The curious case of the missing houseguest

(This story was originally published on Readomania on March 20, 2015)

“Have you found him yet?” yelled Raghu from the kitchen.

Kunal lazed languidly, semi-asleep on the couch, as he dipped his hand into a large box of peanuts placed strategically on top of his stomach, spilling a few on the sofa. His mind was contemplating whether it was worth the effort involved in disturbing his relaxed position to pick up the T.V. remote or to let things as they were. Status quo is such bliss, he told himself, as he pushed the remnant peanut skins on his t-shirt into nooks and corners of the sofa that Raghu wouldn’t be able to find easily, hence reducing the net anger in the apartment.

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I carry your heart, in my heart

(This story was originally published on Readomania on February 20, 2015)

She was born in the beautiful port town of Yazhpanam (Jaffna, for the anglicized). The year was 1968, and Jaffna was a buzzing beehive of activity in those years, second only to Colombo.

Her grandmother Jayaragini christened her Nayanarani, for she had beautiful eyes and a smile that could melt the hardest of stones. Nayana’s mother had no say in the decision, for she died at childbirth, as if she knew of the fate about to befall her six children, and had the strength not to witness it.

To read more, click here.

If I had to do it all over again...

MBA bashing is the only constant in an otherwise changing world. Every year, I read at least one article with over a hundred thousand likes and ten thousand shares (just guesstimating, like a typical MBA), that lynches the mad MBA race, with the author going on to regret having spent time and money on a management degree.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I always was the kind that couldn’t make up my mind. Sometimes, it was music, sometimes writing. Some other times, it was history, only I never wanted to sit around excavating remains of 14th century Ming dynasty. Biology? Couldn’t draw to save my life, so the whole medicine business was out of the window. Look at me, calling medicine a business!

I wanted to specialize in languages, particularly English literature. It was promptly vetoed by my super-conservative-we-will-go-to-US-for-PhD family. So, I was left with little choice but to generalize rather than sit and code on Java and J2EE and .Net (I know those names, I am a ‘specialist’ Computer Science Engineer). 

I don’t remember much of my MBA. I think it had some vague terms like Black Scholes, law of diminishing returns, marginal utility, MBTI etc. But, I made a lot of very intelligent friends there whose brains I pick now (for free) to learn the answer to life, the Universe and everything (which apparently is not 42). And, somewhere down the line, I started liking being this generalist-nobody who doesn’t commit to specialist things, but just brings things together and packages them well for the market. 

So, what’s the harm? Some of us, perhaps many of us spend a good decade or two of our lives as confused souls with no knowledge of what we want to do and hence end up being generalists. And a few of us, after having got into specializations, are worried sick that we will become obsolete. And, consciously move towards the general with a management degree in hand.

The MBA is actually a consequence of our confusion, not cause for our confused careers. The MBA is a consequence of our risk aversion, not cause for our incapability to do innovative things. So, before bashing and blaming an inconsequential degree (for that’s what the "bashers" believe it to be), let us take a minute to reflect whether two inconsequential years can really wreck our lives so much that we will spend the rest of our lives writing about “If I had to do it all over again”.

The tip

(This story was originally published on Writer's Ezine on February 2, 2015)

Kiran Shah had a 2 p.m. appointment at the beauty parlor, her regular round-the-corner neighborhood jaunt. She arrived promptly at2.30 p.m. in a chauffeur driven Honda Accord, and barged into the parlor calling out for Sheetal, her regular beautician. 

Pure Beauty Salon, Powai was used to Kiran, her loud voice, flamboyance, penchant for “punctuality” and, most of all, her memory. For, Kiran had the memory no woman would vie for, the memory of a goldfish.

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Depressed Christmas Tree, ignored by selfiers, attempts suicide

(This article was originally published on My Faking News on January 14, 2015)

A large Christmas Tree in High Street Phoenix, one of the most high end and crowded malls in Mumbai, seems to have attempted suicide, in a bizarre incident late last night.

The Tree had been installed a week before Christmas, with colorful decorative balls and a shimmer of golden light glowing through a wire across its body. It was this wire that the Tree apparently used to strangulate itself, in what is touted to be the strangest case of attempted suicide in the city so far.

To read more, click here.

A walk into the millennium

(This article was originally published on Readomania on December 26, 2014)

It was the 29^th of December 1999. Rohan Khatri was ecstatic as he stood in the line to board the flight to India, departing from FortWorth International Airport in Dallas. He was going home.  A place he had been waiting to get back to for over two years. A place where he would be fed endless rounds of Makki Di Roti with Sarson Da Saag tirelessly prepared by his loving mother. A place where he could stay under his SuperMan quilt well into mid-morning, enjoying the caressing Delhi winters rushing through his soul. More importantly, he was going back to Smita, whose tearful face as she saw him off to the US was etched in his memory. Even with tears in her eyes, the shy smile she gave him as she wished him luck had made her seem the most beautiful woman ever.

To read more, click here.

Mumbai tenant, inspired by Interstellar, decides to shift galaxies after being contacted by “Them”

(This article was originally published on My Faking News on December 17, 2014)

A Mumbai tenant, who spent many months of his year and many thousands of rupees on broker commission, in identifying the optimally balanced house in terms of rent, distance from train stations and size, has finally decided to take the plunge and build a spaceship that will propel him to Marsbai.

Marsbai, as he has decided to christen the new planet in the Coffee Bay galaxy, has actually been given him by “Them”, he claims, while referring to the citizens of Marsbai.

To read more, click here.

Sushma Swaraj to be appointed External Faith Minister

(This article was originally published on My Faking News on November 27, 2014)

Given our traveling PM Narendra Modi’s latest ambition to exceed former President Pratibha Patil’s international airmiles and hotel club points, there has been unrest in the original Hindutva brigade, or whatever little remains of it.

While Sushmaji is the official External Affairs Minister, she was recently refused a seat on the flight to Australia, so as to make space for the PM’s Bhagavad Gita presents to Tony Abbott’s security personnel. 

To read more, click here.

