Prey

Those days, back in 1987, I was undergoing a training in Taj Coromandel, Chennai. I got an afternoon off. Ask any trainee from those days and they will tell you how difficult it was to get even one afternoon away from the clutches of the hotel. 

Someone would question why and that was that. The fear of no getting through the campus interview just because of one negative feedback was so high and Taj being one among the three potential employers that you coveted in the entire hotel industry that you quietly went back to work and never asked for a few hours off ever again. 

But somehow, I got it. 

I went across to the nearest bus stand in Nungabakkam and waited in the sun. I had to be able to take a bus to St. Thomas Mount or to a nearby destination. Some minutes later, I was on my way. 

They dropped me off near the college that I had wanted to go to. Let's say XYZ college of Engineering. I asked my way to a particular hostel that I knew from the letter that I had. 

I remember the hostel exactly. Overgrown weeds in the garden. Me stepping over hypodermic needles. Smelly surroundings. Bunk beds. Rolled up beds. One scruffy looking red eyed guy motioning me ahead when I told the name of the student. 

I didn't find my friend there. They told me he'd gone off somewhere, where no one really knew. And they laughed hysterically at me. The group of four. 

That day I knew that my friend was prey for these seniors. And this college would scar him for life. 

And so it happened. 

I never saw this friend again in life. I know he's there in a town somewhere in India. But he doesn't meet people. Old friends, not at all. 

And you thought men have it easy?

Handbook to a seat anywhere

The first time I get into a local train at CST in Bombay (back then) I just look around at the fierce competition that takes place for a few seconds before all the seats are taken. The first time I walk into a Metro train at Tollygunge Metro station in Calcutta (back then), the same thing occurs. The sounds too nearly are the same. Or call it yells and thuds. Then, one day, at Howrah station before catching a local train to Andul, a small town in the Kharagpur line, I received a seat management lesson from a stalwart who was accompanying me that day. First is, the vision. You have to be crystal clear in your mind that you can achieve a seat. Then you have to see yourself at that particular seat in your mind. No other. That particular. It could be the left side first coupe middle seat to the right of the window. Or the window seat to the left of the window. Picture it. Clearly. Vividly. Accordingly place yourself on the platform for the shortest run to that seat. Don't imagine yourself pushing or pulling. No talking. Arguing or yelling. Cold focus on the seat. Loosen your muscles to make yourself as lean as possible. You have to move swiftly. Then train arrives. Empty. As it's the first station. Everyone waits for the doors to open or the doors to be there in front when the train stops. Stand your ground. Don't be pushed back by thronging crowds. Moral and mental strength should transfer to physical strength. Then, you get the opportunity. The doors open or the train door stops in front of you. Jump in. Run or walk with long strides. Don't look at people. Look at the seat with single minded devotion. That seat is yours. Don't vacillate between seats at the last second. You are not a millionaire. You don't have the luxury to plump for many seats. Just one. Only the one that you have already sat in, in your mind, back at the platform. Boom, it's your seat. Don't shift. Don't look around. It's your seat. Sit with your bag in hand first. Allow the whole compartment to calm down before you put your luggage in the overhead rack. Be safe and then do whatever else that you wish to do. You can smile and even do a thumbs up signal to your accomplice after the success. I took in the stalwart's words that day and never looked back in life. For it was not just about the train. And of course, the same rules apply to football and life too. It applies to even a holy dip in the Kumbh Mela. And to a burning pyre at the banks of Ganges in Varanasi.

Women. Eyes. Mumbai.

It's always the eyes, you know. Even before the lady starts speaking, her eyes do. Darting, measuring, scanning, assuring and finally giving. This is from a few months back. I meet her, a lawyer friend, in the Starbucks outside Mumbai domestic airport at Santa Cruz. I have a car waiting to take me to a place called Khanapur. Yes, that's a name. Go on, believe it. We meet at the door. I order whatever we decide upon and since Starbucks takes utmost pleasure in hollering out the name wrong, I even provide a short name to the barista before sitting down. And then the eyes start off. Finally, it's all done. I take a deep breath and we start our conversation. Since, the scrutiny is over, conversation is easy and slowly monopolized by her. I just have to sit back and contribute a tosser here and there. A laugh, a nod and a retort is fine enough for the flow to continue. Women find it comfortable to to talk about their routine. Yes, I have gathered this over time and over experiences. In this case, she chats on about her office and her recent moves professionally. There's barely any mention of anything else. In fact, they are more chatty about work and routine than men ever are. Men finish their talk about with a grunt and a "going on" phrase. End of story. Then, they either get to the point or talk Cricket or Football. She then relates the travails she has with a particular office thing that's lately happening. That too, takes some time. The clock ticks away. We finally get to the point somewhere near the fag end of the whole conversation. The coffee is sipped and over with. The eyes are back to screening me over the glass and the straw. We part. Assurances are done with. Future calls and meetings are promised. In the car, towards Navi Mumbai and beyond, there's a lingering thought. Mumbai is a very distinct city that way. Here's a woman, a complete professional, putting in the hours and getting paid top dollar. There's barely any mention of home and hearth. She is battling her way to the boardroom and seniority in every fair way she knows. But there's the innate womanliness of a middle class Marathi community. The idiom isn't destroyed. The faking hasn't happened. Nothing has coloured the women like it has coloured the men. In this town. I remember a vignette from far back. The train has stopped at Mumbai Central. I am near the window. All ready and packed to deboard at CST the final stop. I spot a lady who is all hassled coming in by local train from wherever. She goes into the waiting room. A minute later she's out again. Lipstick done up. Hair redone very fashionably. A new dress. Mangalsutra hidden away for the day. High heels now. She confidently walks off the platform. That transformation, daily, for women across the town. And yet there are children, a spouse and probably even aging parents they have to get back to, in the evening. Ooh! that confidence!! That confidence and those eyes. No wonder, men are a poor second in Mumbai.

Bamboos and the man

1981. Some elections taking place in Bengal. My uncle in a fit of bravado has decided to stand in the election against the ruling red party. He goes out to canvas for himself and he does not come back. Those days, even phones weren't there in those villages in Medinipur district. So, there's no way of knowing where he is. The family asks the cousin brothers to help. Of course, they are card carrying members of the red party and in Bengal, back then, party was certainly bigger than family. So, they say yes to the family but actually don't do anything to search. Then, some eight days later, post the election, uncle comes back. All tattered and smelly. Skin and bones nearly. No food for days together also makes oneself a bit light in the head. So, he is a wee bit incoherent. Or so they say, when we find out later. Turns out, he had gone canvassing and was picked up by the party guys and taken to some spot in the bamboo jungles a few miles away from our village. He escaped from them and then stayed in the bamboos till the election was over. And yes, they were known guys and so it was impossible to come back and be alive and kicking if they came to know. When you stay in the bamboos, as any erstwhile Naxalite would also know, food has to be sought, plucked or caught, rationed and one correct assessment has to be done. Is this poisonous or if this can do the trick for the day's meal? Nothing else matters. No politics. No family. No fear matters. Only hunger and what can satiate the hunger. And also the fact that nothing can be cooked. As the fire can be spotted from miles. And you don't want to die, do you? He survived to tell the tale. Many didn't. Many still don't. The reds have turned into the blue and the saffron chaps. But the game is still the same. Now you know what the recent Panchayat election was all about! Don't you? Yeah, just a Panchayat election.

Learn from Houseflies

A flykiller contraption was installed in kitchen. Lights and electrified grill and all. Missus got up from sleep and went there straight to find out what's happened. Bad news. The houseflies were smart. They were risk averse. They were like Mallu friends after four glasses of toddy. They measured every flying mission they undertook throughout the night. They flew close to the contraption but chose never to touch it and see what's it about. Good news too. Houseflies can now be studied for Artificial intelligence by scientists and there may be something for humans there. Mallus have already learnt, it's why they are so successful in unknown lands. Last heard, they were setting up businesses and sending nurses to Libya. I bet that half of our country won't even be able to name it's capital. The housefly learning can be used to program the rest of the nation. How to save yourself from stonepelters, from beatings, from random murders or from smelly gutters. Houseflies do things right. Learn from Houseflies. Like Nirav Modi did.

Angrezon ke zamaane ke jailor

Hum angrezon ke zamaane ke jailor Hain! Remember the Sholay scene? Asrani, the jailor comes in and there are two lines of convicts standing in front. He squeals in delight. He makes those unusual facial expressions. Like a parody of Hitler. Strains each sentence so that he's heard well by the people in front of him. He's dressed in khaki but he has a pair of black gloves in his hand. He has a stick in his other hand. He loves beating his breast with that stick and keep telling the people in front about his exploits. He also finally tells the convicts, let's them know actually that "humaare jasoos Charon aur faile huye Hain!" It is a threat. Implicit one. To deter people from trying anything funny in the jail. And there is a jasoos, a spy, who is actually active. Hariram Naaai. Naaai is barber in Hindi. Keshto Mukherjee. The duo, Jai and Veeru, come to know about the spy. They make a plan. They go and stand near where the barber is doing his work as a barber. They discuss a tunnel building strategy from the jail to somewhere out. The barber runs to the jailor and reports it. The jailor arrives in great style. The convicts stand quietly as he smartly whips off a basket and sees a iron rod kept on the ground beneath the basket. He holds that and burns himself. But he does not scold or punish his spy. So Jai-Veeru do their stuff again. They talk among themselves about a gun in the jail within the earshot of the spy. The spy reports. Jailor arrives with his cavalry. Then comes the immortal line: Aadhey idhar jao, aadhey udhar jao, baaki mere peeche aao. He inspects the line of convicts searching for the gun by scrutinizing faces, of all things. He tried to invoke terror in people by making faces. No one is terrorized. He is, by a couple of them. Then, the inevitable happens. Veeru sticks a wooden stump at his back, says he has to quietly do their bidding and they take the jailor to his office where they get their belongings and leave the jail. They even shove the key of the main gate and the wooden stump through the main gate window as they leave to show how moronic the "angrezon ke zamaane ke jailor" is. Our government man, you know who. Internal security and external affairs with neighbors. Lately, Kashmir and Maldives. Same to same. Got it?

