One of these days when I had just washed my clothes I went to the terrace to put my clothes on the clothes line. As usual I went up the stairs dreaming about a perfectly vacant clothes line and found it packed from end to end. I saw another line apart from the two that were full but somehow I subconsciously rejected it without even considering why.
Assuming all the lines full, I asked one of the attendants about any reserved places for hanging the clothes. He pointed to the line that I had subconsciously rejected in my early morning daze and barked at me. ‘woh dikh nahin raha hai kya, uspe tango na.’
I looked where his finger was pointing and still could not consider the vacant line. I still did not question myself why. I think my behavior can be explained by considering the theory of ‘thin slicing’ wherein you do things based on past experiences without consciously making a note of what you are doing.
I asked with disbelief, ‘uspe tangoon, uspe?’, I couldn’t believe what that little imp was asking me to do.
But then somehow I realized that the situation demanded a greater degree of practicality and should best chew the thin slices that my brain was generating and manufacture new slices altogether.
With this thought of personal innovation in mind I guided my hands to pick up partially wet pieces of clothes from the bucket and spread them on the line but not without being very tender. When I was putting the last piece of clothing, I couldn’t prevent my eyes from wandering off repeatedly to the script written on the wire in fine print: ‘Warning: High tension cable’
Thursday, April 27, 2006
‘Loose Lines From The Pen of Nami-baba of the Forty-four Roomies Fame’
(Extracted from ‘I Dread Genie’)
I cannot be the beloved that you hope for love
For someone has to fulfill the curse that is me
Whenever I am impatient to become your beloved love
I remind myself of all the love that I was deprived of once
I don’t care in which form I receive it
Or who is the giver
As long as it's love of some sort
From the dark realm of no feelings I have emerged
Only to find that these feelings are not worth a name
The beloved’s contempt
Only makes the fire burn brighter
Don’t look down upon me oh sweet beloved
I might just conquer the world to prove you wrong
Nothing seems a challenge now
That I have felt your grating nerve
Why do you look beyond when this admirer is near
But how would you look beyond if I were not the mound
-Nami-baba
I cannot be the beloved that you hope for love
For someone has to fulfill the curse that is me
Whenever I am impatient to become your beloved love
I remind myself of all the love that I was deprived of once
I don’t care in which form I receive it
Or who is the giver
As long as it's love of some sort
From the dark realm of no feelings I have emerged
Only to find that these feelings are not worth a name
The beloved’s contempt
Only makes the fire burn brighter
Don’t look down upon me oh sweet beloved
I might just conquer the world to prove you wrong
Nothing seems a challenge now
That I have felt your grating nerve
Why do you look beyond when this admirer is near
But how would you look beyond if I were not the mound
-Nami-baba
‘Why I Don’t Need to Study Management Anymore'
I have managed to walk into a mugging.
I have managed to lose my cell.
I have managed to get one response for the questionnaire I have made for media planners out of the fifty that I am required to get.
I have managed to screw the elevator at my hotel.
I have managed to be mistaken for the new peon at the office.
I have managed to be summoned by the security department at the Express Towers for an “interrogation”.
I have managed to be called ‘dhakkan’ by my boss in full view of everyone.
I have managed to look gullible enough to be approached by countless strangers (potential thugs) for help including a French woman who claimed that she had lost her boyfriend.
I have managed to get my loan application refused by three banks.
I have managed to stay optimistic throughout.
I have managed to lose my cell.
I have managed to get one response for the questionnaire I have made for media planners out of the fifty that I am required to get.
I have managed to screw the elevator at my hotel.
I have managed to be mistaken for the new peon at the office.
I have managed to be summoned by the security department at the Express Towers for an “interrogation”.
I have managed to be called ‘dhakkan’ by my boss in full view of everyone.
I have managed to look gullible enough to be approached by countless strangers (potential thugs) for help including a French woman who claimed that she had lost her boyfriend.
I have managed to get my loan application refused by three banks.
I have managed to stay optimistic throughout.
‘As If The Mugging Wasn’t Enough’
As if the mugging wasn’t enough. As if someone pointing a sharp knife at your abdomen and losing a grand in the bargain wasn’t enough, I had to go on and make it better. Gift my cell phone to an opportunistic cabman, leaving it behind as I was vacating his cab. And all this is a span of three days and I am thinking what exactly happened there.
Now I know what it’s like losing a cell. It’s unlike losing anything else. Long after you have lost it, there is that lingering feeling that somehow, someway you could have prevented it. Why does that feeling come into being? The answer lies in the subconscious implications of owning a cell. But first before we pry the subconscious let’s see what does a cell phone bring to the table? Is it a fashion statement? Or is it only a handy, electronic device which enables you to talk to anyone? The truth is that it’s much more than one can imagine.
I think its greatest beauty lies in the way it’s designed to extract a response to us humans. It’s so good at that that every toddler is way too eager to grab a cell at the first given opportunity and imitate his father talking on it or if his father happens to be on the other end, he desperately wants to listen to his voice. Apart from that, it’s the function that it performs that makes it so popular. I imagine that if a cell was a human being, it would be the most popular guy/girl in college. After all it’s so good at remembering names, and b’days and meetings. It keeps record of the conversations you have had, writes to you if it forgets to call, and not to mention produces endearing sounds and vibrations.
So if a cell is capable of doing so much and with such ease, imagine how profusely it could affect a person who has never been habituated to using a cell, let alone possessing it, day after day, week after week and year after year. Giving a cell to such a man is not very different from putting a transmitter on an orangutan. It’s a foregone conclusion that the orangutan will get tried of the constant itch caused by the transmitter and at some point in time pull it off and bury it in the nearest pile of elephant poop. For an orangutan this is a very natural process which is a direct result of his subconscious thinking, which dictates to him that the transmitter is no good for him.
