Mumbai Guhwahati Express S7 31 - All Alone

I had the opportunity of travelling alone from Mumbai to almost Guwahati, baby sitting a seat, protecting it from 500 others who would kill to sit were I sat. I was amidst strangers who did not seem to like the fact that I wanted to sit with a little space around me. So, there I was baby-sitting my luggage like mother sheep guarding her lambs from the very bad wolf.

I spent a good half of the first day cribbing to myself through clenched teeth about the lousy situation and why I couldn’t be part of a group that would crack up at my wisecracks and not so wise cracks and play OHNO with me. Why did I have to be stuck up with a bunch of losers so bored that all of them watched goggle-eyed as another guy stood up on his seat and placed three very interesting guavas into his bag on the upper berth in slow motion – one by one? Each movement of the man was like breaking news. “Dekhiye kis tarah ek aadmi NE apne seat par chadhkar ek nahi, do nahi, balki teen amrood apne bag ke andar ghusaaye…”

The TTC, I bet, feels more important than Pratibha Patil feels inside the Rastrapati Bhavan. This lanky guy wearing black clothes is suddenly God for my fellow travelers. They want their tickets confirmed and give him looks that range from pious-innocent to smug-bribey.

And thus, interesting traits of people around me began to ooze out, which is when I decided to stop cribbing and make the most of the situation. Who knows, one of these could be characters in my first film.

A couple sat to my left. The man spoke a mix of what seemed to be a mix of Bengali, Hindi and Awadhi. His female partner looked obviously Nepali and even spoke like Bollywood’s caricatures of Gorkha watchmen. Though not too much into PDA, I was of the opinion that they were all set to star in the next controversial mobile clip that people around the world would download for $ 50. What the woman had to tell the man had to be very important stuff because she yelled every word of it. I wonder why the guy wanted to know about how the woman had hit another woman (who was washing utensils) for staring at her. The man kept chewing sachet after sachet of Kolhapuri gutkha and the woman kept pulling at his hair for this habit. Wonder if the man was putting up with all this because he thought she would make up for all of this later? (Wink wink).

Their eating habits psyched me out. The food from the railway pantry car is akin to the food Raveena Tandon feeds her pets. Ya, so there are a couple of things in the dal that you cannot really eat like long pieces of fried chilly, pieces of the foil etc. so the couple took out all of this and placed them on the seat while they devoured their food with all possible limbs. Post lunch the woman raked off the residue from the seat with those very hands, leaving dal tracks all over the seat. Aur phir Bhagwan Ramchandra ne us nanhi gilahri ko apne haathon mein uthaayi… aur apni ungliyon se uske peeth par teen reshayen banayi… The guy then wiped the wet dal with a gammchha (towel) and proceeded to sit on it.

Remnants of the dal could still be seen on the woman’s saree a day after that particular lunch session. The man switched from Kolhapuri to another locally available gutkha brand. He also developed a rare mental condition where he would get down and run to the water faucet with at every possible railway station.
On my right sat a bouncer in a dark blue Sando vest. He could give Yoko Zuna a few tips on muscle toning. Besides entertaining the broom that grew out of his armpits, his occupation throughout the day was to rile salesman, interrogating them with pointed questions about the price, quality and quality of their wares. He even volunteered to sit on a plastic torch after its salesman claimed that it was unbreakable. When he wasn’t playing CID with them, he would squeeze out his mobile phone out of his tight pants and make calls to people inquiring about the number of sacks of cement they used to build their new house and the shampoo they put on their head.

A whiny kid sat in front with his mom who looked so much like Shashikala that I almost asked her for an autograph. The 8-year old whined for everything from his toothpaste to his right to sit at the window. The whining was beginning to get to my nerves and I would’ve stuck my only black pen into the imp’s ear if it wasn’t for redemption that came in the form of Anish who asked me to join the rest of the gang in a compartment across seven seas.

Not that the rest of the journey was uneventful…but all of that is another story.

I am tired of the cwap people adorn their Orkut profile names and status messages with. One I recently read reads – Life is a virtue. Earn it. It is all the more irritating when people who have such profile names scrap you on Orkut. The email notification in your inbox in such cases reads ‘WHO LET THE DOGS OUT has sent you a scrap’ or ‘BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMZ has thrown a Huckleberry Fig at you.’
The next half an hour is spent in identifying the owner of the dogs and calling up a dream analyst. Now this is another wild goose chase because where I expect to see the face of the person who scrapped me, I see the picture of a semi-nude John Abraham or a depressing image of a blade inserted into the tongue. So much for the warnings Orkut gives you before you upload pictures. It’s proven. No one really reads the T&C while signing up.

(Oh and among my other friends are R. Madhavan, Eisha Koppikar, Raj Thackeray, Anil Ambani, Rani Mukherjee, Brett Lee, poster babies, the Khan khaandaan, the Bachchan family including the downloaded Tulu codec and Baba Ramdev. Don’t believe me? Take a look at my friends’ list.)

I admit that I don’t know the exact purpose of status messages. The ideal purpose would be to put in something that you think is amusing out in everybody’s face so they could have a chuckle. But I am sure about one thing and that is that using the status message space to put up stuff like – ‘Enjoy life today yesterday is gone, Tomorrow may never come’ is a heinous crime. People doing this must be sentenced to three months in jail and/or fined with three thousand rupees or at least tattooed with such a warning.

Another punishable offence reads – ‘Life is an ice-cream, enjoy it before it melts.’ Someone else’s status message tells me he is ‘enjoying the nuances of life’. The same someone was yelling “Life is a play and I am an extra” last week. When will life cease to be such a STMC (Shit Status Message Creator)? Life this, life that. It’s either life or the other extreme.

‘Till death do us apart’ has asked you to kindly fill in your personal details including credit car number and DOB so she could buy you a birthday gift using your own money!

‘Death is a calamity’. Dude. *Looks for the number of the local asylum*

‘Death is a catastrophe’. Ya, you go with that guy. *Points at calamity*

‘I’ll die in my love for you’ You sure will, especially if you say that to more girls.

Bag(h)ban

People who travel in trains have a platonic relationship with their bags. There are people who love their bags a little more than their spouse.
This species gets into the train, hands you the bag and waits till “the guy in the ugly black t-shirt” has kept my bag safely on the shelf.” It is this species that asks for the bag to be placed on his lap, when he sits, so he could take ample care of it himself.

This species has a strain of creatures that are a bit superior to it. These creatures keep the bag with them, come what may. “Darling, take your most precious thing and rush out! It’s an earthquake!” *rumble rumble* *CRASH* “Well, well, let’s see, I got my bag. Honey, the kids are with you right?” Get the drift? Somehow, I think I fit into this species. I like to keep my bag to myself.

