Systematic confusion

It would always be - fidelity

2008-10-23T00:14:00.003+05:30

She lay on her side in bed, a soft light filling the room. It was a little past midnight and he was still in the kitchen doing the dishes. Her hand absent-mindedly made slow but deliberate circles on the bedsheet - smoothening it, writing his name on it and smoothening it out again. She then closed her eyes and began reliving that day for what seemed like the millionth time.

They had gone on a vacation, just the two of them. A serene, isolated hill station; the area was so silent they could hear their own breathing. It was the third day and they had gone trekking over a small hillock, the snow slowing them doing a little. They had a really nice time - throwing snow balls at one another, holding hands, hugging when a chilly wind blew by and at one point, lying down on the ground and making snow angels - even though they were alone for nearly all the time.

When they were coming down the slope returning to the cottage, she slipped and tumbled down a few yards till she abruptly came to a halt. It was a boulder hidden in the snow. He raced down after her, fell on his knees and brought her to a sitting position. As they sat there in the snow waiting for her to regain her strength, she began to cry in pain. The cold did but little to ease the throbbing in her left shoulder.

He had, somehow, pulled her up to make her stand and supporting her weight on his sturdy frame, dragged all the way back to their room. The next day, the doctor did not have a very positive prognosis to give. When they were alone, he held her hand as she lay on the hospital bed and reminded her he was going to be with her for life - no matter what. A promise is a promise, he had said.

That was nearly three years ago.

Just then, she was disturbed from her dreamy state as he got into bed beside her. He cuddled as close to her as he could and held her lovingly around her stomach. That was all she needed to be assured he would hold true to his promise. Their hands met, fingers weaving in and out of the other's; things couldn't get any better. Sensing her thoughts, he whispered into her ear, "How you feeling?" "I'm all right", she said with a slight giggle that came so spontaneously, it made him laugh too. He knew she wasn't lying.

"Where do you find the strength to love me after all these years?" she asked, with the innocence of a child. He didn't know for sure himself; there had occurred no future to him other than one with her, and it was still that way. So what if things had changed - they were too small when put in contrast with the experiences they had had together. He would not trade this life for any other. He replied, "It's because you have been strong yourself, not allowing things to affect you; you've been yourself and that helps me remain me."

And saying that, he turned her around and kissed her. A complete kiss that conveyed more than a thousand words. They remained that way for a long time; eyes closed, holding on to each other. A quiet tear formed in her eye and rolled down her nose till it dropped and fell on his. He moved back slowly and looked at her face. It still looked as beautiful as the first time they kissed on the lips. She was overwhelmed with all the emotions that kept filling her heart. And wiping away the tear, she gave him a half smile - the paralysis holding back the left side.

That's what it is - fear

2008-08-15T01:49:00.004+05:30

She went through the emotions with quick succession. At first, both of them stared at the black and white screen nervously, not knowing what to expect or what not to. The jelly on her belly felt cold; but colder still was her husband's hand unconsciously gripping hers till the veins popped out on the back of her palm. And then, as a small mass at one end of the screen was pointed out to them, they wept silently at the thought of a new life growing inside of her. It was joy no doubt, quite different from any other joy they had ever experienced before. Then came the guilt - the guilt of all this being unintentional, unprepared for. It would be too much to manage with all that was going on anyway. Finally, fear. Plain, black fear.

They hadn't planned this child and surely didn't want to have one. And when she had missed her monthly cycle for two consecutive months, it had brought the scariest scenarios right before their eyes. It wasn't about the finance or what the child would grow up into. They just weren't ready to be parents and had done all that was necessary.

She had recently landed a decent job which didn't look too kindly on employees taking leave, let alone a three month absence. He was still trying to juggle life, work and family while balancing on his own feet.

And then this. It felt as if someone had secretly left tennis balls lying around while he was at it.

There was little they could do but get on with life and be as normal as possible. Or that's what they thought they were doing. The dilemma hung over their heads like a dead rat; they could do nothing to take their attention off it. It was a different thing altogether that they were afraid to stop thinking about it. Neither of them was comfortable with the idea of taking away a life even before it was actually born or bringing it into the world and knowing deep down inside that it was all a big mistake. It was a lose-lose situation.

And so the date drew near until it was only a fortnight away. Things had gone from bad to worse with absolutely no light at the end of the tunnel. It was in such desparation that she begged him to get rid of the child. Temporary pain, she felt, would be nothing when compared to a lifetime of regret. They agreed to get it done using physical trauma. That way, nobody would know and outside help would not be needed.

He made her lie on the bed and placed a pillow on her lower abdomen. This was the last chance to reconsider, but her mind had already been made up. He raised the rod and brought it down hard. It broke her heart.

The fear was still there - black and permanent. But as a small blot of red formed on the sheet, there was a sense of relief mixed with apprehension. They took all that was kept packed and left the house. The contractions set in on the way to the hospital; they were ready for it.

She was wheeled into the Emergency Room without any delay as she had already entered labour. The last he saw was of her clentching her stomach and her face contorted in pain. The beautiful, angelic face he kissed after saying 'I do'. The minutes dragged on like days as he waited outside, not allowed to be by her side due to complications. At last, the doctor called him aside and spoke to him for a few moments. All that he could hear over the loud thumping of his heart in his ears was something about it being a girl, that the doctors tried their best but couldn't prevent the death. He stumbled towards the Emergency Room and shoved the door open, not sure what to feel at that moment.

Tears fell as he looked at his daughter while the nurses wiped off the blood and tissue. She too had a beautiful face, just like her mother who lay dead beside her.

Death, how you doin'?

2008-06-21T20:06:00.003+05:30

Construction work on for the Mumbai Metro project. Bid won by Reliance Infrastructure; contractor begins work in the middle of the road outside Bhavan's campus, Andheri. A sixty tonne rig is brought in for some work. Driver takes the rig over soft soil (maybe no support under the asphalt surface). Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. It's worth mentioning Mr.Humpty is thirty five feet in height. He comes crashing down on one side of the road. One lamp-post flattened, a section of the campus wall broken, a tree split in half. Similar fate of a highly unfortunate rickshaw going that route. Driver in serious condition but passenger doesn't make it. He happens to be from the neighbouring lane.

Reeves. Popularly known as DJ Reeva. More popularly remembered as Supandi for obvious reasons. Stays in a cottage three buildings away. Came second in the War of the DJs in Dubai about five years ago. At the age of twenty one. Had gone to Gorai beach with some friends. Tiff with girlfriend's father, bit of partying and a dip in the sea. Last dip in the sea.

A trip to Goa with a couple of friends. Coming back by the highway. Quick tea stop in the morning. Seven or eight of them youngsters, excluding driver. One of them is a bubbly, enthusiastic girl named Vilma. Teaches children in the parish Sunday School. On continuing after tea, she feels the driver is going a bit heavy on the accelerator. After all, home is just two hours away. She's not wrong. But she's engaged; her fiance's in the group too. The SUV plows into a tree. All except one escape alive. Vilma.

In coma for four months. Results from a stroke which in turn, results from high emotional stress. Has a daughter named Wimla who is my godmother. Real godmother. The mother passes away unable to hold on to life.

IIM Ahmedabad graduate. Just back from a visit to Vietnam - vacation after completing the course. My brother's good friend's close friend. Returned to India and was on his way to somewhere in Gurgaon. Driving a car. One tyre bursts and Vivek loses control. And then his life. The pole he rams into comes crashing down on him.

A close friend's family acquaintance. In the US. Pretty young chap; about twenty five years of age. Meets with an accident. Or actually, the accident meets with him. Falls off the motorcycle. Doesn't make it.

On his annual vacation in Mangalore with wife and daughter. Paul's wife - my paternal cousin. Has a liking for the strong stuff. People worried about his liver. Dies prematurely at about forty five. Of a massive heart attack.

Grand. That was his style. More importantly, short for 'Grandpa'. Everybody's grandpa though he has only two grandchildren. Staying in the flat above mine. One fine day, doesn't open his eyes. Family panics and admits him to a hospital. Revives and later jokes with people. But the gleam in his eye is gone. Passes away peacefully in his sleep.

My sister's friend's mother. Working at her office. Suddenly suffers a stroke and slumps. Goes into a coma. Doesn't survive even a day. Result of a split nerve. Cause of broken hearts.

Nine year old girl. One of my mom's old acquaintances, her grandparents. Have been to her parents' marriage. Long battle with cancer, pain. Even longer battle with her beliefs. Wonders why God doesn't take her away or her pain. Bleeds from the mouth and nose for two days. Bleeding stops yesterday. Breathing stops today.

Twenty five days and ten deaths; five of them youngsters. And blunt or insensitive as it may sound, I won't be surprised if the number of deaths goes higher. All of a sudden, it seems like I directly or indirectly know a lot of people who passed away. It makes me stop and wonder: what exactly am I here for? What if I get added to the list the very next moment; have I played my part of the play called life and have I played it well? No, reply. And I have this unsettling feeling that I'm not ready to go as yet.

What exactly do we strive for? Maybe to be remembered by family and friends as a good person; or for something extraordinary we did in a moment of brilliance - and then live off that till the memory fades away. Or, if we really lack or have lost motivation and ambition, to keep doing what we are doing till the heart can no longer stand the monotonous job of pumping blood through our veins.

And then, looking back, do the things we do and the plans we make agree with the big picture? One moment you're here, the next moment you're gone. Nobody, not even you yourself can do anything about it. At the most, it can be delayed but not forever. It's a good thing we don't know when death will come or what comes after it - or everything we do and everyone we know would be highly disappointing and unsatisfactory.

Most things lose their hype and importance the minute they are contrasted against such a scenario. And many more issues that we ignore or take for granted suddenly become . For example, health; or loved ones and friends. It's true, life is short. Just like the four letters that form it.

Realisations

2008-05-06T23:01:00.001+05:30

05.05.08

What exactly are you,
Striking terror big and small?
Oh fear, you are double faced:
Paralysing the bravest of hearts
Or filling the faint with a sudden surge of power.

You feed off lack of faith
Knowledge or trust,
The dark unknown strengthens you
Beyond the capability of our minds to see through.

It's like an invisible stronghold -
Your grip on the subconscious.
A permanent resident uninvited
Yet stealthily you work, unawares.

If only we could let go; let go
Of our apprehensions, inhibitions
And take a leap of faith
Or submit wholly to fate,
You would cease to exist, oh fear,
Be but an illusion of distant memory.

The study of emerging social networks and their impact on human relationships

2008-04-10T22:41:00.001+05:30

'Ssup dawg?'

I haven't seen him in five years and here he is acting like I'm his langoti yaar. His online album reveals he has now grown a layer of fat and a mustache or two, pierced himself in all the wrong regions of the anatomy and has unbelievably gorgeous female friends (at least that's the picture their albums paint). Boy, he even declared himself as my latest 'fan'. The point being he was never so pally with me when he had the chance to, we didn't hang out or kill time together ever and (damn it) I can’t even remember his real name.

To top it off, I really don't like people calling me dawg.

