Friday one of my good friends got married to one of our worst enemies’ sister! The affair was there for long. They were in love, I don’t know, may be for more than twelve years! And my friend was furious that I was not coming to his party. He threatened, that it would be an end to a long relationship that dates back to our kindergarten! But still, I risked that.
Well, I must admit, this particular boy, whom I so magnanimously anointed as our ‘worst enemy’, did nothing to us. And with the alliance formed with my friend, I don’t see him harming me anytime in future. So bravo mate, I am proud of you.
But I must explain why we were so scared of him.
The rivalry goes back to when we were in class seven and got the access to our school library. Now we could lend books, any kind of them without the librarian guiding us to read what we were supposed to read. We were all ‘high school’ boys then and as such grown up and mature. In our small world, we were adults. Whereas, lesser mortals like the boy in question, who was in class six that time, had to wait one year more to reach our ranks. And the beauty of seniority is that, once you are a senior, always a senior. Juniors, even one year younger ones, ought to respect you. We were taught teachers are our second parents. And we ensured that juniors see us as their second teacher.
As such, it was our moral obligations to guide the immature lot into this crazy maze that is called ‘world’. ‘Life’ to be precise!
And we were good in that!
We had a rule in our school that either the librarian or students of class seven would choose books for class six and five. There were separate books for class eight and onwards. Everybody and anybody could select the book of their choice. Students of class five and six, the immature ones, were supposed to submit their requisition slip to the pre-determined place and the librarian and ‘seven’ites’ would go through their request to decide if they had asked for more than what they could grasp. To be precise, if they have asked for some books destined for the more illuminated lots like class eight and onwards!
Now, we had a favourite game. By that time, we had no idea how to make our name famous. So, as was the practice then and as we learnt from our previous batch, we used to put a puzzle in every ill-fated book that used to come across us! Not a puzzle actually, but a treasure-hunt.
We used to take a book and scribble in the starting page, “amar naam jaante hole 36 patai jao” (if you want to know my name, go to page number 36). In the aforementioned page, it would have been written ‘if you still want to know my name, go to page 7”. And when the curious treasure-hunter skimmed all through the lead, he would have been directed to some other book where the lead would start again.
It was the privilege of the class seven seniors. And we were proud of that. Once in a month the librarian used to threaten to ‘rrussticate’ the whole class unless the culprit is named, but we were sure of our friendship and the new-found strength in our muscle. The boy, who would dare to blow the lead, would be taken to the taskforce. And I swear, I was a terrible threat to the ‘boykind’ that time! It’s much later that I became what I am today, but that time, I was sure of myself. And those who knew me, including my father, were sure of my doomed future.
So, we had a game. Though anybody was invited to play the game and make the otherwise dull book a part of treasure-hunt, the good boys were against ‘defiling’ books. They didn’t want to earn the wrath of goddess Saraswasti, who is in charge of the education department somewhere in the sky above us.
Our story was different, we were the followers of Rakshasas and as such always against education and all those shit.
I digressed!
So one fine cloudy evening, after carefully considering this boy’s request, we handed him a book that incidentally was from a newly purchased lot. In fact, he was the first one to get the book. And we were always happy to give away new book to uninitiated juniors. If you write treasure-hunt clues in a new book, the chances of getting caught are very high! So says logic, since the librarian has only you to blame. Only when the book has circulated thrice, we used to start our masterpiece.
But there was a surprise waiting for us! The boy returned the book and as soon as we, the master mystery monsters, started to explore the thick book for strategically important pages, we found our nemesis, our worst nightmare came true. At the starting of the first chapter, it was written “if you want to know who I am turn on page 19”. The wires on our brain snapped. How dare he destroy a property of the library! That too, under our custodianship? It was an open challenge!
Before we showed the book to the librarian and proved that class seven students were indeed angels and it’s the class six lots that were the bad apples, we decided to bring the culprit to the task force.
We almost kidnapped the boy and took him to the nearby hedge. Then after a brief lecture like Steve Jobs does, before every new product launch, I brought the book from the bag. The boy, sensing the alarm, tried to run for his life. But five of us were too agile and athletic.
We gave him the beating of his life and pushed him at the nearby pond. After making him drink several gallons of water, we pulled him up and left him to recoup. He swore he would never defile a book. And he swore, rather uncomfortably for us…he would take revenge. His father was there at the police!
We went in hiding. In the sense, we didn’t go to the school for a week after that. We simply refused to go to school or said there was a holiday going on. The unfortunates among us did start for the school but ended up playing cricket at a distant ground.
No, police didn’t come to pick us up. We also didn’t show the book to the librarian.
But much to our astonishment, we saw the boy growing up like a goliath! When he left the school at class ten, he was already six feet tall. Well built, with unusual muscle for a boy of his age. And our batch really didn’t grow up. We were stuck at 5’2” when we left school. To this day, I am 5’8”. Whereas I heard that the boy, now a man, has added 5” more to his height and now has bulging muscles.
Do I need to tell how shit scared we were when he was growing to his glory. There was a time when we used to hide from his gaze, lest, he remembers and come to even out the past experience. We used to follow his every move just as jackals follow a lion. Careful, not to attract attention from the mighty beast. We were consoled when we found out, his favourite position in a football match is that of a mid-fielder!
A mid-fielder, in no way, is an aggressive fellow. He is not aggressive as a striker; neither is he a stubborn like a defender. We used to nurture hope that his nature was like that of the position that he choose to play and he still didn’t remember his vow!
That, I am typing still now and not dead, goes on showing, he is a forgetful giant! God be with him!
It’s true, he never harmed us, but the tension every time we crossed our path was too much for us. I am sure; I have lost at least five years of my life through that.
I really don’t know how my friend, a party to the crime, managed to hook the goliath’s sister, but I for one, never dared to look at her. She was beautiful and always hanged around with his giant brother. Naturally, the question of eye-contact was a stretched dream for a feeble man like me.
In fact, to be honest, my friend must have got that girl without any competition.
Because I spared no one in my locality. So much so that, without knowing, I once eve-teased the giant’s girlfriend! But I swear, I was innocent, ill-informed. If I would have known she was who she was, I would have made her my sister. But it was too late. When I realised her true identity, I was quick in fleeing ftom Calcutta!
So naturally, I shouldn’t have been in my friend’s marriage party, even if that means an end to our friendship! What if the girl reminds the giant of the vengeance? Incite him for the vow he pledged?
I have heard, all the wars in the world started with a woman. In this case, it would not be a war at all, it would be a murder! Ah…women…gate to the hell! Without any reason, the boy would land up in jail. Just imagine. Afterall, I know him from my school days, how can I moot this injustice to him?
Besides, life is precious than friendship, isn’t it? Or that it’s the opposite?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
i am very tired. exhausted.
i need a woman in my life. need some love, i seriously do.
no mom, it's not a message for you. don't get excited. no, i am not talking about marriage.
but i am in need of love. i want to love and be loved in return.
i am very tired. exhausted.
second thought: i want to return to my family in
mom, would you be less proud of me if i leave this glamorous multinational and settle for a shabby, red-tapped indian office in stagnant
dad, would you again start thinking that i am useless.
but don't you see how deathly pale i am now? don't you know your son will die if he doesn't get some warmth from you? don't you know everyday i return home with a hole in my heart. tell you a secret...it's getting bigger and bigger.
mom, i want to come back. i am bleeding everyday. i am choking. i want to come back to you. i want you to touch me again and put me to sleep just as you always did.
i want to come back. please don't force me to stay away for the sake of career. i know what career is. it's devil's lovely instrument to take people away from god. it's devil's plot to deprive mortals of everything nice that god created.
do you know how it feels like to face the world and listen the chin-music but getting nobody to heal the wound. you feel bloody damn cheated. yes, cheated. the wound doesn't pain. it gets numb. you feel cheated and abondoned by everybody. even by god.
trust me...this cold heart needs some warmth. i need some love mom. i really do.
i am very tired. exhausted.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
chunilal
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This is when Chuni was 15 days old (yawning, just after getting a good meal from my aunt).
One month old Chuni
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This is greedy Chunilal now (thinking my mother would mistakenly drop something from the pot).
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Can you believe it, he is only three-and-a-half month old field-lab puppy? And please don't mind the chain. He is always free. The photographer here was not too comfortable taking snaps from her mobile while the beast was in prowl!
Monday, June 18, 2007
lost (and not found)
I was walking along the pavement when I felt somebody pulling my shirt from behind. I turned round to see a little girl, hardly in her fourth, indicating to give her some alms. She was gesturing to be hungry. My one rupee or two rupees coin would solve her hunger and possibly many other problems associated with poverty. This was the same girl I saw everyday when I used to pass in my motor cycle. I had some work in that place, I was going to fetch my bike and head for the home.
As a matter of fact, I never give alms to children. That’s my insignificant effort to deter them from begging. But I know, many people do. Actually most of us do. And thus trapping them to begging all their life.
Nevertheless, I decided to offer her some food. There was a bakery-stall nearby. She had a dusty, torn doll at hand. One leg missing. Probably one eye was also at a loss. May be a castaway from a ‘rich man’s daughter’. I guess the doll was happy, if it had a heart. Because this little girl was hugging tight the rag at her bossom. Like a motherbird.
I offered her anything she liked. She was all round-eyes! She was repeatedly looking at me; not believing that somebody was actually offering her something to choose. Beggars cannot be choosers. Probably she has heard it already. And have understood by now.
She chose to have a pink biscuit. The one that you know is laced with cheap untested food colours. As an adult, you would always stay away from it, but to a baby, it’s irresistible.
After she finished eating it, she smiled coyly at me. Not sure if asking one more would be wise enough. I assured her to go on and try one more item. Since we both didn’t understand each others' language, it was all gestures.
She pointed her finger to me. I immediately understood that she is now depending upon my judgment. That pink biscuit didn’t taste great. Must be. I offered her rose-cake, which she devoured with great satisfaction. All the way I was looking at her gleaning eyes. She was very happy. So was I. she was looking at me furtively time-to-time. Whenever our eyes met she was smiling coyly. But there were flashes of pure bliss in her eyes, may be gratitude. I am not very good in reading signals of the eyes.