Now after having evaluated, how an orangutan’s behavior compares that with a human with regard to interfering foreign entities, let us now examine the behavior of a bounty hunter to complement our understanding of a person who has never owned a cell and now is suddenly expected to baby-sit one and it goes without saying that he is also expected to pamper him with coochicoo ring tones, new dresses, and nourish it with prepaid and post paid milk. Letting go of the enormous temptation of analyzing the thinking of the famous-in-little-known-circles bounty hunter Nami baba (of the 44 roomies fame) let’s analyze the thinking of our very own American hero Indiana Jones. Indiana Jone’s life history forces us to ask the question, what in the world does Indiana have in breakfast that always keeps him into trouble and thus in Spielberg’s good books? The truth is that it doesn’t matter if Indiana has baby octopuses or foot fungus in breakfast; he is almost always as susceptible to danger and trouble as ever. Do you think he does it consciously? The fact is that he can do it over and over again successfully is because it’s his subconscious that finds trouble for him on his behalf. He doesn’t have to move a muscle to do that. All the muscles come into motion only when he is deep into what his subconscious planned for him. And to prove the dominance of his subconscious may I just ask you how long do you think Jones will survive the life of a hermit if awarded one? Or why do you think that closer to home, Bunty and Bubbly found it hard to lead a simple life which although did involve applying profuse quantities of oil on each other’s bodies (hmm…why am I bringing this up when its totally beside the point. I think it’s the ‘all thoughts lead to sex’ syndrome of the Nami-baba of the forty four roomies’ fame).
Coming to the point now, since we have already spent a lot of time building up the atmosphere for a decent discussion on cell phones and to be specific lost cells, I want you to imagine what would happen if Indian Jones was told to keep a cell all the time with him irrespective of wherever he went, whatever he did. Is it even thinkable? It’s impossible. One might argue that he is of the time when cell phones were not even invented. Okay in that case try to imagine a Rocky with a cell phone? Do you think Rocky will give a damn about a cell phone? You know what I think he will do if he happened to have one. He will leave it in the next cab that he took to home. That’s because he understands that cell phones are meant for button pressing, Gameboy freaks like Jame Bond, and Mr. Ethan Hunt of Mission Impossible.
I know all the above cannot justify me losing the cell, leaving it behind in a Taxi. The problem complicates further when you have the summer trainee Namit Prasad and the bounty hunter Nami-baba living in the same body. It seems this time Namit Prasad was had by nami-baba big time. But it cannot be ruled out that Namit Prasad was a secret accessory to the act because now once again without a cell, he is breathing free and not mistaking other cell phone rings for his own which used to vex him greatly. He is now free to pursue the continuous thread of thought that he is so accustomed to.
And yes if you are wondering why it’s so different losing a cell, it’s because you were in love with it, its predictability, its exemplary etiquette and its easily mastered menu. And because of the fact that it keeps you connected to your loved ones so that you can mess it up by calling them when you could have otherwise increased mutual fondness by just dreaming away about them.
Now I know what it’s like losing a cell. It’s unlike losing anything else. Long after you have lost it, there is that lingering feeling that somehow, someway you could have prevented it. Why does that feeling come into being? The answer lies in the subconscious implications of owning a cell. But first before we pry the subconscious let’s see what does a cell phone bring to the table? Is it a fashion statement? Or is it only a handy, electronic device which enables you to talk to anyone? The truth is that it’s much more than one can imagine.
I think its greatest beauty lies in the way it’s designed to extract a response to us humans. It’s so good at that that every toddler is way too eager to grab a cell at the first given opportunity and imitate his father talking on it or if his father happens to be on the other end, he desperately wants to listen to his voice. Apart from that, it’s the function that it performs that makes it so popular. I imagine that if a cell was a human being, it would be the most popular guy/girl in college. After all it’s so good at remembering names, and b’days and meetings. It keeps record of the conversations you have had, writes to you if it forgets to call, and not to mention produces endearing sounds and vibrations.
So if a cell is capable of doing so much and with such ease, imagine how profusely it could affect a person who has never been habituated to using a cell, let alone possessing it, day after day, week after week and year after year. Giving a cell to such a man is not very different from putting a transmitter on an orangutan. It’s a foregone conclusion that the orangutan will get tried of the constant itch caused by the transmitter and at some point in time pull it off and bury it in the nearest pile of elephant poop. For an orangutan this is a very natural process which is a direct result of his subconscious thinking, which dictates to him that the transmitter is no good for him.
Now after having evaluated, how an orangutan’s behavior compares that with a human with regard to interfering foreign entities, let us now examine the behavior of a bounty hunter to complement our understanding of a person who has never owned a cell and now is suddenly expected to baby-sit one and it goes without saying that he is also expected to pamper him with coochicoo ring tones, new dresses, and nourish it with prepaid and post paid milk. Letting go of the enormous temptation of analyzing the thinking of the famous-in-little-known-circles bounty hunter Nami baba (of the 44 roomies fame) let’s analyze the thinking of our very own American hero Indiana Jones. Indiana Jone’s life history forces us to ask the question, what in the world does Indiana have in breakfast that always keeps him into trouble and thus in Spielberg’s good books? The truth is that it doesn’t matter if Indiana has baby octopuses or foot fungus in breakfast; he is almost always as susceptible to danger and trouble as ever. Do you think he does it consciously? The fact is that he can do it over and over again successfully is because it’s his subconscious that finds trouble for him on his behalf. He doesn’t have to move a muscle to do that. All the muscles come into motion only when he is deep into what his subconscious planned for him. And to prove the dominance of his subconscious may I just ask you how long do you think Jones will survive the life of a hermit if awarded one? Or why do you think that closer to home, Bunty and Bubbly found it hard to lead a simple life which although did involve applying profuse quantities of oil on each other’s bodies (hmm…why am I bringing this up when its totally beside the point. I think it’s the ‘all thoughts lead to sex’ syndrome of the Nami-baba of the forty four roomies’ fame).