What's the sudden craze with all this networking? Every single day brings with it a minimum of half a dozen invites to sites that always have a member in someone I know. Either I have too many friends (no jokes, it's a big possibility; alright, alright, that was counting acquaintances) or no two friends like the same network. The funniest part being these sites later send me a warning that my invites are about to expire and I may lose the opportunity to get closer to someone I most probably don't like. As if surfing the net but not joining the latest network was the new age sin.

Don't get me wrong. There is a lot of good to all this. We meet old friends, make new ones, find a thousand things in common with people we've never met (and there's a high possibility we never will), connect with acquaintances and relatives across continents and so on. When the world is getting smaller but spaced out (ironic, isn't it? As someone put it, the world is becoming a global village), it would be foolish to stand back and not become a part of it. But it is when we start using this often, as a substitute to personal conversation, that warning bells begin to ring. There is a particular charm in talking to people in person that will never go out of fashion. I think an example would make matters clear. There was this group of guys who used to hang out in the neighbouring building every evening after playing football (man, did they hate cricket). But as soon as the cable guy started providing internet connections, they preferred to sit at home and chat on LAN. What happened to good old group chats? Leaving one old fellow who resides on the first floor, everybody else misses the sound of their hysterical laughter. For heaven's sake, it even takes longer to type than talk; but that's what they prefer - brb, lol, wazza, hehe, sos.

Wtf.

Then there was this young cousin of mine who mentioned that some of his friends are in a race to get maximum number of online contacts. One of them tried to add me on and I didn’t even know he existed. When I mentioned this, he got pretty upset with my cousin for not putting in a word for him. I remember the time I fought over trump cards, G.I. Joe's, stamps and coins, slam books, (playing) gotis, even papaya and cotton seeds in one case; not over strangers and virtual friends. But the one thing that has gotten me really concerned is the way marriages are being marketed by online match makers (isn’t it amusing that nearly everything the average Indian does or could use is thought of in context to marriage?). If not anything else, they prefer to categorise by race; it’s not entirely their fault because that is what the candidates are searching for. And we got a huge problem if someone calls us coloured. But hey, we can call each other a (female) dog, red-butt monkey, sloth or whatever we want. Hypocrisy, I tell you.

It set me thinking - has technology gone so beyond us that nearly everything we do is now either simulated, replicated, degraded in value or, most disturbingly, farcical? The only reason individuals such as the aforementioned cool dude can be so blissfully ignorant about relationships, for instance, is because of the safety blanket it provides. Not that technology is bad, mind you; it cannot and never will be, so don't get me wrong. It is how we, the commoner, choose to use it in this dawg eat dawg world.

Seeing with my heart

2008-03-25T22:34:00.002+05:30

17.03.08

The joyful squeals of children fill the air
As they run around me
Not that they realise I'm there.

Their happy voices, innocent hearts
Faces filled with laughter,
Being themselves in the feeling of security.

I can imagine them chasing each other,
Kicking a ball about,
Having tiffins prepared by loving mothers.

My world of darkness cannot stop me.
Though my eyes can't see, my heart feels.
It is devoid of prejudice that comes with sight.
I'm all ears when spoken to,
Reaching out my hand in trust and faith.

O life, if seeing was everything,
The sighted would have been alive.

Inhale, exhale.... exhale

2008-02-03T14:04:00.000+05:30

03.02.08

Cool, serene morn; leaves swaying to the breeze
A lone bird clears its throat.
The mist lingers just a bit
Delaying the arrival of the sun.

Far away from a world of noise
Into one of silence and service.

People walk past; some in, some out
Some ill, most healthy.
Like a breathing, sleeping organism,
This place is quiet, yet alive.

Just then a couple rushes in.
Their child - the fruit of their union
Is in the jaws of death.

Barely four years old, small little boy
He was with them in the fields.
Innocent play, preoccupied parents.
They didn't see him fall,
Face down. And drown.
In a pool of stagnant water.

Just a foot deep.

Life, if you are so precious,
Then why so delicate?
If nothing is let to chance,
Then is this meant to be?

Sobs break out. Slowly growing into wails.
Another breath extinguished.
A lifeless, limp body to hug,
Two hearts ripped open.

Nobody hears the bird sing.

Shhh..... go back to sleep

2007-11-30T23:57:00.000+05:30

12.08.07

Soft, cuddly body. Rhythmic rise and fall.
You look so cute, little thing.
Not a care in the world, save the next snack.

Don't you get up, lest you see what's happening.
It's a big, bad world out there.
Big monsters waiting to catch you
To pick you up and take you away
To a place you won't like.

They will tell you sweet nothings
And fool you to do bad things.
While you cry, they will laugh
To see you struggle to run away.
It is sad, but what can you do?

Shhh..... go back to sleep.
Sorry, I will not disturb you,
You, full of innocence and loyalty.
Hate means nothing to you.
Your heart is too small for jealousy,
Big enough for love.

But life is full of sunshine.
Chasing and jumping and smiling.
Everybody's a friend - even he who stamped you by mistake.
Even though he didn't feel sorry.

My love, you teach me so much
I held you, but it's you who touched my heart;
Thank you, pup.

Cornflour and baking soda - the miracles of food preparation

2007-11-07T02:07:00.002+05:30

Ever eaten out and went home feeling like a pregnant woman? Then you know what I'm talking about. The secret, I am told, is one of the great discoveries mentioned above - cornflour and baking soda. Every self proclaimed Chinese (or Chines or Chinees as some stalls put it) cook is in love with these. Even if he happens to be a Tibetan, Nepali or in many an outrageous place, a South Indian.

Of course they have a good reason for adding such paunch enhancing powders to their dishes. It's all a calculated, systematic method of fooling our hunger receptors into believing we're enjoying a king's feast. King's feast, my foot! But, you may be wondering, why am I so agitated with them going on with the usual business tactics? Because I once did get the ‘royal treatment’. At the end, I was left feeling as big and lethargic as King George IV.

I had gone with my family to this decent place. Can't remember the occasion; maybe one of our birthdays. We begin with our usual - the soup. As is unique with that place, the waiter arrives within minutes with soup as hot as liquid cast iron. One careless sip and I lose a few million cells in my mouth to third degree burns. A quick glance at the others and I see four sets of repentant, watery eyes. We all subconsciously do the obvious - wait for a good ten minutes chatting about non-descript stuff, discreetly checking if feeling has returned to the tongue. It doesn't. For a good two days.

But then we couldn't wait forever. So we go ahead and cautiously taste the soup to find it as lukewarm as something that sounds like the letter P (formality folks; just like leading whiskey brands advertise their sparkling sodas. Fools. Like we don’t know what they are trying to hint at. Ha. Haha). And as thick as something else you don't want me to mention. Now that's what I call a miracle. Jesus turned water into wine. But these guys increased the viscosity of the soup so drastically, it ought to figure somewhere alongside that. The amazing things these cooks do with cornflour, I tell you. And oh, I nearly forgot. I once attempted (keeping in mind that some countries consider attempt-to-murder as horrendous as murder itself) to prepare soup at home. Towards the end of the recipe, it said 'add a quarter teaspoon of cornflour to thicken the soup'. I remember thinking 'what the heck, just a little harmless cornflour'.

Lesson 1: Do not under-estimate anybody or anything.

Lesson 2: Do not expect gravity to remain absent at any moment; especially when a sauce pan with (cornflour enabled thick) soup is dropped from four feet above your toes. Brings out the Linkin Park vocalist in you (I’ve become so numb...).

What else could we do with the soup but eat it like pudding with shredded chicken embedded at regular intervals. We then order the main course - naan and roti with bhaaji named after some random towns and princely states of India (I swear it tastes nothing like that in the aforementioned places). A quick prayer and the meal begins. The naans are not dangerously hot but they seem to be made out of high quality polyurethane. 'Tough li'l b*****ds', as Hollywood heroes would deliver with panache and flair. The culprit - cornflour again. No points for guessing. Somehow managing to tear them apart, we chew them for an eternity and move onto the next part - rice. Did I forget to mention? So sorry; you see, my family eats like there's no (food) tomorrow. Aah, the rice. It looked appealing and had a particular sense of calm about it. Maybe it's because they preferred to serve it in the original colour, a rare sight today. The rightful amounts are rationed and for once, it looks like we are having a decent dinner.

After licking the remnants off the plates, we go through the regular drill of rejecting the waiter's offer for cold drinks, ice cream, kulfi, desserts, juice and whatnot. We pay the bill and decide to walk home. And that's when it hits us - the thirst of a thousand dehydrated desert rats. It had to be the rice, dammit. Undercooked and sprinkled generously with baking soda is my guess. No refutation; everyone knows the truth.

By the time we reach home, the water matka is the only thing on our minds. All of a sudden, its tap seems too small, allowing only a trickle of water. Precious, life saving water. In go the glasses and out goes the hygiene. Anything to survive the Atacama curse. After making a gratifying mental picture of the water soaking up each grain in the stomach, I lie back on the sofa and heave a sigh of relief. Twenty difficult minutes later, the bedding is spread and off we go to sleep.

As far as I can remember, I've always slept soundly on a heavy stomach. No nightmares about monsters below my bed or free-fall simulations that end in an abrupt shudder. But no, not that day. Something was fundamentally wrong. Terribly wrong. An hour and a half later, I got up feeling awful; as if I'd licked a freshly rolled asphalt road or something like that. And my stomach, it had bloated up till the skin was stretched shining.

(Psst. Remember the time in 2004 when Reliance Industries started tapping gas reserves at every second location? Each contained about a dozen trillion (nine zeroes, mind you) cubic feet of the stuff, not to mention the oil in some cases. I used to wonder 'how is it possible, so much gas'. That blessed day, all doubts were cast into the deep sea. I'm telling you, it is very much possible.)

Just one glassful of effervescent Eno, and I was completely deflated; so was my ego. And like some of those reserves, it was only gas; nothing else.

There are some things in life you learn the hard way. No shortcuts. As I've always maintained, my stomach can brave most storms. Something that upsets it means it's really bad. If you don't agree, get in touch with me. I'll give you the address to that place.

Bad boys 2.1

2007-10-22T21:29:00.000+05:30

It's surprising how the toughest-looking people could be the most insecure inside. After all, it's not easy with an image to maintain. Keeping a menacing look, snarling at weaklings and showing them who's the boss, beating up anyone who points out you are wrong, beating up anyone who points out you are right (you could have done without their help); the list goes on. There's so much of attitude to be thrown around it's amazing how we get time for everything else.

This evening, a couple of buildings away from my residence, a red Maruti car screeched to a halt blocking an autorickshaw's way. Four guys aged about eighteen and looking none the wiser got out of their respective doors and rushed to the rick. One glance at them and you'd know that united they bark, divided they scamper. It was all about the aggression, I guess. One of them went directly for the driver's money pouch while the other guy heckled him. The third, a little smaller, didn't know what to do but wanted a piece of the pie. So he sat in the back seat and began shouting loudly. I think it's that old Indian mentality - the louder you are, the more convincing you sound.

