Smokerings of My Mind

Till Then

2006-05-19T18:31:00.000+04:00

I think (and I seem to be doing a lot of it these days) this blog needs to be abandoned. That really is quite a harsh word- "Abandoned". The associated feelings are definitely not quite as deep.

Its been a little under a year since I began blogging, and while Juley has been my best till date, I really enjoyed the time I had at Feeling Monsoon. But going over my recent posts on Smokerings, I realize that I am not really the kind of person this blog depicts. Fifty five posts later, I think increasingly my blog reads like that of an armchair activist (which I am not), a hardcore cribber (which again negative) and finally, at times, a lonely, lost, heartbroken individual (which is so not true). Writing the way I do lately doesn't make me happy as I did at Feeling Monsoon. And why else would I write if not to feel happy? I think I would be happier writing things that I feel good writing about. Being the person I think I am- genuinely.

So I am moving on; and my last post on this page is along those thoughts and similarly slightly dark.

Yesterday at the end of a cab ride, the driver, a boy of about 18 (funny how I refer to people that age as boys and girls now) pulled out the fare chart and pointed to a number, mumbling something incoherently. While we seemed to agree upon the amount payable I couldn’t quite agree to what he seemed to be saying. I offered what I felt was right, and he happily pocketed it. I was in a hurry and slightly irritable since I had to give him directions for a short and regular ride from my office to Bombay Central. I stepped out, but in spite of the immense hurry that I had been in, I couldn’t resist the temptation to ask him in Hindi where he was from:

T.O.: Kahan se ho bhaiyya?
C.D. (Cab Driver): Chembur
T.O.: Hindi nahin ataa? Kyun?
C.D.(giving a very sad look): Marathi…
(Drives away)

Life makes people move for a livelihood or marriage, or just change. I have moved all over the country- in search of work and an education. My sister has done so too. RV moved to Dubai for work and then to Jersey City, marriage. People move all the time, willingly unwillingly. Such is life. Thus far I have moved at will, and enjoyed each move, but each move comes at a certain personal loss. Loss of friends, of family, but for the likes of me for whom most change is welcome I think the benefits of the experience far outweighs the inconveniences.

However, even for me, every time I move into a new city, a new house or in the past a cubby-hole hostel room, and shut the door to the world outside, and as the reality sinks in I do feel a certain hollow, a churning of my insides, and let out a deep sigh, which is often where, thankfully, the emotional trouble ends and the activity of settling down takes over. I often wonder what is it that happens when people move against their will. How do they reconcile to it? The loss, the anguish, the physical effort, and sometimes, the guilt of it.

For instance this cabbie, who has clearly been driven to this city from his village, not speaking the language, with little money to buy things which can ease the pain of relocation. Without love or loved ones. I guess for them it is only hope, only the promise of a better tomorrow, or the feeling of having their back against the wall in a place they called home, a feeling of there being no other choice, which is there to distract from the pain of moving. In his case the general bewilderment would be stronger still, knowing that he is in a city inhabited by movers-on, and a city which was supposed to speak his mother tongue and yet:

The boy who brings him his tea in the morning calls him “Anna”
The people who sit in his cab call him “Boss”
Those who honk past irritably when he snakes his cab through the streets learning the routes call him “Oye Hero”
The women from the dance bars he picks in the early hours of dawn call him “Bhaiyya”
The room he rests his bones in at night is inhabited by people, like him, who don’t speak at all
The only people who speak his language are the cops looking for their bribe, and they call him “Shyane”- not quite the people you’d like to call your own

But then Bombay still welcomes all and sundry, gives them the wherewithal, for each in their own right. Where dog and cat eat in the same litter. Where the city almost always provides for your need, but never quite enough for greed. And where sometimes one person’s needs are forsaken for another’s greed. Yes, that happens too.

But that’s it… I am the happy sort and I don’t want to write about this stuff anymore. And I think to change the script of this page is just too much of an effort. It is unlikely that I will stop blogging altogether. So, full of hope I am starting afresh at the following address: http://smokeringsofmamind.blogspot.com/

Woody Allen (Annie Hal Opening Lines):

"There's an old joke. Uhm, two elderly women are at a Catskill Mountain resort. And one of 'em says: 'Boy, the food in this place is really terrible.' The other one says: 'Yeah, I know. And such small portions.' Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly..."

A Debate on Democracy

2006-05-15T14:28:00.000+04:00

This post is in reference to the recent move by the Parliament overruling the Supreme Court and deciding to stop demolition of illegal structures in Delhi for a period of one year.

I was appalled to hear the Cabinet Minister for Urban Development declare on national TV that when a majority of people is found breaking the law then we must question the basis of that law itself- or something to that effect.

I found this statement particularly disconcerting for three reasons. First, who decides majority and in which reference set? What is the purpose of having elected representatives and a judiciary, if everything is to be decided on the basis of numbers? And finally what sort of a precedent is the Parliament setting by this step?

First who decides majority. I don’t think the traders in Delhi who have unscrupulously gone about defacing the city for decades are in any form of majority in the city- perhaps in certain pockets of Chandni Chowk (and I know what a nightmare it used to be), Moti Nagar and Punjabi Bagh. Just that the trading community in Delhi is all-powerful and have mega clout when it comes to all things important. Whoever has lived in the city (and I have for the first 17 odd years of my life) is witness to the rampant mockery and the scant respect that this particular community has shown for the law of the land in order to pursue their economic greed. Needless to say they have been helped along by an unbelievably corrupt state administration. However, at this point of this essay I am not going to debate the rights and the wrongs of the case. Simply put, to say that they are a majority and their interests cannot be compromised, even if they have been on the wrong side of the law for decades, is such a travesty of justice and of any sense of right and wrong. I mean if you want to determine majority, rely on census statistics. If you want to establish a vote bank, do as you please. Do not challenge our sensibilities.

Next, the issue of having an elected body of representatives. I feel that while every democracy functions through a body of elected representatives, and they are expected to legislate according to the will of the majority, it is a tacit understanding that such a body will possess a vision which will steer the country towards development and progress by exercising its powers even if it is against perceived short –term majority interests. It seems that’s no longer the case in the world’s most populous democracy. And if the majority argument is to be applied uniformly, then first you should pass a legislation overruling reservations, because as a principle, reservation is for minorities and if the subject is put to a national consensus a majority of the population would oppose it. On the other hand, if the reserved categories form a majority in this land, then they have no right to demand the same.

Finally, what sort of a precedent are the Executive and the Parliament setting by passing such a bill. Can we assume that going forward if a section of the population which considers themselves to be a majority can take to the streets and just demand whatever they want- right or wrong? Can numbers justify any wrong doing? Just because a wrong has been prevalent for long enough, it doesn’t make it right. And it gives no government any authority legitimize decades of wrong doing. If yes, why have the police, why the judiciary and why at all the Parliament? Just let people muster a majority, take to the streets, come and cry on national TV, and do as they please, and just be a bully. How different is it from the days in our schools when a big fat “lala” fucker would flex his muscles and come and warn the rest to stay away from that new hot chick on campus? And just because something wrong is going on for decades, why should the Parliament just legitimize it by a ruling? I mean if your justification is loss of livelihood for thousands, then for the same reason shouldn’t we just exist alongside slums, no road widening projects, no environmental laws etc. etc. Just do the wrong, but make sure you do it for long enough, and that you get enough people in the boat, and then make sure that when the law comes calling you have a sickly looking wife, mother and kids to put in front of a TV camera to make a livelihood case out of it. And oh yes, all this assumes that you are Mr. Moneybags to begin with.

I think I should add here that I am not against public demonstrations, and taking to the streets. Hey, I am a Bengali- its in my blood (Inquilab Zindabad!). But I do possess a deep sense of right and wrong. And this time I think the people are wrong in trying to arm-twist the government into passing such legislation.

Other disturbing things… Docs got bashed up on the streets of Bombay. What a pity. Sometimes I feel bad for these people. They have a thankless job- and they cannot even protest. But the way they have held fort in this entire campaign is worthy of praise. All the roads that lead to the lane on which I live have been blocked off indefinitely for repairs. All except one. And that is a one way in the wrong direction. I think our state administration sucks big time. And I think we should not be paying taxes, rather be paid by the government to live in this country. But to quote GNR- “Who gives a fuck about your problem anyway, T.O.?”

And among other things this weekend I had plenty of time to think about what’s happening and what’s not in my life. Basically, I realized that there is too little to ponder and 48 hours is too long a time for it. Most people my age have wives, a few children. Housing problems, fights with spouses, hospital bills, weekend shopping lists, cars to fix. I have no wife to appease, no known kids, been living in the same house for 4 years and don’t intend to move unless thrown out, a recently attested near perfect health (Thank God for that!). I do no shopping though I did try this time around, my car just rots downstairs- just a calm peaceful quiet existence- a slient bubble floating 0n a sea of noise. That’s it.

Alive and Kicking

2006-05-10T14:46:00.000+04:00

we spoke.
i was inebriated
you were well...
the usual pleasantries
the mindless banter
the usual cribs
about not writing
not calling. Not whatever
(Friday Night Nothings)

except...
Your interview was
The beginning of a meaning
In your new life- and of
Utmost Importance

and another revelation
however, mild
that you now read
THIS BLOG
the word was just "Yep"
but I am sure I felt
your moist fingertips caress
my face, and stoke
smokerings of my mind

And now when I post anything which has even an oblique reference to you, I am reminded of a song from my childhood-

“Bhalo Achhi, Bhalo Theko; Aaakasher Thikanaye Chhiti lekho”

Translated from Bengali-

(No, I know what happened when I tried being babelfish last time around.)

Just.

For you:

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But be, as you have been, my happiness... Randall Jarell (1914-1965)
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Those Were the Days my Friend…

2006-05-04T16:47:00.000+04:00

I was at dinner with a client last evening when I spotted Bush. She was in the middle of an animated discussion, which she seemed to carry on single-handedly, leaving little room for other to participate in. Her hands seemed to have a will of their own, and regularly moved up to push her unruly hair back. Some things never change. Not even over a period of 15 years.

I walked across, the hug, the warmth, that smile, that look in her eyes. It was a giveaway. I walked back. There were no promises of meeting soon, no exchange of numbers. We always had those. In fact we hardly spoke. “Bush…”, I said softly. “T.O (or my real name)”, she exclaimed. Not even the civil exchange of introductions. It attaches a certain importance to a person, when you display such feelings, but refuse to share his identity with others on your table. For the rest of the evening, I kept looking at her from time to time, catching her glance and a warm smile, every now and then.

Circa 1991- New Delhi. Bush, PG, Dingo, Sing Sing, Poorvi and me- used to hang out together in school and outside. I was dating PG, but (as I sat listening to inane quasi-business chat) I realized that surprisingly, it seemed to be the least significant memory I have of those years. That year the six of us had landed in the same section in our school, and somehow drifted towards each other. Around the same time, most of us had, to the annoyance of the nerd herd, emerged from relative academic obscurity. And we weren’t even academically inclined. While every toher one in the top ten in the class knew exactly what they wanted to study after school (in those days it was either engineering or medicine) and where they wanted to do it, our foresight extended only to plans for the next weekend. And what weekends we had. Once she took it PG didn’t budge from her rank, Dingo not far behind, Bush and me, emerged every now and then as and when we felt like. Poorvi could make boys pee with her looks, while Sing Sing had half the school’s pubescent women lusting after him. We did all the school things together, and then some out of it too.

We shared:
Homework, class notes
The Backbenches; lunch-boxes
(Which were never eaten during the lunch break)
Running away from school, bunking classes
Front row movies at Priya

Five shows of JJWS at Uphaar

(before it went up in flames)
Cracking tests- even cogging
Excursions, long cycling trips
Diwali Melas, Holi Colours

Window-shopping at CP, Def Col, South Ex
Limited pocket money
Pizzas and Hot Chocolate Fudge at Nirula’s
Lazing by the pool at DSOI

(Choking over) The first puff of a cigarette

(Actually PG and Bush didn't -

all they did was shake their heads in disbelief)

The first Beer. Over Biryani at Dingo's

And other teen things that were in vogue those year

Cut to the present. Sports Bar, Lower Parel, Bombay. 2006.

Smoke rings form and dissolve. Much like the memories from those days. I know that Bush and I have lived in the same city for the last three years or so. So does she. We have each others’ numbers, but never get in touch. We always meet by chance, in bars, shopping malls and theatres. I guess there is a tacit attempt to keep them just that. Chance encounters. I guess our current lives are so irreversibly altered, that there is little point in doing things otherwise. That is one thing about childhood memories- they seem so rare and precious that you want to remember them just that way and not let the complications of your adult life distort them in any fashion.

But every time we bump into each other, I realize what a wonderful person she is and how little she has changed over the years. Part of it is because we meet like Thirteen-year olds and part as Seventeen.

And ah, she almost never fails to mention, that when we first knew each other, I was shorter than her. And wore knickers to school.

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

Lalala lah lala, lalala lah lala

Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.

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

In "D" Company

2006-05-02T13:59:00.000+04:00

I think my parents are the only people I know who:

- Chastise their 29 and 31 year wards olds in public
- Travel by train as a rule
- Don’t use an air-conditioner (Eeeesh!!!)
- Don’t drop their kid (note the use of the word) to the airport
- Don’t pack three bags of goodies for their little boy when he leaves home
- Whose deep understanding of the English language excludes the expression “Generation Gap”

The consequence of the above is that when at that home I just sulk in silence.

Needless to say, I had been home to Delhi this Sunday. It was green, sunless and sweaty. My niece, all of 5 months (62cms and 4.95 kgs) had to be fed her first morsel of solid food. And as per regulations, the act had to be performed by yours truly. Delhi was hot beyond words, and I was made wear too many clothes (Maa: No shorts!!! Get out of that immediately. Me: Hey… I am 29- can’t drop my shorts in front of women. Maa: Yes, but you can still be spanked in public). In spite of whatever my parents think, I’ve executed my share of family duties for the fiscal year 2006-07.

The mere thought of having to act responsibly through all of Sunday was enough to make Friday and Saturday three pub nights. Unfortunately, everything seemed to shut early on Saturday, and so we hit upon my wonderfully stocked cellar. We sat up all night (I figured long back that at home, I am a bottomless pit when it comes to drinking). I spent most of the night waking up the neighbors, dancing, "singing and cursing– loudly and badly", lusting and then much, much later, marriage counseling! Once high, I am The Authority on almost anything. At some point of time, I even recall lecturing a certain lady on the virtues of paid sex vis-à-vis loveless sex. Wow!

Nu and Viper moved back to HK this weekend. M moves to US of A on the next. That is a disturbing sign. Everyone I know seems to be running away from this place. The Shack also seems all run down and out of sorts. I am really peeved.

But on the brighter side I now have “D” Company

What can I write about a person who dozes off every time I speak to her?

Most of our conversations are carried out late at night (post 11PM). The reason for that is not because she is the only one awake at that hour (ironically, I am told so is Ms. P, but not another word about her today), but because till recently our chats would be quite enjoyable, ending with the customary “Good Night”. Now they end with “zzzz.” Anyway!

D has been a real find. I had heard of her through a common friend couple of years back, and then met a her a few of months ago, over a lunch or something, to discover that all this while she had been tucked away in a cubicle, a floor below mine. Last few weeks or so, somehow (one never knows how) encounters became frequent, and I realized that I find her nice to great at most times. She has her moods, but then who doesn’t?

But it seems she doesn’t speak to single Bengali men when her Mom is around. Wonder why.

I am so tempted to write about the latest Mandal –related events. The scenes of students protesting at India Gate bring back memories (from my own “youth”, and not from Rang De Basanti). But I shall only say this:

Heard on TV some female Bong sociologist, wearing this condescending smile and a nine-yard sari and heavy lipstick, support the move citing that OBCs need reservation as most entrance exams are held in English. China and Russia (we are down to comparing ourselves with a defaulting nation) can manage in their mother tongue, why can’t we. Yes, sure Madam. Lets have CAT, JEE and the many PMTs in the 15 national languages and budget 1-year for the process. Next lets have the curriculum in those institutes in 15 languages, and since these people, by now, have no incentive to learn English anyway, why not have all companies where they are employed work in those multiple languages. Needless to say that there will be a backlash from those proficient in the dialects only, but they that later. One needs something to keep politicians busy. But before we do that, can you please name all the bones of the vertebral column in Bengali? If people cannot be taught English in 12 years of schooling, they can hardly grasp Anatomy, Biochemistry and Physiology in the first 18 months of MBBS. Like I have always maintained – reservation is a bad excuse for poor governance.

