Baba's wisdom

Here is a small compilation of quips from Baba. Politically incorrect, emotionally involved and always likes to have the final word (and the nod of the head to go with it).

'The Djoke is on you' - After Djokovic came from behind and pulled off an improbable victory against Nadal in the US Open final last year (I had made fun of Baba when he had said Nadal would lose).

'Pranav Mukherjee 'r chhele tah ekta meye chhele!!' - His take on nepotism creeping into politics in West Bengal

'Bullshit!! do your research first then talk' - when I told him USD was the currency constituting highest foreign currency transactions in terms of volume.

'I hate Britishers! But thank God the Portuguese didn't colonise all of India! Both you and I would have been naked right now.' - When asked to pick his favourite imperialist

'Is this how it is?' - When I was talking to him about Kohli's middle finger salute. He made sure he did it at least 10 times to check if he got it right.

'Whiskey?!?! Tai khaabo!' - When I asked him to eat a 'Mishti' (Bengali for sweet) as he was feeling a little unwell from chewing tobacco all day.

'He told me one of the main industries in Hyderabad is Banking. When I asked him to name a major bank in Hyderabad, he said State Bank of Hyderabad. He is applying as a Chartered Accountant!!! I should surrender my membership or what!' - no explanation required I guess

'But last time I used that word, there wasn't a politically correct synonym for it.' - Upon my sister and I admonishing him for using the word 'Negro'

Just wanted to restart my blog again, and posts will be regular henceforth.

Childhood IV - Girl Power

The fiercest contests between bat and ball was played out at the 5th street of 'H' (pronounced hech) Block in Annanagar, Chennai. The pitch and the length of the ground consisted of the width of the narrow street with the off and leg side boundaries varying with the location of the cars parked on the street that day. The short ground taught us to play straight and score at the rate of 20 runs an over quite easily. The ploy (like on most Indian wickets), was to bat first and apply maximum pressure on the team that was chasing. So what if the boundaries were short? Chasing at 20 runs an over is always difficult. At least for 12-13 year olds.

So it was the usual Saturday evening clash between the dexterous and the sinister. This particular combination of the teams, totally due to natural selection, brought out the competitive best in us. The droit-dominated consisted of Naren and Sriram, best of friends and most united of teams. The gaucherie squad had Sundaresh and I, volatile and ready to trade blows at the drop of a hat. We were playing standard gully cricket rules-

1. hit the ball into any of the residential compounds and you were out;
2. chucking only, that too not too quick (the decision on whether the delivery was really too quick lay with the batsman thus providing a fertile premise for altercations and fisticuffs);
3. 8 overs a side;
4. Each man to bat twice.

The other rules would be made clear when the need arose during the course of the match. It was our third and final match of the day and with the series level at one match apiece, there was all to play for.

Sriram won the toss and elected to bat first (of course). The first ball smashed into his stumps (which were carved on a wall using a brick) but he reckoned it was too high to have castled him (after looking at it with the eyes on the back of his head). We were immediately in a shoving match which ended the moment Naren's grandfather came out for a short stroll.

They got off to a flier. By our standards, that was 76 off the first 3 overs. Sundaresh and I, the sinister team, hatched a subplot to contain the free-flow. We bowled quick. Just quick enough for them to miss but slow enough to prevent too much debating. Sriram saw through this (obviously) but did not react, went about with his batting and their side ended up with 128 off 8 overs, a below par score.

I should have picked up the hint of what was coming, when we came in to bat, from Sriram's glaring light brown eyes. They were spewing fire and the boy had malice writ large on his face. I faced the first ball. Or the first bolt. Sriram arched his back like a baseball pitcher and flung the ball at me as if he was trying to kill me with it. He aimed for my bat and it worked. I got an edge and the ball flew into Mr. Balasubramanyam's house. We were one down with no score. In spite of our protests, Sriram was not going to relent and told us we could surrender the match and walk away (which he knew was impossible). It was getting dark and arguing further would only make batting more difficult. I barely saved my skin during the remainder of the first over and Sundaresh stepped up to face Naren. Considering myself to be the best batsman in the team, I wanted to take the onus upon myself and get back in strike for Naren's over. I called for a hopeless single the first ball and got Sundaresh run out. The obvious followed and it was not before long that Sundaresh and I were tearing away at each other with southpaw stances. Sundaresh started weeping and left the field, walking through the gate of his house. Sriram wouldn't allow me to play on Sundaresh's remaining wicket and I was stranded alone.

That was when Deepa, Sundaresh's elder sister, who was watching the match throughout offered to play instead of her brother. Sriram saw no danger in this and let her join and I had no choice. Dressed in a full sleeve top and a traditional dress that looked like a long skirt, Deepa paraphrased the rules once before facing the first ball. Naren let go of an off spinner and Whack! Straight into the compound walls for a six! I had lost interest in the match and was only going through the motions. Sriram cheered the shot and encouraged Naren to bowl better. Deepa hit the next four deliveries for sixes before scoring a boundary off the last ball. This brought me back into the game as I had to at least do better than this girl in traditional South Indian clothes and oiled hair! I was facing Sriram again and Deepa asked me to just take a quick single. I managed that and Deepa now had to face the lightning that Sriram was firing at us. But Sriram threw no bolt, perhaps he made a concession for Deepa and bowled at an acceptable speed. And there she was at it again..... 25 off that over. It was not before the fourth over had been bowled and our score stood at 86 that I thought we had a real chance. Deepa had scored almost all of those runs and was now farming the strike!

I think Sriram realised it too and went back to bowling his bolts, at Deepa too this time. What happened next was one of the most magnificent things I've witnessed in cricket. There she was, holding the bat in the most perfect manner, elbow pointing at the bowler, back-lift right over middle stump, head perfectly still. You couldn't see where she planted her foot while playing a shot (yes, she had footwork!) because of her attire but it was as if her bat had no edges.

The faster Sriram threw, the better she seemed to connect. Naren was exhausted from chasing the ball so much and I was just enjoying the show from the best seat in the house. She drove, cut, pulled and swept in a fashion that could only be termed - adept. She cut the short balls, square drove the wide ones and absolutely smashed the half-volleys. And every whack off her bat was followed by screams of 'two! two!' and the swishing sounds the border of her skirt made while she ran. I had just been selected for the Districts team a week earlier but was being taken to cricketing school here by this young lady. I could see Sriram's forehead gleaming with sweat under the streetlights which had come on at half past six, almost half an hour ago. I could hardly see the ball but Deepa seemed to know where to hit it even before it left the bowler's hand.

