college takes its nastiest, most unfettered form, where even pushing an old woman off the stairs would pass off as funny, and would probably be funnier if she lands on the floor biting her tongue. In the outside world, humour becomes heavily discreet; especially at the office and telling your manager 'I can't believe I was late for work tomorrow' will only invite a long face and even longer hours. Puns and jabs are suddenly met with glares and frowns.

To make pun, fun and jest, one just needs to acclimatize and find context and timing. For example, jokes about armpits and transvestite sex invoke the most laughs among Mallus. In case such humour is to be used elsewhere, a simple change in enunciation can do wonders, pronounce the words armbitz and tranzveztite in typical Mallu fashion instead when delivering the joke, thus subverting the disgust away from you onto the Mallu sect.

One more trick to making good humour is keeping your praises in check. Praising a celebrity could cause unforeseeable damage to humour potential. A case in mind, when Dhoni won the world cup, anyone who voiced out euphorically in applause will regret that he has lost some serious potential for humour in current times. An ardent follower of Amy Winehouse will never be able make puns such as 'They don't serve spirits in the afterlife' and will feel having lost out on good humour material.
In most cases, a joke begins to lose its humour with time and relevance. The exceptions to this are very rare, and those ones are pure Gold. For example, if you’re 20 and a heavily intoxicated friend, slips on a banana peel and falls face down into a dustbin, you'd probably be in splits laughing. But gold would be when you turn 60 and watch a video of this happening. Humour probably escalates and transcends if it also makes you reminisce.

A great easy access to a huge repository of humour is a nation's politics. America is probably currently hurting in this regard. The humorists reveled when Bush was in charge. A simple stating of Bush facts was enough to get a decent share of laughs. Then Obama took over, he was smart, himself witty and most hazardously a black. And it became tricky for Americans to jest about the top man in the office, simply because black humour is faux pas. It seems plausible that people across the country, not publically, but in cohorts are having a crack or two on their first Black President.

Death is a tempting mistress to churn humour from but may be fatal to the purpose. Attempting puns is a cheaper, easier way to conjure humour, similar to my attempt in the previous sentence. But when you pun, make sure you never explicitly mention you made a pun, like I did in the previous sentence. To maneuver yourself out of a series of bad jokes, making jokes about your previous sentence is an admittance of surrender. Ok. I raise my white flag.

In case of a conundrum of a desperate need of humour and nothing to work with, fret not and look not too far. If you haven't realized the source of you as a subject of humour, you suffer from a serious lack of sense of humour. Allow yourself all the liberties, downgrade you, the protagonist in all possible angles, and a few laughs are a cake walk. Picture yourself as a short, stocky, bald, unemployed, bisexual, perverted man, and you have the entire world of jokes at your disposal. If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, allow yourself the pleasure of seeing the person you're taking to as fat,sloppy and perverted and make merry mockery.

Charlie Chaplin once said that all he needed to make comedy was a park, a policeman and a pretty girl. Humour exists almost everywhere, good humour does not. A sense of humour is even more tenuously so. I'd like to think that if one learns to find humour in traffic, weight and office, rarely will you have a day without mirth and laughter. A crowning achievement to an illustrious life of humour would probably be if at your funeral, somebody in their eulogy says "I'll miss that funny son of a gun".

Homecoming

2011-05-09T07:43:00.000-07:00

The bartender had pulled up the ‘Closed’ signs, hastily emptied the ash trays and grudgingly began mopping the counter table, being more convincing in his efforts when he encountered those annoying besmirched hardened rim marks. These familiar routines sent out a billow of people through the exits, leaving the ones who had swilled and the ones who were established regulars at the bar. He looked across to find ARAVIND staring at his glass pensively, and one look at the empty bottle and the full glass drove home the fact that a long night was to ensue.
“Trouble with the lady, boss?” the bartender asked, whilst drying the glasses
“Nah. A jeweler could help me out, not a bartender if that was the case” quipped Aravind.
“I think a lawyer would cost you less than a jeweler” he said, repressing a chuckle.
He looked at the clock and let out a gasped sigh. He looked back at Aravind and asked in a more sincere tone this time “Surely you’ve got something on your mind. And almost nothing in your hand” he said, pouring some more of the poison in the empty glass.
Aravind didn’t protest. He started in his usual forthcoming nature “It’s probably my age is doing a number on me, but these days I keep wondering whatever happened to a few people back in India that I’ve not met for over 2 decades now, like my first outside-family acquaintance in kindergarten, or the high school bully, the one whom I did my assignments with, the one who first convinced me drinking was no sin..”
“Believe me you sometimes don’t want to know. I wonder which one is harder to digest; a friend’s success or a friend’s failure” said the bartender, almost as if he was the supreme authority in these matters.
“But you got these people around you, Gary. You don’t see them every day, but they’re here and there and around at weddings and funerals; in the casket sometimes maybe, but they’re there. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely” said Aravind clearly talking to Gary, the friend more than Gary, the bartender.
“At least you enjoy your Friday nights and your Saturday dinners. Surely, I have more on my mind on a Friday than the President” said Gary, still not out of his bartender clothes or shoes.
“Yeah. So you let the wagon slip on Monday mornings as opposed to Friday nights” said Aravind as if it was a bout of realization.
He went on. “Anyway, I know everybody says this, but when I was growing up, it was a funny time. Kids everywhere else wanted to be firefighters and astronauts and what not. But, I grew up in a time; when we wanted to be scientists and cricketers, cause one our parents told us was glorious, the other we knew it was.”
“You thought being a scientist was glorious?” he said and it took a moment for Aravind to comprehend the jest. Americans found cricket amusing.
His memory and emotions were livid. He wasn’t stopping. “There’s a funny story from childhood. When I was 5 or 6, I think, I liked to eat mud. Once I swallowed a few melon seeds inside, and my mother told me that if I swallowed any soil and had water, a tree would grow within me. I believed her instantly and never really unbeleived the story till I was 14 I think.
“I found out about Santa when I was 10. That’s almost stupid. Believe me, 20 years on and I still can’t differentiate if one is drunk or just stupid” he said, in nonchalant banter, a little bluntly.
Being a bartender had taught Gary to be a good listener. But with Aravind, he spoke without restraint. He said “You know, childhood for me wasn’t great. My mother died early, and for 10 years I got beaten up for not doing my home work and I hated school. Adolescence was painful, and one day sitting at the bar counter, when a self-made casual recipe of vodka, whiskey and ginger went well with the others sitting alongside, I had decided that I was at the wrong side of the counter table.”
Aravind gave a smile and nodded his head. “It wasn’t like that for us at all. I actually don’t know who, how and when it was decided that this is how my career would go, but it was all too natural. I don’t think even at a subconscious level I was having second thoughts. I had no choice, and frankly I didn’t need choices then. ”
Aravind now began extrapolating it to a bigger picture. He said “But you know, on the other hand, people there were so diversely opinionated and sometimes catastrophically passionate that almost no building could be built, no law passed, no book written and no woman kissed without a word of protest.”
“Oh yeah. The last one is quite famous. I am familiar with India’s antagonism to sex” said Gary.
Aravind protested. “No way Indians hate it. You can’t hate it and still be producing in billions. It is strange though that explicit sex would be on display in most of our temples while the movies would face severe rebuke. It’s just one of our taboos”
Gary began drawing conclusions. “You know I’ve always thought a country’s progress can be judged by the quality of its pornography and the average tip a drink fetches in the country, and on both counts I’m proud to be an American.”
“I think it should be measured by how bad the bartender jokes are, and America’s doing no good.” He said, hoping it was a reasonable comeback.
He went on. “But really, I think a good measure would be how civil a country’s middle class are, how unassuming the rich are, and how hopeful the poor are. And the country I grew up in, I can’t be sure really. Because it’s so strange that on one hand we serve food so generously, and on the other hand we are such miser and lousy tippers; on one hand we are disgusted with corruption and bribery, on the other hand we are the first to resort to it.”
“We have a God for cleanliness, but our streets and consciences are similarly filthy. Money is not believed to be a virtue, but the first thing everybody does at a wedding is counting jewellery pieces on the bride. Smoking and drinking are portrayed as a sin, but India is the largest consumer of whisky and cigarettes.”
“Every place has this kind of thing. It’s not unusual” said Gary.
“No. It is quite unusual. For example, here in the US they slow down when the traffic light turns yellow, but in India, we accelerate. In every matter, you’ll find that there is no right or wrong. There are just shades of grey.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought haven’t you?” he asked, not in a mood for jests.
“Everything that you hear about India is true. And almost all the time, the opposite is also true. And yes. I have given this some thought. I miss those days. Some of those old memories are beginning to get to me like the time in college when someone was dared to come in a superman costume and when the professor stood appalled, the guy actually spent ten minutes convincing him that the garments re-ordering was a genuine slip-up”
This got Gary thinking. He had to ask this “Boss. Are you actually considering moving back or something? Or is this is just a phase, where you go on a vacation and realize that home is good enough just for a vacation?”
Aravind had his answer ready “No. I think this is the real deal. I think the country that you like is the country that frustrates you the most. America doesn’t frustrate me. India does. It frustrates me that we haven’t won the Cricket world Cup since 2011, it frustrates me that corruption is everywhere, it frustrates me that the roads are bad and the population is reaching 1.7 billion now. And I’d like to bicker, complain and rant about it, like most Indians do. Yes, I am considering going back.”
“Just out of curiosity, why did you ever leave India?”
“I was 25. The thought of living in a land where a plumber takes his family for a vacation to Europe and where the Governor of the biggest state was the Terminator fascinated me”