Lost in Translation

2006-04-24T06:51:00.000+04:00

THE CONTENTS OF THIS POST HAVE BEEN DELETED COZ IT READS REALLY BAD!!! "UGH! UGH! "

An Uncorrelated Regression

2006-04-21T18:58:00.000+04:00

Read in the papers today that courier companies are likely to be barred from carrying letters which weigh less than 300gms. This is in order to promote the postal service, which is reeling from the loss of corporate and personal business. Incidentally, the Speed Post has for some time been advertised as the “Government’s own courier service”. Perhaps, they will pull back those ads, just in order to avoid confusion.

Some time back I wrote a rather verbose and laborious post on reservations in the IIM. (And then Anonym shatterred my random illusions of "writing well", by asking me to clarify certain things- I mean I wrote 2000 words and still left room for explanations!) Meanwhile, CII is urging the government not to go ahead with a certain social reform move, which includes job reservations in the private sector. Makes me wonder what next.

Are we regressing as a society and a country? Of course these two issues are uncorrelated, and it would be pointless to read between the lines. Which is precisely why I am doing it.

Consider, the Narmada Bachao Andolan- I really feel very strongly for the people who’ve had to be relocated- and think the issue should be handled sensitively and efficiently, but I am very clear that economic development almost always comes at a social price. Politics has had a field day. Courts have washed their hands off the matter saying that the one person who can resolve the imbroglio is the Prime Minister, who now seems like a politician who once attended a basic course called Economics 101. In my humble opinion, if the world had waited to ensure that each and everyone in Panama had been amicably relocated before starting work on the Canal, ships would still have been going around the Magellan Straits. I mean there will be broken hearts and homes. But the system just has to go on, while making things smooth for the ones affected.

I can only conclude that as a People, we are just pulling the country apart- and not just the politicians. Workers, Intelligentsia, Literati, Page 3, Media- everyone. Highlighting issues is one things, standing in the way of progress is quite another and trivializing it, is the worst. Of course, I am not prophesizing Doomsday. Nothing that bad- and if such things do happen, it will definitely take longer than my lifetime. We will continue to develop, at worst a little slowly.

I can go on but, Sadly…

Someone I was remotely interested in recently, today tells me that these days whatever I write seems rather “dry and tired”. After reading that now, I am in desparate need of some LOVE and AFFECTION! Wonder why? How does one end up needing the TWO? So rest of this post is quite something else. I shall begin by quoting Woody Allen (someone I resort to regularly when faced with such ponderous issues):

Alvy Singer: It was great seeing Annie again and I realized what a terrific person she was and how much fun it was just knowing her and I thought of that old joke, you know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, 'Doc, uh, my brother's crazy, he thinks he's a chicken,' and uh, the doctor says, 'well why don't you turn him in?' And the guy says, 'I would, but I need the eggs.' Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but uh, I guess we keep going through it...because...most of us need the eggs.
- Woody Allen. Annie Hall.

In a fairly inebriated state, I was asked last night whether I’d ever been in love. My interrogator was a friend (he is the category I find really difficult to handle- overly helpful, good at heart, thick in head, and a really bad sense of humour, but more about that later) who’s my age- or nearly, and has been married for five years to the first woman he proposed to. Now, that’s a really difficult question to answer. You obviously know what to say, but the problem lies in addressing the flurry of questions it leads to. A few days back his wife had asked me the same question. I looked away for a bit, then looked at him and said “Yes”. To be consistent between husband and wife. And then it started.

To be honest I have not been in a “full-fledged” relationship lately. I have been mildly interested in some people, but not quite as much to really take it forward. Sometimes I have been snubbed early. Sometimes I have just lost interest. Even in the prime of my youth, it was mostly “In and Out”. Actually, its almost like I have forgotten how it used to be like to be in one. All that I recall is the slightly warm fuzzy feeling. I don’t remember the terrible fights. Nor the incredible highs. Not the frequent walk in the clouds. Not the occasional plunges into the cold vat of sorrow. I guess at the end of it all that remains is the fuzz. After the crests and troughs have been ridden.

And then I began to wonder why is it that we seek relationships? And then I found my answer in the incredible Mr. Allen. Like he says, we NEED the eggs. Sometimes I have wondered about the futility of it all. The irrationality. The craziness. All of it. And then sometimes concluded that being in one makes one a little more human. I mean, what is a lifetime?

I guess a lifetime is about experiences. It’s a compilation of the good and the bad, the high and the low, and what you are left as at the end of each of those. It is a summary of the events in your life and the people who you shared them with. Of course, being in a relationship is an experience in itself, but having said that, it does amplify the effect of any other experience. I alternate between chasing relationships and running away from them, but I have enjoyed every single one I've been in. And then the other memories, good or bad, that I have are more vivid when they have been experienced with someone else. Someone else.

Actually, I think I am going to contradict myself a bit. Every relationship is unique in its own way. It a set of individual experiences, laid out beautifully, like snapshots on the mantelpiece. And they just cannot be compared, cannot ever be replaced. I guess its because of the way people are. I see, and remember, in them little details so specific to each of them that move me and that I miss, and... will always miss. You can never replace anyone, because every person is made of such exquisite specific details.

Too much to think on a Friday night- Tank Up Man!!!

(Sree calls, Hollers, T.O. scampers, shamelessly late)

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Just enough time for a bit of Ghalib-

“Ishq se tabiyat ne zist ka maza paya
dard ki dava payi, dard-be-dava paya"

Response to the M Question

2006-04-12T06:49:00.000+04:00

From an old friend - lost and found after seven years:

"Not married. Still romantically in love with the ex-girlfirend. Tried forgetting. Tried redating. Tried alcohol (lots!) but I'll just wait for her. Of course, there is a chance that the hot place underground might freeze over but...aaahh...such is love, or stupidity. One can never be too sure between the two."

To which my reply was: "Did you try drugs?"

To which there has been no response, yet.

May be I should have written:

" Nothing puts the colour back in seasons and the taste back in food, quite like a new found love" ~ John Green

Thanks to Anonym for this one.

A Reservation to the Policy

2006-04-12T06:45:00.000+04:00

In a minor deviation from the domains of fantasy and the going-ons of my life that occupy my blog space, today I write about the recent developments on reservation. It is fairly serious stuff so I can only offer my apologies to those looking forward to a bit of fun. Also it is going to be very, very long.

My initial reaction on hearing of the move to reserve 27 per cent of seats in institutes of higher education for “Other Backward Classes” was one of disbelief. I was instantly reminded of the year when I for the first and only time in m life taken to the streets to protest against Mandal v 1.00. The year was 1991. I was 13, outraged, affected and endangered by the “developments”. Of course since then things have changed. I am a lot more inert, lackadaisical. My second thought was even if they get through how will they ever manage to clear Quantitative Techniques-1. Nothing matters much, nothing much matters.

This time around however, I realized that my initial reaction had been stupid, and out of place of a man turning thirty later this year. But that later. I am not here to write about the (de)merits of the issue. Enough is going to be said, and some very compelling arguments are likely to be put forth by both sides. First, I shall just write a couple of personal experiences.

I personally know only three persons who availed of the reserved seats and managed to complete their education in a single attempt. And that speaks a lot for a man of 29. None of them were deprived by any means. The first, son of a senior Delhi bureaucrat, joined IIT, D in Computer Engineering. While the temptation must have been great, he realized that he by no means could compete with the demi-gods who populated the benches of that class and within a month quit to join the same course in DCE. Nevertheless, he was smart and broadly intelligent and now works for a top US firm and lives happily with an American wife in Northern California. The second was the son of my Dad’s tribal colleague, who had lived in Delhi all his life. Joined Chemical Engineering in IIT D, went on to work on a Schlumberger oil rig somewhere in the Persian Gulf. The third was an exceptionally bright classmate of mine from my crème-d-la crème public school, who refused to take any chances, produced a fake certificate from her native village collector in Assam, went to IIT D again, and then IIM A and now sells soap in a top-tier FMCG firm. I neither went to IIT D or IIM A and I have nothing against the three. They did well for themselves, and so did I in my own meager ways. I wish them well.

There are those who argue that the reason why most quota students don’t do well in higher education is because the curriculum is in English- a language of the elite in our country, and thus a natural advantage to the general category. For such arguments I shall offer another personal experience. I went to an engineering college in a village in Gujarat with an extremely vernacular set of students. The curriculum was in English and hugely technical at that. I got straight As in all courses that year as the rest of the class spent their time translating class notes to Gujarati. However, the tables were turned very soon, as the rest of the diligent Gujarati class picked up the language through the dint of their hard work. My advantage disappeared and so did my rank. Somehow, I finished second at the end of four years, way behind a guy who had never studied English before he came here, and marginally ahead of another such girl. But I should mention that not one of the guitar swinging, Floyd chanting tribal students managed to get past their first semester courses. Soon they joined the ranks of academic outlaws for the rest of the years I spent there.

But today when I see this subject being discussed on TV in talk shows, I see certain things that I didn’t back then in 199- probably only because my stakes in the matter are much lower. At least, till the same applies to jobs in the private sector. I see the reactions of a predominantly “upper caste” audience to their minority counterparts and am filled with solid self-doubt. We as a generation were taught about India’s glorious history for years at a stretch. We were fed with the greatness of our kings, emperors and freedom fighters. They were stories of valour, greatness, of sacrifice and filled us with pride. The caste system appeared only as a footnote in a boring Civics textbook, and at a time by when we were already heady with our bubbly past. In the college years we were fed with pipe dreams of the Wild West, of a student visa, a Scholarship, and of GRE and GMAT, and dollar salaries after all that.

More recently, we’ve had everyone and their mother telling us the India Shining story. With well-padded pockets, fast cars and air-conditioned homes, who in their right minds has the time to ponder upon issues such as social inequality and injustice- about that footnote from the yesteryears? We were too busy digging our fingers in the sacks of gold, and to spend the money on things we didn’t need fuelled by ads we didn’t really see. About three years back, I cancelled my subscription to the Economic and Political Weekly – my only link to the grass root social reality of the country and with it vanished whatever little remained of my social conscience.

Given this context it is understandable that today’s urban youth considers a move such as this merely divisive and regressive (I don’t entirely disagree with). Unfortunately, its not quite as simple. It is really something else. A decade of arguably superficial prosperity cannot wipe away a millennium of old social framework. Today’s urban and to an extent rural opulence to a great extent serves to distract from India’s dismal political performance. At some point of time, we have to stop looking the other way (yes, yes) and pay up for the actions of generations gone by. The social deprivation, which has been consolidated for a thousand years, cannot be wished away just that like that. Yes, we have established great institutions of learning and industry. Yes, we have at least on paper enforced land reform- actually the implementation bit is true only of West Bengal. Yes, we have great socio-economic reform projects sanctioned. But there remains the implementation dilemma- the problem of access. Reservation is often argued with meritocracy but when 99 per cent of the people who clear the JEE have been to coaching classes to reach there, one must spare a thought for those who have no wherewithal to pay up school fees. One wonders whether they’ll ever be able to cough up the dough for FIITJEE and IMS. Will Dr. Bansal of Kota make an exception for even his own gardener’s son? Which brings me to my next point. That of who are really Backward Class and the entire economic aspect of the issue.

My Mum teaches in a state-run school in New Delhi. Most of her students are extremely poor, not being able to afford even the token two rupees a month school fees. Children of Dhobis, gardeners, rickshaw pullers, vegetable vendors, sweepers and scavengers- the lot. Most of whom are sent to school for the free meals and the wool for the sweaters given once a year. I have never attended any of her classes but given that she was the one responsible our tutelage at home (public school unlike public health is a fun experience); and since me and my sister (a gold medallist onco-surgeon) turned out quite nicely; and since my parents come from the compassionate, hard-working, honest stock I can only assume that she spares no effort at that school. But recently all sixty students in one of her classes failed, among other subjects in mathematics- something my Mum ensured that we took seriously and were good at.

In the witch-hunt that ensued, my very stressed and upset mother insisted that she had no hope in hell to fight the system which sends a child from a school to the nearest scavenging dump or to a far away subzi-mandi. The kind, which misses school for a month to do the housework as their malnourished mother, recovers slowly from her seventh childbirth in a dysfunctional public hospital. Who only gets one meal a day, the one given for free at school. Who has no electricity, and whose father comes home drunk and ensures that there is absolutely no environment or motivation for homework. If this is the situation in the capital of the country, I dread to think about what things must be like elsewhere.

The limited point that I am trying to make in this overtly verbose post is that reservation is hardly the panacea to entangle the mess of our social fabric that any way predates the Dark Ages. However, it definitely is the one that creates maximum electoral impact. It is at best a sexy headline, with no content to back it up. Which is probably why even after close to sixty years of having intensive reservation the poor and the backward remain just where they were- in the dumps. And of course while all other social reform measures are expensive, there need not be any additional budgetary allocation towards reservation. So while such a move serves the purpose of grabbing headlines and votes, the entire political and bureaucratic system can continue lining their pockets from the lavish spend on other irrational social schemes that are supposed to serve to eliminate this inequality. Of course I do have this debatable notion that a long-term solution to India’s caste system fuelled social inequality does not augur well for the future of Indian polity. It basically takes the piss out of the whole thing. Really, I see little future of a resolution if it is left to politicians to sort out this mess. Small question- why doesn’t someone shoot all our politicians in the gut? Social reform is long overdue in our country and will probably remain that way in my lifetime. Especially, because more than anything else caste and inequality have assumed in our country huge political contours.

Nearly fifteen years back I had taken the streets on this matter. I am not sure I would do it again. Today a large OBC section of the audience in an NDTV talk show walked out threatening to settle matters in the streets. Even more worrisome is that one prominent caste leader called Whatsizname, speaks of doing the same thing on national TV- and I see a divide coming up, in our schools, in our colleges and in our workplaces. Perhaps a civil war. But I guess in the end everyone will just get over it and the unreserved category will just work twice as hard, or leave the country and seek fortunes abroad. I will also soon switch channels to watch the Man United and Arsenal game. Man U will go on to win that 2-0. I will forget and so will NDTV and resume their near 24-hour coverage of the Lakme Fashion Week instead. Who cares? After all “Yahan pe toh sab chalta hai- char ke seat mein chhai log baith jayenge. Yeh toh apne khoon mein hain. Thoda aur adjust kar lenge!”

Soul Purpose

2006-04-08T12:22:00.000+04:00

Last night- we spoke. A sleepy me, in bed, (un)dressed to retire. You had just woken up. And for some reason had thought of calling me- perhaps because your reason to be in Jersey City was in Atlanta. My 30 bucks a month caller ID service does not extend to International calls. So I had no choice but to take the call. Could’ve been Buch. Or anyone else.

You spoke: in short sleepy sentences. I responded mostly in grunts: while flipping through inane TV channels; lest words betray more than is intended. But what’s there to hide? You had bared it all- so many years back. In black and white: on a train between Lucerne and Interlaken. And I …

I don’t think you remember the effect your sleepy voice had on me- the slow, sexy drag of syllables; the soft truncation of verbs. Perhaps, you do. 9AM was always early for you- whether in Nepeansea Road or in Jersey City. 11PM was always late for me.

Sooner or later, you will, for sure, get over me. Terminally. So will I. And then, we shall look back and laugh.

Or perhaps I should ask, why does love linger? Why is it that for some people the term “separation” doesn’t apply? Only existence. Or for that matter “the Significant Other”? Just an extension of the Self.

Random Walk Theory

2006-04-07T14:08:00.000+04:00

These days it is not often that I get the time to visit Bandstand at mid-night. It used to be a regular activity a few years back, when AK and CDC used to live close by

First coffee at Reclamation Barista
The stunning shimmer of the moon
The crisp noise of the creased sea surface
The slight breeze making ruffling sounds as it makes its way through the shrubs
The mindless banter of us three,
The useless search for a dustbin - to throw disposable coffee mugs
And some sepia-tinted memories, wafting in and out
Mindlessly, taking turns, at wise-cracks and making smoke rings
All lost with a shrill cop whistle
A long walk back to their house
Winding through Mt. Mary- up hill, down hill
AK on some international call
CDC taking my trip,
Me lusting after her sister.

Breathless.

All that and so much more

Hmmm…

I had forgotten how beautiful it could be.

Last night again- the familiar steps. Thinking alternatively about Sree and the some movie I saw- one making me curiously happy, the other drowning me into a cold vat of sorrow. The joy of belonging, the anguish of loss. It was a long, long walk. There was time for memories, for pondering, for exhilaration, and hope. Everything at once. The breeze was soft, balmy; and my thoughts were painted a hue of the silvery moon. Purple-pink blossoms everywhere. The lazy pre-summer sea, characteristically quiet.

