For my grandfather

I spend a lot of my time in front of the mirror. At least, I used to, when I had all that time. Now I use all that time to sleep and read. A recent peep into the mirror, told me to take a closer look. I peered hard, looking through the corner of my right eye and stealthily bring my right hand to my right ear. It is true. I saw it and then I touched it. It was real. I had a real, hair growing out of my pinna and it is still there, untouched, unplucked, all set to wiggle with my ear and ready to welcome the gentlest of breezes onto it.

All excited about the new discovery, I lead mom by her hand, towards the mirror and demonstrate the tiny, wiry protrusion. She’s amused; I can see that in her eye. She hits me on my back, playfully chiding me for this childish exultation. She returns to her magazine, but is not very attentive. Her eyes don’t read, they just scan. She’s thinking and we will soon be hearing a nugget from her past.

She tells me that the hair on my ear is hereditary. It seems that her father, my maternal grandfather, also has hairs on his ears. Now that she mentions it, I remember the sinewy mesh of black hair sticking out from grandpa’s ears.

Mom goes on to tell me that I am very much like my grandfather. It is not just the dark colour that I get from him. It seems I also share his unpredictability in moods, confused nature, an amount of stubbornness and tremendous will power. I wonder if he is a scorpion too.

My grandfather retired as a schoolteacher in a government school several years ago. With the over-confident backing of humongous inherited ancestral property, he went on to pillage everything that he had following lost cases for more property. My grandmother caught the elevator upwards when I was eight. In his early seventies, my grandfather married a woman he came to like, caring a poop about whatever people would say. He loved books, mom tells me. Maybe it is from him that I also inherited the love for words, for writing, to express what I felt.

Thank you, Mr. Sankaran Nampi, for that is his name. I am going to have a clean-shaven face tomorrow and mom will surely comment on the uncanny resemblance to her dad.

Yea yea, looks like its thanksgiving time!

Hum sab editor hain

They tell kids to read newspapers to mend their skills in English and also to pick up new trends in writing and understanding the language. Interning at the editing desk of a daily newspaper, I see why it is so. Each word is run through, each line; each sentence and thus paragraphs are peered into, with rapt attention to catch disobedient words, dismantled words, manhandled words or just a missing letter. Meticulous, is the word for it. Every acronym is looked into, for its existence and importance. Every complex word is pampered with some amount f attention to check if it is worth sitting there or would be better off in just the dictionary.

It is tough. I swallow the bitter spittle almost everyday. With my pride in the lowest level now, I watch helplessly as someone else easily finds barn-sized holes in the copy that I had just edited. It is called ‘subbing’- the art of sub-editing. I am learning, and I am loving it. People, who used to be curt and cold in the centralised AC, are now getting warmer and often beam a smile in my direction. And when acquaintances stop by and ask me where I am heading, in semi-formal wear, I proudly say, “Office” trying hard to suppress my gawky grin, lest I expose the fluorosis-affected teeth and invoke questions on how much I smoke in a day!

More, later. And I just might get bylines too!

Yay!

Meeting the Royal family of Nepal

“I had two breakfasts, one coffee and one tea today,” I told a friend online later.

Indeed. I pine for experiences, especially now, when there’s a genuine low in daily travel experience. This morning was a wonderful experience. Thanks to the idea of movie exchange, I caught up with a friend from school. And do I need to tell you that the meet was feel-good?

Coming to think of it, I have this deficiency in carrying on conversations. Being a newly found disease, I am still attempting to gauge all of its symptoms and only then will I stumble upon apt remedies. The defect is my weird tendency to plunge into a stupor-an uneasy silence after a few sentences. Such pauses generally make the person talking to me feel that I am bored of listening to him or her and my ears have better work to do than lend themselves to their talk. it is but obvious that he/she will be offended by this ‘lack of attention’. But today was different. I set out after breakfast and my coffee. We met on the road leading to her place and stood there talking for more than half an hour, our conversations jumping from topic to topic, discussing future plans, episodes from school, the fluctuations in life, common friends, the need to be in touch with the native land and other common experiences.

We had never really talked in school. What with so many people to talk to! We had known and acknowledged each other’s presence every time we passed by or while talking to common friends. She would always be the one to be called on stage for winning awards for her art. Her paintings, I believe have been on international trips to Korea!

Our conversation today, was like playing badminton though there were no scores. She would say something- a serve. I would lash back- the return. At one point of time, my inner being panicked and I said, “Ok, topics khattam!” But then she deftly and gracefully handled the show and we talked on.

She than pranced upon a topic that I love to delve in. “Hey you do mimicry, right?” she exclaimed and I could only look down at the ground and dig the mud with the toe of the chappal on my right foot and smile from my left ear to my right one! And then Julie appeared out of nowhere and scared a dog when she yelled, “Hut kutta!” But then my friend pointed out, “It’s a kutti!” Sheepish now, I stop, smiling to see my friend in amused guffaws.

It has now dawned upon me that she likes PJs. She invites me home for tea, just a stone’s throw away from where we now stand. I have half a mind to decline and almost said, “no” but now I’m glad I accepted. I take my time and frame an old PJ revived from the archives in my rusty brain. This time I get quick, cute bursts of laughter as a response.

A laminated photograph of the late royal family of Nepal welcomes me into the humble house. On another wall, is a picture of a smaller size- my friend and her family. Another radiant face hangs on yet another wall. I am told he’s a spiritual leader of sorts, named Prem Rawat and has a large number of followers worldwide.