Conversations

2010-11-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

Much had changed within the confines of their almamater; the ATMs now had vexing swarming queues, the open free spaces had given way to fancy accretions and the cigarette shop owners had lost faith and understandably stopped loaning cigarettes to the college students. But to those four sitting at the table, the traditional college spirit was as intact as the transgressional college spirits. And true to traditions on that Wednesday night, they were there again.
That shoddy place where they served cheap and quick alcohol had been their answer to quite a few questions. But, so often, they didn’t even need a question. This process had become more of a ritual, a familiar one at that. The guy with the flared nostrils folded up his legs on the dilapidated plastic chair, confirming the waiter’s prediction that they were not one to leave early. He looked across the table to find the guy with the bulged forehead swiveling and swinging, the vodka being the leading cause of it. He lit a cigarette, fumbled with the matches and eventually burst out laughing at himself, at his drunken stupidity. He suddenly straightened his face, looked into the cigarette flame with enthusiastic profundity and corked “Few more days magans and it will all be over. It’ll be a distant past, an occasional reminisce.” The alcohol had begun to kick in. “It's hard to imagine life outside those walls” he said pointing towards the college premises behind him, grudgingly turning his head along. The last time he spoke of the walls, he was cursing them, shouting out to the world how much those walls had ‘raped his life’. The guy with the flared nostrils grinned because he found it funny how alcohol tended to make people either hate something or love something passionately, albeit differently each time. But unlike the last time, he found slight empathy in what he was saying.
“Eh. Someone beat him up dude. He’ll start with all his emotional shit again” retorted the guy with the twisted lip, clearly showing his lack of amusement. Others found it funny how he always said ‘someone beat him up’; never ‘I’ll beat you up’.
“No, No. Really. I’ll miss this place. The beach. The blocks. The beers. This bar. Good memories” came Bulged forehead’s reply. The alcohol was speaking now, which had a mind of its own.
Twisted lip swilled the Vodka left in his glass, because he figured this as the only way to find his way into the conversation. He knew he was generous and better-natured after he went past the first four drinks. He had decided to skip the third, went from the second straight to the fourth.
“Yes. Fine Memories” said the guy with the thick eyebrows. He wasn’t a big fan of talking while under the influence. He stayed the most sober and staid when they went drinking.
“My memories of this bar are vague and hazy and I’m grateful for that” quipped in Twisted lip, as he refilled his glass and raised it haltingly.
“Haha. Yes. Good times. Cheers” said Thick eyebrows, immediately relating to what he had to say.
“Yeah. But everything good has to end. It will only remind me how much life after college will suck. I mean you’d look at a few pics of the department later, which today, you’ll find absolutely detestable, and you’ll realize how naively wrong you were. That the department wasn’t all bad” said Flared nostrils. He always maintained how his department was an abomination and a big regret in his life and how he should have gone with a different branch choice. But he had managed to hide it from the others that if he could turn back time somehow, he’d still choose the same branch.
Thick eyebrows got into the conversation. “ You know, if you’d just get down to balancing what we’ve done for the college and what the college has done for us, I’m guessing it’d be a lop sided affair. If you’d just list out the things you got from coming here, you’d know what I’m talking about.”
“Well. Its 11 pm on a Wednesday, and I can see my rum bottle half empty; In fact I can see 2 of such bottles, although I’m aware there’s just one. Anyway, I think the college deserves a standing ovation for this kind of freedom” said Bulged forehead.
“Correction. The bottle is half full, not half empty. One more thing the college deserves credit for I think. But yes. Freedom. Granted” said Flared nostrils.
Bulged forehead had a point to make. “It made us realize so many people are smarter than us…”
“It made us realize so many people are dumber than us” quipped in Twisted lip.
Thick eyebrows added to the list. “When I came to college, I’d wonder how I’ll adjust to life in a hostel. Today, I wonder how I’ll survive life outside.”
“The importance of water, I think. It’s taught me to check the water tap before I settle down to business. In fact, it’s a habit I’m most addicted to. And I’m addicted to quite a few, you know” said Flared nostrils with a sheepish grin, and nodding along, because he thought it was funny.
Bulged forehead realized that this was an honest perspective on what he had gained from the college. He added “And on a serious note, the fact that a want to do something, to achieve something, be it winning in sport, trying to do 400ml Vodka, getting an AA, managing a DD, organizing an event, screwing an event, getting a girlfriend, or even writing a blog post are all possible with a hint of flair and a great deal of enthusiasm and passion. I think the college certainly had some role to play in this.”
Each knew that they’d worked a part of their ass off to come to this college, and that it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park. They came to this college wide-eyed, with a will to conquer the world, with overwhelming expectations. But, as they went along in college, they struggled to comprehend the significance of what they were doing, and how conquering the world is harder than they thought it was. But as they went along and reached the fag end, the haze had started to clear steadily, and they started to develop a certain gratitude for the time spent in college. They started to believe that these four years had caused some sort of a morph, some sort of a quiet revolution, something that they hoped would hold them in good stead later. How, that would happen, they were not sure. That it will happen, they were sure. Fumed by the alcohol as much by the raw adolescent energy, they got back that feeling of the want to conquer the world.
Thick eyebrows added with a malicious look “And although not very significant, a job and a B.Tech degree.”
“Yes. We are who we are because of our college. Cheers to a wonderful four years well spent. Unfortunately, life will never be the same again.”
“Cheers”
“Cheers”
“Cheers”

Murder,mystery and mayhem

2009-11-29T20:33:00.000-08:00

He stirred his whisky, almost nonchalantly, even as his well-rounded face seemed to be drawn in overwhelming deep thought. 19 years of Pat Noyce’s extravagant career at the Los Angeles Police Dept. had the thick skinned stickler, seen a wide assortment of cases; some obtuse, few brilliant, others rudimentary, while some simply dumb-founding, and yet such queerness of tragic events that had transpired that eventful night had succeeded in baffling his trained eye.
He sipped onto his whisky, lit a cigarette and tried to gather his distorted overworked mind. On the16th of April,1954 Pat had arrived upon the investigation scene almost at the crack of dawn, and found the lifeless body of Arnold Saget, a slim jaded looking man in his early 20s, with a bullet pierced through his heart. Eerily, the body was found on a safety net hanging outside the window of the 8th floor of that very building. The safety net was installed to protect some building workers, which Pat discovered, that none in the building were aware of, including Arnold. Pat found a seemingly authentic suicide note undersigned by Arnold outlining his despondency, and aloofness to life. It was apparent to Pat from acute observation of the crime scene that Arnold had attempted suicide by jumping off the tenth floor. As soon as he jumped, even as he was crossing the 9th floor, he was shot at, and he landed on the safety net on the 8th floor. Further investigations revealed that at the time of Arnold’s death, an old couple was fiercely involved in a squabble on the 9th floor. When Pat entered the couple’s house, the old man fell to his knees and beseeched pardon. Weeping uncontrollably, he admitted to having shot at Arnold, accidentally. He also revealed that Arnold was his only son.
Upon questioning the neighbourhood, Pat found out that the old couple often fought, seldom resulting in the elder man threatening to shoot his wife with his gun. The elderly man sounded earnest when he told Pat that he actually never loaded his gun, that he merely used it to threaten his wife, and used hollow threats to stifle her. He never meant to shoot his wife nor his son, Arnold. It was an inopportune accident, one that the old man solemnly regretted. Pat had found him convincing in his version of the story, and sincere in his penitence. Experience had taught Pat much.
He was groping with his pocket looking for another cigarette, when he heard a slight knock on his door. Pat saw the wall clock that hung over his dinner table 1:26. It must be Sergeant Morgan, conjectures Pat. He opened the door.
“Ah.Good evening Sergeant. Surprised to find you at this infelicitous hour. I hope its good news that you bring.” said Pat, as he closed the door behind Sergeant Morgan.
“Care for a cigarette?” asked Pat.
“Thank you, but I’m good, sir. I found another witness to the Arnold Saget murder. A one Mr. Dave Hanson, the owner of a licensed gun shop on the east side. The 125 mm gun used by the elderly man was bought at this Mr. Hanson’s shop. He confirms that the old man never purchased bullets from him, at least not recently.” said Morgan eagerly, with a noticeable keenness in his voice.
“Ah. I’d figured it out. I have a feeling someone else has a hand in planting these bullets in that gun. Someone very…. “
Sgt. Morgan interrupted “Oh, yes sir. A few days earlier, a lean looking pensive man had dropped in at the gun shop, wanting to buy six 125 mm bullets. Needless to say, Hanson was surprised, considering how outdated the 125 mm gun is. Perhaps this man has something to do with this murder.”

“Could you find anything else about this man and his whereabouts?” quizzed Pat.
“No sir. We’re doing the best we can.” quipped the sergeant
“Okay. This case gets all the more entangled. Help run me down on this one, will you? First a man tries to commit suicide by jumping off a building. Midway through the fall he is shot. He lands on a shelter built by construction workers, which he was not aware of. The person who shoots him is his very own father. He never realized the gun had bullets and accidentally shot his son, who was in the process of dying anyway, but wouldn’t have died, because of the shelter. Something’s amiss. I still can’t figure out what’s going on?”
The sergeant added “This other guy buys bullets from a gun shop and is most probably the one who loaded the gun.”
“Indeed strange. I guess this man who bought the bullets will have a big part to play in this murder. I guess it’s pretty safe to say this mystery man who bought the bullets at the gun shop is indirectly responsible for Arnold’s murder.”
“I guess so.”
2 minutes of silence followed. Both men submerged in thought.
“Sir, I’ll take your leave now. I’ll keep you posted on any further news.” said Morgan .and bid good night

The next morning, Pat was greeted at the office doorstep by an invigorated Sgt. Morgan
“Good morning Sir. I’ve got some startling information. This morning we got the gun shop owner Mr. Hanson to help describe the man who bought the bullets. We got a rough sketch of him. The results are quite mind-boggling.”
The sergeant went on.” I questioned the entire neighbourhood again. The mystery finally seems to be coming to a conclusion, yet the coincidences seem thrilling to say the least. Arnold and his mother were apparently never on good terms with each other. She had cut-off all financial support to him, making him utterly despondent. He was vexed, beyond reasonable limits. He was so flustered; he would even dare to kill his mother. He failed at that, he also never managed to put bread on his table. So he decided to give up his life.”
Pat’s eyes lit up.” Okay. So who was the man who bought the bullets and ended up responsible for Arnold’s death?” he asked the sergeant/
The sergeant promptly replied almost half expecting the question. “There lies the irony sir. It was Arnold who bought the bullets and loaded it in his father’s gun hoping he would shoot his mother accidentally some day. Uncannily, he ended up murdering himself while committing suicide. How about that for coincidence, sir?”
“Ah! Murderer and the victim, both the same. Fascinating!”

