Ventment

~What!~

2007-02-22T14:43:00.000-08:00

I thought I had an idea
An idea which sought 'change'
And in this changing situation
I left "Don't change if it ain't needed."
Quite simply "out of range"

~The Now~

2007-02-22T14:26:00.000-08:00

The more I wake up the sleepier the past
All feelings suspended at half-mast
This is my 'now' like it has always been
A forgotten relic in yesterday's cast

And will this 'now' run through my life
Like a piercing single strand?
I think I should give up this sorrow
For the 'now' of today feeds the 'now' of morrow

‘To See More’

2007-01-30T12:46:00.000-08:00

I sat in the stuffy room till I couldn’t take the parchedness of my throat anymore. The idea of water though eternally brilliant for anything parched seemed brilliant but boring. So I decided to step out. I decided to step out of the room simply to see some life, hear people talk and move. And that is exactly what I did. Looking back it seems that it was not the throat that was parched. Quite obviously if it wasn’t the throat that was parched it must have been something else. I know what this something else is. Looking back it now seems that I stepped out of the stuffy room merely to observe people. I felt this need for observation because something had changed in my understanding of people and quite naturally I wanted to step out of the room to try and understand what exactly had changed. I still haven’t figured out what that is. But I intend to find out. Just like I intend to take responsibility of all success and failure and all victory and loss.

Though things are looking up they are looking up rather slowly. Yes it is a matter of patience, like catching fish, to hang in there with this observation business and ultimately to see more. To see more than an ordinary person can see whose ordinariness lies in the fact that he has never been initiated in life, to see more.

Till very recently I used to think that it is easy to understand the behavior of human beings by simply observing them and then asking ‘Why?’ but now since I have begun to see more, I think the actual challenge is in observing because I have a feeling that what is being observed is merely the tip of the iceberg. And to make matters look bleaker what is being interpreted in terms of ‘Why?’ is a fraction of what is being observed.

‘The Being of Trust’

2007-01-29T12:39:00.000-08:00

I thought, no I believed with all my life that the images that I saw on the inside of my eyes were no good. And I believed that with all the life, this for the sake of emphasis. And today the situation is that I hope for the same images to flash back on the back on my eyes. And just as when you forcefully exhale, the air rushes into your nostrils, I squeeze everything out of my mind, and images do squeeze in. Not in quite a rush as does the air in my nostrils, but it is certainly happening and I wait till it becomes a gush. The important thing here being that besides the images, it is important to know that unhindered inhalation hinges on forceful exhalation and not forceful inhalation itself, which might seem as the simple way circumventing what the evidence suggests. In simpler words, things aren’t what they seem, even if they are exactly what they seem.

While the air rushes and waits gushing, I ponder about stories which these images bring along, the stories in which the strongest fiber always makes itself shown, no matter what the degree of the tempest. For the sake of emphasis, every story when remembered, the strongest fiber, makes itself shown. And in this story, [story?], too the fiber leaps forth like an enthused soldier falling out of file to accept the challenge that most probably would mean death. Well, most probably is a term of very ‘most probablistic’ nature and by virtue of that death for this soldier might just turn out to mean life by some twist of most probablisticity, here I sincerely hope I am thinking clearly.

So what is the strongest fiber here? The fact that when I sit to scribble these lines I scarcely know weather the weight of my own pen on my shoulder determines the clarity of expression, or is it something more concrete, something which like a leaf from the book of life, thus inscribed into a page, left for the reader to decode out of the simple writings, something that contrast heavily with a book with leafs like traps and hollows of tunnels and wells, not like fields of exploration and the cool high ridges of mountains of thoughts which the mind peacefully ascends and that too at the climber’s patience, the fact that I scarcely know this, means that I may not be that good at spotting strong fibers in stories so best hope for the fiber to make itself shown.

So the strongest fiber yet is…in the time that I have spent in Bihar is…I’ll decide in the morning. For now let me go to sleep with the thought of why should this call for a decision, why isn’t sixth sense ever given a chance..hm…I think I know the answer to this one, sixth sense is not given a chance because that requires trusting something…something that I struggle equally hard with to define and also its need to define, something called destiny…and well since the strongest fiber has made itself shown, that being of trust…well it is only right that the strongest soldier in the realm of trust step forward for the challenge:

Soldier name: Hira
Specifications: Died hair, old age mainly because of life exhaustion, a common form of exhaustion found in this area which basically means that you run out of time before time. He thinks that when I switch the lappy, off I lose everything.
Mission: to stay put when all his pseudo sisters and brothers are gone or as he says in the most yogic denouncement way, ‘I don’t give a shit if my brothers remember my name, I would stick around.’
Implications: his pseudo sister, my mother, showed up after 10 years gap with her son who showed up after 12 years gap.

Hira stays home or goes for a short stint of day labor which may give him ten bucks, the currency which he knows, a frequent restoration of ten bucks for life’s perpetuation, something he asks for quite casually from my Nani having substituted his day labor to do an errand for her, so Hira stays at home or leaves home to earn a ten bucker, while we, me, my Nani, and mom, in that order, though we walk quite alongside of each other, go and have a look at the church, the neighborhood church, a marvel of communication, to dazzle anyone into taking up Christianity as a religion. But I did feel when I stepped into that church what Jesus is all about, quite a cool dude, tough to live up to his life…but not impossible. Standing beside his wife like a cool husband oops no that’s his father I am talking about all this time, he had now wife or did he I dunno, then giving the Romans a taste of his passive yet gory resistance, and spreading the ideal through the ordeal and then yes culminating into a miracle of returning the third day, the incredibility of which is ofcourse quelled by the fact that he is God or is he the son? Exactly the reason why its tough to live up to him…but it is easy to reach a sort of a human truce looking at him eye to eye in this church in my Nani’s town…yes the way she talks about winning elections it might as well be hers one of these days..but anyway to me, me Nani’s town- Bettiah. This also brings us to soldier no.2

Soldier name: Nani
Specifications: ripe old age, respective because of life exhaustion, a common form of exhaustion found in this area which basically means that you run out of time before time.
Mission: To win elections because she believes she can. When she walks down the road, I have to salute in the old fashioned way, pranam pranam, to the whole world, irrespective of their socio-economic status. Its hard to believe it is my Nani…, ‘oh Nani how can you be so liberal with time..move on..yeah okay stick around if you want votes.’
Implications: Power woman is soon going to harvest a ripe harvest of well-groomed, keep me out of it yet, post graduate grandchildren who will definitely give her the queen grandmother status, not that there is any competition. She not like Indian cricket telecast that almost all content on TV seems to be a worthy enemy.

So I am walking down to the church and it is quite easy to discover that I have shit on the soles of my shoes. It’s as common as life exhaustion in these parts.

It’s easy to catch us, after having walked over all that shit inspite of being wary about it but because of the sheer numbers that surpassing the Iraqi landmined scape, talking to townsfolk on one of these roads and my mom somehow suppressing the expression of embarrassment on her face on being absent from her hometown for ten years and quickly looking towards me for self-approbation for I seem to be the only one leading her by two years in that regard. And after having done all this hi-helloing the old way, walking down to home and then there would be Hira to greet us talking in his pitched, colloquial tongue and expressing the trust of years all around which makes me question why I don’t trust people the way he does, what does it take, and the constant smile on his face does let me know that it is worth it for the smile seems to be of the realization of a kindered happiness, the kind which is kept alive like shrubs in the garden when there are no roses or for that matter thorns. No matter what the time of the year, what the season, or what the weatherman says, the smile remains like the symbol of constant trust. So Hira has been here for long, and he claims that he is not going to abandon my Nani who he considers his mom and so does claim my Nani that she has treated him close to a son…no quite but quite close to one…and that is as good as it happens in these parts though situations have entrusted people with greater deeds of generosities in these parts or any parts I am sure for anyone reading this would have a story to tell. Not necessary about trust I trust because it may look as if this is a passage dedicated to trust, it is not quite, it is a simple product of my insecurities which I am only too insecure to claim. Be gone insecurities, come sunshine hm…which makes me wonder if sunshine is the opposite of insecurities. Whatever may be the case, Hira claims to stay even if the children of the children of the children of Nani forget him or his services, for they aren’t any services, they are just acts performed when entertaining trust, and shining acts of goodness are those, those which come with a smile on the face and patience in the heart. God I am your preacher.

I hope, as I have planned for all my plans essentially hinge on hope, that someday I will land in Katmandu, on a plane from wherever I get placed, and make the trip down here, for I think I have had enough of rail travel for a while, it no longer pleasurable headache, it’s a plain headache sometimes. Crossing the border here is like drawing lines on a map, like the childhood games in which my room and your room used to be divided into India Pakistan and such and we used to freely crossover on beats of whatever the music of the season be, no strings attached.

When I come down flying one of these days, I want to se how while Nani’s election plans which are more of popularity plans unfold, how do the children of the children of the children of Nani treat the them both. That, I believe is again going to be set in this very house, a very historical house for personal reasons of many persons, well yes…and though nothing quite unfolds exactly the way I picture it in my mind, I keep on doing so and do it in different ways so that it covers all the ways, and when there is a surprise it truly knocks me off my horse for sure and its as surprising as realizing that the horse I ride is made of inflated plastic and someone busted it with a pin. No matter what you can always trust surprises and that is what someone else’s grandmother world have said sometime or the other I am sure, not my Nani.

Finally, here’s to sunshine, the soldiers in question and a future plane ride into Kathmandu and the events that may unfold thereafter. Till then what to do but to expect fervently in my life, the being of trust. Cheers!

‘The Argumentative MICAn’

2006-09-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

MICA is a place where I have come to admire the ability of people to put anything forward with conviction. After all you need not be an expert on the subject to lay down a convincing argument which could even make the expert wince in pain of not much more than maybe a passing instant, but enough to disorient momentarily. Leaving remote ambitions aside, this is what we think of doing in this place, i.e. to be on the better side of the shave, be it shaving in the morning for guys, shaving unwanted hair for girls or having a close shave with a cryptic quantitative subject or for that matter accounts (not true for all MICAn). The bottom-line is that we all adore a good lick, as long as our hair doesn’t catch fire for rest assured the kind of knowledge stock we base our arguments on, is certainly not enough to put our teeth on fire just as good old Mathew used to say that we are no more than bacteria to whom MICA provides an outside chance of becoming a possible mould and then maybe a more developed life form thereon in.

So what do you do when you run short on actual fuel? You run the argumentative machine on what else? With what else but that oft used, over used and by now a word with the probability of occurrence of 60% in all b-school entrances, that golden word called “passion”, which when used as an undiluted substitute for strayed emotions leads the interviewer to push the eject button (the direct connection from which goes right under your seat) with enhanced swiftness, if you happened to be that “passionate one”, whose passion once inflamed doesn’t pacify until you have been kicked out of the interview room (don’t worry in the next interview you can always say that you have a passion for getting kicked out of interview rooms).

So what do you do when you run out of that actual fuel? Make a short comic film about interviews once destiny has lead you into the environs of MICA propelled by that stroke of coincident intelligence (not directed at you Ganty or me for that matter or to any other deserving MICAn), or you become the queen of PR, become an empathizing machine, or simply go on typing something on a blog whose credibility would be dealt an act of mercy if you rechristened it ‘Jumping the Gun’.

No matter what you do, one thing is for sure you do evolve here till you become one of those seven-eight personality types which MICAns can claim to produce (yeah-yeah we all are unique and different) and I don’t need Mathew’s backing here to say this (where is Mathew anyway?? PGP-1’s only hear fables about him). You can be that MICAn type who has that immaculate sense of timing to be there at the right moment to hog the limelight, to put up which the sweat and blood of many a fellow beings went into a power station of dreams, so that the mind of all MICAns were kept alight when they slept comfortable over loud rock music coming out of one of those unmistakable rooms which are miraculously found in each hostel. Someone somewhere is sick and thinking may be it’s ‘chiken-gunned-me-down’, but the music goes on playing propelled with the vision of ‘the show must go on’, it doesn’t matter if ‘chicken-gun-ya-down’ or ‘chicken-gun-me down’.

Now don’t even let me go into implicating the MICAn based on the implications which can be derived by juxtaposing the caustic spirit of this article alongside the celebrated book ‘The Argumentative Indian’, which by the stroke of hark luck I was also given the task or reviewing in the first year by that elusive creature of the bamboo jungles, now close to extinction but one definitely found in MICA and one who is a herbivore, has adjusted to the omnivorous nature of the food chain here, if you still haven’t got it, I suggest you shove your finger in a socket and switch it on, it might put you straight, and I mean this in the strictest of non-sexual sense, for we maybe anything but we are surely sexually liberated at MICA, aren’t we now?

Now before I go on about something else let me get over with what I started writing this …this…whatever this is… for…it was about ‘An Argument for Argument’.

Suddenly sitting in the library (what a place for realizations, very close to the loo in that respect) I remember when I was young, whenever I would have a standoff with my parents I was brutally crushed by saying that I was doing nothing but propounding the weakest of arguments and then blatantly defending it. This was so forcefully beaten into my psychology that when during the time of my dissertation I realize that a dissertation is nothing but an ‘argument’ (which may or may not end in your favour, but if pursued effectively will get you a good grade), I remember those days when I was discouraged to start my argument (dissertation) though it is not exactly charity which I was beginning at home…but still. I guess they were just being parents, tomorrow I have my dissertation defense… (Defense? sounds like a battle half lost)…like my parents, I guess the panelists will be just judges…and I will be just, as expected…a MICAn…going about trying to convert half-losts into winnables.

God bless.