I can’t help but notice the similarity between Nepali and Bengali as my friend talks over the phone to her cousin in Nepal. Soon, she gets up to get me a glass of water. Then she hands me a plate and tells me to try it. As soon as my eyes tell my brain that it is sautéed corn, I’m informed that it is indeed corn, but roasted on a pan and then mixed with ghee and honey. The first spoonful of the dish has me hooked to it! All of it soon finds itself in my tummy and my friend asks if I would like some more. I declined, for I believe, what is to be relished must be taken in doses! Aunty gets me tea and saying, “Le baccha,” places it on the broad armrest of the sofa (cum bed?). Aunty smiles when I say I liked the dish, tasted for the first time.

Both of us- my friend and me claim that we’ve bugged each other no end and I feel its time I made a move. I decided to call it ‘two hours spent well’. I smile widely as I think of what a fine entry into my blog this would be!

Thanks Deepa!

“Sir, can I come to college tomorrow?”

“Uhhhh (loud framing of sentences in the brain) yes of course. The Principal is waiting for you in his office. Just give me a ring when you reach the college gate and Rani will meet you there with a garland in her hand. Do you know how special you are to us? Or do we send a car to Ambarnath? But I think you would better come in a train as we can then avoid wastage of petrol on you. And walking is good for your health. I still don’t understand why you cannot go to CHM, Ulhasnagar. I talked to the coordinator Mr. Pathavle and he is ready to take you in. and, uhhhh, in terms of, your attendance, I do not have any problems. But I am concerned about your high IQ and your fast grasping powers. I must tell you now that your acute listening is tremendously powerful. And you are the only one who reads all the handouts that I supply in class. I must say, I love the way you sit on the second last bench and nod at everything I say. If you think I am 45 years old and cannot tell that that you are thinking of the Karjat fast home, then I must quit teaching and do kheti-wadi with my friend Bhargav in Karnala. I think I’ll go and do a soap-opera in the soap factory there and Bhargav can be Milkmaid. Aah, soap reminds me, did I ever tell you that Liril holds just two percent of the total market share of soaps? The loudest sound in my heart is the heartbeat ticking away. I am writing a song on it now, to perform at Ole’. I loved the way you mimicked me at Miditech and made the class barmy with joy. I love your scruffy hair, though now I have heard you’ve trimmed it akin to my hairstyle. True? Never rest you leg onto the wall behind you as you rest your back against it. You do that and I’ll pinch n twist n tweak n finetune n wrench n pull n tug n yank your ear that is closer to me and say, “How many times have I told you not to stand like that?” Don’t stare at my pen stand like that, you might break it with your cold eyes. I am told to play with it as I grill people because I have to push them with grace marks for every exam. Of course, with you, I never had any such issues. (Other than the fact that you ask too many questions in class!) I wanted to ask you if you would teach the current First Years’ a bit of Sociology? Or maybe ECS? I am sure you will do better than Patrick or his father or Sajay. Hena was good. I wonder if you would like to talk to the Second Years’ about your favourite subject, Innis and Mc Luhan especially? Ya, so, give me a call when you reach the college gate and Rani will me…"

Click.

Once upon a time in a fictitious land called, Letscallitpandharpur, there was a very just king. He just loved to be with his wife. And he just loved to keep away from booze. He was just a perfect teetotaller. Now you see why he was just. The king and the queen had a kid. Let us call him Prince.

Prince was an angel. No he did not wear white diapers and did not have feathery wings. He was cute and pink and would be nice to everyone who came to visit him and who played peek-a-boo with him. He wouldn’t wet his undies at untimely hours, as he knew that the wetness would cause rashes that would become cactus when he would sit on the royal carpets on the floor.

But as he grew, he started throwing tantrums and people ran all round him to catch them, lest he would break them, for you see, it’s a royal palace and all of it has royal importance. He would ask for a white pony to sit on and then when all of the kingdom would be searched for one and a white pony brought for the royal offspring, Prince would want to ride the Prime Minister. (Bloody inverted paedophile).

His favourite tantrum was, “I’ll hold my breath till I am blue.” And Queen mother and all of Prince’s attendants feared this part the most and complied to his wishes lest he chokes himself.

Once, this wise old baba Bengali came to the palace. Out of royal etiquettes, Prince welcomed the sagacious being into the royal visitors’ room. And then he wanted to peep into the saffron clad being’s cloth bag. By know it had come to be known that Chandrasaw-me from India was on a trek to Letscallitpandharpur. Prince was now going to throw his ‘I’ll hold my breath till I am blue’ tantrum for the cloth bag. Saw-me decided to humour the kid. He winked at the queen and her maids and told Prince that he would not part with the bag, come what may.

Prince filled himself with air and pinched his nose and made his mouth an airtight Tupperware product. The palace watched on, with bated breath. Prince’s face turned red. The queen who had been smiling at the crooked Saw-me was getting anxious now. Prince turned beet-red and then roaring crimson. Saw-me just looked on, amused. The maids were annoyed at him. Saw-me just wasn’t looking at them and if something happened to Prince, they’ll have to forgo Royal employment and the fringe benefits it offered.

Prince’s face turned dark blue and he still held his breath. He went on and on and the colour deepened into altar-purple. The queen had almost rushed in to save her child when Prince went “Poof!!!” stuttering, spluttering and gasping for air, amidst roaring laughter from everyone in the room. He looked up at all the people and slumped into his mother’s arms, which too were quivering with amusement and exhausted relief that her son had finally learnt a lesson, all thanks to Chandrasaw-me. Wink. Wink.