It then seemed to die down so my mom and me, who were walking home on the other side of the road, thought it was time to leave. That's when the fourth guy remembered he'd have nothing to boast about the next day. He pulled the driver out of the vehicle and went through his pockets, all the while shouting louder than the third chap. Everyone gathered around had had enough. They separated the five of them. That's when I saw the rickshaw driver; he was about my built (five and a half feet high and fifty kilos heavy) and was native to either Bihar or Uttar Pradesh. The damage was done to the car when both of the vehicles were trying to negotiate the same bend in a narrow road two lanes away. It was more of the minute type; but a dent is a dent, however small; and nobody likes one on their vehicle.

I don't know which of the following made the boys go for him: the dent that was genuine though small; he was a rickshaw driver and a 'Bhaiyya' at the same time; he didn't seem capable of even killing a mosquito (unless it was biting him). Whatever the reason, it wasn't convincing or worth all the hype.

Just then, an old couple on their evening walk came and pointed out the real mistake; they had seen what had happened. It was the youth to blame because they were the ones overtaking the rickshaw; the dent was on the left of the car to prove it. Still, the rickshaw driver apologised, saying he didn't get out of the way in time.

That brings me to the issue. What is it with all this attitude? Why is everyone so taken up by being rude and illogical in the simplest of matters? Agreed, it's human tendency. Or weakness, depending on how you look at it, but now it's becoming something of a trend. Those on motor bikes hold cyclists at fault. Car owners look down upon two wheelers, six wheelers upon anything lesser than five, the peon upon the sweeper.... Not cool.

More than anything, it spoils everybody's peace of mind. And to top it all, they will blame it on hectic schedules, bad traffic, irritating children and once in a while, the 'kaamwali bai'. For heaven's sake, take responsibility for your own actions and admit you are acting like a stupid arrogant donkey. That? No, that they won't do. Hurts the ego, you see. Once the fight has begun and both parties have put forth their arguments and badwords, how can either be expected to step back? They'd look like those dogs with the tails tucked between their legs. Try to understand, there's too much at stake.

And then, what will others think of them? Losers. Because whoever has a valid point would let the world know. So might as well shout and yell till people get fed up and move on than be at the receiving end. I don't know how long it will take for the public to let go of its ego. Maybe that's too much to hope for.

It was really angering and frustrating to see rash young drivers trying to cover up their fault. It further spoils the already sensitive image people have of youth behind wheels. Small incidents like these make a lasting impression on the minds of witnesses. One can only hope those four boys took something positive out of that incident.

See, the sea

2007-10-18T22:29:00.000+05:30

09.10.07

I stand on the shore;
The surf approaching, then retreating
As if it can't make up its mind.

It froths up just as it's about to break
Then disappears as fast as it had come
The earth beneath my feet seems to be moving
But I'm exactly where I was before.

A piece of dead wood floats by.
The wave raises it and goes forward
But the wood simply bobs up and down.

Surprisingly, the waves calm some;
The waves claim some.
They beckon to the adventurous and gutsy
While striking terror in others.
They can remain so still at times
But have the power to change coasts.

There are so many things in life
That are, at best, unpredictable.
All knowledge fails you at that moment
When what is to be, will be.

Massa in Mangalore

2007-09-16T01:24:00.000+05:30

No, that's not the latest update. Like one of those flashy things on a 24/7 (crappy) news channel which says 'Breaking News' all day long. It's more of what to expect if you take the public transport anywhere south of Maharashtra. That's what I've heard, but I can surely vouch for the Mangalorean stuff.

For those with a bad sense of geography, Mangalore is a big town to the west of Bangalore, on the coast of Karnataka. It's the birthplace of Udupi hotels, their owners and waiters, a handful of public sector banks and spicy chicken curry with kori roti. Of late, it has become a sub-hub of the growing IT industry, but that's beside the point. There's a huge amount of untapped talent in South India when it comes to automobile racing. Maybe a bit too much. Like this bus driver, for instance, whom we had the privilege of traveling with when mother dear was taking my brother and me to a relative's house. We don't have a vehicle of our own, so the bus was the obvious choice.

By the way, there's this funny rule they follow: You've to pay luggage charges for two or more traveling bags if you can't keep them on your lap (pretty straight-forward, it would take up standing space) but anything up to three gunny bags allowed free. So next time you go there, take all your belongings (even your neighbours' if you want) in a sack - nobody will charge you for that. How did I find this out? We had to pay only for our two suitcases and not for the three monstrous jackfruits, each the size of Umaga's rear end (WWE-ignorant people, note that this means very big).

Back to the driver. He was this typical southie - thick, dark moustache and long sidelocks, looking ten years younger than his actual age, subtly flirting with the women wearing flowers in their hair (and no Mangal sutra). He had this no-nonsense looking shirt that had been thoroughly pressed and his trousers were slightly bell-bottomed. Frankly, he looked much better than the bus drivers in our part of the world. As I said before - unexpected, hidden talent that would make Massa throw in the lungi.

It was like a typical F1 start, the guy warming up the engine in eager anticipation. Normally, the lights go out and then the vehicle shoots ahead; here this happened in reverse. Seated on the last row added to the suspense – whether we would fly out of the window first or get knocked out if the head made sweet contact with the bar behind. It was like those typical cartoons where the eyes say a quick hi to the ears and the wind forces the mouth into a wide grin while teeth chatter and saliva flies past. Not funny.

The driver then proceeded to use all the gears available on the bus. During this time, I saw weird blurs of different colours pass by the window; then there was a longish blur which turned out to be a slower bus. Boy, Doppler would have been proud of seeing practical observation of his work in optics. Not only that, the forces involved in high velocities became personal. The brakes, they proved to be in excellent condition, launching forty odd human-sized projectiles into the air every time a bus stop came by. I think it's since then that my stomach has permanently moved to the right bottom corner of the abdomen.

You have to admit these guys are too good. In fact, this fellow even managed a sip of water while going up a slope, whereas for me, the bus seemed to slow down from mach two to one. I couldn't help noticing this was a routine for the other passengers.

All said and done, there's no denying the fact that it was worth the ride, a mere six rupees. Here in Mumbai, they simulate the same thing, provide seat belts and call it Essel World. Oh, and I forgot, they charge three hundred plus. Hail South Indian public transport drivers.

Raindrops

2007-08-17T00:38:00.000+05:30

17.06.07

It was just a bit of air,
Hardly detectable, barely there.
A little steam, nothing more.
Nothing less.

Like a pregnant mother
Nurturing her to-be-born with care.
It was still just a bit of air.

But time added to it, it grew,
Getting heavier by the day,
Taking on a darker shade - sinister grey.

And then one windy dark noon
It was released.
Downwards it went, towards nothing in particular
Towards the earth for sure.

The wind tossed it about; merciless
The earth pulling it faster. And faster.
A million of its brethren
All around; as far as could see.

The vision was a blur
But that wasn't important.
It was more about the union -
Heaven and earth.

Just one drop. Followed by another
And then another, till all came down
Hitting the ground hard
With all it ever had.

Something needs to be lost
For something greater to be gained.
The earth gets parched, nearly dies
But then it will have surely rained.

God bless the telephone.

2007-03-27T00:57:00.000+05:30

"Hello?"

"Hi, good afternoon. This is Heston from Sardar Patel College of Engineering, Andheri. Could you please put me through to your marketing department?"

"Hold on." As if I was hanging out of the train while talking to her.

Tee tee tee tee tee tee tee tee tee..........
tee tee tee tee.......... tee tee tee tee..........
[Some tasteless, awful polyphonic version of Beethoven's Fur Elise; other times, it's a random assortment of senseless noises.]

Tee tee tee t..... "Hello?"

"Hi, good afternoon. This is Heston from Sardar Patel College of Engineering. We are going to celebrate our techno-cultural intercollegiate festival [everyone thinks 'big words imply big first impression'; I couldn't take the risk to see if this is false] in the month of February. We would like to have your company associated with this event."

"So you're looking out for sponsors....."

Those sentences end without an end. I can never place them as assertive or interrogative. For that split second, my English Grammar tutorials used to come back before my eyes to mock me and confirm what Einstein had once said about the Theory of Relativity; that an hour feels like a minute when with a loved one and when sitting on the stove, a minute feels like.....

You get the drift. I can perform well in person; even convince them about something so fundamentally flawed I ought to be hung. Upside down. But no, not over the telephone. First of all, the person on the other end may be making monkey faces while talking and I wouldn't know. Second of all, and I'm dead sure of this, the person on the other end of the other end is making donkey faces and the former wouldn't know. It's a direct insult to human conversation.

You may be wondering why I took up the task knowing very well I couldn't convince a soul to invest in our fest. To begin with, I didn't believe in it myself but wanted to see first-hand as to how cash is managed. Or rather mismanaged. It is a lot of fun to see how students get enthusiastic at the prospect of getting a sponsor [enthusiasm being directly proportional to the amount being sponsored]. Another reason was that all my classmates who were supposed to do the dirty work went on a week-long trip to all the hillstations in South India. They came back with stories of brandy and unmentionables shrinking to the size of raisins in the unbearable cold. I experienced the same in different circumstances. Minus the brandy. How on earth do I tell, for example, a respectable bank to sponsor a category of our events, that too preferably in cash [for reasons you'd guess by now]?

Well, I can't say I didn't try. I started off with feeble incentives like brand publicity and mentions as associate sponsors during media coverage but it didn't go down well with most of them. It was a relief when they began asking me to mail them the proposal and then they'd "Get back to you" which eventually never happened. I thought that was all until the self-proclaimed team leader put me to my next task the second week - following up all my calls.

There are times in life when somebody interrupts you during a moment of extraordinary brilliance. You'd do anything, within the law or without, to make him/her the 'miserabl'est you could. The follow-up was somewhat like that; I being on the receiving end. For that one week, nobody liked me, not even the canteen boy. It's tough living in this big, bad sponsor-hunting world. But I gained a lot of knowledge during my tenure as Finance Incharge [I swear I didn't make that up though I didn't know about the existence of this post until everything was over] - the most important being that I'm not yet ready for such stuff. Makes me cringe. The second-most important one was that come hail or sunshine, Shakira or samosa pav, a person is always in a meeting when he doesn't want to talk to you. The universally accepted, polite way of saying 'Buzz off'.

All in all, it was a good experience. Except the fact that I made the most number of calls and got in the least amount of money. Now make sure you don't let them know this because I will make it up next year. Maybe. Mother promise.

Light, little light

2007-02-11T23:06:00.000+05:30

30.09.06

I trudged along the border
Of the shore
As waves beat mercilessly on it.
Lantern in hand,
Raindrops on brow;
Hope in heart; heaviness too.

Far away, a lone light shone
A shimmering light on a stormy night.
Once in a while, for brief moments,
Darkness defeated it.
Yet, through the rain, it continued
To flicker; stubborn little thing.

It's intriguing - hopelessness can be the best motivator,
When push comes to shove;
There's nothing to lose - go on.

Light attracts.
The promise of warmth, in a storm,
Just irresistable.
The feet complain, the lantern betrays
But the mind cannot be convinced
To give up; stubborn little thing.
Go on.

Cock and bull stories.

