Songs of the not-so innocent

Window to the world

2012-01-30T20:15:00.001+05:30

The glass walls of the office let him stare at the people on the other side. As a scene, it was not extraordinary. Neither were the people. People were after all, just people. The observer and the observed shared a floor, but they could have been worlds apart.

After many minutes of observation, he understood. Perhaps. Those on the outside looked comfortable. He did not know them. He had no idea about their daily office lives, never mind the ones they led after leaving at the end of the day. But there was no getting around it - they just looked content. Confident. Cheerful. Hopeful. Like they knew they'd be able to handle anything life threw their way.

He felt as aware of this as the people were unaware of him.

They looked alive. He looked like he would never be.

Song for the moment: For what it's worth - Buffalo Springfield

I gave you all

2012-01-25T12:39:00.001+05:30

It never fails.

Stress, frustration, angst, ennui, boredom, the stifling, never-ending pile of work... call it what you will. This amalgamated feeling will build, build and build. Sometime in midweek, when you're literally forcing one foot in front of the other out of sheer bloody-mindedness and fatigue, a vision will appear in your mind's eye.

A pub, a beer pitcher, music, and the kind of friends with whom you can stay comfortably silent for any length of time and still call it conversation.

Of course, at that moment, there will be no recourse.

So you'll write this post and take solace in the past.

Song for the moment: Under the bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Tiny Dancer

2012-01-06T13:33:00.001+05:30

I can't think of many advantages to being a short person. If you are no good at sports, you tend to get bullied in school because you can't hack it as an athlete. If your social graces are awkward at best, you tend to get ignored in college for the most part and slink around campus like Gollum. Heck, there's even data suggesting that tall people get paid and treated better, right throughout their lives. So, the 'altitudinally' challenged get the short end of the stick, as it were. Which is consistent, I suppose.

Still, there's one place where you'd think it might be beneficial to be small of stature - the Bombay local to Borivali during the evening rush hour. Look, this is no forum to debate the horrors of train travel at said time. In my previous job, I've taken trains in what is as the 'wrong direction' in Bombay-speak, so I didn't quite understand the nitty-gritties of the situation. My new job is in town, so I finally travel in the same direction along with what is effectively the population of a small country. Space, in those splendidly minuscule 1st class compartments, is at a premium. This is where the short bloke is supposed to come into his own, laugh at his taller brethren and travel with impunity. From personal experience, I sadly report that this is complete balderdash.

In rush hour, the tall guys seen to stand their ground by force of physical presence and considerable will. The short chaps are summarily dismissed as a waste of space and either discover flexibility that would have B.K.S Iyengar taking notes or find themselves involuntarily alighting at the wrong station with a host of other people. The tall get to stack their bags in the overhead rack, whilst the short resort to strapping bags in front, waddling around like pregnant ladies. And don't even get me started on the shoe-stamping. It would be better for the petite to learn to levitate.

Years ago, I read a book on body language which spoke at length about the Occidental need for personal space and how the violation of this space made them very uncomfortable. I wish that lot would get a crash course in the harsh realities of life, by having them travel like other Mumbaikars for just one day. I suspect there would be a marked cooling of expectations and rapid reorganisation of thoughts on what personal space really means. Also, a very thorough understanding of the meaning of 'violation' and maybe even 'molestation'.

However, it has to be said that the train is a great leveler in rush hour. Finding yourself unintentionally executing one of the more complicated Kathakali poses, your eyes just might meet those of a fellow struggler. Regardless of stature, the accepted practice is to smile wanly, give a Gallic shrug of recognition and pray that your destination arrives as soon as possible. When in Bombay...

Song for the moment: Standing in the doorway - Bob Dylan

Wrapping paper

2011-12-27T15:47:00.001+05:30

After swearing to lay off the sappy stuff on the blog, it was but natural that the last post would be swimming in that tripe. However, it has been shrugged off just as we're about to wrap up another year.

2011 started off at a stagger, collapsed a couple of times, got knocked out once and after a pick-up & dust-off, and a calibration of directions, began a steady jog-trot towards the finish. On the professional front, I gracefully parted ways with my organisation sometime around November. It'd been a decent ride and I would have continued there for a while longer were it not for extenuating circumstances. I took the opportunity to closely examine the idea of plunging into freelance writing, tried my hand at a couple of projects and learned that one needs to be fully committed to the experience and whatever comes along with it. I wasn't ready, so I interviewed and successfully have got another job in Bombay, a city which isn't done with me yet. I'll be starting at the place in January.

On the personal front, its been one of the best years of my life. I met this lovely girl and have been in a wonderfully fulfilling relationship for some time now and I hope to... Screw it. I can't sustain that kind of nonsensical lying, even in text. Status quo this year. Thank heavens for books and BBC Entertainment.

As is par for course, the end of the year balanced the good news about the new job with the bad news about my laptop. Old faithful completed 5 years at the start of the month and promptly crashed a fortnight later, taking all my data with it. I do backups of course, but it'd been a while so I lost a lot of stuff I'd been working on for my projects. Yes, its inconvenient, both for me and others who are depending on my writing. But there's no point crying over spilt milk so I'm picking up the proverbial pieces and trying to put them back together asap. Its kept me away from the internet / computer for a bit, which is not that bad a thing, on the whole.

I don't want to bother heaping ridiculous expectations on 2012. Suppose I'll do my bit and wait for the dice to roll kindly.

I do want to write more though. Lets see. Good luck with the new year, all.

Song for the moment: Playing for time - Acoustic Alchemy

Reference Point

2011-12-15T23:23:00.000+05:30

The next time you hear "there's no use revisiting the past", take note. It is good, solid advice. Let me tell you what could happen, when you choose to ignore it.

I've never been one of those blokes who'd give Charles Atlas or any of his brethren a complex. But the slightly slothful lifestyle brought on by working as a consultant for the last month, mostly spent working and writing at home, has taken its toll. A hint of chubbiness has started suggesting itself again, which is troublesome. The path to hell, or rotundity, is paved with vada pavs and other good intentions, so I haven't engaged in any urgently-required callisthenics. Having shamed myself enough, I decided to go for a jog today at the Pune University track.

The University is where I spent two years at the Anthropology department collecting a degree. They were good years, marked more by normalcy than anything else. At that point in my life, normalcy suited me just fine. I'd been jogging at the track there for a few years, so being on campus made it even easier to be faithful to the regimen. And trust me, considering the condition of the track, serious effort is needed to remain faithful. Laziness and a lack of money and other options helps too.

I understand the University may not be resting on sackfuls of shekels, but they could and sadly, can still make at least a modicum of effort to maintain the facilities. Taking inspiration from some ancient Olympic site, the track was originally constructed entirely of mud, with the hope that regular watering and care would help grass grow on the surface. Well, the cows that pass through the campus had other ideas, and were no doubt delighted with being provided a kilometre long snack bar. The track is popular with Punekars and there's a sizeable crowd of people there, morning or evening.

With the passage of time, some sections began to wear out, but that was not considered a problem. Mud is plentifully available. Some bright bean decided otherwise, filling these sections with the choicest of carefully considered sharp stones and bricks. In one fell stroke, it became one of the most challenging obstacle courses in town and has stayed that way for as long as I can remember. People have adopted a peculiar half-trot, half-stumble style when navigating it which is hilarious when viewed from the sidelines. If you can hack through the many thorny bushes lining the track, that is.

I used to be able to run about 5 km continuously. I fortuitously managed 1 km today, before having to stop and move briskly away from a nasty looking stray dog that had collared (ha!) one section of the track. After a couple of shortened rounds, my lungs began frantically telegraphing a "its us or you" signal, so I stopped the sham. And then challenged the past a second time by paying a visit to my department. Again, I shouldn't have. Sunlight filtered through the trees, bathing the place in a cheerful winter evening glow. Which was good since the management seemed to be on some cost-cutting measure and most of the lights in the place had been turned off.

Unbidden, the ghosts of old scenes began to move across the landscape; the group camaraderie at the end of many tough days, moments of friendship, solitude, celebration and grief. The worst was the memory of failed romance. Feelings of "what might have been" seep through the fabric of all our old memories but stab deepest in the case of lost love and its regrets. I scooted out of there.

And, since I was on a roll, went back to school.

Loyola looked as lovely and serene as always, framed by hills and a beautiful sky palette painted by the setting sun. A lonely jet liner cut across the horizon, white plumes marking its path whilst a group of boys were engaged in a game of football on the playing field. It was a scene guaranteed to have Wordsworth going into paroxysms of delight and start blathering on about daffodils and such. But all I could think about on my years at school was a lot of personal potential and possibilities wasted.

In this kind of wistful & melancholic mood, it is easy to blame people and circumstances from the past for who you are today. Thankfully though, I've just finished Abhinav Bindra's superb autobiography 'A shot at history'. It is a must-read, not only because it is superbly written but also because you get a keen understanding into the amount of desire, hard work, discipline and focus needed to be successful. He took these elements to extraordinary levels, but heck, there was an Olympic gold medal at the end of that road.

So, while there may be some just cause for blaming factors beyond our control for our current lives, I suspect quite a few of us could also direct many of those accusatory arrows at ourselves. At the end of the day, if we can't learn any lessons from our experiences, being stuck in a past soaked with regret is all we'll be left with. Surely we can try to do better?

Song for the moment: Don't stop - Fleetwood Mac

To live is to fly

2011-12-05T10:43:00.001+05:30

(Sorry readers. Stuff came up. Lost the thread of the post and then interest. Anyway...)

Part 2:

KS was in mental turmoil. As usual. His team had made it to the quarter-finals of the footy tournament, which made him happy. But, and there's always one of those tripping him up, the quarters, semis and finals would be played on Sunday; the quarters in the morning, the semis around 5 pm and the finals at 9:30 pm. This was the official schedule, which, in India and especially in Pune, can be summarily dismissed. Assuming the Sunday Boys made it to the final, it could safely be said that the game would begin no earlier than 10:30 pm. Therein lay the roots of our hero's turmoil.

Although he spends a shocking amount of time in Pune, KS is actually based in Hyderabad. Being the pain & discomfort loving bloke that he is, KS makes the torturous 12 - 14 hour bus trip too and fro pretty regularly. This was one such trip and he was to leave for biryani land on the 8 pm bus on Sunday. If the Boys lost. Which was not what KS wanted. Checking Redbus.in for the last available option for Sunday night found some Neeta Volvo horror that skulked out of the city round about midnight. Neeta Volvo services being synonymous with every MC/BC/etc. gaali one could come up with, was not an option at all. So, train options were examined and seats found on the Pune-Hyderabad Shatabdi leaving at 5:50 am. One was booked.

On Sunday morning, I slept in and reached the ground after the quarter final was over to find the team sitting rather silently behind one of the goal-posts. They'd won, but only just. An enormous slice of luck ensured that a hopeful punt up-field by KC had inexplicably bounced over the charging keeper and into the net, giving the Sunday Boys a 1-0 ticket to the semis. I missed this evening game to watch the new Tintin movie with the family. Having followed and cheered the Boys road to the final thus far, I can say with complete honesty that I forgot about the game while the movie was on. At 8 pm, I received a happy text from KS, announcing that the Boys had thrashed their opponents 2-0 (in the shorter form of the game, this was a thrashing) and were in the finals.

As I parked the bike and walked around the periphery of the field, there was a noticeable buzz in the air. As fate would have it, the final was a repeat of the previous year, in which CF and KS's team had lost. This was, effectively, a grudge match. Once the tomfoolery over the chief guest's appearance had been settled, the players began their warm-ups. The Sunday Boys were calm and cheerful, practising their short passing game before desultorily taking a few practice penalties. Their opponents, United FC, spent the entire time taking penalties, a forewarning of their philosophy of play. Some time later, the field was watered and chalked afresh and the game began.

From the first whistle, it was obvious that United FC were not going to allow the Boys to settle into their usual rhythm. Every time one of the Boys got the ball, 2 of the opponents would swarm him, forcing him to boot it toward a team mate or commit an error. When United had the ball, they would quickly make their way towards the opposing goal and shoot. Although an ugly style of play, it was effective, since it intimidated the Sunday Boys, both mentally and physically. CF found himself on the receiving end of more than a few tasty tackles and was definitely not his usual commandeering self. After a goalless first half, United FC were awarded a penalty since the Boys had conceded 3 corners (3 corners = 1 penalty, which was the rule). This was a team that got to the finals without scoring even one goal from open play. Penalties were their strength, so the result of the penalty was a foregone conclusion for most of the spectators.

It was a well-taken penalty, I'll give him that. The ball arrowed in towards goal at the right height and in the right direction. But finals are a different ball-game (pun whatever... you decide) altogether. For some reason, the ball hit the inside of the post, but deflected out and into open play. An audible sigh of relief came from my right, where CF's young son was there to see his dad lift the trophy. CF's brother, built like a brick-house, stood next to the kid and also looked about as thankful as a huge, intimidating bloke can. The game went on. A few minutes later, it got ugly. There was a clear hand-ball by one of the United FC players, but the referee signalled for a simple foul rather than a penalty. CF, already rather ragged thanks to the rough treatment he was getting from the opponents, lost his temper and almost marched off the field in protest.

2 minutes before the game was to end, the Sunday Boys got a penalty of their own, through the 'corner' rule. Scoring a goal this close to the final whistle would effectively kill the game and everyone knew it, both on and off the field. As an aside, I would like to inform the readers that the phrase 'could cut the tension with a knife' is both true and in this case, apt. I did not want to watch this penalty being taken but couldn't take my eyes away from the game unlike CF's kid, who'd turned in the opposite direction and was studiously examining an interesting patch of sky.

What happened next took the game from ugly to uglier. As CF swung his foot to take the shot, a laser light began zagging on the ball. Whether this distracted him we will never know, but the ball came nowhere near the goal post. Once again, Lady Luck ignored the Sunday Boys, who requested a retake of the penalty, which was refused. Over on the sidelines, the owner of the laser was immediately identified and warned by the authorities. But the inherent frustrations of the game bubbled over in CF's brother who confronted the laser guy and began a brawl, which threatened to shift the focus away from the game. At one point, it looked like things could get really bad for the audience as various people began to congregate around the brawlers and cheer them on while loud curses could be heard coming from both camps of supporters.

Somehow, the melee was stopped and the game went on. However, something had gone out of the Sunday Boys who became indifferent and listless. The final whistle confirmed that the game would be settled by penalties. The rest is history.

Now, I'd love to tell you how the Sunday Boys consolidated all their discipline, focus and accuracy and scored every goal flawlessly. Real life though, takes the piss out of fairytale endings. The Boys could not convert even one of their three penalty attempts and United FC won by converting just one chance. The Sunday Boys had given it their best shot, but it wasn't enough. The final result was not a story of redemption but one of repetition. Prizes were distributed, speeches were made and the crowd dispersed.

No doubt it would be awesome if this post ended with some inspirational words or uplifting messages. But it doesn't work like that. A glum KS left for Hyderabad the next morning. A few days later, I happened to pass by the ground and found some guys in the middle of a game. Life goes on.

Song for the moment: The kids are alright - The Who

Any given Sunday

2011-11-14T16:32:00.001+05:30

On following a football team over the weekend:

Part 1:

Writing about sport, about teams you follow or the ensuing action, can easily descend into nauseatingly superlative phrases and tired clichés. As a writer, is it possible to put yourself out there and let your head calculate objectivity whilst your heart hammers along with the drama? Reading Rohit Brijnath on the subject of sports-writing is an education, but I have to learn the practical lessons myself. So, I don't have an answer yet, just this post.

As with most opportunities, this one came in the garb of an innocuous question - Tu kya kar raha hai? (What's your plan? / What are you up to?). It was Saturday evening; of course I had nothing to do. KS told me about a 5-a-side football tournament he was participating in and asked whether I was interested in watching his team play. He is one of my oldest friends and an avid footballer, having played for Shivajians Football Club in Pune for over a decade. In all that time, I've never bothered to go see any of their games, so my instinctive answer was to profess a lack of interest and decline. A vision of me hunched over a laptop in an empty house, playing online scrabble, was the alternative and very unappealing prospect. I went to see the game.

The Ajinkya Memorial 5-a-side football game was being held under floodlights in Gaikwad Nagar, Aundh. 106 teams divided into various pools would play a rapid 20 minute game over 2 halves. Although there was a goalkeeper, the format called for fluency and dynamism. As CF, captain and linchpin of KS's team said - "Every player has to be able to play anywhere." The name of the team reflected its higgledy piggledy nature, cobbled together from a pool of people who had played for Shivajians in the past and other stray individuals. KS puts it in a rather blasé fashion: "I called, asking if there was a tournament and a team... KC called back after a while, saying there were a couple of spots. So CF and I went." The 'Sunday Boys', mostly men with increasing commitments and logistical complications off the field, met on any weekend possible and played the game they all loved with awe-inspiring ferocity. Awe, because this is India, and cricket rules the hearts and finances in the country. Football and hockey are poor second cousins at best. So, it takes serious passion to make your way to practice and play matches despite the poor facilities, crowd turnouts and other issues.

Although you couldn't tell from their general demeanour, CF and KC are minor celebrities in Pune's footballing community. CF played football at Shivajians from 1986-87 till 2010-11, was known by all and sundry across generations, and is the quintessential sportsman - liked and feared in equal measure. KS is equally well-known for his doggedness and enthusiasm for the game. However, their claim to fame is spectacular, both having featured in the Indian football team that played in the 2009 6v6 Budweiser Cup at Old Trafford, Manchester. Yes, the Manchester United one.

The game I attended on Saturday night was the pre-quarter. KS and I reached the venue at the scheduled time, to find out that the matches were following Pune Standard Time and were extensively delayed. KS wandered off to meet his team while I had an hour to watch two games before theirs. I was to learn a lot. The first was already in progress, so I got my first view of this version of football. Both teams seemed to struggle to come to terms with the limitations of the field and the change in tactics needed to succeed, and proceeded to kick the ball forward whenever possible. It was akin to watching a hilariously volleyballesque version of football. The next game proved to be no different and it was no surprise that both matches were stalemates and had to be settled through penalties.

Meanwhile, KS came back to where I was standing with some less than ideal news. The Sunday Boys' forward was stuck in a bus coming from Bombay to Pune and would be delayed. A skilled forward is important in regular football, but his worth is accentuated further in the shorter version, where he would draw defenders to himself and create open spaces and panic amongst the opposition. Another player had assured CF about his participation, failed to show up and had switched off his phone. In a format that allowed 2 substitutes, the team had none. A seemingly emaciated group was now effectively a skeleton crew and the atmosphere was slightly gloomy.

Chance brought some cheer in the form of V, who had come to watch the team play and wandered over to greet the players. CF brusquely told him to find the appropriate equipment and kit up as soon as possible. V would be getting a much closer view of the game than he'd bargained for. With this, the team would have the option of at least 1 substitute, instead of 2 and hope for the best. V's participation was tinged with anxiety since he was nursing a hand recovering from a break and was markedly unenthusiastic about risking further injury to it. The wild insouciance that lives in every sportsman washed over his concerns. V would play.

Off the field, the team has an unassuming aura, with KS being the epitome of the all-round nice guy. Having known each other for years, the jokes and caustic comments (also known as locker room humour) came thick and fast, providing a relaxed, festive mood. They then took the field for the final warm-ups and the change was instantaneous. Each player went about his ritual with a calm, almost professional competence. Even as they kicked the ball around, one felt the presence of a palpable confidence. These guys knew what they were doing.

Once the game commenced, this was reinforced. Previous teams struggled to get out of the 11 man, big field mentality and ballooned their passes into the trees with alarming regularity. In the entire match, the Sunday Boys kicked the ball into the air 3 times.

While the other games were on, I was content to sit alongside the Sunday Boys team, listening to their reading of the games and players. Once their match came up, I found myself unable to do so. I stood, paced along the touch lines and tried to convince myself that it was the dust in the air that caused my lungs to work harder and heart to pound a little quicker. So much for objectivity.

The Sunday Boys played with a fluid style, making short, ground passes, holding possession, creating opportunities and running the other team ragged. The contrast to previous teams could not have been more obvious. The first half ended goalless, but there was no question of which was the better team. It was a question of when the goal would come, not which team would score.

The second half confirmed this. CF took a shot that struck one of the opposition players on the arm. He clinically converted the resulting penalty and the Sunday Boys continued to play their game. As the clock wound down, I stood on the sidelines wondering if a goal from open play was realistically possible. As far as I could tell, the opposing goalkeepers' only contributions involved holding on to the posts (much smaller in this format), blocking everything that came their way and praying that the family jewels survived the 20 minutes unscathed (handling the ball was not allowed).

When the goal arrived, it came with the nonchalance of sunrise and the speed of quicksilver. As the opposition toddled around aimlessly, a short pass from the sideline launched the ball at CF's feet. He took a rapid look at the field and charged. Two of his team mates raced ahead, one down the left flank and the other down the centre, both shouting for the ball. CF beat one opposition player with a quick feint, pirouetted around another and burst into the area 3 feet from goal. He looked up again, saw he had only the keeper to beat and...

As CF said later "Arre, I saw you there, next to the keeper. But by then I'd already made the move and couldn't decide whether to pass it to you. I went for it."

Sport provides many moments when the athlete goes for it. These instances stay frozen in the audiences' memories, breaking free of gravity and soaring on the wings of audacity and imagination.

The ball slithered through the keeper's legs and into the net. The crowd broke out into applause at the skill of the move as the team hi-fived and hugged. Within minutes, the referee blew the final whistle and the game was over.

2-0 to the Sunday Boys. They were in the quarter finals.

To be continued...

Song for the moment: Call me lightning - The Who

Nobody but me

2011-11-06T22:26:00.000+05:30

(Giving the mental cupboard a much-needed airing)

Due to certain happenings over the last month, I have been giving serious thought to doing that typical quarter life thing - writing freelance. Yes, I'm quite a way past the quarter century mark. No, I did not have an epiphany of titanic proportions as I sat, frustrated and disillusioned at my desk. Yes, I have mostly sat frustrated and disillusioned at my desk, but as a vendor, can readily assign blame on the psycho Indian client mentality factor.

I will not lie and say that the timing feels right to do this. If anything, whenever I think about quitting and going freelance for a while, I feel a peculiar crushing sensation in my chest and oodles of panic thrashing around the noggin. I obsess about whether it would be the right professional move. Whether it is a good move, personally. Of course I have no way to answer either correctly or in a way that would appease the frightened figurative chicken doing a vigorous rumba in my tummy (no, this is not a reference to indigestion). I ask if is this the right time in life to give up the comfort of a safe, corporate job & a steady pay cheque to jump into the unknown, uncertain, 'no holds barred' jungle of the freelance writer?

And there are the two questions I dread most of all but have absolutely no way of answering.

1. Am I a good enough writer?
2. Will I succeed?

No, these are not fully correlated, although it would help if the answer to the first one was 'Yes'.

They call it risk, because you stand to lose something. Eventually, you understand that every decision carries risk, but some risks are higher than others. For a guy brought up immersed in a culture of 'tried, tested, trusted' and taking the road more travelled, doing this is crazy and irresponsible. Thankfully I don't have any financial commitments (read, the family have worked and invested wisely and stolidly) and no personal ones either (read socially void). Doing what feels crazy and irresponsible brings its own load of guilt, an emotion I'm intimately familiar with. Ideally, this should be an individual decision, with costs and consequences being borne by me alone.Unfortunately, this one will bring its share of angst, stress and various other unsavoury parcels of baggage that are familiar in our Indian family settings.

Lord help us! The baggage.

Look, I'm not one of those impulsive blokes who spews pseudo-inspirational gyaan about just one life to live, packs bags and heads off for the hills without considering the result of my actions. Maybe one should be, but old habits die hard and some traits never let go. So, any grey hairs the folks have are strictly due to age.

My professor at UAB told me to trust my gut when making decisions. That paid off in spades before. I've tried to channel the same philosophy when considering the present situation and am drawing a solid blank, which scares me even more.

So, where are we right now? I have a few job offers, but they are of the corporate communication variety... very little creativity or communication, very mucho corporate shenanigans, events, networking and such. Not my cup of tea. Which is why the freelance idea has cleared its throat and tentatively put up its hand.

I have to make a decision sometime soon. When the time comes, I know there is no way I will be ready to but don't know whether things will work out for the best.

Uncertainty is a bitch.

Song for the moment: Twisted Nerve - Bernard Hermann

P.S: Anyone looking to hire a decentish writer? Please to be letting me know.

Advice for the young at heart

2011-10-23T21:28:00.002+05:30

As S pointed out in the comments section of the previous post, its been 2 months since I have written here. Mind you, it is not as if life has been mundane in that period. On the contrary, as I type this, I feel like one of those unfortunate animals that gets caught in washing machines and somehow survives - much lighter, ragged and half-dead.

Being struck by serious illness is never a laughing matter. When I did fall very badly ill in September, I was thankful to have a helpful room mate around. The situation had reached one of those hairy impasses where I was delirious with fever and consequently rather reluctant to get out of bed. Had it not been for A, my roomie, you'd have probably heard all about it in one of those stories that frequently make it to the papers - "Foul smell, neighbours complain, cops break door down, discover..." or something like that. It was touch and go, but a couple of weeks convalescing at home in Pune got the train back on the rails. Only to have it miraculously derail thanks to the stresses and ornery machinations of work. All pretty exhausting, really.

The dust is finally starting to settle, just as the sights, sounds and buzz of Diwali is upon us. The timing feels especially poignant, since its the festival of lights that signals the dispelling of darkness, the welcoming of prosperity and change and what-have-you. One of the nicer traditions of this festival is that we're expected to buy ourselves new clothing, to be worn on the big day. However, this involves shopping which, to be perfectly honest, is not really a favourite activity for most guys. I like to keep the experience as efficient as a commando operation - identify target, get in, execute and get out, without fuss.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't we supposed to be in the throes of recession, inflation, massive petrol price hikes and other portents of doom? Then why the hell are there so many cars and bikes ferrying numerous portly ladies and gents to malls and other stores? I would say we should be exercising prudence in general, but seeing the behemoths that pass for people these days sailing around stores squawking for one size larger or stuffing just one more pani-puri down their boa constrictoresque maws... well, its a lost cause. And the prices; Heaven help us. I understand that the Lee's, Levis and other 'brands' have been around for a while. But I'm from a generation that used to pay Rs. 2 for a vada pav and Rs. 400 for stonewashed Newport jeans. So the idea of paying anything between Rs. 1700 - 3000 for a pair of jeans or a shirt, no matter how venerable the name, is just not on for me. As the current Levi advertisement says "Your life is your life." Buying one of their products would make my life theirs. Or a couple of vital organs at the least. Visiting shops and seeing the various malls and the swarming mobs therein, I can see how commercialised it has become; this, the most family-oriented & fuzzily warm festival of them all.

We went to a place called the Mega Mart, where most of the assistants took the philosophy behind the name to heart and were incredibly rude or blasé, which put me off instantly. I get that its a fuck-all job, with low pay and little to no satisfaction. The hajaar customers are annoyingly Indian. But guy, being sarcastic and haughty isn't doing you or the shop any favours. Naturally, I mentally flipped him the bird and went elsewhere. I haven't bought a pair of jeans in almost 4 years and while I covet a pair of Levis, I'm much happier buying Live-In, which fit better, age well and allow me to get 2 for a price of one of the royal denims, with spare change left over.