Then there are those with an obsessive-compulsive disorderly behaviour. They prefer their bag to slant at an angle of 67.85 degrees- nothing less or more. These people often ask others to maintain the perfect tilt of their bag or give up their seat so they could do it themselves with a pocket protractor.

There are a few others, who would rather leave their bags in the train and tell their wives how the Al Qaeda stole it during a mock hold up session at the office. This tribe of people likes to stand 50 feet away from the luggage rack and throw their bag making sure that it hits the guy in the window seat and gives him a spondilytis of the neck. One would think it is an accident, considering the profuse way he apologises after the fiasco, every time. But the number of times I have been witness to this game of basket-bag tells me that this is the kind of story he would tell his grandchildren. “…and then I aimed the javelin at the lion and broke his neck!”

Some people are strict parents, even to their bags. Wherever they go, their bags need to follow them. They let their bag rest on the first empty spot in sight. Then the guy thinks, “There’s another spot there. May be my bag’s future will be more secure if I put it there.” The bag is moved from here to there. But then the guy has to get down soon and the previous spot was closer to the door. So the bag is moved back to the previous spot.

So which one of these is you?

A supernatural drama in the building


I won’t claim to have seen all possible events that are disturbing for mankind but I think I considered myself a little stronger than most when it came to feathers of the supernatural kind. The idea could have been ‘seeing is believing.’ Have I been a witness to an incident of the supernatural kind recently?
I don’t know. I have been witness to a disturbing incident but would ponder over it for a long time to come before I would term it ‘from outside the world’ or otherwise.
A young neighbour’s wife eight months knocked up has been trying to run away from home at odd times – in the middle of the night, in the dead of the afternoon and so on. Her husband and her father in law tried to restrain her but she objected with such frenzy that according to me, an average human is incapable of. She pulled herself and her two supporters down the set of stairs screaming her lungs out, flailing her arms, kicking her feet back and forth, hitting her engorged tummy with her hands and banging herself on the walls. She managed to get her mouth bleeding somehow- whether she bit herself or if it was the result of some impact on the walls, is still unknown.
Somehow she was pinned down on the floor in the middle of the staircase. ‘Holy water’ from a durgah was brought (they had a stock of it at home) and poured into her mouth and sprinkled over her head. The frenzy ceased. I put it off as rehydration, she was possibly thirsty from all the effort she had put into screaming. But her arms and feet were still alive and kicking, literally.
Incidentally, a family on the floor where this person now lay believe in the miraculous powers of the Son of God. They swiftly brought out the Hindi translation of the Holy Bible and placed it gently under the moaner’s head. Surprise, she was quiet but still moaned and muttered.
Considering that she was now fine, her relatives tried to pull her back to her feet but the power was back again. They let her lie there making way for people to pass by over her legs.
The head of the believing family meanwhile propounded the theory that this phenomenon was nothing but ‘hawa’. The ‘patient’ had recently got back from her native village and surely might have gone to a nearby water body where the ‘evil hawa’ had gotten into her. (It seems, it’s inadvisable for pregnant women to venture anywhere near water bodies even when remotely pregnant.) And according to him, the only way to field this hawa was to call ‘Uncle and Aunty’.
I wondered if this pair was Bunty & Bubli. Uncle and Aunty soon arrived. Uncle looked like a darker version of Alan Tudyk and Aunty looked like the caretaker of a rural church in Kerala. Everyone stood up in reverence of the holy couple. They themselves stood looking at the patient, probably trying to judge her symptoms. They let out a disclaimer that they have been doing this for the past 10-12 years and that they only pray for the interference of the Son into matters of evil activities.
Uncle and Aunty soon began to call upon their deities with such fervor that I couldn’t help but record a part of it. The patient who by had found some peace lying on a mat in the believer’s flat, suddenly found it impossible to lie in such noisy surroundings and sprang up. Everyone gasped. The evil spirit is trying to get out because of the power of the prayers! A few curses and spits later, the patient lay down again to be fed a little more of the water- this time from some other place.
She slept again, giving in to exhaustion (or exorcism as many others would like to believe). Now it was time to talk about why the Son of God was more powerful than the others and how he had miraculous powers. The others in the room were requested not to feel offended, for Aunty was talking from experience. They asked the patient to be brought to their place the next day, where a powerful pastor was coming to preach and assured that he would surely relieve the patient of all her qualms.
What brought relief to the half dozen people in the small flat was that the patient was now responding to whoever talked to her instead of the curdling swears and gibberish that she spewed earlier.
What is wrong with her? I don’t know. What I gather is that she is a patient suffering of severe depression and might also be delusional. She has attempted suicide a few times including one recently when her family found her on top of the building’s water tank considering a leap a 100 feet downwards. I also understand that things like this happen to people when being pregnant.
Why am I writing this? I seem to think this will help me get rid of the habit of re-enacting the violent scenes in my head. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know yet if prayers help achieve anything. I don’t know…

Tujhjyakade stumps aahet ka re?