Parody of life

2009-08-09T13:35:00.000-07:00

"Cheers" they said amidst voluptuous rattled roars, and the 2 most jaded men in the room gulped the vodka in a manner only they understood,straight to the throat. They gazed into each others eyes;their inner despondency masked by an outward presumptuous exterior. The vodka was inordinately outstanding, unblended and unscathed. Pure like a virgin, they thought. But incidentally, and tragically,they both knew,it might have been their last drink.
At the age of 17, Bob Marlo had decided that no dainty office job could do justice to his burning desire to live free-spiritedly. He had even done 6 months time for stealing a car and assaulting a cop. He made no friends, lived in a tacky attic in the suburbs, and had slept with 42 women in two years. He always loved to show off the scars on his forehead which was the result of an ill-fated mountain climbing expedition.
Kris Mantle was raised in a sophisticated and fastidious wealthy family who dreamt of raising a lawyer, and rub shoulders with the who's who of society. What they were not aware of,was the rebellion spirit that Kris possessed, a tinge of infamy daredevilry and a load of fire. Few days after he had turned 17, he brought home a guest for dinner, Katherine,and announced his love for her at the dinner table. His family vehemently deplored of it.So, he ran away from home and spent the night in communion with his fiance, and basking in his new found freedom. 4 months later, they were separated, with little remorse.

Everyone in the bar burst into deafening cheers. Both had apparently survived. There were 12 more shots of vodka on the dilapidated table. One of them contained 2 ml of Botalinium,one of the deadliest poisons known. The rules were simple. Each takes a shot. One spills his guts. The other walks away with 500 grand. If someone backs out midway, the other gets all of it.
Bob lit a cigarette.He made headway for small talk.
"You look like a decent man who's got a family waiting. Serves them right, eh?"
"Na, I killed them 10 years ago" said Kris, lighting a cigarette.Everyone applauded.
"The first one's the hardest. You get past the first shot, you begin to think 'maybe you can fool death'. You won't even have time to realise that you were wrong."
People started causing a raucous. They demanded another shot.
Bob raised his glass "May the best man win". Both shot vodka and vouched for the others death.Both stayed alive.Everyone cheered.Bob and Kris looked like nervous wrecks.4 more to go.The crowd was quietened.
"What you said is bullshit. The best man may not win. That's the beauty of the whole deal."said Bob with conviction.
"No. That's what you think. The best man wins everywhere. Luck is for the faint-hearted." Kris retorted.
Bob replied "No. Lucky is when the lesser man wins. But you only hope for the better man to win.Because everyone wants vindication and justice. We want it fair and square, for the world to work like an algorithm. I'm glad it does not work that way. One of the reasons you and me are seated face to face today is the lack of justice."
"Perhaps..So you think you can handle 1 more shot?" Kris asked hoping for a no for an answer.
Both raised their glasses.
"And yes. May the best man win."
Both shot. They looked at each other. They were panting, gasping for breath. Kris looked
into Bob's eyes and saw how lucky Bob felt to be alive. He felt the same.
"Lucky to be alive, eh? 2 more to go. You wanna go on?" asked Kris.
Bob sensed fear in Kris. He sensed a lot of uncertainty and a feeling of pessimism.He felt superior.Bob had always believed that laws of nature operate on how you perceive and negotiate what life offers you. He had believed that confidence inspires nature to conspire for you. And now,he sensed cynicism and pessimism in Kris. He had sniffed it. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of invincibility.
"This just feels like poker, ain't it? You flinch, you're out." said Bob.
" You don't have your brains on the table at the end of it in poker, do you? And no bluffing either. But the chances of dying or staying alive remain a constant, no matter what. It is simply your fate.Your charm and wits are of no value."
"You decide your fate, brother. I know I'm walking out with half a million. And you'll see how it is done. I'm in for the next shot." announced Bob.
Kris couldn't undermine his fear of death. His whole life, flashed before his eyes. An innate feeling of an irrevocable loss seemed to hit him in his face. He pondered upon all of his sins and pleasures. He felt like a dying man. He looked up at Bob. He looked at a man with half a million dollars.
He despairingly said " I'm in."
Bob looked up at Kris and showed inexplicable surprise. He thought he had him. Not to be. He was certain the odds were for him. He was not giving up.
"Say your prayers my friend. This place ain't big enough for the both of us."
"Cheers" they said in unison. One feebly, the other almost nonchalantly.
They shot.Kris felt extremely dizzy. His whole world revolved around him like typhoon had ruptured him.Immediately Kris's inner self felt a burning desire to live, not to let probability take a chance to decide on his life. He felt like he had more to offer to his and others' life. He spit out the vodka and in abrupt and pathetic coughs yelled out " You win, my friend. I'm out."
But,as soon as he looked up, he saw Bob Marley collapse to the floor, in pain, moaning, squealing,spilling his guts out. Bob fell on the stack of cash on the table, and enjoyed his 20 seconds of wealth, and let one melancholic cry of despair and gave in.
Kris never really regretted his decision. He was not rich, but he didn't go out of that bar not being taught a lesson or two in life.Bob himself had an algorithm to life, which stated that there was no algorithm. Every man thinks that he has algorithm to life figured out. They're always flawed. Some, like Kris realise that. Others like Bob, figure it out in the last 30 seconds of their life. 47 years later on his deathbed, Kris was to remember this fateful night and grimaced at the parody of life.

His beloved audience

2009-06-23T10:38:00.000-07:00

He had been an agonistic as long as he could remember, and despite his wife’s cajoling,even a visit to the temple across the road from his double-storeyed bungalow had remained a far-fetched thought. But today he stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. Life had presented its dreadful flipside, and ironically he was standing at the same temple across the road from his bungalow, but he was too perplexed to notice the irony.
Anil Yashwant had always cherished his 4 years at his alma-mater IIM-A, and the people at the new office of IBM in Vila Parle were only too keen to have him on board. People who had known him were not surprised to find him effortlessly climb up the ranks in his office, given the extravagant flair he had exhibited at his job. To vindicate his prodigal-like talent,he started a company of his own, that had scripted a stupendous success story in an outlandish fashion. The Deccan Herald wanted to showcase his imminent arrival at the worldstage and had commissioned Nivedita Gupta, a pretty vibrant journalist for a Page 6 interview. The interview had lasted for more than 7 hours, and a year later Nivedita and Anil had committed to each other 7 lives of holy matrimony in a succinct ceremony comprising of close family and friends. They had 2 beautiful kids together, and his miniature company had skyrocketed to scale new heights, proclaimed by many as the next big thing in the
markets. Life, it seemed, couldn't have been haler and heartier. But catastrophe was to befall Anil, for a storm wistfully always follows a calm. His company hadn't been faring well, and share prices had plummeted following the Internet bubble burst all over the world. On the 19th of Dec 2001, an emergency Board meeting was called for, which had concluded in a callous yet decisive vote to file for bankruptcy. His dear company, built from years of scrupulous pain-staking effort had collapsed right before his own eyes.Anil was distraught, but always managed to take heart in the fact
that atleast he had his health and and a caring family. On the 21st of February, 2 days before his son's 19 birthday, he received a call informing him that the Air Deccan flight from Delhi to Mumbai had killed all 78 on board, of which Nivedita, his wife; Aarushi, his 16 yr old daughter, and Rajdeep, his 19 yr old son were an infelicitous part of. It had left him agonizingly stunned for he now had nothing in life to claim as his own.
Anil was unable to bear this melancholic irrevocable loss, of wealth and life, of mind and soul, of kith and kin. He was inconsolable, drowned in overwhelming grief, aloof of life. He took to alcohol, severely wasting himself, abusing his body with drugs. He tried to find answers, he didn't know where to seek them. He was lost immersed in the nothingness of this universe sucked into it and dumped away. He craved for love, for pity, for affection. Lying remorsefully in his once lavish apartment, he remembered his mother's unconditional love, his wife's undying devotion, his children's affection and his dog's faithfulness. His dogged spirit had turned docile, meek. A once proud man now stood felled self-effacingly submissive.
His well-wishers had suggested him to several renowned psychologists, leading doctors and various ludicrous ways to overcome his resentment to life. All had miserably failed. He remembered his wife dearly, the conversations he had with her. She had trusted God so much. But he had failed her. He had cheated her trust, he thought. He had been an agnostic, almost an atheist all his life, and now he had brimming anger at God, an existence he hadn't believed in.
So he headed for the temple his wife had always visited, and stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. He was once again filled with simmering anger, and inconsolably wept bitterly like a lost warrior. And at once, fell to his knees as if in acceptance of His existence, not because he had realized God was omnipresent, but because he hoped he would be. He made a prayer, not because he wanted it answered, but because he simply wanted to pray,to confide his emotion within. All these years he had always beleived that a prayer was a sign of weakness, when a man demanded something from God because he had'nt been able to achieve himself. He now realised how woefully wrong he was. He realised, that a prayer was very personal, very subjective to each individual. Some confided, some confessed, some questioned, some bargained, and some argued. Each one was right in his own way. Facing the sanctum-sanctorum of the temple, he realised God's existence was immaterial, but he knew there was a higher force operating, a watchful eye that was always omnipresent. He at once felt a burden off his chest, felt consoled, like a crying baby is when its mother embraces it.And for a moment, the physical world did not matter to him, and the maelstrom in his own inner world was sanctified, by a divine feeling.

