Yay!

Initial part of game plan accomplished without much ado. Can I? Oh ok. Well…bags packed and the next train to Andheri. Being much of an ascetic, there ain't much to carry other than the bundle of clothes. New place to live in, albeit a little untidy, which is not a problem at all. Great pals to live with, people who I know, are good human beings like me, creative and thoughtful.

Work is so much more fun now. A lot less struggle to get to work means a lot more creative funnies. No baggage, no water bottle for the journey, no book to read in the train. It is just me…musafir? walking down Andheri roads…something I never thought I could do, with my hands deep inside my jean pocket- sometimes for the stylish look of it, sometimes because my hands get bored of just hanging lackadaisically by my side and sometimes to search for change.

It feels good. My voice sounds better. I can sing better, make voices better. I can think. I can write.

One of my roommates, who was also my colleague at my previous workplace is something that people could call a voracious reader. He has a horde of books, strewn around his room, collecting dust like Nazis collected Jews to put into gas chambers. Yesterday I invaded the dusty closet like the red coats almost invaded Harvard long long ago and along with him, set the books in order. Newspapers were separated and accumulated in quantity decent enough to earn some ruddy money. And then there are old pizza boxes to be sold off, but my roommate believes they won’t help earn much.
The resultant effect is good. The books are in order and the study table ready for some thought and writing.

A few more days. Then pay time. Hope at least this one gets here. Till then…let the game plan roll on…

Enough

New place. New people. Eavesdropping on people talking over the phone. Trying to catch names. New names to remember. Discovering the loo. Discovering how to use the faucets in there. Recollecting them on time. You addressing someone and someone else turning around (for eq. you call out someone you think is Anjali, but is not and the real Anjali sitting next to her looks up instead and says, “Yes?”)

Answering, “Who are you and what are you doing here” questions of bosses. Discovering how to open the door (enshrined with the la hoo haa fancy swipe card system.)

It is an enchanting feeling to see on screen and hear the very words that flowed out from your head. It happened recently. One of the gags I penned had been translated beautifully by the two anchors of the show…my words now had emotions in them teamed with wondrous expressions.

Some people there will answer queries anytime you ask them. Some others walk past you as if you don’t exist, but this shouldn’t be considered rude or anything because all of them there work under pressure and are thinking of something or the other all the time. That must be how creative brains work. :P

The office is swank. Wooden flooring, good chairs. Bean bags to ponder in. good word processors on which one can also plug into youtube, thanks to a good internet connection.

Oh, and coffee and tea at your beckham and column, no, beck and call.

As goes my former status message on G talk, new place, new people…now good place, good people.

Good office alright. But getting there and getting back home from there is the struggle of a struggling ‘wannabe something BIG in life.’

Wake up with the previous night’s shoves and pushes still wreaking havoc inside the muscles. Rush to catch the designated train, pray for it not to stop en route. Change tracks. Board train. Reach bus stop. Say hi to the queue. Barter shoves for pushes. Maneuver the way to the seat. Get down, walk two minutes towards office. See the swank, feel the AC…phew, finally there!

(66 words. Easy to say, damn tough to go through.)

Eyes shut tight. Teeth grinding together. Trying to find foot-space. Taking the juts on the stomach without a sound. Feeling the ache building up in the back, feeling the pressure on the pelvic muscles…stretching to the best of their capacity. Only then do the sounds come out, pleading at first, then polite but curt and then outright rude. If things still don’t work, lighter shoves from your side and a cold stare does magic. It is way better than anything insulting to say.

Getting angry all the way and trying to cool down asap, to think of things that should translate funnily on the screen. Tough job indeed. I wonder where all that anger should go.

Voodoo dolls of BEST buses and local trains? Random rantings on the blog? Or random writings on a piece of paper and then tearing it into bits and setting it into fire? Pillow fight? Shouting out loud? How the heaven, do I vent? Hope it is not turning into a huge bubble, waiting for that fatal pinprick.

I wonder where I can get hold of tranquilisers, those shots that hunters and vets use to put the wild creatures to sleep, for a while, of course. I would love to try a few of those on a daily basis on some co- travellers, who think they can have their way about things at the cost of others. And then the ‘helpful’ police will be out looking for the serial tranquiliser.

I find silence as the best way not to hurt the caring ones. Shutting up would mean shrouding the need to crib, to vent, saving the fear of taking the ire off on the first person that cares to listen.

Enough. Time to save the angry energy for better purposes.

Time for the game plan wheel to begin rolling.

Failure of journalism

Follow the path of righteousness. Never commit something wrong, completely knowing that it is wrong. Apologise when you feel you are wrong. Keep the senses open; never take decisions without equally weighing both sides, objectiveness they call it. Bribing is bad. Taking a bribe is still bad.

Apply for a passport. Take crisp prints. Fill up the remaining blanks. Amass the necessary documents. Remind oneself of one’s date and place of birth. Talk witnesses to readiness. Photocopy each document thrice or more times. Carry yourself and the bundle to the nearest passport office. Plastic, weary smiles for the watchman there. Await your turn. Answer putrid questions. “You are not married, no?” pay the dough. Accept nods for farewells and acknowledgements. Await for ‘clearance’.

One fine morning. A gruff but polite telephone call. Summons to the local police station. Passport application verification. Witness one. Questions. Answers. Weary demeanour. Dingy room. Rude awakening. ‘Fees’. 100 bucks. “Will I get a receipt?” Guffaws.

Later, witness two. Questions. Answers. Weary looks. Curtness exhibition. Empty boasts of “You want receipt, I’ll give you receipt.” Police verification done.

Passport almost here.

New phone call. Summons for police verification of dad’s passport renewal application. Today. Dad says he’ll pay if the cop asks for fees. “Why?” “Oh, it won’t be too much.”

“But why? They get their salaries!” “One person not giving in to the cops won’t stop the corruption.” “Doesn’t mean you have to give in too!” “Look, we have had to pay illegally for the house tax papers. Each time we had to get the guy here, we had to bellow his pockets with greenies. Some things are like that. You cannot change them.” “It is because you choose to make things that way.”

I don’t know what to say. What is the fckng use of studying all this bullshit journalism and stuff when you can’t persuade your own father from giving in to bribery? What use is a passport begotten by such means? The visas and the flight tickets that follow the passport would rather fly straight to hell. The passports to hell.

A dressing table for my sister