Down a Goan shoreline

It was a mid-summer evening, darkness almost approaching, on a desolate stretch of a Goan beach. A lone dog howled in the distance. 5 of us walked along the shore, in no particular order, with no particular goal in mind. Our duties for the year were fulfilled, the MBA (rather, the PGDM) was done and dusted, a job was in hand, and a 2 month vacation beckoned. 

That didn’t stop us from dreaming, nothing ever could stop us from dreaming those days. Because, passion, we had oomphs of it, passion to argue loudly, to fit the world into idealistic frameworks, to aspire for the big, to make a real difference to ourselves. Because, we believed that we weren’t people who went behind the regular Joe’s regular job, that we could truly well awaken our inner selves.

That evening was no different. I don’t remember the idea too clearly today, but it had something to do with collaborating on a book. Yogesh and I were really kicked about it, and the other three, perhaps knowing truly well that these were idle dreams, encouraged us enthusiastically, carefully avoiding any commitment to the collaboration. 

The evening came to an end, in a shack filled with random music, much laughter, silly banter, many a photograph and hearts full of happiness. 

The trip came to an end too, and so did that vacation, our last vacation. 

We moved on to our jobs, one job after another, one year after another – the rut that we had thought belonged to the regular Joe. Because each of us were deigned to be that regular Joe.

The book never happened, collaboration a long distance dream. It has been over six and a half years since that day. More than half a decade.

Yogesh reminded me today, of our “failure”, when I was attempting a wisecrack on Chetan Bhagat’s books. “Who are you, to make fun of that enterprising gentleman, a gentleman who doesn’t care about his detractors and their criticisms, and is at his job of creating a new reading order?”, was the tone of his comment.

I cannot deny him the pleasure, or lack thereof, of my answer. I am a tired regular Joe, who would give up much to go back to that evening, an evening where possibilities abounded, opportunities were innumerable, and the mind was ready to kick down the barriers of a boring, templatized life. I would give up much to go back to having that heart that didn’t know, that didn’t know that passion, if not nurtured, would get washed away by this evil flood called every day life.

When Arbit Arnab meets Revolutionary Bhagat and Tsunami Gandhi

Ornob: The question is in the public domain. Tell me, Mr. Bhagat, who is this half girlfriend?

CB: It is a regular story of a boy from a regular IIT who...

Ornob: No, Mr. Bhagat. Let me finish. How can you call a girl half?

CB: I understand. But, it all started in a small town, when a boy had a dream, of making it big in IIT and... 

Ornob: Mr. Bhagat, Mr. Bhagat. The nation wants to know. Is this even correct usage of English? Is this what we have waited all these years to hear from you?

CB: The discussion was never about English. It was never about halves. It is about a simple boy, who decides he will go to IIT to win this girl he knew from his KG days and marry her someday. It is a story of aspirations, of goals beyond comprehension. It is the coming of age…

Ornob: Mr. Bhagat. Let me finish. What you are trying to do here is justify your actions. The nation does not want your justifications. By calling her the half girlfriend, what are you trying to suggest? What message does this give to the Indian boy? The guy who waits for your book all year long, what does he take away from this? How are you going to explain this? You owe the nation an answer.

CB: India is a force that is moving towards big things. We have Mangalyaan in orbit today. We have MOM. Is there a power greater than MOM? That is why, the protagonist, this young boy, the man with hopes of building a career in science, writes the JEE...

RaGa: I have always believed in the true strength of escape velocity. I have spoken about the power of India, women empowerment, tsunami speeds and the strength of Mom. Finally, India has woken up to these truths. It is a true tryst with destiny...

Ornob: Mr. Gandhi. We are NOT discussing your Mom. You have some explaining to do here. Explain right now why you have not spoken about the Mangalyaan mission yet to the media. Do you believe, I repeat, do you believe, do you, truly and sincerely believe, that this Mangalyaan mission would have happened had you been Prime Minister? Tell us now, Mr. Gandhi. What explanation do you have for this?

RaGa: We are a super power, we are a secular force. We have always achieved the best. India is hurtling at a very great speed with no speed breakers. Our days of the banana republic are over. The system needs to be changed. The system of...

CB: In the end, we will have a revolution. The revolution will take us beyond 2020. In that millennium, there will be many more IITs and many more young men, with love in their hearts, and IIT in their brains...

Ornob: Gentlemen, gentlemen. This is not a discussion. This is chaos. You have still not answered what the nation wants to know. The nation does not have the time to listen to your ramblings. The nation, the nation...

RaGa: Rahul Gandhi is not a person. Rahul Gandhi is a movement, a movement of many different revolutions. Anyone can write about a revolution. But, who can lead a revolution? India should think now. My grandfather died, and I cried. My grandmother died, and I howled...

Ornob: Mr. Gandhi, we are SICK of listening to your “death”ly stories. We do not have time for your dramatics. I will not tolerate such behavior on this show, this show that millions of billions of zillions of people watch to get answers to important questions on Deepika's cleavage.

CB: Think about that middle class boy, that boy who does not understand cleavage, and is craving to know more. This is who the real India is, the India I reach out to, the India that is steeped in social media. My real competition is not Jeffrey Archer, but WhatsApp and Facebook and Instagram.

Ornob: Allow me to complete what the nation wants to hear.

RaGa: India is orbiting towards Mars. We will acquire Mars.

CB: India is a revolution.

Ornob: LET ME SPEAK. THIS IS MY SHOW. And, that’s all we have for tonight on NewsHour. Send in your comments and we will publish them on page 1 along with a full length photo of some actress’ cleavage. As to which actress that will be, wait for tomorrow’s edition.

Many a discussion on the boobs and the girl

I haven’t seen this latest controversial picture of Deepika Padukone’s cleavage. But, my curiosity to review her boobs has hardly been upped by the controversy, given I have seen those being generously flaunted in many a movie and magazine photo shoot. Also, you know, I do know how cleavage looks. So, not interested. No.

But, not seeing the pic hasn’t spared me the horror of Deepika’s outrage tweet and the follow up tweets by her Bollywood brethren. “Appalled”, says Karan Johar. Respect, brave girl, go girl etc. are some of the keywords used in tweets by other eminent professionals like Priyanka Chopra, Anushka Sharma and Huma Querishi, not necessarily in that order. And, some of our distinguished newspapers (not ToI) have pulled these tweets together and made multiple news articles off the combination. So, I am fully informed and all that. Yes.