Love Story:2009

2009-06-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

The unforgiving water from the newly installed shower thumped against her delicate frame,her silhouette worth a poet's pen. The shower always seemed to drain out her fickle emotions;which would have snowballed through her long day. She stepped out of the shower draped in a terrycloth towel and grabbed her favourite pair of Levi's lying on a chair and a stunning velvety violet top, which she knew her mom wouldn't have approved of. She reached out for the recently acquired Sheldon novel by her bed, which she suspected would remain unfinished, like several of the other books lying in her cupboard, when her phone broke the monotonous silence. She answered the phone not bothering to check the id of the caller when she was greeted by a husky hoarse voice on the other end.
"Hello. Ms.Stevenson?" gushed the voice, feigning concern, yet echoing a cold hollow feeling.
"Yes" she said in a meek voice,disbelief embodied.
"I'm afraid i have some bad news for,Ms.Stevenson. Your boyfriend, David Kennedy, was found dead in his Belmont house in a pool of blood.I suggest you come down here immediately." he said devoid of emotion, as if handing out orders to his subordinates in his office.
He could here her dropping the phone. She groped for the wall, like a child who was having its first fall.But it appeared that she could never manage to fully get up from this fall.
She hurried her way down the well lit stairs, with a look of despondent belligerence on her face, as she made her way through the crowded streets decorated with light and joy,amiable faces awaiting the carnival of Christmas. She frantically waved for a taxi , even as the carnival atmosphere around her only managed to make her spirit within demean further. She sat in the cab and shut her eyes and she could only muse about the time when she had first met David.She was a saleswoman at the local Armani showroom and David had ended up buying 6 suits in less than a week. On the eighth day, he had asked her out, and she had agreed; guilty of a sense of obligation to him. At first she thought he was those snobbish types who prided upon his wealth and flaunted his charming looks and bragged about the number of women he had slept with. She was exulted to discover how wrong she was.He was an instant hit with her and she was enamoured by his outrightly simple approach to life and the absolute absence of guile in his talk. A little more than a week later, he had seduced her right on the doorsteps of the staircase of her house. That night they had made love over and over again. She had later confessed to Suzanne,her best friend, that it was the best sex she'd ever had. It took them a month to realise that they were insanely in love with each other, and she'd confided in him at the turn of midnight on Christmas Eve. As she lay in her cab, she remembered that they were to celebrate their 1st anniversary that day.
The honking of the taxi disrupted her chain of thought and she came crumbling down to the harsh realities,as she got out of the car and rushed straight towards his house unmindful of the cordon that the police had built around his house. The police had instantly recognized her, and made no qualms of letting her in. David had been a wealthy businessman, and the pair was recognised by almost every household in Belmont that read the Page3 of the local newspapers. She made her way through his dimly lit stairs almost gasping for breath. She yanked the door and reached the living room to find David's sister sobbing relentlessly, with an uncontrollable fit of rage, that would have sent a cold shiver down any woman's spine. She made her way through to where David was lying, and just stood there in utter dismay and disbelief, with stifled emotions, looking like an epitome of disarray. She had not wept at all, perhaps such was her terrible shock;conjectured the officers surrounding his body. She stood there as if her soul was bolstered,perennially staring at David's dead body, as if engulfed in a timeless universe. He lay on the floor unmoved in a pool of blood sporting his dinner jacket wearing a pair of Fastrack goggles, that she'd gifted him. Even as she stood gaping at David's dead body, she knew how circumstances had made her celebrate their 1st anniversary and Christmas Eve in this traumatic fashion.She was left gazing at a lifeless David lying on the floor. Even in that state, she was looking stunning as ever, the equanimity on her face giving her an uncanny glow.The officers standing by, expected her to burst into uncontrollable tears. She started to make her way to where David was lying,almost apparently unfazed, with a serene look on her face. She bent down to come nearer to him. To every one's great surprise she took out the shades he was wearing, stood up, wore his Fastrack goggles, turned back, adjusted her hair, and made her way out of the house unscathed, indifferent, and unfazed, and quietly headed back to her house as if nothing had happened. She had moved on.
Fastrack.Move on.

All's well that ends well

2009-05-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

He had intended to save the 23 year old scotch which lay beside him for a special occasion. It struck him that the vintage scotch and his perennially resentful grandson shared the same age. The scotch although, he thought, had aged gracefully. He lay stiff on his bed, even as the unforgiving rainfall thumped against the roof, bringing back discerning memories of his incoherent childhood, when the rain signified the arrival of joy.He was regretful it didn't mean the same to him any longer. He grimaced at the thought of how he always found that banyan tree by the countryside fascinating and found himself hours poignantly transfixed upon its rustic mythical beauty, which to him hadn't changed amidst in an otherwise rapidly changing world. The innocence of childhood had an uncanny tranquil power, he thought.He wondered, after 75 years, if it still stood by the rocks. Switching the lamp by the bedside he recollected how he always managed to retain this magical juvenile nature through his entire existence, amusing himself of the little nuances of life which always kept him kicking through the hard times. He recollected his days of learning in school, deriding farcical pranks on mates,being scared of elders,eventually breaking into gullible adolescence,and no longer being scared of elders, having the feeling of being able to conquer the world fumed by the youth in him. Ever since he remembered he always wanted to be a writer, one that wrote for artistic satisfaction more than intellectual. Looking back at his life, lying on the bed he felt vindicated. He also recollected how at the turn of 21 his parents had arranged his marriage to the 4Th daughter of a retired banker. He remembered vividly when he'd first seen her draped in a bright green Saree in his fiance he'd assessed her as 'beddable', worth spending a lifetime with. In course of time, he fell in love with her, her outright bright understanding of life in general having to contribute more than anything else to that. As the rain outside subsided, he could recollect those small eventful moments he had shared with his wife, laughing, talking. It brought more than a tear to his eye, of joy or of sadness, he was not sure. He remembered the time when he had 'danced the funky chicken' with her at their 25th anniversary, as his children had looked on in admiration. He reached out for the scotch beside him, poured it carefully into a glass generously. Over the years , he had developed an insatiable affection for scotch, a passion he'd picked up while working as a columnist with The Hindu, when he opportuned to brush shoulders with the elite; the condescending Delhite and the ostensibly sincere Mumbaikar. Times had changed drastically, he pondered, more in a manner of introspection than as being judgemental of others. He had slowly begun to realize that perhaps one of the reasons his grandson and him didn't meet eye to eye on several issues was perhaps because it was a universal truth that the old always found the young scornful, and these are some conundrums of life that are constant for any period. Or even the truth that when you look back at your life, you are always overridden with a feeling of having underachieved, of having been unfortunate, of having received the flak inordinately. He began to realize that, though as he lay still on his bed, that the memories left with him on that day at the age of 84, were those of cheer,of mirth, of laughter, of a celebration of life, that seemed complete, uncannily satisfying. Tears began rolling down his eyes, of joy, this he was sure of. And just what his grandson's favourite song had endorsed, 'he knew when his time would come he would be prepared for it. He drank, and said a prayer for it' and breathed his last.

Game on!