2007-01-18T00:33:00.000+05:30

Let me tell you a story. Oh yeah, I've liked stories ever since I was a child. Not the ones where the dude wins the affection of the dudette and 'they live happily ever after' sort of thing. Wacky, unexpected endings and smart fables were ones that got my attention. Here we go....

Once upon a time, there lived a bull in a forest. He was a very wise and intelligent animal, always teaching the other animals a lesson or two on how to live a full life. His horns were curved downwards, giving him the appearance of a well learned sage. Even animals from neighbouring forests came to him for words of wisdom. So famous was he for his practicality, that some of the carnivores were in danger of dying of hunger.

Once upon the same time, there was a cock who lived in a barn on the border of the forest. Having all the hens to himself, he was one of the most content beings around. He strutted about, proud of himself. But patience was something he never tried to achieve. He just couldn't control himself in matters of focus and perseverance. There came a time when he hit a rough patch in his life [who knows, maybe a midlife crisis]. Not knowing what to do, he began to lose his confidence and drive. So one day, in total desparation, he decided to have a chat with the bull. After sharing his personal life with the bull, he asked the usual question, 'What do you think I must do now?'

The bull gave it a good deal of thought and then answered in a soft voice, 'You must have a little of my dung.' A little of his answer to nature's call? That couldn't be. Impossible! Maybe he had heard wrong. So he asked once more, 'What must I do?' Again the same reply. The cock was convinced this guy had lost it. Or maybe he was making fun of his situation. He started to shout and make a noise about it; but the bull calmed him down and repeated that that was what he would have to do. So the cock told the bull that if it didn't work, he would, in return, have to eat his droppings. Ridiculous, eating a bull's dung. So what if he was the wisest?

Next morning, just as the sun was rising, the cock comes to the bull and is offered a little dung. Wanting to get it over with [and deep down, thinking that if this failed, the wisest of all animals would be eating his droppings], he nibbles at a small piece. Suddenly, he is filled with a new energy. The world ceases to be its bland self and begins to fill with vibrant colours. Everything comes to life at that moment. As if a veil had just fallen off from before his eyes. His senses are heightened like never before. Now he can see clearly, hear clearly and feel the surroundings with all his being. The bull begins to say something but he is too impatient to stay there and listen. Not looking back to even thank the bull, he starts to run. When he reaches the tallest tree in the forest, he looks up and sees its branches that seem to touch the sky. But the new energy in him urges him to climb to the top. Within no time, he is on a very high branch, crowing out his lungs with all his might.

The bull, waiting behind, hears a distant sound. He recognises it - the sound of a gunshot. He turns away sadly. If only the cock had had the patience to hear what he had to say.

Moral of the story: Bullshit can get you to the top but it can't keep you there.

Great, original ideas. Copyright copying material.

2007-01-11T22:22:00.000+05:30

A man walks into a bar and asks the bartender, "If I show you a really good trick, will you give me a free drink?" The bartender considers it, then agrees. The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny rat. He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a tiny piano. The rat stretches, cracks his knuckles, and proceeds to play the blues.

After the man finished his drink, he asked the bartender, "If I show you an even better trick, will you give me free drinks for the rest of the evening?" The bartender agrees, thinking that no trick could possibly be better than the first. The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tiny rat. He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out the tiny piano. The rat stretches, cracks his knuckles, and proceeds to play the blues. The man reaches into another pocket and pulls out a small bullfrog, who begins to sing along with the rat's music.

While the man is enjoying his beverages, a stranger confronts him and offers him a thousand for the bullfrog. "Sorry," the man replies, "he's not for sale." The stranger increases the offer to ten thousand cash up front. "No," he insists, "he's not for sale." The stranger again increases the offer, this time to half a million cash. The man finally agrees, and turns the frog over to the stranger in exchange for the money.

"Are you insane?" the bartender demanded. "That frog could have been worth millions to you, and you let him go for a mere five hundred thousand?" "Don't worry about it", the man answered. "The frog was really nothing special. You see, the rat's a ventriloquist."

Fine, fine..... I copy-pasted it from a joke site. Don't come suing in the name of plagiarism. I just used up the last of my pocket money. To be more precise, left-side ass pocket money.

That brings to mind one of my music gurus, the one I've looked up to whenever I wanted inspiration to make my keyboard sound like it had had a hangover - the walking, talking, belching jewellery store, Bappi Lahiri! He really took the cake when he sued Dr. Dre for copying his aweful music. What was he thinking? I'm talking about Dre; didn't he get anyone else?

Right after this incident, my second-in-line guru, Anu Malik [sorry, he is now Aanu Mallick] makes a mind-rattling philosophical statement that with music having just seven notes [felt like strangling that chap, doesn't even know his music correctly; there are twelve semitones], something or the other is bound to sound similar. Listen to his 'inspired' music that's a direct lift from 'The final countdown - Europe' and one gets the idea that Malik/Mallick/Male-lick can go creatively brain-dead to the extent of sounding just the same. Inspired, my foot!

Then there was a certain Kaavya Viswanathan who absent mindedly copied certain parts from a couple of other books. But it slipped her mind to make changes and sound a little more original. Can't blame her for that, what with all the hectic schedules at Harvard. Her case was even worse than that of Malik/Mallick/Male-lick. Two songs sounding the same are tolerable; not two books having nearly the same scenes repeated - just names changed. And then being nominated for an award.

But who am I to talk, I just copied a joke. Word for word, punctuation for punctuation. Ventriloquist punch line for ventriloquist punch line. I cracked an 'already cracked' joke. That means I cracked it further. Does that imply good jokes break? Forcible, excessive repeated cracking. Or maybe they just begin to look like a shrivelled old woman. Covered all over with wrinkles. With one ridiculously big tooth.

Whatever the inspiration, I salute the guy who came up with that winner of a joke. After a month-long examination and a little loss of hair [for the same reason], that joke cracked me up. One of those times when a manic laughter forces air out of the wrong end. It may have been the desparation or frustration. Of exams where they tell you to assume suitable data where printing mistakes have occurred. But who cares? I'd forgotten how to laugh for months. And make an uncontrollable ripping noise at the same time. The noise that starts with a p, ends with a p, having only t's and r's in between. No vowels. Not listed in the dictionary. Just plain old ophthalmic insult.

My laughs had become mechanical. More like an asthamatic attack - the only difference being that I was blowing out each Ha!, not drawing it in. So this joke was a lifesaver. Like those inhalers one uses in case the Ha! is being drawn in.

But now it has all changed. I can laugh aloud once again. Stupidity-induced six-pack developing convulsive action. Till Dad threatens to hit me with the large rice spoon in his hand.

Paris - Oh, the city of romance. And an irritating socialite.

2006-12-26T14:10:00.000+05:30

Everybody in their right mind knows about Paris. The boulevards, the imposing Eiffel Tower and a thousand romantic spots that will make your beloved go weak-kneed. If only everything and everyone connected to this name reflected the same. Sadly [rather torturous than sad], there's this one Paris surnamed Hilton.

Agreed it's more of a media-generated hype. But even if that's taken away, she continues to shock and disgust the common man, woman and gay. I just turned on the teevee this evening and found some pretty credible people discussing her love[s] and life on a music channel. Considering it prime-time, that was disappointing. You expect music or atleast music related personalities to be on such channels, not someone who features in shabbily recorded home videos. They don't qualify for music channels even with award-winning music in the background. Not so surprising that it was the most downloaded video on the net considering she was in the buff and .....

Now don't bring up the argument that she's considered a singer. Then talk about her music; information stolen from her cell phone is not in the least way related to music. There's a limit to providing completely useless news about someone. And if the same thing is repeated in all newspapers [larger the publication, bigger the font], you'll probably realise that's a lot of paper wastage. Imagine if a small child were to open one of those papers/magazines and see a strategically [yet minimally] clothed Paris staring at him. If not that, it's about her breaking up with her fifty seventh boyfriend or losing her dog, Tinkerbell. Well, they say dogs mostly look like their owners. Quite accurate on this occassion.

The explicit home video was by far the loudest and dirtiest of all the public issues she ended up in [If you kept a track on just the number of incidents, it would fill up a Gmail account as of 26.12.2006]. She first took whosoever-it-was to court, then tried and failed in some public tactics, to end up striking an out-of-court deal. Everyone thought she had learnt her lesson. Apparently she did, and how. There was another video shortly after. Oh, the arrogance of youth [and shamelessness of a filthy rich heiress] I say. Let's leave that aside for the timebeing and concentrate on the more convincing stupidity she indulges in. 'That's hot!'. They showed about fifteen and a half incidences where she said that completely out of context and I was ready to throw stones at the teevee. Poor guy, not his fault at all; he plays what they telecast - Paris.

Outrageous I tell you. What can/has she not do/done? This very same cry of despair is turned around and asked in a manner that makes it sound like she's the Ultimate Kitchen Assistant. Atleast the latter comes to some use when you're hungry or thirstly. These days, even the Guiness Record Book has gone to the dogs. There's this guy who made it to the records for plucking a full sized turkey in exactly one and a half minute. Now, there are two ways of looking at it: 'Wow, thats amazing! Vincent Pilkington's second to none! I mean, you should have seen him in action. There were all these feathers flying about and the cause of all that action was Vincy, right at the centre, vigourously stripping those turkeys.....''. Or there is the 'Hmmm, nice one. Poor turkeys - didn't even get time to cover themselves. Now let's move on with life'.

I guess it's all about the glamour. Those who can inspire a residential colony to take social action are forgotten; but if you can make a fashion statement by hiring the hippest hair stylist to jazz up your holandric inconveniences, you'll surely make it to the cover of those stupid magazines. What for me, I'm a simple guy with simple needs. All I need to worry about is writing senseless stuff twice a month. By the way, have you heard this: Paris just hooked up with another guy. That's hot!

And I thought life was monotonous

2006-11-23T23:49:00.000+05:30

19.08.06

Could hear myself call out;
Small, soft, in a big, intimidating world.
Totally lost, completely scared.
The safety of the nest
Had forever been my home.
And now this.

Huge unfamiliar beings
Repeatedly peeped but shied away.
How could I ever hurt you? Don't know.
How could you ever hurt me? Don't know either.
But isn't it true: what is known not
Is more feared than what is.

Then one of those beings came near.
The most I could do was hop;
Beaklength at a time, getting away
From heaven knows what next.
But I was scooped up and held
In palms warm - yet unfamiliar.
And then I heard.

Out in the distance were two of my own.
Actually, two of my very own.
They answered my call, came near.
Not a thing they could do.

Then I was taken away
Still held in those palms.
Put up a few struggles; no outcome.
I feared those palms would collapse
And finish it in a moment.

Familiar sunlight; ah, the feeling.
Wait, why am I being put here?
"MOM!"; that's the loudest ever.
Palms opened up, but just couldn't leave.
The unknown has a way
Of waking instinct; or paralysis altogether.
Now I'm placed high here - no more palms
Mom was there in a second.
But what could be done?
And then I saw.

A blur of black with two steely eyes
That spoke of terror. Just terror.
One swipe and I tumbled.
In a haze, I saw the creature pounce.
It felt different, it felt.....