Watching gully cricket in Ambarnath is a wonderful experience. I am not really sports-friendly and I mean this in a gentlemanly sort of way. I don’t hate sports or cricket for that matter. It’s just that my ideas of fun are books, movies and the like. I am the kind of person who would rather wait for the football to come to him and then kick it than run after it in a huddle of other sweaty males.
Thanks to an evening work plan that got cancelled, I got to visit an old friend of mine who was recuperating from a serious leg injury. Now this friend of mine is a die-hard cricket fan, so even as the doctor advised him complete rest and a routine exercise regime to get his leg back in shape, this guy goes to play cricket. Well, he has a runner to run for him. So all he has to do is stand like a batsman and hit the ball when it comes to him and the runner will run. Fair enough. It’s doable for an injured batsman. There were more amusing moments in the game session that I saw which I will now delve into.
Gully cricket here is a funny affair. Funny because all you need are a bat and a ball. Of course there will be a batsman and another guy who needs to stand near the bowler who will switch sides with the batsman when they have taken a run or when the over is over, if you get what I mean. (Look, this is exactly why I said I am not into sports, so you could spare me the agony of those ‘Why can’t you use proper cricketing jargon’ looks.) The funny part here is that, the guy on the other side won’t have a bat, because like I said there’s only one bat. So the other guy has a stick in hand broken from the branch that hung lowest that evening.
Then there are the spots that are ‘declared’. My acute observation tells me that if the ball that you hit goes into these declared zones, you get a number of runs that has been pre-stipulated. For example, if your ball goes into the 2D zone, he gets 2 runs and 1d begets one run, of course! Hit me on my head if I even think of animation. These regions are mostly chosen because of their inaccessibility. Like today, the D zones were the insides of a scarcely used-but-filled-with-slimy water- swimming pool- a place that a fielder can’t jump to catch a ball or anything for that matter. The ball that goes into such zones usually comes out looking a bit different. Suppose it went into a thorny thicket, it would have scratches. If a red ball went into a slightly wet swimming pool with blue-green water, it will come out as a wet red ball.
There is a serious dearth of umpires on the field. Imagine a cricket scene that has no umpires. The players have to undergo the rigorous task of decision-making even while they are concentrating on the barrage of obscene words from the other side. The first batsman to lose his wickets makes all the players in the gully happy because he is the new umpire who is expected to suddenly turn objective and give unbiased decisions and not to make your team win even if you can.
Gully cricket is gully cricket because it is played in the gully. So obviously there are no selectors. The players just select themselves and count themselves in. Halfway through the game, one can expect a switch of loyalty and one can’t point anything at him – anyone would want to join a winning team, after all. Each time would have an equal number of players, strictly. If team A has 6 members, team B needs to have 6 members too, not less, not more.
Rules exist in the unwritten, unspoken and seldom-mentioned bye-laws of gully cricket for a stray extra member. In regular cases as such, the stray extra member could either bat for both the teams or one member from the team with one member less can bat twice, but only after everyone else gets a chance to bat. The stray extra also needs to field (run after balls with the idea to get hold of it and to throw it on time onto either of the stumps that is convenient.) twice. Fielding twice is just too much effort, which is a good reason not to be late for the match.
The bye-law also restricts players from using their mobile-phones during the match. The match often requires to be cut short for bad light because the bowler got a phone call to which he replied something akin to “Arre me khaali aahot, kheltoy (pause to hear the other side)…kay? (Something interesting!) Aalo thaamb.” Then the bowler bowls the ball and the batsman hits it towards the fielder who has right then yelled that he was not ready because he got an important call. No points to guess the caller from the leering smile on the fielder’s face.
The lack of space and growth in the number of glass panes that have popped up in recent times, simpler methods of getting out have been invented. One of them is one-tappa or ek-tappi. You have been caught out if the ball that you hit bounces once on the ground and lands in the hands of the fielder. In such a case, the fielder will also throw the ball back in the air with his hands up in the air in mock joy/ amok with joy.
There can be as many matches in a day as you wish. There can be 10-over matches, 5-over matches, 2-over matches and single-over matches. The evening play session is started with a match with the biggest number of overs. The number of overs is cut down as the sun begins to set. So while the sun is almost kissing the horizon, our teams are battling it out in a one-over test match, complete with two angry fielders who yelled at each other for no reason and a guy who tried to catch a ball between his chest and chin.

Too dark to play, the players say goodnight to each other and skittle off home- back to MBA study books an engineering assignments after an enriching evening game.

Govinda came. He saw. He scampered.


I have a thing against loud things. Loud people are also things. I agree, this is a difficult way to live, considering we live in a place where a festival means Nasik dhol and 125 speakers waala deck that go woof woof with Koni kutra sodla re?
So yesterday was Govinda. What they used to call dahi handi when I was in school. Dahi handi means, you make a potful of milk, honey, coconut pieces, jaggery, sugar, sugarcane pieces, loose change and top it up with water (no dahi, mind you!) seal it with cloth and then hang this up between two buildings or streetlamp poles or anything high enough, drink a few pails of ale and make others drink too and then clamber onto each other to try and reach the pot first. The first few attempts look a bit structured. But then you know how ale is. It makes you see things. So then the young Govindas put their feet where there is no shoulder and down they come like a pack of cards soaked in Khajuraho beer. All this while, the DJ is showing off his collection of triple mix songs and beams everytime the glitchik-blitchik-glitchik happens between tracks. (and somewhere in Jupiter, a volcano erupts. It can’t help it. The DJ’s system is so loud. It’s no wonder Sabu decided to stay back on Earth!)
One must think that Devki and Vasudev needed a home theatre system inside their prison cell in order to have sound sleep and a quick roll in the hay before that- quickie because they couldn’t let the chowkidaars outside their cell become voyeurs.
And then Krishna came. After a premature birth and moving homes at midnight, during a heavy downpour and water-logging at Milan Subway. The point is, he came in the morning. Not came as in “Aaah, aah, I’m coming!” But, came as in ‘was born.’ So, he was born in the morning, around midnight? But people at news channels are so active and zestful, they could be called Bean Bags. So they tell these Govinda organizers, “You want us to cover your dahi handi fest, do it in the evening, so we could get up at noon, run a few errands for home, lie in the bath tub for a while, make a few STD and ISD calls and then leave for work.” The organizers have no option. Ramaize Bhai needs the coverage to show that he is the only big man in the locality. The channel had promised to show him (and his obese boobytrap) dancing at his balcony every 15 minutes!
So, for all of us here, that naughty prankster-who accidently fell into the navy blue acrylic colour vat when he visited the Camel factory, was born in the evening. Wow, press power!
Ya so, the high decibels of sound waves go on through the evening. But for the only time in the history of mankind has the timing of a power-cut been so well-appreciated. Power gone, DJ popat! All he can do is tinker around with his wires and cables. This spells a three-hour break for our high Govindas. No song-no game! More ale, more Keshtos.
In the end, the Govindas were so tired, that someone suggested that they cheat a bit. So what they finally did is, they stood with their mouths open under the hanging pot and struck it with a really really long piece of bamboo. Yay! Govinda aala re and all that…
So such are festivities now. Another piece of disjoint, useless news. It seems people in Kerala are now celebrating sarvajanik ganeshotsav. Hey, aint that kewl, man? That is cool alright, what is wrong with worshipping the elephant god like we do it here? Well, nothing really. I’m just a little concerned about the tourism department and the numbers that haunt Kerala for its wonderful backwaters…sarvajanik ganeshotsav, idol immersion...get it?