As I think back to the past couple of months, weeks and even today, I can't help but hope that the chaos ends soon and some peace, joy and happiness are around the corner. In this day and age, we could all use a generous helping of these.

Happy Diwali all.

Song for the moment: This time tomorrow - The Kinks

Cut and Dry

2011-08-23T13:28:00.005+05:30

Earlier this year, I came across an article which spoke about the return of the quintessential barber shop to France. Considering that male facial hair grooming still follows the 'with moustache / beard / fungus-like goatee or clean shaven' type here in India, our barber shops don't really face much of an issue. Besides, I'm not sure the chaps cutting hair at our local saloons would look too kindly at an instruction of "I would like a shave, but could you leave an almost 3-day stubble?"

Also, after watching The Godfather and Eastern Promises, I've developed a marked reluctance for the idea of getting a shave at the barber's. Call me crazy, but the idea of sitting there, helpless, with your throat exposed while the bloke with the straight-razor hovers over you... no thanks.

But what about the idea of having a favourite barber to cut your hair? As kids, us guys would be taken or told to make our way to the saloon and get the hideous, school-appropriate cut. Lacking any need for special preference in terms of style, it wouldn't really matter which anonymous pair of hands+scissors cut our hair. Conversation was kept to a minimum, with the guy gruffly telling you to tilt your head at particular angles every now and then. All this changes once you reach college and, for perhaps the first time, think about actually getting a genuine haircut, rather than a cranial mow. Or at least, this was the case when I went to college. The trend nowadays seems to be to look about as unwashed and decrepit as society and your mum will allow, matched by a glazed-over or beady-eyed gaze.

Over the last 10 years, at the local saloon, I've trusted only one or two particular barbers to cut my hair. They're good with the scissors and make polite conversation, which is about all one can generally ask for. If these chaps are out for the day or too busy, I prefer to come back some other time and the routine has chugged along smoothly. Till today, that is. As both of them were on holiday, and I definitely needed a haircut before a client meeting in Bombay later this week, I had no option but to take a number and wait my turn.

My barber for the day was a no-nonsense type. I started to tell him about the exact way I wanted my hair cut, saw his stonily distracted expression in the mirror and resignedly went with the old, school faithful i.e. "Short and even." After almost a decade of ritualised, conversation-peppered haircuts, today was, well... briskly efficient. Let me put it this way - hardbitten sheep shearers deep in the Australian outback probably approach their work with more joie de vivre.

So anyway, thinking back to the article, I can't help but wonder if our desi lot will ever get around to seeing the saloon as more than just a place that men and flies congregate, enveloped in a mist of Old Spice and talcum powder. On the other hand, considering the starting price for the Plisson shaving brush mentioned in that article is approximately Rs. 4000, I think we're okay with the current state of affairs.

Song for the moment: Minor thing - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Bottle it up

2011-08-20T22:41:00.001+05:30

Hello?

Its me.

Are you okay?

Yes... I want to tell you something.

Can I say something first?

...

I love you. I do. Its as simple as that. I was stupid... I... god knows what I was thinking. I never wanted us to break up. I was scared... you knew me too well and it scared me. You're still the only person who knows me. I couldn't say anything before... remember when you told me you were getting married? I wanted to tell you then, but I didn't know what you would say. I did not want to hurt you again. I even thought about coming to your house and telling you everything... asking you to call it off but... what if you said no? Even when we met later, it took all I had to not ask you whether you were happy. I wanted to sock the guy. You knew I was a little drunk, right? I was too scared to see you after so long... but, you told me I can still make you laugh. So many times after that, I've stared at your number on the phone... I wondered what's the worst that could happen if I called and told you to divorce him... and, you called now, so I'm saying it... I love you. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry.

...

Hello?

I'm pregnant.

Song for the moment: Love song - Sara Bareilles

Disclaimer: Fiction, of course :)

Many the miles

2011-08-15T23:59:00.002+05:30

Some time ago, I decided to cut down on the whining that seems to be a major theme on this blog. After having written a couple of short story posts and one interesting challenge, I found that more commentary on life, its machinations and assorted tomfoolery just did not interest me. For the moment, at least. That also thankfully means that I can't talk about the Indian cricket team's test saga.

Anyway, in recent weeks, a new trend has taken root in that fragment of the 'gang' that lives in Pune. Instead of meeting up and hitting the tipple every now and then, we meet and they discuss trekking to various forts in and around Pune. Notice how I'm not in these councils-of-war. Although I've played sports in school and college, I've never been a fan of physical toil. All these talks conjure up are images of waking up at some ungodly hour before sunrise, scooting to some random hill / fort and huffing, puffing, slipping & scrabbling around in near darkness while one's lungs scream blue murder and knees piteously beg for mercy. So of course, when asked whether I'd like to come along, I confidently reply in the negative, right?

Wrong. Much as I abhor these unholy callisthenics, they do promise an element of tiredly pleasant satisfaction at the end. Last weekend's trip to the Chaturshringi temple Tekdi and beyond was fun, involving a shortish climb and much walking and a sumptuous breakfast in the end at Krishna Dining on Law College Road. Ergo, when this weekend's trip to Sinhagad Fort was announced, I was reluctant about the 5 am time, but rather naive about the climb itself. While climbing up to Sinhagad is a Puneri institution, it'd been a long time since I was there, so it was almost like my first trip. And a quarter of the way up the boulder-infested, 35 degree gradient, with superb views of the misty verdant valley and Peacock Bay, I was overwhelmed. With nausea.

Not that it wasn't a beautiful view, mind. Just that I was breathing like an asthmatic on his last legs, which made any and all appreciation of the environment pretty redundant. Fortunately, my climbing mates, KS and GT are the cheery types, not showing a trace of annoyance or trying to bump me off a suitable rock spur. Somehow, I manned up and made it to the top. I suspect it was largely due to the fact that most of the trek was completely cloud-covered, giving spasms of hope that the damn thing would end around the next corner.

While the climb itself was not pleasant for me, the overall experience was lovely. The views, when they broke through the cloud cover, were breathtaking (figuratively speaking of course since I had none to spare by then) and the buttermilk & kande-bhajji at the fort were excellent. To top it off, the restaurant's cat nonchalantly climbed into my lap and dozed off for the length of the meal. Since I love cats, this didn't bother me in the least. I'm not making this up. A photo exists which will be shared when KS (who was pretty flabbergasted) does so.

On the trip back down, we passed the customary testosterone-fuelled idiots screaming and hooting as they headed up. Methinks the climb would take care of any spare energy eventually. Wearied but generally pleased with both the effort and the fact that we managed to miss the crowd heading up (heaven knows why these chaps want to spend a holiday swarming up to the fort), we made our way home.

There's talk of another such trek in 2 weeks time. Heaven help us all.

Song for the moment: Everybody wants to rule the world - Tears for Fears

P.S: You lot heading for the Sikkim trip. Practice. Way more than you're doing now.

Overnight sleeper

2011-07-06T14:39:00.005+05:30

"Where the hell are the fancy envelopes? I just bought a packet last month."

R was upset. This was like saying the sun rose in the east, since R's job as the office admin guy was to become frazzled at the smallest issue and start swearing. It was closing time and people had already slipped on their travel face - a mix of stoicism and weariness as they contemplated the voluntary manhandling exercise otherwise known as local train travel in Mumbai. Barely anyone paid attention as R continued his diatribe about thievery and his pay getting docked for the missing envelopes.

B quietly packed up his laptop bag and joined the general throng streaming out. Compared to some of the others, he hardly travelled at all, since he only had to go about 6 stations in the wrong direction. Years ago, when B was new to Mumbai, the wrong direction idea had confused him since trains looked crowded no matter what direction he would go in. One 9 am trip to Churchgate for an interview that lasted all day followed by the 7 pm Borivali return taught him a lesson he'd never forget. That was the day he understood claustrophobia, the day he decided to invest in a first-class pass and some good deodorant and damn the expenses.

Now, a much better paid B did not mind shelling out the seemingly crazy rent to live where he did. It was a quiet, well-connected locality, a nice building with no wall-seepage problems and a pretty roomy house. He made his way home and saw that the light was on. H was home. The fact that she was gave him more pleasure than would be considered normal. But he didn't care. One only had to live alone in Mumbai for 5 years before any bravado associated with independence and freedom evaporated, replaced by the fatigue of coming back to an empty house and the peculiar, heavy stifling stillness that accompanies it.

He was glad for H's presence, happy that sense had finally dawned, relieved that his reluctance and shame had given way. After being solo for so long, it felt strange initially, but had steadily gotten better. He was even sleeping like a baby nowadays. B let himself into the house and took in the fragrance of food wafting in from the kitchen. Another bonus. Not only was H a superb cook, she knew how to keep the conversation going during dinner. There was no nagging; just questions about his day, followed by snippets of news which she'd heard or read about.

After dinner, he helped wash up. There was an expectant, inquiring look on H's face but B smiled and said that he was exhausted. It took barely a minute from whispered 'goodnights' to him drifting off to sleep, still smiling. H couldn't sleep. Night after night, she figured he'd initiate the move, but B seemed content in talking, eating and nodding off. It was unnerving. She wondered if he didn't find her attractive enough, but dismissed that idea instantly. But she couldn't figure out his problem either. One of these days she'd have to talk to him about it.

B woke up to the greatest smells in the world - coffee and buttered toast. H was an early riser and had already left. He made his way to the dining table to find breakfast laid out. Sipping his coffee, he looked over to H's place at the table. The envelope he left there was gone. As usual.

H had never been a fan of cheques and wire transfers. R was just going to have to bear with the missing envelopes.

Song for the moment: Nights on Broadway - Bee Gees

Positive thinking

2011-07-03T22:45:00.005+05:30

As messages went, it was short and simple. But he'd been staring at the screen since Goregaon station and the train was now pulling into Ville Parle. As a move, maybe it was a little more complicated.

It was Friday evening. Most people, work week weary, would be streaming into homes, pubs and restaurants across the city meeting friends and loved ones . He was heading to a shared 1-bhk in Santacruz, already planning a meal for one and hoping something good was on the telly. This was his typical Friday evening in the city.

The idea of sending the SMS came inexplicably. And immediately felt like a bad idea. Pointless. Then he thought about having to spend the weekend sitting on the floor of his room watching tv, hearing the clock tick and thinking about nothing in particular. Maybe it wasn't that bad an idea after all. He started typing, read the message twice and cancelled it. The question had to be perfectly phrased - subtle, fresh, interesting, non-domineering, not verbose, appropriately flirty and definitely, absolutely not desperate. Any wit, implied or otherwise would be a bonus. He continued typing, adding, deleting and cancelling words and sentences over and over.

As messages went, it had to be short and simple. As a move, it was becoming very complicated.

Eventually, the right words appeared. Or so he hoped. He paused, smiled and began to imagine the positive response, the agreed rendezvous time and place (he'd suggest Bandra), the right restaurant... heck, afterwards maybe they'd even take a stroll on the Carter Road promenade. Anything could happen, right?

But Ville Parle was gone and he still hadn't hit 'send'. What if the answer was 'no'? Again. He'd look stupid. Again. But looking foolish was okay, right? After all, if there's anything he'd learnt from the movies, it was that polite, geeky persistence was considered cute. More importantly, it was successful. Most of the time. He was definitely sending the text.

"What's the point? Is it really going to go anywhere? And knowing your luck, the answer will be 'no'. Do you really need to look any more idiotic? Or desperate? Do you really want to do this? Do you..."

It really was a perfectly simple message - Dinner tomorrow?

As the train pulled into Santacruz, he hit 'delete' and stepped out.

Song for the moment: Lonely no more - Rob Thomas

Mr. Chow

2011-06-30T12:19:00.006+05:30

This post is based on a wager with Atul, which you can read about here.

When you wake up in the morning, what is the first thing you do? Stretch lazily, hop out of bed & head for the can, slouch on the bed & feel your toes gently brush the floor?

I force myself to smile... a big, toothy grin with which I try to convey eagerness, earnestness and friendliness. The right smile is important to me because customers who feel cared for order more food and booze... and leave more tips. The right smile ensures that my drunk, frustrated customers don’t try to prove their manhood by starting a fight with the one guy they think they can lord it over – Me.

The right smile is important to me because my life is exhausting and empty; a token existence in maximum city. Without that smile, I don't think I could get out of bed and face the world.

I'm a waiter in a restaurant in Mumbai. My smile is what could separate me from the other waiters and from the sea of humanity that washes through the doors of my workplace. In this city, it is very easy to become jaded and cynical. It is even easier to avoid having facial expressions. We’re all so tired you see, so why waste energy feeling anything or showing what we feel? Daily I see people, bent wearily over their drinks. I hear them, talking about their problems, failures and rarely, their successes. I think about their self-involvement and wonder if they notice anyone besides themselves and their lamentations.

My eyes are weak and I wear thick, unfashionable glasses. Even without them, I'd be able to see more than my customers.

A few rare regulars know me and take the time to say hello and enquire about my well-being. I don’t say much, but this is where the practice from every morning pays off. They think they’re making a connection and I think... that I’ll say whatever it takes to keep the orders coming in.

No matter what happens, I smile. I have to.

Song for the moment: Quiet Volcano - Artie Tatum

Never give up on a good thing

2011-06-15T15:47:00.006+05:30

I have an indifferent relationship with cellphones. Since 2004, I've only ever owned two and family, friends and colleagues have cajoled, requested and almost threatened me to get a new one. I've thought about it but always come back to one simple point - I don't really use the phone that much, so it doesn't bother me that my phone looks like I took it out of a garbage pile. If appearances were that important in life, I'd be nowhere. Oh wait... Anyway, my supposed callousness came to a head the other day when I tried to make a rare phone call.

A polite but firm automated voice informed me that the yearly validity on the Airtel SIM card had expired and asked that I renew it if I wished to avail their services further. For the next 3 hours, that automated message was the only intelligent thing I could get out of the Airtel people and retailers. If their "Dil jo chhahe, paas laye" tag had any grain of truth, an axe or a bazooka would have manifested itself in my hands and well... you get the Idea. At least figuratively.

Basically, all I wanted to know was - To extend the validity, what amount do I recharge the card with? You'd think the answer would be 'any', but it isn't. No, some clever management clog decided that each plan has a specific charge to extend validity. Finding out what that amount is, is a Sisyphean task. The two local Airtel retailers I asked didn't know. The second bright boy even tried calling 198 from my phone to find out. Yes, the very same phone that I told him did not work 10 seconds before.

So I tried the number from a land line, laboured through the various options on the auto thingummy and was finally put in touch with a cheerful lady who promised to help. Like Moses promised the desert journey would be a short stroll. I gave her the various details and asked her the amount. She didn't know and directed me to call another number. I did, went through the same process and was greeted by another polite guy who, with his enthusiasm and zeal, was quite likely the telling difference between the Trojans losing to the Greeks because of his absence. He digested the information I gave, considered it and said he did not know the amount either. When asked why, he said he wasn't authorised to know the answer. Pressed further, he admitted that no one would know and that I should ask the local retailer. Or the chaps guarding the Coca Cola formula.

I tried to exit the conversation gracefully until the guy asked me to rate the service at which point I threw the kitchen sink at him and hung up. I then did the only sensible thing; I called our local grocer in Pune with whom we've kept a goods diary for the last 18 years. I've grown up being friends with the guys at Om Supermarket, to a point where I now go behind the counter and pick up whatever I need. Sometimes, I've even helped out other customers with their items. The point is, a simple, almost 2 decade long family relationship with these guys saved the day. The uncle manning the counter listened to my problem, said he'd call the local Airtel guy and asked me to call back in 10 minutes. Following which, he charged the phone for the correct amount and wrote the account in the diary as usual.

Although this is mainly a post about the sad state of affairs at the Airtel call centre, it also let me express my appreciation for the endangered kirana store. Fancy mega supermarkets and malls have proliferated in most cities in India and definitely in Pune. I guess that is some form of progress, so I'm saying nothing against them. But I'm willing to bet they wouldn't go out of their way to help someone who randomly calls them from another city; a person whom they met as a boy of 10 and know as a man of 28. They may not always stock every item I need, but they stock decency, humanity and friendship.

Not everything available in the store is on the shelf.

Song for the moment: Keep the customer satisfied - Simon & Garfunkel

P.S: The amount was Rs. 110, in case you were wondering

Golden years

2011-05-21T11:12:00.003+05:30

As a kid, watching my grandpa slice a mango was the definite highlight of many a summer evening. Talk about simple times!

Back in the early 80's we lived with my grandparents in Bombay. My memories of that time are compartmentalised into special events; the colour of the candle on my 2nd birthday, watching my beaming mum wheel a red cycle through the building gate & slowly realising it was for me (I'm pretty slow that way), helping my grandma make vadaam for the year, the smell & colour of salt and chillies mixed with aavakaay in barani (porcelain) jars, the buzz around the house during Diwali and Avaniaatam...

It was a different life; one with games of chor-police, yellow plastic bat cricket, The World this Week on the telly and of course, mangoes in summer. My grandpa being the patriarch of our mob, would take on the very serious task of buying, cutting & distributing mangoes. A strict disciplinarian with generations of tam-brahmness behind him, he would approach the season in his own eclectic way. The event lasted as long as mangoes were available, starting with the tangy parrot-beak variety, shifting to the alphonso & culminating a few months later with another type which I don't remember anything about except the large size.

With all the grace & mystery of an extended tea ceremony session, my grandpa divided the process into clear stages; the extensive inspection of the fruit at the markets, Good-Bad-Ugly-esque calculated price bargaining and packing the raw mangoes in the rice drum till they ripened. I remember the numerous occasions I'd anxiously peep into the drum with a concern people usually reserve for newborns. When he deemed the mangoes ready, grandpa would take the ceremonial knife (or so I thought) and begin to sharpen it on a granite slab. If I were lucky, I'd get to help... and take my word for it, the rhythmic, rasping sound as steel brushed against stone was a lovely tone.

Post dinner, grandpa would seat himself in a corner of the room with a large steel plate, a couple of mangoes and the now-gleaming knife. The family would gather around, but pride of place (and the one closest to the action) was mine. Grandpa would pick up a mango, speculatively move it around in his hand for the best grip, take the knife, place it against the skin of the fruit and...

It was effortless. The yellow skin would come off in long, curling layers at remarkable speed. All the while, the fruit would be held perfectly - not a drop of juice would fall on the plate. Once completed, slices of yellow gold, in sizes and shapes alien to geometry, would begin to plop down on the plate, till there was only the seed left. The first piece was my grandpa's, but the second was always mine. The plate would get passed around till everyone took pity on me and gave it back; the carnage that followed would put hyenas to shame. 3 months of encore performances later, the season was over.

As long as I lived in that house, this was a summer ritual. Eventually, the family moved abroad for a while & then pitched the permanent tent in Pune. My fascination for mangoes & appreciation for grandpa's efforts began to fade.

Today, 20-odd summers on, I tried to skin a mango and failed to bring an iota of the finesse that my grandfather demonstrated all those years ago. I think about an 82 year old gentleman in Bombay who now suffers from Alzheimer's disease and hasn't cut a mango in years. I wonder about the many things life has given and taken away from us...

Thatha, I do not have your mango-cutting finesse. But I can write about it.

Song for the moment: Ajeeb dastaah hai yeh - Lata Mangeshkar (Dil apna aur preet parai)

You rascal you

2011-05-07T14:00:00.001+05:30

In two diabolically hellish weeks at work recently, I was often left staring at the laptop screen, dumbfounded. It'd reached a point where anything I did was wrong and even doing nothing was chastised in language that was vitriolic, to say the least. Remember the scenes where a group of people surround a guy and proceed to beat and kick him down till he's forced to curl into a ball, hoping to avoid further punishment ?

By last Friday evening, I had reached that figurative foetal position. The same few thoughts kept circling around - Why was every molehill being turned into a mountain ? Why was I putting up with this aggravation ? What was so enamouring about the job that I was shouldering so much invective & stress ? Heck, why didn't I just quit ? I had no answers. I do remember being surprised at how much fear was coursing through me and wondering what I was scared about. It was just a job, right ? So, why didn't I believe that ?

To get my mind off the shitstorm, I began a clean-up of the computer; the registry was cleaned, files backed up and the temporary files folder deleted. Lastly, I made my way to Program Files and began deleting the redundant stuff there when I came across a folder called SoftActivity (please get your mind out of the gutter). I couldn't recall ever installing or even seeing this name before so I went through it.

And found that this cute piece of work, installed on my laptop since July 2010, is a maha-funda, powerful keylogger software.

I've written previously about how I'm not particulary anxious to experience the high-falutin emotional descriptions much favoured by the writing fraternity. But there was an undeniable "mouth went dry and tongue became like sandpaper" experience going around.

Now, unlike a sizeable portion of what passes for human beings at the workplace, I don't waste my time on various social or game sites. I also don't visit job sites, hoping for a fast exit from what, in truth, is the professional equivalent of Gomorrah. I get along okay with the management & colleagues and do pretty good work. Or so I've thought while some third-rate mofo had been stealthily recording EVERY key I'd ever typed since last July.

I'll confess, just thinking about the sheer enormity of it made me need to sit down and collect my thoughts. To say I was stupefied would be putting it accurately. Every online chat session, every email, every bank account password... all of it had been compromised. Coupled with the maelstrom of work-related stress I was already carrying, it was a miracle I managed to even get home that night. Since sleep was out of the window, I spent the time figuring out what had to be done to salvage some of the wreck masquerading as my secure online information. And so it was that a marathon Saturday and Sunday session with me hunched over the house computer left the following:

One personal email account closed, after migrating everything that could be moved, to a new account. Two other personal email account details changed and left to the mercy of fate, since there's only so much information that I gave a damn about.
Blog, photos and analytics account details changed and migrated.
Bank account passwords changed, ATMs visited personally to change the pins and hope for the best.
Professional network account changed.

Basically, the life I'd been living online since 2006 had to vacate and find a new city.

The crap at work abated somewhat on Monday and I managed to get the software removed from the computer that evening. The management doesn't know who installed it since they supposedly didn't authorise it. The senior IT consultant in Hyderabad doesn't know anything about it either. So that leaves the junior in-house IT guy, who was on holiday all of last week. If he hasn't installed the software, I have to reconcile with the fact that some unknown entity has about 10 months of my data, with me unable to do a damn thing about it.

To say that I feel violated is putting it mildly. But I also realised just how much of my information is in cyberspace and how easy it is / would be for someone to steal this data, https or no https. So, while I'm waiting for the IT bloke to show up, for a little WTF were you thinking - frank heart-to-heart chat, maybe anyone reading this should inspect your work and home pc's for innocuous looking folders that could be much more.

I've stopped accessing personal stuff at work. Even if there is supposedly no software tracking anything, I just don't trust the system any more. Now, I access new information from a lot of other websites during office hours and limit the casual reader /mail / chat stuff to about an hour at home. Considering I got lucky while finding that software, learning a lesson this way was worth the inconvenience I guess.

It has also spurred me to renew my efforts to change workplaces. As the bloke said, "Some things you do, you can never take back..."

Song for the moment: Black dog - Led Zeppelin

Who can it be now ?

2011-04-14T16:52:00.003+05:30

After 2 years and countless bus trips, you'd think I'd have learnt my lesson by now. Sadly, like a plethora of guys out there, I'm a sufferer of what is called the 'Empty Seat Agony' syndrome (ESAS). I didn't stand a chance, really.

Sufferers of ESAS are generally guys who are implicitly aware of the vagaries of Fate & the sinister machinations of the universe. Raised on a special diet of awkward social situations and an instinctive understanding of self-pathos, we're stuck in the limbo of the great evolutionary game. Usually well-read, of above average intelligence, cynical and/or pessimistic, we possess a sense of humour that is devastating & self-depreciating.

We're not loquacious, know the meaning of the word 'loquacious' & of course, cannot (possibly will not) dance to save our lives. Dance, in the ESAS world, is a random flailing of limbs and we cannot be convinced otherwise. In terms of looks, the word most likely to attach itself to us is - Hmm. A number of this species of guy have cornered the market in playing the brother / supportive shoulder to the dame of interest. But the one thing we suffer in common is Empty Seat Agony. There's always a little spark of hope and it refuses to die.

It starts innocuously enough. At Dadar, one example gets on the bus to Pune & takes his seat. Habitual paranoia against the universe means that he'll be there at least 5 - 10 minutes early. The adjoining seat will be empty. He will keep his backpack in the storage, stretch his legs, plug in the earphones and twiddle his thumbs. The wait has begun. You see, that bloody spark of hope will send out enticing signals to the mind, usually along the lines of:

"What are the odds, huh ?"
"Hmm... 5 minutes to go, the other seats are taken and no one yet."
"Nah... no way. Snap out of it. You've been on enough bus rides to know better. But still..."
"Holy crap. Please old uncle, don't sit next to me... whew, he's not."
"Damn. No one is sitting in the next seat. Now what ?"

ESAS happens, is what. From Dadar to Chembur and then on to Vashi, even on the face of irrefutable proof of a thousand previous journeys, the poor sod is praying to high heaven that a reasonably cute dame open to intelligent conversation (with him) will take that empty seat.

Every time, without fail, the seat will be taken by another guy, who's expression will range from a mutually recognised disappointment (because he's another ESAS victim) to complete indifference. The original protagonist is forced to adopt Hamlet's expression of WTF-tinged resignation and pray the music player doesn't give out. Of course, if he's really lucky (and he is, on average) the guy sitting next to him is a combination of the following:

Old
Suffering from flatulence
An incessant & loud phone-talker
Obese and sweating
Has the flu and no shyness about largesse in spreading it
The snorer
The noisy eater
Anti-deodorant
Believes in airing some very ripe socks once he's sat down
Is travel-sick and does not have a plastic bag

Frankly, the old guys (with no other afflictions) are pretty decent, apart from possible weak bladders. But a combination of any of the others (take my word for it) is our hero's Waterloo. The obituary might as well say "He died bravely. Smelling faintly of rotten cabbage. Or socks."

The hope destroyer who sat next to me recently brought fresh problems. Hardly had he sat down, that he took out the cellphone and began to play Hangman. Now, I don't know whether he suffered from a lack of understanding on the point of the game or took ghoulish pleasure in failing, but an awful lot of guys were hung during that bus ride. It was like watching a kid come to grips with potty-training. For example, having been clued in that the 5-letter word was a 'direction', this bloke proceeded to stare into the middle distance for about a minute a la Zen exercises. He then proceeded to try the letter E.

I wanted to emulate the game, garrotte the fellow myself and put him and the world out of their misery.

Like I said at the start, its been 2 years and not once have I managed to find myself sitting next to a girl, never mind cute, intelligent OR otherwise. Yes, I should give up the ghost by now. But you know just as well as I do that come the next journey I'll take, there'll be an empty seat next to me and hope will clear its throat and begin humming a song. Its the Empty Seat Agony Syndrome, I tell you.

We are like this only.

Song for the moment: Poor Boy - Cliff & the Shadows

And yes, the music player gave out 20 minutes out of Vashi. Go figure.

King of anything

2011-04-03T14:47:00.005+05:30

(Much has, is being & will be written about the 2nd of April 2011. This is my sentimental contribution.)

