Tummy

I am a gym drop-out. Not once, but atleast in three instances so far. I would pay the gym fee, discontinue it after 3 days and say “No time baap, too much work”. Nevertheless, few days after quitting, an out-of-the-blue realization dawns upon me. A holy realization like the holiest Tathāgata. My 'fitness phoenix' emerges from the ash. And impregnates me with hope and fitness consciousness. For once, I feel a strong urge to work out at home. And that’s how I excercise once in every six months. I also have a pair of dumb-bells at home. Pristine. And I often fantasize about that ‘Magic Belt’ for an effortless fat melt-off.

Facebook'ing is inevitable. Else, I would feel disconnected. Given the number of friends I have, the profile pic is an important factor. So my pic would be an epitome of strategy. It symbolizes the pragmatist intellectual within me. My pic is usually a close-up shot from the chest up, hiding my abdomen. Ditto for my matrimonial pic. Also, too many photo sessions, with friends and beyond, have helped me achieve an advanced-level proficiency in diaphragmatic breathing techniques. When I am up for a photograph – solo or group – I know how to breathe. I know how to restructure myself anatomically. Thus, my photographs are always an inexplicable miracle. In all my snaps, I appear with an unbelievably flat stomach. And an unnoticeably raised shoulders. Scientifically, the momentary increase in the height of my torso is a direct function of the momentary decrease in the flatulence of my tummy. That's my honest equation.

To the office, I dress up in formals. Tactfully and with an extraordinary brilliance. I tuck up my formal shirt so well that my tummy doesn’t seem protruding at all. Like a mountain cloaked in tropical trees. Like fog over meadows. When I tuck it up, my shirt’s fold covers about three-fourths of that leather belt I wear. I also have the instinct and the knack to re-adjust and re-align the tuck whenever I am not seated. Usually, I realign my tuck in front of the office restroom mirror. Whenever a fairer-sex is around me - whether in the form of a co-rider in an elevator or as a group member standing by me in office, at a party or a function, I inhale more and exhale less. To give my tummy a naturally compressed look. Overtime I turned out to be a self-trained Pranayama guru.

Whenever I stand before a mirror, I spend more time looking at my waist area. I would cautiously examine my tummy’s condition. And I regret at the metamorphosis. Time changes so many things. Standing there, I orchestrate an alternating compression and decompression for sometime. I also tend to feel my tummy with the palm, while turning 90-degrees to the left, then right and then center. This goes on for a while. I realized I am obsessed with the momentary glimpses of such compressions.

Did I tell you I hate Salman Khan? Very much. Not because he is half-naked. Just because he is fit and handsome. I also laugh at him quite often reminding myself of how Aish dumped him. He deserves it. Besides, I also envy the latest version of Adnan Sami and wish ill of him. Secretly, while feeling a strong urge to undergo a similar make-over.

“Hell! Why are all delicious foods always calorie-rich?” is the ultimate question of my life. 'Delicious Foods' include beer as well. I can’t resist myself at the sight of it. I get tempted and am often delirious. My temptation is like the Satanic temptation. During parties with friends, I tend to become a philosopher. I say to myself “Life is for fun yaar. If not now, when?” and keep chugging away.

My ecstasy has no bounds and my superiority-complex has no limits, when another pot-bellied friend expresses his obesity problems before me. I feel privileged to advise him about good dietary habits. “Eat chapathi instead of rice” I would suggest. Ripples of joy pass through my spine at the sight of persons, at the mall or the movie, who have bigger tummies than mine.

I don't fancy six-packs. Can I atleast get rid of this family-pack?

(This is purely a work of fiction. Resemblances to any person are purely intentional and contrived. Note, this is NOT an autobiographical excerpt of the author)
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Dhobi Ghat

PLOT
A desi female investment banker from New York, on her sabbatical, meets a Mumbai painter at his art exhibition and sleeps with him the same night. Credit goes to the painter's masterful pursuance. Arun, played by Aamir Khan, is the painter under consideration. He is intensely committment-phobic and "No strings attached" is his personal motto. Hence, the morning following their one-night stand, he sits on the couch, sporting a dyslexic look, like Ishan Awasthi of Taare Zameen Par. Noticing his clamped mouth and uncertain frown, she gently inquires about the issue at hand. That is when he seeks apology for his previous night's misconduct under the pretext of intoxication. Joy ripples in her laugh and delight shines in her eyes when she gets instantly convinced at Arun's remorse. A blush glorifies Arun's face when she forgives him saying "No great deal Arun, it's the first time for me too".