The last over, to be bowled by Naren, required us to score 14 more runs to win. I forgot to add that I had succumbed (again) to one of Sriram's bolts and Deepa was now batting on the last wicket we had left. Anyway, Naren, the weakest bowler among all of us at that time, stepped up with a nervous Sriram watching from extra cover. Deepa was facing and she sent the first ball racing away for four past the bowler. The second ball, a cut shot timed too well, flew over Sriram's head for a six. Four runs to win from as many balls. My premature celebrations had started with taunts at Sriram and barbed comments about sportsmanship. Deepa smiled at me and tapped her bat in wait for the last time.

I say for the last time because what she did then, is quite inexplicable to this moment. She charged down the track, moved away to her leg side and smashed the ball into outer space. The shot was so tremendous that it climbed two floors into Mr. Balasubramanyam's terrace by the time it had covered 15 meters. I had leaped in joy when she had connected and landed on a bed of thorns.

Sriram shouted 'YES!' only three hundred times while Naren stood as if he'd been hit for six but with a smile on his face. Sriram mimicked my voice calling me a loser and ran home just as his mother came out to call him. Naren thanked Deepa for the good game and left without saying a word to me. Deepa just looked at me, shrugged and walked away smiling. I could see Sundaresh sprawled out shirtless, on a cot just in front of the main entrance to his house.

Egg-less Fruitcake

Its that time of the day again when I go to sleep early. Not too much work tomorrow except following the last day of the Test Match between India and Bangladesh. I have just finished watching a movie. Twelve Angry Men, watched it for the third time. That after reading The Great Indian Novel which followed a little bit of GMAT preps.

So much activity had made me awfully hungry and since we had finished the Maggi and eggs over dinner, I knew I had to forage for food. In my own house. Oh yeah the joys of bachelorhood. I opened a packet of snacks called 'Hippo' and kept staring at the picture of the animal on the cover as it stared back at me. Musta been Hippo food as it did not go down very well with me. I proceeded on to look for something else. I was despairingly looking at the bottle of Teacher's that I had tucked away in one corner of the counter when my eyes fell on the little blue plastic box that I use to keep cakes in. Yes!

The same cakes my mother makes and sends with me from Hyderabad, the same cakes that my flat-mates and I enjoy so thoroughly and keep away from visitors. Egg-less as I had mistakenly told Ma that Varun (my roomie) is a 'pure' vegetarian. I saw through the translucent case that something was actually inside! I was quite surprised, pleasantly if I may add, as I had last brought a cake with me almost a month back, actually, longer still. It must have escaped Varun's voracious sense of smell, Akhil's ability to finish a cake in one sitting and Abhijeet's amazing appetite.

I saw it as a sign from God, one to make me realize how important Ma still is in my life even though I am on my own now (apart from three 29 year olds babysitting me). I felt a wave of emotion sweep over me. I opened the box, tore off a considerable chunk with my bare hands and shoved it into my mouth in one motion. I then closed my eyes to enjoy this little piece of home.

I chewed in to taste the raisins, still moist and fresh as Ma had soaked them in Rum (I think). 'Ammmm' I said in my mind and looked down towards the rest of my precious cake.

Thats when I saw the maggots. So many of them that you would wonder how they could fit into that tiny piece. They had obviously been disturbed and were not comfortable at all. Some had lost a part of their family due to this sudden attack on their 'home'. I then realised I had too many raisins in my mouth compared to how much Ma normally adds.

I looked down at the rest of them and kept chewing. Mind numb, eyes blank, I just kept chewing, for 5 minutes I think. I then gulped it down and quietly walked out of the kitchen, after closing the box and returning it to its place.

Unbelievable how such a small piece of cake can quell one's appetite. In fact, I am sleepy already. And I cannot wait to eat the next fruit cake that comes my way.

It always appeared funny to me how Baba would finish a cake as soon as possible once it had been baked. 'Eat it fresh' he says. Such is his insistence that he offers the cake to anyone who cares to eat it. 'Not quite the same a few days later' he says. Well Baba, what do you know? I thought this one tasted as fresh as ever, even the dry fruits.

Thought for the day :

Does a de-ranged psycho mean a normal person?

Summer has almost set in and yet the pigeons cannot stop nesting in almost every available inch of our building. The paucity of space is so great that one of them laid an egg on the top of our air conditioner box in the balcony. There was no twigs or cotton or leaves or anything else that constitutes a nest. Just the egg, precariously balanced on the flat surface of the box. Ma had put a cloth to cover the box from dust and that was all the egg had for a nest. Looked funny, almost as tiny as a naphthalene ball, sitting all by itself, looking almost alive. The mother would come once in a while to incubate it but if you observed carefully, you would see it sitting on the overhead wire just outside keeping constant vigil. It is rather warm but my parents, on being told by me, have decided not to switch on the a.c for the sake of the little one. I had a soft corner for it right from the beginning, wondering how small, a creature which hatched from a naphthalene ball would be. Last night I was given this great idea of building a nest around it. I had not thought about it earlier but claimed that I did. Either way, I forgot about the nest this morning.
The guilt really hit me when Ma told me that when she had gone to the balcony in the evening to get the laundry in, the mother, who was sitting on the egg, was startled when the balcony door was opened all of a sudden, flew out in a hurry which caused the egg to fall to the ground and shatter. She even told me the mother was sitting at the spot where the egg had been, for hours after that. I had a fondness because of the resilience the little one was showing right from the beginning but its all gone now. Maybe I should have built that nest.
At least my parents can use the air conditioner again.