I am 28 years old, the amount of time a nation waited. It is a nation of sufferers & cynics, a country where it is easier to be corrupt than to be a good person. A place which makes it hard to simply and truly wear a worn out heart on a scuffed sleeve and wait for joy. Think about what experiences an inherently religious nation has to go through before the idea of 'belief' mutates into something that must be constantly tested.

This is the same country that voluntarily chooses to fall in love with a team sport in which 11 men have ample opportunities to fail individually. A sport hosted in arenas that have plumbed the depths of human decency. One who's administrators are, collectively, about as criminally incompetent, indifferent & selfish as a group of people can be. This is a place where a nation's passion for a sport constantly fights a bloodied battle with faith.

This is the Indian's relationship with cricket.

I'm an early 80's kid and my mother would often tell me the story of June 25th, 1983. About how a young woman flew up three flights of stairs holding her 6 month old son and saw the moment. About how, earlier in the day, she knew, with an instinct that was hers alone, that 38 would be the highest individual score. About... an enviable belief that turned into a moment of joy which made life seem bearable, even if it was for an instant.

I don't know if that was the seed, but I have watched and loved cricket since I can remember. But I did not have the belief. One side of me is the partisan Indian fan. I don't know about the fancy gimmicks of today, but the heart has bled a normal red for the team. The other side has appreciated great bowling & the flawless graceful technique of batsmanship, no matter who the opposition.

More often than not though, my experiences have been coloured by disbelief. When India managed to win, it was there. When India managed to lose, it was there. That's what you get for watching India play cricket.

And then there is India's bond with Sachin Tendulkar. No sportsman in the history of any game has or will take on the burdens he has. None other can cause a collective plumb in a nation's spirit simply by not being successful on the day. Or raise it, by succeeding. Think about the incomprehensible, unfair enormity of it. That is all.

So yes, when he was out yesterday, I did what 28 years of conditioning commanded - I stopped watching. Thank heavens for Cricinfo, though.

See, I don't have the luxury of forgetting Sharjah 1986, Eden Gardens 1996, Chennai 1999 or Johannesburg 2003. Yes, in the past few years, India has won more than it has lost and, in the process, pulled some spectacular ones off. There have been a lot of soothing moments. Yet, before yesterday, say the words 'India, Sri Lanka, World cup' and I'm willing to bet that the first image that pops into the mind's eye was the sight of a grown man's heart-rending tears as he left the field. There are some embers that glow, no matter how much time has passed.

So, for me yesterday was about the average Indian fan's journey watching a team normally snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. It was about the finest partnership in Indian cricket and one that will go down in history - the one between a captain and a coach.

It was about watching SRT cry in public for the first time ever and understanding, for they were tears of joy.

It was about shedding tears myself; for him, for the past & for the ancient blood hum of sport which lives beyond words.

The burning embers from watching 28 years of cricket were extinguished on the night of 2nd April, 2011.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll begin to believe.

Song for the moment: Chariots of Fire- Vangelis

Elegantly Wasted

2011-03-29T12:04:00.002+05:30

It was the perfect day. He wasn't completely sure what that meant because it'd been a while since, well... Many phrases whistled through his head but the one that fit, the words that felt right were - he'd felt alive.

It was like unwrapping a gift and finding something incomparably better than what one was expecting. The rare times when an explosion of giddy joy left one speechless & breathless simultaneously. That perfect, first kiss. The day combined the vibrancy of all those moments and all it had taken was one phone call.

Thing was, it was a phone call from HER.

She was in Bombay. To meet him.

She'd been to the city many years ago on a short trip, but like most out-of-towners, Bombay had scared the bejeesus out of any possible return trips. Until now. So it began - the perfect day.

She didn't remember anything good about the city and he, in his social hermit role, had not seen much of it in the two whole years he'd lived there. That wasn't relevant though. Even as they walked, saw the sights, ate or sat on the jetty watching the sea, they talked. He made her laugh.

He loved the easy familiarity with which they could converse, no matter how long the pause. It'd been almost six years. But they were two people who knew each other so intimately, even their silences counted as conversation.

He wanted to ask what she was doing in Bombay. After dinner, strolling on the promenade and enveloped by the salt-breeze, they kissed. He stopped wondering. He was at peace. He couldn't stop smiling. It really was the perfect day.

He woke up, still smiling.
But he couldn't remember why.

Then, the phone rang.

Song for the moment: Dream a little dream - Sissel Kyrkjebo

High & Dry

2011-03-23T19:44:00.001+05:30

The two usual suspects sat slumped at a corner table. The repose that hung around as they occasionally sipped beer and spoke suggested this was a routine event. The truth, however, was far more painful. Professional ambitions, personal realisations and other matters had conspired to put about 4 months and 1000 kilometres between their pub sessions. The casualness had been replaced by a sense of occasion, which was irksome, but somewhat ignorable.

The music was not. They'd come to this particular pub because the beer was good and the music, mostly rock, was what they needed. But they were no longer regulars, so neither could understand when the place had decided to turn into a country-western stall. One of the guys even predicted the entry of some bloke in a 10 gallon hat, which would probably not have raised a murmur. Nobody of the type showed, thankfully. There was only so much a cold brew could stave off.

What was also odd was the theme of the conversation. It had been a year to the day since the last bag had been packed and the flight taken. One would think a year would be enough for time to move on from past obstacles, old doubts and repeated experiences. Apparently, it was not. At some level, that amused both of them, but it asked a lot of nagging questions to a couple of very exhausted men. So they continued to talk, dissect why neither could write worth a damn any more, make plans & resolutions, bob heads in time to the music and stare off into the distance, comfortable in the moment. For the ghost of an instant, it was like 2010 had never happened.

Song for the moment: Roll me away - Bob Seger

Tell me a story

2011-02-25T13:56:00.000+05:30

For the Suppandi, Shikari Shambu, Kaalia, Tantri and Chimpu in all of us:

For a kid, moving abroad is a peculiar experience. You are aware of the gravitas of leaving behind coddling grandparents, friends and every other familiar sight, sound and smell.

Yet, at that age, you're unable to express any of the sadness and dread in a coherent way. Even as you struggling to come up with anything that won't get you punished for 'being a nuisance' or 'in the way', the move is already over. One minute, you're waking up to the smell of filter coffee & 501 soap and the sounds of grandma grating coconut while the cooker whistles merrily; the next minute, you wake up because of the oppressive silence, don't see a fan, don't recognise the smell of carpet freshener and are introduced to the terms body clock, jet lag and dawn.

And Ovaltine... *shudder*.

So, what is a kid to do when he realises that classmates don't stay in the same neighbourhood, never mind the same building ? That the telly doesn't show Vicco, Nirma or Rasna ads anymore? That the only two things to watch on the telly are camel races and a game called football (which you're watching for the first time) with commentary in Arabic? What do you do to stave off loneliness?

What the kid does is start reading voraciously, with an appetite that completely unnerves the parents and results in stacks of books lying around in every room. In the summer holidays, when he visits India, the kid continues to blaze through the pages, leaving friends puzzled about the drastic change, and relatives pleased because they think the kid will eventually read IIT tomes with the same fervour.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

In his cousin's house, the kid discovers a wooden cupboard completely filled with hardbound stacks of Indian comics. Only these comics are amazingly versatile, filled with stories from Indian mythology, science, adventure, clever talking crows, simpletons and even haplessly charming hunters who don't hunt. It is, in literary terms, manna from heaven.

Every summer, the kid comes back from Abu Dhabi, opens the cupboard, selects a random book and is lost for the rest of the trip. And then, one day he returns to find the cupboard and the books gone. "We had to burn everything because of termites" says the phlegmatic uncle. The kid has no reply.

But he continued to read other books and till today, has a decent knowledge of Indian mythology. He has not stopped reading.

Dear Uncle Pai - Thank you for the stories. R.I.P

Song for the moment: Time is on my side - The Rolling Stones

Fighter

2011-02-03T11:46:00.002+05:30

I was both nostalgic & sad about Solskjaer's retirement because it seemed a great career had been cut short. When Beckham left, I felt a gloomy disappointment about another quality player being sacrificed on the altar of the infamous Ferguson personality. When Keane quit amid the chaos, it was jarring; both for the abruptness of his departure & because I couldn't imagine him playing elsewhere. When Messrs Phil Neville and Nicky Butt were asked to go, there was a palpable sense of helpless inevitability about their departures (Update: A feeling has been somewhat vindicated by this). When Ronaldo finally f****d off, I was thankful the drama & nonsense was finally coming to an end.

On reading of Gary Neville's retirement, I thought, "Shit, there goes the last warrior". After Keane, Gary was the one Man United player who, in his prime, battled intelligently through the match, dominated it on the strength of his personality & not flash, a footballer who left no one in doubt about his passion for his team and the game.

In the modern day game, where most players genuflect in the face of Mammon, one of the last one-club footballers has hung up the boots. He may not be leaving with a cornucopia of adoring fans among the viewing public, but surely has the respect of his fellow professionals. For Gary Neville, that will probably be enough.

Song for the moment: Never will I break - 3 Doors Down

When did you leave heaven

2011-01-27T17:34:00.002+05:30

As the faithful reader (ahem, ahem) would know, I was to take a long-delayed family holiday a couple of weeks ago. Well, that holiday happened and our destination was Rajasthan, specifically Jaipur & Jodhpur. Now it'd be easy (and probably consistent with the whine-fest tone of the blog) for me to go on an extended bitching session about travelling with family, why I've never been an ardent fan of such holidays & how the most recent experience reinforced my beliefs. But, I've decided to try and turn over a new leaf and tone the "यह मेरे साथ ज़ुल्म क्यूँ, पर्वत्दिगर ?" down a notch. Instead, I want to try a short description on you, the very suspecting public.

The Jaswant Thada in Jodhpur is a mausoleum built completely of white marble. Further details can be found here. I can't exactly say how beautiful it was because, well... I can't. I'm no authority and I don't believe words can ever do complete justice to a personal experience (aka, I'm not a good enough writer, yet). I will say that the carvings were impressively intricate and the view of the city from the monument was very nice. Inside the building, peace is manifested in an almost physical state. The acute sense of 'hush' is probably not everyone's cup of chai, but I enjoyed it & were I by myself, would have spent more time there than I did.

What the websites & guidebooks failed to mention though, was the man in the traditional court livery of white dress & colourful 'patka' who sat on the right side of the pathway to the monument. Only he knew whether that seat allowed him to escape the fierce sunshine or to allow his dark eyes to rest on the greenish waters of the lake opposite. A thin rug that had definitely seen better days was the only thing between the man and the ground. A lunch box and a thermos probably containing hot chai sustained him throughout the day.

As I started on the path to the monument, he looked up, paused for an instant and then started to play a slow tune on the Sarangi. If you've never heard the instrument, I suggest you look it up on the internet. For me, in that place, at that time, it was like being struck on the face by the lamentations of Grief herself. If Pain, Longing and Comfort were ever to be weaved into a quilt, the thread would have to be drawn from that sound. Wave after wave of melancholy & anguish seemed to crash and ebb darkly around us, the effect heightened by the surreal cheerful blue skies framing the scene.

Jaswant Thada

People hurried past me, and him, anxiously on their way to photograph a mausoleum. I agonized over whether to go over and speak with him, afraid that if I did, the music would stop. I eventually decided not to. I did not take a photo. The picture could only have shown a man holding a bow and a stringed board.

Eventually, he stopped playing, no doubt miffed by the tourists' reluctance to part with any money. I too left for the next stop on the list. All that is left is this post, bereft of both a picture of him and a song. No matter. The effect of the music was much more, but it now reverberates in the deep unknown of my mind.

Spiral Staircase

2011-01-09T20:38:00.000+05:30

The more I introspect & talk to others, the more I realise how much of a hold routine has on people's lives. The vast majority of humanity finds a rhythm to daily life and marches to it. What puzzles me is how we convince ourselves about the advantages of a cyclical life, even if we are unhappy with it.

In the last half of 2007, I was planning a trip to India after 1.5 years. The tickets had been booked as early as August and, as my blog posts reflect, I was eagerly looking forward to coming home. Strangely enough though, a sense of ennui gripped me a few days before I left, not letting go till the flight from Birmingham had taken off. I remember asking myself whether the trip was worth the effort. A voice whispered that I could just as easily carry on working at my 8 am - 5 pm on-campus job; I'd miss the convenience of the squash court at the Rec centre and the easy beer-laced post-dinner banter with my flatmates. For a mad second, I considered cancelling the tickets and unpacking my bags. Of course, I did not; that trip home proved to be a life-changing one. But, as the day of my return to the U.S drew near, that familiar ennui was back. And this time, I viewed the same alluring elements - the job, the evening sports and the flatmates - with mounting dislike.

In the present day, I live and work in Mumbai and come home to Pune on most weekends. Even now, I suffer from the same affliction; even though being at home is nice, there are days I view the Friday evening bus trip with resignation. This is promptly followed by the Sunday evening to Monday morning gloom when I think of the return journey.

In case you're considering calling the nut-house on my behalf, let me assure you that I'm not the only one seemingly seduced by the siren song of an ambiguously natured routine. I have friends who are on similar tracks; people who, in a somnambulist state, push against the whetstone of a daily grind, comforting themselves that the train they are on must eventually reach its journey... shouldn't it ? And right there, I get the strong feeling that we don't know what the end destination is. Are we just hoping there is one ?

Anyway, if you're wondering what brought along this less than cheerful prose, it is simply the fact that I'm soon to take a family holiday for the first time in nearly a decade. Now, my idea of a holiday runs along these lines. But, as I've readily admitted before, thanks to the comfort of routine, I've become more of an arm-chair traveller. Holidaying with family brings stresses and expectations that are thankfully absent when taking vacations with friends. The seed of this post lies in this thought - even keeping the fact that I really do need a break, why am I more apprehensive than anything else ?

Too many questions, very few satisfactory answers.

Song for the moment: The build up - Kings of Convenience

Breaking the rules

2011-01-05T14:25:00.001+05:30

As is evident from excellent articles written here, here, here and here, the 4th of January 2011 was a glorious day for cricket. Truly, the words 'test match' were dissected cleanly and explained with a fierce clarity that should leave no one in doubt - this is the sport of cricket distilled to its finest base elements. However, that day has passed and I will not attempt to add descriptions or superlatives to it. Instead, I wonder about today and tomorrow, the 4th and 5th days of what could be a test for all time.

If India are to have any chance of winning, they have to bowl out the South Africans for less than 200 runs. At the most, 220 - 230. With the SA bowling attack... actually who am I kidding; with Steyn bowling as he is, we cannot chase any more than that. If, by some chance, in the 2nd innings, he repeats or betters (yes, you heard it here first) those two spells from yesterday, we are finished. I believe this completely and utterly. Yes, we have a great batting line-up. It is quite likely one of the few line-ups in world cricket that has the technical competence to stand a remote chance against the SA attack on this pitch at this stage of the game. But GG is pugnacious rather than supremely accomplished, CP has youth and reflexes on his side but no experience and our holy triumvirate must be, for every magical moment they've ever given us, tired.

Which brings me to the crux of the matter - IF we are to stand a chance, I argue that VS cannot play his 'natural game'. I know, I know. He is a game changer. When it comes together, his batting is a joy to behold. To play any other way would be akin to asking a hurricane to be gentle. I accept all of these ideas. I can even see the half-exasperated, half-resigned shake of the head and the wry smile when my idea is voiced.

I'm also getting exhausted hearing these ideas trumpeted every god-damn time he fails. I don't know if his successes are becoming excuses for his failures, but I'm sure that is not how it is supposed to rationalise either.

He is an opener. Never mind what he is expected to do, what he isn't expected to do is treat the role as if he were the chief guest at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the innings. I'm not asking him to become Chanderpaul (heaven forbid) and grind the opposition into dust. Still, this is his last test outing in SA on this tour and no one can know what the future holds.

So here is what I'm hoping for - he bats, he gives bad deliveries what they deserve and, it being Sehwag, even the good ones get thrashed. But he must recognise that Steyn and the rest are bowling extremely well and that he cannot dominate them from the start. If he sees out the initial bowling partnership, this could be India's game.

Great batsmen like SRT, RD and VVS adapt to the conditions and the situation. VS changes them. In his case though, true greatness would lie in adopting the ways of his senior colleagues just this once. On the strength of their records, it would be no shame.

Its not just a game any more.

Song for the moment: Ecstacy of Gold - Ennio Morricone

Don't stop the music

2011-01-02T15:34:00.005+05:30

Its been almost 4 years since I started writing this blog. A couple of days ago, I was tagged by Atul to list the 12 posts of 2010 that held a special meaning for me. He may be rather surprised to know that this was my first ever tag. Infused with the excitement of trying something new, I went through my posts, relieved to see at least one post a month. Of course, choosing posts that mean a little extra ended up being a lot harder than I thought. But then again, most experiences usually are, no ? Here we go then:

January: Year of tha boomerang - Written the day I resigned from my first job in Bombay. Now and then, I go through a mental closet cleaning exercise, evaluating experiences and the state of my life at that point. Here, I dwelt on what the change would mean to me.

February: After forever - I wrote this the on day of the German Bakery blasts in Pune. Not my best stuff, but it was written in the moment; one where I lost the last vestige of an innocently peaceful image of my home town.

March: Nobody's home - One of the hardest pieces I've ever written; not in terms of effort but what it meant to me. The post was tinged with a bit of everything - humour, friendship, nostalgia and sadness.

April: As I am - My only post of the month. Nevertheless, it was an awakening of sorts; for too long, I'd ignored my beloved books and with this post, I flagged off another chapter in my love affair with the printed word.

May: The memory remains - Cambodia will always have a special place in my heart. I chose to revisit some memories of the place within the context of another favourite - the Indian monsoon.

June: The seeker - A melee of feelings came together in this post. It couldn't have made much sense to the reader, but it was written for me.

July: One more cup of coffee - I returned to Bangalore after 10 years and fell in love with the city all over again. It was just a 2 day visit, but it had a beginning, an end and everything in between. And much more.

August: The weight of my words - In a Mumbai train, there are a thousand minute meetings and a million untold stories. This just happened to be one of them. One of my favourite ones of the year. And no, I never did see her again.

September: Once upon a time - We think we know all about teenage angst, love and life's slings & arrows. A generation ago, our elders walked the same road. A post from the past.

October: Chug all night - This was the month I went back to Bangalore and saw a test match live for the first time. Much happiness, but I didn't write about those 5 days. But the post that still makes me smile in resignation is one where longing meets reality and I shrug away some looming gloom.

November: Between the lines - I'm pretty much an arm-chair traveller, my head tied down to routine whilst my heart dreams of faraway places. There was a point where I was reading 3 excellent travelogues at once and it was like being given a favourite dessert but having no room for it.

December: All good things - There was a point this year when I almost shut this blog down. For the most part, I need companionship and conversation to find a spark that turns into a post. This piece is about my failings as a blogger, certainly, but also a question to those whose blogs I follow about why they've stopped blogging.

Okay, so my first ever tag is done! My first instinct was to tag Atul because he writes more frequently than most others I know. Unfortunately, he's off the list. So, more in hope of stimulating more blogging than anything else, I tag the following suspects:

Bhumika - New city, new life, new experiences. More blogging, please ?

The Puneri - Because of the excellence of this post, I'm hoping Saar will take hint and write more this year.

Neha - Someone whose blog output is decent enough to think she'll take this forward.

Dennis - I know, I know. But it wouldn't hurt to hit that 'publish post' button, right ? No ? Okay.

~Me - The only one I don't know personally. Or at all, for that matter. I'm not even sure she visits this site, but one can always hope. But she hosts an interesting blog and here's looking forward to more unique posts this year.

Also, you, its about time you unfolded a few thoughts this year. A 'mind of the married man' monthly series. And as for you, find stories from somewhere and write.

Considering very few of the people tagged here have actually written 12 posts this year, please choose arbit number but say what was mucho grande especial about it.

Song for the moment: Brand new day - Sting

My ship isn't pretty

2010-12-30T12:00:00.005+05:30

With a birthday so close to the new year, any wishes and resolutions I make tend to sound oddly similar or rather, symbiotic. Of course, any positive sentiment I'd attach to them is scuttled in moments because a sardonic voice in my head immediately says "Yea, right". My conscience is consistent like that.

Bringing in the birthday this year turned out to be streets ahead of 2009. Last year, I was jolted awake by phone calls a little past 12 am, a custom I still don't understand. Okay so maybe a boatload of people stay awake and bring in their birthdays, but I support the 'be asleep at midnight' philosophy of life. Anyway, the point is, last year I was woken at that ungodly hour by the phone ringing, and then left with the wonderful realisation that I was alone on my birthday, a feeling magnified by the dark silence of night. Then again, it was a crappy year all around, so it stayed uniform till the finish. This year though, friends were in Bombay, so much drinking and merriment was ensured and executed. If birthdays are any indicator of the year to come, could 2011 turn out to be a decently tolerable one ?

In the last couple of weeks, a motley collection of old friends having been making their way into India after years; while I've stayed in touch with them through mail and G-talk, the spontaneity and magic of personal interaction has always been missed. And here's something voice chat doesn't allow for - the pauses and silences that cushion conversation, being insightful without disrupting its soul. While I don't exactly prescribe to the stoic school of Clint Eastwood and Cormac McCarthy, I still fail magnificently at small talk. So, with friends moving away and / or living in foreign parts, I've missed that... the opportunity to converse, letting the mood take the ideas and words where they will. In a Facebook world, I'm still old-school that way.

I thought about doing another graphical post to end the year, but couldn't quite get it together and gave up. With a demanding new job and trips to Bangalore, Panchgani and Pune for some memorable get-togethers, 2010 feels like the echo of empty rooms the day after an excellent house party. There were some good times and some flat ones. People came, left or were asked to leave.

Like after the party, its time to pick up the pieces, clear the trash, spruce up the place and brace myself for another day, another year. I did not make any birthday wish this year. So, I don't know about hopes, but at least 2011 doesn't hold any false promises.

Have a good year everyone.

Song for the moment: Love is no big truth - Kings of Convenience

No more, no more

2010-12-22T16:59:00.000+05:30

One of my oldest memories of Mumbai is of the time I had chicken pox. At 2 years of age, the only feeling I could connect to illness was pain. So I vividly remember the heavy, burning rasp of the sore throat and the sticky discomfort of a raging fever. But I also remember the merciful coolness of the floor, the pleasantly soapy smell of 501 soap perfuming my grandma's sari as I rest my head in her lap and the lemon tang of milagu rasam (pepper rasam) washed over me, soothing me into sleep. My grandma's work-callused hands gently brushed my forehead and I knew I was safe.

Yesterday, I found myself in the throes of my holy trinity - fever, flu and a Force 10 migraine from hell. My throat having given out the previous day itself, I spent hours seeking comfort in the overwhelming cool silence of a pitch black room. I cooked rasam by myself and rested my head on a pillow when exhaustion took over. My keyboard-softened fingers massaged my forehead and I knew I was alone.

Song for the moment: Naima - John Coltrane

All good things

2010-12-09T13:55:00.003+05:30

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. Perhaps the boredom of routine is being reflected in seeing patterns where they don't exist. But thus lies the fact. The moment I add someone to my Google Reader list or add their name to the homepage list on my blog, their output drops alarmingly. Some previously prolific bloggers do write on and off; however the names of those still hitting that 'publish post' button is dropping by the day. And, it isn't limited to those who write. Even the sites of some of the photographers whose works I look out for stay stubbornly silent.

Thankfully, not having reached that stage of loony where I think I'm somehow responsible for it, I do wonder what is going on. Have the writers reached an existential plateau, not allowing themselves to draw on daily experiences and write about them? Have the photographers stilled their mind's eye, forbidding themselves to distinguish the inconspicuous ? Is there something wrong with my Google Reader subscription ?

Speaking for myself, when I started writing this blog, it was a refreshing release from a chaotic life in foreign parts. I guess I didn't realise that the hullabaloo was fuelling the posts. Living a single guy's life in Mumbai should, technically, have provided a new surge to the writing. But, apart from a very brief window last year when I thought my social life had changed for the better (it hadn't), I can't recall a time when I was truly inspired to write. This reflects accurately in the number of posts written for the year, which has declined as surely as eggs are eggs.

Yes, the odd post inspired by pub talk, nostalgia and cricket made some sort of splash. On the whole though, the tone of the writing has stayed static. Routine can only be blamed for so much.

In a recent post, a friend wrote a rant, if that's possible. Changing environments doesn't necessarily translate into changes in oneself. Experiences across the spectrum - love lives and professional lives (and lack of success thereof) - stay pretty much the same. Recognising that we don't, won't or can't change, may make things easier. Patching up the ragged heart, quietening that dull roar in the mind... yea, all of that steadily requires less effort.

When you boil it down, writing a post and/or taking a photograph is, for me, still a creative effort. It needs imagination. It should not be forced. But it feels like the more time passes, the harder it is for us to be inspired.

I wonder how long before every blog post feels forcefully contrived.

Song for the moment: We never change - Coldplay

Grin and bear it

2010-11-27T10:47:00.000+05:30

When people have a work week as torrid as mine, they probably spend Friday evening quaffing back a few cold ones with friends. When people have a social network as empty as mine, they probably spend the same Friday evening parked in front of the telly, making old man Mallya richer by a few shekels. I chose to inflict on myself the dubious pleasure of another 5 hour long commute to Pune.

These journeys are boring at best and intensely frustrating at worst, both scenarios being at the mercy of Bombay's relentless traffic. Trying to doze off and failing miserably, I spend my time wondering why I couldn't be sitting next to an attractive & chatty bird rather than the usual rotund bloke blaring away on the cell phone. Last night, I was handed the golden ticket of strange journeys. Here's how things unfolded.

I was slumped in my seat, morosely pondering on the fact that I've received 6 separate wedding invitations from friends, inviting me to be a part of the joy, jollity and song on various days from November to late January. Matrimonial messages are funny things. Not in the "haha" way, but in the way one tends to view them over time. A couple of years ago, receiving one from a contemporary would leave me feeling happy for the couple and marvelling at how quickly time passes. Now, when all 6 of them are from people younger than me, I can't help but think that my relationship record is like old Mother Hubbard's cupboard - bare. Sure, being thought of as slightly misanthropic is edgy in college and definitely contributed to the solo status, but that was years ago and I'd like to think the grumpiness has toned itself down a bit. And any one of you wanting to quote Darwin, can stay out of this.

So like I was saying, joy to the world. At that point, the passage lights in the bus had been switched off but it wasn't totally dark. This didn't seem to deter the couple sitting in the seats ahead of me, for they began to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to each other with admirable purpose. Paramedics and lifeguards could have learned something, is all I'm saying. And whatever your sentiments on the issue of public displays of affection are, one has to admire the guy's cojones because by the time the bus passed through one of those tunnels, he'd seemingly moved on to 2nd base.

Before you go all judgemental and hastily accuse anyone of voyeurism, I gave the window and the outside world my fullest attention.When my neck began to creak and protest, I closed my eyes, plugged in the earphones and dozed off. I guess the love birds must have eventually run out of callisthenics (or air). When my stop arrived, the pyrotechnics had ceased.

But the universe really is taking the mickey out of me.

Song for the moment: Waiting for the sun - The Doors

Between the lines

2010-11-06T12:13:00.001+05:30

Presently reading 'In Xanadu' by William Darymple, I am seized by a familiar feeling. It is the same emotion that swirls around when I'm reading Vikram Seth or Pico Iyer; awe. While their mastery over words and talent for evocative description is undisputed, I find myself revering their courage.