Coming to the point now, since we have already spent a lot of time building up the atmosphere for a decent discussion on cell phones and to be specific lost cells, I want you to imagine what would happen if Indian Jones was told to keep a cell all the time with him irrespective of wherever he went, whatever he did. Is it even thinkable? It’s impossible. One might argue that he is of the time when cell phones were not even invented. Okay in that case try to imagine a Rocky with a cell phone? Do you think Rocky will give a damn about a cell phone? You know what I think he will do if he happened to have one. He will leave it in the next cab that he took to home. That’s because he understands that cell phones are meant for button pressing, Gameboy freaks like Jame Bond, and Mr. Ethan Hunt of Mission Impossible.
I know all the above cannot justify me losing the cell, leaving it behind in a Taxi. The problem complicates further when you have the summer trainee Namit Prasad and the bounty hunter Nami-baba living in the same body. It seems this time Namit Prasad was had by nami-baba big time. But it cannot be ruled out that Namit Prasad was a secret accessory to the act because now once again without a cell, he is breathing free and not mistaking other cell phone rings for his own which used to vex him greatly. He is now free to pursue the continuous thread of thought that he is so accustomed to.
And yes if you are wondering why it’s so different losing a cell, it’s because you were in love with it, its predictability, its exemplary etiquette and its easily mastered menu. And because of the fact that it keeps you connected to your loved ones so that you can mess it up by calling them when you could have otherwise increased mutual fondness by just dreaming away about them.
‘Nami-baba at Shakespeare’s Grave’
Shakespeare: What’s in a name?
Nami-baba: The sound it makes.
Here at Ship Hotel, in terms of number of roomies, I have more than forty four. I have fifty seven actually. But I shall stick to ‘Nami-baba and the forty-four roomies’ for the sake of acoustics.
Nami-baba: The sound it makes.
Here at Ship Hotel, in terms of number of roomies, I have more than forty four. I have fifty seven actually. But I shall stick to ‘Nami-baba and the forty-four roomies’ for the sake of acoustics.
Pay Ain’t My Love
Since I have come to Mumbaland and have managed my finances independently, I am so habituated to paying for things I consume that I find myself reaching for my wallet soon after having completed an elevator ride as if ready to pay the elevator for its service. And I do get surprised when the elevator lets me go off for free. I mentally thank it and move on. And then at the entrance to the office, when the guard opens the door form me, my hand twitches again and reaches for the wallet but I correct myself. Similarly I make imaginary payments to the water cooler. I make payments to my boss after she has talked to me and think about leaving a tip if she has been particularly nice. I pay the taxi walas for not abducting me (especially after leaving my cell phone in a taxi and walking into a mugging) and the BEST for not running over me.
And of course I have improved my immunity for throwing money further by buying certain special packages including a 7 rupee tea which tasted like the liquid they used to pour on PoW’s in medieval times to coax them into spilling their guts as well as their boss’ and other similar articles like a 10 rupee shirt wash.
With all this financial pressure I find it hard to digest missing articles. Recently I found that someone, most probably one of the shady room attendants preferred to steal my soap with its soap dish. He preferred to steal it over my deo. bottle that was also kept on my bed alongside it. I think he probably figured out that I will smell him out. I have appeased myself by thinking that the loss of a soap dish and soap is not much in lieu of the wisdom that the next time I should think of forgetting anything on my bed only if I am forgetting myself on it too. And the rate at which my forgetfulness is increasing, it’s not impossible for me to do that one of these days.
One thing is for sure that these room attendants are not going to stop. They consider it a dark side of their profession, the more glorious superhero side. Its not you ordinary superheroes of ideal character that they seem to play but they rather the heroes with confused, gray personalities swinging between spells of reserved behavior and acting like a kleptomaniac. It appears this breed of superheroes comes across as more intriguing and based on the assumption that girls believe that if it’s a guy you can take to your parents, he is not boyfriend material. Anyway, they seem to be conveying the message, ‘Now lookie here buddy, if it’s out of your cupboard it’s in my area. And things that fall in my area belong to me.’
The only solution to this problem is that I will leave nothing to chance and zonk my brains over planning and executing a perfect security system which is way ahead of anyone’s thinking and losing myself in a heap of locks and keys, numeric combinations and the intricacies inventory management.
The deal is that, had it been only the attendants that acted suspicious, it would have been still alright but it seems that the whole room wants some part of my possessions. I think the time has come to stop using the euphemisms and start calling it ‘Nami-baba and forty-four thieves’ rather than ‘Nami-baba and forty-four roomies’.
And of course I have improved my immunity for throwing money further by buying certain special packages including a 7 rupee tea which tasted like the liquid they used to pour on PoW’s in medieval times to coax them into spilling their guts as well as their boss’ and other similar articles like a 10 rupee shirt wash.
With all this financial pressure I find it hard to digest missing articles. Recently I found that someone, most probably one of the shady room attendants preferred to steal my soap with its soap dish. He preferred to steal it over my deo. bottle that was also kept on my bed alongside it. I think he probably figured out that I will smell him out. I have appeased myself by thinking that the loss of a soap dish and soap is not much in lieu of the wisdom that the next time I should think of forgetting anything on my bed only if I am forgetting myself on it too. And the rate at which my forgetfulness is increasing, it’s not impossible for me to do that one of these days.
