good AFTERNOON

So, I think, I am finally a Sub Editor. (‘Think’ because, I am yet to be told how much I’ll take home every month) My first full-fledged job, this not only sounds good, but also feels good

My office is bang opposite the lanes of Flora Fountain, where newly released paperbacks can be acquired for measly sums. I have to reach office at three in the Afternoon and leave in the night and reach home amidst an entourage of barking dogs. I try not to show them that I am scared, but I think they are smart enough to gauge my stiffness.

It used to come naturally. May be it comes from the habit of looking out for mistakes in signboards and hoardings. My father would always point out such mistakes and we would together scoff at them. I see that he has started this with my sister now- he keeps pointing fingers at typo errors in newspapers and challenges her to spot the mistake. A spoilsport that she is makes wry excuses to wriggle out of these impromptu ‘home-works’.

I sit in front of a Windows 2000 computer with the games option in it manually deactivated. And it has no Internet connection. To my left, at a distance of 2-3 metres hangs a laminated picture of a smiling Behram Contractor, better known as busybee. From where I sit, it seems as if busybee is looking at me!

The people in the office are cool. The reporters are young and enterprising. The photographers are talented and talk less. The page makers are experts and fun to be with. The boss is trendy and intelligent. Oh and the receptionist says “Good Afternoon” after me every day and tops it up with a smile.

Here, I let the bitch in me come and crib about what I do not like in the place. The place rocks all right. But it urgently needs a canteen- a place to provide us with coffee or tea or snacks to keep hunger pangs at bay. Oh and I wish the boss would pay a little more attention to the content. I wonder if it hurts the late Mr. Contractor to see juvenile mistakes in the paper that he painstakingly founded and edited long ago.

When I told my father that I had an interview call from Afternoon, he said, “Oh, Afternoon Despatch and Courier?”

The place needs a little more scope for recreation. I don’t ask for a pool table or a swimming pool. But we can have tiny games on our computers? Or a few more tables in the ‘canteen’?

Well, today I discovered that the page-makers’ room has awesome speakers to catch some music. The AC there is turned on high. So you can also catch some cold there! (sniffle).

Long drives…

I thought highly of myself as someone who loved Ambarnath immensely. I still love the place for its smell, for its people, for the sounds, for all the greenery that makes a complete home. People argue that it is far off from where the ‘sights’ are and from the place that the money is. I agree, but I choose to be stubborn in this case. I will not mind travelling for two hours to get to those ‘rich’ places till Ambarnath ceases to be such a beautiful place. Such a time, I fervently hope, shall never come.

I thought I was Ambarnath’s greatest fan – a self-congratulation in mirth. But a friend who came to meet me recently pulled me down to ground level. Travelling for fun with a break from racking his brains at BITS Pilani, he had come to Ambarnath after 6 long years, a place where he had spent half of his school days. He then had to shift school, after his father’s demise.

After a brief lunch at my place, we set out to smell the air that he had smelt before he left. We walked to the place where his building used to be. He sensed something and stood stiff on the road a few hundred metres away. I sensed his uneasiness as he panned his eyes across a swank, new complex that has now replaced his home. We walk towards it silently. Rickshaws croak by, mercilessly. At the entrance of the building, we see a uniformed guard coming towards us. He waved his lathi in an irritated gesture. My friend caught his eye and I stood by, bemused. The watchman had stopped glaring and was smiling. They shook hands. My friend asked him if he recognized him. The watchman said he remembered the face but had forgotten his name. The mild wetness stood testimony to the gentle reunion. The watchman says “Jao ghum ke ao.” We walk the place with him explaining things to me, pointing out places were they would play cricket and pointing to a high wall, which he had to painfully climb to retrieve lost rubber balls. I don’t say anything; just looking on, not want to break his trance.

We then walk along a tarred road, talking about our memories in school. We brought out the tiffin stories.

