A very warm hand…

Originally posted here on March 29, 2009.

I was walking to the gym early this morning. It being a Sunday, streets of Bangalore still had a very sleepy look and there were few people around. I was listening to music and walking at a good pace towards the gym.

I reached a big gate, and a biker reached there at the same time. He gestured to me to stop. Assuming he would ask for directions, I stopped and removed my earphones.

He let out his hand for a shake. I shook it, and he would not let go. It was not a hard grip, but firm nonetheless. So far there had been no reason to panic, so I let it stay there.

“My son is Jai. He is a participant at the ‘Dance India Dance’ competition. He is one of the finalists. Please vote for him. Ask your friends to vote too.”

I had been nodding all this time because the mention of the show had taken away all my interest. Then he gave me very detailed instructions on how to vote for Jai. I kept nodding all the time, hoping he’d let go.

By this time I had managed to get my hand free. I promised him I’d vote and was about to resume walking when he held my hand again. This time, somehow, it felt warmer. “Please vote for him.” Then his face changed, as if he was trying not to cry. “Agar jeet gaya to picture me hero banega. Uska life change ho jayega.”, He said with almost a lump in his throat.

He then explained that he was a security guard in the building which we weer standing in front of.

I set off after promising him I would vote. A few steps into the walk I decided I am not going to vote. After all, nothing has come free for me, ever. Why should I cater to the instant stardom of somebody i have never even seen dancing. Maybe some other participant deserves it more.

My right hand, though, was still very warm. I had been walking briskly in the sun, and was already warmed up, but it felt really warm. That made me stop and think. It was as if the father had used every part of the body to convey his feelings. The voice, language, face, eyes, and the hand had all talked to me during those two minutes.

As I still felt the heat on my right hand, I picked up the phone, and voted for “Jai”.

Piranha in a glass bowl – yet unsharp; yet unfocussed;

Originally posted here on February 21, 2009.

Sudha was washing her hands when the doorbell rang. It must have rung once or twice before, because this one sounded rather irate!

“I must put those ear drops again.”, She thought. She used the most popular brand of ear drops.

“I must get this watch fixed”, she decided, as she reached the door and glanced at the watch. The batteries were out, I am sure.

She opened the door. No thought regarding the door crossed her mind. It made no creaking sound and the lock worked perfectly. She always bought Duracell for the watch.

The postman stretched his hand out. It contained a letter. She wiped her hand on her pallu before accepting it. Silk sarees are not good as hand wipes, she decided.

The letter was from Madhu. He is in Rajasthan, she remembered.

Hello Sudha,

The pressure cooker needed her attention and she attended to it. Prakash wrote elegant letters. This one, however, was not written by him.

Over the last few weeks I have constantly thought about you. I am fine, but there is something I think you should know.

The door had been recently repaired by Murli.

There is going to be a conference for gynecologists here in Kota, and I think you should attend it.

I should go to the conference, she decided. Duracell batteries last much less these days, Kumar would have said. He was not there to say it at that moment. So there was a good chance he would never say it.

I know you are not a gynecologist.
Love,
Sooraj

Madhu signs his letters as Sooraj. Sudha was not a gynecologist.

The curse of the Magi

Originally posted here on February 19, 2009.

“Yes. I will be there. Thank You.” Prashant kept the phone down and sighed. Then he promptly fell asleep.

At the other end of the line Raj Shankar was less at ease. He had made the easier of the two phone calls. After a few moments of thinking hard, he picked up the phone again and dialled the other number in front of him.

“Hello. Am I talking to Suresh Shivdasani? Oh.. Good. This is Raj, from the selection chairman’s office…. Umm… Yes.. Well, I tried my best. But the selectors need more. Sorry? Yes… Yes.. Well, don’t lose heart. I am aware you are 31. You should have been selected, but then you know how it is. I am sure you’ll make the cut on the next tour. I’ll leave you to concentrate on the Ranji matches coming up. Best of luck. See you.”

Raj mopped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. This was difficult for him. He was used to rejecting good candidates for selection, but this was different. In the past he had never even paid 100 rupees to the policewala. Today he had accepted money to reject the strongest case for selection. Instead he had selected a person, who, he was not sure, had picked up a bat in his life.

Suresh Shivdasani had, over the last two years, amassed 2700 runs at an amazing average of 78.5 in domestic cricket. His fielding, even at 31, was sharp, and he had done enough with the ball.