I wonder if breaking ties is that easy? If it was the langot on the neck, it is easy. But, now, my friend, we are talking about human ties, bonds. Let’s not get the word ‘relationship’ into this, for, that takes this monologue into a totally different runway.

By breaking away, you mean ex-communication? Not talking to that person etc?

Great. And what is it that you want to gain from it? Do you realize that it only constricts, restricts the wholeness in your heart? It is but baggage that you keep adding to yourself. You already have enough of it buddy.

If Sudhakar was to talk on this, he’ll surely talk elaborate on the virtues of ‘so what?’

“She told you to go to hell, so what?” “He calls you names behind your back, so what? Does that make you what he calls you? Jhust lhet gho”

It pains me no end to see people severing ties like they were useless burrs that stick to your clothes as you walk through the wild. The reasons could be varied, but I am sure once you let go, it won’t look any bigger than the auto rickshaws that we see from atop Mumbradevi.

Let go of the baggage and just keep busy, hear songs, read-up things, write blogs (like me). You know what song works for me? Queen’s We are the champions. This song rocks, thanks to Freddie Mercury. The rush that I get from it tells me every now and then, “I know what I am, I know my own worth, I am just waiting for the perfect time to hit myself into ‘success’ mode. Aah, the route of immunity.

Um…err…well. Times are not as good as I thought. But they are getting better. That paper did not want me to work with them as a sub-editor. They thought I’m over- qualified for them and told me to write for the Time magazine. Baah! Like I’m going to believe them. And he says, ‘better luck next time’ followed by a smiling smiley.

I still don’t know about Wilson College’s fate. Do they keep me away from it for a whole year or not is still a big question mark in front of my face. Sudhakar cannot muster enough courage to tell me that I have flunked. Well, shit happens.

My b’day rocked! The rocks at Mumbradevi were real big. Me had a great time and of course Arcopol and Rajaji Nath sponsored that part of the great time. Eccentric cake cutting show in public later we headed back home, not really tired by the climb.

The trek to Mumbradevi used to be a challenge. Maybe it still is, if I plan to climb it at one stretch. The last two trips were over-loaded with breaks for bum-rests and oxygen intake. My legs egg me on to push myself out of my reach in a bid to do good for myself.

Have I outgrown this challenge? Where do I search for more physical challenges?

Running early in the morning? Not that the idea did not cross my mind. I know, that will help me tuck my tummy in, but the nasty dawgs that bark at my sight, still give me the creeps.

The decision in college, the pay cheque, shopping for essentials (read shoes, bag, new eye-wear) and may be a film date. Whoa. I really see good times ahead!

Good Times Ahead

Life’s no bed of roses, ‘tis fulla thorns it seems. But I smell real lovely, rich roses for I’ve had, it seems, my share of thorns of the season. Things went sour with a few people just as they year started, making a Grand Canyon larger than Mallika’s cleavage. God only knows if it will ever be filled and flattened into the Deccan plateau (that reminds me, our 3^rd Std. Geography teacher used to call it ‘pleetyu”!!!!)

Then there was the saga of a broken heart and the smelly farts. No more of that. Gee, that was bad. I am out and am looking back at it and smiling, gleefully. Damn! (Ahem, Hari, go on).

And then God decides that I should be the official witness of break-ups that happen. He wants me to sign official documents as witness for both parties- the guy’s side and the girl’s side.

Then there was this sick ordeal of not passing my allowed to keep terms papers. Maybe I surface or maybe I take some scuba-diving lessons while others think I’ve drowned. Freddie, tell you what? ‘We are the champions’ rocks buddy!

Nothing seemed right. Everything I touched seemed to go wrong. Like the reversed luck in Just My Luck- an anti-Midas touch. Super mood swings, broken windowpanes, flying remote controls and heated tiffs later, it looks like I am entitled to experience good things too!

JAM magazine decided to send me the tee that I so rightfully deserve and the Ed asked if I would like to work with them! I can’t believe it man. Me getting a job offer? Wait, too much for me to digest together. (Hajmola-selling man with white French beard comes in and says, “Pachpan saal maine Hajmola ki madat se guzaare.”)

A Times weekend supplement needed someone urgently to translate stories to English. Thanks to a dear friend, I fit right in. I ghostwrite for reporters and get paid for the service. Good enough, ain’t it?

And then I go to this swanky office of a relatively new newspaper with a name that somewhat matches with the Defence Academy and the nucleic acid inside all of us. I do a copy test there, maybe I’ll surface, maybe I’ll not, and they are yet to tell me. They have asked me to send them a mail quoting my expectation of salary! Wow, and I thought I was joining as a non-paid trainee who would have to run office errands, juggle coffees, attend phone calls and take messages amidst proof-reading stories and making pages. Well, may be I would, but what the heck? I am getting a job, my very first job!

And then my horoscope (I used to call it horrorscope) today says something like “love is in the air”. Ahem. Blush. Naah. Crap.

Do I see good times ahead? Did I tell you I got a new watch yesterday? Time. Time.

I think now I know what I am going to do on my birthday, provided I make some cash by then. [;)]

Hari ko gussa kyun aata hai?

I am a cold psycopath that sips hot coffee. I stare at people for long lengths of time and tell them I am short-sighted.and was only trying to focus. Yesterday I broke a window pane with my bare hands and today I made a taped collage out ofi t. today again I flung the remote control at the wall that sent the batteries with low charge flying high into the air before they hit the floor.



I feel undercurrents of anger pangs crawling creepily over me too often now. I feel this and then I throw something around- not intending to break or disfigure. The next second I am thinking why it happened. I am not among the ones to lose my cool that soon. I usually close my eyes and breathe it down, would rater have a halo on my head than horns and a wiry tail extending my coccyx!

