Kanjoos

Protagonist: ‘Jerry’ (Name changed for two reasons. First to conceal actual identity. Second, to save my a**) (Relationships are very important now a days, especially when you have the skills, talents, determination and IQ which nobody is pleased with)
Class: 4th
Classmate of: Victor Guerra
Academics: Good (but relatively better than the classmate just mentioned above)

Reynolds - 045 fine carbure - This was not a pen. But a symbol of pride in the class. If one didn’t have a Reynolds, a classmate would whisper into his benchmate's ears “Laxman, Laxman, listen --Kamble doesn’t have a Reynolds pen it seems. Ehe". And Laxman would instantly whisper back “What? Kamble doesn’t have a Reynolds pen? Tchah. Pity!”. And they would both bring their hands up to stifle their giggles. The breaking news would soon spread from one ear to another. One bench to another. In all directions. Like a forest fire.

The maintenance cost on Reynolds is partly to be blamed. When a Reynold's refill costed Rs 2, a similar looking cheap local ballpoint refill could be owned using a mere 50 paise. So, 75% saving. Cost arbitrage.

Jerry was surely from a well-to-do family. He had a Reynolds pen, but never spent money on a Reynolds refill. In his Camlin geometry box, besides other standard components, one could invariably find these - Reynolds pen, an empty Reynolds refill and new/partly used local ballpoint refill. Before the teacher walks into the class, he would look around to make sure nobody is watching him. With his teeth, he would tactically pull the nibs off both the refills and spit them into the geometry box first. Then, he would closely hold the nib-holding ends of the two refills facing each other, using his thumb and index finger. At this point, the so built hydraulic engineering prototype resembles two pipes strategically connected to one another. The thumb and index finger act as a gasket joint. Step-1 ends here.

Next step.
Cautiously, he would insert the other end of the local ballpoint refill into his mouth and seal his lips tightly around it. He would then take a deep pranayamic breath with his nostrils. This operation creates enough suction thereby creating a vacuum in his mouth. He would then start injecting pressure into the refill orally. Here, the pressure release would be incremental. And requires utmost patience.

Please note this is a high-level respiratory maneuver and so please don't try it at home. A slight mistake - in holding the refills or exerting pressure - would result in the blue fluid seeping through the virtual joint, straight onto your thumb and index finger. Thus, your fingers would be in a mess. You may end up spending a lot of time scratching and scrubbing to get rid of the sticky ink from your fingers.

I'm so sorry for digressing.

While Jerry keeps exerting the air pressure, a few seconds later, the pressure so exerted would push the sticky blue ink from the local refill ('donor') slowly into the empty refill ('receiver'). This is how the mission of transfusion is accomplished. Jerry would repeat this patented procedure whenever his Reynolds refill runs out of fluid. Known compatibility issues with the nibs ruled out the possibility of swapping between the local and Reynolds refills

That's how Jerry managed to keep up his pride in the class. That's how he saved 75% of his refill budget everytime. Not once, but many times. I was the sole witness all the time. Being his neighbor, all I could do was scratch my head and wonder in awe. The first time when I watched him doing it, I was incredibly shocked. With mouth wide open, as wide as possible. Displaying my uvula and may be even a part of my oesophagus. He looked up at me and wondered at my gape. With a sheepish chuckle he asked "Ehe..What happened re ?”
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SCROOGERY. Or SCREW Jerry - You decide.

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As you know, milk becomes curd. Caterpillar becomes butterfly. It’s high time we realized that the widely ignored and seemingly ignorable stinginess in children gradually transforms into a characteristic scroogery once they become fully-grown adults.

And as adults, they pose a threat to humanity.

Although I couldn't track Jerry through adulthood, I met similar other specimens. Some even better. If empirical knowledge is to be trusted, please be informed that it's a competitive world out there. Thanks.
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Injection

It's the most frightening scientific invention ever. It's a robust mini-missile. With a ridiculously sharp needle in front, all set to trespass on a child’s innocent butt.

That was my opinion about injections in those days. Dating back to Rajiv Gandhi's administration.

I was 7 years old. In 2nd class. That afternoon I was hauled to the hospital for an ear infection and related pain. I didn't want to visit the hospital. More than the ear pain, my thought-focus was primarily on "Whether the doctor would prescribe tablets or injection?". This question kept reverberating in me. 

My mom, my cousin (about 9 years elder to me) and my aunt (mom's elder sister) escorted me to the hospital in an auto-rickshaw. While the cousin and aunt were waiting outside the ENT doctor's kiosk, mom and I went inside to consult him. The doctor, a middle-aged bespectacled gentleman, examined my ear with a small funnel attached to a long handle. He thought for a moment and declared that the infection calls for an immediate antibiotic dose. My 2nd-standard GK knew only four medical terms - Injection, Tablets, Capsules and Amruthanjan. While I was wondering what an 'antibiotic' actually meant, he wrote a prescription and handed it over to mom. "Pathetic infection in his ear. This injection is a must. Hope the child had food this morning" he said.

A mini tsunami erupted in my stomach. Giving me a virtual bowel movement. A sort of heat accumulated in my head. Strange waves entered me from somewhere around the foot and swept along the length and breadth of my body. Some people call it fear.

We came out and my cousin and aunt were sitting outside waiting for us. 

 "Amma, my ear is not paining now. It feels okay now, see" I said pulling my infected ear. "Shall we go home amma?" 

She is my mom. So she knew what I was actually up to.

Perceived visions of injection induced panic in me. I resorted to my ultimate weapon, which I trained myself well in, over the years. I took my standard position on the floor. Sitting down with legs spread out and leaving hands in the air. Then I started crying and screaming while rigorously swinging my arms and legs in all directions. My aunt rushed toward me, leaned on a knee and smiled. I reduced my volume to a neglibible level, but was still crying in reflex. "My dear, please don't cry. There won't be any pain at all. Did you ever feel an ant bite so painful?" I paused, mouth still open. "Yes, think of the injection as a cute little ant bite, OK?" she said pulling my cheek.

