There… I hear it again.
It’s the umpteenth time that the little sound has distracted me.
Where did it come from? Who set it loose?
I glance around the room to hear charades of laughter.
Animated faces. Some happy, some sad and some just pretending.
As I try to figure the source, I lose the geometry of sound.
There is so much noise. There is so much clutter.
And a tiny sound amongst a million voices.
The needle in a haystack would have been a walk in the park.
And yet, I pick up that little sound again.
I set out towards the sea of people.
The shimmering diamonds and the rustling chiffons.
Sometimes rubbing, sometimes pushing aside shoulders.
I twist and turn to make my way.
Glass in hand, I balance my gaze and my ears.
While my feet guide towards… well, I don’t know what.
Why can’t I be a character out of a spy novel, who are trained at this stuff.
Trained to put the geometry of sound to the trajectory of sight.
And do it while standing in Madison Square Garden for all you know.
Fuck, I should have taken physics seriously. Or whatever science deals with this stuff.
I seem to be firing in the dark. Firing blanks that too.
Again.
This time it came from behind me.
No, not exactly, a little to the right maybe.
But I seem to have got the general direction right this time.
I set out like a man possessed.
One gulp and the glass is set aside on the table.
Burp.
Shit… this is what happens when I drink Pepsi instead of Coke.
I hope my hand covered my mouth in time.
Did someone see me?
Do I really care?
I have a task at hand. And I sniff a kill.
But what is that sound?
Why am I seduced by it?
Why does it seem like music?
Why does it seem like a whiff of fresh air, in a room that is almost an incubator for Eau de Toilette?
Doesn’t seem human. But then what?.
Plastic? Metallic?
And such effect on me?
Is steel hearted same as brave hearted?
Pathar dil ya faulaadi dil?
I arrive at the bar, where according to my calculation the sound came from. And I see the happy part of the crowd.
The ones that started early and will finish late.
So, just about as of now, they would be at the optimum stage of high.
High being the part before you are smashed. And smashed always leads to wasted.
They didn’t emit any sound I would have followed.
But then where did it come from?
I snap around almost too suddenly and throw flash glances across the room.
Laughter. Turquoise dress. Big diamonds. Fake smiles. Lonely faces.
Flirts. Liars. Cheaters. And a few good people.
And not a trace of my sound.
My sound?
Am I already so crazy?
And why the hell am I so desperate?
What the hell is this sweat on my forehead?
I throw a wide angle static glance across the room.
And decide to take one last chance.
Before I hear it again.
This time it was closer.
And right ahead of me.
And not in bits and flashes but now it seems to go on.
It seems to be making music while the room seems to have lost its decibel.
I start walking. Slowly.
Slowly because there is no need to rush.
The eyes have cross synced the geography.
All I need to do is follow.
I see myself walking through the same people again.
They seem less fake now. They seem less lonely.
More happy. More content.
As if my finding the sound has infused everyone with a sense of erotica.
There seems to be love in the air.
And I follow the sound blindly.
I am led outside the hall, as if the sound beckons me and seeks privacy.
From hall to hallway. From hallway to driveway.
I follow the sound with a touched heart.
And a face with a smile that’s running a mile.
And then it all stops.
I look around the sprawling gardens and the moonlight pastures.
And all I hear is the engine of a car starting.
The car leaves the driveway as I make a dash towards it.
And come to a halt from where the car had started.
I see the tail lights. I see the thrown up dust.
I see my gaze fall to the ground in utter disgust.
I see something shining in the moonlight.
I bend over and pick it up.
I give it a little shake.
Yes it is the object that made the sound.
But it doesn’t sound as good.
It doesn’t have the soothing touch of before.
It is the sound I chased, but yet it is not.
I hold it in my hand, the solitary anklet. The payal.
But I still wonder about the source of the sound.
18.12.06
25.11.06
Paheli
Aks bhaari ke dhadkan, pyaar bada ke bhookh?
Dard hi raaz-e-zindagi, ya kaal kalaa kartoot?
Thank you Vyom, for the title and the correction.
Dard hi raaz-e-zindagi, ya kaal kalaa kartoot?
Thank you Vyom, for the title and the correction.
8.11.06
Zindagi...
Zindagi ko zindagi, de zindagi, aye zindagi,
ke zindagi se tang aa chuki hai ab zindagi.
Zindagi mein zindagi, gar mil jaye ek baar,
kasam mujhko zindagi ki, vaar doon sau zindagi.
ke zindagi se tang aa chuki hai ab zindagi.
Zindagi mein zindagi, gar mil jaye ek baar,
kasam mujhko zindagi ki, vaar doon sau zindagi.
19.10.06
Lights
She laughed. Laughed in delight.
She was about to leave for home.
To her village.
She was going on a vacation.
“Off season” they said.
She liked home. And she always liked the lights.
Every year the first few weeks of vacation were full of light.
Sudden flashes. Sudden bursts of joy.
The man walks in. He has been staring at her for a while now.
The half smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth.
He gives her a half grunt and walks away scratching his privates.
She brushes his image aside with a wave of her hand.
She had one more round of threads to tie.
One more round of wickers to set.
And the gift she was preparing would be ready.
The gift for the princess who lived far away in the big city.
Daughter of the king who paid their wages.
The king who would to anything for his little princess.
They said the princess also liked lights.
Maybe they were twins separated at birth?
She wished she was a princess.
A princess who people would pay to make happy.
Maybe she indeed was a princess.
Kept in hiding from evil armies.
It is late and she is alone. She is also afraid.
There are not many people around.
And the man has started lurking around again.
Should she just complain to the wage manager in the morning?
As if reading her thoughts… he spits a fury of red paan on the wall and walks away.
She is almost done with the task.
The knots are tied. The shiny shreds of paper are set.
She must clean up the working area now.
This was the part she hated most.
The careful removal of the powder residue from the work slab.
And the yucky way it all stuck to her.
The way it crept on her when it mixed with sweat as she walked back home.
The vigorous washing with the same water over and over again.
It made her sick for hours after. And killed her appetite.
She could hardly remember a night when she hadn’t woken up breathless.
Or gone to bed with a full stomach.
She was dusting the mat when he walked in again.
He smelt of alcohol. His clothes were paan stained. His trademark half smoked cigarette was in place.
She realized with panic that they were alone in the huge factory compound.
The man approached her with a snort of sorts and smiled to show stained teeth.
She thought of seeking help from the night watchman at the factory.
Only to realize it was him.
He walks up to her and mumbles a sweet nothing.
She walks back towards the corner.
He steps forward. Yanking off his lungi.
She screams. He laughs.
She tries to lunge out at him.
He gropes her and throws her back.
Not before she has scratched his face.
He lets out a yelp.
And shoving the lungi aside with his foot, he marches forward.
As he approaches her, he picks out the cigarette from his mouth and throws it aside.
She lets out a loud scream and closes her eyes.
She is taken aback.
There is light everywhere.
It is no longer dark. And the man has vanished too.
She is safe. She is alone. She is warm.
In the safety of her solitude, at last she feels like a princess.
In a far away land, the king summons another craftsman.
Another gift is commissioned.
What the princess wants, the princess gets.
And indeed she does, a box of her favorites. The biggest. The loudest.
The king presented it to her with a mock bow, and said “Happy Diwali”
She laughed. Laughed in delight.
She was about to leave for home.
To her village.
She was going on a vacation.
“Off season” they said.
She liked home. And she always liked the lights.
Every year the first few weeks of vacation were full of light.
Sudden flashes. Sudden bursts of joy.
The man walks in. He has been staring at her for a while now.
The half smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth.
He gives her a half grunt and walks away scratching his privates.
She brushes his image aside with a wave of her hand.
She had one more round of threads to tie.
One more round of wickers to set.
And the gift she was preparing would be ready.
The gift for the princess who lived far away in the big city.
Daughter of the king who paid their wages.
The king who would to anything for his little princess.
They said the princess also liked lights.
Maybe they were twins separated at birth?
She wished she was a princess.
A princess who people would pay to make happy.
Maybe she indeed was a princess.
Kept in hiding from evil armies.
It is late and she is alone. She is also afraid.
There are not many people around.
And the man has started lurking around again.
Should she just complain to the wage manager in the morning?
As if reading her thoughts… he spits a fury of red paan on the wall and walks away.
She is almost done with the task.
The knots are tied. The shiny shreds of paper are set.
She must clean up the working area now.
This was the part she hated most.
The careful removal of the powder residue from the work slab.
And the yucky way it all stuck to her.
The way it crept on her when it mixed with sweat as she walked back home.
The vigorous washing with the same water over and over again.
It made her sick for hours after. And killed her appetite.
She could hardly remember a night when she hadn’t woken up breathless.
Or gone to bed with a full stomach.
She was dusting the mat when he walked in again.
He smelt of alcohol. His clothes were paan stained. His trademark half smoked cigarette was in place.
She realized with panic that they were alone in the huge factory compound.
The man approached her with a snort of sorts and smiled to show stained teeth.
She thought of seeking help from the night watchman at the factory.
Only to realize it was him.
He walks up to her and mumbles a sweet nothing.
She walks back towards the corner.
He steps forward. Yanking off his lungi.
She screams. He laughs.
She tries to lunge out at him.
He gropes her and throws her back.
Not before she has scratched his face.
He lets out a yelp.
And shoving the lungi aside with his foot, he marches forward.
As he approaches her, he picks out the cigarette from his mouth and throws it aside.
She lets out a loud scream and closes her eyes.
She is taken aback.
There is light everywhere.
It is no longer dark. And the man has vanished too.
She is safe. She is alone. She is warm.
In the safety of her solitude, at last she feels like a princess.
In a far away land, the king summons another craftsman.
Another gift is commissioned.
What the princess wants, the princess gets.
And indeed she does, a box of her favorites. The biggest. The loudest.
The king presented it to her with a mock bow, and said “Happy Diwali”
She laughed. Laughed in delight.
12.8.06
The Genesis of Fear
Sitting in my living room on a Sunday afternoon I was indulging myself in television.
This absolute peace of nothingness was rudely disturbed by a loud yelping sound from outside. I turned to see a squirrel, sitting on the parapet of the adjoining building about 4 meters from my balcony, raising a sonic storm of its own.
When the racket didn’t stop for a good 2-3 minutes I decided to go out and investigate.
As I stepped into my balcony, within a fraction of a second, or even less… a huge eagle swooped down and carried the squirrel away.
Do squirrels have a sixth sense? Probably not… but what they have and share with most of the animal kingdom is the survival instinct. And the almost fearless approach to life.
The yelping of the squirrel was not out of fear my friends. The yelping was to alert the rest of the pack to take cover as one of them had been spotted as prey.
To understand or rather overcome fear, we must understand animals.
The herds are aware of predators in the woods they live in. They are aware of their vulnerability to become dinner at any given point of time.
In the interim, do they stop grazing? No.
Do they stop moving around in the woods? No.
Do they loose the playfulness with the young ones and teasing of the older ones? No.
Do they fear the predator hiding in the woods?
No.
Because they are also aware that the predator will strike when it has to strike. They cannot stop it. But what they have stopped is the fear factor.
They let fear in when the predator charges. And then they run for it with all they got.
Till then, they live their life to the fullest.
Somewhere I feel the insurance industry has spoilt the human race. We try to apply the same value model in out daily lives.
And then as human complications multiply, we now see many faces of fear all focused at the wrong areas…leading to many forms of subjective unhappiness.
Here are a few examples taken from a set of close friends.
Fear of visibility – the tendency to hide even when we are not being hunted.