Blackened Rose IV : 'The Broken Roses'

2006-09-07T16:58:00.000-07:00

But as I like it
my sweet is not to disappoint
all the promises
that she hadn't promised
she broke them all
to be hung and then flung
like broken roses
and then she got back
at the habit again
now it's pleasantlness that reigns
I have more marks on my hands
and if I am anyone
my life though collectively insane
these are the ones
that keep it safe
from becoming
boring dry
mouldy muddy
and ofcourse
downright lame

Blackened Rose III : 'A Rose not Red'

2006-09-07T16:48:00.000-07:00

And so it happened that
she said enough marks
I know it too well
too give you any more
so expect only roses
and this is not a promise
for it will be broken
now that's a promise
I looked at my hand
it was a rose
red and bright
textured right
but nothing compared to those
marks that screamed on my hand
which collectively were
almost there
almost there
to be a rose of their own
a rose not red
but a blackened one

'Blackened Rose II: 'The Rose of Thornes'

2006-09-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

So did my sweet give me day to day
until today
a blackened finger everyday
so many thornes that would have gone
into something else
went on going into them
but one day when my sweet arrived
in a mood to brood
and showing it
she had in her hand
a red-red rose
and I extended my hand
even knowing it
another black spot on my hand
another instance to know her by
she has given me another mark
is what I would like to think
but instead when I looked at my hand
there is a rose without a thorne
and my blackened fingers holding it

Blackened Rose I : 'My Sweet’s So Sweet'

2006-09-07T14:53:00.000-07:00

My sweet’s so sweet that she gave me a rose
She gave me a rose so that the thorn could prick me
But I knew what was up my sweet’s sleeve
So I stopped my hand from grabbing the rose
At least that’s what I would like to think
These days whenever I look at my finger
I just ignore the blackened thing

‘Missed You…Not’

2006-08-29T23:10:00.000-07:00

No didn’t miss you
No we didn't part
Forever close
To the heart

‘Love in the Time of Viral’

2006-08-27T07:53:00.000-07:00

I was visiting Preeti in Sterling Hospital and I happened to be hungry so I decided to head to the canteen to eat a cheese sandwich, whose legacy was passed on to me by Su with her breath diffusing the scent of the cheese as she did that, and so with that intention I found my way to the basement where the ‘Cafeteria’ was supposed to be and I did not waste a second in ordering a cheese sandwich, which in its minimalist charm held nothing more than two slices of bread with a thick layer of cheese between them, and like many things simple brought down to the basics for the sake of extracting the most basic reactions from us…it looked intelligently crafted for extracting the water of the mouth.

As I munched the sandwich I saw the people around me and suddenly, surprisingly I was transfixed by the eyes of a man who stood nearby, the kind of character who you would find tempting to frame in the ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ fashion, the kind of character who becomes the victim of not only his own suspicions and insecurities but other’s too. He was also the kind of character who is the product of circumstances and can’t claim to have shaped even a moment of his own life effectively. His eyes were beautiful. To say the least, they were mesmerizing.

As I munched my sandwich trying to appreciate the beauty of his eyes, I looked around me to other people…and to my surprise all of them seemed to have beautiful eyes. The whole room was glowing with the presence of these beautiful eyed people.

I finished the sandwich and came out of the room which I now call the ‘Basement of Beautiful Eyes’ thinking that was it the lighting that made them look beautiful or as I would like to believe, an acquired perspective where one finds beauty in anything?

I vacated the basement and headed straight upstairs to Room 308…Preeti’s room. I had forgotten the visitor’s pass up in the room for the nth time so the stair guard put on the stern expression for the nth time and asked me about it and I did a little ‘I am a loser I dunno where’s my life going’ act but this time he didn’t let me go anywhere. So on the landing I was stranded thinking how I would get to Preeti which three guards blocking me at three levels. Had this been a computer game called ‘The sterling Rescue’, it was all a matter of spanking the crap out of them and progressing to the subsequent level and then liberating the beautiful princess kept captive by evil doctors who can’t find the vein to insert the IV properly so that it all leaves her forearm black and blue.

Then I thought I would just take the lift. So I hopped into it. The liftman didn’t seem much bothered about the pass but too much bothered about the ‘anti-pass’ I had which was nothing but my Frooty pack. He was so intent on having me dispose it off before riding the lift that he even pointed to the left where I could throw the carton and climb in. I followed his finger and looked around and found nothing remotely resembling a dustbin except for patients in weird postures on wheelchairs…so I decided to rush back…only to find the elevator doors sliding and closing in fast. I could still see the smile of the guard on it and it wasn’t pretty…I would like to see it without teeth actually…but surprisingly his eyes looked beautiful…fantastic…as if not obeying his malicious intentions for Frooty pack carriers. And everyone else in the lift had beautiful eyes too.

By then I had had enough…and I decided to head up the stairs. I was of course stopped again on the landing. And I said… ‘I am not carrying any bombs…I am here to take care of a patient so would you please let me go up.’ and this time I was heard. so I went up and reached 308, opened the door…saw Su first…all set to go back to MICA…she had beautiful eyes…and then my eyes fell on Preeti’s…filled with the expectation to get discharged from the pink, pretty looking dungeon of disease-combat…filled with the good news of her AIMA paper doing well…they looked beautiful…and so did every single person’s eye since that sterling day at Sterling.

In this time of viral…I fell in love with eyes…left, right and centre…all colors and all size. And the syndrome continues. I can say with my eyes closed now that if you too are lucky enough to have a pair, which you must be to be reading this, without a doubt, they must be beautiful too!

‘Memories of a Geisha’

2006-07-07T01:43:00.000-07:00

Foreword

All these days that I have known her, a short span of time in terms of time, but a long one in terms of events, I cannot help but draw a parallel between an artist and her. She’s so good at her ordinary art that whenever I think of her, the artistic image of an accomplished Geisha flashes across my mind. The fact that her face is oriental has some role to inspire this image. Apart from the fact that I have seen the movie and have had my share of disappointment after having done that, that the movie was forgettable, that the picture on the cover of the book was haunting as opposed to the movie, and because I have been perceptually influenced by these, I have come to cherish her image as a supreme artist who has an insight in the ways of the world just like a Geisha, an artist who has the ability to penetrate the heart of the matter simply by borrowing the confidence of her ability from her primary art which is nothing but one of ‘constant discovery’. And I am willing to contest that her art lies in loving the people around her, and making a difference by not only loving them but also expressing that love frequently and more importantly abruptly.

‘One night at an internet café on Grant Road’

Technically, she is gone but she is here more than ever. I can feel her presence stronger than even when she was present here physically. That is the kind of everlasting quality she possesses, a simplistic charm that binds her acquaintances in a continuous rapture of time and space. And its not strange that I find myself saying this about her after knowing her for what…12 days?, because for me time has coagulated in the past few day.

‘I don’t even know if we will meet again.’ I found myself saying when she preparing to leave for Thailand, her family having decided to migrate.

‘Just stay in touch. And leave it to destiny if we will meet again because chances are that if we keep in touch we will definitely meet.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me, that even after hearing this from her, doubts about us meeting again crop up in my mind considering she’s leaving for a place so far. I try to overcome these doubts but since it is well established that I am a slave of habit and considering habits take time to change, more so when you have nurtured that belief for years, these doubts will be entertained for some more time to come.

How can I forget how we met! And not surprisingly, our meeting was facilitated by the World Wide Web, which has consistently been a dynamic mode for countless people to unite online...all that and blah-blah. The only difference in our case was perhaps that the World Wide Web had an indirect role to play as, as opposed to the usual online route, we met in an internet café, one of many on that well known thoroughfare called Grant Road. I happened to be surfing the net on that ‘Grant Road evening’ and reaching out to friends, news, issues and all other things MICAn. Engrossed in my surfing function as I was, I unconsciously heard a melodious voice sing Kajrare and instantly I thought of Potnis who is what can be termed as ‘The Gift of Kajrare’ much like how Egypt is the gift of Nile. At that point in time, when the feminine voice pervaded the café air, had anyone shaken me up and diverted me away form surfing and asked me with my eyes closed about who might be singing, I would have easily passed the voice as of a girl with the description of being in her late teens, living in the neighborhood, possibly Muslim for the sake of that refined Urdu accent in the voice, and addicted to Bollywood. As it turned out I couldn’t be more wrong. As soon as I lay my eyes on her, my imagination was proved to be an inferior product of all the images that are fed to it in the environment. Not only was my imagination a slave of the external stimuli but also it completely lacked the quality of absurdity which after a point separates all things genius from ordinary. I was very disappointed with my imagination but fortunately I was adequately appeased by the discovery of the face behind the voice. The idea of ‘impossible’ that had initially struck my mind at seeing the face of the girl that claimed the voice soon transformed to one of ‘marvelous’. And the flurry of moments that saw me become a cork pulsating on sea waves, ended on an elevating note.

Michelle is a Thai of Chinese descent. She has been living in India as long as she can remember. I think, there are two things about her that must be told. Her body cannot be more Thai of Chinese descent. Her mind cannot be more Indian. And I am yet to find out the nationality of her heart though I have made a tentative prediction that it will come out to be a world citizen.

Going back to the cafe scene again, one could have easily predicted that the only thing that could possibly bring her to break that fantastic musical encore could only be someone interrupting her by calling her on her cell. And it goes without saying that that is exactly what happened. It was her mom talking.

After listening to her mom, the unknown girl that I now know as Michelle barked into the cell, ‘I am on my way, I am in the bus, will be there in ten, sure.’

There was a pause which was due to her mom barking in on the other end of the line. By now everyone in the café, mostly guys happily addicted to online gaming, and I, were listening intently to the conversation and I can’t say the same for them but I was surely thinking, ‘Will she sing again? Huh? Will she sing again? Huh? Huh? Or will her evil mom succeed in stealing her away from our invisible clutches, clutches that surround all things that are perceived to bring joy?’

‘I had some work to do, that’s why I got late. I’ll be there soon. I am on my way.’ She assured her mom.

I tingled with excitement on hearing her lie to her mom with such mind-numbing ease. I reckon that had she been in the company of thieves, she could have earned some real respect. But for now she would have to make do with the silent respect that my eyes were dealing out.

It was then that Kadir, the owner of the café asked me if I would like to play counter strike at 15 bucks per hour. I don’t know why but I said yes.

And then began a structured, repeated assasination of my virtual player by one player that called himself ‘Toma’. After the game ended, I found out that Toma was none other than Michelle. And we instantly struck a conversation which began at Strike Force, went on to MICA, and ended at the agreement of a meeting on the Marine Drive the following day as my office was terribly close to that place and so was her music class, the kind of classes you join in the short break after having taken your class XII exams.

The following day, Marine Drive, evening

I dragged my sagging spirits through swinging doors of media agencies that I was supposed to cover for the day for the sake of keeping my project alive and barely in the range of possible completion. I merely did this because the rendezvous with Michelle was like some sort of a break at the day’s time tunnel, at a point somewhere close to the sunset. She wasn’t the one to disappoint. She was already there at the agreed point even before I reached. She smiled, I smiled, and we smiled on seeing each other. The sea bathed in her company felt a much improved version of itself.

‘How was your day?’ That’s how I have generally come to begin the conversation with her. It’s almost a tradition now.

‘I just lazed around like a cat throughout the day. It was burning hot outside. Oh yeah, I did catch a movie though, I watched ‘The Mask of Zorro.’

‘How did you find it?’ we had started moving along the drive.

‘Everything was fine except for the action sequence in the end, there just seemed too many, what’s that word…um…weird explosions.’

‘What do you mean by “weird explosions”?’

‘I mean…well…have you seen the Titanic?’

‘Yeah’

‘You noticed how James Cameron takes you all about the ship showing you places which are most vulnerable, acquainting you with the ships construction, the crew in detail all along?.’

‘Yeah’

‘You know why he does that right? He does it so that the spectator knows exactly how the ship is giving away under the brutal forces of nature, when the action is being shown in the end. I mean when something breaks or blows up, the viewer knows exactly why that happens. And he does it so well you never even come to know when he has given you so much information about the nature of the ship because you are too busy concentrating on the love-story between Kate and Leo all through the movie.’

‘Okay so what about ‘The Mask of Zorro'?

‘In the mask of Zorro, when the last sequence is being filmed when the director wants to show the gold mine exploding all over the place, he does not explain anything about the nature of the mine, he just shows close-ups of explosions. Let alone the nature of the mine, he doesn’t even show an easily recognizable landmark near the mine so that the spectator can associate with the place that is being blown up. I think Indians have done it better at times than the director of The Mask of Zorro.’

‘Which director are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know about who the director is but I remember the movie. I remember a lot of scenes being filmed in this little courtyard on which you would always notice this big bullock cart wheel kept against one of the walls. You kind of keep on wondering why that wheel is kept there. But during the climax you realize that the wheel suddenly becomes a creative weapon in hands of the actors and it was crucial to the fight sequence in the end when the hero give the villain a good wheel bashing. I think the director overdid it, though. The presence of the wheel was not as subtle as the way Cameron informs us about the Titanic. We know it like our own home by the end without making it look like a documentary.’

‘Are you sure you were watching the movie for time-pass?’

‘I couldn’t help it. I was actually thinking about you while I was watching the pathetic explosions which meant next to nothing because you know how frequently you use the word communication when you talk about your college. I think, if you look into it this explains a huge part or what communication actually means.’

I smiled at what she had said and gestured to her to sit on the concrete barricade along the sea.

This is one of the many conversations we had as we walked along different parts of the Bombay coastline. I hope, I can recall more of such conversations and pen them down. Till then I can do nothing but promise myself to remember everything that happened.

‘The Summer of Satisfaction’

2006-07-07T00:11:00.000-07:00

The first page of his summer-diary read something like this:

I will kick your butt ...
I will kick your butt …
I will kick your butt …
I will kick your butt …

And each blank that I have left was filled with a name of some arrogant fucker or the other he knew. I have chosen to leave it blank for the sake of sweet sham. On the next page a single line in big fat letters said,

I will kick your butt …(followed by his own name)

On the bottom in minute lettering it said, ‘Judge not yourself or them. And judge not judgment itself.’

The blanks in no way mean that he will restrain him from trash talking. He might just bump into one of these unmentioned people and tell them right on their face, ‘I will kick your butt …(followed by their name)’

He had no ordinary way of trash talking though. It was mostly something that he called ‘Internal Trash Talking’. He never did it aloud. The intentions closest to his hearts could never swim closer to his mouth; if they happened to he would chew them and swallow them again. It was his belief that if he let the intent grow in himself enough, one day it would have no choice but to materialize. Hence, his self imposed ‘shut up and listen’, mode.

‘Project: I will kick your butt…’ was nothing but a projection of his enhanced competitive spirit which dictated to him that he should not only beat his competitor but brutally bury him in the crushing cascade a humiliating defeat. Nothing less will do. Nothing less will motivate him because ‘No Mercy Till Victory Secured’ had become his motto.

Afterall he has known failure so well that he knows exactly what not to do, which city not to head for, and which thoughts to never turn to for empathy. His mind mostly ran on nothing else but the ‘Failure-fuel’ that he had earned in his past years, but it was one of the few things that brought him warmth, as it buzzed along.