No body can trick Victor. 

I resumed with full volume. My cousin and mom exchanged glances conveying hopelessness. The cousin came closer, kneeled down and put his arm around my shoulder. "Tch. Tch. Tch..Don’t cry dear. Please don’t cry. The nurse here is a very good girl. Last time when the doctor wrote me an injection, the good-girl nurse gave me that painless injection. We'll ask her to give the same painless injection to you as well. Otherwise we'll go home. God Promise". I paused. Analyzed the offer for a while. Silence ensued. The three elders eagerly awaited my response, like a third-umpire's decision for the last wicket in a world cup final. A silent me noded affirmatively. Half-hearted and suspicious yet. Cousin picked me up and gestured at my mom and aunt to stay back, while he took me to the hospital's common injection room. It was only a few feet away. The hospital’s overall smell is relatively milder than the injection room’s. The injection room had an intense pungent smell. Like a mix of iodine and Dettol, with a tinge of urine. 

That smell was partly responsible for my phobia. 

My cousin handed over the prescription to the nurse. An evil-looking woman. Infact, all nurses seemed evil-looking to me. This one was fat, with a big face, large teeth and dark circles under her eyes. Wearing an immaculate white frock, with a white three-dimensional equilateral rhombus over her head. She gave me a dirty look suggesting a potential tragedy. And picked up a monster syringe, almost the size of a veterinary spray. She then combed through a drawer full of tiny bottles with rubber lids. Finally plucked one such bottle out. She held it inverted on top of the needle and pushed it a little through the rubber. She then pushed the plunger down with her outer thumb to enable liquid transfusion into the syringe.

She threw away the tiny bottle into the bin and held the syringe upright. She gave a little nudge to the plunger. A drop of liquid shot up from the tip of the needle, like a fountain.

She asked me to go over and lie down on the stretcher, head down. My legs quivered. My cousin was still holding my arm. "Sister, this is the painless magic injection you gave me that day right?" said my cousin while winking suggestively at her. I caught his wink red-handed, almost midway. I sensed the conspiracy. 

I gave a solid 32-teeth bite to my cousin's wrist and escaped the spot. I ran across the length of the hospital, screaming, as if I was being chased by a doberman. My cousin ran after me. People watched us, including my mom and aunt, both agape. A compounder who noticed me being chased by the cousin obstructed my way and I bumped into him. No casualties. The compounder held me tight for handing me over to the authorized owner. My cousin arrived and had a quick conversation with the compounder. They reached some consensus and the two forcibly lifted me up. I was hanging down their arms, struggling for a release. My legs swinging in the air. Like a freshly trapped gorilla. I was finally brought to the injection room, right in front of the fat nurse. By forced squeezes, muscular thrusts and trouser pull-downs by cousin and the compounder together, the most-feared needle finally made its way into the butt.

An exhausted and agonized me couldn’t even moan. For the first time, I remained silent in an injection room.
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Maggie

Maggie - The Official Bachelor's Staple Food - can be prepared in various ways.

1. Most common method - Gas stove
2. Microwave Oven
3. Induction stove
4. Immersion heater
5. Economic Times News Paper.

This is a story about option 5. Read on.

Pune - Long long ago.

That sunday, my gastro-duodenal rodents woke me up at 9 a.m. I crawled out of the mattress marching towards the bathroom for a hunger-induced, hasty, teeth-brushing. I gave a short glance at my roomie in the other room who was still snoring away, lying there half-naked.

Despite a good tiffin-centre right around the corner, I was not physically and spiritually motivated to go through the Herculean series of tasks just to satiate my hunger – standing in queue at the tiffin-centre with other equally starving bachelors from neighbourhood, ordering breakfast, waiting for 30 mins before the food arrives, eating the food, feeling insufficient, re-ordering food, waiting for 30 mins again, accumulating 100000 PSi of gas in stomach due to waiting, and finally regretting “WHY THE HELL HAVE I COME HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?”

Ha, only losers would go there, I thought.

I initiated the proceedings by taking out a pan from the kitchen cabinet. Filled roughly half of it with water and dumped two packs of regular maggie straight into it. After about two minutes, the water stopped boiling (and my patience started withering). The blueflame had already died. Lying there was my semi-cooked maggi like an interrogated victim in jail. Moments later, while I was sincerely resenting at my situation, my roomie showed up, slowly tottering into the kitchen.

Roomie: (releasing a disgusting yawn) “Good morning dude, is the maggie ready?"
Me: (silently pointing my sight at the half-cooked maggie in the pan)
Roomie: “He He He He”
Me:
Roomie: "I knew this would happen..He He He He ….the LPG was over…..I forgot to tell you yesterday…He He He He.”

BAST*RD!

Back here, my self-respect felt like a rape victim - hopeless and lost.
“Insaaf chaahiye mujhe” my self-respect was shouting within.
“Khaana chahiye mujhe” the rodents were nagging me on the other hand.
Precisely, in moments like this, I generally feel like putting my head into my hands and cry out as loud as is humanly possible. Some people call it helplessness.

Two minutes later, I started looking around confusedly. Searching for nothing in particular. Then something caught my eye -- an elegant heap of Economic Times papers lying at the corner.

A bulb glows. Dawn befalls. In my head. EUREKA!.

Like Archimedes of Syracuse (not naked though) I rushed toward the main door of the apartment. Peeped through the peephole to make sure no humans were hanging around in the corridor. I stole a grand total of three bricks inconspicuously, which our neighbour Mishra uncle had laid near the elevator two days ago (some upcoming cement work in his apt, who cares). I strategically placed the bricks on the kitchen’s granite platform such that, it comfortably held the pan over it, while giving ample space for the Economic Times paper rolls underneath.