Another important character is Munna, a laundryman with a perfectly worked-out body, whose chest-size is that of a semi-automatic washing machine. While on laundryman duty, he runs into the NY banker whose hospitality towards him is beyond Mumbai standards. After a couple of runs across, they subsequently strike a mutual deal wherein she agrees to click his photo portfolio in exchange for he serving as her Mumbai tour guide. However, per the universal law of masculine consequences, he mistakes her friendliness and develops a crush on her.

The fourth and final character, Yasmin, is an amateur video blogger. She leaves behind her blogged mini-tapes in an apartment, now rented by Arun. A grand total of three video tapes left by Yasmin is the only source of entertainment for Arun, as well as for the audience.

REVIEW
On a serious note, the graceful character, Yasmin, a middle-class housewife, is the heart of the movie. In the first tape, she seems very pleased with herself and records her random experiences and feelings in all positive tone. Yasmin, who comes across as a blissful, happy and fully alive housewife in her first tape, talks about a serious issue in a flash of revelation, in the second tape. During this time, you would certainly sense her confidence spiralling downward. In the third and final tape, the delicacy in her face and the strength in her voice withers away. Bitterness beams in her face and her eyes darkens with pain. Her tear-smothered voice shares her final decision on the tape like any other woman who got fed up with the harsh realities of loneliness, betrayal and defeat. All before she signs off for the last time. Very touching. Would certainly leave you with a lump in the throat.

The debutant Prateik Babbar was great, justifying his character very well. Innocence or naughtiness, he knew what he was doing. He looks good and has a very good screen presence.

Personally, I'm not so 'Bullish' on the investment banker's appearance on the bollywood radar anymore.

Honestly, the movie is not a great entertainer, as you might have already known by this time. However, from a directorial point of view, this is a challenging subject. Moreover, this being Kiran's first movie. The way the story was presented was appreciable and the challenge she has undertook should be inspiring to other newbie directors. Commercially a thumbs down, as publicly announced by the producer. Nevertheless, the subject is convincingly original and different from the usual lot.

Finally, the hype about the way Mumbai was picturized and presented to the audience is indeed a hype. A couple of pourings, few slum snaphots or a Ganapathi festival portrayal doesn't justify it to be a 'Better portrayal of Mumbai'. There have been better Bollywood and Marathi movies that have picturized and captured the essence of Mumbai far better than this flick, justifying veridical claims to an even greater extent.

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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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No One Killed Jessica - Review

"Your Gluteus Maximus (popularly known as 'Ass') will rip itself apart and miraculously fall into your own hands" retorts Rani Mukherji to a widely-grinning overweight flight co-passenger who inquirs about her Kargil stint as a TV reporter. No ’beep’ sounds whatsoever (atleast in the videsi prints) when she utters the ’G-word’ twice – TWICE! This is when, precisely, I could see family people in the hall somewhat traumatized (especially women) with mouths wide open displaying their respective tonsils. Rajkumar Gupta wanted to spotlight the censor board's flaws alongside the juridic flaws, no? *Wink*

Direction-wise, an exceptional job in presenting the fundamental facts and circumstances of the case, from a legal as well as a filmy standpoint. The movie stages Rajkumar’s unwavering grip on the script and the subject and clearly beams his homework as to presenting the critical characters on screen - specifically, Vidya Balan (Sabrina Lall), the Police Inspector, Rani Mukherji (the TV reporter) and the accused.

[A special mention here for the accused's grumpy politician father, plus his funny mom who sounds exactly like a female goat and occasionally utters ’Mere Manu ko kuch nahi hone dhoongi" - My personal thanks to you ammaji]

Vidya Balan and Rani Mukherji evenly and symmetrically steal the entire show, all the way. Minimal / zilch make-up by Vidya (to the extent that even her facial hair was clearly visible!) elevates the veridical traits of the movie further up. Splendid performances by the two ladies certainly deserve glory - quite realistic to say the least - gestures, tones and expressions combined with their unmistakably natural acting experience. Nevertheless, one minor shortcoming I can’t repress expressing here is how undesirable and unnatural was Rani’s forced usage of the magic word "F**K" a ridiculous number of times. Every time she used it, it had nothing but embarrassedly lacked a natural ease in it’s usage, despite portraying a dynamic and romp TV reporter. Well, perhaps, I might have felt so either due to her stereotype portrayals - Rani-is-a-good-girl-Rani-is-a-homely-girl - in her previous films Or the F-word usage could have been somewhat mis-context’ed in this film Or Both.