I noticed, despite her dirty clothes and appearance, she is a baby with exceptional beauty. Her hair is thick. Teeth are perfect, shoulders are slender and fingers elongated. This is what we call the hands of a sitar artist. She is fair and has a perfect nose. Very unlikely she is from South India. Her features doesn’t match that of South Indians. But probably she has been raised here. Because she was speaking the local language. Who knows she might have been from a good family. You get to see photos of one year old missing in newspaper almost everyday. Who knows, her parents, may be in Delhi are still waiting for her. Asking about her parents would be futile though.
She was satisfied by now. Her tiny stomach filled. With the help of a local, I asked her where she lives, she pointed towards North. Having known her address, I asked her whom she stays with. She said mother! And lo, her mother was present there, right in front of us. Waiting for her chance to be fed in the bakery.
As soon as I looked at her, she started doing all sorts of antics, as if she has not eaten for years. She was staring at the glass display like a greedy and looking at me in a hapless manner. Yeah, I am the savior.
She was dark, actually charcoal-black. Stout and had square, short fingers. The kind of fingers I hate from the core of my heart. No way that she was her mother. I asked her (with the help of the local guy) where from she got her. She said she was her mother. We coaxed her and told her to say the truth. But she was adamant. And hungry!
I decided not to give her anything, not a single paisa. She followed for a good distance and finally gave up the chase. I think she uttered some curse too.
I came home. And after some brain-storming with my cousin and her friends, decided to ADOPT the girl! Or at least, making an arrangement under which she get proper care and a proper education. I will pay for her living and education. I would admit her in a good orphanage. I was sure that the girl did not belong to that woman. And I was also sure, as is the fate of these girls; they will be forced into the flesh trade as soon as they are twelve. They will be sold.
So why not ‘sell’ me. We decided to offer the mother five thousand rupees to give the kid to us. Somebody suggested informing the police before I do anything. Valid point! I had to agree. The whole night we devised the plan. I was an overnight hero.
Morning, the same time, I went to that place only to find a different person replacing the girl. It was a boy of around the same age. I searched for my little girl the whole day, across the city. Asking everybody. But she and her ‘mother’ were not to be found.
It’s three months now. And I am sure, she must be somewhere in India...begging, clutching another piece of torn doll and dreaming. It’s a huge country. Many cities. No chance of getting her. No way.
To narrow down my search options, I have to wait ten years. There are innumerable cities. Whereas, the number of brothels are not that many.
As a matter of fact, I never give alms to children. That’s my insignificant effort to deter them from begging. But I know, many people do. Actually most of us do. And thus trapping them to begging all their life.
Nevertheless, I decided to offer her some food. There was a bakery-stall nearby. She had a dusty, torn doll at hand. One leg missing. Probably one eye was also at a loss. May be a castaway from a ‘rich man’s daughter’. I guess the doll was happy, if it had a heart. Because this little girl was hugging tight the rag at her bossom. Like a motherbird.
I offered her anything she liked. She was all round-eyes! She was repeatedly looking at me; not believing that somebody was actually offering her something to choose. Beggars cannot be choosers. Probably she has heard it already. And have understood by now.
She chose to have a pink biscuit. The one that you know is laced with cheap untested food colours. As an adult, you would always stay away from it, but to a baby, it’s irresistible.
After she finished eating it, she smiled coyly at me. Not sure if asking one more would be wise enough. I assured her to go on and try one more item. Since we both didn’t understand each others' language, it was all gestures.
She pointed her finger to me. I immediately understood that she is now depending upon my judgment. That pink biscuit didn’t taste great. Must be. I offered her rose-cake, which she devoured with great satisfaction. All the way I was looking at her gleaning eyes. She was very happy. So was I. she was looking at me furtively time-to-time. Whenever our eyes met she was smiling coyly. But there were flashes of pure bliss in her eyes, may be gratitude. I am not very good in reading signals of the eyes.
I noticed, despite her dirty clothes and appearance, she is a baby with exceptional beauty. Her hair is thick. Teeth are perfect, shoulders are slender and fingers elongated. This is what we call the hands of a sitar artist. She is fair and has a perfect nose. Very unlikely she is from South India. Her features doesn’t match that of South Indians. But probably she has been raised here. Because she was speaking the local language. Who knows she might have been from a good family. You get to see photos of one year old missing in newspaper almost everyday. Who knows, her parents, may be in Delhi are still waiting for her. Asking about her parents would be futile though.
She was satisfied by now. Her tiny stomach filled. With the help of a local, I asked her where she lives, she pointed towards North. Having known her address, I asked her whom she stays with. She said mother! And lo, her mother was present there, right in front of us. Waiting for her chance to be fed in the bakery.
As soon as I looked at her, she started doing all sorts of antics, as if she has not eaten for years. She was staring at the glass display like a greedy and looking at me in a hapless manner. Yeah, I am the savior.
She was dark, actually charcoal-black. Stout and had square, short fingers. The kind of fingers I hate from the core of my heart. No way that she was her mother. I asked her (with the help of the local guy) where from she got her. She said she was her mother. We coaxed her and told her to say the truth. But she was adamant. And hungry!
I decided not to give her anything, not a single paisa. She followed for a good distance and finally gave up the chase. I think she uttered some curse too.
I came home. And after some brain-storming with my cousin and her friends, decided to ADOPT the girl! Or at least, making an arrangement under which she get proper care and a proper education. I will pay for her living and education. I would admit her in a good orphanage. I was sure that the girl did not belong to that woman. And I was also sure, as is the fate of these girls; they will be forced into the flesh trade as soon as they are twelve. They will be sold.
So why not ‘sell’ me. We decided to offer the mother five thousand rupees to give the kid to us. Somebody suggested informing the police before I do anything. Valid point! I had to agree. The whole night we devised the plan. I was an overnight hero.
Morning, the same time, I went to that place only to find a different person replacing the girl. It was a boy of around the same age. I searched for my little girl the whole day, across the city. Asking everybody. But she and her ‘mother’ were not to be found.
It’s three months now. And I am sure, she must be somewhere in India...begging, clutching another piece of torn doll and dreaming. It’s a huge country. Many cities. No chance of getting her. No way.
To narrow down my search options, I have to wait ten years. There are innumerable cities. Whereas, the number of brothels are not that many.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
will it rain today?
The evening is cut short by heavy dark clouds. Will it rain today?
I wish it rains today. After may be two-three years, I am in a mood to enjoy the rainfall. When I was in Shillong, it was a headache. Because it always rain there. There was nothing new in it. Cherapunjee, which receives the highest rainfall in the world, is only 40 km from Shillong.
But will it rain today in Bangalore? May the Rain-Goddess be kind to the city today; Let it rain cats and dogs. I am in a mood to immerse myself in the music. May be, who knows, if mood permits, I will run to the terrace and not leave until I feel I have caught a really bad cold and going to fall sick soon. But I am in a mood to be the instrument, let the raindrops strike the chord in me. I will sing today. Will it rain today?
It’s long since I didn’t attempt to write a poem. I have lost touch with my mother-tongue Bengali. I want to write in Bengali today. For that I need to open myself. Let my pores absorb the music of a drizzle. Let the Rain-Goddess bless Bangalore today. Will it rain today?
I remember, when we were kids, me and my sister, we used to beg father to let us bunk our studies and enjoy the rainfall. The pungeant smell of freshly-drenched earth reminded us the smell of mother. The all reassuring smell!
Me and Jhumu, our nose poking outside the window used to inhale the most fragrant perfume in earth. It was not enough for us. As if we wanted to bottle the perfume and keep it at our bedside. It was a strange smell; it was a strange experience, a strange feeling. I always wanted to run out of the house and never return. I wanted to break free every time the smell invaded the whole earth.
Our face hard-pressed against the iron grill, we used to see the distant light in the lamppost getting hazier. Soon it used to shine like a holy man’s ring. Our eyes ... round, wide open, fresh, eager, moist, were filled with dreams. Dreams of growing up soon. We would then reach that lamppost and touch the holy ring, without getting scolded by parents.
We were spell-bound by the small rivers and springs and pools formed here and there. Who knew, that curve where I peed everyday, and that crack which I passed everyday without even noticing had such potential. Who knew that they were a piece of art waiting to be carved out? Soon we would wonder seeing the heavy rains inundating the nearby fields and making everyplace “water water everywhere”. We were the favorites of the rain Goddess. Soon she used to fill our hearts with so much joy that we, me and my sister Jhumu, used to hold our hands and dance and sing. Our stock was very little and often we ended up singing our national anthem…without giving a damn of maintaining a proper etiquette. As the rain transformed the earth, many a times we transformed our national anthem, a must to learn and thus the only full song in our collection, into rock-and-roll thingy.
And there was music, a tune; the notes of which I have forgotten as soon as I grew up. The notes, which I used to effortlessly relate to, and which used to make me somber. I have forgotten them. I am desperately searching for the notes one more time.
Oh! When did I grow up? Why did I grow up? Why?
I know, I am a sinner now and the Rain Goddess won’t let me get atune to her. She is now striking the hearts of her new aficionados; somebody somewhere on earth has now pressed his/her face against the window and watching the distant lamppost. The holy man’s ring of light.
But at least, I will try to recollect the notes. I will pray to her today. I will put all my vileness, schemes, meanness and perjury behind and again will press my face against the grill today. Let the thunderbolt strike it. Let there be no chance of escape. Who wants to escape to return to this world of futility? If She forgives me and claims me back with her blaze, I will be the most happiest. I will get back my notes. This time I can really touch the holy man’s ring. Without anybody objecting. Earlier it was father who prevented me going out. Now it was me, the clever and practical me. The foolish me.
Ah! Finally, I will get rid of myself!! What a relief!
But, will it rain today?
I wish it rains today. After may be two-three years, I am in a mood to enjoy the rainfall. When I was in Shillong, it was a headache. Because it always rain there. There was nothing new in it. Cherapunjee, which receives the highest rainfall in the world, is only 40 km from Shillong.
But will it rain today in Bangalore? May the Rain-Goddess be kind to the city today; Let it rain cats and dogs. I am in a mood to immerse myself in the music. May be, who knows, if mood permits, I will run to the terrace and not leave until I feel I have caught a really bad cold and going to fall sick soon. But I am in a mood to be the instrument, let the raindrops strike the chord in me. I will sing today. Will it rain today?