We come to a set of old wooden cottages, in ruins now. Barbed wire fences and iron gates with rusty locks guard the houses that look like the official residence of a forest ranger! They were guesthouses of the DMC (Dharamsi Morarji Chemicals), my friend informs me. A few dogs bark fiercely as we step into the private area. I am scared, armed with the premonition that all dogs are my enemies and want to bite me. My friend tells me, there is nothing to worry. Seriously, his confidence amazes me. That old place looks so genuinely eerie that it will put any RGV set to shame. He scoffs as I tell him that.

We walk out to the main road. He keeps asking me if I am getting bored of this tour. I tell him that I am enjoying every moment of it. He probably thinks I am just being polite.

He tells me he wants to tour Ambarnath in a rickshaw. I think he’s kidding. Not fazed by my response or the lack of it, he walks over to a rickshaw wallah and states his wish. He makes a face and declines straight. Then as we approach another driver, this man, probably overpowered by the idea of quick hefty cash hails us back. He says it will cost a hundred and fifty rupees. My friend agrees. I let my jaw drop to whatever level it wants to. I just cannot imagine anyone paying for a tour of Ambarnath! The reality sunk in and became a grin on my face as the journey began.

We let the rickshaw halt near our school. My friend wanted to go into the school. But he just stood outside and looked at the classrooms where we had sat together, years ago. We walked towards the playground. We laughed at the fun we had during the PT periods. We would be let off onto the ground to play football. Halfway through the game, we would be exhausted and rest on the wall of the cemetery nearby, looking at the graves and poking fun at the ones who were too spooked to join us on the wall. I asked him if he remembered where we used to urinate and pointed out to the foliage behind the goalpost. On an impulse, we jumped out together and did just what we used to do during those days.

Life in a hostel had caught up with him and he was on his fourth cigarette by now. He asks me if I abused smoke or drinks. I declined, said I had tried but had quit.

The tour that lasted for two long hours spanned my friend’s life as a school kid to a teenager who lost his father early. He took me to places in Ambarnath I had never seen before. He pointed out to old rooftops he had climbed as a child, helping his father lay cable TV connections. He visits his aunt’s place and comes back misty eyed. He seems much more quieter now. He lets me into it. His aunt cried as soon as he appeared before her. She had recognized him through all these years. He was touched.

He drops me at the station and heads off to meet a few other relatives. He will soon catch the train to Mumbai, to meet friends he made in his college. But then he’ll carry with him memories- some sweet, some tender and bitter. A vision of a house that is no longer there, of a childhood that is gone in the narrow gullies of Kohojgaon in Ambarnath west.

My friend, my classmate from kindergarten to class seven did me lot of good by visiting me. He gave me an insight into the place that I now love much more. And then, he gave me my best auto rickshaw ride ever!

Atissue atissue

On the top of the list of things that I detest the most, is the cold. The common cold. Now, there are two types of the ailment. A cold and accompanying fever is a great excuse not to go to school/ work/ college project work and calls for sympathetic “tch “tch”s. Everyone loves a good cold like this- a much deserved break.

The other kind of cold is the one that afflicts me twice a year and decides to stick to me like a mushy Valentine! Bah! This is the kind of bug that wreaks havoc in my system, just when I am gearing up my vocal chords for some ‘important work’. Here I am, all set to audition for a radio jockey position and “atissue atissue” goes the signal of hartal. Damn, my system is on strike, man! Oh, these bugs just served me a notice. It sounds something like those railway announcements “Aapke nasdeeki lungs mein kucch zaroori abhyantriki karya jaari hone ke kaaran, aapki sound box facility kucch der ke liye raddh kar di gayi hai”. The railways at least express their deep/high regret for the inconvenience caused. These pests are shameless, no notice only, dhinkra!

Whatever I speak, comes out with a nasal twang. (Oh Gawd, please leave that Himesh guy out of this.) My nostrils laced with Zandu balm, clogged with something like Joker gum feels like a Virar-bound train reaching Andheri at seven in the evening. My throat is no better. It sounds like Raza Murad with a dozen cacti shoved down his mouth.