A full 10-mins of high-flame cooking ensued. During those 10 mins, whether my maggie was being over-cooked or being evaporated, only God knew. Offensive smoke filled the kitchen due to the live combustion of Economic Times. Ridiculous amounts of ash flew all over due to wind sweeping in from the window.

The roomie hurried into the kitchen hearing a muffled scream from me. I was sitting there on a chair, with my legs awkwardly spreadout (an ergonomically disapproved gesture). Roughly an inch of my finger became tandoori and I was restlessly blowing air onto it to pacify the burning pain. My eyes turned red and bloodshot, while face with myriad patches of burnt Economic Times remains all over. (Think about a narrowly escaped tsunami victim)

The roomie then leaned over to take a careful look at the noodles. Overcooked and garnished with amazing flakes of burnt paper, it resembled an exotic African pasta.
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Irani Chai

“EEEK….BYAAAKK. CHEE CHEE!”. 
Precisely, that’s how I reacted when I sipped tea from the paper cup in office. The tea under consideration is the tea I made using Lipt** tea bags with considerable assistance from the office vending machine. That’s when my personal recollections of the hallowed 'Irani Chai' came running down the memory lane, swept me off my feet and took me into a world while disrupting the normal chronologial flow of present events. 

(**truncated to keep the brand confidential)

One of the most gratifying things offered to me by Hyderabad, beside others, is the Irani chai. It’s been over two decades now since I’d been sipping away the luscious bewerage. Irani chai with my mischievous buddies is always the most delightful of times I could ever have. In their presence lies the actual fun - intimate gossips and raunchy humour, coupled with the zingy ambience irani hotels would offer (this is complimentary though) and the legendary portfolio of snacks that goes down brilliantly with irani chai. This glorious assemblage –  friends with wicked-sense of humour, irani chai and hyderabadi snacks - makes an unbeatable and incontestable combination on any given day.

Irani Restaurants - Personal Favorites

My cousin introduced me to Blue Sea (Secunderabad) when I was about 10 years (?) old. Blue Sea is a seasoned irani hotel which every secunderabadi is aware of. Not knowing Blue Sea is not knowing Secunderabad. The humble 500 sqft (appx) restaurant still continues to operate in full vim. Though the place is principally popular for the scrumptious chai, one would hardly miss their freshly-made tiny onion samosas, brittle osmania biscuits or their less-than-average-market-size crispy curry puffs or egg puffs – a perfect complement to every sip. In my childhood, legend had it that every morning, the owner mixes in a ‘secret’ ingredient into the boiling milk giving it the pleasant taste and that even the restaurant staff are not aware of the secret ingredient either. (However, Google says, the secret is condensed milk. Now how does it matter, no?)

Another such reputable irani hotel is ‘Paradise Bakery and Take Away’ at Paradise Circle, Sec'bad - being run by the same group that runs the Paradise Restaurant (flagship product: Paradise Biryani). This place has more choices, snack-wise, as compared to Blue Sea. – osmania biscuits, tie biscuits, pastries, lukhmi, cream rolls, meat rolls, aloo samosa, egg/chicken/vegetable/mutton puffs, miscellaneous biscuits, etc.

These are two of the very few irani hotels in Hydrabad where you would find chicks as well, slurping away chai with their boyfriends.

The Legendary Snacks – Personal Ranking

Rank one invariably goes to Chota Samosa - A hyderabadi speciality. If you are a newbie, you would be in love at first sight. Mouthwatering, literally. The crispy, tiny, three-dimensional snack is unbeatable in terms of taste and timing. Take a bite off it, half-chew it and sip the chai. I guarantee you a snapshot from heaven. If chota samosas are not available, bada samosas (aloo samosas) can serve as an alternative.

Rank two goes to Osmania biscuits – the sweet n salty, small n crispy, hardly 2-inch circular biskit. Always take a gentle bite off an Osmania biscuit, right after half-soaking it in irani chai for a moment. With its characteristic crispiness, a chai-soaked Osmania is a celestial delicacy. Every chai-soaked bite would only prompt you to take yet another one. I can bet on that!

Rank three – Tie biscuits, Veg/Non-Veg Puffs Or Lukhmi.

Puffs could be Curry puffs, Veg puffs, Chicken or Mutton Puffs, based on your dietary restrictions. Maximum pleasure assured if the puffs are garam-garam. Tie biscuits, yet another crispy snack, are so called because of their ‘bow-tie’ shape. In a way, Tie-biscuits and Puffs are first cousins. Likewise, Lukhmi, a non-veg variant of samosa, is a distant cousin to aloo samosa. Although not triangular.

Additionally, Mirchi bhajji, Dal vada, Cream buns and Cakes, are other snacks that usually go well with irani chai. Don’t forget to ask for onion slices and fried n salted green chillies while ordering Mirchi bhajji or Aloo samosa, okay?

(Picture Courtesy: http://www.shadruchulu.com/)

Group Songs

I rushed home and threw myself all over my mom and announced “Amma, I got selected”.

For a moment, she would have thought it’s the Indian Civil Services I was talking about.

“Selected into what moaneh?” she instantly threw a question seasoned with motherly hope.

“My school’s group-song team amma”.

I was in my 2nd class (in a boys’ school) at that time. That’s when I started discovering skills in me I didn't even know existed. I used to feel so proud when a random 3rd standard student I usually run into in the school urinal, standing right beside me piddling, holds out his ‘unengaged’ hand for a handshake "Hey. Weren't you part of the group
that sang Asathoma sadhgamaya on stage on Independence day?”

With an indefinable sense of pride, I would finish ‘it’ up first and then leisurely clasp his hand, uttering an arrogant "Yup" and quickly draw myself away.