Fear of loss – even before we gain something, we worry about losing it.
Fear of pain – even before we are hurt, we like to imagine the pain.
Fear out of self importance – everyone out there is looking for a chance to harm me and will do so at the moment opportunity arises.
Fear of attachment – self explanatory (for those who don’t get it, please see ‘Heat’)
Fear of the peer - will they agree with and accept what I do or think? Though we only use peers to echo our prior decisions.
Fear out of lack of trust – we fear what / those we do not know. But we can never know them till we trust them.
Fear of the past – the belief that the shit will always hit the fan as it did yesterday. And when you let your yesterday decide your tomorrow, your today is always full of shit.
Fear of no fear – addiction to torment. Life would be incomplete without a lurking fear inside…
Fear of denial – even before we ask for something, we like to believe that there is good reason we shall be refused.
Fear of no returns (expectations) – the belief that the effort one puts in will always be more than the results achieved. Hence the fear revokes any hope of human efforts.
Fear of joy – a true killjoy. If it makes me happy, it’s too good to be true. And too good to last.
A dear friend, who besides being one of the best writers I know, is also the most adorable person ever. But in varying degrees of recurrence and magnitude, she embodies all of the above forms of fear. God bless her.
She can inspire M. Night Shyamalans’ next ‘spine-chilling’ flick.
It’s too scary and too cold around her. Her spine definitely resides in the range of -20 degrees centigrade… I feel sad, because she deserves to be happier.
I do not claim that fear is alien to me. I do not preach that fear is unnatural. Nor do I intend to take a high ground of fearlessness.
But what I want to say is that I do not like fear. I like my life and like to live it to the best I can. Hence I face fear head on.
To drive it away.
Let me leave you with a catch 22.
The genesis of anger is fear.
The genesis of fear is the fear of pain
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
Uncertainty is inevitable. Fear is optional.
What is better?
Existing in fear or living in joy?
Kya Darna Zaroori hai?
Go figure.
This absolute peace of nothingness was rudely disturbed by a loud yelping sound from outside. I turned to see a squirrel, sitting on the parapet of the adjoining building about 4 meters from my balcony, raising a sonic storm of its own.
When the racket didn’t stop for a good 2-3 minutes I decided to go out and investigate.
As I stepped into my balcony, within a fraction of a second, or even less… a huge eagle swooped down and carried the squirrel away.
Do squirrels have a sixth sense? Probably not… but what they have and share with most of the animal kingdom is the survival instinct. And the almost fearless approach to life.
The yelping of the squirrel was not out of fear my friends. The yelping was to alert the rest of the pack to take cover as one of them had been spotted as prey.
To understand or rather overcome fear, we must understand animals.
The herds are aware of predators in the woods they live in. They are aware of their vulnerability to become dinner at any given point of time.
In the interim, do they stop grazing? No.
Do they stop moving around in the woods? No.
Do they loose the playfulness with the young ones and teasing of the older ones? No.
Do they fear the predator hiding in the woods?
No.
Because they are also aware that the predator will strike when it has to strike. They cannot stop it. But what they have stopped is the fear factor.
They let fear in when the predator charges. And then they run for it with all they got.
Till then, they live their life to the fullest.
Somewhere I feel the insurance industry has spoilt the human race. We try to apply the same value model in out daily lives.
And then as human complications multiply, we now see many faces of fear all focused at the wrong areas…leading to many forms of subjective unhappiness.
Here are a few examples taken from a set of close friends.
Fear of visibility – the tendency to hide even when we are not being hunted.
Fear of loss – even before we gain something, we worry about losing it.
Fear of pain – even before we are hurt, we like to imagine the pain.
Fear out of self importance – everyone out there is looking for a chance to harm me and will do so at the moment opportunity arises.
Fear of attachment – self explanatory (for those who don’t get it, please see ‘Heat’)
Fear of the peer - will they agree with and accept what I do or think? Though we only use peers to echo our prior decisions.
Fear out of lack of trust – we fear what / those we do not know. But we can never know them till we trust them.
Fear of the past – the belief that the shit will always hit the fan as it did yesterday. And when you let your yesterday decide your tomorrow, your today is always full of shit.
Fear of no fear – addiction to torment. Life would be incomplete without a lurking fear inside…
Fear of denial – even before we ask for something, we like to believe that there is good reason we shall be refused.
Fear of no returns (expectations) – the belief that the effort one puts in will always be more than the results achieved. Hence the fear revokes any hope of human efforts.
Fear of joy – a true killjoy. If it makes me happy, it’s too good to be true. And too good to last.
A dear friend, who besides being one of the best writers I know, is also the most adorable person ever. But in varying degrees of recurrence and magnitude, she embodies all of the above forms of fear. God bless her.
She can inspire M. Night Shyamalans’ next ‘spine-chilling’ flick.
It’s too scary and too cold around her. Her spine definitely resides in the range of -20 degrees centigrade… I feel sad, because she deserves to be happier.
I do not claim that fear is alien to me. I do not preach that fear is unnatural. Nor do I intend to take a high ground of fearlessness.
But what I want to say is that I do not like fear. I like my life and like to live it to the best I can. Hence I face fear head on.
To drive it away.
Let me leave you with a catch 22.
The genesis of anger is fear.
The genesis of fear is the fear of pain
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
Uncertainty is inevitable. Fear is optional.
What is better?
Existing in fear or living in joy?
Kya Darna Zaroori hai?
Go figure.
6.7.06
The God Complex
God is god, they say, because he controls life.
He takes the final call about who pops it and who pops out.
Whenever man has tried to embody divinity and claim powers more or at par with god, it has led to his downfall.
Hitler.
Napolean.
Alexander.
Go mythical.
Ravana.
Duryodhana.
Jayadratha.
Whenever man has tried to go beyond his ‘aukaat’, he’s perished.
But today, I am scared.
I am scared because ‘the god complex’ as the aforesaid is called, has plagued the collective doctor community of India.
Let me explain.
Technically speaking, only doctors come close to that power of god.
The power to change or maneuver life.
So they hold at ransom the lives of people who are already sick, at varying degrees of proximity to death and definitely hurting.
I have seen people cry about doctors refusing to treat without monies. People who know treatment is available but they lack the funds to get it. Or as the doctors seem to feel, deserve it.
A man is shot or wounded and the doctors refuse to do anything till the police arrives. Or the man dies. Now the Indian police are another post but short of a certificate of accreditation from the Controle’ Officiel Suisse des Chronometres’, they have mastered the spilt second precision of perfect timing.
Law is to protect lives. But yet the law does not allow the doctor to save a dying mans life. There are the Ambani’s and Mittals who the doctors can milk for their Mercedes. But they still needs a common mans toiled for rupees.
People die doctors. No one knows that better than you guys. But there is a difference between someone who dies on the operating table undergoing surgery by a brave man. And a man who is by the law of the land deemed to die because he can’t get treatment till the cops arrive. And the cops will not arrive till he pops it.
But what about someone who dies in the waiting ward of the OPD of AIIMS surrounded by the best medical help in the country refusing to do anything for him? Not because of the cops, or any other economic factor, cops take my word for it being one major economic factor too…., they die because the doctors want them to.
Because they are on a strike.
Take AIIMS for instance. It’s the biggest hospital there is right?
Frankly I don’t care about reservations.
Because I know for a fact that the debate is about opportunity and all and as long as the people who pass out clear a certain exam or level, I’m cool.
But the doctors went on strike.
Now imagine a man, who feels the grasp of death tightening and musters enough courage to make it to the OPD of AIIMS solely on the faith that the doctor there might be able to save him.
Faith similar to the one you place in god.
But sorry dying man, your gods on strike. So you die.
And you die, because your god has the power to say no. And let you die.
As it is we are such selfish beings. The only time we remember god is in a desperate situation.
So imagine in desperation you call on god, and you get the voice mail?
Many died. Leaving many families completely bereaved and substantially faithless. I was disgusted then.
But it was a cause. Right?
About something the youth and collective intellectual capital of India felt strongly about. So it was very normal for poor and under privileged people to die and provide statistics to twist the governments arm.
Very fair right? Collateral damage they call it.
But there was a buffer of a ‘cause’ so no one said anything.
People continued to die. Statistics continued to mount. And because of lower economic fortitude, which in turn leads to lesser social fortitude, they went unnoticed. They died.
And were just another statistic.
Today, good or bad, right or wrong, the government takes an administrative decision and changes the Director of AIIMS.
And because doctors in India have always shown a high degree of morality, with money and fame being the last thing on their mind, in an expected act of sovereignty went on strike again.
Again, the statistics will mount.
So basically, we come to the conclusion, that after god there are doctors and no one dare defy anyone with a prefixed ‘Dr.’ otherwise they will go on strike and kill a few more poor and innocent people, holding another set of thousands of lives at ransom.
Yes kill, because if you’re a doctor and someone dies in front of you and you do sweet fuck-all about it, it will tantamount to voluntary manslaughter. First degree, period.
Doctors are a gifted lot. For one, they can actually save a life. And second, the amount of faith shown in them by the common man matches the one for god.
But doctors being human beings, vain as ever, fall prey to the god complex. And abuse the gift of life and the healing touch they are blessed with.
Today, two of India’s high profile doctors are at war. Leaving the common thousand few to lie at mercy of time or die a death to add to a statistic. Or cause. Whatever it is, it sucks. Big time.
The director of AIIMS is the most respected cardiac surgeon in the country. An official position at AIIMS is not a fraction of what he has achieved in his medical career.
But yet, he refuses to let go. And the statistics mount.
The minister of health is a doctor himself. And knows that you cannot sack a Krishna from a Pandava army, because you guessed it, the Pandavas will go on a strike.
But yet, he refuses to grow up. And the statistics mount.
Dr. Ramados & Dr. Venugopal, as you are the commanders of the two warring factions, I ask you this….
If god forbid someone from your family needed a doctor tonight, what would you do?
What part of your individual stands and egos or the government policy would you compromise to save that particular life?
Having answered that, what makes you think that the people who died waiting for medical attention amidst striking doctors were not worth that compromise?
The point is, you made the compromise. For whom and to what extent now depends on the values you were brought up with.
But let me tell you this Dr. Ramados and Dr. Venugopal, when the news was covering one of your now famous striking AIIMS story, I saw a man carrying a body. Of what I could make out from the incoherent gasps of breath between his sobs it was his son. His son died because his god and your doctors were on strike.
I want to tell you that if I were that man I wouldn’t be crying.
I’d bury my son, and buy a gun.
He takes the final call about who pops it and who pops out.
Whenever man has tried to embody divinity and claim powers more or at par with god, it has led to his downfall.
Hitler.
Napolean.
Alexander.
Go mythical.
Ravana.
Duryodhana.
Jayadratha.
Whenever man has tried to go beyond his ‘aukaat’, he’s perished.
But today, I am scared.
I am scared because ‘the god complex’ as the aforesaid is called, has plagued the collective doctor community of India.
Let me explain.
Technically speaking, only doctors come close to that power of god.
The power to change or maneuver life.
So they hold at ransom the lives of people who are already sick, at varying degrees of proximity to death and definitely hurting.
I have seen people cry about doctors refusing to treat without monies. People who know treatment is available but they lack the funds to get it. Or as the doctors seem to feel, deserve it.
A man is shot or wounded and the doctors refuse to do anything till the police arrives. Or the man dies. Now the Indian police are another post but short of a certificate of accreditation from the Controle’ Officiel Suisse des Chronometres’, they have mastered the spilt second precision of perfect timing.
