This is my life.

What's your Catch Phrase?

2018-11-06T22:44:00.000-08:00

Dad and Younger Son (YS) are having a bed time chat.

YS, referring to his elder brother: “What do you think is his catch phrase?”

Dad: “I don’t think he has one. I don’t think anyone in our house has a catch phrase or a pet phrase”

YS: “Every time he keeps telling me - How would you feel if your son did something like this? – I think that is his catch phrase”

Dad: “That, he is just saying because you are always doing some or the other mischief and doing some hazardous, risky stuff, and he wants you to be safe and understand things from my perspective.”

YS: “But it is so annoying!”

Dad: “Maybe what you are doing is also annoying for him. You have to understand, be considerate and look at things from other’s perspective also na? ….. Anyways, do you have any catch phrase of yours?”

YS: “I don’t know. You tell. You are listening to me. You know”

Dad: “I don’t think you have any. Do you think I have any catch phrase?”

YS: “You don’t have any catch phrase, but you keep singing weird songs, and that is very annoying, especially when I am studying or doing my homework”

And just as he said that, dad ejects his usual periodic wind “ptttt prrr ptt ptt ptt prr ppttt ptt prrrr pttt …..” and a reeking stench engulfs the room.

YS jumps up and begins to run out of the bedroom screaming: “Oh my God…….. What is this?”

Dad: “It is Diwali my son. I am just bursting some safe crackers.”

YS, as he is running out covering his nose “This is very annoying. You must have some decency” and further adds dad’s advice verbatim “You have to understand, be considerate and look at things from other’s perspective also na?”

Few minutes later when the stench has subsided, YS walks in and tells “Papa, you don’t have a catch phrase. You have a fart phrase”

Dad replies: “Like this?” and goes on again “ptttt prrr ptt ptt ptt prr ppttt ptt prrrr pttt …..”

YS screams “Oh no! Again?” and runs out of the bedroom warning everybody of the hazard in the master bedroom.

कैसे बत्लाऊ में ........

2017-11-15T06:04:00.003-08:00

कैसे बत्लाऊ में, में कितना चाहता हूँ तुम्हे

कैसे मनाऊ तुम्हे, के तुम भी चाह लो मुझे

क्यूँ मेरी बातों का नहीं करती यकीन तुम

क्यूँ कहती हो में जूठा हूँ, नहीं प्यार मुझको

कैसे समझाऊं तुम्हे कैसे यकीन दिलाऊं

के जिसने चुराया है नींद-ओ-चैन मेरा, वो तुम ही हो

वो तुम ही हो, जिसकी हर बात खुश्बू सी सजती है

वो तुम ही हो, जिसकी हसी बारिश की बूँदों सी चुभती है

जिस के आने से, एक भीनी सी हवा चलती है,

वो तुम ही हो, जिस के ख्वाबों से मेरी महफ़िल सजती है

वो तुम ही हो, जिस में खो जाना चाहता हूँ में

वो तुम ही हो, जिस में हर वक़्त खोया रहता हूँ में

‘जाओ बात नहीं करनी’, बोल कर जब रूठ जाती हो

जाने अंजाने में मुझे मायूउस छोड़ जाती हो

में फिर रात भर तुम्हारी यादों में खोया रहता हूँ

अपने ही आँसुओं में खुद को भिगोया रहता हूँ

मिलोगि कभी तुम मुझे, यह ख्वाब पिरोए बैठा हूँ

मेरे हाथों में होगा तेरे हाथ, यह तस्वीर संजोए रहता हूँ

में जानता हूँ, बस झूठ परोसती हो तुम

‘नहीं चाहती में तुम्हे’, जब यह कहती हो तुम

याद है तुम्हे वो हर बात, जो है बरसो पुरानी

फिर भी कहती हो के ‘नहीं याद करती में तुम्हे कभी ‘

में जानता हूँ, मेरा खुदा जानता है

अपनी दुआओं में अक्सर मेरी खैरात चाहती हो तुम

अपने हाथों में थामे मेरे हाथ,

मेरी आँखों में डाल के अपनी आँखें

कह दो एक बार बेझिझक, नहीं चाहती हो मुझे

चलो, यह भी आज़माइश, तुम कर ही लो ……

मुझ को जला कर, तुम खुद की अग्नि परीक्षा कर ही लो

ख्वाहिशों को मेरी मोक्ष, तुम तार ही दो

में जानता हूँ, तुम कभी यह ना कर पओगि

अपनी चाहत को भले ही छुपा लो, कभी ना जुठला पाओगि

क्यूँ की, जब भी मुझे छूओगि, मुझ से नज़रे मिलाओगि,

मेरे नबस में अपनी धड़कन, आँखों में खुद की तस्वीर पाओगि

फिर कैसे यह झूट दोहराओगि, कैसे होठों को अपने समझाओगि

नहीं प्यार हम में, यह कैसे सिद्ध कर पाआओगी?

Exams and all…

2017-10-05T07:14:00.003-07:00

Those who know me well, or those who have read my blogs know that I have had an unusual kind of relationship with exams; some of you may term it as ‘complicated’. Now, for some time I was living in a state of bliss, believing that my trysts with exams are all over, and that’s what I thought, but now it has returned to haunt me in the form of my lads’ struggles.

As my boys struggle and break their head with their version of aliens, Miss. Manga Malayalam and Mr. Jhandu Hindi, I am dragged back into my very own fear zone. In many ways, I fear that I will end up becoming my own parents, or the parents of my close friends, whose acts I largely despised. Remember their acts of going to the terrace and turning the TV antennae in the wrong direction, so that we lost signal reception, or their act of hiding away the VCR, the audio cassette player and our Tinkles and Amar Chitra Kathas, and then telling our playtime friends in typical Malayalam accent “o nehi aa segtha … o pedh reha hai… thum jaao ….ooska exham hei”. This writing is just to tread past that fear by making it all sound comic and insignificant to myself.

Until last year, the exam pattern in CBSE schools was so very convenient. Kids had to just study the portions for a particular trimester and then forget all about it after the exams. Now the shitty guys in the Centre have gone back to that same archaic system that traumatized my generation, and it just gave me a shattering current of déjà vu down my spine, when wifey informed that the lads will have to study the whole book for their final exams! Set aside that shocker, she only added salt to the wound, when she said that, maybe Mr. Jhandu Hindi won’t go away after one finishes Secondary School, and that he will stay on to haunt the family through the kid’s Higher Secondary schooling. I am crestfallen; feel roasted, shaken, stirred, abused et al, some of which are unmentionable here.

As the only adult male in the house, I took it upon me as my moral responsibility to find a solution to this problem that has besieged it, and was also working towards making a robust counter attack plan, but it so happens that I have been asked by the High Command ‘not to interfere’. More shaken, more stirred and more what not! But on second thoughts, I think she was right. What counter attack plan can you expect from a man who tutors his son about the ‘Desi Maals of Bhojpur’ when asked to teach ‘Decimal System of Mathematics’ or form the guy who until recently thought that the feminine gender of ‘Pea-cock’ is a ‘Pea-pussy’.

Yes, academics is not my forte, and beating the juggernaut of exams convincingly is not one at all. I can tell this with conviction recalling my many humiliating encounters with it in the past. My 1^st semester exams in Engineering gave me a whopping 6 back papers, the ordeal of back papers continued through until my 7^th semester, where at one point of time I was sitting proudly upon a pile of 14.

In many ways I have polished my skill in writing by scribbling fiction in my answer sheets. Sitting through exams for Science, Management and other such descriptive subjects were easier and pleasurable too, because it gave me a lot of scope and space to write. I have made some marvelous discoveries, inventions and written some profound, yet rib tickling and thrilling short stories in some of my Science and Management answer sheets, alas all of those papers are now lost. One incident that I can recall in particular is when I was doing my Masters in Ahmedabad. In my hostel, we were preparing for our Project Management Exam which was due next day, when my Brother-In-Law dropped in, and suggested me to join him at his place promising that he would drop me back the next day just in time for the exam. Now, since his newly wed wife had asked him to go and get her brother, he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and on the other side, my friends and classmates advised me against it, and wanted me to stay back and prepare for the test. My BIL threw in his final bait, the ram-baan, or should I call it a Chapatti shaped Sudarshan Chakra. He said that my sister was making phulkas for me, and by God, let me tell you, no one makes better phulkas in this world than my sisters. I had to bite the bait, although my jealous roomies tried to hold me back, I left. Next day the exam went well. As usual I wrote all that I had learnt and filled the pages with the right Project Management theories, rationale, doctrines and what not. I was really happy with my work, and even went on to poke my jealous friends’ envy bones describing the soft fluffiness of the phulkas, and the feeling of bliss one experiences when one relishes those tender, succulent chicken pieces right from the warm rich, spicy, aromatic chicken curry that my sister had prepared and had my mom’s trademark seal all over it. My mouth still goes watery when I think about it, but let me tell you, on that day, when the answer sheets were distributed I watered not only from my eyes, but also all the unmentionable places in my body as my professor and classmates had a field day discussing my revolutionary Project Management ideas in the classroom. On that fateful day, my love affair with Miss Phulka died. Although I have remained a foodie, I haven’t looked back at that bread with fondness ever since.