Mrs. Swarna Latha, a teacher and self-proclaimed head of singing department in school, selected about eight class-2 students (including me) with promising tonal and rhythmic abilities to redefine the singing futurity of our school. Any school event – republic day, independence day or annual day – our group ruled the stage banging away patriotic and devotional chartbusters. From correcting us during rehearsals to applying lipstick to our mouths before performances – Mrs Swarna Latha took care of everything. I wasn’t the lead vocalist of the group, however, on any given performance day, you could always locate me at either of the extremes in the front row - wearing white kurta-pyjama and red lipstick while looking straight into the sky, passionately singing away "Hum bulbule hain isukkiiii...."

This lasted for a couple of years and I was (approximately) in class 5 by then. A couple of days prior to our annual day, in between a dry-run which she was supervising, she called me over “Tch. Your voice range is somewhat different now a days. If you don’t mind, can you please stand in the second row, hmm…behind G.Vishwanatham?” -- And I sincerely believed her. And continued singing standing in the second row with the same spirit and joyful enthusiasm as I did before.

My participation in group songs (standing behind G.Vishwanatham) continued until class 6 when, for reasons incognita, Mrs Swarna Latha didn’t call me in for rehearsals for the upcoming republic day.

"I saw Vishwanatham going to the rehearsals room sometime ago"  Sudhakar, yet another classmate told me. I immediately ran up to the rehearsals room. I saw Mrs.Swarna Latha standing by the window leisurely turning over pages of a notebook in her hand. The other singers were in a group few feet away having their silly talks --break time may be, I thought. She saw me getting in and I went right up to her to share critical information "Teacher, you forgot to call me for the rehearsals teacher"  my hands folded and legs straight, in the white-blue typical school uniform.

She cleared her throat “Actually, I didn't call you because your voice wouldn't suit this song. Can you please go back to your class room now?” was all she said. I extrapolated the hidden message. And I silently went back to my classroom. Like Kamal Hassan in Moondram Pirai I broke into tears with confused squalls.

Thereafter, I never got any calls for rehearsals from Mrs.Swarna Latha. So during all such school events, one could invariably locate me clapping hands aloud sitting in the very first row in front of the stage.

Movie With Motu

Long Long Ago.

Three of us, after polishing off three full plates of street-side chicken noodles with thumbs-up, stepped into the movie theatre - Raghavendra 35 mm, Malkajgiri, (Hyd) - before the second-show movie was yet to begin. The hall lights were on, although dim and hopeless. The conventionally rocking and the official all time favorite of all hyderabadi movie goers - Vicco Turmeric and Vicco Vajradanti chain of ads - were already up on the screen. As we entered the hall, the balded old man in the ad, in his 70's, was biting open a walnut (signifying the ecumenical superiority of teeth over hair during old age)

Preventing an erosion of our individual networth (a whopping two-digit whole number) being the economic rationality, we never bought balcony tickets for two strategic reasons 1) want of freedom that is 100% immune to externally imposed behavioural restraints and 2) our sharp inclination to defy personal and collective dignity and gravitas. For us, watching movies is incomplete without atleast a dozen spells of whistling, screaming, bellylaughing and commenting on half-naked actresses on screen. So, dress-circle tickets ('mezzanine' poshly speaking) were our all-time favorite. Our dearest fatso, Rahul (motu), who resembles a personified pit bull with a detachable pot belly, grabbed the middle one up, among the three reserved seats by pushing us away. He quickly settled down in his seat and was grinning at us with a tinge of pride rivalling the Nizam of Hyderabad. Having no choice, we (Vishu and I) slipped into the seats on either sides of Rahul. Our seats were in the third row from the wall.

“Abey motu, middle seat mujhe de na, interval mein samosa khilaatha hoon” Vishu said. Motu heard it, but feigned ignorance, clearly evident from his naturally suspicious facial characteristics. He was sitting with his right leg across over the left, while oscillating them up and down.

The vicco vajradanti ads ended and the screen turned dark, while the lights still on. Silence ensued. Motu released a quick loud whistle - composition wise, 80% air and 20% whistle - and screamed out, loud enough for the limited people in the dress-circle section “ABEY O SAALE, AB THO LIGHTS BANDH KAR NA BEY, TERI MAAKI" while looking over his shoulder at the small square-shaped opening in the wall, apparently aiming at the movie operator.

“BEHNCH*D, KAUN HAI BEY WOH? SAALE!! FILIM START HONE AUR DUS MINUTE BAAKI HAI. ANDAR AANE SE PEHLE SHOW KA TIMING DEKTHEY NAHI BEY, BHAADAKHOW!” came a prompt reply from the sickly human head that popped up at the little wall opening. The entire hall (with about 25% occupancy) broke into laughter. We gave a gentle side glance at Motu who, by that time, had already curled himself up, and like a world-war sniper, was silently hiding deep in his seat giving nervous looks at the audience. 

After about three minutes, he eyeballed all around carefully to make sure no one is looking at him. Then, he mumbled to me in the lowest possible decibel by any human "Woh Saala too much kar raha tha na?"

Blizzard and The Black Man

It was a blizzardly morning - a heavy wind and snowfall supremacy time. At around 8-45 am, I was on my way back to my apartment from the train station as services were suspended due to the snowstorm. What's better news on monday morning than a nature-gifted chance to go back home and rest in peace. All roads and rail tracks were buried deep under the snow. Hardly anyone around. I could only hear and feel the strong and potent sound of wind (imagine two people standing on either side and blowing air right into your ears through a PVC pipe of about 3 inches in diameter). The feel and sound were cinematic, reminiscent of icelandic war movies. For once, I felt I was on some abandoned land in Antarctica.

Now, that being a Monday, who doesn't want to go back and 'work' from home, especially when one has a Netflix subscription? So I made two quick phone calls to inform my colleagues and client about the current crisis and my 'work-from-home' plan for the day.