All the confidence that he seemed to exude, all the faith that seemed to emit from his eyes was nothing more than the gift of a passing moment that had touched him that summer. It was no ordinary passing moment though, that had passed him that summer; it was almost something that he had forgotten where he had once buried his soul. Now his soul showed and with it showed the faith with which his eyes glowed.

He seems to be getting closer to something that he calls ‘The Universal Nature of Intelligence’ and another something that he calls ‘The Unified Nature of Intelligence’ and the closer he gets, the more fiercely the waves of satisfaction run through his supple body. Theses two concepts on which he pins his life’s hopes, according to him, are not to be divulged but to be interpreted, even if that means inferring their meaning from the meager face value of the words used to coin them into convenient terms.

He rejoiced in the golden sunshine of that summer while he walked the path of his personal growth. That summer he discovered his true self, a self which he believes will never completely unravel. That’s how ‘The Summer of Satisfaction’ unfolded for him that year while people passed him by on the paths he treaded, mostly traveling in the opposite direction and talking in a language that he understood but never spoke.

And after a long-long sleep, he woke up to the sleep that he had almost forgotten the taste of.

That summer, he surrendered everything that he could claim as his own as ‘The Summer of Satisfaction’ grew on him unhurriedly.

“And Why do You Support Brazil???”

2006-06-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

As unbelievable as it may sound to the inhabitants of the great metros, Jalandhar is a decent enough place to eat and drink. I am basing this generalization about the disbelieving lot on the frequent queries about the eating and drinking circuit of my hometown that have been flung my way with considerable skepticism. The ones who threw up these queries were not surprisingly the inhabitants of the great metros which are ‘well known’ and not just ‘rumored’ to have a well defined bar culture.

When I happened to venture out to one of these bars here which claimed to showcase World Cup games with the availability of an affordable platter of food and drinks, I was not only performing a first in terms of expressing my serious interest in the World Cup and thus seeking an opportunity to feel the excitement by being present in one of these places frequented by “serious” fans, I was also performing a first on the bar circuit front because ‘Talli’, which when directly translated from Punjabi to English means ‘Drunk’, was also the first bar that I have entered after starting to drink a decent amount of vodka on certain limited number of occasions, and though I am stating this, I am stating this irrespective of the purpose of my visit which may lie in drinking suspicious vodka or watching football of decent quality or enjoying the twin pleasures of both at one go.

As the evening unfolded at this bar and Germany started harassing Costa Rica but not without hazarding the harassment of its own goal and the gloved man who guarded it, I began talking to a man in sitting on one of the bar stools beside me. Our curiously close position to the World Cup screen proudly disclosed to our bar-mates our enhanced interest in the goings on and the desire to lead the cheering on their behalf.

Soon enough, I don’t know what inspired me to but I found myself asking this middle-aged, well groomed gentleman perched on a leather cushioned stool beside me about his favorite team but not without the apprehension that the question inspires by the sheer predictability of the reply. And needless to say, my apprehensive prayers were answered true to the tradition when my co-cheer-pilot informed me cordially that he is a big Brazilian fan. Now again, on hearing this, I cannot tell why but I felt a strange stirring in my stomach, my vodka began to taste sour and the match suddenly lost its fervor and my head felt as if someone was using its inside as a substitute for a calypso drum.

While these strange reactions occurred, I found myself asking him not without straining to avoid dawning a sarcastic tone, which by the way, comes more naturally to me than regulated breathing, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’

He replied briskly, ‘I like them because they score goals, they have great players. They have Ronaldinho. And most importantly they win.’

I could have been quite impressed with his reply had I been on some high quality ‘MICA-brand dope’ but as the cruel circumstances would have it, I was neither doped not drunk enough to let pass the implications of what my cheer mate had just said.

What he had just said would have been more justified had he chosen the words more suited to the tone that he had answered my question with. Had that been the case, I humbly imagine his reply to be something like, ‘To be honest with you sir, I support Brazil for lack of something to do, for lack of something to support. I have had an excess of club championships. And what did I do at the end of it all; I supported an English club all my life without actually contributing any money directly to their cause, maybe a little indirectly in terms of GRP by watching TV though. And then 20 years from now I am destined to die leaving behind a family and a kid who would wonder why his father was the sham he was and so he might decide to make a difference by having better reasons for watching football.’ That would be an ideal reply for him for the question, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’

“Would have-could have” scenarios apart, not surprisingly, it was now his turn to ask me the same question, which he, quite evidently, did not seem to hold in as high a critical esteem as I was bound to hold by the sheer virtue of my interest in the fate of teams jumping gallantly into the multi flavorful World Cup soup and in turn the associated fate of their fans.

And then he asked me unhindered, ‘Which is your favorite team?’

I said flatly, ‘Brazil’.

‘And why do you like Brazil?’ he asked.

And the reply that came out of my mouth cannot be claimed to be wholly mine but influenced greatly by one Mumbai returned Namibaba of the forty-four roomies fame.
And this is what I found my mouth blabbering to him uncontrollably as he looked on intently while I couldn’t deny that the calypso company in my head was having quite a party now, ‘I like Brazil’, I said, ‘because Spain’s superstitious coach thinks yellow is an unlucky color according to Kaballah. Going by that “philosophy”, I would be tempted to think that Brazil have to put up with a lot of ill luck because all they play in is yellow. If they are world beaters with the unlucky color on them, just imagine what would happen if they dawned another color in place of yellow. And to tell you the truth it’s the superstition that I hate and that Brazil proves it wrong is why I like them. To be honest, I can’t even stand that daily horoscope column in the papers. Apart from that, Brazil has flair…their football is born in slums…they are a poor man’s team….Ronaldinho never dives; he is an excellent ambassador for the game. Brazilians-they are not the European mechanical firing squad…they have Samba footwork and because I like dance of any form is why I like them. I like them because even after so much internal turmoil the country wins the cup through sheer talent. Despite not being the richest foot-balling nation, they have a renewable talent pool year after year…and of course the following is so amazing that it would make any supporter proud- Brazilian or not. Apart from that…or rather because of that they win. That is why I like them. And though it’s beside the point I would like to mention that that I think their wining is more to do with their culture. By culture I mean all that is not included in the sporting culture and still deemed as culture, you know. I hope I am making sense. I think if one has to form a formidable football team, one must do a microscopic analysis of a Brazilian citizen’s social life and I am sure one would come up with the ‘how’s and why’s’ of top-notch football. Well this is pretty much why I like Brazil.’

My cheer companion couldn’t look more dazed by the reply. He promptly ordered a drink and offered me one. But I merely told him that I had had enough for the day. To which he promptly addressed me as sir ji and gallantly said the drink was on him…I said I didn’t care even if the drink was on Maradona…I had had enough and by the way he had a lot to do with it. The game too had come to an end and all the cheering in the club had given way to a strange euphoria in the room which it appeared could only subside with a thorough battering of Brazil at the hands…or rather the feet of a team of lesser sporting mortals.

I picked up my bag, the black one with the orange question mark on it, paid the bartender and left the building.

PS : This is what took place in ‘Talli’ in Jalandhar the other day. Though I am over it now, I cannot resist asking all you die-hard Brazil fans out there…‘Why do you support Brazil?’ If you are, woman enough, man enough but most importantly fan enough, don’t hesitate to let me know.

‘Don’t’

2006-06-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

Don’t let your hair lose
Don’t put on rouge
Don’t paint your lips
Or your finger tips
Don’t wear that dress
That you bought with care
Don’t walk that walk
Don’t acquire that look
For if you do
You will look too fine
And I will not know
If you are the same woman
That filled with love
Not too long ago
This weary, worn out
Heart of mine

‘Writers-It Takes All Kinds’

2006-06-19T11:44:00.000-07:00

-A bad writer after reading the piece he has freshly written would say, ‘By Jove! Revelation of revelations! Is this what I actually meant to write?’

-A good writer would say, ‘My thoughts feel a little distorted on paper but I don’t care as long as they are distorted for the better. ’

-A great writer would say, ‘I have nothing to say, for all I had to say is on the paper.’

“Wish: Death”

2006-06-19T11:40:00.000-07:00

Die -You know you want to
Why?-You have your reasons
I-Can be your reason if you don’t have one
High-Can be your new home
Fly-With angels who have no hope
Lie-with God in heaven
My-you look so happy when dead
Smile-I just blew your brains out of your head

‘The Mechanism of Ventment’

2006-06-07T05:55:00.000-07:00

Einstein was wrong
You don’t have to travel faster than time
To tow it across its natural line
Stretch it and slow it down
It can be done while doing
Something as simple as returning from office
My mind buckling under tired thoughts
Weary legs carrying me home through the town

My body may be tired
But I have sold ad space, I have donned that role
That would sell anything that I happened to have in my hand
I have that smile, that body language
That would help me sell anything
Afterall I am no more than a sophisticated salesman

Once home, I want to write
My body won’t obey
I’ll fall prey to an involuntary sleep soon
That is the best way to be ready for the next day
And just as my eyes would begin to close
A couplet will be born in Namibaba’s head
The lappy will be out the next minute
And the night will be spent typing in the dark
My bed an island in a sea of 70 bodies as good as dead

Sleep would overwhelm me finally
And I would go down with the thought swimming in my head
"It's a message from the spirit
It must be sent
Whenever the feelings overwhelm me
There would be ventment"

Quotes from Namibaba (1983-Alive and kicking till now)

2006-06-07T05:45:00.000-07:00

“The truth is in here.”

“A flash in a pan is worth hiring the cook for.”

“A stitch in time spoils the time-piece.”

“Early bird doesn’t get anything in a city of late risers.”

“Peace is a dish best served after war.”

“Give peace a chance. Or else we always have war.”

“The most well supported kind of dog is underdog.”

“I am a life built on underestimations.”

“It’s hard to trust a man who goes an extra mile to earn it.”
.
“It’s easier to trust a man with an evil smile than one with a straight face.”

“A man with an innocent face must learn how to bargain.”

‘Who’s This Man?’

2006-06-07T05:40:00.000-07:00

I climb up the train and see this man
And though I have seen him somewhere
I can’t quite say where have I seen him
Who is this shriveled up in a corner seat
This man who is so engrossed with everything?
This man who would think strange thoughts
Who always pushes himself
This dreamer, this immodest creative
This vane being, not free from conceit
Showing traces of manic disorder
This man at times lovable
But at times inspiring mistrust and deceit
This man so simple yet unpredictable
Who is this man, shriveled up in the seat?
This tender mouthed
Sometimes a boy
But a man when he needs to be
Who is this man?

And then this man speaks to me
He says
‘Stupid it’s you
It’s you, it’s me
Will you stop staring at me?
It’s us man
Stupid it’s we!!!’

‘This word that I have put here’

2006-06-07T05:39:00.001-07:00

This word that I have put here
Is meant to be written in this place
This word which not a foreign word
This word is you and me and in-between
And everything that we’ll never know
And when we’ll be gone, it will stay
We will leave back something of our own
This word though lone
Will be here
The word of love
That I have written here

‘See ya…sad eyes’

2006-06-07T05:39:00.000-07:00

Here I go dissecting what happened but that is my fate and I am in love with it absolutely. So, here, I go guessing, speculating, deducing to an extent that can hurt people and most of it you. But undeniably and ignoring the risk of hurting you if you may be reading this (fat chance), there was a kind of sorrow; here I go about you, in your eyes and which expressed itself more boldly and threatened to break its eye-prison-cell at the squeeze of a hand, your hand. Yes, at a reassuring, steady, empathizing, a mere squeeze of your hand dictated by feelings unknown, unintended, instinctively but acceptably and undoubtedly mine. In spite of your eyes, you talked and laughed and it was as normal as you intended it to look…but if only I could hear it from your mouth…no you could not say it…not the first time we met…I know…

Now, getting over an interaction with you and letting a reluctant air or normalcy to prevail would be letting myself to take to your ways, so I’ll choose to desist from that temptation to be your alike, rather I will keep your memory fresh and wait till we meet again and next time, though it seems a long shot (but then every impossibility ceases to be one not till we reach the very verge of razing its mirage), I will ask for answers from your eyes and not just try to read them with my own…whatever momentary joy may belie their state. See ya…sad eyes. I leave it to life to bring me about you or you about me…what’s the difference anyway?

‘In This Moment is Everything’

2006-06-07T05:38:00.000-07:00

My eyes dreamt of far off times
The advent of which is not guaranteed
My eyes dreamt of enriching years
The years that no one can promise me
My eyes saw better days
The realization of which depends on today
My mind hoped for hours of peace
Which are mounted on this moment’s lease
And at the awe of all this
When my heart advanced to skip a beat
I cradled my nerve, embraced my breath
The breath that enforces this passing moment
And makes my heart beat with ease
That beat that my heart was unsure of
The beat it would have naively skipped
For in this moment
Does my heart soon realize
In this moment is life itself
That in this moment is everything

‘How Far is The Land…’

2006-06-07T05:35:00.000-07:00

I live on only to see that land
Where I will land and not recognize me
The land where after a string of changes
Will I only finally reach

Where is that land?
Where is that beach?
Where I will put my head at rest
And no further any change beseech

While I walk toward that land
I see the signs which tell me that
This is the gold that is everywhere
It’s scattered in every land
To all, by the need of each
There is no treasure greater than this
You are the king of this moment
There are no kingdoms other than His
But the heart insists
And leaps ahead with a view to breach

Hope is something that floats
So I keep on walking in search of the land
Of which there is still no sign
The signs just whisper
‘This is it
This is the land you look for stranger
Look no further, you are already here’

‘A Rendezvous with God’

2006-06-07T05:20:00.000-07:00

If you look at it, it’s not that strange that there are only a handful of events, incidents, and an equally small number of resulting feelings that define the way our personality shapes during the progression of our days. What you are today might seem to be a cumulative sum of all that has happened to us in our lives, but if we think about it, there are a very few crucial incidents and moments that have drastically influenced the way life will shape our personalities if it is to be believed that we are a direct result of what we undergo beside of course the part that is influenced by our genes or what our forefathers underwent.