'From Heaven's Lake' details Seth's travels from Nanking to New Delhi, via Tibet. Iyer visits and writes about some truly secluded places in 'Falling off the map', including Bhutan and North Korea. The book I'm reading now follows Darymple tracing Marco Polo's steps from Jerusalem to Peking.

Yes, they write well. What separates them as the great writers from the rest (and in my book, making them courageous) is their incredible spirit of ethnography. Think about it; both Seth and Darymple could have been easily satisfied by wanting to just complete their degrees (both were at university when they went on travels that formed the source of the books). Iyer, already an acknowledged writer and teacher, could have continued writing about airports, about disconnect and the balance of his three cultural heritages. And yet, each of these men did so much more. In doing so, or rather choosing to do so, they took the first steps on the path to lives extraordinary.

Anyone seeking to emulate the above authors' journeys today, cannot. It is that simple and that stark. The world, already hostile when their callow feet and curious eyes swept through the melange of lands, is now a far more forbidding place. Even bureaucratic miracles would not suffice in order to obtain official permission to visit many of the countries on the list, never mind actually making one's way through them.

Therein lies the great pity, you see. If it were a question of convenience, one could perhaps be shamed into labouring harder to circumvent them. But, rather than convenience or lack thereof, it is an issue of probability. To realise, as one is immersed in vivid, exotic accounts of unfamiliar people and places, that the land under one's feet is becoming more xenophobic, divided and barricaded with every passing day...

It fatigues at a faraway spiritual level.

Song for the moment: The dangling conversation - Simon & Garfunkel

Winter winds

2010-10-30T11:22:00.002+05:30

There are times a strong case could be made for one of my theories of life. In brief, I feel like the pet project of a malevolent universe or a vengeful god. Smirk if you will, but I ask that you consider the following example from early this morning.

The task was simple. The pride of Punjab (PoP) aka KS, was making his way up-country from Hyderabad. Mercifully for all concerned, he chose to bus it rather than fly in. Whether his decision had more to do with economics than benevolence, is up for debate. What it did mean though was that he'd have to be picked up from Bremen Chouk, rather than the airport. From the chauffeur's point of view, in terms of distance and effort, this was more like being asked to journey to the temple around the corner instead of Pandharpur.

For a man on a 10 day visit, KS didn't have a lot of baggage. At least, not physically. He did sound ominous warnings about travelling with 1 big bag (an entry for many jokes, but we're civilized folks), which meant that a bike pick-up was out of the picture. Tempting the fates, I volunteered to show up at the rendezvous point in my car. Between KS & I, our propensity for misfortune over the years can and has out-Murphied Murphy. Still, it was a very simple drive, so what could go wrong, right ?

The car refused to start. I unlocked the door, sat, waited the appropriate minute and turned the key. Nothing. At first, it teased me, making a feeble neighing sound more appropriate for an old mare than an engine. Then it almost started. And did not. Now, I'm not exactly full of beans at 5 am. Between swearing vehemently & volubly at the car and taking calls from KS, the metaphorical cup overflowed with woes rather than coffee.

There was nothing to do. Or rather, I did what I should have done at the start. I fished out the Kinetic keys, revved up without any trouble and raced off. This dependability, by the way, is further proof of why I love my bike.

On that note, its been 5 years since I experienced the delicious Pune cool of a dawn bike ride. That, along with being able to snuggle back into my quilt after, made the whole thing worth it.

Song for the moment: There goes the fear - The Doves

Chug all night

2010-10-23T12:07:00.000+05:30

The place and time doesn't seem to matter. You could be perched on a barstool, seated at a table, sunk into a couch or standing in a nook. At some point, you're staring intently into the mug. The tiny bubbles take on a life of their own. The white foam is now only a thin circle around the edges. Using the palm of your hand, you gently massage your eyes and take another sip. Then, without fail, you look into the bottom of the mug, through the beer & the glass; scrying your way down the drinker's rabbit-hole. What usually follows is this.
---------------------------------------
The Searing Synopsis:

A: Umm... so what do you guys talk about ?
B: Hmm... random stuff man. I mean, there's so much...
C: Yea right! We meet, we drink beer & whine "we don't have girlfriends"
B: *Bastard*
---------------------------------------
The Multifarious Motif:

A: So, what's the scene with her dude?
B: I donno... doesn't seem to be going anywhere.
C: Meaning ?
B: Its hard to say... I donno... confusing. Don't know if I like her enough.
A & C: *Mental face-palm*
----------------------------------------
The Recurring Regret:

A: You guys broke up, why exactly ?
B: I donno... it wasn't going anywhere.
A: Uhuh.
B: I figured I'd meet someone else.
C: How long ago was this ?
*Silence*
B: Umm... it's been a few years.
A & C: *Mental face-palm*
----------------------------------------
The Perennial Puzzle:

A: So, if you had to choose - hook up with someone you were fond of, or wait to meet someone you're in love with.
B & C (and 99% of those asked): I'd wait for love. Yea, definitely.
A: And cheers to that. *Glasses clink*

1 very arid year later -

A, B, C: Wow, love is never going to happen is it ?

*The whooshing sound of an empty social cupboard*
-----------------------------------------
The Toothless Totem:

A & B: So, you made a move yet ?
C: She sees us more as friends, dude. We've become really good friends.
A & B: *Mental face-palm*
-----------------------------------------
The Fact:

A: You know... we're washouts.
----------------------------------------

Song for the Moment: Desperado - The Eagles

On a plain

2010-10-18T18:16:00.001+05:30

Someone once asked me to think about whether I actually liked the people who supposedly liked me. It was one of the most insightful questions I'd ever heard; it felt like being shot, but also being grazed rather than injured. Back then, I somehow dodged pondering its implied veracity. Nowadays, its becoming difficult to avoid answering it.

The thing about having a beautiful dream is that you wake up... and reality is way more harsh, dull and lacking.

Song for the moment: 17 - Jethro Tull

Elevation

2010-10-07T16:32:00.002+05:30

There's one thing you have to envy the Western world for. Most of the people there have actually seen their sporting heroes in action on the field of play. Be it cricket, baseball, American football, the game the rest of the planet knows is really football or rugby, the stadia are by and large conveniently accessible, the tickets more so and the facilities in arenas are at the least, decent. Contrast this with India where you'd need to have crossed the realms of passion and entered those of masochism to actually go watch a cricket match in a stadium. To enjoy a game comfortably the Indian cricket fan needs to be both loaded with money and know some bloke who may just have an uncle who knows an official who has passes to the good seats for the match. 1 seat.

If the recent test match in Mohali is any indicator, one should be able to easily saunter into any venue hosting tests (barring the 5 main centres, the 4 metros and Bangalore), tickets be damned. A lot of comments have been directed at the poor turnout, but what is one to expect ? The PCA stadium is the home of the Kings XI, which means the audiences have been brought up on a strict diet of "slam-bam-thank you ma'am" cricket. The nuances (or whatever is left of them) of test cricket must bore the living daylights out of the average bloke at these smaller grounds. Not that the 5 biggies have too much to crow about. In this day and age, one can't afford to swarm to watch test matches unless its the weekend. Stories of diabolical schemes to go watch the game successfully executed or sympathetic bosses turning a blind eye are an modern myth too. Besides, with tv so accessible, who's going to take that extra effort ? Especially when spectators run the risk of being treated like dirt anyway.

When I see videos of tests from the past, I thoroughly admire the passion and patience of the throngs cheering (or raising Cain) in the stands. To actually not mind being treated worse than an animal, to allow yourself to be subjected to the Indian heat and the humiliation, to mildly grumble about being packed in the cheap seats like sardines and to fork out the criminally astronomical amounts of money for what pretends to be food and water. And all this, knowing that players with Sanjay Manjrekar's approach to 'attacking' cricket are definitely going to play too. Mind-boggling, I tell you.

So, while I've prattled on and on about my love of test cricket, I've never developed the courage to flagellate myself by watching a game live. There are only 3 cricketers I've ever wanted to watch in a live game and I have, as of today, not seen any in a test match. SRT, obviously. I was fortunate to see Kumble bowl in an ODI in Pune but I'll never get to see him bowl in a 5-day game. And frustratingly enough, I have yet to see that epitome of pure batting grace, play the game - Rahul Dravid.

However, the Aussies are in India no ? India almost lost the 1st test but VVS and Ishant Sharma hadn't read the script clearly, apparently. No matter. The next one is in Bangalore. At some point in the day, one of the Indian openers will lose their wicket. He will begin the walk back to the pavilion as India's greatest number 3 will stroll to the wicket on his home ground, air-practising the straight drive. I hope to be in the stands watching.

I guess some moments are worth waiting 28 years for.

Song for the moment: Knockin' on heaven's door - Bob Dylan

Shooting star

2010-10-04T13:12:00.002+05:30

An early induction into the game of cricket is all well and good but the kid who enrolled in Loyola High School, Pune in May 93 didn't have a clue about the nuances of the game. This lack of knowledge can be explained by the fact that my family packed bags and hauled me off to Abu Dhabi in 1989. While undoubtedly a nice place, the U.A.E was no cricket Mecca, preferring to broadcast local club football games and camel races on the telly. The Arabic commentators for the football games were a bunch of loonies. On the pitch, the defender would be calmly passing the ball to another guy in his own half or the midfielder would cross the ball to the winger. It really didn't matter what innocuous move was being made because the commentators would risk a haemorrhage from minute 0:01, shrieking excitedly in Arabic about everything.

You literally could not understand what the big deal was about something even as plain as a throw-in. Was the chap about to do something acrobatic ? Was there a lot of money riding on how far he could throw it ? And what about the defender passing the ball ? Was he a major star ? Was the commentator being gruesomely murdered live on air ? Who knew ? So, not understanding a word, I'd watch as they worked themselves into a frenzy, until the forward took pity on them and scored a goal. This was the culmination of the commentators' lives. They'd shriek "Walla, walla, walla, walla.... gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooallllllllll." And then pass out for lack of oxygen, I suppose.

So anyway, while this was hilariously exciting, I gradually forgot what little I knew about cricket. Then, the family did a U-turn and we pitched tent in Pune. During that first P.T period in school, I watched enviously as my classmates batted with elan and bowled fast and furious. Tendulkar and Kapil Dev's names came up a lot. Fielding positions, thankfully still involved pointing and waving to different parts of the ground rather than the actual names. I mean, if someone had told me to field at deep backward square leg, I'd have quietly left the field, hoping no one noticed. So, while batting was not a bother, it took me a while to figure out overarm bowling and adjust the radar. Not being the most robust chap even then, I soon cottoned on to the fact that fast bowling was not for me. Everyone and his uncle wanted to bat and some of these guys were actually good at it, so I didn't chance my luck there. So, slow bowling was the only thing left.

Some moments are frozen in time, no ? The sequence that day goes like this. A sad, medium pace delivery was dispatched with contempt by the batsman who then proceeded with whatever passed for verbal jousting in 5th standard. For the next ball, I gave up the pointlessly long run-up, and decided on a 4 step approach to the wicket. I jogged in, gripping the ball across the seam and... honestly, I don't know exactly what I did next. My ring finger flicked across the seam even as my wrist translated the irritation of the previous shot into a whiplash moment. The ball arched gently to my right while the chap with the bat raised it for the customary Indian hoick. The ball bounced on leg and I winced in anticipation of the 6 that would surely follow. The middle stump was on the ground a second later as the ball spun viciously across the batsman and bowled him.

The wicket itself, I don't remember fondly. No, what I still enjoy is the disbelieving silence that followed it; the batsman because he'd been clean bowled, the fielders because the new kid had actually taken a wicket and I, because I'd finally figured out my calling as a cricketer - Legspin bowling. Now, all I needed was a few bowlers to emulate.

That year was 1993, remember ? In June, Shane Warne bowled his first ball of the Ashes series to Mike Gatting. In November, a bespectacled Indian called Anil Kumble bowled against the West Indies in the final of the Bengal Jubilee Cricket LOI series.

The universe doesn't give any more indications than it has to.

Song for the moment: I feel free - Cream

Up to my neck in you

2010-10-03T12:12:00.000+05:30

My earliest recollection of cricket on TV is from my grandparents house in Bombay. The house and the building were typical of the city; woefully inadequate in terms of space, inclined to suspect construction but packed to the rafters with people and raucousness. Across 3 floors and 15 flats, everyone knew everyone else. One house on the 3rd floor had a telephone so all incoming calls for many of the other flats were directed there. The buying of first car in the building, a white Fiat Premier Padmini was a grand occasion; the adults stood around trying to look important and making what they hoped were shrewd observations about its features. The kids queued up, hoping for a ride, thanking their lucky stars that they were still friends with the son of the car's owner. The Sunday Ramayan phenomenon meant default hosting for whoever owned a telly, oldies and young 'uns dutifully huddled around the screen. Everything we take for granted now was an occasion back then. Early 80s Bombay was just that kind of place in time.

The b/w tv at my grandparents' place was a real collector's item. Thanks to my grandpa's reluctance to discard anything, one could safely assume the tv was as old as the hills. It was one of those stand-models complete with 5 glorious channels, a giant tuning dial, dangerously flimsy table and a wooden cabinet with shutters that could be locked, a useful tool with which to blackmail pestilential grandsons into good behaviour. When the West Indies visited India in 1987 - 88 for 4 tests, I don't recall those shutters being closed at all. My grandad, uncles and assorted neighbours were a fiercely obsessive tribe when it came to Test cricket. A plethora of cheers, anguished howls, blood-oaths and unique snorts of disdain would rent the air when the matches were on. At the time, I was too young to understand the nuances of the game. But even then, I was not immune to the creeping anxiety of watching an ominous West Indian bloke charging to the wicket while his team mates crouched in anticipation in the slips. The batsman looked so tiny and forlorn, I thought.

To avoid being disturbed by an irritating little hellion, the elders would vote that I spend my time perched on the window ledge (we were on the ground floor), 'guarding' the grains that had been placed out in the sun to dry. The gravity with which this honour would be bestowed on me, one would think an assorted collection of villains were waiting in the wings to pounce on the family food. Not being the sharpest tool in the shed, for the longest time, I did not make the connection between the timing of the matches and the need to dry grain.

As I said earlier, my earliest recollection of cricket was from my grandpa's house; I'll never forget the pain of having to constantly twist around to watch the flickering screen while supposedly scaring away the crows and sparrows. When I watch tests today, lounging around on the sofa, something just doesn't feel right. I wonder why.

Song for the moment: New Sensation - INXS

Once upon a time

2010-09-04T01:31:00.005+05:30

Summer in Bangalore, a long time ago.

A family came visiting relatives. The elders got together, drank steaming cups of coffee and caught up with the highs and lows of a year gone by. In a time without email and even the telephone, the rich, orthodox Tamil words entwined themselves in the rafters and burrowed into the nooks. The youngsters, left to their own devices, played games, read books and explored the neighbourhood. Imagination was a prized asset.

M's cousin brother R, called Bangalore - R to distinguish him from Hyderabad - R, owned a gramophone player. More importantly, he owned, as far as one could tell, the only Beatles records in the entire family. And by family, one means immediate, 1st, 2nd and 3rd level relatives. Which, in a Tamil Iyer family, was a LOT of people. Naturally, owning these records made R quite popular among his mates. One in particular, D, would drop in every now to listen, nod and croon in unison.

At 17, M, whose upbringing could only be called conservative and nothing less, was naturally fascinated by the music. She, R & D would listen to the record every afternoon all summer, while the rest of the house indulged in the postprandial snooze. After a few of these sessions, M realised that D was quite fond of one particular song. Inordinately fond, she thought as they listened to it again, although even M had to admit it was some song. It took her just a few more days to notice that R no longer seemed very interested in the music. As soon as the Beatles came on, he found some work to occupy his time. But, as a very considerate host, he didn't object to M & D listening to the record. Every afternoon.

D wondered how much courage he needed to gather before he could voice his thoughts to M. The record, hardy as it was, surely couldn't last the whole summer at that rate. And the song ! Didn't she understand ? Worse, it looked like R's mother, M's fiercely protective aunt, was becoming suspicious. He'd caught her glancing at him occasionally with a less than benevolent gleam in her eye. What was he to do ? As most young men in this oft-repeated situation are wont to do, he became moody and silent. There came a day when the Beatles stopped singing, having exhausted their pleas, M's interest in English music and D's hopes. The holidays were over and M's family started their purchases in anticipation of returning to their home city.

At Bangalore Cantonment station, M sat at the window, pensively staring at the platform. Once or twice in those last days, R had looked like he wanted to say something to her, but he never did. Deep within, M knew it had something to do with D. And the song. But, like a lot of people, she chose to wonder rather than ask. As the train began to reluctantly pull away from Bangalore, the family waved goodbye to the relatives who'd come to see them off. A surprisingly large contingent, M thought, but they were a very close family. She wondered, though...

Carefully placed behind a pillar some distance from the others, a pair of eyes watched M. And then, the train picked up speed, chugged out of Bangalore and she was gone. Leaving behind the ghost of a feeling stifled and many unspoken words. Only a song remained.

Song for the moment: Oh! Darling - The Beatles

Epilogue - M made many more trips to Bangalore but never saw D again. She did not speak about it till one afternoon, 24 years later. The above story is a relative's version of M's wistful words.

Awake my soul

2010-08-30T18:20:00.001+05:30

There are times I wish I'd never started an autobiographical blog. While the quality of the writing depend on me, the themes & by implication, the posts and their frequency rely too much on my experiences. Therein lies the problem - my job.

I've never made claims about a packed social calendar. I've never had one, come to that. There was a short period last year when it seemed like my move to Mumbai was the impetus for better things to come. Ultimately, it was not to be, but I took solace in beer sessions until those ceased also. But that's my life. Or a precursor to hell. Since then, I've almost solely depended on the 'reunions'; those sparkling moments when a group of people decide that a shameful amount of time has passed without meeting up. And then do something about it.

January
March
May
July
August

Could it be a coincidence that some of my fondest posts were born right after each of these memorable occasions ? I think not. However, each of us is caught up with our individual lives and these occasional oases of humour, happiness and contentment will, I'm afraid, become rarer. I'm hoping to be proved wrong. Earlier today, I was reading something about the work-life equation and how liking work eliminates the need to balance the two. I used to think I would find myself in that happy state. Last year, I even wrote something about it. Gradually though, I've come around to the school of thought that definitely calls for separating work-life from life.

I'm sure about the above philosophy because some moments and memories across each of the 5 months listed above have been so intensely priceless that I've willed them to become tangible, allowing me to hold on to them fiercely. It was no different this weekend too. That moment on the bike when I first sighted Panchgani nestled amongst the emerald green of the hill, itself framed by blue sky and patches of white cloud. The one where the taste of warm toast, butter and strawberry preserve caressed my tongue as I looked around the table and saw only smiling faces. The stillness of time as we played poker, pictionary and word-speller. Drizzling rain, ginger tea, a shared smoke on a white swing...

That's life.

Song for the moment: All the time in the world - Louis Armstrong

The weight of my words

2010-08-07T23:49:00.000+05:30

The following is fictional, inspired from here.

To the girl who got off the train at Mahim:

Hello there. Last Thursday around 8 pm, I was in the 1st class compartment of the Churchgate slow, standing near the doorway. The guy in the maroon t-shirt, blue jeans, the glasses and the haggard look. It's unfortunate that I was lost in thought as always because I never realised when you got into the train. In fact, it was only when you came and stood by me that I even noticed you.

You were dressed in a cream salwar with maroon print, a blue kurta and sensible shoes, overall a very simple, soothing ensemble. Your hair, reaching up to what I thought was a very graceful neck, was in a ponytail. Even though you'd obviously had a long work-day, your face reflected relaxation, rather than tiredness. Suffice to say, I thought you were very cute.

At one point, between Bandra and Mahim, there was a slight commotion at the other doorway and both of us swivelled to see what happened. It was on the return trip that our eyes met for a fraction; in that second I remember thinking how easily one could get lost in them. I almost worked up the courage to smile at you then but the moment slipped by like quicksilver. A million scenarios to initiate conversation zipped through my head alongside a few considerations. For example, I did not want to appear creepy. I certainly did not need you even suggesting anything about eve-teasing; the rest of the compartment looked like they'd be happy to play Sir Lancelot and take out their private frustrations on anyone, given a chance. So yes, I kept quiet.

You were talking to your friend (the short girl) and your voice sounded rather mellifluous. Your English was flawless and without trace of any fake accents which got massive bonus points in my book. I didn't mean to pry, but since I couldn't talk to you, listening to you talk was the only option left. That and silently praying you got off at the same station as me.

As the lights of Mahim approached, you asked me in Hindi (again flawless) whether I was getting off there. I wanted to say yes (and perhaps do a celebratory jig) but could only catch my breath and regretfully answer otherwise. I then shifted, allowing you to move ahead of me. You did so and I could no longer steal 5-second glances at your face. I then watched enviously as the balding old geezer at the doorway smiled at you and advised you not to try hopping off the still-moving train. You smiled back and assured him that you would not. I wanted to trip the old fool off the train and give you some helpful advice myself. Perhaps help you alight at the station also. Once again, I did nothing.

At Mahim, you stepped off the train, my life, and on to the footbridge. I stayed on the train, which moved on. I don't know whether you live in Mahim or if you live somewhere on the Harbour line. On looking up Mumbai's population, I found that the current estimate says 13,662,885 people live in the city. So, since the odds of (A) us meeting again & (B) me developing the courage to say something coherent to you even if we did; are like 1 in a gazillion, I'm writing this. If you do read this, here's what I wish I'd said to you that evening.

"Hello there. I'm..."

Song for the moment: I'd rather dance with you - Kings of Convenience

One more cup of coffee

2010-07-20T14:28:00.000+05:30

The sheer awesomeness of a great trip does not lie in the fondly remembered incidents.

It was not born a moment, hurrying down 80 ft. road at midnight, knowing your friends are creating a pandemonium in the vicinity.

It did not depend on being cheered, greeted and bodily lifted and hugged by people who are more family, than friends.

It did not evolve because of sitting on the kitchen counter at 2 am, sharing a meal and beer, hearing people talking and laughing in every room.

It needed no help from unbelievably desultory brunches on a gloriously salubrious day.

It almost became about finally acknowledging the pub of all pubs.

It was not accentuated by swapping hilariously nostalgic stories in the dead of night.

No.

You understand that the great trip has happened when you find yourself with friends at dawn...

All bleary-eyed and dishevelled
All flying off in different directions

All wondering why the weekend seemed to last just a heartbeat.

But what a heartbeat!

Song for the moment: On every street - Dire Straits

Close another door

2010-07-11T00:01:00.003+05:30

Back in college, the group I hung out with would engage in an exercise called "Who would you want on the island ?" The idea was simple enough; were you to ever have the misfortune to find yourself stuck on an island, who are the 5 people you would want accompanying you ? In all probability, the people you chose to bestow this dubious fate on, would not view it in quite the same ecstatically touching light, but that's another story. What seemed to matter to all present was whether everyone from the group was included and most often, they were. After all, the alternative would have been downright crushing and rude. I suspect that you have engaged in similar musings, reader. Back then, being on the island list affirmed camaraderie, assuaged fears and doubts of ending up alone and friendless. In some landlocked area, no doubt. Today, if we were to revisit that list and speculate on our hypothetical fates, would any of the names match ?

Old habits, they say, die hard. I wonder how much easier or harder it is letting go of people and of things one takes for granted in life. In case you've missed the point over the last 150 posts, this blog is sautéed in nostalgia, indicating lucidly enough that I have trouble shaking off the past. But this tenacious hold doesn't extend to people, whom I am forever walking away from. A few frayed ropes have been re-entwined, but I can't seem to assign any satisfactory rationalisations for these. Most parting of ways have been brutal and lacking explanation. Sure, lack of proximity is a strong possibility. So is the lack of a common institution, one of the major reasons one's college friendships are so fleeting. Other popular contenders are serious disagreements, betrayals and assorted behavioural melees. Heck, even boredom.

But, is it that cut and dry ? We are talking about people; family, friends, lovers... another human being with whom you shared part of yourself. And, on that personal emotional level, I can offer even myself only a vague intangible; one day, it just does not feel right any more, and that is it. I simply let go. To you, reader, this may seem a callous approach, and perhaps it is. I'm not suggesting a lack of guilt on my part, just a sample of the circus playing inside. Out of curiosity, I'd like to know; when you feel the need to part ways, what noble and gratifying method do you employ ?

Whatever solution is bandied about, the end result is still inelegant and most often, ugly. I used to think it was hard to live with letting go of the dead. I was wrong. It seems infinitely harder to live, having let go of the living. More so when we're seduced by the thought of a relationship lasting forever. Or mesmerised by responsibilities that were shouldered on the promises of being glorified in the future but end up becoming crutches for one's ego. It is when these supposed certainties are snatched away that things generally start to spiral.

While this post feels, in no way, complete, I'm left with only two clear thoughts that can be put into words; that sometimes, letting go is the convenient option.

At other times, it is the right thing to do.

Song for the moment: Life for rent - Dido

Rite of passage

2010-07-03T22:38:00.007+05:30

In tactful language, it has been suggested that I take a hard look at the rather depressing tone taken by the blog over the last few posts. The words "batty, old man" were used rather forcefully.

I agree with the judgement; while I'm no subscriber to sanguine prose, the melancholy is threatening to capsize the literary raft. There's only so much oddity that can be attributed to creative inspiration before someone loses an ear or drowns themselves, no ? I do have to say this in my defence - it being an autobiographical blog, my moods tend to reflect in my posts. Over the last couple of months I have not exactly channelled any joie de vivre. Partially, this can be put down to my job. For the sake of succinct speech, I'll say that it is sucking the life out of me. My first job, with the NGO, was a retirement home compared to this place. But I like the long hours and the chance to create new content in an atmosphere filled with hidden intrigues and random new developments. Like operating in the Bates Motel, only there are a lot of customers besides myself. And no shower scene.

But that only explains part of it. The rest is taken up with challenges of a more personal kind; the type that force me to think deeply and re-examine a lot of mental bric-a-brac I took for granted. Since it would be unfair to spring most of the above without context on a soporific reader, I won't bother. However, there is one aspect that is probably worth sharing. I've thought long and hard for the last week on the topic of maturity, specifically the mental kind.

From childhood, I have memories of certain people in the family-friends circle being referred to as 'mature' by the elders, always accompanied by a massively approving nod of the head. It was almost like those anointed thus were joining a secret, prestigious club. Even then, I found the idea of maturity complex and mysterious; that there were far deeper waters flowing beneath a simple word. As I grew older, I yearned for the day that approving nod would be directed towards me but it seemed that I managed to steer away from any actions, achievement or behaviour that could be labelled mature. Of course, once I knew better (or thought I did, since we are talking about my early 20s here), I was rather grateful for the miss, since it seemed more a responsibility-laced, behaviour-regulating burden than an inspirational crown.

During recent self-critical phases, I have begun to wonder anew, not whether I will ever be thought of as a mature person, but to what the idea of it means to me personally. About the existence or lack thereof of a crossable invisible barrier decided by age or accumulated actions & behaviour, after which I can have a gratifying moment of music-marked realisation about maturity achieved. You know... the popular cinema kind, roughly 4 minutes before the protagonist gets the girl. Or is seen driving across either the Brooklyn or Golden Gate bridge.