Had gone to a friend's place, to find a sparrow chick fallen through the window. Tried to do some good by placing it in the garden. Little did I know that I would be helping the food chain take its natural course. The chick made a wonderful evening snack for a cat. Reminded me of Garfield somehow.

Foot fetish of a freakin' mouse

2006-10-26T01:17:00.000+05:30

Fetish (n): Anything to which foolishly excessive attention is given.

'Now in what context does this combine with a mouse; worse, who cares about his sexual preferences?', you may think. Pervert, not everything that is used in connection to sexuality started out that way. Coming back to the topic, there was this stupid rodent running around our apartment and our neighbour's about three weeks back. It's fine if food was on his mind, we'd allow him to visit once or twice provided he'd never come back. But his weird tendencies made us take drastic steps towards eradicating him from the face of the earth.

It would be better if you have a little background information on this issue. You see, mice/rats and my family don't have the most amicable of relationships. We kill them, they hate us [till they die, that is]. Dad and Mom have been brought up in settings that train you to hit the mouse on the head in a reaction time of point seven three of a second. It's tough not to hate such a caring and hospitable family. After the first nocturnal visit itself, the mouse finds a delicious piece of Mortein Rat Kill at every window. I'm told it contains ground cereal, some healthy stuff and the not-so-good-for-health rat poison. Atleast we've become more compassionate of late. A couple of years saw the mouse trap being used for any and every occassion. Well, that's a separate story by itself.

The Rat Trap Hall of Fame includes personalities that are inducted if they can avoid personal injury [and ofcourse, death] but still get away with the booty. The list is pretty short - about three names. The all-time great was a big problem. Let's call him Melchior [ I just like the name; not getting out personal frustration on any of my friends]. It was the summer of '99 and our building was being painted on the outside. The bamboo scaffolding provided the rats with an excellent venue for their Extreme Sports Olympics. Melchior by far seemed the bravest, strongest but also the smartest - unlike Moose from Archies comics. On his first visit, he came into the kitchen and gnawed at every damn thing that was solid and edible. The trap was set up the following night with a tempting piece of chicken et al. The old man of the house has a habit of making sure it's the last and best meal of the rat. This Melchior fellow comes along, pushes the trap till it goes off, eats the chicken and leaves after gnawing at a few more things. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, the trap is set again; this time with a piece of fried fish topped with ghee. Same rat, same trick. This got more irritating than frustrating.

Innovative solutions come forth when confronted with innovative problems, I guess. Dad does a little analysis, scratches the head [you'll be surprised, it helps] and comes up with a winner. He sets the trap on the grills, next to the flower pots. That forces Mechyboy to sit on a support [trap] and eat/gnaw the bait. It works. Apparently, Melchior's family members are stupid; we get rid of half of their Olympics' squad - eight rats in nine days.

Now the new guy [ Let's call this dude Xerxes (pronounced Zerksis). Awesome name] walks into our house in blissful ignorance of its past history. He announces his arrival by nibbling at my Mom's finger at the unearthly hour of four in the morning. Mother dear gets up thinking its a bad dream and so drops off to sleep again. That same morning I get up to a crazy barking session organised by the colony dogs - and a tickly sensation near my right toe. I move the bedsheet about, to make sure it wasn't a piece of fabric; but it's shadow surprisingly moves in the opposite direction. And then I, through the cobwebs of sleep, realise it's Xerxes.

Sitting cutely next to my foot, Xerxes flashes me a smile and dashes for the window. I emit two sharp yelps, jump on the sofa and ensure safety. [Hey that takes courage too.] Dad, who was sleeping beside me, puts the light on and sweeps the room with a swift eye. All he gets to see is the tip of Xerxes' tail.

Consider this: One - there's a rat in your house. Two - he has the audacity to nibble at your toes. Three - food doesn't seem to interest him [except bananas, I'll explain that later]. With all due respect to coincidence, the case is dismissed and Mortein Rat Kill is out at once. It is then we realise Xerxes has also taken off some skin from my sister's toes. Now that, the thick skin one finds on the toes, is what he seems to be after. Frivolous foot fetish.

So we all cover our bodies from head to toe as a preventive measure and sleep as if we were enacting a morgue scene from a popular horror show. Halfway through the night, I begin to cook inside. Caring a damn about a mad rat on the loose, I cleverly spread a bedsheet on the sofa and go to sleep. They say 'Once bitten twice shy' but oh the feeling of direct fan breeze! Just two hours of fitful sleep is all I get before I feel a familiar scratch on the toe. Light from the tubelight reveals it's good ol' Xerxes perched on one cushion, waiting for me to return [with my irresistible toes]. Is he retarded, is he possessed? But like that matters when your sleep pattern is spoilt by night activity [try not to think out of context]. And then my toe begins to burn. Close inspection reveals about one square centimetre of precious thick skin is missing.

Next day is a more serious Take Two of morgue scene and a new pack of Mortein Rat Kill. It's scary when a rat goes for your toes but not the food. That reminds me; he always had a little fresh skin and then returned for fresh bananas - the only other thing he touched in our house. Maybe he was a health-conscious guy. The third night, he infiltrates 'fortress bedroom' again but Mom is fortunately a light sleeper and chases him out. Thats the last we saw of him, reason being all the rat poison went missing that night. Out of curiosity, I check the back of the first rat poison pack and solve the mystery in two seconds - it said 'manufactured and packed in Ulhasnagar'. Man, that place doesn't spare anything.

Since then, everything's back to normal, the skin on our toes has grown back. Rats have ceased to worry us since then. And the dogs of our colony lived yappily ever after.

A mind incapable of understanding defeat

2006-10-22T14:23:00.000+05:30

15.08.06

An unsteady step, wobbly knees
But eyes with piercing innocence.
Calling out in a tongue that
Daddy knows better than his own.

Everything scary fails to impress -
For daddy's arms will provide security,
Giving meaning to a non-sensical life,
Hope for the incomprehendable.

In a mind that cannot grasp
Just how complex this world is,
Knowledge falls short where
Love can teach all things.

Mamma's touch is everything; everything at all.
Nothing, nobody comes even close.

Of reasoning, knows nothing.
Put him in a tub - he may drown.
Quiet, alone, he's in his own world
Realising not that something's amiss.

Surely, there's something I overlooked,
That made this child complete.
Unless I, not he, am retarded.
Very unjust term, this -
Who makes the standard, sets the norm?

Xperience the true meaning of living,
You who are 'normal'.
Zealous spirits have big hearts, not big minds.

Inspired by the sight of a father putting shoes on the feet of his child - a mentally challenged kid. Not able to balance himself, he hugged his dad around the neck for support. I know he got more than just that.

Thursday the twelfth - the prequel to Friday the Thirteenth.

2006-10-15T15:51:00.000+05:30

As a reminder to all my dear friends who believe in astrology, Vaastu Shastra, superstition and LK Advani, I just realised that yesterday was Friday the thirteenth. Nah, not that I am intimidated by this fact or subscribe to such stuff; but recent episodes of threat to personal safety have made me realise co-incidence. Or rather, how bad luck forgot to be puntual this time.

As if being five foot five and a half inches of nonsense and stupidity was not enough, nature tried to make its contribution day before yesterday. During my lunch break, I had gone to meet a few friends and have lunch with them. With a test scheduled after the break, I [the diligent and sincere student that I am] got out a book and began to pretend reading some numerical problems. Now understanding the layout of the seating arrangement is central to the event that I will be hereby narrating. These seats are situated in the open, on the border of the full-size cricket ground our campus boasts of. To the left is the Biotechnology section while the college main library is right ahead in front. Stick out your hand to the right and you'll feel the plants growing on the fence, beyond which is a laboratory that looks more like a cottage.

The table is a circular slab of granite, artistically and amateurly balanced on a vertical column. Round it are four similar but smaller structures that serve as seats. The trees on the fence extend their branches over three such tables, making it a sought-after place to hang out. [Tell me, has a shady and cool corner on any college campus ever been spared the students' butts?] My friends and me were sitting on one such table and completing some writing work. At about quarter past one thirty, it was time for them to get their submissions done and so they left. For the next ten minutes it was me, alone with my book and friends' bags - and then, a tree joined me.

If you've not been able to stretch your imagination to accomodate this piece of information, let me help you. Remember the branches over the tables? Well, one of them belonged to a wild tree and so had been cut two days prior to its visit to sincerely yours. Co-incidently, I was witness to the cutting, which showered leaves, twigs and sap on an unassuming couple sitting right beneath it. It crackled, twisted, teased the woodcutter and finally came to rest on a lower branch. As you may have guessed, like all other jobs begun by Indians, it was left to decide its own fate. Little did I know the branch would take exactly forty eight hours to do this. While I was reading page eighty four [conveniently skipping all the earlier pages], I heard a distinctive rustling of leaves. And for the next ten seconds, the branch kept falling downwards to my immediate right and adjusting itself until it assumed a position of minimum energy. Halfway through the descent of this heavyweight, I realised the problem - the branch had thorns. Big thorns.

There are some situations you don't want to get yourself into; standing on an ant hill or wearing a pant full of its residents, stamping on a ferocious dog's tail or getting caught with your pants down - literally or figuratively. This can be counted as one of those. To my relief, there were atleast ten youth around the place who came to the rescue and got me out of there. After a quick first aid and assessment of the twenty-odd scratches, it turned out to be nothing serious. Actually, that wouldn't have been the case if I was sitting on the seat to my right. Mr.Thorny Branch would have landed directly on my head and considering him to be about half a ton, I guess it's not a joke. Coming to think of it, journal submissions [of all the blessed things on earth] saved my friends from his unannounced but successful test on gravity.

Funny how we value life a little more on going through scary or near-death experiences. After Thursday's episode, I don't mind it at all, when crow poop falls out of the sky and onto my head. 'It could have been worse', I tell myself. 'It could have been a branch....'.

Emancipation from examination.

2006-10-13T20:50:00.000+05:30

They come twice or four times a year depending on the mood of the University. Worse, if the professor is one from the enthusiastic breed, there will be some more - euphemistically called tests. I'm recovering from one such series of assaults just to realise I've to get into top shape for the next event - longer and tougher than the first. Of course it will be a last minute effort. I rarely branch out from the traditional.

Then what's new about this discussion? Actually, nothing. It's just that crazy times are mostly accompanied by stupid thoughts - "What's the perfect examination?" You bet, stupid thought.

Spare a moment and you'll probably realise that all the exams you attempted [apt use of the word, what say?] in your life can be summarised in one phrase - use of logic. There's absolutely nothing that is out of the syllabus after this approach is adopted. Then where's the problem? It's the knowledge of terminology of the subject. Now before going on any further, let me make it clear that this opinion fails miserably when applied to subjects based on facts and figures [read history].

All great ideas have an inspiration. Let me tell you my story. Last week we had a class test in which four problems had to be solved in an hour - five marks each. Like that mattered. I couldn't make myself to go beyond the first one. It was an amazing-concept-but-can't-get-solution types. I left an approximate amount of space [only to realise that I wouldn't be able to fill it later] and went on to the next one. Same fate with a little concession. I managed to draw [rather, attempt - man, this word conveys so much] a small diagram. After the stipulated one hour, I had written just two sides on the answer sheet, one frustrated poem, drawn a heptagon and an octagon, cracked a few jokes [really really sad ones I guess] with my neighbour, killed two irritating mosquitoes and stared hard at the fan.