Law is to protect lives. But yet the law does not allow the doctor to save a dying mans life. There are the Ambani’s and Mittals who the doctors can milk for their Mercedes. But they still needs a common mans toiled for rupees.
People die doctors. No one knows that better than you guys. But there is a difference between someone who dies on the operating table undergoing surgery by a brave man. And a man who is by the law of the land deemed to die because he can’t get treatment till the cops arrive. And the cops will not arrive till he pops it.
But what about someone who dies in the waiting ward of the OPD of AIIMS surrounded by the best medical help in the country refusing to do anything for him? Not because of the cops, or any other economic factor, cops take my word for it being one major economic factor too…., they die because the doctors want them to.
Because they are on a strike.
Take AIIMS for instance. It’s the biggest hospital there is right?
Frankly I don’t care about reservations.
Because I know for a fact that the debate is about opportunity and all and as long as the people who pass out clear a certain exam or level, I’m cool.
But the doctors went on strike.
Now imagine a man, who feels the grasp of death tightening and musters enough courage to make it to the OPD of AIIMS solely on the faith that the doctor there might be able to save him.
Faith similar to the one you place in god.
But sorry dying man, your gods on strike. So you die.
And you die, because your god has the power to say no. And let you die.
As it is we are such selfish beings. The only time we remember god is in a desperate situation.
So imagine in desperation you call on god, and you get the voice mail?
Many died. Leaving many families completely bereaved and substantially faithless. I was disgusted then.
But it was a cause. Right?
About something the youth and collective intellectual capital of India felt strongly about. So it was very normal for poor and under privileged people to die and provide statistics to twist the governments arm.
Very fair right? Collateral damage they call it.
But there was a buffer of a ‘cause’ so no one said anything.
People continued to die. Statistics continued to mount. And because of lower economic fortitude, which in turn leads to lesser social fortitude, they went unnoticed. They died.
And were just another statistic.
Today, good or bad, right or wrong, the government takes an administrative decision and changes the Director of AIIMS.
And because doctors in India have always shown a high degree of morality, with money and fame being the last thing on their mind, in an expected act of sovereignty went on strike again.
Again, the statistics will mount.
So basically, we come to the conclusion, that after god there are doctors and no one dare defy anyone with a prefixed ‘Dr.’ otherwise they will go on strike and kill a few more poor and innocent people, holding another set of thousands of lives at ransom.
Yes kill, because if you’re a doctor and someone dies in front of you and you do sweet fuck-all about it, it will tantamount to voluntary manslaughter. First degree, period.
Doctors are a gifted lot. For one, they can actually save a life. And second, the amount of faith shown in them by the common man matches the one for god.
But doctors being human beings, vain as ever, fall prey to the god complex. And abuse the gift of life and the healing touch they are blessed with.
Today, two of India’s high profile doctors are at war. Leaving the common thousand few to lie at mercy of time or die a death to add to a statistic. Or cause. Whatever it is, it sucks. Big time.
The director of AIIMS is the most respected cardiac surgeon in the country. An official position at AIIMS is not a fraction of what he has achieved in his medical career.
But yet, he refuses to let go. And the statistics mount.
The minister of health is a doctor himself. And knows that you cannot sack a Krishna from a Pandava army, because you guessed it, the Pandavas will go on a strike.
But yet, he refuses to grow up. And the statistics mount.
Dr. Ramados & Dr. Venugopal, as you are the commanders of the two warring factions, I ask you this….
If god forbid someone from your family needed a doctor tonight, what would you do?
What part of your individual stands and egos or the government policy would you compromise to save that particular life?
Having answered that, what makes you think that the people who died waiting for medical attention amidst striking doctors were not worth that compromise?
The point is, you made the compromise. For whom and to what extent now depends on the values you were brought up with.
But let me tell you this Dr. Ramados and Dr. Venugopal, when the news was covering one of your now famous striking AIIMS story, I saw a man carrying a body. Of what I could make out from the incoherent gasps of breath between his sobs it was his son. His son died because his god and your doctors were on strike.
I want to tell you that if I were that man I wouldn’t be crying.
I’d bury my son, and buy a gun.
14.6.06
Unconditional Love*
*Circumstantial
.
.
.
(This is my favourite photograph. Don't think I will ever be able to take a shot that can match this one. Did not know who to dedicate it to? It was special and a million names were coming to mind.
And then, inevitably I decided. Had to.
This is dedicated to everyone who drops by. It's a lesson we all need to learn. )
6.6.06
Shararaa
Woh barish ki dhun, woh barasta sagar;
Inhi khayalon mein gumm, baitha tha main andar.
___
Ke ayee ek hawa, aur sab badal gaya;
Baithe baithe achanak, main udd gaya.
___
Maine dekhi ek duniya, jahaan barasti thi khushiyaan;
Jahaan keemti thi jaan, aur hasna tha asaan.
___
Jahaan neendein thi lambi, par tha jaaga hua insaan;
Ranjish thi wazan se, aur mohabbat se thi pehchaan.
___
Woh barish ki dhun, woh barasta sagar;
Inhi khayalon mein gumm, baitha tha main andar.
___
Ke ik jhalak dikh gayee, aur badal gaya nazaara;
Saawan mein nikal gaya, main dhoondne shararaa
___
Hawa ne ki saazish aur dhuaan uthh gaya;
Apne aansoo-on ka Sikandar, main wahin pe lutt gaya.
___
Woh barish ki dhun, woh barasta sagar;
Inhi khayalon mein gumm, baitha tha main andar.
___
.
.
.
.
I have been told by all my friends that I should write the translations of what I write in Hindi.
Something I avoid for two reasons. One, it makes the whole effort seem like explaining a joke to get people to laugh and second, my English writing suffers from Parkinson’s. Methinks.
So if there is anyone who gets the plot but misses the point please write in to me.
And for someone who doesn’t understand a word of Hindi, look at picture on the profile page….
Something I avoid for two reasons. One, it makes the whole effort seem like explaining a joke to get people to laugh and second, my English writing suffers from Parkinson’s. Methinks.
So if there is anyone who gets the plot but misses the point please write in to me.
And for someone who doesn’t understand a word of Hindi, look at picture on the profile page….
.
Cute ain’t I?
.
ps- Took the title picture in Munnar, Kerala.
28.5.06
Achhoot.
I have a beautiful set of tea mugs which I treasure.
Not that they are up for display, but one is fond of them.
When I make tea in the morning for myself I usually make a cup for the maid as well.
Never thought about it but due to lack of options the aforesaid mugs were used.
One evening some friends came over.
It was raining and the weather was beautiful.
Balcony + Tea + Biscuit + Dip-Dip was planned.
While pouring tea I realized one of the mugs was missing. I poured my tea in a glass and continued with the dip-dip.
A few days later a plate went missing.
Then a random bowl.
I figured a chat with the maid was in order. Try fishing for the tea mug first and then try telling her that if she needs anything she can ask.
I got the shock of my life.
Over the past 2 months, whatever food & beverage I gave her I usually did it in a plate or something. And she enjoyed eating it.
But then washed them separately and kept them away in a cupboard.
Because that was the way it was in the other houses she worked in, she said.
I asked her very sternly if she washed my dishes properly.
She swore on everything her vocabulary could allow.
I told her not to bother about them in that case.
I thank my family for bringing me up with very humanitarian values. I was taught all human beings are one. And the motto for Sikhism is ‘Manas ki jaat sab eke pehchaanbo’ (treat all humans as one). And surprisingly if you think carefully, all religions in some way or the other, say the same thing.
I remember working in my grandfathers farm in Jalandhar during my vacations from college. On day one I leisurely walked home at 1 pm from the fields for lunch and was given the firing of my life.
And sent back.
If I work, I am a worker. Behave like one.
And lunch became a routine in those days with the workers.
And trust me the food was yummy. Rich buttered daal, aalu / gobhi / mooli parantha, a bowl of sweet and lots of butter milk.
Just that it was had under a construction shed with no fans and sitting on the floor.
That taught me the biggest lesson of my life. Dignity of labour.
Something I feel the urban youth of India knows nothing about.
I know people who were not allowed by family to do a hotel management course because they couldn’t see their heir as a waiter.
Caste or economics, classifications are a very important part of the Indian society. They cannot do without it.
My father celeberates his ‘happy birthday to you’ on 1st of January. And the first morning of the year is a routine since before I was born.
There is a ceremony of the completion of the reading of the Guru Granth Sahib and recitation of the hymns of ‘Assa Di Vaar’. Followed by the most delicious, finger licking, bowl slurping ‘Langar’ or free kitchen, prepared by my mom. Poori-Aloo, Chana-Rice, Rajma, Paneer, Parantha, Raita, Saffron Rice, Kheer, Sewaiyaan and lots of awesome pickles.
On one such occasion while my father was posted in Chennai I was visiting him (I was in college in Punjab) and after the ceremony he went out for some work with mom.
I decided to hit the bed. I had been up all night partying. Up all morning playing goodboy.com with my parents. And working the previous evening clearing the living room for the prayers.
Ting –tong.
And guests arrived.
To wish “saar” happy birthday to you and choicest wishes for the coming year.
I was sitting doing small talk with them (what you doing? What stream? What year? What plans?) and the doorbell rang. Again…
I opened it to find the smiley faced Mr. Subramaniam standing in the frame of the doorway. He was an office assistant in my dads’ office. He came for the same reason as the other blokes in my house but because the dude got me great food and takes good care of me when I visit dad at work, I insisted he come in. There was ‘langar’ and it would be rude if he did not eat. It was ‘prasad’.
As he walked in, after removing his shoes, which I insisted he not, the other blokes sitting in the living room drinking butter milk, gulped down their drinks hurriedly and stood up.
Mr. Subramaniam did Good Morning Sir with everyone.
And they all hurriedly left.
Confused, later in the evening I caught hold of an offspring of the aforesaid guests. That fact that she was the prettiest girl in the colony had nothing to do with it.
I was told yes, there was a chat at home. Mr. Subramaniam is a low caste individual and on the very first day of the new year seeing his face and all ruined her parents ‘happy new year to you’.
I was disgusted.
I walked away. Never spoke to her or any of those people again. And respected Mr. Subramaniam even more.
Because knowing well, what was happening he said good morning and happy new year to them as they stomped out of my house.
When I subtly mentioned it to him, he said job was more important than pride.
So, does the caste system exist in India?
Yes.
Where?
In urban - educated India.
By who?
The urban, educated, humanitarian metro – uber or whatever ‘sexual’ we like to call ourselves these days.
I am a great fan of the Hindu religion. As I am of Judaism.
You have to be born Hindu. There is no process to induct you. And you will die a Hindu. Because there is no process or mechanism in the Hindu religion to excommunicate you.
You may chose to follow or preach whatever religion or way of life you chose to, but if you’re born a Hindu, you are hooked buddy. No matter what you practice, no matter what you preach.
(If you believe in life after death, plan your last rights. You could do without that surprise.)
Now both these religions do not breed. You will never hear people converting to either of them. Because here religion is a birth right.
Every other religion in the world, can be adopted or left at will, by a legitimate recognized process.
And by that logic, Hinduism needs be the most religiously tolerant as they have no insecurity.
Well... almost.
Because here lies the divine comedy. The Achilles’ heel of the Hindu.
The caste system has forced many so called schedule castes to adopt other religions that offer a level ground. Of humanity.
The conversions were and will continue happening at rapid pace till the Hindu religion gives up the caste system. Or the lower class classification.
We can worry and yell about religious intolerance but trust me, every other religion besides Hinduism gives you a right to live without a caste tag. Be it Christianity, Islam, Jainism, Buddhism all of them treat all humans as one.