Prashant Gupta had not played a game of cricket for the last 11 years. Even when he did, it was with a tennis ball, on roads dodging cars and trying to avoid barbed wire fences as he ran for catches.

Sargam Lal Gupta was a hard man. His business acumen was known and respected everywhere. His life was dedicated to his business, and his only contact with his children was that he expected them to join him in the family business at the right time. And with all his strict discipline, he was veru fond of his second son, Prashant. Right from the young age of 6, Prashant had shown traits of very sharp business sense, and was a go getter. He took interest in Sargam’s business very early, and his inputs had been very helpful at times.

Raj Shanker knocked on the door of the chairman and went in. “It is done, sir. Anything else?”, he asked. Priyank Tandon, the chairman, thanked him and said that would be all. After Raj left, he sat at his desk,pondering. Like Raj, he too, had been a good man all his life. And more importantly a true athelete. He rationalinalised that it was not in his hands but it sure left a bad taste in his mouth. He remembered the meeting that had taken place a month ago. He’d been called to possibly the most expensive hotel in the city.

In the room he recognised Lalu Sanjay, the home minister for the state who’s secretary had called him. He was with another man. As soon as he sat down the man began, “I am Sargam Lal Gupta. I am the owner of 8 industries with turnover in billions. I want my sons to look after my empire when I get old. But before that I want them to enjoy. And my son Prashant has never asked for anything in his life – never. Today he has and I will make sure he gets it. He shall play cricket in the national side in the tour of Australia – and all matches. Lalu saab will not be happy if this is not ensured. I will not be able to stop him from taking a rash action in that case, although I will try. You will be paid 5 lakh. Thank You.” He had turned to his host and started to discuss other things as if Priyank had ceased to exist in the room.

“Australian tours are always hard. And we had a young team. Only 4 of the current setup had played on Aussie soil before. I am happy with our take-aways from this tour.”, the coach said in the press conference.

The captain put in his lines, “It was heart breaking to have lost the series after winning the series opener. But the boys fought hard. As for the biggest take away there are no prizes for guessing – Prashant was the revelation.For someone making his debut scores of 145, 78, 123, 98 and 40 – odd are fantastic. There were a lot of questions raised about his past record, but I think he’s laid them to rest.”

In another part of the world, a pair of feet, suspended in air, twitched rapidly for a while before freezing. At 31 years and 85 days, Suresh Shivdasani ended his life by hanging from the ceiling. His last 5 scores read 0, 2, 0, 0, 8. He got just 2 wickets and dropped 3 catches.

“Your batting has been just one part of the whole package that you have been for this Indian team. Your fielding, and off spin bowling have given the team the edge they were so desperately seeking. You are now seen as the forerunner for the all rounder’s slot in the up coming series to Pakistan. How does it feel to be a regular part of this dressing room?”, a scribe from some magazine asked.

“I will not be joining the team in Pakistan. Or ever again.”, Prashant replied.

“Why?!”

“I don’t know… Who is John Galt?” replied Prashant.

Pink Flawed

Originally posted here on February 13, 2009.

I was born and brought up in Maharashtra. I come from the land of the Shiv Sena and now the MNS. I am used to the Valentine day routine. This-is-not-our-culture-we-will-beat-them-up-police-will-ensure-complete-safety-but-yes-it-is-not-our-culture.

This year, I will witness the same routine in Karnataka, my new home.

Being so used to it, I had almost not taken notice of the whole episode (including the pink panty mails). However, two pieces of fine literature made me stop and think. Both are blogs written by journalists, in fact on the same website. They differ in their outlook and look at the two sides of the coin.

This is the first one. This blog by Sagarika Ghose defends the ‘pub culture’ (there is no intended slight in the use of the inverted commas. They just help the specific term stand out.). It explores the panty mail concept and why it is necessary.

The second one, by Zubin Driver, is my personal favorite among the two. It looks at the whole episode from the point of view of a Mutalik or a Raj Thakeray. His analysis of the situation, in my opinion, is perfect. It reasons why sending panties to Mutalik is a self defeating step.

In the latter half of the blog Zubin goes on to suggest his solution to the problem. A rather long list of things to be done.

Things like: schools should impart gender equality, all male conondrums should be dismantled and replaced by unisex ones and so on.