But, outrages over what politicians say and what the media publishes are so yesterday. This week is outrage over the outrage week. She is an actor, for heaven’s sake. It is her bloody job to flaunt her physical assets, cleavage included. She does it in so many movies and item songs and advertisements and… So, how can she have a problem with ToI surreptitiously clicking pictures of her cleavage and flashing those for the benefit of well-informed Twitterati? Also, wasn’t that the week her movie Finding Fanny released? These actors na, they will do anything to promote their movies. Moreover, when we don’t have a problem with SRK’s (chemically induced) six-pack and Aamir Khan’s (apparently built from hard work) eight-pack, why are we making noise about DP’s two-pack?

Is there something ridiculously wrong with these arguments? I believe there is. Because joining the outrage over outrage bandwagon is so passé. Also, because I am mildly pissed off.

Her boobs are shown in movies that she consented to work in. Assuming that her boobs are free to be photographed by any TDH and flashed anywhere, and that she should sit back silently because she is an actor is akin to thinking there is nothing wrong in raping a prostitute (a wise comment made by the wise Nivi).

On that note, SRK’s and Aamir Khan’s multi-pack photographs are from movies. It isn’t even logical to compare the two situations.

Also, even if it is true that this was a publicity stunt her PR team pulled off as part of the Finding Fanny publicity, why are we all cheapening ourselves by outraging over her outrage? Doesn’t that mean we are all endorsing what ToI did i.e., click a picture of a personal spot in stealth, and upload it on Twitter almost a year later.

If we are never going to give benefit of doubt to anyone, because of the way he/she dresses or because of his/her career, wouldn’t we all end up speaking like some of our politicians someday, that rapes are political conspiracies and women have an equal role to play in a rape?

Well, all that apart, I hear side boob is the new cleavage. ToI, when and where is the next photo shoot?

Where art thou?

Normalcy, normalcy, where art thou?

Right by you, in the aisle seat on your row.

Normalcy, normalcy, is that common?

There is no definition for me, often.

Normalcy, normalcy, but I want peace

One man’s peace is another’s grief.

Normalcy, normalcy, I seek thou in vain.

Seek me forever and nothing you shalt gain

Normalcy, normalcy, but I need you by my side

I am by you, always by you child.

Seek me not, in pursuit of an end,

Seek me not, wanting to amend,

Actions set, to a wheel of motion,

For those are done, those are frozen.

You will sense me, when you lie down,

Take a deep breath and lose that frown,

With a book in hand, love on your mind

You will forget to cry, and smile unconfined.

Of gals and girls

I was reading about the etymology of ‘gal’ earlier today, not because I was jobless, but because I have always been irked by the distortion of that simple word ‘girl’ to ‘gal’ by young and old alike. 

It is surprising that there are at least a hundred thousand others around the world who share this concern and rant about it incessantly online. But, this isn’t a rant post, so am moving on to what I found.

1. An online etymology dictionary states that gal is slang for girl, commonly perceived to be Cockney vulgarism.
2. The Wiktionary claims that gal refers to an adolescent girl or a young woman.
3. The Wikisaurus, while calling the word colloquial and dated, says that woman is an antonym of gal!
4. The Urban Dictionary, the mecca of those new world mutations such as selfies and titties, defines gal as referring to bird, bitch, slut, hoe, girl, woman, pussy, lady and even sex! But, the same dictionary also wants to redeem itself by giving a new twist to the word with this definition – an awesome person who was well-known in her city before leaving for an exotic place – whatever that means!
5. Random online forums, where many random people say random things, thanks to internet, mobile apps and that unquantifiable luxury called freedom of speech, claim the following:
• Men used to refer to their secretaries as gals and their girlfriends as girls
• Men called their lady friends as gals, just like how they called their male friends as pals
• Gal was used as a substitute to that very derogatory word, bitch
• Gals and chicks can be used interchangeably

No matter where I go, I can see nothing but an ugly reference to the word, save Wiktionary and Wikisaurus. Why still do we put up with this word? Is it to make ourselves look cool? 

But, I am no one to ask this question, for, I am part of a google group that carries the word in its name. The only saving grace is that it is a very dormant group, and so, I do not contribute too much to the sin of using ‘gal’.

Then again, I am also part of a group that carries horny in its name. And it isn’t a dormant group. The only saving grace there is that I am not able to find any conceivable sin in using the word ‘horny’.

The Jungle

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

The tiger and the lion, they hunt the live,

Vultures and hyenas, on the dead they thrive,

Night and day, they merge into one,

Territories are sacred, and breached at every turn.

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

The fruits and the roots, abound around,

The flowers they bloom, on trees and on ground,

The rain god smiles, every once in a while,

The leaves they rustle, never do they die.

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

Where secrets die soon, truths never win

Where man and beast, alike they sin,

I sing with joy, and I dance away,

For fear maketh courage, and courage lets me play.

Wouldn't it be loverly!

This poem is based on this lovely song from my all-time favorite musical, My Fair Lady; I was humming it in my head as I wrote this out, so the poem might sound better against that music than stand-alone.

All I want is a brownie warm,

Reveling in this brewing storm,

A large couch by the balcony,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Lots of pakoras and hot bhajji

With a steaming cup of spicy tea

Evenings with samosa and chutney,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Pitter, patter of the raindrops high,

Hot chocolate and hot apple pie,

Arm full of books and heart full of glee,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Aww, so loverly resting my head on my cushion without a care,

I would never budge till the sun crept through the windows to stare.

All I want is a brownie warm,

Reveling in this brewing storm,

A large couch by the balcony,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Loverly… loverly… loverly…

The Game

“Lucky fellow!” we holler, when we want to congratulate a guy who has landed a beautiful wife.

“You need to be lucky to get through that exam,” we say, in morbid self-doubt, when we haven’t performed as well as we should have in a competitive test. 

Whenever something goes wrong, attempting to camouflage our own short-comings, we cry out “Shucks! Rotten luck!” 