Birthday? wtf?

Sudhakar says it is important to celebrate birthdays. It is one day that the Almighty gives us to think what we did good and bad and how we could see the coming year.

I turn twenty next month. Looking back, I don’t see one really memorable birthday. Maybe the one 2 years ago was a tad batter than the others. My girlfriend had taken the pains to visit me at my place, with her cronies of course. The next year, it was the same.

Pathare Park is a unique colony. We have samples of every kind living here. I have a group of friends here, who till last year contributed meagre amounts and bought me a birthday cake and a T-shirt every year. (We did the same for all the friends in the group).

The cake, they would get home before me and barge in sometime in the evening with a present. I hated to be home that very moment. My mom would say, “what’s all this for? Are you some VIP?” It feels strange, I have to be happy that I’ve got a gift and I also want all that to end soon, so I can find myself alone and vent.

I’ve seen innumerable Hollywood films, why, desi ones too where birthdays are big. I saw Dr. Dolittle 3 yesterday. Murphy’s daughter goes off to a ranch for her summers and has a lot of fun. In the end, they give her a surprise b’day party. Baah! You’ll say such things happen in films only. Fck no! I’ve seen real good ones. Live. And I’ve been part of them too.

What I am going to do this year, I am unsure. But I seriously want to enjoy. I am bored of the fuckin sad birthdays I had all these years. Can I not have one just one decent, memorable b’day? Not a bash, but something I could look back at and smile? Something that I would find in a dusty CD in my drawer when I’ll be looking for my dentures years down the line- birthday pics of 2006, when I turned twenty!

F.S: I tried searching google images for some good pic to go with this piece and all birthday pics look happy!

tHe cHiLd iN mE

In exactly one month, I’ll be twenty. BHENCHOD. Me? Twenty? (I apologise for the swear word used. It is not aimed at any person/ organization living or dead nor is it purely coincidental. It is one of those times when saying just one swear word makes you feel lighter and peaceful.) I am unable to come to terms with the fact that I’ll turn twenty! Its a matter that surprises me no end.

What did I do so many years? I mean, where’s school? Where’s college? All gone? Hayabusa eh? I think I’m just worried about leaving my comfort zones behind and venturing into the big bad world. But why this I-am-poppin-outta-the-egg syndrome now? I saw friends turn twenty and they were all smiles, happy that they’ve reached the 2-decade mark of their lives. Every smile, look, sentence screamed, “Yipee, I’m twenty!”

I look around me and hate it when I unconsciously question what people do. I see my batchmates’ lungs go up in smoke and they look like chains! I hear them narrating their mishaps in bed, hickies and frantic pill quests. And I can make out that they are far beyond make out ( drab sentence there, but hey sub just let it be ok?) I wonder, are we growing up too fast? And ain’t we got originality tat we are aping what the grown-ups do? Not that I know another way to grow up.

And as for me, twenty is just a number and there’ll be many more to follow just the way the Math teacher taught us in kindergarten. I resist growing up with all my might. Come what may, I refuse to let go of the child in me. I want to talk to people just the way I’ve been for all these years. There’ll be no ‘mature’ Hari. If people want me to be one and chide me for not being responsible and what not, balls to them, cos I know what I am and I obviously know what I am doing.

And if situations permit, I’ll celebrate my birthday with a trek ( I dunno where) with whoever cares to join me!

26 September 2006

Orkutrya

Not very long ago, people getting used to emails would ask each other, “Do you have a mail id?” Now, they ask, “Are you on Orkut?” Who would have ever thought that there would be so much of thinking, writing and deliberating upon what is now an ‘in’ thing?

An excited rocker friend of mine exclaimed one morning, “Fuck, you know what Orkut is? Its McLuhan’s Global village!!” Further deliberation by him and me led to the conclusion that he was right.

Global Village. A term coined by P. Wyndham Lewis, a Canadian artist and literary figure but coherently explained by philosopher and communications theorist Marshall McLuhan. The latter’s book describes how electronic mass media collapsed space and time barriers in human communication, enabling people to interact and live on a global scale. In this sense, the globe has been turned into a village by the electronic mass media.

Place for cribbing. Venting. Ranting randomly. Dating. Making friends. Sharing books, movies. Sex. Marketing. Advertising. Orkut is as multi-layered as its users. Various backgrounds with superhuman connotations. Orkut is possibly the best networking software that the world has seen.

I used to be a fan of Aishwarya Rai. Not that I hate her now. I like her for she’s pretty and beautiful. I did not really know why I was a ‘fan.’ I did not know that you had to talk about acting skills and demeanour in public and a whole cartload of stuff to be officially called someone’s fan. Now I think she’s matured with her age and is choosy about what films she does. May be I am a matured fan too.

Then comes along aapro Orkut bhaayo. It has a unique feature where you can rate your friends with stars, hearts, and smileys and ice cubes each of these having rational connotations. You can also be fans of someone or let someone be fans of you. Last seen, I have sixty fans. Which means, if I stand for an Orkut election, I get 60 votes without fail. Of course, things also depend a lot on other factors such as bias and perception and what not. It also means that if I become a actor, these sixty people will be there in the audience to cheer, jeer, clap or boo or create a din as and when not required. Isn’t this what fans are supposed to do?

“I am your fan on Orkut, why aren’t you my fan?” (raised eyebrow free with this question)

Ho hum! Never mind. The point here is, what’s the point of having so many fans? They don’t even know me. Some people are plain acquaintances, a senior in college, an old friend in school and so on. Some are close friends and heck; I don’t see a point in being fans of friends! A few are friends of friends, might not have even met them once and they are fans.