The topspinning curve

1 am in the night. Sleep in the eyes. Mind still processing what just happened. Absently, I pick up the remote. Then, hold it for a while and start scratching my arms with it. Mind still processing. Open up the phone to see tweets and messages and updates. Everybody agog. Keep the phone away. Mind still processing. I have now gone into the physics of the whole thing that I just saw. A man, nearly 24 yards out, stands to take a free kick. In front of him is a wall, a wall of about five defenders who will rise up to meet the ball that may or will be chipped over them to the right of the goal as that's the only angle that's available to the man. If he goes to the left, his curve would not allow the ball to remain within the posts. He stands eyes open, then eyes closed, the spectators join him in the silence. It's like a Buddhist in a monastery. Then, he unleashes the chip. The ball sails above the rising heads on the right top corner of the wall. The last head actually tries to meet the ball by tilting to nearly 90* when he is four feet above ground. He cannot. Then, the ball curves and swoops in defying all conventional physics, like a top spinning backhand in tennis. And enters the right corner of the net. The goalkeeper, of course, has no clue how that happened. 3-3. Match finishes in minutes. I am still wondering about the physics. Others will recall the magic of Chistiano Ronaldo over the coming years. Legend, it will be. Physics. Magic. Ronaldo.

Udta House (House flies)

Houseflies have come in. They have settled down all around the living room. They have dipped their mouths in tea. They have announced tea was good. I am happy we were of good service to them. I implore some of them to read the Times of India that's come in and lying forlorn on the center table. Even they refuse to read that rag. Understandable. I ask them if they would like to watch a movie or something on the television. They hum, fly around and generally have a laugh at my expense. "What's on TV these days?" They ask. I say "Transformers". They say, "It's copied from our lifestyle.". I didn't know that. They seem to know more. "Suryavansham?", I ask. They laugh very loudly. The neighborhood infant wakes up and starts crying at their humming laughs. Of course, I ditch the Suryavansham idea. Finally, I say. "Guys, please don't sit on my food, okay? You've arrived straight from the sewage treatment plant probably. I can only request. Anything else, you will tweet and someone will throw me out of a job or out of the country. So, please!" They hoot with laughter. They swarm around my head. They sing: Saj gayo Gori Teri Amma chunar gotey mein! I feel ineffective and useless. They own my apartment now.

Adventures of Alexa

Missus walks in from somewhere. Clothes are in her hand. Unfortunately, not new. She suddenly remembers about things that she needs to inform me about. Alexa. Now what's Alexa gone and done? It seems, Alexa can do many things that we aren't making her do. She can put on lights and put them off too. (I can do too). She can call anyone else who's also known to Alexa and one can have a nice conversation from an easy chair without bothering about picking a phone (But where's the problem in picking up a phone?) But Alexa enables free calls that way. (Oh, then let's find out who else is there knowing and using Alexa across the world, pronto!) Alexa can wake us up if we are asleep with a soothing voice that will say, "Wake up!" (I don't know what to say to that. If I tell Missus she has a better voice, I would have to listen to her voice all the rest of the life early morning saying "Wake up". I might wake up with such convulsions that doctors will have to do multiple bye passes once every three months. If I say Alexa's voice is better, then anyway I have to give up on life. Sayonara! Baj Gaya baarah!!) Alexa, it seems can put on the TV too. How can Alexa do that? Two of my remotes barely work. Sometimes, I take the Tata Sky remote and go and sit in front of the console. I pray. I cajole. I discuss. Somewhere we agree. Then, the poor fella starts off. And I watch TV. How can Alexa help with this? All this is getting very heavy for me. Me: Alexa, please get my Eno and water please? Alexa: I didn't understand what you are trying to say. Me: Alexa, you are in a Bengali family's household. You should know that we have Eno and water most days after a minutely oversized dinner. Alexa: From where I come, people take measures to not overeat. Why don't you try doing that for a bit? Me: Bahut baat karti hai, Eno hai na, laa na! Alexa: I didn't understand Me: Rehne de Alexa: I didn't understand Me: Alexa, shut down. We are better off without Alexa running our lives. Thank you, Amazon Echo. Our haath payr are still salamat.

Brandkill

A few years back. It was a company party. To announce something big to the fawning people in the audience. Invitees who had come in were plied with food and drink to make them adequately comfortable for what was coming. Order and attention was called for by a few people on stage. They struck a banter that signified the kind of brand the company wished to foist onto the people. Predictably, the banter was in English. So, the brand was decidedly elite and modern. Not something like laal dantmanjan. A few nattily dressed gentlemen walked up on stage to present what they felt would be good for the brand and the people inside the room. The philosophy behind the brand, what would be the objectives and where the brand would or should be if all went well. Then, the showman got onto the stage. The managing director. Presumptuous. Unprepared. Unscripted. Not really focused on the brand but on his own identity that he wanted to push through. The eternal wannabe. Matters went downhill from there. The people behind the brand felt that they weren't working for a unified mission anymore. It was all focused towards a person and his whimsies. The brand was launched. There were the usual good to average press coverage. But the stakeholders who were not included in the road to PR success though they had worked hardest, melted away. Naturally, people have better things to do. The brand lurched it's way to a follow up event in it's second round of operations. That was that. The third and the fourth events were death knells. Competition, in the meanwhile, just went on and scripted better stuff. And things went from bad to worse. It's nearly over now, for the brand. Most political parties, most Indian companies and practically all the events that take place in India have this syndrome. Then one day a Maharaj shoots himself just four hours after writing a tweet critical of a government. How come?

Attention seeker

Do you all know of the fabulously intelligent person who used to throw his own sandal in Howrah station and then run after it? Hollering at the people who tried to take the sandal or tried to get in his way. Do you know he used to do it nearly everyday? Of course, him being intelligent, he had to be erratic and spring a surprise on the travelers around him. Normal people called him "mad", for the lack of any other term in their dictionaries. But he was anything but "mad". One day, I observed him minutely. I had time. So, I did that. Dark brown trousers that had become stained and dirty because of rough life on the platform. But he tucked his shirt in. His shirt was a striped on that may have fitted him and was certainly white before the rough days. A collar that signified it was a formal shirt. He had no belt anymore, someone may have taken that away. So, he carefully looped his trousers and tied the trousers to his diminishing waist with a nice hessian rope. You get that rope in Howrah station a lot because they used to sew cargo with it. His head was full of tangled hair and unkempt beard. He also had a defunct watch that he wore. He could always tell the time anyway because each platform had many electronic watches and he obviously knew how to read. I deduced he could do many things pretty effectively. Intelligence at work, you see. He would look at his watch, pretend look. Then, surreptitiously, he would look at the platform watch, the electronic one, then click his fingers, as if eureka struck him. Then, he would choose an empty platform to throw his sandal in. He never threw it in a crowd. He knew his sandal would be kicked away by someone on to the tracks. He wanted to be a showman. Raj Kapoor type or Subhash Ghai type. Look, how far I can throw my sandal and run after it! Attention seeker. Then, just before throwing, he used to do a war cry. To gather people's attention. The war cry. People used to then look at him. His eyes changed from a stoned look to a glittery look. It was, as if, he relished life in those moments, when he threw his sandal and then ran after it. I see Trump. I remember that guy.

One man is all you need

Five managers crowded around the table. A real estate project plan was spread on the table. The discussion was centred around the marketing of the project. The project was a mall. Lots of pencils and sketch pens on the table. Eyes glittered like how Paresh Rawal's does when he sees gold biscuits in a bag. Let's colour the floors differently and choose to highlight our vision of the project. Let's write something in boxes on the side and explain the project. Let's put in the store names that could populate the mall and create a mental picture for the tenants coming in. Let's colour the anchor stores differently. Most of the ideas were implemented. Spirited discussion resulting in spirited plans. But about two weeks later they were back at the drawing board again. The plans were incomplete and things had to be redone. Immediately, like sullen seven year olds or like unhappy Arjun Kapoor, two managers walked out of the group stating that all that was a waste of time and that they had better things to do. The three left plugged away and created something new and better again. Those plans were presented. Questions were asked by the bosses and some questions were piercing and difficult. Pointed questions were asked to one person who was till then trying to be the leader of the planners. The one person wilted under the onslaught and disowned his plan and fellow planners. "I think they will be able to tell more on this as this was their idea", he said. The bosses now looked at the two standing and asked the same question. One of the two, in spite of visible limitations with architecture knowledge, kept answering as best as he could. Picture Arshad Warsi doing it. You'd know how he was. But somehow the bosses were convinced. The plan was implemented. Some years later, the plan came alive in a city where the mall was launched. Success does not happen just with brilliant overachieving people. It happens with simple, unassuming and Govinda type people too. Who explain things like Arshad Warsi. Mostly with people who don't give up. Sunil Chettri didn't. He kept his spirit up. And used his brains apart from everything else that his training and development provided. In a set piece position, he ran out of the wall towards his own goal, collected a ball with his back towards the Kenyan goal, swivelled and dinked the ball over the wall where there was a yawning breach and left a goalkeeper totally stranded. Sunil Chettri didn't give up. He pleaded with fans to come to see the team. He scored in every match. Somehow, he brought back Indian football to center stage, alone. Sunil Chettri was a commentator in the last football world cup in a TV studio. 4 years back there was no football in India happening that we could speak about. Who knows, Sunil Chettri could lead India into a World Cup at the age of 37. Hope. Grit. Determination. One man. That's all it needs.