For example:

Rani’s Boss: (when Rani presents a critical evidence for the case) WOW!! It’s really explosive - Ha Ha Ha Ha!!

Rani: What do you mean by explosive? "Say it’s f**king explosive!!"

See, didn’t I just tell you?

The background scores were comforting, fresh and brilliant. The scores evidently added a significant dose of vigor to the movie-watching experience, especially the tunes at the India Gate candlelight mass-protest assembly and during those times whenever a poignant Vidya appears on the screen. Personally, I couldn’t like the police inspector more and somehow strongly feel that he would certainly make recurring bollywood appearances in the days to come. The characters who played the accused Manu and the prime witness Vikram were a perfect fit for their roles, including the eponymous Jessica.

Definitely a must watch flick and I guarantee you atleast two incidences of goose-bumps. Full paisa vasool.

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Stray Dog

Seventeen-year-old Anand was strolling around the premises of his two-storey bungalow. Listening to his i-pod and sipping juice from an elegant glass in hand, Anand seemed happy, content and free of worry, trouble and care. It's been hardly a few minutes since the sky stopped pouring, so the distinctive smell of soil was still fresh and sweet all around. Anand has been relishing the random melodies on his i-pod and surely was having a great time - making occasional foot moments and gentle dance gestures, playfully swinging his arms around and humming along.

Moments later, a brownish stray dog squeaked through the huge and beautiful entry gate into the bangalow premises. The dog appeared sickly, exhausted and seemed as though it was about to pass out in a moment. The ugly grey patches all over its body disappointed and intimidated Anand. The sudden appearance of the dog was displeasing to his senses and scared him away. Now in a snit and thoroughly upset, Anand picked up a sharp piece of stone lying beside the orchid and simulated throwing at the dog. The poor dog couldn't run away. It surely was exhausted, worn out and starving to death. Alas, Anand couldn't appreciate the dog's state. The helpless dog gave a pause for thought, as sadly all its life it had been only running away from people who always either threw stones at it or whacked it away. Anand simulated throwing yet another time. The dog couldn’t budge. A nervous and confused Anand released stone the second time and it narrowly escaped the dog's eyes. With sad and disheartened eyes, the dog looked at him for a moment and slowly turned around to squeeze through the same gate and gradually faded from his view.

Anand was still strolling around, enjoying music and the pleasant weather. Moments later he saw a lean dark man in tainted khakhi shirt and pants passing by the gate. Following him was a seven-foot dirty rope with a dead brown dog strangled at the end. Curled up now and eyes half open, it was being mercilessly dragged behind by the dark man all along the rough tar surface. The lifeless dog with frozen tears and painful eyes, kept staring into Anand's eyes - the same way it looked at him when he threw the stone at it. The man with the rope was waltzing off to a municipal vehicle parked only a few meters away.

Picture Courtesy: Google firstthings.com

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?"

Happy New Year

Atleast for the new year, I hope,
Work hard and be less of a mope,
Wanna cut back Facebook time,
Isn’t surfing at work, a moral crime?

Will hereby abstain from Vodka-RedBull,
Though not from all inebriants in full,
Beer and wine would I still resume,
What’s life without them, I presume

Wish you all a happy happy new year,
May it be full of fun, joy and cheer!

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!

Indian Hobby Gets Constitutional Nod

Dec 26, 2010 (Hyderabad, From our Special Correspondent)

The supreme court of India has finally granted an 'Official national hobby' status to the avocation under the 874th constitutional amendment act after years of consistent lobbying, hunger strikes and campaigning by the state and national supporters across the nation. "Its high time the hobby received national respect" says Mr Akash, moments after the supreme court has sanctioned an official 'national hobby' tag to all piracy pursuits in India (Mr Akash is an ardent movie fanatic, with memberships in over 15 torrent sites).

Dr Manmohan singh had set free a white pigeon on this occasion and described today’s judgment as the greatest move in the history of democracy. The scope of the act is still under deliberation, although software, music and movie piracy are the primary areas affected, officials with knowledge of the situation said.