Who wouldn’t want it? If I faced such behavior from society where I was a ‘achhoot’, I would be the first to go.
So all guardians of Hinduism, while the nation fights over the reservation issues and the government fails to find a way to uplift the under privileged and keep competition alive at the same time, brace yourself for a much bigger battle.
The one that you are waging against your own religion via the caste system. Harshly put it is called cannibalization.
I feel the priests of non-Hindu religions who are often targeted for converting people and hurting Hinduism, are not at fault. They merely facilitate the process of granting someone the psychological right to live without the caste tag. The ones who willfully came. In search of a god who doesn’t see with a jaundiced eye.
The ones at fault are the society and clergy of the religion they abandon. Imagine, someone’s’ humanity is so shaken that he needs to search for a new god.
After being used, abused, ignored, shunted and humiliated by the guardians and followers of their own.
(Apologies for any sentiments that were hurt. The intention was merely to state the truth about the state of affairs. My opinion.)
Not that they are up for display, but one is fond of them.
When I make tea in the morning for myself I usually make a cup for the maid as well.
Never thought about it but due to lack of options the aforesaid mugs were used.
One evening some friends came over.
It was raining and the weather was beautiful.
Balcony + Tea + Biscuit + Dip-Dip was planned.
While pouring tea I realized one of the mugs was missing. I poured my tea in a glass and continued with the dip-dip.
A few days later a plate went missing.
Then a random bowl.
I figured a chat with the maid was in order. Try fishing for the tea mug first and then try telling her that if she needs anything she can ask.
I got the shock of my life.
Over the past 2 months, whatever food & beverage I gave her I usually did it in a plate or something. And she enjoyed eating it.
But then washed them separately and kept them away in a cupboard.
Because that was the way it was in the other houses she worked in, she said.
I asked her very sternly if she washed my dishes properly.
She swore on everything her vocabulary could allow.
I told her not to bother about them in that case.
I thank my family for bringing me up with very humanitarian values. I was taught all human beings are one. And the motto for Sikhism is ‘Manas ki jaat sab eke pehchaanbo’ (treat all humans as one). And surprisingly if you think carefully, all religions in some way or the other, say the same thing.
I remember working in my grandfathers farm in Jalandhar during my vacations from college. On day one I leisurely walked home at 1 pm from the fields for lunch and was given the firing of my life.
And sent back.
If I work, I am a worker. Behave like one.
And lunch became a routine in those days with the workers.
And trust me the food was yummy. Rich buttered daal, aalu / gobhi / mooli parantha, a bowl of sweet and lots of butter milk.
Just that it was had under a construction shed with no fans and sitting on the floor.
That taught me the biggest lesson of my life. Dignity of labour.
Something I feel the urban youth of India knows nothing about.
I know people who were not allowed by family to do a hotel management course because they couldn’t see their heir as a waiter.
Caste or economics, classifications are a very important part of the Indian society. They cannot do without it.
My father celeberates his ‘happy birthday to you’ on 1st of January. And the first morning of the year is a routine since before I was born.
There is a ceremony of the completion of the reading of the Guru Granth Sahib and recitation of the hymns of ‘Assa Di Vaar’. Followed by the most delicious, finger licking, bowl slurping ‘Langar’ or free kitchen, prepared by my mom. Poori-Aloo, Chana-Rice, Rajma, Paneer, Parantha, Raita, Saffron Rice, Kheer, Sewaiyaan and lots of awesome pickles.
On one such occasion while my father was posted in Chennai I was visiting him (I was in college in Punjab) and after the ceremony he went out for some work with mom.
I decided to hit the bed. I had been up all night partying. Up all morning playing goodboy.com with my parents. And working the previous evening clearing the living room for the prayers.
Ting –tong.
And guests arrived.
To wish “saar” happy birthday to you and choicest wishes for the coming year.
I was sitting doing small talk with them (what you doing? What stream? What year? What plans?) and the doorbell rang. Again…
I opened it to find the smiley faced Mr. Subramaniam standing in the frame of the doorway. He was an office assistant in my dads’ office. He came for the same reason as the other blokes in my house but because the dude got me great food and takes good care of me when I visit dad at work, I insisted he come in. There was ‘langar’ and it would be rude if he did not eat. It was ‘prasad’.
As he walked in, after removing his shoes, which I insisted he not, the other blokes sitting in the living room drinking butter milk, gulped down their drinks hurriedly and stood up.
Mr. Subramaniam did Good Morning Sir with everyone.
And they all hurriedly left.
Confused, later in the evening I caught hold of an offspring of the aforesaid guests. That fact that she was the prettiest girl in the colony had nothing to do with it.
I was told yes, there was a chat at home. Mr. Subramaniam is a low caste individual and on the very first day of the new year seeing his face and all ruined her parents ‘happy new year to you’.
I was disgusted.
I walked away. Never spoke to her or any of those people again. And respected Mr. Subramaniam even more.
Because knowing well, what was happening he said good morning and happy new year to them as they stomped out of my house.
When I subtly mentioned it to him, he said job was more important than pride.
So, does the caste system exist in India?
Yes.
Where?
In urban - educated India.
By who?
The urban, educated, humanitarian metro – uber or whatever ‘sexual’ we like to call ourselves these days.
I am a great fan of the Hindu religion. As I am of Judaism.
You have to be born Hindu. There is no process to induct you. And you will die a Hindu. Because there is no process or mechanism in the Hindu religion to excommunicate you.
You may chose to follow or preach whatever religion or way of life you chose to, but if you’re born a Hindu, you are hooked buddy. No matter what you practice, no matter what you preach.
(If you believe in life after death, plan your last rights. You could do without that surprise.)
Now both these religions do not breed. You will never hear people converting to either of them. Because here religion is a birth right.
Every other religion in the world, can be adopted or left at will, by a legitimate recognized process.
And by that logic, Hinduism needs be the most religiously tolerant as they have no insecurity.
Well... almost.
Because here lies the divine comedy. The Achilles’ heel of the Hindu.
The caste system has forced many so called schedule castes to adopt other religions that offer a level ground. Of humanity.
The conversions were and will continue happening at rapid pace till the Hindu religion gives up the caste system. Or the lower class classification.
We can worry and yell about religious intolerance but trust me, every other religion besides Hinduism gives you a right to live without a caste tag. Be it Christianity, Islam, Jainism, Buddhism all of them treat all humans as one.
Who wouldn’t want it? If I faced such behavior from society where I was a ‘achhoot’, I would be the first to go.
So all guardians of Hinduism, while the nation fights over the reservation issues and the government fails to find a way to uplift the under privileged and keep competition alive at the same time, brace yourself for a much bigger battle.
The one that you are waging against your own religion via the caste system. Harshly put it is called cannibalization.
I feel the priests of non-Hindu religions who are often targeted for converting people and hurting Hinduism, are not at fault. They merely facilitate the process of granting someone the psychological right to live without the caste tag. The ones who willfully came. In search of a god who doesn’t see with a jaundiced eye.
The ones at fault are the society and clergy of the religion they abandon. Imagine, someone’s’ humanity is so shaken that he needs to search for a new god.
After being used, abused, ignored, shunted and humiliated by the guardians and followers of their own.
(Apologies for any sentiments that were hurt. The intention was merely to state the truth about the state of affairs. My opinion.)
16.5.06
Goonj
Bhari mehfil mein dil akela hai;
Is Goonj mein bhi tanhayee ka mela hai.
Kahin aankhen churana,
Kabhi nazrein jhukana,
Khamoshi ka daav, waqt ne khela hai.
Kehna tha kuchh, to keh diya hota,
Kuchh hota is layak to sun liya hota,
Par kehne sunnne ka jatan albela hai;
Is mehfil mein,kya koi aur bhi akela hai?
Yashita wrote about a room full of strangers. And I was inspired. Please read her post to see the origin of this thought...
Is Goonj mein bhi tanhayee ka mela hai.
Kahin aankhen churana,
Kabhi nazrein jhukana,
Khamoshi ka daav, waqt ne khela hai.
Kehna tha kuchh, to keh diya hota,
Kuchh hota is layak to sun liya hota,
Par kehne sunnne ka jatan albela hai;
Is mehfil mein,kya koi aur bhi akela hai?
4.5.06
We the cynics
I got back yesterday from the Advertising Agencies Association of Indias’ (AAAI) ambitious take on the Cannes advertising festival. In Goa.
A bunch of cynical, arrogant and insecure people clustered around in groups whining about everything in sight.
This was a realization. And I will hold it against advertising forever. It turns normal people into cynical beings.
When we join this business we are told the importance of an opinion. On everything.
How it is essential to the formation of our character and how we must have an opinion.
Then we are told to be brave and voice our opinion. It’s a democracy.
Then, voice your opinion to everyone. You work in an advertising agency after all and not a bloody bank.
Be sure of your opinion.
It’s your baby, back it.
Don’t take shit from anyone.
You are better than the best.
And what happens as a result is that when we meet someone, we wait like Wasim Akram to see a gap between the bat and pad to slip in the Yorker. We wait for him/her to say something so that we can drop a smart one-liner that illustrates the point that you are a ‘chuth’ (dumb cunt) and I am a stud.
I personally think you have to be a really potent cocktail of stupidity, dumbness and pathetic personal values if you start disliking someone before you even talk to him.
And go on the offensive.
Small talk maybe hated by many but let me assure you, the beginning of every conversation, be it in the bedroom or boardroom, is small talk.
One may not like to indulge in small talk. But till God declares you God, learn to do things you don’t like. Be polite.
That’s humanity. And that’s the price we pay for living in this world. Be polite.
But Goa, Advertising and politeness have about 3500 pages between them in the unabridged dictionary.
And AAAI played its joker.
So in Goa, we have two advertising folk, flanked by their respective agency gangs, filtered down to branch/department/group forced into small talk.
And then what follows is an orgy of various geographical and cultural one liners.
My one liners are better than yours.
My opinions are better than yours.
I’m smarter.
I get laid more often.
I can drink more than you.
I have read more books than you.
I have watched more movies.
I have a better taste in music, food and clothes.
My boss is better than yours.
My agency does more billing (if you’re from JWT that is).
If you say milk is white I shall prove it’s black.
If you say it’s black, I shall prove it is white.
And if you, being a loser has no opinion on milk, come, I shall give you gyaan on the various shades of grey it consists.
Our sole purpose in life, by virtue of being in advertising, is to have the last word. Period.
We shall override senses, supercede generation gaps and pinch human sensitivities for something so trivial as the last word.
We go through immense pain, to prove to someone who we have just met and most probably will never meet again, (despite it being a small world) that we are superior.
Advertising Folk, especially creative people are very vain. Nothing in the world is better than a pat on the back. No matter whom it comes from. And that is good because it pushes them to create and guard good creative communication work.
But somewhere down the line, our insecurity has got the better of us. And we have lost the plot. Have you ever wondered why advertising people spend so much of time in office. Yeah…besides the reason that the top honchos can enjoy some caviar and cigar…It is because there are very few people outside of those who we work with who like us.
Few non advertising people. Because besides school / college / office people, our collective propensity to make new friends, nosedives. We may bebrilliant, but lonely.
Courtesy, sensitivity and concern for others are traits that win friends world over. But when you are breeding an environment of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, trust me, it is carried outside office. You’re best friends with someone who doesn’t give a fuck either.
And when office hours are 12-16 a lot of it is carried.