Dad says a little kanakasavam (a vile-looking Ayurvedic concoction) will help release the cough. Mom suggests the sweet Homoeopathic sugar balls. “Oh, and don’t forget to inhale some steam,” adds dad. So now, I have Zandu balm on my chest, forehead, inside my nostrils as I sit with a blanket over my head over a steaming pot of water. Though I like the sweet medicine, I told mom that I better take the black potion that dad suggested. (Psst. the fact that I saw ‘11% alcohol’ on its label has got noting to do with this.)

As for now, “Ids dime for by dext sdeam sezzun, cya.”

I wander through the linked lanes on a photo-sharing website, reading the images put up, pondering over the captions. Some are quotes from books, some, random thoughts. Others describe the situation the photograph was made in.

How I long to capture things that I see and find wonderful. I know I can write about them and paint my very own picture in words, but it still would not match the effect produced by a photograph. (Yeah yea, hot medium. Mc Luhan, I won’t forget you ever, I guess.)

One I picture that I have been carrying in my head for over 3 years now, is a circle of addicts squatting around a tiny fire, sniffing and inhaling narcotics. My mind reads out the caption loudly in my head every time I see them, just opposite Lower Parel railway station, just beneath the ticket booking window. The caption reads- ‘Two makes a duo, three make a joint’.

HE alone knows when I’ll get an eye for myself- an eye that would help me click and keep the clicks forever- to show people what I saw, a picture and not a necklace sentence strung together by beautiful words as beads.

For heaven’s sake, stop forwarding mails like these. “really god made this a miracle” it seems! UGH!! The guy/gal/eunuch who made this must’ve been really bored then. And the person who started this mail must be castrated with immediate effect and sent to travel alone, without shoes in Virar fast on a Monday evening.

Why the wedding ring should put on the fourth finger?

Thumb represents parents – oh!
Second finger represents brothers & sisters – hum ho, ok.
Center finger represents own self – ha ha.
Fourth finger represents your partner – oh!
Last finger represents your children – teeny weeny mynah moe?
Really interesting – bah!

Pls follow the below step, really god ma d e this a miracle (this is from a Chinese excerpt)

Firstly, show your palm, center finger bend and put together back to back
Secondly, the rest 4 fingers tips to tips
Games begin, follow the below arrangement, 5 finger but only 1 pair can split.

Try to open your thumb, the thumb represents parents, it can be open because all human does go thru sick and dead. Which are our parents will leave us one day
Please close up your thumb, then open your second finger, the finger represent brothers and sisters, they do have their own family which is too they will leave us too
Now close up your second finger, open up your little finger, this represent your children. Sooner or later they too will leave us for they got they own living to live
Nevertheless, close up your little finger, try to open your fourth finger which we put our wedding ring; you will be surprise to find that it cannot be open at all. Because it represent husband and wife, this whole life you will be attach to each other

Real love will stick together ever and forever.

I WONDER WHAT THIS MEANS NOW!!!

Ctrl + z

There are times when “shit” happens. Sometimes it is a small “shit” that escapes between clenched teeth and more often it is a “shit” resembling an open-mouthed guffaw accompanied by a rumble in the guts. It is followed by general sense of helplessness with a sincere wish- “I wish I could just undo that!”

Instances are many. Sometimes you bite your tongue simultaneously wishing you hadn’t said what you just said. “Oops”- a sheepish acknowledgement to a silly release finds its place here. But no amount of apology would work here. The harm is done. The tongue, a sword, has claimed a wound. If only it could be undone! Just a concurrent feather touch on ctrl and z, lo and behold, you have nothing to worry about!

Failed examinations, tiffs with loved ones, broken ties, shorn hair, sambar spilt on shirt just before a presentation- ctrl + z. Poof! It’s undone.