My worst enemies were always Mathematics, Analysis or anything that had to do with complex engineering calculations. Most of the times, my Mathematics, Mechanics and Structural Analysis answer sheets returned with zeroes all over them. It is a fact that I have contributed more zeroes to Mathematics than the great Aryabhatta or Brahmagupta or Bhaskara or any other great mathematician that has walked the Indian soil, but whatever, I have never let those achievements corrupt my humility and humbleness. I think, and I believe that it is one of my greatest rewards and God’s appreciation of my great valor and fortitude that my lads are finding dealing with numbers and complex formulae a cakewalk. My wife however has the funny misconception that this is her lineage and tutorage. How silly of her!

Now, it is not that my very own tortuous affairs with exams ended with my college days, I did face some big exams after that and I must humbly inform that I did come out with flying colors out of them, although I know that my examiners must be now regretting their decision to pass me. J The first one was when I passed an unwritten test, and a silly girl finally agreed to marry me. Later, with a lot of help from my friends and colleagues, I did clear two online exams for professional accreditations. As of now, I am already due to take one more such accreditation exam, which I have already procrastinated for 4 years. Now hey, it is not that I am scared or anything, it is just that I want to give this test its due time. I am planning to take that exam by the end of this year, and when I do that, I am planning to take a week off from work and everything else, shut myself in the store room on the top floor, throw off my mobile phone, shut off the wifi in my house and ban friends and family from my life. You know drastic times require drastic measures.

But frankly, it is my opinion, that whoever you are and whatever your age or gender be, exams, its preparation and its results must not flutter or fluster you. It must not disrupt your normal life. It pains when I see these little lads and their parents going through all the stress, and it hurts when I see that they have to sacrifice their precious ipad, TV and play time, confined to a desk and a chair, behind a pile of books, with the only sight of a fuming, overzealous tutor of a parent in the front. This sight is really disheartening.

Life must go on as normal. We must play, we must engage in our routine sports, we must do our extracurricular stuff, we must party, and we must have our family gatherings, rituals and functions. These things must not stop or be discontinued or even take a break because of some routine exam. That reminds me, we are invited for two parties this weekend, and both are sure to have lots of exotic spicy Indian food, awesome company and both the invitations come with unwritten assurances that the night will be totally laced with ghee and glee. Of course, we won’t be able to make it; we will be busy confined to our desk and chair, hidden behind books, preparing for the exams.

Times spent with her

2017-04-27T05:00:00.002-07:00

Waiting for her time is a good as being with her
because every minute that I wait,
I am filled with her thoughts
and every thought that I think..... she is mine
She listens to me, never objects
Tends to my request, never denies
She stays with me, never leaves...
then she comes along and takes me to new high
and then, when it is time... she leaves
and I repeat that same rigmarole all over again

A PRAYER FROM OUR DEPARTED

2017-03-20T23:47:00.001-07:00

They make us cry, now that they are gone

Yet, make us smile, with each memory

Their still photo frames remind us of the emptiness

But when we close our eyes, they are back to life

Just close our eyes, and we can see them

Take a deep breath, and we can feel their scent

Listen to the silence, and we can hear them talk

Stretch out our arms, and we can touch them

They are here, somewhere around, not gone

Not forever

For, forever they are here, as long as we are alive

Living in our hearts, instilled in our memories

Reminding us, about the times that we’ve share

The good ones and the not so bad

Our hugs, our kisses, our fights and our misses

That secret spot forever in our heart,

Yet the needless grudge that took us apart

“Time is short”, they say from the heavens of our heart

“Raise your souls, open your arms, wake up.

Share a meal, say a prayer, talk, reconcile, make up.

For when one is gone, the rest will mourn,

left with a needless scar that was so easy to heal,

with just a hug, a tear, a sorry, a thank you,

that came from a true heart, which was real”

Note: Wrote this for the 'In Memoriam' section in our 2017 'Baby Beach Cousins' family Calendar

मुस्कुरा देना

2016-10-26T02:11:00.000-07:00

आज बीती गम की शाम सही,

इस रात को भी बीत जाने दो

कल फिर एक नया सवेरा आएगा,

खुशिया भर के लाएगा

कल फिर बारिश होगी हल्की हल्की,

फिर फूल मुस्कुराएँगे

भावरे भिन्न भिन्नाएँगे,

चिड़िया चह चाहाएँगे

गीली मिट्टी की खुश्बू लेकर,

ताज़ी हवायें आएँगी

छू कर तेरे गालो को,

तेरे बालो को उड़ाएगी

फिर चूम के अंखियो को

तुझे प्यार से जगाएगी

तुम बीते कल को भूल कर,

होठों को तिरछा करकर,

चलो, ग़लती से ही सही

मगर थोडा मुस्कुरा देना,

ज़िंदगी को सबाह देना

इस नये दिन को दुआ देना

जिस ने गुदगूदाया तुम्हे,

वक़्त बे वक़्त हासाया तुम्हे

झूठी बातें बोल कर

जिस ने हौसला दिलाया तुम्हे

अपने ही अंदर छुपे

उस सरकार को सदा देना

तुम बस …… एक बार मुस्कुरा देना

एक बार मुस्कुरा देना

Like a Rainbow

2016-07-31T22:23:00.000-07:00

She is like that flower
Drenched in the rain
Warm, moist, wanting
Eyes closed, but yet not
Lips like petals, tender, lazy
Shy, shining, wet, inviting
Enticing, calling out the sun
“come out and shine on me” She says
“through the stained glass window”
“filter your rays, paint me a rainbow”

I am the bee, that shiny stud

That sits on her nose
My eyes locked, lost into hers,
Mesmerized, spellbound, melting
My lips desirous, though left wanting
Wish I could glide along those tresses
Careless, casual, desultory
Fallen across her visage
Painted in beautiful colors
Like the rainbow

I wake her up and hum her my best ode

She pretends asleep

smiling, twitches the corner of lips, cheeks glisten

I walk my fingers over her belly

she wriggles, she writhes, crackles and giggles

and shakes her body like a jelly

Heavenly, luscious, divine, Irressitible

I pull back, I try to, but I can't hold the sting

violetty blue to orangish red, grows on her my hickey

Like a rainbow

Lament of the group chat leaver.

2016-06-10T05:23:00.000-07:00

mohabbat karne waale kam na honge

teri mehfil mein lekin ham na honge

- Hafeez Hoshiarpuri

Translation:

You will never be short of people who love you

However, I will not be there in that gathering anymore

For the past few days, this above couplet from Mehdi Hassan’s smash hit rendition has been stuck somewhere in my heart, and keeps oozing out of my lips and ringing in my ears. Just like an adamant child throwing a tantrum, it does not budge off from there, follows me wherever I go, and I tried hard, but it just does not just go away. I think, this has to do with an old habit, and since old habits die hard, I know this one will not go away without taking a part of me with it, and when it does, I know it will end up hurting me badly.

Many moons ago, in one of my earlier lives, when the world was kinder and I was a just another wise old fakir, whose blabbering went unnoticed, I had, in an extinct language, once said:

“The bruises on my feet tell the story of all those beautiful places that I have visited,

and the bruises in my heart tells the story of all those beautiful people whom I have betrayed”

How true that saying was then, and how true that saying is even today!

How true, though I do not think anyone heard me that time, and maybe that is why no one used to judge me by my utterings. It must have been late in the evening and I was probably walking in a dimly lit deserted street with that quintessential bowl in my hand, singing my heart out, wastefully entertaining people with my muse; people who probably had better things to do, than to listen to my gibberish. Nevertheless, I kept doing that, while humbly accepting, thanking and blessing my almsgiver for not throwing their leftovers into the bin, but into my bowl.

Although that old fakir has died long ago and although his soul has changed bodies, gender and moved on, the core of it has more or less remained the same, albeit with time and along with the depletion of the ozone layer, this soul too is a bit adulterated. I must admit, that in this birth, I may sound suave and look classier, but I am also sillier and crasser than ever before. What I have gained in my appearance, I have lost in my outlook.

Earlier, I used to walk along the streets in my haggard, torn unwashed one-piece cloak, singing soulful couplets to naïve ears, while allowing them to accumulate punya in return to dropping a morsel of their leftover food into my bowl. I used to be stoned, mocked at and forbidden for my dirty cloths, the odor and those dread locks. No one paid heed to the words of wisdom that I poured out.

Nowadays, I strut with stylized swag, my face glows with artificial radiance, shampooed tresses sway in the air, and a fake scent gives credence and acceptance in this worldly place. I entertain my frenemies with my wasteful creative banter, and whatever is remaining of my dying cherub on the various online chat groups. I provide these so-called sensible and mature, friendly enemies with just the right amount of gentle banter to keep them cheerful during the drudgery called workday; load their weekends with juicy supplies of my antics to gossip on my back, all this; all while knowingly getting myself labelled immature, crude and lacking in etiquette.

I was never accepted then, and I still am not.

I guess it is time to take refuge in the first line of my long lost couplet. It is time to move on. Move on to another beautiful place, where again I will entertain people, just to end up ridiculed, punished, stoned, crucified and ultimately be praised and resurrected in absentia.

Yes, it is time to move on, not because I like it, but because my soul says so. My soul asks not for redemption, but for more pain and I ought to give it what it seeks, because only I can suffice my need for pain, no one else.

As I leave and go without any explanations, I know my chat buddies will brand me an absconder and accuse me of being a betrayer. Little do they know that a betrayer goes through more pain than the one who is betrayed.

If you are the betrayed one, the whole world around you, including time comes to your rescue; empathizes with your situation, helps you fight the pain, applies remedies to your bruises and carries you to healing.