Luck is our one word explanation for all things good that happen to others, and all things bad that happen to us. 

My dad was a great believer in the concept of luck. Perhaps, it gave him the confidence to win. He believed his lucky number was 8, a number shunned by the uber-sensitive, luck-driven industry he did business in. At production releases, he always picked up stocks labelled 8, or adding up to 8, because no one clamoured for those anyway, and he could get away without having to put up with a long wait. As I write this, I wonder whether he truly believed in lucky number eight, or was just being crafty. 

I used to believe in luck as a kid. I had my own lucky color, lucky dress, and, most importantly, lucky pen. I also had an unlucky pen that I didn’t have the heart to throw away. I would use it for writing my name on entry forms in art competitions, which, given my artistic prowess, I had no hopes of winning even if Fortuna were to take control of my soul. And, in case you are wondering, I participated in them only because they were “away” competitions with half a day off from school. 

I still believe in luck. That is, I believe in the concept of an external entity helping me win. It could be a shirt or a suit or a pen or a piece of accessory. But, that belief seems to have waned over the years. I don’t feel the same charge of energy and confidence when walking into an important meeting in my luckiest shirt as I used to, walking into an examination carrying my luckiest pen.

Perhaps, this is what growing old means. We believe less and less in Utopia, the world of the magic wand, the skies with the flying carpets and the genie granting us wishes. We lean more towards rationale, logic, the inevitable end, and the moribund years of life. We wonder whether luck really exists, for, it is just plain, unadulterated chance that we are sitting here playing this game of life. We refuse to accept that the Universe might have conspired to do us a good turn.

We play at life like it is a game. We fight tooth and nail to live another day, if not literally, at least figuratively. Every time someone wins, we say they are lucky. And, we get a little more despondent, pondering over our ill-luck. Every time we win, we become even more despondent. For, our self-benchmark just went up. 

In the Game of Thrones, you either win or you die. There is no middle path. 

In the Game of Life, we just trudge on. If we win, we trudge on. If we lose, we trudge on. The trudging on is worse than death, for we are anticipating loss at every turn. 

For, we no longer trust that the Universe is looking out for us, that something worthwhile might come out of all this after all, by hook or by crook, or some luck from the nook.

Mud castles

“All of us ate mud as kids,” she declared with gusto, while narrating a story from her mud-loving childhood. He stared at her incredulously as if she had landed from outer space. Without batting an eyelid, she said, “You must have been a boring grown-up even as a kid”.

It was difficult to ignore her – the constant chattering, the confident laughter, the electrifying presence.

While he feigned annoyance at her occasional juvenility, it took all his self-control to not reach across and pull her close to him with a tight embrace and a long and deep kiss on her lips, especially when she was giving one of her “I-will-convince-you-to-look-at-this-situation-positively” speeches.

“This is an office”, he reminded himself to control his emotions.

Passion, just like curiosity, works in strange ways though. It is most active when you try to suppress it. 

And so it did with him. Some days, sitting next to her for lunch was torture. The occasional brush of the hand as food exchanged places, the nudges she gave him when she wanted him to concentrate on something she was saying, the glint in her eyes when she thought they were sharing a private joke, all seemed to be a sign from the Universe. On such days, every moment in office was like walking on a bed of nettles.

But, she was not just all chirpiness and innocence. She seemed to him that quintessential “woman of substance” he had read about in novels by Pulitzer Prize winning feminist authors. She could wax eloquent on existential dilemmas and women’s liberation, while standing up and fighting for what she believed was right, no matter the age or position of the person she was pitted against. And, she had strong opinions on love and marriage, and men’s advances towards women, which stopped him from any overture. He was happier with the occasional brushes of today than with not even a glimpse of her from tomorrow.

However, this evening was turning out to be particularly difficult. They were traveling on work and had to work from a hotel room late into the night. Nothing else could have been more conducive, or perhaps, more heart-wrenching, than this.

The night rushed past, as the deadline loomed over them. There wasn’t time to stand and stare or sit and think, perhaps. 

At 11.45 pm, she excused herself to the bathroom, while he sat there, lost in thought. And then some fantasies. He was wondering whether she had just hinted subtly to him to follow her into the room. He wasn’t able to make up his mind. The clock ticked 11.55 pm and there was still no sign of her. Maybe she was waiting for him, while he was making a fool of himself sitting here like the gentleman he wasn’t.

At 11.59 pm, he made up his mind. Come what may, this was the night. He got up. Just then, the lights went off, and the room plunged in darkness.

As the clock struck twelve, he heard her familiar voice singing “Happy birthday”. His heart brimmed with happiness, as he searched for her. So, she was his special girl after all and this was going to be his most special birthday thus far.

And, then he heard another, more familiar voice, singing “Happy birthday”. The lights turned on, and his wife hugged him.

Amber and I

Amber came into my life in 2007. She brought a whiff of freshness into my mundane, sometimes pointless, and occasionally depressed existence. She brought with her a world of possibilities, a world that I had just about given up on. 

Amber was a beautiful girl. She wasn’t exactly a slender maiden, not a beauty was she in the conventional sense. Rather, she was a confluence of apple and pear and everything dear. She was a spirit of excitement, but also of tranquil elegance.

The very day I met her, I knew I couldn’t have her forever. Folks like Amber are so, constantly reminding one of the transience of life. Yet I held on to her like I would my life, treasured her presence and guarded her jealously. After all, she was my most prized and priceless possession then. 

But, our precious relationship did come to an end eventually. All good things do end after all. While I tried to prolong her time with me by hook and by crook, a day came when she was no more, when her overpowering presence didn’t fill my life anymore. 

Well, life moves on, and so did mine, without Amber and her crispness. There came others, more exotic and acclaimed than Amber, but none lingered on the way she did in my life.

With time, Amber faded from memory, so much so that I forgot her name and her very significant presence in my life. Till last week that is, a thousand miles away from where I first met her. And then too, I didn’t realize for a long time, till I passed her and the fragrance lingered on. 