going through Dada's post (http://myriadmind.blogspot.com/2009/02/ah-those-sunday-mornings.html) as soon as I remembered him mentioning an update, I have now decided to impose (whether you like it or not) my experiences from the Sundays of my childhood.
Saturdays are the best thing in school life. I got to sleep through the routine Havan in the auditorium of my school - DAV Boys, for two hours straight. Never mind the occasional cane that left intriguing designs on my back and little pieces of some shattered dream in my mind. But hey, I still know all the Hymns like the back of my hand. We then had only four periods on Saturdays as opposed to eight on weekdays (period - n. an interval of time between the ringing of a bell during which knowledge is imparted in schools. Sparingly used during middle school and considered an unrefined term in high school.) I would then get back home and was allowed to play gully cricket till almost half past six in the evening. I didn't really study on those days and even watched the film Doordarshan had to show in the evening!
The miseries began on Sunday though....one thinks he/she can sleep longer on a Sunday but not I. I had to go to my singing class by 10. Which meant I had to have a showdown with my mother at 9. I still wonder why I used to do that. We all knew I was going to go. On the one occasion that I got my way and did not end up going, I felt miserable the entire week after that. So once I was boiling with rage and ready to tear the world apart, Baba would drop me at my teacher's place. Never did he once show any sign of irritation. He would even give me my diary when I got off the car.
I am sure Ma used to call up Chaitali Aunty (my teacher) before I reached her place and tell her about my mood. I say this because she would be the sweetest person the moment I walked in and would sit me down on the sofa, switch on the television and make me watch Mahabharat. That always did the trick. I was ready for class. Needless to say I had not touched the harmonium since last Sunday. She would just smile and tell me 'Erokom korle ki kore hobe baba?' (how will you learn at this rate, dear?) The class began. I wouldn't know where 'sa' was and had to look at which note the student next to me was holding. I would then count the number of keys on my board to arrive at the right one. And this happened even after a year of learning. Chaitali Aunty would give me songs from her diary which she used in her childhood days. Funny thing was my teacher being a woman, had songs for a woman. It was only a year earlier that I realised, while singing to myself in the bathroom, that all I ever sang about in those days were how I was missing Krishna, how it felt like to be Shakuntala and how my 'piya' would come take me away from this unkind world. My genuine excuses of a back ache were never believed by my parents as I was playing cricket for the school team on all other days. You see, it hurt when I sat for a long time.
The end of class meant my detachment from Hindustani Classical Sangeet for the week. I was free to play cricket again and get burnt in the Chennai heat. Ma would always appear a little upset when she saw me toss my diary away and never touch the harmonium at home - the same on she used for her attempt at mastering the art. I still think its the Harmonium thats jinxed.

IF - Rudyard Kipling

One of my desktop files, this is what helps me get through the toughest of times. Really does. And I hope it does the same to you. One of the most powerful set of lines I've ever read ....

If you can keep your head when all about you
: Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
: If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
: But make allowance for their doubting too;
: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
: Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
: Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
: And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

: If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
: If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
: If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
: And treat those two imposters just the same;
: If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
: Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
: Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
: And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

: If you can make one heap of all your winnings
: And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
: And lose, and start again at your beginnings
: And never breathe a word about your loss;
: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
: To serve your turn long after they are gone,
: And so hold on when there is nothing in you
: Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

: If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
: Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
: If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
: If all men count with you, but none too much;
: If you can fill the unforgiving minute
: With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
: Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
: And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

A cigarette a day, keeps the police away!

This was on the 4th of October. I was on my way back to Hyderabad from Coorg to make it for my high school alumni meet. I was at the Majestic Railway Station in Bangalore and was about to catch a bus to the airport when I decided to take a smoke. Now I am a law abiding citizen. Being fully aware of the smoking laws, I walked all the way out of the station, out on to the main road, around half a kilometre away and lit up. It was around 5 30 in the morning. There was a slight drizzle in the air and around 20 people around. "Cigarette off!" a loud voice bellowed. I turned around knowing who it was, and said "Ok" and took one final drag before chucking the stick. "Government order not read?" I had to give it to this guy when it came to identifying outsiders in one's own country.
"Which state?"
"Andhra Pradesh" I answered.
He started in broken Telugu trying to say that smoking had been banned in the country since 2nd October and now anyone violating the law had to pay a fine. I tried telling him that the road was a public place and an open area (and what I was doing was in no way unlawful) but it was clear that this imbecile knew only to speak and not listen. So I asked him what the fine was going to be and he said it was 500 rupees! Now we all know that the fine is 200. I even tried telling him that but he told be that it was 200 if I personally went to the court and deposited the amount. If I were paying up to the police, I had to shell out 500! I had my man :D.
I told him I would pay him 500 only if he gave me a challan for that amount. He said I would have to go to the police station for that. I checked the time and calculated that I had close to 4 hours in hand and agreed. We started walking and he was telling me I better be careful in a city I didn't know and stuff like that. We walked for around half a kilometre into a somewhat deserted street when he asked "You want pay fine here or station?" This was my chance. "Now I will pay only at the station and I will even tell your boss you asked me for a bribe!" I shouted. He took a while to comprehend. Then said "All that no need, pay fine here" I was livid. I walked up to him close enough to smell his breath. I was a good 3 inches taller than him and used it to my advantage in giving him the stare. "Where the fuck is your station!?!" I screamed. He was unsure now. He said " No need station". "Where is it?!!", I shouted again.
He started backing away now, little by little. Good for him as I really was in a good mind to knock him out cold with a right hook and be on my way. By the time he recovered I'd be on the plane. But he backed away and as he hurried away out of sight said "No need anything, no need anything." I just stood there for a while savouring the moment before I lit myself another smoke. Aaah it was heavon.
On a more serious note, study this new law carefully. Screwed up as it is, it's got quite a few loopholes. Ramadoss may be a good doctor but an absolute fool when it comes to legislation. Smoking may be harmful but it'll kill you only if you live long enough. Besides, it's curable by cancer.
cheers

