Respecting the woman

Mothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends, teachers, goddesses and many more of such incarnations. The woman is celebrated by her dimensions and should be revered and respected for what she is.

Certain things that I hear and see around me make me wonder if the urban man respects his woman anymore. Off late, I have heard stories of how someone in a great position, made good use of his hunky looks and swishing personality to ‘devour’ “many” of the female species. It seems he had not spared any woman colleague of his- he had either made illicit advances towards them, or had them kicked out because they expressed dislike to his ways. To cite a particular incident, he was caught lying down under the chair of a woman wearing short skirts. I wonder how these souls can sleep in peace?

A colleague of mine, Peter (name changed to protect the chastity of my blog) urgently needs to be shifted to an asylum. Or a zoo. His head touches St. Peter’s beard and his nose chokes with the clouds that our staff photographer recently caught hovering over Flora Fountain. He is a bellow full of air and needs to be pierced with a pin, ASAP.

Women are playthings for him. I have had people I know, come to me and say this guy recently proposed marriage to them and claimed to be very serious about the idea. This, when he hasn’t even met them in person! Desperate asshole! That’s just what someone called him today.

There’s an extent to which you use expletives. Which sane woman would ever tolerate a “You fucking bitch!” from anyone on this planet? He shouted that to a girl today, someone whom, he calls his girlfriend. Not in private, not one to one, but in full public view. He then asserts on how someone who has given one a job must be ‘respected’.

I wish ‘respect’ could be bought. I would buy a truckload of it, roll it into a dildo and gift it to him on his next birthday.

I don’t see him going anywhere up the ladder. He just cannot. He’s too caught up in reframing public opinion to suit his current needs. He’s the most severe case of attention seeking syndrome I have ever met in my life. Anything, for a little limelight! And the one who can’t talk sense to people deserves no respect. None.

Big mess

Beings residing in the Central suburbs – Dombivli and beyond, are not people. They are pigs. Lower animals. They don’t need water. They don’t need electricity. They manage with whatever they have. The shameless species. Give them shit any shit and they’ll take it. They don’t complain, they don’t fret. Don’t give them electricity for days and they won’t make a sound. Cut their water supply and they’ll walk miles to get a potful of the nectar, but won’t fuss. Compromise.

Make their trains stop at one place for two hours- they sit in one place, waiting patiently for it to chug on, the way Gandhiji said?

Cancel the train and they’ll only mutter unparliamentary words under their breath. That’s all. There are no questions to be asked. “Why cancelled?” Oh, like there’s going to be a satisfactory answer to it! Duh!

I happen to know what the answer is going to be. ‘technical difficulty’. Snag it seems, snag where, no one knows. It ends there. Snag they say and the pigs go “ho, hum, what to do?”

Big mess. When is it going to be about time to put a full stop to this complacency? When will people in the suburbs get a voice? When will they become people and be treated like people? And when they will, will there be more late-night candle-light vigils like in Rang De Basanti? Will people march on the road saying ‘Revolution’ like in that sanitary napkin advertisement?

This reminds me, a father pig, his wife, a son and a daughter were at their dining table. Needless to say, being pigs, crap was their staple diet. The excited son happened to say, “You know, what? Last night, I saw a dead rat on the road!”

The father immediately chided him. He said, “Sonny, how many times have I told you not to talk dirty things while having food?”

This is it. May be talking about what is going on is blasphemy. Let it be. I just can’t take it anymore. The under breath is about to grow louder. Its getting angrier each day. A revolution will come. Soon.

Linguistic inclinations

The process of learning a new language is tough. It means registering the new word and how it sounds together in separate folders, for easy access later. There are different pronunciations to take care of. There are words that sound similar but are like milk and citric acid. Some words can be replaced by alternatives, while others just have to be used in specific places. Quite some words sound crude but actually mean something cute.

The secret to learning a new language is easy. Just when you are learning a new word, link it up with something that sounds similar or sounds similar (even remotely similar will do). Connecting the words with images in the head (my goodness! Marshall Mc Luhan’s theory of media understanding!) will help a great deal, the only qualm there being that ruminating the word anytime in future would mean taking a two-step jump, from the word to the picture and from there to the pre-registered word.

Where to start? From the alphabets or with words? I decided to do it with daily usages. I decided to learn it from saying aloud, common usages such as “How are you?” and “Where have you been?” which in non-chaste English would go something like, “Long time, no see.”

The look on someone’s face when they hear you talk their language – priceless! The effort is just worth taking. To surprise them with their own language, when they do not expect you to even comprehend what they are talking, feels squirmy in my tummy.

But for the regularity! I told my tutor to teach my five fresh words everyday. And she’s teaching me for free! No fees! Hmph, and no regularity.