Some random thoughts-
Will I manage to wake up on time tomorrow? RSP has to be the biggest JERK on this planet. Do clones have souls? Bombay is unusually flowery this spring. Why isn’t it always this pleasant? I am definitely not going to class this Sunday. Is it time to head back, yet? Where are all the cops? Perhaps no one comes here any more at this time. Not even jilted lovers. Do I like Sree? Or even Ms. P? Is liking a person, and liking their company the same thing? Will Dollar Yen trade at 115.80 tomorrow?

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.- Charlie Brown

Thinking About the "M" Word

2006-04-01T13:27:00.000+04:00

It Happened One Night

Dedicated bachelor and more "scoundrel" than your average Han Solo, Peter Warne (Clark Gable) talks about his philosophy on love.

Thinking About the "M" Word

Peter Warne: Sure, I've thought about it. Who hasn't? If I could ever meet the right sort of girl. Ahh, where you gonna find her? Somebody that's real, somebody that's alive! They don't come like that way anymore. Have I ever thought about it? Boy, I've even been sucker enough to make plans. You know, I saw an island in the Pacific once, never been able to forget it. That's where I'd like to take her. She'd have to be the sort of a girl who'd ... ohh ... jump in the surf with me, and love it as much as I did. You know, the nights when you and the moon and the water all become one? And you feel you're part of something big and marvelous. That's the only place to live -- where the stars are so close over your head, you feel you could reach up and stir them around. Certainly, I've been thinking about it.

written by Samuel Hopkins Adams & Robert Riskin

I'm a RAINBOW too; I'm a RAINBOW too

2006-03-24T18:32:00.000+04:00

I’ve been humming that line all week. For five days a week, though I might appear to be a boring pinstripe banker- Yes, I do have my colours.

Sometime this week a colleague noticed my apparently receding hairline. While I had been contemplating therapeutic action, those comments just drove me to the nearest drugstore and procure a recent treatment for the same. A man of action!

I finally went for a mandatory medical test and came out with flying colours. Some findings-

I still have a functional liver and a pair of lungs.
Cholesterol- something I had been particularly worried about post my chat with Thumps is ok.
My ECG, though it scared me at first sight, it seems is quite OK.
I remain A-ve. No surprises there.
Weight- I have gained 1 KG. Wow! 51 , and growing (bouncy baby of 29?)

I have decided to add certain other activities to my weekend routine. Current activities are restricted to going out, getting drunk like fucks, fighting, recovering and probably playing cricket or a movie. The latest development is that I have joined a six-Sunday course on film script writing. I was feeling quite tentative about it, and so I told the lady. “I am a banker and that’s what I have been for the last five years or so. I can write and I watch movies. I am not a critic, but can be critical. And of course, I don’t handle criticism too well.” She said, “No problem. Do you have a DVD player at home?” So that was that.

Feeling very Friday… and so I am off for the week.

What a waste…

2006-03-23T15:29:00.000+04:00

…of taxpayers’ (read MY) money. Sonia Gandhi will resign from The Parliament, then resign from some super-powered advisory committee, and then contest elections again. Wow…

Of course, thankfully in a country such as ours, things will never come to such a pass. Some men wearing unhygenic, white hand-towels on their scalp will sit on Dharna (a Indian community squatting festival) outside her residence. Fasts will begin wherein some fat ladies will go on an unplanned and much needed crash diet. Those with higher levels of zeal and political aspirations with try to immolate themselves. Of course, one mustn’t take these creatures loosely, they are the future of Indian politics- that is, if Indian politics has a future. Finally, in the wake of this unprecented and very public display of adulation, The Lady will relent.

Of course, the biggest beneficiary of all this will be The Great Indian Media. Hopefully, NDTV will recycle its news and features every two hours instead of the usual 45 minutes. Or perhaps we can look forward to a few days of this and nothing else on TV.

Truly… It happens only in India.

The Sulk

2006-03-21T16:46:00.000+04:00

My attempts at organising a weekend get-away to a nearby beach have failed miserably because my co-conspirator Nu, after getting me all excited, has invented some excuses. This was the last weekend that we could have done some beaching before the summer sets in. So now, I shall sulk the rest of the evening.

I am really good at organising holidays (takes me about half and hour on the Net and a few phone calls), but feel quite bad when things don't work out.

Some Findings of Note...

2006-03-18T14:17:00.001+04:00

... over lunch with my boss this Saturday afternoon.

1. I might be off to London for a month on "work" sometime later this summer. I'd like that.
2. He knows I blog- but he doesn't quite know what a blog is. I told him its my equivalent of a parallel universe.
3. He thinks I blog on Saturday afternoons only. Now, may be I should change the time zone on the settings tab.

Might as well live

2006-03-17T08:16:00.000+04:00

"Razors pain you
Rivers are damp
Acid stains you
Drugs cause cramps
Guns aren't lawful
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful!
Ya' might as well live!"
- Dorothy Parker

La Dolce Vita

2006-03-16T12:06:00.000+04:00

Relatively quiet Holi this time around. As has been for the last 5 years or so. I distinctly remember the last time I played. It was five years back in school. And what a time we had! Beautiful memories.

Memories… That brings me to the subject of this post. Somewhere along the way, I have come to the conclusion that the way we remember things is the way we want to think of them as. (For instance, in case anyone noticed, my recollections of Ms. P always assume a positive and optimistic shades with scant regard to reality.) The reason I mention it now is because I spent Tuesday night reading A Pale View of Hills. This is the second book by Kazuo Ishiguro that I have read and it has had the very similar effect on me as Never Let Me Go. And of course Remains of the Day, but then I haven’t read the book. The story simmers along, and then hits you like a bucketful of boiling water at the end. It is a very short and stylish book, set in post-war Nagasaki. The description of the city is limited, probably to indicate how little those who survived, wish to remember of the years that followed.

Now, I won’t do a spoiler. It has taken me most of yesterday to interpret the meaning of the book and I have relished every minute of it. There are these absolutely minute details, which are only there at the back of your mind when you read the book, but then fall in place as you sit down to piece it all together. Of course, as was the case with the other book, this one also invokes certain questions, which scream for an answer. The beauty of the language, the surreal symbolism (I thought the crossing of the river sequence was devastatingly brilliant), and the use of the “unreliable narrator” technique … Oops! No more.

What else… I got humped again by Thumps again for not acting fast enough on the “M” thing. I got stared but spared as I stepped out of home in a white T-Shirt on Holi. I must say that kids these days are remarkably well-behaved in this respect. In my days I do not remember offering such mercy. Spoke to Blue Athena- she called after about a six- eight months. I guess it’s the festival spirit. We signed off with the usual promises to meet. Bee called, in the middle of her workday, which of course filled me with insane hopes for a while. Then I saw Ray (literally forced into watching it by TinMan. His exact words were- “I suggest you stop lusting after women for two hours and watch this movie”)- which was brilliant- but only because of the soundtrack. I am not a great fan of biographies- books or films. Other peoples’ lives hold very little interest for me. The only biographies I remember- Gandhi (with DD showing it at least thrice every year, I don’t think my generation had a choice), Iacocca (because I used to assemble cars then) and A Beautiful Mind- which I consider Russell Crowe’s best work till date. Sri has returned from Colombo with a mysterious tropical rash- which I have been curious to find out about, but she won’t tell. Oh, I was also audience to IK’s pecking order theory of women, but I don’t think any of it deserves a mention here.

I have been meaning to write about this spring for a while. The yellow-green treetops are absolutely alluring, but I can’t seem to find the words. Now, how many times have I said that before…

I have been afflicted with a particularly disabling ailment of the alimentary canal, with the result that my diet now is strictly mineral and fluid. This line I read somewhere applies equally to me- I love eating, but food doesn’t love me back.

Waltzing with the Willow

2006-03-13T10:34:00.000+04:00

How many times have you been witness to history being made, and felt pleased about it?

In my 20-odd years of watching the game of cricket, nothing compares, or even comes close to the feast on offer yesterday. In a trail-blazing performance, definitely the best in the history of the game, South Africa romped home to a phenomenal win, with a wicket and a ball to spare, beating Australia’s world-record score of 434. It is an event like this which makes a lifetime of watching the game worthwhile. Those who missed it- you have no idea what you’ve missed. That’s the way- I like it!!!

I saw the Australian innings for a bit, then again revisited to see the Aussies close off in style with 434. At that point of time, I was in no doubt of the outcome of the match. I concluded either SA will vanish under 100 or make in the region of 350 and fail with dignity. Not the type who watches every telecast game of cricket, I flipped channels, sneaked in a short movie, and other regular Sunday chores. I also watched a bit of the SA innings at the start to conclude that the latter was likely. Finally, at the fall of Smith’s wicket I went out for the regulation Sunday walk on Carter Road. When I came back and switched on the TV, Gibbs was belting away mercilessly. Lewis was hapless. And it was match-on in the Bullring. What followed is history.

The day was dotted with records- most number of runs scored in a match, most number of extras in one innings, most number of 4s and 6s … and so on. Surprisingly, the only individual record was the inglorious maximum number of runs off a single bowler. It really shows the true team character of the game. The grounds men were as unforgiving as their countrymen on the pitch. The glow-board flashed Lewis’ achievement and the crowd erupted in glee.

I think the most notable performances were by Ponting, Smith, Gibbs and Boucher. Boucher was amazing- made it look like a piece of cake. His calm I guess saved the day for SA. Ntini’s all-important single off what was otherwise a very good delivery. I had thought that Lee was going to york the fuck out of him- which he did, but our man played late, and chose just the one spot on the field where a single was possible. Spare a thought for Lee- at the end of the Australian innings he left the field unbeaten, definitely feeling the pleasure a job well-done. And found himself in the death again, this time entrusted with the unenviable task of preventing a team on a roll from scoring 7 runs in 6 balls. And then again coming this close to taking the wicket of Ntini and doing the impossible… and giving it all up. And I wonder what would have gone on in the team meeting during the break in the SA dressing room. Probably, something like the speech at the bottom of this post (which incidentally I consider one of the best inspirational rhetorics).

In the end it was the story of a team which decided not to choke, and go the whole hog. A team which put in 200% with their backs against the wall. I can go on, but I think the look on Ponting’s face as he gave away the joint man of the match to Gibbs said it all- no excuses, none of the usual cribs about missed chances and unfortunate umpiring decisions- just the look of a finished man.

I can’t end this post without a mention of the most disgusting piece of news I’ve heard in months. A 52-year old woman is raped in Mumbai. I mean what’s the world coming to? There’s always room for perverts everywhere in the world, but somehow I always hoped that our city was out of all that. Of course, there’s no telling when, if at all justice will be served again. This really, really upset me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Any Given Sunday
screenplay by John Logan and Oliver Stone

Tony D'Amato: I don't know what to say really. Three minutes to the biggest battle of our professional lives, all comes down to today. Now either we heal as a team, or we're gonna crumble. Inch by inch, play by play -- till we're finished. We're in hell right now gentleman. Believe me. And we can stay here, get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back, into the light. We can climb out of hell, one inch at a time.Now I can't do it for you, I'm too old. I look around I see these young faces and I think, I mean, I made every wrong choice a middle aged man can make. I, uh, I pissed away all my money, believe it or not, I chased off anyone who's ever loved me, and lately I can't even stand the face I see in the mirror.

Y'know when you get old in life things get taken from you, I mean that's that's that's part of life. But you only learn that when you start losin' stuff. You find out life's this game of inches, and so is football. Because in either game, life or football, the margin for error is so small, I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don't quite make it, one half second to slow or to fast, you don't quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They're in every break in the game, every minute, every second. On this team we fight for that inch. On this team we tear ourselves and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when we add up all those inches that's going to make the fucking difference between winning and losing. Between livin' and dying. I'll tell you this in any fight it's the guy whose willing to die who's gonna win that inch , and I know that if I'm going to have any life anymore it's because I'm still willin to fight and die for that inch. Because that's what livin is. The six inches in front of your face. Now I can't make you do it. You gotta look at the guy next to you, look into his eyes. Now, I think you're gonna see a guy who will go that inch with you. You're gonna see a guy who will sacrifice himself for this team because he knows when it comes down to it, you're going to do the same for him.That's a team gentlemen and either we heal now as a team or we will die as individuals. That's football guys. That's all it is. Now, What are you going to do?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Company of Ms. P…

2006-03-11T10:50:00.000+04:00

… is desirable and desired, but a rare and much awaited event. Of all the women I have known post-pubescence, she is the one who has intrigued me the most. It is in part due to the circumstances under which we met, but largely due to the way she is. In about the six-eight months I have known her, I might have spoken to her some ten times, met about five, and wondered about a few thousand times. Every time I am anywhere around her, I am sure she figures the obvious awe I am in of her- I almost feel like a school boy in shorts. I think only once have I managed to conduct myself respectably in her presence. On that occasion, I think I was not given a chance to open my mouth as others at the table clamored for her attention. Such is her effect on men… I think Shakespeare said it best:

Age cannot wither, nor
Custom stale. Her infinite variety
Other women cloy.
The appetites they whet
While she makes hungry, where
she satisfies the most

Life can only be good when such meetings with Ms. P occur- like last night. Of course, I think I messed it up again.

I am really happy to get back home early these days. Have burnt about 8 GB of music in the last few days. That’s about 2000 songs. But current favourite – well, TinMan gifted me Shamur. Quite like it. And then I have bought a lot of books too. So go back home, put in a disc, pick up a book and chill... La dolce vita. Till recently, every time I splurged on books I resolved not to buy any more till such time I had read everything that's there in my house. But now I have changed that stance- I tell myself that I shall buy now and read them once I retire. Anyway, with inflation and everything- I should be in the money by the time I get around to reading. The excuses that I think of to justify my weaknesses. Makes one wonder. Currently reading A Pale View of Hills.

Other news- I have been inflicted with a particularly severe attack of Ariboflavinosis. As the name suggests it is caused due to lack of vitamin B but is easily cured. Its most common ailment is an uncomfortable pain that one experiences at the corner of the lips when one yawns. Waiting for it to pass away.

Till then…

===================================================================

We met, and passed, like shadows. - William Wordsworth(The Excursion)

===================================================================

Crash- Why Detroit is so Important to America

2006-03-07T21:08:00.000+04:00

I saw Crash yesterday. I had heard a lot about it, and then the Oscars were announced morning our time and I made up my mind to go and watch it that very evening. I even garnered the company of Sreefor the same. Everyone else had already seen it, and I in my laziness have missed the luxury of hugely familiar company. First, I had to put up with the customary resistance that women always put up the mono-minute they figure out that they’re your last resort. Otherwise it was quite cool.

The movie began well, but ended up looking so affected and contrived that I almost sniggered in contempt. The entire movie had Ocsar written on it. It looked like this director chose the most sensitive topic in the US of A, picked the city which had the largest number of voters in the Academy in the whole world, and went about it. Of course, there was this completely All-American automobile touch to it. "Why do people Crash into each other?" Ridiculous. Then he decided to make the weaklings in the audience soft with emotion, and went for the jugular.

The audience was even better- some of the really dark moments were heartily laughed at. For instance, when the cop’s dad can’t sleep or pee because of his infection, people around me were actually laughing. What nonsense. I read on Uma’s blog this post on Maxim. I can now understand what kind of an audience caters to that. People have such a misplaced sense of humour. Quite morbid. Then on the way out, everyone had been inflicted with the disease of being nice, and well looked all thoughtful and moved. You could see people shaking their heads in disbelief and nodding at the same time appreciation. Wow!

I am not against "feel-good, do-good" movies, but don't push it down my throat puhleeeseee...

Thankfully, Sree had exactly the same thoughts on the movie as me. It was quite easy afterwards…

Ziddiii.....

2006-02-28T12:34:00.000+04:00

Found this while browsing: http://www.intach.org/pdf/DelhiHeritageWalk.pdf
Interesting

My colleague (and friend) Chitkoo has quit a "relatively lucrative" career in investment banking to start an adventure tourism company. Some food for thought.

In the meantime just...

Rubaroo

aye saala
abhi abhi huaa yaqeen
ki aag hai mujh mein kahi
hui subaah main chal gaya
suraj ko main nigal gaya
ruu-ba-ruu roshni heyy - 2

jo gumshuda-sa khwaab tha
voh mil gaya voh khil gaya
uulon hathaa pighal gaya
kichhaa kichhaa machal gaya
sitaar mein badal gaya
ruu-ba-ruu roshni heyy - 2

(dhuaan chhataa khula gagan mera
nayi dagar naya safar mera
jo ban sake tu hamsafar mera
nazar mila zara) - 2

aandhiyon se jaghad rahi hai lau meri
ab mashaalon si bhad rahi hai lau meri
naamo nishaan rahe na rahe
ye kaaravaan rahe na rahe
ujaale mein pee gaya
roshan huaa jee gaya
kyon sehte rahe
ruu-ba-ruu roshni heyy - 2

dhuaan chhataa khula gagan mera
nayi dagar naya safar mera
jo ban sake tu hamsafar mera
nazar mila zara
ruu-ba-ruu roshni heyy - 2

aye saala - 4

Sree is house-hunting, but I don't think she'll ever find anything. She PGs on Marine Drive, but is looking for a better house , or rather a house in Bandra. While I don't think that living in a PG is quite it, I don't think she'll ever get around to living in Bandra after Marine Drive. The commute wuill kill her, and so will the place in egenral. Of course, I try to keep her hopeful, coz, as long as she is looking I will frequently find good company for otherwise dull Sunday lunches. Though she can be irritating at times, her company overall is quite a pleasure.