There are exceptions to this. And they too will agree with me. More so because they have managed to escape this rut…
But Goa showed me some other sights. Which further brought insights…let me play ‘share-share’ with you…
I saw people with neat Portfolio CD’s all labeled and stickered with their names, contact info and their very favorite one-liner or quote. To hand out to Creative Directors of other agencies. While attending the GoaFest at their agencies cost. Instant deals are cracked because if I just met someone from agency X, I’ll be nice to him so that he can introduce me to his National Creative Director…
I saw people breaking up in the middle of the Ad Village while others just looked on. “all you wanted to do you bastard was sleep with me and now that you have got what you wanted you want space…” and the girl stomping away after roping in the sex life of the guys father, mother, sister, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins and the other left out relatives. And yes, accusing them all of incest.
We attended a barge party which abruptly decided to halt the ferry service to the land at 1 am. To 3 am. So the same bunch of spoilt, cynical and arrogant bastards were now tanked up with booze, pumped up with weed and stranded on a barge in the middle of the ocean.
And realizing that the ferry was off, all those who otherwise had no other plans besides continuing with the free booze developed a sudden urge to leave.
They fought. They puked. They fought again…
They made Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet and collectively the entire team of James Cameron proud when the service was resumed at 3.
I was out at 12:30. Thank god…
And the whiners.
Yes, they are everywhere. You see according to our fraternity, everything is bad. Except the free booze that is.
The timing of the GoaFest was bad.
Too hot.
The location is bad.
South Goa? Too dull.
The hotel is bad.
Park Hayatt? Too uptight.
The schedule is bad.
Who wants to attend lectures in the afternoon?
The facilities are bad.
The loo is a make shift box on the beach.
The seating is bad.
The beach is bad.
The water is bad.
The para gliding assistant is bad.
The banana boat is bad.
The music is bad.
The food is bad.
The crowd is bad.
The barge party was declared bad last night itself.
The ads are bad.
The ones that won are worse.
All scam.
That creative director is bad.
That agency is bad.
That idea is bad.
The arrangement is bad.
All in all everything you see is bad, and if I was consulted before all of it was finalized I would have given you my opinion and thus spared you the agony of facing my wrath. And yes, your world will turn upside down if I am not happy…
Big Fucking Deal!!!
Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one. And in Goa, I realized most of us use ours to talk. The moment you see someone who tries extra hard to look intelligent by asking smart questions and dropping funny but inane one liners you got to the Ad Village.
(I have generously used the word ‘we’ in this post. That is because I think I am no different. I am guilty for most of the things written here myself. But I don’t think this is how I want to be.
And this is not meant to sound like a generalization. It is. )
I love this industry. I love my job. I love the people I know here. Some of them, and they know who, are dearer to me than life. And trust me, all I say cannot change the fact that we are in the second most exciting profession known to mankind and an agency is a wonderful place to work in. But people, wake up.
Drop that wall from around you. Break out of your cocoon. Stop being so bloody cynical…Everybody is not dumb. Everything is not bad. Remember the positive power of words. Try to genuinely like someone.
See some humanity near you. There is lots of it around…even in that ‘chuth’ from O&M…
A bunch of cynical, arrogant and insecure people clustered around in groups whining about everything in sight.
This was a realization. And I will hold it against advertising forever. It turns normal people into cynical beings.
When we join this business we are told the importance of an opinion. On everything.
How it is essential to the formation of our character and how we must have an opinion.
Then we are told to be brave and voice our opinion. It’s a democracy.
Then, voice your opinion to everyone. You work in an advertising agency after all and not a bloody bank.
Be sure of your opinion.
It’s your baby, back it.
Don’t take shit from anyone.
You are better than the best.
And what happens as a result is that when we meet someone, we wait like Wasim Akram to see a gap between the bat and pad to slip in the Yorker. We wait for him/her to say something so that we can drop a smart one-liner that illustrates the point that you are a ‘chuth’ (dumb cunt) and I am a stud.
I personally think you have to be a really potent cocktail of stupidity, dumbness and pathetic personal values if you start disliking someone before you even talk to him.
And go on the offensive.
Small talk maybe hated by many but let me assure you, the beginning of every conversation, be it in the bedroom or boardroom, is small talk.
One may not like to indulge in small talk. But till God declares you God, learn to do things you don’t like. Be polite.
That’s humanity. And that’s the price we pay for living in this world. Be polite.
But Goa, Advertising and politeness have about 3500 pages between them in the unabridged dictionary.
And AAAI played its joker.
So in Goa, we have two advertising folk, flanked by their respective agency gangs, filtered down to branch/department/group forced into small talk.
And then what follows is an orgy of various geographical and cultural one liners.
My one liners are better than yours.
My opinions are better than yours.
I’m smarter.
I get laid more often.
I can drink more than you.
I have read more books than you.
I have watched more movies.
I have a better taste in music, food and clothes.
My boss is better than yours.
My agency does more billing (if you’re from JWT that is).
If you say milk is white I shall prove it’s black.
If you say it’s black, I shall prove it is white.
And if you, being a loser has no opinion on milk, come, I shall give you gyaan on the various shades of grey it consists.
Our sole purpose in life, by virtue of being in advertising, is to have the last word. Period.
We shall override senses, supercede generation gaps and pinch human sensitivities for something so trivial as the last word.
We go through immense pain, to prove to someone who we have just met and most probably will never meet again, (despite it being a small world) that we are superior.
Advertising Folk, especially creative people are very vain. Nothing in the world is better than a pat on the back. No matter whom it comes from. And that is good because it pushes them to create and guard good creative communication work.
But somewhere down the line, our insecurity has got the better of us. And we have lost the plot. Have you ever wondered why advertising people spend so much of time in office. Yeah…besides the reason that the top honchos can enjoy some caviar and cigar…It is because there are very few people outside of those who we work with who like us.
Few non advertising people. Because besides school / college / office people, our collective propensity to make new friends, nosedives. We may bebrilliant, but lonely.
Courtesy, sensitivity and concern for others are traits that win friends world over. But when you are breeding an environment of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, trust me, it is carried outside office. You’re best friends with someone who doesn’t give a fuck either.
And when office hours are 12-16 a lot of it is carried.
There are exceptions to this. And they too will agree with me. More so because they have managed to escape this rut…
But Goa showed me some other sights. Which further brought insights…let me play ‘share-share’ with you…
I saw people with neat Portfolio CD’s all labeled and stickered with their names, contact info and their very favorite one-liner or quote. To hand out to Creative Directors of other agencies. While attending the GoaFest at their agencies cost. Instant deals are cracked because if I just met someone from agency X, I’ll be nice to him so that he can introduce me to his National Creative Director…
I saw people breaking up in the middle of the Ad Village while others just looked on. “all you wanted to do you bastard was sleep with me and now that you have got what you wanted you want space…” and the girl stomping away after roping in the sex life of the guys father, mother, sister, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins and the other left out relatives. And yes, accusing them all of incest.
We attended a barge party which abruptly decided to halt the ferry service to the land at 1 am. To 3 am. So the same bunch of spoilt, cynical and arrogant bastards were now tanked up with booze, pumped up with weed and stranded on a barge in the middle of the ocean.
And realizing that the ferry was off, all those who otherwise had no other plans besides continuing with the free booze developed a sudden urge to leave.
They fought. They puked. They fought again…
They made Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet and collectively the entire team of James Cameron proud when the service was resumed at 3.
I was out at 12:30. Thank god…
And the whiners.
Yes, they are everywhere. You see according to our fraternity, everything is bad. Except the free booze that is.
The timing of the GoaFest was bad.
Too hot.
The location is bad.
South Goa? Too dull.
The hotel is bad.
Park Hayatt? Too uptight.
The schedule is bad.
Who wants to attend lectures in the afternoon?
The facilities are bad.
The loo is a make shift box on the beach.
The seating is bad.
The beach is bad.
The water is bad.
The para gliding assistant is bad.
The banana boat is bad.
The music is bad.
The food is bad.
The crowd is bad.
The barge party was declared bad last night itself.
The ads are bad.
The ones that won are worse.
All scam.
That creative director is bad.
That agency is bad.
That idea is bad.
The arrangement is bad.
All in all everything you see is bad, and if I was consulted before all of it was finalized I would have given you my opinion and thus spared you the agony of facing my wrath. And yes, your world will turn upside down if I am not happy…
Big Fucking Deal!!!
Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one. And in Goa, I realized most of us use ours to talk. The moment you see someone who tries extra hard to look intelligent by asking smart questions and dropping funny but inane one liners you got to the Ad Village.
(I have generously used the word ‘we’ in this post. That is because I think I am no different. I am guilty for most of the things written here myself. But I don’t think this is how I want to be.
And this is not meant to sound like a generalization. It is. )
I love this industry. I love my job. I love the people I know here. Some of them, and they know who, are dearer to me than life. And trust me, all I say cannot change the fact that we are in the second most exciting profession known to mankind and an agency is a wonderful place to work in. But people, wake up.
Drop that wall from around you. Break out of your cocoon. Stop being so bloody cynical…Everybody is not dumb. Everything is not bad. Remember the positive power of words. Try to genuinely like someone.
See some humanity near you. There is lots of it around…even in that ‘chuth’ from O&M…
25.4.06
Flights
No matter the time, no matter the place, there will always be a dream to chase.
We search and hunt, across the skies,
I took this picture at Bandstand, Bombay. Have cropped the various rocks, sun and couples in varying degrees of amorous raptures for a panoramic view. And as always, I had something to say about it. So I have written it.
Let me know how you like it.
ps-this is the picture, with that line printed on the bottom,
that I gifted my father on the day he retired.
A huge 3ft by 2ft of it.
5.4.06
A darker shade of grey
I knew for 2 years that my father would retire on 31/03/2006.
I shall write a special blog on him soon. That would be his story. This is mine.
For 2 years I went about collecting stuff for what would be my house.
Not home because it would be rented.
And I had adapted myself to the fact that I would be alone.
It was all good till I was hit by M/S Aggarwal Packers and Movers.
On 28/03/06.
Because when I woke up that day, my entire house, excluding my room which being a local shifting would happen last, was stripped of all furniture and fixtures.
I mean it was too swift and too much.
I actually went back and snuggled into bed.
Confused.
My parents moved into a hotel on 29/03/06.
That night when I went back into my room, it actually hit me.
For 2 years I had taken it for granted, but not any more.
I was actually missing the knowledge that my parents are sleeping in the next room.
I was very uncomfortable of the sight of that empty room.
I was still confused. I didn’t know how to react.
I did what I could do best.
I broke my resolve not to vacate my room till the last day.
I moved into my new pad the very next morning.
My dog went off to Pune. He will stay with my brother and sister in law.
I fall in the category of people who are not capable of looking after a pet.
No to mention that everyone in the house was against having a dog. I brought him in. and then everyone fell in love with him. Now I was the bad guy.
I feel so helpless.
My dog, I dare say is the closest to unconditional love.
Any dog for that matter.
Because even if you meet him for 10 minutes a day, or for a minute after 10 days, he will wag his tail at the same speed and jump with the same joy.
He operates on zero expectation.
And that is unconditional love.
That in my opinion human beings are incapable of.
I feel so helpless because I know he too misses me.
And he is angry with me.
For bringing him into this home and then abandoning him.
Leaving him to be taken by those who can keep him and not the ones who need him.
But such is life.
On 31/03/06 I paid a surprise visit to my father in office. I went and had a cup of tea with him. For the last time in that office.
He was happy. And that made me very happy.
I gifted my father a photograph I shot. A huge blow up of it.
He loved it. Because he was the one who taught me photography.
And he liked what I did.