I picked two of her this time, just to be on the safe side.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to recollect to this day who introduced Amber to me. Life would have been much simpler and I would have ensured a steady stock through the years, of ‘Sensual Amber’, my first and most favorite perfume.

The ironies of our judgments

Sheila Dikshit has been sworn in as Governor of Kerala today. Sheila, who waxed eloquent about how women shouldn’t venture out on the roads of Delhi alone in the evenings and then crib about lack of safety; Sheila, who is purported to have amassed quite a bit of money in the run up to the Common Wealth Games. We can forget what she is accused of because a Governor hardly matters.

A. Raja has won a ticket to contest the LS elections from Tamil Nadu as of yesterday. Raja, who spent many a month in jail over a billion dollar telecom scam; Raja, who has been a DMK loyalist and “sacrificed” his precious months of livelihood for the sake of his party. We can ignore why he spent some time in jail, because one possible MP can’t harm us much.

Amma has been nursing PM ambitions for a while now. Amma, who brought Chennai to a halt with a serious law and order issue in the 90s, when she conducted her adopted (now estranged) son’s wedding; Amma, who is defending herself in a “disproportionate assets” case in court. We might not even remember what she did because that was so long ago and she must have been young and immature then.

Rumors of what exactly happened during Operation Blue Star float abound, while the kith and kin of the person behind it play politics, talking about empowerment, power decentralization and an RSS twist to Godse.

We really don’t bother about what happened in Muzaffarnagar a few months back, because we are still debating what exactly happened in Gujarat earlier this decade.

Who are we, as a nation? What are our morals? What do we identify with? What do we relate to? 

More importantly, what do we fight against? Is it communalism or casteism or corruption? I don’t know the answers. I don’t believe we really fight any of these things.

We like our convenience. We bribe the traffic policeman since it is cheaper and faster. We get agitated over reservations because we are losing out on well-earned opportunities. We, the educated populace of this country, who believe we are secular, don’t move into residential areas that are “Muslim strongholds”, and hesitate to enroll our kids in “Christianity propagating” convent schools.

Then, why does our secularist antenna pop up when we think of Modi or the BJP? If you think about it, the debate on secularism is absurd, because of two reasons. One, most of us are hardly secular in our actions. And, two, there is no political party out there that is truly secular, for each is busy playing up one religion against another for its own political mileage.

It only boils down to what we believe as humans, not our ideologies as a nation; ideologies that have time and again been ignored, trivialized or worse still, broken. 

I assume (and hopefully rightly so) that the only thing we can agree on is that we shouldn’t harm other humans, or give power to people who run the risk of harming other humans. In fact, I still get agitated when I think of the ethnic cleansing that happened in Sri Lanka, for that is how I think of it. But, I am sure there are Lankans who have a different view, who believe their leader isn’t at fault, and who trust that it was in everyone’s best interests to end the civil war.

I don’t know whether believing that Modi wasn’t party to the riots in Gujarat is just selective amnesia, or whether it is based on the fact that there has been no conclusive evidence to convict him. It does seem to be the latter. For, whatever else we may or may not have, we do seem to have a largely impartial judiciary that has given some unassailable, albeit very delayed judgments in the past. Then, who are we to convict him? Why do we hold him to ransom on the Gujarat riots, while ignoring many other political persona that have knowingly been party to many other riots and wrong doings in this country?

Is it because he is too Hindutva, and it is not fashionable for us to be perceived as Pro-Hindutva? Is it because he doesn’t come across as a pseud, English speaking, well educated politician with fancy degrees in economics and finance? Or, is it because we really don’t believe in the power of democracy and are scared that he might replicate the Gujarat model of riots across India, and emerge to be the Hitler of the 21st century?

Whatever the case, let’s at least apply the same framework and filters while evaluating every politician, Modi or otherwise. Otherwise, it seems to me a rather unfair assessment and biased verdict.

Free spirit, literally!

(post submitted to Indispire on IndiBlogger.in under the Offbeat & Personal -> Weird category)

I died yesterday, at my desk in office. The funeral was this morning in my home town. Yeah, it beats me too. In order to shove me into an electric crematorium, which will eject an urn of ashes two hours later (it is all very procedural these days), I don’t understand why my family had to spend tons of money flying me (rather, my body) to my hometown. Sentiments, apparently.

All I can hope is that some of my Jet miles were used for the flight. Wait, is that possible? Can one’s miles be used, on oneself, after one’s death? That’s a pertinent question.

I strangely feel very non-sentimental now, the antithesis of who I was, a sentimental, young fool, in life. It is an insane feeling, being detached, not just from the body, but from feelings and sentiments. For instance, I would have broken down in tears just at the sight of my mother being unhappy, let alone shedding buckets of tears and staring into nothingness all at the same time. Now, I just think she is making a big deal about nothing. I don’t like this new me, this robotic, unfeeling me, that doesn’t take her mom seriously.

My phone is lying there, almost about to die. No one is looking at it. Come on people. Get going. Charge it. Use it. It cost me 50K in real life.

Ok, I have spent too much time seeing all these tears. It is time to travel across to office to see whether it is business as usual there. At least, no one will be crying. One good thing about death is that you are so light you can travel with the wind and that too, at the speed of the wind. Since you don’t have a body to carry around, you don’t have to wait in long security lines at the airport or board rickety old buses to get to an aircraft, or get frustrated with the flight getting delayed due to air traffic congestion. The perks are attractive, I must say.

Office is looking morose. At least my desk is. No one seems to have occupied it, perhaps for fear of falling down dead. They haven’t even moved my laptop out of there. And, I know my company very well. They would have wanted to retrieve all the data ASAP. They seem to be taking this superstition thing seriously, huh!

There are hushed conversations at the vending machine, about how a girl died at her desk due to over-work. Come on! I wish I could speak to you guys and break that myth right now. No one dies of over-work. People only get brain hemorrhages when they work too hard and then go into comas. Are you wondering how I know that? I have been speaking to a lot of people who died yesterday and are hovering around, in hopes of catching a glimpse of their alive near and dear ones. One guy was a top neuro-surgeon in life. He died in the operation theater yesterday, presumably of over-work. He told me. I won’t get into the details now; we can have such in-depth discussions when you join us.