One thing is for sure that these room attendants are not going to stop. They consider it a dark side of their profession, the more glorious superhero side. Its not you ordinary superheroes of ideal character that they seem to play but they rather the heroes with confused, gray personalities swinging between spells of reserved behavior and acting like a kleptomaniac. It appears this breed of superheroes comes across as more intriguing and based on the assumption that girls believe that if it’s a guy you can take to your parents, he is not boyfriend material. Anyway, they seem to be conveying the message, ‘Now lookie here buddy, if it’s out of your cupboard it’s in my area. And things that fall in my area belong to me.’
The only solution to this problem is that I will leave nothing to chance and zonk my brains over planning and executing a perfect security system which is way ahead of anyone’s thinking and losing myself in a heap of locks and keys, numeric combinations and the intricacies inventory management.
The deal is that, had it been only the attendants that acted suspicious, it would have been still alright but it seems that the whole room wants some part of my possessions. I think the time has come to stop using the euphemisms and start calling it ‘Nami-baba and forty-four thieves’ rather than ‘Nami-baba and forty-four roomies’.
‘Baba Interrupted’
This was supposed to be the beginning of a new poem
Before the freaking cell-phone interrupted me
Curse you, you little piece of shit
-Nami-baba
Before the freaking cell-phone interrupted me
Curse you, you little piece of shit
-Nami-baba
‘Second Base’
After Yadgar I have moved to on VT. ‘Moved on’ and not just ‘moved’ because it is also perceived as a social improvement by my friends.
Recently the VP happened to ask me in the elevator while we were being dispatched to our floor. ‘Where are you staying Namit?’ I hesitated before saying the name of the place because I know how it confounds anyone who hears it. How it seems to be a contraption to make the mockery of the question. How it seems a cheeky retort. And if you happen to be talking to a VP it seems like contempt for a senior. So very carefully and after a long pause, I uttered the magical words which can make any abuse sound like flattery given the suitable context, ‘Ship Hotel.’
Her expression seemed to say, ‘Are you trying to be smart with me boy? May I remind you I am the VP.’ And then my expression said, ‘I didn’t name the damned building. And I can’t do anything about it. But I sure wish I could change it for you madam.’ And then she moved on to the more mellowed reaction ‘what kind of a name is that?’ And then we ended up laughing at the name at the cost of the person who named it so. The good thing is that you can always laugh it off at the third party’s expense.
Recently the VP happened to ask me in the elevator while we were being dispatched to our floor. ‘Where are you staying Namit?’ I hesitated before saying the name of the place because I know how it confounds anyone who hears it. How it seems to be a contraption to make the mockery of the question. How it seems a cheeky retort. And if you happen to be talking to a VP it seems like contempt for a senior. So very carefully and after a long pause, I uttered the magical words which can make any abuse sound like flattery given the suitable context, ‘Ship Hotel.’
Her expression seemed to say, ‘Are you trying to be smart with me boy? May I remind you I am the VP.’ And then my expression said, ‘I didn’t name the damned building. And I can’t do anything about it. But I sure wish I could change it for you madam.’ And then she moved on to the more mellowed reaction ‘what kind of a name is that?’ And then we ended up laughing at the name at the cost of the person who named it so. The good thing is that you can always laugh it off at the third party’s expense.
Personal Paradox
I am so great
At being insignificant
I am so sure
That I will be confused
And my brain is such a melon at being a pea
I am so willing to be reluctant
And I am so silly at being wise
Why only today, I was going to pray at the dhaba
And ended up eating at Kaba
So is it a surprise that I am Nami-baba?
At being insignificant
I am so sure
That I will be confused
And my brain is such a melon at being a pea
I am so willing to be reluctant
And I am so silly at being wise
Why only today, I was going to pray at the dhaba
And ended up eating at Kaba
So is it a surprise that I am Nami-baba?
‘Famous Saying’
Why am I writing so much about sex these days?
‘All thoughts lead to sex.’ – Nami-baba (of the 44 roomies fame)
I have discovered the answer after I read this famous saying among little known circles; it’s all because of the vibrations that you get when you are staying at Grant Road.
‘All thoughts lead to sex.’ – Nami-baba (of the 44 roomies fame)
I have discovered the answer after I read this famous saying among little known circles; it’s all because of the vibrations that you get when you are staying at Grant Road.
‘The Taxi Driver and the Whore’
She was wearing the perfume Chameli no. 5. He was driving a Furrati Taxi.
They were in perfectly complementary professions.
He would drive the clients to her. I return she would sleep with him once in a while.
The Furrati’s back seat doubled up for the room.
And then one evening…
When the driver would be tired from a hard day’s work and sex would be the last thing on his mind…
Her work day would be beginning with the onset of the night and sex would be the first thing on her mind…
They would be playful and pally.
They would crack jokes of some kind.
He would blackmail her that he won’t bring any more clients to her.
In return she would try to cuddle him to remind him how close they get once in a while.
And that they are professionally bound.
And both would smile awkwardly.
This is the view I get from the landing of the stairs in front of Yaadgar.
When they do this, I am green with envy.
For they know better versions of love than mine.
Someone for who love is only an obsession, this display confuses further.
Tonight she does not find any client.
Tonight he is not able to find one for her.
He does not think much of what other drivers have to say about their relationship.
She couldn’t care less.
The high point of their day being their playful hugs for each other.
And they do not care if an envious stranger is watching them from his temporary abode thinking thoughts that confuse him only further.
They are completely oblivious of the fact that they have been the only thing worth writing about on the course of this stranger’s day.
They were in perfectly complementary professions.
He would drive the clients to her. I return she would sleep with him once in a while.
The Furrati’s back seat doubled up for the room.
And then one evening…
When the driver would be tired from a hard day’s work and sex would be the last thing on his mind…
Her work day would be beginning with the onset of the night and sex would be the first thing on her mind…
They would be playful and pally.
They would crack jokes of some kind.
He would blackmail her that he won’t bring any more clients to her.