Here's my 2-paise on maturity - publicly it is fostered by our deeds and behaviour. Privately, I don't believe anyone thinks of themselves as a mature individual. The whole deal feels more like a never-ending degree; take a life-class, learn stuff & hopefully clear the paper and move on to the next one. There will be instances where I'll almost be able to taste the change and I will feel better for it. But there is no fixed checklist to tick off, no age to cross and no recognised / approved amount of responsibility to be shouldered.

There are only chances; to change and to accept. And, like all opportunities, these have to be recognised and acted upon.

Song for the moment: Turn! Turn! Turn! - The Byrds

How to disappear completely

2010-06-26T00:29:00.003+05:30

After 3 straight days of grey clouds and steady rain, the monsoon weather eased up on the Friday. As the day wore on, the sky became bluer, the whitish haze blushing with streaks of burnished gold.

Hurrying out of the building at 6:30 pm, he happened to look up into the horizon. It had been a long day of a long week spent hunched over the laptop. For a change, he was leaving the office before sunset. For Mumbai, this evening had unusually delightful weather; the humidity could be ignored, the cooling breeze was actually steady rather than teasing in wisps and everywhere, he could sense a gently uplifting buzz. It was a day to be getting out of office early, meeting up with friends, savouring a meal with a beer on the side, perhaps. An evening meant to be wrapped in laughter and bonhomie.

No matter how strong the craving, he would be partaking of none of these. Enough people would want to grab a drink; he didn't feel like meeting them. He could not face the prospect of another weekend spent dozing, watching tv and meeting cheerless relatives. Not after the work-week he'd had.

Once again, he was at the Dadar Asiad station, waiting for the bus to Pune. Going home... the words were meant to taste a lot better when he mouthed them. The idea of it was supposed to bring comfort instantly. For the longest time, it had done all of that. Only recently however, the taste was starting to sour. The feeling was steadily turning hollow.

Going home was supposed to energise, not enervate.

Somewhere out there, he imagined, friends were meeting, laughing and sharing a meal.
Hunched over, he stepped into the bus. For home.

Song for the moment: Karma Police - Radiohead

The seeker

2010-06-13T16:33:00.005+05:30

A stubborn head-cold has been dissipating the energy out of me. In the throes of the resultant exhaustion, I find it difficult to concentrate on any one activity, be it sleep which I sorely require or reading, which I can only accomplish in fits and bursts. Even writing a post feels laboured, much like my breathing. Ideas appear in fits and starts. Just when I think I can put together a decent piece, the words stop flowing and I am left to consider the usefulness of ellipses.

This peculiar half-alert, half-drowsy state is accentuated by the weather, which is moodily grey. I wish it would make up its mind and either rain or allow for sunshine, but nature's vagaries are her own. After many years, I am re-reading what I think is the best travel book ever written - 'From Heaven Lake' by Vikram Seth. He commands English so expertly, it feels more like a series of vivid photographs rather than mere alphabets linked together. A book that requires complete immersion for absolute appreciation, a sense of deja vu confirms my feelings many years ago; the book is essentially brilliant poetry in prose form.

Reading this book, or for that matter, any book on travel, is a double-edged experience for me. I get to make voyages vicariously, all the while resenting the fact that this is the only way I seem to be making journeys. Because I don't like to travel alone, I find it quite incredible that the authors can and do, often it seems, effortlessly. I could cite numerous other hackneyed obstacles in my way, but something he once told me always quietens the excuses. The jist of it was that opportunities abound; it is up to us to take them. Seeing the truth in that message is tinged with panic because time is flying by and I feel oddly stilted. About everything.

I want to say it is the weather. I want to say it is the head-cold. Believing any of it is another matter.

Song for the moment: I want to go back - Eddie Money

On a day like today

2010-05-31T00:18:00.012+05:30

The weekend has unwittingly provided me food for though. I'm sure Saturday & Sunday don't mean to. Left to themselves, they'd have carried on being the days for which plans are eagerly made on hellish Tuesday afternoons at work, but resigned to lie-ins, late lunches and dinners in restaurants. Come to think of it, that's actually not a bad way for 2 days to breeze past.

On this S & S, a whole load of people took planes & buses at godforsaken early and late hours to come to Pune and celebrate the birthday of a mutual friend. The birthday boy (or man) in question, in passing, should, if he doesn't yet, know that he's lucky to be so genuinely liked by so many people. Or maybe it has more to do with his affable nature. Point is, a plan that would scare the bejeezus out of these people on most days of the year, came together very successfully because of the coordinator. In large parts, the chips fell together thanks to the opportunity for liberal amounts of booze abuse but one can't take credit away from people.

Barring me and one other bloke, the get-together was an informal college reunion. As fate would have it, we (bloke & I) get along in very jolly fashion with this lot, so the reunion bit didn't make any difference here. Anyway, I've only attended one formally arranged reunion in my life before and am in no hurry to repeat that experience. I come from an all-boys convent with a particularly vicious bent of what passes for humour in those kind of places. So, pardon me if my idea of a good time isn't the revisiting of tired and now embarrassingly inane gags or remembering the finer aspects of gang-behaviour. But I haven't been to any college get-together (or maybe, with good reason, wasn't invited). And if there's any place I've seen a lot of, its college.

I have ambiguous feelings about college reunions. College gave most of us the overwhelming reassurance of freedom. No matter how bad the fuck-ups, how low the acads or how depressingly stifling life was at home, friends and copious amounts of alcohol (a lot of times, it was hard to distinguish between the two) made the past hazy, the present timeless and the future, immaterial. In the unkind light of dawn, between the redolence of innumerable beers & the exhaustion of bonhomie, you saw the quirky side, the wild side, the lovable side & the plaintive side of your friends. In turn, they saw you. And it was okay.

And years down the line, does the regathering let one revisit that freedom ?

Do you see each other as you once were, with the choice and willingness to try anything and go anywhere ? Or as you are now, with increasing professional & personal commitments, expanding waistlines, contracting booze capacities and numerous other trappings of age.

Maybe I'm over-analysing it & smothering a good thing. Perhaps I should let sleeping dogs lie and tell myself that the whiff of wistfulness in the wind is just a figment of my imagination. That I'm just a jaded cynic.

I wonder...

A leopard doesn't change it's spots, but age and experience lets it camouflage them better. The question is, does it want to or does it have to ?

Cheers to everyone who was there - 29th May 2010

Song for the moment: Afterglow - INXS

Power of not knowing

2010-05-22T15:59:00.003+05:30

The world as I know it is, for the most part, stained with cynicism and extreme political correctness (PC).

Yet, in the past week, I was witness to two events that went against the common grain. A 'Rin ki shakti' as regards the stain mentioned above. The first case is that of PC. As if it was the most obvious fact in the world, a colleague intimated that I was very Quasimodo-ish, in terms of looks. She said it with a visceral nonchalance that was unnerving. Look, my life's not exactly been sheltered or subtle in its lessons. There's only so many times you can observe a girl's eyes slide clean over you, as if you never existed, before cottoning on to the fact that in a rainbow world, you are grey. So I'm very aware that this visage isn't exactly a gift from the heavens.

But I've never actually been told so.

I have heard of people told point blank that they don't possess that intangible X-factor of attractiveness. However, I have never actually come across a situation where someone I know has been told that they are indisputably unattractive. In this PC world, I guess its just not done. Yet, it was, leaving me in a tricky 'reaction' dilemma. It would probably be unsurprising if I took offence at her words. Wouldn't it be hypocritical of me to do so, since she was only confirming something I already knew ? Conundrum, conundrum.

The second case is that of cynicism. I guess the easiest concept to be cynical about is love. Right now isn't the time to get into the nitty-gritties of it and besides, I'm confident that you lot understand the whole deal. To cut to the chase, I found our that two friends from my Pune Univ. days are getting engaged. Since friends of mine are getting hitched left, right and centre, its not front-page news. What distinguishes this one is the background. In college, the dude in question very publicly serenaded another girl and they were, to use that peculiar expression, 'an item'. The dudette in question had a soft spot for the guy which she let him know.

As it so often happens, 'the item' didn't work out. We all graduated and went our separate ways. Flash-forward 4 years and I found out, to my immense delight, that dudette and dude are the two getting engaged. Honestly, I wouldn't have given the longest of odds on the two of them getting together. In my universe, their engagement is a miracle.

But I'm cynical & don't believe in miracles. So, how do I explain what happened ? I can't.

Do I want to be able to rationalise it ?

Song for the moment: My baby shot me down - Nancy Sinatra

Six degrees of inner turbulence

2010-05-14T14:02:00.000+05:30

Now that I've settled into my new job and tasted the pickled Mumbai life, assorted well-wishers, noticing my solo social status, have started asking the sensitive question. Right, you guessed correctly.

"When do you plan to go back to the U.S to study ?"

Correct me if I'm wrong, but is it becoming acceptable nay expectable to spend one's life collecting assorted degrees and doctorates ? To avoid generalising, lets just say I have no interest in studying any more. Not even that shady 6-month, correspondence course guaranteeing U.S, U.K, Aus / NZ visa office paperwork filling success. My lack of enthusiasm to once again stroll languidly under the eaves of academe is largely because of my loathing for exams, which has firm roots in history.

Being a South Indian Tamil kid comes with a special burden - your parents hold their breath, waiting for the day you exhibit Ramanujan-like math ability. No other subject holds as much importance and pride of place as arithmetic. If, by some hideous turn of chance, you happen to score great marks in Junior Kg. you are doomed for life. The successful negotiation of 1+1, 2+3 etc. means the die has been cast. Your school reports have to glow with their own inner light. The school authorities must seriously consider putting up a bronze statue of you. Your swagger in the school corridors must be accompanied by a rousing rock music score. No one gives two hoots that staying indoors all the time has given you an anaemic look and a very slow bone growth pattern. "Games? Entertainment? Fun? Play chess. You should be able to beat xyz (neighbouring kid) soon". True story.

What you don't know as you innocently announce your 10 / 10 in math (Jr. kg, 2nd term) is that your IIT life is already being planned in great detail. If not engineering, the family savings are being hoarded for that seat in Vellore Medical College. Not managing either, you could find yourself mysteriously missing from family photo albums (But I'm sure I was in Kanyakumari with you!) and relegated to a dark corner of the hall behind the coffee drum, at family functions. To make matters worse, your relatives are either top rankers or have IIT degrees. This is where yours truly is a bit of a spectacular evolutionary hiccup.

From Senior Kg. onward, I can clearly remember having a nauseating dread of the math exams. It was the one paper where I was sternly told to do well, make sure I ticked all attempted questions AND wrote the answer next to the question, so that it could be dissected at home. I did okay as long as I was at Abu Dhabi Indian School for 4 years. After that, the wheels came off the bus. Moving to Dubai and almost immediately to India, I was a little unnerved. I had enough headaches learning Arabic, Marathi and Hindi, so math suffered. Invariably, I'd have got something wrong and/or completely skipped the question. The Gestapo could probably take notes on the interrogation that followed, I tell you.

To compound the folks' chagrin, I could rattle off pages of information on English and History without breaking a sweat. To this day, I wonder where I'd be if things had gone my way and I'd been allowed to pursue archaeology. When I suggested this out loud at the time, I heard some very hollow laughs, followed by the inevitable "Have you considered Environmental Science? It's the next big thing".

It was only when I began to flunk Chemistry, Physics and Math in the 12th std. (yes, I was 'advised' to take science after 10th. In true, gentle, Michael Corleone style.) and did so with a resignation that unnerved even my parents, that the writing on the wall became clear. Not even the glorious Tam-Bram heritage could provide succour.

Of course, they got their revenge by ensuring that I completed 2 Masters degrees. And not in English or History either. In return, my math skills have regressed to a point where I am confident only about the basic stuff. I mean BODMAS level expertise. If you've followed this blog or read the archives, you'll know that my U.S sojourn wasn't all fun and games. So, yes. When someone asks me when I'm going to try for the Ph.D, I stay diplomatic. Silent. Like Bruce Banner.

Song for the moment: Peacetime Resistance - Kings of Convenience

The memory remains

2010-05-02T21:52:00.001+05:30

The 8th of May 2008 was my first day at the UNODC office in Cambodia. As I was very new to the city of Phnom Penh, my fellow intern (J) kindly offered to show me around the city at lunchtime. He was an American of South Korean extraction, straddling both cultures admirably. We were walking along St. 57, being steadily broiled in the heat and humidity when the faintest waft of a very familiar smell made me pause. I turned to J and said "Its going to rain today."

He looked at the sky, which was a clear blue and sceptically asked me how I knew that. I said I could smell it. He thought I was making it up, hoped I was not crazy and laughed my words off heartily. In his shoes, I don't blame him. When a guy you've only just met suddenly makes cryptic remarks about the weather, he was bound to wonder if I was a few slices short of a loaf. I remember that scene very acutely because I could not get him to understand a sensation we take for granted in India. The smell of wet earth on the wind, foretelling the rain.

I've written more than one rain-related post on this blog. I make no excuses because I know that Indians cut across language, religion and skin tone when they embrace the coming of the monsoon. That comforting smell in the air is in our blood & in our memory. Oddly enough, after 2006, I have not taken in that heady bouquet in Pune. In 2007 I was in the U.S and the rain has no special smell there. In 2008 I was in Cambodia and after that feather-light first breath, I did not come across it again. Last year, I remember it was a Thursday afternoon and I was on my way home to Pune, the start of 4 day weekend. At 4:30 pm when I got off the bus, the coolness in the air hit me and I knew I'd missed the first shower.

Today afternoon, after 4 years, the old familiar tang of Pune rain was at the window. I went to the balcony of what was once my room, rested chin on palms and took it all in. It was a panorama I have seen countless times without becoming bored. The pink of the building walls are now deeper, small pools of water have collected in the scars of the road and the trees have bowed their heads in supplication. The building opposite mine has been a mute witness to this ritual for many years. Today, I thought about how many of the windows in that building had become dark and unfamiliar over 18 long monsoons.

And suddenly, for no discernible reason, I was in the throes of an emotional maelstrom; melancholy, nostalgia, uncertainty, sadness, fear.

I came back to my computer, found a cup of tea steaming gently and a plate of ginger biscuits waiting, my familiar comforts. I sipped on some of the brew, nibbled on the rough spice of the biscuit and...

And wrote this.

Song for the moment: Let it rain - Eric Clapton

Ripple

2010-05-02T09:00:00.001+05:30

A couple of weeks ago, I almost had an out-of-body experience. Before you go "Eh? Fool, you either have one or not..." let me explain.

The matriarch of the family, my long-suffering grandma was conversing with her oldest (and favourite) grandson. They spoke about this & that, covering everything from the impending wedding of X's second cousin's third child's wedding (a typical South Indian conversation) to the correct way of making Avial. Trust me, that dish is a lot harder than it looks on paper.

As grandmas with long years of conversational nuance experience are wont to do, she casually slipped in this little gem (it's translated into English from Tamil, so you may not appreciate the essence):

Grandma: So, I was talking to Periamma (her older sister in Madras) the other day. She was telling me about a girl she knew there & wanted to know 'when' Girish is getting married and all that.

Me: Uhuh. Okay, that's interesting. I see. Hmm...

Grandma: *meaningful look*

Me: (Mental wheels protestingly creak into action and the full enormous implication of what was just said finally hits. Also, the out-of-body thing)

Me: What ?! Now, wait just a god-damn minute here.

See, in a very cunning fashion, age has crept up on me and struck the 'matrimonial best-before age' gong. It took me so long to understand what my dear granny was talking about because I have always associated these conversations with my older relatives. You know... uncles, cousins, other assorted over-horny and idiotic skeletons in the family cupboard etcetera. What I remember (with growing uneasiness) was the sense of finality in the air when these things were discussed.

Heaven knows how, but 'Girish and his future plans' has become a hot topic in the family. Uncomfortably so. Assorted aunts are grinningly asking if they should set me up with someone they know. Friends' mothers increasingly seem to know a girl they absolutely think I should meet. More than one person has asked me if I am seeing someone special. I give this latter group a carefree laugh & wave them away.

And go home and sob into my pillow.

Seriously though, things are getting a little scary and eventually I suppose the issue will have to be faced head-on. Or I will have to meet a nice, non-psychotic girl who'll like me for who I am. Thanks to my charm and plethora of luck, that has about as much chance of happening as Lehmann Brothers making a comeback.

I wonder if this is how those gladiator blokes felt like in the Colosseum.

Song for the moment: Tom's Diner - Suzanne Vega

I'll be alright without you

2010-05-01T11:08:00.005+05:30

A great book series is like a coin; there are 2 distinct emotional sides to finishing it.

On one hand, you have that extremely satisfied feeling at the end - a mental burp as it were. On the other hand, there's a mild sense of loss, knowing that the pages, plots & permutations (awesome alliteration!!) are no longer new. The feeling is similar to knowing what your birthday gift is before you unwrap it.

And yet, a gift is always welcome. Having finished the Millennium trilogy yesterday, there's quite a churning in the emotional barrel. The books are very well written & for that, I'm a little sad that there are no more in the series. But reading these books has fanned the dying embers of my book-reading patterns. I know with certainty that I'll be reading a lot more.

In my world, there's no loss in that development.

Song for the moment: The night is still young - Billy Joel

As I am

2010-04-08T16:58:00.006+05:30

Can you recall the last time you read a book cover-to-cover ?

I don't know about you, but I've always felt guilty that my book-reading rate is no longer as high as it was in the past. From a guy who could read 4 books a week, I've become someone who struggles to read even one. Being employed doesn't help matters.

Between 9 hour work days, making dinner, a laughable gym record & an accusingly dusty saxophone case, books had lost out. I'd wondered if I'd become the guy who preferred the internet and even the most inane movie on t.v versus taking the effort to follow plot-lines, remember characters & test the logic of a story. The supposed bibliophile in me was cringing.

Steig Larsson's Millennium Trilogy is going to change that. I'm reading the first part - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Riveting.

I cannot remember the last time I've looked forward to going home, just to read.

Song for the moment: Surprise Ice - Kings of Convenience

P.S: The song is lovely too.

Just let me breathe

2010-03-29T18:42:00.004+05:30

Perhaps this is a mixture of sleepiness (I caught the 6 am bus again) & tiredness talking, but I have a sudden longing to visit a musty museum.

You're probably thinking "Whaaaaa ??"

I can't explain why myself. I can actually see the kind of place I want to visit, in my mind's eye. It is an inherently dark place, lit by yellow bulbs throwing the same light as those old ones on local trains in Mumbai. The showcases are all wood with a faintly gleaming cherry hue. It is neither cool nor hot in the museum. Just very quiet. I'm the only one there, although I imagine the curator is pottering around somewhere. The room I'd ideally like to be in is the one covering Ancient Egypt. I want to slowly read through the interesting stories and take in every detail of the impassive royal faces, losing myself in the moment. Letting history wash over me.

Once again, without explanations, this yearning is replaced by a memory. I'm in school and the exams are on. Back when the room used to be mine (I'm a resident guest in my house now, so I have a home but no room) there used to be a well-stocked bookshelf in it. I can see the books, some worn out and others stacked in an order only I could make sense of. Because I have to study for exams, the books have taken on an added allure. You know this feeling no, reader?. I lock the door quietly, take out a random Famous Five book and start reading. I know that I'm too old to appreciate the plots any more but am being driven by some strange mixture of loss and need to vicariously live the lives of the characters. I go from Blyton to Hardy Boys to Tintin to every Amar Chitra Katha book I can find. 4 hours later, I arrange the books back quietly and saunter into the living room, tired by my continuous 'study'. Reading books on the sly happened to me right till I went to college. After that...

I don't miss childhood. I miss the child I was. Know what I mean ?

Song for the moment: Cloudy - Simon & Garfunkel

(Okay, so this is a self-indulgent post. I need a vacation.)

Nobody's Home

2010-03-21T12:15:00.003+05:30

I have a text message sent to my cellphone on the 5th of March 2009, 8:42 pm. It says 'Beer'.

To me, this terse SMS encapsulates what it was like to have lived in Mumbai in the year 2009. By reading it, I knew when & where to be. Toto's in Bandra at about 9:15 pm, in case you were wondering.

I'd head out of my house, reach the now-familiar corner of Pali Hill, make my way into a pub literally vibrating to rock music, look around and spot 2 gents in formal work attire either slouched at the bar or standing in an unobtrusive corner. Wherever they stood, they'd be holding mugs of beer. I'd make my way over to them and we'd grin collectively. Nothing would be said. I'd signal for an empty mug and be handed one. Nothing would be said. I'd pour myself a glass of beer with a sliver of foam at the top. 3 mugs would clink, sips would be taken, the first cold, bitter spark would ignite at the back of the throat, we'd sigh...

"So, what's happening?"

D, G & A

Over the year, we'd take part in this ritual countless number of times, in a handful of tested, trusted and well-shuffled pubs. Usually, it'd be on a Thursday, to help break the flow of a relentless week. The order of the gents arriving would vary, depending on who got stuck at Mahim Causeway or at Saki Naka. But we'd get there. The pub sessions, as I'd come to view them. There never was any frantic drinking. A couple of pitchers, a plate of fried mushrooms, a plate of chicken, all of it accompanied by music. And talk and laughter. Old favourite topics came up consistently, but never tinged by jadedness.

I'd come to Pune on the weekends, twice a month. The other 2 would go on short and long holidays, have deadlines to meet or be exhausted by the demands of work. But, more often than not, come the Thursday, a text would go out around 5 pm - "What's the plan?".

Around 8:30 pm...

If, at this point, you're wondering - "What the heck is he going on about ? I have friends like these", then let me spell it out for you. You are lucky. Appreciate moments like these. And take more pictures, because heaven knows, I wish I had.

By the 5th of March 2010, there were only 2 people meeting up, the third having shifted out of Mumbai.

By the 21st of March 2010, there's just me.

Call me a nostalgic fool. Tell me I'm overreacting. Try as I might, I can't shake off the feeling that the Mumbai of 22nd March 2010 will be strangely new to me.

Song for the moment: Perfect Strangers - Deep Purple

Cold, dark room

2010-03-16T21:29:00.003+05:30

One of the most valued experiences in a man's life is sitting down with a few other guys over a mug of beer & shooting the breeze. Its a chance for us to step out of a carefully contrived public persona (if there is one), discuss events & sports, be witty without the hazard of blank looks & just stare into our mugs, silently singing along to our favourite songs or appreciate the comfortable pause. We get to give the stoicism a rest & really talk.

These are not Marlboro cigarette advertisement moments. These are 'in the eye of the hurricane' moments. We are the kind of guys who were born with a serious air & a large sign on our behinds asking fate to kindly oblige. We will laugh at emails about why guys with names like ours will never get any & empathise with the ones wondering why we're stuck in 'best friend' mode all the time. Its so very natural for us to empathise.

Do you know how hard it is to find the right people to shoot the breeze with ? I'm not talking about the friends you made in school. You can safely skip the large majority of those you knew in college. I'm talking about adults who think a certain way. Guys who've reached a certain mental level. These people may not even be your best friends. But, they're the ones who only require a call, a time, a place & they're there.

We'll meet, order a round, sigh as the first cold sip hits the spot, grin, nod to the music, talk, let the angst flow, laugh...

It seems so simple, no ? Remember whose favourite whipping boys we are ?

I guess it was like having too much of a good thing. Pretty soon, that instinctive phone call will not be enough.

Song for the moment: Let the good times roll - B.B King

We do it like this

2010-03-06T20:00:00.001+05:30

It was perhaps a sign of our times or a gentle reminder that life isn't anything like the movies. To the strains of a moving background score, I should have been framed in the bus window forlornly staring at the turn for Bandra as we crossed Sion subway on Tuesday morning. A selection of memory-images from my previous workplace should have flashed before my eyes, followed by a sigh & an apprehensive look to the heavens.

None of that happened because I was fast asleep. Getting up early (anything prior to 8 am is early) and catching the 6 am bus to Bombay has its price, you see. So, when the literal & figurative fork in the road between my old and new job showed up, I was snoozing. I did feel slightly melancholic later but like many times before, it was because I was bidding goodbye to the familiar. Also drowsy. The depth of feeling on Tuesday was akin to a wisp of cloud passing over the sun.

On Thursday morning, the enormity of the change caught up with me. I was performing a delicate set of callisthenics to ensure that my feet did not step into a basket of fresh coriander and that my face did not get anywhere near the chap next to me. See, when you are in a train, you're supposed to hang on to the hand-hold. This requires you to raise your arm. The common Mumbai man is obviously not buying into the earnest marketing gimmicks of those Axe deodorant fellows. And is also not a big believer in the morning bath, soap, talcum powder and anything else that could interfere with the pungency of his body odour. Contrast this scene to my old work travel pattern where I'd get into a bus confident that a seat had my name on it, read a book & calmly be transported to work. To say that my equanimity had taken a severe beating by Thursday was putting it mildly.

As the poet once said, things have changed. For the past week, I have steeled myself before hurtling into the poor man in front of me at the platform as the train halts. I have then had numerous gents step on my shoes, ankles and whathaveyou and held my breath for epic lengths to avoid inhaling what passes for air in those bogies. Then I've hurtled into the man in front of me to get out of the train at my stop. Repeat process in the evening.

Here, let me clarify once and for all that there is no such thing as a reverse direction-lack of crowd on train effect. There may have been one on the first day the trains operated in Mumbai, but no more. No, I say. Nothing of the sort. I invite you to try getting on the train at Santacruz for the 9:15 slow to Borivali. Thanks to a delightful quirk in the schedules, a slow arrives at Santacruz at 9.10. The next one arrives at 9.25, allowing for a 15 minute build-up on the platform. To see brave souls from a crowd 5-people deep hurl themselves at the train when it eventually does arrive suggests that the Red & White Gallantry awards people should come to Mumbai during rush hour every now and then.

As for me, I am getting myself a 1st-class pass on Monday. It is completely worth the considerable outlay and besides, deodorant is heard of in those bogies, or so I've been told. Heaven knows, I wouldn't want my shoes reeking of coriander either.

Song for the moment: Baba O'Riley - The Who

There's a kind of hush

2010-02-26T11:30:00.006+05:30

Two things happened today that brought an involuntary wistful smile to my face. One, whilst leaving for work this morning, I realised my trousers & shirt were the exact same ones I'd been wearing on my first day of work (of course they've been washed after that day). Two, as part of my handover, when going through the numerous folders and documents that have accumulated over the year, I chanced upon the very first piece of work I'd been assigned.

It has been just over a year since I started working at this organisation and today is my last day. It was a good first job; not very demanding and convenient in many ways but in the long run, not the most ideal of workplaces. Every employee among you must have collated a list of negatives about your respective office & I am no different. However, I will not be airing the dirty laundry in public except to say that I have learned a fair amount over the last 13 months, though sadly none of it had anything pertaining to my work. Instead, I've got a very good idea of work-culture in India. This was my first proper employment gig and I was laughably naive about office life and group dynamics. Not any more.