Kaanz International


Ears stuck with earphones makes man a denigrated entity. It's almost as if saying “Let me put these earphones into my ears and become deaf, stupid and clumsy.” The freshman batch of college now filling the trains thinks it's cool to ignore frantic suggestions to not 'throw their weight around.' This obliviously ignorant species often walks backwards to bump into already irate ladies or dabbawallas and then the expression of apology that leaves the conscience decides to not cross the LOC of the lips.
Ears shut, the anatomical system is devoid of any sounds from the outside world, resulting in polite admonitions from taxi drivers which would go something like, “Baghoon chal re #$%^#$^$%, marsheel ekda tya mobilechya naadaat.” Unaware of the flurry of warnings flying his way, our DJ will only smile back, forever apologetic. He would be apologetic all his life, saying sorry and maaf karo to every person he bumps into, which is like a quarter of the over all population.
Reminds me of a joke. There's this crazy scientist who is researching frogs. Placing a specimen on the desk, the scientist orders it to jump which it dutifully does. Pinning it down, the weirdass cuts off one of its four legs and orders it to jump. It does. He proceeds to extract another leg and asks it to jump. It still does manage to do it with the help of its remaing two limbs. Off with the third leg along with an order to jump. With one leg remaining, the frog makes a moving effort to jump and manages to raise itself for the scientist's happiness. The scalpel severs the last limb. "Jump," yells the scientist. The frog only stares at the scientist, but doesn't move. After a few failed attempts at making the frog jump, the scientist observes into his log book, "If you cut off all four limbs of a frog, it becomes deaf."
Why do I mention this amphibian relative of ours now? Well, it's because I have seen a few of our brethren turn into them even as they think they are head-banging to some super rock music when they really are making faces akin to a cross between a pig and a bullfrog.
But I would hand the award to them for at least getting their own earphones instead of waiting for me to offer them a brand new one irked by them using the speakers. But these advancements in science and technology is getting worse day by day, what with the music from the earphones blaring like the loud speakers themselves? Passive music. Much like AIR's style of news rendering. "Aap sun rahe hain All India Radio. Ab aap Kungfu Pandey se samachaar suniye." (Compulsory hai).
They stand on the middle of the road thinking they are unobtrusive to the movement of the world, riding a tricycle on the fast lane. Wonder if they kow that their reflexes are completely sloshed, cut short to a speed of 25 miles per year. When inside trains, they move unwittingly, their elbows pressing spectacles into eyes or grazing people's nipples as they reach into the farthest corner of their pockets to coax out their band-baaja phones. Eyes doped with music and leftover sleep, they step on shoes and hems of trousers evoking mixed emotions.
Scene change. I am being interviewed. The interviewer asks me, "Sir..."
I say, "Err, don't call me Sir, call me Hari." (Cool trend to be called by the first name, not that it aches to be called Sir.)
"Oh, ok, (faking hesitation) Hari, what message would you like to give to the society?"
Thoughtful face. "Hmmm, I think mobile phone companies should start making earphones for only one ear, so the sound from the outside world would reach the person, like hands free sets. But may be people would get two of those kinds and use them on each ear and continue being compulsively irritating, in which case other people should be given permission to carry poison darts. My message to the society is that they should stop being so reclusive and should start behaving like the social animals that Dr. Bhatavdekar says we are. People could start reading in the train like all those cool people who read books from the bestseller lists only. They could also solve crossword puzzles and then tuck the paper under the bum and leave it there, to wipe seats during the monsoons…

Camera zooms out to show interviewer snoring.

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MaHATEmatics

A visit to my little big younger sister’s school on the occasion of a parents’ teachers’ meet brought in a rush of mixed emotions. The main topic of discussion was to discuss and decide the Education Board’s decision to initiate a lower level of Mathematics into the students’ curriculum intended at slashing the rate of failure of students in Math, because they are not “cope-upping” with the current level of the subject called regular Mathematics.

The PT meeting was to begin at 7.30 in the morning, about the time when joggers hit the road on Marine Drive passing by people from the suburbs, who are on their way to their offices in South Mumbai. But thirty minutes past seven is still an ominous hour to wake up on a Saturday. But many parents did and brought themselves to the school at around 8 only to be standing at the door, wide-eyed, peeping into the classroom to find familiar faces and empty seta to go and sit when they would be allowed to.

Much to their chagrin, the principal even announced that it’s no wonder that they kids come late to school. Students attending extra classes for the drawing intermediate exam were instructed to usher extra benches to accommodate the latecomers, now to be seated three on a bench pushing as if aboard a train!

After their students’ parents were uncomfortably seated, the much-awaited debate began with a teacher talking about what Math was and now what Math is, while the other teacher in the classroom passed on an attendance sheet for parents to sign. It will be, but my folly, to tell you that the double sheet of paper was getting more attention than what the teacher was saying “something” about “Yuck Maths” and their kids’ future.

The teacher talked about the Board’s idea of introducing the a lower level of the subject which would be called General Mathematics I & II instead of Regular Mathematics – Algebra and Geometry.

Feeding myself from the circular that the Board sent the school, I understand that students who now opt for the lower level of Mathematics would not be able to take up Math for higher education in the technical field which would require the base provided in 9^th and 10^th classes, which means they will stand to forfeit a career in engineering and just about anything that includes math, because their study combination of PCM (Physics, Chemistry, Mathematics) would not be complete. The teacher, however, told the confused, bickering lot of parents told the parents that a kid who takes up the lower level of Math would not be able to appear for opt for Science or Commerce because even CA requires Math.

Coming back to the genres of parents that had accumulated in the tiny cowshed, oh classroom, there was a boisterous loud-mouth who thought aloud that the school should reject the Board’s idea because if the kids take up the lower level of Math, their future will be of no use. A ring tone rings somewhere and the parents, teachers and principal look around to spot the melody. I had half a mind to stand up and act Aamir Khan in TZP and say “Ajeeb aadmi hain aap.”

Teachers cry hoarse in the classroom telling the children to shut up and not make noise and “stop talking” and “Put fingers on their lips” (which my father used to parody as Fingers in your mouth.) It is only during these parent teacher meetings that they understand the rule of heredity. The kids talk so much because their parents talk so much!

The meeting ended unofficially as parents began to leave the classroom without being requested to even as the teacher was telling parents how students should be wearing proper uniforms and how girl students should not wear huge ear-rings and should plait their hair. The few who waited back formed a hive around the teacher, much like the way the teacher’s favourite students do right after class.

We waited till the very end, to tell the teacher that we would like to see what the new syllabus is like, since my sister seems to have made up her mind not to take up engineering or any other technical field. So we tell the teacher that the sister finds it really tough to understand Mathematics. And she goes, “Oh, is it? No problem, what are we teachers for? We’ll make Maths easy for her. Plus she has to work very hard…”

If that is what teachers are for, then where is the need for a lower level, me asks.

Two goldfish were in their tank. One turns to the other and says…

Honey, I’m home!

You man the guns, I'll drive.

Hey, I didn’t know you were here too!

Don’t stay in water for too long or you’ll catch the flu.

How is your bubble larger than mine?

You blow bubble, I blow bubble, we blow bubble. You blow two bubble, I blow two bubble, we blow two bubble. When we blow many many bubble, we take nice bubble bath.

…and then he popped my cherry!

Dadda always wanted to oppose what mamma said so he set me up with a blowfish the day mamma told me not to talk to strangers.