As I read every word of the solution list, the thought that kept hitting me was that his solution is not very different from what Sagarika is suggesting – both are as useless in an uneducated, uninformed society. It reminds me of the era of the moderates in India’s freedom struggle. Very eloquent, educated, with the right ideas. But it takes a man who can talk to the mass to finally drive a huge country to independence.

To millions and millions in this country, gender equality is as incredulous as a girl sending the chief of SriRamsene a pink panty. There has been no change in the lives of so many people that it is hard to even find out who is stuck in which era.

To many around the world this is still the concept of justice.

I have no solution to offer on this issue. I respect freedom and rights. But I also respect responsibility. Are we prepared to talk to the masses of this country in their language long enough for them to understand what we are trying to say? If the answer is yes we shall have earned the right to enjoy the pub culture.

Too many cooks spoil the broth

Originally posted here on January 24, 2009.

“Look. Why do you resist?”
I had heard this for the 100th time today. This guy will never believe me.

“See, like those detective books, we can agree that you might not have done it. But does it say anywhere that I care? I need ‘a’ convict. Not ‘the’ convict. So…”

“See, I know who did it. I don’t know his name but I saw him well. Why settle for ‘a’ convict when I can help you to get ‘the’ convict. And, he might do it again. Next time there might be no one to bail you out”, I retaliated.

Here, I think I need to step in to help you guys. I am… let us call me John Smith for now. So, this guy, who’s been caught by the police at the scene of the crime, is Ron. I know him well. Since he was born. In fact, I think we were born together. So, as the intelligent lot must’ve guessed – a girl was murdered, and Ron was the prime suspect. This Ron is smart. He usually does well when he listens to me. But some of the company he keeps, especially that James fellow, he is the one who lands Ronnie boy into serious trouble.

“This boy has some guts, eh? Well, since we have nothing else to do, let us play with you till we are fed up. So, how did the “killer” look?”

I had no idea if this was going to help, but I had to take my chance. “Light hair. Silver I think. Blue eyes. Very bright. Have you seen Lord of the Rings movie? Somewhat like Frodo. Shaved. Tall. About 6 ft.”

“Nice, man. I almost fell in love with him. He he he.”

Another break here. I am James. I have been Ron’s friend for a very long time. I need to tell you the facts in this story. Ron used to be such a good guy. That John will ruin him. Well, you know, he is caught in this murder case. I have faith he has not done it. At the end of the day a man has his conscience.

“So how do you know this chick?”

“I don’t know her too well. She was in my class, and classes started just three weeks back. I just knew her generally. She used to be with other guys. I had a different group.”

“All evidence points to you.”

See, point is not whether Ron killed that miss. It is not relevant whether he enjoyed killing her. It is immaterial why he did it. What is important is that he get away with that. I mean, we all agree that once in a while the idea of the perfect crime does cross our mind. I knew a guy who dreamt of beating guys to death.

“You have a lawyer?”

“no”

“Hmm. Tell you what. Get one. Why trust a guy the guv pays to save you from the guv?”

James again. I don’t like the way these guys are toying with him. There has to be some dignity to a job. The law clearly states that no person is a convict until proved in court. They are playing the good cop bad cop thing. Ron did not know this girl. He had no reason to kill her. I like the way he is keeping his composure here and sticking to the truth.

“I just remembered. The guy had a red Suntan car. One of those specially ordered from Canada. He should be real easy to catch. There are only about 3 of them in the whole of the county.”

As it turns out, I have to leave. Ron appreciates all the help he’s got from me but that is all I can do at this point. Over to James, then.

I am there for you Ron. When you need me. It is typical for that John to run away at such a juncture, but not me. There is goodness and truth in the world, and I will help Ron defend it. I have been by his side all this time, and I know he has not done anything wrong.

Today I am a free man. Passed all tests. There was never a lot of evidence. John is meticulous in that respect. And there was always a guy with blue eyes and a red car. I also passed all tests on lie detectors. Thanks to James.

The blue-eyes-red-car-fellow did not kill her. I did. Just like that. For no reason. I had to send my dear conscience James away for the time being. John the devil helped me out. When James came back, he never knew a thing. Was a great buddy with the lie detector!

To the dream. Follow your shadow.

{ January 24, 2009 @ 8:40 } · { Uncategorized }
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There is no mention of the walk you just took, on your itinerary for the day. And it is just as well that you do not have a secretary, because she would’ve had a headache. “Oh what is this now?” She would wonder.

You never knew that road led to the bakery, and you never knew you craved for croissants today.