In return she would try to cuddle him to remind him how close they get once in a while.
And that they are professionally bound.
And both would smile awkwardly.
This is the view I get from the landing of the stairs in front of Yaadgar.
When they do this, I am green with envy.
For they know better versions of love than mine.
Someone for who love is only an obsession, this display confuses further.
Tonight she does not find any client.
Tonight he is not able to find one for her.
He does not think much of what other drivers have to say about their relationship.
She couldn’t care less.
The high point of their day being their playful hugs for each other.
And they do not care if an envious stranger is watching them from his temporary abode thinking thoughts that confuse him only further.
They are completely oblivious of the fact that they have been the only thing worth writing about on the course of this stranger’s day.
‘The Secure Seaman’
When I was a carpenter
All I saw was saw
Now, I am a sailor
All I see is sea
Today,
The wind was strong and I lost my sail
And I am all at loss
The ship sank and I am hanging to a plank
I am all at sea
But in this time of unease
Imagining good times is easy
So once I get to the shore
I can always fiddle with the fiddle
They say fiddlers are in demand and busy
With such future security
Do I need to worry about my present?
Something tells me I should
I think I should look sad now
‘Cause this plank has holes in it
And I have no energy left to swim!
All I saw was saw
Now, I am a sailor
All I see is sea
Today,
The wind was strong and I lost my sail
And I am all at loss
The ship sank and I am hanging to a plank
I am all at sea
But in this time of unease
Imagining good times is easy
So once I get to the shore
I can always fiddle with the fiddle
They say fiddlers are in demand and busy
With such future security
Do I need to worry about my present?
Something tells me I should
I think I should look sad now
‘Cause this plank has holes in it
And I have no energy left to swim!
Forever St. Xaviers
Recently I went looking for accommodation in Xavier’s hostel. After walking through an impressively ancient building, I entered the warden’s office where I found a chair, a chair fitting for a queen but not quite the throne so I think it was used for some other purpose. While I sat there and chatted with him, it appeared that, any moment now, Queen Victoria will march in and sit on the chair next to the warden and say, ‘hey who left my bathing chair out here. I can’t do it standing up.’ They had the concept of bathrooms by then I suppose. I have my doubts though after reading the oft-unquoted passage by a little known famous personality,
‘The invention of bathing was one of the most revolutionary achievements for Victorian England. It is one of the primary reasons for the English to have been able to multiply on the island. It is quite commendable that a civilization reluctant to accept the ideas of other countries took the cue from the royal family to start the culture of bathing. I will remain forever in awe of this civilization for reasons quite obvious.’ - Nami-baba (of the forty- four roomies fame).
Coming back to the space offered in St. X, the mattresses have always been slept in. they still reek of my possible super duper room papa. The walls still have some traces of its original paint left. Rest of the surface seems freshly vaporized paint, the smell of which is not evident because there is a still smell stronger smell that would compel Chanel no5 to be called Shame no. 2. It’s that musty odor that can only be generated with not leaving a room open since 1885. Oh how Victorian, how romantic how inspiring. My heart’s just leaping I am not quite sure whether its joy. It’s the kind of feeling the caveman would have when he would enter Bill Gates apartment. I can only scratch my head and hope that it holds a brain dull enough to withstand the potential depression this place can provide. Every time I move to ward the door of the room I can’t help hallucinating from the movie Quills, I see the warden speak in his suppressed Nepali accent ‘welcome to the mad house Namit, I hope you will find yourself at home’.
This compared to the hollow pleasures and unproductive serendipities of Yaadgaar, what should I do? Am I going to St. Xaviers? Yadgar may be the vantage point where all thoughts lead to sex and my roomies maybe professional gamblers and total failures in their love-lives but I still have to cross the required levels of desperation to accept Xaviers hostel as my address. So I am not going to say yes to St. X when my heart is shouting ‘NO’ even if it exudes the aura of an educational institution and the legitimacy associated to that. I am sticking to the illegitimate intimacy of the red-light area instead, at least for the time being.
‘The invention of bathing was one of the most revolutionary achievements for Victorian England. It is one of the primary reasons for the English to have been able to multiply on the island. It is quite commendable that a civilization reluctant to accept the ideas of other countries took the cue from the royal family to start the culture of bathing. I will remain forever in awe of this civilization for reasons quite obvious.’ - Nami-baba (of the forty- four roomies fame).
Coming back to the space offered in St. X, the mattresses have always been slept in. they still reek of my possible super duper room papa. The walls still have some traces of its original paint left. Rest of the surface seems freshly vaporized paint, the smell of which is not evident because there is a still smell stronger smell that would compel Chanel no5 to be called Shame no. 2. It’s that musty odor that can only be generated with not leaving a room open since 1885. Oh how Victorian, how romantic how inspiring. My heart’s just leaping I am not quite sure whether its joy. It’s the kind of feeling the caveman would have when he would enter Bill Gates apartment. I can only scratch my head and hope that it holds a brain dull enough to withstand the potential depression this place can provide. Every time I move to ward the door of the room I can’t help hallucinating from the movie Quills, I see the warden speak in his suppressed Nepali accent ‘welcome to the mad house Namit, I hope you will find yourself at home’.
This compared to the hollow pleasures and unproductive serendipities of Yaadgaar, what should I do? Am I going to St. Xaviers? Yadgar may be the vantage point where all thoughts lead to sex and my roomies maybe professional gamblers and total failures in their love-lives but I still have to cross the required levels of desperation to accept Xaviers hostel as my address. So I am not going to say yes to St. X when my heart is shouting ‘NO’ even if it exudes the aura of an educational institution and the legitimacy associated to that. I am sticking to the illegitimate intimacy of the red-light area instead, at least for the time being.