On the evening of 01/04/06 on the way to the airport I realized that I had not given anything to my mother. After all if dad was retiring, I should give mom something too.
I stopped on the way to the airport at Ganjam.
Needless to say the saleslady in there made sure that I was left with the minimum balance in my account by the time I got out of there.
But what I got for her was really nice. Knowing my moms taste, she would love it.
I gave it to her at the departure lounge.
She hugged me and cried.
I didn’t. I wanted to but I didn’t.
Because I wanted her to be strong.
Dad was going to be home after 37 years of service.
He needed her more than me.
I left the airport and headed out to buy curtains for my new pad.
In less than 10 minutes I got a call from mom screaming with joy.
She loved it. Yeah…!
Her joy erased all concern about my economically inadequate state.
I went back home, to my new house and 2 servants, one of whom was to go to mom after settling me down.
The other had been with me since the past 8 years.
So much so that I never had a finished a box of chocolates without giving him a few.
He knew about bacon, ham and scrambled eggs and loved the taste of baked beans.
And pepsi.
He used to insist onwearing my old clothes because that ensured some good brands for him. By the way, he likes Nike. Actually has a collection of all my old tees.
He knew how to operate my complex home theatre system and used to watch movies in high quality DTS sound when I was not around.
My mom hated it. she said I am ruining him. All his other relatives (8 of them) who work in various parts of our family had to work to get their luxuries. Like all the other kids in the house. Because the help was like kids of the house.
Consider these…
Servant, living with family since 8 years.
Mom leaves him and another guy to look after me. The other dude is supposed to have left today.
So day before he declares that he shall not do anything in the house except cooking. No cleaning. No washing.
I ask him to leave. As hiring a maid would make his presence obsolete.
So consensus is reached that he shall settle me down and leave.
Meanwhile mom intervenes and says that he should stay with me till end of April and then go to her.
After he helps unpack and settles me down.
He asks me who will pay his wages for the duration he works here.
For 8 years we have never had an economic conversation with the domestic help. Dad ensured we never needed to. They were well taken care of and more.
He pushes me. Tells me to stuff it in chaste Punjabi.
I ask him to leave instantly. Pack his bags and leave. Before I hit him.
He does that. While I confisticate the mobile phone that I have given him, that I pay for.
He says he shall break my hands if I touch the phone.
I keep the phone.
I thrash him.
I throw him out.
I lock the door and get to cleaning and unpacking the house.
Clean up, cook and eat dinner.
Started some unpacking.
Started getting some shocks.
My stuff was missing.
Lots of it.
Lots more shocks.
He was with us since 8 years. He KNEW what stuff was worth stealing.
Important stuff was missing.
It didn’t make sense. And I was MAD.
He stayed with us for 8 years as a member of the family.
I made a few calls.
I realized he went back to the house my father retired from on 31/03/06 and offered to work with my dads’ successor.
I went there this morning.
The entire house staff knows me there.
Found him sleeping in his old servant quarters.
Thrashed him again.
Searched for my stuff.
Didn’t find it.
Thrashed him again.
He feigned ignorance. The other boy was missing so the blame was pinned on him. I thrashed him again.
I knew the stuff was going to be in ‘Darbangah’ district of Bihar by this weekend.
Said fuck it!
Walked out.
Told new occupant of house that he was sacked and he didn’t leave.
Hire at your own risk.
Came to work.
Phew!
Feels good to get it off my chest.
As I sit alone, I miss my parents. I miss my dog. The food I cook tastes awful. Hell, I even miss my servant. He was the last person I could expect this from. In my old house he used to have the keys and all to my cupboards.
I miss when at least home was not a lonely place to be. What I use to call a small, dingy 2 bedroom place was too big for me now.
I slept outside on the balcony. With mosquitoes. And no electricity.
So tell me, you had a miserable day?
Is there a darker shade of grey?
I shall write a special blog on him soon. That would be his story. This is mine.
For 2 years I went about collecting stuff for what would be my house.
Not home because it would be rented.
And I had adapted myself to the fact that I would be alone.
It was all good till I was hit by M/S Aggarwal Packers and Movers.
On 28/03/06.
Because when I woke up that day, my entire house, excluding my room which being a local shifting would happen last, was stripped of all furniture and fixtures.
I mean it was too swift and too much.
I actually went back and snuggled into bed.
Confused.
My parents moved into a hotel on 29/03/06.
That night when I went back into my room, it actually hit me.
For 2 years I had taken it for granted, but not any more.
I was actually missing the knowledge that my parents are sleeping in the next room.
I was very uncomfortable of the sight of that empty room.
I was still confused. I didn’t know how to react.
I did what I could do best.
I broke my resolve not to vacate my room till the last day.
I moved into my new pad the very next morning.
My dog went off to Pune. He will stay with my brother and sister in law.
I fall in the category of people who are not capable of looking after a pet.
No to mention that everyone in the house was against having a dog. I brought him in. and then everyone fell in love with him. Now I was the bad guy.
I feel so helpless.
My dog, I dare say is the closest to unconditional love.
Any dog for that matter.
Because even if you meet him for 10 minutes a day, or for a minute after 10 days, he will wag his tail at the same speed and jump with the same joy.
He operates on zero expectation.
And that is unconditional love.
That in my opinion human beings are incapable of.
I feel so helpless because I know he too misses me.
And he is angry with me.
For bringing him into this home and then abandoning him.
Leaving him to be taken by those who can keep him and not the ones who need him.
But such is life.
On 31/03/06 I paid a surprise visit to my father in office. I went and had a cup of tea with him. For the last time in that office.
He was happy. And that made me very happy.
I gifted my father a photograph I shot. A huge blow up of it.
He loved it. Because he was the one who taught me photography.
And he liked what I did.
On the evening of 01/04/06 on the way to the airport I realized that I had not given anything to my mother. After all if dad was retiring, I should give mom something too.
I stopped on the way to the airport at Ganjam.
Needless to say the saleslady in there made sure that I was left with the minimum balance in my account by the time I got out of there.
But what I got for her was really nice. Knowing my moms taste, she would love it.
I gave it to her at the departure lounge.
She hugged me and cried.
I didn’t. I wanted to but I didn’t.
Because I wanted her to be strong.
Dad was going to be home after 37 years of service.
He needed her more than me.
I left the airport and headed out to buy curtains for my new pad.
In less than 10 minutes I got a call from mom screaming with joy.
She loved it. Yeah…!
Her joy erased all concern about my economically inadequate state.
I went back home, to my new house and 2 servants, one of whom was to go to mom after settling me down.
The other had been with me since the past 8 years.
So much so that I never had a finished a box of chocolates without giving him a few.
He knew about bacon, ham and scrambled eggs and loved the taste of baked beans.
And pepsi.
He used to insist onwearing my old clothes because that ensured some good brands for him. By the way, he likes Nike. Actually has a collection of all my old tees.
He knew how to operate my complex home theatre system and used to watch movies in high quality DTS sound when I was not around.
My mom hated it. she said I am ruining him. All his other relatives (8 of them) who work in various parts of our family had to work to get their luxuries. Like all the other kids in the house. Because the help was like kids of the house.
Consider these…
Servant, living with family since 8 years.
Mom leaves him and another guy to look after me. The other dude is supposed to have left today.
So day before he declares that he shall not do anything in the house except cooking. No cleaning. No washing.
I ask him to leave. As hiring a maid would make his presence obsolete.
So consensus is reached that he shall settle me down and leave.
Meanwhile mom intervenes and says that he should stay with me till end of April and then go to her.
After he helps unpack and settles me down.
He asks me who will pay his wages for the duration he works here.
For 8 years we have never had an economic conversation with the domestic help. Dad ensured we never needed to. They were well taken care of and more.
He pushes me. Tells me to stuff it in chaste Punjabi.
I ask him to leave instantly. Pack his bags and leave. Before I hit him.
He does that. While I confisticate the mobile phone that I have given him, that I pay for.
He says he shall break my hands if I touch the phone.
I keep the phone.
I thrash him.
I throw him out.
I lock the door and get to cleaning and unpacking the house.
Clean up, cook and eat dinner.
Started some unpacking.
Started getting some shocks.
My stuff was missing.
Lots of it.
Lots more shocks.
He was with us since 8 years. He KNEW what stuff was worth stealing.
Important stuff was missing.
It didn’t make sense. And I was MAD.
He stayed with us for 8 years as a member of the family.
I made a few calls.
I realized he went back to the house my father retired from on 31/03/06 and offered to work with my dads’ successor.
I went there this morning.
The entire house staff knows me there.
Found him sleeping in his old servant quarters.
Thrashed him again.
Searched for my stuff.
Didn’t find it.
Thrashed him again.
He feigned ignorance. The other boy was missing so the blame was pinned on him. I thrashed him again.
I knew the stuff was going to be in ‘Darbangah’ district of Bihar by this weekend.
Said fuck it!
Walked out.
Told new occupant of house that he was sacked and he didn’t leave.
Hire at your own risk.
Came to work.
Phew!
Feels good to get it off my chest.
As I sit alone, I miss my parents. I miss my dog. The food I cook tastes awful. Hell, I even miss my servant. He was the last person I could expect this from. In my old house he used to have the keys and all to my cupboards.
I miss when at least home was not a lonely place to be. What I use to call a small, dingy 2 bedroom place was too big for me now.
I slept outside on the balcony. With mosquitoes. And no electricity.
So tell me, you had a miserable day?
Is there a darker shade of grey?
21.3.06
Bizarre
In the stock market when you hedge your funds against stock that doesn’t exist or has dubious origins or destinations, it is considered a fraud.
The exchange board will come calling and so will Barkha Dutt. With her camera crew and all intention to nationally disgrace you. 24 x 7. At least once.
Your kids will face a tough time in school.
Your comparatively less dishonest relatives will face grief.
So will the ones that are more dishonest but not yet caught.
As Tony says the crime is not in the act of committing it anymore. It is in getting caught.
But for a moment, stop and think. Don’t we do it everyday? All of us?
We commit the very same fraud in our life everyday.
We plan, we work and we hope to make our life better.
Without knowing whether it exists the next second.
We are hedging our life against speculative stock.
Good? Bad?
I cannot say. What I can say is that it just doesn’t make sense.
And it is bloody unfair.
Yesterday a friend passed away. At 32. At the peak of his career.
He went off. Just like that. Out of the blue.
Without even fulfilling the promise of treating me to a drink. At a relatively posh and expensive place, than our regular watering hole.
Without giving me the job he promised to.
Without introducing me to the hot chick in his ‘You vs You’ commercial.
All promises remain. But that is not why I am writing this.
This is because it has made me change the way I look at life. It has made me realize the fragility of life. Convince me otheriwse. But I think this is the divine fast one God himself pulled on us. He made a strict entry process for life to enter into this world. Where the labour, pain and fruit is all the domain of the human being.
But he kept the exit process, or considering the swiftness of it, the exit act all to himself. Leaving behind pain and pain alone. To a lot of people.
"aate ho apni marzi se. jaaoge uski marzi se"
(you come when you want, you leave when he wants).
Wanna play poker with God? Actually we all do.
We actually take life for granted. Like the car battery.
Till the bloody thing gives up on us.
We think of life in perpetuity, like business. As a going concern.
Then all of a sudden, our fraud is caught.
And from a life form we become a memory.
I will miss you V Mahesh.
Not because we had 2 new yearparties together.
Not because you were a rockstar copywriter.
Not because we drank together.
Not because we fought after we drank.
Not because we never had to make up after that.
Not because we have a dozen people in common we love.
And not because you were there when I needed you.