Now isn’t that a sorry state? Is this all we look for in an idol? Wouldn’t we care to be a little more thoughtful about being a fan of someone even though all it takes is a click? Puritanical mood I guess but I feel quite strongly about this.

Well ok, Orkut did something new and unique. But would the ‘fan’ feature have been a little more fun if your ‘fans’ could also tell you why they are your fans in the first place? Well, I think so and am going to write to Mr. Orkut about this.

And who knows who Orkut really is? Is he a networking wizard who used to be a Google employee? Or is he a plain computer geek who made this website in the memory of his dead beau? God, kindly save me from those deadly spamming mails claiming to know who the real Orkut is. Well, thank you Mr. Orkut, for making this website, we love it oh so very much.

Well, well and then there are testimonials and I love to call them testiclemonials.
Here is one of them. I am going to ‘critically ANALyse’ it.

“wer to start frm...our friendship ... its definately has no boundaries...hes my good frenz...has totally crazy.. soft hearten..fun lovin..jovial..n u won't realise how tim fly's whn u r wid him..rock n yaar.. stay da same forever!”

Well, well, if I can call that severely molested English, then I am a pathetic sub. It seems I am a good FRENZ, with that ‘z’ supposedly meaning that I am not singular but a plural. Whoz line is that anywayz? I am a SOFT HEARTEN. Wow, the spelling of jovial is correct! And who the F is Tim who FLY’S when this person is with me? Yeah and I am going to stay this same gawking geek forever. Baah!

A testimonial for someone is sacred space. If you are making use of it, it should only add to the receiver’s charm. It shouldn’t make others feel the need to gift you a dictionary on your birthday!

Some people cannot even write their profiles. And ‘cool’ is the only adjective I can use to describe myself. And ‘bubble’ face and ‘bubbly’ face is the same thing. And Metallica, Led Zeppelin and Linkin Park are my favourite bands. And I love making friends. And my name starts with a ‘F’. And I am the owner of a community called Red-Haired League. (Red, you know where, rite?) And yes, my neighbour’s child is serious, he needs the rarest type of blood in this entire milky way (B-ve), so please contact this invalid no. 9823388803.

Hope you know what I am talking about. Up, up and away we go, in search of the big ‘O’

Occult? Ouch? Ostracized? Ogle? Ogle-we? Lol…never mind. Just playing with words.

So all my dear dawgs and beetches, are you an Orkutrya yet?

ISSTAND

As a student in a course that the Mumbai University loves to call BMM Journalism, I am constantly bombarded with ideas. Inspiring ones, depressing ones. Gory. Morbid. Intriguing. All of them either fit into the magic bullet section- quick and direct or the hypodermic needle type- slow and sleepy. Each of these ideas tug at me and say, “talk to me.”

One of the ethics that are embedded into journalists in the making is the ball talk about bias. You are supposed to be unbiased and non-allies to everything. Sounds like, “the customer is always right” That reminds me. India Today with a readership of 62,62,000 is considered a good textbook for budding journalists by many. Sure it has covered all of the events in India and internationally, but in the end it is nothing but a piece of the BJP’s mouth. Definitely right eh?

I ask myself. Will I make a good journalist? Will the background that I come from help me reach the target that I have or will it only put obstacles in my quest for growth? Where do I come from? What are my sensibilities? Whom do I represent? Am I sensitive enough to sufferings of the people or am I treading on their wounds? Do I sense the breach to dignity around me?

I am not really nervous, but sceptic? Yes. I wonder how much I am really in touch with reality. Am I just sleepwalking? And I wish I would be able to deal out an even-handed treatment to everyone and still give them enough space.

Frontline- the magazine from the Hindu threshold is applauded for the values that it holds. Yet again, Frontline talks what Uncle Marx used to talk years ago. Definitely left.

What really happens to our stand? Where do we put our feet down and stay where we are? Adamant. Stubborn to move. I say what I see. How do we really make our own stand when what we hear, see and read is treating us left, right and centre?

Bom(b) bahia

It is called a city that does not sleep. Now that is completely true. Mumbai does not sleep. What it does is snooze. Whenever she can, this lovely conjoined mass of land takes a break from whatever she’s up to and catches a quick forty winks. Her dwellers are equally busy. They do not even pause to breathe.

What used to be home for scores of fisher-folk is now home for people from all over the world. This cultural and economic hub attracts migrants from far-fetched places owing to its capacity to churn out jobs and accommodation for all of them. No wonder the political parties create a hullabaloo about people of the state not getting jobs as they were being given to outsiders. Known for its semi- extremist antics, a powerful party had propagated a campaign to drive away a certain minority group from the city. How much ever the people wax eloquent about the diverse culture and warmth of the place, tiny blobs of bitterness and unrest in the form of insensitivity and intolerance remains.

The city was called Bombay for much of the last four hundred years during which the British reclaimed lands from the sea and linked the seven distant, distinct. Islands that they were, into one large mass. The origin of the name is obscure, but is often said to come from the Portuguese phrase bom bahia meaning "good bay". The name Mumbai has been used in the main local languages for as long, and is ascribed to the local goddess, Mumba (aai means mother in Marathi).

The city is known for its heritage structures, which are of more interest to tourists than to the citizens. It is only when some odd cameraman frames a monument that people acknowledge the presence of such a structure. Eroded with time and weather and covered with multiple layers of bird droppings, these structures stand as examples of our shamelessness. A few lucky statues of important leaders get cleaned and polished as their anniversaries arrive! The variety in foodstuffs available is splendid too. Cuisines from all over the world are enjoyed with relish. With the dock nearby, fresh sea-food is brought into the markets daily. Vegetables are driven in from distant states. Migrant dishes have become routine components of tiffin boxes.