I want to say I feel sad or nostalgic about leaving but it would be a lie. The truth is I was tired of working here. Having never worked in a large corporate office, I'm no expert on office politics there. But its also pretty rough working in an office with a small staff and even an even smaller team. Its especially tricky when other people in the team are long established. I realised very gradually that these people may loathe each other and not respect any contribution except their own but are forced into an ambiguously-twisted symbiotic relationship to keep their jobs. Don't even get me started on the sycophancy permeating the team. Suffice to say, I want to salute the tenacity with which things seem to get done in an atmosphere more suited to a shabby murder-mystery. You know... whispered conversations, endless gossip, pointed looks and childish attempts to introduce difficulties into the simplest of processes.

I am going to miss a few people though. They all seem to be the ones with a sense of humour I can relate to and who know how to mind their own business. In their own way, they made the hours tolerable and I am thankful.

Knowing what I know now, I did not forewarn the new employee who's coming in to replace me today. Like mine, this is her first job & she has a right to choose to learn the lessons I did.

Today, the clock will tick calmly towards closing time & I will take a final glance at my desk with the piles of papers & other stationery that prove I existed here professionally till now. Lying around for a better part of the year in that naturally higgledy-piggledy way, they will now be stacked neatly. Too neatly... hinting gently that at least one person won't be back here on Monday morning.

Over the year, on many a frustrating day or stiflingly slow afternoons I have written blog posts sitting at this computer. This is my last post from here & the only thing left to say is "Bonne Chance".

Song for the moment: Long nights - Eddie Vedder

Update: So, I felt a little bad after all.

Running back for more

2010-02-16T20:59:00.005+05:30

Following the match yesterday on Cricinfo, I got the feeling I was watching a baton being passed. VS and ST were phlegmatically taking apart the South African bowling & even as they went about their business, the cricket fan's emotional wagon wheel came full circle for me.

Sachin's batting has reached a level of sublime where one is left with no words, just sighing admiration. There was a time when his batting was described with adjectives like brutal, explosive and the spectrum of others basically implying destructive force. For the fan, there was Sachin's successful innings or there was the t.v off, ennui and much wringing of hands. Of course, this was largely in the LOI's. Test match cricket was a different world in the early 90's. Sidhu was a decent enough opener but his partner was usually whoever drew the short straw on the morning of Day 1. Then there was Manjrekar, who had very nice technique but this funny notion that he was batting at nets all the time. Even the ball despaired on reaching his bat for he would stifle it into travelling about 2 inches. If he was having a bad day. On a good day, the ball would turn back in mid-air and everyone pretended they loved the game. Azhar, Jadeja, Mongia and Prabhakar, when not attending interesting calls on the telephone, might just make a match of it. Certainly Azhar, he of the magical & mysterious wristy technique, remains the biggest tragedy of the match-fixing hoopla. And then there was Sachin, who may have played with more freedom, if the rest of the batsman could be depended on. Guffaw.

So, he reserved the majority of his savagery for the LOIs. Never mind Australia at Sharjah. Everyone and his uncle knows that he gave the bowlers diarrhoea. Never mind his overall awesomeness either. No, the match that always makes me smile is the one against Zimbabwe. Remember that chap, Olonga ? Remember him getting ST out in one game ? Remember his stats in the next game ? 4 overs for 41 runs. It was molestation. Sachin still does give bowlers a fright every now and then, but he's reached a level where the surgery is under anaesthesia. He is now clinical. And how.

There was a point when the heart would physically hurt when ST got out. Watching the match yesterday, I realised that, while there will always be a wince-inducing twinge (for which cricket lover can be a child of the 80's - 90's & claim immunity) when that happens, the punch-in-the-gut feeling effect has been taken over by Sehwag. And let me tell you, fan of today, you are god-damn lucky he's there to make you claim you love test cricket. Because that man is a test-batting juggernaut who seems to be getting to a point where only he can get himself out. Pertinently, in many a fan's mind, he owns the adjectives describing destruction now.

But here's the thing. VS (no taking any credit from him whatsoever) can make the bowlers cry for their mummies, safe in the knowledge that Dravid, Sachin & Laxman (and Ganguly) are waiting their turn at bat. Read that line again. Let the weight of those 3 names sink in. And then tell me VS worries about getting out.

Today we have the luxury of Sehwag & Gambhir (probably the best opening pair in Cricket) at the start of the innings. They in turn have the luxury of RD, SRT & VVS to follow. There's a point in that somewhere, but it's implied.

On more than one occasion, I have blogged about our fortune in being of an age when the mind is still in top form & experiencing the keen pleasure of revelling in the names of our top 6 batsmen. I know that the likes of Sachin & his genius, Dravid & Laxman, their exquisite technique, temperament, good nature and discipline will never grace Indian cricket again. The changing trends of the game will finish off the purity of technique and the poetry of the arcing blade meeting ball, caressed to perfection. I'd like to think Sehwag knows this too as he plays with the joy and fury that we have come to know so well.

Song for the moment: Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits

After forever

2010-02-13T22:54:00.004+05:30

The end of innocence.

No matter how close to home previous attacks have been, Pune has never actually suffered one. No, it has always watched nervously while Bombay bore the brunt of those Mofos' ideology and perhaps let out a very very quiet sigh of relief that it had escaped another one.

After Bangalore, Delhi and Ahmedabad, how many Puneites shook their heads at the telly, massaged tired eyes with their fingertips and stared of into the distance for a while. Wondering.

Not any more. The first line of this post is actually untrue. We haven't been innocent in a long time. And I suppose I can say there's always been that thought buried deep - how long before ?

Well, we're now officially in the club. Puneites can now join the previous victims and live a life tainted with apprehension. A quietly whispered prayer when a loved one goes out. A moment when the heart beats a frantic tattoo as we walk into one of the many crowded places in the city.

Walking out of our houses, feet crossing the threshold, without having to ever consider the possibility that we may not come back. Yea, that's gone for good.

Tomorrow's dawn will see a new Pune; one stained by doubts, fears and that gnawing, nameless, helpless despair other Indians have come to know so well. At least, I know I will feel all of these.

What an age we live in.

Song for the moment: The Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

Carnival of rust

2010-02-10T11:13:00.004+05:30

Q. How do people at work react to your resignation ?

A. Scenario 1 - You are treated to a display of facial contortions ostensibly expressing regret, a few "tch tch" noises and terse congratulatory statements.

Scenario 2 - All colleagues gather in the downstairs lobby for an impromptu yet impressively coordinated Rumba session and a few of them are seen glancing wistfully at the heavens. Or at the damp spot on the ceiling.

In any case, there is a period of time (a few days) when you are made to feel like the version of Moses who, halfway to crossing the Red Sea on foot, realised that it was all a mistake and hailed the nearest boat.

Then the fun begins.

From the activity status of that Vastu bamboo shoot thing, you are catapulted to the role of hand-wash soap. Everybody who is anybody will devise ingenious ways to use you to get writing work done. You can't protest since the relieving letter, experience certificate & recommendation letters aren't in your hands yet. Since you and irony are such close friends, you are mentally prepared to be asked to write the letters you need at the end of the month.

In all this, 3 things keep you going.

No more ISO.
No more Badnera Junction, Amravati.
You found a free online scrabble website.

Song for the moment: Snow - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Year of tha boomerang

2010-01-27T15:15:00.005+05:30

I've heard it said that one should appreciate the small comforts of life & not worry about the big stuff. The antithesis of this of course is being lulled or softened by the small comforts, not realising that some amount of wrenching could make life a little better, albeit after some sacrifices.

The regular reader is surely in no doubt about my abject view of the current workplace. It is an indolent existence; I get decent internet, the colleagues are blasé, the tasks are far & few and I very rarely have to stay back after 6 pm. If this sounds too good to be true, it isn't. If it also sounds like a retirement home labour racket or life at Blandings without the humour, then yes, perhaps that comes closest to the general state of affairs.

In less than a week it will have been 1 year since I came to Bombay, eager to start anew in the Maximum city, wondering whether I'd be able to handle the hurly-burly speed of life and having nightmares about finding myself in Dombivili station when I really wanted to get to Churchgate. I have worked before, often in shady conditions, but this was my first job (even if the pay was bare minimum) and I was excited. However, there was one little thing.

Citizens of Bombay will tell you that the biggest question after rent considerations is the length & variety of the commute to work. By variety, I mean the very real possibility of having to take a rickshaw to the bus station, taking a bus to the train station, taking a train to whichever station was closest to work & then taking either a bus, rickshaw or taxi to the actual workplace. True story. Of course, I haven't even touched upon the topic of forcing yourself on & off a train, standing on the foot-board of a jam-packed bus, the traffic jams or staggering around wearily while the heat & humidity left you less human & more an old sponge.

I got lucky, in that I walk to the train station, cross over to the east, take one bus to work & another back, with a minimum of fuss. Keeping in mind the nonchalant office atmosphere & the rather easy commute, I assume some of you may just be a shade jealous of my professional life. So, I go back to the idea espoused in para 1; the small comforts & the eventual acceptance of the routine can very easily lull you into a stupor, waking up from which gets harder as time passes.

I resigned today. Yes, I have another offer in hand & all that. A fork in the road was reached, I have chosen & for once, it is not the road less travelled. There's a Seinfeld joke about the road, but that's another story. The small comforts have sadly reached their Battle of Plassey & it was with a twinge of something that I submitted the letter. I do not know if it was the pang of sadness or that of regret. Maybe acidity. All the same, the man who was excited & apprehensive about a new job, a new life in a new city, is now excited & apprehensive about a new job. Life goes on & Bombay, while no longer so new, is indifferent to the fate of its people.

A birthday boy told me about this song & it seems apt.

Song for the moment: Grounds for Divorce - Elbow

Remember the words

2010-01-11T14:24:00.004+05:30

The year was 1998. We were one of the first houses to have the internet in all its 14.4 kbps (but actually approximately the sq. root of 2 kbps), dial-up modem glory. Of course, it's one thing to have the internet & completely another to actually be allowed to use it. See, the pater was (and still is in many ways) what could be described diplomatically as conservative. Heaven knows what cerebral Armageddon had taken place to even allow for the idea of the net, never mind him actually getting it, but that isn't pertinent to this story. What is, was his stone-cold conviction that the internet was evil, dangerous and would quite likely flummox vital State secrets right out of the heads of his gullible brood. So yes, malignant tools like chatting on the net & email did not stand a chance. Even 2 years later, when he'd thawed a bit, using ICQ was frowned upon & I spent many an evening chatting in an atmosphere more suited to a spy thriller.

However, something inexplicable happened in '98 that no one had factored for; I had my first almost-crush. You know... the one where you get a funny feeling in your tummy when you see a certain girl & only later realise that the funniness was a precursor to the mother of all stomach aches & subsequent bed-rest. To cut a long story short, the circumstances dictated that I move out of the Middle Ages of technology & get an email address. For totally business-related correspondence, mind. The only two major players in the free email racket at the time were Yahoo & Hotmail. I picked the latter.

People today probably won't get this, but it was thrilling to have an email address back then. For one, I only got to sign into the account once a day, if I was lucky. No one replied within hours either. It took time, days even, to reply to someone because penmanship had not died out yet. The email was wonderful because not only was it letter-writing at it's speediest but it boosted your tech-credibility. All these wonderful facets of the email, Hotmail killed off nonchalantly. It offered about 3 - 5 mb of mail space & would wipe out everything if the account had not been visited every 30 days. I'd lost quite a few valuable emails thanks to such foolishness and opened a Yahoo account. But I kept the Hotmail account. Some friends would send mails there. A few relatives were encouraged to use only that address. It was handy when I needed an almost-faux address for registrations. A few years went by, the pater gave up on his muttered portents & the passable email experience continued.

Then, this happened. Invitation only, at first and whatnot but it gave the others a swift kick in the unmentionables, leaving the competitors so far behind that, well...

To counter it, Hotmail made changes and supposed improvements all of which served to 'eff it up further. Half the drafts wouldn't save. Mails, inadvertently, would not be sent. And it attracts junk mail like no one else. And just like that, to me, it became obsolete.

Today, I went through the process of closing my Hotmail account. Even as I waited for the abysmally slow Microsoft server to do it's duty, memories came tumbling by... the first email I sent out, that first reply from her, the ones which told me clearly that my love life was going nowhere, mails from friends on their first days in college & ones exchanged when we were all miserable in different parts of the world & needed empathy. All of those recollections, milestones on the highway of my life, have been saved elsewhere.

But that first email address is gone.

And just like it, so is some part of my youth.

Song for the moment: Song for the asking - Simon & Garfunkel

P.S: Or rather, will be gone... in 9 months!! Microsoft now keeps your account open for 270 days, would you believe.

With god on our side

2010-01-06T12:38:00.005+05:30

Cricket is not the subject of this post, but I have to get in my 2 rupees' worth.

When the Green gang play test cricket, it's heart-stopping, thrill a minute stuff. For all the wrong reasons. Whatever else is tooted down under today, I think 'stunning' is too much of a superlative for the result. Sure, the Yellow-bellies bowled extremely well. Hussey's timely century gave them a shot at this win. Actually, nix that. Kamran Akmal's awesome attempts at what he thinks constitutes wicket-keeping, gave the Aussies a shot at this win. The only person remotely stunned might be the Pakistan coach (whoever he may be) at the sheer WTFness of the batting. At the end of the day though, I suspect everyone and his aunty knew that the Pakistanis would collapse. Like I said before, if their captain had the option of batting alone, he'd have taken it. My only amusing though this morning was that I did not fancy supporting either bunch playing & hoped that a draw might happen.

Moving on to the real deal, I (and probably most of you) read an interesting article instructing men on how to argue effectively with their other halves. All awesome & whatnot, but a few days late as far as I'm concerned. Entrenched as I am in this enervating excuse for employment, I have blogged before about the Walrus. Since I supposedly work in a team, there are others who show up daily to drink tea & surf through Gmail, Orkut & Facebook as well. Remarkably (and it is remarkable, if you know anything of my disposition), I'd managed to get along with the rest of them quite well for almost a year now. Yes, I was impressed as well but this amazing feat was achieved by minding my own business for most of the time.

I 'had' managed. The peace or rather, tolerance, has been consigned to the past. Step up, Colleague no. 1 who frequently voices the opinion that people from most parts of India are crazy. Except Maharashtrians of course, who, going by how she thinks, are a cultural group too noble for this earth, never mind India. Coming as I do from mixed cultural backgrounds, (I am proudly Puneri & love my filter coffee, dosa, thalipeeth & solkadhi) my tactic was to smile wanly, nod & get back to my dawdling. Last Friday however, C 1 said something so awesome, I lost my temper. An event that would make Mt. Vesuvius' number on Pompeii look like a case of mild flatulence gone wrong. To quote C 1 - "Oh! those south indians are crazy... so many of them go abroad & become nri's. Why don't they all just move out of the country ?" Heaven knows why that irked me, but it did. I even said I did not want to discuss the issue but she just wouldn't quit. The end result is a certain coldness in the interaction accompanied by a distinct lack of small talk.

Colleague no. 2, a busybody if there ever was one, yesterday says "Migraines are just a mental block people have." On asking her who told her this, she said her sources include books on spirituality & psychology. I have a degree in psychology. I have migraines. She does not suffer from either, by the way. The fanatic gleam in the eye subtitling the above statement along with a "I am right & you must agree" attitude put the lid on it. I can't stand proselytisers. More cold interaction etcetera.

Yes, I know I need to move jobs. Or planets.

The above are just examples of what I've seen & heard for quite a while now. I don't understand these people, especially since they all seem to start out so normally. Time & again, I've experienced the "Oh! so, you are not actually Maharashtrian?" remark. I was born in Bombay, have lived 18 years in Pune & can speak Marathi. What does that make me ? Tamil of course. The dudes down south don't quite know what to make of someone who isn't obsessed with Rajnikanth movies & obese actresses. What this does do (especially if you have ever lived abroad or attended a foreign university) is effectively keep you at arms length from everyone but the library.

(Not all Maharashtrians & South Indians are like this, I must point out. I'm just saying I don't want to have to interact with those who are. And the arms-length feeling is something quite a few people from Maharashtra who speak Tamil seem to be familiar with. I've checked.)

So, yea... I may have to learn how to argue with my colleagues. On the other hand, do I give a crap what they think ? Meh.

Song for the moment: No need to argue - The Cranberries

All or none

2010-01-04T16:58:00.004+05:30

The discerning reader may have noticed that I'm not much for trumpeting about sport on this blog. Yes, every now and then, a post on my enduring love of test cricket will sneak through. Going-ons at Manchester United will rouse me into thrashing out an indignant paragraph. The retirement of sportsmen I thoroughly admire (and they are far & few) will elicit a nostalgic post doused in thanksgiving. But, I can never get myself to slip over the edge of fanaticism.

As this post is typing itself, Pakistan, after having wrestled Australia to the mat by the force of Darth Asif, promptly tripped over their own feet & now lie sprawled on the metaphorical pitch themselves. Mohd. Yousuf, their short-suffering captain (no one is captain long enough to be long-suffering in that country) may just decide to bat alone for the rest of the series, since the rest of that lot don't feel inclined to hang around. They probably think grafting is something to do with tree-cutting or making money on the sly. Speaking of sly money-making, match-fixing, anyone ?

The SA-England game in Durban is see-sawing in a way that no doubt sends the neutral viewer into raptures while leaving the not-so-neutral chappies wondering what in heaven's name is going on. I can sympathise with Onions though. The guy does his job, ends the SA innings and strolls off into the gazebo looking forward to a nice break & 20 minutes later, must seriously face the prospect of having to pad up. And he's the number 11, mind.

The Bangladesh innings looks like it'll get to 50 overs. Enough said.

To top it all off, Manchester United suffered their worst FA Cup upset in 26 years. Now, I'm a Man U fan i.e. loathe Liverpool & have no respect for Chelsea's 2 $ titles, but the funny thing is, I actually liked that they lost.

See, sport at it's finest allows the competitors an equal chance to win. Leaving aside the tomfoolery of umpires & referees, cheating, sledging (what's the difference eh ?) and the UDRS, it is as exciting a bloodless battle as you will ever see. Of course, if you have supported the eventual loser & suffer the keen sorrow of their defeat, I understand. But here's the thing; the phenomenon is in the end, after the reduction to it's bare necessities, a Game. And that means, on any given day, playing to the best of it's abilities, egged on by thunderous roaring, under sunshine or floodlight, a no-hoper may just defy the odds.

Or not.

For a fraction of a moment, in your tryingly certain world, the Game proffers uncertainty. Tell me that's not valuable.

Song for the moment: Battle without honour or humanity - Tomayasu Hotei

P.S: I dare you to listen to this song & not associate it with your favourite moment of sporting carnage.

P.P.S: The love of the game is fine & all, but India must win / draw it's Test Matches. I'm only human.

Heart like a wheel

2009-12-30T15:59:00.008+05:30

Q 1: Why have I never written a New Year's eve post before ?

A: I was too busy bringing in the New Year to bother.

I did not mean to do a post on it this year, but it's another slow day at work (shocker!!), the Eng-SA test is over & Google Reader tells me stubbornly that no one is going to write anything today. So, well...

Q 2: How was I going to go about it ?

A: The easy approach would have been to write a short description of 31st Dec 07 & 08 & compare them to 2009. Whoop-de-do & all, but it would have been a futile exercise. Or rather, pointless because I gain nothing from it & you, the kindly suffering reader, would have muttered darkly about unnecessary revisions & heaven forbid, redundancy.

Instead, I went back to the posts I wrote this year for ideas. Now, just to keep you lot from falling asleep, I've conjured a set of visuals to explain the whole deal. I am really bad at art, so if you don't like it or don't appreciate it, jog on.

2009 Graph of Emotions

2009 Career Graph

2009 Social Graph

That sorts everything out rather lucidly, no ?

While I've given my sense of humour a rest this year, the melancholic side of me seems to have gone into hyper-drive. Less posts have been churned out in 2009 as well, but I like to think the quality of writing has picked up a smidgeon. New styles & themes were explored (sadly, only as regards writing... heh) & I'm okay with the results.

A year of shake-ups, of affirmation of ancient fears, a year of hesitation & one of... resignation, perhaps ? 2009 has been a year of existing in that purgatory between being sure & unsure of the world around me.

Ambivalent.

Yes, it has been that kind of year.

Cheers all.

Song for the moment: Aanewala pal - Kishore Kumar

Age of innocence

2009-12-23T15:00:00.002+05:30

Her untidy, muddy-brown tresses, the latest pixie rage, served to compliment the dusky hue of her skin. On anyone else, the turmeric-yellow top would have clashed with the skin; on her it seemed subjugated by some quiet confidence. The red calf-length skirt with plenty of mirror-work swished too & fro, the blue sandals demurely completing the ensemble. She was pretty; her eyes, nose & mouth conspiring to project a picture of childish wonder & amusement. Around her, the crowds swirled & ebbed but she looked steadily at one man.

At first glance, his clothes, shoes & weary demeanour shouted 'casual labourer'. Another look might just suggest something better... a low-pay clerk at a small, dusty office perhaps. The faded blue checked shirt, the grey trousers & scruffy black boots covered him with a familiarity that suggested they had been doing so forever. His hair, slicked back with the help of much oil, was black, yet white had begun to touch the roots. The face was craggy but managed to suggest a kindly pride dulled by tiredness.

The two of them eased their way through the throng even as purple dusk spread her wings across the sky. She held his hand even as he sauntered on, seemingly oblivious of her fingers twirling in his. Together they made their way to a bench that was already occupied by two other men. He sat down without a word. She stood in front of him for a moment, swaying gently on her heels, contemplating. With the grace of an autumn leaf in the wind, she slipped into his lap. It was done so naturally that no one looked. People passing the bench did not even glance at them with that pseudo-voyeuristic delight one sees otherwise. Not a word was said between she & he. They continued to sit & watch & mull over their own worlds.

The young man who had been watching them all this while, continued to watch. He was waiting for something to happen. Surely they would not continue to sit there all night ? He wasn't going to wait around to find out, that was for sure. For now, he waited, his foot tapping to the music on his mp3 player.

It happened.

He heard two whooshing sounds & people began to run. Through the music, he could hear yells & screams. And her voice crying out...

"बाबा बघा ! दोन-दोन ट्रेन आली आहे !" (Dad look! Two trains have arrived!)

The two of them got on the train heading to VT. The watcher got on the train to Andheri.

Bandra station was left behind.

Song for the moment: I want to hold your hand - The Beatles

Paper cuts

2009-12-13T14:56:00.006+05:30

It was the first free-flowing laugh he'd heard in some time. Even without putting a mouth, a face or crinkly eyes to it, he was envious. And instantly amused at his envy. Had things reached such a nadir that he was jealous of a stranger's happiness ?

Shuffling through the quiet, familiar bylane, the suddenness of that rippling sound had startled him. He was contemplating his Osho's with some vexation as they were just 'that' annoying bit too big for his feet. Shoes never seemed to fit him well, a fact consistent with the rest of his clothing. His body gave the impression of having given up on growing as a thankless task, leaving him to struggle along in clothes that were too big or too small & shoes that were too tight or gave the impression of clown feet. The Osho's though admittedly comfortable, were no better & forced him to move like an arthritic tortoise contemplating it's life with dissatisfaction.

As a force of habit or perhaps to avoid the idea of his lurching gait, his mind wandered along a different path, but one he'd been on before; change. He'd attended a wedding the evening before & found it interesting that he could not picture his friends any differently after the ceremony. To him, it seemed like they had moved on from being casual daters to people just more committed to each other. Marriage ceremonies did not signify the occurrence of anything special to him, unlike in childhood. Back then, there was something solemn & urgent in the air, almost like being in the eye of a hurricane & being unaware of it. As a child, he had viewed weddings as grand, social occasions with a singular event - the actual moment of marriage. Now, being an adult, he was aware of a lot of the back-stories; the gossip, the heartache & the bitten lip, the planning, the deliberate steps & decisions people took... even the blossoming love story, if that be the case. The magician's trick had been explained & no longer seemed extraordinary.

He was making his way back from an old haven in Hong Kong lane & change had caressed that corner of the city also. It used to be impossible for him to leave without at least one book in hand. This day, followed by the disinterested eyes of the owner's crony he had found nothing. He had found nothing on his last four visits. As his back turned on the shelves of the 'latest rages' without a farewell glance, he swallowed the bitterness. Magic was gone from here as well, not deconstructed but fading away. Beauty replaced by convenience.

He turned at the corner & saw her. Resting against a concrete post, she was in classic Puneri winter attire; sari, sweater over it & a hanky tied around her head, protecting her ears from the cold. Except that winters in the city were no longer cold. He could hear her saying something as he approached, heard her laugh again & not finding anyone else around, assumed that she had one of those hands-free gizmos. A heartbeat later, he understood. She was mentally ill. Then, he saw where she had chosen to rest.

It had once been part of a gate-post, the start of a wild garden leading to a house with a small central lobby & to shaded rooms with two cane chairs that defined comfort. A house that meant something intangible to a great many people now scattered around India. Walls & spaces that were valued when they stood & were were now priceless when only the mind's eye could see them. Change had taken the house away, but even the last remaining piece could still make someone laugh without paying for it.

Change was not invincible.

But it was merciless.

Song for the moment: Blowin' in the wind - Bob Dylan

P.S: This is not an argument against change, just a slice of the opinion pie.

Slim slow slider

2009-12-09T17:19:00.006+05:30

At work, there is a large window behind & diagonal to where I sit. From my seat, turning slightly to the right I can see the fawn coloured guard tower of the American School of Bombay through this window.

I see the guard in his chair facing away from the setting sun. He is sitting in one of those simple black plastic chairs with stainless steel legs. The chair rests close to the metal pipes that pass for railings & his left arm lies extended on the first pipe.

The guard is gently rocking back & forth in his chair. Again & again. Just to break the rhythm, he tilts sideways. His hands now cradle his neck as he bends forward, allowing his spine to stretch. And he continues to roll gently, now being practically unaware of his own movement.

The view of the world from the tower is insignificant & I should know. I have almost the same view. I feel a strange kinship with this man who sits less than 30 metres from me and does not know I exist.

It takes a moment but I understand why, eventually. I close the drapes & turn away, a luxury he does not have.

Right now, I can sit at a desk typing these words & he can sit on a black plastic chair with an insignificant view.

But we both see only dead-ends.

Song for the moment: The Pretender - Foo Fighters

P.S: Anyone out there know of any openings in Editing / Publishing / Writing with decent pay, in Bombay, let me know.

Cover down, break through

2009-12-07T11:22:00.007+05:30

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live - H.D Thoreau

Twice now, I have heard this quoted; in twilight after a game of cricket in Pune & at a Bandra pub this weekend. To me, the essence of it has become the proverbial pebble in the mental shoe. You do not know how it got there, between the pad of the 1st & 2nd toe. It is discomforting & irritating. You want to take the shoe off, shake it violently & watch with an almost evil glee as the innocuous object flies out into the distance. But you don't. In the recesses of your mind, you wish the pebble would make it's way out just as it made it's way in. Nudging this is the certainty that it will not. More often than not you continue walking, resigning yourself to temporarily suffering it. It is a familiar approach to you anyway. After a while, the discomfort becomes a part of your shoe, your gait.

The following is my attempt to take the shoe off.

I have spent this weekend thinking about the above idea. My initial instinct was to concur. If I had, perhaps this blog would have stayed silent for a long time, maybe forever. Not catastrophic in itself, but it could have led to a domino effect on other areas of my life. However, what it did result in was some serious thought & this post. It is not a refutation, A. This train of thought flagged off as I saw the bike roar off in the distance yesterday afternoon. And wondered why I did not just ride pillion. So bear with me.