It’s long since I didn’t attempt to write a poem. I have lost touch with my mother-tongue Bengali. I want to write in Bengali today. For that I need to open myself. Let my pores absorb the music of a drizzle. Let the Rain-Goddess bless Bangalore today. Will it rain today?
I remember, when we were kids, me and my sister, we used to beg father to let us bunk our studies and enjoy the rainfall. The pungeant smell of freshly-drenched earth reminded us the smell of mother. The all reassuring smell!
Me and Jhumu, our nose poking outside the window used to inhale the most fragrant perfume in earth. It was not enough for us. As if we wanted to bottle the perfume and keep it at our bedside. It was a strange smell; it was a strange experience, a strange feeling. I always wanted to run out of the house and never return. I wanted to break free every time the smell invaded the whole earth.
Our face hard-pressed against the iron grill, we used to see the distant light in the lamppost getting hazier. Soon it used to shine like a holy man’s ring. Our eyes ... round, wide open, fresh, eager, moist, were filled with dreams. Dreams of growing up soon. We would then reach that lamppost and touch the holy ring, without getting scolded by parents.
We were spell-bound by the small rivers and springs and pools formed here and there. Who knew, that curve where I peed everyday, and that crack which I passed everyday without even noticing had such potential. Who knew that they were a piece of art waiting to be carved out? Soon we would wonder seeing the heavy rains inundating the nearby fields and making everyplace “water water everywhere”. We were the favorites of the rain Goddess. Soon she used to fill our hearts with so much joy that we, me and my sister Jhumu, used to hold our hands and dance and sing. Our stock was very little and often we ended up singing our national anthem…without giving a damn of maintaining a proper etiquette. As the rain transformed the earth, many a times we transformed our national anthem, a must to learn and thus the only full song in our collection, into rock-and-roll thingy.
And there was music, a tune; the notes of which I have forgotten as soon as I grew up. The notes, which I used to effortlessly relate to, and which used to make me somber. I have forgotten them. I am desperately searching for the notes one more time.
Oh! When did I grow up? Why did I grow up? Why?
I know, I am a sinner now and the Rain Goddess won’t let me get atune to her. She is now striking the hearts of her new aficionados; somebody somewhere on earth has now pressed his/her face against the window and watching the distant lamppost. The holy man’s ring of light.
But at least, I will try to recollect the notes. I will pray to her today. I will put all my vileness, schemes, meanness and perjury behind and again will press my face against the grill today. Let the thunderbolt strike it. Let there be no chance of escape. Who wants to escape to return to this world of futility? If She forgives me and claims me back with her blaze, I will be the most happiest. I will get back my notes. This time I can really touch the holy man’s ring. Without anybody objecting. Earlier it was father who prevented me going out. Now it was me, the clever and practical me. The foolish me.
Ah! Finally, I will get rid of myself!! What a relief!
But, will it rain today?
Thursday, May 10, 2007
good morning
Today I decided to say “good morning” to everybody I met. Familiar faces, not so familiar faces, but may be with whom I was forced to interact sometime back, I decided to say good morning to everybody I met in the morning. You don’t need a psychiatrist to certify that I am a highly unsocial guy. Almost to the point being an anti-social, minus the brawn. I hardly talk to people whom I don’t know very well or with whom I feel my ‘chemistry’ is not matching.
And now I am writing this, as I feel a positive Chinese ‘chi’ of Indian origin (to be specific Bangalore origin) caressing my mind and body.
The tea shop owner, whom I have never seen smiling, responded with a blush, and after a brief halt said, “good morning”. This greeting is not at all common in India, definitely not among the common masses who won’t greet you with a good morning, unless they really mean it. If they say good morning, they really wish you a good morning and good day ahead.
It’s not like the well-dressed stranger in an elevator who would smile looking at you and greet you with a morning note, without even caring whether he really meant a good day ahead for the stranger. Yes, I am proud of the fact that Indians are not into western artificiality. It’s constricting and is overtly a make over.
But, today, I decided to find it out myself how a simple greeting like “good morning’ could change my attitude towards my rather cynical outlook towards these fake western ‘manners’.
So I said good morning to the tea-vendor. He was obviously taken aback. May be, never in his career he had heard a ‘good morning’ from his complaining but regular customers. Indians complain a lot. He knows it by now. If somebody would crib that there is less sugar in the tea, other would frown about the tea becoming syrup. But the fact that they continue coming to the shop is testimonial to the fact that they indeed love the tea. Otherwise they won’t come. But they will never say if they are pleased when a good tea is served. The silence of argumentative Indians should be read as high praise.
Anyway, he took some time to adjust and digest. Suddenly the fifty-year-old pretended as a teenager and blushed. He gaped his mouth in approval (I saw four of his teeth missing, a never before discovery) and politely replied, “good morning good morning…the usual full-tea for you sir?”
“Oh yes, sure. You know my choice.”
And stupid both of us were smiling at each other as if we had a clandestine understanding.
I moved on and purchased a pack of cigarettes, I said “good morning, may I have a pack of gold-flake kings please”. And lo, the shop-keeper ignored the other customers and handed me the packet. “Good morning,” he said.
I was riding in my motorcycle back home when I saw another biker coming with the head-light on. I surprised myself by volunteering to warn him that the bike’s light was on (generally I enjoy seeing these goof-ups). I signaled while still riding and the man got it. He switched off the light and smiled, which only meant he was really really thankful. It’s an Indian way of saying “thanks a lot”. For my western readers, if any day, you bump upon an Indian saying “thank you” without a gleaming smile on his face, you can be assured, he is not thankful at all. Merely, he is becoming formal to you. But if he smiles approvingly and keeps silent, you can well assume he doesn’t want to utter the word “thanks” and belittle his gratefulness towards you. West is west and orient is orient, even in the days of globalization. And I pray it always remain so. But I still like the Urdu style of saying thanks. “Shukriya”! With the right hand at the chest, a little bent, and a serious grateful expression on the face; I just love it! On the contrary, take a typical westerner. He says thanks and ‘thank you’ in everything. He is perennially thankful to everything in life. But he doesn’t forget to shout “fuck you bastard” at the slightest inconvenience. Whew! Extreme edition!
So I was happy that the man smiled back at me.
I was parking my bike when the neighboring uncle, who was recovering from Parkinson, came out of the gate a little wobbly. “Good morning uncle,” I said. He gave me a lop-sided smile. “A very good morning young man,” he uttered the words with some difficulty.
We smiled back at each other. I knew the old man’s day was made. He is very frail and feels happy whenever somebody asks about him. I can understand his psyche. Generally I always halt in my way to ask about how he was recovering, whenever we cross our path. So that was not a major out-of-the-box experimentation from me.
But my greatest reward came when I met my landlord. He just had waked up and was brushing. Generally I am afraid of this man. He maintains an air around him which warns any loafer like me not to mess with him. But I must say, he has a heart of gold. Because of him, I got my internet connection after all.
So I carried my experimentation a little bit further and dared to greet him. “Good morning uncle”. He was very happy! He was very very happy! Against all his inhibitions about boys of my age, he stopped and asked me if I was facing any problem in the house. Whether I was facing any problem in this thirsty Bangalore where water is a perennial problem now. He asked me whether I needed a new lock for my room as it had broken.
Though I had some problems and repairing the lock is a priority now, I decided to return the goodwill. I don’t need anything now. I am happy in whatever you as a house-owner is availing me with. I am satisfied and happy for where I am living.
My house-owner was happy. So was I.
And the dog at the terrace! The staircase being outside the house, this dog comes to the terrace and sleep in the night. Often in the clothes that are kept for drying and fall from the wire.
Earlier, when I used to come from my office at night, this dog used to freak out and run for his dear life, tail tucked under the belly. But of late he has realized I am also a homeless dog like him and he has no danger from me what so ever. In fact, for the last fifteen days I am giving him biscuits (though careful not to make him my pet). So he was least afraid when I came at the terrace to have a morning smoke.
After some initial gymnastics, he came to me wagging his tail. I pat on his head. He yelped. Being a dog myself I perfectly understood his language.
“Oh thank you. A very good morning to you too dear. Wait here, I will fetch your biscuits.”
While coming to my room, I realized these western greetings are not without a cause. These are the cheapest way to let your vanity go and socialize and feel akin to realize your duty in this world. That to live and let live and that humans are waiting to be touched.
It’s no harm if you say you love them, you care. It only makes you wealthier. Now I will try to be a little nicer to people I interact daily. Hmmm…not everything in west is a complete decadence, I must say!
Good morning my dear westerners. A very nice day to you.
And now I am writing this, as I feel a positive Chinese ‘chi’ of Indian origin (to be specific Bangalore origin) caressing my mind and body.
The tea shop owner, whom I have never seen smiling, responded with a blush, and after a brief halt said, “good morning”. This greeting is not at all common in India, definitely not among the common masses who won’t greet you with a good morning, unless they really mean it. If they say good morning, they really wish you a good morning and good day ahead.
It’s not like the well-dressed stranger in an elevator who would smile looking at you and greet you with a morning note, without even caring whether he really meant a good day ahead for the stranger. Yes, I am proud of the fact that Indians are not into western artificiality. It’s constricting and is overtly a make over.
But, today, I decided to find it out myself how a simple greeting like “good morning’ could change my attitude towards my rather cynical outlook towards these fake western ‘manners’.
So I said good morning to the tea-vendor. He was obviously taken aback. May be, never in his career he had heard a ‘good morning’ from his complaining but regular customers. Indians complain a lot. He knows it by now. If somebody would crib that there is less sugar in the tea, other would frown about the tea becoming syrup. But the fact that they continue coming to the shop is testimonial to the fact that they indeed love the tea. Otherwise they won’t come. But they will never say if they are pleased when a good tea is served. The silence of argumentative Indians should be read as high praise.
Anyway, he took some time to adjust and digest. Suddenly the fifty-year-old pretended as a teenager and blushed. He gaped his mouth in approval (I saw four of his teeth missing, a never before discovery) and politely replied, “good morning good morning…the usual full-tea for you sir?”
“Oh yes, sure. You know my choice.”
And stupid both of us were smiling at each other as if we had a clandestine understanding.
I moved on and purchased a pack of cigarettes, I said “good morning, may I have a pack of gold-flake kings please”. And lo, the shop-keeper ignored the other customers and handed me the packet. “Good morning,” he said.