At the same time, how harsh life turns out for the betrayer! How harsh, that the world that was once your friend whom you entertained and performed for, this same world now gathers on your back, gossips about you, mocks you in their little private parties and discusses stories of your leaving while you are left fighting your demons all alone, in solitude. It is harsh, because not only those exes, but your own soul, your own conscience, and the passing time, puts you to test; it fills you with guilt, kills you from inside, keeps the scars alive, just to remind you of your betrayal. How harsh. How so very harsh!

Time to leave. Time for more pain.

The Al Ghariya Incident

2016-03-04T16:47:00.001-08:00

The one about desi maal.

2016-03-04T16:28:00.000-08:00

It is March again, and only my God and the walls of my house know how much my household hates the first two weeks of this month. This is the time when schools conduct final exams for the year. The lads hate it because their iPad time is squeezed from hours to minutes and their playtime is shortened to the least possible. Mommy hates it because she is juggling hard between fulfilling the needs of her three boys, tutoring/preparing the two lads for their exams, and ensuring that I am nowhere near the lads’ study table. I hate it because I am banished from the living room and also because this period is an anniversary and a grim reminder of a silly event from the past.

This happened last year, that is, when my elder one was in 5^th grade. By this time my situation was not as worse as it is now. Until February last year, I was allowed to tutor math to my younger lad, that is additions and subtractions only, but not multiplication or anything to do with English grammar; and also allowed to assist my wife in tutoring the elder one on ad hoc basis, on easy subjects especially when she had any important or unavoidable task in the kitchen or bathroom to attend to. Albeit part time, both I and my kids took great pride in it, because they still believed that I was intrinsically intelligent and knowledgeable as I had graduated in Civil Engineering from a prestigious Engineering College (their grandmother kept telling them that) and I was working on a large city development project (I kept telling them that). That was it! Then came March.

It was one of those hateful days in the beginning of March, it was final exam time, and I had just walked in home form another hectic workday of crushing candies, watching raunchy Bhojpuri videos and pampering my boss’s ass. You never know how time flies when your eyes are stuck on a Bhojpuri bhabhiji’s hip gyrations and your ears are lost in decoding the double meanings in her song. Needless to say, by the time I regained my senses and decided to drive back home, all my colleagues had already left and the office lights were switched off. It was pitch dark, and with great difficulty I managed to locate what I believe was the washroom door next to my boss’s cabin and peed into the first thing that felt and smelt like a urinal. Anyways what I intent to say is that I was late, pretty late, and that it was a tad bit later than what the definition of late actually is.

That day as I entered home, I saw a disaster struck Mommy with volcanic fumes and what not ejecting out of her ears, teaching math to an almost sleepy kid, who appeared equally disaster struck and holding back a tsunami, waiting to break free from his eyes. The younger one though had fallen asleep on the recliner.

I took a few steps in and my lad jumped off form his chair and ran towards me, hugged me and asked how my day was. I replied back saying “Very hectic son, very hectic and busy. I am so tired”. Mommy, the tutor looked up at me without lifting her head, with the sightline above her glasses, her eyes filled with aggravation, as if accusing me of coming home early and causing disruption to the kids studies. It is only when I enquired “What’s for dinner?” that she realized that it was already past 8:30PM. She got up and ran into the kitchen begging “Half an hour just give me half an hour”. I somehow dragged myself to the master bedroom to freshen up and change as my son zipped past me into his bedroom and in no time started to play on his Xbox.

Although I was home, I was not quite done with watching my favorite videos, as those holi and choli numbers kept lingering in my brain. I quickly changed into my nightwear and switched on my laptop, plugged in my headphones and got lost in my Bhojpuri world. Never realized when I got into the groove, and posited myself into an imaginary hammock. I placed my feet on the computer table and slouched myself in to the chair with my head resting back lazily in the cup of my arms. Swinging in my imaginary hammock I hummed ‘maal desi maal desi maal desi maal’ with my eyes closed. Never realized that someone opened the door of my bedroom and entered in. Never realized that, that someone was my 10-year-old son. My trance was broken only when I felt his little warm hand on my shoulder. I jumped off the chair, scampered for the controls, couldn’t locate them, and in the process ended up dropping the mouse and breaking it. Nevertheless, I somehow managed to shut off YouTube and stand straight in front of my son and ask him sternly “What are you doing here, don’t you have anything to study?”

He said “I want you to explain me this desi maal thing”

“What?” I screamed back in a hush voice with my eyes almost popped out and shock written all over my face.

“I won’t explain anything to you. Go back and study” I said

He screamed “Amma, look this papa is …….”

I stopped him midway “No beta no. Don’t tell Amma. I will tell you everything. All that you want to know about desi maal” and I took a deep breath and began.

I started with explaining him that desi meant anything that is local and therefore anything Indian for Indians was desi, and that maal meant merchandize or product. So the term desi maal actually only meant any product that was Indian. He didn’t seem convinced with that answer. He seemed rather lost with that explanation and stared at me like I had gone crazy or what.

I always knew that my lad is smart kid, and so I couldn’t trick him with a placebo, and so I started explaining about the real stuff. I started with explaining him about UP, Bihar, Nepal Border, the language Bhojpuri, taught him a few Bhojpuri phrases and reached to the festival of holi, ched-chad, Devar-Bhabhi relationship, Mahua TV, traditional Bhojpuri numbers remixed into bollywood item numbers etc etc. I even sang to him two lines from my own Bhojpuri compilation:

Hamar padosan chamiya badi hott lage loo

Desi gori choriya, Europan lage loo

Chamiya ka jobanwa, atom bomb laage loo

Dilwa kare dhak dhak, humka shock lage loo

The explanation must have lasted for some 45 odd minutes, at the end of which I was feeling great and accomplished. For the first time in my life I felt that I had actually transferred important knowledge to my progeny. It was a masterstroke, and my chest bulged with pride. Pride, that I had actually explained something as complicated as this to this gulf-bred kid. But the gulf-bred kid seemed more lost altogether. He looked back at me with blank eyes, as if I have been talking to him in gibberish or some alien language and showed absolutely no sense of gratitude for the immense knowledge sharing that had just taken place.

It was exactly at that point that mommy called out saying that my dinner was ready, and this lad grabbed the first moment of my distraction, sneaked out, and ran away. I thought he ran away to play his Xbox, but he actually ran down to his Amma.

I stood there thumping my chest, brimming with pride and oozing self-love.

My self-admiration vanished as I opened my eyes and turned myself to walk down to the dining table for having dinner. Mommy stood there with disgust and disdain written all over her face and spewing dragon like fumes from her nostrils. One sight, and I shuddered with fear. I looked for a leeway, but she had already cornered me.

She screamed “What is this? You can’t do even one thing properly? That kid has his math finals day after tomorrow, and all I wanted you to do was help him revise the chapter on decimal system. You couldn’t even do that much? And what rubbish have you been talking to that little 10-year-old kid? How irresponsible and immature can you be man?”

That was it.

:-(

Yaadein

2015-09-29T23:51:00.001-07:00

Tere jane ke baad teri bohot yaad aayi

Aankh band kiya to tu samne khadi thi

Nazron mein tu hi tu samayi thi

Seene mein jahan dil hai, wahan teri parchayi thi

Palke uthayi, toh tera koee pata na tha

Magar gird mein ek bheeni si khushbu chaayi thi

Dhoond raha tha mai magar, tujhe phir bhi shaam-o-saher

Gul mein, Galiyon mein, abadiyon mein jahan hum ne shaame bitayi thi

Phir shaam bhar baitha raha akele uss teele par

Jidhar hum ne saath-saath jeene marne ki kasme khayi thi

Phir yaad aaya woh vaqiya judayi ka

Jis din tum ne choda haath mera

aur maine khayi mein chalang lagayi thi

And it’s gone!

2015-09-17T08:21:00.001-07:00

Dil ki choton ne kabhi chein se rehne na diya

Jab chali sard hava mei ne tujhe yaad kiya

Excuse no: 1 - FEAR

It has become customary in our house that every night after we say our prayers in the master bedroom, my wife and lads leave to the kid’s room. There my wife reads a story to the boys, and as soon as the story telling session is done, my lads run down back to the master bedroom and fling themselves on to the bed, over me like freestyle wrestlers, pin me down and fight each other to smother me with good night kisses and wish me sweet dreams.

Usually during the gap time, when the story telling is happening in the adjacent room, I am engaged with my iPhone, doing one of the many things, which are; crushing candies, putting words on scrabble, making raunchy dubsmashes, clicking my semi-nude selfies, watching Bhojpuri Bhabhi videos or typing crap on whatsapp! Yesterday night, I decided to do something new.

During the earlier weekend, I had bought myself a new beard trimmer, and I thought this was the best time to try it, and so I headed to the bathroom with it.

Few moments later, as I was working with my beard, I heard my lads run into the master bedroom and throw themselves on to the bed, laugh loudly at not finding me and then leave trying to figure my whereabouts. My younger lad Yo though was a little bit more inquisitive. He decided to peep into the bathroom, and in his inimitable style, he kicked open the door. He stood there stunned, all agape, with his eyes as big as mine are when I watch those junglee padosan videos on YouTube’s Bhojpuri channel, and mouth as big as he usually makes it when he sees his favorite Tuna Sandwich coming his way.

For some time, under the backdrop of utter silence that was punctuated with a little creak from the door, droplets of water trickling down the tap and a faint fart that I ejected, we both stood there staring into each other; I into his mouth and he on to my chin. There was a sparkle in his eyes, dimmed by a tear perhaps, which seemed to pose these two questions: What have you done to yourself? Why have you done this?