Childhood II - Channa-choor

For Diya -
It was the winter of 1993, except Madras has no winter. I was 7 years old, my sister, 5 and a half. So it was the winter of '93. Our cousins were visiting us. Jethu (the elder brother of my father), Jethi (his wife) and my two cousins Diya and Doyel. Diya is elder to me by 6 months and was taller by as many inches at that time. She also had amazing strength which multiplied in geometric progessions when she was enraged. Her short-fused temper did not help anything either. So it was only natural that we got into quite a few scuffles in our time, I with my irritating nature and she, with her temper. Apart from her temper of course, she had long nails which she had learnt to use quite adeptly. I was thus, a little careful to keep on the right side of the fence, having got mauled on quite a few occassions. But then there is this bug in my head, which just can't live without causing me to get into trouble. It makes me say the most outrageous things in the worst of times, makes me do things that drives the last nail into coffins thus closing out things that had a half chance of happening. Anyway, it was this bug that earned me yet another beating. It was my fault of course, having started it the night earlier. I was chasing Diya around the house when she manged to lock me out and was looking at me through the keyhole. In my frustration, I spat through the keyhole.... and ran away. Next time I saw her she was fast asleep.
The next day went by rather uneventful until we had guests visiting in the evening. Ma had served refreshments and among them was a bowl full of delicious looking channa choor. I managed to take a pinch and put it in my mouth to realize it was the hottest thing I had ever eaten. I had to rush to the wash-basin and hold my tongue under the tap to actually calm myself. That followed by 2 glasses of cold water made it possible to compose myself a little. My tongue was still throbbing from the extreme stimulation it had been through. In such a state of unease, a kid would normally withdraw himself and look for his mother but not I. The genius that I think myself to be immediately came up with an idea that was the best of that century.
I walked up to Diya and told her "Have you tasted the channa-choor Ma has served the guests? It is the best ever! She saves it only for the guests because its so rare. Now is your chance to eat some! I just did! Darooon channa-choor!" She looked at me unsuspectingly - that is one trait she has even today. She is absolutely genuine and believes all people around are just like her. She nodded and started walking towards where the guests were seated. I was so excited! Ahhhh! Lamb to the Slaughter! I had to control myself from running up to her and telling her how I had fooled her! But not yet. I was almost too afraid to watch actually. I hid behind a wall, with only my eyes peeping from around the corner. I saw her walk up to the table, take a whole handful, thats right, one handful of the stuff and put it directly into her mouth. She then stood there for a second, unmoved, the expression on her face not changing even a twich and then quietly started chewing as she sat beside her mother and listened to the conversation in the room. I was baffled at first and then very very disappointed. I just could not conceive any reason why the plan didn't work! It was fool-proof, except that it had Diya in it (these are the thoughts I had back then, not now). How could it have failed? The feeling of disappointment then turned to grief - was I such a sissy that I had been put off by a pinch of chana-choor that was perhaps, not so hot? Diya had just eaten a mouthful without moving a brow!
But just like most things at that age, it went out of my mind by the time I was walking to my bed after dinner. That was when I found out the hard way, how well my plan had worked. All of a sudden I found myself looking at the ceiling instead of in front. That was because someone had got hold of my scalp and pulled my head backwards. From the nails digging into my head, I knew at once it was Diya. I flailed my arms around, failing to make contact. Then I found 4 fingers streak across my cheek. I screamed. Our parents came rushing out to seperate us. All I heard Diya shout something that sounded like "Jhaal Chana-choor!". It could have been and I'm sure that it would have been worse had our parents not rescued me.
It was not before the next day that our parents discovered the truth and had a good laugh about it. Years later I felt a little bad for Diya and how hard done she had been back then, our parents had had a laugh about it instead of rightfully spanking me. But that takes nothing away from the absolute thrill I get when I remind myself of my brilliant, almost fool-proof plan!

umberella man

Do you know what's more irritating than being sent on an out-station assignment without prior notice, while your classes are on? It is getting stuck in a downpour while you're on that assignment and the people who sent you there think all is well. Bombay has always been one of my favourite places but that claim was really put to the test the day before yesterday. I had woken up at 4 that morning, caught a flight that was delayed by an hour and a half, worked all day and was trying to get back to the guest house (15 minutes walk) when I discovered it was pouring so heavily that it was hard to see what was in front. I tried calling the driver of the car which had transported us from the airport to the office earlier that day but he (quite obviously) was not reachable. My friends at the client office could not come up with a better solution than a 'call taxi' which would take at least two hours to reach where we were. So my friend and I decided to try our luck with an auto. The fact that they hardly agree to some destination which is just 2 kms away was not very encouraging but the heavy downpour set-off the effect of any such facts. We waited for twenty minutes, for an auto to drive by the lobby of the bulding, which was around 20 metres from the main road before we realized it wasn't going to happen. We hopped on to the main road, right under the rain, out of sheer desperation. My friend, who is with me on this assignment had managed to find shelter under a huge beach umberella of this guy selling omlettes. He was constantly pestering me to join him under the umberella even though both of us knew there was no place there for even the bacteria that was cooking in those omlettes. I was drenched to my bone marrow. Since things couldn't get worse, I decided to stay where I was.
If India wants to host the 2020 Summer Olympic Games, I suggest Bombay is THE city that should host it. I mean, have you seen the competitive spirit of the people here?!! Everytime I managed to holler an autorickshaw, out popped a zorro, or a spiderman or a catwoman, as atheletic as the comic book characters and hopped right into the rick while muttering where they wanted to go. They didn't care what the driver had to say! Once they were in, they were in. After such a thing happened for the fourth time I realized all I was doing was hollering autos for them as they stood under the shelter of some tree. My friend was having quite a laugh at all this though. Please do not blame me for losing it at this point, because the moment I realized my leather shoes were wet, I lost it! It was nothing else, not the rain, not the people, nothing else. Just my shoes. I started walking, in the opposite direction of my guest house. I didn't want an auto anymore, I didn't want to go back to the guest house anymore, I didn't even want to go to a restaurant to eat. I just wanted an umberella. There was a Ganesh procession headed towards the beach which I passed and they were chanting "Ganapati Bappa Moriya!!" and that was when, my faith in God and myself was reinstated in all it's power. I prayed to the almighty that he give me an umberella as he had given me this downpour to start with... on I walked, convinced I was going to find an umberella. Sure enough, I walked into "Madhuri Collections", dripping wet, and enquired with the old man at the counter
"Bhai sahb, chhatri hai?" (Do you sell umberellas, sir?)
He started laughing at me, it must have seemed strange to him as to why I was asking for an umberella when I was soaked already. He handed one to me and asked
"yeh chalega ki aur mehnga waala chahiye?" (Will this do you need something costlier?)
I had not even enquired about the price until then.
"Kitne ka hai?" (how much) I asked. And this is why I have named this post so :
"Sau Rupiya" (100 Rupees)
"Bahut zyaada hai!!" (that is too much!)
"Baahar baarish bhi bahut zyaada hai" (so is the downpour outside)
I laughed, because I didn't know what to do and replied "Arey dekho dekho! abhi thoda kam ho gayaa hai!!" (look! the rainfall has slowed down a little too!)
"Assi rupay de do" (give me 80 rupees)
I bought two, for a hundred and fifty, feeling cheated, I opened my new umberella and cursed it. Before leaving, I asked that old man his name, which got him quite perplexed. I did it just so that I could caution you all against him. His name is Ratnakar. So if you meet a guy selling umberellas and his name is Ratnakar, please wait till the rain recedes a little so you could get a better bargain.
My friend had called me around 5 times by then but I never picked up. I walked back to where he was standing, absolutely dry and threw one umberella at him. "Tu bhi hero ban gaya re!" (now, you're a hero too!) he said. I knew he meant it when he told me about how much verbal abuse he'd had to face from that guy selling omlettes because he didn't buy one. So there I was, walking under an umberella, for the first time in 15 years, my faith in myself stronger than ever and my faith in God, stronger still. I didn't even catch a cold the next day. I still love coming to Bombay and now that I have an umberella, bring on the rains!