I’m learning two languages together. One is Sindhi- a native language of Sindh (now a province in Pakistan). The other language is cornily, filmily and too commonly called love. I’m proud to say that I’m a student of love, learning from mistakes, listening, registering, thinking, caring, a little US-Iraq and making space for each other to – literally and not quite so too, to make each other feel comfortable and cosy to fall together into the depth of the language.

Fuss

I can feel my stomach being devoured by the cramps. My face shows no signs of it- it smiles normally but the eyes can’t hide the agony inside. They are cold. I am sweating all over. I can feel the sweat traverse down my legs, through the wisps of hair. All I want now is a place to sit, to kill the nauseous feel. The brunch that I just had is threatening to throw up. My head reels and I shut my eyes tight to stop seeing things go round and round.

The train compartment is crowded. The vacation crowd is in – travelling with noisy bunches of kids and irritating new mobile phones (read, with extra super-sonic speakers for the whole train). Two little girls, in their early teens remember Allah as the train stops for want of proper signals. They want to know were each one of their neighbours want to get down, so they could maneuver their way to the window seat.

This is probably their first visit to the city. I stand, holding my patience together, tight between my molars. It is beyond Thane, about time that those sitting, relieve the ones who stand. A tiny finger pokes my waist. I open my eyes and look back, I can feel them burning.

“Aapko kahaan utarna hai?”

“Kyun?” I ask.

No answer.

I can see pairs of eyes dart towards me, scornful of my curt reply. Like I care.

I continue with my trance.

I stand close to the window, holding on to the luggage rack. I need it to keep myself standing upright. I tell myself I cannot let myself go on like this. I must eat like I used to. This is killing me. My stomach never groaned as badly.

The finger pokes again. I don’t look back. It pokes again. I look back in slow motion, I fear my head will fall down if I jerk it back.

“Thoda bajoo hato, hawa nahi aa raha hai”

Pat. “Darwaze ke yahaan jaake khade raho, acchha hawa aayega.”

I am amused. Bourgeois demands indeed. Frills of comfort.
One more poke and the bomb will explode. No idea what I’ll do but the kids will surely be scared.

Just then, the couple at the window seat in front of me, get up. They have to get down at the next station. My insides heave a sigh of relief. I feel older, weaker than the two decades that I am. I let my head rest sideways on the headboard. The sun pierces into my thigh through my jeans. A bottle of water stuck into the grille occasionally drips water onto the thigh, bringing a welcome peace. I am bored, bugged. I hate to be this ill. Enough.

Introducing…my baby

I am glad I told her what I feel about her. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. As I write this, I’m missing her. But I’m sure I’ll hear her voice again, in less than twelve hours.

Where I work, I am supposed to fill pages of a newspaper with news stories that have to interest readers to make them buy the paper. If there are not enough news stories to fill the page, and there is space enough, we use a photo-caption ( a photograph with high news value, clicked by the staff photographers, fortified with an apt caption).

Here’s a photo-caption very dear to me.

Caption: Hari’s girlfriend caught in a retro mood as she tries on a friend’s glares at a recent visit to a nearby water resort.
Pic: IRAH RAYKAHC

Ande ka funda?

I had a very strange colleague. Too bad that she stopped coming a few days after I joined!

She looked every bit a foreigner, but had an Indian name. At first glance, I decided that she was some tourist who had dropped in to say hello to our boss. However, it didn’t take me much time to realize that she was more Indian than me! but that’s another story.

In the six years that she had been in the country, she had mastered the Hindi language to the extent that she could grab even the crudest of ‘Bambaiya’ slang. She admitted that even Marathi was comprehensible to her now.

Shantaram’s feat no longer amazes me.

Something that she told me before the day she stopped coming has left a bookmark in my head and I find myself going back to it, every now and then.

I have been brought up in a vegetarian family, which considers consumption of meat, eggs and alcohol a taboo. However, having studied in a school run by Goan Catholic priests, my palate has grown used to having slice cakes and doughnuts (obviously not egg-less), distributed on special days. Now, I do not miss chances to gorge on cakes, egg or no egg.

Recently, at a do in office, there was a huge cake with oodles of chocolate cream on it. I waited for my chance (acting patient) but didn’t think twice before helping myself to a second helping.

Soon after, my colleague, herself a vegetarian, asked me:

That cake had eggs in it right?

Yes, I said, knowing what she was driving at.

But you are a vegetarian.

Yes.

But you had it anyways?

Yes.

But that’s cheating!

I caught her stare. They were hazel-green/gray in colour and crystal clear, making the stare look ominous and stark naked. A split second later, I feigned being busy with something and let her exclamation fade out in the air-conditioner’s humming drone.

Now I ponder, if I am a vegetarian, I shouldn’t be eating cakes fortified with eggs. I am cheating indeed! If I’m an ‘eggetarian’, I should be eating other egg products too, which I don’t. and I’m definitely not ‘non-vegetarian’ since I do not eat meat or fishes.

Isn’t it only human to indulge in a craving? (Do we really need a foodie to understand that?)

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!