Thanks to the internet with its social networking and P2P capabilities; millions of internet and social networking users from India are now working hard to push the envelope further - coordinated efforts to give the hobby an international shade. "Watched HP-7 on Torrents today;-) Awesome Movie!" says Gokul Kumar's facebook status. Pallavi 'Liked' it. Jahangir left a comment "Hey Goks, send me the link maama"

In another instance, CNN news reported Michael Jackson’s latest release ‘Michael’ has been leaked and is freely available over the internet. Sony Music global head, Mr Jack Astron was reported to have been found weeping relentlessly (with intermittent tantrums) moments after the news broke out. Calls and voice mails to Mr Astron were either unanswered or unreturned. The bankrupt Astron had later tried giving us missed calls though. The fans of Michael Jackson, however, voiced a rather justifying rationale behind the leak. We spoke to Mr Pratap Rao, Country Head, The AP Michael Jackson Fans Association, who had an interesting insight to share “Michaelji always wanted to gift his music to the poor people of India. I’m sure the pop legend in heaven would be pleased to know his wish has finally come true” he said while kissing a passport-size photo of Mr Jackson held in his wallet.

Incidentally, while addressing a press conference at Seattle (Australia) Microsoft CEO Steve Balram told “Today is a memorable day for me and my organization. I’m pleased the AIPD survey reported that a whopping 3.52 % of Indians are now using genuine Microsoft products. This only goes to further fortify the latest constitutional move. Hurray!!"

“Housewives were the highest participants in the survey” a senior official Mr. Edwin Rocco, who declined to be identified, told us. Sources say, Microsoft has plans to merge itself into the B & M Gates Foundation (the charity affiliate) in the years to come. "The board feels this is the best way to give back to the society, while celebrating a moral victory over nemesis Google" Mr Steve is reported to have said while sticking out his middle finger.

A Gartner Report says Indians are neither selective nor biased when it comes to sharing stuff online amongst themselves."This reflects their broader outlook, encouragement of talent and readiness to free-property" the Gartner report noted. In an exclusive interview, Mrs Madhavi Latha, a piracy ex-convict and a noted south-indian item dancer shares her insights with our correspondent. “Now I can pursue my hobby without fear of conviction. I'm very happy today. Can you please take off your hand from my lap?" She continued "I'm also planning to launch a website called you-bongu.com to provide free movies and music to my telugu audience" (PTI)

(With valuable contributions from our correspondent Sundeep G)


[Dear reader, if you really enjoy reading / writing spoof news bulletins, you may become a member of our exclusive spoof news page on facebook called YET ANOTHER PHEKU (started by a group of liers, bluffers and bloggers, including yours truly). You can read frequent spoof news bulletins and snippets from our 'special correspondents' straight from your FB wall. 

AND please note contributions are always welcome. Let me know if you want to contribute to our FB page, OK?]
Here is the FB page link to YET ANOTHER PHEKU

Man Sues His Wife’s Teddy Bear On Dual Charges

Hyderabad, AP (From our special correspondent) Damodar Baa, a resident of Malkajgiri (Hyderabad) sued his wife’s teddy bear on a two-fold charge of ‘Injuiring Marital Relationship’ and ‘Incidental Hair Loss’, in what appears to be the latest move amidst the growing crisis in husband-wife relationships in Hyderabad, the ‘biryani capital of the world’.

"Intense hatred is what I feel towards the 3-feet china-made teddy bear” Mr Baa told the reporters at the Blue Diamond restaurant right across the state highcourt this morning. The reporters spoke to Mr.Baa who was slurping osmania biscuits with irani chai moments after filing a lawsuit against the teddybear. Sources said Mr.Baa has solicited rupees three lakhs in compensation for the irreparable injury caused to his marital relationship and associated hair-loss, plus auto-rickshaw charges, other damages and court costs.

“How else would you feel when a teddybear shares your private bed, hugs your wife, sits on her lap, squats on your television and music systems, eats up tremendous shelf spaces of drawing rooms and bedrooms, all in your presence but against your will ?” Mr. Baa, the hair-loss victim, snapped our special correspondent while detailing the emotional pain induced by his wife’s teddy bear. Our undisclosed source, Dr. Roopavathi Podukhe, a neuropsychiatrist and chemical dependency specialist from the Department of Psychology and Neuroscience at the Gandhi Multi-Speciality Hospitals (Padmarao Nagar) confirmed that Mr Baa is still under medication for his post-traumatic stress disorder.