I was riding in my motorcycle back home when I saw another biker coming with the head-light on. I surprised myself by volunteering to warn him that the bike’s light was on (generally I enjoy seeing these goof-ups). I signaled while still riding and the man got it. He switched off the light and smiled, which only meant he was really really thankful. It’s an Indian way of saying “thanks a lot”. For my western readers, if any day, you bump upon an Indian saying “thank you” without a gleaming smile on his face, you can be assured, he is not thankful at all. Merely, he is becoming formal to you. But if he smiles approvingly and keeps silent, you can well assume he doesn’t want to utter the word “thanks” and belittle his gratefulness towards you. West is west and orient is orient, even in the days of globalization. And I pray it always remain so. But I still like the Urdu style of saying thanks. “Shukriya”! With the right hand at the chest, a little bent, and a serious grateful expression on the face; I just love it! On the contrary, take a typical westerner. He says thanks and ‘thank you’ in everything. He is perennially thankful to everything in life. But he doesn’t forget to shout “fuck you bastard” at the slightest inconvenience. Whew! Extreme edition!
So I was happy that the man smiled back at me.
I was parking my bike when the neighboring uncle, who was recovering from Parkinson, came out of the gate a little wobbly. “Good morning uncle,” I said. He gave me a lop-sided smile. “A very good morning young man,” he uttered the words with some difficulty.
We smiled back at each other. I knew the old man’s day was made. He is very frail and feels happy whenever somebody asks about him. I can understand his psyche. Generally I always halt in my way to ask about how he was recovering, whenever we cross our path. So that was not a major out-of-the-box experimentation from me.
But my greatest reward came when I met my landlord. He just had waked up and was brushing. Generally I am afraid of this man. He maintains an air around him which warns any loafer like me not to mess with him. But I must say, he has a heart of gold. Because of him, I got my internet connection after all.
So I carried my experimentation a little bit further and dared to greet him. “Good morning uncle”. He was very happy! He was very very happy! Against all his inhibitions about boys of my age, he stopped and asked me if I was facing any problem in the house. Whether I was facing any problem in this thirsty Bangalore where water is a perennial problem now. He asked me whether I needed a new lock for my room as it had broken.
Though I had some problems and repairing the lock is a priority now, I decided to return the goodwill. I don’t need anything now. I am happy in whatever you as a house-owner is availing me with. I am satisfied and happy for where I am living.
My house-owner was happy. So was I.
And the dog at the terrace! The staircase being outside the house, this dog comes to the terrace and sleep in the night. Often in the clothes that are kept for drying and fall from the wire.
Earlier, when I used to come from my office at night, this dog used to freak out and run for his dear life, tail tucked under the belly. But of late he has realized I am also a homeless dog like him and he has no danger from me what so ever. In fact, for the last fifteen days I am giving him biscuits (though careful not to make him my pet). So he was least afraid when I came at the terrace to have a morning smoke.
After some initial gymnastics, he came to me wagging his tail. I pat on his head. He yelped. Being a dog myself I perfectly understood his language.
“Oh thank you. A very good morning to you too dear. Wait here, I will fetch your biscuits.”
While coming to my room, I realized these western greetings are not without a cause. These are the cheapest way to let your vanity go and socialize and feel akin to realize your duty in this world. That to live and let live and that humans are waiting to be touched.
It’s no harm if you say you love them, you care. It only makes you wealthier. Now I will try to be a little nicer to people I interact daily. Hmmm…not everything in west is a complete decadence, I must say!
Good morning my dear westerners. A very nice day to you.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Confessions of a drunk
Of late I have become very introspective. Very calm and deep in thoughts, or not thinking at all. I don’t know why this introspection, but I guess this is a kind of a stage in a man’s life. It’s allmost unavoidable as mid-life crisis, I guess.
I have started questioning my existence. Why am I here in the first place. I am 27-28 now and what have I achieved in life? In the sense, what was the need for me to take birth at all? Just to add to the numbers? But it was my firm belief that every little particle in this earth has some kind of purposes. It was my belief…may be a year-ago. When I was a little younger.
I think this age at a man’s life is quite revolutionizing, in the sense, it’s just like teens, when you are coming out of your childhood and is quite undecided of the world in front of you. You see people are responding differently to you. You get excited and astonished hearing your own voice, why blame others?
I guess my age has also some kind of connotation in the growth process. I am approaching thirty. My body has started depositing fat. I could feel the heaviness. I am getting bulkier. Whereas at one point of time, I was wondering why my cheeks should not be fleshy enough, why it should remain like that of a Somalian drought victim? Ah…I hope I get those lithe look. It was much better. My face was not good enough to hook a girl. No, I never expected a girl to get impressed by my appearance. So I concentrated on other tricks. Now that I am putting on weight, I don’t think I have the urge to impress chicks anymore.
Oh, I digressed…sorry. I was talking about this age being a crucial point. Two-and-a-half year and I will be in my thirties. Gosh! Can’t believe it. I still can remember the day I celebrated my twenty. And my twenty-one is still vivid in my eyes for several reasons, feels like yesterday. Twenty-four, I got my first job. I left Calcutta and started for Shillong. I still remember mother was packing my goods when tears rolled my eyes. I realized, for the first time, that the boat is lifting its anchor. It will never return to its original port. No…the safety, security, callousness and happy-go lucky attitude has suddenly vaporized. Now it’s the time to fend myself. From this point, I have to fend myself and possibly a many others.
When I was saying goodbye to Maa and touched her feet, she started crying so heavily, I felt like dropping my baggage and settle for the old life again. But the call from the wide wild world was too tempting to resist. That time I took my mother’s love for granted. Years of undiluted love from my parents and siblings made me thought that love is very cheap and is very tiring.
Oh! How wrong I was. Love is the only factor that keeps a human being running. The commodity that was in abundance at a point of time became so scarce now, that I became shameless in snatching some kind of love from somebody. Love, that doesn’t demand back.
When I was in Shillong, we had Tultul-di in canteen. She was the didi, or elder sister of everybody, including me. But quickly I found a mother in her. May be because, others were all locals and had a family, nobody cared for the deep love and affection her heart stored. I was lonely and was desperately searching for somebody who would shower me with unconditional love. Just like my mother. She quickly became a mother-replacement for me. So much so that, till this date, I feel a duty and responsibility towards her as her son would have felt for her. I don’t know. May be when she is old and frail and not able to look after herself properly, I might bring her back to stay with me, with my family. Though she has a family of her own, but I guess it should not be a problem. She is not married and her family is really her brothers’.
After almost one-and-half year, I left Shillong. Now this time, I learnt the greatest lesson in my life. I learnt, that I am a shitty emotional guy and quite incapable of controlling my emotions and be harsh enough to do a career for myself. I realized I spread my roots too much. It was paining very much to detach myself from my second home Shillong. I was in love with Didi. I was in love with my office, I had a Guru and brother in E.M. Jose, our chief reporter. It had become a habit to feed all the stray dogs in the locality early in the morning. All the dogs used to sit just outside my door waiting for me to wake up.
I used to get only Rs. 1,500, or a little more than U.S. $30 a month. There were many days when I had to go empty stomach, too ashamed to ask Didi to give me something to eat because I didn’t had money to pay her. But I never forgot to buy a full loaf for my dogs in Shillong. I used to save money only for that purpose. And many a times, we used to share the loaf. I used to divide it into six parts. One for me and the rest for the five pets.
At first, I used to loath this poverty. I am from a quite well-off family. I had everything, every comfort possible under the sun at my home in Calcutta. But soon I was in love with my poverty. At last something was my own!
When the call came to leave for Bangalore, I was ecstatic that my new salary would give me all those comforts and many more that I left behind. But when the day of parting came close by, I was at a loss. It was a painful, very very painful experience. I remember I stopped crying only when I reached Guawahati. For the last three- four hours, I was crying. I partied whole night. A very humble party that my Chief Reporter EM Jose had organized for me. Mcdowell whisky with water from the nearby spring and chicken.
Five of us--Jose, me, Om, Naresh and Sumit Kar sat at the room just below the printing press. The giant press was printing the morning edition with a deafening sound that gives you a headache. The entire room was shaking. We were oblivious of what might happen if the ceiling caves in. I was happy my paper was getting published. Page one being subbed by my. I was the one responsible for selecting the news for the page one. It was an honour that no amount of money can give you. Waking up in the morning and seeing a group of people scrambling for and reading the paper in a group done by you…it’s a heavenly experience.
They gave me the first printout. I left Shillong and my heart behind.
From that point of time I have decided not to fall in love with anything that is for momentary and temporary. Nope, I am not in love with Bangalore, because I was too careful to spread my roots here. But still I get weak and fumble when I see somebody extending me love. It’s quite scary! I try to my best to avoid that person and even stop communicating with him/her. Still he/she thinks that it was a wrong person to shower love to.
Actually, after Shillong, I realized that I am a boat. My anchor has been lifted. Now I have to drift along. It’s no good to fall in love with the weeds holding you momentarily. It becomes painful later on.
But I have become introvert and am brooding on the past. Doesn’t make sense to write this long, but these days I am not writing for anybody. I am writing for myself. So I won’t mind if you decide to leave in the mid-way.
Until some time back, I thought I have some purpose in life and that I am not an ordinary man. That I won’t let me become an ordinary man.
But after some incidents and as I mature, it’s quite evident that being a common man is the highest achievement a man can get. To live life unnoticed, unhindered, unlicensed and to die without thinking too much about anything. No, I am serious. A common man with no aspiration is the most clever and practical man possible. Why get fooled nurturing high ambitions? Why not try to be a good ordinary man, who cries at a little injustice and laughs at the slightest silly joke. Why not be an ordinary man?
But then, why these thoughts are crossing my mind? Is that because I am going to touch thirty? Is that because I am getting heavier and don’t have the physical might to challenge the world. So settling down for a much accepted escape route is wise and prudent? Am I compromising with my dreams?
No, I don’t think so. I think everybody has this realization at some point in their life. At some point of time a man is forced to think the purpose of his life. I think I have decided my own fate.
I will live and die a commoner. How dare I challenge and provoke the ancient wisdom of a commoner?
And I think like a commoner, I should settle soon. It’s time to heed mother’s plea. I will get myself a wife very soon. I will have a family of my own. I need rest and some warmth. And if possible, love!