I am 27. Or will be in a matter of weeks. My life so far has not been remarkable. It has had it's upheavals. Lots of them. There are precious few instances or occasions that have made me genuinely laugh or be glad that I was there, alive & well. More often than not, I have taken the safe / mundane approach, the result of some interestingly colourful upbringing. Like you, I have obsessed about the nature of life, railed against my existence & what it could and should amount to. Some posts have reflected that. For the longest time, caressing the present even, this state of affairs has pissed me off, sent many a futile rush of 'do something now' adrenalin coursing through me only to dissipate sheepishly.

I like roller-coasters. I like to cross a road in speeding traffic. I like the narrowing field of vision as my bike hits 80 km/h. I like to play the perfect bar on my saxophone. Take that perfect photograph. Where is this going ?

See, what I wanted to say in my previous post, but could not quite pull off is that there are very few moments when I am completely alive, aware, in control, helpless, fey & at peace, all at once. I think my readership will understand what I mean. An easily understandable example was the Goa trip I made in 2003. But these instances are exactly that - far & few. Do these mad & priceless moments become the reason for writing ? Do they permeate the text, the spirit of this blog ?

I don't think so.

Like I said, had I agreed with Thoreau's idea, this blog may have breathed its last. The blog would have been the first victim because it is one of the very few things that I take pride in. I write because I can; in part because I have a readership (and readership is valued, as this writer's post will tell you) but also because there are times & resultant posts that I know I am proud of. Not of the content itself, but that I can write. No one has yet told me otherwise.

I do not write thrilling tales. I do not write about many unreal, unbelievably mad moments. I have little to none of those. And I write about whatever I want, when I feel like I can.

But here's the thing. I personally do not believe that it is this quality about someone's post that brings me back to their blog. What does bring me back is Good writing; the ability to get across even the most innocuous of ideas or events with words that keep me riveted. Even a single sentence from a post that stays with me, makes that exercise a good one.

I sit down to write because I am living & I can.

Song for the moment: Freebird - Lynyrd Skynyrd

The day I tried to live

2009-11-29T13:46:00.009+05:30

A bend in the road

I've said this before, but it bears repetition. A proclamation regarding motorbike trips invariably will be greeted by the furrowed brow & the questioning look. The correct answer (to avoid painful & pointless inquisitions, arguments, drama etc.) is to nod earnestly with an equally saintly grin. And then carry on with the trip.

On my most recent outing I discovered that while the destination is not terribly important, it would be nice if said destination did some brisk business in the beer-serving line. Harihareshwar-Srivardhan is nothing to write home about. The MTDC resort restaurant is passable at best.

But those seconds; unfolding into minutes & hours as you meander through the countryside. Seeing a lot, thinking of a whole lot more & remembering what you choose to. When you are outside of yourself and dimly aware of the brake, accelerator, gears & the road ahead while the rest of you is soaring through a different land altogether.

Where you do not know what you could experience around the very next curve...

You. The Bike. The Road.

Song for the moment: 24 - 25 - Kings of Convenience

When the tigers broke free

2009-11-22T08:49:00.004+05:30

A Sunday morning.

I am awake a lot earlier than is usual, even on a weekday. From my bed, swaddled as I am in my quilt, I turn on my side toward the window. Even without drawing open the curtain, I catch snatches of birdsong. And silence, if you can understand that. The steady, dull roar of traffic is absent but not for long.

Parting the corner just a bit, I am granted a framed view of the world. The sky is still silver with the plant in the window-sill darkly dominating everything else. I discover that I can see the exact same scene in b/w, if I close my eyelids a fraction and peer. I proceed to do so till the reverie is broken by the cuckoo clock cooing on the half hour. Compare that to the phone alarm that wakes me on most mornings. Sigh... and snuggle into the quilt even further for a fraction, then get out of bed.

Although against the idea, I start my trusty laptop to check on the football scores. Man U wins - hooray. Liverpool & Man C draw - chuckle, guffaw, etc.

I see a mail from one of the few who matter & write back... you know, one of those starting out being short & snappy but end up as four 6-line paragraphs about practically nothing. A proper mail after ages & I am strangely thrilled. Pan to a pensive me evaluating my current state of affairs, when a simple email is thrilling. Cat-lady type status in the making, me thinks.

My first cup of decent, hot morning coffee in heaven knows how long... & the smell of piping-hot dosas wafts by.

The saxophone resting in it's case, catches a glimpse of pale morning light & gleams elegantly.

It is winter.

I should move back here. To Pune.

Song for the moment: Take five - The Dave Brubeck Quartet

Animate - inanimate

2009-11-10T12:20:00.003+05:30

When you have nothing to write about, it is slightly irritating but nothing a spoonful of patience & a weather eye cannot resolve eventually.

When you do not want to write at all, there is a problem.

I am in the throes of both & do not expect to be cured of either any time soon. This fact does not bother me either.

Imagine trying to run in a pool of tar. Or swimming in quicksand.

The feeling of existing so slowly that everything else seems to be on fast-forward.

Song for the moment: Boat Behind - Kings of Convenience

Stranger things have happened

2009-10-16T19:00:00.005+05:30

Letting go of the past is hard... & some of it is burned in, indelible even with the tide of time washing over it. This we have to accept.

I've often wondered how hard is it to give up... flashes of inspiration or incandescently creative works that bind us to memories we're trying to let go of ?

Some time ago, I wrote for a girl. Words that were forged in the fires of my desire, passion, apprehension & even anger. Poems... single sentences... free verses that laid bare my dreams & inked crimson by the earnest ferocity of feeling. When I read them, and I read them over & over... I was astounded. Astounded that I was capable of writing something so evocative for someone. By far my most intense work.

Me in blue cursive.

Life, being indifferent to the vagaries of human hearts, carried on. For the longest time, I kept those pages locked away... the only reason I can offer for doing so was because of the capability that seemed to course through them.

Today, I unlocked the desk & took up that bundle in my hands. Took them out to the balcony.

Without a final glance, with no goodbyes & only night standing witness, I burnt every last page.

Watched fire trace the edges.

Watched wind lift glowing remains into the night sky.

Watched without regret.

It feels like a fitting day to say it...

Chapter closed

Song for the moment: The Lonely Shepherd - Gheorghe Zamfir

Something in the way

2009-10-05T12:11:00.008+05:30

The sky.

That's what you keep your eyes fixed upon while standing at the corner, waiting for the bus at 6:15 am. People tend to look uniformly expressionless at such god-awful hours & more so if all they have to look forward to is a 4 hour bus journey. Today is no different. You are struck by the passengers' resemblance to milling sheep & are about to smirk.

Realization happens... you are part of the flock, in a way. The moment feels so grey.

So your glance drifts towards the heavens. As you walk out of your house into the lane this morning, it seems as if clouds heavy with the promise of rain hovered over the world. You wonder if the saxophone case is waterproof, take the easy way out & pray that a downpour does not answer the question. Even as you trudge toward the highway, the case has irritatingly begun to assert it's weight.

It feels like the morning light is introducing you to a new sky. It's not blue yet but it is no longer dark. Stragglers from last night's showers are scattered across the horizon & a crimson blush stains the white. Unbidden, you think of words like 'panoramic' & about the genius of Turner & Monet.

You have had an 'interesting' weekend. It wasn't supposed to be. You had looked forward to a long laze, hanging out with family or friends. Comfort in routine. Instead, you have been reminded of responsibilities & obligations that adulthood has thrust on your reluctant shoulders. Saturday evening felt like the tendrils of the past brushed up against the pillars of the present when cricket & conversation allowed you to confront the idea of change.

People would say you are not old enough to feel weary & jaded.

People say a lot of things.

The bus crawls past the pink-&-white buildings & you wait till the river has been crossed. Then, you draw the curtains & try to sleep.

The sky is just the sky again.

Song for the moment: Don't fear the reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

High, low & in-between

2009-09-27T00:17:00.005+05:30

You know... our problem is, we think too much

A sentiment I've heard hajaar times over & have personally expressed often during random walk-talk or pub sessions. The cavalcade ruefully shakes its collective head, smiles that tired "yes we know, but what to do now?" smile & carries on the conversation. The problem, as it were, seems to spring up an awful lot when we drift into the area of women, relationships & general risk-taking. But mostly women.

I am of the school who is generally accused of *ahem* 'thinking too much' & have been advised in no uncertain terms to chill the f%@k out. While I harbour no ambitions of living up to a 100, fit as a horse while being as mentally active as a colander, I do try to take the suggestion seriously so that I may see some grandchildren. Or, more realistically, the 'Ipod Telepathy'. On this weekend's bus trip to Pune, I brought along my mp3 player so that no stray thoughts would try and present themselves at the cranial doorstep. The bus driver (who may have something against passengers providing their own entertainment) had other ideas & proceeded to play 'Kal Kisne Dekha' at maximum volume. Now, while I am an admirer of Pearl Jam & Metallica, there is no way my puny headphones could compete with the audio system on the bus. My theory on the loudness is that it prevents any mortal with adequate hearing from falling asleep. Including the driver.

Trying to watch the movie was out of the question. Honestly, I tried. The chaps who came up with the picture avoided the sticky situation of a shady story by the simple expedient of not having a storyline at all. Indeed, from what I could make out, it was a montage of random people caught in various mysteriously vague expressions mouthing dialogues that Yorick's skull would have been ashamed to attempt. Stitched together with the customary song-dance sequences, the final ludicrous product was let loose on an unsuspecting but unsympathetic public.

With no books in hand either, it therefore was inevitable that thinking would happen...

Golden eyes, cats in the dark
Slink opposite me on the highway
All roads lead to Bombay
All bodies follow
Where do the spirits go ?

Does Purgatory have an expressway
& is it paved with good intentions ?

It is all very well to pontificate
On youth, chance & how these we profligate
Something we know, or not
Something we hide, or forget
Is to know if
We are chasing
Or are running away

At times, anger is good
It's blazing ferocity cleanses the detritus
False forgiveness, feigned friendship
Dampen the flame
But embers do not die
To those who preach about walking away, I say
Do not walk into the darkness
Without learning to light a fire
Or, accept that you need the embers
And live

(As you well know, thoughts come & go. The above are in verse to give some semblance of sense. If you understand or relate to any of it, then enjoy. Otherwise, well... I do think too much.)

Song for the moment: Indifference - Pearl Jam

5 - Frail & Bedazzled

2009-09-10T11:19:00.006+05:30

Even silence speaks - Hausa Proverb

The words I am about to type in this post are today just that. Words. They will tell you the facts but not allow you to understand the churning emotions that we waded through that long, black night. The facts are hair-raising enough so perhaps not all is lost.

To somehow heave your mind off it's bed, ready it begrudgingly to carry on in the face of physical anguish & then be told matter-of-factly that one bike rider cannot see in the dark... you know the trip just got interesting. And yet, incredible as it may seem to you, we carried on. The spirit of youth, that was us. How we did circumvent the minor hitch of Ketan's night-vision was -

Ashish riding ahead at a speed of 35 kmph at best.
I'm sitting behind him, with a ridiculously heavy bag on my shoulders.
Ketan is following us on his bike, even slower than us because... & get ready for this... he's not watching the road. No, what he's putting the strength of his ocular powers on is the tail-lamp on Ashish's bike.
Ashish concentrates on the road, avoiding potholes & trucks.
Ketan concentrates on the tail-light of Ashish's bike.
I concentrate on looking behind me once every minute, watching for Ketan's bike's headlamp.
Yes.

I see that scene sometimes, reader. Silhouettes of trees, of the bike behind me, of Ashish's helmet in front of me, a flash of the white road dividing strip... these are what remain to remind me of what we had done. Till today, I am incredulous.

At around 12:30 am, a sorrier bunch of individuals could not have puttered their way to the border. Where we found out that Ashish's bike did not have insurance papers. Which instantly put us on the shifty-eyed, shady smuggler-type list. The cops, realising that they were on to a good thing, asked us for every possible piece of identification. My British Council Library card (don't even ask) brought a hasty end to the night's amusement & we crossed over into Goa about 250 Rs. (Ashish, please clarify) lighter. Considering our हालत we should be forgiven for thinking that the journey was over.

You see, crossing the border does not mean the beach has kindly parked itself a stone's throw away. With more than a hint of desperation, your nose twitches for the smell of salt-air, your ear for the sighing of the sea. And the road goes on & on & on...

Eventually, we stumble into Calangute.

Ketan tells us that we are going to the Indian Ocean hotel. You will not be shocked when I reveal that we rode up & down Calangute village in the dead of night until even he was convinced that the hotel did not exist or more likely, had got up off it's foundations & had meandered away. The universe, having extracted its fun, arranged to have a Chinese tapri open, where divinity in human form directed us to a apartment-hotel in a quiet alley. We walked into our room & I put my head on the pillow. It was 2:00 am.

I awoke at 3:00 pm the following afternoon.

We had made it to Goa.

Somehow.

Song for the moment: Constant Motion - Dream Theater

4 - No leaf clover

2009-09-03T12:54:00.005+05:30

Long after adrenalin has given up on your body, it is dread-tainted thrill & stubbornness that burns in your veins, pushing you, your body & your mind way beyond their limits. Okay, I'm no authority on human physiology but that's what kept me going that day.

We'd been riding from 6:30 am on a hot October day. We had envisioned ourselves in Goa 12 hours later. So, at 6:30 pm, 12 hours later, we looked at each other's sunburned, weary faces & then slowly accepted where we were. In the middle of nowhere. The sun had set. There was NO ONE on the road & this is no exaggeration. Although we'd been making decent time over the day, the breaks brought on by the monstrously heavy bags had crept up on us. To now discover that our destination was at least 5 hours away... there was nothing to say, really. We rode on in silence. That is, until we got to some small decrepit town & halted for tea. It was bad tea, but that's not the point. It was 10 pm and sense ordered us to halt for the night & ride on the morrow.

At this point, I'd like to tell you something about Ashish, Ketan & I. (The aforementioned are free to dispute this if they want) Different people though we undoubtedly are, there is one point we do have in common. The vagaries of fate only make that gleam in the eye brighter, awakening the 'कीडा' (insect does not explain it satisfactorily). Outwardly, this manifests in a grin of impish, unholy glee.

That we were tired was beyond question.
That Goa was not a stone's throw away was indisputable.
That the highway was dangerous in itself was obvious.
That it was poorly lit, with trees cutting off any moonlight, made it scary.
That we could stop for the night was an option.
That we did not, is reality.

At the tea stall, what I remember about that discussion is that not one of us explicitly said we should stop. There was some hemming & hawing, some chin-scratching & some stretching of muscles beseeching for rest. And then there was a pause.

Until Ketan talked about why it was important for us to continue & how Goa was only a couple of hours away. We shrugged, thought about what we were doing & rode on into the pitch black.

What Ketan had failed to mention to us was that he was completely night-blind.

Song for the moment: Ghost riders in the sky - Johnny Cash

3 - Cool Confusion

2009-09-01T11:11:00.011+05:30

Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart

- Marcus Aurelius

Often, I wonder if that motorcycle-trip would evoke such strong emotion in us to this day, had it all gone according to 'plan'. The plan incidentally involved us sprawled lazily on a beach with a crate of Kings (a beer found only in Goa), watching the sunset. Which would have placed us on the beach around 6:30 pm.

We will never know.

At 2:00 pm we set off from Kolhapur, supposedly on our way to Goa, via the Amba Ghat. Now, over the years I've come to understand from experienced bikers that a 6th sense clears it's throat when something about the journey does not feel correct. Being the amateurs we were, that sense stayed stubbornly silent for about 2 hours. In that time, we made our way on to a highway that was rather bereft of vehicles & pedestrians. A very scenic ride, the highway cut through lush forest-land & meandered over heather covered hills. The superb lunch induced a pleasant soporific effect but any sleepiness was brushed away by a gentle breeze. What are popularly referred to as optimum riding conditions.

To this day I cannot explain why a faint stirring of unease seemed to ripple in the air when it did. We had been riding for over 2 hours & while there have been faint misgivings about the rather desolate look about the highway, we were also somewhat caught up in the scenery & the ride itself. I remember the moment clearly; we had come to a fork in the road, taken the right & stopped for a drink of water. A man strolled passed us, his limbs moving with the steady rhythm that suggested he'd been on the road for quite a while. On a whim, we asked him if we were on the correct road to Goa. He said we were on the correct road to Ratnagiri.

Whatever else Ashish, Ketan or I may be, we are not particularly slow in the head. If you look at the road map of Western Maharashtra, the road to Goa follows South from Kolhapur. We had been earnestly riding West. Even then, realising what had happened, we did not grasp the enormity of the distance that lay ahead. What we did was turn around, take the other road from the fork & hoped for the best. It was around 5:00 pm & the sun descended ever so slowly but surely toward the hills. Even as we rode on, we tracked it's position because one thought reverberated at the back of our minds - that we had been warned not to ride on the highways at night.

I could feel the urgency that had crept stealthily into our riding. We rode faster & a tad recklessly, all the while aware that dusk approached. Time & again, we calculated what our average speed had been, reassuring ourselves that we did not have to ride for much longer.

At twilight hour, in deepening gloom, 3 steadily tiring men on 2 motorcycles careened past a green signboard, looking out for one name. It said:

PANJIM - 150 km

Night fell.

Song for the moment: Highway Star - Deep Purple

2 - Endless, Nameless

2009-08-28T12:00:00.007+05:30

It's hard to write about a journey made 6 years ago without getting sidetracked into nostalgia & painting whatever memories are left in a genial light. My reasons for wanting to make the trip were twofold; the need for a holiday & having done precious little in the reckless line of activity, a need to rectify that. The others had their reasons also, which are their own & it'd be pointless to wonder what those were. Suffice to say, the collective yearning of 3 very different guys metamorphosed into the events of one week.

In 'Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance', Pirsig speaks about how different the same journey can be when taken by motorcycle & by car. Very true. A car journey, while comfortable, seems to isolate you from the road. There is no such feeling on a bike. You are there, in the moment, for every kilometre that you travel, willing the wheels to eat away the space to your destination. The bike ride makes you conscious of every part of your body, especially when your back & posterior begin their indignant protest. I could have easily romanticised the experience for you, reader, but this is my version of events & I try to stay true.

For one, the initial thrill of embarking on the journey wore off after about 2 hours, to be replaced by the knowledge that our destination was a long way away. The road after Katraj Ghat was terrible, full of potholes & detours since the NH - 4 was being reconstructed as part of the Golden Quadrilateral. We did not have mp3 players to break the monotony of the grey landscape & resorted to crooning songs until our throats gave up the exercise as a bad job. Personally, the hardest thing to do is to stay awake, lulled as you are by the steady drone of the engine and the soporific scenery. After 11 am, the October sun beats down with a vengeance and the road begins to shimmer. I have a faint recollection of Ashish yelling my name out once with more than a tinge of alarm in his voice since I'd begun to noticeably list to the right.

To combat this, we took breaks ever so often. I tell you this without any shame; the feeling of stretching your legs & letting the blood flow to the nether padding is positively glorious. Naturally, the discomfort increases in magnitude as the hours go by & you find the riding time between breaks becoming shorter. It's all part of the experience. Around 12:30, about an hour from Kolhapur, we halted under the blessed shade of a few lonely trees bordering the road. There was an earnest discussion about hunger & the massacre of food that would take place at Kolhapur. The silence thereafter was heavy, leaving the crickets to pierce the fatigue with their cries. Not a soul in sight besides us. The road behind us was impassive & the one ahead was indifferent. Right then, in the middle of nowhere & out of nowhere, a man selling Kulfi appeared in front of us. Perhaps I was slightly stupefied by the heat but there would have been no surprise evinced had he unfurled wings & announced his divinity. We duly contributed enough money to ensure that his children would go to Harvard, ate our fill & carried on.

Lunch at Kolhapur was supposed to last half an hour at most. We did not move for about 2 hours. The superb food induced some reluctance in our gung-ho no doubt, but it was the sol kadhi that ultimately seduced us completely. Looking back, perhaps this was the universe's way of preparing us for what lay ahead.

Kolhapur onward, Ashish had been instructed to take the Amboli Ghat but there was some hesitancy on his part as to the veracity of the information. So, 3 innocent young men did something that made sure we will remember this journey till the day body & spirit part ways. We asked a waiter how to get to Goa via the Amboli Ghat. There was a pause, the shortest of pauses that suggests either hesitancy or recollection as the 3 worlds held their collective breath & watched. "अम्बोली घाट नाही, तुम्हाला अम्बा घाट घयाचय" (You have to take Amba Ghat, not Amboli Ghat).

We left Kolhapur at 2:00 pm... & rode on.

Song for the moment: La Partida - Gustavo Santaolalla

1 - For those about to rock

2009-08-26T15:30:00.006+05:30

[A bit of flashback is about to commence. The month of October is almost here & that month in 2003 always brings back memories. I hope you enjoy it. I know I did.]

Once before on this blog, I have referred to the idea of 'cool'. The Wikipedia entry (and there is one, which is delightful) on the topic is extensive and an interesting read even. At the end of the day (or for clarity's sake), the point I'm trying to make, dear reader, is that I am not, have never been & will never be, COOL.

Which, if you've followed this blog over the last couple of years, should have suggested itself to you anyway. One does not take liberties with anticipating intelligence, however, so the shameful fact or dirty linen if you prefer, has to be aired loud and clear. Not the linen. That's a similie. Haan...

Why this chest-beating confession, you ask ? Because, when Apocalypse happens & one's antecedents are looked over, even old Mephisto will have to admit that there was one little incident that would qualify in the permafrost category of coldness. I refer to a trip I took with 2 other dudes about 6 years ago. A motorcycle trip from Pune to Goa, to be precise.

Before you snigger, & you lot will snigger, let me quietly remind you that the NH - 4 wasn't always in the splendid condition it is today. That it is an effortless drive now is thanks to it being selected as part of the Golden Quadrilateral. When we took that trip, the highway was being worked upon. This is India... you've seen road-work right ? We understand each other clearly then.

The two gents in who's heads the idea for this trip germinated are Ashish & Ketan. Ashish then owned (and still does) a Yamaha RX-100. On cue, hearty applause from those in the know. Ketan owned a Splendor, which was a very nice bike also. Since this is a throwback to college, I have to say that I was a tad antisocial at the time. Also angsty. A bit. The guys in question would talk about the trip & I'd quietly ruminate on the snippets of information they were dispersing. Eventually, I threw caution to the wind and just asked if I could go along. Ashish was nice (or nonchalant) enough to acquiesce, which called for one of those mental victory jigs a-la Sir Alex when Man U score a goal. It was nice because I could not ride a motorbike back then. A state of affairs that was enough to allow Fate to take it's usual bite out of the collective posterior on offer later on the trip. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Then came the planning part. See, even as I type all this, I have to smile because if ever you needed proof of my naive lack of coolness, it's coming up. To look at the bag I finally finished packing, one would have concluded that I was attempting to repeat Phileas (or Phineas) Fogg's journey around the world. Putting it briefly, it was big & heavy. When I tell you that the others had packed similar bags, you will no doubt be mentally prepared to read me state that we changed our minds about the motorbikes & decided on a camel caravan.

We stuck with the motorbikes.

And the bags.

The night before the trip, apprehension & a barely containable excitement is churning in the pit of your stomach, making dinner a tricky affair to navigate. Post dinner, which was at Roopali on F.C road, the 3 of us were to head to Ashish's Aji's place, which was a couple of minutes up the same road. Ashish & I got on his bike, Ketan got on his & we left from Roopali.

10 seconds later, Ashish & I realise that we've lost Ketan.

On a straight road, with no turns.

Ahh, omens.

Song for the moment: You found me - The Fray

Let them talk

2009-08-17T12:50:00.008+05:30

There is a school of thought that would quite likely be scandalised by the idea of intellectual discussions being held in a pub / bar. Impropriety and what have you. Folks like us (you know who you are) would counter with the notion that our intellectual pursuits occur only in pubs. That's when the cranial creases are watered... doused actually, & whatever is left of our neurons are firing on all cylinders, ablaze thanks to the tipple of choice. Mind you, I'm not advocating that this is the best way. It's just our way. Or my way, if any reader resents the liberty I've taken of assuming anything.

Not to keep tottering around the proverbial mulberry bush (why mulberry, I ask), the latest discussion touched on the dichotomy(?) of loving your work. That is, working the week for the sake of the cheque & engaging in your passion during the weekend OR striving to make your passion, your talent or a synonym of your choice the porker from which your bacon is carved. Right about now, if the thought of a nice ham-n-cheese sandwich has not taken over your senses, you may just be thinking about which of these categories you'd qualify. Some of you I know personally, so I think it'd be safe to assume your reaction being along the lines of "Pshaw!! This is a done-to-death, cat-skinning, horse-flogging excuse of a post. Next!" And I wouldn't blame you either. Sitting as you are, with various nifty MS Office docs open, projecting yourself as the very paragon of honest labour, I suppose the answer to which side you fall on is obvious. Or not. Who am I to predict the vagaries of our likes & dislikes ?

My fellow discusser understands the harsh realities of life & slaves away for 6 days at a job that does not drive him giddy with joy, makes bowls of moolah (he hasn't got to 'pot' status yet... or has. Muhahaha !!) to indulge his vicarious pleasures on the 7th. According to him, this state of affairs is satisfactory & the status quo will be maintained. Regardless of the fact that half the planet thinks he's a beast of a writer, mind you. On the other hand, I work in a job that's staid at best, know the importance of money & yet am of the opinion (a foolish one, I'm starting to think, but I blame Time) that life is only meaningful if Mammon glances benevolently toward the excuses that parade themselves as the end product of my 'talent'. Ahem. Yes...

Why I think like this I don't know. Call me a stubborn b*****d if you want but I've always been obsessed with the idea of living life in vibrant colour; a richness you may associate with the smell of freshly cut fruit on a warm spring day, with a thirst that's quenched by the sharp, cold bitterness of that first beer or the tang of THE filter coffee, the giddy comfort of butter-laced food on a cold day, of lying in the perfect hollow of a bed warmed by your body & the quilt enveloping you... Yes, I want to live like that & I am not stupid enough to think that one every moment will be like this. But I want to try to live at least the majority of what's left in this fashion, if for nothing else than the fact that there are things about us we cannot change, cannot help... and we've learned the hard way (is there any other) that we were dealt a tough hand in the endless card game.

If you've reached this sentence, thanks for reading. When enough foolhardiness has been accumulated, perhaps I shall wager all the chips on a talent I may or may not have. Until then, I shall believe in one life & live another, escaping every now & then into a flamboyant world that tantalizes every one of us on the horizon.

What about you ?

*Yes, this one is wordy & bordering on the contrite. No apologies.

** Many thanks to the discusser. The post hasn't come out as well as hoped but one has to make do.

Song for the moment: Everything in it's right place - Radiohead

Champagne Supernova

2009-08-03T12:14:00.005+05:30

To Saturday, 2nd August 2009...

Something as innocuous

As

A fluttering piece of paper*

Escaping from the shirt pocket

Whips up a maelstrom

Fragmentary images

Imagined sounds

Light & dark

Belonging & knowing

A slice of paradise

Song for the moment: The Green Fairy / Swagger like us - T.I

* The paper was a bus ticket from Bombay to Pune for Friday, 31st July 2009.