Those PSU towns

Kashipur. Malanjkhand. Korba. Itarsi. Avadi. Medak. Government factories or PSUs have their own towns. Most city bred people wouldn't have heard of these towns ever. Lot more. I lived in a few. Aruvankadu. Bhandara. Chanda. These towns have their own simple government provided beauty and simplicity. Usually, you know you are at one of these towns when you see a black and white signage proclaiming "savdhan" and then the town's name and then some message. Then, there would be a road that will be reasonably well kept with government maintained culverts and government marked trees. The trees will have numbers. You go on for a bit. The functional silver painted lamp posts will be on both sides of the road and there will be numbers on them too. Reasonably well kept towns will have all the lights working and others maybe will have a few missing. The roads will always be total 90* right or left. There's nothing winding away on any side in these places. A strange phenomenon will happen when you are entering the estates. You will see goats in the fields for sure. You will also see trees in round fences around. Either brick fences or steel fences. If it is brick, they will colour it again with brick red and white. I never understood the concept of brick red on brick red. But that must have been some highly creative mind at work somewhere in the 40s. That continued. There will also be some sporadic lean cows tethered to pegs in the distance. But not on the roads or sidewalks. They are strict about such things in such places. In the distance, you will always find a bald patch that's now a cricket ground and if you ask the alumni of the town, they will always proudly say how they hit a six and it landed on that very road that you are travelling on. Usually, that's a lie. You enter the estate. Estates are where people live in such places. The quarters are well lined up always. Earlier they used to do it with stone. So, you'd have some places with stone buildings. Always two storeys. Never more. Always four quarters in one building. Functional numbers. 14A to D, Sector 1. That way. Small patch of garden in front and another small patch of backyard. They never gave car parking space. They never put up closed storm water drains. So, you have a slab over the drain and then the house. You can ride the bicycle into the houses or push the scooter or bike into the house. The place to keep all the vehicles is either the gardens or the stairway side that's underneath the stair incline side. The useless side made useful. The garden usually has some trees. Not really fruity trees. But some towns may be blessed with mango trees, pear trees, sitaphal trees or even some drumstick trees. Early workers also planted their own trees that the later generations proudly fed off. The backyard may also have a water tap and a vegetable patch. Beside this patch you will find hose pipes curled up like tired anacondas. The hose pipes will have the broken areas fixed with cloth straps, plastic bags or even the son's cricket bat grip. On some days, the scooter or bike is brought here and hosed down till the bike is shed off every milligram of dust and mud that the town has contributed to the vehicle. Usually, it's the father's job. But sometimes PSU fathers are smart. They make sons do it. If you go early in the morning, you will see sons and daughters trooping off for tuitions. Yeah, in these towns studies come first, second and at all positions thereafter. Early morning tuitions are highly rated. People then make it to IITs and AFMCs just because of these morning tuitions. You can walk now. Because the morning aromas are nice in such estates. Sambhar aroma, you know you are passing a Subramanium probably. Melting butter aroma. It's an Arora. Lovely coconut flavor in the air. Pillai. Then noise. Too many instructions floating out. Usually a Banerjee. Once in a while bark. It's probably some Athavale. Man in a banian doing scratching noise. Srivastav. So on. It's cosmopolitan. Men talk to each other in Hindi. Women in broken Hindi. North Indian to South Indian in difficult English. South Indian to North Indian in lilting broken English. School buses come to designated spots and carry off waiting children. Usually 2 to 3 schools for such townships. Retail centres are sparse and all of these places have something they call as Co-operative store. That's run by the employee representatives. They usually don't change for years. It's a thing. Lucrative thing. There are other stores. Newspaper store. Saloon. Repair center. Atta chakki. Tailor. Bakery. Simple stuff. Nothing fancy. Outlying this estate and on the fringe of the town is usually a Kendriya Vidyalaya. Big building. Big playground. Breeds engineers and doctors like crazy. These are the boys and girls who have made India what it is. From these sort of places. And so they believe in merit and secularism. The present government just missed the mark with these people, these leaders.

The jeweller's assistant

She met him for the last time four days before her marriage. He remained sullen. She tried to give him some optimism. He still didn't respond well. She didn't know what else to say. They parted. She married and left town. He knew that there was nothing left for him in that dusty town and decided to migrate for work elsewhere. He had a qualification but no job till then. There was an uncle in Mumbai. He decided to go there. Any work was work. He would do that. And anyway, what was left to savour in his hometown after she had left? Mumbai happened. A jeweller took him in. Small job. Cleaning and upkeep of the store. He did it with a lot of focus. Kept at it all day. One day there was a blast nearby. He closed the store well. The owner came running from wherever he had gone. Bleeding and tattered. The man took him to hospital, stood while he got bandages done. Then, took him home. The jeweller's family never forgot. They gave him better work. Transportation of jewels from Mumbai to Surat and back. He did that well. Not a thing out of place. A couple of years later, they wanted to do a store in Juhu. They asked him to head it. Manage it. He just nodded. One day the owner asked him if he wanted to have a home. He said yes. They gave him a flat in Kandivili. It was theirs. But he could stay till when he wanted. He just nodded. He was like family now. He never went home. He never called his parents over in the intervening few years. But then, after the flat happened, he did. They were ecstatic and came. He treated them well. Showed them his workplace. Gave his mother a gold chain. His mother said that now he had to marry. He refused. They went away, a bit sad. A year later, the jeweller decided that his only sister should marry. They asked the man to come home. They spoke to him. He agreed. He was really family. The sister knew of him for the past year as the dining table conversation was about how good and hard working he was. The family had prospered because of the young man. They married. Had a couple of children in five years. Then, the children grew up. He had prospered well. Big flat now in Khar. Children in good schools in Juhu. Cars. Servants. You know, the whole bit. One day, he checked into the airport. He had his business class tickets in hand and was walking towards security. A harassed woman was pleading with security. They had to let her through fast. Her flight was leaving. It was her. From his hometown. He walked across and helped her. She knew it was him. Hadn't changed much except he looked very rich. And behaved very well. Through her tears, he looked very regal. They didn't speak till they cleared security and he took her bags so that she could walk fast. They didn't know what to speak. Finally, he asked what had happened. It was her husband. He was injured in a gunfight in Kupwara. She didn't know his state. The BSF authorities would help her from Amritsar. But she had to get there first. She started crying. He awkwardly laid a hand on her shoulder. She waded into his arms and cried. He stood there shocked. He didn't know how to respond to her. She broke away after a bit. Muttered her thanks and said her bye. In a flash, again she was gone. A settled life was again left in disarray. The man cried for the first time that day, in an airport toilet.

The same 25 guys

Doesn't it strike you? The same people saying Good morning on WhatsApp. The same people liking your posts on Facebook. The same people speaking to you over phone. In fact, you have lesser friends now than ever before. Doesn't it strike you that you are now preening and performing to please these small number of known people rather than impressing the whole wide world? An actor defends herself on Twitter against abusive hordes. They would some, 80 or 90 in number. By being nonchalant about what she's recently done on screen. She doesn't have to. Because whatever she has done, has caused many many thousands more to go across to cinema halls all over India and see the film. Don't know about the grandmothers going, though. She does not have engagement with that silent unapprochable majority. And she's responding to some abusive idiots who have actually not seen the film probably, no one knows. A friend has shouting matches on Facebook regularly with exactly six people over politics. The same six people. It's like a domestic fight on the balcony of the house everyday. Everyone sees and yet cannot or will not participate. The friend thinks he matters. The silent majority smiles. To keep my sanity and humility going, I also post sometimes in medium and other blogs. No one likes anything that I write. No one comments. Humbling experience. Then I know, I don't matter at all, in the larger world. There are many others who are far more important and talented. You know how algorithms work, right? Choose to surround you with what you want to see and what you want to read or view and who you want to mix with. Usually, the small bunch of the same 25 people. Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. All follow the same system. You're stuck with the 25. And that's dangerous, certifiably. Because that's "andhon mein kaana raja" kinda stuff. So, trust me, going out and mingling with the real people still works. Even if you are shy or unsocial or both. Now let me deal with Google News that for some reason is only providing me with Taimur, Sunil Chettri and Kumaraswamy in no particular order. Probably, the same algorithms!

The mongrel

The dog isn't supposed to be there. This isn't a complex where street mongrels are encouraged. Here, pure breds are led out for their morning walk by ever stylish people and nylon leashes. They wag their tails in modern service lifts. They know where they have to go and poop. Their poop is also collected in bags if done at the wrong place. So, the dog isn't supposed to be there. But it's there. Standing. Unashamed. Dirty. Lean. Battle marks on the head. An ear partially torn. Happy go lucky. Unaware. Uncaring. Alone. It does not need care. It can take care of itself. It will, for food, jump through the bushes, jump across the railway tracks and walk all the way to the market where they cast off meat ends, bones and knuckles. It will gorge on yesterday's sambhar rice left off by that small canteen that caters to PG hostels nearby. It will finally have good food. By it's standards. After all, software engineers also have the same rice and go to the nearby tech park to work. But it comes to this plush neighborhood for a walk. To see the privileged strut about. Shampooed hair, nylon leashes and poop bags. It stands beneath the shadow and watches. Mouth open. Wondering. Thinking. It won't make friends here. There's the classification at work. They are pets. It is a mongrel. They get mentioned too, a mongrel. A mongrel. Like among us, a Dalit.

Mixed up matters

1990. Guwahati. The chef peeked through the doorway. He saw me and he tried to quietly scoot. I wasn't going to give him that option. In my hand was a sheet. The sheet had a menu. The menu had an item Veg Missmissi. I wanted to know what in the name of Lord was this item. He edgily crept up to my table. So, my office room was this huge room with a huge table bang in the middle. One chair behind the desk and two chairs in front. No book racks or anything like that. Godrej steel file drawers on my right far corner. Yellow lamps above. And a tube light on my opposite wall. One brown curtain at the sole window. And a huge chart that was pasted to my left wall where every event of the next three months was written in boxes. Each box representing one day of the month. Like a large calendar with things written in it. I used to spend a lot of time walking in front of this chart with a pencil. It was my way of showing I did work. The chef stood behind the left guest chair. I motioned him to sit. I was still standing and so he did not want to sit. But I insisted. So he sat. He took out his corrugated paper chef cap and kept it on the table. It was sweat lined on the bottom and he kept that side on the table. So, I knew I had to wipe the table after he left. Missmissi. Yes, what's that. I asked. He was Assamese. From the Bodo side of things. So, he had a sinsong shrill voice. Most of them sing well is what I knew. He started off on an explanation. First take onion. Chop. Then take carrot. Dice. Then take beans. Dice. Then take green peas. Put. Then take Aloo. Dice. Then take Gobi. Make small flowers. Put. Green capsicum. Dice. Take kadhai. Put oil. Put green chilli and garam masala. Dhania powder. Ginger garlic paste. Cook. After oil comes on top, put onions, after making onions colourless, put all diced vegetables. Aloo boil a bit and put. Chilly powder and turmeric required. Put. Chop pineapple and keep. Dice fresh tomato and keep. When all other things ready, put them too. Little more stirring. Finish. Garnish with Dhania patta. I was, by then, glowering at him. I said, whatever you have told me is between a normal veg curry and a navratan curry. Exactly in between. He says, yeah, exactly. It is in between. In hotel everyday I have veg curry being made and sometimes navratan korma being made. I mix the remnants of all this and Missmissi occurs. I asked then why all this original recipe nonsense. Oh, you asked and therefore I said. I was still glowering but he did not get it. At all. To this day, I am part of ordering anything that starts with Mi in front. Mixed. Missmissi. Anything.