2009-04-26T12:14:00.000-07:00

He fled past the intersection aloof of the pedestrians trying to squeeze in past the ravaging traffic. He switched on the stereo when it struck him how long it had been since he'd used the Pioneer Dolby speakers installed in his Corolla. He didn't care which song was on. He passed by the aristocratic high roads of Bombay, vainly wondering if perhaps; on that day his instincts could fail him that one time when he trudged on that familiar yet fateful path even as his eventful past flashed past him.
Sudeep's journey from the dreaded slums of Dharavi through the enchanting streets of Borivali to the extravagance of Pali Hills was an unlikely one, one that fairy tales are made of. He had learnt his lessons not from the inscrutable exhaustive books but from the squabbles of the underprivileged not from the lavish praises of the wealthy sycophants but from the constant bickering of an unforgiving society. But parallel to his mundane life was one that boasted of a class extraordinaire and a life humbled by unparalleled achievement, making Sudeep his ardent fan. Sudeep was only 17 when he first heard of his hero- then a young 16 year old Tendulkar who he rembered speaking with a meek voice but a noticeable stupendous poise in his eyes. Ever since he heard that Radio Broadcast about a baby-faced 16-year-old with one season of first-class cricket to his name facing upto Waqar Younis, Sudeep was fascinated by his mesmerizing rise - not too dissimilar to his own, he had imagined. They had both boasted of early modest living in Bombay to glitzy success in Mumbai. While Tendulkar excelled at cricket itself, Sudeep showed articulate flair for cricket betting, and he'd nurtured a natural instinct for it.
After 17 minutes of mumbling in gibberish to himself nervously, he found himself make a cumbersome car parking perilously close to a shiny Lancer parked in front of a gloomy grim looking broad building. Ajit was standing in anticipation in a pair of Versace’s and flashy shades, which had failed to make up for his graying hair and unflattering mid-riff. He gave a vehement look in Sudeep's direction pointing towards his watch and got out his mobile and engaged in conversation even as Sudeep accompanied his friend and partner Ajit unmindfully towards that building. Sudeep had been betting for a long time now, but he knew very well that this time it was different. It was a Sharjah final- India v/s Australia. Bookings would be rampant and Sudeep had decided to put more than half of his life’s earnings at stake. He nudged past the creaking door and they made their way to the bar where Ajit lit a cigarette and made a hollow pretence of being in deep thought. An awkward silence followed,which was broken by a roar from a group of people transfixed upon a 42 inch television set which showed Azharuddin and Steve Waugh enter the field. The gambling began. It is not unusual for people at gambling hubs to bet on the most vivid of objectives- from the coin toss to what Azhar's shirt number will be; from the result of the match to who’s wife would be sitting in the stadium. 12 of the 27 people there bet on an Indian toss win, 5 bet for Waugh. Sudeep only watched on. Amidst heavy groans and abated cheers Waugh could be heard electing to bat first. At the betting counter, Gilly and Ponting’s names saw heavy bookings for a century, someone even raising the stake to 7.25 lakhs for a Gilly century. Sudeep had done his home-work. He knew the routine way too well. MAking his way towards the betting counter, he glanced in Ajit’s direction momentarily and turning towards the bookie dauntingly said “ 75K for a 250 Australia all-out “as he thrust out a bag full of notes. The bookie had known Sudeep way too well. He was'nt surprised. The bookie replied back almost in a whispering tone “The odds are stacked 4-1 against you” .He had heard others whispering 275 and 300, and some even placing bets for a farcical 350. Ajit had tried to cajole Sudeep into betting for a Gilly half century the previous night but Sudeep was inexorable and adamant and reluctant. 27 minutes and delirious boos and inexplicable cheers later, Gilly and Mark Waugh made their way onto the lush green outfield. Ponting and Waugh- the stalwarts, fell early, and Gilly fell 5 short of the 50 run mark. And before anyone realized it, it was 121 for 5 and India looked good to bowl them out and Sudeep of making a neat 3 lakhs. Waugh and Bevan, both of whom who always had heavy bets placed for them had other plans though. They didn’t disappoint and did what they knew best- got Australia out of a pit. With a neat 70 from Lehmann, Australia pounded a daunting 270, which under the lights held potential to make the Indian batting look moronic.
Sudeep was already 75K down. He usually bet when India batted- more because its uncertainty, its unpredictability and its intricacies fascinated his vivid imagination. He immediately went to the counter amidst a maelstrom and checked out what the odds read. “14 to 1 for Australia” the bookie had said. Sudeep didn’t look surprised. Ajit, who was known for his reckless nature among his circles,inexplicably looked nervous and thoughtful. He came up to Sudeep and said in a jaded nervous tone “ Bhai. I think Australia will win tonight. Sachin aaj nahi khelega. Aakhir who bhi insaan hi hai. It’s a huge risk. India aaj shayad harega bhai. Phir se soch lo bhai”. Sudeep heard him. He always did. But always acted according to his own will. Even as he was talking a big man with devilish good looks draped in a black suit came up to the two and said in utter disdain “Listen to good advice. India ki haar to aaj pakki hai. Sachin kuch nahi kar payega”. Sudeep didn’t have to turn up to see who it was. He instantly recognized that hoarse voice of Abbas-an acquaintance he always loathe, yet a rivalry he fancied.
Abbas was quite the contrary to Sudeep. Born with a silver spoon, he knew of life only as a trade and a gamble. He was as wily and cunning as a fox; cold and calculated, arrogant and stone-hearted. He had set-up a casino in Goa’s hinterland and also ran a couple of brothels in the heart of the city. Inspite of his affluence and wealth; match after match he always found himself enticed to the gloom of that filthy building, gambling and betting for a sport he loved- not for its spirit and emotion but for its uncertainties and logistics.
He continued. “Anyone with little sense of logic and judgment can predict the result. Do so bees mein all out.. likh lena.”
Sudeep didn’t answer. He never did. Ajit retorted “Dekh lenge Abbas bhai. Aaj to is paar ya us paar.”
Sudeep did not place a bet. He waited. 16 minutes later the tested pair of Ganguly and Tendulkar made their way to the field as thousands cheered in the stands and millions at home. Tendulkar had just come of an innings that was already being described as one the great innings of all time. He also happened to be celebrating his 26th birthday that day. Sudeep sensed that he was destined to have a big birthday bash- one that would have given joy to a billion people.
Sachin came to the striker’s end on the last ball of the first over. Fleming was the bowler. Both Fleming and Tendulkar had a marvelous series;one with the ball, the other with the bat. Their contest would be sparkling, Sudeep thought. He didn’t place a bet. He waited.
Tony Greg in all alacrity “Sachin’s first ball would be something to listen to. His first ball….” Through covers off the middle of the bat. Hit supremely for a couple. The noise was deafening. 11/0(1.0 over(s))
This spectacle was all that Sudeep needed. His keen eye judged well. He went up to the bookie and checked out the odds placed for Sachin’s fifty. It was 2 to 1: against. He went up to the bookie “5 lakhs Sachin ki fifty ke liye “he said. The bookie noted down and collected the cash. Abbas immediately made his way to the counter placed a neat 3 lakhs for a Sachin fifty and 20 lakhs against the three figure mark and a handsome 5 lakhs for a Warney four wicket haul. Sudeep thought it wasn’t a bad call after all. One of Sachin and Warne definitely had to sparkle. They were champions; both of them; on their way to becoming legends. A contest to be savored thought Abbas.
21/0(3.5 overs) “Oh well played; that’s 4. Lovely elegant cover drive….” Sudeep cheered for his idol- his hero.
34/1(6.3 overs) “He‘s nearly hit his partner. What a sparkling straight drive. Right off the meat of the bat…” Sudeep’s instincts held him in good stead. He always waited for Sachin’s straight drive. That was his sign; his litmus test. He looked at Ajit as if seeking an approval, but he knew he had it; made his way to the counter , composed himself and confidently said to the bookie “ 40 lakhs for Tendulkar’s 100 and another 40 for India’s win” and thumped a bag full of cash as if it meant nothing to him. Eyebrows were raised. Abbas was in dismay. He gave a grin- a sort of grin which could have even qualified for a frown. “I gotta warn you. The odds are heavily against you. If Sachin gets out before 99 you lose your 40” the bookie said. Sudeep checked the board which featured the odds and quickly retorted “But if he does score I win a staggering 4.4 crores!” and made his way out of there towards the TV screen, with a smile on his face;a nervous smile.
Sudeep was right. Tendulkar was in his element that day. He lofted, chipped, drove, defended, smashed-leg side, off side- square, straight down ;cross batted, straight bat- every shot in the text and some out of it as well. Perhaps what had made Tendulkar special for all these years would have been his uncanny ability to read any game- to accelerate when necessary, and to be circumspect when it demanded.
Warne was introduced in the eleventh over and it had the makings of a riveting contest. Tendulkar gave Warne the respect he deserved, chipping for singles, not making too much headway into the run rate. By then they’d also lost Ganguly- one of the best players of spin. Nayan Mongia was the surprise no.3 batsman- causing a fair many to lose their money who’d put their money on Azhar coming in at 3.
86/1(17.2 overs) Tendulkar took a single and raised his bat amidst ecstatic crowds as he completed his 46th 50. Sudeep heaved a sigh. He was 6 lakhs richer ;Abbas was richer by 3. But Sudeep was worried about the bigger picture. 80 lakhs was at stake. Almost half of how much he’d earned in 4 years of ruthless gambling.
Warne came back into the attack in the 21st over. (105/1). Warne to Tendulkar. Sudeep was on the edge of his seat. So was Abbas. And another billion watching at home.
Ravi Shastri, the commentator. “Warne comes round the wicket.. A change in tactic here… And Tendulkar greets him by dancing down the track and hammering him over long on. This is amazing stuff….. “Lovers of cricket all round the world erupted into wild cheers by the dazzling spectacle, a six straight over Warne’s head and Warne looking despondent.
(167/2)In the 28th over Mongia caved in.. He had played his part.
189/2(36.3 overs). Delirious crowds chanting Sachin’s name as Sudeep sat on the edge of his seat in anticipation. Abbas stood by the door. He shot a glass of whiskey.
A deft touch square leg side.Shastri again.’ That’s it.. 100 no 16 for Sachin Tendulkar in ODIs. Tremendous ovation from the crowd.. What a player!!!..” Sachin raised his bat to his teammates in the pavilion in toast, in celebration even as Sudeep and Ajit lost their composure and began screaming deliriously. It hit Sudeep immediately that he was rich. Rich beyond what he wanted to be, even in his wildest dreams, those that haunted him when he had slept on the footpaths of Dharavi.
Tendulkar went on a rampage after he completed his 100. He was devastating, mind boggling, artitistic, magical and most of all splendidly entertaining.
217/2(41.1 overs). Warne to Tendulkar. 2 consecutive 4s. One bludgeoned straight down the ground, one caressing gracefully wide of cover. India were inching towards victory.
Sudeep was still anxious. Tendulkar loses his wicket and it could all collapse. He’d seen it happen so many times in the past.
228/2(42.4 overs) Moody to Tendulkar. Tony Greg commentates. “ Ohh! He’s hit this one miles. Great shot. Oh.Its a biggie.Straight over the top. The little man has hit the big fella for 6.He’s half his size and he’s smashed him down the ground. What a player.. What a wonderful player!!!....” People went nuts; endlessly dancing in the isles- man or woman, young or old; Indian or Australian!!.
235/2(42.5 overs) “Whack again.. Through cover this time. Picked up on the boundary. Back for the third. This is great batting. Wonderful cricket entertainment.”
240/2(44.0 overs) Kaspy to Tendulkar. “Ohh .. This is high.. What a six. Way down the ground. It’s on the roof. It’s dancing around on the roof. Kasprowicz is the new bowler. He’s smashed it down the ground for 6……….. Well this little man is the nearest thing to Bradman has ever been.. What a player he is…!” Even Tony Greg went berserk. He painted a wonderful picture with his vivacious commentary. A billion people back home could only be marveled by the magic they beheld.
Tendulkar scored 134 and eventually won the game for India. It still rates as one of the best innings in ODI history. Sudeep and Ajit – became rich and settled down gracefully. Abbas went about his life continuing his betting antiques and moved to Goa full time.
Sachin Tendulkar, today, is recognized more as a phenomenon; a legend, a dazzling story of making it big despite the odds against him, who can tantalize or disappoint a billion people.I was no exception, which is why, perhaps, as an 8 yr old kid I had realized that the healthy 20 year old Sardar from Punjab, and the Marwari girl from Rajasthan and the 80 year old sagacious Babu from Bengal all would pray and would desire what me, the young lad from Karnataka wanted- A Sachin century and a subsequent Indian victory. Perhaps, then for the first time it truly hit me that I was an Indian and stood proud when the tricolor waved after every Indian victory. Some may deem this nationalism hollow, but certainly may not rubbish the pride.As i see it,this national consciousness, fallible or otherwise was unequivocally unprecedented.
For more than a decade, a billion people would switch off their TV sets when Sachin lost his wicket. A country would sleep well if Sachin scored.Sometimes it didnt matter what the match result was. But, perhaps what would wrench the heart of a cricket-lover today would be the fact that one fine day; India will come out to bat at Wankhede and Sachin will be made terribly conspicuous by his absence. I suspect, for millions of cricket-lovers across the country, with his retirement, cricket would never be the same.

Monotony of a close-cut lawn

2009-02-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

The classifieds were the first he reached out to. Politics, he was impervious to, Sports, was beyond him, Classifieds was a compelling necessity.He scavenged through the papers , the unassuming not so ostentatious ads, when a strange little ad caught his baffled eye.