I have started questioning my existence. Why am I here in the first place. I am 27-28 now and what have I achieved in life? In the sense, what was the need for me to take birth at all? Just to add to the numbers? But it was my firm belief that every little particle in this earth has some kind of purposes. It was my belief…may be a year-ago. When I was a little younger.
I think this age at a man’s life is quite revolutionizing, in the sense, it’s just like teens, when you are coming out of your childhood and is quite undecided of the world in front of you. You see people are responding differently to you. You get excited and astonished hearing your own voice, why blame others?
I guess my age has also some kind of connotation in the growth process. I am approaching thirty. My body has started depositing fat. I could feel the heaviness. I am getting bulkier. Whereas at one point of time, I was wondering why my cheeks should not be fleshy enough, why it should remain like that of a Somalian drought victim? Ah…I hope I get those lithe look. It was much better. My face was not good enough to hook a girl. No, I never expected a girl to get impressed by my appearance. So I concentrated on other tricks. Now that I am putting on weight, I don’t think I have the urge to impress chicks anymore.
Oh, I digressed…sorry. I was talking about this age being a crucial point. Two-and-a-half year and I will be in my thirties. Gosh! Can’t believe it. I still can remember the day I celebrated my twenty. And my twenty-one is still vivid in my eyes for several reasons, feels like yesterday. Twenty-four, I got my first job. I left Calcutta and started for Shillong. I still remember mother was packing my goods when tears rolled my eyes. I realized, for the first time, that the boat is lifting its anchor. It will never return to its original port. No…the safety, security, callousness and happy-go lucky attitude has suddenly vaporized. Now it’s the time to fend myself. From this point, I have to fend myself and possibly a many others.
When I was saying goodbye to Maa and touched her feet, she started crying so heavily, I felt like dropping my baggage and settle for the old life again. But the call from the wide wild world was too tempting to resist. That time I took my mother’s love for granted. Years of undiluted love from my parents and siblings made me thought that love is very cheap and is very tiring.
Oh! How wrong I was. Love is the only factor that keeps a human being running. The commodity that was in abundance at a point of time became so scarce now, that I became shameless in snatching some kind of love from somebody. Love, that doesn’t demand back.
When I was in Shillong, we had Tultul-di in canteen. She was the didi, or elder sister of everybody, including me. But quickly I found a mother in her. May be because, others were all locals and had a family, nobody cared for the deep love and affection her heart stored. I was lonely and was desperately searching for somebody who would shower me with unconditional love. Just like my mother. She quickly became a mother-replacement for me. So much so that, till this date, I feel a duty and responsibility towards her as her son would have felt for her. I don’t know. May be when she is old and frail and not able to look after herself properly, I might bring her back to stay with me, with my family. Though she has a family of her own, but I guess it should not be a problem. She is not married and her family is really her brothers’.
After almost one-and-half year, I left Shillong. Now this time, I learnt the greatest lesson in my life. I learnt, that I am a shitty emotional guy and quite incapable of controlling my emotions and be harsh enough to do a career for myself. I realized I spread my roots too much. It was paining very much to detach myself from my second home Shillong. I was in love with Didi. I was in love with my office, I had a Guru and brother in E.M. Jose, our chief reporter. It had become a habit to feed all the stray dogs in the locality early in the morning. All the dogs used to sit just outside my door waiting for me to wake up.
I used to get only Rs. 1,500, or a little more than U.S. $30 a month. There were many days when I had to go empty stomach, too ashamed to ask Didi to give me something to eat because I didn’t had money to pay her. But I never forgot to buy a full loaf for my dogs in Shillong. I used to save money only for that purpose. And many a times, we used to share the loaf. I used to divide it into six parts. One for me and the rest for the five pets.
At first, I used to loath this poverty. I am from a quite well-off family. I had everything, every comfort possible under the sun at my home in Calcutta. But soon I was in love with my poverty. At last something was my own!
When the call came to leave for Bangalore, I was ecstatic that my new salary would give me all those comforts and many more that I left behind. But when the day of parting came close by, I was at a loss. It was a painful, very very painful experience. I remember I stopped crying only when I reached Guawahati. For the last three- four hours, I was crying. I partied whole night. A very humble party that my Chief Reporter EM Jose had organized for me. Mcdowell whisky with water from the nearby spring and chicken.
Five of us--Jose, me, Om, Naresh and Sumit Kar sat at the room just below the printing press. The giant press was printing the morning edition with a deafening sound that gives you a headache. The entire room was shaking. We were oblivious of what might happen if the ceiling caves in. I was happy my paper was getting published. Page one being subbed by my. I was the one responsible for selecting the news for the page one. It was an honour that no amount of money can give you. Waking up in the morning and seeing a group of people scrambling for and reading the paper in a group done by you…it’s a heavenly experience.
They gave me the first printout. I left Shillong and my heart behind.
From that point of time I have decided not to fall in love with anything that is for momentary and temporary. Nope, I am not in love with Bangalore, because I was too careful to spread my roots here. But still I get weak and fumble when I see somebody extending me love. It’s quite scary! I try to my best to avoid that person and even stop communicating with him/her. Still he/she thinks that it was a wrong person to shower love to.
Actually, after Shillong, I realized that I am a boat. My anchor has been lifted. Now I have to drift along. It’s no good to fall in love with the weeds holding you momentarily. It becomes painful later on.
But I have become introvert and am brooding on the past. Doesn’t make sense to write this long, but these days I am not writing for anybody. I am writing for myself. So I won’t mind if you decide to leave in the mid-way.
Until some time back, I thought I have some purpose in life and that I am not an ordinary man. That I won’t let me become an ordinary man.
But after some incidents and as I mature, it’s quite evident that being a common man is the highest achievement a man can get. To live life unnoticed, unhindered, unlicensed and to die without thinking too much about anything. No, I am serious. A common man with no aspiration is the most clever and practical man possible. Why get fooled nurturing high ambitions? Why not try to be a good ordinary man, who cries at a little injustice and laughs at the slightest silly joke. Why not be an ordinary man?
But then, why these thoughts are crossing my mind? Is that because I am going to touch thirty? Is that because I am getting heavier and don’t have the physical might to challenge the world. So settling down for a much accepted escape route is wise and prudent? Am I compromising with my dreams?
No, I don’t think so. I think everybody has this realization at some point in their life. At some point of time a man is forced to think the purpose of his life. I think I have decided my own fate.
I will live and die a commoner. How dare I challenge and provoke the ancient wisdom of a commoner?
And I think like a commoner, I should settle soon. It’s time to heed mother’s plea. I will get myself a wife very soon. I will have a family of my own. I need rest and some warmth. And if possible, love!
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Somebody was right. Birth, marriage and death cannot be predicted. Read this tell-tail love story! Courtesy: BBC
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Straight from an insane's diary
(I have four blogs. Two public and two private. One of my private blogs has got enough evidence to burn me at stake by the people who think I love them. The other one is where I write insane things like this. Daily ramblings. When I didn’t have the internet connection, I used to update it every week with seven write-ups going to the internet café. But I can update it regularly now. Since you will never get the link of the explosive blogs ever in this life, and I am pretty sure, you don’t want that too…for a change, I decided to post one of my ramblings in this blog. It was longer and full of names, needless to say I have deleted all of them. Today I strained my left heel when my bike landed on a pothole. I had written and posted this just before the accident. I was going to a bakery. I took that as a sign that this post would offend somebody. I decided to delete it. And I deleted it before going to sleep. But after waking up I realized there is a hidden Kaushik in me who would not allow me to rest peacefully as long as I don’t post it again. So, here it is again. Heavily edited. Enjoy, but don’t blame.)
Finally, I have decided to take charge of my life. Though I don’t have any specific idea as how to do that. No roadmap. But I guess, I will start from the very basic. I know it would not be that easy to take control of a life that is led astray by amazing heights of tomfoolery and happy-go-lucky attitude.
But I know myself. The amazing power that God has bestowed me with, to control my emotions and desires and focus on a particular point, is second to none. I have a pretty strong character. And once I decide to do something, not even my inner voice would convince me to stop from doing that.
I know I will change myself completely…completely.
From childhood I have this feeling that I will be pretty short-lived. I don’t know why, but I know, my sixth sense tells me, I will not live to see my forties. Earlier I used to panic, but these days it’s comforting for me.
I am getting pretty early signs too. Three packets of cigarettes a day has almost done me in. I cannot have a hearty laugh with my friends. When they joke and laugh loudly, I cannot join them with a loud blast because my chest pains. I know, I have almost destroyed my systems. It’s just a matter of time before I will be recalled. My role in this world is almost done. But before that, I have some job to do.
I got to finish my book. Fast, very fast. Nope, I will not wait for muse to whisper in my ears. Like a disciplined student, who, with his sincerity and dedication, if not intellect, impresses the Guru and gets his blessings, I will sit regularly in front of my computer and tear out the ideas that taking roots in my mind. I just want to get rid of these weeds. Ideas are like germs. They make you sick. For the past six months I am suffering from a sickness. And it is increasingly getting difficult for me to get free. To concentrate on things I love. To pay attention to the tit bits of life. Whenever I am trying to do something which demands some attention, I get reminded of the fact that I have an unfinished business. The book that mistakenly I started, need to be finished soon, very soon. It’s disturbing me a lot. I just want to get rid of it. I have given myself a time frame of six months. I have to finish the business within six months man! It’s so tiring, it’s so frustrating. I was waiting for the muse to give me ideas and force me to sit and type those and shrug it off from my entrails…but the muse, it seems, is busy. I am not writing anything for weeks at ends. In the process, my other works are getting hampered. Neither I am concentrating here, nor could I concentrate on my other businesses. It’s fucking frustrating.
But I have always believed in signals and hints. I don’t know who sends them…God or Devil. But I have always believed you get signals and hints for anything you undertake in life. My dear friend has decided to start his book (God bless his pen…if I get even ten percent of his power). Though I have started mine a long time back…I take it as a signal. I have decided to finish mine.
But it needs some discipline to tame my wild habits. I need to be more serene and domestic. I have cut down on my drinking habit. Now I have to cut down smoking. Possibly I will try to stop it altogether. At least, I should try not to smoke before I finish my project. Instead of playing computer games all the time and getting a headache, I should concentrate on doing more productive things like forcefully sitting to write, playing with an idea and giving it all the possible outcomes it deserves and finally zeroing in one and developing the trunk.