Weekend Findings

2006-02-27T16:04:00.000+04:00

The World Is Not Against You- It Is Indifferent.

The above sentence was intended at unpublished authors. Some people use it more loosely. As did someone this weekend. I don’t know whether I like indifference in people. Unfortunately, I have limited chances to find out. People tend to react strongly to me. Too strongly. And my reactions to them are most often quite mild.

Hence, T.O is not against you, he’s indifferent.

This is what someone told a friend, loud enough so I could hear, on Friday night- in a slightly inebriated state. At that time, I was Outside the Shack. Smashed. And NASTY. Even by my standards.

Things of note this weekend. Bought a kilo of mutton biryani – that’s one-kilo mutton in rice. For AD’s party. Attendance was thin. So ended up eating quite a bit. It was heavenly and I just couldn’t stop eating for a while. There was little else to do. I was outnumbered eight (media/ entertainment) to one (investment banker). For some time I tried to follow the conversation. Soon the only parts which could distract me from my Old Monk and Mutton Biryani were the references to whose doing who. I have always been a great believer of vicarious pleasure. Or jealousy.

Was made to talk to a "prospect" on Saturday morning. Somehow managed to have a sensible chat- after a heavy dose of Alka-Seltzers. Three-fourths of the talk-time was spent cribbing about a certain common client. She in an agency, me in the Bank. Wasn’t too bad. Actually, been in sales too long- can have a half hour chat with almost anyone. As long as we speak a common language. Was asked, again, whether I could speak Bengali. Said:“Bolte, podte, likhte paadi- kintu podte anek shomoy lage, jaa likhi taa keo podte pade naa aar onno karo hathe lekha podte paadi na”. Delivered this sentence in chaste Bengali. Without halting.

Later, Hemu and I went shopping. Discovered to our respective dismay that Levis no longer made 501s in sizes 38 and 28.

Spent Sunday morning walking around in Bandra. No cricket this time. Walking, thinking and talking to myself, I came to the conclusion. That the Bandra I live in is a shadow of the Bandra I loved when I moved here five years back. When the traffic from work was not so bad. When fewer roads were dug up- lesser one-ways. There were fewer options, and also were fewer new faces. And strangers who were there were just as likely to be sitting (please note) next to me in Toto’s or in the morning local train to Churchgate. When Lotus House Books was a regular haunt- after RV and I spent about six months trying to find it. Danai was typically with Moods. To be followed by Canara Bar. Precious Sunday afternoons spent bitching about the Bank. Softened to submission by Old Monk and/ or weed, pondering what it was that went into the Bandra water that made the women so desirable- behenchod, paani mein kuchh hai. Of course, when I was younger and more tolerant, less judgmental blah, blah, blah!!! (Moods- in the seven-sigma event that you’re reading this, I miss you too.) I think I should move to town. Some building near the sea. So does Debbie. With a swimming pool.

The evening was particularly hopeless. First, had an argument with Debbie on gay flicks in general and Brokeback Mountain in particular. To make things worse, I tried to explain my stand in these matters. Spent the next few hours in Viper’s place, where I burnt music while his Mom tried matchmaking for me (bio-data hain kya?). I laughed through the discussions knowing that both her sons have arranged their own marriages. About 8GB of music - which later didn’t play on my systems at home. Hell!!! In spite of a university rank in engineering, I have neither luck nor knack for gadgets and technology. Wandered off to watch a play near Kala Ghoda- Nu, Viper and me. No tickets. Went to sit and browse at Cha Bar. Again, no luck. Ended up buying books I didn’t really want- the power of the following combination of letters- SALE. FYI, the count of unread books at home is 31. Tried Inox, to watch a movie- nothing worthwhile at that moment (Mixed Doubles?). In sheer desperation went to Ruby Tuesday- the worst decision of the day. All evening the mono-minute a decision had been made- Nu seemed to have an alternative. So when she began to moan and groan that Pizzeria would’ve been a better alternative, I just snapped at her- something I haven’t done in a while- for no apparent reason. Kept drinking beer through the day and felt really weird over dinner with Angie and Co. Somewhat sick. They tried to talk me into a cholesterol test. Insisting that since my consumption didn’t show up around my waist (I have not grown out of a trouser in ten years), it must definitely be piling up in my nicotine constricted arteries. Tall ask. Thumps disclosed he has Triglycerides. Whatever that is. Seriously.

Slept. Fitfully.

The English Patients

2006-02-22T16:50:00.000+04:00

I am not a student of history, albeit I tend to be slightly fascinated by it at times. Whatever little I read in school is now almost subterranean for me. Consequently, I am unable to really figure out why India was colonized by Brits and we left with such a Victorian hangover.

The reason why I mention it now is that over the last year or so, I have stumbled over a treasure trove of European (or Latin American, Iranian etc etc.) cinema. And I have fallen in love many times over, with the brilliance on display. Only if I could understand the languages in which they were made. Being a veteran of DVD movies, I do realize that the sub-titles are never as accurate as the original screenplay. Since my involvement with Hollywood predates any other by at least a couple of decades, I do notice at times that the movies I stumble upon in French, Spanish or Italian have sometimes been re-made in Hollywood and the two are just worlds apart. For instance, whoever has seen Wicker Park and L’ Apartment would know what I am talking about (of course in this instance it helps that Monica Belucci was so much better looking).

Of course not to say that good films are not made in Hollywood. I even don’t think that my all-time favorites will ever be in a language other than English. There are many memorable films which have come out of their studios, I just think that others are a lot more experimental in their approach towards film-making. In many cases they have made me think longer than any Holly production. They don’t have to be wonderful movies, or even hugely memorable. Just interesting and fresh. Amelie, Maria Full of Grace Motorcyle Diaires, Cinema Paradiso, Three Colours, Decalogue, Jeux d’enfants, Two Women and so many others. The best part is that most of these movies don’t even come recommended. I just find them lying around in a neglected corner of my suppliers shop. It is like you just put in a disc, not knowing what to expect and two hours later, you’re a slightly changed person. Even the women are so much better looking. There definately is a culture thing as well- I mean a society in which menage-a-trois is a part of the regular vocabulary has to be more interesting than others. Of course I am sure such unbridled experimentation also leads to some disasters (IK- are you reading???)- and I have been subject to some of them, but on an average I have been lucky.

The same of course is true also of English independent cinema (Before Sunrise/ Sunset), but well that’s the way it is supposed be.

Avoid VD

2006-02-15T06:36:00.000+04:00

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mindwritten by Charlie Kaufman

Joel: Random Thoughts, for Valentines day, 2004. The day's a holiday invented by greeting card companies, to make people feel like crap. I ditched work today. Took a train out to Montauk. I don't know why. I'm not an impulsive person. I guess I just woke up in a funk this morning. I have to get my car fixed. "Hi Sydney? It's Joel. Listen, I don't feel very well today. No. Food poisoning I think." It's goddamned freezing on this beach! Montauk in February. Brilliant, Joel. (referring to his sketchbook/journal) Pages are ripped out, don't remember doing that. It appears this is my first entry in two years. Sand is overrated. It's just tiny little rocks. If only I could meet someone new. I guess my chances of that are somewhat diminished, seeing as I'm incapable of making eye contact with a woman I don't know. Maybe I should get back together with Naomi. She was nice, nice is good. She loved me. Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?

More Movies...

2006-01-30T12:28:00.000+04:00

I saw Under the Tuscan Sun yesterday. It came recommended... And I can imagine why women would like it so much. The idea that no man is indispensible in the life of a woman must have its charms. Love is fungible. Frankly, I was not too impressed by the plot/ storyline/ characters etc- except for the fact that it happened to someone in real life. Of course, the cinmatography is so cool. Lovely Italian countryside- I had forgotten how beautiful it was. Just wondering- do women handle divorce/ infidelity better than men?

I had a movie heavy weekend. Most of my regular drinking buddies were out of town, so I just clung to various groups of people who were around. Saw Narnia, Rang De Basanti, and then Tuscan late last night.

I thought Rang De was really good. And not just for the reasons that people seem to like it for. Of course, the first half is really really cool. It brings back beautiful memories of Delhi - especially since it is mostly shot right next to my school of 12 years . The production quality is awesome, locations brilliant, the switches from the sepia to colour I think are smartly handled, the use of foreshadowing is also quite cool- albeit a bit overdone. The end was desparately concocted, but I frankly don't see any other manner which could have satisfied the audience. And then of course, at the end I left the hall thinking What the hell I am doing with my life... And that's something I haven't felt in a long time after a movie (may be Hazaaron...).

Narnia was ok. It felt like watching LOTR which came in a white box reading for under 11 year olds. I think I need to do NZ sooner rather than later. Saw it with a friend whose been there once and wants to go again.

Movie Recommendation of the Week

2006-01-23T06:27:00.000+04:00

Saw Closer. Strongly recommend it. A bold and different perspective on relationships. A sensitive treatment to love and sex- and the singularity of the two. Of course, you have to be in a certain frame of mind to decipher it. And don't miss the track which plays while the credits roll-

Artist: Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan Lyrics
Song: The Blower's Daughter Lyrics

And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?

I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new

Message in a Bottle

2006-01-14T12:21:00.001+04:00

Don’t smoke.

If I had to offer one piece of advice of any consequence or reliability to the young, it would be don’t smoke. Or smoke, but do it with the knowledge that chances are that you will be doing it for a long, long time to come. A cigarette is not an easy companion to get rid of, and many have kicked the bucket before kicking the habit. And yes, it is not about mental fiber.

Find new ways to feel good about yourself. Take up a hobby, join acting classes, read Dilbert. Do the daily Crossword- whatever. As you grow older you’ll realize that it is increasingly difficult to hit a high with the old tricks. Buy presents for yourself.

At work and life otherwise, remember that it is important to snatch small wins. Big deals will happen, but don’t ignore the small ones. At the end of the year you will realize that in summary, the small things that have made you happy, stack-up quite nicely.

It is perfectly ok if you don’t plan in advance. It is even ok not to know your next move most of the time. But try not to procrastinate. Of all the characteristics of the human race, procrastination is the most innocuous evil.

Dream. Dream of a house, a family, of owning all the music you could ever want. Dream of driving along the Old Silk Route. But do something about at least some of your dreams while you still can. The worst thing you can do to yourself is to have all these dreams, and rush through life, end up at 70, with all the time in the world and no wherewithal to do anything about it.

Do well at work, or do whatever you need to, to have the money. Money is important. It is the sixth sense without which the other five are incomplete. Without money no one is ever going to be around you for long enough. They might like you, even love, but at the end of the day, there has to be bread on the kitchen shelves and milk in the fridge.

Don't hesitate to change professions to make sure that you continue doing what you like. But never ever settle for a pay cut.

Dress well. It is especially important to dress well if you do not possess the looks. A good suit can open doors. A smart tie can get you a date.

Write. Even if no one is reading, write. Write your thoughts, your dreams. Write about the girl next door, the crack in your bedroom wall. Write whatever you feel like, but write. And after you’ve written, keep a copy. At leisure, read what you wrote six months back.

Find ways to be at peace with yourself, by yourself. It is the best thing you can gift yourself. Sooner or later, your friends will get married, have kids, and may be so will you. But unless you’re comfortable being with yourself, no one else is going to be happy being around you. Be your own inspiration.

Give marriage a chance, or at least long-term companionship. Like speech, commitment is a gift given only to human kind.

Respect age, respect experience. The most efficient model to success is to learn from others’ experiences. Be around people with experience. Keep good company.

Don’t resist change. Don’t resist temptation either. People bring experiences- don’t shy away from them. Don’t be afraid of making new friends, even if they’re not of your age. And yes, have a special place for friends from the opposite sex- they lend you a perspective that not any number of people of your own sex can ever substitute. Whatever you do, try and be nice to people.

Enjoy your vices for the occasions that caused you into them, and not for the vice itself. For instance, drinking with clients is business, drinking with friends is fun. Drinking alone is a disaster.

Procreate if you must, but do it before you’re 32. This will ensure that before you’re into your fifties, your kids will be out of their teens and are packed off to university. Remember, kids are a negative carry trade. Life is all downhill after you have one. If you don’t want them, always use protection. It has other benefits, but avoiding accidental conception is the most vital one. Be responsible in this respect.

Don’t be afraid of saying the three magic words. Most people like the sound of it. If it works, you’re in a for a cracker, if it doesn’t, its just some wasted breath. Relish and respect the precious few connections.

Hold on to people you love, but don’t be clingy. People like being loved, so do you. People hate being cornered in a relationship, and so do you. Learn to forgive in a relationship, but learn not to forget. When you’re 23 you think you’ll always meet people you’ll connect with. But when you’re 32, you’ll find it is not so.

While everything in this world happens for a reason, try not to find one every time. Realize that some reasons are best left to themselves: enjoy the moment. Live for it.

At the end of it all, don’t smoke.

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I think I am going through a Mary Schmich phase. Wonder why- I can’t even pronounce her last name. So I decided to try out some of the things she suggests that every one should try doing. Consider this:

“Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who'd rather be Rollerblading. Most of us, alas, will never be invited to sow our words of wisdom among an audience of caps and gowns, but there's no reason we can't entertain ourselves by composing a Guide to Life for Graduates.

I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my attempt.”

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

Ah yes, I smoke.

Thanks Mary Schmich!

2006-01-12T19:33:00.000+04:00

After the Sunscreen episode I have begun reading more of Mary Schmich. Her page in The Chicago Tribune is a good place to hang out for her writings. There are articles with interesting titles such as "Everything that comes in pairs is destined to become single"- a story on the cold weather in Chicago and her ordeal with gloves. Apart from her regular columns over the years, the page also has a collection of her stories- I don't know why is it that they are called stories in any case, because they don't really tell a tale. I liked most of what she has to write, but this one story I read recently has caught my fancy, and has made me think on busy as hell Thursday.

The story is titled- Vivid memories light way home for Christmas ghosts. The basic theme is summed up in the following paragraph-

"The spirits of the absent guests always remind me that Christmas is never just one Christmas. It is the sum of all the Christmases you've known and all the people who have inhabited them.

Perhaps more than any other day, Christmas is the measure of passing time, the collective clock by which we count out our lives. It's a mutating event anchored in unchanging rituals. New characters join any family's cast--new spouses, babies, lovers--but the old cast is still clattering around in the wings."

On reading this story, I felt strangely nostalgic, about that one annual ritual that we Bengalis, even those in exile , celebrate quite fervently. It is called Durga Puja- and for us it the most prominent festival of the year.

I have very vivid recollections of Puja- spent with family, friends, neighbours, and other close ones. Puja has very different memories for me, at various ages.

At the age of 5, holding my dad's hand, and being taken from one festival ground to the other, sometimes in awe, some times in fear, being scolded at for various offences, mostly lack of attention and obedience. The euphoria then was with the new clothes, of not having to go to school. The fear, was in the crowds.

At the age of 12, when I was first handed over responsibilities, at the local festival ground to distribute fruits for each of the three days. New clothes became less important- the new found recognition was more than enough. There were women to impress, but not with appearances- 12 year olds can rarely impress girls of their age with their looks- such is the rule of nature. The euphoria was in the responsibility, the fear was of anonymity.

At 15, responsibilities multiplied, and so did the hormone levels. A wild stubble dominated my face, and of those around me. All the guys I knew were ugly, all the girls enormously pretty. I remember doing the first stage appearance, bringing the goddess home, and then taking it away for immersion. The joy was in the completion of a job well-done, the fear was a failure in front of the girls.

At 17, the joy was at finding a Puja close to your engineering college hostel, the fear was of not being at home for it, and knowing probably for ever. Maa calling, in tears, to say that this is your first Puja away from home.

At 29, the joy is finding the rare few Bengalis to round up to do the rounds of festival grounds in Bombay, the fear, is of knowing that your worst fears at 19 were probably true. Maa calling to say that that ... that yes, it is your 12th one away straight, and not bothering to shed tears.

The Sunscreen Song

2006-01-02T18:11:00.000+04:00

A bit of history from http://www.bondon.com/sunscreen_song.html

The Sun Screen Song

One of my favorite songs, is commonly referred to as "The Sunscreen Song". It is what sounds like a commencement speech, set to music. In fact it is not a real commencement speech (though it should be!), but rather a column that appeared in the Chicago Tribune on June 1, 1997 entitled "ADVICE, LIKE YOUTH, PROBABLY JUST WASTED ON THE YOUNG" by staff writer Mary Schmich.