NO SKILLS REQUIRED
EXTRAORDINARY COMMITMENT EXPECTED
PAY NEGOTIABLE AT ALL LEVELS

Such uncanny ads always founds a way to entice him,inexplicably. Nevertheless, 2 years of waiting at long queues at the unemployment office had made him innately desperate.
The next morning, he arrived a couple of minutes before the time mentioned in the Deccan and found himself waiting for the next 90 minutes with a couple of men, he'd often seen at the unemployment office. He mysteriously felt like he was being watched. Beautiful women and jobless men have this uncanny sense, he thought. He felt important; after a long time . A man clad in a tight suit, seemingly in his mid forties led him into a shabby little chamber where 3 men awaited,all with a look of morbid senility showing a long discontented past life. They were neatly clad in finely pressed and meticulously tailored suits. The interviewee felt intimidated and vulnerable,yet unassumingly secretly confident. "Have a seat " said a stoutly balding man, pointing with a cigarette to a cushioned chair. "So tell us about yourself, Mr....."
"Mr.Desai " he quickly retorted,shifting nervously in his chair. " Well there's nothing much to tell really. I finished my schooling in Nagpur. My grades were neither too high to be noticed nor too low to be conspicuous. decided to pursue sciences which i dropped realizing it is not my calling. I moved to Mumbai seeking a job. And just yesterday , I noticed this queer ad in the newspapers and thought i would check it out." A pause later " OF course, the commitment wouldn't be an issue. I have no family, few friends and no bindings. As of now i have no job and no fixed income. " A pause later and with an embarrassed yet curious look on his face he asked " I beg your pardon but i 'm not quite aware of the job description.What sort of skills are expected? What's the scale of payment? All this has not been mentioned at all?"
"Why then are you here Mr.Ravikant Desai?" asked a man in a firm tone giving an impression he did not seek an answer.It sent a chill down his spine because never once had he mentioned his first name.
"That shouldn't be a problem Mr.Desai" the big man said in a hoarse voice. He cracked his knuckles. " You are required to leave behind your entire life for a minimal period of 2 years and stay in a house provided by us and do simple ordinary things told to you. Things an average man on the street is capable of." The bald man intervened " The pay is an extraordinary 12 lakhs per annum which i am sure you would certainly find appealing and pleasing. If you may; regard this as a sort of an experiment, which is rendered to cause no foreseeable harm physically, and perhaps every other which way. This affair, assuming you will agree upon it, will go on for 2 years by when a sum of 25 lakhs will be credited to a bank account opened in your name." He was stunned and dismayed by the change of events in the last minute, the inanity of which gripped him as much as the fluency of the interviewers. He noticed that a small looking man was intently staring at him, failing to utter a single word through the interview. A bell was rung and the man clad in the tight suit outside entered the room and led Desai to a secluded room that looked abandoned for days. They passed through the waiting room where he noticed that the 2 men waiting outside were made conspicuous by their absence. Desai was told by him that he had an hour to decide about the "job offer" and was strongly advised not to trust reason and logic and not bear instincts. In solitude,Desai mulled over the dramatic turn of events which he sensed held a potential of immeasurable peril. But, Desai was a gambler, a risk taker, a believer of destiny and fate , and hence was not reluctant to take up the offer, which he acknowledged not with much delay, to the interviewers great surprise and delight. He was told that he would immediately be deported to the house and instructions will be provided which were to be followed strictly. Lest a day, a moment, should arrive that he failed to obey, an immediate collapse of the agreement would effect.
The house he was to live in was perhaps the most extraordinary he had ever seen. It boasted of a large living room, a filthy bathroom and 2 bedrooms, although only one of them had a bed. But what surprised him most was the presence of an inexplicable colossal ground right by the house. The terrain,mysteriously seemed familiar to him, but Desai couldn't quite place it in his head. His instincts warned him and his conscience. And yet like so many of us,in dire need, he suppressed them. The instructions given to him were succinct and precise. He was to awake at 730 every morning, was to eat the same meals everyday at the same time at the same place. He was made to sleep at a precise unaltering time. His whole life seemed to be programmed and controlled,every moment of it, even the time he would empty his bowels. But perhaps seemingly the focal point of the extravaganza was that he was made to enter that bizarrely placed ground by the house at 10 in the morning every single day and a life sized portrait of a discerningly familiar figure appeared in quick motion. He was given instructions in immense brevity to lift a gun placed by him and shoot the portrait with precision, and was warned of slackness . It hardly bothered his intelligence and he went about life;if that's what one can call it; as per the script. The frequency of exercise of shooting the life size portrait was gradually increased to several times a day, which never went beyond 5 in the evening.In gore loneliness, it hardly mattered to him and he remained impervious of the consequences, if there were to be any. This bizarre monotony perpetuated for 2 years, at the end of which he was offered a deal "he could not refuse". His agreement was to be extended for 2 more years, with an increased pay, with the same exercises perennially undertaken, which he would gladly accept. His life became an epitome of monotony,and slavery. At the end of the fourth year, his employers thanked him amiably for his services,the purpose of which still baffled him; and offered to show him around the town, since he had totally remained aloof of it for the past few years. They rode him into a car,which surprisingly had no windows, eventually led him to a ground which he instantly recognized,which was strikingly similar to his previous home. The atmosphere gripped him and he felt a sense of hypnotism and submission that he had felt so many times in the past four years in the house. It seemed to be a political rally, but it didn't seem to bother his intelligence. After a few minutes, as the clock struck 10, entered a person whose portrait he had shot countless times for the past 4 years. And ironically, Ravikant Desai, the lad from Nagpur,a firm believer of destiny , was scripted and handed over his destiny, as he picked up the gun pre-arranged, pre-ordained, and shot him several times in the chest like the way he had done so many times in the past, because he knew not a life without it. The Prime-Minister of India after enjoying power in corruption for 3 years was shot down in broad daylight even as Ravikant Desai was shot in the head several times by several snipers above him. His destiny, he discovered, was monotony, of subservience of thought, of living in a closed box, in absolute slavery, to an automatic life he was programmed to live, not too unlike from our monotonous lives which we have blindly accepted.

The God of small things

2009-01-24T08:11:00.000-08:00

The mind always found solace in that morbidly disoriented setup. Discerning thoughts somehow found a voice amidst that bitter scent of tobacco, that under-rated addiction and perhaps that dishevelled background . Me and KG happened to be the first ones there. The amiable man at the shop lays out 3 cigarettes for us.The new year's resolution of quitting, jointly agreed upon at the drunken carousal the previous night had gone out the window and failed miserably. Nevertheless, it was assumed to be an unwritten law in the male code of conduct that abysmal, fragile agreements made between shots of vodka were redundant when subsequently rationality was restored. We lit our cigarettes and KG scavenged through the ruffled newspaper by him, and bore an exaggerated look of belligerence. He tosses the paper aside,takes a drag and opens the conversation.
" This Mumbai thing was terrible,dude. So many casualties? I was actually kinda disturbed when it happened ."
"Really?"
A pause and a few drags later he remarks "Maybe not.But I would have been, had i been a different person " masking what little sophistication and articulate skill he possessed, evoking a laughter.
"No dude. But seriously, think about it. Security and governance,even today, are as pathetic as it can get. I mean" (pause,2 drags) "terrorists could just barge into our college and bomb all they want and no dog would even realize it".
"Ya!, right! I am sure terrorists are scheming right now to bomb and exterminate the likes of you and me,coz we're such hot-shots.That seems very likely. Besides, why you worried.We can talk all we want, but nothings gonna change."
(pause/1 drag) " Forget this college. Forget you and me. Isn't it a little obvious that things have to change in this country? I mean, you cant get more bullshit governance than this. 200 people die and a state minister says trivial issues like 26/11 happen in cities like Mumbai. You have ministers giving site-tours to directors over our misery. Its pathetic." He hangs on to his cigarette and takes inexplicably longer drags.
I ask the personable owner for a coffee. He obliges. We both start walking back even as i sip onto my coffee. KG is done with his cigarette,not with the conversation yet. He goes on.
"And you have these human rights freaks, that seem hell-bent on saving terrorists' asses. Its ridiculous. You remember that Batla house encounter. That Sharma took 6 bullets in his chest fighying valiantly and Arundhati Roy and Amar Singh come out and claim that the encounter was staged and call him a traitor ruing over freedom of speech? " in an appalling tone accompanied by a slight shake of his head. I am awe-struck at his unprecedented outburst of poignancy and patriotic fervour. I don't express it.I give an air of nonchalance.
I fling the coffee cup to the side. " Its the system dude. 'm telling you. Me and you can debate all we want but nothings ever gonna change. We should learn to accept that whatever change we seek is gonna happen despite the system, least because of the system"
"The system? You know, this term has been used far too much to cover up for our incoherence in dealing with issues. You can reproach the 'system' all you want and demand for change, and yet you'll never stop chucking coffee cups onto the streets, wont you?"
" Come on dude. How's that gonna help? You think me doing that will actually help?" I say garbling up something in my defence pleading innocence.
" Its a start, ain't it? Perhaps something not lacking in this country is scope for improvement and opportunity. You feel somethings not right, protest it. Democracy gives you power like no other."
" Perhaps.. But, realistically it ain't gonna happen. 15 years down the line, me and you are gonna be on the 16th floor in our cushy air conditioned offices licking our bosses ass and at least one of us trying to save a failing marriage. All this razzmatazz trash talk will seem pretty mundane in our rambled lives then. Its impractical,illogical."
" No dude.. I actually wish people elsewhere in fag shops are having this kinda conversation. Somethings gotta give dude. I really wanna do something." he says feebly, pretending to be absorbed in thought.
Even as we walked back to the block, I realized that KG, someone who wouldn't so much as change his jeans regularly,today staunchly talked about changing and challenging a disfigured hideous system,confined and crippled by crooks like you and me; for the country he took a certain pride in.I could rubbish his dogmas and chastise his theories,but it had to be accepted that he was in some way right.
Perhaps, it seems to be lost in oblivion that patriotism is not enunciated when we deliriously tear our clothes when Sachin hits a century,but when we make sure that, that coffee cup belongs to the dustbin, not when Shilpa Shetty 'bravely fights' racism, but when we fight poverty grabbing it by its horns, not when we perennially reminiscent Kapil Dev lifting the cup, but when we reminiscent the unnerving sacrifice made by a youthful Satyendra Dubey, an IIT-grad, who was found brutally murdered trying to blow the whistle over a few corrupt bureaucrats.