[The AP State Commission For Men (APSCM), in partnership with the United Nations Commission for Men’s Welfare (UNCMW - Asia Pacific) would be organizing a 2-day workshop on the 28th and 29th of this month to counsel the victims of teddybear brutality. You may call the toll free number 1-800-TEDDYB to register]
“They are the most unmannerly of all species, I would say” says a composed K. Murugesh Reddy who instantly fled on his TVS champ to the state highcourt to file a case against his wife’s teddybear after news of multiple teddy bear cases flashed on TV9. Sources said Mr Reddy also intends to file a follow-on suit claiming bladder injury after the court’s ruling on his initial lawsuit.

In another instance of filed lawsuits, Mr. Abdul Aleem shared his exclusive story with our special correspondent. (Mr. Aleem is an IIM Ahmedabad graduate (first class pass) and a Business Consultant by profession. Mr Abdul was happily married until his wife’s teddy bears showed up on their bed).“Technically speaking, they (teddybears) are the actual ‘bone in the barbeque’ - we locally refer to as kabab mein haddi - of my sanctified love towards my wife Fathima; I bought her three teddybears last year on her birthday. I wasn’t aware of the magnitude of their potential influence in my marital life. Over the months, these goddamned overweight creatures, pardon my language, while feigning innocence under the pretext of cuteness and sweetness, have been hypnotizing my woman without her knowledge. These bears have further degenerated to a point of sitting on my wife’s lap, while inconspicuously reciprocating her hugs during sleep”
Calls to Mrs Fathima, Abdul’s wife, were either unanswered or unreturned.

According to the latest research by BUCCA, the world-renowned cutting-edge research center based out of Geneva, Switzerland, has presented its research papers and development results at the FCL Annual Conference providing useful insights on this niche area of masculine disaster. The research also declared women are innocent, yet they fail to acknowledge men’s true love due to the influence of teddybears in residential premises. Mr. Houston Eldridge, the Chairman and founding member of BUCCA said he has supporting datapoints and testimonials to prove that women find teddy bears prettier and more lovable than their husbands or boyfriends. “I personally think it’s an absolute injustice men are coerced to endure” Mr Houston added.

Mr. Raman Kutty, a management consultant, columnist and celebrated author on Decision Sciences and Disaster Management also shared his insights with us.
“Such emotional disasters for men can be traced to the fundamental design of these overweight bears. Look at any teddy bear. Observe its gesture. Its hands spread out ridiculously wide. Legs, as if fully prepared and ready to jump over others’ wives. Therefore, the very basic design is the root-cause of the problem before us. Change it. Fix it up.

Mr Kutty continued “Observe the way it looks at our women, supplemented by this universally ever-fixed body language which clearly says "Darling, you know I am cute, cuddly and sweet. So come, hug me". Unfortunately, our women, with their sensitive sensibilities, ironically find this anti-social gesture pretty adorable and readily hug them, incognizant of their man’s true love for them.. The actual struggle for a man starts with his woman's first sight of a teddy bear in the shop and he buying her one to impress her. Digging his own grave! This is the precise moment that marks the point of inflection in his normal course of happy living. All I have to say is, unfortunately, teddybears are a grave impediment to manhood’s emotional and marital prosperity”
"And yes, if you ask me for a solution, try to design teddybears that hug each other by default, something like Siamese twin-teddys conjoined at bellies" Mr. Kutty added.

While addressing a press conference at the Perth Press Club in Perth, Australia, Julian Assange has spoken to the reporters on this issue. He announced that wikileaks would soon be publishing a detailed report on China's tactical moves to encourage sustainability of teddybear exports to India and the political connives implemented by China to shoot up teddybear distribution exponentially across our nation. China, as it was understood from Mr Assange, is engaging in such fallacious schemes with the strategic objective of deputizing husbands and boyfriends in all aspects of Indian civilized life. (Reuters)

It's Not About The Bike (Book Review)

'It’s Not About The Bike' is a super autobiographical work which takes us through cyclist Lance’s pre-cancer life, cancer-intensive life, and post-cancer life.

Theme
The overriding theme is Lance’s struggle with his stage-4 testicular cancer and his determination to fight it out big time. As a matter of fact, the very term ‘testicular cancer’ might make us giggle, but I tell you, once your health takes an awful twist – in whichever awkward form or shape – you won’t even mind what you are organically deficient of. All you would realise is ‘life’ is the most precious thing and you would appreciate why it is called ‘The priceless gift’. Lying there on the deathbed while undergoing a ‘demoralising’ treatment, all you would crave for is nothing but a ‘benefit of doubt’. A second chance.

