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?