How many times I have told you not to make that stupid sound when you blow bubbles?

And then he went on to tell me that I had a “bubble face”. May be he meant to say BUBBLY FACE. And then he had the cheek to add me as a friend on Orkut!

A wannabe voice artist speaks…

I’ve been looking out for something to write and continue the writing practice. And now when I have something to write about, I write more from the need to structure the din in my head.

Ever since I finished standard twelve, I’ve been harbouring a wish to become a VO artist, aided by the ability to imitate voices, which I realised along the way, was not something everybody can do. I took pride in imitating voices in small groups- mostly my comfort zones. Even one step out of the comfort zones would land my foot in my mouth. Not literally, but it was enough to stunt my progress beyond level one in multiple RJ auditions, voice tests for production houses and auditions for stand-up comedy shows. Each time, the auditioners would be nastily patient (just doing their job!) and give me feedback- “You need energy, dude. What you are saying is all cool, but you lack energy.”

I did not hear that for sometime. I think it is because I went on to do other things and did average but satisfactory work in them. Months later, it has come back. Now, the word has changed. It is ‘punch’ now. Well-meaningly and encouragingly put in- “Hari, punch nahi aa raha hai.”

Another thing that despairs me no end is the inadvertent pronounciation of syllables which let out the cat and announce that I come from the south of India. It is not that I am ashamed of being a south-indian. In fact, I am quite proud of it. It is just that it sounds disgusting to my own ears, to hear a character suddenly turning into the caricature of a south-Indian in a Bollywood film. Wonder how much it would poke others. For eq. Imagine Sherlock Holmes saying, “Elementary, my dear Watson. Now, let’s dring up the tea and do some investigation.”

Ears that would gleefully point out phonetic errors, have now, stopped reacting to mistakes adding to this irritation. It scares me that I’ll carry this on and ruin chances of aa shining career as a voice artist.

There is another thing that pleases me and pulls me down equally. I can do a clear male voice that could go well with footage of a Nat Geo documentary show. What is wrong is that it has now become a favourite and every other voice I do is adulterated with this voice. The result is that how many ever voices I do, they sound sinisterly similar to each other- the same rate, the same pitch and the same ‘fade out’ in the end.

I feel a strange desperation. Helplessness. How do I do this? What do I need to do? Talk more? Hit the gym for the energy? Get drunk to let go of my inhibitions, whatever they are? Have more fun? Read the newspaper aloud? What new style do I try? How? What about the accent? How do I work on it? Will I ever be cured of it? Can I be conscious of what I’m saying and how I’m saying it? Will this ever end? Will I do better as a voice artist? Will I be a voice artist at all, or is this energy level be best for a newspaper sub editor?

I need a game plan. Badly. Suggestions welcome.

Reality murder shows

All of us would agree that Television has become a part of the Indian culture. Housewives time household chores according to the relay time of their favourite soap operas. There used to be a time when a whole neighbourhood would throng to one particular house – most probably the only one in the locality to own a television set – to watch Mahabharat. Children ape their cartoon characters. A neighbour of mine- a few years older than me, broke his right arm trying to swing on a thread, trying to be ‘our friendly neighbourhood spidey’. Women rush to garment shops to invest in a saree exactly like the one a woman wore in a particular serial.

The point is – television affects us. They way we think. They way we react to situations. The way we spend, on what we spend too, thanks to advertising. And the way we talk.

Thanks to the success of the Indian Idol, ‘inspired by American Idol, Kerala has been at the receiving end of an endless string of reality shows. So much so that, people who have earlier worked on family dramas and other stories find themselves suddenly jobless. They should have seen it coming, such are trends! Scriptwriters, producers and a lot many production and post-production artists find themselves at the mercy of talent hunt shows. To name a few- Star Singer on Asianet, which is doing well, is popular and is watched not only in Kerala but all over India as well as overseas.

Then there is another show called Gandharva Sangeetam on a competing channel, which seems to be cutting production costs by compromising on sets, lights and show anchor. Star Wars, is yet another music show but with a twist- it’s a war between colleges. All three of the above are shows to find the best singing voice.
Taka Dhimi, again on Asianet aims at finding the best dancer.

What bothers me about these shows is the quality of content. The ‘content’ that I mention here includes everything that the viewer sees as the final product- everything from where the anchor starts talking to the credits. It also includes the judges’ comments.

The judges that are brought to judge the talent of the young artists are all experienced and have made their bones in their respective industry. Using that as an excuse of speaking broken, incomplete English is sheer shamelessness. We understand if you cannot speak the language properly, you can speak in the language you are most comfortable in, but to mouth English only to appear sophisticated is a cause of irritation for many.

Mistakes are allowed when performing or giving a verdict live. Television shows are pre-recorded, edited, spliced together with music and glitz and then relayed on to the box. There is a chance to rectify what wrong has been done. Either it is the laziness or failure to differentiate between the right and the wrong.

Imagine a playback singer of many years commenting on an artist’s performance. “You sang beautifully, but expression in the song was a lot of lacking.”

What a way to encourage young artists! Is that what parents want their children to hear and emulate? Doesn’t anyone think it wrong that these children would go on to do private MBA courses and corrupt the corporate world and society at large with “What you doing?” and “Where you going?”

The biggies must understand what they are saying. They must act more responsibly. Care must be taken to stop and re-shoot what has gone wrong. It will not mar the dignity of the judge to admit the wrong, apologise for it and continue with the comment nonchalantly, candidly.

One of the three judges on Taka Dhimi is Lakshmi Gopalasami, a Telugu actress who has also acted in Malayalam films. When she talks, one feels like getting an involuntary tour of South India. Gopalaswami talks in English, Tamil, Kannada, Tamil and Telugu and Malayalam- all at once. However, one cannot be rude about it, considering the effort she is taking to learn the languages that are not native to her.

Star Singer, by far has been impressive throughout. Ranjini Haridas- a former miss Kerala, is a good anchor, even though Wikipedia.com says that she has mispronounced Malayalam words now and then.

As I write this, I keep thinking of one statement that hit me. Recently, the judge for the college talent hunt show Star Wars was a famous film choreographer. She had just seen the performance of a group that performed fairly well. When asked to comment on it, the judge picked up the microphone and said, “All of you were good, but you need to be more perfection.”

i put off the lights

when i don’t need ‘em.

that doesn’t mean

i ain’t online all night.

i use mugs of water

to bathe and to wash

my arse.

i don’t have a bicycle,

let alone a car – to hose.

my family flushes the loo

with water left from laundry.

i guess am good.

i don’t smoke,

i drink only water,

cold drinks are fine by me,

tea and coffee is cool.

i am not fussy.

i guess am good.

i use sheets of paper twice

both sides.

i can recycle paper.

i hate what plastic does.

i love animals.

i hate the big cats’

going away.

i guess am good.

i am good to people.

i hate to lie.

i love to smile.

i like laughing.

i guess am good.

i don’t cheat

on my girl,

i have only one girl,

i am loyal to her.

i believe in her.

i don’t sleep with other girls.

i don’t mind going slow,

cos there’s no hurry,

no one’s leaving.

i am glad.

i don’t sleep with sluts.

i guess am good.