It was way too cold, windy and specks of snow were shooting right into my eyes while pipping other exposed parts of my head. I could also hear indistinct sounds of horns in the distance (I would have loved to describe the clouds too to sound like Arundhati Roy. Alas, I learnt, during a blizzard clouds wouldn’t show up at all. Thanks). Despite being geared up in my winter paraphernalia and my limbs and torso being reasonably covered, in that bone-chilling weather my sensory faculties were so numb that it could have successfully ignored even a trouser malfunction.

I was wobbling in the snow along the main road, pregnant with desperation to reach home. I saw a blue toyota innova-like vehicle that was being slowed down passing by me and finally pulled over at the nearby signal. A well-built black man with clean-tonsured head, who was driving the vehicle kept waving his hand at me until the vehicle came to a full stop. He then signalled me to come over for a free lift. In that moment of my struggle against atmospheric inconvenience, I saw a cheerful Mother Teresa in him (discounting anatomical and size-related dissimilarities betweeen the two). I quickly sprinted upto the vehicle, narrowly missing a nosedive, opened the front door and sat in the passenger seat.

Me: (Panting, and gently showing my teeth staging an official boardroom smile) "Thanks friend, thank you so much" I said while gently tapping his right thigh (just a courtesty tap, with no specific motive)

Black man: "Maen, I dhin' kawl yo to sith here"

Me: (was trying to analyse what he is actually trying to say)

Black man: "Maen, yo ge' wad-i-say?

Me: (No clue - this reminded me of my CAT paper. While the skeptic in me said this is how potential muggers start conversing before mugging the innocents)

Me: (*Wink*) SSS...Sorry, What ??

Black man: "Maen, yo' draapt yo' glav bac ther" (pointing his hand in the direction I came from)

‘Glav’ was the only word that sounded somewhat closer to my limited vocabulary. I double checked my palms. Left-hand glove was missing.

The Year 2010 - In retrospect

Warning: Long post. Would be boring if you do not know me. May be boring even if you know me.

Highlights of 2010.

Joined facebook. I wasn't so active during the initial days of my membership. Gradually, however, my curiosity grew along with my interest in peeping into others' lives. Never meant malice. But I simply cherished knowing what each of my FB friends were upto on an as-and-when basis. I never missed any of their photo albums or to "Like' their status messages and funny youtube videos that were being shared. I'm addicted to the 'social network'. I knew FB is no productive stuff, but I can't resist. Orkut is dead anyways.

Been to India in March for sister's wedding. Younger to me and my only sibling. The wedding was a grand success. Attained 100% peace of mind in that responsibility area. Due credits to my friend-circle (albeit limited, but close) who made it happen by each of them owning a particular department for the event - catering, logistics, decoration, grocery, etc. What a sigh of relief it was to chug beer with buddies on the exhaustive wedding day evening after seeing off the final set of relatives at the station. Me and my buddies went through three days of improper sleep being busy in wedding arrangements, yet had lots of fun spending time and working together. Looking forward to yet another visit in March, perhaps 1st week. Known them for more than 10 years now - each of them had a really important role to play in my life (will elaborate in one of my future posts)

Few days before the wedding, while I was at my inlaws' place with the wifey, a flash news came up - That I would be a dad soon. I had mixed feelings, to be honest. I was instantly nervous and couldn't handle it as I was not used to such breaking news before! Within no time, the nervousness transitioned into a great feeling of happiness and hope, eagerly looking forward to welcoming a new member into our lives. We came back to ths US. With each passing day, our discussions revolved more and more around the baby and we always fantasised about our lives with the little new one. Our understanding of each other reached new heights. The feeling when we first saw our baby in sonogram is unforgettable. God's programming skills in creating a human is beyond my understanding - "Miracle" to say the least. Due to personal reasons, I decided to arrange for the delivery in India; the wifey left for India in June. I missed her each day, while skype doing its bit to give us some consolation.

Found a roomie through Sulekha to share my rent. Funny and friendly guy. Whatever he talks about - Alcohol, Sex, Women or Java - it includes a dose of ass-splitting humour in it. I always envy his sense of humour. I sometimes think my blog wouldn't have had pathetic hits/traffic if I had nurtured half his humour sense. After he joined me, my bachelorhood took a re-birth like the legendary phoenix. Beers and Vodkas and Wines dominated our weekends. We needed no special reason to open beer cans on weekdays. Alcoholically, 2010 would be a memorable year for our lives and livers.

On October 8th, our Siddhi was born - an invaluable gift from God. A fair little cutie. Thankfully she hasn't got any of my features (touchwood!). She weighed enough and has been doing well. Now, all I wish is to be able to give her and teach her all that I have missed in my own life. Been to India after two weeks of Siddhi's birth to make it to the naming cermony. Met my parents and friend. The 28th day (naming ceremony) went well.

Of late, I also partnered with a few of my friends to start "YET ANOTHER PHEKU" an FB community page with no great purpose than writing satire news on arbitrary topics. Nobody seems to be interested in reading or liking or commenting on our posts ;-). I think it's too early to give up. Fingers crossed!

And yes, I got promoted to the next level (Operations Manager) though no notable change in responsibilities. Ha dutch promotion! Overall, 2010 was a complaint-free year, professionally.

Unless something unusual happens during the next few days of the year, this is it.

Wishing a happy new year to you and your family!