golb rorrim

disclaimer : the contents of this post are restricted to it's readers only.


You would probably have to be Bengali to understand fully well, the meaning of Maha Ashtami, the eigth day of Dussera. It is the day when the festivities find a feverish high, truly deserving of the great Mahotsav. It would be the day a bong would want to celebrate most, even more so when he has travelled some distance only for Dussera. So I, being another run of the mill Bengali, would be expected to be where everyone else was, with other Bongs. With all these thoughts running in my head, I was asking myself if it was worth the trouble at all, while I was puffing away in the auto. It couldn't be as bad as the previous time I thought, at least we weren't meeting up at a Marwari restaurant that served vegetarian continental food. The venue this time was Raintree Park, Chennai (give it a try, especially the terrace ;) ). For the record, I was meeting Shreya (name changed) for dinner, terrace. My parents must have been wondering about what had made me skip Ashtami, my explanation sounded not even remotely close to real, as real it was. They knew who Shreya was, thanks to the countless messages that we used to send each other back then but theycouldn't understand why I was away on Ashtami. Anyway, I was crossing the road when I called my friend (formerly a chat friend but now we just quarrel) to ask her if she had reached. I was running fifteen minutes late already but she told me she'd be there in 10 (phew). I went up to the restaurant, beautiful it was, and enquired about a reservation. I called her again 10 minutes later when she told me she was at the lobby.
That place must be the tallest building in the world, wonder why I didn't notice or; maybe she just took the stairs because she was there 20 minutes later. I tried weakly to put up my best smile and was asked if I was drunk....... She was her usual though (from the 2 times that we'd met previously). Elegant, at ease,.... then she interrupted my thoughts with her loud voice. "Are you drunk Beda?! Are you?!" Now how would you not get thrown off by something like that? I didn't know what to say... I must have had my mouth open because she repeated that question 3 more times before we sat down. The next thing she asked was if I wanted to change seats. Life depends a lot on anticipation. But how does one be ready for such questions given the situation? She was the one who had booked the table and they always ask you what kinda table you want. The place was empty, save a couple of tables. Anyway, she told me I was looking smart! I wanted to say something too but didn't really want to be brushed off for being genuine. Its quite strange how I do not remember a single word from any of the conversations we've had when we met. What I remember was that she asked me if I wanted to smoke and ordered for cigarettes. We were seated by the edge of the terrace (its called the ledge). You know, it was a beautiful evening, I mean the skies, lit up with lightning and fireworks, a light drizzle and then came the food. I think it was a Bruschetta (spelling changed) and something else I don't remember the name of (hint: everyone else in Chennai calls it pongal). We were smoking my least favourite brand of cigarettes (I don't even know why she puts up such a show about smoking coz she clearly looks like someone smoking for the first time...and thats everytime). I was being hussled to speak (which I was failing miserably at doing), forced to eat the really mysterious food..this post is leading nowhere because I don't remember the conversation (perhaps the mirror image will be helpful). Its quite a thing that you meet a random person through an unreal medium these days and actually end up getting along quite well. I enjoyed talking about nothing, even though she never believes me when I say that. Anyway, I was made to eat against my will for the first time since I had recovered from chicken pox 10 years ago. I did. Those of you who know her probably know that you would have too. We were walking on the road right next to the hotel after dinner and again talking about godknowswhat. As much as I fail to remember the conversations, I know I wasn't bored. We were looking for an auto, two actually when she called home and informed me that her mother would pick her up. So we stood there for a while waiting for her mother. She then told me I should leave. Because her mother would be there soon. She hustled me into an auto and waved me goodbye. I waved too! I didn't quite want to go but I did (content here has been edited due to the mutual disagreement of the parties involved that I had left her stranded in the middle of the road at 11 o clock in the night in spite of me wanting to wait and even trying to persuade her into waiting at the lobby when she'd made it quite clear that she wanted me gone).
On the way back, I got the same thought as the one I had got after each one of our meetings (even though they keep getting worse).
I wished it had lasted just a little longer.


please check the mirror image of this post for an absolute fabrication of my account :