But even amidst decaying apathy and clothed in relentless cynicism breeds hope across the country, not on 10 Janpath or Race Course but in insignificant coffee houses, in sleazy bars, in tacky fag shops, in high end restaurants, in cozy homes, deceptively meek slums,people who listen to angels within them, trying to brew their own little revolutions. Perhaps, at the risk of sounding ridiculously extravagant it has to be said that the street side torn-in-strife chap in rags whose portrayal of celebrating life unconditionally in all its hardships, which was hitherto mistaken for subservience,was indeed a face of defiance,of resilience, of hope; in hope of a better tomorrow, which now rest upon us.

Yes,WE can!!

2008-12-20T22:55:00.000-08:00

Despondency has hit the streets as angry citizens are flooding the roads with placards, top notch celebrities are expressing disbelief, terror and solidarity, heads of state chiefs and bureaucrats are rolling and there seems to be an unprecedented feeling of animosity towards our system. 26/11 is unequivocally our enemy's most successful accomplishment, and by far our biggest intelligence failure. Secularism and our sovereignty balances itself on a perilous fringe that has hitherto indeed stood the test of time. Look at the facts. We live in a land that has never attacked, never plundered. We live in a land that perhaps can singularly pride upon its non-violent past. We live in a land where we refused to kill to win our freedom. We live in a land that has a woman president, a Muslim Vice President , a Sikh Prime Minister, at the hands of an Italian born national and a fundamentalist Hindu opposition. We practice every religion known to mankind, speak languages the numbers we've lost track of, boast of every ethnicity that has ever existed. We're incredibly warm hearted, duly progressive and aspiring in consciousness. We've been extremely tolerant, immensely patient and yet pleasantly cynical. Our resilient middle class is endearing and persevering,and yet imbibes unmistakable resentment. We have successfully managed to build a multi-ethnic vibrant functional democracy in all glory. Where is it that then that we've faltered? What is it that still makes 15 percent of our population to live on less than a dollar a day? What questions nag us that make us a country with only the have lots and the have nots? We've been left grumbling about our unscrupulous politicians whom we've fallen prey to. We've succumbed to a whirlwind of cheap divisive politics. We find ourselves in the midst of a cynically adamant, morbidly corrupt and bankrupt Pakistan, a disturbed Afghanistan, a treacherous Bangladesh, an emerging strong Communist China and an insignificant Sri Lanka. Our middle class is as impervious to politics as much as our poor class is gullible to. We have complained far too long. We have never had the conscience not to spit on roads, not to throw garbage mindlessly, and not to resort to bribes. We've resorted to our comfortable cushioned sofas in our luxurious living rooms and our elephantine lazy butts do not want to go out there and fight for a good cause. We may cease to be a third world country soon, but our mentality still seems third world. We want change to happen,never want to make it happen. We wait for an Obama to sweep us away with his rapturous speeches and rejuvenate our maligned political and bureaucratic framework . Change , we've certainly believed in, but,pain, we've always lived in. We've never guarded our vote with the sanctity it deserves. We live in a land where me and you can stand for an election based upon a common ideology, yet we've never. On the other hand,ours is still a system which will never let Tianmann massacre to happen, we'll never compromise on the lives of innocent citizens trapped in hijacked planes,unlike Israel. We've long complained to make stringent laws on population control emulating China, but we'd be the first people to protest against it on humanitarian grounds. In the past few years,we have developed in confidence as a nation, we are no longer meek and submissive, no longer subservient. The country,let alone the world itself, cannot afford to have an ineffectual Indian middle class. We are engulfed in boundless opportunities and possibilities, yet we face a myriad of problems to deal with.Perhaps,terrorism is just one amongst a long list. Perhaps the whole issue of terrorism is a little hyped. Thousands die due to disease and hunger in our country every day, lakhs still live in hunger and acute poverty. Perhaps, terrorism comes under the several miscellaneous problems we face. Perhaps, the poor in Bihar did not care about the recent terrorist attacks, perhaps the deprived in UP are more concerned of managing 2 square meals a day. Perhaps, education is our standout priority. Nonetheless, 26/11 has been a symbolic attack on our sovereignty exposing our vulnerability,our insecurities. Perhaps, in bleak times we sense an uncanny spirit awakening, a need for monopoly of virtue. Perhaps, this is our pre-ordained calling to politics of principles and virtue, of responsibility and a sense of patriotic fervour. Our tradition teaches tolerance, our philosophy teaches tolerance, our Constitution practices tolerance, let us not dilute it Let this emotion not fade away like the beautiful sunset in Kashmir.Let us demand questions until we ourselves realize we all along knew the answers, let us assume the mantle upon the value system bequeath by our founding fathers.

The hypocrisy we believe

2008-11-16T06:41:00.000-08:00

There’s perpetual talk of how banal the bollywood outfit really is and how oblivious of reality and fantasy prone it is. One self proclaimed king of bollywood, shahrukh khan has inevitably never escaped this callous criticism. I, for one, have never been an unabashed fan oh his exuberance or his presumptuous self. And I actually don’t find myself a loner in this thought. You’ll always come across people who claim to find Khan’s antiques ludicrous and his sense of cinema bunkum and inane. A person of this nature will also pride upon voicing this perception ardently. It is a different matter that he invariably never misses any of his movies nor his interviews or his over the top shows. Again, it is a different issue that he in turn seems to be his greatest critic. As most of us although, he too enjoys the ostentatious glamour and glitter, which by all means is snobbish in his cinema. The women are unbelievably pretty, the locations and backdrops out of this world and the costumes seemingly straight out of Armani’s personal closet. The plot, though, is a little obvious and superficial and the emotion bluntly honest and in your face. This person thus will come out of the cinema hall grumbling and complaining how awful the plot was, how ‘insipid’ the acting performances were and how in your face the glamour was. The truth is he enjoys it; he never fails to catch in on the promos of his upcoming films and always keeps a keen eye on his releases. No wonder in one of his interviews Khan nonchalantly exclaimed “People who say aren’t my fans are plainly lying”. No one could have put it any better. His honesty is appealing. His high spirited confident soul brings in a rare energy. His flamboyance is hard to miss and yet his sophistication shows. It also helps that he’s well educated, well read and also very well informed. Thus, it's never that Khan plays the character on screen but represents various other characteristics, which appeal to larger masses. We’ll always have the Naseeruddin Shahs and the Aamir Khans and the Rahul Boses whose screen presence always mirrors the character, who have exceptional acting capabilities. .Shahrukh Khan himself, though, may not be playing the character in the movie flawlessly, he may not seem to “Get into the character” and he may always seem to be Shahrukh Khan playing Raj, Shahrukh Khan playing Rahul, but it appeals and millions adore him for that. Just for the sheer exuberance and the energy he portrays and the sophistication he manages to bring along with it, like me, it has been a treat for millions to watch him.

Midnight's children

2008-11-12T09:05:00.000-08:00

Bread earned from the sweat of strife and the persistence of a transfixed rapt goal is by far the most satisfying form of reward. It sounds a little less extravagant if your transfixed rapt goal is to survive in a demeaning mob of filthy gluttonous creatures(read NiTkians) and the glorified sweat of strife is from a person( magnanimously referred to as SwAmI. I’ve deleted the hyperlink to SwAmI, coz he needs his privacy) who is indeed serving you the bread (read vadapav, half fry, Singapore fried rice etc). People familiar with this obscurely painted picture (in turn read filthy gluttonous creatures) can take solace in the fact that they’re now equipped to handle the greatest of obstacles, the most insurmountable of physical challenges and simply the art of ordering food in a night canteen at peak hour 00:00:00, when all reasonable clocks reset, but the werewolf within a hungry NiTkian come to life. It’s an enterprise in which the mob has shamed the prehistoric barbarics and the SwAmi has challenged the nuances of the famed six sigma.Yup.The famed Night Canteen.

The constant flurry of ‘swami swami’ notwithstanding, SwAmI nonchalantly delivers fried rice after half rice after vadapavs. (For those wondering who/what SwAmI(S, A, I are capitals) is, it’s an NiTk innovative way of addressing of, quite literally, any person in the world). At SwAmI’s helm is another slight grizzly haired sWaMi (notice W, M are capitals here, for brevity and clarity of anticipative mistaken SWAMI identity), whose exploits of preparing Chinese (read INDIAN) dishes is legendary(read not so legendary). As if to complete the package, a sordid Kannada song complete with morbidly obese heroines plays on the screen. In all this frenzy does the process of satiating one’s hunger is successfully achieved.The average NiTkian thus is fed.

Now, is it me or does the food there ironically taste good?

AND NOT SO MANY MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP

2008-10-18T13:23:00.000-07:00

Aec test cancelled..ahh.. This is d life I ordered.. I heard a few comrades lament and let out moans.. As m about to reiterate to the person to my right how insipidly psychotic people can get, I smell smoke..(Buzzzzz) I wake up from my slumber..Damn. It was a dream.. It’s not an alarm clock that brings me back to reality..Alarm clocks amplified with a million mosfets don’t trouble my sub conscience.. Nicotine fresh from my roommate’s throat never disappoints. My roommate is staring into the window with eternal gratification(cig) in his hand.. Of course it’s burning out(rapidly).. I compel him to give a couple of drags.. He’s not amused..He bemoans n takes it away.. I scramble across to the mess n gulp in what looks like chapathi.. I discover later tat I was wrong.. The early-sunshine- tobacco hits my head as it hits me ’m late for class.. 3.5 min later(‘m quick) m standing outside the class with the prof 5 min into the class.. I find an accomplice who shares my grievance.. We make schemes to execute a blitz krieg through the back door.. Our plans are foiled as reality hits us.. We quietly walk though the front door trying to look as subservient as we can(the arrogance showed though)with the glare of the sullen prof transfixed upon us.. He promises us to give no attendance(a promise no one has yet reneged)..I give my accomplice a discourse on how cynical n psychotic ec really is.. He agrees..I get a sense of gratification.. We start scheming yet again to launch a blitz krieg this time to get outta the class room.. Reality hits us, as the Prof gives a squeal “MOSFET” n I cover my face n let my subconscious mind fantasize of a world where internal quizzes get cancelled.. EMW207 surprise test.. Ahh.. The dream.. DAMN..Murphy’s laws ..Occur at the worst possible time at the worst possible place(I smirk thinking of the irony).. shud ‘ve known better.. I curse Murphy, the prof n myself for varied n distinct reasons.. I cover my face once again as the paper is put before me, with disgust and absolutely no remorse.. Needless to say exam goes terribly wrong.. I go back to gleefully discover that sachin’s broken the world record thus ensuring that the day will be etched in history as the next big thing to happen in Indian history(first been his debut of course).. I spend the day watching press conferences and jobless people heaping praise upon him.. Aaj tak reports that he had the dal sachin had for lunch had too much salt and that the president of Venezuela seemed not to care about tendulkar’s record thus implying that afro-asian relations are strained.. I have dinner double confirming that its chapathi ‘m eating.. ‘m reassured.. In the meanwhile the tobacco I consume keeps getting diluted with my blood with the usual inane conversations that accompany it.. I promise myself and a few others that ‘l give up smoking.. People no more seem to bother.. Vexed I rally around the corridors looking for fags.. Having failed to do so I come back bury my head under the pillow, lose all hope in life and lose myself in deep sleep..