Sometime around Thursday, July 31, 1997, Mary's article found it's way onto the internet in the form of an email hoax, claiming to be the 1997 commencement address of Kurt Vonnegut to MIT grads. The real address that year was actually delivered by U.N. Secretary General Kofi Annan on June 5. You can find it posted on MIT's website.

A year later, the email re-circulated claiming to be Kurt's commencement address to the Class of 1998!

The email caught the attention of Australian film director Baz Luhrmann, who is best known for two films — "Strictly Ballroom," about competitive dancing, and a 1996 remake of "Romeo and Juliet," starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes.

Luhrmann eventually tracked the source of the speech to Schmich, and contacted Chicago Tribune management to buy the rights to the words to turn it into a song. He took Quindon Tarver's "Everybody's Free (to Feel Good)" song, remixed it, and hired Sydney actor Lee Perry to read Schmich's "speech". The end result became the seven-minute long "Sunscreen Song".

The song received heavy airplay from American radio stations nationwide after KNRK in Portland aired an edited (about 4 1/2 minute) version in the spring of 1999 -- about the time of graduation that year. According to Luhrmann's label, Capitol Records, it became the most requested song on radio morning shows in Atlanta and Philadelphia

Happy 2006!!!

2006-01-02T09:19:00.000+04:00

Car radio is a wonderful thing- discovered this yesterday while driving on the Pune Expressway, returning from the PARTY! So it becomes, the theme for 2006.

The lyrics to Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen, by Mary Schmich:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair for by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

Again...

2005-12-24T19:59:00.000+04:00

IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER

I'd dare to make more mistakes next time.
I'd relax, I would limber up.
I would be sillier than
I have been this trip.
I would take fewer things seriously.
I would take more chances.
I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.
I would eat more ice cream and less beans.
I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but
I'd have fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I'm one of those people who live sensibly
and sanely hour after hour, day after day.
Oh, I've had my moments,
And if I had it to do over again,
I'd have more of them.
In fact, I'd try to have nothing else.
Just moments, one after another,
instead of living so many years ahead of each day.
I've been one of those people who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer, a hot water bottle,
a raincoatand a parachute.
If I had to do it again,
I would travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over,
I would start barefoot earlier in the spring
and stay that way later in the fall.
I would go to more dances.
I would ride more merry-go-rounds.
I would pick more daisies.

Nadine Stair,85 years old =============================================================

It is said that this poem was written by Nadine Stair at the age of 85. Looking back on her life, she came to realize that the times she enjoyed the most were spent in the simplest ways. And so she wrote what she would do if she had her life to live over. It opened my eyes. It's so easy to get caught up in the rush of everyday life in the race for position and possessions that we quickly forget what really makes us content.

Missed Connections

2005-12-19T12:42:00.000+04:00

Heard this song on car radio yesterday... Been humming ever since.

Sabse peeche hum khade - Silk Route O.S.T.- Let's Enjoy

Zara nazar utha ke deeeekho
Baitthe hain hum yahin
bekhabar mujhse kyun ho
Itne bure bhi hum nahi ....

zamane ki baaton mein uljho na
Hai yeh aasan jan-na
khud se jo agar tum poochho
Hai hum tumhare key nahin

Teri aankhon ka jaadu
poori duniya pe hai
duniya ki is bheed mein
sabse peechhe hum khade

Mehfilain aayi aur gayi
log aaye or gaye
tum jo aaj aaye ho
dil mein ho bas gaye

Muskura ke baat taalo na
miloge fir jo tum kahin
dekhna yahi kahoge
itne bure they hum nahin

Teri aankhon ka jaadu
poori duniya pe hai
duniya ki is bheed mein
sabse peechhe hum khade

===================================================================

One of the more interesting web pages that I have come across in recent times, is Craig’s List (http://www.craigslist.org/). While there are links to New York, Penn and LA, the default page that opens is the Frisco Bay Area. Apart from being a regular regional site for listings, personals etc, the section that caught my fancy is the one called Missed Connections.

Missed Connections… is all about chance sightings in trains, bars and hotels, with a delayed reaction; some writings read on random blogs and comments thereon. Only faces, with no names, names with no faces.

For instance:

Walmart check out lane, 10 years ago
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reply to: Date: 2005-12-18, 10:52PM PST

I still rememver you had a rose tinted eye-glasses with a mole on your beautiful left knee cap. If you read this please please hit me let me know it's you.

Its crazy, but at time the posts are quite something... and so are the responses. I guess that's because the best things in life are circumstantial.

Indian of the Year

2005-12-15T10:50:00.000+04:00

Don't compromise yourself. You're all you've got.

~Janis Joplin.

Since I am reasonably free these days, I happen to watch a lot of TV. And since I know that this is not going to last for too long, I avoid shows that can be habit forming. So, the best option is new channels. The lastest thing to catch my attention is Indian of the Year award from NDTV, being plastered all over the place. The line-up of the nominees is as follows:

1. Rahul Dravid
2. Sania Mirza
3. Amitabh Bachchan
4. Aishwarya Rai
5. Sonia Gandhi
6. Manmohan Singh
7. L K Advani
8. Nitish Kumar
9. Narayana Murthy
10. S. Manjunath
11. Aruna Roy
12. Laxmi Mittal
13. Sachin Tendulkar

The advert also goes on to state that my SMS can make a difference and urges me to vote. Intrestingly, it adds that I can vote for more than one person. Since I am eligible to vote and I am told that I can makes a difference, I can afford to publish my views on the line-up. So here goes...

First, I must admit that I am rather disappointed with the assortment of stars on display. Choosing the Indian of the year from a population of over a billion is no piece of cake. I am sure conjuring the line-up itself would have been a tall ask.

I think that the best way to approach this is to wonder what has been the theme of the year. To me, and hopefully to millions like me, 2005 has been a year of hope. It has been a year when the Sensex has breached 9000 points when everyone had all but given up all hopes on it. It has been a year when Lalu has been defeated in Bihar, when Mr. Karthikeyan has raced alongside the greatest F1 drivers ever. It has been a year in which India's GDP has grown at close to 7.00% and inflation has been at record lows. Twenty-somethings sitting in what used to be buffalo sheds in Gurgaon are advising their hedge fund clients in New Hampshire, how to hedge their CDS portfolios on i-Traxx. Purchasing power has appreciated like fucks and I have bought a mammoth flatscreen TV for my parents on impulse. It has been a year in which India has stood up against the US and EU in trade negotiations and come out of the battle unblemished. It is the year in which honourable Members of Parliament have been caught on tape taking bribes and have for all practical purposes written their political obituaries. A year in which battles have been won, and the hopes of winning the war cemented.The job is not done yet, but the balance is tilting in the favour of a brave new world. Yes, it has been a year of hope.

The second criteria that I think is important while deciding upon the Indian of the year, is the difference that they have and can make to our lives. This is a difficult one to translate into words, and the only reference that I can provide to my reader is something I read long back in Michael Crichton's best book- Rising Sun. I have not seen the more widely distributed movie so I don't know if this monologue appears therein. It tries to explain why the US is falling behind Japan (and in the context of the late 80s and the early 90s I guess that would be quite pertinent). It says something to the effect that the reason why America is falling apart is because the most desired profession there is the legal profession. Lawyers in the US are highly paid, and even most US presidents have been educated to be lawyers. However, law is not a productive profession- it does not add any value to an economy. Law at best serves to maintain the climate for economic prosperity and is not prosperity by its own.The only people who make money out of the law are lawyers. So when you have so many lawyers, it is only natural that it promotes a social and economic situation which borders on the fringes of law. So you have employees suing organisations, investors suing issuers, drive in buyers in McDonald's not just crying over split coffee, and worst of all, spouses suing each other. Even though a Google search for the (brilliant!) entire text has failed, I hope I have made my point.

And last, one parameter that I think is important is that the person's most significant achievements should have occured in Year 2005. One doesn't decide to hand an Oscar to Kattie Hepburn in 2006 for the best actress just because there's no deserving candidate around. There is no accrual in life, no carry forward. To get my vote, you have to be alive and kicking and ready to rock and roll!!!

It is in this context that I sit down to evaluate the line-up.

Rahul Dravid- As much as I admire India's new performing captain, I do not believe that cricket serves much purpose in the running of the country and much less building hope. In that respect movies about cricket like Iqbal and Lagaan go much farther. Cricket is entertainment at its best, and it unites the country, blah blah... but it is not technically a generator of wealth for me or my countrymen at large.

Sania Mirza- I had written off this little lady a few months back, but then whew... she has proved to be a real surprise deal. Apart from her obvious skills on court, her off-court conduct itself is very impressive. However, the same reasons apply as do to Dravid, but in her case, I think she is a much greater teen icon, who deserves (and is getting) her place in the sun.

Amitabh Bachchan- I just realized that I didn't even know how to spell his last name, so you obviously know what's coming. AB's resurgence from near bankruptcy like our friend the Phoenix, is phenomenal. I am not a fan but I still am impressed by his acute business sense, perseverance and courage. However, I think that was last year's story. This year its just been a repeat performance. Hence, sorry Sir, you don't have my vote. Hats off, anyway.

Aishwarya Rai- I noticed that there are 13 nominees. I think Aish was the odd one in the baker's dozen. Why, why??? Just because she's pretty? Why don't we nominate Anjali Gupta instead, or even Barkha Dutt herself?

Sonia Gandhi- No way! And since this is a volatile subject, I am not offering my reasons. Please note the use of the plural. But trust me I have very strong views on this matter.

Manmohan Singh- He has made a difference this year. And he is also our best hope going forward. But whether this is the guy that I would place my bets on- not really.

LK Advani- What for? What for?

Narayan Murthy- Now this is the man that I would vote for as the Indian of Decade or some such thing. To say that he is the Indian of year is a bit of a step down for him.

S. Manjunath- First, I salute the man and his courage.I have been to a B-School and I know how difficult that career decision is. Even more, I realize that even if that choice of career was made on the last hour of the last day fo the placemenat season, I am still consider his decision to make the most of his position- and make a difference to it, is really great. When people make such choices under duress, most spend their time looking to switch jobs. However, I cannot cast my vote for him, since as I said this is a year of hope, and all said at done, at present I am saddened by the destiny of Mr. Manjunath.

Aruna Roy- Now that would be a good choice. She stands for hope and development, and fights for that one thing which can make a huge difference to where this country is at 2020- Accountability is Public Service. But like Mr. Bachchan, but of course in many different ways, Ms. Roy has been awarded and rewarded and recognised previously.

Laxmi Mittal- I won't even waste a line here...

Sachin Tendulkar- I don't even know why he has made it to the list of nominees. I have been a bit of a fan over the years, but this has been the most forgettable one in his illustruous career. So what if he came back from injury to score his 35th century- when Kapil Dev took his record breaking wicket, didn't we all heave a sigh of relief

Nitish Kumar- My Man for the Year. Arguably the best Railway minister we ever had- and IR being the largest employer in the world and the largest carrier of freight and human traffic is the most important element of India's development. But that's not why he gets my vote. By upstaging Lalu and wife, this gentleman has executed a coup of sorts. I have nothing personal against Lalu, but look at how India's most naturally endowed state has languished under his regime. Lalu is not responsible for bringing it to that state, but he most definately is responsible for keeping it that way. Bihar has been the grey spot of the India Shining story. Nitish's coming to power was almost crafty and which makes me hopeful of his surviuval in Bihar politics. And his track record with the Railways is a promise of things of come. may be he won't be able to undo/ redo everything in one term. May be he might. He is educated, he has a vision which is modern (something that is very important- I am told that Pol Pot was a visionary too), he's a man of action and not known to take shit from anyone. I am a numbers guy and Mr. Kumar is the one man who has (apart from other things) got the complex cowbelt caste equation right. This is a vote for hope, a vote for a new begining. best of Luck Mr. Nitish Kumar- and please don't let it go to your head.

And now for some harsh reality. My desk neighbour has just handed me a copy of Mike Gayle's Turning Thirty. And he insists that I read it over the weekend. In any case I am going to be in Goa for the weekend and nothing I do there is anything that is expected of a responsible 29-year old!

A Learning Experience

2005-12-12T17:24:00.000+04:00

Recently, I was asked by a sufficiently senior colleague to lecture at a local business school on the following subject:

Interest rate swaps for corporates
Valuation of bonds

The colleague just sent me a mail and asked me to do the needful. For a few minutes I ruminerated on the subjects and shared a few laughs with a couple of colleagues and forgot about it. Then there were some reminders, first from the school and then from the colleague whose seniority ensured that I spent the afternoon of my birthday, in front of a classful of students.

I had been given a slot of 3 hours on a Saturday afternoon. The Monday after that the class was to take an exam, which I didn't know till the end of the class was just internal. This obviously made me slightly concerned. Numerous attempts, after the commitment had been made, to elicit the details of the syllabi were fruitless. I dragged myself into office on a Saturday morning- which by itself is an achievement, and put together a few slides.

I arrived at the school- a short walk from my office, with a disk onto which had been lasered a couple of presentations, a few cheat sheets and a few Excel calculators. I considered the effort on my part superhuman. I searched for the lady who had been coordinating and found her to be a naturally eager student. She took me to the class and I found that there were two half asleep girls. They were sent out to bring the others in and when a quorum of close to 15 had been collected, the class began.

It was the first time I had lectured and I was apprehensive to start with, but once I had swathed myself in chalk dust, I found the going to be relatively easy. The class was a usual mix. The eager nerds, who asked clever (but completely irrelevant) questions and noted down everything you said; the regular back-benchers trying to look intelligent but disinterested (legs sprawled wide with fuck-off written on their faces); intelligent looking women (high Mach types), chin up, and nodding selectively; front bench Romeo with his sweetheart, shoulders drooping, heads tilted towareds each other, and scribbling into each others' notebooks... nothing out of place, it would seem.

But what took me by surprise was the complete lack of interest that the insitutute's authorities seemed to have in the running of the show. There seemed no apparent curriculum which covered derivatives, or even fixed income valuation- which I consider absolute musts in a masters course in finance. Further, I was given the liberty to ramble, with only my personal reputation at stake, with the freedom to cover whatever I felt comfortable with. Needless to say, I had no role whatsoever, in framing questions for the test. What they will be quizzed on in the exam is anybody's guess. Probably repeat questions from the year before's test. Most of the students had books on their desks which seemed from another century, and obviously no faculty ever asked me what I had spoken about. When asked about other fin electives, it seemed that they were being taken by persons who were visiting "faculty" like me- with the entire curriculum being left to their convenience. In fact, I recollected that some of those names as being people who have nothing to do with finance (IT head of a asset management company), and much less to do with academics.

I almost felt bad for this bunch, knowing fully well what they were up against in the real world. A few months hence, they would find them selves out on the streets, looking for a job- many with expensive student loans to service, and running helter skelter, fed up and frustrated. I know for a fact that many of my friends, clients etc spend their Sundays taching at these places, with varying levels of commitment, talent and expertise. Even as they sat through the class, they seemed worried about Monday's exam on "Wholistic Approach to Management", which I can only assume would have been taught by someone like me- probably highly stoned.

There must be over a hundred such schools in Bombay alone. I am told a few hundred in Delhi and surrounding places. Even after the recent IIPM episode, I don't think either parents or students are very discerning about the quality of education they receive at such places as long as the looming unemployment is postponed by another couple of years. However, at some point such things catch up and many deserving people find themselves in positions which are at best pitiable. And that makes me wild- because that one should pity a fellow human being- that thought is evil. An education system, which has made all the difference in my life, should drown someone else's dreams so conclusively is really sad.

The problem I feel is that people in India are not demanding enough. In all spheres of life, we need to stand up demand the bang for our buck. And why not! We pay the taxes and get terrible roads, we pay for state funded healthcare, but have to go to expensive nursing homes, we pay our taxes and yet choke to death in our cars which get flooded during the rains. We the people need to stand up and say - Hey!!!

Ego Surfing

2005-12-10T08:19:00.000+04:00

It is time to hit the ego expressway and make myself feel good... In line with the latest fad, I ran the following search on Google:

(Since this blog is essentially anonymous, wherever T.O. appears it refers to my real name)

"T.O has..."

... has had the good fortune of performing at many major music festivals in India
(The audience however was not as fortunate)

... has been with ICICI Venture since 2002 and has over 13 years of industry experience including in the area of Investment Banking and entrepreneurship
(They wish...)