Ok, this has got boring. My colleagues are predictable. They are now fitting frameworks and structures to analyse possible causes of deaths of women my age so that they can publish a report on it. Get a life, guys. 

Let me potter around to some of my friends’ houses. Maybe, they would have moved on. 

No. No luck there either. Too much crying, too much depression. Real life is depressing me, man.

Let me go to some of the crematoriums to join my brethren in trying to figure out what exactly I am supposed to do now. I so hate this inaction, coupled with observing incessant criers.

I hope we can head to heaven or whatever place it is, where angels will welcome us and we can float on clouds and play Scrabble and b***h about humans.

Ah! Looks like dreams don’t die when we die.

We

We think too much.

We know what’s best for us and we don’t need other people’s advice on how to run our lives.

We know what’s best for the world, for we have answers to all of the world’s problems – governance, terrorism, economics.

We are sure-footed in our decisions, unfailing in blaming some other party for our failures.

We know that everyone else around us is dumb or hypocritical or both.

We believe we are entitled – entitled to jobs, holidays, peace of mind, respect.

We also believe we are enlightened, that we have it all sorted out, from now until death.

We think too much. Of ourselves.

The rise and...

You piggy-backed on someone else’s Lokpal movement to start a political party. I was amused.

You attracted well-educated professionals to join a sector that was up until then believed to be a gutter best avoided. I was mildly interested.

You emerged as a significant threat to the grand old parties of our country. I was proud of the Delhi electorate for having the guts to look for change. 

You became one of India’s youngest chief ministers, without dynasty support or caste allegiances. I was happy such things could happen in what some people have called a banana republic.

You forgot you are a CM who needs to handle issues with diplomacy, and instead took to the streets like a common protestor, with scant regard for the common man’s inconveniences. I was mildly irritated.

Today, you say, “What is the point of celebrating Republic Day when the women of our country aren't safe?” Now, AK, now, I am very pissed off.

You, the well-educated, highly qualified common man, should know the meaning of a Republic. You should know that it is a proud moment for the millions of Indians to celebrate all that we have achieved in the 6+ decades of our existence. You should have the maturity to be able to handle issues without making people feel guilty for celebrating what is truly ours. You, of all people, should know that celebrating our achievements doesn't equate ignoring our predicaments. 

Remember, you will not be a CM in one of the largest democracies in the world if we had decided to ignore the meaning of republic, democracy and independence.

The House of Music

As a ten year old, the architecture of the Sydney Opera House, or whatever piece of it I could view through a 21” television, fascinated me. Whoever builds a theater like that, with domes and half circles and whatever else my small mind couldn't fathom, I wondered. And that set of gigantic steps that led up to the entrance was quite sensational. I am not ashamed to admit that my heart did ache to lounge around the area, if only for a bit. If only, if only, I told myself, and promptly added it to my bucket list.

And, finally, thanks to V, it did really happen – a trip to the Sydney Opera House.

While I ambitiously attempt an all-encompassing write-up on our trip down under, I wanted to dedicate a post to my bucket list item.

The ferry cruising across the Sydney harbor does not give a very flattering view of the Opera House. It might be disappointing for someone who has always imagined the Opera House to be a huge structure, as it does look a tad smaller than that. But, you are just viewing it wrong. The view you need to look out for is not of the Opera House from the Harbor, but the other way round. The House has been built, I suppose, with the prime motive of enjoying views of the Harbor and the famed Sydney Harbor Bridge. It is so beautiful you don’t want to move out even after closing time. 

The theater, the real prime motive of the House, is breath-taking. We had the opportunity to walk into the Joan Sutherland Theater, and were quite taken in by the immensity of the hall. That is when you realize how beautifully this huge space has been packed into what, from the Harbor Bridge, looks like a small-ish structure. There is a smaller and cute hall (Juhu Prithvi-ish) that hosts performances by and for kids during the day. It doubles up as an adult theater (!) post 9 in the evening with cabaret dances and other apparently feisty shows.

Unfortunately, there were no interesting performances (the normal type) in the Opera House on the days we were in Sydney. Hence, we had to make do with a paid tour of the place. The tour was useful in that someone took us through everything and explained the finer architectural details and trivia. More importantly, the concert halls are not open to general public viewing. Hence, the tour helped us get an inner view of the theaters. On the flip side, there was a lot of what we thought were hyped up anecdotes and selling during the tour. For instance, the tour guide would stand near a particular stone and say, “You know what. This particular stone I am standing next to is where the architect of this building stood and breathed a sigh after completing the design. A replica of this is available for sale in our store. Do pick one on your way out.”

V and I spent most of the time on the tour discussing how we can garner revenue, if our tourism department were to organize such well-planned and targeted tours of the Taj Mahal (with photographs and other paraphernalia). Talking about the four minarets and their symmetry would be enough to make any foreigner (or Indian) cough up money with happiness.

The Opera House is a must visit, and the fact that it is free of charge (unless you want to take a paid tour) adds to the “must-ness”. Also, if you aren’t married yet, you may want to consider some of their beautiful halls with lawns overlooking the harbor, where you can host your reception. But, I am told the rent is obscenely high, so make sure you have the dollars with the zeroes at the right ends to make that happen. Thankfully, that was not on my bucket list, otherwise I would be oh so unmarried yet!

All in a good day's swearin'

Do you enjoy swearing? Or are you one step ahead, and have imbibed it into yourself so much that you have no control over when you swear anymore?

I am clearly the kind that enjoys swearing. It gives me immense relief and satisfaction to swear loudly when some random *** tries to cut me in from the side, on the road. It is as if I have said the worst, and now, life can move on. Also, most often than not, I am fully well in control of my swearing. So, the next time you hear me swear, and then I apologize, you know there is a 95% chance I meant to swear wholeheartedly.

What if you are of the other type? It means that you do run certain risks I have taken upon myself to alert you about.