‘Wimble Den Open’
Hey I have seen something like space marketing before! What was it like now? Oh yes, selling vegetables. Or even selling soft porn. Hm…that reminds me of the soft porn dealers of Wimble Den.
These soft-porn movie sellers have a way with direct marketing, they seem to take it much too directly. There is an over-bridge and under it is a passageway near Grant Road and I have come to call that place Wimble Den. Let me tell you how I framed the name or rather how the name framed itself.
I happen to walk through this passage everyday to my hotel after work. There is no choice but to do that because I am not too good at jumping off over-bridges.
One fine day, as I was walking through this thriving corridor of soft porn, a hairy hand shoved a few soft porn movie CDs in my face and said, ‘SS.’ It instantly conjured images of Hitler’s SS and presumed it to be a war movies and then when he saw my puzzled face he said, ‘RR’, I though what the hell is RR now? I imagined German army divisions deploying near Grant Road and the Generals initials being RR. But soon my doubts were dispelled when he said ‘Open’. He uttered the word with the feeling of intense liberation as if life had found a renewed meaning. He went on, ‘Open bole to ekdum khulla.’ It was my turn to think now, so I thought and said while mocking his accent, ‘Open bole to ekdum Wimbledon Open?’
‘I can’t take it.’ I told him even after he kept repeating ‘Wimbledon’ perceiving it as my code for soft porn. But I couldn’t take it although his method of marketing was quite direct and ‘in the face’. I can’t take it because I am sure my boss won’t be amused if I am caught watching soft porn movies in office. ‘Iss mein story hai’, he says as if it’s an achievement on part of the director to think about the storyline when he can simply give a go ahead for sex.
I cant take it because I doubt it that my 7 present roomies, one marketing head and 44 future roomies will ever reach a consensus about watching it together, or whatever the criteria involved in the consensus, I leave it to your imagination.
How will I explain to the hotel guy that why my 44 future roomies are crowding around my bed on which I sit looking gullible with a lappy. What do I say?; they are surrounding me because the roomy love is overflowing tonight? Or that they are crowding around me because I have the treasure? The Nami-baba and the 44 roomies story won’t help then.
And who has the energy to watch a soft porn movie after a days work at The Indian Express where I am already behind schedule. The only thing that is keeping me alive is the shock generated out of exodus vacating employees and a flurry of new bosses.
‘Sorry hairy guy from the Wimble Den, I can’t take it. Try selling it to the unemployed, i.e. if they have the money to buy it.’
These soft-porn movie sellers have a way with direct marketing, they seem to take it much too directly. There is an over-bridge and under it is a passageway near Grant Road and I have come to call that place Wimble Den. Let me tell you how I framed the name or rather how the name framed itself.
I happen to walk through this passage everyday to my hotel after work. There is no choice but to do that because I am not too good at jumping off over-bridges.
One fine day, as I was walking through this thriving corridor of soft porn, a hairy hand shoved a few soft porn movie CDs in my face and said, ‘SS.’ It instantly conjured images of Hitler’s SS and presumed it to be a war movies and then when he saw my puzzled face he said, ‘RR’, I though what the hell is RR now? I imagined German army divisions deploying near Grant Road and the Generals initials being RR. But soon my doubts were dispelled when he said ‘Open’. He uttered the word with the feeling of intense liberation as if life had found a renewed meaning. He went on, ‘Open bole to ekdum khulla.’ It was my turn to think now, so I thought and said while mocking his accent, ‘Open bole to ekdum Wimbledon Open?’
‘I can’t take it.’ I told him even after he kept repeating ‘Wimbledon’ perceiving it as my code for soft porn. But I couldn’t take it although his method of marketing was quite direct and ‘in the face’. I can’t take it because I am sure my boss won’t be amused if I am caught watching soft porn movies in office. ‘Iss mein story hai’, he says as if it’s an achievement on part of the director to think about the storyline when he can simply give a go ahead for sex.
I cant take it because I doubt it that my 7 present roomies, one marketing head and 44 future roomies will ever reach a consensus about watching it together, or whatever the criteria involved in the consensus, I leave it to your imagination.
How will I explain to the hotel guy that why my 44 future roomies are crowding around my bed on which I sit looking gullible with a lappy. What do I say?; they are surrounding me because the roomy love is overflowing tonight? Or that they are crowding around me because I have the treasure? The Nami-baba and the 44 roomies story won’t help then.
And who has the energy to watch a soft porn movie after a days work at The Indian Express where I am already behind schedule. The only thing that is keeping me alive is the shock generated out of exodus vacating employees and a flurry of new bosses.
‘Sorry hairy guy from the Wimble Den, I can’t take it. Try selling it to the unemployed, i.e. if they have the money to buy it.’
A Cofnused Rayper
‘GOD why am I so BEFUDDLED?’
Why so COFNUSED?
Please ELNIGHTEN me
Oh please GOD
It’s not for me that I RAYP to you
It’s for your own sake
Do it before I call you…
You know I don’t want to call you DOG
Oh God I am minding my lose
Don’t blame me now
I told you DOG
I remember YELLING you clearly
Do it for your OWNER’S sake DOG
But who listens to a mere MOTEL
Why so COFNUSED?
Please ELNIGHTEN me
Oh please GOD
It’s not for me that I RAYP to you
It’s for your own sake
Do it before I call you…
You know I don’t want to call you DOG
Oh God I am minding my lose
Don’t blame me now
I told you DOG
I remember YELLING you clearly
Do it for your OWNER’S sake DOG
But who listens to a mere MOTEL
The Gift of Smile
God I have never done all this. This is new emotional territory for me. I am comfortable with scowling to vex someone but smile to please someone? Out of the question. Well it has been proudly kept out of the question at least till now. After all it’s not a government secret that I smile at convenience.