Naah, not to happen. Ever. Not unless man’s desire to create the time machine comes true. I think the origin of my current state of mind can be rooted back to the Bhagwad Gita (Gita saar, for the colloquially informed). I believe it says something on the same lines as ‘one must accept the consequences for one’s actions- be them good or bad.’

It just can’t be undone like in the sci-fi films.

As you sow, so shall you reap.

I wonder what’s with the new philosophical tryst in my style of writing. “Accept it, you are a big bore, Hari!”

Whim Bar

(A plain Sunday morning. I am bunking the Rotaract meeting and sitting home to make better use of my time. However, the excuses that I made just not to be there are passe’ and flimsy!)

Sathya Saran’s piece in the relatively new coffee table booklet- Me, gave me the boarding pass to a new train of thought. Saran talks about finding a book in a fair in Delhi. The piece is not about the book. It is the mysterious origin and future of the book.

She found a note inside the book, which said “the book had been registered at a site called bookcrossing.com, and once I was done with it, could I please go to the site and make a journal entry.”

A unique way to keep a track on books and the various experiences it has, a testimony to the kinds of people and the various purposes they use books for, this site brings back the idea of a ‘message in a bottle’ and SOS messages from the Swiss family Robinson.

Exciting indeed! I ventured into the site and I am exploring it now. There’s also another site called phototag.com, which, on a whim, gives out a fully loaded camera, marked with a return address, to friends or strangers to click one picture and pass it on. The last one to click must then turn it back to the address indicated in the camera, which is nothing but the American Postal Department! The website, then posts these images on the site, a visual testimony to the journey of the camera.

I happened to meet Anita and Michael Norman, an English tourist couple under peculiar circumstances on Ambarnath station. They were returning from a week in a Matheran and were flying back to England the next day. They were stuck at our humble station, thanks to a burning train in Ulhasnagar and a riotous situation. They were travelling on a whim that they will see at least half of the world before they bite the dust. Michael, who is turning sixty this year and wife Anita had already seen been to Thailand, Japan, Russia and other places. “This is surely going to be a memorable visit as this is the first time we’ve got held up”, giggles Anita.

Man, just the thought of it makes me smile. Weird ideas these goras get. Wonder what they eat. (Chuckle!) Now, my train of thought. What do we do, that can be at a comparable level with such eccentricities that give tremendous adrenaline kick? Just for the heck of it?

What is the craziest thing I did ever? Drop in suddenly at a friend’s place to surprise her? Mimicking stand up comedians in a crowded train? That’s it?

What is the best prank that I played on someone, till date? An April fool’s day letter to friends, apparently from their coaching classes, stating that they’ve been rusticated from their classes and that they would not get a refund of fees! LOL. Ok, done.

Hari did not no what point to make until now. Now he thinks he can, though he doesn’t know why the drastic change. The point here is, HARI, GET A LIFE!

I happen to know that a bungee jump will be a great kick. Does someone know where I can indulge in one?

It is a year now that I started writing on my weblog. What started as a silent companion, a ear to my qualms is now a partner in crime. It is not something anymore. Emotionalballies is a someone now. He hears me out patiently. He doesn’t kid when I am talking serious things. Not that I mind, but still, not a word is spoken while I pour myself out to him. Not that he talks to me after I am done. Just that he helps me sort out things for myself. Am I right? Am I wrong? Am I on track? Etcetera.

2006 was a year full of experiences. It started with the weirdest of them all. It went on to pleasant ones and more painful ones. Love hit and love flop. Last year told me what rejection feels like. I got my mobile phone last year. People called me names. I got a dream internship. I got dropped out of college. I found I could imitate one more voice. I lost friendship but gained brownie points later.

Not that I have nothing more to write, but I have to go. I am sleepy. It is past 2 30 in the morning. There’s a lot to think about and write about. All I need to do is frame them in a presentable way so it is easy to figure things out.

Hail weblogs!

:| :| :|

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?