I have had my share of influences. And one of the things that have always influenced me is ‘the nature of beauty’. I have to my discredit have converted a thing of such simplicity into a mystery, but all in the hope that it will reveal to me a facet of itself which till now has escaped the eyes of everyone who ever came close to laying his/her eyes on something that he/she considered a real thing of beauty. It might seem completely pointless and vain to have such a pursuit when we have enlightened souls constantly declaring that everything is bathed in beauty if you have the ability to see it. It might sound like an intelligent excuse but may be it’s only the beauty of that vision what I was after.

It’s again to my discredit how I continue to dissect beauty and love, the two apostles of greatness, and carry on categorizing them, calling them all sorts of names in my head for personal reference so that when I come across them I can draw on that particular sort and call it something that helps me to systematize my understanding. I do this, to my increasing discredit, with a view to limit the insecurity that is generated out of the lack of my own beauty and in complete knowledge of the fact that the sources of the two and all their kinds are constant and common.

My foolish pursuit of this fictional mystery is such that even the slightest conversation on the topic is deposited consciously into the finest grey cells of my mind I have (the best of whatever I have) for the sake of convenient retrieval. One such conversation occurred when I was talking to my friend Pierre. We were talking about beauty without specifying the type and form and not surprisingly by default we were talking of ‘physical beauty’ when he said that research says that children of young parents are found to have more symmetrical features and symmetry according to the laws of design is one of the intrinsic features of beauty. The talk then could have easily meandered into discussing how physical beauty effects mental beauty during the course of one’s life or vise-versa, but the sporadically rare work at the office surprisingly helped hold our horses.

Anyway, I narrated what Pierre said because I saw something on the streets today that I have come to call nothing less than ‘absolute real beauty’. I witnessed it from the bus while going to Express towers. The red double-decker bus I was traveling on had just stopped on a traffic light where all sorts of vehicles were lined up along the zebra crossing. Two imposing Mercs and the macho Pajero stood proudly parading their striking beauty, the perceptible physical definition of it which dominates our understanding despite the fact that there is no dearth of car enthusiasts who would stop at nothing short of comparing their mechanical beauties to the most striking beauties of human flesh and blood of spirit themselves. In any case, irrespective of if one considers them live or not, the steely grills of the Mercs and the Pajero and the ‘less beautiful’ cars glinted in the killer sun arrogantly. The stately smooth lines on the metal of the cars seemed to pompously defy the angular sensibilities of yesteryears. The impeccable paint jobs on the cars were beginning to encourage another discussion about the role of color in beauty to crack open when I saw something that put all debates to rest and questioned the very definition of beauty as we (as in increasingly more people) have come to believe it, mostly because they have been programmed by that another huge influence in our lives, which comprises of an equally vast array of dominant messages, called media.

If you are wondering what put an end to my foolish search for beauty, it was only a brown boy that I saw who effortlessly put my little self-amusing (or self-tantalizing) mystery to shame. A little boy of about 10 years or so, evidently paralyzed in one half of the body, bare breasted in the killer sun, trying his best to cross the street on the zebra crossing. From my place in the bus I could see him struggling with his body to cross the street against the backdrop of the ‘beautiful’ cars. By a conservative estimate, it would take him five times as much time to cross the street as would take a ‘normal’ person.

The red light on the traffic pole seemed to have been frozen in time as he crossed the street. The sound from the traffic seemed to evaporate as he crossed the street, his body inching forward somehow supported by the tiny supply of balance that he could manage with in his paralytic state.

In the bus, I felt a few more necks turn in the direction, his direction in which I was looking so intently. He was almost at the other end of the street when the red light turned to orange. A few more feet to go before the beauties lined up on the crossing would roar to take their masters to their important destinations. And then it flashed, it happened. It happened and put my vain mystery to shame. Apart from that, it curtly put me again into the club of firm believers who believe in the universal, unified and simple nature of beauty which makes it a free flowing force, which can move between any two or more places, people, and points in time.

What had happened was that the little brown boy, paralyzed in one side of the body, without a shirt on his back and struggling to cross the street had smiled bravely amidst his struggle. What seemed like a mammoth task for him, just a few more steps and he would be on the other side of the street. Even as the little brown boy teetered along, the signal turned red and it gave me that faint feeling of apprehension about the steely beauties that were just raring to roar off. But fortunately, to my disbelief and relief, the mechanical beauties had seemingly been sensibly restrained till the struggling, smiling boy would cross the street safely. Meanwhile, the boy, unaware of the status of the traffic lights carried on to the other end and once he was there, he stopped to rest immediately. As soon as the boy appeared to have made it, the beauties lined up on the crossing promptly sped away displaying the kind of aggression one is accustomed from them.

I moved on too, aboard my bus, my mysteries solved, my doubts dispelled, my insecurities about the nature of beauty shattered, my heart applauding every single wobbly step the little brown kid took. What do you know; the incident of the boy at the crossing made me feel like I had come across God in the street today. And I couldn’t help thinking about the boy in the context of the discussion that I had had with Pierre, ‘if his beauty had a face...if his beauty had a face…’ and then another thought (more sensible) trailed close behind it. ‘Stupid, his beauty does have a face; his face.’

Namibaba is not in a condition to say anything today ‘cause he has just met God on the streets of Bombay and he is still in a state of shock.

‘Made in China’

2006-05-21T05:15:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Choose your warning.

[Warning 1: This post is RATED X, visitors’ discretion is advised]

[Warning 2: This post is RATED X, yippee...all the more reason to read it]

My roomies are a recyclable lot. Never at a point in time do I have the same set of roomies. In fact, the only roomy in this room that appears to be a constant is me.

The minor advantage of having a renewable pool of roomies is that you keep coming across different characters, which I can make the target of my penning indulgence.

Because of this continuous current of renewal, recently two roomies were added to the merry lot of Namibaba’s forty-four roomies. And as is the tradition with the merry band, they were instantly granted their nick-names by Namibaba. These nick names are inspired from the most intriguing qualities of their personality, something that when one comes across in them, one learns to love to hate in due course of time.

One such roomy is Double-tits called so for his buns, which bear a striking resemblance to the more widely known physical trait double chin. To imagine a double tit all you have to do is to imagine a double chin’s close cousin interpreted in terms of chest muscles.

Another roomy is Slowmo called so because of his strange obsession of walking in slow motion in the aisles between the beds in Ship. Only God can be your savior when you are in a hurry and you happen to be trailing Slowmo in the aisles. No amount of pushing and shoving will motivate him to move faster. It appears that by delaying others in the narrow aisles, he is stocking up his invaluable ego reserves.

Another one of my roomies is ‘Made in China’ who apart from being a Chinese, is called so because his sad face lights up on the mention of ‘Made in China’, even if happens to be something as seemingly as inconsequential as a mineral bottle with the tag of ‘Made in China’ on it. It is another matter that in this post this otherwise inconsequential bottle, at best fulfilling the thirst need of the Chinese on bed no. 15, assumes a critical function of that of being a symbolic representative of a fundamental tool that plays an important tool in perpetuation of the human race.

What happens when you put these three roomies of distinct flavors on a small bed of 3 by 6 feet? This was quite close to the scenario when I noticed them interacting on bed no. 36 (Doubletit’s bed), and answering the above question in the context of organizational dynamics, it was rather close to ‘pandemonium’. Also, it’s interesting to note that from the point of view of organizational dynamics; the three member group on Doubletit’s bed was a one that consisted of 66.66% Indians and 33.33% Chinese and the Indian fraction seemed almost too aware of the fact that India has lost two wars with China incurring huge losses on both the occasions. And as far as the size of bottles is concerned, this faction is as unaware of the truth as were their forefathers who owned the responsibility of losing the wars. [I would hereby advise the reader to exercise patience about the mystery of the bottles. Rest assured, the mystery will be revealed in the coming passages.]

But before we get on with the dynamics involving the bottle, a little about ‘Made in China’ should be told first. ‘Made in China’ is a super-chikna character with feminine body language which automatically makes him vulnerable to strayed perceptions in a room overcrowded with men. Something I admire about him is that he is a self sufficient character who goes on scribbling in his notebook without ever taking a peek on the TV, as I go on typing on my lappy. He looks like a very young Buddha in the respect that he has a nerdy appeal and a liking for expanding his knowledge constantly. So, when I saw Made in China talking to the Indian faction consisting of Doubletits and Slowmo, the Little Buddha was talking about the three letter word that seems to be the very basis of life- Joy. From his talks it seemed that joy is not a result of anything, it’s rather a daily, independent decision that one takes first thing in the morning. It’s almost as if he wakes up in the morning and says, ‘Come hell or high water I am going to find joy today’. And rightly so, he seemed so focused on joy that it is what he seemed to derive even when the talk drifted to his very own Made in China bottle and the associated sentiments.

After having finished the talk about the religious hangouts that Made in China had been to, the Indian faction became too aware that they cannot let him go without some ridicule because he was joyful to an extent of being irritating. His joy came across as a sacrilege because supposedly only Indians are to be as joyful as him, given the extensive history of only-a-dhoti-clad sadhus spending their days in uncontained bliss even amidst a supremely materialistic environment. The Indian faction seemed to be offended by the spiritual joy that the Chinese seemed to exude. And hence it became extremely crucial to talk about the bottle of Made in China.

Made in China’s face lit up when Doubletits pointed to his mineral water bottle, which looked nothing like mineral bottles sold in India. It had twin characteristics that made it look unmistakably Chinese. Firstly, its shape seemed to be an offshoot of the architecture of the ancient Chinese monasteries that sported multiple roofs, roofs that seem to me synonymous to the spiritual planes that one is required to ascend when practicing Chinese spiritual arts. Secondly, the plastic of the bottle seemed to be a derivative of the Chinese made TT balls because it had the prominent opaqueness which contrasted starkly with the transparence associated to the ‘purity factor’ observed in preferred designs of Indian made mineral bottles.

So, when Doubletits pointed to Made in China’s mineral water bottle, which also appeared to be smaller than most of the bottles we come across in India, the Chinese was filled with joy because it was his chance to say proudly ‘Made in China’, as if it was enough to explain comprehensively the reason for the way the bottle looked. Not unpredictably, Doubletits had other plans in mind. He pointed to the bottle in Made in China’s hand and said, ‘Chinese bottle’ then he promptly pointed to the mineral bottle kept on the side table which happened to be a one liter mineral bottle and said, ‘Indian bottle.’ As the Chinese looked on with a confused, but joyful expression, Doubltit’s gesture was promptly followed up by Slowmo’s Andhra-accent laughter. The joyful Chinese still didn’t seem to get it. So, Doubletits pointed to Made in China’s penis and said, ‘Chinese bottle’ and made the gesture of ‘small’ by his fingers, and then he pointed to his own penis and said, ‘Indian bottle’, and made the gesture of big with his hands. The Chinese seemed a little taken aback by the sudden aggression; something like India was when China had attacked without much warning in 1972. It seemed to be the golden revenge of Doubletits for the Chinese aggression of 1972.

Although I wanted to congratulate Doubltits on his micro coup which did not make any difference to the Chinese rate of economic development or the rapid rate of modernization of its defense forces, I merely reflected on what’s the size of the bottle got to do with anything? I mean, let’s even assume for a moment that the size of bottles of our ancestors compared to that of the Chinese’s ancestors was something to be proud of (although there are no Olympics for ‘size of bottle’ and even if there was, China would have promptly gone on to bag the organizational rights and would have made billions out of it), how instrumental was it in influencing the outcome of our wars with China or receiving more FDI than China? History seems to be hinting that we might just have lost the wars in the overconfidence of the bottle-size when it was not uncommon to hear stuff like, ‘Hamare gama pahelwan, dus dus Chinky ko pataki de denge.’ I think, in those days the comparative size of the bottle was pulling the strings somewhere in the back of the mind.

I fail to understand, why there is so much claim going around about whose bottle is bigger. Moreover historically also, wars have never been fought by bottles. They have been fought with swords. And the size of the bottle has never affected the outcome of wars, even more so since ‘technology’ and ‘technique’ came into being and I am talking both in the context of war and love respectively. Yes, even if we consider love for that matter, a whole lot of research seems to point out that the bottle’s size is not as crucial as the technique employed to use the bottle for the purpose love-making and to be more precise, of satisfy a female companion.

And even if it is a world that is run by the size of the bottles, no one can ignore the way the Chinese race has improved its physical condition and health. I am sure the smart use of the bottle to curtail the birth rate has a lot to do with it. When compared to the smartness of the Chinese bottle, the size of the Indian bottle, if at all still in the lead, after the drastic improvement in health and fitness standards that China has seen post economic liberalisation, the presumed marginal lead of the Indian bottle in comparison seems to be blown away (no pun intended).

And as far as characters like Doubletits and Slowmo are concerned, who know nothing of the Chinese revolution (which stretches way beyond bottling), I would imagine only two hypothetical scenarios to dispel their doubt about the much publicized comparative study of the bottles.

Scenario 1: As for Slowmo I hope the Chinese Olympic gold-medalist for the 110m hurdles- Liu Xiang doesn’t decide to trail him in one of the aisles between the beds, I am sure the gold-medalist will empty Slowmo’s ego reserves in a hurry, by simply hopping over all the beds in all of less than 13 secs.

Scenario 2: And as far as the national hero Doubletits goes, I hope he does not come across the fabled bottle of Yao Ming of the National Basketball League of the US one of these days because if Yao Ming decides to empty his bottle on Doubletits (pun intended), it’s going to be one hell of a slam-dunk (pun intended).

Baba says:

‘It is not a coincidence that the Chinese are good at both miniaturization and expansiveness. The former is what they have treasured for years anatomically, the latter what they have always dreamed of achieving.’- Namibaba of the forty-four roomies fame

‘Where Angels Dare’

2006-05-21T05:12:00.001-07:00

Look up; I am up here, employed by God
There are deadlines you’ve got to meet
Heaven is a depressing place
Of dead people who are terribly neat

The place is filled with these angelic souls
Who even put me to shame
Despite being an angel highly appraised
My soul has dried up playing this game

I look down upon my golden lyre
To whom I my secrets confide
For I cannot complain directly to God
Will I ever get a chance to explore my dark side?