Here, it is a constant fight for space- the only thing that people here are short of- after time and money of course! The basic backbone- the transport system of the city, also called as its lifeline are the suburban trains. Commuters from far-off places bravely venture into these electric centipedes and travel for roughly two hours to their respective places of work and back home. Comfort zones get trampled upon, as they adjust and adapt to situations more favourable to them. Pushes, shoves and obscenities become a part of this unique experience. For most commuters the novelty has worn off. It is but a daily matter for them now.

News stories fight for space in newspapers. Film stars and business tycoons fight for photo- space in the media. Unlucky migrants fight for space to rest in. Even in tough conditions like these, good samaritans are generously sprinkled in the city. Ever ready to lend a helping hand- be it helping someone pick up fallen things or guiding blind people safely, they are there always without expecting anything in return. The floods that hit Mumbai last year proved to be the best example of this warmth. As people lay tired on railway stations, citizens got together to provide food and water to them. These teams also got together and collected clothes for the unlucky ones whose houses got washed away. A few do good things. The goodness follows, begets more. It spreads. Such is the magic of Mumbai.

Yesterday, that very magical city experienced yet another bout of shockers. Seven bombs exploded in local trains at peak hour, when scores of Mumbaikars were returning home after a busy day. Exactly four hours later, the railways sprang back to life amid the cheers of a hundred commuters. Such is the magic of Mumbai!

When Bluto Wins Olive....

"Yay statement that cannot be true..wor which is yexxagerated to provide yeffect is called hyperbole..." rambles on an English language teacher who has her roots down south.

You think there really is some serious problem with the title eh? Something like, "Kahaan raja bhoj, kahaan Gangu teli?" B for boisterous, boorish, bane, boring, braggart and brawny. And B for Bluto. And P for Popeye and P for Perfect.

Well, things like these do happen. Is this age called 'Kalyug' or something? While Popeye goes unnoticed but ear-marked by Bluto fer a nice bash, the bloody MF of Bluto has photos of him and Olive in his bedroom in front of his mirror. Bloody show off, eh, Bluto?

Olive's got nothing to say, other than, "hey honey, show me the money." Others, she calls them, "Baby."

Yeah. Olive's kidding. Literally.

And as fun and frolicking goes on in Bluto-land, patience reigns in the distant, abstaining world of Popeye. Spinach wants to get the better of him soon, but Popeye holds back. "It aintz time yet," he says.

WE??? Rude??? Bh*****d

A trip to my native place- Kerala, this summer proved to be quite an eye-opener. It wasn’t just a sightseeing trip. It was a month of what we call as ‘happy realization’, the realization that the people of Kerala could do with some more of genuine hospitality instead of the plastic show-off, the painful understanding that my kith and kin be a little more sensitive and less callous.

Picture this. One fat man sits on a wooden crate by the roadside- probably sight-seeing. Beside him, another man smokes a beedi, with one leg propped up on the wall behind him. A scooter comes by, loaded with cardboard boxes. As it just passes these men, one of the boxes fall down. As the poor rider gets down, hauls the scooter onto the stand and comes to pick up his unlucky luggage, the smoker and the other man do not even flinch as they stare at the box and its owner alternatively.

And they say Mumbai is the rudest city! Each city has its own cultural mix, mannerisms and spirit. What the Mumbaikars miss out in their day-to-day life, they make up when there is a crisis. Remember the deluge last year? Did the Reader’s Digest see the spirit of Mumbai then? Did it see how people helped each other and made them feel comfortable even as they spent three days away from home?

There’s no reason to create such hullabaloo over such an incompetent research by Reader’s Digest. Arcopol Chaudhuri, a BMM student in VES College, Chembur, says,

"I believe in individualism. You cannot generalise a city's manners by studying certain examples. Survey and research studies results are published everyday in journals the world over. Why make a big fuss over a survey?"

Space is what we need here. External space. Space inside the minds, to facilitate cloudless thinking. Do we believe in what the survey said n agree that we indeed are uncouth and rude? Or do we be what we are and do what we have always been doing? Let us all be good Samaritans and direct lost people onto their destinations, help disabled people cross roads, hold doors open or chairs ready fro people and never forget to say the magical words of “sorry” and “thank you.”

RELATIONSHIP STATUS : Committed

There is lot of hoopla among peers. The reason is a new website, a kin of Google named Orkut. It is the usual networking website, where you share your address books and get connected with friends from other people's addresses. The site will soon be the number one dating scene (or is it already??)

Name, Age, etc etc is good. Then comes the fun part. Relationship status. Now Orkutji (lol, like AB used to address the Linux in KBC as computerji!!) gives you various options. Single, Committed, Open Relationship etc etc. There are scores of public profiles marked "committed" and i am no one to question them. It is thier life and they can do whatever they want to do. But at least respect the Oxford English Dictionary that defines commit as promise, entrust, pledge and deliver.

Now i decided to question the definition of the "committed". I have stated my relationship status as committed. Committed i am. To myself. A cause. To see myself BIG. A self made promise that i have to somehow make up for the two years that i wasted. Don't know how. But, guess have to do it. Its hard. But a little "committment" from my side will do it right?

Well, this time too, i dunno wat point i wanna make, blabbering on.

What'z thez pointz?