Précis (Spoilers!)
Lance is a world-class cyclist and becomes a renowned cycling champion at a very young age. His ultimate goal is to win the Tour De France. Unfortunately, when he is diagnosed of testicular cancer, which eventually metastasized his lungs and brain, he loses hope on life, obviously his cycling career too. To make matters worse, he even loses the support from the sponsorers, compelling him to sell everything to cover his cancer treatment. During the 4 months of gruelling-cum-intimidating treatment, he comes across abled men and women whom he draws inspiration from and teaches himself (while sharing with us) his take on ‘life’. Post-recovery, albeit he resumes cycling, he runs across situations which oblige him to resolve to give up cycling for ever; events take a different twist for Lance thereafter, eventually helping him win the Tour De France for the first time.

Additionally:
The best portions you would enjoy reading are: his brutally honest recounting of thoughts while undergoing treatment, the growing skepticism about his survival after disease diagnosis, the interpersonal chemistry between him and his wife, and the emphasis on human yearning for survival. What moved me the most is how platinum (used to treat cancer) mercilessly screwed up his endurance via a therapy called ‘Chemo’. While reading, I felt, such gruelling treatments would indeed demoralise a human being even with a humility of the highest magnitude.

The book was very well narrated with an impressively subtle sense of humour, ultimately making the book a fairly interesting, inspiring and worthy read. As it happens with any autobiographical piece, this book too distracts a reader by radiating intermittent boredom and by inducing some degree of mental fatigue through too many technicalities of the cycling profession. Nevertheless, I was glad that I learnt a few good things about cycling and the nuances involved therein, including some useful enlightenment on the Tour de France.

Happy reading!

True Weakness

January 2002

My team (Swami, Ramu and I) was one of the 6 finalist teams onstage during an annual inter-collegiate quiz. That's part of an annual student festival we eagerly looked forward to each year – right from intermediate to our final year of graduation. We couldn’t do well that day and remained at the 5th position all the way. The scores were announced after the audio round (last but one round). Throughout the quiz, I was closely observing this team at the top position, one of its members, in particular, who was incredibly sharp, literally cracking all questions – direct or pass. The other two members of his team contributed hardly any. I was so amazed at his agility and confidence. He single-handedly managed to keep up the first position right from the first round through the audio round, trailed by yet another strong team following them too closely. The next ie the final round concluded and the final scores were announced. This agile quizzer couldn’t attempt even a single question from the final round, which was an all-visuals. Sadly, his team ended up only being the runners up.

For one unfortunate reason - the agile quizzer was congenitally blind.

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?"

Dutifulness

This morning Victor was filling up his coffee cup at the pantry. A security guard, in a neatly pressed stiff cotton shirt was already there, with an evidently impatient gesture and was waiting as though something was about to happen in the next few seconds. In the next few seconds, the guard’s colleague came up to him, handed over a stapler and hurried back. This guard quickly started stapling his shirt’s right cuff from the inside, for it seemed to be missing cuff buttons. After stapling, he stood there for a minute and triumphantly convinced himself that the cuff looked natural from the outside. Afterall, cuffs were part of his uniform too. Knowing that Victor was observing him, he threw a look at him, gave a sheepish smile and disappeared from the spot......

Victor was soundly skeptical about his own dutifulness right from Day-one of his stepping into the corporate world. Many occurrents neatly proved to him by distinctly pointing out instances of his under-committedness, during which time he was nevertheless cognizant, but all the same, nonchalant. Victor never took further action but had some or the other off-key defenses to break away. Though he can’t lay them here one by one, he is now glad that he knows and thoroughly understands how those little defenses collectively colloborate and conspire into making his under-committedness an eternal feature – an inadvisable and morally contemptible follow through.

Just to put things in perspective, Victor can proudly exclaim his loyalty on personal and formal counts, yet, honestly, not to that degree which could motivate him to sacrifice an opportunity at hand for the sake of organisational welfare. Perhaps, that would not make his employer feel boastfully luckier about him, but would surely make sense to most of those already successful. He reluctantly declares that only a negligible part of employers might have experienced that ‘boastfully luckier’ thingie.