I took a step closer to him, put down the toilet set and sat down on the closet leveraging my left hand on his right shoulder. He took two baby steps closer to me without breaking his line of sight from my chin, and I told him the reason in a heavy hush voice.

“Look son, I know you loved my beard. I loved it too, but I could not take any chances. Next week it is bakri eid, and I had to play safe”

Excuse no: 2 - FREEDOM

Long long back ago, when people used to live predominantly in the villages, and footwear was a luxury item, a wise old man once said that “if you want to find out where all a person has travelled just look under his feet” and that was true, and still holds true in many cases. On the similar lines, I’d say, that if you wanted to find out what all a man’s lips have tasted, all you need to do is check out his beard.

Come closer and just sniff the beard, and you could make out what toothpaste was used for brushing his tooth, if he had coffee or tea in the morning, and if the sandwich that he had from Kauser Cafeteria was cheesy or spicy or both.

If you do not believe me yet, let me suggest you this test. Go to Old Delhi or Lucknow or Allahabad or any other such city in UP, and catch hold of any stray mullah walking around in the street. Chop off a part of his beard and smell it. I bet it would emanate the scent of the betel leaf masala that he regularly chews, so much that you could conclude if the mix was Banarasi or Kalkatti or whatever.

If you are an experienced paanwallah, I am sure you could just smell the beard and make out the recipe of the paan with the exact measure of each condiment of this customer’s liking. I have read somewhere, in some imaginary ancient book, that this is what exactly some of the connoisseurs in pan chewing actually do. They just go to the kiosk of their favorite paanwallah and stand there pointing their bear tips to his nose, and the paanwallah extracts all the info required. And in some extreme cases, if a person has the nose of a dog, this scent could also take him to the kiosk of the paanwallah from where this beard owner had his last chew.

Now, this is just about a betel leaf, this same thing is applicable to beer, cigarettes, hookahs and any other unmentionable thing or location where a man loves to put his lips and tongue.

I agree that it is difficult for a woman to find out if the beer or hookah was had at a pub or a friends place, and if the friend was a male or a female, but you cannot cheat a woman when it comes to the scent of a woman. I hope you understand what I mean.

So the question, should a man risk revealing all his secrets just because of this beard that looks good on him? Or, should he not just leave his chin clean shaven and live a carefree life above all suspicion?

This man chose the latter.

Excuse no: 3- FILTH

Just read this article: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-3067622/How-filthy-beard-Study-claims-facial-hair-contain-faeces-dirty-toilet-not-experts-agree.html

After reading this article, I decided to shave off my beard.

The truth: MISTAKE!

As each of the above three header reads, they are nothing but excuses, just simple excuses. The real reason why I shaved off my beard is that I shaved it off by mistake. Yes, by mistake. I used the wrong number for blade adjustment and the wrong side of my new trimmer and so inadvertently shaved off my goatee, leaving a shaved patch at center of my jaw, and then I had to take this extreme step of cleaning it off.

I really feel so naked and unprotected without it.

Stroking the beard was my favorite accompanying activity during pondering and now I feel totally at loss of thoughts.

Huh! All I can do is wait for it to grow back.

So, while I am waiting, let me use this time well. Let me call the cafeteria to pack me a take away of my secret cheesy spicy sandwich that I can have on my drive to home. I can always mask its scent by chewing a sorbitol gum.

Or, better still, should I call my friends up for a session of beer, some tequila shots perhaps followed by some hookah and Sex on the Beach. Anybody coming?

Sarhadey

2015-08-24T07:32:00.001-07:00

Pahadon pe sarhadey kheech di aise

Jaise bacche aangan mein gharonda khel rahe ho

Aur shehron ke saath viraasat bhi baant di aise

Jaise bacche uss khayali ghar ke, kamrey baant lete ho

Yeh lo mera hua khwab-gaah aur mujhe mila Meer, Dard aur Ghalib

Yeh lo tumhara hua Majlis aur tumhe le lo Faiz, Josh aur Iqbal

Yunh khud ka kar diya hum ne batwara lakeerey laand ke

Aur phir pee liya zehar gaaddha itna, ki abb tak halak se utra nahin

Yeh kya kam tha ke phir dil mein nishtaron se daairey khured diye

Ke pair zameen par rakkho aur haat khoon se rang jaate hai

Aur inn ka kya karey jin pe koee kaboo nahin, yeh havayein, yeh baadal, yeh chand aur sitarey.

Chalo inn ka bhi kar le batwara, inn par bhi kheech le sarhadey, tabhi toh koee baat baney

Brothers – Movie Reivew

2015-08-23T04:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening I went for a Bollywood movie, but unlike how I usually do, this time I did not proclaim it through an FB status message. Maybe, because this time I was supposed to write something more about the movie, a review perhaps?

The promos told me that this was a movie about mixed martial arts, vengeance and estranged brothers fighting to win prize money. However, as I found out, it was not so.

The movie I watched was, the Akshay starrer ‘Brothers’. No, you cannot call it just an Akshay starrer; there are lots more to this movie than just Akshay. Although, he played the role of elder bro ‘David’ and rocked as usual, Siddharth Malhotra playing the younger bro ‘Monty’, who is shown entering into the fighting cage to grab his respect and make name for himself, rocked harder.

It is a men's movie, and both brothers are shown struggling with a mixed array of emotions ranging from anger to sadness to despair to vengeance and that is evident from the first shot you see of them. A mix of emotions, that reminds you of the lead character in Agneepath, although not to that extent, but somewhere around there and no doubt, enough to remind you that the director is the same guy, Karan Malhotra. The only time you see them happy and playful is when they are shown as kids.

If the lads managed to set the screen afire with their anger and brute force, there is our good old Jackie Shroff who plays the role of their father, a strongman whom time has broken down and someone who manages to leave the screen moist and melancholy with his sadness and guilt. Then there is Pasha, played by Ashutosh Rana, who brings in the much need romance into the fighting cage with his couplets and poetic one-liners.

Albeit there are a few women in the movie, but they do not really grab your attention that much. Kareena comes in for an item number, throws a few thumkas and jhatkas, but does not manage to even give you a goose bump. Jacqueline plays the role of ‘Jenny’, that is, David’s wife and unlike the item girl; she does manage to get a few scenes to her credit. Somewhere midway the movie, there is a long flashback scene where Karan shows us how David and Jenny fell in love. It is boring. This is the time you guys must target to go for your middle-of-the-movie washroom visit. Then, there is a cute six year old girl who plays the role of David’s daughter and who herself is a fighting a war of sorts, and the main reason why he is forced to get back into street fighting.

Someone told me that this was the remake of a Hollywood movie named ‘Warrior’, but I knew that this would not be just another copy as it is, it would have its own Indian masala and Bollywood flavoring in it. My guess was right. This movie too had its own cliché bollywoody moments:

Men from Mumbai’s coastline are strong, they love violent sports/activities, they have a bad temperament, they drink, and they cheat, they make babies outside the home, they destroy their families and drown themselves into a cesspool of guilt.
A younger brother, however strong he is, he cannot beat his elder bro. He could use the vengeance he has towards his elder bro and channelize it to beat the pulp out of guys much stronger than his brother, but he never will be able to beat his elder bro.
Cute girls dig serious angry young men.
Mothers are strong people. Irrespective of all odds, they tie the whole family with an invisible chord and keep them bundled as one, and when the leave, they leave the whole world in total disarray, and all relationships fall apart.
No Indian man would ever enter a cage and fight his brother merely for money. Either he should have a genuine want, like money to treat someone ailing in the family or he should be a real villain, a real bad man.

Now, Monty is not a bad man, and so he had to have a reason that is stronger than you can imagine, having this extent of vengeance for this elder brother. If you were a Bollywood movie freak, you would get the inkling well as the movie proceeds, and that is where Shefali Shah comes in. She plays the role of their mother, and what a wonderful job she has done at it.

So, unlike what the promos tell you, this movie is not about mixed martial arts, vengeance or estranged brothers fighting to win prize money. This is about a mother and her two sons. This is about family. This is about sticking together even when everything seems falling apart. This is about how callous men can be. This is about making mistakes, mistakes that are fatal. This is about making amendments for those mistakes. This is about forgiving and being forgiven for those mistakes. This is about reclaiming your family. This is about wiping your tears from the past and smiling at the future with moisty eyes.

Watch it, because, never ever has it happened that you have been moved to tears watching two men fight in a cage in a professional event.

Watch it, because as the punches are thrown and as you hear the bones crack you will feel an adrenalin rush but eventually when the hearts meet, your tears will flow, and you will start melting from the inside.

Chahe manzil ho jaaye paar

2015-08-19T16:03:00.001-07:00

Mahino, din bhar teri tasveer ko dekhte rahe

Tu itna badal gaya kaise, pooch te rahe

Jawab kuch mila nahin, raha buss yeh gila

Kahan muskurahat gayi teri, kaise tujhe yeh gham mila

Woh taqat, woh dilayri jiss ki tareef karte they log

Kaise bikhar gaya, kaise toot gaya abb pooch te hai log

Na toot sakta hai tu, na mera tehseen tere liye

Yeh ilm tujhe rakhna hoga mere na toot ne ke liye

Zindagi lambi nahi, yeh soch ke tu chal

Jo aaj bikhar gaya usey samet ne ko nahin koee kal

Kya hua jo aaj makan tera hai jala bujha hua

Jo aag tere seene mein hai usey na hone de dhuan

Yeh udas, yeh thaki hui teri aankhe sudhar le

Ja uss kafir ki baddua se iss mein bijli sawar le

Ek aag, ek vehshat apne andar tu paal

Ke laut aaye woh shaan aur rutbe wali teri chal

Ke abb thhan le, kabhi bhi na manenga tu haar

Na kabhi rukega tu rah mein, chahe miley mushkiley hazaar

Chahe manzil ho jaaye paar

That mad house called workplace!