I don’t have a fascination for women anymore. I have had a fair share of them. All kinds of them. All secrets unveiled. I had to take the antacid of spirituality to digest my women-mania. One fine sunny day, waking up, I decided that I will not think about sexy women and porn anymore. That was the end of significant contacts with the opposite sex. But yes, I pined for true love. I pine for it still now. But nobody’s eyes reflected what I sought. I found a glimpse in one. But may be, she didn’t find that in me. End of story. A major problem solved. There is absolutely nothing which can take me away from my writing and I have plenty of time to concentrate on my job at hand.
How I want to get rid of this project man! It’s such a messy job. I have told my editor about that. And surprisingly he also says he also wants to get rid of it. We both want to shrug it off from our system.
Sometime I think of my editor. Funny guy with an Indian flute-like voice. Full of enthusiasm and life. He thinks as an eighteen year old and fucking I behave like eighty. Man....where from these westerners get all these energies? What do they eat? Beef? Shit. I would prefer to die before I even taste one. Indian cows have the most beautiful eyes among all animals. How can one kill such an animal just for the sake of eating? Thank God I am a conservative Hindu. I respect and maintain my Hindu food habits (Muslims and Christian friends and those Hindus who eat beef…no issues please. Don’t misunderstand me. You are all my dearest friends minus the food habit.)
Holy cow…I was saying about my editor. He is a Pentium dual core processor, meant for multi-tasking. One day when we meet, I will definitely challenge this man for a boxing round, just to see his stamina and lust for life. I am sure I will be knocked off at the first round.
At this age also he is learning new things everyday and implementing them in his daily life. He proudly proclaims in the non-existence of God because it makes Him like a master and the rest slaves. He despises the idea. Oldie, don’t you fear the Judgment day? See the other oldies in my country. I have seen a brave man…who once kicked an idol and defiled it by urinating in it, has become so God fearing these days! He knows his days are ending. He knows now he has to move to the new house. Better please the new house owner from the old house itself. Bastards!!!
We in India owe British much. True they ruled us for two hundred years (is that a significant time for history?) and prosper their bloody rain-drenched country, but the idea of India, in the truest sense have come from them. Bloody, if they would not have been here, Karnataka and Bengal would have been separate countries. I would have to apply for Visa and Passport to work in Bangalore. We have twenty six states now. It could have been easily, at least, 15 countries…had they not been here. If they would have been here for fifty more years, I am sure; they would have made us all Indians. And not just Bengalis and Kannadas and Tamils and Kashmiris and Malayalis…we would have been Indians. One Nation. One thundering voice! We are effectively now twenty six nations. That day somebody challenged me in Basavanagar to speak in Kannada, or else he would smash my bike. Since I am in Karnataka, it’s my solemn duty to know Kannada. I didn’t have the balls to protest. I could not say on his face that Hindi is the national language and that I can speak in Hindi anywhere in India. Knowing Hindi should be enough to survive anywhere in India. I simply didn’t have the balls man. Because I knew, Hindi is the national language just in the Hindi-speaking belt. In Bengal, we frown to hear Hindi and get all gleeful if a non-bong speaks in Bengali. The entire India is full of tribal. We are all well-educated tribal. We are simply not Indian. The British should have stayed more with us. I am sure; they would have made us all Indians.
Ooops…who’s saying that? Am I not from a family of revolutionaries? Didn’t two of my ancestors get hanged and one went missing forever for plotting against British Raj?
Shame…shame you scum…you shamed our blood. Tut tut…go die!
So where were I? who cares? It’s 8 AM now. You came from the office at 6. Now you are feeling sleepy. Go, have some tea and refreshment from the bakery and shut your fucking insomniac eyes. When you wake up you change your dirty habits and concentrate on your work. But I need a laptop man. I need it I need it I need it. Curse me if I can’t land a Compaq or HP soon.
Finally, I have decided to take charge of my life. Though I don’t have any specific idea as how to do that. No roadmap. But I guess, I will start from the very basic. I know it would not be that easy to take control of a life that is led astray by amazing heights of tomfoolery and happy-go-lucky attitude.
But I know myself. The amazing power that God has bestowed me with, to control my emotions and desires and focus on a particular point, is second to none. I have a pretty strong character. And once I decide to do something, not even my inner voice would convince me to stop from doing that.
I know I will change myself completely…completely.
From childhood I have this feeling that I will be pretty short-lived. I don’t know why, but I know, my sixth sense tells me, I will not live to see my forties. Earlier I used to panic, but these days it’s comforting for me.
I am getting pretty early signs too. Three packets of cigarettes a day has almost done me in. I cannot have a hearty laugh with my friends. When they joke and laugh loudly, I cannot join them with a loud blast because my chest pains. I know, I have almost destroyed my systems. It’s just a matter of time before I will be recalled. My role in this world is almost done. But before that, I have some job to do.
I got to finish my book. Fast, very fast. Nope, I will not wait for muse to whisper in my ears. Like a disciplined student, who, with his sincerity and dedication, if not intellect, impresses the Guru and gets his blessings, I will sit regularly in front of my computer and tear out the ideas that taking roots in my mind. I just want to get rid of these weeds. Ideas are like germs. They make you sick. For the past six months I am suffering from a sickness. And it is increasingly getting difficult for me to get free. To concentrate on things I love. To pay attention to the tit bits of life. Whenever I am trying to do something which demands some attention, I get reminded of the fact that I have an unfinished business. The book that mistakenly I started, need to be finished soon, very soon. It’s disturbing me a lot. I just want to get rid of it. I have given myself a time frame of six months. I have to finish the business within six months man! It’s so tiring, it’s so frustrating. I was waiting for the muse to give me ideas and force me to sit and type those and shrug it off from my entrails…but the muse, it seems, is busy. I am not writing anything for weeks at ends. In the process, my other works are getting hampered. Neither I am concentrating here, nor could I concentrate on my other businesses. It’s fucking frustrating.
But I have always believed in signals and hints. I don’t know who sends them…God or Devil. But I have always believed you get signals and hints for anything you undertake in life. My dear friend has decided to start his book (God bless his pen…if I get even ten percent of his power). Though I have started mine a long time back…I take it as a signal. I have decided to finish mine.
But it needs some discipline to tame my wild habits. I need to be more serene and domestic. I have cut down on my drinking habit. Now I have to cut down smoking. Possibly I will try to stop it altogether. At least, I should try not to smoke before I finish my project. Instead of playing computer games all the time and getting a headache, I should concentrate on doing more productive things like forcefully sitting to write, playing with an idea and giving it all the possible outcomes it deserves and finally zeroing in one and developing the trunk.
I don’t have a fascination for women anymore. I have had a fair share of them. All kinds of them. All secrets unveiled. I had to take the antacid of spirituality to digest my women-mania. One fine sunny day, waking up, I decided that I will not think about sexy women and porn anymore. That was the end of significant contacts with the opposite sex. But yes, I pined for true love. I pine for it still now. But nobody’s eyes reflected what I sought. I found a glimpse in one. But may be, she didn’t find that in me. End of story. A major problem solved. There is absolutely nothing which can take me away from my writing and I have plenty of time to concentrate on my job at hand.
How I want to get rid of this project man! It’s such a messy job. I have told my editor about that. And surprisingly he also says he also wants to get rid of it. We both want to shrug it off from our system.
Sometime I think of my editor. Funny guy with an Indian flute-like voice. Full of enthusiasm and life. He thinks as an eighteen year old and fucking I behave like eighty. Man....where from these westerners get all these energies? What do they eat? Beef? Shit. I would prefer to die before I even taste one. Indian cows have the most beautiful eyes among all animals. How can one kill such an animal just for the sake of eating? Thank God I am a conservative Hindu. I respect and maintain my Hindu food habits (Muslims and Christian friends and those Hindus who eat beef…no issues please. Don’t misunderstand me. You are all my dearest friends minus the food habit.)
Holy cow…I was saying about my editor. He is a Pentium dual core processor, meant for multi-tasking. One day when we meet, I will definitely challenge this man for a boxing round, just to see his stamina and lust for life. I am sure I will be knocked off at the first round.
At this age also he is learning new things everyday and implementing them in his daily life. He proudly proclaims in the non-existence of God because it makes Him like a master and the rest slaves. He despises the idea. Oldie, don’t you fear the Judgment day? See the other oldies in my country. I have seen a brave man…who once kicked an idol and defiled it by urinating in it, has become so God fearing these days! He knows his days are ending. He knows now he has to move to the new house. Better please the new house owner from the old house itself. Bastards!!!
We in India owe British much. True they ruled us for two hundred years (is that a significant time for history?) and prosper their bloody rain-drenched country, but the idea of India, in the truest sense have come from them. Bloody, if they would not have been here, Karnataka and Bengal would have been separate countries. I would have to apply for Visa and Passport to work in Bangalore. We have twenty six states now. It could have been easily, at least, 15 countries…had they not been here. If they would have been here for fifty more years, I am sure; they would have made us all Indians. And not just Bengalis and Kannadas and Tamils and Kashmiris and Malayalis…we would have been Indians. One Nation. One thundering voice! We are effectively now twenty six nations. That day somebody challenged me in Basavanagar to speak in Kannada, or else he would smash my bike. Since I am in Karnataka, it’s my solemn duty to know Kannada. I didn’t have the balls to protest. I could not say on his face that Hindi is the national language and that I can speak in Hindi anywhere in India. Knowing Hindi should be enough to survive anywhere in India. I simply didn’t have the balls man. Because I knew, Hindi is the national language just in the Hindi-speaking belt. In Bengal, we frown to hear Hindi and get all gleeful if a non-bong speaks in Bengali. The entire India is full of tribal. We are all well-educated tribal. We are simply not Indian. The British should have stayed more with us. I am sure; they would have made us all Indians.
Ooops…who’s saying that? Am I not from a family of revolutionaries? Didn’t two of my ancestors get hanged and one went missing forever for plotting against British Raj?
Shame…shame you scum…you shamed our blood. Tut tut…go die!