http://bloggingforinsanity.blogspot.com/2008/08/mirror-blog.html

of bulls and bullies

‘Chutiya!’ My friend laughed, when he was told what this little boy could do. We stood there for a while watching him, one really had to pay attention to just notice the rather unassuming little fellow sitting on a log chewing a neem stick. The fact that he could not speak further helped in giving the impression that he wasn’t there at all because he was so….quiet. Dusty feet, nay dusty legs….unkempt hair, a really soiled shirt – a glance at him and one could easily conclude there wasn’t anything about him that could actually make an impression. We also knew (not that it was difficult to figure out) he was from the poorer side of the village, the part inhabited by the servants of my friend’s grandfather. But such hasty conclusions would be drawn by someone who missed looking into his eyes. It is invariably the case that the absence of one sense organ naturally improves another. This chap was born deaf which meant he would never learn to pronounce anything which automatically made him ‘dumb’. But dumb was definitely not the picture his eyes painted. They were narrow, light and sharp! Transparent but gave away nothing. His face gave away nothing. Those eyes would just bear down upon you and leave you wondering what he must be thinking about you…something you would never know! Not that it was important to us at that time anyway. We were brash 15 year olds and one of us practically owned the whole village. Our sense of superiority would never allow us to wonder about what an illiterate, poor and handicapped boy was thinking. ‘He really can do it!’ bellowed Prabha. Prabha was the son of the gardener who was taking us around the village. He had taught us to pelt stones at the passing trains earlier that morning. We had had a whale of a time doing that until we got tired, and then we beat him up accusing him of teaching us a ‘bad’ thing. The fact that my friend (and I at times) treated him like an absolute animal never deterred him from his usual behavior, which was expected of a rustic such as him. Anyway, he was nothing too important, not in the context of this incident or in the context of anything existent.
‘He will do it for you! He likes you two!’ Prabha interrupted my thoughts again. I was trying to find a sign of affection in his face when Prabha made a gesture and he nodded. The deal was this – there was this bull that had apparently gone wild with the coming of the mating season and nobody to mate with. It had almost killed one man and destroyed considerable amount of property as a result of which it was now kept in isolation, in an area considered sufficient for it and this was expected to calm it down. This attempt was clearly failing as the animal remained just as fierce even after a week. What this little fellow was going to do was get into the compound which had the bull, run to the boundary wall on the other end and make a mark on it. The bull did not take too kindly to anyone even setting foot into the compound, let alone marking on his territory; so the boy had to dodge and outrun the bull to get to the entrance of the compound which had to be shut by us once he was out. A mere look at the bull scared us; it was a powerful creature, the short and stout type, so the idea of this ‘stunt’ was really thrilling. Our participation in this scheme was a little beyond an audience. We had to lure the bull to one corner of the compound so that the feat could be performed and then open, shut and bolt the heavy gate of the compound – a feat that required the efforts of at least 2 of us boys.
We did our first part easily by pelting a few pebbles at the bull and drawing it to the corner we wanted and the little one jumped into the compound from a branch. The bull started towards him the moment he entered the place. It was going to be tight but we watched in amazement as he darted between the few trees that were there, made the mark with a small brick and ran out of the place just as we bolted the gates shut. The bull never came for the gate Prabha told us. It would always stop the moment it was closed. Gogi as the little one was called, smiled for the first time that morning while gasping for breath, with an expression which was asking us if we finally considered him good enough to pay attention to. That was when my friend came up with his challenge. He asked Prabha if Gogi was willing to do what he just did 3 times for 5 rupees. Prabha appeared to be thrilled at my friend’s idea but his eyes gave away his actual feelings. Five rupees was way too good to resist anyway. He needed some time to persuade Gogi into agreement which he finally managed and so the show started.
The first couple of runs went off pretty smoothly, as a spectacle at least and Gogi was really out of breath by the end of the second run which had been rather close – I was at the open end of the gate and hence the only person who could see what was happening inside before we closed it. One couldn’t see through the gate. He asked for some time to catch his breath but my friend was rather adamant that he do it at once or forget the money. We went about our part of drawing the bull to the corner as I watched Gogi from the corner of my eye, struggling to climb the tree because of sheer exhaustion. I joined Prabha in trying to persuade my friend into giving Gogi some time to rest when he flashed me this look full of rage, full of hatred…a look that made me feel like one of ‘them’ instead of his friend. Gogi landed in the compound for the final time but this time the bull was waiting. It was alert and bolted towards Gogi even before he hit the ground – this was going to be close as the cheering by my friend suggested. We ran to the gate and took our positions, my friend at the far end this time since it was his turn to look inside. He was the one guiding us on when to close it. He was really excited and kept screaming ‘almost! almost!’ and then suddenly ‘now!’ which made us shut the gate in a flash with him bolting it even before we let go of the gate - but there was no Gogi. He was still inside. The third run had been so close that all my friend had seen was the bull coming at him and in his fear had completely forgotten about the little fellow. The first sound that I had ever heard Gogi make is still one of the most horrifying sounds I have ever heard. It was not in any language because he couldn’t speak any, it was one of immense fear. It was a pitch that was way apart from the highest octave that his voice could achieve…rather, it was this bawling that just stuck to you ears, like the one from the movie The Exorcist – only, I never found those noises scary after this. The bawling receded to a weak plea of mercy as he started banging on the gate. Prabha and I tried pulling the gate open while my friend tried to undo the bolt. We were unknowingly negating each others’ efforts as our pulling only tightened the bolt. All this happened in 4 seconds after my friend had closed the bolt. Suddenly, the banging from the other side stopped and was replaced by another really ugly scream from Gogi which was followed by a grunt from the bull. That was when Prabha started his shouting. I looked at my friend in shock and realized both of us were crying. Suddenly I saw Prabha climb a tree and screaming with both his hands on his head. Then he looked down at us, I still remember his eyes – they had the same look when my friend had spoken about his challenge from the first time. It was far scarier this time as his mouth was open in a soundless scream…we bolted the scene. Too scared to open the gate again, we ran as if death was chasing us. I could hear Prabha following us screaming Gogi’s name. I don’t know how much time we took to reach my friend’s house (which was 20 minutes walk from that place) but I know we never stopped running till we went indoors. We ran into different rooms, I don’t remember where Prabha was. I could hardly breathe when I collapsed on the floor weeping. I think I wept for an eternity before someone woke me up in the evening. I had caught a high fever and my friend never stepped out of his room. I saw a couple of the villagers in the courtyard talking to my friend’s grandfather; I think one of them was crying. We left the village at 4 am the next morning, 2 days ahead of our scheduled departure. I was still numb and did not dare to ask my friend anything about the incident. He went away to Bangalore the next week as his father was settling there. This was during the summer vacations and my friend did not come back to boarding the next year.
I shuddered at a mere mental recollection of the incident and could not bring myself to tell this to anybody except one person. I have spent many a sleepless night thinking about Gogi and I spend one more to write this down as I finally know now. My friend called me a few hours ago. Got my phone number from another friend courtesy Facebook. We spoke for only the second time after that incident and it’s been 5 years since we have spoken last. All he said after the ‘hello’ was ‘Gogi is safe. The villagers saved him after Prabha got help. I found this out a couple of months after I started school in Bangalore. I thought it was important that you know this’ I realize now that Prabha was not actually running away with us but running to get help. And I stand corrected - yes he is important in every context of the words I have written. I have long grown to shed the feeling of false superiority that I felt that day but the lesson stands reinforced. Another demon laid to rest…

Narayana!!! Narayanaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!