Love for reading DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to advent of exams

I love reading. More so when the final university exams begin on the 7^th day from today. I am sitting up on my bed staring at my notes. From the corner of my right eye, I see my mom standing at the kitchen door, acting as if she’s looking at the calendar on the wall behind me. Who is she kidding? Muahahaha.

My breathing eases as I see her go back to talk to the stove. I think of what is going to be there for lunch. I think what I’m going to get my girlfriend for our first anniversary. I hear my neighbour’s door shut. Then their scooter starts. May be the’s going to the market. I finished reading Pillars of the Earth last. Ken Follett’s wonderful work. It must be used as a texbook of creative writing. After it, I had picked up the Fountainhead. I look around, trying to remember where I had kept it after my last reading session.

I see it ogling at me from atop the TV, as if singing, “Come on baby, light my fire.” I look in the direction of the kitchen. Mum ain’t lookin’. Surely one or two pages won’t hurt. I reach for it.

Angel: What are you doing?

Me: (shrugs) Huh? What?!

Angel: You’ve got exams coming up!

Me: Wow, are you a mom too?

Angel: Oh no, I’m only a figment of your imagination.

Me: (Yawn) At least try to convince me with some originality! That line is from Ratatouille!

Angel: Oh, so you saw it recently?

Me: You bet! Yesterday night. Along with Memoirs of a geisha. Off with you now!

(Waves his hand across the air, trying to hit the angel.)

Mom comes in.

Mom: Whom were you talking to? Phone rang?

She looks behind me to see what I am hiding from her.

Mom: What are you hiding? Show me.

She sees the big paperback and looks into my eyes. I brace myself. I know the lyrics by heart. It’s all about how I already lost a year and how I had to undergo four years of BMM, when the course itself is only three years. I hate this part. It sucks off whatever little wish/ will there is to study for the exams. I mean, wasn’t I going to go back to my notes after only2-3 pages of the book? Okay, may be five. So what? I know my exams are coming up! Damn! It’s like being in a Pepsodent ad!

Mom’s saying something. It’s strange. I hear everything she says, still I don’t hear anything. I drop the book where I found it. “Sorry Fountain, later ok?”

I begin staring at the notes again. It says something about the Press Control of India being defunct. It calls it a toothless tiger. Hey! Isn’t that aapro Ball Thokre?

Do you have the Balls in you?

Once upon a time in a place called Hamarshastra, there lived many peace-loving people. But there cannot be all goodness around. There has to be some badness around so people would know what goodness exactly is, see?

Ya, so this vacuum for badness was filled in by the Thokre clan. The patriarch of the family, Chendu Thokre used to work in a British-run newspaper as a peon. The Englishmen had named him Ball Thokre, because of his rotund shape. But as soon as the British bid adieu to the Indian soil, Ball changed his name to Chendu, which would still mean the same thing but was nevertheless in his own language.

Now, the Thokres had got their surname from the fact that they loved to visit infamous red light areas. Anyone familiar with the Mumbai lingo would understand the connection between rolling in the hay and ‘thok’re.

What was special about the clan was its unique naming ceremony. As opposed to popular belief that traditional Indians shy away from open talks about sexual intercourse, this family named its offsprings according to the sexual tendencies and fetishes that they developed. To perpetuate this, the young nameless children would be allowed to do whatever they wished to do.

So once, Ball and his youngest son went to Cum-Hatti-pura to check out some new flesh. Since Ball wanted the young one to have his own unique experience, he left him alone with 5-6 people willing to entertain him and himself knocked on the doors of middle-aged damn-sells.

Ball couldn’t sustain himself for much time. He was done quickly. After all, how much could a toothless tiger hunt? He paid his due and peeped into his son’s enclosure and to his amazement, saw the young one diving in and out of his entertainers, like Jonty Rhodes would do on many a cricket field, many years later. And thus, Ball’s youngest son came to be known as U-dive Thokre!

U-dive had a cousin. A child born to his uncle out of wedlock, generally a subject of taboo to the rest of the Indian community, but a matter of pride for the Thokre clan. This chap was a few years younger to U-dive but was smart. He looked handsome, was a more prolific speaker and was known to motivate people at a very young age. But what worried Ball was that this chap was yet to be named.

So one night, Ball peeped into the guy’s bedroom and was immediately glad that he had decided to peep. He saw the guy jerking off into a jar through a hole in the lid, the hole snug enough to simulate a sexual encounter. There! The guy had a name. Jar! Someone who made sweet love to a jar should be called just that. Jar Thokre.

Jar is just born and thinks he can take on the world. Too bad. Tch tch.

Toy joy

I keep revisiting my childhood every now and then. My classmates tell me I should’ve been in the kindergarten. Not that they think I am that dumb, I hope. Frankly, I myself would prefer a kindergarten class. But my school won’t take me back. The principal thinks I am too pervert and could elope with the class teacher who was apparently my junior in school!

I had toys of many kinds. No no, not those white candle-like things lined up on the stalls at Flora Fountain market! I speak of real toys as in the khilauna from the film khilauna. Real toys that people play with…when they are kids of course! Ya so, I had these Lego blocks with which one can build all kinds of things and even the ‘bunglow’ that the cover talks about. It has a story behind it, connected to it. It seems I was down with measles and was coming back from a shot in my buttocks when I pointed at this thing in the glass case of a toyshop and my dad got it for me, not wanting to deny the wishes of his ill son probably because I got almost all of the stuff I played with when I fell ill!

Many of those tiny building bricks, I chewed away into oblivion. The remnant, debris I would like to call it, were given away to a charity cum nursery school in the neighbourhood. But as luck would have it, we feel in the sudden need for the blocks again and the school having grown rich with donation funds and other moneys, I was left nowhere, marooned alone in a heartless land where no one could lend me their building blocks even for a day! Boo hoo!

So there I was, looking up the shelves of toyshops and asking them if they have that kind of games in stock anymore. May be advanced versions, costlier of course, but the same kind. I had this mental picture of them thanks to my taste buds.

Two shops were utter disappointments. I asked to see an apple, they got me a watermelon! Bah! But I wouldn’t let go of it that easily. I just had to have it. My building blocks.