Yesterday, the results of the test were out. Guess who scored the highest - one dude who keeps forgetting that green is for earthing in a plug. Irony, he is going to graduate in Electrical Engineering. After a long and tiring semester, this realisation was the last straw. Now, how do we come up with an exam that tests the real knowledge of the student? Quite impossible to be frank. C'mon, I've scored the highest in Marathi during school and yet can't get through a complete sentence without giving the impression that I'm of Russian ancestry. Bookish knowledge has long defeated common sense. All that is taught in class is fit for just that - to be taught in class. Public and Entrance exams are better not discussed. Well, maybe another time; can't resist the entertainment, you see.

That still leaves us with the same, basic question. Sometimes it makes me wonder whether the solution is anything even remotely connected to academics. Could be social, ideological or maybe even political. Till then, I better keep studying. No doubt, last minute attempt [wow, this word amazes me].

No mind, won't mind

2006-10-06T00:36:00.000+05:30

What would a normal individual do if he got up in the morning to find the newspaper wet, made tea to realise it tastes aweful, that the pet has left its footmarks on the office pair of clothes and then missed the transport to work? Worse, when (s)he does get a chance to squeeze into the crowded transport, someone helplessly sneezes on the neck.

I'm guessing your answer is on the lines of 'curse everyone, spit the tea out, kick the pet and then ruin what is left of the day.' Now just imagine half of the working population experiencing one of the mentioned genuine tragedies. Aha, now that sounds like a Monday.

It's very interesting to know that each one of us has our own threshold value for irritation. In that, too, different levels for different issues. But come to consider this: 'We set our own limits when it comes to tolerating people, issues and situations. Why not stretch it just a little more?'

First of all, nobody or nothing is worth your peace of mind. Then why do we go about throwing it away at the drop of a hat? Classic example: A five year old chap doesn't have his vegetables at dinner. Dad loses his already strained 'rational thinking' and gives him a earful about children dying in Somalia due to lack of food. Classic reaction: The boy stares wide-eyed, eyes moisten up, tears flow and then the wails. Runs to Mom/Grandma/Grandpa. C'mon, is that fair? But then, it's a vicious cycle - Dad gets it from the boss, who in turn gets it from his wife [or mistress], whose brains have been eaten royally by the housemaid. The housemaid most probably had had a tough time taming a drunk husband or unruly children. And so it goes on.

I've found a way around such problems - smile at the person who's the potential irritator. Intentional or unintentional. The irritation, that is. The smile doesn't have to be of Colgate magnitude but something to make the other person think. Guaranteed you'll earn yourself a few stares, a little more-than-few abuses, the occassional slap if you've tried it on a peeved woman [don't tell me I didn't warn you]. But it's completely worth it. Gives the feeling of 'Nobody can touch me'. After all, are not people the world over spending money to regain that alien concept called sanity?

As always, I have got to list down the people one must not use this method with. Professors are a big no-no. There was this one guy who thought me to be a shameless character and flung my assignment like in an Olympic discuss throw. I must say his range was impressive.

Then come parents. They think you're making fun of them, or better, undermining their authority. Well, coming to think of it, this would appear that way. They may sound irritating but I guess we mostly deserve the lectures. It's not like we have lived perfect lives.

And lastly, the physically most dangerous - when in the middle of a heated arguement/starting of a fight. I'm warning you, it may cost you your front teeth and a few drops of blood through the nose. But I'm saying it again, its completely worth it.

Note: The author strongly recommends the readers to find out a method best suitable for themselves but at the same time takes no responsibility for any mental or physical injury sustained by them trying out any of the above mentioned methods.

The raging storm

2006-08-31T22:44:00.000+05:30

24.07.06

Arms stretched wide
Against the ceaseless wind;
Blows into your face,
Blows away your security -
A feather in a gale.

Beyond, lightning strikes the ground
Turning matter into ashes,
Safety into terror.
All but a blinding flash
Photographing insignificance, you.

Pelting down like bullets in bloody war
Comes the drenching rain
Quenching the thirst of nature
And hope of the carefree sense.
Water gives life, takes life.

I stand rooted in place
Knowing strength within is what matters.
The storm rages on
As night kills the chance of dawn.
I put my hand out
And catch the drops of rain
As everything around crumbles into nothingness
A light shines in the darkness,
Behind shut eyes.

All goes still
In obedience to the heart.
The tempest outside dies its own death
As I remain there,
Arms stretched wide.

Was a wonderful experience to write this. Reassures the soul like nothing else.

Mama.....

2006-08-19T21:43:00.000+05:30

30.05.06

Dedicated to all the women in the world who, many a times, have to single-handedly bear the brunt of this one big mistake.

She held her to the breast
Cushioned in caring hands
Lest the child feel discomfort.

The suckling grew into a fine girl
Frills danced a step behind her feet while
Those curls followed as she ran about.

Life was fun and joy
Nowhere close to anxiety, worry
As adolescence passed by in a blur.

All this while, mother watched with love
At this beautiful child of hers:
The apple of her eye,
The dream of every young man.

One day, her bubbly daughter came in
With no sign of the usual twinkly-in-eye.
Something serious, terrible seemed to be.

Unfolded the story of youthful abandon;
How she loved someone, made love.
Mother listened; moist eyes.

The shame was too much to take.
How had her innocent daughter lost innocence?
How had she not known?

Her girl, now a woman, gave birth.
Illegitimate child; legitimate love
But her girl ended her shame, ended her life.

Mother held her to the breast
Cushioned in caring hands
Lest the child feel discomfort.

Ambedkar Jayanti, Bedekar masala and everyday Indian spice.

2006-08-16T23:49:00.000+05:30

Today's bus travel in the morning seems like ages ago. But I remember the school assembly, the patriotic songs and the National Anthem as if I sang it yesterday. Not to forget the guy who got punished for deliberately screaming the last four lines of the Anthem at one teacher named Jaya. Something to do with nostalgia maybe.

Looking back at those days, it makes me think: 'What is patriotism?' Is it pinning a small flag to our pockets or placing one on the dashboard, handles of our vehicles? Or for a major part of the community, is it standing to attention when the Anthem is played in the theatre? My dad's 'new' edition [1974] of the Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionary of Current English defines patriotism as "the love for one's country". If this is a correct understanding of the word, then I'm lukewarm. This has been said taking into consideration that the basic definition has not undergone any drastic change in the past thirty two years.

Now before you report this blog as anti-Indian, let me clarify my stand. From this sentence onwards, all names have been changed to protect the individual's right to stupidity. Also, all examples are for better understanding of the opinion being discussed. No portion of this post, in part or whole, can be reproduced in any form [written, photocopied, printed] without explicit permission from the author.

Not that you would want to.

The general portrayal of patriotism by political parties seems to be 'Pakistan is the enemy'. Believe this, and you are a true disciple. And surprisingly, a lot of the gullible junta accepts it. For that matter, you must also be against multinationals, privatisation, Valentine's day, English names for Indian places and the like. What you must support is an even longer list. Apparently, love for country can wait till later. As far as I'm concerned, half of these are non-issues. An example: I'm against soft drink companies and a few other multinationals. Does that mean I don't like all of them? Of course not; they are so very needed. Then there's Bangalore becoming Bangaluru [Bangalooroo for numerologists]. Who cares? Is the number of crimes against BPO employees reducing there? But at the same time, some places named after tongue twisters need the change. So I'm lukewarm.

Piyush, one of my classmates, swears by the flag pole in our campus - he's that patriotic. But tossing the lunch wrapping on garden premises every single afternoon is his right. Mention it, and he will wave it off with an air of confidence that would make Rahul Gandhi sit up and notice. For the love of country!! Why is throwing dirt from the window or spitting out of the car normal but soiling the Tricolour a crime? Get real; that flag comes out twice in a calendar year but you are part of your environment. Drink to your heart's content, fight with your neighbours; or worse, beat up your wife and children. But observe 15th August and 26th January as 'dry days'. Still lukewarm.

Leaders stand to military attention during the Anthem. Some even get goose flesh and mistake it for a patriotic orgasm [in the non-sexual way] but are ready to sell country and all for personal benefit. Rajiv, representative of the common man, is no better. As long as his spouse is satisfied [read 'not irritating'] and the children have a promising future, the rest of the world can go to hell. It takes an unrealistic movie like Rang de Basanti to get him all worked up on national issues; that's how low he has reached. We salute the flag while trampling on our neighbour's peace of mind. You guessed it - lukewarm.

If a statue or memorial of a freedom fighter is blackened, the nation will know it in within thirty minutes. That just got reduced to twenty in the past two years. So when Ambedkar's statue was garlanded with footwear some time back, it was big news. But treating that poor labourer like dung is permissible. If we can take offense to an act of disgrace to a person's memorial, it better reflect in actual life.

Now I'm not one of those guys ranting for a perfect country. I don't want it to be so because there's beauty in imperfection. I don't agree with being called patriotic for the simple reason that brotherhood and social acceptance/tolerance mean more to me. What good is tradition if it's void of the original meaning? I'd rather donate blood or sponsor an orphan.

I like India - its beautiful history and nature. Not to forget the cliches on culture and diversity; I'll spare you those. The people and atmoshpere are just awesome. It's tough to call any other place on earth home. But I'd rather not restrict my loyalty and love to geographic/political[ly disputed] boundaries that some governing body decided long ago.

It's time we freed India - from ourselves. Jai Hind.

Bob the builder

2006-08-10T00:32:00.000+05:30

Sara-sahara's coming down, coming down, coming down;
Sara-sahara's coming down, my fair lady.

Immortal tune. With the BMC, MCOCA court and other shortformed government organisations growing spine, this strategic demolition has sent out a clear message. 'Don't build on our land or be ready to see it kiss the ground'. Pretty uncivic-authority-like. But they need to do their real work from time to time. That brings me to my question: How did the structure come up if it was (till it got razed) illegal? A very dumb question to ask. All the more because the answer(s) is(are) known to all who are above twelve years of age and not mentally challenged.

It's probably fun to see buildings fall and whole shopping complexes pulled down in a day or two. But why waste human effort and precious years before the fun? Because there's a greater scam going on, like bad background music camouflaged by an amazing solo. When big structures owned or backed by heavy-weights are being targeted, one tends to lose focus of the small-time crooks. A million of these is a greater threat than our beloved Dawood and family (non-blood relations included). I'll give you a sneak preview into my future plan - something that took me about a month and twenty odd boring lectures to concoct.

I'll begin by hiring a middle man. You see, novels are of great help to society. They inspire movies and real life criminals like me (I know I run the risk of being arrested if the government-nanny reads this). Same is the case here. I don't need to start mentioning the blessings of a middle man when in a shady business. Then get him to buy a couple of hutments in strategically located places. Thats the tricky part. The location chosen should be such that a builder is planning to construct a housing society/mall there in the near future. In about five years, the humble dwelling(s) (let's be polite) will earn permanency. If they don't, bribes work equally well.