THE PURSUIT OF FAGS (HAPPYNESS)

2008-09-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding ludicrous, it’s gloriously fascinating how a man’s pursuit of his wants mediocres the want itself. The need to accomplish his ordinarily insipid aspirations is seemingly both gratifying and wholesome. One distinguished yet rather despicable class of men who affiliate and conform to this emotion would have to be The Cigarette Smokers.

The line of thought in a man’s distraught mind in the metamorphosis of an amateur smoker to an addict holds tremendous juvenile interest. A smoker who starts out on his advent, irrelevant of his reasons (/xcuses) wants to be eventually ADDICTED. Any hint of addiction initially sees light in him getting addicted simply to the thought of wanting to fag. He finds good company, forms a “respectable” social circle and thus begins the transit. The conversations during smoking among the amateurs revolve around the fag itself. The finances of the whole idea seem less then overwhelming. He finds the idea of sourcing out fags very exhilarating and delirious. He then transcends to the next phase. Here monetary state of affairs dominates circumstances. He scavenges and scouts for loose money, gets frenzy if his temptations are not satisfied. The conversations during smoking now seem to evolve around arbitary issues ranging from Fidel Castro’s downfall, to Indian Cricket’s domineering global presence. This phase is immeasurably delightful. His companionship base is strengthened, he unconsciously starts framing faging etiquettes with his comrades and thus the whole smoking business leaves an indelible inannulable impression. He proceeds to the next phase where smoking ceases to be an addiction rather a way of life. Smoking becomes as integral part of him as breathing itself. The financial setup stabilises, forms lasting friendships and the previously inane conversations are now non-existent. His routine of when to and with whom to fag sets in. He innately now has a very important figure to remember on a daily basis-the fag count. We now behold an ADDICT-whose IQ levels seem to fluctuate with his fag count. The inanity of the situation seems mesmerising. The transformation into the dreaded last phase, which always occupied his subconscious mind, now awaits him, where consequences or Karma of his past sins of the diabolical addiction hit him square in the face. Eventually the addiction drives him to his deathbed, and yet unperturbed his addiction remains uncurbed. Consequently and predictably he dies an arrogant, egoistic addicted, grotesque rascal, who all along knew that the means was definitely better than the ends. The pursuit of fags is officially over.

seen it,been there,done it all..

2008-08-14T03:32:00.000-07:00

D intricacies of life neva cease to astound u..Its magnificent how a stumble is always followed by a distant silver lining... A pot of gold at d end of d dark ,mysterious tunnel seems probable... Oblivious to d uninspiring tunnel u perspire and traverse to d other end... U discover tat d gold promised is a mere hallucination.. Disappointment is followed by a lack of self belief causing a string of failures.. A silver lining again comes to u and u find urself in d mysterious tunnel again.. D mighty rise to d occassion again, d prudents fail... Neva let hope and faith perish coz when gold does really exist u may fail to recognize it...

What's going on?

2008-07-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

He loathe going to the those fancy restaurants with another guy. 2 guys dining at a Chinese outlet seemed a little immasculating, to Robin. To Robin, 2 guys meeting anywhere was homosexual.

Robin:Hey. I hear this place is terrific. They even teach you how to use the chop sticks. I 'm no good with the sticks.I hate the sticks. But i want to use the syicks. Coz i hate it so much.

Gary:Me too.I hate the sticks.But you know what else is different about this place? Its got waitresses. Have you ever seen a Chinese place with waitresses? Its odd is'nt it?They always have only guys working at these places.

Robin: Ya.That's a little weird.

The waiter comes and cleans up and places a candle on the table.

Robin:Hey hey. What do you think you're doing. What's with the candles? We're not..... You know.

Waiter:Of course sir. I'm sorry. I'l get them out right away.

Robin:Can you beleive that guy? I've been here a million times and the waiter still thinks 'm gay.
Gary grins. Robin frowns.

Gary:Which reminds me. Any luck with Genie? Have you gone past the "How are you"s to her yet?

Robin:No no. But once,I almost got to the "What did you do today?" part.

Gary:And?

Robin:It was 8 in the morning.
Y bursts into an uproar. He stops laughing when the waiter comes to the table.

Gary:A leefo rice for me and an Koithai for the pretty man here.
Waiter smiles.Robin frowns.
Half a minute after he orders he looks at the table beside him.
Gary: Damn. I should have taken a Chopseuy.

Robin:So anyway tomorrow's her birthday. I'm kinda in a fix.

Gary: Why did'nt I take the Chopseuy?

Robin: You can fret about your food later. Bigger things are at stake here.

Gary:What's the problem?

Robin:Tomorrow's her birthday. What do I do?

Robin:I dunno whether I should wish her. I mean, I barely know her. I dont think she even expects me to know that tomorrow's her birthday.i don't wanna come off as too desperate?But bare in mind I AM desperate.

Gary:No. No. You should wish her. You like her right? Then you should wish her.

The waiter gets the noodle. He does'nt bring any chopsticks.Both are secretly releived.

Robin:In person?I wont be running into her anywhere.I cant pop in at her house?

Gary:No pop-in. Of course not.No pop in at her house.Everyone hates a pop-in.
You can run into her at the supermarket or somewhere?Can you make a neat stake-out?

Robin:Which 21 year old goes to the supermarket on her birthday?Don't be ridiculous.Besides,I don't think i can pull-off this stake-out. I think i should call her.

Robin:In any case 'm no good talking face to face. I stink. I'm very good on the phone. I won't have to worry about what to wear and stuff.

Gary:Give it a shot anyway. Go to the supermarket. See if she's there. I'm pretty sure you are going to go.

Robin:K. I'l go. But I always stifle when I meet her in person.

Gary:Ya. You're no good in person. Besides, you can't refer to your notes that you make for what to talk on the phone.

Robin: Very funny. Anyway. I have her number, but she did'nt give it to me. I got it out of the college yearbook. She's gonna ask how I got her number, I can't tell her the truth.

Gary:She's not gonna ask. Divert her atention before she says anything else. Start talking about grades of people in your class. Girls love to bitch about others grades.

Robin:No. Then we'l end up speaking about my grades. I would.nt want that that.I'l make something up and ask. Not the grades though.

Gary: This rice is no good. I knew I should have got the chopseuy.

Robin:I thought we moved on from that.

Gary:Give a little of that noodles you got.

Robin:Ok ok. Anyway, what time do I call her?I think the timing of the call is very important.

Gary:It sure is. How about at midnight. Be the first one to wish her.

Robin:No. I barely know her. Midnight calls are for the boyfriends. People tend to remember midnight calls.I don't wanna be remembered.I hate to be remembered. Who wants to be remembered?

Gary:I like to be remembered. But,how about 8 in the morning?That's a pleasant time.

Robin:Ya. But morning's a forgetful time. No one remembers the things you do when you get up.Its like when you are drunk.

Gary:I thought you said you did'nt wanna be remembered?

Robin:Ya. But i did'nt wanna be forgotten. There's a lotta difference between being
forgotten, and not being remembered.

Gary frowns.
Gary:I certainly don't mind forgetting the last 15 minutes of my life.

Gary:So, anyway. How does 11 in the morning sound?

Robin:No good. Tomorrow's a Saturday. And 11 is easily the busiest time on a Saturday.

Gary:What about 2?

Robin:Na. The time between 12 to 3 is out of the window.She may be having lunch aound them. I don't wanna be calling her when she's having lunch, do I? Lunch conversations are very short-lived.I don't care for them.

Gary: That's moronic. You do know you can't call her too late.

Robin:Why not?

Gary:I heard from Dona that she's inviting people over for dinner. If you call too late you may not get an invite.Even if you do get one, you can't go, cause then you'll come off as very desperate, which you are. Any dinner invitation needs a 2 hour buffer. No self respecting individual would go for a party with less than 2 hours notice.

Gary:Of course, the self respecting part may mean it leaves you in the clear.

Robin:That's hilarious. You done with the jokes?

Robin:Anyway, it means that I got between 3 and 5.So i'm thinking 3 should suit me well.

Gary:No can't do. Bold and the Beautiful comes on TV at 3. I hear girls love that show. Its a stupid show you know.

Robin:You watch it?

Gary:Of course not. You?

Robin:Of course not.

Awkward silence. Both of them watch the show.

Robin:Ok then. 4 it will be then.

Gary:I still think you should be calling her at midnight. It gives a good sign to her.

Robin:No . I'm still not ready for that kinda commitment, I think.If I'd known her for like 3 more weeks, I would have been qualified to be making the midnight call.

Gary:Alright. I'l try the midnight call then. We'l see what she says.

Robin:Beleive me. You'l get clobbered.

The following evening, at around 6, Donna gives a call to Genie.
Donna:Hey. Happy birthday once again. 7.30 right?

Genie:Ya. Come over to my place. We'll go together.

Genie:Anyway. The funniest of things happened. You know Gary right. He called me at midnight. That was so sweet of him. So i invited him for the party. It was so nice of him to remember, dont you think?

Donna:Oh ya. Did Robin call? I'd slipped in a word to him that it was your b'day?

Genie:You know what? I ran into him at the supermarket. He saw me but pretended not to have seen me. That jerk. He kinda had a stifled look on his face.What a moron. He called me up at 4 or something. Maybe to apologize. I did'nt lift. The hell with him.