The third shop. I tell them what I want. They go inside, turn shelves like those goons do in Don, the older one and get an armful of game sets coated with a thin cake of dusty. As he reaches me, the guy plunks a heavy duster onto the topmost set sending me rubbing my eyes and sneezing like I had just sniffed some snuff.

When my head was back onto my shoulders, I looked through the pile. No, this one I saw there. Damn. Ok, not this. Oh…naah, too much for this little. And then…there it was!

My building blocks! The cove said, Baby Play Town- For creative and imaginative building play. Thinking of ginger, I reached out to touch it. It wasn’t born out of wishful thinking. It really was there!

I lifted the lid. There they were. Chintu. All small. All coloured, multi-coloured. Three set of wheel, a few doors and windows. I called out to mom to come and see my blocks. Amma…I said. Ew, would I cry? Did I cry? I don’t know. But I paid, got out and walked back home happier, much happier than I had left home for it. I got my building blocks. I was happy. Perhaps happier than a kid would be to have those tiny little building blocks.

A sopping ishtory

Girlie took me shopping today. I thought I would look up stuff for myself while she was getting quality threads for herself, but as it turned out…Bandra’s Link Road only had bales and spools for the fairer sex. Hence, here I was in a shop that deals exclusively in women’s fancy western wear like many other shops in our island city.

Over-powered by the urge to sit, I posted myself on a chair, which actually turned out to be a vantage point from where I could just see things, as they were heppening oh, happening.

A huge punjabun rolled in with her two daughters – both past marriageable age, but still in dainty frills. They seemed to be looking for something, their eyes flying all over the shop like flying saucers in the Praire skies. The elder daughter was saying that she had liked something that she had seen here earlier and couldn’t remember what it was and couldn’t sight it now. They buzzed behind the stool I was perched on, even as I saw the shopkeeper look mouth wide upon as big as a yawning hippopotamus’ look at the India SA match. The younger one was prying into a pile of clothes a little away but soon cam prancing by holding something smaller than the half of a normal-sized dupatta and almost as sheer. “Mumma…mummy.” Probably taking her selection to the Home Fashion Inspector and moral conduct supervisor for approval. The elder one was still looking for that something. The mother, now concerned that her daughter had fallen victim to some obsessive compulsive shopping disorder tried to help by saying, “You saw here?” (Kindly note that ‘here’ sounded more like ‘hey-err’ the Punjabi way of saying ‘here’. I would love to attend a fun fay-err in Punjab!)

Other wannabe participants from ghoulish beauty pageants sashayed in and out all the time that I was seated on that stool. They wanted this and that and the salesmen were patiently tugging at the products from the shelves behind them and spreading them onto the table in front of the customers who looked and pointed more at the shelf rather than checking out what the salesman had laid out for them! “Woh dikhaana, woh…nahi nahi…uske upar waala, haan wahi.” Lips pouted, eyes prowling, some ruminating chewing gum.

Enthusiastic shopping partners had their arms akimbo with an eyebrow stuck up at the North Pole…”Ya, this one’s better (giggle) that one made you look a little fat.”

Suddenly another sound invaded the air. “Mera black sweater uske paas kaise aaya?” Madam, who identical piece hai.

A team of huge ladies was on their way out. They thought it was funny to mutter allowed that the cricket-loving shopkeeper was growing kanjoos because he wouldn’t give them a discount. One of them was floating a desire to gain tips to hide fat, when another one said, “Jo chhupaane ki koshish karte ho, who hamesha dikh jaata hai. Well, that’s one wise quip that even applies to real life and not just to extra tyres around the tummy.

And then there was this forty-something aunty who was trying a noodle-strap top over her spotless white shirt. She poked both her arms throw the gaping holes for the arms, drew the material over her head, thrust her breasts in front, almost poking the mirror. (Shit, why can’t she use the trial-room?) Finally when the top was in place, she started checking herself out in the mirror as if posing for retro-style photographs the first one with her chin up, then chin down, then to the left and then to the right. All of them straight out of a primary school PT exercise drill.

Bird watching is otherwise such a pleasurable activity. But this was different. It felt like being stranded in a I^st class ladies compartment! It’s like being inside a library of bestsellers. There’s so much of it together, in one place that you don’t know which one to read first. Saturation point?

Girlie, who initially thought it very uncouth of me not to help her make her decisions about the jeans, has decided that she would take me shopping again apparently because I patiently waited through the entire selection and trial process without major fuss.

In all, it was a great experience (THE right way to end essays according to English subject teachers in school).

Twinkle twinkle little star

Ishan Awasthi is a dude. He knows how to have fun. He doesn’t mind dipping into the gutter and fishing out ugly Guppy babies. He loves to play Superman with his head sticking out of the front window of the upper deck of a double-decker BEST.

He is the kid in every one of us. The atom that wants to get out and explore, that wants to feel free, wants to fly but fears what the world will think. The kid is trapped within the grown-up, in the pincushion of the adult’s apprehensions, his prejudices, and the pictures in his head.

Left to his own, he’s a happy soul, painting pictures of his dreams and with nothing to worry about.

He is not scared. He pumps his fist in a “Yes” when thrown out of class, moonwalks in the corridor, feeds his exam papers to the dogs and also cleans their ears for free!

Wouldn’t all of us want to be a little destructive when really pissed at something? Little Inu does exactly what Jim Carrey says about impulses in the Living Colour, “Why can’t I just stick my fingers into that table fan?” or “Hey, there’s Jerry. What if I just kick him in his balls and say hi instead of shaking his hand?”

Ishan couldn’t stand the sight of cute, dainty, neat, potted plants at the door of his enemy. He makes them look un-cute, un-dainty, un-neat and non-potty.

It is important to have fun in whatever one does. I don’t know who said it but I go it from a professor in college. He says there’s nothing more important in life than having fun.

The idea of ‘fun’ is also so very subjective. It can’t be copied like trigonometric calculations or complex chemical processes from a book to a journal. It is not the same for everyone. One needs to ask the baccha inside what it is actually seeking- his/her idea of fun.

Aamir Khan surely had lots of fun making the film. And it shows. (His kids must’ve loved it.) The otherwise reclusive personality is so much in touch with the child that it is tough not to crack up at his antics.

Whether truth or fiction, the potshot at Abhishek Bachchan was hilarious!

I don’t know intricate details of the feud between Amole and Aamir but I’m glad Aamir potted the clay into a shining taara.

P.S: The post-film visit to the loo revealed quite a few damp eyes and sniffles.