Height Of Boredom

Vacations are on and so is the heat. and there is nothing to do and it feels like bullshit (when outside, i would better say bail ko goo, but here i think i can write what i want) This afternoon, me and few of my chums got together (yeah, yeah 'chums' is a word that raises an eyebrow now just as 'gay', which love poets generously sprinkled in their poems.) as the wires in our houses housed no current. What evolved from our gathering was a pointless collection of pictographs in wierd poses and which can have various connotations just as the word 'chum' or 'screw'...

i still dunno..wats da pointz??

Prof. Sudhakar Solomonraj always says, "If you have a problem, you should try to find out what you can deal with it." Now the problem is that I am bored and know what to do. I am leaving for Kerala with my family on the 29th of this month which is 3 days from today. A whole month of separation from this place. Not that i'll miss it. Great to be away. Need a break, a deserving one. Hope I will be sane and all when I return. TY Journo has to be interesting. Hope all matters in Kerala get settled this time round! Packing yet to be done...so..cya arnd..eyb!!

NO POINT SOMEONE -Semiotics?

Isn't it amazing how certain things remind us of things and how every word or 'substance' (as my 6th Std. Science teacher woud love to call it) has more than one connotation and would have a hyperlink to memories old and jaded with gradual updating, yet kept fresh and green with frequent summons. now this is something akin to Semiotics, maybe not exactly what the propounders thought of it to be, but an interpretation of signs and symbols that come to be formed when two individuals in a candidly friendly relationship make it a pasrt of their memories.

Videesh is home today. So is dad. Dad is as usual, helping mom with her chores as homemaker- Saturday being the only day, he can actually market for vegetables, clean them, peel them, dice them and pack them neatly and compactly to accurately house them in the refrigerator. this job done, mother can dish out divine delicacies, which I miss when I depend on vadapavs and samosa pavs to quench my hunger pangs throughout the day.

Videesh keeps prancing between dad in the bedroom cleaning the veggies and me on my table writing religiously. Dad gives him a piece of carrot to munch on and thus completes the picture of Bugs Bunny. i get up to get myself a sip of water and Mr. Videesh bangs into me. I call him Gandhi, referring to his shortly cropped hair, which never seems to grow. (our family always jokes about how Videesh and his brother Shyamal always have their hair readied for a 5-year plan!) Then I call him "Chota Gandhi". I freeze. A big glob of snot and spittle passes through my throat as a whimper is supressed.

Now this cold is a very bad thing. Not that i hate the feeling of the sticky, slimy, salty goo rowing away into my intestines through the initial part of my alimentary canal but only because it leaves me retarded, handicapped with my voice, one of the things i am proud of in myself. The alst time i caught a cold, it went striaight into my respiratory system rendering it as useless as an old vintage model car all set to make a museum exhibit.

Went to the beach yesterday, for the first time after I helped make crack open a relationship before it could even send its roots deep enough to gather strength. HE is punishing now.
wading through the sands, i walked towards the water. there were young joggers and old gentlemen resting their muscles after a tiring morning walk. Far away a man sat facing the sea. his back was unusually straight and had his left hand up his nose, might have been some kind of breathing exercise, i reckoned. There wasn't any breeze. The waves were gently washing the shores. I then saw something like an idol sitting erect in the sand.

I went ahead and picked it up. It was a Ganesh idol. Was it yet another symbolism that the aura behind the idol was broken? Old ideas caught me. They tld me not to take a broken idol home. I shook it away. i said to myself that if i had got this idol, it meant something and i am going to keep it.

As usual, I don't have a point to make. Waiting for the time that I start making points...

NO POINT SOMEONE - I AM ASHAMED

The setting was straight out from some well-made, tightly edited documentary on Mumbai train-life. I boarded the slow Asangaon train from Parel station to avoid the rush at Dadar. I prepared to hoist my bag up onto the mesh stand and did so after taking out my copy of Maximum City- Suketu Mehta.

A middle-aged man was playing his harmonica strung from his neck and rested on his lap as he belted out seemingly thoughtful songs like, "Duniya banane wale, ka tere man me samayi, kaheko duniya banayi..” the train trudged on billowing strong gusts of wind towards the opposite side. I found it hard to concentrate in the book as my mind read the lyrics as my foot tapped and my head bobbed in accordance with the drone of the music box and the deference in the man’s voice. The setting brings to my mind the logo of HMV (His Master’s Voice) with Einstein’s dog sitting in front of a gramophone that played his voice. Peace reigned inside the compartment. Contented eyes shone inside uncomplaining faces, as they seemingly looked somewhere, thinking something, obviously relating to the music. They don’t fight for space now. They don’t argue for the window seat. The song has had a humbling effect on all.

The bookmark inside the book stayed where it was until there came Kurla and the train started filling in, people occupying the fourth seat and requesting the other three to make space for him, others plainly grabbing the space and pushing in with their posterior, provoking noises of disapproval. I notice a Muslim gentleman adorned with the traditional skullcap board on with three burqa clad figures. Once inside, the veil was lifted and thrown above the head, facilitating better viewing and respiration. I, by the time was graced with a fourth seat but graciously sat on the edge without even touching my back against the person behind me. I love the way I behave, sometimes. Like ‘animal specialist’ Dr. Bhatavdekar says, “because even we are social animals”.

One of the Muslim ladies found a seat directly opposite to me. I notice that she is very young, not as young as me, but wouldn’t be more than three years older to me. We looked at each other for a second and my eyes went back to the book. The bookmark had found its way into my pocket, sensing that now perhaps the pages will fly, as words were skimmed through and scanned and registered in the gray. But that was not to be. The lady opposite to me kept gesticulating frantically at her companion, who was still left standing, to come hither.