... has not posted any reviews
(Since they were too brutal to be published)

... has secured Diploma in Drawing & Painting from LS Raheja School of Arts,Mumbai. His acrylic on canvases are based on the subject of women
(His models are most often found scantily clad in bars and nightclubs)

... has been exposed to various stages of product development and has acquired diverse skill-sets
(Diverse skills... ahem!)

... has already organised the past 2 DungeonFests in Leeds
(Wonder what that entails...)

... has surfaced from "the pond"
(... and now is wet and clinging)

... has married some girl from Silchar medical college
(Poor girl)

... has now set his sight on The 2008 Beijing Olympics
(His specialization- Archery, is also quite apt)

... has worked for over 20 years with Reserve Bank of India in a variety ofpositions and specializes in international trading, investment and banking
(... given a chance, it would be interesting, but only for about 20 months)

... has had indira
(and didn't enjoy the experience quite as much as she did)

... has to work too
(Well, well...)

The next search wasn't as interesting, but quite true...

Your search - "T.O. needs..." - did not match any documents.

“The No-no Gamous”

2005-12-02T11:49:00.000+04:00

Fight and you'll never survive..... Run and you'll never escape.

At this point of time my social life sucks- 24 x 7. On World AIDS Day, I was given the red ribbon by my colleague, who believes that I need to exercise caution in my wanton ways. I noticed that he wasn’t wearing one, and upon enquiry informed that since he was monogamous he didn’t need one. I thought for about a nano-second, contemplated my current state of deprivation and said- “In that case I don’t need one either- I am No-no gamous.”

So much for things that aren’t going too well at the moment. Now for something that never fails to make me smile- any day, any time… Movies. I decided to sit and rate the movies on the IMDB top 250 list- of course only the ones I have seen. There are others too which do not appear on the IMDB list, but I am a bit lethargic. Not too many oldies appear- unless they’re really, really good, as I tend to feel out of context. Neither does sci-fi in a significant way- so the Star Wars series is absent. Then there are obvious biases- the LOTR trilogy is top of charts. Ditto for some mainland European films. The books I have liked often don’t translate into a strong rating for the celluloid version. And then these are not necessarily good films, but films I have liked, and remember in a certain way. And then there are associations that are based on purely personal experiences, which others would obviously not be privy to. According to me, anything above 7 is a can see. Anything above 8.5 is a must. So enjoy…

And this weekend, I intend to watch Decalogue, so all other plans have been suspended.

The Godfather – 9 For the style, storyline and a generation gone by- they don’t make movies like this any more.
The Shawshank Redemption – 9.5 The best inspirational movie ever, with the exception of…
The Godfather: Part II –8 Definitely the best sequel, again with the exception of…
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King – 9 Straight As to the entire series. Sheer bias
Schindler's List – 7 Always been curious about the Holocaust.
Casablanca – 7 A lifetime’s supply of catchy lines
Pulp Fiction – 9 The question isn’t how much, but how many times can one see this movie.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest – 9.5 Few movies ever managed to improve upon the book.
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – 9
The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers – 9
Citizen Kane – 7.5
Lawrence of Arabia – 7 Not a big fan of epics
The Silence of the Lambs – 7.5 Not necessarily the best in the trilogy
Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain, Le – 9 Production quality, direction, concept- has it all
American Beauty – 7
The Matrix – 9 What if???
Fight Club – 8 Most amazing monologues
Apocalypse Now – 8
To Kill a Mockingbird – 8 The book’s better, but then it doesn’t have Gregory Peck
Taxi Driver – 7
Se7en – 7
Million Dollar Baby - 7
The Bridge on the River Kwai – 5 A bit impish for a movie of its repute.
Alien - 6
Raging Bull – 7
Reservoir Dogs – 8.5 Direction, direction…
Vita è bella, La - 9.5 My all time favourite film. No dearth of reasons to love it.
Kill Bill: Vol. 1 – 8.5 Bloody, shocking and fucking solid Tarantino
On the Waterfront – 7.5
L’ Apartment – 8.5 “I am not the woman who can hurt you”
Jaws - 6.5
Braveheart - 6
Kill Bill: Vol. 2 - 7
Rebecca – 7.5
Forrest Gump – 8 Music, story, motivation
High Noon – 8.5 My first real time film
Nuovo cinema Paradiso – 9.5
Annie Hall – 7.5 “I always fell for the wrong women, that is my problem. Even as a kid, when my mother took me to watch Snowhite- everyone loved Snowhite, I immediately fell in love with the wicked queen.”
Terminator 2: Judgment Day – 7.5
Notorious - 7
The Sixth Sense - 7
Cool Hand Luke – 7.5
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - 8.5
It Happened One Night - 8
The Graduate - 6
Before Sunrise – 9 Every youngster's dream. One couple's destiny
Before Sunset – 9.5 The best sequel ever. Definitely.
Ben-Hur - 7
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade - 6
Lola rennt – 9 20 mins, 100k DM to save a few lives- Can she do it?
Gladiator - 8
Die Hard - 7
Gone with the Wind - 6.5
Gandhi – 8
Roman Holiday - 8.5
Trainspotting (1996) - 7
Sideways – 5.5 Over hyped- weak characterization
The Exorcist - 6
All the President's Men – 8 Amazing performances, shocking story
The Terminator – 6
Snatch- 7.5
Almost Famous – 8
Trois couleurs: Rouge – 9 Story, cinematography, concept- beautiful
Lost in Translation – 6.5
Rain Man - 6
Scarface - 7
Bonnie and Clyde – 7
The Motorcycle Diaries- 9 Get inspired!

Leonard Shelby: I don't even know how long she's been gone. It's like I've woken up in bed and she's not here... because she's gone to the bathroom or something. But somehow, I know she's never gonna come back to bed. If I could just... reach over and touch... her side of the bed, I would know that it was cold, but I can't. I know I can't have her back... but I don't want to wake up in the morning, thinking she's still here. I lie here not knowing... how long I've been alone. So how... how can I heal? How am I supposed to heal if I can't... feel time?

-Memento

2005-11-26T08:37:00.000+04:00

Twenty-Nine

Although I know its just a number,
when it comes around it's still a bummer.
It's conceded but I know I'm fine,
though I'm turning twenty-nine.

Birthdays, birthdays come and go,
people make such a show.
Even though I have no fear,
I'll be thirty, in just one year.

I'm still alive, one year older,
cocky, arrogant, and much bolder.
My body's shot, my back, my eyes,
but now I know, I'm old and wise.

2005-11-16T21:00:00.000+04:00

There's Something About Mary Soundtrack Lyrics

Artist: The Foundations Lyrics

Song: Build Me Up Buttercup Lyrics

***

Why do you build me up (Build me up)

Buttercup baby just to let me down (Let me down)

And mess me around

And then worst of all (Worst of all)

You never call baby

When you say you will (Say you will)

But I love you still

I need you (I need you)

More than anyone darlin'

You know that I have from the start

***

So build me up (Build me up)

Buttercup

Don't break my heart

I'll be over at ten

You tell me time and again

But you're late

I wait around and then

I went to the door

I can't take any more

It's not you

You let me down again

***

Baby Baby

Try to find a little time

And I'll make you happy

I'll be home

I'll be waiting beside the phone

Waiting for you.

***

Why do you build me up....

To you I'm a toy

But I could be the boy

You adore

If you'd just let me know

Although you're untrue

I'm attracted to you

All the more

Why do I need you so Baby Baby.....

***

ooh ooh ooh

Why do build me up .....

2005-11-10T10:39:00.000+04:00

A Moveable Feast

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

- Ernest Hemingway to a friend, 1950

I don't remember exactly when I fell in love with Paris. What I do remember is that it was much before I actually visited the city. So, I am quite troubled by the recent turn of events in that city.

Paris has served a backdrop to many great books, movies and so on. Some of them remain absolute favourites in spite of many years having gone by since I first read, saw them. Paris, I have realized is a city used frequently by novelists and film makers to capture a certain magic, which people often associate easily with. Parisian women are beautiful. Men grumpy. And that's ideal. Walking around in Paris- including many which do not make it to the picture postcards, is an experience by itself. Sitting at a cafe and watching the world go by is an experience in itself, any where in the world. But somehow when you do it in Paris, there is an extra charm about it. Paris is the one city in the world where I have walked all day without feeling dead at the end of it. It is the one place where however long you stay you still have never had enough of it.

But today Paris BURNS. For the second week running. It burns like any other city in the underdeveloped world with the establishment completely at sea. Needless to say people have started pointing fingers, accusations fly and things look murkier by the hour.

The first stories which emerged, were mostly misleading failing to capture the seriousness of the situation. When I first heard and saw the news, I too dismissed it as a flash in the pan- probably a bunch of disllusioned young men who don't quite share Mr. Hemingway's opinion of Paris. But now as days go by and stories emerge it no longer remains a passe. Instead , it brings to light certain core issues, which need to be addressed not only in France but almost everywhere else. That of illegal immigrants.

When I first visited Paris, I was amazed with the ease I got into the city. Didn't even need to get my passport stamped. In any case, I walked into the Police Station in Gare du Nord and insisted that it be done, just for the sake of recording my landing in the city I have loved so dearly. But that's besides the point. France has always been a haven for immigrants from all over North Africa, mostly from the territories it once colonized. There was little it could do then- when the wars were fought in Algeria. There have been fingers pointed at the French police machinery (which in my opinion is not at fault in this case), as also at politicians, and even at Islam and its purported links with terrorism.

Now there have been many discussions and theories concerning Islam, democracy and terrorism. There are differing views on this subjects- some of them quite substantiated. Initially, I was impressed but not quite convinced by paper by Khurshid Ahmad titled Islam and Democracy: Some Conceptual and Contemporary Dimensions. It is deeply incisive and extremely well written (http://www.ips.org.pk/publications/Perspectives/Vol2/Chapt3.pdf). It argues that democracy as we know it now is essentially a western concept and has evolved in accordance with the preferences of the western society. It also goes on to say that religion as a concept itself is very different in the western and the eastern world. For instance and here I quote:

"Islam is not a religion in the limited sense of the word, as the term is used in Western philosophic and religious literature. Literally meaning submission, it stands for man’s total submission to the Will of Allah (SWT) and a firm commitment to pursue all His Commands and Guidance."

Overall some could interpret the entire paper to read that Islam and democracy cannot coexist is a western definition of the concept.

However, of all the readings that I have done the most pro-Islam stand comes surprisingly from the USIP in a paper published in Sept2002- almost a year after the 9/11 attacks. (read: http://www.usip.org/pubs/specialreports/sr93.pdf). And today I am more convinced of the stand. The paper quashes theories such as the one above, and says that all the ill that is associated with radicalism is not an outcome of religion, but the social evils that are present in the states most afflicted by it. I quote again:

"The explanation of why so many Muslim countries are not democratic lies in historical,political, cultural, and economic factors, not religious ones." and else where- "Dysfunctional, corrupt,repressive states are neither willing nor capable of reform. Apathy and despair breed radicalism."

Oh... once again I am digressing from what I set out to write. Just got busy with someone who wanted to buy some Turkish bond- whoa! I realize that I am no theologist, and in most cases my opinion is formed more by what I read than what I experience. But what I am trying to say is- and which is why I mentioned my experience during my first visit there. Illegal immigrants and immigrants at large are a function of dissatisfaction at home. France has historically been an easy destination for such. However, the random entries becomes a regular and soon we have a ghetto. When I say immigration- I don't just mean the types across borders. I mean encroachment, I mean territorial tendencies... the works.

Actually, I am distracted. Will continue later.

2005-11-06T16:12:00.000+04:00

Seasons in the Sun

For many, summertime memories linger long after the beaches have been cleared.

Meg Moore.

==============================================================

In all my depression with Two Lives, while writing my last post, I forgot to mention the remarkable book which provided sufficient recluse and recovery. I turned yet again to an author of Indian origin, Jhumpa Lahiri. It is quite flattering to note that most Indians who attempt to write in English are either Bengali (my mother tongue) or have a deep connection with Calcutta. I looked around my parents' house and found The Namesake, lying seemingly unread. The book had been much talked about and again came widely recommended. I ran through a few reviews and commenced.

From the very begining I could not help but feel positively about the book. The story of displaced Indians in America, trying to find a foot hold, has been the favourite subject of many an author. The story of displaced Bengalis even more so. I still recall reading, somewhat laboriously "E Paar Bangla, O Paar Bangla (Bengal - This Side and Bengal- That Side), in my childhood. It is a dreamy world that for those who followed the rote- "Go west, young man" and went. The initial bewilderment giving way to hard practicality, the desire to hold on to one's roots, the dismay when their offsprings smirk at the mention of annual holidays to India, everything seems too much to be just laid aside and not written about. It is a melancholic truth, and I might say that Ms. Lahiri has provided it the place in literary history that it deserves.

I quite enjoyed reading the book, and even identified at times with the protagonist Gogol Ganguli, a second generation American (not that bit), who finds his way about the east coast, going about life, not realizing that he is really looking for his roots. The phenomenon of displacement, the overpowering desire to find an identity as distinct from the one inherited by way of parentage which struggles with the deep seated realization that "you are not the same as them" is to me the central theme of the book. The other characters of his generation- his sister and wife, also go through similar motions and emerge with very different consequences. It is proof that while an individual is the sum total of his experiences, there are things such as a collective soul, and how we emerge finally from such trysts, eventually determines the character of a person.

Now, to some other thoughts which have kept me busy through this long hiatus. For the first time in my life, this summer, I came across a person, briefly, whose memories have lingered long after the beaches have been cleared. I met her through a matrimonial post, not really at the behest of my parents. The thing that struck me then was that she played the piano- something that I wish my parents had made me learn. If things had gone well (not that they turned too bad eventually), we would have been in a marriage arranged by ourselves. However, for various reasons, things did not progress towards that end. Abruptly, after about a few weeks of acquaintance, we decided to forget the original purpose and well, vanished from each others' lives, as is expected in such matters.

However, memories linger. And I realized somewhat later, that I did feel a certain warmth towards this person. She was great to talk to, though somewhat impatient- in a very charming fashion. We shared hordes of common interests, shared affections for certain books, movies and songs. Holiday destinations. Foot wear. And bar designs. Each time we spoke (and it wasn't too often or too much), we realized that we had something more in common than one would ordinarily expect. Prima facie all the likeness was in junta things- books, movies music. But as we spoke, at least I realized that there was something more- even as she accused me of pointing out these similarities just to endear myself. Eventually, and not because of her accusation, but because they were all too frequent, I stopped mentioning the likeness.

When we did depart, and I think at that point of time I was more Yes than No, and she the other way round, she managed the show really well. I would send messages to her, very irregularly and at very odd hours, in a slightly inebriated state, and she would either reply politely, or at times ignore, sending a message by itself. I think she pulled it off really, really well. Soon I deleted her number from my phone book in order to avoid such embarassments. There were still a few messages from which the number could be retrieved, but then of course that wouldn't be on impulse. Eventually, I was more No than Yes.

It was unlikely that She and I, could have cohabited. We were much too alike. She said it would not be unlikely that we were twins separated at the Kumbh Mela- the once every 12-years Hindu festival where more people assemble alongside a river than the population of all of Europe. My patience comes at a premium, and so did hers. Most conversations were not without interruptions, and the two dates that we had were not really the best in my life. However, they were all mildly amusing, and somewhat unsettling. One doesn't pick up the phone to speak to one's own self. Intially, such likeliness is endearing, eventually, I know for a fact that I tend to frustrate everyone who has anything to do with me.

But yes, memories linger. Not in a mush way, but well... I don't really have the words for it. I don't even think I am sure of it. In fact I am not sure how long or how frequently. But some times I think it would be a nice idea to just meet (she lives a stone's throw from my house) and chat- or just call. Its not that I am lonely or lack female company. That comes to me even without design, by the vurtue of my profession, and the number of years spent in this city. Why even last night, when I walked in to njJBTB, my weekly watering hole, alone, I ran into some one I could gladly share the table with- as I often do. She is a "nice" person to know and these days the kind of people who I like spending time with is short. My list of non-professional acquaintances is basically Good Times people and the Connection people. The latter list is much shorter. We were connection personified. But by the time I go through the messages folder and retrieve Her number, circumstances prevail- the impulse passes. Sometimes I do message, and some times there is even a reply these days, but our lives do not afford us these certain luxuries- I have little time from my work and the other things I dabble in, and She- Me thinks has a rocking social life already.

But yes... memories linger.

==============================================================

Another love has come and gone

And the years keep rushing on

I remember what you told me before you went out on your own:

"Sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone."

So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can

get on with mine

And maybe someday we will find , that it wasn't really

wasted time

Wasted Time, Eagles, Hell freezes Over.

==============================================================

2005-11-01T18:38:00.000+04:00

"Can angels lie spine to spine?" Raheen wonders to herself. "If not, how they must envy us humans."
-Kartography, Kamila Shamsie

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Four and a Half Books.