So when it is time to start construction, the builder/contractor will have to compensate with accomodation elsewhere. Don't worry about this - there are a few activists enthusiastically fighting for the wrong rights. At the time of possession, act as if you didn't like the place, get it sold and move out with a neat sum. All the while, the middle man does the dirty work. If the initial stages of the plan were executed well, more than a dozen such criminally legal moves can be pulled off.

There you are. Sorry, there I will be - education complete (hopefully) and housing finance taken care of (surely). With the pace at which changes are taking place in the governing of our country, I guess this plan may even work for my granchildren. As of now I'm off to search for the middle man.

Short sentences, shorter skirts and Sawant.

2006-07-31T20:42:00.000+05:30

Daughter of an ACP. Also daughter of a wannabe. First acted when still in school. Been there ever since. Small roles, small outfits. Talented in dancing, no doubt. People took notice - her clothes. Can't act for noughts. Flirts with controversy. Raises eyebrows among other things. Rakhi Sawant.

"Why?", you cry. "Why not?", I ask. "Why not?", says the media. News-space wasted on her. Another article, no harm.

Where were we? Ahh, Rakhi. Colourful personality. On screen, shows only one. Brown. Father left home. Doesn't like Bollywood. Nor her profession. Understandable. Mom's proud. Daughter learnt to dress at six. Learnt to shed most at eighteen. Not bad. Brother trying to make a mark. 'Hot money', his first movie. He's director. Hereditary problem I guess.

Back to Rakhi. Item girl. Convenient tag. Gets her work, for sure. Gets dumbwits drooling. Mission complete. Cash flows in, so do offers. Most being stage shows. More dumbwits; more of less clothes. Situation gets out of hand. Security called in. She's whisked away. Same story next show. Different outfit. Police watch with contempt. Crowds, with craze. As always, I'm amused.

Mika the creep. Convenient tag. Wrong thing to do. Wrong girl too. Turned out to be a national broadcaster. A self-proclaimed sex bomb. Detonated beautifully. Now a women's rights activist. Because she's concerned. Valid case. Inexcusable mistake. Great gossip material. Greater publicity. Still, a very valid case. But then, stay mum. Don't marry controversy and the press.

Vehicles, traffic and the rush to get nowhere first.

2006-07-21T23:10:00.000+05:30

I've learnt a new way of inculcating the virtue of patience in my life. It's a big time-waster as you will see, but virtually unavoidable too. So I thought, I might as well bring out the best in every situation; something like perceiving the glass half full. Most importantly, you are in the same soup as me. So why not enjoy the taste while we can.

Traffic jams, you will agree with me, are as much a part of life as Emraan Hashmi is of unnecessary kissing scenes. For me, the former being more tolerable. It's something about being a driver that makes us impatient. Nanoseconds matter to an otherwise who-cares-about-time society. Even James Bond would have been put to shame, that's the level of hurry. There's a trend, if you care to pay close attention: anything on less than four wheels will squirm its way ahead even if there's place for just a fly to fart; the others install horns that blast like sirens announcing a world war and get some sadistic pleasure out of it. It follows the unmentioned law that 'the power of the engine is directly proportional to the volume of the horn'.

So what must one do at one of these eternally long outings? Sit back and enjoy the break, thats all. If someone on the road starts using language that explains reproduction in a crude way, smile at him. It takes a lot of frustration off you while insensitively passing it on to the guy. Come to think of it, there's actually no reason to get all worked up. If it can get you anywhere [out of that *#^%*@ place], I'll join you in cursing the sun, moon and potatoes. The other day, there was this one chap who insisted that Manmohan Singh was responsible for the traffic jam, not having acted out his promises for a brighter India. Intelligent stupidity.

It's better than a paid course in anger management, with all those 'son of a gun's trying to curve their way right in front of your vehicle. And when, finally, it's your chance to get to the other side of the junction, the traffic signal goes red in the face. Another long wait, another lung-full of blessed smoke; all this while, motorists are inching ahead as if that gain of one metre would change their life forever. At such times, don't take a deep breath but calm yourself down. Tell your mind it's good that atleast your vehicle didn't ditch you and break down right in the middle of the whole mess. So dwell on the positive aspects of life [and traffic] - it will give you a renewed respect for the not-so-good things that come your way.

It's time we made some noise about noise.

2006-07-16T18:18:00.000+05:30

That kills the purpose, doesn't it? What I meant is, we must campaign on a personal level, something like a protest, against noise pollution. That's because ear drums have lost all respect in society. Seems stupid; well, its not. Noise is affecting you more than you know it.

Tell me, what do you consider a typical evening. Assuming what our standards are, it may be having dinner with the TV tuned in to one of the twenty odd movie or serial channels we are charged for. Worse, a 'singer' attempting to exercise his/her vocal chords and covering the bad patches with conveniently loud instruments - something accepted as music these days. For the wilder kind, it may be a trip to the pub or a happening disc. If not these, it may be Himesh blaring through our earphones - those perpetual companions for some.

All these, and many other things (excluding Himesh), are a good way to unwind after a day of brain-eating incidents and suicidal atmosphere. Its not about being against these; its about whether these deserve the absolute importance we assign them. And, ironically, noise is the silent killer lurking in the background. You wont even know when it has taken its toll. You'll just see the symptoms of what we today have come to know as the 'modern (wo)man'.

Picture this: a person made to sit in a silent room with no communication (yeah, that cellphone), no entertainment or anything modern for about twenty minutes. No, this is not me painting a toned-down version of hell. Most probably, that person will feel lost. Very lost. Not because there's nothing to do. Its just that (s)he is so accostumed to noise 24/7 that this would feel weird. Very weird. Hearing loss is the least damaging thing noise does to a human.

Its concentration loss. Humans have accepted noise (a world of difference from 'sound') as a normal part of life. If it's not there, we go cuckoo in the head. If it is, our privacy is subtly invaded. Silence is, more than rarely, connected with awkward moments, inactivity, boredom, hurt, pain and so on. For some, peaceful moments filled with happiness are when the discman/fm channel is so loud, you can't hear your own thoughts, worries. No doubt the most hapenning holiday destinations are quiet places. And then we say, 'That place was like heaven!'. Very true; now ask yourself why.

The world over, institutes are studying the change in natural pattern due to increased noise pollution. For example, swallows in urban areas have forgotten their natural song. Some were even known to imitate vehicle sounds. 'So what', you say. Try to digest this: 'The bird honked at the first rays of sunlight'. Just another case of onomatopoeia going wrong?

FIFA World Cup 2006 - Part 3

2006-07-15T17:15:00.000+05:30

Well, after the good and the bad news comes the in-between. There's so much talk that falls into this category.

Last things first: Zidane had the best farewell match a player could ever ask for. How many players do you know announce their retirement and then reach the finals? Ah, the headbutt. I say thats an even better way to leave the field for the last time. No sarcasm, people. Enough has been said and lip-read the world over. So the best player of this generation has hung up his boots after being made to put them on for one last time. Joining him will be Lilian Thuram, another French great.

Carlos, the eighty-centimetre-circumference-a-thigh bazooka, has retired too. Known for his freaky free-kicks and giving 'defender' a flexible meaning, he ended his international career with many criticising the way he didnt mark an opponent. He will go down in history as one of the best on the left flank. Not to forget the 'banana' kick he made famous.

Luis Figo would have liked a better finale to his international game. But he did lead his country to the penultimate stage after a gap of 40 years - unfortunately lost there too. Nobody seems to be barking about his headbutting. Maybe because it was so subtle. Or maybe because the referee lost his head too. Whatever it was, another great player leaving an illustrious career. Pauleta will join him, being the highest goal scorer for Portugal.

Oliver Kahn will be missed between the German goalposts. Effectively one of the best goalkeepers of the past decade, he didnt quite enjoy this Cup final. But he did get to have one last shot in the game for the third place. It will be difficult to find a goalkeeper of his calibre.

Apart from these individuals, theres Italy. The domestic scene is boiling in hot debate and controversy as the international one is basking in glory. Anti-thesis, this. It proved they have it in them to get on both sides of the line - that too, doing it well. But tell me, which country's domestic scene (regardless of the sport) has no corruption? Dont say cricket in India; youll have to have an IQ lower than Buffon's jersey number to say that.

Goalscoring in the Cup finals was a disappointment, according to the organisers. They have woken up to the importance of having a high-scoring game. Did well to realise crowds love to watch goals being scored. But theres one problem. These are not ignorant cricket fans from the Indian subcontinent who curse the sun, moon and the stars if one dot ball is played. Football fans go crazy watching sublime control of the ball and tackles too. So widening the goals or some other move to get more goals on the scoresheet will not make much of a difference to the overall outcome.

I guess thats it regarding the World Cup. It would take a lot more space to just keep mentioning incidents and players, let alone opinion. Overall, a truly wonderful and exhilirating experience.

FIFA World Cup 2006 - Part 2

2006-07-12T19:08:00.000+05:30

And now the good news. Records kept getting broken, mostly because statisticians care to document everything. Did you know that though Serbia and Montenegro went out in the first round with their pants pulled down, they went on record with the longest team name this year? You may say, 'Who cares'. Then there's Mark Roberts, a streaker, who has scored 2 goals (non-World Cup, ofcourse)- the highest for a non-playing individual. Coincidentally, the second time was against an appropriately named goalkeeper, Hans-Jorg Butt. Now you care.

Debutant teams put on a great game. Bad football can be like an eight year-old telling a joke. Beckham let go of his Mohican haircut. For once, he attempted to play real football, only football. So we were spared those tortures.

Ironically, there was more red-card provoking action on the field than in and around the stadiums. And with not much going unnoticed, it proves the referees enjoyed a successful month. Other than one guy who had to be in the midst of a high-intensity match where, barring the goalkeepers, all fought like bitter siblings. Here, another record was broken - most cards (considering colour or otherwise) in a World Cup match and overall too.

The stadiums, the crowd - awesome. The football, even better. Some games were so close, they may have outshone the finals. Nail biting finishes may have left some with sore fingertips. After all, thats what the sport is about - taking off your shorts when you win the Cup (read mafia don lookalike Gattuso). This Cup saw stratergy and tactics getting as much success, if not more, as talent and skill. Players who performed well will be smiling happily knowing that clubs will be making a beeline to sign them on.

A great experience overall. Will be remembered for quite some time, not all positives though. As always, what's the fun if there's no controversy?

FIFA World Cup 2006 - Part 1

2006-07-09T16:53:00.000+05:30

The FIFA World Cup has come to a great finish, with a lot of surprises springing up and over-enthusiastic fans collapsing, grieving the loss of their favourite teams. As is the norm, the bad news first. This tournament has, directly or indirectly, disappointed millions in Germany and many more around the globe.

England. They came, they saw, they concurred - their team is not worth the World Cup final. Wonderful support in the form of faithful fans, beautiful girlfriends and wives (the only positive, I must say), their chances of winning the Cup were hyped. The height of it all, other than Peter Crouch, was Rooney being made to sit in oxygen chambers to speed up his recovery from injury. Without him, they thought England was doomed. With him, Portuguese Ricardo Carvalho's groin was.