But by God, I am a dreamer and that day is not far
When I will pull up my spotless socks
Exchange my lyre for an electric guitar
And make this place called heaven rock

‘A Forgettable Conversation’

2006-05-21T05:12:00.000-07:00

We sat beside the sweeping sea
With secrets swimming in rather deep
Our eyes talked and we looked at ease

Then we lit a little flame
It burnt between us like a dancing blaze
Of all feelings that don’t have a name

We spoke and we spoke of us
And hurled our pride into the flame
The fire created quite a fuss

It now became a sarcastic fire
And for our little conversation
It soon became a funeral pyre

‘An Ode to You Oh Visitor’

2006-05-21T05:11:00.000-07:00

And only yesterday I was boasting to my friends over dinner at Leopold that how personal the blog is to me and the advent of a visitor will not influence how I proceed with my writings, but as is evident, the very first few visits have already made an impact which is quite evident from the extent to which this very post is inspired by the visits. I guess what I said to my friends yesterday was one of those times when I say aloud the complete opposite of what I think is the truth. But that comes across as so wired when I think of myself as an honest person. Contrary to self-expectations, I think I just keep on fooling myself into believing things which aren’t true. Taking that hypotheses further, I think I am completely opposite of honest. Now since I happen to be stating this, having proved myself dishonest, it might be a completely wrong assumption. But who knows maybe the assumption that it’s a wrong assumption is again a way to fool myself. I think this is going no where. So I would just let you know what made me think of myself as a self deceiving idiot in the first place.

‘An Ode to You Oh Visitor’

My prose is gross
My verse is worse
To keep on venting
Is my curse
But I value you dear visitor
Cause without you
My blog is a sleeping log
The posts are ghosts
And I’m an addict of solitude
Carrying on without a cure

‘Counting on Life’

2006-05-21T05:10:00.000-07:00

And when I am feeling not that well
And I feel like ending everything
Which would not take but a severing act
To free my soul and make it sing

And when I think of this in a single breath
The only thing between death and me
I think of life and how it’s a search
Can’t count on death to set me free

‘Fully Oded’

2006-05-21T05:09:00.000-07:00

Oh my heart
Write an ode
That can take to her
The entire load
That’s mounting on
This little wagon
I am riding down
This bumpy road

Oh my heart
Guide the wagon
Which with my love
Is fully loaded
And make sure
That by the end
Of this ode
This load of love is fully oded

‘Why I’m Tempted to Believe in Rebirth’

2006-05-21T05:05:00.000-07:00

March 2005, home, Jalandhar Cantt.

Flies are crowding around him. They are in his eyes and everywhere. Why doesn’t he go snap-snap at them playfully, trying to catch them in his mouth? The mean looking cat is staring at him while it cools off in the shade, why doesn’t he get up and chase it away, feeling the taste of the cat’s paw in the bargain?

I can see him clearly now. There he is lying in the freshly made clearing, a perfectly circular cleaned up area of radius 1.5 meter amidst this dense shrubbery. I am thinking, while my heart is flooding with pity and my mind is nervously imposing courage, ‘My God how is it possible?’

I walk toward him, wishing him unwell for the first time. I am thinking, ‘I hope he is feeling unwell, and having felt so has munched some juicy grass, of the one particular kind he likes, and is drowsing off in the killer sun, waiting for the puke to come, because his body is feeling cold and he gets so confused when not well, just like me. He is just like me, only more respectable.’

My mind is tossing up past memories, ‘Why doesn’t he get up and lie in the shade for a while? He is feeling confused after all isn’t he? He doesn’t know whether to lie in the shade or the sun when unwell, then how come he has made up his mind to lie in the sun today? His body is feeling colder than usual isn’t it?’ But God his body, please not this cold.

The clearing around him is a miracle. It is as much a miracle as his just lying there for all these hours when he is the very icon of ‘life’ for me.

I close in on him and catch the glimpse of that chain, the thick one bought after the wisdom gained from countless weaker ones broken by him previously, ‘God please not that chain around his neck. God please, not that choke-chain around his neck.’, My mind is refusing to make sense of it all, ‘I mean, what are the odds of his chain getting stuck in the shrubs and on top of it no one ever hearing him barking during his struggle with death, a struggle so fierce that the clearing looks like a royal gardener’s job.’

His body is lying there lifeless like a warrior’s who has just lost a bout with death. I have never seen him give up. I have never seen him let go. Tell me God, what do I make of his body that is lying so dead-still in front of me?

May 18, 2006, an alley near Ship, VT

I am walking toward the VT bus stop. I am walking through the ally. And suddenly my mind is flooding with memories of Dodge, so extraordinary a dog that he simply couldn’t do with an ordinary death. The son-of-a-bitch just had to grab the headlines even while dying. He just had to grab all the attention even while leaving despite of the fact that he never fell short of it in his reasonably blissful life. The point being that the playful bugger just couldn’t have enough of love.

As I am standing there, the trigger of this deluge of memories is sitting on his hind legs right in front of me with his tongue hanging out. He is hardly 4-6 months. He has the same sandy body with white markings on his forehead which continue to his muzzle, the same white on all four paws, and a bit of it on the tip on his tail. He has that confused expression on his face which says, ‘I am going to be a fool for the rest of my life. And I am going to love you like a maniac. I don’t care if you ever love me. I will always love you.’ I find myself say in surprise, ‘Dodge’. He doesn’t look my way. I cry out again, ‘Dodgu…’ He still doesn’t look. I try for the last time, ‘Dogde…’ He looks my way, rotating his ears like he has just heard something familiar. As I look on, a little girl emerges from one of the huts lining the road, picks him up and starts petting him. Having been tempted to reconsider a belief which has always been a source of curiosity for spiritualists, philosophers and a the reason for the immortality of a magnificent line on Pharos which inspired a whole civilization to value life more than any other wealth, I move on toward the VT bus stop, my heart carrying on stronger, now that it is infused with a sense of a distant joy.

A confession: This was one of the most difficult posts to write because I had to constantly struggle with my mind to gain access to the memories which are soaked with sorrow, the memories whose very recollection is regarded by the mind as hazardous.

Miss you Dodge

‘The Curious Incident of the Pussy in the Night-time’

2006-05-16T23:13:00.000-07:00

It was a typical Marine Drive evening and the breeze was hell-bent on sweeping everything resting on the promenade a shade further toward mainland. It was during this tussle of the multitude of things lining the coast with the stubborn sea breeze, when the sun had freshly set, the sky had just acquired a mysterious dark shade of blue, and I was consciously gazing at the concrete rocks lining the beach, that I happened to notice something that instantly registered in my mind as odd and I thought, ‘That’s odd…’. It was what seemed like a glowing diamond, moving circuitously within the murky mesh of the concrete rocks lining the coast, what I have been told are called ‘tripod rocks’. Though the movement of the diamond slightly erratic at times, given the concrete caves it seemed determined to negotiate, it was making a pretty smooth job of it. The diamond glided within the multiple caves, vanishing into darkness at times. Quite naturally, I was enamored by the beauty of the glowing diamond and instinctively started following it. As it was, I happened to be quite close to the end of the causeway where the tripod rocks merge with the sea rocks without exhibiting discernible traces of separation. And it so happened that I reached the end of the causeway following the floating diamond only to find a cat emerging from below one of the concrete rocks, its eyes now in full view and clearly showing intentions to flee, which it promptly did the very next moment, laying my curiosity to rest.

‘I love You Because I Love Me’

2006-05-16T23:12:00.000-07:00

And then the much awaited moment arrived when she said, ‘I love you.’ The love-story wouldn’t have ended before beginning had he simply brought himself to believe her. He had done it again hadn’t he? It was just like he had done it to others before her. He cared for her too much to have her fall in love with someone like him, someone who he held in so much contempt. Had he known the basis of his own suspicion he would have been better off, but having spent most of his life away from books, he was in no position to know his own mind. When they met later and her hand was in someone else’s hand he still didn’t know what to say or what had happened between them or how to end it i.e. if there had been anything to begin with between them, he just went on staring into her eyes trying to find the traces of the love that he had once questioned. It would take him another year just to realize that he is a victim of fate like millions of other people, another year to find out that the emotional calamities he went through were because he refused to take his life in his own hands, no matter how strong were the hands that were holding it. And he would also understand that his only victory would lie in turning it around. He could only do it by not being himself any longer. That is the very definition of change is it not? In the future he would only remember himself as someone who he had met once and had had a lot of trouble with. And then he would claim the persona of remote stranger by saying, ‘I was that stranger once.’ without actually becoming him in that moment just as he was unable to become the man he is today when he had looked into her eyes with suspicion, had questioned her love and had wished to become lovable but had failed. He will know then that he is a product of his fate, and the combined fate of all the people who live in this world and it was only that doubt for her love, the hurt in his heart and the hurt he had given her that has led to the understanding that has dawned on him today. And then he will learn to love himself enough to rightfully deem himself a deserving object of affection. And then his ability to dream will be the only limit because his mind would be a place without fear.

Some famous person: ‘Our first and only love is self-love’
Namibaba: ‘Well thank God for that.’

‘Ship Floats’

2006-05-16T23:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I see this weird dream. I see my hotel- Ship transformed into a real ship on a full moon night and setting sail on PD Mellow road. I see all the beds except mine moving neatly in a file, as if obeying an algorithm, and stacking up neatly in one corner of the hall. I see a starboard emerging from the floor on one end of the hall. I see a mast rising from the middle of the hall and a sail climbing the mast simultaneously. My forty four roomies take their positions on this Ship according to their experience and qualification in merchant shipping: navigators to the navigation panel, the junior engineers and the engineers to the engine room, the captain and his commanding officers on the starboard and I to my bed no. 24, which is stationed bang on the middle of the deck near the mast.

This ship called…ahem…Ship soon sets sail and it sails across the government dental college, the GPO and finally reaches the Victoria Terminus where I can see the lady atop the dome in her glorious deposition, faintly covered by the thin sheath lent by the moonlight. My mind registers awe at the sight.

At this stage the dream invariably hits a snag. And every time I have this dream, it proceeds in the same way because my mind has not developed an alternate solution to the snag yet. I hear screams coming from the announcement system, drowning the emergency alarm, ‘All hands on deck, we have hit iceberg: VT.’ And then I lift my eyes to the mysterious lady atop VT and see the light illuminating her turning faint red. Confused, I shift my gaze to the moon, I see it turning into a shade of red too. At this point I panic.

Then I hear the captain’s blaring voice on the announcement system, ‘We have just calculated that in order to save the ship we will have to lessen the load. Get rid of the most dispensable object on board.’ As soon as I hear this I freeze in terror.

I see all sailors on deck heading toward me like zombies, their hands reaching out for me. I try to get off my bed and escape but I soon find that my hand is tied to the bed with a handcuff, and I can’t free myself. The sailors lift me with my bed and chant, ‘Sailor God, Sailor God’ in unison and then with a single united effort, thrust me overboard, entirely on the mercy of the ocean. In my panicky state I try to find a dry oasis in the wet desert surrounding me but without successes. I am strained to think that my bed will soon sink but the luggage compartment underneath it, seemingly keeps it afloat. Aboard Ship I can see faces of confused sailors, who don’t know whether to celebrate their survival or to mourn my state. Ship gradually fades out of site leaving behind a trail of darkness.

I, perched on my floating haven, my bed, my launch pad of dreams, continue to drift dangerously close to iceberg: VT, clutching my folded legs together out of apprehension. In this lull before the onset of trauma I let go of all hope and bury my face between my knees. All of a sudden, I feel a cold a hand grab my right shoulder. The fingers dig insensitively on my shoulder. I turn around slowly in apprehension. As I turn, my eyes catch a faint red glow and I find myself looking straight into the stony red eyes of the lady no longer atop VT.

This is where I usually wake up to reality.

‘How He Wished’

2006-05-16T23:10:00.000-07:00

He wished for the power to dream
He cracked when the dreams asked him to surrender

He asked for change
His mind ached when it ensued

He wished for the power to think
The power to think a blank mind at will

He soon gave up even the wish
That he wished to give up all desire

He searched for love all over
Only till he decided to look within

Then came life’s deluge and swept him
He gave up…to win

-Namit

‘Impoverished’

2006-05-16T23:08:00.000-07:00

She looks on, bearing the puzzled expressions on her face, which has probably now become a permanent fixture. She is no mistress of riches but yet, the weathered pram that she tows carries her most prized jewel. A jewel that I soon find out is third in its generation. The other two jewels soon arrive on the seen. If there are degrees of confusion, the two wear much less confusion on the face, but more importantly they are not entirely devoid of it. I cannot blame them. India can surprise you for a lifetime irrespective of whether you are a foreigner or not.

Her clothes, glaringly of Indian style that no one in Mumbai wears these days, are soiled. The jewels are soiled, as if freshly mined. They wonder if their mother has enough money to buy them Mewar Ice-cream. One of the jewels, girls both, makes her wish of having an ice-cream cone known to her mum. The mother disregards the wish and continues to stare into space as if unconfident about the potential of her wallet. I continue to munch on my ice-cream insensitively.

The mother asks the jewels, ‘What is that? What’s that man selling?’
‘It looks like ice-cream mama.’ they reply with anticipation.

All of them then proceed to sit on the side walk which is dirty enough to form the collective throne of the countless beggars who have suddenly found an excuse to vanish somewhere. I try to infer the country of origin form the accent of the mother. It seems to be a European accent. I wonder how long they have spent in India, which other countries have they been to before this, have they always been in short supply of money and who might be the father of the dusky jewels, who sport mixed Indo-European features.

I wonder what other cultures have they come across before? I wonder if they are enriched by the experiences or only gradually robbed of their own culture. I wonder, while they look about with puzzled eyes, what life makes of people who are not only economically poor, but also have a confused cultural identity. I wonder how life treats people who are impoverished not only economically but also, culturally.

As these thoughts rush into my mind, they keep looking about as if in search of something elusive. I, having finished my ice-cream walk on, back to Ship. It’s time to sleep.