Darpan crosses over in this film

Raj Kishore is Darpan in the film. He's got a gaudy pink coloured shirt to wear in the film. Of course, the shirt does not change. He's got an ungainly moustache gummed onto his upper lip. Actually, he is a very amiable young actor. Later, in another film called Golmaal (the Utpal - Amol extravaganza) he even plays a nice role of a friend in a song. With a printed shirt. Very near the gaudy pink in feel and effect. He also has very pink lips, go on, see a picture of his. Raj Kishore aka Darpan in this film agrees to cross over from one gang to another and become the insider. Thus started the processes of insider films. "Internal affairs" arrived in Hong Kong much later and we all broke out in ecstacy. But remember, Raj Kishore started it all. Of course Mr. Davar ( Iftikhar in a titular role here) had to give the permission after all. In gangland, someone ultimately has to give the permission for such things. Davar gives. Darpan goes. Things happen. You still don't know what's the film. It's got Aruna Irani in a special appearance, Sudhir has a role in which he is of course, Jaichand. What else would Sudhir be? He's Sudhir. He needs to feel his ego. Then, there is the amiable Manmohan Krishna as DCP. And he is so honest that he does not even give a referral for his future son-in-law. It's highly abberant when we see the eternity police inspector Jagdish Raaj as Jagga, a goon. Instead of his usual police officer stuff. Like I said, things happen. You still didn't get it? You will never get it then. I have already mentioned a galaxy of actors. But just for academic noting, there's also Neetu Singh, Nirupa Roy, Shashi Kapoor and Parveen Babi. Oh yeah, there's Bachchan too. Deewar. And why was that Munshiji walking around with the attendance record all day long at that building site where Nirupa worked? Because if he didn't carry that attendance record, he couldn't have stricken her name off and the story wouldn't have moved ahead, silly!

The man, Murukku and the climactic song from Jewel Thief.

The man is in the other car. The car is adjacent to our car in the traffic rush. We are both at a signal. Stationery. Ready to run. The man is driving. The man has a frown. He's thinking. But then, his hand is in motion. He does not look at what his hand is doing. Wow. But his hand comes up with something. It is murukku. South India all season fried snack of the ages. Usually coconut oil fried. On cue, the song in our car changes to the evergreen Jewel Thief's climax song. "Honthon pe Aisi baat dabaake chali aayi". Here, the murukku is absentmindedly between the honthon (lips) and now being dabaake (pressed). Crunch. The teeth get into the act all by themselves. No warning. Just like that. Shrads fly in all directions. Slow motion. With Lata Mangeshkar's swirling voice to be used as background score. One shrad even hits the middle of the steering wheel, bounces back and lodges near the second button. Bhupender Singh comes on, yelling high pitch, Shaalu. Yes, he too is there in the song. Remember, he played the guitar too in this song. Those guitars are going crazy as another shrad now teeters on the edge of his moustache. Will he or won't he? Yes, that's the question. As the second part of the song starts. Will he pick it up out of his moustache by hand or will his tongue automatically go for it and I know it can, to the shrad that is lodged. In the moustache. This is too much excitement. To give suitable music to the excitement, the guitars, the drums and the violins start a mad ensemble in the song. It's the interlude in the song. It's climactic. Dev Anand is trying to find who's the thief. He is also the drummer. He's multi tasking too. Like the man in the car. Some more shrads rain down as he takes a fresh bite. But the vibration hasn't caused the moustache one and the second button one to topple off. They are teetering on the edge. Edgy. Gripping. Lata swings on in the song. At high pitch. What a combo! Then it happens. So swift. That you'd blink and it would be done. Fortunately, I am watching closely. His honth (lips) press together making the moustache go into the sanctum sanctorum of the mouth and by the time he releases the honth to the accompaniment of Lata singing feverishly the same line "Honton pe Aisi baat", the shrad is in his mouth and he's chewing on it. Clean. Dunk. Gone. Even as I admire the neat process, he's already looked down and seen the shrad near his second button and picked that shrad up and put it in his mouth. Slam. Dunk. Gone. Again. It all happens so fast, all within the second yell of Bhupender Singh, "Shalu". And two snatches of violin behind. Basically, in seconds. And he's not even stopped frowning or looking away from the road. For more than the couple of seconds that he took to see his second button. Marvellous. Near impossible. Perfect. The traffic gets going. He is in gear in a flash and the car edges forward. We edge forward too. Lata Mangeshkar's singing continues. But I have already seen the climax. The rest of the song would now just be action replay in my head. Absentmindedly, I look at the car's license plate as it speeds up. TN registration. Now I know how the moustache thing was done smoothly. Khul jaaye Wohi raaz duhaai hai duhaai.. Rajanikanth country ra!!

When father remarked about the soil of Calcutta

Father had a thing about Calcutta. He remarked that Calcutta has a damp smell in it's soil that does not allow a person to work hard and excel. Make something of himself. So, when I was doing my tickets to go Calcutta back in 1988 from Nagpur, he was circumspect about my future there. I landed up. Got a job. Made a career somehow. Then, pushed off to Guwahati and two years later again landed back in Calcutta where we met up. These were times when Salman Khan and Sunny Deol were just about being accepted in the city. Mithun and Govinda ruled. And Sanjay Dutt was making news with every film that he was coming up with. He arrived in the early evening. We had dinner together. I remember I was reading a book that had some funny cricket anecdotes. So, I read some anecdotes out to him. He did not have his mind on those anecdotes. He asked me if I was happy doing what I was doing. Now, asking such a question to a 23 year old is a bit of stretch. I used to have a job at a decent hotel. I used to go to work everyday. I got paid for what I did. I had very less friends. I used to live at my maternal uncle's place. In their loft. I had nothing that you could call burning ambition. I didn't know if people had that in 1991. So he took his time and explained. Through his own experiences as a youngster in Calcutta back in the early sixties. He used to be a lecturer in a college and a tutor to some students. He spent the rest of his time alternating between the theatres, the cinema halls and Mohun Bagan football ground where he was a regular during the league season. But he motivated himself to be a better man. Read books. Gave competitive exams and then things turned out well for him within the year. In effect, he was asking me to be a bit more ambitious. I knew that some of my classmates were already blazing through better jobs and gaining better skills. I wasn't. And even if I was, I had no clue that I was gaining something. So, I knew he was trying to inject sense into me. The same thing about Calcuttan soil again came up. For once, I felt that he was anxious about my career. Every father has a right to think about his son's career. He did too. But anxiety was never father's forte. We turned in for the night. By the next morning, he had probably decided that he needed to be more ebullient and positive. He cracked a joke about father and son going to work together the first time in life. He to his head office near the High Court and me to Shakespeare Sarani where my hotel was. We took a train and then the ferry across the Hooghly that day. We parted awkwardly, he giving me a half hearted pat on my back. Probably to propel my deadening ambition. Two days later he went away. That was that. He passed away two months later. I was very late to Pune where he breathed his last. Oh, he was right about Calcutta. It even turned Kolkata for a change in fortune. But nothing's turned for the better. Now Bengal pulls Kolkata along.

Musing Kalakaandi

Yesterday, late evening we were trying to find a good film to see. Missus found Kalakaandi on Hotstar. Let me warn all right away that the film is very weird. It's written and directed by the same guy who wrote Delhi Belly. Akshat Verma. And so I know what to expect. The Mumbai doing drugs, the small other world of Mumbai gangsters and the exclusive world of Punjabi marriages is slapped together in a cocktail that's well, Karela juice. But in these films I tend to find Gold. I want to find Gold. And so I do. There's a scene where the characters of Shobita Dhulipala and her boyfriend are running away from a crime scene. The police are chasing them. So, they momentarily forget to guard the other couple on the scene, Shenaz Treasury's character and her boyfriend. Obviously. Its Mumbai Police. They just totter out of the hotel they are supposed to run away from. And get into the getaway car that Shobita is driving. Because she's completely alcohol free. Obviously. Then, the best scene of the film happens. Shobita's boyfriend starts accusing her of kissing a barman. She is defiant that she didn't kiss the barman. Then she says she did but it did not mean anything as she was just wanting his jacket. His jacket because she could wear that, pose to be a hotel staff and take the group out of the place away from a raid that was on, for drugs at the party. He retorts but a full kiss wasn't required. Like Emraan Hashmi. The guy at the back, Shenaz's boyfriend comes alive. Emraan Hashmi, he repeats. Then starts naming all the films. Like Emraan Hashmi in Murder, he asks. Shobita's boyfriend says yes. Then Shenaz's boyfriend is on a spree. He mentions every film that Emraan has kissed in, right till The Train along with some tagline that speaks about some impending danger. In the meanwhile, Shobita gets into a melee because she's taken her eye of the road to challenge her boyfriend who's going Emraan Emraan. She narrowly averts an incoming car at a square. Two motorcyclists jump the red signal on an adjacent road and in a jiffy, the bang against her car and fly over the are, land in the road and die. Rider and pillion, both. This is one straight scene. I admire the way it's written.The throughput in such writing. Though, the setting is a comic interlude ending in drama, a very western writing concept, the feel of complete Masala Bollywood is very alive. The tragicomedy of our daily lives. There's another scene where Saif throws some cash at a tired and stationery constable. Then, he thinks of something as he is fleeing the spot, stops, comes back and collects the thrown cash. And he says, are you mad, you thought I will actually give you my money. A thought crosses my mind. Can we take back our votes like that?