For the first time in my life, I was scared. And by that, I mean genuinely scared! I was taking part in a fancy dress competition. It was UKG (upper kinder garden). I remember that day very well, when we were being allotted who to dress up as. The theme for our class was mythology (comprehended Hindu mythology). In walked our miss (that term we’ve all used, when taken in its literal meaning may be quite rude given the context) and started calling out our names and handing each of us a piece of paper. The chit contained the name of the character we were supposed to dress up as. I still wonder on what basis we were allotted the characters. We sure as hell did not resemble any of our respective ‘Gods’! Maybe, just a little – no offence to Narad.

Yes, that’s who I was going to be. The divine messenger, the Vishnu bhakt, the ever so peaceful (????). There was this fair-faced fellow – Abhisek who was to be Jataiyu. Ashok, who was the fiercest child I have seen, was to be Hanuman and for Ashwin, the best choice according to me, given his mischievous nature, was to be Krishna. I could not even read the name of the character given to me at first and was disappointed anyway when I finally figured it out. Simply because I had never heard of him. The other kids (the South Indians), for their age, were knowledgeable enough about mythology to surprise you. I mean, REALLY surprise you. That did not help me too much anyway because they told me Narad wasn’t really a hero and so I was perfectly fit for the role (??!!). I caught quite a little bit of ribbing, which I returned in the form of a few punches and went back home in a soiled shirt…yeah that’s what we all did back in kinder garden!

I told my parents I had to be Narad. My father, like he does even today, immediately smiled that genuine smile, full of pride, like I was a hero already. It really was, and still is as genuine as it ever was. He tried explaining to me who Narad was. I had got enough of a mythology lesson from my classmates but my father put it in a really nice way, made it sound good! I wasn’t as unhappy about it anymore. Parents.

It looked like my father, at 38, was the one who was going to compete in the fancy dress competition. The spring in his step and the zest in his voice remains etched in my mind to this day. My class teacher, Tulasi Miss, had given me the address of a shop where I could find my costume. It was this very crowded bazaar, I don’t remember what it was called (Baba would surely remember but he’s probably asleep now). So my father took me there, holding my hand and explaining to me how interesting an affair this one was going to be. We arrived there, it was a stereotypical shop. Everything there looked used. Nay, overused. The grumpy old man at the counter really scared me. I remember him asking me in Tamil ‘So you’re going to be Narad?! Scrawny fellow!!’ He was obviously good at what he did. I had all what I needed – one of those triangular wigs, rosary, a saffron cloth and wooden slippers - in 10 minutes. My father had to make a deposit and that was it.
I wasn’t even thrilled about wearing my costume once we were home. Once I had done that, my father then tried to teach me to say ‘Naaraaayanaa! Naaraaayanaa!!!!’ - that was what I was supposed to say. I don’t think I have seen anyone else try harder at teaching something. Finally, after a lot of motivation, I shouted at the top of my voice. Almost loud enough to call God himself. But that was only to make Baba happy. Like I was going to say that on stage! I laugh at myself every time I think of it.
And so the big day arrived! I didn’t even know until that day, what most of my other classmates were to dress up as. Rajesh and Radhika, the twins, who were only six feet tall at that time, were Lav and Push. One really cute looking girl was Durga and we also had an Arjun amongst us, armed with a plastic bow and arrows that were blunted with those suction caps in front. Hanuman was there, in all his glory, his paper mace, not unrealistically huge, complete with a tail! The children playing the ‘heroes’ were proudly flaunting their weapons which were made out of paper Mache and plastic (do I sound jealous?!). For the record, I had a Veena and flower garlands around my neck and wrists.
We were all standing in a straight line, awaiting our turns when suddenly there was this commotion. Krishna and Hanuman had apparently got into a fight and both being invincible against their weapons, had to be pulled apart by Miss Tulasi. Ashwin (Krishna) had been going around poking everyone in the stomach with his flute but had bitten off more than he could chew when he did that to Ashok- Hanuman ( Ashwin had done that to me too but what could I do with my Veena? A miniature one at that). Krishna’s crown was absolutely destroyed when it met Hanuman’s mace. The mace too, was not spared. The circular part was now barely even connected to the handle by a small string of paper. But it hung on. All this contributed absolutely nothing to take away my nervousness away though. I was to go after Hanuman who was to follow Krishna. Krishna walked onto the stage, crown shattered, face all stained as the tears had ruined the make up, and mumbled something that was supposed to be a piece from the Upanishad. Hanuman seemed confident, probably charged up by his victory, because the piece of his mace that swung from side to side every time he walked didn’t seem to bother him at all. It was especially funny when he walked up to the microphone. He never had anything to say, not that he could anyway because of the cup-shaped piece of cardboard tied around his mouth. But he performed brilliantly. He pumped one fist in the air and made an almighty leap, sending the crowd into a frenzy. The next one to go was the not-so-popular Narad. I chanted ‘Narayana’ like I was chanting it in a mosque, after the Bombay blasts. My legs were still trembling when my parents picked me up later, from the section where the participants were sitting. I didn’t even bother to find out who won.
I went home and out came the confidence, all the openness, with thoughts of how well I could have done it. For the next few days, I really felt hurt. you know, at five years, such things matter a lot. I was hurt at letting my parents down, at letting myself down. I had also chipped one of the edges of the Veena, not intentionally though. My miseries were multiplied when I heard that the grumpy old man at the counter of that shop scolded my dad for the Veena. I was too scared to go back to return the things as Baba had warned me of that man’s wrath once he found out about the Veena. At that age, it really saddened me even though the way Baba narrated their conversation sounds hilarious today. Baba had said ‘ the old man asked me “who dared break this??!!!! Was it you?!!”
I wonder if this is what every kid goes through, the nervousness that is ( I may have deviated from describing it but believe me it was bad enough to be memorable). Well I know of one kid who may not have had to face a similar thing. My sister – she played a clown…..

