Monday, December 29, 2014

A walk into the millennium

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

It was the 29th 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.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

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.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

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.

Friday, October 17, 2014

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.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

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.

Friday, September 19, 2014

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?

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

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.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

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’.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

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.

Friday, July 11, 2014

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?
Loverlyloverlyloverly

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

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 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.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

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.

Friday, April 04, 2014

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.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

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.

Thursday, March 06, 2014

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.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

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.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

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.


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.

Tuesday, January 07, 2014

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!