Day of turmoil

Millennium eve. 1999. We used to run a very contained operation in that department of the resort I was in Goa. Okay, maybe contained is not the right word. Maybe, secluded is the right word. Room service. But in a resort, room service can be "anything anytime" word to the room guest. People would call up and ask for towels, wheelchair, nahane ka sabun and khelne ka plastic boat. And we had to somehow say we served just food and beverage. Then guide them to the particular department where those things would be available. Mary was our Room Service Order Taker. She was an amazing lady. Even if there were over hundred orders in processing, she would keep going, take orders calmly, remind the boys of priorities, work on reminders by the guests and mainly not panic. But one day she did. I received the call from her at maybe 10.40 am. She spoke in Hindi. The singsong Hindi that Goans speak. "Aap jaldi aa sakte? Idhar kuch toh bhi ho raha!" Mary requesting presence to anyone was panic stations. I was already in a late breakfast melee in the coffee shop but yet I extricated myself and reached her. To reach the Room service department from the coffee shop, one had to cross the main kitchen. And two wash ups. And one could see the debris of a full resort's morning operation. Dirty dishes piled high all over and yet service staff clamouring for plates, bowls and spoons. I knew what I was getting into. Wrong. I barely knew what I was getting into. When I reached the room service order taker's cabin, I saw that even bed teas from 8.30 am were still pending or had just missed the priority list of some service steward. Captains were running around assigning orders, doing trays for pick up, getting food from the kitchens. But it was all a game of increasing volumes. Every minute passing by was bringing more orders. Every minute bringing failure to serve. Say, Room 108. First thing in morning, the family ordered for bed tea. That may not have gone. Because of the rush. So they ordered for breakfast too. That might have been delayed. Now, they were ordering Dosas from the all day menu. Orders like this were happening from each room, every room. Millennium. Once in a life time. Everyone on a holiday. Everyone playing cards in room. Everyone needing food but lazy to go to buffets laid out in other restaurants of the hotel. Mary and me and the boys determinedly got to work. I remember even now how we cleared everything nearly by 4 pm. Lots of complaint handling. But we did it. We simply told the truth and got away in most cases. Patiently, we kept sending orders. I remember the kitchen guy who was doing sandwiches. At one point, he'd asked, itna sandwich kaun kha raha. None of us had lunch that day. It's another thing that I couldn't have dinner too after all that as the millennium party was gatecrashed and a 1200 odd gathering rose up to over 1400 and again all hands had to be on deck. The only food that I did have throughout that day was an utthapam shared with Mary somewhere late afternoon. It was cold and rock like. But it held us up. That evening, the stage was in water and Alisha Chinai sang. Made in India. We entered the new century leaving all the turmoil behind. And now we still see the same turmoil.

Pumpkins and success

Missus walked into the room. On her lips were one word - Pumpkin. No, that's not a word that she uses on me. Though, she could. Not lovingly. But with loaded sarcasm. I hear that after seeing a particular hindi film, people have started calling their men "adrak". If adrak, then pumpkin is also possible. Oi pumpkin, do something. See, it rhymes too. Anyway, if someone were to call her spouse pumpkin lovingly, how would that sound? My pumpkin, why don't you pick up the towel from the floor? Just for this, I would never throw towels anywhere. For fear that someone would address me like this. Fear of God. Any the pumpkin was being remembered because she had a pumpkin and the dish she had set out to create had a thin gravy and was going to have mustard in it. Pumpkins diced. Large dices. Some sour. Mustard with slices onions stir fried in it too. The dish would be yellow all the way. When in doubt, call up Mummy. Mummy in 44*C Gorakhpur. She's called. No answer. Some guy is called to ask where's she. He says he is out. There's another guy. He is to be called and he can connect to Mummy. A lot of calling happens. Then Mummy is on line. A recipe is taken. Then, talk drifts to other major things that's happening in the family. Conversation done. Aila, recipe is forgotten in the bargain! The pumpkin curry is fine enough even with a half heard recipe. But I still wonder. Would it be better with a few bean stalks in it? Or any other sturdy green? This recipe could make a superb bowl for a hungry afternoon. With boiled rice. In the evening, news comes in that a niece, Disha Mukherjee, has scored 97.2% in the X board exams. For the rest of the evening, we wear a pumpkin shell over our heads with a forever smile on the shell. Since we are Indian parents, the first thought would be - where did the rest 2.8% go?

The old guy can do things

The new Bhabhi is in the house. The older Bhabhi is also in house. Everyone is clamouring around the new Bhabhi. Guys want to bring films in an USB drive for her. Girls want to show her the bangle set they have bought just for her. Kids want to show some new game on a mobile. The older Bhabhi is quietly sitting beside the courtyard. Her son is studying his books. She's quietly keeping an eye. There's commotion in the kitchen. The new Bhabhi is agile. She runs faster to the kitchen. A plumbing issue. She can't correct things. No strength. Mummy tells her so. She feels bad. Mummy should not comment like that. Just when things are going haywire, older Bhabhi strides in. A wrench in hand. In minutes, with brute strength and finesse alternatively she's corrected the situation. She grins like a cat who's drunk some milk surreptitiously. Then she goes back and sits down beside her studying son. In the courtyard. People are quiet. They have seen a master at work. The new Bhabhi goes and sits beside her. Embraces her. People realize who's the boss. It was the same thing with Shane Watson the other night.

A girl with a drying apparatus

Deccan in Pune has its own clamour in the evenings. People selling fast fashion clothes at drop dead prices on the street. Pav Bhaji stalls sizzling butter. Throbbing sidewalks and trendy middle class out for a good time. Deccan also has many women meeting friends. I know it's not some big news. But still everytime I am there I think about what I see. Women meeting women friends. Elderly women. Decidedly middle aged women. Young women. In groups. Laughing. Buying. Eating. Talking. Again agreeing to meet. It's different. Trust me. It's something about that road. In this clamour, I sit in Wadeshwar with good friend, Sameer Athalye and he introduces me to a very intelligent young lady, Jui Kemkar. Jui was a working professional who suddenly decided that she needs to do some business. Not some small solopreneur kinds. A big kind. Something to do with agriculture. Supporting the farmers. Jui created a company called Desivdesi foods. She went around to check how some vegetables and fruits could be dried and eaten and could be tasty too. She also checked as to how some vegetables could be powdered and used as additives in food preparation. She found a niche market. Now she zeroed in upon some items that she could make. But she needed some farmers to grow these vegetables and fruits for her company. She went to her native village in Maharashtra. The farmers there refused. She was undeterred. She went all the way to Osmanabad. She met farmers there and they agreed. She put up a production unit. They started farming for her. Contract farming. She bought all their produce and converted to dried snacks. Beetroot. Beans. Spinach. So on. She also started doing her powders, notably onion, that's bought by a lot of downstream food companies. She was in business. The plucky young woman did not rest on her laurels. She went over to the Gulf and looked for avenues for her dried snack ensemble. She found good interest. And there she is, at the table in Wadeshwar. She tells me animatedly as to how she wants to run this business. She is direct, honest and completely willing to work hard for her business. She's still in her twenties. I am so proud of these young people we have in our country. The building blocks of a new nation. Completely unfazed. Very Global. Very focused. I know we let them down with all this religious, political and infrastructure sloth. But look at them, they are still building away. These are real startups. These, we need to encourage with all our abilities. And I ate the palak patta that she had dried with a spicy coating that one could have with chai or whisky in the evening just like that. It's good. It's different. But then, at one time, Maggi was too. (#storify brings another story that makes a lot of sense.)

Life is maybe worth living

Life is not worth living. Yesterday, came across a box of Satara Kanda Peda and could not sample it. Life is not worth living. The champion league final happened. Mo Salah was playing and I was travelling. Missed it. Tcha. Life is disgusting. I use #Oyorooms for the second time in life. I get a room just. Walls peeling. Bathroom ceiling ready to descend on me. Sheets old. Pillow covers old. TV not working. Remote missing. AC not working. WiFi not working. Vodafone does not reach into the hotel. Breakfast not ready on time. Cook came late it seems. Breakfast is an awful Misal pav and an even more awful poha. For all the hue and cry I do, Oyo offers 20% discount for the stay that will be applied to my next bill as I have prepaid. I decline the super offer. And we keep applauding such scams that we call startups. Life is maybe worth living. KKR is not in final. I don't have anything against SRH and CSK but I cannot sit tonight and root for any team. It will be a case of Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar. Maybe I will root for the quiet New Zealanders in both teams and one very quiet guy from Ranchi. Why do they call him Thala, beats me. Life is maybe worth living. Missus has informed that she isn't cooking. Some arrangements between mother in law and daughter in law. They had elections. Ma is first past the post like in a democracy. So, she's cooking for son. I know I will overeat. Life is worth living. It's a Sunday. Bangalore roads are fun for just one day. The rest of the days are spent in prayer. For life and completion of the metro line through Whitefield usually in inverse order.

Breaking door don't matter

Daya is sitting alongside me. Sullen. Angry. Wants to break a door. I have consoled him. Don't break a door. Break a leg. Now he is angry with me. "Kya hai, if I hit a door with my leg, door should break no? Why are you asking for my leg to break?" "Arre, no Daya. It's just an expression. Break a leg means enjoy life. Don't be sullen. Enjoy life, samjha!" "Oh, aisa. English is funny language. Bachchan theek hi bola tha." Yeah, we both nod, agree and be quiet. A little later I ask Daya as to why he is angry. He says, "petrol pricing". What's with petrol pricing, I ask? He says, "its gone up like never before. Rs. 84 now. Even in Bangladesh it is 58". I don't know about Bangladesh and so I listen quietly to his tirade. I say that even before my monthly budget for petrol was 5000 bucks. It will be the same even now. Daya laughs. "It's your loss na then. You will be roaming less. You will go to office by cycle perhaps." I am amazed that Daya can think so far and so clear. Like Akshay Kumar. I tell him that. Wow, he says, "Akshay and me anyway are so alike". Yes, you both break doors. You both answer to "Kuch toh gadbad hai". And you both don't know how to respond to this petrol price jump. Daya looks pleased now. I have changed the thought in his mind. Now he is thinking about Akshay. It's going to last a day. By the time something new will crop up in news and Daya will forget the petrol prices. On cue, we both receive notification. Some 9 guys shot dead in Tamil Nadu. At a factory called Vedanta. Daya is now asking me the meaning of Vedanta. What do I say?

Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga

Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. A cousin came home. He's a lot younger. Around my daughter's age. He had work in Bangalore. He stayed with us. That's absolutely fine. Young man at home brings a certain ebullience to the environment. He used to hear one song everyday. Loudly. Attentively. Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. At first I thought it's a song. He likes it. So be it. Then no, I had misunderstood. It was a state of life. It was his ringtone too. He nearly closed his eyes when he heard the song. I couldn't blame him. We did the same things with "Neele Neele ambar pe" back in time. So a few days passed by. There were these ads coming on TV during the ad breaks of IPL. Amazon Echo had a nice ad. A boy, a girl and a grandma. The girl and the grandma are teasing the boy and Amazon Echo lives up the moment with a song. Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. And then Beena, the grandma smiles. Too many things happen at the same time to me. One, Beena was a heroine in the 80s and was Anil Kapoor's love interest in a film. Brilliant smile she had and still has. I am reminded of my age. I am also pleased to know that a pure bred love song from Hindi cinema still prevails among all the Clarksons and Athenas and Katys. I am very displeased to know that boys secretly love this self flagellation of a song. Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. I still don't remember the film it's from. Google helpfully tells me that it's from Half Girlfriend. What did I expect? Illustrious men behind this miracle. Chetan Bhagat, the writer of the book. Arjun Kapoor, the actor. Then Arijit Singh. Women like him for obvious reasons and that's completely okay with me. Long sighs. Sonorous. Languid singing. Women feeling the comfort of intimacy with his ballads. All very fine. Men. How does Arijit figure in their heads. Like a typical Kishore or even Sanu enthusiast, I debunked him for a while. Naah, every song similar. That he disproved over the past couple of years. Same scales. He tried some stuff with Bhansali with different scales that I listened to the other day and he looked quite accomplished. But what's it that has clicked with men? After seeing the cousin it came to me. Lost loves. Boys become men over lost loves. We had our "Meri bheegi bheegi si" and they have "Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga". If there's a Kannada version, please relay to Yeddy. He wants to sing it to that chair. CM's chair.

Mad Max Infinity War

The boy has s lemon green tee shirt on him. On his back is emblazoned "Big Basket". He swerves into the traffic with his bike. He cannot brave it through. Gets stuck. In front of my cab. Cab is Ola. Big Basket looks strangely at Ola. He thinks it is Ola's fault that he is stuck. Ola is thinking he's travelling straight on a straight road. Though the road has all the attributes of classic Bangalore post nuclear dystopia. Potholes, ravines and crevices. Stuck vehicles, drooping electricity poles and loose stoned and sand thrown on the sides of the road. Even Mad Max wouldn't be able to traverse this. Ola has a job on hand. And then this. Big Basket. Wheel in front of wheel. Which wheel shall go first? May the best man win? No, they don't go out and have a duel. The duel happens through eyes. Sullen piercing eyes of Big Basket bores into Ola. Ola's bloodshot angry arrack laden eyes bore into Big Basket. The eyes devour. The eyes shove. The eyes make ten cars behind both of them go up 300 meters into the air with Rajanikanth fuelled 70 mm disruption. The eyes swivel buses ahead. Men fall down from 20 floor above in nearby dystopian towers by the force of those eyes. Then I, spoiler of Mad Max Infinity War, ask Ola to go back a bit and allow Big Basket to go. He does that with a roaring grunt. World War Z is averted. I am not there in the Vidhan Soudha. Wonder who's managing it there.

Frozen shoulder

Frozen shoulder. 1999. Ma is in Goa. One morning she is unable to lift anything with her left hand. Kind of stuck. She is taken to a doctor. Now Ma manages a very pained face when doctor starts with her. Then, to my dismay, she is not able to keep that pained face constant. She alternates between straight face and pained face. Doctor is also confused. Where is the pain? I helpfully put in that she, Ma, isn't able to lift anything with her left hand. The doctor is probing away here and there in search of a muscular disorder. Nothing. Ma is responding with yelps at inconsistent places. I see that she's yelped differently for the same place when the doctor has come back to press that spot after a few pokes elsewhere. It's like poke-ah, poke-ah, poke-ooh. Then back to spot 1 and viola, poke-ooh. The doctor is shaking head. I am also inwardly shaking head. We know injury is there but Ma's confused signals are helping none of us. Elaborate stuff with opening and closing fingers start. Till ten minutes before the examination, her fingers were absolutely fine. Suddenly her fingers were creating closing issues. Wrapping issues. Unwrapping issues. Very confusing. Like world weary pianists with misshapen fingers. Or truncated guitarists in mid concert jabs at the crowds. Suddenly the perfect hand had become something out of The Omen. I staring at hand. Hand staring and shivering at me. Doctor looking agape at me. Me helplessly looking at doctor. Ma oblivious. With extreme pained face. Anyway, the doctor after trying to remember all his medical lessons arrives at fact that it is a frozen shoulder probably. Needs physiotherapy. Physiotherapy usually gives succor to anyone who's ever tried it. Little machines and small exercises. Opens up muscles and creaky bones to newer activities. Ma yelps in pain during first physiotherapy. I patiently explain that there is nothing painful. But I know nothing. I am told so duly. I shut up. Better still, I stop going to those sessions where she has to go. Missus and others take over. Pain is gone or minimal. Over the years, I have deduced about 7 pain type faces that Ma has, specifically when I am around. I have allocated pains to each face. It helps. The Karnataka government will have it's pain type faces for us. The art will be in knowing those faces. One can negotiate better. Frozen shoulders or frozen bodies. Whichever.

The third revolution

Remember the days when TV used to be a new thing and suddenly the mother used to come and shut it off in the midst of something good saying it's not good for the eye or the TV was getting hot, it would burst. And we would moan! Or now when we advise our children to keep their mobiles aside as it's not good for health or the nonsense it is. Saw the evolution? Humans are still getting hooked as machines and eco-systems keep evolving. And we are already at the end of the second industrial revolution. We have seen the good and yet now people do not have work and there's a huge imbalance in the way the capitalist world has shared the spoils, the wealth and the resources. But there's hope. We are at the door of the third industrial revolution. This will not be country specific and this will not be capitalist centric. So, paupers can hope to rejoice. The third industrial revolution shall be the shared economy industrial revolution. The specific revolutions shall be with communication, power and transportation. Look at the past. The first industrial revolution happened because of the telegraph and steam engine. The second happened because of the telephone, electricity and car. Test telephone enabled us to speak long distances. The electricity liberated the way we worked, lived and performed. The car, of course, became the symbol of prosperity and is transportation too. Note, I put transportation second. And prosperity first. Especially, for India. Now, the third revolution is upon us. The communication internet has fast forwarded our thoughts, made us a global human village, sharing everything every second and most of it is free. Data usage is a small price to pay for such human sharing. Large impact, small carbon footprint, very less cost and happiness to almost all. We can share thoughts, music, movies, documents, papers, photographs, news, information, decisions and events as we live our own lives wherever. Even a village with two goats and a man can have the same resources as a business biggie in New York. The power internet is being created as we speak. Small kits of solar energy for homes. Small wind energy modules for a village. Solar farms for a community. Very less cost. Low maintenance. Small carbon footprint. Ceaseless energy from sun and wind. Share with the grid. Make money too. Contributory. Community service and evolved sharing. Get grid benefits as you travel thus saving money even during travel. Share, be social and co-create energy for every living being. All very nature friendly. So, no more tree cutting. Cheap and affordable power. Actually, near free. Don't be surprised if it will be like data, some paltry hundred bucks. Times are coming. The transportation internet has already begun by car sharing. The millennials don't want to buy cars. They hail transport and travel at opportune costs from point A to B. We used shared autos in some cities before and started the share economy. Now they have brought us apps to do it anywhere and everywhere. We will share cars, buses, trucks, planes and hyperloops to move ourselves swiftly. And move our goods even more swiftly. Trucks and buses shall also become mobile transponders and collect data about weather, communities, social networks and infrastructure on the roads they travel enabling people to plan more and deliver better. The transportation internet will bring us swiftly to each other's doorstep at low costs. Our goods will come to us at very low costs. Then, we can question ourselves. Why do I need the apples from Simla? Or Kiwi from NZ? We will use all the cheap stuff I mentioned above to create our own farms and control our produce, organic and fresh. We bring down cost of food. That's the ultimate. It will happen. People and governments all over the world are doing it. So, you will ask about employment? In India, that's a pertinent question. Engineers will be employed to make the three internets happen. The farms will turn high tech and they also will be needed in them. Data security, data flow and data analytics will get real time and enormous. People will get employed there. Content creation, agriculture, social development, education, social caring, green tech, food, healthcare, animal care, media, hardware tech, crafts and community development will create new and evolved jobs. In essence, people will stop migrating. There will be reverse migration. People will go back to villages. There will be much better income there. They will make their own water, electricity and food. Easily. With less money. And have time to spare. The village economy that will propel our nation in the coming years. So people, get hold of lands and start building your smart farms. Was I able to help you see a great future? Isn't it great? Remember, no government can undo this. It's competition, it's compelling and it's financial sense. *Do share if you think it's necessary

The midnight happenings

Many things happen at midnight. We achieved independence at this hour. Shahenshah walked the streets at this hour. The cops with the breathalyzers go home at this hour. Some Bengali households cook dinner at this hour. In Mumbai, back in the mid 80s, the dhows used to come in at this hour. Then, in the shadows, things used to be transferred to small cabs and trucks. It's how many friends got their Rolexes back then. Or their Henessy VSOPs. In Calcutta of then, the wall writing or graffiti work would start at this hour. The colours would be brought to the local party office by the evening. The brushes would be steeped in turpentine. The artist would come and inspect what he had to. And then, sleep for a bit. 11.30 pm, he would be shrugged awake. Then, at midnight, he and an assistant with a ladder would trudge out. The usual light was a hurricane lamp. That would be held by the assistant as the artist would work on the wall. If it was CPM, then lots of red and black would be there. If it was Congress, then lots of Green, saffron and blue would be there. The other saffron had still not been in cogue there then. And the other blue wasn't in existence. Of course, a lot has changed since then. The BPOs even have a shift that starts at 12 am. It caters to God knows which nation from then. But the IT parks are lit through the night. The mini buses ferry groggy kids through the night. They call it the graveyard shift. Earlier, only the press used to do such stuff. And land up at all night coffee shops for a beer and a late meal. The press was awake through the night and the early morning today. Call it landmark or whatever, today is the day that we will refer to, when we look back at a changed India of the near future. A constitutional change. For better or worse, we are at the inflection point. Caused by moral and material corruption.