Someone, many centuries back, drew up a “Gentleman’s code”, a copy of which I haven’t laid my hands on yet. But, the sum and substance of it says that, amongst other things a gentleman is expected to do, such as wear sharp suits and well-polished boots, he needs to not swear in front of a lady. Now, does a code like that exist for the ladies? I guess not. However, it is commonly assumed that well-bred ladies don’t swear (only if they are not Scarlett O’Hara’s kin).

While the gentleman has evolved over the ages, to the extent of brazenly banging the door on the face of the lady behind him, the unwritten rule of “apologetic swear” is still followed in many parts of the world. So, when a gentleman is in a meeting that has one or more female participants, and he has the strong urge to say “f***”, he usually says “Excuse me ladies, for my language” and then swears loudly. If he doesn't do that, he just apologizes post facto. See. It is simple. But, if the ladies decide to “f***” his life, they have the freedom to sue him for having used obscene language in front of them.

Secondly, we are all growing, if not up, at least old. That only means many of our friends are already in the middle of full-fledged family life; which also means they have kids who have recently started learning words like flower, farmhouse, foreign etc. Do our friends want us to add to their kids’ already rich and growing vocabulary? They apparently are not in favor of such a situation. So, the next time they try socializing with us, with their family in tow, we run the risk of being disowned forever if we swear loudly in front of them.

What can be done about it, you ask. One lame idea, that the good people on T.V. use in order to evade censorship, is to substitute swear words for less offensive and utterly nonsensical terms such as “frigging”, “fishing” etc. But, that’s akin to suggesting that a dark-brown oatmeal biscuit will give you as much pleasure as a chocolate chip brownie.

So, I have a better idea. Consciously bite your tongue every time you utter a swear word in public. The pain will make sure you get a handle on the swearing. And, then, save up all the swearing for your private time, so that you can let go and resume life in peace.

Kingdom of my dreams

Aye Dil Hai Mushkil Jeena Yahan, 

Zara Hat Ke Zara Bach Ke, Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan 

A typical Bombay-based non-Bollywood movie starts with this song, pans across the VT station, gives a bird’s eye view of Marine Drive and closes with the "kaali peelis". That is the city in a nutshell, at least to the awestruck tourist. 

However, as a migrant who has lived in Bombay for almost six years, my home memories of Bombay revolve, not around happening Colaba or around suburban Bandra, but around that indispensable Tam bastion of Matunga East. 

To many, Matunga East is just a land of South Indian eateries fitting a dozen or more tables and chairs in a 400 square foot space and serving endless amounts of rice, saambhaar, idli and dosa. 

A Matunga-ite would know much better than that. 

They would know about that small shop in the gully on Bhaudaji Road that sells ready-made batter for idlis and dosas. They would know about that road parallel to Bhaudaji’s where Mysore Concerns sells authentic filter coffee powder. They would know about the Chheda Stores opposite the railway station that sells every namkeen on Earth – dhoklas, khakhras, chivdas, kachoris, samosas. They would know about the veggies market near the railway station that sells the freshest yellow and red peppers and broccoli and celery. They would know about the empty, by-lane through Hindu Colony that would take one directly to Dadar station. They would know that, no matter what the hustle-bustle, the area goes quiet by 9 pm, letting one take a walk in peace through the empty, tree-filled, well-paved by-lanes of Chandavarkar Road. 

Who is this Matunga-ite, one may ask. I am not, as per traditional definitions. Then again, since living in Matunga is such an exorbitant affair, only BMW owners can dream of becoming Matunga-ites in the traditional sense.

But, the biggest beauty of Matunga lies in the fact that one doesn’t have to live there to be a Matunga-ite. Matunga is a hodgepodge of cultures, filled with Gujju aunties and Tam Brahm maamis, hep girls at Sia’s jewellery shop and traditional ladies in Milaap’s saree shop, South Indian temples and Jain Mandirs, New Yorkers’ and Madras Café. One just has to drop into this place to feel belonged, to become a Matunga-ite. 

Matunga is what I remember during Dahi Handi and Ganesh Puja, Matunga is the place I end up in during Diwali and Sankranthi. The colors vibrant, the themes changing in sync with the festivity, the lights, stars, marigolds, Krishna figurines, Ganesha idols – the sight is quite amazing. 

One may argue that only fools will frequent Matunga during the festive season, when Dadar is but a couple of kilometres away. Have you ever been to Dadar? On a normal day, it is a menagerie where bikes, cars, taxis, pedestrians, vendors and everyone else coexist both on the roads and the walk ways. Around the festive season, it is a wild forest with an uncontrollable fire that threatens to consume all that dare walk through it. If Dadar is wilderness filled with commotion, Matunga is a mature peacock carrying herself with panache through the wilds, in rain and sunshine. And that’s why one would like her better. 

So, the next time you end up in Matunga East for a bite, do sample the Khotto Idli at Mysore Café. But, also take a few minutes to walk through Bhandarkar Road up to Ruia college. You will realize that beauty and peace can exist, even amidst the crowds and the jostle.

The Living

I have never been a great expresser of grief. I can’t cry for prolonged periods of time. I can’t sit stony faced without stepping out of the house and abstain from food on death anniversaries of near and dear. I actually make it a point to conveniently ignore such days and do my regular stuff, because it is very difficult to re-live a death day year-after-year.

But, I miss the ones who are dead, the ones I was close to, and I ache for them badly, sometimes for weeks together. I miss them on random days when I crave pudalangai porichukootu and thogaiyal (tam brahm comfort food), or when I want to show off my “exemplary” driving skills, and the best driver I have ever known isn’t around to see it. 

I just deal with these deaths differently. Perhaps, I haven’t started dealing with them yet. It is much easier to push the whole “dealing with sorrow” part to the corner of my mind and move on with life. It is efficient, effective and much less painful. But, then it is prolonged. And since I am not done dealing with it and can never be, the memories come haunting back at the most unexpected of moments. 

Each of us deals with death differently. We perhaps get regular visits from the dead ones in our dreams, or fantasize that they are happy in another world. I don’t know. But, I sure know that we can never guess how every other person on this planet deals with the death of their loved one.