On the path of self-actualisation

I had lost a very valuable part of my attitude. One of the few things I shared with my former classmates is a generous amount of something that would generally be termed as a ‘lackadaisical attitude’; so much so that, all of these classmates were labelled into a group called ‘Chaltaye’ in my yahoo chat list.

SSR has been quite effective in moulding this ‘Chaltaye’ attitude, his train of thought being that one must let nothing affect one’s mood, creative process et al, that there’s nothing more important to grow while having fun, not to let anything bother you. It is but a totally tangent story that he himself would get irked by too much of ‘chaltaye’.

I was a big believer of this theory. I would seldom get angry. It wasn’t like salt in my curries like it is now. Not that I wouldn’t sulk then. Now, sulking is like breakfast, a routine that I must do for the poor sun to set in the west. My mood swings could easily conquer any lady’s monthly 3,4-day depressions. Generally, a verbal tiff with someone who means the world to me would mean that my day has gone for a toss, nothing would go right then onwards and I would be data-transferred from whatever mood I’m in at that moment to Sulkland. I turn into that 35-year old grump Facebook said I am. ‘Have fun’ adieus sound like curses. When in a crowd, I suddenly duck to avoid meeting recognizable faces, who, I’m sure would stop to ask me the customary queries of what I’m doing nowadays and how come I’m still in my last year of graduation etc. And the number of taxis that want to run me down on such days! My my!

Today was different. We had had an exchange of simmering words in the morning. Even as I hung up abruptly, I was thinking what would become of my day. Would all the effort from the day and the previous one go into the crushed aluminium foil of sulk sulk?

But it didn’t! Today was one of my most memorable days in college. It was Bazaar Day and the theme was ‘South India.’ Despite the confusion between medu wada and batata wada, everything was just perfect. Elephants and kathakali dancers in place, cutouts of course. Others had got leaf decorations and plantain leaves. A pookalam was designed with flowers. We were selling idlis, wadas and rasam. And…we won it! We bagged the first prize for the stall, first for the decorations and stood second in the food section. And how we squealed and rejoiced and hugged and danced when we won! And I had just had the time of my life, dancing away, getting people to buy our items- ‘kaanvaasing’ I called it…all of this while dressed in perfect ethnic costume.

So I guess, ‘chaltaye’ is back or am I sulking right now? I just want it to stay, now that it is here and help me mend things that have gone wrong and go on and be that happy ‘chaltaye’ Hari I used to be, for I care and I love. Her.

'Redding karte hain'

A hairy Hari Chakyar gains a very valuable gender reality experience at the barbershop

I got a haircut today, a close-to-the-scalp-cut that most people would associate with Akshay Khanna. Not that it is much of a deal, but the whole experience came with another free experience. Towards the end of the trimming process, realization struck. All the effort women take to look good and the pain they undergo suddenly dawned upon me.

The haircut was done, but I wasn’t satisfied. I could see jagged ends and unfinished poky cuticles sticking out here and there. I told the razor-wielder to shave ‘em off, so the new haircut would look less like a shaved moth. He dutifully whipped out his razor, but after a few miniscule strokes here and there, he said, “Redding karte hain.”

It was incomprehensible…I did not get what he said and impulsively responded, “ain?” “Dhaaga chalate hain,” he said. *A moonbeam suddenly made its way to earth* “Ah, he means threading,” I thought.

“Hey, wait a second, ain’t that what girls get done to their eyebrows just in time for a function or boyfriend-meeting ceremony?” *Head whirls*

By the time my pea-sized brain had reached this point of thought, the barber had a spool of string in his hand, like glass-dipped maanja. He held one bit of the thread between his teeth and held two other parts in his two hands and went at the remaining hairs.

The thread made a trayon trayon trayon trayon sound as it went as I held my eyes shut tight and cringed and cursed myself as to why I had to put on my spectacles and catch those errant strands, when I could have just avoided this painful humiliation! I seem to have this kinky fixation for pain, but this was ridiculous!

I bet there weren’t as many hairs there on my cheekbone and on my temple as that guy made them out to be! When wielding the all-powerful thread he just went berserk, ‘redding’ imaginary hair while I said “yeow yeow” and thought to myself, “F***, this hurts!”

But the end result is kinda good, so I think the effort was worth it. Precisely why I think women go for it. What the heck, it looks good! Don’t get me wrong; for I say this only in jest…I think now I’m a little more aware and sensitive about women’s issues!

Piggy on the railway, gone to commit suicide

Resilient and compliant that I am, like all my fellow pigs, it has been quite a few years that we’ve adapted ourselves to the perennial no-power situation. We have been convinced that there’s acute shortage of power in the state and that we would have to part with power for a considerable number of hours every day, so that our richer brethren in the city can relish their afternoon siesta peacefully in their air-conditioned bedrooms.

As for us- pigs, we don’t really mind not having electricity in our homes for anything between six and nine hours. Our television sets have become showpieces and we’ve been busy trying to find things to do when blessed with the lovely power cuts.

Recently heard, there are going to be power cuts in the New Bombay region too, which had somehow managed to hide behind the CIDCO building, when they were making the erratic timetable to fatefully deprive the Central suburbs of power.

Wasn’t that region supposed to be the next region to be ultra-developed after areas like Andheri? Weren’t major business and service industry offices planning to move base from the present congested Mumbai town to Vashi and Nerul? How then will those regions undergo power cuts?

I think I know how. Don’t label me as cynical. All of us have risen to a level higher than that and have attained something called nirvana of patience.

Look at this, the way I look at this. They continue with their plan of moving their offices to New Bombay, Indian Express and Loksatta being one of them. But then, they’ll meet the power cuts. But they are not flustered by it. The state will have a solution. “Central suburbs are only subjected to six hours of power cuts,” the state would say, “They still have eighteen hours of power, we can borrow some more.” Thus, the little what we have now will go on to ‘save the world’. Oh and then they’ll have explanations. ‘You know there used to be this power-source that recently shutdown and the others are all being renovated and will be ready within 2 months.’ And all that.

But then the suburbs will be given incentives to take up small scale industries like candle making and production of storable biogas made out of human excreta. The candles will keep us people busy all day and give us light at night. The rest of the time, we’ll be asleep, so we will not need any light. Hey, cardboard covers of notebooks are great to swish swash for breezes. And the candles, if smoothly made, can be used to make excellent dildoes. But then, they’ll have to be really strong or else, they’ll break inside the orifices and cause trouble later. Imagine the ecstasy of making love in candlelight after a candle light dinner! Perfect, ain’t it?

And the biogas fuel is the best incentive ever. It seems it is the second best energy-efficient fuel after LPG. Sure drives the point home that we are actually gaonwaalas. Shit and make gas out of it. Did I mention we are pigs?