Chauffer driven Auto Rickshaw

His day begins when most people still haven't finished with partying the previous night off. 3 am is when he starts, so as to reach the milk depot on time and grab as much milk as he can carry before others like him come and take it all. He delivers all the milk at people's doorsteps and sells some of it. Close to a rupee every liter is what he makes through all the deliveries, and that amounts to almost a thousand rupees every month. It's not too bad according to him as he spends only two hours for it every day. At around 5, he rushes to the housing colony near his slums and starts with washing cars. Fifteen cars are what he is allowed to wash as the rest is shared by others like him. Once all that is done, he goes to work. Driving an auto rickshaw is what he does....that’s his job he says proudly. The other chores are just to make ends meet. He plies between Maitrivanam and Madhapur, a 'share auto' as they're commonly called. But that is not what he does all day. Once the office hours (7 am to 11 am and 6 pm to 8 pm) are over, his isn't a share auto anymore, just an ordinary one. The office hours are the most lucrative he says as he can carry 5-6 people at once and it was during one of those hours that I met him for the first time.
It was just one of those days and one of those auto rides and one of those bad moods, not looking forward to college. I was sitting in front, to his left and clinging on for dear life as he was snaking his way through heavy traffic. We were about to reach the point where I was to get off and catch a bus when we were stopped quite abruptly - by the police. The share auto system wasn't allowed during that time (it still isn't but the police have stopped caring). All of us were made to get off and could go our own ways. The driver though, was called to the 'express court' set up there consisting of two policemen with challans meant for fines. The justice system was simple. Pay a huge sum of four hundred rupees or collect your vehicle from the police station a day later with an even heavier fine. The cops that day were some how in no mood to accept bribes for reasons best known to them so the driver just stood there not knowing what to do. I called him aside and gave him the money for his fine. I still don't know why I did that, probably because he was my age or....I guess its just one of those things I've done for which people call me a fool but that’s alright. He couldn't believe what I had just done and thought it was a joke but once the challan was duly signed and his vehicle released, he walked up to me and asked me where I wanted to go. He took me to college free of charge, despite my offer to pay the usual fare and gave me his number with a promise that he would reach me anytime I needed an auto no matter where I was.
Satish was the name of my new friend. Turned out that he was Marathi, his parents living in a small village somewhere in Maharashtra. He had been living in Hyderabad for 3 years and has been doing the same things I wrote about earlier, every day of the week except Sunday ....when he just delivers the milk and washes the cars. The rest of the day is spent either sleeping or watching movies. The opportunity cost in doing those things is very high but at 20, can anyone blame him?
Quite a major part of his earnings go into paying the rent for the auto he drives and also the hut he lives in. He sends some of it home and makes sure his kid sister is able to go to school. He told me his sister was the class topper and the brightest kid he’d ever seen. He told me all this on our 20 minute ride to my college on that very first day!
Life is funny, as the cliché goes. The money that I used to pay the fine had been saved up with some difficulty, as part of a plan I had with my friend to eat at this really expensive restaurant in town. College life makes it almost impossible to save and yet I was sure the call I had taken that day was not for nothing but, I was not sure why I did it either. I know for certain it had nothing to do with my conscience, my mind. What I am still sure of though, is that I had made a friend that day. A good one. He told me more about himself than I could have imagined there ever was. We developed respect for each other. Him - because he thought I had done the unimaginable and I - because I thought he was doing the unimaginable….. every day. Life is funny because everyone, no matter how unassuming they may appear, has a story to tell.
I've seen him just four times since. He offered to pay the money back in installments but I refused for reasons even I am not quite sure of. Our meetings after the first day include a couple of them owing to sheer coincidence - when I got into his auto on my way to college and another couple of times when I did have to call him as it was raining and there was no other way I could have reached home before midnight. He was there in a flash.... quite unbelievable because I still remember how badly the traffic was jammed on those days. He took the fare only after a great deal of persuasion from my side on all four occasions and I had to use lines like 'your sister needs to go to school' in order to get him to agree to take the money.
It's been almost 3 years since that first day when I helped him pay the fine and a couple of months since I've seen him last. He has not gone home to his parents in over a year. I know that he still wakes up around three in the morning and drives his auto till around eleven in the night as he can get higher fares. He still has his standards and doesn't work on a Sunday. He still has dreams of owning his auto or better still, drive a sedan. His sister still tops the class and he still, will reach me no matter where I am, whenever I need an auto.....

Unreal Estate

"And THIS thing costs so much?" was what my father bellowed as we walked into our newly constructed apartment. I hadn't really thought about it until then but it struck me instantly - so this is what it is! There are 2000 of them, identical, well planned, outrageous! each selling at almost 4 times their original price.....makes me wonder if they were really made for people to live in. All I can imagine is they are the perfect machinations by realtors who construct them and just sell them over and over and over again till some unfortunate soul has to start living in them as they are too old to sell anymore. Our apartment though, was beautiful.....I thought the walls and the floors and the interiors ( of what was there) were a little different than the 900 other similar flats. We were delighted as this was the first home we had ever owned and my sister and I had already decided which room each of us were to take. We were speculating on what the club houses and the community centres in the township were all about when my father enquired 'How about selling it?' I asked him how much he could get for this place just as a strong current of sorrow was sweeping my heart at the very thought of 'my room' becoming somebody else's. 'Three and a half times the original price', he replied....And that was it! Then and there! Right there! All the attachment vanished at once and the current of sorrow was now barely a faint stream! 'Sell it!' I shouted...a little too loudly. I thought why not? we sell this one and buy a bigger place in a better area! and then I will have a ......no no no! then we could sell that and get a bigger......I was into it before I had realized. Greed....not greed! I would like to call it this constant want for betterment that we humans have in us. I felt like kicking myself for having such a thought....I am not a very materialistic person you see. 'You know what? We should probably keep it' ...my father was looking at me now....' I think this one is special '....he smiled at me....yeah, it was special..it was the first wasn't it?
It's been 3 months since that happened and we still have the place but haven't moved in.....probably because we haven't found a suitable buyer (its funny how the parents want to meet the foster parents before they give up their babies for adoption sometimes) or maybe, just maybe my dad still remembers what I had said that day. Only time will tell if we will have our dreamhouse one day.