I will miss you Mahesh because I still cannot believe that you’re not there.
The exchange board will come calling and so will Barkha Dutt. With her camera crew and all intention to nationally disgrace you. 24 x 7. At least once.
Your kids will face a tough time in school.
Your comparatively less dishonest relatives will face grief.
So will the ones that are more dishonest but not yet caught.
As Tony says the crime is not in the act of committing it anymore. It is in getting caught.
But for a moment, stop and think. Don’t we do it everyday? All of us?
We commit the very same fraud in our life everyday.
We plan, we work and we hope to make our life better.
Without knowing whether it exists the next second.
We are hedging our life against speculative stock.
Good? Bad?
I cannot say. What I can say is that it just doesn’t make sense.
And it is bloody unfair.
Yesterday a friend passed away. At 32. At the peak of his career.
He went off. Just like that. Out of the blue.
Without even fulfilling the promise of treating me to a drink. At a relatively posh and expensive place, than our regular watering hole.
Without giving me the job he promised to.
Without introducing me to the hot chick in his ‘You vs You’ commercial.
All promises remain. But that is not why I am writing this.
This is because it has made me change the way I look at life. It has made me realize the fragility of life. Convince me otheriwse. But I think this is the divine fast one God himself pulled on us. He made a strict entry process for life to enter into this world. Where the labour, pain and fruit is all the domain of the human being.
But he kept the exit process, or considering the swiftness of it, the exit act all to himself. Leaving behind pain and pain alone. To a lot of people.
"aate ho apni marzi se. jaaoge uski marzi se"
(you come when you want, you leave when he wants).
Wanna play poker with God? Actually we all do.
We actually take life for granted. Like the car battery.
Till the bloody thing gives up on us.
We think of life in perpetuity, like business. As a going concern.
Then all of a sudden, our fraud is caught.
And from a life form we become a memory.
I will miss you V Mahesh.
Not because we had 2 new yearparties together.
Not because you were a rockstar copywriter.
Not because we drank together.
Not because we fought after we drank.
Not because we never had to make up after that.
Not because we have a dozen people in common we love.
And not because you were there when I needed you.
I will miss you Mahesh because I still cannot believe that you’re not there.
3.3.06
The sealed envelope
A man visited his father.
The old man was on the deathbed.
And wanted to settle financial issues before he popped it.
The father, after handing over all earthly possessions to the young man, handed him a sealed envelope. He said “you must never read it. No matter what happens”. The son vowed to keep his promise and the man departed to the next world peacefully.
Time as always heals everything. The man got on with his life.
Married. Procreated. Progressed in business. Life was good.
Then one day the wife, while cleaning his study came across this envelope he had kept in the lower most drawer, next to the Bible.
She read the letter and was aghast!
In the evening when the man returned after work, she sat him down and said that she was leaving him. And taking the kids with her. And half of the estate. And handed him the letter, now sealed again.
The man was struck with grief. He could not imagine what that letter contained that would have such a disastrous repercussion.
After his wife left him half as poorer in the bank than in the heart, he was tempted to read the letter. But somehow managed to keep the will in place.
He hit the bottle with a vengeance and let it drain along all the wealth he had left.
Not to mention letting it take a toll on his health.
His doctor one day confronted him. Pleaded that he was present at his birthing and could not see this misery befall him. He mentioned that he was a friend and if something was bothering him he could talk about it.
The man told him. Told him everything that happened since he first got that letter.
The doctor offered a solution. He said he would read it and tell him of its contents.
An agreement was reached. The envelope was given to the doctor.
He read it, smiled, re-sealed the envelope and handed it back to the man.
And said he had to go. And would not be visiting him from now.
An alternate doctor was needed.
What the man went through at this stage is indescribable in words.
Mind, body and soul, all were tormented. And he forgot about a life that once showed so much of promise. The house, along with all the other things he had were slowly sold off to compensate for the heavy losses in business. And the son of a wealthy father one day became a street bum living on alms. But he still did not open that letter.
Not because of will. Will and any such thing was long lost. This time it was fear.
He feared what that letter contained. He feared of a revelation so horrendous that he too like others would have to leave him and go. He feared that letter as if it contained his death.
Drunk and ragged he was one day picked up from the harbor by a crew and taken onboard as domestic help for the quarters. In exchange for food, a warm bed to sleep in and an occasional drink.
The man finally let go of the bottle and opted for access to newspaper, books and TV. Occasionally. No matter how he had managed the crisis in life, he was an educated man who once was a successful businessman. And it was not long before he became the preferred man Friday for the captains’ quarters.
Once he even got to have a drink with the captain. One drink.
After learning his background (the parts involving and related to the letter were omitted in this narrative. Failures and alimony were attributed to other causes) the captain was impressed. He started taking the mans advice on budgeting, strategy and a lot more.
He became a much admired, loved and respected man on the ship.
The captains’ quarters were vandalized one night while the ship was on shore and the sailors had vanished to hit the bars and whorehouses. Our man remained on the ship in the lower deck playing poker with the engine room boys.
At the crack of dawn when the captain returned all hell broke lose. Order was called. Threats were made. Blows were delivered to the junior staff.
The captain had lost his most prized possession. His diamond studded watch.
Searches were made, with the captain himself leading the brigade.
He was the one who personally searched the man Friday quarters and casually flipped through our mans stuff very sure that he would not have taken it.
He saw the envelope hidden neatly at the bottom of the pile in the study rack.
He pocketed it out of curiosity.
The watch was found in another staff member’s room and he confessed to it. he was dismissed immediately and was asked to confine himself to the lower most deck along with the cargo till they reach the nearest port. Where he would be offloaded.
After retiring to his quarter that night the captain fingered the letter in his shirt pocket. He was overwhelmed with guilt and yet was intrigued by the state of this bright and brilliant man. He read it.
The man as woken up in his sleep by the captain. The lights were on.
You have to leave the captain said. Right now. We cannot wait till we reach the shore.
A life raft is ready. Stocked with food. And some brandy for the weather.
A message will be sent to the nearest ship that would rescue him in about 2 days.
But he would have to leave right away.
No reason was given to the man. None was required because before leaving the captain handed him the envelope. Now sealed again.
As the stand in manpower lowered the raft with the man and food supplies to last him a week into the ocean the captain assured him that the rescue boat was on its way. And he would be saved. A word of advice though.
Do not mention or show the letter to them.
The man started at the horizon for a long time after the ship had vanished.
He didn’t know what to feel. And I don’t know how to describe what he felt.
He forgot about everything and tore open the envelope. And extracted the letter.
Just then a gush of wind blew the letter out of his trembling hands.
The rescue ship rescued his body from the sharks that were circling the raft within 12 hours.
26.2.06
Everybody has problems
There is no country in the world that boasts of a perfect life. Crime and corruption are everywhere. Yeah... I agree. Nobody may have a judiciary that is as fucked up as ours. But hell... there are some who have dictators!
But all that is IA. Not Indian Airlines but internal affairs. Like everyone we have our issues. More or less. But where do we stand as a country?
2 years ago ‘India Shining’ was a four letter word.
You were looked down upon as a bag of air that went bust.
Some accused it. Some chose to ignore it.
All in all the writing was on the wall. India was not shining.
But can a failure of an advertising campaign hide some basic truths?
Before you hear this year’s budget, please give a thought to the following.
~We went from 6000 on the stock markets to 10000 in record time.
~The who’s who of the Forbes top 100 have business interests in India. Take the top 500 for that matter.
~Foreign nations choose to buy defense aircrafts from India.
~The world runs its business processes from India.
~Global carmakers are falling all over themselves to hit the Indian roads.
~When the heads of state of France and India meet, they talk about an Indian steelmaker.
~The purchasing power of the average middle class Indian has skyrocketed.
~India said no to aid when hit by Tsunami.
~India stood aid to Pakistan when the earthquake struck.
~The Indian cricket team is finally a team.
Consider these, and decide for yourself. I’ve already made up my mind.
India is shining.
10.2.06
Alive
I have been visiting a friend who lives in an apartment
block close to my office.
As I walk down the driveway, in the basement to the lift,
I always smiled at the building kids playing cricket.
I remembered my house / tennis ball cricket.
No teams. Individual batsmen. Turns picked on lot.
Last to bat, first to bowl.
If the ball hits a window directly – out.
Runs only on leg side (offside for LHB).
3 overs per batsman maximum.
If the ball is lost, the batsman is liable.
Fast bowling not allowed.
One bounce-one hand catch – out (optional).
I remembered all this and smiled.
It was amazing. The carelessness. The worry free life.
The only major stress being how to extend daily playtime.
Then one fine day ‘30 & happy’ wrote on her childhood.
It was beautiful.
It made me look back long and hard at my childhood
and I was happy that remembered a lot of stuff.
Somehow I was kicked just because I could remember all of it. Clearly.
My fathers Seiko crystal alarm clock with a blue dial. Which I broke.
Putting the prayer room brocade for the Guru Granth Sahib on fire with agarbattis.
Setting a live snake bought from a charmer loose in class.
Watching my first porn movie.
Walking across our village fields in rains.
Milking a cow.
Watching the birth of a calf.
Waiting for my turn to bathe under the tubewell.
Falling off the school bus.
My mother crying because there wasn’t enough money in the house even to buy eggs.
Eating roti with daal, green chilies, salt and onions.
Getting an electric shock.
The 84 riots.
Zia – my standard one classmate from Bombay Scottish.
My horrendous yellow baby dresses with Mickey, Minnie and Donald.
I remembered all of this and a whole lot more.
I was damm kicked. Trust me.
And I silently thanked ‘30 & happy’
for making me think. There are these memories
that need to be re-lived. And thought over.
And ‘happy’, you made me do it. Thank you.
I realized I never wanted to grow up.
Because childhood is the only phase of your life,
where you cannot be judged. You do what you want,
and get loved for it.
But the kids at the building, well,
I couldn’t get the cricket out of my head.
My thinking had made me cry out for a time machine.
I wish I could jump into one and race back
to my standard 6 days in New Delhi.
Every time I watched them play, it hurt.
It hurt that I was not doing it everyday anymore.
I didn’t have the time. Couldn’t.
But I was surprised how much I wanted to.
Could I, still?
But the thinking had made me remember.
The elder kids coming in to play.
The father returning from work wanting to pelt a few shots.
The casual bond, that is ever so easy to create with a kid.
All it takes is a smile and some genuine affection.
So as I was walking out of the building, today evening
I asked them politely if I could play a few shots.
They said sure. And I took the bat.
I was out first ball. Clean bowled.
I threw a tantrum. I wanted another chance.
There were a few voices of dissent but I had my way.
If it was childhood I was visiting I would do the whole deal.
And I got my second chance.
And scored 37 runs. Glory being cut short by a brilliant catch.
I said thank you, shook hands with all of them and walked out.
I was so happy this evening. And honestly, despite all kicks
about my rock solid memory, I cannot remember when
was the last time I was so happy.
As I touched the main road I felt a tear in my eye.
I wiped it off before it could trickle down.
I was happy with the child in me. He was alive and kicking.
block close to my office.
As I walk down the driveway, in the basement to the lift,
I always smiled at the building kids playing cricket.
I remembered my house / tennis ball cricket.
No teams. Individual batsmen. Turns picked on lot.
Last to bat, first to bowl.
If the ball hits a window directly – out.
Runs only on leg side (offside for LHB).
3 overs per batsman maximum.
If the ball is lost, the batsman is liable.
Fast bowling not allowed.
One bounce-one hand catch – out (optional).
I remembered all this and smiled.
It was amazing. The carelessness. The worry free life.