‘Bombay Chronicle’

2006-05-08T02:29:00.000-07:00

It is the morning of May 06, 06. I woke up feeling weak. That is what you get after getting the viral infection for the umpteenth time. But I don’t think that viral is the only culprit. The other culprit is the doctor who I saw at the St. George’s medical college which happens to be in an alley right in front of my hotel. This wannabe male version of Florence Nightingale is as fresh in my mind as is the taste of the sizzler that I ‘assembled’ at ‘Out of the Blue’. The doctor and the sizzler, together they make up for the wild blend that is forever lacking in my dull mind. I will not forget the way the menu of ‘Out of the Blue’ ensnared me in having a meal out of the blue even when I meant to avoid eating a full meal at all costs. Well I think that the modest creativity of assembling a sizzler was did me in. And as far as the doctor is concerned, I will not forget him for prescribing me the most temporary relief medicines for a six month old chronic viral attack cycle. His prescription consisted of an analgesic, a paracetamol and an anti-allergic, all of which I happened to have in my arsenal already. I wanted to shout right there and then in his office, ‘Please for God sake gives me something extreme, something of industrial strength.’ But then I thought how it would scar all the ultra young age citizens and the old age citizens who had come for a diagnosis and I didn’t do it. Now I am reprimanding myself for not being selfish. I should’ve just gone ahead with it- scarring or no scarring. The result is that I am the one who has ended up scarred now. Now I will never forget how the doctor spent ages with the poor and the needy and neatly sent me packing with an illegible diagnosis in 40 sec. flat. His solidarity with poor also left me wondering if Florence Nightingale shares her family tree with Robin Hood.

Apart from waking up and feeling weak, I also woke up begging for more sleep. I don’t think the only culprits are the viral and the St. Georges doctor. I think the other culprit are the bedbugs in my…well where else…my bed. I have figured that the only way I can get sleep these days are to sleep only when the bedbugs are sleeping and that happens only once it’s daytime. I have no clue how these buggers come to know if it’s day or night. I guess it has to do with biological crap like adaptation, mutation and hereditary intelligence. I couldn’t care less what it’s got to do with. All I know is that I have rashes all over my body and if I can’t sleep during the night, I can’t work at the Express. I have two options

1. I can align my sleep cycle in an alternating pattern with that of the bedbugs, which is not viable since I have to work at the Express during the day.
2. I can go and make a complaint to the hotel admin. But the way my previous complaints have been flushed down the sewer, the very prospect of making a complaint makes me shudder.

But since the second option seemed to be the more viable one, I avoided making the complaint to Attendant-Prince (to know whom better you can read ‘Project: Budget Brainwash’) and chose a softer target i.e. the right-handed right hand man of the left- handed Attendant-Prince. I made their natural orientation clear because it is one of the most preferred pastime of the Attendant-Prince to make it clear to his cronies how he thinks that lefties are generally more clever. I couldn’t agree with him more after having met him. And I wonder if that’s the reason why his left hand man is left-handed. Here we need to take into account that for the Attendant-Prince the left hand man scores over his right hand man because the Attendance-Prince is a lefty. Anyway, one thing I most dislike is conspiracies and a conspiracy which is against right-handers is a conspiracy against me. I will make sure that the attendant-prince will pay for this sometime soon. I still have to figure out how though.

Waking up and feeling weak first thing in the morning is not good. So I was looking to fix the problem. I summoned the right-hand man of Attendant-Prince i.e. I walked over to him while showering respect all the while I approached him, and said, ‘Raat hote hee badan khujlane lagta hai. Mujhe lagta hai mere bistar mein kutch problem hai.’ And he instantly offered to change the bed sheet, which was very kind of him. But I brought to his kind attention that the problem was lying much deeper than that. The problem was not in the superficial bed sheet, but deeper, in the mattress, where the buggers borrowed, so I requested to him, ‘Woh spray karva deejiye naa.’ And he said, ‘Abhi to karaya tha do din pehle’ and I did not say anything because now I was looking up to him as the ‘pesticide spraying demigod’ who would save me from the attack of the bloodsucking buggers in the night-time. So I decided to show him something more impressive. The ultimate weapon of persuasion that I had reserved for the last, ‘Yeh ched dekh rahe hain aap?’, I said pointing to small perforations in my gray shorts like someone was shooting them with an air rifle when they were drying on the clothes’ line. Or can a high tension cable do this to your shorts (Read ‘Drying Clothes can be Injurious to Health)? Anyway, I was saying that I said, ‘Yeh ched dekh rahe hain aap? Kal tak yeh yahaan nahin the.’ And he whispered in a tone filled with dread accompanied with respect, ‘Cockroaches’, and I thought, ‘Now I got your attention huh?’ and he promised as soon as I went out in the evening, he would spray my bed with the pesticides, full strength. ‘I wanted to shout at the top of my voice, ‘Make it industrial strength.’, but I kept quite because now I have realized that it would dilute the gravity of the issue that I had raised. And after I had talked to him, thanks to this episode, I have also realized that I have a bad habit of fucking up the advantage at the last moment by being sarcastic, or trifling. And which is a habit it’s time I let go of.

And what about feeling weak? I don’t think it can be solely attributed to viral. I think the lack of parks in Bombay has something to do with it. I am a person with multiple complications when it comes to health and well being. And one of these is my weakening knees and back. I have concluded that it would be suicidal to run on cement surfaces. It would be like trying to drive a beat up beetle over the Rockies, in that event, a lot more than the bumper is likely to come off. And I am not ready to compromise even a bumper anymore. I have lost enough things in life. And so I make sure that I only run on clay or grass. But the lack of parks in this city makes it remarkably difficult. I remembered how I used to hate MICA alumni at the alumni meet referring to their paunch and calling it an occupational hazard. But now I know how that hazard comes into play. Anyway, it’s hard to picture myself ending up with even a slightest of paunch. It’s just not cool. And more importantly it’s just not me. But given the lack of parks in the city, given my growing love for the city, and assuming that I will most probably end up working here, it will have to be some treadmill kept in a gym that will have to do the trick.

When I woke up feeling weak, I had to just stay still for about twenty minutes to gather enough courage to move to the bathroom. But the conversation between my bed-neighbors, the merchant-navy-big-bully and his bed pal kept me engaged, so I decided not to move for another few minutes. The big bully, who supposedly once had a brawl with the captain of his ship and taught him a lesson by getting himself fired from the job (don’t ask how) was once again narrating the stories about life on the big blue. And then when he got stuck on a minor detail, something to do about the coldness of the food served in life on the big blue, he referred to me. Then, his bed pal asked him about me and he mentioned casually, ‘Yeh babu hoga engineering side ka officer, hai na babu?’ And I had been thinking that all these days I had made it crystal clear that I have nothing to do with ships and the closest that I ever came to a ship was when I watched the movie Titanic. Actually my most frequently spoken sentence in here is, ‘Main shipping mein nahin hoon.’ I promptly made it clear to them that I knew nothing about the serving temperature of the food on the big blue and that I had nothing to do with ships.

I woke up feeling weak and suddenly the promise that I had made to Vishal on the evening of May, 05, 06 started to look weak too, like it would snap any moment. The promise had been about going to catch a movie because it is a natural thing to do when you bump into your Career Launchaer, Chandigarh (presently at IIM-L) buddy on Churchgate after you have just flipped though a few pages of ‘Penthouse Girl on Girl’ on one of the pirated book seller’s hangout but have ended up buying ‘The Curious Incident of The Dog in The Night-time’ which after reading left you wishing that had you been the dog that got pitch forked in very beginning of the novel you wouldn’t have had to go through this sedate, overrated crap. So now it’s almost 4 in the afternoon and I am not too good at remembering movie schedules around here and besides I’ve got a courier to make to mama before I can call him. And the most crucial thing is that I don’t have a cell, so the communication between him and me is like one way traffic. When do I call him? Maybe I’ll make the courier drop at 4:30 and then call him at five so that he can catch the evening show of whatever Bollywood crap is playing.

The weakness that I felt in the morning was not alone. Not alone in the sense, it was accompanied by a serene, contemplative frame of mind. And because of this contemplation inducing weakness I couldn’t help but remember the chain of events on the night of May 05, 06. How I entered the STD after going to the Thomas Cook office and then saw him- that bastard. I know I am not making much sense. I think, in order to make sense the elevator of Ship, which I have screwed up once before, is the right place to start. Let me make this clear that I don’t have any special liking for this elevator. It’s just an elevator. It does nothing more than what an elevator is supposed to do. It just shuttles people up and down through a dark vertical channel, which if you happen to look into otherwise, would seem pretty spooky. Though I think the elevator is another reason for me to feel weak. This is how. Because of it I do not use the staircase and I am kept from getting even that exercise which I would get in case I used the staircase. No matter how unappealing this elevator might be, there is a special thing about it though I am not sure if it’s face-saving or defacing. The thing about the elevator is that (I am speaking for males here because I don’t know how it would affect the female body) it can make you grab your balls. Yes. Believe your eyes. Look I’ll write it again for your sake in bold. It can make you grab your balls. It can do that because it is the most abrupt elevator I have ever been on. When you press the down button, your balls come all the way up to your throat and choke you, and when you push the up button, your balls touch the floor and rebound. It is nothing like the caring, gentle and thoughtful elevator at the Thomas Cook office, which accelerates slowly and decelerates as slowly. It’s not like this one at Ship, which behaves like a brick hurled at the sky. Good thing that I screwed it. Had they not hired an elevator operator, I would have screwed it over and over again. I can screw it at will because I know how to if I want to. Okay I accept that I had lied when I said I don’t have a particular liking for the elevator, what I really meant is that I hate it from the gut. So where was I? Yes I was saying that it can make you grab your balls. What I meant was that, to ensure the integrity of your balls when traveling in this one of a kind elevator, you tend to secure your balls. And since now I have become habituated to this elevator ritual, I happened to grab my balls even when I was at the Thomas Cook office, purely out of habit, which elevated one of the eye brow of the elevator operator. Seeing the eyebrow go up, I instinctively let go of my balls. Quite contrary to expectations, soon I and my balls were in the 5-star comfort of cloud nine when the Thomas Cook elevator sensitively whisked us from ground floor to fourth floor. On the fourth floor I collected the money which I was supposed to from the Travel Insurance Department, smoothly traveled down the building in the thoughtful elevator, and proceeded towards the STD to call mama to inform her that I had received the money. I made it a point to enter this particular STD because it’s always 'AC on', and because it’s terribly hot and humid, even in the evenings. I entered one of the cabins to make the call to mama. I made the call. When I was making the call to mama and was half way through of what I had planned to say to her, he walked in and instantly I knew it was unmistakably him. No one could look more…well…‘him’. He was with who I thought was his wife, and only yesterday he had told me in the street that he was traveling alone. Despite being a person who lies frequently I can’t stand liars. And this little lie of his was indicating that everything that he had told me was a big lie and it meant that he really was what I had thought of him the night before. Anyways, no words passed between us. I gave him a knowing smile, the kind of smile that says, ‘I got everything figured about you baby. I even know what the tattoo on the ass of the man who gave you the tattoo on your ass says. It says, ‘I own you smartass.’’ So I gave him that kind of a knowing smile. I was able to give him that kind of a smile because truth was on my side or atleast i thought so. He usherered his wife into the STD cabin adjacent to mine and then, I saw the streak of fear on his face and the drop of sweat that ran down his worried face, sliding down his temple and along his cheek. I concluded that he must be terribly worried to see me to sweat like that in my favorite, perfectly cooled STD shop. I said love you to mama and then kept the receiver down. By that time he had walked out of the shop. I stepped out of the shop with the ‘I own you buddy’. smile on my face and then what happened will make sense only when I tell you what had happen on the evening of May 04, 06.

This is what happened on the evening of May 04, 06. I woke up feeling weak and called in sick at the Express. But it was not the kind of weakness which brought with it the contemplative streak. It was the ‘restless’ kind which make me conclude that feeling contemplative is independent of feeling weak which beats my previous hypotheses. But anyway, I was feeling weak and so I spent the day sleeping and daydreaming until the evening when the adventurer in me urged me to take a walk and explore the surroundings within a clean radius of a kilometer. I listened to the adventurer in me and got down to fulfilling its urge which by now had become my urge too and it was a combined urge now. And so I jumped into my jeans, hedged the cash in my wallet to a level where it wont hurt in case I got mugged, jumped into the elevator, secured my balls, the operator pressed the button and I landed on ground zero. After having my dinner I was returning to Ship when out of nowhere…no let me reframe…it was actually from behind a parked three ton army truck that he appeared. I saw him. My mind registered the first impression of him and it said, ‘Hunky-dory. Safe.’ He was a harmless looking middle-aged man, wearing a bottle-green kurta, probably silk, with an astoundingly neatly trimmed mustache which looked like a wider than normal black Johnson’s Band-Aid ultra neatly stuck above his upper lip. He was speaking English the way many middle class men speak, with a streak of unfamiliarity with the language in their tone. But I guess…no I know for sure why he chose English despite being uncomfortable with it. It’s because it is one language which is not as harsh as Hindi. To quote an example, it is nearly impossible to ejaculate our frustration by saying ‘Shit!’ in Hindi, at least in public.
This is what he had to say to open the conversation with the stranger that was me, ‘How far is Gateway of India from here?’
Because I happen to be a frequent hiker from VT to Gateway of India, I told him, ‘If you take a bus it would take 5 minutes or if you are feeling adventurous enough you could walk down to the Gateway of India which would take you about 20 minutes but the walk is worth all the sweat.’ And the fact remains that it is indeed one of the most beautiful serenades I have come across. It is almost as beautiful as the The Mall in Jalandhar Cantt, where I used to serenade when I was either extraordinarily pissed or exceptionally happy, generally, or even with someone particular. These two, together are two of the most therapeutic stretches I have had the pleasure of serenading. Anyway, he was not interested in what I was saying. As I would figure out later, he had to stick to the script, his script to be more precise, and I am the kinds who can make a mockery of his kind of a script. So he hurriedly came back to talking about Gateway of India which seemed to be one of the key words of the script on which a lot depends, and said, ‘Don’t mind I am only speaking to you as a friend. I had a bad experience when I first went to Gateway of India.’
‘Don’t tell me you got mugged…’ I interrupted him much to his irritation because I was doing to his script what I would like to do to the elevator in my hotel- screwing it. I got ready to narrate what had happened with me. He made an irritated expression and stopped me with a hand gesture.
He continued, ‘I was very young at that time, and don’t mind me saying this, I am only speaking to you as a friend, I was quite healthy at that time and I had boobs’, he said pointing to his chest. I am sure I lifted an eyebrow when he mentioned boobs because I had not expected this kind of slang language form this seemingly antiquated life form from some small town in India. And I did not try to think what would have happened, if we were talking in Hindi, how would the sentence that he just said would sound.
He didn’t stop there, he went on, ‘And there was this guy at the Gateway of India who started rubbing them and started tickling my nipples’. This was accompanied by a gesture which looked like he was tying to a drive in a screw but he was short of a screw driver so he was using his thumb and the pointer finger instead. ‘And that got me really…EXCITED.’, he said. Boy was he well rehearsed. The psychological implication to be observed here is how he had reacted positively to the pervert’s advances, by getting excited (and not offended, a reaction one might expect from a straight person, or even gay person for that matter), in his Gateway of India instance. Talk about stinking, subtle communication.
Then he asked me, ‘Where are you living?’
I said, ‘Ship Hotel.’ And then he gave a knowing smile which was badly rehearsed and had many flaws in it.
After he had smiled the flawed knowing smile, he said, ‘So when you guys watch blue films in Ship, is it true that guys start feeling each-other up.’ I noticed how he said ‘blue-films’ and not ‘porn’ or ‘porn films’ instead which proves that he was a blast from the past and was quite inactive now compared to his younger days when such (now considered antiquated vocabulary) was in vogue. I did not raise an eyebrow this time. I was so calm that I thought I would freak-out the bastard with it. I was acting on the principal that people get freaked out when they things don’t go according to plan. Acting contrary to expectations is the best thing to do in those times. I merely said without being too offending because I was weaving my web and couldn’t afford to scare him away, ‘Nothing like that happens in Ship, your imagination is too wild.’ And he laughed like a hyena. This is the kind of laugh that suited him perfectly. This was his original laugh. The knowing smile had looked such a sham.
His script looked over and it couldn’t look more bombed so I assumed that it was my turn now. So to freak him out further, I started asking him a flurry of questions, which ranged from where he was from, what he did for a living, whether he was married, where was he living in Mumbai about most of which he lied. I know he lied because when he was going by the script he was looking straight into my eyes but when I introduced my own little impromptu script which involved unexpected questions, he started looking away, his mind trying hard to detach itself from his Gateway of India fantasies and thinking up false, credible seeming information. The biggest lie being that he was staying in Trombay and had come to town for ‘business’. And then I enquired about ‘business’ he said that he was into plastic tank business. I had been sure that his man was a phony for a long time now but now I really wanted to kick his butt at his own game. The only difference was that his communication was scripted. Mine wasn’t, so I had to be very careful of what I spoke. I suddenly had an idea which I thought would trap him. I had noticed how he had looked away when he was mentioning his profession. I presumed that he had lied about it. I thought I would trap him by asking him a closed ended question framed in an open-ended way (to use the terms in a slightly different way, you know what I mean). The framing of the question was tricky. I could ask the question in two ways,