Longfellow Serenade

2009-07-29T11:13:00.004+05:30

Dear reader,

A conversation in a buzzing bar over a mug of beer got me thinking on today's theme; the writing of a letter. As with many of the shared contemplations I've had, we spoke about it for the sake of the flowing idea, the peculiarly gentle glee in being able to use what have commonly been referred to as 'big words' in actual conversation without having the threat of perplexity hanging in the air. Perhaps you have & enjoy these moments yourself. Mayhaps, you have debated the same theme ?

Nonetheless, I often ponder upon the march of time & technology that has left me regarding life with some ambiguity. I appreciate technology & how it has made living easier on many levels. I do not hanker for the b/w television nor for a computer with 16 MB RAM & the large floppy disk. I thank the heavens for air-conditioning & the photocopier. I use the internet a lot. The Dark Ages or in India's case, the years up to the 1990's, had their moment in the sun. But like a handful of people I know (know, I said. There's probably a boatload of you lot out there), there are some things I miss for their ability to remind me that I was a child once. Those large, box-type knobby radios for one. That delightful telephone with the rotating dial pad for another. Not having experienced a childhood that even remotely resembled either the Blyton or Wodehouse varieties, I'm not struck by a sense of nostalgia when I reminisce about those years. But I am at a loss to explain why the ticker feels a little hollow and the shoulders a tad more weary when I catch a glimpse of memorabilia that has quietly faded away.

I want to ask you - can you remember the last personal letter you wrote ? Not typed. Think back to crisp white notepads with those reddish-maroon ruled lines. To a certain nervousness... or was it hesitancy... as you sharpened the pencil or filled the pen with Camel blue ink. That metallic smell wafting out of the ink bottle or that of the wood shavings. Perhaps you unconsciously stuck the tip of your tongue out as you began to give life to those blank spaces, telling your story to someone else. Someone who meant enough for you to write them. To eventually feeling a slight pain in your hand, only to find that you've written over five pages of vivid yet tragicomically ordinary descriptions. To being confused about whether to end with 'yours faithfully, yours truly, yours sincerely, love...' and having to look up letter writing in the Wren & Martin.

To worrying about whether you've attached the right amount of postage ?

When was the last time you received an envelope with sheets of writing addressed to you ? Perhaps the writer liked using scented paper. Perhaps they included photographs. Perhaps they knew you were something of a philatelist & attached exotic stamps ? When did a sheet of paper start with 'Dear (your name)', meaning it was for you & you alone, letting you delight in a rare fragment of privacy in a public home.

I write to no one because I do not know their exact address. I no longer read names of funny sounding streets & cities and dream about what these places would be like. There is no longer any need for me to look in the mail box.

One moves with the times, but the tendrils of the past often reach out and brush up against memory. Against an aching longing. Against a loss of identity.

Not having written a letter to anyone in years, I find that I have written one to you. Not in the way I wanted to but perhaps with more affection than other avenues would allow.

With warm regards,

Me.

Song for the moment: Video killed the radio star - Buggles

Everlong

2009-07-22T12:45:00.006+05:30

In the greater scheme of things, 3 years probably means very little. When you find yourself mentally rewinding through the last 3 years however, perhaps the burden of time hangs heavier. Why has this come up ?

Not being around for the last 3 monsoon seasons, I'd almost forgotten why we're obsessed with the rains. Those who care enough have a check list of things to experience, gleefully cross off items one by one. Gastronomically, there's a bounty of items that's tied to our memories of rain. मक्का, चाय, भजिया, पकोडे, समोसे, दोसा-साम्बार ... the list of steaming hot tangy & spicy food that seduces the palate through the length & breath of India in the rain is quite likely endless.

If you are from Pune however, there's something you may just have experienced in your teens and college years. And are quite likely hankering for now, as you stare at the glinting droplets of water, the gentle roar of rain and the emerald newness of the leaves. I refer to biking in the rain.

Yes, I know you grinned.

The memory of riding your bike in the rain is something you will never forget... especially if you are from Pune, since biking is something we just do. Like eating or sleeping. Going to college in rain meant either that you wanted to get to Fergusson and spend the rest of the day drinking chai and hanging around campus or F.C road or that you... well... heck, you just wanted to get out of the house. For years, I did the commute on my Kinetic Honda.

Now, those of you in the know are aware of the Kinetic's reputation in the rain. The wheels seem to develop a mind of their own & agree with the brakes that the rider's life is rather boring and must be made umm... interesting. You've either personally experienced or seen the infamous Kinetic-skid. A bike skid is nothing nice, but Punekars & especially Kinetic owners have become rather phlegmatic about it. A greenhorn, properly horrified, will comment on how unsafe the roads are in the rains only to be greeted with a look that is quizzical or scornful. Quite likely, the greenhorn will be told that they have no idea what they're talking about and to desist before someone makes pointedly sarcastic remarks on intelligence and the lack of it. There's a method to us & our madness, you see.

I've missed the last 3 monsoons for a variety of reasons. I've missed my bike. Now I live in Bombay, where the rain culture is something else altogether. I like that too. Yet...

I'm in Pune on work. It's raining. I have to navigate quite a stretch of the NH-4 for this work.

I know my bike. I know what it's capable of. I know to respect it's qualities & limitations.
अंदाज़ it's called I believe.

I'm on the road... the rain is drumming against my helmet and I can see very little. Just a blur of the vehicles... the spaces between them. I can feel the droplets like needle points against my chest. I open the throttle... gently. Let the bike get used to the splendidness of the road. Steadily increase speed. There's a slight gap in the visor & I can hear the whistle of the wind. I cut my way through the vehicles & it feels like they are standing still. The speedometer needle indicates that the speed has hit 70 kmph.

The moment happens.

Framed between sky & earth,
Embraced by the rain,
I am alone.
I am soaring.

Song for the moment: Original Fire - Audioslave

Man in the box

2009-07-07T14:29:00.004+05:30

Reader, I type this post with a strong control of my considerable command over invective. Amravati, that odious spit of land in north Maharashtra was visited again this weekend. That's right, this weekend. The district coordinator for our project there, a creature who quite likely is channelling Judas, Benedict Arnold & any other traitor you'd choose, specified the weekend for ISO analysis. The last week was no picnic at work either, so my mood on Friday evening as I awaited the train at Dadar was one of thunderstorm proportions. Not helping my mood any was the ISO consultant.

A boatload of people either hate or love their jobs. But I have not yet met anyone who's job is his philosophy and vice versa. Except for the ISO dude. This specimen has to be met to be believed. I say met because by sight he probably resembles some jolly Santa in his middle age. You know, before the white hair, ho-hos and the reindeer... Once this dude starts talking however, stopping him is impossible. Believe me, I've tried. It's like trying to stop a break in the Khadakwasla dam with cellotape. Now, while no one will ever accuse me of above-average cranial activity, even I understood early on that I should not, under any and I mean ANY circumstance give this guy a chance to start preaching. I mean, if you think you could be dying, die. Don't ask this windbag for help. He qualifies as the reference to 'a fate worse than death'. Even so, being careful to the point of petrification, a man needs to breathe. Or move. During which time, some slight suggestion of sound may escape from you. That's all he needs to start off blabbering about how he knows the best method to do this, achieve that and whatnot. I'm just waiting for the day when this personage accosts some random unfortunate in the men's room and instructs him on how best to answer nature's call. Or perhaps break wind.

Anyway, my strategy when I've to accompany the town crier is to take a load of books, my mp3 player & enough batteries to comfortably power a city for 3 days. The moment we're on the train, I plug in the earphones, whip out the book and pointedly ignore him. Even this does not stop him tooting his horn every now and then, mind you. On this trip however, ISO-man, the dastardly district coordinator & Amravati itself came together to leave me... well, you know what they say - जब किस्मत ही गांडू, तोह क्या करेगा पंडू ?

First off, it was the weekend. Having to travel all night on Friday when I could have been otherwise employed was bad enough, but the fun does not end there. You see, to get to Amravati city and beyond, one has to hop off at a plague-spot called Badnera Junction. At 5:30 am. After which, a very sleepy, increasingly despondent blogger has to make it through the day listening to the coordinator spin tall tales about his efficient work & have ISO-dude counter him with suggestions about how to better himself. It's like the argumentative chess game from hell. The only difference being that in a chess game, both players have sort of a 50 - 50 chance of winning. But ISO-man is the Deep Blue in human avatar, so no ordinary mortal stands a chance. Someone hearing-defficient maybe, but no one else.

After 2 days of this brouhaha, if people were pious, truthful and all that, they'd admit that precious little actually got done. IF. We make our way back to Badnera Junction on Sunday evening & I don't know... the fates were trying to indicate that the fun wasn't over, I guess. Because it rained... poured like the rain of our dreams, venting nature's fury on an indifferent earth, accompanied by dark-grey skies & lightning bolts. I tell you, if a voice announced that the crack-o-doom and judgement day was upon us, I would have believed it. ISO-guy would no doubt have some ideas for nature on how to achieve a 'quality' Pralay, but that should surprise none of you by now. So, accompanied by this band-baaja, we get dropped off at the station at 8:00 pm, well in time for the 8:45 pm Samarasta 'Super-fast' express. Just as we're getting to the platform, a voice, which will probably haunt my dreams for years to come, announced prettily that the train would be late by 2 hours. I suppose it should have occured to someone to enquire against which snail the train's speed was being touted.

I reached for the earphones & book before she'd completed the announcement.

2 hours later, the same voice announces purposefully that the train is now delayed by 3:30 hours. I give up on the earphones & other paraphernalia and begin to pace. The stray dogs on the platform begin to give me looks of pity. Or scorn, I don't know... it was around 12:30 am. At about 12:45, just as I begin to draw in a deep breath to really let rip into life, the universe & everything else (to borrow a phrase), the train sneaks in, shamefacedly & shifty-eyed. At this juncture, I was ready to discover that Bogie A2 had been left back at Howrah & that we'd have to travel in the pantry car.

I reach Kurla around noon the next day, attempt to find a rickshaw & make the next blunder. I agree to share the rickshaw with ISO-man, a decision akin to allowing Bluebeard to commandeer your rowboat. About halfway to Santacruz, I gave up & began to contemplate an afterlife where I'd never have to run into anyone who's heard of ISO standards. Or at least, this pontificator. Who knows... perhaps he's dreaming of instructing the dudes up and downstairs on how to achieve efficiency.

Pah !!

Oh and just to round things off, a migraine came a-visiting yesterday evening.

Song for the moment: Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

Hit the lights

2009-06-30T11:29:00.003+05:30

Imagine stopping.

Song for the moment: White room - Cream

Running on empty

2009-06-14T19:19:00.007+05:30

Having written about a 100 something posts, you would think it would get easier. Just think the thoughts and the words will type themselves into something resembling a readable piece. You know others who do it. Of course, that does not happen. To you, that is.

Much as you'd like the blog to simply be a place for your thoughts, the random ideas that float in to your head and a landing pad for the times when ennui brings you crashing down, you are coherent enough to realize that you have expectations of yourself. That, having read good books by great writers, you would at least want to try to take a few tottering steps toward quality writing. You think about the number of drafts you've deleted because they did not have 'it' when you read & re-read them. Right there, the little guy with the sneering voice points out the mediocre ones that have made it past the 'publish post' point & you begin to wonder whether you would recognise quality writing if it waltzed in & punched you on the jaw. Just thinking about that makes you weary & pine for a pint (and more) in the right company.

You want to write about how nice the weekend has been. About the sheer brilliance of making it home without sweating for a change. About wolfing down dinner & heading over to a pal's on your bike. About how riding the bike is effortless because you are the only one who knows how to coax the best out of her, gently. About how you can ride at speed with a joy that threatens to spill over from your chest because you KNOW every dip, curve and pothole on the road. About how the night wind whips through your hair, seemingly celebrating with you. About how the VAT 69 on the rocks goes down oh so agreeably. As does the next one. And the next. About how you have your first night of unbroken sleep in ages. And how the breakfast at a non-descript spot in a nook of Deccan Gymkhana requires nothing more than a sigh.

You want to make the description of a cricket game in the evening read well, let the reader live each moment in your shoes. You want to write about the whispers of the evening breeze & a late summer evening blue sky that envelops you in a gladness for just being there in that moment. You yearn to paint a written picture of the sheer pleasantness of a swim at dusk followed by a piping hot, spicy meal. About how the night lulls you to slumber.

It amuses you in that typically twisted way that Sunday shimmers and disappears. That Sunday evening is a celebration of Nature coming to the party. That the very air seems to remind you that you don't live in Pune any more. You even smirk because the thought comes unbidden - maybe you wouldn't notice the sunset if you did live here. Then your shoulders drop... perhaps because that thought has hit too close to home.

You can 'see' yourself stumbling along sleepily on Monday morning. To leave.

But, even after a 100 posts, you find yourself unable to say it well.

And you wonder why.

Song for the moment: Don't speak - No Doubt

Eyes of the beholder

2009-06-12T13:41:00.003+05:30

"You've lost weight" they say
In concern, not in congratulation.
Perhaps a slight twinge of envy, maybe
That they need must exercise
To achieve something similar.

He shrugs his bony shoulders
Smiles.
And wonders how one can feel both
Heaviness & emptiness
In one body.

"It must be love"...
"He must be pining"...
He is polite & will not shatter their illusions
But cannot help his amusement at the antithesis
For abhorrent anger will burn the flesh just as well.

Song for the moment: The last time - Janis Joplin

Goldfish bowl

2009-06-09T14:41:00.004+05:30

It looked innocuous.
That was the truth.
It had his name, designation, office address etcetera.
Pretty consistent with what should be on it.
It was his very first business card too.
And yet, he could not escape the fact - it looked innocuous.

In that moment, it seemed to define him... the individual alphabets uniting to obstinately state what it was he did.

Or what he pretended to do.

Who he was on the day.

And who he wanted to be.

With a deep, weary sigh he wished he had not ordered so many of them.

Song for the moment: White rabbit - Jefferson Airplane

Holes to heaven

2009-06-02T10:08:00.002+05:30

It was around 7:00 pm on a weekday as I entered the house. The hall lights were dimmed & the atmosphere was sombre... so heavy that I knew there'd been a stormy argument very recently. From the kitchen, came the sound of a knife rhythmically slicing through vegetables & hitting the cutting board. The clickety-clack of the computer keyboard could be heard faintly from my folks' bedroom. My strategy in such times was to quietly slink into my room to ensure I was not at the receiving end of any leftover angst. I know you've done that countless number of times too.

The stereo was playing a tape called 'Love at the Movies', a mix of romantic 70's & 80's movie songs. Not being at an age where one is terribly enthused by random people yodelling on about love, pain, loneliness or belonging, I barely paid any attention to the music. Just as I'd crossed the hall toward the passage to my room, the opening bars of this floated forth from the speakers.

I froze.

For, while I could identify the guitar part of the song, it was the other accompanying sound that reached into me, into the depths of my heart, making it feel heavy and light simultaneously... setting off sparklers in my head, letting me see rich colours pulsing in the dusk. This being a time before the internet was even heard of, I found out whatever I could about the song from the catalogue. And, for the very first time, I read the letters... took in the sound of the word... imagined the tune in my head as I spelt it out - s a x o p h o n e.

Mesmerised. That's what I was. I remember thinking that I finally knew what the soul would sound like.

I was 12 then. At first, thanks to a lack of knowledge and of course convenience, I heard the song again and again... to a point where my mum made me a copy of the tape to ensure the original would stay safe. I was satisfied by just listening to it. A few years later I was watching an episode of the Simpsons... remember the one where Homer is in the hospital and Lisa plays him a song on her saxophone ? At the exact moment she starts playing, I knew.

I had to play it too.

Today is supposed to be the day of my very first saxophone lesson. So much emotion, so many memories, too much, actually... is balanced on possibility.

Song for the moment: Turn the page - Bob Seger

Right turn

2009-05-28T14:35:00.000+05:30

How some people churn out posts & good ones at that with unfailing regularity, I will never know. I've tried it and the end result has always been something so malignant that the writer in me recoils at the very idea of something like that making it's way onto a public forum. Even today, I've tried to write up something suitable, on a number of themes, all of which have been flushed down the virtual commode almost as quickly as they were typed. At this juncture, if any bright beans among you wish to enquire how I'm spending time at work attempting to blog, desist.

When it comes to the whole dating-relationship-feelings shipwreck, I seem to have wised up in the last month. Part of that is down to the figurative roller-coaster ride I experienced. Amusingly enough, I got off the ride feeling nauseous and unsteady, swearing I'd never ever get on it again. But that roller-coaster is addictive... and as a friend of mine put it, no one asked me to get on in the first place. I suppose it would be better to view it as a watershed moment; understanding & more importantly, accepting that adulthood can be filled with moments like these reduces the whole dramatic tempest to a mill-pond. When I say wised up, I mean that I now know that people are selfish and allow for that to be a huge factor in any potential relationship. As an adult, you make adult choices...

After what seems like an eternity but what has typically been about 6 months, I may just have found a real live saxophone instructor in Bombay. After speaking to him, the thought did cross my mind that I ought to have picked a less expensive instrument to fall in love with. Like the triangle, for instance. The horn itself cost me a packet. Getting it into playing condition wasn't cheap either & now I shall have to part with quite a few doubloons to take lessons. Which, thankfully, I don't worry about so much, because I am at least able to pursue a passion. Not everyone is that lucky. Come to think of it, not everyone even thinks about what they're passionate about. Enough said, methinks.

Song for the moment: I feel a change comin' on - Bob Dylan

Doctor my eyes

2009-05-15T22:16:00.003+05:30

Irony: A bunch of people meet up for a conference on preventing child labour. At 11:00 am, the tea is brought in by a 12 year old kid.

*
*
*
*
Guess who chortled ??

Yes, I don't belong in this line of work.

Song for the moment: Cast no shadow - Oasis

Man Overboard

2009-05-11T13:17:00.005+05:30

The dashboard informs me today that this is my 100th post. When I started blogging, I was confident that the number of posts would not even get to 50 before I lost interest and shut this blog down. As expected, things did not work out quite like I'd thought.

Two years on from starting this blog, writing some good & some bad posts, I wanted this one to stand out; to be pleasant, to be funny, to have some trace of joy rather than angst, to subscribe to hope. I sit here, re-read that line & find that this post will have failed miserably on those counts. And for once, I realize that there is no comfort in routine, in predictable patterns.

A theme done to death is how children want to be adults and once they are, find that it is not as great as they'd imagined. Today I find that it's easier to think of oneself as an adult than be treated like one by others. True, childhood is not the cakewalk Enid Blyton would have us believe, but to understand that it generally is a precursor to the patterns of adulthood is also not something one realizes in time. We live, waiting for & expecting some innocuous, possibly whimsically charming rites of passage to mark our stepping over the threshold. And we continue to wait, all the while having a lurking suspicion that the twists and turns of childhood are present but no longer the same. No longer are the consequences light enough for us to just learn and move along. An old wound, opened often enough, will refuse to heal. And the older we get, the harder it is to recover, regardless of life's lessons and experiences.

Today, at this exact moment, I miss the unthinking loyalty that friends exhibit as children. The fierce, unquestioned support for each other, regardless of whether we are right or wrong. The readiness to take up cudgels (literal or figurative) on behalf of a friend who cannot. As adults, we rationalize. I'm not suggesting here that some readers did not do that as kids... but c'mon. We went with our gut back then... and the gut told us that it takes two to play a game of cricket.

As adults, even with friends, we want to know the other side of the story. Even the Neanderthals among us are dimly aware that another side exists. While we lend a ready ear to a friend's woes, we want to know the reasons behind why X got screwed over by Y, whether Y was in the right, if X even has a case to argue for.

Typing this today, feeling what I am, having lived the last week, I know I have friends. Those who will go out of their way to help me, aware that I would do the same. But I want one who will take up the cudgel for me without thinking. And just like that I know there will not be one.

We are all adults. And in some battles, alone.

Song for the moment: Tequila Sunrise - The Eagles

Update: I do have one friend who will take up the cudgel.

The hardest part

2009-05-07T16:47:00.004+05:30

As suggested to me by a bloke in foreign parts, I'm writing about it. Somewhat.

Over the last week, I’ve found out firsthand, the literal, effectively demonstrated (on me, that is) meaning of a lot of phrases I viewed before as hackneyed or exaggerated. And trust me when I say this – one is much better off viewing the words ‘heavy heart’ as hackneyed. Especially if the heart is yours.

I’ve been given a crash course in understanding why ‘timing is everything’ isn’t something to be bandied about casually like say ‘winning is everything’. If winning were everything, then an awful lot of poor sods out there would be nothing. Including yours truly. But timing really is everything. Case in point – The one week… the ONE week where I needed my friends to be around so that I could get inebriated, smashed, sloshed and in case the point is not clear yet, completely drunk, these fine gents have both toddled off on holiday at the same time. I know these people. In their line of work, holidays are far and few so it’s rather a bitch to not even have one of them around to just sit, nod his head wisely, sympathise, empathise, buy a few rounds, etcetera. My wanting to go out on the town with Bacchus has nothing to do with the ‘heavy heart’ business of course.

So anyway, finding the paddock empty, I’ve gone ahead and resolved to stay away from the stuff that cheers & inebriates for the next month and a half.

I know, I know. Because.

Song for the moment: Low man's lyric - Metallica

Wake up and smell the coffee

2009-05-06T11:08:00.007+05:30

L: ... make you feel cool. And hey! I met you... you are not cool.

W: I know. Even when I thought I was, I knew I wasn't.

L: That's because we're uncool. And while women will always be a problem for us, most of the great art in this world is about that very same problem. Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts. They get the girls but we're smarter.

W: I can really see that now.

L: Yeah, great art is about conflict and pain and guilt and longing and love disguised as sex, and sex disguised as love...

- Lester Bangs & William Miller in Almost Famous

Yes, we will smirk and dismiss stories & films. But some images, some moments of music, some lines or conversations will reach deep and relentlessly into the dark places and jolt something. If possible, our expressions will remain the same but... watch closely. Eyes will widen for an instant, the bottom lip will be chewed absently and that seating position will no longer be 'that' comfortable. Inevitably, we will search for those in the room that will know exactly what we know in that instant... and Mona Lisa smiles will be exchanged. Because we understand. Because we are helpless.

L: The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we're uncool.

Face it... You just smiled.

Song for the moment: All I really want - Alanis Morissette

A minute longer

2009-05-05T10:03:00.002+05:30

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me"

Yeah, right.

Song for the moment: Tuesday's gone - Metallica

Goodbye Cold World

2009-04-23T13:22:00.003+05:30

Folks, I have seen hell and let me tell you, no bright lights or tunnels made an appearance.

Amravati district in Eastern Maharashtra. Where the temperature on Tuesday was 45 degrees C without even trying. The district project coordinator we met on the day phlegmatically remarked that we were lucky since the temperature on Monday was 47 degrees. Uhuh.

I have experienced such heat only when I lived in the UAE. Even there, we had the good grace to exist in a cucoon of air-conditioning, only venturing outside in the evening. In Amravati, any work worth doing gets done between 5 - 10 am after which time only desperadoes and the suicidal are on the roads. And us of course... the intrepid cast of 'Social Workers sans Frontiers... & Brains'.

Just after we'd attacked a very good roadside dhaba & started on the visions of a beautiful siesta, one of the people I was touring with insisted on being taken for a drive.
At 2:30 pm.
Right.

In what I suspect was a fit of malevolence, the long-suffering coordinator decided to fulfill the chap's request by driving us to the hill-station of Chikhaldara. No doubt a normally delightlful journey, the winding roads and hairpin bends on the journey were then negotiated at a speed of around 65 kmph. This, the afternoon furnace (heat being too mild a word) along with the feeding frenzy that had just taken place ensured that one of the other fellows along on the trip thrice pleaded in a quietly determined tone for the vehicle to be stopped. After which, the lunch, mid-morning snack and breakfast proceeded to decorate the landscape in a fashion similar to Jackson Pollock's work.

Needless to say, I could not wait to get out of there. For one, I had begun to have out-of-body experiences while being wide awake. I think. For another, missing the train would mean waiting at Amravati for another 24 hours, during which time this blogger would have been 'well done' in the steak terminology. On a side note, if there is one thing I hate with a passion, it is the summer sun. My dream is to live in some cold, blustery port city in the far north where days of sunlight are a rarity & hence welcomed. Anyway, while waiting at the station, I received a call from my boss. Apparently we've landed a new project on preventing child labour. I will be coordinating (at least in name) this project, quite likely meaning monthly visits to the district where the work will be undertaken.

The district selected for the work to commence ? Amravati.

Song for the moment: Burn - Deep Purple

No rest for the wicked

2009-04-15T15:23:00.004+05:30

Readers, the somewhat short hiatus from posting can be traced to a few things. For one, I recently moved house (a nice 1 BHK in Santacruz) and the tandaav that goes along with instigating said move left me wishing for nothing more than an endless row of the chilled stuff... and some sort of self-respecting body metabolism that doesn't scream "double chin & beer belly is happening" every time I drink a few sips. A few sips, mind. Sigh....

Also, for reasons unbeknowst to me, I've been assigned the chore of accompanying some consultant chap as he meanders around the NGO's project offices around Maharashtra. ISO certification or some such nonsense. Since my responsibilities in this matter have so far involved doodling on the note pad & valiantly avoiding the urge to catch up on forty winks at the table, you can safely assume that your lives are more exciting. Except if you are someone who gets paid to watch paint dry on the walls, maybe. To cut a short story even shorter, self mooches around Dadar station at odd hours with bag in hand, hoping to miss the trains but never actually working up the nads to ensure that this happy eventuality occurs. Latur, Osmanabad, Amravati and Mahad are left on the agenda for the month... & I'm thinking even jolly old Julius wouldn't have shimmied around this much on his Roman conquests. But alea jacta est & whatnot.

In the midst of this largely self-invented melodrama, I have still not managed to find a saxophone teacher. My illusions of Bandra as a cool place chock-full of musicians, is fast evaporating to be replaced by an image of how my dear sax will most likely end up being used as a vase. Or some vital component of an Ikebana arrangement. As if these slings and arrows were not enough, getting to work from Santacruz is becoming a tricky issue. From Bandra, it was all cut and dry; walk to station, cross over to East, take bus, get to work. Reverse on the way home. From Santacruz, the instruction manual now reads - walk to station, wait in line to buy ticket (yes, I know a season pass is available... %@#@ you too !!), curse idiot in line who thinks the ticket window is some sort of confessional booth, get ticket, rush to appropriate platform, jump into running train, get off at Bandra (west, that is), cross over to east, jump into bus, get to work. Whether I want to go back from work is now up for debate.

All of these travails pale in comparison to what occurred at lunch today. I have, through extensive use of charm and etiquette, ensured that left-over pohe from breakfast (whenever made) will be reserved for me at lunch. Today, humming a catchy tune, I made my way to the canteen, only to be told that the pohe was over. For a second, the birds ceased to chirp, dark clouds hovered & the brow was furrowed. The regular menu was begrudgingly accepted and I proceeded to eat. Only to see the walrus (the colleague who sits next to me at work... don't ask) happily masticating away on what suspiciously looked like the missing pohe. My missing pohe. Another colleague confirmed my suspicions and the canteen was silenced for an instant by a blood-curdling war cry.

Big time vengeance is assured, reader.

Song for the moment: Bleeding me - Metallica