And to be very frank there is no itinerary as well. I mean, it is just a day. There are only so many things you can do. And those do not require entries in a diary.

Yes, the walk. Full east. If you walk down the stairs, out the gate, turn left and turn left again, you are walking dead east. It is just as well that you chose to walk in the evening. Not that you chose much. You just walked. Like Forrest had this urge once, you just felt like walking.

A nice lunch was the start, followed by the bookstore. That was never in the list either. Yet, it was there, and there it was that you went. You read a book, but you bought another.

Coffee to dispel the dream, thought you. But it was the coffee that was the dream, too. Not on the to-do either. As was not the lunch. As was not the bookstore. As was not the book. As was not the walk.

Ah, the walk. Why east, you ask? The evening sun makes your shadow lead you. You have been in the dream long enough. Let the shadow lead you. Ah, is that music? hmm. Yes. I know those notes. Even in a dream.

And where does the shadow lead you to? It leads you to the dream. The dream where there is a shadow, to lead you to the dream.

To the dream. Follow your shadow.

Originally posted here on January 24, 2009.

There is no mention of the walk you just took, on your itinerary for the day. And it is just as well that you do not have a secretary, because she would’ve had a headache. “Oh what is this now?” She would wonder.

You never knew that road led to the bakery, and you never knew you craved for croissants today.

And to be very frank there is no itinerary as well. I mean, it is just a day. There are only so many things you can do. And those do not require entries in a diary.

Yes, the walk. Full east. If you walk down the stairs, out the gate, turn left and turn left again, you are walking dead east. It is just as well that you chose to walk in the evening. Not that you chose much. You just walked. Like Forrest had this urge once, you just felt like walking.

A nice lunch was the start, followed by the bookstore. That was never in the list either. Yet, it was there, and there it was that you went. You read a book, but you bought another.

Coffee to dispel the dream, thought you. But it was the coffee that was the dream, too. Not on the to-do either. As was not the lunch. As was not the bookstore. As was not the book. As was not the walk.

Ah, the walk. Why east, you ask? The evening sun makes your shadow lead you. You have been in the dream long enough. Let the shadow lead you. Ah, is that music? hmm. Yes. I know those notes. Even in a dream.

And where does the shadow lead you to? It leads you to the dream. The dream where there is a shadow, to lead you to the dream.

And now for something completely different..

Originally posted here on November 24, 2008.

Hello and welcome to Bigggg Bousseeesss the reality show.

On the left we have Changu and Mangu (not of the Bajaj fame). Changu can eat with his left hand under his right thigh. Mangu cannot.

On the right we have Changu and Mangu (of the Bajaj fame). Changu was in fact Mangu in the Bajaj act. Mangu was Mangu in the Bajaj act.

Changu and Mangu will battle Changu and Mangu for the grand prize – the title of I-am-changu-or-mangu.

Day 1:
Changu is asleep. Mangu is watching Mangu, who is having breakfast. Mangu is watching Mangu in return, who is having breakfast. Changu is asleep. Mangu wins day 1. Mangu wins consolation prize. Changu is of course asleep. But Changu is awake.

Day 2:
Mangu and Changu (note the change) are having a fight with Mangu and Mangu (notice the similarity). Mangu is angry about a towel of hers which Mangu used while in fact it had a tag with her name. Notice that Mangu is not a female but the do-not-be-a-male-chauvinistic-pic-handbook has instructed me to write so.

Day 3: Voting round
Voting is preceded by a round of interviews:

Interviewer (I): Who do you think will leave us tonight?
Changu(C): I think everyone except me is a bitch (notice the careful avoidance of the word dog. Source: Do-not-be-a-testosterone-chauvinistic-human-workbook).
I: Who will you vote out?
C: C-kret

I: C has accused you of being a bitch
M: No entiendo Inglés (Translated as ‘I can use Google translator’)

And now for something comepletely different: A reality show.

Day 4: Voting results are out.
C,C and M are in danger zone and M is in not-so-safe-not-so-dangerous zone. Bigggg Bousseeesss takes a few commercial breaks. Horlick for women (this time it is real, you *^%%$#(&*)
Then Bigggg Bousseeesss lets eveyone cry. Then he announces the result.

Day 5: Kill your neighbour with fried eggs
C cannot make fried eggs. C ate them. M killed M with fried eggs and died in the process.

And now for something slightly different from something completely different: A reality show.