1. ‘So you only trade in plastic tanks or you also make them?’
2. ‘So you only make tanks or sell them too?’

I figured that in order to avoid answering more questions about the same, if I asked the first question, he would answer, ‘I only trade in plastic tanks’. He would do that to avoid responsibility of knowing about the know-how of manufacturing plastic tanks.
So I took the second option. And falling in with expectations, he said, ‘No, I only make them.’
I had got him. The logical thing to do was to ask him a whole lot of technical questions about plastic tank manufacturing. For instance, where they get the plastic, what was the formula of the plastic used, who designs the moulds, what was the capacity, where was the factory located. By the time I was through my script, he was sweating profusely and I suspect that his mind was now far removed from Gateway of India type fantasies.
And then after I had asked the questions, I gave him my knowing smile, which was a proper knowing smile and then nervously he said, ‘You asked me so many questions. Like a lawyer, like a lawyer. It wasn’t without a purpose. You asked them just like a lawyer.’ He seemed quite awed by lawyers. I told him. ‘I am studying to be an MBA.’ And I said it in a tone which conveyed, ‘I don’t have to be a lawyer to teach you a lesson bastard.’ This made him even more nervous. And them I guessed that he had no more water left in his body to convert to sweat, so it was time to say good-bye but not before he said almost with awe, ‘What a handsome man!’ Yes that was meant for me. And though it reeked of flattery, I lapped it up because you know how flattery works. Though you know it’s flattery, it does affect you on a subconscious level. But what is important is not that you are being affected by it, what is important is that you should know that you are being affected. He stuck out his hand to shake mine. But it hardly culminated into a successful handshake as his hand was hanging like a damp squid and I did not intend to hold a damp squid on a day on which I had gotten up feeling weak and restless. So I just plain left, and he went his way. I walked away knowing that he knew that I knew what he was and what he had just tried with me.

Now that you know what had happened on the 4th of May, I can tell you what happened on the evening of 5th of May and make sense too. After I stepped out of the STD, though I had the knowing smile on my face, I had planned to leave him and his ghosts alone but his ghosts had vomited much venom in his mind by now, and so he blocked my way and stopped me. I could smell all the alcohol that he had consumed that evening. He grabbed my T- shirt with his damp squid and warned me in his drunken voice, ‘You don’t say a word about me to anyone.’ I wanted to hit him. But I thought again. And I thought about his wife who was still in the STD cabin, his non-existent kid, and then I simply slapped the damp squid away, freeing myself in the process and simply walked off as if we had never met before and he was some random drunkard who had accosted me.

As I was walking to Ship the episode kept playing in my head over and over again and I had this huge urge of sharing the episode with someone so that tomorrow if the bastard harms me in anyway, they would know who to look for- a middle aged man named Ashish, traveling with his wife, and who had stayed in one of the hotels in the area near Ship. I knew that it was his own name because of the way he had said it. And I also knew that he did not have a kid because he had got terribly confused when I had asked him the question about kids. First he had said no and then after considering his age, and his married status, he said yes. And moreover I did not see a kid when I saw him with his wife. Why would caring parents not bring the kids along? I know I am making a lot of assumptions here but that is how irrational I was on that evening. So I thought that I would call Swati. I called her up from one of the get-lost-if-you-don’t-have-a-coin local phones, but then when I heard the engaged tone on her phone, I thought why should Swati have to put up with all the crap that happens to me. I should learn to handle the crap on my own, just like old times, and I also figured that the unexpectedly violent behavior of the bastard had induced me to think unreasonable crap. I finally decided that this particular incident does not need to be told to Swati at 11 in the night-time. With this thought in my head I walked up to Ship, stepped into the elevator, found the operator absent, secured my balls, tinkered with the button, screwed the elevator, took the staircase, went to my bed, and collapsed on it.

‘An Ode to Gurinder Chaddha’

2006-05-08T02:28:00.000-07:00

Gurinder Chaddha
Why make flops like ‘Mistress of Spices’
With expensive Ash?
When you can make stuff like, ‘Shake it like Ash?’
Without casting Ashwarya
And on top of it save all that cash
That’s wasted
On the razzmatazz

'Wild-life Near VT'

2006-05-08T02:27:00.000-07:00

And then the dog lifted its hind leg, looked directly in the eyes of the new mongrel in the neighborhood, and began wetting the wall, his cool eyes stating, ‘Read the writing on the wall. This is Blakie’s hood.’

Nearby, in an alley in Blakie’s kingdom, the sewer rat nibbled on some spilt rubbish, skittered along the pavement and into the grill it went. The garbage collector cursed it overhead for causing the garbage to scatter, ‘Curse you, you little rascal. The gutter’s just the place for you, you filthy rat.’ The rat smiled like a Shaolin monk who has mastered ten most coveted martial art styles and muttered, ‘And the world’s just the place for you, my friend.’

In close proximity three legged dog limped to the place where all the howling was coming from. He saw a brawl building up. What initially seemed to be personal matter between two fleabags had now engulfed the whole hood, even Blakie was present now. The three legged dog had not had enough sleep. He barked to them irritably, ‘Get a life you mongrels. I have had a tiring day.’ Two dogs leapt towards him to teach him a lesson. They had sniffed out his nervousness. Blakie intervened, ‘leave the freak alone.’ he barked. The aggressors behaved as if nothing had happened, and left.

In the evening, the urchin begged half-heartedly the whole day for which the God of Professions punished him, by only providing him with which he could barely sustain and could afford no luxuries. After having his fill at the eating joint meant for urchin, which serves only fish as if by principle, he retired. He retired to the melody of the Made in China FM pocket radio which is a rage in his fellowship.

Early morning, the drug addict rose from his death, coughed his lungs out, vomited some blood, talked to his relatives who looked alive and well off. They talked not of disease or death but of mundane matters as if nothing is wrong with this early morning painting. By the time they were half through with the conversation, the addict’s wife crouched beside her husband with something sniffable, cheap and effective and the addict took it all in from his sniffer. He slowly fell to his death again. His relative departed knowing which sewer hole to find him by the next day.

A man came to Ship half baked in the ways of the world. He thought he could not stand the smell of fish around the area. Now he has been living here for 15 days and he says, ‘What smell?’

‘After Dance Hours’

2006-05-08T02:24:00.001-07:00

It’s after dance hours and
The fragrance of your name lingers

True to your name
What if it’s after we’ve danced
And nothing will be the same
We’ll cherish the days
We danced
Only till it started to rain
We loved
Only till it started to pain

Couplets by Sarci

2006-05-08T02:24:00.000-07:00

The closer we got
The farther

What is there to remember?
The feeling is lost

We were together
Till love did us part

Is this love so strong
That we can’t stand it?

If this force that holds you from me is stronger
It wasn’t love

You say you cannot love me more
Why do you turn away?

Is it the extent of love
You once confessed for me
That’s keeping you from resisting
Its destructive phase?

What kind of love dear?
One which cannot even keep us near?

‘One of a Kind’

2006-05-08T02:23:00.000-07:00

Is there a world beyond this world?
Is there a storm beyond this whirl?

Is there a kind beyond this kind?
Or human kind is to itself confined?

Are we supposed to feel like our ancestors?
Are we supposed to cultivate the same attitudes?
Are there worlds still unexplored…
Or is destiny to us so rude?

I ask myself- am I a social clone of my peers?
Have I given in to rejection fear?
Or am I holding fort?
The lines are blurred, no longer clear…

But in this moment
I do remind myself the dream
That I forced upon my eyes
To look beyond what is expected
And be one of a kind
Even if it means standing alone
Not just be one more of mankind

Lines by Sarci

2006-05-08T02:19:00.000-07:00

Seek out not treacherous arms to hurt me oh foe
For that fate is already gifted to my imagination

You smiled
And I took it as a promise of togetherness
I did not know
That in your world, it’s merely an institution

For me, a lifetime in a moment
For you, just another stone overturned

The wounds are still fresh where you touched my heart
It’s beside the point that I will not trade them for the world

When you lay beside me beloved
This bed was the launch pad of dreams
Since you left,
It is only a field of sorrow
Where there is regret for today
Hope set aside for tomorrow

I keep my lips sealed to protect my inanity
And the world interprets it as lofty vanity

Most joyful were the moments when you only haunted me- the specter
Most painful those when your apparition materialized- the actual

Only I gave you the power to injure me
Pray don’t deprive me of the credit now

Your face watermarked on every wave in the sea
I sat and counted them till the sea receded
Time was considerate when the waves didn’t form
But cruel, when to a big wave, it again conceded

I am destined to bear your face’s memories for a while
‘Cause only a face can erase a face in this world
I am confined by the fences of my passions for you
For only a face can replace a face in this world

Nami-baba at Freud’s Grave

2006-05-08T01:40:00.000-07:00

Freud: I don’t understand, why do people move to St. Xavier's hostel?
Nami-baba: Professor, you would have known had you not studied just one patient and that too your wife.
Freud: Pity my wife never stayed out in hostels.
Nami’baba: Not that you can do much about it now. Anyways I think I can answer why people move to St. X hostel. I think its desperation out of not having enough information about other hostels.
Freud: Desperation…who would know more about desperation than me.
Nami-baba: Yes after all you had to settle for your wife for a patient in the end.
Freud: It wasn’t out of desperation.
Nami-baba: Yeah-yeah.
Freud: Are you mocking me? By the theories of psycho analysis, I would think that a man as great as me would deserve more respect.
Nami-baba: Hey don’t expect me to respect you simply because you are dead.
Freud: That’s not the reason why I deserve respect.
Nami-baba: That’s what you think. Your subconscious couldn’t disagree with you more.
Freud: What?
Nami-baba: Forget it. Let’s come back to your question. You asked me why do people go to St. X to stay, yes?
Freud: Yes.
Nami-baba: Professor, I think what’s important is not why people go to St. X, what’s important is that why people go there and stay.
Freud: Unhun?
Nami-baba: Have you ever wondered why people start to find themselves at home in badly kept jails and madhouses after they have been there a while?
Freud: Yes-yes, how could I not wonder? It’s inescapable.
Nami-baba: Exactly. The same principle applies here. Let me explain it to you in terms of depression syndrome. When a person first comes to St. X it is purely based on the academic reputation of the institution and some desperation for accommodation. After meeting the warden and checking out the hostel he catches that faint whiff of depression in the air. It is then that the little seed of self-destruction which is planted in each of us sees its first ray of nourishing sunlight. And this seed, coupled with the budget constraint and lack of information about other places to stay, constantly pushes him into accepting the accommodation or to put it in better words, ‘accepting his fate.’ Slowly depression becomes a part of life, one without which the dweller feels incomplete.
Freud: I have framed some twisted theories in my life but that one beats everything. It’s so twisted that I can’t even tell whether it’s reliable. I am proud of you Nami-baba. After all we have to keep the flame of psychoanalysis burning and that can only be achieved by coming up with increasingly confounding theories about human thinking.
Nami-baba: Yeah-yeah whatever professor. I couldn’t care less about what a dead man has to say but since it’s you, I can always lend an ear.
Freud: Thank you, thank you a thousand times.
Nami-baba: Ok-ok I think I should make a move now or if they see me moving my lips for so long near a grave, they will put me in St. X or something. Oh I forgot to give you the Playboy that you asked for. Here take it.
Freud: Just slip it in the hole.
Nami-baba: There you go.
Freud: Thanks and bye.
Nami-baba: Good-bye old boy. Keep the tossing and turning under control in there. It’s a graveyard you are at, and one would think that the place is almost holy.

‘It’s on Time’

2006-05-08T01:38:00.000-07:00

Time runs fast when you are walking the streets
But it only ambles on when you are running out in the heat

Time drives by when you are driving for leisure
But when you are in a chase, it races with measure

Feels like a time warp when you are sleeping
But time seems to clot when it’s a book that you are reading

Time flows freely when you are working alone in your cubicle
But when you are talking to your boss, it flows only in a trickle

Time floats past over swigs of intoxicating potions
But, if one is shot at, bullets seem to move in slow-motion

It’s known that life seems longer when the adrenalin flows
Though you can’t stop time, you know you can make it run slow
But then, what’s the use of taming the time-monster
When it’s more endearing with a mind of its own?