But things change when you consider professional embarrassment. When you start to mingle a little with your colleagues and then eventually with your boss and when you get the compliment of being a ‘dhakkan’, you think that maybe this is the right time to start smiling because if the Vaseline of your lips does not make your boss’s tush shine, the glint of your teeth sure will.
But things change when you consider professional embarrassment. When you start to mingle a little with your colleagues and then eventually with your boss and when you get the compliment of being a ‘dhakkan’, you think that maybe this is the right time to start smiling because if the Vaseline of your lips does not make your boss’s tush shine, the glint of your teeth sure will.
‘In love with the idea’
She said I sounded remote
I shrugged it off
She said I was a mere spectator
I laughed it off
She said I was going to wander off
I flashed my ironic smile
And then not surprisingly
I did wander off
Looking back at the things anew
How true you were, my obsession
About my wandering off
So true were you about
My being only in love with the idea of love
And not in love with you...
Now I wonder that after these wandering offs
And just obsessions instead of love
Will I ever overcome,
Being in love with love?
The love that was inspired by you?
I shrugged it off
She said I was a mere spectator
I laughed it off
She said I was going to wander off
I flashed my ironic smile
And then not surprisingly
I did wander off
Looking back at the things anew
How true you were, my obsession
About my wandering off
So true were you about
My being only in love with the idea of love
And not in love with you...
Now I wonder that after these wandering offs
And just obsessions instead of love
Will I ever overcome,
Being in love with love?
The love that was inspired by you?
Vantage Point-Yadgar
I am putting up at Yadgar Guest House on Grant Road which is very close to the red light area of Mumbaland. Can't put my finger on anything worth doing so I am lying on my bed and eavesdropping.
‘Just pushed a 4 crore deal with Reliance’, he is talking into his cell. ‘All in days work for him I guess.’, I think.
And now, this guy, on the bed beside mine is talking of winning a part of Videocon’s hundred crore ad account. And we are fighting over peanuts in the Express, struggling to make client’s end’s meet. The client’s ends seem to meet only if they happen to go around a maze called TOI.
I turn back and I ask him, ‘Are you working in the ad industry?’
He said, ‘No I am Sahara marketing country head.’
And then for a long time he kept on talking on his phone with the corny ring-tone, reminding me of early Japanese hello kitty tunes or polyphonic anime background music.
He receives another phone call from someone who he apparently holds in great respect. After switching off his cell he turns to me and says, ‘That was the marketing head of CNN and he has offered me assistant vice president in CNN.’
He enquires about me and what I am doing. Some time passes. It’s a slow day to begin.
Later I show him MICA ragging pictures. He says he wants to be associated with MICA in some way or the other. He says that his one and only hobby is education. All very impressive! He tells me all this without asking for it. It’s almost as if he is trying too hard. But for what?
He is M.Sc. microbiology, CA, MBA from US; I didn’t get the name of the institute clearly. But I like his handshake better than any of his degrees. His is one of the warmest handshakes I have had.
He claims knows my boss personally (which reminds me that my immediate boss thinks I am a dhakkan and she is not deterred from saying it aloud so that the whole office can hear). ‘Sixteen years in the industry beta. I know your boss’s boss too.’ he declares. I would have puked at the sound of beta had it been someone else.
‘Your hostel’s name is his son’s name’, he brings to my attention. Talk about magic. Mumbaland is Magical no doubt about it. There is something about it I can’t put my finger on but eventually I will. It’s something about the people. It’s got something to do with the way that they always give you directions on the road.
Previously, before meeting the Sahara guy, I had told the hotel guy that I would be shifting from the AC to non AC to save money but now. It would save me some money about 350 bucks in ten days time. If I shift it would mean, limited interaction with the Sahara guy- Amulya Bhatnager. Will I shift? Will I? NAH!
I ran down and told the hotel guy to give the bed to someone else.
Had I shifted there would have been another post. But I guess it will be only after 10 days. I am not promising anything but it will be called and it SHOULD be rightly called ‘Nami-Baba & forty four roomies’ for the obvious reasons.
Next day, he continued to talk about his life. I have not seen anyone as forthcoming about sharing his life with me. He narrated his life with the objectivity of narrating a movie plot.
Tomorrow we have to fight for peanuts with Reliance. Got to rest. Like the Sahara Guy would put it and almost make me puke, ‘Take rest beta.’
When I asked him why he was staying in a dorm when he can clearly afford better, he replied ‘Or else how would I come across people like you.’
And then investigating further into the ‘people like you’ part, I heard him early in the morning talking to one of the two ladies that he talks to and telling then about me and saying in his know-it-all singsong voice ‘ekdum bhola hai woh, ekdum soft hai, MICA mein padh raha hai’. Argh…one more person who thinks I am bhola. It never ends does it? When will people stop judging me from my face and look into my eyes and see that slyness in them. It’s a very subtle form of slyness but its there. There is only one person till dare who has ratified the presence of that slyness. If it weren’t for her discerning vision, I would have missed the slyness myself.
Off and on the Sahara guy will have long discussions on his phone, apparently with two ladies and that too alternately. To one he would be offering Rs. 200,000 to settle a property dispute and then arguing with her that if she accepted the money he would consider her as a bought article. And quite emphatically he would be very sorry doing that. After all she’s his precious. Too precious to be spent too much money on. And all wasting of breath when he knows all too well that prostitutes only understand the language of money.
And latter he claimed that his wife was coming to see him in the adjoining hotel and so he shifted his base to a place called Super Hotel. Does he really think I am that bhola. Shame on me. Shame on him.