So where were I? who cares? It’s 8 AM now. You came from the office at 6. Now you are feeling sleepy. Go, have some tea and refreshment from the bakery and shut your fucking insomniac eyes. When you wake up you change your dirty habits and concentrate on your work. But I need a laptop man. I need it I need it I need it. Curse me if I can’t land a Compaq or HP soon.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
overexposed profile photo
pentax 50 mm fixed
universal magnifier
f 2.8
1/500
film fuji 100
vivitar body
12.30 pm
my first rose in shillong.
universal magnifier
f 2.8
1/500
film fuji 100
vivitar body
12.30 pm
my first rose in shillong.
Friday, April 06, 2007
finally got an internet connection at home. bsnl was dilly-dallying to give me the connection because there was no room for a new connection. the local cable guy was charging me rs. 5,500 for laying a fibre-optics cable. no way, i am not going to give those bastards money they don't deserve.
thanks to my house owner's son fahad khan, who was courteous enough to share his internet connection through an ethernet cable, i am writing this post. my first post from my pc. he is an engineer and knows a hell lot of stuff. i cannot even imagine what he did. what complications man! life is not simple.
three cheers for faddu.
thanks to my house owner's son fahad khan, who was courteous enough to share his internet connection through an ethernet cable, i am writing this post. my first post from my pc. he is an engineer and knows a hell lot of stuff. i cannot even imagine what he did. what complications man! life is not simple.
three cheers for faddu.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
life on a choppy sea
My relationship with Snigdha was a choppy one. We were not happy. We used to insult each other everyday, every moment. But still we didn’t want the relationship to end. Though we were not married our relationship was a sacred bond.
We were bound by some promises. Though foolish and lofty it might sound today, but we were hell-bent to respect the sanctum sanctorum of the promises.
It’s seven years now we met. How wise were we? How mature? We were two arseholes desperate to love and be loved.
And we loved each other, madly...
But then…
It’s quite strange that we agreed to come closer without knowing anything about each other. We were complete strangers.
I wonder what made her come to me? She was beautiful. I was ugly. She said she found in me a person whom she can depend with her life. I don't believe her. I was not the kind of person she was looking for.
I don’t remember what were my demands that time. What criterions a girl should pass before she becomes my girlfriend. But I vaguely remember, she passed none.
For the first six months we struggled to love each other. And then, when we realized we actually LOVE each other…the relationship become violent. Both of us were not ready to accept the truth.
When I say violent, I mean it. We both were violent. It was a strange relationship. A bloody one. At the alter of love, we bleed ourselves and got sick. Belittling each other in front of others, especially strangers, was our favourite game. But everytime we repent it.
And then one day we were tired of all of this. We were tired…tired…tired. We decided to call it quits. By then we knew we can’t live without each other. But we also knew we can’t live together.
We cried under the banyan tree, hugging each other…for long. We were crying like babies. We knew life is never going to be same again. We tried, but could not agree to carry on the relationship.
We knew we both were sick psychos. Of an extreme nature. Which explains the attraction and the hatred.
We parted…
I left Calcutta…
Given an option, I am still ready to face the chin music from my tormentor. Oh lord…what a time. What a time…what an adventure. She is the only true woman I have ever seen. I can’t help compare others with my lady of substance. All fall flat on face.
I don’t care for security…I don’t care for love…I don’t care for a steady life. Life in choppy sea is what a true man desires. It made me tired, exhausted…but craving for more. Snigdha, you are on my eternal hate list. But you are the only lady I have loved so far…and I will remember you fondly all my life.
We were bound by some promises. Though foolish and lofty it might sound today, but we were hell-bent to respect the sanctum sanctorum of the promises.
It’s seven years now we met. How wise were we? How mature? We were two arseholes desperate to love and be loved.
And we loved each other, madly...
But then…
It’s quite strange that we agreed to come closer without knowing anything about each other. We were complete strangers.
I wonder what made her come to me? She was beautiful. I was ugly. She said she found in me a person whom she can depend with her life. I don't believe her. I was not the kind of person she was looking for.
I don’t remember what were my demands that time. What criterions a girl should pass before she becomes my girlfriend. But I vaguely remember, she passed none.
It was a fatal mistake (and I am thankful to God for that).
So nobody met the other's criterions. But we ended up in a relationship. Two completely strangers…inhabitants of two poles.For the first six months we struggled to love each other. And then, when we realized we actually LOVE each other…the relationship become violent. Both of us were not ready to accept the truth.
When I say violent, I mean it. We both were violent. It was a strange relationship. A bloody one. At the alter of love, we bleed ourselves and got sick. Belittling each other in front of others, especially strangers, was our favourite game. But everytime we repent it.
And then one day we were tired of all of this. We were tired…tired…tired. We decided to call it quits. By then we knew we can’t live without each other. But we also knew we can’t live together.
We cried under the banyan tree, hugging each other…for long. We were crying like babies. We knew life is never going to be same again. We tried, but could not agree to carry on the relationship.
We knew we both were sick psychos. Of an extreme nature. Which explains the attraction and the hatred.
We parted…
I left Calcutta…
Given an option, I am still ready to face the chin music from my tormentor. Oh lord…what a time. What a time…what an adventure. She is the only true woman I have ever seen. I can’t help compare others with my lady of substance. All fall flat on face.
I don’t care for security…I don’t care for love…I don’t care for a steady life. Life in choppy sea is what a true man desires. It made me tired, exhausted…but craving for more. Snigdha, you are on my eternal hate list. But you are the only lady I have loved so far…and I will remember you fondly all my life.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
deletion of my last post
I know I owe you an apology for deleting the last post (and your comments with that). I won’t be astonished if you decide not to come on my blog anymore. I know it was rather insulting.
But please give an opportunity to defend myself. I was on the seventh heaven Monday before getting the call from mother.
It was a wonderful flight. The Spicejet flight left Calcutta sharp at 2:40 pm and soon I was sailing pass the clouds. Giant clouds, whiter than snow. More beautiful than the most beautiful thing on earth. Standing tall as huge snowy mountains, without giving a damn to us. Some were so huge and majestic that our pilot joked, “We were supposed to fly straight, but I fear Mount Everest is blocking our route.” He said the cloud is full of thunderbolts and we will be fried instantly if we dare enter it.
And the spicejet chicks were the best examples of Indian hotties. Man, it was my best flight till date. I will never forget it.
But every good thing should have an end. So when I came down from my heaven and entered Bangalore airport, all things went awry. For example, I didn’t get my bag for half-an-hour. But I didn’t panic, I didn’t even tried to find it out. Because I was not the only one affected. There were five six bongs too who had lost their baggage momentarily. I have full faith on the race. I know they will somehow find theirs, and thus will find mine too. I just have to stick with them. But that’s a different story, a very interesting one that I plan to write sometime.
But it was before the bag fiasco when I got a call from my mother. She is always anxious about her children. So much so that we have started taking her as granted. But not this time. Instead of asking how my journey was she thundered: Why you and your cronies are harassing that poor Sayantani?
“How do you know that? She complained to you or what? Anything is possible by that girl.”
“No…your sister told me. She in fact translated whatever you and your friends had to write about that poor girl. Weren’t you ashamed? How can you write such derogatory thing about a girl? Don’t you have a sister? What if somebody writes about her something like this?”
“I will probably kill him,” I was determined.
“Than why you have written all these things in your dirty blog?”
“Because first she is not my sister; second, I don’t have the moral courage to consider her my sister anytime before I am seventy and third, I am sure she doesn’t have any elder brother.”
“Shame on you.”
I knew she was losing the argument. So instead of logic, she was resorting to emotions. I was happy.
Soon she handed over the phone to my sister. She had just returned from the court. Instead of going for corporate law, she opted for criminal law so that she can hang, or at least, imprison for life all the men in this world.
She snatched the phone from mother. She didn’t shout. She never shouts. She is like phantom. Her voice is enough to chill your very bones.
“What have you written in your blog, you rascal.”
“That has got nothing to do with you. Mind your own business,” I hissed. Because I knew if I continue fighting for long and let her take control of the situation, I will be devastated. Offence is the best defence, they say.
“Of course it has got something to do with my job. You can be booked under penal code x, xx, xxx, xxxx, and xxx for sexual harassment, defamation, abusing freedom of speech and dishonoring a woman’s modesty.”
“You mean, if Sayantani complaints? But she is a good woman. She loves me as her own brother.”
“It’s not necessary that sayantani should complaint. Anybody can. On behalf of her. So to say on behalf of women as a whole. And you and that shuv will be spending fifteen years behind bars.”
“Oh…OK.”
“Just to add, Sayantani’s last comment was reason enough that she is considering to sue you.”
“oh…ok.” I hung up.
Then what. Soon after I entered the office, I logged on to blogger and deleted the post.
Sayantani doesn’t need to be my sister. I don’t want that too. She doesn’t need to be like my sister either. But if she has got even 1 percent of what my sister is made of, then…I would have to change my dress and address soon.
Indian jails are not that tech savvy. They don’t have internet connection. Just imagine, to save one post, you would have missed thousands of mine and shuv’s future posts.
Now tell me, would you still stay away from my blog?
But please give an opportunity to defend myself. I was on the seventh heaven Monday before getting the call from mother.
It was a wonderful flight. The Spicejet flight left Calcutta sharp at 2:40 pm and soon I was sailing pass the clouds. Giant clouds, whiter than snow. More beautiful than the most beautiful thing on earth. Standing tall as huge snowy mountains, without giving a damn to us. Some were so huge and majestic that our pilot joked, “We were supposed to fly straight, but I fear Mount Everest is blocking our route.” He said the cloud is full of thunderbolts and we will be fried instantly if we dare enter it.
And the spicejet chicks were the best examples of Indian hotties. Man, it was my best flight till date. I will never forget it.
But every good thing should have an end. So when I came down from my heaven and entered Bangalore airport, all things went awry. For example, I didn’t get my bag for half-an-hour. But I didn’t panic, I didn’t even tried to find it out. Because I was not the only one affected. There were five six bongs too who had lost their baggage momentarily. I have full faith on the race. I know they will somehow find theirs, and thus will find mine too. I just have to stick with them. But that’s a different story, a very interesting one that I plan to write sometime.
But it was before the bag fiasco when I got a call from my mother. She is always anxious about her children. So much so that we have started taking her as granted. But not this time. Instead of asking how my journey was she thundered: Why you and your cronies are harassing that poor Sayantani?