2015-08-11T02:00:00.000-07:00

mere rashk-e-qamar tune pehli nazar

jab nazar se milayi maza aa gaya

You reach your office well in time, and just as you park your car, this wonderful Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan qawwali starts playing on your car stereo. The couplets ring a chord in your heart, you decide to wait until this one is over, and as you do, you slowly melt in his mesmerizing music oblivious of the pangs of your work life. As it is always, this singing Buddha takes his own time, yodeling, chanting throwing you into a psychedelic spell from where you just don’t want to return.

But alas, like all good things, this one also has to end. It ends, and you are forced to shut down the engine and alight.

At the office entrance, as you swipe your attendance card, you realize that you are late to work, again! The watchman looks at you, nods his head in dismay, and leaves a sorry sigh. You smile back at him and walk away.

You climb the stairs and lazily walk down to your desk, and as you do, you are confronted with the sights of a typical middle of the week workplace. People dressed in crisp formal wear. People scurrying around, running helter-skelter with sheaves of freshly printed paper in their hands, taking and giving orders. Not everyone is tense; some are content too, having breakfast at their desks, chatting on their mobile phones, ogling at pictures of their friend’s spouses on Facebook, leaving the loo after a satisfying dump.

Happy faces do posit a smile on your face, but alas, the sight at the end of the corridor vanishes it off. At the end of the corridor, right next to your cubicle, you see your boss standing with a grumpy smile on his face. Upset at your late coming, he throws a straight simple question “Have you sent me that file?” in a stern voice. You immediately transform from this smart office worker into this lost kid with innocent face and ask back “W…Which file, Ssss… Sir?”

His face turns red; his hands turn into fists and his feet moves front and back, as the body gets in position for a boxing match. That move is enough to teleport your lost spirit back into your body, and you blurt out “Ah, that report that you asked for yesterday? I have done it. Just give me half an hour. I will email it to you” At this point, there is utter silence in the office; just like someone has pressed the pause button, and everyone is staring at you both, waiting for the next move.

Eventually, the boss speaks. “Okay, I will wait” he says with a look that’s two degrees more sterner than the previous one and leaves, leaving you with a slight shiver and almost wet pants, because only you know that there is no such file like that!

You crawl down to your desk and a smartass wishes you “Good Afternoon” at 7:45 in the morning. You dump your bag, slouch into your ergonomic German office chair, and switch on your computer, open YouTube, search for ‘maza aa gaya by nusrat fateh ali khan full’, put on your headphones, close your eyes, dissolve and teleport your soul to some dargah across the border. Bliss!

mae-kade pe barasne lagin mastian,

jab ghata ghir ke chayi maza aa gaya

Rishtey

2015-07-29T15:09:00.001-07:00

Iss dasht bhari veerani mein

Kya khoya, kya paaya hum ne

Raith ke in teelon mein

Rishton ko bikhraa paaya hum ne

Iss mast mahaul ke andhere mein

Khud ko apne mein dubaya hum ne

Jab aankh khuli subah savere mein

Jaam ka kya, woh saaki bhi gavaya hum ne

Iss rishton kay juaa khel mein

Aaj poonji gavaya hum ne

Joh teri muskurahat thi meri aankhon mein

Aaj, usey bhi udaas paaya hum ne

Hum ishq ke naam ke parindey hai

Jab se yeh parr lagaya hum ne

Udd te the teri aanchal ke saaye mein

Woh parwaaz bhi aaj gavaya hum ne

Kitne toote rishtey hai

Kitnon ko gavaya hum ne

Kureda jab raith ke teelon mein

Apni hi laash paaya hum ne

A lesson for Bhai.

2015-06-12T09:42:00.001-07:00

Conversations between a dad and son

Friday, 12 June 2015

Background: Yesterday we had been to a late night party where I drank and had to be driven back. This one happened when I was driving Yo to the kids Saloon for his usual haircut.

Yo: "Papa, I think it was such a good idea, what we did yesterday."

Papa: "What?"

Yo: "Remember, we went for the party yesterday, and you had kalla and Amma drove us back. It was so good, because we all reached home safely and we didn't kill anyone on the way."

Papa: "Ya right"

Yo: "I think, it would have been nice if only Salman Khan had made his wife drive the car"

Papa: "Ya, but he is not married.... What to do?"

Yo: "That is the problem. I think Salman Khan should get married. Then he will not do any bad things anymore"

Papa: "I agree. That is such a good idea" (Why should Salman Khan alone keep having all the fun? He too should suffer marriage.)

The trip of a lifetime.

2015-05-24T19:56:00.001-07:00

Dil dhoondta hai phir wahi fursat ke raat din

Baithe rahe tassavur-e-jaana kiye huve

It is not even ten hours since I dropped my BFF at the Schiphol Airport, and I am already missing him like hell. I am aboard the second leg of my return journey, on a near empty flight from London to Abu Dhabi, and it hurts to see an empty seat next to me. He chose to fly an early flight to London this morning and preferred to stay back for the night. I hope he is having a good time.

What I spent, was one of the best escape journeys of my life since those good old college days. Spent three extra long twenty hour days with a best buddy, whom I have known for twenty five years now. Attended consecutive gigs by Gods, whose music I have been fan of since I started listening to music. Drove through one of the most beautiful country sides, got hashed and lap danced. Had a chance meet up with a very sweet bhabhiji, who exhumes sweetness that is more akin to that of a badmaash and kamina bhaiyya, in Europe, reminding me of how we met for the first and only time, bumping into each other some twenty odd years back on the Andheri Bridge, as she walked tugging along one of my buddies from CREC. It was all so good; what could I have asked for more?

What could I have probably asked for more? I did. I hoped to meet up with a chuddi-buddy whom I knew since childhood and with whom all links were lost since 1989, the year I finished school. A buddy who was, and I believe is still more than a brother. Yet, alas! I couldn't meet up with him as his work didn't permit. If we had, this would've definitely been the best three days of this lad's bachelor life. That way God is great, He never gives you everything in one shot. He makes you yearn for it, and keeps reminding you of this beautiful couplet:

'Har kisi ko mukkamal Jahan nahin milta,

kisi ko zameen, tho kisi ko aasmaan nahin milta'.

So true. So so true, and so for next year, I am already planning another trip into this beautiful land with my wife and kids. Maybe, I will meet him. Maybe like Ghalib once said, next year I might get lucky -

'Dekhiye paate hai khushaakh butoon ki kya Faiz,

Ek Brahman ne kaha hai ke yeh saal accha hai'

Yes. I hope the remainder of this year, and the next year, and all the coming years are harbingers of good fortune, better revelations and best times yet, in general for everyone. God Bless!

I am now, strictly of the opinion that each growing up man must make this similar kind of 'Pilgrimage Trip' or at least a 'Trip to Amsterdam' with a best buddy with whom he can open up and share all his secrets. Especially for all the men who are from this part of the world (read: the country where I grew up and the region where I currently live and work), such a trip to Amsterdam is at the least a must! I feel so because it has taught me few very important life lessons:

1. It is important to have a best friend outside your immediate family, someone in whom you can confide all your fears and secrets. Someone who will not judge you but listen and empathize. Someone who will not comeback, yet always be there.

2. Have a good work-life balance. Spend time with your dear ones. Respect their individuality, their uniqueness.

3. Respect nature. Use only what you want, do not waste. Don not spoil it. Be closer to nature all the time. Return back what you can.

4. Respect your health. Run, but if you can't, then walk! Exercise. Keep fit.

5. Make time for yourself. You are primarily a living being, not a machine.

6. Be grounded all the time. Shun superficiality. Give away what you have in excess, including food, money, time and love.

7. Never be judgmental. Respect others for what they are. Do not impose your ideas or ideals on others. They may look and act different, but actually it is you who is weird!

8. It is okay to break the rules, as long as you are not hurting anyone (include yourself)

9. Do not abuse. (All forms included)

10. Sex is not necessarily the culmination of love. It is just a necessary evil. A necessary evil like eating, drinking, security, respect, potty, soo-soo or breathing.

God Bless!

Free Speech

2015-01-12T02:39:00.000-08:00

I am surprised at the amount of support these Paris Journos are getting; these world leaders, who in their own countries have used all the wrong means to suppress free speech, marching up, giving statements supporting freedom of speech; then that huge rally yesterday and then all the footage on TV, amazing! All this for a bunch of guys whose parents didn’t teach them how to respect others sensibilities.

See, my wife allows me to write whatever crap I want to about her on my blogpost, but would she appreciate me writing something very belittling and demeaning about her even if it was true, just because I have the freedom of expression? My foot she will! From the next day onwards, I would be sleeping with stray cats in the backyard.

My best friends allow me to share adult jokes with their wives, even a little bit of flirting is tolerated, but could I go ahead and make an indecent proposal just because we are adults and we all appreciate and propagate freedom of speech? That would be pure catastrophic, do not even imagine the consequences of it!

So, how long can anyone or I tolerate someone who thinks otherwise? How long can anyone tolerate someone who has taken up on annoying others under the garb of free speech?