‘Project: Budget-Brainwash’

2006-05-08T01:37:00.000-07:00

The day I stepped into Ship, I had the good fortune of meeting the most ill tempered attendant the place has to offer. After talking to him a few times, not much urge in me to talk has remained. Though he is irritable and ill tempered and highly unpredictable, he has quite a complex personality. This conclusion is based on the assumption that I am a rational being who does not give anyone too much benefit of the doubt.

It so happens that every time I have a conversation with him, it ends on the same note and needless to say ‘his note’. But it is usually me who builds the crescendo by being the ‘complaining sort’. Despite of my ‘complaining habit’, after being brainwashed by him and his gang who propagate the belief that the hotel offers the best facilities for the price we are paying, my very reasonable complaints now seem like shameless petitions for luxury, even to me.

I clearly recall, it was my very first day here when I had asked him, ‘Is my luggage secure here?’ I was referring to my second piece of luggage which was secured along with other pieces of luggage to the door with a long metal chain. And this is what he had to say to me, ‘If it doesn’t look secure to you why don’t you rent the now vacant double bed AC room we have. Rs. 312 is the rent. Your luggage will be quite safe there.’ I tell you I had this great urge to yell back at him why doesn’t he check in himself? What’s holding His Majesty back? Why does His Majesty sleep in quarters even worse than mine but I swear I restrained myself from hurting the poor man’s feelings.

As far as I know he knows darn well that I am a student and that too who is doing his summers at ‘The Indian Express’. For Gossake, hasn’t he ever come across the concept of budget constraints in his luxurious life of 25 years? And here I don’t want to make a mockery of irony by calling it an irony that he appears to be ignorant of the concept of budget while working in a budget hotel- the very place which is the reason for his next meal. I hope it’s clear to him that it’s not some five-seven star cruise liner he is working his lazy ass off in but a stationary budget hotel made out of concrete, attached to solid ground, inhabited by Nami-baba and forty-four roomies, a hotel which can never even dream about setting its eyes on a cruise liner let alone setting sail like it, but still has the audacity to call itself “Ship”.

Life is so predictable; I knew it won’t end there. So another time we had a chat about me complaining how disgusting it is to fill water from a cooler which situated so freaking close to the bathrooms. And again after the brain wash meant to make the hotel look like a place more reasonable than heaven, I received the generous offer from his majesty the attendant-prince himself to shift into the 312 Rs. double bed AC chamber intended to match my humble status as a summer trainee at The Indian Express. It was made clear to me that water wouldn’t be a problem there. And I must state here that what perplexes me is not the offer but the way it’s made. It’s purely mechanical as if some algorithm controls the words he is mouthing. I even close to considering that he was joking. It couldn’t possibly be true the second time, but it turns out that reality couldn’t disagree with me more.

And the third time this happened, it inspired this post, ‘cause third time is not funny. This time my problem was finding a plug point to charge my lappy-the device that earns me instant respect among the roomies. So His Majesty in his flat voice duly suggested the plug point near the staircase. Of course His Courageousness did not consider that the place does not have fan, is susceptible to trespassing and hence would require me to stand there in the heat as long as the lappy was getting charged, which is not much over an hour’s time. Needless to say the excellent suggestion of the plug point was followed by the magnanimous offer to move into the Special Summer Internship Suit which cost only Rs. 312. And, needless to say the suit was fitted with state-of-the-art plug points, and not only a fan but an AC.

After these three incidences I have given up on the ‘unreasonable complainant’ inside me. And have become a brown rat subjected to the greatest psychology experiment ever conducted inside a wannabe ship hotel codenamed ‘Project: Budget-Brainwash’.

And yes this brainwash does not come without the dilemma whether the attendant-prince is dumb or smart. But it comes with the assurance that whether dumb or smart he is surely an ass for which I congratulate him and my puny self profusely.

‘The Diplomat’

2006-05-08T01:36:00.000-07:00

Recently my hotel- Ship had the good fortune of becoming international in nature when a group of Japanese arrived with their dark, tense goatees and flawless complexion being the main attractions.

It so happened that hardly had this Japanese contingent set foot on the haloed turf of Ship, one of the roomies in my dorm, who can boast of exactly the kind of paunch that inspires me to do some ab crunches everyday out of fear, struck a (conscious, intentional, forced) friendship with one Japanese punk who was of course as slippery as an eel although he looked a picture of innocence.

The Indian seemed to be saying through his body language, ‘I am Indian you are Japanese. I am a special Indian, you are a special Japanese. I am rare you are rare. Destiny has brought us together in this small hotel. Well we must play PM-PM i.e. you represent your country I represent mine.’ And they talked, discussed bilateral issues of importance, and translated each others names into each others languages. Here, the only word that I can use to describe the Indian’s behavior is ‘cocky’. When they were “talking”, I had this uncontrollable urge to get up and ask the Indian how his little yellow rat was doing in the friendship lab. Not that I hold anything against this Indian. It’s just that I have never seen him interact with anyone “Indian” in the room but things obviously changed when a Japanese, from miles away came to stay; this Indian suddenly felt the pangs of being friendless.

I will not say anything beyond what I have already said ‘cause I do not want to analyze something that has been a million times already, by Indians or non. I would rather end it by congratulating this evidently well informed, English speaking Indian for being quite a diplomat and certainly IFS material.

‘My Things on “Share”’

2006-05-08T00:59:00.000-07:00

On an ordinary day i.e. a weekday, I would be standing in line for the loo holding the previous day’s news paper for diversion but today, since it is Saturday, it’s 8 in the morning and I am still in bed, deep in my early morning slumber. I am clinging to my pillow, my lifebuoy on the sea of dreams, but not only to prevent myself from sinking in it but also because I have slipped the key to my under-the-bed cupboard into its cover. And since even in dreams I am too aware of the fact that the forty-four roomies know too well that I have a laptop, locked in somewhere, and their fascination for it is as much for it as their contempt for any form of exercise (except to the famous eye work out that is done in front of the television), I hold on to the pillow even tighter.

I resent the fact that, I don’t dream in pictures these days, it’s almost as if some dream merchant has bought my eyes’ images without informing me and sold them to a person who used to dream away his decline everyday, possessing the currency of an ignited imagination, which if lacked anything was a confident vision. I am happy to know that my dream vision is helping someone, somewhere dream in pictures while I still cling on to mere ideas, adrift on the dryness that comes with the lack of a picturesque rendering. It’s almost like donating a heart simply because someone can use it better than you. But even without a heart, life goes on. After all it’s not the heart that learns to be ‘in love with the idea of…’

If it’s alright to put it this way and still not come across as harsh, I have established that my dreams, so to say, ‘lack an imagination’, it takes a huge stimulus to actually put it’s imaginative machinery into motion. And I don’t think it is merely restricted to the realm of dreams. Even when I am not sleeping (strictly in the technical sense), I still need highly impressionable stimulus for it to even register. To illustrate this I would resort to a recent pleasure trip when I was strolling down the road near Ship Hotel and, I was shocked to observe the kind of landmarks my mind remembers. Generally, when in doubt about the way I am going, I freeze and look around. And this is precisely what I did on this instance. I looked around for something that I would identify my way with. And promptly I saw the drug addict on the corner, engaged in burning almost anything and going about it in a sniffing manner. So I redirected myself. I moved on and when another freeze occurred, I looked around and promptly spotted the three legged dog sleeping on his trademark mat. I redirected myself. On the instance of another freeze, I looked around and on finding nothing recognizable, I looked down and duly found the squashed rat that I had seen near the pavement, and I instantly knew that I was close to Ship. It’s confounding how my mind refuses to register billboards, directional signs, building facades, shops etc. but rather chooses to remember things that are completely inconsequential and what is even more stupid is that these landmarks are mobile (except for the squashed rat which has little chance to be carried about by the yellow, gray, brown, white cat that lives in Ship’s attic, which I have come to call ‘Flame’). What happens if these things change their bases tomorrow? I would be lost. But then I am comforted by the fact that these landmarks’ lives have stopped like the body-clock of an insomniac.

Now, after proving the incompetence of my imagination, I can narrate to you what happened on this morning which did not see me standing in the ‘queue for the loo’.

One of my forty four roomies is my merchant navy friend Akhil. He is a marine engineer who mostly hangs out in and around the seas surrounding Japan, but here to do some seaman courses which will make him ‘The Secure Seaman’, at least for the time being. Now, he mostly keeps to himself unless being talked to first, when of course he becomes an amiable, chatty version of himself, but today something stimulated him to talk to me first. It appeared that he needed my laptop for some weird reason and nudged me in my sleep to inform me that he needed the favor.

I could hear him in my sleep, ‘Namit wakeup! I need your laptop. I need your laptop for a few hours.’ I duly clutched my pillow tighter, the key in it withstanding the pressure building around the pillow.

‘What, whha-aaat?’ I came to life. ‘You need mmmmmmmy LAPTOP?’ I said it as if he was asking from me my life.

Of course this fear was not baseless. I have a few reasons to believe that I and my laptop and the relationship we share can me harmed. The reasons being:

1. One mugging
2. One lost cell phone
3. ‘Dr, Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ roomies at Yadgar, Grant Road
4. Forty four roomies of the ‘Nami-baba and Forty-four’ roomies fame and their inquisitive eyes.
5. The Sahara marketing head warning me that the merchant navy guys were ‘SMART’ (compared to his more conventional split personality disorder, resonating between a corporate head and a lecher) and would show their interest in my laptop in which case I shouldn’t let them even lay a finger on it.

I was up from my slumber by now, and my brain having registered some imaginary activity in the form of the above listed, I asked again in mild disbelief, ‘You…you…you want my lappy?’ and I heard Akhil’s voice say in a straight forward way, ‘Hey who’s asking for your laptop? I just want your black shoes. Can I borrow them? I’ll be back by twelve.’

I was not awake enough to be embarrassed. But now I am awake enough to be, and so I am writing about the episode but without being embarrassed about it. I don’t know why but I am not embarrassed about showing my insecurity. This is some more new emotional territory for me. I seem to be shouting from the dome of VT, ‘Yes I am insecure, and will be for days to come and will be in love with the idea of love for sometime too. This is what I have on ‘share’ for now and I am not promising any progress in the near future either, though I do try. Take it or leave it.’

Actually, Akhil just came back, and is sitting on his bed talking to his friend that has come along with him. He has returned my shoes without showing the slightest desire to see embers of embarrassment on my face. Even if he looks for them, he won’t find any because I am in the ring, fighting a bout with my imagination, asking it to yield to my desires, and I can vaguely begin to see my image atop VT, sharing the done with the with the elusive lady, white with insecurity about the city she is looking over, or overlooking?

‘Dear lady atop VT you mind if I shift my attention form you for a while and make you crave for it in bewilderment, and give it to another lady, equally magnificent?’- it’s time to watch Aeon Flux at Sterling with Akhil and his friend Aditya.’ Needless to say, the experience will be on ‘share’.

‘Drying Clothes Can be Injurious to Health’

2006-04-27T00:45:00.000-07:00

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’

‘Loose Lines From The Pen of Nami-baba of the Forty-four Roomies Fame’

2006-04-27T00:41:00.001-07:00

(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

‘Why I Don’t Need to Study Management Anymore'

2006-04-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

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.

‘As If The Mugging Wasn’t Enough’

2006-04-27T00:40:00.000-07:00

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.

‘Nami-baba at Shakespeare’s Grave’

2006-04-27T00:39:00.001-07:00

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.

Pay Ain’t My Love

2006-04-27T00:39:00.000-07:00

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’.

‘Baba Interrupted’

2006-04-27T00:37:00.000-07:00

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

‘Second Base’

2006-04-27T00:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Personal Paradox

2006-04-27T00:34:00.001-07:00

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?

‘Famous Saying’

2006-04-27T00:34:00.000-07:00

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.

‘The Taxi Driver and the Whore’

2006-04-27T00:33:00.000-07:00

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.

‘The Secure Seaman’

2006-04-27T00:32:00.000-07:00

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!

Forever St. Xaviers

2006-04-27T00:31:00.000-07:00

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.

‘Wimble Den Open’

2006-04-27T00:30:00.000-07:00

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.’

A Cofnused Rayper

2006-04-27T00:28:00.001-07:00

‘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

The Gift of Smile

2006-04-27T00:28:00.000-07:00

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.

‘In love with the idea’

2006-04-27T00:24:00.000-07:00

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?

Vantage Point-Yadgar

2006-04-27T00:20:00.000-07:00

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.

‘The Ones Who Leave’

2006-03-05T14:43:00.000-08:00

His intelligent eyes used to pierce you. Why is it that only recently they had started to evade my own, the shy ones in their own right? That was the one who left.

The only explanation that I have as once a close friend is that he slowly worked himself into it, talked himself into it. It all began with a warning from me ‘That’s not the way you go about it. Shouting out loud would leave nothing as your own. Don’t dilute your thoughts.’ I had seen the signs very early, the signs that would change things.

He didn’t feel like stopping at my advice. The final act, the well rehearsed act had to be performed. And once he had diluted quite a few things about his ‘present’ in his head, the place where many foreign ideas were born (not his own), he left…and I was not even here.

I don’t know what I would have said had I been here because the words that passed between us vanished like the corridor that used to lead me to the piercing eyes.

I can only hope that the ideas that remain in his head are his own for as long as there is even one that he considers not an act, he will retain some part of himself.

I met him the last time when we were brushing our teeth, he laughed at something unimportant, which reminded me of the time when he told me, ‘you laugh from the heart Suzie’.

It was you taught me how to laugh from the heart and be fearless about it. I owe my laughter to you buddy. And every time someone tells me that, I think of your amazing gift whose radiance would never fade.

I know how it feels to give up what you have and start over, having done so myself. For the ones who leave, rationale gives way to emotions simply because they are the only wealth you can claim, rest is the rationale owned by intellectuals that surround you and the books they write. Sometimes you just have to find a part of yourself and call it your own. And then you do what your heart says. And it’s not our hearts that let us down.

All the best bud…