Been travelling for a long time, mostly on a holiday. Been around a bit and some evidence of that is already on the blog. But also been reading a bit, and reading does tend to send me through this set of emotions. At least some of it. The following part may contain spoilers.

The first of my Three and Half Books is Never Let Me Go. Started reading somewhere over the Bay of Bengal, on my way to a far east Asian desitnation. Frankly, I hadn't read any Ishiguro till then but always taken in by the alluring titles of his books- Never Let Me Go, Remains of the Day, An Artist of the Floating World, The Unconsoled and of course, A Pale View of the Hills. However, I have always strongly believed that one writes best in one's native tongue. That's a flawed analysis, but it is just one of my idiosyncracies. However, there are exceptions, but that later.

I finally bought Never Let Me Go one Sunday afternoon, when I was feeling particularly soft and touchy. The name just stuck - and the deal was done. However, it hung about on one of the bookshelves for weeks before this trip came on and I had to pack something for long distance in-flight reading. The book was nice and it didn't really turn out to be not letting go in the way that I thought it would be- you know man-woman-relationship-mush. It was a very nicely written book, especially, since it touched a topic which I knew very little about. The book is essentially about human cloning and honestly I didn't figure that in the first 50 odd pages. You can imagine how confused I was with the way things were going.

It is about 3 persons from a school of clones who are reared for for organ transplants. They go about their early lives in much the same way as we would- reading, writing, painitng, crafting and so on. However, they are also made to understand the grim prospects that await them later on in life. Herein lies the first salvo of the book- the way in which these little facts about the futures are presented to them. A little bit before they can gauge the full impact of the disclosure. And by the time they actually do, it is as if they have known it all along and thus reconciling to that fate is not so difficult. I think in our world too, very often our friends, parents and colleagues reveal sensitive things to us at a stage where we are yet to comprehend their significance.

Later on the book goes on to explore another aspect which is also extremely interesting. The book explores whether clones have souls or not, and that for me was the central theme which remains with you long after the last lines have been read.

The best thing I liked about the book was the handling of an issue as sensitive as this. The subtleity, without really taking sides, was quite interesting. Nevertheless, it leaves the reader thinking and that I consider as its greatest achievement. Moreover the language in use is the very best and the few descriptions of the English countryside takes your breath away.

The second book I read, despite my contempt for Indian authors writing in English was "The Hungry Tide". It came frequently recommended in a series of "Who's reading what" mails. The book is about the tide country- the Sundarban delta region and the lives of people there- and however every thing changes once an ABCD marine biologist lands up to conduct research on local dolphins. There she meets with another visitor- a translator by profession, who has come down to meet distant relations. The book delves into relationships, political conflicts, nature and every thing else. Quite readable ("How does one forget words? Do they just fall from one's memory like dead birds from the sky?") but nothing really like the next book I read.

I had never never read Amitava Ghosh and neither do I intend to after I finished The Glass Palace. Sometimes when you read a book, you realize that it was that one book that was supposed to be the swan song for this author. The one book which is the culmination of a lifetimes memories, of stories heard. A book that took a millenia to brew and years to pen down. The Glass Palace is just that. Set in Rangoon, Malay, Calcutta and Ratnagiri the book follows the life of Rajkumar to staert with and then his family, over a period of over a hundred years as they go through the cycles of struggles and prosperity. The book also touches upon the life of King Thebaw Burma's last emperor, exiled to live his days in Ratnagiri. It is a big and beautiful book and elicits dismay from the reader at its completion.

The best part part about the book is something which after reading Hungry Tide have come to associate with the author- his tendency to store grand, slow and idyllic discourses for the first half of the book and then breeze thorugh the story in the latter. It is an interesting style and certainly helps in a book the size of The Glass Palace. However, this tool is far more effectively used in this than in any other. In fact the best part of the book is that last chapter, wherein having breezed through the events of the life of so many, the author delivers a salvo, whose parallel I am yet to come across. So much so- the last line changed my perspective of the entire entire book and answered so many questions.

You may ask, why I choose not read any more of this author. Of course there is nothing definitive about it, but it has more to do with the next book that I begun reading.

I bought Two Lives with much fanfare, considering the coincidence of the timing of its release with my annual holiday a divine intervention. However, much as I admire Vikram Seth I couldn't manage to get beyond the first 200 odd pages and that too with great effort. There is little in the book by way of a story and much of what I read was largely about the Holocaust. It is ironical, since the Holocaust is the one event in history which I am deeply interested in. However, I have read too many fine and deeply moving accounts of what I consider Europe's darkest period, to be impressed by Seth's narrative and find it out of place in his book.

Seth is brilliant when it comes to creating a vast multitude of characters and spinning a web of his grand story around them. He has the ability to hold his reader and characters together as one through an interesting mix of rythm, play of words and imagination. It is a talent which is rare and some thing that he uses to the hilt. Unfortunately, not so this time around. It delves too deep into history without providing any new insights to any half-intelligent reader. He meanders around the lives of two real life characters, without realizing that real, real life is after all not as interesting as the fictional one. It is not too say that people have not lived interesting lives, but that they only serve to inspire writers into weaving stories around them. It is flattering to have a story written about your life, but it is a much better read if the real you emerges only in pieces and the rest is all that you think would have made your life interesting (for instance, FPS, The Glass Palace and why even, A Suitable Boy).

Personally, I have very little interest in other peoples' lives. It was a disappointment. It lies on my shelves- half-read alongside Tokyo Cancelled, which has suffered a similar fate.

===========================================================================

John Keating: We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman,"O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

Dead Poets Society

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2005-10-22T21:13:00.000+04:00

Wanderlust

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"Nature is full of infinite causes that have never occurred in experience."- Leonardo da Vinci
=========================================================================

Reached home late last night, after spending a few days - three to be precise in Saat Taal. Saat Taal is a poor cousin of Nainital, only much prettier. It is like the prettier country cousin, who no one notices when seen alongside the cool city girl. It is a nothing more than a hiltop, surrounded by seven lakes, about an hour's drive from Nainital.

To step back a bit, I landed myself relatively inexpensive air tickets to Delhi through the Internet and found myself there on Tuesday evening. Quite pleased with myself, I reached home and announced my designs for the holiday to which my sister suggested that I head to Saat Taal in the Kumaon region. So the very next day, after promising to Ma that I'd be back for the weekend, I headed there. Fortunately, some arrangements had been made for my stay at a local parish. And once I got there by a combination of train, bus and SUV there was a nice little bed into which I could sink in to sleep- it being late evening. However, I woke up soon afterwards, sank my teeth into some really great chicken and sat down to marvel at the beauty of the hillside by night.

Life can be considered good when the only decision to be made is to choose between Two Lives or The Glass Palace. Power supply here is intermittent, and even at full blast the voltage is miserably low. Hence the soft incandescenece of the tube light is almost always bolstered by an array of emergency lamps. I chose The Glass Palace, and not just because it came highly recommended, from people the world over. I think the best had been the one which described it as the Doctor Zhivago of the far east. The next few days were spent walking around and reading and little else. I spent a considerable amount of time sitting by one of the many lakes, reading, thinking, wondering. Saat Taal is only visited by day tourists, on a planned circuit of the nine lakes which are found in the Nainital region. Even those visit only that lake lake which is directly accessible by road. I found a little lake which was connected to my hillock by this tiny isthmus and which no one ever bothered to come by.

I guess I am one of the few people who can spend days on end reading or listening to music, without so much as speaking a word. Whenever the caretaker would see me head out in the evening, he would ask- Chicken? And I would nod indicating the affirmative. That was the closest I came to communication. Walking around the hills or sitting by the lake can be a great time to introspect. You are in a land where there is no TV, the locals speak a language you don't quite understand. There's of course no mobile connectivity. There are a few comps with the Internet at the parish school, but thats it. You are cut-off from the world as you know it, and while you walk around with only the buzz blue bottles and the chirping of the birds for company, you know exactly how much it is worth.

But well, soon the weekend was here and I had to head home, as I had promised to Ma. Home was the usual. The now customary post dinner arguments on matrimony, some times turning extremely acrebic. I am quite used to it, but it seems my parents are not ( they are still not really talking to me after last night). So my sister suggests that I go to Agra and see the Taj by the night. I agree. Tickets have been procured for Monday. This time one-way.

==========================================================================
"At last by wanderlust and rhyme
Prefers to keep Indian Standard Time."
- Modified from "The Golden Gate"- Vikram Seth
==========================================================================

2005-10-17T07:32:00.000+04:00

Out of Office

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." -- Mark Twain

====================================================================

I am leaving the city for a few weeks. Moving has been on my mind for some time now, but on Saturday my boss surprised me by consenting to my proposal. According to him, my work for the year is done. And while it would be nice to clock in a few more deals before the year ends, it is wiser to leave at this point of time, and come back, hungry, and claws sharpened for the next year. Professionally, this has been a bumper year, and he feels that there is no reason why I should be modest (Me?) and not make the most of it. In our line of work, where there is no telling what tomorrow holds in store, it makes sense to live for the day, and enjoy the spoils by the night.

Don't really have a plan, but think will head north initially, spend a few days with my parents. I have always planned my holidays well, perhaps only because they have been so rare. Date, time, location. Arrival. Departure. Over the years I have turned holiday planning into a skill, so much so that I have often requests from friends and colleagues to do the same. You can say that by proxy, I have been to a number of interesting places- Egypt, Greece, Constantinople. But the holiday I had always wanted to do was one in which there would be no plan, no pattern. Doing it this way requires time and money. And right now I have a bit of surplus on both count.

I have no tickets and no reservations. Will use road, rail and air at various points of time, as the situation demands. Have packed in a few maps and I have borrowed a laptop from the office IT- and thats the only packing I have done. There is a bike trip somewhere along the way which Tin Man is trying to get me on to. I think I will go. The bike things starts off at Hyderabad so will need to be there at some point of time. Probably, I will need to fly that leg. Then there is this person who I have to see in Delhi. He is extremely unwell - undergoing a bone marrow transplant. I avoid hospital visits- find them extremely morbid. But I owe him a lot. Probably, life as I know it now. He is not very fond of me these days and I understand why.

The idea is to travel, see, read and write.

====================================================================

2005-10-15T14:47:00.000+04:00

Even as a kid, I always went for the wrong women. I feel that's my problem. When my mother took me to see Snow White, everyone fell in love with Snow White. I immediately fell for the wicked queen.

Woody Allen in Annie Hall

==============================================================

Laziness prevails on this Saturday afternoon. Just returned from a beer and biryani lunch. I have this tendency to eat, eat and eat, till I am about to burst. Someone who knew me used to say that I'm incapable of moderation. Live life in its excesses. I think she was right. I want to write some thing down but don't have quite the right words. And then of course there is the temptation to reply to those comments. But I suffer from no delusion of grandeur. No one posts a comment and expects to be replied to. No one is waiting for any counters. The moment was there, they wrote, and now it is gone. I have the answers and some questions too but may be I will write the answers down, else where. In ink, on paper. To them, my "critics", I am just a assortment of words, the best of which aren't even mine. Unfortunately, most critics, tend to defend themselves naturally. I have never understood why. In my case I consider "the critic" to be more of a collaborator, and wonder why half the comment tries to explain his/her existance in my blog. Such a waste of words which have thus far been so judiciously used. There is really no need.

Been browsing endlessly since morning and found some thing really nice.

PEOPLE LIKE US: THE QUIRKYALONES-- the Original Essay from http://quirkyalone.net/qa/peoplelikeus.php?c=originalessay

I am, perhaps, what you might call deeply single. Almost never ever in a relationship. Until recently, I wondered whether there might be something weird about me. But then lonely romantics began to grace the covers of TV Guide and Mademoiselle. From Ally McBeal to Sex in the City, a spotlight came to shine on the forever single. If these shows had touched such a nerve in our culture, I began to think, perhaps I was not so alone after all.

The morning after New Year's Eve (another kissless one, of course), a certain jumble of syllables came to me. When I told my friends about my idea, their faces lit up with instant recognition: the quirkyalone.

If Jung was right, that people are different in fundamental ways that drive them from within, then the quirkyalone is simply to be added to the pantheon of personality types assembled over the 20th century. Only now, when the idea of marrying at age 20 has become thoroughly passé, are we quirkyalones emerging in greater numbers.

We are the puzzle pieces who seldom fit with other puzzle pieces. Romantics, idealists, eccentrics, we inhabit singledom as our natural resting state. In a world where proms and marriage define the social order, we are, by force of our personalities and inner strength, rebels.

For the quirkyalone, there is no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand.

Better to be untethered and open to possibility: living for the exhilaration of meeting someone new, of not knowing what the night will bring. We quirkyalones seek momentous meetings.

By the same token, being alone is understood as a wellspring of feeling and experience. There is a bittersweet fondness for silence. All those nights alone—they bring insight.

Sometimes, though, we wonder whether we have painted ourselves into a corner. Standards that started out high only become higher once you realize the contours of this existence. When we do find a match, we verge on obsessive—or we resist.

And so, a community of like-minded souls is essential.

Since fellow quirkyalones are not abundant (we are probably less than 5 percent of the population), I recommend reading the patron saint of solitude: German poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Even 100 years after its publication, Letters to a Young Poet still feels like it was written for us: "You should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to break out of it," Rilke writes. "People have (with the help of conventions) oriented all their solutions toward the easy and toward the easiest side of easy, but it is clear that we must hold to that which is difficult.

"Rilke is right. Being quirkyalone can be difficult. Everyone else is part of a couple! Still, there are advantages. No one can take our lives away by breaking up with us. Instead of sacrificing our social constellation for the one all-consuming individual, we seek empathy from friends. We have significant others.

And so, when my friend asks me whether being quirkyalone is a life sentence, I say, yes, at the core, one is always quirkyalone. But when one quirkyalone finds another, oooh la la. The earth quakes.

—From To-Do List, July 2000, and Utne Reader, September 2000.

2005-10-15T05:06:00.000+04:00

Feeling Friday

I respect age... especially when it comes in a bottle.

- Seen last night, plastered across a Tee-shirt, at Totos, Bombay.

I am feeling incredibly lazy and don't feel like working or writing at all... I call it - "Feeling Friday". So leaving right away, to njJBTB, my favourite watering hole in the city, and hopefully listen to my current numero uno song. You can hear it too- and singalong!!! And yes, the rest of the stuff on the page is quite cool too.

===================================================================
Artist: Israel Kamakawiwo Ole' Lyrics
Song: Over The Rainbow/What A Wonderful World Lyrics
http://www.npr.org/programs/asc/archives/asc07/

Oooooooooooooooooh
Oooooooooooooooooh
Oooooooooooooooooh
oooooooooh oooooooh

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
And the dreams that you dream of once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
And the dreams that you dream of
Dreams really do come true.

Someday i wish upon a star
Wakeup where the clouds are far behind me
Where trouble melts like lemondrops
High above the chimney top
That's where you'll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
And the dreams that you dare to
Oh why oh why can't i

Well i see tree's of green and red roses to
I'll watch them bloom for me and you
And i think to myself
What a wonderful world

Well i see skies of blue and
I see clouds of white
And the brightness of day
I like the dark
And i think to myself what a wonderful world.

The colours of the rainbow
So pretty in the sky
I also one the faces of people passing by
I see friends shaking hands saying
How do you do
They're really saying I I love you

I hear babies cry and i watch them grow
They'll learn much more then we'll know
And i think to myself what a wonderful world
World

Someday i wish upon a star
Wakeup where the clouds are far behind me
Well trouble melts like lemondrops
High above the chimney top
That's where you'll find me

Oh somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
And the dreams that you dare to
Why oh why can't i
I
Ooooooooooooooooooh
Ooooooooooooooooooh
Oooooooh Oooooooooh

===================================================================
By the time I am done there, hopefully I will stagger out with this long-legged, doe-eyed PYT who doesn't know me from Adam, but then experience predicts otherwise- more like carried out by friends - passed out!!! Whatever happens- I think I will be happy. Have a nice end of the week!!!

===================================================================
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness. - Maya Angelou
===================================================================

Again

2005-10-13T13:05:00.000+04:00

IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER

I'd dare to make more mistakes next time.

I'd relax, I would limber up.

I would be sillier than

I have been this trip.

I would take fewer things seriously.

I would take more chances.

I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.

I would eat more ice cream and less beans.

I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but

I'd have fewer imaginary ones.

You see, I'm one of those people who live sensibly

and sanely hour after hour, day after day.

Oh, I've had my moments,

And if I had it to do over again,

I'd have more of them.

In fact, I'd try to have nothing else.

Just moments, one after another,

instead of living so many years ahead of each day.