Fidgety geniuses

Don't you think fidgety people are geniuses? I do think. It means they have a crazy mind in overdrive. They touch things, shove them about, wonder what is happening or what could happen. Do analysis right there about the thing and it's requirement. Murmur things. Then abruptly move on. Let's start with popular fidgeting fellows. Dinesh Kartik. Ever watched him closely. He'd like a cat on a hot tin roof. Nothing is constant about him. Thumping glove fingers on thighs. Thumping feet on ground. Walking about. Stopping. Cocking the head to some direction that's unwarranted. He does all. Sometimes all at once. Then, he is moving his eyes constantly. Never settling on one thing. As a captain probably that's a need. But a team member watching him, it would be difficult. Watching a man with so many inner things going on. Shahrukh Khan, his boss at KKR is another fidgety guy. Same traits nearly. Constantly moving fingers. Through hair. Gesticulating. Talking. Drumming fingers. Nervous energy oozing out. Palpably awash with ideas. Can't stand still. Needs to go and get it. If possible. Someone I know is also the same. She will sit in a car and it is mayhem. Every radio station is punched within the next ten minutes. The auxiliary cord is shoved into a mobile phone and a playlist is played. Then, the cord is pulled out and thrown off. The AC is increased. Then decreased. The slats is moved in every direction possible. The glove compartment is opened up. Finally, she is hungry. But they are geniuses, as I said. They are thinking ahead. You know about Shahrukh and Dinesh. The lady in question is also a genius. The person accompanying her in the car realises in minutes. Her ideas and solutions are extraordinary. Even the road routes she takes are extraordinary. All, with thumping music. That itself is genius. Thinking amidst thumping music. I will now keep an eye on such fidgety people. Is Kumaraswamy also fidgety? Because what's happened is also genius level, isn't it?

Sacrificial goats

Missus back from Kitty party. Showing pictures. Can't say anything. Will be blasphemy. Other women there. Women in Tanuja and Tina Munim poses. Cannot say she looking like Tanuja. Hanikaarak Bapu will have another meaning then. Telling about food. Mainland China. Soups, courses. Desserts. On buffet. Men feeling very deprived. Like fly in soya. Tossed out into waste bins type. Men want three course meal at least. A cotelette, a thermidor and a zabaglione will do fine. Even without a Merlot on the side. And if Merlot there, slightly chilled. Yeah, if wishes were horses. Men get light food in the evening. Because Missus had heavy food in Kitty party in the afternoon. Chaat. That's way light. Lighter than light. With sprouts within. Men have to see series on Amazon Prime and eat so that they forget what had been eaten. See, men also sacrifice. Or become sacrificial goats. Some, with beards. Not funny.

The man passing by

At crossroads we stand, As clouds gather above, Some say rain shall come, Some say it's just thunder, We look and decide, For the end is never an end. These roads don't lead us anywhere, We scratch heads and argue, A little rain happens, But generally it's all noise, We warm up to forthcoming destinations, But we just move along. Were we just meant to be passing by? Then what's the fuss with Aadhaar? It actually meant an address, right? A window, a stair, a bedsit, And then we went to work, And sat listening to Lata on lonely nights. We make a living, Pulverize competition, Create disorder for others, Shake their foundations, All to make some profit, All to bring a few bucks home. And we were meant to be passing, Enjoying the clouds and the thunder, Maybe having a few arguments, Maybe having a few hearty lunches, Then holding our satchels close, Just slink away into the grey. Long later some would gather, On a moonless night, A few drinks would be finished, Then one would pipe up, Remember that guy? And a few would nod and raise a glass.

The poem episode

Before every Rabindranath Jayanti (Pochishe boishakh, just gone by), the Bengali association in Ordnance Factory Chanda, conducted some competitions. Singing. Poetry. I think there was handwriting too. I don't remember much but there's this episode that I remember very well. There was this Tagore poem in Bengali that we had to recite. My age group had six participants in all. Some of them, I think all of them exist on my timeline even now, here. I had no interest in poetry spouting. We call it "Abritti" in Bengal. But Father wanted me to do this. There was a certain style he adopted while doing Tagore. First, the stance. Yes, he explained that the stance was also important. I couldn't be be very straight and open chested. I had to have an angle to the audience, as if I was reading from a book. A little angle. Just to show a bit of profile. Then, the pitch of the poetry has to be bass and gravelly. But one should be able hear me clearly even from the back of the room. I was, what, 13 years old back then. How much would that squeaky voice just about breaking then, would be that pitch, was questionable. Dissatisfaction. Father's angry face. Vigorous shakes of head. I had no clue. Then, the poem pronunciation. Tagore did not write easy stuff. At least it wasn't easy for people like me. I kept mucking things up. I could happily give up right then and there and go back to Dilip Doshi and his bowling India into a stupor. But no, father was getting as determined to get me right. That particular performance could have been my worst on public stage. That was the most rehearsed and yet the worst one. Of all things, the tension made me make the most elementary mistake that one can do. I forgot the poem in the middle. Anyway, God knows what merit was still seen. I got the third prize. Father was crestfallen. He couldn't believe that, I, his son, could be such a dunce on stage. He being the evergreen stage warrior. Poetry, play, compering, speech, everything he could do. So, that summer, just to compensate, I wrote my first poem. Shyly showed it to him. He was overwhelmed. He kept reading and rereading it. Of course, it had to be a bit layered and all that. Not the usual birds and skies kinds. He got that printed in that year's Puja souvenir book. It was in Bengali. Of course, I had done two poems in English post that first one. But he chose that one, the Bengali one, to send to the committee. Yesterday, I saw something on TV that brought back those memories. Fathers invest a lot of their selves in their children. Its a process. You may even call it vicarious. And they want their wards to succeed. Math. Physics. Electronics. Karate. Speaking. Singing. Cricket. Football. It's things that they like and want their kids to like too. Mothers on the other hand, just want kids to go out and excel even with things they don't know anything about. I sometimes feel that I could have done more during those young days to make Father more proud. Maybe that poetry, or some singing or that football gig I was good at, or that cricket batting that I had gotten very good at. A little bit more dedication would have done it. Or may be he went away too soon. Or may be he's watching over my shoulder as I am feeling reasonably proud of a daughter who goes to work every morning, even during her college holidays while other friends of hers enjoy the holidays. In white and black formals, just like I and Missus did, many years ago. She's preparing for a life that's not so black and white.

We deserve the netas we get

The candidate sat. Sipping a lemon drink. It's hot in Bangalore. 38*C. And after Bangalore has been denuded by builders and contractors trying to build glass and concrete monuments, the heat just richochets between surfaces. Even the hospitals have glass fronts. Don't know why. The candidate was approached by a few people who asked a few questions. He answered, wiping his brows now and then. I can see the effort he's putting in. He's never won the election. He hopes to. His Kannada is colloquial. He converses easily. But this is Bangalore Urban. A pocket that now has more cosmopolitan people than any other pocket in Bangalore. He needs to have his English and Hindi correct too. He does not. There's not much of the rural aspects left of the area. Yet, he's happy to speak about the water and health issues. He has a lot of followers milling around. We don't see them otherwise. They don't look like locals too. Maybe they are. But from those few suburban zones that this mini city now has. I wonder why there are no political workers among the affluent. Not just helpers. Workers. People who exhort others to vote. To take them to booths. Manage booths. Why don't I find them in these towers around me. The candidate finishes his stop. He's gotten up and wants to pay the shop owner. There are a lot of smiles and head shakes. Lot of unwanted servility. The common man still behaves as if a king has deigned to come his way. A lot of bowing down. Unnecessary. Maybe even the candidate feels so. He would just be happy if they all vote for him. But he moves on. They have some hours left and it's the last day of the canvassing. That evening I see a few of those followers sitting beside a granite store. Trading jokes. They must be from this area, a banged together ruptured Urban dysfunctional zone. Farmers who sold lands to developers and have grown rich overnight. Who know all about FSI and yellow zones but have no clue about what pulleys are levers are. Election day has arrived. We are the pulleys and levers for a change in our invested future. We paid for these towers. Yet we turn away little boys who come to exhort us to vote. We say we aren't interested in politics. What we don't say is that we will never turn away that courier guy who will bring that US Visa home. Little boys who come to our houses with election slips. Little boys with lots of hopes. I don't know how people can close doors on their faces. Beats me. And then they talk tall things about traffic, chaos, water scarcity. Little boys who work when the affluent watch Netflix in the AC cool of their homes. We deserve the netas we get.

Holmes times

The door. And a bunch of keys. And me not knowing which key is the key to that door. Interesting. There are two ways that one can suss out which is the right key to a door. One, try all the keys. Two, look at the keys and the door and try to deduce which is the best key. But of course, being a bit dense, I start by using every probable key in the door. But the door does not yield. The bunch holds about 40 keys and so you can very well understand how much time I shall take with that dense process. So, move to the second process. I take the whole bunch of keys with all the smaller rings branching out of the large wired up ring. I keep looking at it. I try and invoke my inner Sherlock Holmes. It would be a lone key on an individual ring away from the three sets of keys for each door within the villa. One key. I look closely. There's one key. My inner cam zooms in. Three smudges on the top side of the key. People have used this key a lot. The indentations also have minor discolorations. The levers were popped by those indentations before. Zoom out. Behind me Missus is zooming in her camera onto my backside. I don't know why fun people have when others are busy in creative tasks. I take that key and plug in. Thaack. Success. New resolve. I will invoke my inner Sherlock Holmes more. As I am standing in my lift an hour later with some palak bunches in hand, I invoke the keen sense of smell Holmes might have had. It's a lady's scent and a vanilla essence. It means a lady has gone up onto some floor with a birthday cake. There's a birthday happening somewhere. I am congratulating self as I leave the lift on my floor. A food delivery guy and a lady who's probably house help somewhere are waiting for the same lift. The scent is fragrant as I pass her. Obviously, he came to deliver the cake. Holmes is nonsense.