I sense, she is now, looking at my book and me. I look up to adjust my glasses, which, somehow, keep gliding down my nose bridge like glaciers prancing down icy slopes. She is actually staring. Now, if someone stares at you for longer then the prescribed 2 seconds, it means either there’s something seriously wrong with the way you physically appear or you are looking like a runaway star from Hollywood! I meet her eyes. They seem to be talking to me. They are imploring. I felt cheap. “What am I doing?”

I move my quadrupled eyes away. I just can’t read now. I look up again. She pretends to be looking somewhere else, then glances back and forth, the same warm, implore in them. Abashed, I pretend to read, turning pages faster, much faster than my usual reading speed. The song goes on, asking the Almighty why indeed He had made this world.

A couple enters. The man has a tiny bundle of a human baby in his hands, held ever so lovingly, nestled close to his chest, with his eyes adoring the beauty of their creation. I get up, sensing the obvious discomfort both, for them to hold a baby and stand in a shaky train and for me, who has had the blood in the posterior held in the same position for lack of sitting space. The mother of the child fishes out a bottle of milk and hands it over to the husband. I peek at the contents of the bag where the bottle came from. I see a tin of Farex and raise my eyebrows. The couple doesn’t seem well off. This tin is perhaps the first and last the kid would ever see.

The lady looks at me getting up. I don’t return it. The train is nearing my station. I put the bookmark back in place, resting it until the next time that I travel, that would be the next day, most probably. A few more seats are empty now. The Muslim lady’s companion finds a seat now. They are all happy now. The lines on the brow are gone. They smile and are ready to break into convulsions of giggles and new stories and comments on people nearby. I wait for this to happen, waiting to be happy at my own prediction, to boast to myself about my knowledge of women, all in vain.

They are talking, but with their hands. As I got down from the train, I felt the shock of my life in the form of a bolt of shame and a tear jerk in my eyes. They can’t speak! No wonder her eyes wanted to speak to me. I say, “shit”, noting in my mental notepad to write about it sometime soon. Today I did it. Phew!

NO POINT SOMEONE- Hi, this is Hari from 'rural' Ambarnath

I remember my first days in FYBMM, Wilson College. I could feel the squirmish inside me when someone turned to me and pouted English and expected me to reply in the very same pattern too. My good and evil halves struggled and marathoned (sheesh, wtf is tht?) inside me to juggle up a concoction of well- sounding words which wouldn't sound like the place I came from! Wow, do I call it an inferiority complex or SARS (Severe Acute Rural Syndrome?)

Ambarnath, a place which I lovingly call Amby Valley after the lavish residencies in Lonavala, is in a pitiful state.My website would enshrine the fact that I love to swaer by it and bask in the radiance of the sunshine here.We are the victims of endless mindless powercutsfor not less than five hours everyday. about a week ago, we hear from people and read in the celebrated papers that beyond Kalyan (that is where the 'rural' region starts) there will be powercuts for 12 hours a day. Kewl ain't it?

I was watching Richard Attenborough's Gandhi yesterday and the power of the puny brown man in his loin cloth and anga-vastram struck me like a thunderbolt. Does he mean to say that, if you don't get what you rightly deserve, you can proclaim that you won't eat anything (not even "thodi si pet puja") and live only on boiled, filtered, cooled and bottled water passed by the Municipality?

My friends, I take this opportunity to invite you to my humble residence for a sumptuous candle-light dinner anytime you wish to come. But, be sure that you call me up before reaching my place, so I can escort you with the torch, lest the canines in my region decide that you are a nothing but a bunch of burglars on the prowl! Also be sure to amply soak youraself in the New Odomos Mosquito repellant cream ( Now available in wholesale at all leading chemist's) to prevent them, flying dragons from interrupting the interesting discussions we are likely to have.

Exactly what the title of my posts say, I talk a lot, but don't know what point to make. (Kindly refer to offer documents before investing...shit, radio lecture hangover!!!)

There...yawn..am bored....

NO POINT SOMEONE – The day I tied the knot.

The highly dramatic but enlightening lectures of our professor for Understanding Cinema- Miss Anuja got me thinking yet another time. Her prophecies coaxed the thinking cap onto my head, so tight that I keep thinking what it forces me to think!

“Shit, I pity you, you don’t remember anything about your childhood!” she said.

That sentence struck me like the apple of gravity struck Mr. Newton, reminding me of the day when I learnt to tie my shoelace.

I was in my second standard then. The day was pretty hot, so I gather it must’ve been sometime in summer. Another reason which forces me to think that it was summer is that I distinctly remember preparing for some bloody oral examination for the final examination. And isn’t it general student characteristics to eat only half tummy before the exams ‘cos the other half is filled with fluttering butterflies and tromping elephants?

Hence, my tummy was in the same condition on that day and I hastily made it to the place where the rickshaws would pick-drop us up to Fatima High School. Only then do I realize that my shoelaces had somehow become undone.

It now embarrasses me to think that I would start to sniffle and stutter at little occurrences like these. That is what I did then! My juniors, friends of standard first and kindergarten, sniggered and jeered. (Sheesh, am I actually writing this??) I wanted to run back home, to get them, stupid laces, tied again, when my neighbour, a year younger than me (who now, smokes and drinks relentlessly) bent down and tied it for me, poor, sissy of a cry baby.

Shit, I thought, now I’ll have to learn to do that, and indeed I practiced tying and untying the knot, that day after returning from a well-turned out oral examination! So, there, now you know that I have tied the knot many times!!!