The only major stress being how to extend daily playtime.
Then one fine day ‘30 & happy’ wrote on her childhood.
It was beautiful.
It made me look back long and hard at my childhood
and I was happy that remembered a lot of stuff.
Somehow I was kicked just because I could remember all of it. Clearly.
My fathers Seiko crystal alarm clock with a blue dial. Which I broke.
Putting the prayer room brocade for the Guru Granth Sahib on fire with agarbattis.
Setting a live snake bought from a charmer loose in class.
Watching my first porn movie.
Walking across our village fields in rains.
Milking a cow.
Watching the birth of a calf.
Waiting for my turn to bathe under the tubewell.
Falling off the school bus.
My mother crying because there wasn’t enough money in the house even to buy eggs.
Eating roti with daal, green chilies, salt and onions.
Getting an electric shock.
The 84 riots.
Zia – my standard one classmate from Bombay Scottish.
My horrendous yellow baby dresses with Mickey, Minnie and Donald.
I remembered all of this and a whole lot more.
I was damm kicked. Trust me.
And I silently thanked ‘30 & happy’
for making me think. There are these memories
that need to be re-lived. And thought over.
And ‘happy’, you made me do it. Thank you.
I realized I never wanted to grow up.
Because childhood is the only phase of your life,
where you cannot be judged. You do what you want,
and get loved for it.
But the kids at the building, well,
I couldn’t get the cricket out of my head.
My thinking had made me cry out for a time machine.
I wish I could jump into one and race back
to my standard 6 days in New Delhi.
Every time I watched them play, it hurt.
It hurt that I was not doing it everyday anymore.
I didn’t have the time. Couldn’t.
But I was surprised how much I wanted to.
Could I, still?
But the thinking had made me remember.
The elder kids coming in to play.
The father returning from work wanting to pelt a few shots.
The casual bond, that is ever so easy to create with a kid.
All it takes is a smile and some genuine affection.
So as I was walking out of the building, today evening
I asked them politely if I could play a few shots.
They said sure. And I took the bat.
I was out first ball. Clean bowled.
I threw a tantrum. I wanted another chance.
There were a few voices of dissent but I had my way.
If it was childhood I was visiting I would do the whole deal.
And I got my second chance.
And scored 37 runs. Glory being cut short by a brilliant catch.
I said thank you, shook hands with all of them and walked out.
I was so happy this evening. And honestly, despite all kicks
about my rock solid memory, I cannot remember when
was the last time I was so happy.
As I touched the main road I felt a tear in my eye.
I wiped it off before it could trickle down.
I was happy with the child in me. He was alive and kicking.
6.2.06
The panty story
The past few days have brought some revelations.
A few ladies I know have shown an almost unbelievably bad taste in lingerie.
No, don’t get me wrong here, most of them just write about it.
There were some turn off shades like pink, orange, yellow and green. And some bigger turn offs with sparkles and polka dots.
And then, one sweet girl took the cake.
She claimed to fancy cartoon character like lingerie with psychographic descriptions that say ‘mysterious’ or ‘I’m single’.
Though thankfully she doesn’t wear them over her denims. And neither is the graffiti in Braille. But that doesn’t really help.
I cannot, but wonder what purpose they serve.
Besides the hygienic reasons the only other benefit of lingerie is pleasure. Either to yourself, or to another’s. In which case, if you’re lucky, it would boil down to the first.
Net-net, Pleasure...
Now, how in heavens name, does orange or green lingerie give you any form of visual pleasure? Because what you feel has less to do with color and more to do with fabric. So ultimately it is visual pleasure for self (less) and others (more).
(I will not even make a mention of pink here.)
And while we are talking about fabric and texture, how can I forget a few hidden quirks I was privy to. Now nobody wants to hurt themselves with heir own lingerie…right?
Considering, the kinky ones, well yes. There is a possibility. But how can you ‘do up’ your lingerie in a way that it not only stands to permanently harm your privates but bring your already colorless sex life to an end? Kinks are fine, I’m all for them. Hell…I have a few of my own.
But if the kink happens to be related to word games, barb wires or sandpaper… I am surprised you are managing to get some in the first place.
Imagine this. You get into a room (or anywhere you chose) with a babe. Things are going good and she sheds her 501s to reveal a pink and white number with ‘mysterious’ written on the butt!
And says “lets play sexagram – anagram”. Jumble up ‘mysterious’ and come up with a sexy word.
Oooooooffffff! Turn off would be a blessing in such a situation.
Or maybe you hurt your fingers while undoing the barb wire.
Or removing the sandpaper.
If they have not already hurt someone fatally.
(The flip side here is, there will be no make out session. No in-betweens. You either go all the way there, or kiss and hope for lesser hurdles on the way next time. But with such lingerie, please do not attempt a 2nd base make out session. For it will end up in the emergency room of the nearest hospital. And you will have to come up with a convincing, yet baseless story.
But hell, some of these prints still look good. Tiger prints with fur and all. Or barb wire. Or sandpaper. Or some dandy outrageous color with who-knows-why graffiti on them.
But they look good on someone else. Preferably standing next to a pole. Or dancing on it. Under neon lights. And inconsequential music.
Now here it is very important to understand what good lingerie is.
You see, good lingerie is first and foremost simple. And comfortable.
Plain. Without prints.
Because good lingerie either needs to merge with your clothes. Or your skin.
So unless you have natural fur or skin like sandpaper or private parts like the de-forested area 51 that is barb wired (in which case I am surprised you need good lingerie in the first place), please stick to simple and comfortable. They will surely help you get some.
If you’re not planning to make a living out of being whipped or poled, stick to the tried and tested sexy lingerie.
In lace. Satin. At times sexy black leather. Or good old cotton. For a more detailed version please visit www.victoriassecret.com
And yes, the colors in order of sensuality are black, red, white, grey, blue and peach.
And if none of these suggestions sound good to you (you know who all I’m referring to), chuck the whole thing. Forget lingerie. Reduce a step in the process. Get down straight to business.
Pleasure. Thy name is lingerie.
Though if love is blind, I wonder why lingerie is so popular. But that is for another blog…
After thoughts
How does a biker ride a bike with the entire weight he carries resting on his privates? Which in turn rest on sandpaper and barb wire. Or fur for that matter. And pressed against the iron of the fuel tank.
I failed to have an after thought on the purpose of the ‘mysterious’ word game. Was it featured under the ‘10001 sex tips to spice up your life’ in the latest issue of cosmopolitan?
Orange I agree is a ‘happy’ color. But lingerie should make you feel sexy, not happy.
And finally, sparkles are for class 2 coloring projects. Of fancy dress costumes. Or to decorate and liven up boring show pieces. Need I say more?
A few ladies I know have shown an almost unbelievably bad taste in lingerie.
No, don’t get me wrong here, most of them just write about it.
There were some turn off shades like pink, orange, yellow and green. And some bigger turn offs with sparkles and polka dots.
And then, one sweet girl took the cake.
She claimed to fancy cartoon character like lingerie with psychographic descriptions that say ‘mysterious’ or ‘I’m single’.
Though thankfully she doesn’t wear them over her denims. And neither is the graffiti in Braille. But that doesn’t really help.
I cannot, but wonder what purpose they serve.
Besides the hygienic reasons the only other benefit of lingerie is pleasure. Either to yourself, or to another’s. In which case, if you’re lucky, it would boil down to the first.
Net-net, Pleasure...
Now, how in heavens name, does orange or green lingerie give you any form of visual pleasure? Because what you feel has less to do with color and more to do with fabric. So ultimately it is visual pleasure for self (less) and others (more).
(I will not even make a mention of pink here.)
And while we are talking about fabric and texture, how can I forget a few hidden quirks I was privy to. Now nobody wants to hurt themselves with heir own lingerie…right?
Considering, the kinky ones, well yes. There is a possibility. But how can you ‘do up’ your lingerie in a way that it not only stands to permanently harm your privates but bring your already colorless sex life to an end? Kinks are fine, I’m all for them. Hell…I have a few of my own.
But if the kink happens to be related to word games, barb wires or sandpaper… I am surprised you are managing to get some in the first place.
Imagine this. You get into a room (or anywhere you chose) with a babe. Things are going good and she sheds her 501s to reveal a pink and white number with ‘mysterious’ written on the butt!
And says “lets play sexagram – anagram”. Jumble up ‘mysterious’ and come up with a sexy word.
Oooooooffffff! Turn off would be a blessing in such a situation.
Or maybe you hurt your fingers while undoing the barb wire.
Or removing the sandpaper.
If they have not already hurt someone fatally.
(The flip side here is, there will be no make out session. No in-betweens. You either go all the way there, or kiss and hope for lesser hurdles on the way next time. But with such lingerie, please do not attempt a 2nd base make out session. For it will end up in the emergency room of the nearest hospital. And you will have to come up with a convincing, yet baseless story.
But hell, some of these prints still look good. Tiger prints with fur and all. Or barb wire. Or sandpaper. Or some dandy outrageous color with who-knows-why graffiti on them.
But they look good on someone else. Preferably standing next to a pole. Or dancing on it. Under neon lights. And inconsequential music.
Now here it is very important to understand what good lingerie is.
You see, good lingerie is first and foremost simple. And comfortable.
Plain. Without prints.
Because good lingerie either needs to merge with your clothes. Or your skin.
So unless you have natural fur or skin like sandpaper or private parts like the de-forested area 51 that is barb wired (in which case I am surprised you need good lingerie in the first place), please stick to simple and comfortable. They will surely help you get some.
If you’re not planning to make a living out of being whipped or poled, stick to the tried and tested sexy lingerie.
In lace. Satin. At times sexy black leather. Or good old cotton. For a more detailed version please visit www.victoriassecret.com
And yes, the colors in order of sensuality are black, red, white, grey, blue and peach.
And if none of these suggestions sound good to you (you know who all I’m referring to), chuck the whole thing. Forget lingerie. Reduce a step in the process. Get down straight to business.
Pleasure. Thy name is lingerie.
Though if love is blind, I wonder why lingerie is so popular. But that is for another blog…
After thoughts
How does a biker ride a bike with the entire weight he carries resting on his privates? Which in turn rest on sandpaper and barb wire. Or fur for that matter. And pressed against the iron of the fuel tank.
I failed to have an after thought on the purpose of the ‘mysterious’ word game. Was it featured under the ‘10001 sex tips to spice up your life’ in the latest issue of cosmopolitan?
Orange I agree is a ‘happy’ color. But lingerie should make you feel sexy, not happy.
And finally, sparkles are for class 2 coloring projects. Of fancy dress costumes. Or to decorate and liven up boring show pieces. Need I say more?
18.1.06
The art of lying
11 tips to lying successfully, perfected after a lifetime of effort.
The art of One:One issue, one lie.
Be realistic:Stay as close to the truth as possible, for credibility, and flexibility.
KISS:One version, fewer chances of getting rogered, and fewer people to roger you.
Stay focussed: Extraneous information betrays lack of self-confidence. Also see Point 3 – keep it short.
Unemotionality:Take acting lessons. Much like in sex, body language is everything.
Pick your target:Underestimating your intended victims can have disastrous consequences.
Stick to your story:Never contradict yourself. At least, not in public.
How To Confess:In the unlikely eventuality, plead, grovel, beg, and live to lie another day. Also see Point 5 – acting lessons.
Apna jhooth Jagannath:Lying is not a group activity. Play with yourself only.
The art of closure:Know when to call it quits. But never reveal the truth.
Last, but not least, you can lie to all the people, all the time. You just can’t lie to them all at the same time.
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