I've been one of those people who never goes anywhere

without a thermometer, a hot water bottle,

a raincoatand a parachute.

If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over,

I would start barefoot earlier in the springand stay that way later in the fall.

I would go to more dances.

I would ride more merry-go-rounds.

I would pick more daisies.

Nadine Stair,85 years old
=============================================================

It is said that this poem was written by Nadine Stair at the age of 85. Looking back on her life, she came to realize that the times she enjoyed the most were spent in the simplest ways. And so she wrote what she would do if she had her life to live over. It opened my eyes. It's so easy to get caught up in the rush of everyday life in the race for position and possessions that we quickly forget what really makes us content.

2005-10-13T08:48:00.000+04:00

Other People’s Words
===================================================================
I have never begun a novel with more misgiving. If I call it a novel it is only because I don't know what else to call it. I have little story to tell and I end neither with a death nor with a marriage. Death ends all things and so is the comprehensive conclusion of a story, but marriage finishes it very properly too and the spohisticated are ill-advised to sneer at what is by convention termed a happy ending.

The Razor’s Edge (Opening Lines). W. Somerset Maugham
===================================================================

I have often wondered whether my inability to write a novel can be treated with any finality. I realize that I am incapable of stringing together a series of words which are a consequence of thoughts and experiences for any length for it to be called a novel. There is a world of difference between telling a story and writing a novel, and if there weren’t any then our grand parents would be a generation of writers and we… well a lot richer. I have been a dabbling a bit- here and there, without purpose or intent, for quite some time, but all endeavors were half-hearted and never completed. I generally cite a lack of time, theme and rhyme for the same. However, I did manage to execute (hate the word) a travelogue (http://juleyji.blogspot.com/) some time back, and considered it to be a personal accomplishment. Often I write for myself and thus it is mostly unreadable for others. I have written for others to read some times, but with the sole intention of getting laid. I guess it is true for most people. My house is littered with pieces of prose which are a reminder of my dubious double life. But the benefit of writing a travelogue- and here I quote myself from Juley- is that finding your words while you travel is quite another thing. “There is no plot to create, no conversations to weave, no characters to turn into heroes and much less, villains. No dilemma as to where to start and how to end. No marriage, no death. Just the turn of events, a narration of how they unfold and fall back in place. Just what happens along the road, and the way it makes me feel. Everything that has ever held me back from completing the books I have begun, now fades.”

However, when I reread Juley some time back, I realized that it was convoluted, and excessively verbose. The dialogue was feeble and the characterization nil. I realized that I deserved none of the straight A’s that I had handed myself on its completion. The praises for it had come from others (mostly women) who had been otherwise enamoured by me at athat point of time. By then I realized that I might not be able to write a novel after all. I was at best an accomplished hack, who could get along quite well for personal consumption from a few thousand words of parody, criticism and whimsy. Most of my writing is a play on words and derived from my own experiences; and my life by no means is interesting enough for me to write to much about, far less be read by others. I am not competent of thinking up interesting characters, and exciting things to happen to them, and amusing lines for them to speak. That would be beyond me. It is also equally difficult for me to get characters on and off my mind, much less the stage, and I have had to resort to unmentionable means to do the same. It might seem easy, but hardly is. I was relieved in a sense to have a job and not to have to eke out a living from my meager skills with the pen.

I felt this prologue was necessary because I feel a certain sense of despondency welling up in my solitary reader (Anonym, for those who came in late) as we progress on my current adventure. Although it is too late to back-out now, I would still like to point out certain things. I have a certain flair for leaving my readers in thin air. I guess it is an outcome of writing stuff that generally never gets shared. It is selfish- probably just self-centred. Most of the stuff I write is on impulse, with little thought and some times none at all. At times when I think too much it contorts the texture of my tale. However, this time I do have a story to tell, but it is not quite there yet. I know the beginning and the end, but since I am subject to scrutiny, I feel that I need more substance in between those two bullet points. Moreover, since most of my writing is an extension of my experiences, my characters themselves are just that- minor variations of people I have known. An outcome of that are the names I have chosen for them. Even this time the first part was written as an outcome of inspiration and lassitude at work. That day I had to think of only two names and did so purposefully… with some thought. But as I went along and Sree (not her real name) came in I realized that Greek names in an essentially Indian story stinks of weak characterization going forward. As much as I’d like to retain Echo and Narcissus- especially because the names capture an essence of the story through their obvious mythological references, I would have to go through a ctrl FIND & ctrl REPLACE exercise. Believe me that will break my heart. Another problem is that when I write I think of them as real people and for me to call them by any name other than their real names is difficult. But to write their real names here is dangerous, especially since not everything is factual- or even if it is, it would not be entirely fair to do so without their consent. So I try not to bother and just write on. At some point of time I will do the act.

Anonym has too many questions now and it really begins to worry me. Even though I think most of this worry is unfounded, I can’t help it considering that rarely my writings have been through such intense scrutiny. Unfortunately, I cannot extend our adventure daily. First, I do not have the talent, inspiration or the time to do it. But more importantly to write daily would render the story into an exercise in habit and that is not such a nice thought. More so after I began with such a flourish. I wish I could jump the gun and answer my solitary and esteemed reader’s questions on where Narcissus is headed, but in someone else’s words, it would take the shit out of the whole thing. I think at this point of time it is safe to say that by the time I am (or We are) through Narcissus will be … well, let it be. Later. This is not a story about Narcissus or his multiple romantic affairs. It is not a statement on his debauched life. Prima facie, the story is about the two of them- Echo and Narcissus. It is about beautiful experiences and I wonder whether I will have the words to describe them when we get there. I will try to ask a few questions that haunt me, and I know I am not the only one, and seek answers to the same. Those questions are what I feel is the fibre of human relationships, and I would like to deal with them with a level of sensitivity that is a bit more than what characterizes the average Mills and Boons author. And yes, we will try to have some fun as well, what say? I am not sure whether I will succeed, but as I say, I write for myself. Yes, there will be a flashback at some point of time and I will try to tie-up the loose ends, but at this point of time it is far too early to say any of this conclusively.

And while we are at it, what’s wrong with a little temptation? However, I believe (as I have been cesured before) like the fascination, this too is directed to my writings and to my writings alone. Much as I tempted to guess the identity of Anonym, I would hardly enjoy being the object of desire of middle-aged fat Mr. Kelkar or boring Mrs. Seth, or even the over enthusiastic "Chhoti Dadi".

I am drained. More later... Ta da...

2005-10-11T08:20:00.000+04:00

=================================================================== How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Bob Dylan (Robert Allen Zimmerman; 1941- ) Like a Rolling Stone ====================================================================

Just returned from a week long trip. I shall launch in to the story right away. Have been dying to write, but was largely unconnected to the world wide web. Needless to say, this recent travelling has kind of unsettled me. I realize that it is a time to move on, change coordinates. There will be more on that soon, but for now the story...

This part might contain dialogues, something that I have avoided the use of for quite some time. Please bear with me.

(Continued...)

So he sat there as imaginary words formed themselves on a worn out board, each piecing together a memory, of a time long gone- of a woman, he thought he once knew. They were beautiful dreams and he not often given to such indulgences, for once dropped his unyielding defenses. Life was good then- not that it wasn’t now- but well those days were different. He was feeling lazy, and didn’t have it in him to fight the memories, and well there had always been this part of him that had never wanted to. We all have our days, and today was one such day.

Outside a sharp October sun had come up, and was already blazing. He lazily thought of the plan for the afternoon, a lunch date of sorts with Sree. He smiled to himself, wondering how even now, he could flit one woman after another out of his chain of thought. That- the brevity of his attention span- had always been one of his problems- and probably at times a great strength. Narcissus had made feeble attempts at recovery, from Echo- and he smiled once more as he thought how surprised some people who thought they knew him well would be at knowing that he had had to recover from Echo. And Sree had been one of his few such failed attempts. He wasn’t sure what had caused these failures, but it always seemed that some thing or the other had gone wrong. He liked to attribute it to his short attention span, his lack of intent, his lethargy. But he knew that it wasn’t so.

He had been in many a relationship, since a very young age, and at times it had seemed that it was impossible for any woman who he had fancied with some seriousness to turn him down. Then he had this electricity about him, which was impossible to deny, a certain quality, which made him un-put-down-able, like a gripping novel- on, on whatever rocks your boat. Later on when he was to think about the series of his attempts, he realized that each one of his relationships had taken some part of him away, like he had given up something every time he had he had loved. Remarkably, every one of those women had inevitably settled down soon afterwards, in relationships of their own, cozily and purposefully and he had always been left wondering why. There had been a pattern which, he was later to regret having not noted. A mind trained to spot trends in arcane numbers which was commonly called financial markets, it was a rare failing on his part. But after Echo, he felt strangely drained. Later on he had realized that it had been the final blow, it had been his undoing, and he had not much left to give. He was in a certain way vacuous in that respect. Since then he had come across to most women (and God only knew how they could tell) as shallow- lacking in content. There was a lack of intent, which was perhaps almost obvious despite his best efforts. Emptiness is usually hard to hide.

It was a “sort” of a date, because the lady in question was much married, recently "mothered" and extremely content in that respect. This was the first time he was to meet her after her first child- a bouncing baby boy. Even on their first date he couldn’t miss the connection (and not to mention the great legs), and she went on to announce that they were long lost twins, but he mostly attributed it to the stars- I am a Sag- you’re a Scorpio- so we get along- kind of thing. However, she had given up on him remarkably early and he attributed it to her astute sharpness of which he had been aware from date one. She must have sensed his emptiness, his lack of intent. What had amused him then was her reason- lack of chemistry. It was a first and well, one never forgets a first- any first. Anyway, he had made one more attempt- and tried to impress upon her, with deliberate verbosity, the virtues of connections, but had had limited luck. He realized very soon that she, like him, had mastered the art of having control over a relationship, and very often could dictate terms, with words or with silence, as the situation demanded. Thereafter he had given up, realizing that their temperaments were not exactly suited to co-habitation.

He got up, shook off the garb of laziness and launched into certain ablutions which were absolutely necessary before such meetings. Bathed and everything else, he summoned Florin, his maid of many years and in many ways the one constant woman in his life and left her in charge of the paint job. From the looks of it, it seemed that the activity would take up a fair part of the week and saw no reason why the reins should not be handed over to her at this early stage.

At this point of time, one would need to step back a bit a reconsider Narcissus lest the reader begin to form certain impressions. The phrase most often used to describe him was “hard as nails”. He even at a very early age had displayed immense amount of maturity in matters both professional and personal. He was known to have an extremely keen observation and a very strong sixth sense. He had taken half chances and struck gold. Like wise on many a occasion he had walked away from the brink of success to let others pass him by, only to find them blown to bits on a mine field. At most times his discipline, timing and judgment was immaculate. Most importantly, though irascibly debauched, his control over greed was considered rare at his age and more importantly in his profession of choice. Frequently, friends and co-workers had sought his advice in dealing with their problems. On most occasions, his opinion had turned out to be right, although it was not often the easiest to follow.

So they met over lunch and some how he always looked forward to these encounters. He found it extremely interesting to meet a woman version of him, and so was pretty apprehensive of what new connection today might throw up. Unlike his other feeble attempts he had bothered to keep in touch with Sree, even if randomly, for this very reason. He hadn’t been in touch with through most of her nine months though and a then a little afterwards- he had little patience with those who seemed weighed down with the stress of some other thing ( in this case her pregnancy). He was most demanding in claiming attention and his apathy in such times was hard to disguise. He was however surprised to note that she looked particularly bouncy today, apparently fully recovered from the stress of pregnancy, labour and everything that comes with it. He figured that the baby must’ve been turned over to a well-paid nanny and hence she had been spared to pains of most post-natal chaos. Of course not to say that he regarded this with any disdain, like most others would have. Being a person who firmly believed that life was all downhill the day your wife conceived, he perfectly understood why some one would do something like that. She greeted him like they had met just the other day, as always and instantly they launched into a conversation they seemed to have left unfinished. Surprisingly, she suddenly announced-

“Narc, I have a gift for you (with an obvious reference to him having not brought anything for her)” and reached for her Soho bag (which seemed to be the fashion of the day) pulled out a book- titled “Ellipsis”. It was a recent bestseller of sorts. And he winced- and made exaggerated contortions of his face. She pulled her extended arm back and with it the book. “What’s wrong? Off books lately?”

“Not really, though I somehow can’t get myself to go through yet another crappy love story.” He replied.

“Well, that can’t be the only reason. I have sat through many a glowing review from you only to end up reading an utterly amateurish piece of writing. I mean you’d say it’s a matter of taste, but then you know we aren’t very different.”

“Well, that too, but in this case it is quite different. I mean how can one read a book about an affair in India, written in Spanish, and then translated into English so that it sells in India. Come on, there are enough India authors trying to do that already, so why go around in circles. Of course, I can understand why it is such a bestseller in its domicile- the concept does have something very exotic about it, but I am not really very convinced about the entire translation thing. Consider this- and I have been reading lately,” he said pulling out a little book from this little bag he was carrying flipped a few pages till his eyes lit up and read,

“Ishq se tabiyat ne zist ka maza paya

dard ki dava payi, dard-be-dava paya

That’s Ghalib. This book translates it into English and that reads:

Its love

Which has made this life

Full of pleasures

And full of joy

And has given

For all its pain

A balm and a cure

And given a pain

For which there is

No balm no cure.

Ghalib intended it to be a couplet. Why? Because the language he chose afforded him the luxury of having words which meant so much when so little has been said. And look at the translation- is it not almost blasé?”

“It is beautiful and I quite know what you mean old man, but yet this is different. You forget that I read Spanish and have read the original in bits. But in this case it seems that the translation almost puts things into a better perspective. Like you always keep saying, every story could have been written by its ultimate author and that person alone. It is destiny. And in this case the original authoress undertook the translation herself. You know, it is set in Bombay and English is almost our lingua franca ” , she said.

“Set in Bombay? But of course- where else!!!”

“Don’t hush it - read it. You’ll like it. Its protagonist, I am afraid, bears a striking resemblance to you.”

“Much as I would like the compliment, I am under no illusion of my uniqueness in this city. There are hordes of people like me. Not quite, may be much better subjects. Your husband for instance.”

“Don’t start off about him now. I am much married now, like you keep saying and it is too late for you to make a case for yourself by belittling him. In any case read it, or else just let it gather dust on your bookshelf along with the others.”

They sat and continued chatting. About maternity and the benefits it offered, for instance the leave- something a man could never hope for- not in this country at least. Of course most of the conversation was steered by Narcissus and Sree merely looked on. Suddenly she asked:

“So you have been reading Ghalib? It is not a good sign.”

“Why do say so? I have been reading Ghalib all my life”, he replied.

“No, now you have begun to quote him. It is very poignant, you know. One tends to draw inferences.”

“Oh Sree, don’t talk like a hag now. Next you’ll ask me about marriage.”

“Yes, what about that? When is it happening? Any luck yet?”

“It isn’t a matter of luck. More like choice, chemistry, etc.- like you kept saying, remember? However, if they introduce a concept of a full-fledged paternity leave, it might tilt my decision. Did you know that I was sent on a course on ‘Handling Pregnancy’? ”

“You’re kidding me. Of course I have never heard of anything like that.”

“It happened after a certain manager uttered ‘Not again’ when a woman came up and announced her conception.”

“How mean and thoughtless. Tell me it wasn’t you. It stinks of you.”

“It wasn’t me, silly. For one, my choice of words would have been far more efficient.”

“You mean acerbic.”

“That too.”

“I some times start to believe in God when I consider that you have no women reporting into you.”

“Me too. Couldn’t have been any better.”

So they went on. And soon it was time to go. The baby had to be fed and Spock’s book, which Sree followed selectively, advised that the biological mother spare no effort in that respect. Narcissus started to deposit both the books in his bag and said, “Actually, the Ghalib was meant for you. But since you have begun to read too much between the lines, I shall pass.”

“Don’t be a meanie”, she said and snatched the book and it disappeared into her bag.

“By the way, I maintain the best way to deal with Ghalib, or for that matter even Pushkin, is to open a page at random and read the words.”

“I shall remember that, but don’t you think you know me too well to start prescribing reading habits?”

This time he let it pass. He knew that she was better read and had a much more refined taste than him. Under most circumstances, he was at the receiving end and was very often in complete awe of her views and recommendations. Moreover, she was much, much more accomplished in the usage of words and language, and it seemed to him only now that the reason why he had been able to get away lightly today was probably because of the weight and concerns of motherhood. It probably was the first time she had ventured this far and for this length of time away from her baby, and thus seemed slightly distracted. They exchanged pleasantries of the good-bye variety, she punched his arm, and left.

(To be continued)

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"I can't think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can't read anything, you only have the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can't even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses." --Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There (1993)
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