For instance, how long can anyone tolerate that annoying fly buzzing around ones ear, making that eerie sound? You can either, draw your blanket over your head and let it go by its job and hope it finds another customer, or you can cover your ear with a plug and let it explore some other open hole, like your nose or open mouth or someplace else. Whatever you choose to, you will soon realize that a fly crawling on your body is more annoying than one buzzing around your ear, and at one point of time, I am sure you will pick up a newspaper roll and whack it flat.

Freedom of speech cannot be absolute. It has to be used cautiously, and with restraint, or else, like Newton once said, every action will have an equal and opposite reaction, and the strength of the reaction will not be based on what you perceived to have conveyed, but on the basis of how your free speech was received.

Everyone will retaliate in their own way:

Most people will mumble, grumble and go to sleep, some will get angry and debate, some will write a blog or post a tweet, some will break a furniture or two, someone will instigate people to react, someone who has a strong fist and is in close proximity, will land a punch that breaks your nose, someone who is aggravated and has an axe might even chop your hands off, someone else who has gone wrong in the head and has a gun in his pocket will pull the trigger at you……. then don’t complain.

11 years of domestication.

2014-11-28T17:36:00.002-08:00

Eleven years of nomadic life with a man whose middle name is Inertia and two very boisterous lads who seem to be generously endowed with bottomless pots of energy, notoriety and mischief, home making can end up seeming more like a roller coaster ride than the routine drab called housework. Particularly in that aspect, I can vouch that marriage has certainly made my wife’s life more exciting! At the least, more exciting than what she experienced during her nubile days, that is her final days of freedom just prior to tying the fatal knot with your humble friend here.

In these eleven years, she has moved lots. She has experimented with cooking, failed at it, burnt her fingers (and I mean it literally) and finally I must confess mastered it. She has moved on from being a carefree girl to a sensible, accommodative wife to a responsible mother of three (yes, three if you include me too in it). She has mastered patience (managing two boys with diametrically opposite characters, wants and needs requires patience, and do not forget the third one orbiting around, that is me!). She is now an expert on kindergarten phonetics and all subjects up to grade V (and the grade jumps a step higher each year). She is becoming a gardener of sorts, a handyman around the house, an arts and crafts expert and a party gaming specialist.

So the question, what have these eleven years done to me? Like her, have they domesticated me too?

Well, if it is domestication, then I haven’t moved much. All I can say is that I have actually stopped moving altogether!

Before starting this family, I used to live in Navi Mumbai and work in Central Mumbai. I used to spend a lot of time commuting to work and at work itself, yet I used to find enough time to wash my cloths, iron them, polish my shoes, cook my food, clean my house and even do the dishes on weekdays. The weekend nights although were spent usually at a pub or clubbing with other bachelor friends or at their or my place boozing all night.

Nowadays, I work on a five days week shift and live at barely fifteen minutes driving distance from work, yet I do not do any of the above. Life has surely changed! Now, see I do not have to do them anymore. These chores just happen around me, automatically, without much asking. Let me also mention here that, it is not that I am burdened with my kid’s academics or grocery purchases, I don’t even drive the kids to their swimming or football classes; all those fall under her management. So, what has marriage really given me? Yes, it has given me a beautiful family and a strong and safe haven to park myself, but what apart from that?

I believe the most important thing that my family has given to me is freedom; freedom to either sloth or to go ahead and discover new findings and in the process find a new me. Whilst I agree, that I have mostly snoozed, the fact is, that whenever I have awoken up and walked, I have indeed discovered a new me. Starting with finding out that I could write, and write well enough so as to run my own blog page, and in the course, find out that laughing at myself didn’t hurt that much, but rather make a few of my friends suggest to me that I should write my own book (really? Yes!); finding out that however busy my day maybe, I could always find an hour to accommodate playing my favourite game of lawn tennis in it; finding out that it is never too late to start, so what if you are in your early 40’s and you have to learn guitar in a class full of primary schoolers? Go ahead and do it! Finding out that being fit doesn’t mean joining a posh gym, drinking protein shakes, carrying weights and running kilometres on a treadmill, it can also be achieved by sincerely doing four little four minute tabata workouts each day right here in your bedroom!

29^th November this year, we are celebrating our 11^th wedding anniversary. If we had both worked hard, by now we could have made our own cricket team, but alas, blame it on my laziness and on her busyness with the chores. Anyways, I have now bought myself a new bicycle, and on this wedding anniversary day, my lads and I have planned on our first bike ride. Hope in this new journey, each one of us will discover something new!

A Night Unplugged.

2014-10-17T16:54:00.001-07:00

It lied there, in the corner under the stair for many days now, unattended, unused and smothered with a thin layer of dust.

Every time he treaded the stairs, he would give it a passing glance, laden with guilt and regret. Today, he decided that he would do a bit more. After dinner, he sneaked under the stairway, and carefully tip-toeing amidst the strewn happy meal toys and footwear he reached up to the case. He covered his nose, patted the handle with his son’s Superman costume cape and blew out a few specs of dust, pulled out the case and stealthily carried it to his bedroom.

Once in the bedroom, he placed the case softly on the cot, sat next to it and looked down at it. ‘What should I do next? Should I open it or should I not?’ he thought for a while, and then slowly placed his hand on the case, feeling it, like a young man feels and caresses the contours of his asleep nubile lover, careful not to wake her up. With pouted lips and trembling hands, he unzipped her case. His eyes smiled and his lips glistened as he pulled her out, a Yamaha F130 Guitar.

An Indonesian beauty she was, crafted with a mix of Meranti, Rosewood and Nato, a real treat for a rock lover’s soul. He carefully lifted her by the neck and placed her on his lap.

Now, close your eyes and imagine a late romantic evening. You are in one of those outdoor Mediterranean restaurants by the sea, and on your lap, you have the woman of your dreams, with her back resting on your left hand, her eyes prying into yours, trying to find her answers. All you can hear is your breath, everything else around is still, even the sea and the wind has stopped, and as your mouths gets moist, the only thing that moves is your right hand, it flows down caressingly. Your fingers trace the contours of her waist, smooth and silky, like she has been buttered with B&WB’s Moonlight Path. You close your eyes, just to break free of the questions that her eyes are throwing at you. ‘Where were you all these days?’, ‘Do you really love me?’, ‘Are you going to dump me away again after you are done with me tonight?’ Your hand moves further up, on to her bare abdomen, and as your thumb runs over her navel, she cringes. Yes, just like that.

He plucks the strings and the strings let out a sound. The sound is melodious; as melodious as it can be, but he does not like it. It does not sound like how it does when his God, Mark Knopfler does it. He plucks again, this time again with the same result. After a few tries he goes back to the basics, just like how his Guruji at the Kalashetra taught him, G-A-B-C-D-E-F-G chanting in his mind and the strings go ‘Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa-Dha-Ni-Sa’. He likes it, and as he does that, a gush of blood inundates his heart; he can feel it swelling, smiling and asking for more.

He draws himself to the back, makes a comfy backrest stretches his legs on to the bed and keeps playing. As he practices his basic guitar lessons from Good to Go to Mary had a little lamb to Jovian Sky, things happen in the bedroom that he is oblivious about. His kids run in, have a bout on who should kiss him goodnight first, break into a ruckus, and after mediation and two raps each from their mother, kiss him goodnight and run out just like how they came in. A few moments later, his wife, who had just put the kids to sleep in the adjacent room, walks in. She starts with her bedtime rigmarole of daubing and powdering. She lets her hair loose. Starts with admiring her curly tresses in the mirror, and almost faints at the sight of his dry and chapped feet. She reprimands him for not taking care of his body, anoints his feet with a thick coat of cocoa butter cream, dims the bedroom light, changes into her sleepwear, reads a few whatsapp jokes on her smartphone, laughs, giggles, talks to herself and then falls asleep. His foot feels good and cozy, so does his heart. His body relaxes, slowly the eyes shut, and he falls asleep with the guitar in his arms just next to his wife who is already snoozing, listening to his renditions.

By now, his wife probably was dreaming of Mary and her little lamb or maybe she was dreaming about having Mutton Mandi from her favourite Afghan Brothers Restaurant, but he was not.

He had already switched on to the Mark Knopfler – Unplugged channel on the Jukebox in his Dream Train. He moved from Marbletown to Romeo and Juliet to Get Lucky to Layla and many more, and many many more acoustic jugalbandis done jointly with other great God’s of Rock music. It was an amazing night, which started with a gig on a moonlit beach, and as the night grew bolder his God plugged in a red guitar called in his long lost buddies and started rocking, and then with every song that was played he grew younger. Money for Nothing, Sultans of Swing, Walk of Life, Brothers in Arms, Private Investigations ….psychedelic he roamed backwards through those streets you call past life, he saw people. People who were sometime close to him, someone who was a dear friend, someone who was a best friend, someone who was a lover, someone who was considered unimaginable to part away from, but all who are not part of his life now. All, who are not part of his 550+ friends on Facebook, but stored safely in that special part of his life called memories, people whom he had not met for years, people whom he had met but, not like old times. People whom he would love to take back to his past, but maybe not in his future. People change, he said, he had changed, he knew. The song changed, and it finally ended it with Going Home.

He woke up with a tear in the eye. His wife had already packed the guitar back and kept it safely next to the side table. Today he had woken up unusually early, but he was not sleep deprived, he was fresh. He played an imaginary acoustic guitar as he sat on the potty seat, shook some booty while brushing teeth, banged his head in the shower, got ready for work and ran down the stairs singing ‘We gotta move these refrigerator, we gotta move these color TVeeeees…moova …. moova …..’. His wife, who was watching Food Channel on TV jumped up saying ‘What? You want to change the whole layout of this room? Are you okay? Did you sleep well sweetie?’ He just smiled, grabbed his smoothie flask held his wife by her waist, planted a kiss on lips, and said ‘I rocked baby, yesterday night I rocked’ and left.