And for something completely different: My blog has reached 52 posts. Anil Kumble had raised the bat at 40. I being from the superios institutes of technology had already raised it at 15. 52 is more like a triple century. So let me rest my poor back and get on with your work.

–And now for something completely different research bureau

Pen is a male.

Originally posted here on November 19, 2008.

#1: Say there are five friends

#2: Ok say. Say like 1,2 ,3, 4, 5?

#3: I have thought of as many as 6 impossible things at breakfast.

#4: Like dinner?

#5: Why dinner?

#4: Well, dinner is impossible at breakfast! Lunch is another. Evening tea. Why, I am upto three already.

#1: Guys… 5 friends.. Sitting and chatting.

#2: Like the 70s show?

#3: Practice makes a man perfect.

#4: and Douglas makes an alien Prefect.

#5: Don’t mention him. He reduced the 5 volumes to a love triangle.

#2: No that was Chuck Norris. I believe it was a square until he kicked off one of the corners with the roundhouse kick.

#4: I always thought it was something to do with shorts of some kind.

#1; But say, 5 FRIENDS. FRIENDS. Together. Chatting.

#2: As in F.R.I.E.N.D.S.? That would be 6 then.

#3: A friend in need is a friend indeed

#5: Yeah, needy friends are hard to get rid of!

#1: Listen, dudes.. There are 5 friends talking to each other… Don’t you get it?

#2: As in, Laurel, Hardy, Hardy, Hardy and Hardy?

#3: Make hay while the sun shines.

#5: Roll in the hay while the son sleeps

#1: okay I am going.

#2: Okay. As in away?

#3: I change subject.

#4: ………

#5: Ok ya….

Confused thoughts.. or structured chaos

Originally posted here on November 18, 2008.

It is a cozy afternoon. With the lights off, and the curtains drawn. The light is golden, that filters in through the dark yellow curtains. And the ambience is right. It is the darkness that only light can produce.

I am in the room, yet I am not. Far away I can see the lake side. She leans on me, and I smell the shampoo off her hair. Trees above us sway in a calm way. Who is she? While everything remains clear, she remains the blur. I can see the wind around. I can see the light in the shadow. I can even see the nice smell that emanates from her. Yet, I cannot see her.

I am back in the room, but only to embark on another journey. Like Sindbad, I have to travel the seven seas before I can rest. The darkness is my ship. The woods are lovely, dark and green. But miles to go before I sleep. And the lovely, dark can carry me all those miles. Yes, such a darkness is not to be slept off. Hold on to this darkness, for darkness will replace this darkness. And then we shall have to wait.

On another journey, a lot darker than the first. All beloved are lost. They are there, but they are lost. Or am I lost in this sea of connections. Trying to entangle what is free. Brothers indifferent, sisters apathetic. Uncles impassive, grandfathers unfeeling. Even the mother refuses a warm hand. Tears are lost in the darkness. For it is the only friend I have, and it can engulf like a mother’s womb.

And yes, I am back again. Off again on the wings of golden light. For glory. For happiness. For the superhuman powers that are lacking in the shining sun. Dreams of power, of harmony, of peace. And back yet again.

Darkness slowly creeps in. Gold fades to an orange. Orange fades to a brown. Brown will soon turn to black. Black is the capital of darkness. It is crowded, and all friends of the dark are here. I am alone with the golden dark. All of us are. Like a pearl in a shell, there is one for each one of us. Your darkness, her darkness, my darkness.

if only…

Originally posted here on October 19, 2008.

It is not morning yet. Maybe dawn, but not morning yet. A pair of shoes is following a rhythm. I try to keep pace with the shoes. The music in the i Pod tries to keep pace with me.

When I return on the same track it is morning. Walkers mingle with runners. Runners with dreamers. Dreamers with lovers. The pair of shoes are more relaxed now. So am I. So is the music.

I see her again. Another pair of shoes following a rhythm. The i Pod wire swinging from one side to the other. She is petite. I like petite. I try to guess the rhythm.

I can hear “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone” in my ear. I go up to her. I take her hand. I dance to ‘Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone”. She dances with me. Surprise fills her large eyes. We match rhythm. We keep dancing. My song ends. I take a bow.

Today I see her lying on the road. Her eyes still show the same surprise. The blood makes her look more beautiful.

Ain’t no sunshine, when she’s gone.. If only I knew what she was dancing to…..