“How do you know that? She complained to you or what? Anything is possible by that girl.”
“No…your sister told me. She in fact translated whatever you and your friends had to write about that poor girl. Weren’t you ashamed? How can you write such derogatory thing about a girl? Don’t you have a sister? What if somebody writes about her something like this?”
“I will probably kill him,” I was determined.
“Than why you have written all these things in your dirty blog?”
“Because first she is not my sister; second, I don’t have the moral courage to consider her my sister anytime before I am seventy and third, I am sure she doesn’t have any elder brother.”
“Shame on you.”
I knew she was losing the argument. So instead of logic, she was resorting to emotions. I was happy.
Soon she handed over the phone to my sister. She had just returned from the court. Instead of going for corporate law, she opted for criminal law so that she can hang, or at least, imprison for life all the men in this world.
She snatched the phone from mother. She didn’t shout. She never shouts. She is like phantom. Her voice is enough to chill your very bones.
“What have you written in your blog, you rascal.”
“That has got nothing to do with you. Mind your own business,” I hissed. Because I knew if I continue fighting for long and let her take control of the situation, I will be devastated. Offence is the best defence, they say.
“Of course it has got something to do with my job. You can be booked under penal code x, xx, xxx, xxxx, and xxx for sexual harassment, defamation, abusing freedom of speech and dishonoring a woman’s modesty.”
“You mean, if Sayantani complaints? But she is a good woman. She loves me as her own brother.”
“It’s not necessary that sayantani should complaint. Anybody can. On behalf of her. So to say on behalf of women as a whole. And you and that shuv will be spending fifteen years behind bars.”
“Oh…OK.”
“Just to add, Sayantani’s last comment was reason enough that she is considering to sue you.”
“oh…ok.” I hung up.
Then what. Soon after I entered the office, I logged on to blogger and deleted the post.
Sayantani doesn’t need to be my sister. I don’t want that too. She doesn’t need to be like my sister either. But if she has got even 1 percent of what my sister is made of, then…I would have to change my dress and address soon.
Indian jails are not that tech savvy. They don’t have internet connection. Just imagine, to save one post, you would have missed thousands of mine and shuv’s future posts.
Now tell me, would you still stay away from my blog?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Life is so short. Why can’t we keep aside all our ambitions, apprehensions, jealousy, caste, creed, and religion…cultures? And just live for each other…just as two human beings in need of each other, two human beings dependent on each other. Like a servant and a master at the same time…why can’t we live for the sake of love itself?
I love you.
I love you.
Friday, March 02, 2007
missed call
The cab driver who came to pick me up this week is a funny guy, though he doesn’t realize it.
He doesn’t know a single word in Hindi and probably no idea what English is. He is a pure Kannadiga. Namma Bangaluroo types.
He is a kind of guy, who will piss you to no end, but you cannot hold your anger for long. For he is a pure-heart. A kind of guy who smiles even without a reason and takes life very casually.
Probably he is a new joiner and as such is very cautious as how he addresses us. His is the most mechanical “good afternoon sir” I have ever heard.
The rule is that when the driver comes to pick us up, he should come near the house and give a missed call. We are supposed to come and sit in the cab.
Start of the week, in Monday, it’s always a problem. Because you don’t know how many people are there in the pick up list and what time the cab would come and give a missed call.
But once you have been picked up, you know it very well about the pickup list and the timing of your cab. You get ready ten minutes before you get the missed call.
But since our driver this week is an extraordinary gentleman, he would give me at least three missed calls before he comes to my place. First one to tell me what time he would be coming, second to alert that he had started from the office to pick me up and the third to tell me he is just ten minutes away from my house and the final one to inform the cab is at the doorstep. I am supposed to call him back in the first two times. Once I didn’t call. Anxious he called me back to say, “Saar…cancelled?” I didn’t take a chance after that.
At least four hours before he picks me up, he would give me a missed call. I would return his call only to hear him say, “good morning saar. 2:45 awternoon.” Rather pissed that I need to call him for this bullshit and waste my precious one rupee, I always hung up saying a rather rude OK. Often forgetting he was the only person to greet me in the morning. And probably he is the only person who would address such a useless creature as “sir”.
Soon after ten minutes, he would call me. “sir…2:40 awternoon.” Since we both don’t understand each others’ language we would try to exchange minimum words. From my side it would be (in English): 2:40…not 2:45?
--2:45??? No 2:40 saar. 2:35…Ok 2:35--2:40 saar. 4 pickups. One cancel 2:50.
Now how you will deduce what this guy is saying.
Totally perplexed, I would want to make sure what time this guy would come in. I would say in Hindi, “What time exactly you will come in boss? Time…Time?”
He would laugh, “Hindi gottilla saar”. Which means he doesn’t know Hindi.
Now he would try to make me understand in his native language. Soon I had to say “Kannada gottilla boss.” Then both party would start laughing. At least, we understand this universal language.
Once I tried telling him he need not give me missed calls every day to repeat the same timing. That, even if he doesn’t inform me about the time, I would be ready by the same time he came yesterday. That way I can save my unnecessary call charges and also sleep a little more.
So after putting much restraint to my eloquence, I told him he need not give me missed calls before he comes. It went like this (again in English): Boss, no missed calls before 2:30.
He stopped his car and said something in Kannada that totally flew over my head. But I could gather something as an astonished “cancelled?”
--No…no cancellation…but…no missed calls…you come to this point…give me missed calls. Before that no missed calls.
His gestures told me he is suspecting my intellect. How you would know if I have come to your place, if I don’t give a missed call…he conveyed that with his language and gestures.
I also tried replying to him in the same way…but this time in my native language. "Khankir chele, ekhane asaar age leora missed call dibina. Shuorer baccha tor OK shunte giye amaar teen taka kharcha hoi.” (don’t give me missed calls before you come to the spot. I had to spend three rupees just to hear your stupid OK).
Perhaps he understood. Because he shook his head vigorously and said “Calcutta”. As is the case with all stupid non-bongs who know only three tortured words, he smiled, “aami tomake bhalobashe” (I love you). That was yesterday.
Today I didn’t get any missed call. And at three-o-clock when I didn’t get the usual one, I called the transport helpdesk.
The in-charge, with whom I have developed a good friendship in the two years of my job here, picked up the phone and wished me a nice holiday in Calcutta. “Convey my regards to your parents. Have a blast,” he said.
After trying to remain calm for a while, I returned his good wishes. “Thank you, I will.” I disconnected.
He doesn’t know a single word in Hindi and probably no idea what English is. He is a pure Kannadiga. Namma Bangaluroo types.
He is a kind of guy, who will piss you to no end, but you cannot hold your anger for long. For he is a pure-heart. A kind of guy who smiles even without a reason and takes life very casually.
Probably he is a new joiner and as such is very cautious as how he addresses us. His is the most mechanical “good afternoon sir” I have ever heard.
The rule is that when the driver comes to pick us up, he should come near the house and give a missed call. We are supposed to come and sit in the cab.
Start of the week, in Monday, it’s always a problem. Because you don’t know how many people are there in the pick up list and what time the cab would come and give a missed call.
But once you have been picked up, you know it very well about the pickup list and the timing of your cab. You get ready ten minutes before you get the missed call.
But since our driver this week is an extraordinary gentleman, he would give me at least three missed calls before he comes to my place. First one to tell me what time he would be coming, second to alert that he had started from the office to pick me up and the third to tell me he is just ten minutes away from my house and the final one to inform the cab is at the doorstep. I am supposed to call him back in the first two times. Once I didn’t call. Anxious he called me back to say, “Saar…cancelled?” I didn’t take a chance after that.
At least four hours before he picks me up, he would give me a missed call. I would return his call only to hear him say, “good morning saar. 2:45 awternoon.” Rather pissed that I need to call him for this bullshit and waste my precious one rupee, I always hung up saying a rather rude OK. Often forgetting he was the only person to greet me in the morning. And probably he is the only person who would address such a useless creature as “sir”.
Soon after ten minutes, he would call me. “sir…2:40 awternoon.” Since we both don’t understand each others’ language we would try to exchange minimum words. From my side it would be (in English): 2:40…not 2:45?
--2:45??? No 2:40 saar. 2:35…Ok 2:35--2:40 saar. 4 pickups. One cancel 2:50.
Now how you will deduce what this guy is saying.
Totally perplexed, I would want to make sure what time this guy would come in. I would say in Hindi, “What time exactly you will come in boss? Time…Time?”
He would laugh, “Hindi gottilla saar”. Which means he doesn’t know Hindi.
Now he would try to make me understand in his native language. Soon I had to say “Kannada gottilla boss.” Then both party would start laughing. At least, we understand this universal language.
Once I tried telling him he need not give me missed calls every day to repeat the same timing. That, even if he doesn’t inform me about the time, I would be ready by the same time he came yesterday. That way I can save my unnecessary call charges and also sleep a little more.
So after putting much restraint to my eloquence, I told him he need not give me missed calls before he comes. It went like this (again in English): Boss, no missed calls before 2:30.
He stopped his car and said something in Kannada that totally flew over my head. But I could gather something as an astonished “cancelled?”
--No…no cancellation…but…no missed calls…you come to this point…give me missed calls. Before that no missed calls.
His gestures told me he is suspecting my intellect. How you would know if I have come to your place, if I don’t give a missed call…he conveyed that with his language and gestures.
I also tried replying to him in the same way…but this time in my native language. "Khankir chele, ekhane asaar age leora missed call dibina. Shuorer baccha tor OK shunte giye amaar teen taka kharcha hoi.” (don’t give me missed calls before you come to the spot. I had to spend three rupees just to hear your stupid OK).
Perhaps he understood. Because he shook his head vigorously and said “Calcutta”. As is the case with all stupid non-bongs who know only three tortured words, he smiled, “aami tomake bhalobashe” (I love you). That was yesterday.
Today I didn’t get any missed call. And at three-o-clock when I didn’t get the usual one, I called the transport helpdesk.
The in-charge, with whom I have developed a good friendship in the two years of my job here, picked up the phone and wished me a nice holiday in Calcutta. “Convey my regards to your parents. Have a blast,” he said.
After trying to remain calm for a while, I returned his good wishes. “Thank you, I will.” I disconnected.
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