He sat in his car, put on his sunglasses, turned the key on and turned his head to the porch, he saw his wife standing at the door, smiling and dazed, with questions in her eyes. That is when he knew he had to write this blog.

On the way to School

2014-07-19T14:51:00.000-07:00

For this Ramadan, I had decided that each week I would go out for a late night movie. The first week I had watched How old are you?, that was with my wife and kids. Last weekend I watched Bangalore Days. This weekend I waited for the movies to change, but alas, it seems that owing to their huge popularity, last week’s movies would continue this week too. In hindi, there was Humpty Sharma ki dulhaniya, but I was not too keen on that.

This weekend, after a sumptuous Iftar Party hosted by my college alumni, I was back at home, watching a late night Bhojpuri movie on DD Bihar. A movie, in which an off duty soldier takes some sort of revenge on his paternal uncle, that’s when it struck me, that last year same time around I had watched another soldier movie, The bridge over the river kwai, a 1957, Word War II classic at the Museum of Islamic Arts theater.

I quickly lunged on to my phone to check out the DFI (Doha Film Institute) app, to see what they are screening right now. They normally screen some awesome movies, some of which are even free of charge or charged as low as QR.1! The app showed two screenings, one was Amazonia, the movie about a capuchin monkey, born in captivity and now lost in the Amazon forest after a plane crash, and the other, On the way to School, a movie about four kids from different parts of the world who overcome dangerous obstacles and long journeys to attend school. Very soon, and to my dismay, I found out that, these screenings were scheduled for 10^th and 12^th July, respectively, that is last week. “Shucks!” I said, “Another case of slow updating of the app”. Frankly, I would have rather skipped the losers’ final at football world cup and watched On the way to School. But Alas!

In the moments that followed, I was on google researching about On the way to School. Frankly, I could not find much, except that there is another Turkish movie by the same name, and that, the one I was looking for is probably made in French, so now I have to find a print with English subtitles. Anyways my research had to be abandoned half way as torrent is blocked in Qatar and I would have to wait until the weekday to access it through my corporate account at work. (Now you know what I do at work! ;-P ) I could wait, but not enough, I found the movie trailer on YouTube.

Sometimes, watching the trailer is enough. It tells you whether the movie is worth or not the trouble, and this one is definitely worth it. Definitely worth taking the torrent risk!

The movie is about Jackson, Zahira, Samuel and Carlito, four children who live in four corners of the globe, that is, Kenya, Morocco, India and Argentina respectively, and all share the same desire to learn. They have understood that only education will allow them to improve their lives, and it is for this reason that, each day, they set out on highly risky journeys, through extraordinary landscapes, on their quest for knowledge. The film observes as these kids, barely 10 to 12 years in age, along with their siblings, overcome often-dangerous obstacles and enormous distances over treacherous landscapes, wild animals and even bandits on their journey to the classroom.

Here’s the link: http://youtu.be/eIsQ0B43Q9Y

Just reading about their lives, and watching a mere 90 minute clip, I was reminded of my parents and their usual rant about going to school. Their stories about they used to walk long distances to reach to the only school in the vicinity, how they struggled with their midday meal, how they suffered for they didn’t have the right books and all the blah blah. I was also pushed to think how fortunate I was. I had a proper school, a proper school bus picking and dropping me back every day, and what a fuss we kids made about it, and how fortunate my kids are, they have air-conditioned busses plying them from their doorstep to their air-conditioned classrooms, digital screens in the classes, a library, gym, swimming pool, playgrounds, canteen and what not. They have lots more than I had and I had lots more than what my parents had. Things have really improved with time, I thought.

That night, I was about to retire for the day, and as the last task logged in to my Facebook page to check for any last updates, and there it was; a close friend had posted the news of a 6 year old girl raped by two gym instructors in an international school. With that, my whole night was spoilt.

The next day, that is today, as soon as I woke up, I was on the internet trying to find out what the incident was all about. The news was all over TV. I found out that this incident had happened on 2^nd July, and despite the parents of the child having lodged a complaint on 15^th, and despite the fact that yesterday the Police Chief was in the school to talk to the protesting parents, no arrest has yet been made. Absurd! Absurd that the school failed to own up and act against the teacher who locked this little kid in a room under the pretext that she was a badly behaved child. Absurd that the school failed to own up and hand over the perpetrators to police.

Absurd and funny, especially in the light of the fact that few months back a leading journalist had molested a female colleague in lift in Goa, and despite the girl having not registered a police complaint, the molester was arrested and lodged in jail. In the aftermath, the Managing Editor of a prominent magazine had to resign from her position. The police was fast, just because some political parties had the will to push them into it.

Whilst the perpetrators of this heinous crime against a hapless 6 yr old roam freely, the school says, they are not responsible, the parents have to go on protesting for days long, they have to carry out a rally through the city, and all this time we are waiting. Waiting for the school to own it up, waiting for the law enforcement to act. All this while a little girl has to go through two medical tests and explain things to the police and other officials as if she is the culprit. Shame!

I wonder what is going on in the heads of all those school kids right now. What they think about their school? Like Jackson, Zahira, Samuel and Carlito, do they believe that School is a place where they need to go to change their life for a better, or is school a scary place that their parents send them to every day so that they behave well on the weekends, or is it some shit place that they just have to go to.

Pushes me to think, are we really fortunate to have all these facilities, these big buildings, playgrounds, libraries, these vast facilities run by emotionless morons?

Shame! Shame on our political system, shame on our law enforcement. Shame on those parents that brought up those criminals. Shame on the school that recruited them. Shame on our society that does not have a filter mechanism to drain out these kinds of people from our system. Shame!

The new girl at work

2014-03-24T07:21:00.000-07:00

‘Humein koee gham nahin tha, Gham-e-aashiqui se pehle

Na thi dushmani kisi se, Teri dosti se pehle’

Famous couplet from a Faiyaz Hashmi Ghazal sung by Mehdi Hassan

‘Change is constant’, and in a very literal sense that adage is true and has been applicable for my workplace.

The office of our big boss had been established for a little over a year now, and in this period his Secretary’s cabin has seen many faces come and go. In the past, at least six South East Asian aunts with varying high heels and bum sways have walked in, but just within less than two months of their appointment, have walked out of that cabin and their job.

Another change that has been taking place in my workplace has been the progressive increase in the number of Indian men on my project. By end of December last year, we had touched around one thirds of the overall team, and that typical crazy Indianism was all over the place.

One could spot them rubbing bellies, swaying and shaking heads as they discussed world politics in main corridor, next to the common printer or sharing lunchboxes in the meeting room or humming Bollywood numbers at the urinal and at times even ogling at the passing bum sways, gauging the thrust on the breasts and sharing a raunchy comment or two on the subject matter. So much was their ubiquitousness, that the group had collectively earned the moniker ‘Indian Mafia’. They were everywhere, and their swaying heads were into everything! They were from different parts of India, they had different accents and different food preferences, but they were a team. They were cohesive, united, close knit and connected to each other. They were a mafia with no proclaimed leader, where everyone was equal. Where everyone was a part, and together they were one.

Then, the next change happened.

During one of those dull post lunch sessions when men at work are usually struggling to keep themselves awake after their usual heavy lunch, a tall pretty woman in a pink Anarkali and flat Kolhapuri’s with a familiar head sway, kohl lined eyes, a flowery herbal scent, a nervous lower lip, and a thick north Indian accent walked into the Boss’s cabin for an interview. Suddenly there was a fluttery of activity in our workplace. Forty year and plus old men scurried around like teenagers. And within half an hour, that is the time that she was in the cabin getting interviewed, the team fished out all possible information about her with an alacrity that could put Mossad and ISI to shame.

The Mafia now knew her name; they had browsed through her Facebook, Google+ and Linkedin profiles; they knew her husband’s name, her friend’s names, details about her siblings, the age of her kids, the name of her school, the courses she took, the movies she watched, the fact that she hadn’t read much, the places she had visited, the places where she had worked before, they even established contact with one of her old known colleagues and extracted out some more crucial information. And finally, as she walked out of the boss’s cabin, from the missing twitch in her smile, they found out that she had also got the job.

For the next two days, the Mafia went about with its usual activity. While on the workstation, they kept following her movements, browsing her various profiles on social networking sites tracking her like a Satellite tracks a plane in motion. During lunchtime, they discussed their new findings, joined the dots and kept developing its future strategy. Some Mafiosi even thanked God for the prospect of finally having an Indian patakha in the office, someone who would bring phulkas and homemade north Indian subzis for sharing. Someone with whom they could share Santa/Banta jokes on their WhatsApp Group chat. Someone, by talking about whom, they could make their wife jealous. While in the washroom, on the potty seat, some of them even secretly prayed. Prayed that she would join their gang, and that once joined she would stay there until the end and inject life into their otherwise dull and lifeless afternoons.

Two days later, it was the weekend. The Mafiosi dispersed back to their individual lives. Some went back to their families and its associated weekend chores, the others to the solitary confinement of their single room apartment along with their laptop computer and external hard drives loaded with 250GB of unmentionable downloads for refuge.