Teams slated to reach the finals limped out in the quarter-finals itself. Brazil were hot favourites to lift the Cup; lifted the French's hopes of a second title instead. The players looked nowhere close to their menacing best, the way they play for their respective clubs. Buck-teeth Ronaldo looked like a fattened calf, though he was not overweight. Other disappointments were Ronaldinho, Kaka, Adriano, Carlos, Cafu, Emerson ...... you get the idea.

Then comes Argentina. Sorry, there went Argentina. They played beautifully, passed with style, won convincingly and attempted the penalties like my school team. Surprisingly, the only Argentinian to play in the finals was Camoranesi - for the Italians. Can't blame them though; the Germans were plain lucky in a match that clearly didnt belong to them.

Female fans were busy wiping away tears and botched eye-liners after Beckham, C. Ronaldo, Kaka, Ballack, Messi didn't go through to the finals. But the Italian team is supposedly making up for all the pretty faces missed on the field. A negligible portion of the world female population not affected till now is the one that considers Patrick Vieira hot.

Other sections of society disappointed by the World Cup are the legal Sex-workers. Analysts predicted a mad-rush at local brothels, with all the macho, roudy football (male) fans pouring in from around the world. They say football and sex go hand-in-pant. But it hasn't quite been like that. The only balls some of them got to see were the Adidas Teamgeist. So prostitution being a legal profession in Germany didnt really set pants unzipping. Life does have a cruel way of laughing at
us.

Life

2006-07-03T17:51:00.000+05:30

She stands there, stares you in the face
'Impossible', that's what she seems to say
You wilt before you could brace
Yourself to confront this day.

All the toil goes down the drain;
No light at the end, there is no tunnel.
Darkness descends, then comes the rain,
Someone just pricked the lively bubble.

She is known by most as LIFE -
Maybe because she sucks it out of you.
Ready to pounce at every silly mistake
To make you suffer the consequences too.

First comes a thought, followed by another
Making it look like thought to be.
She is all so precise in choosing a target
Not once is she not to the T.

When all alone, she comes a-visiting
With a basket-full of tempting food
For the lion deep inside awaiting
To be instigated when in a bad mood.

It's all there within, she knows
Enough to make you feel you've lost it
While she has overwhelmed you on all sides
Pushing you into a bottomless, dark pit.

Down, down, down you go until
You fall up into His arms of love.
Maybe it was worth going through it all
It was His plan, He who's up above.

You were seen being tormented by her
Of course, she wasnt sent by Him
After all, could such a loving Father
Ever think of clipping the wings of a Ceraphim?

......She stands there, stares you in the face
'Impossible', that's what she seems to say
But now you know better
You smile at her - and then walk away.

Skirting the real issue

2006-06-30T17:23:00.001+05:30

They've done it again. And because of this hair-brained idea, many cities in India will miss seeing skirts in public. So, effectively, skirts and 'revealing' clothes will invite disciplinary action in colleges. The reason - to curb the rising violence against girls and women. When I first heard this, it amused me. Gave me a reason to laugh, after weeks of doing nothing and gloomy weather. Lets see the mentality behind this great move.

Its short and simple: Women shouldn't wear 'provocative' clothing, as a result, they will discourage the scrutinising gaze and 'helpful' hands of so-called sexually uncontrollable Indian males. This will cause a dip in the number of rapes and molestation cases. I say, think logically, for the sake of humanity! Next, they might tell me [hey, have I ever mentioned, I'm a dude] and my shorts-loving brethren to discontinue the practice because we would be 'inviting' trouble.

To those concerned with law and order, its a great proposal. If a woman is wronged, all they got to do is prove that the victim's clothing was inappropriate and bingo! - they have got an escape. The proving part is not very tough considering you can get a death certificate for a person in perfect health. So their work is done and for the records, another molestation/rape case tackled.

What they dont realise is that they are being systematically stupid [wait, ridiculous is a better word, what say?]. Even if a woman is naked, does a man have the right to jump his fly? So by all this, there's one conclusion - they still hold the woman as the culprit while the male involved can continue to live life as if his little johnny had never been naughty.

Its revealing to know that the number of sex crimes against well-dressed women is the same, if not more. Even those in burqas are not spared, so what's all the barking about? Such crimes will continue to grow parasitically on our society as long as everyone acts blissfully ignorant, oblivious to the fact that it may have already affected someone in their family. As more and more individuals come forward with complaints, they should be supported legally, more important, emotionally. After all, someone needs to think realistically.

The whole twenty two yards

2006-06-26T16:56:00.000+05:30

They say cricket is a religion in India. If so, I become a non-Cricketarian [assuming thats what I can call its followers]. Not that I hate the game; its just too slow and boring in comparison to other field games. Im also bad at keeping a track on great players and big knocks [what you thinking, pervert?] but there are some incidents that I'll always remember. Here are some of them:

Inzamam, a bear of a man and murderer of the cricket ball, is known for English that would confuse even third-world countries. Though there are so many post-match speeches I would like to include here, this is one that will give you a fair idea.

Rameez: So Inzy, disappointed with your performance today?

Inzy: Bismillah-e-rehman-e-rahim. Thank you Allah.Ya, the Indian batsman is play very good today. We is try very hard but is not win the game.

Rameez: Any words for Dhoni?

Inzy: Ya, Dhoni is play very well. He is hit his shot very hard in our gaps. In start, we is protect our gaps very well. The grass is also thick.. But Dhoni is split our gaps with his bat (ouch!).

Rameez: Another ordinary bowling performance?

Inzy: Ya our balls is loose (Doc, help!). The bowler is went for many run. Asif is bowled well. Also, after some shots the ball is out of shape. Umpire is not give another ball.. it is tough to play with one ball.

Rameez: Dropped catches....did that prove costly?

Inzy: Yaaa, the ball is not stick to our hands. We is practice a lot sticking our bat in our hands.... but now we is more practice sticking balls in our hands.

Rameez: Any plans for the next match?

Inzy: Ya, India is on top but we is try to bounce on our back. Insha Allah we is play better.

Rameez: All the best Inzy.

Inzy: Thank is you.

All India Radio is the only source of live commentary ever since our TV suffered a massive heart attack. Most say the only drawback was that AIR didnt have sound-proof commentary boxes. I disagree - it was total entertainment. But it caused quite a lot of disturbance, and suspense for the listener, when a wicket was taken or when someone blasted the ball into orbit. Heres an example:

Commentator: This will be the last over before tea. Tendulkar is on strike and it looks like McGrath will be finishing off this session. This is a quicker delivery and ...... [noise] ...... Tendulkar ...... [noise] ...... hit hard in the middle ...... gone down (I thought he had had it) ...... [noise] ...... [more noise] ...... and its a six!! ......[deafening noise].

Its very confusing, you will agree. How can one be sure what has happened during those noisy gaps? Its true, half the truth is more dangerous.

Then there was Venkatapathy 'Muscles' Raju. According to me, quite forgettable a cricketer. Maybe its because I saw him just once on TV at a friends place; 'first impression is the last impression' sort of thing. So it was surprising when Kumble called him the 'best among my contemporaries'.

Being a 'finger spinner' [rather, fingered spinner], he constantly rubbed the ball with his spittle, sweat or who-knows-which-body-fluid for better grip. He then studied the outfield [half a minute wasted] and changed it to suit the delivery [another half a minute], pulled up his sleeve [thats how he got the nick-name], ran towards the crease [or something that looked like it], considered the right amount of flight and trajectory [as Laxman Sivaramakrishnan says], and then bowled a wide.

Navjot Sidhu's commentary is something one better not get into. It was anything but. Though entertaining, he was a negative embassador of the Indian sense of humour, if there is such a thing. Fortunately, he wasnt fined a part of his commentating fee for criminal use of English idioms, similes and one-liners.

But this sport undoubtedly has a magnetic pull on the average Indian. It continues to draw the attention of even poverty-stricken, gulli children. One day, I may understand why.

The stone

2006-06-24T17:03:00.001+05:30

24.05.06

There's one thing I receive
But still miss;
Lonely like the north star on a stormy night.
Witness to the waves crash on the rocks
What harm can it do - water on stone?

But there it is, the truth:
Stone withers away under perpetual stroke
The storm has won,
The ocean proves its strength
At the expense of an unknown rock.

Then there's the other stone.
Shapeless, ugly little thing
That a boy tossed into the waves
A decade ago.

The same punishment, ruthlessness
Minute after minute, the surf crashes
Onto the vast shore,
Onto the unidentifiable stone.
People walked by; some kicked it
Others drew hearts on the sand with it -
Nothing short of nothing;
And the waves crashed on.

But the same ocean, same strength
Caused a different story.
The stone found shape, smoothness
Amidst the violent storm.
Beautiful to the eye,
Silken to the touch was this stone.

I pick it up, and sit myself down.
This pebble has survived the storm:
Managed to defeat the unending ocean.

I swear I saw the north star twinkle.

This was a poem written in the dead of the night while exams were on.

I, me and myself

2006-06-21T15:53:00.000+05:30

Hey,

Welcome to my space on the internet. A quick introduction about me for those who may not know me in person:

I'm an Engineering student [monotonous, you may think. Hehe, you're partly right] in my Second year. But thats what I'm least concentrating on. Music is one of my passions, closely followed by sports. And by that, I mean the real field type [running after girls not considered by the Indian Sports Department though] - crazy, animated computer games a strict no-no.

Regarding music, I play the keyboards for an upcoming youth band. Simultaneously I'm learning the guitar. Apart from this, I can also do some highly convincing crap on the bass and drums. Looking forward to learn the flute and violin in the not-so-near future. Mostly into rock - contemporary, slow, punk, hard, soft, metal, noisy, imitate-an-udupi-restaurant-kitchen, wake-up-the-neighbours, make-the-dogs-bark etcetera. Too many bands to name so keep reading future posts to get them.

Football is the sport I play the most, though I like hockey better. Man, it gets no respect even after being our national game [I bet half the Indians dont even know that]. Used to play chess, table tennis and cricket when in school but gave it up after the Maharashtra Shikshan Samiti stopped awarding bonus marks to sportspersons in the 10th public examination. Other favourite indoor sports include burp competitions [my bro being the other competitor. He had quantity, no quality or modulation], talk-unintelligibly-for-the-longest [I got the award and whacks from my dad], cracking really low, stupid, suicide-inducing PJs [poor jokes]. As for the PJs, its a dying art. Nobody seems to understand its importance as a stress-buster.

But most of all, its human behaviour and psychology that interests me most. There are so many ways to perceive the same thing that sticking to only your way would be close to a crime. Yet, there is only one truth - with a million ways of pointing to it.

Most of my extra curricular time goes into the activities of a local youth group that caters to the emotional, spiritual and personality growth of the youth in the neighbourhood and the city [well, some of them could add 'and to the country'; they really have]. Its a great pleasure to see people from various backgrounds coming together to help one another in overcoming day-to-day difficulties relevant to youth.

I think thats enough for a start. So this was the first post..............ummmm, feels nice to have finally begun posting. Check out for future posts - most of which will be dedicated to every-day serious stupidity. But there will be posts on serious matters too.