Our Cook

It was Tapan’s joining date. Roomie#1 took care of the induction which basically involved walking him through the kitchen, introducing him to the utensils and detergent, helping him get familiar with kitchen closets, stove/cylinder and the sink. He came dressed up in his ethnic wear that Saturday morning, with a stroke of vermillion down his forehead. He brought with him a casserole full of ‘poha’* and offered it to us blushing like a new bride. Before we finished eating, Tapan insisted on feedback; we provided him a positive one. He exploited our positive feedback by insisting on ‘chai-pani-ka-paisa’. First stroke! We were obliged. (*Trivia: Poha is the Incontestable Official Breakfast in all company canteens in Maharashtra, except on Thursdays, when ‘saabudaana kichdi’ takes the lead. Poha is usually made of flattened white rice, pinch or two of turmeric giving its visual appeal, and seasoned with fried peanuts and red chillies, while curryleaves and parseley contributing to its ineffable flavour. Besides these, it could also include all other animate and inanimate beings fallen into it with/without the cook’s knowledge. A plate ranges from Rs 5 to Rs 15 (under normal circumstances), Or free of cost if you leave the canteen without paying)


The next night, he made dal which looked orangish, instead of the universally accepted plain yellow. We also found unexpected pieces of something in the dal. These alien pieces tasted sour and was chewable somehow. We couldn’t resist an enquiry. Tapan was a bit hesitant but later revealed the secret recipe of his dal – Three tablespoons of ‘Priya’ cut-mango-pickle. Our ecstacy had no bounds. Only the shortage of cooks around had encouraged us not to kick him on his ass. Later on, we had to hide all our pickle bottles in the bedroom almirah. After a couple of days, Tapan was preparing himself to cook dal yet again. He was rapidly ransacking the entire kitchen and the kitchen cupboards in search of his ‘secret recipe’. Having not found any, he started giving suspicious looks at me. I feigned innocence.


One fine day, another roomie who returned from Hyderabad after a week’s vacation, was questioning us about his missing box of ‘mysore paak’ from the refridgerator.


Another golden night - While having dinner, we found fully-shrunk ginger pieces in the tomato curry. Roomie-3 got pissed off and yelled at Tapan. Honest Tapan said “Saar, I had been noticing the ginger pieces lying in the fridge for a while now. Generally, I don’t like wasting my clients' hard-earned money, hence I threw the ginger pieces into the curry”. Perhaps he derived an unidentified pleasure by throwing ginger pieces into the tomato curry than into the trashbin. Our respect towards him doubled. Thereafter, we cleaned the fridge and the kitchen cupboard atleast once a week.


After he was done with cooking our dinner that night, I saw him surreptitiously scuttling away holding something wrapped in a newspaper. “Tapan, what is that?” I enquired. He stopped, approached me a sheepish smile and said ‘Saar, I am carrying along a palak bunch with me. My wife likes paalak paneer”. How romantic!


“Tapan, your recipes are always bland. Not spicy enough. They suck!” was a common complaint against Tapan from each of us. That memorable fortunate evening, Tapan made spicy chicken curry for us. Our joy had no bounds until we started eating. The chicken curry was way beyond human levels of spiciness. Next day, around 7 am, we heard roomie 3 from the loo making awkward noises and abuses in the name of Tapan. Each of us waited our turn.

Lehman Brothers

"Where were you working before?" my cabmate, a keen fresher curiously asked me.

My self-esteem shot up 9000-feet into the sky "LEHMAN BROTHERS!--Have you heard of it before? The dream company for many" (expecting a "Wow! Really?? Awesome!" reaction from the cabmate)

"Sorry, what Brothers?" the cabmate asked me with a dyslexic look

"LEHMAN brothers" louder this time.

Cabmate "I see...but never heard of it before"

Me "Oh, didn't you? It's a popular company by the way"

(Looks out the window and turns to me) "But I've heard of 'chandana brothers' secunderabad. Are these two related?"

Playing Marbles - An Insight

Marbles are glass-like balls ranging from ¼ of an inch to 1.5 inches in diameter. If it exceeds this range, you cannot call it a marble. You can categorically call it a paper-weight.

Of all the games/sports I had played, I enjoyed playing marbles the most. I seriously feel that the concept of ‘marbles’ has become almost obsolete after the inception of gaming consoles, video games and simulation contraptions. Besides gaining experience and expertise in the niche domain called 'Marbles', I also have an interesting story to share with you.

It's a hallowed world out there" says the now-ignored-once-adored marble playing fraternity. For me, personally, on any given day, nothing is as evocative and nostalgic as marbles. I would trade my academic certificates to get back to my old marble-playing world. That's the intensity of my nostalgia.

The very sight of marbles is reminiscent of myself (15-20 years ago) wearing a tight sleeveless banian, a double-pocketed chaddi and blue lakhani chappals. I would walk down the playingfield like Sachin Tendulkar. Our playingfield was usually the rear-end of employee quarters or a shady serene area under a tree. I would start from home with a sense of determination and an unconquered resolve to fill my pockets with marbles on return.

For a female, as time taught me, a marble is nothing but an item of aesthetical appeal. But for guys, it could mean a universe. So, while the females were enjoying their gender-specific games (includes, but not limited to, interlocking each others' hands and swinging in circles while giggling at each other singing dal-dhadi-sambaar-podi or a variant thereof, Or hopping across hand-drawn squares on ground ie Chikkudu billa!) boys of my age were mired at will, deep down into the world of marbles. For guys, to say the least, playing Marbles is a source of delight. It represents their elegant taste and their matured outlook. I am sure, 99.998976% of guys have played atleast one 'dye' in their whole life (as per the Official Indian Marbles Handbook, a single gaming session of marbles is called a 'dye')

A few vernacular versions of the term ‘Marble’ are :- Goli Gundu (in tamil), Goli (in malayalam), Goti (in telugu), Goti (in hindi), Goti (in urdu).

More often than not, the key objective behind playing marbles is to win others’ marbles. The winning should be legal, ie only per the specified rules and regulations of the game. After all, it's a game of integrity, unlike cricket. In times of conflict, we never slapped others.

After returning home for the day, post an extensive playing session, winners empty their pockets of marbles into a designated dabba. On the other hand, the losers have nothing to do except washing their hands with soap and analyse their weaknesses in the game. The dabbas used for marble archiving often varies from individual to individual. Here is an indicative list - vanaspathi dalda dabba, farex dabba, palmolive oil dabba, etc. My favourite container, however, was the yellow-coloured vanaspathi dalda.