Let alone organisational welfare, Victor has been comfortably won over by a feeling of guilt that he couldn’t contribute that ‘extra’ thing for drawing gratification through a discharge of his functionary responsibilities to the brim. Realisation dawns upon him that ‘contribution-to-the-brim’ is ironically not an ‘extra’ thing but merely a part his original responsibility bundle. Victor feels, in retrospect, history couldn’t be indemnified, although there is always something called a second chance – but only if he is willing to exploit.

Victor hopes that one day he would be able to put things in a better perspective, without a crave for a second ‘second chance’

Cinema Days

The movie started half an hour ago. Kunjuraman Kutty is reluctantly munching pop-corn from the same pack and taking unenthusiastic sips of ‘marinda’ from the same bottle, as did the beautiful lady sitting beside him. This beautiful young lady was named Ponnamma by her parents upon her grand papa’s insistence. (Ponnamma has done her BA. She had also done typewriting course from Ayyappan typewriting & Short-hand Institute, closer to her ancestral house). Kunjuraman is about 29 years old. Ponnamma about 23 years.

One sip of marinda by Kunjuraman, next sip by Ponnamma. Ponnamma seemed very happy. She was happy infact. But Kunjuraman seemed to be soaked in agony.

They are here to watch Spiderman-3 in Kalpana talkies. Kunjuraman doesn’t seem happy at all. But, Ponnamma, his newly-wed wife is very happy. She is thoroughly enjoying the movie. She is clapping. She is beating Kunjuraman on his thigh occasionally and stomping on his foot whenever Toby executes a thrilling stunt on the screen. Neither irritated nor excited, the disappointed Kunjaraman seemed cheerless.

Sitting beside Ponnamma, Kunjuraman Kutty is deeply recollecting those cinema days with his friends Suraj, Imran, Ramana and Lallu.

Kunjuraman and his friends never bothered about the class of co-viewers to the hall. Never worried about comfort in the seats. Nor the quality of the sound. The seats might have been bug-rich and the antique ceiling fans would have been whirring from sides, they were just happy they were having fun atlast. They never even had to bother about the stench of urinals sneaking through the hall-door right into their noses. Nor worry about the filthy gutkha-intensive mouth from behind shooting in litres of gutkha-rich saliva under their seat. Often, aggressive-Suraj starts delivering expletives against the gutkha spitter. The other three joining the expletive-chain in chorus. But Kunjuraman Kutty is now a family man. Ponnamma is his wife. So, decent theatres are a must. Besides decent theatres, “decent” films are mandatory (quotes intentional). Any shortfall would trigger telecommunicative flash news into the inquisitive ears of in-laws and relatives.

Ramana taught him whistling and Kunjuraman became a good whistler after unsuccessful trials. Those days, good scenes were always acknowledged through an appreciative whistle escaping from hundreds of lips in the hall. Now, Kunjuraman Kutty is a family man. Similar other Kunjaramans and Ponnammas are around. Hence, he can’t whistle. Infact, he shouldn’t whistle. His whistling instincts are still alive, although pathetically irrepressible. Its high time Kunjuraman has chosen between ‘dignity-before-Ponnamma-and-fellow-kunjuramans-and-ponnammas’ and his ‘Whistling instincts’. Ofcourse, he has chosen ‘dignity’.

Those were days, when they had the greatest degree of consensus when it came to choosing a movie. They had the same ‘tastes’, same ‘fondness and same kind of ‘desires’ – all youth inspired. Kunjuraman is a family man now. He has to take Ponnamma to ‘family’ movies, only.

Long queues while waiting for tickets, the gossips and comments about girls passing by, the irani tea in the nearby hotel before the movie begins. Kunjuraman is missing these badly. He is now a family man. He has to book the tickets in advance for himself and Ponnamma. He has not choice. Buying tickets in black is cheap.

Kunjuraman is fond of little onion samosas, especially the ones sold in movie theatres. His friends like them too. A mere 5-rupee would fetch him handful of them. His friend Laalan used to say “Onion samosas are the Official Interval Snack for most of the bachelors ha ha ha”. But now Kunjuraman is a family man. He has to buy only ‘class’ edibles for himself and Ponnamma. He can’t even drool over those onion samosas, lest Ponnamma gives him a disgusting look.

Spiderman-3 is over. And titles scrolling up. Kunjuraman is still thinking about his good old cinema days……

(This write-up was also published in a youth magazine called JAMmag)