And, it makes me “nose-turns-bright-red” angry when someone comments on how someone else they know doesn’t seem appropriately teary eyed at that someone else’s husband’s death. How can any of us know what is appropriate? With what can we benchmark such a behavior? Shouldn’t we rather be, at some corner of our heart, thankful to the Universe that we aren’t in that situation at this point of time and proceed to let the dead, and the living, be?

Death is personal, mourning life-long. We cannot build a framework around death and try fitting everyone we know in a two-by-two.

So, the next time you want to get judgmental on how others should deal with death, just shut up. Because, you don’t know the first thing of what you are talking about. And, the world has better things to do than listen to your drivel.

Surprise me. Not.

I loved surprises as a kid. I would rummage through dad’s briefcase and mom’s handbag looking for goodies when they came back from anywhere. And while doing so, my standard greeting for them would be, “What did you get for me?” Mom used to give an exasperated, “Why don’t you just tell us what you want?” response many a time, to which my defense was, “But, I just wanted to be surprised.” 

With time, I have learnt that all I am doing with that strategy is setting people up to take an impossible-to-clear test of how well they can determine what exactly I want at a certain point in time (which could be a bright pinkish hand-bag at one time, and a demure black purse the other). For, a desired gift is always a better deal than a disappointing surprise. 

If we extrapolate that logic a little further, my biggest fear with the impending wedding has been the thought of being left with 10 crockery sets and 15 walls clocks as gifts. Yeah, I am exaggerating. There are other, bigger fears to bother about, but just so you know, this one makes it to the top 3. 

The West has sorted this issue out quite well, with the groom and bride unabashedly stating what they want, leaving friends and relatives with a restricted list of items to choose as gifts. We, on the other hand, are a society that prides in mentioning “No gifts please” in our wedding invites and then getting disappointed by the countless flower bouquets. 

Don’t take me wrong, I love flower bouquets, I so do. But, how exactly do I preserve those bouquets and decorate my faraway home with them in the middle of temple visits, and lunch invitations at relatives’ houses, and getting to know my new family, and going on my honeymoon, while also logging into the remote access to check work e-mail? 

So, with a heavy heart, and after extensive “IM”ing with V, and with his explicit approval, I thought it might be a good idea to write about that Western culture we all would so love to embrace, but stop short of, only out of embarrassment at no one having done it before. 

Mini-skirts were not in fashion at some point of time in India. Women were shy to wear them because our society would look down upon them with disdain. But, someone pioneered it alright. And, now it is a rage. So, why not Wedding Registries, I pondered. And, then, I thought I should leave you with the idea so that you can give me your express opinion, before I jump the gun with an Excel list, as I am wont to do. 

Just when things sorted out in my head, I hit roadblock one. A wedding registry is not a wish list. V and I cannot put out a list of all the furniture we want at home, because those are essentials we should ideally buy at our own pace, over time. We cannot put out a list of all the fancy gadgets that we ever aspired to own, because that would be so crass and “wishy”, not to mention obscenely expensive too. So, what? Should we just put out a list of the crockery we would like to have? Oh, well, there is a near to one probability that an invitee who doesn’t read this post will gift us crockery anyway. So, this would become double counting. 

And, then, I hit roadblock two. Whom should I share the wedding registry with? I cannot insensitively send a link to everyone I am inviting, because that will almost be like forcing people to gift us something for a wedding they never intended to attend in the first place. 

And, finally, I hit roadblock three. I am not enterprising enough to be the first mover on this one. For, I have never worn a mini-skirt in my life. 

Since I invested time in writing this, and I have never understood the idea of sunk cost, I am going to post this one, at the risk of people not bothering to turn up at the wedding, being completely put off by this very transactional blog post. 

However, if you do turn up, I am going to catch you who doesn’t read my blog red-handed, or crockery-handed, if you may :)

The ideal and the perfect

This is officially my worst week ever. With unmet deadlines, defaulting vendors, confused stakeholders, hectic travel and endless arguments, I have to pinch myself to remember that I am actually on vacation. Yeah, you heard that right. And that too, with a surprisingly considerate bunch of colleagues not having e-mailed or texted me even once during the time, in any other world, this would be an ideal vacation.

Marriages are made in heaven, or so they say. But, wedding ceremonies surely were conceived in hell. And, they are here to stay. And, they are growing more nonsensical with every passing moment. And, they are giving rise to many a thriving business of sarees and blouses and return gifts and wedding invites and accessories and food and decorations and… the list goes on.

I am just back from a visit to my tailor, who, I suspect, must have been a research analyst in his previous avatar. Late last evening, he had called me with an estimate for stitching the Muhurtham blouse pegged at a staggering 25% to 40% range of the total cost of my Sari. So, I marched into his premises first thing this morning, demanding a break-up of the cost. He looked at me as if I have landed from a different planet. Apparently, brides are supposed to go crazy trying to choose the right things for their weddings and not bother about such teeny weeny things as expenses. But, yes, he did give me the break-up after much cajoling, with just a minor footnote saying, “The final cost might be 2-2.5 times the estimate. We will know once we start working on the blouse”.

And, then, there is the whole Sari business itself. I have walked into and out of 10 shops in the past two days looking for one Sari. Yesterday, I spent half an hour with a salesperson trying to understand pricing variations across Saris, all of which, to my naked eye, look exactly the same. He finally gave up any hope of my buying a Sari and turned his attention elsewhere.

The wedding invite is another mammoth affair altogether. Colors, font types, alignment, wordings, pictures… I really miss my beloved PPT pages. They are so much easier to create. And, they do make so much more sense, and can be reused too!

The next item that will come up my alley, as I have been informed (read warned), is the accessories shopping. That will involve trying to figure out, amidst multiple hues and shades of violet and green and maroon and light blue, the right colored bangles for my Saris. And, it will be another set of non-reusable stuff that will fade in color and style with time. Like it matters!

Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. What’s the point in putting so much fight into some six inane events spread across two long days trying to solemnize one wedding, when all that should actually matter is having a happy marriage?

I must be the most atypical bride-to-be in town, focusing more on the expense than on the wedding look, focusing more on the long term than on the short term. And, I am thankful the Universe made me that way. Perhaps, I will be able to drill sense into my next generation, and help them have an inexpensive wedding, yet a perfect marriage.