Days went by, and I was badly addicted to playing marbles. A 'chronic' marble player, you may want to call. After a few months, when my efficiency in the game improved, I migrated my marble storage to a big biscuit dabba (ampro glucose) to archive my marbles everyday. I could fill it up in one year because I turned out to be a Kantipeter in my locality (in layman terms, a Kantipeter is like Sachin Tendulkar in Marbles). As it happens with any successful human being, when success dawned upon me, I started thinking of marbles on commercial lines. I set about selling marbles to my fellow players (usually non-kantipeters). I play with them, win their marbles and sell them again. If players buy from me, a mere 10-paise could fetch them 6 new-shiny marbles or 8 crater-rich old marbles. I enjoyed a competitive edge as the kirana store shankar sold 4 new marbles per 10-paisa. Since there existed an obvious cost arbitrage for the players, I was the most preferred vendor for them. This way, I amassed adequate change for my 2/- ticket for the movies in the theatre nearby. Once, I also sponsored a movie ticket for my best friend Fayaz Pasha. Even my 'masala palli' and 'suppota' during the film interval were sponsored by my marble-selling business. I was a budding marble entrepreneur in those days. Honestly, I remotely contemplated a career in marbles.

As you know, every business has its flipside. So did my growing marble business. Sometimes, it could show up in the form of an external threat. In my case, the external threat showed up in the form of my dad. My entire storage used to be in the backyard without my dad’s knowledge. On a not-so-fine evening, he caught me red-handed when I was unloading my day’s winning into the dabba. My furious dad rolled up his designer lungie, approached me sliently, asked me to handover the dabba to him and gestured me to fuck off from there. I handed over the dabba to him and fucked off from there. After a few minutes, I came back to the backyard to know the whereabouts of my dabba. I did find the dabba, but it was mercilessly crushed and out of shape, like a used toilet paper. No marbles in the vicinity. I searched for my marbles desperately. I looked all around with tears in my eyes. I didn’t know what had he done to them. I felt demoralized and was emotionally paralysed.

During the first few days of my emotional convalescence, I spent the life of a figurative orphan. My mom, too, was rather indifferent to my loss-of-marbles grief; perhaps she had never played marbles, I thought. I expected condolences for my grief at least from her, let alone dad, but failed miserably.

Somehow, after repeated persuasion, one fine day she revealed the whereabouts. I felt so bad to know that dad has dumped my marbles into the sewage system. That's when I realized the magnitude of degrading humanity megastar Chiranjeevi talks about in movies. My Chiru was right.

"How could my own dad be so cruel to me?" This was the only question I wrestled with. I didn't get an answer till date.

That's how my enterprising stint in the marbles world came to an end, thereby breaking my nexus with the sacred world of marbles and the marble playing fraternity. Forever.

I miss them all.

(P.S Yet another favourite game of mine is Gilli Danda - coming soon..:)

Our Date With A Traffic Police

On a scorching scratchy Saturday afternoon, around 2 pm, me and Muntu were on our way back from Inorbit mall, Mumbai, after some filthy shopping. We had spent about 4-5 hours in and around the mall drawing pleasure by moving up and down the escalators, restrained laughs whenever we see a scantily clad female, highly hopeful gazes at those high-heeled chicks, and giggling naughtily at each other whenever we see an explicitly romantic couple in action. Usually followed by unselective eating and general cribbing about company policies.

Our tummies were full and bloated with junk, wallets were roughly empty and hands busy clutching those plastic bags full of underwears, jeans, Ts and few other things which I tried hard to recollect while writing this, but gave up instantly. I have a valid all-india driving licence, but Muntu doesn’t. As it logically follows, I was the designated rider always and Muntu, the patient pillion, always reminds me to look straight whenever I get lost in the charm of some pretty girl or fancied by that woman passing by. He always guides me when to take a left turn and when not to take a right as I am topographically challenged.

After all that unproductive work at the mall, our energies drained and couldn’t wait more to reach our apt at the earliest. We couldn’t wait to relax on our respective asses. We were past Inorbit by appx 2 kms when we had to stop at a three-way traffic signal. We stopped at the extreme left of the road. I lifted off my discolored helmet and placed it on the petrol tank.

The signal countdown showed some 200-odd seconds. Having nothing better to do, I was looking at my blackened face in the rear-view mirror, adjusted my hair to cover the balding area and was smacking my dehydrated lips to give it a wet look. After a minute, I turned my head appx 90 degrees only to see a man wearing a navy-blue cap, a white full-sleeved shirt, and khaki trousers (loosely hanging to a reddish brown belt).

“This guy resembles a traffic police” I said to myself and resumed looking into the mirror smacking my lips.

“Chalo, ab gaadi baaju hataalo aur apney papers dikao”, he said to me with a constipated look, but a confident voice.

I was motionless for a few seconds. My ego signalled a bruise. “Muntu, please get off, let me show him the damn papers” I told Muntu staging a level of self-confidence he had never seen before. He obediently got off the vehicle, and I pulled the vehicle towards a no-man area.

I pulled out my laminated RC and the driving licence from my wallet. Handed them over to the cop and stood there at ease with hands folded, giving a heroic look at him. While he was carefully scanning them, Muntu was looking at me with a composed grin, standing a few feet away wearing his cherry-picked FastTrack sunglasses and a dark green hat with our Lehman logo.

“P.U.C dikhao”? came aloud from the cop’s mouth.

“P.U. Kya ? I said in my screwed-up voice, instantly pregnant with nervousness. After a couple of confused blinks, not knowing what to do, I signalled Muntu to come and take over.

Muntu removed his fast-track sun glasses, put it through the button hole and drew close to the cop with a stylish brisk walk.