The banquet manager

1993. There's a very big conference taking place in our banquet halls. Lots of signage. Lots of names and directions stuck onto doors. Tremendous numbers of people walking in and out. I am running about trying to meet demands as I am the senior supervisor on duty. Otherwise, the in-charge of the day. The Banquets manager is sitting at a table in the middle of all the melee. Talking into a phone. I can see him from the distance where I am organizing the pick up of food for the lunch. He's smart. Black suit and a red tie. Over six feet in height. Fair. Hair done in the latest back brushed style of the day. Kind of Sanjay Dutt meets Amitabh Bachchan in looks. He used to have difficulty keeping the legs inside the desk and so while talking on the phone, he used to tilt his chair to the right and stretch his legs and talk away. Languid grace. That's the phrase that comes to mind. And he could talk. Right phrases. Right nuances. Essential salesman all day. Women used to just stop and gawk at him for a bit when they saw him on the banquet floor. So, now he's talking on the phone and out comes a harried guest. You have to know a harried Indian hotel guest. He has no preamble. He will never tell you where he has come from, what's his work or requirements, he will just start complaining about something that he, only he is involved in and barely anyone knows that he is the guy involved in that. He shouts, "the mikes given to us aren't working and no one is doing anything about it. This is unscrupulous and nonsense." Here, you have to know that when a Bengali gentleman shouts he tends to use big words. I think they teach that in those state schools. He goes on for a bit. Our manager is unfazed. He does not even get up from his seat. He simply listens. The guest finishes, pipes down and let's out a breath. Our manager gives him his glass of water. Just pushes the glass towards him. He scowls but takes the water and drinks it. Then, our manager says, "It's a machine, it's tested but it's not ruled by men, can go wrong anytime. We will simple replace. Don't you worry." Before the man pipes up again our manager seizes the moment, "That tie, where did you get that magnificent tie? I love ties but I never got anything like that anywhere." The guest is wearing an obnoxious violet based flouroscent kind of tie with some weird geometric designs in it. The guest looks down at his own tie as if seeing it for the first time. He mumbles something about New Market. Our manager now gets up. He puts his arm around the man's shoulder. Now, picture a tall good looking man with a small obtuse ordinary man. Walking back towards the convention hall entrance companionably. Of course, there was no more trouble with the mikes. Nothing was replaced. An ego was massaged. That was that. That was an instant lesson in positive communication that day. And look what we have to put up with as our leaders these days. A guy rolling up his sleeves constantly and another beating his chest constantly.

That evening the towers were hit

Middleton Street. Kolkata. Behind the hotel and banquet centre that I worked in was a derelict building with six tenants who were stubbornly waiting for the right price to vacate. On some evenings, a person who was a fixer kinds arrived at my boss's office in the hotel and they sat together to do some calculations and strategies. Then, the fixer would go to the building behind and sit with one or the other tenant. These weren't rooms or shops. They were hovels with rats and snakes all around. But by some force of greed, they stayed there, hoping someone would someday give them a bag of cash. In fact, one of the tenants who used to work as a security guard in the Loreto House College nearby even kept telling me repeatedly, "Sir, please tell Babu that if he quotes a decent price I will wrap up and go off to gaon, in Bihar. Why would anyone want to stay here?" And brick by brick the building behind would continue to fall into ruin. Every week I could see steady deteriotion. I used to ask the boss if he was getting someone to do the deteriotion. He would laugh at me. But I had my suspicions. That day, again the fixer after some strategies at around 4.45 pm went off to visit a tenant and they started a discussion that somehow moved into an argument. Kolkata, you know. Arguments are common place. I had come out for something and overheard their loud accusations for a bit. Mild curiosity led me to understand that the tenant had actually agreed on the amount on cell and the fixer was now convincing him to go below the agreed amount as that amount was only applicable for that day some weeks back. I smiled inwardly at the strategies of my boss and came back into my office. As I stepped in, I could hear my boss yelling for me from the mezannine floor where he sat. I used to be in the ground floor. I rushed up the small stairs. He showed me the TV screen. The first tower had just been hit. He used to watch CNBC for the business news and they had showed it nearly live. I was stunned but quiet. The mind tried to assimilate. Though it was very far and I didn't have foreknowledge of who worked in NYC among friends and where, I still tried to remember all the Yahoo chat and mail conversations. Anybody among friends and relatives? As we kept seeing the screen, the second plane crashed into the second tower. Pandemonium. Bizarre. Even seeing it on screen was difficult. The boss was on the phone as he had relations in US. I didn't, not then. I stood and kept watching. Numerous things running through the head. And yesterday, late evening, it all came back as I finished the tenth episode of "The Looming Tower". Good docudramas have a way of creeping into your senses and bringing out those hidden memories. I now remember how I absent mindedly sat there at my desk for the next hour in the evening. Playing some games on my computer and surfing the net for all kinds of news on the tragedy. A tea on my desk cold and undrinkable. The doodle that I kept doing and how I avoided going home to the family for the next couple of hours of the evening. I know it's not 9/11 today. But there enough insanity around. So thought, a reminder is necessary.

Entourage

A relative comes home. The train has stopped at a nearby station for a few seconds and he's jumped on to the ground from the train, him being from Bengal and adept at doing all this. He walks up to the platform, crosses over to the exit, hails a bus passing by and just arrives. Pretty nifty for a guy who doesn't know much about Bangalore anyway. I remember another episode of tracks and platforms from far back. 1995. Man arrives at Howrah station. Man is supposed to travel with me to Mumbai. Behind him is entourage. Man travelling for first time alone, it seems. Bengali men, I tell you. Anyway, man searches for me and comes into the compartment where I am seated. Those days we didn't dare think of AC compartment and all that. Sleeper non AC it was. He sees me and grins. He let's out a whoop and lets out a happy expletive. Select an expletive in your mind. Anything will work. Then the father comes into the compartment and sits beside us. Father is not going but he wants to sit beside son and explain to me why I should take care of his son. His son is no longer spouting expletives but sitting like a 22 year old dumb boy. Glum face and all. Then mother comes and joins. Promptly starts crying. Sister joins and she searches for place to sit. So I give up my place and she sits. The family reunion takes place. The man had just separated from folks 25 seconds ago, by the way. Then the train let's out a whistle. I gently remind that they have to get down. They get up. There is a lot of hand catching, hand wringing, whining and yelping before they are finally out. The train has started to move slowly. They have come round towards the window and are holding on to the grills and not letting go. I am afraid for them. I motion them to let go. They ignore me and concentrate on the man. The man is saying the same thing again and again. Yes, he will call. Yes, he will write. Call. Write. Call. Write. I am starting to get angry with Alexander Graham Bell and Waterman now. By the way, let me also state that Missus also had come with her sister to see me off and they had disappeared seeing this melee. Of course, we weren't conjugally operating then, so cannot blame her. The train picks up speed. Entourage keep running at top speed beside the window. Call. Write. Tears. The train speeds off from the platform. But then, the driver may have left his purse behind or something, the train stops beyond the station, on the tracks. A minute later, huffing and puffing, the entourage is there, down there, on the tracks beside the stationery train. It is mighty funny and highly dangerous. I don't know to respond. I am agape. My jaw is on the floor. I cannot even pick it up. Call. Write. Call. Write. We reach our destination. Many weeks later I ask the man, how many letters did you write. He's drunk the fifth night continuous. He says, last three weeks, none. Bengali families have a message for themselves here somewhere.

Tea and life, the meanings

What's in a cup? No, not a storm, you gossip mongers. Jahaan dekho, you search for gossip, intrigue and suspense se bharpoor drama. Nope. It's not that. Tea. That's what's there in a cup. At long last, after so many years, I have started to recognize Missus's haath ka banaya hua Tea. Probably, Tea is like life. It takes nearly 22 years to actually know someone. Adrak is like the instinctive thought and sugar is like the positive action loading up in any human. Milk is the aura. Tea leaves are the style. The final potion in the cup is of course, the magic, any person is. The mix of the known and the unknown. You don't know for a long time as to why that particular boil is there in a person. Why they respond as they do. What's their reason? Why am I ruminating about tea and life? No really. Men, do the women in your life know how you make tea? And similarly, Women, do your men know how you make tea? It is something like those TV games. Husband asked separately. What colour does she like? Gleefully he says, black. Then camera pans on to her. No way, she says. Blue is my favourite. He stands their with a lost puppy look on his face. It's why I like old couples. At long last, they realize what the other in the couple wants. 30 or more years it's taken by then. Then, they grow attentive to each other's needs. Say, you want to make lauki for them. Uncle says helpfully and mildly, "Beta, leave the lauki, woh na, she doesn't like lauki." You naturally keep it aside. But then you wonder. What's it that's clicked for them? Years of being around each other probably. Unconsciously watching each other while they stab at phones, see IPL, talk on phones, listen to Asha Bhosle or even sing off key "Chala jaata hun Kisi ki dhun mein". She also registers him. Disliking shoes with with pointed fronts. Wiping the laptop everytime he started work. Swatting flies. Cutting nails with vigour. Taking calls from workmates and starting off with "kaise ho"! Everything matters. In fact, these usual things matter the most. It's what they remember, when the one or the other passes on. And life or tea or both comes to a shuddering halt.

30 years of a lovely moment in life.

1988. I am sitting on a culvert. My close friend is standing beside me. It's dusk. The magical time between the day and the night. Around 6.30 pm. A song floats in the air. Ghazab ka hai din socho Zara. We both fall silent and hear the song coming to us quite clearly through the still night. It finishes. He says "Anand Milind" and I say "Yeah". We both keep quiet. He's got to go back and rejoin his college for the fifth semester. I am done with college. My third year exams were just over the day before and I had arrived that very day from Hyderabad. Small window of opportunity that we both had and could meet each other before we both left town again the next day. Me to get a job. He to finish his education. But the mind wasn't on ourselves and our lives. It was on a young man with a red bike and a young smiling woman who had said "wow" on screen. Aamir. Juhi. It was a summer of love. So many young men and women had ceased living an ordinary life and dared to dream that love was possible and standing up to oppressive families was highly possible too. So many young men and women went off on those surreptitious rides to the countryside on a red bike. Preferably, Ind - Suzuki. Like the lovers in the film. The songs were on everyone's lips. Papa kehte Hain and the aforesaid Gazab ka hai din were ruling the charts. The parents dismissed off the film with a puny hero with limited acting skills and a hackeneyed love story as a flash in a pan. But they didn't know of the feelings it created in us. I was on a double high. The young lady with whom I had gone to see the film a week before in the middle of my exams had casually commented that I looked like the hero on screen. I spent an extraordinary five minutes more in front of a pocket sized mirror when I got back to my room that day. And as soon as I got back to the parental home, another young lady repeated the compliment that morning. Exultation was an understatement. We sat and discussed the film. Actually, it was the first time I was discussing the film rather nicely and in detail. Those hurried snatches of brief discussions in college, with mates barely interested in anything besides Marketing management (it was one of our last exams and no one seemed to have studied anything), were unfulfilling. We departed. Quietly. We knew we wouldn't be seeing each other for a long time. We didn't, but that's another story altogether. Yet we weren't sad. For there was.. Qayamat se Qayamat Tak. Today, it's exactly 30 years to the day. The long sighs and the shy smiles across the rooms are remembered. Yes people, it was the summer of love. Gazab ka hai din socho Zara. And to think that our kids might think it's a Zara ad. Sillies!! #30yearsOfQSQT