When the new workweek commenced, the next obvious change had taken place. The Indian lasso was there in the office, occupying the revolving chair in the little cabin outside the big boss’s and next to the common printer.

The menfolk, who had walked in lazily and half asleep, as they normally did on the first day of each work week, found themselves suddenly charged up with some kind of invisible electrical source. They had suddenly been transformed into some kind of an electron. They were all supercharged now.

In the days that followed, one could spot them running from one end of the office to the other crossing by the big bosses cabin, collecting printouts, and in the process repelling any other particle with a negative charge (read, fellow Mafiosi) and sending out an attractive force and signal to the proton (read, new secretary) on the way.

Each one was creating his own unique magnetic field and devising new ways to attract the subject in the cabin. Whist the slowest one practiced an introduction in front of the mirror inside the Wash Room, which he could never deliver, another one dyed his facial hair and went ahead and got himself introduced, but failed to impress her. A third one offered HR to help guide her about the company’s systems and procedures, but, was curtly rejected. A fourth one offered pick up and drop services, just to find out that she had her own car and loved to drive. A fifth one donated his lunch and went hungry as she had not got her own box. She thanked him not knowing that the Chicken Curry that he offered her was actually cooked in Coconut oil, to which she was allergic. Few others who were at loss of means and modes kept perambulating across her cabin pretending to take printouts that they had not sent. They even gave her their side glances and twitchy romantic smiles, but with minimal effect.

Suddenly the daily 9.6hrs at work seemed too short. Time was flying away at supersonic speed, and before one could plan and organize the next surprise encounter at the common printer or the kitchen or outside the women’s washroom, it was five days up. The first week had already passed.

And so passed the second and third weeks.

Slowly failure and rejection had started creeping under their skin, and the Mafiosi began directing their energies from wooing to accusing, derogating and damaging the other team member’s (read contender’s) reputation. The guns, were now, trained at each other. The group, in her presence, started having fun cracking jokes and creating stories out of the weaknesses and specific traits of the one absent. So much that she had now began enjoying it. By now, she knew each Mafiosi’s handicaps and weaknesses. Albeit, she never joined the mafia for their customary lunch sharing sessions, their WhatsApp chat group or any other such rituals, she kept receiving the attention that she sought and yet managed to keep unwanted attention at bay. That’s a shrewd desi lass!

Four weeks into her arrival, the mafia was showing signs of breaking up. Each Mafiosi began building walls around and across each other. The frequency of forwarded jokes on the WhatsApp group reduced. There were no more group discussions, no more analysis of the bum sways, and no more explicit ogling in the corridor. Cracks started appearing in the team and as it looked, death of the group seemed imminent.

Then one day, with just a day remaining to spring equinox, as I sat slouched into my office chair, pondering over the fate of my mafia, woolgathering, these famous words by a great imaginary philosopher and poet of a time bygone struck me. These words that were never said, these words that were never ever heard before:

“A few frivolous moments and a woman are enough to break, what it took many men, ages to build”.

I slouched a bit further. It was just another lazy sleepy afternoon.

Then, the next biggest change happened!

I heard footsteps ‘tick tock tick tock’ coming from the other end of the corridor. As it neared me, I smelled the scent of Euphoria by Calvin Klein followed by a fresh whiff of air on my face, flower petals started raining from the ceiling, an iktara played in the background.

I rushed to the entrance of my cubicle, and stood there stunned, mesmerized, and suddenly everything was slow-mo. The gaps between the tick and the tock increased. A four feet plus something tall South East Asian Chic, on a 8 inch high stiletto. Her cheeks and eyelids painted in Coral Goddess by Lancome, Revlon lashes on the eyes; lips inviting, pouted and laden with Maybelline’s Russian Red, a confident smile; giving side glances to all the Mafiosi lined up agape on both sides of the corridor, like a vista and falling off one after the other as she crossed. Her shoulder high hair let loose and bouncy; dressed in a crisp black suit on a knee high skirt covering her near perfect Barbie like measurements; a few jewelry here and there, sparkling, and yet struggling to keep up with the twinkle in the eye walked in, in to the boss’s cabin.

As she crossed me, with that ‘let’s get naughty smile’, like my other desi colleagues, I too fell flat in the corridor, on my back into the bed of roses below.

I lied down there, in the corridor, dazed, smiling, enthralled and stupefied. At the other end of the corridor, the big boss’s Secretary stood outside her cabin, next to the common printer, in her green and pink combination salwar kameez with her left hand on her forehead, the right left akimbo, looking at us with that typical disgusted Indian Aunt look on her face, and murmuring north Indian expletives. She also heard three distinct sounds. Firstly, the sound of my HR Officer shutting the door of my boss’s cabin, then, as my podgy boss fell off his chair, a loud earth shattering sound, which shook our temporary office building and knocked us back into our right senses, and finally my HR Officer’s hyena like laughter.

In no time, the men stood up, huddled into a group, just like the Indian Cricket Team does before a crucial match, after which the office witnessed a similar scene from the past:

Suddenly there was a fluttery of activity in our workplace. Forty year and plus old men scurried around like teenagers, and within half an hour, that is the time that she was in the cabin getting introduced to my boss as the new Document Controller on the project, the team fished out all possible information about her with an alacrity that could put Mossad and ISI to shame.

On Spring Equinox, the new Document Controller joined the project. The office blushed with the sweet scent of flowers. Sunday mornings were no more drowsy, and afternoons were no more lazy. The mafia buzzed around the office like bees, especially into and around the Document Control Room, looking for old bygone letters and stationery items that they didn’t need.

They were back together, working as a team. They had no major expectations from her. They did not expect her to join them on their lunch table, and be party to their other rituals. All they wanted from her, was a smile, a hi, a hello, a handshake, a side-glance, a touch here, a flirty comment there, and they were getting plenty of it.

And then, on a lively afternoon, as I sat, easing myself on my favorite potty seat in the fourth cubicle from the washroom door, I heard these famous words from my great imaginary philosopher and poet of a time long gone by, words that were never said, words that were never heard before:

“What one woman breaks, another woman joins together”.

A lesson on India…

2014-03-16T07:20:00.002-07:00

Last Wednesday I had just returned from work and as it is when I am usually at home, had nothing much to do. On a normal day, I would just switch on the TV and laze while watching some of the theatrics on one of those Indian news channels. However, on that day, the High Command in our house had banned TV, so I was all the more useless. I had also pissed off most of my friends on my various chat lines and, was out of lives on Candy Crush, so actually I was totally out of any pastime activity too.

My High Command was tutoring the elder son, who was preparing for the last test of his year-end term for the 4^th grade. The subject was EVS, and the scope covered all of India’s States and Union Territories and covered a myriad of data that included, but was not limited to their Capitals, Key Ministers, Important Places, Monuments, Heritage Structures, Temples, Hills, Valleys, Lakes, Rivers, Seas, Deserts, Ports, People, Languages, Food, Dresses, Art and Dance forms, Occupation, Agriculture, Weather and whatnots.

Too vast a syllabus for an exam that had an overall worth of only 15 marks and test duration of maximum an hour, I must say. Nevertheless, all of it had to be crammed into that tiny brain, and so, mom had imposed a ban on any kind of distraction in the living room, which came in the form of banishing the younger lad out of vicinity, a ban on television and a stern diktat on me to stay away from the study area. Therefore, I sat a distance away with a sort of fake disinterested look on my face, but could not help not listening in.

Both of them had individual halos hovering over their heads. The one over mom looked more like steam ejecting out of a locomotive and read, ‘Under High Pressure’, the face though was motely painted with streaks of a variety of emotions, despair, anger, agony and joy. Are all Indian mothers just like this? The one over the lad was simple; it said ’This one last exam, then I get two weeks off…. Hurray!’, his face though had only one word written on it ‘Lost!’

Sitting there and prying over them as they struggled with memorizing what crops grow in Assam, what language they speak in each state and which river flows from where to where, I thought, since I fare pretty well with those KBC questions and since I have all the wealth of information gained from watching so much news on TV channels, I might as well amuse myself by having my own parallel ‘Are you smarter than a 4^th grader’ game.

I failed miserably. Yes I did.

Although I lost miserably, I learnt a lot that evening. In fact, more than what I would have after watching an hour or so of that animated and staged TV debate on Indian politics.

Did you know ….. that the southernmost tip of India is not the Vivekanada Rock, but a place called Indira Point in the Nicobar Islands? That the largest producer of milk in India is Uttar Pradesh and not Gujarat? That the largest port in India is at Kandla and not the Nahva Sheva in Mumbai? That the largest lake in India is the Wullar Lake in Kashmir, and all your life you thought that it is some lake in Rajasthan? That the capital of Assam is not Guwahati, but Dispur? That currently there are 28 states in India, and Delhi of which Arvind Kejriwal was the last Chief Minister, is not even a State? Such an overload of information, I must say!

Well, talking about the exam, Kevin did well. He lost just one mark, that too, because of his silly answer ‘Polar Bear’ as the capital of Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Talk about cramming; we guys had a nice laugh! Especially trying to figure out how Port Blair ended up as Polar Bear?

Now, whether you and I know or not, my wife does, and so does my nine year old lad. And so, I for one have decided that I will not contest with either of them when it comes to trivia about India. I shall therefore limit my general knowledge show off to the area of Indian Politics, which thankfully is still ever ambiguous and bluff worthy.

Thanks for reading, and as we part, one triva question for you. There are only two Indian states that have a literacy rate of over 90%. One is Kerala, which is the Second? If you know, write the answer in the comments box. And yes, no googling please.