“Saar, ek baar maaf kardo saar, next time P.U.C pakka dhikhayenge” Muntu chipped in.

“Arey mera time waste na karo, paisey bano aur gaadi le jaao” the cop insisted.

“Please saab, chod dho ek baar… Main dil pey haath rakhkar bol raha hoon saab, sirf ek baar apna walah samajkar maaf karo saab” came from a melodramatical Muntu

The pleased policeman looked at him, “Arey baba, atleast tu tho pada-likha lagta hai, traffic rools ka matlab jaantha hai na? Chalo, ab tere dost ko paise dene ko bolo”

(Amidst the issue, I was thinking “What? Only Muntu looks pada-likha? What about me then? Do I look like a barbarian?)

Many other sweetened Hyderabadi words by Muntu were being neatly trashed by the cop. But Muntu didn’t give up. I also heard him mentioning the cop’s name in one of his emotional pitches to the cop. Perhaps picked up from his name plate

“Ek Minute” the cop said, and moved across while stooping a little to examine the vehicle’s number plate. In perfect italics, the plate displayed AP 29D 0259.

“Kya hai ye? Andhra ki gaadi?!!!” the cop expressed. (we could sense his internal joy for a potentially significant cash flow now)

“.NO.C. …N.O.C nikaalo”

I turned around to draw out the ignition key and lifted my seat up. Took the NOC out from the polythene and showed it to the traffic cop. He scanned the dust-rich N.O.C paper twice, top to botton and left to right.

“Tu Mumbai kab aaya tha?” the cop asked me looking at me from top to bottom

“ Do teen mahiney saar” I said while scratching my butt, itchy due to the afternoon weather .
“Acha, ye batao ki tera number plate aisa kyu hai?

“Number plate aur RC ka number 'same-same' hai na saab?” Muntu queried

“Lekin yeh tera number ishtyle se likha hua hai. Aisa style-wyle Maharastra mein nahin chalega. kum se kum dhed-sov rupye bharna padega. P.U.C ka sav, aur is number ka pachaas” he said pulling out his greasy challan book.

“Saab, hamarey paas uthney paisey nahin hain saab, saarey paisey ghar key saaman par karch ho gaye” Muntu said with the most pitiful look ever, showing up those filthy shopping bags to the cop.

“Chalo phir, tum shaam mey paise laa dena, aur RC, licence ley jaana. Main yehi police station mey dhikoonga” he said waving the RC and Licence together, pointing his hand towards the police control room on the left.

By this time, my eye was on the RC. I slowly placed my fingers over the RC and said to him “Saab, yeh RC tho de do, licence rakh lo. Hum abhi ATM sey paisey le aayenge. Paise milne ke baad licence vaapas kijiye”

“Teek hai” said the cop and loosened his fingers over the RC. I calmly drew that out and put it back into my wallet. Sigh!

“Shukriya saab, bas thode der mein paise layenge” Muntu confirmed.

Kick-started my bike and rode off as if we were being chased by a mob of police. Just after the first left turn past the traffic signal, I told Muntu “Babaai, the licence I left with him is worth 30/- only“

“What?” he uttered loudly

“Yes, that’s just a laminated photocopy of the original. I never carry my original” I told him with a CEO-like smile.

“Kya bol raha hai tu?”

“Haan baabai, I do have the original at home HA HA HA HA" I said with a devil-like laugh

We were laughing out loud along our way, non-stop for 10 mins, mocking the policeman’s questions, till a male chorus interrupted our jubilation.

“Oye.………Arey Oye..…..gaadi roko….bahenchod…..gaadi roko...” we heard a shout.
“Rok bhey saaley..rok” said another voice.

Both of us gave a 90-degree turn. This time, we see two men wearing navy blue caps, full-sleeved white shirts riding on a white hero-honda to our right. One of them resembled a familiar face.

“Babai! He looks like the same maamu we spoke to a few minutes ago” I said to Muntu.

“haan baabai..he is the same guy. Gaadi rok lo…apne lene wale hai woh log abhi” nervous Muntu said.

We were really helpless by then. We pulled over towards the shoulder. The cops stopped too and approached us. They looked at us bottom to top atleast twice.

“Kya bey saale, pulis ko ullu banathe kya? Dublikate licence dhikhakar bhagneki khoshish karthe..saale…” the cop said. The other cop kept looking at us alternately, expecting a reaction from either of us.

We didn’t speak a word. Muntu and I stood there handsfolded, heads down. All the passing vehicles were slowing down to took a careful look at our faces.

Within a few seconds, Muntu put up an incredibly innocent expression on his face.

“Actually saab, hum ATM ki taraf hi jaa rahe they. Mmmmain dil pey haath--- “
“Arey chuppp. Kya main ullu diktha hoon kya bey? Huh?” the cop yelled at him looking impatient. “bas, chup kar. Ek shabd bhi nikalna nahi”

He then said something in marathi to his constable.

The second cop sat on the pillion seat of my bike. The first cop had muntu seated on his.
“Chal, woh gaadi ko follow karo’ my new pillion said.

All other riders on the busy road were looking at us. Muntu was sitting behind the cop like a new bride. And I was riding my bike blushing as if a celebrity is seated behind me. On our way to the control room, I visualised Muntu and I being hung naked upside down - as in movies, in a dark room with a huge tungsten bulb swinging around. I also foresaw awkward youtube clips of some gay cops exploiting us. These perceived visuals and clips induced incredible panick in me and I royally bumped into a slow-moving maruthi 800.

“Abey HOWLAY, kya marayega mujhe, haan?” my new pillion screamed. And he apologized to the maruthi’s owner as we moved along.

We reached the control room. After many tactical negotiations, melodramatic stunts, "Dil pe haaths", fabricated stories about our ‘poor and dependant’ families back home, we finally managed to get out of that by paying 300/-.

We withdrew the money from the nearby UTI ATM while we were being escorted by the constable.