Later I was privy to the discussions of the other seven roomies that I have once the Sahara guy left and they narrated how he comes to Yadgar which is supposedly a vantage point to access the Red Light area and how he is spending his corporate money on girlfriends (a pseudonym they have for prostitutes). And they turn to me and ask, ‘aap girlfriend rakhte hain?, agar rakhte hain to kabhi dil se pyar mat karriyega.’ I nod my head on the expert advice while thinking, ‘in love with the idea of love.’
And it so happened recently that, one of these days, when I was returning from Lower Parel to Churchgate (having shifted to VT now) in the train, I saw him traveling with an undisclosed companion, needless to say female, one of his girlfriends or wives or bought articles or whatever he chooses to call them. If you did not happen to know the guy you would miss the undisclosed chemistry between him and the maiden, the way he looked her, the way she gazed back frequently, all too conscious of the crowd and the way they vacated the train at Grant Road station, leaving most of us wondering why would a female climb into a male compartment.
Yes I saw it all; I witnessed it from my vantage point-Yadgar.
‘Just pushed a 4 crore deal with Reliance’, he is talking into his cell. ‘All in days work for him I guess.’, I think.
And now, this guy, on the bed beside mine is talking of winning a part of Videocon’s hundred crore ad account. And we are fighting over peanuts in the Express, struggling to make client’s end’s meet. The client’s ends seem to meet only if they happen to go around a maze called TOI.
I turn back and I ask him, ‘Are you working in the ad industry?’
He said, ‘No I am Sahara marketing country head.’
And then for a long time he kept on talking on his phone with the corny ring-tone, reminding me of early Japanese hello kitty tunes or polyphonic anime background music.
He receives another phone call from someone who he apparently holds in great respect. After switching off his cell he turns to me and says, ‘That was the marketing head of CNN and he has offered me assistant vice president in CNN.’
He enquires about me and what I am doing. Some time passes. It’s a slow day to begin.
Later I show him MICA ragging pictures. He says he wants to be associated with MICA in some way or the other. He says that his one and only hobby is education. All very impressive! He tells me all this without asking for it. It’s almost as if he is trying too hard. But for what?
He is M.Sc. microbiology, CA, MBA from US; I didn’t get the name of the institute clearly. But I like his handshake better than any of his degrees. His is one of the warmest handshakes I have had.
He claims knows my boss personally (which reminds me that my immediate boss thinks I am a dhakkan and she is not deterred from saying it aloud so that the whole office can hear). ‘Sixteen years in the industry beta. I know your boss’s boss too.’ he declares. I would have puked at the sound of beta had it been someone else.
‘Your hostel’s name is his son’s name’, he brings to my attention. Talk about magic. Mumbaland is Magical no doubt about it. There is something about it I can’t put my finger on but eventually I will. It’s something about the people. It’s got something to do with the way that they always give you directions on the road.
Previously, before meeting the Sahara guy, I had told the hotel guy that I would be shifting from the AC to non AC to save money but now. It would save me some money about 350 bucks in ten days time. If I shift it would mean, limited interaction with the Sahara guy- Amulya Bhatnager. Will I shift? Will I? NAH!
I ran down and told the hotel guy to give the bed to someone else.
Had I shifted there would have been another post. But I guess it will be only after 10 days. I am not promising anything but it will be called and it SHOULD be rightly called ‘Nami-Baba & forty four roomies’ for the obvious reasons.
Next day, he continued to talk about his life. I have not seen anyone as forthcoming about sharing his life with me. He narrated his life with the objectivity of narrating a movie plot.
Tomorrow we have to fight for peanuts with Reliance. Got to rest. Like the Sahara Guy would put it and almost make me puke, ‘Take rest beta.’
When I asked him why he was staying in a dorm when he can clearly afford better, he replied ‘Or else how would I come across people like you.’
And then investigating further into the ‘people like you’ part, I heard him early in the morning talking to one of the two ladies that he talks to and telling then about me and saying in his know-it-all singsong voice ‘ekdum bhola hai woh, ekdum soft hai, MICA mein padh raha hai’. Argh…one more person who thinks I am bhola. It never ends does it? When will people stop judging me from my face and look into my eyes and see that slyness in them. It’s a very subtle form of slyness but its there. There is only one person till dare who has ratified the presence of that slyness. If it weren’t for her discerning vision, I would have missed the slyness myself.
Off and on the Sahara guy will have long discussions on his phone, apparently with two ladies and that too alternately. To one he would be offering Rs. 200,000 to settle a property dispute and then arguing with her that if she accepted the money he would consider her as a bought article. And quite emphatically he would be very sorry doing that. After all she’s his precious. Too precious to be spent too much money on. And all wasting of breath when he knows all too well that prostitutes only understand the language of money.
And latter he claimed that his wife was coming to see him in the adjoining hotel and so he shifted his base to a place called Super Hotel. Does he really think I am that bhola. Shame on me. Shame on him.
Later I was privy to the discussions of the other seven roomies that I have once the Sahara guy left and they narrated how he comes to Yadgar which is supposedly a vantage point to access the Red Light area and how he is spending his corporate money on girlfriends (a pseudonym they have for prostitutes). And they turn to me and ask, ‘aap girlfriend rakhte hain?, agar rakhte hain to kabhi dil se pyar mat karriyega.’ I nod my head on the expert advice while thinking, ‘in love with the idea of love.’
And it so happened recently that, one of these days, when I was returning from Lower Parel to Churchgate (having shifted to VT now) in the train, I saw him traveling with an undisclosed companion, needless to say female, one of his girlfriends or wives or bought articles or whatever he chooses to call them. If you did not happen to know the guy you would miss the undisclosed chemistry between him and the maiden, the way he looked her, the way she gazed back frequently, all too conscious of the crowd and the way they vacated the train at Grant Road station, leaving most of us wondering why would a female climb into a male compartment.
Yes I saw it all; I witnessed it from my vantage point-Yadgar.
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